Clement was in a mood to cause some strife — the night was going well (as far as he’d experienced) and he’d quite like to cause something of interest to happen. Not anything that could be traced back to himself, of course, and even the alcohol fogging his mind didn’t stop him from keeping that self-preservation.
Ah, his thoughts said, Jack — my favourite.
Clement ordered another duo of gin and tonics, the slopping pouring of the gin matched with the splashes of tonic. He took the two drinks and sidled up to Jack, tilting his head back with a heavy head — making his neck curve nicely (if he were to say so himself) — as he stared up at the other boy with false-heavy lids. “Hey Jack,” he said in French, much preferring the fluidness of the language when speaking with the other than clunky English — if they both spoke it with such ease, why would they bother with something as ugly as that?
Clement’s smile looked friendly — perhaps even flirty, if one were to think that way of him, and it was intentional — in the dim of the cellar, but the words that followed were certainly anything but. “Did you have someone pick out that tacky shirt for you?” A pause. “Please say you did, or else that’s just disappointing.” A quick laugh, gentle — absolutely at odds with what he was saying — jumped his shoulders, making his head loll with them. “I brought you a drink, my friend.” He offered the second gin and tonic. “And my company; no need to thank me.”
