game plan.

[waywardious]

Marais is a double-edged neighbourhood, stretching across the invisible borders between the 3rd and 4th arrondissement, caught in the electric sphere between the posh and the pariahs. However electric, the lightning rarely strikes, because the 4th arrondissement community with their view of the Place de la Bastille knows their lawful rights while the merchants and the restauranteurs next door would rather die than turn down a returning customer with cash to spend. The French are romantic souls, the French themselves will admit first and gladly, but romance requires a certain living standard not to wither. As most romantic notions, La Vie de Bohème is a beautiful lie only believed by those who have money enough.

Thus, Le Ganymède, in its given function, can be found where Rue Malher adjoins with Rue Pavée, only a stone’s throw from the Historic Library of Paris City which comprises an unofficial crossing point into the fancy, upper classes of 3rd. It’s a wholly strategic position, furthest away from the Seine and the well-known quarters of the deviants living in the streets at its banks. If you’re looking, you can easily find cafés and gentlemen’s lounges in Marais, the gay part, that leave nothing to the imagination, neither for those who frequent nor for all the rest. Le Ganymède is not such an establishment. It’s camouflaged in an attractive, luxurious façade that stamps the inside a shop of curiosities and memorabilia, “a gentleman’s lounge” only added underneath in letters so flourished that it might have been an artist’s afterthought. Knowing the clientele, Claude wonders if perhaps that weren’t exactly it.

He’s been a regular himself for more than two years now. Since the news of Pavel’s death finally reached him. Pavel was the one who introduced him to its existence, rendering him suddenly a tourist in his own city. Like everyone else who chooses Ganymède, they came because they had too much to lose for the less discreet venues. The men of Ganymède are often rich, high-profile or married to their money and status, if not all three at once. Some are inexperienced and seek the gentler stepping stone, but often enough you’ll see that type leave the nest over summer. Serving as contrast, you have someone like Strauss, of course, but Claude wouldn’t be surprised if he lets himself be buggered all the way through the other rendezvouses, too. The man’s insatiable, unstable and cares as much for the safety of those around him as he does for his own. If the world were to blow up in his face, he’d only be happy.

His schedule doesn’t often allow him to go on weekends when they can run through as much as five performances over the course of three days. Nevertheless, this Sunday was cleared in preparation for the final stretch – a week until closing night. Claude managed to sweet-talk his wanted ticket out of Jules and dropped it off with the receptionist earlier. For Vincent Fortesque, closing night. He’ll be here to pick it up on the day. With only morning training and one full dress rehearsal under his belt, his skip feels lighter than it normally would at this time. Maybe Vincent really is giving him wings. Jules commented on his increasingly heightening jump as they ran through the choreography yesterday, Claude attributing it to plenty of exercise.

An anatomically savvy man like himself knows, naturally, that there’s a long stretch between your wrist and your femoral muscles. Unless you’re very, very lucky.

He turns his coat over at the bar, Nicolas nodding at him in greeting and pouring him a glass of cognac on the house, as the first drink always is. There’s a lively bustle from the pool room next door and two unfamiliar faces have placed themselves at the end of the bar in here as well; a pretty good turn-out on a Sunday night. Claude grabs his tumbler, nods at the strangers who follow him with their eyes as he crosses into the back room and scouts the territory over the rim of his glass. In the far corner of the large, bookshelf-lined room, the old (antique, Nicolas insists) pool table is down to a few coloured balls. Sylvain is taking an aim at the black one well off to the side, but Claude can tell from this distance that he is going to miss by a mile. Prudence is sitting balanced on the edge of the table, clad in a full can-can costume tonight, her large feet shoved into much too small boots and her moustache vibrating ever so slightly when she teasingly laughs at Sylvain’s (as predicted) fruitless efforts. She notices Claude after a blessed moment of total anonymity.

“Claude!” Her voice is a velvet baritone and no one ever expects it when they meet her. Claude has even heard her sing which is not an unpleasant experience at all. “I saw you in La Bayadère last week when my in-laws invited Jocelyn and I to join them. Quite an extraordinary production. The costumes are to die for.”

One eyebrow going up, he meets Sylvain’s eyes, the other man trying to withhold a smile. It isn’t polite to laugh at a lady, after all. Nonetheless, it is a striking difference, how Claude had Vincent compliment him so sincerely only a couple of weeks ago while Prudence is much more interested in the glitter and the fabrics. Talk about feeling overlooked.

He should simply be thankful that his ego isn’t so easily bruised.

“Sylvain,” he greets the gentleman first, walks over to him and leans in to kiss both his cheeks, Sylvain’s hand coming up to rest against his side. “Prudence,” the acknowledgement follows quickly when he sees her pursing her lips. “Do you want me to have our costume department send a copy of anything in particular to your tailor?”

She claps her gloved hands excitedly. Claude takes another sip of his cognac and searches the rest of the room, Sylvain’s palm sill a heated presence through his clothes. Benoit and Firmin are seated at one of the small round tables near the windows, all curtains drawn and the lampshades glowing dimly yellow, distributed evenly across every available surface. Judging by the heat, the fireplace has been burning for the better part of the day. A nice contrast from his flat. It was freezing when he left it in the morning, cold when he stopped by this afternoon. That place just never warms up at this time of year.

With a frown, Claude returns his attention to Sylvain and Prudence only after having exchanged a mostly uninterested wave with Benoit. “No Strauss tonight?” he asks. He hasn’t been here since the beginning of the run, but came often while they were rehearsing. An otherwise pleasant month where he managed not to miss the German on a single occasion, whether merely by bumping into the man on his way out, so he decided to stay another hour for good measure.

“I haven’t seen him at all tonight,” Sylvain replies, fingers sliding down the small of Claude’s back experimentally. Claude, on his behalf, doesn’t feel inclined to move.

“Now that you say it,” Prudence adds, “I haven’t seen him all week. Maybe the authorities finally had him deported…”

“One can hope, yes?” Claude laughs. She waggles her finger at him, the fabric of her glove pristine in its whiteness.

“Bad, Monsieur Bérubé.”

“Only when it suits him,” Sylvain comments, his hand having come to a rest rather squarely across Claude’s arse. Emptying his tumbler, Claude turns his head and gives him an altogether intrigued look. Tell me more, it says. “Otherwise, good Claude here is – indeed – very, very good.”

“When it suits me,” he reponds. Prudence laughs, her trombone-like laughter that’s really, honestly difficult to resist. Waving his empty glass with its sorry remains in front of Sylvain’s face, not too far out of reach of his own, small men that they both are (Prudence towering over them like a thing out of London), Claude adds: “If you want me to be anything to you, though, you should procure me another.”

Smirking, the other man grabs the tumbler and stalks in the general direction of the bar. Claude meets Prudence’s open gaze with a smile and picks up Sylvain’s cue, chalking it up with a few efficient snaps of his wrist. The eightball is not particularly well-placed, but he’ll have a go at it even so. He knows Sylvain well, intimately and he always makes for pleasurable company, in whatever association. Since Vincent left him to sleep in an arctic room less than a month ago, his urges have been an almost impossible itch, not unlike a spring awakening and eventually you do get rather bored of taking care of them on your own.

When he hits the ball, he hasn’t even bothered to call a pocket. It was Sylvain’s game and Claude has decided that niceties probably won’t get them where he’d prefer for them to go. So, tonight it might just suit him to be bad - for all intents and purposes, he’ll let the hours be judge of that.