Phillip Delacroix

Vivienne flashed him what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “There, you see?,” she said with a slight chuckle, “Surely it’s not as bad as that, right? You haven’t killed anyone. That’s something.” Enough brooding youths had haunted her halls over the years for Vivienne to realize that many problems could be solved if you could just get people laughing even just a bit.

Or at least, that had worked many times in the past. The longer she looked at Elliot, the more hope she began to lose that a simple jest would do the trick.

“Right! Tea coming up!” she said brightly the second he indicated assent to an offer of tea. “Milk, or sugar…or…?” she started, then waved the idea away with her hand once she got another look at his face. “Don’t worry about it. Just make yourself comfortable, alright?”

She jaunted into the kitchen as quickly as she could, looking back to keep an eye on him once she landed at the counter. She doubted that he would actually run away at this point, but she couldn’t help but worry nonetheless.

In a matter of minutes, Vivienne returned to her living room bearing a rather large an unwieldy tray stacked with cups, sugar, milk – and, of course, her massive teapot. “There you are.” she said as evenly as she could before setting down the tray and pouring the tea. “Help yourself.”

She let a few seconds of silence hang in the air as she fixed her own tea, and then slowly leaned forward. “You know, I bet however embarrassing or awful this is, it might help to talk about it. Even just a little bit.” She looked down into her tea, then back up to him. “I mean, do what you like, of course. But if you do want to say anything … Well, you know where I am, anyway.”

Elliot shook his head slightly at her words, not sure how to even answer her. Of course, it wasn’t as bad as if he had killed someone. He knew that. He knew that this wasn’t the end of the world, and for most people, they may not even care at all if something like this happened. But, even knowing that, he couldn’t stop going through every possible scenario for how he could have not gotten himself in this situation.

Of course, he didn’t blame Jack. He should have left immediately after the show, or at least denied the idea of using drugs to help him feel better. The worst part of it was that it all felt so good. It all felt so right; until he woke up the next morning, and it suddenly didn’t anymore.

He nodded again when Vivienne went off to make tea, and he sighed deeply, shrinking into his seat as if he could disappear into it. If only that were the case.

He knew he shouldn’t have come and bothered Vivienne. It was the small hours of the morning, a time where she surely should have been asleep - and yet, she was up and making tea for him because he couldn’t get himself together. She certainly deserved better.

The brunet’s attention was pulled away from his thoughts when he heard the clattering of teacups against a tray, and he looked up at Vivienne once more. At her words, he simply nodded and moved to pour himself a cup of tea - but he immediately proceeded to lean back in his seat again, watching the dark liquid swirl as he stirred it with a spoon.

Frank watched his relation fuss with the papers, his own hands tensing in tandem as he read through each piece of evidence. Frank’s own feelings were somewhere between joy and trepidation, the latter getting the better of him as Elliot asked if he wanted money. “No, no… I used to be a singer, myself. In Paris. Didn’t use a stage name, though I suppose that would’ve been a smarter choice, huh?” He cracks a timid smile, but hopes that a dose of charm will smooth the conversation over. He came here with the intention of warning Elliot about his recent crime spree, but now he feels a certain hesitation lingering in his breast. Again, the choice: To lie or not lie. He knows he must tell him eventually, for his sake, but their first meeting seemed a poor time to reveal it. The lad didn’t need another reason not to trust him, afterall. These things took time, and they were delicate.  “I haven’t got much family left, to be honest, hence why I’m here. Figured, sure why not! But if you prefer I be on my merry way, I am happy to oblige as well. I understand this is a bit much, believe me I know.” He explains cautiously, finally beginning to relax into his confident persona.  

Elliot looked up at the other as he explained, and realization dawned on his face when he explained that he used to perform in Paris as well. “Well, people seem to keep figuring it out, so I’m not sure it was smarter in my case.” He admitted, trying to make himself relax. If he was actually his cousin, could he trust him, at least a little bit? He hoped so.

Elliot had always been the kind of person to trust whoever came into his life. However, due to recent events, he learned he couldn’t just trust whoever came into his life. Trusting people was just getting him hurt more often than not, and he couldn’t continue to constantly take it.

“No, don’t leave...” He also didn’t have much family: it was really just him and his mother. He knew some of his extended family, but not much of it. “My flat is upstairs, I can make some tea? We can talk more openly there.” It wasn’t that he couldn’t have these conversations in the shop, it was just easier this way.

“I can close the shop for a little bit, I’m sure people can wait a half hour or so for their books if they have to.”

Lusine stretched her leg out as she thought about the question, pointing and stretching her toes as she did so to stretch the sore muscles. 

“Ohhh,” she mused, “Anything, really. Whatever you are willing to share.” 

Perhaps it was selfish of her, in a way, but this was something she often did with the few patrons and friends she felt particularly attached to. This happened especially during the prelude to a connection of any kind when the buzz of meeting someone new was frightening, anxious, and exciting all at once. The act of sharing secrets made for quick friendships, in her experience. 

“If you will trust me with one of yours, I shall trust you with one of mine, and then we will be bonded for life. Thick as thieves, as they say. You see, I quite adore you, Phillip, and I hope you will allow me to.” 

Phillip watched her curiously, eager to answer a more specific question, rather than having to come up with something himself.

But, unfortunately, she didn’t seem to want that. Obviously she wanted something less contrived than that.

The Crooner paused for a moment, debating what to tell her. He had so many secrets, but none of them were truly impactful... none that he would willingly share, anyway. It was an interesting idea that she’d given him - share one of his secrets and she would share one of hers. And yet, he was more uncertain than ever; although, he wouldn’t let that show on his face as he watched her face, calculating what exactly to say.

However, before he spoke, the concentration fell from his face as his eyes dropped to the floor, and he shrugged. “Every time I go on stage, I wonder when the audience will get tired of me... Or when they will start seeing through me.”

Arturo waited patiently, taking in the boy’s response at such a reveal. It was understandable, of course. Had anyone been so bold as to follow him around during his youth, they would have had far more to uncover than bookshops and fake names. Thankfully, he lived within the belly of the beast—that damned Moulin Rouge—so he never had to leave. Had he never moved to Montparnasse, perhaps the beast would have protected him from the sordid fate he now wallowed in. 

Do you want something from me?

The truth of the matter was that Arturo was not certain what he wanted out of this. He did not anticipate doing something so right (yet so wrong) and thus had not thought so far into the plan to come up with what he wanted in return. 

He was the one staring now. The cigarette’s ash grew longer between his fingers as he thought.

 “Redención,” he said, quietly. “Admiration.” 

He would not get it from Elliot, nor Phillip, he knew that much. But he could use the boy as a javelin of sorts. 

“I would like to offer my services to you, niño. Be that guitar or piano, I am yours. Will you accept this?” The maestro asked kindly, but in his eyes lived a silent demon that suggested it was not a question, but rather an instruction.

The other man had to want something from him, right? Otherwise, why would he confront him about his false identity? Why would he follow him home? It just didn’t make sense, if he wasn’t going to act on that and get something out of it, there was no reason to go to all this effort. Especially by telling Phillip that he knew, there had to be some kind of incentive. Even if he wasn’t sure what that was yet.

The Crooner watched the other’s expression, trying to appear more calm now that Arturo wasn’t sure of what to say. He hadn’t thought it through, or at least that was what Phillip had to assume. Or maybe he just wanted to build up the tension - either way, he had to try and hide that anxiety.

At his first words, the brunet frowned slightly. “How are you going to get that from me?” He asked at first, until the other continued.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Poems!” Annette declares brightly, reaching for the book as he offers it to her, setting it upon her lap and pulling of the lace gloves from her fingers so she would be better able to turn the pages.

“I like poems; most of them are nice and short,” she explains as she looks over the stanzas. “Not to say that there aren’t long poems – epic poems, even – it’s just that the shorter ones are easier to read and sometimes have as much emotion in them as an entire book. And books take me a very long time.”

She looks up at Elliot hopefully. “Do you know Keats?”

Elliot nodded a little bit at her words. “I like the shortness of them for when I may be busy with other things. That way, it’s unlikely I’ll be caught in the middle of something only to have someone interrupt.” He explained with a bit of a shrug.

“And I’m frequently interrupted by the nurses, so I’m rather grateful for their length.” He found himself rambling, before shaking his head at himself. “But you’re right, the amount of emotion packed in such few lines - I always wonder how they do it.”

As she mentioned Keats, a smile curved at the corners of his lips. “Yes, I know Keats... so ahead of his time.”

“Well, please send him my regards,” Giovanni said, sympathetically. He smiled kindly at Elliot and added, “And also my thanks that he’s not here to infect the rest of us. Who has the time to be sick these days?”

Giovanni rested his leather case on top of the counter. The case popped open with a snap and the professor retrieved his book from inside. “My publisher, I believe, would like for me to do a reading. As much as I’d rather not,” he admitted. But anything to make his publisher happy.

“Here,” he said, passing the book to Elliot with an appreciative smile. It was signed with a thank you to the boy inside. An identical one for the owner of the shop was still inside his case. “I’m not sure if analysis of Pagan symbolism in Renaissance art is your favorite genre but–”

Giovanni was interrupted by the sound of books slapping against the floor, an avalanche of pages tumbling off a shelf nearby. The group of youths who had been browsing were skittering like rats towards the exit.

“I will, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” Elliot told him, returning his smile. “I know, I’m just praying I don’t catch it - after the fire at L’Enfer, I can’t afford to get sick.” He wasn’t in the hospital that long, but it had taken a toll on him - it took weeks before he truly felt back to normal.

The brunet watched curiously as the professor began to open up his briefcase, only to reveal copies of his books inside. “Alright - I can arrange a seating area then, for those who come to listen. I started setting up the table this morning. It’s just in the back, if you want to see.”

His gaze moved to where he was motioning to, past a few of the shelves, to where he’d began setting up a table in a more open area of the shop - but when he looked back, the other was holding his book out to him. “Oh.” He took it, and gave him a smile, nodding. He had a thank you in his head already, truly appreciative of it, even if he was rather dense when it came to visual art (although, perhaps reading about it may improve that situation.)

He was ready to thank him, when he suddenly heard several books toppling to the floor. He groaned, setting Giovanni’s book down behind the counter quickly. “I’m just going to pick them up, so they’re not in the way - I can just sort them later. I’m terribly sorry for this.”

He froze at the question, and for a moment it seemed as though the critic would reveal the crooner’s presumed offense; how does one explain the sickening jealousy he felt, and the shame of even feeling it all because of something Elliot could not control? No, it was Jack who’s to blame, and Gabriel already dealt with him.

“Who told you I was kind?” The Spaniard asked with a raised brow. “You lied to me, boy, when I asked you if we’ve met and now you ask me what you’ve done to offend me?“ The misdirection was done convincingly for Gabriel’s irritation was real, and the critic scoffed before taking another hit from the cheap cigarette. 

“I do not appreciate being made a fool over something so trivial.“

Elliot watched the expression on Gabriel’s face, truly hoping he would tell him. Of course, the fact that he was living a double life could be reason enough, he was sure - but it seemed like it was more than that. Something about the whole conversation made it seem personal, even if the man was saying otherwise.

Perhaps assuming he was kind after their interaction wasn’t a good assumption to make, and perhaps mentioning it wasn’t a good comment to make, either, so the crooner shook his head slightly and looked down. He wished he’d just stayed in his bed, instead of going for a walk and ending up outside, trying (and seemingly failing) to convince the critic to keep his secret. 

“I apologize.” He said honestly, his voice quiet and hoarse. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

Vivienne propped herself up against her doorway to give the young man on her doorstep a second to make up his mind. She couldn’t exactly say that she knew this tactic would work, but she had a hunch. As horrible as the idea of speaking to people when you’re that distraught was, she usually found that the alternative, being distraught on your own, started to seem even worse pretty quickly.

Concern darkened her brow as she watched him make up his mind. She’d known for a while that he sometimes forgot to take care of himself – forgot often enough that she worried about him sometimes – but this seemed to be in a far more severe league than just the odd missed meal. “Alright, there we go,” she said softly as he made his way closer to her.

Before he changed his mind, she lead the way into her sitting room as quickly as she could.

She listened in silence as Elliot managed to choke out his rather evasive sentence. “Take your time, love,.” she said softly, almost at a whisper. “Surely nothing’s as bad as that though, is it? You haven’t killed anyone, have you now?”

She reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder for a moment, trying to meet his eye as she did so.”You look like you need a good cup of tea, I’d say,” she said lightly. “How does that sound?”

As she moved to get the teapot – still radiating heat from her interrupted breakfast – her eyes flicked over him again. Had he killed someone? She wouldn’t have thought he had it in him, but who really knew.

“it’s not something to do with this whole singing business is it? Phillip, the double life, all of that?”

Elliot wandered into the house after her and sat down once he was somewhere that he could do so. She wasn’t prodding him more, which he appreciated, but he continued looking away from her. He could look at anything, but didn’t want to see her expression, even if he wasn’t sure he would be able to tell her what had happened.

He could hear her speaking, but didn’t quite register what she was saying. It took seconds after she spoke for him to realize that she had asked him a question, and he shook his head slightly. “No, I didn’t kill anyone.” He said quietly, the shaking of his voice finally slowing now that he was inside. As he felt her hand on his shoulder, he tensed slightly, not having expected the touch - but he quickly relaxed again. 

At her offer, he nodded slightly. It wasn’t that he particularly wanted tea, but it sounded good to have a moment to collect himself while she was off doing that. 

Although he hoped Vivienne of wouldn’t think too badly of what he did, he had never discussed her views on the matter. In general, it wasn’t something people discussed, because it made so many uncomfortable. Once she knew, would she even want anything to do with him? He wasn’t sure. However, now that he was there, he doubted she would want to let him leave before finding out what happened.

Finally, the crooner lifted his gaze to look up at her, as she asked if it was about Phillip. His eyes were normally swimming with pain, but it was as if it had filled them so much that they were swelling with it, threatening to burst. Red, puffy, and threatening to spill over again at any moment. 

“Whenever they release you from here – you name the day and I’ll arrange it,” Annette smiled, “Perhaps we may even invite Bhari as well? I’m sure between the three of us we could have many wonderful conversations.”

She nods towards the neglected book on his lap that he had been reading when she had come in. 

“What were you reading? Adventure? Poetry? Romance?”

Elliot smiled and nodded firmly. “That sounds wonderful.” He told her happily, but then blinked at the idea of Bhari going as well. “Of course we can invite him, yeah.” And then if there was any lag in conversation, at least there would be a third person there to make it easier.

As she nodded towards his book, he glanced down at it, before back up at her.

“It’s just poetry... you can take a look, if you’d like.” He suggested, picking up the book and holding it out for her.

elliotmurdock‌:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you really think so?” 

Lusine finished the pour and brought the boy his glass of champagne before plopping down on a large round hassock with her own, spilling a bit on the smoky purple fabric beneath her. She did not mind one bit. “That should help with the nerves, mon sucre.” 

Away from the maddening crowd, she could exist without worrying about how many pairs of eyes were on her back, and it was in moments such as those that she felt so unabashedly blissful. In the company of a man who held no expectations of her in the slightest, she was free to come undone. Lusine spread out atop the hassock, toes pointed like cupid’s arrows in the moments they were not joyously curling outside the constraints of her heels. 

“I have worked very hard to make this place cozy. You should have seen it before— absolutely terrible.” The Venus sighed.

 Quickly she emptied her glass, reveling as thousands of little bubbles swept over her tongue. Surely, it was meant to be sipped, but she just could not wait. Rarely was she allowed to drink during performances. 

She placed the glass on a little table beside her and propped her chin in her hand. “Will you tell me a secret?” 

“Of course... I would have guessed it was yours even without your presence.”

Phillip took the glass of champagne and sipped at it, watching her as she sat down. His eyes scanned the room, and he found a place to sit as well, desperately trying to keep this as least awkward as possible. She seemed to glide in everything she did, it was difficult to compete.

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” He told her with a chuckle, sipping at the champagne again, and praying that she was right in that it would help with his nerves.

He watched her as she got comfortable, and briefly wondered how often she got to be like this with her patrons. She seemed perfect, especially when on stage, that he doubted she got to relax very often. It would ruin the illusion - although, she had only told him minutes before that what was on stage was more or less what was off stage, as well: a concept he was completely unfamiliar with.

“You’ve done a marvelous job, I must say.” He watched as she downed the glass of champagne and, briefly, his eyebrows flicked up, but he let them drop again after a quick second. And then, she asked him a question.

He stared into her eyes for a moment and pursed his lips, calculating is reply. “What would you like to know?”