John
Without a car, Marco insisted they tab a cab or some driver service. He was used to using rentals and taxis, often traveling from state to state and in cities he didn't know the street names of to get around to venues. 
He'd tried to dress as nice as possible, but not over dress. He found a good balance in slacks and dress shoes, while opting for a burgundy button up. 

Pulling up, Marco held the door open as he let his father go through first. 
It was such an odd title to already have adopted, but Eros seemed receptive. He wanted to try and navigate this late-blooming family bond and Marco - being compassion and soft hearted - was happy to give it a shot also.

Based on the inside of the restaurant, the demigod was glad he hadn't worn a full three piece, though, perhaos he could have choosen a different colored shirt. Maybe he wouldn't look too much like a chameleon when he sat against the plush velvet. 
A waiter took them to a table, and a moderately busy crowd and hushed conversations told him that this place was good enough for people to be comfortable. He glanced to plates as they were lead, and people were eating. 
Marco had a tendency to be skeptical of Yelp! Reviews or other engines, but the popular forum of Reddit never lead him astray. 
He wondered briefly if Eros knew how to navigate the internet as they sat and were given menus and offered wine and appetizers.
Marco looked to Eros to pipe in, wondering if he had a preference. He did want wine, but he didn't know what they had here and surely the God had been here before, right...?
Major
Seated comfortably on a familiar cushion of velvet, Eros eyed his son, and saw only a mirror. A prolongation of his gaze upon another was no revelation, yet it became more evident to him now, for it was done not out of desire but of fascination. Adoration, perhaps. The more that he observed, the less that his son was a separate being; Eros identified himself in the curve of Marco's jaw, or in the perky dance in his eye, despite them being several shades darker. Pecked by his unearthly allure, Marco Vitali was meant to be here, dressed in the color of sensuality. There was a range of distance between them, a boyhood that Eros was not privy to, yet it did not feel impossibly afar.
⠀
Eros could void the most irrefutable rancor from a man's eyes and administer them with love. Surely, then, could he perform the same with his own blood. A part of him wished to do so without powers— only with the truth of his heart.
⠀
Restfully were his legs crossed, with a bearing that implied intrigue. Eros was no newcomer, though the restaurant had not left enough of an impression on him to be recollected with a sentimental grin. There were no memories fastened to its name, yet there was an inkling that there would be. It was delightfully dim and appropriately sultry, reanimated by a lively shade of red. The amalgamation of fine dishes all meshed as one, and it complimented the clinking of glasses or the whirring of mortal discussion. He could catch glimpses of it, of their desires— budding couples downing bottomless glasses of wine, immodest men watching waitresses like meat. Here, it was sophisticated, but not grandiose. Professional, but not without subtle vulgarity.
⠀

The god smiled to himself, for the restaurant's selection had become a test that Eros unknowingly conjured, and Marco unknowingly passed.
⠀
Despite a colorful spirit, Eros was clad in the shades of night, as black as the hair on his head. A cashmere sweater that constricted his muscles with the ferocity of a serpent only enhanced his allure, tucked within pleated slacks. Garments of silver were tucked beneath, and only at exact angles did they gleam in the light, enriching the light in his eyes. Effortlessly did his hair remain remote from his face, yet its pomaded structure did not extinguish its wavy texture. In his perfection remained the remnants of humanity, for that was what produced his appeal.
⠀
The menu, bound in leather and ornately engraved, was held loosely in bejeweled hands. Eros was only skimming to imply interest, and Marco's eyes could be felt on him, eager. The waiter, a simple young man peppered in freckles, spoke articulately of their range of food and drink. It was only when Eros looked up to him, however, that his words slowed and became foolishly halted. In a room so maroon, Eros recognized warmth in one's cheeks, bombarding the young boy with foreign feeling.
⠀

"Oh, I am decided. A glass of Malbec, and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Are you nervous? Sneak a sip when no one is looking. It will soothe you."
⠀
It was spoken expertly, as though each word could transcend time and slow the heart. The menu was offered back to the server with a slack wrist, and the fledgling took it as if he could not dare to keep Eros waiting— a mortal with wise instinct. He was curious to know the taste of the waiter when he returned, to know if his counsel had been followed. Upon being left alone, Eros rested his head in one hand, eyeing his son.
⠀
"A glass of red, and a glass of white. I will drink what you least prefer." Eros leaned, absentmindedly, closer to the table. The illuminated lampshade casted a saintly glow to his cheeks, and the weight of his sanctity could not be denied. "Awfully romantic, is it not? Are you fond of places like this?"
⠀
To his left, in the vacancy of the seat that his body did not occupy, sat a gift. A small, rectangular box, wrapped in graphite paper and topped with a thin, velveted bow. Eros made no attempt at hiding its presence, but he did not address it, either.
⠀
||
John
Sitting down across from his father, Marco was able to get a better look at the way he acted with others. The demigod watched the interaction between his father and the waiter, noting the burst of confidence that brought the man's skin to life. It dawned on him how easy it was for the God to carry out his power so discreetly, nevermind the fact that it had nearly worked on him when they first met. 
The God could sell his bath water as an elixir and relabel it "Love potion". 
It was that sauve trait that he often carried himself, but he only held a piece from the sole proprietor. 

Marco's voice carried a lower tone, softer and more personal as he spoke, taking whatever appetizers they had that was the waiter's personal favorite. He must have felt extremely special that night to be paid such close attention to by this party of two charming men. He handed over the menu gratefully, and shifted in his seat. 

**"Depends on how dry they are,"** He stated, with a small smile, before placing his hands in his lap and rubbing his thumb over the band of his watch. He used to do it to his wedding ring, but that wasn't something he wore in months. Sometimes he got the phantom hug of it around his finger, only to see nothing there.

**"Infact, I am. I enjoy a sensual ambiance over the crowded, sticky bars or the harsh fluorescents of cafeterias. From an artistic view, I believe the space in which you inhabit says a lot about what kind of person you are."** 

Marco had seen the box in Eros' hand, but did not inquire about it. He hated to ruin surprises, and asking

About it felt too pushy. 

**"If we are talking about what kind of people we are, I would love to see your wardrobe. I can't imagine your closet isn't a bedroom in and of itself."**

The waiter returned, placing the glasses down before filling each with some wine. One white and one red. 

**"Do mind if I–?"** He made a whiffing motion before swirling and gingerly smelling both, before going for Sauvignon Blanc. 
**"That was a difficult choice. What kind of wine do you prefer?"**
Major
The pads of his fingers intermittently tapped the filed arch of his cheekbone, and it was when Marco spoke that he became the most heedful. With eyes of the alert panther, Eros scrutinized him, but his stare lacked the judgment that was delivered to others. The young man spoke gingerly, intimately— to Eros, his words had been carefully curated, but they did not retain the doubt that was prevalent in a mortal's heart. It must have been an innate property, to maintain a silken appeal and to wield it appropriately. Albeit selfishly, Eros settled on the conviction that it was his doing. In his truancy as a father, he remained in the silver of Marco's tongue. The talents of his son were painfully palpable, now.
_ _
Eros briefly questioned if he was regarding the dryness of wines or the dryness of what encircled them. The god of lechery appreciated the appeal of dull–lit restaurants and patrons dressed in embellished designs, but the greatest gratification was in what could not be seen. There were secrets, codes in colors that only he could read— the repression of fleeting desire, the shy murmuring between dinner dates. A clandestine affair was cryptic no longer when he was there, promising guidance and esteem. The man at the other end of the table was a blossoming rose of color, of untold chapters and arcane afflictions. In time, Eros wished to understand. He was his son, after all. A god of love could not be deprived of his own romantic woes. There was a sentiment that they unwittingly shared.
_ _
With an airy smile, Eros was rooted to the earth with Marco's extended words. The god was alarmingly expressive, but only with what he wanted others to find. A declaration of the man's sultry preferences inscribed a lift of his brow. The weight of his skull deepened as he became lax, blinking with interest. He had a stare that isolated— it could make one feel hauntingly exceptional, but worthy of inclusion.
_ _

**"Sensuality is everywhere. If you cannot see it, then assume it is being hidden from you."** The truth of it propelled his posture, leaning into the seat and doing away with his hand. Eros moved with a compulsion for stimulation, but he was not unwise. He knew to bide his time when the reward would be substantial. **"Find it, or become it."**
_ _
Amused, Eros smirked. **"*A* Closet? I'll show you the first, and we'll make our way to the others."** It was spoken with a frisky inflection that was between jest and formality. His eyes were circling the shade of Marco's attire like the flitting wings of a vulture, and there was a darkening cast of guile atop his gaze. **"Burgundy suits you, but the room swallowed you whole! Wear more jewelry apart from a watch, hm? You would look handsome in silver."**
_ _
The waiter arrived hastily, with a weight in his step that was flimsier than before. Eros settled on the reasoning of it to himself, his pleasure conveyed in a grin that enriched the face. He had considered the waiter— there was a contemplative vision of allowing the waiter to linger, to make an example of him dictated by the redness of his face. The god chose against it, kept still by Marco's determination of the wines. One red, and one white. The selection did not mean much, but Eros eyed him with such focus that it was distracting.
_ _
The red would belong to Eros, and he took the glass by the stem. **"If it's wine, then red. If I had it my way, I'd have a Cosmopolitan."**
_ _
He remained in the space of Marco's words spoken prior to the waiter's intrusion. Eros had a tendency to wade in dialogue, to cherry–pick what he wished for.
_ _
**"How do you apply that artistic view to yourself? To take a photograph, rather than make yourself the focus of it— that is a choice. You do not seem shy. Are you shy, Marco?"**
_ _
||
John
Marco couldn't see an ounce of what Eros could see, but in his own mortal way he could perceive it by sense. The shift of energy, the tones of too-fast talking, or slow deliberate words; carefully choosen. The mute stares of disapproval. 
Thankfully, that wasn't the case with him. 

Eros' gaze was drawing him out, his essence. He felt more loved by this man alone within the few days they'd been together than by his ex-wife of many years. 

*Sensuality... Find it, or become it.* 

The phrase latched onto Marco so quickly- or rather, maybe he held hands with the swords. Like waking up in a childhood home and seeing the wallpaper still had the teddy bear and building blocks border at the top. It was a powerful statement and one that resonated deeply with his own purpose.

**"It was a coincidence, but I should have had a keener eye for such a thing. Perhaps you'd find it worth your time to... Assist me? I'm not very..."** He waved his hand vaguely, trying to find the words.
**"Acclimated with fashion."** 

With his wine in hand, Marco gingerly moved the little glass by the foot, two fingers on either side of the stem, along the table cloth in a small circle. He paused at the question, hazel eyes finding his father's. 
There wasn't any confusion, but rather, he found he already knew the answer.

**"Not shy, no. I wouldn't say I am shy. Gentle, perhaps? 
Since it is a choice, of how to embody sensuality, I would rather find it. There is nothing more pronounced than to help rekindle that spark between two people - or to help someone fall in love with themselves again through a boudoir shoot. Making others feel safe to explore something that is so easy to forget - themselves - that's what I love. 
It isn't about me, but having that sort of influence...
I mean, the world, it's a complicated place. But love? 
Love doesn't have to be complicated.**

**You are the God of Love, so... What do you think? How have you navigated something that everyone yearns for, craves, goes through phases with, and ultimately becomes jaded by the thing that you are so accustom too?** 

Marco wouldn't romanticize something that was already so fragile, like a crackled glass christmas ornament - the surface being so beautiful but the technique dismished the structural integrity. It required that view, something that new how it - love - could only withstand so much.
Major
The glass, a pool of cavernous red that mingled with the notes of the room, kept just below his chin as if he contemplated the taste. Pensively, Eros whirled the stem to inflate the wine's aroma, yet he was halted by the words of a son. To *Assist*— it was endearing, and with a secluded sensitivity did Eros value its multifaceted meaning. The benignant hue of his son's eyes was surely tactile, sewn with a tissue of flowing satin that was as plush as the God's nightly sheets. Eros, with an appreciative and receptive smile, began to uncover the boy in him. It felt as if it were a favor that went beyond ritzy and renewed fashion tastes. It felt as if it were a pledge, a decree to his presence that shall no longer leave him. Could Eros promise such a thing? To remain, to be one's beacon? In their glance that was so sweetly shared, Eros discerned how his son had loved and been loved.
_ _
He, with a damningly mortal hankering, wished to be loved by his son. Eros could not evade the authority that his blood held over him. He was, albeit carelessly, yearning for the innocuous certainty of their bond.
_ _
"You are more acclimated than you think. You are my son, after all."
_ _

At last, Eros lifted the glass to parted lips, humming at the balance of both tart and sugared palates. There was a great sentiment to such a declaration, and Eros persisted in silken speech. Insistently, he observed, and his eyes fell to the motion of his son's hands as he yearned for articulation. The request left him pleased, and a subtle nod unveiled his approval.
_ _
"Yes, Marco, I will assist you. What you wear, it is not so simple as your preferences. You are envied for your looks, but with your clothes, jewelry... You will be envied for your mind. Most men throw away their lives, searching for the influence that you embody. Do not let it go to waste. I imagine that the boutiques in France would adore your company."
_ _
The words of the love God worked with the dexterity of a shaman's enchantment, remedying the mind. He spoke as if Marco was a reptilian man, with secrets like scales that shed and were flaunted freely to him. Eros spoke with a fervid, earnest animation, practiced and perfected by the company of faltering mortals. Here, however, Eros did not overstate his convictions. He wished to enact a metamorphosis of rejuvenation in his son; to unbury what was denied, never to alter and reject.
_ _

What Eros did not ready for, however, was the excavation of his own soul. Marco, freely, spoke without stopping. It brought Eros to a state of wholesome intrigue, nearly shifting the very weight of gravity. As if the glass of wine had become a dense barbell, he placed it near the demigod's glass of white.
_ _
*"Love doesn't have to be complicated."*
_ _
The words of a God, on the tongue of a man.
_ _
A demigod, forged by mortal frailty yet fortified by divine faultlessness, had never appeared so high–powered. Eros glimmered with pride, yet he was frigid in a simmering self–reflection. In elaborate reveries did Eros imagine his son, with gentle eyes, capturing the love of another by the permanence of a photograph. Marco's spirit of inquiry dismantled him, blinking lightly with the softness of a dove's wings. It only revealed itself in the slight twitching of his mouth, between a smile and the inclination to speak.
_ _

"You are clever. The simplest things are the most convoluted, hm? It is easy, to love. It is the universal feeling of the heart, in men and animals alike, and yet it is a mortal's most renowned hindrance."
_ _
A hindrance of the mortal heart, yet it held Eros by the gullet and charged him with flashes of feeling. He was, in complete seclusion, not so endowed with fortune as one would believe. His divine matrimony had, in time, become a bond of the platonic soul. While grateful, Eros had not been granted a love that was ever plain and easily intelligible. His interminable affair with the God of Zeal was smothering him, now, more than it often did. If Eros slipped into the murmuring shallows of memory, he could recall his scent, and the vigor of the God's hands as they roamed his body freely. That was the love that men spilt blood for, and Eros once obtained it. It was the passion that lovers could not domesticate, that left tears to soak in linen and hearts to wither with time. Eros was blessed, yes. He loved, and while it came to him with ease, it did not persist in simplicity. Love did not have to be so complicated, yet it was.
_ _
"Love is too supreme of an emotion to be kept easy. I believe you understand that well enough. You are, like I have told you, more acclimated and wise than I think you know. Capturing love, with those pictures of yours, it is a power that you wield flawlessly."
_ _
Eros looked to the box nearest to him, and then to his son. It appeared that they would both receive gifts on this night.
_ _
"Love takes various shape with whoever it attaches itself to. For some, it is known so well that it lacks profundity. To others, it will never be understood, or felt. It is more of an object to me than anyone else. I adore it, the love that people carry. Like you, I guide and observe it."
_ _

Whether it be impulse or the wisdom within his offspring, Eros took the box in both hands, offering it from across the table. Inside, Marco would find a costly, personalized camera strap. Made of genuine, black leather, and embroidered with the man's initials, it was only the onset of Eros's appreciation. He was finding, now, that there was much for them to learn.
_ _
"A gift. I would like for you to keep doing what you do, Marco. With my support, I think that you will see love in more vivid... Lenses."
_ _
||
John
Marco listened to his father speak. Words, like poetry, were easy for him, and that was just one more thing for the artist to hook onto; something that was similar between them. A brief thought of how similar they were fluttered through his mind. Even they had never met one another until recent, it felt as if this was what home felt like.
Is this what the God of Love was capable of doing? Creating love in not only body, but in essence - into a person? 
Or was it coincidence that he, himself, found himself drawn to passion?

The demigod's eyebrows slanted in genuine focus and empathy as the God explained his own view of love. He was right, about all of it. 
A small smile raised the edge of his mouth as Eros looked away. Marco felt as if he'd been seen, and understood, for once. 
There was no changing the past and all of his hardships had brought him to this exact moment. He could never take for granted the people's lives he enriched, even as his own grasp on love in his personal life was waning. 
But like the moon going through it's phases, he finding it all over again.

**"It's been nothing short of an inspiration to converse with you about life and love-"**
He took the box with a grateful touch, and opened it to peer to it's content. 

**"Father... This is such a considerate gift.."** 
Marco tilted his head back up, smiling wide at Eros, as he brought the camera strap up from it's cardboard cradle to look the engraving. 
The pause and the wording wasn't lost on the demigod and his hazel eyes gleamed as he looked to the God again. He placed the strap back into the box.

**"I have a lot to learn, but I couldn't ask for a better teacher."** 

Reaching forwards, Marco took hold of his wine glass, and raised it high enough for it to be obvious he was preparing a toast. 

**"To new beginnings.~"**

||
Major
The gift was taken from one touch to the next, and Eros watched his son with such focus that he appeared juvenile. He ceased to move, anticipating a glint in his hazel eyes that would imply fulfillment. To the God, gift–giving was an act that absurdly lacked superficiality; his offerings were saturated in the tenderness of thought and feeling. A present from Eros was a treasure of scarcity, earned through the extremities of devotion.
_ _
Eros had known what it was to be spoiled from prospered youth. No matter the country, he would become the locals' picturesque star, stifled in half–hearted affection. He was adored, probed, and gawked at. With a beguiling batting of the lashes, Eros was granted what his beauty was deserving of. A ritzy line of clothing, the most exorbitant diamonds. Never had he yearned long for a material object, for it would be placed at his feet in haste. The God did, however, yearn for the sentiment of a gift from those that wholly knew him.
_ _
Marco's gift to Eros was not meticulously wrapped in paper, but it was lodged in the bust of his chest, thumping away.
_ _

From Marco's smile, Eros became visibly enchanted with esteem. Drinking from his elation, Eros smiled in return, observing the strap's engraving in the restaurant's tactless lighting. Carelessly, Eros scrutinized portions of his son's face as if to inspect him and recall it in reminiscence. The deity was shrewd in his memory, but there were moments that he held closer to his precious heart than others. A pledge to guide Marco appeared to emanate from paternal commands, but in his scope of Godlihood, Eros knew that it held the properties of becoming more. The war among Gods had grown aggravated by a swelling hatred that even Eros could not take lightly. Savagery was grazing the mortal well–being, for the lust he perceived in the residents of Olympian stood as a veil for the sensation of fear.
_ _
Eros grew radiant with both endearment and a brewing set of intentions. He lowered his head, voice playful and low.
_ _
"I agree, anyone else would be a bore. Oh, we'll start off with an easy lesson. Filing through that wardrobe of yours, hm?"
_ _

Eyes of an appetizing blue looked to the glass of wine as it lifted ceremonially into the air. Naturally, Eros raised his own, the glass sounding as it struck Marco's.
_ _
"To new beginnings. And new vacations, I hope."
_ _
||