by Robyn Elliot
Only now, his right hand might have a rival. There was someone that Caroline would definitely approve of. Or possibly there might be. And Danny knew that if Houston had had a problem, it didn’t compare to his. He had spent hours upon hours imagining the kind of guys who would have the privilege of deflowering him. He’d done all the fantasies – he’d watched all the dvds, until he’d got porno fatigue. There were only so many positions to be penetrated by dicks the size of cucumbers raised on fast-gro.
Danny liked the idea of sensitive, shy guys, just like him. No threat. Not a hint of challenge. But Stephane didn’t tick any of those cozy boxes. Stephane wasn’t shy. Stephane was French, Stephane was confident, Stephane was, gulp, experienced. That word held all worldly terrors for Danny. As well as enough excitement to give his right hand repetitive strain injury. Forget him, Danny had advised himself, once he’d closed the door after Stephane had left. Forget any idea of even being in the same league. Besides, Danny was convinced that he was nothing more than a bit of a novelty for Stephane, someone to play with (oh, God, thought Danny), until the next son of Zeus came along so Stephane could stare at his mirror image. And Danny would be dumped, well and truly, after a few shags.
I bet they’d be great shags though, Danny suddenly thought, I bet they’d be monumentally awesome shags comparable to the world’s greatest pyrotechnic displays…as he stared at those wooden doors now. He glanced upwards. No sign there, telling him to abandon all hope before he entered. Just remember, he was telling himself, I am proving to myself I can do this, that I am not totally gutless. And just a drink or a coffee after he’s done his shift. That’s it, that’s all. No pressure. Stay cool, be calm. Yeh, right.
The doors swung open, with the warm air from within welcoming on Danny’s face, along with the fantastic smell of coffee and delicious food twitching his nose. Two customers swept past him, one of them holding the door for him. Taking a deep breath, into the lion’s den entered Daniel.
Stephane had seen him of course, loitering outside. He was wondering whether to gently tease Danny about it later, or just not say anything. He was trying to get some kind of angle on Danny, and not simply a horizontal one, or even an isosceles if he proved as flexible of limb as he looked. Stephane knew Danny was not in the greatest of places at the minute, or even for a while, he imagined rightly. Still hardly knowing each other, he’d already seen Danny at his most vulnerable. In one respect. The other, he had recognized instantly. Because, usually, he stayed clear of virgins. Danny had the V sign stamped indelibly on his brow.
Stephane, his antenna finely attuned to guys who were sexperts, had found the hitherto scrupulous antenna twitching and turning infuriatingly in the direction of a guy who, very evidently to Stephane, was only recently out; he had seen in an instant, in the blushing gaze of Danny that morning, waiting for his coffee, a mixture of terror, arousal and fascination. Stephane had quickly figured out he terrified Danny. Doubtless he had become the embodiment of every single scary thought Danny had had about that embarrassing situation he was in; a virgin, as far as gay sex was concerned. Stephane didn’t think Danny was a complete virgin per se, he was an attractive guy, and anyway, Stephane knew the drill of some of his closeted friends in France. They slept with women, then jacked off until senseless in the vain hope that somehow they’d wake up straight, and everything in the uphill garden would be lovely.
It never was.
Stephane stood behind the long marbled counter, talking to some customers. The place was always busy at this time. His eyes had been distracted by the main doors opening, and Danny spilling in looking flustered. Smiling quietly to himself, and realizing he was relieved – he hadn’t been sure whether Danny would have taken his challenge, especially with all the procrastinating outside, thinking he couldn’t be seen – Stephane pretended he hadn’t seen him. Give him a few moments to get himself together, Stephane thought, before I come over and make him faint...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stephane finished serving the customers at the counter, and picked up his notepad. As he made his way back into the lower section of the restaurant, he saw Danny weave his way like a homing pigeon to table six. Only to find it occupied. Yeh, Danny, other people use it, and on different days too. Stephane ascended the wooden stairs, and at that moment Danny was looking around, to find another table. There it was, table nine, in the corner next to the giant weeping fig that Guillaume had bought from that nice garden center near their flat.
It gave Stephane a brief chance to appraise him, and he felt a rush of tenderness, seeing Danny looking kind of lost amidst the chatter of busy tables. He was very slender in black jeans, had a plain jacket on, a black scarf crossed over like a tie, with a light blue shirt underneath – altogether, stylish but conservative. He looked completely different without the uniformity of his suit, and the idea that Danny was a barrister was still causing Stephane some difficulty to actually get a grasp on. If he had decided to do an impromptu survey right there and then, the clientele would have likely said either primary school teacher or bookshop owner. Barrister? Oh please, stop laughing.
Before Stephane could speak to him, Danny spied the sanctuary of table nine, and sat himself down, Stephane still behind him.
“Hey,” Stephane said softly, and even over the sounds around them, Danny heard that French voice clearly.
He looked up, and his already flushed cheeks burned.
“Latte, large?” Stephane’s eyes moved over Danny’s face, and was struck at just how beautiful he was. Not handsome, not even good looking. But really, really, curiously, challengingly beautiful. Stephane found it unsettling.
“No, something different, please,” Danny said, smiling, despite feeling giddy, despite feeling like his head was about to part company with his neck. Stephane looked even better than he remembered from three long days ago. Even better than in his fantasies. Shit, don’t go there at the minute, not here, and Danny purposefully picked up the coffee card menu to try and derail that train of thought. “Er, just straight black,” but before he could settle into a minimalist sense of triumph, Danny’s eyes widened in realization. “No, no, I think...cappuccino. Yes, cappuccino, please.”
Black coffee. Cigarettes. Not a good combo for kisses.
“Okay,” and Stephane gave him a dark, searching look. He lowered his voice, and Danny thought it sounded like smoke, without inhaling. “Well done, by the way.”
Danny gave him another of those smiles, sweet, without cloying. Making his eyes come alive.
“Thank you, Stephane.”
They stood looking at each other, as a customer tried to catch Stephane’s attention. At that moment, Guillaume came out of the kitchen, glanced across the floor to make sure everything was in order. Fabrice, as efficient as ever, Jean-Paul, attentive and busy at the same time, Marie-Louise, the most organized of all of them. And Pierre had arrived, shortly to relieve Stephane and…Stephane, for fuck’s sake! Guillaume gritted his teeth, smiling through them, talking to some regulars who spied him and called him to their table. He nodded, joining in when required, his eyes glancing across to Stephane, standing there like a statue staring at someone at table nine who looked very like the famous Danny.
“Excuse me, whenever you’ve got a minute, waiter!”
An imperious voice boomed behind Stephane, and Danny saw the light drain from Stephane's eyes, and a hard look come into them. Slowly, Stephane turned and went to the table opposite Danny’s.
“Oui?” Stephane’s voice, icy, clipped, and Danny watched the customer shrink a little. The woman with him didn’t, though. As Stephane deliberately started speaking French, making the guy embarrassed and infuriated all at the same time, his partner sat back in her chair, admiring Stephane openly. Danny saw how her eyes roamed over the lean body, snugly fit in the black waistcoat and pristine black apron. Get used to that Danny, a voice sounded in his head, get used to the whole world looking at your man. My man? Danny copied the woman, and looked himself at S
tephane in his glory. Who was now busily engaged in explaining to the guy – in English, now – why he wasn’t at the beck and call of vegetables like him.
Guillaume had been observing his brother’s infamous customer service skills and saw Stephane’s eyes narrow, which was always a bad sign. Excusing himself from the talkative customers, he smoothly sped across the floor, and halted Stephane in full flow. Jerking his head at Stephane, code for fuck off, Guillaume immediately began to smooth the choppy waters of waitering, whilst Stephane, shaking his head, muttering loudly in French, shrugged and made his way down the stairs to get Danny’s coffee.
He turned his head, looking back at Danny, winking at him. Danny watched him go, watched the perfect sway of perfect buttocks encased in black, fine pin-striped trousers. He’s got a temper, then, Danny surmised; the customer, poor bloke, was just wanting his bill, even if he was being a bit of a dick.
It excited him, the idea that Stephane, charming as he was, could be so prickly too. Before Danny could process those thoughts, along with the idea that Stephane might prove more than a handful (think of the rows! Wow, fuck that, think of the making up!!), the firebrand himself returned, flourishing a steaming cappuccino.
“Is there anything else sir would like?” as leading a question as Danny had ever had to object to. Only this time, there was no objection raised. The same couldn’t be said for the activity in Danny's groin region. Danny looked into those smoky eyes, seeing the mischief there, and, perhaps for the first time, the gleam – hint of a gleam – of lust slowly unfurling, in the middle of the busy restaurant. Without being aware of it, Danny’s tongue licked his lower lip absently, shaking his head in response to Stephane. Stephane watched that delicate little movement, and had to resist the urge to throw down the tray, drag Danny up to his mouth, and kiss him senseless.
Guillaume now watched from the circular windows of the kitchen swing-doors. Behind him, Mathieu was barking his orders, but Guillaume was too intent on wondering what the hell Stephane was playing at. He’d already given his kid brother strict orders; no extra dessert with the customers. To his credit, Stephane had promised sincerely he wouldn’t. And hadn’t. Yet. The promise being kept was definitely in the balance. And by the way Danny was looking up at Stephane, a bemused, slightly befuddled but unmistakably adoring expression on his pale face, Guillaume knew that his brother was wanting to serve up more than coffee and croissants.
Guillaume groaned to himself. This was different, so there might be complications. He sneaked a good look at Danny. He seemed a nice guy, considering the other day’s weirdness. Shy, quiet, sensitive; nothing like his bro’s usual preference. In fact, about a million miles away from Antoine or the others. Danny was younger than Stephane, not noticeably so, but it was obvious, in their demeanors, and the way Stephane was taking the upper hand.
“Why don’t you tell Casanova to get his finger out?” came the familiar voice behind him of the demon chef.
“His shift’s finished now anyway,” Guillaume sighed, “but hey, thanks for the helpful advice there, Mathieu.”
“Oh, yes, like we’ll miss his invaluable input!”, accompanied by the clatter of utensils, as if Mathieu had to emphasize every point he made – frequently – with as much noise as feasible without perforating ear drums. Besides, Guillaume was getting pretty pissed off with the spectacular rows Stephane and Mathieu indulged in, competitions in who could shout the loudest, as they ranted at each other, oblivious to everyone around them. Guillaume looked out of the window again, and saw Stephane making his way towards the kitchen, already pulling off his black apron in celebration of the ending of his shift.
Guillaume stepped back, started fussing around in the kitchen busily, as Stephane breezed in.
“I’m out of here, Guillaume.”
“You should go and have a lie down, Steffie, you must be exhausted, the shift you’ve just put in…”
“Oh Mathieu?” Stephane rolled his sleeves up, washed his hands in the large metallic sink opposite the door, glowering at a smirking Mathieu “get on with burning water, okay?” Sniggering in the kitchen was immediately silenced by one dark look from Chef, and Stephane deftly sidestepped Guillaume, left the kitchen and went into the small locker room. He groaned, rolling his eyes, as Guillaume followed him.
“What’s going on, lover boy?”
Stephane ignored his brother, unbuttoning his waistcoat, and pulled off his shirt, opening his locker. Retrieving the deodorant aerosol, Stephane sprayed it under his arms. Wrinkling his nose, he knew he should have a shower, but didn’t want to keep Danny waiting in the restaurant. He put on his t- shirt, sweatshirt over, stripped off his trousers, replacing them with his jeans. He continued to ignore Guillaume, who was leaning against the door, arms folded, in that big brother way that he had always done, over the years.
“Stef…”
Stephane put on his jacket, slung his tote bag over his shoulder. Then, he looked at Guillaume, slightly abashed.
“I know, I know…I’ll work like a Trojan next shift, promise, O slave master!”
“That’s not funny; now, listen, I don’t want you messing around during service,” warned Guillaume.
Stephane sighed, walked up to him, patting his brother softly on the cheek. “I was just talking to him.”
“So you know what I mean, then.”
Stephane gave his brother a skeptical look. “I’m 33, remember?”
“Yeh, but you act half that…is this going to be a regular thing then, he comes in and makes eyes at you, whilst you ponce around for him?”
“That’s homophobic…”
“Nice try. Listen, I love you, Stef, gay, straight, I couldn’t give a sideways shuffle, but I do give a fuck about my restaurant, so do your – whatever the hell it is you’re doing – somewhere else, okay?”
Stephane shrugged, nudged Guillaume's shoulder as he made for the door.
“Not your usual type, Stef,” Guillaume made his observation, echoing Stephane’s own increasingly fading misgivings.
“I suppose not,” Stephane mused, pausing for a few moments. “He needs…rescuing, I think.”
Guillaume raised his brows, and Stephane turned around to register his brother’s reaction.
“God, Stef, not a charity fuck, surely?”
Not saying anything to that, Stephane hitched his bag more securely over his shoulder, and made his way back towards the restaurant floor.
Charity fuck indeed, he was thinking, as he nodded at Danny, waiting for him still at table nine. He watched the lean, lithe figure of Danny approach him, moving nimbly down the stairs, wrapping his scarf round his neck as he did so. The damp weather had curled his hair, and his skin was clear, without a blemish. Then there was the earnest expression, the wide eyed nervousness of him. No, Stephane was thinking, as he smiled at Danny and led him to the wooden doors, no one that beautiful could ever be described as a charity fuck, Guillaume...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Annelise, this is Danny; Danny, Annelise…Guillaume's…er…what are you, babe?”
Annelise was still absorbing the appearance of the owner of the coat that a sixty-year old would have been proud of. She threw Stephane a look. “Girlfriend will do, Stef,” she offered, as she shook Danny’s outstretched hand. Behind him, Stephane grinned at Annelise.
“Very pleased to meet you, Annelise.” Danny’s formal manner, his clipped accent, not harsh, a lovely voice he had in fact, created an overall sweet impression, but she was taken aback even so. A few minutes earlier, she’d been sitting at the kitchen table, surfing for restaurant furniture on Guillaume's benevolent orders, when she’d been confronted by Stephane, bustling in, throwing his keys on the table.
“How’d the shift go?” she’d asked benignly, only for her words to be swallowed up by the appearance of a tall, pale young man in Stephane’s breezy wake. “Oh.” The little sound had escaped her mouth, and she had smiled nervously, her eyes moving from Stephane to…Danny, yes, that had
to be Danny. Goodness, she’d thought, before Stephane had introduced him, confirming her deduction, so, so pretty.
“Danny, I won’t be long, just make yourself at home; Annelise might make you a cup of tea if you ask her nicely?”
Stephane smiled at her, charming as always, then he’d left Danny standing awkwardly in the kitchen, glancing at Annelise almost apologetically. In the brief ensuing silence, the sound of the shower being turned on upstairs filtered like a welcome interruption.
“Sit down, Danny, do...is tea all right?”
“Oh yes, that’s great, thank you,” he replied, pulling out a chair from beneath the table. As Annelise pottered in tea preparation, Danny glanced at the computer screen.
“Oh, Mascarno,” he said, and Annelise paused, teabags held aloft. Danny indicated to the computer.
“Hmm, love it, but it's so expensive, isn’t it?”
“It is; I like their designs but have you tried Emla? They’re pretty new to furniture design, but they get their influences from art, like Moore, in his later period…much more reasonable too.”
She smiled at him, saw a slight flush color his cheeks. And my God, she thought, cheekbones that I’d personally die for!
“Sorry,” Danny said “being nosy.”
“No, no.” Annelise left the tea to brew in the pot, came and sat down. She flicked the search engine to Emla, revealing their designs to her appreciative eye. “Hey, thanks, I’ll look at these later; actually, they’re quite beautiful…” she leaned forward slightly, frowning in sudden concentration, some of the designs catching her genuine interest. Along with the price tags.
