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It’s in the ritziest hotel bar in Prague, having hit a bump in their current plan, that they break the news to him. Their target’s interest lying only in women below thirty leaves them with significantly less leeway than originally planned, if Cynthia can no longer get under his skin.
“Please,” Laurent is saying, before he’s even started to say no.
“I never said I wouldn’t do it,” Makoto huffs, “Just that I don’t understand why it has to be me.”
Across the booth, Abby raises an eyebrow. “You’ll actually do it?” Beside her, tapping tasteful acrylics on the countertop, Cynthia is glaring into the pits of a wineglass.
Almost proudly, Laurent coos, “Who else could do it? He’s already seen Abby’s face countless times, and Shi-On is past her honey-trapping prime.”
“He’s seen me countless times too!” Edamura argues, jabbing at the bastard’s bicep. For reasons unknown, the blonde had insisted on sitting beside him, attempting not once but twice to feed him some fancy pastry with his fingers.
Laurent shrugs. “Nothing a little makeup can’t fix.”
“Then why can’t a little makeup fix Abby?”
“Are you saying I need fixing, dickwad?”
Dragging a hand through his hair, Makoto sighs. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t,” Abby assures him, digging her knife into the table in front of her, “Please elaborate.”
Cynthia grabs lightly at the girl’s wrist. “Don’t dent the table. Makoto,” She starts, and he can already feel his resolve crumbling at the defeated tone of her voice. He might not have known her long, but by now it’s clear how much she hates to lose; her precious ego must be nigh-devastated. Besides, she’s always been the most reasonable one on the crew, or so it seems, and if she thinks it’s a good idea, who’s he to protest? “It might not be the most comfortable plan for you, but it’s all we’ve got right now, since I…’m no longer the most viable candidate.”
“Since you struck out.” Abby corrects helpfully.
“Since I am not his type,” Cynthia saps, tightening her grip on Abby’s wrist. Unimpressed, Abby wriggles her arm free and goes back to her steak.
Laurent slides an arm around Makoto’s shoulders, leaning into him. “His type is apparently young women. And that’s,” With his free hand, he plucks a cherry tomato out of Makoto’s salad, popping it between his teeth, “Where you come in.”
“I’m not a young woman.”
“Besides the point. You’re a pretty little thing, it’ll be fine.”
“Gee, thanks,” Makoto grumbles, ignoring the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. That’s something that he’s developed lately-- an almost allergy to the blonde bastard. It’s like he infects the very air of any room he enters, giving Edamura motion sickness just by looking at him. “It’s called butterflies,” Abby had told him when he’d complained, but he wasn’t familiar with the phrase and she didn’t elaborate.
Laying her manicured fingers on the table, Cynthia rolls her eyes. “Are you all finished eating? We still have to get the little one a dress.”
“Sorry that we don’t all subsist entirely off of alcohol,” Abby hisses, fist tightening around her steak knife once again.
“I still didn’t say I’ll do it,” Makoto accuses, trying to weasel his way out from under Laurent’s (heavy, warm) arm, “And who are you calling ‘the little one’? Abby’s younger than me, make her the little one!”
“Only thing little about her is her chest,” Laurent chimes in, unhelpful as always. His cologne is almost suffocating from this close. “Not that that’s a problem.”
“Watch it, horndog. I’ll cut off your dick in your sleep.”
“You wouldn’t dare. I need that thing.”
“It would look good on the mantelpiece back on the island,” Cynthia muses. “Right next to that CEO’s middle finger.”
“Oh, the one from Cairo?” Laurent asks, almost fondly, at the same time Abby cringes with a, “You kept that thing?”
“You people are insane,” Makoto says for the nth time since reaching Prague. It feels like his conviction dwindles a little bit with each iteration, taking his dignity with it. He tries not to dwell on it, lest he tear his own hair out. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
Laurent grins down at him. “It’s cute that you thought you had a choice in the matter.”
Makoto doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he settles for rolling his eyes and turning back to Cynthia. “You mentioned dress shopping. Have a place in mind?”
The smile that curls over her lips is something evil. “Please, Makoto. It’s like you don’t know me at all.”
“I’m staying here,” Abby informs them around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
“Wrong,” Cynthia tells her, “I need help.”
“Why.”
“You expect me to dress this mess all by myself? I’m just one woman, Abigail.”
Makoto’s long given up on escaping Laurent’s grasp, but now he picks up the torch once again, throwing an elbow hard into the Frenchman’s side and earning a well-deserved, gratifying umph in return. “No way. I can do it myself.”
That drags a genuine laugh out of Abby, something Makoto resents. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
“I’m serious,” Makoto hisses, still clawing at Laurent’s hand, which has since migrated to rest atop his head.
“What’s this?” Laurent asks, flexing his fingers and grinning like a child. Makoto digs his nails in, and the bastard doesn’t even flinch.
“The next thing I’m going to add to my mantelpiece.”
“Wrong. It’s a braineater. What’s it doing?”
“I- Eating my brain. It’s eating my brain, Laurent, you’re so funny, now will you let go-”
“Wrong again. C’mon, what’s it doing?”
“Starving,” Abby deadpans.
“Ding ding ding, we have a winner!”
Cynthia breaks out into raucous laughter, almost spilling her wine glass all down her expensive blazer. “Oh, I get it, I get it.”
“Ha, ha. You’re sooo funny, Laurent,” Makoto coos, batting his eyelashes sarcastically up at the smug blonde, still towering over him. “Now get off me.”
This, of course, only seems to serve as incentive for the bastard to put more of his weight on the poor man, smothering him in expensive cologne and his purple silk shirt. “What was that? I can’t hear you, Edamame, you’re going to have to speak up.”
Abby snorts. “You’re such a dad.”
“Daddy,” Laurent corrects smoothly.
Abby fakes a gag.
“Coming or not, Makoto?” Cynthia asks, standing up and setting down her wine glass all at once, sudden determination overtaking her. “We had a dress to buy and a man to scam.”
“Someone’s fired up.”
A glint flashes through Cynthia’s eye. “I want him crushed.”
With one final good shove, Makoto scurries free of Laurent’s hold and tumbles out of the booth. “I told you, I’m going alone,” He huffs, glaring up at Cynthia.
She doesn’t seem to be having it, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. “And I told you I don’t trust you with this.”
“How hard can it be?”
“How- Oh, you take that back right now,” She hisses, looking scandalized, “You have to take into account your figure, your skin tone, the undertone of your skin, your eyes, your face shape-- you have no bust, so it has to be something that draws attention away from your chest-”
“Another reason to bring Abby: her expertise in that area,” Laurent chimes in, followed by a “ouch!” when Abigail stomps on his toes under the table.
“-And the fabric has to be high-quality, and we should capitalize on that waist of yours, and height isn’t your strong suit, so we need to find something that-”
“Okay, okay, I get it!” Makoto interrupts, “You can come.”
“Again,” Laurent laughs, “It’s cute when you think you have a choice in anything.”
“Manipulation isn’t charming.”
“It is a little bit,” Laurent is still smiling at him, and he winks. Makoto turns away, back towards Cynthia.
“Do you already have some ideas?”
At this, she perks up. “So many. I’ve always thought you’d look good in red.”
Makoto blanches. “Red? I dunno about that, Cynthia…”
“I think you’d look fetching in red,” Laurent breathes, but Makoto is still dutifully ignoring him, so he says instead, “I was thinking… blue?”
Abby grunts. “Does it really matter that much? Just pick a dress and get on with it. We don’t have all night. The target is supposed to be at the bar at nine, right? Get moving.”
“She’s right,” Laurent agrees, finally deciding to be helpful, “We’re crunched for time, and we still have to go over the plan once you get to him.”
“Ugh,” Makoto groans, “Let’s just get this over with, then.”
“I can’t wait to see the results,” Laurent says, “Run along now. Abby and I will spend some quality time together here.”
“Actually, I don’t want to spend another minute with this asshole; I’m coming.” Abby shoves her way out of the booth and turns to give Laurent a withering look. “You got the bill, right?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“It’s cute you think you have a choice,” Makoto parrots, letting Cynthia curl her arm through his.
Laurent grins. “Well played, Edamame.”
------
In the end, he lets Cynthia put him in red. He lets her do just about whatever she pleases, really, being pushed and pulled this way and that, shoved into dress after dress after dress until she’s finally satisfied.
Even Makoto has to admit, she’s outdone herself.
He almost doesn’t recognize his reflection, peering at himself in the restroom of an upscale bar. The ladies’ room, mind you, which had him blushing to his ears as he let Abby tug him in.
“Don’t touch it,” She snaps beside him, smacking his hand away from where he’s trying to prod at the lipstick. It’s a delicate pink to offset the intensity of the dress.
And intense is quite a word for it. Cynthia’s taste is perhaps more flashy than Makoto’s own. The neckline is high and draped to give the illusion that there's anything substantial underneath. The straps are tied in a halter behind his neck, a delicate bow that he was surprised Abby knew how to do, her contribution to the look. Beyond that, the back dipped low, exposing from his shoulder blades to just above his ass. He'd protested profusely, trying to bat Cynthia away as she insisted that it would be just the right amount of sexy to draw their target in.
“Since you don't have any assets in the front,” She'd supplied unhelpfully, “We’ll have to draw his attention to the back.”
In the end, he’d lost the battle and let Cynthia shove him into the dress. And then he’d let the two of them do his makeup and brush his hair, sweeping it back and pinning one side out of his face. He had a good idea of how people perceived him-- he certainly wasn’t ugly, and he knew it-- but this was a whole other level. Looking at himself in the mirror now, he hardly recognized himself, not just because of the dress and the makeup, but because he looked confident, even if he hardly felt it.
The dress was pretty. And the girls had done a good job with his face.
“Not bad,” Abby said beside him, “You do look like a girl.”
“Thanks,” Makoto deadpans, tilting his head to let her fit the audio transmitter into his ear. It’s a small stud disguised as an earring, and it makes him wince as she shoves it into his piercing, half-closed from disuse. He’d gotten it done for a con years ago and never remembered to keep earrings in. “Careful! That hurt.”
“Poor you.” Abby pinches his ear for good measure, then holds up the receiver. It’s a small black box shaped like a phone, inconspicuous enough. “Say something.”
“Um. Something.”
The green light in one corner lights up with each word, logging it in its memory bank to be listened to later.
“Great. Okay, get out of here.”
Makoto glances in the mirror one more time, taking in his appearance-- the earring, the dress, the glittery eyeshadow and pink lips-- before nodding to himself. He can do this. He’s a professional.
------
Laurent isn’t surprised that Makoto is doing well. He’s a professional after all.
He’s just surprised that Makoto is being so… well.
“Why is he letting him touch him so much? He never lets me touch him without wiggling away.”
“Because he’s acting,” Cynthia says kindly.
“Because he hates you,” Abby says less kindly.
Laurent hums. He’s sitting at a table in the corner of the room, watching Edamame dance with their target, an older man with more than a few fingers in some sticky places and about one hundred and forty million dollars that Laurent would like to get his hands on. He hadn’t been surprised that Cynthia didn’t do it for the old man; he was known for having a very particular profile of women he was attracted to, and Laurent knew Makoto could be molded into that profile.
Still, he didn’t think he’d be so willing about it. They’ve done quite a few cons together at this point, and Laurent knows how seriously Makoto takes each job. That doesn’t make it any less disorienting to see Edamame flirting, and quite egregiously at that. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man flirt, even if he would most certainly find success in such endeavors. Makoto is gorgeous, and Laurent isn’t the only one who thinks so. Seemingly, the younger man is oblivious to the looks he gets, or perhaps entirely uninterested.
But not tonight. Tonight, he’s leaning into his charms in a way that Laurent has never seen, and it’s making him feel a little hot under the collar. He hooks a finger in his tie and loosens the knot ever so slightly before taking a sip of his champagne, eyes locked on where Makoto is dancing with their target.
He’s got his own glass of champagne in hand, and he’s making a show of bringing it to his mouth, slow and deliberate in a way that makes one’s eyes follow the motion helplessly, poised for the moment the cool glass presses to painted lips. Laurent takes another swig of champagne. And then another for good measure when he sees the target’s hand slide lower along Makoto’s waist.
“Easy,” Cynthia scolds beside him, “We’re on a job.”
“Never stopped you,” Abby says boredly.
“How is he so good at that?”
“He’s acting,” Abby repeats, huffing. She’s picking at her plate and avoiding eye contact with the partygoers around them. She’d gotten a few offers to dance as well, though the prospects had been easily scared off with a look. Laurent had been schmoozing around himself, but he’d lost interest in talking to anyone else the moment that Makoto had made an appearance.
“You ladies really did do a good job,” He says now, eying the way the lights pick up the faint shimmer to the fabric. “You were right. Red is a good color for him.”
“I’m always right about these things.”
“You’re staring. It’s creepy.”
“Am I?” Laurent asks faintly. He sits up, turning to cast the girls a look. “Maybe I’ll go dance instead.”
Cynthia frowns. “I know that look. What are you up to?”
“What, a man can’t dance? We’re at a party.”
Cynthia gives him an unimpressed look, then shakes her head. Abby shrugs. “It’s your plan. Just don’t fuck it up for the rest of us.”
Laurent’s face breaks into a grin. “You have so much faith in me. Too kind, truly.”
When he stands and turns back around, he finds that their target’s hand has crept along Makoto’s side enough to grip his hip tightly. The other is gripping his hand tight enough that it looks painful. With a tinge of something possessive, Laurent sidesteps through the crowd.
“Do you mind if I cut in?”
He revels in the momentary surprise that flits over Makoto’s face, followed by the twinge of annoyance, before the professional mask slips back into place. When their target turns around, he looks positively affronted by the suggestion. It delights Laurent.
“Hello,” He says to Edamame in his most obnoxiously sultry voice, stepping in and sliding a hand over Makoto’s waist. The target’s hand gets dislodged in the process, his brows furrowing inward irritably. Laurent gives him a sideways glance. “You don’t mind, do you?”
The man looks like he wants to snatch Makoto back from him, even as Laurent settles into step with the younger man. It would be rude, though, to protest, so the target only clears his throat and says with barely-contained irritation, “I suppose just a song or two.”
“Perfect,” Laurent says, twirling them away from the man without waiting for a response. Makoto’s hand drapes over his neck, just close enough to the exposed collar of his shirt that he can dig a few fingernails into the tender skin of his neck.
Smiling, Laurent curls his arm tighter around Makoto’s waist, impossibly enticing in this dress. His hand rests delicately on the small of the man’s back, nestled into the soft curve. The skin is warm and alive. His other hand finds Edamura’s shoulders, draping there loosely.
The look that Makoto levels him with, looking up at him through his lashes, ears tinted pink, is equal parts lethal and embarrassed, and all the more endearing for it. Laurent hums and pulls him in close, beginning to move them across the floor. When Laurent first met Makoto, he’d been a horrible dancer, stumbling over his own feet and his partners’. But practice and enough cases have made him very good, and now he keeps up with Laurent effortlessly, almost mindlessly, as he glares at the blonde man.
“What are you doing?” Makoto hisses. He glances over Laurent’s shoulder at their target. “I was just starting to get-”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Laurent says with an ease he doesn’t feel. “And nobody likes their things being taken away. When you go back to him, he’ll be even more smitten.”
“I’m not a thing. And I don’t know if it really works that way.”
“I speak from experience.”
Makoto snorts, attention returning to Laurent’s face. “What? Did you lose something recently? Besides, I- Hey! Don’t-!”
Laurent’s hand has swept lower to rest on his ass. It’s hard not to give into the temptation to squeeze, to let his fingers dig in, but he manages to resist, giving Makoto a lazy smile. He twirls them enough that Makoto’s backside is facing their target, Laurent’s groping on full display. He keeps them that way for a moment, feet ever-moving, before turning them once again so his own back is to their target. Makoto’s face has gone a lovely shade of pink.
“How’s he taking it?”
“Don’t refer to me like I’m not here. And I’m not taking-”
“The target,” Laurent murmurs, stifling a laugh.
“Oh. He’s…” Makoto’s eyes dart over Laurent’s shoulder again. His gaze is deceptively casual, scanning the crows lazily. Only with so little space and so many years of familiarity between them can Laurent see the way he dissects their target, easily disguised as a friendly, fleeting interest. Even with flushed cheeks and trembling against Laurent in embarrassment, he’s an abject professional, certain to scold Laurent later but dedicated to the con until the very end. It’s one of Laurent’s favorite qualities about the man. “...He looks mad. He’s not dancing with anyone else, just standing there and staring at us.”
“He’s looking, then? You must have really caught his attention, Edamame.”
Makoto glances at Laurent again, face open and conveying that same false, friendly interest even as he grits out an irritated, “I know how to do my job, you know.”
And Laurent does know it, but it’s far more fun to play with him. “I didn’t get to tell you before,” He murmurs, keeping his voice low enough that Makoto has to lean closer to hear him, nose nearly brushing Laurent’s cheek, “But you look positively stunning tonight.”
To his chagrin, Makoto leans back and gives him a look of disbelief. “Can it. I’m not in the mood for your games.”
Games. That’s the thing: poor Edamame never seems to catch onto just how serious Laurent is. He hums. “I mean it.”
Makoto ignores him, mind turning back to the con. “He seems a little too willing,” He says, eyes flitting to the target once more before focusing on Laurent again. “Do you think he’s onto us?”
“No,” Laurent says, “But you’d be a better judge. You’re the one who was dancing with him.” And I trust your judgement, Laurent doesn’t add. He hopes it’s implied. He tugs Makoto ever-closer, just because he can. He’s both firm and soft against him, all at once. He wouldn’t call Edamame particularly muscular, but he’s wiry and strong enough, his arms deceptively slim, his legs long and toned. Laurent would know; he’s spent hours staring at them any chance he gets.
To his surprise, Makoto allows it and doesn’t complain, instead leaning into it and tucking his head down, cheek pillowed on Laurent’s shoulder. They’ve been close for cons before, crammed into closets or squeezed into seats or, on one particularly memorable occasion, playing a married couple. But Makoto was always standoffish, always skittering away from the contact and rolling his eyes.
He must be taking this seriously, then, Laurent thinks, feeling the unruly strands of Makoto’s hair brush over his cheek. It’s nice. Even with Laurent’s hand still lingering around Edamame’s ass, he doesn’t mush him off, instead pressing ever closer as if they were dancing to a slow song. They're not; the song is upbeat and this must look obscene and out of place to the people around them. Laurent hardly cares though, instead letting his fingers rub circles around the exposed skin of Makoto’s shoulder. There’s a mole there he’s always wanted to touch.
“How’s he look?” Makoto murmurs. His breath washes over the side of Laurent’s neck.
“What?”
“Is he still looking?”
Laurent looks up at their target, making eye contact over Makoto’s shoulder. The man is fuming, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Laurent lets himself smirk.
“He’s looking. He doesn’t seem too happy.”
“Great. When this song ends, I’ll go to the bar and let him follow me there.”
Laurent tries not to sound disappointed. This is all going to plan, after all. “Alright.” He leans back enough that he can look at Makoto properly again. “You play a pretty convincing young lady, Edamame.”
Expression hidden to the partygoers by Laurent’s shoulder, Makoto scowls at him. “You don’t have to make fun of me. I know I look ridiculous.”
“You look sexy.”
Makoto’s nose pinches up and that flush spreads across his cheeks again. He huffs.
Laurent lets his hand drift down Makoto’s shoulder, touch light. “I mean it.”
The way Makoto’s face twitches is endearing, half disbelief and half embarrassment. It’s one of Laurent’s favorite looks on him, the face he gets when he can’t tell how truthful Laurent is being. He’s not lying-- he’s stunning, of course, and Laurent would never hide that he thinks so-- but it’s clear that Makoto doesn’t really believe him. Laurent’s given up on trying to get through to him, content enough to admire from afar.
But that doesn’t mean that he won’t take advantage of this moment. Makoto must see something on his face, some inkling of his plan, because his hackles are up immediately. “...Whatever you’re thinking-”
“How about we add a little kindling to the fire?”
Makoto’s eyebrows knit. “What are you suggesting?”
Laurent’s fingers pulse on Makoto’s ass, making him yelp.
“Hey- hey!”
The rest of the protest is muffled as Laurent presses forward to seal his mouth over Makoto’s. It’s quick, and it’s far more chaste than he’d like it to be, but Laurent can tell that Edamame’s lips are soft and taste like champagne. When he pulls away, Makoto’s face has gone a brilliant shade of pink, and he looks like he’s barely containing his fury. A professional, even while seething.
Laurent turns them again, perfectly in time with the music. He watches the way Makoto’s eyes flicker over the crowd behind him, a false casualty there that makes Laurent feel flushed with admiration. “So?”
“I am going to kill you after this is over.”
“How rude, little Edamame.”
“Actually, he might kill you first. He didn’t seem to like that.”
Laurent grins. “Another perfect plan all according to my design.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I would never deny it.” The song draws to a close, and Laurent lets go of Makoto’s waist with a degree of reluctance he should feel guilty about. He doesn’t. He lets his fingers linger on the round of Makoto’s shoulder a moment longer, squeezing gently. “Go get 'em, tiger.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Abby and Cynthia will be listening in,” Laurent reminds him, voice taking on a note of seriousness, “Do you remember the signal if you need backup?”
The look that flutters over Makoto’s face is close enough to fondness that Laurent feels his heart stutter. “Yeah. I remember…. Thanks.”
Laurent pretends to sniffle. “I remember when you were clumsily stealing wallets off the street, and now here you are seducing millionaires… they grow up so fast.”
That makes Makoto flush, shoulders drawing up to his ears. “Oh, shut up.”
He disengages from Laurent entirely, straightening himself out in determination. When he looks over Laurent’s shoulder, he does an excellent job of pretending to be delighted at seeing their target approach, pushing past Laurent.
He pauses beside the French man, tilting his head up so his lips brush Laurent’s ear. To their target, it looks flirtatious, another drop of oil on the fire, another fan to the flames. Again, Laurent is taken by Edamame’s flawless professionalism. He shivers at Makoto’s irritated whisper.
“I am going to make you pay for that.”
He can’t help his grin as he murmurs back, “I look forward to it.”