"Oh, you could conceal them, I imagine. But It would make your face so much more common."

"...you genuinely like them," he says, caught just off-guard enough for a lopsided smile.

"Really, what possible motivation would I have to lie to you about it?"

"I would expect sarcasm, more than lying."

"Anyone can be pretty enough -- a little makeup, a little exercise, a little training in how to smile. Beauty is an accomplishment."

"I would think you see it often."

"In my mirror daily. And yet I never tire of it."

That was charmingly vain. He knows that was meant to be charmingly vain. And yet he can't help laughing.

It's not as lovely as when he eats; and yet it's still a sight to behold.

"I hope you haven't filled up on bread too much to enjoy your food."

That gets a laugh, too, but a very different kind.

"That would be difficult."

And yet he's already regretting letting him have the bread. It's so exquisite when the sharp edge of real hunger touches him.

"A challenge, perhaps."

That's a thought, in any case. Not one Jean is going to indulge. Only a thought.

"What — to keep me from enjoying dinner?"

It's forced, but it doesn't come off desperate. He has to hold onto that where he can.

"To feed you, until even you can't enjoy it any longer."

Oh. They're just — going to say things out loud, then. Okay.

(His stomach has dropped — his palms are wet. He can feel the back of his neck flush.)

He opens his mouth, to try to respond, and comes up empty, at first, too aware of himself and of the crowd — the people sitting around them, the low murmur of conversation — knives and forks clicking on plates.

"...it would be a challenge," he agrees, as if this is a perfectly normal topic of conversation, slightly undershooting 'flirtatious' in his stumbling moment of alarm.

He's never done this before.

He's playing idly with his fork, counting the tines with the tip of one finger.

"Do you think you would find the process pleasant?"

“I…think that would defeat the purpose.”

And yet — he’s hungry. And he wants to eat. The end result, the pain and the nausea, the sacrilege, are all so distant as to be irrelevant. He could eat, and eat, until he was full.

Nothing else matters. Not really.

"Not at all."

He plucks a tine. It makes a faint ting sound under his finger, barely audible.

"In any case. Not today."

Not ever, if his self-restraint holds.

It’s a blessing, really.

“Not today,” he agrees, as if they had been coming to a decision together.

Jean smiles, and moves smoothly on to more ordinary small talk as if they'd just agreed on the pleasantness of the weather.

In time, the waiter delivers their food. Jean eats -- without much attention -- and he watches Valentine eat.

It’s slow — loving — painfully restrained. He catches his own wrist, once, to keep himself from taking a second bite too soon.

His eyes don’t leave his plate until it’s clean.

He doesn't breathe, for more than a minute, after he sees Valentine hold his own wrist back.

Jean hasn't finished his food. He could trade what's left on his plate for Valentine's body, and Valentine wouldn't refuse him; he's painfully aware of it.

Instead, he lets the waiter take his plate away with food still on it, for the pleasure of watching Valentine wince.

He is not disappointed.

Valentine's eyes track the plate until it's well away from their table.

The boy is so obviously still hungry. It's written in his hollow eyes.

It makes Jean want to take him to the bathroom and feed him his cock.

(What is wrong with him?)

Jean pays the check, tips generously, swears to himself he'll never do this again.

"The same time next week?"

"Yes. Please."

The next week, he shows up on time again. He does, however, bring a book. And wear a coat.

Jean is punctually late. The waitstaff are wearily tolerant. Their table is private.

He refrained from bringing so many things to this meal. He didn't bring a condom, or an emetic, or a very large sum in unmarked bills, or a miracle berry tablet, or a diamond ring.

Surely he can be forgiven for the lipstick he slides across the table.