He looks up at Jean's wiggling toes and covers his mouth, laughs quietly behind his hand.

Jean chatters away merrily as he laces up his shoes.

"...ripped her hose at the beginning of the second act, did you see? She was trying not to make it any worse through the whole scene..."

It's — cute, actually.

He smiles and chats back, occasionally glancing around the restaurant in quiet awe.

He's allowed to place his own order, this time. Jean calls for a bottle of champagne.

He changes his order twice, and apologizes profusely to the waiter.

(It's a very important decision, that's all.)

Jean pops the cork on the champagne and pours for both of them liberally, laughing.

"I can't imagine you find time for the theater as often as you ought."

"I'm very busy. And I have no money."

He takes a cautious sip of the champagne.

"I can get you comped tickets. If you ever have the time. Money should never be an obstacle to the arts."

"...I appreciate it. If it's not an imposition."

"Most certainly not. It's my privilege."

Another sip of champagne.

"...thank you for tonight, too."

"Nothing to thank me for. It's no pleasure to drink alone."

He smiles, and drinks champagne.

He has a fair few questions about the performance itself, until their food arrives,

and then he's thinking of nothing else.

Fine. So his acting is less interesting than food. He sees how it is.

...his acting is, however, possibly less interesting than Valentine eating food.

He wakes up, a little, as he's finishing his plate.

"...I'm sorry, I was asking you about something..."

Jean hands him the dessert menu.

...he is immediately and thoroughly distracted by the dessert menu.

In five minutes, he has it narrowed down to two.

Jean, being in an extravagant mood, orders him both.

Oh.

...he has to excuse himself to the bathroom, for a moment.

He shouldn't follow him again.

He keeps imagining Valentine vomiting, though, to make room -- it would explain the jutting wrists --

A minute of struggle later, he follows him.

He's just here to calm down.

(This shouldn't have — the kind of effect that it has. What's wrong with him?)

It'll go away on its own.

Or, it should.

Or...he'll be very, very quick and quiet about fixing it.

(There's just the slightest noise, just the smallest change in breathing.)

Then he's up, to go and wash his hands.

He's standing, expressionless, just outside of the stall door, one hand raised almost to touch it.