FIC : the year before the next
[Title:] the year before the next
[Setting:] AU. Modern day.
[Character(s):] Mireille and Philippe Barrault
[Summary:] We'll be home tonight. In the next century.
[Author's Notes:] Inspired by the prompt, "and your dreams, they are no excuse".
The countdown has begun, in four different languages, because Father has invited a vast selection of the resident ambassadors to attend, their cars on line outside. State-sponsored and consequently highly expensive. The party is private in terms of location, but thoroughly official by proportions. Next to her, Father is telling Mother something in full confidence, voice low as he leans in. It’s little more than a whisper in her ear. In return, she laughs. Answers. Equally inaudible. They are entering not only a new century, but a new millennium. A shift the world hasn’t seen since the Middle Ages, when everything remained much the same and - before that, the year without numbering, when everything changed radically. Began. In comparison, the end of the 20th century shows a greater likeness to its precessor, dictated by technology and the concomitant arrogance. The little comforts of revolution. As exemplified by the personal computer; nothing but the excessive laziness of man. Named invention all the same.
Finally the clock strikes midnight and the noise accompanying the 21st century is deafening, drowning out the details. A small group of people gathers around Father, shaking hands and clinking glasses until there’s an unspoken but obvious call for refills, the waiters returning to work after a break of their own. Potos pats Father on the back, his degree of drunkenness betrayed by the reddening that has spread across his face, at large.
“Who should have thought we old men would get to experience this day, Philippe?”
“Surely you’ll live to see another, Stéphane,” Father replies. Amused. Over his shoulder, Potos eyes Mireille. Blatantly.
She walks away, crosses the room to find herself facing one of the windows. The glass dark and prompting her to look beyond herself in order to watch the fireworks lighting up the sky in the distance. Father’s cologne announces his arrival before he comes to a halt on her left. They remain silent for a long moment, until he pulls her closer by her shoulders. Presses a kiss to her cheek, his beard tickling her skin. Her debut has been scheduled for November next year, which has become the present minutes prior. This. It’s a common arrangement in the circles that were once aristocratic, albeit old-fashioned as a result, but certainly the impact of tradition is recognised and acknowledged by them both, isn’t that so? There is no inherent logic to the 15-year age limit, considering how the age of consent is sixteen. Perhaps it’s for the sake of simplicity. If not to avoid any rampant attempts at taking advantage of the symbolism. The stories are plentiful, after all.
“You should make a wish, Mireille. A new millennium lies before your feet.”
Looking up at him, the softness in his voice mirrored in his features, she grants him a neutral smile. Her single, immediate response. Returning her attention to the display outside. Someone greets Father from behind, forcing him to turn away, temporarily. The truth is that Mireille has no need for wishes, of course. Chance has little to do with obtaining whatever may be missing from her current situation. If she truly wished to return home, to Luxembourg, it would be for her to choose, freely. Surely. The outcome wouldn’t be denied her. Simultaneously, it can’t be denied that solitude is not merely the absence of company.
Soon he's finished his short conversation with the Dutch ambassador. “I have everything already,” she proceeds to inform him, unnecessarily. Father has kept nothing out of her reach, left nothing out of her possession - not even that which she didn’t request or require. Not even that which she would never have wanted, on her own. In general and in particular.
He admits to it gladly. His words bearing no hint of regret. No comprehension of fault, seeing how he adheres to responsibility alone; “Indeed, I’ve spoiled you horribly.” Not rotten. Since they will both appreciate the omission of stock phrases. Another kiss, to her hair this time, the movement of withdrawal leaving a few loose strands in disarray. She has been his everything, she’s aware. Perfectly, because by all means and purposes, he’s presented her with perfection. Always. The fact is, simply, that Father desires in the comparative rather than the superlative. He is a politician, isn’t he? And he’s only human.
Thus, sometimes, she thinks he’s spoiled her, too. Not merely in the sense that he employs. The meaning of the concept as he defines it…
Kilometres away, Boulaide is aflame with expectations, leaving its mark on the year 2000 while it is still a tabula rasa. In just five more years from now, it will be evident to what extent exactly environment plays its part. One must suppose.