Les Deux Magots Cafe

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan took a sip of wine. And then another. He’d learned his lesson about trying to outpace Solange in drinking; it could be done, easily, but it was the one thing he was sure was not “worth it”. He didn’t need a hangover. Not again and definitely not this weekend. Besides, all things considered, Tristan really was happy. Considering he still hadn’t the spine to ask Solange out for a real date, considering that she hoped for something real (and obviously not with him)... Tristan was happy. Happy wasn’t the same as content. Happy meant that in this moment, right now, Tristan was glad to be sitting across the table from Solange, happy to pretend they were a couple, and happy to pretend that they were really in love.

"I am too," she said softly, though looked at him curiously. "But what do you mean, 'all things considered'?"

Tristan bit down on the rim of his wine glass and said nothing. Not that he would have had the opportunity to, because some guy in a straw hat and pinstriped suit materialized beside their table with a basket of flowers. Tristan stared at him incredulously. What was this even?

"Care to buy your lady a rose, Monsieur?"

Tristan paused. Was this normal for Valentine’s Day? He didn’t even know. The last several Valentine’s Days had been spent in the funeral home working or else at home being the February version of Scrooge. The last time he’d purchased flowers had been for work. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought flowers for someone out of genuine sentiment. He looked over at Solange and drew a sharp breath. If this was pretend what good would buying her a flower do? It would eventually be tossed out or forgotten on the table at the end of lunch.

But it would make her smile. Tristan reached into his back pocket for his wallet and judiciously picked through the roses with his free hand. Many of them were crushed, with bruised petals and leaves that threatened to fall off. But there was one red rose somewhere in the middle of the stack that was in a perfect state of blooming. Tristan handed the man a few euros and pulled the flower out. Tristan’s eyes widened when he saw what he had actually selected.

The rose was red on the tips of the petals. Red roses were, of course, the epitome of romantic, passionate love. But the petals melted into orange partway down. Desire, enthusiasm. And finally, the flowers faded to yellow. Friendship. Tristan had picked probably the weirdest looking flower in the bunch. But it also looked like as sunset or a sunrise: all rosy and golden and perfect as the colors bled into each other. And it was unblemished and shaped the way a healthy rose ought to be. No regrets.

“It’s a little different,” he admitted, offering it to Solange. “But I think it’s… fitting.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

She was curious now. What had Tristan meant when he said 'all things considered'? Was there something that should have probably made him not as happy as he was? She supposed that they did still have the Bennett funeral...as well as the other funerals they'd already held earlier in the day. But they ran a funeral home! Going by that standard they had to be happy in spite of something most every day of their lives. Either way it didn't matter what he meant since he was interrupted by appearance of a flower seller.

She found herself blushing just a bit as the man referred to her as as Tristan's 'lady'. She found herself chewing on her lip again before taking a long drink of her wine. It wasn't a necessarily a bad thing that he thought she was Tristan's girlfriend. That's sort of what they were going for. But somehow the guy pushing flowers on them made the whole thing seem like your mother or aunt or someone telling you to 'go out with that nice boy you're friends with'. Embarrassing mainly because you aren't actually dating and don't want them to feel obligated at all.

She sort of expected him send the flower seller off to some other table. She watched though as he began to pull out his wallet while he searched through the flowers. Eventually he came back with gorgeous rose that was a mix of colors. It was a sunny yellow tipped with vibrant red that both faded into one another to create orange about half way down. It was absolutely beautiful and smile spread across her lips as he handed it to her.

“It’s a little different,” he said as she brought it to her nose to smell it. “But I think it’s… fitting.”

She glanced at the rose. She knew what the mix of these two colors symbolized. It meant falling in love. But that wasn't what he meant, was it? She had considered the possibility he might feelings for her. Was this his way of actually telling her that?! She was still trying to make sense of what exactly she felt for him but she thought that maybe it could be a little more than just friendship. It was something that had slowly been building up over time.

"It's beautiful," she said with a warm smile, heart fluttering just a bit. "Thank you. Very romantic of you!" She gave a soft laugh. "I think it will look great on my desk." She wanted to keep where she could see it.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

It was just a flower. Tristan told himself that meanings were arbitrary, assigned by people who lacked the creativity to come up with their own interpretations of things. He told himself that if Solange rejected the flower, he was only out a little bit of cash and that it wasn’t a personal rejection. After all, what good was a flower, anyways? It was just another holiday cliché – like the wine and the candles and the table-for-two. All in good fun. Nothing serious.

Still, Tristan held his breath until Solange took the rose from his hands and brought it close to her face.

"It's beautiful," she said with a warm smile. How could Tristan have ever thought of her as anything but warm-hearted? "Thank you. Very romantic of you!" She gave a soft laugh. "I think it will look great on my desk."

Tristan sat back down in his chair a little clumsily. The legs scraped against the wooden floor, practically screeching.

“You’re gonna put it on your desk?” he asked. A flattered blush crept up the back of his neck; he could feel it. This was why he wore his hair long; so no one could ever see that kind of sh*t. It made him feel less like a man and more like a bowl of Jell-O left out in the sun. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the feeling. “I mean, don’t you see enough flowers every day?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

She looked at the lovely rose that was so unique in its coloring, so bright and vivid. When she got back to the funeral home she look through the closet and find one of their spare vases and set it up on her desk. It would certainly bring a much needed splash of color to the front desk area where she worked. She knew the little rose wasn't going to last all that long, but she would enjoy it while she had it.

“You’re gonna put it on your desk?” Tristan asked as he sat back down a little noisily. He seemed almost surprised that she would decide to keep it. HE shook his head as if to clear it a bit before he spoke again. “I mean, don’t you see enough flowers every day?” he asked and she supposed he had a point. It was essentially her job to handle the deliveries and get the arrangements set up in the viewing room for the family. But this multicolored rose was very different to her.

"Yes, but it's hardly the same," she told him. "I like how different this one is. More vibrant than the funeral arrangements usually are." She set it to the side, stroking the velvety petals lightly. She looked back up at him and gave him a slightly knowing smile. "And besides, my boyfriend bought for me," she said as the waiter approached to take their order.

OOC: END SCENE

[RaeRae]

OOC: Trent/Damien! BiC:

Trent Revlin

Another day of waiting tables, greeting old faces and welcoming new ones. Another day of wishing he was back at home, sitting on his little balcony and staring at the Eiffel Tower in the distance, doing his damnedest to gain inspiration and start working on his own piece again. One day it would strike him, that's always how it went. He'd finish a couple pieces, then in the middle of no where when he least expected it the inspiration would hit again. So it didn't bother Trent that he was outfitted in his waiter uniform, waiting for another customer to walk in to the unusually quiet cafe.

Trent did enjoy his job, enjoyed the atmosphere and most of the people. It was something to pay the bills while he tried to pursue his passion for art. He had no formal training unless you count the classes in high school, so he still had plenty of room to improve, but Trent liked to think he was pretty good already. Just a few weeks ago a tourist had bought one of his pieces, that was an extra fifty dollars in his pocket that he didn't have before!

"Revlin. Why don't you make yourself useful and wipe down a table or two." Trent's light blue eyes wandered over to the source of the voice. It was one of the cooks, watching him through the window. "But that's Richard's job, not mine." He laughed at the look the cook gave him and then went around back for a rag, wiping down a few of the tables. Usually it was a lot busier this time of day, but it was kind of nice to have a break.

Just a few more hours and he'd be home free. He finished the tables and went back to the counter, leaning against it a bit and taking out his pen so he could doodle on a napkin. He had a little box at home filled with napkins that he'd drawn on. One of these days Trent planned to pick one at random and turn it in to a painting...one day.

[The Exodus]

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

It was days like today that made Damien wonder what he thought he was doing, going for his doctorate. Right now, he was essentially slave labor for the professor he assisted – grading papers, teaching classes, taking questions during office hours for free – while Doctor Belgarde got to work on her latest gallery. Today’s class had been particularly headache-inducing. Some know-it-all wearing a half-priced suit had mouthed off to Damien about what it meant to be a real artist. Something about actually getting commissions. Something about putting yourself out there in the world, instead of hiding away in a moldy classroom. It had come like a kick to Damien’s ego and class was dismissed twenty minutes early so he could leave. Damien would get commissions someday. He would. He was good; one of the best he knew. Everyone told him so. His professors, his parents, his ex-boyfriends, his friends… And he’d attended some of the most prestigious art schools in London and Paris. Who was some arse-wipe undergraduate to tell him what it meant to be a real artist, anyways?

Damien marched into Les Deux Magots, swinging the door shut moodily upon arrival. If it wasn’t early afternoon, he would have high-tailed it to a local bar. Even if this had been England, he would have found a pub to sit in and feel better about his life. That was the sort of thing people did when they were this distraught, wasn’t it? Go out and drink? Damien wasn’t sure. All he knew for certain was that he was miserable and he didn’t want to go home or back to work.

He bellied up to the counter and slumped into a barstool there. When a waiter didn’t immediately leap to serve him, Damien pulled a face. He hated everything about Paris cafes today. He hated the sounds of plates clattering in the kitchen, he hated the other diners who were all smiling and enjoying plates of steaming food. There was absolutely nothing redeemable about anything at all—

And then Damien looked to his right. Not far away was a handsome bloke, about his age, hunched over something, working intently. Damien hopped down from his barstool and walked over to get a better look. The bloke – who had spiky blonde hair and ethereally pale skin and wore a waiter’s uniform – was drawing. Damien leaned against the counter, staring at the doodle. That’s all it was. A doodle. You could be a painter or a sculptor. But not a “doodler”. Damien frowned.

“I have a question for you,” he said, thinking about his argument with the undergrad. “Would you consider yourself a real artist?”

[RaeRae]

Trent Revlin

"I have a question for you. Would you consider yourself a real artist?" The voice of someone not one of his co-workers pulled Trent out of his 'zone' and back to reality. Staring at the napkin a moment before answering he laughed. "Not based of this little thing." He finally turned his attention to the man in front of him-he hadn't even heard the door slamming shut to signify his entrance- and smiled. "But I've got a million of these back home." This particular doodle was a simple one or a little table and chair and some flowers scrawled in a vase.

"Why do you ask?" Trent raised an eyebrow, deciding not to elaborate on his previous statements for the moment. Trent studied him for a moment, he recognized him from somewhere. Not from the cafe, or even out on the street...the newspaper. He'd seen a couple pictures of this guy in the past, but he couldn't remember the name.

Then he thought for a minute more, about the way the man had asked his question. Emphasis on the word real. "Though there are many people who make a living off these things and call themselves artists." Trent mused. "But I don't think you came here just to ask about my artistic abilities. What can I get for ya?"

[The Exodus]

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

The blond man laughed. Damien had to wrestle with a sneer; he’d been made fun of enough for today, thank you. It wouldn’t take much to push him off the edge today. He was already dangling his feet off the ledge of sociable.

"Not based of this little thing," Blond Boy said, to Damien’s relief. He knew doodling was just practice. Not real art. Just for fun.

This, of course, coming from a man who had met one of his best friends while attempting to paint her portrait with ketchup.

"But I've got a million of these back home."

Quantity was not worth near as much as quality. Damien looked at the doodle – a table, chairs, and a vase of flowers – and knew that if you gave him half an hour, a sketch pad, and his pencils, he could outstrip any doodle. It made him feel a little better, but not enough to smile. He was a little bit pathetic, getting bent out of shape over another guy’s work.

But, well… Was that work art?

Maybe cartooning.

"Why do you ask?" Blond Boy asked. Damien shrugged coolly.

“I’m taking a poll,” he said. Which was sort of true. He wanted someone – anyone – in this city of so-called artists to parrot back his opinions without being prompted. Clearly, Blond Boy wasn’t going to do it. “I don’t know if you could qualify a million doodles as ‘art’.”

But that didn’t mean Damien was wrong.

"Though there are many people who make a living off these things and call themselves artists," Blond Boy said in response. Damien’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, this guy wasn’t making a living off his so-called art if he was working a café. Poor bugger. "But I don't think you came here just to ask about my artistic abilities. What can I get for ya?"

“Double espresso. I’m dying,” Damien said, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. “I’ve been listening to a bunch of university numbskulls wax poetic about impressionism all morning. Or. Well. Try to wax poetic.”

[RaeRae]

Trent Revlin

Trent was a listener first and a talker second. He enjoyed listening to other people talk, if only for the chance of feeling them out. This man was a curious person, and Trent was intrigued, wanted to know a little more about him. "I'm taking a poll." the man said as Trent pocketed the napkin to add to his collection. "I don't know if you could qualify a million doodles as 'art'."

This earned the man another laugh from Trent. "Trust me, you can't. Not unless they were selling for a thousand dollars each I guess. Nah, I save them because one day I'm going to turn them in to real art. Whenever inspiration hits again...at least that's my excuse." There was a hint of amusement in Trent's eyes as he went about making the man's coffee.

"I've been listening to a bunch of university numbskulls wax poetic about impressionism all morning. Or. Well. Try to wax poetic" Trent watched as the man rubbed his forehead and smirked slightly. "Fancy words and explanations don't mean a thing. It's all about show and tell when it comes to art I think."

Trent set down the espresso in front of the man. "The names Trent by the way, and you are?"

[The Exodus]

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

Damien let out a sigh of relief when the waiter admitted that the doodles were not art. Damien couldn’t imagine them going for a thousand euros; he wasn’t sure if he could imagine them going for a hundred. But then again, there was the whole post-modern art movement, where people just threw paint at a canvas and called it art. They were even letting elephants and chimps try their hands – were they called hands? If they were animals? – at art these days. And those sold for crazy sums. The waiter’s cartooning had to be worth more than an elephant painting.

The waiter began to brew Damien’s coffee. Which was worth more to him than a dozen elephant paintings or napkin doodles. He shot him a grateful look when the waiter set Damien’s espresso down.

"Fancy words and explanations don't mean a thing,” the waiter said. “It's all about show and tell when it comes to art I think."

Damien nodded eagerly. “That. Yes. Ugh. I should have made him put his money where his fat gob is. Is it inappropriate to challenge your students to an art-off?”

Damien didn’t know if “art-off” was a real phrase, but he hoped the waiter understood him.

“Just me, him, and our best work,” he said. “That would show him!”

"The names Trent by the way," said the waiter. "And you are?"

The introduction caught Damien off-guard. He blinked a minute as he realized that he was talking to a total stranger still.

"Damien," he said, extending a hand. "A pleasure, I'm sure, Trent."

He wasn't yet sure if that was true, but there was nothing wrong with saying so to a cute waiter. Even if his drawings were a bit simplistic for Damien's tastes.

[RaeRae]

Trent Revlin

Personally, Trent knew that maybe some people considered doodling art, maybe that's the only form of drawing they could do. To Trent, art was something you put your heart and soul in to. When the finished work was done, if you could see a bit of yourself in it then it was truly a work of art. He raised his eyebrow slightly. "That. Yes. Ugh. I should have made him put his money where his fat gob is. Is it inappropriate to challenge your students to an art-off?"

"Art-off." Trent repeated. "That's a new one, sounds kind of fun though." The man spoke again, "Just me, him, and our best work. That would show him!" Trent offered him a smile. "I'm sure it would've taught him a thing or two." Then Trent introduced himself and the man answered.

"Damien, A pleasure, I'm sure, Trent." Trent shook his hand-a firm shake, the kind that showed the owner of it had confidence. "Nice to meet you Damien.. So, you're a teacher?"

[The Exodus]

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

Trent had a surprisingly firm grasp. Damien’s eyes widened. He’d never shook hands with his waiter before – it was something that you just didn’t do – but if he had to have guessed what it would feel like to shake a waiter’s hand, he wouldn’t have expected that kind of confidence. There were clear power relations between diner and waiter. And shaking hands blurred all of that. He wondered if Bill would tell him this was a “rick kid problem” if he brought it up. If he’d met Trent on the street, it wouldn’t be so weird to shake hands…

Damien didn’t know. Maybe he’d ask someone other than Bill. Next time he saw Reese, maybe she’d have an answer for him. She was the friendliest person Damien knew.

"Nice to meet you Damien...” said Trent. “So, you're a teacher?"

“Technically? No,” Damien said, releasing Trent’s hand. “Only by default that the professor I work for doesn’t do her job. I’m getting my doctorate in art history.”

He didn’t know what to ask Trent, since it was clear what Trent did for a living. The art of conversation was strangled somewhat by that kind of knowledge. Damien picked up his espresso and took a sip. Even though it was scalding hot, Damien gave a happy little sigh and shut his eyes.

“This is a godsend,” he told Trent. He was personally rubbish at making coffee and usually had to rely on Bill to do it for him in the mornings. He hadn’t stuck around the apartment this morning, though, and had been functioning – trying to function – without a drop of caffeine in his bloodstream. Damien opened his eyes and met Trent's gaze. He had frosty blue eyes; several shades lighter than Damien's own. They'd be fascinating to paint, just those eyes. Damien had a weakness for pleasing colors. What artist didn't? “If your real art is half as good as your espresso, there’s no good reason for you to be waiting tables.”

[RaeRae]

There was a hint of a smirk on Trent's features as he watched Damien's features, almost as if he could sense what he was thinking. He let his hand drop back to his side and leaned against the counter again. Doing a quick sweep of the room his eyes spotted no new arrivals so there was no rush to finish this rather intriguing conversation. Sure, Trent had conversations every single day of his time at work, but none specifically about himself, or art. Usually it was just about what the customer wanted to chat about in between ordering and receiving their things.

"Technically? No. Only by default that the professor I work for doesn't do her job. I'm getting my doctorate in art history." Damien clarified and Trent nodded. "Well that sounds pretty interesting. Knowing the history of art is just as important as the art itself."

Trent studied the man again as he sipped the espresso, and his mouth twitched upwards in a brief smile when their eyes met again and he mentioned that the coffee was a godsend. Trent was about to ask if something was wrong or if he needed something, after all he did hold the eye contact for quite a bit longer then was probably necessary, but Damien beat him to it. "If your real art is half as good as your espresso, there's no good reason for you to be waiting tables."

He had a point of course, but Trent did have an answer. "Except that it pays the bills until the right person comes along and sees my art work. A tourist and fifty dollars every couple months or so isn't exactly the kind of thing I can rely on to keep a roof over my head." He pointed out. "Right now I'm just working on actually getting a decent collection together...so I can try to maybe rent a spot in a gallery or something."

[The Exodus]

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

"Except that it pays the bills until the right person comes along and sees my art work,” Trent said. “A tourist and fifty dollars every couple months or so isn't exactly the kind of thing I can rely on to keep a roof over my head."

Damien frowned. Sure it was. You just had to crank out a lot of artwork per month. You didn’t wait around for the right person to stumble on your work; you got up in their faces with your paintings, your sketches, whatever until they took notice. Damien had been a street artist before; he’d always had a roof over his head. Sometimes his father’s, sometimes his mother’s, sometimes Bill’s. But that was how family worked. That was what friends did. He cocked his head to the side. What a strange, sad life Trent must have had if he didn’t know that.

"Right now I'm just working on actually getting a decent collection together...so I can try to maybe rent a spot in a gallery or something."

Damien nodded. “I rented a cabin in the Netherlands over the holidays so I could finish my current collection. It’s the last few pieces that are always the trickiest, you know?”

[RaeRae]

Unfortunately for Trent, no matter how many people he came in contact with at work, and even though he was okay friends with his co-workers, there was no one he felt he was close enough to. No one that would even think of letting him stay for free unless he was homeless and on the street. Sometimes he kicked himself for selling his grandparents' home. It had been paid for, and he wouldn't have had to worry about it so much...woulda, coulda, shoulda. That's how the saying went right? Trent had made his choices and now he was living with them.

"I rented a cabin in the Netherlands over the holidays so I could finish my currect collection. It's the last pieces that are always the trickiest, you know?" Damien said and Trent nodded with a slight smile.

"That I do. It must've been nice to be up there all alone with you and your work. What was the theme of your collection?" He asked curiously. "I have this beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower from my balcony, so I'm trying to gain inspiration from it, but right now I've only got two pieces together...I'm hoping to try and make at least four or five more." It was hard when he only had the weekends to work on it, and a couple days during the week he only worked part-time, but he normally ended up using those days to catch up on house work or errands. He still hadn't found a good balance between his work and his career.