He likes Paris. Paris, Felix thinks, is romantic. Sure, any place is romantic if you really make it -- romance is less about location but instead people--but he likes Paris nonetheless. People are what it's really about, isn't it? Gazing at each other, living that one moment where nothing matters but their other half, no matter who or where they are.
This is the moons' fault that he feels so wistful, sitting outside a cafe with a bottle of wine. The waiter had asked if he was waiting for someone, to which he simply grinned and replied 'Isn't everyone?' as he sat down. Maybe he can make friends with the moon if no one catches his interest tonight. It wouldn't be the first time Felix has had imaginary conversations with himself, nor the last.
He tips his chair as he watches people walking by--lovers, mostly-- and hears violin playing somewhere off in the distance. A song he doesn't know, but he's sure the B flat is supposed to be a C, and he manages to balance said chair on two legs as the augmented 7th hangs uncomfortably in the air. It doesn't bother him as much as it used to in his youth. He barely even winces. Instead, he takes a whiff of his wine before sipping, mimicking what the person the third table over has done.
He'll never understand sniffing it when it's a drink, and he'll never understand what 'oaky tones' mean, but he does enjoy wine. He enjoys anything with love and a little dash of creativity put into it. Creativity is his favourite thing humans are capable of, besides love.
He wishes he were capable of it, too.
The violin stops, mercifully, and Felix is about half a bottle in, red staining his lips before he sees it. It's hard not to see it: a man caught in anguish, stumbling about and Felix is unsure if its bad medicine or not before he sees the gun. Heartbreak.
He rises immediately.
"Monsieur," A few hops and a skip and his long legs have caught up to the handsome man. He offers his best smile. "Perhaps you're having a rough day?"
A rough day didn't even begin to describe it. A bad month. A bad year. A bad life. He'd given up everything to be here and it was all falling apart around him. His music was being twisted and corrupted by a vile man. His muse was being stolen from him. She didn't even love the Duke. He knew she hadn't meant those words. Why had they cut him so deeply?
He'd show them. He'd show ALL of them! When he pulled the gun as had been planned from the start, there'd be blood on the stage! Did it matter whose? The Duke's would have been preferred. Maybe Satine's. Maybe his own. That would be the best option. At least it would stop the ache inside him.
He stopped as the man ran towards him. Anger eclipsed everything in his expression for a moment.
"Get out of my way," was all he said as he moved to step around the man.
Absolute anguish is etched along the other's face, that jaw, those eyes. Felix feels a pang in his chest, empathetic, trying to fight off a wave of familiarity. He's never met this man in his life.
Perhaps he shouldn't be thinking about this, not when there's a gun involved. He chews on his lip, just for a moment, and bows his head.
"If I can't be in your way, I suppose I should just walk alongside you. Why, may I ask, do you have a pistol, monsieur?"
If Felix had his way, he would be tucked politely in an alley between 5th and Broadway, watching a few graffitti artists work their magic with the stupidest grin possible on his face. It's not that he hates Neo Expressionism, Felix is incapable of hating anything that has effort and love and passion poured into it, but sometimes he feels like he's just going through the motions.
High-end galleries have their place--and they're good places, nestled neatly with the bourgeoisie, but he's been feeling a disconnect. He can feel it in the air, a hum of sorts. Trends are shifting, moving, pulling him. Neo Expressionism is all nice and fine, but something big's coming. The artist on display is the last one of his type, Felix thinks. The last one he's signed. It's time to move on.
At least the champagne is good. Not that Felix ever needs to eat or drink, but he enjoys feeling decadent. He'll never say no to dolma and he'll never say no to booze: those are the two constants in Felix's way of life. Today, though, something's off. He's enjoying the art, talking quietly as a string quartet plays quietly in the background, but he's getting antsy. He hardly gets antsy at places like these. Anywhere near art in any form usually calms him, soothes that dull pang in his chest. No, it's something else. It's not the shift in the art community he'd sensed earlier, either.
He glances over to his left, eyes skimming over people, settling on someone who looks almost out of place, and lifts his brows as he smiles in a friendly greeting before something courses through him, pushing like a wave.
There's another force here. Felix can't explain it, not even to himself, but something's here. It makes it very, very hard to concentrate on 'the next Andy Worhol.' His gaze shifts, this time uncertain, back to the other person who stands out. He's handsome, that's for sure, and Felix appreciates that--he doesn't stand out nearly as much as Felix does, but that's probably because Felix is currently wearing converse, slacks, a blazer and a button down that are all the exact same shade of primary blue. It's only the tie that's black.
Is it him? The one that looks like he doesn't belong? Is he doing it? Felix's lips thin, openly staring, brow creased--
"Felix!"
Ah, shit. The star of the show. The one Felix has a contract with. Felix, peppy as ever, immediately pulls him into an ecstatic hug despite feeling anything but. He needs to find a way to get over to talk to the guy he can't stop staring at--he needs to scratch that itch that's flaring up.
What was the name of the person he's supposed to be here with? Shit. He should've written it on his hand. At least he knows what he looks like. Well, he knows what he's wearing anyway. And he knows which emotional aura is his, so there's that.
Speaking of auras. Kadin's noticed a strange pull since he got here. It's not quite like the feeling of another demon feeding but there's a similar sort of flair. It doesn't take him too long to figure out the direction and then narrow it down to a handful of people crowded together. He takes to watching them instead of looking at the artwork or locating his date.
He drifts in their direction, slowly feeling out the source. Direct feeding can be tricky as it sometimes can be sensed by people. It can draw unnecessary attention if he draws on the wrong emotion. It'll make them feel that emotion in his direction. Worst case, he accidentally made someone obsessed with him... he's not making that mistake again. So, light touches of direct feedings on each of them. No. No. No. Ah! The one in blue. He noticed him staring and this would explain why.
So, naturally, Kadin wanders his way over to speak with him. "Hey, man--" he waves a finger around the room, "This isn't your territory or something? Don't wanna be stealing meals."
Oh, it looks like his mystery feeling is moving towards him anyway. Felix feels his heart quicken for just a moment--he's not unwelcoming towards the stranger but instead politely befuddled. His smile is still there, too-white and gentle, reaching his eyes.
"Not at all, I just know the owner and the artist, I've sort of set this up." The smile never falters, even as he extends a hand. Something's still very, very strange.
"I'm Felix, I hope I wasn't too rude, with the whole staring, I just--well, you know how it is."
Felix doesn't know how it is at all, but that's what people say when they're trying to act casual, right? Felix is very casual. The most casual. Why the other asked about food is beyond him, the hors d'oeuvres are free, but he chalks it up to possible insanity and moves on.
His demeanor pretty much confirms he is not a demon or he's like what Kadin used to be. When he had no idea what he was or why he could do things.
"It's Kadin." said after taking his hand. Touch can amplify his powers if he lets it but -- he decided that would be rude. He watches him for half a second then lets go.
"How what is? Sensing something you've never felt before?" he carries on like Felix knows what he's talking about. He knows he probably doesn't but this is a good way to tell. "And I'm not talking about my dick, by the way." a beat "Well, I can but that isn't why I came over here."
For the second time in his very long life, Felix feels his blood turn to ice water, and his whole stomach drops with such a violent lurch he thinks surely he must be about to spiral into some sort of panic attack.
He's well more put together on the surface--Felix has never had to hide his feelings or his emotions (he never sees the point, emotion is what makes things lovely in this world), but this is an exception. The smile stays in place, probably for a little too long before dissipating. It would be rude not to look the other in the eye, despite every single instinct telling him to run.
He felt it. He's so very casual, the other--Kadin? What an odd name--must surely be something similar. Someone similar. Felix finds that he's forgotten to breathe, something that usually only happens if he's found someone particularily gorgeous--Kadin is, but there are more pressing matters--and he finally drums up actual words.
"Like a field before it's about to storm," He manages, because there's no point in lying. Felix's gaze searches, desperate, confused, and he's barely aware the man who's paintings are in the gallery has shuffled off giving them quizzical looks.
Felix, unable to help himself, starts to laugh.
"It's incredible! You're incredible! Look at you!"
Kadin is starting to wonder if he approached this wrong. He's not out to actively scare anyone. Least of all someone who might be the same thing he is. He's about to blurt out an apology then the mood just shifts. Maybe he hasn't completely fucked up.
Now, Kadin's used to emotions and actions not always matching up but this guy seems particularly bad at deception. It's kind of endearing. If a little surreal.
"Hey, I wasn't trying to freak you out," he settles on a sort of apology. "Just not really sure what you are and figured you had the same questions."
"No, no no no." He's well past terrified--that fear is like a flicker, dead and buried because right now he's filled with sheer excitement, unable to contain himself. There's someone here--something here, proof that he's not alone. Has he always been here? Is he as old as Felix? Why is this strange wave rolling over him, less like rain after a thunderstorm, but more like when he dances way too close to an amplifier.
It's the guy. It's Kadin, and Felix reaches out to gently touch the other's chin, lifting his face upwards with his index finger, lips parted before he finally finds it in himself to talk.
"I'm not freaked out at all, I'm--fascinated, really. Absolutely. This is, ehm--this is new."
This is gonna be interesting, Kadin thinks to himself. Everything feels stronger and it's entirely too tempting to feed directly. By way of compromise, he lets himself up his feeding a notch.
His eyebrows raise with the head tilt. Usually people aren't trying to touch him within the first few minutes of meeting. He doesn't mind, but it does further point to how strange this is.
And then something clicks. "Wait, you've never... met anyone like you before, have you? Ever?"
Felix shakes his head, and there's that smile flicking across his face--he knows it's probably annoying, he's probably being a little too over the top (surprise), so he tries to curb it. He winds up biting down on his bottom lip, still grinning, looking intently at him before realizing he should probably let the guy actually go.
He feels like he got the bad end of whatever deal this was, because Kadin looks far better than he ever has, and he's been called anything from exquisite to godlike in terms of luck.
"I haven't, I've--" His mind is rapid firing, and he cuts himself off to start a new thought. "Let's go somewhere. Anywhere. Please--anywhere we can talk."
Now Kadin is clearly amused, as weird as this is, at least this will be an entertaining night. He raises his hands like he's trying to calm an over excited puppy. Which, he realizes, is kinda what he's dealing with. "Okay, okay... Just try not to explode before we get out the door."
After thinking for a second, Kadin reaches out to gently take him by the arm. He's more than ready to ditch this place. Wait, he came with someone... eh, fuck it. "You know a place we can duck into? I'd offer my place but it's a piece of shit."
Felix has a hard time containing any emotion, really--especially when he's left all of his defenses down. It's a perfect storm: there's a man in front of him who is and isn't a man just like Felix himself, who feeds off of creativity and art and business.
If Felix wasn't firing on every possible piston at the moment, he's fairly certain he'd cry out of sheer relief. Instead, he manages a wide, pleased grin, unaware the other had had plans before. All that matters is he gets to learn, and he gets to be a little bit closer to that crackling energy.
"Mine's not too far off." Is that forward? No, he'd offered moments before. He motions with his head, a slight incline to the door in a 'shall we?' gesture.
The polite thing to do would be to find his date and let them know he's leaving. But seeing as he can't even remember their name and only half remembers their face... Kadin's just going to go. It probably won't come back to bite him. Well, he might get punched next time he sees them but that's not unique to this situation.
"Yeah, lead the way." Kadin snatches up his jacket on the way out. It completely clashes with how he's currently dressed. It's a modified leather jacket, not that uncommon in the punk rock scene. It has various designs painted on it, a couple band names and his name in Arabic on the shoulder.
Felix's brows raise high at the jacket--it's a nice little thing, nicer than the suit in a lot of ways because it looks actually loved instead of an afterthought--but he doesn't say anything. Who is he to judge fashion? Who is he to judge anyone when things like that are subjective?
Nice music taste, though. So maybe he will judge, but only in the fun way. They contrast, an older punk rocker and a relatively young looking yuppie meticulously dressed, but Felix can't help but think it's fitting.
He leads the other away, and surprises himself by actually remaining quiet for the whole trip until he heads up his own house, a colourful big-for-new-york artistic paradise. Felix closes the door, a nervous smile flicking across his face even as he gestures with one hand for the other to make himself at home.
"If you'd like, I could get you a drink, but mostly I'd just like--did you always know there were more of us? How come I've never ran into you before? "
Yep, Felix's place is a way, way better than his. Not that that's hard to do, he has a single room in an over-crowded building.
"Fuck, man, I don't know. Don't take this the wrong way but I hope you're not what I am, or your life is going to start getting really complicated." He wanders further into the apartment as he talks. He can't help but touch a few of decorative objects scattered about.
"So, I don't know a lot. I don't think they want me knowing much." Where he was confident only a few moments ago it switches to nervousness. "I didn't know what I was until 1952. Turns out I'm an incubus, well, part incubus. I can feed off of emotions. Anything sexual or--" pausing for air quotes, "'sinful' is more, uh, filling."
[After being closed up in the closet of an office the publishing company he copy-edits for keeps him in all day, Remus can't stand just going home and writing his own stories alone in his dingy flat. It may not be in the literal basement, unlike his workplace, but it isn't exactly an inspiring locale.
Instead, he does the most stereotypical thing imaginable and frequents different coffee shops, several notebooks and pens in his messenger bag. It's routine now; he orders the largest mug of Earl Grey they offer and finds a spot where he can look out over the store, people-watching when the words elude him. Sometimes he doesn't look up for hours, scribbling out rough drafts onto paper until his hand cramps up, his tea long gone cold. Sometimes he can barely get a sentence down, and after another cup or two, gives up the endeavor for the night.
It's not every day, but it's most days. Occasionally Sirius and James will drag him out to something so he doesn't turn completely anti-social, but he's not really. He just prefers to observe the world around him rather than participate in it sometimes. The coffee houses are his safe haven, where he can filter out all distractions and get the stories rattling around in his head down onto paper. It doesn't matter that he wouldn't even be able to get the company he worked for to publish it, that his work was relegated to pulp magazines willing to print "unsuitable" works of fiction, displaying it like a spectacle.
Well, alright, clearly it bloody matters. He can't even put his own name on it, he'd surely lose all employability if word got out he wrote queer fiction, erotic or no. But Remus excels at compartmentalization and has made the decision that coffee shops are the one place he won't allow himself to think about those things, or any looming financial issues, or his failing health, or all the problems in his flat.
Today is one where the words just won't come. He stares out the window, chin propped up in one hand, the other gently drumming fingers against the table. About a week ago, he'd taken the plunge and started writing the novel he'd been planning for the better part of three years, but after so long of only writing short stories, it's difficult to manage. And, of course, he's got writer's block. That doesn't help.
He leans down and gives Snuffles' ears a good rub. The dog is being perfectly well-behaved, laying under his chair, relaxed but attentive. His size often makes him seem intimidating but Remus always tells people he's a very well-trained teddy bear, and it's true.]
Don't suppose you have any ideas about how to finish out this scene? [The question, murmured low, is of course rhetorical. Snuffles is smart, and knows when Remus is about to collapse before he does, but if he has any ideas for how to get Remus' protagonist to finally admit his feelings for his best friend, he's not telling.]
[ He likes cafes. The sleepier the better, in his opinion. As much as Felix enjoys dance nights and clubs and punk rock and the rise of art in London right now, there's something about the pitter-patter of rain and the low murmur of conversation that draws him in. There's always someone working, too--a artist, a musician, always someone that Felix can latch onto. He's on his way to see if his favourite place is still there after 15 years when he swears he sees him.
Just a glimpse in the window, a little flash of curls and Felix's whole world comes grinding to a halt, his plans skidding to a stop as he swears--swears--he's seen him.
No. No, surely, this is just his mind playing tricks on him. It's been so long, too long, it couldn't possibly be him. Could it?
Felix's arms feel heavy, like the bright blue umbrella he's carrying somehow weighs a tonne instead of nothing at all, but he pushes through it and decides to enter the cafe. If it's not him, then at least he can get a nice cup of coffee and chide himself in his foolishness. It's a step away from the rain regardless, however light the drops are at the moment.
He can't help but stare when he sees him, memories flooding through his head so quickly he feels dizzy. Felix feels like his spine is on fire, he feels flushed, almost feverish even though he knows that's not the case.
It's him. It's Remus. The smile on his face is wide, bright and the most genuine thing he's felt in ages. ]
It should be dramatic. A cliffhanger, maybe.
[ He can't stop smiling. Felix's accent is still distinctly American--he's just arrived in London so he hasn't switched it yet--and he's dressed head to toe in powder blue, from his t-shirt to his slacks and blazer to his tennis shoes. He's well aware that Remus probably won't even remember him, but it doesn't matter.
[The thing about rhetorical questions, especially when they're asked to dogs, is that it can be very jarring when someone answers them. So it is here, Remus startling into sitting up again, turning towards the source of the voice.
Taking in the sight of him is a wholly different kind of surprise. He cuts an odd figure with his choice in clothes, but more than that is the unplaceable familiarity. Remus knows this man, but he can't for the life of him figure out how, or from where.]
I'm sorry, do I know you? [The question, usually intoned rudely and dismissively, comes out as the question it is instead, no bite to it. He's an American. Remus doesn't know many Americans, and none that look remotely like this man.
Despite the... interesting choice in clothing, he's handsome. And there's something... off about him, more than the clothes and the answering a stranger's rhetorical question to their dog and the burning sense that he should be familiar in some way. Something about the whole interaction seems almost other-worldly.]
[ Can he feel it? Felix wonders if he can, like the heavy, heady air pressure before it's about to storm. Or maybe it's just him, finding his whole world in front of him, skinnier than Felix likes and a little sallow but still the most beautiful creature he's ever seen.
It's the fact that he doesn't know him that breaks his heart, but he smiles anyway, grin smooth and teeth white and as he hopes he's as charming as he was when they first met. ]
No. No--sorry, this is probably super rude, isn't it? I-- [ He stops himself, takes a small breath out, and then tries again. ] I'm also really bad at this, so: Hi, I'm Felix, and two of my top five favourite things are writing and dogs. You have both, so I'd feel like garbage if I didn't at least say hi.
[Remus can't help a huff of a laugh. There's really no other word for the man than interesting. Lucky for him, Remus likes interesting people, and-- well, he's curious. Almost everything about the man makes him want to know more.
So he scoots the chair across from him out a smidge with his foot.]
My name's Remus, and this is Snuffles. Would you like to join us? I don't think I'll be getting any more writing done right now anyway.
[ Would he ever. Felix plops into the chair like he's unable to obey the command even if he wanted to, his elbows on the table, hand cupping his chin, looking intently at Felix.
It's probably too much. He should probably just keep it cool. Felix is clam and collected, isn't he? He always tries to be. It never quite works out, but this is--this is Remus, his Remus, and he's been in this world for as long as he can remember and Remus is the only one that makes his heart flutter and his mouth dry.
At least dogs still like him. He's going to ask about that in a second, actually, but first: ]
Next drink's on me, then--though it's not alcohol, it's tea, the gesture still stands, I hope. What are you writing?
[Is he-- flirting? Remus lets out a huff of nervous laughter. He's not used to being flirted with, certainly not by another man, and so openly in a coffee shop of all places? If he were at a gay bar, maybe it would be less of a shock.
Snuffles sniffs the man's shoes, then settles his big shaggy head back onto the floor.]
You don't have to-- oh, uh. [Another small laugh, this one a bit embarrassed.] I'm writing a novel. Awfully cliche, I know. [A thoughtful pause. Somehow it doesn't feel as uncomfortable to tell Felix about it than other people.] It's about a man whose brother has been murdered, and the police have been paid off, so he has to figure out who the killer is and track them down with the help of his best friend and his sister.
[That's not to mention the requited pining between the man and his best friend, but... better be sure he's interpreted Felix's intentions correctly before talking about that.]
[ It's Felix's fault, he supposes--he's too giddy, too dizzy on excitement that he's forgotten that this is the 80s. There are bad things happening, there bad people. People don't really accept this type of love anymore. As to why, Felix doesn't quite understand. All he does know is that it's bullshit, old habits die hard, and it's his dearest love across him, writing and laughing and being stunning. It's a bit hard to concentrate. ]
A mystery. That doesn't sound cliche in the least--danger? Intrigue? Romance? [ He grins, raking his teeth under his lower lip to bite down, intent. ] I'm a little jealous, I can't write to save my life.
All of the above, and then some. [Remus' eyes catch on Felix's mouth as he bites onto his lower lip, sensing the intent but still doubting his own instincts. What if he's misinterpreting it all?
It takes him just a moment too long to stop himself from staring at the man's lips. He swiftly looks away, disguising it as a casual movement to scratch Snuffles' ears.]
Why do you say that? [The tone is gently curious. Once upon a time, Remus fancied himself a career in academia, and he still fondly remembers his tutoring days, coaxing reluctant students into trying their hand at writing, just once more.]
[ He's--flighty isn't the right word, but he's something, something so unlike his past love that Felix has to remind himself that while they share a face--a name even--there's something else. He's his own person.
Funny. Felix hasn't thought about that before, too wrapped up in actually finding him. It's enough that he looks a tad thoughtful when he glances over at the dog. Why does Remus have a dog? It's fitting, but that's something else that strikes him as weird. He needs to ask he's thought this before, but his mind is in such a tizzy he's having difficulty focusing. ]
Oh, you know how it is. some people have a knack for it, and some people have a knack for spotting it. [ How far along are you? He's all elbows on tables now, leaning forward. Enough about him, Remus, he's dreadfully boring--more about you. ]
[Well, he's certainly not entitled to a stranger's life story. If Felix doesn't want to share the real reasons, he won't push.
He certainly seems interested in Remus' work, though, which is weirdly flattering. He hasn't even read any of it yet.]
And you're the latter, then?
[He smiles, idly flipping through his notebook.]
Perhaps I'll consult you for some proofreading. [He's only partially teasing.] That is, if you're not headed out of the country soon.
[Probably not local, with that accent. And alright, maybe he's fishing for some more information. No use getting his hopes up on someone who will be leaving the country in a couple weeks.]
[ Felix's smile is back, bouncing easily with the ebb and flow of the conversation they've just started. This is where he feels at home, wrapped up in warm words about art. ]
Proofreading-- [ he hisses through his teeth, shaking his head. ] Not my strong suit, either. I can read it with that in mind, though. If you trust a stranger.
[ They're not strangers, though, not really. Felix tips his chair back so it balances on two legs, realize he hasn't actually answered the other's unasked question, and circles back. ]
I'm here for a good long while--not a tourist, if that's what you mean. Worried I'll run off with your ideas?
So first, you graduate, then you get a job. No, okay, first, you go to grad school. Then you get recruited for what's essentially a heist in the subconscious of a billionaire. Then you go back to grad school -- with an ungodly amount of money from "consulting" with Proclus Global in your bank account -- graduate, and try to figure out if you even want an architecture job anymore when you could be designing your literal wildest dreams.
All you'd have to do is give up a normal life.
What's a girl to do?
What this girl is doing, rather than thinking about what she's going to do once she graduates, is sitting in the sun in the Jardins du Trocadéro, bent over her sketchbook, facing the grand facade of the Palais de Chaillot. Ostensibly, she's drawing it. If one looks over her shoulder, though, one would find that the cityscape she's sketching bears little resemblance to Paris.
"Doesn't quite match up, does it?" Hello there, Ariadne! Felix is quite tall and Ariadne is quite not, so it's an easy thing for him to lean over. His curiousity gets the better of him--it always does--and he all but assumes she's an inspiring artist of sorts. It's the trendy but practical outfits and the look of utter concentration that tip him off.
He's smiling, leaning back immediately once he speaks so she doesn't think he's leering, and his hands are clasped firmly behind his back, bright orange button down and slacks and wide smile.
"It's good! Very good. Just not what I was expecting."
It's not uncommon to get looky-loos when you're working in public. Ariadne looks up -- and then further up -- with a practiced, polite smile.
Which turns a little less practiced and a little more bemused when she clocks his clothing, and his accent. There's still a hint of that I'm being polite but I'm also busy to her tone when she speaks, though.
"Thank you. I guess I was letting my mind wander."
"Good," Felix says smoothly, and glances up at the giant building. "Imagination is better than anything else in this world, I fully believe it." Except maybe lamb. He just really likes lamb, though.
Can you blame him?
His smile is soft and he does give Ariadne enough room--he steps slightly off to the side instead of directly behind her--and sighs happily. It's a perfect day, and there's a pretty woman doing incredible things, what's not to enjoy?
There's a man that comes to Olympus on a regular basis. He comes to other worlds too, if Felix is inclined towards world-trotting--from Twilight Town, to Atlantica, to Agrabah, to the Land of Dragons, to humble provincial France where the Beast's castle lies. He ranges far and wide, often going to different worlds every single day, but always returning to the same one at night--a dead, dreary city of shattered buildings and flickering neon lights, wrapped in eternal darkness and endless rain.
During the daylight hours, he prowls around in a all black like a shadow, fighting or sneaking or searching--or, if he can get away with it, pointedly shirking his duties to sneak in naps. During the evening, though..... Then he moves around freely, dressed in bright colors and talking and laughing with people. Then he goes drinking or dancing, or attends parties, or plays music for people on his sitar. Sometimes he even tries to compose while he's out there--it's too hard to do it at 'home', where he's constantly watched and judged and found lacking, suffocated by his uniform and locked away behind blank white walls. He feels too much like a Nobody there, reminded of what he's lost and what he can't do.
He feels more alive out here like this, closer to human. Tonight, he's found his way to Olympus' angora as the sun starts to set, putting down a basket for tips and settling in for an evening of busking. There's still plenty of people here to listen to him sing and play..... so maybe he'll make some decent Munny out of the deal? He'd say if Xemnas actually paid him, he wouldn't need to do this--but honestly, he'd do it whether he got a real salary or not. What else does he ever have to look forward to?
He likes Olympus. He'd just discovered it, really, and to Felix it feels like home. Not quite, but almost: the architecture is the same, at the very least, and people really do like him. They recognize that he's not a Muse from their world but he's still a Muse (and boy, do the muses here like to party) and that means a little bit of respect and a lot of fun.
Realistically, though, he doesn't want respect. he wants anonymity, and he wants to dance around in the streets and sing loudly, even if he can't anymore. He heads to places he knows are going to be alive, hustle and bustle of the day giving way to a more fevered pitch at night. It's then that Felix steels away from the mountain itself (and really, he is flattered) and heads out on his own.
He follows the sound of the sweetest sitar music he's ever heard in his life, a giddy feeling consistently moving him more and more as he gets closer.
"It's beautiful."
He means it, too, because he's not the one that bestowed it on him--it's raw talent, not the kind he can help elevate, but the kind that comes naturally. He doesn't hesitate, putting a rather hefty some of munny next to the other, a small, pleased smile on his face.
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~justolove
This is the moons' fault that he feels so wistful, sitting outside a cafe with a bottle of wine. The waiter had asked if he was waiting for someone, to which he simply grinned and replied 'Isn't everyone?' as he sat down. Maybe he can make friends with the moon if no one catches his interest tonight. It wouldn't be the first time Felix has had imaginary conversations with himself, nor the last.
He tips his chair as he watches people walking by--lovers, mostly-- and hears violin playing somewhere off in the distance. A song he doesn't know, but he's sure the B flat is supposed to be a C, and he manages to balance said chair on two legs as the augmented 7th hangs uncomfortably in the air. It doesn't bother him as much as it used to in his youth. He barely even winces. Instead, he takes a whiff of his wine before sipping, mimicking what the person the third table over has done.
He'll never understand sniffing it when it's a drink, and he'll never understand what 'oaky tones' mean, but he does enjoy wine. He enjoys anything with love and a little dash of creativity put into it. Creativity is his favourite thing humans are capable of, besides love.
He wishes he were capable of it, too.
The violin stops, mercifully, and Felix is about half a bottle in, red staining his lips before he sees it. It's hard not to see it: a man caught in anguish, stumbling about and Felix is unsure if its bad medicine or not before he sees the gun. Heartbreak.
He rises immediately.
"Monsieur," A few hops and a skip and his long legs have caught up to the handsome man. He offers his best smile. "Perhaps you're having a rough day?"
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He'd show them. He'd show ALL of them! When he pulled the gun as had been planned from the start, there'd be blood on the stage! Did it matter whose? The Duke's would have been preferred. Maybe Satine's. Maybe his own. That would be the best option. At least it would stop the ache inside him.
He stopped as the man ran towards him. Anger eclipsed everything in his expression for a moment.
"Get out of my way," was all he said as he moved to step around the man.
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Perhaps he shouldn't be thinking about this, not when there's a gun involved. He chews on his lip, just for a moment, and bows his head.
"If I can't be in your way, I suppose I should just walk alongside you. Why, may I ask, do you have a pistol, monsieur?"
~3_to_1
High-end galleries have their place--and they're good places, nestled neatly with the bourgeoisie, but he's been feeling a disconnect. He can feel it in the air, a hum of sorts. Trends are shifting, moving, pulling him. Neo Expressionism is all nice and fine, but something big's coming. The artist on display is the last one of his type, Felix thinks. The last one he's signed. It's time to move on.
At least the champagne is good. Not that Felix ever needs to eat or drink, but he enjoys feeling decadent. He'll never say no to dolma and he'll never say no to booze: those are the two constants in Felix's way of life. Today, though, something's off. He's enjoying the art, talking quietly as a string quartet plays quietly in the background, but he's getting antsy. He hardly gets antsy at places like these. Anywhere near art in any form usually calms him, soothes that dull pang in his chest. No, it's something else. It's not the shift in the art community he'd sensed earlier, either.
He glances over to his left, eyes skimming over people, settling on someone who looks almost out of place, and lifts his brows as he smiles in a friendly greeting before something courses through him, pushing like a wave.
There's another force here. Felix can't explain it, not even to himself, but something's here. It makes it very, very hard to concentrate on 'the next Andy Worhol.' His gaze shifts, this time uncertain, back to the other person who stands out. He's handsome, that's for sure, and Felix appreciates that--he doesn't stand out nearly as much as Felix does, but that's probably because Felix is currently wearing converse, slacks, a blazer and a button down that are all the exact same shade of primary blue. It's only the tie that's black.
Is it him? The one that looks like he doesn't belong? Is he doing it? Felix's lips thin, openly staring, brow creased--
"Felix!"
Ah, shit. The star of the show. The one Felix has a contract with. Felix, peppy as ever, immediately pulls him into an ecstatic hug despite feeling anything but. He needs to find a way to get over to talk to the guy he can't stop staring at--he needs to scratch that itch that's flaring up.
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Speaking of auras. Kadin's noticed a strange pull since he got here. It's not quite like the feeling of another demon feeding but there's a similar sort of flair. It doesn't take him too long to figure out the direction and then narrow it down to a handful of people crowded together. He takes to watching them instead of looking at the artwork or locating his date.
He drifts in their direction, slowly feeling out the source. Direct feeding can be tricky as it sometimes can be sensed by people. It can draw unnecessary attention if he draws on the wrong emotion. It'll make them feel that emotion in his direction. Worst case, he accidentally made someone obsessed with him... he's not making that mistake again. So, light touches of direct feedings on each of them. No. No. No. Ah! The one in blue. He noticed him staring and this would explain why.
So, naturally, Kadin wanders his way over to speak with him. "Hey, man--" he waves a finger around the room, "This isn't your territory or something? Don't wanna be stealing meals."
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"Not at all, I just know the owner and the artist, I've sort of set this up." The smile never falters, even as he extends a hand. Something's still very, very strange.
"I'm Felix, I hope I wasn't too rude, with the whole staring, I just--well, you know how it is."
Felix doesn't know how it is at all, but that's what people say when they're trying to act casual, right? Felix is very casual. The most casual. Why the other asked about food is beyond him, the hors d'oeuvres are free, but he chalks it up to possible insanity and moves on.
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"It's Kadin." said after taking his hand. Touch can amplify his powers if he lets it but -- he decided that would be rude. He watches him for half a second then lets go.
"How what is? Sensing something you've never felt before?" he carries on like Felix knows what he's talking about. He knows he probably doesn't but this is a good way to tell. "And I'm not talking about my dick, by the way." a beat "Well, I can but that isn't why I came over here."
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He's well more put together on the surface--Felix has never had to hide his feelings or his emotions (he never sees the point, emotion is what makes things lovely in this world), but this is an exception. The smile stays in place, probably for a little too long before dissipating. It would be rude not to look the other in the eye, despite every single instinct telling him to run.
He felt it. He's so very casual, the other--Kadin? What an odd name--must surely be something similar. Someone similar. Felix finds that he's forgotten to breathe, something that usually only happens if he's found someone particularily gorgeous--Kadin is, but there are more pressing matters--and he finally drums up actual words.
"Like a field before it's about to storm," He manages, because there's no point in lying. Felix's gaze searches, desperate, confused, and he's barely aware the man who's paintings are in the gallery has shuffled off giving them quizzical looks.
Felix, unable to help himself, starts to laugh.
"It's incredible! You're incredible! Look at you!"
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Now, Kadin's used to emotions and actions not always matching up but this guy seems particularly bad at deception. It's kind of endearing. If a little surreal.
"Hey, I wasn't trying to freak you out," he settles on a sort of apology. "Just not really sure what you are and figured you had the same questions."
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It's the guy. It's Kadin, and Felix reaches out to gently touch the other's chin, lifting his face upwards with his index finger, lips parted before he finally finds it in himself to talk.
"I'm not freaked out at all, I'm--fascinated, really. Absolutely. This is, ehm--this is new."
He's not sure what he was expecting.
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His eyebrows raise with the head tilt. Usually people aren't trying to touch him within the first few minutes of meeting. He doesn't mind, but it does further point to how strange this is.
And then something clicks. "Wait, you've never... met anyone like you before, have you? Ever?"
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He feels like he got the bad end of whatever deal this was, because Kadin looks far better than he ever has, and he's been called anything from exquisite to godlike in terms of luck.
"I haven't, I've--" His mind is rapid firing, and he cuts himself off to start a new thought. "Let's go somewhere. Anywhere. Please--anywhere we can talk."
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After thinking for a second, Kadin reaches out to gently take him by the arm. He's more than ready to ditch this place. Wait, he came with someone... eh, fuck it. "You know a place we can duck into? I'd offer my place but it's a piece of shit."
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If Felix wasn't firing on every possible piston at the moment, he's fairly certain he'd cry out of sheer relief. Instead, he manages a wide, pleased grin, unaware the other had had plans before. All that matters is he gets to learn, and he gets to be a little bit closer to that crackling energy.
"Mine's not too far off." Is that forward? No, he'd offered moments before. He motions with his head, a slight incline to the door in a 'shall we?' gesture.
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"Yeah, lead the way." Kadin snatches up his jacket on the way out. It completely clashes with how he's currently dressed. It's a modified leather jacket, not that uncommon in the punk rock scene. It has various designs painted on it, a couple band names and his name in Arabic on the shoulder.
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Nice music taste, though. So maybe he will judge, but only in the fun way. They contrast, an older punk rocker and a relatively young looking yuppie meticulously dressed, but Felix can't help but think it's fitting.
He leads the other away, and surprises himself by actually remaining quiet for the whole trip until he heads up his own house, a colourful big-for-new-york artistic paradise. Felix closes the door, a nervous smile flicking across his face even as he gestures with one hand for the other to make himself at home.
"If you'd like, I could get you a drink, but mostly I'd just like--did you always know there were more of us? How come I've never ran into you before? "
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"Fuck, man, I don't know. Don't take this the wrong way but I hope you're not what I am, or your life is going to start getting really complicated." He wanders further into the apartment as he talks. He can't help but touch a few of decorative objects scattered about.
"So, I don't know a lot. I don't think they want me knowing much." Where he was confident only a few moments ago it switches to nervousness. "I didn't know what I was until 1952. Turns out I'm an incubus, well, part incubus. I can feed off of emotions. Anything sexual or--" pausing for air quotes, "'sinful' is more, uh, filling."
~ottimismo
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I have a lot of questions! Mostly about you.
What do you like? Like LIKE like. That's not helping people because I have a feeling that's what you're going to say.
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I mostly meant questions about the case. Why would you want to know about me?
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Instead, he does the most stereotypical thing imaginable and frequents different coffee shops, several notebooks and pens in his messenger bag. It's routine now; he orders the largest mug of Earl Grey they offer and finds a spot where he can look out over the store, people-watching when the words elude him. Sometimes he doesn't look up for hours, scribbling out rough drafts onto paper until his hand cramps up, his tea long gone cold. Sometimes he can barely get a sentence down, and after another cup or two, gives up the endeavor for the night.
It's not every day, but it's most days. Occasionally Sirius and James will drag him out to something so he doesn't turn completely anti-social, but he's not really. He just prefers to observe the world around him rather than participate in it sometimes. The coffee houses are his safe haven, where he can filter out all distractions and get the stories rattling around in his head down onto paper. It doesn't matter that he wouldn't even be able to get the company he worked for to publish it, that his work was relegated to pulp magazines willing to print "unsuitable" works of fiction, displaying it like a spectacle.
Well, alright, clearly it bloody matters. He can't even put his own name on it, he'd surely lose all employability if word got out he wrote queer fiction, erotic or no. But Remus excels at compartmentalization and has made the decision that coffee shops are the one place he won't allow himself to think about those things, or any looming financial issues, or his failing health, or all the problems in his flat.
Today is one where the words just won't come. He stares out the window, chin propped up in one hand, the other gently drumming fingers against the table. About a week ago, he'd taken the plunge and started writing the novel he'd been planning for the better part of three years, but after so long of only writing short stories, it's difficult to manage. And, of course, he's got writer's block. That doesn't help.
He leans down and gives Snuffles' ears a good rub. The dog is being perfectly well-behaved, laying under his chair, relaxed but attentive. His size often makes him seem intimidating but Remus always tells people he's a very well-trained teddy bear, and it's true.]
Don't suppose you have any ideas about how to finish out this scene? [The question, murmured low, is of course rhetorical. Snuffles is smart, and knows when Remus is about to collapse before he does, but if he has any ideas for how to get Remus' protagonist to finally admit his feelings for his best friend, he's not telling.]
writes a novel ig
Just a glimpse in the window, a little flash of curls and Felix's whole world comes grinding to a halt, his plans skidding to a stop as he swears--swears--he's seen him.
No. No, surely, this is just his mind playing tricks on him. It's been so long, too long, it couldn't possibly be him. Could it?
Felix's arms feel heavy, like the bright blue umbrella he's carrying somehow weighs a tonne instead of nothing at all, but he pushes through it and decides to enter the cafe. If it's not him, then at least he can get a nice cup of coffee and chide himself in his foolishness. It's a step away from the rain regardless, however light the drops are at the moment.
He can't help but stare when he sees him, memories flooding through his head so quickly he feels dizzy. Felix feels like his spine is on fire, he feels flushed, almost feverish even though he knows that's not the case.
It's him. It's Remus. The smile on his face is wide, bright and the most genuine thing he's felt in ages. ]
It should be dramatic. A cliffhanger, maybe.
[ He can't stop smiling. Felix's accent is still distinctly American--he's just arrived in London so he hasn't switched it yet--and he's dressed head to toe in powder blue, from his t-shirt to his slacks and blazer to his tennis shoes. He's well aware that Remus probably won't even remember him, but it doesn't matter.
He's here. ]
novels are fine
Taking in the sight of him is a wholly different kind of surprise. He cuts an odd figure with his choice in clothes, but more than that is the unplaceable familiarity. Remus knows this man, but he can't for the life of him figure out how, or from where.]
I'm sorry, do I know you? [The question, usually intoned rudely and dismissively, comes out as the question it is instead, no bite to it. He's an American. Remus doesn't know many Americans, and none that look remotely like this man.
Despite the... interesting choice in clothing, he's handsome. And there's something... off about him, more than the clothes and the answering a stranger's rhetorical question to their dog and the burning sense that he should be familiar in some way. Something about the whole interaction seems almost other-worldly.]
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It's the fact that he doesn't know him that breaks his heart, but he smiles anyway, grin smooth and teeth white and as he hopes he's as charming as he was when they first met. ]
No. No--sorry, this is probably super rude, isn't it? I-- [ He stops himself, takes a small breath out, and then tries again. ] I'm also really bad at this, so: Hi, I'm Felix, and two of my top five favourite things are writing and dogs. You have both, so I'd feel like garbage if I didn't at least say hi.
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So he scoots the chair across from him out a smidge with his foot.]
My name's Remus, and this is Snuffles. Would you like to join us? I don't think I'll be getting any more writing done right now anyway.
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It's probably too much. He should probably just keep it cool. Felix is clam and collected, isn't he? He always tries to be. It never quite works out, but this is--this is Remus, his Remus, and he's been in this world for as long as he can remember and Remus is the only one that makes his heart flutter and his mouth dry.
At least dogs still like him. He's going to ask about that in a second, actually, but first: ]
Next drink's on me, then--though it's not alcohol, it's tea, the gesture still stands, I hope. What are you writing?
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Snuffles sniffs the man's shoes, then settles his big shaggy head back onto the floor.]
You don't have to-- oh, uh. [Another small laugh, this one a bit embarrassed.] I'm writing a novel. Awfully cliche, I know. [A thoughtful pause. Somehow it doesn't feel as uncomfortable to tell Felix about it than other people.] It's about a man whose brother has been murdered, and the police have been paid off, so he has to figure out who the killer is and track them down with the help of his best friend and his sister.
[That's not to mention the requited pining between the man and his best friend, but... better be sure he's interpreted Felix's intentions correctly before talking about that.]
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A mystery. That doesn't sound cliche in the least--danger? Intrigue? Romance? [ He grins, raking his teeth under his lower lip to bite down, intent. ] I'm a little jealous, I can't write to save my life.
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It takes him just a moment too long to stop himself from staring at the man's lips. He swiftly looks away, disguising it as a casual movement to scratch Snuffles' ears.]
Why do you say that? [The tone is gently curious. Once upon a time, Remus fancied himself a career in academia, and he still fondly remembers his tutoring days, coaxing reluctant students into trying their hand at writing, just once more.]
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Funny. Felix hasn't thought about that before, too wrapped up in actually finding him. It's enough that he looks a tad thoughtful when he glances over at the dog. Why does Remus have a dog? It's fitting, but that's something else that strikes him as weird. He needs to ask he's thought this before, but his mind is in such a tizzy he's having difficulty focusing. ]
Oh, you know how it is. some people have a knack for it, and some people have a knack for spotting it. [ How far along are you? He's all elbows on tables now, leaning forward. Enough about him, Remus, he's dreadfully boring--more about you. ]
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He certainly seems interested in Remus' work, though, which is weirdly flattering. He hasn't even read any of it yet.]
And you're the latter, then?
[He smiles, idly flipping through his notebook.]
Perhaps I'll consult you for some proofreading. [He's only partially teasing.] That is, if you're not headed out of the country soon.
[Probably not local, with that accent. And alright, maybe he's fishing for some more information. No use getting his hopes up on someone who will be leaving the country in a couple weeks.]
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Proofreading-- [ he hisses through his teeth, shaking his head. ] Not my strong suit, either. I can read it with that in mind, though. If you trust a stranger.
[ They're not strangers, though, not really. Felix tips his chair back so it balances on two legs, realize he hasn't actually answered the other's unasked question, and circles back. ]
I'm here for a good long while--not a tourist, if that's what you mean. Worried I'll run off with your ideas?
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All you'd have to do is give up a normal life.
What's a girl to do?
What this girl is doing, rather than thinking about what she's going to do once she graduates, is sitting in the sun in the Jardins du Trocadéro, bent over her sketchbook, facing the grand facade of the Palais de Chaillot. Ostensibly, she's drawing it. If one looks over her shoulder, though, one would find that the cityscape she's sketching bears little resemblance to Paris.
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He's smiling, leaning back immediately once he speaks so she doesn't think he's leering, and his hands are clasped firmly behind his back, bright orange button down and slacks and wide smile.
"It's good! Very good. Just not what I was expecting."
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Which turns a little less practiced and a little more bemused when she clocks his clothing, and his accent. There's still a hint of that I'm being polite but I'm also busy to her tone when she speaks, though.
"Thank you. I guess I was letting my mind wander."
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Can you blame him?
His smile is soft and he does give Ariadne enough room--he steps slightly off to the side instead of directly behind her--and sighs happily. It's a perfect day, and there's a pretty woman doing incredible things, what's not to enjoy?
"Tourist, then?"
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She snorts, closing up her sketchbook carefully.
"The Parisians probably think so. I just finished my degree, but my student visa won't run out for a little bit still." Wry: "I'm liminal."
She arches an eyebrow up at him. "What about you? You're not French."
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During the daylight hours, he prowls around in a all black like a shadow, fighting or sneaking or searching--or, if he can get away with it, pointedly shirking his duties to sneak in naps. During the evening, though..... Then he moves around freely, dressed in bright colors and talking and laughing with people. Then he goes drinking or dancing, or attends parties, or plays music for people on his sitar. Sometimes he even tries to compose while he's out there--it's too hard to do it at 'home', where he's constantly watched and judged and found lacking, suffocated by his uniform and locked away behind blank white walls. He feels too much like a Nobody there, reminded of what he's lost and what he can't do.
He feels more alive out here like this, closer to human. Tonight, he's found his way to Olympus' angora as the sun starts to set, putting down a basket for tips and settling in for an evening of busking. There's still plenty of people here to listen to him sing and play..... so maybe he'll make some decent Munny out of the deal? He'd say if Xemnas actually paid him, he wouldn't need to do this--but honestly, he'd do it whether he got a real salary or not. What else does he ever have to look forward to?
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Realistically, though, he doesn't want respect. he wants anonymity, and he wants to dance around in the streets and sing loudly, even if he can't anymore. He heads to places he knows are going to be alive, hustle and bustle of the day giving way to a more fevered pitch at night. It's then that Felix steels away from the mountain itself (and really, he is flattered) and heads out on his own.
He follows the sound of the sweetest sitar music he's ever heard in his life, a giddy feeling consistently moving him more and more as he gets closer.
"It's beautiful."
He means it, too, because he's not the one that bestowed it on him--it's raw talent, not the kind he can help elevate, but the kind that comes naturally. He doesn't hesitate, putting a rather hefty some of munny next to the other, a small, pleased smile on his face.