I don’t think people love me. I think they love versions of me I have spun for them, versions of me they have construed in their minds. The easy versions of me, the easy parts of me to love. JULIEN MOREAU.
Felix wore his nyctophilia better than most. Nothing a dab of foundation under his eyes couldn’t fix, and maybe some snatched sleep from the back of class, pressing his cheek to open books or bony shoulders (don’t mind if I do). But this guy– “Wow. You look like shit.” Crude observation eased by the smile he glided Julien’s way, all teeth and catching in his eyes. “But, nah. The only carbs I’ve got room for is vodka. This body doesn’t just make itself, you know.“
And Felix liked to throw his weight around. Had a bad habit of cramming himself into people’s spaces, between undesirable and wanted until they made room and so here he was–sliding his ass on the table, jostling over the muffin with his hip as he drew a leg up, chin perched on his knee. “But thanks, baby.” He punctuated the epithet with an open-handed pat on Julien’s right cheek.
A flash of silver–catching the light as he drew out a flask from the pocket of his bomber jacket. He took a swig, adam’s apple bobbing once, twice, before he pulled it back, lips wet and slick as he held it out– want some?
Image can be caging.
Julien had resigned himself to a life without antics and splendor at a rather young age. It’s not like he had any particular issue with it, either. Of course, it was never easy restraining from the parties and the booze and the fleeting nighttime encounters, which were always just out of reach, but he deemed himself better off because of it.
Felix existed as a picture of all that he missed out on; a reckless existence, the eye of a storm, with no concern for image. He found Felix simultaneously disconcerting and amusing. The constant flirtations, the persistent encroachment of boundaries, the offers that they both knew Julien could never accept — bolstered a feeling of pride, and the meek nature of a sheltered schoolkid.
There was a solitary shake of his head, eyes shifting through a multitude of emotions — confusion, worry, the chiding look that exactly resembled his mother before she doled out light punishment — before landing on one: bemusement. “Considering your high praises,” he mused dryly, a smile ghosting on his lips, “I don’t think vodka will make matters any better.” A beat. “Appreciate the offer, though. Maybe I’ll take you up on it when finals are through.”
Sylv twisted towards Julien, her teeth grit in annoyance. Regardless of his actions to save the garment, it would have to be taken away to be cleaned— a lengthy process given the remoteness of the school; and she had already planned out several outfits with the dense white fur. She glanced down at the book briefly and as he read the title, her nose skewed in distaste.
“Sounds awful.” Her bag was laden with notes on chiaroscuro, a topic that she was certain would garner the same reaction if she presented it to Julien. “Of all the things to do, you chose to people watch?” She gestured towards the end of the hallway, before pressing her lips together and extending an uncharacteristic offer of charity, “I’m heading to the campus cafe to replace that coffee, if you want to come.”
An invite for coffee was possibly the last thing he would’ve anticipated to stem from this interaction. In fact, it was the last thing he’d anticipate coming from her, period. Getting coffee was for friends, and he had existed under the impression that they most certainly were not.
Then again, his father often went for coffee with his associates, and that word seemed far more fitting for their relationship.
“It is,” he gently closed the book and slid it into his messenger bag as a silent acceptance of the invite, popping up from his perch by the window, “but I was hoping pretending I wanted to be productive would force me to be productive.” He pulled the strap onto his shoulder, and fell into place beside her. “Quite clearly, that didn’t work.”
He was hunched over a table in the dining hall, eyes bogged by brown bags, glasses hanging on for dear life at the tip of his nose. There was a muffin sat on a napkin in front of him, barely grazed; he’d found a raisin upon first bite, and almost cried then and there. Sleep had proven evasive for the past few nights. It wasn’t even due to late hours studying, which is what he wished he could claim — he’d stayed up into the wee hours re-watching In The Mood For Love for no reason other than what he could only deem self-sabotage.
(A secondary reason, one he was much less keen to indulge: his nightmares had been especially vivid, with possible correlation to the rapidly approaching anniversary. Oh, joy.)
In true-blue Julien fashion, those thoughts were shoved far far back, and the feelings were redirected entirely onto the defenseless muffin sitting before him. He gave it an idle poke, glaring at it as though it had personally insulted him.
“You want this?” He spoke up as someone passed in front of the table, and the grimace of despair was swiftly replaced with a weak-willed smile. Even in the throes of sleep-deprivation, he could still force a grin and light conversation. “I barely touched it, and I’d feel too bad letting it go to waste. Fair warning, though: it has raisins.”
“ — hold that thought.” Théo said to his companion, recognizing a face amongst the rabble. Dark hair, soft features bathed in the warm glow of the fire. A wineglass in hand. Théo could barely stop himself from rolling his eyes. It was a face, a man, he knew well, if perhaps shallowly. They were from the same coin, he and Julien. Except Julien, bless his soul, was someone who drank wine by a fucking fireplace in a fucking bar, and Théo thanked him every day for how easily he made it to bully him for this fact. Théo took his drink, slipped off the stool, and sauntered towards his target. Someone he vaguely recognized threw a wave at him and he threw a wink back, before finally taking the seat beside Julien, throwing his arm around the man’s shoulder. “Moreau,” he greeted, and then gestured with his chin towards the fireplace. “What do the flames reveal to you tonight?”
Julien was existing blissfully unaware of the judgement being mentally thrown his way for partaking in life’s simple pleasures: a glass of Cabernet, The Dark Tower, and a steadily blazing fire to warm up in the face of the blustering chill outside. (Why else would a bar have a fireplace, if not to be used, right?) This state of oblivion was swiftly interrupted by a looped arm around his shoulder. He blinked in surprise, momentarily thankful for the additional warmth, until he realized who it came attached to. For two souls who ran in similar crowds, shared similar histories, Julien had never felt anything but a vague unease whenever Théo slunk into his vicinity. He carried an air like he was constantly brewing a scheme, and yet, Julien never had it within himself to shoo Théo away when he came in search of trouble. There existed a rebellious itch in his brain that had never been properly scratched, and no human was more equipped for the job than one Théo Rothschild.
“They’re revealing to me,” he offered a brief contemplative look toward the flickering flames, “... that it’s snowing outside.” He fixed his gaze onto Théo, head tilting. “I mean, they aren’t wrong, but I highly doubt they have a future in forecasting.”
It was at that point of time during the finals where Toni was pretty sure they got this in the bag, the difficult things behind them and nothing but the good stuff ahead. They finished their papers with ample time left for revisions and studied for the exams in whatever free time during that day they could muster, oftentimes taking out a book while eating to save up on time. It was a strategy that allowed them to still have a decent sleep schedule while maintaining their GPA. Some might say that their cockiness was unwarranted, that they should be more humble, but Toni had always been the scholar in any of their schools and so they were used to the demands of scholarship and academia. As it was, even though they didn’t need to, they still spent a substantial amount of their time in the library—partly because they wanted to, having already gotten use to this habit, and partly because of the presence of one single person, a person that Toni had fixated on and idealised, the very personification of perfection and achievement and success that Toni wanted to obtain for their own benefit.
Julien Moreau had not been their first choice of an idol—that accolade belonged to those whom Toni eventually found to be dark and cruel and heartless. If they cannot find a home within that crowd, then it was obvious to Toni that they must spend their time on the next best thing—and the next best thing happened to be Julien Moreau, that glittering star that promised privilege. Although he was already accounted for, a boyfriend already by his side, Toni didn’t waste any time in trying to get Julien’s attention, discounting boundaries and labels to get to their own aims. “Julien!” they greeted, sitting themselves down beside the junior, acting all friendly and affectionate, doubtless overstepping their bound—but Toni didn’t care much about boundaries. “How are you, sweet? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you!” Probably not that long, if Toni were telling the truth, but Toni always loved theatrics. “How are the finals treating you, sweetheart?”
Julien was at the point of time during finals where he had been run wholly ragged. He’d spent the last week cooped up in the library, poring over dusty books and scrawled notes in dire attempts to scrap together a research paper on a topic he could not care less about. It had reached the point of sheer existentialism — pondering over what the purpose of all the brain-breaking work was, if the payoff would ever be worth the toil. These thoughts always ended with one simple conclusion: he just had to, plain and simple.
A fitting conclusion for his life, really.
Toni had sauntered over for random chats quite a few times during these desperate crunch-sessions, and while Julien had become well aware of Toni’s... infatuation with him, his obliviousness had failed to connect those puzzle pieces together, in that they were only present in the library to see him. And he had no issue with that presence, really. It is just difficult to be fully up for the task of playing nice when your heart is dutifully pounding with excess caffeine, and you’re only three lines deep into an all-important final paper.
“Hey, Toni,” he greeted, face blooming with a practiced smile. “Oh, they’re,” the facade almost cracked as he briefly stared at the three measly lines, “treating me fine.” And then the act was back on, full-force, as he gingerly shut his laptop. “How about you?" He gently shook his head, offering them a more genuine grin. “Not that I even have to ask. I’m sure you’re ready to wipe the floor with them.”
At the end of the hallway, a collection of students stood around for an impromptu lecture. The professor at the center was charismatic and obsessed in equal measure with his subject and the students that stayed after class to hear more about it. For him to be cornered for half an hour was not unheard of. Yet, this particular instance stood out. Bastian noticed it as he was scoping out an empty classroom. From a distance, he had been observing the conversation with a puzzled expression. One of the girls was wearing a thick crimson scarf. Several people had their backs to him, a couple of others were sitting cross-legged on the ground, and bags had been abandoned on the ground.
He’s preaching, Bastian decided at length. Satisfied, he took out his camera, made the necessary adjustments, and prepared to take a picture. No one noticed. Through the lens, he watched for the perfect shot. Just as it happened — the moment that felt right, that felt worth possessing — someone entered the frame. They were close enough to reach, and his hand shot out to catch them by the sleeve.
“You’ve ruined it.”
“Look, they’re dispersing —” He let go of their arm to point at the end of the hall. The lecture was over, bags were being retrieved, and the magic of it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Bastian stared long enough to catch the eye of the professor before he departed, then turned to the intruder.
“Well, it’s gone.” His disappointment was apparent. “You’ll have to replace it.”
Julien had been unable to snag a single solitary moment with his Comparative Politics professor in weeks. With the onslaught of finals rendering every student fully mad with panic, the man had essentially become a cryptid; vanishing into a thin mist the moment class ended. Despite his general annoyance with attempting to trace the untraceable, Julien completely understood having zero patience in handling the numerous concerns of stressed & intense Poli-sci majors.
Today, however, he’d spotted him — exiting the dining hall with a fresh bagel in tow — and had been rather successfully trailing him, until a hand tugged him back, tugged him away from imminent victory.
His eyes followed the pointed finger without question, though, narrowing at what was simply students and... strewn bags?
He spared a glance down the adjacent hallway — his professor had vanished once more, leaving nothing but the scent of a fresh-toasted bagel in his wake. Julien released a small sigh he’d been holding — in essence, releasing all hope of ever catching his professor before his final — before steadying his gaze on Bastian, deciding to humor whatever it was that had warranted a swift arm-snag.
“Uh...” his head titled, brows knitting. “Replace what, exactly?” A beat. “And how?”
Sylv glanced over, watching yet another passerby lose their footing. Arms flailed out comically, gripping at the air before they finally found their balance and walked away, glancing wildly over their shoulders to ensure that their mishap hadn’t been seen. A snicker sparked from her lips and they flushed ruby.
Her brow lifted at Julien’s words and she took a step closer to him, gesturing quickly. “Yes, hurry.” Coffee seeping into the bleached hairs would only cause irreparable damage, and the brunette sighed, posing as she waited for him to blot away the cause of her distress. “What are you studying?” It was an innocent question, something easy to mirror small talk.
He pulled his gaze away from the unfortunate souls — but not before stifling another small snort — and dabbed gently at the mess of cream splattered on the lavish furs. The touches of napkin to hairs were tender and deliberate; lord knows he had zero desire for her wrath if he somehow further mucked up her attire.
He glanced back up before he answered her question, brows intensely furrowed with the bewilderment that she was asking about his life outside of a need to roast him. “Uh, Political Theory.” His eyes drifted back down. “Truthfully, I wasn’t really studying. Mostly just... staring.” He shook his head slightly, faint smile ghosting over his lips. “Even cleaning up your fur is proving to be more entertaining.”
FULL NAME: Julien Benjamin Moreau.
PRONUNCIATION: JOO-lee-ən maw-roh.
NICKNAME(S): Jules, but only by his family and very close friends.
BIRTH DATE: May 3rd, 1997.
AGE: Twenty-one.
ZODIAC: Taurus.
GENDER: Cis male.
PRONOUNS: He/him.
SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual.
NATIONALITY: French-Canadian.
MAJOR: Political Science.
EXTRACURRICULARS: Rugby Team, Young Ambassadors.
BACKGROUND
HOMETOWN: Ottawa, Canada.
FATHER: Jean Moreau Jr.
MOTHER: Diana Moreau.
SIBLING(S): Anaís Moreau (seventeen).
OTHER IMPORTANT RELATIVES: Almost every single male on his father’s side of the family has been involved in politics in one way or another. (More importantly, though, is his grandmother on his mom’s side. Her recipes are absolutely killer.)
ARRESTS?: As your local Good Boy….. there is no way.
OCCUPATION & INCOME
SPENDING HABITS: For someone from moderate wealth, he genuinely doesn’t spend too lavishly. At least, everything he owns that is ludicrously expensive serves some sort of practical function in his life. He isn’t the type to buy a 10k watch, or blow heaps of money on a gigantic party. He would rather spend on travel, or like… multiple pricey parkas.
MOST VALUABLE POSSESSION: Price wise, he owns a form-fitting Gucci ensemble that he has worn to quite a few of his mother’s charity events. Sentimentality wise, his father gave him a well-worn brass ring before Julien graduated high school. It’s practically worthless by today’s standards, but it had been passed down through generations of Moreau men.
SKILLS & ABILITIES
TALENTS: He’s sociable and polite, and has an ease with making and maintaining friendships. He is athletically and academically inclined (though it’d be a stretch to say he is stellar at either; he’s simply above average.) He can also bake; one of the talents he is truly proud of, as it stems entirely from his mother’s influence.
SHORTCOMINGS: He is incredibly naive and super intent to please, which is obviously Not Good. There’s also the fact that he is very image conscious, which stems from this intent to please - he has avoided things and people he likes due to the need he feels to ‘protect’ his family’s name. He’s also really prone to becoming overwhelmed and brimming over with pent up Stress and Feelings. He’s also a smart dumbass - zero common sense half the time, despite being academically rather bright.
LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: He is fluent in English & French, and also speaks a semi-decent bit of Malay for his grandmother’s sake.
DRIVE?: He can, technically, but as his family had a driver, there was no upkeep, so he’s essentially back to square one with that.
RIDE A BICYCLE?: Yes, though he was truly terrified to learn.
SWIM?: Yes.
PLAY AN INSTRUMENT?: No. He really wishes he had musical talent aside fromoccasionally being able to hit a note, but he definitely does not. 100% the kid who was stuck playing the triangle.
PLAY CHESS?: Yes, albeit not very well.
TIE A TIE?: Yes, though also not very well.
PHYSICAL APPEARANCE & CHARACTERISTICS
FACE CLAIM: Émile Woon.
GLASSES/CONTACTS?: He has reading glasses, but he wears them around sometimes for the #aesthetic.
DOMINANT HAND: Right.
HEIGHT: 6′1.
TATTOOS: N/A.
PIERCINGS: N/A.
MARKS/SCARS: He has scattered scars on his legs from early days spent in the Scouts, as well as rather rough incidents on the rugby field. More prominent, though, is the scar located near his hipbone, from when his appendix was removed.
NOTABLE FEATURES: A smattering of dusty freckles cover his entire body, and are likely one of the first things people notice about him, save for maybe the giant dimple in his chin.
CLOTHING STYLE: Classy but comfortable; cozy turtlenecks, tweed jackets, and crisp button-ups with shined shoes, but rarely anything too wild. Most of his looks are bred out of him being almost constantly cold as hell, and needing one too many layers to function properly.
PSYCHOLOGY
MBTI TYPE: ESFJ.
MORAL ALIGNMENT: Lawful Neutral.
TEMPERAMENT: Phlegmatic.
MENTAL HEALTH: A lifetime of repressing negative emotion has brewed quite a bizarre landscape in his head - he struggles with mild depression, though he is truly none the wiser of this fact.
ADDICTION(S): Caffeine & cigarettes.
DRUG USE: Only in social settings, and never anything more than weed.
ALCOHOL USE: Typically only in social settings, though he does enjoy a solo bottle glass of expensive wine at the bar every once in awhile.
PRONE TO VIOLENCE?: No. He is prone to occasional fits of blowout anger when he has simply boiled over, but he would never escalate anything to violence.
FAVORITES
ANIMAL: Dogs.
BOOK: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis.
COLOR: Moss green, cinnamon brown.
FOOD: Any and all sweets, though particularly pies. (Even more particularly, berry pies.)
MOVIE: Moulin Rouge, though if asked, he is more likely to claim Casablanca.
MUSICAL ARTIST: Fleet Foxes.
SCENT: Fresh brewed coffee, spiced apples, and expensive cologne.
SPORT: Hockey. (Too predictable?)
VACATION DESTINATION: Selangor, as he has lots of extended family there.
ATTITUDES
GREATEST FEAR: Letting those he loves down/being a disappointment. It’s why he allows his life to be so easily manipulated and controlled by others - he’d rather risk his own joy than let people down.
GREATEST DREAM: To find contentment and happiness. We love irony!
BIGGEST SECRET: His pains, his insecurities, the genuine negative emotions that are clouding his mind. He’d really rather die than fully embrace the scope of his Bad Feelings.
TOP PRIORITIES: To just… get through the year without any problems. Floatin’ on by like a gentle breeze.
bake a cake from scratch | ride a horse | drive a submarine | speak a second language | dance | catch a fish | play an instrument | throw a punch | build a deck | ice skate | unclog a drain | program a computer | change a flat tire | fire a gun | sew | juggle | play poker | paint | fly a kite | sculpt | write poetry | change a diaper | sing | shoot a bow and arrow | ride a bike | swim | sail a boat | do a backflip | play chess | give cpr | pitch a tent | flirt | stitch a wound | read palms | use chopsticks | write in cursive | use an electric drill | braid hair | make a campfire | make a mixed drink | do sudoku puzzles | wrap a gift | give a good massage | jump-start a car | iron clothes | roll their tongue | magic tricks | yoga | tie a tie | skip a rock | shuffle a deck of cards | read morse code | pick a lock | cook a three-course meal (poorly, but he can) | make a killer cup of tea | drive a car | use a DSLR camera | run an eight-minute mile | knit
In Kieran’s mind, the forest appeared to be looming over Augustine. It’s dark jagged shadow reached out over the campus, clawing its way towards the school as the sun set. He knew it was irrational; last year he would never had given it a second thought to the scene. But now, despite trying his damndest to suppress all memory of that night, the trees stood tall in his mind as a reminder. God, how melodramatic, he thought dryly.
Irritated by his own thoughts, he lifted the cigarette to his lips, only to notice he had let it burn down to the butt while lost in his thoughts. Hunching his shoulders slightly as a cold wind rolled across the campus, he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the pack. He hadn’t intended on remaining outside for so long, but he had felt too restless to huddle in the courtyard for a quick smoke. While he had intended to take just a brisk walk, he stood contemplative on the southern most walking path, eyes locked on the forest ahead. Numb fingers opened the pack to draw out another cigarette, but the sound of someone approaching made Kieran turn.
It’d been over a year since Julien had last trudged quietly down the forest paths, toting an over-priced camera and an intent to capture the final vestiges of autumn. When questioned by his mother about the sheer lack of cruddy amateur nature photography that fall, he’d bluffed that he was wrapped up in his studies — in truth, he hadn’t gathered the gall to pull himself back onto the paths.
Though when he spotted Kieran wandering southward, he was urged to follow, abandoning his beeline toward warmth, and opting to drift toward the steadfast trees that stood loft over the campus. With a biting wind chilling him clear through to his bones, he silently wished for the warmth of a fireplace. Or a freshly brewed cup of coffee. Or, really, just a cigarette.
And then Kieran halted and turned, cigarette in hand.
“You mind if I bum one?” He questioned, footsteps crunching as he stepped forward. “I’m not stalking you, promise.” There was a beat, a moment of recognition of the other hunched with the unforgiving nip of the cold, before he removed the outermost layer of his piled sweaters — a thick, woolen button-up — and placed it atop Kieran’s shoulders. A sunny smile remained ever present on his face; chipper in spite of the intensified freeze. “...Though I suppose that is exactly what a stalker would say, right?”
It was a laugh that made Sylv’s head whip around, fixing Julien with the same, soured expression. Kieran’s boyfriend. It was probably proper to be kinder, but despite their relationship with her best friend, it seemed impossible to find attributes that she deemed to be worthy of her time and attention. Perhaps, that boiled down to a simple lack of desire in getting to know him; a walking purse that Kieran happily stuffed his own pockets with.
“Safe and all over the floor,” Sylv snapped, stepping around the puddle to set the cup down on the bench beside Julien. It pooled a ring around where it was placed and already a passerby slipped on the mess that she had created a few paces back. “Is there any on my coat?” She twisted, trying to check the sides of the enormous fur herself.
Now that the terror-inducing stare was fully locked onto him, he could feel himself cowering in the wake of it’s intensity. The air of distaste was palpable whenever Sylv was in his proximity; he always strived to be as polite as possible, though, for Kieran’s sake. If this was his best friend, she obviously had to have some redeeming characteristics. She just made no effort to expose them around him.
“Could’ve been worse,” he shrugged a shoulder, gingerly setting his own coffee beside hers, watching as a few unaware souls made the ground their own personal slip-and-slide. “It’s only causing minor destruction.”
He blinked back into focus, peering around to investigate her garish coat. “You’ve got some minor splash action happening in the back.” There was a snap as he popped open the buttoned pocket of his jacket, and he deftly lifted out a spare napkin. “I can get it for you?”
It was over her coffee that Sylv observed the flock of freshmen that sped through the corridors in a manner not unlike the Pamplona bull run. There was something bovine in their wide eyes and agape expressions– it was only because of these faces during the year that she realized how impressive a school such as Augustine truly was. Dark hair churned down her back as she tilted her head to survey the painted ceiling of the hall, and the momentary slip in vigilance was all that it took for a wayward shoulder to shove against her side. The coffee oscillated dangerously and she swore, holding it out and away from her jacket before forcing a glare in the direction of the offender.
Julien had his own steaming cup of liquid joy clasped within a chilled hand, though he wasn’t keenly observing the phenomena of cattle-like students. Instead, he was staring vacantly at the Political Theory textbook perched on his knee, unable to absorb a single word, forcing down a yawn that was threatening its way forth.
His gaze was pulled upward with the commotion happening directly in front of him — an incredibly welcome distraction — and a light chuckle erupted from his nose. He’d been on the receiving end of that pointed glare before, so he certainly should not have found it amusing, but the expression the poor freshman made as he scurried away was laced with such visceral fear that he could’ve been hired for a horror film on the spot.
“...Hey, at least your coffee is safe. Spared you some true devastation.”
