[ There's a moment, a long moment, hardened, harsh, where he thinks Jean Louis won't take it, his offered hand, his offered neck, whatever part of your body ever offers anything, because he is looking down and he's quiet, the silence stretches on between them. It stretches on for a second that feels like tens of thousands. So, Claude is about to straighten up again, keeping his hands on the other man's legs because he isn't letting go, he's just leaving him with whatever room he needs, to do whatever he wants, because Claude decides many things, but this thing, this one thing, he can't decide. Only Jean Louis can and it's frustrating, it makes him almost as angry as it makes him sad. Not at Jean Louis. Never at Jean Louis.
There's a world around them, after all.
Except, as Jean Louis drops to his knees in front of him, crawling in between his legs, hands on his knees, up along the hard slope of his thighs in the thick denim fabric of his jeans, he realizes that it isn't that Jean Louis won't take his hand, or his neck, or any one part of his body. It's because, as always, always the liberal, one isn't enough, he wants it all. He needs it all. The way he says Claude's name, deep and rusty and with so many layers, Claude doesn't even fucking know where to begin, okay, means help me, help, help and Claude cares about the world, he does, but he just happens to care about Jean Louis more, right?
And that's why, when Jean Louis pulls him down on his level, it doesn't feel like down, it feels like home and that should definitely worry him, he should ask a million questions, but he can't even hear himself over the quickening of Jean Louis' breathing as he comes closer, leaning in and mouthing his way over his jawline, his neck, wet and hot and Claude hears him, he hears him.
Help me.
Swallowing hard, Claude reaches up blindly and threads his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, the slick-back style coming undone at his touch, like he's pulling him apart a little, and he might be. He might be the thing that stands between Jean Louis and whatever money laundering, what does he know, drug cartel, dirty papers business he's got going. Just like when he was seventeen, and this comparison should scare him more than any of the rest, he feels himself grow completely drunk on the knowledge, the certainty of being that special to someone else. Being the only one of his kind.
He wants to be that for Jean Louis. He wants to be the hand, and everything between hand and head.
With a slight exhale, hard, fast, he turns his face in against the side of Jean Louis' head, nose burying in against the bangs at his temple, the scent of him sharp and recognisably him. Claude hears himself, too, he hears himself say, ]
Yes.
[ The intonation doesn't imply, question. It answers. ]
no subject
There's a world around them, after all.
Except, as Jean Louis drops to his knees in front of him, crawling in between his legs, hands on his knees, up along the hard slope of his thighs in the thick denim fabric of his jeans, he realizes that it isn't that Jean Louis won't take his hand, or his neck, or any one part of his body. It's because, as always, always the liberal, one isn't enough, he wants it all. He needs it all. The way he says Claude's name, deep and rusty and with so many layers, Claude doesn't even fucking know where to begin, okay, means help me, help, help and Claude cares about the world, he does, but he just happens to care about Jean Louis more, right?
And that's why, when Jean Louis pulls him down on his level, it doesn't feel like down, it feels like home and that should definitely worry him, he should ask a million questions, but he can't even hear himself over the quickening of Jean Louis' breathing as he comes closer, leaning in and mouthing his way over his jawline, his neck, wet and hot and Claude hears him, he hears him.
Help me.
Swallowing hard, Claude reaches up blindly and threads his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, the slick-back style coming undone at his touch, like he's pulling him apart a little, and he might be. He might be the thing that stands between Jean Louis and whatever money laundering, what does he know, drug cartel, dirty papers business he's got going. Just like when he was seventeen, and this comparison should scare him more than any of the rest, he feels himself grow completely drunk on the knowledge, the certainty of being that special to someone else. Being the only one of his kind.
He wants to be that for Jean Louis. He wants to be the hand, and everything between hand and head.
With a slight exhale, hard, fast, he turns his face in against the side of Jean Louis' head, nose burying in against the bangs at his temple, the scent of him sharp and recognisably him. Claude hears himself, too, he hears himself say, ]
Yes.
[ The intonation doesn't imply, question. It answers. ]