I Left My Heart In Paris [Inactive]

[Esoteric Truth]

Esoteric Truth submitted a new role play:


I Left My Heart In Paris - 1x1 with Brave and Esoteric Truth

Following the senior year of four students.
~Damien, a wealthy teen who is longing to go back to his homeland of France.


~Gene, a poor boy who just wants a home.


~Peter, a girl dressed as a boy who just wants to be accepted as who she is.


~Merriell, a gentleman with a heart problem who just wants to see the world.

Read more about this role play...

 

[Brave]

Spring had turned the once dead trees to living breathing creatures once more. Their gray bark now brown, and their tiny green leaves budding about their branches, long thin things that stretched out like arms. It was one of Gene's favorite times of year. Watching the rebirth of the world right before his very eyes, little by little. It was always such a wonder that something can die and then be brought back to life, so unlike himself.


His thin frame stood at the corner of Elm and 2nd, as he titled the entirety of himself towards the rising sun, the heat illuminating his cold body. It was quite a walk from his mad-made wooden hovel and the lumberyard just outside of town. It left him covered in grime and sawdust, the no matter how hard he scrubbed always seemed to remain permanently ingrained in his flesh. His holey white t-shirt streaked with grime clung to the dips and grooves of his bony shoulders. No matter how he swayed, the outline of his protruding ribs always seemed to peek through, much to his dismay. He held his right hand up to the sunlight, his body swaying as his head turned light from lack of food.


He shook himself out of his thoughts as he continued down the winding way towards Ravensdale high. A public school of it's own right, smack in the center of a rich small town, making the public part fall short. Only the wealthy could live here, except for the smattering of black dots on their otherwise perfect society, including himself.


It didn't make him angry. He knew he didn't belong here. It didn't make him bitter. He knew and excepted his situation, and continued to live day to day without a handout. It made him feel utterly bewildered. The streets all blurred together after a certain point. Every cookie cutter home the exact same as the last. How was it possible for people to spend their whole lives with their heads buried beneath the sand? It was almost enough to give him the creeps, but not enough to summon up emotion to feel sorry for the poor children who would never know anything else but the silver spoon shoved into their mouths'.


As he passed Ravensdale up scaled bookstore the self proclaimed nerds and hipsters dubbed as their own, a safe haven of sorts from their dreadful lives, he lit up a cigarette with nicotine stained hands. "Oh comment des héros sont-ils tombés*" he murmured, the words floating out on the smoke that left his chapped lips, with a smirk. As the homes and 'Mom and Pop' shops tapered off, it gave way to the shimmering jewel that was Ravensdale High. All white and pristine. Hints of oak dusted here and there to give the place a true scholarly feeling to the upstanding citizen's that made up the wonderful town of Ravensdale.


He felt the stares and glares on his back as he trudged his way up the elegant walkway of the school. He knew what they would see. A rail thin, bruised eyes, blight of a boy, with unruly hair and an overbite. Dirty from head to toe, with frayed thread bare jeans, scoffed worked boots, and grimy military jacket with burns about the arms. It made him feel almost smug. He knew of the real world, and he wore his scars with pride, even the ones unseen, like the constant pang that sat like a lead in his stomach every time he went that much longer without food.


As his boots hit the grand staircase that lead to the hallowed halls of the high school, he spun around and laid himself across the clean surface, hoping to leave some kind of mark to destroy the perfect picture that was Ravensdale. He tilted his head back and blew smoke into the air above him, letting out a low chuckle at a few hissed words his way from his peers. His smirk grew ten-fold, as he let out a loud, 'Take picture, it will last longer." his voice slurred and deep, as he waited for the day to begin.


Oh how the mighty have fallen*

 

[Esoteric Truth]

Spring reminded Damien of his mother. It had always been her favorite season. She loved the way the delicate petals would swim, like snowflakes, through the air, kicked back up into flight by the slightest gust of wind. She loved the way the old craggy branches of winter became once more inhibited by life with young bright green stems that carried vibrant curled leaves waiting to unfurl. She loved the bright yellows of the wild daffodils that spattered the high pastures of the Vosges and the delicate wood violets that poked their delicate purple heads up from shrouded forest floors. He could recall how every year on her birthday he would wake up early and ride his horse up to the meadows and gather the loveliest flowers he could find for her. What else could he get the woman who had everything?


Kate didn't like summer. She complained of how the pollen caused her nose to get runny and grumbled at the rain. She didn't understand beauty like his mother did. Her favorite season was the hot and sticky summer, probably because she got to show off her body to every breathing organism who bothered to glance at her. Poor taste was what she ailed from. She, unlike his mother, did not understand beauty. To her beauty was shiny gold and sharp stilettos. His mother saw beauty in everything that God had made. How strange that she had married a man whose company set out to destroy it.


His car glided silently out of the cobblestone driveway and down the hill, veering away from his handsome stone house and down into the streets of suburbia. There wasn't much of a sprawling neighborhood here, given that the town population was fairly low. It wasn't low because it was in the middle of nowhere, though; it was low because it was where the elite lived. It was populated with the rich, the kind of people who practically lived at the golf course while drinking small glasses of champagne and talking about who had the nicest car. It was a ridiculous conversation because everyone basically had the same gas-guzzling cars, everyone had the same Mc Mansion houses, and everyone had the same fake smile. The Babineauxs, however, could be excluded from this list. Their house sprawled across more land and was set back on a hill with a small pond and a stable. It had a more classical appeal to it than the same red brick facade that was on all of the other houses, and as for cars, Damien Babineaux had a car that was guaranteed to not be the same as anyone else's. The fact was, they were the cream of the crop in this little town, and everyone knew it. Kate saw to that.


As he lifted himself from his car and walked into Ravensdale High, he looked over at his fellow students and frowned. Here you had the rich sluts who practically were competing for the prize of who-can-wear-the-least-and-get-away-with-it, the typical meatheads with all of their bravado, the future einsteins who've been signed up for various instrument lessons since the age of four because their parents heard it would increase their brain's learning capacity, the rich kids who paid for all kinds of drugs and mixed them into one hell of a cocktail, the rich kids who wore obviously-expensive clothes and tore hole in them to look that extra bit edgier, and the hipsters with their big glasses and the clothes that said they were trying way too hard to be quirky. He'd conquered a few in the first group, been punched by a few in the second, been corrected by countless in the third, tried desperately hard to ignore all of the ones in the fourth, got in arguments with a few in the fifth, and had been verbally assaulted on the ground that he was killing the planet by countless in the last. He wasn't friends with anyone in any of these groups. His mental separation from them also took physical manifestation. He stuck out like a sore thumb with his pristine white three piece suit. Hushed whispers of 'does he even realize it's spring?' 'I hit that. Me and him hooked up like once,' and 'Look it's the crouton' all hit his ears as people moved just slightly out of his way.


He managed to spot one of the two people he was friends with by following the whispers and eyes of several of his fellow students. The kid simply didn't fit in. While everyone else was clean and straight-edged and organized, Gene Shelton was dirty and raggedy and tough. He was everything the other kids weren't, and for that they thought they were better than he was. Admittedly, Damien had at first had a similar opinion, however he and the other teenager shared a language and a sense of humor. The kid wasn't pretentious like all of these others were. He was raw and human, not plasticy and fake. He was just himself. He didn't care what others thought and didn't pretend anything. For that Damien had a great amount of respect for the man.


"I see you are already here, mon ami," he greeted, before glancing around. Several people were looking at the two of them and sharply looked away, as if somehow that would erase the fact that he'd caught them. 'Why does he hang around that trash?' 'They're, like, exact opposites.' 'Rich trash meets trash-trash.' 'Was that a french word?' 'I think he's gay. Like, he broke up with me. He's gotta be gay.' Teenagers were not great at whispering, particularly when they felt they had to talk over everyone else. The words easily hit his ears and he sighed and shook his head. "Shut the f*ck up and put your heads back up your asses. Vous êtes tous des abrutis stupides putains. Manger de la merde et mourir, enculés."*


*You are all stupid f*cking morons. Eat sh*t and die, f*ckers.

 

[Brave]

"Mmm, such language mon ami, what would people think of us?" Gene asked with a roll of his hooded eyes, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he took another drag of his cigarette. Before exhaling he stabbed his cigarette into the stairs, creating a harsh black soot mark and flicked it away. He took the job of dirtying the town very seriously. If no one else did who would?


"Comment sont les gens? Kate se plaignent encore?*" The Cajun asked Damien, his face tilting to the sun as he fanned himself out on the steps, making it almost impossible to use the left set of stairs.


Gene remembers the first time he met Damien, the calm and witty Frenchmen. They had some differences that they decided they should work out. With their fists. In the middle of B hallway. It didn't take a genius to see that they were like night and day, at least they appeared to be. While waiting in the office, Damien let loose a 'stupide endogames sauvage**' the sent Gene into stiches and proclaiming that it was more fun to live life as a savage. And the rest they say is history. Friends in loss and common tongue.


How is the family? Kate complaining yet?*





Stupid inbred savage**

 

[Esoteric Truth]

"Because we are both so afraid of what they think," he snorted, leaning back against the wall to his left. They'd be far different people if they really did. Gene, he supposed, probably wouldn't come to the school at all. If he did, he would have stolen several pairs of clothes or accepted the charity that countless idiots had attempted to bestow upon him when they first heard of his 'condition,' as if being poor was some disease that they tried to remedy with food and money. He himself would have driven a gas guzzling sports car. He'd have dated some girl and joined the football team and never would have talked to Gene. Life, in short, would have been a hell of a lot less interesting.


"Quand Kate se plaint pas? Elle va autour de pleurnicher sur la façon dont son nez rouge et comment gonflé son visage est et dire à mon père comment positivement terrible qu'elle semble tellement il se sent comme il doit lui dire qu'elle est belle. Elle est tellement putain ennuyeux,"* he grumbled in response, running an exasperated hand through his hair and rolling his eyes. Honestly, he was glad Kate couldn't understand him. He'd said a rather rude comment about how she didn't look any different and was every bit a wh*re as usual, but of course she couldn't tell that he hadn't given her a compliment. Which was pretty much was she was prone to think he had said.


"How is your life? Anything interesting happen as of late?" Damien questioned, crossing his arms and tilting his head slightly.


*When is Kate not complaining? She goes around whining about how red her nose is and how puffy her face and talks to my father about how positively awful so he feels like he has to tell her she is beautiful. She is so f*cking annoying.





 

~~~*~~~

​

Goddamn spring. Goddamn flowers. Goddamn sunshine. Peter hated it. Her nose was runny, she had a headache, and she felt like sh*t. Not to mention the fact that every single time spring came around her mother would impose upon her the idea of wearing a skirt. Supposedly it'd offer her freedom. Right. Because wearing a skirt didn't mean you couldn't bend down so far or sit in such a manner or worry about a breeze flying up its edges and making you indecent? Besides, as a man she was destined to make 22 cents more than the average woman. So much for freedom.


Everything around her was bright and vibrant with color, so she chose not to be. Her shirt was nearly black, her pants were black, her leather jacket was black, her shoes were black, and on her nose rested a pair of black aviators with gold frames. Hell, her bike was black. She clomped down the stairs, sniffing slightly and, as she reached the bottom, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Its underside was raw. Goddamn. Her mouth pursed in a tight frown and she looked up as her brother laughed at her.


"You look like you're goin' to a funeral," Lucas chuckled, shaking his head and shoving a spoonful of soggy cereal into his leering maw.


"Well maybe I am," she huffed, walking to the garage door and flinging it open, grabbing her backpack on the way out.


"Don't you quote Johnny Cash at me!" he called after her, and she smiled as her motorcycle purred to life underneath her. Off to just another lovely day at Ravensdale High.


Just like everything else in this place, the school was pristine. It was white, unmarred, and frankly gorgeous. Its students bustled about and they, too, were clean. New clothes and new phones and new lies to tell each other. The gossip that went on in this place always disgusted her. People cared too much about what everyone else was doing and what everyone else was thinking. It was ridiculous. Who cares if someone got a new haircut that looks awful? Wasn't anyone's else's problem. And yet somehow in this miserable place she had found two not-so-awful people.


"Are you and the school twinning today, Damien?" she snorted, looking the whole bright white ensemble up and down with a look of amusement. The frenchman was the easier one for her to deal with, namely because she wasn't attracted to him. Which most people might find weird, given the two guys who she hung around with, but somehow he just wasn't... the same. Gene had a rougher quality to him that was appealing, in a way. He'd seen real sh*t. He didn't wear f*cking three piece white suits. Which, by the way, looked ridiculous.

 

[Brave]

"Comment peut-elle survivre? Elle doit souffrir.*" Gene cackled as he opened an eye to peer at Damien and his pristine three piece suit, "I give yo' ass props for not suffocatin' in dat' thing. I don't know how ya' do it."


A shadow appeared over Gene. His mouth formed a thin line of disapproval as his heat disappeared. "Who eveah' is blockin' mah' light must have ah' death wish." The Cajun mumbled before finally opening his bruised eyes only to come face to face with Peter, "Ah, dah' prodigal son returns, how is Peter dis' fine day?" He asked as he stretched his body, cracking his back as he went.


How does she survive? Oh how she must suffer so.*

 

[Esoteric Truth]

"This suit is straight from Paris. You Americans just do not appreciate good taste," Damien teased in response to the two teenagers whom had commented on his appearance. Honestly, he partially believed that statement to be true; a vast many americans dressed cheaply, including those with money as this school so displayed. But still, his two friends didn't exactly dress fancy and yet they were probably better than any of the well-dressed people he knew. Himself included. "I am used to the feeling of wearing a suit. I have done so most of my life. Although it is getting hot in here." He stuck his finger in the collar of his shirt and pulled it away from his neck and grinned. "Or is that just me?"

~~~*~~~




​

Prodigal. That was funny. Gene didn't know that Peter was an embarrassment to her whole family. He didn't know how her mother had cried and how her father had argued and she'd been taken to a shrink and Lucas hadn't wanted to look at her or talk to her in public. That time had passed with this new school, but it still remained a part of her experiences and fears. She feared that she would be discovered once more and then she would be shunned. Why the hell did she have to be so scared when all she wanted was to be herself?


"I'm aight. Here, I'll get outta your way. I don't feel like dying today," she grinned, stepping to the side and sitting down a step or so below him. Looking back up at Damien, a brow raised and she shook her head. "You're right about one thing. If that's good taste I sure as hell don't appreciate it."

 

[Brave]

Gene clutched his sides as he laughed, "Peter don't approve, but yo' ass best believe hell does. Probably why it's so hot, Satan is preparin' ya' fo' down under."


The Cajun can remember the first time they met Peter. It was very all natural. He just showed up one day in the middle of fall and sat himself next to Damien and Gene, offered the smaller teen a cig and that was that.


Gene had always appreciated the wisdom and sense of calm he brought to the group. It was needed when you had such 'strong' personalities such as himself and the Frenchmen.

 

[Esoteric Truth]

"I thought that white was the color that the angels wore, Gene? Perhaps you confuse Satan with his good brothers and sisters who have not fallen," Damien responded, his mouth in a lopsided smile. He chuckled slightly, his shoulders gently bobbing up and down, at the sheer ridiculousness of their conversation. What did suits have to do with the devil? He wasn't sure, but apparently he was going to hell, according to Gene. Not that he'd necessarily disagree; he'd done his fair share of bad things in life, but he personally thought there were people who had done more pressing things than drinking and f*cking before marriage who deserved to go to hell.

~~~*~~~

​

"Because you're such an angel," Peter snorted, turning her head and looking up at Damien with a highly amused expression on her face. Last she checked arrogance wasn't a virtue and pride was definitely a sin. She crossed her arms and rested them on her knees, turning away from her male companions to look at the students below. Classes would be starting relatively soon. Another day full of a bunch of subjects she couldn't care less about.

TIME?

​

 

[Brave]

"All dem' people who wear suits with dem' ties 'round their necks like nooses an' work a crappy 9 ta' 5 job till dey' die ah' certainly goin' down below, or even worse, above, if dats' how ya' look at it." Gene sneered as his thought dwelled on his father, a 'happy go-lucky' blue collared worker. His nose crinkled before the Cajun shook his head to clear the musty memories.


The bell soon rang and every student of Ravensdale High scattered like ants as they all rushed to and fro before deciding on a exact direction to proceed in. "I guess I'll be seein' yo' asses later, time ta' go to history. Till french mah' friends" Gene slurred before giving an exaggerated wink and spinning on his heel, his boots clunking as he meandered up the stairs, scuffing them on his way.

 

[Esoteric Truth]

First period and second period had gone on quickly without disruption. Photography and english were fairly easy classes for Damien, as one was an easy grade and the other was mostly just analyzing great works of literature. Though writing could get dreary at times, today there was a substitute so his class watched a movie. Finally, after his english class reached its close, he headed off to the one class he had with his friends: Environmental Science.


He walked into the classroom and sat on top of his desk, awaiting the arrival of Peter and Gene so they could talk before class actually had to start. This class was fairly obnoxious, mostly due to his teacher. The other students he didn't pay much attention to. They were all pretty much the same, anyway; they were all either loud and disruptive or quite and snide.

~~~*~~~

​

Peter stormed her way into her third period class, a quiet layer of anger about her. Stupid f*cking morons in her last class had called her gay. It was infuriating that they felt like they could judge her just based on what she looked like and how high her voice was, and she didn't have a high voice either. The last thing she needed was people going around questioning things like that. She dumped her backpack by her desk and walked over to Damien, pushing a look of indifference back onto her face.


"I heard we're doing a group project today."

 

[Brave]

'Can this day go on any longer.' Gene sighed as he shouldered his pack back and wearily trudged out the door of his English class. It was a remideal class, or as Gene called it, a class for stupid kids, such as himself.


As long as he can remember words and numbers have always stumped him. They moved, letters switched and turned as if stranded in the middle of an ocean, on a boat, during a storm. It made him feel dumb and insecure. He acted out when push came to shove, with words or fists. The laughter that followed him when he was forces to read a passage aloud was haunting.


With scowl firmly in place he slammed the hard wooden door to his science class open, stomping to his desk before falling into his uncomfortable plastic seat. 'I'm done with this sh*t.'


~.~.~


First days were usually a little rough. At least that's what Merriell was always told. First days of school were an entirely different beast. There were other factors that needed to be accounted for. All the questions and the stares and whispered comments.


'Did you see how pale he his?' and 'What's with the tank?', or his favorite, 'Is he contagious?'.


It was hard enough for the red head to convince his parents to allow him out of his room let alone public school, but he was tired. Tired of having daily check-ups by the cold hands of his father with his sad hopeless eyes and grey around his temples. Tired of his mother's smothering, how he was never able to choose what he ate, what he said, how he spent his time.


It made him envious of his favorite creatures who have come out of hiding as the frost melted. The creatures with their beautiful songs and exotic plumage. And most of all their freedom of flight. How freeing it must be to choose when and where you fly to. To be a bird who could just fly away from any and all problems.


However, Mrs. Michalak, or Miss Michalak now, was pretty frightening. It made his unsteady heart beat quicken at her openness. Merriell could have lived his entire short life not knowing the reason why she dyed her hair that obnoxious red was because her husband cheated on her with a red head. He certainly didn't need to see how she disliked bras or shaving. And completely didn't need to read the texts between herself and the woman her husband cheated on her with. It made his veiny hands twitch to push the 'Life-alert' button he wore around his neck.


"Don't worry about this bunch, they are mostly harmless." Ms. Michalak cackled through her nose, her voice low and grating, as her long flowing maxi dress in bright purple swung around her hefty frame.


Merriell gulped audibly as he tugged on his sweater vest as she threw open the door.


"Hello class, this is Merriell Leydon. Now I expect you to treat him gently. He has a condition." The fake red head hollered as she claped her hands above her head.


Mer gritted his teeth. He didn't need pity or special treatment. It's not what he desires for his last few years of life if the spark in his father's eyes waning each passing day was anything to go by.


"Go ahead and take a seat. All right, I want you guys to group together and pick a form of pollution to study and then present in any form you would like in three weeks time. Make it creative guys!"


Mer's eyes widened at the thought choosing a seat. People actually have him a choice. He slowly made his way to an empty seat next to a curly haired boy with a large eyes. It was curious that all the seats around him seemed to be suspiciously empty.

 

[Esoteric Truth]

Damien looked sharply over to Peter with a glare before slipping into his seat and raising his eyes to follow Gene's form into the room. The guy was seriously pissed off, that was evident. A long day, no doubt. Just as the rest of them had suffered from. He sighed and leaned on his elbow, staring forward as their teacher walked into the classroom with a redheaded bow in tow. The kid was frail looking and pale with a light dusting of freckles and an innocent look to his eyes. Behind him an air tank clattered. Ms. Michalak's words burned into his head. God, she could be a b*tch.


"Looks like Peter was right. I guess we have to form groups," he shrugged, looking over at Gene. "Qu'est-ce qui vous préoccupe?"* Damien's brow was raised slightly with concern. Something had seriously angered or shaken the guy, and he wanted to know who -or what- it was.


*What is troubling you?

~~~*~~~

​

The Carrot-Topped Witch entered with a fellow redhead trailing behind her, though this one was all natural and had the freckles to prove it. Peter looked at the boy with interest, her head resting on her hands. He was a walking oxymoron; his eyes seemed very wise and old and yet at the same time innocent and youthful. He had a gentleness to him that was rare to find in boys around here. Creating a long shadow over him was the form of an oxygen tank that betrayed him as being something different. At her teacher's words she could hear hushed murmurs of fellow students and she couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy as the kid hesitated and stood before finding a seat by Gene.


"Hey, don't worry about her. She's batshit crazy and hasn't ever heard of discretion," she whispered, leaning over across her desk to the ginger kid. He was a good guy, she could tell. "Why don't you work on our project with us? This here is Damien, Gene and I'm Peter." She smiled thinly, jabbing her thumb at each respective boy in turn before pointing it at herself.

 

[Brave]

"Vieille merde comme d'habitude. Enseignants stupides, enfants ennuyeux. Le tas d'entre eux sont vile*." The Cajun mumbled, his head pressed tightly against the hard cool wood of the desk, his breath fogging up the surface as his arms cocooned his face. It wasn't his fault that he was stupid. It's just the lot he was given in life.


As Ms. Michalak spoke his mood plummeted as his teeth began to grind. 'Who da' f*ck cares 'bout pollution!?' He thought before slowly lifting his head from the desk, the imprint of the wood grain was tattooed on his face. "I don't even know why I need ta' take English, I speak it jus'...." His slow drawl trailed off as his eyes found that of the new kid's. His eyes were a deep brown and sad. Gene found himself short of breath as he finished his thought with a low breathy, "fine."


Same old shit as usual. Stupid teachers, annoying kids. The whole lot of them are vile.*


~.~.~


Merriell found it in himself a give the young man a small polite smile and a nod. "Thank you, I'm pleased to meet ya'll. I'm Merriell Shelton." He replied his voice deeply southern but light, his eyes crinkling at the edges as his smile widened.


Peter seemed different. Confident and calm for sure, but different. Maybe it was just the air about him. His soft features and high cheekbones made him look almost ethereal and other worldly. Possibly that's why he seemed so...off. Almost unattainable.


His eyes turned to analyze his other new companions. He took in the hard features of Damien, his cool, but loyal nature could be seen through his eyes, for they are the windows to the soul. It made Merriell feel safe in his presence, even with his clean and cold appearance, almost as if he were made of stone.


Lastly he found his gaze locked to big and haunted green silver eyes. His face was dirt streaked with dirt and gaunt. His mouth was pulled tight, making his over bite more pronounced. Mer was almost sad looking at him, not out of pity, but out of kinship. 'He understands who I am without having to say anything. It's in his eyes. Like coming home.'


Merriell fluttered his eyes before letting out a quick and quiet squeak, his mouth opening and closing as if impersonating a fish.

 

[Esoteric Truth]

Damien chuckled as Gene lifted his wood-stamped forehead off of the desk and dragged his eyes up to look up at the redhead who'd sat beside him. It was clear that he was enamored. Damien had never really gotten around to talking about sexuality with his friends, and admittedly he found it surprising that Gene was attracted to men. He was fairly certain he'd had conversations with the kid about women before too, though, so he supposed the guy was bisexual. It was odd to think about, really. If he would have thought anyone in their group was bisexual it would have been Peter because of the way he looked at Gene and just was kind of... odd. But the Cajun was masculine and seemed to be clearly defined as a person. The fact that his sexuality was somewhere in the gray area was kind of surprising to Damien.


"Arrêtez de baver, Gene,"* he snickered, standing up to take off his suit jacket which he folded on his desk before offering his hand to the ginger who introduced himself as Merriell with a smooth southern drawl. Coming from this kid, the southern accent somehow didn't seem low class; there was a polite steadiness to the boy that evoked that some degree of respect was to be given to him. Not that he was demanding it, but rather that it just felt right to give it to him. "The pleasure is all ours, Monsieur." He smiled slightly to himself as the boy squeaked at the act of catching sight of Gene. If there ever was love at first sight, he supposed this was it.


"You know, he is from the south too. He even has this thick accent when he speaks french. It is very amusing. Anyway, you should ask him to show you around the school. You two will get along well, I can tell," he murmured in hushed tones, his mouth quirking up in a small amused smile.


*Stop drooling, Gene.

~~~*~~~

​

Goddamn, sometimes being rational sucked. She wanted to hate that redhead when she caught how Gene looked at him. She wanted so badly to be an irrational and petty teenage girl like she was supposed to be and say something rude and catty or even just get angry, but she really couldn't. Looking up at those innocent eyes and his gentle demeanor, she couldn't hate him. She couldn't even be bitter. She was just sad, really, because all this time she'd been telling herself that the reason he didn't like her was because he thought she was a man. Well, clearly that wasn't the reason at all.


Damien's suggestion made her heart drop to her gut. The thought of them spending more time together made her feel pitiful because she knew that one stupid boy wasn't supposed to matter to her. Her happiness couldn't be dependent on his liking her. Besides, at least this guy that he liked seemed to be a good, nice guy. Which made it worse, because she realized that he wouldn't want someone as fucked up as her anyway. Apparently he wanted a nice sweet southerner, which was pretty much the opposite of what she was. Well sh*t. Time to get over it and get over herself.


"No need to gawk, Merriell. He won't bite, I promise."

 

[Brave]

With steely eyes Gene chanced a glare at both Peter and Damien before crossing his arms and sliding down into the hard plastic seat, pouting as if he were a child. "Je ne suis pas baver. Je ne sais pas ce que vous parlez.*" The Cajun hissed.


'I don't believe in love. It is a delusion or at least temporary. Everyone always leave.' His brows knitted as his thoughts tuned sour, his lips pursing. It wasn't his fault that Merriell looked like the epitome of all things innocent. Too innocent for the likes of his filthy hands, or the Shelton family name. It wasn't just.


With a sigh, he rolled his eyes as head tilted to the side. "So what da' f*ck we doin' dis' project on?"


I'm not drooling. I don't know what you're talking about.*


~.~.~


Merriell coughed profusely as he choked on his own saliva. Never in his life had he heard such blatant talk of that nature. A intimate nature. All the years of church and strict rules was ingrained into his mind. It was there, burned into his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.


As Mer turned his head to Peter he was taken aback by the envy in his eyes. 'I don't understand...' He thought as his eyes turned to his clasp hands. Public school certainly was a change.


"I-uh...I don't believe him to be capable of biting me. I just-I just...." The red head stuttered before blurting out, "coal harvesting! We should do the project about coal harvesting and the effect it has on not only the earth and nature, but on human health."

 

[Esoteric Truth]

"Bien sûr, vous n'êtes pas. Comment stupide de ma part de penser même vous étiez attiré par lui,"* Damien replied dryly, his mouth in a half-smile and his eyes searching Gene's with a knowing look. He'd seen the way the teen had stared wide-eyed as ever at the redhead, had heard the breath caught and held before the Cajun had recovered himself and turned back into the hard-edged ruffian.


"Coal sounds good. As long as it is not oil. I cannot wait to see who tries to do that one. Hah," he laughed as he turned to Merriell in response to the suggestion. Perhaps he'd pointedly glare at the group. Keep them on their toes. Of course, he couldn't really care less about their points, but that wasn't the point. The point was that they thought he did. Not that their discomfort was undeserved; if they were really going up in front of the inheritor to Eclat talking about how horrible what his father had made their fortune off of was, then the should feel uncomfortable. That way they would research enough to actually bring up good points. Those points deserved to be made and he understood this. There was a reason he drove an electric car, after all.


*Of course you're not. How silly of me to think you were attracted to him.

~~~*~~~

​

Peter couldn't help but feel a small trickle of relief wash over her as Gene resumed his normal demeanor and vulgar language. In fact, the latter seemed to slightly startle Merriell and she took a small amount of pleasure from this. It wasn't that she didn't like him or that she didn't want Gene and him to be friends, but rather it was better for her if they didn't become too close of friends. She'd have to deal with whatever happened, though, particularly since she had no plans on making a move. Perhaps she subconsciously set herself up for failure, for she never had the heart to approach anyone, only to admire from a distance.


"It was a joke," she said slowly, a slightly pitying look on her face. He hadn't gotten out much had he? He seemed inexperienced at dealing with people, and for that she felt bad for what she had thought before. Who was she to get in the way between Gene and this guy? "Coal sounds okay, though. Or we could do radiation. Like fukushima and sh*t. The effects on animals is interesting, to say the least. "

 

[Brave]

"Silly is right ya' Frenchmen." Gene mumbled before giving into his urges and taking a quick glance at Merriell. "Why in the hell do we need ta' learn 'bout da' damn environment anyway." The Cajun groaned, rubbing at his head, hoping to erase the imprint left by the desk.


'If I just ignore the new guy, maybe we can forget about this whole thing. Gene Shelton doesn't fall in love.' He sighed as gave up on his forehead, his shoulders hunching in defeat before he threw his thin body back onto the desk. 'Man, I could use a cigarette right about now.'


"Mister Shelton, don't make me come over there and make you work!" Ms. Michalak called from the front of the classroom. A shiver instinctively shot down Gene's spine at the thought Michalak walking over. Her beady eyes never failed to leave the Cajun uncomfortable and even more dirty than he previously thought possible.


~.~.~


"Why not oil Mister Damien, of you don't mind me asking?" Merriell asked, his blush finally subsiding enough for him to look the others in the eye.


He could do this. He could make it through a day of school, if only to prove his mother wrong. That would be a feat in itself. However, he must admit how enchanting it was to watch both Damien and Gene bicker in french. While Damien's was proper and lilting, almost smooth in nature, Gene's was choppy and slurred, completely and utterly southern. It made the red head smile lightly to himself before chatching Peter's words. "Oh don't worry Mister Peter, you must excuse my sheltered way of thinking. This is my first stint into public school, or should I say public in general. Being in my situation doesn't leave much for dallying about."


As soon as the words left his mouth he felt Gene's large eyes once more upon him. His stare was intense to say the least, and made Mer yearn for the comfort of his pipe, if only something to do with his hands. Instead he settled for messing with the line of his breathing tube.

 

[Esoteric Truth]

"Oil is not the... best subject for me to talk about in regard to pollution. I am the heir to Eclat. We drill and sell oil. I have already angered my father by purchasing an electric car as it is. Doing a presentation on why our product is bad is not likely to, ah, fly well with him," Damien answered, shrugging lightly. His father's real worry, of course, would be that some kid would go home and tell their parents and those parents would tell more parents until someone somewhere got wind of it and it became big news. Francis was always afraid of things like this which to him was ridiculous. They weren't exactly famous people. Sure, their company was, but it wasn't like their family was under constant microscopic inspection. There had been a point, after a few years back he'd been threatened with a gun by some hippy, where they had been paid attention to, and earlier this year they were again noticed for a very short period of time after he bought his car, but other than that, people really just didn't care. He didn't understand why his father thought they did.

~~~*~~~

​

"I can tell. The sh*tiness of other people hasn't rubbed off on you yet. You're still pure," replied Peter, her body curved over her desk, elbows supporting her. She tapped her pen fervently in one hand as she looked up at Merriell and nodded. Pure was a good word to describe the fair-skinned soft-eyed boy. It was like he was someone from the past transported into their time; he was too well dressed and gentle-mannered to be from anywhere around here, which made her curious as to his background. The ignorance and ridicule had not yet reached his ears and made his heart covered with a steel grid. The rest of them had years to do this, and this boy had roughly half a year. How would he fare? It was only a matter of time before someone cold-hearted enough would make fun of him for the breathing tub that rested on his face or the red hair that was bright like a young fire atop his head. Someone would try to trip his tank or someone would shove his books out of his arms and what would he do? He had to have someone there for him. That meant, no matter what, she and these boys had to befriend him. At least until he got someone else.

 

[Brave]

Gene could recall exactly what Damien's father said after what forever be known as the 'Great Car Debacle of '13'. The way his friend's eyes were just as bruised as his from lack of sleep. How Mr. Babineaux came to the school and caused a scene that had the Cajun swinging fists before he was caught in the wealthy man's body guards and hauled off to the nearest jail. However at the time Gene had only been 17, so they couldn't technically charge him with anything. If the teen had learned anything in his short life, it was to protect friends at all costs.


"It will certainly be hilarious ta' watch who eveah' decides ta' do oil. Stupid f*cks." Gene laughed as he picked up his head once more, only to fold his body cross legged into his seat, "maybe we can tape it an' send it ta' yo' foo' ass father. Sho' think he'd get a kick outta' it."


~.~.~


Pure. Pure? Is that how others saw him? He was anything but, if the glares of his parents were anything to go by every time his eyes lingered too long on a fellow male. He admired them for being strong and dependable, not soft and curved like a woman. When another man was present, especially Josh, the muscular local shopkeeper's son at his old small town, he felt safe. In his heart though, Merriell knew he was the worst type of sinner.


His mouth pulled tight as his thoughts wondered until Gene's words reached his ears. His cheeks flooded with heat at the colorful language. "I'm sorry Mister Damien for bringing up such a uncomfortable subject. I meant no offense. My mama always said I was too nosy for my own good." The red head laughed softly, it sounded almost as if he were choking. He was usually so self conscious when he opened his mouth. Every word said always came out breathy, slow, and raspy seeing as he had to take in gulps of desperate air every few words. "Thank you....for letting me into your group so readily. This is the most people have talked to me all today."

 

[Esoteric Truth]

"I think I will look very hard at whoever does it. They will probably wet their pants. That is something my father would like to see," Damien laughed, shaking his head. "Sauf, bien sûr, c'est un jour où il décide d'être digne. Le plus drôle, c'est qu'il agit comme il est né dans l'argent. Il agit tout chi chi, mais vraiment il est parti de rien. Il n'était pas un. Vous savez, il a dû prendre des cours pour faire son accent de son haut de gamme. Il est pitoyable."* He wasn't able to remember that time very well, but he remembered his mother talking about it. He had been too young to remember the tutor. Even now he couldn't recall what his mother had said his name was.


He looked back at Merriell with a smile and a shrug. "No, it is not a bad subject with me at all. Oil has always been a part of my life. I have been talking about it since I was very small, and as for my father, well..." the frenchman sighed and rolled his eyes, "he is a necessary part of that. There is no offense at all, do not worry." Honestly, his father owned him. There was no escaping the man's influence over his life, even in conversation, and he had long given up trying to change that. His little acts of rebellion were not to any real end, and he knew this, though it was with a slight disappointment that he knew he'd never really be his own man. At least he got to be something at all, though.


"Do not worry about us letting you into the group. You seem like a good man and you seem to know a bit about what you are talking about. I think you will be an asset. So for that, I think we should be thanking you. And please, just address me as Damien. There is no need to be so formal."


*Unless, of course, it's a day when he decides to be dignified. The funny thing is that he acts like he was born into money. He is all chi-chi but really he came from nothing. He was nothing. You know, he had to take classes to make his accent sound upper class. It is pitiful.

~~~*~~~

​

"Don't pay any mind to the whole french side conversation thing that they do. They do it all the time. You'll get used to it," Peter muttered quietly to Merriell, shaking her head good-naturedly and glancing at the two boys. Granted, she guessed that the redhead had already noticed that, but she supposed that a late warning was better than no warning at all, right? The first time they had done it in front of her she had been almost paranoid. It was weird having two people having a side conversation in another language. It meant they were saying things to each other that they didn't want you, or someone else, to hear. It could be unnerving. Over time she had eased around it, and honestly she was at the point where she just couldn't care less.


"It's not a big deal, Merriell. But remember that it was I who invited you," she added with a wink, sitting sideways in her chair with one foot resting on the opposite knee. "Remember where your loyalties lie."

 

[Brave]

Gene cackled, his body curling into himself, his arms gripping his sides. "Now dats' somethin' I have ta' see. Bettah' start practcin' yo' glare mon ami." When he settled down the Cajun Drew his bony legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees as he blinked owlishly at Damien before murmuring, "J'ai toujours su que votre père était un droit crapuleux piqûre. Suppose que même les riches doivent apprendre à être riche. Il n'est pas ancré en nous, dans la nature humaine, mais plutôt que nous donne un aperçu de notre vrai intime désire, à être un disciple, rien de plus et rien de moins. Quelle triste vérité pour tout le bien qui vous.*"


Gene has always prided himself on his unique look on the world. When you spend so much time outside of the box, outside of yourself until you become a separate entity, enough where you can look down on all things, even yourself and see it for what it truly is. Life at its most basic forms.


With a sigh he spared a quick side long glance at Merriell. "Don't worry yo' pretty little head cher. Ain't nothin' ta' think 'bout. Jus' put it outta' yo' mind. You're one of us now." The Cajun allowed himself a true genuine smile before it morphed into a wolfish smirk as he turned his intense gaze on Peter, "Yo' ass jus' jealous. I know I sound damn sexy when I speak the language of love, and don't ya' deny it."


I always knew your father was a right foul prick. Guess even the rich must learn to be rich. It is not ingrained in us, in human nature, but instead gives us a glimpse of our true innermost desires, to be a survivalist, nothing more and nothing less. What a sad truth and for what good it will do you.*


~.~.~


"All right, thank you...Damien." Merriell replied, as he smiled at each of them in kind. Such nice words from such an unlikely bunch. They each reminded him of his grandfather in some form or fashion. Damien embodied his 1940's class. Peter his understanding, never quick to judge and calm. And Gene, Gene was the surprise, wild like the wind. It truly made him feel at home.


"I think it's enthralling to listen to them speak french. Almost like birdsong. Lilting and calming." He mumbled, his cheeks heating to match the color of his hair. Like his grandfather always said, 'you wear your heart on your sleeve, my boy.' His cheeks turned an alarming shade of maroon as the Cajun teen turned his attention on him, as if he were a bird and Gene a hungry cat. 'How do people stand his stare?'


"Of course I shall remain loyal, like my mama always said, loyalty is honor, and honor is what a gentleman must uphold." He recited, clearing his throat, his smile tightening. How nice it must be to have nothing but time before you. To become your own person instead of following the beliefs of others. They say it takes time to become yourself, and Merriell only has three years at most.

 

[Esoteric Truth]

"I think I have the glare down. If you recall, when we first met I believe I was using it quite a bit," Damien snickered, glancing over at Gene before flicking his eyes up at the lumpy form of their teacher. He wanted to keep tabs on her every now and then to make sure she wasn't about to get pissy at them for not discussing their project. She didn't appear to be looking at them right now, much to his relief. He slid his eyes back to the Cajun.


"Comment cela est vrai. Dans accents france signifier beaucoup. La différence entre vous et moi serait remarquable dans leur point de vue. Et je suppose que ce qui est plus honorable: être élevé et a grandi dans la richesse comme moi et aquiring naturellement un bon accent, ou de faire une telle richesse vous-même?"* he contemplated, his mouth a slight frown. It was true, who was he to criticize? He was making fun of his father for not having inherited money and having made it, and yet this was genuinely more honorable. So what kind of man did that make himself?


"Oh you sound sexy with that Cajun accent? Psh. I speak the language from the country of origin. My voice is much more sexy when I speak French. Right, Peter?"


*How true this is. Accents in France mean much. The difference between you and me would be remarkable in their views. And I guess what is more honorable: Being born into wealth like me and naturally having such an accent, or making such a wealth and future yourself?

~~~*~~~

​

Peter felt all of the blood being drained from her body. 'I know I sound damn sexy when I speak the language of love, and don't ya' deny it.' What the hell was she supposed to say to that? Was he just toying with her now? If so, what a f*ckin' d*ck move that was. And now Damien was joining in. F*ck. There was no questioning that they were both hot, in completely different ways, but they still both were. She appreciated Gene's ruggedness more, sure, but regardless, the both of them joining in together talking about how sexy they both were was a little overwhelming, particularly since they were both addressing her. She just had to keep a cool head.


"Now, now, you all don't need to fight over me. You both have nice accents. Now go on talking so that Merriell and I can continue admiring them," she said dismissively, waving her hand at them and rolling her eyes before turning back to Merriell. "Oh, I completely agree. Now. There were a few times in the beginning where I was wondering what the f*ck they were talking about, but given their accents when they speak English, I still pretty much don't know what they're saying, so I've given up." She laughed and turned herself so that her back was leaning against her desk and her legs were hanging down from the knee at the back of the chair. "Sometimes you just gotta learn to go with it."

 

[Brave]

"Dis' is true. If I remember correctly, we got in ta' fisticuffs. An' a Shelton is neveah' one ta' be subtle, dats' fo' damn sho'." Gene slurred as his eyes glazed over at the mere memory. It is his belief that they were born again that day. Brothers in blood. Sure, most of it was from Gene's end, but none the less, brothers. Most of the Cajun's fondest of experiences were accompanied with the smell, the taste, the sight of blood.


The Cajun raised a bony hand up to his mouth as if taking an imaginary drag off of a cigarette as he contemplated Damien's words. "Oui et non. Vous étiez en fait né en lui, mais vous avez toujours eu à l'apprendre la même chose que lui. Comment placer votre serviette sur vos genoux. La façon de traiter un aîné. Comment correctement séduire. N'est-ce pas honorable? Suivre les instructions et les conseils de vos parents ? Si ce n'est pas le cas, vous auriez été certainement dévorés par maintenant. La survie de la base. Vivre pour voir un autre jour*." His drawl was slow and steady, each vowel elongated until it was almost overkill, his eyes still far away. Into a different time entirely. One of too big eyes for such a small face. Gangly knees that knocked together. Over bite too pronounced on such a weak chin. All home to such a monstrous gaunt boy before he grew into the man he was today. One Eugene Shelton.


Peter's words, however, reeled him back to the present. "Ya' know yo' ass says da' sweetest things Peter. Always da' mediator. Praise da' Lord," Gene grinned a sharp grin, all teeth, his tone dripping with fond sarcasm, "Don't ya' be frontin', yo' ass can understand me perfectly, ain't dat' right cher?" His hand lazily waved in Merriell's direction before continuing, "And dere' ain't no way yo' accent is betteah' den' mine Damien, it's jus' common sense."


Yes and no. You were in fact born into it, but you still had to learn it the same as he. How to place your napkin in your lap. How to address an elder. How to properly schmooze. Is that to not honorable? To follow the directions and guidance of your parents? If not, you would have been surely eaten alive by now. Survival at it's core. Live to see another day.*


~.~.~


"Did you know that Cajun, as a language, is a dying art? No one seems to deem it proper, so people have slowly begun to filter it out of society." Gene, the king of useless facts, listed, as if reading a book. Books in themselves were easy to understand. They were black and white. They said what they meant. The more he was in the company of people as a whole, the more he realized they spoke in circles. In rhymes with no reason or end. It made him yearn for subtitles, even for simple things such as 'hello', which could mean a number of things. It could mean, 'Get away, I don't like you.' It could mean, 'It's nice to meet you.' It could even mean, 'I love you.' It was such a distressing matter.


He felt more than heard the Cajun's accompanying laugh at his words, and he shifted in his seat. "I believe there are many conversations people don't understand. Body language for example. So many nuances and definitions one can't hear-" he was cut off by the sound of someone clearing their throat.


"Now this conversation sounds nothing like what is on the agenda today. Not a peep about pollution or green house gases. Do I need to separate you lot?" Ms. Michalak asked, her hands on her hips as she tried to appear either intimidating, appalled, or constipated. Merriell's guess was on the latter of the three.


"Ain't none of yo' mind boo. Now how 'bout ya' continue ta' regale da' class on yo' failed marriage, ya know, since it's so fascinatin'." the slow drawl of Gene began, Michalak's gaze falling on the Cajun instead of scrutinizing Merriell.

 

[Esoteric Truth]

"What Gene means, Madame, is that yesterday you were in the middle of telling us about that story, the one about how you saw your husband in that restaurant, when class let out. He would love to hear the rest of it. He doesn't do well with cliffhangers," Damien said quickly, flashing a quick glare at Gene before smiling at Michalak. "And I am very sorry about how our conversation got, ah, turned about. We were talking about how coal creates ash and smog and how that affects people. That got turned into difficulty with breathing, with talking, and it just evolved from there. I will personally make sure that we do not get off topic again." His smile was thin and did not meet his eyes. Honestly, he wanted to smack her across the face and tell her what a sad, sorry sop she was. He wanted to tell her that she had no place to teach when she was so goddamn absorbed in her own business instead of the material.

~~~*~~~

​

"It's my fault we got off topic. I was just saying that I wondered if people with different accents would find it harder or easier and then I made a joke about Gene's accent. Merriell was just defending him. But really it has nothing to do with him," Peter added, twisting her head to the side so that she could better see the woman who had stormed up to them and interrupted their perfectly good conversation. Gene could be a real dumbass sometimes. He didn't know when to keep his mouth shut and when not to say offensive bits. Saying offensive bits to authority figures was not always a good idea, especially when that authority figure was a crazy b*tch like Michalak.