Philippe Barrault (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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wealthofnations2022-11-30 04:07 am
figureheading) wrote in wealthofnations2022-11-30 04:07 am
Entry tags:
fic: icy politeness.
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.
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.