Chapter 2: Discussion at the Bar
The music was a physical thing, a pulse in the teeth and the ribs. Hugo moved on the dance floor, limbs loose from the two vodka sodas, lost in the crush of bodies. He’d fallen in with a group of students from Nanterre, their shouts swallowed by the bass. For moments at a time, he almost forgot.
Then he saw him.
Across the sea of heads, near the main pillar, Mehmet was a monolith of stillness. He was scanning the crowd, arms crossed, the black polo looking painted onto the dense slabs of his shoulders and chest. The strobing lights caught the sweat on his shorn head, the severe line of his jaw. As if feeling the weight of the stare, Mehmet’s eyes cut through the chaos and locked onto Hugo’s.
He didn’t smile. He gave a single, slow wink. A secret passed through smoke and noise.
Hugo’s breath hitched. He bit down on his lower lip, the pain sharp and focusing. The friends around him were laughing, one grabbing his arm to spin him. He pulled away, mouthing “ toilettes !” and pointed vaguely towards the back.
He pushed through the crowd, skin prickling. The path to Mehmet felt impossibly long, a gauntlet of jostling elbows and discarded glances. As he neared the bar, the relative quiet was a shock. The bass was still there, but deeper, a vibration in the floor.
Mehmet had turned, leaning an immense forearm on the polished wood, watching his approach. A faint, dark smile played on his lips.
Hugo stopped beside him. Without thinking, driven by a courage that felt borrowed, he lifted his slender hand and placed it on Mehmet’s back, just below the shoulder blade.
The impact of the touch was electric. The polo was thin. Beneath it, Hugo felt not just muscle, but the specific, brutal geography of it: the hard ridge of the trapezius, the dense, rolling fiber of the lat. It was like touching warm marble that flexed and lived. Heat radiated through the fabric. And the scent—up close, it was overwhelming. That virile cologne from before was now baked into a base layer of clean, salty sweat, a deeply masculine musk that spoke of hours of standing, of moving, of containment.
“Tu as osé,” Mehmet said, not turning. His voice was a low rumble under Hugo’s palm.
“Tu m’as fait signe.”
Mehmet finally shifted, turning his colossal frame. Hugo’s hand fell away. The guard looked down at him, his dark eyes appraising. “J’ai fait un clin d’œil. Je ne t’ai pas dit de venir me caresser le dos.” He paused, letting the minor rebuke hang. Then he shrugged, the movement monumental. “Mais c’est bon. T’as soif ?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He lifted two fingers to the bartender. “Deux whiskeys. Jameson. Glace.”
The glasses appeared. Mehmet pushed one toward Hugo and raised his own. “À ta santé, petit.”
They drank. The whiskey was smoke and fire, a contrast to the sweet mixers Hugo was used to. He coughed.
Mehmet smirked. “Ça te nettoie. Alors. Tu danses avec tes copines ?”
“Copains. Juste des gens de la fac. Je les connais pas vraiment.”
“Hmm.” Mehmet set his glass down, his gaze tracing the line of Hugo’s throat, the exposed collarbones. “T’es venu de loin pour faire la fête avec des inconnus ?”
Hugo shook his head. “Je viens de Bretagne. Brest. J’étudie à Paris. Prépa ingénieur.” He was babbling. “Les soirées… c’est pour me vider la tête. Rencontrer du monde.”
“Rencontrer du monde,” Mehmet repeated, rolling the words like they were a curious, naive concept. “Et t’as rencontré qui ? Des garçons aussi fins que toi ?” He reached out, his movements deliberate. His thumb and forefinger encircled Hugo’s bicep, just below the sleeve of his t-shirt. He squeezed, not hard, but the grip was absolute. “Regarde-moi ça. Un bras de moineau. Et les jambes ?” His hand slid down, palming the front of Hugo’s thigh, feeling the slim muscle there. “Tout petit. Tout lisse.” His eyes met Hugo’s. “Tu es comme une fille, toi. Pas un poil.”
Hugo flushed, a mix of shame and a dizzying thrill. He said nothing.
“Moi,” Mehmet said, leaning back and gesturing broadly at himself, a king presenting his domain. “Regarde. Ça, c’est du travail. Cinq fois par semaine, la salle. Deux heures minimum. Pas pour le plaisir. Pour la peur.” He tapped his own temple. “Dans mon job, si tu as l’air faible, on te teste. Tout de suite. Il faut que le corps parle avant la bouche.” He took another sip. “Et pour les femmes… enfin, pour plaire, il faut de l’endurance. Un vrai homme, il tient la distance. Il ne finit pas en cinq minutes comme un gamin.”
He was watching Hugo closely, gauging the effect of his words. He suddenly took Hugo’s wrist, his grip warm and inescapable. “Touche. Pour voir la différence.”
Before Hugo could process it, Mehmet guided his hand under the hem of his own polo shirt, pressing it flat against the side of his torso.
The sensation was overwhelming. The skin was hot, damp with a fine sheen of sweat. Beneath it, Hugo felt the perfect, terrifying architecture of interlocking muscles—the serrated ridges of the serratus, the dense wall of the obliques. A network of veins stood in relief under his fingertips. And the hair—a rough, crisp carpet that had been shaved maybe three days ago, now growing back as dark, prickling stubble that scraped against Hugo’s palm.
“Tu sens ?” Mehmet’s voice was a throaty whisper near his ear. “Chaque muscle. Chaque veine. C’est pas décoratif. C’est fonctionnel. C’est fait pour porter, pour pousser, pour tenir.”
He held Hugo’s hand there for three more pounding heartbeats, then released him, pulling his shirt back down. Hugo’s hand fell to his side, tingling, the memory of that hot, living terrain burned into his skin.
“Pas mal, hein ?” Mehmet said, his boastful tone returning, a mask slipped back into place.
Hugo just nodded, his mouth dry.
Mehmet checked his watch, a heavy black thing on a wrist thick as Hugo’s ankle. “Merde. La pause est finie.” He drained the last of his whiskey. “Moi, je retourne au boulot. Jusqu’à quatre heures.”
He stood up, unfolding to his full, imposing height, blotting out the light. He looked down at Hugo. “Toi, tu restes, tu finis ta soirée. Mais à quatre heures pile, tu seras au Bar du Père tranquille, juste à côté à gauche. On se retrouve. On continue de parler. Un endroit plus calme.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a directive.
Hugo nodded again, a frantic little movement. “D’accord. À quatre heures.”
Mehmet took a step, then paused. He leaned in close again. Hugo caught the full blast of his scent, saw the individual pores in his tanned skin, the dark intensity of his eyes. Mehmet placed a massive hand on the nape of Hugo’s neck, the grip possessive and surprisingly gentle. He pulled him in and pressed his lips to Hugo’s cheek. It was a dry, firm kiss, surrounded by the scratch of his beard. His other hand stroked down Hugo’s spine once, a casual, devastating claim.
“Sois sage,” he murmured, his breath hot against Hugo’s ear.
Then he was gone, melting back into the shadowy perimeter of the club, a force of nature returning to his patrol.
Hugo stood frozen, the ghost of the kiss and the hand on his back blazing on his skin. He looked at his own whiskey glass, then out into the swirling, meaningless dance floor. The music sounded different now. Muffled. Everything was a countdown. The pulse in his veins wasn’t from the bass anymore.
It was from the clock, ticking slowly, inexorably toward four.
For next chapter: when Mehmet arrived, Hugo is already here, sat at an empty table. Hugo is so shy and impressed seeing this beast arriving to him. When Mehmet sees him, he seems so happy, yet so dominant, proud, but vulnerable. Hugo could see this: This man looks so gentle and adorable, but exults a sexual energy at the same time. He still wears his working clothes, and seems even more sexy in it now. Mehmet arrives, gives two kisses in the cheeks (la bise), sits in front of him, orders two whiskies, and they start talking again about their life, Mehmet telling how hard it is to construct a life, a relationship, with this kind of night job, his regrets for not studied more, his brother and two sisters doing great jobs, his parents still proud of him despite everything, his bisexuality hidden to his religious Egyptian family. While talking his foot discreetly touch Hugo’s foot and leg. Then Hugo talks about his life too, in the countryside without car, wanting to study here in Paris to escape a boring life, met people, friends, diversity like Mehmet (Mehmet smiles when he hears that), and also to meet people, accept his sexuality. He confesses he is still virgin. He say this ashamed, but sees the interest in Mehmet’s face, but also supportive, gentle. For a moment, Hugo thinks how perfect this man seems to be, how gentle, thoughtful, despite their 14 years age gap. Hugo says to Mehmet how a man like him, beautiful, gentle, attentive, but also very beautiful and muscular can be alone and don’t finding any girl. Mehmet looks so happy when he hears this. While talking, Hugo caress and scratch Mehmet’s muscular and hairy arm, feeling the veins, the muscles. They talk maybe during an hour, and Hugo says he has to go because the night bus (Noctilien) is about to arrive, but Mehmet suggests he come over to his place—he lives just a ten-minute walk away, in a small one-bedroom apartment in the 18th arrondissement—where he can rest and head home at his leisure the next morning. Mehmet mentions that he is tired from work and would love a massage, if Hugo is willing. Hugo of course accepts but still shy ‘avec plaisir Mehmet’. He can see how happy Mehmet looks.