Chapter Text
This is why Don never lets Serrure tell the story of how they met, because this is how Serrure tells the story.
Any passer-by would find the scene innocuous enough, and perhaps it is, if you don’t know Serrure: two enraptured ladies on a Paris park bench, a dark-haired boy perched next to them, gesticulating as he tells them a story. Innocuous enough - endearing, even – until one listens to the story being told.
Serrure had lured an audience of two visiting English ladies on the pretense of needing to practice his English. This was, as far as Don was concerned, a blatant lie. Serrure’s English needed no practice - save for its slight French accent, he was as fluent as a native speaker.
"Don and I met in a back alley, did you know that? So deep into the darkest reaches of the night, it was nearly morning. It was just like a story. I fell into his arms and he took me to his bed.”
Serrure looks over his shoulder as if to make sure they’re not overheard, but it’s really to catch Don’s eye. He knows who his real audience is.
“Don didn’t know my name, and I didn’t know his,” Serrure added, almost as an afterthought. “But,” he says, his eyes lighting up, “He was really good with his hands, so… that didn’t matter.”
Don rolls his eyes. “Are you quite done?”
Serrure beams. “Almost!” He regards his audience. “And after that night, I couldn’t walk straight for a week.”
"Do you want to say that a little louder?" asks Don, dryly. "I don't think they heard you over in England."
Serrure grins from ear to ear, and damn if Don has come to know that wicked look as well as he knows his own name.
The tale only gets wilder with each successive retelling. Weeks ago, Don would never have imagined anyone who looks as young as Serrure does to be possessed of such talent with innuendo, but clearly, Serrure has come into his life to disabuse him of his cherished notions of childhood (well…. adolescent) innocence.
That, and to show him he was wrong about many, many things.
"Well," Serrure begins. His voice drops an octave, and Don’s heart sinks with it. Don does not like that tone of voice at all – Serrure would have to be at least ten years older for that tone of voice to not be grounds on which to arrest him, and it would still be wrong.
Serrure notices the look on his face. "You could always tell them what really happened, Don.” As if Don’s version of events would exonerate him, rather than dig him ever deeper into the pit Serrure is making ready for him.
"You are going to get me arrested," mutters Don.
“It won’t come to that,” Serrure says, quickly, with a winning smile.
In all honesty (which Serrure has very little of), Don finds it very hard to be (or stay) angry at the boy.
"I'm surprised no one has ever tried silencing you permanently," he remarks.
"They'd have to catch me first," laughs Serrure, completely unrepentant. He leans against Don's side, his hair tickling the crook of Don’s arm. “Anyway,” he murmurs to Don, soft enough that only the two of them can hear, “The last time someone tried, you were there.”
For someone who'd pulled a knife on Don the first time they'd met (when Don was trying to help him, no less), he had gotten over his watchful reservation extraordinarily fast, and weeks into their acquaintance was casually invading Don's personal space as if they had known each other all their lives. Don had wondered if this was safe (for either of them); but he soon realised that if an unusual lack of reserve characterised Serrure’s exchanges with him, the reverse was true of Serrure's relationship with the rest of the world. Then, Serrure was much like the boy Don had encountered in that Montmartre alley; less a boy than a wary, watchful alley cat.
Don still hadn’t figured out what made him different, and he wasn’t whether he would like the answer if he actually did.
As he was lost in his thoughts, Serrure was coming to the end of his tale.
“And the best part is,” Serrure crows, his eyes catching Don’s, alight with glee, “Every single word of the story I’ve just told you is true!”
“That was a dirty trick,” Don reproaches.
Serrure looks at Don with those artfully wounded eyes, and Don knows what really happened, and can’t help but find himself half-believing this, too.
“Tell me which part of that story was a lie,” Serrure says, eyes shining with triumph.
“You are a rogue,” Don says, and try as he might, he can’t keep his fondness for the boy colouring his voice, “A scamp, and a liar of the highest order, and you should be clapped in chains and left to rot in the prisons of Paris.”
“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” Serrure smirks.
And the hell of it is, that’s true too.