AN: This story is an unofficial part of my young!conworth AU, or rather, a sort of bonus scene. This is Conrad and Luce's one year anniversary, and may prove to be the part of the story farthest along in the timeline. It was written for Tasha's birthday as a present from me. This is about as nice as my Luce will ever get. This thing is pretty damn sweet, and after this I am going back to tormenting little Conrad for all he is worth. Anyway, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name is still the property of the marvelous Tessa Stone; I am making no profit and mean no trespass.
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THINGS HELD
-by: Lira-
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The days were numbered. Not in a doomed sort of way, although it felt like that sometimes, but lovingly, in Conrad's own artistic hand. When the count reached three hundred, he almost stopped, flicking back through the days and pages so that the curl of his script ran back towards the beginning. He had to write it all down, just to make sure it was real. He had to write it all down, even though someone could find his dia- journal, his journal, and then what would he do?
He would wish he hadn't embossed every last number, etched out below the dates to keep the time, with all manner of fancy curliques and hard-edged lines that could be the beginning of one of Luce's smirks.
Three hundred was like dialing into one of those radio shows, finding out he had the golden ticket, even though privately he thought that Luce was so much better than an all-expenses paid trip to the beach with a dozen of his closest friends. Not in the least because he just didn't have twelve close friends to go with – twelve friends at all to go with – and could he maybe just beg Luce to go, on his knees if necessary? It was both confirmation of everything and the redoubling of all his fears that one day, this would just all be over. Three hundred was holding his breath until he was blue in the face, it was the child refusing to grow up because in that moment he thought he had everything he had ever wanted.
He kept the count; he kept his book. He couldn't stop after so long, couldn't cease valuing each day of this thing that was clearly not a relationship, memorializing this life that was precious. The numbers counted up. Three hundred twenty. Three hundred twenty-five. And then there were just two weeks left and he clutched the book to his chest and thumbed the last few pages left before he'd have to start another. He really tried to make Luce happy, to do all the things the man asked of him even when it was hard and he had to force himself and he really wasn't sure if he was happy or miserable. All the things. He only wanted one in return.
It didn't even need to be called an anniversary. Just one day, no tests or challenges, outside the apartment.
The wish eclipsed his other wants, more than Conrad could like. Usually he would throw himself into art at the onset of emotional trauma, abuse the outlet until his world started to settle. It wasn't working. The days slipped by, and he realized he was behind on his art project at school. It wasn't even for class. He was a junior then, not yet eligible for the most elevated of art classes, actual studio art where he would have something resembling autonomy. But his art teacher told him he had a lot of potential, and Luce praised him just frequently enough that he believed the both of them. It was an opportunity being given to students in the studio, but Conrad had been told that if he did work up to par with the seniors, he'd have his slot.
There was a midnight gala in the city, a small art show that had prestige and class and only occurred once a year. They were running a rising stars exhibit as part of the yearly offering, where the best pieces from local schools would be on display. Conrad's school was allowing the senior studio art students to compete for that privilege. And Conrad was working on a sculpture, which Luce had been a large part of the inspiration for. Yet he was running right past the deadline at full speed, his heart desperately seeking that day three hundred sixty-six.
Two weeks to that number, and Conrad had officially surpassed the deadline for submission. He was too humiliated by his short-sightedness to argue his case with his teacher, instead only mumbling an apology and some disconnected lies about losing his inspiration when his progress was inquired about. He almost wanted to pack up the various parts of his sculpture-in-progress, a lofty mixed-media affair that he truly still was passionate about. He wanted to smuggle the bits home one by one so his mother couldn't see him coming in with it all and ask questions, hide them in his closet like some failed sacrifice in Luce's name. It was too much shame.
Conrad remembered saying something to Lamont about it, confiding that he'd really still like to go to the gala, but the tickets were like a hundred dollars a pop and where would he get that sort of money with two weeks to the event, and almost all of the tickets sold? Official artists represented in the show received free admission, of course, and a sort of cocktail dinner in the gallery before opening where they could rub shoulders with all of the other official artists and network. What Conrad wouldn't give to be nibbling on little cocktail shrimp and lengths of hollowed cucumber filled with Bloody Mary inspired soup.
The day before that magic number happened to be a Friday. Conrad thought about it off and on all day at school, that this meant so much to him and Luce probably didn't even know. He hadn't figured out how to bring it up with the man. He'd tried, really he had, could remember the countless times he'd opened his mouth with the words on his tongue and had always spat out something else instead, or turned away in misery and cowardice to wait for another day. All of the days were up, and Conrad couldn't even go to the gala that evening to make himself feel better because it was painfully expensive and he hadn't possessed the commitment to finish his artwork. How was he ever going to make it doing this as a career, if this was how he performed under pressure?
But when Conrad trudged by the front gates of the school on the way to the bus stop, a far too familiar cherry-apple-red sports car slid up to the sidewalk beside him. Conrad stumbled to a stop, and when he looked over, stunned, Luce was reaching across the passenger seat to pop the door for him. He continued to stare at the side of Luce's car until the man made an impatient gesture for him to get in.
"Hurry up, Connie," Luce commanded, with more than just a hint of irritation. "Lest yeh wan' ter get us plowed inter by a bus."
Conrad muttered an apology and hopped into the car, barely pulling the door closed before Luce had applied his foot to the gas pedal. He buckled his seatbelt as they were driving down the road.
"I didn't... Think we were doing anything today," Conrad mumbled, looking at his lap.
He wouldn't get his hopes up. It wasn't the magic number, after all, not quite yet.
"We weren't," Luce agreed, readily enough. "But Mont grabbed yer clothes an' we doan' really 'ave tha' much time fer this shit."
"...Clothes?" Conrad echoed, once he'd waited for the meaning to penetrate only to have nothing come.
"Yer mom was righ' happy ter finally meet yer French tutor," Luce continued, as if Conrad hadn't even said anything. "Yeh 'ad better not start talkin' French in th' apartment again, shit. Least not unless yeh wan' ter don a pencil skirt an' one of those faggy berets an' work on yer accent a bit more firs'."
Conrad had the strong suspicion that Luce wasn't even joking.
"Lamont went to see my mom?" Conrad asked. "At home? I don't think Lamont has ever been to my house."
"Yer expectations are appallingly low," Luce told him, like that made any sense. "Yeh 'ad better not whine abou' the fuckin' clothes, 'cause yer mother is a righ' terror, now an' always. Isn'it sixteen tha's th' age yeh can go abou' becomin' an emancipated minor?"
Luce didn't say the words like it was a question.
"I'm not going to emancipate myself," Conrad said, laughing a little, but nervously, and not like he thought it was funny. "She's family."
By that point, Luce was pulling into the parking lot at the apartment complex, and Luce did not try to convince him to legally separate himself from his closest blood relative in favor of parking the car. The walk up to Luce's apartment was so familiar as to be comforting, and Conrad almost didn't think much of the fact that Luce slung his arm around Conrad's shoulders while they walked. He hadn't done that since... Well, since the beginning. Like now he knew Conrad wouldn't scamper off on him and it had only been a means of restraining him all along.
This time, when Luce did it, the weight was familiar and soothing and Luce's fingers gripped his shoulder with a reassuring degree of pressure. Luce unlocked the door one-handed.
It was the same apartment – Luce's apartment – as always, and ever the brief feeling of deja vu as Conrad walked inside. Luce was right behind him and he half expected the man to press him against the wall, or swoop him over to the couch; why else would Luce have come and spirited him away on a Friday with no warning? But he wasn't stupid, and the comments about clothes and Lamont and his mother meant /something,/ even if Luce was too self-absorbed to just tell him what was going on.
Luce led him onward in the direction of the bedroom instead, which wasn't necessarily any different in the long run. The question of what Luce meant by clothes was answered when the door was thrust open, however, because an outfit had been laid out on the bed, maybe by Lamont, Conrad didn't know. He /recognized/ those clothes. Those were /his/ dress slacks, and his red button-down shirt, had Lamont known that one was his favorite? How could the man? Black socks, shiny black shoes, black tie.
Black tie...
Conrad stumbled away from Luce, who let go of him when he pulled, staggered to the mattress, and grabbed onto it with both hands. He couldn't quite dare to hope, not that easily, not when the conclusions he was jumping to already were so astronomical. But Luce wouldn't wave these clothes about if it really was nothing, it was far too much effort for any sort of gag. Which meant it was something else. Something that had to be good, even if it wasn't what Conrad was hoping and praying for, because even this was more than he had been expecting.
"You aren't going to wait for me to change in the other room, are you?" Conrad asked, instead of questioning what they were going to do.
"'Fraid not, Connie," Luce confirmed.
But then he moved across the room to the closet, and Conrad could believe that the clothes he dug free from the bottom of a highly suspect pile were actually clean, seeing as they were still in their dry cleaning bags. He did wonder how long it had been since Luce had worn them, but then it penetrated that /Luce would be dressing up too./ That was enough to convince him not to think about whether or not Luce was being difficult, whether the man really had to make this a mystery and string Conrad along. He'd put on the familiar nice clothes, would pretend that Luce wasn't watching him the entire time he was edging out of his school clothes.
It had also occurred to Conrad that real couples, who could use the word "boyfriend" and everything, sometimes surprised each other on their anniversaries.
When Conrad was dressed and nervously readjusting the knot of his tie, because even after so many of his mother's events through the years it always felt like he was wearing it crooked, he turned his attention back to Luce. The discarded dry cleaning bags were scattered on the floor, dark slacks, white dress shirt, dark suit jacket, had all been transferred to Luce's lean frame. Luce was adjusting a bowtie in place around his neck in mirror of what Conrad's hands were doing. When Conrad looked at him, Luce only grinned rakishly.
"Yeh prob'ly jes' wan' ter hold 'em," Luce said, reaching for his wallet and thumbing it open. "Wiv' yer artist's hands an' all that."
Luce pulled two thick slips of paper out from among the bills and held them out towards Conrad. It took every last bit of restraint he could summon not to just snatch them out of Luce's hands, but instead to move forward calmly and accept the offering. Holding them between both hands, Conrad slowly read the embossed writing on their slick surfaces.
Tickets. Tickets, to the midnight gala. And as Conrad forced his eyes to focus and actually process the words written on the tickets, his eyes nearly bugged out behind his glasses.
"L-Luce!" he yelped. "Luce, they say they're /VIP passes./ Where did you /get/ these?"
"Yeh wanted ter go t' the gala, didn'cha?" Luce asked, as if that explained everything.
"Luce, these things cost like /five hundred dollars,/" Conrad said slowly, like maybe the words would dare to penetrate. "Each! I don't think I've ever /held/ a piece of paper worth this much oh god take them /back./"
Conrad thrust the tickets back at Luce desperately, as if afraid the simple contact with his skin would somehow contaminate them into nonexistence. Luce simply plucked them out of the air and tucked them back into his wallet, sliding it into an inside pocket on his suit jacket.
"Guess yer gunna wan' ter be leaving, eh Connie?" Luce asked. "Doan' wan' ter be late fer the VIP openin'. Think there's some sorta keynote speech. From th' guy wiv his stuff in th' main exhibit this year. Tha's bound ter be interestin'."
"Oh god," Conrad moaned, unable to string together words to express just how "interestin'" that would be for him.
The closest Conrad had ever come to meeting real, successful artists, the sort of people he wanted to be one day, was at a few of his mother's events. The rule then had been that children were to be seen and not heard, and if his mother had caught him talking to any of her important guests, he wouldn't have heard the end of it for a week. He had never made the mental connection that negative attention was better than no attention at all, and her lectures usually made him want to die on the spot with misery.
Conrad let Luce take him under the man's arm once again, steering him back out of the bedroom and out of the apartment and down to the waiting car.
.
The gala, as a transient thing, chose to transform one of the nicest hotels in the city into a gallery for that night and that night only. Conrad was pretty sure he would never see anything more beautiful than an entire ballroom in a five star hotel filled with sculptures and paintings and more expert photography than he had ever expected to lay eyes upon in person. Luce's car fit in perfectly in the hotel parking lot, where Conrad suspected not a single vehicle would have retailed for less than fifty thousand dollars. When they came to the door, he almost expected to be turned away.
On top of everything else, it was strange to be out with Luce in public. Virtually every public thing they had done in the past had been furtive, possessed of an air of secrecy. Like at any moment, someone would take him by the arm and guide him away from Luce, inform him that they knew what was going on, and everything would be better now. Like anyone else could begin to understand what Luce meant to him. No one looked at them twice. In their nice clothes, they probably just looked like some trust-fund kids, family friends maybe, at the gala out of responsibility.
It was so wrong and Conrad didn't care because he could grab Luce's arm and hold on tight and stare at /everything/ and still no one blinked.
Conrad didn't want to let go of his ticket, when Luce prompted him to show it at the door, but when it was returned to him with a little star-shaped hole punch taken out of one corner he tucked it into his pocket before Luce could say anything. They both stepped into the hotel.
The entrance hall was a few steps down to ground level, check-in a forgotten thing off to one side. The area was full of doubtlessly-important people milling around in fancy dress and Conrad was immediately trying to see if he recognized any of them. He was so grateful that despite her undisputed success as a planner, this was an event his mother failed to secure year in and year out. The guests seemed to be a different segment of the city's population, and after wandering through the crowd trailing off of Luce's arm for a good ten minutes, Conrad started to calm down and relax. No one from school would be there as a VIP, and no one from his mother's circle would be there at all. It... It was actually okay.
Even if he was still painfully curious where Luce had gotten those VIP tickets in the first place.
Luce scored him a glass of champagne, and Conrad had to wonder that no one cared about his age for drinking any more than they cared that he was in Luce's company.
"I... I can't drink this, can I?" he mumbled, wrapping the fingers of one hand around the stem of the glass.
"Jes' drink yer bubbly alcohol an' stop tryin' ter hyperventilate," Luce told him.
Conrad started to say that he was fine, really, he didn't need any of Luce's liquid courage... Except Luce just looked resolute, not disappointed in him or irritated or anything, and maybe that meant that he just wanted Conrad to have a good time. To Luce, a good time seemed to include having something to drink, and Conrad suspected that he was holding in his hands no less than twenty dollars of alcohol. Probably more like thirty.
Or forty.
He gulped it back in one long swallow before he could thrust it back at Luce and again protest the entire arrangement, so that he hardly tasted the crisp flavor of the drink.
Conrad knew that this wasn't Luce's sort of event any more than it was something he would have been able to do by himself. Neither of them knew any of the other guests. Or, well, Luce seemed to recognize a few people, but whenever it happened Luce deftly turned Conrad around and walked them off in a different direction. Conrad didn't mind being led around like a child. It called him back to events with his mom, except with all of the pressure to impress her lifted from his shoulders. There was no one to criticize him for eavesdropping, and so he and Luce did exactly that.
Conrad learned more about high society in that half hour than at any other time in his life. He knew enough by then to pick up on the innuendos, and was mildly scandalized by the things /this/ sort of socialite woman would say in public.
"Are all real artists this promiscuous?" he found himself muttering to Luce once they'd edged off to one side and Luce had snagged him another flute of champagne.
"Th' ones yeh think are promiscuous prob'ly aren't th' artists," Luce confided. "An' th' artists are prob'ly havin' far better sex than any of those fancy ladies wan' ter pretend to."
Conrad took a small sip from his champagne and nodded like he understood what Luce was getting at.
A bit more social lubrication and everyone's attention was drawn to the top of the staircase at the end of the hall. The crowd hushed and all wandered closer, and a a rather pretty blonde woman stepped into place with a wireless microphone in her hand. Conrad's first thought was of /course/ Luce hadn't realized the speaker was actually a woman. Luce didn't really care about this sort of thing – which made it even more precious that he was there with Conrad and for all the world seeming like he was enjoying himself.
"As I'm sure you all know, I'm Alexandra Meade," she said into the quiet, the microphone virtually unnecessary.
Conrad supposed anyone could have believed an "Alex Meade" was a man. Anyone too lazy to check their facts, that was. For some reason, the thought just filled him with a weird sort of fond feeling in Luce's direction.
Conrad wasn't really sure what a keynote speech at an art gala was supposed to be like, but it turned out it was just Alex talking about her art and the pieces she had in the exhibit. A lot of it was sculpture, which made Conrad /really/ wish he had been able to finish his project and get it put in the student gallery for the show. Maybe he could have found her later, when all the halls were open and everyone was able to view the exhibits, and he could have talked to her about work, and why she did it, and just /anything./
Standing up in front of everyone, looking around and talking like she was talking right to them, Alex seemed so personable. A real human being, and not this mystical artist, a creature Conrad could never hope to coexist with. Even the high society elite he was standing with didn't seem so unapproachable, not when everyone was drinking champagne and murmuring to one another and seeming like they were so happy to be there, even as they tried to maintain their bored masks and not slip where it could be witnessed.
When Alexandra was done speaking, and before the dinner was scheduled to begin, all the doors opened and the assembled filtered into the grand ballroom, resplendent with the amassed lifework of so many passionate people. At that point Conrad was taking Luce by the arm, dragging Luce forward because he wanted to see /everything./
"Calm down kiddo," Luce chuckled from just beside his ear. "Yeh 'ave all night."
Conrad was willing to believe that Luce was right.
While they made the circuit of the room, Conrad could tell that Luce was watching the people far more than the artwork. He didn't care. Luce didn't criticize his excitement over-much, or comment negatively on any of his excited babbling. And maybe Luce's mood was helped by the fact that Conrad was a little light-headed from the champagne and was hanging on Luce the entire time, far too encouraged by the fact that his behavior did not seem out of place.
The excitement was catching, and Conrad even found himself talking to people who weren't Luce, actual adults who would listen to what he said and even consider his ideas like they had merit. It was strange and unfamiliar to have people respecting him, and he was really kind of thankful to have Luce there to ground him. If he'd been here just by himself because of school... Well, he probably would have scuttled off to hide in the bathroom an hour ago.
Eventually people started to trickle out of the ballroom and into the reception area, where Conrad was a bit too happy to sit down with Luce and take a breather. There were only water glasses just then, and he gulped from the one at his place setting to refresh himself. No one else had sat at their table yet, and looking down at fine linen napkins and crystal-cut glasses made Conrad feel like they were in an upscale restaurant just waiting for their waiter to come back by with the menus. The sort of restaurant he never would have dreamed Luce would take him to, not in the least because of the talk.
"Yeh really git off on all this art stuff, huh?" Luce asked him.
"Well... Yeah," Conrad said, too flushed and happy to do anything but tell the truth. "This is what I want to do. I want to be here by myself some day."
He thankfully caught himself before adding "standing up in front of everyone like Alexandra Meade."
"Aye could always leave yeh t'yer adorin' public," Luce offered.
Conrad sobered in a second, ready to beg Luce not to leave without him, but a moment later Luce's amused expression penetrated and Conrad realized it was a joke.
"Don't do that," he said anyway, looking away. "I like being here with you."
"'Course yeh do, Connie," Luce drawled, sliding an arm around Conrad's shoulders so that it was almost unobtrusive.
"Are you sure..." Conrad began. "I mean... How come no one minds that we're here? Like uh... You know... Together. What did you do?"
"Yer too suspicious," Luce said, bringing himself in closer to Conrad. "Maybe yer arty crowd's jes' enlightened."
Conrad laughed nervously at that, and started to pull away from Luce's grip, but the man wouldn't let him go. He glanced up, irritated for a second. But it wasn't worth it. He didn't want to hold himself aloof and be difficult. This was the best date he'd ever been on. It couldn't matter what Luce would say if he was asked his opinion.
Their table filled up, individuals configured as young couples, all appearing to be around Luce's age. Conrad found himself sitting beside a pretty Asian girl, who bumped shoulders with him and then flashed a guilty smile and jostled her chair so that she was equidistant between Conrad and the man who had to be her boyfriend. Before Conrad realized what was happening, she closed her fingers around his near wrist and flipped his hand over, fingertips from her opposing hand skating over his palm.
"I used to ask if people were artists or appreciators," she confided cheerfully, with a conspiratorial look. "But all of the society flakes would lie to me, so this tells me better."
Conrad heard Luce snicker behind him, but his gaze was down on his hand, where she was still gently prodding the calluses on his fingers with her own fingers.
"I think you're an artist," she said. "Do you have any work here tonight?"
"Oh, n-no," Conrad stammered. "But, I am. An artist, I mean."
Conrad knew he looked sheepish and uncertain, but the girl only grinned at him, like they were sharing a secret. He glanced past her to the young man on her other side, the other people at their table, but they all seemed to be friends and were talking without them. Conrad brought his eyes back to her face.
"Me too," she said. "But not in the main gallery. I do ceramics, some of my pieces are in another hall. It's really nice to represent this year."
She sounded so excited just to be there, like she was an old hand coming to these things and was finally getting some recognition herself. Something about her manner was starting to put Conrad at ease, and his hand and arm relaxed within her grasp. She leaned forward a little, leaning around Conrad to see where the hand wrapped around his shoulder was coming from. Conrad could see her eyes flicking up and down as she looked Luce over.
"This your boyfriend?" she asked.
In an instant, Conrad was bright red, and Luce chuckling behind him like it was the richest of jokes was /not/ helping matters. He ducked his head, grasping for words that wouldn't come because he didn't have the faintest clue how to respond to that question. The smart thing to do would be deny, deny, deny, when they were out in public and he was so young and he really didn't need to get Luce in trouble, but-
"I-I'm not," he stammered finally, like he had something stuck in his throat. "We're n-not, I mean, it's not-"
"Aww, that's cute," she laughed, one of her hands retreating to cover her mouth for a moment as she did so. "I bet your family's just furious. You look the straight-laced type."
Conrad had even less of a clue what to say to that.
"Life of an artist, right?" she asked. "Mom still wonders why I can't marry a nice Korean boy and make her lots of little Korean grandbabies. But it's okay, they come around – sort of."
Conrad wasn't sure what to do with this entirely unsolicited advice from his table-mate.
The girl laced her fingers through Conrad's and slid their arms together, leaning so that her shoulder touched against his just below where Luce's hand was. She tilted her head so her mouth was right near Conrad's ear.
"Your boyfriend's really cute," she murmured, in a sort of "girl talk" voice Conrad had never before heard directed at him. "I bet he's really jealous that I'm flirting with you and hogging all your attention. You should probably make it up to him later. If he's a keeper, you know he's going to be supporting you half the time because great as it is, we all know passion doesn't cover the bills."
Again Conrad was so flushed he could feel it heating up his face, except now the girl had a firm hold on him, and he had a feeling that even though she'd been speaking quietly, Luce had heard every last word she'd said. Oh god. Making it up to Luce later probably wouldn't even /begin/ to cover it. Conrad couldn't imagine Luce letting him live this down, it was so /embarrassing./
"My name's Yun Hee," she said, extricating her arm then. "Yours?"
"Conrad," he mumbled, rather wishing she'd just stop talking to him.
While Yun Hee seemed to be enjoying teasing him in a way almost reminiscent of Luce himself, she had a better handle on when to stop. She gave Conrad a last little smile and turned over towards her young man, quickly engaging the rest of the table in what conversation was already going on.
Conrad shrank back against Luce without meaning to, and felt the hand on his shoulder clamp down briefly. He turned slightly within Luce's grasp, before giving in and voluntarily edging closer to the older man. It was sort of nice having someone speak to him as both an equal and an adult, but his mental thresholds had been breached by the suggestion that Luce, on a fast track to being a successful doctor, would ever want to support Conrad in his artistic endeavors and attempts to make it places like this gala. Conrad hadn't even been able to ask Luce if he'd be willing to do something for their anniversary.
The little voice inside his head, the one that usually struck him down where he shuddered to stand, whispered that be it as it may, here he was – the night of their anniversary, with Luce.
"Yer not gunna ferget wot she said abou' makin' it up ter me," Luce murmured. It wasn't a question.
Conrad breathed in slowly, and reluctantly shook his head. The accompanying thought was that it was Luce's anniversary too. Luce should get something he wanted. Conrad wished he knew what Luce wanted.
Well, beyond the obvious.
"Whatever," Conrad mumbled back, shoving his face into the side of Luce's chest because clearly the entire table already thought they were boyfriends anyway.
Luce chuckled, so that Conrad could feel it in the motion of the man's chest. He sighed quietly and pressed closer, waiting for Luce to disengage him and tell him to behave appropriately in public, or some snide version thereof. It didn't happen. Luce's arm was still firmly around his shoulders, and after a few more moments of tolerance Conrad could feel the tension start to drain out of his frame. He could hear the servers start to come around, offering the myriad tidbits that would combine to form their dinner, and taking drink orders. Conrad could hear Luce ordering a soda for Conrad and a glass of whiskey for Luce. It was followed by the sounds of plates settling on the table in front of them.
After the servers had spun away again, Luce's hand found his chin and tilted his face up, not quite as abruptly as usual. And Luce leaned down – Conrad's vision blurred slightly as the man's face came closer – and he kissed Conrad on the mouth, right at the table. He tensed up on instinct, knowing they were out and in public and this was all kinds of a bad idea and it was /so good/ that he couldn't help leaning into the kiss and melting a little beneath Luce's deft handling. Somehow that transitioned into Luce's tongue in his mouth and Yun Hee's high voice squealing something about it being cute off to the side.
Conrad was the one to pull away, because he was starting to be unable to breathe and the feeling of eyes on his back was bringing reality in. Luce let him go, appearing completely unaffected himself, so that Conrad was almost a little put out. Luce settled back in his chair, one hand going to the plate in front of him and selecting one of the hors d'oeuvres and navigating it to his mouth. To the rest of the table, he surely appeared perfectly composed. Conrad found out otherwise when the man's other hand slid over his knee to the inside of his thigh and upwards, so that he squeaked out in panic before blindly grabbing something from his own plate and cramming it between his lips.
"If he's not your boyfriend," Yun Hee murmured, nibbling from a pastry. "He pays you excellent lip service."
Conrad resolutely chewed the miniature quiche that was going to mush in his mouth because it meant that manners dictated he /couldn't/ reply to her teasing. He thought he heard Yun Hee's young man chiding her not to be so cruel to near-perfect strangers, and maybe something about Conrad's resemblance to a baby rabbit.
Luce's hand had left off teasing at the juncture of Conrad's legs to reach across his lap and wrap long fingers around Conrad's wrist. He weakly allowed Luce to drag his hand towards the man while vainly trying to swallow the lump in his mouth until he realized that his hand was resting in Luce's lap and /oh good god/ he knew exactly what he was touching. Luce's fingers pressed his palm down harder, and Conrad could feel the outline of Luce's cock though his dress slacks and of /course/ Luce was going to go and get hard in public when they were at the gala.
But maybe if he hadn't kissed back so eagerly Luce wouldn't be doing this under the table. Maybe. He could have hoped.
Conrad swallowed tightly, finally getting the food down, and gave a little gasp before reaching for his water.
"I'm sorry if I made you choke," Yun Hee murmured, a bit sheepishly. "You guys really are cute, I'm glad we sat down here."
"It's fine," Conrad forced out, soldiering forward, his fingers curling slightly out of familiarity.
Luce's hand released his though, although Conrad knew it was on the understanding that he wouldn't stop. He was sure he was an uncomfortable shade of red once again, but he selected another one of the pieces from his plate and took a small bite that time, before pressing the flat of his palm down hard. He did still take a little satisfaction from the little grunt just audible from Luce, who was provided with his whiskey just in time to take a nonchalant drink.
It was quite possibly one of the most awkward dinners Conrad had ever endured, but at the same time, it was a kind of exhilarating. Despite an apparent like for trying to make Conrad do spit-takes, Yun Hee was fun to talk to, and her boyfriend Antony was a mellow young man majoring in business. Halfway through dinner he engaged Luce in a debate over the marketing of some obscure medical device or other, and Conrad was able to discreetly retrieve his hand from Luce's crotch. He hadn't gotten Luce off, but he was pretty sure the sheer degree of embarrassment he had exhibited during the process had been enjoyment enough, just judging from past history.
"Did you really want to see my ceramics?" Yun Hee asked him, when they had finished slightly more than half of their bite-sized desserts. "I know I'm excited to show them off but if you and your /boyfriend/ have other exhibits to see..."
Conrad "harumphed" quietly, but he didn't tell her he wasn't interested. She had figured out pretty quick that every time she used the word "boyfriend" Conrad jumped slightly in his chair, and if she timed it right she could get him to nearly bite through his lip. He still wasn't sure why antagonizing him was such a popular sport, but, well, he'd kind of accepted it.
"I guess... Luce?" Conrad murmured, sipping from his water glass. "Do you... Do you mind?"
Yun Hee made a little noise that told Conrad she was /still/ enjoying the degree of deference he always fell into with Luce, which was making him really, /really/ wish he knew how to stop doing it. He'd maybe have to figure something out if Luce was ever going to go anywhere in public with him again. Was there anywhere they could go? Conrad didn't know.
"An' miss out on more of th' girl talk?" Luce asked back, somewhat sarcastically.
Despite the annoyance in the man's tone, Conrad thought it really was agreement. But then again, he was pretty sure the translation was "and as long as we're with this chick, I won't have to say a thing and you'll still turn fifteen different shades of red."
"I'll show you, come on," Yun Hee said.
Conrad was pretty sure Luce was taking his time rising from his chair because he was adjusting his pants. He shouldn't feel kind of vindictively pleased that Luce still had to deal with that, he really shouldn't, but he did. He took hold of Luce's hand and the man allowed him, before they both followed Yun Hee and Antony out of the ballroom. Yun Hee seemed to know the layout of the place, since she would have been involved in having her installation set up. She was in one of the smaller conference halls downstairs, along with a lot of pottery and other ceramic sculpture.
The hall had been installed with a number of low tables and pedestals, upon which all of the ceramic pieces were being displayed. The walls were graced with photography, but in Yun Hee's company Conrad only had eyes for the ceramic work. They wandered down the alleyways formed by the tables, where Yun Hee had a little corner all to herself. Her sculptures were fanciful and fantastic, and if Conrad didn't know better...
"Do you mix your own glazes?" he asked her, face lighting up a little at the prospect.
"Well... Yeah," Yun Hee said. "I've had some really bad results with colors, but I think I'm getting pretty good. Some of the batches I've come out with have surprised me a little."
"They're really pretty," Conrad said softly, just looking at some of the curls of porcelain clay and the light jade color they had been glazed with.
"Thanks," Yun Hee replied. "I'm guessing you've done a little ceramic work?"
"A little," Conrad said. "Mostly to make parts for other things, not just... All clay."
"Is that a little derision I hear in your voice?" Yun Hee teased.
"N-No!" Conrad stammered. "I just... Like combining things. I think it's really nice when different materials harmonize with each other."
He knew he was blushing a little at that, not furiously like when sexual references were made about him, but softer, thinking about what he'd been working on before all of this came to pass. He'd really have to finish it now. Looking at Yun Hee's works, with gentle ribbing like feathers and places where Conrad was sure she'd been fearless with her subtraction of clay... It made him want to get back in the studio and just work on his sculpture until he could say he was happy with it.
"Thank you," he murmured, after the silence around them had stretched for a while. "You're kind of an inspiration."
"Aww, I don't think anyone's ever said that to me before," she said back, sort of like teasing, but also sort of like she meant it.
"I'm glad I met you," Conrad said, earnestly.
"Me too," she chirped. "Here, lemme write down my email for you or something. If you do anything you think I might be interested in, send me pictures."
Conrad fumbled around for paper, but found the only thing he had on him was the ticket that had bought him entrance. Before he could shove it back into his pocket, Yun Hee had plucked it out of his hands and pried a pen out of her hair where Conrad had only thought it was an ornament. A moment later and she'd scribbled out an address for him.
"We'll let you enjoy the rest of your evening," she told him. "You have such a cute face, you know, but I think your boyfriend's gonna have my hands off at the wrists if I don't let you go. Or maybe my kidneys – doctor, right? I bet you get this all the time, but you look so /young./ It's what people always tell me. I bet you can't guess how old I am."
"I wouldn't dare," Conrad said, honestly. His mother had ingrained in him – you don't ask a lady her age.
"Twenty-six," she countered promptly, when he wouldn't guess.
Conrad almost choked on his own tongue.
"I knew it!" she crowed. "I bet you thought I was some high school drop out, but I've got my degree. Keep going for it. I'm sure mister doctor can help you with the peskier requirements. You'll get there."
Conrad's ears were ringing dimly at the realization that this bright young woman who'd kind of shang-hai'd him for the night was a full decade older than him. She was older than /Luce./ He didn't even really process that she thought he was in college himself enough to be desperately thankful she hadn't asked him how old /he/ was.
"Enjoy your evening, Conrad," she said, with a little wave of her hand as she turned around.
"Bye Yun Hee," he murmured back hollowly.
Conrad just stood there until Yun Hee and Antony had both walked away. When they were around the corner and out of sight, Luce took him by the shoulder and started to wheel him in the opposite direction. Luce waited until they were out of the hall to say anything, which gave Conrad the precious seconds to obtain some small fraction of his composure.
"Yeh got hit on by a girl older'n me," Luce crowed once they were in they hallway beyond the room by themselves. He sounded like he thought it was the funniest thing he'd heard all night. "An' yeh though' Aye was a pervert. She likes yer baby face."
"You are a pervert," Conrad muttered sullenly.
"Yeh got tha' righ', kiddo," Luce agreed, with relish.
Conrad was sulking a little, but Luce nudged him up against the wall, leaning down to kiss him. No one was around then, they were just in a small hallway near the restrooms, and Conrad found himself giving in and letting Luce press him tighter against the wallpaper. Luce was rougher than at the table when they'd had an audience, nipping at his lip until Conrad remembered to bite him back, but after that it was just familiar and Conrad arched up into Luce's touch. Luce's hand was against him, massaging persistently, his tongue probing inside Conrad's mouth until Conrad bit him hard and his mouth slackened for a moment.
"Someone's going to come by," Conrad muttered anxiously when he pulled away for that second.
"There's an easy solution ter tha'," Luce returned, low and rough and somewhat impatient. "Did yeh hear wot th' gala did fer th' hotel this year?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" Conrad asked, confused.
"Got some of them fancy-pants painters ter do up some of th' bathrooms," Luce continued, not directly answering Conrad's question. "Th' one round th' corner has a brand new Marcel Duchamp reproduction all over one wall."
Conrad's lip trembled faintly, distracted from what Luce was still doing by the image of a room where all the walls were graced with painstaking reproductions. Oh god. There was no way Luce would remember the name of the artist just because it had interested the man himself.
"Y-You did this on purpose," Conrad accused.
"So wot if Aye did?" Luce asked back, not even denying it for a second.
Conrad bit his lip, trying to stop pouting. Trying to stay angry, irritated. He couldn't do it, because even though it felt a little like being tricked, like Luce had brought him here, and down this hallway, just to shove this in his face and tempt him – because Conrad was pretty sure he knew where this was going next – he also knew that he didn't want to argue. It was kind of sweet of Luce, to realize that one of the reproductions done was by an artist Conrad liked – to remember that Conrad admired Marcel Duchamp in the first place.
And it was absolutely filthy of Luce to take Conrad roughly by the arm and drag him through the door into the men's restroom, where even the ceiling had been painted, when Conrad's eyes briefly rolled up to view that surface. Filthy of him to press Conrad against the door and turn the lock so at least they'd have a little privacy, and Conrad's eyes were riveted on the painting on the ceiling. Luce was undoing Conrad's pants and he couldn't help, but he didn't mind. Oh god it would be like fucking in the Sistine Chapel and he couldn't even say it was a /bad/ thing.
"You planned this all along," Conrad said. He couldn't even maintain force of tone.
"Yeh got a problem, Connie?" Luce crooned, hand curled around Conrad's cock and stroking far too gently for any motion that came from Luce.
"N-Not at all," Conrad stammered, somewhat off-put by the shivers that were starting to course through him.
"Good," Luce said, rough then, going rougher with the strokes of his hand.
Conrad fumbled forward, to the front of Luce's pants, perfectly willing to at least try and return the favor. His motions were slow and uncoordinated because he couldn't focus at all with Luce touching him but he got Luce's pants undone and his hands inside and he kind of figured Luce had just been hard ever since dinner.
"Doan'," Luce said, but it came out a bit of a moan, perhaps because Conrad knew if he wanted to yank, he should yank hard.
All he could really offer in response, in question, was a bit of sorry whimpering.
Luce continued to stroke Conrad with one hand, firmly, persistent, but his other hand reached inside his suit jacket. Conrad knew what was coming and he didn't even want to say anything. No protest, just his hips rolling slightly into Luce's grasp. It was just a little packet, but Conrad knew it was lube, dragged his gaze to Luce's face when the man tore it open with his teeth. That hand went to Luce's dick, stroking himself so that the slick fluid coated him easily, making the motion of Luce's hand obscenely audible in the quiet of the bathroom.
"Oh god," Conrad murmured quietly, brokenly.
"Hush Connie," Luce muttered.
Conrad's dress slacks were somewhere around his ankles already, and Luce didn't forget him. He nudged Conrad's legs farther apart with the lubed hand, to which Conrad only obliged. The walls, the ceiling, everything was gorgeous. Whoever had done the painting, they had an eye for the details, and Conrad's eyes skimmed over everything even as his body trembled and he pressed harder against the door to brace himself. The motion of Luce's finger pressing in was so familiar by then, but everything felt somehow fantastic in the current setting. It still had a bit of the dirtiness of fucking in a hotel bathroom, yes, but it was made so much better by the magic of being able to have sex almost /literally/ inside a work of art.
"Doan' space out," Luce commanded, finger working slowly in and out. The motion became a bit rougher when he said that, but still firmly within what Conrad could bear.
He tried not to. He tried to focus on Luce, or at least split his attention properly between the art and the feeling of Luce's fingers crooking deftly within him and stroking against that sweet spot so that he cried out brokenly and his body tried to curl in on itself.
"Good," Luce continued. "Good, fuck, Connie, yer still tight as business even after, shit, a year."
Luce tugged his hand back, leaning forward with his hips again. He thrust in quickly, and Conrad moaned louder, his knees shaking. He grabbed Luce's shoulders to steady himself.
"Say it," Luce muttered, his hips drawing back.
"Please," Conrad moaned. "Please, Luce, I-"
"Fuck," was all he got in response, low and tight with the older man's need.
Luce kept going, hips rolling forward and tugging back in perfect rhythm, thrusts at a pace they could both enjoy. Conrad knew he liked it kind of rough by then, knew that it was really all because of Luce, that it might not have come to pass if Luce hadn't needed such a fervor to his fucking. Luce was driving him into the door and Conrad's ankles had hooked around the backs of Luce's legs, but as Luce continued unrelentingly Conrad edged upwards and his legs wrapped around Luce at waist level.
Conrad's hands went from Luce's shoulders up to his neck, fingers pressing in hard where he could feel the vertebrae. Luce groaned, and leaned forward to kiss him, and Conrad met the man with eager teeth. Luce's hand had gone light against his cock, strokes more gentle than their usual now because he knew Conrad would have liked it harder. His touch was deftly light, the perfect tease, and Conrad whined loudly because he could not then find a single word to express that displeasure.
Luce pulled his mouth back, roughly saying, "Use yer words, Connie," like the lewdest thing possible.
"H-Harder," he stammered, the embarrassment seeping back in just at having to make the request.
But Luce didn't torment him over it. It seemed that since he had done it, Conrad would get what he asked for, and the circle of Luce's fingers tightened down around his length.
Luce stroked quicker and more firmly then, in time with the motion of his hips. It was too much sensation. Conrad tilted his face up, his head knocking back against the door and his eyes half-glazed as they looked upon the sure strokes of paint that came together to form nothing less than art. He could feel himself being dragged closer with each upward stroke of Luce's hand, could hear himself gasping out, quietly, every time Luce's hips came forward again.
"Luce, Luce," he chanted softly, like a prayer, his fingers moving higher and tangling in the man's hair.
Luce didn't say anything back, and Conrad didn't have to warn further. His hands grasped more tightly just before he came, moaning high and wanton and more than just a little bit desperate, in that moment, for every last inch of contact between them. Luce's hand stroked more slowly but didn't stop, wringing from him everything he was worth. His thrusts were harder at the end, that one time bringing him to the point of losing the rhythm, just that little bit. It bumped Conrad against the door more firmly and he didn't even mind.
"Bite down," Luce urged, like he hadn't even thought about saying it.
Conrad was possessed of enough sense of mind to lean in and bite the side of Luce's neck, right below his left ear, teeth sinking in hard. Judging from Luce's long groan of pain-pleasure and the fact that his hips slowed to smaller, steady rocking in and out, that was exactly when the man came. Conrad's legs were still locked tight around him, and when Luce was finally done he slowly stilled, still holding Conrad against the door in a manner that was almost gentle.
"You remembered," Conrad murmured quietly, after a few minutes had passed.
Luce slipped back just enough to slide free, but kept Conrad where he was. "Remembered wot?" he asked, for once sounding like just a question.
"Everything," Conrad remembered, sounding like wonderment.
Luce snorted. "Tha's expectin' an awful lot, kiddo. Wait until yer head's screwed back on."
"I mean it," Conrad insisted. "Y-You remembered. About Marcel Duchamp, and the gala, and that..." He breathed in raggedly, his voice going soft. "...that I'd like this."
Luce snorted again, not denying it. Like there wasn't even anything to deny and Conrad was being crazy.
"...You remembered it's been a year," Conrad finished, quietest of all.
"Doan' yeh dare, princess," Luce cautioned, the danger not quite arriving yet.
Conrad sniffed a little, disdain, or maybe him trying not to cry.
"Yeh 'ave yer phone?" Luce asked.
"...why?" Conrad wondered.
"Yer gunna call yer mom," Luce said, slow and even. "Yer gunna tell 'er yeh got ter talk ter James Taverna, th' senior in tha' studio art class at yer school. Yer gunna tell her he's helpin' yeh wiv sumthin' fer class, an' she shouldn' argue too much, 'cause she knows his mom. Yer gunna tell 'er yer spendin' th' nigh', an' yeh'll be home firs' thing in th' mornin'."
Conrad had to just rest there for a long minute, processing what Luce was telling him to do. The literal directions had sunk in, but the meaning behind it was still hazy. James Taverna? Conrad knew him, and James was even nice. He was an excellent painter and Conrad liked his work, and they even exchanged a word or two sometimes and James never made fun of him. But... How did Luce even know who James was? Had Conrad said? And how did Luce know that Mrs. Taverna and Conrad's mom were friends?
"...what?" Conrad finally said dumbly, when he hadn't figured it out.
"Yeh wan' ter finish lookin' at th' gallery, doan'cha?" Luce asked, like that explained anything.
Conrad thought about it for a moment more. He did want to see everything else, and was really happy that Luce wasn't going to decide that sex in the bathroom was the prefect way to end the evening and insist that they leave just then. And well... Yeah, his mom wouldn't like if he came home really late – actually she'd probably pitch a fit, since she'd thought he wasn't going to the gala after all – but what did James Taverna...
Oh. /Oh./ Luce meant... He really... Oh god.
"Oh god," Conrad repeated, out loud.
"Ah'll take tha' as a yes," Luce snickered a little. "Call yer mom."
"...I-I'm..." Conrad began, needing the confirmation but needing even more to force himself into asking. "You're going to... You'll let me... I-I'm going to..."
"Fuck, Connie," Luce muttered. "Call yer mom an' Ah'll take yeh home wiv me."
Conrad almost sobbed a little, and dug in his pocket for his phone. The conversation went exactly as Luce had indicated. Somehow James Taverna was a perfect excuse, and Conrad's mother trusted that he was really going where he said and that he'd be safe and all right and that everything was okay. After getting off the phone, and only then, it occurred to Conrad that there was another end to his cover story that he had to secure.
"What if she calls James Taverna's mom?" Conrad asked.
"Taverna 'as a special tutorin' session wiv his French tutor an' yeh'll 'ave ter trust me, there's nothin' fer yer pretty lil' head ter worry abou'."
That time, Conrad connected the dots quickly, and had to wonder if Lamont really did this French tutoring thing much or if maybe Luce had some good blackmail material this time.
"C'mon, there's too much art left in this place," Luce said.
While it was impatient, Conrad didn't mind. He cleaned himself up fastidiously at the sink, and Luce didn't hurry him over-much. He got all of his clothes back in order and looked at himself in the mirror to make sure, liking the way the paintings on the walls reflected on themselves in the mirrors. When he was very much done, Luce unlocked the door and they ventured back into the rest of the hotel.
Conrad tried to focus on the art, he really did, but he insisted on holding Luce's hand the entire time and Luce didn't even fight it. It made it very hard to concentrate. Once he'd at least wandered through all of the rooms that had been set up for the gala, he finally gave in to distraction and suggested that they leave. He kind of felt like walking on air all the way to the car, because he didn't have to go home and return to his mom and head back to reality. He was heading back to /Luce's apartment/ and it didn't matter if Luce probably hadn't done his laundry in forever because the sheets smelled like Luce and him and all it made Conrad think of was having sex on that bed and well, he kind of liked that.
The ride was over so fast, and it was like drinking champagne all over again, right up the stairs and into the dark apartment and down the hall to the bedroom without turning the lights on. It seemed when getting him the clothes for the gala, no one had thought to get Conrad any pajamas. Luce was insistent, and he was too tired and happy to try and argue. Luce even helped him, since he was tired and had gotten a little clingy somewhere between the car and the stairs, and well... He was pretty sure Luce was groping his ass most of the time he'd been clinging but that was okay because he was kind of getting cuddles.
And Luce helped him out of his clothes, quickly though, and it was dark enough that he didn't have to be too embarrassed. Conrad crawled into Luce's bed and snuggled under the blankets that all smelled like Luce, and when Luce slid in behind him he was pretty sure that constituted cuddling. Luce wasn't wearing a damned thing and his skinny arms had wrapped tightly around Conrad.
"Happy anniversary, yeh fuckin' fag."
It was quiet enough that Conrad could have imagined it, except he probably wouldn't have added the last part in his head. And he didn't care. Luce had remembered it was their anniversary, and had admitted it, and had taken him to the gala as a VIP so he could actually mingle with artists and sort of make friends and everything. It was quite possibly the best evening Conrad had ever experienced.
"Thank you," he murmured back, so heartfelt it hurt.
Luce snorted a little, but didn't say anything else. Conrad snuggled back against him a bit more because just then he was willing to push his luck. It held, and he didn't even have trouble falling asleep away from home, because he always had felt safer with Luce than with anyone else he'd ever met.