Archive of Our Own ^beta

Laurent knows he’s too early, but he wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to be getting into.

Auguste can be more… easy going than Laurent is, he’ll admit, which means that he doesn’t ever have to think about parking, the distance from point A to point B, whether or not there are any streets to cross, and if those streets have crosswalks or if it’s a pedestrian’s luck against the world. He doesn’t think about menus, if there are servicing tables or just a bar Laurent is supposed to crowd against for a flat cup of soda, and god forbid he ever have to worry about seating.

It’s too crowded. Laurent stares into a tin of brightly colored sardines, his eyes scanning for a familiar head of hair, and after a few moments he sees many blonds but not the one he’s looking for. In a rare moment of outward public self-expression, he lets the air deflate through his mouth like a balloon. Auguste isn’t here yet. Of course he’s not.

Laurent gives his wrist a quick shake to move his watch face towards him and sees to his own dismay that he somehow managed to arrive here 40 minutes early. Damn it. That wasn’t the plan at all. He knew that new bypass was going to fuck him over one day, but not in the way that he expected.

So with no sign of Auguste and no reason to assume he’ll walk up behind him any time soon, he resigns himself to grabbing them a–.

Booth. This place has booths.

There are tables, sure, but they’re all crowded and bunched together, forcing a poor curly headed waitress to squeeze between the chairs, careful not to let her backside rub up against anyone, even if a couple of the customers aren’t being the most subtle about leaning backwards.

There’s a bar too, but only the stools are occupied, which gives him a moment of relief. No climbing over tall and sweaty idiots for a drink he doesn’t want just to play the part of someone who can socialize when he has to.

It’s Auguste, Laurent reminds himself. Laurent can talk his way out of any unnecessary work dinners and other family gatherings, but when it comes to Auguste, he doesn’t want to say no.

And Auguste understands him well enough to not try to make Laurent someone he’s not. He tries to meet in places where they can sit down out of the way and where there’s barely a chance for anyone to bother them or other room for social expectations. One time he suggested mini-golf, and Laurent threatened to disown him. This, in comparison, is a loud and tacky cake walk.

So now Laurent just has to find a place to plant himself for the evening. Obviously he won’t be bothering with a table, not that any are available anyway, and he would rather die than sit at a booth with his back to a room full of loud, drunken, happy idiots, so that just leaves the booths, all of which happen to already be occupied.

He feels his lips press into a line. He could stand outside and wait, but with the hot summer air and the increased chances for aforementioned loud, drunken, happy idiots to try to talk to him, he would much rather stay in here, even if every inch of the place is gaudy. Even if he’ll have if you like piña coladas stuck on loop in his mind for the next three days. Even if he would rather be at home curled up on his couch with a good book. It doesn't even have to be good, he would get more out of reading the instruction manual for his microwave than he would from being here.

A sudden movement catches his eye, which is ridiculous because everything is moving way too much, but it catches Laurent’s full attention anyway. He sees a man with dark hair, unruly enough to be considered charming, in a t-shirt that stretches unfairly across a body not meant for clothes. He smiles, not at Laurent, of course, but he may as well have for the way it makes the warmth creep too quickly up his neck, and Laurent averts his gaze once he realizes that noticing it means he may have been staring.

No, he tells himself. His mantra for self denial repeats over and again as his eyes glaze over the rest of the room, unable to catch on anything. All he needs to do is find an empty chair, stool, or panel of clean wood on the wall to stand against so he can get out of the way until Auguste gets here, but his eyes see nothing but that shadow of a person he just spent a second too long looking at.

There’s another movement, much more bolder than the first, and it sparks Laurent’s attention like a silent alarm. He looks back against his better judgement to see the same man stop his waving in midair to switch to beckoning someone over. Laurent checks over his shoulder, prepared to move out of the way for whoever’s walking in behind him, but all he sees is the jukebox spewing out aforementioned piña coladas.

Laurent looks back, and the man nods with wide eyes. Yes you, he seems to say, and he waves Laurent over again with the theatrical flare of pretending to be exasperated about it. Laurent rolls his eyes and means to ignore him, but his feet move towards him on their own. He walks over to his booth—a booth that is absolutely wasted on one person, who could just as easily fit on a stool. Laurent glances at the width of his shoulders and concedes just a little. Never mind.

“What,” he says with enough bite that a person with half a brain would be offended, turned off, or terrified, but he just smiles sweetly the way Auguste would.

No, not the way Auguste would at all.

“It’s gonna be a while until another table clears out,” he says over the din. “You can sit here if you want, I don’t mind.”

It’s such a strange and unexpected offer that Laurent doesn’t immediately open his mouth to insult him. Laurent has a clear problem, and this man has decided to offer a solution, however unnecessary. But taking it would be absurd, and as much as Laurent likes to subvert expectations, something tells him that joining an attractive stranger for a few minutes might be a little too disarming, even for him.

“No,” Laurent says, and it doesn’t come out as sharply as he would like. “Thanks for the offer, but, no, I’d rather not.”

The man sits back with a shrug, pressing the back of his surprisingly soft looking hair against the booth and making Laurent cringe inside because who knows when the last time it was cleaned. “Suit yourself.”

A herd of wild animals barges through, all elbows and shoulders, and although Laurent could and would hold his own and refuse to let them pass, a part of him that just doesn’t enjoy being here has him dodging out of the way, making him fall into the open side of the booth about as gracelessly as a foal.

He gives them all a furious glare as they pass by, none of them once looking back to see the damage they’ve caused, but his dive bar hero sits up and just about leaps out of his seat at Laurent’s bad luck. “Oh shit, I’m sorry!”

Laurent grimaces as he pushes himself up, righting himself in the booth so he can smooth down his clothes. He swipes his fingers over his hair to put it back in place, a gesture the man seems to lock onto with a hunter’s gaze.

Interesting.

“Why? Do you know them?”

“No,” the man says.

“Then why are you apologizing?”

“Because someone should, and I don’t think they’re going to,” he says. Laurent thinks he could make them apologize himself, but he would have to catch them first, which would be too much of a hassle for just getting knocked over a little. “Unless you want me to make them.”

The corner of Laurent’s mouth twitches at the suggestion, threatening a smile, but Laurent only puts a hand up that there’s no need for it. “I’m sure this wouldn’t be the first bar you’ve been kicked out of, but no need to make it worse on my account.”

“Hey, now,” he says. “I’ll have you know I’ve never been kicked out of a bar before.”

“Just a pub then,” Laurent says, earning more of a smile than he expects to. It puts him on uneven ground, and he’s not sure if he likes that, if he can stand having the world tilt at another person’s whims—or just from something as simple as their facial expressions. He forces his eyes away from his face and the athletic appeal of it that says he belongs on the cover of a fitness or sports magazine, but everything else from the shape of his neck to the light, nervous taps of his fingers on the table are somehow so much worse.

“I’ve never been kicked out of anywhere before,” he says. “But there’s a first time for everything, and I don’t want to see you get knocked off your feet, especially with an A. Lange & Söhne. It would suck to see you break it.”

Laurent quirks an eyebrow. “So you’re a watch salesman then.”

He laughs, delighted. “No, nothing like that. Can I see it?”

Laurent obliges only by holding his wrist up, refusing to be touched by a stranger for any reason, but the man only angles his head to get a better look at the facing.

“I’ve never seen that model with blue accents before,” he says. “It’s beautiful.”

“I know,” Laurent says before slipping it out of sight with a flourish. “I wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who tried to take it.”

“I’m not gonna steal it,” he says with mild surprise, like it’s something that never once crossed his mind. “It just seemed like an easy conversation starter since you can’t stop looking for it.”

“We don’t need to have a conversation,” Laurent says.

“Fine,” he says and turns his attention to the rest of the bar. “I’ll let you know if I see a booth clear up.”

Laurent swallows, feeling almost dismissed, which isn’t the reaction he expected. “Thank you.”

“Mhm,” he hums, his eyes still scanning the room, but when they make it back to Laurent, he stops and smiles like he can’t help himself. Laurent isn’t sure if he should roll his eyes or be flattered.

“So how do you know what kind of watch this is,” Laurent asks as an offering. “Most people just say Rolex.”

“My dad likes them,” he says like that’s reason enough, that someone could be such a filial son that they achieved that much information through osmosis alone. Laurent doubts that’s all there is to it.

“So he’s the watch salesman then,” he says, and this earns him more than just a delighted laugh.

“I’m beginning to think you’re the watch salesman,” he says. “Give me your card, I’ll pass it along.”

“Please tell me this isn’t how you’re going to hit on me,” Laurent says, giving him a look of pure revulsion that without a doubt shows just how bad of an idea hitting on him at all would be.

“Oh no,” he insists, not at all believably. “I just thought you could use the commission, is all. I would never hit on you.”

“Why not? Am I not your type?”

He smiles slightly at that, roguish and playful and as safe as a teddy bear. Damn him. “I didn’t say that.”

“Right,” Laurent says, trying to sound dismissive, but it comes out with a crack he has to clear his throat against. “And I was looking at my watch because I’m meeting someone.”

“That makes sense,” he says, completely unbothered.

“Sorry to ruin your plans to pick up a stranger at a bar,” he says. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with the next person who falls into your booth.”

“You didn’t ruin my plans at all,” he says. “I’m meeting someone too.”

This time he says it without the cadence of a poorly delivered lie, which takes Laurent a little by surprise. It shouldn’t because why else would a person willing to share with a stranger take up an entire booth by themselves. “Oh.”

“My best friend,” he says. “We used to come here together all the time in college, almost every night when we could.”

“Sentimental,” Laurent muses.

“And you? Who should I be keeping an eye out for,” he asks, earning a raised brow. “I have a better view of the door.”

Laurent sits back. Fine.

“Tall. Blond, but his hair is darker than mine. Older than you. Dressed well. Classically handsome,” he says, watching as every description ticks him on the head like a hammer nailing in a railroad spike. “Looks like me but will probably be happy.”

The man’s eyebrows raise at that.

“My older brother,” Laurent says.

“Oh,” he says, relaxing enough that it isn’t subtle. “Right, I’ll let you know when I see him. If you want to show me a picture, that would probably help.”

“That’s unnecessary,” he says. “He’ll call when he doesn’t see me.”

“He sounds responsible,” he says. “So does that mean he’s overprotective too?”

“Not particularly, no,” Laurent says. “Although maybe he should be because then he would actually be on time.”

The stranger gives him a look that’s almost as skeptical as it is scrutinizing.

“What?”

“I don’t think your brother’s late. I think you came early. I think you wanted to get a seat but didn’t know this place has a weird Happy Hour.”

“Oh, is that why it’s like this? I just assumed it was slow customer service.”

He laughs like something Laurent said was funny and waves a hand casually. A waitress immediately appears at their booth, and the stranger smiles at her like the sun, but to Laurent’s surprise—and admitted relief—he doesn’t try to flirt with her.

“You want your usual, Damen?”

“Please and thank you,” Damen says before he looks at Laurent. “You want a beer?”

“I don’t drink,” Laurent says, and Damen turns back to the waitress.

“A Barq’s for my friend here,” he says. “Put it on my tab.”

She smiles like she’s used to him and not in a pestering way before she turns away and walks back to the bar.

“You have a tab?” Laurent says.

“No, I’ve just always wanted to say that,” he says, making Laurent’s mouth twitch in amusement against his will. He will not make him laugh.

“I thought you said you haven’t been here since college,” Laurent says.

“No, I said that Nik and I used to come here all the time in college,” he says. “I still come by every now and then.”

“So you’re a regular,” he says.

“Ah, no, well, kind of,” Damen says. “You’re asking why she knows me right?”

Laurent nods carefully.

“That’s Lykaios,” he says. “We know each other from ages ago, but I don’t make it weird while she’s working.”

“That’s a surprisingly reasonable answer,” Laurent says. “Carry on.”

Damen laughs, really laughs with all of his teeth, revealing both his dimples and the slightest creases at the corners of his eyes. A treacherous warmth spreads through Laurent that he does his best to shove down, but he finds it much harder to do than it should be.

Damen thinks Laurent is funny, bizarrely, which is not something Laurent is too used to. He makes Auguste laugh, sure, and sometimes Jord twitches like he wants to but is afraid of what might happen to his job is he does (unnecessarily, Laurent has only ever fired someone for being incompetent), but usually everyone else is just… throttled by him. And Damen laughs.

He’s not sure how he feels about it.

“So when is the right time to come here,” Laurent asks, changing the subject again.

Damen hums in consideration. “About 1pm.”

“Oh?”

“The lunch crowd is thinned out by then, and everyone else is still either at work or running their errands. You’re less likely to get squeezed in with the sports crowds or the, well, Happy Hour rush.”

“Tell me you don’t eat lunch here,” Laurent says, horrified.

“Yeah?” Damen says baffled. “I mean, it’s a couple bucks cheaper than dinner, if that matters, and the food is just as good, even if the chef is different.”

Laurent makes a face like Damen just told him he eats out of the dumpster, and Damen raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“What did you and your brother come here to do? Check out the dart board?”

“No,” Laurent says. “We’re meeting for drinks.”

“For drinks,” Damen says. “One second, what did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t,” Laurent says. “You didn’t ask for it.”

“Right, I was probably just making sure you didn’t think I was going to hit on you, which I’m totally not,” he says.

“And inspecting my watch,” he says. “It’s Laurent.”

“Laurent,” he says. “Well, Laurent, I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

“Enlighten me.”

Damen leans in almost conspiratorially, but Laurent only raises an eyebrow. “This place has the best fried oyster sandwiches in the world.”

“I didn’t realize I was sitting here with an oyster connoisseur,” he says, and Damen flashes a smile.

“I guess it’s your lucky night,” he says, so obviously flirting that Laurent would roll his eyes if he wasn’t so desperate for something to drink right now. How long does it take to pour a root beer? “But to be serious, look it up. Actually, I’ll buy you one now so you can see for yourself, but I’m sure you’d rather wait for your brother.”

Laurent ignores both the offer and the consideration, and instead reaches for his phone. “What am I supposed to look up then? Best oyster sandwiches?”

“Just look for Chef Makedon,” he says, and the name almost nags at Laurent from how familiar it is, but he can’t place from where. Either way, he searches for this mysterious chef if only to call Damen out on his bullshit, but then a row of pictures of a man come up with him posing with various awards and celebrities, and right below them is the name of this very restaurant, along with a few others with less dart board and jukebox names.

“He has a Michelin Star,” Laurent says.

“Mhm,” Damen says, hardly surprised. “But if you don’t like oysters, all the sandwiches are good. Their fries are covered with this amazing garlic salt that’s making my mouth water just thinking about it.”

Thankfully the music and the general noise do a good job of drowning out the way Laurent’s stomach growls. “Good to know, I guess, if my brother ever tries to come here for lunch.”

Damen nods and looks off, his eyes wandering again, and Laurent blinks at him in disbelief.

“You were going to use that for a pick up line, weren’t you,” Laurent says in disbelief.

“What? No,” Damen says with an exaggerated grimace. “That didn’t even cross my mind.”

“You are the worst liar I’ve ever met,” Laurent says, incredulous.

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“No,” Laurent lies. “And I told you, I’m just sitting here until my brother gets here.”

“And we’re totally clear on that,” he says. “We’re just talking to pass the time until he gets here.”

“Oh, is that all,” he says.

“Here you go,” the waitress, Lykaios, says as she sets two large tankards down onto the table. Laurent’s is frosted with a curly straw, and Damen’s is filled with a golden, foamy liquid that could be a lager or ale. Laurent’s never bothered to learn the difference. He wonders if the curly straw was completely necessary. “Let me know when you’re ready to order.”

“Sorry if you’re not a root beer guy,” Damen says after she leaves. “Uncle Makedon kind of has a theme here and refuses to change it.”

Laurent puts the straw in his mouth and sucks pointedly, earning a wince.

“If you knew him, it would make sense,” Damen says.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Laurent says wryly. “So the chef is your uncle?”

“The owner,” he says. “This is just one of his restaurants. The recipes are all Uncle Makedon’s, I think, but there are two different chefs here full time. And no, he’s just always made me call him that. It’s a habit.”

“Interesting,” Laurent says, and it’s not really a lie or placation. “And so does that mean his other restaurants are themed?”

“Most of them,” he says. “I wish I could say it was for more than beer, but….”

Laurent must make a face because Damen smiles at him, a little endeared. “So what about the others that aren’t?”

“Oh, well,” he says with a pause. “Uncle Makedon is the head chef for the Akielos Hotel Group. At least the location here, but his recipes are used for the other ones too, and all the of the hotels have themed restaurants, depending on where you stay.”

Laurent’s eyes widen. “Oh yes, I’ve been to a few. That’s impressive.”

“Yeah, he’s the best.”

“And your best move was to sell me on a fried oyster sandwich.”

“It’s a really good sandwich,” Damen says. “And don’t look at me like that, you thought you were going to get food poisoning from standing on the floor too long.”

“I– did not,” Laurent says.

“Oh really,” Damen says.

“Yes, really,” he says, but he doesn’t miss the way Damen’s eyes dart to somewhere behind him with increasing interest. His smile widens too pleasantly to be for nothing, and for some reason that makes Laurent’s skin prickle. It’s not like he has a monopoly on this strange man’s attention, but having it divided so easily is a little much, isn’t it?

Curiosity gets the best of him, and he turns just as Damen stands to shake–.

Auguste’s hand.

Laurent’s mouth falls open.

“Hey,” Damen says, as friendly as he would if he was a date meeting Laurent’s family. “You must be Auguste. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Auguste shakes his hand eagerly, mirroring his exact same smile as he looks down at Laurent, and Laurent is so baffled that he barely has a chance to notice that Damen is taller than him. How is that even possible?

“Oh wow!” Auguste says, jumping to conclusions. “I didn’t know you were bringing someone with you. Who’s your friend?”

“No one,” Laurent says. “We just met. Damen was just letting me sit here until another table opens for us.”

“It’s a busy night,” Damen says by way of apology as he takes his place back in his seat before gesturing to the place next to Laurent. “Please, sit. We were just talking about what to order.”

Laurent fully expects—hopes—that Auguste will have the right reaction and assume that Laurent’s been cornered by a madman, but to Laurent’s dismay, he seems more than amused with the situation. If Laurent didn’t know any better, he would even say that Auguste seems pleased.

“Oh, thank you,” Auguste beams as he sits next to Laurent. Laurent has to slide to the other side, putting himself next to the wall like a trapped animal between two smiling, amicable beasts. “So you’re Damen, right?”

“Yeah, and hey, if you two wanna pretend I’m not here, it’s fine with me,” he says. “Don’t even worry about it.”

“No, please, continue with your conversation,” he says. “I could hear Laurent arguing all the way from the door.”

Laurent’s cheeks flash hot. “Don’t exaggerate.”

Auguste grins, content to ignore him, and Damen waves down Lykaios again, who nods from across the room as she carries a tray of hot wings and what Laurent thinks may be artichoke dip to one of the tables. Laurent leans into Auguste.

“Apparently they only serve beer or root beer here for some bizarre reason,” he mutters as a warning.

“Fun, isn’t it?” August whispers back.

“No,” Laurent says. “But there are also garlic fries.”

Lykaios comes back to their table, and where she pretended like Laurent and Damen were hardly more than cardboard cutouts as a part of her job, she does pause at the sight of Auguste. “Hey there, what can I get for you?”

“Could I have a beer? Whatever you’ve got on tap is fine, I’m not picky, and a couple baskets of garlic fries for the table, please, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure thing, Honey,” she says before turning to leave, and Damen sits up like a jilted meerkat.

“Nik’s almost here,” he calls out. “He wants a beer too!”

“Fine,” she calls back.

“I think you’ve lost your waitress,” Laurent says.

“I’m hurt, honestly,” Damen says. “It’s like we weren’t even there.”

Laurent suppresses a smile and reaches for his root beer.

“I’m missing something, aren’t I,” Auguste says.

“Damen’s uncle is the owner, and our waitress is his ex girlfriend.”

Damen opens his mouth in surprise to dispute it, but he, as expected, comes up short. Laurent smugly sips his root beer.

Another man with dark hair pulled back into a bun with a build similar to Damen’s comes up to the table, and Damen slides out of the way until he’s in front of Laurent. Nik, Laurent presumes, and at least he has the decency to look just as confused as Laurent is.

“Nik, this is Auguste and Laurent,” Damen says, gesturing to them both respectively. Laurent isn’t sure why being mentioned second when he was here first annoys him, but it does. “Auguste and Laurent, this is my friend Nik. It looks like we’re all having dinner together.”

Nik looks at Damen like he’s lost his mind. “Oh sure. Nice to meet you.”

“My brother had trouble finding a table, and your friend was nice enough to offer to share,” Auguste says, and Nik takes another look at them both at that before his eyes lock onto Laurent.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Laurent sits up and looks up at Damen. “What does he mean ‘oh’.”

“I have no idea,” Damen says with that unbelievable head shake he does when he’s lying, but then Lykaios returns, sparing him from having to give a real answer.

“Here you go, gentlemen,” she says as she sets the other two tankards of beer down, one light and one dark, and the two baskets of garlic fries. “I’ll get you those menus and come back in a minute to take your order.”

She plucks four off of the next table and sets them down between them to divvy up themselves and disappears without another word.

“It’s weird how she always pretends she doesn’t know us,” Nik says.

“Nah,” Damen says and moves to sip his beer, his eyes darting to Laurent, who merely raises an eyebrow in response.

The four of them order as if they came here together, and although Laurent is tempted to be difficult, he decides to cooperate—especially now that he knows the food can and should be trusted here—and he orders Damen’s recommendation, not missing the triumph smile Damen makes out of the corner of his eye.

They all get sandwiches, actually, because of Damen’s recommendations. Auguste, who doesn’t like seafood, gets the smoked sausage, Nik gets snapper, and Damen gets the fried oysters—and honestly, after all that, Laurent would’ve been annoyed if he didn’t.

Damen also asks for an order of cheese curds, house pickles, and fried alligator tail, which makes Auguste choke. Even Laurent is a little surprised by that one.

“Just trust me,” Damen says, his eyes locked onto Laurent’s like he’s asking him to put his life in his hands, and Laurent doesn’t miss the way Nik sighs next to him and reaches for his beer. Laurent flushes slightly, and for the first time in his life, is the first to break eye contact.

“Fine, it’s your tab,” he says with a wave, which seems to delight Damen more.

“Hey, I like this,” he says to Nik. “We should get dessert.”

“I’m glad you’re having fun,” Nik says.

Auguste, to his credit, laughs.

With food on the way, the four of them get settled in easily. Or rather, the three of them get settled in and Laurent observes. The conversation, to his detriment, drifts to sports, which he knows little about. Auguste, however, thrives, which leaves Laurent a moment to nibble quietly on one of the garlic fries.

Damen was not wrong about them.

He won’t admit it, but they may have ruined fries for him from anywhere else.

The appetizers come and fill the table soon. Laurent eyes the spread with the piqued curiosity of someone less afraid of the fare and decides that eating here won’t be a gamble.

Damen reaches for a piece of fried cheese, and Laurent watches as he bites into it like it isn’t piping hot and pulls with his teeth, creating an impressive stretch that does nothing but draw out a physical line and arrow to his mouth. He breaks that line in the air and lets his lips catch the excess while his tongue pulls in his bite in a way that shouldn’t be as appealing as it is. It’s not hard to imagine the way his mouth would feel, but Laurent quickly chases the thought away in favor of looking back down at the food to see the basket next to it.

“This is alligator?” Laurent asks.

It looks like the popcorn chicken ads he’s seen on TV. Not quite like nuggets, but maybe a chicken strip cut into quarters. Laurent, who has never been afraid of a challenge, reaches in to grab a piece for himself, earning an interested and curious look from Auguste.

He may burn his mouth, but he thinks of the way Damen seemed immune to fire and decides he won’t be outdone, as ridiculous as that may be, and he bites into it with a surprisingly satisfying crunch.

The outside is nice and crispy and not too heavy with oil, and the batter is well seasoned, which would be expected from the executive chef of one of the most renowned hotel chains in the world. It’s a little spicier than he’s used to, but it’s not something he can’t enjoy.

He gets to the meat, which is the most surprising part of all. The texture is very similar to chicken, if he had to make a comparison, but the taste is similar to seafood. Or catfish, more likely. It’s an odd thing to chew because of the dual familiarity, although a voice similar to Nicaise’s whispers you’re eating a giant lizard in his head. Well. So?

He tries some of the sauce placed next to it to get the full experience. It’s creamy and tart, and it might be the perfect complement to the heavier batter and dense texture of the meat. He keeps his mouth covered as he chews so no one sees his tongue dart out to swipe at the excess off of the corner his mouth and he nods silently, aware that every single eye at the table is on him.

“Well?” Auguste says.

“It’s good,” he says.

“You like it?”

Laurent nods and reaches for another fry to dip in the alligator sauce, which is not something he expected to do tonight, but then again, he didn’t expect to end up having dinner with a couple of strange men either.

He glances up as he chews and sees Damen looking at him with a small smile, his eyes as fond as the morning sun, and a strange warmth takes over Laurent’s chest so quickly he has to look away.

Heartburn, likely.

Auguste tries the alligator next, and Laurent watches him have this experience while he reaches for a cheese curd. His hand bumps into another’s, and when he looks, he just sees Damen with a deep flush turning into Nik to say something.

“Not bad,” Auguste says. “A little chewy.”

“I like the sauce,” he says.

“Oh yeah, that is good,” he agrees after trying it with it.

The conversation shifts from sports (thank god) to travel, which Laurent is a little relieved by, to be honest. Damen, surprisingly, has been to more places than he and Auguste have, but it’s not hard to fill in the blanks that he probably backpacked at some point.

He and Nik have family in Greece, apparently, and go every summer for two weeks, and Auguste is more than happy to offer than he, Laurent, and their cousin, Nicaise, go to France just as often.

And then Damen surprises them by speaking French, which Laurent attributes to someone happening to pay attention to the classes they took in high school. Auguste responds with unrestrained delight, and Laurent would roll his eyes if his brother weren’t always ready to make new friends. Half of his best clients were met while waiting in line or in lobbies with nothing better to do, but he should be able to tell that Damen isn’t going to be able to afford either of their retainers just because he knows a man capable of making good garlic fries.

But Auguste isn’t here to make a new client, and neither is Laurent. They came to wind down after a particularly stressful night, and now Auguste is asking Nik about which F1 drivers he likes, and where Laurent expects Damen to jump in like he did for the soccer and rugby, he leans towards Laurent instead.

“I hope you don’t mind this,” he says, and he really means it. He knows this was the last thing Laurent wanted to happen, and now that Auguste is settled in and they’ve ordered, he won’t have a way to escape until he’s released from his booth at the end of the night, but really, Laurent is just out of his element, which started several minutes before they ever laid eyes on each other.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “I’m just not interested in sports or race cars.”

“What are you interested in?”

Laurent leans forward on his elbows and takes a breath in consideration. What is he interested in? “I like books. Art.”

“Do you draw?”

Laurent blinks. Usually when he says that, people ask him his who his favorite painter or sculptor is and he almost always uses his answer as some sort of social manipulation to get the advantage on his opponent—so many dinners are more like chess matches than gatherings—but this might be the first time someone’s assumed he meant that he was the artist.

“Not very well,” he says honestly. “I’m better with a violin than I am a paint brush.”

“Oh you play?” Damen asks.

“I had lessons when I was a child,” Laurent says. “That and piano.”

“I can play the drums.”

“Of course you can,” he says. “Loud, unruly, smashing your arms and feet, banging on pots and pans.”

Damen tilts his head back and forth in thought, not disagreeing. “You know what, that’s fair, but when is the last time you heard an orchestra without a percussion section?”

“I don’t know, but there’s a reason that people prefer soften instruments in smaller social settings than orchestras.”

“And you’re built for that,” he says skeptically. “No theatrics at all, just sitting in your corner being nice background music.”

Laurent isn’t sure he should be pleased that he may be calling him an orchestra or offended on behalf of all the other musicians in the world.

“I like them, by the way,” Damen clarifies. “The violins, pianos, harps, and the flutes too. I like it all.”

He then holds his hands above the table. They’re big and blunt and made to hold a sword, if men still did such things. Hockey sticks, maybe, which would make sense.

“But I broke too many strings.”

Laurent’s mouth tugs in amusement. “Ah yes, it’s all coming together. Yes, you would belong in the percussion section, I think.”

“I would like to hear you play,” he says.

“What if I’m not any good?”

“Do you have to be good at everything?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” he says.

“Do you have anything you’ve drawn on your phone, or is it a secret?”

Laurent hesitates. He wasn’t lying when he said he doesn’t draw well, but his mind goes to the homesick sketch of their estate in Arles he did last week and, in a moment of childish pride, took a picture of and sent to his mother so she could see it.

He reaches for his phone and goes through his photos until he finds it and looks up at Damen, who is watching him expectantly.

“Don’t laugh,” he says as he passes it across the table.

“Is it funny?”

“It shouldn’t be,” he says.

“Then I wouldn’t dare,” Damen says, and for some reason Laurent believes him. He turns the screen to get a better look, and to Laurent’s horror, he zooms in to see the details, a small smile on his lips like he’s appreciating a masterpiece and not the scrap Laurent tossed out when he was trying to kill a few minutes between meetings. “This is gorgeous.”

“When I said don’t laugh, I didn’t mean lie.”

“I’m not!” Damen says. “Really, I would hang this on my wall.”

“You mean your refrigerator,” Laurent bristles as he reaches for him to give his phone back.

“If I ran out of wall space, sure,” he says. “I’ve never thought about collecting art, but a house full of Laurent sounds pretty nice to me.”

Laurent’s cheeks blush for absolutely no conceivable reason, and Nik chokes on his beer off to the side.

“And where is that?” Damen asks, pretending like his friend isn’t there. “France?”

“Yes, it’s our home there,” he says.

“Ahhh,” he says like he’s made a great discovery. “You know what, I think you would like Ios. The cliffs are beautiful, and on a clear day you can see Isthima. If you ever find yourself in the area, just text me and I’ll send you a list of all the best places to eat there too.”

Laurent narrows his eyes. “Really.”

Damen flashes a smile, dazzling and shameless, and Laurent suppresses one of his own as he turns his attention to his brother, who is watching him with no lack of amusement.

Laurent’s face drops into forced annoyance. “What?”

“Nothing,” August says with a grin. “Nothing at all.”

“And here you go,” Lykaios says with her large tray of food.

She sets down four baskets, and Laurent’s hunger should’ve been held off by the appetizers, but the sight of his meal makes his stomach growl over the drunken rendition of Sweet Caroline happening several booths behind him.

It looks incredible. The bread looks like it was baked here in house, and he can tell by the small flakes in the sheen that the butter it was grilled with has garlic and herbs. The tomatoes are heirloom, and the butter lettuce is so fresh it almost looks artificial.

When Laurent picks it up, he can see the crunchy clusters of oysters fried in the same batter as the alligator, and drizzled on them is a blush colored sauce that must be some kind of flavored aioli. It also has some of their house pickles, which Laurent forgot to try.

He thinks about all the finest restaurants in the world, and the dinner parties and benefits he’s been forced to attend, and none of them have ever had a plate of food that captivated him nearly as well as this one sandwich has.

As much as he would hate for Damen to be right, he desperately hopes that he was.

He bites into it, and his teeth sink into a cloud of buttery, maybe sourdough based euphoria, before he reaches that magnificent crunch, and good god. He lets his elbows rest on the table shamelessly to hold himself up as he says a silent prayer to this sandwich, not giving a damn if anyone sees him or not.

And now only one question remains.

Do they deliver?

After he finishes his first blissful bite, he sees Damen, who hasn’t moved a muscle—or blinked, based on the slight teary strain—in what must have been minutes. Laurent clears his throat and sets his sandwich down, mentally willing away the flush he knows must be taking over his face. Rarely does he ever let anyone see him enjoy himself, and now this stranger has and Laurent isn’t sure he can handle the look in his eye.

“It’s alright,” Laurent says causally. “It’s not the worst sandwich I’ve ever had.”

Damen moves, released from his spell, and he reaches for his sandwich like nothing happened. Laurent watches him take the same bite Laurent had, and he sees him smile, his cheeks puffing out as he nods to himself, either because he’s pleased that he was right after all and that Laurent was just being difficult or that he just likes what he finds.

“Oh man,” Auguste says, his mouth unabashedly full. “Oh yeah, we’re definitely coming back here.”

“You picked the hardest place in the city to get a table at,” Laurent says. “We’re never coming back again.”

“They have a different Happy Hour,” Nik says.

“Yeah, it’s better if you come at 1pm,” Damen says.

Laurent’s lips thin into a line. Damen wiggles his eyebrows at him, and he rolls his eyes before returning to his meal, what actually should have his attention right now.

They don’t eat in a hurry, and even when the food thins out, Auguste does’t seem inclined to leave. Neither do Damen and Nik, which somehow leads to Laurent and Damen competing with each other at darts while the other two guard their table, which is still a hot commodity.

“So you just hold it like this, and you try to throw it as close as you can to the middle.”

“Yes, I see how it works, thank you,” Laurent says mildly, but Damen seems hardly bothered by him.

“You want me to show you how it’s done?”

“What, so you can show off?”

“Of course,” he says.

“Don’t forget to flex your biceps while you’re at it,” Laurent says.

Damen snorts and throws the first dart.

The two of them play long enough for Jimmy Buffet to bleed into the Beach Boys, and then Sublime turns into Pearl Jam—all of which Laurent has confirmed by Damen muttering the names of the artists under his breath like he’s competing in a private trivia game. It makes Laurent want to ask what he usually listens to, but he decides against it, like learning too much about him goes against the rules he made up in his mind.

He knows his name, that’s enough. They won’t run into each other again in a million years, and so knowing his favorite song would be a waste of space in his mind he could fill with something else important.

“You know, I’ve got some spare change if you want to put something on,” he says.

“And if everyone here hates my taste in music?”

“I mean this crowd would sing along to Beethoven’s 5th if someone put it on,” he says as he tosses another dart. “Believe me, I’ve seen it happen.”

“I believe it, weirdly,” he says. “And I should have known your knowledge of the classics would be limited to the most obvious choices.”

“I mean fine if you want them to sing along to Il trovatore, they’ll probably try it.”

Laurent picks up a dart and positions himself, his eye carefully locked onto the bullseye. “What if I like something else?”

“Scared they won’t have it?”

“Not… scared,” Laurent says. “Just aware of the possibility.”

“It can’t hurt to look,” Damen says as Laurent throws. “And if not, I’ll put on a song that reminds me of you so you’ll be so disgusted you’ll forget all about it.”

Laurent smiles, despite himself, and his dart hits close enough that he can pass it off as being pleased with himself.

He turns to Damen with a challenging quirk of his brow. “If you go over there and Maneater starts playing in a few minutes, I’m leaving. You can tell Auguste why.”

Damen waves him off. “Of course not. Wait, which Maneater, it’s important.”

Laurent huffs and rolls his eyes as he reaches for another dart, even though it isn’t his turn.

“But hey, if you hear either one, it’s because someone else picked it, so don’t leave,” he says. “And what do you want me to put on? Or try to.”

Laurent hums and throws again.

“Film scores,” Laurent says simply. It’s safer than admitting that he likes the artists his mom listened to when he was a child or what Auguste liked when he was so much cooler than him in his first year of college, and it’s not wrong. He listens to it when he’s working and his thoughts are too loud to concentrate.

Plus, Damen might have been right about him enjoying the theatrics of an orchestra.

“I’ll be right back,” Damen says so enthusiastically that Laurent almost wishes it would be possible to not disappoint him like this.

But it’s not his fault if Damen is so optimistic that he heard film scores and thought sure, that’s probably on a jukebox.

He watches Damen weave through the bar with easy steps, gliding through almost like a ghost, and he wonders idly if that means he was trained as a dancer.

No, a fencer, maybe, but that’s unlikely.

Damen stops in front of the jukebox and is approached by a man and woman, who he greets cheerfully enough that it’s impossible to tell if Damen knows them or if he’s just acting like he did with Auguste: warm and welcoming for absolutely no reason.

A strange prickle moves up his spine, and he turns and spots Auguste watching him. He’s also bizarrely optimistic and gives Laurent two thumbs up like that’s supposed to mean something, and Laurent furrows his brow as he shakes his head.

Fortunately, though, their waitress comes with a new tray of drinks, breaking their line of sight, and Laurent’s new bendy straw coils out of the top of his like a little purple flag. He sighs, expelling all of the air from his lungs. What a ridiculous theme.

“You’re never gonna believe this,” Damen says, suddenly beside him, and Laurent jumps slightly in surprise, mentally blaming the sugar from the root beer for his sudden start.

He’s smiling, so brightly that it almost hurts to look at him, but he can’t look away. Laurent knew he was tall, obviously, but standing in front of him like this, Laurent has to angle his head up to look at him, and Damen is just awful enough to angle his own back down.

Laurent takes a step back for his own sake, raising his eyebrows in a silent question, but just as Pearl Jam fades out, a familiar pulse of strings slowly creeps over the bar. His eyes widen along with Damen’s smile, and he opens his mouth to ask how the hell Damen managed this.

“Why does your uncle have the Pirates of the Carribean theme song on his jukebox,” Laurent asks in complete and utter shock.

“He doesn’t, but it turns out it’s hooked up to WiFi, so all I had to do was download an app and pick something,” he says. “I hope this is okay, it was the first song I could think of.”

Laurent blinks at him, processing too much at once. One, that his first choice was the Jack Sparrow song. Two, that he didn’t just give up when he saw there wasn’t anything Laurent would have wanted with his ridiculous request already there. Three, that he downloaded an app for a jukebox just to play a song he thought Laurent would like. And so on, and so on.

“Oh, and I went ahead and booked the next one too,” Damen says.

Laurent’s eyebrows raise again. “And what movie did you pick for that–.”

A horn blows loudly and unmistakably, and if there were a few people idly paying attention because of the song before it, now they’re definitely aware something is going on.

He stares in disbelief as the Star Wars opening theme blasts at full volume in the restaurant, and Damen looks at him so earnestly that Laurent almost loses his mind.

He doesn’t mean to laugh, but it just comes out, bubbling like the carbonation of his root beer, even as he covers his face with his hands. It’s such a sudden, abrasive event that succeeds in getting several of the more inebriated tables to ba ba along, and he’s not sure how he’ll ever listen to it again without remembering this.

“Is this bad?”

“No, it’s not,” he says, forcing himself to catch his breath. “This is exactly what I asked for, I’m impressed.”

Damen straights up, pleased at that, and Laurent laughs again, wiping his eye on his sleeve, and it just gets worse. Who is this person? “I didn’t book any more so someone else can pick the next song.”

“Oh no, absolutely not, give me your phone,” Laurent says, and Damen, surprisingly without a question, unlocks it with his own smiling face before he drops back to neutral and curious and hands it over. His background is a sailboat with a bright blue sea behind it, and Laurent wonders if that’s nearby or in Ios.

He finds the jukebox app and then picks Indiana Jones, Mission Impossible, and Jurassic Park before he hands it back. Damen gives him an amused look as he slides his phone back into his pocket and then gestures back to the table.

“So should we get back, or did you want me to beat you in darts again?”

“You did not beat me,” Laurent says. “We tied.”

“Did we? I think I remember crushing you.”

“Did you hit your head on the door frame when you walked in?”

Damen throws his head back and laughs as he moves towards the table, and Laurent rolls his eyes behind him, but it may have to be forced.

Auguste stands to let Laurent back into his seat, smiling like he knows something, which Laurent promptly ignores in favor of returning to his root beer. Nik gets up to let Damen in, who makes a move for one of Nik’s remaining fries with a silent playful look that only works with people who know each other well.

It’s easy to wonder about their history, if Damen has more friends like this he’s made just by being himself, if he just moves through life like he’s the sun and the rest of the world is just happy to revolve around him, if they even know they are.

Is that what happened to him? Did Laurent get swept in with the current? He could have said no. He could have given him the same look of distaste he gives anyone else who tries to give him any unwanted attention, and yet he

ordered what he told him to.

He can’t leave without alerting Auguste, and Auguste cares too much to not ask a million questions, and so Laurent lets the wheels in his mind spin as fast as they want while he sips on the end of his straw, pretending like nothing is wrong.

He ordered what he did because he was recommended an award winning specialty by a renowned chef, and it would be stupid to waste the opportunity to try it. He ate the alligator at Damen’s bequest because it’s not like he’s afraid of trying new things when it comes to food. He played darts with him because he never backs down from a challenge he thinks he can win. He told Damen a half answer about the music he likes because it was a benign question. He sat here because he was knocked over by a group of idiots and he needed a table.

He walked over when Damen waved for him because he had a beautiful smile and a face that said come and look at me as much as you want, I won’t bite.

And Laurent stayed because Damen can’t tell a lie to save his life, hangs on to every word, and doesn’t spare his demeanor for whomever he deems worthy.

He may be everything Laurent isn’t in so many ways, and yet there’s nothing about him that Laurent can find abrasive.

Is it an act?

Maybe.

Has Laurent ever been fooled before?

Never.

Somehow he doesn’t think this will be the first time.

Auguste sighs as he stretches his arms high above his head with the sort of satisfied smile that only comes after a good night. “Well, I hate to kill the fun, but I’m an old man and it’s past my bedtime.”

Laurent sits up, sobered although already sober. “Oh, right. It’s probably late. We should get going. I’ll get the bill.”

“No,” Damen and Auguste both stay at the same time.

“I made you guys go crazy, it’s on me,” Damen insists.

Nik tilts his head towards him. “Yeah, let him get the check for once.”

“Hey,” Damen says, offended. “That’s not fair. You always pay when I’m not looking.”

“That’s because you’re always distracted, Damianos, and some of us have places to be.”

“Oh right, I forgot, I was born to freeload,” he says, playfully enough that Laurent imagines he’s missing something, but then Damen looks back at Laurent and Auguste as he digs out his wallet. “Seriously, I got it. Thanks for keeping us busy.”

“No, no, it’s on me,” Auguste says with a wave. “We had a great time and wouldn’t have been able to eat at all if you hadn’t let us sit with you. Let me buy you dinner for saving my little brother from having to find another parking spot.”

Laurent rolls his eyes. “Please, I’ll pay so we can all stop kissing each other’s asses.”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you,” Damen teases, and without thinking Laurent grabs the last cheese curd and throws it at him.

It hits his shoulder, but Damen catches it before it falls away and tosses it into his mouth with a look of satisfaction that Laurent would love nothing more than to wipe right off of him.

And then Auguste is gone. He takes the distraction to make his big break to the register, but Lykaios seems more than happy to ring him up—more so than she would have been for the rest of them, Laurent imagines.

He glances at Damen out of the corner of his eye to see how he feels about that, but Damen is watching Laurent instead.

That heartburn returns.

“I should go,” Laurent blurts out and slides away with as much efficiency as he can muster, ready to dart through the bar like an arrow to get away from his sudden mysterious spike in blood pressure.

“Oh, let me walk you out,” he says, but before Laurent can tell him that it’s unnecessary, Damen shoves Nik out of the way to get around him.

It’s pointless to try to out-walk him with Damen’s ridiculously long legs, so Laurent just keeps his head high and moves with the usual grace that has all the people who work for him ducking out of the way.

It doesn’t work.

“Oh, it feels great tonight,” Damen says once they step outside. Laurent preferred the air conditioning, honestly, but Damen seems… suited for this. A man made to thrive in nights like this, humid with promise. God, he probably surfs. “Hey, are you good?”

Laurent blinks a that. “What?”

“You just sprinted out,” he says. “Are you okay? Are you sick? There’s an Urgent Care around the corner. I can show you and Auguste how to get there.”

Laurent blinks again, and for a minute he thinks that Damen isn’t talking to him at all and that he’s switched bodies with someone who people act concerned for, like he hasn’t been the most capable person in his own life since he was 12.

“No,” he says finally. “I’m fine. I just would like a shower.”

It’s a terrible excuse, but Damen’s face lights up like it makes all the sense in the world. “Oh yeah, sure. I hate the smell of fried fish in my clothes. Well good, I’m glad I didn’t get you sick after I swore you wouldn’t.”

“No, the food was fine,” Laurent says.

“Just fine?” Damen asks with a slight raise of his brows.

Laurent flushes and looks off into the city. “It was adequate.”

“Adequate.”

He turns back to him, annoyed. “Fine, it was the most delicious meal I’ve had in months. I have no problem admitting that. Auguste picked a good place to eat.”

The blow just glances off him like water on a duck, and Damen laughs. “You’re right. I’m glad your brother invited you.”

“Yes, he does that sometimes,” he says.

“Too bad his timing was a little off,” Damen says, putting his hands into his pockets, and it takes Laurent only half a second to realize what he’s getting at.

“Really,” he says in disbelief.

“Yeah, you know, 1pm,” he says casually. “It really is the best time to drop by.”

“I’ll remember that,” he grits, although any dislike he may have towards Damen flirting with him is just a game they’re playing.

Damen shrugs, shifting his weight in a way he couldn’t while sitting down, and Laurent wonders curiously if he’s nervous. So yeah, you know, if you need help finding a table again. I’ll he here tomorrow at 1 for lunch.”

“Why would I need help finding a table if it’s not going to be busy?”

“Maybe I was lying,” he says.

“I doubt that,” Laurent says. “But I’ll bite. Why did you dare lie about the restaurant not being busy at 1pm.”

“To trick you into coming back here at a certain time and sharing another table with me,” he says. “Don’t let my ruggedly handsome face and Michelangeloan physique fool you. I can be clever.”

Laurent is barely sure that’s a real word, but he lets that and Damen’s self assessment slide.

“Oh, but then that would sound like you were hitting on me,” he says instead.

“Oh no, you said I couldn’t do that.”

“No, I asked if you were going to.”

“With that tone? It was practically the same thing.”

“You pay attention, don’t you,” Laurent says.

“Usually,” Damen says. “And so do you.”

Laurent hums, not denying it. Paying attention keeps you three steps ahead and wins you matches before they start, but Damen… well, he is playing a game of his own, perhaps, but so far he hasn’t made a single bad move. Laurent should know better, should pass him off as a playboy and be done right him, but there’s just one reason he can’t.

“Your brother is great,” Damen says. “Bring him too, if you want.”

That’s why.

“So it’s just any blond, then,” Laurent says like Damen didn’t just say the right thing.

Damen laughs because of course he does.

“No, no, I may have done a terrible job at not hitting on you, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t hit on him at all,” he says. “He just seems like a nice guy, and you were more relaxed when he was around.”

Laurent prickles at the observation. “It was just because I didn’t have to deal with you staring at me anymore.”

“Really? Because I don’t think I ever stopped staring at you,” he says. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice since I’m pretty sure you were staring at me too.”

“I think you need to get your eyes checked.”

“And my head too, apparently,” Damen says.

“I heard there’s an Urgent Care around the corner.”

“Just hang left that way, you can’t miss it.”

“I’ll remember that in case you take yourself out with a dart tomorrow,” Laurent says.

Damen’s mouth widens in a smile. “So does that mean I’ll see you?”

“Oh no, you might be clever,” he says before he sighs and turns away, folding his arms across his chest. “I should tell you to hold your breath.”

“Don’t you mean to not hold my breath?”

“No,” Laurent says decisively. Damen blinks once before he laughs, smiling with the same mouthful of perfect teeth that had Laurent gaping at a cheese pull. “Was that funny?”

“I don’t know, I guess you’re just funny to me,” he says.

“I was being serious.”

“I know,” he says, completely unbothered, and Laurent isn’t sure he can pretend to be surprised. Damen is either stupid, or he just doesn’t mind how many barbs Laurent wears on his skin, and Laurent isn’t sure if he knows how to deal with someone like this, who isn’t Auguste or Nicaise. Damen smiles at him. “Welp, Auguste is waiting for you, and I need to go see where Nik ran off to. See you tomorrow then?”

“Don’t–.”

“Hold my breath,” he says. “Don’t worry, I know how to lick my wounds when I need to.”

“I’m sure you have to lick them often,” Laurent says, aiming again for a blow at his pride, but Damen just grins and turns to leave with a wave to Auguste, who Laurent didn’t realize was probably watching them the whole time.

He walks up to take Damen’s place and unwraps a piece of hard gum he must have picked up at the register. “You could do a lot worse.”

“Please tell me you’re not encouraging this,” Laurent says.

“Why not?” Auguste says as he passes Laurent the other packet.

“What do you mean ‘why not’ he could be a monster,” Laurent says.

“Do you think he is?”

“He could be horrible,” he says.

“Do you think that either?”

“He could be stupid,” Laurent tries.

“And you spent the whole night talking to him? I think you would have picked up on that already.”

Laurent looks off with a frustrated scowl before he shoves the gum in his mouth and bites through the coating. “Aren’t you supposed to defend me from lustful men?”

Auguste laughs and puts his arm over his shoulder, making Laurent feel much smaller than he is. “Lustful men? It’s not like he was growling at you, and since when do you need defending from anyone?”

“Since when do you stop trying anyway?”

“Did you want me to?”

Laurent pauses and watches as a car with the ugliest gray and pink paint job he’s ever seen drives by.

“No,” he concedes.

“Like I said, you could do a lot worse.”

“That’s not exactly a vote of confidence,” Laurent says.

“If I say what I really think, you’ll kill me.”

Laurent removes himself so he can look up at him. “Now you have to tell me.”

“Or you might decide not to meet him again, which I’m not taking the blame for.”

“If you don’t tell me right now, I’ll never see him again and I might not talk to you for a while either,” Laurent says.

Auguste sighs and raises his hands in defense. “Alright, alright fine. It took me a while to find you.”

“Yes, because you found the busiest shit hole in town. I know. That’s how I ended up at his table.”

“No, because you were so comfortable, it took me a second to realize the blond guy waving his hands around at dazzling his date was my baby brother,” Auguste says, and Laurent flushes all the way to his shoulders. “And you looked like a couple, which impressed me. Honestly, I thought you were about to introduce me to someone you’ve secretly been seeing for a while.”

“No, it wasn’t anything like that,” Laurent says. “I don’t know why he greeted you that way.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course not. He was probably just fucking with me.”

“Ah, well, I’m glad you have me to give you a little insight,” Auguste says.

“Enlighten me, please,” Laurent says flatly.

“You see, you were going to get up and leave with me, which he didn’t want to happen because he wanted to have dinner with you, and since there weren’t any other tables, we would have left and gone somewhere else and taken his chance for an invitation with us.”

“How cunning.”

“And so by introducing himself and inviting me to join you, it kept you from having to leave and spared me from having to join a stranger’s table on my own. He really is a nice guy, I like him.”

“If he’s so wonderful, then you go out with him,” Laurent says. “He invited you too.”

Auguste grins. “Maybe I will.

Laurent rolls his eyes.

“Do you want to go?” Auguste asks, and Laurent doesn’t answer. “If you don’t, then don’t. He didn’t even ask you for your number. He’s leaving the ball in your court.”

“I know,” Laurent says.

“And he was nice.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I need, a nice guy to squeeze the joy out of,” he says.

“You only do that to people you don’t like, and the two of you were laughing and teasing each other all night. If Damen was scared of you, he would have given up before I got there. I know you didn’t go easy on him.”

Laurent takes a breath. “Maybe he’s just stupid.”

“Or maybe you’ve just met your match,” he says. Laurent looks at him. “Okay fine, google him then. Maybe he has a LinkedIn or an Instagram account.”

Laurent grimaces. “God, what if it’s a TikTok…”

“Then you’ll know now, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Fine let me just google Damen. The search results should be so useful. Do you think he was right for Elena because personally I’m not sure if she ever got over Stefan.”

“You watch too much TV,” Auguste says. “And you said his uncle is the owner?”

“Yes, Chef Makedon,” Laurent says more seriously. “He’s supposedly a famous chef and this is one of his passion projects.”

“Amazing,” Auguste says, looking back at the neon cartoon palm tree holding a mug of beer in each hand. “Well, that could make finding him a little bit easier.”

“I might not find anything at all,” Laurent says.

Auguste gives an exaggerated shrug, and Laurent rolls his eyes as he pulls out his phone. He searches Chef Makedon Damen assuming it’ll be a bust, but at the top of the page, the search results change automatically to Chef Makedon Damianos.

“Damianos,” Laurent says to himself, remembering that that was what Nik called him once, and immediately he sees the line of photos from several news articles.

He must make a face because Auguste comes around to see his screen, and then he laughs until he coughs, clapping a hand over Laurent’s shoulder in brotherly support as he wheezes next to him. Laurent will never hear the end of this, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Laurent can practically hear the picture. The man on the left is middle aged and smiling like a fool as he clasps the hand of another man with dark hair, dimples, and a suit tailored to fit a frame that shouldn’t be possible to contain in so much fabric. His stomach hits the floor.

“Chef Makedon with Damianos Akielos, Heir to the Akielos Hotel Group,” Auguste says. Laurent almost drops his phone.

“Yes, I can read,” Laurent says, snatching his phone away possessively before shoving it back is his pocket where neither he nor Auguste can see it. “He should have said something.”

“Yeah, he should have, but did you tell him who you are?”

“Of course not,” Laurent says.

“Oh, but you want to know why he didn’t use his status to try to sell himself to you,” he says. “Alright, well, if it had worked, then what would he have gotten? Someone interested in his money? Or just interested in money in general? You would have either thrown yourself at him–.”

“I would not have,” Laurent says firmly.

“He doesn’t know you, remember,” he says. “Like I was saying, you would have either thrown yourself at him or spent all night talking to him the way the people at those dinners you hate so much talk to you. Not even the staff treated him like a special guest. Do you think that was an accident?”

He was just a guy. He was a guy in an ill fitting t-shirt waiting for a friend at a restaurant his uncle owns who just happened to be the kind of guy willing to share a table with someone just to be nice. He respected Laurent’s boundaries, asked him about music and art and travel, played darts with him, introduced him to new foods, and treated Auguste like a brother-in-law so easily anyone would have believed it was true.

He didn’t even bring it up when Laurent seemed to be saying no as the card up his sleeve.

Well, if he’s honest, it would have pissed Laurent off if he had stooped to flashing his name around like a badge when the de Vere family has been a name for much, much longer. Actually it would have pissed him off no matter who Laurent was. It would have been cheap and annoying, and it would have turned him off past what’s forgivable.

“Yes, I can see why he didn’t tell me,” Laurent says. “But if he thinks I’m an idiot who couldn’t figure out, he’s got another thing coming.”

“I pity anyone who tries to hold one over on you, but I don’t think that’s it at all. I’m sure after a few dates, he’ll bring it up.”

“A few dates,” Laurent says with a bemused look, but then he remembers something very important. “Or at the banquet next week.”

Auguste’s smile widens as he remembers the benefit they were both invited to along with a few dozen other guests with heavy pocketbooks—at the Akielos downtown.

“You’re going to give him a heart attack, you know that, right?”

“He should know what he’s getting into before wasting either of our time, don’t you think?”

Auguste just shakes his head, smiling fondly.

“And for the record, I don’t think anyone’s wasting their time,” Auguste says. “I think you like spending time with him, and you’ll finally have someone to talk to at those benefits who isn’t me.”

“Hey,” Laurent says, and Auguste smiles brightly before stepping to leave.

“I’ve gotta head home. Early day tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes,” Laurent says with a dismissive wave. “Have a safe flight.”

“Maybe I should have booked the Akielos in London for the trip instead,” he says. “You could have gotten a me a room upgrade.”

“Oh sure, let me just pull the new strings I made over root beer,” Laurent says. “The worst part is, I think if you would’ve mentioned it, he would have found a way to.”

“Probably without telling you,” he agrees.

Laurent nods silently, and he stays where he is, even as Auguste disappears into the night.

Damen absolutely would have had his room upgraded, his room service fees waived, and would have made sure Auguste was taken care of without saying a word to either of them. He wouldn’t have done it to earn Laurent’s favor, he would’ve done it to be nice, and Laurent only needed one dinner to learn that about him.

And that’s probably just scratching the surface.

Laurent’s phone hangs like a weight in his pocket.

 

+

Luck has it that their booth from last night is unoccupied, so Damen slips in, keeping his eye on the door.

The restaurant isn’t nearly as busy as the night before, and Paradise City plays over the speakers. He wonders if he should send Uncle Makedon a message that he’s been here twice this week, but then he decides that that’s probably a bad idea. He’ll want to meet and catch up with his favorite nephew, and Damen can’t afford to be hungover for the next few days.

And then he would have to explain why twice in one week actually means twice in a 24 hour period.

Laurent may not even come. Damen knows that. He can’t stop knowing that, even when he replays his little smiles and his accidental compliments over and over again in his mind. He may very well blow him off or just be too busy to come and have no way of telling him he can’t make it, but Damen has to hope that whatever spark he felt last night wasn’t completely one sided.

He’s never seen someone so beautiful before. He knows he has a weakness for blonds, but Laurent’s hair looked like it was right out of a fairytale. And his eyes were so blue they put the waters around Ios to shame. And his smile was such a delicate thing, hidden for most of the night, but sweet any time it slipped out. And Damen liked when he wasn’t smiling too, when he was thinking too much or when he was quietly observing. And he was so smart in a way that Damen could tell he can learn from him. He could see a new perspective from Laurent’s point of view, and last night every glimpse of it, he liked.

Damen has been immediately attracted to people before, obviously, but he’s never–.

His instincts were different. The way he wanted to talk to him was different. He wanted to find a quiet place to sit, and he wanted Laurent to talk to him all night like a child waiting for his bedtime story. He wanted to take his hands between his and see if they would disappear between his palms, and he wanted to clear the restaurant out, order everything on the menu, and then watch Laurent taste every bite carefully one by one.

If Damen didn’t have as much self-restraint as he does, he would have asked Laurent if he wanted to get out of there and fly to anywhere in the world with his own suite to do whatever he wanted in. Nik would have rolled his eyes backwards, but Damen would have meant the offer.

But he held back. He didn’t want to come on too strong and scare him off, so he waited until the last possible moment and dropped in an invitation that Laurent could easily pretend he didn’t hear.

He just hopes Laurent is interested enough to give him a real shot.

His leg bounces beneath the table, and his fingers tap a silent tune as his eyes dart from the scratches in the wood to the door where he hopes Laurent will soon walk through. He wills himself to stop moving when his father’s voice speaks somewhere in the back of his mind about how fidgeting belies strength of will, or something like that.

“Akielos men are strong, straightforward, honest, hard working, and good at what we do. You need to take yourself seriously and imagine yourself as the future king of an empire because one day you will be.”

It’s a little dramatic, but his father did build an empire, so he must know what he’s talking about.

A flash of sunlight catches his eye, and this time when he looks up, his heart jumps like it did last night. Laurent isn’t dressed for the summer heat, so Damen is relieved they didn’t happen-chance at a place with an outdoor patio, but he looks incredible. Sleek, refined, delicate in certain ways and deadly in others.

Damen sits up, unable to stop himself from smiling because of how happy he is to see him, even if he probably looks like a dog who waited all day to see his owner.

Laurent inclines his head as a greeting as he slides into the booth across from him. He looks even more beautiful than Damen remembered, and he wonders if it would be possible to sneak a picture of him without him noticing so he can look at him every time he’s in a bad mood.

That might be too much.

At least it was an inside thought.

“You came,” Damen says, cringing internally at the sound of joy in his own voice. Maybe since Laurent doesn’t know him that well, he won’t notice it.

No, he notices everything.

“Don’t make me regret it,” he says easily, and Damen can’t help but smile.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

It’s hard not to tell him everything. That he couldn’t sleep, so he spent a ridiculous amount of time figuring out which film scores he could find on a jukebox app. What he had for breakfast this morning and that his espresso machine broke. That he got to see the photos of the lobby in one of their new locations with a crystal glass fountain that makes gentle chimes when water hits the different parts and thar all he could think about was how much he wanted to show Laurent. That he saw a bluebird this morning that reminded him of Laurent so much he wasn’t even mad that it shit on his car. That he accidentally doodled his name on one of the contracts and had to hide it so no one would notice. That he’s smitten.

He keeps it all in, wisely, he thinks, and instead asks Laurent about his morning, if he made it home safe (which Laurent responds with obviously, I’m alive and unscathed, and then Damen says are you sure? We could make a run to Urgent Care, and Laurent smiles at him before reaching for a napkin).

He folds it into a small swan and sets it on the table, and Damen makes a mental note to do anything to keep it from being thrown away so he can steal it and put it on his desk, maybe even preserve it in a little resin cube so he can keep it forever.

Chill, he warns himself. You’re being a freak.

Damen is saved by Erasmus coming to take their order. He sets the menus down between them with a slight flush to his cheeks that Damen’s always found charming.

“Hello, I’m Erasmus, and I’ll be your server today,” he says with his usual polite appreciative tone. “What can I get you two to drink?”

“Two root beers, please,” Damen says, not to order for Laurent, but when there are only two possibilities on the menu…

“I’ll have those right out for you,” Erasmus says and disappears back into the kitchen.

“No regular beer this time?” Laurent asks.

“Not for lunch,” he says. “It makes me sleepy, and I have a lot to do today.”

“Like what? Pushups?”

Damen laughs, delighted. “No, my job.”

“Oh, I’m surprised you’re employed,” he says. “Since you seem to have so much free time on your hands.”

“I’ve been here just as many times as you have,” he says.

“There’s no way for me to know that.”

“You could try taking my word for it,” he says.

“Oh could I? Well.”

Damen laughs. “I also pay taxes and live by myself. Try not to be too shocked.”

“Incredible,” Laurent says. “You’re not the man I thought you were at all.”

“And what did you think I was?” Damen asks, curious.

“‘What’ not ‘who’?”

“I’m sure you thought I was Damen yesterday too,” he says.

“That’s true, I did think you were Damen,” Laurent says. “What was that that Nik called you?”

“Damianos,” he says. “He likes to break out the full government name every now and then when I’m in trouble, but Damen is better for friends, don’t you think?”

“Damianos,” Laurent repeats, slowly and carefully. “Damen. Damianos. Damen. I think I like both, but I’ll be sure to use Damianos when you’re in trouble too.”

If Damen was seconds away from losing his mind just from hearing Laurent weigh his name back and forth like he was trying to pick between two different luxury watches, he’s ruined now. Thankfully, instead of banging his head against the table or howling like a dog, he just laughs, which he’s learning, Laurent seems to like.

“Okay, so based on your impression from last night and from finding out I actually have a job, what’s your best guess?”

Laurent hums and leans forward with his arms on the table.

“You’re charming. Good at getting people to spend money. Athletic,” he says with an extra look over his body. “Obviously used to talking. Constantly available with no real responsibilities.”

Damen raises an eyebrow at that.

“I do have one guess,” Laurent says, and Damen cannot help himself but indulge himself.

He leans forward, mirroring Laurent’s posture. “And what is that?”

“You’re a fitness influencer.”

Damen’s laugh barks out of him, completely taken by surprise, and he sits back in his booth, beaming with delight.

He’s perfect. It only took two conversations for Damen to know that, but he’s perfect.

Laurent isn’t nice by any means, but there’s this flicker in his eye every time he goes in for the kill and right before when he catches his prey in his sights. It reminds Damen of knowing a kitten is about to jump out and claw the shit out of your leg but finding it so cute you can’t bring yourself to stop it.

Laurent has fangs and claws and can constrict his prey like a snake, but Damen likes that. He likes nipping at the coals and seeing if the edge is as sharp as it looks, and he just likes him.

And Laurent hasn’t kissed up to him once, which he’ll never know how much that means to Damen, so maybe Damen will wait a little longer before telling him about his real life. Let him think he’s just a guy who has too much free time on his hands and didn’t push three meetings just to get a lunch break long enough to see him when there was no guarantee he would. Give him just a little peace of mind with Laurent never really letting him relax in a way he could get used to. Give him this.

“So tell me, expert, will protein really fix everything that’s wrong with me?”

Damen laughs and wipes a small tear away from laughing too hard. “It hasn’t worked for me yet, but it won’t stop me from trying.”

And Laurent smiles at him, just a brief flash of sunlight before it disappears again, forced down and zipped up tight and locked up behind steel. But it’s there, a sign that Laurent at least enjoys him a little, that he’s not just here because he felt obligated to come. That maybe Damen can ask him again.

Erasmus brings their drinks and two menus, which takes all of Laurent’s attention. He studies it carefully like he’s reading every description and weighing a thousand different variables Damen can’t even begin to think of. Damen could be smug and say that just last night Laurent was repulsed by the idea of eating here, but he can also guess that Laurent is just spiteful enough to hear that and refuse to eat at all, so he keeps his mouth shut.

And then Laurent seems to find something because he jerks the page back with a furrow to his brow.

“Need help?” Damen asks.

“No, I can read a menu.”

He flips back and runs his finger down the list, and when he finally stops and finds what he’s looking for he makes the slightest (almost sinister) smile. Damen sits up higher to try to get a look at what he’s found, but Laurent holds the menu at an angle he can’t see.

Erasmus comes back to take their order, and Damen gestures for Laurent to go first. (Not because he’s nosy, but because he’s a gentleman).

“Could I get the grilled chicken wrap, and is it possible to get an extra cup of the sauce on the side.”

“Sure, we can do that,” he says as he writes on his pad. “And are fries okay?”

“Fries are fine,” Laurent says.

Erasmus turns to Damen. “And for you, sir?”

Damen doesn’t miss the amused look on Laurent’s face, and he wonders if he’ll have to say no, I have not dated everyone who works here, I just know them at some point today. “Can I just get whatever the chef’s special is today?”

“Absolutely. I’ll bring that back in just a few minutes.”

He leaves again, and when Damen looks back, he sees Laurent studying him just as intensely as he studied the menu. Observing him, privately learning something about him that Damen didn’t mean to show. Damen flushes and just starts talking.

“Uncle Makedon gives Chef Pallas free rein with whatever leftover ingredients they need to use up to make the lunch special,” he says, suddenly feeling the need to explain his choice. “So nothing goes to waste, I mean, and I like to see what Pallas comes up with.”

“I can respect that,” Laurent says. “Both that nothing goes to waste, and that your instinct is to see what talents this other chef has with coming up with recipes in a limited time frame. You must have an adventurous palate.”

It’s too much, really. His thoughtfulness and reasoning hits him like an arrow through the heart, and attached at the end is a small banner that says what Laurent sees in Damen he might like. It’s so much that Damen has to resort to teasing him to stop himself from hugging his own arms and falling over.

“And you must like the house ranch,” Damen says. Surprise washes over Laurent’s face, and his cheeks burn a nice, rosy pink. “I think you can get it on anything here, you know, if you didn’t really want the chicken wrap.”

Laurent’s flush deepens and he picks up the menu like it’s suddenly very interesting. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

For next time, Damen’s mind supplies.

“I’ve never had the wrap before, so you’ll have to tell me what you think,” he says.

“I’ll try to be thorough,” he says. “Do they bake their own buns here, or do they get them from a bakery.”

“There won’t be a bun on a wrap.”

“I meant from last night.”

“Oh,” he says. “No, yeah, Nik bakes them.”

Laurent’s eyes widen. “Oh?”

“But maybe I shouldn’t have told you that?” Damen guesses by the immediate interest Laurent shows.

“I just assumed you two worked together,” he says.

“We do, kind of,” Damen says, not mentioning that Nik comes in to help with some of the bigger events at this location.

“As fitness influencers,” Laurent says. “His hair seemed kind of long. Does he have to worry about getting it in the dough?”

“He wears a net,” he says. “Am I setting you up with my best friend?”

“I don’t know, are you?”

“No,” Damen says too quickly and catches the small twitch of Laurent’s mouth.

Oh, he’s dangerous.

“Well, it was very good bread,” he says. “I was impressed.”

“I will be sure to pass that information along.”

“Thank you,” he says. Damen thinks Laurent will ask him more about how they sometimes work together, but he doesn’t. Instead he looks up at the ceiling and frowns slightly in thought. “What song is this?”

“Linger by The Cranberries,” Damen says.

Laurent nods, still listening. “I thought I recognized it.”

“You like this one?”

Laurent nods. “It reminds me of my mother.”

Damen packs that information away like it’s the most important fact of the day, and when Laurent goes to the bathroom to wash his hands, he pulls out his phone and pulls up the jukebox app.

Hello, Natalie Imbruglia, John Williams, Dido, and Ramin Djawadi. Anything more than that might be obvious.

Nik would call him the most shameless flirt of all time, but Nik isn’t here right now to stop him, is he?

Laurent comes back and sits across from him, his eyes bright and wonderful, and Damen almost hopes the food will take forever to come out, if only so he’ll have more time to talk to him.

This is it, isn’t it. Damen’s found who he could have spent his whole life looking for, and now he just has to convince Laurent to think the same thing about him.

That’s something that’s possible, right?

“So, do you like pie?”

Laurent raises an eyebrow at the question, and Damen swallows, suddenly feeling very stupid.

“They have pie here, so,” he says. “You know. Pie.”

“Pie,” Laurent says.

“Yeah, pie.”

“Pie is… fine,” he says.

“And ice cream,” he says. “With the pie.”

“We can get pie,” Laurent says, and Damen wonders if he was asking for permission.

“Great,” he says. “I’m buying, obviously. Lunch, I mean. This, and the pie.”

“Putting those sponsored posts to good use, then? Is this for the protein powder or for the specialty blender.”

“You seem to know a lot about fitness influencers,” Damen says. “So that must mean I’m your type.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to hit on me.”

“Oh, I’m not hitting on you, I’m just making an observation.”

“Like how I could tell you like blonds,” Laurent says.

“Exactly,” Damen says.

“And what if I said that I don’t have a type,” he says, leaning back to cross his arms over his chest. Damen can imagine his leg crossing over the other as well beneath the table. “In the way that you’re thinking.”

“I would have to ask you what way you do then.”

“I like men who can keep up with me,” he says. “Even if they are nice to look at, that’s what matters.”

Damen leans forward, flashing the kind of smile that always makes a person blush when he wants them to. It works on him too. “And have I fallen behind yet?”

Before Laurent can answer, Erasmus brings their food, and they both gape at the behemoth of a burger piled up on Damen’s plate.

“Are you supposed to unhinge your jaw like a snake to eat that?”

“Maybe,” he says in disbelief, and before he can question it, Erasmus is gone again like he fled. Damen can’t help but laugh. “Your wrap looks delicious, by the way.”

“I’m not going to trade with you,” he says, and Damen laughs again because why would that even come to mind.

“Oh no, this is mine,” he says. “But we might be here for a while.”

“No, you might be here for a while,” Laurent says. “I can leave.”

“Do you want to?” Damen asks, the question just slipping out.

“Not yet,” he says, and then he quietly picks up his wrap and bites into it with a soft crunch, and Damen finds himself immediately distracted by the soft pout his lips make when he chews.

He wonders if he kissed him, would he be mad.

Probably.

Don’t do that.

Yet.