FIC : evening rituals
[Title:] Evening Rituals
[Setting:] AU. Modern day.
[Character(s):] Mireille & Jean Louis
[Summary:] On the rare occasion when they have to organize their rituals in sync.
They rarely retreat for the night at the same time, not on a working day. The weekends serve as a sanctuary, with a rhythm very different from the lives they live professionally. Separately. Nevertheless, he came home around 7 o’clock today, exceptionally early - in time for dinner and a cup of coffee in the living room while she made preparations for her lecture tomorrow. Now, while she has finished brushing her hair and changed into a negligee, he has been occupying the bathroom, the door ajar and light crawling over their parquetry floor. The daily visit from their cleaning operative has left the bedroom feeling fresh, the scent of detergent lingering in the air. Their house is of a size which requires the entirety of a week to get through, after which the cycle can recur, starting with their offices come Monday.
When she opens the door, he is in the middle of flushing his teeth - a ritual he never neglects, no matter how late he goes to bed or what hotel room they are occupying. At the sound of her naked feet against the tiles, his gaze meets hers in the large, chrome-framed mirror. The act is never very attractive to observe, but the results are highly appealing, isn’t that so? He does seem aware of how utterly ridiculous he looks, though, voice muffled and syllables clogging together when he speaks around the intimate interaction between his fingers and his mouth; I’m not done. Others would label it vanity, but good hygiene is not so much a personality trait as it is a choice in regards to appearance and appearances.
“So I see.”
Walking around him, she picks out one of the black facecloths scattered across the narrow, granite shelves hanging on the opposite wall. Like a clutter of Greek islands. Shelves and piles of flannel both. He is still watching her, when she stops next to him, waiting for the water to turn hot. Most of her make-up was removed before she began undressing, in the bathroom further down the hallway. Smaller, and originally designed to be at her disposal. A moment passes. Then, he bumps her shoulder with his own. It isn’t a shove, but definitely noticeable. She doesn’t react, sees no reason to. A second later, the movement is repeated. Harder this time. If nothing else, it is an impressive display of multi-tasking, seeing how he is still flushing his teeth, one after the other. He may be ten years older than her, but there are times when he acts as if he’s just ten, plain and simple. Perhaps males never quite outgrow that stage of immaturity.
Truly, if he would prefer his privacy, she shan’t be one to deny him something so insignificant. Private life is many things, of course; worth a fortune, in public and worth even more, between the two of them. Yet, it is a wealth that they share, isn't it? In compliance, she wrings out the drenched cloth - once, sloppily - before reaching up and placing it on his shoulder. The water soaking through his t-shirt within seconds. His reaction is immediate as he shrugs it off, obviously irritated, but she has turned around by the time it slides to the floor and if he is sending her a glare to accompany its fall, she doesn’t see it.
Only minutes later, he enters the bedroom, t-shirt discarded somewhere behind him and a few droplets trickling down his chest. In turn, she has been waiting for him. Naturally.