[ He sets the coffee on the small table near the window. It's not that he can't drink it; right now, it feels like he could probably down anything, trying to re-create the balance between outside and inside. Claude shows him the big bruise on his neck, a marking courtesy mostly of his own stupidity and there's something so sweet and ridiculous about it (innocent, like something you do just because life makes it happen for you because that's the kind of surprises you get in the world Claude inhabits) and when he tells him to kiss it better, for a few seconds he almost can't breathe for the sheer sense of discrepancy. Only hours earlier, he'd been meeting with a man in the backroom of a butcher's shop in Grund, talking checkpoints and timetables. The man is a cop. A cop who's going to ensure that the path through City remains open and uncontested for the Dutch.
In less than three months, the mob is going to kill that cop.
Then, there'll be another person rising in the ranks and from there, they'll have a new board set, new pieces to move, always one step ahead.
With Claude sitting there in front of him, that world - Jean Louis' world, the world he knows with deep, nearly visceral intimacy - feels fake. Like an illusion. ]
Claude.
[ He sounds breathless because he is. It's choking him, somehow, this nameless thing. Wetting his lips, he looks down at the floor, then back up at Claude with his stupid marks and his sweet smile, small, careful, like he understands what he's looking at even though he couldn't possibly, he doesn't have the eyes for it. Slowly, he slips onto his knees on the carpet, breaking Claude's hold on his knee. It's not enough. As far as bridges go, it's little more than a line of rope. Instead, he shuffles into Claude's personal space, between his legs, and runs both hands up his knees, thighs. He looks up at him and stretches for him, folding one hand against the side of his neck and pulling him down (down, that's true, this way is down and to be very, very frank, Claude shouldn't even here, it's not down for him, it shouldn't be).
Then, he leans up and in, mouthing a path along the line of his jaw, over his neck. He's breathing too fast already; fuck, but right now, he wants to disappear within him. Any way he can, any way Claude will let him. ]
[ 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. ]
[Claude runs his fingers through his hair, stroke after stroke, and the way it's going all over the place makes something in his chest tighten. Take me apart, he thinks but doesn't say, he wouldn't ever, you invite that kind of shit into your life, you might as well flop down onto your back and let them have a go at you. He thinks about the Netherlands, about Rotterdam and the smell of metal and ozone. The drugs, boxed and ready and his right-hand man (Ezio's, in truth) tasting it on the tip of his tongue. Buono, he'd said and waved his hand, joining Jean Louis moments later and waiting for his silent nod of approval. It was a good deal. It was even worth slashing a line down the middle of his country.
A part of him knows all of this.
But most of him knows Claude now, the smell of him, the warmth of his breath as he buries his nose against his temple and he wants that. He doesn't care about what he knows. He cares about what he wants. Groaning, he turns his head in turn and catches Claude's lips along with that small yes, his willingness. He presses into his mouth, filling him up, their tongues gliding together wetly and the feel of it isn't nearly enough but it's good, regardless, which is one of the greatest contrasts between Claude's reality and his own. In his world, nothing's good enough. Nothing's enough.
In Claude's, even a small percentage of something greater feels immense.
He runs his free hand up between Claude's legs, curving his palm over his crotch and feeling him out beneath his jeans. Yes, he said. Yes, presumably, to whatever the fuck this is, Jean Louis' mind speeding by like a coked-up chicken, but not necessarily to everything it implies. You can't presume with him. You mustn't.
Claude is a treasure.
He pulls out of the kiss, sinks onto his knees more fully and tilts his head upwards, catching the other man's gaze. ]
Let me suck you off.
[ Can I. He doesn't quite manage to actually ask. It's not that kind of night. ]
[ Turning his head in against Claude, their mouths find each other and Jean Louis is kissing him, pressing in between his lips and it's so fucking smooth, so effortless and Claude is feeling dizzy just from the pace of it, how fast they're going. He likes fast. He likes dangerous. This feels dangerous, but also familiar at the same time, and he's aching for that exact combination of elements. He's looking to be pulled into that reality, the dark, looming thing standing over Jean Louis, guarding his back, though honestly Claude is beginning to think there isn't really anyone who has Jean Louis' back, not in politics, not in whatever else he's got going for him.
Claude knows, perhaps by choice, though most people would never choose that, would they, that Jean Louis is alone. Well, as alone as you can be when you've got Claude latched onto your lips, sucking on your tongue, biting your full lower lip.
That alone, never more than that. Claude won't allow it.
He groans as the other man pulls out of the kiss and sinks down on his knees fully, on perfect crotch-height and Claude feels more than he actually notices that his cock is filling a little. He breathes in shakily as Jean Louis doesn't ask, but implores, maybe there's a hint of begging to that, although there's no question mark, and leans back in the chair, spreading his legs more, invitingly, showing himself off.
Opening up. Take me, it means. Take this instead.
The petty, still overly worried part of him wants to ask if he doesn't let Jean Louis do enough already, if they won't reach a point of consequence eventually, a borderline not to be crossed, but his body doesn't care and his cock is very quickly half-hard, so Claude leans forward a little, running one hand through Jean Louis' hair again, caressing the back of his head. You give too much of yourself, his mother had texted him angrily earlier. Claude had told her, like any good socialist, there is no 'too much', only the amount that people need to live. That's the limit. There. Hearing himself breathing in shakily, he smiles and stretches enough to kiss the other man's temple, before sprawling back in the chair fully. ]
Please do.
[ You give too much of yourself.
No, Maman. If he gave enough, he wouldn't doubt it, this moment between them, he wouldn't doubt Jean Louis, he wouldn't doubt himself. Wouldn't wonder why he wants to give Jean Louis so much of himself that he'll never need to own anything else again, ever.
Since that's apparently a fucking challenge, yeah, with such a fucking liberal witch. ]
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no subject
In less than three months, the mob is going to kill that cop.
Then, there'll be another person rising in the ranks and from there, they'll have a new board set, new pieces to move, always one step ahead.
With Claude sitting there in front of him, that world - Jean Louis' world, the world he knows with deep, nearly visceral intimacy - feels fake. Like an illusion. ]
Claude.
[ He sounds breathless because he is. It's choking him, somehow, this nameless thing. Wetting his lips, he looks down at the floor, then back up at Claude with his stupid marks and his sweet smile, small, careful, like he understands what he's looking at even though he couldn't possibly, he doesn't have the eyes for it. Slowly, he slips onto his knees on the carpet, breaking Claude's hold on his knee. It's not enough. As far as bridges go, it's little more than a line of rope. Instead, he shuffles into Claude's personal space, between his legs, and runs both hands up his knees, thighs. He looks up at him and stretches for him, folding one hand against the side of his neck and pulling him down (down, that's true, this way is down and to be very, very frank, Claude shouldn't even here, it's not down for him, it shouldn't be).
Then, he leans up and in, mouthing a path along the line of his jaw, over his neck. He's breathing too fast already; fuck, but right now, he wants to disappear within him. Any way he can, any way Claude will let him. ]
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. ]
no subject
A part of him knows all of this.
But most of him knows Claude now, the smell of him, the warmth of his breath as he buries his nose against his temple and he wants that. He doesn't care about what he knows. He cares about what he wants. Groaning, he turns his head in turn and catches Claude's lips along with that small yes, his willingness. He presses into his mouth, filling him up, their tongues gliding together wetly and the feel of it isn't nearly enough but it's good, regardless, which is one of the greatest contrasts between Claude's reality and his own. In his world, nothing's good enough. Nothing's enough.
In Claude's, even a small percentage of something greater feels immense.
He runs his free hand up between Claude's legs, curving his palm over his crotch and feeling him out beneath his jeans. Yes, he said. Yes, presumably, to whatever the fuck this is, Jean Louis' mind speeding by like a coked-up chicken, but not necessarily to everything it implies. You can't presume with him. You mustn't.
Claude is a treasure.
He pulls out of the kiss, sinks onto his knees more fully and tilts his head upwards, catching the other man's gaze. ]
Let me suck you off.
[ Can I. He doesn't quite manage to actually ask. It's not that kind of night. ]
no subject
Claude knows, perhaps by choice, though most people would never choose that, would they, that Jean Louis is alone. Well, as alone as you can be when you've got Claude latched onto your lips, sucking on your tongue, biting your full lower lip.
That alone, never more than that. Claude won't allow it.
He groans as the other man pulls out of the kiss and sinks down on his knees fully, on perfect crotch-height and Claude feels more than he actually notices that his cock is filling a little. He breathes in shakily as Jean Louis doesn't ask, but implores, maybe there's a hint of begging to that, although there's no question mark, and leans back in the chair, spreading his legs more, invitingly, showing himself off.
Opening up. Take me, it means. Take this instead.
The petty, still overly worried part of him wants to ask if he doesn't let Jean Louis do enough already, if they won't reach a point of consequence eventually, a borderline not to be crossed, but his body doesn't care and his cock is very quickly half-hard, so Claude leans forward a little, running one hand through Jean Louis' hair again, caressing the back of his head. You give too much of yourself, his mother had texted him angrily earlier. Claude had told her, like any good socialist, there is no 'too much', only the amount that people need to live. That's the limit. There. Hearing himself breathing in shakily, he smiles and stretches enough to kiss the other man's temple, before sprawling back in the chair fully. ]
Please do.
[ You give too much of yourself.
No, Maman. If he gave enough, he wouldn't doubt it, this moment between them, he wouldn't doubt Jean Louis, he wouldn't doubt himself. Wouldn't wonder why he wants to give Jean Louis so much of himself that he'll never need to own anything else again, ever.
Since that's apparently a fucking challenge, yeah, with such a fucking liberal witch. ]