John & Jean-Paul, Sunday Night (backdated)

[x-quebecois.livejournal.com]

"The only thing wrong with being an atheist is that there's nobody to talk to during an orgasm." - Author Unknown


It was late and Jean-Paul could feel weariness dragging at his bones, trying to pull his eyelids down despite his determination to finish his book. Not the volume by Edna St. Vincent Millay that John had dropped off, but Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. Millay was a joy to read, not something to occupy him in the wee hours of the night whilst he tried to keep the nightmares at bay.

He wasn't expecting his mobile to start vibrating. Glancing toward the clock, he found its hands inching nearer and nearer midnight before checking the display on his phone. It was habit, always, to answer it. If Jeanne-Marie needed something - but she didn't even have this number anymore and the caller ID told him it was, in fact, John calling. The younger man hadn't been back in New York for very long, but Jean-Paul answered anyway. "Oui?"

"So I was thinking, Beau-bear, that we should do this more often."

"Speak on the telephone very late at night?"

John considered that for a moment. It was hard to think in his woozy state. "That too," he murmured. "You should come over. I could read. To you. Almost finished with Harry and his stupid broom."

"His stupid broom?" Jean-Paul asked, smiling a little despite himself. "And it is very late, mon aime. Would your roommate appreciate the company as much as you?"

"I don't know. I never share." He was a selfish little bastard. "But listen." John moved from the bed to his desk and poured himself another drink. "We could be as quiet as a mouse. But since your accent's fucking dope. I want you talking. Consider this. French lessons without the lessons. No book lists, pop quizzes, homework. None of that nonsense. Am I making any sense?"

"Not really, but I think I will forgive you for this," Jean-Paul said, closing his book and rubbing his eyes before standing up. "You are at the address in the city? The one you texted me?" He wasn't entirely certain either of them were really capable of being quiet as mice. He also didn't understand the term 'dope,' but he wasn't going to start quibbling now.

"Yeah. That. It's a loft. We live in a loft. It's quite nice. Nothing too fancy. Who wants that, right? It's decent. And we've got... we've got neighbourly mutants who are completely-mutantly-friendly. Not the kind you'd find at say... my fucking home."

"Your... ah. Oui - yes," Jean-Paul said. "I will be there shortly. We can avoid introducing me to your mutant-friendly neighbours and I will not have to speak with your roommate, since you do not like sharing." He sat his book aside and stood up, moving to the window as he took up his leather jacket.

"Ring the buzzer downstairs and I'll let you in." John grinned. "Also, I should warn you. There's Joy-Toy. You're not afraid of killer dogs, are you?" Joyita was nothing like that. She was an adorable chocolate lab. Not that John would ever admit he thought Angelo's dog was anything but vicious.

"The... joy toy?" Jean-Paul asked, pausing at the window, hand already on the latch. "I do not mind dogs." He'd never owned one, of course, but dogs had to be better than cats with genetic diseases and rats that died after less than a year. Maybe.

"Then come on over." He dropped the phone and headed to the kitchen. John was entirely too cheerful for someone who'd just lost his family. The painkillers were a miracle drug alright.

Joyita got up from her spot next to the couch and trailed behind him. John gave her some treats from the cupboard. A whole handful of them. It was no wonder the dog liked him. Sort of.

"Listen, Joy Toy. Jean-Paul's coming over. I need you to be quiet," he said. "Your boy Angelo needs his beauty sleep. Got it? Look, I'll play you a movie. Marley and Me. How about that? I'll even let you sit on the couch." The dog barked and John closed a hand over her muzzle. "Don't look at me like that. Bribery's as old as sin. Here." He gave her some more treats.

"Good girl."

Thumbing his phone off, Jean-Paul opened the window and pulled his jacket on. It was the work of a moment to make sure the window had relatched and then he was off. Tempted though he was to simply knock on windows until he found the right one, Jean-Paul refrained. He rang the buzzer instead, as directed, and paused only long enough to wonder if this was wise. He was positive there were people in the world, some of them very good friends of his, who would tell him it was not, in fact, very wise at all. But sometimes - most times, if he was being honest - wisdom or the lack thereof played very little part in his decision making.

The door was unlocked by way of remote and John's voice cracked through the small speaker.

"Watch your footing." The lights in the stairway were busted but John had sense enough to leave the apartment door ajar.

In the kitchen, he busied himself with heating up some coffee - doing so manually as they'd run out of gas. The surface of the liquid boiled as flames encased the entire pot and he stared at it, transfixed.

Jean-Paul found his way easily enough - it wasn't like falling was much of a worry for him, after all. The sight that greeted him once he got to the flat, while odd, was not the strangest thing he'd ever seen. "This is a good way to ruin your coffee and your pot all at once," he said, voice soft and tone conversational as he eyed the younger man. "You are saving time this way, oui?"

"I don't know." John snorted, glanced over at the man and shrugged. "I don't really know what I'm doing." The flames disappeared and he moved past Jean-Paul. "Come on. I've got drinks in the room," he offered.

"What do you think of the place?" It was mostly bare. They didn't bother to put too much furniture in yet. Lofts were meant to be spacious, right?

Joyita was wagging her tail at Jean-Paul. "Go watch your movie."

"It has a good layout," Jean-Paul said, eyes lingering on the pot of ruined coffee, scorch marks now gracing its sides, before turning and following John. Dogs were not his favourite creatures in the world, to be sure, but he was certain having an ocelot as a pet in the United States was illegal.

Americans made so many fun, entertaining things illegal. It was sad, really.

Fingers hooking into the belt loop at the back John's jeans, he quirked an eyebrow and asked, "We are still being quiet as mice, yes?"

That stopped John in his tracks. "I said that, huh?" He half turned and glanced over his shoulder. "We could give it a shot," he forced his voice into a whisper. "Could be all sorts of fun." John smirked and opened the door to his bedroom.

"This is me. And that's one fucking great bed." He nodded toward the Sultan Finnvik. "Now you could probably manage to actually sleep in it. But I know you're against that kind of shit. So do you think the broken nose adds an edge to my look?"

"An edge?" Jean-Paul actually managed a soft laugh before continuing, "My friend, you do not need the addition." He let the comment about the bed go, since it wasn't worth bothering with, anyway. Voice dropping to a bare murmur as he closed the door behind them, he said, "Show me the many comforts of your great bed. Quietly."

John arched his brow but managed a bit of a smile as he reached out and pulled Jean-Paul toward him, fingers deftly unbuckling the man's belt. "All in good time," he said and leaned in for a kiss, carefully angling his head so that when their lips touched, his nose was marginally out of harm's way.

'All in good time' turned out to be a long time coming, but it was worth it in the end. Jean-Paul even waited until he was relatively sure John was asleep before leaving the younger man's - admittedly very comfortable - bed.