Eren had just made his request to the orchestra and was conferring with the waiter over the best bottle of champagne to meet his date with. Honestly, the young Yeager couldn't believe his luck. All these years... and he'd never looked twice at the chauffeur's daughter. What a fool he was.
As he stuffed the two crystal flutes into his back pockets, Eren had a funny, giddy feeling in his stomach. He couldn't wait to see her. He couldn't wait to take her out in the morning— the finest breakfast, the best entertainment. He would-
"Eren." The drone of his brother's voice immediately snapped him out of his besotted glee. "You got a minute?"
"Uh, not right now, actually. I have an appointment-"
But Zeke had already taken him by the shoulders with a knowing grin and a "Sure you do."
He was led away from his summer daydream to the waiting disapproval of his mother in the library. He was really in for it now.
"Eren! What are you doing?" Carla demanded of him. "Are you insane?" At that moment, he felt like a boy of fifteen again, in trouble with his parents and nervously awaiting the consequences. "Right smack dab in front of your prominent and paranoid future in-laws, you are hustling the chauffeur's daughter!"
"We were dancing-"
"Well, stop dancing!"
Eren looked pleadingly to Zeke, arms crossed in the corner; he offered no assistance as he turned back to his mother's wrath. "You mean to tell me I can't have a drink and a dance with an old friend?"
"Do I look stupid? I never thought of myself as stupid, but maybe I am."
"I didn't do anything," Eren asserted.
"You were planning to!"
"How do you know?"
"You're kidding, right?" said Zeke finally.
Carla sighed exasperatedly and turned away from her misbehaving boy. "Eren, you're like my own son-"
"I am your own son, mother."
"Exactly!" She spun around accusingly. "I endured twenty-one hours of hard labour to bring you into the world. The doctors begged me to take drugs, but I kept saying I wouldn't do anything to hurt my child. Well, I changed my mind. You screw up with Mikasa," she pointed a nagging finger at him, "And I swear I'll kill you."
Guilt tugged at Eren, but still, he turned away. "I don't know. There's something about Miss Fairchild. I think... I know this sounds crazy... but I really think I'm falling in love with her."
"Oh, God," Carla lamented.
"Listen, I didn't plan this. I can't help it; she's so... something. Sensational."
Watching his brother grasp at straws, Zeke's keen eye couldn't help but notice the faint indent of the champagne flutes through Eren's jacket. Classic reckless Eren. He'd have to lecture him later; he could get seriously hurt that way.
Wait, perhaps if...
"The last time you found someone sensational, it cost the family one and a half million dollars," lambasted Carla.
"This time, it's different!"
"Oh, so original. What about Mikasa? You finally find the right girl-"
"Who's got the right parents," butted in Eren. "Who own the right company."
"You asked her to marry you!"
"Actually, she asked me," he corrected smugly.
As Carla opened her mouth to lecture Eren on semantics, Zeke decided it was time for a more direct approach to separating the two. Besides, the guests were getting restless with the absence of all three of their hosts. "Stepmother, go outside and blow out your candles."
She huffed exasperatedly before hurrying to the door. "Can't we hire somebody for that?"
The slam of the antique wooden door cued Eren's sigh of relief. Zeke might be the brains of both the corporation and the family, but no one was as scary as an irate Carla. However, it seemed he wasn't quite out of the woods yet.
"Eren, what do you think Miss Fairchild wants?" began Zeke matter-of-factly. "She's spent her whole life above that garage with her nose pressed against the glass or in that tree watching us at parties." He gestured out of the window. "Now, you invite her to one. You're in your... Rolex jacket or whatever. You tell her to meet you in the solarium. She knows you're going to show up with a bottle of champagne-"
"That's not it. That has nothing to do with it!"
"She knows what's coming," he insisted. "The jet to the vineyard, the cottage full of food and flowers, house seats to some sold-out show, drinks at the Carlyle. A day or two of that, and she'd fall for Noriega!"
"You don't know her," Eren countered. "You don't know the way she makes me feel. I can't be engaged to somebody when I feel like this."
Fine, so we're doing it the hard way, Zeke decided. "Eren, sit down."
"I can't talk about this right now; I have to be someplace-"
"Just sit down."
And Eren did so; thus, with a crunch and a scream, the crystal flutes shattered against the plush chair.
A well-timed injury.
"What is it?" Carla exclaimed, bursting back into the room.
"I thought you were-" began Eren amidst howls of pain.
"Mother's instincts! What-"
"I sat on the glasses!"
"Don't move," said Zeke. "Carla, go get Dr Calloway. He's at the bar-"
"Who put glasses on the chair?" she demanded.
"I'm bleeding! Could we talk about this later?"
"Oh my God- Zeke, stay with him. Darling, don't worry; just elevate... something." And she fled the room in a panic to seek the doctor.
"Ah... God," groaned Eren.
"...Bad?"
"Miss Fairchild," he realised. "She's waiting for me-"
"I'll take care of her," said Zeke decidedly.
<>
At that moment, the Parisian was waiting in the solarium, surrounded by all those rare and exotic plants, her evening gown splayed out over the paving stones. She ran a manicured hand over the ferns idly. Eren was late. Was he coming?
The clink of glass together signalled his arrival, and she spun around with a smile on her face. It quickly fell.
Eren's easy, handsome face was nowhere to be seen, in its place, the severe, furrowed-brow visage of his elder brother. He was dressed as if for a funeral and carried two champagne flutes, not in his back pockets, but balanced skillfully on his fingers. The bottle lay in his other broad palm.
"Zeke."
His expression unchanging, he descended the steps towards her. "Hello, Miss Fairchild. I have a message from Eren; he won't be able to make it. He sent me."
She contained a disappointed sigh that didn't go unnoticed by Zeke.
"I'm sorry; You're upset. Of course."
"Yes. No. Um... I don't know. I'm a little tired." She had to ask. "Why didn't he come?"
He was opening the bottle now. "He was on his way; he had a slight accident— sat on a champagne flute."
Zeke watched with wonder as the Parisian immediately forgot her own disappointment and took a step towards him with nothing but worry in her eyes. "Is he okay?"
"He's in the emergency room."
"Emergency room?" Her eyes widened.
"It was a sharp flute." Even wider. "Hey..." he teased. "That's a little joke."
The champagne bottle flew open with a pop. "Should I drive over to see him?"
It fizzed as it filled the glass. "He'll be fine— couple of stitches. You can see him tomorrow."
Zeke was close now; he offered her the flute, and she accepted with an appropriate amount of confusion. "What's this for?"
"Part of the message from Eren." She couldn't dissect his tone— half-mocking, half... something else. His eyes didn't stray from hers— as if picking apart a business contract.
Oh. "They've sent you to deal with me, haven't they?"
"...They?" he raised a blond eyebrow.
"Like a lawyer in a movie," she moved a pace backwards. "He goes to the unsuitable waitress or showgirl or... chauffeur's daughter and says 'the family is prepared to offer you a hundred thousand dollars to stay away from their son.'"
Zeke suppressed a grin as he sipped his champagne. Clever girl had been watching— he'd made that exact offer many times over to Eren's more unseemly of girlfriends.
"'No', she says," continued the Parisian. "'A hundred and fifty thousand dollars.' 'No'-"
"Two hundred thousand," he interjected, not a trace of mockery in his voice.
She hesitated only a moment before she said, not a quotation this time, "No."
"A million." He looked at her then. Intensely. Unreadably. At her stunned silence, the corner of his lips tugged up into a smirk. "No self-respecting lawyer would offer less."
She met his gaze head-on. "No self-respecting waitress... would take it."
He smiled then. "Good girl."
The Parisian broke their eye contact, turning instead to address the exotic plants. "I've loved him all my life."
"...Have you?"
"I thought I was over it."
Mockery returned to his drawl. "Surprise, surprise."
She turned back to face him. "You don't object?"
"Object? To you?" That unreadable gaze again. "Look at you. It's as though a lovely breeze has swept through this whole house."
It was almost a compliment. Almost. "Even though the breeze comes from the general direction of the garage?"
"It's the nineties, Miss Fairchild."
"So they say."
How can I remember things that never happened...?
Arms that never held me... lips I never kissed...
The song was odd to hear, gazing instead at Eren's brother, and the Parisian found herself feeling as foolish as Zeke likely thought her. Who did she think she was? Hoping to dance in the solarium with Eren Yeager? The wealthiest, most desirable bachelor on Long Island?
Well, the wealthiest bachelor with the exception of the man before her now.
"They played this song the night before I left for Paris," she said to no one in particular.
"They often do."
"He was dancing right here with someone..."
"He often does." She broke from her trance and turned to find Zeke right behind her. Close. The way Eren should have been. "And tonight, you wanted it to be you." She gave a small, self-conscious smile, and, the next moment, his hand was skirting over her waist. "It's all in the family." The other was raised in anticipation of hers.
He wasn't like Eren. He didn't smell of overpriced cologne too generously applied; his dinner jacket was black, not white, and his eyes were dull— devoid of the light of his brother. He smelt of paper, fresh laundry, and office supplies.
I feel suspended... in the air...
Still, the next moment, spurred on by the gentle lilt of 'How can I remember?' she had taken his paper-worn hand, and they were dancing. Gentle. Zeke didn't sway her like a fresh trophy— like Eren had; he held her with the awkward gentleness with which one handles glass.
"I never thought of you as a dancer."
"Crazy about it," Zeke taunted. "They call me Bojangles at the office."
Somewhere between the dream and the memory...
Her gaze remained down demurely, though Zeke stayed looking at her through those metal-frame spectacles. "In all those years, I never saw you do this— meet a girl here with champagne."
"I never did it before."
"You never had to before," she amended.
That half-smile again. "Is it impossible to believe that I want to dance with the prettiest girl at the party?"
"Thank you. But, yes, it is impossible to believe."
His voice was low, raspy, and barely above a whisper. "Then you don't know me." That strange eye contact lasted only a moment longer, before "Oh, I almost forgot," and he was kissing her.
His lips struck hers with an unceremonious smack. The Parisian struggled from his grip with wide eyes and an accusation on her lips.
"That's the rest of the message from Eren-"
She slapped the smug smirk right off of his face, then immediately panicked. She had just slapped Zeke Yeager. "Oh-"
"Thanks," said Zeke, half in disbelief as he ran a hand over his cheek. "I needed that."
"What am I doing?" she panicked. "I should never-"
"No, no, I apologise-"
"You- you have my handprint on your face..."
He chuckled. "...Maybe it's better if you pick up your messages in person. You'll see Eren tomorrow. Goodnight, Miss Fairchild."
And with that, picking up his flute of champagne along the way, Zeke left her alone in the lush humidity of the solarium. 'How can I remember?' soon faded out in the distance.
<>
"Pieck, I'm going to stay out here for the next two days," Zeke was saying to his mobile phone as he made his way back to the gardens. "Cancel whatever I've got and reschedule."
The party was slowly dissipating. Only the most drunken of stragglers remained, giggling mindlessly to the closing sigh of the music. The staff were already clearing up, carting away engraved cutlery and embroidered tablecloths.
"Have the plane stand by for 9 am tomorrow morning and set up the vineyard cottage. Oh, I don't know— flowers, candles, singers."
"Wonderful party, Zeke."
"Thank you— goodnight." He continued on. "Or call Eren's secretary— primping is the only thing she ever does."
"Zeke-"
"Why not? Well, hell, I'm up; you're up. You weren't? Well, call her anyway." He hung up, and in the blink of an eye, Zeke switched from stern boss to pleasant host. "Thank you very much for coming. Good to see you. Goodnight."
By the time all of the guests had cleared out, and he had bid final goodbyes to the most important prospective investors, the Yeager estate was quiet. The staff dimmed the bright garden lights until only the grand house remained awake and glowing. Zeke walked the empty halls, taking a moment to grumble at the presence of Carla's new dog as it scuttled by.
The rest of the family was likely asleep, tucked up in bed and drifting away to dreamland. But Zeke had to prepare for crisis aversion in the morning.
Once more sequestered in the library, he was immediately back on the phone. "Doctor, can I-" he sighed. "What is it? Is there an epidemic of sleeping sickness? Okay, listen, Eren can't stand pain, so I want you to give him a combination of morphine and- okay, not morphine, but something strong, and mixed with a sleeping tablet like halcion-" he scoffed. "They haven't proved that, Doc.
"Ah, we have no idea; Carla thinks they were left on the chair by some guest— no, he's not going to sue his own mother." He drew breath sharply. "Well, he's not me."