[ You'd think shopping for a four-day Christmas stay in Paris on the 23rd would take forever and be altogether hellish but in fact, what ends up stealing most of early afternoon hours isn't shopping for clothes or bathroom supplies.
As he makes his way back to Claude's apartment, he passes by a small Christmas market in the Square René-Viviani, the Notre Dame with its cranes and scaffolding a towering backdrop to the trees, strung with fairy lights, and the small stalls lining the square. Intent on simply grabbing a cup of freshly-made coffee to stave off the cold, Jean Louis ends up looking over the goods of one, particular antique vendor, an old man selling off some of his family heirlooms. Rather you, he explains, than some greedy fool hiding behind the counter of a pawn shop. Oh, don't worry, Jean Louis replies back, I'm plenty greedy as it is but all the same, they fall into conversation and after half an hour, he's left with a small trinket for Claude and a shoulder so stiff from the cold and from sitting that all he can really think about when he gets back to Claude's is getting himself out of his clothes (from yesterday, incidentally - disgusting, at this point) and grabbing a shower.
So, he leaves his newly-brought trolley along with six bags of shopping in Claude's living room and ten minutes later, he's in the shower, standing beneath the spray and trying to get the trembling in his muscles to stop. The warmth of the water helps. From experience, he knows that his body will stop complaining soon enough, so long as he doesn't get uptight and tense about it - until then, he simply stands there, head bowed and water rushing down from above. The shower stall isn't as small as one might fear from the size of a typical, Parisian apartment in the Latin Quarters. The tiles are salmon-pink and consequently, the room feels... inviting, in its own right. Warm, like Claude himself.
His own bathroom back in City is at least five times as large. It's black with silver finishes and looks like a place nobody lives.
Eyes falling shut, he forces his shoulders to relax. ]
[ With Jean Louis, it's really just a matter of following the trail of not destruction, but purchase. Additions. Excess. The trolley and shopping bags in his living room is the first cue, then the open door to the bathroom and the heavy sound of the spray in there. Claude follows. Once, he enters, the small bathroom is already filled with steam, the water apparently very hot, Jean Louis seems to care about as much for heat as for the cold. He smiles to himself, walking over to the sink and readying his toothbrush, he's just eaten a sandwich, messy business, while keeping an eye on the other man's outline through the salmon pink shower curtain. He's broad, tall-ish, a dark shadow behind the thin material.
He's there. That's the important thing, let's be honest. Let's be very, very honest.
Claude brushes his teeth quickly, then spits in the sink and dries off - about to turn away and return to the living room, continue his work on the outline for the meeting abstract he's preparing for January. But Jean Louis' feet, big feet, well cared for, are visible beneath the hem of the shower curtain, standing wide apart, like he's carrying a great weight and Claude feels something like curiosity and something very much like want, so he doesn't go the other way.
He follows.
Walking over to the shower stall, he leans against the wall slightly and peeks inside, just pushing the shower curtain aside a little bit to stick his face through. He's not going to assume and he's most definitely not going to just invite himself, it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. And it didn't even work back then, did it? He wouldn't say that, no. ]
Do you want company?
[ At the moment, he's dressed in a deliberately ugly Christmas sweater that's blissfully warm and a pair of slacks, not the most sexy outfit in the world, but he isn't planning on wearing it, if he's going inside, after all. Jean Louis doesn't get the benefit of seeing him in drenched knitwear and a red Rudolph nose.
Though, to be fair, the Rudolph nose could see its uses. ]
[ He hears Claude entering the bathroom, as he would have heard anyone, whether they were trying to be sneaky or not. Claude obviously isn't - he's just here to brush his teeth. About to turn his attention away and focus on his shower once more, he pauses in his tracks as he hears the tell-tale sign of a body, shifting closer - and then, the shower curtain rustling until Claude's sticking his face inside, far enough out to avoid getting sprayed. Jean Louis glances over his shoulder at him. For some reason, it suddenly feels very... obvious that he's naked and Claude isn't. His skin tingles slightly at the feel of it, not in a bad way. It's... exciting, somehow, and interesting. ]
Of course.
[ He turns around, standing with his back to the spray and backing up a little in invitation. Claude's dressed in a warm-looking sweater with an odd motive (all Christmas motives are odd, in his opinion - ugly and a little foolish, like someone decided to commercialize harmlessness and for some inexplicable reason, everybody's buying into it). Due to the steam, his curls have already started to look a little bit frizzy near the top and there's something about his eyes, something soft and open. He's lovely.
Rolling his left shoulder absently, he waits for the other man to join him, hopefully sans the ugly sweater. He runs his fingers through his hair, flattening it against his head, the longest strands reaching his shoulders now. The rest is all over his face - the cut is very visibly meant to be styled.
He wonders how Claude's going to look with his curls soaked through. ]
[ Of course, Jean Louis says, as if something like that is ever obvious. Like the scar tissue marring his whole back and other parts of him, Claude has mapped his front out with his fingers a couple of times by now, doesn't say - at some point, I didn't want company, I wanted to live, survive. But Claude accepts the invitation for what it is, stepping back to shrug out of the sweater, the t-shirt underneath, sweatpants and socks, underwear, because his apartment gets pretty cold in winter and it started snowing earlier today, not much, but enough to bring the real feel of Christmas. Then, he steps into the shower where Jean Louis has made room for him, backing up. They're not the two biggest men in the world, but neither is Claude's bathroom anything close to big. They take up their space, okay.
The spray gets him straight across the head, weighing down his hair, and Claude leans forward and reaches up to readjust the angle, the hardness of the spray, softer, slower, still terribly warm, however. This brings him extremely close to Jean Louis who naturally doesn't budge and neither does he have anywhere else to go in the small stall, so Claude takes the opportunity to lean in and nuzzle his neck with his nose, lips, half-parted, breathing over him hotly. Can't compete with the spray, but he's good. He's good.
Claude kisses him near his ear before straightening up, the spray now getting him somewhere around his collarbone, getting him all blushing and wet. He blinks water out of his eyes. They're standing close, their chests touching, the nicely trimmed hair on Jean Louis' chest tickling a bit. He spreads the fingers of one hand over the shoulder the other man's got issues with, it's not a grip, but softer. A touch. I can tell, it means. It doesn't matter to me any more than it does to you. ]
You know, it was like following the breadcrumbs in the fairy tale, finding you. It was just designer clothes and department store logos instead of bread.
[ Claude disappears briefly, then returns, slipping into the shower next to him and crowding him up a little against the back. Suddenly, Jean Louis appreciates the relative lack of space all the more - within no time at all, they're flush up against each other, Claude's naked front pressed to his, and he's definitely getting properly wet, the spray laying his curls flat within seconds. He looks great, all soaked and shiny from the water - for a moment, Jean Louis just flips one arm around his waist and pulls him in, looking him over at the same time and taking in the sights while the other man reaches over him to right the spray.
He's a nice, heavy weight against him. Whether horizontal or vertical, he's quickly deciding that this is his favourite way to be positioned with him; up against, close, feeling the weight of his body. It makes his mind pause, somehow, not stop but slow down. Nicer than nicotine, definitely. Much nicer. When Claude lays his hand against his shoulder, the ache deep within his bones grows duller, his focus caught on the feeling of the other man's palm against his skin, rather than whatever's happening beneath it. He smiles and leans in to nuzzle his neck in turn, that small kiss beneath his ear lingering even in its own absence. ]
Am I the evil witch, then, or the terrible step-mother?
[ Slowly, he runs both hands up Claude's narrow waist, over the small of his back before going down instead. He flattens his palms against his buttocks, kneading them. They're a great balance between firm muscle and soft skin and though he doesn't go as far as to spread them apart, not knowing what Claude actually prefers and doesn't, he does grab them. To show his appreciation.
His cock joins in seconds later, hardening against Claude's inner thigh. His next exhale is slightly jagged as he searches out Claude's shoulder with his lips, mouthing at him wetly and getting water all over his face as a consequence. It's good. It's all very good. As he bends down, his back predictably complains but it feels fainter, somehow, like the smell of the other man, well-known now if not yet familiar, and the feel of his body masks his awareness of his own body. It's odd but appreciated.
[ Jean Louis follows suit, stepping all up in his private sphere and more or less pushing them against each other until there's no space left in between. Just the proximity, just the feeling of body and need. Need more than want. The other man's hands follow his waist down to his ass, grabbing his buttocks and kneading them without actually pushing for entrance, without spreading him open and Claude truly appreciates that. This is honestly the first relationship he's been in since Rainier where his ass hasn't been short of blacklisted. There's no throwback when Jean Louis touches his ass, which is nice, really. There's no knee-jerk reaction of, stay away.
There's just that, need.
He hums deep in his throat and turns his face into the headfull of hair that's within reach, the strands wet and he's breathing in damp and droplets, but it's good. It smells like Jean Louis. He kisses his temple, the curve of his skull, anything he can reach. His breathing is bordering on a pant, wet, little exhalations, quick-paced and light. He feels slightly light-headed. When he feels Jean Louis hardening, his own cock does the same, like a call.
An invitation. Between them, that's what it is.
Jean Louis' question makes him chuckle and he shakes his head, reaching up with both hands now to press them over Jean Louis' pleasantly hairy pecs, rubbing the ball of his palms over his nipples, feeling the little nub slide over his skin. His fingers tingle, he wants to touch.
Still, he waits a moment. ]
They're probably the same person and undoubtedly liberals in both forms, so I guess the answer either way would be: yes.
[ Then, he slides his hands down and catches both Jean Louis' nipples between his fingers, rubbing a thumb over one and just letting him feel his hold on the other, promising. ]
[ Claude doesn't pull out of his grip but neither does he encourage anything beyond it. Jean Louis keeps his hands where they are for the moment, thinking about the soap on the shelve behind his shoulder and how to go about reaching for it when he'd also like to use both his hands to grab Claude's arse for a bit longer - what a dilemma. Claude, meanwhile, ups the pace, turning his face against his neck and kissing his temple, his breath hot and just a bit hurried against the side of his face. It's contagious, his own breathing quickening in response. He can feel Claude hardening against him in turn. The water droplets glitter off his skin in the sparse light from above their heads.
He groans when Claude runs his palms over his nipples, a shock of pleasure spreading like warmth across his chest, into his limbs. He's about to half-laugh at his comment - because naturally, to a socialist, all the evil people in stories must be liberals and maybe, from a certain angle, he could be right - when Claude follows up by pressing in with his thumb. His next groan is deeper, his hands tightening against Claude's arse, fingertips digging in briefly before he runs his hands up his back instead, over his shoulderblades.
He's forgotten what he'd been planning on saying with regards to bread-crumbs and witches and evil liberals so he simply mutters, voice low and breathy: ]
You have us figured out, Claude. The moral of the story is -
[ He shifts to the side, reaching for the soap dispenser and managing to get out a decent amount without using the other hand. Score. Turning back, he runs his hand up Claude's back and down his arse, leaving shimmering trails of soap all over his skin. ]
- if you don't eat the children in time, they will definitely be the death of you.
[ He makes Jean Louis groan in that way he does when he likes it, when he likes it very much, he's learned that much by now, from all the times they've fucked, and Claude feels his own breathing shuddering out of him. Making a soft hmm'ing sound, he lets his chin find a rest on the other man's good shoulder, resting his face in against the side of his neck while Jean Louis tells him that you gotta eat the children or they'll be the death of you. He laughs, a shaky sound, because Jean Louis is soaping in his back, Claude can feel the light, bubbly trails of soap sticking to his skin in large patches, where his hands went. Ass. Backside, the whole of it. He likes it, is that it? He likes Claude's behind, well, he can have it. It's his.
That's not what he says, though, not in words. He does spread his legs more, finding better footing with his feet further apart, thighs open, their cocks bump, more than half-hard at this point. Claude thinks about rubbing up against him, feeling the underside of his length, the veins and the gentle curve.
What he does say, he says in a hoarse voice, wanting: ]
That's just being a parent. If you're not ready for that, you aren't ready, full stop.
[ Very pointedly, he doesn't think about his text exchange with his mother in the morning, because his mom has no place in this context, but he knows she'd agree and that's good enough.
Hmm'ing again, he follows the curve of Jean Louis' ribcage back to his sides, then to his back, letting his flat, wet palms run up the large expanses of strong muscle and prominent scar tissue. He's seen his scars in daylight now and his first conclusion stands, but it's not something he lingers at - it's Jean Louis' scars, his issues, his story. Claude is ready when he is ready.
He kisses his jawline, his earlobe, the corner of his mouth. ]
[ Well, he's on board with that, parents or no parents (he's definitely not the person to be talking about that particular topic anyway; family politics he happily leaves to other people). Leaning back a little, water rushing between their bodies and making everything feel slick and smooth, he tilts his head to the side a little, looks at Claude with dark eyes and leans in, catching his lips again. This time, the kiss lingers. He licks a wet line along the other man's bottom lip before pressing between them, wanting in and he gets there, Claude's quick to respond and his body speaks its own language, too. Such as the hardness of his cock where it's resting between their abdomens and the quickness of his breath. Jean Louis presses in, filling his mouth. He steps closer, catching the hard length of Claude's cock along his thigh and pressing against it slowly.
The feel of him - inside, outside - makes his own cock jerk impatiently. His shoulder has stopped complaining for now or if not, he doesn't have any attention left for it. Instead, all he feels is heat, the heat of the water, the heat of his own arousal. Claude's body, pressed up against him and the taste of his mouth. Groaning into the kiss, he shifts and reaches between them, folding his hand impulsively around Claude's cock, fully aware that despite the water, his hand doesn't have enough slide. The soap's washed off and he'll have to move away to slick it up again. What an unattractive thought.
He breaks the kiss only to breathe, briefly, seconds at best, before he plunges right back in, fingering Claude's retracted foreskin gently and running his thumb over the bared head, pressing down. Teasing him, really, and himself by proxy. The steam from the water is thick around them, rising towards the ceiling in the small bathroom, obscuring the salmon-pink walls, washing them out.
[ They kiss. They kiss and it's good, it feels like proximity and closeness, it feels like Jean Louis taking up space in him, his tongue filling him just so, just right, and Claude moans into the kiss, once Jean Louis starts groaning again, showing his appreciation. His cock jerks, too and Claude gets caught up in it fast, centered squarely in his body for the time being, the way the other man reaches down - still kissing him, kissing him deep - and fingers his cock, the retracted foreskin and the bared head, Claude feeling arousal pounding through his system, his cock throbbing, his breath stumbling and his vision blurring a little around the edges. The steam in the room is like a curtain around them, a soft wall of distance to the real world. They're not part of that.
They're part of each other. Easier. Less shit to navigate, less complicated politics.
Pushing into Jean Louis' hand, feeling the topmost of his shaft slipping over the ball of the other man's hand, wet from water, but not exactly slick enough - trembling a bit against the rush of pleasure, teasing and edging him on, Claude bites Jean Louis' lower lip and catches it briefly between his own lips to lick over it, soothing the place he hit. His chest is heaving and his arms have ended up slung around the other man's shoulders, both of them, he seems fine now and Claude needs something to lean on, his knees feel a bit weak. It's that good. So good.
Still, not slick enough. No, not enough slick.
So, Claude pulls back from the kiss, glancing down between them where Jean Louis is playing him like a fiddle, releasing his hold on the other man's bad shoulder to reach down and catch Jean Louis' hand where he's touching him, fucking teasing him, waiting for him to release before he lifts his hand, smelling faintly of soap and even more faintly of Claude now, to his mouth and unceremoniously sucks first his index finger, then the one next to it into his mouth, slicking his fingers up. Continued down the length of his digits, to his palm, long wet strokes of his tongue. It tastes of him. Jean Louis tastes like him.
They're merging. ]
A helping hand.
[ He says, drawing back and smiling shakily, breathing uneven, too quick, telling on him. How hot he is for him. Claude leans in again and kisses him, licking into him immediately, deep on the mouth. It's almost aggressive, but only ever almost with him. ]
[ Claude responds by pushing into his hand, moaning prettily into his mouth at the same time and Jean Louis isn't in any hurry; when he'd come back from his shopping, he'd felt about ready to actually sleep (powernapping is, of course, something he does quite regularly, seeing as he rarely sleeps for more than a few hours at a time) but now, with Claude hot in his hand and mouth, he can't think of anything he'd rather do than this. Just this slow, easy edging, combined with being with someone, with Claude of all people and close enough to thoroughly map out his scent. It's good. When Claude nibbles his lower lip, he smirks and opens his eyes, catching his gaze. He's slung his arms around his shoulders, basically hanging off him and it's perfectly fine, he's a weightless one, Claude, at least to him.
It feels like no matter how much the other man takes when he's done and whatever this is comes to an end, he'll feel no less burdened by it in the aftermath. That's a lie, of course, but a beautiful one. He likes it. He indulges.
Claude, meanwhile, leads his hand off his cock and Jean Louis willingly follows his initiative as he's done quite often around him before. Claude is new in that regard, too - usually, his position in the world doesn't really afford him the chance to be diplomatic or to lead and follow in equal measures. That's not what anyone needs from him, at least not anyone else. Claude - Claude is different. Has been different from the get-go. When he licks his fingers, first one, then the other, Jean Louis follows the line of his tongue, the stretch of his lips, his cock jerking again, leaking at the tip. He can't tear his gaze away, not until Claude's done and even then, he takes a second longer to simply stare at his own hand, his fingers glistening and his palm full of the other man's traces.
Consequently, when Claude leans in and kisses him again, pushing into his mouth, getting deep and persistent, he's caught off guard and loses his breath for almost long enough to get lightheaded. He pulls back with a gasp. ]
Fuck, Claude.
[ His voice is rough, smoky. Feeling full of him, his taste heavy and warm on his tongue, Jean Louis shifts forward, backing Claude up against the wall, not violently but all the same, unapologetically. He holds him against himself, the spray catching them both from the side, and folds his hand around Claude's cock. Like that, he leans in again and kisses him, keeping his lips parted and letting the other man take as he pleases while he does the same, stroking him at a steady pace, not teasing anymore but with a clear purpose.
He's breathing hard against his lips, his other hand slipping into Claude's hair, cradling his curls. ]
[ They kiss, again, and they are kissing and then, Jean Louis breaks it to gasp, to fucking pant for it and Claude thinks he might die from being so incredibly aroused. Fuck, Claude, he says before actively backing Claude up against the wall, crowding him with his own body, though it feels less overwhelming than that, it feels more careful, like holding. Like he's being held. He stares up into Jean Louis' face, framed in on all sides by his salmon pink tiles and the matching shower curtain and the water, taking shade after the rest. It's a pink world, and you wouldn't think Jean Louis Girard belongs in it, with him, but he's here and he's more or less growling as he catches Claude's mouth, opening up to him while also taking, meeting him. They're meeting halfway. Seems to be the rule for their relationship, right? Mediums. Golden.
He actually whimpers, then, not exactly the kind of sounds he makes normally, but there we go. He can't help himself, running his one hand down Jean Louis' wet back, fingertips digging in, but carefully, still. Not ruining anything, not aiming to, just touching, touching more, deeper. Jean Louis is jerking him off now at a pace, steady, even, working him, getting him there. Claude breaks the kiss to tilt his head back, showing throat and jawline aplenty, breathing heavily and staring upwards mostly unseeingly. His hips are pushing forward on every second or third stroke, wanting into the heat of his hand, the damp slickness, the slide.
It takes him five seconds to decide. Normally he doesn't frot, because it's not 100 percent safe, but it's a lower risk than most other things they could do, and he can live with that. No matter what his mom thinks, Claude knows how to risk assess. He wants to feel Jean Louis' cock on him, against him, he wants them to touch, no rubber, no layers.
That's what he wants and today, want wins out.
So, he looks at Jean Louis, meets his eyes, lips slightly parted and his pupils blown wide, and he reaches up with his free hand, caressing the side of his face briefly, before reaching down between them again, softly closing his own hand around the other man's shaft, holding his cock snugly like that, then stepping closer, all up into him. ]
Can you take one more? You've got a big hand. Nice and big. So good, Jean Louis, make it that way for us both, okay.
[ They're finding a nice rhythm together, Claude thrusting into his hand for more friction every second stroke or so and he's losing himself in it, the needs of his own body gliding into the background somewhat, the same way noise does when you focus sufficiently on something specific. Claude breaks the kiss and throws his head back and Jean Louis goes for it immediately, lips latching onto the thin skin right above his pulse point, sensing the rush underneath, the hurry. The power of it. He keeps his hand going, keeps the pace, and they could have easily gone the whole way like this if Claude hadn't interrupted him.
At that soft touch against the side of his face, he just leans into it, adding another source of stimuli to the rest, like water dripping into an open sea. Apparently, however, it's also a bid for his attention because moments later, Claude's fingers close around his cock (oh fuck) and then, he's talking, his French making next to zero sense for a brief moment before he manages to run the sentence back through his admittedly foggy mind. Talk. Words. Right, come on now. ]
What?
[ He draws back a little to look at Claude, frowning. His gaze jumps from Claude's face to his hand, currently wrapped snugly around his cock, the sense of friction faint, still, his focus still well and truly diverted. Can you take... Oh. Oh. He means - frown deepening as he forces himself to actually consider the mechanics of that, he nods absently and reaches sideways, coating his hand in more soap. ]
You'll have to tell me if I'm doing it wrong.
[ He sounds breathless, still, though there's an evenness to his voice as well. He's used to taking directions when necessary. It doesn't bother him. Closing his eyes, he leans in and kisses the side of Claude's face, close to his temple. Then, he folds his hand around the other man's cock again before he picks his own out from Claude's grip and adds it, the girth a stretch but not impossible for him. He's got big hands, yes. Big enough.
As he pushes their cocks together, the underside of his own sliding up against Claude's, his breath catches in his throat and he swallows, shifting a little. At the first stroke, his body catches up to his brain and on the second, he's leaning in against Claude, definitely crowding him against the wall now and giving no cares at all. He can feel him right there, hard and warm against him, and the pleasure is... it's...
He presses his forehead against Claude's and speeds up. ]
[ Unlike most men, and Claude thinks it's safe with generalisations right now, because the other man is not in the category, Jean Louis actually asks for directions, soaping up his hand more in a way that makes Claude's toes curl beforehand, before he even gets to wrapping both his own and Claude's cock up in his fingers, soapy, slick, warm, water everywhere. Claude is breathing it in, inhalations deep and shaky. Eager. Most men he knows, even the good ones, maybe especially those, the nice guys, always have to prove themselves and get defensive when needing to be led, maybe especially by him. After all, he knows how he's perceived. Softer, feminized to some degree. So, they treat him like they think femininity needs to be treated, which is a general problem in society, but Jean Louis doesn't do that, Jean Louis crowds him up against the wall more in accordance with his initiative, stepping so close, they're breathing each other in.
Claude gasps slightly, feeling the way Jean Louis' cock feels, all hard and throbbing, against the underside of his own, the soft curve of their bared heads pressed together and it's intimate, it's close, the slide of the other man's hand only pushing them up against each other in a nice, hard glide. Panting audibly, he's staring into Jean Louis' face now, their foreheads pressed together, and up close he's nothing but strong lines and angular shapes, very masculine, olive-toned skin, nose for days.
When he answers, he wants the other man to know it's not just the frotting, it's an overall assessment as he says, ]
You're doing it right.
[ His voice comes out breathless and a little bit thinner than usually, hands pressing against the other man's chest, curled into fists until he rubs downwards, feeling Jean Louis' nipple once more against the side of his thumb, so he spreads them out, all five fingers, rubbing down over both of them, his nipples hard and responsive, with his palms, wet and warm. Burning up.
The thing about touching him like that is that it could easily become a push, go away, and he's always liked keeping an arm's length between himself and his partners, but it isn't, here. It's touch, and closeness and Jean Louis all up in his face where Claude wants him. He's asking for feedback, he wants to accommodate and in turn, Claude wants to meet him, too.
He doesn't want to run. There's nothing he could imagine doing less than that.
Groaning as Jean Louis speeds up, hips canting into his hand, pushing his cock in against the snug circle of his fingers, pressing against the feeling of girth and equal parts soft and hard that is his dick, Claude runs one hand back up into Jean Louis' hair, slicking it back in the process, water running off of him like a cascade. The steam is thick and white. Claude thinks about other thick, white things, his cock jerking in Jean Louis' grip and throbbing harshly. He's getting so close.
Pressing his forehead in against the hard curve of skull, he angles his face a little bit, their noses colliding, bumping, finding their place and their lips brush. Claude kisses him lightly, still breathing hard. ]
You feel so tight, I fucking can't with you, Jean Louis. [ A low moan. ] It's so good, so --
[ There's a rhythm building up, meeting his hand halfway, pushing in through his fingers, sliding over the veins and curve of his shaft, the bulge of head. Claude is frowning now, eyes half-closed, chasing it. ]
Use your other hand over the heads, just rub it out.
[ You're doing it right, says Claude, both verbally and physically, thrusting into the circle of his hand and groaning. He gets his nipples again, palms spread out over the both of them and he can feel his cock leaking precum now, his balls incredibly tight. Now, he's definitely feeling all of his own arousal and with Claude against him, panting and grabbing at his hair, it feels like they're once again aligned. Step by step.
He won't get tired of that.
He breathes hard against the other man's lips when they kiss, noses bumping because that's how these things go and the water's getting in his eyes quite thoroughly. It makes the room feel smaller, somehow, the seemingly endless spray of water, Claude's body pressed up against him, like for a moment, there's not even an apartment on the other side of the shower curtain. There's nothing. The thought - the fantasy - makes him feel almost weightless, all aches in his body pushed completely to the background.
When Claude tells him what to do, he does it. Folding his other hand over their cocks, he rubs at them both, the sudden shock of pleasure making his toes curl and his breath catch. He keeps going, feeling Claude's muscles working against his own - legs, upper bodies - and then, suddenly, he's rushing towards it, his climax hitting him so abruptly that he actually moans out loud, knocking his forehead against the wall next to Claude's head none-too-gently. He doesn't stop even as he spends himself all over his hand, his cock pulsing hotly in his grip. Instead, he presses down more firmly along the head of Claude's cock. His voice comes out ragged, his French not as clean as usual, the individual sounds harsher: ]
[ He's amazing, Claude thinks. Jean Louis is so intense, being touched by him reduces everything else, it's like there are only the two of them, the world has ceased to matter, the living room with all the designer stuff and hostess gifs for his mom, the steaming bathroom, even the spray that's getting into his eyes and his nostrils, wetting his every breath, his panting sounding louder somehow. It's all coming together, the other man's hand rubbing over their cock heads, the sensitive places along their shafts. He presses his head back against the wall, tilting his chin back and closing his eyes, groaning loudly as his hips work into the friction, the slide, the tight circle of his fingers. Claude wants to tell him something meaningful, but the only words he really manages are vague fuck, Jean Louis, fucking hell - when the other man comes with a moan, banging his head into the wall in the process and automatically, Claude's hand in his hair slips around to his temple, fingers folding over his forehead, pushing his bangs out of his eyes softly, softly, again, again.
And then, he continues, he picks up even, tightening his hold and tells Claude to come, come on, come on and Claude's answer is a whimper, his thigh muscles tightening and his crotch pulsing from heat when he comes half a moment later, gasping loudly and getting just half a sentence out, starting with the other man's name, then simply - ]
I -
[ A hard moan, and he's spending himself all into Jean Louis' grip, into the quickly washed-away remnants of the other man's climax, feeling the faint throbbing of his cock, the harder throbbing of his own and he's blinking against the faint light from the window, he's staring into a wall of water, mouth open and chest heaving. He keeps stroking the other man's head. Softly, softly.
What was he gonna say? I'm coming? He doesn't normally announce himself. I love you? More like it and much, much more vulnerable. Much, much too soon. Orgasms are never the time.
Opening his eyes, he blinks the water out of them, slumping slightly, trying to gather himself. ]
[ Claude comes moments later, his fingers folded over Jean Louis' forehead, his voice little but a whimper. His name on his tongue and then, something aborted that might be everything and nothing at once. Jean Louis leans his head into his hold, uncertain why he likes it - it's such a seemingly random gesture - but happy all the same. He strokes him slowly through his climax, letting go once he figures the sensitivity's getting too prominent. Then, he steps back slowly into the spray once more, folding one arm around Claude's waist and pulling him along, slow movements, careful, like they're stepping from one layer of reality into another. Once the water hits his back, he reaches for the soap once more, looks at Claude, uncertain as to what he's trying to signal or why - it's warmth, perhaps, and Jean Louis has never been a very warm person so whether or not he's succeeding is up in the air - and soaps up his arms, his neck. He doesn't go for any of his sensitive zones, merely soaps him up to wash him down.
It feels like the thing to do, now.
All throughout, he thinks about Christmas, about celebrating (?) the season with Claude's family and how it's such a surreal turn of events, to go from having no one to... whatever this is, whatever Claude is now, this sweet man with his socialist views and his kindness.
He doesn't know what to make of it. It feels like an uneven trade - after all, he might have the mob and money enough to shop an entire wardrobe for himself in the span of six hours but people tend to figure out the truth sooner or later; that beneath it, there's something else, something a little too small and unsatisfying. Something less. The question, then, is another one of acquisition. What does a man like Claude want and how does one go about getting it for him?
It's of immense importance, he thinks, to figure it out.
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As he makes his way back to Claude's apartment, he passes by a small Christmas market in the Square René-Viviani, the Notre Dame with its cranes and scaffolding a towering backdrop to the trees, strung with fairy lights, and the small stalls lining the square. Intent on simply grabbing a cup of freshly-made coffee to stave off the cold, Jean Louis ends up looking over the goods of one, particular antique vendor, an old man selling off some of his family heirlooms. Rather you, he explains, than some greedy fool hiding behind the counter of a pawn shop. Oh, don't worry, Jean Louis replies back, I'm plenty greedy as it is but all the same, they fall into conversation and after half an hour, he's left with a small trinket for Claude and a shoulder so stiff from the cold and from sitting that all he can really think about when he gets back to Claude's is getting himself out of his clothes (from yesterday, incidentally - disgusting, at this point) and grabbing a shower.
So, he leaves his newly-brought trolley along with six bags of shopping in Claude's living room and ten minutes later, he's in the shower, standing beneath the spray and trying to get the trembling in his muscles to stop. The warmth of the water helps. From experience, he knows that his body will stop complaining soon enough, so long as he doesn't get uptight and tense about it - until then, he simply stands there, head bowed and water rushing down from above. The shower stall isn't as small as one might fear from the size of a typical, Parisian apartment in the Latin Quarters. The tiles are salmon-pink and consequently, the room feels... inviting, in its own right. Warm, like Claude himself.
His own bathroom back in City is at least five times as large. It's black with silver finishes and looks like a place nobody lives.
Eyes falling shut, he forces his shoulders to relax. ]
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He's there. That's the important thing, let's be honest. Let's be very, very honest.
Claude brushes his teeth quickly, then spits in the sink and dries off - about to turn away and return to the living room, continue his work on the outline for the meeting abstract he's preparing for January. But Jean Louis' feet, big feet, well cared for, are visible beneath the hem of the shower curtain, standing wide apart, like he's carrying a great weight and Claude feels something like curiosity and something very much like want, so he doesn't go the other way.
He follows.
Walking over to the shower stall, he leans against the wall slightly and peeks inside, just pushing the shower curtain aside a little bit to stick his face through. He's not going to assume and he's most definitely not going to just invite himself, it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. And it didn't even work back then, did it? He wouldn't say that, no. ]
Do you want company?
[ At the moment, he's dressed in a deliberately ugly Christmas sweater that's blissfully warm and a pair of slacks, not the most sexy outfit in the world, but he isn't planning on wearing it, if he's going inside, after all. Jean Louis doesn't get the benefit of seeing him in drenched knitwear and a red Rudolph nose.
Though, to be fair, the Rudolph nose could see its uses. ]
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Of course.
[ He turns around, standing with his back to the spray and backing up a little in invitation. Claude's dressed in a warm-looking sweater with an odd motive (all Christmas motives are odd, in his opinion - ugly and a little foolish, like someone decided to commercialize harmlessness and for some inexplicable reason, everybody's buying into it). Due to the steam, his curls have already started to look a little bit frizzy near the top and there's something about his eyes, something soft and open. He's lovely.
Rolling his left shoulder absently, he waits for the other man to join him, hopefully sans the ugly sweater. He runs his fingers through his hair, flattening it against his head, the longest strands reaching his shoulders now. The rest is all over his face - the cut is very visibly meant to be styled.
He wonders how Claude's going to look with his curls soaked through. ]
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The spray gets him straight across the head, weighing down his hair, and Claude leans forward and reaches up to readjust the angle, the hardness of the spray, softer, slower, still terribly warm, however. This brings him extremely close to Jean Louis who naturally doesn't budge and neither does he have anywhere else to go in the small stall, so Claude takes the opportunity to lean in and nuzzle his neck with his nose, lips, half-parted, breathing over him hotly. Can't compete with the spray, but he's good. He's good.
Claude kisses him near his ear before straightening up, the spray now getting him somewhere around his collarbone, getting him all blushing and wet. He blinks water out of his eyes. They're standing close, their chests touching, the nicely trimmed hair on Jean Louis' chest tickling a bit. He spreads the fingers of one hand over the shoulder the other man's got issues with, it's not a grip, but softer. A touch. I can tell, it means. It doesn't matter to me any more than it does to you. ]
You know, it was like following the breadcrumbs in the fairy tale, finding you. It was just designer clothes and department store logos instead of bread.
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He's a nice, heavy weight against him. Whether horizontal or vertical, he's quickly deciding that this is his favourite way to be positioned with him; up against, close, feeling the weight of his body. It makes his mind pause, somehow, not stop but slow down. Nicer than nicotine, definitely. Much nicer. When Claude lays his hand against his shoulder, the ache deep within his bones grows duller, his focus caught on the feeling of the other man's palm against his skin, rather than whatever's happening beneath it. He smiles and leans in to nuzzle his neck in turn, that small kiss beneath his ear lingering even in its own absence. ]
Am I the evil witch, then, or the terrible step-mother?
[ Slowly, he runs both hands up Claude's narrow waist, over the small of his back before going down instead. He flattens his palms against his buttocks, kneading them. They're a great balance between firm muscle and soft skin and though he doesn't go as far as to spread them apart, not knowing what Claude actually prefers and doesn't, he does grab them. To show his appreciation.
His cock joins in seconds later, hardening against Claude's inner thigh. His next exhale is slightly jagged as he searches out Claude's shoulder with his lips, mouthing at him wetly and getting water all over his face as a consequence. It's good. It's all very good. As he bends down, his back predictably complains but it feels fainter, somehow, like the smell of the other man, well-known now if not yet familiar, and the feel of his body masks his awareness of his own body. It's odd but appreciated.
Another type of bread-crumbs, one might say. ]
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There's just that, need.
He hums deep in his throat and turns his face into the headfull of hair that's within reach, the strands wet and he's breathing in damp and droplets, but it's good. It smells like Jean Louis. He kisses his temple, the curve of his skull, anything he can reach. His breathing is bordering on a pant, wet, little exhalations, quick-paced and light. He feels slightly light-headed. When he feels Jean Louis hardening, his own cock does the same, like a call.
An invitation. Between them, that's what it is.
Jean Louis' question makes him chuckle and he shakes his head, reaching up with both hands now to press them over Jean Louis' pleasantly hairy pecs, rubbing the ball of his palms over his nipples, feeling the little nub slide over his skin. His fingers tingle, he wants to touch.
Still, he waits a moment. ]
They're probably the same person and undoubtedly liberals in both forms, so I guess the answer either way would be: yes.
[ Then, he slides his hands down and catches both Jean Louis' nipples between his fingers, rubbing a thumb over one and just letting him feel his hold on the other, promising. ]
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He groans when Claude runs his palms over his nipples, a shock of pleasure spreading like warmth across his chest, into his limbs. He's about to half-laugh at his comment - because naturally, to a socialist, all the evil people in stories must be liberals and maybe, from a certain angle, he could be right - when Claude follows up by pressing in with his thumb. His next groan is deeper, his hands tightening against Claude's arse, fingertips digging in briefly before he runs his hands up his back instead, over his shoulderblades.
He's forgotten what he'd been planning on saying with regards to bread-crumbs and witches and evil liberals so he simply mutters, voice low and breathy: ]
You have us figured out, Claude. The moral of the story is -
[ He shifts to the side, reaching for the soap dispenser and managing to get out a decent amount without using the other hand. Score. Turning back, he runs his hand up Claude's back and down his arse, leaving shimmering trails of soap all over his skin. ]
- if you don't eat the children in time, they will definitely be the death of you.
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That's not what he says, though, not in words. He does spread his legs more, finding better footing with his feet further apart, thighs open, their cocks bump, more than half-hard at this point. Claude thinks about rubbing up against him, feeling the underside of his length, the veins and the gentle curve.
What he does say, he says in a hoarse voice, wanting: ]
That's just being a parent. If you're not ready for that, you aren't ready, full stop.
[ Very pointedly, he doesn't think about his text exchange with his mother in the morning, because his mom has no place in this context, but he knows she'd agree and that's good enough.
Hmm'ing again, he follows the curve of Jean Louis' ribcage back to his sides, then to his back, letting his flat, wet palms run up the large expanses of strong muscle and prominent scar tissue. He's seen his scars in daylight now and his first conclusion stands, but it's not something he lingers at - it's Jean Louis' scars, his issues, his story. Claude is ready when he is ready.
He kisses his jawline, his earlobe, the corner of his mouth. ]
I'm ready, though, for you to kiss me.
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The feel of him - inside, outside - makes his own cock jerk impatiently. His shoulder has stopped complaining for now or if not, he doesn't have any attention left for it. Instead, all he feels is heat, the heat of the water, the heat of his own arousal. Claude's body, pressed up against him and the taste of his mouth. Groaning into the kiss, he shifts and reaches between them, folding his hand impulsively around Claude's cock, fully aware that despite the water, his hand doesn't have enough slide. The soap's washed off and he'll have to move away to slick it up again. What an unattractive thought.
He breaks the kiss only to breathe, briefly, seconds at best, before he plunges right back in, fingering Claude's retracted foreskin gently and running his thumb over the bared head, pressing down. Teasing him, really, and himself by proxy. The steam from the water is thick around them, rising towards the ceiling in the small bathroom, obscuring the salmon-pink walls, washing them out.
Slowly, the world narrows down. ]
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They're part of each other. Easier. Less shit to navigate, less complicated politics.
Pushing into Jean Louis' hand, feeling the topmost of his shaft slipping over the ball of the other man's hand, wet from water, but not exactly slick enough - trembling a bit against the rush of pleasure, teasing and edging him on, Claude bites Jean Louis' lower lip and catches it briefly between his own lips to lick over it, soothing the place he hit. His chest is heaving and his arms have ended up slung around the other man's shoulders, both of them, he seems fine now and Claude needs something to lean on, his knees feel a bit weak. It's that good. So good.
Still, not slick enough. No, not enough slick.
So, Claude pulls back from the kiss, glancing down between them where Jean Louis is playing him like a fiddle, releasing his hold on the other man's bad shoulder to reach down and catch Jean Louis' hand where he's touching him, fucking teasing him, waiting for him to release before he lifts his hand, smelling faintly of soap and even more faintly of Claude now, to his mouth and unceremoniously sucks first his index finger, then the one next to it into his mouth, slicking his fingers up. Continued down the length of his digits, to his palm, long wet strokes of his tongue. It tastes of him. Jean Louis tastes like him.
They're merging. ]
A helping hand.
[ He says, drawing back and smiling shakily, breathing uneven, too quick, telling on him. How hot he is for him. Claude leans in again and kisses him, licking into him immediately, deep on the mouth. It's almost aggressive, but only ever almost with him. ]
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It feels like no matter how much the other man takes when he's done and whatever this is comes to an end, he'll feel no less burdened by it in the aftermath. That's a lie, of course, but a beautiful one. He likes it. He indulges.
Claude, meanwhile, leads his hand off his cock and Jean Louis willingly follows his initiative as he's done quite often around him before. Claude is new in that regard, too - usually, his position in the world doesn't really afford him the chance to be diplomatic or to lead and follow in equal measures. That's not what anyone needs from him, at least not anyone else. Claude - Claude is different. Has been different from the get-go. When he licks his fingers, first one, then the other, Jean Louis follows the line of his tongue, the stretch of his lips, his cock jerking again, leaking at the tip. He can't tear his gaze away, not until Claude's done and even then, he takes a second longer to simply stare at his own hand, his fingers glistening and his palm full of the other man's traces.
Consequently, when Claude leans in and kisses him again, pushing into his mouth, getting deep and persistent, he's caught off guard and loses his breath for almost long enough to get lightheaded. He pulls back with a gasp. ]
Fuck, Claude.
[ His voice is rough, smoky. Feeling full of him, his taste heavy and warm on his tongue, Jean Louis shifts forward, backing Claude up against the wall, not violently but all the same, unapologetically. He holds him against himself, the spray catching them both from the side, and folds his hand around Claude's cock. Like that, he leans in again and kisses him, keeping his lips parted and letting the other man take as he pleases while he does the same, stroking him at a steady pace, not teasing anymore but with a clear purpose.
He's breathing hard against his lips, his other hand slipping into Claude's hair, cradling his curls. ]
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He actually whimpers, then, not exactly the kind of sounds he makes normally, but there we go. He can't help himself, running his one hand down Jean Louis' wet back, fingertips digging in, but carefully, still. Not ruining anything, not aiming to, just touching, touching more, deeper. Jean Louis is jerking him off now at a pace, steady, even, working him, getting him there. Claude breaks the kiss to tilt his head back, showing throat and jawline aplenty, breathing heavily and staring upwards mostly unseeingly. His hips are pushing forward on every second or third stroke, wanting into the heat of his hand, the damp slickness, the slide.
It takes him five seconds to decide. Normally he doesn't frot, because it's not 100 percent safe, but it's a lower risk than most other things they could do, and he can live with that. No matter what his mom thinks, Claude knows how to risk assess. He wants to feel Jean Louis' cock on him, against him, he wants them to touch, no rubber, no layers.
That's what he wants and today, want wins out.
So, he looks at Jean Louis, meets his eyes, lips slightly parted and his pupils blown wide, and he reaches up with his free hand, caressing the side of his face briefly, before reaching down between them again, softly closing his own hand around the other man's shaft, holding his cock snugly like that, then stepping closer, all up into him. ]
Can you take one more? You've got a big hand. Nice and big. So good, Jean Louis, make it that way for us both, okay.
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At that soft touch against the side of his face, he just leans into it, adding another source of stimuli to the rest, like water dripping into an open sea. Apparently, however, it's also a bid for his attention because moments later, Claude's fingers close around his cock (oh fuck) and then, he's talking, his French making next to zero sense for a brief moment before he manages to run the sentence back through his admittedly foggy mind. Talk. Words. Right, come on now. ]
What?
[ He draws back a little to look at Claude, frowning. His gaze jumps from Claude's face to his hand, currently wrapped snugly around his cock, the sense of friction faint, still, his focus still well and truly diverted. Can you take... Oh. Oh. He means - frown deepening as he forces himself to actually consider the mechanics of that, he nods absently and reaches sideways, coating his hand in more soap. ]
You'll have to tell me if I'm doing it wrong.
[ He sounds breathless, still, though there's an evenness to his voice as well. He's used to taking directions when necessary. It doesn't bother him. Closing his eyes, he leans in and kisses the side of Claude's face, close to his temple. Then, he folds his hand around the other man's cock again before he picks his own out from Claude's grip and adds it, the girth a stretch but not impossible for him. He's got big hands, yes. Big enough.
As he pushes their cocks together, the underside of his own sliding up against Claude's, his breath catches in his throat and he swallows, shifting a little. At the first stroke, his body catches up to his brain and on the second, he's leaning in against Claude, definitely crowding him against the wall now and giving no cares at all. He can feel him right there, hard and warm against him, and the pleasure is... it's...
He presses his forehead against Claude's and speeds up. ]
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Claude gasps slightly, feeling the way Jean Louis' cock feels, all hard and throbbing, against the underside of his own, the soft curve of their bared heads pressed together and it's intimate, it's close, the slide of the other man's hand only pushing them up against each other in a nice, hard glide. Panting audibly, he's staring into Jean Louis' face now, their foreheads pressed together, and up close he's nothing but strong lines and angular shapes, very masculine, olive-toned skin, nose for days.
When he answers, he wants the other man to know it's not just the frotting, it's an overall assessment as he says, ]
You're doing it right.
[ His voice comes out breathless and a little bit thinner than usually, hands pressing against the other man's chest, curled into fists until he rubs downwards, feeling Jean Louis' nipple once more against the side of his thumb, so he spreads them out, all five fingers, rubbing down over both of them, his nipples hard and responsive, with his palms, wet and warm. Burning up.
The thing about touching him like that is that it could easily become a push, go away, and he's always liked keeping an arm's length between himself and his partners, but it isn't, here. It's touch, and closeness and Jean Louis all up in his face where Claude wants him. He's asking for feedback, he wants to accommodate and in turn, Claude wants to meet him, too.
He doesn't want to run. There's nothing he could imagine doing less than that.
Groaning as Jean Louis speeds up, hips canting into his hand, pushing his cock in against the snug circle of his fingers, pressing against the feeling of girth and equal parts soft and hard that is his dick, Claude runs one hand back up into Jean Louis' hair, slicking it back in the process, water running off of him like a cascade. The steam is thick and white. Claude thinks about other thick, white things, his cock jerking in Jean Louis' grip and throbbing harshly. He's getting so close.
Pressing his forehead in against the hard curve of skull, he angles his face a little bit, their noses colliding, bumping, finding their place and their lips brush. Claude kisses him lightly, still breathing hard. ]
You feel so tight, I fucking can't with you, Jean Louis. [ A low moan. ] It's so good, so --
[ There's a rhythm building up, meeting his hand halfway, pushing in through his fingers, sliding over the veins and curve of his shaft, the bulge of head. Claude is frowning now, eyes half-closed, chasing it. ]
Use your other hand over the heads, just rub it out.
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He won't get tired of that.
He breathes hard against the other man's lips when they kiss, noses bumping because that's how these things go and the water's getting in his eyes quite thoroughly. It makes the room feel smaller, somehow, the seemingly endless spray of water, Claude's body pressed up against him, like for a moment, there's not even an apartment on the other side of the shower curtain. There's nothing. The thought - the fantasy - makes him feel almost weightless, all aches in his body pushed completely to the background.
When Claude tells him what to do, he does it. Folding his other hand over their cocks, he rubs at them both, the sudden shock of pleasure making his toes curl and his breath catch. He keeps going, feeling Claude's muscles working against his own - legs, upper bodies - and then, suddenly, he's rushing towards it, his climax hitting him so abruptly that he actually moans out loud, knocking his forehead against the wall next to Claude's head none-too-gently. He doesn't stop even as he spends himself all over his hand, his cock pulsing hotly in his grip. Instead, he presses down more firmly along the head of Claude's cock. His voice comes out ragged, his French not as clean as usual, the individual sounds harsher: ]
Come on, Claude, come on...
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And then, he continues, he picks up even, tightening his hold and tells Claude to come, come on, come on and Claude's answer is a whimper, his thigh muscles tightening and his crotch pulsing from heat when he comes half a moment later, gasping loudly and getting just half a sentence out, starting with the other man's name, then simply - ]
I -
[ A hard moan, and he's spending himself all into Jean Louis' grip, into the quickly washed-away remnants of the other man's climax, feeling the faint throbbing of his cock, the harder throbbing of his own and he's blinking against the faint light from the window, he's staring into a wall of water, mouth open and chest heaving. He keeps stroking the other man's head. Softly, softly.
What was he gonna say? I'm coming? He doesn't normally announce himself. I love you? More like it and much, much more vulnerable. Much, much too soon. Orgasms are never the time.
Opening his eyes, he blinks the water out of them, slumping slightly, trying to gather himself. ]
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It feels like the thing to do, now.
All throughout, he thinks about Christmas, about celebrating (?) the season with Claude's family and how it's such a surreal turn of events, to go from having no one to... whatever this is, whatever Claude is now, this sweet man with his socialist views and his kindness.
He doesn't know what to make of it. It feels like an uneven trade - after all, he might have the mob and money enough to shop an entire wardrobe for himself in the span of six hours but people tend to figure out the truth sooner or later; that beneath it, there's something else, something a little too small and unsatisfying. Something less. The question, then, is another one of acquisition. What does a man like Claude want and how does one go about getting it for him?
It's of immense importance, he thinks, to figure it out.
He'll do his best. ]