Philippe Barrault (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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wealthofnations2022-11-23 08:56 am
figureheading) wrote in wealthofnations2022-11-23 08:56 am
Entry tags:
fic: powerful.
His first day in office, the Prime Minister’s quarters located on the top floor of the Grand Ducal Palace, the secretary throws the doors open to the office space proper, welcoming him home, sir, his PR manager and Karl, newly appointed Minister of the Interior, following right at his heels as he enters, feeling unusually awe-struck.
The room has been furnished to his specifications, the large, old oak desk from the Barrault manor taking centre stage in front of the windows with their view of the square in front of the Palace. The rest is local craftmanship, chairs from an internationally renowned carpenter in Dudelange, lamps from a light designer living a solitary but productive life near the French border, shelves and cabinets from a newly founded design company showing great potential, in a few years they’ll be selling to all of Europe, no doubt.
Philippe blinks.
“Gentlemen, excuse me for a moment,” he says, voice dark and with a tiny hint of thickness. They exchange looks, Gerard and Karl, then they nod and retreat, Karl closing the doors carefully after himself. We’ll be right outside, he says as way of parting.
Reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, Philippe huffs, shaking his head slightly. Maybe at himself. Maybe to clear it. Come now, he hasn’t cried since his mother’s funeral, he didn’t even cry at the birth of his daughter, what is this, really?
He walks around the desk, eyes tracing the well-known carvings along the edges and down the sides of roses in various stages of bloom. Only briefly does he run one palm over the tabletop, the smoothness of the old, weathered wood making his skin prickle. Then, he stops in front of the windows, looking out over the rooftops of the inner city. Christmas tourists, most of them German, if you must believe the statistics, here for the markets and the shopping, crossing the square under rainbow-coloured umbrellas.
Yes, it’s raining out, late November rain.
His cheeks feel hot from the tears, even as he wipes them off with one hand before they can get too far. Five minutes pass by like that before he goes to wash off in the adjoining bathroom, finally throwing the doors open again and inviting Gerard and Karl back inside.
“Shall we?”
They both pretend not to know. Good men that they are.
The room has been furnished to his specifications, the large, old oak desk from the Barrault manor taking centre stage in front of the windows with their view of the square in front of the Palace. The rest is local craftmanship, chairs from an internationally renowned carpenter in Dudelange, lamps from a light designer living a solitary but productive life near the French border, shelves and cabinets from a newly founded design company showing great potential, in a few years they’ll be selling to all of Europe, no doubt.
Philippe blinks.
“Gentlemen, excuse me for a moment,” he says, voice dark and with a tiny hint of thickness. They exchange looks, Gerard and Karl, then they nod and retreat, Karl closing the doors carefully after himself. We’ll be right outside, he says as way of parting.
Reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, Philippe huffs, shaking his head slightly. Maybe at himself. Maybe to clear it. Come now, he hasn’t cried since his mother’s funeral, he didn’t even cry at the birth of his daughter, what is this, really?
He walks around the desk, eyes tracing the well-known carvings along the edges and down the sides of roses in various stages of bloom. Only briefly does he run one palm over the tabletop, the smoothness of the old, weathered wood making his skin prickle. Then, he stops in front of the windows, looking out over the rooftops of the inner city. Christmas tourists, most of them German, if you must believe the statistics, here for the markets and the shopping, crossing the square under rainbow-coloured umbrellas.
Yes, it’s raining out, late November rain.
His cheeks feel hot from the tears, even as he wipes them off with one hand before they can get too far. Five minutes pass by like that before he goes to wash off in the adjoining bathroom, finally throwing the doors open again and inviting Gerard and Karl back inside.
“Shall we?”
They both pretend not to know. Good men that they are.