Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Claude is an expert people-watcher.

He opts for a seat closest to the window of this coffee shop so he can gaze idly at the New Yorkers passing by. Claude’s face is close to the cold glass, gently fogging and clearing with each breath he takes. The game’s objective is to assess people as quickly as possible based on their gait, clothing, and facial expressions. No one wins the game. No one loses, either. It serves no purpose other than a mental exercise, Claude likes to believe.

Or he’s doing this to divert himself from checking his cell phone for the hundredth time, the screen unlocking and immediately opening to a LinkedIn profile he’s seared into his retinas.

“Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd…” Claude murmurs, the name wholly unfamiliar on his tongue. He trips over the syllables, rolling the name in his mouth like hard candy. He clumsily tries the name a couple more times before settling on an acceptable pronunciation. Acceptable, that’s a word Claude has become well-acquainted with. An old friend who he can’t seem to stop running into. “Acceptable” is what taught Claude to shape-shift, either by shrinking himself or making his presence painfully obvious. Disappear when they don’t want you, reappear when they need you.

He drums his fingers lazily against the table, creating a warm rhythm he can feel vibrating through his arms. The empty cup and plate make a high-pitched purr with the slightest movement, and the crumbs dance on the plate’s surface.

Claude looks to the window again, and he can barely make out the sky between the towering buildings. The concrete jungle can get claustrophobic, and Claude wishes he didn’t have to take a train to see the gorgeous autumn foliage in Central Park. The leaves do not die gracefully, no, they burst into flames and make themselves known before closing their scene and collapsing to the floor. The end of one era and onto another. They will not go down without a fight. Claude smiles to himself at the imagined spectacle, and promises to visit the park before the season ends.

Gravity begs Claude to close his eyes, and he wishes they’d brighten up this damn coffeehouse—it’s gentrified enough with the rustic accents and the touristy location, no need for the moody lighting—when a lumbering figure enters Claude’s peripheral vision, jolting him awake. Comparing him to the LinkedIn photo, there’s no mistake. The tall blonde man looks confusedly between his phone and the signage, and he paces briskly up and down the block checking the other shops before returning to the coffee place. Claude sits awkwardly, flipping his phone over so his screen doesn’t distract him from what’s coming.

At last, the door to the coffeehouse opens and Claude feels the gust of autumn’s wind nip at his exposed skin. Dimitri is certainly dressed for the weather though, possibly a little overdressed, as his body is buried under layers of coats and scarves and furry embellishments. He squints as he scans the room, and then his eyes fall on the smaller brown man just a few feet from the entrance.

Claude instinctively rubs the angle of his jaw, running his fingertips lightly over his neatly trimmed beard. It’s out of nervousness, but Claude’s practiced the motion so many times that it gives off a rather refined, lost-in-thoughts appearance. Dimitri and his coat fortress cautiously approach Claude, and he leans in a tad too close for Claude’s liking to properly inspect him.

“Claude! It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m not too late, am I?” Dimitri outstretches a leather gloved hand, and Claude takes his hand, immediately regretting the gesture. Dimitri’s grip suffocates his circulation and Claude tries not to visibly wince.

“Terribly so, Dimitri. I’ve waited eons for you.”

Dimitri dips his head slightly and swings his checkered blanket scarf off his neck. “My apologies. I’m not the best at finding my way around.”

“That was a joke. You didn’t keep me waiting...for too long,” Claude smirks. He motions for Dimitri to sit, inviting over one of the baristas to take his order.

“Chamomile tea is fine, thank you.” Dimitri begins shedding his outerwear and slinging it behind his chair.

At first glance, Dimitri can appear rather brutish. His shoulders are built like a wall, and he is an even more hulkish tower when he stands. The man can’t be bothered to comb his hair properly, opting for a half-ponytail to get some of the blonde mess out of his crystal, cold blue eyes.

But any political pundit knows Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is not to be scoffed at. He was Sylvain Gautier’s campaign manager in the last election cycle, running one of the most highly anticipated races of the year as a democratic socialist. Sylvain had the audacity to challenge the Senate seat held by his older brother Miklan, an establishment Democrat and a career politician, and Sylvain won. If Dimitri isn’t strategy in motion, Claude doesn’t know what is.

“So, Dimitri. You’ve made quite a name for yourself in the last midterm elections,” Claude leans back and rests his arm on the back of his chair coolly.

“It would be an exaggeration to position myself at the helm of Sylvain’s victory. But, I am glad to have learned so much working with him. The race was certainly...unconventional.” Claude’s eyes flicker to Dimitri’s fidgeting hands. He is toying with the fringe of his blanket scarf, too long to hang from the chair, and instead spilling into Dimitri’s lap, peeking over the corner of the table.

“Oh? And what does that mean to you?”

“I’m not aware of how closely you followed the campaign, so forgive me if you know this already. Sylvain’s charisma makes him a born politician. He would have without a doubt become a senator, in due time. Miklan would hold the seat until he grew tired of politics, and the Gautier family name would have been enough to secure Sylvain a win in Miklan’s stead,” Dimitri brings the teacup to his lips and tips it slightly.

“But he didn’t wait his turn,” Claude remarks.

“Precisely. So politics becomes a family affair, if it wasn’t already.”

Sylvain’s election wasn’t just about people versus power. It was about an heir’s unwillingness to subject himself to fate, and so he wrestled himself free of it. He is not a senator by virtue of name, but by blazing his own path to office, the embers inevitably burning bridges.

Somehow, I understand why Dimitri answered my call.

“And how did you find working on the campaign, Dimitri?” Claude leaves the question open, not swaying Dimitri in one particular direction over another.

“I found the experience rewarding, yet leaving something to be desired. There’s a factor of familiarity I had to manage, as Sylvain and I attended boarding school together. Have you heard of Faerghus Academy, by any chance?” Heard of it, Claude thinks, his facial expression unflinching. Boy, every upper-class suburban family on the East Coast would kill for a chance to attend there.

“Yeah, I know a bit about it.”

Dimitri nods. “I grew up with him, so we knew each other intimately...you can see how this could be cause for conflict. It was best that I left the team after the election, to give Sylvain room to start anew.” He takes another sip of his tea, and Claude catches the glint of jewelry bounce off his finger. Of course he has a class ring from Columbia.

“It shouldn’t be too much trouble for him to find a new political strategist. It seems as though every day I hear of a new campaign launching.” Dimitri chuckles lightly. Claude hopes Dimitri doesn’t notice his eyes narrow a fraction of a millimeter at the offhand comment. Does he mean to imply that Claude’s decision to run is on a whim? This isn’t some vanity run to flaunt his legal expertise, or an on-demand political drama. Is that really what the political elite think of upstart candidates? What’s it like to rub shoulders with those who have walked the halls of Capitol Hill, he wonders bitterly. What’s it like to not know a world of anger, of oppression.

To comment on it would not be “acceptable.” So Claude holds his tongue.

“But enough about me. This is about you and your campaign. Tell me what motivated you to run.” Dimitri takes the end of his scarf in his hands again and fiddles with it mindlessly.

“Tell me what you know about me,” Claude volleys the question back to Dimitri, flashing him a mysterious smile. He keeps tabs on the general perception of “Claude von Riegan.” What do the people have to say about him? Claude is the type of person to search his name incognito to check what results appear at the top, and he’s done his best to keep his online image immaculate, scrubbing any hint of social deviance from the internet. Or at least, what “they” consider social deviance.

“Ah, a test of some sort? To see how prepared I am to take on this position? Very well.” Dimitri clears his throat. “Claude von Riegan. You are presently an immigration lawyer, working primarily with refugee cases. Your most notable case reshaped asylum-seeking criteria, expanding the definition to include individuals from marginalized genders and sexualities fleeing political unrest.”

Claude’s biography sounds so polished coming from a seasoned consultant like Dimitri. When Claude thinks back on that case, he remembers only the caffeine-induced insomnia, the 100-hour work weeks, and the unshakeable feeling of total incompetence. He recalls thrashing his way through the muddy darkness of legality, bureaucracy, jargon, but to his client? He was the flame leading the way to the other side, to freedom. It takes only a single candle to light the path. And Claude’s work ever paying off, ever crossing the minds of big-shots in the policy world seemed unreachable.

“Regarding your platform, I was unable to find much. You’re not very outspoken...publicly, that is. But if you are running for Congress, I suspect that your community-building is conducted outside of the spotlight.” Ever so perceptive, this guy. “So...have I proven my worth? As a competent campaign manager?” Dimitri asks eagerly.

As if proving one’s worth is a one-time event. As if Dimitri is the one who needs Claude’s approval.

“A splendid job, Your Kingliness.” Claude air-motions playing a trumpet and mimics a random, vaguely regal-sounding melody. Dimitri shakes his head, declining to accept the praise.

Instead, Dimitri directly asks him about his most valued policies, like focusing a laser pointer directly on Claude’s chest. Claude is sure that he could deflect for a little longer, so he could gather more observations on his new teammate, but there is something so disarming about Dimitri’s easy smile that makes Claude give in. He starts with a soft ball: immigration reform. It seems obvious that an immigration lawyer would want sweeping changes to the way the country handles foreigners, but Claude is testing the waters. Where will Dimitri draw the line? What will set him off, what will it take for Dimitri to say no to his radical policies? Claude keeps pushing, yet Dimitri is silent, listening so intently as to drink every last one of his words. Racial justice. Medicare for All. Climate change reform. Tuition-free public college.

Dimitri has exhausted the policies out of him, with not a single argument or complaint. Now it’s Claude’s turn to ask for Dimitri’s approval.

“Thoughts?” Claude exhales, shrugging casually and stretching his legs underneath the table.

“You have very big dreams. I like that about you already,” Dimitri nods, his eyes squinting as he smiles.

His hair tie loosens slightly at the motion, releasing a few stray golden locks, and Claude wonders if Dimitri’s effortlessly wavy hair is natural or a product of preparation. Claude’s careful responses come easy to him, after a lifetime of navigating tricky interpersonal situations. His perception is sharp not by choice but by demand, and he wonders why he can’t get a good reading on the other man. Is Dimitri really who he says he is?

“Now don’t go agreeing with me just to stay on my good side, alright? A good campaign manager should challenge their candidate if they think it’s for the better.” Claude gives Dimitri a wink for added charm. Many are content if they are lent the illusion of authority. Claude has no intention of taking orders from Dimitri. Claude will warm him up just enough to extract what he needs from him and send him on his way, without Dimitri ever realizing a thing about Claude. After all, that’s what it’ll take to win the election.

“Here is my first challenge for you then. I’d like for you to look for a field and political director. We should run a tight ship, but I trust your judgment, Claude.” Claude fights the urge to react in real-time, keeping a straight face as Dimitri practically hands him command of the campaign.

“I’ll be on the lookout, then.” Claude simply replies with an even tone. Dimitri starts rearranging his outerwear in his lap, still playing with the fringe of his scarf.

“In the meantime, I’ll draft a tentative schedule of events we can attend for the next month. I’m thinking about university events at first, but we’ll branch out as time goes on. You seem to be a good talker, think you can do that for me?”

“Sure I can,” Claude smirked, exuding an air of bravado. He couldn’t tell if Dimitri’s words were the truth or just flattery. Claude accepts compliments in the way that a brown kid carries himself at a prep school. People are friendly enough, sure, but they are all in on some joke that Claude isn’t privy to. A secret that has been handed down from generation through generation, through legacy admissions and eating clubs and residential colleges. Claude is smart and handsome and charming but only ironically.

The blonde man rises from his chair, fully fitted in his winter ensemble. Dimitri doesn’t shake Claude’s hand again, instead giving a curt nod and leaving the coffeehouse wordlessly. Did he notice Claude’s pained expression from before? He hopes his performance wasn’t too shoddy for a first impression.

Claude brings his face close to the window once again, watching as the tails of Dimitri’s coat whip in the wind like a dying flame. He catches the last of his campaign manager’s silhouette as he is smothered by the crowd. Yes, this is one man who will require much more observation to understand.