A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (36 page)

They existed in a sullen quiet for a time, Martin gathering
the scattered neckties and Henry staring out the window at the busy people in
the street. He was still so sure that leaving home was the right solution, the
obvious choice to keep Martin safe and to secure their mutual happiness, but he
seemed incapable of convincing Martin. For Henry, being in a place populated by
queers and fairies all living out in the open was like a dream come true, but
Martin was not the least bit charmed.

All grew quiet in the bedroom at Henry’s back. Martin came
around the foot of the bed and sat at Henry’s side, pressing very close, and
took Henry’s hand; Henry was grateful for the affection.

“Are you hungry, Henry?” Martin asked softly. “I’m a bit
hungry.” He leaned his head on Henry’s shoulder.

Henry was hungry, of course, but even if he hadn’t been,
he’d have agreed to eat to make Martin happy. Martin didn’t seem to want
anything that Henry was offering him, so Henry felt it important to give Martin
whatever he asked for—so long as it wasn’t going home again.

They went back to the Fleur-de-Lys for an early dinner. They
shared a roasted chicken and observed the other patrons. At first, they were
surreptitious about looking, but since everyone else was blatantly staring at
one another, they eventually relaxed and simply gazed wherever they wished.

So many attractive, well-dressed men! Not well-dressed in
the uptown sense, of course, not
proper
, but ever-so-stylish. Henry
supposed much of what they wore would mark them out as fairies, but not all of
it was outlandish. He felt he and Martin looked quite staid in their
conservative suits despite their colorful waistcoats. Still, they were both
handsome, and people did look.

Men got up from their seats and went to talk to men at other
tables and the atmosphere was very lively and convivial. After a short time in
this boisterous, colorful company, Henry was gratified to note that Martin
became more cheerful, smiling and chatty, perhaps subconsciously taking his
cues from the room.

A handsome dark-haired man, quite tall, in a dark green
velvet jacket that reminded Henry both of Reggie and his own bottle-green suit
at home, spoke at length with some gentlemen at a table nearby, then came to
stand beside their table.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you
gentlemen here before.”

Henry wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’m sure you
haven’t,” he told him. “We’re newcomers.”

“Nathaniel Scott.” The man held out his hand for Henry to
shake.

“Henry Blackwell.” Henry immediately regretted this, again
thinking it would have been much more prudent to use a false name. Maybe
he
should be Watkins.

Martin introduced himself as “Martin Durant,” and Henry was
a bit taken aback because he hadn’t considered until Martin was hand-in-hand
with this Mr. Scott that Martin would still need a last name, and he hadn’t
expected Martin to come up with a name on his own, without Henry’s input. Did
they know anyone called Durant?

“Mr. Blackwell, Mr. Durant, by any chance do you gentlemen
enjoy a cocktail?” He cocked his head, looking from Henry’s face to Martin’s
and then back. When neither answered immediately, he continued. “I’m the
bartender at the Venetian, just along the street here, and whenever I meet the
right sort of newcomers, I invite them for a drink on the house as a welcome to
the neighborhood.”

“That’s so very kind of you, Mr. Scott,” Martin said, giving
Mr. Scott an especially dazzling smile, and Henry looked at the man through
narrowed eyes. He was, Henry supposed, Martin’s type, dark-haired and
olive-skinned, though Henry believed himself to be better-looking, surely.

Addressing himself to Martin, Mr. Scott said, “We especially
appreciate the patronage of fashionable young people like you, Mr. Durant—” and
here he turned to nod at Henry “—and you, as well, Mr. Blackwell.”

“Is this
your
establishment?” Henry asked, sounding
perhaps a trifle snide. “Or are you just an employee?”

Mr. Scott frowned at him. “As a matter of fact, I’m part
owner, Mr. Blackwell.” He turned back to Martin. “In any case, Mr. Durant, I’ll
be heading to work shortly, and I’ll be there until I close the bar. I do hope
you’ll take advantage of my offer and stop by.” He bid them good evening and
went back to his own table, and soon after left the restaurant.

“You didn’t need to be so hostile, Henry,” Martin pointed
out as he stole a bite of Henry’s cake. “He was being very kind, I thought.”

“You didn’t need to be so charming,” Henry said grumpily.
“He was already quite in love with you before he shook your hand,
Mr. Durant
.”

“You can’t possibly think it reasonable to be so jealous of
every man I talk to, Henry. I
will
talk to men, it’s unavoidable.” He
forked up another bite of cake. “As for Durant, what do you think?”

“I like it,” Henry said. “Where did you get it from?”

“There’s a lower-school boy, one of the very little ones,
named Durant. That’s where I heard it. I didn’t like Watkins, I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. I just want you to be happy,” Henry said,
and he felt it was true. What Henry really wanted was for Martin to be happy
with Henry’s decisions, which was perhaps a little different than just wishing
Martin happiness, but it was a close thing. With Martin’s pleasure in mind he
asked, “Do you want to get a drink from Mr. Scott, then? After we pay our bill
here?”

“Are you sure?” Martin seemed pleased, though.

“Why not? It’s a free drink, after all.”

Henry paid the bill. He asked the waiter where they might
find the Venetian Bar and was told it was just at the next corner.

“Did you meet Scotty, sir?” the waiter asked. “I saw he was
just here.”

“Mr. Scott? Yes, he invited us.”

The waiter looked them up and down, quite obvious about it.
“I’m sure he did.”

Henry blushed and Martin laughed. Henry wondered if it was a
mistake to go to this bar, but he’d told Martin they could go, and if he wanted
Martin to be more enthusiastic about what they were doing, he necessarily had
to agree to things Martin actually wanted to do.

Outside, Henry suggested, “Let’s walk a little first, all
right? Around the block, at least. I just want to see what the neighborhood is
like.” It would serve as the model for what he’d look for in whatever city they
ended up in.

“Very well, Henry. Lead the way.”

There were lively crowds on the street, men and women—but
mostly men—going hither and yon. There were men dressed in outlandish costumes
everywhere, colors and combinations that made the modish offerings at the
little haberdasher's shop look sedate. There was a girl selling carnations for
people's buttonholes, and Henry stopped and gave her a nickel. She insisted on
pinning the flowers on them herself, standing on her toes to reach their
lapels, and smiling winsomely up into their faces. Martin gave her a quizzical
look and, as they were walking away, turned to Henry and said, “I don't think
that was a girl, actually, Sir.”

Shocked and intrigued, Henry turned around to look at her, a
ragamuffin with messy ringlets. He was not sure he could see anything unusual
about her.

“How can you tell?”

“Well, I can’t, really, Sir, but there was something about
her, something in her manner. She reminded me of myself when I was young and
I’d be dressed in girls’ clothes for plays at Ganymede. I actually loved
wearing dresses. They made me very daring! In a dress, I’d go around flirting
with everyone!”

Henry laughed. “Didn’t you do that anyway?”

Martin seemed to take slight offense. “I wasn’t a tease,
Sir.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Henry assured him. “I know you
were popular, is all.” Henry saw pairs of men walking arm-in-arm and wanted to
do the same. “Martin, take my arm.”

“Sir…”

“We've never done it,” Henry pointed out. “We've never
walked down the street as a real couple, and I want to do it. I want people to
know.”

Martin went very pale, but he did as he'd been asked,
gingerly taking Henry's elbow.

“See?” Henry told him. He put his hand over Martin's, held
it in place. “Nothing bad happened.”

Martin's lips thinned. “Something bad could still happen,
Sir. Someone could take issue with your…your
message
and want to hurt
us, want to hurt
you
. I am responsible for you, Henry, for keeping you
safe.”

Henry did not see it this way, and shook his head. “I’m
responsible for myself and for you, too.”

Martin disagreed. “But, Sir—”

“No,” Henry said firmly. “I’m going to take care of you,
Martin.” He squeezed Martin’s fingers to offer reassurance. He looked around at
the dozens of people crowding the sidewalks, the dandies and the clowns, the
male couples, the laughing drunks, the elegant gentlemen. If there were people
here who didn't like queers and fairies, they were outnumbered.

“Look around, Martin. We're safe here.” He felt invigorated,
surrounded by people who would not judge him harshly, with plenty of money in
his pocket and his beloved at his side. There were innumerable benefits to
freedom, if only Martin would embrace it, and Henry hoped that this visit to
Mr. Scott’s bar would serve as an example of the pleasures available to him as
a free man.

As they walked, they passed several bars that Martin turned
up his nose at, establishments he judged too utterly disreputable to be worthy
of their patronage, until they came at last to the Venetian. Henry had feared
it would be as sordid as all the rest, but it was decent. It was dimly lit, as
a barroom should be, but with a large mirror behind the bar that reflected a
little light into every corner, illuminating the happy faces and glimmering off
the glassware. There was a mural of the Rialto Bridge painted across the full
length of one wall, barely visible in the low light. They were surrounded by
tables of regular-seeming men and their fairy friends who were boisterous and
cheerful. They took stools at the bar and handsome Mr. Scott stood before them in
an apron, smiling.

“You came. I’m so very pleased.”

“Thank you for inviting us, Mr. Scott.” Martin gave the
bartender an enchanting smile, but let his knee fall to touch Henry’s beneath
the bar, so Henry minded it less.

“Call me Scotty,” he suggested. “All my friends do.” He also
had a nice smile, and he showed it to Martin. “What can I get for you
gentlemen?”

“Can you suggest something, Scotty?”

“What do you like? Whiskey? Gin?”

Martin thought a moment. “Hmm. I think gin, Scotty.”

“Have you ever had a Martinez cocktail? Gin, vermouth, a
dash of maraschino and a dash of bitters. It’s quite refreshing.”

Martin turned to Henry and put a hand on his arm. “Doesn’t
that sound good, Si—
Henry
? You do like gin, don't you?”

Henry remembered getting sick on gin sangaree and wasn't
sure he was ready to drink quantities of gin again, but he was loath to say as
much to Martin in front of this Scotty character. “Of course I do.”

The Martinez, when it came, was different enough from the
sangaree for Henry to think the two drinks very unlike, and he found he had no
difficulties getting the cocktail down. He took long sips quickly; Martin drank
more slowly, looking around the room with quiet interest.

Henry leaned close. “How many of them do you think are like
us?” He put his hand on Martin's knee and drained the last of his Martinez.

Martin said, “Henry!” and brushed his hand away. Then he
added, “I couldn't guess. A lot of them, surely.” He nudged Henry with his
shoulder. “There
are
some obvious ones, though. That fellow with the
rouge, for one. His friend in the purple-striped jacket, as well.”

Henry burst out laughing at what he saw next, both delighted
by and embarrassed for the men. “The two who’re kissing, most definitely!”
Martin snickered and leaned against him for a moment, watching the men kiss in
the mirror.

Scotty came by and saw Henry’s empty glass. “Another round?”

“Yes, please,” Henry said, nodding his head affirmatively.
“Two more, for Mr. Durant and me.”

Martin frowned. “Don't get drunk, Henry.”

“I won’t,” Henry insisted. He watched Scotty mix their
drinks, and Scotty caught him looking and smiled, a much cooler and more
professional smile than he’d given to Martin. Scotty had more customers now,
and when he brought the second round of drinks, he didn’t linger, for which
Henry was grateful. Henry sipped this drink more slowly than the first as he
observed the room. The men who’d been kissing had left arm in arm and Henry
could imagine so many possibilities for them, in beds or up against walls, and
he felt his cock stir just thinking about all the options. He put his hand on
Martin’s knee again, and this time Martin let it stay.

“Henry, do you suppose Scotty serves any food?” Martin
asked.

“If he doesn’t, I’m sure he’d go out and get some for
you
anyway, Mr. Durant.”

“Really, Henry,” Martin said. “He’s been nothing but
friendly and appropriate. Just because you fancy me doesn’t mean everyone else
does, too.”

This made Henry think of Tom, the main Martin-fancier
outside of Henry, and Henry wondered if Martin had had time to realize yet that
he’d never see his friend again. Would he hate Henry for separating him from
Tom? Henry was going to have to be especially good to Martin, to do all the
things he liked to make up for the things he’d be missing.

Scotty came back to their end of the bar. “Is everything to
your liking?” The smile was clearly all for Martin, whether Martin chose to see
that or not.

Martin raised his glass in acknowledgment of Scotty’s
bartending skills. “It’s delicious, thank you, Scotty. I was wondering if you
might serve any food?”