[ You and everyone else, Claude thinks when Monsieur Girard tells him he goes where the money is. It will always be Claude's greatest Achilles' heel, that no one wants to fund empathy and interest, openness, curiosity. Every single legislator might not actually be ruled by fear and convenience, but every single banker standing behind them with a hand on their shoulder certainly is. Greed, too.
Claude wants to think more highly about people in general, but bankers... Not much in the way of trust there. Maybe that's why he dislikes Luxembourg, as a principle. The land of the banks.
Then, the other man does something completely unexpected and everything Claude was about to say in response dies on his lips. Girard pulls out a cigarette, in this very EU-sanctioned indoor space in a very EU-friendly country, and catches it between his lips (mouth, again, oh), rummaging around his pocket for his lighter, presumably... Claude just stares. Then, a bit hesitantly, he glances around, but the guard across the room turns away like he doesn't want to be implicit in this utter crime and the rest of the room seems oblivious. Willfully, maybe.
It's just Claude. Looking on. Nursing a semi. He shifts a bit, pathetically. ]
From over here, I'm seeing fines in your future, Girard. Keep your fortune.
[ The conversation comes to a somewhat abrupt halt as Claude stares at him and yes, indeed, it's very illegal to smoke indoors and someone might've fired him if they could, oh, there's bound to be more than a dozen people hoping for any excuse. He's fine with it. He's seen worse. Pushing that thought away before it gets any sort of grip on him, he lights up, sending his first exhalation sideways, away from their table. Within seconds at best, someone - a woman, intern, she's been here a couple of months, works for Stéphane - gets up and opens a window a few feet away without further comment.
He's been smoking more than he used to the past year. Most people just leave him to it, thinking they know.
It's a thing. Thinking you know something when in reality, you know much, much less than you need to. ]
I'm serious. [ He smiles again, sharper this time, the smoke from his cigarette trailing upwards, grey swirls catching in his hair. ] Find a way to sell empathy and I'll be the first in line. I like it.
[ The cigarette is lit, like it isn't a testimony to something deeper, way beyond suits and salads. The ruthlessness underlying both things. Sitting in the draw of the other man's lips, the way he smiles sharply and looks dangerous.
For the first time since the other man sat down across from him, Claude gets a distinct sense of 'stranger danger' and as always, because he has years and years of practice in the art, he ignores it completely, feeling his own smile turn more heated, more teeth, less soft curve of lips. Shifting again, he leans forward when Jean Louis does, hands gripping the edge of the table as he stabilizes himself, brings himself closer, closer, closer. The smoke is sharp and harsh in his nostrils, the grey shine of it colouring the whole room.
Claude thinks it's more than the cigarette that makes it difficult to breathe, though. He's got enough self-awareness to know. Oh, and a semi bordering on a full hard-on. Even so, his voice, when he speaks, still sounds amused, warm, gentle. Insistent, but not hard.
Well, the one part of him, then. ]
Some things can't be bought, Jean Louis. Empathy is one of them. If it could, it wouldn't be empathy.
[ A low chuckle and he reaches over, plucking the other man's cigarette from him, unceremoniously stubbing it out on his plate, next to his half-finished quiche. Raising an eyebrow at Jean Louis, he finally leans back and checks the time, realizing he has exactly ten minutes to get to his next appointment.
All this talk of consent, huh? He's been distracted. He looks over at his - presumably - Luxembourgish colleague. He still can't place him. There's a second when he considers asking, but it feels irrelevant now. Not like they'll see each other again.
He bites his lip, releases it. Shifts, pathetically. ]
[ There's another pause, loaded this time. There's been no one for a while, for him - ever since Vincent decided that he wasn't trustworthy (it stings, still, because he'd very specifically tried to be trustworthy and failure is bitter, always), he's lived by himself, going home with no one at night because he can't risk it. In a few months, they will launch Liberté. They have to control the gossip stream, otherwise when the time comes, it'll drown them.
All the same, when Claude looks at him and tells him it wouldn't be empathy before plucking the cigarette from between his lips, his hand suddenly, briefly, so close that Jean Louis can smell his skin, a part of him wants desperately to imagine a reality where all that shit doesn't have to matter.
And perhaps it doesn't, at least not as much.
Ezio, after all, is quite happy these days. ]
Maybe empathy is not a draw in itself.
[ Watching Claude for a long moment, the air between them carrying the remnants of his cigarette now along with the mood of their conversation, he thinks about his empty warehouse, the glittering fish and the windows, stretching from the floor to the ceiling and letting in the light as well as the shadows in copious amounts. His skin prickles, his left shoulder twinging. Phantoms, ghosts. His homes, no matter when or where, have always been full of them.
Getting to his feet, maybe a little too fast, a little jerkily, he pauses again, his side to the table and glances at Claude out of the corner of his eye. Then, he drops his card on the table and says, voice quiet: ]
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no subject
Claude wants to think more highly about people in general, but bankers... Not much in the way of trust there. Maybe that's why he dislikes Luxembourg, as a principle. The land of the banks.
Then, the other man does something completely unexpected and everything Claude was about to say in response dies on his lips. Girard pulls out a cigarette, in this very EU-sanctioned indoor space in a very EU-friendly country, and catches it between his lips (mouth, again, oh), rummaging around his pocket for his lighter, presumably... Claude just stares. Then, a bit hesitantly, he glances around, but the guard across the room turns away like he doesn't want to be implicit in this utter crime and the rest of the room seems oblivious. Willfully, maybe.
It's just Claude. Looking on. Nursing a semi. He shifts a bit, pathetically. ]
From over here, I'm seeing fines in your future, Girard. Keep your fortune.
no subject
He's been smoking more than he used to the past year. Most people just leave him to it, thinking they know.
It's a thing. Thinking you know something when in reality, you know much, much less than you need to. ]
I'm serious. [ He smiles again, sharper this time, the smoke from his cigarette trailing upwards, grey swirls catching in his hair. ] Find a way to sell empathy and I'll be the first in line. I like it.
[ His voice lowers a fraction as he leans in: ]
I like the way it looks on people.
no subject
For the first time since the other man sat down across from him, Claude gets a distinct sense of 'stranger danger' and as always, because he has years and years of practice in the art, he ignores it completely, feeling his own smile turn more heated, more teeth, less soft curve of lips. Shifting again, he leans forward when Jean Louis does, hands gripping the edge of the table as he stabilizes himself, brings himself closer, closer, closer. The smoke is sharp and harsh in his nostrils, the grey shine of it colouring the whole room.
Claude thinks it's more than the cigarette that makes it difficult to breathe, though. He's got enough self-awareness to know. Oh, and a semi bordering on a full hard-on. Even so, his voice, when he speaks, still sounds amused, warm, gentle. Insistent, but not hard.
Well, the one part of him, then. ]
Some things can't be bought, Jean Louis. Empathy is one of them. If it could, it wouldn't be empathy.
[ A low chuckle and he reaches over, plucking the other man's cigarette from him, unceremoniously stubbing it out on his plate, next to his half-finished quiche. Raising an eyebrow at Jean Louis, he finally leans back and checks the time, realizing he has exactly ten minutes to get to his next appointment.
All this talk of consent, huh? He's been distracted. He looks over at his - presumably - Luxembourgish colleague. He still can't place him. There's a second when he considers asking, but it feels irrelevant now. Not like they'll see each other again.
He bites his lip, releases it. Shifts, pathetically. ]
no subject
All the same, when Claude looks at him and tells him it wouldn't be empathy before plucking the cigarette from between his lips, his hand suddenly, briefly, so close that Jean Louis can smell his skin, a part of him wants desperately to imagine a reality where all that shit doesn't have to matter.
And perhaps it doesn't, at least not as much.
Ezio, after all, is quite happy these days. ]
Maybe empathy is not a draw in itself.
[ Watching Claude for a long moment, the air between them carrying the remnants of his cigarette now along with the mood of their conversation, he thinks about his empty warehouse, the glittering fish and the windows, stretching from the floor to the ceiling and letting in the light as well as the shadows in copious amounts. His skin prickles, his left shoulder twinging. Phantoms, ghosts. His homes, no matter when or where, have always been full of them.
Getting to his feet, maybe a little too fast, a little jerkily, he pauses again, his side to the table and glances at Claude out of the corner of his eye. Then, he drops his card on the table and says, voice quiet: ]
There are other things.
[ With that, he turns and walks away. ]