(( LOG : liquor ))

[downplaying]

[Characters:] Claude & Jean Louis
[Date:] 31.12.2017 / 01.01.2018
[Summary:] Oh God, they are so drunk.
__________

[He's drunk. So drunk. He's not stupid, he feels it in his fingers, he feels it in his toes... Nevertheless, he abandons Vincent in Mireille's otherwise wholly engaging company, in order to cross the room to where Jean Louis has just poured himself another shot of their most expensive whiskey (a gift he's brought himself) and sit down next to the other man. Vincent's boss. Their once so highly profiled State Minister. Icarus fell, huh?]

You better have brought us something good.

[He gestures to the bottle of whiskey, half-empty already next to Jean Louis' full glass.]

Comments

[downplaying]

If one were to ask you, what is the worst decision Potos has made while in power?

[Inch. Iiiiiinch. The legs of their chairs are touching now. Claude lets his eyes run down Jean Louis' face, down over his somewhat coarse features. His olive skin. The broadness of his upper arms in that shirt of his. A whole other deal than this terrible whiskey, quality or not. Vincent won't mind, will he? After all, he takes no interest in the man himself - Heaven knows why not, he takes an interest in so many other men, some of them far worse than Jean Louis - so Claude's sure he can be allowed a little latitude tonight. Only New Year's once a year.]

[population_ctrl]

[The question actually makes him laugh - a huff, mostly, but the amusement's as real as it ever gets with him. Never too mindful of his personal space, he simply shifts sideways a fraction to accommodate the sudden lack of distance between them.]

I'd make you a list if all his decisions weren't so forgettable. The man's not even trying, it's ridiculous.

[He shakes his head, sipping his whiskey again. And again. Every time he blinks, the world takes an extra second to stabilise itself; but well. It's good alcohol, what can he say.]

[downplaying]

[Obviously the man really is attempting to drink himself under. Whether he's realising it or not. He probably isn't. Which means he won't notice if Claude takes some liberties either. The million Euro - and everyone knows that the Durocs have that kind of money and more to keep it company - question being how far he can push it. Before being pushed away. It's a fun little mystery. Isn't it?]

Of course he is. That's what makes it so sad.

[Have mercy on him, Left Wing Gods. He'll vote for you again come the next elections.]

[population_ctrl]

[The smile turns into a scowl. He stares at Claude, eyes narrowed somewhat as he tries to put some words together that won't make it seem like he's actually got any kind of respect for Potos.]

No, Potos is simply too old for politics. He was marginally less annoying - [His words slur a bit at that - too many syllables] - ten years ago.

[Granted, the man wasn't actually head of state back then. Someone else was. Someone much better suited. Dear God, why hasn't someone voted him back in power yet? It's a waste.]

[downplaying]

[He nods once, largely uninterested in listening to Jean Louis' opinion on their current head of state (who has his vote, by the way), but disguising his disinterest with all his Magic Journalism Powers (TM)... Hopefully, at least. He can't actually tell at this point, since his lips are going numb from alcohol and the taste of the whiskey is still lingering, bitter like bad cock on his tongue. Maybe he just looks slightly constipated. Well, Jean Louis' opinions are the constipated ones, so it would be fitting. Voice low, he leans in a bit, feigning discretion.]

When you were still the man holding the reins, right?

[population_ctrl]

[Once more, Claude's leaning into his personal space. Jean Louis rarely draws back first, however, and in this case he doesn't actually care overly much because yes, that's exactly true and he's got a comment on it.]

Things were better. [His expression darkens a fraction.] What's worse, I doubt the voters have had enough of the LSP. The polls don't lie.

[His glass is almost empty now. He looks its contents over, thinking about filling it up again. He's already drunk, though. And security isn't overly good tonight, what with Marcel out, probably sleeping his way through the whole underground. Decisions, decisions.]

[downplaying]

Guess Mireille's biography didn't help overly much in that regard.

[A beat. He's drunk, so the anger still lingering after Vincent's and his prolonged crisis surges a bit faster, rising in his throat like a heartburn. He tampers it down again, making good use of the beat it created. The pause. Turning it rhetorical.]

I am sorry about that, naturally.

[population_ctrl]

Naturally.

[He doesn't really care whether or not Claude's sorry about something that wasn't, ultimately, his decision. Mireille did that. To the polls. The months following that book were... difficult between them. To put it mildly. Pouring himself another glass, he remembers something and smiles. Thinly.]

It was quite a circus, wasn't it? Vincent certainly did his best, taking the sting out of your little stunt.

[downplaying]

Vincent's good at his job. No one's surprised.

[It doesn't make him stop smiling. Rather, it makes his smile broaden and he leans in another inch and then another on top of it, so that he's actually close enough to the other man to be able to smell his cologne. Mmn. Expensive stuff. Just as rotten as his whiskey, but nice to look at, isn't that the best way to sum Jean Louis Duroc up?

His little stunt. Fuck him. Yes, please.]

[population_ctrl]

[He glances sideways. Was the man actually... sitting that close to him five seconds ago? He can't remember. Must be the alcohol. Accordingly, he takes a large gulp from his glass, blinking hard as it burns down all the way down his throat. Tasteless now because he's too drunk to taste. Anything. Nothing wrong with that.]

Least of all you. [This time, it's not a glance but a solid look, eyes narrowed and mouth curved upwards in a slight smile.] You must have been expecting the backlash from the beginning, of course. Ambition and ruthlessness are so very similar.

[downplaying]

[Yuck. Now it's not only the whiskey leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Staring at Jean Louis, their faces actually remarkably close right now and who would have thought the other man would ever allow intimacy of this kind, Claude frowns. Pushes his glass to the side, meaning for it to be a small push, but ending up toppling it over. Oops. A golden pool of liquid on the table. What a shame, wasting Jean Louis' graciousness.]

I wrote the book to change people's view on Mireille. How they view you as a result -- Yeah, I suppose I couldn't care less.

[A shrug and a smile. If Jean Louis can be charming being an arsehole, so can he.]

[population_ctrl]

[... did he just waste all that precious whiskey? What a slob. The words themselves don't really matter to him - after all, Vincent's the one getting paid to care about his image. He doesn't expect anything from Claude, aside from maybe... an inch or two of personal space. He shifts backwards.]

Mireille's image is probably beyond saving. [He laughs. It's not a very pleasant sound but neither is it thoroughly mocking. After all, she's his wife. He doesn't want her to be unhappy. In general.] I could have told you, Claude. Next time, keep yourself better informed.

[downplaying]

[Those words do actually cause him to pause in his tracks. He hasn't worked with Mireille for the better part of 18 months in order to finish that damn book without picking up on a thing or two. Making a few guesses. Speculating. Now, all those silent accusations hang in the air between them, Jean Louis and he, probably unnoticed by the other man, because he's stupid and drunk and stupidly drunk. Claude makes quick progress, leaning in that last inch to slip an arm around Jean Louis' (broad, oh my God) shoulders.]

You know. Mireille and I spent a lot of time talking about you. I think I'm decently well informed.

[population_ctrl]

[He doesn't know what to focus on - Claude's arm slipping around his shoulders (??) or the words which, in many ways, trigger his paranoia somewhat terribly. Decently well-informed? But Mireille wouldn't actually tell him anything of any importance, naturally, she wouldn't dare...]

Meaning what?

[Deciding that the verbal implications outweigh the physical ones (he's not sure what to think about that in any case), he doesn't move, eyes narrowing to slits.]

[downplaying]

[He shrugs. Not a very communicative answer, but who cares. It might not have made it into the book and she might never have answered directly, but silence can be so very informative, too. He knows that Jean Louis has probably hit her at some point. Perhaps even more than once. That bastard. He deserves a little trauma of his own, doesn't he? And who better to provide it than the big bad gay man whom they obviously fear so much in his party?

So. Claude goes in for the kill. Reaching out his free hand and placing it, quite squarely, on Jean Louis' thigh. Far up. Faaaar up.]

[population_ctrl]

[That's not an answer. And neither is that... hand... on his...

Expression freezing into something caught between surprise and a ton of belated realisations (about this entire conversation, from start to finish), he stares at Claude with something close to actual horror. He's so drunk, however, that it takes him several additional seconds to react, setting the whiskey glass on the table with a dull thud, hand shaking only slightly, thank you.]

Excuse me.

[And that's him, pushing his chair out. And away. Far, far away, managing by some miracle not to topple it over in the process.]

[downplaying]

[He doesn't actually know whether he's bemused or amused when Jean Louis pushes his chair back, gets up and all but runs from him, like a scared little rabbit. Run, rabbit, run. Or is it Forrest? ... Never mind, it's funny as Hell and he smiles to himself while leaning back in his seat, eyes following the other man as he makes his way over to Mireille and Vincent, interrupting their conversation to have his masculinity reaffirmed.

The man's hot, but disgusting. Funny how a mix like that only works when you're too drunk to stand (and no, he's not going to make the attempt). He really hopes they lose the elections this year. Really, really hopes.

Sorry Vincent.]