“Maybe someday.”

The kitchen is only separated from the living room by the back of a counter and a change from carpet to linoleum — he heads that way.

Jean follows him, stopping at the edge of the carpet to lean on the countertop.

"And the acoustics." (Tapping his fingertips on the counter.) "Not terrible. But could be improved."

“I’m sure they would be better, if anything were on the walls.”

There’s a gooseneck kettle on the countertop — he sets it heating up, and with scrupulous care measures out a handful of beans for a grinder.

In sharp contrast to the rest of the apartment, the grinder and the kettle are clearly high-end equipment, as is the curvaceous glass pour-over in which he places a filter.

Ah. The performance.

He stops his critique of the stage and the set-dressing to watch in rapt silence.

The kettle is already dialed in to a particular temperature. The grinder is manual, and he turns the crank with careful attention — once its done, he deposits the fine powder in the filter, tilts his wrist just so to make sure it’s even.

Just before the kettle chimes, he lifts it off its stand, and pours in one smooth spiral over the grounds.

As dark liquid trickles down the glass wall of the carafe, he goes to his cupboard and retrieves two delicate porcelain cups and saucers, clearly finer than the rest of his mismatched plates and bowls.

It's so beautiful.

He wants to ruin it.

(To make him pour it out on the ground and kneel in the puddle to suck cock -- to taste it and spit it out in disgust -- to smash the cup when he's done so that no one else can ever put their lips on that same perfect porcelain...)

“—do you take cream or sugar?”

Not usually but he wants to see more. "Yes."

He retrieves an irregular, sparkling lump of dark sugar from a jar, and a glass bottle of cream from the refrigerator (which is, as far as Jean will be able to see from that angle, packed full).

The sugar goes in the bottom of the cup — once he’s poured the coffee over it, and stirred it once or twice with a small spoon, he adds cream, lets the swirling white clouds blend into the black coffee until the whole cup is an even caramel color.

(His own, he leaves black.)

When he hands Jean his cup on its saucer, he very slightly averts his eyes.

"Merci."

He sips it slowly, closing his eyes and letting his lashes flutter: the correct performance for a fine drink.

He puts his own cup to his lips, as well, drinks deeply. It’s still so hot, without cream or sugar, that it scalds his lips a little, warms the inside of his throat as it goes down.

(He could make Valentine set aside his cup, drink it afterwards, stone-cold.)

"It's very good."

“…thank you.”

He sets his own cup down, half-empty. (He’s full.)

"I don't think I've ever seen you let food go to waste."

“I don’t make a habit of it. But you fed me very well tonight.”

"Soleil fed you."

“At your request. But — yes.”

"Would you like me to?"

“—to—”

Oh.

He comes slowly around the counter.

"Wait."

It takes a little maneuvering for him to pour Valentine's cooling coffee into his own cupped hands.

Then he stretches them out slightly, raises an eyebrow.

He falls to his knees, right on the line between the kitchen and the rest of the world, and leans forward, and he drinks.

It’s very different, with his lips brushing fingertips, with the bitterness of the coffee just covering the mild salt taste of skin.

He realizes, distantly, that he likes it.

Jean waits until Valentine laps up the last of the coffee from where his palms meet.

Then he unfastens his pants and puts his damp hands in Valentine's hair.

He had been so apprehensive, thinking about this, the idea of having this extracted from him as payment.

He finds that now that he’s here, on his knees, he can’t get Jean’s underwear down fast enough.

(It’s still humiliating. Maybe more so, for how much he knows he’ll enjoy it.)

He takes the head of Jean’s cock in his mouth,

and his eyes close, and his body stills.