xp_logs | Jean-Paul | John

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David Spade: You remember where you were when JFK was assassinated?
Sean Penn: I was three.
David Spade: Okay, you remember where you were when WAM broke up?
Sean Penn: I don't know, I was crying.
-The Bad Boys of Saturday Night Live '98-

One would think that once he'd moved out, he wouldn't bother to set foot in the school again.

Yeah, one would think.

But John had good reason to be there. He slipped a book out of his jacket; he'd protected it from the heavy snow outside and attempted to dry himself with a towel from the main kitchen.

After succeeding in messing up his hair - whatever - he slipped quietly upstairs and headed toward Jean-Paul's room. John hoped the older man was around but maybe it would be a better idea to just leave the book in front of his door. It was late anyways.

He'd been about to place the book on the floor when the door to the suite opened. John suddenly wished he had the ability to zip away. Combusting into flames was not an option.

Jean-Paul blinked at the younger man for a moment before saying, "You are not the one who keeps leaving pastries outside my door, oui?" Someone kept doing it and he'd suspected Morgan. But here was John, standing outside his door in the middle of the night. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the pastries. That was, he could admit, a silly conclusion to jump to, after all.

"Pastries?" John quirked a brow. "No, I just--" He straightened up and stared at the book in his hand. "I'm delivering a book." Yes, how fucking lame. He held the book out to Jean-Paul. "You were looking for it?"

John had bought Jean-Paul a 1922 hardcover edition of 'A Few Figs from Thistles.' Black board and binding. Gold lettering. Crisp and clean pages. Fancy.

Blinking again, Jean-Paul took the book and turned it over in his hands so he could look at it properly. "Merci," he said, the word leaving him slowly as he opened the cover. Then he saw the publication date and his brows rose. "This... you had it simply on your shelf?" He didn't believe it and his tone said as much.

Okay. So he could lie anyway and say yes or he could tell the truth and admit he bought it for a ridiculous price at a secondhand bookstore. John's brows furrowed slightly and he shrugged.

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not," Jean-Paul allowed, deciding to let the subject of the book's origins go. Stepping back into the suite, Jean-Paul gestured for John to follow and then closed the door behind him. "Merci - thank you, again. I do not usually favour poetry, but Millay is my exception to that rule."

"Yeah? Thank god for that." John stepped inside and rid himself of his jacket - it was drenched. "Wouldn't have any fun perusing your book collection otherwise." He'd read the book last night though and liked some of what Edna wrote.

"Is this a good time for me to be here? Or were you about to head out?"

"This time is fine. I was hoping to catch whoever it was that brought the pastries, but they have not been here for many days. Perhaps they have tired of seeing them eaten by fifteen year old girls before class. There are always too many. I cannot eat them all myself." Taking John's jacket, Jean-Paul hung it over the back of a chair and then paused. "You would like something to drink?"

Well, the man certainly seemed to have a string of admirers. He smirked a little and shook his head. "I'm good. I was at Tom's earlier." John took the remote and turned the TV on. Might as well get comfortable, right? He switched the channels and finally settled on Discovery. "We haven't got cable just yet. Not that I watch a lot of TV. It's just nice to have something on." Jesus, was he rambling now?

"Mm," Jean-Paul said, amused at the way John had managed to set up shop, as it were. At least he was watching something biddable. He got himself a glass of water, now that he had glasses in the kitchenette, and paused to wonder what it said about him that he'd purchased shelves of books before plates and silverware. "This is the show with the man who does the dirty jobs, yes?"

"Yeah, Mike Rowe." John grinned. "Guy's a nutter. Think he's a mutant?" He sat on the couch then shifted slightly to make space for Jean-Paul.

"Unless his mutation is one that makes getting very dirty enjoyable, I do not think so. Or getting clean very easy, maybe," Jean-Paul said, settling on the couch and turning the lamp on beside him so he could flip through the pages of the book. "But what do I know of these things?"

John feigned a look of surprise. "He jokes." He chuckled softly. "You've got good taste in books though. I read parts of it last night. It's not bad." Not bad was an understatement. The book was genius.

"My candle burns at both ends," John murmured. "It will not last the night." He clicked his tongue once. "Poor Edna. Guess she never met a pyrokinetic before."

"Or an insomniac," Jean-Paul said. There were other possibilities, of course, but purposefully keeping oneself awake wasn't usually viewed as a positive trait. "It is a first person poem, oui? It has been a very long time since I read it." He flipped to the poem in question, fingertip running down the margin of the page.

"Hm. Decades ago?"

"Oui," Jean-Paul deadpanned. "Decades. Many of them." Which was not entirely true, of course. It was probably closer to only one decade.

John snorted.

"You going to spend all night reading then?" So maybe the guy needed a little push. Because who were they kidding, right? Like John was here for anything other than a repeat of last week's activity.

"Only if you intend to spend the rest of the night watching this Mike Rowe person," Jean-Paul replied, one brow rising almost in challenge. Give me something better to do.

"No." John shook his head and closed the cover of Jean-Paul's book.

"So how about you thank me proper?"

"This I think I can do," Jean-Paul said, sliding the book onto the table with the lamp and then reaching over to hook his fingers in John's collar. He intended to express his gratitude very, very thoroughly.

"Mm. But things..." John smirked, already leaning forward - his mouth inches away from Jean-Paul's. "They will remain uncomplicated?" Like he honestly gave a fuck at this point.

"Oui," Jean-Paul said, closing that last bit of distance with the intention of keeping both of them from thinking - to say nothing of talking - for the rest of the immediate future.