teaic | (no subject)

WHO: Grant Parker & Sebastien St Pierre
WHERE: The canteen
WHEN: Monday, June 8, afternoon
WHAT: Two exes clear the air (insufferably)
WARNINGS: N/A

The overwhelming ferocity of the rage and heartbreak that overtook him upon seeing Sébastien St Pierre’s name had surprised Grant. It had been four years, and he had so meticulously packaged up every memory and reminder of the other man into neatly organized boxes and stored them where they would be the only thing in his life to gather dust. And yet, clearly some miniscule fragment of emotion had remained — it was the only explanation for why it took all of his considerable willpower to not pen a scathing, vitriolic response for all to see.

But Grant Parker had been doing hard, nearly impossible things his entire life, and so he took the high road, instead making a bland comment and taking satisfaction in imagining Sébastien’s face as he (if he - a thought he refused to acknowledge) recognized Grant’s name.

Unlike the conversation with Theodore, Grant had to concede that even this trivial back and forth with Sébastien unnerved him. He retrieved his laptop from where he’d been working at the kitchen table and stood. It wasn’t until he was safely locked in his room, with its minimal belongings and particular organization, that he allowed himself to release a shaky breath. Even if Bastien (and how quickly that diminutive returned to haunt him) seemed unmoved by his presence, Grant was not leaving anything to chance.

Decisively, he sat at his desk, removing a piece of stationary from a drawer, and penned a quick note:

Sébastien,

It appears we will be working together in some capacity going forward. In order to mitigate any potential wrinkles in either of our professional lives, I propose we meet once for tea to clear the air.

I will see you this afternoon at the food hall at half past four.

Regards,
G. Parker

It did not assuage the storm of emotions battering at his walls, but it was a start.

–

At a quarter after, Grant retrieved the pot of tea, two cups, and several packets of sugar before staking claim to a table in a quieter area of the hall to wait. The idea that Bastien would not show had not even crossed his mind: for all of the things that he had allowed himself to remember the night before, punctuality was a core part of his personality, as was privacy. With the knowledge that Grant was here, he doubted Sébastien would not jump at the chance to attempt to control the narrative about how they knew each other.

He poured himself a cup, added two sugars, and waited.

At four-thirty on the dot, like Gonzo—sorry, Charles Dickens—predicting Scrooge's entrance in the first act of A Muppet Christmas Carol, Sébastien swept into the canteen. The note had burnt a hole in his pocket ever since he'd stood at his designated St Pierre, Dr Sébastien pigeon hole and considered leaving yet another home without warning.

He didn't want to face Grant, he didn't want to clear any air, and he certainly didn't want to draw lines down the middle of their lives. He didn't want this; a lot like he didn't want any of the twisting, writhing, awful knots his chest was tumbling into and which felt uncomfortably close to guilt.

(Not wanting to do any of these things didn't keep him from dressing in the most flattering polo shirt in his wardrobe. It's legal for man to experience an existential crisis and want to look good at the same time.)

He slid the note onto the tabletop between them as he took the seat opposite Grant. And since he was given four hours to devise the most effective and efficient greeting, the one that simultaneously screamed Why would you come here? and I'm sorry., he deployed it: "Hello, Grant."

“Sébastien.” The word was cool, devoid of any of the warmth the syllables once inspired. He let himself scan over the other man’s figure, noting with no small amount of ire that he still looked quite good. Perhaps it had been too much to ask that he’d let himself go in the intervening years. Still, despite the annoyed slant of his thoughts, Grant set his cup down, hands still curled around the cheap porcelain, and met his ex’s eyes. Keep this professional. Conceal, don’t feel. “Thank you for meeting me. I assume your diary is quite packed, so I shall keep this brief. How would you like to go about this?”

Sébastien knew he shouldn't take the distance personally, given not only the note he'd left their relationship on but also the way they'd been in public even when they had been an allegedly happy couple, but having to face the fallout from his biggest failure yet stung. And in the canteen? The canteen at work? He could feel his dignity index plummet with every heartbeat. Someone should teach Grant about the more anonymous cafés in neighbouring villages but it wouldn't be Seb.

"No one at the agency is aware of our history, my sister notwithstanding," he replied, pouring himself a cup, stream and voice both steadier than the rest of him felt thanks to a lifetime of practice. "You have a clean slate."

This was all very impersonal and it put Grant at ease. Four years was surely enough time that they could put aside their differences (Sébastien walking out of a half decade long relationship with only a note) and co-exist. Peacefully. He took another sip of his tea. “Ah, yes. Simone is in my cohort. I did not think she would say anything and thus I evaluated her as low on my risk analysis.” The other man raised an eyebrow—people underestimated Simone at their peril—but said nothing.

“And as we are likely to be in different departments, it’s unlikely that our paths should cross. That should suit you, I assume?” And, before he could bite back the acerbically petty remark, added: “After all, you made your wishes clear and I simply wish to respect them.”

Why, exactly, was Grant allowed to be so relaxed, and why wasn't Seb? The realization that his ex had the upper hand was enough to slap Sébastien out of his wallow session — this was the life he'd built for himself. Without Grant.

He'd apologized in his letter and that should suffice. Obviously, Grant had done well without him. Feeling guilty was pointless, distracting, unproductive.

He ripped open a packet of sugar and, as he poured it into his tea, he opened doors. Inside he shoved: the hair he used to slide his fingers through when he'd push Grant against the wall; the fingers—holding a cup of tea, across from him, at the end of the world—that used to trail over his shoulders and down his chest; and those dark eyes that first drew him in ten years ago. Grant's voice; the way everything felt right when Sébastien tilted his head back to study his face, toe-to-toe; how he takes his tea. He stirred his sugar in, not locking the door but welding it shut. And then blowing up the entire building before launching the detritus into outer space for good measure.

Sébastien St Pierre was nothing if not thorough.

"Our paths will cross," he corrected, "and requesting different assignments will only arouse suspicion, as would lying outright about the nature of our history." He paused for a sip. (The sugar was a terrible idea, he should have known better than to trust sweetener that comes in a single-serving paper bag.) "We knew one another at Oxford, perhaps we came across each other in London. We can be civil."

A complicated knot of feelings tightened in his chest when he realized he could still read the impassivity of Bastien’s face: the slight downturn of lips, the hard set of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. Grant’s fingers itched to reach across, smooth away the turmoil and bring some light to that darkness.

He'd never liked when Bastien was conflicted.

Grant's fingers tightened around the teacup. “Of course,” he replied smoothly, not letting his thoughts color his voice even as he wondered if Sébastien could still read him like an open book. “I never intended to not be civil, Bastien.”

The slight downturn deepened — something about Grant using diminutives didn't slot in comfortably around his formality or remarks' bitterness. But the thought of misinterpreting anything made Sébastien want to go on a mission where he could die a dramatic and graphic death, so he pushed it aside.

"I didn't expect otherwise but 'cordial' seemed like a hair too far. What other air would you like cleared?"

“We are essentially strangers, so ‘cordial’ might be the correct descriptor.” Grant could not quite keep the bitterness from his voice and took a sip of tea to sweeten it. He hadn't chosen this, but the coolness with which Sébastien was handling it all only reaffirmed what he'd suspected: he'd been looking for a way out, and Grant's arrival was as equally as unwanted as Grant himself had been.

Setting the cup down, he reached into his pocket and removed a check and a small box. He slid them across the table. “Your half of the price the flat sold for, and the cufflinks you left behind.”

Ah. Two more things he neither wanted nor deserved, and he was sure Grant knew.

When he popped open the box to inspect the cufflinks—his own sentimental item that he'd left with the letter and his keys the day he'd left London—he found that they... weren't covered in red paint like he may have done (would have done) but instead were well cared for. Polished. Perhaps a bit more worn, but that's what cuff links were for, and neither emeralds nor gold were known for their ability to withstand nuclear blasts.

He snapped the lid shut and duct-taped his revelation to the space-bound detritus. "You weren't aware I would be here," he pointed out, tapping it with one (immaculate) nail.

“No.” The word was a concession and admission all at once. The check was a personal one of Grant’s — after all, he’d had no forwarding information to pass the original funds along to — and easily explained. After all, a glance at it showed the date as the current one, the address field already updated to the one he had been provided at intake. But the cufflinks.

Another sip and a moue of distaste flickered over his face as he registered the tea had cooled. “I’m not certain what you thought I would do with them,” he remarked. “I assumed you left them by accident, and it would have been extraordinarily petty of me to pawn them.”

That he was, indeed, that petty lay between them.

Sébastien already knew he wasn't born among the ranks of the tender but somehow, palming the small velvet box felt like someone painted that on a billboard right outside his kitchen window so he'd be reminded of it during his daily negotiations with the espresso machine. Now, he wasn't sure if he was any different from the version of himself who'd left London four years ago. Wishful thinking, apparently; this was nothing but a business transaction.

"As you said, my diary is quite packed." The check followed the cufflinks into his pocket, folded crisply in half, while he gathered his mostly-full teacup and saucer. "Thank you for returning my belongings."

Grant couldn’t help the feeling that this had gone as well as possible and as horribly as possible. The urge to reach out, try to coax him to stay just a moment longer warred with his own desire to be as far away from here. Away from Sébastien and the empty helplessness he inspired.

Sentimentality and feelings that ought to have smothered in the four years of silence since they last saw each other had no place here.

“I appreciate your time,” Grant said coolly, gathering his own cup. “I wish you the best.” The word choked him, still he forced it out. “I hope this life is everything you wanted.” With that, he stood and turned, unable or unwilling to see confirmation flash over Sébastien’s face. “Have a good day, Bas—Sébastien.”