Daedalus

the investiGAYtion begins

Loire emerges from the back room with a platter of cheese and grapes, all assembled decoratively upon the plate, to deliver to a customer in the corner of the shop. On her way, she passes Lent, who has recently wrapped up his trades with another citizen, and pulls him towards her to ask, "Tu vas partir quand?"

Lent ponders this for a moment, not because he is translating what she said, rather because he is formulating an answer, but it's not like I could differentiate between the two, as I'm totally hopeless in foreign languages. He shrugs. "Je sais pas. Je peux rester."

A smile and all of its side effects sweep over Loire, and she sows a kiss onto the cheek of her temporary apprentice. "Merci beaucoup, mon ange."

Lent returns to the bar with his grin inflated even more than it was before, which seems impossible, but Lent is a man of impossible feats. He directs his feet over to me for some reason, and burbles, "Isn't this so great? I love chatting with the customers, and being here in general. I can speak in French, too, and it feels so...so natural, you know?" Lent stares at me with the expectation for a suitable response, but I really don't know. I don't speak French, and I'm not helping out with the customers, but even if I were, I probably wouldn't feel so well disposed towards them, because they're humans, and when I'm not praising them for their interesting psychology, I'm avoiding the ones I don't trust, which is most of them, but I happen to trust Lent, so I nod halfheartedly before he dashes away to the trumpet of another customer's calls.

This is when Loire sneaks up from behind the bar, and attaches her head to my left shoulder so that we can both stare out into the crowd. "Are you enjoying the view of your buddy?"

I snatch a glimpse of Lent nodding his head to what a customer says, offering that familiar smile that could warm the hands of the destitute, and I enthusiastically reply, "Yes, it's quite wonderful."

Rolling her hickory eyes, Loire unsticks her head from my shoulder to instead rest her elbow on the counter. "Ugh, you're so in love with him."

Throughout our limited time here, I have already discovered that Loire is the friend who wishes for nothing more than canonical satisfaction, and it seems as though she's found her ambition in Lent and me, and whether or not her suspicions are founded is off of the table, and I assume it is the same way for her. She interprets everything as a sign to prove that I am in love with my best friend, and while she may not be so wrong, it's a bit disconcerting, to say the least. The only tactic to prevent her prying is to deny her claims, and I am in obvious need of a reprieve from them.

"You asked me a question," I protest in an attempt to defend myself and my rather questionable heterosexuality which may or may not be a ruse. "Was I supposed to respond with, 'No, he looks like a seventy-two year-old woman's foot crust'?"

"I was just making an observation," Loire counters, voice trailing out as she dives into silence for a few moments before continuing, "But, if you ask me, I think you should take him to dinner. On a date." She emphasizes this last word in case I am unaware of how much she romanticizes us, as though she hasn't elucidated it clearly enough.

"What if I don't like him? What if he doesn't like me?"

Loire flings a cackle from her lungs, a discouraging one at that. "Oh, you sure as hell like each other."

"I will admit to nothing," I mutter, once again employing the skill of pooling my focus into my drink to dodge my fervent acquaintance.

"Yeah, and that's your problem!" When I don't show signs of understanding, Loire elaborates. "Basil, what I suggest is to follow the advice of the French."

Loire is a practical woman who, from my predictions, provides helpful advice, so it would be a shame to miss it for the sake of protecting my secrets. I may like Lent beyond what is deemed platonic, but Loire has no business meddling with that fact. That doesn't say, however, that I cannot listen to her advice, and figure things out with Lent on my own.
I finally glance back up to her so that she is cognizant of my accusatory brow lifted high upon my forehead. "And what would that be?"

"As you've no doubt witnessed, we're very open here. Just be honest with him. You Americans flirt far too much, and during that time of incessant pining, you're only growing older, mon hère."

"We've been best friends for years. I can't just approach him casually, and tell him that I'm head over heels in love with him." It's never that simple. If I retained the same courage that Lent does, I would've shared my feeling earlier, but I don't, and I haven't.

The woman's eyes engorge with intrigue. "Ah, so you confess!" Loire exclaims, attracting the attention of a few of the guests, including the subject of our conversation. She notices this, and mollifies her voice. "Dates in France are very relaxed. You frequently go to a public place with friends in order to see how your companion interacts with their own mates, but you already know Lent like the back of your hand, so we can skip that part, and just walk around somewhere."

"That's basically daily life for us now. What is he to think of it?" Before Loire can respond with a riot against my blatant pessimism, I wave my hand to shoo this entire plan away. "I would be fine with dwelling in secrecy. I can live with being in love with a phantom, because at least I am in love."

Loire stares at me as if I've said the stupidest thing in the world, which it may be to her, and it looks like she's trying very arduously to formulate a response, but she drops the ambition to sigh hopelessly at me. "One day, if you meet my friends, then I'll have to agonizingly explain to them that my charge is a fucking nihilist."

A smirk laces itself to my lips. "Shouldn't matter, Loire. They'll be dead eventually, so their opinions are irrelevant."

Loire, having given up on me by this point, untangles herself from her leaning position by the bar. "T'es relou, toi." Snaring the calls of a customer, she saunters away, all the while hissing, "Putain de bite."

~~~~~

A/N: Basil is so conflicted whythefuck

honestly he needs to get his shit together and just tell lent how he feels like omg let loire live??? she needs a break from all this gay shit ???

~Dakootie