He first encountered the man in a wineshop—smoky, dark. It was night outside, and the dim candles in did nothing to diminish the effect. The man—boy, perhaps—seemed not much older than himself. A student, surely. Only a student would have the wealth to dress as this boy was dressed, which was so out of fashion it nearly made Montparnasse sick. (Fuck, where in Paris could you even acquire paisley trousers?) When he moved closer, he realised just how attractive the man was. And an easy fight, no doubt, were he to rob him. Blushing, lowered eyes, a soft voice, he was clearly too timid to put up any resistance.
It wasn’t until later that night, when Montparnasse found himself beneath this boy and sporting teeth marks across his collarbone, that he revised his impression.