Place du Tertre

[The Exodus]

What would a trip to Paris be without a visit to a local artist? After all, the streets are lined with them, offering to draw your portrait for 80 euros. But how do you know who the best artist is? Beneath the shadow of the Sacre Coeur, the Place du Tertre makes a home for Paris' most talented street portraitists. Nestled between cafes, bars, and open air markets, the artists and their easels beckon the curious traveler (and local ego-maniac) to have a turn as an artist's muse.

[The Exodus]

OOC: Toddamien! And now, to the grocery store must I go. BIC:


Damien Blackwood-Michaud

Damien was losing weight. You could see it around his face and under his eyes and in his muscles gone to seed. You would be a wreck, too, if you were Damien. One of his best mates was doing a stint in rehab for valium addiction; the other had just been let out of the hospital after a brush with bulimia. His mum seemed to be going through what most people would call a psychological break from reality. His dad had a new fiancée and a new baby. His grandfather disowned him. He’d broken up with his boyfriend just before Christmas because it seemed like the only way to make things right themselves. Instead, it left him close to alone with these crises and he’d spent much of the last month talking to his infant half-brother about his problems. Gregory was a good listener, but Damien wanted to be held. Kissed. Shagged. Given advice. Whatever. Things you don’t ask of your baby brother. Instead, he settled for drinking beer and eschewing real food and spending his time talking baby talk to Gregory or sitting on freezing street corners, sketching portraits of tourists for crazy-high prices.

This was the life.

He’d wanted to be a tortured, starving artist. Damien had gotten his wish. There was something to that phrase “Be careful what you wish for”. Actually, there was a lot to it.

A cigarette clung to the corner of Damien’s mouth as he finished the sketch of a Russian tourist with heavy-lidded eyes and cheekbones meant to cut glass. She wasn’t the first to stop by his easel, but in this wicked cold, Damien’s stream of customers was less than average. He’d also lowered his prices considerably because nobody would pay eighty euros to risk pneumonia for a portrait. Well, some people might. Ego maniacs, for instance. The Russian was quiet and spoke broken English and absolutely no French, so Damien took advantage of his captive audience.

“I mean, honestly, what’s he talking about, ‘until I sort out my priorities’? I have sorted priorities! And even if I didn’t it doesn’t make me an incapable babysitter. Gregory doesn’t care if I have a hangover or if I don’t have a ‘real’ job. He’s, what?, three weeks old? Bullocks, if he cares.”

“Bool-locks?” the tourist echoed.

“Exactly! Now, don’t move your mouth so much. I still need to draw your lips.”

It wasn’t like Damien was that big of a wreck. He wasn’t his mum or his friends, all of whom needed professional help. He was just the one juggling everybody else. Best supporting actor award goes to and all that. Sometimes, he wished he could take Bill’s place or Reese’s or even his mum’s because they were clearly hurting and he didn’t like watching them in pain. But more often than not, he wished someone would notice that he was in pain, too. His closest relationships were a wreck and, in hopes to salvage them, he’d left his boyfriend.

The one who was probably, you know, not having problems.

Go figure. Cut the one normal person out of your life and the rest goes to hell in a hand basket.

Okay, so it wasn’t all hell. He adored Gregory. Ever since Damien was a kid, he wanted a baby brother or sister. Preferably, he wanted five or six like Bill had. Or to be adopted as a MaCarthy. He didn’t get either of those, but one half-brother was something. More than something. He made Damien’s heart feel bigger, less bitter, and in a weird way, Gregory made Damien hate Ashton less.

He’d never really hated her. He just had been stuck in limbo towards her. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hate her or not for the longest time and now he just couldn’t. He couldn’t even get mad at her in his mother’s stead because, well… It was clear Natalie wasn’t in her right mind.

“That’s the other thing,” he said, as if he’d said all of that out loud. “It’s like he doesn’t even realize that you can’t rank priorities like ‘my mother’ versus ‘my brother’. Of course he doesn’t. He’s an only child. Dad, I mean, not Greggy.”

“Gregory,” the tourist corrected, like he knew Damien’s brother better than Damien did.

“No, Dad’s an only child. Not Gregory.” Damien looked at his canvas and sighed. “I’m done now. Have a look.”

The tourist went on his way and Damien wondered if the man had actually been Russian or something else. He’d actually been handsome, the maybe-not Russian. Pity Damien had chosen to sound like a petulant, damaged child instead of being clever and flirty. He missed a lot of opportunities like that. Little windows to flirt or get a number, sure, but bigger ones, too. He thought of Chris, who he should have run away with when he finished at Oxford, but didn’t. He thought of Toddy, who he should have fought for two months ago. He thought of the ginger bloke at the library who unabashedly stared at him until getting caught and going nearly as scarlet as his hair.

He’d call Gerard tonight and ask why he was dumb enough to let opportunity pass him by and if that meant he wasn’t as comfortable in being gay as he thought he’d been or if he was just stupid.

You aren’t stupid, Damien told himself, rubbing his hands together for warmth. You graduated from Oxford and the London Institute both.

He really ought to have taken a gap year between the two, then. Maybe he would have had a fairytale foreign romance between undergraduate and postgraduate school. Maybe he would have had an actual adventure, trekking across the Australian outback like Ben or building houses for orphaned kids in the Sudan. Something cool, instead of studying and studying. Something to set him apart, get him that coveted spot on the Louvre restoration artist committee.

After about ten minutes, it was apparent to Damien that there wouldn’t be another customer for a while and that if he stayed still, his fingers would freeze. Other artists were packing up, but Damien could see no discernible reason for them to. The snow had stopped falling last night and the after-lunch crowds would rush in soonish. Damien would wait for them and get all of the customers. Better for him if he stayed, really. But he needed to stay warm, stay active. His eyes scanned the street for anyone to practice on. They alighted on a man standing underneath a snow-dusted awning. His curly, dark hair and pale skin made his mouth and cheeks look rose-bright against the snow. Damien found himself staring for a long time before he realized who he was staring at. His heart gave a twisted leap and for a moment, Damien wondered if this was what a heart attack was like.

He was staring at his ex-boyfriend, Toddy St. James, who was oblivious of his presence. Toddy was talking into his cellphone, words Damien couldn’t hear but jealously attributed to a new boyfriend. And then he turned to his canvas. Art was how you dealt with joy and with sadness. This mix of the two would go down on paper.

Damien began to sketch Toddy’s face. Wayward strands of mahogany hair curled across a cream-colored forehead. It was smooth and firm, untouched by time and lines and worry. The soft rounds of his cheeks and chin contrasted with the sharp beak of his nose. Damien remembered how it felt to press a hand to Toddy’s cheek, how warm and soft… His lips, full and lush, curved into a smile that Damien imagined was for him. Damien took liberties now, drawing from memory as well as reality. Portrait Toddy’s eyes, so dark a blue that they were almost violet, sparkled on paper with wicked amusement; as if there was a joke between the artist and subject, between lovers. Damien would keep this portrait, all for himself. No one ever need know he’d drawn it. It was a masterpiece, if only for sentimental value. A professor—or even an unemotional Damien—would see it for what it was: a picture drawn in haste before the subject flitted away, drawn to cater to the artist’s mind. Not a picture of reality.

Because, honestly, why should Toddy talk to him? Smile at him?

It wasn’t happening in reality. But reality was subjective. What happened in your mind was as real as what happened in the world and if Damien wanted Toddy to smile at him, d*mn it, he would, even if it was just in a picture. Damien went to work on the ears—the same ears Natalie made fun of once, but that Damien thought were endearingly quirky—and he started to sketch their seashell shape.

He had sketched for fun before. Painted and designed for a living. But until now, Damien hadn’t been this engrossed.

So engrossed, that if he didn’t look up soon, the real Toddy would be gone.

[Deleted]

Toddy St. James


This diva was on a mission and any sweetie that got in the way was getting taken out.

The need for a brownie was that severe for Toddy St. James. The line at the bakery was madness, and it extended onto the outside of the street. At least he had some shelter under the canopy, but this was just torture. Toddy was having his sympathy menstruation for all the pretties out in the world who had them. This was his once a month,and that was how he would justify this crazed trip, that had him sneaking out of his desk at the Rouge. Sorry he's not sorry about it. Myron Bolitar wants to say something? Go ahead. One of those b*tchy skinny demon dancers wanted to judge him for a fattie run- Toddy's earrings would come off, and there would be a fight. Toddy St. James usually didn't think to waste his manicured hands on the pitiful, but he would fight today, and he was for sure about to fight off this line.

That's when his hot pink IPhone buzzed. Without even looking, Toddy slipped it from his coat pocket and answered.

"Just take this break from my pay or something, Myron. I really need-"

"Get me one too."

Perking up with a smugilicious smile, Toddy St. James felt relived and never so in love with his best friend to the extent at which a gay man can love a hetero without it meaning anything.

"This whole single thing has us really on the same page."

"Toddy, my dear, we will never be on the same page."

"If that was a gay joke, I find that discriminatory and rude. To make up for it, may I pay on daddy's Rouge account?"

Toddy pleaded with a teethy smile and sing songy voice.

"I cannot believe you're a gold digger even for friggin' brownies. Sure, as long as you never call me daddy again. It makes me feel like I dropped the soap."

"Another gay joke. I'm buying two brownies."

"You're buying two brownies because you're a sulking, and you really shouldn't-"

Toddy St. James did not want to hear this right now. It would turn into the usual, Myron trying to make things better for him speech, and how Toddy should not have to suffer for everyone's problems that he stood by. Bla, bla, bla. Toddy still got sca-rewed.

"Can't hear you Myron, you're breaking up!"

"Toddy! Stop being a three year old - "

Toddy St. James did the non three year old thing, of course, and held up the bright colored IPhone up into the sky, plugging his ear as if this would be effecting Myron who was not really seeing any of this, and began crying out-

"LA LA LA LA."

Myron's voice stopped talking. It fell silent. Toddy St. James looked around to see everyone staring at him in line, and a few people stopped passing the street. Well, that took care of that. What? As if they had never seen a woman going cray-cray in a bakery line.

Clearing his throat and slowly putting the phone up to the ear, Toddy turned to the side to hide his face into the jacket.

"Everyone's staring at you, aren't they?"

"They're staring at me because I'm pretty, I sware." Toddy St. James squeaked in a mortified tone. What was he turning into? Britney Spears?

"Gotta go, smooches, bye!"

With a hang up, Toddy St. James cleared his throat, straightening up. Nothing happened. Not a thing. Oh his Gaga, what was his life turning into? It was as if he was inheriting everyones' problems now, and everyone was just fabulously off into their world. Never the mind that his best friend was destroyed and thrown into rehab- his boyfriend that he was falling for, like, sickening Jennifer Aniston movie, head over heels- broke up with him. Because, he was annoyed, mortified, to good for him, something along those rich little kiddies lines. Toddy knew he wasn't the richest, the brightest and what have you. But Toddy St. James would always support the people he cared about, and look d*mn good doing so.

It was brownie time!

The line began moving inside.

That was when Toddy St. James looked over and met eyes with Damien Michaud.

Toddy's entire world froze and the line began moving in. He lost his place, but it didn't matter. He just stood on the sidewalk. Frozen.

[The Exodus]

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

Damien’s hand flew across the page, though his eyes were trained on Toddy. His sense of place in space and time told him he wasn’t creating an accidental monster out of his ex-boyfriend’s face on the paper. Forget the not-so-Russian tourist. This was attractive. Real attractive, not what Hollywood and dirty mags told you a man was meant to look like. What did a man like George Clooney, say, have on Toddy? Oodles of money and grey hair. Toddy, meanwhile, understood commitment, and had kissable lips, whereas a man like George Clooney had oodles of girlfriends and lips that looked like someone had gotten lazy with a .7 mm pencil. Toddy had dark, thick hair that Damien’s hands itched to rake through. Toddy was his Ganymede, his Salai, his Lord Alfred Douglas, his muse.

And his muse was now staring at him. Maybe it was time to stop waxing poetic in his head and do something because there were only two possible outcomes if he didn’t. Either Toddy would continue to stay statue-still and petrified-looking and freeze to death, or he’d bolt. Damien had done the latter so many times, he could only imagine it would be cosmic justice for Toddy to run away.

Which was why, despite not being done with his painting, Damien tore it from the pad of paper and rushed over to Toddy.

Once there, though, Damien didn’t know what to do. Romantic notions told him to pull Toddy into a breathless kiss and let the soundtrack change to soft piano and violin music as the credits began to roll. Sensibility told him to say something clever. Instead, he settled on the most leading man thing he could possibly say:

“Hi.”

It was so anticlimactic. Such a small word, only two letters, it didn’t convey half of what Damien meant. Not even a teaspoon of what he meant.

“I… I painted you." He waved the painting around a little, not enough to make the paint run. "Just now.”

Because that was definitely the natural reaction to seeing your ex-boyfriend. God, that sounded creepy. But the words were out there. Maybe he needed some explanation.

“Because I’ve missed you like mad all winter. Christmas was hell.”

At least he didn’t say “I was piss drunk without you and I cried in my mummy’s apartment until she shipped me to my dad’s with a hangover”.

“I don’t even know how to say ‘I’m sorry’ without sounding like an emotionally deficient moron, so I’m not going to try. I just… Did a lot of thinking and maybe breaking up with you was one of the biggest mistakes I’ve made in my life—not that I’ve had a particularly long or mistake-riddled life, but… It’s just been really hard, these last few months without you.”

Maybe he should just stop talking. Wrap this up. Wrap this up nicely. Jesus, he looked so handsome up close…

“God, you look bloody fantastic.” So maybe he said that out loud with more gusto than strictly necessary. “How have you been?”

[Deleted]

Toddy St. James

Run ... Run ... Run ...

As if Toddy St. James would run in these designer shoes? As if Toddy St. James had even wanted to run ... or could.

He missed the brownie bus, he was standing there frozen, he couldn't breathe- Toddy was not going or running anywhere anytime soon. Apart of him knew it was not healthy to stay here, but another part of him, most of him, wanted to stick around to see where this was going. What could Damien Michaud possibly say to him right now? What was left to say? Another fabulous question that was sickening and would never be asked aloud: Why was the Titanic theme song, Celine Dion's demanding vocals, blaring through his mind speakers right now as he watched Damien run over? Too many d*mn days on Myron's couch with that On Demand program he had with surround sound. How dangerous it was for a gay man to have access to things like that in a state like this.

A smile crept at the corners of Toddy's balm lips, squinting as he watched Damien. It was a little precious watching him run over like this. His blue eyes glistening in the winter and his- No! He was not about to describe how gorgeous this man was. Toddy St. James was not going to pay any mind to his baby blue eyes, his plump lips that normal people need an expensive lip plumper for (Toddy recommends Lip Venom by Sephora. Works wonders), and his wonderful thick hair. It was like he was a living, walking, talking, and actually smart GQ model. An instant of concern snapped in Toddy, as he squinted to continue watching and that's when he noticed how much weight he lost. That didn't seem healthy. Of course, even though Toddy was just utterly livid with him, in a way h couldn't help but to think that it must have been everything Damien was going through that was causing his weight loss. So, bad things happen, he loses weight. Toddy on the other hand, well, sneaks off for two brownies during work. Oh, who was kidding honey, this queen was so about to get a dozen.

When Damien approached, Toddy St. James clenched up into a ball of emotion. He stared at him, his mouth still froze open slightly. This was happening. What now? Toddy dreamed and thought about this moment, not gonna' lie. He thought about the things he would say to Damien. The ran he would go on about how ferociously angry he was, how much of a pushover Damien had been, and how he was sickened at the thought of supporting Damien's lifestyle for so long just to be pushed out of it like he didn't even give it a thought. At one point, this was the best one, Toddy imagined having Hugh Jackman at his arm, making Damien so jealous as they exchange a kiss right in front of his face!

It could happen.

"Hi."

Alrighty. That simple? That normal? Toddy blinked hard once, and went to say 'hello' back, but nothing came out. Not even a pinch of a squeak. He just stared blankly. So much for his ranting plots.

"I ... I painted you." So the Titanic comparison was not too far off? "Just now."

Damien was waving a canvas a little bit, but Toddy St. James didn't look. He kept looking at Damien like how the Catholics looked at Madonna when she kissed Britney Spears... or how they look at Madonna in general. Complete awe. The fact that he painted Toddy made something boil inside of him that was so not okay and not allowed right now. Passion? It was a little random- the painting him thing. How long had been Damien watching Toddy? Oh sweet brownies, of course Toddy would have his little freakout over the phone in line when he was watching. Although, the feeling he was getting in his stomach and haziness of his sight- there may be more than one freakout this afternoon.

"Because I've missed you like mad all winter. Christmas was hell."

Oh, and Toddy's was just lovely. Being thrown around mom and dad's divorce (AKA: Myron and Mad's break up), running around everywhere to appease everyone, waiting by the phone for a simple text from Damien or someone from his family wishing him a Merry Christmas (didn't happen), squeezing in A Christmas Story, crying himself to sleep until he had to go cuddle on the couch with his heterosexual best friend. Yes, it was the most wonderful time of the year.

"I don't even know how to say 'I'm sorry' without sounding like an emotionally deficient moron, so I'm not going to try."

Oh, holy hot hell.

Toddy's eyes widened and stomach tightened. He was going to throw up. Apologize? Right here? Right now? It was what he swore he wouldn't want and settle for. It was something that in the present moment, he only wanted.

"I just... Did a lot of thinking and maybe breaking up with you was one of the biggest mistakes I've made in my life-not that I've had a particularly long or mistake-riddled life, but... It's just been really hard, these last few months without you."

Don't cry. Don't explode. Don't lose it. Don't get all Rachel McAdams right now!

Toddy St. James had been frozen and irresponsive since the split second Damien had stepped in front of him, but now it was like a switch had been turned on. Toddy was quaking with emotion internally as he stood like a rigid statue.

"God, you look bloody fantastic."

All these months ...

"How have you been?"

"I WAS IN LOVE WITH YOU."

It was lost.

And now he was losing it, but with an audience.

Toddy St. James cried out, the water works falling from his glass shattered eyes, the hands going over his face. His shoulders slumped over and everything began pouring out. What he had just said just, threw out of his mouth by itself! Toddy wasn't even controlling it or what was going on with him right now. Here he was, in public, screaming and sobbing. Toddy didn't give a d*mn. Because this was his entire world, all that he was feeling, and had been for months. Damien was going to stand right there, in front of him, and be apart of it dammit. He did this to Toddy.

Looking up at Damien with red eyes, Toddy sniffed, "You left me at the point that I needed you the most, and just because I didn't fit into your-" Throwing his hands up into the air, he mocked- "Life of the rich and famous, and mommy dearest didn't approve- You just cut everything off with me!"

A woman in line for the brownie shop scowled, "Could you keep it down?! You're very annoying."

Not missing a beat, Toddy whipped around, his sad expression changing into a fierce b*tch face, "Oh, go get your brownie and let it sit right in your flabby *ss!"

Turning back to Damien, the split second of the spell was broken and he was brought back into reality. Toddy St. James eyes grew wide, feeling his breathing get a little- not there. Toddy never cried in front of everyone and especially not exes. How mortifying. He tucked his chin down, inching closer to Damien and hiding his head.

"Oh hell," Toddy panicked in a fast paced whisper, "I cannot stop crying, I'm a mess, everyone's watching, and I can't really breathe, and I'm an idiot in front of you..."

Because a panic attack in front of Damien is just what Toddy St. James really needed right now.

[The Exodus]

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

Damien would have held his breath, if Toddy gave him the time to. Waiting on a response should have been agonizing, drawn out, terrifying. Instead, Toddy didn’t wait.

"I WAS IN LOVE WITH YOU."

His voice boomed down the sparsely populated street. Somewhere, pigeons flapped their wings in shock and flew off. And then silence. Conversations around them died mid-word, the street violinist performing near the artists made one deafening shriek with his bow on the strings and stopped playing, even Damien’s own, thundering heartbeat stilled and quieted.

Love? Had Toddy said “love”?

Before the thought could compute, the tears began to fall. Toddy’s eyes released torrents of water; Damien’s own vision blurred as his eyes began to sting from cold and unshed tears.

"You left me at the point that I needed you the most, and just because I didn't fit into your-" Throwing his hands up into the air, he mocked- "Life of the rich and famous, and mommy dearest didn't approve- You just cut everything off with me!"

Damien had this conversation before, over a year ago with another man. Christopher Brocklehurst shouted at him in an airport terminal about being a scummy son-of-a-b*tch, leaving him to appease Natalie’s plans for Damien’s life.

But Chris had never said “love”. And as Damien looked at Toddy now, he knew that made all the difference. Toddy said he loved Damien. Damien’s heart contracted in his heart, shriveled up with guilt. He would have made a good Catholic or Jewish boy, had his mum never made his dad convert. He would have made a good boyfriend, too, if his mum never made Damien pretend to be straight. Because Damien was certain that no bad man would have ever felt this kind of remorse. He wanted to kneel down in the snow at Toddy’s feet, show him that ‘rich and famous’ didn’t equate ‘unyielding snob’ or ‘heartless lothario’. He didn’t give a d*mn for the lifestyle. He just wanted to love and be loved. By his family, by his friends, and by Toddy.

Toddy said “love”. Damien was sure of it. It was all he needed to hear.

"Could you keep it down?! You're very annoying."

Damien had forgotten that other people existed. Some woman in line for the bakery glowered at them. Before Damien could say anything, Toddy snapped his head in the woman’s direction.


"Oh, go get your brownie and let it sit right in your flabby *ss!"

Damien grinned. That was his Toddy. His Toddy. If Toddy knew in what terms Damien still thought of him, he might turn that sassiness on Damien. Might. He felt an old, familiar sensation bubble up in his chest, despite that thought. A giddy weightlessness. A desperate want to touch Toddy, to kiss him, to hold him. It was a familiar ache, mingled with float-y hope. By the time Toddy looked back at him, Damien’s face radiated desire.

Desire? Love?

"Oh hell," Toddy whispered. "I cannot stop crying, I'm a mess, everyone's watching, and I can't really breathe, and I'm an idiot in front of you..."

Toddy’s head sunk towards his chest. He looked so broken. That was really all Damien needed. He closed the gap between himself and Toddy and stroked an ungloved hand down Toddy’s cheek. Then, cradling Toddy’s chin, Damien gently made him to meet his gaze. Those iris eyes were the same.

“I’m the idiot, sweetheart,” he said softly. “We both needed each other. And I still need you. A lot. Because…”

Damien had never said these words to anyone besides his parents and Bill. Somehow, that didn’t count. Family didn’t count. It was a different sort of love. Family love was unselfish, brought on arbitrarily by the dice throw of genetics. But this was not random. This was fate. Damien was slowly, but surely, believing in something bigger than he was, pulling his heartstrings and Toddy’s and tying them together.

And if Toddy had said that, Damien could say it back. He could be brave, in his own way.

“Because I’m still in love with you.”

And with that, Damien pressed his lips to Toddy’s for a kiss.

[Deleted]

Toddy St. James

If Damien Blackwood-Michaud had ever had the tiniest bit of affection for him, he would do Toddy St. James the favor of committing a hate crime right here and now, and shoot him! Public crying was so not glamorous and utterly humiliating. Being a hot mess behind closed doors was classy, and had that Marilyn Monroe feel to it. Going absolutely cray-cray in public was more like Marilyn Manson. Which, ew. Anyways, someone should just get rid of Toddy St. James because he was immobile of emotion at this point and was completely slaughtering his street cred of being fabulous. This was drab not fab. Maybe Damien needed to see this, but not the brownie shop line and the streets of Paris, thanks so much.

Through Toddy's tears, his chin was moved upward by Damien's soft hands, being the most stable thing in his shaky composure, and Toddy St. James thought that it was torture he was making him look at those baby blues that were no longer his. Something changed, though. Toddy St. James sniffed, swearing that the way Damien was looking at him was the way Toddy felt.

“I’m the idiot, sweetheart,” Toddy stared at him. “We both needed each other. And I still need you. A lot. Because…”

Toddy St. James' stomach dropped.

“Because I’m still in love with you.”

Damien dove in for a kiss. This would be the part where Toddy St. James would slap him away and continue to yell at him, because Gaga knows every dramatic romance movie has about ten of those moments. Yet, this was not that moment. Instead, Toddy's shaky hands grabbed at Damien's neck, bringing him even closer and deepening the kiss. No one had ever told Toddy that they loved him before. Toddy loved him too. Toddy St. James was not about to lose this; not for a rocky moment in a relationship. If no one's relationship was rocky, then it would totally be false, and not make for good paparazzi anyhow.

The kiss made his chest swell and tears of happiness were now happening rather than the fugly ones earlier. Pulling away, Toddy St. James kept his arms wrapped around Damien, pushing his forehead against his and gazing into his eyes.

"Never do that to me again or I will lovingly slap you, mmkay?" He purred, kissing him sweetly on the lips again.

Toddy St. James sighed happily. Finally. All that he ever wanted. When Damien told Toddy that he loved him- all the horrible things he had been through and thought these past months seemed to just go away.

That's how Toddy knew it was really love.

[The Exodus]

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

They were both crying now. Damien suspected they either looked like a scene from the best romantic drama ever play on a silver screen, or else they looked like two crazy men, kissing and crying and shouting at each other in the middle of the road. Toddy deepened the kiss and when he pulled away, Damien’s breathing was ragged, shaky. Toddy pressed his forehead to Damien’s.

"Never do that to me again or I will lovingly slap you, mmkay?"

Oh, that’s lovely, a voice, sounding suspiciously like Natalie said. Your boyfriend makes jokes about domestic violence. Wonderful choice, my darling.

Damien laughed anyways. Toddy would not—could not—hit him. That was for other couples, ones with worse problems than crazy extended families and complex friend networks.

“As long as it’s with love, I guess that’s all right,” Damien said sarcastically. He shook his head, brushing noses with Toddy. A laugh escaped his lips. “Have I told you how much I've missed you?"

[blueeyeddevil]

Wes Harlow

Really, there was only so much time one could spend in the Opera House without going crazy. There was too much drama going on, obviously a result of the over the top personalities of the performers. Wes, though, preferred to stay as much away from that as possible. After rehearsals that day, Wes had grabbed his guitar and practically bolted for the door the first chance he got. He needed to get out, stretch his legs and get some fresh air. Spring was settling in and he wanted to spend some time outside.

He found he had wandered to the Place du Tertre where tons of talented artists were painting and drawing portraits to earn a small wage. Wes could image how this place had looked at the turn of the century, the heart of the bohemian lifestyle. Wes smiled, sitting at a place just off from the artists. He didn't want to get in their way. He settled in, sticking a cigarette between his lips and lighting it as he began to play an old tune from his days in Radio Remedy, one of the few he had actually liked.

As he played to himself, smoking his cigarette, his mind drifted back to the days before the Opera House, before Radio Remedy...back when he had been just a lonely kid who had just lost his brother and needed an outlet for pain. Music had been the answer.

[plantnerd92]

Amorette Cheuvront

She was not happy when her favorite pair of shoes had fallen apart as she made her way to a shoe repair shop to get her dance shoes fixed. Annoyed, Amorette walked into the first shoe shop she could find to purchase a new pair of flats so she would have something to cover her feet until she got back to the Opera house. She couldn't find any that were the same color as her broken ones, so she bought a pair of sunny yellow ones that were decorated with a ruched knot on the toes. She put them on her feet once she paid for them, and threw her old ones away, and finished dropping off her ballet shoes to be repaired. Thankfully, she didn't have rehearsal till tomorrow afternoon, so she would be able to pick up her shoes in the morning before then.

Amorette caught a glimpse of herself, and found she liked her new shoes. They complimented the skinny jeans and the black and white striped shirt she was wearing. Smiling slightly, she straightened her gentle blonde curls that were in a pony tail draped over her shoulder, and continued. On a whim, she decided to walk through Place du Tertre, to see all the artwork of the local artists there. The bright colors of the paints enchanted her. Some of the artists wanted to draw her, but she smiled politely and declined, particularly when she heard a familiar voice singing nearby.

Once she found him, Amorette, quietly walked up behind Wes as he sang and played his guitar. Her eyes watered at the smoke of the cigarette he was smoking, but she pushed through it, and wrapped her arms around his neck from behind, and leaned forward to place a soft kiss on his cheek.

"Bonjour, mon chere," she murmured in his ear. "You sing wonderfully."

[blueeyeddevil]

Wes Harlow

Wes had become lost in thought as he played. He thought about Ian who had actually been the one who taught him to play and given him his first guitar. He thought about Logan who would chew him out if he saw him smoking this cigarette. He thought about the hundreds of times he had played this same song in front of crowds of screaming girls, and yet, it seemed to have more meaning to it now as he sat singing it himself than it ever did then. It was rather peaceful to just have this moment to just sit and think for a while.

He was surprised when a pair of slender arms slid around his neck and soft lip kissed his cheek. He caught the scent of strawberries and smiled as he realized his girlfriend was here. "Bonjour, mon chere. You sing wonderfully." she whispered. Honestly he was surprised she was this close when he was smoking. Knowing how much she hated it, he quickly put the cigarette out on the ground next to him, slipping the rest into a tissue in his pocket till he could throw it away.

He kissed her hand and smiled up at her. "Thanks, love, but you are kind of biased," he teased. He pulled her to come and sit with him on the grass, wrapping an arm around her waist as he kissed her temple and set the guitar to the side. "I'm glad to get to see you though! Did they cancel ballet rehearsal or did you have a day off?" He definitely hadn't been expecting to see Amorette here, as evident that he had been smoking. He didn't hide it from her like some of his other...vices, but he made a point not to smoke if he knew he would be seeing her soon. It had actually helped him to cut back.

[plantnerd92]

Amorette Cheuvront

Amorette smiled appreciatively when Wes put out the cigarette. She didn't like it when he smoked. It smelled awful, and it was bad for him. She kissed his cheek again in thanks. Wes kissed her hand and smiled up at her, and Amorette affectionately brushed his hair out of his eyes as she returned his smile.

"Thanks, love, but you are kind of biased," he teased her fondly, and Amorette laughed as he pulled her around him to come sit in the grass next to him. Amorette smiled warmly and curled into Wes as he wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her temple while he set his guitar to the side. "I'm glad I get to see you though! Did they cancel ballet rehearsal or did you have a day off?" he asked. Amorette nodded.

"Oui. Rehearsal was cancelled because Madamoiselle Ledoux was feeling a little under the weather. And I had to get my dance shoes repaired. And then my normal shoes broke on the way, so I had to go get new ones," she sighed, still a little frustrated as she wiggled her toes in her new yellow shoes. Sighing, she rested her head on her boyfriend's shoulder, the breeze tugging at her pale blonde curls.

"I'm glad I found you. Rehearsals make it difficult for me to see you as much as I'd like to," Amorette said, looking up at Wes, as she took his hand and entwined her fingers with his

[blueeyeddevil]

Wes Harlow

Back in Radio Remedy, Wes had been known as the young "cute" member of the band. That, coupled with several news and tabloid articles about his smoking and drug habits giving him a "bad boy" persona, had gained him a lot of popularity among the female fans. Shamefully, he had taken advantage of that, spending a good deal of time after concerts making out with some random girl who had found her way backstage. It had been years since Wes had an actual girlfriend. But Amorette was different. She was beautiful and quirky and made him laugh. She was sweet and and there was something about her that he just felt helplessly drawn to. He just felt very lucky to be the one with his arm around her waist.

"Oui. Rehearsal was cancelled because Madamoiselle Ledoux was feeling a little under the weather. And I had to get my dance shoes repaired. And then my normal shoes broke on the way, so I had to go get new ones," she replied to his question about her rehearsal. She wiggled her toes in the shoes she was wearing now and seemed a little frustrated about the situation.

"Oh no...you had to get a brand new pair of shoes! The horror," he teased with a grin, taking and gently tugging at her soft blond hair. He kissed the top of her head as she rested it on his shoulder. "I'm glad you told me though because now I can say, I like your new shoes darling and not get in trouble for having not noticed." He was just teasing again. Amorette didn't really tend to get upset over stuff like that which he was grateful for.

"I'm glad I found you. Rehearsals make it difficult for me to see you as much as I'd like to," she told him, looking up at him as she entwined their fingers together.

Wes smiled and squeezed her hand affectionately. He tucked a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear, caressing her face a moment. "I know what you mean. You'd think the chorus and the ballet would work together more often," he said with a shrug. "Tell you what...how about I take you to lunch? I'm pretty hungry myself. Where would you like to go," he asked, stroking her hand with his thumb.

[The Exodus]

OOC: OPEN SCENE!!! BIC:
Irina Kozlovaya-Martin

There were few things Irina loved more than beautiful hats. She liked dresses well enough. She adored brightly colored tights and jackets with studs and costume jewelry. But there was something about a hat that was pure whimsy. You had to wear dresses sometimes. Jackets were a necessity. And jewelry was so typical. But a hat…!

Irina had spent what she considered an exorbitant amount on the hat she wore today. She hadn’t ever seen as much money as she had the day she got her first paycheck and, like water in her hands, the cash flowed through her fingers readily. She didn’t know when she’d ever have that much money again. And after paying her rent, the remaining money went towards luxury items—a new wardrobe, makeup, and a little snowglobe with the Eiffel Tower in it that made her smile. Irina filled her apartment with her array of pretty things and now, it looked more like home. She was happier than she had been in a very long time and as she walked through the Place du Tertre, she remained blissfully unaware of the stares her turquoise leggings, black leather boots, and multicolored dress got. Artists peered at her from around their easels. Diners stopped talking to watch as she moved, whirling-dervish-like through the streets and humming to herself. And children snickered.

And all the while, Irina ignored them. She was happy. She was glowing.

Until the first stick hit her in the back. She stopped dancing to look around. And at first, she saw nothing and heard nothing. She kept on going, this time, humming a song she was composing for her next performance. The upbeat tune kept her dancing until the second stick, well aimed, knocked her multi-colored, dangling hat right off her head. Irina turned to see two boys sniggering to each other and pointing at her. She considered giving them a piece of her mind—streams of angry Russian, French, and English flooded towards her mouth—but a gust of summer wind picked her hat up and carried it down the road.

Hiking up her skirt, Irina scampered after it. It cartwheeled across cobblestones and darted between pedestrian traffic. And a weird, hot panic fired up in Irina’s stomach. She’d paid so much money for that hat and if she lost it or destroyed it, that money was just gone. Gone until next month and even then, whatever she made then would be new money; not replacement for her losses. She cried out and picked up the pace.

But that beautiful, macaw of a hat careened ahead of her, jeering at her and daring her to try to catch up.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gerard Bonnaire

Was there really anything better in this world than a buttered croissant? Maybe blood transfusions and skin grafts were up there with croissants, but solely for their usefulness and commitment to bettering the world. But one could not—or rather, should not—eat a skin graft or blood transfusion, and if one did, it would not melt in the mouth or slide down the throat in a warm solid liquid state. Even for workaholic Dr. Bonnaire, it was nice to shed the white coat and stethoscope and cherish the time allotted for a lunchtime croissant. It was nice to stand in the Place du Tetre simply as Gerard and watch the children ride bikes while painters and street performers tried to squeeze out a living. He did not envy them, living from gig to gig, but he did feel a twinge of jealousy at the sight and sound of their talent. He once had talent in the arts. He wondered, with a momentary naivety, where he had misplaced or if he still even had it.

Gerard knew, better than anyone, that that could have been him, scraping for pennies on the sidewalk, fighting off the intrepid Parisian pigeons as they pecked at your earnings. Sympathetically, Gerard plucked out some money from his pocket with a clean cloth (because money was possibly the nastiest object on earth) and bent to drop it into a nearby violinist’s case. As he was there, his shoe, clean and polished until it reflected the world around him was tapped by an object. Geometric, yet unshapely, Gerard plucked it up, examining it. What was it? Some kind of ladies headgear?

Coming towards him was a woman, panting, skirts hiked up who stopped short as she approached him. “Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said, grasping the hat with the cloth (because, honestly! The thing had been on the ground!). “Is this your hat?”