#akchotesuggestion

68: “Why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?”

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This was not what Sebastian was expecting to hear tonight. Indeed, he’d expected to hear absolutely nothing, providing all went well. Since he came to live with Vincent he’s become quick on his feet, soft but stealthy, his affections fierce but brief. He lowers his head, shame-faced, and tries to slip away - only to be caught by an amused Vincent, still drowsy-eyed from sleep.

It’s not that he minds being caught. He’s just a little embarrassed, is all.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were…”

“Asleep, yeah, and I was until you kissed me.” Sebastian blushes like a firebrand. Vincent strokes his hair. “Trust me, it felt lovely. But I do wonder. Why only when I’m sleeping?”

39: “I hate you.” - “No, you don’t.”

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Now and then, he wonders where he went so wrong to turn out like this. But given the kind of people he’s surrounded by, maybe it’s a miracle that he managed to turn out this good at all. Mike leans back on his chair and tries, for the umpteenth time, to understand what is being asked of him. “Let me try to summarize this again. You have landed your first film production gig.”

“That is correct.” His companion sips from a straw. “You see I’ve come a long way from adverts, copywriting, or amateur productions. Now imagine: Quentin Dupieux the director, Quentin Dupieux in lights! I thought there was more of a congratulations in order.”

“Amateur productions of what exactly.”

Quentin’s eyes glass over. Mike instantly regrets asking. “Christ, just forget about it. So having landed this gig, you have also been put in charge of the casting. You received this news today at six in the morning. And your first reaction, following that news, was to immediately summon me all the way up to Montmartre so that you could tell me you want me to star as an extra in your film.”

“Correct.”

Mike stares at him. “Why?”

This should not be a difficult question, if Quentin were a true friend of his. That’s what he thinks, anyway. Quentin takes his sweet time answering and Mike despairs, realizing that his implicit refusal isn’t obvious to the other man; he might actually have to explain this, step by step, digging up the bad memories once more in his wake. As it happens, he ends up not needing to do that, but for several minutes the fear is there.

Mike looks around. Vintage teahouse in a vintage district. It’s dark and it smells of mint and dusty spices and everywhere he looks there are flashes of light glinting off earrings, glasses, flecks of granulated sugar. Diverse clientele. Shisha cafe on the opposite side of the road, blurred from the constant cloud of thin white smoke shielding it from view. Eartha Kitt on the radio.

     Üsküdar'a gider iken bir mendil buldum,     Üsküdar'a gider iken bir mendil buldum...

He has been in so many teahouses like this. He has never once experienced a revelation, or a positive opportunity, of any kind in these places.

Today will be no different.

     Mendilimin içine lokum doldurdum,     Mendilimin içine lokum doldurdum.

35: “Here, let me see.”

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Franck stretches in front of the canvas and smiles lazily. Spring is here and it is time for the yearly ritual, ongoing for a decade now, the creation of a new Presidential portrait to hang over the main hall. The subject is the same every time, but every year he changes in subtle ways. Franck delights in searching for the differences, and after finding them, they delight even more in immortalizing them for all time.

“What has amused you so, Franck?”

Yes, that’s how they actually describe it. It’s been ten years. They’re allowed to explain their work as dramatically as they like.

It’s just one of many perks for this job.

“Not so much amusement, just pleased.” Franck nods to their model, sitting a few feet away from them, and directs a fuller smile at him. “I was just thinking I’ve done this for a long time now, but it never gets old - just like you.”

“How flattering.” Sebastian covers his mouth with one gloved hand as he laughs, coy as always. Since he mellowed out greatly and turned to wearing glasses full time, there’s been a persistent air of a cheeky student about him; it strengthens ever more whenever he laughs, Franck has been dying to portray it for some time. “But please, do not shy away from the realism. It has been a decade. I should be able to see myself age as I walk by the years.”

“As my President wishes.”

It’s an easy promise to make, as Sebastian is not a fast-aging man. Franck has genuinely been true to form all those years, he just genuinely doesn’t show much of that flow of time.

Franck is quiet for some time as they finish the sketch, the sound of birdsong rich around their atelier. When at long last it is done, they put down their pencil and stretch again, nodding at Sebastian to indicate he may break his pose - which the man does so, only too gladly. “There we are. I’m sorry I have to put you through this for days at a time, every year.”

Sebastian smiles graciously, relaxing into the chair. “I'd do it the entire year through if I had the time, the art is worth it. Has the sketch been finished, then?”

“Yes, good Monsieur. I’ll start putting the oils on it tomorrow.”

He extends his hand. “Here, let me see.”

Franck accepts. Instead of turning the easel around, they take Sebastian by the hand and lead him to where they are, so they may sit and observe together. Sebastian pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and leans in to survey the sketch. His brows furrow slightly in mock-severity, which Franck recognizes for what it is (though they do get a little nervous every time). “Splendid,” is his eventual judgement; he turns to face Franck then, his eyes bright with laughter. “You have a most excellent knowledge of the subject, Mx. Rivoire. I wonder how you learned so fast.”

“Mere courtesy, Monsieur. It’s the least I can provide for a muse of one year, let alone ten. Nothing less is acceptable, don’t you think?”

Sebastian smiles most lovingly. “Indeed. And now I’m curious to see how your treatment will be after another ten years; pray let us hope you’d have kept me, even by that point.”

24 - “I thought I’d never see you again.”/ President Akchoté/Captain Belorgey [Liberté]

Sebastian’s understanding of home has always been skewed.

The first home Sebastian had in Paris was not his very first, but nevertheless, he held it the longest. It was Vincent’s alone until he convinced Sebastian to settle down with him. Because of that, Sebastian took an extremely long time to be comfortable in it, hating so to intrude; he did, however, express in multiple occasions that he thought the home divine. Never mind that it wasn’t in the best of the Parisian suburbs, never mind it wasn’t fully furnished until two years after Sebastian came. “A veritable haven,” he said once to Vincent over late-night coffee and an apple tart, savouring them with a boyish zeal he found most fascinating. “It’s not just me you’ve accepted, Vinco, but everyone. All God’s children are respected here.”

The second home Sebastian had in Paris was unfixed. During the revolution, it was unwise to stay in any one place for too long; they would move bases frequently and start all over again each time. Yet Vincent remembers that back in those days, Sebastian had still known the value of a heartful welcome: whether the basement of a bistro or a dilapidated office block, he always made sure that it was warm and dry and well-stocked with supplies. He accepted no unwarranted guests but turned no friend away, and during the evening he made sure all conflict ceased for the night, keeping morale stable among all who loved and followed him. None of those bases lasted long, but they too were home, a place to rest weary heads and seek warm comfort in.

So what’s happened since then? Shouldn’t he know by now - through the efforts of his Vincent and his friends - what it truly means to be safe?

Where did it all go so wrong?

Having observed him for almost a full decade, Vincent has come to the conclusion that home as a concept just isn’t real to Sebastian. It’s possible that it never was; war destroyed the only home Sebastian grew up in, thousands of kilometers away from France, and France has proved itself unstable for most of his stay. It’s no wonder that Sebastian can’t trust anything to be permanent, buildings and beds and people. (Their friends often found this difficult to understand, the French identity being Sebastian’s birthright, but Vincent has always been world-weary, more sensitive to those things.)And now they’re on their third home and Sebastian hates it, can’t trust it, can’t hope for it to be halfway livable. There’s some sympathy for his opinion: it’s the same residential palace that every President of France has had to put up with for over a hundred years, many of whom hated it too. Sebastian has already cleared away most of the old France’s clutter and made the palace look more tasteful, but Vincent knows he feels it to be a prison. Ah, you can make those beautiful - break the chains inside, get rid of the bars, bring the outside in - but homes, they cannot be. And for the first time, Vincent is finding that he alone is not sufficient to make up for this. Sebastian no longer clings to Vincent as if he were his one eternal supporter in his cold and lonely life, the only thing that kept him afloat, the one constant he had to have in a home.

Even in the same bed he doesn’t trust Vincent to stay. Vincent feels like he’s about to shatter but he can’t hope for it to make any difference.

Sebastian has already lived through too many shatterings, after all.

“Darling?”

Ten to midnight he finds his lover in the receiving room downstairs, the one that was partially bombed before they moved in. That was only two weeks ago, it’s not fit for receiving anybody in yet - but Sebastian’s sitting on the sofa anyway, the room unlit and brick and gravel scattered by his feet. His eyes are empty and a million miles away. Vincent takes his hand. Slowly, Sebastian turns his gaze to focus on his own.

“I thought I’d never see you again.” He murmurs, brushing Vincent’s cheek. Then something in his expression crumples and he pulls back, looking caught in the empty space between dawnsong and nightmare. “But maybe I never do see you again. Maybe every time I think I see you, you’re just a different Vincent to suit a different place. I don’t think any of this really matters. After a while it’s all going to fall into pieces - I’ll have to start over for the umpteenth time, meeting and losing you for the umpteenth time, because life is just one more fucking thing after another over and over and over again and eventually everyone I love will be ground down to nothing. My God! Who are you again?”

Vincent should have left, then. From the wreckage, the land, the hurt. Taken his lover by the hand and walked away.

But he didn’t.

7 - “What you did was stupid and dangerous and scared the hell out of me.” / Sebastian/Vincent [Liberté] [Sequel to this piece]

He knows something is very wrong when he wakes up to a rattling ceiling. Flashes of toppling furniture. Blinking lights and the fire and the screaming Sebastian gasps and wrenches himself away from it, lurching over to the side where a void the exact size of his body awaits him. This void is pitch black and full of blankets. It’s not as funny as it sounds, because he was already having a nightmare before he woke to this one and this place - this container - it keeps rattling all above and around him, indifferent to his terror.

If he wasn’t screaming before, he’s screaming now.

“Sebastian!” Then a pale face is peering down at him, familiar and panicked, glancing rapidly back and forth between him and the road ahead. A van beeps loudly beside them and Sebastian buries his head into the seat, his cries smothered by hard, panting breaths. “Sebastian, calm down, it’s me! Here, let me pull - fucking bastard! (In reference to the van.) I’ll pull over, okay?”

“Let me out. Let me out!”

“I can’t when I’m driving!” Vincent’s voice is trembling but Sebastian barely notices, too terrified to think of the present. No wonder; he’s woken up trapped against his will in a vehicle which has just enough space for his body, something he hoped he’d never have to endure again. “We’re nearly home, Sebastian. Please hold on. I can explain.”

But Sebastian is incoherent. Until Vincent turns into a random neighbourhood and parks along the curb he can barely see straight, and the first thing he does when the car stops is to hurl himself towards the door. “All the way down the street, then left, then down the first fork in the road takes you to Saint-Ouen.” Vincent says quietly when he’s halfway out of the car. Sebastian stares back at him with wild eyes. “You know how to get home from there. But I’d like to ask you hear me out before you go.”

“What you did was stupid and dangerous and scared the hell out of me!” He’ll regret those words later, hissed out with a level of venom quite inappropriate for anyone (let alone one’s host). “What reason could you possibly give for stealing me in the middle of the night? When I was asleep, no less!”

Vincent’s voice is ever softer and filled with tears. “It’s not often you do that.”

“What?”

The engine shuts off and silence settles in. “You remember last night. If you walked back home now, what do you think you’d see?” Sebastian stares at him, then at the back seat, where he now sees two thick blankets and his favourite pillow laid out for him. “Friends, I expect. The people whom you don’t want knowing about the nightmares.”

The night air is icy in his lungs when he gasps. “How do you-”

“You don’t sleep when we have people in the house. I hear you at night, Sebastian. If there’s anyone else but me there, you’ll hold on and not sleep. And even when you do sleep, I’ve never seen you get in more than five hours, usually it’s more like two or three.” A small smile crosses Vincent’s lips. “But this car… you drift off as soon as you’re in this car, for some reason. I fooled myself into thinking it was either the car or me, I suppose, when it was probably the silence that helped.”

“…”

“It seemed a choice between letting them walk back in the dark, letting you go sleepless-” His smile becomes very sad. “- or this. I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. How can he respond to that? Sebastian stays in place, still holding the door halfway open. His anger has burned out, replaced by disbelief and bewilderment - as well as guilt, towards his host and everyone who’s sleeping over. Vincent’s home is warm and welcoming, but the general area isn’t; it’s not a place to send their friends out walking in the middle of the night. Some don’t even have warm welcomes waiting for them back in their homes. That’s not Vincent’s fault.It’s not Vincent’s fault that Sebastian is suffering, either. He’s had plenty to question since coming to France, but his host’s manners have not been one of them - until now. And even then, it feels like he was more angry with Vincent because this was so unlike him, not because he really thought Vincent was up to no good. But the memories are vivid and the pain is real and nothing can compensate for that, not even the best of Vincent’s intentions.

He bites his lip. Enters the car again, slowly. Sits down.

“Sebastian?”

He doesn’t know where to go from here.

“You’re due for work in three hours’ time, right?” Vincent taps the dashboard clock, showing two-twenty in the morning. Sebastian last remembers curling up in bed at nine. Already he feels so much more rested than he has in weeks. “If you want me to... keep going... then I’d be happy to drop you off there at five thirty and head on home. I’ll take you home if not. I’ll never just steal you away like this again, I promise.”

Sebastian breathes out hard. Admittedly, the prospect of trying to sleep with dozens of people nearby doesn’t appeal to him at all, and Vincent sounds more than remorseful enough. Actual forgiveness would be better negotiated later, but he doesn’t know how to say it without making it sound like a guarantee.

In the end, he makes do without the words, and wraps himself in a blanket. Sebastian looks up only then, bright blue eyes staring above the woollen surface, brooding but open to wherever Vincent would like to go.His host thinks about it for a moment. Smiles with more relief. “We’ll stop by at that boulangerie before you go to work. Oui?”

A small, uncertain nod. Vincent starts the car, ready to cruise once more.