Valentine's Day Extras 2/3 Laurent

MC - compassionate, timid, affectionate, cheerful

Post-game

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The main SPD bureau has a distinct smell of strong magnolia-scented floor cleaner, amber perfume and whatever disinfect they use to prevent the stink of emotions from clinging to every surface of the building. But the heavy stench of cleaning products can't compare to the all-consuming aroma of cinnamon that encompasses the area the second Laurent's eyes meet yours across the hallway.

You've smelled love before, though not this strongly. Some days you're scared of taking a breath and not tasting the spice on the tip of your tongue. And you're well aware that such a time will inevitably come; that's how your affliction works. The knowledge doesn't lessen your unease.

There are things you can be sure of, and questions no Allurer has answers for. Certain matters can merely be guessed. Nobody can explain how love comes to be, how long it takes for it to strengthen enough to become olfactible, only that its fragrance is barely distinguishable at the beginning, fleeting. Then, as the feeling solidifies, it becomes a part of the person's smell. The thought of Laurent's love becoming a constant fills you with nervousness and anticipation.

The man in question seems to be none the wiser about your internal turmoil; then again, why should he be? He's not an Allurer. Laurent approaches you unhurriedly, clutching a thick folder under one arm. He's convalescent, not yet cleared for field work. Naturally, it means he's bringing on himself twice the amount of paperwork to make up for his absence.

His features are as expressionless as ever, and once upon a time you might have taken it as a sign of indifference. Now, you notice the subtle tilt of his lips, the relaxed curve of his jaw. Even without your affliction, you can't misinterpret his affection as his brow crinkles in concern at your unexpected appearance.

Stepping into your space and pausing just shy of touching, he looks you up and down in search of a hidden injury or a malady that may have befallen you in the three hours you spent apart. When he doesn't find it, he asks, "Are you alright?"

"Yes! Yes, I-" Ah, you didn't mean to worry him. That, and you hadn’t planned on visiting him at all. Not prior to your date. But you've been strolling down the marketplace and somewhere between catching the whiff of a perfect gift and stuffing it into the depth of your pocket you've turned up here, at the office. "I just wanted to see you. Sorry I-"

"Please don't be," Laurent's quick to interrupt, tone shifting from alarm to audible fondness so speedly that the change sends a spike of warmth directly into your chest. "I love seeing you-"

Somebody snickers, ruining the moment. A sharp smack follows, then a hushed 'ouch'. You don't have to glance in that direction to name the interrupters; a glimpse of a burgundy leather jacket and a black raincoat disappearing around the corner confirms your suspicion.

Sighing loudly, but sparing no comment, Laurent points you towards his office, letting you enter first, then walking in behind you. A twin shouts of, "The walls are see-through!" and "Not on the desk!" make him slap the door closed so hard the glass rattles.

Stifling a laugh in your palms, you feel the burn of your abruptly reddening cheeks. Laurent, on the other hand, all but rolls his eyes. "So," he says, clearing his throat. "Would you like a drink?"

You shake your head, but when he gestures at the swivel chair you let yourself rest there while he pulls a folding stool for himself. The dark fabric of the upholstery is dry to the touch, but foamy and quite comfortable. It surprises you to note that Laurent's seat isn't as firm as his couch, not that anything could rival that sack of bricks.

Laurent doesn't inquire for the reason of your arrival, content to simply sit with you in silence while you choose your words. In the end you pull out the small, nicely enveloped box and place it on the desk.

"This is for you," you mutter, pushing the package until Laurent picks it off the table with a surprised, "For me?" and a quiet, "Thank you, you shouldn't have," that's more of a mechanical pleasantry, a leftover of his early childhood wasted by learning the proper etiquette from his father rather than an authentic reluctance.

As you watch Laurent open the parcel with gentle but intent movements, your excitement grows. The strawberries glazed with white and milk chocolate, appropriately decorated with red sprinkles, usually wouldn't be a pricey treat, if the fruit weren't currently out of season.

Still, the splurge was worth the dazzling, almost child-like smile that sprouts on Laurent's face at the sight. The eager glimmer in his eyes as he regards the snacks tempts you to reach for a morsel and plop it into his parted lips to see his reaction. You refrain.

Laurent eats like he does everything else; decidedly and with a strange stiffness broken only by the attar of grass and petrichor that blends with the ever-present redolence of cinnamon. Genuine happiness, you find, suits him well.

After sharing a few of the strawberries with you, he caches the remaining half, securing it like a precious treasure and hiding it in the desk's drawer that he leaves open. "I also have something for you."

Aside from the invitation to a fancy restaurant you couldn't afford with a yearly salary? What more could he give you? "Oh?"

"Do you remember last year, when you mentioned wanting a pony?"

Your heart jumps at the reminder. It's been nearly a year… Surely he has to know by now that you were joking?

Your expression has to be truly comical because Laurent's laughs, a short, crisp chortle. "I didn't," he asserts, pre-empting your question. His grin wobbles slightly as he reached inside the drawer he left ajar earlier. "I wanted to give it to you later, but-"

"Oh, wow." In front of you stands the ugliest, most uncanny tiny statue of a horse painstakingly carved out of almond paste and wrapped with a pink, semi-translucent foil. It's honestly the most hideous thing you've ever seen. And it's perfect. "I love it!"

Laurent's shoulder slump. He doesn't say, 'I'm glad' but you can read it on every slope of his body. "It was Flavio's idea."

"I assumed as much." Who else could it be, really?

It doesn't seem to be the end of your presents, however. Next to the marzipan figurine Laurent places a box of regular chocolates, an expensive and overpriced brand of heart-shaped truffles. "That too?"

"That's in case-" '-you didn't like the gag gift, or he chickened out.' This guy, really. The novelty of his shyness hasn’t worn off yet. You suspect it won't anytime soon.

"Thank you."

There's a hint of awkwardness in the way he reaches for your hand, as though despite all that you went through he still expects you to shrug it off. Which you don't, of course you don't. His skin is cold, but it warms up against yours, slowly, like the owner did.

"I do love the pony."

"Don't tell Flavio that." Distracted with knitting your fingers together, Laurent fails to bring enough gruffnes to his tone to sufficiently pretend he's cross with his friend. 'He won't let me live this down,' goes without saying.

"I won't," you assure. You both beam at the lie.