le mouton noir

❝He imagines an eagle followed by the sun who follows a dying star and says "This is how I live" He imagines a canary killed by the hands that soothes it and says "This is how I am loved"❞ Charlie Valentin Delacroix. Twenty-four. Babineux. Cafe de la Paix.

[ofnikkcs]

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i want to walk down the aisle to this

[charlievalentin]

—RAPHAEL & charlie,

raphael had only been back in champigné for a day, & already it was a complicated balancing act, dealing with moving in & his family’s affection & high society’s watchful eyes & the memories that seemed to lurk everywhere. he had slipped away from his sisters & had almost automatically found his way to the cafe, a tired, genuine smile finding its way onto his face when he saw the sign still at ‘open.’

he stepped inside, scanning the area & arching an eyebrow as he notice the shut - down state of the place, chairs put away & machines shut down. finally, his eyes landed on the boy in the back, smile growing more as he nodded in response to his offer of croissants.

“ oh, i’d love to. & i’m sorry for barging in here this late. ”

                        “You have done no ‘barging’, my man,” Charlie affirmed, sunlit grin bouncing off the sincerity of the gentleman’s own, yet the jitters from the 'protection’ he was about to draw had his eyes cagey, “I am the space cadet who cannot seem to flip a sign,” A moment later and his long legs were bent in a crouch, fixing a second bag macarons, when his eyes found the man through the glass, “Hey, uh... sit, if you don’t mind me closing around you,” He said, rising again, sliding the pastry bags over the counter, “If you have no where else to be. I’m in no rush to kick you out,” The boy nodded toward a barstool gone unflipped, wiping the crumbs from his hands on a tea towel, “Just, don’t ask me to make you a café crème. That is where I draw the line.”

[charlievalentin]

—ANNALISE & charlie,

anna’s smile had become slightly more real, slightly less forced at the sight of her nephew - he was family, after all, & she loved him as she did every delacroix. ( well, for the most part. there were some who she did not get along with exceptionally well, but one couldn’t expect constant harmony in a family such as theirs. the disconnect, the arguments when they happened, had only become more clear to her since her twin - since she - she did not quite have the words for it, but the meaning was clear in her mind. )

using a finger to keep her place, she held up the book, front cover facing towards charlie. “ the picture of dorian gray, ” she said smoothly. “ wilde has always had a way with words that i admire . ” placing her book back onto her lap & making sure that she wouldn’t lose her spot, she returned her attention to him, studying him with carefully guarded concern. she didn’t see him often, & he had never been as … much of a natural fit in the mafia as the rest, which she could slightly understand, though he had seemed to find his place. still, every once in awhile, it was possible that she might have worried.

“ how have you been? ”

                          It was funny. A shift in an expression, a mitigation in poise, and a touch of something warm in her eyes, could all have him melting into more of an ease. As if what he knew then was now eclipsed by the knowing now. For this moment, just the two of them, she wasn’t a woman with a killer’s marrow, like his uncle, his father, and the rest of them–– she was just his Aunt Anna, speaking to him about the books she loved and the authors who wrote them, as the boy hung off every word. That was the thing about the gardens of Bois de Rose: everything was muddled in rose-coloured hue of what was, and the horrors of today were so easily pressed to pause.

           “––‘The books that the world calls immoral are the books that show the world its own shame’,” Charlie quoted Wilde, the infamous line a double-edged sword as it left the full of a mouth, “When I was seventeen I found a first edition somewhere in Vieux Champigné. Been with me every since,” A closed mouth, crooked half smile found his lips as his eyes cast down, Chelsea boots kicking lightly at the cobblestone beneath them. There was window then, to excuse himself, save himself from melting wax any longer, but it wasn’t snatched in time–– he was asked how he was, and there was a pang in his chest. Be honest, whispered one thought. Without giving too much, hushed another.

           “You know. Alright,” He swallowed, levelling eye contact a moment, “A bit on edge, but that seems to run in the family,” A soft simper left him, before brown eyes rose to meet the blue of his aunt’s, “How are–... What about you?”

[charlievalentin]

location: café de paix. open to all.

                    As golden hour bled to welcome the hug of dusk, Café de la Paix was on its way to closing with it–– espresso machines off and cleaned, tables wiped, chairs put up. It was only Charlie in the scape of the café, autopilot turned on and brown eyes aglaze, ‘lost somewhere on a different plain’, as his mother would call it. He was too in depth in his reverie and bagging day old croissants to notice he had forgotten to flip laminated from ‘open’ to ‘close’, nor the body approaching the door. It took the bell chime, and the shuffling of footsteps to drudge him out, and with a jump, he straightened to his tower, one hand gripping a full pastry bag, as the other reached for something strapped against his back. The boy got his wits about him, before he could grab it, “Pardon,” He cleared his throat, offering an apologetic simper, “We’re closed,” But, with slow heed, he let his hip rest on the oak counter in a silent, relaxed beckon forward, “... Would you help me get rid of these croissants? I don’t think I have the heart to thrown them away.”

[charlievalentin]

—ANNALISE & charlie,

open to any delacroix / babineaux

annalise did not brood, no matter what anyone said. she simply thought about things, contemplated business, & recently her thoughts had been less - than - pleasant. all of the chaos, the rumors surrounding the monette murder was still a source of stress, & so her slight frown was more than understandable as she sat in one of the gardens at bois de rose, book open before her & mostly forgotten.

she was only snapped out of her reverie by approaching footsteps, & she was quick to look more alert & relaxed, though some of the frustration was still clear in her eyes. fixing a pleasant smile into place & brushing a rebellious curl off of her face, she looked over at her newly - arrived, only slightly unwelcome company.

“ hello there. “

                         The viridescent aisles of Bois de Rose were known to him like the sinews on the back of his hand–– known in marrow, every crevice, every row. Though adulthood's cognizance of the sin behind the angelic had any homecomings far and few between, rose coloured glasses always seemed to fog his vision whenever he returned: him and his brothers running through rose bushes, a game of cat and mouse ensued, gleeful innocence guising the irony behind it all. Now, the truth weighed heavily on his visits, as it did on his conscience. There were no roses here. Only thorns.

           Rounding a bend that finally put his parents manor in view, Charles sucked in a breath between ivories when one of those thorns came into view. Golden like the rest of his family, Annalise sat perched, book in hand, carved like a statue among florets. The boy of raven hair startled, slowed, and hoped his misplaced alarm fear went unnoticed, “Tante,” He greeted, softly, only managing eye contact for a moment before it fell to his boots–– all he could see when he looked at her now, was his uncle, “I did not see you there,” Hands found denim pockets before he spared a nod toward her book, his tender nature eclipsing the desire to flee “... What is it you’re reading?”

[charlievalentin]

—GISELLE & charlie,

WHERE: Mode Intrépide in Centre Ville WHEN: Thursday October 3rd, 2019 — 6:30pm WHO: Open to all

One of the things Giselle missed the most about her days living in Paris was all the spectacular shopping locations it had to offer, walking down Avenue Montaigne was what she imagined heaven to be like, and the blonde knew she’d never really run out of places to go. Although life back in her small city was very different she knew that with a little help from her mother’s connection she could make herself feel as though she were back on Montaigne.  Even if she’d never left her mother’s shop at all.

Her mother had sent away for various items and had them delivered to the store so the dancer might get to take a look at the newest pieces and do a little shopping of her own. Unfortunately, Giselle knew there was a price to pay for her mother’s generosity. In truth, the price is small, but for the blonde it’s the thing she detests most. Closing up the shop while her mother attends her High Council meeting.

She stood in front of one of the floor-length mirrors one of the new Dior dresses held carefully in her manicured grip as she tried to imagine how it might look on her. There was a big event coming up and Giselle had ever intention of being clad in only the newest of collections. And despite how much she adored the pieces in her mother’s store, Mode Intrépide, she simply couldn’t be caught dead in any of it as who knows how many others would be wearing the same thing. 

The sound of the front door opening pulled her out of her own reverie and she quickly returned the floor-length dress to the rack with the others her mother had sent for. With a heavy sigh, the blonde did her best to muster up the customer service smile her mother had talked about before going to greet ti the guest. “Welcome in,” she chimed happily as she exited the back room, flashing as kind a smile as she could manage, trying to forget the fact they’d interrupted her task at hand. “And we’re closing in half an hour,” she added quickly, her eyes finally settling on them. 

                      His mother’s saccharine cadence bounced around his skull as he pushed into Mode Intrépide: ‘You must accompany me to this event, ma chérie, and in a new suit, too. Nouveau. You hear me? Nothing worn by another man. When you represent this family, you represent Armani, Valentino, Chanel–– not K-Mart chic.’ He had to hand it to her, her silver-flecked tongue could stifle the best of them. But she was stubborn as an Ox, too, and any argument he tried to make for his penchant for vintage and worn things, went in through one ear and out the other.

           You had to pick and choose your battles, Charlie had come to know. This was a very small one in a very big war. She won.

          He refused, however, to abide his time in Port de Champigné if he didn’t have to--- if not for his discomfort for rampant opulence, even if he was born in it, it was the night’s spent around there with his power hungry older brother, witnessing unspeakable things, as the very threading of his skeletal wanted to stop The Golden Boy, and the rest of their fucked up legion. The thought of it creased his chiseled mien, the warmth of cognac hues drowning out for a moment in his reverie. 

           As he came back to earth –– well, as much as Charlie Valentin could –– he found himself greeted by a visage of gold and honey, familiarity in the strike of features... Giselle. The mayor’s daughter. Something swarmed in his chest–– an electric storm of sorts, of sorrow, and guilt, and something else he couldn’t put his finger on. “... Uhh–” Staggered he was, enough to clumsily bump his broad frame into a rack of floppy hats, hands straightening them before any could fall. The boy regained his wits about him then; blinked a few times, and let a warm, crescent smile bloom full lips, “Half an hour, you say?” He looked around the boutique, sinking another step in, “... You think you could help me find a suit before then?”

[midsommars-deactivated20201109]

Jacob Elordi at the Saint Laurent SS20 Fashion Show in Paris