UNE VIE / D'ÉCRIRE

ind, sel, medium activity, FELIX RAQUIN, an original character from the world of Clair Obscur: Expedition 33. handwritten by char (she/her, 25+). triggering themes may occur.

[encreved]

GUIDELINES + ABOUT

Okay, time to say a couple of things. Nothing too big, I’m very chill. This is a blog for Felix Raquin, an original character from the world of Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, handwritten and deeply loved by char (me). I am 25+, european, and my time zone is GMT+1.

English is not my first language, keep that in mind. I’m pretty good at it, but I hope you can forgive any eventual slip.

This blog will feature dark themes, gore might be present and so might nsfw, as well as grief, loss and every other triggering topic that is featured in Clair Obscur. Each of these things will be tagged accordingly, but if you have any specific triggers, you can tell me and I will make sure to tag those too.

You can find more info on Felix’s background here, though I plan on writing a better looking and more user friendly guide on his character in time.

Character tag to be found here.

I have a decade long experience with rp, but I’ve always been very bad at anything non writing related. Therefore, I don’t think I will use icons, and I do not do any fancy formatting. I’m bad at that, folks. I’m just here to write.

For any other questions, do not hesitate to send a message.

[cleamaesta]

She crosses her legs, settling more comfortably on that broad though calcified arm of coral, looking down at him with raised brows and a glint of challenge in her eyes. It's but a little feat, that challenge — back when she was still quite the wild and peculiar child, testing the many absurd rules and limitations of Canvas-worlds had been one of both her and Verso's favorite pastimes. Fighting against creations, jumping from steep and elevated gestral-built platforms, flying and swimming until they could no more. Much to their parents' genuine apprehensions, those games taught her more about Canvases and their inner workings than her mother's strict lessons ever could.

So she had decided to have him sample that forbidden taste, that independence that leads to understanding. Indeed, she had predicted the climbing, the test -- had known with quiet certainty that he would not decline the challenge, that he would have rolled up his sleeves and reached her after a short while; he'd have discovered that any trace of fatigue would not be solely linked to the climbing and the strains of muscles, but to his mere presence inside her Canvas, where chroma would seep away from his prowess faster than normal, due to his inexperience. But she watches him fall, and freezes at the vision — her train of thought coming to an abrupt stop as she watches him fall on the sandy ground. In a way, he keeps subverting Clea's expectations even in those mostly harmless incidents—

While the impact would have been violent under real-world conditions, this Canvas has been drawn and developed with an amateur's abilities and well-being in mind. Though it is still a surprise to see him lose his footing and fall, Clea knows nothing within these marine depths can actually hurt him — nothing is supposed to escape the Painter's grasp, for each single particle of chroma belongs and answers to her will. Still, the unplanned variable of that fall buys her more time alone atop the coral than what she had originally thought.

Time. She uses it well, turning a thought over and over in her head, one older than his first venture inside the painting. ❛ I wanted you to discover that nothing here can harm or wear you out, ❜ she calls down to him, composed upon her perch. ❛ Your fall simply sped things up. ❜ A first lesson in Canvas laws that shall undoubtedly stick to him more than mere notions spoken hurriedly at the threshold. When he gets up and has the surprise on his visage gives way to sheer determination, Clea allows herself to look away; a hand rises, the few curious fish that circle the coral disperse lazily. Whatever distractions he might have spotted now vanishes in a flutter of fins and rainbow scales. And when he starts climbing, she steadies herself.

That recurring thought — that silly plan of hers born of her controlling tendency, for Clea is never one to leave things to chance. Everything has already settled in her mind for weeks, perhaps even months — never as a question or a doubt, but as a certainty accumulating weight over time, the same way chroma does accumulates in a Canvas left unattended for too long. Dense and present, like sediments made of paint. She had named it all to herself a long time ago, quietly. How easy it had been, to find that name — and how thrilling it feels, now, to be a step away from voicing it out. There is no better place, for a Painter — she thinks, than a Canvas, to speak her heart to him. And no better moment than his climb to come up with the right way to say it.

A hand appears, then an arm, a shoulder — and when the rest of him finally comes into view, the artificial suspension she's created is dispelled, allowing the marine fauna to return, swimming curiously over and around them. ❛ Had fun ? ❜

Yes —— the secret. Of course he has his eyes set on the promised prize the moment he reaches her. Impatient man. She looks down at him. ❛ A "secret"— perhaps that is not the best way to describe it, I'll leave these matters to people like you. Words have never been my forte, ❜ her gaze drifts away from him, then, to their surroundings. ❛ But this — I am fairly sure it is. I wish you knew how easy it was easy, to come up with this world, just for you, ❜ —To think he has seen just a fragment of that mutable reality finds her excited.

She hovers above him then, high, grateful that her headband keeps her hair from falling past her shoulders and in his face; a hand rests on his collarbone, and the other supports her whole weight, propped against the floor. ❛ Not a brushstroke here went by without me thinking about it. I would Paint and think; leave to reach you, and think about it more. ❜ A breath, a brief pause. ❛ I love you. And I have been meaning to tell you for a long time, but you may have already caught up to that. There hasn't been a single speck of my chroma I didn't shape with you in mind — every grain of sand, every creature. Your love, and mine, guiding my hand. ❜

[encreved]

The trouble with doing something effortlessly a hundred times without thinking, is that the one time you start thinking about it, you become self conscious to the point where you fuck up. And Felix learnt that the hard way, falling on his back right onto the sandy ground just because he was feeling Clea's eyes on him. It's funny, how his bravado falls to pieces when she's looking. How his carefully built confidence crumbles under the honesty of her affection. There's something about the way Clea looks at him that makes him think that every bad decision he's taken, every mistake and heartache can be wiped away. That he can just start over, do it well, do it right.

And now, despite the judgemental looks from the — now miraculously returned — fish around them, he allows himself to breathe. Truth be told, he isn't even as fatigued as he knows he should be. Rather, his body is recovering faster than he's used to — a trick? Clea's doing? He doesn't know. But his mind feels strained. Like he hasn't slept well.

He shakes it off. There's no way he's climbed a gigantic coral — whilst failing in the process, too — only to collapse before he hears her secret. There has been something different about Clea, lately, and Felix doesn't pretend he hasn't noticed. Not to mention that since they stepped into her Canvas, she hasn't stopped smiling an instant. He doesn't complain at all. She's as carefree there as the child he remembers chasing in her manor's gardens, and he couldn't be happier to see her like that.

But she does owe him the secret for his valiant efforts, and now he looks up at her expectantly, but doesn't move. He is rather comfortable, splayed on his back on coral. "I did have fun," he confirms with a wide grin, feeling the last of his energies return. Knowing the world around them has been shaped by Clea gives Felix a sense of great serenity. Even what feels unfamiliar is welcome, as he can sense the affection that radiates off her.

He turns to look around briefly, the world exploding with colour, with life. Completely theirs. His heart skips a beat, but when Clea begins to speak, finally looking down at him, Felix focuses on her, one hand running through his messy hair to fix it just a little. Her words make a smile curl his lips, a small thing, while a lump forms in his throat. He swallows it down, but he could swear it pulses. Is his own heart trying to get closer to her? Is he about to spit it out? He clears his throat, feeling so honoured he can barely think, let alone speak.

For him. She has Painted all of this for him. Despite seeing the worst of him, despite knowing what she knows of him. Felix takes a deep breath and takes in the vivid environment around them once more. Alive, vibrant, theirs, but created for him. His smile widens just a little. A bond so strong it inspires a world. Isn't that its own form of Art?

As her hand finds his collarbone, his hand moves to cover it, keep it there. She isn't going anywhere, he knows, but there's a part of him that always longs to keep her closer and closer still. Despite wanting to talk, desperately so, Felix keeps quiet. Doesn't interrupt her. Clea seems uncharacteristically tense, and though he'd love to cut through it with a joke, something tells him now is not the time. So he listens, and listens, and listens. First, to her spelling words of love with her voice and not just her body for the very first time, and then to his heart clenching with adoration, stretching and ripping and stitching itself back together. Better than before.

Felix moves to sit up, free hand resting on the ground to support him, while the other cups her cheek, thumb brushing gently on the soft skin. Made of chroma or not, Clea feels like his Clea, and that anchors him to reality. To her. He knew she loves him. He's known for a while now, but the confirmation, the moment she's chosen... Felix closes his eyes for a second, resting his forehead against hers. His brain comes up with such splendid grand declarations, but his mouth won't cooperate. So he opens his eyes and pulls away just enough to look at her. "Clea," he whispers, like a prayer. "What you did here... what you do every day, even outside, is making me feel welcome. Every room I walk in, every world, every place, instantly becomes the one where I belong, if it has you in it. So, thank you. For this," he nods to the world around them. "For this," he holds her closer. "For your love. I hope I deserve it, because God knows I love you so."

[encreved]

i spend a lot of time un-suiciding this suicide mission.

@hiiddenstar sent in a meme. Always accepting !!

Felix is tired. He doesn't even know how that is possible, considering that his body is at the mercy of those... Painters, outside, and the one he has in the Canvas is not real, but fucking hell, he is tired. And so he welcomes the break, the campfire and everything, despite the fact that it all feels a little silly.

Alicia sits with him now, away from the group. He's been adamant on not wanting to make friends. The Painted people nothing but characters in a story someone else is writing. The girl, however, is not. Felix is no Painter, has no formal training, but time with his family has taught him to recognise an Artist.

Still, he doesn't understand why she acts the way she acts. Why put up with all of that at all. When she speaks, his eyebrows shoot up and he glances at her. "Oh, yeah? Then why don't you just teleport everyone there? Why keep up this... farce?" He snaps his fingers. "You could do it in an instant."

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felix swears a lot. he knows it's not proper & doesn't really give two fucks about it.

he thinks bad words are perfect for emphasis

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Felix has such big brother energy, too bad his real life little brother is a cunt

If you want him as your muse’s big brother I think he’d greatly appreciate it

[encreved]

—— ❛ Up, ❜ Clea hauls him upright on the mattress, an arm looped under his for some more leverage and one leg loosely hooked over his even above the thin sheets that still covers his lower half. As he finally sits up by her side, cooperating — ruffled of hair and drowsy of gaze — she leans forward to place a gentle kiss on the corner of his lips. ❛ You still have your packing to do, ❜ she murmurs against him, not pulling back yet. They are supposed to leave in two hours, or so. ❛ —my gift to unwrap, ❜ a tilt of her head toward his own nightstand. There lies a rectangular box wrapped in white paper and a black ribbon, a small art deco golden pin adorning the silk cravat hidden within — right where she left it last night, having originally presented it to Felix at strike of midnight. Only then does she pull back, looking down at her own lap, ❛ —and this sweet to taste. ❜ A shapeless, smaller box sits there, perfectly balanced upon her thighs as though by pure chance. The girl reaches for it to produce a choux à la crème; after breaking a small piece of the pastry apart, careful not to spill its cream nor to disturb that perfect white and sugary curl nestled within, she offers it to him. ❛ You will need your energies — for today. Happy birthday, chéri. ❜

@cleamaesta sent in birthday wishes for this boiiii

Her voice is distant at first, so much so that Felix assumes she's talking to him in his dreams. But then he feels her touch, and his eyes open slowly to see her perched over him. It takes him a long moment to understand she's trying to pull him up, the drowsiness slowing his brain down. Felix groans lowly, eyelids heavy with sleep, body warm and pleasantly sore. "Okay, okay," he murmurs, obeying to her request and sitting up.

He runs his fingers through his hair and then rubs his eyes to try and push the sleep out of them. Only then he realises she's got one leg over his, but by the time he tries to reach out and touch her, Clea has already moved to sit more comfortably by his side. He's about to whine his protest, when she kisses him, wiping away every thought. "Hmm," he manages to say, closing his eyes again. So far, this year's birthday is heading up to be his best yet. When Clea speaks again, Felix opens his eyes to glance at her present, still untouched. "I did unwrap something, last night," he comments, but reaches out for the gift nevertheless.

Before he can reach it, however, Clea distracts him by speaking again, and when she glances at her lap, Felix does too. The pastry is perfectly balanced on her thighs in a way that makes a smirk form on his lips. "A sweet upon a sweet? My favourite." One of his hands reaches for her thigh just as Clea offers him a piece of the choux. Fingers dig into her soft skin as he leans in to taste it. Felix throws his head back in delight and sighs happily. "Oh, so good." A wide grin spreads on his face. "Why, thank you, ma vie. Now, feed me another piece while I open your gift?" His hand sneaks higher on her thigh. "I want to finish my sweet before I eat another."

With his free hand, Felix finally takes the box Clea gave him last night, heart beating fast with excitement for the day, lips unable to stop smiling. His fingers make quick work of the ribbon, and soon enough, he's able to see the magnificent silk cravat inside. "Oh, Clea..." he starts, but stops the very moment he spots the pin. Art deco. A symbol of her family. He swallows thickly, smile turning warmer. As warm as he feels on the inside. "This is beautiful. Thank you so much, amour de ma vie."

[cleamaesta]

She settles beside him on the mattress with carefulness and keen eyes, mindful of the space she occupies, of the boundary they cannot afford her to cross, and of his reactions and expression. Were he to insist any further, she would have outright refused, denied him that drop of solace and hard-won familiarity — the stubborn man she has come to know so well by now had to be taught a little more patience, and to understand that her worry yields only partly to his charm and insistence alone — no matter how considerable they both happen to be.

Dreaming though — that comes without a cost. No price to pay, no pain or thought of ambushes and war meant to keep them awake at night. There is no reason to bridle the imagination, and he does not need any more limitations if she can help it.

The mattress is warm beneath her, and by proximity, the bitterly characteristic smell of medical gauzes hits her nostrils with force, mixed with the familiar and underlying scent of him she easily discerns and recognizes. It's not truly unpleasant — that strange mix offers some respite and novelty compared to the stinging odor of sanitizing alcohol that generally permeates the room whenever he is being medicated. Though she has no difficulty keeping the memories of past tragedies associated with such strong smells out of her mind — without even knowing it, Felix offers her a remedy of sorts.

The thought has her visibly relaxing as she quietly sits with that one pleasant realization, turning it over and over with attention and unspoken gratitude. Maybe, she will tell him, one day. Then comes his voice, announcing wild dreams and plans for the future. She finds there is something quite funny — if not outright hilarious — in the notion of Felix lying in bed, unaware of the doctor perhaps checking his pulse or other vitals, while blissfully dreaming of dips in the river.

❛ La Seine may have you next summer, at best— ❜ and at that she raises an eyebrow, a single note of seriousness coloring her warning. ❛ But the image of you dreaming of that is still one of the most reassuring things I have heard all week. Or perhaps your mind races way ahead of your body, ❜ she adds, as though her observation may carry a deeper resonance for his recovery and future decisions. He shall always do whatever he desires, no matter the risks — something she can fully understand and relate to as well.

His hand finds her hair then, wrapping a strand around his finger with tenderness. She observes him play with it — twirling and curling it, coiling it tightly around his knuckle in a small knot, and then letting it go — holding her attention elsewhere, dulled by the familiarity of the small gesture, just when she feels his lips press against her forehead. The kiss undoes something she has been holding carefully together for days — gently, the way he has always been with her: the shadow of the war outside, the very one that had almost taken him — an innocent victim just like her brother once was — is almost forgotten. The rage, the retaliation and recklessness that do characterize her actions disappear at the prospect of a kinder future, and gentle kisses.

❛ Hm, and would you sit still for the entirety of the production ? ❜ she asks at last, a little smirk on her lips, her head tilted slightly to look at his face properly now. ❛ I reckon you fancied yourself one good dancer, so dancing it is. Though I reserve the right to lead regardless—❜ the smirk holds a moment longer, warm, before she tips her head back to look at his hand, and the ceiling. The teasing recedes then, and in its stead, honesty comes in a wave. ❛ We could go somewhere. Away from Paris. Not inside a Canvas, but— by train, I suppose. ❜

They both know it's simply not possible to pack up and leave the city, not with the war escalating to such desperate events. So she dreams that wish, visualizing it the way she would do inside a Canvas — gathering enough force and chroma to shape it into reality; oh, it would be so easy to escape inside a painting for a while, though the lull of that premise is already dangerous enough to indulge. They have had their outings into Canvas-worlds — but even in their magnificence, they would never compare to a true and tangible journey. Train tickets, sand in one's shoes, the actual scent of the sea instead of a painted imitation.

❛ The mountains, perhaps. Or the sea. Whatever we decide. I'd start thinking of leaving right away, given a miraculously fast recovery. Perhaps we could ride together, to see whose horse reaches the end of a field faster. And the loser shall do whatever the winner commands them— ❜ A beat. ❛ More realistically, well— a walk, a show by night. Or even doing nothing in particular, together. That would suffice. ❜ Plans. Dreams. How terribly inconvenient they grow — larger, so terribly inviting and as tempting as sweet sins, with a raging war outside their doors. So she reins them in with discipline and imagination alike, the way one tames a stubborn steed. ❛ That would more than suffice. ❜

Her hand travels toward him, the one caught between their frames, and a knuckles gently runs across his side in soothing motion, endless spirals. Up and down, up and down. ❛ Be sincere on how you feel with Monsieur Bequet, tomorrow morning. He'll be glad to know of your progress— as will my sister and parents. It's only a matter of time before they decide to speak with you, you know. ❜

[encreved]

Unable to gather Clea in his arms like he wishes, Felix has to rely on his eyes alone to see how she feels. He is aware that if it was up to her, without his insistence, she would keep at a safe distance from him. She has made that much quite clear. Yet, he does insist, and Clea does cave in for him, from time to time. He doesn't push her. Not when he knows it's a lost cause, but the pull to her is too strong, and so they meet halfway, with her beside him and him touching her just barely.

He mentally curses his wound. The man who shot him. The bullet that pierced his skin. He curses everything that keeps him away from her. But in fact, he knows he should be grateful for many things. Being alive, for one. And taken care of. The family treats him well. Clea and Alicia regularly check on him, and though he hasn't spoken much to Renoir and Aline, he appreciates they've turned to their own doctor for him. Not to mention the fact that they've given him a room in their manor.

Felix keeps his eyes on Clea as he thinks, but everything else fades away the moment he catches her relax. It's a subtle shift in her posture, one he recognises only thanks to the countless nights they spent tangled in each other's arms. It makes him smile. He can almost feel her weight shift, her muscles relaxing. Though he isn't aware of what has made her worry dim — he excludes it was his fake reassurance, she can see through his eloquence like no one else — Felix is still glad she's gotten more comfortable.

A wide smile spreads on his lips when Clea responds to his tale of dips in the river. Of course, even Felix isn't that insane, but without his body healing any faster, he has no other choice than to opt for silly dreams to reassure her. "Doesn't it always?" he teases her, tapping gently on his own forhead with the hand that isn't busy touching her. "Though I must admit I would prefer other types of dreams."

Once again, he speaks of the future he can imagine, and once again, Clea humours him. There's something about the way she supports him, quietly but with an iron firmness, that makes Felix feel incredibly loved. He touches her in ways that are familiar to both of them, and she speaks to him with a tenderness that is reserved for few lucky people in her life. His heart clenches in his chest, and for a change the pain he feels is pleasant. It warms him up like a small sun inside. Its light dispelling every bit of the frustration that haunts his days and nights. And it's all because of her.

He realises after a moment that she's waiting for his response. Felix grins, picturing the scene. "Of course not. I'd slide my hands beneath your skirt the very moment the lights dimmed." He realises he could stretch it a bit longer, make her flush, even, but Clea speaks again, and Felix follows her into the realm of things that are possible. He takes a deep breath, grin turning into a softer smile, and shifts slightly on the bed. "I would like that very much."

He would be lying to himself if he said he hasn't thought of asking Clea to lead him into their Canvas while his body recovered. Of course, he has never dared, because he knows what her answer would be. A firm no. In all honesty, even he knows it would interfere with the healing process, not to mention put him at risk to get addicted to staying inside the Painted world, and quite frankly he doesn't want to hear it from Clea. He knows better, and refuses to put any more weight on her shoulder by having to force her to tell him no.

Not to mention, he'd much prefer to spend their time in the real world, difficult as it may be. He hopes to convince Clea to spend some time outside the city, where it's safe and it can be just the two of them, but with the war getting worse, Felix knows it's wishful thinking.

Still, she humours him some more, talking about trips they won't be going on at least for a while, but still filling his mind with beautiful scenes. Felix sighs. There is truly nothing more powerful than words. He wishes he had his typewriter with him. To make their surrounding beautiful, to bring the mountains and the sea in that room that smells of medicines. But his typewriter is in the attic, safe from his family, but too far to reach. And so they're left with imagination alone. Not a problem. They will do, for now. "A ride would be wonderful, mon cœur," he whispers, pressing another kiss to her brow. "And so would be a walk, or anything else." He pauses for a moment, then offers her a smile. "And we will do all these things, you know? Maybe not tomorrow, or in a month, but soon. I promise you."

Her touch conjures goosebumps on his naked skin. Felix's smile widens only a little as his eyelids flutter close for a moment. He's missed feeling her against him in a way that is visceral, and he wants to savour every second of it. Clea speaks, then, and he lets out a low hum. "I will," he promises, then cracks open his eyes at the mention of her parents. "Why? I already told you everything I know about who shot me. What do you think they could possibly want from me?"

[encreved]

as clio rightfully pointed out, on our side of the earth it's already felix's birthday

everybody say happy birthday felix !!

[encreved]

finally listened to gracie's new album and it slaps

keeping it in background as i catch up on some asks + replies

[encreved]

pats him on the head

Felix blinks in confusion. Once, twice. Then his lips curl downwards and he crosses his arms on his chest. “Uh…” he starts, but eventually sighs in defeat. “Okay, okay, you know what? Thanks.”

[disgustinggf]

[encreved]

I think you should give Felix a pat on the head

[encreved]

Hellooooo I have a friend over for a few days and I’ll be spotty here 💫💫💫 love you all, but it’s summerrrrr

[encreved]

"Would you sit and keep me company?"

@cleamaesta sent in a meme. Always accepting !!

It's getting late. The light filtering through the windows is slowly turning a warm orange. It's a colour he likes. Maman had worn a gown with a similar shade at his birthday party almost a year ago, and Felix still remembers the way she almost looked like she was glowing when the sunset hit her. Maman is nowhere to be seen, now. Chatting with Madame Dessendre about instruments, tools and all that musical nonsense. Felix hopes she's not telling her that he refuses to learn how to play the violin, because what if Clea hears about and thinks he's lazy?

He's not lazy, he thinks. Not at all. But his father's lessons are tiring, and then there's the riding, the fencing, the tutors and all his books... he's not lazy. He just likes it better when maman plays. With a loud sigh, one that makes him look around to check if anyone's heard it, Felix walks away from the playroom. Verso is bedridden with a fever, and Clea... he doesn't know where she is, actually. But he's sick of playing alone, and since his mother won't stop her chats even with the sun going down, he has no choice but to explore.

Maybe he'll check the upper level, where the plants and flowers are. There's a good smell in the air, it always lingers around in the Dessendre manor, and he likes it a lot. He's seen that odd garden before, but only once, hand clasped tightly by maman, eyes wide with wonder. He starts walking, his legs a bit wobbly. What if he gets caught, though? How is he supposed to explain himself to Madame Dessendre? She looks so stern...

Felix gulps, but forces himself to walk down the corridor. There's a door leading upstairs, at least he thinks that's how it is? Running his hands down his face, Felix huffs and puckers his lips. He's about to turn on his heels and head back to the playroom, when a faint music spreads in the air like the smell of flowers. Felix furrows his brows and moves across the hallway, desperately following the sound like that Theseus boy did with Ariadne's thread in a story he read not long ago.

The music does not come from a violin, of that he is certain, and it leads him to an open door. Shyly, Felix peeks inside. It's a bedroom. There's a dress on the bed and many painting tools. Is it Clea's? Felix blushes, but presses on. The music comes from yet another door, one left ajar. He gulps. Clea is his friend, right? And even though Verso says she's mean, she's never been mean to him. Not once. And so he moves forward, feeling as brave as King Arthur riding into battle. He crosses her room, the smell of flowers now mixed with paint and oils, then opens the door fully. The music, that came from an harp, stops as the girl looks at him. "Hello," she greets him. "I didn't hear you coming. I'm almost finished, but in the meantime, would you sit and keep me company?"

Almost too stunned to speak, Felix blinks. There's a stool in front of an half finished painting. There's a couch too, but Clea asked for company, so he takes the stool and places on the opposite side of the harp, so that he can see her face through the cords. Her icy hues are as soft as the music she was producing. He smiles and sits down. "Will you play it again?"

[encreved]

@etoilesfantome cont'd from here.

Felix had no intentions of getting the Dessendre middle child drunk. When he offered Verso a drink at the bar, it had only been because he seemed upset and, in his humble experience, alchol lubrified the truth out of people. But maybe his hand had slipped, because now Verso seems unable to stop talking. Felix is no friend of his — they see each other too little to claim such a bond, but he's there and outside it's raining, so he chooses to stay.

Eyebrows shoot up at the strange comment, but Felix lets it slide. The elements he has are few, and for once he'd rather listen than say something that is out of line. Especially because Verso seems more angry than upset, so whatever has happened, must be bad to shake him up like that.

Gossip, he mentions, and Felix's eyes narrow. He must admit to himself he hasn't exactly paid attention to gossip, lately. Not the one involving highborns, at least. It's been too long since he considered himself one of them, and too long since he stopped caring. But it's good to know it's gossip that got him so angry. Gossip can be handled. A small smile curls his lips. The boy sure is dramatic. "I mean, sure. But why would you?"

Scooting just a little closer, Felix leans in conspiratorially and looks into the other's eyes. "So, did you put it where you weren't supposed to? In a married woman, perhaps? A nun?" He asks, then leans back and shrugs. "Been there, done that. It'll pass, I promise."

[celluzu]

"You're losing blood" no I know exactly where it is. The floor. Don't ever underestimate me.

[encreved]

Birthday weekend is officially over, I had lots of fun and starting tomorrow I’ll be posting some replies ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥