[ Normally, Claude would be busy asking Jean Louis questions about the café where he's chosen that they're going to meet Potos. Stéphane, as Jean Louis calls him, same way Claude calls his head of party, Agnès. Same, and yet not the same. He hasn't slept with Agnès. Agnès didn't become his legal guardian when he was an adolescent. That weird intersection of possible authority positions you can have in a person's life. His boss, on top of that.
Yes, normally they'd be chatting about the place, Claude would make note of it, slowly adding to the internal map he's creating in his mind over City, visiting Luxembourg as often as he does these days. That bookstore over there has a good French section. This building is part of that and that department. Jean Louis sits up there. Things like that. Today, Saturday, they're sitting at this café Claude hasn't used before, quietly, waiting, because Stéphane Potos is slightly delayed.
Jean Louis didn't give him long to carve out his calendar, after all.
Claude doesn't know how to feel about that, though this morning he felt like he definitely needed to don his best suit, best shoes, fix his hair. But now, he doesn't know how to feel about this, meeting a mix of Jean Louis' ex and his own father-in-law. It's a strange mix, as Jean Louis said, a weird, unorganized intersection with no traffic lights and no police.
[ Claude's dressed up for the occasion and he matches their surroundings very nicely in his high-quality suit and shoes. Jean Louis, too, has made an effort though not too much, as his closet ranges from casual to visiting royalty - he's matched Claude and made it business but sophisticated, blacks and whites, hints of silver threading. The café is one of Stéphane's favourites, a small concession on Jean Louis' part; the man did have to actually re-arrange most of his calendar for the day, the Head of State. It's no joke.
But a great way to keep his fifty million assistants occupied, supposedly.
Next to him, Claude is conspicuously silent; usually, when they visit some place new, he'll be curious, asking questions and sharing his own reflections about what he's hearing, seeing, thinking. It's a characteristic that Jean Louis rather likes about him. It's frustrating, knowing that this situation - his relationship with Stéphane and all its odd intricacies - is currently choking it down.
This situation that he's chosen for them both.
Jaw clenching in irritation, Jean Louis reaches for Claude's hand and gives it a slight squeeze before leaning back in his seat. They've kept a chair free opposite the table and the waitress is preparing their orders - Jean Louis knows what Stéphane takes and if he doesn't take it today for some inexplicable reason, he can either drink what he doesn't want or order something else when he gets here. Not like the man doesn't have what it takes to pay for his own coffee. ]
[ To be very truthful, he'd left his department head more than a little flustered by his sudden change of plans this Saturday. Though Stéphane has scheduled her for later in the evening, he's well aware that she's timed many things around their initial arrangements. These things - other meetings, calls - must now be postponed in the wake of Stéphane's postponement and like that, the whole system slows down in a way that shouldn't strictly speaking be encouraged; they run the country, not a candy store.
But this is the time he was offered and Jean Louis never offers anything twice. Either you take it or you lose it - it's a simple and terrifyingly efficient strategy. The choice of café, of course, is appreciated. He recognises the olive branch for what it is and that, too, is something one rarely gets from the man.
So, Stéphane enters the café, greeting one of the waitresses - Carla, isn't it, Italian girl, beautiful smile - before looking around for them. There. Yes. By the small table! He smiles and makes his way over, holding out his hand to greet Bérubé first, though he catches Jean Louis' gaze as he stretches out his arm, the other man giving him a slight nod because he's got to be first in everything, of course, what else would you expect? ]
Hello, Monsieur Bérubé. It's nice to meet you. I've been begging for an audience for months - [ A quick sideways glance at Jean Louis, eyebrows raised - the man just stares back blankly which is about as lewd as he ever gets. ] - very rude, I'm sad to admit. I was simply so curious to see this match with my own eyes.
[ There's a moment before Stéphane arrives that is just theirs. Jean Louis leans aside enough to squeeze Claude's hand in his lap and Claude quickly and quietly turns his hand over, palm to palm, running his fingertips over Jean Louis' before he can withdraw. That moment there, it's theirs. Nothing and no one can take that away from them.
He reminds himself of that, countless of times.
Then, Luxembourg's Head of State, Stéphane Potos, appears at the entrance of the café, obviously intimately familiar with the workings, the workers working there, crossing over to their table without looking for the right way, fumbling or stumbling in any way. He's well-acquainted, evidently. He looks at Jean Louis first, like a visual handshake, before he holds his hand out to Claude, serving him what might sound like bromides, but they could as well be completely genuine.
He's a politician, like they all are, he knows how to make it sound good either way.
Well, so does Claude. He smiles, gets out of his seat halfway to extend his hand, taking the older man's offer for what it is. An offer. ]
Monsieur Potos. My pleasure. [ Manners. Politeness. Niceties. And yet - a look sideways at Jean Louis, sending him a smile that's truer than the one sent Potos' way a moment later: ] I'm sure we're not that strange a combination. [ His pause says: Jean Louis has consorted with socialists before, hasn't he? Wouldn't you know? While Claude says, more softly, less bite: ]
[ Claude runs his fingers over his hand briefly and the touch stays with him, even as he withdraws, watching Stéphane's outline as the man makes his way across the street from outside. He enters the café, looking like he owns the place (which, possibly he does, at least a seizable share in it, his part masked in half a dozen paper trails) before heading for their table. He greets Jean Louis first, though not in words - Claude, of course, gets the usual treatment though it's obvious that Stéphane has already decided that he wants to like him. It shouldn't matter either way, of course, but there's an irritating part of him that keeps insisting that it does.
Would anyone else care if their ex liked their new partner?
He thinks about their last text exchange, him and Claude. They haven't discussed his relationship with Stéphane past that which is fine - it's a confusing talk, full of invisible pitfalls. Claude's own story. The things they don't know about each other. For some reason, he's held back on telling Claude exactly when his relationship with Stéphane began; it's one of his most golden pieces of blackmail regarding the other man and he's used to thinking about it in those terms - as a winning card, something that'll always keep him one step ahead in the game.
Yet for some reason, he doesn't want to tell him.
Claude greets Stéphane with natural politeness, though he manages to sneak in a pointed implication after only four words exchanged, which is quite impressive. He's got the temper of a Frenchman, Claude. So does Stéphane, incidentally, but the other man simply smiles, one slim eyebrow curving upwards with amusement. Jean Louis glances at Claude sideways and shifts a fraction, enough for their thighs to press together. ]
Don't ask him those kinds of questions. He loves them - whether he tells you a truth or a lie, the answer's the same.
[ There's a biting quality to his voice that he hadn't intended and he manages to quench it midway through. It's not necessary. ]
[ Jean Louis is in a temper today, evidently. Much more obviously so than his boyfriend, though Stéphane thinks he's getting a vibe from him, too. Some implications, brandished like swords in the invisible spaces between them. He knows a battlefield when he sees it, of course, at least this kind. He'll be the first to concede that actual war is a horror he gladly leaves to other people.
But in politics and often, yes, in simple conversation - there, the drums of war are as recognisable to him as his ringtone or the sounds of his own footfalls as they echo down the hallway to his office in the Ministry. It doesn't have to be a scream, after all - sometimes, like now, it's barely enough to even notice and that's fine, it means they're testing the waters. He looks at the two of them, young and foolish as they are, and smiles. Holds out both hands in surrender. ]
To ask my opinion or to judge me. You're both a little quick on the draw, aren't you?
[ Carla brings them a tray with their orders. He isn't actually, truly in the mood for the latté they've ordered him but he'll have it, just the same. He sips his cup briefly and licks the milk off his lips before he adds: ]
It's good to see. [ Gesturing between them quickly, one finger, no pointing. ] Sameness. The public currently assumes that you must be fighting privately like dog and cat. I'm thinking not, however. You're not at all that different.
[ Jean Louis presses their thighs together, like a rider reining in his horse, relax, fall back, you're safe, I've got you and Claude feels his shoulders come down somewhat, not the entire way, but some. Enough. Taking a deep breath, he takes his order of one café au lait when it arrives, putting the cup down in front of himself, watching Jean Louis accept his coffee the same way.
You're not at all that different, Potos says. Claude turns his head to catch Jean Louis' gaze for a moment, smiling, just slightly. Then, he shakes his head and picks up his cup, not drinking from it until he's said: ]
Stubborn idealists who insist on their extreme beliefs in the face of a world that argues in favour of mediocrity and comfort, you mean? Yes, I think you're right. We're pretty alike in that.
[ If Potos can speak a lie and a truth in the same sentence, like Jean Louis just said, this is Claude's way of cementing what's true about them, here, now. This is how he knows them to be, Jean Louis and himself, that is how they work - Potos can't make a falsity or even a plain nicety out of something they themselves know to be absolutely right. In every way.
It's more than that. They're more than that.
Leaning back slightly in his seat, finally drinking from his café au lait, Claude watches the Luxembourgish Head of State over the rim of his cup. He's young, for someone in this position, Claude has done his research, most Luxembougish ministers are closer to 50, if not well on the other side of it, before they're elected into office. And here he is, with the youngest minister Luxembourg ever saw and the youngest Head of State, too.
He knows, people who're alike can raise each other up. People with the same views, the same experiences. People who share something and since, Claude's research says, they don't share either views or experiences, Jean Louis and Potos, it's clear they share something else.
[ A little quick on the draw, says Stéphane which is, for all intents and purposes, an insult so this coffee meeting is progressing quite predictably. Jean Louis gives him an irritated look, knowing full well that with Claude coming in swinging, the man's hardly going to just lie down and take it - sometimes, though, it's just blatantly, pitifully obvious how little the man truly cares about controlling his surroundings or his conversations. Stéphane thinks he cares, oh yes. But in reality, he's fortunate to have been so fucking well-connected since birth; much of the dirty, boring roadwork had been done before he'd even made it out into the world.
At Claude's reply, Stéphane just nods like they're having a pleasant little conversation about the weather and sips his coffee, shooting Jean Louis another glance over the rim of his cup. I'm paying attention, it means, though as to what the man's actually noticing is, as always, hard to say. He's never met a man with such little transparency. ]
Claude knows what he wants from the world.
[ Jean Louis leans back a little in his seat, his gaze slipping sideways towards Claude briefly before going back to Stéphane, darkening as it moves. ]
We're a very homogenous table in that regard, aren't we? Takes one to know one.
[ Though often going about it with a clumsiness born from his own privilege, no one can accuse Stéphane Potos of being goalless or inefficient about his own ambitions. He's the youngest Head of State the country's ever had. In these matters, elegance is a bonus, not a necessity. In effect, if you know who to step on and how to reach out a hand at the opportune moment, you have what you need if maybe not what anybody else needs. Stéphane lives alone for a reason. He's extremely, unfailingly selfish. It's one of those things you either learn to appreciate for its usefulness or you grow to resent him instead. ]
[ Stéphane shrugs and leans back as well, mirroring Jean Louis' movements very consciously, though he's aware that the man might not even notice in his current... state, whatever that is. Clearly in a suspicious mood, at least, and that happens from time to time, not always directly related to the situation at hand. He'll assume the best. If he's wrong, he either finds out when it matters or it dissipates into obscurity like so many other tiny problems in the world. Either way. ]
Indeed, we politicians are stubborn animals. [ He turns his attention back to Bérubé and adds, maybe a little shyly: ] I'd be very disappointed if you were a pushover. Disappointed and shocked to the core.
[ Though the younger man hasn't made it as far in politics as some others would at his age, his image is already astoundingly well-established; he's a man of morals, modern morals at that, a feminist, someone who speaks up for those who are often overlooked because overlooking certain groups of people gives you an advantage in this game, an advantage that others - such as Jean Louis, of course - have no qualms about using. In that sense, he is different and that's what people remember, of course. It works. Even if it doesn't necessarily make you neither rich nor popular. ]
It must take a special temperament, for a socialist to live in the same house as Marie Camille.
[ Spoken with very obvious, audible fondness. She's a great politician, a woman of talent. The fact that she's a moderate and consequently, chronically unimportant in the grand scheme of things, is just a plus in her favour. He likes those people a lot. Without them, the fight would be much harder. ]
[ Inevitably, the conversation returns to the only foreign element at the table, that is, Claude. Frowning a bit and looking sideways at Jean Louis who looks defensive and uncomfortable, in a way Claude has never seen him before, he takes his time answering, thinking first Jean Louis' words over, then Potos'.
Claude knows what he wants from the world.
Then, it must take a special temperament, for a socialist to live in the same house as Marie-Camille.
Why are they talking about him? Claude's fine, a bit out of his element, but fine, Jean Louis is the one who is evidently not at ease with how they're here, sitting opposite each other, presenting Claude to Potos like some pedigree dog. It must have a special temperament, indeed. His frown deepens and he leans sideways, into Jean Louis' space slightly, not exactly penetrating, just skirting, touching. Reaching out, he runs his fingers over the inside of his wrist, over his palm, interlacing their fingers gently. Squeeze.
Only then, does he give Potos his attention, the frown only halfway washed off, though a smile is softening it somewhat. It's not apologetic, it's deflecting. He holds the other man's attention without releasing Jean Louis' hand, though he's feeling for his every move to make sure he actually wants Claude to hold it. If he gives any indication that he doesn't, Claude will let go. It's that simple.
He looks at Potos. Yeah, it's that simple. ]
I wasn't as politically outspoken when I was a teenager. I couldn't live with her now, I think, but there are plenty of reasons for that. Politics is only one of them.
[ A pause. Genuinely thoughtful, ]
If politics is the only thing keeping you together or the only thing keeping you apart, maybe it's time to re-evaluate some things in that relationship.
[ He realises only when Claude actually takes his hand that he's tense all over. It's not fear - really, if he's ever frightened of Stéphane, he hopes he's got the fortitude to shoot his own brains out before he can reach a lower point in existence - but it's something and he can't pinpoint what it means. Stéphane is acting much like he always has - he's a man of power and he isn't, simultaneously, and like that he seems to embody contradictions to the point where you can't tell one apart from the other. It's always been... confusing but never particularly bothersome.
Aside from a few times, of course.
He lets Claude take his hand, sweet Claude with his kindness and his warmth, and that warmth even translates into his system a little now, his shoulders lowering a fraction. Fine. There's nothing very unusual about this, it's not even unusual for him to want to shut Stéphane up with his fist; for some reason, his mind flashes backwards to Emilia, to the front pages outing her to the world, him as well, grimy, long-distance pap shots and headlines that made her a lot smaller than she was, reducing her to nearly nothing. It had been a vile thing to do. Vile and unsophisticated but efficient, flawlessly so. Beneath his rage, he'd been impressed.
He tenses up. Relaxes again. Stéphane is replying to Claude and he isn't quite hearing it, stuck in that odd between that happens sometimes. He gives Claude's hand a small squeeze, instead, and follows the other man with his eyes, nodding along appropriately completely out of habit. Happily, Stéphane is preoccupied with Claude, the way he becomes sometimes - preoccupied with others, with things he wants, people, bodies, power. Jean Louis watches him and wonders with an odd sense of detachment what exactly he's looking at. ]
[ Stéphane smiles at Claude's reflections. It really is a coherent whole, isn't it, the man, the politics, the morals, the ethics. The tendency to go for an idealistic world, one that neither of them lives in. It's adorable in its own right. Jean Louis has found someone very, very harmless, not unlike his last girlfriend - boyfriend - whatever that was - and at some point, no doubt this relationship will go the same way. Sacrificed for the sake of the man's goals, his drive for power. It's actually a bit sad to think about. Perhaps, if things go differently, there'll be something in it for all of them at length - he'll have to mull that over, preferably when he's alone and not being stared into an early grave by his former charge.
Oh, but are they holding hands?!
Dearest God, yes, he'll have to encourage this. Anything else would be a crime against all that's good and proper - or, at least, it would be more of the same, of Jean Louis losing something that's probably good for him and gaining yet another reason to be angry and resentful. It's not that Stéphane doesn't like him like that, au contraire. Oh no, that's when systems burn, after all, and the old crumbles for the new. It's a spectacle. He more than likes it.
But all things have a time and a place. ]
Wise words, friend. For some of us - [ A meaningful glance in Jean Louis' direction, you listen here, now, whether you like it or not, and a loose gesture with his hand. ] - it may have gone a bit overboard, even. I certainly don't have a life outside of politics. If there's not much else to share, then that's how you end up connecting with everything and everyone.
[ He sips his coffee again. It's growing on him, honestly. Maybe he'll go for another, his diet be damned. ]
Luckily, there are other parts to play in this giant machine we call politics. I'm glad you're aware of that, Monsieur Bérubé - it's what the future's made of.
[ Not for him, obviously - but for other people. People like Bérubé, maybe even like Jean Louis. Yes, that could be something worth seeing. ]
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Yes, normally they'd be chatting about the place, Claude would make note of it, slowly adding to the internal map he's creating in his mind over City, visiting Luxembourg as often as he does these days. That bookstore over there has a good French section. This building is part of that and that department. Jean Louis sits up there. Things like that. Today, Saturday, they're sitting at this café Claude hasn't used before, quietly, waiting, because Stéphane Potos is slightly delayed.
Jean Louis didn't give him long to carve out his calendar, after all.
Claude doesn't know how to feel about that, though this morning he felt like he definitely needed to don his best suit, best shoes, fix his hair. But now, he doesn't know how to feel about this, meeting a mix of Jean Louis' ex and his own father-in-law. It's a strange mix, as Jean Louis said, a weird, unorganized intersection with no traffic lights and no police.
So, he'll have to advance cautiously. ]
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But a great way to keep his fifty million assistants occupied, supposedly.
Next to him, Claude is conspicuously silent; usually, when they visit some place new, he'll be curious, asking questions and sharing his own reflections about what he's hearing, seeing, thinking. It's a characteristic that Jean Louis rather likes about him. It's frustrating, knowing that this situation - his relationship with Stéphane and all its odd intricacies - is currently choking it down.
This situation that he's chosen for them both.
Jaw clenching in irritation, Jean Louis reaches for Claude's hand and gives it a slight squeeze before leaning back in his seat. They've kept a chair free opposite the table and the waitress is preparing their orders - Jean Louis knows what Stéphane takes and if he doesn't take it today for some inexplicable reason, he can either drink what he doesn't want or order something else when he gets here. Not like the man doesn't have what it takes to pay for his own coffee. ]
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But this is the time he was offered and Jean Louis never offers anything twice. Either you take it or you lose it - it's a simple and terrifyingly efficient strategy. The choice of café, of course, is appreciated. He recognises the olive branch for what it is and that, too, is something one rarely gets from the man.
So, Stéphane enters the café, greeting one of the waitresses - Carla, isn't it, Italian girl, beautiful smile - before looking around for them. There. Yes. By the small table! He smiles and makes his way over, holding out his hand to greet Bérubé first, though he catches Jean Louis' gaze as he stretches out his arm, the other man giving him a slight nod because he's got to be first in everything, of course, what else would you expect? ]
Hello, Monsieur Bérubé. It's nice to meet you. I've been begging for an audience for months - [ A quick sideways glance at Jean Louis, eyebrows raised - the man just stares back blankly which is about as lewd as he ever gets. ] - very rude, I'm sad to admit. I was simply so curious to see this match with my own eyes.
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He reminds himself of that, countless of times.
Then, Luxembourg's Head of State, Stéphane Potos, appears at the entrance of the café, obviously intimately familiar with the workings, the workers working there, crossing over to their table without looking for the right way, fumbling or stumbling in any way. He's well-acquainted, evidently. He looks at Jean Louis first, like a visual handshake, before he holds his hand out to Claude, serving him what might sound like bromides, but they could as well be completely genuine.
He's a politician, like they all are, he knows how to make it sound good either way.
Well, so does Claude. He smiles, gets out of his seat halfway to extend his hand, taking the older man's offer for what it is. An offer. ]
Monsieur Potos. My pleasure. [ Manners. Politeness. Niceties. And yet - a look sideways at Jean Louis, sending him a smile that's truer than the one sent Potos' way a moment later: ] I'm sure we're not that strange a combination. [ His pause says: Jean Louis has consorted with socialists before, hasn't he? Wouldn't you know? While Claude says, more softly, less bite: ]
Was it worth the wait?
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Would anyone else care if their ex liked their new partner?
He thinks about their last text exchange, him and Claude. They haven't discussed his relationship with Stéphane past that which is fine - it's a confusing talk, full of invisible pitfalls. Claude's own story. The things they don't know about each other. For some reason, he's held back on telling Claude exactly when his relationship with Stéphane began; it's one of his most golden pieces of blackmail regarding the other man and he's used to thinking about it in those terms - as a winning card, something that'll always keep him one step ahead in the game.
Yet for some reason, he doesn't want to tell him.
Claude greets Stéphane with natural politeness, though he manages to sneak in a pointed implication after only four words exchanged, which is quite impressive. He's got the temper of a Frenchman, Claude. So does Stéphane, incidentally, but the other man simply smiles, one slim eyebrow curving upwards with amusement. Jean Louis glances at Claude sideways and shifts a fraction, enough for their thighs to press together. ]
Don't ask him those kinds of questions. He loves them - whether he tells you a truth or a lie, the answer's the same.
[ There's a biting quality to his voice that he hadn't intended and he manages to quench it midway through. It's not necessary. ]
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But in politics and often, yes, in simple conversation - there, the drums of war are as recognisable to him as his ringtone or the sounds of his own footfalls as they echo down the hallway to his office in the Ministry. It doesn't have to be a scream, after all - sometimes, like now, it's barely enough to even notice and that's fine, it means they're testing the waters. He looks at the two of them, young and foolish as they are, and smiles. Holds out both hands in surrender. ]
To ask my opinion or to judge me. You're both a little quick on the draw, aren't you?
[ Carla brings them a tray with their orders. He isn't actually, truly in the mood for the latté they've ordered him but he'll have it, just the same. He sips his cup briefly and licks the milk off his lips before he adds: ]
It's good to see. [ Gesturing between them quickly, one finger, no pointing. ] Sameness. The public currently assumes that you must be fighting privately like dog and cat. I'm thinking not, however. You're not at all that different.
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You're not at all that different, Potos says. Claude turns his head to catch Jean Louis' gaze for a moment, smiling, just slightly. Then, he shakes his head and picks up his cup, not drinking from it until he's said: ]
Stubborn idealists who insist on their extreme beliefs in the face of a world that argues in favour of mediocrity and comfort, you mean? Yes, I think you're right. We're pretty alike in that.
[ If Potos can speak a lie and a truth in the same sentence, like Jean Louis just said, this is Claude's way of cementing what's true about them, here, now. This is how he knows them to be, Jean Louis and himself, that is how they work - Potos can't make a falsity or even a plain nicety out of something they themselves know to be absolutely right. In every way.
It's more than that. They're more than that.
Leaning back slightly in his seat, finally drinking from his café au lait, Claude watches the Luxembourgish Head of State over the rim of his cup. He's young, for someone in this position, Claude has done his research, most Luxembougish ministers are closer to 50, if not well on the other side of it, before they're elected into office. And here he is, with the youngest minister Luxembourg ever saw and the youngest Head of State, too.
He knows, people who're alike can raise each other up. People with the same views, the same experiences. People who share something and since, Claude's research says, they don't share either views or experiences, Jean Louis and Potos, it's clear they share something else.
That's the thing. ]
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At Claude's reply, Stéphane just nods like they're having a pleasant little conversation about the weather and sips his coffee, shooting Jean Louis another glance over the rim of his cup. I'm paying attention, it means, though as to what the man's actually noticing is, as always, hard to say. He's never met a man with such little transparency. ]
Claude knows what he wants from the world.
[ Jean Louis leans back a little in his seat, his gaze slipping sideways towards Claude briefly before going back to Stéphane, darkening as it moves. ]
We're a very homogenous table in that regard, aren't we? Takes one to know one.
[ Though often going about it with a clumsiness born from his own privilege, no one can accuse Stéphane Potos of being goalless or inefficient about his own ambitions. He's the youngest Head of State the country's ever had. In these matters, elegance is a bonus, not a necessity. In effect, if you know who to step on and how to reach out a hand at the opportune moment, you have what you need if maybe not what anybody else needs. Stéphane lives alone for a reason. He's extremely, unfailingly selfish. It's one of those things you either learn to appreciate for its usefulness or you grow to resent him instead. ]
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Indeed, we politicians are stubborn animals. [ He turns his attention back to Bérubé and adds, maybe a little shyly: ] I'd be very disappointed if you were a pushover. Disappointed and shocked to the core.
[ Though the younger man hasn't made it as far in politics as some others would at his age, his image is already astoundingly well-established; he's a man of morals, modern morals at that, a feminist, someone who speaks up for those who are often overlooked because overlooking certain groups of people gives you an advantage in this game, an advantage that others - such as Jean Louis, of course - have no qualms about using. In that sense, he is different and that's what people remember, of course. It works. Even if it doesn't necessarily make you neither rich nor popular. ]
It must take a special temperament, for a socialist to live in the same house as Marie Camille.
[ Spoken with very obvious, audible fondness. She's a great politician, a woman of talent. The fact that she's a moderate and consequently, chronically unimportant in the grand scheme of things, is just a plus in her favour. He likes those people a lot. Without them, the fight would be much harder. ]
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Claude knows what he wants from the world.
Then, it must take a special temperament, for a socialist to live in the same house as Marie-Camille.
Why are they talking about him? Claude's fine, a bit out of his element, but fine, Jean Louis is the one who is evidently not at ease with how they're here, sitting opposite each other, presenting Claude to Potos like some pedigree dog. It must have a special temperament, indeed. His frown deepens and he leans sideways, into Jean Louis' space slightly, not exactly penetrating, just skirting, touching. Reaching out, he runs his fingers over the inside of his wrist, over his palm, interlacing their fingers gently. Squeeze.
Only then, does he give Potos his attention, the frown only halfway washed off, though a smile is softening it somewhat. It's not apologetic, it's deflecting. He holds the other man's attention without releasing Jean Louis' hand, though he's feeling for his every move to make sure he actually wants Claude to hold it. If he gives any indication that he doesn't, Claude will let go. It's that simple.
He looks at Potos. Yeah, it's that simple. ]
I wasn't as politically outspoken when I was a teenager. I couldn't live with her now, I think, but there are plenty of reasons for that. Politics is only one of them.
[ A pause. Genuinely thoughtful, ]
If politics is the only thing keeping you together or the only thing keeping you apart, maybe it's time to re-evaluate some things in that relationship.
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Aside from a few times, of course.
He lets Claude take his hand, sweet Claude with his kindness and his warmth, and that warmth even translates into his system a little now, his shoulders lowering a fraction. Fine. There's nothing very unusual about this, it's not even unusual for him to want to shut Stéphane up with his fist; for some reason, his mind flashes backwards to Emilia, to the front pages outing her to the world, him as well, grimy, long-distance pap shots and headlines that made her a lot smaller than she was, reducing her to nearly nothing. It had been a vile thing to do. Vile and unsophisticated but efficient, flawlessly so. Beneath his rage, he'd been impressed.
He tenses up. Relaxes again. Stéphane is replying to Claude and he isn't quite hearing it, stuck in that odd between that happens sometimes. He gives Claude's hand a small squeeze, instead, and follows the other man with his eyes, nodding along appropriately completely out of habit. Happily, Stéphane is preoccupied with Claude, the way he becomes sometimes - preoccupied with others, with things he wants, people, bodies, power. Jean Louis watches him and wonders with an odd sense of detachment what exactly he's looking at. ]
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Oh, but are they holding hands?!
Dearest God, yes, he'll have to encourage this. Anything else would be a crime against all that's good and proper - or, at least, it would be more of the same, of Jean Louis losing something that's probably good for him and gaining yet another reason to be angry and resentful. It's not that Stéphane doesn't like him like that, au contraire. Oh no, that's when systems burn, after all, and the old crumbles for the new. It's a spectacle. He more than likes it.
But all things have a time and a place. ]
Wise words, friend. For some of us - [ A meaningful glance in Jean Louis' direction, you listen here, now, whether you like it or not, and a loose gesture with his hand. ] - it may have gone a bit overboard, even. I certainly don't have a life outside of politics. If there's not much else to share, then that's how you end up connecting with everything and everyone.
[ He sips his coffee again. It's growing on him, honestly. Maybe he'll go for another, his diet be damned. ]
Luckily, there are other parts to play in this giant machine we call politics. I'm glad you're aware of that, Monsieur Bérubé - it's what the future's made of.
[ Not for him, obviously - but for other people. People like Bérubé, maybe even like Jean Louis. Yes, that could be something worth seeing. ]