H. Montgomery.

Friend date? Oz wants to make fun of it but he holds his tongue. He'll take what he can get... even as he stares over the romantic candlelight, out at a beautiful view. At the sea of couples speaking in hushed, sweet tones to one another. Sure. Friend date. That's what this is.

"Then I suppose you'll do as you like, won't you?" He says simply. A tiny smirk, a lean into his hand. It presses his cheek just a bit, dimpling his smile further.

"I guess I'll have to." Oz agrees with a nod. The waiter is coming over with food - delicious, extravagant plates that he's sure cost as much as they look. Set down in front of both of them, some replenished water in glasses, and then they're gone. Oz picks up his napkin. "I won't judge your reading choices." He points out. "Everyone reads different shit. Just because I appear scholarly, intelligent, and incredibly attractive, doesn't mean that I read the most pretentious and verbose books I can find." He adds a bit of wine to each of their glasses. "Yours looks good. Will you let me try?"

"Well, yes." The other's words left him a bit perplexed, as if there was some sort of double entendre for him to figure out. Once again, his puzzlement settled on his stomach. He straightened up, picking up his glass to sip some wine.

As the plates arrived, Harry glanced over at Oz, supposedly to catch a glance of his plate, but quite frankly, it had more to do with more puzzlement on his end. A date, the other said. He couldn't help it, and he let out a sharp, shallow breathe.

Why would the other assume he was interested? Oz was a handsome man, but Harry didn't think much more of it. Anytime his gaze lingered too much where it shouldn't, he figured he was just tired.

It's a good thing he speaks again. Lost in his train of thoughts, Harry could have stayed quiet for a while longer. "No : Wait you haven't read that? With a disgusted frown and a knowing look? Well that's disappointing," he laughs and his smile lingers. "Scholarly, intelligent and incredibly attractive," a slight eye roll. "I envy the confidence," he finally states, picking up his fork and spoon to have a go at his pasta. "I think you'd like it," as demanded, he prepares a 'perfect' spoonful for him, handing it over the table for him to pour into his plate.

Oz could've guessed that. From all his observations, his assumptions, context clues... he had a pretty good idea that this was the first time Harry's gotten out for a while. "Yeah, you called this an appointment, hun." The pet name is sticking, and it's no longer said with sarcasm or smugness. In fact, he's saying it with a little almost affectionate smile this time.

Then it softens into a thoughtful look. He's quiet as the waiter comes by, and he mumbles a soft 'thank you' before turning back to Harry. He normally practices with the forearm crutches at night. When no one can see him. But it's more dangerous that way, honestly. Maybe if he had someone with him...

"Yeah. I think that would... I mean, sure. If you want to, I can't stop you, can I?" Oz chuckles, dipping his head in embarrassment again. He's trying to be careful about his wine intake, taking his time. But the bread helps, too. "Maybe you can play for me sometime. Or better yet, we duet. Piano and violin." Oz adds.

"Friend date," he rolled his eyes, all while making a point to stubbornly refuse Oz's terms. Glancing at the other, he's surprised to find kindness where he expected snide smugness. His gaze softens on the spot and he looks away, toward the waiter, if only to ask for sparkling water and thank him.

"You cannot stop me, that is correct," because he was a man of his word, and though he apparently had been brought on this Earth to please, Hieronymus was not a pushover, the sort to throw himself under the bus for anyone. He drew the line at self respect and knew better than to offer to do things he'd hate. Oz had the potential to become a good friend, but that wouldn't happen overnight. It would take work.

"If want to hear me play, I guess you'll have to come over. And then I can show my book shelves." A pause. "You'll probably judge my reading choices," because he believed in keeping his personal culture up to date and read everything people talked about over a cocktail drink.

Oz nods. "Yeah, I know." He says sincerely. Because in reality, it should be easy enough to pick up violin again. "You ever feel guilty any time you're not working or doing the one thing everyone thinks you're supposed to do?" Because the questions from family about physio, the little comments...

Harry asks a question that's a bit personal - but he'd already given him the diving board for it. Deeper waters. He isn't affronted by the question either, just seeming to mull it over.

"It's... embarrassing. It shouldn't be... it should be a fucking thrill. But." Oz tells him honestly. His eyes are pained, briefly, as he meets Harry's gaze. "I used to go to clubs. Dance, party. Take people home. I was running around to bars..." Agile. Silent. A perfect killer. "...The forearm crutches are clunky. It requires me being slow. Being the person everyone's waiting for. Hands aren't free." Oz sets his jaw, and his eyes flit from Harry and down to his plate. "It's much easier to use the chair. Does that sound... really fucking stupid?"

He laughs then, sheepish. Fingers play with the edge of a cloth napkin on the table, still under a fork and knife at his left side.

"I'm gonna be honest with you and say that this is the first non work related dinner I've had in months," because he always prioritized work. Doing the job well, if not perfectly, was one perfectly decent way to get that rush of serotonin. It took a lot of effort, but it worked, right? "I think I work all the time because I can't handle the guilt that comes with doing nothing," and yes, in his family's handbook, anything that wasn't work was nothing.

The other's silence has Harry wondering if he hasn't asked too much.

But then he speaks, and Harry remembers the man he had ran into at that fundraiser. There was no doubt the other still oozed confidence and perhaps some cockiness too, but those things he described, they did seem a bit complicated to achieve on crutches. The Oz he had met last year kept pestering him into going to a night bar, insisting that he wanted proof that Harry was not stiff. Of course, Harry didn't go, mainly because he'd have been too stiff. "It doesn't sound stupid. The chair must be a lot more comfortable and for now it must feel easier," he presses his lips together. His only other experience with mobility aids was with his grand parents, which wasn't a fait comparison.

"If you ever want to go on a walk with me, I'd happily join. I usually go to the park on my lunch break," summer or winter. He liked emptying his head like he said.

The waiter stops by to ask if they're okay and refills their glasses before letting them know the food will be there soon. He glances back to Oz, "I mean I don't want to force you if that's really uncomfortable. You do things at your own pace, you know?" Too bad he was incapable of doing the same thing.

A roll of his eyes when Harry brags about it... but Oz would do the exact same thing in his position. So he lets it go. Grabs up his glass to take a small sip of wine.

He doesn't have to affirm it- because Hieronymus begins talking about it. His feelings about piano. How it helps him empty his head. Giving life to a piece. Oz has his face leaned against one hand and smiles a bit fondly. "Yeah. Yeah, I do know. But that's a great way of putting it." He murmurs, looking to the side for a moment. Thinking of what to say.

"I dunno. Too much other work. I got... distracted. And any time I pick up the violin now, I feel uh." Shit. He hadn't meant to get this deep. "I feel like I should be working on walking." He admits, releasing a breath. "I have forearm crutches. I'm supposed to be... working on it. But I don't do it as often as I should."

A great way of putting it.

The compliment makes Harry pause. He hasn't been reacting too well to those so far, but this one strikes, and Hieronymus gives his first genuinely pleased smile of the evening. He shouldn't feed like a vampire on this, get such a sense of pride over his wording, or his intellect being complimented.

It's a shame that the other is looking the other way and can't see it, he supposes.

"Nothing stops you from doing both," he assures him. "If something makes you feel good about yourself, you shouldn't sacrifice it," but being able to walk, to regain mobility? That must have been one hell of a mountain to climb.

Harry pauses. "What stops you from working on that?" Perhaps was it fear that he might not succeed, he thought. That would have stopped him for sure.

He doesn't mind the silence. Oz is usually rather quiet - he'll let silence linger and fester if it means that he can make someone uncomfortable. However, this is a different kind. It's calm, punctuated by piano music and soft chatter behind them. Even an occasional boat hitting its horn in the darkness. It's nice.

"I don't think I could either." Oz agrees, for once not trying to find the smug upper hand. Harry's right - with his current job at the Atheneum, he makes a nice amount of money. But it's nothing like working in government, or law. Or anything like that. "See why I have to impress you?" Oz points out with a wink.

Then he talks of music. He's immediately enticed and leans into the table. A cursory sip of wine but his eyes stay on Harry the entire time. "...And did you enjoy it? Playing piano? You talk about a lot of things without mentioning your feelings on them. Very diplomatic, but I'd like to know Hieronymus a little deeper than bullet points."

And believe it or not, Oz doesn't mean it in a dirty way. He looks a bit shy as he thinks about his own answer. "...I enjoyed violin. For a bit. Just in school, college. Something to do. Ended up selling it, years ago."

"You don't need to impress me." A pause. "But I knew you were trying to impress me. I was right," he boasts a little. He gets insufferable when he wins anything even something mundane like that. That's when he notices the wink doesn't even strike him as out of place. And now he's noticed that, and he's taking a deep breath to calm his nerves.

"Oh, you want me to talk about my feelings?" Well, that was a shame cause this was precisely the sort of subjects he wanted to avoid at all costs around Oz. Too slippery. Yet, music was a safe subject, wasn't it? "No need for past tense. I still play. It's such a lovely instrument, very versatile." There weren't many tunes you couldn't carry with one. "But huh, yeah, fuck huh... I think it empties my head and I direly need to do that after work," he rubs at his under eye, as if to emphasize on how tired it made him. "Makes me feel good, that I can turn notes on paper into something else. It's not creation but... I'm still giving life to the piece, you know?" Over, and over, and over again.

"Now violin's hard. Why did you stop? We could have started a duet and toured every terrible bar in Brooklyn," he let out a small laugh. "You don't miss it?"

But? There's the deflection again. Suddenly he's not so keen on showing him his books. Suddenly there's some reason they can't do it. Oz wonders if he should be keeping a tally somewhere - how many times Harry tries to shift to another topic or go back on something he's already said.

Then it's quiet. Oz can see the gears turning again - Harry seems to be thinking about what he's brought up. Really thinking on it. And the way he's concentration... it's cute. The ex-hitman swirls his new glass of wine, and waits patiently. Takes a slow slip and sets it down gingerly. He even starts in on the warm bread, dipping in the olive oil.

He knows he's hit some kind of chord. And that's what he'd like to find out more about - that chord somewhere in there. The true aspirations of Hieronymus Montgomery.

But there it is again. They're off and talking about Oz's work instead. They smirk, but say nothing about it. "I don't think you'd like working at the book shop." He takes a small bite of the bread he's ripped up into sections. "I think... you need to be around more people. Organizing, getting things together. Making things happen." A smile - a real one. "But if you want to be my PA, I'm sure I can find some things for you to do. Won't be very exciting though. Just following me around all day. "

The pair fails quiet and Harry is well too aware that it's his fault. He is a good communicant. Usually. Around him, it's clearly a different story, but wasn't always so.

"I know. I was... joking," he fumbles. This isn't going so well and he hates it. The other's smile helps, it's almost therapeutic. He smiles back. "As much as I would be perfectly able to do each of these how do difficult tasks," which ones ? The other mentioned it would be boring and involve following him around. The latter doesn't sound too bad, as long as he's able to pester him all day long.

"You couldn't afford me anyway..." And there's this slight arrogance again, because the other implied once that he could do better than that. Harry has felt it too, but it reminds him of his parents getting worked up over him getting the second or worse, third best grade. His smile returns again, until it reaches his eyes. "But huh, you said something about music earlier," he remembers cause it just changed and he's thankful. No more fucking Mozart. "I play the piano. My parents got me started when I was 5. They probably thought I'd end up in the philarmonic." He gives an exaggerated shrug, scoffs and leans back. "You play music yourself?"

#hieronymus montgomery | portraits

rylandgrac

SUCCESSION | 3.05 Roman Roy + 😟

@oliviaberkeley

He receives a call, right as he exits the courthouse, arms full of files he's meant to organize, notes he hasn't finished recopying and a bunch of other tasks trotting in the back of his head, like a mental checklist that never ever gets entirely fulfilled.

"We're calling from the office of Mrs. Berkeley," why was the governor's wife calling? She was Emma's friend, sure, but it's not like he had much of an opportunity to talk to her personally before. "Uh-huh," he nodded, as they explained that she wanted to see him for tea, at a location they'll ping him soon.

He recalls meeting her a few times, but he'd always been doing his best to stay discreet and most importantly focused on his job.

He was still unsure of what this was about as he approached one of those classic Indiana limestone buildings so typical of New York's golden age. A concierge greets him, and he can spot a bodyguard reaching for his ear piece. It's like he's in an episode of House of Cards, or something. He half expects to be told that he's not allowed to come in, but he's instead invited to walk into the hallway and get searched. Lovely. He's still carrying his fucking files under his arm because he hasn't had the time to stop at his flat. He had to double check he didn't let anything fall into the cab. The concierge seems to be aware of his distress and offers him a cardboard box to put away his belongings. Feels like getting through TSA at JFK. He sighs. He's getting nervous now, and it doesn't get better as he gets out of the elevator and is welcomed by another gorilla in a suit who tells him to wait.

#olivia #hieronymus montgomery | interactions

Oz chuckles at that. In reality... most of it's a lie. But he can't very well tell the man in front of him about working as a hitman, can he? "It's alright. More trouble than it's worth. There was a fine severance package."

The wine fills up, and he quirks an eyebrow at being told he could see Harry's library sometime. Could he? That promised another meeting outside of the fundraiser. Possibly another date. He nods. "Only if I can buy you coffee first." He adds.

The glass is lifted to his lips. And the answer Hieronymus gives isn't... really much of anything. He does more than a typical PA? So what? He's Harvard educated, intelligent, witty. Organized, responsible. "Is that it? You just... do more than a typical PA? You can do better than someone's assistant. Not that it's a bad job." He holds up a hand to make sure the other understands. He's not about to diminish what he does. He knows he does quite a bit.

"You just. Seem like you know what you're doing. More than others. You should set your sights higher. Bet you'd hit the stars."

"Fine. I'd show you my bookshelves but erh," there's the fact that his boss is paying the rent that makes him sometimes feel like he doesn't truly owns the place or belong here. It's silly and it's not. His salary would never cover that kind of rent after all, but if she paid him extra instead of covering his rent... Well he'd definitely have a nice place that wasn't one floor below hers. He knows that historically, the help live above their employers, but this isn't exactly an Hausmann building and that rule doesn't apply here.

Well that and that would mean letting the other into his intimacy, the intimacy of his home.

It's not a bad job, Oz says, but he can tell the other doesn't feel very much satisfied about it. He just isn't used to making the calls. It's comforting, being told what to do and doing it perfectly. It's what he's been doing since preschool. His parents would always comment on how he never misbehaved, how his grades were the best. They made sure of that. Everytime he brought back home a marked homework, they'd make sure he got the best grade of his class. He most often did. He didn't like to disappoint.

And yes, he's thought about what he'd really like to do if he had the 'guts' for it. He could he chief of staff. He had the experience and it would allow him to do well too, but... what if he wasn't good at it ? That. That also petrified him.

He realizes then that he hasn't said much in response to that, as if he knows there's no retort good enough. Still, he attempts to deliver. It's what he does.

"I know that," no. He's been told so before. He doesn't believe it. "If the opportunity arises, why not?" But even if he's great at what he does, it's not like he's advertising it. Aside from his carefully updated LinkedIn profile, there's nothing. "Why? Are you offering me a job?" Change the subject.

Deflected. Harry doesn't explain his own interest in piano, but instead shifts to Oz. He notices it, as he notices many things- but he keeps the conversation going. No point in making some quip or observation after everything. He'd be there all night.

"I was working in labs and they moved to a new location, farther out. Started taking my motorcycle to work - until that didn't work out so well for me." It's probably the first time he's gone beyond a small joke about his injury and given some type of explanation for Harry as to why he's gone from walking to sitting.

Then: "A friend owns the Atheneum. Offered to have me come on as a manager - because the labs had all these issues, said I was gone too long, couldn't take me back. Commute was too far anyways." He finishes his glass of wine. "But got really into bookbinding. Fixing old originals. Some of them are over 100 years old, hun. You should see them."

Harry's compliment delights him. Oz's eyes might just spark to say so. "I thought you might like it." Is what he says in response with a softer smile. "Pour me another glass?" He's fully capable, but isn't it more romantic when the other does it for him?

"Oh, so..." He doesn't say he's sorry. Why would he be sorry? He hated it when people said they were sorry for shit they didn't cause. Talk about talking to say absolutely nothing. "If you ever want to sue your former employer," he begins instead, because there are at least a handful of laws that would have the man's back.

Harry hadn't dared to ask what happened. He quipped at their heights, and that was it.

Hun. That petname again. Harry has decided to be graceful about it. He won't be annoyed. It's always easier to play along, right!? Besides, he had started it. But then, why is he rubbing at the back of his neck, and feeling a weird sort of glee at the idea of seeing him again. Why is he fucking smiling? Is he an idiot ?

"You don't want to know how I fix my old books," with glue and tape. Some are so well loved they fall apart at the spine. He doesn't doubt he owns novels that are at least half a century old. Thrifting was one of his hobbies, after all. "But I'd happily show you my library too, some day," because that seemed like a safe subject to discuss and one of these things they seemed to have in common.

As requested, he takes a hold of the bottle, thumb slipping into its base to refill both their wine glasses. He doesn't evade his gaze this time, and again smiles. "Anyhow regarding being a PA with my kind of education," he is willing to reply now, so he does precisely that, "I suppose I go beyond the usual things a PA solves." Ideally, he'd work for politicians. He's too polyvalent to let this be the peak of his career. Before he realized he truly laughed speaking in public, he had thought about becoming one. Congressman of West Virginia had a nice ring to it and his family was influential enough that he'd have been successful but ... The exposure petrified him. He could barely stand being under the other's scrutiny.

He does like when Harry snaps back a bit. Okay, maybe he is trying to impress. The whole point is to make it as obvious as possible what he's trying to do. And that means fancy wine, a beautiful view, a romantic and small table. Close quarters.

It's very interesting how Hieronymus seems to be distracted by the music. Making faces to himself about the choices of songs played. "Political science... but you seem to know quite a bit about piano." He can't help but comment, as he picks up his wine again. "I'm 42."

The waiter comes to take their orders and Oz is already sure what he wants. A pasta with shrimp and a lemony cream sauce, broccolini. All that. But he hands the menu over to their server quickly, and glances back at Harry. Almost shyly as he laughs. "You caught me staring at you, huh?" A soft shrug. "You look nice tonight, that's all."

There's no hint of smugness this time. Oz even looks away to the view briefly. He's been caught red-handed - and he fixes his nice watch before seeing some fresh bread set on the table. Warm with olive oil and butter. "Harvard is pretty illustrious. And you... want to be a PA?" He doesn't say it with judgment, just curiosity.

"What about you? How do you move from labs to old books?" He doesn't deny that he has some sort of connection to music, but he doesn't confirm it either. He's a bit self conscious about it. Part of him could have just done a musicology major, but he doubted his family would have supported him. No, there were too many pianists and too little places for them to shine. He'd have ended in the corner of the room tonight, playing music for Oz and his date.

"42. So we really could have crossed path there," he notes, pausing only to order. Cacio e pepe pasta, with zests of lime on top. He doesn't comment on the similarities in their picks and instead pinches at the bridge of this nose. Someone please kill him right now. "You've already said. Jeez did I look that bad at the fundraiser." Possibly. He hated these and maybe he radiated with that negative energy. Or maybe the other was once again succeeding at playing with his nerves.

He follows his gaze. That is quite the view. Still his eyes are drawn to the other, before he realizes, he's doing the same thing, as if trying to memorize his face. By the time he realizes what he's doing, he averts his eyes immediately, as if worried they will catch fire. Clearing his throat, he breaks the silence with a compliment, because he can't help it. He's polite. "Regardless, this is a really nice place. I am impressed, Oz." And he half expects the other to reply that he knows.

"Did I say I was trying to impress you?" Oz asks right back. But the whole time, his smug expression remains. A tiny grin behind his hand as he leans his elbow onto the armrest of his chair. Maybe he pulled some strings at this place. Maybe he brought up an accessibility case he found online where they had not been able to seat someone in a wheelchair and a whole issue arose over it. They wouldn't want that to happen again, would they? Another red line through their picturesque record? And for two men, too? Homophobic, on top of it?

You look good. Oz knows he looks better than good, but he takes it for now. Baby steps, after all. The closet door can only be pulled so far open at a time. "Thank you."

He perks up a bit in interest. "Oh shit, really? I went to Northeastern for my BS. Then came to NYU for my Masters, ended up working at Brooklabs over in Brooklyn as a chemist and laboratory analyst. Didn't realize you'd been in Boston, though." A beat. "I don't think I've ever asked how old you are, Hieronymus."

The glass of wine lifts to his lips - he watches the candle's wick seem to glimmer on the glass, in the reflection of Harry's eyes. He could compliment again, but he bites his tongue. Don't get too gay, Oz.

"You didn't need to say," you didn't bring someone to a place like that unless you had an agenda. He still hadn't quite figured out what Oz' agenda was, but you wouldn't have him fooled into thinking he had just picked the first restaurant in the phone book. "But fine, I'm gonna pretend you're not doing that." He deadpans then smiles sweetly though there really is nothing sweet about the way he peers at him now.

The pianist moves onto a piece from La Flûte Enchantée, and he can't repress a look of annoyance. He had rehearsed that dreaded fucking thing to enter conservatory, and he didn't need the partition to play it, even after all this time. Call it muscle memory, or trauma.

It fades away quickly enough however. It's much more interesting to focus on their conversation (the contrary would be quite worrying). "Well shit, we were practically neighbors huh?" That is if they went there around the same time, though he doubted they were far apart in age. "I got both my degrees at Harvard, and then I worked for an editor in New York for a while," he pauses, and takes a sip of wine. "You have never asked how old I am," he confirms and then, for a fleeting moment, it seems like he'll leave it there. "I'm 40. You?"

The waiter is approaching now, and Hieronymus picks up his menu because he still has a first of his class approach to life that compels him to always be ready. That is, until he catches the way the other looks at him and he manages to persuade himself he has something on his nose. "What?"

He knows it's too much - it's exactly why he'd picked it. There were cheaper restaurants. Crab shacks and eateries, bistros downtown. And maybe they'd go to some little Lobster Shanty some day. But this was a statement in all its ridiculous glory. Oz enjoys it a bit more than he should. He can see the gears in Harry's mind turning as he sits and thinks.

The wine is just as fancy - and the menu is, as well. But he doesn't focus on food just yet. Oz leans on his arms on the table so he can get a proper look at him. Appointment? Before he answers his abysmal attempt at small talk, Oz states: "You look really handsome, Harry. I like this on you - not as stuffy. The color, too." He tilts his head, a softer smile. "You look hot."

It's 100% true. Oz just isn't so sure the other knows it. After making sure he's complimented him appropriately, he goes into the question. "Yeah. Originally from Massachusetts, near the water. It's why I like these kinds of views so much." He lifts his wine, takes a small sip. "Moved to New York for my masters in bio-chem."

A beat. "...And what about you? New York, born and bred, or?"

"You do know you don't need to impress me," he points out, tilting his head to read the label on the bottle by the table. He just needs to read the year to know it's as pricey as anything on the menu. Obviously, he has googled it before he had started getting ready for tonight. He had already picked what he'd eat. Force of habit. He likes planning ahead, and he detests a surprise, though he tolerates the pleasant ones.

His stomach is full of knots, though it seems to relax as he picks up on familiar notes. Turning his head to glance at the pianist in the corner of the room, a smile finds itself on his lips as he picks up on the theme of La Traviata. He has to stop himself from humming along, and he clears his throat, just in time for Oz to ignore his question. Glancing down at himself, he places his right hand on his right shoulder as if to check on the other's words himself, until ... you look hot. He's glad he's not looking at him. He freezes, tenses, and his stomach does it again, this thing he can't name or explain. "Thank you, you look good too," he finally manages, pressing his lips together as he finally crosses his gaze. Asshole, his eyes whisper.

"Boston?" His eyebrows furrow at the mention of the other's education. He expected a B.A. in Literature, possibly a Masters in American Poetry. Once again, he's surprised, and inevitably, drawn in. He leans forward, wrists resting against the edge of the table. "I'm not from New York, no. I come from West Virginia," he pauses. "I did study in Boston though. I had a flat in Beacon Hill." His major won't come as a surprise, he supposes. "I did my BA and masters there. Political Sciences and Public Relations."

( @hieronymus-montgomery )

It's a date.

No, but it really is. Oz has made sure there's no denying that's exactly what he's invited Hieronymus on- even the text he's sent for confirmation read: '8 o'clock at The River Café for our date. Under Levi Ozymandias Saffet. See you there, hun'.

He's dressed nicely - all black, with tiny hints of leather accoutrement, from the top lapel of the blazer and a simple strap on the shoulder. A cross-body bag as well, which he's hung on the back of his wheelchair. The place is gorgeous - and it is only couples there, and intimate tables of two. At 8 o'clock, it's delightfully dark outside, and the skyline is seen through every window. Gorgeous blues from lights on the nearby marina flanked with swaying boats, and the tiny little squares of endless office windows. Picturesque.

He's already ordered a bottle of wine - red. A candle's on the table. And maybe Oz doesn't do this kind of romance. But it's all part of the bit. All part of watching Hieronymus Montgomery squirm and come apart. So when he sees him actually appear, Oz is smiling a bit too excitedly. Smugness dissipates into... shit. He's glad he's there. And he looks good. "Not too shabby of a place, hm? Didn't know if you'd actually show, hun. Got me a bit nervous."

Harry can't count how many times he's read that singular text as if the Zodiac Killer is behind it and he hasn't found the code yet to decipher it.

He's never been to that place, but when he looks it up, he knows immediately it's the sort of place that would be fully booked. He doesn't want to know how the other managed. Or maybe he does. As always, when it comes to Levi Ozymandias Saffet (as he so gracefully fully introduced himself), he is intrigued.

He can't count either how long he has spent picking an outfit that doesn't look like he's at the courthouse, but is neither too casual or dressy. Of course he settles on a suit, they are of comfort to him, but he doesn't wear a tie tonight, and he doesn't button all the way up which really should suffice to show how relaxed he is about this whole ordeal.

But that's before he spots him, notices a few details. Oz is nicely dressed, but that's not precisely surprising. He didn't expect this would be a candlelight dinner. And now it's too late to run.

"Not too shabby of a place," he agrees. And he even starts with a compliment. Jesus fucking Christ. Unfuckingbelievable. "I never miss an appointment," appointment, not date, and he makes it a point not to pick up on the endearment term because he knows, he remembers who used it first. Sitting down, he thanks the waiter for pouring him a glass of wine, and turns his gaze toward Oz. What are they gonna talk about without a fundraiser to criticize ? "You..." He starts. He doesn't like silence. "Sorry, I suppose it would be a good time to get to know you. You're from around here ?"

Oz grins. The subtle flex is very cute. He leans and nods. "I should be alright, but I'll let you know."

He bites his tongue on anything else. He'd like to say more, but it's much more fun to watch Harry agree, seem to decide if this is alright or not. And he wants to. So.

Perfect. "Then it's a date." He says nice and bluntly, patting his hands onto his lap as the decision is made. "I think maybe 8 PM. A later dinner, so we can get drinks and it won't be too busy. I'll find a nice spot. Maybe with a view... dunno if I can beat this one though." He glances at the large, picturesque window only briefly before turning back at Harry. His eyes flitting over him.

"I'm looking forward to it." Genuinely.

"You're gonna be alright? You're booking last minute on New Year's Day hun," he raises his eyebrows. Whatever you say, he seems to quietly comment. He raises his hands in surrender. "But I trust your word," because the other has given Hieronymus no reason to doubt.

It's a date. Motherfucker. Harry could bet he's doing it on purpose, some sick desire to one up him, make him squirm. A power move like he's seen many before. Usually they leave him jaded, this one makes his stomach twist. The view is a good change of conversation. He has to agree on this much, the venue is a great one, and he's already reached out to the manager. While he looks outside, he doesn't notice that the other's looking at him, it's probably better that way.

"Sure. 8pm is a good idea." He didn't like it very much when restaurants were loud and crowded and the first and second services often were.