Word Count: 2231

The restaurant was the sort of place where a single meal could cost more than he and Ilian spent on groceries in a month. Crisp white tablecloths, real flowers as centerpieces, crystal glass- and stemware — the sort of dining experience Lovely would have expected up to the age of sixteen, but which quickly became nonexistent as soon as he left home. The main dining area even boasted a glossy black piano; Lovely eyed it and thought of Ilian, how uncomfortable and out of place he might feel in an environment like this. Lovely had not been around such blatant displays of wastefulness in so long, even he felt a bit like a fish out of water.

In the absence of a live pianist at Saturday brunch, the music playing overhead was quiet and soothing, promoting easy conversation among the restaurant's wealthy patrons. A well dressed couple sat enjoying a meal with their equally well dressed children. A few older gentlemen shared drinks with their young female companions, mistresses or escorts or sugar babies, whatever they deemed it appropriate to call them. A small group of middle aged men in tailored suits sat discussing one business venture or another, while a gaggle of young women giggled and gossiped as they fêted one of their friends.

The dress code was unspoken but not official, silently agreed upon by the clientele and the staff who served them. Lovely stood out in his ripped jeans and loose, faded Budweiser t-shirt knotted up at his waist. He didn’t even drink Budweiser, wouldn’t touch that horse piss even if it was the only thing available, but the attire earned him the exact sort of judgemental stares he’d planned for as the smartly dressed hostess led him to a table for four. The location placed Lovely and his companions by a large window overlooking the well maintained, sunlit garden.

“Lovey Dove!”

His mother rose to greet him, smothering him in an embrace that stretched over several uncomfortable seconds, before kissing his cheeks and holding him at arm’s length to get a good look at him.

“You’ve cut your hair,” she observed.

Lovely shrugged a response, forcing himself to withstand the physical contact.

His mother brushed some of his bangs out of his face, tucking the unruly waves behind one of his ears. She was taller than him in her heels, but probably the same height without them, unchanged from their last face-to-face meeting half a year ago. Her long blonde hair was neatly styled in perfect curls. Her makeup was a masterpiece of light foundation and subtle shadow. The forest green color of her dress brought out the purple of her eyes. She never did look her age, perpetually stuck in her 40s instead of her genuine age of sixty-two — old enough in appearance to have a son Lovely’s age, but not either of his older brothers.

Dorian inclined his head in greeting but did not rise, watching from his seat with the same expression of concern mixed with quiet disapproval he always wore in Lovely’s presence. Unlike their mother, Dorian showed more than his thirty years; shallow lines creased his forehead, and one or two threads of silver were beginning to sprout up among the dark brown hair at his temples.

“You look well,” their mother said, smiling at Lovely like she meant it.

“I am,” Lovely agreed.

His mother ushered him into the seat beside her. The one next to Dorian remained conspicuously empty, as it had every time Lovely consented to see his family over the last four years.

He sipped at his water and ordered a mimosa as soon as their waiter came by, not because he had any fondness for daytime drinking, or drinking in general, but because he liked to remind his mother and brother that he was old enough now. Everything about his presence there was a reminder of some sort. His hair, cut in the shaggy waves he used to favor, would remind them of the person he used to be, while his shabby clothes, the ear piercings, and the solitary ring on his finger would remind them of the person he had become since leaving.

Lovely’s mother chattered on the way she always did, regaling him with stories of her life in France, from the many social functions she attended, to recent gossip about her friends. She gushed about her new boyfriend, some rich, handsome property developer Lovely paid no mind to, seeing as his mother would probably cast the man aside before the end of the year. Lovely nodded along and made a few encouraging noises for her to continue, studying his menu or staring out at the garden as he let the surrealness of the situation wash over him.

He didn’t know his own mother anymore, or either of his brothers. He didn’t care for the well-to-do world they inhabited. He hated the shameless displays of wealth, the lavish parties and the wasteful spending. He wasn’t sure what he ever saw in it to begin with, except convenience, safety, and a familiarity he no longer felt.

He ordered the simplest dish he could find on the menu and ate his French toast without really tasting it. Occasionally, his mother would try to draw him into the conversation, asking about his work or the hobbies she knew he’d picked up over the years, but Lovely offered only the most cursory of answers.

“How is Ilian?” Dorian asked when the subject could no longer be avoided.

“Don’t ask like you actually give a ********,” Lovely said, pushing a bite sized piece of French toast through the powered sugar sprinkled over his plate.

Dorian’s expression grew tight and strained. Their mother frowned sadly, placing a comforting hand on top of Lovely’s.

“You could have brought him with you,” she said. “You know he’s always welcome. I still don’t understand why you won’t introduce him to us.”

“He and Dorian have already been introduced,” Lovely countered, setting his fork down without finishing his meal. He stared at his brother accusingly. “Dorian never bothered to make him feel welcome.”

“Leigh…” Dorian began, fighting back a resigned sigh.

“Unless the next words out of your mouth are an apology, I don’t want to hear them.”

Dorian hid his resulting scowl behind a sip of coffee.

Their mother forced another smile, clearly struggling to salvage the conversation with her next comment. “Claude misses you.”

A short, scathing laugh tore out of Lovely’s throat. “That’s funny, because I don’t see him here.”

“He worries about you,” his mother argued. Gently, she touched his ring, studying the way the black stone caught the light.

Lovely yanked his hand away, fisting the white napkin over his lap. “Claude hasn’t said a ******** word to me in four years,” he snapped. “The last time I saw him, he slapped me across the face. Whatever s**t you like to think about Ilian, at least he doesn’t do that.”

He paused to allow for some sort of a response, but neither of them could adequately defend themselves or his oldest brother. Then, because Lovely liked the looks of discomfort and horror that crossed their faces when he was vulgar and flippant about it, Lovely added, “Not unless I want him to.”

The clink of Dorian’s coffee cup was loud against its accompanying saucer. He stood too quickly, hitting his knee against the edge of the table, rattling the dishware and utensils. With his jaw clenched so tight it had to be uncomfortable, Dorian threw his napkin onto the table and turned away.

“Excuse me,” he muttered darkly, stalking off to the bathroom at a clipped pace.

Lovely watched him go, lips quirked into a mean smirk.

Beside him, Lovely’s mother sighed. “Why do you have to instigate? Can’t you forgive him? It’s been so long, Lovey Dove.”

“Forgive who? Dorian or Claude?”

“Both of them.” She tried to take his hand again, but Lovely reached for his glass of water before she could make contact. “You have to understand. They’ve felt responsible for you since you were a baby. It’s hard for them to watch you—”

She cut herself off before Lovely could. Still, he felt the need to strike back and said, “Watch me what? Throw my life away?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“They think Ilian’s the scum of the Earth,” Lovely said, setting his glass back down. He glared at the two empty seats across the table and added forcefully, “He isn’t.”

Ilian was stupid and reckless and not always the most thoughtful or considerate person when he got in one of his vengeful moods, but those moods weren’t never-ending. In the wake of them, he was kind enough and generally helpful, more outgoing than Lovely without being excessively sociable. He’d always been polite with Dorian even when Dorian had been distant and suspicious around him. If Lovely ever allowed them to meet, Ilian would probably get along decently enough with Lovely’s mother, once the awkwardness of delayed introductions faded away.

Neither Claude nor Dorian knew a damned thing about him, nor did they make any effort to try, but they probably talked s**t about him anyway. They’d always assumed the worst, because Ilian was an outsider and they never trusted Lovely to have good judgment. He could only imagine the sort of bullshit lies they passed along to their mother.

Fortunately, their mother was a bit more discerning than many people gave her credit for.

“I know,” she said consolingly. “He takes care of you, doesn’t he?”

“I take care of myself,” Lovely said. More often than not, Ilian was the one who needed watching after, but no one would ever believe spoiled, self-absorbed Lovely could put aside his arrogance and greed long enough to do that, so he didn’t bother explaining.

Lovely’s mother smiled indulgently and tried to take his hand again. She succeeded this time, if only for a few moments.

If Lovely gave her the chance, his mother would make an effort. She would be kind to Ilian, and ask him about himself out of genuine interest. At worst, her questions would be intrusive; she would ask about his life and his family without realizing those were touchy subjects, and she would pretend she wasn’t concerned that he never went to college. She wouldn’t look at him in disapproval for not having a “real” job, as if what Lovely and Ilian did for a living would never be good enough — a thought he knew often crossed Claude and Dorian’s minds. His mother would try her utmost to be welcoming and accommodating, warm and affectionate in a way Ilian probably wasn’t used to.

But bitterness and stubbornness prevented Lovely from allowing the encounter. He left home four years ago, and though he couldn’t claim the first few weeks were easy, he got his bearings eventually, and he never regretted his decision. Now he looked at his mother and his brothers, he stared around at the opulence they surrounded themselves with, and he felt ashamed that he’d ever been a part of it. The longer he sat there, the more uncomfortable he became. Everything about it was suffocating.

“I have to go,” he said, pulling his hand out of his mother’s grasp. The sooner he fled the scene, the better for all of them. Dorian wouldn’t be gone for long, and Lovely didn’t relish the thought of the argument they might fall into once he returned.

His mother rose from her chair when he did, putting a hand against his arm to stop him. “Wait, Lovey Dove.”

Lovely shifted his weight from foot to foot, anxious to leave. All the same, he felt compelled to allow his mother this final kindness. She dug through her designer handbag until she found the check she meant to give him, already filled out in her loopy cursive writing.

“Take this,” she said, forcing it into his hand.

“I don’t need it,” he argued, just like he always did.

“I know,” she agreed. “Take it anyway. Please?”

Lovely made an aggravated noise in the back of his throat but folded the check without looking at it and shoved it into his back pocket to worry about later. His mother ended every meeting this way, handing him a few thousand here, another several thousand there, almost like she could entice him back with enough charity. She did the same on his birthday, and at the end of every year when Christmas rolled around, tucking checks into cards with loving messages. Lovely accepted them because it was easier than arguing with her. He cashed every single one of them so she wouldn’t call and harass him about them, dropping each offering into a secret account Ilian had no knowledge of.

Maybe one day he’d do something with the funds. For now, he simply ignored the account and acted like it didn’t exist — until the next time.

“I love you,” his mother said. She pulled him into hug and kissed his cheeks again, offering him one final smile before he turned away.

Lovely left without another word, escaping out into the bright summer sunlight, where he took a deep, heaving breath of humid air and allowed himself a moment to feel lost and hurt and afraid, before he pushed it all aside with the remnants of his old life.