[ To begin with, this park was a zoo and it shows in the layout with its twisty paths and green spaces, many now occupied not by animals but by rollercoasters and other types of attractions. It's all very family friendly and unthreatening and Jean Louis would never have set foot in this place if Claude hadn't invited him. It makes him think of small children, tall enough to ride the trains and young enough to be easily intimidated, hand in hand with their parents, enjoying this place on a weekend outing or for the holidays. He sips his mulled wine and shifts a little closer to Claude as the other man pauses by one of the ice sculptures.
He would not have gone by himself, no, but if anyone had taken him when he was smaller, perhaps he would have liked it. It's hard to say. It's hard to remember being young in that way. ]
It's not exactly freely given, is it.
[ He gives the other man a very slight smile. Vincent had certainly made them dance for him back in City - he'd been quite upset by Jean Louis' secrecy for the entirety of two days which is, admittedly, not that unusual for him. All the same, there'd been very few choices laid in with regards to the pap walk and he'd thought it best to just go with the flow, so to speak. Sometimes, that's just how you work with Vincent. ]
You worked for your share, as people must for the cogs to turn. [ He steps closer to the sculpture without thinking, eyes narrowing as he looks over the details of the princess, her closed eyes, the figure abstract but recognisable. He wouldn't have minded a little bit less abstraction, really, but what does he know. ] But if you want a pap to call your own, I'm sure I can find you a number to call. [ He rolls his eyes. ] Or ten.
[ In the original story of the Sleeping Beauty, the prince sexually assaulted the princess and impregnated her; she only awoke when giving birth to twin boys. Some fairy tales are honestly on the wrong side of gruesome. He turns his head to look at Jean Louis directly, bare fingers gripping the cup of mulled wine hard. Although they're in coats and (very fashionable) outerwear, the temperatures are still sub-zero. But at this point, Claude knows Jean Louis, he knows he might not mind it at all, he might not even feel it. Not until you have to literally defrost him as a result.
Smiling, he shakes his head and turns his attention back on the prince kissing the princess, frowning for a moment in honest thoughtfulness. Did he work for his share? Is it work, arranging things so they're most comfortable and easiest for his partner? Or is it basic consideration, some version of human decency, not that - naturally - Jean Louis, as a proper neo-liberal, knows about that. A sip of his wine and he says, gently, ]
You're not work. You're not a mechanical system. Trust me, I've checked. [ A quirked eyebrow and a slight inclination of his chin, meaning intimately, before he carries on - like the two things are extensions of each other, and maybe they are. Maybe it's the same thing, about not using people for profit. Not being selfish in your relations.
For a neo-liberal, Jean Louis is doing a pretty good job of that, too, honestly. He's here, after all. Where he doesn't need to be. It earns him nothing. Nothing you can assess in money, at least. Claude frees one hand from his cup and reaches down, running his fingertips gingerly along the sleeve of Jean Louis' coat until he reaches the hem, then a naked, chilly wrist, naked, chilly fingers that he interlaces between his own. A slow glide. ] And as long as I've got you at hand, I've got nothing less but Fortesqué's entire team on the other end. No work necessary.
[ He steps away, gaze sliding away from the Sleeping Beauty towards whatever's next in line, pausing at Claude's comment. I've checked, he says, breaching the space between professional and private with a fluidity that seems inherent to their relationship. It's an interesting contrast in this case because most people with Claude's ideological perspectives find Jean Louis and Liberté more than a little inhumane. The notion of personal freedom, of being allowed to keep what you take from the world, of sharing what you want to share rather than whatever the State tells you - it is what it is. Logical. Or awful, of course.
He's fine with either.
Claude takes his hand, his fingers slipping over his wrist, first. Jean Louis has learned to grip him almost in advance - it takes training, like hand-holding with a sweet socialist is a skill-set that you have to put in the efforts to master. He likes that idea. Claude, after all, is precious. Taking the other man's hand, he sips his wine again. ]
Sometimes, a relationship is work.
[ Something Emilia would tell him from time to time, typically when she grew frustrated after a long night in town, clubbing, watching him do the same in turn. It's ridiculous, really, that he hadn't thought about it, about the fact that nearly no one appreciates an open relationship. Emilia, he thinks, indulged him. Claude has forgiven him instead which is somehow even stranger.
He gives the other man's hand a firm squeeze. ]
We won't agree on the definition of work and what it entails. Let's never discuss this whilst in any way intoxicated.
[ Sometimes a relationship is work, Jean Louis says, leading them onwards from non-consensual Sleeping Beauty to the next one in line, a more naturalistic version of Little Red Riding Hood with the wolf twice the size of the little girl. Could be an analogy for many things. The liberal forces in the world, opposite the more humane ideologies. Capitalism and life. The masculine power opposite the feminine. Maybe all three at once. Claude looks the edges of the wolf's coat over, the tips of its fur catching the lights around them, glistening gold.
No, definitely capitalism. And in extension, liberalism. He raises an eyebrow and glances from the wolf to Jean Louis in a very telling way. Is that you, it means. And who am I, then?
The answer is in the name. Little Red Riding Hood.
Their fingers clasped, Jean Louis catching his initiative with the ease Jean Louis catches anything, money, fame, Claude, he drinks his mulled wine and feels the way someone passes by behind them, discussing something in lowered voices, he doesn't try to make it out. Not when Jean Louis is telling him they shouldn't get into the discussion of work while intoxicated. In any way. He has still to see the man get drunk.
Briefly, he wonders whether that might be a good thing. What kind of drunk Jean Louis is. ]
Not all debates are meant to be won, you know, although I know in your position, you win pretty much by existing. [ It's said completely without malice or envy. Claude respects the position the other man has put himself in with the Luxembourgish government, the tip of the balance, constantly. ] Maybe I just really want to see your arguments when you're in some way intoxicated. A little less... rigid.
[ The next sculpture makes him frown, an instant feeling of revulsion forming within him before he consciously makes the connection to the fairy tale in question. He's never liked it. As a child, it used to frighten him - this old hag, living in a forest, eating children - the brother and the sister, alone in the woods, abandoned by their parents because the parents couldn't care for them. Giving the sculpture a cursory look-over, he turns his attention to Claude instead, the icy sense of unease fading quickly. It doesn't matter, after all. It's just a fairy tale. ]
In some way.
[ He doesn't drink, of course. Sadly, he's inherited Erik's temper. He gives Claude's hand another little squeeze, then leans in without thinking and kisses his cheek, a quick peck. He's cold, Claude. They both are but not too much. When he speaks, he keeps his voice low, his breath ghosting over the other man's ear. ]
Fine, we'll give it a shot one day. But if you hope to see my stubbornness culled by drugs, you'll be sadly disappointed.
[ He draws away, though he doesn't let go of Claude's hand. Instead, he simply leads them away from the ugly ice sculpture - the next one, he thinks, is supposed to be a mermaid, her thin arms reaching upwards, towards the sky. She wanted more, didn't she, and went far indeed to get it. The price, in the end, is of course too steep for her, for everyone, realluy, that's the whole idea behind the concept - that's why so few people truly go the distance. But you can if you want to. If you really, really, want to.
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He would not have gone by himself, no, but if anyone had taken him when he was smaller, perhaps he would have liked it. It's hard to say. It's hard to remember being young in that way. ]
It's not exactly freely given, is it.
[ He gives the other man a very slight smile. Vincent had certainly made them dance for him back in City - he'd been quite upset by Jean Louis' secrecy for the entirety of two days which is, admittedly, not that unusual for him. All the same, there'd been very few choices laid in with regards to the pap walk and he'd thought it best to just go with the flow, so to speak. Sometimes, that's just how you work with Vincent. ]
You worked for your share, as people must for the cogs to turn. [ He steps closer to the sculpture without thinking, eyes narrowing as he looks over the details of the princess, her closed eyes, the figure abstract but recognisable. He wouldn't have minded a little bit less abstraction, really, but what does he know. ] But if you want a pap to call your own, I'm sure I can find you a number to call. [ He rolls his eyes. ] Or ten.
no subject
Smiling, he shakes his head and turns his attention back on the prince kissing the princess, frowning for a moment in honest thoughtfulness. Did he work for his share? Is it work, arranging things so they're most comfortable and easiest for his partner? Or is it basic consideration, some version of human decency, not that - naturally - Jean Louis, as a proper neo-liberal, knows about that. A sip of his wine and he says, gently, ]
You're not work. You're not a mechanical system. Trust me, I've checked. [ A quirked eyebrow and a slight inclination of his chin, meaning intimately, before he carries on - like the two things are extensions of each other, and maybe they are. Maybe it's the same thing, about not using people for profit. Not being selfish in your relations.
For a neo-liberal, Jean Louis is doing a pretty good job of that, too, honestly. He's here, after all. Where he doesn't need to be. It earns him nothing. Nothing you can assess in money, at least. Claude frees one hand from his cup and reaches down, running his fingertips gingerly along the sleeve of Jean Louis' coat until he reaches the hem, then a naked, chilly wrist, naked, chilly fingers that he interlaces between his own. A slow glide. ] And as long as I've got you at hand, I've got nothing less but Fortesqué's entire team on the other end. No work necessary.
no subject
He's fine with either.
Claude takes his hand, his fingers slipping over his wrist, first. Jean Louis has learned to grip him almost in advance - it takes training, like hand-holding with a sweet socialist is a skill-set that you have to put in the efforts to master. He likes that idea. Claude, after all, is precious. Taking the other man's hand, he sips his wine again. ]
Sometimes, a relationship is work.
[ Something Emilia would tell him from time to time, typically when she grew frustrated after a long night in town, clubbing, watching him do the same in turn. It's ridiculous, really, that he hadn't thought about it, about the fact that nearly no one appreciates an open relationship. Emilia, he thinks, indulged him. Claude has forgiven him instead which is somehow even stranger.
He gives the other man's hand a firm squeeze. ]
We won't agree on the definition of work and what it entails. Let's never discuss this whilst in any way intoxicated.
no subject
No, definitely capitalism. And in extension, liberalism. He raises an eyebrow and glances from the wolf to Jean Louis in a very telling way. Is that you, it means. And who am I, then?
The answer is in the name. Little Red Riding Hood.
Their fingers clasped, Jean Louis catching his initiative with the ease Jean Louis catches anything, money, fame, Claude, he drinks his mulled wine and feels the way someone passes by behind them, discussing something in lowered voices, he doesn't try to make it out. Not when Jean Louis is telling him they shouldn't get into the discussion of work while intoxicated. In any way. He has still to see the man get drunk.
Briefly, he wonders whether that might be a good thing. What kind of drunk Jean Louis is. ]
Not all debates are meant to be won, you know, although I know in your position, you win pretty much by existing. [ It's said completely without malice or envy. Claude respects the position the other man has put himself in with the Luxembourgish government, the tip of the balance, constantly. ] Maybe I just really want to see your arguments when you're in some way intoxicated. A little less... rigid.
[ He grins and looks back at the display. ]
no subject
In some way.
[ He doesn't drink, of course. Sadly, he's inherited Erik's temper. He gives Claude's hand another little squeeze, then leans in without thinking and kisses his cheek, a quick peck. He's cold, Claude. They both are but not too much. When he speaks, he keeps his voice low, his breath ghosting over the other man's ear. ]
Fine, we'll give it a shot one day. But if you hope to see my stubbornness culled by drugs, you'll be sadly disappointed.
[ He draws away, though he doesn't let go of Claude's hand. Instead, he simply leads them away from the ugly ice sculpture - the next one, he thinks, is supposed to be a mermaid, her thin arms reaching upwards, towards the sky. She wanted more, didn't she, and went far indeed to get it. The price, in the end, is of course too steep for her, for everyone, realluy, that's the whole idea behind the concept - that's why so few people truly go the distance. But you can if you want to. If you really, really, want to.
Yes, he likes that story a lot more. ]