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It was a typical Thursday morning, not many patrons would wander the streets of Place Cachée in the middle of a particularly cold winter. Russell fiddled with his black apron as he waited to greet another wandering wixen who, driven by the need for warmth, unknowingly walked into an upscale Parisian café. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened, much to Russell’s amusement.
Russell remembered a particularly nasty fight happening because one of the wizards who got caught by the captivating cosiness and soothing warmth of their café was angered by the cost of the wine he selected. His colleagues had a good chuckle about it after they closed up shop that day.
But of course, today was a particularly boring day. Not much else was happening in the ever-lively streets of Paris, just a few drunk strollers and uninterested locals.
Russell let out a long sigh. He wished he could go and see the Quidditch World Cup instead of being stuck at work. Russell had no doubts that Rawya Zaghloul would take the victory in today’s finals, since the Egypt national team had been training hard and winning matches consistently before the World Cup was even announced. He never questions his instincts in situations like this; he’s quite confident in his divination skills.
His focus shifted suddenly from the Quidditch match when he saw a gentleman coming towards him, wrapped snugly in a long winter coat and a bright red scarf. The gentleman stood before him, and Russell found himself unable to look away from his face.
By Eros and Aphrodite he swore on his life he had never seen a man with such beauty as this gentleman. His midnight-black hair was perfectly curled and styled, his cheekbones sharp and well-defined, his eyes were dark and enchanting, and his smell! Even Veela and fae would be envious of how enchanting his scent was.
“Good morning and welcome to Café L'Air De La Sirène. Would you like the terrace seat or would you like to sit inside?”
When he realised what he had just said, he mentally kicked himself for that question.
It’s the middle of a winter morning, Leroux! Of course anyone would choose to be indoors, away from the chilly breeze blowing outside. Merde… If this patron brought this up with his manager, he would almost certainly see a harsh cut in his wages.
“Good morning, Mr Russell Leroux. I'll sit inside, please,” the man spoke softly with his accented French, and Russell felt his cheeks reddened at the rather sultry tone he was using.
Is the man actually… flirting with him?
How does he even know Russell’s name?
The gentleman chuckled and pointed at his breast pocket—“Your nametag”—and Russell felt like he wanted to dive into the Seine River and drown there. Maybe he would get bitten by a Mackled Malaclaw while he’s at it.
“I—Y-yes, thank you,” Russell stuttered as he switched to English out of nervousness.
He knew his coworkers were surely laughing at him fumbling this conversation. But can they truly blame him? The man in front of him was absolutely gorgeous and mesmerising. Never have Russell ever met an alpha who looks and smells this good. He was as spellbound as a pirate on the verge of nearly drowning from a siren’s song.
“Right this way then, sir.” He quickly guided the man to an empty booth seat, sheltered from the chilly winter air by the building’s column embellished with a beautiful art nouveau glass panel. It was one of Russell’s favourite spots, and the gentleman would surely appreciate being seated there.
The gentleman took a seat in a rather ungraceful manner, but Russell didn’t think much of it. Nobody is truly flawless, after all. Should the manner in which the gentleman slump onto the sofa remind him of a Dugbog, then it’s a reminder that everyone has their imperfections.
“What would you like to order today, sir?”
The man took a quick glance at the menu before turning his attention back to Russell. “I'll have tisane and two plates of Prosciutto and Goat Cheese Tartine for now. I will order more food later.”
Russell nodded, quickly writing down the gentleman's order, a testament to his years of experience.
“Would you like to order some onion soup to go with your tartine?”
“No. Just the bread.” The dark-haired man politely smiled, and Russell was unable to look away from the man's deep, dark eyes, resembling the loveliest pair of black pearls.
“One order of tartine and tisane. I will come back with your food in 15 minutes.”
The gentleman nodded and gave him one last smile before Russell hurried back to the kitchen. He quickly placed the order for the gentleman and then swiftly made his way back to join his colleagues behind the counter.
“Well?” Antoinette blinked her light brown eyes at him expectantly.
“He ordered tea and bread. No soup.”
“No soup with his tisane?!” Quentin bellowed, looking horrified. “Englishmen truly are crazy.”
“No, not his order!” Antoinette frowned, puffing up her freckled cheeks. “How was he?”
All four of his coworkers stared at him with anticipation, eager to hear Russell’s story about the attractive gentleman at table 7. He repressed the thought he had about how the gentleman sat so heavily on the sofa and focused on the moment when he had called Russell’s name.
“He— He called me by my full name and smiled a lot… He really is a handsome fellow up close.” Russell paused, feeling his cheeks reddened at the sheer memory of the man's aromatic scent dancing around his nostrils; even though he's an alpha himself, he couldn't help but to be enticed.
“He smelled really good too… Like freshly bloomed roses with a touch of citrus.”
Sebastién, Élise, and Antoinette sighed, sounding even more captivated by the man. Quentin, meanwhile, was giving him a rather nasty glare as he leaned back against the pillar near the serving window.
It was apparent how envious the small crowd was of him. He shrugged his shoulders, feeling a bit proud that he got to engage with the charming gentleman up close.
“Oh, how I dream of being whisked away by an alpha from a foreign land… Maybe he’s my Le roi Charmant~” Élise exhaled, fluttering her eyelashes at the direction of the handsome man.
“He’s definitely an elite, isn’t he?” Quentin commented. “Even with his questionable taste buds, he's clearly a prominent figure. I wonder what his occupation is back home.”
Russell tried to remember any notable things from the gentleman’s appearance that would hint at his personal life, but couldn’t recall any.
Sebastién let out a hum, stroking his chin in deep concentration. “He’s certainly rich, that’s for sure. I’d bet he’s a politician. Alphas love to get into politics.”
Antoinette shook her head. “It’s a trend for them to establish business nowadays, Seb! Isn’t that right, Russell?”
“How should I know? I may be an alpha, but I’m—”
“Wait, wait, everyone. Something’s happening,” Antoinette suddenly interrupted him as she pointed her manicured finger at table 7.
All of the servers immediately turned their heads around and craned their necks to see what was going on.
It was difficult to see the man’s reaction from where they all stood, but there was a pair of young ladies standing in front of the gentleman’s table. Russell squinted his eyes, trying to discern what was happening. He soon realised that the ladies were attempting to flirt with the man, giggling and nudging each other in an effort to catch his eye.
Yet it was all for nothing. He couldn’t make out the man’s expression or what he said, but the ladies returned to their seats with a matching look of disappointment.
It was Élise who bursted out into a fit of giggles first.
"How could he resist such beautiful witches in this romantic city? I wonder if he’s already in a relationship with someone back home in the UK…” Antoinette pondered, tapping her fingers against her chin in concentration.
“A Veela, perhaps? Like one of the Delacours?” Russell added.
Quentin quickly shook his head. “Alphas like him usually have younger lovers who aren't as rich as them. They act like a… Like that one term people use… err, sugar daddies?”
Élise gasped. “What if it's a half-blood— or even a Muggleborn omega! They exchange owls constantly and the gentleman is finally visiting her all the way from England to France. Like those Muggle romance novels come to life!” She giggled, swaying her body side to side in excitement.
Returning from a table service, Sebastién crossed his arms and shot a piercing look at table 7. “Whoever it is, they’ve hit the jackpot for life.”
Everyone blinked in confusion at Sebastién’s comment.
Excusing himself from the group, Russell grabbed a fresh rag and moved toward a table near table 7. He made sure that he wasn’t being too obvious; his eyes flicked from the man's handsome face to his hand, which rested elegantly on the table.
As if aware of his gaze, the gentleman began to fiddle with the silver ring on his left hand, a soft, beautiful smile lit up his face.
Vena amoris. It's not merely an engagement, he's already married.
Russell swiftly completed his ‘task’ and returned to the serving window for the gentleman's order. Ignoring the hushed murmurs from his coworkers, he brought the food to table 7, offering a friendly and polite nod as he did.
“Would you like me to pour you a glass of wine? We have an extensive variety available. Personally, I think our Elderberry wine is worth trying.”
“This will be sufficient for now.” The gentleman smiled at him.
Russel hastily returned the smile. “Very well. Enjoy your food, sir.”
It was only then that Russell saw the man had discarded his bulky winter coat and scarf, and his gaze was drawn to the unmistakable protrusion on the man’s midsection. Russell's dark eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“Thank you, Mr Leroux,” the gentleman responded, redirecting Russell's attention from his stomach back to his face. “I shall call you again once I’m ready to place another order.”
With his head bowed, Russell quickly left, feeling as if his face was burning red.
Quentin called out to him in a loud whisper, gesturing for him to join the group. Although Russel finally rejoined the crowd, his mind was still racing in different directions.
“Did you see his stomach?” Quentin’s fiery gaze was locked onto his.
Élise quickly elbowed Quentin’s arm, throwing him a fierce look as she did. "It's rude to make comments about how our customers look, imbécile!"
“I’m quite certain it’s just a beer belly. He looks like he’s above his 30’s, so it’s not crazy to think his body is ageing as well, no?” Antoinette shrugged her shoulders.
Sebastién nodded his head, agreeing with her comment. "There are plenty of beer bellies like that even around Paris. It’s really not a surprise considering how unhealthy food has become nowadays."
Antoinette promptly added, “the man probably is not a sports type of guy. Maybe he did academia work, or even politics by the look of it.”
The lively chatter of his coworkers faded into a buzzing white noise as Russell pondered the truth.
A beer belly? It doesn’t make any sense. The man doesn’t strike him as someone who smokes, drinks too much alcohol, or has any bad habits. On the contrary, he was lean and slender, and his face was marked by pronounced, angular contours. The man resembled a work of art, as if sculpted and painted by Puget himself.
He had a hunch that the gentleman was well over his 20s by the soft grey strands in the midst of the sea of dark raven tresses, yet he aged so gracefully like the most divine wine. The man’s skin was clear of blemishes, with no crow's feet around his eyes; he didn’t look a day over 30.
“Err… E-Excusez-moi?”
Russell nearly jumped in surprise at the unexpected visitor. He met the gaze of a man with ruffled hair and striking green eyes, his cheeks red and beads of sweat trickling down his forehead.
“I err… Je… Je chercher Tom— wait.”
The scruffy-looking young man paused as he shook his head, scratching his tousled hair in confusion. He suddenly dug into his pockets and fished out a small green notebook. As if it wasn’t an amusing display as it already was, the scruffy man started to turn the pages over furiously, murmuring to himself about how 'he' had taught him about 'that' phrase before but he couldn't find it among all of these ‘fancy pants’ words.
“You can use English, sir.”
The man's eyes widened, and he visibly relaxed. “Oh thank Merlin. I'm pants with French, as you can already tell. Thank you.”
Russel offered the man a small smile. At least he's not the only one today making a fool out of himself in public. “That's alright, sir. What can I help you with?”
“Err… I was looking for my husband. He said he would be waiting for me here. Have you seen him?”
Russell had a hunch who exactly this man's husband is. But he dug further just in case. “Can you describe what he looks like for me?”
“Yes, he's wearing a brown winter coat. Wavy black hair, slicked back. I think he is also wearing my red scarf and a pair of black gloves… and my old Quidditch jumper, now that I think about it…”
“Right this way, sir,” Russell quickly interjected before the man could blabber further. He immediately guided the man towards table 7.
The two gentlemen shared a gaze, and Russell knew immediately that his hunch was correct. The scruffy one quickly slid beside the handsome gentleman; from the way he moves, Russell can tell he’s quite athletic.
“Would you like to place an order right away, sir?” Russell directed his gaze towards the green-eyed man.
“Oh, yes, please. I’ll have an, err—”
“There’s no roast beef here, Harry,” the handsome gentleman interjected before he turned his head to look at Russell. “He’ll have a serving of côte de bœuf and a slice of tarte au sucre. No wine, a glass of water should suffice.”
Russell nodded dumbly, scribbling down the order. His eyes drifted to the green-eyed man, who was still frowning at the menu with a confused look on his face.
So this is the omega? He was far from being impressed by the gentleman’s mate. The four-eyes was so dishevelled, so unrefined; his hair looked like it'd been hit by a storm, and his clothes were rumpled.
He supposed he could see why the gentleman was drawn to the immature type. The omega looked much more energetic, much sweeter, more innocent and childish and youthful than the refined, mature alpha. Yet Russell couldn’t help but to judge his unwise decision.
Maybe Quentin was right. The man was acting as a ‘sugar daddy’ to this young omega, and it truly was your typical benefactor-beneficiary relationship. To be able to win the handsome gentleman for life, though? The omega must be truly exceptional in bed.
“You didn’t place an order for me?”
“I didn’t know when you'd be done with your meeting.” Tom shrugged, ignoring the pout on Harry’s face. “Besides, your order won’t take too long. Only a few minutes of waiting time.”
“That’s alright, then. I can just eat what you already ordered—“ Harry suddenly made a reach towards Tom’s half-finished dish, and he immediately swatted at the tanned forearm.
Harry’s satisfied grin was painfully annoying, but Tom remained composed. He intended to refrain from responding to Harry’s childish stunts so early in the morning.
“Excuse me, waiter?” Harry called out to the redheaded waiter from earlier, and the man rushed to their table, notebook on hand.
“Yes, sir?”
"Could I please get an additional side of garlic cheese bread and a bowl of tomato soup?"
“Of course. I will deliver your food in about ten minutes.”
“That would be grand. Thank you.”
The waiter was unhurried as he returned back to the kitchen area. Tom chose to disregard how the redhead was gazing at Harry a bit longer than necessary.
Tom wiped his hand with his handkerchief before grabbing another piece of tartine from his plate. He finally regained his appetite after weeks of not being able to eat 'regular' food, so he started to ponder if he should order more for himself before Harry and he had to leave the café. Maybe a plate of Carbonara shall suffice.
“That bread looks delicious,” Harry muttered, unabashedly staring at Tom. All of Harry’s attention was completely on him, completely disregarding the delectable food in his hand.
“It is.” Tom simply replied before picking up another slice of bread and savouring it. His eyes never left Harry’s piercing gaze, challenging the man to be bold enough to snatch his food away.
But even if Harry were to beg on his knees and kiss his soles, Tom wouldn’t let him have a single bite of these delicious, delightful pieces of heaven.
Harry continued to gaze heatedly at him, and Tom felt pleased soaking up all that attention. He knew how much Harry loves seeing him wear his clothes; to be out in public reeking of his alpha surely was driving Harry absolutely crazy.
“Aren't you cold, Tom?”
Tom licked the crumbs from his fingers and shot Harry an unimpressed glance. “We're wizards, Harry. There are such things as heating charms, if you're not aware of their existence”
“I do, but I don't know if a mere heating charm would keep our baby comfortable,” he murmured under his breath before leaning down to gently pat Tom’s round stomach. “Isn't that right, Lily? I bet you're all warm and cosy inside your mummy’s tummy, aren't you?”
Tom felt small, gentle movements inside his stomach, and it seemed like they were hard enough for Harry to notice.
“Oh, how Daddy wished he was also always surrounded by such warmth and comfort,” Harry dramatically lamented, dropping his head on top of Tom’s bump and staying there.
Tom rolled his eyes at Harry's ridiculous antics. The man loves to act the brave, gallant Gryffindor, particularly owing to his status as the British Head Auror; but when he's ‘talking with Lily’, he instantly shed that charisma and becomes endearingly stupid.
“She won't understand your ramblings, Harry.”
Harry ignored him, still tenderly rubbing his belly with soft, soothing movements. “Ignore your mummy, Lily. I know my brilliant little tadpole understands her daddy just fine.”
Despite the earlier protest, Tom found himself unable to hold back a smile. He let his husband coo at his bump a bit more than usual; he’s in an especially giving mood today.
Tom could feel how Lily was starting to kick gently against Harry’s palm. Harry usually would’ve said something as absurd as Lily agreeing with his ludicrous claims, but surprisingly, the man kept his strange conclusions to himself.
“I truly cannot wait until we get back home,” Harry suddenly remarked. “I placed an order for a cot from Yew's. You're gonna love it.”
Tom caught Harry’s luminous green gaze and felt a rush in his chest. He reached out and grabbed Harry’s hand, softly caressing the rough, hardened palm. “I cannot wait as well, but let's enjoy our honeymoon a bit longer, shall we?”
He leaned in and pressed his lips against Harry's own, noting the minty taste of fresh toothpaste that remained on his lips. Tom let out a surprised gasp when he felt a rough hand resting atop his sore, sensitive chest.
When Harry broke the kiss, he could see the burning lust dancing inside of those vivid green orbs. The man leaned in, his lips near Tom’s ear as he whispered, “your tits are still swollen and leaking, aren't they, love? Even after letting me drink from them all night long? Is that why you’re so grumpy this morning?”
Harry’s tone was almost animalistic, and it elicited a shudder down Tom’s spine.
“Let me make it up to you back at the hotel. I’ll take care of you until you pass out this time.”
Tom let out the breath that he had been holding, and he unexpectedly caught the surprised looks of the group of meddlesome servers. He deliberately held their gaze as he kissed his husband once more, making sure they understood loud and clear that Harry is off-limits.