[ Claude turns towards him and takes the box, his eyes shining in the sparse light from the bedside table lamp and Jean Louis watches him as he opens it, likes it, and feels just a little lighter everywhere all throughout. It's nice when you succeed at what you want to do. When you run a risk and it's worth it, the value comes back doubled or more. Claude's expression along with his words, his slight breathlessness - it's perfect. He smiles slightly before reaching for the box, putting it on the bedside table. ]

It was luck.

[ He looks at the other man, on his stomach now, the duvet pulled up to the small of his back, his back strong-looking, the kind that says healthy and young. He knows what his own says - it's why the scarring's getting covered in artwork as soon as it's healed up enough not to worsen by it. Claude needs no such theatre to be whole. It's just the way he is.

Getting into bed next to him and shifting onto his side, facing him, Jean Louis gives into the impulse right beneath his skin and reaches for him, running his hand down the back of his neck, along the width of his shoulders. He moves slowly, without any kind of hurry. It's no longer late, after all. It's early. They have hours to go before sunrise. He doesn't know whether Claude wants to simply sleep - it's his mother's house, after all, who can say - but everything, even something that ends with nothing, has a start. ]

Luck, and a very insistent street vendor. [ His voice is low, to fit the small space around them, the bubble that's once again closing in, keeping their surroundings out. ] It's a family heirloom, I'm told - passed along for decades. Eventually, however, the line came to an end and its previous owner no longer had anyone to give it to - according to him, no one alive or deserving.

[ He runs his hand over Claude's back, fingers following the curve of his spine downwards. ]

They value change, he said, amongst themselves. It seemed fitting.