[ It's not something he usually gives much thought, as it's not something he has to respond to in any way, Jean Louis' relationship to his family. Benny isn't exactly aware that they're -- doing this, whatever it is, seeing each other, so neither Claude nor Jean Louis himself need to explain themselves, there's nothing which forces that familiar system into a shake and stir. It has stayed out of view, safely, for now. But while Claude has given away himself in bits and pieces, Jean Louis has proven more reserved, something Claude has just ascribed to the complexity of the topics in question. It might not be the easiest things to talk about, family. Adoptions can be like that, he's heard. Hell, family's hard enough when you're not adopted into it.
Even so, he rolls onto his side now, popping himself up on one elbow and moving his feet a bit uneasily where they're sticking out over the edge of the couch. He keeps his eyes on Jean Louis. If he really doesn't want to talk about it, surely he'll know that Claude won't pull any answers out of him. It's a question completely free of charge. ]
How did you end up with the Girards?
[ All that said, Claude still wants to know. He wants to know more about Jean Louis, he wants to know the foundation for those quirks he can sense underneath the polished surface. He wants to know what can make him tick. For some reason, this is very, very important. Like something basic in their relation, how Claude would like for it to be. ]
[ Oh. He can't remember anyone ever actually asking that question and though the story's linear enough in his mind, he needs time to word his answer correctly. It's a bit like giving backrubs, like listening to Claude and giving a damn about what he's saying; it's not that he can't, but he's sorely out of practice.
As the months have ticked by, he's come a little bit closer to understanding what happened back in France, why Claude left behind everything he cared about to settle down in Luxembourg without a network, without security aside from Benjamin's job offer. He's still quite certain that there are things Claude's not telling him, which is fine, it's not like it changes much about the process. About getting to know him. All the same, he can't help but wonder if there's also a matter of giving and receiving in turn; if perhaps, right now, a straight answer is even more important than usual. ]
Well. [ He leans back against the couch, then forward, then back again. There's a very familiar sense of restlessness settling beneath his skin, seeping into his muscles. His expression remains calm, still. Blank. ] My family was fragile. My mother was, I think, sick. My father was a violent alcoholic and his lack of self-control put me in the hospital when I was ten. This, in turn, alerted the authorities. My sister and I were removed from the house and shortly after, the Girards took us in.
[ He rarely thinks about what came before; it's all fragmented anyway, a jumbled set of memories that he can't be bothered to make sense of. Just speaking about it doesn't do much of anything, though he thinks perhaps it should. He's seen Regine try to talk about their childhood, crumbling before she manages even half a sentence. But to him, it just feels like air. Ever-present but intangible, like reaching for it simply makes it seem more devoid of substance. ]
Claude doesn't know what he had expected, to be honest. Being taken from your own family in order to join another is rarely something that comes cost-free and it always has its reasons, but maybe it's less what Jean Louis is saying and more the way he says it that leaves him speechless. It's so clinical, it's like hearing the hospital staff speak about a very bad injury where you can see broken bone tearing through the skin, blood everywhere, pain as well and all that the doctor is talking about is fibula and arterioles. They're the same thing, one is just seen from a wholly removed perspective, whereas the other is subject to it. Victim. Claude watches Jean Louis for a long time, faltering between being impressed by his complete honesty and slightly worried what this kind of approach must mean for the other man, behind the objectivity, the words themselves. What he doesn't do, however, is questioning it. It's not his job, it might not even be his right. They all deal with these things, being victimized, in very different ways. Claude has grasped for the ideals, feminism and equality. Jean Louis might have his own methods. Under any circumstances, he is showing Claude a huge amount of trust and it almost makes Claude feel bad about having held back the worst of the details in regards to... his journey here. Rainier, the ballet, those things.
There'll be another time for it, though. Now isn't it.
Sitting up gingerly, slowly, Claude leans against the backrest, not looking away from Jean Louis even once. It makes him feel equal parts sad and angry that a kid not even eleven years old had to live in an environment like the other man is describing, but it's not about his feelings right now. This is Jean Louis' story to tell and to own. So, withstanding his initial urge, he doesn't reach out to touch Jean Louis in response, rather he inquires, gently. ]
How was it, then, becoming part of their family?
[ Better? Did it help? But the adjectives and descriptions are for Jean Louis to pick. ]
[ How was it, he asks. It's hard work, trying to remember and he has to concentrate hard on not simply giving up and moving on from the topic, perhaps even getting off the couch and moving away, physically. Now that he's actually put it into words, the transition between before and after, his brain keeps wanting to remember more. To linger at the details of it, something he'd really rather not - it's a waste of time, it's not interesting, it's just something that's come and gone.
Claude asking him to reflect upon what came after - that's a relief. It helps. Blinking, his gaze gliding sideways without focusing on anything in particular, he feels his mind flashing from image to image, moment to moment; meeting Laura for the first time, Regine breaking into hysterics at the sight of her. His room at the Girards, the door that couldn't be locked. The huge house with its long, silent corridors. Benjamin. Fish. And always, the stillness of the world. Of going from being constantly on guard for a reason - to being on guard for no reason at all.
Finally, he just shrugs. ]
It was different. [ He sighs and leans back, staring upwards at the ceiling, eyes tracking from one wooden beam to the next. ] In a way. They're quiet people. Lots of money. [ A half-smile. ] I'm not complaining.
[ Claude doesn't pressure, he doesn't push for additional info, greater detail, more depth. He imagines that with a backstory like the one Jean Louis has just presented him with, going into detail and lingering in the depths of what happened might not be very tempting at all. He can understand that. He respects it. However, he can tell. It was a trauma. One thing was the home the other man knew when he were little - a home which was crap and treated him crappily, but this new home meant new rules and new conditions. A new world to a child. It doesn't sound like anyone really took the time to teach him the hows and whys of it either. Jean Louis doesn't complain, of course, because it's a rich family that doesn't seem to... well, want a whole lot from him. It's easy. Maybe not especially healing. Claude frowns. Watches the way Jean Louis' throat is exposed when he leans his head back like that. He's all curves, the contours of his face, lips and nose, his Adam's apple, the slope of a shoulder. Arm. Hand. Smooth skin where his Armani isn't covering him up like a mask he shows the world, because they've got lots of money, the Girards.
Becoming suddenly embarrassingly aware of how he himself is naked from the waist up, Claude moves a bit uneasily from one thigh to the other, shifting his weight in little jerks. He's not an asexual individual, all this time since leaving Rainier, leaving France - he's missed having sex, he's missed the intimacy of it, the physicality, but it's felt like a necessity to... not put himself out there. Even after meeting Jean Louis. Even after realizing he really likes the other man, age differences and all other differences aside, he didn't want to cover that ground. Yet, at this very moment, he finds himself looking at Jean Louis and thinking: I could kiss him. It wouldn't be a hug which he imagines would be neither helpful nor particularly appreciated. But it would be something. Something nice. For the both of them, hopefully.
Shit, he's blushing. He can feel the heat in his cheeks. Waiting only a moment before speaking, his voice comes out darker, too. ]
I guess I'll have to teach you the art of properly complaining at some point. You don't have to go all-out French, but a little would do you good, you know.
[ A long pause. Claude doesn't answer or comment straight away but he can feel the way he watches him, even without actively looking. It's not difficult to talk about, it's not anything, except for how the tension in his body seemingly multiplies every minute. Sometimes, when he's unfortunate, the feeling persists well into the night and at those times, things usually come away looking worse for wear. The thought makes him feel slightly nauseous and he blinks hard a couple of times, jaw setting. Not tonight, he thinks. Tonight, he's got company. Perhaps he'll even be fortunate enough to have Claude stay for the entirety of the night, he's slept on the couch once or twice before.
At the other man's words - and his tone of voice, which is different than usual - he glances sideways again. Claude's looking a little flushed, isn't he? Flushed and... half-naked, yes, that too. He takes a deep breath, trying to relax his shoulders somewhat. ]
What would I complain about, Claude?
[ He turns slightly, facing him more fully. Like this, they're sitting close to each other already but he leans in all the same, a slow, deliberate movement. When he speaks, his voice is low, raw around the edges. Two inches more and their lips would be touching but he can't tell whether or not now's the time, just like he can't quite read the expression on Claude's face, the tone of his voice. Normally, when he brings people home, the contract is clear from the beginning; between the two of them, however, it remains a work in progress. ]
Right now - [ A fraction of a smile] - I can't find any reason whatsoever.
[ Jean Louis doesn't buy into the idea which is okay, it's fine, it's what it is. Instead the other man leans into Claude's personal sphere, slowly, deliberately, it's something almost choreographed, how he stops only a few inches from Claude's face and looks at him, at the way he's struggling against his own reins. Claude can tell that Jean Louis can tell that he wants to kiss him, he can infer it from the way their eyes are locked now and there's a sense of waiting, of wanting, of slight but insistent impatience. Whether it's his own or Jean Louis', he has no idea whatsoever. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe all that matters right now is his response. His reaction.
Claude swallows thickly, glancing down at Jean Louis' lips. They're such a prominent feature, like his nose. They look horribly inviting, wonderfully soft. He'll probably taste like wine and cigarettes with that unique sense of him remaining indescribable, because Claude can't even phantom it. Whether Jean Louis' taste will be sharp like Armani or with more of a lemon zing. Whether it'll be a complete surprise, unlike everything Claude knows about the other man at this point, when... if... they...
Gaze flying back up to Jean Louis' eyes. He doesn't draw back. He doesn't move at all, he stays very still. ]
I'd really like you to kiss me.
[ It's such an overcoming to make it a request rather than a question. There's an admittance to it, that Claude can't take this step on his own, by himself. He needs -- not a push or a shove, but help. He needs help getting to where he wants to be. It might not even be a request, hell, it might be a plea.
The intensity of Jean Louis' presence is giving him goosebumps, all the way down his arms, hairs standing on end. His breathing sounds loud and fast to his own ears. ]
[ Though it's occurred to him more than once, twice or thrice - that Claude's ridiculously good-looking and that they haven't had sex yet - he realises now that it's been a relief the past many months, not having to think about it too much. Simply being in his company without the implicit addition of a sexual dimension. The first time he had sex with a girl, he didn't care much about it, though it wasn't unpleasant. This particular feeling of neither-nor has stayed with him ever since; men, women, one-night-stands or someone like Alice who he keeps returning to - it doesn't matter. He's always assumed he's just deaf to it, deafer than other people. It would certainly go with the overall picture, wouldn't it?
Whether it's due to the long period during which sex hasn't featured between them or something else, he doesn't know - but by Gods, he'd... really rather like to kiss him as well. Right now, he'd rather like to, which is something he can feel, a distinctive sense of want that he can't recall having felt before. Good thing he's not the type to lose sight of his goals or this might very well have made him thoroughly disorientated. Instead, he watches Claude for another moment, the look in his eyes, the... obvious vulnerability. I'd really like you to...
Smile turning into something else, something he can't name though it feels more like a focus (determination?), he leans in the rest of way and kisses Claude, pressing their lips together, lightly at first, then firmer. There's no tongue, just the pressure of lips against lips. This close up, Claude's body heat translates itself very solidly across the small distance between their bodies and he suddenly feels overheated, like he ought to rid himself of this shirt as fast as possible. He doesn't, however. Instead, he runs his hand up Claude's naked upper arm, palm following the slope of his shoulder and coming to rest flatly along the curve of his neck.
Like this, the roaring of blood in his ears is slowly but surely drowning out the ever-present background noise; all those things he ought to complain about. ]
[ And Jean Louis does. He leans in, bridging the remaining distance between them and Claude's eyes don't flutter shut until a few seconds into the sensation of lips against lips, the light pressure of Jean Louis' mouth making him cock his head a little, adjusting the angle slightly. He's good with angles. He knows how to manipulate his body to perfection, doesn't he? He knows how to respond.
So he responds.
There's a gradual feeling to the intensity of their kiss, it evolves from something unassuming to something much heavier surprisingly quickly and normally, Claude imagines, he can't rightly say, he hasn't been with anyone like this for a year and a half, he'd probably fight to slow down, to keep it to a certain level for as long as possible, but right now all he can think is more, more, more with a desperation he can only recognize from work, from the last few seconds of a solo variation. Push through. The finish line is right there. Jean Louis' lips are very soft. They're also very self-assured, he can tell.
The other man's hand glides up his upper arm, making goosebumps erupt again, palm flat against his skin and hand splaying out along the curve of his neck by the end. Swallowing something thick and hard that's lodged itself in his throat, he makes a small sound of enjoyment before pressing back against Jean Louis' mouth, parting his lips slightly to be able to stick his tongue out, just a tiny bit, just so, and run the tip of it across the other man's lower lip. It's not an aggressive gesture by any means, but rather an invitation and to underline this, Claude reaches out with his right hand slowly, flattening his palm against Jean Louis' midriff through the layers of fabric that Armani has dressed him in.
He feels heated and hard, a hint of muscle to balance out the softness of the shirt. Very masculine. Very hot. Something truly remarkable that he seems to have almost forgotten about. After. ]
[ Claude responds quickly, tilting his head a little and suddenly, the angle is perfect - why has he never noticed before? That there's such a thing as a perfect kissing angle? He's kissed many people throughout the years, mostly as a means to an end; connect as many body parts as humanely possible before the night's out and the quiet starts to settle once again. There's never been any reason to stay in the moment for very long; there's such a thing, in fact, as killing a passion simply by stretching out the moment beyond endurance. But now he does notice. And it makes sense.
Claude's tongue comes out, runs along his lower lip, and there's something so careful about it, so considerate that he takes a moment to react, to move them onwards. Instead, he simply lets it linger, the fact that he's always asking, is Claude, always trying to align their paces, fundamentally different as they may be. He can't say exactly how it makes him feel, he's not the type to look backwards for explanations; he only knows that it's hard to get enough of.
Leaning into the kiss a bit more, he tightens his fingers against Claude's neck, the touch of the other man's hand against his midriff sending small shivers running up his spine, along his skin. Then, he parts his lips and pushes his tongue against Claude's, pressing it into his mouth. The heat, the wetness - and the taste of him, uniquely Claude, very warm and round with a hint of something much sharper... Eyes slipping shut, he deepens the kiss and tries to rid his mind of all other thoughts, the tension in his muscles dissipating slowly but surely. ]
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no subject
Even so, he rolls onto his side now, popping himself up on one elbow and moving his feet a bit uneasily where they're sticking out over the edge of the couch. He keeps his eyes on Jean Louis. If he really doesn't want to talk about it, surely he'll know that Claude won't pull any answers out of him. It's a question completely free of charge. ]
How did you end up with the Girards?
[ All that said, Claude still wants to know. He wants to know more about Jean Louis, he wants to know the foundation for those quirks he can sense underneath the polished surface. He wants to know what can make him tick. For some reason, this is very, very important. Like something basic in their relation, how Claude would like for it to be. ]
no subject
As the months have ticked by, he's come a little bit closer to understanding what happened back in France, why Claude left behind everything he cared about to settle down in Luxembourg without a network, without security aside from Benjamin's job offer. He's still quite certain that there are things Claude's not telling him, which is fine, it's not like it changes much about the process. About getting to know him. All the same, he can't help but wonder if there's also a matter of giving and receiving in turn; if perhaps, right now, a straight answer is even more important than usual. ]
Well. [ He leans back against the couch, then forward, then back again. There's a very familiar sense of restlessness settling beneath his skin, seeping into his muscles. His expression remains calm, still. Blank. ] My family was fragile. My mother was, I think, sick. My father was a violent alcoholic and his lack of self-control put me in the hospital when I was ten. This, in turn, alerted the authorities. My sister and I were removed from the house and shortly after, the Girards took us in.
[ He rarely thinks about what came before; it's all fragmented anyway, a jumbled set of memories that he can't be bothered to make sense of. Just speaking about it doesn't do much of anything, though he thinks perhaps it should. He's seen Regine try to talk about their childhood, crumbling before she manages even half a sentence. But to him, it just feels like air. Ever-present but intangible, like reaching for it simply makes it seem more devoid of substance. ]
no subject
Claude doesn't know what he had expected, to be honest. Being taken from your own family in order to join another is rarely something that comes cost-free and it always has its reasons, but maybe it's less what Jean Louis is saying and more the way he says it that leaves him speechless. It's so clinical, it's like hearing the hospital staff speak about a very bad injury where you can see broken bone tearing through the skin, blood everywhere, pain as well and all that the doctor is talking about is fibula and arterioles. They're the same thing, one is just seen from a wholly removed perspective, whereas the other is subject to it. Victim. Claude watches Jean Louis for a long time, faltering between being impressed by his complete honesty and slightly worried what this kind of approach must mean for the other man, behind the objectivity, the words themselves. What he doesn't do, however, is questioning it. It's not his job, it might not even be his right. They all deal with these things, being victimized, in very different ways. Claude has grasped for the ideals, feminism and equality. Jean Louis might have his own methods. Under any circumstances, he is showing Claude a huge amount of trust and it almost makes Claude feel bad about having held back the worst of the details in regards to... his journey here. Rainier, the ballet, those things.
There'll be another time for it, though. Now isn't it.
Sitting up gingerly, slowly, Claude leans against the backrest, not looking away from Jean Louis even once. It makes him feel equal parts sad and angry that a kid not even eleven years old had to live in an environment like the other man is describing, but it's not about his feelings right now. This is Jean Louis' story to tell and to own. So, withstanding his initial urge, he doesn't reach out to touch Jean Louis in response, rather he inquires, gently. ]
How was it, then, becoming part of their family?
[ Better? Did it help? But the adjectives and descriptions are for Jean Louis to pick. ]
no subject
Claude asking him to reflect upon what came after - that's a relief. It helps. Blinking, his gaze gliding sideways without focusing on anything in particular, he feels his mind flashing from image to image, moment to moment; meeting Laura for the first time, Regine breaking into hysterics at the sight of her. His room at the Girards, the door that couldn't be locked. The huge house with its long, silent corridors. Benjamin. Fish. And always, the stillness of the world. Of going from being constantly on guard for a reason - to being on guard for no reason at all.
Finally, he just shrugs. ]
It was different. [ He sighs and leans back, staring upwards at the ceiling, eyes tracking from one wooden beam to the next. ] In a way. They're quiet people. Lots of money. [ A half-smile. ] I'm not complaining.
no subject
Becoming suddenly embarrassingly aware of how he himself is naked from the waist up, Claude moves a bit uneasily from one thigh to the other, shifting his weight in little jerks. He's not an asexual individual, all this time since leaving Rainier, leaving France - he's missed having sex, he's missed the intimacy of it, the physicality, but it's felt like a necessity to... not put himself out there. Even after meeting Jean Louis. Even after realizing he really likes the other man, age differences and all other differences aside, he didn't want to cover that ground. Yet, at this very moment, he finds himself looking at Jean Louis and thinking: I could kiss him. It wouldn't be a hug which he imagines would be neither helpful nor particularly appreciated. But it would be something. Something nice. For the both of them, hopefully.
Shit, he's blushing. He can feel the heat in his cheeks. Waiting only a moment before speaking, his voice comes out darker, too. ]
I guess I'll have to teach you the art of properly complaining at some point. You don't have to go all-out French, but a little would do you good, you know.
no subject
At the other man's words - and his tone of voice, which is different than usual - he glances sideways again. Claude's looking a little flushed, isn't he? Flushed and... half-naked, yes, that too. He takes a deep breath, trying to relax his shoulders somewhat. ]
What would I complain about, Claude?
[ He turns slightly, facing him more fully. Like this, they're sitting close to each other already but he leans in all the same, a slow, deliberate movement. When he speaks, his voice is low, raw around the edges. Two inches more and their lips would be touching but he can't tell whether or not now's the time, just like he can't quite read the expression on Claude's face, the tone of his voice. Normally, when he brings people home, the contract is clear from the beginning; between the two of them, however, it remains a work in progress. ]
Right now - [ A fraction of a smile] - I can't find any reason whatsoever.
no subject
Claude swallows thickly, glancing down at Jean Louis' lips. They're such a prominent feature, like his nose. They look horribly inviting, wonderfully soft. He'll probably taste like wine and cigarettes with that unique sense of him remaining indescribable, because Claude can't even phantom it. Whether Jean Louis' taste will be sharp like Armani or with more of a lemon zing. Whether it'll be a complete surprise, unlike everything Claude knows about the other man at this point, when... if... they...
Gaze flying back up to Jean Louis' eyes. He doesn't draw back. He doesn't move at all, he stays very still. ]
I'd really like you to kiss me.
[ It's such an overcoming to make it a request rather than a question. There's an admittance to it, that Claude can't take this step on his own, by himself. He needs -- not a push or a shove, but help. He needs help getting to where he wants to be. It might not even be a request, hell, it might be a plea.
The intensity of Jean Louis' presence is giving him goosebumps, all the way down his arms, hairs standing on end. His breathing sounds loud and fast to his own ears. ]
no subject
Whether it's due to the long period during which sex hasn't featured between them or something else, he doesn't know - but by Gods, he'd... really rather like to kiss him as well. Right now, he'd rather like to, which is something he can feel, a distinctive sense of want that he can't recall having felt before. Good thing he's not the type to lose sight of his goals or this might very well have made him thoroughly disorientated. Instead, he watches Claude for another moment, the look in his eyes, the... obvious vulnerability. I'd really like you to...
Smile turning into something else, something he can't name though it feels more like a focus (determination?), he leans in the rest of way and kisses Claude, pressing their lips together, lightly at first, then firmer. There's no tongue, just the pressure of lips against lips. This close up, Claude's body heat translates itself very solidly across the small distance between their bodies and he suddenly feels overheated, like he ought to rid himself of this shirt as fast as possible. He doesn't, however. Instead, he runs his hand up Claude's naked upper arm, palm following the slope of his shoulder and coming to rest flatly along the curve of his neck.
Like this, the roaring of blood in his ears is slowly but surely drowning out the ever-present background noise; all those things he ought to complain about. ]
no subject
So he responds.
There's a gradual feeling to the intensity of their kiss, it evolves from something unassuming to something much heavier surprisingly quickly and normally, Claude imagines, he can't rightly say, he hasn't been with anyone like this for a year and a half, he'd probably fight to slow down, to keep it to a certain level for as long as possible, but right now all he can think is more, more, more with a desperation he can only recognize from work, from the last few seconds of a solo variation. Push through. The finish line is right there. Jean Louis' lips are very soft. They're also very self-assured, he can tell.
The other man's hand glides up his upper arm, making goosebumps erupt again, palm flat against his skin and hand splaying out along the curve of his neck by the end. Swallowing something thick and hard that's lodged itself in his throat, he makes a small sound of enjoyment before pressing back against Jean Louis' mouth, parting his lips slightly to be able to stick his tongue out, just a tiny bit, just so, and run the tip of it across the other man's lower lip. It's not an aggressive gesture by any means, but rather an invitation and to underline this, Claude reaches out with his right hand slowly, flattening his palm against Jean Louis' midriff through the layers of fabric that Armani has dressed him in.
He feels heated and hard, a hint of muscle to balance out the softness of the shirt. Very masculine. Very hot. Something truly remarkable that he seems to have almost forgotten about. After. ]
no subject
Claude's tongue comes out, runs along his lower lip, and there's something so careful about it, so considerate that he takes a moment to react, to move them onwards. Instead, he simply lets it linger, the fact that he's always asking, is Claude, always trying to align their paces, fundamentally different as they may be. He can't say exactly how it makes him feel, he's not the type to look backwards for explanations; he only knows that it's hard to get enough of.
Leaning into the kiss a bit more, he tightens his fingers against Claude's neck, the touch of the other man's hand against his midriff sending small shivers running up his spine, along his skin. Then, he parts his lips and pushes his tongue against Claude's, pressing it into his mouth. The heat, the wetness - and the taste of him, uniquely Claude, very warm and round with a hint of something much sharper... Eyes slipping shut, he deepens the kiss and tries to rid his mind of all other thoughts, the tension in his muscles dissipating slowly but surely. ]