I Left My Heart In Paris [Inactive]

Gene's lips pursed, his chapped lips splitting down the middle slightly. He responded to pain and to anger more than anything else. It's all he's known, and when face to face with any other emotion he clammed up. And the Shelton name was never known to be on good terms with authority. As a child he had many a run in with cops, a relationship that began with a little flirting with the law and ended with being thrown in the drunk tank every so often for stealing a bit of food, for fights, or on some occasions sleeping out doors when the need arose.


The Cajun was never good at taking direction either. He did things on his own terms and on his own terms. If he felt that it was his right to sit on the sidewalk on the sunniest corner in town and smoke a pack until the sun set, then it was in his right. In fact, if he felt it was in his best interest to listen to the adorable fumbling and stuttering of one Merriell Leydon, then that was what he would do.


What good had authority ever done him anyway? A father who beat him and ignored him while an eleven year old Eugene tried to make enough money for rent. Police officers who horded the food and clean water for themselves during the worst catastrophe ever in New Orlean's history while others died. Who was he to listen to the likes of others who knew nothing but selfishness and greed. Power hunger can be worse than actual hunger.


Michalak's beady eyes narrowed at Gene's wide challenging ones. "I'm letting you of with a warning Shelton, don't make me regret it." She hissed before stalking away to act as a vulture to another unsuspecting group.


The thin teen's arms came to wrap around his legs in an effort to create a physical shield from himself an the world, his nostrils flared as his breathing became ragged as he tried to keep his anger in check. "I say what I want. I do what I want, and that's it." He mumbled as a spidery hand rubbed at his abused lips.


~.~.~


"That was thrilling. I've never gotten in trouble like that in my whole entire life." Merriell breathed as he placed a hand on his stuttering heart. It made him feel on top of the world. Strong enough to run the halls of school. 'Was this how Gene felt on a daily basis? How did he not keel over from the racing heart his actions brought along?' He thought as he smiled down into his lap, a hint of teeth appearing as fought to keep a giggle down.


He could only recall feeling this way twice. Once when he was very young and his grandfather had snuck him out late one night and took him to a drive in movie. It was the craziest thing he had ever done. The other was shortly after his grandfather died. He snuck out early one morning and just sat himself in the cold rain winter produced in Alabama, the closest he would ever get to snow, and just allowed himself to feel. Being close to death, he always had to make sure never to get sick. A simple cold could be his end, but it didn't matter. He was once more alone in the world. He couldn't bear the thought of spending his last years stuck in some never ending loop of the same four walls until he took his last breath. He welcomed the cold. Merriell's mother found him a few minutes later, yelling and screaming. It would have been nice to die on his own terms, by his own choice, and yet here he was. He was glad God found it in himself to spare him so he could experience this feeling once more.
 
"And there is none who deserve your words more than that woman right there," Damien murmured, glaring at Michalak's back. "But I do not feel like getting an earful from her today, mon ami. I thought it best to shut her up and get her to move on." The last thing he wanted was to have to deal with the whines of the rather robust woman as she scolded them for having so little respect for her when her life was so very hard. As if she'd had any real struggle. Her marital problems seemed to mostly be her fault, no doubt from her constant b*tching. He could only imagine she had been a very nagging wife.


To most people he supposed Kate wouldn't seem very nagging. She was docile enough, and didn't have to whine to her husband to take out the trash because they had someone to do it for them. And it was true, Kate did not nag her husband very often. Her step-son, however, was another matter entirely. It wasn't so much a nagging to do chores as it was a nagging to do things with her. She was always asking him to spend quality time with her, prodding him to let her ride horses with him or to sit and watch him draw, even having the audacity once or twice to ask him to draw her. He knew that she went up in her own free time to the stables and got lessons, and he knew it was just so that she could ride with him, but he'd never let her. Riding had been something he had done with his mother, and he was not about to tarnish those memories by doing it with his father's poor excuse for a replacement.


Perhaps Francis Babineaux had taken on Kate because he knew she did not have the emotional depth it would require to commit suicide. She could not possibly think deeply and darkly enough upon her life to actually commit the deed, and for his father there might be security in that. Perhaps it was that his father was shallow and was only interested in the younger woman's relatively well-endowed figure. This he doubted, however, because he had seen the way that his father looked at her. It had made him sick.


The first time he met Kate it had been a sunny morning and he had been just fourteen. His mother had only passed roughly a year and three months ago, and yet he found himself sitting across a table in a nice french cafe from his father and a tall brunette. The exact way they were seated symbolized exactly the situation to him: Kate and his father had their seats pulled beside each other, fingers interlocked, and he was on the opposite side. Alone. She had smiled her cheap smile and introduced herself and dear god she had put her elbows on the table and she chewed with her mouth slightly open and she talked with that american accent and he hated her. Five months later and Kate Thompson became Kate Babineaux. And she couldn't even say her goddamn last name right.

~~~*~~~

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"That's one of the things I admire about you, Gene. But there is indeed a time and place for everything," Peter sighed, sliding her eyes over to Merriell. "You stick around us long enough, and you'll get to have that feeling plenty." It was true. The group had gotten into many situations much more dire than this one. Like the time that she'd brought a bottle of Vodka to school and the three of them had sat underneath the bleachers during the pep assembly and downed it. Not gotten drunk, but had each had enough to get just a bit of a buzz to make the whole affair just a little bit less awful. She did wonder what it would be like to get drunk with them. She would probably be the lightweight, given that she was a girl, and then Damien, and then Gene. She would be impressed if Merriell drank at all, but she imagined he would not. Getting drunk with them was very risky, though. Who knew what she would say or do when drunk? That was why she couldn't ever get drunk with them, no matter how tempting. Until further notice, she was the designated driver.
 
Gene breathed deeply as he contemplated Damien's words, a hand going to up to ruffle his dusty curls. "Yo' right D, ain't no way I was gettin' outta that one without a trip ta' da' captain's office." he conceded, his arms tossed up in a quick gesture of surrender, "It's been awhile though, I haven't seen dat' cat in a few weeks."


It were times like these that Gene really appreciated Damien's insight on polite society. He knew the ins and outs of how to act and talk to elders. How to eat properly. Even how to get what he wants without a fight, just his intellect and his words. It seems as if the Cajun has spent too long a time on the streets. Every look he received from passing company was a fight right to happen, any word spoken to him put him on edge enough to be defensive. Damien was just pure, effortless class. Gene was still surprised Damien put up with him. I guess some had to, he was just lucky it was the Frenchmen.


However, it didn't sit right with him that he relied so heavily on one person. Heck, he even relied on Peter for that calm perspective he offered when his view was too skewed and out of focus. It was scary to know that one day, they would up and leave, just like his dead beat of a father. Where would that leave him then?


He gave a quick grin Peter's way. He would be the one to enjoy his unique look on the world. Bleak and dark, with rain always just on the horizon. It made him curious about his past. He always seemed just out of reach, an enigma if you will.


~.~.~


"Oh, well then, consider me part of the gang, officially. It seems a swell idea to become accustomed to real life experiences. It's a lot better than sitting at home, that's for certain."Merriell wheezed as he tried to catch his breath. In his excitement he tended to overexert his heart. He remembered during his 8th birthday he was allowed his first trip into town to go to the library, and on learning this he passed out and face planted into his morning cream of wheat. Not his finest moment, but certainly a memorable one.


Maybe it was God's plan to have him in the company of this unlikely trio. Maybe it was a gift for being so sheltered and only given a few years to truly live. This group seemed the type to squeeze a whole life time worth of experiences and memories in a few short years. Maybe he was blessed after all.
 
"I have not seen him in awhile also. It surprises me that we have managed to stay out of trouble for this long," Damien snorted. There were many times they had gotten into trouble together, and similarly many times they had each gotten in trouble separately as well. It was not too uncommon for him to get into a bad mood and take a comment the wrong way or overreact to a slight push. There had been times when some idiot had said the wrong thing and ended up with a broken nose. Though when around friends he was generally a benevolent spirit, when he was alone he often found himself to be more on edge and angry as his problems no longer were kept at bay by happy distractions and were free to overwhelm him.


"Speaking of not sitting at home, what do you all think about doing something after school?" The last thing he wanted to do was to head right home and deal with that whole situation right after a long day of school. He'd rather continue to be under the supervision of Michalak than to have to deal with any more of Kate's sh*t or his father's slightly disappointed stares. It wasn't that he thought he had it bad, because he wasn't foolish enough to think that. He had it pretty damn good, even with the few sh*t cards he'd been dealt. His mother's death and Kate's introduction into the family were large dark blots on his life, but he supposed he had no right to complain when he knew there were people like Gene who had nothing and no one, so he was not about to indulge himself into self pity.

~~~*~~~

​



"Hah, I had to speak to the guy just the other day. Some chick told my teacher that my water bottle had vodka in it. Funny thing was, it didn't, for once," she grinned. The best part was that she didn't even really like vodka, either. The girl had gotten it all wrong. What Peter did have was whisky in a flask, not vodka in a water bottle. Of course, Fitz had heard about her alcohol endeavors so he was sure to bring her in just to check. He seemed to have been sorely disappointed at not having any evidence that she did anything wrong.


"Glad to have ya, Merriell. You seem like a good guy to have around," she murmured, nodding with an approving smile. "Christ, when is lunch? I'm dying to get out of here."


"We all share that sentiment. I do not like being under that crazy woman's watch. I would say she is like a hawk, but I am fairly certain that she could not be a bird. Surely nothing that heavy could fly," Damien murmured in agreement, to which Peter snickered.


"She's more like a king pigeon. Has authority for some reason, but is stupid, loud, and fat," the girl responded, her eyes watching Michalak's large form from narrowed eyes.
 
The shrill shriek of a bell sounded and shook the students into jumping up from their desks. As a large group, the students of Ravensdale High filed out the door, hoots and hollers could be heard through out the hallways as well as ear piercingly high giggles from the female students permeating the air. Each sound was only increased ten fold as they bounced off of the closed walls of the school.


This was one of Gene's least favorite times of day. He loved and craved quiet and peace, and when that bell rang his illusion of being anywhere else but here was shattered. "Ya know me Damien, I ain't eveah have somethin' ta' do after school. Free as ah' bird." he sighed as he heaved himself from his crouched position in the small plastic chair. As he straightened himself out, he threw his hands up in the air and stretched, a sliver of skin showing as his shirt rode up with the action. He spidery fingers of his left hand scratched at his growling stomach as the other shouldered his bag. 'On today's menu, we have a perfectly good camel cigarette. The lunch of champions.' Gene thought to himself as his gaze fell onto his scuffed shoes.


"Don't people know, no one respectable drinks vodka by choice. Whiskey is a true man's drink, right Peter?" Gene chuckled as he meandered his way towards the door, his gait slightly crooked as he fought with his light head and bright fluorescent lights.


~.~.~


Merriell bit at his bottom lip in contemplation. 'I'm not sure if I'm invited to join them for lunch...' with his thoughts preoccupied he pushed himself to his feet, his arms shaking under his own weight. It was always slow going when it came to Merriell. Walking up the stairs could take 5 minutes, while forcing his aching and weak limbs up from a position he left himself in for too long could take up to 10.


The red head's breathing was hard and labored as he began to clip his satchel around his thin frame, until it was yanked from his grasp. His brown eyes met that of Gene's hard gaze, the brown satchel clutched in the other teens thin fingers. The Cajun gave him a quick smirk before clipping the bag around himself and backtracked his way to the door without a word.


With wide eyes Merriell did his best to catch up to the group, his green monstrosity of a tank clacking behind him. As he reached the heavy wooden door, Gene was there holding it open for everyone with his back, eye brow raised in challenge. Everything in Merriell's mind wanted to protest this gentle treatment, he wasn't made of glass and he could carry his own backpack, while his heart stuttered wildly at being noticed. He hated to ask for help even when he desperately needed it. 'And Gene is one to take what he wants...' Merriell blushed as his mind got back onto the conversation at hand. "You drink even when underage?" he asked, his voice lowered, as he cautiously looked around the hall for eavesdroppers.
 
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Damien loved sounds. He loved the soft flutter of leaves in the air and the rustle of grass under foot. He loved the rhythmic thunder of pounding hooves churning up dirt and the high pitched cry of a violin expertly played by a long-fingered hand. Most of all, he loved the rich deep sound that was that of the cello, dark and somber with an air of old age class. But even among the vast many sounds he relished and enjoyed that were so much more preferable than the haunting quiet, there were some sounds he truly did hate. He absolutely despised the obnoxiously loud chatter that emanated from teenagers' mouths as they attempted to talk over one another because of course the thing that they were saying was far more important than that of anyone else. And though the call of the bell resounding through the school was a welcome sign of release that meant he'd have to endure class no longer, the noise that came after it was to him nails on a chalkboard.


"Perfect. Now we just have to decide on something to do. I would offer to take you to my house, but, ah, last time I remember you two seeing each other was when I got my car and you got sent to jail. He does not remember you fondly," Damien smiled, shaking his head and chuckling slightly. Back when he had gotten his car, his father had stormed into the school and smacked him straight across the face and hard. He had been standing talking to Gene when it happened and the first thing that the Cajun did was send a mean hook right to the old man's jaw. Next thing Damien knew, the place was swarming with guards, just about everyone was staring at his father who was absolutely fuming as he stalked out of the building cursing loudly in french, and he was left with a very red very sore cheek. For weeks after his father had forbidden him to talk to Gene at all but who was he to ever listen to what his father said? Though his father had now come to accept their friendship as just something he would have to deal with, it was very clear that the Cajun was not welcome in the house.

~~~*~~~

​



"That it is. Whisky in Latin is fuckin' life water. I don't know a truer definition," Peter grinned, passing through the door that was opened for the group by Gene. Goddamn, that boy knew how to say just the right things. She didn't need someone proper and sophisticated like Damien, she needed someone rough and tumble like her, someone who had an edge to them. Honestly she didn't know too much about either one of them; the really deep stuff that made them tick was mostly kept between the two boys. They were tighter than she was with either one of them, and she knew and accepted this. She wasn't jealous of it, because besides, Damien was as straight as an arrow. He was a man-wh*re. And she was fairly certain ow, looking back on it, that her jealousy of Merriell had been poorly placed as well. Merriell was sweet and gentle and innocent. Gene would never be an equal partner; he would always be the protector if they were to be in that situation. Besides, it all had probably just been in her head.


"Merriell, anything you can conceive of someone doing under age, I'm pretty sure I've done. What the hell is the point of laws based on age, anyway? It's just an arbitrary f*cking rule to try and only allow mature people to do things so that they don't do something they'll regret. I'm pretty sure I'm more mature than a lot of the adults I know, and I've learned not to regret things that have been done in the past. There is no use to musing over what used to be or what could have been. You're stuck with what ya got in the here and the now," she responded, her eyes staring ahead of her at the cafeteria full of students with a shrug and a half-smile. She lifted her head up and looked over him, running the edges of her teeth across one another as she thought. "And I think you know that. You have a wiseness to you, Merriell, and yet you haven't really seen much, I don't think. But we can change that."
 
"What is yo' ass talkin' bout D? Yo' father loves me." Gene laughed waving his arms about as if to proof his point as the group continued it's way down the hallway. The Cajun as a rule never stuck his nose into other people's business. He can recall watching on with a sick satisfaction as he watched a man get beaten in an alley way a few weeks prior. Truth be told he was sort of envious. Pain gave light to the fact that he was still alive. If he could still bleed he could still breath. Once the thugs had gotten to the man's wallet, Gene pulled himself away from the scene without doing a single thing about it. Was he that far down the rabbit hole that his humanity was just a shell of its former self? Probably, but something snapped in him when Damien's father hit him that day. He saw red. He felt anger. He wanted to help someone other than himself, and above all that scared him. 'I'm unworthy of kindness.'


He shook his head to clear his thoughts as they approached the double doors that lead to the cafeteria. All windowed, white, and clean. Circular wooden tables seemed to have been thrown in there without care or reason. It made Gene's skin itch. The hum of voices could be heard just beyond the door. With a deep breath, the Cajun clenched his twitching hands and shouldered open the door for his companions.


~.~.~


"I agree full heartedly. When you know your limits and at least respect the law you should be free to do what you wish. It's all about circumstance. Others grow up quicker thanks to the cards life has dealt them. I think it's God's way of compensating for lack of fortune." Merriell sighed as he stepped past the Cajun teen with a nod of thanks. 'One day I would like to be free to find out my limits.' There were so many things he wished to do before he died. Dance in the rain. A tattoo. His first beer and his first hangover. A first date. Maybe if he was lucky a first kiss. Above all he wished to travel. See the world with his own eyes instead of on the glossy pages of books. "Thank you though Peter, for that lovely compliment." He gave him a swift smile before sliding into a corner table that overlooked the grounds to the back of the building, his tank propped against the wall as to not be a nuisance or a tripping hazard to his peers.
 
The view of the cafeteria made Damien cringe. The mass of people milling about like ants was overwhelming. They warmed in patterns, arriving from their classes, a constant stream flooding into the room. Large clumps of students hung about in groups in the food line, waiting to get their lunches and scarf down some of the toxic substance known as school lunch. Large tables were crowded with thick swaths of people, some sitting in chairs others just haphazardly splaying themselves over the given surface. In this moment he felt like this territory was his. Here, in this small part of the world, he was untouchable. It was here, in this small isolated population, that he had a large degree of power. You see, he had no control over Eclat yet, so he had no real standing in the world. Here, however, he was king. A hated king, perhaps, but a king nonetheless. He was above all of these people. His future had been set out for him and no matter how hard anyone in the school worked, it was likely that at the end of the day, he would still end up being the rich one once they were all old. And he wouldn't have to do half of what all of they did. He wouldn't have to struggle. And they knew this and hated him for it. By the luck of the draw he had been handed a silver platter. Perhaps his luck was payment for his pain.


"What do you all say we take a seat outside? I have no desire to be inside this cramped space with all of these morons," he growled, turning up his head as he looked down upon the vast array of students carrying on with their lunches. In that sea of idiots he had managed to find a small group of tolerable people. He had't quite decided a verdict on Merriell yet, but so far he seemed alright. Better than the rest, anyway. More importantly, Peter had taken to him. He'd trust his judgement.

~~~*~~~

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"Don't mention it. Literally, I'm not kidding. We can't have it getting out that I'm actually somewhat nice, now can we?" Peter smirked, rolling back on her heels and looking at Damien. Damn, the guy was cranky today. Every time he was put back into large crowds he got this look on his face- a look like he thought he was better than all of them. It was easy to tell that he lumped them into one big unimportant group. They weren't people to him anymore, they were faceless bodies that would one day practically be his. He would power their cars, their houses, their everything. They would all be his consumers. It was almost sickening to look at her friend like that, to see that part of him that was despicable.


"You have no respect for them, do you?" she murmured quietly, looking up at him with harsh searching eyes. His cold blue eyes met her brown ones and for a second flashed with sharp anger before relaxing into a sober expression.


"I- I do," Damien huffed in response, crossing his arms and looking away from her, his teeth gritted. She shook her head. He wasn't good at taking criticism, either.
 
"Hey Peter, don't hassle da' future God of da' masses." Gene chuckled, as his eyes rolled lazily only to land on Peter with a smirk. The Cajun hated thinking of the future, especially when he didn't know wether he would live to see next week. How terrible to know exactly what will become of your life. Know exact career. Gene thrived on the unknown, it kept him on his toes. In some ways he pitied Damien. A true God in sheep's clothing, forced to live out his days until his time comes to take up the throne. 'I would hate to have all that pressure. I enjoy my days in the sun.'


His hands twitched at the thought of the sweet taste of nicotine just around the bend. With a scratch to his forehead, he motioned Merriell towards the double doors, "D has da' right idea cher. Let's go outside."


~.~.~


"Don't worry. Everyone's secret is safe with me, I swear!" Merriell choked out, eyes wide as he heaved himself from the chair. Once standing he took a moment to pull and straighten his sweater vest self consciously. 'Each of these people hurts in some form or fashion. It makes me feel less alone.' He smiled as he have a short nod to Gene as he walked past.


"Next you'll hear him say scouts honor. I wouldn't be surprised if ya were a lil' scout." He heard drawled into his ear, Gene's breath hot on his neck. It sent shivers down his spine as he watched the cajun's retreating form as he walked outside, a loud laugh could be heard as the door swung shut behind him.


With all the courage Merriell could muster, he followed the group out the door, his tank trailing behind him. His nose was accosted by the bitter yet familiar smell of cigarettes. As if on reflex, the red head's body unloosened from its tight cool left behind by Gene's words. "I'm not a scout, in case your wondering." He announced as he sat himself beneath a tree that was hidden from both student and teacher's view. His shaking hand motioned for his bag that was still string around the gaunt form of the Cajun.


With a resounding chuckle, and curious wide eyes shot in his direction, Gene relinquished his hold on the satchel. With new found confidence he dug around the bag until his fingers found the solid, firm wood of his pipe. As the group settled around him, he began the familiar ritual of packing the pipe with tobacco.
 
"I will not be God, my company will just be responsible for powering the things that people are so dependent on," Damien replied, shooting a glare towards Gene. 'C'est brillant. Vous semblez beaucoup plus modeste quand vous dites ça comme ça,'* he thought sarcastically to himself. He closed his eyes and held them tight like that for a moment, his brow furrowed in frustration, before looking back up and striding swiftly through the door. He turned around and snapped his head back towards Peter and Gene, looking at them both hard in the eyes.


"Eclat will not stay around forever. One day we will abandon oil and one day it will not exist. If that is when I own it or when my children own it, I do not know. But one day I will be dead in the ground just as everyone else. And one day people will forget about me. Just like everyone else. I know this. Just sometimes, when I see them like that talking about trivial things, I forget that I am not better. I forget that in the long run the things I talk about will come to just as little. I just forget," he explained, his eyes dropping down towards his shoes. He examined their white surface which, hours earlier, had been impeccably shined and smoothed but now which showed signs of scuffing and even faint grass stains from the turf on which he stood.


*That's brilliant. You sound so much more modest when you say it like that.

~~~*~~~

​



"Hey, look here. We know you're not a total d*ck. After all, we're standing here right now with you. We all know you're not that much of an asshole," Peter sighed, rolling her eyes. She walks to him and patted his shoulder awkwardly before walking past Damien and sitting under a nearby tree. She looked up, waiting for the rest of them to follow before unzipping her backpack and pulling out a cold slice of pizza wrapped in aluminum foil. Her hands grabbed the flask from her jacket pocket and she shook it.


"Damien, c'mere and have a drink. Partly as an apology and partly because you're on edge and it sounds like you need one," she called, silently cursing herself. She shouldn't have teased him. She could tell he was not in a good mood and she'd carried it too far. Granted, it wasn't very far and it probably didn't hurt to bring him back into a state of humility, but it was the fact that she had caused him some degree of pain which bothered her.
 
Gene's eyes fell to slits and his lips pulled into a tight frown. It was times like these that he wished he could truly be empathetic. It was hard for him to trust someone let alone have the ability and the know how to apologize like a decent human being. Despite what others think, it is not human nature to feel. You must learn how to. To know happiness, you must have been a happy at some point. To be sad, you must know and understand loss. To know anger, you must have been wronged. Gene likes to think at one point he felt those things, but as far as he can remember, that was a life time ago. A distant pass that lead to such an uneasy future.


The Cajun found himself shuffling towards the other side of the tree. The smell of food nauseated him enough, the sight was almost over kill. His spidery fingers dug into his jacket pocket and produced a lighter and a cigarette. With the smoke firmly placed in between cracked lips Gene mumbled a sloppy, "Vous connaissez ma bouche obtient à venir de ma tête. Je crois vraiment que vous ferez quelque chose de merveilleux dans la vie. Quelque chose de bien loin de votre nom de la famille et l'éclat dynastie.*" As he inhaled, he let the sweet taste of nicotine fill his lungs, the lightness of his head falling to the back of his mind now that he had his fix. "Assez vite ces vaches se prosterneront devant un autre dieu. Et vous le savez ... devoir envers Dieu.**" floated out on his exhale.


Eyes closed, peace at the forefront of Gene's mind, he allowed himself to fall to his back. He stretched his lanky arms above his head as the sunlight hit his bruised eyes. "That smells delightful cher." he rumbled out in between clenched teeth as he tried to keep a firm hold of the cig in his mouth, his nose taking drags of the sweet smoke that wafted to from his right.


You know my mouth gets ahead of my head. I truly believe you will do something amazing in life. Something far far away from your family's name and the Éclat dynasty.*





Soon enough these cows will bow down to a different God. And you know...duty to God.**


~.~.~


"That must be a lot of pressure on someone so young." Merriell replied, his eyes glazed as he pushed the tobacco down with the unsharpened end of a pencil. It pained the red head to see someone with so much life left to live and yet be stuck in the same situation as himself, no choice and no hope. Part of what makes life worth living was the simple act of choice and the chance for growth. To be your own person, and yet both he and Damien were stuck with one path, with one choice. Their parents the master's of their lives. It made sense in his case, seeing as he was stuck with clipped wings, but in the Frenchmen's case, his wings were bound, never the chance to fly. It was heartbreaking.


His hands once more found themselves searching through his satchel until his fist closed around a box of matches. He gently let the flame of the struck match torch the tobacco, a sweet woody smell filled the air. As he took a long toke of the pipe, he allowed himself to be drawn into the thick, calming southern drawl of Gene's sloppy and slurred French. "It is understandable to be defensive. If I were in your shoes, I to would do the same."
 
"No Peter, I do not want a drink right now. Thank you, though," Damien mumbled, walking slowly over to the tree and sat down, his white jacket snagging slightly as it skidded down the rough surface of the bark. It was a rare day when he turned down a drink that was offered to him, but for this moment he wanted and needed to feel this. It was this that gave him humility and brought himself off of his pedestal. It was this that reminded him he was not god but was man yet. Pain kept him humble.


"Comment? Comment puis-je romps de tout ce que j'ai connu? J'ai été élevé pour cette annonce soigné pour toute ma vie. Je suis bon à rien d'autre. Je n'ai pas gagné assez bonnes notes pour aller au collège. Je me suis baisée sur à chaque tour où peut-être que j'aurais pu sortir. Peut-être inconsciemment, je ne veux pas parce que je sais que tout ce que je déteste, je suis toujours dépendante de mon père. Je suis toujours condamnés à être,"* He whispered, crossing his arms over his knees and resting his head on his chin. He was not teary-eyed at this statement but rather knew it to be true and he faced this reality with the tired look of a man who knew exactly how he was going to die. "Il est trop tard pour changer. Et même si je le pouvais, je ne suis pas sûr que je le ferais. Je ne suis rien sans Eclat."**





He could remember when he was at his first dinner party. He had been six years old and his father sat on one end of the table, handsomely dressed in a nice suit and his hair combed back. The usual stubble that he associated with his father was shaved away, leaving a clean shaven jawline in its midst. Damien sat proudly beside his mother, just two seats away from his father. The guests had not yet arrived, aside from his father's best friend, Louis. He always remembered how Louis always called him 'mini moi' because his middle name was Jean-Louis. That was where the second half of his middle name came from, after all. In this particular instance, however, Louis did not come over to him but instead was speaking in hushed tones to his father who was getting progressively angrier. He cowered in slight fear and his father came over and spoke to his mother.


"Il ya des hommes ici qui veulent notre société."***


"Fantastique! Combien sont-ils offrir?"****


"Je ne suis pas à vendre. L'argent n'a pas d'importance. Je vais être un jour le plus grand et le meilleur, Evonna. Je vous le promets."***** He looked over at Damien and crouched down. "Damien, je vous laisse mon travail un jour. Vous serez un grand homme. Et c'est pour vous que je garde cette entreprise. Ce sera votre héritage."******





Damien was thrust back into reality by Merriell's comment and he shook his head softly, clearing his head. "Yes, it is a lot of weight. It is the weight of the future of myself and my children that rests in my hands, not to mention one of the most important markets to the economy. Of course, I am not responsible for it yet, and in some ways I hope this does not change for quite some time. But it could be worse. All things considered, I think I have it pretty good. Except for Kate. I could do without her," he added, flashing a grin at Gene.


*How? How do I give up all that I have known? I was raised into this and groomed for it my whole life. I'm no good at anything else. I haven't got good enough grades to go to college. I've f*cked myself at every opportunity I had to get out. Perhaps subconsciously, because even though I hate it, I am dependent on my father. I am always fated to be.


**It is too late to change. Even if I could, I'm not sure I would. I am nothing without Eclat.


***There is a man coming who wants to buy our company.


****Fantastic! How much is he offering?


*****I am not selling. The amount doesn't matter. I will be the biggest and the best someday, Evonna. This I promise you.


*******Damien, I will leave you my job someday. You will be a great man. ANd it is for you that I keep this company. It will be your legacy.
 
"Votre histoire n'est pas encore écrite mon ami. Je ne vois pas une pierre que scribes votre sort ou destin. J'ai toujours entendu la vie a une façon de travailler lui-même, bien qu'elle ne soit pas encore arrivé dans mon cas. Cela pourrait se produire dans le vôtre.*" Gene replied, his voice slurred and eyes glazed as the nicotine ran through his system. He allowed himself another deep toke as an inner peace overtook him. It was his favorite time of day when he had a stick of death in his hands, it made the future less bleak knowing he would die all the sooner. If it were possible every minute of everyday he would have a cigarette in hand. They were worth every bottle picked up on his way home to recycle for a few measly dollars everyday. If he were in Damien's position he could make his dream a reality. Sit by a window all day, sun in his face and a pack of smokes. One after the other until people wouldn't know were his stick like finger began and where the cigarette ended.


He cracked open an eye as he exhaled, his gaze landing on too red hair to his left. "Would you mind if I had a taste cher? Maybe even Damien could do with some nice pipe weed." the Cajun asked, a hand outstretched in the direction of Merriell.


Your story isn't written yet my friend. I do not see a stone that scribes your fate or destiny. I've always heard life has a way of working itself out, though it has yet to have happened in my case. It could happen in yours.*


Cher- dear, honey, insert pet name here


~.~.~


Merriell's brow furrowed as he chanced a glance at the Frenchmen. He could see the haunting memories in his eyes, and it pained him knowing his new friend was so like himself. Yet not. In his situation he was free. He could remember being young and having his father place his hopes and dreams on his shoulders. 'Don't worry Mer, you will get better and then you too can become our towns doctor. You will be the heart and soul of the place you call home.' Dr. Leydon would say as he ruffled his hair, but as time went on and the light diminished in his wise old eyes, lined with worry as condition grew worse. Still year after year they would play this charade and his father would ruffle his hair with a sad smile and say how he couldn't wait for there to be another doctor. Merriell didn't even have the heart to tell him he wanted to study ornithology instead of medicine, if he had his way that is.


It was freeing to know that he didn't have to worry when faced with the future, and what mark he would leave on the world. No one would remember the sick boy who made his first friend at the age of 18. Just a picture in a family album that would either get thrown away or given to a cousin, though he believed it would be the former.


A gritty hand startled him out of his thoughts. The hand he knew as if it were his own, yet he just saw it today. Gene Shelton. Who is he to deny him of anything. He lived for making others happy. Maybe that's how he will be remembered. The nice red head who once allowed someone a bit of tobacco on a nice spring day.


"Sure thing Gene. Um, might I ask a question. What does cher mean?" Merriell questioned, his arm shaking as he leant over and placed the smooth wooden pipe in Gene's hand. His response was the choking of one Cajun teenager as he turned bright read, wide eyes turning to Damien in a plea for help.
 
A month had passed since Damien first met Merriell. From bright green leaves and new vivid growth the canvas had changed to somber grey rains and sticky brown mud. Dark curls of cloud cover swarmed above in the sky, casting dark shadows upon the ground as deep green swirls of delicate fern thrived alongside tall pale birch trees, luminescent against their moody background. The only animals visible in the rain were the thick fat rolls of slugs that squirmed among the drowning grass. For Damien, the rain was an annoyance. It made his nice suits soggy so he was forced to wear more casual clothing. His slightly unruly hair would flatten to his head, his bangs getting into his face, so he'd started neatly combing it back like he'd had it in private school in France. The mud would splatter onto his white car and get it all grimy. And the torrent of water reminded him of his mother and how she had died, reminded him of the few days before when it had poured and raised the river so that it was fast enough and deep enough so that when she walked down into it and let it carry her away, there would have been no hope for her even if she had changed her mind.


Today was a Friday, and after school he'd driven back to his house and gone up to the stables. The building was always alive with the sounds of the stable hands and the horses, and when he entered the premises the loud ruckus of horses nickering reverberated throughout its stone walls. He walked past Kate's rather neglected horse, past the draft horses used for carting, until he came to the horse he favored. Noir. Noir had been his since before he move to the united states, and had been shipped all the way from France. He had ridden Noir alongside his mother astride her own horse, and both of them he still possessed. He could remember when he and his mother went to the breeder to pick out two new horses. She had inspected each one very carefully and told him to choose the one that spoke to him. His eyes had quickly found the young jet black Meren which stood out from the rest as he cantered within his ring, a spark of wildness deep in its cold blue gaze. The only stallion. His mother had preferred a red roan Arabian. What a sight they must've been among the vibrant green hills, mother and son atop two extraordinary steeds. Now, however, it was just him.


Damien walked back towards his tack room and took off the clothes that he'd worn all day, resting them on top of a small wooden shelf to his side. He pulled on his riding clothes and sighed before pulling out the saddle, bridle, girth and saddle bad, all of which he rested on a saddle holder by the cross ties. Striding over to Noir, he whistled softly to himself as he listened to the rumble of the stablehands' cars signaling they had left for the day. When he came to the horse which stood with its head leaning outside of its stall, Damien's long-fingered hands stroked either side of its face as he pressed is forehead to its own. "Je sens votre coeur, Noir. Pouvez-vous sentir la mienne?"* he whispered, closing his eyes before withdrawing from the horse and opening the stall door. He slipped on its leather halter and lead it to the cross-ties where he exchanged the lead rope for two ropes on either side of the horse that connected to each side of the halter. After brushing it down and picking its hooves, he pulled on the tack and pushed himself onto the saddle.


The pounding of hooves against the wet earth lulled Damien into a trance-like state. They were one with another, two souls bound under the darkening sky. Time wasn't a factor. The cold rain that soaked his hair and slipped down his face went unnoticed as they rode in meaningless patterns across the field. By the time that he had stopped, the rain had momentarily been paused and the sky had darkened considerably. Out here in this field he was nothing more than the same little boy who had lost his mother so long ago. He wasn't the son of Francis Babineaux, he wasn't the future owner of Eclat, he just was simply himself. He didn't have to worry about what he looked like or what he said or what his father would think. This was his private space.


When he walked Noir back into the stall, he was surprised to see his father standing in the doorway waiting for him. Damien hesitated for a moment before taking a deep breath and hooking Noir up to the cross ties once more. He could hear his father walking into the barn, but ignored those sounds and proceeded to take the tack off. As he turned to put his saddle away, he felt the strong grip of Francis closing in on bicep, pulling him around so that they faced each other. Damien looked his father in the eyes, a puzzled look on his face as he met the obviously-angered stare of the older man.


"Où la baise avez-vous été?" his father growled, mouth twisted into a snarl.


"Où la baise ça ressemble J'ai été?" Damien mocked, rolling his eyes as he lifted up his saddle for emphasis. The older man took a deep breath and ground his teeth.


"Ne soyez pas un âne futé. Je vous ai textos, à la recherche pour vous. Nous allions dîner ensemble ce soir."


"Kate faisait cuire. Vous attendiez-vous honnêtement me montrer pour cela?"


"Oui. Je m'attends à vous de montrer son respect comme vous me montrez."


"Très bien, je suis désolé. Est-il encore le dîner?"


"Non, seulement le dessert. Mais vous avez de venir quand même. Nous avons quelque chose à vous dire."


"Ne me dites pas que vous renouvelez vos vœux comme est à la mode pour les Américains,"** Damien snorted, pulling out of his father's grasp to put away the saddle. His father sighed and watched him carry away the tack and finally take Noir, whose coat now glistened with sweat, back to his stall.


The look on Kate's eyes was sickening as she stared into Francis Babineaux's. She smiled with the same look of an excited little girl with some secret to tell. Francis' brow, however, was creased with anxiety. Damien watched the two of them, champagne glass to his lips, his eyes calculating. He could feel deep in his gut that he knew what the news was going to be, and yet at the same time he felt that it simply could not be true, that he would do anything for it to not be true. But he noticed how Kate did not have a glass of alcohol and how she bore this elated glow of anticipation. He noticed these things and yet clung to some desperate possibility that it meant nothing, absolutely nothing.


"Damien, as I told you, we have something to share. I want you to stay sitting down until we finish, and just remain calm. Can you promise me that?" his father asked, and he watched the way that his father's thumb softly stroked the top of Kate's hand.


"No," he croaked, tipping back the glass so it filled his mouth and gave himself something other to do than look at the two of them anymore.


"Damien, être mûr pour une fois,"*** Francis snapped, staring icily at his son who set his head in his hands.


"Now boys, no French at the table," Kate interjected.


"Do you want to tell him?" Francis asked, smiling slightly at her.


"No, no, no, no." His whispered plea went unnoticed as he knotted his fingers into his hair.


"I'd be honored. Damien, I'm -I mean your father and I are- pregnant!"


Any strand of hope he'd had was crushed. Any strand of control he'd had over himself was lost. His tall form hunched over the table, his arms cradling his head, the slender shoulders jerking as his body was racked with sobs. Kate started forward to him in aims to comfort, but Francis gently held her arm back and shook his head. He narrowed his eyes at his son, his mouth clenched into a tight frown, a deep and impatient sigh escaping from his lips.


"Can you not just be happy for us? Why do you always have to pity yourself when good things are happening? Is that so much to ask when for you I have provided so much?"


Damien's head sharply rose, his face contorted with violent rage. He stood up quickly, sending his chair clattering to the floor behind him and swept his arms across the table, sending the dishes and food items clattering to the floor, a bottle of red wine rolling off the table and shattering.


"THAT is what I think of what you provided," he hissed, putting his hands on the table and leaning on them, his body arced so that he glared down at the both of them, his eyes flashing.


"Damien, sit the f*ck-"


"No, shut the f*ck up, Père! I have tolerated so much. I saw my mother's slippers by the side of a river. I felt her gone from me forever! I was so... angry. And lonely. And lost. And just months after that you introduce me to her. I watched as you went out on dates with her, but I at least had the hope that it was part of how you grieve. I watched as you married her, but I at least had my home. God damn, I watched as we moved away from the little bit of my mother I had left, and I was sure I had nothing. This, though, this is me having nothing. Because when we moved, I at least had you. I hated you. But I had you!" Damien cried, pointing a finger sharply in his father's direction.


"You talk of respect," he sneered," but you deserve none. For who have you respected? Certainly not my mother! She died. And you do not wait very long at all before you try to get some cheap replacement. As if Kate does her any justice. You find some American sl*t who wants to marry you because you have money. And you ask for my respect. When have you respected me? Not when I had my home invaded by some wh*re. Not when you moved me away from what little I had, what little bit of my mother I still had. You try to replace everything that we once had in France. My mother with Kate. France with America. And now me with the parasite that lives inside her.


"And you," he hissed, turning to Kate, "are not left out of this. Who are you invade the lives of a man and his son who has just lost their wife and mother? Who are you to try to be that boy's mother? Who are you to push your husband to selfishly move out to your hometown? Did you once think of anyone besides yourself? You know what? You two deserve each other." Damien whirled quickly away from them, picking up his keys and slamming the door behind him as he exited his house.


His car roared to life and he tore down the road, flying through the streets. The streetlights flashed by him in bright white blurs and he was briefly aware that the clock said the time was 11:20 PM. He skidded through turns, not sure quite where he was driving, just driving for the hell of it. The industrial district approached him and he was hit with a wave of longing, longing for comfort and solace at the hands of friends. Damien slowed his car to a purr and stopped it altogether beside the lumberyard. The harsh sound of his car's horn broke through the night sky as he slammed his fist to the steering wheel.


"GENE! GET THE F*CK IN MY CAR! NOW!" His cry was desperate and pained, his teeth gritted. He needed a drink, and badly.


*I can feel your heart, Noir. Can you feel mine?


**"Where the fuck have you been?" His father growled, mouth twisted into a snarl.


"Where the fuck does it look like I was?" Damien mocked, rolling his eyes as he Lifted up His saddle for emphasis. The older man Took a deep breath and ground his teeth.


"Do not be a smart ass. I texting you, looking for you. We were supposed to have dinner tonight."


"Kate was cooking. Honestly you expect me to show up for it?"


"Yes. I expect you to show respect to her as you show me."


"Fine, I'm sorry. Is there still dinner?"


"No, just the dessert. But you have to come anyway. We have something to tell you."


"Do not tell me you're renewing your vows as is fashionable for Americans."


*** "Damien, be mature for once."
 
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Rain. Why did it always have to be rain. It was wet and cold. It was the cause of rot and death. A synonym for f*cking rain might as well be decay, or destruction, take your pick. And it never seemed to stop at just a drizzle, oh no, it was never just a drizzle. It always ended with a flood with bloated bodies floating along as their prisoners, no, not prisoners, the rain didn't take prisoners, this Gene knew for sure. It only offered oblivion, but not a soft and easy dreamless one, only a clawing, gasping, choking death where you where met with the dark face of its abyss.


For days the rain pitter-pattered the make shift roof of his hovel. Endless drops that pinged against the wood over and over and over again until the Cajun was numbed to the bone. Eyes glazed over as he was brought back to a different place and a different time. The drops turned into screams and crying for loved ones, for food, for safety. None came, just the pitter-patter of rain, a constant symphony or cacophony or companion to the thousands of lost souls in the heart of New Orleans.


For days now, he couldn't find it in himself to move from his balled up position. He was safe in his space. He still had a mother in his space. He still had his sanity, or what was left of it in his space. Though 'space' was a relative term in his mind. His space now included a deep lilting french accent of his friend Damien, and the calm presence of Peter, and the flaming red hair and clammy cold hands of one Merriell. Though suffice to say it is weak that he couldn't find the strength to take those first steps out into the down pour in search for the new found safety his friends instilled him. He'd rather just sit and smoke through the cigarettes that have amounted in the small home in the lumberyard. Chain smoking was about the only hobby he has taken up in his short life other than Merriell watching.


What is one suppose to do when left on the streets of the red light district tha still layed in ruins after Katrina? When everyone knew and feared the last name Shelton? 'Did you hear Shelton got himself arrested for burglary!?' He was hungry. 'Did you hear, Shelton sleeps in the swamps with the gators!? I heard he was even raised by them!' His usual spot was taken by a different hobo. 'I heard that Eugene Shelton killed a man!' He was dead when I got there. 'During Katrine I heard that he was left in a room with a few dead bodies. They didn't find him and bring him to the super dome until a week after the storm hit!' That part was true. Every time he closed his eyes, their faces, cold, clammy, wet faces with their stringy hair and water logged bodies, and cold hard stare greeted him with open arms asking him to join them, until they all morphed into similar smiling faces. All with dark curly hair like how own. Large owl like eyes that never settled on any one color like his own. Tanned skin and high cheekbones like his own. 'Venez avec maman mon garçon chér, viens avec moi.*' She would whisper and each time she appeared to him from her watery grave a little bit of him broke inside. It wouldn't be long until he was hollow.


Bruised eyes blinked for what seemed like the first time in ages as his name was called from the distance. For a moment he could almost imagine that it was his mother finally coming to take him home, his worst nightmares now once more a reality, until the dark brooding voice echoed again. 'Is that Damien?' The Cajun asked himself as he squinted through the sheets of rain towards a familiar one of a kind white car.


In a blind trance, Gene crawled out from his hidey-hole. His numb body didn't register his drenched clothes as he straightened himself out. His cigarette that had been dangling half way out his mouth was stubbed out in a spark and flash leaving curling smoke in its wake.


"Wha' cha' doin' here fo', Damien?" Gene asked quietly as he slid his wet body into the passenger side the frenchmen's car, his body squeaking against the leather seats. The hair on his arms stood on end as he felt his friends gaze on him. He knew how he looked. Thinner than he had in months, a large smear of caked on mud against his cheek, purple eyes and drooping cig falling out the side of his chapped lips.


Slow eyes finally met that of Damien's and was quickly taken aback. The sparkle of light that's as once taken home in his friend's eye was no where to be found. Instead anguish had taken up residence. "Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?**?" Gene growled, nostrils flaring as his mind instantly flashing with images of his friend's selfish father.


Come with mommy my darling boy, come with me.*


What the hell happened?**
 
The skin across Damien's knuckles were stretched and white as he gripped the steering wheel of his car tightly, his whole body tensed and impatient. He felt constantly on the verge of breaking down and melting into himself, pulling himself down into a pit of deep sadness and writing turmoil. What would it take for his father to stop tormenting him, to stop shaking everything that was static about his life and jumbling it around until it was one big sloppy mess? How beaten and broken and hurt did he have to be until is father realized that he'd pushed him too far? There was nothing left for him to lose anymore. His father had found a replacement for him too. How foolish he had been to think that he would always have his father to some degree or another, that the two of them had formed some bond in blood when his mother abandoned them and left them hurting and alone. No, from the moment that his mother died, there had been no father and son; there had been Francis who was obligated to share his misery with a shadow of his child. He had not had the decency to recognize that after Damien had lost his mother that he had needed to have some sort of stability, and that in his moment of utter agony he needed to have the undivided attention of the one remaining parent he had left so that he had someone who would tuck him into bed and lull him to sleep as the face of his dead mother swam before his closed eyelids. But instead his father had retreated from the situation and had gone to find solace in the form of a young woman. Damien had been abandoned by both of his parents.


The familiar face of one Gene Shelton brought his eyes up from the dash. He relaxed slightly, adopting a more defeated and hunched stance over the steering wheel as he looked with utter helplessness at his friend. The sight of Gene brought to him light that it was not just him who was having a hard time. The other teenager was gaunt and almost shriveled-looking, everything about him seeming to wilt. The body that held those big owl-eyes was wiry and thin, bones protruding through the clothing. And that instant Damien felt extreme guilt. Guilt for thinking that he had it that bad, for getting Gene out here just because of what he was going through. Guilt because he had felt like he had gone through the worst pain imaginable, and yet here before him was living proof that he hadn't. For a moment he turned away before he looked back at his friend who now sat in the car with eyes barely concealing their accusations towards his father. And how well Gene knew him. No one could be more right about the source of the problem, could read him so clearly and understand that he wasn't just being an attention wh*re. They were two brothers under the blood of dead mothers.


"She is- Kate is pregnant, Gene," He finally snapped, his voice catching in his throat. He swallowed hard before he continued. "Mon père l'a baisée et elle est tombée enceinte et ils veulent le garder. Il ne se soucie pas de moi plus longtemps. Je peux le voir dans ses yeux, Gene. Il me regarde et me déteste juste. Et maintenant, mon destin, tout J'ai connu, sera partagé avec un autre. j'ai finalement tout perdu."* The normally calm cool and collected boy was seemingly shaking all over, his previous tense stance once more adopted as he stared ahead down the road. Talking about it again made him angry and fueled him with rage that bubbled through his veins and colored his vision red. He clenched his jaw and shook his head, his mouth turning up in disgust. "I am so very done with today. We are going to go to a bar. Take my phone and text Peter to meet us there. I will drive to pick up Merriell and then we will go downtown." He tossed his phone in Gene's direction before he pushed down the gas pedal and pulled away from the lumberyard, his white car silent in the night as it sped towards the more rural house of Merriell.


*"My father f*cked her and she got pregnant and they want to keep it. He does not care about me any longer. I can see it in his eyes, Gene. He looks at me and just hates me. And now my destiny, all I have known, will be shared with another. I have finally lost everything."
 
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It is said that is better to have loved and lost than to never love at all, but looking at Damien now Gene wasn't so sure. All his life he wanted for naught, and it's only because he didn't have anything to begin with. You never missed what you never knew, right? Gene always confused proverbs like he confused letters. But to have everything, a life, a future, a purpose, torn from your very essence was unthinkable. Life was a cruel and painful mistress that Gene could and would never comprehend.


"Il n'y a pas de mots mon ami.*" the Cajun mumbled as his free hand not holding Damien's phone rolled down the window. With a careless floppy gesture Gene flicked his wet cigarette into the passing scenery. Rain flecked into his face as he hastened to roll the window back up. With skeletal fingers he thumbed open his friends smart phone with a frown. 'When did phones get so many buttons?' Gene sighed as he pressed what he believed was a mail icon while his other hand rubbed at his forehead. All this movement was causing a headache to form right over his left eye.


'Maet me et tha dar.' stared up at Gene in tiny glowing letters. It looked right to him. He slowly mouthed the words as they appeared on the screen just to be sure. With a shrug he hit the 'senb' button and hoped he at least had the common sense to send it to the correct person or this 'Petre' person is going to be severely confused.


"Je souhaite que je pourrais vous dire la vie va mieux, mais il ne fonctionne pas. Il n'a pas.**" with that said Gene lit up another smoke and passed it to Damien along with his phone. It was surprising that despite all the pain and suffering people have suffered that they just didn't just give up. What makes living day to day worth it? To get up in the morning and smile? It made the Cajun feel physically ill. "Dis' is da' perfect day to get sloshed mah' friend."


The scenery change to the of low hanging trees with heavy branches that swayed ominously as the car bounced on a hard gravel entrance. It was as if they entered a different time in general. The house was a large white plantation home with sprawling landscape that was natural and yet clean and organized. It spoke volumes of its inhabitants that occupied it's land. Aloof and distant. 'This is where Merriell lives? There is no warmth, or his sense of adventure, or his kindness.' It made the rain seem almost welcoming in comparison.


There are no words my friend.*


I wish I could tell you life gets better, but it doesn't. It hasn't.**
 
Il n'y a pas de mots mon ami.


And how true that was. The words to express how Damien felt right now were not present in his vocabulary, in either French or English. There was a pounding wave of sickness that rolled in and out of him like a wave, and a deep anger that simmered just below the surface. He felt like he'd lost his footing, like some deep rumbling earthquake had brought all that he had known to shambles all around him, and most of all he felt a deep emptiness in his chest, hollow and hurting. He wanted to kill something in the same instance he wanted to cling to it for comfort. He wanted to curl into a ball in the same instance as he wanted to stretch out all of his limbs and expire his energy.


"Ce n'est qu'une question de temps avant que je imploser et tuer moi-même ou exploser et tuer tout le monde autour de moi," he whispered, taking the cigarette from Gene and clenching it between his teeth, inhaling long and hard. He understood why Gene smoked now. There was a certain degree of release one could get by breathing in that vile smoke and exhaling it a soft white cloud. One hand rolled down the window and held the cigarette outside his car. He'd have to get the interior cleaned now; he didn't want to have the stink of this night forever in his nostrils.


The car pulled onto a long gravel driveway that was overshadowed by a large white building, all old southern class as it loomed over them. It was so unlike Merriell in the way that it seemed to be like a cage. A cage for the boy that just longed to be free like the birds. He pulled closer to the house and stopped his car, half pausing before he got out and stood in front of the grand building. He half expected to see black slaves scurrying about behind the windows, caught back in a time when they had no rights just in this little segment of the world. The light drizzle of rain didn't bother him for once as he walked slowly up to the door, his eyes searching for a doorbell. When they found none, he reached for the knocker and rapped on it loudly. If he wasn't awake before, now he was. Along with his parents, too. For a moment he looked down at himself and though he wore nice clothes they were crinkled and disorderly. He could only imagine he looked disheveled, and for once, he really didn't care. He was a human being, and sometimes humans looked like sh*t. And if he didn't have a right to look like sh*t right now, he didn't know who did.

~~~*~~~

​



Peter was curled up on the couch next to her brother when she became vaguely aware that her phone was buzzing. She looked over at it sitting up there on the counter and rolled her eyes as she jumped over the back of the couch to get at it. There the damned brick sat, its screen still on even after the buzz had ended, notifying her of one new message from none other than Damien. What on earth could he want now? She unlocked her phone and looked at the message, one brow raising in amusement. It wasn't even coming close to being understandable. Damien never texted like this which probably meant that he was with someone and they had his phone. The only person she could think of him being with was Gene. Brilliant. She stared hard at the message for awhile, trying to decipher it.


"Peter, d'you want the movie paused?" her brother called, and she shook her head in response. The movie started playing again in the background and he turned back to watch it. After a few moments she thought she understood what was being asked of her. Meet at the bar. Gene had completely butchered the sentence, but maybe if he was drunk that was understandable. Also he didn't have much experience with phones.


"Hey, I'm gonna be out for a bit. Maybe the whole night, I don't know. I'll catch you tomorrow," she called, the response to which was a grunt, and she took her leave.
 
Gene furrowed his brows as he watched smoke emit from his friends mouth. The wisp that curled about in the air as if dancing brought up a memory from long ago. Damien's face morphed, his shapely eyes shrinking, his nose sharpening and crooking to the left from being broken but reset improperly. Mouth thinning. Cheeks gaunt. Hair long and hanging in greasy strands. It was the face of his childhood lover, Levi. It was his first kiss. His first cigarette. He could see the older man of 22 leaning against the hard brick of 32nd street, white fingers clutching a white cig, their colors almost synonymous in appearance. At 15 Gene was lost and sad and hungry, and Levi offered comfort and escape. Many summer days were spent in the sweaty and sticky embrace of Levi trading his body and dignity for a dry place to sleep and a cigarette. It became his way of life. Who needed food or emotions when release was just one light away?


When the door opened to his left, Gene shook himself from his past and slid out the right one with a wet squelching sound. His frayed cuffed jeans were weighed down with water and dragged through the dirt and grit as he slowly trailed after the Frenchmen, hands deep in his pocket, and bony shoulders hunched as if he could make himself into a human umbrella to protect himself from the rain that drizzled into his coarse curls.


His body clenched as Damien knocked on the door. 'I know what his parents will think of me. I know how angry they will be to see me haunting their doorstep. Mer is too good for me.' Gene thought to himself as he leaned against the columns that lined the front door and supported the front porch roof.


The door slowly opened to reveal an older blonde lady in a maids uniform, eyes steely as she took in the appearance of the two teens. "Hello sirs, may I ask your business here at the Leydon household?" she asked, lips pursed in distaste.


"We ah' here fo' Merriell." Gene mumbled from his place far from the door as he turned his gaze towards the rain, his body following as he tried to distant himself from this house and situation.


"Leanne who is at the door?" A prim voice called from deep within the house.


~.~.~


It has been four days since he laid eyes on his Cajun. He missed that slow drawl and wide unblinking eyes that never seemed to settle on green or silver, always a mix of the two. In a month of knowing each other they had developed into a...something. In fact he would go so far as to say they were a couple, though nothing was labeled. Rough callused hands would hold his soft ones as the curly haired teen walked him to and from class, his satchel slung across Gene's rail thin body. Soft kisses were pressed to the top of his head, nose nuzzled into his neck when they sat next to each other, the word 'cher' whispered into his freckled ear.


Merriell released a long sigh as he stretched from his seated position on his bed. He placed his sketch book down, his heart no longer in his work, and laid his head onto his drawn up knees, the twill scratching his face. It had been a lonely week. Even Damien and Peter were quiet without the Cajun bringing his usual presence and unpredictability to the group.


The red head startled as his mother's screeching voice reached his ears. 'What could she possibly be yelling about now?'


Merriell slowly lifted himself from his bed and headed out the door. As he walked down the hallway he moved in a seamless zig zag pattern, avoiding the groves and holes in the dark hard wood floor before finally reaching the stairs that lay in front of the front door.


"You hoodlums need to leave my property this instance! You are no friends of my dear Merriell!" Mrs. Leydon cried, her finger shaking in front of her outstretched hand.


'Is that-no it couldn't be!' Merriell thought to himself as he struggle his way down the stairs, his tank clutched tightly in front of him with both hands.


He spotted his mother, hair artfully put up on top her head wearing her favorite purple dress that fell past the bottom of her calf, and cheeks a flame with anger. "Mama, please, they are my friends!" Merriell rasped, his breathe heavy from exertion.
 
The first woman who came to the door had her mouth set in a tight disapproving frown, her eyes with a harsh critical gaze. Her hair was pulled tightly behind her, her body covered in a stiff maid's uniform. She was quickly replaced by another woman, this one clearly the queen of the house. She held herself upright properly, her shoulders back and her chin slightly upright as if she was looking down on them. She was dressed in a classy purple dress and her hair was still done up nicely even this late in the day. Damien had to give her some respect. She had a very nice household and had raised her son well, though he was arguably sheltered too much. The woman had a certain air to her of an upper class woman who knew this and looked down upon those of lower standings. He did not appreciate the fact that she now was looking down on him as such, given that she didn't even come close to his level.


Perhaps on a better day he would have reacted politely to her. On a better day he would have smiled and reasoned with her, but today was not a better day. Today was a bad day, and he could care less if he was polite enough for her. He just about had enough of people f*cking with him today, and that would stop right here with this portly little southern woman who had the audacity to try and determine who her son's friends were. Damien smiled in a way that seemed more like he was baring his teeth, and he planted his left foot firmly in the doorway, stepping forward and nodding at the woman.


"Listen to him. We are his friends and now we are going out. We want to get off of your property just as much as you want us off of it. But we will not leave without him," he hissed, his eyes narrowed as he drew himself up to look down on her, his lips curled back with arrogance. "And do not call me a 'hoodlum' again. Stop looking at my friend and me like we are beneath you. Why do you think Merriell is better off with you than us? At least we try to let him experience thing and live his life. That is more than you can say you ever gave him."
 
Gene had only ever seen Mrs. Leydon from a distance. She always looked like the proper southern lady Mer always described. Hair tied back to keep soft curls away from her perfectly maid up face. Dresses always long and billowing in bright colors, be speckled with flowers or polka dots. His eyes found their way past the head of the red faced mother to stare at the overly decorated front room. It was lifeless and void of personality. A personifed and glorified gilded cage that housed such a wonderful and free human being. How could someone so pure be raised by this horrid woman?


The Cajun shifted about uncomfortably, his hands scratching at his exposed arms, while his eyes were aflame with anger. His trade mark smirk and wide eyed stare directed itself back to Mrs. Leydon as she huffed about, clearly at a loss for words at Damien's words.


"Well I never have been thus treated in my life!" Merriell's mother cried as she recoiled back from the door, bumping into Mer in the process, "Get out of here this instance. I'll call the cops!"


"Mmm, boo, please. I welcome dat' idea. Me an' dem' cops ah' good friends." Gene drawled as he drew himself to his full height, fists clenched at his side as he slowly stalked forward towards the door. He watched as the red head maneuvere around his mother as quietly as possible, his feet just passing the threshold, tank secure in his arms, before being yanked back by the firm arm of his mother.


Gene saw red, his nostrils flaring as he gently pushed by Damien. With steely eyes he pried of the screeching woman's arm and ushered the stricken looking Merriell behind Damien. "Don't touch him like dat'." He growled, watching as Mrs. Leydon curled into herself, eyes wide and fearful.


"How dare you touch me, you heathen!" She screamed as she ran her hands down her arms as if trying to erase Gene's dirty touch, "Dear! Come to the door quickly!"


"Get ta' the damn car cher." The Cajun mumbled, turning away from the door and grabbing at the red head's air tank before walking back into the down pour with a shudder, the chill sinking back into his anger heated skin.


~.~.~


"Mama please listen to him! You can't shield me from the world for forever. And these are the best people I have ever known. They like me for me!" Merriell shouted, his breathing harsh as he tried to still his beating heart, "You always told me to never judge a book by its cover, and treat everyone like equals, but you don't mean that do you! You never meant it. It's only ok if they have money right? It's only ok if they have the right connections? It's only ok if they are normal and don't like other boys right!?" His voice ending in a whisper as he clenched his watery eyes shut. That was the first time he ever mentioned that he was a homosexual. The first time he addressed the issue out loud. It wasn't bad enough that he was a sickly thing, but was a sinner too.


He wouldn't allow his mother to push him around any longer. He deserved freedom. He deserved love. He deserved to live. Merriell gathered up his courage and meandered around his flabergasted mother towards the door, towards a new life, before a brushing grip clamped around his lower arm.


The red head floundered about, trying to shake off his mother's hand, but risked dropping his tank in the process. Panic filled his gut like a lead weight as he tried sucking in air through his constricted throat, until the soothing sound of Gene's voice rushed over him like a ray of sunshine.


His body moved on autopilot, guided only by the cajun's strong words as he trudged through the rain dutifully behind him, his mother's call for his father obscured by the rain.
 
Damien's mouth was pressed into broad grin as he watched the older woman flounder for words, finally questioned and talked down to for probably the first time in a long while. And it made her angry. He could see that. She didn't want to be told no, or to have her beliefs and values contradicted. She wanted things her way, and she wanted them like that now. Though she was dressed like a proper southern woman, she was nothing but a scared little child, scared to let her son fly free into the world save he found something he liked and left her, scared to have her son love someone else just because that love made no sense to her. In this moment he found her an utterly despicable and sad woman.


"You disgust me. You think you are better than that boy there? That 'mongrel'? He has more of a heart than you do. As you care so much about money and political standing, you should know I have more of both than you could ever dream. I am Damien Jean-Louis Babineaux, heir to Eclat. To tell you what I think of you, perhaps a french phrase is best. Amene ta mere pourque je te refasse. It means bring me your mother so that I can stuff you back up her. You are a sad, lonely and bigoted woman, and I feel for Merriell because for so long has he had to live with you," he snarled, turning on his heel and stormed back to his car. He stuck the keys in the ignition and the car turned on, headlights bright against the dark dank night. He did not look back to see her expression or to try and gauge how she felt. He did not care if she called the police, because it wasn't a kidnapping. Damien had not held the boy against his will. He could not say as much for Merriell's mother.


Damien slammed the door behind him and shook his head, his jaw tightly clenched and his eyebrows knit. Honestly, he probably wasn't in a good mental state to drive. Completely disregarding that, he pressed forward on the gas pedal and the car pulled forward and out of the driveway, away from that white house on the hill. Away from that cage. It soared down the road, silent save for the harsh patter of rain as it slammed on the windshield.


The bar was rustic and charming, frequented by both young and old souls alike, though the clientele was predominantly male. It was not the kind of bar people went to in order to hook up with one another. There was no dancing here, though music played. Most people were either sipping hard liquor at the bar or playing pool towards the back. This was not the kind of place that Damien would often be found in, but it had been introduced to the group by Peter. It was easy to picture the male here, all calm dismissive stares in his black leather jacket, hair wild from riding his bike. He'd introduced it to them because they had needed a place to hang out and get a drink, and the owner was just cheap enough that Damien could bribe him to sell them alcohol with just a few bills. And here the aforementioned teenager was, leaning up against the outer wall of the business right beside the door, looking towards the white car impassively.


"Peter," Damien acknowledged with a curt nod, stepping out of the vehicle.


"What's going on?" Peter asked, raising a brow.


"So very very much."
 
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Though the cajun was still weighed down by the water that fell in turrets about their merry group, he felt as if he could breathe for the first time in such a long time. Maybe that is what people meant when they said water was a cleanse, a rebirth if you will. Washed away now was all the anger and stress and fear until all that was left was white. Gene snuggled deeply into the warmed leather seat under him, Merriell's comforting weight on his lap grounding him. He kept his fidgeting fingers still on Mer's protruding hipbones, rubbing gently in soothing circles. 'Man, I could deal with a cigarette after that...' Gene sighed as he closed his purpled eye lids, regretting the action instantly when his light head rushed back leaving him shaky and tired.


Familiar lights and sounds greeted his ears alerting him that they had reached their destination. 'Ka-bar's' was a quiet little haven stuck in between large buildings leaving the bar almost completely obscured and overlooked. A tiny little hole in the wall that was only distinguished as not abandoned by the red neon light proclaiming it's name to the public. It was furnished almost entirely by wood, complete with mismatched stools lining a hard grained wooden bar of dark red wood. It's loyal patrons were mostly the working class escaping their lives and nagging wives who waited at home for them in the small neighborhood just out side of the town's limits, and the occasional war veteran.


Gene ushered the red head off his lap before sliding out himself into the now light drizzle. He gave a quick nod towards Peter before gesturing Merriell to proceed into the bar ahead of him before sauntering over towards the dirty exterior of the bar, lighting up a cigarette as he went. "I'll see ya' in there Damien."


~.~.~


Merriell hesitantly followed Gene's orders and headed into the dingy bar, hot on Damien's heels. He gave a weak smile and a small wave in Peter's direction before walking past the threshold of the bar. The first thing he noticed was the smell. Never in his short life has he smelled something quiet so foul, with notes of sour sweat, and the sharp tang of what he believed to be vomit. 'This is not what I was expecting for my first bar.' he thought to himself as he dragged his tank towards the bar. Once seated as best as he could, he let his eyes wonder about the facility and patrons, noting the loud game of pool off in the corner.


His gaze finally landed on Damien. The strong confident young man he grew to know was withered and hunched in the dark lights of the bar, almost as if he had been hollowed out from the inside, leaving just a shell. "Are you all right there Damien? I want to thank you for sticking up for me back there." Merriell muttered as his fingers fiddled with his breathing tube.
 
"It was no problem. Your mother deserved it," Damien grumbled, dipping his head towards Merriell and seating himself on a bar stool, hunching over the counter. He was a sad sight, his nice clothes soaked with rain, his form curled over itself, only propped up by his elbows. His once proud head hung down on his neck, defeated and angry, shoulders tense as if they bore the weight of the world. And yet he knew he sat next to people who had it far worse. Merriell, whose life expectancy was frighteningly short. Gene, who had absolutely nothing and no one. Peter was honestly the only one who seemed like he had his life in check.


"Bartender, something strong. As strong as possible, s'il vous plaît," called Damien, his blue eyes cold as they stared up at the forty-something year old man. There was an amused expression on the man's grizzled face for a moment before he turned around and placing two shots of alcohol on the wooden surface, his hand still lingering on the glass.


"It's Everclear, son. This'll getcha wasted in no time. I don't mind you all gettin' drunk in here so long as we don't have anything of mine broken, clear?" The man's brown eyes searched that of the frenchman's before letting go of the glasses and moving over towards Merriell.


"Wait- one thing, Bartender. Make sure my friend, the skinny one, gets some food."


"Alright. And it's Craig, son."


Damien nodded to the man and took one of the shot glasses, turning it and looking at it curiously. It was clear and when he smelled it it didn't appear to have too strong a scent though it faintly reminded him of rubbing alcohol. He tipped it back into his mouth and swallowed it quickly, gagging as he did so. It tore through his insides, tasting like cheap vodka but stronger, and he could feel his stomach tighten in revulsion. He nearly puked then and there but the pain that already seared up his throat stopped him from doing so. He felt like he'd swallowed a cheese grater or something similarly as awful. Craig took one look at him and laughed, disappearing back behind the bar and bringing out a juice box tauntingly.


"Figured you'd have a reaction somethin' like that. Put some of this in the other one and swallow it. Juice milds it."


Damien gritted his teeth and faced the second shot, slightly wary and more than a little humiliated as he poked a hole in the juice box and squeezed some of the liquid into the glass until the fluid mixture reached the rim. There wasn't much of the flavoring in there, but as he recalled, it didn't exactly taste like much anyway. The frenchman rolled his eyes at himself and brought the drink to his lips, furrowing his brow and closing his eyes before finally tilting it back. This time he didn't allow himself time to taste it, he just downed it as fast as he could. Even so, he found himself in a fit of coughing, his nose wrinkling in disgust. His insides felt dead.


"Two more."


"No, buddy. That's enough for now. Give yourself a little break."


"F*ck you," he mumbled, putting his head on the counter, a slight fuzzy feeling starting to work though his body.


"I'm not sayin' you're done for the night, but I don't want you puking everywhere, okay?"

~~~*~~~

​



The gaunt form of Gene was worrisome, and Peter's brows knit together as she looked him up and down. His frame was not just lean but verging on skeletal, his clothes baggier than normal. Those big eyes of his were big against dark tan sockets, and she felt the desire to go and force feed him food. If only the guy would take charity. She walked into the bar and sat down on the side of Merriell that wasn't already taken by Damien, looking back at Gene with a slightly worried glance.


"You don't look so hot," she started, and glanced at the group as a whole before looking back up to Gene. "I mean, none of you really do, but Damien seems just f*cked up in the head. You're goddamn skin and bones, even for you. What happened?" Peter asked sharply, narrowing her eyes.


"Do you want a drink?" the bartender asked quietly, interrupting her.


"Get me a flying dog IPA, Craig, I don't care which. I don't plan on getting drunk. I'll probably have to wind up figuring out how to get them all home."


"Lettin' them look stupid while you're sober?"


"Something like that."
 
'I don't think I can face him. Them...' Gene sighed, smoke escaping slowly from chapped lips as he used his free hand to rub at his tired eyes. He was too weak, too tired, too everything. His humanity has fallen too far into the border line insane black area instead of society's usual grey that was deemed acceptable. The Cajun had no words of comfort to offer his very first friend, his brother, comrade in arms against the deprived beings that inhabited the world. What do you say to someone whose world was crashing around them? No one said anything to him when his world was lost in a flood. There was barely enough time to grief for those who were lost. "Si je le pouvais, je voudrais prendre ta douleur mon ami. Vous ne méritez pas, je le fais.*" he murmured as his spindly fingers crushed his smoking bud against the rough brick exterior of the bar before sauntering back towards the front door, hands deep in his pockets and head hung low.


Mer on the other hand. Gene wasn't worthy of someone so pure. Someone who has lived in the white scale their entire life. The epitome of goodness. Here he was sullying the poor boy. He yanked him around by the hand everywhere he went without thought to how the red head felt about his dirty calloused hands on his own white unblemished skin. He told himself it's because he didn't want him getting hurt. He pressed his nose to the back of his neck and collar to sniff the wonderful smell that was purely Merriell when he thought he wasn't paying attention. He told himself it was a calming mechanism during the school day. He kissed his head when Mer fell asleep on his bony shoulder when the group lazed about in the sun and the boy was too drained from walking about the hallways of their school. He told himself it was so he would have good dreams. In truth it was because he was creepy and intense. Insane.


His wide silver eyes took in the bar in its entirety. A few working class men drowning their sorrows in pint glasses at the bar. A couple of bikers playing pool in the corner. A war veteran snuggled into a dark corner of one of the only available tables the bar offered. And there in all their sad glory was his band of misfits, and one of them was already three sheets to the wind, and rightly so.


He took his seat next to Merriell, a frail looking shield against the other patrons. Surprisingly enough, the pale blue looking boy was sipping a beer.


"I don't need anything tonight barkeep." The Cajun slurred as he placed his head on a hand, his head light and heavy at the same time.


If I could I would take away your pain my friend. You don't deserve it, I do.*


~.~.~


"Talk to me Damien. You just stood up for me and provided me with an out, now let me offer you the same in kind." Merriell smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.


He watched as the Frenchmen tossed back two shots of what appeared to be water. "Sir, may I-uh, may I have a beer please." The red head mumbled as his gaze fell onto the scuffed bar top, his cheeks flushed in embaressment.


Truth be told he was envious of Damien. So suave and wordly. Tossing back liquor as if he were born doing it. Even in his rumbled clothes he looked refined. Hunched shoulders and worn face spoke of a story to be told. Him on the other hand...he looked like death walking, as if a neon sign was posted above his head that read, 'Virgin. Caged. Dead. A literal nobody'. He wasn't even worth the time for Gene to kiss him on the lips instead of the head. How is that anyway to treat a...boyfriend? They were dating right? Maybe he was reading too much into things. Maybe the Cajun would be better suited with someone who was cool, and reckless. Someone like Peter. Not someone who wears sweater vests.


A beer was placed in front of him with a slight clang. With bated breath, he took a swig. And promptly coughed it up as it burned his throat. 'How do people drink this??'
 
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