You sidle up to Jean’s desk as casually as you can. He looks up at you, expression betraying nothing. From watching him this morning, you have deduced that he is not in the best mood, but you’re acutely running out of time. It is of absolute importance that you put this off no longer.
“What Trant?” he says when you hesitate a little too long.
You put on a smile to hide your nerves. Then you say the words as if you haven’t been rehearsing them in your head for hours, days, weeks. “Can I treat you to lunch today, Jean?”
“Oh yeah, ‘cause I’ve sure got time for that.”
Oh no, you detect sarcasm. You hold up your hands. “I didn’t mean anything elaborate, I just thought it would do us both a lot of good to step out of the office for five minutes. Taking a break has been shown to be beneficial for both productivity and mental health, and eating lunch increases your focus and improves your mood. And I speak not just from personal experience, there have been studies-”
Jean rolls his eyes. “Oh, spare me the details,” he says, and you fear you have lost this negotiation, but then he stands up and drags his jacket on.
The two of you head for the doors. “I was hoping to ask you something,” you say, resisting the urge to put off asking any longer by nervously talking about something unrelated.
“Yeah, thought it’d be something,” he says before shoving a cigarette into his mouth and pausing to light it in the doorway.
You wait until you’ve walked a short distance from the precinct. “Well, you see, my ex-wife is getting re-married,” you say.
Jean blows out a plume of smoke and smirks. “And you wanna stop the wedding?”
“What? No. No, no, I don’t want to do that. My problem is that I have been invited.”
“So don’t go. Easy.”
You could almost laugh at Jean’s blunt cynicism. If only things were so easy. “Well, I feel I rather have to. I did RSVP some time ago, and Mikael will be there. He will be involved in the ceremony, so I’m not sure I will see much of him, but he will be upset if I am not there when I said I would be. And I don’t want to make a bad impression on his new step-father.”
Jean grabs your arm suddenly and your heart jolts at the sudden touch. “Let’s go to that place across the street,” he says.
“Oh, okay,” you say, and turn to stand beside him at the crossing. Other people are waiting to cross, and you would rather wait until you can talk to Jean alone, but you are seriously running out of time. They all seem consumed by their own business, so it’s probably all right. “My problem is that I am supposed to bring a plus-one, and I don’t have anyone to bring,” you say.
Jean shrugs. “Say your new supermodel girlfriend got sick. Or is on some f*cking interisolary tour. Because she’s also a singer or some sh*t like that.”
You’re not sure if he means this as a joke or is being serious, but at this point you’re too nervous to laugh. Other pedestrians are starting to cross the street. You and Jean follow them. “I was actually going to ask you if you would come with me,” you say, hoping your face isn’t going red with embarrassment.
There’s a pause where you wonder if you spoke too quietly for Jean to hear you, but then he looks at you. “You’re sh*tting me,” he says. “Out of all the people you know, you’re asking me?”
“Yes,” you say in a small voice.
You both join the line at the noodle cart. Jean finishes his cigarette while you try to remember the logical argument you came up with when you ran this conversation through your head earlier. The one that makes it clear that he is the obvious choice, in a no-nonsense and unemotional way.
Disconcertingly, Jean says nothing except to tell you what he wants from the cart.
“You can say no if you want to,” you say as you begin the walk back. You don’t really want to offer him a way out, but his reaction made you feel foolish for asking.
“So, let me get this straight, you want me to come with you to a fancy-ass wedding?”
“I’m not sure I’d describe it as-”
“Will there be food? Booze?”
“Yes.”
Jean heaves a sigh as if this is some great effort. “Okay. As it’s you,” he says. “I’ll see if I’m available.”
You smile. “Thank you, Jean.”
“When is this infernal event?”
You grit your teeth and your smile becomes strained. “Well, I hate to drop this on you last minute, but it’s tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Tomorrow? f*cking hell, Trant.”
You nod sheepishly. “Are you busy?”
Jean frowns and looks away as if he doesn’t want to admit it. “No.”
“I did take the liberty of checking the schedule before I asked you, and it said you weren’t working,” you say, to try to justify yourself.
Jean fake-laughs. “Oh. Oh! I see, so that’s why you asked me.”
“No, that’s not the only reason. I…” You trail off, not actually sure what Jean wants you to say. Your justification is backfiring.
“Oh god, chill out, I’m f*cking with you. Actually this makes it a lot less weird.”
You swallow. The whole time you’ve been trying to convince yourself that this situation is not as weird as you fear it is, but he had to go ahead and say it. You slow down as you realise you’re approaching the precinct, afraid that your conversation will be suddenly cut short. “So, you’ll come with me?”
Jean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, f*ck it. But you owe me for this.”
You smile. “Of course.”
You both stop in front of the building. “Wait, one thing. Can you lend me a tie? The only one I have that isn’t black is a horrible one of Harry’s that he left at my place. Last time I went to a wedding everyone told me I was dressed for a funeral.”
You nod. “I’ll find something for you. Pick you up at ten a.m. tomorrow?”
“Fine,” Jean says, and gestures to you to follow him into the building.
*
You’re waiting for a while outside Jean’s apartment building. The rumble of the engine idling mimics the rapid pounding of your heart. Maybe he’s changed his mind. This is a rather large – and as he said, weird – favour to ask of him. Soon, you will be forced to make the decision whether you should go to the ceremony alone. You wonder if you should beep the horn.
Just then, Jean walks out of the front door. You breathe a sigh of relief.
“Good morning, Jean. How are you?” you say as he gets into the passenger seat.
“I’m here. That’s as much as you’re gonna get.”
You smile. “That’s good enough for me,” you say. And the part of you that isn’t nervous about the whole thing is thrilled that Jean is accompanying you today. You turn around and get the tie you brought for him from the back seat. “I hope this one is okay.”
He takes it without looking. “Yeah, thanks,” he says.
“Then, we should be getting on our way,” you say, pulling out onto the street.
Jean puts the tie around his neck and attempts to tie it. He takes it off and tries again, and again. He swears under his breath. “This isn’t gonna work, it’s too f*cking long,” he says.
“Try a Franconegro or a Vaasan cross,” you suggest.
“You’re talking gibberish, Trant.”
“Those are styles of knot which involve additional loops which will reduce the length of the tie.”
“Yeah, I gathered. But I only know one way to fasten a tie,” he says, pulling it out from his collar in frustration.
“Leave it, I’ll tie it for you when we get there.”
It takes a while for you to find and reverse into a spot in the designated parking area next to the church. You get out, and Jean hands the tie to you. He stands stiffly as you flip up his collar and fasten the tie in a Vaasan cross. As you slide the knot into place, he inhales sharply.
“Sorry, is that too tight?”
“N-no,” he says, avoiding your eyes as you try to look at him. His cheeks colour slightly. It’s an odd reaction.
You push his collar back down and brush a non-existent piece of lint from his shoulder, admiring your work. “Yes, it looks good on you. I thought the silver thread would bring out your eyes.”
He regards you for a moment, then shakes his head. “Shut up,” he says.
You can’t help but smile at his reaction, like a sullen child’s. Jean seemingly never learnt to take a compliment graciously. This awakens in you a desire to teach him, should the opportunity ever arise. “Do I look okay?” you ask. Truthfully, you already know your attire is appropriate, you’re just craving validation from him.
Jean frowns, then flicks his eyes up and down over you. “Yeah. You always look great,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets.
You feel a fluttering feeling in your stomach, and you feel like laughing. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you to say, Jean.”
“But of course you would. All your clothes are tailor made and cost a small fortune,” he adds dismissively.
You smile anyway. “You’re forgetting one thing, Jean.”
“What?”
You point to your face. “Smile.”
Jean narrows his eyes. “Oh no. This was not part of the deal.”
“Come on, Jean, just play along. This is a wedding. Please at least pretend you’re happy for them.”
He cracks a smile. It’s really more of a smirk. “Like you?” he says. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re actually happy your ex is getting married again.”
“She’s happy and that’s all that matters,” you say quickly.
“I believe you, Trant. Millions wouldn’t, but I believe you,” Jean says. “Anyway, you win at life because you’re here with me, the most charming and wonderful guy, and she’s on her way to a second divorce.”
This is one of those occasions where you’re not sure if Jean is aiming a jab at you, sarcastically insulting himself, or actually trying to be supportive. You tell yourself it’s the third one, and gesture for him to follow you. “Come on, we’d better go inside before the ceremony starts.”
As you walk towards the entrance of the lovingly preserved pinewood church, you try to focus on its architectural features and not your growing feeling of dread. If only Mikael was going to be with you for the day, you could have focused on him, hidden behind him to some extent. But he is going to be with his other family today.
You glance at Jean. You’re glad you don’t have to face this alone. If only it were socially acceptable, you would have asked him if he would pretend to be your date. Oh, who are you kidding, you don’t have the guts. But it would make you feel better to have someone to hold your hand right now.
You’re well aware that by bringing Jean as your plus-one, some people will assume he is your date anyway and judge you as they see fit. You wonder if Jean realises this. Maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care. Maybe he does and likes the idea. But is hiding it very well. He’s not going to volunteer that information, so you shouldn’t dwell on it.
The church is almost full when you step inside. It’s decorated with copious amounts of fresh flowers in blue and white. Elise always did love flowers. You glance around and see a few people you recognise, members of Elise’s family, former mutual friends. Her soon-to-be husband, Martin, stands at the front of the church, exuding pride.
You find some space at the back, and sit down beside Jean.
“Is that him?” Jean mutters into your ear.
You nod.
“He’s nothing special,” he says. “A downgrade if you ask me.”
You’re sure that Elise doesn’t think so, but you can’t help but be touched by Jean’s words. He’s either trying to make you feel better by insulting him, or giving you an indirect compliment. Which is actually quite a big deal from Jean.
A chorus of awws erupts from the congregation and everyone is turning round. You turn around too and see Mikael, dressed in powder blue suit, and Mollie, Martin’s daughter, dressed in a matching blue dress. They’re both walking down the aisle gleefully throwing flower petals. Mikael looks a little unsure about being the centre of attention, but otherwise they look so happy and perfect. Of course you want Mikael to be happy, but a horrible sense of jealously strikes you at the thought of him being part of a picture perfect happy family that does not include you. Martin has been around for a while now, but the wedding makes things official.
You’re broken out of your thoughts by a handful of petals raining down on you, then Mikael crashing his basket into you in an effort to hug your leg. He grins at you and you smile back at him. You feel a swell of affection for him and regret your petty jealousy.
Mollie, waiting for Mikael, grins mischievously and throws petals left and right, and more land on you and on Mikael. You brush petals out his hair and gently encourage him to continue on his way.
Everyone starts turning round again, and you see Elise, accompanied by her sister and her friend. You detach yourself by scrutinising her dress, her hair, her makeup, making a mental list of the ways in which they are different from that day many years ago when you waited for her at the front of a different church. It is really quite remarkable how many differences there are.
When she reaches her husband-to-be and takes his hands you have to look away. She’s happy and that’s all that matters, you tell yourself. You glance at Jean. He isn’t faking a smile like you suggested, but he must notice that neither are you, because he gently bumps your arm with his fist like he did to Chester that time he dropped his burger and everyone else was laughing at him.
The ceremony is full of talk of everlasting love and devotion. Quite a number of other guests openly weep into handkerchiefs. You repeat to yourself the lie that they are only words, and words can’t hurt you. As they repeat their vows to each other, you stare over their heads at the stained glass window behind them, and try to remember everything you know about the figures and symbols depicted in it.
The newly married couple greets guests on the way out of the church. You put on your best smile and shake hands with Martin, give Elise a brief hug when she reaches for you, and introduce Jean to them as a friend. You can tell by her slight change of expression that she wants to say something, but she has a lot more people to greet so she allows you to move along.
The wedding reception is being held in the grounds of a manor house nearby. You and Jean get back into the motor carriage and follow a convoy of vehicles to the destination.
The reception venue is beautifully decorated inside and out, and it doesn’t escape your notice that everything about this wedding is more ostentatious than yours.
For the meal, you are seated at a table with three couples who were friends with you and Elise when you were together. You haven’t seen any of them since the divorce, but it’s evident that they kept in touch with her. You’re quickly reminded of why you didn’t miss their company as the conversation soon turns into a bragging match. Everybody seems to have a new house, an impressive job or expensive possessions to talk about.
When you mention the RCM they laugh and assume you’re doing some temporary charity work while you search for something better. They’re not swayed by you regaling them with some of the more interesting cases you have worked on. You introduced Jean to them using his title, and either they already forgot about this, or don’t care about insulting him to his face. Jean fumes silently beside you, showing major restraint in only making the odd comment here and there.
He leans over to you and mutters, “Can you believe these assholes?”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
After everyone has finished their meals, a crowd gathers round as the bride and groom step onto the dance floor and to have their first dance. You’re glad to finally get away from those old friends, and you suspect Jean is too.
The new couple look so radiantly happy together, dancing to a waltz by Elise’s favourite composer. You remember having a debate over which piece of music to dance to at your own wedding, and this one was Elise’s top choice. You can appreciate its charm but feel it lacks subtlety. In the end you compromised on a popular piece of music that both of you found acceptable. You imagine Martin agreed to her choice without a moment’s pause. He can give her all the things that she wants and you never could. You don’t resent him for that. But it brings back your old insecurities that first arose when Elise brought up the idea of separation.
“Smile, Trant,” Jean says by your ear.
You turn to him, and fix a false smile to your face. “Oh. Yes,” you say, already feeling your smile start to drop. You sigh. “It’s not like I want her back, but seeing her happy with someone else just makes me feel so alone.”
For a moment, Jean doesn’t say anything. “Yeah, I know how that feels,” he says eventually in a low voice. You feel him place his hand on your back.
You feel comforted by that simple gesture and move a little closer to him. You wonder if you might ever have a chance with him. If he might ever feel the same joy when you walk into the room as you do when he does. You wonder how he would react if you told him you wanted him to be your real wedding date. More than that. How you think he’s handsome and fascinating and you long to get to know him better. These feelings frighten you sometimes. They bear no resemblance to the detached logic in which you and Elise planned out your life together. But now she is here with someone else. Logic cannot guarantee happiness.
After the first dance, people drink and chat and start to dance themselves. This is the part where you could casually slip away without causing anyone to talk. But if you leave, you will have to drive Jean home, never to speak of this again. Although he doesn’t look happy to be here, he hasn’t made any complaints either.
“You know, people say weddings as a good place to hook up with desperate singles,” Jean says to you, waving round his drink.
“Do they?” you say. Not that you’re considering it, but when you look around you see mostly couples.
“I won’t get all pissed if you wanna ditch me and go schmooze with the ladies.”
“I don’t think that’s really my scene,” you say, and you want to tell him the last thing you want is to ditch him. There’s no-one else you’d rather be with.
“The groom’s kid’s gotta have a mother, right? You two would have plenty in common.”
“She died a few years ago.”
“Oh. Then that’s probably out of the question.”
A silence falls between you, and you just stand and sip your drink as you watch the dancers. You look for Mikael, and he is running around with his new step-sister and some of the other kids.
“Hey Jean, do you think you’ll ever get married?” you ask, though you suspect you already know the answer.
“No f*cking chance.”
“Why not? I’ve never understood why you are so against the constitution of marriage.”
“It’s a waste of f*cking time. I thought a divorced guy would agree with me about that.”
“But don’t you think it’s nice, always having someone around who’ll listen to you, someone to share your time with and offer help and support? Someone to help you to make sense of it all.”
“Oh, none of this is ever going to make sense,” he says, gesturing at the world in general. “I don’t need that sh*t. Besides, who’s gonna marry me?”
You raise your eyebrows in surprise. “Really?” you say. “I think you have many admirable qualities.”
He shakes his head dismissively. “Oh god, spare me.”
You decide for now to quietly admire his good looks and the set of his jaw, how sometimes gaps in this tough exterior show his true nature. Or at least, what you hope lies beneath.
“Dad, dad!”
You turn around and Mikael comes running up to you. You give your drink to Jean to hold, and bend down to let your son throw his arms around you.
“Did you have a good time today?” you ask him.
He nods. “I had three pieces of cake!” he says, putting a finger to his lips in a way that tells you someone has been sneaking him extra pieces.
“Well, this is a special occasion, so that’s okay,” you say.
“Grandma says we have to go home now,” he says.
You look up to see not Elise’s mother, but a woman who bears a resemblance to Martin. She’s holding a tired looking Mollie by the hand.
“Okay. I know you will, but be good for her. I’ll see you soon,” you say, giving Mikael another hug.
You feel that familiar emptiness inside as Mikael takes his new grandma’s other hand and they walk away. Jean gives you your drink back and you finish it quickly.
You keep going to the bar to get more drinks, and Jean keeps accepting them. As you feel the alcohol start to affect you, you find yourself swaying to the music.
“Go and dance if you want to,” Jean says.
“I’m afraid I’m not really one for dancing alone.”
“So go ask someone,” he says.
You wonder if he is giving you an opening to ask him. Jean is the only one here who you want to dance with. You smile and shake your head.
One of the couples who you shared the table with earlier dances past you, both of them looking in your direction. Their expressions aren’t friendly.
Jean sighs, and holds out a hand to you.
A smile forms on your lips as you take his hand. This might cause a fuss, but you don’t care. “I didn’t know you knew how to dance,” you say.
“I don’t,” he says as you lead him onto the dance floor. “You lead. I’ll try not to step on your toes.”
You place his hand on your shoulder and take his other hand. He meets your gaze with an unfathomable look in his eyes. You can concentrate on the rules as much as you like, but there is something so intimate about dancing. You’ve never been able to understand the people who can dance with just anyone.
You take a few steps side to side, and he shuffles along with you. You smile, and he averts his gaze but his lips turn upwardly slightly.
“This might sound strange, but if I am going to lead, it is easier if you relax and let me take control. When I try to move you, don’t fight it, just lean into it.”
He swallows, and instead of relaxing you feel his muscles tense up even more. “sh*t,” he says, “I had no idea dancing was so kinky.”
You think he is trying to make a joke, but the way his cheeks flush and his voice comes out thin and uncertain makes it seem almost flirty.
“I never thought about it that way. But you can, if it helps you to enjoy it.” You shut your mouth. That came out wrong. Or should that be right? Unconsciously, you’re flirting back.
Jean looks resolutely over your shoulder. His jaw is tense and his flush has deepened. His reaction is adorable. You want to believe that he’s embarrassed because he’s secretly interested in you. But equally he could be embarrassed because he isn’t. Either way, you’re delighted that he’s dancing with you.
However, he is still so stiff, and his hand grips yours much tighter than is comfortable. You drag him side to side, forward and back, unable to attempt anything more complicated due to his lack of co-operation.
“Relax, Jean,” you say.
“I am relaxed!” he shoots back.
“No, you’re not.”
“Look at me,” you say.
Jean’s pale grey eyes meet yours and a thrill goes through you. “Take a breath,” you tell him.
He does as you say.
“And another one,” you say, and he does so. You feel the tension in his back reduce, and he loosens his grip on your hand. “That’s good, you’re doing great.”
His pupils dilate. He takes a shaky breath. It’s easier to lead him now he has stopped fighting you. He allows you to move him around the dance floor, never breaking eye contact. You realise you have no idea if two men dancing together has caused a stir, you haven’t been able to take your eyes off Jean.
“Oh, sorry,” you say as you bump into another couple. You need to pay more attention to your surroundings. But it’s so difficult when you have the man of your dreams in your arms. You feel a giddy thrill go through you, and realise that despite everything, this day is going far better than you expected.
The song ends, and Jean immediately lets go of you. “They’re all looking at us,” he says.
“Sorry,” you say, although it wasn’t your idea to dance.
“I don’t care, but I thought you might.”
“I don’t,” you say with a smile. “May I have this next dance?”
“f*ck it, why not,” he says, clearly trying to act casual, but his smirk betrays him.
You get into the right position with each other less awkwardly this time. This song is slower, so you take the opportunity to move a little closer to him. Jean seems to be getting used to allowing you to take the lead. And you’re surprised how much you like it. If nothing else, this will lend a new slant to your daydreams about him. You imagined he would be the one to take the initiative if you were ever to become romantically or intimately involved, partly because he is so good at taking charge at work, partly because it reduces your fears of rejection. But this could be interesting too, Jean eagerly submitting to your every whim.
“Why do they keep damn well looking at us? They can’t like each other very much if they keep looking at us.”
“Hmm?” you say. You don’t know who he’s referring to. You’re lost in your thoughts, lost in the music, in his eyes.
“You know what’ll really show those assholes?”
“Don’t, Jean,” you say, and you have a horrible vision of him starting a fist-fight.
He drops his gaze. “sh*t. I thought you’d be into it,” he says. “Never mind.”
He suddenly looks so sad. You suspect it isn’t because of you forbidding him to punch someone.
“What do you mean?” you say, squeezing his hand and running your fingers up his back.
He blinks a couple of times, his dark eyelashes fluttering. He runs his tongue over his lips. You have to be misreading this. You don’t dare to hope. The tension between you rises.
You don’t believe it until the moment his lips meet yours. You’ve dreamed of this moment so many times before, but you didn’t imagine how gently he would kiss you, how his mouth would taste of whiskey and cigarettes. You let go of his hand to cup his cheek and draw him in closer. You forget where you are. Nothing else but he and you exist in this moment.
“Yeah, that’ll show ‘em,” Jean says, but his tone is soft, unthreatening.
You stare at him as you get your breath back. Your surroundings fade back in, and you are suddenly aware that people are dancing around you to a new, upbeat song. Jean takes your hand and you sway side to side and swing him round, not paying much attention to getting the steps right any more. You’re more attracted to him that you’ve ever been. He’s smiling and relaxed, as much as he is able to be anyway.
“I’m going to the bar, want another drink?” he says after this song ends.
“Sure. Do you need some money?”
He shakes his head. “I should buy you at least one drink,” he says.
You move to the side of the dance floor and glance around. By now, a lot of people are rather drunk, stumbling around and getting into petty arguments. Probably not many of them noticed you and Jean kiss. Not that it matters much to you anyway, you don’t have to interact with most of these people in the course of your normal life. Besides, you’ve spent too much of your life already keeping up appearances. If you want to be with Jean, and you do, you need to be prepared for some people to judge you negatively for it.
You notice Elise sitting alone at a table nearby. She gives you a weary smile. You smile back, intending to leave it at that, but she beckons you over.
“I trust everything has gone to plan today?” you say, falling back on the comfort of formality, as you take a seat beside her.
“Yes, it’s been lovely,” she says, bending down to rub her ankle. “But I can’t wait to take off these shoes and wear normal ones.”
You smile and nod politely. You try to think of possible things to say, but you have drank too much to be able to fully trust in your ability to scan them for hints of bitterness or jealousy.
“I- I’m glad you came today. I have to admit I worried so much about whether we should invite you at all. I didn’t want to make you feel unwelcome, but I didn’t know if you would want to come.”
“I wouldn’t have been offended if you hadn’t invited me,” you say. And if she had offered you this way out months ago, you’d have been very relieved. Right now, you feel differently, but you’re very aware that depending on what happens you may still regret coming.
She looks down. “I’m sorry to have put such a burden on you.”
You clasp your hands together self-consciously. It’s easy to forget sometimes how well Elise knows you and can easily see through the things that you don’t say. “It’s fine,” you say.
She purses her lips in a way that says she knows it isn’t, but she appreciates you saying it nonetheless. “Jean seems nice,” she says, which would be an innocuous statement from anyone else, but she knows that she doesn’t need to ask direct questions to get information out of you.
You don’t know if she saw you kissing him. If she did, she’s deliberately making it hard for you to tell. “Yes,” you say carefully, “he is.”
Elise brushes a stray hair from her forehead and leans forward slightly. “Hmm?” she says.
“I like him,” you find yourself saying.
She smiles. “I hope he’s good to you, Trant. You deserve that.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey, it’s the blushing bride!” Jean says loudly as he stumbles over with your drinks. You’re suddenly aware of how drunk he is, and you worry this might be the only reason he kissed you. He presses a glass into your hand, and instead of sitting down he remains standing and leans on the back of your chair.
“We were just talking about you,” Elise says.
“What? Why?”
“I was just telling Elise about your job as a detective,” you say quickly.
“Oh. Right. Feel free to carry on singing my praises.”
Elise laughs.
“Elle, this is where you are,” Martin says as he approaches, saving you from a potentially awkward conversation.
“Yes. I had to sit down for a minute.”
“I think you’ll want to come and dance to the next song,” he says.
“But my feet hurt.”
Martin scoops her up dramatically into his arms, and turns to you and Jean. “Gentlemen, I hope you don’t mind me stealing back my wife,” he says.
“No, please, go ahead,” you say. It’s strange to hear another man call Elise his wife, but you’ll have to get used to it. She hasn’t been your wife for many years. You didn’t expect to feel anything about this, but emotions are always as surprising as they are confusing.
“Okay, marriage might be worth it after all if you get to be carried,” Jean says.
You suspect he’s being sarcastic, but you can’t help but think about it. You imagine Jean is a similar weight to yourself, but you think you could still manage to pick him up.
The music changes, and suddenly an unmistakable bass beat starts playing. Neither you nor Elise were ever into disco, but you have to admit to a certain nostalgia at hearing songs like this again.
“Oh, f*cking hell!” Jean grumbles. “I hate this f*cking song.”
You look up at him. “It’s getting late, should we get out of here?”
He knocks back the rest of his drink. “Let’s blow this joint,” he says.
You put down your unfinished drink on the table, and look towards the dance floor. Elise has decided to take off her shoes and dance with her new husband. You’re sure she won’t mind you slipping away without saying anything, and there is nobody else you want to say goodbye to, so you and Jean head back to the parking area.
You want to ask him about the kiss. Find out how he feels about it. If it was just a silly, spur-of-the-moment thing, or if there was more behind it. If he’s open to another kiss. Or more. Excitement and anxiety make your stomach churn. What if he doesn’t feel the same way? Is it better to ask him while he’s still drunk, or wait until he’s sober?
You both get into the MC with some difficulty as two others are parked pretty close to yours and you struggle to open the doors. Once inside, you look at Jean.
“You want me to drive?” he asks.
“No, I’m fine,” you say. You debate saying something now. Or leaning over to see how he would respond to being kissed again. After so many drinks, you don’t think it would be safe to have such an emotionally charged conversation while driving. You need to preserve your remaining concentration.
You decide it’s too risky, and start the engine. You’re aware of Jean looking at you as you turn around to reverse out of the spot. It takes some time to get out of it, you’re not used to this, the spaces outside your home are larger, and precinct 41 were very optimistic about the number of MCs they might have when they constructed their parking area.
You find your mind repeatedly drifting back to Jean as you drive. There aren’t many vehicles on the road at this time of night, but you still find yourself alarmed when you suddenly see something pass you by or loom up in front of you.
An MC pulls out in front of you. You’re going too fast. You slam on the breaks. “sh*t,” you say under your breath.
“You okay?” Jean says, smirking a little.
You nod. “Maybe I drank too much after all,” you say, repeatedly pressing the gas pedal. The MC doesn’t move. “This journey didn’t seem as long as this on the way here.”
“We’re not far from my place. Stay if you want,” he says.
He speaks so casually and doesn’t elaborate on what he means, but you have to admit it sounds like a better idea than trying to get back to your place. After another MC swerves around you, you finally realise the engine has stalled, and turn the key in the ignition.
You’re not sure how you make it to Jean’s, because your mind certainly isn’t on the road, but before you know it, you’re following him down a corridor and up a poorly-lit set of stairs.
“So, welcome to my humble abode,” he says derisively, turning on the light and shutting the door behind you. He takes off his jacket and tries to hang it up, but he misses and it falls to the ground.
Maybe now is the time to bring up the kiss. You turn to him. “Jean?” is all you can manage.
He leans his forearm on the wall beside your head and chews on his bottom lip. His eyes are bright, intense. As soon as he starts to lean forwards, you grab the back of his head and pull him towards you, opening your mouth to meet his. You thread your fingers through his hair and he kisses you deeper, pushing you up against the wall. He pushes a leg in between yours, and you let out a moan as it rests against your growing erection. You pull him closer and feel him rub his co*ck against your leg. He’s into this. He’s so into this. You’re too distracted to appreciate the relief this brings you.
“So, this why you asked me to be your plus-one?” he asks breathlessly.
“No. Not exactly,” you say, touching his face and letting your thumb trail across his lips. You gasp as he moves his hips against yours. “But I’ve always admired you from afar.”
“sh*t, Trant, I had no idea. Why didn’t you say something?” he demands.
“Would you have believed me?”
He snorts. “No, I’d have thought you were taking the piss. I mean, look at you. And look at me.”
“Do you believe me now?” you ask, stroking his face, wanting to crush all of his insecurities.
“I dunno, I could take some more convincing.” He pulls his tie out from under his collar and holds it out to you. “Wanna show me what other knots you can do with this?” he says.
You take the tie from him, blinking in confusion. He’s still pressing you up against the wall, not that you mind at all. “Are you sure you want me to do that now?” you ask.
He huffs in frustration. “Obviously I’m doing a bad job of telling you to tie me to the f*cking bed-frame.”
“Oh,” you say. That meaning hadn’t even crossed your mind.
He swallows and lowers his gaze. “I mean, if you’re not into that-”
“I could be,” you say, placing a hand on his chest to push him backwards a little so you can get a grip on him to heft him up onto your shoulder.
He tenses up but doesn’t fight you. “Oh, f*cking hell. This is so f*cking hot I can’t take it.”
“Patience, my dear,” you say, chuckling gleefully.
Jean makes a noise equal parts frustration and desire, and you carry him down the hall until you find the bedroom. You put him down on the bed and climb up beside him. He pulls you towards him by your tie and kisses you passionately. You shrug out of your jacket and toss it aside, then pull off your tie. Filled with desire and anticipation, you kiss as you both pull at each other’s shirts. He pulls away for a moment and you watch as he unbuttons his shirt. You take care of your own, this is much easier.
He lays back on the bed and raises his arms above his head, looking up at you and breathing raggedly. Your let your eyes run down to admire his well-defined chest muscles for a moment. You’re a little apprehensive about what other things he might be into, but right now all you want to do is please him. You pick up your tie, you must have dropped the one he was wearing somewhere while you were distracted. Now, how to do this?
“f*ck, Trant, how long are you gonna make me wait?” Jean grumbles.
“Sorry, I was assessing which knots to tie to hold you securely. I, ah, imagine that is the idea?”
Jean throws an arm over his face and laughs.
“Sorry, I’m not good at this,” you say, fiddling with the tie.
He peeks out at you from under his arm. “Oh no, I wouldn’t say that. You’re so goddamn serious, Trant. I love that you’re so damn serious.”
You smile, but can’t help but feel a little nervous as you loop the tie around his wrists. “How’s that?” you ask when you finish tying the last knot.
He pulls against his restraints. “I dunno, good?” he says. “You’re the first person to ask me that.”
“I want to make sure we both have a good time.”
He scrunches up his face. “You trying to make this as embarrassing as possible?”
“No,” you say, touching his hair and looking at him with concern.
Jean opens his eyes and looks at you. He snorts. “I could be into that.”
“If you want me to stop at any point, for any reason, please say so. I know you’re in a vulnerable position right now.”
He looks at you like you know nothing. And he’s right. This is definitely not one of your areas of expertise. “That’s the whole point,” he says.
“Jean.”
“You’re really serious right now, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
He sighs. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”
“I won’t untie you if you’re enjoying yourself,” you say, moving to straddle his hips, and he lets out a low moan as your co*ck presses against his. Despite the awkward conversation, he’s still hard. You lean forward to cup his face in your hands and trace your fingers over his scars and his the wiry hair of his beard.
He looks up at you expectantly. “Do whatever you want to me,” he says.
You’re surprised by the level of trust he immediately puts in you. It makes you a little uneasy. “Okay. But you need to tell me if you like what I’m doing. Tell me if I’m doing a good job or not.”
“Oh, is that what you’re into?” he says with a smirk. “You want me to tell you you’re a good boy and you’re doing such a good job?”
You’re not even sure if Jean is mocking you, but you feel your co*ck throb and press against your trousers. Jean smiles wider and moves his hips, rubbing himself against you. You take a shaky breath.
“Only if it’s true,” you say, gently brushing your lips against his, then kissing his cheek and his jaw, feeling the roughness of his beard. He tips his head back and you kiss his neck, and shivers and giggles as you drag your lips across his throat, searching for the most sensitive places.
You move lower, burying your face in his chest hair, enjoying the way it tickles your nose and mouth. You move your hands over his chest, brushing your fingers over his nipples.
“Uh, yeah, do that,” he says breathlessly.
His nipples harden as you circle them with your fingers. He moans and writhes beneath you as you squeeze them.
“Oh yeah, harder.”
You squeeze harder and he cries out. You move lower and press your mouth to one of his nipples, sucking on it gently.
“Oh f*ck. Oh, yeah, that’s good. Keep, keep doing that.”
You run your tongue over his nipple then continue to suck on it and squeeze the other one between your thumb and forefinger, enjoying the way he squirms. He gasps as you switch over to suck the other one.
You move lower, pressing kisses to his belly and enjoying the way he shivers. His co*ck strains against his trousers. You touch his belt and look up at him. He still has his head thrown back but he looks down at you.
“Can I-”
“Yes!”
He makes a noise in the back of his throat as you slowly unfasten his belt and unfasten his trousers. You hook your fingers under the waistband of his underpants and look up at him again.
“Do it,” he says before you can ask.
You ease his underpants down over his co*ck and pull off both them and his trousers.
He goes completely still when you wrap your hand around his co*ck. You look up to his face. He’s flushed, his mouth open slightly.
“Are you okay, Jean?”
“Yeah. Please. Don’t stop.”
You maintain eye contact as you move your hand up and down his co*ck. He runs his tongue over his lips, his eyes intense. His mouth falls open and he lets out a quiet moan.
“I wish I could find the words for how stunning you are,” you say.
His eyes widen, then his brow furrows. “Stop it. You’re ruining it.”
“Sorry,” you say, taken off guard by his response. You should have realised he wouldn’t like that. “I like you a lot, Jean. Not just the way you look. You’re important to me. I’m glad you’re in my life. I trust you. You make me laugh. You’re someone I can always depend upon. You’re a good man, Jean.”
His gaze softens and he starts to thrust into your hand. You smile, glad you could successfully smooth things over.
Impulsively, you dip your head and take the end of his co*ck in your mouth. He bucks his hips and lets out a whine as you whirl your tongue around him.
“Oh, f*ck. f*ck yes. Yes. Yes.”
You take his co*ck deeper into your mouth, letting it slide in and out, trying to take it deeper each time. You hear the bed-frame creak as he strains against the tie around his wrists.
“Trant, Trant, you’re such a good boy,” he says, moving his hips to thrust into your mouth. You press down on his hips, keeping him still so you can take control. You could get addicted to the way he moans and says your name over and over.
Suddenly his come is shooting down your throat, making you cough, choking you. You panic and pull away, pressing a hand to your mouth and falling off the bed in your attempt to hurry to the bathroom.
You fumble for the light switch and spit and retch into the sink. You run the water and wash your mouth and splash some onto your face. That wasn’t very smooth of you. You suppose it is only to be expected when you pretend to be cooler and more spontaneous than you really are. You hope you didn’t ruin it for him.
You hold onto the edge of the sink and look at yourself in the mirror. You’re too old to be doing things like this. But this isn’t just some one night stand, at least you hope it isn’t. You’ve had feelings for Jean for a long time now, but you’re not sure he realises that. If you weren’t such a coward you’d have been more explicit about the way you feel before things got physical.
You’re filled with the sudden fear that everyone and everything you love is slipping away from you. Is it just bad luck? Or something that you’re doing unconsciously that you need to be more aware of?
You force yourself to smile at yourself in the mirror. This is probably just the effects of the alcohol. You shouldn’t stand here alone and dwell on these things, Jean is waiting for you.
He looks flushed and surprisingly relaxed when you return to the bedroom, even though he’s still tied to the bed-frame. You sit down beside him. “Are you okay?” you ask.
He snorts. “Yeah. Never f*cking better,” he says, and by the way he smiles you can tell he isn’t being sarcastic this time.
“Sorry for running off like that,” you say.
“No, it was my fault. I should have warned you before I, uh...”
“It’s fine,” you say, leaning over to kiss his cheek, then you start to untie his wrists.
“What are you doing?”
“Untying you.”
He looks disappointed, but doesn’t say anything. Once he is free, he climbs under the covers. “You can sleep here, or on the couch. Whatever.”
You take hold of his wrist and run your fingers over the marks left by the tie. “Does it hurt?”
He looks at you like you said something strange. “No.”
You take his other wrist and inspect the marks. They look more prominent. You bend your head to press your lips to his skin.
Jean regards you warily.
“Can I get you anything? A glass of water, perhaps?”
He frowns, and then his expression softens. “Actually, yeah. Water would be good.”
You get up and go to find the kitchen. It’s a bit of a mess, with dishes piled up in the sink, but you find a clean glass and fill it, then take it back to the bedroom.
Jean sits up takes the glass from you and drinks from it, then passes it back to you. You finish the water yourself, and place it on the nightstand.
He sniffs. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he says, and there is an odd catch in his voice.
This strikes you as an odd thing to say. “Why would I not?” you say.
He turns away, and you notice a glint of wetness in his eyes.
You reach out and pull him into your arms. He makes a feeble effort to shake you off, but then lets you embrace him. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Everything is fine,” you whisper, stroking his back. He sniffles into your shoulder.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” you ask when you finally let him go.
He swipes the back of his hand across his face, wiping away the tears and blinks. He shakes his head, and reaches for a pack of cigarettes.
“Is it… because of something I did?”
“I’m f*cking depressed, Trant,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“Is there anything I can do?” you ask.
He lights a cigarette and stares off into the distance. He gives a hopeless shrug.
“Should I go sleep on the couch?”
“If you want.”
You’ve always quite liked the way he can be cold and dismissive. It makes him seem challenging, safely unobtainable. But now in this situation it makes you feel insecure. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable, so you ask, “Would you prefer if I left?”
He looks at you, his eyes suddenly intense. “No, don’t,” he says, ash from his cigarette dropping onto the sheets.
“Well then, can I sleep here with you?”
“Yeah, I said you could,” he says, stubbing the end of his cigarette out in the ashtray by his bed.
You take off your trousers, and then get into bed beside him. For a moment, you just look at him, trying to gauge how he’s feeling. He glances at you.
“Can we cuddle?” you ask.
He looks away. “I thought you were done with me,” he mutters.
“No, I was checking if you were all right.”
“I’m fine, Trant, you can stop that now,” he says. You suspect by the tone of his voice that if you push the issue he might get upset again.
“Would you put your arms around me?”
He moves closer to you and pulls you into his arms, then hesitantly presses his lips to yours. You kiss each other slowly. Before long you’re getting hard again. You feel him smile as he kisses you and he slides a hand down into your underwear and starts to stroke you. It’s jarring after his sudden coldness. But it makes you feel secure, wanted.
“Oh, Jean,” you breathe, and kiss him again. Your kisses grow more fervent as he moves his hand faster. You gasp and find yourself pushing yourself into his hand. The feeling is almost unbearable.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it, good boy,” he mumbles in your ear as you hide your face in his neck.
“Oh. Jean. Please.”
Waves of pleasure crash over you as you come in his hand.
“That was… so good,” is all you can say. You just lay there and look at him for a while. You press your lips against his and can’t believe how good it feels.
After another awkward moment while you clean yourselves up, you return to bed. You get yourself into a comfortable position on your side, and Jean curls himself around you, holding you tightly. You close your eyes.
“Trant?”
“Yes?”
“I know this is probably just a one-time thing,” he says, and you feel a twinge of pain in your chest. “But I don’t want it to be.”
“That’s not what I want either. I want to be with you, Jean. I thought I made that clear.”
“Oh,” he says quietly. “You didn’t.” He tightens his arms around you.
“I was so worried that when you kissed me at the wedding it didn’t mean anything to you.”
“Really? I was just trying to act cool. I wanted to make you feel better after those assholes gave you sh*t. I thought I’d f*cked up, doing it in public like that.”
“No. I was so happy when you danced with me. I was so happy when you agreed to be my plus-one. I’d been thinking about asking you since I got the invitation, that was six months ago now.”
He laughs. “f*cking hell Trant, you could have given me six months’ notice and you waited until the day before?”
“I was scared you might say no.”
“What if I was busy? I do do things outside of work. Sometimes.”
“I guess I got lucky.”
“I think I’m the lucky one.”
You smile and rest your hand on top of his.
“Wait, what the f*ck are we going to tell the guys at work? Oh god, we can’t tell them. They’d make our lives hell.”
“We don’t have to think about telling everyone right now,” you say, stroking his hand. “We have plenty of time to figure something out, don’t worry.”
He presses his lips to the back of your neck, and you sigh contentedly.
“Jean, can I take you out for lunch again tomorrow? And this time it is a date,” you say.
“It’s Sunday. I’m working. You don’t work Sundays.”
“Yes, I know. But I might come in for a bit anyway.”
“Any excuse to spend more time with me,” he says in an offhand manner.
“I won’t deny it.”
“Are you going to make me take a lunch break every day?”
You smile. “Yes! But it’s for your own good. You should be taking breaks anyway,” you say. “If I ask you to do it for me, does that make it appealing?”
“God damn you,” he mutters, settling beside you.
You close your eyes and enjoy the warmth of his body wrapped around you. The wedding had almost been completely cast out of your mind, but you find yourself thinking of it again. You anticipated this would be the end of an era, the final door closing on a large part of your life. But now something new is growing between you and Jean, and you feel happy in a way you never thought you would be again.
