[ 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. ]
[ It's rarely a long night for Timm - nights, he finds, are just shadows, elongated, and he thinks about them less as time signatures and more as a state of existence with a different set of rules. Here, all colours change, his work following suit as a consequence. It's all transitional. Doesn't matter how many hours the transformation takes, really, only that it does and that he has to change his approach along with it. Before sundown, he'd been working on a stretch of the dinning room wall, following the patterns of sunlight as they'd fallen through the windows lining the facade opposite.
Then, as the visible light shifted and stretched itself into nearly nothing at all, he'd gone for the windows instead.
He's currently working on the second window from the doorway, painting the glass in long, aborted strokes of sky blue acrylics. He's thinking about rivers and starlight, probably. It's hard to be exactly sure of these things. When Michel speaks from the door, he takes a long moment to register his words. Then, dragging its heels like a wet little kitty and possibly, yes, his mind is slightly tired, comes the awareness of another presence in the room, the wing of Michel's mansion, which has very quickly become an extension of Timm's personal space.
He smiles slightly and narrows his eyes, swatting a series of sharp, blue dots against the window. Some of the paint sprays him in the face, right along the bridge of his nose. ]
I slept with the birds, Michel. You mustn't blame me, nor them, for how early they start the day.
[ He twists and turns, his thin limbs flailing inelegantly as he searches for a way to seat himself in the window sill. He manages after a few seconds, balancing himself against the floor with one, long leg stretched out in front of him. He meets Michel's gaze with a quirked eyebrow. ]
[ Gracious soul, Michel thinks. He's worried about me - and in such a passable French.
Since he can't dismissively wave his hand, the tray stuck between both of them, the way he'd usually do, Michel instead inclines his chin, lifting his head a little and then, shaking his head. Not in a manner that denotes, no, but to say, never you worry, just an old man taking a piss. After seeing Timm's windows illuminated, he had sent Fabiola, who's moved with them out into the country, now often ferrying between Michel's wing and Timm's without a single complaint, although she'll mutter things like no damn carrier pigeon, monsieur or at least the sheets are clean these days in Italian when she can pretend to think he won't hear or understand - tasking her with turning off the unnecessary lights and closing doors that need to be closed at night in such an old house. Timm doesn't consider these things. He considers what blues to plaster Michel's childhood home in. What kind of dots or stains or whatever the term is for these particular formations to splash onto the walls.
The piano, he's been strictly forbidden to touch.
The artistic mind, doesn't Michel know it! Alas, not from himself, but he has had artists in his life before. Great ones.
Moving over to the rickety construct of a table placed off to the side, two chairs at home around it, he puts down the tray, arranging the porridge in front of Timm's spot, then with habitual ease, coffee, tea, juice, bread and, lastly, in front of Timm's seat as well, pills. Not a diabetic like his father and in surprisingly strong form, says his doctor and you must listen to him, surely, Michel doesn't need any. Especially not these. ]
Birds have brains the size of nuts, my friend. They don't know any better. You certainly do. Now, [ He sits down with a satisfied grunt, reaching for a croissant. ] join me, allons-y!
[ Michel shakes his head slightly, chin tilted in that very distinctive way of his, telling Timm it's nothing and, inadvertently, it's familiar. In this house, very little comes unexpected and Timm has come to love it quickly, the quietness of it. Of Michel, with his little tray, stuffed full of breakfast items, some of which Timm might even consider ingesting, aside from the porridge which is a given on any day. He drops his brush into the paint bucket on the floor with a loud plop and brushes down his paint-splashed trousers, the material hanging loose around his hips because Timm's skinniness has long since gone beyond pragmatically pretty and into something that looks rather more like impending death. He's holding on, though. Like Michel, the quiet has a nurturing effect on him.
Well. Maybe it's mostly Michel, really, with his mothering ways.
Timm strides over to the table and takes a seat in his designated spot, crossing one leg over the other. The porridge is bland. It's nothing special to anyone but him because it so happens to be the only thing he can eat, comfortably without regrets. He grabs the small bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. ]
Intelligence and knowledge don't always go together, you know. Perhaps I'm simply in a constant mood to be stupid.
[ He takes a small spoonful and swallows it quickly. Down, down, down it goes. The taste - nutty, milky, not salty - barely even registers. He eyes the pills on the table a little forlornly, then decides to ignore them for now. ]
I see, I see - and it's your stupidity, of course, that has kept you alive so far. [ A pause that doesn't invite an answer or a response, just contemplation. What kind of life do you lead when it is stupidity and stubbornness, probably, that keeps you going?
They both know. ] Tell it not to stop quite yet, then.
[ As if it's just a matter of course, Michel puts down his coissant, places the butter within easy reach and, rather than begin buttering the already buttery pastry, he leans over and takes the small case with Timm's pills, opening it with an elegant and familiar movement, shaking the small handful of medicine out onto his palm before turning his hand over, placing the pills pointedly next to the other man's glass of juice.
Be stupidly alive, it means.
Afterwards, as if that whole display hasn't happened at all, Michel leans back in his seat again, prepares the croissant for the butter, butters it up and takes the first bite, making a comfortable humming sound at the taste. He glances at Timm over the swollen curve of the bread, a deep-held, empathetic look.
It's called age, he'd told Elio.
Elio who lives with the marriage canard now. Adopted the child whose mere notion once made him run from his longest-lasting lover. ]
We both know where we're going, don't we? [ It's not that he can't say 'death', it's that he doesn't need to. Because sometimes intelligence and knowledge do inhabit certain intersections. As Timm is the living proof of. ] And yet, we should stroll there, leisurely, we shouldn't run and fall and break a hip on the way.
[ He pauses at Michel's words, about to pick up another spoonful of porridge. Tell it not to stop he says and when has anyone asked that of him over the past many decades? He's heard several versions of please die, most of them uninspiring and the only other person who has at least some little attachment to him is Vincent who'd never encourage him to remain alive one day longer than strictly necessary. It's not self-pity, oh no - self-awareness, he thinks, is a great cure for that particular little ailment. He just knows what he is and what he isn't and that's a relief to the world, no doubt.
Yet here is Michel, turning things on their heads and Timm likes him a lot for a lot of reasons but this one, he thinks, might be close to the top of the list.
So naturally, in a show of good faith, he takes the pills and swallows them along with a great gulp of orange juice, fresh but pulp-less, smooth against the insides of his throat. He nearly doesn't feel the pills, dissolving amidst all the acidity. They are, then they aren't. Unlike him, for the time being, and Michel too, who is older yet and nowhere near done living his life.
We shouldn't run and fall, he says. Timm licks his lips and goes back to the porridge. His fingers leave faint, blue imprints on the glass as he sets it down. ]
I agree that you shouldn't. You'd look misplaced in a hospital bed, my dear.
[ A half-laugh and a loose-handed gesture down his own, narrow frame. ]
Whereas I'd merely look like another piece of the inventory.
[ Another piece of the inventory, says Timm. Michel looks at him blankly for a long moment, thoughts travelling back in time, far back, when he was younger and stronger and his father was -- not. Not old enough to die, surely, but we don't get to decide these things ourselves, as it is. Strong, at least, he wasn't. Maybe it was never a characteristic of his.
In some ways, Michel is very unlike his father, for better and for worse. He purses his lips and looks to the side, away from the blue fingerprints that Timm is leaving all over the utensils and that Fabiola will curse her employer to Hell and back over, when she sees. Ah well. Some would say he's going there anyway. The Church. His son, most likely.
His father had looked so pale in his hospital bed, too. Another piece of the inventory. ]
I have a feeling things and people get lost in hospitals. [ His croissant is just sitting there in front of him, a clear sign that Michel has been lost, down some old hallways and back alleys of the mind. ] That maybe, at the door, we leave our souls behind, either to be picked up later or, if we fail to ever leave again, to be handed in at the huge lost and found department they keep in the basement of those places.
[ Blink, blink. He shakes his head, chuckling low in his throat and takes a long sip of coffee before looking back at Timm again. ]
[ His words don't seem to leave Michel, who grows very quiet and still, stiller yet than their surroundings which is honestly quite a feat. This mansion of his lies tucked away south of Paris amidst fields and forest, the crystal-blue lake nearby strangely loud in comparison to the rest. It's lonesome out here, if not exactly lonely, and with lonesomeness comes the quiet of empty spaces. Timm adores it, though he can't say he'd ever expected to. He's lived most of his life in the gutter, surrounded by the noise of others. Here, with Michel, the air is easy to breathe.
And somehow, the quiet has immersed itself within it.
He waits the other man's silence out, sipping his juice again, what's left of it. The porridge goes down one spoonful after the next, his stomach growling a little in response. His body doesn't take any comfort in getting fed, as it were; he's fine with that. One step at a time can still be motion forward and he's not anxious to get anywhere in particular anyway.
When Michel speaks again, he sounds faraway for a moment. Timm tilts his head sideways and shrugs, gesturing at Michel with the now-empty spoon. ]
I mind. Don't tell me I can't.
[ He puts the spoon down and frowns. ]
That's a lovely image, Michel. Not as Poe as you'd think or expect of the subject matter but then again, that's all very you.
[ He smiles at the other man, gentler; gentle actually comes a lot easier to him than most people expect. ]
You make things softer, somehow. The edges, less painful. I wonder if maybe this is why they are lost to you in places that ought to revive them. Life, after all, is the opposite. The porridge is, always, passable. It's nothing more nor should it be so don't concern yourself with that. Try a small tint of aloofness, instead - if you dare.
[ 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. ]
[ In goes the croissant, finally, and the juice as well. Timm leans back in his chair a little, his old joints creaking in protest - it's been a long night, a long evening leading into it. Authentic living, he thinks, is an overrated concept. Extremely overrated. Look at him, living authentically. Look at that boy of Michel's, the one who's run away to live with someone who wouldn't know authenticity if it fucked him up the nostrils. No, it's not about that at all. Michel has to know, doesn't he, that taking the beatings is what cripples men and women and everything in between. It's what makes you walk like you've forgotten how to stand. Inspirational. Pah.
With a huff, Timm shakes his head and allows the other man to change the subject. He finishes his porridge and sets the bowl down carefully before he points towards the wall opposite the painted window with one, limp-looking wrist. ]
I've told you before - what you call a grey sky, I call an ocean. Transpose it onto flat surfaces and it changes its shape almost without any assistance at all.
[ The wall is painted in shades of grey. The brush and the shadows falling in with the light from outside have decided the shapes - circular, for the most part, dark and stormy near the center and foamy-white around the edges. There are many circles, bubbles, he thinks, the largest big enough to cover half the height of the wall, the smallest the sizes of hands, fingers, toes. Eyes. The ocean, the clouds, watching. With the morning light falling in through the painted window dancing across the waves, it's almost as if the surface is blinking back at them, at the sun.
In reality, of course, the light is getting swallowed. ]
I may visit the lake, later, for inspiration. Perhaps you'll come along.
[ Michel has never taken any great interest in art. He's frequented enough art galleries and museums to recognise certain styles, but he's as willfully ignorant about the details as he is about classical music. A bad student, wasn't he? Math was his main strength. Some social sciences. History. The rest was -- like a dismissive gesture over one shoulder, beyond him.
However, listening to Timm speak like this, he realizes that he has always been attracted to artists primarily. Before Elio, it was Julien, the architect who - in much this way - would tell him, what you call a curved line, I know fifty different expressions for; don't simplify things, Michel, when Michel pointed to his sketch and said, many curved lines on that one. After Julien, it was Elio and only Elio, always Elio. After Elio, not truly anyone, but Timm sleeps in his bed sometimes and although they don't fuck, they share so many other things.
Age. The last stretch of life before them. He dries some crumbs off the tabletop with one hand, meeting the other man's eyes directly. No hesitation. No shyness. ]
I could never say no to a visit to the lake.
[ It's with a small smile that Michel replies. He knows Timm doesn't see the landscape here the way he does, he understands the reference in Corot country, but he also knows so much more about all that than Michel would ever pretend to. And he doesn't attach the same memories to it; perhaps that's all the same. Perhaps that's all the better. ]
[ He nods, sipping his juice again before getting to his feet. He's been still for long enough - the stillness around them, after all, is chronic and the restlessness within him equally so, it evens out in this place, in Michel's little haven for two. Stretching, he runs one hand through his shaggy hair, long on one side and indescribable on the other - something about garden shears late at night, something about feeling frozen on at least two very different tracks in time, past and present fused together, something, something, there's a name for all of that somewhere and he, blissfully, doesn't have to care - in either case, his hair always looks like shit.
It fits the rest of him to a T.
Heading over to the window, he looks over the contents of the paint bucket critically, pursing his lips. ]
You have eyes in your own pretty head, darling. Maybe this time around, you should tell me what you see.
[ Without further ado, he slaps his right hand into the paint, splashing blue all over his sleeve and forearm. He gives it a couple of good twirls before stretching back to his full height, pulling his arm with him. Paint dripping onto the floor and his naked feet, Timm tilts his head sideways, eyes narrowed, and flicks his fingers at the window. Specks of blue scatter across the glass. ]
[ Watching Timm leave anything, let alone the table, is always like watching a lion abandon its half-eaten kill. You can assume, safely, that it'll be back for more later, but it will no doubt not be when you're anywhere in the vicinity to watch and it is definitely going to be a mess it leaves behind. That is how his lodger is, nothing to be done about it. That is the definition of conditions, that they are like that, inescapable, for everyone, poor and rich, young and old. He eats the rest of his croissant. Drinks the rest of his coffee. There's more left, but he'll leave it for the lion that is going to get ravenous eventually.
Always hungry, aren't they, people? For food and other things. Closure. Intimacy. Always hungry. ]
Yes, but you don't want to hear yet another long-winded story about that time I was a child. [ Michel huffs as he gets to his feet, too, abandoning the table like a man who owns it, rather than as anyone who has anything to lose. It won't be any less his, simply because he isn't actively sitting at it, on it.
Timm's the same. Whether he's wrapped around Michel's back, all long heavy limbs or not, he belongs. Think, to still belong to this place that he used to hate so much.
And to not hate it quite so much anymore... ] It's all very long ago now, isn't it?
[ Turning towards Timm and the window, getting splattered from flicking blue fingers, he folds his arms over his chest and watches. The lion at work. The artist. One and the same. He could waste a lot of time wishing he'd met Timm when he was younger and had a life to give, but he won't, because then he'll simply have even less to give now.
And one thing is certain, Michel is giving all he's got left. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@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. ]
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Then, as the visible light shifted and stretched itself into nearly nothing at all, he'd gone for the windows instead.
He's currently working on the second window from the doorway, painting the glass in long, aborted strokes of sky blue acrylics. He's thinking about rivers and starlight, probably. It's hard to be exactly sure of these things. When Michel speaks from the door, he takes a long moment to register his words. Then, dragging its heels like a wet little kitty and possibly, yes, his mind is slightly tired, comes the awareness of another presence in the room, the wing of Michel's mansion, which has very quickly become an extension of Timm's personal space.
He smiles slightly and narrows his eyes, swatting a series of sharp, blue dots against the window. Some of the paint sprays him in the face, right along the bridge of his nose. ]
I slept with the birds, Michel. You mustn't blame me, nor them, for how early they start the day.
[ He twists and turns, his thin limbs flailing inelegantly as he searches for a way to seat himself in the window sill. He manages after a few seconds, balancing himself against the floor with one, long leg stretched out in front of him. He meets Michel's gaze with a quirked eyebrow. ]
You went right back to bed, didn't you?
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Since he can't dismissively wave his hand, the tray stuck between both of them, the way he'd usually do, Michel instead inclines his chin, lifting his head a little and then, shaking his head. Not in a manner that denotes, no, but to say, never you worry, just an old man taking a piss. After seeing Timm's windows illuminated, he had sent Fabiola, who's moved with them out into the country, now often ferrying between Michel's wing and Timm's without a single complaint, although she'll mutter things like no damn carrier pigeon, monsieur or at least the sheets are clean these days in Italian when she can pretend to think he won't hear or understand - tasking her with turning off the unnecessary lights and closing doors that need to be closed at night in such an old house. Timm doesn't consider these things. He considers what blues to plaster Michel's childhood home in. What kind of dots or stains or whatever the term is for these particular formations to splash onto the walls.
The piano, he's been strictly forbidden to touch.
The artistic mind, doesn't Michel know it! Alas, not from himself, but he has had artists in his life before. Great ones.
Moving over to the rickety construct of a table placed off to the side, two chairs at home around it, he puts down the tray, arranging the porridge in front of Timm's spot, then with habitual ease, coffee, tea, juice, bread and, lastly, in front of Timm's seat as well, pills. Not a diabetic like his father and in surprisingly strong form, says his doctor and you must listen to him, surely, Michel doesn't need any. Especially not these. ]
Birds have brains the size of nuts, my friend. They don't know any better. You certainly do. Now, [ He sits down with a satisfied grunt, reaching for a croissant. ] join me, allons-y!
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Well. Maybe it's mostly Michel, really, with his mothering ways.
Timm strides over to the table and takes a seat in his designated spot, crossing one leg over the other. The porridge is bland. It's nothing special to anyone but him because it so happens to be the only thing he can eat, comfortably without regrets. He grabs the small bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. ]
Intelligence and knowledge don't always go together, you know. Perhaps I'm simply in a constant mood to be stupid.
[ He takes a small spoonful and swallows it quickly. Down, down, down it goes. The taste - nutty, milky, not salty - barely even registers. He eyes the pills on the table a little forlornly, then decides to ignore them for now. ]
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They both know. ] Tell it not to stop quite yet, then.
[ As if it's just a matter of course, Michel puts down his coissant, places the butter within easy reach and, rather than begin buttering the already buttery pastry, he leans over and takes the small case with Timm's pills, opening it with an elegant and familiar movement, shaking the small handful of medicine out onto his palm before turning his hand over, placing the pills pointedly next to the other man's glass of juice.
Be stupidly alive, it means.
Afterwards, as if that whole display hasn't happened at all, Michel leans back in his seat again, prepares the croissant for the butter, butters it up and takes the first bite, making a comfortable humming sound at the taste. He glances at Timm over the swollen curve of the bread, a deep-held, empathetic look.
It's called age, he'd told Elio.
Elio who lives with the marriage canard now. Adopted the child whose mere notion once made him run from his longest-lasting lover. ]
We both know where we're going, don't we? [ It's not that he can't say 'death', it's that he doesn't need to. Because sometimes intelligence and knowledge do inhabit certain intersections. As Timm is the living proof of. ] And yet, we should stroll there, leisurely, we shouldn't run and fall and break a hip on the way.
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Yet here is Michel, turning things on their heads and Timm likes him a lot for a lot of reasons but this one, he thinks, might be close to the top of the list.
So naturally, in a show of good faith, he takes the pills and swallows them along with a great gulp of orange juice, fresh but pulp-less, smooth against the insides of his throat. He nearly doesn't feel the pills, dissolving amidst all the acidity. They are, then they aren't. Unlike him, for the time being, and Michel too, who is older yet and nowhere near done living his life.
We shouldn't run and fall, he says. Timm licks his lips and goes back to the porridge. His fingers leave faint, blue imprints on the glass as he sets it down. ]
I agree that you shouldn't. You'd look misplaced in a hospital bed, my dear.
[ A half-laugh and a loose-handed gesture down his own, narrow frame. ]
Whereas I'd merely look like another piece of the inventory.
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In some ways, Michel is very unlike his father, for better and for worse. He purses his lips and looks to the side, away from the blue fingerprints that Timm is leaving all over the utensils and that Fabiola will curse her employer to Hell and back over, when she sees. Ah well. Some would say he's going there anyway. The Church. His son, most likely.
His father had looked so pale in his hospital bed, too. Another piece of the inventory. ]
I have a feeling things and people get lost in hospitals. [ His croissant is just sitting there in front of him, a clear sign that Michel has been lost, down some old hallways and back alleys of the mind. ] That maybe, at the door, we leave our souls behind, either to be picked up later or, if we fail to ever leave again, to be handed in at the huge lost and found department they keep in the basement of those places.
[ Blink, blink. He shakes his head, chuckling low in his throat and takes a long sip of coffee before looking back at Timm again. ]
Don't mind my nonsense. How is the porridge?
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And somehow, the quiet has immersed itself within it.
He waits the other man's silence out, sipping his juice again, what's left of it. The porridge goes down one spoonful after the next, his stomach growling a little in response. His body doesn't take any comfort in getting fed, as it were; he's fine with that. One step at a time can still be motion forward and he's not anxious to get anywhere in particular anyway.
When Michel speaks again, he sounds faraway for a moment. Timm tilts his head sideways and shrugs, gesturing at Michel with the now-empty spoon. ]
I mind. Don't tell me I can't.
[ He puts the spoon down and frowns. ]
That's a lovely image, Michel. Not as Poe as you'd think or expect of the subject matter but then again, that's all very you.
[ He smiles at the other man, gentler; gentle actually comes a lot easier to him than most people expect. ]
You make things softer, somehow. The edges, less painful. I wonder if maybe this is why they are lost to you in places that ought to revive them. Life, after all, is the opposite. The porridge is, always, passable. It's nothing more nor should it be so don't concern yourself with that. Try a small tint of aloofness, instead - if you dare.
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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?
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With a huff, Timm shakes his head and allows the other man to change the subject. He finishes his porridge and sets the bowl down carefully before he points towards the wall opposite the painted window with one, limp-looking wrist. ]
I've told you before - what you call a grey sky, I call an ocean. Transpose it onto flat surfaces and it changes its shape almost without any assistance at all.
[ The wall is painted in shades of grey. The brush and the shadows falling in with the light from outside have decided the shapes - circular, for the most part, dark and stormy near the center and foamy-white around the edges. There are many circles, bubbles, he thinks, the largest big enough to cover half the height of the wall, the smallest the sizes of hands, fingers, toes. Eyes. The ocean, the clouds, watching. With the morning light falling in through the painted window dancing across the waves, it's almost as if the surface is blinking back at them, at the sun.
In reality, of course, the light is getting swallowed. ]
I may visit the lake, later, for inspiration. Perhaps you'll come along.
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However, listening to Timm speak like this, he realizes that he has always been attracted to artists primarily. Before Elio, it was Julien, the architect who - in much this way - would tell him, what you call a curved line, I know fifty different expressions for; don't simplify things, Michel, when Michel pointed to his sketch and said, many curved lines on that one. After Julien, it was Elio and only Elio, always Elio. After Elio, not truly anyone, but Timm sleeps in his bed sometimes and although they don't fuck, they share so many other things.
Age. The last stretch of life before them. He dries some crumbs off the tabletop with one hand, meeting the other man's eyes directly. No hesitation. No shyness. ]
I could never say no to a visit to the lake.
[ It's with a small smile that Michel replies. He knows Timm doesn't see the landscape here the way he does, he understands the reference in Corot country, but he also knows so much more about all that than Michel would ever pretend to. And he doesn't attach the same memories to it; perhaps that's all the same. Perhaps that's all the better. ]
Not with you to be my eyes.
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It fits the rest of him to a T.
Heading over to the window, he looks over the contents of the paint bucket critically, pursing his lips. ]
You have eyes in your own pretty head, darling. Maybe this time around, you should tell me what you see.
[ Without further ado, he slaps his right hand into the paint, splashing blue all over his sleeve and forearm. He gives it a couple of good twirls before stretching back to his full height, pulling his arm with him. Paint dripping onto the floor and his naked feet, Timm tilts his head sideways, eyes narrowed, and flicks his fingers at the window. Specks of blue scatter across the glass. ]
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Always hungry, aren't they, people? For food and other things. Closure. Intimacy. Always hungry. ]
Yes, but you don't want to hear yet another long-winded story about that time I was a child. [ Michel huffs as he gets to his feet, too, abandoning the table like a man who owns it, rather than as anyone who has anything to lose. It won't be any less his, simply because he isn't actively sitting at it, on it.
Timm's the same. Whether he's wrapped around Michel's back, all long heavy limbs or not, he belongs. Think, to still belong to this place that he used to hate so much.
And to not hate it quite so much anymore... ] It's all very long ago now, isn't it?
[ Turning towards Timm and the window, getting splattered from flicking blue fingers, he folds his arms over his chest and watches. The lion at work. The artist. One and the same. He could waste a lot of time wishing he'd met Timm when he was younger and had a life to give, but he won't, because then he'll simply have even less to give now.
And one thing is certain, Michel is giving all he's got left. ]