Give In, Give In [And Relish Every Minute of It] Part 2/4little_elfieJune 18 2014, 00:48:43 UTC
Give in, Give In [And Relish Every Minute of It]
The Boy
The next month passes by in a slow agony of awkwardness for both parties. The DNA test Claude insisted upon proves beyond a doubt that the boy, Quasimodo, is indeed his son, the product of a long-forgotten fling in Paris almost fifteen years ago.
"My mum died three months ago," Quasimodo tells him over breakfast. Claude is pretending to read the newspaper, his mind still reeling, "It was a car crash. My step-dad was killed too. I've been living with Aunt Laverne since then."
"I'm sorry about your mother," Claude manages. The sentiment rings false. He barely remembers the woman, cannot picture her face at all...and yet she bore him a child, the living and breathing proof of their brief union, sitting just across the table from him. Quasimodo. He mouths his son's name, trying to ignore the unfamiliar quivers of fear beneath his ribcage. The silence is overwhelming. He fills it with words, "Did she tell you about me? Where to find me?"
"Nuh-uh," Quasimodo shakes his head, mumbling through a mouthful of cereal. Claude has never bought cereal before last month...but then, he never had a son before last month. He drums his fingers on the table, waiting for the boy to finish. Quasimodo smiles apologetically, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand, "Aunt Laverne told me. I wanted to meet you..."
Claude feels like he ought to say something, to apologise for not being there. She didn't tell me about you. I never knew you existed, he wants to tell the kid, I wish you didn't exist. Go back to your real family and leave me alone. He looks at his watch instead.
"I have to go to work. You'll be here alright on your own, won't you?"
"Yeah..." Quasimodo smiles again. He is quite a homely boy really, with a shock of unruly hair and a broad, plain face, but his smile lights up the room. Claude feels a pang of sympathy for him, sharp and true beneath all the uncertainty and resentment. Still, it is a relief to get away from the house, to lose himself at work again. Mountains of paperwork, early mornings and late nights, managing the press and difficult clients, covering for his inept colleagues...Claude takes it all in his stride. But parenting...being a father...it's like a horrible nightmare he can't seem to wake from, a duty he can't escape. "I don't even like children," he groans, sinking whiskey shots with Hades in his office at the end of the day.
Hades nods, striking a match to light one of his pungent cigars, "I hear ya. My brother's brat is coming to stay with me for a few weeks. Herc. The kid's a klutz. I mean, how the hell am I supposed to score with Meg when I'm stuck with a gangly teenager hanging around the place?" Claude rolls his eyes. Meg is an intern, twenty one years old and smoking hot. Hades has been trying to get her into bed for weeks. Romance is the last thing on Claude's mind. That's what got him into this mess in the first place
Hercules is a godsend. He and Quasimodo seem to hit it off right away, a pair of shy ginger outcasts with similar hobbies - animals, music, jogging in the park. It's a weight off Claude's shoulders, having him out of the house sometimes. Although...well, Quasimodo isn't a bad kid. Things get easier as the weeks go by, slowly but surely. The boy's quiet and mature, funny and good-natured. The first time he makes his father laugh it is so surprising, so unexpected, that Claude has to leave the room for moment, to regain his composure and gather his thoughts. He takes the day off and they spend the afternoon in the garden together, making the most of the sun. Quasimodo is working on an art project, constructing a model of Westminster Abbey from ice-lolly sticks and other bits and pieces.
"We need another stick, Dad. It's your turn," Quasimodo announces, handing his father a Magnum with a grin.
I could get used to this, Claude thinks, I could get used to being Dad.
Give In, Give In [And Relish Every Minute of It] Part 3/4little_elfieJune 18 2014, 22:21:34 UTC
Give In, Give In [And Relish Every Minute of It]
The Woman
Everything changes in the last week of summer.
Quasimodo's favourite film is Billy Elliot. Claude is not a fan, dismissing it as maudlin and melodramatic, but he takes his son to see the stage musical when it opens in the West End. The boy is enchanted, enthralled.
"I love dancing," he confesses to Claude afterwards, his face aglow with joy, "I'm not very good at it. The kids at school made fun of me when I joined the performing arts club. I don't care though, not really."
Claude isn't paying attention. He's going through paperwork in his head. The conversation is forgotten until they attend the Nottinghill Carnival with Hades and Hercules. The boys are in their element, marvelling at the colourful spectacle as their guardians watch from a safe distance, fresh out of the courtroom and out of place in expensive suits. They sip coffee and smoke and talk about the stock market.
"Dad, you've gotta see this!"
Quasimodo soon sprints back to his father's side, tugging at Claude's sleeve until he reluctantly allows himself to be dragged through the masses, scowling at the jostling and jovial revellers. A small troupe of street performers have taken over a corner of the street, attracting a sizable audience. The leader, a tall man in the motley of a harlequin, is putting on a puppet show for a group of young children, whilst his companions entertain their parents with sleight-of-hand card tricks and acrobatics. All mildly amusing but certainly not worth the effort to navigating through the heaving crowds, at least in Claude's opinion. Quasimodo nudges him away from the puppeteer, moving to the edge of the makeshift stage where a woman is dancing...
A woman is dancing...
She's young, beautiful...oh, so fucking beautiful. She undulates like a flame caught in a breeze, brown limbs glistening with sweat as she twists and turns and then...green eyes, flashing green eyes, like emeralds, and he can't breathe, can't look away, can't do anything but watch...
Claude watches in silence, dimly aware of Quasimodo's delighted cries. They watch until the end, until she sinks into an exhausted bow to riotous applause, her tits heaving and red lips quirking into a tremulous smile of triumph. Then...she's gone, skipping lightly offstage as the harlequin takes her place in a burst of orange smoke. Claude breathes for the first time in an eternity, lightheaded and dizzy and suddenly aware of a hollow space beneath his breastbone.
"She's amazing, isn't she? Dad?"
He blinks and frowns. Amazing. Yes. His replies are perfunctory.
"Do you think I could...I mean...Dad, do you think she'd teach me to dance like that?"
"Dance like that?" Claude arches an eyebrow, "I should hope not."
Quasimodo blushes, "Well...not exactly like that...but..."
"I thought you wanted to go to performing arts college?" Claude feels more like himself now, no longer dazzled by that ethereal brightness. He places his hands on Quasimodo's shoulders, firm and gentle, ready to steer him away from the performers, "I'd rather you were taught by professionals, not by some random girl you met on the streets."
Quasimodo is having none of it. He can be so stubborn sometimes. A family trait.
"She is a professional. At least let me ask her, Dad. Please."
And so, against his better judgement, Claude arranges for Esmeralda - God, even her name is unsuitable - to come to the house on Saturday evenings and teach his son to dance.
Give In, Give In [And Relish Every Minute of It] Part 4/4little_elfieJune 18 2014, 23:16:50 UTC
Give In, Give In [And Relish Every Minute of It]
The Problem
Esmeralda is a pain in the arse.
She's outspoken, free-spirited, liberal, provocative and, as suspected, completely unsuitable. Naturally, Quasimodo adores her. She seems quite fond of the boy for her part, encouraging him and building his confidence immensely in the short hours they spend together each week. She tolerates Claude and he extends her the same courtesy, although it is difficult to keep a civil tongue when she takes it upon herself to criticize him at every opportunity.
"I hate lawyers. Bloodsucking vipers, the lot of them. There's not an ounce of human decency to be found in that profession."
Esmeralda delights in goading him when they cross paths. Claude is usually ready with a witty comeback or scathing observation but, when it becomes apparent that she enjoys their little spats, he chooses to ignore the insults instead and smirks privately at her disappointment. Quasimodo is determined that they should all be friends, a foolish notion which Claude refuses to entertain. Still, the boy perseveres, cajoling his father to invite the girl over for tea and other such nonsense. He never stops talking about her, trying to interest Claude with stories about Esmeralda. Things she has said or done or whatever. Claude refuses to rise to the bait, that is until he overhears a snippet of conservation between his son and the girl.
"So...you think it should be legal?"
"There's no real harm in it, Quasi. You shouldn't believe everything you read in the papers. Cannabis isn't anywhere near as harmful as tobacco or alcohol."
Claude waits until she is leaving and takes her aside at the door.
"In the future, I'd appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut about such matters when you're with Quasimodo. He's young and gullible and he looks up to you..."
"Come off it, Claude. I wasn't brainwashing the kid, he asked me about it. Anyway, I bet you're not virtuous as as you make out. In fact..." Esmeralda leans in, eyes glittering beneath sooty lashes. She smiles, her voice low and sultry, "I bet you smoked a blunt or two in your day. Didn't you? What about now? Do you like a joint now and again, after a long, hard day at work? Or a drink? Or something else maybe? Something to help you relax and unwind..."
Claude's face contorts. He moves closer, almost pinning her against the wall. Shit. He's going to punch her...or kiss her...either way, Esmeralda doesn't plan on hanging around long enough to find out. Esmeralda ducks under his arm and out of the house, laughing as he curses beneath his breath and slams the door behind her, red-faced and furious. She recounts the conversation for Clopin later that night at a local bar, one of their usual hangouts. He laughs too, knocking back shots and urging her on as she clenches her jaw and glowers at him in a fine impression of her employer.
"He really boils my piss. Stuffy old git."
Clopin sniggers, his eyes alight with impish glee, "Well, since you never stop talking about that stuffy old git, I'm starting to think you fancy him."
Give In, Give In [And Relish Every Minute of It] Part 5/5little_elfieJune 19 2014, 00:18:16 UTC
Give In, Give In [And Relish Every Minute of It]
The Walk
Esmeralda almost doesn't want go back to the house the following Saturday. Not after what Clopin said. Besides, it's been pissing down all day and she doesn't really fancy going anywhere in that weather. She dithers over the decision all afternoon until the thought of Quasimodo - and the money, of course - eventually draws her back to that familiar doorstep. Claude looks surprised to see her.
"Didn't you get my text this morning?"
"My phone's on the blink again. I dropped it in the bath last night."
"Oh..." Claude moves aside to let her in out of the rain, "Quasimodo's not here. He's staying over with Hercules tonight. I did text to let you know. To be honest, I didn't think you'd be coming back anyway."
Esmeralda shrugs, "That was my fault, not yours. You were right. It's not my place to talk to your son about drugs...or anything else like that."
Claude receives her apology with a smile, the first she's had from him since they met. An awkward silence follows. He breaks it, "Cup of tea? Coffee?" He's still smiling. He looks different when he smiles. It's a good different, Esmeralda decides after a moment of contemplation.
"Yeah, tea would be great."
They drink tea in the kitchen and talk. They talk about their lives, their hopes and dreams and failures. They talk about Quasimodo. Things get a little emotional, a little strange. It's a good strange, Claude decides. He opens a bottle of wine. They finish it and he opens another one. They order pizza. Pizza. Whiskey. Whiskey and dancing...
And then it's all a blur of tangled limbs and kisses and all manner of lovely things until they wake up together in his bed late the next morning, all shy smiles and raging hangovers. She lights two cigarettes and hands him one. What a cliche. It's awful. It's wonderful.
"Dad? Dad, you're late for work."
No. It's awful.
Breakfast is an ordeal. They sit in silence, embarrassed and bedraggled, Esmeralda wearing one of Claude's shirts. Quasimodo isn't embarrassed. Well, no more than any other fourteen year old boy upon finding his father in bed with a young woman. He seems pleased actually, bustling around the kitchen and chattering away about his sleepover with Hercules, bringing them coffee and paracetamol. Esmeralda retrieves her clothes from the lounge, grinning ruefully when Claude plucks her bra from the doorknob. He walks her home. The rain has cleared and the sky is blue. They don't speak until they reach her flat. Clopin is at the window, making lewd gestures and laughing. Esmeralda gives him the finger.
"Last night was nice."
"It was," Claude smiles, obviously relieved, "Do you still think I'm a bloodsucking viper then?"
"Of course." She chuckles and tilts her chin, reaching up to brush her fingertips across the lovebites which adorn her throat.
He winces, still embarrassed, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be silly," Esmeralda chides, touching his hand, "I'd like to do it again sometime."
"Me too."
"It's a date then?"
"Definitely."
She turns to check that Clopin is not watching before pulling Claude into a kiss.
He can still taste her when he finally makes it into work.
Re: Give In, Give In [And Relish Every Minute of It] Part 5/5afterandalasiaJune 20 2014, 22:08:10 UTC
Oh my god. *flailing delight* I love this so much! I think it was the: She's outspoken, free-spirited, liberal, provocative and, as suspected, completely unsuitable. Naturally, Quasimodo adores her.
When I totally lost it and started laughing aloud. But I love this to bits and then some. The chemistry was really hot, and I loved the characterisation.
The Boy
The next month passes by in a slow agony of awkwardness for both parties. The DNA test Claude insisted upon proves beyond a doubt that the boy, Quasimodo, is indeed his son, the product of a long-forgotten fling in Paris almost fifteen years ago.
"My mum died three months ago," Quasimodo tells him over breakfast. Claude is pretending to read the newspaper, his mind still reeling, "It was a car crash. My step-dad was killed too. I've been living with Aunt Laverne since then."
"I'm sorry about your mother," Claude manages. The sentiment rings false. He barely remembers the woman, cannot picture her face at all...and yet she bore him a child, the living and breathing proof of their brief union, sitting just across the table from him. Quasimodo. He mouths his son's name, trying to ignore the unfamiliar quivers of fear beneath his ribcage. The silence is overwhelming. He fills it with words, "Did she tell you about me? Where to find me?"
"Nuh-uh," Quasimodo shakes his head, mumbling through a mouthful of cereal. Claude has never bought cereal before last month...but then, he never had a son before last month. He drums his fingers on the table, waiting for the boy to finish. Quasimodo smiles apologetically, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand, "Aunt Laverne told me. I wanted to meet you..."
Claude feels like he ought to say something, to apologise for not being there. She didn't tell me about you. I never knew you existed, he wants to tell the kid, I wish you didn't exist. Go back to your real family and leave me alone. He looks at his watch instead.
"I have to go to work. You'll be here alright on your own, won't you?"
"Yeah..." Quasimodo smiles again. He is quite a homely boy really, with a shock of unruly hair and a broad, plain face, but his smile lights up the room. Claude feels a pang of sympathy for him, sharp and true beneath all the uncertainty and resentment. Still, it is a relief to get away from the house, to lose himself at work again. Mountains of paperwork, early mornings and late nights, managing the press and difficult clients, covering for his inept colleagues...Claude takes it all in his stride. But parenting...being a father...it's like a horrible nightmare he can't seem to wake from, a duty he can't escape. "I don't even like children," he groans, sinking whiskey shots with Hades in his office at the end of the day.
Hades nods, striking a match to light one of his pungent cigars, "I hear ya. My brother's brat is coming to stay with me for a few weeks. Herc. The kid's a klutz. I mean, how the hell am I supposed to score with Meg when I'm stuck with a gangly teenager hanging around the place?" Claude rolls his eyes. Meg is an intern, twenty one years old and smoking hot. Hades has been trying to get her into bed for weeks. Romance is the last thing on Claude's mind. That's what got him into this mess in the first place
Hercules is a godsend. He and Quasimodo seem to hit it off right away, a pair of shy ginger outcasts with similar hobbies - animals, music, jogging in the park. It's a weight off Claude's shoulders, having him out of the house sometimes. Although...well, Quasimodo isn't a bad kid. Things get easier as the weeks go by, slowly but surely. The boy's quiet and mature, funny and good-natured. The first time he makes his father laugh it is so surprising, so unexpected, that Claude has to leave the room for moment, to regain his composure and gather his thoughts. He takes the day off and they spend the afternoon in the garden together, making the most of the sun. Quasimodo is working on an art project, constructing a model of Westminster Abbey from ice-lolly sticks and other bits and pieces.
"We need another stick, Dad. It's your turn," Quasimodo announces, handing his father a Magnum with a grin.
I could get used to this, Claude thinks, I could get used to being Dad.
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The Woman
Everything changes in the last week of summer.
Quasimodo's favourite film is Billy Elliot. Claude is not a fan, dismissing it as maudlin and melodramatic, but he takes his son to see the stage musical when it opens in the West End. The boy is enchanted, enthralled.
"I love dancing," he confesses to Claude afterwards, his face aglow with joy, "I'm not very good at it. The kids at school made fun of me when I joined the performing arts club. I don't care though, not really."
Claude isn't paying attention. He's going through paperwork in his head. The conversation is forgotten until they attend the Nottinghill Carnival with Hades and Hercules. The boys are in their element, marvelling at the colourful spectacle as their guardians watch from a safe distance, fresh out of the courtroom and out of place in expensive suits. They sip coffee and smoke and talk about the stock market.
"Dad, you've gotta see this!"
Quasimodo soon sprints back to his father's side, tugging at Claude's sleeve until he reluctantly allows himself to be dragged through the masses, scowling at the jostling and jovial revellers. A small troupe of street performers have taken over a corner of the street, attracting a sizable audience. The leader, a tall man in the motley of a harlequin, is putting on a puppet show for a group of young children, whilst his companions entertain their parents with sleight-of-hand card tricks and acrobatics. All mildly amusing but certainly not worth the effort to navigating through the heaving crowds, at least in Claude's opinion. Quasimodo nudges him away from the puppeteer, moving to the edge of the makeshift stage where a woman is dancing...
A woman is dancing...
She's young, beautiful...oh, so fucking beautiful. She undulates like a flame caught in a breeze, brown limbs glistening with sweat as she twists and turns and then...green eyes, flashing green eyes, like emeralds, and he can't breathe, can't look away, can't do anything but watch...
Claude watches in silence, dimly aware of Quasimodo's delighted cries. They watch until the end, until she sinks into an exhausted bow to riotous applause, her tits heaving and red lips quirking into a tremulous smile of triumph. Then...she's gone, skipping lightly offstage as the harlequin takes her place in a burst of orange smoke. Claude breathes for the first time in an eternity, lightheaded and dizzy and suddenly aware of a hollow space beneath his breastbone.
"She's amazing, isn't she? Dad?"
He blinks and frowns. Amazing. Yes. His replies are perfunctory.
"Do you think I could...I mean...Dad, do you think she'd teach me to dance like that?"
"Dance like that?" Claude arches an eyebrow, "I should hope not."
Quasimodo blushes, "Well...not exactly like that...but..."
"I thought you wanted to go to performing arts college?" Claude feels more like himself now, no longer dazzled by that ethereal brightness. He places his hands on Quasimodo's shoulders, firm and gentle, ready to steer him away from the performers, "I'd rather you were taught by professionals, not by some random girl you met on the streets."
Quasimodo is having none of it. He can be so stubborn sometimes. A family trait.
"She is a professional. At least let me ask her, Dad. Please."
And so, against his better judgement, Claude arranges for Esmeralda - God, even her name is unsuitable - to come to the house on Saturday evenings and teach his son to dance.
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The Problem
Esmeralda is a pain in the arse.
She's outspoken, free-spirited, liberal, provocative and, as suspected, completely unsuitable. Naturally, Quasimodo adores her. She seems quite fond of the boy for her part, encouraging him and building his confidence immensely in the short hours they spend together each week. She tolerates Claude and he extends her the same courtesy, although it is difficult to keep a civil tongue when she takes it upon herself to criticize him at every opportunity.
"I hate lawyers. Bloodsucking vipers, the lot of them. There's not an ounce of human decency to be found in that profession."
Esmeralda delights in goading him when they cross paths. Claude is usually ready with a witty comeback or scathing observation but, when it becomes apparent that she enjoys their little spats, he chooses to ignore the insults instead and smirks privately at her disappointment. Quasimodo is determined that they should all be friends, a foolish notion which Claude refuses to entertain. Still, the boy perseveres, cajoling his father to invite the girl over for tea and other such nonsense. He never stops talking about her, trying to interest Claude with stories about Esmeralda. Things she has said or done or whatever. Claude refuses to rise to the bait, that is until he overhears a snippet of conservation between his son and the girl.
"So...you think it should be legal?"
"There's no real harm in it, Quasi. You shouldn't believe everything you read in the papers. Cannabis isn't anywhere near as harmful as tobacco or alcohol."
Claude waits until she is leaving and takes her aside at the door.
"In the future, I'd appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut about such matters when you're with Quasimodo. He's young and gullible and he looks up to you..."
"Come off it, Claude. I wasn't brainwashing the kid, he asked me about it. Anyway, I bet you're not virtuous as as you make out. In fact..." Esmeralda leans in, eyes glittering beneath sooty lashes. She smiles, her voice low and sultry, "I bet you smoked a blunt or two in your day. Didn't you? What about now? Do you like a joint now and again, after a long, hard day at work? Or a drink? Or something else maybe? Something to help you relax and unwind..."
Claude's face contorts. He moves closer, almost pinning her against the wall. Shit. He's going to punch her...or kiss her...either way, Esmeralda doesn't plan on hanging around long enough to find out. Esmeralda ducks under his arm and out of the house, laughing as he curses beneath his breath and slams the door behind her, red-faced and furious. She recounts the conversation for Clopin later that night at a local bar, one of their usual hangouts. He laughs too, knocking back shots and urging her on as she clenches her jaw and glowers at him in a fine impression of her employer.
"He really boils my piss. Stuffy old git."
Clopin sniggers, his eyes alight with impish glee, "Well, since you never stop talking about that stuffy old git, I'm starting to think you fancy him."
"I do not!"
"Oh my God, you so do!"
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The Walk
Esmeralda almost doesn't want go back to the house the following Saturday. Not after what Clopin said. Besides, it's been pissing down all day and she doesn't really fancy going anywhere in that weather. She dithers over the decision all afternoon until the thought of Quasimodo - and the money, of course - eventually draws her back to that familiar doorstep. Claude looks surprised to see her.
"Didn't you get my text this morning?"
"My phone's on the blink again. I dropped it in the bath last night."
"Oh..." Claude moves aside to let her in out of the rain, "Quasimodo's not here. He's staying over with Hercules tonight. I did text to let you know. To be honest, I didn't think you'd be coming back anyway."
Esmeralda shrugs, "That was my fault, not yours. You were right. It's not my place to talk to your son about drugs...or anything else like that."
Claude receives her apology with a smile, the first she's had from him since they met. An awkward silence follows. He breaks it, "Cup of tea? Coffee?" He's still smiling. He looks different when he smiles. It's a good different, Esmeralda decides after a moment of contemplation.
"Yeah, tea would be great."
They drink tea in the kitchen and talk. They talk about their lives, their hopes and dreams and failures. They talk about Quasimodo. Things get a little emotional, a little strange. It's a good strange, Claude decides. He opens a bottle of wine. They finish it and he opens another one. They order pizza. Pizza. Whiskey. Whiskey and dancing...
And then it's all a blur of tangled limbs and kisses and all manner of lovely things until they wake up together in his bed late the next morning, all shy smiles and raging hangovers. She lights two cigarettes and hands him one. What a cliche. It's awful. It's wonderful.
"Dad? Dad, you're late for work."
No. It's awful.
Breakfast is an ordeal. They sit in silence, embarrassed and bedraggled, Esmeralda wearing one of Claude's shirts. Quasimodo isn't embarrassed. Well, no more than any other fourteen year old boy upon finding his father in bed with a young woman. He seems pleased actually, bustling around the kitchen and chattering away about his sleepover with Hercules, bringing them coffee and paracetamol. Esmeralda retrieves her clothes from the lounge, grinning ruefully when Claude plucks her bra from the doorknob. He walks her home. The rain has cleared and the sky is blue. They don't speak until they reach her flat. Clopin is at the window, making lewd gestures and laughing. Esmeralda gives him the finger.
"Last night was nice."
"It was," Claude smiles, obviously relieved, "Do you still think I'm a bloodsucking viper then?"
"Of course." She chuckles and tilts her chin, reaching up to brush her fingertips across the lovebites which adorn her throat.
He winces, still embarrassed, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be silly," Esmeralda chides, touching his hand, "I'd like to do it again sometime."
"Me too."
"It's a date then?"
"Definitely."
She turns to check that Clopin is not watching before pulling Claude into a kiss.
He can still taste her when he finally makes it into work.
Nicotine and toothpaste and semen.
It's a good taste.
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When I totally lost it and started laughing aloud. But I love this to bits and then some. The chemistry was really hot, and I loved the characterisation.
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