'the Hell is Brunch?
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John Kennex and Dorian were walking from the public parking garage on a bright Saturday morning, enjoying the spring weather. Well, Dorian was enjoying the emerging greenery while John shivered in his jacket and twisted his hands around a coffee for warmth. A miserable wrinkle in his lips indicated his displeasure with their current activity.
"You should have worn a warmer coat, John," Dorian said, stopping to take his own coat off. He added it to John's shoulders. The freezing man tossed his empty coffee in the trash and strung his arms through the big blue coat and felt instantly warmer. Dorian was surprised and pleased that John didn't protest. He was unwinding, becoming more comfortable. Or-he was just really fucking cold.
"I hate this weather," John said. "Sun is out, blue sky, but it's cold and wet. It is a trick."
Dorian's mouth framed in a smile. Only John would see weather as a trick.
They finally reached their destination. An upscale hotel in the nicest downtown district. Dorian held the door and ushered John in, nudging him playfully as he passed in an attempt to knock the scowl off his face.
John hung both coats up in the space provided, a growing sense of unease in the posh space. Soon they were seated awkwardly in the hotel restaurant at a table with white linens and heavy silverware. A short little clump of flowers in a milk glass vase stood in the middle of the table and obstructed John's view of Dorian a little, forcing his eyebrows to quirk in irritation.
A waiter dressed like a butler brought them drinks without asking. John took an uncultured gulp of the mimosa and looked around the room warily. It was mostly women at the other tables and everyone was dressed way nicer. "Dee," he hissed, "why are we here? Can't we have blinner, or breakfunch, or whatever at home?"
"Brunch," Dorian corrected, "and don't pretend you didn't know." John was embarrassing him just a little. His whispers were often louder than his speaking voice.
"You don't even eat," John argued, still speaking hushed. He felt uncomfortably close to the other tables. He glared at a woman to his right who was looking at them, haughty with judgment.
"It isn't about the food," Dorian said, "it's the atmosphere. The conversation. An Easter tradition. It's the—"
Dorian paused and looked at the anxious expression on John's face as he drained the mimosa, tipping the glass up into the air to finish it.
A small smile unfolded on Dorian's lips. "Hey, let's get out of here, John," he said reassuringly, smiling with his eyes. John didn't need to be told twice. He nodded eagerly, standing up quick and letting the cloth napkin on his lap fall to the floor, bumping into someone's grandma on his way to the exit. Dorian followed, making small apologies in John's wake.
John pulled on his jacket and then slid Dorian's coat over the top of it and bundled himself up, skipping several buttons in his haste. They walked out of the hotel and headed back for the cruiser.
Once outside, walking a few steps, John turned to Dorian, "That was the gayest thing you ever made me do, Dee," he accused.
Dorian made a face. He silently and respectfully disagreed, smiling a private smile while thinking about the night before. He kept his amusement to himself.
Dorian drove them, stopping and buying John a box of hot doughnuts and a coffee through a drive-through window. They parked by the harbor and sat in the cruiser, watching wealthy people uncover their boats and prep for the warmer seasons ahead.
Covered in sugar and doughnut crumbles, John grinned at Dorian and said, "Now this is brunch."
Dorian could not have agreed less.