It’s a really fucking boring party. Phillip is here purely for lack of anything better to do, including sitting on his couch and binging Parks and Recreation, which he’s done three times this year already.
(Lyndie glared at him when he demurred yet again, but then softened.
“Babes, I know it’s been hard on you, but you have to get out there. Not in a find yourself a nice rebound way, although I do think it would be beneficial, but you have to get out and talk to people.”
“And who exactly am I going to talk to, love?” He was fine with Tim getting pretty much the entire friend group after the breakup initially, but it was real fucking depressing looking at his contacts and realizing there wasn’t anybody who wanted to hear from him.
“Somebody. Anybody. Not everybody in the fucking world is part of Tim’s circle.” Lyndie’s trying her best, bless her, but that’s what sisters (or close as) do, right? It’s not fair to her to be his one social lifeline.
“All right. For you.”
She beamed that damnable grin that makes everybody fall over themselves to do what she wants, him included, and kissed his cheek. “Thanks babes. You won’t regret this.”
“We’ll see.”)
It’s an exhibit opening, and now that Phillip’s looked at the art (pedestrian, derivative) and nibbled at the platters (Costco, of all things. Not that they’re bad, but absolutely not in keeping with the atmosphere), he’s taken his plastic glass of Three Buck Chuck to find a corner to people-watch.
In the back next to the one actually interesting sculpture, he nods to a man dressed in the most fascinatingly archaic suit. No, that’s not the right word. It’s like he bought all his clothes at one time and never bothered to replace them because they really don’t make them like they used to. They’re at least thirty years out of style, but they fit well.
Phillip takes a sip of the wine. Oh god, he’d forgotten how awful this plonk is, not really being a person who frequents places where the quantity of alcohol is more desirable than the quality.
“I regret I don’t have a fine vintage to offer you, but this has to be better than whatever swill they’re providing.” The other man holds up a flask, smiling. He’s not exactly handsome—his eyes are too small and his ears stick out too much for that, but he has a sharp, curious demeanor that makes Phillip want to know more.
He takes the flask, ignoring how their fingers brush, and downs more than is probably polite or wise. It’s whiskey of some sort, burning sweet on the way down.
“Thank you,” he says, handing it back. “It is very much an improvement.”
The man screws the lid back on, puts the flask back in his jacket pocket. “A fine bourbon, American of course. Certainly other countries produce it, but it never tastes quite right. Like a bagel made outside of New York.” His accent is something Phillip has heard but never actually encountered in person, almost parodic in its intensity. It’s fascinating.
“They do make bagels elsewhere. And they’re nothing like the ones in New York.” Phillip says, just to be a shit.
“Indeed, and I do not mean to impugn their quality. But I suppose we latch onto the examples we first encounter as the ideal.” He puts out his hand. “Benoit Blanc. If we’re going to have a conversation we should get a little more acquainted.”
“Phillip Owen.” The other man’s hand is warm, his grip assertive and confident.
“A pleasure, Mr. Owen.” It might be the whiskey, but Phillip swears Blanc’s voice is warmer, more friendly.
“I don’t mean to be presumptuous or rude, but your name does not strike me as particularly Southern.”
Blanc smirks, a little reproving. “How quickly we forget history, Phillip.” His extremely serious tone removes any sting there might have been from the words.
“Now that I’m to get a lecture it’s Phillip?” He keeps his voice light. This is the most interesting conversation he’s had in a long time, which is probably a bit sad when he thinks about it, but he’s a little buzzed from the whiskey and he’s enjoying himself much more than he thought he would tonight.
“Lecture is such a stuffy word. Call it a gentle reminder of things that should be more prominent in your memory.” Blanc’s kind of a shit too, and god help him, Phillip is into it.
“Then tell me what I should remember, Benoit,” he says, as gravely as he can.
The other man winces, like he’s physically pained. “I hate that name. By the love of whatever you consider holy, Blanc, please.”
There’s a story here, and Phillip wants to know it. “So why don’t you change it?”
Blanc leans against the wall, looking a bit tired for the first time. “This is something that’s going to require more good liquor than this place has to offer. And seating as well.”
Impulsively, he reaches for Blanc’s hand. “Come back to mine then. Not for, uh, that.” But I certainly wouldn’t say no if you wanted. “Just drinks, conversation. I do have a very comfortable couch. And armchairs, if you prefer those.” Is it forward? Absolutely. But it’s been a long time since he’s had anybody besides Lyndie to talk to, and he didn’t realize how much he missed it until now.
Blanc looks a bit surprised, but his mouth curls slow into a smile. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
—
Phillip isn’t much of a liquor drinker, but Tim was, and for the first time since the breakup he’s not resentful at the selection of whisk(e)y taking up room in his liquor cabinet (It’s good stuff, he’s not going to throw it out for something as stupid as an ex). There’s bourbon, but either it’s not up to Blanc’s standards or there’s stuff he’s more impressed by. He decides on a Nikka Yoichi Single Malt, neat, and judging by the somewhat obscene noise he makes upon tasting it, it’s really good shit.
Thus fortified, Blanc launches into the history lesson (which is what it is, regardless of what he wants to call it). It’s not like Phillip didn’t know the US had been controlled and fought over by every major nation in the country’s colonial era, it just wasn’t relevant to his day to day life, unlike Blanc’s, apparently.
“For all it was so damn important to be aware of my French Creole descent, my family was rather vague about our connection to it and the other families. At times it felt a bit on the nose to have our surname literally be Blanc.” He shrugs in the way people do when they've thought about an issue a great deal but are still no closer to gaining more insight into it.
"And your first name?"
"After some ancestor. I looked him up. Retired from fur trapping, bought himself a sugar plantation and the slaves to do the work." Blanc's face darkens.
"I can't imagine that was fun to find out. I'm sorry." He reaches out, squeezes Blanc's hand. Blanc looks down and squeezes back.
Phillip doesn’t take his hand away, and they sit for a few moments.
“Oh my heavens, what a terrible guest I am! I just realized I don’t know a thing about you.” Blanc looks a bit appalled at himself. “Other than you’re gorgeous and have an impressive collection of whiskey.”
All right, fine, maybe Phillip is actively grateful for Tim’s taste in alcohol at the moment. “Well what do you want to know? I’m an open book.”
“I suppose we can start with the basics. What you do for a living. The trashy novels you read when you’re on a plane.” Blanc still hasn’t let go of his hand.
“I’m on a bit of a break at the moment, but I design theater sets. Off-Broadway. And I don’t think Raymond Chandler is particularly trashy, but I find he makes the time pass quicker.”
He’s not sure what about either of these statements makes Blanc throw his head back and laugh, but it’s a nice sound. “My goodness, what are the odds?” He wipes tears from his eyes, leans towards Phillip with a smile.
“Of what?” He’s trying to keep his wits about him, but Blanc is right there, and it’s starting to become extremely difficult.
“We can talk about that later.” Blanc’s mouth tastes like scotch, and Phillip thinks he might start to acquire a taste for it after all.