fic: colours of the flag.

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RED
Her dress is a knee-length summer affair, sewn from a blushing salmon-coloured fabric with a burgundy sash, and the skirt swishes around her legs as she walks around her room. The house is quiet this morning, her father on a business trip to the Netherlands and her mother in the kitchen to oversee the preparation of lemonade for the guests they’ve having over for an afternoon garden party later. Philippe was invited to, but he unfortunately had other obligations. Homework, Violette had mouthed at her mother, mockingly, “Philippe studies so very hard these days.”

“Exams,” Philippe had agreed with a smile.

“At least he’s in Luxembourg this week. He’s going back to Paris next Tuesday,” Violette had sighed in a way that meant, without me. He’d brought her along in the beginning, letting her go shopping while he sat through his lectures at the Sorbonne, but that was before, of course.

Now, she’s leafing through her records, trying to decide between Elton John or Donna Summer, Philippe having no real horse in that race. He likes both equally, which is probably more of an equal disinterest right at this moment. He checks his wristwatch. She notices. She always notices.

“Already,” she asks.

“I’m afraid so,” he replies, getting to his feet. It’s half past eleven. “Rousseau doesn’t wait.”

“Who?” She pouts, like she’s expecting him to leave her for someone else that she, rudely, hasn’t been introduced to. He laughs and kisses her forehead.

“No one important, Violette.”

Grabbing his jacket off her bed, the maid passing by the door, no doubt here to spy on them on the bidding of Violette’s mother, Philippe heads down the hallway. Behind him, he hears Violette snapping at the poor girl. Once he’s out the door, it’s with a sigh of relief.


WHITE
There’s a twenty minute drive from Violette’s parents’ house to the hotel. Granted, you can’t place a person anywhere in City where there’ll be more than a twenty-minute drive, the capital simply isn’t big enough for those kinds of distances, but Philippe has reserved a room at a luxury hotel in Kirchberg for Laurent which is just far enough away that he can drive the first fifteen minutes, park his car near his own apartment in Neudorf and walk from there. That way there’ll be no inexplicable sightings to explain, should someone notice his white BMW in front of the Hilton. He isn’t quite prominent enough in the youth party or in academia to easily wave off such talk.

Besides, Violette is the unforgiving sort.

So, he parks in the carpark across from his apartment building and crosses Avenue J. F. Kennedy at the intersection a few hundred meters down the road from the newly opened hotel. The staff is very discreet there, especially if you tip them well. Laurent and he have already used it a few times over the spring semester. Laurent is waiting, as instructed, in the lobby. Philippe checks his wristwatch.

It’s two minutes till noon.


BLUE
It’s not the penthouse, mostly because the penthouse makes you noticeable, no matter how much you tip. It’s a normal suite, decorated in navy hues, dark and shadowy when you pull the curtains, even at midday. Laurent comes up behind him and slips his arms around his waist from behind, his head pressing sideways against his shoulder blade. He isn’t the tallest, Laurent, after all.

“When are you going to dump her, Philippe, seriously,” he mutters.

“It isn’t like you care about her, Laurent,” Philippe retorts, a tad too sharply. He can almost hear the other man’s smile, his arms tightening, lower arms pressing in against his hipbones through his suit trousers.

“No, but I care about you,” is his answer.

Philippe turns around slowly, careful not to dislodge Laurent’s grip on him, looking down at him through narrowed eyes and tortoiseshell aviators, lips slightly parted, breath bated and heart pounding. These are the moments they get, stolen and secret, and it would go against all Philippe’s highly praised principles, if his dick didn’t talk much louder than his heart in these matters.

Shaking his head once, he reaches up and slips his glasses off, holding them loosely between the fingers of his right hand while reaching up and cupping Laurent’s face in his other. There’s a brief moment, seconds, where he thinks of Violette who is hosting her garden party with her mother and waiting for him to make the final move, proposing to her, less than patiently.

While, in reality, this is where Philippe is regarding that. With Laurent. Laurent’s mouth tasting like the beer they had in the lobby not to seem too conspicuous, before taking the elevator up.

This is where he is.

fic: old things.

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It’s been two days since he stepped back, two days of chaos in the party while the vote came in as to who would take over after him. Still holding out for an answer on that one, aren’t they? Being out of a job doesn’t suit him, Philippe finds after about five minutes. Luckily, the offers are already trickling in, with all the discretion he owes his image at this point. He has a few possibilities up for consideration, though he might still be waiting for the perfect fit.

He hasn’t changed jobs in thirty years.

The commiseration party was, naturally, Karl’s idea. Though actively out of politics himself for a good few years, he’s still got as many contacts in the party as Philippe and quite a few more of the old gang. Let’s drink ourselves stupid, he’d said to Philippe as way of invitation, and forget that all old institutions must fall eventually.

And because Philippe no longer has a wife demanding his attention when he’s not at work, only a boyfriend who wouldn’t dream of holding him back ever, he says okay and dresses in a nice, dark grey suit, showing up fashionably late, because once you’ve been the boss, a part of you always will be. They’ll wait for him, he knows. They always did.

When he steps inside the large garden of René’s house, more a park than anything, truly, the lights go up, blazing to life and music starts playing, his mind immediately picking up on the tune. Happier, the Postmodern Jukebox cover. The voice is definitely Allison Young’s, too. He stares around. At the band, the whole PMJ gig, the guests – former and current members of the party, Karl at the front, laughing openly. We broke up a month ago, the singer begins; does she mean you forgot about me, she continues.

“Is this your work,” he asks Karl, feeling like a kid who’s been thrown a surprise party, having had no clue. “Flying those guys in from the US must have cost a fortune, Karl!”

“Everyone pitched in,” Karl reassures him, although it’s not the money, it’s the effort, Karl could’ve paid for this set-up on his own easily, after all. Philippe shakes his head once, then – with a huff – pulls Karl in for a hard, back-patting hug. They’ve known each other for more than thirty years, haven’t they?

Old farts, they are. Maybe it’s a good thing that some new blood runs through those wrinkled veins of the CDP.

“Happier,” Karl asks, in time with the music.

“If I were, it would be a celebration rather than commiseration,” Philippe comments.

“I did try,” Karl replies while Philippe starts shaking hands all around. Last in the row stands Jean Louis, unintrusively, meaning that Karl invited him as well. They just look at each other for a few moments. Behind him, Karl comes up, putting a hand on his shoulder, heavy, friendly, brotherly.

Oh, I hope you’re happy, sings Allison from up front.