[ Three and a half hours earlier - okay, let's be truthful, three hours and five minutes earlier - when Claude left Paris, his mother had texted him just as he was about to start his old, baby blue Beetle and he'd had to set aside five minutes to discuss with her whether he was or wasn't gonna attend next day's family dinner extravaganza. They'd ended it on, not, but mostly because she got so frustrated with him that she thought he would ruin the mood if he showed up. Backward logic, but he knows his mom, does Claude. She sees him as endlessly capable and intelligent and thus, endlessly capable of making all the choices she would deem right.
It's fucking tiring, that's what it is.
The three hours spent on motorways first east, to Reims, then north, to Luxembourg, went by in a haze of yelling at people stupid enough to pull out in front of him on the fast lane and doing some -- well, math, in regards to Jean Louis. Because maybe Claude can make wrong decisions, sure, but he isn't stupid. He knows Jean Louis' apparently endless income isn't from politics solely, even a minister doesn't make millions. And although they've never discussed money, Claude is French enough to steer clear of that subject entirely, he has eyes. Ears. He can observe things, okay.
Jean Louis has more money than what he'd ever know what to do with and since he isn't from some rich family to back him? It's from somewhere else. Claude knows, politics can be dirty. His mother has been in her fair share of vagueness and voucher scandals and gotten away with most of it. Which is to say, she isn't the worst of them. The worst of them do worse. But Claude doesn't wanna think of Jean Louis as the worst of them. That's not what he sees when he looks at him in the morning and they've just woken up and either one of them wants to touch, that's not how he experiences him. Still, the signs are there and he can't just ignore them any longer. That's not who he is. That's not how he does things.
So, he gets out of his car, parked in the parking lot behind Jean Louis' place, and readies himself for one of those talks. One of those talks that either mend or break. No middle ground. Security lets him in, like he's a shadow, like he's no one, and maybe from their perspective, he is. He doesn't matter. He isn't dangerous.
Is that why Jean Louis, what, likes him? What does that even imply?
Swallowing something down, hard, he exits the elevator and finds himself in that familiar space, halting right inside and listening for the other man. The kitchen. The coffee machine. Heading that way, Claude feels all the built-up tension seep out of him, leaving only the worry behind. Whatever it is Jean Louis is doing it, one way or the other, it could potentially take him away. In the doorway to the kitchen, Claude pauses, smiles, small, hesitant. Jean Louis is preparing two cups. ]
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It's fucking tiring, that's what it is.
The three hours spent on motorways first east, to Reims, then north, to Luxembourg, went by in a haze of yelling at people stupid enough to pull out in front of him on the fast lane and doing some -- well, math, in regards to Jean Louis. Because maybe Claude can make wrong decisions, sure, but he isn't stupid. He knows Jean Louis' apparently endless income isn't from politics solely, even a minister doesn't make millions. And although they've never discussed money, Claude is French enough to steer clear of that subject entirely, he has eyes. Ears. He can observe things, okay.
Jean Louis has more money than what he'd ever know what to do with and since he isn't from some rich family to back him? It's from somewhere else. Claude knows, politics can be dirty. His mother has been in her fair share of vagueness and voucher scandals and gotten away with most of it. Which is to say, she isn't the worst of them. The worst of them do worse. But Claude doesn't wanna think of Jean Louis as the worst of them. That's not what he sees when he looks at him in the morning and they've just woken up and either one of them wants to touch, that's not how he experiences him. Still, the signs are there and he can't just ignore them any longer. That's not who he is. That's not how he does things.
So, he gets out of his car, parked in the parking lot behind Jean Louis' place, and readies himself for one of those talks. One of those talks that either mend or break. No middle ground. Security lets him in, like he's a shadow, like he's no one, and maybe from their perspective, he is. He doesn't matter. He isn't dangerous.
Is that why Jean Louis, what, likes him? What does that even imply?
Swallowing something down, hard, he exits the elevator and finds himself in that familiar space, halting right inside and listening for the other man. The kitchen. The coffee machine. Heading that way, Claude feels all the built-up tension seep out of him, leaving only the worry behind. Whatever it is Jean Louis is doing it, one way or the other, it could potentially take him away. In the doorway to the kitchen, Claude pauses, smiles, small, hesitant. Jean Louis is preparing two cups. ]
You're not an easy one to surprise, you know.