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He shouldn’t be doing this. His hair is all straightened and pulled back—the back is too long like this, but it’s too late to cut it now—and he’s wearing his old, blue turtleneck sweater. It’s far too small, clinging and riding up. It’s indecent.
This whole thing is indecent. He’s known Enya since he was a child—she made him this very sweater.
Diego plucks at the hem of his riding pants, self-conscious of how loose they are on his hips, dipping down without a belt. He looks to the yellow, wide-gapped fishnet on the dresser before him. She wants him to wear that over his sweater?
It’s alright. Men court women this way all the time. Though usually there would be parents and chaperones. And probably no fishnets. But other than that, why should this be any different?
And, anyways, Enya always gives him extra cash for doing this. But this is not– He doesn’t– well, not everyone can like their job, can they? It’s not.. dignified, but it won’t be forever. Just until.. until… Well. She’s already lived an awfully long time. Can’t be much longer.
Diego puts on the netting with some trouble, but he flashes himself a charming smile in the mirror to see if he can save the look. …He could acquire a taste for it. But he would still like a belt. And maybe a bow.
“Isn’t it fetching, dear?” Enya asks from her place on the edge of her bed behind him. Her short legs hover far off the ground, and she gestures for Diego to come help her down. “Like a naughty stable boy,” she chuckles, patting his cheek when she’s in his arms.
A muscle in his jaw twitches as he smiles back. This does sort of make him one, doesn’t it? This isn’t what most young men his age are doing, he should think.
“Should I get your cane? ..My dear?”
“Yes, let’s take a walk through the gardens, shall we?” Enya says, pinching his cheek and brushing a lock of his hair behind his ear, lingering.
He knows she’d like it, so he takes her hand and presses a kiss to it before pulling away to retrieve her cane. He grips it tighter than strictly necessary, trying to push down any feeling of the rising humiliation in his chest. She’s going to walk him around and show him off like some pony in front of her staff, who they both know should be tending the garden as of now.
He tries to reason with himself. She’s keeping her promises. He won’t be pranced around in public. That used to include the staff, he thinks, but the transition from her treating them as an extension of the property itself happened so nonchalantly so long ago that it’s not worth getting mad about anymore. But he still.. They all still have eyes. He isn’t immune to that, even now.
“Oh, you’re just so cute, Diego! Look at those ruddy cheeks. Don’t be shy now, it’s just a walk.”
“Right. Of course. Here you are.. love.”
She takes it from him with a blinding smile. She had been a beautiful woman once, and it still shows through her smile. He used to think of that smile as homey, safe, grandmotherly even, but there’s something in her eyes he couldn’t see before.
He can’t stop himself from reaching for her free hand. He met her at church as a young child, intrigued by her two left hands that she’d let him hold. He had to look up to her, then.
“…We’re going to wait, right?”
She eyes him curiously, lips pursed and almost irritated.
“Yes, yes. As you insist.”
He squeezes her hand before slipping free.
“..Sorry. That was sudden.”
She stares for a moment before offering a wizened, knowing look. She reaches up to pat his bicep.
“No matter, dear. Let’s get some fresh air, hmm?” Her fingers trail down his arm.
He smiles blankly down at her as she presses herself against his side and begins a slow pace out of her room and to the main door, arm hanging limply around her shoulders. He extracts himself from her to open the entrance, holding back a shiver when he sees the way she was looking at his back. It’s okay. They’re still going to wait.
This isn’t what he imagined his life would be, smelling the roses with an old woman hanging off his arm as a dozen people stand by and watch. He’s never asked, but he wonders what they think of him and Enya. Do they see some degenerate stable boy hounding after an old woman? Or a troubled grandson and his grandmother?
How outraged and incredulous will they be when he and Enya marry? Do they see it coming?
Why have they never done anything? It’s been..
It’s alright. Men court women this way all the time.
“Diego, dear, why don’t we sit for a while?”
She’s prolonging this. She wants him to be seen, to feel humiliated for even longer, she wants everyone to know he’s nothing more than a domesticated mutt at her feet. Or at least that’s what it always feels like.
Still, Diego sits beside her on the bench with a clear view of the garden’s fountain, the bubbling water crystalline and gentle. It’s a bit shallow, but if he ever wanted to get away from her once and for all, it’s right there. The thought may be morbid, but it’s comforting all the same. Not everyone can like their job.
Her hand rests on his thigh, sometimes patting, sometimes rubbing. It’s just– it’s just a friendly touch. Because they’re going to wait, right?
But then Enya sighs and takes her hand off of his thigh to intertwine their hands, holding them close to her heart. He can feel her warm breath as she speaks.
“What are we waiting for, my dear?”
“…We’ve talked about this, Enya. I’m not– ..We– …You promised.”
Her lips ghost along his knuckles.
“…I know dear. When you’re twenty.”
They sit in silence, Enya’s head on his shoulder. After a while, her hand returns to his thigh, trailing upward to his pocket, where she deposits however much cash she deems appropriate with a solid pat, right in the view of one of the gardeners, who averts his eyes from Diego’s blank gaze. It’s okay. Things like this happen all the time to all sorts of people. He’s got nothing to feel judged for.
Look at me. Look at this.
How could you? How could you?!
Enya’s hand drags on the way out of his pocket, exposing his hipbone to the balmy air for a moment.
How long has he been coming to this estate? How many years have they all stared at him yet still have been unable to meet his eyes? What on earth do they think they’re seeing?
Enya motions for them to stand, and as his arm is around her waist to help her up when she bats her eyes at him and squeezes his bicep.
“Won’t you at least get me a rose, my love? For making me wait?” And she flashes him that once grandmotherly smile that now seems so lecherous.
Diego acquiesces, as he always finds himself doing.
She wouldn’t like a torn stem, so he goes to the gardener and asks him to cut him a rose and to remove the thorns. But Diego finds he can’t meet the man’s gaze either.
“..Here you are, son.”
Yes, it’s been many years since he first came here, hasn’t it? The gardener, Daniel, might remember the very first time Diego wore this sweater.
Their fingers brush as the rose is passed between them. Yes, this hand used to pat his head, didn’t it? Diego turns sharply around.
“Here you are, my dear.” He says, bending down to offer the rose to Enya, who grasps it and strains upwards and forwards to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you, sweet pea,” she whispers into his ear, “I love it.”
They come apart and rejoin side by side, sensing it’s time to go back inside.
Diego takes Enya’s hand when they reenter the mansion.
“You’re a bit clammy, aren’t you?”
“It’s a bit warm today. In this sweater.”
He walks her briefly to her room, where they pause as she looks him up and down.
They’re going to wait four more years, she promised.
“Then let’s get you out of that, dear.” Enya says, opening the door for him.
Diego nods. Looking and touching used to be off limits, too.
He shouldn’t be doing this.