Happy birthday, Natasha! Lotrips FIC: "Sultanas into Dates" 1/2

[lobelia321]

Happy birthday, dear brightest_blue!!! May all your days be raisins in the cake.

Title: Sultanas into Dates
Part: 1/2
Author: Lobelia
Email: lobelia40@yahoo.com
Author website: My niche.
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Lotrips (reprise)
Pairing: Jed Brophy / Bhoja Kannada (B.K.); also featuring Elijah Wood.
Summary: Jed goes on a first date.
Content/Warnings: RPS. Height differential.
Disclaimer: This is a work of amateur fiction. I do not know these people. I am not making money. The events described in this story did not happen.
Feedback: Yes, please, I would love feedback! Anything, even if it's only one line, one word!
Archive Rights: My niche only.
Author Notes: I owe this fic to Brenda (azewewish) who issued a realistic-first-date challenge on the livejournal community furorscribendi. Alas, I never posted the fic at that time -- but then, I'm not sure exactly how realistic this fic actually turned out to be...
Many thanks to: Mayhem (blithesea) who kindly posted screencaps of B.K., and to orlisbunny who would have. And, of course, to Hope (angstslashhope) and gabbyhope who betaed the first draft of this way, way back.
Who are these men? What are these props? Well, for those who don't know: Jed Brophy played various orcs and the Rohan warrior who calls Éomer over to the dying Theodred in TTT (extended DVD). B.K. was Sean Astin's scale double. Pics of both can be found here, or here.
Bob is sword-fighting teacher Bob Anderson.
Hrithik Roshan can be inspected here. He does, of course, not look remotely like Jed but such is the power of pov.
And here, for your penile edification, are pics of Holeproof Underdaks.
Note: There is no Ramsita Cinema in Wellington, NZ. So don't go looking for it. But there is a Farmer's department store, and you can buy Holeproof Underdaks there. *g*

Dedication: This fic is for dear Natashachen (brightest_blue) on her birthday, with love and hugs.

If you want to read the fic in one go, without it being broken into LJ-size parts, read it at my niche.





***

"Dates? What do you want with dates? Not sure we have any. Hang on, I've got some sultanas here."

"No, Jed, you dolt. Not dates as in things to eat. Dates as in date. As in 'going on a date'."

"Oh," said Jed. He straightened up and looked at Elijah, and he should have known there and then that something fishy was in the offing. Elijah looked normal enough, standing on the steps of Jed's trailer, looking in at him, doing some precarious balancing act with one foot in the air and the other on tiptoes. It was goofy but Elijah was always doing goofy stuff like that. And talking about 'dates' seemed at first no more than another extension of goofy Elijah.

At first.

So, innocent of any inklings, Jed returned to bending over his drawer full of empty chips bags, assorted chewing gum packets and a handful of those tiny, red boxes with the smiling woman and the promise of sultanas printed thereon.

"You know?" Elijah went on." As in 'first date' and all that?"

And again, Jed might have known by the funny high tone in Elijah's voice that something was going on. He might have been alerted by the non-chalant 'who-me?' pursing of Elijah's lips. He might have been led to suspect something after observing the shift of Elijah's eyes, an inadvertent shift out to the grassland behind, out to the trees and the distant mountains, out to the others milling about in coincidental patterns: Pete, Fran, Bob, Vig, and right at the edge of the group, one of the hobbit body double guys, wearing headphones and waving his arms at somebody.

Might. He might have been.

But he wasn't.

"Yes," said Jed patiently, fancying himself to be indulging an adolescent's obsession. "I know about those kinds of dates. I've seen American sitcoms."

"Hey," said Elijah and wobbled but caught himself on the instep. "Don't diss my country, man. What's wrong with a date, eh? They exist in real life, too, you know. Not just on TV." And again, that shooting of the eyes sideways, as if he were glancing at somebody out there.

Jed assumed it was somebody whom young Elijah was sweet on.

"If you say so, Elijah," he said.

"I do say so. And what are you talking about, anyway? You must have been on dates. Come on, you're ancient. Haven't you ever been on a date?"

"Haven't you ever been on a date?" mimicked Jed, then reverted back to his Kiwi voice. "No, young Master Wood and all-American boy. I have not been on a date. We in New Zealand do not do dates."

Now Elijah really did lose his balance, and fell into the grass below. "Hey," he said and rubbed his bottom. "So what do you do? I mean, you've got to hook up somehow, right? Or do you just, like, jump in the sack without ceremony?"

"Yeah," laughed Jed. "You wish." Elijah Wood had quite apparently cast his eye upon some daunting New Zealand beauty and was attempting to navigate the waters of cultural misunderstanding. Jed grinned. He shut the drawer and opened up one of the sultana boxes. "Listen, Elijah, listen to the mysteries of the Dateless World. We just go out. No buggering about with picking the girl up and bringing flowers and holding open doors and all that bullshit."

"Who's talking about girls?" said Elijah. "Can I have one of those? They look quite nice."

"A bit old," said Jed but upended the box and poured a pile of crinkled brown things into Elijah's open palm. "But still sweet."

"Like you, eh?" said Elijah and winked.

"Elijah," said Jed. "Don't be getting coy with me."

"I think you need to go on a date," said Elijah.

"Do I?" said Jed.

"You do. You need to go on your very first date."

"Do I, really?" Jed tipped back his head and emptied the box into his mouth. Tried to empty it, anyway, because the sultanas all stuck to the sides. Only one lone shrunk grape plopped into Jed's mouth and straight down his throat. He coughed and made water come out of his eyes. "Look what you're doing to me, Elijah. You mad Yank."

"And I'll set you up," said Elijah. "I will organise this date for you. And it had better be Saturday night, too. Do you do Saturday nights in New Zealand? Don't tell me you don't do Saturday nights."

"I watch the occasional corny American movie on a Saturday night," said Jed. "Saturday Night Date Fever. Or Return of the Dates."

"This Saturday? You free this Saturday?"

"Elijah, stop it now. You don't want to set me up on a date or any kind of a double date, either. You really don't. And you're perfectly capable of organising some little outing on your own. You don't need me along to hold your hand." Really. Who'd have imagined Elijah Wood to be so shy as to need a local's chaperonic services on the romantic front?

"Hey, you said 'double date'. You do know your stuff. You've been reading up," giggled Elijah. "But no. This isn't going to be a double date. This is going to be a blind date. I will matchmake. But don't worry, I'm good at that."

"Spare me," said Jed. "Here, have the rest of the box. I can't get the stupid things out."

Elijah ripped the cardboard open and tore the sultanas off with his teeth. "Saturday night it is then. Quarter after seven, okay?"

"Sure, sure, whatever." Jed winked at Elijah and laughed and watched him saunter off over the grass and be accosted by the hobbit scale double, wielding a microphone, half-way across the verge.

Then he closed his trailer door and got into orc mode.

***

On Saturday night, back in Wellington, at 7.15 p.m. sharp, the doorbell rang. Jed, dressed in nothing but a pair of red-and-black Holeproof Underdaks and an unbuttoned blue shirt, padded to the door on bare feet.

He put his hand on the doorknob.

He looked down at himself. He took his hand off the doorknob.

He put his eye to the spy hole.

Nothing.

How could there be nothing?

He twisted his eye until it nearly rolled out of its socket but all he saw was the fluorescent light of the corridor outside his flat and the yellow-grey wall opposite. Then the door bell rang again, and Jed jumped.

"Shit," he murmured. This was as much an exclamation in response to the noise as it was an exhortation to himself. 'Shit' meant as much as 'get a grip'.

Jed turned the knob and peered round the edge of the door. There was nobody there.

"Good evening, Mr Jed. So glad you finally opened the door, yaar."

Jed looked down. He had imagined a joke, maybe, somebody crouching on the floor outside, or an electrical fault in the bell wiring system. He had not expected anybody who was short.

But short was what he'd got. Four foot six max. Short, blustering, suited, booted, black of hair, brown of skin, and fierce of eye.

"Er..." said Jed. And 'er' was not an interjection he normally had much use for.

"I believe you are my date for the night?" said the apparition.

"My date?" gulped Jed.

"Indeed, yes. Saturday night, quarter past seven, no?"

"No! I mean, yes. I mean, sorry. I didn't think he was being serious! And that he'd be choosing you. You're one of the hobbits, aren't you? You're Samwise Gamgee."

"Indeed, I am. Allow me to introduce: B.K. to my friends. I have not had the pleasure of meeting you formally but we, ah..." He stopped for a moment and a strange expression crossed his features, but he seemed to collect himself immediately and went on, "We have had the pleasure of conversing on at least one occasion. But you had your orc mask on, and I had my Sam mask on, and it was only somebody else who told me, 'That one there is Jed Brophy', that is how I remember and how I know you from the other orcs."

"That somebody," interrupted Jed. "That wouldn't have been Elijah, would it?"

"That is possible. Yes, I think it was Elijah. But now, why stand here and be chatting? We have to go on date! Come on, here are flowers."

"Flowers?"

"Yes, Elijah said to bring flowers. I mean I don't know why. I have no idea about these customs of you Anglos. It would seem to be much better to bring some food or some red wine. Flowers are a bit in the way and a bit useless, after all. It is the sort of thing I would bring my grandmother. And I don't think even you Anglos go on date with your grandmothers. Now hurry on. We will be late, yaar."

"Late? Do I put these in a vase? What do you mean 'Anglos'? I have no idea what's supposed to happen on a date."

"Yes, I have no idea, either. What is date? We don't have date in India. We have arranged marriage! So Elijah said..."

"I'm going to murder that Elijah," said Jed.

"Yes, yes, but not just now or we will be late." This man was beginning to sound like the White Rabbit. And Jed was beginning to feel like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole into a land where all is possible and nothing is sane. "And why are you hiding behind door like that?"

"I..." said Jed and fell speechless for a full second. Then he rallied, "Look, this is a set-up. It's just some goofy joke of Elijah's. I don't want to go on a date with you."

"No? And why, may I ask, not? I have restaurant already booked, I have cinema tickets, newest Yash Johar production, will be marvellous, I was stuntman on one of his sets some years back now."

Jed sighed. "But a date," he said. "It's a bit..." He had been going to say 'ridiculous' but suddenly it occurred to him that this might be taken as an insult. He opened his mouth and shut it again. He couldn't think of any delicate way to phrase this. To be sure, this was ridiculous, and very ridiculous at that, but he certainly didn't want to offend anybody's ethnicity or anybody's gender or anybody's, well, anybody's height.

"Well, okay then," he said. "Date it is. Why not? I hadn't planned any dinner, and I've never seen one of those Indian movies. So. But. I do need to get dressed first."

"Dressed?" And he could have sworn that his interlocutor blushed at this moment, insofar as this was discernible to Jed's untrained eye. "You are not even dressed?"

"It'll only take a minute. Why don't you come in for a bit?"

"Oh, no, no. I am not... I am not watching you get dressed. It is not part of date! I am certain it is not. I will stand here."

"Right," Jed said. "Okay. Well, you better give me the flowers then. Or they'll shrivel."

The 'flowers' turned out to be a huge bouquet. They had been resting all this time against the wall, wrapped up in a quantity of cellophane and twirly ribbon, with sprigs and buds and blooms and decorative fruit pods nodding out of the top. The bouquet was half the size of its bearer. Jed staggered as he carried this monster of vegetative life into the kitchen and dumped it in the sink.

Then he sped into his bedroom and yanked open the wardrobe doors.

Jed liked to dress sharp, and he had a wardrobe stuffed to the gills with gentlemen's apparel.

There hung his shirts, and his trousers, and his blazers, and his suits, and his ties, and there stood his shoes, all tautened by their shoe trees. His so-called date was wearing a suit so he had better match that. He pulled out a suit: too dressy. He pulled out another one: too dowdy. He pulled out a third one: okay, this might do. Lucky the shirts were ironed. Lucky that he was practised at knotting a tie. But shit, his Half Windsor had gone all skewiff. He prised the knot apart and started anew. He noticed that his hands were sweating. This was from the surprise, of course, and from the rush and hurry.

Socks, socks. He had several pairs balled up neatly in his underwear drawer. Black? Blue? The suit was charcoal so perhaps black. And shoes, shoes, the Derbys? Or the semi-brogues? He opted for the patent leather Oxfords, polished to a gleam. And cuff links, of course, he must have cuff links.

On the way out, he grabbed his aftershave and dabbed drops behind his ears and on his cheeks. By the time, he reached the door in a somewhat breathless state, he wondered whether he hadn't overdone it a bit.

His date stood frowning in the corridor and launched into a tirade of "come on now, hurry now" as soon as he heard Jed fiddling with his keys, but upon seeing Jed emerge, he shut up and actually managed to be silent for the entire time that it took Jed to lock his door.

For some reason, it took Jed quite a while to lock his door. This must have been because of the sweaty hands again.

Finally, a voice (a voice from somewhere around his elbow) said, "You are looking very handsome tonight, Mr Jed."

"Thank you," said Jed and concentrated on not stammering. "You look good yourself." Truth was he hadn't actually really noticed what his companion was wearing in detail, he'd been too flustered. It was something rather non-descript, actually, suit darkish and shirt unbuttoned at the neck. "But don't call me Mister, please, it's annoying."

"Maybe that's why I do it." And this was said through a fiendish grin. "But come now. Speedy. Get in taxi."

"What did you say your name was?" asked Jed as they hurried down the stairs to the street where a cab stood waiting.

"B.K. Get in back."

"Bee Kay? No, I mean your real name."

"B.K. is abbreviation. Fasten buckle. Please, driver, go to Ramsita cinema."

"Ramsita cinema? I've never heard of that. Where is it?"

"It is only small. You will see. B.K. is not my full name which is not pronounceable by anyone outside of India."

"Well, I don't want to pronounce it. I just want to hear it."

"Oh, then. It is Bhoja Kannada. Kannada is surname. Family is from Bangalore."

Jed was silent for a few seconds. "I'm glad I said I wouldn't pronounce it."

"Never mind, never worry. I could say it twenty times over and get you to practise and you are an actor, are you not, so in end you would get it right but I do not think that this is what we should be doing on this date thingy."

"Will you please stop referring to this as a date? And do you have any idea," said Jed, "any idea at all why Elijah --" (that horse's rump who will not survive my next encounter with him) "-- where was I? Why Elijah set me up with you of all people?"

B.K.'s voice took on a tone of indignation. "Why of all people? Why am I of all people? Let me tell you: I think that you are 'of all people'. But never mind Elijah. Elijah has nothing to do with. We will now see film, and we cannot be arriving late, it has Kajol in it, and then we will eat, and that is what we will be doing. Film also has Hrithik Roshan starring who looks a little like you, if you must know, only a very tiny smidgen."

"Ritty who? What kind of weird Bollywood film is this going to be, anyway?"

"It is Indian, yes, but weird, I do not know. Maybe it is weird for somebody 'of all people' like you."

"Right," said Jed and leaned back into the upholstery. He was about to open his mouth to apologise for he knew not quite what when a passing street lamp threw its beam onto B.K.'s face, and he saw that B.K. was grinning mockingly. This made Jed feel odd, somehow, and instead of a jovial retort, he only came up with an intake of air and chose to look out of the window for the next few seconds.

Various fluorescent signs whizzed by outside, advertising hoardings, telephone booths and late-night chemists. He tried to still his beating pulse by thinking up a defusing topic of conversation. "So, B.K.," he finally said, "if you have arranged marriages in India, as you said before, how come you're not married yourself? Or are you?"

B.K. burst out laughing. "Married? Oh no, I am not married. You do not know my mother, Mr Jed. Also, who would marry me? I am four foot one. Only a strange person would marry me, and my mother would never allow that."

"I'm sure," Jed said, shifting awkwardly, "that not only strange people would want to marry you. How about someone else of your... er, stature?"

"Listen, Mr Jed." B.K. grinned in the half-light of the taxi's backseat. "I mean: listen, Jed. First point. Has it occurred that I may not myself want to be marrying anybody? Surely you must have noticed this. And, second point, has it occurred that I may not myself be attracted to short people?"

"Oh," said Jed. "Right." How foolish could one feel?

"See? It had not occurred. I knew it would not."

"No. I mean, no, it hadn't. I guess."

"Yes," said B.K., and now his voice sounded slightly wistful. "It never does occur."

Well, that conversational ploy had gone down a treat. Jed threw his head back into the cushion. Outside, more ads zoomed by. They went under a bridge, through a tunnel, past Farmer's department store.

"So," Jed said. "So Elijah talked you round, too?"

"Oh, yes, yes," B.K. replied and waved his hand vaguely. "He is complete rascal, indeed. But why not try date, I thought?" He was looking out of the window himself now as he spoke, and Jed couldn't make out his expression.

"Indeed, why not try date?" repeated Jed. "Haha. When he asked me I thought he was talking about dates. As in the fruit."

"Yes, I was expecting date but all I am getting is raisin."

This statement puzzled Jed somewhat but he let it go. And then the taxi lurched to a stop, and both he and his formidable trysting partner tumbled onto the pavement and into the cinema.

***

The Ramsita turned out to be an unexpected experience. It was a cavernous but ramshackle place with sconces on the wall and stucco cherubs along the top of the silver screen. Jed was about the only non-Indian person there, as far as he could tell, with the exception of some Arab-looking types in the front row. The film was an orgy of music and tears and Technicolor sunsets; it was also heterosexual through and through, and Jed felt weird watching all that effusion about love undying and hearts unbroken, surrounded by a mixture of entire extended families, grandmothers, babes and all, plus unisex knots of young single men, and with himself seated next to his date, this four-foot-something Asian from what-was-the-name-of-that-place-again?

And both of them in suits, too.

When the film ended, which seemed about two hundred hours later than any film had the right to end, the crowd spilled out onto the pavement. B.K. seemed to know some of them, or at least be getting to know them, and there was quite some incomprehensible and extremely fast chat going on, all of which Jed remained an outsider to. Nobody introduced him or enquired after him. He stood next to a poster advertising yet another overwhelming piece of Hindi sentimentality and watched the way B.K. waggled his head and waved his arms about when he talked. It was not random waving; it was quite choreographed, almost like the movements of some arcane sub-continental dance.

Then they walked, at a very brisk pace -- and Jed had to keep up, despite having legs twice the length of B.K.'s --, to a restaurant that B.K. was 'acquainted with' and where B.K. had 'obtained reservations' and that B.K. deemed to be 'very suitable for date'. Jed had no idea of what was or what was not suitable for a date, and he suspected that B.K. actually had none, either, but was just making it up on the hop. So he followed his redoubtable guide in matters datesque blindly into what revealed itself to be some sort of Tamil eatery. The place was thrumming with people -- unisex knots of young single men and more extended families, grandmothers, babes and all, but not another date in sight, instead the sound of squealing toddlers and people talking at top speed and top volume but blessedly oblivious to the oddness of the couple that he and B.K. constituted.

"Perhaps they think we're brothers", he offered, but B.K. was apparently too busy studying the menu to respond to Jed in jest-mode.

Well, it had been a pretty lame joke at that.

Maybe the thing was just to relax into it and go with the flow. And after the first glass of wine -- which, it had to be admitted, was absolute plonk, chosen by B.K., but effective nonetheless --, it became rather less difficult to go with the flow. Because the flow was so steady and so directed. There was energy in every one of B.K.'s movements, and a sparkle in every one of his eyes, and after the bottle was emptied, B.K. himself appeared to mellow into something altogether new and, yes, weirdly compelling.

Also, Jed came to realise, B.K., despite his diminutive height, was in his own way rather manly. It was a kind of manliness Jed had not really encountered before, perhaps some exotic Indian way of being manly, perhaps just B.K.'s very own brand of spinsterish masculinity. Interestingly, B.K.'s manliness did not make Jed feel any less manly, as had tended to be the case for him with such combinations before. If anything, the opposite was true.

"So, B.K.", he said, in between one hot, spicy and tamarind-soaked dish and the next. "You really think I look like that Ritty actor in that movie, do you? That hunk of muscle?"

"Yes, why not. Without the muscle part, of course."

"Oh, thanks a lot!"

"Well, I am stunt man. It is I who have the muscle at this table. Here, you can feel, if you like."

Jed surprised himself by finding that yes, he would like. So he did. With less alcohol in him, he might have felt more awkward reaching across a meal-laden restaurant table to sample the musculature of a hobbit dwarf and he might have given the proffered biceps no more than a cursory squeeze, but as it was, he wrapped his fist around B.K.'s upper arm and felt the heat of B.K.'s skin even through the layers of suit and shirt fabric.

B.K. flexed his arm, and he had clearly not been boasting vainly. His muscles were steel cords, and the effort of flexing them made sinews stand out along the back of his wrist.

"You like?" said B.K., and suddenly coughed and added, "I mean, you see?"

"Yeah," said Jed stupidly. "Gabardine."

"Begging your pardon?"

"Your suit. It's made of gabardine."

"Oh. I was not aware."

"It's a good material for a suit," Jed continued blankly. "It's a kind of worsted wool." And he rubbed his hand up and down B.K.'s arm, as if in appreciation of the garment's fibrous finish.

B.K. swallowed. Jed could see his Adam's apple shift. "Yes," B.K. said. "Is that the material for your suit, also?" And he lifted up his ghee-stained fingers, licked them with his tongue, wiped them on his napkin, and placed them on Jed's lower arm, the arm that was resting on the tablecloth.

Jed's throat felt strangely dry and in need of further lubrication, from wine or from... from... "Yeah," he answered quickly. "A high-twist yarn. The best."

"It feels the best," said B.K., and also started rubbing Jed's arm.

"It must be difficult," said Jed in a croaky voice, "to find suits in your... er, size."

"Bespoke," said B.K. "My mother knows a very good tailor. Back home."

"Ah, tailor-made suits," said Jed and sighed happily.

B.K. sighed happily, too. It was not clear whether in deference to the glory of the tailor-made suit or for some other reason.

"You know, when I first met you," said B.K., and Jed racked his brain to try and remember such an occasion, "you were also speaking about clothing."

"Was I?" Still rubbing that arm. Still having that arm rubbed.

"You were mentioning about the uncomfortable fit of your costume. And comparing it unfavourably to a proper suit. How there was nothing like the feel of a well-cut jacket across your shoulder blades."

"You have a good memory."

"We then talk about our costumes a little, and then I ask if you like wearing your orc mask. And you did say that it was complicated. You did say that you sometimes hate wearing mask because it is ugly and makes you be sweating like a pig and because it causes you to forget who you are yourself. But other times, you like wearing mask because it is ugly and nobody knows you are underneath and because it causes you to remember who you are yourself. And that is when I knew that you were going to be interesting man to get to know."

There was really nothing that Jed could summon as a viable answer to this.

"So later I ask who that orc was, and I found out. It was you. Mr Jed Brophy."

"I do remember that conversation," said Jed.

Then the waiter arrived and they took their hands off each other and B.K. ordered another bottle and more hot, spicy tamarind-soaked and ghee-drenched dishes arrived.

Three quarters of the way through their second bottle, Jed's eyes started to float out into space and the chutney pot and the plate of pita began to pirouette noiselessly around the table. B.K.'s mouth was moving, opening and closing, now and again showing a tongue between teeth when producing what passed for a lisp in his strange convoluted accent, but Jed wasn't hearing any of the words coming out of that mouth. There was a warmth in his palm, where it had rested around B.K.'s arm, and there was a buzzing in his head, not unpleasant, a bit like the number-one razor at his local barber's and about as familiar, if somewhat distracting.

It took Jed the full length of the remaining main course to identify what that buzzing was. It wasn't until the dessert was served, some sickly-sweet date-and-ginger concoction, festooned in whirls of jaggery and accompanied by yet another bottle, some form of digestif, that Jed realised what that buzzing was.

It was the buzz of sex.

"Excuse me," said Jed.

Shielding his erection behind nonchalantly crossed hands, he made his way to the gents' and stared for a full two minutes into the mirror above the basin. The forty-watt bulb swayed in its floral shade, and the wallpaper pattern transmogrified into ants and serpents and monster-shaped millipedes. Jed splashed some cold water onto his face but the floor continued to wobble and his head continued to buzz.

Of course. Alcohol often had this effect. Indeed, it was one of the principal effects of alcohol consumption, was it not?

It was soothing to be able to contribute his discomfort to the booze. Smiling somewhat inanely to himself -- also one of the effects of alcohol, surely --, Jed wove his way back to the table.

B.K. was just signing the cheque.

"No, no, please," said Jed. It came out slurred and the 'please' sounded more like 'pleash'. "Let me get that."

"Oh, no," countered B.K. "You are date and I will pay for meal. This is at least what I know."

"Riciduloush," said Jed. "I mean... If I'm the date, what are you? I thought we were both the date. Or something."

"I am sultana," replied B.K., cryptically.

"And it's time we stopped this date thingy, don't you think? It's what, way after midnight? We turn into pumpkins. We stop being on a date. We are not, you know, Elijah's minions."

"We have started it being on date, and now we must finish it being on date," B.K. insisted stubbornly. "I want to be doing this properly, or I do not see the point, yaar? If we be doing date, we must be properlying..." B.K.'s diction, too, seemed to have suffered under the impact of fermentation.

"To the bitter end, then, is that it? You know how dates are supposed to end, though, don't you?"

"What? With kiss or similar? Yes, yes." B.K. swept his arm drunkenly across the table, upsetting a chutney jar in the process. "I know that. But not..." And now, Jed was sure of it, B.K. was putting on some sort of mischievous troll face. It made him looked grisly but also strangely sweet. "Not on first date, isn't it?"

"Er," said Jed again, primarily because the mention of kissing had turned the buzzing in his head into a high-pitched frenzied drone.

"Yes, kissing is not for first date," B.K. repeated and coughed. The cough sounded oddly self-conscious, and Jed found himself staring at B.K.'s lips.

"What?" he replied. "No, it can be, surely. That's so old-fashioned. What you just said."

"I am old-fashioned gentleman," said B.K. primly.

Jed burst out laughing.

And then, because he was so old-fashioned and such a gentleman (although his voice could do with some de-slurring and his gait with some straightening, Jed noted), B.K. insisted on escorting Jed all the way home to Jed's very own front door.

Continued in Part 2.