[ Jardin Luxembourg is the classiest little cinema, he's ever seen, hands down, he's particularly smitten with its red velvet seats, reminding Claude more of the theatre than a place showing movies. Currently, Jean Louis and he are standing at the counters running across the huge window panel with its view of the street outside, Masquerade is so long, three hours, give or take, that there's a half hour break in the middle to accommodate the quick fix hunger that some might develop while watching all that political drama. It's actually a much more political movie than he'd expected, maybe even more politics than ballet, in a distribution of 55 percent to 45, if he's generous.
For now, though, he's actually more thirsty than hungry and without turning too much to the side, he throws a glance over at the café where they are selling the wine that has secured the place its reputation. Wouldn't a glass of Argentinian make this already rather satisfying date that much more perfect? Claude thinks so and considers asking Jean Louis whether he'd like a glass as well. ]
[It's a long movie alright, but considering the subject matter, the feel of time passing would no doubt have been relative in any case. Russian politics aren't wholly uninteresting, happily, and the drama of the ballet world isn't altogether worse than what you'd find in parliament - backstabbing, people sleeping around to get ahead, secret deals and secret handshakes. One moment, you have it all - the next, your hands are empty. Yes, that's familiar enough. It's just hard to care about it when it's about Russian ballet.
Glancing at Claude, he notes the way he looks towards the café. Mm, a glass of wine definitely would be appreciated right now. It's not quite heavy enough for him, the brand they sell here, he prefers it Italian, but it's fine. Tonight's about Claude, after all. About whatever he wants.]
Thirsty? [He turns towards the café slightly, hand already going for his card holder.] A glass of red, perhaps?
[ Eventually, of course, they end up in Claude's apartment, in his living room, on his couch, sitting next to each other and drinking coffee made in a vintage pressing pot that Claude bought at one of the infamous Parisian antique markets while he still lived back in France. He's poured Jean Louis a cup of the blackest black, while he himself added a big splash of milk to the darkness in his own cup - he's set the table with his good porcelain, the art deco service he inherited from his grandmother on his mother's side back when he was fifteen. The entire apartment is in the same style, vintage or antique, slightly dark, slightly dusty-feeling, though he cleans weekly. There isn't too much natural light, he's basically living in an attic, the topmost apartment of the building with sloping windows, well, one window. The rest is candles he's lit and lamps he's turned on, casting yellow and orange hues everywhere. Casting long shadows across the floor. Claude leans back, watches Jean Louis for a long moment. He hasn't decided yet, whether he actually likes the other man or not. He hasn't exactly talked enough about himself that Claude has gotten a feel of him.
Though, he thinks, he wouldn't actually mind a feel of him. ]
Hopefully this counts as the best welcome to the abode of a true socialist that you've ever been given.
[The apartment comes close to what he'd expect from a ballet dancer, living in a European metropolis. It's small, old-looking and, to some extent, reminiscent of his old apartment by the Alzette. Somewhere to eat and sleep, basically, though Claude's done his best to make it homely. There's something about his style - all those old-fashioned designs scattered across the apartment, how they go with the rooms themselves - that's nice. Somehow, it's easy to breathe here.
At Claude's comment he shrugs slightly. Looks at the porcelain cup, the coffee smelling delicious. He rarely brews his own anymore, his coffee machine's too fancy not to use, after all.]
My grandmother wasn't a socialist, as far as I know. [He doesn't quite know why this memory has surfaced in the first place, but he goes with it, deciding that he's been careful enough all night. If he never gives anything back, the other man might just decide that he's being greedy and that, obviously, would never do.] But her best china looked a lot like this. She kept it locked away in her vitré armoire - I suppose she thought it was something quite expensive.
[The last words spoken with something approaching warmth. He doesn't remember her well but certain impressions stay with you, don't they? Good, bad, memory rarely discriminates. It does occur to him that comparing the man's porcelain of choice with his grandmother's could be taken as a bit of an insult, but based on what he's seen this evening, he's counting on Claude to go with a less disingenuous interpretation.]
[All food starts with meat - or well, if you ask him and people are asking him so many fucking questions today, all food should start with meat, so when he walked by their local butcher and he advertised some big-ass pork chops in the window, Marcel went right in and bought four. Texted JL at work, pork chops and hotchpotch tonight, y/n? and didn't wait for the confirmation to tick in, just went straight to the market and bought a couple of kilos worth of potatoes, carrots and onions. They know him down there, he got some good offers and didn't refuse them, because he's so fucking generous, right? So fucking generous.
Actually, Marcel is so fucking generous that he's cooking for the both of them once again, standing over the kitchen counter and chopping up carrots while the potatoes are boiling away on the stove. On the kitchen table, next to where JL is working, the busy man, fuck, he's fixed a glass of wine and a beer, a little alcohol for each of them according to taste, yeah?]
[The mails keep ticking in and he keeps answering, sometimes in one line sentences, sometimes in full paragraphs and - whenever Potos' the sender - single words. Like no.
Right now, however, he's turning his attention away from the screen to follow Marcel with his gaze, the man chopping up carrots with his usual precision. Sipping his red wine languidly, he leans back on the bar stool and sniffs the air, the boiling potatoes leaving a very particular scent in the air, sweet and earthy. It's been a while since he last ate, the last meeting dragged on for hours.]
How would the potatoes taste right about now? [Another sip.] If I ate one, would I like it?
[ Claude doesn't as such have any insecurities concerning his body. He's used to staring in the mirror and finding fault with himself from early in the morning till midnight, but he also recognizes that he's objectively very good-looking with a nicely defined muscle mass, symmetrical features and, he's been told, a contagious laugh. All good; he knows he looks great once he's out of his clothes, nevertheless he feels the jitters move right in as they finally find themselves in the bedroom, Jean Louis and him, at opposite ends of the smallish bed, with only a few metres between them. He's nervous. About what the other man will think - of the sleeping accommodations that he can offer, of him, damn it.
Slowly he works on unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging out of the fabric easily, the muscles in his shoulders working at the simple movement. Claude isn't a neat freak, he doesn't need everything to lie tidily in its place and his bedroom especially shows for it, so he drops the shirt to the floor and starts on his trousers, unzipping and pushing them down over his hips. They are agonizingly slow to slide down his thighs. Not until he's standing there in socks and briefs does he really give it thought, what he's actually expecting might happen now. They haven't properly discussed the situation after their kiss and maybe they should have, but it never came up naturally and Claude hates to force these things, it's not supposed to be uncomfortable. What does he expect? That they sleep together? That they don't?
Glancing quickly over at Jean Louis who looks out of place with the heavy desk behind him and the old-fashioned, white-painted arm chairs on either side, the bed on his right, Claude watches him furtively like a schoolboy, it seems a given, that it'll be up to him. This entire night has been his doing, after all, let the Minister get the final say. ]
[ The bedroom's not just on the smaller side - it feels minuscule, perhaps especially now with the two of them undressing in relative silence, broken only by the rustling of their clothes. There's something about the feel of Claude's lips that seem to linger still, no doubt mostly his imagination playing tricks but that, in itself, is odd. He's not the sentimental type by any stretch and kissing men isn't generally something he even partially enjoys. Then again, the last woman he bedded was Lisette, one week ago, and he can't even remember what she tasted like, let alone how she felt. Fingers working the buttons on his shirt open with methodological precision, he pushes the thoughts away. Lets his shirt fall open and turns his gaze to Claude who's mostly done undressing now, standing there in his socks and underwear, looking... maybe the slightest bit lost.
No shame in needing a bit of direction, right?
Shrugging out of his shirt, he holds it loosely in one hand and pauses. Looks the younger man over slowly, not primarily to enjoy his looks (though he is, objectively, good-looking in many ways - if nothing else, he does have eyes) but for the sake of communication. It might be easier, simply telling him that they'll only be heading straight to sleep if that's what Claude's expecting, if that's what he wants. But there's also a certain beauty in making him choose without handing him everything on a silver platter. Life's like that, after all. Thus, he simply watches him in silence, from the symmetrical lines of his face to the defined muscles of his upper body, thighs, legs. Eyes snapping back to his face, he raises an eyebrow slowly, puts his shirt away and turns slightly to the side.
[ You don't find Jean Louis' apartment where you'd expect it to be, in one of the upscale parts of town, nestled in amongst ambassador and banker homes. Instead, the other man has settled into the Pigsty, possibly because it's where his partner originates from, Claude doesn't make assumptions. It's not a place most people would like to go at night and Claude is, in this regard, not very different from most people. However, there are bodyguards stationed at the front door and as soon as he's stepped inside, the atmosphere resets itself. All is safe, all is sound.
Such is the mood between them, as they've relocated themselves to the Minister's office upstairs, the bed loft a world apart from the rest of the apartment. Claude always only passes through the remaining areas of Marcel's and Jean Louis' home, the hallway, the living room... He doesn't belong there, he feels this clearly and accepts it without complaint. As it is, Jean Louis' office feels chill and airy, the coolness of the air condition seeping through Claude's knitted shirt and kissing his skin, making the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. It's comfortable. Straightforward. As is always the case when he meets with Jean Louis.
Shifting his glass of wine to the other hand, so he can reach for the grapes, he eyes the bed settee and sits down gingerly, looking up at the other man. ]
You tapped my shoulder just at the right time, you know.
[ Marcel's left a few hours earlier, not too long before he wrote Claude and asked for his companionship. It's always at least somewhat inconvenient, whenever the underground acts up out of tune but such is the nature of it and that's that. In certain aspects, politics aren't much different - after all, the element of surprise is what keeps you on your toes, keeps it all fresh. Thus, Jean Louis has changed out of his formal work clothes and into a borderline-casual set of Armani Exchange, all black on grey, the long-sleeved t-shirt spiced up a fraction with splashes of cool, minty blue.
And here they are. The two of them. He watches Claude as the younger man sips wine, looking quite comfortable on the settee. Even in this apartment, usually a strong-hold against most outside forces, he's found a way to simply fit; having known the man for some time now, it's become apparent that it's just how his personality works. Imagine that. Raising an eyebrow, he sits down on the other end of the settee. ]
[ Dinner has been good. Jean Louis has made for a very aesthetically pleasing addition to the food on his plate. All in all, Claude has been enjoying himself pretty thoroughly and he isn't going to push the envelope, he decides as one of the waiters helps him into his jacket in the lobby. Then, they drive Jean Louis' car out front and it takes one glance at the Aston Martin for Claude to decide that, although it is only early September, autumn must have come tiptoeing in over Luxembourg and it would be far too cold to walk home alone through the city.
Because this ride is his. He feels like Cinde-fucking-rella as the other man opens the car door for him.
Once in the car, they sit next to each other in a comfortable silence at first. Claude watches as the inner city passes by the windows in a blur of darkness and street lamps. His apartment is in one of the old town houses in the suburbs a good twenty minutes away, they've got time to let the air and dust settle between them. ]
Now that you've got my address coded into the GPS, where do you live yourself?
[ He speaks without looking at Jean Louis, instead letting his eyes jump from one flicker of light in the dusk to another outside the car window. ]
[ The restaurant certainly didn't disappoint - he'll have to send his praises to Richard tomorrow, tell the man to keep up the good work, make sure he knows that Jean Louis appreciated his last-minute reservation. Of course, the other man did owe him a favour (and more) but there's no need to be petty. Not in this case, anyway. Steering the car effortlessly through City, heading for one of the main roads and listening only partially to the GPS - after all, he knows this city inside and out - he glances at Claude out of the corner of his eyes. ]
Close to the palace. Though, I might move sometime soon - the apartment's never really grown on me.
[ His tone is light, conversational. It's been a more than decent night, Claude's turned out to be... very acceptable company. He talks, but not too much and never without reason. He's clearly very bright. And there's just something about him... it's hard to describe. All he knows is that he's been in no hurry to get through dinner, as would have been normal - usually, he only takes these people out for the sake of sleeping with them. To make the night go faster.
Yet, he hasn't thought about it once tonight. Not before now. ]
[ Jean Louis' apartment is spacious, nothing but white walls and light everywhere, newly built too. Whatever problem the other man might have with it, Claude doesn't see it, he could live the remainder of his life in an apartment like this and be a very happy man. For the time being, he's just mooching off of the atmosphere, vegging out on the large corner sofa that takes up half the window-opposing wall, clad in only his jeans and a pair of mint green socks. Like promised, he pretty much shed his shirt first thing stepping inside, at least showing manners enough to actually fold the thing neatly and place it on top of the coat rack in the hallway before conquering the living room with his six pack and his chest hair.
He feels incredibly relaxed. Jean Louis has just provided him with the most thorough massage you could ask for without being a greedy, pseudo-creepy bastard. Shit, it was nice, although his back probably looks a bit worn in places now. He has big hands, does Jean Louis, he'd be able to cover ten piano keys easily, eleven on a good day - he was able to reach from one sweet spot underneath Claude's left shoulder blade to an even sweeter spot near the base of his neck without actively moving his working hand too much. Pretty damn impressive.
Turning away from the TV, he stretches lazily, letting his eyes follow the very notable profile of the other man's face. His nose is as imposing as his grip. A true, Roman arch. In general, Jean Louis carries a southern air about him, from his olive-ish skin to his always smoldering temper, if someone tried making him believe the man was Italian, he might just believe it. The complete opposite of pale, kind of see-through Benjamin. He frowns.
Then, he decides to just go for it. They've been going on these non-dates for months now, if there ever were a time... ]
[ With Claude more or less dropping his shirt upon stepping inside his apartment, the evening so far has been going exactly as he'd envisioned after their short text exchange: the other man, half-naked on his couch, getting his back thoroughly worked through from neck to waist. Judging from his relaxed appearance and posture, it's been a success, luckily enough. Jean Louis' not exactly used to handing out backrubs - quite frankly, he doesn't know anyone he'd want to touch for that long. Anyone but Claude, it seems.
As the months have gone by, he's ceased questioning it; Claude's special, he's someone he'd want to spend time with even if means canceling other plans or missing out on job opportunities (which really says something, considering how few he gets). He just... prefers his company over more or less everything else. Simple. He frowns, leaning back in the couch and glancing over at Claude when he feels his eyes on him. It's not simple in the least, this thing. It's ridiculously dangerous. After all, Claude's young, he's attractive and he's kind - he can't rightly expect to hold onto him forever.
You win some, you loose some, isn't that just how life goes? He pushes the thought firmly in the background of his mind, as far away as possible and gives Claude half a smile. ]
[ She doesn't like hanging out at In&Out as much as her presence is required if she wants to spend any real quality time with Timm. Shit, the man has made the gay club his castle just as much as Alexa hasn't managed to make Rosebud hers. She'll take being Timm's jester here, though, over being the laughing stock over there, on the other side of the end wall, that's for fucking sure. She'll even live with all the men and all the aggressively toxic masculinity that fills the air like some kind of atomic waste. Boom! The fucking menz. She'll take it, for Timm's sake.
God fucking knows, he takes double, triple the amount of that shit that she does on any given day.
While he's out doing his thing, she's sitting at the bar, feeling - weirdly - less out of place among all the chest-hugging shirts and aesthetically holed jeans than she does among the lipstick lesbians at the all-female hang-out next door. At least her tie and pinstriped pants fit in with the rest, yeah? Nevertheless, she's beginning to get a little worried about Timm, he doesn't usually take this long, and as such she grabs her newly refilled beer and pushes off the bar stool. To go look for him, although he always tells her not to.
He knows as well as she does that Alexa doesn't really follow the rules. ]
[ He only rarely frequents this place, disliking both the flimsiness of the gay community as a whole and the way some of them stare at him from the shadows like he's fucking edible. Not that he'd ever say so, of course, seeing as most of the In&Out clientele leave lovely, fat x'es on their ballots next to either his name or to Liberté - potato, potah-to, perhaps. To some extent. In any case, he stays friendly whenever they have to come here - whenever Marcel's got an itch he can't seem to scratch in any other fashion. Friendly, if not altogether approachable. Most people simply chalk it up to him, craving at least a semblance of respite from the rush of politics and who's he to correct them? Let them think as they like, so long as it keeps them off his back, every possible pune intended.
He's been outside for a smoke and makes his way quickly, efficiently, across the room, navigating around the dance floor as cleanly as possible and heading straight for the bar. Marcel's off with somebody, some faceless clown that had better remain faceless, unless Marcel wants to spend the rest of his evening taking out garbage. Scowling at the thought, he's briefly distracted by two men, yelling at each other tearfully further back, one of them seemingly drunk out of his mind.
As such, he doesn't see the guy before he more or less runs him over, bumping into him sideways. Though the impact doesn't bother Jean Louis, it's got to bother him more, being such a scrawny little... He pauses. Stares and blinks.
[ CDP has been negotiating the new EU regulations of which Parliament has been held out prospects for months now and tonight is the final stretch. Naturally, it's not a simple matter of yes and no, Luxembourg has been deeply invested in the Union since its birth, but some of the regulations will have a severe impact on tax-deductions for the multi-national corporations working within their borders and if nothing else, they want their opportunities to remain what they've always been. It is the Luxembourgian way.
Passing by Jean Louis' office, Philippe forces himself to a slow halt, looking into the small cube of a working space that his personally appointed (and very young) spokesman has transformed into a neat collection of paper stacks, it looks almost like an archive at a library. Very impressive. He smiles, taps his knuckles two times against the wooden frame of the door to announce himself. ]
Everyone else has gone home for the night, Jean Louis. Oughtn't you do the same, perhaps?
[ He's preparing the papers for tomorrow's presentation. Strictly speaking, Albert's already prepared them for him but the man's evidently a complete fool and Jean Louis' had to revise his work from top to bottom. It's taken the better part of the day, in between meetings and heated debates and if he doesn't get it done before the night's out, he'll be quite cranky.
Two knocks on his door makes him glance up, a bit slower to react than usual. Philippe's in the doorway, looking ready to head home. He returns the other man's smile, though the expression is, as always, slightly subdued. ]
Yes, well. Unfortunately, group effort is a double-edged sword. [ He wags the papers in Philippe's general direction. ] It doesn't always make us more efficient.
[ Pa had been livid, like, Marcel has never seen him so fucking angry in his life and, shit, they once tried selling JL's foster brother off as a street walker. Not to mention, JL set the neighbour's cat on fire. And Marcel broke little Ulrich's jaw in the third grade. Pa's been angry before, but never like this. Instead of the belt, he'd pulled out a fucking rolling pin and chased him through the house. You're gonna give up those filthy ideas, he'd said, not shouted, just in that fucking flatline of a voice, or I'm gonna beat them out of you, kid. It would have been amusing, yeah, fucking hilarious, hadn't he had to parry several hard as hell blows with his forearms, throwing in a kick to Pa's hip, a fist to his nose.
All in all, Marcel came out of the house looking worse for wear than when he went in.
Now, he's here. Standing in front of JL's door in the old building where he's been living for at least a couple of years at this point, two big black trash bags holding everything he had the fucking time to collect, okay, after he'd knocked out the other man with a roundhouse kick to the head, carefully tempered, but hard enough to put him down. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, yeah.
Sometimes.
He opens the door with a small twist of the key that the keyhole always needs to unlock right, dragging the two trash bags with him inside. They make more fucking noise than he does. ]
[ He's at home early by his current standards - quite often, he ends up staying at the office until closer to midnight with questions to fine-tune, strategies to discuss with people outside of their European timezone. Tonight, however, he's drinking coffee on his balcony, street lights gleaming in the river a couple of stories below. It's quiet, really, though people are frequenting the cafés still, laughter echoing from within the narrow streets making up the twists and turns of the Old City. He's doing no work whatsoever right now; it's just the coffee and the silence, a rare break in an otherwise raging current.
The sound of a key entering the keyhole outside makes him pause, lips inches away from his coffee mug. He listens, intently, for that tell-tale twist of the key. Nothing overly violent about it, no, just a quick, decisive twist of metal born from years of habit. And - there. Yes. He relaxes instantly. Leaves his coffee on the table and rises from his chair to greet Marcel who's... here, unannounced. Wasn't he supposed to be at his father's house today, actually? Hackles rising again, he heads for the hallway and pauses.
Stares.
It's been... years, really, since he's last seen something like this. Marcel, beaten to within an inch of his fucking life. It just doesn't happen.
Unless. ]
Your old man finally lose all semblances of sanity?
[ His voice sounds blank, far-away. Hands clenching hard for a second, he leans against the doorway and watches, gaze deceptively calm. ]
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starter ( date ) part I
For now, though, he's actually more thirsty than hungry and without turning too much to the side, he throws a glance over at the café where they are selling the wine that has secured the place its reputation. Wouldn't a glass of Argentinian make this already rather satisfying date that much more perfect? Claude thinks so and considers asking Jean Louis whether he'd like a glass as well. ]
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Glancing at Claude, he notes the way he looks towards the café. Mm, a glass of wine definitely would be appreciated right now. It's not quite heavy enough for him, the brand they sell here, he prefers it Italian, but it's fine. Tonight's about Claude, after all. About whatever he wants.]
Thirsty? [He turns towards the café slightly, hand already going for his card holder.] A glass of red, perhaps?
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starter ( date ) part II
Though, he thinks, he wouldn't actually mind a feel of him. ]
Hopefully this counts as the best welcome to the abode of a true socialist that you've ever been given.
[ He is teasing. ]
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At Claude's comment he shrugs slightly. Looks at the porcelain cup, the coffee smelling delicious. He rarely brews his own anymore, his coffee machine's too fancy not to use, after all.]
My grandmother wasn't a socialist, as far as I know. [He doesn't quite know why this memory has surfaced in the first place, but he goes with it, deciding that he's been careful enough all night. If he never gives anything back, the other man might just decide that he's being greedy and that, obviously, would never do.] But her best china looked a lot like this. She kept it locked away in her vitré armoire - I suppose she thought it was something quite expensive.
[The last words spoken with something approaching warmth. He doesn't remember her well but certain impressions stay with you, don't they? Good, bad, memory rarely discriminates. It does occur to him that comparing the man's porcelain of choice with his grandmother's could be taken as a bit of an insult, but based on what he's seen this evening, he's counting on Claude to go with a less disingenuous interpretation.]
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s t a r t e r ( it's called food )
Actually, Marcel is so fucking generous that he's cooking for the both of them once again, standing over the kitchen counter and chopping up carrots while the potatoes are boiling away on the stove. On the kitchen table, next to where JL is working, the busy man, fuck, he's fixed a glass of wine and a beer, a little alcohol for each of them according to taste, yeah?]
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Right now, however, he's turning his attention away from the screen to follow Marcel with his gaze, the man chopping up carrots with his usual precision. Sipping his red wine languidly, he leans back on the bar stool and sniffs the air, the boiling potatoes leaving a very particular scent in the air, sweet and earthy. It's been a while since he last ate, the last meeting dragged on for hours.]
How would the potatoes taste right about now? [Another sip.] If I ate one, would I like it?
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starter ( date ) part III
Slowly he works on unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging out of the fabric easily, the muscles in his shoulders working at the simple movement. Claude isn't a neat freak, he doesn't need everything to lie tidily in its place and his bedroom especially shows for it, so he drops the shirt to the floor and starts on his trousers, unzipping and pushing them down over his hips. They are agonizingly slow to slide down his thighs. Not until he's standing there in socks and briefs does he really give it thought, what he's actually expecting might happen now. They haven't properly discussed the situation after their kiss and maybe they should have, but it never came up naturally and Claude hates to force these things, it's not supposed to be uncomfortable. What does he expect? That they sleep together? That they don't?
Glancing quickly over at Jean Louis who looks out of place with the heavy desk behind him and the old-fashioned, white-painted arm chairs on either side, the bed on his right, Claude watches him furtively like a schoolboy, it seems a given, that it'll be up to him. This entire night has been his doing, after all, let the Minister get the final say. ]
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No shame in needing a bit of direction, right?
Shrugging out of his shirt, he holds it loosely in one hand and pauses. Looks the younger man over slowly, not primarily to enjoy his looks (though he is, objectively, good-looking in many ways - if nothing else, he does have eyes) but for the sake of communication. It might be easier, simply telling him that they'll only be heading straight to sleep if that's what Claude's expecting, if that's what he wants. But there's also a certain beauty in making him choose without handing him everything on a silver platter. Life's like that, after all. Thus, he simply watches him in silence, from the symmetrical lines of his face to the defined muscles of his upper body, thighs, legs. Eyes snapping back to his face, he raises an eyebrow slowly, puts his shirt away and turns slightly to the side.
Starts in on his trousers without further ado.]
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starter ( umpteenth date ) part I
Such is the mood between them, as they've relocated themselves to the Minister's office upstairs, the bed loft a world apart from the rest of the apartment. Claude always only passes through the remaining areas of Marcel's and Jean Louis' home, the hallway, the living room... He doesn't belong there, he feels this clearly and accepts it without complaint. As it is, Jean Louis' office feels chill and airy, the coolness of the air condition seeping through Claude's knitted shirt and kissing his skin, making the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. It's comfortable. Straightforward. As is always the case when he meets with Jean Louis.
Shifting his glass of wine to the other hand, so he can reach for the grapes, he eyes the bed settee and sits down gingerly, looking up at the other man. ]
You tapped my shoulder just at the right time, you know.
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And here they are. The two of them. He watches Claude as the younger man sips wine, looking quite comfortable on the settee. Even in this apartment, usually a strong-hold against most outside forces, he's found a way to simply fit; having known the man for some time now, it's become apparent that it's just how his personality works. Imagine that. Raising an eyebrow, he sits down on the other end of the settee. ]
Really. How so?
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starter ( changement AU )
Because this ride is his. He feels like Cinde-fucking-rella as the other man opens the car door for him.
Once in the car, they sit next to each other in a comfortable silence at first. Claude watches as the inner city passes by the windows in a blur of darkness and street lamps. His apartment is in one of the old town houses in the suburbs a good twenty minutes away, they've got time to let the air and dust settle between them. ]
Now that you've got my address coded into the GPS, where do you live yourself?
[ He speaks without looking at Jean Louis, instead letting his eyes jump from one flicker of light in the dusk to another outside the car window. ]
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Close to the palace. Though, I might move sometime soon - the apartment's never really grown on me.
[ His tone is light, conversational. It's been a more than decent night, Claude's turned out to be... very acceptable company. He talks, but not too much and never without reason. He's clearly very bright. And there's just something about him... it's hard to describe. All he knows is that he's been in no hurry to get through dinner, as would have been normal - usually, he only takes these people out for the sake of sleeping with them. To make the night go faster.
Yet, he hasn't thought about it once tonight. Not before now. ]
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text ( changement AU )
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are we considering an investment, m. bérubé?
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starter ( changement AU )
He feels incredibly relaxed. Jean Louis has just provided him with the most thorough massage you could ask for without being a greedy, pseudo-creepy bastard. Shit, it was nice, although his back probably looks a bit worn in places now. He has big hands, does Jean Louis, he'd be able to cover ten piano keys easily, eleven on a good day - he was able to reach from one sweet spot underneath Claude's left shoulder blade to an even sweeter spot near the base of his neck without actively moving his working hand too much. Pretty damn impressive.
Turning away from the TV, he stretches lazily, letting his eyes follow the very notable profile of the other man's face. His nose is as imposing as his grip. A true, Roman arch. In general, Jean Louis carries a southern air about him, from his olive-ish skin to his always smoldering temper, if someone tried making him believe the man was Italian, he might just believe it. The complete opposite of pale, kind of see-through Benjamin. He frowns.
Then, he decides to just go for it. They've been going on these non-dates for months now, if there ever were a time... ]
Hey, can I ask you a personal question?
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As the months have gone by, he's ceased questioning it; Claude's special, he's someone he'd want to spend time with even if means canceling other plans or missing out on job opportunities (which really says something, considering how few he gets). He just... prefers his company over more or less everything else. Simple. He frowns, leaning back in the couch and glancing over at Claude when he feels his eyes on him. It's not simple in the least, this thing. It's ridiculously dangerous. After all, Claude's young, he's attractive and he's kind - he can't rightly expect to hold onto him forever.
You win some, you loose some, isn't that just how life goes? He pushes the thought firmly in the background of his mind, as far away as possible and gives Claude half a smile. ]
Certainly.
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♀ starter
God fucking knows, he takes double, triple the amount of that shit that she does on any given day.
While he's out doing his thing, she's sitting at the bar, feeling - weirdly - less out of place among all the chest-hugging shirts and aesthetically holed jeans than she does among the lipstick lesbians at the all-female hang-out next door. At least her tie and pinstriped pants fit in with the rest, yeah? Nevertheless, she's beginning to get a little worried about Timm, he doesn't usually take this long, and as such she grabs her newly refilled beer and pushes off the bar stool. To go look for him, although he always tells her not to.
He knows as well as she does that Alexa doesn't really follow the rules. ]
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He's been outside for a smoke and makes his way quickly, efficiently, across the room, navigating around the dance floor as cleanly as possible and heading straight for the bar. Marcel's off with somebody, some faceless clown that had better remain faceless, unless Marcel wants to spend the rest of his evening taking out garbage. Scowling at the thought, he's briefly distracted by two men, yelling at each other tearfully further back, one of them seemingly drunk out of his mind.
As such, he doesn't see the guy before he more or less runs him over, bumping into him sideways. Though the impact doesn't bother Jean Louis, it's got to bother him more, being such a scrawny little... He pauses. Stares and blinks.
Oh. It's a she. ]
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one late night in 1996; parliament.
Passing by Jean Louis' office, Philippe forces himself to a slow halt, looking into the small cube of a working space that his personally appointed (and very young) spokesman has transformed into a neat collection of paper stacks, it looks almost like an archive at a library. Very impressive. He smiles, taps his knuckles two times against the wooden frame of the door to announce himself. ]
Everyone else has gone home for the night, Jean Louis. Oughtn't you do the same, perhaps?
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Two knocks on his door makes him glance up, a bit slower to react than usual. Philippe's in the doorway, looking ready to head home. He returns the other man's smile, though the expression is, as always, slightly subdued. ]
Yes, well. Unfortunately, group effort is a double-edged sword. [ He wags the papers in Philippe's general direction. ] It doesn't always make us more efficient.
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this shit is from 1942 jl. that's my fucking life, i'm fucking reincarnated
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x text
guess who got your number from Fortesque.
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pick 1
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why?
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s t a r t e r ( outings )
All in all, Marcel came out of the house looking worse for wear than when he went in.
Now, he's here. Standing in front of JL's door in the old building where he's been living for at least a couple of years at this point, two big black trash bags holding everything he had the fucking time to collect, okay, after he'd knocked out the other man with a roundhouse kick to the head, carefully tempered, but hard enough to put him down. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, yeah.
Sometimes.
He opens the door with a small twist of the key that the keyhole always needs to unlock right, dragging the two trash bags with him inside. They make more fucking noise than he does. ]
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