[ 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. ]
[ ”Leave it to Himeno to already have a date lined up!”
The woman laughs to herself at the memory of her coworker’s teasing. True, she ought to be suffering from jet-lag like the rest of her team — the trip from Tokyo to Paris is a long one, to be sure. And yet, Himeno would rather spend the handful of days when they aren’t on the job taking in all that she can. The sounds of tourists, foreign tongues, and street musicians. She wants to people-watch, the well-dressed ladies and debonair men on their way to somewhere special, surely, somewhere entirely separate from her. When will she ever get the chance to exist like this again? Like a phantom in a city she will never know, amongst people who won’t even register her face in their memories.
It’s wonderfully melancholic, the freedom to be anyone and no one at all, if only for a single evening with a man who would enjoy her company without the expectation of sex afterwards. Now, that would shock her coworkers! She doesn’t share that detail with them. Himeno doesn’t need to— off the clock, her life is her life, and she’ll always welcome the unexpected and refreshing. All they need to know is that she would be “back whenever;” she has the number of the hotel, taxi fare, and a light jacket. And everyone knows she never goes anywhere without a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, though this time the brand is French and not her usual Japanese go-to.
She arrives at the small establishment in a very flattering frock, appropriate for the unusually warm evening. She can clean up nicely! It certainly earned her plenty of stares on the métro and the short walk to the bistro. Well, Himeno is a pretty lady and knows it! And, as promised, her hair is delightfully tousled— though sadly from a siesta rather than a pre-dinner romp.
As she strolls up to the entrance, Himeno notices Michel immediately. He is, by far, the most dashing man her eye can see. The glow of the street lamps cast delicious shadows across his visage, and when she boldly wraps her arms around one of his, she can catch the alluring scent of cologne. Himeno almost feels bad for any man who isn’t him, tonight, but she is absolutely happy to be a source of envy, too— how lucky she is!]
Evening, Michel! Hope you weren’t waiting too long. [She grins up at him.] Though if you were, I bet someone would have tried to snap you up already!
@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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The woman laughs to herself at the memory of her coworker’s teasing. True, she ought to be suffering from jet-lag like the rest of her team — the trip from Tokyo to Paris is a long one, to be sure. And yet, Himeno would rather spend the handful of days when they aren’t on the job taking in all that she can. The sounds of tourists, foreign tongues, and street musicians. She wants to people-watch, the well-dressed ladies and debonair men on their way to somewhere special, surely, somewhere entirely separate from her. When will she ever get the chance to exist like this again? Like a phantom in a city she will never know, amongst people who won’t even register her face in their memories.
It’s wonderfully melancholic, the freedom to be anyone and no one at all, if only for a single evening with a man who would enjoy her company without the expectation of sex afterwards. Now, that would shock her coworkers! She doesn’t share that detail with them. Himeno doesn’t need to— off the clock, her life is her life, and she’ll always welcome the unexpected and refreshing. All they need to know is that she would be “back whenever;” she has the number of the hotel, taxi fare, and a light jacket. And everyone knows she never goes anywhere without a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, though this time the brand is French and not her usual Japanese go-to.
She arrives at the small establishment in a very flattering frock, appropriate for the unusually warm evening. She can clean up nicely! It certainly earned her plenty of stares on the métro and the short walk to the bistro. Well, Himeno is a pretty lady and knows it! And, as promised, her hair is delightfully tousled— though sadly from a siesta rather than a pre-dinner romp.
As she strolls up to the entrance, Himeno notices Michel immediately. He is, by far, the most dashing man her eye can see. The glow of the street lamps cast delicious shadows across his visage, and when she boldly wraps her arms around one of his, she can catch the alluring scent of cologne. Himeno almost feels bad for any man who isn’t him, tonight, but she is absolutely happy to be a source of envy, too— how lucky she is!]
Evening, Michel! Hope you weren’t waiting too long. [She grins up at him.] Though if you were, I bet someone would have tried to snap you up already!
I’m ready to start some rumors. Shall we?
this was an amazing tag, i'm almost sorry to go in drabble mode.
you’re too kind :) let’s go for as long as it’s comfortable and we can always switch back
we'll see how long we can keep it up and then just go back to full-length tags!
sounds perfect! i always appreciate an exercise in self-restraint haha
same, haha!
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