[ It's surprisingly early in the evening, considering the amount of action they've managed to squeeze into one single day. Filming for The Spot - and doing re-takes, though not in excess - dinner in town and now... Jean Louis stretches his legs, the kitchen stool not the least bit wobbly beneath him despite its somewhat slender looks. As he'd expected, Karl Messmann has turned out to be quite an efficient person, his choice of pace more or less directly compatible with Jean Louis' own. As such, it's been a pleasing day. No less.
The kitchen's rather blue in a way that seems slightly indecisive, the tell-tale signs of changes happening in small but certain steps obvious throughout the room. It's his family home, apparently. Though he himself grew up slightly more to the west of the city center, the suburban feel of this neighborhood - the small, terraced houses, the quiet roads, the sporadic patches of forrest... He breathes in slowly. Sips his coffee, swallows without truly tasting it and glances over at his host. ]
It's a decent arrangement, isn't it. This house, a relatively expensive location. [ He raises an eyebrow. ] How much do you plan on renovating?
[ Sure, it's been a good day - filming for The Spot went about as smoothly as you could hope for, Jean Louis Girard well-prepared and actually, surprisingly enough, not completely stripped of humor, though it took some digging around to find it. To strike gold. After they'd finished in the studio, Karl invited him out to dinner as per usual with his guests, but while they'd been eating their fine, French cuisine, things had started derailing somewhat. Karl had gotten the spontaneous idea to play a little game of "who's most likely to..." and Girard had agreed to exposing his colleagues, just a bit, one by one - turning out to be pretty good at the premise, making Karl tear up from laughter more than once. It had been off the records, of course, and maybe that was the problem. This sudden, strange sense of intimacy.
Maybe that's the reason why he'd ended up inviting the man home for coffee.
Here they are, now. In his old family home, the kitchen in the process of being renovated, a process that's been ongoing for the better part of a year. He doesn't think about it too much when he's here on his own, but having the country's Foreign Minister over kind of puts the uneven transitions and the rugged edges on display, doesn't it? At Girard's question, Karl shrugs and takes another sip of his coffee, the milk dying it an unattractive grayish color. Girard wanted his black. Simple. Neo-liberal. ]
You haven't been on the grand tour yet, but as much house as there is to see, that's as much house as I'm going to renovate.
[ He can't have it smelling all weird and stuffy forever, like little boy memories and your parents' aging process. It's his, after all. He bought it from them. It needs to smell like him, smoking hot and successful. ]
[ He nods. Personally, he'd pay someone to renovate it and live elsewhere in the meantime. He's probably somewhat picky about houses. About homes. He doesn't hate this one, it just speaks to him in a dialect he'd rather forget about. He takes another sip of coffee, concentrating on the taste this time, on the dark, rich flavour. It's well-made which fits with Jean Louis' general impression of the man. Life's too short for bad coffee when you keep yourself running on it in much the same way people run on oxygen.
What doesn't quite fit, of course, is the fact that Jean Louis is here in the first place. Drinking coffee. Acting casual. All afternoon, he's been getting a certain vibe from the other man that the common demographic of In&Out would probably have some ridiculous expression about, who knows, he's never been particularly likely to pick up on it. In this case, however... in this case...
He smiles slightly. Leans in just a fraction, enough to alter the space between their bodies from carefully casual to less than an inch away from outright suggestive. ]
A work in progress. Do you have a lot of those or is this merely deviation?
[ The distance between their bodies shrinks. Not obviously so, but from one moment to the next, the other man's just that inch further into his personal space and Karl does his best not to frown, not to react to it in any way that'll place him in the lame-straight-guy category. It isn't a difficult task, it's not like it actually bothers him, but it does feel... well, he feels it, he supposes. The hairs at the back of his neck are standing on end. ]
I'm not where I want to be yet, so I'm working towards it. From every possible angle.
[ Even as his skin is erupting in goosebumps, he refuses to step down. That's not how this show works, no, not this show either. Karl Messmann is the one to strike fear into the hearts of politicians, no politician strikes any corresponding fear into him, damn it. Raising both eyebrows inquiringly, he turns towards Girard, their knees bumping beneath the tabletop, a slight impact, bump, bump, brush... Nothing to see here, nothing to be afraid of. His cup clinks when he puts it down, porcelain against marble surface and he can't decide whether that's symbolic for anything else right now. He hopes not. He hopes it's just a cigar this time, thank you very much, Freud. ]
You're going to tell me how liberal that is of me, right?
[ Sometimes, you have to ask questions only to confirm a hypothesis. He's been doing mostly that all evening so far. Karl Messmann is clearly a work in progress all by himself - just look at what they're doing right now, yes? Look at their knees touching, just a quick bump, fast but present, look at the coffee cups, the darkness outside the wide kitchen windows. They're building up to something, though he suspects the other man doesn't quite know what they're aiming for. Liberal, he says. Jean Louis laughs quietly, a deep rumble with a hint of a growl that doesn't really translate itself into any discernible emotion. For a moment, he leaves the question hanging between them, blinking and burning, like one of those damnable spotlights from Messmann's tv stage, the ones that left him feeling partially blinded when he accidentally happened to stare directly at them. ]
Sometimes, it helps to know where you're going. For example - [ He leans back slightly, infusing some distance between their bodies once more. ] - this house. Are you going to sell it, eventually? Harvest some profit from it? If you merely live here, obviously it'll stagnate, the value's going to drop slowly but gradually.
[ He looks at the other man carefully, eyes narrowing. ]
The same thing goes for coffee dates, actually. When you think about it.
[ Wait, what are they even talking about anymore? Life as a general thing? Politics? Coffee -- dates? The point of intersection between the three? Karl just doesn't know and he meets Girard's gaze somewhat perplexed, looking at him silently for a long, quivering moment. It helps to know where you're going, the other man is telling him, before concluding that Karl isn't in it for the profit, well, maybe he is, maybe he isn't. He doesn't know what the fuck the profit is supposed to be right now. The money he could get from the house? What he might gain from this evening spent in his kitchen with the head of Liberté of all people, running and stumbling and making a fool of himself, of them both. Where's he going? Where are they going?
It helps to know --
He doesn't care about decreasing values. You aren't losing what you never had in the first place, but he wants his good day to stay that way, if you please, so Karl manages a smile, slightly frayed around the edges, slightly strained, and leans forward where Girard has left space to conquer. If this is some game he doesn't know the name of, well, then he's going to play. He's a sore loser and that might just be his profit for the night, not losing. ]
I trust my luck on this one.
[ That be whether they're talking about selling houses or... something else. The big unknown has always treated him with generosity. ]
[ For a long moment, poor Karl Messmann looks positively confused, perplexed, like this game's so foreign to him, he can't even read the neon signs directly in his view. Capital letters, flashing colours, everything. Jean Louis can't remember having been like that, not ever, mostly because he's never been in doubt about his own wants and interests. The first time he kissed Marcel, it had an air of pre-determination about it; like everything they'd done up until that moment had been pieces of the same, single puzzle in the making. Tonight, he thinks he's trying to pull Messmann along for as far as he'll travel, just to see, just to test the waters.
It's not the neo-liberalist speaking, of course. It's about the thrill. A personality trait, he's been told, if you believe in that sort of pseudo-scientific drivel. ]
Let's see where that takes you, shall we?
[ Without waiting for an answer - nor expecting one, considering the circumstances - he takes advantage of the other man's movement forward, into his personal space and closes the distance between their bodies in one, fluent move. He doesn't waste time worrying about the consequences which might very well entail a fist to the face - been there, done that, didn't die which, really, is all that matters. Their knees bump together, harsher and tighter than before, and he rests one palm flatly against the table surface for balance as he angles his head, taking their noses neatly out of collision course, and kisses Messmann, just a press of lips against lips.
Trust my luck, he said. Where as Jean Louis' quite happy to say he doesn't believe in luck. ]
[ It's not until their lips touch, in the wake of knees bumping again and noses steered rather expertly out of the way, that Karl realizes he had been expecting this, that he knew from the moment he asked Girard to join him for coffee this would be the outcome. It wasn't a conscious awareness, but it has been running with his blood around his body, pulsing and beating and heating him up like crazy. Adrenaline. Excitement. Because what they've been doing all day is flirting, Jean Louis Girard and him. What they've been building up to since that stupid game at the restaurant is here, now. He couldn't tell, but he knew anyway. Sometimes you're just smarter than your brain makes you out to be.
So, Karl doesn't pull away. Things are beginning to connect in his head at this point, the quiet of the kitchen, their breaths ghosting over lips touching and it's just a point of contact, applied pressure, applied intent. He's never kissed a guy before. Not even drunkenly made out with any of his friends. It's always been about the girls, but Girard is very obviously not a girl and they're very obviously kissing and that makes for a first, doesn't it? Who would have thought.
It still doesn't bother him.
Frowning, he cocks his head to the side a little, just a teeny tiny bit, and pushes back against the hard presence of the other man. They aren't touching in any other places yet, no hands anywhere, it's simple and it's clean, pretty neoliberal, he supposes, then again - what does he know about what they get up to at the Liberté Christmas parties? How many mistletoes they need. That would make for a good joke, he'll have to remember it for later. He'll hold on to it until he's done kissing their head of party which is as a matter of fact happening, it's a thing, it's something that is... definitely going on. A harsh intake of breath and he parts his lips. Don't give the greedy bastard too much to work with, but he can have a little, since Karl doesn't actually want him to stop either. They can talk increasing value or whatever it is that needs addressing from here on out.
And eventually, of course, the joke about mistletoes at Liberté's Christmas parties disappears somewhere in the mix of it all. The thrill. The weird dread. The curiosity that killed the pussy. ]
[ It's a quarter to nine and the cab driver sets him off near the back entrance of Hotel Smaragd. He's been assured that there'll be someone by the door, ready to let him in and sure enough, as he shuts the car door behind him, a hotel worker - probably security - comes up to him and gestures towards a dark, anonymous-looking door, somewhat hidden away between the shadows. This way, please, Minister Girard he says, sounding as if picking up politicians at the backdoor friday night is a perfectly normal occurrence. Jean Louis, his heavy winter's coat slung over one arm, quickly heads inside, away from any possible prying eyes.
This affair of theirs, it's not necessarily disastrous for his reputation but for Karl Messmann, it probably wouldn't look... altogether proper, taking into account the fact that he sells himself on roasting the law makers, not fucking them. As far as strategy goes, it's not a card he's willing to throw away too easily. Besides, secrecy is not exactly a novelty for him. He thinks, fleetingly about Marcel. About Marguerite. They've blown that story wide open, haven't they, because sometimes, honesty is the safer option. This thing with Messmann? Different.
The security guard leads him to an elevator - the sign on the wall next to the panel reads STAFF ONLY - and he enters quietly, the doors sliding shut as he presses the button for the 2nd floor. Two levels from the top. He turns towards the mirrored back-wall, fixes a strand of hair that's been stubbornly attempting to escape his hair gel since he left the apartment. There. Having had about an hour to fix up before this little rendezvous, he's chosen a semi-casual look; casual, in the choice of a long-sleeved shirt and dark trousers, no tie, no jacket - semi, owing to everything being Armani Exchange. Everything except his cologne. That one's Emporio.
The elevator comes to an easy stop, the doors sliding open. The hallway on the other side is dimly lit, an elegant and thoroughly luxurious interior in shades of gold and midnight blue. He pauses outside the designated room number and stares at the door for a moment. No hesitation, no, but a sense of steeling oneself - after all, he may have agreed to this thing quite readily, but he didn't come up with it. Didn't initiate.
Breathing in slowly, easily, he knocks on the door. ]
[ Now that the arrangement is an actual thing, something definitely happening, Karl has to ask himself why it took two months of bland one-night stands and family time marred by an unshakable sense of shame to work up the courage to contact Girard again. He wasn't exactly in doubt about what he wanted at any point, after all, if anything his dreams were vivid enough - he just didn't know how to go about wanting it. That part still hasn't found a natural level, sorry to say. He's taking it as they go. Follow the flow. Upstream salmon-surfing style.
While waiting for the other man to show, he pours himself a glass of whiskey. The Smaragd sure provides some fancy tumblers, he thinks, watching the dim lights reflect in the heavy crystal while savoring the first sip, knowing they'd probably just charge him, if he should be basic enough to slip one into his briefcase on the way out. If it weren't all so very private, this, he'd have used it as prop for a joke. As it is, he leaves it on the table, moving around the medium-sized suite restlessly, his Burberry coat slung over the back of an armchair near the windows and his socks soundless against the wooden floors. He left his expensive Adidas trainers near the coat racks, he's not going to bother toeing out of them once they get... started.
Another, longer sip of whiskey when he passes by the table again.
Outside the windows, the winter darkness feels heavy and obscuring, like a cloak of anonymity, maybe even invisibility, should you be into the whole World of Wizards terminology. He looks at himself in the dark surface of glass, the very deliberate stubble on his chin, the long-sleeved Burberry shirt with its faint, grayish tartan pattern and his tight-fitting jeans, dark-gray. He's only sporting color on his feet right now, his socks a nice maroon. To liven things up a little, right? He's about to take another drink of the glass, almost empty at this point, good whiskey goes down fast, when it knocks on the door and he puts the glass down on the small coffee table next to the armchair, moving across the room to open for Girard. He doesn't look cold, but it looks kind of cold being him with his coat over one arm. Nodding inside, Karl steps back, waiting for the man to enter. ]
If you don't have any intentions of using that coat, you could always donate it to the African children.
[ The door opens and Karl Messmann is on the other side, welcoming him in with one of his typically pointed comments, clearly intent on landing on his feet right away. Jean Louis gives him a raised eyebrow and steps inside, letting the door fall shut behind him. ]
I already do, actually. Every year, a different coat.
[ He walks past the other man, close enough for their shoulders to brush at the movement, and drops his coat over the back of the armchair, on top of Messmann's. There's an near-empty whiskey tumbler on the coffee table, one of those typically fancy ones they all use, meant to look diamond-cut when in reality, they're just cleverly mass-produced. He could comment on its contents but doesn't; instead, he simply turns towards Messmann, watching him quietly for a moment, looking him over. The slight shade of stubble on his chin looks good on him, highlighting the sharpness of his face; the rest of his look seems to be quite obviously him, from the tartan pattern to the socks. It's hard to say for certain, of course, when they know each other so superficially - but there's something appropriate about the way Messmann's chosen to dress in Burberry, whilst Jean Louis' gone for the sleekness of Armani, the logo a bright splash of silver on black.
Emphasising, he thinks, their individual differences. Because they are quite different men, aren't they, with some very interesting, possible areas of similarity. A new combination, for him. Still as interesting, he realises, as it was back in November. ]
[ They brush past each other so closely that their shoulders touch and maybe it's the stupid coat on his arm that he unloads on top of Karl's own or it's just the temperature in the room that shifts with the addition of one more asshole, but under any circumstances he feels overheated all of a sudden as he follows Girard with his gaze. The man turns around and just calmly looks at him, dressed in Armani and talking about donating coats to the African continent every year, because having money like dirt is a Luxembourgian politician's life, yes? It's worth commenting on again, always. ]
We need to cut your wages.
[ It's said with a slight smile and he follows Girard inside the room, once the door has fallen closed behind him. He's dressed nicely, clean, all-black with a splash of silver on his shirt, his hair slicked back in that way he favors which makes him look like a 50's era mafioso and is kind of attractive, if you pretend they're not writing 2013 now. Karl returns the stare, though maybe not quite as calmly, for a moment while walking over to the minibar, grabbing another of the fancy tumblers and holding it out towards the other man. Everybody knows the Foreign Minister has a taste for good whiskey and it's of a decent quality, the stuff that's available here.
It hits him that, from the outside, they must look like a weird cross between a political drama and a cop's show before the actual cops come rushing in, Girard in his pressed pants and Karl in his jeans. It would be so very bad for his reputation, for his career, if anyone ever found out that he's currently planning on banging Liberté's head of party for the second time, but hey - everybody's a liberal to some degree in Luxembourg, right? They should just agree everyone's got their freedoms in order, even the puny socialists. Perhaps especially the puny socialists. We're no threat to you, guys, damn it. Give us a break. ]
[ He accepts the glass, the crystal heavy between his fingers. Smiles, sharply. ]
God forbid.
[ They're not here to have a political discussion, of course, but politics and ideology exist between them like a predetermined condition of their relation, the foundation from which they started out. There's no point pretending otherwise and Messmann doesn't do so either, hasn't done so at any point since they first met. It's good, makes things a lot less complicated (which, again, is helpful in an otherwise complex situation). It's typical for him, isn't it, to be attracted by opposing views, by opposition - Potos being a great example to the contrary - but not in terms of bed partners. That part is new as well.
Glancing at Messmann, he doesn't wait for the other man to get the whiskey bottle from the counter near the writing desk (where it's been sitting for some time, no doubt), turning away and heading for the tall window panels some feet away from the bed. Framed by heavy curtains, the same, deep midnight-blue colour as the hallway carpet, he looks out into the darkness. Though the light from the room reflects itself in the glass and obscures the view somewhat, here and there he can make out glimmers of icy city lights, reflecting the winter sky in a materialistic twist. ]
It's not about what I get, Messmann. It's what I return.
[ Of course Girard leaves him to it, getting the whiskey bottle off the counter where he abandoned it twenty minutes ago after having poured his first glass, because - and he could have turned it into a grand joke - in the neoliberal mind all people of a lesser income are in fact laborers to be taken advantage of in whatever way benefits those who serve society financially, yes, he knows, he's addressed the philosophy often enough on his show. Maybe not very often the past two months, if he's being frank, but his two months of neoliberal celibacy are obviously up, so... However, before he gets the chance to crack a great one, Girard comments that it's not a question of what he gets, but what he returns. In response to which Karl recalls exactly how the other man's mouth felt on his cock back in November, a stark warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach at the memory. He grabs the bottle in one hand and his own glass in the other as he passes by the coffee table, then pauses next to the other man who's being observant enough to enjoy the view of City frozen in time. ]
Sure, we can talk taxes, if you want -- [ He pours the other man a half-full glass of whiskey while talking, realizing he's never actually considered Girard a clever speaker before when it's becoming increasingly evident that he is. He's just not wasteful with his word count like certain others, Karl himself included, people who run their mouths like a Lamborghini on the French riviera. ] -- you do return those in staggering numbers, right?
[ Not that he's really thinking about tax returns and other financial subjects that would honestly make his cock go limp in half a second. Nah, he's thinking about the surge in his system when he'd texted the man earlier in the week and the even greater surge when the man had texted back, playing along, making things fun. Interesting. Exciting. If Girard really wants, they can talk hardcore economy stuff, but they could also focus on the details, like the fact that the other man's fingers look large and assertive, the way they're holding the tumbler in a relaxed grip. Sure, they could talk about those kinds of things too, Karl wouldn't mind.
Who even cares about economics anyway, once they step down from the podium, that is. Either you've got money to spend and you don't care or you don't have money to spend and you can't care one way or the other. He's just booked a luxury hotel room for two hours, it just doesn't matter. As such, he raises an eyebrow, meeting Girard's gaze. ]
There are things that make the world go around, Girard and then there are things that make you want to actually get up another day.
[ As Messmann pours him a drink, the sound of whiskey filling the designated tumbler as familiar as rain falling on a window, his focus shifts. From watching the darkness beyond the window, he turns his attention to Messmann's reflection in the glass, his long built and the lines of his face, most of the details eaten by the lack of light. A swimmer's built, he remembers thinking, having since confirmed the hypothesis by looking up one of the countless interviews, Benoit's been pulling in about the man over the past couple of years. It's been a odd process, actually, this gradual build-up. Seeing as Messmann hasn't been in contact before that text message earlier in the week, it's been hard to know. Whether to invest some time, searching out information - or to simply move beyond it, leave it be.
That second option hasn't seemed altogether appealing, though. For whatever reason. ]
Money qualifies for both. [ He glances sideways, expression calm. Un-bothered. ] As anyone who's gone without will tell you.
[ Usually, he wouldn't bring up his past in such a casual manner - after all, there's really nothing attractive or interesting about poverty - but something about Messmann makes him want a touch of honesty in their interaction, too, something to go with that raw sense of physical attraction they seem to wake in each other. He sips his whiskey, taking a moment to simply enjoy the way it burns down his throat, leaving it feeling cleansed somehow (alcohol not withstanding). The quality's good. This hotel is one of the few he'll pick for foreign guests, too, if they're not the types for the vulgar glory and glamour you'll find at other luxury hotels.
In truth, he hasn't had time to think about this, the two of them, in-depth. Winter's a busy time in parliament and Liberté's fighting to stay in the top-end of the polls, not with difficulty but with that ambitious need for more, the one that's brought them to governance in the first place. More than that, however, the distance hasn't truly felt like distance, more like the eye of the storm. And what do you do while the storm comes closer, while you watch the horizon grow steadfastly darker, the feel of electricity crackling in the air?
[ Karl pours himself a drink as well and puts the bottle down on the coffee table before turning towards Girard more fully, catching the other man watching his reflection in the window glass. They're feeling each other out right now, no hands and no fingers, but with plenty of words. They both do words well. They both make their livings as word manipulators. Here, now, they're trying to make the other show themselves as they are, so they know what they're going to put their mouths on later, their hands, their cocks. Whatever else they might be willing to give. ]
While you can have nothing and still get what you most desire, as anyone who's earned something undeservedly will tell you.
[ Once more, he throws the man's own phrasing back in his face, reversed and distorted, because that's how his magic works, that's what satire is all about. Shrugging lightly, he sips his whiskey, lets the liquid burn its way down his throat, the explosive heat reminding him of other things that once slid down that way, burning hot and intoxicating. A frown. A shift. He meets Girard's eyes in the window panels, not challenging, but curiously - he's gone all this time, dreaming about repeating their little adventure from November and nevertheless, he actually feels perfectly content continuing this stupid word feud, because it beats the app full of weird strangers spelling out words like "prostate" and "foreskin" during your first game with them. Haven't they heard about the subtle art of courting?
Not an art Karl ever truly excelled at and probably not an art that holds any value between the two of them this time either. So he raises his chin a bit, eyes narrowing. Girard just gave him a piece of info that's sensitive and he didn't use it against him, attacking by all other means that that with which he could actually hurt the other man. They're on equal footing in a zone that's safe. It's fine. Give it all up, yourself as well, there'll be a prick, but no backlash.
[ It's a Saturday in early March and the weather's good, the very last remnants of winter leaving the sky a clear, glassy blue. He's on time, exactly so, pulling up by the curb and putting the wine-red Aston Martin in park, the growl of the motor dying away. The road is quiet, quite typically suburban at a Saturday afternoon really, and it makes his hackles rise before he can even properly register his annoyance with the whole thing.
He gets out, shuts the car door behind him and leans against it. Keeps his gaze locked on the house, the front door in particular, and reaches into one pocket to pull out his pack of smokes, half-empty after a long week full of nothing in particular, culminating in Marcel and Marguerite having left him to his own devices. He lights up a cigarette, stuffs it between his lips and inhales, the tip blazing and smoke curling from his lips a few seconds later.
It's a spur of the moment, this idea. He's still not quite certain it's good idea but at least he's planned ahead well enough that the execution's bound to go off without a hitch. He refuses to categorise it, knowing full well that he can't. It doesn't even take that much, pushing the thought away, to the back of his mind; the questions, the need to know, to control it somehow. In time, perhaps the answer will present itself. Or perhaps this simply is, at least until something changes. He inhales. Exhales.
[ Karl hears the car pulling up in front of the house. If you've ever heard an Aston Martin, you'd know - there's no way he wouldn't have noticed it driving up the small, suburban street where he lives with nothing else to drown out the roar of the engine. Stealing a glance at it out the kitchen window, he whistles under his breath before grabbing his jacket and his bag in one hand, heading for the door. Nice car. Very nice car. He looks down the hallway one last time before leaving, slamming the door shut behind himself and locking up with a slight jerk of his wrist. Only then does he turn around to look at the car properly - well, at the man leaning up against it, too, but honestly... In comparison to his wheels, Girard's the losing party. He must be used to it at this point.
Always the bridesmaid, never the Aston Martin.
It's a pretty picturesque scene. Girard is smoking a cigarette, facing towards him and looking as in control of the world as he ever does. And, ladies and gentlemen, if you look straight ahead, you'll see the typical attitude of a politician. The car's mine. The company's mine. The future's mine, yes, unfortunately. Huge egos in that line of business. No wonder Karl's got a big one to nurse as well, he's got to match up, right? Smiling, he tightens his hold on his bag, the jacket draped over it and crosses the drive-in in five long steps, stopping in front of the door to the passenger side, giving the machine an appreciative look-over. ]
If nothing else, my Toyota's undoubtedly less thirsty. But, I suppose, thanks to the Greens that doesn't really matter anymore, huh?
[ Messmann comes out, carrying his jacket and a large travel bag. He gives the car a once-over, the sort you'd give a beautiful (at least partially above-average) woman on the dance floor - appraising and appreciative all in one. Another drag, another surge of smoke, burning its way down his throat. He watches as the other man makes his way to the passenger seat, raising an eyebrow at his comment. ]
They're badly informed, actually. [ A last drag, longer and heavier this time, and the smoke's dwindled into half its original size, so he drops it, leaving it sizzling on the ground. He doesn't stomp it out, please, his shoes are made from genuine, Italian leather. If - against all logic and reason - it starts a fire, there'll be one, nasty neighborhood less in the world. No loss. ] In a month or so, the EU will be voting to instate a new set of regulations, actually benefiting electric cars and hybrids.
[ He walks around to the back, tapping his car key once. The trunk opens, almost soundlessly save for a very subtle hiss of the hydraulics. He pauses, waits for the other man to drop his bag besides his own, black and silver suitcase. It's not a spacious trunk, no, but it works for most occassions. It's a luxury car, isn't it? You're supposed to buy what you need, not pack your whole house. ]
This new proposal will save us from having to conform to that mess. They'll be losing twice over, the fools.
[ In a couple of impressive inhalations, Girard makes good of his cigarette and drops what remains of it on the ground. Karl follows its fall with his eyes, raising one eyebrow slightly while the other man walks around to the back of the car, handing over one deliciously pointed comment after the other to him, like early birthday presents now when Karl proved a nice enough person or a big enough sucker to not actually insist on that car they were briefly talking about. After all, if Girard could have gotten him one of these babies, Karl Messmann is definitely the losing party in this game and might never forgive himself, shit.
He follows him to the back, dropping his travel bag and his jacket in the trunk next to Girard's... very posh suitcase. It's down in the details, how he just never misses an opportunity to flaunt those all too high parliament salaries like they mean nothing. It should be obnoxious, it should really rub Karl's socialist ideals the wrong way, but instead it comes off as sort of charming. Smart-ass, sure, but endearing, because Karl is so used to it in himself, though he usually roasts it to hell and back in others, of course. The best way to be critical, if they're being honest, is to be hypocritical.
Like, speaking of high salaries, he's been out shopping for this trip specifically. New Burberry shirt, new jeans (last time didn't teach him a thing, it seems), down to his boxers everything's sparkly new and expensively bought under pretenses that it's some elaborate birthday surprise to himself, surprise, surprise, there goes your money. With four days separating him from the big date, the clothes are still on show today. Meaning, it's just an excuse and a bad one at that.
He turns towards Girard, waiting for the man to close the trunk in some magical fashion that probably isn't by hand, nothing so basic with an Aston Martin, right? You wave your car keys or your wand or your dick and it closes on command. It's a nice car. ]
You own an Aston - and I know from experience that Duval and company ride their bikes everywhere, so they'd lost beforehand, going up against you. You got, you know, more drive.
[ Karl's above laughing at his own jokes, but that was a pretty good pun. ]
[ More drive, he says. That's as true as it ever gets in the world of politics - which is to say, so long as he has the best wheels and the fastest engine, apply any further metaphor of choice - and he can feel his lips quirk upwards in a slight smile, the shadows of a laugh lingering even after he turns away, pressing the close-button. ]
It's always a question. [ He throws open the front door. Glancing over at Messmann, he pauses in the doorway, one hand resting on the roof of the car, fingers spread out against its shiny surface. He keeps his voice light. Easy. ] Whether one actually wants it badly enough to take appropriate action, right? In this case, they obviously didn't.
[ Meaning that weeks earlier, the Greens had flat out refused to work with him on an upcoming voting round, leaving Liberté in the precocious situation of having to simply lie down flat for the CDP with nothing to bargain with. Though he's supposed to work with Barrault, he doesn't necessarily want to do so for free. Long story short, if he misses out, someone's got to pay the bill and that's the end of that.
He does catch the underlying double-meaning - not flatter, not as such, but more direct and pointedly intentional. The man's got a clever tongue on him, doesn't he? He frowns. Pops on his sunglasses and gets seated by the wheel before his brain can continue along that particular trail of thought. Though it won't take too long, getting to Chateau de Madeleine in Remich, he's not altogether interested in sporting a boner during the drive. He's wearing trousers from the new AX spring collection and they're on the tight side; yes, best not. Best not. Shifting slightly in his seat, he waits for Messmann to join him. ]
The Greens never do. They've been on my show so often, because they're all talk, no action.
[ That and everyone except Duval sports a good sense of humor. He's had good fun with quite a few of them.
While the hood closes, he lets Girard move up along the side of the car first, watches his every step until the man turns towards him in the doorway, his hand a huge claim to territory on the roof of the poor Aston Martin that's clearly being owned. To say that Girard has more drive than anyone in the Green Party is obviously somewhat of an understatement. Karl has followed the man's progress in politics since he started hosting The Spot - and a good while before that, too. Even back when he was doing stand-up at Lorenzo's, Jean Louis Girard would make it into his funny sphere. In a way, it feels like he's -- well, fucking a long-term friend, that's how familiar the other man is to him. Honestly, how he's never run into him in person before November last, Karl has no idea. Maybe someone in the Destiny Main Office knew this was going to happen, because Karl sure didn't have the faintest.
Girard pops his sunglasses on and takes his seat in front of the wheel, Karl walking around the other side to slide into the passenger seat, closing the door with a heavy thump behind himself. It's honestly his best look, Girard's, when he's hidden away behind his sleek-looking Armani sunglasses, not because there's anything that requires hiding, of course, but because the darkness to his eyes and the stylized blankness to his well-chiseled features disappear in the shades. No wonder he wears them everywhere, because it's easy to see exactly what you want to see reflected back at you from the faded glasses. It's like a mirage, an illusion. Then again, Girard is a master out in those. There's a reason his image has been able to bear a male partner and a girlfriend on top of that, a reason besides Fortesque. Don't give the man more credit than he's due. Either of them, actually. Just don't.
Leaning back in his seat, he casts one last look towards his house, his parents' house, before focusing his attention on the road ahead. They're heading for Remich, some forty minute's drive away, if Girard isn't going to do it in thirty, there's nothing but countryside between here and there, flat expanses of highway. It'll be fun. ]
Always refusing to work with you, the bastards. No worries, I'll avenge you and make them next week's laughing stock.
[ Messmann sinks into his seat next to him and shuts the door. For a second or two - at the most! - Jean Louis glances sideways at him, at how he looks towards his house for a brief moment as he leans back in his seat. He realises that there's a possibility the other man actually likes that house, strange as the thought may seem to him - that he harbours some sentimental feelings towards it, having grown up in it. Perhaps not unlike the way he feels whenever he visits Monsieur Verlinden - or well, back in the day at least, before the old idiot decided to get all backwards about things. With a snort, he turns the key in the ignition, sets the car in drive and turns on sports mode, the control panel flashing briefly in response. They're going on the highway, after all. No need to take it slow. ]
Oh please, not on my account. [ He takes the car around in a fast circle and heads for the main road. ] The less publicity they get, the better.
[ The road to Remich isn't long and he doesn't set his GPS, having memorised the route years prior for some reason or another. It's on the border to Germany, right by the Moselle; no doubt, they've had business there, him and Marcel. Business... wine... probably a combination. He knows the owners of Madeleine quite well and they've had the castle prepared for their arrival. From what he's been told, it'll be a very private affair; the castle is open to visitors only on select days, mostly during the holiday season and this weekend, there'll be no tourists around. ]
[ The food's been served on silver platters - literally - and covered by cloches to keep the meat warm on its trip from the Madeleine private kitchens to the small house right outside the main buildings of the castle. Servant's quarters, back in the day. Now, it's the owner's guest house and the man owes him a few favours - enough, certainly, to warrant both the sleeping accommodations and the private cuisine. The waiter - a young woman, stiff-faced and as professionally cold as you'd expect of someone used to serving the one percent - has left with only a curt Goodnight, sirs, the door downstairs locking with a loud click, old but wholly efficient. She's brought the cloches with her.
The dinning room is on the first floor at the far end of a small hallway, the bedroom directly accessible behind two, very anachronistic French double-doors some good ten feet away from the table. It's decked for the two of them and they've been going slowly but steadily through the first of two bottles of local red wine whilst waiting for the food to arrive. The menu's harmless but nice; roast suckling pig with potatoes and greens; and a somewhat un-original creme brulé for dessert. All the same, the owner - René - has done quite a lot to secure his favour and everything considered, he might just have to call it... not even, surely, but closer. Closer still.
He sips his wine, the glass half-empty. The next re-fill will be his second of the evening. The meat smells really good and it's taking most of his self-control not to simply dive at his plate. It's been a long day, after all. He glances over at Messmann over the rim of his glass. Mm. Long but most bearable. ]
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x starter
The kitchen's rather blue in a way that seems slightly indecisive, the tell-tale signs of changes happening in small but certain steps obvious throughout the room. It's his family home, apparently. Though he himself grew up slightly more to the west of the city center, the suburban feel of this neighborhood - the small, terraced houses, the quiet roads, the sporadic patches of forrest... He breathes in slowly. Sips his coffee, swallows without truly tasting it and glances over at his host. ]
It's a decent arrangement, isn't it. This house, a relatively expensive location. [ He raises an eyebrow. ] How much do you plan on renovating?
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Maybe that's the reason why he'd ended up inviting the man home for coffee.
Here they are, now. In his old family home, the kitchen in the process of being renovated, a process that's been ongoing for the better part of a year. He doesn't think about it too much when he's here on his own, but having the country's Foreign Minister over kind of puts the uneven transitions and the rugged edges on display, doesn't it? At Girard's question, Karl shrugs and takes another sip of his coffee, the milk dying it an unattractive grayish color. Girard wanted his black. Simple. Neo-liberal. ]
You haven't been on the grand tour yet, but as much house as there is to see, that's as much house as I'm going to renovate.
[ He can't have it smelling all weird and stuffy forever, like little boy memories and your parents' aging process. It's his, after all. He bought it from them. It needs to smell like him, smoking hot and successful. ]
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What doesn't quite fit, of course, is the fact that Jean Louis is here in the first place. Drinking coffee. Acting casual. All afternoon, he's been getting a certain vibe from the other man that the common demographic of In&Out would probably have some ridiculous expression about, who knows, he's never been particularly likely to pick up on it. In this case, however... in this case...
He smiles slightly. Leans in just a fraction, enough to alter the space between their bodies from carefully casual to less than an inch away from outright suggestive. ]
A work in progress. Do you have a lot of those or is this merely deviation?
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[ The distance between their bodies shrinks. Not obviously so, but from one moment to the next, the other man's just that inch further into his personal space and Karl does his best not to frown, not to react to it in any way that'll place him in the lame-straight-guy category. It isn't a difficult task, it's not like it actually bothers him, but it does feel... well, he feels it, he supposes. The hairs at the back of his neck are standing on end. ]
I'm not where I want to be yet, so I'm working towards it. From every possible angle.
[ Even as his skin is erupting in goosebumps, he refuses to step down. That's not how this show works, no, not this show either. Karl Messmann is the one to strike fear into the hearts of politicians, no politician strikes any corresponding fear into him, damn it. Raising both eyebrows inquiringly, he turns towards Girard, their knees bumping beneath the tabletop, a slight impact, bump, bump, brush... Nothing to see here, nothing to be afraid of. His cup clinks when he puts it down, porcelain against marble surface and he can't decide whether that's symbolic for anything else right now. He hopes not. He hopes it's just a cigar this time, thank you very much, Freud. ]
You're going to tell me how liberal that is of me, right?
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Sometimes, it helps to know where you're going. For example - [ He leans back slightly, infusing some distance between their bodies once more. ] - this house. Are you going to sell it, eventually? Harvest some profit from it? If you merely live here, obviously it'll stagnate, the value's going to drop slowly but gradually.
[ He looks at the other man carefully, eyes narrowing. ]
The same thing goes for coffee dates, actually. When you think about it.
[ A light shrug. ]
Liberal, perhaps. Then again, maybe not.
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It helps to know --
He doesn't care about decreasing values. You aren't losing what you never had in the first place, but he wants his good day to stay that way, if you please, so Karl manages a smile, slightly frayed around the edges, slightly strained, and leans forward where Girard has left space to conquer. If this is some game he doesn't know the name of, well, then he's going to play. He's a sore loser and that might just be his profit for the night, not losing. ]
I trust my luck on this one.
[ That be whether they're talking about selling houses or... something else. The big unknown has always treated him with generosity. ]
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It's not the neo-liberalist speaking, of course. It's about the thrill. A personality trait, he's been told, if you believe in that sort of pseudo-scientific drivel. ]
Let's see where that takes you, shall we?
[ Without waiting for an answer - nor expecting one, considering the circumstances - he takes advantage of the other man's movement forward, into his personal space and closes the distance between their bodies in one, fluent move. He doesn't waste time worrying about the consequences which might very well entail a fist to the face - been there, done that, didn't die which, really, is all that matters. Their knees bump together, harsher and tighter than before, and he rests one palm flatly against the table surface for balance as he angles his head, taking their noses neatly out of collision course, and kisses Messmann, just a press of lips against lips.
Trust my luck, he said. Where as Jean Louis' quite happy to say he doesn't believe in luck. ]
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So, Karl doesn't pull away. Things are beginning to connect in his head at this point, the quiet of the kitchen, their breaths ghosting over lips touching and it's just a point of contact, applied pressure, applied intent. He's never kissed a guy before. Not even drunkenly made out with any of his friends. It's always been about the girls, but Girard is very obviously not a girl and they're very obviously kissing and that makes for a first, doesn't it? Who would have thought.
It still doesn't bother him.
Frowning, he cocks his head to the side a little, just a teeny tiny bit, and pushes back against the hard presence of the other man. They aren't touching in any other places yet, no hands anywhere, it's simple and it's clean, pretty neoliberal, he supposes, then again - what does he know about what they get up to at the Liberté Christmas parties? How many mistletoes they need. That would make for a good joke, he'll have to remember it for later. He'll hold on to it until he's done kissing their head of party which is as a matter of fact happening, it's a thing, it's something that is... definitely going on. A harsh intake of breath and he parts his lips. Don't give the greedy bastard too much to work with, but he can have a little, since Karl doesn't actually want him to stop either. They can talk increasing value or whatever it is that needs addressing from here on out.
And eventually, of course, the joke about mistletoes at Liberté's Christmas parties disappears somewhere in the mix of it all. The thrill. The weird dread. The curiosity that killed the pussy. ]
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x starter (januer 2013)
This affair of theirs, it's not necessarily disastrous for his reputation but for Karl Messmann, it probably wouldn't look... altogether proper, taking into account the fact that he sells himself on roasting the law makers, not fucking them. As far as strategy goes, it's not a card he's willing to throw away too easily. Besides, secrecy is not exactly a novelty for him. He thinks, fleetingly about Marcel. About Marguerite. They've blown that story wide open, haven't they, because sometimes, honesty is the safer option. This thing with Messmann? Different.
The security guard leads him to an elevator - the sign on the wall next to the panel reads STAFF ONLY - and he enters quietly, the doors sliding shut as he presses the button for the 2nd floor. Two levels from the top. He turns towards the mirrored back-wall, fixes a strand of hair that's been stubbornly attempting to escape his hair gel since he left the apartment. There. Having had about an hour to fix up before this little rendezvous, he's chosen a semi-casual look; casual, in the choice of a long-sleeved shirt and dark trousers, no tie, no jacket - semi, owing to everything being Armani Exchange. Everything except his cologne. That one's Emporio.
The elevator comes to an easy stop, the doors sliding open. The hallway on the other side is dimly lit, an elegant and thoroughly luxurious interior in shades of gold and midnight blue. He pauses outside the designated room number and stares at the door for a moment. No hesitation, no, but a sense of steeling oneself - after all, he may have agreed to this thing quite readily, but he didn't come up with it. Didn't initiate.
Breathing in slowly, easily, he knocks on the door. ]
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While waiting for the other man to show, he pours himself a glass of whiskey. The Smaragd sure provides some fancy tumblers, he thinks, watching the dim lights reflect in the heavy crystal while savoring the first sip, knowing they'd probably just charge him, if he should be basic enough to slip one into his briefcase on the way out. If it weren't all so very private, this, he'd have used it as prop for a joke. As it is, he leaves it on the table, moving around the medium-sized suite restlessly, his Burberry coat slung over the back of an armchair near the windows and his socks soundless against the wooden floors. He left his expensive Adidas trainers near the coat racks, he's not going to bother toeing out of them once they get... started.
Another, longer sip of whiskey when he passes by the table again.
Outside the windows, the winter darkness feels heavy and obscuring, like a cloak of anonymity, maybe even invisibility, should you be into the whole World of Wizards terminology. He looks at himself in the dark surface of glass, the very deliberate stubble on his chin, the long-sleeved Burberry shirt with its faint, grayish tartan pattern and his tight-fitting jeans, dark-gray. He's only sporting color on his feet right now, his socks a nice maroon. To liven things up a little, right? He's about to take another drink of the glass, almost empty at this point, good whiskey goes down fast, when it knocks on the door and he puts the glass down on the small coffee table next to the armchair, moving across the room to open for Girard. He doesn't look cold, but it looks kind of cold being him with his coat over one arm. Nodding inside, Karl steps back, waiting for the man to enter. ]
If you don't have any intentions of using that coat, you could always donate it to the African children.
[ Hah. ]
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I already do, actually. Every year, a different coat.
[ He walks past the other man, close enough for their shoulders to brush at the movement, and drops his coat over the back of the armchair, on top of Messmann's. There's an near-empty whiskey tumbler on the coffee table, one of those typically fancy ones they all use, meant to look diamond-cut when in reality, they're just cleverly mass-produced. He could comment on its contents but doesn't; instead, he simply turns towards Messmann, watching him quietly for a moment, looking him over. The slight shade of stubble on his chin looks good on him, highlighting the sharpness of his face; the rest of his look seems to be quite obviously him, from the tartan pattern to the socks. It's hard to say for certain, of course, when they know each other so superficially - but there's something appropriate about the way Messmann's chosen to dress in Burberry, whilst Jean Louis' gone for the sleekness of Armani, the logo a bright splash of silver on black.
Emphasising, he thinks, their individual differences. Because they are quite different men, aren't they, with some very interesting, possible areas of similarity. A new combination, for him. Still as interesting, he realises, as it was back in November. ]
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We need to cut your wages.
[ It's said with a slight smile and he follows Girard inside the room, once the door has fallen closed behind him. He's dressed nicely, clean, all-black with a splash of silver on his shirt, his hair slicked back in that way he favors which makes him look like a 50's era mafioso and is kind of attractive, if you pretend they're not writing 2013 now. Karl returns the stare, though maybe not quite as calmly, for a moment while walking over to the minibar, grabbing another of the fancy tumblers and holding it out towards the other man. Everybody knows the Foreign Minister has a taste for good whiskey and it's of a decent quality, the stuff that's available here.
It hits him that, from the outside, they must look like a weird cross between a political drama and a cop's show before the actual cops come rushing in, Girard in his pressed pants and Karl in his jeans. It would be so very bad for his reputation, for his career, if anyone ever found out that he's currently planning on banging Liberté's head of party for the second time, but hey - everybody's a liberal to some degree in Luxembourg, right? They should just agree everyone's got their freedoms in order, even the puny socialists. Perhaps especially the puny socialists. We're no threat to you, guys, damn it. Give us a break. ]
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God forbid.
[ They're not here to have a political discussion, of course, but politics and ideology exist between them like a predetermined condition of their relation, the foundation from which they started out. There's no point pretending otherwise and Messmann doesn't do so either, hasn't done so at any point since they first met. It's good, makes things a lot less complicated (which, again, is helpful in an otherwise complex situation). It's typical for him, isn't it, to be attracted by opposing views, by opposition - Potos being a great example to the contrary - but not in terms of bed partners. That part is new as well.
Glancing at Messmann, he doesn't wait for the other man to get the whiskey bottle from the counter near the writing desk (where it's been sitting for some time, no doubt), turning away and heading for the tall window panels some feet away from the bed. Framed by heavy curtains, the same, deep midnight-blue colour as the hallway carpet, he looks out into the darkness. Though the light from the room reflects itself in the glass and obscures the view somewhat, here and there he can make out glimmers of icy city lights, reflecting the winter sky in a materialistic twist. ]
It's not about what I get, Messmann. It's what I return.
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Sure, we can talk taxes, if you want -- [ He pours the other man a half-full glass of whiskey while talking, realizing he's never actually considered Girard a clever speaker before when it's becoming increasingly evident that he is. He's just not wasteful with his word count like certain others, Karl himself included, people who run their mouths like a Lamborghini on the French riviera. ] -- you do return those in staggering numbers, right?
[ Not that he's really thinking about tax returns and other financial subjects that would honestly make his cock go limp in half a second. Nah, he's thinking about the surge in his system when he'd texted the man earlier in the week and the even greater surge when the man had texted back, playing along, making things fun. Interesting. Exciting. If Girard really wants, they can talk hardcore economy stuff, but they could also focus on the details, like the fact that the other man's fingers look large and assertive, the way they're holding the tumbler in a relaxed grip. Sure, they could talk about those kinds of things too, Karl wouldn't mind.
Who even cares about economics anyway, once they step down from the podium, that is. Either you've got money to spend and you don't care or you don't have money to spend and you can't care one way or the other. He's just booked a luxury hotel room for two hours, it just doesn't matter. As such, he raises an eyebrow, meeting Girard's gaze. ]
There are things that make the world go around, Girard and then there are things that make you want to actually get up another day.
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That second option hasn't seemed altogether appealing, though. For whatever reason. ]
Money qualifies for both. [ He glances sideways, expression calm. Un-bothered. ] As anyone who's gone without will tell you.
[ Usually, he wouldn't bring up his past in such a casual manner - after all, there's really nothing attractive or interesting about poverty - but something about Messmann makes him want a touch of honesty in their interaction, too, something to go with that raw sense of physical attraction they seem to wake in each other. He sips his whiskey, taking a moment to simply enjoy the way it burns down his throat, leaving it feeling cleansed somehow (alcohol not withstanding). The quality's good. This hotel is one of the few he'll pick for foreign guests, too, if they're not the types for the vulgar glory and glamour you'll find at other luxury hotels.
In truth, he hasn't had time to think about this, the two of them, in-depth. Winter's a busy time in parliament and Liberté's fighting to stay in the top-end of the polls, not with difficulty but with that ambitious need for more, the one that's brought them to governance in the first place. More than that, however, the distance hasn't truly felt like distance, more like the eye of the storm. And what do you do while the storm comes closer, while you watch the horizon grow steadfastly darker, the feel of electricity crackling in the air?
Why, you wait. What else is there? ]
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[ Karl pours himself a drink as well and puts the bottle down on the coffee table before turning towards Girard more fully, catching the other man watching his reflection in the window glass. They're feeling each other out right now, no hands and no fingers, but with plenty of words. They both do words well. They both make their livings as word manipulators. Here, now, they're trying to make the other show themselves as they are, so they know what they're going to put their mouths on later, their hands, their cocks. Whatever else they might be willing to give. ]
While you can have nothing and still get what you most desire, as anyone who's earned something undeservedly will tell you.
[ Once more, he throws the man's own phrasing back in his face, reversed and distorted, because that's how his magic works, that's what satire is all about. Shrugging lightly, he sips his whiskey, lets the liquid burn its way down his throat, the explosive heat reminding him of other things that once slid down that way, burning hot and intoxicating. A frown. A shift. He meets Girard's eyes in the window panels, not challenging, but curiously - he's gone all this time, dreaming about repeating their little adventure from November and nevertheless, he actually feels perfectly content continuing this stupid word feud, because it beats the app full of weird strangers spelling out words like "prostate" and "foreskin" during your first game with them. Haven't they heard about the subtle art of courting?
Not an art Karl ever truly excelled at and probably not an art that holds any value between the two of them this time either. So he raises his chin a bit, eyes narrowing. Girard just gave him a piece of info that's sensitive and he didn't use it against him, attacking by all other means that that with which he could actually hurt the other man. They're on equal footing in a zone that's safe. It's fine. Give it all up, yourself as well, there'll be a prick, but no backlash.
Those are the rules. ]
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log: caught up and lost in all of our vices
i
He gets out, shuts the car door behind him and leans against it. Keeps his gaze locked on the house, the front door in particular, and reaches into one pocket to pull out his pack of smokes, half-empty after a long week full of nothing in particular, culminating in Marcel and Marguerite having left him to his own devices. He lights up a cigarette, stuffs it between his lips and inhales, the tip blazing and smoke curling from his lips a few seconds later.
It's a spur of the moment, this idea. He's still not quite certain it's good idea but at least he's planned ahead well enough that the execution's bound to go off without a hitch. He refuses to categorise it, knowing full well that he can't. It doesn't even take that much, pushing the thought away, to the back of his mind; the questions, the need to know, to control it somehow. In time, perhaps the answer will present itself. Or perhaps this simply is, at least until something changes. He inhales. Exhales.
Waits. ]
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Always the bridesmaid, never the Aston Martin.
It's a pretty picturesque scene. Girard is smoking a cigarette, facing towards him and looking as in control of the world as he ever does. And, ladies and gentlemen, if you look straight ahead, you'll see the typical attitude of a politician. The car's mine. The company's mine. The future's mine, yes, unfortunately. Huge egos in that line of business. No wonder Karl's got a big one to nurse as well, he's got to match up, right? Smiling, he tightens his hold on his bag, the jacket draped over it and crosses the drive-in in five long steps, stopping in front of the door to the passenger side, giving the machine an appreciative look-over. ]
If nothing else, my Toyota's undoubtedly less thirsty. But, I suppose, thanks to the Greens that doesn't really matter anymore, huh?
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They're badly informed, actually. [ A last drag, longer and heavier this time, and the smoke's dwindled into half its original size, so he drops it, leaving it sizzling on the ground. He doesn't stomp it out, please, his shoes are made from genuine, Italian leather. If - against all logic and reason - it starts a fire, there'll be one, nasty neighborhood less in the world. No loss. ] In a month or so, the EU will be voting to instate a new set of regulations, actually benefiting electric cars and hybrids.
[ He walks around to the back, tapping his car key once. The trunk opens, almost soundlessly save for a very subtle hiss of the hydraulics. He pauses, waits for the other man to drop his bag besides his own, black and silver suitcase. It's not a spacious trunk, no, but it works for most occassions. It's a luxury car, isn't it? You're supposed to buy what you need, not pack your whole house. ]
This new proposal will save us from having to conform to that mess. They'll be losing twice over, the fools.
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He follows him to the back, dropping his travel bag and his jacket in the trunk next to Girard's... very posh suitcase. It's down in the details, how he just never misses an opportunity to flaunt those all too high parliament salaries like they mean nothing. It should be obnoxious, it should really rub Karl's socialist ideals the wrong way, but instead it comes off as sort of charming. Smart-ass, sure, but endearing, because Karl is so used to it in himself, though he usually roasts it to hell and back in others, of course. The best way to be critical, if they're being honest, is to be hypocritical.
Like, speaking of high salaries, he's been out shopping for this trip specifically. New Burberry shirt, new jeans (last time didn't teach him a thing, it seems), down to his boxers everything's sparkly new and expensively bought under pretenses that it's some elaborate birthday surprise to himself, surprise, surprise, there goes your money. With four days separating him from the big date, the clothes are still on show today. Meaning, it's just an excuse and a bad one at that.
He turns towards Girard, waiting for the man to close the trunk in some magical fashion that probably isn't by hand, nothing so basic with an Aston Martin, right? You wave your car keys or your wand or your dick and it closes on command. It's a nice car. ]
You own an Aston - and I know from experience that Duval and company ride their bikes everywhere, so they'd lost beforehand, going up against you. You got, you know, more drive.
[ Karl's above laughing at his own jokes, but that was a pretty good pun. ]
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It's always a question. [ He throws open the front door. Glancing over at Messmann, he pauses in the doorway, one hand resting on the roof of the car, fingers spread out against its shiny surface. He keeps his voice light. Easy. ] Whether one actually wants it badly enough to take appropriate action, right? In this case, they obviously didn't.
[ Meaning that weeks earlier, the Greens had flat out refused to work with him on an upcoming voting round, leaving Liberté in the precocious situation of having to simply lie down flat for the CDP with nothing to bargain with. Though he's supposed to work with Barrault, he doesn't necessarily want to do so for free. Long story short, if he misses out, someone's got to pay the bill and that's the end of that.
He does catch the underlying double-meaning - not flatter, not as such, but more direct and pointedly intentional. The man's got a clever tongue on him, doesn't he? He frowns. Pops on his sunglasses and gets seated by the wheel before his brain can continue along that particular trail of thought. Though it won't take too long, getting to Chateau de Madeleine in Remich, he's not altogether interested in sporting a boner during the drive. He's wearing trousers from the new AX spring collection and they're on the tight side; yes, best not. Best not. Shifting slightly in his seat, he waits for Messmann to join him. ]
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[ That and everyone except Duval sports a good sense of humor. He's had good fun with quite a few of them.
While the hood closes, he lets Girard move up along the side of the car first, watches his every step until the man turns towards him in the doorway, his hand a huge claim to territory on the roof of the poor Aston Martin that's clearly being owned. To say that Girard has more drive than anyone in the Green Party is obviously somewhat of an understatement. Karl has followed the man's progress in politics since he started hosting The Spot - and a good while before that, too. Even back when he was doing stand-up at Lorenzo's, Jean Louis Girard would make it into his funny sphere. In a way, it feels like he's -- well, fucking a long-term friend, that's how familiar the other man is to him. Honestly, how he's never run into him in person before November last, Karl has no idea. Maybe someone in the Destiny Main Office knew this was going to happen, because Karl sure didn't have the faintest.
Girard pops his sunglasses on and takes his seat in front of the wheel, Karl walking around the other side to slide into the passenger seat, closing the door with a heavy thump behind himself. It's honestly his best look, Girard's, when he's hidden away behind his sleek-looking Armani sunglasses, not because there's anything that requires hiding, of course, but because the darkness to his eyes and the stylized blankness to his well-chiseled features disappear in the shades. No wonder he wears them everywhere, because it's easy to see exactly what you want to see reflected back at you from the faded glasses. It's like a mirage, an illusion. Then again, Girard is a master out in those. There's a reason his image has been able to bear a male partner and a girlfriend on top of that, a reason besides Fortesque. Don't give the man more credit than he's due. Either of them, actually. Just don't.
Leaning back in his seat, he casts one last look towards his house, his parents' house, before focusing his attention on the road ahead. They're heading for Remich, some forty minute's drive away, if Girard isn't going to do it in thirty, there's nothing but countryside between here and there, flat expanses of highway. It'll be fun. ]
Always refusing to work with you, the bastards. No worries, I'll avenge you and make them next week's laughing stock.
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Oh please, not on my account. [ He takes the car around in a fast circle and heads for the main road. ] The less publicity they get, the better.
[ The road to Remich isn't long and he doesn't set his GPS, having memorised the route years prior for some reason or another. It's on the border to Germany, right by the Moselle; no doubt, they've had business there, him and Marcel. Business... wine... probably a combination. He knows the owners of Madeleine quite well and they've had the castle prepared for their arrival. From what he's been told, it'll be a very private affair; the castle is open to visitors only on select days, mostly during the holiday season and this weekend, there'll be no tourists around. ]
Have you been before? To Remich.
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The dinning room is on the first floor at the far end of a small hallway, the bedroom directly accessible behind two, very anachronistic French double-doors some good ten feet away from the table. It's decked for the two of them and they've been going slowly but steadily through the first of two bottles of local red wine whilst waiting for the food to arrive. The menu's harmless but nice; roast suckling pig with potatoes and greens; and a somewhat un-original creme brulé for dessert. All the same, the owner - René - has done quite a lot to secure his favour and everything considered, he might just have to call it... not even, surely, but closer. Closer still.
He sips his wine, the glass half-empty. The next re-fill will be his second of the evening. The meat smells really good and it's taking most of his self-control not to simply dive at his plate. It's been a long day, after all. He glances over at Messmann over the rim of his glass. Mm. Long but most bearable. ]