[ Claude goes for the courtyard instead and on the way out, he sidles up to him and takes his hand, interlacing their fingers in the sweetest way, very new and slightly strange, and Jean Louis just lets him, curling into him in turn, feeling those remnants of sticky champagne settling on his skin as well. In that sense, Claude's sharing his celebration with him, isn't he? It's good. It's not like he'd come here, expecting anything. ]
I take it you don't smoke.
[ Said with a raised eyebrow, though it's mostly curiosity. Who knows, after all. They know so little of each other still. ]
It's just a matter of shielding the flame.
[ They go down the creaky stairs and exit through a couple of old doors that bind very slightly. Outside in the courtyard, the wind is, indeed, less of a problem, the area rather large with enough space for a garage in one corner along with a couple of tables and benches and small, potted trees, all of them leaf-less now and entwined with glittering lights. He holds Claude's hand as they step outside and he doesn't let go, nor as they head towards a bench in the far corner. There's an ancient-looking vine crawling up the wall behind it, covered in a net of lights - combined with the light from the building coming from up high, the courtyard is lit with a gentleness that seems very suitable for them. Darkness, broken by something a little softer, a little whimsical.
Like its own world, perhaps, the way things seem to be when they find themselves alone together. ]
[ Fire is an all-round symbol, it symbolizes a lot of things, passion, ambition, drive, and none of those things survive if you don't protect them well enough. A bit like people. It's a good argument for his new proposal, too, actually. It's about shielding the things that cannot shield themselves, if you want them to give off any warmth, light, anything that might benefit you and the larger society. It's a question of how we protect our sources of survival. Which is just more symbolism.
Claude watches Jean Louis sideways as they move across the courtyard, heading for a bench in the corner, the wind calm and still here what with tall buildings on all sides of them. At least it isn't snowing, although it's cold and he's really feeling very attached to the other man's jacket for a number of reasons right now. It smells like him. That heavy, dark scent Claude has already come to associate with him. Armani Code, too. That.
His profile is so distinctive, mostly because of his nose, strong, Roman, you'd think Jean Louis was from somewhere more south of here, Italy, maybe, or Spain. Greece. Somewhere with a lot of sun and olive trees. He lets his eyes follow it, from tip to where he becomes forehead and where he is eyes, deep, dark, intense like everything else on him. Claude smiles, reluctantly letting go of Jean Louis' hand and sits down on the bench, legs spread and elbows on his knees, looking up. ]
How long are you staying for?
[ He wants tonight, of course. He wants the night and then, he wants the morning. And then, he wants something more than the weekends they've been able to maximally stretch their visits back and forth over these past months. No one can say Claude isn't greedy, too, he's just not neo-liberally greedy.
He wants in a different way. Nevertheless, he doesn't make any assumptions. Foreign Ministers don't really go on holidays. He knows how the system works. That's just it, it never stops working. ]
[ A small snort of laughter as he recognises the reference - touché, Monsieur Bérubé. They've had a few political discussions since that text message regarding consent and legislature and so far, he concludes that Claude's a lot more dangerous, verbally, than most people would give him credit for. His French contact went as far as to call him vanilla (after which he'd been told quite firmly to shut his fucking face); but as evidenced from his win today, certain things - and people - don't have to look hard to be tough. ]
Honest answer.
[ It doesn't make him look in any way cool or calculated and consequently, he takes a little time to choose his words, grabbing a smoke and lighting up first, keeping the tiny flame well-protected against the remnants of wind still managing to make their way through the courtyard. Honesty isn't the kind of valuta he usually values outside of his professional life - and not too often inside it, either - but in this case, he isn't trying to get them anywhere. They're already here, in a way, and there's no preferable direction, no obvious, logical goal.
It's equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. ]
I hadn't planned this. [ A deep inhalation. The smoke settles in his lungs briefly and his shoulders relax, his entire stance gaining a semblance of slouch. ] I just - came. I'll leave again once you tire of me.
[ Said without a trace of irony or humour - it's not an attempt to convince Claude to take pity on him, after all. It's just the facts, such as they are; Jean Louis felt a need to see him so he came. The rest comes after. ]
[ 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.
[ For a moment, Claude just looks at him and there's a particular sort of silence hanging between them, the kind that signifies a weight to the conversation that he doesn't know how to identify. It's truth, of course - he's learned very early on that simply wanting to be in the company of somebody else brings no guarantees of anything at all. All the same, he'd come here with no plans and no contingencies except for the car parked on the street and its gas tank, half-empty. Another long inhalation, calm spreading through his blood as he watches smoke travel upwards seconds later in swirls of grey. It dissipates quickly enough, it's just another thing that passes. The smoke and the calm, both.
Claude, meanwhile, gets to his feet. He slips up close to him again, pressing in against his side and Jean Louis automatically folds his arm around him, pulling him closer. He's warm. The contrast makes him aware of the fact that he's wearing no outerwear and it's cold, though not quite freezing. He's never had a problem with that. He'd much rather freeze than overheat.
When the other man rests his chin on his shoulder, Jean Louis tilts his head sideways to glance at him. You're easier to like than that, he says and something inside of him shudders in response, an old certainty crackling stubbornly. This is what you know, it says and it's a different life and a different time, a stinking house and a stinking man, disappointing and consistently so. This is what you know.
He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath - full of nicotine, thanks - and blows it away. ]
Don't you have... family things to do? [ It comes out awkward and he frowns at himself, his voice evening out. ] It's no trouble for me to leave in the morning. My car's parked on the street.
Claude takes a moment to properly understand it, the way Jean Louis says until you tire of me first, but then it's no trouble for me to leave in the morning secondly, like the two match and don't contradict. Then again, Claude knows better than anyone, that insecurity exists in the strongest of people and he remembers the desperate way they both clung to company, that first night they spent together. Because they're used to being alone, probably in very different ways, but alone they've been, obviously, and that's no way to fend off the cold voice of uncertainty, doubt.
All you ever do on your own is agreeing with what's known to you.
So, Claude lets himself be pulled in, feeling the way Jean Louis gives off heat like a radiator, isn't he cold, honestly? Claude's got his jacket and is still chillier than what is probably advisable in this weather. Jean Louis has nothing.
It dawns on him, Jean Louis has nothing. He came here with, what sounds like, no plans for the holidays, willing to spend however long with Claude that Claude, what, wanted, bothered? He expected nothing. Jean Louis doesn't expect, he takes what's offered, makes the best of it and won't be disappointed when it's less than it should be, both the offer and the result. Claude stares at the side of his face, feeling some of the smoke go into his nose and eyes harshly even as Jean Louis blows it off to the side. It trails upwards prettily, though.
Sometimes things look nicer than they are. He knows. Appearances can deceive. Don't trust your eyes, trust something else. He breathes in, last remnants of smoke also harsh on his tongue. ]
I've got family things to do, sure. You should do them with me.
[ He knows his mother will be skeptic, because she carries scars from the whole affair with Rainier like he does, they both took a tumble from their pedestal self-perceptions thanks to that - and she will worry and she will fret and she'll be, no doubt, a pain in the ass, trying to figure Jean Louis out. But Jean Louis can fend for himself, he's intelligent and charming. She'll come around. And if not, Claude will just leave her at the bend.
She has no say in this.
But Jean Louis does, and Claude wants him to speak louder than his fear. Like he wants to drown out his own. ]
[ There's another pause, more comfortable this time - possibly, Claude's reaching a conclusion of some sort that he isn't in on but that's fine, he can wait. In the space they share, secrets are not the kind of secrets he's used to. They come with a different set of rules that he's yet to fully understand but what he does know is, they won't get him killed. He won't have to kill for them, either. So long as that's true, he's fine with whatever's in between and the gun in his belt is just there for protection, the kind that he's expected to need in his job and not because he frequents another world where being defenseless is the same as being dead.
It's a nice little bubble, whether Claude wants him out of it sooner or later. Nothing's permanent.
At least, nothing that he knows.
When Claude replies, he tells him...
He says...
For a long moment, Jean Louis just stares off unblinkingly into the shadows, the cigarette between his lips burning by itself, his breath caught in his throat. You should do them with me - what, he wants to take him home? For Christmas? The thought is ridiculous and briefly, he considers declining, coming up with some excuse that'll get him out of whatever warped reality this is but for some reason, the words won't come. He's had no family to celebrate with for many years, now. He's had the typical invitations for parties, obviously, throughout the month of December and that's fine, that's just another word for business. Even with Emilia, they typically celebrated by themselves, as her family wanted nothing to do with her. She had her own friends, activists for the most part, and they hadn't necessarily felt safe around him due to his affiliations with the CDP.
He swallows. Gives the remains of his cigarette a critical look and stubs it out. ]
Should I?
[ Are you sure, he doesn't say, or I don't know how to do that. Instead, he shifts and pulls the other man just a little closer, answering his own question before Claude has to reassure him again - because he's well aware, the man's already done so twice and that, in itself, is unacceptable. He's not a child. And this is not the kind of danger that you run from, if something like that even exists. He straightens a little. ]
[ Sounds like a nice change, Jean Louis replies after a silence that says more than any words could. He truly doesn't have anything else he should be doing, parties to attend, Christmas Eve anywhere, Mass... And he's apparently so used to that, to having nothing, to the emptiness nothing is, that what little Claude is offering him right now, come on, it's nothing special either - an extra spot at their Christmas table, they'll be nine people without him, he's just lucky number ten, it's no big deal; it -- what, sounds like a nice change?
It matters, that's what it does. It means something. Jean Louis and him, it means something.
Claude can give him that much. He can give himself that much, too.
Licking his lips, he feels himself be held closer, looking up at the other man's face. Not everyone is so privileged, they can say being invited to Christmas dinner is nothing, of course, he knows. He knows about privilege, but he's also used to privilege looking a particular way and Jean Louis doesn't look like someone who has nothing, does he? He looks the opposite.
That's his secret weapon, probably. But Claude can tell. The fact that Jean Louis lets him, when he fools the whole world, is a beautiful thing. He smiles, then, wide and beaming, still freezing with champagne sticking to his skin, half-frozen and chilly. Being able to know someone that intimately is new as well. It's new and exciting and dangerous, but Claude likes danger, have you seen how he drives (and have you seen the man he used to sleep with, his mother would say, when he was seventeen). Claude knows there are stories inside Jean Louis, realities he knows nothing about and that's fine, for now. It's okay, he can deal with that.
He just wants him. He wants him at his mother's Christmas dinner, he wants his family to know, his friends, himself. He wants them both to know, Jean Louis and him, what it means.
So, when the other man stubs out his cigarette, Claude takes his cue and leans in, bumping Jean Louis' big, Italian, marble-cut nose gently and catching his lips that still taste like nicotine and smoke, but it's fine. He tastes like himself beneath all that. Claude kisses him, deep. He kisses him with tongue, asking to be let in.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I take it you don't smoke.
[ Said with a raised eyebrow, though it's mostly curiosity. Who knows, after all. They know so little of each other still. ]
It's just a matter of shielding the flame.
[ They go down the creaky stairs and exit through a couple of old doors that bind very slightly. Outside in the courtyard, the wind is, indeed, less of a problem, the area rather large with enough space for a garage in one corner along with a couple of tables and benches and small, potted trees, all of them leaf-less now and entwined with glittering lights. He holds Claude's hand as they step outside and he doesn't let go, nor as they head towards a bench in the far corner. There's an ancient-looking vine crawling up the wall behind it, covered in a net of lights - combined with the light from the building coming from up high, the courtyard is lit with a gentleness that seems very suitable for them. Darkness, broken by something a little softer, a little whimsical.
Like its own world, perhaps, the way things seem to be when they find themselves alone together. ]
no subject
[ Fire is an all-round symbol, it symbolizes a lot of things, passion, ambition, drive, and none of those things survive if you don't protect them well enough. A bit like people. It's a good argument for his new proposal, too, actually. It's about shielding the things that cannot shield themselves, if you want them to give off any warmth, light, anything that might benefit you and the larger society. It's a question of how we protect our sources of survival. Which is just more symbolism.
Claude watches Jean Louis sideways as they move across the courtyard, heading for a bench in the corner, the wind calm and still here what with tall buildings on all sides of them. At least it isn't snowing, although it's cold and he's really feeling very attached to the other man's jacket for a number of reasons right now. It smells like him. That heavy, dark scent Claude has already come to associate with him. Armani Code, too. That.
His profile is so distinctive, mostly because of his nose, strong, Roman, you'd think Jean Louis was from somewhere more south of here, Italy, maybe, or Spain. Greece. Somewhere with a lot of sun and olive trees. He lets his eyes follow it, from tip to where he becomes forehead and where he is eyes, deep, dark, intense like everything else on him. Claude smiles, reluctantly letting go of Jean Louis' hand and sits down on the bench, legs spread and elbows on his knees, looking up. ]
How long are you staying for?
[ He wants tonight, of course. He wants the night and then, he wants the morning. And then, he wants something more than the weekends they've been able to maximally stretch their visits back and forth over these past months. No one can say Claude isn't greedy, too, he's just not neo-liberally greedy.
He wants in a different way. Nevertheless, he doesn't make any assumptions. Foreign Ministers don't really go on holidays. He knows how the system works. That's just it, it never stops working. ]
no subject
Honest answer.
[ It doesn't make him look in any way cool or calculated and consequently, he takes a little time to choose his words, grabbing a smoke and lighting up first, keeping the tiny flame well-protected against the remnants of wind still managing to make their way through the courtyard. Honesty isn't the kind of valuta he usually values outside of his professional life - and not too often inside it, either - but in this case, he isn't trying to get them anywhere. They're already here, in a way, and there's no preferable direction, no obvious, logical goal.
It's equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. ]
I hadn't planned this. [ A deep inhalation. The smoke settles in his lungs briefly and his shoulders relax, his entire stance gaining a semblance of slouch. ] I just - came. I'll leave again once you tire of me.
[ Said without a trace of irony or humour - it's not an attempt to convince Claude to take pity on him, after all. It's just the facts, such as they are; Jean Louis felt a need to see him so he came. The rest comes after. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
Claude, meanwhile, gets to his feet. He slips up close to him again, pressing in against his side and Jean Louis automatically folds his arm around him, pulling him closer. He's warm. The contrast makes him aware of the fact that he's wearing no outerwear and it's cold, though not quite freezing. He's never had a problem with that. He'd much rather freeze than overheat.
When the other man rests his chin on his shoulder, Jean Louis tilts his head sideways to glance at him. You're easier to like than that, he says and something inside of him shudders in response, an old certainty crackling stubbornly. This is what you know, it says and it's a different life and a different time, a stinking house and a stinking man, disappointing and consistently so. This is what you know.
He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath - full of nicotine, thanks - and blows it away. ]
Don't you have... family things to do? [ It comes out awkward and he frowns at himself, his voice evening out. ] It's no trouble for me to leave in the morning. My car's parked on the street.
no subject
Claude takes a moment to properly understand it, the way Jean Louis says until you tire of me first, but then it's no trouble for me to leave in the morning secondly, like the two match and don't contradict. Then again, Claude knows better than anyone, that insecurity exists in the strongest of people and he remembers the desperate way they both clung to company, that first night they spent together. Because they're used to being alone, probably in very different ways, but alone they've been, obviously, and that's no way to fend off the cold voice of uncertainty, doubt.
All you ever do on your own is agreeing with what's known to you.
So, Claude lets himself be pulled in, feeling the way Jean Louis gives off heat like a radiator, isn't he cold, honestly? Claude's got his jacket and is still chillier than what is probably advisable in this weather. Jean Louis has nothing.
It dawns on him, Jean Louis has nothing. He came here with, what sounds like, no plans for the holidays, willing to spend however long with Claude that Claude, what, wanted, bothered? He expected nothing. Jean Louis doesn't expect, he takes what's offered, makes the best of it and won't be disappointed when it's less than it should be, both the offer and the result. Claude stares at the side of his face, feeling some of the smoke go into his nose and eyes harshly even as Jean Louis blows it off to the side. It trails upwards prettily, though.
Sometimes things look nicer than they are. He knows. Appearances can deceive. Don't trust your eyes, trust something else. He breathes in, last remnants of smoke also harsh on his tongue. ]
I've got family things to do, sure. You should do them with me.
[ He knows his mother will be skeptic, because she carries scars from the whole affair with Rainier like he does, they both took a tumble from their pedestal self-perceptions thanks to that - and she will worry and she will fret and she'll be, no doubt, a pain in the ass, trying to figure Jean Louis out. But Jean Louis can fend for himself, he's intelligent and charming. She'll come around. And if not, Claude will just leave her at the bend.
She has no say in this.
But Jean Louis does, and Claude wants him to speak louder than his fear. Like he wants to drown out his own. ]
no subject
It's a nice little bubble, whether Claude wants him out of it sooner or later. Nothing's permanent.
At least, nothing that he knows.
When Claude replies, he tells him...
He says...
For a long moment, Jean Louis just stares off unblinkingly into the shadows, the cigarette between his lips burning by itself, his breath caught in his throat. You should do them with me - what, he wants to take him home? For Christmas? The thought is ridiculous and briefly, he considers declining, coming up with some excuse that'll get him out of whatever warped reality this is but for some reason, the words won't come. He's had no family to celebrate with for many years, now. He's had the typical invitations for parties, obviously, throughout the month of December and that's fine, that's just another word for business. Even with Emilia, they typically celebrated by themselves, as her family wanted nothing to do with her. She had her own friends, activists for the most part, and they hadn't necessarily felt safe around him due to his affiliations with the CDP.
He swallows. Gives the remains of his cigarette a critical look and stubs it out. ]
Should I?
[ Are you sure, he doesn't say, or I don't know how to do that. Instead, he shifts and pulls the other man just a little closer, answering his own question before Claude has to reassure him again - because he's well aware, the man's already done so twice and that, in itself, is unacceptable. He's not a child. And this is not the kind of danger that you run from, if something like that even exists. He straightens a little. ]
Sounds like a nice change.
no subject
It matters, that's what it does. It means something. Jean Louis and him, it means something.
Claude can give him that much. He can give himself that much, too.
Licking his lips, he feels himself be held closer, looking up at the other man's face. Not everyone is so privileged, they can say being invited to Christmas dinner is nothing, of course, he knows. He knows about privilege, but he's also used to privilege looking a particular way and Jean Louis doesn't look like someone who has nothing, does he? He looks the opposite.
That's his secret weapon, probably. But Claude can tell. The fact that Jean Louis lets him, when he fools the whole world, is a beautiful thing. He smiles, then, wide and beaming, still freezing with champagne sticking to his skin, half-frozen and chilly. Being able to know someone that intimately is new as well. It's new and exciting and dangerous, but Claude likes danger, have you seen how he drives (and have you seen the man he used to sleep with, his mother would say, when he was seventeen). Claude knows there are stories inside Jean Louis, realities he knows nothing about and that's fine, for now. It's okay, he can deal with that.
He just wants him. He wants him at his mother's Christmas dinner, he wants his family to know, his friends, himself. He wants them both to know, Jean Louis and him, what it means.
So, when the other man stubs out his cigarette, Claude takes his cue and leans in, bumping Jean Louis' big, Italian, marble-cut nose gently and catching his lips that still taste like nicotine and smoke, but it's fine. He tastes like himself beneath all that. Claude kisses him, deep. He kisses him with tongue, asking to be let in.
They're already halfway there, right? ]