Paris Descartes University

[The Exodus]

Toni Vandeleur

Toni found that she rather liked William’s laugh. It was warm, genuine. She heard plenty of fake laughter in her acting classes; beginners who couldn’t fake emotion or make themselves feel along with their characters. She knew the difference. William wasn’t faking it.

“It’s not a secret—it’s just not a permanent thing,” he said. “Currently, the Théâtre National de la Colline is putting on a French translation of ‘The Clean House’. I’m stage manager, but it’s not my theatre. Do you know it? Toni nodded. Bill continued, “It’s a great space, but incredibly short-handed on staff. But I tell you this,” Bill said, unimpressed by his current venue. “If you want to see a really good show,” he dropped his voice as if this was a precious secret. “Go to the Moulin Rouge. Best light design in all of Paris.” He smiled with pride and leaned back in the chair. “I mean, it’s worlds away from the RSC, mind you, but I’m quite proud of my work there.”

Good theatre could be found anywhere in the city. It wasn’t the venue she was shocked by. Or that the man did both stage managing and lighting. Jacks-of-all-trades were commonly found backstage. Toni was surprised, though, that of the things that likely littered William’s resume it was the dance-space he was most proud of. Most people would be touting La Colline. The Moulin Rouge wasn’t commonly regarded as theatre by the average Parisian. Or tourist. Or, really, anyone. It was more common to hear it called a nightclub. But the shows there, from what Toni heard, were celebrations of dance and of pyrotechnics. So, this was the man behind the lighting displays that managed to distract from scantily clad, leggy dancers? His work must have been impressive. Toni smiled.

“I might have to check them both out,” she told him.

She was always looking for local productions to recommend to her students, never mind personal pleasure. She probably wouldn’t recommend the Moulin Rouge in class, lest the department chair hear about it and remind her that human sexuality was a sociology class, not a theatre course. They’d disagree, argue, and eventually Toni would just throw her hands up and feign defeat while planning a solo trip and maybe one for her best students studying tech. She wanted to make the first trip alone anyways.

Better to get a handle on the venue first, she told herself.

“You’ll have to let me know how you like Ruhl,” she said, sitting down in her own wheeled chair across from him. “I’m always curious to hear what other professionals think of plays. God knows my students try too hard to sound smart to actually say anything interesting about a show.”

She smiled apologetically, cheeks dimpling up. She missed conversation—adult conversation, anyways, like she’d had in years past. But there was no need to get bitter or bore William to tears. He’d dropped into her world quickly; he could leave the same way. He could disappear with her book in his hand, thinking that she was a real loon.

“They try. They’re learning,” she said, in part to William and in part to herself. Then, “I mean… Here.”

She handed Bill one of her business cards off her desk.

“Just let me know when you’re done with “The Clean House”,” she said. “If you want to meet up, talk about it, that’d be wonderful.”

[The Exodus]

OOC: Toni/Scotty! BIC:


Toni Vandeleur

Anyone who thought professors taught because they loved the sound of their own voices was an idiot. Toni, like every single one of her students, had an eye trained on the clock as she spoke. The class she’d designed for this semester (Acting in Alternate Mediums) was half hands-on, half-lecture. And, unfortunately for the undergraduates currently staring at her with glazed eyes, today was lecture day. It was a bitterly cold January morning in Paris, but the heater in the university would have you believe you had just set foot in the Costa Rican jungle. Toni stalked up and down the front of her lecture hall, feeling rather like a caged leopard. Bored, irritable, and showing incredible restraint for not lashing out at her students. She’d heard smart *ss answers for the last half hour, and no questions whatsoever. She had a headache stemming from her jaw and blossoming behind her eyes.

Toni loved theatre. Lived it, breathed it. She’d trained with the RSC, gotten her equity card from the TUC, directed a show at BAM—a lot of impressive acronyms—and she’d relished each phase of her development as an actress and later, as a director. The next phase of her evolution—professorship—was a nightmare. Or well, it was right now. As an untenured professor, Toni was assigned core courses. She was paying her dues as they said. Still, she wished her past credentials let her bypass the mind-numbing experience of introducing uninterested students to something she loved so dearly.

Today’s topic was titled “The World of Shakespeare” in the syllabus, which meant that Toni was giving a bit of a history lecture. She was not a historian by training, regardless of layman’s interest, so she was thankful that the lecture would only be for today. Still, it was a matter of first impressions. She didn’t want to be seen as pedantic or dull. Or irritable. She was already off the giving-up-smoking-resolution, so at least the irritability was manageable. She wished this was one of her elective—or major—classes. Not the core. Not the introduction to theater arts.

“Now,” she said, only half-aware of her own lecture, “Does anyone want to guess why it is theatre was so maligned prior to Shakespeare’s time? What changed before and after Shakespeare? Anyone?”

[Deleted]

Scott Price

On the outside it appeared as if Scott Price had the world on string. In actuality, he was more like balancing on a string. Scotty's issue as of current was like a rendition of the Frank Sinatra song gone horribly wrong. Except, in order to fix things, ol' baby blue eyes didn't sneak into college classes- unlike Scott Price. Hm, did that make him more adventurous than the don of music?

At least no one had questioned Scotty, who they would either think of as a pervert or a super-super-super senior. A little more 'supers', but after three Scotty would begin to feel old. He hated feeling old. But no one questioned as the suit jacketed director slipped into the back of the lecture hall. Most of their brains checked out at the door anyway. Scotty never remembered being like that in all his years of colleges, but he supposed that was why he had become so successful- he worked hard and paid attention. He was getting quite a show though, one that he could never direct. Scotty was lucky enough to witness college guy getting college girl's number. Another college guy slipped into a hangover coma. If this was the world's upcoming generation- the world was in deep doo doo.

Scotty felt bad for the professor. Her name was Toni Vandeleur. Gorgeous name; a name that no doubt Scotty wouldn't mind seeing on one of those play bills. Some of the names out there were just mind blowingly atrocious. Even her presence seemed demanding. She had that look that could play along side those old mobster movies with Cagney. Sexy, with a glint of vulnerability that Scotty would love to explore with one of his acting exercises. Commanding, yet an old soul just looking for a match in her busy schedule. She would absolutely be lovely in Sam Shepard's, 'Fool for Love'. Hypnotizing, really. Now Scotty was getting carried away, but he always did this when he saw someone powerful. His mind would cast them and get excited. Most directors do it, but it seemed wherever Scotty went he could find some scene shooting through his mind like a movie from inspiration. Aside from that- Toni Vandeleur had the grandest of credentials.

Which was why Scotty Price was here. He was in desperate need of her brain cells.

Scott Price was a well known director. He had worked in Chicago, New York, London, and now Paris. In each place Scotty was confident and successful. Musicals? Cheekier sometimes, fun, and chaos. Straight shows? More of a gritty feel sometimes, intense methods, and beat work. It could swing both ways. But operas? Funny lil' thing the Opera Populaire staff did not know when offering him the job. Scott Anthony Price had never seen, heard, or put on an opera. Ha... funny, right?

Toni Vandeleur was a woman full of knowledge and a professor- so teaching was her thing. Tutoring should be too, right? After a mortifying staff meeting, Scotty did as any American in crisis does- He turned to google. With google, the love of his life, he found information on her. It was perfect. The perfect plan. Get the teacher to help him. She was not too much connected with the people there so it would be private more so to save humiliation. Of course, Scotty was willing to pay any price. Not to make her sound like some prostitute of intelligence or anything.

And so his plan began ...

“Now, does anyone want to guess why it is theatre was so maligned prior to Shakespeare’s time? What changed before and after Shakespeare? Anyone?”

Wow. This class needed to be spiced up.

Perfect.

Scotty jumped up in a flash, making noise, and smiling. "I have a question, Professor!" He said with a boyish grin and flashy eyes at her, ignoring all the heads that seem to turn at once like an old high school awkward movie. He supposed he didn't have to slip into the morning class, but it was the only chance he had to talk to her today out of his schedule. And he just got the syllabus today about her office hours so ...

Looking over in front of him, someone had fallen asleep. Taking his fedora on his desk, he slapped the student in the head with it, "Wake up sonny boy, I have a question!"

Clearing his throat, he looked at Professor Vandeleur. "Shakespeare is great. Now, can you relate, in anyway Shakespeare with.. Oh.. Lets say.." He pondered fake, looking at the ceiling and then back at her with a smirk, "Opera?"

[The Exodus]

Toni Vandeleur

The question was met with glassy eyed stares that told Toni that her students had not done last night’s reading. She shut her eyes a moment, steeling herself against the wave of frustration that rollicked in her stomach. The sound of shoes clattering on the floor made her eyes snap open. A man stood up in the back of the lecture hall.

"I have a question, Professor!" he said, showing more enthusiasm than the rest of the class combined. For that, Toni supposed she should be grateful, if surprised. She wished she had her photographic roster on hand to identify the man—at least her age—who was wearing a fedora and a schoolboy grin in the back of her classroom.

The man looked around; a few students were ogling at him with mouths ajar and eyebrows raised. Toni didn’t blame them. However, one persistent sleeper remained face-down on his desk. His soft snores, the only sign he was still alive. The man removed his hat and smacked the boy on the head. The kid awoke with a loud snort.

"Wake up sonny boy, I have a question!"

A few students laughed. Toni could feel her authority over them slipping away. If this man could make scenes, then what would stop the rest of them from jumping up and whacking each other with headwear? Toni’s nostrils flared; if she hadn’t been the professor, she’d be laughing, too. The man with the fedora looked back at her. She tried to keep her cool, polished look of professionalism. It was easier to act when it was in the job description. Still, besides a small twitch of her lips, Toni was certain she was looking at him dubiously, the way a world-weary professor ought.

"Shakespeare is great,” the man said, but for whose benefit, Toni couldn’t tell. Shakespeare was empirically great. Even people who hated plays of who slept through their introduction to theatre classs would have to concede that he was great. Toni wondered, again, who this guy was. “Now, can you relate, in anyway Shakespeare with.. Oh.. Lets say.." He pondered fake, looking at the ceiling and then back at her with a smirk, "Opera?"

Toni sighed.

“Are you sure you don’t want the music history class down the hall?” she asked, returning his smirk with an exasperated one of her own. She shook her head. “Shakespearean operas have a long history. Of them, most well-respected it Verdi’s Otello[/i. George Bernard Shaw once said “instead of Otello being an Italian opera written in the style of Shakespeare, Othello is a play written by Shakespeare in the style of Italian opera.” If that answers your question, perhaps you can answer mine. So, tell me. What fundamental change in the role of theatre did Shakespeare prompt?”

[Deleted]

Scott Price


Hands down there were far more kosher ways to go about seeking Toni Vandeleur's help. A simple email or telephone call would suffice. The world relied too much on technology nowadays, and it made society non productive and lazy. Riddle him this: What was so fun about those things anyway? Absolutely nothing! Going out and getting things down was what Scotty Price was all about. That, and disrupting prestigious university classes.

Scotty Price was now eye to eye with Toni, having very well caught her attention, as well as the entire class. He enjoyed the attention, but who wouldn't? He felt like, well, a college student once again. Although, he had seen plenty of those to last a lifetime. It was dissapointing to see the not so joyful youth not taking advantage of a scholar, such as herself, but it was all the better for Scotty to stick out like a sore thumb.

“Are you sure you don’t want the music history class down the hall?”

In her demure professor fashion, Scotty saw some other emotion peeking through a bit. Was it entertainment? It was a battle it looked like, perhaps she did not want to enjoy herself in front of the students? A lot of professors played the straight laced game. Gave them more of a serious, yet non approachable way about them. Not the route he would have gone, but then again, he was a director not a professor. There was a difference.

Whatever Toni was feeling at this particular moment, Scotty stood his ground with a grin.

“Shakespearean operas have a long history. Of them, most well-respected it Verdi’s Otello. George Bernard Shaw once said “instead of Otello being an Italian opera written in the style of Shakespeare, Othello is a play written by Shakespeare in the style of Italian opera."

Not quite what Scotty was looking for, but the sentiment not only showed off her knowledge, which is the tools he needed to see to know that she was the correct person to seek out, but it got her talking.

"If that answers your question, perhaps you can answer mine."

Ah, now this was getting fun. Scott squinted at her with an open mouth smirk, accepting this challenge of hers.

"So, tell me. What fundamental change in the role of theatre did Shakespeare prompt?”

The entire class was full of murmurs now, a litle bit of 'OOooo' as if this would stump Mister Price to sit back down. A few even gave the professor a few kudo nods. But, this was not over yet. Scotty Price liked this. He could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins as he thought about this as a face off- a Clint Eastwood classic. Only, Toni Vandeleur was far more lovely than a dirty no good cowboy. Which, made the Clint Eastwood stare a little more mind boggling.

The question was something that was not difficult, as he had the information in school, had directed a Shakespeare piece before, but it certainly took him a silent moment for suspense reasoning of course.

"Well," Scott Price began, folding his arms over his chest nonchalantly. "Shakespeare expanded the minds of what European theatre was all about. He did this through- characterization, plot, language and genre. Also, made the English language universal, but you didn't ask about that. My answer is vague, but to the point."

Extending hands to the student body, he smirked boyishly at her with a raised eyebrow. "Don't worry, I'm sure your knowledge thirsty class can bounce off my statement."

"So," Scotty sighed with amused twinkling eyes, placing his hands on the desk and leaning forward. "Is it my turn to ask the next question?"

[The Exodus]

Toni Vandeleur

She thought about how a correct answer—even a wrong answer—would let her segue into the next topic. Shakespeare’s contemporaries, his competition, the eventual founding of the Globe… All points she’d like to hit before the end of class. She didn’t want to talk about Shakespearean opera. It had little bearing to the course; would only distract everyone. Herself most especially. Toni had to keep to a schedule. God, she couldn’t wait to make tenure one day.

"Well," the man said, folding his arms. "Shakespeare expanded the minds of what European theatre was all about. He did this through- characterization, plot, language and genre. Also, made the English language universal, but you didn't ask about that. My answer is vague, but to the point."

Toni gritted her teeth. Vagueness did not a right answer make. Nor a wrong one, for that matter. Shakespeare’s effect on the English language was profound, but this wasn’t English class. Toni was giving a theatre history lesson. She’d been hoping for an answer about how Shakespeare had made theatre a mainstream medium, less stigmatized than before his time. She’d even take something about Queen Elizabeth frequenting The Globe or about how Shakespeare’s first theatre had been this ramshackle place in the red-light district, next to an animal fighting arena, while under Elizabeth’s protection, The Globe was a far grander performance space. Something to get her class on topic. He changed the minds of Europeans, yes, but her students weren’t going to jump out of their chairs over genre. They weren’t going to ace their exams if they said “plot” without talking about specific conventions. Vagueness didn’t preclude the answer from being right. It just made Toni worry she’d have superiors on her about pass/fail rates.

God, if she didn’t make tenure soon, her soul would get bled out of her by restrictions. She would be worried only about numbers, not cultivation of the next generation of Dame Maggie Smiths and Sir Ian McKellens.

How did she get back on topic? For the sake of all her non-majors, how did she—

Well that was odd. They were paying attention now.

How had that happened?


"Don't worry, I'm sure your knowledge thirsty class can bounce off my statement,” the man said cheekily.

“Great. So, who can tell me—“

"So," the man said. "Is it my turn to ask the next question?"

“That depends,” Toni said, allowing herself a small smile. “On whether you plan to continue disrupting class or if you promise to keep your fedora to yourself.”

A few laughs. Nervous, or genuine? Both, she thought. As good a sign as any. Her planned lecture was already lying on the side of the road, barely breathing after being slammed into by the speeding train of this guy. No point in totally reviving it now, she’d get chewed out by her dean if people told, but Toni would be d*mned if she let this stranger take total command of her classroom. This was her workspace. And now that she thought about it, she wondered if this strange American man even went here…

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

The university was big. Far bigger than any school Bill had ever seen, and had he not been there before, he would have been lamentably lost. There was a time when he thought S. Ruhl was a man and a kind woman corrected him. And now, he walked that same hallway, bouquet of flowers in his hands. He didn’t know what her favorite flower, or if she even liked flowers, but they were pretty, yellow, and subtle. He didn’t see her as an over-the-top perfumey roses kind of person.

He stood outside the door, nerves erupting and ricocheting around his insides in a way Bill never thought was possible. He contemplated everything from how his hair should lay to how he should walk in. If he walked in sneakily, he’d draw more attention to himself than needed, but if he walked in as if he belonged there, he wouldn’t get the right amount of attention he wanted. Did he interrupt class to give her the flowers? No, she’d look unprofessional. Waiting until class was over was possibly the best way to go, and walking in calmly seemed promising enough.

Toni’s voice was growing louder as she spoke of Adler’s adaptation of Stanislavski’s technique as well as some other theatre jargon Bill didn’t understand, but would gladly listen to her speak about for hours on end had he the opportunity.

He opened the door, slowly at first, but upon realizing it squeaked, he pushed it quickly, like ripping off a band-aid and walked to the back of the class. He felt the eyes of fresh young minds of aspiring actors on him and he nodded curtly as if he was simply late and was trying to pay attention, a fellow student, possibly and auditor. Some girls were talking near him and he put a finger to his lips as to keep them quiet.

Eventually, class came to a close and Bill made his way with the rest of the students to the front of the classroom. “Hey…” he cleared his throat. “I got these for you. I didn’t know if you liked flowers… Or yellow. So I guessed. But anyways, these are because I was thinking about you and I wanted to apologize…” Bill stopped himself. “Not for thinking about you. Those are two different thoughts. I was thinking about you and I wanted to apologize for disappearing again.” He had consultations with his lawyer and court dates to schedule. “And I’m rambling… Sorry for that, too.”

[The Exodus]

Toni Vandeleur

They’d left Shakespeare behind in favor of George Bernard Shaw. Teaching English language plays in a French classroom was probably a mistake. Toni sometimes forgot that not all her students were multilingual and some that were still didn’t know English. They all had copies of Pygmalion. Texts were in a myriad of languages. She’d seen both the original English and the translated French, but also Polish and what seemed to be Japanese versions scattered across the room. It was a play about teaching a girl to speak proper English; so many jokes were lost on her students that Toni considered cutting Wilde entirely from the syllabus and shortening the unit on Chekov.

“If I was acting this play,” one girl said. “I would not know the first thing about being Eliza. How could I be Eliza?”

Toni looked at the girl. How, indeed. She had white-tipped fingernails and a boyish blonde pixie cut. Her clothes had that strange, currently in-vogue look of being secondhand. If Toni had to hazard a guess, however, the blouse alone cost two hundred or three hundred. She didn’t want to guess how much the boots or skirt had. She had an airy tone and an accent that indicated she had never left the very heart of Paris, except perhaps to lounge on some beach with her Mama and Papa. Worst of all were the eyes. Big, blue, blank. As if made of glass. Not absorbing the world, merely passing it over.

“It depends what sort of actor you are,” Toni said. “You could rely on emotional recall, for instance… Method Acting, Strasburg and Stanislavski, anyone? So, as Eliza facing Higgins, perhaps call on a time when you were shown up by a classmate or competitor and you were really angry.”

“That’s not the same,” the girl said. She crossed her wrists and the plastic bangles adorning them smacked together loudly. “I can’t compare my life to hers. I don’t have a Higgins.”

“You know who said something like that?” Toni snapped her book shut. “Stella Adler. She said that emotional recall was “sick” and “schizophrenic”. That you cannot possibly use your experience—or shouldn’t, anyways—to inform your acting. Instead, Adler proposed research. You immerse yourself into your character’s world. Step outside your own culture and into your character’s. So. Let’s try that, all right? Tonight, go home, and immerse yourself in Eliza or Higgins or Pickering’s world. Watch the BBC. Listen to music from that era. Don’t watch the Audrey Hepburn movie. That’s cheating. Go home and Google linguistics. Trade coffee for tea. Something. Anything. Class can go early today.”

Students grumbled and trickled out of the classroom. Others spoke animatedly with each other. None hung back by her desk today, though and that relieved Toni. She bent to scoop up her belongings from the podium.

And then a shadow fell over her. Toni stopped and braced herself for questions about homework and the reading.

“Hey…”

Toni didn’t have to fake a smile. A real one leapt to her face when she looked up at Bill. He held yellow flowers in his hand.

“I got these for you. I didn’t know if you liked flowers… Or yellow. So I guessed. But anyways, these are because I was thinking about you and I wanted to apologize…” Bill stopped himself. “Not for thinking about you. Those are two different thoughts. I was thinking about you and I wanted to apologize for disappearing again. And I’m rambling… Sorry for that, too.”

“You are too sweet!” Toni said. “They’re beautiful, thanks.”

She accepted the flowers from him and hugged him with her free arm. She almost kissed him, but just over Bill’s shoulder, a gaggle of students stared at them, as if waiting for a show. Toni pulled away, a little shyly.

“Give me five minutes,” she said. “Are you free right now? Last class for the day and we could go somewhere, get these in some water, catch up…?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

Bill had grown acquainted to the butterflies that were set lose to wreak havoc in his insides whenever he was around Toni, that he didn’t bother trying to net them anymore. To feel them there reminded him that he could feel the way he felt for Toni, a feeling that had been dormant the day he slammed the door after his last argument with Victorine. To feel them, reminded him of that giddy schoolboy that had been sleeping inside him; the one that got nervous and excited and ran the gambit of emotions. And to catch them felt stifling, as if caging them sucked a bit of the happiness out of the world. He had been caged recently, holed up in that clinic. It had been hell. Putting anyone else, even the fictitious butterflies in the pit his stomach, in a cage felt cruel and inhumane.

But as Toni smiled at him, he felt the butterflies settle for a moment, a mere simmer instead of the fierce boil they had stirred up inside him earlier, and his heart leapt to life as he forgot to breathe. Reminding himself of the process, he kick-started his respiratory system, convincing it that it actually enjoyed its job. He felt his breathing start up again with more gusto than he had expected as he ran a litany of things Toni could possibly say or do in response.

But “You are too sweet!” was oddly not one of them. Bill’s smile, having faltered a moment, widened as she admired and took in the sweet perfume of the bouquet. “They’re beautiful, thanks.”

She took him into a hug, which Bill returned. The feel of her back seeped in through his fingers, saturating his bloodsteam with an odd euphoria as the air changed, inviting a kiss. And Bill almost leaned in to accept it, but Toni stopped short, looking just past his shoulder. He looked back as well to find a small pool of students clumped together like atoms, vibrating with curiosity. Bill cleared his throat as Toni pulled away.

Keep it professional, William. he reminded himself. This is her work place.

“Give me five minutes. Are you free right now? Last class for the day and we could go somewhere, get these in some water, catch up…?”

Bill smiled and nodded. “Oh! Of course. We can do whatever you want.” He watched her move about, tucking her papers and binders into a satchel from a nearby desk, low in the front row, offering a panoramic view of her work space. He smiled watching her move about, so comfortable in her space, so free flowing, like watching a bird in her natural habitat.

A very lovely bird.

“What’s been new with you? It’s been far too many days since we last saw each other.”

[The Exodus]

OOC: Reese/Lucian! BIC:


Lucian Michaud

Lucian came alone to the art gallery today. He hadn’t known Damien submitted art for anyone’s consideration until this morning. Damien had exuberantly come into the house through the garage to present Lucian with a white-and-gold invitation marked for tonight, not caring whether Lucian might have other plans. He supposed parenting was about not having plans—or a life—of your own. Clearly, that was what Damien seemed to think of it. Lucian couldn’t be annoyed with him, though. His heart had swelled up and he promised to be there because if Damien was submitting to galleries again, he might be persuaded to go for a doctorate degree or another tangible, career-like thing. Instead of painting in subways for tips.

But whatever it meant, Damien’s glowing face this morning had been more than enough to make Lucian dress up and go out on his own to see the gallery. He meandered through others paintings first, keeping a wary eye out for his ex-wife. Maybe Damien had told them to come on different days. Lucian certainly hoped so. He wasn’t up for a fight with Natalie. No doubt she’d have something new to complain about. Alimony. Damien’s affections. Toddy. Ashton. It’d be a nightmare. Lucian wandered to the drink and snack table and plucked up a cup of wine. It was a plastic imitation of a wine glass. The wine, too, was an imitation of the real thing. Lucian would know. From the table, he could see a painting that was undoubtedly Damien’s. He made his way to it.

While others painted in the style of Warhol these days, or else some abstract bright splashes Lucian could not divine, Damien’s art possessed a classical quality that Lucian had always associated with fine art. The subject was a young boy, about four years old, who looked oddly familiar. The child had a pudding-bowl halo of blond hair. His round, cherubic face looked directly at the viewer. Blue eyes stared, unblinking and bright. He wore a pair of denim coveralls over a white t-shirt and was barefoot. One thumb was shoved into the boy’s pink mouth. His other hand grasped a beat up looking, blue stuffed animal. The background, however, seemed to be made by a different artist with different training. The background was a marbled sunset color and clocks dripped, paying homage to Dali all around. Lucian paid them little mind; instead, he found his eyes fixed on the little boy’s familiar eyes.

If Lucian looked down at the title, he would kick himself for not realizing what he was seeing.

Gregory, Age 4, a Projection into the Future

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

Reese was ridiculously proud of her best friend. He had worked so hard and was finally getting somewhere! It was only a small gallery at a University but it was a definite step up from where he had been before, drawing strangers portraits in the subway for meager tips. She had always known he could do better than that since the second she saw the ketchup likeness of herself he had drawn on the counter of the Opera House kitchen what seemed like ages ago. It had been the start of a close friendship that was characterized by support and she now she couldn't imagine life without him.

He had shown up at her door this morning carrying a gold and white envelope inviting her to come see his work displayed in the gallery of the University. She had squealed with delight and hugged his neck still he reminded her he sort of needed to breathe. She had quickly agreed and said she would love to go and see it. She had then immediately gone to her closet and tried to pick out what the best outfit to wear to an event such as this would be, eventually settling on a nice, simple dress.

When she arrived, Reese had to admit she felt a little out of place. Everyone seemed either really sophisticated or really artistic. Even as a dancer, which one could generally qualify as an artist of sorts, she did not fit in with either group. Normally a very outgoing person, Reese kept mostly to herself, taking tiny bites of the cookie she had gotten from the snack table. She looked around at all of the other works on display still she finally found the one that no one but Damien could have done. It was a sweet painting of an angelic, blond little boy, all innocence and warmth.

Instantly Reese's mind went to the photos Damien had shown her of his new baby brother; Ashton's son. Her blue eyes went wide with recognition and she beamed when she saw that it was indeed how Damien thought the baby would look in a few years time. "He drew his brother," she cried out reflexively, probably disturbing the vaguely familiar man standing next to her. "I'm sorry! It's just...how sweet is that?! I know he adores that little boy."

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

Really, the portrait was beautiful. Lucian marveled at Damien’s ability to draw from memory. He couldn’t imagine his son—famous for his good-natured impatience and easily distractible nature—managing to get a four year old to hold still long enough for a portrait to be made. He was good with Gregory, but Lucian was certain that had more to do with the fact that they were brothers than an intrinsic fondness for children. Even as a child, Damien hadn’t shown a particular interest in being around other children until he started bringing the MaCarthy boys around. Where did this child come from? Maybe Lucian had been wrong, after all…

. "He drew his brother!" a girl exclaimed. Lucian blinked and threw a glance her way. To his surprise, the girl was looking at Damien’s painting. "I'm sorry! It's just...how sweet is that?! I know he adores that little boy."

“Of course he does,” Lucian said. What wasn’t there to adore? Lucian thought his sons were possibly the best children in the world. He knew he was wickedly biased. But even now, his face creased with a frown. “But that’s not his brother. Gregory isn’t even a year old yet.”

He wasn’t even six months old yet. The child in the painting was clearly much older than Gregory.

And Lucian was certain he’d know his own son when he saw him.

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

Reese had only ever seen baby Gregory once in real life when she had run into Ashton at the park. But Damien had shown her tons of photos and had gushed about the infant all the time. It was clear he loved his brother and honestly it didn't surprise Reese in the least that he had used him as a muse of sorts for this new painting. She had quickly exclaimed about how sweet it was and how her friend loved the new baby.

“Of course he does,” the man next to her replied. A frown crossed his features now as he spoke again. “But that’s not his brother. Gregory isn’t even a year old yet.”

She smiled and gave a soft laugh. "Oh, I know that. This is a painting of what Damien thinks Gregory will look like when he gets to be about 4 years old. Looking into the future, so to speak," she said. "It even says as much in the title." She pointed out the little gold plate with the words etched into it. The man must not have noticed it before.

It was a moment later that she realized the man had spoken of Gregory with a great deal familiarity. He had to know the family personally or...

It suddenly occurred to Reese where she had seen the man before. At Damien's coming out party! They hadn't officially met or anything, but she had seen him around. Seeing the man's blue eyes now, there was no mistaking that this was Damien's father! "Wait...are you Monsieur Michaud? I think I recognize you from Damien's party. I'm a close friend of his...Reese Cordova. It's so nice to meet you!" She stuck a small hand out to shake, bright smile on her face.

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

The girl laughed at him. Lucian resisted the urge to scowl. He hadn’t explicitly stated that both Damien and Gregory were his sons and for all anyone knew, he was just a cross art critic. Even still, the urge was there, scratching away at his brain and the older Lucian got, the looser his once-iron grip on his internal life he seemed to have. Everything was always much closer to the skin now that he was no longer a politician. He had to consciously remind himself not to betray any irritation. His face remained smooth and unclouded as could be.

For all he knew, this girl was an art professional, scouting Damien’s work or something.

She looked vaguely familiar, too, with her brown choppy hair and startling blue eyes. Lucian would have sworn they’d met before.

Possibly at another one of these galleries.

Art professional or not, the girl didn’t know Lucian’s youngest—evidently—if she thought Gregory was four years old.

"Oh, I know that,” the girl said. “This is a painting of what Damien thinks Gregory will look like when he gets to be about 4 years old. Looking into the future, so to speak. It even says as much in the title."

Lucian looked down at the nearly illegible title-plate. He narrowed his eyes, trying to read it. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but sometimes he wondered if he ought to see an optometrist. He already resisted wearing a pair of reading glasses he’d had for the last three years; a permanent commitment to eyewear churned his stomach. But, fuzzily, Lucian could see the word “Gregory” in some fancy script.

Well, he certainly felt stupid.

Still, embarrassment was not a luxury Lucian allowed himself. He merely made a noncommittal sound of interest.

"Wait...are you Monsieur Michaud?” the girl asked.

Monsieur Michaud was my father, a cheeky part of Lucian quipped. But, really, it was true. Lucian was not Monsieur. He had been told that enough times over the years, that he was only half French and despite dual citizenship, unfit to consider himself truly French.

And then a strange feeling settled between his ears. What if this girl thought he was Damien?

“I think I recognize you from Damien's party,” the girl explained. Oh, no. Never mind. Lucian looked at her, tilting his head. “I'm a close friend of his...Reese Cordova. It's so nice to meet you!"

Reese Cordova stuck a hand out for Lucian to shake, which he did with a smile.

“So you’re the infamous Miss Cordova,” Lucian said, now understanding how she recognized Gregory and where she got off thinking she could instruct him—or anyone—on the artist’s inspiration. She was, after all, one in Damien’s strange harem of muses. Friends he’d collected over the years whom he sketched often for “practice”. He’d seen many, many drawings of her over the last few months. Once, Damien had returned one of Lucian’s books with a flip-cartoon of Reese in the margins he’d done “just for kicks”. If that hadn’t been typical Damien, Lucian might have been angry. Instead, he’d asked Damien to introduce them.

“No way,” Damien said. “You need your own friends. You can’t keep stealing mine.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Lucian continued. “Damien seldom introduces his muses to his family. I’m afraid he’s a bit superstitious about it.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

Realizing now that this was Damien's father, she could see now the resemblance between the father and son. They both had the same piercing blue eyes (which Gregory had inherited as well) and dark hair. The shape of their faces was even similar. There was no denying the connection there. Still Reese wondered briefly why it was she had never met Damien's father before now. She felt certain that if they were back in England that Damien would have met her mother several times already and who would adore him and pester Reese about marrying him, ignoring the fact he was gay and had a boyfriend.

“So you’re the infamous Miss Cordova,” he said as he shook her extended hand, smiling at her warmly. Recognition now seemed to cross his face at hearing her name and probably putting it together with some stories either Damien, or possibly Ashton, had told him.

"Infamous?" Reese said with a grin. "I hope Damien hasn't been telling too many stories. I promise I'm not nearly as bad as he made me out to be." Reese gave a little wink and laughed, showing she was only teasing.

“It’s a pleasure,” he assured her. “Damien seldom introduces his muses to his family. I’m afraid he’s a bit superstitious about it.”

Reese giggled and shook her head. "That sounds like Damien, definately. It might not be a good idea to tell him we met today or else he might have a heart attack," she declared. She glanced back at the painting of Gregory. "So this is your son, too...give or take a years?" she asked with another teasing smile. "I saw him with Ashton a couple months ago! He was the sweestest thing! Its been a while though! He must be getting so big now." Reese rememebered quite clearly how she could practically measure the growth of her nieces and nephews from one visit to the next.