Jean is currently being wined and dined by an extremely dull director. He is categorically uninterested in acting in movies based on comic books, but sometimes one must put up with being courted.

And sometimes there are side benefits.

"What would you recommend?" he asks the waiter, eyeing the young man's fingers with slightly more interest than is entirely appropriate. Those hands could model.

"The blanquette de veau, tonight, sir."

He stops, considers — the accent, the look.

"Or the boudin noir."

He hears the accent and pauses with his hand halfway to his glass.

"D'où venez-vous?"

“Par-ci, par-là.”

He’s half-smiling — it’s unclear whether it’s out of politeness.

Oh, a mystery. His night is much improved already.

"The boudin noir, please, then. And what wine would you recommend with that?"

There are a few Bordeaux on the list — but this is someone who can afford the best option.

"The Saint Macaire."

He laughs.

"I promise I will tip you as if I had ordered that. Now, is it really the best, or only the most expensive?"

He's clearly trying his best to conceal the offense he's taken. He's mostly successful.

"It is the best. The best by an inch, but the best."

The look of slightly inappropriate fascination travels up from the young man's hands to his face, passing over the alarmingly narrow lines of his wrists and neck on the way.

"Well, then, a bottle of the Saint Macaire."

The film executive, slightly alarmed, orders steak.

He makes the executive a few recommendations, then glides off with their order to the kitchen.

When he returns to pour the wine, he’s excruciatingly careful about it. It’s almost silent.

Jean, familiar with this ritual, inspects the cork -- takes the scent of the wine -- tastes the first pour, then invites their server to taste it.

He appears appeased by the gesture, and takes the glass with a nod.

The scent — the weight in his hand —

And the taste. He closes his eyes there at the table, for just a moment, letting the wine spread over his tongue.

He manages to return the glass without any obvious hesitation.

Well, isn't that a work of art.

"Tell me what I should be tasting for." He wants to hear this boy talk about wine. He wants to watch this boy be jealous.

"Currant. Dark chocolate. It's a very dry wine — you'll taste graphite on the finish, if you're looking for it, and tarragon."

He can't help looking at the bottle, more than the man.

Jean is not, in fact, looking for any of these things.

He makes a show of taking another slow sip, though -- the deep nasal inhalation, the lingering before the swallow, the flutter of the eyelashes, the tiniest shiver.

"Beautiful. Thank you."

He nods.

“It’s my pleasure.”

He would kill him for the rest of that bottle.

Jean gives him a polite half a smile, before turning back to the executive and asking dismissively who they've hired for wardrobe.

After pouring wine and water for them both, and providing them with bread and butter, he departs.

When the kitchen has willed it, he’s back with their plates.

Jean pauses in his diatribe at the concept art (what is that helmet, really) to sparkle charmingly at the waiter and thank him.

He nods, smiles, departs again.

He’s very attentive, through the dinner. Both parties would be hard-pressed to empty a glass for long.

The executive, who is having a difficult day, makes a fair attempt at it.

Jean doesn't drink more than half his own glass before it's time for him to nod at the dessert menu.

He can recommend the tarte tatin, and very deliberately not look at the half-full glass.

Jean considers the recommendation, asks a few thoughtful questions about fruit, and finally orders a row of tiny macarons.

(The executive, obviously doing math in his head, orders nothing.)