Philippe Barrault (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
figureheading) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
wealthofnations2022-11-25 01:40 pm
figureheading) wrote in wealthofnations2022-11-25 01:40 pm
Entry tags:
fic: mentors.
1983
Ulrich Arendt has been leading the CDP since the Great German Scandal fifteen priors and he has been a beacon in Luxembourgish politics longer than that. A protestant minister’s son, some call him the Conservative Messiah, to which Ulrich will always laugh and say, they’re making it sound like Jesus wasn’t a conservative himself. He remains one of the few men in existence whom Philippe’s father never uttered a single bad word about. Only praises.
The day after the elections, when the whole party gathers in the CDP chambers, before going in for government negotiations, it’s Phillippe’s first day as an officially elected politician and he’s terrified, though he tries not to show it. It’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the procedures in here, he’s been a prominent member of the youth party for years, but this is like growing up overnight. Going from a foal-like teenager to an adult stallion, in twelve hours.
Right before they’re leaving for the meeting rooms downstairs, Ulrich spots him and comes over, planting a large hand on his shoulder and saying his name in a friendly mutter, “belated condolences on your parents, Philippe, they were reliable backers of this party for decades, through good and bad. Very fine people.”
Philippe blinks. Looks down and mutters, “thank you, sir. They would’ve been proud to hear you say that.”
“But now that they’re not here, the question is, are you proud?” Ulrich’s hand doesn’t move from his shoulder, his fingers digging in, clasping him tighter. Philippe looks up, meeting the older man’s eyes, they’re warm yet hard.
“Very, sir,” he says, firmly.
“Good,” Ulrich replies, releasing him and gesturing towards the door, calling over one shoulder towards the rest of the elected body, “there’s an iron will in our new financial spokesperson, friends! That’s a good sign. March, march!”
And because Philippe can’t do anything but obey orders when he’s just been unofficially chosen for the most prominent spokesperson post there is, he marches, taking the lead out the door, in front of even Ulrich Arendt.
Ulrich Arendt has been leading the CDP since the Great German Scandal fifteen priors and he has been a beacon in Luxembourgish politics longer than that. A protestant minister’s son, some call him the Conservative Messiah, to which Ulrich will always laugh and say, they’re making it sound like Jesus wasn’t a conservative himself. He remains one of the few men in existence whom Philippe’s father never uttered a single bad word about. Only praises.
The day after the elections, when the whole party gathers in the CDP chambers, before going in for government negotiations, it’s Phillippe’s first day as an officially elected politician and he’s terrified, though he tries not to show it. It’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the procedures in here, he’s been a prominent member of the youth party for years, but this is like growing up overnight. Going from a foal-like teenager to an adult stallion, in twelve hours.
Right before they’re leaving for the meeting rooms downstairs, Ulrich spots him and comes over, planting a large hand on his shoulder and saying his name in a friendly mutter, “belated condolences on your parents, Philippe, they were reliable backers of this party for decades, through good and bad. Very fine people.”
Philippe blinks. Looks down and mutters, “thank you, sir. They would’ve been proud to hear you say that.”
“But now that they’re not here, the question is, are you proud?” Ulrich’s hand doesn’t move from his shoulder, his fingers digging in, clasping him tighter. Philippe looks up, meeting the older man’s eyes, they’re warm yet hard.
“Very, sir,” he says, firmly.
“Good,” Ulrich replies, releasing him and gesturing towards the door, calling over one shoulder towards the rest of the elected body, “there’s an iron will in our new financial spokesperson, friends! That’s a good sign. March, march!”
And because Philippe can’t do anything but obey orders when he’s just been unofficially chosen for the most prominent spokesperson post there is, he marches, taking the lead out the door, in front of even Ulrich Arendt.