If there is one blessing on this earth - it’s that Laurent and Damianos are both from obscenely rich families and so their wedding involves an uncapped-limit, open bar. Lazar is in heaven. His rented suit cost him less than the glass of Glenmorangie he’s just ordered.
“I love weddings,” he says, to the bartender who doesn’t speak French and thus just smiles blankly at him.
The entire destination wedding thing is kind of fucking awesome. Lazar is tipsy and he’s not really a ‘marriage’ kind of guy but when Laurent had thrown an envelope on his desk four months ago and announced “You’re the coworker I dislike the least. If you wear the same suit you wear to all our work functions then I’ll light it on fire. While you’re in it. RSVP by Friday” - Lazar had-
Well, he’d said “Fuck off. I have no interest in watching your frigid ass get locked down by that Akielon whore.” But then he’d found out that the tickets and rooms and drinks were all paid for and Lazar doesn’t hate their rival company enough to say no to that.
(And the bonus is that he gets to attend the most scandalous corporate wedding of the year. Vere’s promising second son, and the heir to Akielos empire are getting married. Executives everywhere are shitting themselves trying to predict what this will do to business.)
Lazar is just considering seeing whether he can entice the bartender into just giving him the entire bottle to take up to his room, when the hottest piece of ass he has ever fucking seen sidles up to the bar.
He’s got to be Damen’s cousin or something, all greek features: rich olive skin and effortlessly attractive curls, and then he’s also fit as fuck. He could probably crush Lazar’s head with his thighs. A guy can dream.
The guy points to something on the drinks list and the bartender starts on some kind of cocktail while Lazar plans how to make his move. Usually he just has to lay on his french accent real thick and people melt, but there’s a possibility that this guy has met Laurent and thus been scared away from French accents for life.
Lazar takes a sip of his top, top shelf scotch (it tastes like baby angel tears), and decides Fuck It! He’s on what counts as his first vacation in six years. His direct superior is a bitchy twenty-three year old. He might as well take this opportunity as far as it will go.
“You have a great ass,” Lazar says. “How about we go upstairs and I ruin it for every other man?”
The Greek beauty gives him an odd look, just as his fucking cosmopolitan gets set down in front of him. (What is this, Sex and the City?). He then smiles sweetly at Lazar and says, “Non, uhhh. Parlez vous French? Francis? Frank, um. French?”
It’s stupidly adorable. Lazar wants to fuck him until he speaks his native language in broken nonsense like that. “English?” he tries.
The guy shakes his head and says something in Greek.
“Fuck,” Lazar says, and the guy laughs. He understands curses in English at least, then. Lazar can work with this.
The guy points to himself. “Pallas,” he says, still smiling.
“Lazar,” is the reply.
“Lazar,” Pallas repeats. They look at each other for a moment and then Pallas makes the apparently universal “Ah!” sound of a sudden idea and grabs a napkin and pen. He writes some letters and draws some lines and then explains.
“Damianos,” he says, pointing to a name, and then the line that connects it to another name. “Kastor… Egeria…”
It’s a family tree. Lazar nods along until Pallas gets to his own name. “You’re Damianos’ cousin,” Lazar tells him.
Pallas just grins and nods and assumes that Lazar could figure out what he was saying. Pallas points over to the table where the Grooms are sitting and basking in their joint happiness and future of monogamy. “You,” Pallas says, awkwardly, “Laurent?”
Lazar doesn’t know how to explain the complicated relationship between his family and the de Vere’s in gestures and napkin notes. “I’m just here for the free scotch,” he says, instead.
Pallas keeps smiling.
It’s actually kind of fun, spending the reception with Pallas who is like a beautiful and stupid golden retriever. He’s maybe a little too sunshine for Lazar to tolerate for a prolonged amount of time, but for just one night it’s refreshing.
Pallas shows him the photos on his phone of what Lazar assumes is his dog and extended family. Lazar uses their language barrier to tell Pallas all the things he’d like to do to him in his hotel room. Pallas points out people in the room and mocks their body language. Lazar shows him a picture of the replica sword that hangs in his living room. (“Not the sword that I want to impale you on, though,” he tells him. Pallas smiles).
Eventually Laurent and Damianos weave their way over. “Please don’t traumatise Damen’s cousin with your personality,” Laurent says.
The words are harsh but Lazar can’t take them seriously because Laurent is actually smiling. The tops of his lips are curved! His eyes are filled with joy! It’s unsettling.
“I’m trying my best,” Lazar says. “The language barrier isn’t helping.”
Damen frowns. Pallas says something greek. Damen looks even more concerned. Laurent, the multilingual bitch, laughs.
Then Laurent and Pallas have a long conversation in Greek while Damen listens in and Lazar just stands there.
“Damen,” Lazar says, when it becomes clear the other two are having their own delightfully long conversation. “What’s Greek for ‘want to fuck’?”
Damen’s look becomes even more alarmed. “I’m not,” he says, “getting involved in this.” And then he touches Laurent’s arm.
Laurent, who is a sadistic prick that once very publically gave Lazar a ‘baby’s first english book’ because he’d handed in a report with a spelling error, stops talking mid-sentence so that he can look back at Damen like someone that actually has a heart.
“Speeches are going to start soon,” Damen reminds him gently and with affection.
Laurent nods and then sends Pallas a significant look before he takes off with his husband.
Pallas somehow manages to use charades to convince Orlant to sit in his place three tables away so that he and Lazar can sit together. The speeches are sentimental and expectedly boring, although it’s oddly enjoyable to see his CEO August de Vere drunkenly threaten Damen and then thank him for taking Laurent off his hands officially. It’s a confused speech.
Pallas, who surely doesn’t understand a word that is said during this time, just laughs politely when everyone else does.
The cake is cut and then immediately delivered right after that, and Pallas takes Lazar’s plate straight out of his hands and then proceeds to feed it to him. It’s weirdly both one of the sweetest and most arousing gestures that has ever been made to Lazar.
“I would even consider cuddling you after sex,” Lazar says, because it won’t ruin his reputation too much since Pallas can’t understand him. Pallas looks pleased anyway, so maybe a hint of affection accidentally slipped into his tone.
It’s not long after the cake that Damen and Laurent make their way back over, in what is obviously the ‘goodbye we’re off to fuck’ round.
“I can’t believe you’re skipping out on your own party this early,” Lazar says. “I thought you’d be eating up all this attention you god-damned narcissist.”
“We have a flight to catch tomorrow,” Damen says, a touch defensively.
(Lazar and Damen hadn’t gotten along at first, because Damen has some boring notions on respect in the workplace and whatever. They’d only started to tolerate each other when Laurent had told Damen to “settle down. At least he’s honest about what he thinks of me”).
Laurent grins like a cat with a bleeding canary in it’s mouth. “And Damen’s promised me eight hours of fucking-”
“Lovemaking,” Damen says gently.
“Lovemaking,” Laurent agrees, instead of scoffing at Damianos like he rightfully should have, “before we go.”
“Disgusting,” Lazar says. “Can you at least tell Pallas here that I said he has a sweet ass, before you go?”
Laurent looks terrifyingly delighted. “I think,” he says, looking to Pallas, “he’s already heard that enough from you for one night.”
“We should go before my mother catches us again,” Damen says, but he’s grinning.
“You’re right,” Laurent says. “Goodnight Lazar. Have a good evening, Pallas.”
Pallas smiles in a way that both makes Lazar want to let the guy stand on him, and also hide in fear. “Thank you,” Pallas says, in perfectly respectable fucking English. “Enjoy your eight hours.”
Damen and Laurent are still laughing maniacally as they walk away.
“What,” Lazar says, “the fuck?”
Pallas shrugs, and then puts on an exaggerated French accent to tell him, “I was, uh - how you say? - fucking with you.”
“What the fuck.” Lazar says. He thinks he’s in love?
“Keep standing there with your mouth open like that,” Pallas replies, “and I might actually be tempted to invite you in.”