[ 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.
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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? ]