[ In that moment, Michel sees them very clearly for what they are. Two old, queer men who are clinging to life by a thread of mere stubbornness at this point, their chances have bygone them and their choices have been made - all is past, except for that one aspect of their lives now that is their togetherness, each other. For a few years more they'll have that, and then even that last shred will be taken by the wind. Whoever dies first, he thinks, and Michel suspects it'll be him, he'll be lucky to have one beloved to close his eyes and another to visit his grave in the old cemetery in the nearby village. Timm will come. He won't miss him, he's a much too sober man for that, but he'll remember and he'll honour and then, at some point, Timm too will die and there will be nothing left of Michel Laurent in this world.
At least, nothing that would ever want or, perhaps, have time to admit to being part of his memory.
Michel's eyes crinkle at the corners. Amusement. Maybe a hint of afterthought. ]
Aloofness, hmm? [ The croissant finally starts disappearing into his mouth, tempered bites, patient, pleasure tastes the same in one big gulp and in smaller pieces, the smaller pieces simply last longer. ] I've spent half my life distancing myself from myself - to avoid hurt, to avoid disappointment, but there are people who live authentically and take the beatings it inevitably results in without a single complaint.
[ He doesn't mention Elio by name, though, Timm knows the story and will probably be able to make the connection. Will he, however, be able to make the connection to himself? Another man insisting on his autonomous self. Difficult, those types, aren't they? ]
They've inspired me. [ More coffee. A splash of juice. You could say that where Timm paints with his painting, Michel's materials are perishables. ] If aloofness isn't the way for you, Timm, I have no errands down that road either.
[ He leans back in his seat and glances towards the windows, the grey morning light falling in through the windows slightly bluer, slightly lighter thanks to Timm's contribution to the interior. ]
no subject
At least, nothing that would ever want or, perhaps, have time to admit to being part of his memory.
Michel's eyes crinkle at the corners. Amusement. Maybe a hint of afterthought. ]
Aloofness, hmm? [ The croissant finally starts disappearing into his mouth, tempered bites, patient, pleasure tastes the same in one big gulp and in smaller pieces, the smaller pieces simply last longer. ] I've spent half my life distancing myself from myself - to avoid hurt, to avoid disappointment, but there are people who live authentically and take the beatings it inevitably results in without a single complaint.
[ He doesn't mention Elio by name, though, Timm knows the story and will probably be able to make the connection. Will he, however, be able to make the connection to himself? Another man insisting on his autonomous self. Difficult, those types, aren't they? ]
They've inspired me. [ More coffee. A splash of juice. You could say that where Timm paints with his painting, Michel's materials are perishables. ] If aloofness isn't the way for you, Timm, I have no errands down that road either.
[ He leans back in his seat and glances towards the windows, the grey morning light falling in through the windows slightly bluer, slightly lighter thanks to Timm's contribution to the interior. ]
And what are we painting this morning?