(do debutante balls happen in belgium? they do now.)
(also if they don't state any canon sexuality and expect you to just know, they're all automatically queer. it's the law.)
(also, this is less modern and more... modern-er than the original coming out balls)
This was all Pierre's fault. Of this, Poirot was certain.
It had been Pierre who had, over a quiet lunch one day, invited Poirot to a "debutante between friends", a new-fangled idea from the States that some of his queer friends had wanted to implement here in Belgium. Had Poirot been less curious, less in search of understanding company, he would've refused, and stayed home in his safe little flat above rue Sivela. Had he listened to the clergy at the la Cathédrale de Saint Paul, he perhaps would not be here. He would be doing whatever was expected of a good Catholic, finding a wife, or feeding the poor, or confessing. Poirot was a good Catholic, but the Bible never banned him from attending balls, and it certainly didn't bar him from being queer, no matter what Father Harpigny preached with fervour. But then again, Father Harpigny would not have been happy until every Catholic was a practicing asceticist.
Right now, Poirot couldn't care less about Father Harpigny and his sermons, nor even about the safety of his flat. The ballroom - a hidden, almost abandoned, building in the south end of Spa - was perhaps not the first place one thought of holding a debutante ball, and yet here was one, the presenting of queer men to their contemporaries, and the acceptance of new queer men into the fold. What he was interested in right now was the presentation of men to the community - and rather, one man in particular. Poirot had noticed him the moment he'd stepped into the line of men, guided by the presenter into a semblance of a line before they were introduced to the community. In ivory and blue finery, blonde hair and china blue eyes, he caught Poirot's eye immediately, even as he waited for his turn to be presented. And when he came to the front, into the light, and did a full debutante curtsy, Poirot knew he was smitten, and it was all Pierre's fault.
From his side, Pierre told him that this was an English army officer, a man called "Arthur", but that meant nothing to Poirot - he knew about five Englishmen called Arthur, and nearly all Englishmen that he met were in the army. But this man was beyond the mere boundaries of "English" and "Arthur" - he was sun and heat, all summer like a warm day on a south Peruvian beach, but glimmering like the iced rain of Norway or Sweden, untouchable like the glaciers of the far North. He smiled like he was fresh from the pictures in Hollywood, but blushed and stammered like a schoolboy from Eton. His name was Arthur, but what did that mean to a man who was tongue-tied every time his gaze swept the room? He could be called Jacob or Mark or Athelstan and it would mean nothing to Poirot, for the physical method of saying his name was far beyond him.
Poirot did not know who this man was, but he very much wanted to find out.
FILL: Poirot, bi!Poirot and bi!Hastings, coming out balls
(also if they don't state any canon sexuality and expect you to just know, they're all automatically queer. it's the law.)
(also, this is less modern and more... modern-er than the original coming out balls)
This was all Pierre's fault. Of this, Poirot was certain.
It had been Pierre who had, over a quiet lunch one day, invited Poirot to a "debutante between friends", a new-fangled idea from the States that some of his queer friends had wanted to implement here in Belgium. Had Poirot been less curious, less in search of understanding company, he would've refused, and stayed home in his safe little flat above rue Sivela. Had he listened to the clergy at the la Cathédrale de Saint Paul, he perhaps would not be here. He would be doing whatever was expected of a good Catholic, finding a wife, or feeding the poor, or confessing. Poirot was a good Catholic, but the Bible never banned him from attending balls, and it certainly didn't bar him from being queer, no matter what Father Harpigny preached with fervour. But then again, Father Harpigny would not have been happy until every Catholic was a practicing asceticist.
Right now, Poirot couldn't care less about Father Harpigny and his sermons, nor even about the safety of his flat. The ballroom - a hidden, almost abandoned, building in the south end of Spa - was perhaps not the first place one thought of holding a debutante ball, and yet here was one, the presenting of queer men to their contemporaries, and the acceptance of new queer men into the fold. What he was interested in right now was the presentation of men to the community - and rather, one man in particular. Poirot had noticed him the moment he'd stepped into the line of men, guided by the presenter into a semblance of a line before they were introduced to the community. In ivory and blue finery, blonde hair and china blue eyes, he caught Poirot's eye immediately, even as he waited for his turn to be presented. And when he came to the front, into the light, and did a full debutante curtsy, Poirot knew he was smitten, and it was all Pierre's fault.
From his side, Pierre told him that this was an English army officer, a man called "Arthur", but that meant nothing to Poirot - he knew about five Englishmen called Arthur, and nearly all Englishmen that he met were in the army. But this man was beyond the mere boundaries of "English" and "Arthur" - he was sun and heat, all summer like a warm day on a south Peruvian beach, but glimmering like the iced rain of Norway or Sweden, untouchable like the glaciers of the far North. He smiled like he was fresh from the pictures in Hollywood, but blushed and stammered like a schoolboy from Eton. His name was Arthur, but what did that mean to a man who was tongue-tied every time his gaze swept the room? He could be called Jacob or Mark or Athelstan and it would mean nothing to Poirot, for the physical method of saying his name was far beyond him.
Poirot did not know who this man was, but he very much wanted to find out.