[ When Claude leans forward, elbows on his knees, his shirt clings to the shape of his body, giving the impression of hard muscle - typically square if not exactly muscular - and leanness. There's warm skin beneath all that burgundy silk and Jean Louis' fingers twitch a little at the thought, a corresponding heat spreading in his belly. He could. He could. It's been a year and a year is no time at all. He shifts a little in his chair, barely more than a hint of movement. That's not how it translates, says Claude, speaking about a different economy, one that doesn't count where Jean Louis goes or if it does, it's seen as an illusion, a cover for what's actually true. He thinks they understand this about each other now; the fact that Claude's patient enough to describe it to him suggests as much.
It's not that he doesn't understand. He just didn't grow up with enough fantasies.
They're very close like this. Close enough for him to lean in, raising one hand to Claude's face, fingers tracing the line of his jaw gently. Their eyes lock briefly before he looks at his lips instead, instinctively, the same way you always look ahead towards your next destination. From there, he leans in the rest of the way and kisses him, just a quick touch of lips against lips, before he withdraws a few inches. He doesn't say anything, though he thinks he'd been planning to - his mind is suddenly, abruptly, preoccupied with the scent of the other man, the damp imprint of his lips against his own. For a moment, he forgets to breathe.
It's been only a year.
But that time has, all the same, gone.
He wonders about that small pause in Claude's speech before, like he didn't want to presume and of course he didn't, he wants to enact a law about consent. Though it doesn't matter to him in a general sense, right now he wonders curiously whether he should have asked, first, whether Claude would have expected that of him. Or whether perhaps their conversation was permission enough.
Such an odd but interesting world, the world of Claude Bérubé. ]
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It's not that he doesn't understand. He just didn't grow up with enough fantasies.
They're very close like this. Close enough for him to lean in, raising one hand to Claude's face, fingers tracing the line of his jaw gently. Their eyes lock briefly before he looks at his lips instead, instinctively, the same way you always look ahead towards your next destination. From there, he leans in the rest of the way and kisses him, just a quick touch of lips against lips, before he withdraws a few inches. He doesn't say anything, though he thinks he'd been planning to - his mind is suddenly, abruptly, preoccupied with the scent of the other man, the damp imprint of his lips against his own. For a moment, he forgets to breathe.
It's been only a year.
But that time has, all the same, gone.
He wonders about that small pause in Claude's speech before, like he didn't want to presume and of course he didn't, he wants to enact a law about consent. Though it doesn't matter to him in a general sense, right now he wonders curiously whether he should have asked, first, whether Claude would have expected that of him. Or whether perhaps their conversation was permission enough.
Such an odd but interesting world, the world of Claude Bérubé. ]