[Something changes, a slip of tension creeping into the quiet. He watches Claude, curious about what might have caused it. At his question, however, the pieces come together quite naturally. The mention of their apartment, of course; he's met people who didn't care at all about his relationship with Marcel, who'd happily run with the term "open relationship" and ask no questions to risk throwing too much light on the definitions. But Claude's different, isn't he? The more they talk, the more he senses the vulnerability beneath that otherwise confident exterior. It doesn't make the man any less appealing, far from it.]
Of course. [He shifts a little on the couch, the movement bringing him just a bit closer to the other man, only just keeping them out of touching distance. It is, after all, an intimate question.] We've been together for almost twenty years.
[Shit, that's a long time, isn't it. Time flies. Especially when you're busy, fucking the life out of some mindless Italian bimbo. His expression doesn't cool, as he sets down his cup and looks at Claude, eyes calm. Unbothered.]
Forgive me, Claude, but I have to ask - it's late. I'm trusting you to throw me out at your leisure, yes?
[ O...kay. Almost twenty years. How old exactly is Jean Louis? In his mid-thirties? Then he's been with his boyfriend since he was eighteen or something along those lines. Even if he might not be hitting the mark directly, anything just close to it is pretty damn impressive and Claude feels his expression soften. He always finds it commendable when people stick together throughout their lives, no matter what they do to make it work. God knows, he hasn't been able to himself, for one reason or the other. His thoughts stray to Gilbert for a moment, before they return to the present. Fuck the living daylights out of him, Gilbert would have said, he's sure. Jean Louis has shifted closer, at this distance, Claude can smell his cologne. It's a sharp one. Armani, he read somewhere, was the Foreign Minister's brand of choice.
At the other man's question, he smiles, having already decided. That if Jean Louis wants to stay, then he's welcome to, no matter whether it's for another hour's talk or to venture into Claude's bedroom, Claude won't mind. If Marcel and him have been together for as long as he says, then there's really nothing for Claude to destroy and his place in the constellation will be a firm given. The one-night stand, most likely. The on and off friend with benefits, if he's lucky. He's fine with that. After all, Jean Louis is leaving it up to him, obviously. ]
I actually wouldn't mind if you stayed.
[ His voice is warm. The smile around his lips travelling to his eyes. ]
[Well, in that case. Jean Louis watches him silently for a moment, his own smile much more restrained, mostly by habit. He's got a better smile for the cameras, obviously, but it doesn't feel like a proper choice of response when your date is asking you to stay. For the night. He hasn't actually been thinking ahead about this evening, about where it would go and how - the last time he did anything like this, it ended up with Marcel having to temporarily re-locate the stupid faggot in question. Across borders. Bruised. Looking at Claude now, he rather hopes it won't be necessary this time around, the man's too harmless to merit the treatment.
All the same, there's a risk involved in most aspects of life, it's not a matter of if but when. Lightening strikes, bang, you're dead. Tonight had been an impulsive decision on his part, you never know where those will lead you, but for some reason, when Claude smiles in a way that lights up his whole face, he decides that it's fine for now. It'll work. And if it doesn't?
See above.]
That's good. I wouldn't mind, either.
[With that, he shifts closer yet, setting his cup away on the table with a soft clink before leaning in, slowly but fluently, no delay or hesitation. When he kisses him, it's a light touch of lips, un-presumptuous, for Claude doesn't really invite the kind of force that comes with dominance, violent grasps and painful breathlessness. Instead, he simply supports himself with one arm bent against the backrest right above Claude's shoulder. This is a different thing indeed, something Jean Louis' not at all too familiar with but again, it's fine. He'll make it up as they go.]
[ I wouldn't mind, either, Jean Louis says and it's somehow settled, then. The other man puts his cup aside and Claude watches, hesitantly only by habit, as he leans in closer, supporting himself with an arm against the backrest of the couch and pressing his lips to Claude's. It's light, just the hint of contact, lips against lips and Claude finds himself thinking, a bit bemused, that he should be uncomfortable, because Jean Louis didn't make sure he had consent first, instead he's just relieved that the man didn't just go ahead and orally assault him like he might have thought he would. Like he seems the type to. Like so many men are. Well, even neoliberals are apparently full of surprises, aren't they? This particular neoliberal is, at least. Claude better not make him the standard to which you hold all the rest.
Smiling into the kiss, he shifts a bit in his seat, closer to Jean Louis, to the sensation of his body heat that hangs about his frame like a blanket. In his lap, his hands curl into fists, fingers gripping the fabric of his trousers a bit too forcefully. Their lips slide over each other, still a close-mouthed kiss and really, that isn't necessary anymore, Jean Louis has his consent now, shit, he can take it, here, so Claude parts his lips slightly, invites Jean Louis in and in and closer still. At the edge of his mind he realises that he hasn't actually felt intimate with anyone since he moved from Paris and before that, he was having an equally dry spell - a few one-night stands on either side of the border, if he remembers correctly, not that he really cares to, one-night stands don't do much for him.
Unless they feel like this, then he might be persuaded. Will he be neoliberal, too, before the night's over? That fucking politician, hah. ]
[Claude's just a comfortable person through and through, that much is obvious, for he doesn't attempt to take any liberties and doesn't really try to run the show in any other aspect, either. A rare thing concerning most men, which is probably why Jean Louis never sleeps with anyone but Marcel, whom he trusts with every fiber of his being. Women are different; though modern times call for women to take charge, be leaders, be masculine - such a shame and completely unnecessary - the ones he usually sleeps with love the feel of giving in. And ultimately, it's hard to feel truly challenged by a them. For all their strengths and positives, they're physically just weaker.
Claude, on the other hand, is a ballet dancer and whilst some would probably scoff at the idea of a ballet dancer possessing any kind of male authority, he can feel the hardness of Claude's upper arm as he runs his hand upwards towards his shoulder. Marcel's a monster, obviously, and no body truly compares, but this man's definitely no weakling. The thought's good, makes him feel right at home.
Inhaling slowly, languidly, he pushes his tongue between Claude's ready lips, this time a bit insistently, seeing as the man's practically asking him for it. The warm, wet slide of their tongues and the softness of Claude's lips is a powerful cocktail, a flare of heat rushing over his skin. Hand tightening against Claude's shoulder, he tilts his head slightly to avoid their noses clacking together, feeling suddenly rather intent on more.]
[ The balance that Jean Louis strikes is oddly comfortable, through and through. He takes charge in a very assertive fashion that one might think fits with the general view of male politicians. Even so, Claude likes it, he likes the feeling of the other man's hand against his upper arm, on his shoulder, he likes how he uses his tongue (definitely orally inclined, the thought makes his breath catch in his throat) and how he tilts his head slightly to the side to avoid a nose collision, all of it holds a great degree of sensuality and Claude finds it attractive, he really does. The old-fashioned romantic feel of it. Responding to the kiss, letting his tongue run up along the underside of Jean Louis', twirling around the tip of it, he finally allows himself to reach out, deciding that if Jean Louis would prefer him not to, maybe they shouldn't be doing this at all and he's sure the man knows how to say stop. So he reaches up with his right hand, lets it run over upper arm and shoulder, follow the line of neck (Jean Louis' is strong), the trail of his jaw to his hair, where he runs his fingers lightly through, mostly to have a feel first - of the texture, the coarseness, the strength. Everything about Jean Louis seems to scream strength.
Strength of character, strength of convictions.
The other comes to a rest on Jean Louis' leg, closer to thigh than knee. He isn't being presumptuous, he doesn't run his hand all the way up, but he lets it grace the transition between the two stages, demure and forward. Drawing back from the kiss, gasping for breath, he meets the other man's eyes. ]
[At the first touch of Claude's hand against his upper arm, he pauses very slightly, not enough to be noticeable. It's not that they don't touch each other, Marcel and he, but they definitely don't touch like this - probably because they're long since done exploring. That, and there's something gentle about Claude that's altogether different, about his entire demeanor and it bleeds into how it feels to be touched by him. As Claude's hand travels upwards over his neck and into his hair, Jean Louis simply lets the moment run towards its natural finish. The other man tastes of coffee, of course, and the echoes of all the expensive wine they drank during dinner and the heat of his mouth feels nice, like a promise.
It's very well, however, that Claude draws back right after leaving his hand on his thigh. Though Claude's not pushing any limits or boundaries by doing so, there's still something about it that makes him feel strange. Cold, as if there's a print of ice forming gradually beneath the other man's fingers. Pulling back, he meets Claude's gaze, his own eyes slightly narrowed and his breathing just a bit shaken.]
Well. [His voice is low, even by his standards. Rough, too.] A step in the right direction, don't you think?
[He runs his palm down Claude's arm, fingers curling lightly over the crook of his elbow.]
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Of course. [He shifts a little on the couch, the movement bringing him just a bit closer to the other man, only just keeping them out of touching distance. It is, after all, an intimate question.] We've been together for almost twenty years.
[Shit, that's a long time, isn't it. Time flies. Especially when you're busy, fucking the life out of some mindless Italian bimbo. His expression doesn't cool, as he sets down his cup and looks at Claude, eyes calm. Unbothered.]
Forgive me, Claude, but I have to ask - it's late. I'm trusting you to throw me out at your leisure, yes?
no subject
At the other man's question, he smiles, having already decided. That if Jean Louis wants to stay, then he's welcome to, no matter whether it's for another hour's talk or to venture into Claude's bedroom, Claude won't mind. If Marcel and him have been together for as long as he says, then there's really nothing for Claude to destroy and his place in the constellation will be a firm given. The one-night stand, most likely. The on and off friend with benefits, if he's lucky. He's fine with that. After all, Jean Louis is leaving it up to him, obviously. ]
I actually wouldn't mind if you stayed.
[ His voice is warm. The smile around his lips travelling to his eyes. ]
no subject
All the same, there's a risk involved in most aspects of life, it's not a matter of if but when. Lightening strikes, bang, you're dead. Tonight had been an impulsive decision on his part, you never know where those will lead you, but for some reason, when Claude smiles in a way that lights up his whole face, he decides that it's fine for now. It'll work. And if it doesn't?
See above.]
That's good. I wouldn't mind, either.
[With that, he shifts closer yet, setting his cup away on the table with a soft clink before leaning in, slowly but fluently, no delay or hesitation. When he kisses him, it's a light touch of lips, un-presumptuous, for Claude doesn't really invite the kind of force that comes with dominance, violent grasps and painful breathlessness. Instead, he simply supports himself with one arm bent against the backrest right above Claude's shoulder. This is a different thing indeed, something Jean Louis' not at all too familiar with but again, it's fine. He'll make it up as they go.]
no subject
Smiling into the kiss, he shifts a bit in his seat, closer to Jean Louis, to the sensation of his body heat that hangs about his frame like a blanket. In his lap, his hands curl into fists, fingers gripping the fabric of his trousers a bit too forcefully. Their lips slide over each other, still a close-mouthed kiss and really, that isn't necessary anymore, Jean Louis has his consent now, shit, he can take it, here, so Claude parts his lips slightly, invites Jean Louis in and in and closer still. At the edge of his mind he realises that he hasn't actually felt intimate with anyone since he moved from Paris and before that, he was having an equally dry spell - a few one-night stands on either side of the border, if he remembers correctly, not that he really cares to, one-night stands don't do much for him.
Unless they feel like this, then he might be persuaded. Will he be neoliberal, too, before the night's over? That fucking politician, hah. ]
no subject
Claude, on the other hand, is a ballet dancer and whilst some would probably scoff at the idea of a ballet dancer possessing any kind of male authority, he can feel the hardness of Claude's upper arm as he runs his hand upwards towards his shoulder. Marcel's a monster, obviously, and no body truly compares, but this man's definitely no weakling. The thought's good, makes him feel right at home.
Inhaling slowly, languidly, he pushes his tongue between Claude's ready lips, this time a bit insistently, seeing as the man's practically asking him for it. The warm, wet slide of their tongues and the softness of Claude's lips is a powerful cocktail, a flare of heat rushing over his skin. Hand tightening against Claude's shoulder, he tilts his head slightly to avoid their noses clacking together, feeling suddenly rather intent on more.]
no subject
Strength of character, strength of convictions.
The other comes to a rest on Jean Louis' leg, closer to thigh than knee. He isn't being presumptuous, he doesn't run his hand all the way up, but he lets it grace the transition between the two stages, demure and forward. Drawing back from the kiss, gasping for breath, he meets the other man's eyes. ]
no subject
It's very well, however, that Claude draws back right after leaving his hand on his thigh. Though Claude's not pushing any limits or boundaries by doing so, there's still something about it that makes him feel strange. Cold, as if there's a print of ice forming gradually beneath the other man's fingers. Pulling back, he meets Claude's gaze, his own eyes slightly narrowed and his breathing just a bit shaken.]
Well. [His voice is low, even by his standards. Rough, too.] A step in the right direction, don't you think?
[He runs his palm down Claude's arm, fingers curling lightly over the crook of his elbow.]