HINABN - Old-fashioned

It was a rather uncomfortable situation that Ples currently found himself in. Yes, it was voluntary; Veser hadn't dragged him, or even tried to coerce him. Just, when the subject had come up, Ples thought it was perhaps a good idea to take the chance to meet the boy's parents. Maybe it was flawed logic, or maybe it was a completely illogical decision, but some little tick-tocking gear inside him said that it was important and proper.

But now, sitting awkwardly across the slender table from a man he knew to be the worst of villains, he didn't feel so sure. He could tell Veser felt the same; he radiated tense waves from Ples' side. Though, that might have been how he always acted around his father. It certainly would have made sense.

Currently, the well-built man was distastefully eying some invisible thread strung between his son and the strange black-and-white character he'd brought to dinner with him. "How old did you say you were?" he asked Ples, raising his eyebrows at the shocks of white in his hair.

"Thirty seven," he answered tensely, then glanced around the table for his customary drink before remembering he'd decided not to order anything tonight.

Veser's father smirked and 'hmph'ed at the response, causing Ples to almost cringe. For years he'd been looked down upon for being so much older than others, and now this man was trying to use his 'maturity' as means of intimidation? What a reprehensible creature.

A quick glance at Mrs. Hatch showed that she felt a sort of empathy towards him for having to deal with her husband, but it was clear enough that she didn't plan on interfering.

"Lay off it, dad," Veser muttered from beside Ples, glaring at his father with narrowed, bright green eyes. "Who cares how old he is."

Mr. Hatch took a breath and adopted the guise of a concerned parent, one he'd nearly perfected over the 13 years of parent-teacher conferences and various other unavoidable social meetings. "I just don't think you should be spending your time with a man nearly twice your age, son," he said, tone mimicking those of the sort of parents frequently seen on television dramas.

Veser had been about to respond with some vicious retort, but Ples laid a hand gently on his shoulder and looked his father in the eyes, mourning slightly the absence of his liquid courage, but knowing well enough what must be said. "Sir, I believe your son is quite capable of taking care of himself. And in the event that he cannot, I will be more than happy to look after him. I promise this."

It was quiet as Ples finished his declaration. All three members of the Hatch family were staring at him disbelievingly. Mr. Hatch appeared dumbstruck (either that this wimpy-looking Brit had spoken up, or that his strange son had actually found someone willing to come to his defense), and Mrs. Hatch seemed astounded; her mouth hung open just a fraction, and her eyes had softened, as if she hardly dared to believe that a human man could say such a thing, and mean it, let alone about her only son.

Veser's eyes were locked on Ples', and the man turned to meet them, at which point the odd half-breed teenager burst into a bout of nearly hysterical laughter. "Oh man, I cannot believe you!" he said between gasps, grinning like an idiot. "You sound like you're asking for my hand in marriage! Hahahaha, you are so old fashioned!" He shook his head and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes as Ples' face reddened by several shades.

"Ah, I- I wasn't aware... I w-was just being honest!"

The waitress came to deliver their meals, and Veser shook his head again, still laughing softly, and dug in, ignoring both Ples' stammering and the somewhat confused stares of his parents. After a moment, he took his free hand and quietly entwined his fingers with the other man's.

Ples reigned in his embarrassed uncertainty when Veser's fingers found his own. The boy's parents still looked somewhat distressed, but suddenly he was feeling much better about having come.