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Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Apr 9, 2008 19:00:57 GMT -5
Maxim surveyed the dancers on the floor with both apprehension, and pride. Pride at his marvelous self, of course. Who better was there to choose such a staggeringly great colour scheme? Or the music which blended in with the background but allowed for delightful chatter at the same time? And of course, there was the food, which was slowly dwindling.
And yet, he was still apprehensive among the obviously content guests (which was all he could hope for in guests, really). Antoine had yet to make an appearance, and as mayor, he was an integral part of the celebration.
Maxim was thus beginning to fidget in his corner of the room, making pleasant comments to people about just when Antoine was going to show up. (“Isn’t this his house?” “Yes.” “Well, shouldn’t he be here?” “It’s a, er, surprise. For him. But don’t yell surprise, please.” “Ah.”) And finally, when approached by that nosy reporter, he decided to excuse himself so as to go find Antoine.
He did this, and went off, adjusting his suit jacket as he did so. He checked the guest room first (second floor, first room on the left), but it was empty, apparently blissfully enjoying one of its rare moments of peace. Antoine’s room was next, followed by the library (although he couldn’t see why Antoine would have been hiding in there, except that perhaps it would be a place that people would not think to look for him). Maxim made a quick sweep of the bathroom, and then, frustrated, stopped a man in the hall in order to ask.
“Oui, monsieur,” the man said, nodding his head. “I ‘ave just seen ‘im in zhe keetchen. ‘E was -” he tried to continue, but Maxim cut him off as he brushed past.
“Eating…a piece of toast…” the man trailed off, watching Maxim storm off in the direction of the kitchen. He shook his head, eventually, and then continued onwards towards the party. Hopefully there would be some of those little sausage things left.
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Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Apr 9, 2008 19:02:10 GMT -5
It wasn't that Antoine was particularly disinterested in the party (and the idea that he would ever miss a party was rather ludicrous, indeed), but he had had one of those unplaceable moments that had sent him whirling back through memories to his childhood and given him an irrepressible desire for, well, toast. Only, he did not simply want toast. No, Antoine did not eat toast, or at least, he didn't eat it the way Americans seemed to understand it. Antoine ate toast with everything he could think of smeared onto it. Jam or preserves or jelly or butter or margarine? No, no, no. Jam and preserves and jelly and butter and margarine. It had best be on a good, thick slice of what had disturbingly come to be known as "artisan" bread (as though there were some other kind). He sat, perched on the counter, beside the slick chrome toaster awaiting his toast. He softly hummed a tune whose words he could no longer remember and tapped out the rhythm on the countertop.
His toast —two slices— sprung up with a charming ding and, with a happy cry, he plucked them out. Systematically, he spread a thin layer of butter over each (soft butter that had been sitting out all day because it was just ridiculous to keep in in the fridge; you couldn't spread hard butter) and then spread a good two spoonfuls of cherry jam onto each slice. Before beginning to eat, he retrieved a cloth napkin from a drawer, tucked it into his collar, and made sure that it covered his button-down to avoid any unfortunate accumulations of sticky crumbs that might cause less than pleasant interactions with Maxim. Of course, it generally took about five minutes to talk Maxim into a good mood again, but he was so much easier to deal with when he hadn't been recently provoked into a fury.
He bit in and tried not to melt with happiness. He smacked his lips delicately and sighed, leaning his head back against the kitchen cabinet. Perhaps, he would have been happier with toast than with a dinner party. Ah, well. He could be happy with toast at least. Simple pleasures never grew old.
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Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Apr 9, 2008 19:02:22 GMT -5
Maxim stomped down the hallway, ready to tell Antoine off. That stupid idiot, telling him that he was looking forward to the party in his honor, and that he was indeed going to mingle around at it if Maxim put in enough effort. And boy, had Maxim put in effort.
And now he was just going to hide out in the kitchen like some sort of recluse? Maxim didn't think so. He stopped before the doors to the kitchen in order to straighten his tie. Just because he was angry didn't mean he had to be shabby.
Then, he pushed open the doors, and walked inside. His mouth was open to say something offensive and hurtful when he caught the look on Antoine's face.
And then Maxim remembered. The person in the hall had said that Antoine was eating toast. He should have known right then, what was going on in the kitchen. And Maxim knew that he couldn't say anything now. Not with Antoine's face all stuffed with butter, margarine, jam, and a light sprinkle of toast.
So he just folded his arms across his chest and mustered up his best murderous look. "Shit, Antoine," he grumbled, reverting to French just as his face had reverted to a dark frown. "You're supposed to be out there, meeting people. Showing them that you can be mayor. They have snack things out there, and...damnit, Antoine, stop eating toast while I'm trying to talk to you." It was hard, being so harsh to someone who looks so innocent, but Maxim managed. Mostly.
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Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Apr 9, 2008 19:02:44 GMT -5
Antoine looked up from his toast, mouth momentarily full. He was about to begin to make a fuss over a guest wandering into his private kitchen when he realized that it was only Maxim. He looked, admittedly, absolutely furious, and Antoine began to think twice about abandoning his guests for toast, but really, toast versus guests? It was hardly a comparison. He savored the flavors of the butter and the jam and the bread, swallowed, and licked his lips. "Would you like a bite?" he replied in French, offering the toast in the general direction of Maxim. "I have a second slice. You needn't worry about not leaving any for me, and you know I always want company."
He made a face at Maxim's accusation. Why couldn't he show them that he could be mayor after he had his toast? Didn't Maxim realize that that was the proper order of things? He couldn't run a city on an empty stomach. "Oh, I know that there are appetizers out there. I got myself a plate." He produced a tiny, slightly oily paper plate that looked as if it were trying to pass itself off as something considerably nicer. "Sausagelette? They're rather nice, I think, if a bit small. Did you choose the caterer, my dear? You must have a word with them about portions. It is perfectly ridiculous. The guests will think we are stingy."
Breaking off, he bit into the piece of toast again, unable to restrain himself, and grinned around his mouthful. Delicately putting a hand in front of his mouth, he murmured, "I'm sorry, Maxim, but after so long, you must know that I cannot restrain myself around— toast."
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Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Apr 9, 2008 19:02:57 GMT -5
Maxim almost managed to resist the urge to bring a hand up to the bridge of his nose, but unfortunately, he couldn't. "Antoine," he said, looking at the man, before walking over, and holding out his hand. "I did have a word with them, I'll have you know," he said, waiting for the piece of toast. "Unfortunately, without you there to back up my credentials, and to help with the glaring, they decided to ignore me. Next time you don't want them to think you're stingy, show up when I call."
He rolled his eyes, and then paused. "Wait, is that cherry jam? I thought we had raspberry. Where the hell did cherry come from?" He wrinkled his nose, and stepped around Antoine so that he could reach for the bread. "We do still have raspberry jam, don't we?"
If they didn't have raspberry jam, Maxim was simply not going to be able to eat his toast. And that would mean, after having been tempted with it, that he was not going to get back to the party before people started to filter out. And he would most likely waste away on this cold, linoleum floor if there was no raspberry jam. After all, having cereal for breakfast simply would not do: he had had cereal just the day before. Having cereal two days in a row when he could have toast...now that was a real sin.
"How long will it take you to finish your toast, Antoine? We actually do have to get back to the party," Maxim muttered as he slid a piece of bread into the toaster. He looked back over his shoulder at Antoine, and then rolled his eyes again.
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Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Apr 9, 2008 19:03:54 GMT -5
Antoine balked. "Call me? You expected me to keep that ringing contraption on me all the time? For the love of God, it drives me half mad. I don't know how you can stand it." He smiled at Maxim's words. It was nice to know that, for this at least, Maxim needed him. It was a rare enough moment that he relished it. Antoine dipped a finger into the cherry jam and popped it into his mouth despite the objections he knew Maxim would have to such an action. He laved it carefully, savoring the tangy sweetness, and removed the now-clean digit. "We have cherry because I rather fancy cherry."
He scooted over to Maxim and rubbed his shoulder. "Of course, there's raspberry jam. I wouldn't dream of finishing the jam and not sending someone to fetch you some more. I know you far, far too well, my dear boy." He poinked Maxim on the nose with his damp fingertip. "I have no idea how long it shall take me to finish my toast. A gentleman rarely sets limits upon himself and he never, never carries a pocket watch."
After Maxim rolled his eyes, Antoine set into a really serious pout, the sort that only has one cure. He scooted further across the counter and gently pressed his hands to either side of the man's waist. "Maxim?" he said softy and tremulously, and he patiently waited for the highly anticipated result.
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Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Apr 9, 2008 19:04:26 GMT -5
Maxim sighed at Antoine's comment, and tapped his finger on the counter. "You're supposed to pick up the phone, Antoine. That stops the ringing," he said, in only a slight exasperation. And then he heard the sound (which was familiar to him because it happened all the goddamn time) of Antoine dipping his finger in the jam.
"Antoine..." he started, stopping suddenly when the hand that had just been in the jam (and Antoine's mouth) rubbed his shoulders, and then touched his nose. His eyes crossed a little, and then he frowned. "Antoine, what are you-"
And then there were hands. So Maxim froze. He froze for a moment, and glanced down at the hands (the Antoine hands (the Antoine hands on his waist)), and then he tried to say: "What the sodding hell is wrong with you, Antoine? Get your damn hands off of my waist. God, you're insufferable."
Unfortunately, it came out as the sound a kitten might make if it was pitifully deprived of toast. He managed to clear his throat after, but his voice was strained. "Yes, Antoine?"
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Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Apr 9, 2008 19:04:48 GMT -5
Antoine sighed defeatedly. "I am afraid that I am a hopeless case, Maxim. What was wrong with landlines, I ask? Must you be in constant contact with me? I am terribly fond of you, but that is simply asking a bit much. There is only so much Antoine and so many deserving causes." He screwed the lid onto the jam, so he wouldn't be tempted to spread more onto his toast.
"I know, dear, I know, and you are so very stoic about it. You really do work so very hard." He spread a thin smile over his face like too little margarine. He slid off the counter, landing with a clack! on his feet. Looping an arm around one of Maxim's, he sidled forward to set his chin on Maxim's shoulder. "You aren't terribly cross with me, are you, dear?" he said softly. He tugged gently on the corner of Maxim's waistcoat to straighten it and then used the motion as an excuse to smooth the easily-rumpled fabric from waist to hip. "You know that I never mean to make you cross."
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Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Apr 9, 2008 19:05:34 GMT -5
Maxim tilted his head to the side slightly, and then looked up towards the ceiling as if asking for help. Did he need to be in constant contact with Antoine? Of course he did. Antoine was prone to accidents (getting his hand and/or tongue stuck into and/or onto things, tripping alarm systems while trying to get toast in the middle of the night, ectetera) when left on his own. But did Maxim really need to tell Antoine that he did in fact need to be in constant contact with him?
"I'm not cross, Antoine," Maxim said, with a sigh. "Not about your phone, at least. About you touching my nose with the finger you just licked is an entirely different matter, however. That is entirely unsanitary, Antoine, and you know my dislike of unsanitary things."
He shook his head. "What you really must do, Antoine, is return to the party. That should win my favour back." Not that his favour had been lost at all, but he could always pretend. And if it was going to maintain the peoples' content with having Antoine as their mayor, then Antoine needed to get out there as quickly as was humanly possible.
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Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Apr 9, 2008 19:05:43 GMT -5
"Well, you wanted constant contact, didn't you? And now you've got it. I really cannot see what you're so very angry about, dear. I'm only giving you what you want," Antoine said. It was something he had gotten very, very good at, especially in Maxim's case. There were very few people he had known as long as he had known Maxim, and he was a damn good job of the man's character and his moods. At the moment, it was extremely clear exactly what Maxim needed, but he was going to be so irritating about it because there was a party and think of heteronormativity, Antoine! and someone might notice they were gone and what would they do, then? Well, they'd just do it again and to hell with the rest of them.
"I've never known you to be against unsanitary things, Maxim," or at least not all of them, "but I'm sorry, dear, if it makes you uncomfortable, I shan't do it again." At least, not my finger and not your nose. He set his cheek against Antoine's shoulder, letting a few blond curls tumble forward. "Shall we go in together or separately?" he said reluctantly, knowing that, for the moment, he had lost, but later, later, it would be his game again.
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Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Apr 9, 2008 19:06:16 GMT -5
Maxim was caught in the crossfire. First of all, here was his best friend. All smiles and laughs and happy, bouncy hair. So different from Maxim's own silvery hair, so young and spry, and pleasant overall. Antoine was also amusing to be around, and there wasn't much that Antoine could do that made Maxim truly angry. But then, there was the other gun, firing from the other direction.
And that gun's name was heteronormativity.
"Antoine," Maxim said, in his 'you know that we've discussed this before, but I don't mind discussing it again' tone. This tone was not to be mistaken for the similar 'You stupid idiot, get this through your thick, curly-haired skull' tone, or the 'I've had enough and am just going to walk right out of here, and will definitely only be going to the grocery store, and nowhere else at all' tone.
"I understand that I said contact, but...I didn't mean it...in physical terms of...closeness and..." God, the man was like a giant teddy bear. Maxim just wanted to hug him and snuggle and Antoine had spiked his toast, hadn't he? No, he hadn't eaten the toast yet...it was just getting cold on the counter, and "Merde," Maxim muttered, attempting to turn around. "I've got to butter my toast, Antoine. It's getting all crusty, and you know I don't like crusty things."
He could taste the awful crustiness as he looked around in vain for the butter.
"We'll have to go together, of course," Maxim said absent-mindedly. Where the hell was the butter? Had Antoine stashed it under his shirt, or had he put it in one of the drawers (where Maxim had explicitly stated that the butter was not to go)? "No!"
Going together? This was such a scandalous affair! They simply couldn't arrive together, or people would think... And him arriving after Antoine, smoothing down his shirt and fixing his hair, something which Antoine would be doing as well? That would certainly bring greater implications, the implications that they were deliberately trying to hide something.
Maxim cleared his throat. "We'll...have to...uhm..."
They could arrive seperately, and just put quite a lot of distance between them, or they could act like what they had been doing was gettine a piece of toast, like campaign managers and mayor were allowed to do. "It's just that we don't want them assuming anything suspicious. They aren't here to make issues for you as the mayor, Antoine, they are here to meet you, and to form biased opinions on how kind you are based on your debonair charm and cheerfully golden locks."
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Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Apr 9, 2008 19:06:44 GMT -5
"All right, all right, don't forget your toast, dear. I wouldn't want to deprive you of your... toast." He shuffled off to the side, watching Maxim fussing about the kitchen in search of something. "What are you looking for, dear? The jam I put somewhere. Ah, I'm sorry, but for the life of me, I cannot remember where. You don't like my jam on your toast, though. I don't mind your jam on my toast, though," he added with a soft laugh. "Can I help you find it?" He opened the refrigerator door and looked in with no idea what he was looking for before shutting it again.
"And are you ashamed of our going in together? You are always so quick to assume that they will jump to the wrong conclusion. What if they conclude that we have been eating toast in the kitchen? There is nothing to stop them from coming to that conclusion. Really, to come out separately one after another, covered in butter and jam? I don't know what I should say in the face of such a thing, but when I was at court —and how long ago that was—, we should have tittered something terrible, and before the week was out, there would have been rumors in Alsace Lorraine. It has been a long time, has it not? Oh, I miss her sometimes, you know. After all this, dear, shall we go back? You know I've always wanted to go back. She may not be an America, but she was home for a very, very long time. She shall always be home, even now that our— my life there is gone. Ah, my dear, I prattle."
He lifted a plate, a novel and three magazines to produce a porcelain butter dish. "Do you want to use the butter before I put it away?" He set it down beside Maxim's toast. "Am I supposed to be debonair? How am I supposed to be debonair when it has been, 'Antoine, do this, Antoine, do that,' as though your cheerful debonair friend is only a child? I am of the nature that you cultivate in me, and I'm afraid that I hardly feel very charitable." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I think I shall go to bed. I do not feel very well at all. I believe I sense the start of a migraine."
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Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Apr 9, 2008 19:06:52 GMT -5
Maxim made a noise in the back of his throat when Antoine produced the butter from what he could have sworn was thin air. He refused to acknowledge where the butter had actually been (he really didn't want to know), and so he simply began spreading it onto his toast in the neatest manner than he could manage. He had to get all of the corners, and that required tricky precision.
"Now, Antoine," he said, occupied with the tedious butter-spreading task. "I'm not simply assuming that they are going to jump to the wrong conclusions. I know for a fact that they are going to leap upon those conclusions like ravenous lionesses, tear them to shreds, and piece them together in the way that most fits their convoluted senses of reality."
Maxim inspected his toast, before laying his now greasy knife down on the table. How the bloody hell had he managed to get butter all over the handle? Now he had butter on his hand, and he was either going to have to lick it all off, or wash his hands. And washing his hands would only get the butter onto both of his hands...
He stuck his index finger in his mouth, and turned around. The butter needed some time to melt anyways.
"You're naturally debonair, Antoine," he managed to say, around his finger. Pleased with the success of that digit, he moved onto his thumb. "It's the sort of air that you simply ooze. And do not try that silly act with me, Antoine."
Now for the web. This was the trickiest part of all, and for a moment, Maxim wondered how he was going to manage this maneuver. "You don't get migraines."
He was, of course, worried about this. What if these migraines were a new thing? Antoine had certainly been alive for quite a large amount of years, and this was perhaps a side effect of that. "You're just angry," Maxim said, without any real notion of why Antoine could be angry at all, and without any real conviction.
What would he do if Antoine was gone? Who would invade his personal space?? Surely none could do such a thorough job as Antoine himself...
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Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Apr 9, 2008 19:07:42 GMT -5
Antoine watched crossly as Maxim spread the butter. The arse didn't even give it a second thought. Butter, butter, butter. Wrong conclusions, wrong conclusions, wrong conclusions. He clucked his tongue when Maxim got butter all over his fingers. Just like him to be a mess. Oh, there you go, being a hypocrite, my dear. What are we going to do with you? He extended a hand imperiously. "Oh, give them here," he snapped. Only Antoine was allowed to be a complete tease. Maxim was not (and did not) do things of that nature, not ever. It was below him to even suggest that he and Antoine were not the most platonic of friends because Antoine was, well, Antoine and that wasn't something Maxim needed in his bed.
Antoine nearly laughed.
"You really have no technique, you know," he said smugly. "I don't know how you can possibly eat that butter; it's perfectly disgusting. Jam, at least, has flavor beyond fat and salt. And you say I am unsanitary. Of course, I get migraines. Do you think that putting up with you every day is an easy task when you do stupid things like— like suck on your thumb and tell me how unsanitary and hopeless I am and how you don't particularly want to be seen in public with me, and for all love, Maxim, what do you do when you're on your back, drift off? I don't look like a small child, you know. It looks elegant and not at all like a three-year-old!" The urge to snatch Maxim's hand away was growing because, really, the man was such an ass. How dare he? The complete and utter bastard. How many times had Antoine—
"Get that thumb out of your mouth right now. That's absolutely vulgar. I've met boys on their first night with more appeal. Hand. Now."
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Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Apr 9, 2008 19:08:05 GMT -5
Maxim eyed Antoine for a moment, looking as if he was deciding whether or not to narrow his eyes in intense anger.
"I'll have you know," he said, as he took his thumb out of his mouth, and held it out towards Antoine, "that butter is far more delicious than jam. Jam, for one, is unbearably sweet. It also has those little disgusting seeds that never cease to get caught in my teeth. It's like eating sugar mixed with horrible little not-fruits."
He shuddered from the very thought.
"Butter, on the other hand," (which he didn't, thank goodness) "Is delightful. It's salty, which I adore as you very well know, and smooth, and has no seeds at all. Your jam can hardly compare. It isn't nearly as delicious.
"As for that snide remark about...about...first nights," Maxim said, his eyebrow twitching, "I know for a fact that I have more appeal than they do. After all, if I didn't, would you really still be near me? If I didn't have the charm to go with your debonair looks, would we really be here? In this kitchen? When we should, by all rights, be at a party? You love parties." Maxim said, nearly feeling like pouting. But he didn't, because that was Antoine's job, even if Antoine seemed to be trying to hike up his pants.
Nobody but Maxim was allowed to do that. "Hurry up, then. We're going back right away, and the people out there can..." Maxim sighed. "Think whatever they want about us."
Let Antoine think he won. Hah. That was the way to do it.
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