fic: icy politeness.

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The hallways of Parliament are neutral ground; any ideology or inclination is welcome here, insofar it has been elected by the people of Luxembourg by rightful vote. They do not take their squabbles and disagreements with them out in these corridors, the Parliament members. There’s an unspoken rule that political talk is kept to a strict minimum. A man should be allowed to cross from A to B without having to defend the legislation he’s currently backing or the moves he’s had to make to get it through.

Women, too, of course. For that matter.

That is why it’s so noticeable, the way Philippe and Jean Louis interact after Philippe loses office and Liberté gains more than just one seat. Stéphane he can joke with, although they’re at each other’s throats in the Deputy Hall, because if nothing else, Philippe intends on leading a strong opposition.

When Jean Louis and Phillippe cross each other’s paths in the hallways, it’s done in a tight-lipped, tense silence, until the very last moment, when one of them, most often Jean Louis, finally bites over the other politician’s name. “Philippe.” “Jean Louis.” It’s ice cold and rock hard and Philippe hates it. He hates remembering how the man used to address him when they worked through the night, before.

He hates that there was a before, and now there’s an after, but that is the inevitable workings of consequences, he’s aware.

So naturally, he’ll bear it. He’s born worse.

And he thought he couldn’t hate anything more.

Then, one day, as they pass each other in front of Deputy Hall again, Jean Louis says his name, “Philippe”, and there is no ice left, only indifference, and Philippe can’t make himself say Jean Louis’ name the same way. Can’t make himself so cold that there’s not even coldness left. Coldness, at least, was something, this is nothing. Is that what they’ve been reduced to? Nothing. Is that what Philippe has made of them?

Jean Louis turns a corner further down, his PR manager – as always – trailing after, leaning down to hiss at him. Philippe halts, turns around fully and looks after him. A couple of Social Democrats fall silent on his right, like magic, those people never shut up otherwise. This moment in time lasts five seconds at most, then Philippe turns back and heads for Marie-Claude’s new office, even his home life having moved in here at this point.

The old days of separating one life from another are long gone. If he’d like them back, he doesn’t consider it in great depth. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

fic: smoke and fog.

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It’s the 22nd of December, he’s met his family at the manor as per tradition, though he will be leaving again in the evening to attend the negotiations on social reform that the Social Democrats keep prolonging, the bastards. It’s Christmas soon! Don’t they want a nice Christmas evening, not to say Christmas morning? Philippe certainly feels like he deserves a break.

Trust Stéphane not to care about the holidays, though. This is the reason some people should be forced to live the nuclear life for just a couple of years of their existence, if you ask Philippe. They’d be much more willing to accommodate the lives of the ruling majority.

For now, he’s taken Marie-Claude for a walk along the stream that cuts diagonally across their land, the undulating landscape around them covered in a thin layer of fog, thick as a curtain, the frosty ground underneath hidden from view. It’s pretty as a picture. She fits right into it, his beautiful daughter. Philippe can’t believe she’s ten this year.

“It’s foggy,” she comments, that wiser-than-her-age voice making her observation sound like the oracle of a sage. “Why is that?”

He frowns for a moment, “haven’t you learned in school?”

“I dislike my physics teacher,” is her reply, prompt, unapologetic.

Huffing out a laugh, Philippe stops near the curve of the stream that will take it to the west, looking out over the foggy hills. He hasn’t had to explain physics to anyone since university and that’s half a man’s life ago. With a shake of his head, he blinks a couple of times and then says, “fog is like clouds on the ground, it’s formed the same way. The water in the air solidifying and becoming dense, thick. It’s due to temperature differences between the earth’s surface and the air.”

“No,” Marie-Claude says, dully, making him look down at her, “that wasn’t my question, Papa.”

Slowly, he puts an arm around her, though she remains stiff and unresponsive in his hold. He thinks about letting go again, but decides against it – not everyone is as easily frightened by her attitude as her teachers, her peers and her mother.

“I do not understand the question, in that case,” he tells her, no longer amused.

“Why does the ground hide? Why do the hills hide in the fog?”

He stares at her, taking a moment to wonder at her childlike logic that is less innocent and more poetic, as is most often true of his daughter.

“People hide to protect themselves,” he says, finally. “I suppose hills do the same.”

“Why don’t they want us to see their true selves underneath?” She is staring back at him, unyielding and unintimidated. Philippe swallows hard, no longer sure whether they’re talking about the hills or the people. Maybe it’s one and the same, truly. Maybe that’s what she means.

Maybe his little girl has seen right through him.

“I imagine it’s because they think we’re better off not knowing,” he manages after another long moment. She furrows her brow and pulls at the end of her braid, dragging it over one shoulder like a brown robe against her red coat.

“That’s selfish,” she concludes. Surprised and a bit overwhelmed, Philippe laughs.

“It’s very selfish,” he agrees. “You’re too clever for this world, Marie-Claude.” He ruffles her hair, undoing the top of her braid and she makes an irritated sound, but she’s smiling, at least. A small, content smile. Catching his hand as he’s about to withdraw, she takes it and holds it, her small fingers against his large palm. His heart swells.

“Only means that the world needs me all the more,” she responds.

He lets her lead them back to the manor house, the place that is home at least ten days of the year. While they tread the muddy path, he thinks that she has never been more right about anything.