“You have to go, it’ll be good for you!” Cosette had crooned as soon as Charlie had extended the invitation. Stanley wasn’t particularly accustomed to the phrase ‘lads night out’, but the way the other man had thrown the words out with promises of shots and blind drunkenness, it hadn’t taken him long to figure out that this was a ploy for Charlie to integrate himself into the party scene of Cherry Grove. All under the guise of making Gaston feel better about Belle.
That had been drama Stanley wanted to firmly remain on the outskirts of. His sisters – well, namely Cosette and Nicole – were the ones that raised holy hell while Stanley stood to the side as the more quiet member of their family, ready to clean up rather than encourage their behaviour. But that was all part of his brotherly duties, and he supposed that extended to the fraternal bond he shared with Gaston, forged through army days where they sweated in the desert heat and struck up complaints about the chocolate of their M&M’s – the only treats they were rationed – melting inside their shell. It was his job to help cheer him up, right? And Cosette seemed to think there was no harm in him expanding the boundaries of his social life either.
Soon, he’d been convinced to go – even if the night wasn’t shaping up to be a promising one. As soon as he’d showed up at Gaston’s place, he realised that, for the rest of the night, he was going to be keeping company with a less than ideal crowd. He didn’t mean to be rude, oh no! Stanley always went out of his way to avoid insulting others, but it’s not like he was particularly close to anyone else here.
“Here he is! Are you ready to precopeo before this fiesta, mi amigo?” Charlie grinned, rushing forward to clap him on the back. Stanley gave him a blank stare.
“Pretty sure that’s a microaggression,” came a thick Scottish accent. Stanley turned to see Meredith throwing the stink eye at Charlie. Sure, the blonde hadn’t meant to be… well, unintentionally racist, but his words, drunk as they were, had made Stanley cringe. And evidently Meredith had picked up on it.
“A what?” Charlie asked, screwing his face up in confusion. “What is that when it’s at home?”
“It’s… like…” Meredith huffed, trying to grasp the right words. “Everyday language that isnae meant to be racist or derogatory but actually is. It communicates – what was it? – negative connotations.”
Stanley and Charlie stared at her.
“What?” Meredith snapped defensively. She folded her arms and shrugged her shoulders. “Belle taught me about it.”
“Shhhhh!” Charlie cut in, moving to cover Meredith’s mouth with his hand before the look on her face stopped him. “We can’t mention that name tonight, Outlander!”
Stanley began rubbing his temples as Meredith soon exploded again. There was only so much talk about microaggressions that he could handle when he was still sober, so he swiftly moved away from the group and over the other party in the room, who he doubted would be best pleased to see him. Stanley had no war with Victor LeFou and the two were perfectly civil to one another, but Stanley couldn’t really shake the feeling that Victor didn’t exactly, well, like him. Maybe it was paranoia, or maybe Stanley was onto something, but the vibes he got whenever the two were in shared company – either Gaston or Nicole – it felt like Victor would prefer to be somewhere else.
But Victor was the only person not yelling right now, and Gaston had still to show face, so Stanley hesitantly pointed to the empty space next to Victor on the sofa and raised his eyebrows hopefully. “Do you mind if I…?”
Perching on the edge of the sofa cushion, Stanley wiped the palms of his hand on his jeans and stared anxiously down at the shirt he wore, wondering if he was underdressed.
“Is… Gaston still getting ready?” he ventured, figuring that small talk concerning their mutual friend was the best point of interest for the two of them.
Truth be told, Victor could easily count on one hand which of Gaston's friends he actually liked. It wasn't difficult. Meredith, Patricia, and Nicole. Those were the lucky few that had made the cut. In hindsight, it didn't make a whole lot of sense. Shouldn't logic say that he only liked Gaston's male friends – but, of course, he used the term loosely; As ignorant and bumbling as Lefou presented himself to be (and, frankly, given his degree, it was a little offensive that people bought into his act with such ease), he wasn't quite oblivious to the workings of the world around him. He knew that things such as sexuality and gender weren't quite as black and white as they were often presented. Whenever Belle had gone on one of her tirades, ranting nd raving about the male gaze, he'd merely stood by Gaston's side in solidarity, rolling his eyes and sending her on her way with a snarl. Though, admittedly, that approach never quite seemed to win Gaston's favour for him either, so he couldn't quite place where he was going; he was wrong if he didn't stand by Gaston, and allowed others to talk down to him, but he was also wrong if he so much as dared to look at Belle the wrong way.
It was utterly perplexing.
All the same, he held those three particular women in a higher regard than the rest of Gaston's friends – or maybe he should refer to them as Gaston's fans. Meredit had made it all too clear that Gaston was not her type – really, lesbian or not, was she blind? – and so that meant that he never had to worry about her motives. Try as he might, Gaston was not getting into the redhead's pants.
Then there was Patricia, of course. A little conundrum, he had to admit. Gorgeous as she was, with lon, flowing locks, and the kind of chest that usually left Gaston noticeably hard beneath his tight jeans, his best friend seemed... surprisingly disinterested in the blonde. Well, in that he seemed to hold a certain affection for her that never seemed to be on the cusp of anything romantic or sexual. Though Gaston was unaware of this fact, and Lefou highly doubted even Ms Potts herself recalled, he'd once upon a time had his own encounter with the single mother. It had been back when Victor had first arrived in Cherry Grove on one of his first days at the hospital. She'd come in, blood dripping from her nose, her own face littered with bruises, her wrist sprained, and her expression one of great anguish. It hadn't been herself that she'd been fretting over, however, but young Charlie, who'd been wailing at the top of his lungs. That had been the dreaded day he'd received that awful scar that covered his face. The memory always stayed with Lefou and, though he'd felt a glimmer of jealousy upon encountering her at Gaston's side, seeing the two grow close and develop such a bond, his instincts had been nothing but a longing to protect her. He'd never divulge the truth about what he'd seen that day, nor would he break her trust, especially unknowingly, and tell Gaston of the bruises that had coloured her features, but he felt a similar desire as his friend to keep them safe. Any fear of Gaston leaving his side, running off and creating a family of his own, it was a flame long since distinguished and replaced with a love for the two.
And, at last, was Nicolette. Simply put, she was his family. He wanted to loathe her and everything she stood for, just as his hands trembled and his stomach churned at the sight of her with Gaston, the way the bigger man's eyes raked across her curves, soon to be followed by the hands that roamed every inch of her flesh. God, he wanted to hate her, but he couldn't. He adored her, and while his own weak desires sickened him to his very core, he knew that there was a level of that same self loathing within the Bingley girl too. He saw it every time she sought to protect her sisters and keep them from Gaston's clutches; it wasn't as much jealousy as it was a longing to save them from themselves and their own misplaced affections.
Victor sighed as he stared across the room, his eyes landing on Meredith who seemed engrossed in conversation with two of the undesirables that had managed to land themselves on Victor's shit list. Had he mustered up the courage, he might have wandered over to the redhead and enlisted her to keep him company, but he had no interest. In all honesty, he had a hard time understanding her on a good day, their accents clashing constantly as they stumbled their way through awkward conversations. But, accents aside, he found there to be something entirely frustrating about keeping her company. She seemed to work the crowd with ease, in a way so drastically different to the ways that Gaston did, and always held the ability to make people laugh and smile. And then, of course, there was the Belle of it all. Much like his best friend, there seemed to be something about the brunette that caught her attention, and the thought made Lefou's skin crawl. Would he ever be rid of her?
Not to mention, he had no interest in being caught up in a conversation with Charlie or Stanley, if he could avoid it. Of course, the latter seemed to be testing him today because, before Victor knew it, he was making his way over to the sofa and taking up space that didn't belong to him. Ugh. Could Gaston not hurry up? Christ alive, what did they even need all these people here for? Was Victor not enough? He'd entertained the man himself for many years now, had nursed his bruised heart back to health time and time again. They didn't need any of these people.
Upon Stanley's question, Victor merely shrugged. He would remain tight lipped and not say a cruel world, if he could help it. He knew that Gaston thought highly of Stanley, that he enjoyed him – whether that was a merit to his personality, or down to the way his biceps bulged through his shirt, as though desperately trying to break free, his hair softly tousled and begging for fingers to push through it– no. His stomach churned again at the mere thought, and he squirmed with great discomfort in his seat. He'd be kind. If not for Gaston, then for Nicole. He'd be... okay, maybe not kind, but... tolerable.
“Sure looks like it, yup,” Victor noted, dryly. See, tolerable but not kind. Clearing his throat, he opted to stare at the ground, not trusting himself to look at him even for a second. “I imagine it takes a lot of precision to look that good. I'm sure you'd know.”
Shit. The words fell from his lips before he could stop them, and he winced. How could he be such a fool? Such an implication, it was... well, disgusting.
