Harry walks into the restaurant, one of London’s finest, and the maitre’d snaps to attention.
It’s not that Harry is the wealthiest man in town. No. He’s actually barely “man” given that his 18th birthday just past a month ago. It was notable because Niall, of all people, brought him a cupcake. Harry looked at this amazing, beautiful buttercream cupcake and could think only one thing.
How can someone go to the finest bakery in London, buy a cupcake big enough to feed four, give it to someone for their birthday and yet somehow get a cat hair on it?
Well that would be Niall.
Harry thanked Niall. Offered it back. Niall promptly ate it. Had two minutes of pleasant conversation with Harry and then left. On his way to collect a lost kitten he thought he knew of needing rescuing, or so Niall said, something like that.
That was Harry’s eighteenth birthday. The story of his one and only present because when you’re someone like Harry, nobody really thinks of you as a person...having a birthday. Or feelings. So this made the cupcake from Niall a remarkable thing because at least Niall gave Harry thought.
Not the kind of thought typically directed at Harry.
And yet there was another present that came to Harry that day, February 1st, Harry’s 18th, about a month ago.
It was a smile. Harry remembers because just like today he’d come to this restaurant, Payne’s, at lunch to meet a client. Frequently this was Harry’s thing. More often though, he picked this restaurant, ever since what happened on his recent birthday.
Harry had arrived, the maitre’d directed him to a secluded table. His client arrived on time, they always do when the can only get Harry for lunch and something brief after. Harry and his client ate quickly...they had details, d e t a i l s, to attend to. Afterall the client, older gentleman, had to be back to work in 90 minutes and a wife and kids to get home to later. This was his only chance for what Harry offers.
So there was Harry, and his client, having lunch at this exclusive, posh restaurant when passing by their table was an acquaintance of Harry’s meal ticket déjour. The passing man, also arond fifty, clearly wealthy, well dressed and rather austere made the point to briefly stop and speak with Harry’s client. Their conversation coded. It’s content of no consequence to Harry so Harry’s attention drifted.
From his lunch, the table, Harry’s attention drifted landing where it would take over in Harry from then on leaving him feel something burning into him that has no rest...
It happened with the smile. Yes. The smile. On Harry’s birthday. Given freely, for no reason. Just a smile.
Oh, but the giver. He was a boy about Harry’s age. Smaller. Chestnut hair. Blue eyes.
No, wait. Not blue.
Cerulean, yes they were like the sea.
This boy, the one walking into the restaurant following dutifully, almost hidden, behind the austere man gave Harry this small, warm smile just seconds before he was swept away from a brief stop beside Harry’s table as the short, coded conversation between the two older men came to an end.
It’s the first time a smile had ever taken Harry’s breath away. Harry was about to stand and introduce himself to the lad when the austere man suddenly moved off. In retrospect that was for the better, Harry thought, because it would be in bad form for Harry to introduce himself to someone so attractive when out with a paying client. Always his job is, along with the sex, to be discrete. Discrete is hard enough when you look like Harry. Sex on legs, long hair, dimples to die for and the smile that melts the polar ice caps.
But on Harry’s birthday his own smile was trumped in Harry’s. It was overshadowed by that boy’s. The boy Harry discovered is the son of Austere Man. After that day Harry made it a point to learn more about the boy. He’d learned a little from frequenting the restaurant. Things like, much like Harry, the boy was only seen at the restaurant as an Arm Piece. Unlike Harry, Harry since learned, was only, or always, seen with his father, Mr Autere Man, but when his father brought him it was definitely for d i s p l a y. Austere Man was hyper aware of eyes on his lad.
Of course. Why not display him, use him for attention, when you have a son as pretty and vexing as the boy is. The first day Harry saw him, Louis had done just that, vexed Harry. By the end of his lunch, Harry had noted without drawling attention to his interest every other detail he could about this boy.
Louis was more than pretty. The way his mouth was shaped, his cute nose, playful eyes, completely insanely pixie like hair wasn’t all that was attractive about him. He moved with purpose. From the tiniest detail, like how he sipped his tea, to the way he walked, he moved like he had a gift of motion. Harry knows something about motion. Sex is motion. It’s all about rthym. Balance. Pressure points. Release.
This boy, the one who was the son of Mr Austere, he moved like sex. Smooth. Harry caught sight of that when he watched Louis’ arse as the boy rose to go to the restroom and Harry got all of a few fleeting seconds of a glance at the lad’s insanely, girly, plump bum.
Standing now before the maitre’d Harry blushes because it hits him every time he’s scheduled for lunch here it takes Harry a minute to ask the maitre’d in a causal, not obvious way as to whether Louis, and his father of course, because Louis only accompanies his father, are by chance dining at Payne’s today. Or perhaps coming soon? Harry hopes he doesn’t sound weird in his ask. He tries to play it casual. Frankly he knows he’s not doing this well because he’s been making his visits to this restaurant far too often lately and on every occasion he’s asking for the same information; are Mr Austere and his son Louis planning to dine at Payne’s today?
Harry just gets the query out when he looks across the restaurant. It strikes him.
Cerulean eyes making a casual scan across the room meet his. It was likely an accident but nevertheless the boy smiles instantly upon seeing Harry. Like a jolt Harry’s body tingles. Harry returns the smile. He’s stopped from taking the overt step of making his way toward the boy’s table when he feels a hand on his back. Harry turns. It’s his client. Another man too mature, too self impressed, too whatever but before Harry can react Harry rethinks. This wealthy man, his client, and the sex Harry will have with him, is what has brought Harry here, not the lad with the pretty smile and the cerulean eyes. Turning back as the maitre’d makes haste to take them to their table, a place unfortunately far from Louis’, Harry sees Louis has gone back to his conversation with the austere mister.
Okay so it’s not his birthday, Harry thinks. But if Louis would just smile at him again it would feel like it could be.