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Dimitri was on his way out of the clinic, jacket on, keys in hand, his choice of post-gym tv show to binge in bed with his dog settled upon, when Sylvain slung an arm around his shoulders and shot him a grin that told him his plans for a peaceful night in were about to be shattered.
“Yo,” Sylvain said, “how’s dinner sound?”
Dimitri’s shoulders relaxed a bit—dinner was a much more tame, reasonable suggestion than he was expecting from his old friend, but was it one worthy of postponing his gym-then-binge session for?
Perhaps he had a supernatural sense for this kind of thing, but more likely Sylvain just knew Dimitri well enough to sense his hesitation, because before Dimitri could even protest he added, “Everyone’s free for once. Even Annette’s going! You know how hard it was to convince her?”
Of course he knew. Annette was the most dedicated nursing student he’d ever met in his life. She’d once stayed up two nights in a row studying, fueled only by red bulls, ten-minute power naps, and what was probably witchcraft, and still earned perfect scores on her exams.
Dimitri sighed. “Sylvain—”
“It’ll be a quick dinner, promise. We’ll get you home before your bedtime. And you’ve already been to the gym like, every day this week. Missing one day won’t hurt.”
“Fine,” Dimitri said, more because he knew Sylvain was relentless and wouldn’t stop till he acquiesced and less because he actually wanted to go.
“Great!” Sylvain pumped his fist. “Your car’s the only one everyone can fit into, anyway.”
________________________
Sylvain was being generous. Dimitri’s SUV could fit everyone—but just barely. Annette and Mercedes crammed into the extra seats Dimitri put down in the very back. In the middle row, Ingrid, Felix, and Sylvain sat flush against each other, Felix shoved into the middle. And because it would be inhumane to put him anywhere else, Dedue had shotgun.
Ashe had the misfortune of getting to the parking lot last. “I’ve got a seat for you right here,” Sylvain said, waggling his eyebrows and patting his lap.
“Absolutely not!” Ashe said with a smile. Felix snorted. Ingrid cackled. Ashe slid into the car and onto her lap, sliding the door closed behind him.
“This is so illegal,” Dimitri muttered to himself as he adjusted his rear-view mirror. “Everyone who can, are you buckled up?” he asked louder.
The passengers voiced their assent. “I’ll hold on tight!” Ashe announced, his hand gripping onto the handle by his head.
“I’ll let you know if I see the cops so you can duck, Ashe!” Annette chimed.
Dimitri slowly, carefully pulled out of the parking lot and into the street. It was dark, and a little rainy, but thankfully their destination was only ten minutes away.
The restaurant was small and kind of dive-y, but the food was good and so was the atmosphere—it was the kind of place where a bunch of nursing students could afford to eat and still have a decent time. It didn’t seem to be a busy night. About a third of the tables were full, which made sense for a Thursday.
They were seated by a sour-faced, white-haired hostess who was so small she made Dimitri wonder about child labor laws.
“I didn’t know they had live music here,” Ingrid said as she settled into her seat.
“Every Thursday they have an 80’s cover band,” Sylvain replied. “S’why I picked this place.”
“How fun!” Mercedes said, clasping her hands. Felix rolled his eyes.
In the corner, on a stage about as high as Dimitri’s knees and more of a glorified platform than anything else, a five-piece band played a jangly cover of some old rock song Dimitri couldn’t quite recognize.
“They’re certainly dedicated to the theme,” Dimitri observed. Each member was dressed in a highlighter-bright, monochrome outfit. The lead singer bounced around the stage in a dangerously short pink dress and just as dangerous high heels, her bangs teased to 80’s perfection.
There is a wait so long, the lead singer crooned into the microphone. So long, so long, the very purple guitarist answered in kind.
Then, together, You’ll never wait so long—here comes your man!
Dimitri skimmed the menu, settled on a chicken salad, and waved away the beer Sylvain kept trying to push at him—he was driving, after all.
His mind wandered away from the conversation and towards the music as Ingrid and Annette chastised Sylvain for telling the waitress she’d be prettier if she smiled, ("What!?,” Sylvain whined, “she just looked so sad!”) his head nodding along to the beat. Dedue and Mercedes had begun discussing the day’s “poop hand incident,” and Felix and Ashe were absorbed in a discussion about some samurai movie that had just come out.
The band began to play something synth-heavy and dreamy, like some kind of space age love song. It made Dimitri feel nostalgic, but for what he wasn’t quite sure.
The lead singer twirled around the stage with abandon, and Dimitri was mildly impressed she didn’t fall over in those heels. She shimmied over to the bass player, who up until now was mostly obscured from Dimitri’s view, and stood back-to-back with him. Dimitri could see him clearly, now, and—oh. Oh, fuck.
The bass player had long, lithe fingers that flitted across the strings with practiced ease. His eyes were shut tight as his head bobbed along to the music. He tried tucking stray locks of hair behind his hair between notes, but try as he might, they insisted on falling into his face.
The guy should really, really look like a dork right now—he was, after all, wearing a bright yellow 80’s outfit complete with a shoulder-padded suit jacket—but he didn’t. He occupied the stage with a smooth charisma that Dimitri could only ever dream of having. He was lean and graceful and beautiful.
As if he could feel Dimitri’s gaze, the bass player’s eyes suddenly snapped open, and before Dimitri could look away, pale green met doe-eyed blue.
The bass player winked.
Dimitri’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest. Oh, goddess, surely that wasn’t directed at Dimitri. It had to be a coincidence. He busied himself by putting his head down and pushing his croutons around the plate the blue-haired waitress set in front of him.
“Dimitri?” Mercedes asked, so gentle, so kind, “Are you alright? Your face is all red.”
Curse her for being so attentive.
“It’s just…warm in here,” he lied, tugging at the collar of his scrubs. If the goddess was real, and if she loved him, then hopefully Sylvain hadn’t heard—
“Huh? Your face doesn’t get that red when it’s warm,” Sylvain said with a raised eyebrow.
“Also,” Felix added between bites of his steak, “it’s not even hot in here.”
A hush blanketed the table. Why, oh why, did a lull in their conversations have to happen now? Everyone looked at him—even Ingrid had stopped chewing and set down her sliders in curiosity.
The battle was lost. It was time for surrender.
“Don’t look, but,” he muttered, ”the bass player is attractive.”
He regretted his admission immediately.
His friends all craned their necks, twisted in their seats to look over at the stage. Dedue at least had the decency to be subtle as he threw a searching glance over his shoulder.
“Damn, he’s got half his buttons undone,” Sylvain observed, fully turned around in his seat. “What a slut.”
Ingrid elbowed him hard in the ribs. “He’s not bad looking,” she said, ignoring Sylvain’s pained whimpers. She held a hand above her face like she was shielding her eyes at a goddamn sporting event to get a better look.
Annette actually stood up to see over Dedue’s hulking frame. “Oooh, the one in purple?” she asked, squinting.
“No, not that one,” Ashe said, raising an arm to point. “The guy next to him!”
“Oh, he’s wearing yellow! Right there!” Mercedes added, also pointing to help direct Annette.
Dimitri groaned and dropped his head into his hands. He wanted to crawl under the table and die. He hated his friends. He hated them so, so much.
(Except he didn’t, and he can’t even pretend he did, because he loved them more than anything and he was a horrible liar.)
“Please,” he begged, “can we not be so…obvious?”
“You’re all obnoxious,” Felix said, crossing his arms. Dimitri recognized this as Felix’s own, special way of trying to defend him. He wanted to hug Felix, but decided he would rather not be stabbed with a steak knife. “Stop oogling the band and eat.”
Annette was still standing, getting up on her tippy toes.
“Annette, please,” Dedue intoned, “sit down before Dimitri has an aneurysm.”
“Oh, sorry!” she said, sitting down so fast she knocked her silverware onto the floor. “The lead singer’s outfit is just so cute!”
“I love her jewelry. I wonder where she got it,” Mercedes added, and Dimitri felt hopeful that they had moved on.
He sighed in relief and tried to eat his salad. But try as he might to keep his head down, he couldn’t help but watch that damn bass player out of the corner of his eye. He was dancing across the stage and his fingers flew up and down the frets at a speed Dimitri didn’t know was possible. Goddess, why was that so attractive? He started to wonder what those hands would feel like roaming across his body, gripping his hair…
A crumpled up napkin hit Dimitri in the face. “Wipe the drool off your chin,” Felix said. “And stop staring. You’re gonna scare him.”
Dimitri balked. “I–I’m not...”
“Wow,” Ingrid said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this, Dima.”
“Oh, leave him be,” Mercedes cooed, patting Dimitri’s arm. “So what if he’s got a little crush?”
“I do not have a crush!” Dimitri choked out.
On stage, the band stopped playing to take a quick break, and Dimitri was definitely not watching how the bass player tilted his head back to take a sip of water, exposing a long and slender neck that Dimitri wanted to press his lips against.
Oh, shit. Fine. Maybe he had a tiny, little crush.
“Okay,” Sylvain said, smacking the table with his palms. “We’ve got to do something about this. I can't eat with Dimitri looking all sad-puppy-faced over my head like this.”
“You should go ask for his number!” Ingrid offered.
Annette gasped. “Yes! Do it now, while they’re taking a break. Oh, wait. Looks like they’re starting up again.”
She was right. The band had finished taking quick sips of water and stretching their limbs. The bass player swiped at his forehead with a sweat rag and got back into position. Dimitri was silently grateful.
“I know! I know!” Ashe said, raising his hand like they were in class. “Why don’t you write your number down and give it to him? That way we don’t have to wait for them to stop again.”
“And we won’t have to watch you stumble over your words trying to flirt with him,” Felix nodded.
Annette dug through her purse. “I’ve got a piece of paper,” she said, digging out a notepad and ripping a piece off. She set it on the table. It was a piece of pastel-colored stationery covered with cats.
“Here’s a pen,” Mercedes said, pulling one out of her own bag.
Dimitri looked down at the paper and held the pen in his hand. He blinked. “Um. Do I just put my number down? What about my name? Or…do I—”
“Goddess, give me that,” Felix snarled, snatching the paper and pen from him. In his quick, sharp writing, he wrote, “Bass player. Call me.”
Dedue leaned over the table and said, “No offense, Felix, but your handwriting is awful.”
They all went around and around like that for a while, arguing about who had the best handwriting and what exactly to put on the note.
It took three more pieces of Annette’s cat stationery until they were happy. They finally settled on Dedue’s handwriting, the most legible out of everyone’s, which read:
For the cute bass player. Call me!
- Dimitri
“If you’re gonna put this in their tip jar, let’s actually make sure you give them money, too.” Ingrid said, pulling out a couple of bills from her wallet.
Dimitri put a hand on her wrist. “Ingrid, there’s no need, really—”
She shook her head. “It’s fine. I was probably gonna buy some junk from the vending machine with this, anyway. This is a much more noble cause.”
“Now,” Ashe said, scratching his chin thoughtfully, “when is the best time to give it to him?”
The table erupted in debate again. Felix tried to push Dimitri to do it now, to get it over with, while the girls advised him to wait till later, and Ashe insisted that they would probably take a break again soon and that would be best so the bass player could see Dimitri’s face and actually know who was hitting on him, and goddess, this was getting to be too much for Dimitri to handle.
Sylvain groaned. “Why are we making this so complicated?”
“Shut up, Sylvain,” Felix replied simply.
Sylvain rolled his eyes. "I’m gonna go to the little boys’ room real quick,” he said, as he pushed his chair out from the table and stood up.
They kept arguing. The longer they went at it, the less Dimitri wanted to hand over the note. What if the handsome bass player didn’t like men? What if he was already taken? What if he looked over at Dimitri, placing the note in the tip jar, and laughed? Because this kind of thing never really worked out for Dimitri and that was just how the world was, and he wasn’t charming like Sylvain or gentle like Mercedes or noble like Ashe, he was awkward and clumsy and didn’t deserve nice things because he destroyed them—
“Hey, what’s Sylvain doing?” Ashe asked as he swallowed a spoonful of mac n’ cheese.
Dimitri looked up. Sylvain was sauntering through the dining room, sliding easily between tables and dodging waiters as he headed toward the stage, where the band had taken another pause for the drummer to run to the bathroom.
“Maybe he’s requesting a song!” Mercedes said, her hands clasped together.
Bless Mercedes, honestly—she didn’t know Sylvain the way Dimitri did. The gleeful grin on Sylvain’s face told Dimitri everything he needed to know. It was the same smile he wore earlier that night, when he approached Dimitri to propose going out. The smile he had whenever he goaded Dimitri into going on dates in high school. The smile of a man who was bracing himself for a drink to the face. That smile could only mean one thing: trouble.
Sylvain approached the band with a wave, getting the attention of the lead singer. She squatted down to meet him at eye-level.
“He is probably trying to get her number,” Dedue said. He could probably sense just how much Dimitri’s nerves were fraying.
Dimitri nodded. Maybe Dedue was right, because that’s what Sylvain always does—he sees a pretty girl, and he can’t help himself, he just has to—
—and then Sylvain pointed towards their table, and the entire band turned to look at them.
No…they all looked at Dimitri.
Dimitri pushed his seat back. “I am going to go to the bathroom,” he said as evenly as he could manage.
But before he could make his escape, the singer held the microphone up to her face.
Her voice boomed over the restaurant speakers. “Excuse me! Hi, over there? Dimitri? Could you come over here? Dimitri!”
He froze. There had to be a way out. He could tell them he couldn’t speak Fódlish—fuck, that would require him to actually say he couldn’t speak Fódlish. He could pretend he was blind (he already had an eyepatch anyway). He could pretend to be deaf. He was deaf and blind and mute. Dedue would back him up. But everyone at the table—no, now everyone in the entire restaurant—was looking at him expectantly.
His heart pounded so hard it threatened to burst from his chest. A droplet of sweat trickled down his forehead.
And then he decided—fuck it. It would only make matters worse if he ran out the doors screaming. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd was many things, but he was no coward.
He grabbed the note, stood up, and pushed his chair in—maybe a bit too forcefully, as all the glasses on the table shook—and took a deep, shuddering breath. He made his way over to the stage, weaving between tables and waiters, his eyes fixed on Sylvain, because—okay, maybe he was a little bit of a coward—he did not want to see how the handsome bass player was reacting to all of this.
“Hey, you,” Sylvain smirked when Dimitri made it over. Dimitri just looked at him. He thought of his therapist, and how disappointed she would be if he swung his fist at Sylvain’s face.
“Hi! I’m Hilda!” the singer said cheerily, holding out a perfectly manicured hand out towards him. “So nice to meet you.”
He took her hand. “Nice to meet you as well,” Dimitri replied.
“This is my band, The Golden Deer,” she continued, “Raphael on drums, Ignatz at the keyboard, and Lorenz on guitar.” The drummer, keyboardist, and guitarist all nodded politely. Then, Hilda smiled gleefully, sharing a conspiratorial look with Sylvain that made Dimitri’s insides twist into knots.
“...And this,” she said slowly, enunciating every syllable as she swept her hands towards stage right, “is our bassist.”
Dimitri looked up at the bass player, who was smiling brilliantly at him. Small drops of sweat trickled down his forehead, his bare chest. Oh goddess, he was even hotter up close. How was that even fair?
“Hey,” the beautiful man said, “I’m Claude.”
Dimitri just said, “Dimitri,” because he did not trust himself with full sentences at the moment.
Claude held his hand out, and Dimitri shook it as gently as he could manage. Claude’s hand was soft and warm, his fingertips calloused as they slid against Dimitri’s palm.
(Distantly, Annette squealed, but the sound was cut off suddenly, probably by Mercedes or Dedue slapping a hand over her mouth.)
“Woah, strong grip you’ve got there!” Claude chuckled.
“Dima works out a lot,” Sylvain said, sliding his arm around Dimitri’s shoulders and giving him a squeeze. Dimitri thought of his therapist again, and her gentle but judging gaze.
“I can tell,” Claude replied, his eyes flicking up and down Dimitri’s body in a way that made him feel warm.
“Sooo,” Hilda cut in, “your friend here said you had something for us?”
Dimitri forgot how to speak. Sylvain elbowed him. “This is, um. For you. Bass player. Claude. I mean, the money is for all of you, but the note is just, you know, it’s just that—”
Sylvain swooped into rescue him. “I think they get the point, bud.”
“Right,” Dimitri said, and shoved the note and the money into the jar. Claude watched him with a bemused expression on his face.
“Well, we’ll let you guys get back to playing. Yeah, Dima?” Sylvain said. “It was great meeting you!”
Dimitri nodded his assent. “Yes. It was a pleasure.”
Claude smiled again. “The pleasure was all mine.”
Sylvain dragged Dimitri away, because he also forgot how to move, as the band began chatting amongst themselves.
Back at the table, he was assailed with questions.
“What happened!?” Annette begged.
“Did you get his number?!” Ingrid asked.
“Did he say you were cute?” Mercedes added, “it looked like he was into you!”
“He was watching you while you came back to the table!” Ashe exclaimed, “He’s totally into you!”
“Let him breathe,” Dedue commanded coolly, reminding Dimitri why he is his favorite person ever. “And also,” he added, “didn’t you need to use the bathroom?”
Dimitri nodded and took the chance for his escape, making a beeline for the bathroom.
“Wait!” Annette called, “I wanna know what happened!”
“You’re all insufferable,” Felix droned.
“Oh, that dude definitely wants Dimitri,” Sylvain began, “I went up there like, ‘My friend is super into your bass player,’ and then he blushed—”
Dimitri scurried into the bathroom before he could hear any more. He looked into the mirror and saw that his face was tomato red. He splashed water onto his cheeks in an attempt to cool himself down.
Claude. The bass player’s name was Claude. And…he didn’t seem repulsed by Dimitri. That was a start.
More deep breaths, a quick review of grounding exercises his therapist had shared with him, and then Dimitri made his way back to the dining room. The band was in the middle of another song—a cover of Take on Me, it sounded like, and the purple-haired guy was singing this time. He hit the high notes with surprising ease.
“I am so, so proud of you,” Sylvain said, clapping Dimitri on the back as their group got up to leave.
“Yeah,” Ashe added, voice full of awe. “That was really brave.”
“And he’s still looking at you,” Mercedes giggled behind her hand.
Dimitri looked back, and, Mercedes was right—Claude was watching him go. Their eyes met again, and Dimitri was gifted another smile and a wink. His knees felt like jelly.
“I think,” Dedue said as they moved for the parking lot, where it was just starting to rain again, “that was enough excitement for one night.”
“Yes,” Dimitri agreed, letting out a long exhale, “let’s go home.”
Annette called shotgun and Ashe tried to race her, but she made it just before he did. There was chaos in the backseat as everyone fought over where to sit, and somehow Sylvain and Mercedes ended up in the very back, with Dedue, Ingrid, and Ashe sandwiched into the middle. Felix, much to his chagrin, had to lay across their laps.
On the way back, Annette tried her best to DJ, but no one could agree on what to listen to. Felix repeatedly groaned that the drive was only like, 10 minutes, anyway, and they didn’t really need a soundtrack, but no one listened to him. She ended up selecting an 80's playlist, which made Dimitri huff a laugh as everyone (sans Felix) sang along to the one song they could squeeze into the drive.
Dimitri glanced at his friends, beside him and in the rear view mirror, as they sang very badly along to Don't Stop Believin', and thought to himself that they were the absolute, unequivocal worst and he was so, so lucky to have them.
Back at the clinic, Sylvain hopped out of the car last. “Not a bad night, huh?” he said with a smirk.
“No,” Dimitri said, a curtain of hair hiding his face as he smiled down at the steering wheel. “Not at all.”
________________________
The restaurant was quiet now, as the band had packed up their equipment and most of the patrons had shuffled out. There was only the sound of dishes clattering, tables being sprayed, and rain pitter-pattering on the rooftop.
Claude sat at the bar, phone in hand, brow scrunched.
“You’re still thinking of what to say?” Hilda tutted, taking a seat beside him.
“You only get one chance to make a first impression,” he asserted.
“Well,” Ignatz said, wiping his glasses off on his shirt, “it seemed like he already really likes you. He was watching you the whole show.”
Marianne wiped her hands on her apron. Her voice was soft. “His friends kept talking about you at the table, too. They were all trying to help him out. It was kind of sweet.”
“Just say hi!” Raphael boomed, peeking over Claude’s shoulder. “Tell him you’re glad he enjoyed the show.”
“Don’t text him right now,” Leonie said, looking up from the glass she was wiping behind the bar. “Maybe wait until tomorrow. So you don’t look desperate.”
“Nonsense!” Lorenz exclaimed. He reached over and plucked the phone out of Claude’s hands. “You must show interest as soon as possible.” He began to type out a message. “Hello, handsome,” he began, “I would love to go to dinner—”
“Woah!” Hilda said, taking the phone back. “That’s way too forward for the first message. Let me try.”
“Can I have my phone back?” Claude whined in vain.
“No,” she said as she typed.
“I wanna try!” Raphael reached over the bar and snatched the phone. “Hey sexy…” Raphael began typing. Hilda cackled. Marianne stifled a giggle behind her hand. Leonie screamed.
Claude groaned. “Seriously!? Give me that!”
But before he could reach Raphael, another, much smaller hand appeared and swiped the phone.
“You guys are the worst employees ever,” Lysithea said, holding the phone over her head. “Get back to work!”
Then, a small, distinct sound, almost imperceptible: the tell-tale woosh of a message sent.
Claude gaped.
Lysithea squeaked out a small, "oops."