[ When he'd sent off his driver, they'd still been mid-conversation but in this life, risks are a given and when the only danger is disappointment and continuous loneliness, he's not afraid to chance it. There are worse things, he thinks. There has to be. In any case, Claude had chosen to play along and he's spent the small waiting time preparing drinks and dressing himself up just a fraction - black trousers, a long-sleeved t-shirt with a silvery Armani Exchange logo slapped across the middle. When he's home alone in the evening, his style is nonexistent - baggy jeans, baggy shirts, bare feet, nothing that constricts. It's not like he's got anyone around to complain about it.
When the car pulls up outside the warehouse, he pours two glasses of semi-expensive, Italian prosecco and sets them on a small, black tray, along with a bowl of salted nuts. He leaves the arrangement on the low stone table in the corner lounge - a section of his living room slightly separated from the rest, decked out with two comfortable chairs overlooking the vast darkness immediately outside the warehouse and the cityscape further out, glittering against the sky. It's a pretty view. The entire apartment is like that, of course, because he can't stand feeling boxed in. He flips on the small LED tealights scattered around the space - clusters of three, typically - and heads for the entrance just as the lift activates.
Claude steps inside from outside and suddenly, the room changes.
He pauses briefly in his step, looking at him. Living and breathing and throwing the otherwise silent status quo of his living space completely off its normal course. Breath stumbling for a split-second, he smiles very slightly and straightens himself. ]
No?
[ He gestures towards the living room area, partially hidden from sight by concrete walls. ]
So even socialists have preconceptions. [ He pauses a few feet away, looking Claude over maybe a little blatantly. He's a beautiful man, why wouldn't he. He raises one eyebrow at his deep, burgundy shirt - even he can see that it's a great colour on him - and the faint wrinkles in the fabric. ] Good thing you know how to party.
[ Could work as a reply to both observations, really. Claude smiles, meeting the other man's eyes for a moment as he's being looked over, openly acknowledging that's what's happening. He's being sized up, pretty much. In return, he looks Jean Louis over as well, takes in his more muted colours, the Armani logo (brand man, then?) and the black trousers, all things that track with the interior of his apartment. He's a cohesive picture, is Jean Louis Girard. The question is probably more whether you like what you see or not. Claude imagines there are many different answers to that.
Himself, he's spent the past three hours, at least, trying to gauge when the right time to text would be, in between dances with female colleages and drinks with the guys, because socialists aren't above blatant sexism, let's be real. Human, like he said. Very human.
Moving over to Jean Louis, Claude leaves his dinner jacket over the back of a nearby dining chair, reminding himself gently not to forget it on the way out. When that time comes. Whenever it comes. He isn't pretending that he isn't attracted to the other man, lots of attraction, lots of intense urges to be closer, to look, to feel, but preconceptions aside, he doesn't expect anything of the night either. He isn't counting on them fucking, although he's pretty sure Jean Louis is giving every sign. Just as he isn't counting on them not fucking. If it happens, it happens.
His therapist would be so utterly proud of him. They've been working on the casual intimacy thing quite a bit.
Still, it's leaving him feeling slightly nervous.
The small, secluded part of the living room, walled in with low walls, lots of electric tealights and drinks set out, is nice, nice view, nice size, nice sense of comfort. Stepping past the other man to get a better view of it, Claude tries to imagine Jean Louis sitting here on Sunday mornings, preferably in nothing, but ends up mostly just focusing on the image of Jean Louis in nothing, the living room fading well and truly into the background. Turning around to face the other man, his reaction to his own thoughts is subdued to a slight heat in his cheeks, nothing overly telltale. Claude is learning to curb his feelings, still a work in progress, but he's practicing.
If this space feels safe enough to practice in, that says a lot. ]
And it wasn't fear or convenience that led me here.
[ There are other aspects to being human. Like there should be other aspects to being a politician. Like, the two should be one and the same thing. ]
[ When Claude walks past him, he catches the faint scents of spices in his cologne, something woody, a little contemplative. It's mixed with the more familiar sensory echoes of nightlife - alcohol, smoke, perfumes, people. He hasn't gone to the clubs the past year but the memories from before feel almost visceral, still, like he could shift back half a step and he'd be there once more, body and mind, in a different life. There's a quietness to the other man, though, that's definitely new. He's sought it out in other ways, yet in the people he surrounds himself with on a daily basis, that particular quality is rare. The world of politics is louder. Self-absorbed, hungry.
That, too, is human.
He follows behind the other man, hearing the familiar beeps of the elevator locks activating as he leaves. In addition to his guards, the area surrounding the warehouse is well-secured - the apartment itself, not so much. He doesn't want cameras in his life, after all, they'd be filming him more than anything else and that's not the kind of data he wants to collect.
Claude should, perhaps, have looked out of place amidst the sleek surfaces and glass exterior of his home but somehow, he doesn't. As he stands there in the small lounge area, the cityscape stretched out behind him in the distance, he looks more like something that's been missing. A necessary contrast. Jean Louis takes a seat by the table and takes one of the glasses - crystal flutes, a birthday gift from the youth party, back when he'd turned twenty - looking up at Claude over the edge. ]
You sound very certain. [ A small sip. ] Fear, perhaps not, but why not convenience? This is hardly the opposite.
[ Jean Louis sits down, so Claude does the same, opposite from him, like the first time in the cafeteria, but this time it's Claude joining in. The flutes of sparkling wine, smells stronger, Italian possibly, are within reach and Claude, although he's already drunk more than he normally would, reaches for a glass, raising it to his lips before replying.
Convenience is such an ugly word to use about other people. Others should be more to you than a selfish expectation of benefit and cost. But by now, he's getting a general idea that Jean Louis sees the world in credit and debt as an inherent flaw in his worldview, in his very person, like any good liberal. Sure, they're all flawed, in politics, in life, that's part of being human, too, but some people definitely are more adamant about denying different outgroups their humanity in turn than others are. Is that a biased view? Only if it isn't true, right?
So, prove him wrong, then.
A second, it dawns on him that he still doesn't know where he's come across the Girard name before - or what role Jean Louis plays in Luxembourgian Parliament. It's less an annoyance now as it's an odd curiosity. Let him guess when he's good and ready. When he's gotten all the way underneath the other man's skin.
Drawing in a deep breath, balancing the elegant flute of glass between his fingers, he meets Jean Louis' eyes across the table, the salted nuts, the crystal. All these surfaces that give life to a home that's otherwise very big, very empty for just one person. ]
Because I'm convenient to you doesn't mean you're convenient to me.
[ His voice is soft, no admonishments, no criticism, just an observation. ]
I don't always measure my pleasures in what I can gain from them. I could walk out in five minutes and never see you again, and you'd be just as valuable to me as you were if -- [ Another pause. Claude realises belatedly, he's talked himself into a corner, if they're going to keep hinting at the why, why they're here, why Claude came. Fine, he'll own up to it. He'll put it into words first. ] -- you aren't letting me leave at all tonight.
[ You're not a bargain in the streets, it means. You're your own person and I'd like you to be mine for a little while, too. ]
[ The crystal glitters as Claude tips it to drink, light playing across his face, the tip of his nose, cheekbones. His voice is soft, still, none of that righteous indignity from their earlier conversation back in Parliament, though there's that same sense of strength to his arguments, still. It only falters at the very end and that's understandable; talking about principles is always safer ground. Jean Louis watches him for another moment, his eyes narrowing a fraction in thought before he simply nods and puts the flute down. ]
All the same, the notion of value remains. It's there, it's an inescapable aspect of human nature. Behaviour, reward.
[ Claude understands the world from a kinder perspective, perhaps, from a place where softness doesn't get you killed and putting a value on others is a matter of indulgence, of... trust or comfort. They use the same words and maybe they even mean the same things - the difference, he thinks, is about whether they're yelling those words from within the depths of an abyss or from the top of a mountain. Hard to say what's preferable of the two. A mountain, after all, is no less dangerous.
An abyss is, perhaps, the lonelier option. He'll be visiting Sicily later in the year, true, but in that place, family's just another word for the same thing.
His voice softens almost imperceptibly: ]
Then, I should say - by not letting you leave, I'd be rewarding myself.
[ They're on the same page; it happens seamlessly, again, although Claude can tell they're arriving at this destination from two very, very different directions. Nevertheless, he doesn't draw back when the other man says the words, very plainly, very clearly, he must be an interesting orator, by not letting you leave, I'd be rewarding myself. Instead, he smiles, raising his chin slightly and putting his own flute down as well, freeing his hands, opening himself up. The whole front of him, all you can see.
Here. If you want, you can have all of me. He hasn't said that to anyone, in words or otherwise since Rainier. It feels intensely frightening and intensely exhilerating. Beneath his wrinkled, party-marked shirt, his nipples are getting hard. Other parts of him are sure to follow suit soon enough.
Leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, completely casual, completely free, Claude moves himself as close to the other man as he can get at this angle and glances up at him, head slightly tilted to the side. A light shrug. ]
You'll get me as far as admitting this holds meaning, this means something - [ There are the nuts and there are the drinks and there's the small lounge which Jean Louis has built in between the concrete walls of his apartment and, just as when he imagined the other man naked, it fades into the background now. It's nothing here that holds worth, it's the air between them, everywhere they aren't yet touching. ] -- but I'm not about to go out and buy a new house for the value of it. That's not how it translates.
[ When Claude leans forward, elbows on his knees, his shirt clings to the shape of his body, giving the impression of hard muscle - typically square if not exactly muscular - and leanness. There's warm skin beneath all that burgundy silk and Jean Louis' fingers twitch a little at the thought, a corresponding heat spreading in his belly. He could. He could. It's been a year and a year is no time at all. He shifts a little in his chair, barely more than a hint of movement. That's not how it translates, says Claude, speaking about a different economy, one that doesn't count where Jean Louis goes or if it does, it's seen as an illusion, a cover for what's actually true. He thinks they understand this about each other now; the fact that Claude's patient enough to describe it to him suggests as much.
It's not that he doesn't understand. He just didn't grow up with enough fantasies.
They're very close like this. Close enough for him to lean in, raising one hand to Claude's face, fingers tracing the line of his jaw gently. Their eyes lock briefly before he looks at his lips instead, instinctively, the same way you always look ahead towards your next destination. From there, he leans in the rest of the way and kisses him, just a quick touch of lips against lips, before he withdraws a few inches. He doesn't say anything, though he thinks he'd been planning to - his mind is suddenly, abruptly, preoccupied with the scent of the other man, the damp imprint of his lips against his own. For a moment, he forgets to breathe.
It's been only a year.
But that time has, all the same, gone.
He wonders about that small pause in Claude's speech before, like he didn't want to presume and of course he didn't, he wants to enact a law about consent. Though it doesn't matter to him in a general sense, right now he wonders curiously whether he should have asked, first, whether Claude would have expected that of him. Or whether perhaps their conversation was permission enough.
Such an odd but interesting world, the world of Claude Bérubé. ]
[ The full extent of what Claude believes in regarding consent laws is for there to be affirmative, informed consent between two adult partners before they engage in sexual activity and shit, it sounds so stiff and formal, put that way, but needs must. Yeah, needs must. When Jean Louis leans closer, too, trails his fingers softly along Claude's jaw, so the sensitive skin prickles, making his breathing stutter, like there's an electrically charged bridge between them, Claude thinks he's shown his interest by putting the option into words, and he's already said yes, letting his body give itself over - none of which, of course, are things that by themselves show consent, but as an affirmation from him to Jean Louis, it does. It is. Some things must translate individually. That's what makes consent difficult. Tricky.
It's what makes sex so vulnerable and Jean Louis' lips against his own lips make him feel endlessly exposed, though he knows what he's displaying, he knows who he is, now. How it used to be doesn't have to translate to this. He decides that, he decides.
That's the part that's truly consent.
Eyes shooting up to Jean Louis' face, the strong features he bears, his forehead and cheeks, temples, jawline, nose (strong), lips (soft), he licks his lips, then. He reaches up with both hands, catching the other man's face between them, one palm against the whole right side, thumb stroking over cheekbone, the other landing near the smooth transition from neck to jut of jaw and he's all edges and expanses and soft, warm skin here. Claude just holds him like that for two seconds, then he leans in and kisses him again, tilting his head to fit, to make them slide against each other, glide and wet and slick and his breath tumbles out of his nose as he parts his lips, tongue following the trail of Jean Louis' prominent bottom lip.
It's not a hesitant kiss. Sure, he's still afraid. He still remembers, but what you remember's undeniably in the past. You can't remember forward in time. You can't remember right now, not yet.
[ It's a yes, one must presume, and the promise of more suddenly hits him with enough force to make his breath stumble out of him, Claude's mouth warm and insistent. He tastes prosecco on them both and there's something exhilerating about that idea, about the way parts of them become so similiar to be indistinguisable just by virtue of sharing such a simple thing. It's why sharing with people is hard, of course. Sometimes, it makes you blend and then, at the end when you separate again as is always the case, parts of you are inevitably lost in the process.
He's lost much of himself already. He's still here.
Eyes closing, he curls his hand against the nape of Claude's neck before following the small opening between his lips with the tip of his tongue. It's just a brief transition - as soon as he feels the other man give, he slips inside. He doesn't push too forcefully because literally no one wants to be drowned on the first kiss but he doesn't pull back quickly, either. Instead, he explores what he can easily feel of Claude's tongue, gliding over it, tasting the remnants of alcohol for a few seconds before the man's natural taste comes through.
He tastes like warmth. Softness. Inside and out, apparently.
His next breath is audible, a low moan from the very back of his throat. The urge to get more, to go deeper intensifies and he shifts again, his cock hardening quickly in his trousers. Curious and mostly on impulse, he runs his other hand up the inside of Claude's thigh slowly, inching inwards. You as well, it means, and it's a question and a command, both. He wants to feel him out, just to know. Are they following each other, still?
He likes the thought, for reasons he can't quite understand.
Undoubtedly, that too goes back to world views and perspectives. ]
[ Jean Louis tastes like alcohol, like fine, Italian sparkling wine, just like Claude imagines he does himself and it all elevates to something greater, the extension of something they've already established. What they have in common. However much he mocks liberals, cynics and boomers, Claude harbours a deep-seated belief in how the things that unite people must count for much more than that which divides them. Here, now, between them, Jean Louis and him, that is a physical fact more than a mental exercise. More than philosophy and political science. It is pure body.
It is Jean Louis' tongue skirting in between his lips, taking him when he opens up, not an overwhelming surge, but curious, interested, empathetic. Claude pushes back up against him, feels them where they slide over each other, the wet glide of muscle and the hot moistness of their breaths, mingling. His breathing stumbles out as he pushes back against the other man's mouth, opens up wider against him, not beckoning but begging him inside. Come, it means. Fill me. He'll take when it's his turn, for now it's Jean Louis leading them and Claude doesn't mind. So far, the other man hasn't taken him anywhere he'd rather not go. Anywhere he wouldn't have picked for himself, sooner or later.
There's no money, but here they are anyway. That's the value of it.
Inclining his head, to accommodate, Claude's hand slips up into the other man's hair, long strands that would fall into his eyes if he didn't slick it back like a true yuppie, like this is the 80s or early 90s, boyband era. Claude makes a light-headed, airy sound, inching forward onto the edge of his seat, to press into the hand Jean Louis is running up his inner thigh, feeling him out, muscle and flesh, skin, bone, cock. He wants to feel him, he wants to --
Breaking the kiss, panting, he spreads his legs slightly, allowing Jean Louis all the way into his intimate areas, inner thighs, crotch. Letting him feel how the semi he nursed two days ago pretty much hasn't stopped being a full hard-on since, just at the thought of him. Claude's lower abdomen is pounding, that warm spread of heat and blood pounding through your system, heart down, down, down.]
... you, too? [ His voice sounds hoarse. He glances down, but black trousers are liars most of the time, so he slowly runs his free hand from the side of Jean Louis' neck, down over chest, stomach, feeling the hard musculature of him, how lean and how well-built he feels. When he gets there, the other man is bulging.
Claude breathes out. ] You, too.
[ Palm curving carefully, gently over the feel of him, the outline of his hard cock in his trousers, he leans in again and presses their mouths together. This time, he takes. His turn. ]
[ Claude allows him - both his tongue filling his mouth and his hand, slipping up his thigh. Jean Louis immediately takes what he's offered. That's something you learn when you realise that nothing's permanent and very, very little freely given; if there's a chance, grab it.
Or a cock, in this case. He's no stranger to that, either.
Breathing hard into Claude's mouth, feeling him out, going a bit deeper, he runs his palm further in along the crease between his thigh and groin, reaching just a little to the side until the bulge of the other man's hard cock presses against his hand. He's definitely more than semi-hard at this point and so is Jean Louis; they are very much in sync, then, which feels not just fortunate but proper, as if anything else would have been an anomaly. They're still very new to each other, a small step up from strangers and the thought, consequently, is odd. It's not something one can expect and even so, his body seems to be expecting it, the sameness. As if to emphasise that train of thought, Claude runs his hand down his body, over his chest and midriff, all the way to his crotch, folding his hand over his cock as well.
His skin tingles beneath his clothes in the aftermath of Claude's touch. Here and there, ruined nerves twitch weirdly in response, the back of his left shoulder aching briefly. He rolls it, loosening the tension, though his focus barely even strays from Claude's hands, his mouth. His scent and the feel of him. It fascinates him, this togetherness and it's not just because he hasn't felt it for a long time.
It feels new.
Spreading his legs a little to give the other man space, he parts his lips and lets him explore as he wishes, feeling him out at the same time. His cock is big, bigger than average, too, and while he's no size queen, he isn't any less impressed by a big dick than most other men. Of course, Claude would be big, he thinks. He's got that energy to him. He's a man who dares to talk about feminism, consent, who dares to challenge power dynamics buried deep within the very core fabric of their society. It takes something. It takes balls.
And speaking of those.
Leaning into Claude's kiss, letting him fill out his mouth as he pleases, Jean Louis runs his hand further down, feeling out the length of Claude's cock, the heaviness of it, before he curves his hand around the outline of his balls. He holds them carefully for a moment (big, obviously - ah, he likes it when the math adds up) before withdrawing, breaking the kiss and releasing him to make eye contact. ]
Come. These chairs aren't that comfortable.
[ His voice sounds raw. He gets to his feet, his cock tenting his trousers rather visibly, and nods towards the bedroom. The frosted glass sliding door is visible from here, a faint blue glimmer of light fluttering across the floor from inside. ]
[ While his own hand stays relatively still over the bulge in Jean Louis' trousers, mostly angling his grip a bit to feel the weight of him, sense the outline of his shaft through the fabric, Jean Louis goes all out exploration. Between Claude's wide open thighs, as wide as he can go in these pants, his hand feels him out, length, girth, weight, Claude can almost feel the appreciation in how the man stays pliant and receptive to Claude's mouth, while his hand wants and wants and wants. It makes him even harder for him, his balls feeling tight and sensitive.
He's licking into the other man's mouth, soft, deep plunges of his tongue, when Jean Louis decides to cup a feel of his balls as well, the slight slip of fingers, sliding further back, making his whole asshole tighten up, like he's anticipating something he doesn't even do that often, but Jean Louis stops at his balls, folds his palm around them and Claude's breath is helplessly stuck in his throat, his skin burning everywhere. Oh. Oh.
Then, finally, the other man draws back, breaking their kiss before getting to his feet, looking at Claude and telling him, the chairs aren't optimal location, time for a shift, right? Time for a change.
A nod towards a glass door, frosted, blue light emitting from behind it. Bedroom, he's gonna assume. They're doing more than groping in Jean Louis Girard's living room, in that case. This means, they're actually gonna do this.
Claude feels too young and too nervous all of a sudden. He feels like fear might not have led him here, but it could lead him astray.
So, he puts it into words. Smiling sideways at the other man, moving up next to him and catching his left hand, interlacing their fingers slowly, he bumps Jean Louis' shoulder as he follows along towards the room in question. His tone is contemplative. ]
I rarely see any bedrooms that aren't my own. [ True, he could make a joke of it, lighten the implication that he doesn't actually -- sleep with people. Instead, he makes his point clearer, emphasising it. When they get to the door, the blue light somehow sharpening and taking a kind of shape behind the frosted surface, he releases the other man's hand and adds, ] And people rarely see mine.
[ I'm nervous, it means.
Looking up at the other man, Claude frowns for a moment, recalling their previous texting, Jean Louis telling him, not others. He doesn't ask, you too - about the nerves, about the privacy of his bedroom, because honestly? He already has and he thinks he knows where they're standing. With each other. ]
[ They head for the bedroom and it feels almost normal for a moment, like something that's happened before. It echoes back, he realises, to something that never happened here in this apartment - it's older than that, older than this particular life and when Claude takes his hand, sweet and earnest and maybe a little nervous, too, his brain connects the dots (Emilia had been sweet and earnest and she would have taken his hand, too, and in turn he would have found a different kind of strength for her, an unusual kind). He pauses briefly in his step, his breath sticking in his chest in a painful manner, pointed and sharp. Oh, he thinks, glancing down at their linked hands.
Then, he leads Claude onwards to the bedroom, sliding the door open after only a short pause. He has shown no one his bedroom since Vincent left him. People rare see mine, says Claude, mirroring his thoughts and it's getting almost eerie, how easy it is to fall into step besides him in every way that matters.
Stepping inside, the feel of Claude's fingers between his own still lingering like a physical imprint against his skin, he doesn't turn on the lights. The lights from City shines from far off in the distance and the tall aquarium running the entire length of the wall opposite the bed makes the whole room feel underwater, light trailing across the walls and the floor, moving along with the life behind the glass. ]
They're private spaces.
[ He turns away, letting Claude enter as he likes. The closet space has been built into the walls and consequently, the room looks bare, aside from the bed with its white sheets. ]
I also haven't... [ He pauses. Re-thinks his words, realising that he can't figure out any better way to say it and saying it feels crucial, like falling into step once more, keeping that particular momentum alive. ] I haven't had anyone here for a while.
[ Sliding the door aside, Jean Louis lets him enter and Claude follows closely behind, gaze sweeping the bedroom effectively - walk-in closets built into the walls, taking up no unnecessary space, white sheets on the bed, everything clean and simple and, then there's the aquarium. It spans the whole wall, its blue light bright and synthetic in the natural darkness of the hour. Past midnight. Luxembourg is still awake out there, he can tell. Lights everywhere.
When Jean Louis speaks, Claude stops the scrutiny and turns towards him, his trousers still feeling uncomfortably tight, his lower body practically calling for more. Or less, depending; less clothes, more closeness. The other man has a deep voice, dark and full of grit. He sounds very much like himself and Claude breathes in deeply when he talks about bedrooms being private. About how he, too, hasn't had anyone join him here in a long time. In his private sphere.
You, too, he thinks, walking over to the other man slowly, stopping right in front of him, looking up, the five centimeters that set them apart. Pretty much the only thing that does, it feels like right now. It's a thrilling thought, physical in nature, inherently sexual. You could fill me out and I could fill you out in turn.
Sameness.
Claude smiles. ]
There's nothing we have to show the world until we want to.
[ Reaching up with one hand, he slips his fingers into the hair by Jean Louis' temple, already loosened by his handling of it earlier, smoothening it back, yuppie-style, like Jean Louis apparently likes it, and cradles the back of the other man's head gently. Before he leans up and kisses him, hard, insistent. The wine is gone. There's only the dark-edged undertone of Jean Louis himself, the wetness of his spit, the heat of his mouth, the depth of him. It's making Claude groan into him.
Until you want to, it says. Besides, Claude and him - they're not the world, either of them. They can be something else, maybe even more than that. At least tonight. Together. ]
[ He can feel Claude taking in the room, the few, key decorations. There's a particular sort of silence associated with a stranger, taking in a strange space - inquisitive without lingering for too long, entertaining no favourites yet and no dislikes. Again, new. He turns fully, just as Claude steps up closer to him and they're face to face like this, the other man a few inches shorter. Jean Louis closes his eyes as Claude runs his fingers through his hair, feeling the strands align themselves according to his movements, whether he's willing them to lay down or to loosen. When he kisses him again, he swallows Claude's groan and takes him, pushing his tongue past his lips more forcefully, grabbing onto the back of his neck. He thinks about that, about Claude messing up his hair and opening himself, back and forth, back and forth, and there's something so inherently calming about it that he very nearly forgets why he hasn't invited anyone into his bed for the past year.
As soon as his other hand finds Claude's shirt, however, and he begins working the buttons open single-handedly, he remembers.
Despite what certain people think, Jean Louis has never been vain. It helps in many ways to be conventionally attractive and he's used that to his advantage to the full extent - and he plans on doing so, going forwards too. He just needs his skin to heal enough and he'll cover all traces of last year in ink, it'll look and be intentional and the power imbalance will right itself. All of that, yes, eventually. But tonight is not that. This is now.
And though he's undressed for many people since, the vast majority have been professionals with professional gazes.
Breaking the kiss, he uses both hands to finish opening Claude's shirt, letting the material fall to either side, revealing a flat chest (bare, no hair whatsoever - waxed, he'd say, if he were to guess) and small, hard nipples, his body firm but not very toned, like a man who takes care of himself without turning his body into any kind of project. It's nice. It goes well with the rest of him. Jean Louis steps closer, running one hand slowly up his midriff, spreading out his fingers. He flattens his hand in the middle of his chest right above his heart and slips it sideways, covering one, pink nipple underneath it. He rubs it slowly, circular motions, watching Claude's face. They don't know each other, after all. Everything's a matter of trial and error.
He's wearing a shirt. He'll need to release the other man to take it off and right now, he's leaving them unbalanced.
[ They kiss and it's good, deep, although not long enough by far.
Jean Louis steps back to undo his shirt, first one-handedly, then with both hands, like he's a little bit impatient for what he's gonna find and that thought makes Claude's heart race, his belly feel softer, warmer. His balls and cock, harder. He shifts in place as Jean Louis bares him, shirt falling open around his shoulders and arms. He'd have shrugged it off really quickly, if the other man wasn't even faster, pressing his whole, big, warm palm to Claude's midriff, following the line of his subtle musculature, the middle of his ribcage until he eventually halts by Claude's heart, perfectly on level. His fingers spread out across the spot, like a fixture. Anchoring him.
There.
Claude breathes in, out, about to reach up and just end his shirt pretty much, but Jean Louis is looking down at him. Seeing him and touching him, hand sliding sideways, over his nipple, rubbing over it slowly while the other man waits for him to react.
It's a little bit give and take. A little bit cost and benefit again and Claude isn't sure he entirely likes it this way, but his body sure doesn't care. His nipples are really sensitive, same as his balls, and everything tightens in him again at the contact of skin and heat. The rubbing feeling.
He breathes in slowly, shakily, eyes falling briefly closed before he opens them, slow and lingering, staring up at Jean Louis, not begging, but offering. He steps into his hand, presses himself all up against it. They're not where they're supposed to be, wholly and completely equal, in each other, part of each other, but the only way to get there is by not pulling away.
Finally, he reaches up first one hand, then the other, undoing his cuffs, before shrugging his shirt off completely, letting it fall to the floor, realizing he is willingly baring himself for a stranger again.
It went so well last time, after all.
Refusing to think about that, he licks his lips, his nipple completely hard between the other man's fingers. That was then, this is now. I'm half-naked, his shirt says from its discarded pile behind him, echoed by his chest, heaving a little, your turn, Girard. Arms freed, Claude pushes both hands flat against Jean Louis' still clothed stomach, fingers curling in the fabric. His breathing sounds a little bit funny, a little bit fast. ]
[ Off comes the shirt after only a little while, Claude's breathing audible between them, small puffs of breath that skitter across Jean Louis' chin and makes his own skin prickle in turn. He's pretty, Claude. If he'd cared a little less about his training, about upping his own strength in the wake of last year, Jean Louis would have looked a lot like him now, body-wise. He gives Claude's nipple another small rub, his gaze slipping along the lines of his shoulders, neck, arms. There's a spot right beneath his ear that he'd like to lick.
Claude, meanwhile, steps up to him, licking his lips and leaving them glistening. He looks up at him, pushing his hands flat against his stomach and that small touch alone makes his spine tingle, want pooling in his belly. It's mixed, however, with a sense of... apprehension. He doesn't know this body, not fully. Not as well as he did. He's never had sex like this.
The thought actually makes his face heat up and he's suddenly quite glad of his complexion which at the very least hides some of it. He tends to blush along the bridge of his nose for some unfathomable reason - like his nose isn't visible enough as it is. Sighing, he looks Claude in the eyes, seeing the small hint of a challenge there, gentle but firm. Let's go from here, it says, and that means the next step is his. Has to be.
Without stepping out of touching-distance, he frees his hands, grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head. The movement isn't entirely smooth; his left shoulder has mobility issues, still, and annoyingly, he has to compensate with the other side. He rolls the shirt up in a ball and throws it towards a small stool in the corner, uncaring whether or not it hits its mark, so long as it's out of his way. Then, he straightens, looking at Claude through the bangs of his hair, slightly unruly now from being jostled. His front isn't the worst part of it, though the ribs on his right side are jotted with burn marks, some long and thin, others circular. There's a scar, a narrow cut, down the side of his left abdomen, too, which is just plain ridiculous and pitiful. In his opinion, they didn't have to stitch it at all but alas, he'd been in no mental state to argue the finer details of his medical assistance.
Exhaling slowly, he lets himself look at Claude, forcing his focus out and away from himself. He runs one hand slowly down the side of his shoulder, over his upper arm and back up, along the length of his neck before he folds his fingers against the back of his head. ]
Claude stares up into Jean Louis' face, eyes following the strong rise of his nose and finding, for a moment, that there's a hint of red to the other man's skin, though it's honestly hard to tell. His complexion doesn't make him go bright red like Claude's does; that is, if he's actually getting flustered at all right now. Everyone does sometimes, however. Evidently, Monsieur Girard is just a bit more fortunate in regards to hiding the telltale signs. As such, Claude doesn't comment on it, not just in case his eyes are deceiving him, but because pointing out each other's nerves is neither very sexy or very fair, shivering slightly in the wake of Jean Louis fingering his nipple some more, his whole upperbody feeling wrought tight and tingling.
Whatever gives when Jean Louis sighs, and for whatever reason he's sighing in the first place, all Claude focuses on is how he lets go without stepping out of touching distance, he's not taking away Claude's ability to react, to physically respond, when he finally pulls the shirt over his head, seemingly having to fight his shoulder at a particular angle which Claude finds curious. Another mystery, along with his name, right?
After that, he forgets himself. Although their builds are pretty similar, Jean Louis' and his, Claude finds that they've tended to their bodies extremely differently. Jean Louis looks like he works out in at least a number of ways, all major muscle groups from his thighs to his pecs shaped for some kind of usability. It's the best description Claude can come up with and it doesn't sound as attractive as it really is, but it fits the man. The man who cares about convenience and value in a completely different way from him. Of course his body would look like this, toned, mastered, controlled. Claude feels want pool deep in his abdomen, waiting for Jean Louis to step up to him again, feeling himself be touched, shoulders, arms, neck, head, curve of it. In turn, he himself welcomes the other man with open hands, widely spread fingers, palms connecting with midriff, further up, chest, further up, shoulder. He's mapping out every inch of him he can reach, noticing scarring here and there, like Jean Louis has been in some unfortunate circumstances at several points in his life.
You know, Claude wouldn't be surprised.
His skin is warm, heated, hot and Claude swallows hard, looking up at Jean Louis whose hair is everywhere and he wants to touch it, but he doesn't want to stop tracing his ribs (scarring there) or feel the fine hair of the strip running from his navel and beneath the hem of his trousers. Claude's mouth waters, automatically. No, he doesn't wanna not reach up and rub his thumb over the other man's right nipple, quickly withdrawing to suck his thumb well and good before returning, circling it, finger wet and sticky from spit.
Wanting everything always leaves you with the question of where to begin. One more reason greed is problematic.
Does he care at the moment? Not at all.
When he catches Jean Louis' eyes, he notices it. He notices it and he realises he might have forgotten himself, but he's definitely forgotten the other man in the process. He's more than body. He's valuable in a non-physical, uncountable way.
And he wants him to know. So, Claude smiles, leaning up on the balls of his feet to press their foreheads together. There, he mutters, ]
I'd really fucking love to eat you. Non-cannibalistically.
[ He stands there, not as bared as he could be but certainly more than he's been for a long time. Then, Claude is on him, hands mapping out his upperbody almost greedily (hungrily) and it resonates within him so clearly that his shoulders visibly lower, his muscles relaxing. This is right, this is known. He wants to slip his other hand around Claude's waist and pull him closer and when Claude leans up and presses their foreheads together, so close that their breaths mingle and the heat of his body feels like his own, he simply gives in to himself and does it. Folding his hand against the small of Claude's back, he pulls him in, close enough that their bodies are flush up against each other. His body screams for more, like a storm rising suddenly and violently in an otherwise silent space and he makes a rough noise in his throat, tilting his head sideways and bending down to get that small spot beneath Claude's right ear.
As he mouths at the other man's neck, he manages: ]
Whatever you want, Claude, you can have.
[ The other man's name feels as soft and gentle on his tongue as everything else about him. It's amazing. He wants to drown in him. He wants to be eaten up by him and just like that, they are once more aligned with each other. Equally hungry. Equally starved, perhaps, as well. He runs his hand down the back of Claude's trousers, over his arse, grabbing onto him through his trousers and squeezing.
His own cock is definitely hard enough to make him feel lightheaded, particularly as he shifts closer, rubbing up against the bulge in Claude's trousers hard, insistently. He wants to get him into bed and feel him take up space here, maybe even claim a bit of it for himself and distantly, he's aware that ultimately, these are more pieces that he won't get back, but all of that is just pain and pain is easy.
[ It blurs, after that, a little. Claude is being pulled flush up against Jean Louis' front and their bodies, in that moment, might as well have been the same, regardless of what different training regimens they use, what means of working out they dedicate themselves to. Right now, they're dedicating themselves to each other exclusively. Nothing else matters.
Jean Louis more or less attaches himself to a spot on Claude's neck, sucking at him, licking, the light scraping of teeth and Claude is letting his head roll back to open himself up, make himself accessible, his other hand coming up to finger Jean Louis' other nipple briefly, before the other man is squeezing his butt and then, thrusting up against his crotch, pushing their cocks together. Their equally hard, wanting, affirming cocks.
That's when Claude is done just standing around here, they need the bed. They need to be naked and they need to be fucking in each other, asap. He flattens both hands over Jean Louis' pecs, pushing at his chest with every intention to get from A to B quickly, but without violence, without force. He might not have killer abdominal muscles like the other man, but he's strong enough, he can certainly move things when he wants them moved, be it in politics or in the bedroom. The gentle push is performed with a low groan for contrast, while he stalks forward, around the other man, reaching down to undo his belt and then, his trousers, toeing out of his shoes first before stepping out of the pants finally, a not particularly elegant but very effective chain of movements.
He's left in socks. Then, they go as well. Meaning, only briefs left. Supposedly, they can stay, like a teaser.
He crawls onto Jean Louis' bed, lying down and leaning back on his elbows, watching him across the room, the light from the aquarium cooling everything down by degrees, except he's still burning, here. Burning up. His cock is still straining in his underwear, everything is almost intolerably throbbing and hard.
Sounding equal parts breathless and warmly amused, he says, spreading his legs a bit, reclining in a particularly unpleasant position, but watch him give zero fucks right now. ]
You better make me think about nothing but you or I'll suddenly be asking you for some unholy alliance, based on those words, Jean Louis.
[ His nipples feel hard and overstimulated in the best of ways, even as Claude draws away, pushing him back slightly (there's that strength again, even in the most literal sense and yes, indeed, he's hungry now, he's very, very hungry). Jean Louis shifts away, watching as Claude heads for the bed, muscles in his upper back working as he undoes the rest of his clothes - trousers, shoes and socks - whilst his briefs hang on, clinging to the outline of his hard cock in a way that makes him seem naked even whilst wearing them. Jean Louis watches him, lets it be a show for a moment, until the man looks up at him from the bed, legs spread and everything on perfect display and tells him to make me think about nothing but you and his gaze darkens, his body aching to get a move on.
On a harsh exhalation, his breath trembling out of him, he quickly abandons the rest of his clothes - unlike Claude, he isn't wearing shoes and the rest is easily done away with. When he gets to his boxers, he pauses, meeting Claude's gaze across the distance and raising one eyebrow very slightly. ]
Mm. Maybe I'm in the market for one.
[ Without further ado, he drops his boxers as well, baring himself completely. He gives Claude a chance to look - because why wouldn't he, Jean Louis is certainly looking his fill the other way - before he gets on the bed as well. His cock feels heavy, unusually so, against his belly and he realises he actually hasn't had a hard-on for a year, either, imagine that. There are many strange firsts tonight and it's actually a bit concerning that he hadn't considered that beforehand.
It's sheer luck, probably, that he's doing this with Claude and not someone he'd have to throw out within minutes at best. That would have been a story they could tell, presumably, and whilst gossip isn't as dangerous as some people think, it's annoying when it happens out of sync with your own planning.
On his hands and knees, he balances with his arms on either side of Claude's body and crawls up, foregoing his cock for now and bending his neck to lick a fat trail up the middle of his chest, all the way to his left collarbone. From there, he mouths his way up the side of his neck until he finds his lips again, going straight for them and pushing inside, wanting to reconnect, to melt them together. ]
[ Maybe I'm in the market for one, Jean Louis says, discarding the rest of his clothes, baring himself to the skin, the boxers slipping to the floor in a whisper of satin and Claude looks, he looks and looks and looks, noticing the depth of some of his scarring, the curious placement, the curious shape. Someone here is accident-prone. That's what happens with unholy alliances, he's heard. Even so, Claude's own body answers, I'll take it, I'll take all of you and he can't remember when he last met someone in the sexual sphere like this. He's had sex, he's dated, he's given himself over, but he hasn't given himself over with this kind of abandon for a long time (he remembers how long, it just doesn't matter). Rainier gets to define exactly shit anymore.
Right now, his body is willing and his mind is willing right along with it and Claude drowns a little in it, in the feeling of wanting to submit, while simultaneously wanting to have, to take, to own. The perfect full circle of that kind of desire.
Jean Louis' cock is full and hard and bobbing gently against his abdomen, curving upwards in a nice, even line. Thick, dark, throbbing from the blood flow telling on him, exactly how much he wants Claude right now. Claude feels himself tremble as the other man starts towards the bed, a moment of oh shit, this is real followed by a meeker, it better be, it has to, come here. He wants to eat him, be eaten, be devoured, stop existing, be one with his body. That's what he wants.
Climbing over him, the other man leans in over his body, the body he wants to merge so fucking badly, Claude easing down into a more comfortable position on his back, reaching enthusiastically up with both hands to run his hands up his sides, ribcage, over his lower back (more scarring, really accident-prone, huh) from behind to his shoulders, in time with Jean Louis dipping his head, licking a trail from his chest over his collarbone, up his neck. He doesn't try tempering his breath, letting it tumble out of him as it wants, uneven, shaking, a little bit erratic. When Jean Louis kisses him, pushing into him, Claude parting his lips for him, welcoming him in, the fingers of his one hand connects with a large spread of scar tissue along the other man's shoulder blade. He can't see, but as he maps it out, it feels huge, deeply set and jagged, uneven, not clean and clinical.
Accident-prone?
His own cock throbs hard in his briefs, the thin fabric feeling like teasing against the exposed head. He can tell he's leaking precum absolutely everywhere. With a groan, he arches up against the other man's front, wanting to meet him in that, not in the accidents and not in the past, but in how they're both running to leave it behind, high-speed. Together. ]
[ It goes to his head - quickly; the sense of physical proximity, of having another person so close, a person who doesn't feel dangerous in any way but strong, regardless. For some reason, by some obscure, inexplicable logic, it's possible to be one without the other. It's nothing that he knows on a personal level, of course, but he sees it sometimes, in others. Strength. No danger.
His nervous system is choking on itself now, the stress of the past year searching desperately for purchase because fear wants to confirm itself, always, and right now he's going in the distinctively opposite direction. He wants Claude. He wants to have him, to let him have him in return and it feels like something they're both re-learning, though they don't know each other's stories. It's an instinctual sort of knowledge, not unlike the feeling you get when you look in a mirror and know with absolute certainty that you're looking at yourself. So as he moves down, kissing his way across Claude's broad chest, no chest hair, just soft, smooth skin, he can feel the fear being pushed back into its proper place.
It's exhilarating.
Claude runs his hands up his sides, his touch warm. As his fingers run over the deeper scar tissue on his shoulder blade (completely, utterly annoying, that those absolute idiots couldn't even do what they did without fucking up, Eastern European quality check right there), his body twitches lightly, particularly the muscles in his left upper arm. The nerves in that area are strange. Claude's fingers feel gentle and warm, regardless. He closes his eyes briefly, breathing in, taking in the other man's movements beneath him, the rise and fall of his chest. This is now. And the rest looks so small from where they're standing now, so tiny, that in a moment or two they'll probably have to strain to see it.
He re-focuses, finds Claude's other nipple - sadly neglected until now - and leans down, giving it a couple of good licks. His body tastes heavily of salt and his cock jerks in response. Mm. They can be non-cannibalistic together, can't they? Shifting, he places another row of kisses down the middle of Claude's chest, moving down, feeling the muscles in his midriff beneath his lips. Further down, Claude's hard cock brushes against the underside of his throat whenever he moves in a certain way - trapped, still, beneath his briefs. About to reach for his underwear, on an impulse, he looks up from what he's doing, hands stilling against the other man's hips, intent on catching his eyes and not completely certain why, exactly, that is.
[ It doesn't escape his attention, the way his touch to the ruined areas across Jean Louis' shoulder blade causes a few muscles in the other man's upper arm to twitch, it's not something he lingers on, their stories are their own, but he notices and he thinks, careful, understand and that's it. As Jean Louis starts moving down his chest, making his heart race in double time, he just flattens his palm over the place, feeling the unevenness of the skin, flesh there and holding it, protecting it from the world around them. That's the only right response, he knows. He has no ruined places on the outside of him, but he's got enough on the inside to be absolutely sure. You protect and you embrace. Neither without the other.
Therapy has taught him that much.
So, he holds on and he arches up against Jean Louis' lips, his tongue, his mouth, the heat of him when he licks at his other nipple, making it harden fast, feeling like a whole full contraction of that one point on his body. Other parts contracting in response. His lower body's tight and responsive, perking, zinging. His cock jerks in his briefs. He can't actually see, but he'll venture a guess, even the black colour of the fabric can't hide the spots of his arousal. Jean Louis keeps working his way downwards and it dawns on him that he forgot his condoms in his left trouser pocket and there's a moment's quick assessment of the situation. He should just ask Jean Louis if he's got any, and if not he should just go get them, it's a two minute interruption. Still, the part of his brain drowning in his own want is trying to convince him it doesn't matter, Jean Louis hasn't -- he said, there hasn't been anyone for a while... and Claude's most likely clean himself...
Luckily, at that point, Jean Louis hesitates, fuck, just above crotch-level and Claude shifts beneath him, impatiently, his breathing coming out in little pants. It's the hesitation, though, the way the other man looks up at him, like waiting for his get-go, that reminds Claude his principles and his concerns for his own well-being will always override any desire he also embodies to simply do what's easiest, quickest, immediate gain. And this time, it was someone else who thought the thought first. About him. His well-being.
Claude's cock throbs. He huffs out a hard breath and eases up on one elbow, looking down into Jean Louis' expectant face. ]
Shit. You have condoms? I forgot mine in my trousers.
[ I forget myself around you, it implies. I want you that much. While at the same time assuring the other man, he's got protection if Jean Louis doesn't, it's not a deal-breaker in that way. They'll proceed. One way or the other.
[ Oh, yes. That. Under normal circumstances, he never has unprotected sex - even with Emilia, they'd had an open relationship and consequently, frequent testing had not been enough. He shifts onto his knees fully, his gaze flickering downwards. Claude's cock is visibly leaking in his briefs and he licks his lips before he can think about it. He could have, without. Tonight, they both could have made that jump, though it's a stupid risk to run and something that's a bit beneath them, he thinks. Yes, that's why he looked up. He doesn't want them degraded, not Claude and not himself. There's been enough of that.
Nodding, he rolls off him to crouch by the side of the bed, reaching for a seemingly random place on the bedframe close to the head of the bed. As his fingers skirt over one specific spot, a hidden compartment opens. It's small, containing a few chargers, some loose, unwrapped pills (street-bought morphine, he should probably get rid of those, actually) and yes, packs of condoms and lube. Grabbing what he came for, he shuts the compartment and gets back on the bed, taking care not to knee Claude anywhere unfortunate as he takes his place between his legs once more. ]
So, Claude. [ He looks down at the other man, smiling slightly, one eyebrow quirking upwards. ] This is a good time for you to tell me what you'd like.
[ He opens the condom (tasteless, thankfully, why the fuck would you want your cock to taste like strawberries or vanilla or whichever?) and sits back om his haunches, his own cock hard against his stomach still. It's honestly hard enough that his balls are starting to ache but he's a patient man, he wants most, not fastest. He folds one hand gently over the bulge in Claude's briefs - much too gently, he knows, to be satisfying in any way at this point - and rubs it slowly, just feeling him out again, feeding himself on a tactile level on top of the lovely visual he's already getting just by being here. By having Claude in his bed.
It's hard to say how they got here, really. It just happened. From one moment to the next, like stepping out of one reality and into another. The light from the aquarium shimmers across Claude's chest and lower abdomen, making his skin seem light. Otherworldly.
He hasn't believed in fairy tales for a long, long time. ]
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no subject
When the car pulls up outside the warehouse, he pours two glasses of semi-expensive, Italian prosecco and sets them on a small, black tray, along with a bowl of salted nuts. He leaves the arrangement on the low stone table in the corner lounge - a section of his living room slightly separated from the rest, decked out with two comfortable chairs overlooking the vast darkness immediately outside the warehouse and the cityscape further out, glittering against the sky. It's a pretty view. The entire apartment is like that, of course, because he can't stand feeling boxed in. He flips on the small LED tealights scattered around the space - clusters of three, typically - and heads for the entrance just as the lift activates.
Claude steps inside from outside and suddenly, the room changes.
He pauses briefly in his step, looking at him. Living and breathing and throwing the otherwise silent status quo of his living space completely off its normal course. Breath stumbling for a split-second, he smiles very slightly and straightens himself. ]
No?
[ He gestures towards the living room area, partially hidden from sight by concrete walls. ]
So even socialists have preconceptions. [ He pauses a few feet away, looking Claude over maybe a little blatantly. He's a beautiful man, why wouldn't he. He raises one eyebrow at his deep, burgundy shirt - even he can see that it's a great colour on him - and the faint wrinkles in the fabric. ] Good thing you know how to party.
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[ Could work as a reply to both observations, really. Claude smiles, meeting the other man's eyes for a moment as he's being looked over, openly acknowledging that's what's happening. He's being sized up, pretty much. In return, he looks Jean Louis over as well, takes in his more muted colours, the Armani logo (brand man, then?) and the black trousers, all things that track with the interior of his apartment. He's a cohesive picture, is Jean Louis Girard. The question is probably more whether you like what you see or not. Claude imagines there are many different answers to that.
Himself, he's spent the past three hours, at least, trying to gauge when the right time to text would be, in between dances with female colleages and drinks with the guys, because socialists aren't above blatant sexism, let's be real. Human, like he said. Very human.
Moving over to Jean Louis, Claude leaves his dinner jacket over the back of a nearby dining chair, reminding himself gently not to forget it on the way out. When that time comes. Whenever it comes. He isn't pretending that he isn't attracted to the other man, lots of attraction, lots of intense urges to be closer, to look, to feel, but preconceptions aside, he doesn't expect anything of the night either. He isn't counting on them fucking, although he's pretty sure Jean Louis is giving every sign. Just as he isn't counting on them not fucking. If it happens, it happens.
His therapist would be so utterly proud of him. They've been working on the casual intimacy thing quite a bit.
Still, it's leaving him feeling slightly nervous.
The small, secluded part of the living room, walled in with low walls, lots of electric tealights and drinks set out, is nice, nice view, nice size, nice sense of comfort. Stepping past the other man to get a better view of it, Claude tries to imagine Jean Louis sitting here on Sunday mornings, preferably in nothing, but ends up mostly just focusing on the image of Jean Louis in nothing, the living room fading well and truly into the background. Turning around to face the other man, his reaction to his own thoughts is subdued to a slight heat in his cheeks, nothing overly telltale. Claude is learning to curb his feelings, still a work in progress, but he's practicing.
If this space feels safe enough to practice in, that says a lot. ]
And it wasn't fear or convenience that led me here.
[ There are other aspects to being human. Like there should be other aspects to being a politician. Like, the two should be one and the same thing. ]
no subject
That, too, is human.
He follows behind the other man, hearing the familiar beeps of the elevator locks activating as he leaves. In addition to his guards, the area surrounding the warehouse is well-secured - the apartment itself, not so much. He doesn't want cameras in his life, after all, they'd be filming him more than anything else and that's not the kind of data he wants to collect.
Claude should, perhaps, have looked out of place amidst the sleek surfaces and glass exterior of his home but somehow, he doesn't. As he stands there in the small lounge area, the cityscape stretched out behind him in the distance, he looks more like something that's been missing. A necessary contrast. Jean Louis takes a seat by the table and takes one of the glasses - crystal flutes, a birthday gift from the youth party, back when he'd turned twenty - looking up at Claude over the edge. ]
You sound very certain. [ A small sip. ] Fear, perhaps not, but why not convenience? This is hardly the opposite.
no subject
Convenience is such an ugly word to use about other people. Others should be more to you than a selfish expectation of benefit and cost. But by now, he's getting a general idea that Jean Louis sees the world in credit and debt as an inherent flaw in his worldview, in his very person, like any good liberal. Sure, they're all flawed, in politics, in life, that's part of being human, too, but some people definitely are more adamant about denying different outgroups their humanity in turn than others are. Is that a biased view? Only if it isn't true, right?
So, prove him wrong, then.
A second, it dawns on him that he still doesn't know where he's come across the Girard name before - or what role Jean Louis plays in Luxembourgian Parliament. It's less an annoyance now as it's an odd curiosity. Let him guess when he's good and ready. When he's gotten all the way underneath the other man's skin.
Drawing in a deep breath, balancing the elegant flute of glass between his fingers, he meets Jean Louis' eyes across the table, the salted nuts, the crystal. All these surfaces that give life to a home that's otherwise very big, very empty for just one person. ]
Because I'm convenient to you doesn't mean you're convenient to me.
[ His voice is soft, no admonishments, no criticism, just an observation. ]
I don't always measure my pleasures in what I can gain from them. I could walk out in five minutes and never see you again, and you'd be just as valuable to me as you were if -- [ Another pause. Claude realises belatedly, he's talked himself into a corner, if they're going to keep hinting at the why, why they're here, why Claude came. Fine, he'll own up to it. He'll put it into words first. ] -- you aren't letting me leave at all tonight.
[ You're not a bargain in the streets, it means. You're your own person and I'd like you to be mine for a little while, too. ]
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All the same, the notion of value remains. It's there, it's an inescapable aspect of human nature. Behaviour, reward.
[ Claude understands the world from a kinder perspective, perhaps, from a place where softness doesn't get you killed and putting a value on others is a matter of indulgence, of... trust or comfort. They use the same words and maybe they even mean the same things - the difference, he thinks, is about whether they're yelling those words from within the depths of an abyss or from the top of a mountain. Hard to say what's preferable of the two. A mountain, after all, is no less dangerous.
An abyss is, perhaps, the lonelier option. He'll be visiting Sicily later in the year, true, but in that place, family's just another word for the same thing.
His voice softens almost imperceptibly: ]
Then, I should say - by not letting you leave, I'd be rewarding myself.
no subject
Here. If you want, you can have all of me. He hasn't said that to anyone, in words or otherwise since Rainier. It feels intensely frightening and intensely exhilerating. Beneath his wrinkled, party-marked shirt, his nipples are getting hard. Other parts of him are sure to follow suit soon enough.
Leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, completely casual, completely free, Claude moves himself as close to the other man as he can get at this angle and glances up at him, head slightly tilted to the side. A light shrug. ]
You'll get me as far as admitting this holds meaning, this means something - [ There are the nuts and there are the drinks and there's the small lounge which Jean Louis has built in between the concrete walls of his apartment and, just as when he imagined the other man naked, it fades into the background now. It's nothing here that holds worth, it's the air between them, everywhere they aren't yet touching. ] -- but I'm not about to go out and buy a new house for the value of it. That's not how it translates.
no subject
It's not that he doesn't understand. He just didn't grow up with enough fantasies.
They're very close like this. Close enough for him to lean in, raising one hand to Claude's face, fingers tracing the line of his jaw gently. Their eyes lock briefly before he looks at his lips instead, instinctively, the same way you always look ahead towards your next destination. From there, he leans in the rest of the way and kisses him, just a quick touch of lips against lips, before he withdraws a few inches. He doesn't say anything, though he thinks he'd been planning to - his mind is suddenly, abruptly, preoccupied with the scent of the other man, the damp imprint of his lips against his own. For a moment, he forgets to breathe.
It's been only a year.
But that time has, all the same, gone.
He wonders about that small pause in Claude's speech before, like he didn't want to presume and of course he didn't, he wants to enact a law about consent. Though it doesn't matter to him in a general sense, right now he wonders curiously whether he should have asked, first, whether Claude would have expected that of him. Or whether perhaps their conversation was permission enough.
Such an odd but interesting world, the world of Claude Bérubé. ]
no subject
It's what makes sex so vulnerable and Jean Louis' lips against his own lips make him feel endlessly exposed, though he knows what he's displaying, he knows who he is, now. How it used to be doesn't have to translate to this. He decides that, he decides.
That's the part that's truly consent.
Eyes shooting up to Jean Louis' face, the strong features he bears, his forehead and cheeks, temples, jawline, nose (strong), lips (soft), he licks his lips, then. He reaches up with both hands, catching the other man's face between them, one palm against the whole right side, thumb stroking over cheekbone, the other landing near the smooth transition from neck to jut of jaw and he's all edges and expanses and soft, warm skin here. Claude just holds him like that for two seconds, then he leans in and kisses him again, tilting his head to fit, to make them slide against each other, glide and wet and slick and his breath tumbles out of his nose as he parts his lips, tongue following the trail of Jean Louis' prominent bottom lip.
It's not a hesitant kiss. Sure, he's still afraid. He still remembers, but what you remember's undeniably in the past. You can't remember forward in time. You can't remember right now, not yet.
It's gone.
And this means something. ]
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He's lost much of himself already. He's still here.
Eyes closing, he curls his hand against the nape of Claude's neck before following the small opening between his lips with the tip of his tongue. It's just a brief transition - as soon as he feels the other man give, he slips inside. He doesn't push too forcefully because literally no one wants to be drowned on the first kiss but he doesn't pull back quickly, either. Instead, he explores what he can easily feel of Claude's tongue, gliding over it, tasting the remnants of alcohol for a few seconds before the man's natural taste comes through.
He tastes like warmth. Softness. Inside and out, apparently.
His next breath is audible, a low moan from the very back of his throat. The urge to get more, to go deeper intensifies and he shifts again, his cock hardening quickly in his trousers. Curious and mostly on impulse, he runs his other hand up the inside of Claude's thigh slowly, inching inwards. You as well, it means, and it's a question and a command, both. He wants to feel him out, just to know. Are they following each other, still?
He likes the thought, for reasons he can't quite understand.
Undoubtedly, that too goes back to world views and perspectives. ]
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It is Jean Louis' tongue skirting in between his lips, taking him when he opens up, not an overwhelming surge, but curious, interested, empathetic. Claude pushes back up against him, feels them where they slide over each other, the wet glide of muscle and the hot moistness of their breaths, mingling. His breathing stumbles out as he pushes back against the other man's mouth, opens up wider against him, not beckoning but begging him inside. Come, it means. Fill me. He'll take when it's his turn, for now it's Jean Louis leading them and Claude doesn't mind. So far, the other man hasn't taken him anywhere he'd rather not go. Anywhere he wouldn't have picked for himself, sooner or later.
There's no money, but here they are anyway. That's the value of it.
Inclining his head, to accommodate, Claude's hand slips up into the other man's hair, long strands that would fall into his eyes if he didn't slick it back like a true yuppie, like this is the 80s or early 90s, boyband era. Claude makes a light-headed, airy sound, inching forward onto the edge of his seat, to press into the hand Jean Louis is running up his inner thigh, feeling him out, muscle and flesh, skin, bone, cock. He wants to feel him, he wants to --
Breaking the kiss, panting, he spreads his legs slightly, allowing Jean Louis all the way into his intimate areas, inner thighs, crotch. Letting him feel how the semi he nursed two days ago pretty much hasn't stopped being a full hard-on since, just at the thought of him. Claude's lower abdomen is pounding, that warm spread of heat and blood pounding through your system, heart down, down, down.]
... you, too? [ His voice sounds hoarse. He glances down, but black trousers are liars most of the time, so he slowly runs his free hand from the side of Jean Louis' neck, down over chest, stomach, feeling the hard musculature of him, how lean and how well-built he feels. When he gets there, the other man is bulging.
Claude breathes out. ] You, too.
[ Palm curving carefully, gently over the feel of him, the outline of his hard cock in his trousers, he leans in again and presses their mouths together. This time, he takes. His turn. ]
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Or a cock, in this case. He's no stranger to that, either.
Breathing hard into Claude's mouth, feeling him out, going a bit deeper, he runs his palm further in along the crease between his thigh and groin, reaching just a little to the side until the bulge of the other man's hard cock presses against his hand. He's definitely more than semi-hard at this point and so is Jean Louis; they are very much in sync, then, which feels not just fortunate but proper, as if anything else would have been an anomaly. They're still very new to each other, a small step up from strangers and the thought, consequently, is odd. It's not something one can expect and even so, his body seems to be expecting it, the sameness. As if to emphasise that train of thought, Claude runs his hand down his body, over his chest and midriff, all the way to his crotch, folding his hand over his cock as well.
His skin tingles beneath his clothes in the aftermath of Claude's touch. Here and there, ruined nerves twitch weirdly in response, the back of his left shoulder aching briefly. He rolls it, loosening the tension, though his focus barely even strays from Claude's hands, his mouth. His scent and the feel of him. It fascinates him, this togetherness and it's not just because he hasn't felt it for a long time.
It feels new.
Spreading his legs a little to give the other man space, he parts his lips and lets him explore as he wishes, feeling him out at the same time. His cock is big, bigger than average, too, and while he's no size queen, he isn't any less impressed by a big dick than most other men. Of course, Claude would be big, he thinks. He's got that energy to him. He's a man who dares to talk about feminism, consent, who dares to challenge power dynamics buried deep within the very core fabric of their society. It takes something. It takes balls.
And speaking of those.
Leaning into Claude's kiss, letting him fill out his mouth as he pleases, Jean Louis runs his hand further down, feeling out the length of Claude's cock, the heaviness of it, before he curves his hand around the outline of his balls. He holds them carefully for a moment (big, obviously - ah, he likes it when the math adds up) before withdrawing, breaking the kiss and releasing him to make eye contact. ]
Come. These chairs aren't that comfortable.
[ His voice sounds raw. He gets to his feet, his cock tenting his trousers rather visibly, and nods towards the bedroom. The frosted glass sliding door is visible from here, a faint blue glimmer of light fluttering across the floor from inside. ]
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He's licking into the other man's mouth, soft, deep plunges of his tongue, when Jean Louis decides to cup a feel of his balls as well, the slight slip of fingers, sliding further back, making his whole asshole tighten up, like he's anticipating something he doesn't even do that often, but Jean Louis stops at his balls, folds his palm around them and Claude's breath is helplessly stuck in his throat, his skin burning everywhere. Oh. Oh.
Then, finally, the other man draws back, breaking their kiss before getting to his feet, looking at Claude and telling him, the chairs aren't optimal location, time for a shift, right? Time for a change.
A nod towards a glass door, frosted, blue light emitting from behind it. Bedroom, he's gonna assume. They're doing more than groping in Jean Louis Girard's living room, in that case. This means, they're actually gonna do this.
Claude feels too young and too nervous all of a sudden. He feels like fear might not have led him here, but it could lead him astray.
So, he puts it into words. Smiling sideways at the other man, moving up next to him and catching his left hand, interlacing their fingers slowly, he bumps Jean Louis' shoulder as he follows along towards the room in question. His tone is contemplative. ]
I rarely see any bedrooms that aren't my own. [ True, he could make a joke of it, lighten the implication that he doesn't actually -- sleep with people. Instead, he makes his point clearer, emphasising it. When they get to the door, the blue light somehow sharpening and taking a kind of shape behind the frosted surface, he releases the other man's hand and adds, ] And people rarely see mine.
[ I'm nervous, it means.
Looking up at the other man, Claude frowns for a moment, recalling their previous texting, Jean Louis telling him, not others. He doesn't ask, you too - about the nerves, about the privacy of his bedroom, because honestly? He already has and he thinks he knows where they're standing. With each other. ]
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Then, he leads Claude onwards to the bedroom, sliding the door open after only a short pause. He has shown no one his bedroom since Vincent left him. People rare see mine, says Claude, mirroring his thoughts and it's getting almost eerie, how easy it is to fall into step besides him in every way that matters.
Stepping inside, the feel of Claude's fingers between his own still lingering like a physical imprint against his skin, he doesn't turn on the lights. The lights from City shines from far off in the distance and the tall aquarium running the entire length of the wall opposite the bed makes the whole room feel underwater, light trailing across the walls and the floor, moving along with the life behind the glass. ]
They're private spaces.
[ He turns away, letting Claude enter as he likes. The closet space has been built into the walls and consequently, the room looks bare, aside from the bed with its white sheets. ]
I also haven't... [ He pauses. Re-thinks his words, realising that he can't figure out any better way to say it and saying it feels crucial, like falling into step once more, keeping that particular momentum alive. ] I haven't had anyone here for a while.
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When Jean Louis speaks, Claude stops the scrutiny and turns towards him, his trousers still feeling uncomfortably tight, his lower body practically calling for more. Or less, depending; less clothes, more closeness. The other man has a deep voice, dark and full of grit. He sounds very much like himself and Claude breathes in deeply when he talks about bedrooms being private. About how he, too, hasn't had anyone join him here in a long time. In his private sphere.
You, too, he thinks, walking over to the other man slowly, stopping right in front of him, looking up, the five centimeters that set them apart. Pretty much the only thing that does, it feels like right now. It's a thrilling thought, physical in nature, inherently sexual. You could fill me out and I could fill you out in turn.
Sameness.
Claude smiles. ]
There's nothing we have to show the world until we want to.
[ Reaching up with one hand, he slips his fingers into the hair by Jean Louis' temple, already loosened by his handling of it earlier, smoothening it back, yuppie-style, like Jean Louis apparently likes it, and cradles the back of the other man's head gently. Before he leans up and kisses him, hard, insistent. The wine is gone. There's only the dark-edged undertone of Jean Louis himself, the wetness of his spit, the heat of his mouth, the depth of him. It's making Claude groan into him.
Until you want to, it says. Besides, Claude and him - they're not the world, either of them. They can be something else, maybe even more than that. At least tonight. Together. ]
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As soon as his other hand finds Claude's shirt, however, and he begins working the buttons open single-handedly, he remembers.
Despite what certain people think, Jean Louis has never been vain. It helps in many ways to be conventionally attractive and he's used that to his advantage to the full extent - and he plans on doing so, going forwards too. He just needs his skin to heal enough and he'll cover all traces of last year in ink, it'll look and be intentional and the power imbalance will right itself. All of that, yes, eventually. But tonight is not that. This is now.
And though he's undressed for many people since, the vast majority have been professionals with professional gazes.
Breaking the kiss, he uses both hands to finish opening Claude's shirt, letting the material fall to either side, revealing a flat chest (bare, no hair whatsoever - waxed, he'd say, if he were to guess) and small, hard nipples, his body firm but not very toned, like a man who takes care of himself without turning his body into any kind of project. It's nice. It goes well with the rest of him. Jean Louis steps closer, running one hand slowly up his midriff, spreading out his fingers. He flattens his hand in the middle of his chest right above his heart and slips it sideways, covering one, pink nipple underneath it. He rubs it slowly, circular motions, watching Claude's face. They don't know each other, after all. Everything's a matter of trial and error.
He's wearing a shirt. He'll need to release the other man to take it off and right now, he's leaving them unbalanced.
He's aware. ]
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Jean Louis steps back to undo his shirt, first one-handedly, then with both hands, like he's a little bit impatient for what he's gonna find and that thought makes Claude's heart race, his belly feel softer, warmer. His balls and cock, harder. He shifts in place as Jean Louis bares him, shirt falling open around his shoulders and arms. He'd have shrugged it off really quickly, if the other man wasn't even faster, pressing his whole, big, warm palm to Claude's midriff, following the line of his subtle musculature, the middle of his ribcage until he eventually halts by Claude's heart, perfectly on level. His fingers spread out across the spot, like a fixture. Anchoring him.
There.
Claude breathes in, out, about to reach up and just end his shirt pretty much, but Jean Louis is looking down at him. Seeing him and touching him, hand sliding sideways, over his nipple, rubbing over it slowly while the other man waits for him to react.
It's a little bit give and take. A little bit cost and benefit again and Claude isn't sure he entirely likes it this way, but his body sure doesn't care. His nipples are really sensitive, same as his balls, and everything tightens in him again at the contact of skin and heat. The rubbing feeling.
He breathes in slowly, shakily, eyes falling briefly closed before he opens them, slow and lingering, staring up at Jean Louis, not begging, but offering. He steps into his hand, presses himself all up against it. They're not where they're supposed to be, wholly and completely equal, in each other, part of each other, but the only way to get there is by not pulling away.
Finally, he reaches up first one hand, then the other, undoing his cuffs, before shrugging his shirt off completely, letting it fall to the floor, realizing he is willingly baring himself for a stranger again.
It went so well last time, after all.
Refusing to think about that, he licks his lips, his nipple completely hard between the other man's fingers. That was then, this is now. I'm half-naked, his shirt says from its discarded pile behind him, echoed by his chest, heaving a little, your turn, Girard. Arms freed, Claude pushes both hands flat against Jean Louis' still clothed stomach, fingers curling in the fabric. His breathing sounds a little bit funny, a little bit fast. ]
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Claude, meanwhile, steps up to him, licking his lips and leaving them glistening. He looks up at him, pushing his hands flat against his stomach and that small touch alone makes his spine tingle, want pooling in his belly. It's mixed, however, with a sense of... apprehension. He doesn't know this body, not fully. Not as well as he did. He's never had sex like this.
The thought actually makes his face heat up and he's suddenly quite glad of his complexion which at the very least hides some of it. He tends to blush along the bridge of his nose for some unfathomable reason - like his nose isn't visible enough as it is. Sighing, he looks Claude in the eyes, seeing the small hint of a challenge there, gentle but firm. Let's go from here, it says, and that means the next step is his. Has to be.
Without stepping out of touching-distance, he frees his hands, grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head. The movement isn't entirely smooth; his left shoulder has mobility issues, still, and annoyingly, he has to compensate with the other side. He rolls the shirt up in a ball and throws it towards a small stool in the corner, uncaring whether or not it hits its mark, so long as it's out of his way. Then, he straightens, looking at Claude through the bangs of his hair, slightly unruly now from being jostled. His front isn't the worst part of it, though the ribs on his right side are jotted with burn marks, some long and thin, others circular. There's a scar, a narrow cut, down the side of his left abdomen, too, which is just plain ridiculous and pitiful. In his opinion, they didn't have to stitch it at all but alas, he'd been in no mental state to argue the finer details of his medical assistance.
Exhaling slowly, he lets himself look at Claude, forcing his focus out and away from himself. He runs one hand slowly down the side of his shoulder, over his upper arm and back up, along the length of his neck before he folds his fingers against the back of his head. ]
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Claude stares up into Jean Louis' face, eyes following the strong rise of his nose and finding, for a moment, that there's a hint of red to the other man's skin, though it's honestly hard to tell. His complexion doesn't make him go bright red like Claude's does; that is, if he's actually getting flustered at all right now. Everyone does sometimes, however. Evidently, Monsieur Girard is just a bit more fortunate in regards to hiding the telltale signs. As such, Claude doesn't comment on it, not just in case his eyes are deceiving him, but because pointing out each other's nerves is neither very sexy or very fair, shivering slightly in the wake of Jean Louis fingering his nipple some more, his whole upperbody feeling wrought tight and tingling.
Whatever gives when Jean Louis sighs, and for whatever reason he's sighing in the first place, all Claude focuses on is how he lets go without stepping out of touching distance, he's not taking away Claude's ability to react, to physically respond, when he finally pulls the shirt over his head, seemingly having to fight his shoulder at a particular angle which Claude finds curious. Another mystery, along with his name, right?
After that, he forgets himself. Although their builds are pretty similar, Jean Louis' and his, Claude finds that they've tended to their bodies extremely differently. Jean Louis looks like he works out in at least a number of ways, all major muscle groups from his thighs to his pecs shaped for some kind of usability. It's the best description Claude can come up with and it doesn't sound as attractive as it really is, but it fits the man. The man who cares about convenience and value in a completely different way from him. Of course his body would look like this, toned, mastered, controlled. Claude feels want pool deep in his abdomen, waiting for Jean Louis to step up to him again, feeling himself be touched, shoulders, arms, neck, head, curve of it. In turn, he himself welcomes the other man with open hands, widely spread fingers, palms connecting with midriff, further up, chest, further up, shoulder. He's mapping out every inch of him he can reach, noticing scarring here and there, like Jean Louis has been in some unfortunate circumstances at several points in his life.
You know, Claude wouldn't be surprised.
His skin is warm, heated, hot and Claude swallows hard, looking up at Jean Louis whose hair is everywhere and he wants to touch it, but he doesn't want to stop tracing his ribs (scarring there) or feel the fine hair of the strip running from his navel and beneath the hem of his trousers. Claude's mouth waters, automatically. No, he doesn't wanna not reach up and rub his thumb over the other man's right nipple, quickly withdrawing to suck his thumb well and good before returning, circling it, finger wet and sticky from spit.
Wanting everything always leaves you with the question of where to begin. One more reason greed is problematic.
Does he care at the moment? Not at all.
When he catches Jean Louis' eyes, he notices it. He notices it and he realises he might have forgotten himself, but he's definitely forgotten the other man in the process. He's more than body. He's valuable in a non-physical, uncountable way.
And he wants him to know. So, Claude smiles, leaning up on the balls of his feet to press their foreheads together. There, he mutters, ]
I'd really fucking love to eat you. Non-cannibalistically.
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As he mouths at the other man's neck, he manages: ]
Whatever you want, Claude, you can have.
[ The other man's name feels as soft and gentle on his tongue as everything else about him. It's amazing. He wants to drown in him. He wants to be eaten up by him and just like that, they are once more aligned with each other. Equally hungry. Equally starved, perhaps, as well. He runs his hand down the back of Claude's trousers, over his arse, grabbing onto him through his trousers and squeezing.
His own cock is definitely hard enough to make him feel lightheaded, particularly as he shifts closer, rubbing up against the bulge in Claude's trousers hard, insistently. He wants to get him into bed and feel him take up space here, maybe even claim a bit of it for himself and distantly, he's aware that ultimately, these are more pieces that he won't get back, but all of that is just pain and pain is easy.
Yeah. They really should get to bed. ]
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Jean Louis more or less attaches himself to a spot on Claude's neck, sucking at him, licking, the light scraping of teeth and Claude is letting his head roll back to open himself up, make himself accessible, his other hand coming up to finger Jean Louis' other nipple briefly, before the other man is squeezing his butt and then, thrusting up against his crotch, pushing their cocks together. Their equally hard, wanting, affirming cocks.
That's when Claude is done just standing around here, they need the bed. They need to be naked and they need to be fucking in each other, asap. He flattens both hands over Jean Louis' pecs, pushing at his chest with every intention to get from A to B quickly, but without violence, without force. He might not have killer abdominal muscles like the other man, but he's strong enough, he can certainly move things when he wants them moved, be it in politics or in the bedroom. The gentle push is performed with a low groan for contrast, while he stalks forward, around the other man, reaching down to undo his belt and then, his trousers, toeing out of his shoes first before stepping out of the pants finally, a not particularly elegant but very effective chain of movements.
He's left in socks. Then, they go as well. Meaning, only briefs left. Supposedly, they can stay, like a teaser.
He crawls onto Jean Louis' bed, lying down and leaning back on his elbows, watching him across the room, the light from the aquarium cooling everything down by degrees, except he's still burning, here. Burning up. His cock is still straining in his underwear, everything is almost intolerably throbbing and hard.
Sounding equal parts breathless and warmly amused, he says, spreading his legs a bit, reclining in a particularly unpleasant position, but watch him give zero fucks right now. ]
You better make me think about nothing but you or I'll suddenly be asking you for some unholy alliance, based on those words, Jean Louis.
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On a harsh exhalation, his breath trembling out of him, he quickly abandons the rest of his clothes - unlike Claude, he isn't wearing shoes and the rest is easily done away with. When he gets to his boxers, he pauses, meeting Claude's gaze across the distance and raising one eyebrow very slightly. ]
Mm. Maybe I'm in the market for one.
[ Without further ado, he drops his boxers as well, baring himself completely. He gives Claude a chance to look - because why wouldn't he, Jean Louis is certainly looking his fill the other way - before he gets on the bed as well. His cock feels heavy, unusually so, against his belly and he realises he actually hasn't had a hard-on for a year, either, imagine that. There are many strange firsts tonight and it's actually a bit concerning that he hadn't considered that beforehand.
It's sheer luck, probably, that he's doing this with Claude and not someone he'd have to throw out within minutes at best. That would have been a story they could tell, presumably, and whilst gossip isn't as dangerous as some people think, it's annoying when it happens out of sync with your own planning.
On his hands and knees, he balances with his arms on either side of Claude's body and crawls up, foregoing his cock for now and bending his neck to lick a fat trail up the middle of his chest, all the way to his left collarbone. From there, he mouths his way up the side of his neck until he finds his lips again, going straight for them and pushing inside, wanting to reconnect, to melt them together. ]
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Right now, his body is willing and his mind is willing right along with it and Claude drowns a little in it, in the feeling of wanting to submit, while simultaneously wanting to have, to take, to own. The perfect full circle of that kind of desire.
Jean Louis' cock is full and hard and bobbing gently against his abdomen, curving upwards in a nice, even line. Thick, dark, throbbing from the blood flow telling on him, exactly how much he wants Claude right now. Claude feels himself tremble as the other man starts towards the bed, a moment of oh shit, this is real followed by a meeker, it better be, it has to, come here. He wants to eat him, be eaten, be devoured, stop existing, be one with his body. That's what he wants.
Climbing over him, the other man leans in over his body, the body he wants to merge so fucking badly, Claude easing down into a more comfortable position on his back, reaching enthusiastically up with both hands to run his hands up his sides, ribcage, over his lower back (more scarring, really accident-prone, huh) from behind to his shoulders, in time with Jean Louis dipping his head, licking a trail from his chest over his collarbone, up his neck. He doesn't try tempering his breath, letting it tumble out of him as it wants, uneven, shaking, a little bit erratic. When Jean Louis kisses him, pushing into him, Claude parting his lips for him, welcoming him in, the fingers of his one hand connects with a large spread of scar tissue along the other man's shoulder blade. He can't see, but as he maps it out, it feels huge, deeply set and jagged, uneven, not clean and clinical.
Accident-prone?
His own cock throbs hard in his briefs, the thin fabric feeling like teasing against the exposed head. He can tell he's leaking precum absolutely everywhere. With a groan, he arches up against the other man's front, wanting to meet him in that, not in the accidents and not in the past, but in how they're both running to leave it behind, high-speed. Together. ]
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His nervous system is choking on itself now, the stress of the past year searching desperately for purchase because fear wants to confirm itself, always, and right now he's going in the distinctively opposite direction. He wants Claude. He wants to have him, to let him have him in return and it feels like something they're both re-learning, though they don't know each other's stories. It's an instinctual sort of knowledge, not unlike the feeling you get when you look in a mirror and know with absolute certainty that you're looking at yourself. So as he moves down, kissing his way across Claude's broad chest, no chest hair, just soft, smooth skin, he can feel the fear being pushed back into its proper place.
It's exhilarating.
Claude runs his hands up his sides, his touch warm. As his fingers run over the deeper scar tissue on his shoulder blade (completely, utterly annoying, that those absolute idiots couldn't even do what they did without fucking up, Eastern European quality check right there), his body twitches lightly, particularly the muscles in his left upper arm. The nerves in that area are strange. Claude's fingers feel gentle and warm, regardless. He closes his eyes briefly, breathing in, taking in the other man's movements beneath him, the rise and fall of his chest. This is now. And the rest looks so small from where they're standing now, so tiny, that in a moment or two they'll probably have to strain to see it.
He re-focuses, finds Claude's other nipple - sadly neglected until now - and leans down, giving it a couple of good licks. His body tastes heavily of salt and his cock jerks in response. Mm. They can be non-cannibalistic together, can't they? Shifting, he places another row of kisses down the middle of Claude's chest, moving down, feeling the muscles in his midriff beneath his lips. Further down, Claude's hard cock brushes against the underside of his throat whenever he moves in a certain way - trapped, still, beneath his briefs. About to reach for his underwear, on an impulse, he looks up from what he's doing, hands stilling against the other man's hips, intent on catching his eyes and not completely certain why, exactly, that is.
Something tells him he should. ]
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Therapy has taught him that much.
So, he holds on and he arches up against Jean Louis' lips, his tongue, his mouth, the heat of him when he licks at his other nipple, making it harden fast, feeling like a whole full contraction of that one point on his body. Other parts contracting in response. His lower body's tight and responsive, perking, zinging. His cock jerks in his briefs. He can't actually see, but he'll venture a guess, even the black colour of the fabric can't hide the spots of his arousal. Jean Louis keeps working his way downwards and it dawns on him that he forgot his condoms in his left trouser pocket and there's a moment's quick assessment of the situation. He should just ask Jean Louis if he's got any, and if not he should just go get them, it's a two minute interruption. Still, the part of his brain drowning in his own want is trying to convince him it doesn't matter, Jean Louis hasn't -- he said, there hasn't been anyone for a while... and Claude's most likely clean himself...
Luckily, at that point, Jean Louis hesitates, fuck, just above crotch-level and Claude shifts beneath him, impatiently, his breathing coming out in little pants. It's the hesitation, though, the way the other man looks up at him, like waiting for his get-go, that reminds Claude his principles and his concerns for his own well-being will always override any desire he also embodies to simply do what's easiest, quickest, immediate gain. And this time, it was someone else who thought the thought first. About him. His well-being.
Claude's cock throbs. He huffs out a hard breath and eases up on one elbow, looking down into Jean Louis' expectant face. ]
Shit. You have condoms? I forgot mine in my trousers.
[ I forget myself around you, it implies. I want you that much. While at the same time assuring the other man, he's got protection if Jean Louis doesn't, it's not a deal-breaker in that way. They'll proceed. One way or the other.
Because he really needs them to. ]
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Nodding, he rolls off him to crouch by the side of the bed, reaching for a seemingly random place on the bedframe close to the head of the bed. As his fingers skirt over one specific spot, a hidden compartment opens. It's small, containing a few chargers, some loose, unwrapped pills (street-bought morphine, he should probably get rid of those, actually) and yes, packs of condoms and lube. Grabbing what he came for, he shuts the compartment and gets back on the bed, taking care not to knee Claude anywhere unfortunate as he takes his place between his legs once more. ]
So, Claude. [ He looks down at the other man, smiling slightly, one eyebrow quirking upwards. ] This is a good time for you to tell me what you'd like.
[ He opens the condom (tasteless, thankfully, why the fuck would you want your cock to taste like strawberries or vanilla or whichever?) and sits back om his haunches, his own cock hard against his stomach still. It's honestly hard enough that his balls are starting to ache but he's a patient man, he wants most, not fastest. He folds one hand gently over the bulge in Claude's briefs - much too gently, he knows, to be satisfying in any way at this point - and rubs it slowly, just feeling him out again, feeding himself on a tactile level on top of the lovely visual he's already getting just by being here. By having Claude in his bed.
It's hard to say how they got here, really. It just happened. From one moment to the next, like stepping out of one reality and into another. The light from the aquarium shimmers across Claude's chest and lower abdomen, making his skin seem light. Otherworldly.
He hasn't believed in fairy tales for a long, long time. ]
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