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@vicente-deleon
Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry—too much of myself!
The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde
ofhercs:
He holds his hands tight against his chest as he looks up at the cathedral, heart beating too quickly as he remembers the last time he was here. Looking back, things hadn’t been so perfect then, either - worrying about rent, worrying about their future together, worries buried and tucked away temporarily at Lincoln’s insistence that he wanted to save up for a trip to Paris. But this moment had been theirs and theirs only; back then, he’d hoped it would become something more than just a memory.
Then even as he stands in the middle of a crowd, he hears a voice calling out to him, melodic, gentle. My hero, he says, and Lincoln feels himself melt a little, almost wants to wrap his arms around the older man just so he can rest his head. But he very much keeps his hands to himself, pulling at his own sleeves when he feels Vincente’s hand on his shoulder.
“The past, mostly,” he says, tearing his gaze away from the other for a moment to look at the great structure again, “wanted to see if anything had changed.”
But he doesn’t want to burden anyone with his own thoughts so he nods, stepping away from the crowd and following closely behind Vincente. “But it’ll have to be on you, Vincente. I can barely save up to get lunch outside since, you know, since I’ve been bumped down to Stratum Three,” Lincoln hums, “I deserved it, I guess.”
“Oh, you’ve been here before?” An innocuous thing if not for the way he looked at the church. Vicente gazed back at the building too. Who knew it was possible to long for anything beside something made of flesh and blood; than an old church turned tourist spot could encapsulate so much it was impossible to misread Lincoln’s expression for anything but pure yearning. “Has it?” You asked. “Doesn’t look much different from the pictures.”
Leading the way Vicente put his sunglasses back on his face and sauntered through the crowd. “That’s fine.” He said, waving it off. “I was going to anyway, since I’m dragging you away from your business to spend time with me. Now we’re even.”
At the mention of dropping down to Stratum Three Vicente slowed down long enough for Lincoln catch up and began walking in step with him, hand hovering near the back of his shoulder. “Nonsense, you’re one of the most reasonable people here. Whatever it is you’ve done, this is likely all for show and it won’t be hard to get back on Metzger’s good side. He’s an easy man to please.”
Coming to a stop in front of a restaurant, Vicente held the door open for Lincoln before entering behind him and following a waitress to their table outside. Replacing the menu on the table with his sunglasses he flipped through the book idly, already certain of what he wanted but willing to be persuaded to order something else. “Order whatever you’d like.”
☒
☒: The hardest thing about roleplaying your muse?
Not pulling my punches. There are a lot of moments where I wonder “is this line too conceited; oh maybe that’s a little too forward; this is pushing things intensely forward, should I dial back?” when I know that in Vicente’s reality he’d have no reservations. (on the flip side his cruelty is subtle and it’s easy for me to pretend it’s not there when of course for him to work it must always be under the surface)
Also unlike my other muse the line between who he is and how he presents himself is a little thinner, but it’s there. I’m not sure if I’ve been clear enough that he’s always giving away just a little more of himself away than he means to or realizes. (which is probably the case for most people???)
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☮❤✌
❤ ; A trait you admire in your closest friends?
Confidence. (and/or the perception of it). My closes friends are very good at presenting their ideas with conviction. At times I feel lucky that they hang around me because I’m openly more dependent on affirmations.
☮ ; What’s your life motto?
One of my top 5 quotes from Hamlet: “There are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in [ my ] philosophy.
✌ ; An achievement that you’re proud of?
Maintaining high grades after a really painful semester due to mental health stuff. I was really worried about failing or disappointing people because everything was ten times harder than before because I had all this other baggage weighing me down, but in spite of that I had managed to actually boost my GPA by the end of the year. It felt like an achievement in the sense of not allowing my depression and anxiety to stand in the way of my goals. And if I can do it at my lowest point I might be able to overcome other things.
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Munday Meme~
Send in a symbol or two to learn about the person behind the blog!
❤ ; A trait you admire in your closest friends?
❥ ; A trait you admire in your enemies?
웃 ; Post a photo of the mun!
♋ ; What made you choose this muse?
☮ ; What’s your life motto?
✌ ; An achievement that you’re proud of?
☢ ; A mistake you want to fix?
☠ ; What’s an unpopular opinion that you have?
☑ ; The easiest thing about roleplaying your muse?
☒ ; The hardest thing about roleplaying your muse?
♚ ; What’s a personality trait you have that you’re proud of?
♛ ; What’s a physical trait you have that you’re proud of?
ツ ; Tell us about your first love.
☣ ; The biggest lesson life has taught you so far?
➳ ; A personal goal for this year.
llenore:
malachileclair:
He’s not drunk, but he doesn’t share what’s in the dark glass on the table, the only alcohol as some sip from Lenore’s drink when he was carrying it to her. (He’ll have to walk them home; he’d know these streets drunk in the dark, but he doesn’t figure they do.)
And he’s something silent here, something watching, but he can be a presence too in silence, in the he holds himself here, never slouched, always something tall, quirked eyebrows with Lenny’s question toward Vicente, something all daring in his, but doesn’t let it speaks, let it be all felt. Lenore is felt, all angles; Vicente is all that’s in his level line of sight when he looks forward.
And he doesn’t mind how he takes space, Lenny’s space, as much as she takes of his. He speaks low, tilting a head down as if it’ll help her to hear, as if speaking secrets, “You’ll have to move for that,” teasing, when her head is hear his shoulder, but legs almost ready to stand.
“Here I thought you two would be more interesting than that, did you forget how to take a dare, Vicente?” A hand on the crook of Lenore’s arm, moving gradual to her waist to move the arm from his, to stand. “It matters how you prove you hold your liquor.”
@vicente-deleon
“Oh, I can’t?” Lenore asks him, eyebrows lifting. There’s a telltale grin slowly pulling at her lips; crooked, charming in the way it’s almost wolfish. It’s at his order that she leans back and whistles low, “Ay, ahora sí. Bueno,” She tilts her head and without breaking eye contact with him, says, “I’ll have two shots of whatever he’s having, then. Just to be fair.”
Even silent, Malachi still carries his presence. Her smile doesn’t turn sheepish at his words; it widens, eyes gleaming.
“He didn’t forget how to take a dare, Mal,” She tells him, looking back to Vicente with her head cocked right, “Solamente no sabe cómo tomar uno.” (He just doesn’t know how to take one.)
“Baby, are we not interesting enough for you? Do you want us to have more drinks?” False shock on her features: a widened mouth and eyes, a smile that still threatens to break through. As if all the smiles that failed to appear today are coming to the surface. She gives Vicente’s hand a squeeze. “Vicente, how about we do this round of drinks, and then…”
Her eyes move to the stage at the far right side of the bar, currently occupied by a person singing rather off-key (and loudly) to a song in French. “We do that.”
How Malachi is going to reign the two of them in tonight, we’ll have to wait and see.
@malachileclair
The lift of her eyebrows and her mischievous grin will be the death of him, but he can’t resist the opportunity to wipe the smug look off her face. Call it a battle of pride or ego, but Vicente de Leon is not about to lose and certainly not her. He’d never hear the end of it.“¿Crees que podrías manejarlo?” He asks sarcastically as she request two shots of her own under the guise of being fair and has to keep himself from asking for a fourth.
“He speaks! Oh, am I boring you.” Vicente says, drawing out the word boring. Malachi’s silence doesn’t bother him, he has a quiet yet strong presence; there has never been a time where Vicente’s forgotten he’s in the room because he faded into the background. Thinking he is boring, however, is unacceptable. He takes it back, out matching the most competitive person in the world while impressing the not easily impressed will be his end.
“Don’t get too cocky, I’m just getting started.” Pointing an accusatory finger at Lenore before turning back to Malachi. You already know I can hold my liquor.” He flashes his trademark smirk. Although for all the drinks Malachi has brought to his room and Vicente to his they did more talking than actual drinking.
The squeeze of his hand draws his attention back to Lenore and Vicente follow her line of sight to the stage. The off-key notes make his face face cringe, but the implication hits him like a train.
Lenore might drink him under the table, but that he can do. “Yes, let’s.”
malachileclair:
There’s almost a laugh, almost, instead, it’s a smirk, a slant across his mouth, with a quirked eyebrow, tilted head, does the dim light shine against his cheek? Ask him if he smeared it there - right where he wanted it. “Is that so? And how many Parisian men have you known, or is it just me? I hear more here French as the language of romance, I admit to high standards.”
(Is it a compliment, to be unspoken of in the history of who you are? Are you someone so important, someone can’t speak of you? Or did you ever matter at all? It’s the better question, if anyone will ever know.)
And then there’s a real laugh, something gradual, something slow, like a weaving, and maybe there’s fondness there too - but not a kind you feel now, you think of now. Most will ponder it later, if they care to, if dared, if that smile is real, if that laugh is real, how many layers peeled back until you reach the skin? “Isn’t that all the songs, in any language?” Songs for ruin. Isn’t all love, any type, a ruin?
(What would you do for love? If it’s a partner, if it’s a son, if it’s a song? Only one matters in the end, Malachi knows. He’s already reached the end.) “Do me a favor, and try to make it worth it then.” Make themselves a story he’ll tell, or better, one not told at all. “You didn’t tell me we were playing truth or dare; knew you liked the game.“ And he’ll never ask for truth.
He doesn’t react to the twitch, not in his features, but fingers do lightly further into a neck, a hint to something, perhaps, or just something unconscious too. Perhaps. And he knows it’s not a kiss the man leans in for, knows as he would do the same, the same move, almost the way he imagines his breath would feel against Vicente’s hears too if he did it first. And without a beat, he switches their hands to be on his own neck, even if his beat is steady too, another match. “Maybe I was hoping you would tell me.” One hand leaving him to take a place light behind Vicente’s head, his neck - almost touch hair, almost touch skin - almost. “Haven’t you ever written a song for someone?”
“Quite a few.” You lied. “There is more to my life than you just, my circle is wider than you think.” Except less than half were as interesting, it was more of a rank than a shape and with every day Malachi pushed his way to the top.
“You have my word. Vicente crossed his heart with his finger. He always did. The trail of broken hearts was miles long, but none could say they didn’t like being caught in his orbit, burned by the sun. This was how he would assure immortality in Malachi’s mind.
“It’s not as fun if I have to spell it out for you.” Vicente said, still whispering in Malachi’s ear. “All this time and you still can’t figure out what I like? Now I am disappointed, here I thought you were observing behind the those blank eyes.”
He pulled back so they’re face to face again and one would think he had leaned deliberately into the touch, the fleeting chill from the feeling of his palm against the back of Vicente’s neck, but he suspected his eyes must have given it away, widening and then returning to its normal state again. “Of course, isn’t that what artist do?” He began to move his hand down the side of Malachi’s neck to rest on his shoulder. “Projecting all their love and heartbreak and desires and misery for the world to consume.” Could remember the nights standing in the back of bars, hovering around venues long after the show was over, and the way fans always found some way to corner him and transform him into whatever they wanted him to be. “And then later the world asks: What’s this about? What’s her name? Who or what hurts you, makes you feel alive? Oh Vicente, it’s like you can read my mind; it so nice to know you feel the way I do.” Vicente tilted his head to study him. “Would you like a song?” A chuckle. “It’d be a good one, all of them are.”
There were already lyrics half formed in your mind and it was too soon to tell if the song was actually about Malachi or like all his song for someone who could never hear them. Whatever it might have been, it was too personal to sing in that moment, the line between humour and sincerity too blurry to not risk accidentally crossing over. So instead Vicente sang something familiar that he knew all the the bends of and his lips curved into a teasing smile because he was giving away nothing.
“Since my heart is golden I've got sense to hold in Tempted just to make an ugly scene. Who says we have cold hearts acting out our old parts.
Listen, I don't really know you And I don't think I want to But I think I can fake it if you can Let's agree there's no need, no more talk of money Let's just keep pretending to be friends, oh oh oh
I get carried away, carried away, from you When I'm open and afraid 'Cause I'm sorry, sorry 'bout that Sorry 'bout things that I've said Always let it get in my way.”
When Vicente finished there was a look of smugness on his face, eyebrow raised and grin wide. He could not help himself from repeating the same lines spoken to him a lifetime ago, but when he had stolen so many things already what was one more. “Are you the same too?” Unsure if it’s the audience or himself, wanted it to the be the former. “So vain you think every song is about you?”
💬 + even vicente's farts are musical
“Fart jokes, really? I’ll say this, there is no area of music that I am not talented in. Make of that what you will.”
[ Send 💬 + a rumor and my muse will react to it. ]
💬 + the bird you hear yelling at people sometimes is just vicente copying a pigeon
vicente: “no comment.”
he has to practice somehow!
[ Send 💬 + a rumor and my muse will react to it. ]
(i) shakespeare, richard iii (1593) (ii) shelley, frankenstein (1818)
Send 💬 + a rumor and my muse will react to it.
DATE: February 21st. LOCATION: Outside Notre Dame Cathedral @ofhercs
Vicente spots him from the doorway of Notre Dame Cathedral, half lost in a sea of people, and whatever the man standing in front of him is saying — possibly something about showing him around, getting lunch; he doesn’t seem to notice that Vicente is neither fluent in French or cares enough to about the conversation to try and bridge the communication gap — takes a back seat to flagging Lincoln down.
“That’s nice. Je suis….désolé….Je dois-” Vicente gestured across the pathway, waving to Lincoln to get his attention and calling out his name. He neither waits for confirmation that Lincoln heart him or the man’s response before giving him a hard pat on the arm and walking away.
“Ah, my hero.” The waves of people seem to part, instead maneuvering around them to make a clear path. Up close it’s clear that Paris has not been as kind to him as it has been to Vicente; he cast all his worries aside as soon as they arrived, Lincoln still seems plagued by whatever heartache brought him to his room several nights ago. Given the way that night had ended, his series of question that Vicente had not been prepared to confront or answer, he considers pretending to not notice at all.
But he never could resist the opportunity to pick someone a part.
Vicente pushes his sunglasses into his hair and places a hand on Lincoln’s shoulder. “Perfect timing, I had been wondering what you were up to. What brings you this way?” He points to the church behind him. “I thought I’d see what all the fuss was about; it did not disappoint. I’m just about to get lunch. Care to join me?”
Love is not a feeling. It can be tested. Love is action, it is silence. It’s not the emotion straining and scheming for possessions that you used to think it was.
Iris Murdoch, Under the Net (via thebardofbrooklyn)
favourite literary quotes // wuthering heights (1847)
malachileclair:
“That more depends on who you ask, or when we ask each other,” on life being more than drinking. It is. Of course. But, is it? Is like more than a numbing pleasure? More than seeking it? What more is there to do with a life you have no care for, nothing to care for when it’s already dead - when it died in the streets so close? What do you search for in life, when it lives on the impossible possibility of life? Answer: we drink. And call it filling.
And maybe he would show Vicente lived, when he was more than this, when he was more than drinking, when he was more than caverns. (Or is he more now? Is this the man he was meant to be? Nights tend to forget what was the best.) Doesn’t expect Vicente to ask, doesn’t expect for himself to say anything, but to just end up in those places anyway, if he just walks, if muscle memory takes over. (And maybe he would ask Vicente to show him anyway, show him anyway the town he lived in. Not the greater parts. Homes will do.)
It takes him a moment to think of how to answer him, of how to look at him (because theory is different than application, and it still feels like hands in his chest, digging). The gleam of an eye, that Malachi matches, smiling for him, something coy.
“You want childhood?” Childhood he can answer. “We would go dancing, or I would ask them to go dancing. A film - you can’t move, only stare. Can get boring, after a while.” And he says it with the same expression, but those fingers are still digging, “Paris won’t change, not for us,” let Vicente take that as he wants. Let him decide what’s full truth, what’s hidden.
“Should I assume the only name you’re writing on that lock is yours and Wilde’s? Or should I be more flattered tonight?”
”Sounds nice.” Vicente say, eyes scanning store windows. “I did about the same. Ships passing and all that, as the saying goes.” He cannot picture it, at least not he as thinks Malachi means it, he is always full formed in Vicente’s head. Can anyone can really see the youth of someone they haven’t known from that age. Vicente hopes not. The memories of adolescence are not entirely pleasant. Just before he had taken his life into his own hands and left home. A thrilling combination of confidently wanting to be in the spotlight at all times, preferably guitar in hand and the muscle memory of his idols guiding him, and the insecurity of feeling as if he might die if certain people looked at him for too long. That anyone had agreed to go dancing with him the year before his braces came off, and oh what a tumultuously period that had been, in hindsight was miracle, but then again his heart was practically stitched on to sleeves that didn’t quite fit back then and so who could deny such earnestness.
“Well when you put like that, yeah. Is that what movies were like for you?’ Vicente flashes him an expression of feigned sympathy. “Pity.” Truthfully, Vicente can’t remember the last in the past few years that he went to the movies for something that wasn’t an event, just two people sitting in a theater together, nor can he imagine tapping into that person he was almost a decade ago to see a movie with Malachi now. The particular brand of anxiety that came with not knowing what to do with hands, scared that one wrong move meant encroaching into the space of someone, and the belief that drink holders were the worst things to be invented.
This was not the road Vicente meant to go down, but it was best Malachi knows him as he is now.
“Wilde’s of course. You narcissist.” Coming to a hardware store Vicente makes his way inside, begins walking down the aisles. “Unbreakable love is a long time. He’s dead, I’ll always know where to find him.” The words come out faster than his brain can think of the implications and he is left with a bitter taste in his mouth. Had that been why he had done it? To have someone who could never leave. “Could you handle that kind of commitment? We couldn’t divorce.” He picks up a white combination lock from the assortment of colors and weighs it in his hands, notes the gold colouring of the numbering, and then keep rummaging in the box until he finds another. Nearly identical except it’s primary color is black. A twin. Vicente hold it out to Malachi on his index finger. “How about this, I’ll write your name if you write mine. What do you say, want to be bound to me for life?”
DATE & TIME: February 21ST, 8:00PM LOCATION: Paris Streets TAG: @vicente-deleon
And he’s too close to his old apartment again, still not yet cleared out. Familiar now, but not home. He doesn’t call his sleeper car in the train home for the same reason he does Paris, take out that it’s run by Metzger at a circus. There’s an emptiness to the world, and a cloud overhead until all that’s left to feel is the electricity in the air before something bursts open - call it Malachi himself.
Another time, another place he’d decide to only think of the electricity is something made, and one for the man beside him now, darkened streets and dinner paid for already, now just the two of them walking against cobblestones.
“I said I wouldn’t treat you like a tourist, but it’d still be a help if you told me the places you wanted to see,” say it nearing closer to the man, say without the deliberateness of his usual tone, of the usual mask chipping away, peeling back to another (and another). Less charm in the way he pulls himself near, less like the game he created, and usually, if he did pause in chess, it’s deliberate too, chosen. Everything a map. (But what do men do in their own graveyards when they don’t feel dead?) “If I offered you a drink here, would it just feel like a train car?”
“It would.” Vicente says. Not that he’s opposed but he knows there there night out with Lenore will not be the last series of drinks and he’d like at least one day in the city where he can keep the facts of it straight. “There’s more to life than drinking, Malachi.” He begins walking backwards to see his face properly. It’s not that he doesn’t know where he wants to go, but it is not an easy thing to ask.
The distance between them has always been comfortable, only speaking of hometowns and the lives they lived there in the vaguest sense, but now that he is actually here Vicente cannot deny that he is intrigued. But what would he say if asked to show him the streets that he walked, the stores he frequented, and maybe even the home where he had lived?
If the roles had been reversed Vicente would say no, that there was nothing interesting to learn from filling in the footsteps of his past; nothing exciting to be found in sitting in visiting his favourite music shop or standing in the center of the town square where all he could ever think about was how he had to make it out of there.
But it was possible that Malachai would feel then what Vicente feel now, show it to me anyway.
‘What did you normally do at this time of night?” The street lights reflect the mischievous look in his eyes though he suppress the smile. “We could see a film. I hear your Jazz bars are worth seeing. Or were you already in bed by now. You haven’t been away that long, but has it changed at all? The Paris of your childhood.”
He turns forward walking just a little out of step, moving ahead. “Or if that’s too personal.” He likes to keep his secrets, Vicente can’t fault him for that when he likes keep his own. “I can cave to the touristy things. What’s the name of that bridge, Pont….des Arts? Though we’d have to stop and buy a lock. Or maybe we can see if that graveyard if still open. I plan to kiss the grave before we finish here.”
DATE & TIME: february 20th, 5:00pm LOCATION: the louvre, performance stage STATUS: closed for @vicente-deleon
and aren’t they a pair, as always - boy looks like he fits right in, as if marble carved uptop the sleek ebony-ivory; renaissance god over baroque. moves slow, lets cloth slung over waists tangle over legs tastefully, lets glow take up more space on top of the piano than boy. same thing.
the silver of stage lights shines him into a moon, and his companion no less bright next to him. is almost close enough to touch, could make him a silvered thing between midas, between medusa when he looks at him like that.
the melody is a sweeping one, and it is hard what is the accompaniment - boy or music, fingers dancing over keys. boy sits up straight now, extends a leg over the edge of the instrument, letting toes lightly press down on black-and-white keys. smiles at vicente when he does, all too softly.
“think you can make a harmony out of this?” asks, pressing down on keys more messily now, dissonant against the tune the other was playing, eyes fixed on him with no mind to the crowd, breaths held and surely watching.
Vicente could forgive everything that had happened since Vegas, the chaos, the fighting, the fires and the cold, now that he knew it was coming to this. To play in the Louvre. Once again Metzger reminded him why he had joined in the first place, a chance to explore creative heights that he might not have gotten too alone.
And he could only begin to imagine what was higher than that, but for tonight he would revel in the present. In terms of days it wasn’t that long since Vicente last sat behind a grand piano, but when he first took his seat and ran his fingers over the delicate ivory keys it felt as though he had a lifetime to make up for.
From where he moved on top of the piano Soren was so close Vicente could reach out and touch him with minimal effort, he was rarely more than an arms length away when they were both in the same room, but it might break the rhythm of it all.
When Vicente first joined he thought it might be a problem when he had to play the role of accompaniment, thought it might be a problem tonight, but really it was the best seat in the house.
He was watching the keys when a leg stretches out over edge of the piano, breaking the thin barrier to musician and it feels almost like a transgression for having dared looked away in the first place, but the smile on Soren’s face when he looks up at him is a soft one. He returns a gentle one of his own, eyebrow raised in curiosity.
Then he pressed down on the key and Vicente understood completely. “I can make harmony out of anything” And to prove it he kept playing, maneuvering around the attempts to create dissonance of his delicate playing.
