[ 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 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? ]