#umhum

“…Make it five. And phone an ambulance when I’m done.” Looking through the crowd their eyes landed on the top booth, neon lights illuminating the hard faces lounged below them. Steeling themselves they set off through the crowd, brushing against fishnets and fake designer, until they came to the head table. All three members stared them down, almost bored. All three also had pocket squares, all a different colour. “Oh look, my cup is empty!” They let out an embarrassing squeal, turning to flee with empty hands. The three faces looked about in confusion. Grantaire was gone from their spot, completely vanished, and for once Jean was glad. Now they wouldn’t have to hide their furious blush from anyone but the Gods. The bar- they needed the Bar. “Double vodka and lem-” “Give them a triple vodka and pomegranate, Mard.” A cool voice next to them muttered. “Excuse me but, I dont-” “Yes?” Jean looked up in awe, the voice as lovely as it’s owner looked. “Oh-um. I guess I’ll try it?” “Yes.” For a few moments only the beat of the music flowed between them, but Jean was as aware of the stranger’s presence as if they were alone in the dark. Then they noticed the pocket square, crisply ironed and impeccably folded into the well-tailored pocket. Their fingers itched to take it, to bring it back to Grantaire like a prized fish. “What do you think?” A raised brow asked ominous questions. “I think it’s a nice look.” “I meant of the drink.” A smirk joined the eyebrow. “Ah! Um. It’s nice. Thank you for recommending it. I wouldn’t say it was your style, though.” “Oh? And you know a lot about style, do you?” A scrutinizing look had them blushing again. “More than you know,” They smiled up at the stranger, spinning the straw in their glass and bringing it to their lips. “I know that the person behind you is wearing last season Jacobs.” The stranger looked over his shoulder, bringing his chest closer to Jean. The square was ripped away quickly, and tucked into their shirt. An innocent smile graced their lips, and they blushed into their hair. “I think you are right.” The stranger narrowed their eyes. “What’s your name?” “Prouvaire. Jean, Er. Jehan.” Jean bit out, stuttering under the gaze of their victim. “Well, whoever you are. Enjoy your free drinks tonight.” “Wait! What can I call you?” Jean tugged on their sleeve. “You don’t know?” The music began to drown them out, but not enough.“It’s Montparnasse.”