[ People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, that's his first thought upon arriving, on foot, at the Shangri-La hotel, because the facade is one huge display of fine glass craftsmanship and architectural design. He supposes that he's being expected, that the reception crew and the concierges won't turn him away though he by no definitions whatsoever looks like something that ought to walk in through those doors. Remembering Jean Louis' quiet, physical appreciation of the fixed table, the way he'd almost caressed the tabletop to feel the stability which always feels like a promise, Giovanni had decided not to try and live up to the patrician way, he couldn't even if he tried, after all. He's a craftsman. He knows wood and he knows people and that's the extend of it, he doesn't know what's appropriate to wear at BOSK or how you dress for a politician who could have anyone, anywhere. He saw the other man's fascination with a part of him and that, if nothing else, he can pay him back.
Even the score a bit, for not caring about the system.
He walks up to the front desk clad in a faded pair of jeans, a tight-fitting white t-shirt, standard, but at least it's clean and his large, leather apron that's usually full of woodworking tools, but he's emptied it for the occasion, if only because sitting with a chisel in your crotch could get uncomfortable on this particular night, he's sensing. His hair is slicked back in a mimicry of the way Jean Louis had worn his earlier in the day. His eyes dart around the huge, dark-ish room, the large wine cellar substituting for a wall. Clever choice. Giovanni gives his name to the concierge who doesn't look twice before telling him to wait, disappearing out back and discussing something in French with her boss that he doesn't understand.
Upon her return she, with the straightest face, leads him to a table at a private corner, near a window. He must like windows, this man. Monsieur, she says, partly to Jean Louis, partly to Giovanni, pulling out his chair and waiting for him to awkwardly seat himself. He came without a jacket.
Looking across the table, he meets Jean Louis' eyes. Again. ]
[ He's been here for approximately ten minutes, watching traffic pass by on the street below through the polished window and wondering how the good Nanni might surprise him for the evening. It's kept him going throughout an otherwise very unremarkable day - Jean-Paul did his presentation without embarrassing neither himself nor the team, Vincent has had only half a melt-down since they left the meeting and the business deal in Rotterdam is proceeding as expected. It's all fine but little more than that. It's as expected. Now, knowing what's in store for the night, on the other hand - or rather, not knowing - certainly raises the bar.
For the evening, he's chosen to wear a tight-fitting set of black Armani trousers and a shirt, rather than a suit. The shirt is black with silvery markings and makes him look very casual - but not as much, he thinks, as the man currently being led to his table by the concierge who's trying her utmost not to stare. As Giovanni seats himself, Jean Louis allows himself a moment to simply take in the sights. A craftsman indeed. The t-shirt clings to his muscles, the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders - and is that an apron? Fuck. Wetting his lips, he holds the other man's gaze as he seats himself and says, without looking away: ]
Champagne, please, to start us off. You know what to pick.
[ A quick glance at the concierge who simply nods - a bit too hastily - and turns away, clearly eager to get away. She could have quizzed him a bit on his presumption (they haven't discussed anything beforehand), but he's fairly certain she'll manage to connect the dots and get them something sufficiently Italian. His gaze returns to Giovanni. ]
[ He remembers the plane to Canada. He remembers every stop underway. He'd never been outside his region, that city on the mainland where he and Sciusciù would meet over winter. Most of the time, he didn't go outside the borders of San Giustiniano at all. So, Giovanni remembers the feeling of setting foot on foreign territory and being overwhelmed by the scope, the sounds, the smells. This new life. Sitting in front of Jean Louis now is a feeling akin to that. The man looks stylish in designer clothes, silver markings on his shirt that accentuates his broad build. The dark color of the fabric that off-sets the shade of his skin. Dark enough that you might think he was from Sicily. Giovanni notices all these things and feels like he's made a very bad call, dressing the way he has.
Then, he is more or less stared down by the other man who wets his lips like a beast and asks for champagne, to start us off. And it doesn't feel like a bad call anymore. Nothing close to that.
Thank you, says Signor Jean Louis. For surprising me, and Giovanni wonders what exactly this politician does for a living that can't provide him excitement that completely overrides some craftsman in a leather apron.
But he doesn't question it. Instead he smiles, even-tempered and maybe just a little meekly, shifting on his chair and leaning his elbows on the table like Sciusciù will always do, until he remembers that it's considered bad manners, his Nonna would be so ashamed of him which she probably is anyway, dearly departed. He straightens up. ]
I've surprised myself, truth be told. [ With a slight tilt of his head, he looks around, then back, then down, hands, callouses, tanned skin. ] Though, I guess it's fitting. Had you asked me yesterday, I'd say the only way I'd ever get inside a place like this was if I was on the job.
[ Giovanni starts out looking visibly awkward - elbows on, then off the table, his stance, the smile that wavers just a fraction - and there's something very endearing about that, about how he's clearly chosen to challenge not only Jean Louis but himself, too, for this occasion. It ought to be rewarded. With a slight shrug, Jean Louis lets his gaze roam across the other man's upper body again, then his face, before he glances outwards at the restaurant. It's relatively expensive, though he's seen much more intimidating menu cards; the places that truly get you (or more accurately, your wallet) never state their prices. ]
It's an equal trade, isn't it? You give me something to look forward to - [ He smiles. ] - and vice versa.
[ The concierge returns with two crystal flutes and a bottle of Lombardian sparkling wine - good girl. He gives her a small nod of appreciation which she returns, plastering a professional smile on her face while she very pointedly doesn't look at Giovanni's apron or his faded jeans. Really, they should pay him for the amount of gossip no doubt going around the kitchens right now. She pours for them both and leaves the bottle there in a cooler. He touches her elbow before she can leave, telling her the seasonal special, please in low tones. She smiles again - perfect copy of the last one - and disappears.
He grabs his flute and holds it out in a silent toast. He adds, his expression flattening slightly: ]
Sounds wrong, honestly, calling it a trade. I don't do business like this, I hope you understand that.
She's trying not to look at his clothes, the concierge, and being generally pretty good about it. Once Jean Louis lets her go and picks up his flute of champagne, the awkwardness is mostly gone, because this is what he came for, right? Not the food or the drinks, though he isn't going to turn either down, but this sense of holding someone between his hands and letting them sit there, rather than putting them away. Giovanni pushes too many things aside to secure his view of the horizon, doesn't he? He sleeps with men sometimes, yes. Yet, most of the time, he doesn't.
Obviously, tonight isn't in any way 'most of the time'. You give me something to look forward to and vice versa, Signor says.
He finds himself smiling, reaching for his own flute and mirroring Jean Louis' toast. He remembers nights back home, toasting to their favourite football team's latest victory, drinking wine out of the bottle like peasants and singing, loudly, although he told Signora he can't sing, he does. One tune. Sciusciù introduced them, Giovanni and Beethoven's 22nd Don Giovanni variation.
Since then, he hasn't sung it even once.
Raising an eyebrow at the other man, he lifts his chin, his neck muscles tensing, elongating, releasing. He's clean-shaven and newly showered. Besides the clothes, he's sparkling, really. Jean Louis, raising the bar as the system always does, when you're at the bottom of it, looks like he's king of any room he inhabits. ]
[ He pauses at the question, the flute half-way to his lips. The sparkling wine is good, bright-tasting with a sharpness that doesn't cuddle or underestimate your tastebuds. It sticks to Giovanni's lips in a fine sheen of wetness, making his skin glitter subtly in the light from the candles on the table. How do you do business isn't quite, what do you do for a living or something equally harmless. In Jean Louis' case, it's a question wrought with potential pitfalls and throughout the years, he's become very adept at answering without inviting further questions as a consequence. Eyes slipping sideways briefly, he considers the words - the other man - the situation - and then, he puts the flute down and nods. ]
Strategically.
[ He tilts his head to the side very slightly, looking at Giovanni closely, his features, the darkness of his eyes. Obviously, he's attractive - they wouldn't be here, otherwise - but he's also clearly full of layers, of knowledge and experience that don't necessarily go with his apron and his capable hands. A dreamer, isn't he? And a craftsman. Harmless things.
How did a man like that grow a surface so full of cracks? ]
I lead a political party in Luxembourg. In general, our meetings are quite... dry, result oriented. [ He reaches out, running his fingers very lightly down the length of Giovanni's naked forearm. It's a brief touch, fingertips ghosting over his skin before he draws away again and continues, a half-smile on his lips: ] We try not to make it too intimate, lest all the nice ideology goes out the window.
[ Strategically, it can mean a lot of things, can't it? Giovanni doesn't draw away as the other man reaches over across the table to stroke strong fingertips down his naked forearm, where the t-shirt doesn't hide, muscle, skin, vulnerabities. All those lengths where he gets splinters and nicks during work, because he's unprotected. Those are the parts Jean Louis reaches for. Strategically. What does it mean, paired with a missing finger nail? What does it mean, paired with politics?
Patricians!
He blinks, realizing a bit belatedly that he has been staring into the other man's eyes. And yet, upon realizing, he doesn't look away, holds Jean Louis' gaze, challenges it, his own green eyes undeterred. Dry, result oriented, lest all the nice ideology goes out the window. This man is part of the system, but not any part, if the system was a table, he'd be the bronze elements keeping table top and underframe together, everything relying on the metal not corroding.
But corrosion is always a question of when, not whether.
As he looks into Jean Louis' eyes, he's sure they both know.
The smile comes belatedly, but is genuine if slightly loopsided, slightly sharp around the edges. ]
I understand, I understand. You go elsewhere for entertainment and intimacy.
[ It's not a question. They just touched. Giovanni is sitting here in his apron and little else, really, at the end of the day. If anything, that much is evident. Entertainment and intimacy. He sips his wine again, it's good, tastes familiar, but he can't place it. It's more expensive than anything he'd ever drink on his own.
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no subject
Even the score a bit, for not caring about the system.
He walks up to the front desk clad in a faded pair of jeans, a tight-fitting white t-shirt, standard, but at least it's clean and his large, leather apron that's usually full of woodworking tools, but he's emptied it for the occasion, if only because sitting with a chisel in your crotch could get uncomfortable on this particular night, he's sensing. His hair is slicked back in a mimicry of the way Jean Louis had worn his earlier in the day. His eyes dart around the huge, dark-ish room, the large wine cellar substituting for a wall. Clever choice. Giovanni gives his name to the concierge who doesn't look twice before telling him to wait, disappearing out back and discussing something in French with her boss that he doesn't understand.
Upon her return she, with the straightest face, leads him to a table at a private corner, near a window. He must like windows, this man. Monsieur, she says, partly to Jean Louis, partly to Giovanni, pulling out his chair and waiting for him to awkwardly seat himself. He came without a jacket.
Looking across the table, he meets Jean Louis' eyes. Again. ]
no subject
For the evening, he's chosen to wear a tight-fitting set of black Armani trousers and a shirt, rather than a suit. The shirt is black with silvery markings and makes him look very casual - but not as much, he thinks, as the man currently being led to his table by the concierge who's trying her utmost not to stare. As Giovanni seats himself, Jean Louis allows himself a moment to simply take in the sights. A craftsman indeed. The t-shirt clings to his muscles, the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders - and is that an apron? Fuck. Wetting his lips, he holds the other man's gaze as he seats himself and says, without looking away: ]
Champagne, please, to start us off. You know what to pick.
[ A quick glance at the concierge who simply nods - a bit too hastily - and turns away, clearly eager to get away. She could have quizzed him a bit on his presumption (they haven't discussed anything beforehand), but he's fairly certain she'll manage to connect the dots and get them something sufficiently Italian. His gaze returns to Giovanni. ]
Thank you. [ A small nod. ] For surprising me.
no subject
Then, he is more or less stared down by the other man who wets his lips like a beast and asks for champagne, to start us off. And it doesn't feel like a bad call anymore. Nothing close to that.
Thank you, says Signor Jean Louis. For surprising me, and Giovanni wonders what exactly this politician does for a living that can't provide him excitement that completely overrides some craftsman in a leather apron.
But he doesn't question it. Instead he smiles, even-tempered and maybe just a little meekly, shifting on his chair and leaning his elbows on the table like Sciusciù will always do, until he remembers that it's considered bad manners, his Nonna would be so ashamed of him which she probably is anyway, dearly departed. He straightens up. ]
I've surprised myself, truth be told. [ With a slight tilt of his head, he looks around, then back, then down, hands, callouses, tanned skin. ] Though, I guess it's fitting. Had you asked me yesterday, I'd say the only way I'd ever get inside a place like this was if I was on the job.
no subject
It's an equal trade, isn't it? You give me something to look forward to - [ He smiles. ] - and vice versa.
[ The concierge returns with two crystal flutes and a bottle of Lombardian sparkling wine - good girl. He gives her a small nod of appreciation which she returns, plastering a professional smile on her face while she very pointedly doesn't look at Giovanni's apron or his faded jeans. Really, they should pay him for the amount of gossip no doubt going around the kitchens right now. She pours for them both and leaves the bottle there in a cooler. He touches her elbow before she can leave, telling her the seasonal special, please in low tones. She smiles again - perfect copy of the last one - and disappears.
He grabs his flute and holds it out in a silent toast. He adds, his expression flattening slightly: ]
Sounds wrong, honestly, calling it a trade. I don't do business like this, I hope you understand that.
no subject
She's trying not to look at his clothes, the concierge, and being generally pretty good about it. Once Jean Louis lets her go and picks up his flute of champagne, the awkwardness is mostly gone, because this is what he came for, right? Not the food or the drinks, though he isn't going to turn either down, but this sense of holding someone between his hands and letting them sit there, rather than putting them away. Giovanni pushes too many things aside to secure his view of the horizon, doesn't he? He sleeps with men sometimes, yes. Yet, most of the time, he doesn't.
Obviously, tonight isn't in any way 'most of the time'. You give me something to look forward to and vice versa, Signor says.
He finds himself smiling, reaching for his own flute and mirroring Jean Louis' toast. He remembers nights back home, toasting to their favourite football team's latest victory, drinking wine out of the bottle like peasants and singing, loudly, although he told Signora he can't sing, he does. One tune. Sciusciù introduced them, Giovanni and Beethoven's 22nd Don Giovanni variation.
Since then, he hasn't sung it even once.
Raising an eyebrow at the other man, he lifts his chin, his neck muscles tensing, elongating, releasing. He's clean-shaven and newly showered. Besides the clothes, he's sparkling, really. Jean Louis, raising the bar as the system always does, when you're at the bottom of it, looks like he's king of any room he inhabits. ]
How do you do business?
no subject
Strategically.
[ He tilts his head to the side very slightly, looking at Giovanni closely, his features, the darkness of his eyes. Obviously, he's attractive - they wouldn't be here, otherwise - but he's also clearly full of layers, of knowledge and experience that don't necessarily go with his apron and his capable hands. A dreamer, isn't he? And a craftsman. Harmless things.
How did a man like that grow a surface so full of cracks? ]
I lead a political party in Luxembourg. In general, our meetings are quite... dry, result oriented. [ He reaches out, running his fingers very lightly down the length of Giovanni's naked forearm. It's a brief touch, fingertips ghosting over his skin before he draws away again and continues, a half-smile on his lips: ] We try not to make it too intimate, lest all the nice ideology goes out the window.
no subject
Patricians!
He blinks, realizing a bit belatedly that he has been staring into the other man's eyes. And yet, upon realizing, he doesn't look away, holds Jean Louis' gaze, challenges it, his own green eyes undeterred. Dry, result oriented, lest all the nice ideology goes out the window. This man is part of the system, but not any part, if the system was a table, he'd be the bronze elements keeping table top and underframe together, everything relying on the metal not corroding.
But corrosion is always a question of when, not whether.
As he looks into Jean Louis' eyes, he's sure they both know.
The smile comes belatedly, but is genuine if slightly loopsided, slightly sharp around the edges. ]
I understand, I understand. You go elsewhere for entertainment and intimacy.
[ It's not a question. They just touched. Giovanni is sitting here in his apron and little else, really, at the end of the day. If anything, that much is evident. Entertainment and intimacy. He sips his wine again, it's good, tastes familiar, but he can't place it. It's more expensive than anything he'd ever drink on his own.
Though, in good company, maybe... Once. ]