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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Aug 21, 2012 20:46:38 GMT -6
William MaCarthy
The dishwasher was out—again—and it was as if all of the dishes Bill and Damien owned decided to eschew their supplied job as dishes and joined forces to become a mountain. Really, he didn’t know how his mother did this for eight people every week when Bill could hardly do it for two. But there was something almost therapeutic about scrubbing porcelain until it glimmered in the florescent lights of the kitchen. Something about the smell of soap and the repetitive, circular motion of washing dishes lulled Bill into a less cynical trance to the point where the smell of week-old spaghetti sauce didn’t faze him much at all. He was perfectly content to stand there doing a chore he often bemoaned about in childhood, and just when he fell into some cyclical motion, his front door swung open and Damien’s voice boomed throughout the small apartment.
“BILL!!! I need you!!!”
Startled, Bill dropped the glass he had been wiping dry. The glass shattered and the shards danced across the floor, making a reflective, erratic mosaic on the hardwood. He looked down at his hand, which was bleeding from the sharp edges. It wasn’t a bad cut—he had certainly received worse—but he wrapped it up in a dishtowel nonetheless, should it decide to bleed profusely, swearing under his breath all the while.
He ran out into the living room where Damien stood, concern emblazoned on his face. Was his best friend hurt? Sad? What there a robber? Though Damien was known to overreact, Bill couldn’t help but worry that this might be different. “What is?” he gasped out. “What’s wrong?”
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Post by The Exodus on Aug 21, 2012 23:07:48 GMT -6
Damien Blackwood-Michaud
He’d aced the interview. Of course he had. Damien was a politician’s kid. Schmoozing and talking the talk were not only skill sets taught to him before kindergarten; they were ingrained in his genetic code. He could talk absolutely anyone with disposable income into sitting for him on the streets when he was a cartoonist. Was it any wonder he could talk the head of the art department into believing he could teach a bunch of college freshmen how to paint? But he didn’t know the first thing about teaching. That was why he was taking classes. How did you teach art? Trick question. You can’t. If a person lacks imagination, it doesn’t matter how much technical skill they have. They will suck forever and ever. And if a person lacks skill, it doesn’t matter how much talent they have because they’ll just put a bunch of happy mistakes on paper and never get better.
Damien wasn’t a teacher. Who was he kidding?
There was always the off chance they’d give him Art History to teach. You could learn history. You could teach history. But how do you teach a lifestyle? Or a genetic code? If Damien could teach painting, he probably could also teach kids to breathe underwater.
That would actually be quite cool.
The sound of shattering glass scared Damien so much he yelled again. This time, though, it was a burst of sound without language. Bill rushed out of the kitchen with a bloody tea towel on his hand.
“What is?” he gasped out. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re bleeding!” Damien yelped. “Why are you always bleeding?”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Aug 21, 2012 23:41:33 GMT -6
William MaCarthy
“You’re bleeding! Why are you always bleeding?”
“I’m not always bleeding,” Bill protested, putting his damaged hand behind his back. “Besides, it’s just a scratch,” he admitted, approaching Damien. “What’s the problem, Damien? You yelled.”
To be honest, Bill was surprised he was the only one asking Damien why he was so upset. He had screamed so loudly, and the walls were so thin, that Bill half expected their neighbours next door and across the hall to come checking up on them. Bill was certain he would be used to Damien’s outbursts and cries for help by now, but they rarely ceased to surprise him, often sending him jumping, leaving him startled and overly concerned for his best friend. For the drastic pleas for help, Bill was more than happy to have his friend’s back because Damien would do the same for him, but for the minutia that had Damien screaming for a mere minute, Bill had to shake his head and laugh. But right now? Bill didn’t know whether this was something as inconsequential as finding hot pink post-it notes in his dad’s house to something major like his break-up with Chris. Bill needed to know what exactly he was dealing with, here. He needed to know the size of the problem and if it would allow him to tend to his hand now or later. It was hard to tell with Damien.
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Post by The Exodus on Aug 22, 2012 6:18:43 GMT -6
Damien Blackwood-Michaud
It was true. Damien had lost count of the number of times he’d come home with a slew of problems, only to find that Bill had injured himself and therefore had more pressing problems to attend. It didn’t help that Damien could remember a time when they were both caked in mud and blood for a day’s worth of mucking about in Castle Combe—running, jumping, climbing trees. So when Bill protested, Damien just shook his head. You know who would back Damien’s case on this one? Bill’s mum. He was almost always bleeding. Or getting into trouble. Or something. Otherwise, you had to check his pulse.
“Besides, it’s just a scratch,” Bill said, hiding his hand behind his back. Damien wasn’t some four year old kid at a birthday party. He knew that hiding the hand wouldn’t make the blood disappear or a bunch of doves materialize from Bill’s sleeve. He scoffed, but said nothing. Bill took a few steps closer. “What’s the problem, Damien? You yelled.”
Oh. Right. Damien had a problem. He’d been able to forget about at the sight of blood, but now that Bill had moved his hand out of view, Damien could focus. He sighed heavily and shook his head.
“I got a job,” he said miserably, stalking over to the couch to sit down. “It doesn’t exactly pay, but I’ll be teaching art for undergraduates in two weeks at the Sorbonne. And- and…”
Damien paused and sighed again.
“I’m getting my doctorate,” he said. “Or, rather, I will after I teach a couple classes and finish a gallery and ace my education exams. Which I won’t because I don’t know how to be a teacher. And I don’t know how to teach art. So all my students will fail and I’ll fail my doctoral program and then I’ll be stuck as a second-rate cartoonist until I die in the subway while sketching and no one will find my body for days and days because it’s dark and smelly down there.”
Maybe the last bit was too dramatic. Damien cleared his throat.
“I mean, how do you teach art? It’s gotta be next to impossible, right?”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Aug 22, 2012 13:02:08 GMT -6
William MaCarthy
“I got a job,” Damien said, and Bill would have clapped him on the back, cheering at this joyous news if Damien didn’t sound so woefully miserable. Bill didn’t understand what exactly made this information so depressing. Damien was an artist, not a mortician, so Damien speaking in the same tones as funeral march made little sense. He followed his friend to the couch and watched him slump down on it as if every move was a heavy burden he had to bear.
“It doesn’t exactly pay, but I’ll be teaching art for undergraduates in two weeks at the Sorbonne. And- and…” Bill waited with baited breath, hoping the end of Damien’s sentence would clear up the confusion of his murky attitude.
“I’m getting my doctorate,” Damien said, still with a melancholy sigh. But Bill smiled. That was great news! Damien was taking initiative to further his education, doing what it was he loved. How could this news be anything but good?
“Or, rather, I will after I teach a couple classes and finish a gallery and ace my education exams. Which I won’t because I don’t know how to be a teacher. And I don’t know how to teach art. So all my students will fail and I’ll fail my doctoral program and then I’ll be stuck as a second-rate cartoonist until I die in the subway while sketching and no one will find my body for days and days because it’s dark and smelly down there.”
Bill blinked a few times. What? How was getting a doctorate equal to a one way passage to death? Damien never ceased to amaze Bill in how many of his life scenarios ended in death. He continued.
“I mean, how do you teach art? It’s gotta be next to impossible, right?”
“Not impossible, Damien. You went to school for art, right? Twice, even. So you know it can be taught. But I’m sure there were things you liked about art school and things you didn’t. I know there were for me getting my degree. So take what you like and teach that and improve on what you didn’t.” He grabbed Damien’s hand with his non-bloody one. “You got this, Damien. And I’m so proud of you.”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Oct 21, 2012 21:03:56 GMT -6
Ooc: A very weak post for you, Emmy, dear. Hope you can work with me and my rustiness. BiC:
William MaCarthy
Halloween was never a big even in France, but with a little bit of work and colourful advertisements, Bill and Damien had been able to create a small Trick-or-Treating fan base throughout the apartment complex. Each year, more and more trick-or-treaters dressed as princesses and pirates showed up at Bill’s door, their parents watching on, still suspicious of a grown man giving out free candy to kiddies (Bill could only imagine how unpopular he would be tonight if those parents knew about his ten week stay in rehab for a drug addiction). But slowly, it was becoming an annual event, which made Bill happy. He missed the English traditions that fell on October 31st every year, and he wondered what it was these little French children had to look forward to every Autumn.
Occasionally, there would be a ring at his doorbell and he would answer it to hand out chocolate bars to a kid in a sheet. But often, there were long stretches of time were no kids came. And Bill couldn’t blame them. With no elevator, kids had to hike up or down to the ninth floor and back again (although the trek would allow the children to work off that Snickers bar Bill just gave them). So in those stagnant times, Bill and Damien carved pumpkins and watched Bath play the Harlequins on Bill’s small television set.
As Bill was expecting, there was a knock on his door, and where he expected to find eager, hungry trick or treaters, he found a rather revealingly dressed Victorine Delavent. When Bill said ‘trick or treat’, that was not what he had in mind.
“Bugger me,” he said, exasperated. “What? Did you forget something the last time you left? Like a shoe or an apology?” To be honest, she had left a shoe, but he was not about to open up his home and his heart to a woman who, for past six years, did nothing but break him down. Finally, he was at a good place in his life. He dug himself out of a narcotic stupor, he was in a job he loved, and he was more himself than he had been in years. He had missed this feeling of freedom rushing through his veins, he missed being able to forgive himself. And now, looking at Victorine, his blood ran cold before it boiled. His hands shook and Victorine was enshrouded by red, blurry vision. Bill struggled to stave off images of the two of them, entangled in each other, dining on the Rivioli, whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears… They flooded his mind like vintage photographs, tinged with sepia and musty with neglect. He felt a twinge of poignant nostalgia, which quickly gave way to rage at the idea that it was all one-sided.
Now, Bill fought to keep his voice level. “How dare you? Why did you come here if you’re just going to leave again?” His voice shook and cracked, the angry hurt seeping through. “Get out of my apartment. Get out before I have the security downstairs escort you out.”
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Post by almostparis19 on Oct 22, 2012 14:26:48 GMT -6
Victorine Delavent
Victorine was almost out of breath by the time she reached the ninth floor. On her way back down, she decided she’d have to count just how many stairs there were, because that climb was ridiculous. Typically when she made a visit to Bill’s apartment, she doesn’t even noticed the stairs on account of how infatuated she was with him, and he’d half-carry her up, anyway. Stairs were nothing when she was dizzy with desire. But when her gut was tying itself into knots, each stair felt like a mountain.
Was she actually going to do it, this time? Be honest? Let go of the on-top-of-the-world façade and let Bill in? Maybe he’d accept her, and maybe she wouldn’t go back down those stairs. Maybe she’d stay the night in his arms and not leave in the morning. Or maybe, he’d open the door and promptly slam it in her face. That was definitely what she deserved.
At the end of the hallway she stood, and saw a few kids and their tired-looking parents at Bill’s door. She saw a hand—Bill’s hand—giving out candy bars. Bill’s hands… The family started walking on, and she heard his door click shut. She was used to hearing that door click behind her; she was used to being pressed up against it by Bill. But what if she heard that sound and the door was in front of her? What if she was left on the outside, dying to get in? Victorine looked down and examined herself. She took Penny’s advice and wore a loose, low cut shirt, very short shorts and a simple pea coat, open to the front. Maybe she should have worn a costume. Or a turtle neck. She shoved her hands into her pockets and started to mosey down the hall, taking her time. When she arrived in front of his apartment, she stood there, silently. And kept standing. She was more apprehensive than she’d ever been when it comes to Bill. Eventually, after a few minutes, she got the nerve to raise her tiny hand and knock three times. And the door swung open.
“Bugger me. What? Did you forget something the last time you left? Like a shoe or an apology?” Yes, she thought. One of her favorite shoes, actually. She opened her mouth to reply, but he continued. “How dare you? Why did you come here if you’re just going to leave again. Get out of my apartment. Get out before I have the security downstairs escort you out.”
Her natural reaction would have been to be indignant and aloof. Her true reaction would have been to burst out crying. But she was broken, now. “Bill,” she breathed. “I…” she looked into his eyes. The hurt and anger in them was obvious. Loathing oozed out of every pore in his body, practically. She spoke again. “I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave you anymore. I’m sick of pretending, Bill, I honestly am…” she swallowed hard and continued slowly, “and the only way I’ll ever leave you again is if you force me to.”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Nov 3, 2012 13:29:14 GMT -6
William MaCarthy
Bill watched her with anger as her lip quivered as she said his name, holding back tears. Typical Victorine. She was always withholding something—any feelings she had for him, the truth about other relationships, and now tears. Bill couldn’t believe her as he watched her brave face break like eroded rock. He fought the urge to slump against the doorframe and let her glorious body step over the threshold. He had tried that before only find the pillow beside his own cold and smooth as if no one but him had been sleeping there just hours before, no trace of another living soul. Not a hair. Not a spec of useful DNA. With such cat-like stealth, he was surprised she hadn’t become some kind of Michelle Pfieffer-esque vigilante. No, that took much heart.
“I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave you anymore. I’m sick of pretending, Bill, I honestly am…”
He had heard it before, and like an echo of the past, he heard it again. His upper lip twitched into a sneer. How could she be so cruel? How could she be so merciless? How could she be so blind into thinking that Bill would fall for this stint again? She swallowed hard enough for Bill to hear and it landed with a thud in his chest. “And the only way I’ll ever leave you again is if you force me to.”
“Prove it.” He snarled, his balled fists digging his nails into his hands with rage until he punctured his flesh. “Prove it or get out.”
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Post by almostparis19 on Dec 7, 2012 13:04:26 GMT -6
Victorine Delavent
“Prove it. Prove it or get out.” Bill's eyes smoldered and his knuckles turned white. When angry, he was terrifying. Terrifying and beautiful and dangerous. Really, Victorine never knew to run or move closer when he was infuriated. But in that moment, she couldn't afford to run or move father away at all.
She took a deep breath and held his gaze. "The only way that I could prove it is if you let me in." Apprehensively, she took a step closer. "Let me in and I'll prove it. I'll do anything you ask." She moved so their front sides were almost touching, and if she leaned up on her toes, she'd be able to kissJ him. "Let me in so I can say in, forever."
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Dec 14, 2012 12:19:01 GMT -6
William MaCarthy
Bill wanted to scream. He wanted to slam the door and hide himself away until kingdom come. He tried to keep the stern expression on his face, to disguise his heartbreak and rageas quiet stoicism. But like a magnetic pull, Bill's eyes wandered, searching the whole ofhof her silently. A flood of memories swarmed his brain, and Bill felt dizzy as he gripped the door frame for balance. He'd lost count of the times deja vu hit him with a palpable blow, nor could he count the times the feeling had been muted by a single, peach pill.
But even in his weakened state, Victorine held his gaze. "The only way I could prove it is if you let me in." She took a dreaded step forward. "Let me in and I'll prove it. I'll do anything you want." Bill felt his body stiffen in a bulwarked safety. He could feel her breath on his face, taste it on his tongue. "Let me in so i can stay in... forever."
Bill took a step back. "I'd love to, but can't." He grabbed the doorknob. "But maybe some other time, love."
He closed the door.
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Post by almostparis19 on Dec 15, 2012 1:11:53 GMT -6
Victorine Delavent
"I'd love to, but can't. But maybe some other time, love."
Click.
The door, indeed, was in front of her face. She was left on the outside, dying to get in.
Victorine stood staring blankly at the door in the dimly lighted corridor, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Was it a joke? She must have been imagining things. She must have been foreseeing some awful, impossible future. She had to have been just picturing the worst case scenario.
But after staring at the door, unmoving, hardly breathing, not making a single sound for what seemed like a lifetime, she decided that the cruel reality was that she in fact stood on the outside of a wood and plaster barricade. She was separated from the one true thing she wanted. She didn't raise a fist to knock again, or call out to him and beg him to open the door. She didn't try to hold back the silent tears. She didn't even realize she was crying until a drop of salt water hit her bare leg. She didn't know at all what to do.
So she turned and walked slowly back the way she came, not counting the stairs on the way down, not being bothered that she didn't have a "what I'll do if he rejects me" plan; she didn't really think much at all. The only thing she decided was that when she got down to the street, she'd walk aimlessly until morning or till she was hopelessly lost. Whichever came first.
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