[ Honest answer, Jean Louis says, only to insist on a rhetorical pause, like the best of them, orators, while he lights up his smoke and lets Claude wait for it. Claude does, of course, only showing his impatience by tapping the fingers of his right hand against his left forearm, feeling the thud, thud, thud of his index finger acutely, even through the fabric of Jean Louis' jacket. Meanwhile, Jean Louis lighting a smoke proves to be possibly the sexiest image you could imagine, all lips tightening around unironically phallus-shaped things and the strength of his hands as he clicks the lighter, shielding with the other. Fingers curving, protecting. Yeah, isn't helping Claude's impatience here.

Then, after the nicotine has seeped into his system enough that his shoulders come down and his stance becomes more of a slouch, he admits it. He hadn't planned to come. He just did. He won't overstay his welcome and he's hardly even expecting to be welcomed in the first place.

Staring at him, Claude's fingers stop their tapping, everything on him somehow -- softening, he can't really tell where it starts and ends. He just feels warm and expandable. Able to embrace, able to accommodate. Willing to. Wanting to. He takes a deep breath and gets to his feet again, his butt feeling chilly from its seat on the bench, but he doesn't care, walking over to Jean Louis and kind of slipping in against his side, the arm not preoccupied currently. They're suddenly standing so close that most of the warmth he gets is from the other man's body, not his jacket. He's getting smoke in his eyes and he doesn't even blink.

All he does it making a humming sound, resting his chin on Jean Louis' shoulder, looking up at him in the lights, golden. ]

You're expecting me to tire of you before duty calls you away again? Bold, Jean Louis. We're talking a week. You're easier to like than that.