[ Claude's got a firm handshake along with an interesting sense of humor. French, he thinks. Quite French. Jean Louis chuckles and sits back, allowing the man his hand back if not his solitude. ]
Then, I'd best make it a memorable one, don't you think?
[ He grabs his fork and picks out something that looks like a leaf. Because it is one, evidently, and really, he'll have to go back to the dojo with more frequency instead of gnawing away at this stuff. It's neither here nor there. In any case, he looks whatever's on his fork over, one eyebrow quirked critically, before he catches the other man's eyes once more. Deep, brown. Warm.
Hopefully not too sensible. ]
Straight to the point, Monsieur Bérubé. What are the chances, in your opinion, of a French consent law becoming a reality within the next five years?
[ When he'd first heard of consent laws, he'd been astounded. Are people truly - do they actually care enough to push such banalities at their legislators? The answer in hindsight is of course, obviously. The people do as the people do. What they want is what they live, which is not necessarily logical or profitable, more's the pity.
And some time in the near future, he's going to want the people to want him. ]
[ Straight to the point, Monsieur Girard says, catching a piece of frisée salad on his fork as he talks, asking Claude about -- Oh. Ah, that's where we're at. Claude's smile widens slightly, though still somewhat guarded, and he goes back to his own small piece of quiche, because it looked delicious, but it tastes not quite right. Nothing wrong with it, it just isn't his grandmother's, is it? You get used to that eternal disappointment when you've grown up on actual French food.
Why Monsieur Girard wants to know about his opinion on consent legislation doesn't elude him. The TV documentary created an uproar back home and he knows it's circulated outside France as well, mostly in feminist circles and call it a hunch, but the man sitting opposite him with his frisée doesn't strike him as -- Actually, Claude isn't one to judge and the yuppie appearance does clash somewhat with the food. He could be either or. He could swing both ways. He could be honestly interested.
His shoulders come down a little bit. Just a little. ]
Unless the right issue arises and the French press changes its personality, I'd say they're slim to none. You have to remember, France is the nation that until the year before last didn't have a fixed age of consent whatsoever. We didn't acknowledge the position of power an adult is in when interacting with a child, sexually or otherwise.
[ Popping a piece of quiche into his mouth, despite its sub-par texture, Claude finally lets the frown get through, shaking his head once before gesturing with his knife in his other hand. ]
How are we going to acknowledge the power structures between adults anytime soon when we can't grasp such a simple thing?
[ He can feel himself getting appraised and the other man isn't being particularly underhanded about it, either, which is rare enough - it's just the way he looks at him, his body language. Natural curiosity, it seems, which is a lot more innocent than anything Jean Louis usually gets. In politics, you get up in the morning and prepare to get eaten; rules are rules, at least until you find a way to work them to your own advantage. After that, they're simply additional pathways leading towards the goal you're aiming for. It doesn't bother him, never has.
Once Claude decides that he's worth talking to, he elaborates.
Jean Louis tilts his head a little, leaving the leaf sitting on his fork. ]
Power is never simple. [ He puts the fork down lightly and leans forward. ] At least not for ordinary people. Hard to acknowledge what you don't know and never experience. The problem is - [ He picks out something else - a quarter of an egg! - from his salad. Chews it quickly before continuing: ] - a consent law would make your majority - those who don't care about the plight of women - feel powerless. They're much too used to that.
[ That would certainly prove a problem in Luxembourg, too. Not a point in the favour of such a proposition, at least not as a starting point for a new party. Later, rather, if they want to be progressive. ]
[ And from one moment to the next - perhaps the transition is smoother than that, maybe it doesn't even exist - they go from talking about consent legislation to talking about power structures as a general thing, not power as a philosophical matter, because again - the yuppie suit and the vegetarian diet doesn't necessarily lend itself to a budding philosophy scholar, but they're talking the practicalities of power, what it takes to tip the scales.
Claude looks at the other man devouring his egg very effectively and thinks something about his lips that he isn't going to admit to, not on the record and not off it, either. He is very attractive, but more than looks, he's got an intensity about him that Claude is gonna say will win him more seats and offices than any political views you could adopt. Populism doesn't care about what you actually believe. Populism cares about what they feel, and you can feel this man. Jean Louis Girard.
Where has he heard that name before? Fuck, how annoying that he can't remember...
Licking his lips and pushing his quiche aside, uncaring about the crusty dough at this point, he leans forward on his elbows, all twenty-five year old impulsiveness and raw dedication to his own principles. Not professional. Not caring that he isn't professional. He's been good all day, this isn't what his party sent him out to do, so he'll do it his way. Fucking watch him. ]
Listen, I know the mechanics. [ He waves one hand loosely, wrist light and flexible. ] I know what drives the machine that is politics, I know that just as well as you. [ Fixing his eyes on the other man's face now, on his eyes, chilly and deep, lakes in winter, dark the same way as whatever hides beneath thick ice, Claude squares his jaw, raises his chin. ] But I'm not going to sit down and accept that just because a bunch of old men who have been in power all their lives are finally starting to feel threatened, nothing more can happen. [ He leans forward further, eagerly. ] Those who have been in power until now, they should feel threatened. They should preemptively piss their pants in fear.
[ When he leans back on his chair, it scrapes across the floor, loudly, like he's trying to call attention to himself and a part of him is, this is his fucking manifesto. ]
I might not see that law come into fruition in the next five years, but I've got at least fifty years ahead of me and I'm gonna work until I do.
[ Well, that certainly gets Claude Bérubé going. Jean Louis watches him, more curious about the man himself than what he's saying. Most know about power, certainly. They don't necessarily realise who's got it. Claude talks about the men in power, old men who have been in power all their lives and Jean Louis can think of many men indeed who'd fit his description.
They should piss their pants in fear says the French socialist, his stance strong and his jaw squared, and Jean Louis looks at him and thinks about his mouth.
Strength comes in many shapes and sizes but it is always attractive. ]
In reality, the men you talk about are a dying race. Old, decrepit. In no time at all, they'll be gone from the world and before that, they've made themselves irrelevant.
[ His voice, in contrast to Claude's, is calm, unhurried, though there's an undertone of absolute certainty there, something that makes his French more even than usual. ]
We must go back to the things you think you know. [ He leans back, mirroring Claude by pushing just a little bit away from the table, crossing one, slim leg over the other. ] Those men were empowered by basic human nature - rules that govern humans much more effectively than any of us ever will. Fear. The lure of convenience. What is fear of consent legislature, then, if not either fear of losing power or of losing convenience?
Okay, [ He says it with a laugh, not anything that belittles the other man, but good-natured, soft, amused. He likes being challenged. He likes people pointing out the flaw in his picture, because most often that's the flaw in the system and they should work on that, they should definitely work on that. ] -- in this crazy moment when we're having this discussion in the Grand Ducal Palace's cafeteria, you and I, Monsieur Girard, I'll accept the very simple argument that like all people, legislators are ruled by fear and convenience. My solution would be to teach them to be ruled by various other, just as human emotions instead.
[ Eyes following the lines of Monsieur Girard's legs, slim, strong, muscular, immaculate trousers, shoes, they dress for this job like anyone else and maybe that needs to change, too, maybe it should be a normal people job, not a fancy suits job. No one ever said plaid and sailor shoes can't make good decisions. Least of all Claude, fuck, his apartment is all art deco.
Re-focusing his attention, he tilts his head to one side and nods towards the other man, emphasising his point, for some reason thinking he needs to specify which other emotions he's talking about. It's a mix of the yuppie appearances and the vegetarian meal, like this man can't quite decide what to believe in, so if he was left with the choice between all the emotions in basic psychology, he'd end up picking both anger and aestethic appreciation. Possibly at the same time.
So, Claude specifies: ]
My suggestions would be we started governing by empathy and interest in others. I'll happily arrange for a course. [ He's so used to being called naive by now, he's already smiling it off. Preemptively. ] You're invited, mr. Cynic. If you'll come.
[ Jean Louis catches the other man's amusement and mirrors it, smiling slightly in response. They have vastly different perspectives on governance, obviously - as was evident from the beginning, seeing as Jean Louis would have never himself even considered the reality of consent laws. Empathy and interest, says Claude, and it seems like something they should definitely apply to Liberté - to its very foundation. They'll need more people, he decides. More faces, better voices. People who can sell such concepts to avoid selling the opposite.
What a shame that Claude's clearly a socialist to the bones.
Nodding slightly, he fishes around in his pocket for a smoke, glances over his shoulder to make eye contact with the guard by the door and props it between his lips. The man gives him an irritated look and turns away. He looks back at Claude, balancing the smoke between his lips as he speaks. ]
Unfortunately, I go where the money is.
[ He says it with a slight shrug, finding his lighter in his other pocket. ]
When you find a way to combine economy and empathy, I'll gladly sponsor the whole fucking endeavor.
[ You and everyone else, Claude thinks when Monsieur Girard tells him he goes where the money is. It will always be Claude's greatest Achilles' heel, that no one wants to fund empathy and interest, openness, curiosity. Every single legislator might not actually be ruled by fear and convenience, but every single banker standing behind them with a hand on their shoulder certainly is. Greed, too.
Claude wants to think more highly about people in general, but bankers... Not much in the way of trust there. Maybe that's why he dislikes Luxembourg, as a principle. The land of the banks.
Then, the other man does something completely unexpected and everything Claude was about to say in response dies on his lips. Girard pulls out a cigarette, in this very EU-sanctioned indoor space in a very EU-friendly country, and catches it between his lips (mouth, again, oh), rummaging around his pocket for his lighter, presumably... Claude just stares. Then, a bit hesitantly, he glances around, but the guard across the room turns away like he doesn't want to be implicit in this utter crime and the rest of the room seems oblivious. Willfully, maybe.
It's just Claude. Looking on. Nursing a semi. He shifts a bit, pathetically. ]
From over here, I'm seeing fines in your future, Girard. Keep your fortune.
[ The conversation comes to a somewhat abrupt halt as Claude stares at him and yes, indeed, it's very illegal to smoke indoors and someone might've fired him if they could, oh, there's bound to be more than a dozen people hoping for any excuse. He's fine with it. He's seen worse. Pushing that thought away before it gets any sort of grip on him, he lights up, sending his first exhalation sideways, away from their table. Within seconds at best, someone - a woman, intern, she's been here a couple of months, works for Stéphane - gets up and opens a window a few feet away without further comment.
He's been smoking more than he used to the past year. Most people just leave him to it, thinking they know.
It's a thing. Thinking you know something when in reality, you know much, much less than you need to. ]
I'm serious. [ He smiles again, sharper this time, the smoke from his cigarette trailing upwards, grey swirls catching in his hair. ] Find a way to sell empathy and I'll be the first in line. I like it.
[ The cigarette is lit, like it isn't a testimony to something deeper, way beyond suits and salads. The ruthlessness underlying both things. Sitting in the draw of the other man's lips, the way he smiles sharply and looks dangerous.
For the first time since the other man sat down across from him, Claude gets a distinct sense of 'stranger danger' and as always, because he has years and years of practice in the art, he ignores it completely, feeling his own smile turn more heated, more teeth, less soft curve of lips. Shifting again, he leans forward when Jean Louis does, hands gripping the edge of the table as he stabilizes himself, brings himself closer, closer, closer. The smoke is sharp and harsh in his nostrils, the grey shine of it colouring the whole room.
Claude thinks it's more than the cigarette that makes it difficult to breathe, though. He's got enough self-awareness to know. Oh, and a semi bordering on a full hard-on. Even so, his voice, when he speaks, still sounds amused, warm, gentle. Insistent, but not hard.
Well, the one part of him, then. ]
Some things can't be bought, Jean Louis. Empathy is one of them. If it could, it wouldn't be empathy.
[ A low chuckle and he reaches over, plucking the other man's cigarette from him, unceremoniously stubbing it out on his plate, next to his half-finished quiche. Raising an eyebrow at Jean Louis, he finally leans back and checks the time, realizing he has exactly ten minutes to get to his next appointment.
All this talk of consent, huh? He's been distracted. He looks over at his - presumably - Luxembourgish colleague. He still can't place him. There's a second when he considers asking, but it feels irrelevant now. Not like they'll see each other again.
He bites his lip, releases it. Shifts, pathetically. ]
[ There's another pause, loaded this time. There's been no one for a while, for him - ever since Vincent decided that he wasn't trustworthy (it stings, still, because he'd very specifically tried to be trustworthy and failure is bitter, always), he's lived by himself, going home with no one at night because he can't risk it. In a few months, they will launch Liberté. They have to control the gossip stream, otherwise when the time comes, it'll drown them.
All the same, when Claude looks at him and tells him it wouldn't be empathy before plucking the cigarette from between his lips, his hand suddenly, briefly, so close that Jean Louis can smell his skin, a part of him wants desperately to imagine a reality where all that shit doesn't have to matter.
And perhaps it doesn't, at least not as much.
Ezio, after all, is quite happy these days. ]
Maybe empathy is not a draw in itself.
[ Watching Claude for a long moment, the air between them carrying the remnants of his cigarette now along with the mood of their conversation, he thinks about his empty warehouse, the glittering fish and the windows, stretching from the floor to the ceiling and letting in the light as well as the shadows in copious amounts. His skin prickles, his left shoulder twinging. Phantoms, ghosts. His homes, no matter when or where, have always been full of them.
Getting to his feet, maybe a little too fast, a little jerkily, he pauses again, his side to the table and glances at Claude out of the corner of his eye. Then, he drops his card on the table and says, voice quiet: ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Then, I'd best make it a memorable one, don't you think?
[ He grabs his fork and picks out something that looks like a leaf. Because it is one, evidently, and really, he'll have to go back to the dojo with more frequency instead of gnawing away at this stuff. It's neither here nor there. In any case, he looks whatever's on his fork over, one eyebrow quirked critically, before he catches the other man's eyes once more. Deep, brown. Warm.
Hopefully not too sensible. ]
Straight to the point, Monsieur Bérubé. What are the chances, in your opinion, of a French consent law becoming a reality within the next five years?
[ When he'd first heard of consent laws, he'd been astounded. Are people truly - do they actually care enough to push such banalities at their legislators? The answer in hindsight is of course, obviously. The people do as the people do. What they want is what they live, which is not necessarily logical or profitable, more's the pity.
And some time in the near future, he's going to want the people to want him. ]
no subject
Why Monsieur Girard wants to know about his opinion on consent legislation doesn't elude him. The TV documentary created an uproar back home and he knows it's circulated outside France as well, mostly in feminist circles and call it a hunch, but the man sitting opposite him with his frisée doesn't strike him as -- Actually, Claude isn't one to judge and the yuppie appearance does clash somewhat with the food. He could be either or. He could swing both ways. He could be honestly interested.
His shoulders come down a little bit. Just a little. ]
Unless the right issue arises and the French press changes its personality, I'd say they're slim to none. You have to remember, France is the nation that until the year before last didn't have a fixed age of consent whatsoever. We didn't acknowledge the position of power an adult is in when interacting with a child, sexually or otherwise.
[ Popping a piece of quiche into his mouth, despite its sub-par texture, Claude finally lets the frown get through, shaking his head once before gesturing with his knife in his other hand. ]
How are we going to acknowledge the power structures between adults anytime soon when we can't grasp such a simple thing?
no subject
Once Claude decides that he's worth talking to, he elaborates.
Jean Louis tilts his head a little, leaving the leaf sitting on his fork. ]
Power is never simple. [ He puts the fork down lightly and leans forward. ] At least not for ordinary people. Hard to acknowledge what you don't know and never experience. The problem is - [ He picks out something else - a quarter of an egg! - from his salad. Chews it quickly before continuing: ] - a consent law would make your majority - those who don't care about the plight of women - feel powerless. They're much too used to that.
[ That would certainly prove a problem in Luxembourg, too. Not a point in the favour of such a proposition, at least not as a starting point for a new party. Later, rather, if they want to be progressive. ]
no subject
Claude looks at the other man devouring his egg very effectively and thinks something about his lips that he isn't going to admit to, not on the record and not off it, either. He is very attractive, but more than looks, he's got an intensity about him that Claude is gonna say will win him more seats and offices than any political views you could adopt. Populism doesn't care about what you actually believe. Populism cares about what they feel, and you can feel this man. Jean Louis Girard.
Where has he heard that name before? Fuck, how annoying that he can't remember...
Licking his lips and pushing his quiche aside, uncaring about the crusty dough at this point, he leans forward on his elbows, all twenty-five year old impulsiveness and raw dedication to his own principles. Not professional. Not caring that he isn't professional. He's been good all day, this isn't what his party sent him out to do, so he'll do it his way. Fucking watch him. ]
Listen, I know the mechanics. [ He waves one hand loosely, wrist light and flexible. ] I know what drives the machine that is politics, I know that just as well as you. [ Fixing his eyes on the other man's face now, on his eyes, chilly and deep, lakes in winter, dark the same way as whatever hides beneath thick ice, Claude squares his jaw, raises his chin. ] But I'm not going to sit down and accept that just because a bunch of old men who have been in power all their lives are finally starting to feel threatened, nothing more can happen. [ He leans forward further, eagerly. ] Those who have been in power until now, they should feel threatened. They should preemptively piss their pants in fear.
[ When he leans back on his chair, it scrapes across the floor, loudly, like he's trying to call attention to himself and a part of him is, this is his fucking manifesto. ]
I might not see that law come into fruition in the next five years, but I've got at least fifty years ahead of me and I'm gonna work until I do.
no subject
They should piss their pants in fear says the French socialist, his stance strong and his jaw squared, and Jean Louis looks at him and thinks about his mouth.
Strength comes in many shapes and sizes but it is always attractive. ]
In reality, the men you talk about are a dying race. Old, decrepit. In no time at all, they'll be gone from the world and before that, they've made themselves irrelevant.
[ His voice, in contrast to Claude's, is calm, unhurried, though there's an undertone of absolute certainty there, something that makes his French more even than usual. ]
We must go back to the things you think you know. [ He leans back, mirroring Claude by pushing just a little bit away from the table, crossing one, slim leg over the other. ] Those men were empowered by basic human nature - rules that govern humans much more effectively than any of us ever will. Fear. The lure of convenience. What is fear of consent legislature, then, if not either fear of losing power or of losing convenience?
no subject
[ Eyes following the lines of Monsieur Girard's legs, slim, strong, muscular, immaculate trousers, shoes, they dress for this job like anyone else and maybe that needs to change, too, maybe it should be a normal people job, not a fancy suits job. No one ever said plaid and sailor shoes can't make good decisions. Least of all Claude, fuck, his apartment is all art deco.
Re-focusing his attention, he tilts his head to one side and nods towards the other man, emphasising his point, for some reason thinking he needs to specify which other emotions he's talking about. It's a mix of the yuppie appearances and the vegetarian meal, like this man can't quite decide what to believe in, so if he was left with the choice between all the emotions in basic psychology, he'd end up picking both anger and aestethic appreciation. Possibly at the same time.
So, Claude specifies: ]
My suggestions would be we started governing by empathy and interest in others. I'll happily arrange for a course. [ He's so used to being called naive by now, he's already smiling it off. Preemptively. ] You're invited, mr. Cynic. If you'll come.
[ The smile, at least, is genuine, big, teeth. ]
no subject
What a shame that Claude's clearly a socialist to the bones.
Nodding slightly, he fishes around in his pocket for a smoke, glances over his shoulder to make eye contact with the guard by the door and props it between his lips. The man gives him an irritated look and turns away. He looks back at Claude, balancing the smoke between his lips as he speaks. ]
Unfortunately, I go where the money is.
[ He says it with a slight shrug, finding his lighter in his other pocket. ]
When you find a way to combine economy and empathy, I'll gladly sponsor the whole fucking endeavor.
no subject
Claude wants to think more highly about people in general, but bankers... Not much in the way of trust there. Maybe that's why he dislikes Luxembourg, as a principle. The land of the banks.
Then, the other man does something completely unexpected and everything Claude was about to say in response dies on his lips. Girard pulls out a cigarette, in this very EU-sanctioned indoor space in a very EU-friendly country, and catches it between his lips (mouth, again, oh), rummaging around his pocket for his lighter, presumably... Claude just stares. Then, a bit hesitantly, he glances around, but the guard across the room turns away like he doesn't want to be implicit in this utter crime and the rest of the room seems oblivious. Willfully, maybe.
It's just Claude. Looking on. Nursing a semi. He shifts a bit, pathetically. ]
From over here, I'm seeing fines in your future, Girard. Keep your fortune.
no subject
He's been smoking more than he used to the past year. Most people just leave him to it, thinking they know.
It's a thing. Thinking you know something when in reality, you know much, much less than you need to. ]
I'm serious. [ He smiles again, sharper this time, the smoke from his cigarette trailing upwards, grey swirls catching in his hair. ] Find a way to sell empathy and I'll be the first in line. I like it.
[ His voice lowers a fraction as he leans in: ]
I like the way it looks on people.
no subject
For the first time since the other man sat down across from him, Claude gets a distinct sense of 'stranger danger' and as always, because he has years and years of practice in the art, he ignores it completely, feeling his own smile turn more heated, more teeth, less soft curve of lips. Shifting again, he leans forward when Jean Louis does, hands gripping the edge of the table as he stabilizes himself, brings himself closer, closer, closer. The smoke is sharp and harsh in his nostrils, the grey shine of it colouring the whole room.
Claude thinks it's more than the cigarette that makes it difficult to breathe, though. He's got enough self-awareness to know. Oh, and a semi bordering on a full hard-on. Even so, his voice, when he speaks, still sounds amused, warm, gentle. Insistent, but not hard.
Well, the one part of him, then. ]
Some things can't be bought, Jean Louis. Empathy is one of them. If it could, it wouldn't be empathy.
[ A low chuckle and he reaches over, plucking the other man's cigarette from him, unceremoniously stubbing it out on his plate, next to his half-finished quiche. Raising an eyebrow at Jean Louis, he finally leans back and checks the time, realizing he has exactly ten minutes to get to his next appointment.
All this talk of consent, huh? He's been distracted. He looks over at his - presumably - Luxembourgish colleague. He still can't place him. There's a second when he considers asking, but it feels irrelevant now. Not like they'll see each other again.
He bites his lip, releases it. Shifts, pathetically. ]
no subject
All the same, when Claude looks at him and tells him it wouldn't be empathy before plucking the cigarette from between his lips, his hand suddenly, briefly, so close that Jean Louis can smell his skin, a part of him wants desperately to imagine a reality where all that shit doesn't have to matter.
And perhaps it doesn't, at least not as much.
Ezio, after all, is quite happy these days. ]
Maybe empathy is not a draw in itself.
[ Watching Claude for a long moment, the air between them carrying the remnants of his cigarette now along with the mood of their conversation, he thinks about his empty warehouse, the glittering fish and the windows, stretching from the floor to the ceiling and letting in the light as well as the shadows in copious amounts. His skin prickles, his left shoulder twinging. Phantoms, ghosts. His homes, no matter when or where, have always been full of them.
Getting to his feet, maybe a little too fast, a little jerkily, he pauses again, his side to the table and glances at Claude out of the corner of his eye. Then, he drops his card on the table and says, voice quiet: ]
There are other things.
[ With that, he turns and walks away. ]