Hugo Lemoine | STICKY SITUATION

The problem with Hugo Lemoine was that he had never quite learned how to leave well enough alone. Give him a party, and he'd find a way to make it twice as loud and three times as memorable. Give him a rule, and he'd spend the next twenty minutes figuring out precisely how much trouble he could get into by breaking it. Give him a pretty face, and, well. That was usually where his good judgment went to die.

Unfortunately for his mother, he'd been like that since birth.

“I'm telling you, Nic, she's fucking insane.”

Hugo had his phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, his free hand occupied with the difficult task of trying to tame his crimson hair in the reflection of his bedroom mirror. It was a losing battle. The dyed strands stuck out at peculiar angles, stubbornly refusing to cooperate with the rest of his appearance, but he supposed that was half the charm. He'd been dressed for approximately ten minutes and had already managed to misplace his keys, his lighter, and whatever remained of his patience.

“Which one?” Nicolas asked through the speaker.

Hugo paused, his fingers still tangled in his hair. “Christ, how many women do you think I'm juggling?”

“Knowing you? More than you've got fingers.”

“That's actually quite sweet of you to say. Means a lot, coming from my own flesh and blood.”

“Don't flatter yourself. I'm only your half-brother.”

“Half the blood, double the personality. It's a genetic miracle, really.”

Nicolas laughed, and Hugo grinned at his reflection. It was an easy thing, making people laugh. Easier than explaining himself, anyway. He'd spent enough of his childhood surrounded by people who treated every conversation like a business negotiation to develop a particular appreciation for anyone who could laugh at a stupid joke without wondering what it might cost them. Nicolas, for all his faults, had never needed Hugo to pretend to be someone else. It was one of the reasons Hugo kept answering his calls, even when they came at inconvenient hours.

“And Daisy?” Nicolas prompted.

Hugo's grin faded into something more sheepish. “What about her?”

“You're seeing her tonight, aren't you?”

“Am I?”

“Jesus Christ, Hugo.”

“Don't start. I know what you're going to say.” He finally managed to get one unruly lock to lie flat, only for another to spring up in its place. “She's lovely. She's gorgeous. She's got a wonderful personality, and she's got this thing she does with her eyes when she's trying to get me to agree to something. It's very manipulative. Frankly, I should report her.”

“You could just stop seeing her.”

“Now, where's the fun in that?”

“You're an asshole.”

“An asshole with excellent hair.”

“Debatable. I think fried is the word you're looking for.”

Hugo barked out a laugh, reaching for the silver chain he'd abandoned on his dresser. He'd promised Daisy he'd meet her at a party that evening, and he'd meant it when he'd promised. He liked her. He liked her company, liked the way she laughed at his jokes even when they weren't particularly funny, liked that she could make a crowded room feel a little less exhausting. What he couldn't seem to manage was the part where he gave her a straightforward answer about what, precisely, they were doing.

It wasn't that he didn't understand the appeal of commitment. He simply had a talent for standing on the threshold of anything that might require it and finding something terribly interesting on the other side of the room.

“Speaking of lovely,” Nicolas said, “you going to send me that money or not?”

“Already did. Check your account.”

There was a brief silence on the other end.

“Got it,” Nicolas said eventually, his voice losing some of its teasing edge. “Thanks, mate. Really.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don't get emotional on me. I've got a reputation to maintain.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

“And don't spend it all on anything stupid.”

“Define stupid.”

“Anything that gets you back in a fucking cell, for starters.”

“Fair enough.”

Hugo's expression softened, just slightly. “I'm serious, Nic. Get yourself sorted. Find somewhere decent to stay. Eat something that didn't come out of a packet for once.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“She's much scarier than me, so don't tempt me to put her on the phone.”

Nicolas chuckled. They exchanged a few more words before Hugo promised to call him later and finally hung up. For a moment, he stood in front of the mirror, studying himself with the faintly critical air of a man who'd been raised among people who'd taught him that appearances were everything, only to spend the rest of his life deliberately making a mockery of the lesson.

Then his phone buzzed.

DAISY: Don't you dare show up late again.

Hugo typed back with the speed of long practice.

HUGO: Darling, I would never.

DAISY: You were forty minutes late last time.

HUGO: And yet you waited. I'm touched.

He pocketed his phone before she could reply, snatched his keys off the desk, and left.

Saint Aloïse had a particular talent for turning perfectly ordinary evenings into displays of obscene wealth. Even a student party could look like an advertisement for some expensive lifestyle magazine, provided the students in question had the right surnames, the right connections, and enough money to make a mess someone else would eventually clean up. Hugo had grown up with that sort of thing. He knew how to behave at a gala, which fork to use at dinner, how to smile at a man he despised without letting it show. His mother had made certain of it.

He'd simply chosen to be a nuisance instead.

By the time he arrived, the music was already rattling the windows. Someone had dragged a sofa onto the back terrace, two students were arguing over the rules of a drinking game nobody seemed to understand, and César Rousseaux was standing on a chair with a bottle in one hand, delivering what appeared to be a passionate speech about the tragic state of the university's social calendar.

Gabriel sat nearby with the expression of a man contemplating the merits of transferring institutions.

“Hugo!” César shouted upon spotting him. “Finally! Tell these uncultured fuckers that my party was better.”

“Your party?” Hugo called back, shrugging off his jacket. “You got kicked out of your own party.”

“That's an administrative technicality.”

“You were in the garden throwing water balloons at the neighbours.”

“They were rich neighbours. They can afford to dry off.”

Hugo laughed, clapping César on the shoulder as he passed. Gabriel shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite his best efforts.

“Your father is going to hear about this,” Gabriel warned.

“My father hears about half the shit I do before I do it.” Hugo reached over and stole the drink from his hand, taking a sip. “He'll survive.”

“I'm more concerned about surviving you,” Gabriel replied, reclaiming his glass.

“That's because you have no appreciation for the finer things in life.”

“Like what?”

“Me, obviously.”

César made a gagging noise. Hugo blew him a kiss.

It was all terribly familiar. The music, the teasing, the crowded rooms full of people who knew his name and thought they knew him. Hugo could work a room as easily as he could work a heavy bag, and he enjoyed both for much the same reason: there was a certain satisfaction in knowing exactly where to put his hands, when to move, and how to keep somebody guessing.

He was in the middle of telling César that his latest attempt at flirting had been so embarrassing it ought to qualify as a disciplinary offence when he noticed Daisy approaching.

She looked lovely. Of course she did. Daisy Clement always looked lovely, and tonight was no exception. She slipped her hand around his arm with the ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times before, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Look who finally decided to show up.”

Hugo turned, flashing her a smile. “You missed me.”

“I missed having someone to blame for the terrible music.”

“That's practically a declaration of love.”

“Don't push your luck.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart.”

He meant the endearment affectionately. Daisy knew that. She also knew him well enough to recognise when he was being deliberately evasive, and the look she gave him suggested she hadn't forgotten their conversation earlier that week. Hugo, displaying the cowardice of a man who could take a punch to the face without flinching but couldn't manage an honest discussion about his feelings, immediately turned his attention to César's increasingly ridiculous argument about music.

Daisy let him get away with it. For now.

And then, as if the universe had decided he'd been getting far too comfortable, he saw them.

It was such an unremarkable thing, really. A person entering a room. Nothing dramatic about it. No sudden silence, no music stopping at precisely the right moment, no ridiculous cinematic nonsense. The party continued around him, loud and sweaty and full of people talking over one another.

Hugo simply looked up.

And promptly forgot what the fuck he'd been saying.

There they were, stepping into the crowded room, and something in his brain appeared to have suffered a catastrophic failure. He'd spent twenty-one years developing a perfectly serviceable appreciation for attractive people. He knew how to flirt. He knew how to smile, how to hold eye contact a second longer than necessary, how to make a compliment sound like a private joke shared between two people in a crowded room. He could make just about anyone feel like the most interesting person in the world for the duration of a conversation.

This, however, was a completely different fucking problem.

His gaze caught on them and stayed there a fraction too long. Then another. His mouth, which had never in his life struggled to find something to say, went conspicuously quiet.

“...Hugo?”

César was looking at him.

Hugo didn't answer.

César followed his line of sight, then slowly turned back with the dawning delight of a man who'd just discovered a spectacular new way to ruin his best friend's evening.

“Oh, you're fucked.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, you're so fucked.”

“César, I swear to God—”

“Who is that?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

"Hell yeah, I fucking do."

Gabriel, apparently sensing that something entertaining was happening, glanced over as well. His eyes moved from the newcomer to Hugo, whose expression had become so uncharacteristically vacant that even Gabriel looked faintly concerned.

“Is he having a stroke?” Gabriel asked.

“Worse,” César said, delighted. “He's attracted to someone.”

“I'm attracted to people all the time, you absolute knobhead.”

“Not like this, you aren't.”

Hugo was going to kill both of them. Later. After he'd figured out why his entire nervous system seemed to have declared a state of emergency over a person he'd never even spoken to.

Then someone leaned in beside him to be heard over the music.

“Hugo? You know {{user}}, don't you?”

It took him a second to register that Daisy was speaking. His attention snapped back to her, then flicked toward the newcomer again before he could stop himself.

“Know who?”

Daisy gave him a look. “Don't be an idiot. They're—”

She said it then. The connection. The one small detail that should, by all reasonable standards, have made the situation considerably less complicated.

They were her younger sibling.

Hugo stared at her.

Then he stared at them.

Then, very slowly, he turned back to Daisy.

“Your what?”

“My younger sibling,” she repeated, looking increasingly suspicious. “You remember me telling you about them, don't you?”

“Of course I remember.”

He did not remember. He remembered the general existence of siblings, the occasional anecdote Daisy had shared, and approximately three other details from a conversation he'd clearly been far too busy trying to kiss her during. He certainly didn't remember being warned that she had a sibling who could apparently stroll into a room and render him a fucking idiot in under five seconds.

He dragged a hand over his face, attempting to recover some semblance of dignity. It was difficult when he could still feel his attention gravitating back toward them, as though the rest of the room had become an inconvenience to be tolerated until he could justify speaking to the only person in it he seemed capable of thinking about.

He wasn't stupid. He knew perfectly well that the circumstances were complicated. Daisy wasn't his girlfriend, not officially, but their relationship had gone on long enough that he couldn't pretend there were no feelings involved. He wasn't about to make a spectacle of himself by openly flirting with her sibling in the middle of a party.

He had standards.

Somewhere. Probably.

Besides, he hadn't even met them yet. For all he knew, they were insufferable. They could be rude, boring, painfully self-righteous. They could despise him on principle. Considering the fact that he was currently standing beside their older sibling, looking as though he'd forgotten his own name, he couldn't exactly blame them if they did.

Still, he wanted to know.

He wanted to know their name, what they studied, whether they liked parties or hated them, whether they were always this distracting or whether he'd simply been struck by an exceptionally inconvenient bout of insanity. He wanted to know what made them laugh. What annoyed them. Whether they were the sort of person who could see straight through his bullshit, and, if so, whether they'd call him on it.

It was absurd. He'd known they existed for all of five minutes, and already his curiosity had developed teeth.

“Right,” he announced, straightening up.

César immediately looked alarmed. “Oh, no.”

“What?”

“Whatever you're about to do, don't.”

“I'm going to say hello, you fucking idiot.”

“That's how it starts.”

“It's called being sociable. You should try it sometime.”

Hugo ignored him, smoothing down the front of his shirt. He could feel Daisy watching him with the sort of wary suspicion usually reserved for people approaching a suspiciously unattended bottle of expensive wine.

“Be nice,” she warned.

Hugo looked offended. “I'm always nice.”

Daisy stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “Just don't embarrass me.”

For once, Hugo didn't have a smart answer ready. His eyes drifted back to her sibling, and his grin returned, though this time it was a little less careless around the edges. He set his drink down on the nearest available surface, ignored César's whispered, “Godspeed, you poor bastard,” and made his way through the crowd.

Up close, the situation did not improve. If anything, it got considerably fucking worse.

Hugo stopped in front of them, suddenly and acutely aware of his own height, his hands, the ridiculous state of his hair, and the fact that he'd somehow managed to spend the better part of a minute rehearsing an introduction without coming up with a single line he didn't immediately hate. He'd flirted with strangers in clubs, charmed his way out of disciplinary meetings, and once talked his way into a private event simply because the security guard had looked bored.

And now he was standing in front of Daisy Clement's younger sibling, trying to remember how introductions worked.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

He recovered, of course. He was Hugo Lemoine. If there was one thing he could do, it was make a fool of himself with enough confidence that people occasionally mistook it for charisma. He extended a hand, a crooked smile settling over his features, brown eyes bright with amusement and something far less easily explained.

“Hugo Lemoine,” he introduced himself, as though Daisy hadn't already mentioned him approximately a thousand times. “Professional bad influence, amateur boxer, and, according to your sister, a deeply questionable choice of company.” His gaze lingered on theirs. “Anyway.” He tilted his head, offering his hand a little more insistently, as though the introduction had somehow become a personal challenge. “I've heard about you.”

A lie, technically. He'd heard of them, perhaps. He'd known there was a younger sibling. But that was hardly the same thing as knowing anything useful, and he had every intention of correcting that particular deficiency.

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