a golden age

There is no greater horror man can face than what already resides within him. I want you to face your fears.

[book-caps]

Kait Rokowski

[jacksauvage-blog]

@gabrieldesilva

There had been something Jack was supposed to attend. There were always things Jack was supposed to attend. Art openings, motion picture premiers, birthday parties, weddings, funerals. The social scene among the Paris bohemians had begun to exhaust him of late, in ways that Jack was unable to articulate. His dwindling fame, his dwindling creativity, both had an immediate effect on his reclusiveness. 

So, though the invitation in the junk pile beside his door remained unforgotten, Jack was, instead, on his eleventh cigarette and his fourth glass of gin. Or, that was his best guess. He had long since abandoned his glass for the bottle itself. And the cloud of smoke that settled over his entire flat occasionally made a panic bubble in his chest and sent him right back to the floor of that nightclub inferno. Sometimes his lungs ached in protest, but he ignored them. Instead, his fingers punched away at typewriter keys all through the night as if he weren’t missing out on a single thing in the world. This type of focus was rare of Jack, whose work came in fits and starts during episodes of manic hysteria or drug fueled visions of all the ghosts who haunted him. 

Unfortunately, his name was being forgotten too quickly for him to wait around for an episode that would leave him with an unintelligible script and a feeling of dread so deep in his bones that he would spend weeks dreaming of opening every vein in his body.

Jack hadn’t looked at the clock for what must have been hours, maybe days. Page after page of what felt like nothing were haphazardly stacked on the floor at his feet. A knock on his door--pounding and frantic--popped the bubble of his concentration and Jack was equally frustrated and relieved. “Hang on, hang on,” he said, barely able to imagine who might be disrupting him.

[jacksauvage-blog]

elliotmurdock‌:

Phillip did his best to keep himself distracted on the way back to the man’s house, not wanting to think about all the things that could go wrong. He was more than happy to avoid talking as he watched through the window as the city flew by. When they stopped, he got out of the vehicle and glanced around. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the area, but he hadn’t been many times - he only vaguely knew where they were. As the other opened the door and walked in, Phillip scanned the place with his eyes. It wasn’t what he was used to, but it also wasn’t terrible. He followed him inside, trying to stifle the feeling of uneasiness in his stomach.

“Alright…” The Crooner said softly, tugging at the sleeve of his own jacket to pull it off and set it down near the door. He followed Jack further into the flat, pausing when he ducked into the kitchen. He peeked inside for a moment, before following him in there as well, not sure if that was what he wanted or not, until he sat on the floor.

Phillip mimicked him, sitting cross legged in front of the coffee table, and watched as Jack cut two neat lines for them. His eyes moved from the powder up to the other and he hesitated, before shaking his head. “No, I haven’t. Do you mind?”

"I never mind,” Jack said, his voice low and anticipating something that he couldn’t put language to and his mouth watered shamefully. He groped along the surface of the table for the pack of cigarette papers he’d tossed there the night before, tearing one free and tossing the pack down again in front of the singer. “Like this,” he said, holding the thin paper up to demonstrate rolling it into a tight tube. 

He held his finger over his one nostril and the paper to the other, bending low over the table he gave a sharp inhale that swept the drugs immediately into his system. The burn was immediate but short lived, followed quickly by fireworks filling his field of vision. Jack held his breath and slumped back against the sofa, letting it sink into his bloodstream. He felt electric. He felt hungry.

With a sharp exhale he opened his eyes again, looking across the table to the crooner. With some effort, Jack managed to pull himself to his feet and in just a few quick strides he managed to situate himself behind Phillip, sitting so that his legs were open on either side of his body, encouraging hands resting on the younger man’s shoulders. “Just like that,” he muttered, preparing to catch Phillip if the impact knocked him off balance. 

[jacksauvage-blog]

appellemoiange‌:

“I was asking myself that very question before you came about.”  

A glass in hand was just what she needed, and she clinked her wine with his in a little cheers–to new friends!– before taking a sip. It wasn’t a full bar, but at least the wine wasn’t cheap. 

“Some would call me an artist.” She shrugged a shoulder. “The boring truth of it is that I am just a dancer with a night to herself, for once. I never make plans if I can help it so I am free to wander, which typically yields interesting results, but occasionally I have a dud of a night staring at paintings of drowning women.”

Lusine sighed and nursed her wine. 

“And how about you? Were you invited, or did you stumble upon this like I have?”  

“I hope you will forgive my intrusion on your evening,” Jack apologized before taking a sip of his wine. “Though, one might say that I have just rescued you from an afternoon of undeniably mediocre paintings.”

His invitation to this event had reached him weeks ago. And much like all the other invitations to all the other events, it had sat on the table beside his door, half forgotten with no intention of attending. Though what this artist lacked in talent, he made up for in his connection to better artists and a heavy hand when it came to financial generosity. Jack couldn’t well afford to piss him off.

“I was, unfortunately, invited. And when he asks me my opinion on his work, I will tell him that he shouldn’t listen to the critics. That he has a masterpiece on his hands. And, if I’m believable enough, he might be willing to put me in touch with one of his friends--a much more talented man--who designs brilliant advertisements and posters.” And thus was the way of the art world. Pass out a few false compliments and gain a reward. 

A curious thought struck him, though his lungs had certainly done their best to heal from he fire and most of his former friends and former flings had moved on from their time in hell. “You didn’t dance at that place that burned down, did you?” He asked, before he had the chance to consider if this question might insult her.

[jacksauvage-blog]

starter for @anaisveilleux​

He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or pure selfishness that threatened to push the words out of his lips as he sat across from Anais, their lunch half eaten and forgotten as they caught up. Jack didn’t see as much of his friend as he would like. And, truth be told, since the wedding Jack’s heart hurts a little every time he sees her. The feeling of a jilted lover that still tore at his heart every so often was harder to drown out with gin than he thought it might have been.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, not meeting her eyes but looking just beyond her. It was rare that Jack saw Paris in the daylight unless he was working. The City of Lights was just as beautiful with the sun gleaming off the Seine. He nudged his drink away, reaching for Ana’s hand.

What good could come of this? Would destroying something make him feel like he was winning? Would refusing to keep another man’s secret finally set him free?

He took a deep breath and looked down at the unlit candle in the center of the table. “I am…” he paused, biting his lower lip before exhaling all of his nerve in one deep breath. “I’m struggling,” he admitted, “to find funding for my next picture. I waited too long since my last and people aren’t as generous with their investment offers as they were a year ago.”

[jacksauvage-blog]

elliotmurdock‌:

Phillip went backstage to grab a few things, avoiding as many eyes as possible, before heading around back to meet Jack at the front of the club. He had never done anything like this before, and everything in him was warning him that it was a bad idea - and yet, he needed to fill some of the emptiness. He needed something, because he knew he couldn’t continue the way he was for much longer. It was eating him alive.

The brunet often admired the way the city looked at night. It was something he saw often, after every show, and yet he couldn’t get tired of looking at it. It was calm in appearance, yet he knew everyone was bustling about, or preparing to do so within a few hours. He smiled at one of the musicians, smoking out back between sets, and bid him goodnight, before heading around the building to meet Jack out front with the cab. Hopefully no one would be around to suspect what was happening - it wasn’t like they would know where the two would going, so he hoped it wouldn’t matter either way… but people quite enjoyed their gossip.

He gave Jack a smile as he rounded the corner and approached him and the cab. The crooner gave him a smile and a firm nod, before slipping into the car and leaning his head back for a moment. 

The ride home was silent, as if his intentions had solidified into a wall between them in the backseat of the cab. The stairs were dark, as they always were and Jack lead the way through the shabby building to his even shabbier apartment. Inside, his flat was in its usual state of barely ordered chaos. Empty glasses littered the counters of his kitchenette, his coffee table was covered in a precarious stack of books, film equipment had been tucked away in the corner behind his sofa. There was nothing appealing about the place he called home, except that it was every bit an extension of him. Not that Jack would ever call that appealing.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he offered, shrugging off his jacket and loosening his tie. Over the back of chair, he tossed them as haphazardly as anything else in his apartment and ducked into the kitchen to retrieve his own supplies, a stash tucked away in a hidden drawer. 

He sat on the floor, legs crossed and hunched over the coffee table as if performing careful alchemy, spinning his own narcissism into gold. He cut two neat little lines and gestured for the singer to come closer. “Have you ever done this before?” he asked, gesturing. “If not, I can show you. It’s easy.”

[jacksauvage-blog]

appellemoiange‌:

Lusine stepped away, swishing the skirt of her gown as she lazily paced about the room. “My condolences to your sanity, mon sucre,” she purred over her shoulder to the man. 

The rate at which her mood had come around was nothing short of incredible; she realized this the moment she was sent into a fit of wild giggles. Handsome and funny to boot, she liked this one. It was rare to find a man whose presence did not require a strenuous effort to pay attention to, but she seemed to have stumbled across it in the one place she thought she would not find such a thing. Artist types… 

That was the reason why she had no problem following his lead out of the room. That, and the booze. 

“Is there?” she asked as if she had not made note of the target earlier that evening. “Would you be so kind as to escort me there? You can tell me more about your impressions.” 

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, dramatically bowing towards her and offering her and arm to hold onto as he lead her out of the gallery. “It’s not a full bar, of course. Only a temporary set up, I’m certain, with only wine and champaign--this being a classy place and all--but they would have to offer something to get people in the door for, well, this.”

On the entry floor of the museum, he ordered them each a glass of wine, brought them to one of the small tables arranged neatly in the grand lobby. 

“And how did you end up here?” he asked as he settled into a seat and extended a glass to her. “Tell me you’re living a better life than that of an artist?”

[jacksauvage-blog]

gabrieldesilva‌:

It felt as though the wind was knocked out of him, and color drained from the critic’s face as Jack painted a picture for him, one that was dangerously close to reality, and Gabriel leaned his weight against the counter in fear of collapsing on the floor. Each word uttered was a knife sunk into his chest that Jack plunged deeper and twisted with glee. Only the man wasn’t smiling, and Gabriel hated how, despite the power that Jack held over him, he still looked upon the critic with sadness and affection…even pity.

Gabriel flinched when Jack stepped closer, cold hands resting  on his shoulders and sliding down his arms, the grip although it wasn’t the other man’s intention, almost felt reassuring. Brown eyes stared at Jean-Baptiste’s hands as he listened, half-expecting the man to tell him that the boy was insignificant; but the moment did not come, instead, a brief clarification was given before reminding the critic that he had no right to the cinephile’s life. 

“It does not make it better to prey on someone innocent,” he murmured, and Gabriel pursed his lips as he looked up to study on the sleep-deprived features of his former lover. The disagreement with Bhari had left him vulnerable to his insecurities and the lies he told, and the critic desperately wanted to lean in and seek comfort in the other man’s touch. But he didn’t, and he slowly disentangled himself from Jack, as that familiar heat from self-loathing aided him to make his escape.

“Stay away from Ana,” he warned, though even Gabriel was convinced that it sounded more like begging. “And I will leave your precious crooner alone.” The critic took a side step in an attempt to distance himself from Jack. “You may not care about yourself, but that boy’s future is still uncertain. I would hate for anything to jeopardize that.“

It was under the careful eyes of the critic that Jack realized how he must look. With dried blood still in a streak down his nose. His eyes, he imagined, were likely gaunt and bloodshot. His skin the same sickly greenish tint that usually came after a night like the one before. His body, unclothed and on display in all it’s frail grotesque glory. The years had not been kind to Jack. And, in tern, Jack had been even less kind to himself.

“I’m sorry, Gabriel,” Jack said quietly, releasing the man from his grasp. “But Anais and I have been part of each others lives before either of us were in yours. So, no. I won’t stay aware from her.” It wasn’t a threat, not intentionally at least. But maybe, also, it was. 

“I don’t care about the boy,” he said bluntly. Not in the way that he cared about Gabriel, not in the way either of them cared about Ana. The singer would never be able to so expertly hurt him the way Gabriel could. “Leave him alone, tell him I’m a monster, do whatever you want. His future isn’t my concern. I’m not keeping a lover or a pet.”

He considered Gabriel for a moment, remembering in fragments the night before. How in the dark he’d touched the singer and imagined Gabriel beneath him. How he’d pretended they were in California, the cocaine creating a roar in his head that he pretended was the ocean. “There was a time when I was afraid of you,” he admitted. “When I thought I might have something to lose by being in your life. But you can’t expose me without exposing yourself. And you are too much a coward to ever admit that some part of you is like me. Like Sebastian. Maybe someday you won’t be. But until then, there is nothing you can do to hurt me.”

[jacksauvage-blog]

charlotte-leigh‌:

“To new friends,” she smiles as their glasses click together. No time is wasted between them before she brings the crystalline glass to her lips, then returns it to the bartop with a pink lipstick print adorning the rim. Usually by now her touches would be reciprocated, welcomed, encouraged, but it is clear now that he has not come here with the intention of going upstairs with courtesans. Men rarely came here for just the alcohol, but she doesn’t mind in the slightest. It’s a welcome departure from the usual script that the patrons here tend to follow, and she raises an eyebrow as she attempts to continue figuring him out. 

The smile that crosses his face is enough to flush her cheeks red and divert her eyes to the floor. “You didn’t really think the emcee wouldn’t recognize you when you walked through the doors here, did you Monsieur Sauvage?” She tilts her head to the side and looks up at him through fluttering eyelashes. “I know your name, of course, but I hope that does not make you think your celebrity is the only reason I’ve chosen to share a drink with you.” Her manicured index finger circles the ring of water her glass has created on the bar. 

“Certainly you must be the most interesting man in Paris tonight, let alone the Moulin Rouge.”

“Well, the flattery is appreciated,” he says, resting his elbow on the bar and his cheek in the palm of his hand. Relaxed as his posture was, he kept his eyes glued to her, attentive to every detail. "Though, I’ll admit that it’s quite unnecessary. I’ve already decided that I like you.”

The lights inside Moulin bathe her in an unnatural brilliance. Colors move across her face in a way that Jack would have called magical if he had still been young enough to believe in magic. “The most interesting man in Paris,” he repeated, his voice lazy and dreamlike as he admired her the way he would have admired a sculpture. “You must know, then, I may very well be the only man in all of Paris who isn’t lining up to spend my life savings on you. Maybe that makes me the loneliest man in all of Paris, and indeed the Moulin Rouge, instead?”

[jacksauvage-blog]

elliotmurdock‌:

Something in Phillip’s mind was screaming at him to tell the man thank you, but no thank you. To leave and go home, or even go to Vivienne’s. Just to get out of the situation that made him feel uneasy. However, the Crooner carefully considered the offer in great detail. Who knew how the drug would actually affect him? But if it made him feel better, even temporarily, wasn’t that worth it? The only thing that did that nowadays was being on stage, and every time he stepped off, it felt like he’d fallen even harder than previously.

The man slipped some bills under a glass to cover both their drinks and his eyebrows flicked up for a moment. He nodded in thanks, his own alarm getting softer and softer as he considered what it would feel like to fill the massive, aching, ever-growing hole in his chest. 

Phillip leaned in slightly to hear the stranger’s words, and he nodded again, giving him a small smile. “Of course. I should grab my coat from backstage, but I will be right out.” 

What am I doing? Jack couldn’t get the question out of his head--What the fuck am I doing?--as he watched the little singer dart off with the promise of a cab waiting for him when he got back. The bartender gave him a look that accompanied his wave goodbye when he collected Jack’s cash. It was a look Jack couldn’t decipher and would spend the rest of the evening replaying the clip in his head, each time a little more distorted, a little more menacing than the last.

The air outside was warm and damp, the streets outside held a fresh layer of rain that had come and gone since the last time that Jack had stepped outside. The sun was long gone, now a complete stranger to the stars that dotted the sky somewhere beyond the orange glow of the street lamps. The darkness and the rain did nothing to strangle the life from the city streets. People moved about as they always did, taking little notice of the things that turned the abstract concept of guilt into a dense stone at the bottom of his stomach.

He flagged down a cab approaching the night club and gave the driver his address, promised a tip if he would wait just a moment for his friend who was on his way out. The bartender’s look, a straight smile with a raised eyebrow and something in his eyes that Jack couldn’t quite place, jumped to his mind as he saw the door open, the singer’s face appearing in the darkness all sharp edges and sad eyes. 

“Shall we?” he asked, holding the car door open.

[jacksauvage-blog]

appellemoiange‌:

“If blue is the most tragic of colors, then I need to rethink my entire routine,” the Venus uttered.

Lusine often feared about the direction of art in Paris, as the city often had a habit of changing overnight. Was was in on Tuesday would be old hat by Wednesday morning. Personally, she loved the classics. There were times when she would visit the museums just to stand close enough to those large-canvased masterpieces of ethereal imagery just to lose herself in their beauty. Sometimes just looking at them was enough to make her cry. 

Standing there in the Bateau, looking at these images, she wanted to cry. Though it was not for the beauty. 

“Funny you should say that, because I feel on the verge of death right now—not because of you, of course,” she felt the need to quickly add, with a little wave of a hand gesture for emphasis. The last thing she wanted was to insult the man. 

“I’ve dealt with too many of these painters to count.” Lusine snorted. “Please tell me you’re just observant and not speaking from personal experience.” 

“Well, actually,” he said through a smirk. His voice dropped low as if the next words to come from his lips would be his most closely guarded secrets, “I’m am a painter with a very convoluted theory about contrasting colors.” His arms folded lazily across his chest, his wine glass poised for another drink as he pretended to examine another painting.

“I also happen to think that painting dead women is the only way to express myself and the agony of how long it’s been since last I had a woman on her knees before me.” The blunt crassness of his statement was undercut by the way he could barely contain his laughter at the notion of it all. He glanced over at her, amused by his own pointless charade. “No, I assure you, I am no painter. But, I do believe I’ve shared a drink and a smoke with this particular artist and you’ll have to take my word for it, but my impression was spot on.”

Jack glanced around searching for an escape route. “I can’t possibly look at this for another moment. And there’s a wine bar set up downstairs,” he suggested, taking a few steps backwards towards the exit.

[jacksauvage-blog]

gabrieldesilva‌:

How is it that every time Jack dared to utter the word love or even allude to have any semblance of feelings for Gabriel, he is left with a pang in his chest. Gabriel froze, thrown off guard at the other man’s remark, and the casual way Jack would just admit to moving on from their cursed tether left him weak. 

A lump formed in his throat and his shoulders fell as Jack continued, and whatever train of thought Gabriel might have had on his way there, the admonishing, the lashing out because it was so easy to do when it came to Jack, was put aside as he stared at the man. It was unfair how easy it was for Jack to disarm him, to render Gabriel speechless, to make him want to retract and make himself small to protect himself from the things he was forced to feel around the other man.

The mention of the opera singer, yet another unfortunate thing that ties them together, made the critic return his focus on the situation he was in. He was in Jean-Baptiste’s kitchen, standing in the dark and demanding that the other man feel remorse for taking a child to bed with him. Gabriel was overcome with embarrassment, he reeked of alcohol, looking and sounding every bit like a spurned ex-lover as he opened his mouth in an attempt to answer before closing it again.

Of course Anais didn’t know, Gabriel had no intention of telling the woman anything if he had a say in it. His life was unraveling, and the critic had every intention of holding on to the songstress until they too, unraveled. She was as soothing as the narcotics that Jack had laying about and Gabriel would keep on chasing the high that she gives him for as long as he can.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, shoulders squaring up once more as Gabriel reinforced the disgust that he should be feeling towards Jack instead of the desperate need for someone to stand by his side. Gabriel was drowning but still, he refused help.

“You flatter yourself.” Gabriel finally spoke in answer to his accusation that he had purposely waited for this moment to pounce on Jack and blame him, but his tone lacked the same ferocity it held earlier. “She won’t believe you. Nobody will. You’ll be confined in the dark like the scurrying rat that you are.”

Gabriel had always assumed that Jack would reveal their secret, his inescapable past. It was so easy to think the worst when the critic had no problem betraying someone like Bhari Sinclair. 

“…Two sides of a coin,” he trailed off, brown eyes drifting to the floor before reaching for the bottle. His bravado lasted for a moment as his shoulders slumped once more, and Gabriel looked utterly defeated as his mind raced to all the people he cared about. Every single one of them he had lied to, one way or another, and only Jack knew the ugly truth about him.

Watching Gabriel was like watching something come fully undone. As though his very form was decaying right before his eyes, sped up. Seven hundred frames per second. Even when the critic came to him looking like a trapped beast baring his teeth, spitting his venom, Jack felt something for him. And as he watched him decay in the middle of his flat, Jack wasn’t sure what was love and what was pity and what was bitterness. 

The Gordian Knot that was his relationship with Gabriel remained twisted around his throat.

“She doesn’t have to believe me,” he said, his words coated in sweet cruelty that lingered on his tongue. “But you and I both know she would begin to doubt you. And once she’s gone, who will you have left, Marco?” Only me. Jack left that unsaid. Barely able to bring to his imagination the thought of peeling Gabriel away from his life as a means to stick him into his own.

Jack rounded the bar to come face to face with Gabriel. His dark eyes meeting soft browns, bloodshot from too much alcohol and too little sleep. “Fortunate for you,” he said, placing his hands on either of the man’s slumped shoulders, “I have kept your secret. From your friends, from your loved ones, from your colleagues. I’m the only person in all of Paris who truly knows you and I’ve never uttered the truth to a soul.” There was something broken about them both. Two men so bent on destroying their own lives by any means necessary. Two sides of the same coin, indeed. 

“I left you alone because you wanted nothing to do with me. I’ve lived because you wanted me to live. I’ve done everything you’ve asked and everything you’ve wanted because I know that I deserve some of your ire. And yet, here you are. Full of fire and fury because I slept with someone. Meanwhile, someone I care deeply for has no idea that the man she is with is in my living room.” Jack’s hands dropped to Gabriel’s forearms, fingers gripped tighter than he’d meant to.

“The singer,” he said, the heat gone from his voice as he looked away from Gabriel to the floor beneath his feet. “He’s older than...ahem. He’s older than you or I were when we met.” Older than Jack was when he became the object of an eccentric artist’s passionate affections. “But please know that I don’t owe you that explanation.”

[anneesfollesrpg]

It’s another Meme Monday!

Here’s another meme drop to spice your Mondays up. These memes—which can be done at any time throughout the week until the next one is posted— are not mandatory, but they can be a whole lot of fun. As usual please follow our guideline on meme etiquette to the best of your ability. Who knows, perhaps you may find out something new about your connections!

LIVING SPACES.

[borrowed from here]

Describe your muse’s…

🏠- House

⛰- Front/backyard

🌹- Garden

🚙- Car

📺- Living room/lounge

🔪- Kitchen

🕳- Basement

🛁- Bathroom(s)

🛏- Bedroom(s)

👕- Closet

🛌- Bedding

📥- Nightstand

📦- Desk

🗑- Trashcan

🎐- items/knick knacks they collected

🎀- Jewelry or accessories they have

🐻- Toys or stuffed animals (theirs or not)

🖼- Framed photos

⚱️- Homely decorations

💆- Their hairbrush

📖- Their diary

📔- Their notes/records

🗓- Their calendar

🕰- Their clock

👝- The contents of their purse/backpack/bag

🛠- The contents of their toolbox

🕯- The contents of their emergency supply kit

🍎- The kind of food they store in the kitchen

🔨- Their garage

❓- Any secret rooms they have

[jacksauvage-blog]

appellemoiange‌:

His initial criticism pulled a snort from her, and it was that simple act of unrestrained joy–the first she’d felt all day–was enough to make her smile. Boring and vulgar. She was reminded of the many men she was made to entertain. “Don’t hold back on my account dear,” she uttered.

“Not soon enough, it seems.” Lusine turned on her hee lto look about the room, hoping to find another little makeshift bar where she could snag another drink. Unfortunately there was none, and she huffed. Her eyes fell to the tall man instead, and she paused, quite taken by his dark hair and eyes; he appeared like a statue made real, and she wondered if it was wise to have any more to drink. 

Quickly, upon realizing she was staring, she turned her attention back to the real artwork. “Do you suppose the women in these paintings are actually dead or have they just fainted from boredom.” 

"First she fainted. Perhaps forced to listen to an artists commentary on the true depths of the human soul. And how blue is truly the most tragic color,” Jack said, a wry smile prickling across his lips. It was rare to meet a someone who shared his brand of macabre humor. His glass of wine was still half full as he pointed it towards the painting, tilting it at a navy formation of what might be rocks just to the side of the subjects head. “Then she fell into the ocean, hit her head and drowned.”

He pulled the glass back to himself, taking a short drink. For the first time in weeks, Jack’s aim was not to obliterate himself before noon. “I’ve heard that boredom can be quite fatal. Even when you’re not precariously perched on a cliff and in the clutches of a painter who thinks himself a philosopher.”

[jacksauvage-blog]

Shhh

Shh: Three things they wouldn’t want their parents to know.

1. How much their disapproval really did effect him.

2. Anything about his health because they would blame him for not being strong enough to get over himself.

3. Generally how pathetic and small he feels a lot of the time.

[jacksauvage-blog]

Dream

Dream: Three wishes they have.

1. Success--He needs his career in film to amount to something worth throwing his entire life in to.

2. Love--Jack is an unlovable son of a bitch but he’s so fucking lonely all the time and craves some kind of affection.

3. Stability--His life has been so wild and unstable for so long, there’s part of him that struggles not to pack it in and go do something his father would have been proud of.

[jacksauvage-blog]

Different: Three members of the opposite sex they find attractive.

Different: Three members of the opposite sex they find attractive

1. Anais--she has been beautiful ever since they were children. And his life would have been infinitely different if he’d realized that he could be attracted to her when their parents were trying to push them together as children.

2. Sylvia--Jack is borderline obsessed with her. He has promised to make her famous but is going to struggle with letting other people have her. His attraction to her isn’t sexual in the slightest. It’s purely aesthetic.

 3. Lusine--There’s something about her that Jack can’t put his finger on yet but he’s into it.