[That's Bruno's nickname, to be sure, but it feels right to use it here and now. Polnareff kisses his cheek again, his fingers sweeping over his skin. Not that he knows it, but bundled together, legs tangled and comfortably warm beneath their blanket, their thoughts are running along a similar vein right now.
It isn't the first time he's thought about children and Bruno. God, no; how could it be? Sometimes he thinks Bruno, too, has similar thoughts, but Polnareff nevers brings it up. That's a conversation that won't ever go anywhere and they both know it. It's a conversation that promises nothing but heartache, and yet--
And yet still, Polnareff thinks about it. He thinks about a cottage in France, and how empty and dark it must be there right now. The portraits are all still in their frames, but the beds are empty and the windows are dusty, and it's been years since anyone's made that house into a home.
He thinks about how nice it would be, to fill that house with laughter and love once again. How easily Bruno would fit in back in that little village in France, and how it would be, raising a child (or two, or three) with him. God knows he'd be good there. God, he'd be mobbed by all the neighborhood kids on sight; they'd learn in a second that he was secretly soft.
What would they do, finally able to get away from all the violence of their lives? Who knows. He thinks of how they first met, back in April; of that bizarre madness they'd all shared. Bruno had been a teacher then, hadn't he? Yeah. So maybe he'd be a teacher. He'd be good, he's patient like that. Maybe, hah, maybe he'd be a fisherman. Maybe he'd just stay home and fuss about cooking all day. He'd be good at whatever he chose, Polnareff has no doubt, and in the end, it wouldn't really matter what he did, because he'd be doing it alongside Polnareff.
And himself? Ah, well. He still doesn't have an answer to that question. Truth be told, he's tried not to think about it, because it's as pointless a question for him as it is for Bruno. His life has a set path. Thirteen years from now, sure as anything, he'll still be fighting. There'll be no filling that cottage in France, no matter how badly he wants to, and that's just the truth of it.
That's the trouble, really, with knowing the future. You can't change it. You can't even hope to change it. And it would have been nice, he thinks wistfully, to imagine they had some kind of chance at that domestic bliss.
His expression has grown pensive, he realizes belatedly, and blinks hard, snapping out of it. He smiles down at Bruno.]
Hey. You still gonna insist you're not falling asleep on me?
no subject
[That's Bruno's nickname, to be sure, but it feels right to use it here and now. Polnareff kisses his cheek again, his fingers sweeping over his skin. Not that he knows it, but bundled together, legs tangled and comfortably warm beneath their blanket, their thoughts are running along a similar vein right now.
It isn't the first time he's thought about children and Bruno. God, no; how could it be? Sometimes he thinks Bruno, too, has similar thoughts, but Polnareff nevers brings it up. That's a conversation that won't ever go anywhere and they both know it. It's a conversation that promises nothing but heartache, and yet--
And yet still, Polnareff thinks about it. He thinks about a cottage in France, and how empty and dark it must be there right now. The portraits are all still in their frames, but the beds are empty and the windows are dusty, and it's been years since anyone's made that house into a home.
He thinks about how nice it would be, to fill that house with laughter and love once again. How easily Bruno would fit in back in that little village in France, and how it would be, raising a child (or two, or three) with him. God knows he'd be good there. God, he'd be mobbed by all the neighborhood kids on sight; they'd learn in a second that he was secretly soft.
What would they do, finally able to get away from all the violence of their lives? Who knows. He thinks of how they first met, back in April; of that bizarre madness they'd all shared. Bruno had been a teacher then, hadn't he? Yeah. So maybe he'd be a teacher. He'd be good, he's patient like that. Maybe, hah, maybe he'd be a fisherman. Maybe he'd just stay home and fuss about cooking all day. He'd be good at whatever he chose, Polnareff has no doubt, and in the end, it wouldn't really matter what he did, because he'd be doing it alongside Polnareff.
And himself? Ah, well. He still doesn't have an answer to that question. Truth be told, he's tried not to think about it, because it's as pointless a question for him as it is for Bruno. His life has a set path. Thirteen years from now, sure as anything, he'll still be fighting. There'll be no filling that cottage in France, no matter how badly he wants to, and that's just the truth of it.
That's the trouble, really, with knowing the future. You can't change it. You can't even hope to change it. And it would have been nice, he thinks wistfully, to imagine they had some kind of chance at that domestic bliss.
His expression has grown pensive, he realizes belatedly, and blinks hard, snapping out of it. He smiles down at Bruno.]
Hey. You still gonna insist you're not falling asleep on me?