sébastien st pierre 🔱 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
craquelure) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
teaic2025-06-12 10:28 am
craquelure) wrote in teaic2025-06-12 10:28 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
WHO: Simone & Sébastien St Pierre
WHEN: Orientation weekend
WHERE: Simone's apartment
WHAT: "Unpacking"
WARNINGS: N/A
In a rural part of England, on a top-secret government base, in an apartment building, in a two-bedroom unit, in a bedroom, there are... a lot of boxes. A lot of boxes and two people.
One of these people is not helping.
Sitting on the only real seat available (an office chair), Sébastien stretches out his legs and rests loafered feet on a cardboard box. He doesn't pause to look at the label in case it's something his sister might need soon. She can ask.
"This chair came from Torture R Us, I'm buying you a new one next week." He shifts so he can pull a well-worn notebook from his pocket and the chair emits something between a squeak and a creak; Seb looks like he's just seen a rat in the corner of the room. "Leather. Not made from reclaimed cartoon hammers."
Simone, actually unpacking but only by definition, pauses and turns to give her brother a look that can only be described as withering.
The unpacking can not go any slower, because she is pausing so much and getting distracted trying to find the perfect new spot for it with almost each thing that comes out of a box.
"Leather chairs stick when you get hot and sweaty." she points out, already deciding that the chair her brother was in would be the clothing chair: the one for clothes that were too clean for the laundry and too worn for the closet.
"Don't get hot and sweaty and don't buy vegan leather," Sébastien replies, flipping through the book until he finds what he's looking for: a list. A list is almost like a helping hand.
He scratches off a couple lines with a fountain pen, writes Simo, Office chair, lthr in an unnecessarily loopy script on the next page. Pauses, remembers what the agency-provided glassware was like when he was an intern, and adds Gw: Wine, R/W in case he ever decides to visit his sister again.
(Would it be better or worse than her visiting him? He hasn't decided.)
"Your cohort seems eclectic." He's decided it's less offensive than 'bizarre.'
"Not my fault. At least they aren't full of unresolved sexual tension like half your colleagues." Simone counters, but having enough grace not to name names. The amount of chatter on the network is so distracting and overwhelming that she is not even sure that she has replied to everything she needs to, but the FOMO of not catching up on potential work gossip is a siren call unlike no other.
"You will tell me all about who to befriend and who to avoid, yes?" she asks lightly but pointedly.
He shoots her a level look and turns the page, wondering why she was unpacking so slowly. Never mind how his own arrival was his first time without hiring movers — and thus an unmitigated disaster. But now he's older and wiser and can pretend it never happened.
"All of our colleagues live and work in a closed loop, Simo. I give your class one generous month before the first love triangle rears its ugly head. And I'm not the social butterfly, if I'm to introduce you to ready-made friends you'll find their numbers lacking." There's another look, more pointed this time but with none of the lightness her tone carried, mostly because he's no good at it. "Which I'd have told you beforehand if you'd given me the opportunity."
"You love surprises." Simone replies cheerily with a laugh. (They both know he does not but that is besides the point).
She takes a bright red throw from a box and holds it up, wondering if she wants to keep it in her own room or on the couch to bring a bit of colour to the otherwise bland apartment.
"I will take your bet, but I think it will be two months. This first month, everyone will be too busy with the workload. And there are too many awkward ducks, and not enough…" she pauses to find the right word, without being insulting, "Free-minded individuals."
Seb doesn't even look up from tomorrow's to-do list (four pages back) when he says, dry as the canteen's scrambled eggs: "'Sluts' is a compliment now."
"Not everyone agrees." Simone retorts, and wonders if she should show him her favourite crop top. Maybe once she figures out which box it is in.
"Is tomorrow a smart casual or casual casual event?" she asks instead, knowing that if there is one thing her brother is good for, it is fashion advice.
Judgment on other people's choices just happens to come with the territory — after all, she's asking the one who wore suits for the entire first month of his internship. (He even tried to wear one for the fitness test on the grounds that 'If it's an emergency I'm unlikely to be wearing running shorts' but was overruled.) "Everyone who wore distressed jeans in my cohort washed out before the new year," he replies sagely, taking off his glasses to rub them between the fabric of his cardigan.
He can barely tell the boxes apart when they're this blurry. Then again, he couldn't do it when he could see them, either, because he has no idea what's even inside. Or what most of Simone's adult life is like. Is that blob over there full of... bongs? Could the brown mass in the corner contain untold skeins of acrylic yarn? Sébastien shudders.
"Has it occured to you that we haven't resided on the same property since you were eleven?" Since he picked up his life and moved to Oxford, stubbornly insisting he'd make a name for himself on his own and please ignore the trust fund that funded said venture.
Eleven felt like a lifetime ago and Simone shudders herself.
Growing up and hitting puberty as a daughter to a model hit different, and she never wants to be reminded of those dark times ever again. Sébastien is lucky to have missed all the drama and rebellion that Simone rained on their home at the time.
It will be different now however. Now that they are both adults with successful careers—hers more of course—and healthy self-esteems. (Probably). She squares her shoulders and rummages through a box, pulling up her one and only pair of dress slacks. "I will wear these instead of distressed jeans then."
Glasses on and the world once again actually visible, Sébastien tilts his head to the side. Grey. Classic. They're acceptable — appropriate, even. But it came to his attention that he can't resist tempering a compliment, and even though it wasn't Simone who said so, he feels like making that someone else's problem, like the needling's energy will float through air and start jabbing them in the back of the neck, like they deserve.
He rolls his hands forward, urging her on. "With...? Formal halter tops and business-casual crop tops are Internet myths."
It is high praise indeed, coming from her brother.
She smiles sweetly, and says nothing as if she's keeping a great secret. She throws the pair of slacks on the bed, amid the other random things that she's unearthed but yet to find a place for.
"You'll have to see tomorrow."
Something in this room has Sébastien's been disturbed. So very deeply disturbed. But is it the second-hand embarrassment from imagining his sister waltzing into the board room wearing a tie-dye tube top, or is it the fact that she just tossed a pair of wool slacks onto a pile of crap?
It's both. And it's enough for him to finally put his bullet journal aside and get off his butt. "Coat hangers," he almost hisses, indignant in the face of wronged office wear. "Which box?"
Simone made a face of confusion, tinged with distaste, "Why would I bring coat hangers? I have enough stuff to bring. There's stores here, yes?"
A strangled little sound escapes Seb's throat before he can stop it but it doesn't matter — he's already rescued the slacks, smoothed out the creases, and folded them in half over the back of the chair. Which he can't even sit in now. French is great when you want to communicate displeasure! "Oui."
"Then you can go shopping for coat hangers." You clearly meaning Sebastien and not us, Sebastien and Simone. Coat hangers were something she did need but unlike her brother, they weren't a necessity of life. (He's already back to scribbling in the notebook: Hangers, ∞.)
"Thank you, favourite big brother."
"De rien, favourite, least favourite, and only little sister."
WHEN: Orientation weekend
WHERE: Simone's apartment
WHAT: "Unpacking"
WARNINGS: N/A
In a rural part of England, on a top-secret government base, in an apartment building, in a two-bedroom unit, in a bedroom, there are... a lot of boxes. A lot of boxes and two people.
One of these people is not helping.
Sitting on the only real seat available (an office chair), Sébastien stretches out his legs and rests loafered feet on a cardboard box. He doesn't pause to look at the label in case it's something his sister might need soon. She can ask.
"This chair came from Torture R Us, I'm buying you a new one next week." He shifts so he can pull a well-worn notebook from his pocket and the chair emits something between a squeak and a creak; Seb looks like he's just seen a rat in the corner of the room. "Leather. Not made from reclaimed cartoon hammers."
Simone, actually unpacking but only by definition, pauses and turns to give her brother a look that can only be described as withering.
The unpacking can not go any slower, because she is pausing so much and getting distracted trying to find the perfect new spot for it with almost each thing that comes out of a box.
"Leather chairs stick when you get hot and sweaty." she points out, already deciding that the chair her brother was in would be the clothing chair: the one for clothes that were too clean for the laundry and too worn for the closet.
"Don't get hot and sweaty and don't buy vegan leather," Sébastien replies, flipping through the book until he finds what he's looking for: a list. A list is almost like a helping hand.
He scratches off a couple lines with a fountain pen, writes Simo, Office chair, lthr in an unnecessarily loopy script on the next page. Pauses, remembers what the agency-provided glassware was like when he was an intern, and adds Gw: Wine, R/W in case he ever decides to visit his sister again.
(Would it be better or worse than her visiting him? He hasn't decided.)
"Your cohort seems eclectic." He's decided it's less offensive than 'bizarre.'
"Not my fault. At least they aren't full of unresolved sexual tension like half your colleagues." Simone counters, but having enough grace not to name names. The amount of chatter on the network is so distracting and overwhelming that she is not even sure that she has replied to everything she needs to, but the FOMO of not catching up on potential work gossip is a siren call unlike no other.
"You will tell me all about who to befriend and who to avoid, yes?" she asks lightly but pointedly.
He shoots her a level look and turns the page, wondering why she was unpacking so slowly. Never mind how his own arrival was his first time without hiring movers — and thus an unmitigated disaster. But now he's older and wiser and can pretend it never happened.
"All of our colleagues live and work in a closed loop, Simo. I give your class one generous month before the first love triangle rears its ugly head. And I'm not the social butterfly, if I'm to introduce you to ready-made friends you'll find their numbers lacking." There's another look, more pointed this time but with none of the lightness her tone carried, mostly because he's no good at it. "Which I'd have told you beforehand if you'd given me the opportunity."
"You love surprises." Simone replies cheerily with a laugh. (They both know he does not but that is besides the point).
She takes a bright red throw from a box and holds it up, wondering if she wants to keep it in her own room or on the couch to bring a bit of colour to the otherwise bland apartment.
"I will take your bet, but I think it will be two months. This first month, everyone will be too busy with the workload. And there are too many awkward ducks, and not enough…" she pauses to find the right word, without being insulting, "Free-minded individuals."
Seb doesn't even look up from tomorrow's to-do list (four pages back) when he says, dry as the canteen's scrambled eggs: "'Sluts' is a compliment now."
"Not everyone agrees." Simone retorts, and wonders if she should show him her favourite crop top. Maybe once she figures out which box it is in.
"Is tomorrow a smart casual or casual casual event?" she asks instead, knowing that if there is one thing her brother is good for, it is fashion advice.
Judgment on other people's choices just happens to come with the territory — after all, she's asking the one who wore suits for the entire first month of his internship. (He even tried to wear one for the fitness test on the grounds that 'If it's an emergency I'm unlikely to be wearing running shorts' but was overruled.) "Everyone who wore distressed jeans in my cohort washed out before the new year," he replies sagely, taking off his glasses to rub them between the fabric of his cardigan.
He can barely tell the boxes apart when they're this blurry. Then again, he couldn't do it when he could see them, either, because he has no idea what's even inside. Or what most of Simone's adult life is like. Is that blob over there full of... bongs? Could the brown mass in the corner contain untold skeins of acrylic yarn? Sébastien shudders.
"Has it occured to you that we haven't resided on the same property since you were eleven?" Since he picked up his life and moved to Oxford, stubbornly insisting he'd make a name for himself on his own and please ignore the trust fund that funded said venture.
Eleven felt like a lifetime ago and Simone shudders herself.
Growing up and hitting puberty as a daughter to a model hit different, and she never wants to be reminded of those dark times ever again. Sébastien is lucky to have missed all the drama and rebellion that Simone rained on their home at the time.
It will be different now however. Now that they are both adults with successful careers—hers more of course—and healthy self-esteems. (Probably). She squares her shoulders and rummages through a box, pulling up her one and only pair of dress slacks. "I will wear these instead of distressed jeans then."
Glasses on and the world once again actually visible, Sébastien tilts his head to the side. Grey. Classic. They're acceptable — appropriate, even. But it came to his attention that he can't resist tempering a compliment, and even though it wasn't Simone who said so, he feels like making that someone else's problem, like the needling's energy will float through air and start jabbing them in the back of the neck, like they deserve.
He rolls his hands forward, urging her on. "With...? Formal halter tops and business-casual crop tops are Internet myths."
It is high praise indeed, coming from her brother.
She smiles sweetly, and says nothing as if she's keeping a great secret. She throws the pair of slacks on the bed, amid the other random things that she's unearthed but yet to find a place for.
"You'll have to see tomorrow."
Something in this room has Sébastien's been disturbed. So very deeply disturbed. But is it the second-hand embarrassment from imagining his sister waltzing into the board room wearing a tie-dye tube top, or is it the fact that she just tossed a pair of wool slacks onto a pile of crap?
It's both. And it's enough for him to finally put his bullet journal aside and get off his butt. "Coat hangers," he almost hisses, indignant in the face of wronged office wear. "Which box?"
Simone made a face of confusion, tinged with distaste, "Why would I bring coat hangers? I have enough stuff to bring. There's stores here, yes?"
A strangled little sound escapes Seb's throat before he can stop it but it doesn't matter — he's already rescued the slacks, smoothed out the creases, and folded them in half over the back of the chair. Which he can't even sit in now. French is great when you want to communicate displeasure! "Oui."
"Then you can go shopping for coat hangers." You clearly meaning Sebastien and not us, Sebastien and Simone. Coat hangers were something she did need but unlike her brother, they weren't a necessity of life. (He's already back to scribbling in the notebook: Hangers, ∞.)
"Thank you, favourite big brother."
"De rien, favourite, least favourite, and only little sister."
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