FIC : für therese
[Title:] Für Therese
[Setting:] AU. Modern day.
[Character(s):] Mireille, Jean Louis & Lucretia
[Summary:] Without any notions of romantification.
[Author's Notes:] Inspired by the prompt, "the flower vendor".
He’s bought the hostess gift himself. An impressive arrangement of flowers, more so than merely a bouquet - tropically polychrome. Impersonating the rainforest in its entirety through a collection of fragments, Birds of Paradise peeping out from between greenery and a variety of pinks.
She has already been introduced to Madame Dual, isn’t that so? While she was still Lucretia Salvoca, a name written in hand on one of a hundred invitations and a guest at their wedding, consequently. Jean Louis’ and hers. There had been no further connotations to ascribe her presence, then. The attitude with which she met the groom meaning little beyond a relatively uncomplicated conclusion on the nature of their prior relationship. That, evidently - obviously, they used to be sexual partners. And, additionally, that it was of no significance. Mireille had been clad in light grey for hours, kneeling before an altar that served as nothing but a backcloth for celebrations that might very well have been a creation by Luxembourg in whole, but by adaption it belonged to the newlyweds only. The present vastly more potent than the past they were bringing along with them, into it. Individually.
The party they are attending currently, however, is in Lucretia’s honour. Despite their trip to Italy having its slot in Jean Louis’ official calendar, tonight was left blank; until Mireille had been prompted to dress for the occasion. The concept of privacy is one which she values in practice and this circle is private, if nothing else. He fits in by default, mingles with ease - because his skin holds the same shade of olive, doesn’t it? Albeit subtler. His features the same heat. Edge. She isn’t blind, nurtures no illusions and the polished surface aside, the very acknowledgement of how apprehensively she enters a supposedly familiar setting. Her mask in place, automatically… In comparison to him. His seeming lack of barriers. It’s a truth in itself, a truth of volumes.
No matter how muted their conversation is, across the room - her palm resting lightly against his midriff, Jean Louis leaning in to read her lips, they speak volumes. Too. So loud that they are drowning out the live band. Drawing attention to themselves which is surely a talent they share. In the much more common sense, they function as mirrors for each other. Their relation, in extension, a mirror image of the relationship which Mireille insists on sustaining, continuously and in phases. Opposite in shape, of similarity. Seeing how incredibly alike they are. Lucretia and him.
Standing up slowly, wearily, she grasps the skirt of her silk dress in both hands, the fabric pooling around her thighs and tumbling out between her fingers, her sandals a brush of sound over the marble floor. They rarely, if ever, use the word love meaninglessly. Actions carry greater substance, have a more compelling impact. To the both of them. He’s a politician, isn’t he? Well aware what exactly words can disguise. She, in turn, studies language for a living. Preaches proper application. To her peers and to herself in equal measure. Nothing is left unsaid, but their mutual terms are vastly dissimilar, to all notions of romantification.
Not wordless, but very -- physical.
As such, she doesn’t doubt his investment in her. Insecurity in this regard would be ignorance, with the sort of expressiveness that he employs. But neither does she fail to consider the greediness that constitutes another and not necessarily conflicting part of him. Jean Louis isn’t one to deny himself anything, after all. If he wants Lucretia, he’ll have her. Take her. Again. Nevertheless, infidelity is only that; nothing less and certainly nothing more. Eventually, though, he will tire of Mireille’s obstinacy. Faced with a woman like… this, who shan’t object to inhabiting the world in which he would otherwise be alone. She will have no reason to pose questions, because she knows the way already. Treads it while blindfolded.
It’s an observation that has been brought up, repeatedly. How their differences are the single trait they truly share. State Minister Duroc and his much younger wife. By principle, Mireille refuses to view it as an inherent obstacle and the conclusions of her wedding speech were carefully chosen. Yet, they are a perfect match. The tone of Lucretia’s skin blending with his smoothly, as she moves her hand to his wrist. Where his watch is hiding his Roman numeral.
Noticeable in the brevity of a glance. Just like the bouquet Mireille looks past. With conscious impassivity. Undeniably selected with even greater care than the words she and Jean Louis utter in one another’s company. Those they don’t, perhaps - in particular.