[ They take their dinner at a small, semi-luxurious restaurant near the center of City. It's been a strange day. On the one hand, they've been together throughout it, which is an obvious plus and something he wouldn't trade for anything else yet on the other, he's felt... on edge. Even before meeting with Stéphane, there'd been a tension within him, something dark and twisted and irritating and since they left the café, it's been an underlying constant. He's done his best to be careful with Claude, taking it out on the idiots who insist on calling him about trivialities, matters that should have been resolved but aren't, small but potentially destructive mistakes that Liberté might easily afford in their current position. They might, yes, but the thought of letting things slip through so sloppily, of leaving this shit to chance, pisses him off today more than usually.
Though he's managed not to lose his patience with Claude, he hasn't managed to be a very good conversationalist and as they head down the small side streets, aiming to follow the Alzette home for the night, he sticks his hands in his pockets and looks out over the water before he speaks: ]
I've acted badly today. [ He doesn't speak with much contrition in his voice - this is just a fact and he knows it might have been annoying. Bothersome. In a relationship, such mistakes must be acknowledged. A glance sideways at Claude, fleeting: ] Apologies.
[ The river is quiet, the lights from the buildings around them reflected and distorted in the water. They've had a heavy rainfall not too long ago and as a consequence, the river runs deep tonight. He thinks about Claude, going head to head with Stéphane, holding his hand all the while, like those things - softness and confrontation - aren't total opposite and mutually exclusive. Not around Claude, it seems. That's how he walks in the world. ]
[ After meeting with Potos, the day has been filled with a quiet that Claude doesn't know how best to categorize. It feels familiar, like he knows what it's like, what it's about, but he hasn't been in the midst of it for years and years. It's not a nice place to be. It's disruptive. But it's also Jean Louis', he's brought it in and Claude doesn't want to rush him, taking it out again. Some processes take the time they take, no way around it.
Dinner was, likewise, quiet. Jean Louis has taken phone calls throughout the day, some minor crisis in the office and work comes first, Claude understands, they're both like that, though his own phone has been blissfully quiet - just a few texts waiting every time he checks it. From Yves, from his mother. Speaking of.
As they walk back from the restaurant, the cobblestones of inner City wet with recent rainfall, Claude watches Jean Louis out the corner of his eye, feeling the mood shift, the heavy atmosphere and knowing something's coming. He doesn't know what he'd expected, but an apology wasn't it. Once more, the other man surprises him in the positive. A part of him is grateful to the partners he must have had before, that have opened him up this way, because he knows by now, it's not something Jean Louis got from home.
Not everyone is that privileged. Claude recognises this.
Apologies, Jean Louis says, in a serious, slightly formal way that makes it even more evident, how strange a word it must be in this neo-liberal, success story politician's mouth. Whom else does he apologise to, ever? Claude feels his expression soften, tangibly. Stepping aside, away from the Alzette and closer to Jean Louis, he bumps his shoulder slightly. It means, don't think about it while simultaneously saying, tell me about what it is you're thinking about.
As a third option, his mouth says, ]
That's okay. I enjoy you even when you're broody and non-communicative. [ They continue down the path running in parallel with the river, walking very close. Claude flexes his fingers, trying to decide whether to take the other man's hand again, or not, or yes, or no. A sigh. ] I'm not gonna ask whether you want to talk about it, because I imagine you don't, but do you need to? Do you know how?
[ Claude shifts sideways and bumps his shoulder, just a light touch that doesn't move him even an inch but the feeling of contact lingers even after he draws away. Warm pressure, right along his upper arm. Elbow. This is how it feels when you're with someone.
He looks down at the ground briefly. Do you know how? asks Claude, which is a very good question indeed. He frowns and rummages around in his suit jacket, finding an almost depleted pack of smokes and his lighter. Lightening up, he watches the smoke travel upwards for a moment, aiming it away from Claude by principle because he's really only rude when there's a point to it, when it's a signal that he wants to send. At least, usually. Do you know how?
Doubtful. ]
It's odd. I think...
[ He trails off. It started with that text exchange, he thinks. It makes sense, too, that he's frustrated - he's spent days, confused about his own feelings. Frankly, that's just ridiculous and he decides that he needs to get his shit in order now, before it runs away with him. His mother used to sing to herself in the attic after she'd locked herself in to starve - days on end she persisted, with his father leaving her plates of food by the foot of the stairs. Crazy is what happens when you let these things fester. ]
What we talked about. Over text, last weekend. [ He looks at Claude, frowning in concentration. It really is very hard to verbalize for some reason, perhaps because it's new. He lacks training. ] When Stéphane took me in, I was fifteen. I slept with him about two months after - a well-kept secret, for obvious reasons.
[ None of that should be hard to say but all the same, his voice has tightened considerably. Fuck, how annoying. Everything about this bothers him. He inhales sharply, filling his lungs with angry smoke and exhaling only when he can't bear not to breathe. ]
[ It takes a while, of course. Claude's patient, he's okay with the wait. He understands, this could be something lodged in Jean Louis' system. Maybe it's been lodged there a long time, a long time like forever. Parts of your personality feel like they've been formed since birth, when very little is given like that. Most things can be changed. Most people can change. Claude believes that, firmly. So, he follows Jean Louis' hands with his eyes as he pulls out smokes, a lighter, stuffs one in between his lips and lights up, though he's good enough to aim his exhalations the other way. A slight wrinkle of his nose, that's all. Honestly, he kind of likes that Jean Louis tastes like nicotine and smoke and other bad stuff when you kiss him. It's part of the package and the package is good, it's perfect.
And so, he waits. Listens as Jean Louis begins, trails off (the great orator, the politician forgetting his script) and after a fight with his own lungs that makes Claude want to pull him in for a hug, he gets started once more. He tells Claude about Potos, about moving in with him, about... Oh.
Claude swallows, having to fight down all his impulses to go on an angry rampage, calm himself, deep breaths. For Jean Louis' sake, this isn't Claude's battle, it's the other man's, he can respect that. He can. He will. Swallowing again, he trails a little closer to Jean Louis again and this time, just brushes his shoulder against Jean Louis' shoulder, his upper arm, feeling the wool of his sleeve, the density of it. It's early spring, but still cold in the evenings. The rain has left the air fresh and chill.
Potos slept with Jean Louis when he was fifteen. In a position as his legal guardian. When he knew what kind of background the boy came from, something even Claude doesn't know in full. It's fine... It's fine. He just really wants to pin Potos to a board with a nail through his dick.
But completely calmly, Claude says: ]
I see. [ He sees. He understands. He really, really does. ] How did you feel about that?
[ He glances sideways. Claude stays close to him, their shoulders brushing as they walk and he gets the sense somehow, even without truly knowing why, that Claude wants to take his hand. Either that, or he wants to take his - wishful thinking is a very real thing, after all. I see says Claude because he does, of course. He knows what it's like to have something that isn't what you'd originally thought and whilst Jean Louis has never felt particularly unhappy with this part of his and Stéphane's relationship (other things, yes, other parts, but not this), there's something about this conversation that rings true across the small space between them as they walk. This is me, it says, and it's also you. This is what it's like, not being alone.
He takes Claude's hand a bit clumsily. Like talking about feelings, it's not something he does. ]
I've always felt very lucky. As you can imagine, there's nothing he can do or say that outweighs this card. He's Head of State. It could become a bomb, eroding his entire, political foundation and we both know it.
[ He straightens a little as he speaks. This, at least, is still true. But then, once you reach that conclusion, you have to reach another by extension. He thinks about Emilia. About the newspapers. Then, just briefly, just very, very briefly, he remembers sitting in that hospital bed weeks later, clutching the sheets every time anyone walked by in the hallway, and she'd cried, afraid for him and afraid for herself.
Even then, the card remained in his hand, hidden from the world.
He adds, looking down at his shoes, at the shadows twisting across the ground: ]
[ He listens. He listens and he leaves his own sense of selfish indignation on the sidewalk, because this isn't about him. It's not about what he knows to be true, right or wrong, it's about the experience Jean Louis had when he was fifteen which haunts him now, because the world as you experience it as a teenager isn't the same world you navigate as an adult and the whole point of being a child is to be taught how to bridge those two realities and to eventually step into the grown-up world, immigrate and assimilate. Those two things.
And he gets a sense that Jean Louis never assimilated, because his childish world was too adult for anyone's good, so the journey between childhood and adulthood might have felt like nothing, nothing at all. More of the same.
Potos should have guarded him against that experience, that was why he was there, fuck, but this isn't about that. It isn't about that.
Jean Louis looks down at his shoes, definitely reeking of 'fifteen years old' and 'orphaned' and Claude's heart bleeds for him. This is what socialism should cure, what socialism should help, but maybe there's no helping it when it happens, maybe there's only trying to heal it, later, when the symptoms have already become a tumor, a disease.
Swallowing heavily again, he moves up close to Jean Louis' side and leans up against him, knowing he won't budge, because Jean Louis has never budged, he's never given an inch. He rest his cheek against his upper arm where it becomes shoulder, standing like that, at perfect height for it. For support. Jean Louis has been lucky. He's here. He came from less than nothing and now he's one of the most influential men in the country.
It isn't about the power, really. It's about the journey into it.
He thinks about Jean Louis' back, then he sighs. ]
At fifteen, no one can manage notions that aren't childish, Jean Louis. That isn't on you. You didn't get the aid that should've taught you to understand it right, to see through it. Whatever you felt back then, about sleeping with him, that's valid, but it belongs to that time. [ He pauses, hums slightly and turns his face in towards the coarse fabric of Jean Louis' coat sleeve, kissing his shoulder softly. Carefully, ] How you feel about it now, that belongs to the present and that's what you've got to work with.
[ Claude leans his cheek against his upper arm where they've stopped, the weight of him warm and familiar and grounding, somehow. There are only few things that work for him like that. Working. Smoking. His fish. And now Claude, too, it seems, Claude with his sensible words and all that kindness that no one in the world deserves. Perhaps except for Claude, himself. That's why returning whatever little he can is so important, because Claude gives very little to himself and has been given very little from others. There are many different ways life can fuck you over and no doubt, that's one similarity between them that Stéphane didn't notice when they met. They've been shaped by strange powers, the two of them. It's a peculiar way to exist but easier, he thinks, when you aren't doing it alone.
He releases Claude's hand and slips his arm around his waist instead, pulling him in against his side. Around them, the rows of old townhouses are quiet. People are celebrating the weekend in the inner city, on bars and restaurants and clubs. The privileged rule around here, as is evident from who's on top but Jean Louis has sunk his teeth in, hasn't he. That's what he knows about the world. He knows the feel of Claude's body against his and the taste of power.
Along with the way it tastes when it's ripped from you.
He blows a smoke ring into the air. It disintegrates fast. ]
He taught me how to cook, you know. How to eat in fancy restaurants, how to navigate a dress code. [ Inhale. Exhale. ] How to enter a home without checking through the windows, first. This thing we did... It pales in comparison. It means almost nothing. [ Almost. He doesn't dwell on that. ] I see now that it's a card I have no use for.
[ He doesn't know what that means yet. That in the end, what he did when he crawled into Stéphane's bed and refused to be dismissed was a purely selfish thing, driven by no strategy, no foresight and no notion of consequences. He can tell himself all he likes that he'd planned it, that he wanted the man to keep lusting for him, to be just exactly as unavailable as he needed to be in order to get his way.
Jean Louis barely ever lies, least of all to himself.
[ Letting himself be pulled in by Jean Louis' arm around his waist, he shifts slightly against him, feeling all that rigid straightness, that standing tall in the storm that is Jean Louis' method, his way. Claude admires it, he is more of a swayer, someone who bends and curves not to break, only to emerge tall and straight once the storm dies out. Claude is grass, Jean Louis is a fucking tree. That's the difference between them, for all the similarities that Claude praised when they met Potos.
Whose dick he'd still like to crush, by the way.
But it's an easier feeling now. More distanced.
His breathing slow, even, in and out, he listens to Jean Louis conclude something about his relationship to Potos. That the man did what he was supposed to do as his legal guardian, let him into the grown-up world, showing him how to be an adult among adults, he did that, good, congratulations to him. It doesn't matter, only insofar that it matters to Jean Louis. It matters exactly as much as he reads into it.
And since Claude is listening, he hears that it matters as much as it does what your parents ever do for you. The gratefulness no child should have to feel for the one job parents have, but which they feel anyway, because - what does he know, biology, social imprint, what have you. It's there and you can't shake it.
God knows, he's tried with his mother often enough.
Supposedly, he understands this as well, although he'd rather not, he'd rather be angry and kick someone in the face and then, in the dick. But Jean Louis knows that for everything Potos might have done for him, he did something else as well and it might not matter, almost, he says. But in that almost, it does. It matters. That part both does and doesn't count for everything. It taints everything else.
It's complex, his therapist would say. It was complex with Rainier as well. Claude hates 'complex', it's a stupid word. Still, he reaches up and slips his arm around Jean Louis as well, holding him, clinging to him, no weight, just support. ]
He served his purpose, then, and I guess that's what he gave you. Skills that are useful and you're using them well now, too, but how well you're doing with it is on you, you know. Not on him.
[ At their feet, the river is glinting in the lamp-light. Less complex than the rest of it. ]
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no subject
Though he's managed not to lose his patience with Claude, he hasn't managed to be a very good conversationalist and as they head down the small side streets, aiming to follow the Alzette home for the night, he sticks his hands in his pockets and looks out over the water before he speaks: ]
I've acted badly today. [ He doesn't speak with much contrition in his voice - this is just a fact and he knows it might have been annoying. Bothersome. In a relationship, such mistakes must be acknowledged. A glance sideways at Claude, fleeting: ] Apologies.
[ The river is quiet, the lights from the buildings around them reflected and distorted in the water. They've had a heavy rainfall not too long ago and as a consequence, the river runs deep tonight. He thinks about Claude, going head to head with Stéphane, holding his hand all the while, like those things - softness and confrontation - aren't total opposite and mutually exclusive. Not around Claude, it seems. That's how he walks in the world. ]
no subject
Dinner was, likewise, quiet. Jean Louis has taken phone calls throughout the day, some minor crisis in the office and work comes first, Claude understands, they're both like that, though his own phone has been blissfully quiet - just a few texts waiting every time he checks it. From Yves, from his mother. Speaking of.
As they walk back from the restaurant, the cobblestones of inner City wet with recent rainfall, Claude watches Jean Louis out the corner of his eye, feeling the mood shift, the heavy atmosphere and knowing something's coming. He doesn't know what he'd expected, but an apology wasn't it. Once more, the other man surprises him in the positive. A part of him is grateful to the partners he must have had before, that have opened him up this way, because he knows by now, it's not something Jean Louis got from home.
Not everyone is that privileged. Claude recognises this.
Apologies, Jean Louis says, in a serious, slightly formal way that makes it even more evident, how strange a word it must be in this neo-liberal, success story politician's mouth. Whom else does he apologise to, ever? Claude feels his expression soften, tangibly. Stepping aside, away from the Alzette and closer to Jean Louis, he bumps his shoulder slightly. It means, don't think about it while simultaneously saying, tell me about what it is you're thinking about.
As a third option, his mouth says, ]
That's okay. I enjoy you even when you're broody and non-communicative. [ They continue down the path running in parallel with the river, walking very close. Claude flexes his fingers, trying to decide whether to take the other man's hand again, or not, or yes, or no. A sigh. ] I'm not gonna ask whether you want to talk about it, because I imagine you don't, but do you need to? Do you know how?
no subject
He looks down at the ground briefly. Do you know how? asks Claude, which is a very good question indeed. He frowns and rummages around in his suit jacket, finding an almost depleted pack of smokes and his lighter. Lightening up, he watches the smoke travel upwards for a moment, aiming it away from Claude by principle because he's really only rude when there's a point to it, when it's a signal that he wants to send. At least, usually. Do you know how?
Doubtful. ]
It's odd. I think...
[ He trails off. It started with that text exchange, he thinks. It makes sense, too, that he's frustrated - he's spent days, confused about his own feelings. Frankly, that's just ridiculous and he decides that he needs to get his shit in order now, before it runs away with him. His mother used to sing to herself in the attic after she'd locked herself in to starve - days on end she persisted, with his father leaving her plates of food by the foot of the stairs. Crazy is what happens when you let these things fester. ]
What we talked about. Over text, last weekend. [ He looks at Claude, frowning in concentration. It really is very hard to verbalize for some reason, perhaps because it's new. He lacks training. ] When Stéphane took me in, I was fifteen. I slept with him about two months after - a well-kept secret, for obvious reasons.
[ None of that should be hard to say but all the same, his voice has tightened considerably. Fuck, how annoying. Everything about this bothers him. He inhales sharply, filling his lungs with angry smoke and exhaling only when he can't bear not to breathe. ]
no subject
And so, he waits. Listens as Jean Louis begins, trails off (the great orator, the politician forgetting his script) and after a fight with his own lungs that makes Claude want to pull him in for a hug, he gets started once more. He tells Claude about Potos, about moving in with him, about... Oh.
Claude swallows, having to fight down all his impulses to go on an angry rampage, calm himself, deep breaths. For Jean Louis' sake, this isn't Claude's battle, it's the other man's, he can respect that. He can. He will. Swallowing again, he trails a little closer to Jean Louis again and this time, just brushes his shoulder against Jean Louis' shoulder, his upper arm, feeling the wool of his sleeve, the density of it. It's early spring, but still cold in the evenings. The rain has left the air fresh and chill.
Potos slept with Jean Louis when he was fifteen. In a position as his legal guardian. When he knew what kind of background the boy came from, something even Claude doesn't know in full. It's fine... It's fine. He just really wants to pin Potos to a board with a nail through his dick.
But completely calmly, Claude says: ]
I see. [ He sees. He understands. He really, really does. ] How did you feel about that?
no subject
He takes Claude's hand a bit clumsily. Like talking about feelings, it's not something he does. ]
I've always felt very lucky. As you can imagine, there's nothing he can do or say that outweighs this card. He's Head of State. It could become a bomb, eroding his entire, political foundation and we both know it.
[ He straightens a little as he speaks. This, at least, is still true. But then, once you reach that conclusion, you have to reach another by extension. He thinks about Emilia. About the newspapers. Then, just briefly, just very, very briefly, he remembers sitting in that hospital bed weeks later, clutching the sheets every time anyone walked by in the hallway, and she'd cried, afraid for him and afraid for herself.
Even then, the card remained in his hand, hidden from the world.
He adds, looking down at his shoes, at the shadows twisting across the ground: ]
It seems like a childish notion, now.
no subject
[ He listens. He listens and he leaves his own sense of selfish indignation on the sidewalk, because this isn't about him. It's not about what he knows to be true, right or wrong, it's about the experience Jean Louis had when he was fifteen which haunts him now, because the world as you experience it as a teenager isn't the same world you navigate as an adult and the whole point of being a child is to be taught how to bridge those two realities and to eventually step into the grown-up world, immigrate and assimilate. Those two things.
And he gets a sense that Jean Louis never assimilated, because his childish world was too adult for anyone's good, so the journey between childhood and adulthood might have felt like nothing, nothing at all. More of the same.
Potos should have guarded him against that experience, that was why he was there, fuck, but this isn't about that. It isn't about that.
Jean Louis looks down at his shoes, definitely reeking of 'fifteen years old' and 'orphaned' and Claude's heart bleeds for him. This is what socialism should cure, what socialism should help, but maybe there's no helping it when it happens, maybe there's only trying to heal it, later, when the symptoms have already become a tumor, a disease.
Swallowing heavily again, he moves up close to Jean Louis' side and leans up against him, knowing he won't budge, because Jean Louis has never budged, he's never given an inch. He rest his cheek against his upper arm where it becomes shoulder, standing like that, at perfect height for it. For support. Jean Louis has been lucky. He's here. He came from less than nothing and now he's one of the most influential men in the country.
It isn't about the power, really. It's about the journey into it.
He thinks about Jean Louis' back, then he sighs. ]
At fifteen, no one can manage notions that aren't childish, Jean Louis. That isn't on you. You didn't get the aid that should've taught you to understand it right, to see through it. Whatever you felt back then, about sleeping with him, that's valid, but it belongs to that time. [ He pauses, hums slightly and turns his face in towards the coarse fabric of Jean Louis' coat sleeve, kissing his shoulder softly. Carefully, ] How you feel about it now, that belongs to the present and that's what you've got to work with.
no subject
He releases Claude's hand and slips his arm around his waist instead, pulling him in against his side. Around them, the rows of old townhouses are quiet. People are celebrating the weekend in the inner city, on bars and restaurants and clubs. The privileged rule around here, as is evident from who's on top but Jean Louis has sunk his teeth in, hasn't he. That's what he knows about the world. He knows the feel of Claude's body against his and the taste of power.
Along with the way it tastes when it's ripped from you.
He blows a smoke ring into the air. It disintegrates fast. ]
He taught me how to cook, you know. How to eat in fancy restaurants, how to navigate a dress code. [ Inhale. Exhale. ] How to enter a home without checking through the windows, first. This thing we did... It pales in comparison. It means almost nothing. [ Almost. He doesn't dwell on that. ] I see now that it's a card I have no use for.
[ He doesn't know what that means yet. That in the end, what he did when he crawled into Stéphane's bed and refused to be dismissed was a purely selfish thing, driven by no strategy, no foresight and no notion of consequences. He can tell himself all he likes that he'd planned it, that he wanted the man to keep lusting for him, to be just exactly as unavailable as he needed to be in order to get his way.
Jean Louis barely ever lies, least of all to himself.
He won't start with this. ]
no subject
[ Letting himself be pulled in by Jean Louis' arm around his waist, he shifts slightly against him, feeling all that rigid straightness, that standing tall in the storm that is Jean Louis' method, his way. Claude admires it, he is more of a swayer, someone who bends and curves not to break, only to emerge tall and straight once the storm dies out. Claude is grass, Jean Louis is a fucking tree. That's the difference between them, for all the similarities that Claude praised when they met Potos.
Whose dick he'd still like to crush, by the way.
But it's an easier feeling now. More distanced.
His breathing slow, even, in and out, he listens to Jean Louis conclude something about his relationship to Potos. That the man did what he was supposed to do as his legal guardian, let him into the grown-up world, showing him how to be an adult among adults, he did that, good, congratulations to him. It doesn't matter, only insofar that it matters to Jean Louis. It matters exactly as much as he reads into it.
And since Claude is listening, he hears that it matters as much as it does what your parents ever do for you. The gratefulness no child should have to feel for the one job parents have, but which they feel anyway, because - what does he know, biology, social imprint, what have you. It's there and you can't shake it.
God knows, he's tried with his mother often enough.
Supposedly, he understands this as well, although he'd rather not, he'd rather be angry and kick someone in the face and then, in the dick. But Jean Louis knows that for everything Potos might have done for him, he did something else as well and it might not matter, almost, he says. But in that almost, it does. It matters. That part both does and doesn't count for everything. It taints everything else.
It's complex, his therapist would say. It was complex with Rainier as well. Claude hates 'complex', it's a stupid word. Still, he reaches up and slips his arm around Jean Louis as well, holding him, clinging to him, no weight, just support. ]
He served his purpose, then, and I guess that's what he gave you. Skills that are useful and you're using them well now, too, but how well you're doing with it is on you, you know. Not on him.
[ At their feet, the river is glinting in the lamp-light. Less complex than the rest of it. ]