#frenchlander

Homelander pauses.

The man makes no move to run or, as futile as it might be, attack. Instead, he's still looking at Homelander. In that strange way that tells him the man is seeing more than he should. Homelander feels observed. Dissected. Laid open, bared to someone else's opinion. He squints, wills his eyes to light up, but stops himself before they do. He is owed an explanation. "What do you mean?" he asks.

"Well." The man gestures at him, again in that vaguely French way that makes Homelander's blood boil. "It is hard to find words. I can't explain the deep blue sea to a bug in the earth."

"I'm not a bug," Homelander says, offended. This is getting ridiculous. He doesn't know why he's still entertaining it.

The man nods, gravely, treating this exchange with a seriousness it does not deserve. "No, you most certainly aren't. Maybe you can even learn to enjoy living every once in a while, j'sais pas."

Homelander blinks, dumbfounded, a rush of emotion fogging up his mind so intensely, he can barely remain conscious throughout. He neither sees nor hears the man leave. When he comes back to himself, he's alone, not entirely sure what about the man's words caused this reaction.

He takes the scenic route home, the feeling of cold wind whipping against his face as he's flying exactly what he needs to calm himself.

Finding the Frenchman's private hideaway is easy enough. He stinks of drugs and relatively expensive French perfume that he apparently splurges on, paid for with crisp CIA bills. Homelander manages to pick out the scent even half a day later, once it's nighttime and there's less exhaust gases to throw him off the trail.

He doesn't even have to knock. He hovers outside the apartment briefly, and the man pulls back the curtains and opens a window for him. The Frenchman's pulse is different now, slightly unsteady. Tachycardia. Perhaps drug-incuded, judging by how blown his pupils are. "How can I help you, sir?"

"May I come in?" It doesn't hurt to offer. To establish early that no, this isn't a murder-to-be. This is... Homelander doesn't want to talk about what it is. Curiosity. Insanity. Temporary fugue state. Whatever. He's had a day at Vought (when doesn't he?), and who else would he talk to? The Deep?

The Japanese girl isn't here. He can't smell her, either, so she hasn't visited in a while. A lover's spat? Is that why the guy was so maudlin? Homelander takes in the small details in the apartment, but there's very little to see. Barely any furniture. The kitchen is well-stocked, however. So is the bathroom - with drugs and anything you need to produce them. The smell of chemicals is as heavy in the air as that of paté.

"I finished cooking," the Frenchman says and walks back into the kitchen, a towel still slung over his shoulder. "If you want to stay for a meal, that is. All homemade."

"You... uh, cook for yourself?" Homelander still walks around the room, hands behind his back, observing. No hints to what the team is up to.

"The small pleasures in life," the man narrates as he plates some food that does, indeed, smell mouthwateringly good, "go a great way in making even the hardest of times worth living through. I may be on the brink of being lasered to death, and yet I have greatly enjoyed making this meal and can perhaps eat it before I die."

"Not here to kill you," Homelander mumbles. "I, uh... I wanna talk. About... About what you said."

The Frenchman's eyes may be bloodshot and hazy from whatever substance is coursing through his bloodstream, but he still looks aware enough to be skeptical of Homelander's words. Jesus, why, even? It's not like Homelander has ever lied about his intentions. He's been remarkably honest with William and his team, hasn't he? But before he can begin to feel anger about it, the Frenchman's eyes soften a bit, and a smile appears on his lips that looks entirely too serene for the moment. "And you will do it while trying my paté. Mama's recipe. It took me years to perfect it, the way she used to make."

"Is your mother alive?" Homelander asks, just trying to make conversation as he pulls the cape out of the way and gets seated. It is an odd situation, sure, but he is fully in control of it. He can always change his mind about ending the Frenchman's life, leaving him here for his friends to find. The thought of spilled blood fuels his appetite, and the homemade paté he scoops onto a fork really is as delicious as it smelled. The flavor explodes in his mouth.

The Frenchman, sitting across from him at the tiny table, shakes his head, and it takes Homelander a moment to remember he asked him a question earlier. "Non, Mama died. I have no family left." The man's dark eyes are sad and distant, lost in memory. Homelander wants to shake him for his audacity. There he is, having a recipe his mother used to make, fondly thinking of her, being able to miss her. He doesn't know how good he has it. How easy his pesky human existence is. He already feels the need to numb himself with substances, all while he cannot even begin to grasp how lonely an existence it is to-

"Well, that makes two of us," Homelander grumbles and shoves another forkful of food into his mouth.

The Frenchman perks up at that, his gaze clearing. "I am sorry to hear that." How does he make it sound like he means it? This man is a complete mystery. Homelander has clearly underestimated him. William is a fun foe, but despite his unpredictable nature, he is frustratingly one-note in his hate and pursuit of a dead woman. Meanwhile, Crime Analytics hasn't even been able to figure out this one's name.

"Why," Homelander begins, then pauses, swallows down his bite so as not to be seen as rude, before putting down his fork, "did you say... that? That I've never- I mean. How would you know?"

The Frenchman sighs, leans back in his chair, crosses his arms and begins to stare into the middle distance, from which he is clearly receiving cue cards for more of his sentimental nonsense. "You know, I love to dance. And I have been shown time and again that there are only two groups of people, those who are willing to dance, even in the rain, and those who do not dance at all. And the latter, they do not enjoy anything else, either. It is a very good indicator for how happy they are. And you, mon ami, you look like you are part of the more miserable group."

"Because I don't dance." It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? And yet, Homelander suddenly finds he has a lump in his throat, and it isn't food that's stuck. "Why would I need to? There's plenty of entertainment out there, and I really don't think happiness can be measured by-"

"Do you like sex?"

"Mh?" Whatever he wanted to say, Homelander loses the train of thought. "What the-" Whatever. Go with the flow. Expect anything. He can always kill him later. "Yes. I do."

The Frenchman nods sagely. "So there is hope for you yet. You enjoy some of life's pleasures. I knew it." He shrugs happily. "I had an inkling you might. I just think nobody ever taught you, you know?"

"And let me guess," Homelander deadpans. "You can teach me, right?"

"Oh, that is a veeery tall task." The Frenchman, once again, takes him seriously and either chooses to ignore his sarcasm or is too high to see it for what it is. Being coked out of his mind is a good explanation for a lot of the man's odd behaviors. Homelander wonders what his excuse is. "A big, big mission to go on. Much too big for me. But I am your humble servant if you ask. One night of being Cendrillon, if you want to, and I will get you back to your castle by midnight. Just do not lose one of your red boots on the way."

"What?"

"... I will take you clubbing."

Homelander wonders if there were traces of something other than capers in the paté he just ate when he finds himself agreeing on a whim.

"I'm not wearing this," Homelander decides not five minutes later when clothes from a duffel bag get tossed at him. He catches every item perfectly, but each one is more horrific than the last. First, he gets a pair of dark jeans thrown at him, then a terribly patterned shirt that looks vaguely familiar. "I don't need your hand-me-downs, I have perfectly good secret-mission clothes at home that I can get, and we aren't even the same size, I mean, look at you, you're tiny-"

"Non, non, these belong to Monsieur Charcuter. I would not be caught dead in his shirts. But they are freshly washed. I do his laundry for him, or else he simply... wouldn't."

"It's not helping the smell," Homelander grumbles, but does accept the offered clothes. The jeans are too snug around the ass, and he doesn't know what to make of that, or what it tells him about William. The shirt smells faintly of cheap beer and even cheaper gas station bathrooms where William no doubt pissed out the cheap beer. But overall, it's an outfit, and that's what the Frenchman was after.

Getting undressed is a routine affair, although Homelander readily admits he is trying to make the Frenchman uncomfortable by showing no regard for propriety and shedding his suit in the middle of the man's hallway. The Frenchman, however, makes no move to turn around and grant him privacy, instead opting to look. With open appreciation no less. Homelander shouldn't be surprised, really. The French swing both ways, after all, the whole lot of them. But it quickly turns into a game of chicken, and it ends with a truce as soon as Homelander's skin is covered again. Well. As much as the Frenchman will allow, anyway.

Homelander buttons the shirt up. Big mistake, apparently, because he gets assaulted with more gesturing and "Non, non, non!" The fucking French... The man's tone is urgent enough, though, to stop Homelander in his tracks.

"You leave it open like this." The man goes to work with all the air of an artist creating a masterpiece, unbuttoning things until Homelander feels half-naked, then tucking the shirt into the jeans. Homelander is used to being a model for costume designers, so he stays still and docile. After maybe two minutes of this, the Frenchman steps back, clearly admiring his work, hands extended in excitement like he has just taken part in Creation. "C'est parfait."

"Half my chest is out."

"It is a good chest. Show it off. What is more, people have not seen it before. Nobody would look at it and think, ah, this is the Homelander's chest. The hair, however, c'est un problem."

"What's wrong with my hair?" Homelander catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and wishes he hadn't. It isn't that he looks bad, but the lack of his costume makes him feel strange enough, and to be dressed like a... a partygoer is odd.

"You look like the Homelander in a Hawaiian shirt, when I need you to look indistinguishable from anyone else who might frequent the établissement I have in mind for us."

"Sounds ominous," Homelander remarks dryly as he's getting assaulted again, this time with a comb. By the end of it, he is left with a sidepart, an approximation of a style he used to have, years ago. It makes him look younger, tragically so, and it draws attention from the blonde to the darker roots, presumably in a way the Frenchman believes will help his secret identity.

"Are you not getting changed?" he asks, finally, when the Frenchman grabs his keys and some things from the bathroom counter and is about to walk out the door with all the confidence of a man who knows Homelander will follow.

"Moi?" He looks down his own body, at the shirt that is riding up enough to expose his bellybutton and happy trail, then at the pants that are ripped at the knees, the fallen-apart sneakers. "Non, I am always ready to dance."

Homelander spent half a mile being assaulted by the ever-increasing beat while they walked here (on foot, in the cold), to some unassuming door, some hole in the wall that doesn't suggest anything is going on inside, if it was not for the volume, so loud Homelander isn't sure how the people living in the houses around are asked to pay rent for the displeasure of sleeping next to... this. Perhaps, he muses, every human here is a junkie who won't notice, or maybe they have already numbed their eardrums to the beat and no longer hear it.

The crowd outside the place is certainly looking... special. A lot of substances at play. A lot of black, a lot of fishnet fabric. A lot of strange-colored hair. A woman who has her black-pink hair up in buns is looking him up and down while she's chewing gum - or something he assumes is gum anyway. She sticks her tongue out at him when she catches him looking back. Whatever she's chewing, it has colored her tongue an unnaturally bright blue. She smiles. Winks. Then her gaze falls to the Frenchman who is currently busy speaking with the bouncer. She quickly makes the connection that Homelander is here with him and loses interest immediately. Homelander blanches a little as he understands the implication, and he has the instinct to defend himself, to justify that no, this is not his lover, not even his friend, nor even a confidant, this is simply a man who- Who takes him dancing to teach him a lesson. It doesn't sound any better when he tries to put it into language, and he is glad the Frenchman is done paying the man at the entrance.

"You have to pay to get in there?" he asks as they pass through the door, waved along by both bouncers. So far, so good, nobody has recognized him. It might help that he doesn't particularly feel like himself, although he has opinions about being made to wait outside with the mudpeople. He's willing to entertain it for now. Anything for an authentic experience. He has nothing to prove, except he very much wants to show this man he can enjoy life for some reason he doesn't fully grasp. It just shouldn't be possible for some human to- to- "What, like it's some kind of fancy party?"

"Capitalism, mon brave. You have to pay extra for the alcohol, too." The Frenchman gives him an angelic smile. "It is good that I have brought my own entertainment. The paté was not the only thing I cooked tonight." He pats the pocket of his pants conspiratorially.

The inside of the building positively reeks. Of alcohol and sweat and the general heaviness of human bodies, too close together. Almost sexual. Outside, the air was cold and fresh. In here, it is thick, cloying, stuffy. And the music is- "Very loud," Homelander tries to say, but it's as though his voice isn't carrying far, swallowed up by the volume.

"It's not about listening to it," the Frenchman tells him as they make their way through neon-lit hallways, all chock-full of humans. "You have to feel it. Right here." The Frenchman all of a sudden stops and presses a hand over Homelander's exposed sternum - a useless gesture, it's not like his body isn't already vibrating from the volume of the music. His ears ache with it, fuck, his teeth hurt from it, but the rhythm of it goes deeper, too. Deeper, still, with the sudden touch. He freezes, but doesn't recoil. "Sorry," the Frenchman says, quiet enough to be drowned out by the music, but Homelander can still hear him. "I did not mean to-"

"It's..."

"We should-"

"To the dance... floor?"

"Oui."

The main hall of the establishment is even fuller than the hallways. The high ceiling does not help the claustrophobic feeling of hundreds of humans in close proximity. Dancing should be an impossible thing under the circumstances, but somehow, the people manage. From afar, it almost looks like one continuous group effort, an ocean with waves comprised of tiny droplets that all have to move in a coordinated fashion, so as not to bump into each other. That takes focus, especially for dull human senses, but Homelander looks at the scene and thinks they're closer to animals in a stable right now - all instinct, cramped together. And he would be one of them, if the Frenchman gets his wish.

Homelander stops in his tracks.

"I shouldn't be here."

The Frenchman turns around to him, looking surprised. "Is it, uh... the music?" He gestures towards his own ears. "You cannot handle it, oui?"

"No, it's not the music." Homelander is still looking at the mass of people, some of them entangled in each other, embracing, all smiling, many with their eyes closed.

"It is much too dark here for someone to recognize you. Your hair looks pretty in the strobe, by the way."

"Thanks... It's not that, either." He tries to gather his thoughts. Wonders why his feet feel so heavy, why he's stuck on this spot, just outside the mass of people, forced to look in, but not overstep. "It's so... It's so human."

The Frenchman's face lights up with relief, and he surges forward, grabbing onto Homelander's arms. How is this man not scared for his very life? He is clearly intelligent, and he knows what Homelander is capable of. Nobody would dare hold him this way. "That is the point!" the man damn near shouts. "That is exactly what you need!" And with that, he somehow manages to overcome the resistance of Homelander digging his heels in and drags him into the action.

From the get-go, at least eight people bump into Homelander left and right, and he looks around, bewildered. Nobody is paying attention to him, and nobody apologizes for the missteps. It's like they never even notice, caught up in what they're doing. Perhaps drugged out of their minds. It's disgraceful. There's still doubt tugging at him, at the back of his brain, where he can't see even with his x-ray vision. You, a voice says that he can hear clearly enough despite everything, are being ridiculous, big guy.

Perhaps he's being petty, but with his senses going into overload and what was promised to him as fun within reach of his fingers, he chooses defiance, drowns out the voice and focuses on the Frenchman instead. He is not going to make a fool of himself over this. He has a point to prove.

He still feels out of place, however. He has no trouble performing for an audience, far from it, but he also has the distinct feeling that the performance of having fun is not what this tiny French menace is after, and it is highly likely he can see right through it with his oddly happy-go-lucky wisdom, which would, in turn, be an embarrassment for Homelander.

"Here, let me help," the accented voice cuts through his own thoughts and the merciless rhythm of the current electronic song (do they all sound the same to everyone else, or can these people tell them apart), and before Homelander can say anything, there's hands on his arms, touching the bare skin, making him jolt briefly. Changing clothes in the man's apartment is one thing, but the level of touch- "Move with me."

Homelander's center of gravity is inherently different from that of humans and most superpowered people as well. He has pitch-perfect hearing. It should be no problem to follow an instruction as simple as: move your body to the rhythm of this. But even the most tentative of movements he attempts, a single shift of his hips feels terribly helpless and laughable. He wishes he could see himself, from an outside perspective, then immediately scraps the thought. Nobody, himself included, should see him like this, much less an enemy.

"You do not have to be like this guy." The Frenchman points to somewhere else, further back on the dancefloor, where some human man has a small crowd gathered around him, some filming, and is going absolutely apeshit. It's barely dancing anymore. It is exagerrated movements, completely lost to it, ecstatic. Homelander has, in his position as minister for Samaritan's Embrace, seen humans 'speak in tongues', which, if you ask Homelander, just looks like they're malingering and pretending to experience a seizure. Perhaps something similar is happening to the poor unfortunate soul over there. "You simply move, any way you like. And any way the crowded space allows, non?" The Frenchman winks again, then stops talking entirely, perhaps to save his already raw throat the trouble of trying to shout over the noise.

Homelander barely moves, feet shuffling on the floor. Oh, he is being clumsy, isn't he? He is behaving in a way that is embarrassing. Gods are pure, a voice reminds him, and they need to stay that way. And they should under no circumstance mingle with the pigs.

The Frenchman makes it look like the simplest thing, finding the rhythm naturally and moving with it, seemingly not even thinking about it. Smiling, eyes trained on Homelander, only ever briefly losing him if he wants to perform a little twist before returning to the little space they have carved out for themselves amongst the people. An encouraging eyebrow gets lifted at him. Homelander only notices he's shaking his head when the Frenchman stops dancing alltogether and nods sincerely, like Homelander has just trusted him with a great truth.

Looking around briefly, the man seems to find what he is looking for and starts moving. Feeling a bit like a duckling, Homelander tags along, the sea of bodies parting for them as they move over to a seating area by the far wall.

The room's acoustics are strange. They are barely removed from the dancefloor, but here, it seems actually possible to hold at least a brief conversation. Some people are engrossed in talk. Others are lining up white powder on the tables and leaning down to snort it up. Disgraceful, Homelander thinks, until he sees the Frenchman unpack very similar paraphernalia to the people around them. "Do not worry yourself," he explains. "Relaxing is not an easy thing for you, I can tell."

"I-"

"I came prepared. Sit." He pats the seat next to him, and Homelander reaches behind him to adjust the cape before realizing there's nothing there. He is wearing William's clothing. "Dosage is always a question of powerset, but there has never been a supe I haven't gotten high. Have you ever taken anything?"

"No... I mean, yes. But... It was-" In a lab, taken against my will, poison in my veins, in my throat, in my stomach.

"Did the drugs have an effect?"

"Not all of them."

"Get your finger wet for me."

Homelander blinks, but does as he is told, licking the pad of his finger. He is tasting salt. Is he sweating? It so rarely happens to him.

"Give me your finger."

Again, Homelander complies. The Frenchman gently piles something onto the tip of his pointer finger, a white-ish powder that he previously kept in a small, red-rimmed plastic bag. He gestures at Homelander to wait, then repeats the procedure with his own finger.

"Do as I do."

Homelander, to his own surprise, barely hesitates. He puts his finger in his mouth only half a second after the Frenchman, repeats the movement of rubbing along his gums, then licks off whatever is still there, wincing at the taste. His mouth feels strange now.

The Frenchman looks at him with wonder. "More shy about the dancing than the MDMA. You never even asked what it was, choupinet."

"What?"

"MDMA. Molly. Makes it easier to dance. Makes you want to let yourself fall." The Frenchman's dark eyes look soft, even in the unnatural light of their surroundings. Dark seas of gentleness. Now, with a bit of a feverish haze. "Is it hard for you, to fall, when all you learned to do is flying?"

"I wasn't really asking- I- What did you call me?"

The man chuckles. "Choupinet." He leans forward, almost as if he wants to whisper it into Homelander's ear. "Sweet thing."

He's flirting, Homelander's mind provides, entirely unhelpfully. He can tell that this is flirting. He isn't stupid. But he is surprised at the audacity! He could kill this man on the spot. They are, currently, engaged in the work of trying to find ways to kill the other. This is just one night of- One night, damnit! "How long will it last?"

"A few hours. If you have a meeting in the morning, that might be a problem, but, uh- You can perhaps manage. The comedown is easier for supes."

"I feel nothing."

"It takes a bit to show its effects. Let's keep dancing."

Homelander is beginning to see what the Frenchman meant as he stands up to follow him back onto the dancefloor. He wouldn't consider himself dizzy, but the world is definitely swaying. Or perhaps it is himself who is moving, snakelike, contorting himself to fit through the mass of bodies.

He can feel the crowd around him, and moving with them is easier than thinking about the intricacies of dancing. He's distantly reminded of a worry he used to have, but he can't quite remember it at the moment. It was something silly, surely.

Their former space feels almost reserved for them, and they slot themselves back into the crowd easily, except the room they had to themselves seems to have shrunk - or, perhaps, they have gotten closer to each other. Homelander can feel the heat of the Frenchman's body now, on his own skin. Maybe this is why he told me to leave the shirt open like that, he thinks, nonsensically, almost about to open his mouth and ask the Frenchman whether that was the case, but then thinks better of it.

"It's working, oui?"

The Frenchman's heartbeat is so loud, or perhaps that is the music. Homelander can't quite tell. He doesn't find the words to reply, but he's nodding, hardly knowing what he's agreeing to. It's definitely working.

Homelander makes the concerted effort to close his eyes, his hearing automatically trying to jump in and make up for the one missing sense. He just barely resists the urge to clamp his hands over his ears with the sudden sharpness of it, but instead channels the impulse into grabbing the Frenchman. There's a surprised yelp in the darkness (briefly interrupted every two seconds by the flashing light), then a laugh as Homelander's grip around the man's arms weakens.

He's swaying, head thrown back, lips hurting from how much a smile is pulling them wide. His body is light, so light that he isn't sure he's not lifting off the ground. He only knows this levity from flying. He so wants to tell the Frenchman about flying. He wants to tell him about many, many things. Above all, how they aren't close enough, but that gets rectified when Homelander feels hands at his waist. He isn't opening his eyes at all, finds the Frenchman's body in return, blind, and mirrors him, pushes him closer so they can move together. If this is dancing, he's been missing out. This pesky, stupid human was right. He was fucking right.

He gets pulled forward suddenly, and Homelander loses his rhythm, stumbles into the Frenchman's arms entirely, and they both laugh it off. Finally, he opens his eyes. Everything is more colorful, the shades swimming into each other. The Frenchman leans forward to whisper in his ear: "I promise you, solemnly, whatever happens tonight, nobody will find out. No pictures, no paps."

They're prophetic words, clearly, because the man has picked up on whatever is happening between them. Homelander can tell, but he can't care. The Frenchman speaks to a worry that currently feels so far from Homelander's conscious thought. He knows he should listen, should heed his words, perhaps be extra careful and say 'no,' push the man away, but what he does instead is pull him closer, so they are chest to chest, and lean down to capture his mouth.

It is hunger that overtakes him, desperate and all-encompassing, a hunger that seeps from his very pores, that extends to everything, his skin, even his hair. He wants to be close, and no closeness seems close enough, not when he holds the man to his body, not when he kisses him, not when he opens his mouth on a moan, wide enough to make his jaw ache, and the tips of their tongues touch.

A clumsy girl is bumping into them, and Homelander can hear her voice, almost drowned out by the music, as she says, "Shit, 'xcuse me... Oh wow, okay, you guys are gone-gone."

Homelander is painfully hard, cock aching in the confines of the already tight jeans, more so each time their bodies meet. Anticipating the right movements comes easier now, letting his limbs do all the work for him, entwined with another body. He is beginning to understand why the Frenchman asked him about sex.

The Frenchman, seemingly prophetic again, gets on his tippy-toes and presses his lips very close to Homelander's ear. "Come with me," he whispers, the hot gush of air against his skin enough to make Homelander shudder.

The man takes him by the hand and leads him away from the dancefloor. It takes some maneuvering, the mass of bodies around them leaving Homelander disoriented, and trying to x-ray his way forward causes him to nearly stumble. The strobe lights are overloading his already sensitive eyes. He's holding onto the Frenchman's hand like a lifeline. He almost doesn't want to leave. "Can we go back after?" he hears himself ask. "I was having fuuun."

Stepping out into the maze of hallways feels like stumbling upon a new world. It's dark out here, the only light source the neon signs pointing out where the toilets are. They're not going there. The Frenchman seems to have a destination in mind and drags Homelander along.

They arrive at an empty room, all black and quiet corners, stairways, not outside, but clearly a place that doesn't see much use. Well. Not much use as a club.

The corners of this place aren't nearly as quiet as Homelander originally thought. There's shapes writhing in the dark, and with his senses as muddied as they are, it takes him a few blinks to recognize them as human bodies. Couples. Busy couples. One man has his hands down a woman's top, kneading her breasts as she lets out staccato groans. Another man is pinning a woman against the wall, her already short skirt hiked up some more. They're having sex, barely a wall away from all the dancing. Out in the open.

Moans fill the air, sounding almost like whispers against the backdrop of the bass still hammering in Homelander's ears. This is a pandaemonium of debauchery unlike anything he has ever seen. It is the reason he avoids Herogasm like the plague, but now, with everything crashing down on him all at once, it elicits a moan of his own, his cock throbbing almost in sympathy. And yet-

"There's other people here," Homelander manages to say. "I don't-"

"Ssh." The Frenchman's finger gently traces the line of his upper lip to shush him. "They can't see us the way you see them. It's too dark for a human to see. And they can't hear each other, either. Besides, they are busy making love." He presses his lips to Homelander's briefly, almost chaste compared to what they were doing on the dancefloor. "Let's do as they do." And with that, the Frenchman unceremoniously drops to his knees and unbuckles Homelander's jeans.

A giggle falls from Homelander's lips. "This is familiar soil," he says, tongue feeling much too heavy to properly speak. Despite every syllable slurring together, the Frenchman understands him.

"They say how a man dances is how he fucks." He pulls the waistband of Homelander's underwear down a bit with his finger, kisses his hipbone, tries to suck a hickey into it. To no avail. "But you," he whispers in hot puffs of air against Homelander's skin, "you remain a mystery."

"I think I danced fairly well," Homelander complains, put off by how whiny he sounds, trying to whisper, trying to choke back a moan.

"You remain a mystery," the Frenchman repeats, clearly rambling at this point, perhaps unaware he is talking, his ministrations continuing. "But not for long."

Homelander gasps out a shocked little noise as the Frenchman's hot mouth descends upon his dick, envelops it in hot and velvety wetness. His hips jerk, and the man doesn't even hesitate. He takes him as deep as Homelander wants, no holding back, no gagging, and no resistance as he swallows around him.

Every bob of the man's head leaves Homelander breathless, his sounds strange and weak to his ears. His fingers are digging into the stone wall behind him, hearing it crack, feeling the dust crumble underneath his palms, rain down to the floor. He's drawn tight like a bowstring, but he's still moving in a rhythm, hips jerking forward of their own accord.

The Frenchman is clearly enjoying himself, moaning in appreciation on every lurch forward, an artist sure of his craft, his tongue easily working the head of Homelander's dick. He's received many a blowjob in his life, but none like this.

Every so often, the man lets Homelander's dick fall out of his mouth for a second, leaving it to bob in the cool air, while he lays kisses onto every inch of it, holding the desperate thing still with his hand. He's mumbling words. Homelander's ears couldn't pick them out among the music if he tried, but he's almost entirely certain it's all French anyway, the sound of it foreign, pausing every few seconds for further licks and kisses. Nobody, nobody has ever sucked him off like this.

It's quickly becoming too much: the sounds around them, the music pumping through his veins to the rhythm of his pulse, everything heightened, every sensation magnified. The still-present thrill of being in public. The fact Homelander can hear, smell, feel other couples in the dark, doing as they do, mouths slack and moaning. Their pleasure is contagious, and it's what finally drags him towards the edge and unceremoniously drops him off.

"Fuck," he manages to say, hands scrambling for purchase on the Frenchman's shorn head, pushing him down further onto his dick, "fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, fuck, 'm gonna-" His knees are threatening to go weak, but the Frenchman presses him into the wall, keeping him steady enough, even as Homelander's hips jerk, the throat he's fucking swallowing convulsively but willingly, not wasting a singlular drop.

The drugs must be fucking with his powers because he was sure he'd kill the man with how hard he was holding onto him, but the Frenchman is perfectly fine when Homelander is beginning to regain feeling in his extremities. His dick feels entirely too sensitive entirely too fast, and he winces as the Frenchman pulls back. That extravagant fuck places one last kiss goodbye onto the tip of his quickly softening length, and Homelander can't help the whine that escapes him at the over-the-top tenderness of that gesture.

"Now this," the man says as he gets up off the floor, looking entirely too put-together for a man who spent the past few minutes sucking dick in a dingy club, "I clearly did not have to help you with. You, mon choupinet, are good. How is a man so uptight able to cum this hard? Huh? I've never seen it before."

Homelander feels like he's come apart at the seams, so all he does is nod. It was probably a compliment, but he's too confused to know for certain.

The Frenchman gets up off his knees, and even though Homelander is distantly aware of not exactly being excited about tasting his own semen in the man's mouth, he kisses him immediately, missing that mouth too much to hold back. The Frenchman, ever the multitasker, is making sure Homelander is tucked back into the borrowed jeans. "More laundry for me," he jokes, and Homelander chuckles at it.

They remain there for a bit, trading kisses and touches, caressing each other's cheeks with their lashes. Homelander doesn't know how long it has been, but where before time has lost all meaning, it is slowly coming back. As is the realization that- No. Too soon for all forms of realizations.

"You want to come home with me?" the Frenchman asks.

"I should go to the Tower," Homelander replies, and even he can tell he sounds whiny about it, like a boy.

"Not like this, you won't. I promised you discretion." The Frenchman cups his cheek, then lets his hand travel down to his neck. Homelander can feel his own blood pump in his veins against the man's fingers. "Come, choupinet."

It is thankfully not far. New York doesn't feel properly real. It looks like a film set, all technicolor. Homelander's ears are ringing in the sudden silence once they leave the club. The Frenchman is fumbling with his keys once they reach the door to his home, only getting them in on the fourth try. They find this incredibly funny for some reason, still laughing about it when they are inside.

"Sit down, sit down," the Frenchman offers and haphazardly pulls things off the couch to make room for Homelander to get seated. Empty take-out, used needles, and books about Sartre's philosophy swept onto the floor by his unsteady fingers, and Homelander plops down so hard the sofa creaks. "Can I get you something to drink, chou-chou?"

"Uh... yep. Milk."

The Frenchman blinks. Homelander's cheeks are beginning to burn. This loose intoxicated tongue will be the end of him. How long do these drugs last?! How unfair is it that he can tell he is talking crap, but can't stop himself? What twilight state is this? But before he can apologize and prepare to swallow down whatever putrid booze the man will no doubt feed him, the Frenchman walks away and returns quicker than Homelander can collect his words - with a glass of milk, cool and fresh.

That opens the floodgates for reasons unknown, and before he knows it, Homelander is sobbing. He clumsily wipes his palm over his face. Despite his chest constricting with sobs, he's surprised to find his hand wet when he pulls it away. "Why am I crying?" he asks, helpless all of a sudden.

"Just the comedown," the Frenchman reassures him, and he doesn't sound particularly upset by it, which feels unbearably upsetting to Homelander. Aren't his tears worth more than a shrug and a few comforting words? He so desperately wants to stop crying. But he will admit that the warm arms that wrap themselves around him and pull him close enough to listen to the Frenchman's heartbeat feel good enough to quell whatever gash of sadness has just opened up inside of him. "All the feelings have to come out. This is a better way than puking them up."

Homelander takes a sip of the milk and has a hard time putting it down without spilling any. The Frenchman helps him, somehow already less affected by the drugs (or simply used to them?), sets the glass down without any spillage and turns on the TV in the same second. "You know what I watch when I am sad? The Golden Girls! Now that is a show about friendship, and love, and if I show you anything else tonight, it is this. I used to..." The Frenchman pauses, swallows hard. Homelander looks up at him, only now realizing he has somehow cuddled into the man without consciously even moving. "I watched this alone, in another life, and afterwards with friends, in another-another, often after we came home from the club and couldn't sleep. And now here I am, watching it with you."

"Never seen it," Homelander admits.

"Let me broaden your mind one last time tonight, then. So, Dorothy..."

Homelander never really finds out what Dorothy is doing, or perhaps he did find out and simply can't recall being told. He can't, for the life of him, remember the plot of the episode. All he remembers are white-haired ladies living it up.

The morning finds him finding out it's actually noon. There's 14 texts from Ashley on his phone, and more missed calls that he knows he won't answer. The Frenchman appears to be an early bird, and he is very ready to offer Homelander a late breakfast, chipper as always, but the druggy haze is gone, and Homelander seriously plays with the idea of killing him after all.

Perhaps he wishes he had forgotten more than the plot of The Golden Girls. Perhaps.

"I will be seeing you," he tells the Frenchman, formal but curt, after he's zipped the costume up. "Under different circumstances."

The Frenchman, to Homelander's surprise, doesn't look sad or disappointed. "Fly home, choupinet. Don't forget to tap your feet every once in a while, hm?"