Office

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar's Office

The H . B . I . C

... or just like, Myron Bolitar.

[Deleted]

ooc: M&M! The image for Myron is the one I used for the Masquerade. It just won't work for some reason. Here we go! BIC:


Myron Bolitar


She hadn't been there. Why? She had always gone to those things. She was the only reason he had even gone to that grotesque party. He looked for her the entire night. Instead he got a glimpse of poorly dressed tardos, an employee who had, in lack for better term, 'an episode', and a migraine. When Santiago Ortiz told him that she would be at the Moulin Rouge, it all became worth it.

So Myron Bolitar booked it to the Moulin Rouge where Madeleine de Chandon was.

It was like walking down the halls to your old middle school only it was his business. Myron even did that dramatic thing where he dragged his fingers down the wall, looking at everything like he was seeing it for the first time, and taking everything in. The Rouge was his baby. The Rouge was home to him. It was even more beautiful then how he had left it a couple months back. With that thought came the guilt. Such guilt. Myron Bolitar had to leave the Moulin Rouge, and how irresponsible right? Leaving it to Toddy St. James was one of those things where he had to but no way in hell wanted to. Leaving any kind of building, business, animal, whatever else to Toddy St. James was just a scary thing. But Myron wished the walls would talk to him. What was he, some acid tripping hippy? But then he could explain himself. He could explain why he left, and hey, maybe even pull out the cliche', 'It wasn't you it was me' card. The Moulin Rouge was his baby and didn't deserve what he did. Neither did the people in it. Myron was shocked there wasn't some sort of alarm system they put in that could detect his presence and just spit him out.

Myron wasn't about to go hunting for Madeleine. There's seriously nothing more scarier than a man hunt in a dark Moulin Rouge. Imagine being man hunted. Scaring the hell out of her wasn't what he had in mind. There was that whole awkward loud scream, with the big eyes, possibly an adrenaline inflicted slap which was like ten times worse than a regular one, and it would probably piss her off moreso than she already was. Then again, Myron was going to scare the hell out of her no matter what. Not because it was so late that the sun woud probably come up soon and she probably thought she was alone. But because Madeleine probably thought Myron was dead.

In a sense, he sorta' was ...

He walked down the narrow hallway, passing the dressing rooms and the like. A sad smile crept on his lips as he thought about all his performers. He loved them. The talent the Rouge had was pheonominal. Myron felt like he had missed a couple months of everyone growing up. How much progress had they made? What kind of numbers were they doing now? It was so out of his control, and so just seeming like another world that he couldn't touch.

What would he even say to her? What could he say to possibly make things better? They were suppose to be married by now. They were suppose to be sharing their life together. Myron had ruined it all. But she had to know that he wouldn't just throw them away. He would like to think that, but he also new Madeline's issues. Wow, look at the pot calling the kettle black. Not 'issues', just problems with men in the past. But it had taken them awhile to reach that point of relationship then it took the longest time to get to engagement and ... it was going to be marriage. Myron knew she was rash. He had no place in doing so, but he had considered the fact that he was gone for a couple months, and she could have very well- No. He couldn't think like that. But the unfinished thought made a metal taste form in the back of his mouth, and his head to become light. Then again, that could totally be the pills or the need for another dosage. Even if Madeleine had ... done something he didn't want to think about- did Myron have the right to be mad at her? He left. Without a word. Without anything. Myron Bolitar was not the victim in this. Yet, it really felt like he was sometimes. He didn't sign up for anything that had happened.

Myron's strides got slower once he hit the end of the hallway. His eyes zoned in one the door. His door. His office.

Something swelled in his chest when he turned the nob and opened the door. How dumbly sentimental right? But when he opened the door and saw everything still in it's place, his eyes stung and threatened even more sentimental liquid. But no one had moved his things out. No one had put anything in a box, or took something down, or ... It was all here. Everything. His photographs, his pens, his decor, everything. Apart of him expected some kind of conspiracy. Some kind of, take everything down that belongs or has anything to do with Myron Bolitar. Then again, that could just be a total persecution complex. He wasn't that special, right?

A smirk creeping on his lips, Myron took a step into his office, taking the vest that he carried over his shoulder and tossing it onto his leather chair. He stared at it for a moment like a kid in a candy shop. Just seeing his vest on his chair made him all ... Well, Myron Bolitar was back.

Wrapping around the desk, Myron threw himself on his chair and plopped down. It felt good. It felt right. Damn, he had missed his Godfather leather chair. His *ss did too. Grinning, he threw his feet onto the desk, and leaned backward with his hands behind his head. Could Eminmen be playing now please? You know, the guess whose back... back again.

But in this moment of fun, Myron Bolitar was brought back to the cold reality of why he was originally here right now right at this moment.

The door opened.

Madeleine.

[The Exodus]

Madeleiene de Chandon

Sometimes places could graft themselves onto your soul. It wasn’t any different than making a deep connection with a flesh-and-blood human being. It was that warm, fuzzy comfort you got at pulling into your own driveway or standing in your grandmother’s kitchen at Christmastime. But, since Madeleine didn’t have a driveway or a grandmother, her special place was the Moulin Rouge. She had spent at least five years working, breathing and living the Moulin Rouge, whether as a dancer, choreographer, or dance mistress. Her fondest memories lingered like ghosts in every corner. On that stage, she’d won the adoration of the Parisian public. Backstage, Madeleine had met her two best friends: Toddy and Ashton. Had it really been a year—longer?—since she met Toddy? Was Ashton really pregnant? Time flew by. And of course, the Moulin Rouge had been where she met Myron. Even just thinking of him made Madeleine’s bones ache. Maybe deeper.

She’d realized, sitting in what ought to have been the golden warmth of a morning-after with a total stranger, that Myron was dead. He wouldn’t have abandoned her; not the loyal, monogamous, passionate Myron she knew. He would have called or written or emailed or passed awkward messages through Toddy and Ortiz. Moreover, Madeleine wouldn’t have cheated on him if he was still alive. Myron had ruined her a while back. He’d taken her libido and bent to its voracious will, all to keep her from boredom, until she hadn’t needed another man or woman to satisfy her. But Myron wasn’t alive to make love to. Moreover, Madeleine knew that she’d never take another guy home if Myron was alive.

But, of course, the police officers downtown didn’t take her “lack of compelling evidence” seriously. Instead, they sat her down in a deceptively hard chair and plied her with rough tissues and tepid coffee. With each platitude they offered, Madeleine knew they thought this was funny. That they were imagining a groom with cold feet or a script for “The Hangover 3”. They used the same patronizing tone Madeleine adopted to “console” young dancers with twisted ankles who acted as though they’d broken something. To the police officers, Madeleine’s worries were just as illogical and overdramatic. They sent her on her way with empty promises and a migraine.

And yet, some good had come out of that day at the police station. Madeleine had done some soul searching—she supposed that’s what it was, although, really, it had just been a night of alcohol and legal pads and BIC pens--- and she realized something. The Moulin Rouge was Myron’s baby, which made her, like, its mother or step-mom or something. Because, seriously, there was no one in the world Myron would have had a baby with other than Madeleine. And she had been a woefully neglectful parent. She’d spent all her time since Myron’s death thinking he’d left her, cursing his name, and putting her best efforts into the maintenance of the Opera’s ballet company. She’d treated her and Myron’s baby like it was the red-headed stepchild. And that simply wouldn’t do.

She took Ortiz aside the next morning and he accepted her two-weeks-notice with a sad, but understanding, half-smile. Madeleine didn’t ask him, but she was sure he understood and was grieving in his own way for Myron. This would be her way. Sure, Myron may have left Toddy in charge, but Madeleine was still in charge of the entire dance troupe and its routines. She could still give the Moulin Rouge the “wow factor” Myron would have wanted her to. She was short some of her favorite dancers, but that was okay. If she could choreograph, design, and train without Myron at her side, a couple dancers were nothing. Madeleine was, in her way, slavishly devoted to the Moulin Rouge. She was there before anyone else, she left after they all did. She would one day be featured in some arty magazine as the “Madwoman of the Moulin Rouge” or something, because besides Aryeh, Ashton, and Toddy, Madeleine’s contact with other human beings was near zero. She was a recluse, consumed by her art and channeling her grief, and though it would be a terrible way to end her days, Madeleine accepted her fate—or, rather, her penance—with the same calm reserve as a death row inmate did their own. She wasn’t going to fall in love again. She could lust after almost anyone: man or woman. But there had always been something unique about Myron that she hadn’t found in anyone else. And now that he was gone—

Madeleine twisted her engagement ring a little and looked around the now-empty stage. There was a gala across town at the Opera House. Ortiz had asked her to come with him—not as a date, but because she was going “f*cking crazy in that nightclub”—and she’d only laughed at him. It was a touching gesture from her late fiancé’s best friend. One that Madeleine appreciated, but didn’t want. One that she was sure Ortiz wouldn’t have wanted to actually make. He had taken one of Madeleine’s former ballerinas instead; something that undoubtedly would make him happier. Madeleine had seen to it tonight that the show went on without a hitch and that the patrons were served and that the post-Myron Rouge was getting the TLC it deserved. It was her job. And even if she missed the strange music the opera house always played at those galas, or the free drinks, or the witty repartee she shared with Myron, or the outlandish and cumbersome costumes, it was probably best that she was here.

And if tonight got to be unbearably painful, she’d mill through her little black book and see which of the opera house partiers was drunk enough (but not too drunk) to take her up on a one-night stand. She’d get carried away for a moment, just long enough to go to sleep.

Everything seemed to be taken care of out here, anyways. The lights were dimmed, the performers and straggling patrons, gone. The bar was closed; the liquor cabinet, locked. All Madeleine had to do was stop by Myron’s—or, rather, Toddy’s—office. She did that every night. Madeleine was superstitious, but to her, visiting Myron’s office nightly was no different than Aryeh carving his and Adrienne’s name in the same bench for over half a century. It was no different than Ashton waiting up for Lucian on Sunday nights. It was no different than any of that because they were all labors of love. And they all sated some romantic impulse each of them had. Madeleine always left Myron’s office, feeling a little comforted. Maybe one day, a year or five from now, she’d hold a real séance and see if the sense of comfort came from Myron’s spirit or her own form of psychosis.

Madeleine walked down the hall to Myron’s office for her nightly ritual. She’d go in, wipe away any dust that was collecting on his bookshelf, desk, and knick-knacks. Then she’d cry for a few minutes—or at least, sit there dumbly with burning eyes. She’d say goodnight to Myron, even though he probably would never hear her, and she’d go home. What she did there could range from drinking herself silly to curling up with a good movie to calling a past conquest for a night of no-strings-attached sex to falling asleep in her makeup from sheer exhaustion and going about the next day like normal until it was time to close the Rouge after another successful performance. She couldn’t believe how pathetic it all sounded, or how put-together she was around her friends. By night, she was this bedraggled wreck, missing her fiancé and wishing he’d come back to life or that someone would at least find his body and give her closure. By day, she was this powerhouse flirt, who laughed at the right moments, cooed over Ashton’s blurry ultrasounds, teased Toddy lightly, and took care of Aryeh the way a good daughter would have. Life went on somehow, didn’t it? It always did. And yet, there were things—places and people—that you couldn’t just let go of. Not after only a few months. Not when you should have gotten married a week and three days ago. Not when—

Oh, dear God. The waterworks might start early tonight, Madeleine thought, swallowing hard. She pushed open the door of Myron’s office.

And then Madeleine de Chandon screamed.

Sitting in Myron’s char was a man, the spitting image of Myron. Madeleine would have sworn it was him, but that didn’t even make any sense. Myron was dead. Myron wasn’t here. Myron was—

Was this a ghost? Had she been drinking too much lately? Was this a psychotic break?

“Go away!” Madeleine yelled more at herself than to the figment of her psychotic break, clamping her hands over her ears. “You aren’t real; you aren’t here. Just… Oh, f*ck. I’m losing my mind…! Just… Not right now. I can’t lose my mind right now…”

Please, God… Don’t let me go crazy right now.

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar

Myron Bolitar was beginning to wonder if he had lost his good looks in America. This was the second time a woman had blatantly screamed at his face tonight. What did he expect from Madeleine though? A warm 'welcome home' smile, a kiss on the cheek, and a pat on the back? Well, it would have been nice but he even would have questioned her sanity.

Madeleine stood at the entrance of his office, screaming bloody murder, but he couldn't hear it. Myron sat still like an icicle in his office chair, and his insides were flipping over, his heartbeat speeding up. He could see her mouth open, but it was like the only thing that his ears were allowing him to hear was the beating of his own heart. Yeah, alright. Medically impossible, he gets it. But it was happening. It was like, this wasn't real. Damn, she looked beautiful. No, she looked goddess like. She looked like something that Myron tried to picture for a couple months behind his eyelids to keep him from reaching the deep end, but he couldn't. How does someone imagine Madeleine? She was absolutely breath taking. She was here. She was right in front of him, standing in his office. Just like old times. But this wasn't a 'just like old times' kinda' moment. Because, you know, the running on opposite ends of the fields of flowers with arms wide open for an upcoming embrace didn't really happen in reality. Oddly enough, hearing Madeleine's scream was comforting. God, it sounded good just to hear something from her vocal chords. It felt good to have her right in front of him, reacting to him. Because that meant this was real and it was happening. Now, just to deal with it would be the fun part.

"Go away!"

His chest stung. Her words were like a bee sting. No, she didn't mean that. Myron's mouth dropped open, but nothing came out- Madeleine just continued in this frenzied state. She wouldn't even look at him. She didn't want anything to do with him. Dammit. Her hands went up to her ears, as if that were going to make him just fizzle away. Something in Myron's stomach dropped and shattered, tearing away at the insides- and by this point it should have been nothing new. Just coming from Madeleine, it was a pain far worse than he experienced in the weeks and weeks he had endured.

“You aren’t real; you aren’t here."

Myron shot up from his desk, his hands quaking at his sides, just staring at her like a silent idiot, watching her have this breakdown. Because of him. Look what he had done to her. It was like he wasn't real to her anymore, or she didn't want him to be. He could feel a hardness in his throat. He should calm her down, he should say something comforting, right? That's what the thing would be to do. But how the hell was he suppose to do that? Introduce himself again? Should he have that sticker name tag, 'Hello My Name Is ... " But nothing came out of him. Myron just stared at her and he was doing this thing with his head where he couldn't hear her anymore. Which was odd, because anyone in a five mile radius could probably hear her, but he couldn't. He was just staring at her with glassy eyes.

Madeleine...

"Just… Oh, f*ck. I’m losing my mind…!"

There was a time where Myron thought he would never see her again. It sounds dramatic. It sounds whatever. He could have told anyone that, and maybe they would have felt bad or whatever flimsy emotion- but until a person knows what if really feels like to almost die- to have this moment in their mind where they think of the person they love more than the entire universe itself and just think, 'Yes. I might not live to see her again'- then they had no f*cking clue. No one had any f*cking idea what it felt like to have something ripped out of you; to have to leave someone and not tell them why. Myron felt like he was dying everyday. Not because of the gang, or his brother, or whatever cliche' Godfather-ism he ran into- but because Madeleine was out there. Without him. He couldn't call and check up on her. He couldn't hold her or look into her eyes. He couldn't be there for her. He couldn't ... have her love.

"Just… Not right now."

But she was right here. In the same room as him. She was alive. He was alive. Myron's stinging eyes looked at her hand and there it was. The ring. She hadn't thrown it out or burnt it or sold it for a nice sweater or- Well, she probably thought about it. Madeleine hadn't and still wore it. There was this flutter that peaked inside of him and he looked at her again. This time, with this hazy emotional selfish state. Because Myron had been selfless for too long. He had gone to do things for his brother, he had stayed away from people like Madeleine, Santiago, Toddy, for their own good. He had done things for other people, lived for other people, and... f*ck it. It was time to do what Myron Bolitar needed to do. It was time to be completely selfish. It was time to just drop it all, no matter what the outcome would be when he did it, and just take a moment that he needed for himself.

"I can't loose my mind right now ..."

Myron Bolitar with round glassy eyes moved around the desk with a flawless stride, never breaking, never looking away. He dove right to where Madeleine was, and without a second thought, or hesitation, reaching for her. His hand touched her cheek, and a jolt rushed through him like something he had felt once upon a time but only got to imagine for awhile. But she was right here. The touch made tears form in his eyes and his lip quiver. They quivered until he pressed them against hers. No matter if she struggled, if she hit him, if whatever happened- Myron got this. He got his Madeleine back for a moment. He got the physical assurance that she was alright and he was alright. Because feeling her lips was the only feeling he would have to make him now that for sure he wasn't dead. Being with her made him feel alive. Even just for this one singular moment.

Christ, she was going to slap the sh*t out of him.

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

Madeleine had seen Myron so many times since he disappeared. In her dreams, out of the corner of her eyes, in the faces of others. But none of it was real and she knew it. It was all wishful thinking or alcohol or loneliness or grief. Never had she seen him fully, sitting in his office, as if not a day had gone by. Which only confirmed for Madeleine that she was going crazy. There was no other way or reason Myron would be here now. The thing was, Madeleine had too much to live for to be going crazy. She had a theatre to run, a pregnant best friend, an elderly father… She owed it to everyone to keep her sh*t together. Coming unhinged in the middle of the night was the last thing Madeleine needed. She told herself to breathe and to calm down to no avail. She could feel another sensation well up in her throat—probably a sob this time, because screaming was useless. Screaming in the red light district of Paris didn’t get you noticed at all. Especially this late at night or near the Moulin Rouge.

Myron was either a figment of Madeleine’s overburdened imagination or he was a ghost. Or maybe he was a serial killer with an uncanny resemblance to the man Madeleine had loved and lost. Whatever he was, he wasn’t the real Myron Bolitar because the real Myron Bolitar was dead. Whatever he was, though, he got up from his chair and made his way towards Madeleine. He seemed to glide over to her and all Madeleine could do was quiver. She felt like a bad Jell-O mold. Not-Myron reached out to touch her and Madeleine gasped. He may not have been real, but his hands were. And they weren’t ice-cold, like she would have expected. He felt like life: warm and soft and real. Madeleine whimpered as Not-Myron drew closer. She could see tears clinging to his eyes, still unshed, and it didn’t take a genius to know what was coming next. When Not-Myron kissed her, Madeleine shouldn’t have been surprised. But she was because Not-Myron tasted like Real Myron. He felt like Real Myron. He had her eyes falling shut stupidly and her insides turning to butter. It wasn’t fair that psychotic breaks felt so real and tasted so good.

But what if this is the real Myron? a hazy voice said in the back of Madeleine’s mind. What if this is him and he’s back?

If that was the case, Myron Bolitar should have stayed in hiding. Because if he was back, it meant that he’d left in the first place. And if he’d left, that meant he’d left Madeleine. What, was the single life finally boring him? Did he decide to miss her after months? Was that how this worked? Madeleine figured that if this was the real Myron Bolitar he deserved what was coming next. And if it wasn’t, then he wouldn’t feel it. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed him off of her hard enough to knock him into the desk.

“Where have you been?” she snapped, her voice raspy and low—breathless from the kiss. “You better give me a damn good excuse, Myron Bolitar, because you can’t just do that and then kiss me and make it all better!”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar


If this were a Jerry Springer episode, the audience would be howling and getting out of their seats, and throwing up their fists in the air with approval. Which was what this generation calls a 'fist pump'. At least at the part when Madeleine pushed Myron off of her, slamming the palms of her hands into his already bruised chest, he collapsed against the front of the desk. Okay, so someone was pissed. Rightfully so. Again, what did Myron expect? Well, her kissing back maybe, but that would have been asking a lot.

Funny to think that a kiss for them would be labeled as 'a lot' now.

Myron Bolitar blinked back the tears, feeling a jolt of pain ripple through him. No, he wasn't a wuss. He was already in janky shape though, and being thrown around wasn't helping. The physical pain wasn't what was causing all this hurt. It was the emotional. Madeleine pulling away from that kiss, knocking him away from her, was terrifying. It was terrifying because it was actually happening. It had taken weeks for him to get it through his thick skull that this wasn't some like, well going with the cliche' comparison, a nightmare. His hands tightly wrapped around the edge of the desk, his nails pressing against the wood, and he looked right at her still. How did that singular moment of selflessness work for him? Whatever. He would not regret it.

“Where have you been?”

It took him a lot to not shut his eyes, and try to tune everything out. Not to Madeleine, because she deserved to know, but just because there was this wave of sickness he got in the pit of his stomach, and plus, he was so going to be asked that question a lot. Myron grinded his back teeth together, staring at her emotionless. Emotionless, no. He couldn't detach himself. Detach was this adorable verb Myron Bolitar learned and used for a couple months now. It was sort of like a survival tactic. He could feel himself beginning to do it now with Madeleine out of habit more than anything, because it was to emotional right now. On top of everything it was so much to handle. But, imagine how she felt. He was trying to, he really was. Apart of him still couldn't deal with it. Myron loved her to much, and opening that can would have just made him a mess. Breaking down was something he had never truly done yet, and he wasn't about to have it in front of Mad. That would just scare her off for good. She deserved to know. She needed to know.

The question was, would she understand?

"You better give me a damn good excuse, Myron Bolitar, because you can’t just do that and then kiss me and make it all better!”

"It wouldn't be an excuse, it would be a reason." Myron snapped a little more aggressively than he should. An excuse seemed more like a petty children's game. It wasn't a game. He felt his fingers quaking and his body folding in itself from his core. An itch started happening in the back of his head. sh*t. Not right now. He could feel it growing and swarming into the front of his head, clinging to his temples. He winced, from the pain and from the way he had just sounded. What an *sshole, right? He put a hand to his forehead, looking down for a moment, and his fingers trailing along to his pant pocket where that tempting little bottle was. Not in front of Madeleine.

With a big breath, Myron shifted up from his leaning half sitting on the front of the desk, and stood up, his eyes meeting hers again. His eyes sharp but pleading. Christ, what did he say? Where did he go from here? There was so much, and she would only listen to so little of it at this point until she had enough.

"Mad..." He opened his mouth. Shut his mouth. Opened. Shut. It was the opposite of word vomit. It was like word getting stuck in throat. Sucking in a breath, he clasped his hands together in a fold, and looking at her stating, "You could have died."

Saying it out loud, to her, looking at her eyes, was a lot more than he just expecting it to be a statement.

"You could have... died." He whispered, his eyes growing wide like he was hearing it from the first time.

His brain itched.

"No! sh*t!" Myron slapped his hand against his head, storming back to the front of the desk. "How dramatic, right?"

Itch.

Slamming a fist into the desk, he fought- "No, but it's true!" Watching his fist grind into the wood of the desk, he whimpered, his bloodshot eyes staring.

"... It's true."

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

When she pushed him, Not-Myron didn’t dissolve into vapor. He didn’t disappear with a faint pop. He didn’t melt into a sticky goo on the floor. He stumbled and hit the desk. And for a moment, Madeleine was triumphant. She’d caused him pain, just a fraction of what he’d caused her when he left without so much as a by-your-leave. She could see it in his eyes, big and watery. He was hurting. Oh, the poor thing. It must have sucked so much to be pushed by the jilted woman you left behind.

And then realization smacked into Madeleine the same way Myron smacked into the desk. He was alive! He was here! He was back! What the hell for? When? How? She was torn between the urge to curse at him the way he deserved to be sworn at, or to throw herself at him, crying and embracing and kissing. It all seemed so melodramatic, so surreal. And instead, she demanded explanation, like a rational person.

Well, an almost rational person.

Because, face it. Myron could have said anything in that moment. He could have said he’d been abducted by aliens or that he really had just gotten cold feet and run away from marrying her. And it wouldn’t matter. Madeleine would love him still, but forgive him? Maybe never. Not fully, anyways. She’d always wonder where he went when he went out or worry if he came home ten minutes later than planned. She’d always hate herself for loving a man who disappeared on her, made her look a fool, broke her heart. If Madeleine could control who she fell in love with, she’d have picked someone else. Someone who was dependable—if dull—who specialized in bedroom gymnastics. Not someone who pretended to be reliable, who pretended she was “The One” and then vanished. Seriously, why couldn’t you pick who you fell in love with? If that was possible, she would have cloned Myron and trained him like Pavlov’s freaking cocker spaniel to never leave her side.

"It wouldn't be an excuse, it would be a reason," Myron snapped.

Madeleine’s lip curled and she snaked her body away from him. A reason. An excuse. Same f*cking thing. He shook all over and finally looked up to meet Madeleine’s gaze.

"Mad...” Myron invoked his pet name for her. He struggled for words for a moment and then: "You could have died."

For a moment, Madeleine’s face went expressionless. Her arms unfolded and her eyes widened, staring at Myron in silence.

"You could have... died,” he repeated, in case Madeleine had missed the first time he said it.

And then Madeleine did something she didn’t expect to do. She started to laugh. It wasn’t humorous or loud. It wasn’t mocking either. It was one of those no-sh*t kind of laughs. One where Madeleine didn’t think Myron even realized how true his statement had been. Of course she could have died. Her fiancé abandoned her. A lot of people killed themselves over less. For all Myron knew, Madeleine could have been tickling her wrists with single-edged razors or sticking her head in the oven over him. But she hadn’t. She had things to live for—people she loved—that weren’t him. Life had gone on. Despite the blow that Myron was gone, Madeleine still breathed in and out every day.

"No! sh*t!" Myron slapped his hand against his head, storming back to the front of the desk. "How dramatic, right?"

Madeleine laughed harder. It was dramatic. He was right. They probably would go down in the history books for this one. Fiancé goes missing and returns from the dead. Christ, this was funny. Not humorous, just… So… ridiculous…

SLAM!

Myron’s fist hitting the desk shut Madeleine’s giggles up. She yelped and looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot and his face, hard and serious. Madeleine put a delicate hand over her mouth. Maybe there was something to what he’d said. After all, Myron had been acting bat-sh*t crazy the last few months. Ever since proposing. He’d been holding a gun for a friend in his apartment, then he announced that his brother was in a gang and that he was responsible for the wellbeing of his twenty year old niece. Then he got cold feet over a wedding canopy and hid in the tech booth for hours. And then: Poof! Myron Bolitar became the new Houdini. Madeleine lowered her hand slowly.

"No, but it's true!" Myron protested. "... It's true."

“Please tell me you haven’t been drinking,” Madeleine said quietly. “Because if you have, I’m gonna regret believing you… Even for the sake of argument.”

She went around beside Myron and picked his hand up off the desk, examining it for splinters.

“Suppose I believe you,” she said, spotting on and pursing her lips as she thought about how best to pull it out. “Why would I have died, Myron?”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar



The itch. Yeah, okay, Myron Bolitar was not going to eat you and ask for your credentials like Hannibal Lector, or start lining up mouths to peoples' assholes like a human centipede or whatnot. If Myron advertised that he had this so called 'itch', that's what the people of the world would automatically think. The universe thought he was insane already. He didn't need to add fuel to the fire. Which, that was new for him. The itch was born the day Myron Bolitar got away. Wow, okay. Apparently he is a poet now. Which, he would totally fit in. Poets were always f*cked up in the head because they wrote about things that crow at midnight, or just really odd things that don't make sense but hey, throw in the some artsy words, and it's the new meaning of life. Anyway, the itch was just a short name for calling that fight Myron had often in his head. Ever since New York and all it's spectacular events, his brain was going ape sh*t. Ape sh*t in the sense that it never rested. Rest meant vulnerability. Myron Bolitar never wanted to feel vulnerable again. Which was why he no longer took baths, slept that often, or showed his true emotions. But the itch ... that was the vulnerable. That was true Myron wanted to break through, and arguing with this, psycho paranoid tortured Bolitar. See, it's hard to explain something when you had no idea what it is, or don't want to face it. Myron Bolitar was never into that tortured soul sh*t, you know, the thing everyone and their mom claims to be because they are so 'original'. But living in Myron's noggin was torturous.

“Please tell me you haven’t been drinking."

Myron blinked through his groggy vision, staring at his fist on the desk still. He huffed out a half laugh that turned out to be more like the neighbor's whiny dog next door who hadn't been fed in a week. ( Which, there was a hotline for that) He cleared his throat, not liking that sound come out of him. He continued to blink, breathing hard through his gritted teeth. Drinking? He wished that was his excuse for all of this. 'Myron Bolitar, the drunkard lunatic. Leaving brides, friends, and having itching internal brains galore'. Yeah. So attractive.

"Because if you have, I’m gonna regret believing you… Even for the sake of argument.”

Believing you ... Believing you ... He heard it. Myron heard it from her mouth, but he just stared, everything freezing. Like, lets be all dramatic and sh*t, and say the earth froze. That's what it felt like. Madeleine just said it. If life had a rewind button, and not just for Adam Sandler, he would have probably played that about a thousand times before it actually got through his thick skull. That's all Myron wanted. Madeleine to believe him, to listen, and to understand what he did. But, it wasn't as easy as announcing she could have died.

He was to much in the, wow she believed me, mindset to realize that Madeleine had come to him at the desk. When she picked up his hand though, Myron Bolitar did everything and more with the whole noticing thing. His eyes shot at hers, but she was looking at his hand. Myron looked down too, but he wasn't looking at the splinter she was examining. He was focusing on their hands. Touching. They were touching. Her skin felt so good against his. It was a familiar and comfortable, yet new and missed feeling. It shot up his arms, through his shoulders, up his neck and cheeks, right to his eyes. Myron shut his eyes for a brief moment, letting out a breath. She was here. She was right here. Even if she weren't with him on it all, she was still here, and Myron was where he wanted to be. He needed to keep telling himself that. It was like the itch-be-gone-from-my-brain medicine.

“Suppose I believe you."

Myron's eyes flickered open. There it was again. There was that hope. Yes.

“Why would I have died, Myron?”

sh*t. Rehashing. Whining like a three-year old, 'do I have to' wouldn't do any good, but it was tempting. Myron Bolitar stared at her for a moment, swallowing the lump that built up in his throat. Christ, did he have to go there? Yes. Madeleine deserved to know. He left her. She needed to know why. He was so selfish he didn't. He needed to man up and just lay it all out. Would it be worth it though?

"It has every cliche' of the Godfather in it." Myron finally said in a murmur, but with a smidge of a smirk poking at the outermost part of his lip. For all times sake. "I gotta' warn you ..."

That probably ... wasn't funny ... or a good intro. Thesis statement fail. Whatever.

Letting out a huge breath, Myron plucked his hand out of hers, balling it up into a fist and then releasing expanding his hand to see the splinter. Leaning against the desk in a sitting position, he looked at the piece of wood in his skin, and flapped his hand, deciding to ignore it. He'd get that later. Now it was this. Christ, he rather get sixty splinters then do this. It was like, hey old wounds, how you doin'?

Do this for her ...

"It was Win." He finally said, holding the edge of the desk and staring straight ahead. The name. His brother's name. It was like he was reading out of an old history book. That's what Win Bolitar was now, history. Myron Bolitar had a flash of what his brother looked like, and honestly, it was almost hard to see. Wasn't that sad? How when someone dies, it hurts so much that apart of your brain tried to sugarcoat it all for you? There weren't even any happy joy-joy memories. Their histories as young brothers was just washed out from his memory bank. All he could see now was... Blood. Lots of blood. He could hear screaming. He could feel..

Myron Bolitar realized he hadn't been breathing, blinking, or moving.

Keep it on the surface. Don't get to the foundation ...

"He was in trouble."

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

Hypothetically, Madeleine believed Myron. Hypothetically. It didn’t mean she did or would after he finished delivering some spiel about where he’d been. Especially if the spiel involved aliens, conspiracy theories, or a secret identity as Batman. Madeleine could believe a lot of things, but any indication that Myron was crazy, and he could watch her leave one last time. But if he gave a legitimate excuse—Madeleine couldn’t think of one, though—she’d stay and believe him and they’d be fine. After all, how many more of his relatives could die? How many more of them could be mafia-wannabes?

"It has every cliché of the Godfather in it," Myron finally confessed. A little smirk tugged at his lips and Madeleine had the sudden urge to smack him. It was that awful brother and niece of his again. And for all Madeleine knew, the brother didn’t exist. She’d never met him. In fact, the first time Myron mentioned Win Bolitar had been less than a year ago. Normal people didn’t have secret siblings in gangs. Normal people didn’t wait until mere months before marrying someone to tell them about the psychotic in-laws. "I gotta' warn you ..."

Madeleine decided to reach for the nastiest looking splinter in Myron’s hand to pull out, but he took his hand back and studied it himself. Madeleine folded her arms over her chest, as if it made her more compact, more intimidating. It didn’t. But she wanted Myron to just give her the truth, no theatrics, no smirks, no more secrets. It wasn’t like she was asking for his left lung or something.

“It was Win,” Myron said, confirming Madeleine’s worst suspicions. “He was in trouble.”

“And you just had to rescue him?” Madeleine asked quietly. “Myron… The man wasn’t a part of your life until a couple months ago. You didn’t—don’t—owe him anything.”

But he owed Madeleine. Big time. She’d been here for him, with him, slated to marry him… She’d loved him, wasted her time and emotion on him, only for him to run off after his loser of a brother. It wasn’t fair. Madeleine’s tongue tapped the spot behind her front teeth fiercely. She would never understand Myron’s stupid hero complex. His need to “save” her from alcohol and cigarettes and sleeping around; his need to “save” Ortiz from dying as a lonely, crotchety old b*stard. His need to “save” Rachel from professional ruin; his need to “save” Ashton from Lucian. His need to “save” Toddy from gambling; his need to “save” Francesca from running amok in some slum or another. Madeleine had been happy doing as she pleased. They all had. Even Win deserved to lie down in the bed he made. Hell, he might have enjoyed being in trouble, for all they knew. He wasn’t like Myron or Madeleine or anybody. He wasn’t a stable force in Myron’s life, nor was he exactly a positive influence. He was probably the reason Myron looked like hell right now. Probably the reason—

--Unless Myron was using Win as a scapegoat and he’d really gotten cold feet.

Don’t even think like that. Keep Win as the bad guy in this.

“So then what happened?” Madeleine asked, despite the hot bile in her throat. “You ran off to rescue him without telling anyone and then what?”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar


It wasn't a bird. It wasn't a plane. It wasn't Superman.

“And you just had to rescue him?"

It was just Myron Bolitar.

“Myron… The man wasn’t a part of your life until a couple months ago. You didn’t—don’t—owe him anything.”

That's all Myron could explain it as. It was just him. This is what he did. Madeleine right. She was so right. So not only was he having that somehow microchipped into every man's brain moment where he cannot admit that the lady is right in a situation, but it was just really hard to explain. It was just Myron Bolitar. It wasn't out of wanting to be some kind of hero, or get something out of it for himself. Myron just naturally looked out and especially for his family. Because that's what Win was, his family. Sure, he wasn't going to win an award for best brother of the year or anything, and Madeleine was right, Myron didn't owe him anything. When it comes to his brother's life it shouldn't come to that though. Myron's grandpa raised all the Bolitar men like that. Which, yeah, that draws a cliche' picture of wise words from the geezer in the rocking chair, but it was true. Watch out for the one's you love. Sure, Win was a selfish, shady, crook. But he was Myron's brother first and foremost. They grew up together. They were blood. Myron didn't have much family left. By helping what was left of his family, he would be able to start one in Paris. The whole brotherhood thing sounds all cliche'- wow, notice a pattern with this situation? Cliche' Cliche' Cliche' ... That's what it was. Brotherhood. Not only that, but Myron had more than Win to save. Myron had to save everyone else ... including Madeleine.

Who was he, Tom Cruise?

But without that like, janky teeth number he has going on.

“So then what happened?”

Myron almost jumped from Madeleine's voice breaking through his thoughts, but he was glad she did. Not that the topic out of his head was any better, but lately it had been a scary place to be in. Although, standing here with a pissed off Madeleine had to be runner up.

“You ran off to rescue him without telling anyone and then what?”

"That's the thing." Myron began, almost overlapping her words, and shooting up from his position on the front of the desk. Turning to Madeleine, he could feel his eyes bulging out of their sockets. Like, his 3-D corneas would just make her believe him. "I didn't really have a choice. The mob gets to people through people." Because, you know, who wouldn't know this stuff? It's perfectly normal information. It's all the rage at story time. "They were after Win, so to get to someone you go after his family. Francesca, me..."

Myron's breath caught in his throat. He didn't know how hard it would be to say the word 'me'. Then again, he didn't know if 'me' or he would be alive right now. After all, his life was pretty much laid out for him with one phone call ...

"Can't I at least tell Madeleine? Can't I least tell her that-"

"Do you want her to die, Myron?! Is that what you want?!"

The line went cold. So did Myron's body. His heart stopped. His eyes stared off beyond the dashboard of his car and at Madeleine's apartment. She was right there. She was right inside. She was so close, and Myron couldn't get to her. He wanted her to open the front door and see him. Then it would be a mistake. A mistake, that could get her killed. He felt the heat from his body leaving sweat onto his shirt, and feel his heart beating so hard that he wouldn't be shocked if he had bruises on his chest. His hand clutched the cellphone so tight but it felt like everything was numb.

Madeleine.

"Win," Myron whimpered, his bottom lip shivering. "You have to let me tell her. You have to let me say goodbye. I love her Win. I love her-" Myron's eyes went wide, as he kept murmuring, kept talking, kept holding on. "I love her.. I love her.. I love her.."

As if saying it over, she would just know. She would just hear. She would just know everything.

"Myron," Win's voice was strained but gentle. He felt for his brother, but he needed to get through to Myron. "She knows you do. And if you do, you won't get her involved. They're after you. What do you think she would do if she found that out?"

Myron knew the answer. He was in love with a woman of fight in her. Madeleine was strong, tough, beautiful, and she was more compassionate than she would admit. If this were Madeleine, Myron would have done everything he could to take Madeleine out of the situation. He would have fought. She would if he told her. She would get herself killed. For him. Myron couldn't let that happen.

"Myron."

Win's voice was in the back of Myron's mind, but he was still focusing on that window in the front with the light on. He hoped to see her shadow or something. He looked at it until everything was blurry with the tears that came flooding out. He just wanted to run away with her. Go away. That was all he needed was her.

"She'd die if you stayed around."

Madeleine would die because of him ...

"I know."

Myron hung up the phone.

Myron Bolitar wasn't a fan of flashbacks in movies. In fact, he usually took that time in the movies as a pee break, or throw the popcorn at the woman's large hat break. But he had been getting them a lot lately. In other words, if his life were a movie, there would be many pee breaks or... throw your popcorn. Which, who does that except toddlers and Myron Bolitar?

"Then that'd be putting you in danger." Myron's voice rasped, his eyes stinging. "I couldn't let that happen."

He could feel a sharp pain in his head, causing his neck and jaw muscles to flex.

"And I didn't."