Chapter Text
Pierrot Lunaire (Part 01) - A Daft Punk Fanfiction
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The first night, Thomas enters a club and sees Guy, sitting by himself and downing a whiskey on the rocks.
“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?" he asks.
Guy punches him in the face, and goes back to drinking, unfazed.
Thomas leaves.
——-
The second night, Thomas decides to try and atone for the first night’s efforts because holy shit, Bangalter, that was insanely stupid what the fuck is wrong with you. Actual French people tend to be unmoved and/or grossly insulted by that phrase. What are you, stereotyping?
He can’t believe it. Nothing short of a terribly written fanfiction could have made him do that, or so he thought, but that’s what’s happened. Guy is there, at the exact same spot as the previous day, when he enters the club; he glares at Thomas but says nothing, which is still miles better than being punched.
“Bonsoir," he says, and lowers his gaze politely. "I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to, but about yesterday. I honestly don’t know what came over me. But that’s not an excuse - that punch, I really did deserve it. And I’m so sorry.”
Guy raises his eyebrows. “Hm,” his voice is low and unimpressed, but not angry. (It’s a nice voice.)
"I’d like to make it up to you. Could I buy you a drink?"
The long-haired man looks up at him sharply at that, eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion; Thomas is just thinking that he’s going to tell him to get lost again, though perhaps in actual spoken terms, before the other speaks up. “Whiskey on the rocks. Nothing else. Merci.”
"… Ah! D’accord. Come with me.”
“Zut alors, and here we go,” Guy exclaims out loud, throwing his hands upwards and rolling his eyes. The taller man blinks, taken aback, but Guy’s already talking over him. “you don’t know what came over you? You don’t? You think? Is that how you live your life, just wandering around from A to B without a single thought and asking random strangers for sex? Well, you’re not getting away with it tonight, either, do you think that I don’t know what you’re trying to do?”
Thomas honestly doesn’t. “Uh.”
"It’s the same old cliché. You’ll buy me a drink and offer to get me another when I’m done, then you’ll sit close to me with your hand supporting the side of your face, listening to every word that I say because you think that I find good listeners extremely attractive like other people do. You’ll coax out my life story, supplementing with extra drinks every now and then, wading through all the usual hoops before you suggest getting to the good stuff. By the end of the night we’d end up knowing far too much about each other to just walk away, oui? Then you’ll play the final gentleman card and offer to take me home - what? You can fill in the blanks yourself, that’s what you have in mind! Tough luck, though, because I know the kind of tricks you’re up to-“
"I-"
"-And I tell you right now, I will not,” he’s stabbing Thomas on the chest with his finger for emphasis. “baisez-vous,” stab. “avec ma bouche!”
“What the Christ. I don’t want you to baise-moi avec anything. I literally just wanted to buy you a drink, I was being totally sincere.”
Guy snorts. “Of course, sincere in your attempt to coax me into bed.”
"Seriously! Serious as methanol. You know, when you don’t distill your moonshine properly. And you go blind. Or die. Death is pretty serious."
“Oh my God. You’re really bad at this analogy thing, aren’t you.”
"I’ve been told as much," Thomas smiles weakly, and gestures towards the bar. "… I asked you to come with me because you so clearly don’t trust me in the first place - it’s best that the bartender gives you your drink himself, non?”
As much as he hates to admit it, that’s something Guy didn’t expect and can’t find a defensive answer for. As harsh as his exterior is, he’s actually a fairly reasonable human being; he only reacts this way to get people who he perceives as unsavory to leave him alone. Any other man might have stormed away by this point, offended - but Thomas actually stayed to offer a polite and sensible response, and that makes Guy think that his initial perceptions might have let him down this once. It’s by no means pleasant to be seen as somebody who’s out to dupe someone else, whether with numerous drinks or (God forbid) even spiking them, and it says something about Thomas that he anticipated this and hastened to give Guy the most control over the situation as possible.
Now that is serious. Not quite as serious as death, but serious enough.
Convinced of the other’s sincerity, Guy stands up and glowers at the other man. “You better not try anything funny,” he warns, and stalks forwards, leading the way to the bar first.
Thomas follows. Something is taking its course.
——-
The third night, Thomas enters the club and orders a strawberry daiquiri. He is alone and the daiquiri is exquisite, and he’s enjoying it thoroughly despite the ache of the slight bruise on his face.
Guy comes in when he’s about halfway through the drink, stares at him and his glass disparagingly, and orders a whiskey on the rocks. Then he sits to the right of the taller man, swirling the amber liquid and making it sparkle slightly in the lighting.
They don’t speak.
Guy drinks slowly, purposefully, clearly bothered by Thomas’s presence but not wanting to be ousted.
Thomas is contemplating nothing quite as complex; no, just the nature of human suffering, the poverty threshold, and kittens. All is good.
After two hours, he gets up and leaves.
——-
The fourth night, Guy is drinking whiskey on the rocks yet again. Thomas sticks to the daiquiri and asks for another spoonful of sugar, which earns him a mixed look of disbelief and contempt from the other which seems to say: ugh, what a shamelessly girly drink.
"What’s wrong with it, there’s nothing inherently negative about ‘girliness’," he thinks out loud, making Guy stare at him as if he were a lunatic. "you really should try one sometime. But it has to be a strawberry daiquiri, without the strawberry it’s just not the same."
"As if I would!" Guy exclaims incredulously, looking disgruntled about even being spoken to, before hurriedly downing his drink and turning to the bartender. "can I get another?"
Thomas smiles and shakes his head. It’s good to see that the determined spirit of the French Resistance still exists in this era.
He pushes his glass away and leaves.
——-
The fifth night, Thomas enters the club and makes for the bar. Guy is drinking a strawberry daiquiri.
"Well, you’re the one who suggested it,” he snaps at Thomas without even being spoken to. His cheeks are pink from either the drink or embarrassment. The taller man contents himself with a perfectly innocuous smile and orders himself the same, and they sit there for a while, sipping awesome girly drinks together and staring at the wall, before Thomas finishes his and stands up to leave.
"Wait."
The taller man pauses. Guy isn’t looking at him, but is rather intensely surveying the sugar-rimmed glass in front of him. “… Will I see you tomorrow?”
"Nothing’s for certain."
"God damn you, I was asking whether you were going to be here tomorrow, not about your bullshit indeterminism.”
"Hey, I can’t exactly rule out the possibility of me getting into an accident or a meteor wiping out Paris tomorrow,” Thomas laughs, rubbing the back of his head. Guy glares at him, but remains silent so that the other may continue. “but these are very unlikely. I’ll be here by - quelle heure est-il? Ah. Half past eight, probably.”
"Hm."
"I’ll see you then?" Guy shrugs, though he does meet Thomas’s eyes and hold his gaze as a sign that he will. "excellent. Au revoir.”
"Wait."
Thomas pauses again. Guy’s eyes flicker away from his face, then back. “About that bruise. Are you healing?”
"Yes."
”Très bon. I hope it gets better soon.”
The younger man smiles and raises his hand in a half-wave before taking his leave. He doesn’t look back, not wanting to seem too eager; but because of that he misses that for the first time, Guy is watching him leave. The taller man still has a carefree smile about him, sleeves rolled up and his collar quirked slightly to the side as he turns the corner, opens the door, and slips outside as elegant as a cat. Only then does he look away, downing the last of his daiquiri with mild annoyance, wondering why he even cares at all.
I don’t, is his immediate and incredulous response to that thought.
And that’s perfectly logical. He doesn’t. Why should he? What’s he going to do with Thomas when he comes, anyway?
He doesn’t really know, himself. He suspects that he asked purely for consistency’s sake. To him Thomas merely looks like a boy, an annoying one at that, and he’s only giving him the time of day because he’s had the audacity to integrate himself into Guy’s routine. Even an unceremonious disruption must respected if it’s going to reoccur day after day. He sighs and glances towards the door again, almost imagining Thomas standing by it, though he must be long gone.
"At half past eight," he mutters to himself. Then he pulls out a A6 diary from his jacket and makes a note of it.
He’ll be there. He’s very little if not punctual.
——-
But Guy doesn’t see Thomas the night after that. He comes slightly earlier than his usual time and waits for longer, but the man simply never turns up. Guy is rightfully annoyed about it, though also disappointed, and that disturbs him; what’s there for him to feel disturbed about?
Perhaps it’s just down to feeling. His routine would have been disrupted with or without Thomas’s presence tonight; the seat the taller man usually would have taken, to Guy’s left, has been rendered temporarily unavailable. The bartender explains to him that the paint on the adjacent wall was flaking off, and they only just fixed that problem. And when people see a ‘Wet Paint’ sign, they tend to have an inexplicable urge to touch the paint to confirm that it really is wet, hence why that seat has been corded off altogether.
It’s, you know, like, no one believes in objective truth anymore. Kind of sad.
He and Thomas couldn’t have kept to their usual seats, anyway. But somehow he still finds himself oddly protective of the empty seat to his right. It’s all very strange and just annoys him even more. Surely his time is for better things, and that means that he can spend it downing his usual whiskey on the rocks and watching paint dry next to him. It must have been applied not too long ago; he half expected the patch to still smell half-acrid as paint tends to do, but that’s not the case. It might have been erased by the scent of perfume, alcohol and smoke, though, who knows. When Guy tilts his head slightly he can still see the shiny wet glow on the surface of the paint, the edges of it fading away slowly as the damp evaporates into air. When the bartender’s not looking he reaches out and quickly rubs at the very outermost edge of the patch with his little finger, relieved that it comes off dry; then he does a double take and laments what his life has come to. When did his life take such a downhill turn that he’s getting his joy for the night from a patch of pastel-blue paint?
Ridiculous. He doesn’t even like pastel colours. Too muted. But whatever; none of this makes a huge impact in his life, the other’s life, or anyone else’s. He’ll go home soon and sleep before classes begin at seven in the morning.
It’s an inevitable aspect of life that people have expectations that don’t get fulfilled; one can’t always have what they want, because if that were possible, the world would be too much of either an utopia or pandemonium to live in, and it is neither. Thomas is not here - next to Guy the chair is empty, there is a void, there is nothingness. But Guy could say the same for all the empty chairs in the club, because they hold the same kind of nothing; what’s so special about that particular chair?
Guy frowns and places his hand under his chin, scrutinizing the paint on the wall in an attempt to get his mind off the damned chair. No use. Small air bubbles have appeared on the surface of the paint, barely visible to the naked eye, but that alone isn’t enough to hold his interest. So he turns his gaze beside himself again (the bartender is giving him a distinctly odd look) and decides that the chair is not special in any way - at least, it if he weren’t projecting the lack-of-Thomas onto it. There are a lot of things in this club right now, too varied to even list, but they all share the unified property of ‘not being Thomas’, and that’s really all it is. It doesn’t mean he ought to feel disappointed about it.
That’s for the best. If everything was Thomas, things would get extremely tiring very quickly. Guy raises his head and sips his whiskey, already feeling slightly better. It’s jazz night tonight at the club, which is immense comfort to Guy. When in doubt, one can always seek comfort in jazz, for its sheer rawness of feeling makes it authentic.
A very wise man said that. (Namely, not me.)
The tell-tale chords begin and melt away his worries, and he relaxes a little, though not enough to turn around and actually watch the performance. The vocalist doesn’t sound particularly experienced, and perhaps sounds too young, but the power in her voice is unmistakeable and he taps his fingers gently to the thrum of the music.
Some of these days
You’ll miss me honey
He’s fairly sure this song went out of fashion decades ago.
Or perhaps there is something everlasting about art? After all, people are still discussing classical epics and the paintings of Renaissance painters to this day, debating all kinds of things along the lines of whether Achilles is more heroic than everyone else or if the theme of pieta is relevant in modern art and God knows what else. About suffering they were never wrong, the old masters.
You’re gonna miss me honey
When I’m far away…
Tap. Tap. Jazz floats through the air, dreamy but insistent enough to assert itself in his mind. Perhaps Thomas would have liked it, perhaps not. In the case that he didn’t, it’s probably just as well that he stayed away for tonight. With that Guy finally speaks the truth out loud: “He’s not coming” - thankfully out of earshot from the bartender and anyone else, and feels immensely liberated for having admitted that to himself. But with liberation comes a crushing sense of emptiness and responsibility, which is something people don’t often tend to recognize. Free means that you are free to do as you will, but also that you can’t blame the consequences of those actions on anybody else but yourself. Free means that this strange hollow feeling that Guy is feeling - yes, right now - is no one’s problem but his own, and if he can’t do something about it, well, that’s just a darn shame.
He shakes his head, frowning heavily. That damned boy.
Guy doesn’t even know his name. He’s just there, the image of his smile provoking strange feelings inside him. And because Guy is far from a perfect human being, he thinks it fairly reasonable to resort to a degree of bad faith to avoid his problems. After all, a nightclub is hardly the place to have a complete existentialist revelation in.
The paint has mostly dried and the wet glow of it is gone. Guy is tempted to poke at it with his finger, but holds back. To the bartender he says “I’d like another”, to the person asking him if the seat next to him is free he says “I’m saving that for someone” (because holding onto that potential of Thomas-being-there, while hopeless, is still more comforting than not) and to the fourth wall he asks “what the hell are you looking at?” with a delicate frown intended towards the reader. The whiskey comes, it is just as good and unchanging as it always has been; moisture keeps on evaporating from the paint, as thermodynamics demands that it always does; and the fourth wall, it is laughing.
What’s that? You’re not laughing?
Well, still - do humour me for a while.
There. That’s beautiful.
——-
Thomas isn’t there on the seventh night, either, though Guy has gotten over it by that point, and spends his time in the club exactly how he used to before the taller man intruded in his life. Alcohol is consumed, various aspects of his life are contemplated, he has a minimalistic conversation with the bartender - entirely routine. An unfamiliar man says hello to him when he’s swirling his second whiskey, and they engage in five minutes’ worth of idle discourse before the former moves on (sensing Guy’s inherent disinterest), and that’s the only thing that reminds him of Thomas for a moment.
(But no longer than that.)
(Really.)
Guy would have been perfectly happy to continue in that way every night. At this point in time, Thomas’s presence or lack thereof matters significantly less to him than it will do in his future; Guy could have just dismissed him as an anomaly and eventually forgotten about him, and his life would have carried on with him not feeling as if he were lacking in anything. But while an admirable testament to the man’s character, all this speculation is merely what could have happened; what does happen is that when he walks into the club on the eighth night, casually lighting up the first cigarette of a brand new pack, he finds Thomas sitting in his usual seat and grinning at him as if he’s hit the jackpot.
”Bonsoir, étranger, et je suis très désolé," he exclaims as he sees Guy, hurriedly getting up and moving to the adjacent seat. Guy blinks, the cigarette held still in his mouth as he tries to process the situation. "saved your seat for you. I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it the last two nights. Some last-minute schedule slips occurred-" he pats the now-empty seat, gesturing for the other to sit down. "-couldn’t avoid it - but that shouldn’t be happening again, not without notice. Sit down! Do sit."
Half in a daze Guy does as asked, staring at Thomas in confusion for a moment before hastily looking away to ash his cigarette. It appears that they’ve been set down the same road for longer than he could reasonably predict, and quite honestly he doesn’t know what to feel about that. On one hand the appointment has finally been kept and Thomas is with him, but he never actually figured out what he wanted Thomas around for in the first place; unaware of this inner conflict the taller man just keeps on smiling at him, winking when he catches Guy’s eye.
"… I don’t know what you find so funny," Guy says glumly. "nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I’ll grant you that, but-"
"Unhappy? Oh, damn. It’s because of me, isn’t it?"
”Non!" the shorter man shakes his head dismissively, and goes back to his cigarette, inhaling a little sharper than the usual. "your not being there stopped being annoying even before that night was over. I wasn’t expecting to see you around again."
Thomas pouts. “You didn’t miss me?”
Guy says nothing. Regardless of what the truth is, there are things that one can admit to in good faith only after a certain time has passed. This is one such situation. “But you’re here now, as you said,” he dodges the question instead, turning to the bartender. “strawberry daiquiris - s’il-vous plait - for the two of us, merci.”
"You like daiquiris now, do you?"
He sounds absurdly satisfied with himself, but at the same time he looks so honest that Guy can’t quite bring himself to become annoyed. “I suppose so, yes,” he nods, half resigned but feeling obligated to tell the truth in this case. “once you got me curious, it was inevitable.”
"Inevitable?"
”Oui. Cause and effect. Like - how do I explain this - when a man goes outside and the sun gets in his eyes, he might react in multiple ways, but you know that he’s far more likely to shield his eyes, put sunglasses on, or do something along those lines. Because those would be logical responses. What would you rather believe, that the sun gets in someone’s eyes and he somehow becomes inclined to shoot someone?”
"… I… I suppose not?"
"Somewhat like that. You looked as if you really enjoyed those daiquiris and strawberries are my favourite fruit, it figures that I eventually got curious and tried one out."
"And also that you were more inclined towards liking it in the end," Thomas finishes the chain of logic for him. The cocktails come out at this point, and Guy is just reaching for his wallet when the taller man stops him with a hand. "I’ve got this," he winks, and hands the bartender a fifty-Franc note. "I already made you waste time waiting for me, I’m not going to make you pay for my drink, too."
What makes you think that I was doing nothing but waiting for you, Guy almost utters, but as soon as the thought enters his mind he knows that he’s being insincere. Far better to keep his silence, He simply picks up his cocktail and surveys it before raising it as a polite gesture to Thomas; the latter clinks his glass against his, and while it was unexpected Guy finds himself quite surprised at how much he didn’t mind.
There’s a live band on tonight.
Guy drinks and lets out a quiet ‘hmm’; sad to say it, but their music just isn’t doing it for him, and it’s not because of their genre (something like indie rock). Had he been alone, he might not have stayed to listen past the first drink, and he gets the sense that Thomas isn’t all that impressed, either. The band would be just about listenable if not for one thing. “That second guitarist,” Guy speaks up, making the taller man turn to him. “he is out of tune.”
"I know. Not even in one string, either, more like three. Absolutely awful.”
"D, G and B, I think."
”Oui, that’s what I was…” but by this point Thomas is beginning to trail off, turning to stare at Guy wide-eyed; the latter too has had the same revelation and is looking startled, gazing quickly from Thomas to the band and then back. This conversation would be impossible if not for one unifying factor- “… wait, do you - are you a musician, too?”
"Guitarist," Guy sounds just as stunned as he is. "… since I was little…"
"Piano here, since I was six, and some bass. And it’s obvious to you, too, right? When something’s been transposed or out of tune?”
"Down to the individual note and key. Do people get annoyed with you when you tell them about it?"
Thomas groans. “All the time. They usually just tell me to shut up and continue doing what I’m doing - I DJ as a part-time job and that apparently makes me an obnoxious know-it-all-“
”- Whoa. Hang on,” Guy interrupts, holding up a hand. “are we both DJs, then?”
Scattered applause rings through the club, briefly distracting the two of them from their conversation; the band has finished a piece, and they’re taking a break for a few minutes. They both turn to watch the band members setting down their instruments and heading down from the stage; Guy in particular is still stunned and mulling over what’s just been said. A DJ - of course Paris is huge and there are hundreds, if not thousands, of DJs in the city that he’s never met - but what are the odds, really? “For how long?” he presses on.
"Past year," about the same time as when Guy started. "that’s what I was doing the past two nights, standing in for the actual guy who couldn’t make it."
That makes sense. Guy is immediately more sympathetic, and the very last of his annoyance towards Thomas melts away just like that. He was subject to demanding schedules as well when he was active, so much that he could barely find time to eat and sleep, let alone study. He out of all people should understand how demanding the work is. With understanding comes compassion - and shortly afterwards, justified interest. “You know,” Guy says slowly. “… we’ve known each other for just over a week, and I don’t think that… we’ve… ever shared names.”
"We haven’t," pause. The long-haired man doesn’t respond, though, so Thomas presses on, somewhat anxiously. "so, um, you first? What’s your name?"
"Guillaume Emmanuel Paul de Homem-Christo, but no one has the time for that. I’ll accept any variation on that name, except ‘Paul’. I’m a lot of things, almost too many, so much that I know better what I’m not than what I am, and what I’m not is Paul. Seriously. What about me looks even half like a ‘Paul’? What were my parents thinking.”
Thomas blinks. When he asked for a name, he was expecting a name in return, not repressed teenage angst.
(Though it is memorable. No forgetting this name any time soon.)
"… So… you’d go by pretty much anything in that name, except ‘Paul’."
"Yes."
The taller man grins a little awkwardly. “Well, I’m not in a position to be overly experimental. Maybe this just comes off as boring, but… ‘Guy-Manuel’? Or just ‘Guy’?”
"Either will do fine," Guy says - then smiles, so gently and coyly that Thomas is quite lost for words until the former extends his hand. “enchanté. Comment vous appelez-vous?”
"Thomas Bangalter," he responds, but he’s still fixated on that smile. He can guess that Guy doesn’t smile often, though God, he really should; it lends an almost-mischievous, schoolboyish air to his demeanor, makes him look at least ten times more approachable and friendly. He shakes Guy’s hand firmly with an ‘enchanté' of his own, unaware that the other was smiling because he was delighted by Thomas's accent on his name - four distinct syllables, but spoken as a singular 'Guy-man-nu-el' instead of two hyphenated words. He hasn’t heard that variation before, and has found it really quite pleasant. “not quite as long and elegant as yours, I’m afraid to say.”
”Bangalter,” Guy repeats to himself, and here Thomas has his own moment of delight regarding the pronunciation of his name; the final ‘r’ trilled softly at the tip of his tongue, unusual but dulcet. It comes even more as a surprise because he’s never done that with any other word before. Guy’s certainly quite something. “a nice name. I’ll keep that in mind.”
One must never underestimate the power of a Parisian accent.
Even other Parisians fall for it. It’s that charming. They don’t speak very much after that, focusing on drinking and tolerating the music around them; but Thomas has subconsciously pulled his seat a little closer to Guy, feeling that a wall between them has come down. Guy is feeling oddly cheerful himself, though he wouldn’t admit it out loud just yet. Sometimes, the night is good to him.
——-
Over the next few nights they meet each other and engage in similar kinds of discourse. On the tenth day Guy lays bare yet another layer of personal information and discloses his age, and finds (much to his pleasant surprise) that he and Thomas are just barely a year apart. They were in the same year at school, though they didn’t attend the same one; Thomas is currently gearing towards a permanent musical career, while Guy’s in his second year in university studying cognitive science, though he’s not sure whether he wants to pursue it as a job. As a result, he stops regarding Thomas as a ‘boy’ and begins seeing him as a rightful equal, whilst the taller man lets his guard down, no longer feeling that Guy is intimidating or that the barrier between them is impassable. They also discuss a little more of their musical pursuits, finding a great deal in common: they were both in a band at some point, they both enjoy electronica, and they’re both longing for equipment that they can in no way afford. The way of the artist is a hard one.
They tell each other their DJ names, too.
Guy-Man and T-Bang; they mostly just pretend to take note and move on to talking about something else, but both are aware that they can now find each other during lonely midnights in Paris. Perhaps they can even invite each other to certain events. Guy’s apparently on hiatus until his classes are over in summer, so that opportunity goes to Thomas first. Not just yet, though.
They’re not quite friends yet, but they are very close to it. So close that it’s almost palpable. Both of them are feeling this way, as Thomas gathers when he arrives at the club on the twelfth night and sees Guy waiting for him by the door, glancing listlessly at his watch and smoking. “Oh, you’re here,” he says blandly when he sees the younger man approach, but he quickly puts out his cigarette and straightens up, giving him his full attention. “I was waiting for you.”
"Really," Thomas says as he looks over him. Guy’s always been well-dressed (if quite simply), but today he’s wearing a neatly ironed black button-up shirt with a slim grey tie and he looks more elegant than ever. His hair falls about his face gently, framing it, and Thomas’s heart does a slight off-beat all of its own. "not for long, though?"
"Long enough," is Guy’s cryptic answer, and that’s all he says before he nods and gestures towards the door. Thomas grins.
He reaches it first and opens it for Guy, and as the older man says a ‘merci’ and enters he catches the scent of his cologne: mellow-spicy and smooth, with notes of cinnamon and vanilla. He suspects that Guy has a sweeter center than he’s willing to let on, and wishes that he and the other were better acquainted; it’s really quite flattering, having someone like him waiting for him every night. One day, he might even be able to offer his arm for Guy whenever they leave the club, and have him take it and lean against him with ease.
Just maybe. It’s nice to dream about, anyway.
Their usual seats are occupied when they enter, but the people in it are clearly in the process of leaving, counting out tips and shrugging on their jackets. “If you could grab the seats, please, Thomas,” Guy asks as he takes out his wallet. “and I’ll get us the drinks, what’s your poison tonight?”
"You will? Are you sure?”
"What are you talking about. I’m a man of impeccable manners. I can’t let you always pay for our drinks, it’s only fair that I buy this time around.”
The younger man considers the offer, eyeing the bottles behind the bar. “Hmm… I’ll have what you’re having. Or is that a horribly transparent attempt to avoid responsibility?”
Guy rolls his eyes, but judging by his still-relaxed body language, he’s willing to take Thomas seriously. “Even if it’s a whiskey on the rocks?”
"Even if it’s just a whiskey on the rocks."
"Understood. Two whiskey on the rocks coming up."
So naturally, Guy goes off to the bar and comes back with two sidecars by the time Thomas has successfully secured their seats. The liquid gleams amber beneath the lighting, its aroma fresh and tangy-sweet but more rounded than that of a strawberry daiquiri. “Tonight is a compromise, we both could do with something new,” he says, and hands Thomas his glass. Their hands brush and he tenses briefly at the contact, a pleasant shock running up his wrist. “so a sidecar it is! Prosit.”
”Prosit? Since when did you speak German?”
"I took an intensive course in it last year. Had to, something about it coming in handy when we get to philosophy of mind - and it might, who knows?"
Thomas is willing to grant that point; he learnt English as a foreign language back at school, too, and he’d been good at it. More is always better than less when it comes to languages. He takes a sip of his sidecar and detects slightly more Cointreau than should be the norm; tonight he doesn’t care, though, the sweetness seems apt when he’s with Guy. “How do you find it? German, I mean.”
"Not very elegant, but my God is it useful. Whenever they need a new word for a concept, they just smash existing ones together, and somehow manage to convey accuate descriptions bordering on an anecdote in far less letters than we ever could manage. What a fantastically utilitarian approach to language.”
"Are you still taking it?"
Guy shakes his head, thinks about it a bit more, and frowns. “Not for credit, like last year. I do attend a Franco-German society group, though, we just talk in a mixture of both and about anything at all. We aren’t particularly serious, when we first met at the beginning of the year and introduced ourselves everyone was just fooling around and giving completely false descriptions and names…”
"Interesting," the younger man plucks out the lemon rind from the edge of his glass and observes it. "… how did you describe yourself?"
Guy smirks. “’Tall. Dark. Extremely handsome’. What’d I tell you, fooling around.”
What follows comes completely out of left field for both Thomas and Guy; for the former, especially, who remains once more totally in the dark as to what on earth possessed him to say such a thing. “So you told the truth? Is this some kind of Zen thing where the act of not-messing-about results in more hilarity than messing about?”
"That’s not w-" then it strikes Guy, the implications of what Thomas really meant, and he’s shocked into silence for a moment. "I - I’m not tall, Thomas. Not compared to you.”
It’s evident that he doesn’t like to talk about his height, but the younger man hardly thinks it more respectful to deny what he just said. “… True.”
"Well, thank you anyway," the older man says, then laughs (though it comes a little awkward). "as I said, it was just for fun. I guess two out of three isn’t bad?"
”Au contraire," Thomas’s eyes are unwavering, the light reflecting off them like smoke-quartz, fixed directly onto Guy’s own. "it’s excellent.”
How’s he meant to respond to that? How’s anyone meant to respond to such a thing?
He just stares at Thomas, first in disbelief, then with slow-rising embarrassment, before he has to look away altogether; he suddenly feels oddly hot beneath his shirt and tie and well aware that his cheeks are pink, and curses himself for it. In response to that he shakily loosens his tie and brushes back a lock of his hair - a nervous habit - before taking a sip out of his sidecar to try distracting himself. The profoundly strange thing is that he’s not even a stranger to being complimented on his appearance: the sweep of his hair, how his eyes seem to change colour in the sun, his even features and stature, he’s heard it all and in some occasions even agreed, though never to the extent of thinking himself handsome. Thomas has offered no detailed or elaborate account of exactly how Guy might be defined as handsome - and therefore it’d be a lie to say that he believed the younger man - but something about how he so completely and factually assured it has shaken him.
"… Thanks," he murmurs quietly, almost too quietly to be heard, and reaches out to squeeze Thomas’s arm once before pulling away. Almost immediately he coughs and turns his head to the side, awkwardly pulling out his pack of cigarettes and plucking one out to hold in his mouth. His movements are hurried, his lack of the usual grace a clear indication that he’s been left flustered, and Thomas can’t help but feel a slight bolt of guilt.
"… I’ve made you uncomfortable," he says apologetically, watching Guy flicking on his lighter and missing the flame the first time (before cursing and getting it right). "I’m sorry, Guy, I’ve been too forward-"
”- not at all, certainly less so than the first time we met-“
”Mon Dieu. Please don’t remind me. I still don’t know what made me say that, no more than I know why I brought up this topic,” Thomas shrugs and takes a long and evidently well-appreciated sip out of his sidecar, though his expression is vaguely troubled when he sets down the glass. “… you don’t think that… perhaps, we’re beginning to mean something?”
”Mean something!” Guy repeats in disbelief, tossing his long hair back slightly as he scoffs. “what nonsense! Certainly not in the grand scope of the universe, if that’s what you meant.”
"But on a personal level?" the younger man presses, tilting his head to the side inquisitively. "to each other, perhaps?”
"… Oh, God, are we actually back to discussing what you first said to me two weeks ago.”
”Non, non! Pas ça! I was more talking about how we’d progressed. Please don’t punch me again,” Thomas sounds shy but wary, and Guy tilts his head, indicating that he should go on. “it’s… this. Christ. Two weeks ago we didn’t know each other. And now it turns out we’re almost the same age, like the same things, and might even have been in the same parties and nightclubs together for all this time and never noticed. I could have passed you by in the streets - you could have bought a coffee off me, I worked for six months in a cafe near where you study - and back then we just… didn’t know. Then I got possessed by God-knows-what and you punched me in the face, but when I came back you were actually willing to put some trust in me. That’s kind of weird but absolutely amazing. How there’s nothing between two people, and then something just pops into existence at some point, and neither of them can pinpoint when.”
Guy is silent for a moment. “I see what you mean,” he finally says, then pauses to inhale. He has an odd way of smoking, the taller man has noticed in the meanwhile; instead of the usual lighting up, holding the smoke in the mouth for a moment, then letting the smoke out through slightly-pursed lips, Guy inhales only for a second before exhaling all the smoke at once. This is then accompanied with a slight, graceful inhalation back towards the soft pink tip of his tongue - he’s exclusively tasting the smoke in its rightful context, the atmosphere, where it belongs. A gourmet. Thomas finds it fascinating and quite frankly rather sensual. “and you’re… well, I was about to say that most relationships work that way, but now that you mention it it does seem profoundly odd why it has to work that way in the first place. But do finish. What do you want to say?”
”Que voulez-vous?" Thomas asks.
"Hein?"
"Que voulez-vous."
"… Ah! Que voulez-vous. Exactement."
They drink in silence.
——-
The next night, Guy has figured out what he wanted.
"On peut se tutoyer?"
"Oui, tu peux," Thomas says, and smiles.
He has a lovely smile, boyish, sweet like summer.
——-
Remarkable progress takes place between them on the fourteenth night, though they don’t think of it in that way until much later in their relationship, when they have been together long enough to reflect. For one, they actually manage to change locations together during their night, and are still with each other when the clock strikes twelve and past that point. It has always been the case that either Guy or Thomas (more often the latter) took their leave first before the other - they might have walked in together, but they’ve never left that way. That is, before a combination of particularly-atrocious electronica - so bad that Guy actually curses out loud the moment he sets foot in the place - too many people, and a girl they’ve never seen before barging in their conversation halfway through their drinks end up forcing them out. To his credit, Thomas manages to be genuinely cordial even when expressing his disinterest; Guy just sits there and glares at her silently until she goes away, which is thankfully soon. “Not my type,” the younger man is quick to clarify, sensing the other’s discomfort on some level even when not directly looking at him. “nice, though.”
"Hmph."
"Don’t get me wrong. The reason she came up in the first place was to ask if you were my girlfriend," Guy starts and gives him a wild-eyed look. "I think she thought that because of your hair. She complimented it once I told her the truth, by the way, so there aren’t any hard feelings there. I think she wanted to dance, but I told her I was preoccupied before she ever said anything of that kind, so she just left,” Thomas nods sagely towards the dancefloor; she is nowhere to be seen.
Guy snorts. “I wouldn’t, myself, not with this playing in the background. Give me a third of the records this DJ has and I’ll do the job a hundred times better. Though what do I even expect, I never came to this place for the music.”
"You don’t?"
He shakes his head. Thomas looks intrigued. “You know,” he observes, lightly tapping at the countertop with his fingernails. “that does remind me. Despite having met in a very dance-oriented club, we’ve spent the past fortnight doing exactly none of that. I don’t know, before I came on the scene and when I couldn’t make it those two nights you might have danced. Though I’ve never actually seen you dance. Why don’t you ever dance?”
”Ever is a strong word, non? I do. Just not here.”
"But what if someone like - oh, I don’t know - a girl came up and asked? Or anyone?"
"Wouldn’t matter," what follows is more truer than what came before. "I’m not here for the girls."
Guy then braces himself for the inevitable and bothersome question - well, are you here for the boys? - but Thomas asks no such thing, which he’s quite grateful for. Instead he just tilts his head and frowns slightly in thought. “… Hmm. I must admit you’ve left me at a loss here. If not the music, girls, or even dancing - what’s your reason for going to a club every night?”
”Très simple. I came for the whiskey on the rocks,” the younger man stares at him. “they do the best whiskey on the rocks that I’ve ever had. But since you’ve come along I guess you’ve won me over to their daiquiris as well.”
"… Thank you for the compliment, Guy, but it’s whiskey. On ice. Even if you imagine that the water for the ice varies, how can there be that much of a difference.”
Guy taps his fingers on the empty glass for a moment, his expression cool and calm. Thomas watches him. “There isn’t very much difference at all,” he finally speaks up. “if you only look at what goes in the tumbler. Whiskey, and ice, as you said. At the end of the day that’s what you drink. But have you ever stayed to watch how a bartender - any bartender - pours a whiskey on the rocks, though?” the other shakes his head. “I thought not. It’s not something people generally pay attention to. I do, though, and the more you do it the more you can’t help but think that everyone has their own varying methods about the entire business. Some fill the glass over halfway with ice and then get careless with the whiskey so that it ends up becoming too diluted by the end. Some people are too economical with the ice and I might as well have been drinking my whiskey neat, which is not what I asked for at all. This place,” he gestures to the area behind the bar. “this place, though… Fresh ice, so cold that I can see the water evaporating off their surface - but the whiskey is at room temperature. They touch the neck of the bottle to the rim of the glass when they pour, too, and it’s done at such a pace that the moment the whiskey hits the ice I can hear it crack. Slowly. Absolute art. I don’t think there’s such a thing as the ‘perfect’ whiskey on the rocks, and each glass you get, it’s never going to be the exact same one. But what I get in this place is better than most, and it keeps getting better. It’s the epitome of experience’s role in bettering your skills.”
Only when he finishes with his monologue does he become aware of two things: one, that Thomas is looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and confusion, and two, that he hadn’t actually been conscious of the fact that he’d been thinking all of this before he was asked. But now that it’s all out, his conviction only strengthens; the world is too full of uncertainties to speak meaningfully of perfection, but at the same time, to Guy that means that one can only get better and better at something. Human potential is endless.
Thomas might find that less comforting than he, but there’s no disputing his feelings on the matter.
Guy smiles. “… You’ll understand when you’re older.”
"Thank you for that fantastic advice, Guy. A whole eleven months. Glad to know that all the problems I have with this world is due to me not contemplating whiskey hard enough.”
"Oh, you’d be surprised. I’m merely pointing out that you can discover order and beauty in anything. De rien, Thomas, de rien.”
"You’re right about one thing, though. The music is terrible tonight,” Thomas says, and seeing that both he and Guy have emptied their drinks, pushes his glass away and stands up. “what do you say to going somewhere else, I don’t think I can stand listening to this any longer and neither can you by the looks of it.”
Guy agrees to this without any objections at all, immediately getting out of his seat and passing his glass back to the bartender before leading the way out of the club. The night air is cold and it’s surprisingly quiet outside; this area is usually bustling somewhat with passersby and tourists, but tonight is not one of those times. The moment the door swings shut behind them, the world falls largely silent, only the sound of rustling leaves and wind truly audible in the darkness.
"At last!" he exclaims, heaves a sigh, and turns to look up at the taller man. He’s slipping something out of his messenger bag, a brown paper sack of some sort. "a walk around the streets, I think. Unless you can suggest somewhere else?"
"No, but anywhere’s better than back there. I don’t know about the whiskey, Guy, but their choice in music really has been going downhill. I wonder what’s making them do that."
"The plot, of course. What else?" Guy gestures towards the paper bag as they begin walking towards a random direction. "what’s in this, anyway?"
"You’ll never guess," the taller man grins, and opens the bag without letting Guy actually have a guess. The latter looks inside and raises his eyebrows. "in a personal, delicious, weekly homage to the best of la littérature française - madeleines. Completely intended for flashback purposes.”
”Proustian involuntary memory. Wow. Another concept that didn’t need introducing into our already fabulously-Parisian lives.”
"Well, we’re French,” Thomas responds, as if that justifies everything. (Unless your knowledge of France is entirely pseudo-intellectual, that probably shouldn’t be the case.) He takes one out and grins at it, delighting in the pleasant, sweet lemony scent. “though now that you and I get the reference, maybe whatever you think of after eating one of those isn’t exactly going to be involuntary. No matter. Sometimes you want to be fully aware of what you’re getting into,” his watch gleams in the moonlight, and Guy watches it throw a silvery patch of light on the ground whenever the other moves his arm. “just look at them - shaped like a seashell, so small and exquisitely formed with those pleats on the surface, and of course you need to get the batter exactly right or the whole batch falls flat. There’s something almost pious about the act of baking them and then gently shaking them free from the pan - there’s nothing so culinarily tragic as a crumbling madeleine,” he rests the cake on his palm, specks of sugar glinting as he does so. “like a shell. Small and insignificant, but you can hear the entire ocean in one. When I’m done with music practice during the weekend I always sit down with a cup of tea and a madeleine - half just for eating, half to soak in the tea and savour. C’est merveilleux. It’s really not so bad measuring out my life in coffee spoons and madeleines. Moments of my life, times enjoyed and wasted, times long since lost - all in a madeleine. You ever feel that way sometimes?”
"Hardly," Guy says indifferently. "sometimes a cake is just a cake."
"I could say the same for a whiskey on the rocks," the taller man teases with a grin. There’s a cafe that’s still open nearby, and he directs them both towards it. "will you still think of it as ‘just a cake’ if I gave it to you?"
An incredulous stare. “… Why would I not. It doesn’t cease to be a cake just because you gave it to me.”
Thomas sighs playfully and rolls his eyes. Guy’s a tough one.
It only makes him more fascinating, really, he loves a good challenge. “Indoors or outdoors?” he asks, indicating to the seating; only two people are outdoors, while it’s slightly more bustling inside even at this hour. Guy nods towards a table outdoors, but follows Thomas inside to order his own drink; he orders an espresso, liking his coffee strong in the vain hopes that perhaps one day, caffeine would actually help him stay awake instead of having zero effect on him.
Somewhere in the distance, they can hear the sound of bells chiming the new day. They both glance at each other quizzically, pausing at the doorway with their drinks in hand.
They would not have heard it had they stayed somewhere else; nowadays no one has to go too far to check the time regardless of where they are, but tradition has lingered on, its song weaving through the fabric of Paris every quarter of an hour, a pattern instinctively recognized and adored by all who live here. “E-flat,” Guy says, and takes his seat.
"I disagree. F, surely," Thomas sits down as well, and pours the needed amount of milk in his coffee. "but then I think they have more bells than one."
Guy concurs, and takes the first sip of his espresso, dark and bittersweet. Thomas sets the bag in front of them again, showing him the six madeleines nestled coyly inside. “Finally,” he grins. “back to those. I bake those every week and I thought of you when I was making the last batch. Will you have one?”
"I wouldn’t protest."
His tone might be nonchalant, but judging by how his eyes are fixed on the cakes, what Guy said can be translated as more along the lines of 'oh hell yes'. “Ah-ah,” the younger man shakes his head before he can reach in and take a madeleine; he picks one out himself, breaks it into half, dunks it only briefly into his own coffee - and holds it out. “let me.”
"… Thomas, this really isn’t nece-"
"I insist."
Guy huffs. “You’re being ridiculous.”
"Quite possibly, yes, but what better than feeding someone close by to show them that you care for them? Come on. Guy. Be good to me. Please?"
"I don’t-" a playfully-pleading look from the younger man breaks down his resolve, though, and with a half-inarticulate ‘nngh’ he hastily leans forwards at the same time as Thomas pushes the madeleine to his mouth. "mmh-!”
His first instinct is to resist, to keep his lips firmly closed - but that’s only before he registers that it’s Thomas and his intentions are genuine, after which he takes the piece of madeleine in his mouth. It’s just the right amount of moist and sweet (and now warm from the coffee) with a hint of lemon-zest. Lemon being one of his favourite flavours, it’s all he can do to keep himself from involuntarily moaning out loud at the taste; he doesn’t even register that Thomas is still holding on and is watching him with unconcealed interest, before he slowly lets go and lets Guy come back to his senses once more. Ridiculous, indeed. He keeps on trying to tell himself that the taste isn’t quite right, that it’s inauthentic - madeleines are to be taken with tea, not with coffee, and most definitely not coffee saturated with milk because ugh, who does that. But none of that diminishes that Thomas does regardless of Guy’s own opinions on coffee, and somehow the rich buttery crumbs and the milky coffee do make for an utterly fantastic combination. Without quite realizing it he’s closed his eyes, chewing slowly and thoughtfully to savour every last morsel, impressed enough to show it shamelessly. Thomas watches him with a near-childlike smile, both amused and in wonder at what he managed to achieve. (Guy has a particularly lovely face when he’s enjoying himself.)
"There," he says gently, and offers him the other half of the madeleine. "not half bad, non? You look so happy. You should be happier often.”
"Pah! Don’t get used to it," Guy mumbles, but accepts the rest, finding it delightful even without the coffee. "mmm.”
There is silence for a while. Thomas drinks his coffee and eats a madeleine for himself, breaking it into half and then quarters before eating, two dipped in coffee and two without, careful not to spill crumbs everywhere. While he’s never been in a cafe at this hour - and certainly not outdoors - Guy finds it pleasant, for tonight is lacking in its usual chill and the company handsome and intelligent. He’s emptied his espresso down to the last few drops when Thomas speaks up again. “So… it’s not the case that you never dance, right?”
"Yes, as I said. Hey, these are really good, could I have another? - Oui? - Merci," Guy takes another cake from the bag and balances it on his palm before glancing at Thomas. "… I do, but I don’t just dance anywhere.”
The younger man flashes him a grin. “Oh, we’ll see about that. I’m asking because I want to invite you somewhere next week.”
"Invite me?" Guy nibbles daintily at the edges of the madeleine, then frowns down at it as if he just remembered something vital. "… what day, though, I have a whole week of exams the week after next. I probably won’t be able to see you some nights."
Come to think of it, he hasn’t considered that until the younger man had brought it up. The thought of passing his evenings lost in studies suddenly seems positively anathemic, even though that was one of the few ways he used to spend his time before Thomas had walked into his life - there’s no way that he can add to what he’s already stated, though, because what more can he say? He looks up, expecting a disappointed Thomas, only to blink when he sees that the other is smiling very gently. “Well, isn’t that just convenient, I have several DJ gigs lined up next week too. I was going to tell you earlier - might as well now - I’m out of Paris altogether Monday and Tuesday, but on Friday I’m DJ-ing at a club near the one we were just in. You can spare Friday night, oui?”
"Which club is this?"
”Punctum. Do you know it?” Guy shakes his head. “excellent music, I promise, which will be doubly excellent when I’m the one in charge. Do you have something that I can write o-“
It pays off to be a well-prepared student whenever writing materials are concerned. The older man whips out his diary and the pen clipped to its spine before Thomas can even finish speaking, earning himself an impressed look from the latter, and opens it to the needed date. “Dictate for me,” he says simply; his readiness says all that Thomas needs to know about his acceptance of the invitation, and the younger man finds himself becoming bolder at the thought. Guy’s at least curious, and this is not an opportunity he should let go to waste.
"Sure. I’ll give you my number first-" Guy raises one eyebrow. Thomas keeps his expression perfectly neutral, though he’s feeling very jumpy inside. "-so that you can call me if you change your mind. any time of the week. Then the address. Call me when you get home."
The other two patrons outside are standing up and gathering their coats; it’s nearly closing time even for this place. The long-haired man lets his gaze drift over to them for a moment, considering, before giving one decisive nod. “D’accord. If you could.”
"Zéro, un, zéro, quatre, vingt-"
The older man holds his hand up, stopping him; he’s going too fast. “‘Quatre’ et ‘vingt’, ou ‘quatre-vingt’?”
"Oh, pardon! Quatre et vingt. Whoever came up with our numbering system, I swear.”
"Agreed," Guy reaches over and dunks his madeleine in Thomas’s coffee, then takes a bite as if nothing happened. "and the rest, s’il-te plait?”
He recites the rest of the needed information and checks it over to see if everything is correct; it is. Guy nods thoughtfully when Thomas says this, then surprises the other by tearing out a spare piece of paper, writing his own number and ‘GM de Homem-Christo' beneath it, and handing it to him. “It's only fair that you have mine, too,” is his only explanation as he finishes off the madeleine and leans back, surveying his diary and frowning delicately as he works out what his new schedule will be like. Thomas gazes for a long time down at the paper in the meanwhile, trying to engrave the sequence of numbers in his mind; he can't lose this for anything. When he gets home he's immediately going to copy it down somewhere stable and noticeable, and ideally memorize it.
He traces lightly over the words with the tip of his finger. Guy has absolutely beautiful handwriting. His essays must look like works of art. That thought makes him smile and feel a blushing warmth deep inside; it’s just as well that the older man can’t see him properly at the moment.
"All right, I accept," Guy finally says and tucks the book back into his jacket. A ghost of a smile has drifted onto his lips, but he still looks largely impassive, probably on purpose. "how long is your set? From what time?"
"Oh. Eight to midnight. Someone else is taking over after that, but I’m the main act. Come along whenever you want, it might be that I won’t warm up until I’m at least half an hour in…"
"Just about the right time. I’ll humour you - I’ll show you how I dance. You’re not allowed to complain about it, though," then Guy’s expression hardens just a little, more in jest than seriousness. "but I won’t if the music isn’t good enough. I might even walk out in disgust. That’s not a definite opinion on your skills as a DJ, seeing as I’ve never actually seen you perform, but it could happen. What’ll you do in that case?"
"I’ll take it as constructive criticism, I suppose. And I’ll apologize. Sincerely. Unless I can tempt you into forgiving me regardless with home-baked goods?"
Guy laughs out loud; his eyes soften and his sullen expression disappears. “Aren’t you something, Thomas! Just for that offer, I’ll try to stay for your entire set. I’d prefer it if I could say goodnight to you properly afterwards, too.”
Thomas perks right back again. “Quoi! You mean you’ll spend more time with me? Really?”
"… That’s somewhat of an off-kilter interpretation of what I meant, but yes? You sure do look eager to spend time with me.”
"Of course, isn’t that at the heart of our nightly meetings?" Thomas is distracted from explaining further when he sees a long, handsome black cat with a fluffy tail - straight out of Le Chat Noir - slinking past the tables; immediately he swivels around on his chair and laughs, catching the stray’s glass-green eyes. “oh, I love cats! Bonsoir, Monsieur le chat!" he hollers as the cat begins to trot towards them. "bonsoir!”
Guy sighs. Thomas looks gleeful, petting the cat all over, its purring pleasant and loud.
But his heart is light, and when the cat meows and raises itself on its hind legs to place two paws on his lap, he can’t resist gently stroking the top of its paws and head, either.
——-
It is three o’clock when Guy returns home; that twilight hour before the dawn begins, tugging the morning along with it. He said goodbye to Thomas an hour and half ago, but took the long way back home. He hangs up his jacket and tidies his windswept hair with one hand, gazing into his apartment with a thoughtful look on his face. He’s neglected the place for the past three days or so, having spent most of his days asleep or elsewhere, only stopping by to shower and change before heading out to the club; the apartment isn’t messy by any sense of the word, but laundry needs doing, and he should vacuum at some point in the near future. He’s quite a tidy person, all things considered, but he could always be tidier. One can never know who they might be entertaining as a guest, nor when.
Then he pauses, and reconsiders that thought. Guests?
No way. Guy has people whom he’s close to, but almost never that close, and that’s talking about people that he’s known for longer than just a few days. Beating around the bush is hardly his style, so he downright admits to himself that when he thought ‘guests’ an image of Thomas flashed across his eyes - and pushes the idea aside just as matter-of-factly. It’s too early for that. Oh, he enjoys Thomas’s company and has no qualms about continuing to see him; he finds the other quite charming beneath the clumsiness and overt chatter, too, neither of those things are so intolerable that he can’t work with them; but still, they’re hardly at the stage where they would want to invite each other over to watch movies together, sleep in the same bed, or engage in more intimate activities.
Everything has a fitting time and place. Guy takes off his shoes, arranges them neatly by the door, and sighs in half contentment as he enters the kitchen to pour himself a glass of red wine. His usual nightcap; there’s something about wine that makes him blush, his body filling with barely-metabolized warmth until he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep. Then he takes the glass, turns the lights in the kitchen out, and heads straight to his bedroom. Clothes are taken off and discarded carelessly, thrown towards some dark corner of the room; there’s a bedside lamp but he doesn’t bother turning it on, content enough with the moonlight drifting in through the window. His body is illuminated milky-blue as he settles himself onto the bed, wearing only boxers and quite ready to sleep. The streetlamp hums vaguely outside. All is well. He takes a sip out of his wine and closes his eyes.
Call me when you get home.
Ah. Of course. He opens his eyes again and moves off the bed without a sound, retrieving his diary and flicking to the page in question. Through the moonlight he can just about make out the sequence of numbers. Common sense tells him that he could leave it until the morning, that there’s a high chance that the other might be asleep by now - but if there’s anything he’s learnt in the past two weeks with the taller man, it’s that Thomas Bangalter does not operate via common sense.
And neither do I, apparently, he thinks as he reaches for the phone and dials the number, cradling the receiver between his face and shoulder as he slumps down onto the bed again. The signal tone drones on several times and his eyes flutter shut. He’s held on for exactly ten rings (and another swallow of the wine) before Thomas picks up at the other end. “Guy,” he immediately exclaims, skipping all the customary greetings; he must have been keeping himself awake, waiting for that one phone call, all this time. Guy finds himself rather touched at the thought.
"C’est moi."
"I was waiting for you," the other’s voice is oddly breathless but glad. "you’re home and safe?"
"Of course, why would I not be? I’m sorry that it got so late-" he takes a sip. "- I was actually thinking whether to leave the call until morning, you know. You might have been asleep," Thomas inhales slightly but sharply, and Guy knows that he’s about to retort. "but thank you for being awake, nonetheless. This is just as much me checking up on you as it’s the other way around."
And the momentary tension is defused, just like that. “Non, non. It’s me who should be thanking you for calling me. I was worried,” pause. “just a little. I know it’s silly,” another pause. Guy swirls the wine a little in its glass, starting to feel the drowsiness settle in. “but strange things can happen in the night. Anyway. Thanks again, I probably should go to bed now.”
"Yes, you ought to, and so should I. Dors bien. I’ll hang up first.”
"… And," Guy pauses to listen. Thomas is clearly hesitating on the other end, judging from his silence and anxious breathing, but eventually he speaks up again with surprising shyness: "and… I can… call you, too, right? Sometimes? Maybe even during the day, just to talk…?"
Oh.
Like he asserted earlier, he’s fine with things carrying on the way they are, meeting by the cover of darkness in their post-midnight soirees. But it’s a different issue altogether if Thomas wants to take it up a notch and gives full consent; who’s he, then, to undermine that wish? Once he reasons that far, Guy smiles without quite realizing it. “Of course you can,” he says, and his voice comes out gentle and genuine, so reassuring that he can almost hear Thomas sighing in relief at the end. “but for now - bonne nuit.”
"Bonne nuit, Guy."
It’s different, he thinks as he places down the receiver and takes another sip out of his wine. but… but it’s good.
I’d like to see where this goes.