[ Claude drops his shirt and Jean Louis follows the movement of the fabric, the quick baring of heated, naked skin. In many ways, he and Claude look like they've started out from similar molds, though time and choices have left them with distinctively different end results. He can certainly recognise that Claude's a good-looking man, being neither blind nor stupid - he's got incredibly symmetrical proportions, almost to an inhuman degree, and there's a smoothness to his skin that speaks of healthy living. Taking care of what you have. Gaze gliding from the hard, pronounced six-pack muscletone of his stomach to the flatness of his chest, the slight bulge of muscle emphasising every line, he takes his sweet time before answering. Around Claude, he's forever the spectator. ]
Of course not.
[ He hears the unspoken command in those words, sugar-coated in question marks and sweet-talking. It's hard not to appreciate it - that Claude continually chooses to maintain this dynamic, this place where they're both so wonderfully balanced. Conflict-free. Jean Louis has always been the cause of conflict, rather than anything else; war makes the world change, is wholly necessary to avoid stagnation, but afterwards - afterwards, there must be a period of peace, yes? For things to settle before the next, big thing. It's... interesting, getting a taste of that. Nice, for want of a better word.
Smiling lightly, perhaps even with a hint of warmth, he takes his shirt off and drops it on the floor somewhere amidst the shadows. He'll fix the mess tomorrow. Marcel won't be home before midday anyway. The thought makes something tighten in his stomach, only briefly, but he feels it anyway; a gut reaction that he doesn't need anymore, and his smile stiffens into something more neutral, as he turns back to Claude. The air's cool, it's fine. They're here, now. And he's not alone. It's irrelevant.
Blinking, he takes a deep breath. Closes the distance between them once more, leaning in close and supporting himself with one arm behind Claude's head against the exposed bricks. Craning his neck, he runs his lips lightly over the skin of Claude's shoulder and upwards, across the lines of collarbone and neck, until he can feel the pulse of his blood, pumping away beneath his mouth. With his other hand, he reaches down and gets to work on Claude's jeans, quick but firm movements, starting with the belt buckle. ]
no subject
Of course not.
[ He hears the unspoken command in those words, sugar-coated in question marks and sweet-talking. It's hard not to appreciate it - that Claude continually chooses to maintain this dynamic, this place where they're both so wonderfully balanced. Conflict-free. Jean Louis has always been the cause of conflict, rather than anything else; war makes the world change, is wholly necessary to avoid stagnation, but afterwards - afterwards, there must be a period of peace, yes? For things to settle before the next, big thing. It's... interesting, getting a taste of that. Nice, for want of a better word.
Smiling lightly, perhaps even with a hint of warmth, he takes his shirt off and drops it on the floor somewhere amidst the shadows. He'll fix the mess tomorrow. Marcel won't be home before midday anyway. The thought makes something tighten in his stomach, only briefly, but he feels it anyway; a gut reaction that he doesn't need anymore, and his smile stiffens into something more neutral, as he turns back to Claude. The air's cool, it's fine. They're here, now. And he's not alone. It's irrelevant.
Blinking, he takes a deep breath. Closes the distance between them once more, leaning in close and supporting himself with one arm behind Claude's head against the exposed bricks. Craning his neck, he runs his lips lightly over the skin of Claude's shoulder and upwards, across the lines of collarbone and neck, until he can feel the pulse of his blood, pumping away beneath his mouth. With his other hand, he reaches down and gets to work on Claude's jeans, quick but firm movements, starting with the belt buckle. ]