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Their eyes met across the room, Jean’s the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean, the other guy’s the colour of the Atlantic in Northern France on a stormy day. The eye contact held an unblinking three, maybe four seconds, before Jean turned away, suddenly short of breath.
When he looked up again, after he felt like he had regained his inner balance, the other guy was still staring at him.
So he wandered over, pushed his way through the crowd with whispered excuse me’s and sorry’s. The meeting was boring anyway, whoever had come up with the idea of a mandatory get-together for all of the faculty’s students, had not had the grace to also make sure that the content of said meeting would at least be interesting.
Jean reached the other guy without much of a problem, and simply turned back to the speaker after coming to a stop. Out of the corner of his eyes, Jean saw the other guy examining him, a haughty expression on his face. He was taller than Jean, not by much, but noticeable, though a lot less bulky – except for the thick mop of dark curls crowning his head, falling into his eyes.
Jean could not remember ever seeing him on Campus before.
He looked stunning.
“Jean Treville,” Jean introduced himself. The other guy sniffed.
“I know.”
Nothing more.
Before Jean could add something else, the speaker disbanded the meeting and chatter started up all around them. Conversation would be impossible now. Jean’s shoulders dropped, recognising a missed chance when he saw it. Yet, before he could turn and leave like so many of his fellow students did, the other guy brushed his hand against Jean’s arm, in a way that was both very casual and not casual at all, and, with a tilt of his head and a dangerous glint to his eye, asked: “You want to get out of here?”
They did not get very far, before the other guy pulled Jean into an empty lecture room and pressed him against the wall and his lips against Jean’s the moment the door fell closed behind them.
He was a good kisser. Not great, not fantastic, too aggressive for that, too technical, and Jean could not help himself. He started to laugh, a deep chuckle that made its way through his chest, and the other guy pulled away with a furious expression when it reached his mouth.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded to know.
“You’re very enthusiastic,” Jean giggled.
Obviously taking that as a personal affront, the guy gave Jean an impressive scowl and turned around, reaching out towards the door handle.
“Jeez, not like that, you whinger.” Jean reached for the other’s arm, but decided to drop his hand to his side again when he saw his expression. “I wasn’t complaining. I’ve just... I haven’t run into a situation like this before.”
“Making out in an empty classroom?” The way the guy said it implied what a boring student life Jean must have led so far if he had not.
Jean ran a hand through his hair – too long right now, his fringe fell into his eyes every now and then, refusing to stay on top with the rest – and slouched against the wall.
“Nah, been there, done that. But not with someone I don’t even know the first thing about. I know you must be studying history; otherwise, you wouldn’t have been at the meeting today, but more than that? No idea. I can’t even remember seeing you on campus before today. I don’t know what semester you’re in, if you’re studying history as a main or secondary subject, what your future plans are – hell, I don’t even know your name.”
The guy stared at him for a while, but finally dropped his hand from the door handle and straightened up. With a flick of his head tossing his curls out of his eyes, and with another defiant stare stated, “History is my third major. I already have a doctorate in religious studies and I’m working on my Master in Politics. I thought history is going to help me in my understanding of politics. I’m going to be PM, someday.”
He said it with so much certainty that Jean could not do much more than blink, for a while.
“You’re going to be PM someday.”
“Yes.” No hesitation, no wavering. There was only absolute conviction.
“You’ll have to work on your diplomacy skills until then,” was the only thing Jean’s brain came up with. PM someday bristled visibly, pulled the door open again and, after giving Jean another haughty look, rushed out of the empty lecture room.
Jean stared at the empty air where PM had been just a moment ago, gave a half-hearted shrug and went back to his dorm. This had been weird.
The knock came unexpectedly and around the time when Jean was getting ready for bed. Believing it to be de Foix, who had probably missed the last essay exercise again, he opened the door only in his pyjama pants, and found himself face to face with PM someday.
When the other guy realised Jean was standing there bare-chested, a crimson blush spread from his neck up to his face, but before he could say something, Jean asked: “How did you find out where my dorm is?”
PM someday’s eyes snapped up from Jean’s chest to his face, the blush still painting his cheeks with colour, and retorted, less derisive than he probably wanted to sound like, “I know the right people.”
“You know, you would make a better Head of Secret Service than PM, with all this attitude and stuff.”
PM someday, unsurprisingly, looked insulted. He opened his mouth, eyes narrowing, but before he managed to say something, Jean stepped aside. “You wanna come inside or what?”
And Jean smiled his most disarming smile.
He knew the effect it had on people, with his sparkling blue eyes, and PM someday obviously was not immune to it, either. He came in, wary, but his eyes flicked back to Jean’s naked torso, giving it an appraising glance. Jean could not help but flex his muscles a little, enjoying the attention.
He had not had sex with anyone in a while, and this was exciting.
“This is weird.”
It was the first thing PM someday had said since they had sat down at the small kitchen’s table, in their equal state of undress, the mop of wild curls mussed by sex, each of them holding a cup of hot chocolate between their palms. Jean could not help but think that this was the first time PM someday sounded like a fellow student instead of like… like PM usually sounded.
Jean felt great, well fucked and relaxed. He took a sip of his hot chocolate – a special blend his family sent – and gave PM someday a satisfied smile.
“I think it was pretty nice.”
That actually drew a smile out of the other guy as well, and it transformed his whole face. Made him softer, younger, more approachable.
PM someday had a beautiful smile.
“Not what I was talking about,” PM still answered, turning the mug in his hands. “Sitting here, now, is weird.”
“Why, though? You’ve never had a drink with someone you shared a bed with?”
“Of course I have! But this, it feels -“
“You would have rather just sneaked out while I was asleep, like a thief in the night?”
Jean smirked.
And there was the angry blush again.
“I’m not a thief, I will –“
“Yeah, you’ll be PM someday, I know, and I’ll be a stripper, going full Monty for elderly ladies and discerning gentlemen or something.”
“What?! Why would you want to become a stripper?”
“You don’t respect my career choice? I am hurt,” Jean put a hand on his chest and took a deep, fake heartbroken sigh. At PM someday’s spluttering, he dropped his expression to let a mirthful smile creep on his face.
“Life is about the adventure, PM. I have no idea what it will throw at me. I don’t plan on becoming a stripper, but who knows where I’ll be in, say, five years? Maybe I will teach kids history and sports like I have planned, maybe I’ll be stuck in an archive somewhere, or a trainer in a fitness studio, and maybe I’ll become a stripper to earn my pay.” At PM someday’s expression, for the first time somewhat insecure and unsure, Jean added, “There is nothing wrong with ambition, of course, or knowing what you want to become, and actively working towards that goal. It’s actually rather cool that you are so sure about where you see yourself in the future. But life always has a surprise or two up its sleeve, and things rarely work out as you expect them to.”
PM someday stared at him, with the same unsettling intensity in his stormy eyes he had used on Jean during the meeting. Then he finished his chocolate in a few big gulps and got up.
“I think it is time for me to go.”
PM someday kept coming over. First, only for sex, late in the evening. Then, more and more often earlier in the day, and sometimes even staying until the morning. Half the time, they bickered so much that PM someday simply left with a slammed door and a furious expression before they even reached the making out part. But he always came back. Never the same day, but the day after, or two, three days later. Never apologising for leaving, that was not how they worked.
In all honesty, Jean did not really understand how they worked. He still did not know the other guy’s name. It would have been easy to find out, really. There could only be so many people with three majors, and PM someday looked striking enough to stick out in a crowd. But asking someone else for the name of the guy he was sort of fucking on a regular basis… it was not only a strange question in general, it also felt like betraying PM someday’s trust.
So Jean did not.
Jean also was sure that PM someday did not live in a dorm. Jean would have stumbled over him before the faculty meeting if he had. If PM someday wanted something from him, he came over. If Jean did not feel like it, he riled PM up so much he just left again. It was wonderfully easy to rile him up. And very satisfying to watch PM someday lose his countenance.
But most of all, Jean enjoyed the quiet hours in the morning, waking up to another body next to his. The mop of curls spread over his pillow, the sleepy blinking of eyes which looked so much less like the stormy sea when opening for the first time in the early light.
“Will you ever tell me your name?” Jean asked one of these quiet mornings.
They had been seeing each other for weeks, by then.
“If it snows on Christmas,” PM someday had answered, before drifting off for another couple of minutes sleep.
It had made Jean both sad and elated.
He knew he was falling.
Fast.
PM someday liked ranting about politics, and what was wrong with their current political system, and how much better he would make everything once he was Prime Minister. How corrupt everything was. How broken. How sunken in their too fat, too comfy chairs. How they needed fresh blood and fresh brains, idealistic ideas, a new vision to get this country back on the right track.
Jean enjoyed listening to PM someday because he talked about politics with passion. His cheeks were blushed, his hands moving, his pace full of angry energy.
“… and they are all so stupid, really. Just sitting there doing nothing, but taking money from the people, and the people are stupid for voting for them, a stupid bunch of sheep, and if anyone told them to they would all run into the next stream and drown, unthinking, unblinking, just a bunch of idiots –”
“You think you’re better than them?” Jean interrupted him quietly, turning around and away from his chopping board where he had been preparing dinner. PM someday stopped in his pacing and faced him, eyes full of the storm again.
“I know I am better than them.”
“Like royalty knew they were better than the people on the road because they had cake for breakfast?” Jean’s voice was quiet, dangerous. “A Prime Minister is supposed to be a man of the people. Someone who is coming from their midst, and because of that understands their problems and fears. People do not need someone better than them to lead them. They need someone like them take up the burden of serving them. Not the other way round.”
PM someday gave Jean an icy stare, turned around and left.
Jean did not see him again for nearly a week.
Jean was sitting in the only true American Diner in the area, a place too far from Campus to get many student customers – especially not younger ones – and down a hidden side road that also made it less attractive to the tourists passing through town all. It also helped that France offered many more interesting culinary treats than greasy burgers, but Jean could not deny that this place made the best fries in town. He kept going back there whenever he was upset. Like now.
They had already decked the place with all sorts of Christmas decorations, as it was late November, even though the weather outside was anything but wintery – too warm, too sunny even for autumn, really, and one of Alan Jackson’s Christmas hits was playing on a radio that looked like it had come straight out of the 50s.
Besides Jean, there was only an old Texan couple at the other end and the owner, cleaning the counter in the diner, and despite the open textbook in front of Jean, his thoughts were far away while he was munching away on a bunch of fries.
That was until PM someday’s lanky figure slipped on the seat across from him. He gave the fries a disgusted glare, then Jean an accusing stare.
“I’ve been looking all over for you. You’re a hard man to find.”
“Fuck off.”
Surprisingly, that shut PM someday up. He kept quiet for a few minutes, before asking, surprisingly soft, “Is everything alright?”
Jean ate another fry, battling with himself, and another one, before grudgingly answering, “Not really. Ran into my ex-flatmate earlier.”
“Belgard.” Not a question. At this point, Jean did not even question anymore where PM someday learned all this information. Instead, he just angrily destroyed another fry.
A pause.
Coffee was served.
Then, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Jean lifted his head.
“Not really. He hasn’t become less of a jerk and I would rather not keep thinking about him.”
And then PM someday started telling Jean about his family. How his oldest brother had died in a car accident, together with his father. How he had a schizophrenic brother that he loved a lot and three sisters. How he had not told his family he was studying religious studies instead of theology until he had gained a doctorate in place of the ordination his family had wanted him to take – how his mother had stopped speaking to him because of his choice to become PM someday.
The coffee grew cold, the plate cleaned of fries.
It was –
Nice.
Sometimes, very rarely, but more and more often, it happened that PM someday came over and they just fell asleep together. No sex, no making out, just a tired pile of limbs in soft sheets.
Jean loved those nights, maybe even more than the sex.
Maybe it was because PM someday, unexpectedly, was a cuddler, and preferred being the little spoon even though he tended to take the lead during their physical encounters.
Maybe because those were the days PM someday came to Jean’s dorm in a pensive mood, not looking for a fight or a discussion, but just companionable silence.
Maybe because Jean had not been sleeping as much since his thing with PM someday had started, and a full night’s sleep every now and then helped him keep his energy levels up.
Or maybe just because Jean knew, even though they never spoke about it, that both of them slept better when they were not alone.
Jean’s dorm was PM someday’s safe haven.
Jean could only feel honoured about that.
Christmas was coming closer, only days away now instead of weeks, and it was still warm for the time of year. Jean had found himself walking through stores the other day and thinking what PM someday might like from the things he saw, what a fitting Christmas present would be for his – what? Boyfriend? Partner? Lover?
He had long since accepted that he was somewhat in love with the other student, as unusual as their relationship was. He did not know if PM someday returned the sentiment, and Jean did not know how to ask. He was reluctant to bring it up.
But he also knew that he would need some sort of gesture from PM someday soon, before he was in too deep. He did not want their thing to be just something casual. It had stopped being just casual a while ago, at least for him. Jean was ready to wait a little longer, but he knew that if PM someday did not offer some sort of gesture to give them more recognition after the Christmas break, Jean would probably call it quits. He did not want to deal with more heartbreak than necessary, not when he already felt himself falling.
If it was only sex for PM someday, this would not be worth keeping, no matter how much he liked PM.
Sleepy morning feelings made his tongue finally loose the words that ran in circles in his head, “Are we in a relationship?”
But before PM someday could answer, maybe because Jean was scared, maybe because he just was not ready for the answer, Jean corrected himself with a cheeky grin, “Or should I better call it an affair? Doesn’t that make it sound more official or something, like a proper PM thing to have?”
PM someday gave him his best icy glare and pushed off the covers with as much force as he could, which ended in a funny entanglement instead of the impressive exit PM someday most likely had planned.
He still got out of bed, dressed and left with nothing more than a hissed “Ha-ha, very funny.”
Jean stayed in bed, the tangled sheets around him, looking at the closed door.
He could not say he was surprised by PM someday’s reaction. Still, there was a dull ache in his chest where his heart was, not unexpected, but no less painful.
He shrugged to the empty room and went back to sleep.
Even though the bed felt too big, and too cold.
On Christmas Eve, Jean woke up to utter darkness and the touch of lips to his forehead, a hand moving his still-too-long fringe out of his face.
“Is it already time?” Jean asked, groggily, and PM someday gave a confirming hum.
“Safe travels, then. Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you.”
Jean listened to the receding footsteps, then the door opening and closing, before drifting off again. He was glad he had snuck the little parcel into PM someday’s bag the evening before, knowing PM would have to leave early to catch the train home to his family. Jean would leave later that day, as well, but there was enough time to catch a little more sleep.
When he woke up again, a couple of hours later, the world was turning from night to dawn, every shape grey and muted by the early morning light that came before sunrise. And then, by the low-hanging clouds he could spot as he stared out of the window, he was dumbfounded.
Because outside, snow was falling.
Jean could not help but smile, everything seemed so soft, touched by fluffy flakes and covered with a first white layer. When had he last seen snow on Christmas?
He climbed out of bed, ready to start the day with a new spring in his step, when he spotted a small, credit-card sized piece of paper lying on his night-stand. On it, in the curly handwriting of PM someday, it said,
Unlike our current PM,
I keep my promises.
Merry Christmas, Jean.
Love, PM someday xo
Jean stared at the back of the paper, a business card he realised, belatedly, and his hands started to tremble in ridiculous fear and anticipation.
He flipped the card over.
Armand Richelieu.