[ modern au - fic: strategists ]
Title: Strategists
Characters/Pairing: Jean Louis/Mireille.
Summary: 2003. The beginnings of a thoroughly amazing bit of history.
Strategists
She gets up from her chair, the heavy braid of hair curled around her head having reached a supposedly final stage of disarray. Not through his active mechanisations, no, but rather by virtue of the Parisian wind which trailed them from the Sorbonne to her apartment, no doubt ending as a soundless wave of disturbance against the Notre Dame. This is not a quiet city, he knows, but she brings and causes silence as naturally as any physical phenomenon. The past hours they’ve spoken only sparsely, his cup of coffee lasting half the time; sufficiently - because he’s not here for biscuits.
Conversation is expensive to the both of them. And she keeps her words precious, her voice low and unrevealing as she says, “Goodnight,” her back to him and her stance perfectly in tune with the feminized sparseness of their surroundings. He glances out of the nearby window, the top-floor apartment affording clear visuals of the night sky, stars completely beaten into the background by the strong lights from the streets. It’s been a long day. His meeting with the State Minister ended at 2 pm, the flight from Luxembourg bringing him to Paris in time for his last appointment of the day before meeting Mireille at the university premises after 6 pm. But he has no need for breaks or intermissions. Indulgence, on the other hand, is the spice of life. The only one he likes.
The sounds of her footsteps against the parquet floor makes him look back in time to watch her walk towards the long hallway, her retreating figure a slab of brighter plasticity amidst the shadows of the apartment. Everything looks slick and expensive in here, the mixture of modern black and silver with wooden surfaces no doubt a somewhat personalized expression. Consciously or not - it’s hard to say with Mireille, isn’t it? She’s soon-to-be eighteen years of ambiguity, after all, and he’s yet to unravel even one percentage of it. As she disappears around the corner, he rises from the couch, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the doorway. Since their first meeting back in 2001, he’s been... fumbling, perhaps, for the right strategy. The proper approach, made all the harder by a growing need to turn their relation decidedly improper. He doesn’t particularly care about the reaction from the world as a whole but there’s something about this that requires privacy nevertheless.
He pauses. There’s a muted sensation of activity in the air, from the way his mind tunes in on her with almost visceral intent to the rustling of her clothes, audible in the stillness. Really, it’s not that he’s afraid of chaos - of the media explosion and her father’s disapproval. Rather, there’s a perfect balance about them now, their relationship moving from stage to stage, completely undisturbed except for his slight alterations. He wants to keep that to himself because he doesn’t yet know where it’ll end. How much better he can make it. As opposed to Lucretia who seems to be stuck in a continuous status quo with little room for improvements, Mireille follows him onwards, no complaints and no hesitancy. And he’s fascinated by her. There’s no better way to describe it.
Proceeding down the hallway, the walk just long enough to make the distance feel noticeable, he stops. Reaches out and pushes the door open, watching as the slight gab widens to a full-blown panorama. He hasn’t been invited, but neither was he told to stop. And in accordance with their every prior interaction, he’ll only heed her wishes if she puts them on display. Like she’s doing now, subconsciously, because she’s left the door open and the shirt falling to the floor is, at most, a barrier, displaced. He can’t read anything else into it, this invitation into her private life. She may be too young to jump to conclusions, but he’s too focused to let her steer around the facts. It’s been almost two years. So he lets his eyes wander, leaning against the doorway.
Waits for her to take notice, preoccupied as she is with thinking herself alone. Mireille is seldom wrong and he can definitely forgive her this single mistake. Besides, he can be patient now. Judging from the way his body responds to the visual alone - her gradually increasing nakedness, white skin and lines in perfect proportions - the next bit of distance will be easily crossed indeed.
~