🤡

claudia marshall, curator - i don't know how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth.

[claudiamrshall]

julian.

The statement snatched him, grabbed him by the neck and yanked his focus forward, as if she could have any more of his attention. Looked at as if she was under a magnifying glass, a shard of light piercing through formerly untouched oblivion, the undesirable effect was shown in his face. “Your friend.” Repetition of words were no longer reserved for her point of view alone, becoming accusation and fact. “Because you know muses,” he went on, elaborating on her behalf with a shrug of the head, another set dredged up from spoken reservoir, testimonial to his listening skills. “You’re telling me this? Now? Not when I spoke Luis’ name before?”

In the recesses of the soul, something swarmed, something akin to a truth that he had buried out of reach, something that they equally danced around. How much longer would it last, at least on his side, the notion that it didn’t exist? He could stare at her for as long as it took to crack, but against the roof of his mouth, his tongue clicked, a shake of the head that made it turn away from her. To his side, he heard her answer him about his hand, the damage he could do with a temper on full display. Dry air rushing from the nose, closest to a sign there was humor still left in him, even when the face remained unchanged. “One hand? And I’m useless to you? Then? Why do you talk to me? You’re wasting your time.”

He hadn’t planned to leave his own exhibition. Now, walking beside her, letting her lead them away from her own gallery, was the only direction he wanted to take. A curious gaze kept slipping over her, too many questions brewing beneath the eyes, mouth pursed to mull them over, an attempt to find the answers himself. Too many circumstances were stacking on top of each other, building blocks on an uneven foundation, just ready to topple over. Her story didn’t help, the sight of the building making his tongue grate against the back of his teeth, another throbbing pain rippling through those tucked away knuckles.

“What is this?” Head thrown to the side, pointing to her home, how it could even be called a home at all. “This is yours? All of it?”

“i know muses.” and she can hear the question in his voice, proving that she’s on thin ice and cracking fast. and she doesn’t know why, but the thought makes the corner of her mouth curve, discomfort showing. she knew luis, more than an acquaintance; in the same way she’d given over her gallery, more than a favor. she spoke to neither of them, dropped on the pavement behind them in favor of the literal looming problem. the mansion had not been updated since the nineteenth century, expect for amenities. water, heating, electricity. otherwise, as still and preserved as a museum. she made sure of it.

“it wasn’t always.” as if that was some pallid defense against the size of the mansion, her weren’t you listening,  that it was hers alone, the expression on her face was enough to make her question the choice. if she shouldn’t have just walked back into the gallery and left the night alone. empty hallways and no lights. a cleaning crew when she remembered to let them in. of course it had been big at the time rick marshall had it built, but now given the way manhattan was populated, it was extravagate. and still, she couldn’t bring herself to let it go or let anyone else in. almost anyone else, as it turned out. she held the key, letting it cut against her palm, until they were in front of the front door. up the concrete steps. a point of no return as it were. 

if she hesitated to unlock the door for a minute, it was too little to be considered weakness. she pushed open the solid wood door, reaching first for the alarm that had to be disarmed and then turning on the flickering lights of the foyer. the carved mahogany bannister running along marble steps for seven stories, museum quality paintings displayed along the run. the crumbling statue that rick had insisted on displaying in the middle of the room when he realized she’d been the one who carved it a thousand years before. it was a gilded age mansion, she could never depart from the style, some part of her still holding on to the marshall choices. “the study’s on the third floor.”

[claudiamrshall]

julian.

“How? How would you know?” Hot blooded, words coming out of his mouth like steam, a brushing burn of suspicion or impulse, depending on whatever answer she would give, if any. One-sided interrogation, where the questions would be tossed at her, landing short of her feet. She would know of the artist, know that there was Luis’ tormentor running loose, but not that the two were the same. Would she? How? When he had never said a name to connect the two?

His cigarette rubbed between his fingers, held onto while his eyes etched across her face, finally finding roots through the cracked cement. The light above was meant for security, not to beam down like a spotlight, encasing both of them in it as if they were on display for one another. “It’s not about the money? It’s not about the apology? But this?” He gestured with his head, an all encompassing motion to wrap this scene dressed in theatrical attire to count. “This is what’s important? What is left?” There was nothing else here. Her. Him. The empty alleyway with a broken lighter down the way. Don’t read between the lines, only question them; be suspicious, not hopeful.

“Here?” He knew the area, enough to know the reputation that was pinned to it, furrowed brow returning. “It’s not about the money,” he repeated from her, statement on its own before he took a step forward, watching for her to follow beside him. “I’ve walked with you longer,” he reminded, shoving the cigarette into his jacket’s pocket, letting his injured knuckles reside inside of it to keep it out of sight. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re afraid that I would find a way to break my hand this time?”

she ran a hand through her hair, fraying it with frustration. because for one moment, he finally did more than glance across her skin. his question pushed through whatever barriers she thought she had up. how would she know. how could she not. “he wasn’t just your friend!” she had known luis long before he had asked her to meet his artist friend, she should have been able to say that she knew him long after if fate had been kind. her path to information had never been through julian santiago, and she refused to let him assume otherwise. perhaps it was too much of a tip off, that she understood the inner workings of what had happened, but she would not play dumb for the sake of less effort. 

but he does have her in the cross hairs without that concession. it’s not about the gallery, the art, the money, or the reputation. which leaves it to be about him. she doesn’t have to say that much out loud. there’s no reason, with the way that he was staring her down, he’s already made the connection. but even if it was just the two of them, that didn’t leave much up to the imagination. “you might. and then you’d be useless.” and just as easily as she had hated his first question, she relaxed against his last. steam that might have been building from the fight he was trying to provoke left them just as suddenly. he could hide a damaged hand all he liked, it was nothing she hadn’t experienced before. she’d spent most of 1984 in a cast. artists could in fact exist with bruised knuckles. 

but she started walking anyways, led the way down the polished manhattan blocks, each building growing with age until they were on her block of gilded age mansions. time travel in the middle of the city, away from all the modern art galleries that were supposed to rule taste now. her cover story was less believable the closer they got to it. and yet, mealy-mouthed as she might be, she went with the same story. “it was left to me by my uncle.” close enough as it were. people didn’t count blood so much any more. rick marshall, with a strong last name, one that she could have. “he always made sure i had somewhere in new york to stay.” 

[louisquinnzel-edits]

LILY COLLINS @  ‘To the Bone’’ press conference June 30, 2017.

[chelseaperetti]

[claudiamrshall]

julian.

What else was he supposed to do with her sarcasm than toss it in the same direction as the lighter? Gripped and thrown by a sharp roll of the eyes, lips stitched together as they grated back and forth against the teeth they protected the public from. If only they were a stronger shield, voice booming a beat later. “You know who he is? To me?” he questioned, rhetorical, answer obvious: nothing short of a mortal enemy. “A fucking cabron! If it wasn’t for him? Luis would still be here!”

His shoulders shrugged heavily, highest point to lowest, an unadulterated means to show her argument meant nothing to him, did nothing to convince him. “If you don’t want me to apologize? Then what? It is your gallery! And?” Hands continued to wave, a motion of pure impatience, frustration, anger. He had caused a scene in her business, made it into a potential crime scene, the kind of place that would be adjacent in a lawsuit at Edmund’s whim. But it wasn’t that. That wasn’t good enough to drag her out with him. She could do damage control inside, not waste her time with him, getting nowhere. “If it is the commission? My part. Take it. I don’t give a shit.”

The end of the alley was looked at, face in its direction, the street open, cars passing, the route to leaving within sight. He did have two options. Stay or leave. Though, the choices she laid on the table made him turn back, knocked mind-first as he stared at her. Incredulous eyes as they stayed on her from a jerking motion of the head, as if the transmission of her words hadn’t filtered through properly. “There are no other lighters? Other than in there or where you live? Only there?” A brief pause, only brief enough to take the edge of his hatred to simmer instead of explode, a pulsing feeling tingling through his open knuckles, penance for being caught off guard. “Why would I go back inside? To finish him? To have you do this again?” he asked with finality, only one option left from convenience. “Your place.–Come. Let’s go.”

“obviously!” maybe it was his own anger that was infecting her. pouring out, only to absorbed by the gap where she knew she should have kept some veneer of professionalism. but it had never really worked like that between the two of them, and she didn’t pretend otherwise. “obviously i know who he is.” as if luis’s death had carried meaning for him alone. the single person to carry the burden of a lifetime. the harsh cut to her words must have said everything she couldn’t find the words for. mourning might have been done in private, but it was never truly done alone. 

“it’s not about the money.” she was offended by the implication, the topic had been almost completely off the table unless it was in terms of his own compensation. she had no use for totaling expenses, only for making sure that everything was displayed as best it could be. she didn’t care about the cost of the incident, in the most literal terms. but what was she going to say in its place? that it was about him? she had no use for his penance, weak as it made her seem. giving easy outs to an artist that made her feel what? she was yelling in an alleyway, looking to win an argument that was nothing at the end of the day. both of them had already lost it when edmund walked into the gallery. “its my gallery. i choose what’s important.” 

she knew her offer exposed her to weakness, and he was quick to point it out. there wasn’t an inch to give, not really. but she didn’t take it back. because he was right, going back inside was the white flag that she knew he wasn’t going to give. murder was still a crime. “i’ve seen yours. it’s only fair.” weak, caving and beguiled if she was being honest with herself. but no one was there to point out that obvious fact. they would have still been staggering over the fact that she was going to let someone into her home. “it’s just a few blocks.” which already said more about its standing than most would allow. upper east side addresses were not known for their affordability. but neither were galleries positioned where hers was either. “think you can handle the walk?” 

[claudiamrshall]

julian.

It was fine. No flair. No fuss. He hated distractions, decorations, anything that was a notch above bare bones. His works fit against the backdrop of an exposed skeleton, the gallery walls of alabaster making every drop of color pop, even if it ran bright red or morbid black. The night, the setting, the companionship were fine until none of it mattered. Nothing was fine the moment Edmund Astor’s face reflected in Julian’s eyes. A bomb went off, all oxygen to the brain sucked out like a vacuum, funneled to the fire that ravaged inside instead. One step, two steps, one after another, a shove from the shoulder against a patron to make through across the gallery to greet him in the only way he wanted to, in the only way he deserved to be welcomed.

He met Claudia’s eyes when he was walking the opposite direction, no longer needing to make room for an exit, people parting on their own. Specks of crimson left behind, dropping against Lyceum’s floor by the time he reached the door, throwing it open to have the cool air rush over him. She wasn’t far behind, eyes peering over her as a cigarette was clasped between his lips, split knuckles furiously trying to coax fire from his lighter while she talked. Nothing but sparks. Nothing but trash, hurtling it to the end of the alley, the sound of it clamoring against brick acting as the interlude to his rampage.

“Drama?! He is lucky there is no coroner being called! Why is he here?! Was he invited?” he demanded, pacing across the alleyway with hands flying, forgotten cigarette gripped between his fingers before he stopped a few feet opposite to her. “Why are you here? What do you want? For me to apologize?” Burning eyes, burning cuts, a pair to behold as he shook his head sharply, jaw clenched. “I would cut out my tongue first. From that? I am sorry that he is still breathing. Nothing else.”

“yeah—i hand wrote his invitation myself.” she spat, letting the door to the alley shut nosily behind them, their conversation now for the unlucky passerby. she knew invitations had likely been sent out, to whom she could not say. that was of course the problem with relinquishing details to others. they might invite anyone. or worse, anyone might be allowed in at the door. she never had been one to check guests at the door. something about the democratization of art, allowing all to see it, a young notion that she supposed carried no weight now. not when the person who walked through her door was edmund astor. she let him continue on his tirade, drama was indeed the word for it. 

“why would you apologize?” the idea hadn’t crossed her mind that the action once done might be undone. he didn’t feel guilty, and she’d never felt much in the way of hollow emotion. to suggest a performance would have been a waste of both of their time. and like she’d said, temperamental artist was a brand, and not an unpopular one. rumors were fine to circulate. performative art at its finest, and he’d picked a target who had to play ball.  let anger cloud everything, the blood had gone well with the paintings. 

“it’s my gallery!” she was surprised that he questioned why she was the one to come check on him. she’d put in just as much time right along side him, hours more past that. could it not be work alone that made her want to see his response, must it be something more. “you can keep your tongue.” she felt in the pockets of her pants, wondering if a lighter was among the clutter. she’d thought to start carrying one again for jess, but apparently not during a gallery opening. “you’ve got two options.” was it damage control, or was it just selfish to make the offer that she was going to. did it matter, when she could disappear or he could flare out. “there’s a lighter in my office, or there’s one back at my place.”

[claudiamrshall]

@julianxxsantiago​

it was the standard of gallery openings in this new millennia to go big. as big as possible, spare no expense. all the show in the displays, theatricality of the lights, whatever could distract from the art. she refused to follow the trend. if the work couldn’t stand on its own, hang alone against a plain white wall, then that was that. it wasn’t worth the effort in the first place. julian santiago’s work was the rule, not the exception. she might have spent weeks adjusting lights, perfecting spaces, but the effect was simplicity on her end. minimalist. focus on what the paintings said. the only problem with such austerity, was that it left more space for people to ricochet off each other, clash against the meaning of the work. or in this case with the artist.

"what the fuck?” she slammed open the alley door, revealing the man who’d been shouting in the gallery minutes before. of course it’d been her first instinct to run after him, but the obligation, all the eyes. to pretend it was part of the night without question. “temperamental artist the brand you’re going for?” she said finally, dull edged blade all things considered. she was not his pr consultant, she was simply a lens for the work. if he chose not to use it as it was, that was his choice. “or did you just want the drama?” 

[claudiamrshall]

julian.

“Subtle? No. He does not know the word,” he agrees, and, given the right circumstances, would have left it at that, but her question does not make it fall in the category. There are two answers to give at its core, neither are favorable to retell, and he is not in the business of making anything soft; there’s a collection of works surrounding them that say as much.

His eyes slip back to her, an action that follows the brows rising and falling, the jaw shifting and clenching. There’s a stillness when he looks at her, lasting a single beat before he speaks. “It’s a curse,” he sums up, as if the thought of suicide could have such a clear-cut answer. Maybe it did. For Luis, it was not a gift, so what was left for it to be? His thoughts are dragged back before they’re pushed over, realizing he’s been clutching the edge of another painting. The focus is returned to her, grip easing as he goes on. “He made it seem that you would know. That you were a muse,” he tells her, directing gaze attached. “Then? When I said you weren’t? He corrected himself.”

here is a moment. glittering and dangerous, begging her to be impulsive in the bright sunlight of his apartment, his studio. a yes rolling off her tongue and sinking any impression that there might have been something lighter between them. to say of course i am, couldn’t you tell from the start? but she can’t yet tell from his expression if the answer would be welcome or not. and the staggering thought that his opinion on it might actually matter. “i do know.” she wasn’t exactly hiding completely from the concept. her best friend was a muse, she’d known luis through and through. and yet, that final yes, stuck in her heart. “i talk to muses too.”

she stood up, tried not to let the frustration show on her face. that she couldn’t exactly decide between the honest truth and an outright lie, so she left it sitting as it was. if that stood for some kind of answer itself, she didn’t mind letting it. looking back to the paintings that were left on the floor, untouched by the ruin that he’d wanted to see. such were the woes of having talent. “this will work.” she said, fumbling for her wallet with one hand still holding the coffee. “call the gallery, i don’t do logistics but—” pulling out a business card and holding it out to him, waiting for him to take it. though it was not the blood soaked thing it could have been, it stood for something. “ant can send a truck over.”

and it could be that easy. she already had the gallery spaced cleared out, though he need not know. that the assistant was expecting the call with baited breath. the moment it was free from her hand, she walked back towards the door and pulled it open to let herself out. “it doesn’t have to be a curse.” she said finally, looking back at him for a moment. “it wasn’t for him. not for a long time.” and then she was gone from the apartment, back to purgatory as it were.

[larmoyante]

He was now in that state of fire that she loved. She wanted to be burnt.

Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus (via dark-splendor)

[claudiamrshall]

julian.

The sardonic rush of breath was ripped from him, a hollowed-out laugh that made no more noise than what the lungs alone could offer. His lips had pursed from her words, head shaking in sharp movements before settling back in place, bowing down to meet her gaze. “Why would he need to find another muse? He has one. For now. Until he betrays her, too. He doesn’t need to live forever. One second more? Is too much.”

The fire did not burn out, even in his pause, even when the words landed so sourly, so finally, and even when he turned away from her. It cascaded around him, wrapping his entire being up in it, a steady kindling. “You know what choices keep you alive? And those that don’t? Forever?” His eyes flickered back to hers for a moment before stepping to the side, attention taken by a piece he was looking for. “How? From your friend? Jessamine?”

she knew how these things played out in a broad, overarching, villain always gets their comeuppance. not always, but the edmund astors of the world did not generally last once people caught wind to a pattern, more over they did not get chosen by the gods. their art was not the kind that stood the test of time. but then again, there was miguel, so what the fuck did she really know. besides a chilled thought when he asks his question. the hesitation before he adds that its from jess, and not her own slip up. whether he’s taking a guess or letting her in on the secret, she can’t tell. her eyes must study his face so curiously, trying to figure out the angle at which he’s approached, what he might know about her.

“jess.” her inhale is sharp, accompanied by the soft curve of a smile, because forever was only ever tied to muses in these circumstances. and it was so like jess to drop pretenses quick as he could. shake of the strange burden he’d seemed to place on himself. they talked of war because they’d both been there, but around others it must be different, thrilling. something. she really couldn’t remember. “he’s not subtle.” which didn’t mean that julian knew anything about her, but it was worth the question. she turned back to the paintings, as though they offered some distraction from the line of inquiry he so seemed to want to pursue. “what’d he tell you about forever.”

[claudiamrshall]

julian.

“Why would you want to keep it from me?” A question for a question, equal refusal on both sides to answer something simple and as complicated as assisted suicide. Either way, if she wasn’t going to use what had been given to her, he would have no qualms taking it back, even before seeing it being taken out of her pocket. Dark eyes brushed over the piece. Forgotten by him. Murky memory of a stint at 4am with a bottle of bourbon at his side and a coffee on the other–the ingredients that made his self-proclaimed purgatory personable. If it wouldn’t be destroyed by her hand, it would find its ending by his.

The canvas ripped, vocal in its pained destruction with no one willing to be its savior, most of all its creator. Only a step was taken afterwards, and only to pick it up by the frame so that the torn fabric that stretched over it could be yanked off of the staples. Julian didn’t look at her when she spoke, focused on reusing what remained of any value. If she had meant to ask him if he was pleased, it was based on the temporary feeling that she had taken one off his hands, nothing more than that, and nothing addressed by him to share it. “How do I figure he is happy?” he shifted the topic to one point, finally looking at her as the last staple gave in, separating the two entirely. “If it mattered to him? What had happened? His guts would be splattered on the cement. To sleep instead? That is happy enough.”

she closed the knife, put it back in her pocket while watching him take apart canvas from frame. if the ending was supposed to be unhappy, he certainly didn’t show it. one painting less in the collection, but the rage that made them was clearly still simmering underneath. how he picked his topic with narrow focus, circling back to edmund astor, always so. she had no qualms about the thought that he should be exactly the same six feet under that he’d sent her dearest friend. but that being said, she had time. she was still learning how to bide it, but in some way there must have been some rush. time running out already. she hated to think of it like that, standing in the sun light, blank frame now revealed.

“he’s alive.” and wasn’t that sometimes the most it took. that he took another breath while the world spun on, rested easy enough to keep surviving. julian had a point, a deeply human one that she wanted to root to, stick with, as though it felt enough to be so purely angry. to let it well deep in her stomach. he was right, for now. there was always time for lighting to strike or a street fight to go wrong. still alive, with the sun filtering in and reminding them so. “he won’t find another muse.” was it a threat, suggestion, something in between. of course she could tear him limb from limb herself, but she was wary of the attention. she could of course figure her way out of it, if he so chose to keep breathing. “no one lives forever. not with choices like that.”

[claudiamrshall]

julian.

Death is not an option to him. Unfinished business requires him to be bound to the mortal plane for a little while longer. Most days, it’s the only thing that fuels him, gives him a morbid sense to the world that’s painted in red, no rosy-tint, but a flowing crimson. And in spite of it, there’s a pulse of a breath that falls from the nose, head tilting up, gesturing to her pocket. “You have my knife. If I wanted to die? I would take it back. You’re taking too long.” His arms are still crossed against his front, eyes watchful of her movements, of which ones she pulls out, of how the blade stays within her possession without a sense of her going back to it. “You would use it there but not here?” he questions. “Why would I let you keep it? When I don’t know that you can use it?”

The trim of the doorway is finally leaned off of, stepping nearer while she talks. The response she gives raises the brows. “It reveals bullshit,” he counters as he stands over her, awaiting her to amend the original inquiry at hand. How it doesn’t come as a surprise as to what is really on her mind, and yet it is not answered immediately. He doesn’t look as though he’s hesitating, more so picking apart what is in his soul like pieces of shrapnel, a reminder of when his life exploded. “My friend is dead,” he opens with without mercy known. “The one that made him kill himself? Is alive. Happy. In a new bond. How could I not be mad?”

“why would you hand it over in the first place.” she countered, pulling it back out of her pocket. there was a willing victim after all. smudged painting, with the detail lost to some kind of fit. it was a fine line between vague and illegible. she could see it passed over here. she didn’t particularly believe in destroying other’s art wholesale, but it seemed he wouldn’t be satisfied until she did as asked. her mark left on his collection, the same as all the others discarded in the corner. after all, it couldn’t have been his favorite, he said as much himself.

the motivation supplied itself. she missed luis with nearly every other breath. the man who’d made the twenties bearable, who found some way to stay near her even when she didn’t want to be found. to hear it spoken out loud again was another punch, knocking wind from her. she had only one outlet to hit back, knife cutting into canvas. the harsh ripping across the frame as she dragged it across, corner to corner. unsalvageable. its only crime being the weakest of the bunch. “happy?” a question for dual purposes. she highly doubted edmund astor was a happy man, seeing that a piece of art hadn’t met her standard was likely equal. “how do you figure?”

[claudiamrshall]

jess.

“No, I’m just saying it to overinflate your ego.” Jess let the joke hang for a little, trying to maintain a poker face – but he’d never been good at pretending. “Of course I mean it.” Century after century, a run-in here and there, their timelines colliding through war, peace, whatever else fate saw fit to throw at them. Claudia was what kept his head above water sometimes, a reminder that he couldn’t just sink below the waves and surrender himself to his ghosts. He had someone to keep struggling for, someone who’d want to bump into him in the next decade, and the next, and the next.

“Everyone wants to be greatness, deep down.” Taking another drag on his cigarette, Jess couldn’t help laughing at Claudia’s suggestion – the smoke scraped through his damaged lungs, making him cough a little when the laugh tapered off. A century later, the mustard gas still held its sway. “Perhaps we should hold a little welcome party for him. Introduce him to the people he’ll be spending eternity with.”

his shining honesty is rewarded with nothing but a quick flash of seriousness across her face. the smile dropping in place of something more thoughtful, trying to imagine her life without jess. the person she was constantly striving to be better for. the only person she had left to look out for. though he couldn’t know her depraved lows, she couldn’t stomach telling him. if she was the reason to stick around, then she wanted to be a good reason.

but her moment passed, pulled back to her surface reality by his cough. easy conversation falling back into place. “you almost had me at party.” they were always seeking out an excuse for a reason to step out, pass a few hours drinking— but if his showing was any indication poldark was not for them. he was boring at best, and she didn’t have room for another worst for the next few centuries. “i don’t want him to get any ideas about friends.”

[claudiamrshall]

julian.

The word fell in the room, left with a thud against his hardwood floor as he looked at her. Any hint of a joke that was tracing in those eyes went away, left with a questioning singe to them, and yet his lips stayed sealed. Why? The tongue pressed against the back of his teeth, not asking such a simple question, to broach what was perhaps mistakenly brought to him that he hadn’t been able to shake. The answer was not something that interested him, not something he wanted, particularly if it was true. “You have a knife. If you don’t stab the canvas? Will you try me? They’ll be worth more.” It was an out, as strange as it was, releasing her hand in tandem with it as his vision followed her through his apartment.

Arms crossed against his chest, shoulder against the door frame that bordered the room and kitchen while she picked apart the pieces. The fact that she pocketed his blade did not go without notice. “For Lyceum,” he reminded against her own about taking for the collection, how it couldn’t possibly be for anything personal. “The knife. Is that your souvenir? You have to have one each time now?” Head tilted, only to see better what she was pulling, as her barely completed question came to him. “Canvas. Is that the word?” he questioned, knowing better from tone alone, the long pause in the phrase that fractured it. “Ask what you want. Don’t fuck around.”

“don’t be so willing. i might think you need help.” the muses, as they were, dealt in jokes of the suicidal nature day in day out. but humans were always a little more fragile on the point. they could be serious and not even realize it. “and besides, i needed a free hand.” she flickers from the paintings back to him, not exactly a defense for the knife in her pocket instead of on the floor or some other available surface, but refusing to give into his vision. she doesn’t know why she need push, when she’s the one in his apartment. but it makes sense, one hand is coffee, the other now paintings. “but i think the lyceum could do something with it.” still life. something just to prove a point. “if you’re offering.”

her joke is shoved off balance by his sudden call out. a blot of honesty on the morning. she thought they were going to keep bluffing, but no it appeared he was not in the mood for games when it concerned work. refreshing. nothing to dazzle her with or try and confuse her. trip her up into allowing subpar work into her gallery. “i happen to like fucking around.” she knew those tricks, was wise to them. “reveals things.” people who relied on them were not to be trusted. people who called them out were the opposite. she pulled two canvases off to the side to be reassessed, not sliced, yet. “but fine.” she sighed, decided if the bridge was to be burned, might as well do it early and get it over with. set any ideas she might have had on right along side and wait. gasoline and matches, but no spark just yet. some childish hope he has an answer she wants to hear: “what are you so mad about?”

[claudiamrshall]

laurie.

Lesson learnt: even a nudge towards it only made the atmosphere even more awkward, as if the tenuous, unspoken truth hanging in the air hadn’t been enough to leave an undercurrent of tension, an ozone taste in the air. “Mm, it certainly beats boiling to death.” Not that he’d had that problem in rainy little England, but America was so different, bigger and stranger than a farm boy from Somerset could’ve imagined, even after centuries. “The variety of food is nice, too, you know.” Laurie let out a pent-up breath, knowing Claudia was right. Rolling up his sleeve, to expose puckered scars, bullet wounds mixed with knife slashes. “I suppose we’re just inventing better and better ways to kill each other. Pity none of them stick.”

she swings back and forth on the pendulum of death. she’s always pushing—jumping out of moving cars, standing on the edge of high rises, fixing wiring she had no business even touching. but so much of it was never going to stick. if she was going to die she would have bled out long before this. “who knew there’d be so many different types of pizza.” it’s hard to not let her eyes wander to the skin of his arms. her own body is less scarred, whether because its had time to heal or she’s less danger than she thinks, she’s not sure. “we’re not that lucky yet.” she doesn’t know if she’s referring to herself, or someone else. he whose name shall not be spoken, lest it ruin a good mood. “unless you’re holding out on me.”

[claudiamrshall]

jess.

“Isn’t that the same for all tragedies?” The muses survived, the muses endured. The muses took the pain of everyone they once knew, everyone whose blood was on their hands, and housed it in their broken bodies, museums to the past. Perhaps that was why Jess felt like his life was no longer his own; it belonged to the dead, just as much as his memories belonged to them. “That I could see.” Just like it had been an accident, Jess’ mortal blood spilled, his life forever changed. “I don’t know, happier?” More at peace, at least, though he suspected he’d never be able to escape painful memories. He’d never be able to stay away from war, no matter how hard he tried; Julian Santiago, for example, on a personal crusade, bright and blazing and burning up. “But I wouldn’t have met you.” As much as his chest ached, as much as his back was riddled with scars, he knew he’d make the same choices over and over again, even for their centuries-old friendship.

“Is it the money? Or is it the fame?” Fame came with money, recognition, the nice things humans were so prone to coveting. “Or is the people that let Poldark’s kind of meaningless bullshit fly?”

“you really mean that?” her voice is saccharine sweet for a moment, looking up at him with big eyes for a playful moment before she dissolves back into her usual little smirk. because it was the only way that she could stomach something so honest, that she mirrored completely. near misses in history, where if she hadn’t had him to lean on there would have been more close calls than she liked to count. extra bullets, extra drinks, the spare pair of hands. she doesn’t say, for instance, i love you too. because it hits the step too close.

“everyone wants to be touched by greatness.” that was one way of phrasing it. money, fame, name in lights for an eternity. those who stuck in the popular culture didn’t really survive. she used to think she understood what made up a muse, but it was really just shots in the dark. “wait until he realizes his company.” everyone towards the shadows, the only way immortality was sustainable. “he’ll be wishing people didn’t care.”

[claudiamrshall]

laurie.

Laurie suddenly regretted bringing it up, even in allusion: her discomfort was obvious, and he wished he was the type of person who could offer reassurance. Who could offer anything more than a straight razor and a promise to fight for her. And not even for her, for the itch under his skin, the itch that could only be salved by someone else’s blood. There was little uncertainty in her voice, but he nodded anyway, running a hand through his hair. War was as much a part of him as the blood running through his veins – maybe more, seen as the blood came and went, cells died each day. The grip of conflict over his soul never died, never wavered, kept him fighting for some unattainable goal. “The world’s a battlefield I guess.” Poetic – true, battle scars weren’t limited to his body, but to the fields of France, the plains of the Civil War, the unexploded minefields of Laos. He glanced up at her, understanding her pain, but unable to resist a little sarcasm. “I don’t know, it is nice to have electricity. And central heating.” 

she shifted on her feet, moving to the next statue. restless only in that she could not voice everything that she was feeling. even if she had the words to put to it, she wasn’t sure that there was anyone to tell. just because laurie kept her worst secret close to his chest, didn’t make him therapist. there was only so much to reasonably put on one person.“partial to the air conditioning.” she said finally. the wonders of the modern world. how much of it had happened in the blink of an eye. from the salons in france to suddenly this buzzing world. changing everything in the matter of a hundred years was no small feat. “makes everything a lot more bearable.” if the world was a battlefield at least now it was a comfortable one. luxurious even. but every update had its cost. “changes the wars, though.”