[ His old family home, so many weekends spent between these walls, between these century-old field boundaries. So many hours spent masturbating in every spot he might possibly make his, because -- well, all else was out of his hands, wasn't it? He thought about the farmhand when he came, but still ended up marrying Avril. He wanted to be an actor, but still followed dutifully in his father's footsteps and studied law.
If wanking absolutely needs to serve a purpose besides the pleasure itself, let it be a small rebellion. Michel doubts he's ever felt more French than then.
He's a war child, that's it.
The whole west wing has been mostly emptied, aside from Timm's rooms, because the artist warned him, things left unattended would end up as canvases. And because Michel still preserves, still exhibits like the building was a museum, he's moved anything of importance (historical, emotional, one or the other, both) to his own wing, got it all arranged in an empty ballroom there. It looks like a strange remix of his parents' lives, like that. He doesn't particularly mind it.
Like he doesn't mind the way Timm has removed one door from the equation of the large dining room that has been turned into studio now. He stops in the doorway, balancing between two hands the large tray with a single serving of some kind of porridge that Michel would never touch himself, along with a selection of breads and pastries, butter, all the necessities for a pleasant breakfast. There's freshly pressed juice, no pulp, coffee, tea. Timm has very specific needs and he doesn't voice them, so Michel has learned to guess.
It was the same with his father. You learn to look. You learn to do the math. He was always good at math. ]
Did your sleeping arrangements disappoint again? I saw your lights were on when I was up around half past four. That's most likely less than four hours of sleep, young man.
[ Leaning against the double door that has remained in place, firmly shut as shielding against the long hallway with a tendency to resonate, he peeks around. Fascinating things tend to happen overnight in here, when Timm can't sleep. ]
@reiterated.
If wanking absolutely needs to serve a purpose besides the pleasure itself, let it be a small rebellion. Michel doubts he's ever felt more French than then.
He's a war child, that's it.
The whole west wing has been mostly emptied, aside from Timm's rooms, because the artist warned him, things left unattended would end up as canvases. And because Michel still preserves, still exhibits like the building was a museum, he's moved anything of importance (historical, emotional, one or the other, both) to his own wing, got it all arranged in an empty ballroom there. It looks like a strange remix of his parents' lives, like that. He doesn't particularly mind it.
Like he doesn't mind the way Timm has removed one door from the equation of the large dining room that has been turned into studio now. He stops in the doorway, balancing between two hands the large tray with a single serving of some kind of porridge that Michel would never touch himself, along with a selection of breads and pastries, butter, all the necessities for a pleasant breakfast. There's freshly pressed juice, no pulp, coffee, tea. Timm has very specific needs and he doesn't voice them, so Michel has learned to guess.
It was the same with his father. You learn to look. You learn to do the math. He was always good at math. ]
Did your sleeping arrangements disappoint again? I saw your lights were on when I was up around half past four. That's most likely less than four hours of sleep, young man.
[ Leaning against the double door that has remained in place, firmly shut as shielding against the long hallway with a tendency to resonate, he peeks around. Fascinating things tend to happen overnight in here, when Timm can't sleep. ]