FIC : fool's gold
[Title:] Fool's Gold
[Setting:] AU. Modern day.
[Character(s):] Mireille & Jean Louis
[Summary:] She has never identified with any one location, but she identifies with him.
Seoul breathes, not unevenly, but at a pace that upholds itself, pushes itself forward. Pulsating. Strong. Mireille has always refrained from identifying with any one location - Luxembourg is her homeland, of course, a base from which she cannot separate herself, but the bond is hers alone to define. Never the other way around. Despite its many virtues, however; its international importance and national competences… Luxembourg City has never pretended to be bigger than the role it plays, in history and in European politics. The Grand Ducal Palace is a symbol. The steep mountain sides where the valley drops into vegetation and winding pathways constitute another, the two no more than ten minutes apart. Gathered in one place. Within reach at all times. In comparison, Seoul seems unrestricted. An ironic observation in regards to a country that borders on a notorious dictatorship, isn’t that so? She has seen the edges of the city by now. Perfectly polished, but without disguising the raw material that has been so carefully smoothened, and certainly without any need to apologise for its appearances. Subjacent and surface.
They are on the fifth day of their honeymoon, Jean Louis and she. Halfway - Hong Kong earlier, Tokyo next. The glass of sparkling water on the table is fogged up from the cold liquid, moist against her fingertips when she reaches out. Raises it to her lips. The small bottle of whiskey has been left on the tray, untouched for now. Undoubtedly intended for Jean Louis’ pleasure. Turning her attention away from the peaks of Seoul’s skyline, she glances at him over one shoulder. Even if you disregard the cityscape outside, their premier suite at the Ritz-Carlton provides quite the view, doesn’t it? A pause, then the ensuing softness of a smile. She has never known him to sleep during the day. On weekdays, there’s no time for naps and in the weekends, no reason. Their time together is limited enough as is. They had sex half an hour ago, though. When she returned from her shower, he’d fallen asleep.
Some women have a tendency to describe their men as “sleeping like babies”. It is an untoward phrasing in countless of ways, linking together the idea of motherhood and partnership until the two are equalized. Understood to be undividable. They haven’t explicitly discussed the issue yet, but she can’t imagine that Jean Louis wants children any more than she herself does. In any case, childlike innocence is never the impression he gives off, intentionally or unintentionally. At the present, he is nothing but a composition of naked limbs sprawled out over the duvets. Attractive to observe. Not soft. He doesn’t ascribe to softness and they don’t induce it in each other. Either.
Pouring whiskey into the concomitant crystal tumbler, Mireille looks out the window again. Perhaps Seoul’s appeal is based upon how it’s reminiscent of him. More, he’d promised her. They have walked a multitude of the streets below, only to discover that if anything… Seoul extends beyond the superlative, and the comparative is by nature more. More than most. Two ice cubes, making the alcohol slosh around the container. Waves up the sides. Like the subsoil of Luxembourg, Jean Louis prefers his drinks on the rocks. Before walking over to the bed, she shrugs out of her bathrobe, leaving it behind on the floor. The sort of mess she usually avoids causing; the implications too disagreeable. And before sitting down on the edge of the bed, she places the glass on the bedside table, out of the midday sun falling over the parquet and crawling up the walls, gradually. At the added weight, he stirs slightly, turning onto his side. Being a light sleeper, he’ll wake up within the next ten minutes, she’s certain. Until then, the shadows will prevent the ice cubes from melting.
Once he has drowned his whiskey - or half of it, if he’s impatient, they’ll most likely have sex again. They are expected at the mayor’s offices later this afternoon, meaning that they will eventually have to get out of bed. Get dressed, if not ready, because they already are. He rolls onto his back this time, the sudden restlessness an unmistakable sign of arousing.
Perhaps she will not find it necessary to persuade him. To stay a day or two extra. Here. Neither of them is truly narcissistic, but their images are a carefully controlled creation, on both their parts. Seoul reflects them, individually and together. It’s hardly unimaginable that he recognises that as well.