[ He's had dinner tonight in a fancy restaurant in Charleroi because meeting up in actual Bruxelles was a bit too on the nose for him, considering. As Luxembourg's new, Foreign Minster it's not actually far out at all to visit Belgium - he could have come up with about a dozen official reasons. Sadly, what he was actually there to do could not, under any circumstances be merged with his political sphere and with everything still too new, too fragile, he couldn't risk the boldness of a meeting in plain sight.
De Groot had been understanding, of course. He loves it when his contacts have to compromise.
In any case, he could have gone back to City, to his empty apartment, facing yet another holiday on his own and waiting for daily life to resume. He's managed a decent victory for the Italian mob and his own investments will be thriving in the coming months - it's enough, he thinks, to allow for a moment of respite. He could have. Instead, he's chosen to drive further west, arriving at the outskirts of Paris close to midnight, led by tips and hints from a French contact who's most definitely not invited to the party he's about to crash. He parks his car near the two-storey building on rue Royale, checking himself in the mirror - basic all throughout, black on black, informal because he couldn't be arsed to give de Groot any reason to think he'd need to posture - before heading inside. He asks the receptionist to show him the way and makes his way up two stories of old, creaky stairs, guided by the sound of music and laughter, growing louder and louder as he closes in.
As he steps through the doorway, he pauses and leans back against it, crossing his arms across his chest and smiling, feeling somehow less tired all of a sudden.
Claude's in the middle of champagne shower, droplets clinging to his hair and his shirt and his face, happiness radiating off him. He's beautiful. Beautiful and powerful, too, as he's just changed the world a little bit, simply by the strength of his own conviction and his willingness to see things through. Jean Louis stands there, momentarily unnoticed, enjoying the other man from afar for as long as he's allowed. It's such an undisturbed moment, Claude, surrounded by his friends and colleagues, being celebrated for all the right reasons.
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De Groot had been understanding, of course. He loves it when his contacts have to compromise.
In any case, he could have gone back to City, to his empty apartment, facing yet another holiday on his own and waiting for daily life to resume. He's managed a decent victory for the Italian mob and his own investments will be thriving in the coming months - it's enough, he thinks, to allow for a moment of respite. He could have. Instead, he's chosen to drive further west, arriving at the outskirts of Paris close to midnight, led by tips and hints from a French contact who's most definitely not invited to the party he's about to crash. He parks his car near the two-storey building on rue Royale, checking himself in the mirror - basic all throughout, black on black, informal because he couldn't be arsed to give de Groot any reason to think he'd need to posture - before heading inside. He asks the receptionist to show him the way and makes his way up two stories of old, creaky stairs, guided by the sound of music and laughter, growing louder and louder as he closes in.
As he steps through the doorway, he pauses and leans back against it, crossing his arms across his chest and smiling, feeling somehow less tired all of a sudden.
Claude's in the middle of champagne shower, droplets clinging to his hair and his shirt and his face, happiness radiating off him. He's beautiful. Beautiful and powerful, too, as he's just changed the world a little bit, simply by the strength of his own conviction and his willingness to see things through. Jean Louis stands there, momentarily unnoticed, enjoying the other man from afar for as long as he's allowed. It's such an undisturbed moment, Claude, surrounded by his friends and colleagues, being celebrated for all the right reasons.
It's nice. ]