Everyday is like Sunday

Jacques Arden. 24. Owner and prodoucer at WorldStage Records. If there's a sharp thing in the world, my heart bleeds for it. 

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

allegras :

    “What a tragedy,” she said, shaking her head. Another reason she hated driving, and her line of work in the near future. “At least you prevented others from hurting it some more. I mean, I know it’s dead, but…” She trailed off, grimacing. “Oh, it’s no problem. We animal lovers have to stick together.”

“No, I definitely understand.  There’s still something wrong in mutilating something further after death.”  One of the many reasons he used to have nighmates about being embalmed alive as a lad.  Between that, and his habits of horror movies and sweets before bed, he’d more or less ruined his younger self’s subconscious, but the general nasty feeling should.  “And we do.  I live with someone literally in the meat industry.  It’s miasmic as all hell, ugh.”

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

baelacey :

    Music had always allowed her to let her guard fall. She was typically cautious, knowing who (or at least what kind of person) was around her at all times, but the sound of the violin simply made her forget her reality; that she was a has-been washed away in Verona, of all places – that her career got shot down so drastically that she couldn’t even stay in the country. She was merely surviving, and at least her inner geek took her somewhere else, even for a moment.

    Hearing the vaguely familiar voice etched a small smile on her softened features. There were only a few people in Verona she liked, or at least was fascinated by – Richard, Juliet, Patrick, Lysander solely because they were both immigrants, and a couple other girls she’d spoken to here and there (she could never remember their names, only faces.) Her current company was among the few she couldn’t bring herself to be too rude to.

    “Yeah, it’s kind of my secret identity. Just call me Lacey New Jersey,” she joked, lowering the violin. “It’s my favourite song to play. I would always get yelled at for playing the same song over and over, but I can’t help it. Anyway, what about you? Are you a super secret musician?”

“B minus.  I think that was supposed to rhyme.”  Jacques snorted at the title.  “I couldn’t have a secret identity if I tried to--yeah, tact, shutting up, being coy?  Must have been sick the day we learned those.  And not a musician unless you count the stupid number of covers I used to annoy my roommate with in high school.”  

In fairness to said roommate, Jacques had, at sixteen, a habit of playing when he couldn’t sleep.  Even though he’d been good enough at the songs he chose, he couldn’t really fault Richard for having none of it at three in the morning.  The boys’ school had made a fairly poor decision planting the sad insomniac with the irritable insomniac.

“I work the business end of it--producing people, that stuff.  Uh--it’s kind of an underground label, nothing too many people know about.  But I’m around music enough, whether or not I’m an artist myself.”  To be honest, he was best suited to sit back, to immerse himself, he thought sometimes.  People needed ears for their sounds to mean something, and he got them that.  Maybe he wasn’t quite so useless as people--namely his father--would have thought.

“But I’m pretty sure teachers live to suck the life out of fun things.  That would’ve just made me play it more, to be honest.”

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

allegras :

    “You what?” She asked, eyes widening and lips parting in a gasp. “Did you at least give him a proper burial? I hope you didn’t just leave him in the side of the road – although it would be kind of hard to get it out, with the other cars passing by and all. But still! Oh, please don’t throw up. Cameriere! A drink for this unfortunate man over here.”

Oh thank god.  This blond stranger was clearly sent from Heaven or a convincing enough knockoff version of it that Jacques was able to pull himself slightly more together. “I--” He swallowed, clearing his throat that freaking out had made hoarse, “I didn’t have anything to dig a grave with.  I was able to scrape him off the roadside and at least get him back to nature.  But I was useless.  And that wouldn’t make him less dead.” His shoulders slackened and he sat down.  “Thanks for the drink, by the way.  I should be fine. I think.”

[drragons]

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

Quentin as Indiana Jones (requested by skywalkersounds)

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

    Since she arrived, she’d been staring at the music store across the street from her apartment. Merely gawking since lately, she was unsure about her love for music. She’d left it behind, never to be thought of again, but it kept coming back to haunt her. Every time she heard a child play the piano, or strum the guitar strings, she missed it. She wasn’t a fan of yearning for things.

    So, she was at the music store and had picked out a violin and bow. She began to play a song she’d grown to like, Hedwig’s Theme, at first softly, but soon enough, the sound from the small instrument filled the entire store, and she forgot she was even in public.

Jacques had gone exploring while his--whatever they even were, yikes--while Richard worked.  Jacques’s hours were shoddy and strange, leaving him a lot of time to do things like wander into music stores and stare at guitars and ukeleles he wouldn’t have the ‘nads to buy today, but would make for an excellent fantasy of later purchases.  

The music wafting from the room over was both well-played, and instantly nostalgic for Jacques, melancholic nerd that he was.  He’d cried the last time he heard this theme in the cinema as a teenager--not that that meant much, but even so, hearing it was pleasantly painful, and hearing it played well was better.  He wandered away from the faraway guitars, and stood in the doorway, hoping not to disturb the player.  He was happy to see that he knew this apparently somewhat nerdy adept; it made him more fond of Lacey than he already had been.  Once she finished the tune, he let himself be known.

“I didn’t know you were a musician,”  he smiled, awkward and alien as that often felt.  “Nice choice by the way--both pretty and literary.  Best combination.”

[unexist]

o c e a n t u a l 🐋

[mcaesars]

“Beware the Ides of March?” Marcella said, staring up at the graffiti sprayed onto the front windows of Caesar Investment. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

“Oh, shit, you’re a Caesar?”  He’d seen the world blow up over the high profile murder.  Hell, his own company had taken out a loan--the untimely murder of their owner had made a splash even Jacques, in his tower of pillows, vodka and music had heard.  “God, I am so sorry.  I heard about all of--” He gestured to the spraypainted door. “Yeah.  Anyway, this is terrible.  Fuck.  Is there anyone that you know hates you still running around?”

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

“Oh my god.  Ohmygodohmy--I just killed a squirrel.  I was just--driving, having a normal fucking afternoon and I just took an innocent life.  Fuck.  Fuck, I don’t even believe in Hell but I should go there now.  The poor little guy did nothing; he was probably better than any human who ever lived.  And I just killed him, carelessly, like some fairytale monster.  I think I’m going to throw up. Or cry. Someone please hand me something alcoholic.”

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

In My Heart It Was So Real [Jacques/Richard]

@richardx3

Jacques had been a resident of Verona for long enough now that he’d stopped thinking of himself strictly as a foreigner.  He’d even visited his new office here, settled in like a normal human being, and ordered an espresso this morning without apologizing for his Italian for once.  Even more indicative that he was settling in was his seductive urge to call Richard’s house, where he’d slept for over two weeks, home . 

from RICHARD: Where the fuck are you, bitchboi? (read) from JACQUES: I’m on my way home (sent) 

He’d sent the text to Richard when he left the office without thinking.  On my way home.  Because it had taken less than a month for him to start thinking of the house they shared as home, to start looking forward to it when he finished with his day, to have Richard’s schedule memorized to a T, to know what days he took his mysterious beard out on dates--this wasn’t one of them, thank God.

Maybe tonight, they’d actually watch A Clockwork Orange and he’d actually get to do what Richard had promised him he could while they did it.  Hopefully Richard wouldn’t be too drunk to stand--that had made Jacques feel moralized enough to not bang his high school sweetheart last time.

“I’m back.”  He opened the door and slid through, leaving his bad on the counter and his coat right beside it.  ‘Did you need anything?”

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

beaduncan:

“Every time I get a half decent idea it’s like, poof, right out of my head. Some writer I am.”

“Story of my life--but hey, you get half-decent ideas to begin with.  That’s more inspiration than a million other people have put together.  You could definitely scare an idea into sticking around longer; it’s if they never come at all that you’re in real danger.”

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

Boys With Thorns In Their Sides [Richard & Jacques]

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

Richard could barely walk.  Everything was woozy and sideways, and his legs danced out from under him with every step.  He ignored his usual self-enforced taboo of touching other men in public – alcohol did away with that sort of self-consciousness – and he slipped his arm around Jacques’s waist.  It was a sensual gesture, one that he insticutally coupled with a leer.

That was, weirdly enough considering the source, a good question.  Where did he park?  His memory was usually perfect, and now it was definitely less than perfect.  There’d been a tree and a rot iron gate beside it.  What else?  Where was said gate?

He saw it before he had to admit defeat.  

“Yonder.  It’s that-a-fucking way.  You do know how to drive a stick shift, don’t you?”

Jacques felt himself catch on fire when Richard put his arm around his waist.  Richard, barely upright, had an arm wrapped securely around him as an anchor, while the rest of him lolled slightly onto Jacques, half his weight now being tossed onto his shoulders.  This was more physical contact than he thought possible, and his breath hitched a little as he held Richard up.  He had to force himself to breathe normally, to pretend this was all normal, that this wasn’t the closest to happiness he’d felt for months.

He was sure he’d break down and make himself a drink back at the--god, he lived there now, this was going to be difficult--house, and tell Richard he was still mad about him, that this was probably the best thing to happen to him in his twenties.  But that could wait until Richard wasn’t about to spill onto the pavement.

He laughed as Richard threw his arm out dramatically.  “Onward, ho!”  He was grateful, for once, that his father had a fondness for older model cars, at the extra request.  “I learned on a stick.  I promise not to kill you in traffic.”

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

Boys With Thorns In Their Sides [Richard & Jacques]

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

“You know, I should have a driver.  I should have a driver to match my chef and my maid and my Goddamned security gaurd.  They’ll all match.  Fuck you.”  His normally impeccable posture swayed forward and he felt himself slip – the padlocked layers of briers he wrapped his emotions in was relaxing to a dangerous degree – and he felt himself form toxic words in his mouth.  He panicked in the least visible way he knew how to – he quickened his breathing, rolled his hands into fists.  I missed you, you know.  He’d almost said it.  No prompting, no provocation.  It’d had nearly just fallen out of his mouth.

He let his mouth slide into a feral, unprofessional grin.  Only Jacques ever received them.  It was too lewd, too vulgar for anyone else.  That was Bitchboi’s purpose, wasn’t it?  He was the person that Richard inflicted all his swallowed animalisms on.  He had to deal with the vicious, the profane, the over-indulgent.  To his drunk mind, this was very rational.

“Fine.  You drive.”

Richard was beyond the point of controlling himself--that much was plainly clear, and Jacques was kind of fascinated by it.  He was far less malicious when he didn’t have to be.  He became less of a Machiavellian Prince and more of a Brat Prince, and it was quite endearing, all things considered.  He had a theory that the warrior prince exterior protected the more childlike interior, though no proof existed one way or another.  He was hopelessly smitten with both incarnations.

“You could probably use a driver, Richard.  This can’t be the first time this has happened.  And I cringe to think what would happen if I suggested we take a train.”  He had a good idea, and it had just as many cries of DEATH! MIASMA! NOT IN MY HOUSE! as his suggestion of a cab had yielded.

He took Richard by the arm out of the restaurant’s doors.  The air was cooler than he remembered it being, and it made him feel oddly feverish.  Maybe it was the scandalizing effect of touching Richard York in public, that had made his cheeks scarlet.  “Where did you park your car, anyway?”  

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

RICHARD YORK x JACQUES ARDEN @richardx3 /@jacquesofnotrade

Calling him Cherub-faced.  It really was like highschool again.  There was an animal sort of something that twinged in his chest, something like wanting but not quite wanting.  Richard told himself it was a sense of ownership over Jacques resurfacing, and that was all.  It was simple, easy, clean.  Or maybe it was the toxins in his bloodstream.

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

baelacey:

    “Oh, you’re right… Maybe one day we’ll use memes instead of money, and the Leo ones will be equivalent to a thousand notes.”

“Precisely.  It’ll be a marker of history with a specific end date.  I throwback to a time when everyone was awaiting what would one day seem inevitable.  And probably a pretty good example of how absurd we are, ninety percent of the time.  I wonder how much a rare Pepe would fetch in this new economy.”

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

“It’s whatever now. I haven’t seen her three years, and I got over it. But y’know.” She shrugged, nonplussed. “We didn’t have enough boys to fill all the roles in the cast, and my director basically ended up saying ‘screw it, we’re doing lesbian Carousel’. Honestly, kissing people on stage isn’t half bad. It’s how I got my first kiss, anyhow, and it’s only bad if you either don’t like the person or, on the flipside, if you really like the person.” She chuckled, remembering the memory of a seventh grade production of Beauty and the Beast that ended with her having to plant her lips on those of a notoriously awkward boy a year below her who had been playing the beast. 

Only three years and she was over it?  Only three years?  Either she was extraordinarily resilient, or he was terrible at bouncing back.  Either way, he was impressed.  “I can imagine.  I was blissfully spared having to do that--though I knew a couple who did a musical together as the leads, only to stop being a couple halfway through.”  Imitating what they’d once played in life--it had sounded poetic to Jacques, but had made both his acquaintances more murderous than contemplative.  “I think lesbian Carousel might have been an excellent directorial call.” As far as he was concerned, the less straight a romance, the more he liked it.

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

ANNE NEVILLE & RICHARD YORK & JACQUES ARDEN @humorwooed / @richardx3 / @jacquesofnotrade

“Beautiful teacher, huh? You really are a shameless flatterer.”  |  Jacques at his feet; Jacques’s hair knotted in his fingers by the fistful. |   There was something comforting about being around other people from the Arts.

[jacquesofnotrade-blog]

She smiled. “That’s sweet,” she said sincerely. “That’s really sweet.” She didn’t bother asking for names with that one— it was clear that he wanted to keep some things close to his heart, which was perfectly fine for her. Far be it for some girl he’d just met to ask him to pout his heart out just because she thought it was sweet. “You know, when I was in high school I did community theatre with this girl, and god, I was like, so in love with her. Like… it was bad. Head over heels. I had to kiss her on stage too, which was probably the worst thing for me, ‘cause she was probably the kindest person I’d ever met in my life. And then she quit doing theatre and decided to become, like, a lawyer or something, I dunno.” She shrugged. “C’est la vie, as the French say, I guess.”

Jacques returned the smile offered, more than he thought he could.  Jacques was the type to pine, but he partly enjoyed the ache and the longing.  He felt for those who weren’t odd masochists.  Life must be a hellscape for them.  “I can’t imagine only being able to kiss as a lie.  Sounds maddening--I think the lawyer ending makes it all the more tragic.  No love, and she turned to a field notoriously full of lizard-people.”  He was one to talk, making moon eyes over a damned CEO.  He realized this and shut up his attack on lawyers.  “Well, maybe love is blind to profession.  I hope you have better luck in future endeavors, though.  On an unrelated note, for years that was the only French phrase I knew.  Then I found out I’d be spending three months in France.  Brought on a crash course.”