nocturnus

“She knew herself, how she had slowly, over years, become a cat, a wolf, a snake, anything but a girl. How she had wrung out her girlhood like a death.”

Character name: Camille Nabi Park Age: thirty-six Gender & sexuality: cisfemale | she/they | queer Residential area: Downtown Vancouver Birthplace: Paris, France Occupation: Artist Length of time in Vancouver: twenty-ish years Positive Traits       (+) inquisitive (+) creative (+) intelligent (+) sociable (+) particular Negative Traits       (-) abrasive (-) argumentative (-) chaotic (-) judgmental (-) selfish

detailed biography / pinterest board

“Alright, alright, that’s enough to get me to listen to ‘em.” Returning his attention to the albums they were standing in front of, he searched for the band she had so passionately stood behind and lifted it from the selection. “Y’know…the Biebs, Gaga, all that good stuff.” The woman seemed too judgmental for him not to screw around with her at least a little bit. 

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“Sweet success — prepare for your life to be enriched,” Camille faux cheered, sarcastic tone contrasting her amused expression. Sure, she was judgemental to a fault, but she had still won this round, so who was the victor? The man’s next answer, however, did throw her for a loop. “Okay, I get that you’re being funny, but I can’t tell if you think Lady Gaga is bad or if you think the Biebs is actually good.”

“Romance isn’t dead.” Isla replied sardonically, her shoulder rising with half a smile, “It’s sort of romantic, tho. Someone dedicating time and effort to call in and declare their love for you.” Isla explained she’d always been somewhat of a rose-tinted woman, in love with love and all it meant. She kept her heart on her sleeve, more guarded than ever as of late, but still, it was there. She chuckled, “It’s cheesy. A lot of romance is, isn’t it?”

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“Oh, it certainly isn’t. The people on Tinder? The subject of epic poetry.” Camille’s voice dripped sarcasm, even though there was laughter in her eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was because she tended to be aloof and found getting to know people was getting exhausting, or the quality of people on dating apps in general, but the landscape was bleak. That could be because she had never been the romantic sort, though. Who could say? Still, it felt heartless to crush somebody else’s hope so blatantly, so she shrugged politely. “To each their own, I suppose? Romance could be a song on the radio or a bouquet of your favourite flower, or it could be someone making you coffee the way you like it before you wake up.” Not that somebody had done that for her in years, but she was pretty sure the sentiment still counted.

And there it was. First blood was drawn, their bitter wounds dragged into the light once again. It took what, five minutes for them to fuck it all up? Xander thought that had to be a record — distance had made the memories hazy, easier to push aside when you saw each other a handful of times a year to hand over custody of your daughter. They met, they bantered, bickered, argued — occasionally ended up in bed together ( or the couch, the wall, the kitchen bench — whatever surface was closest ). The wound scabbed. The wound was opened. Rinse and repeat four times a year. It took them longer, then, to succumb to the urge to pick.

Maybe he was naive or maybe just plain stupid, but Xander hadn’t really considered the impact proximity would have on their dynamic. He’d though Vancouver was a big city, it would be easy to avoid each other, right? But the longer he was here, the less possible that seemed. The less he wanted it, though he wasn’t inclined to dwell on that. “I commit to plenty of things  — being really fucking attractive, my business, our kid.” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “It’s hard to commit to something that has no intention of being committed to.”

If Xander had even an ounce of self preservation, he would turn around, leave the store and not look back. Wouldn’t think about Camille, wouldn’t think how good those previous few minutes were before the claws came out. Unfortunately his penchant for masochism far outweighed good sense. Xander’s lazy smirk didn’t leave his lips as he allowed Camille to drag him closer, so close he could feel her warm breah on his cheeks. His hand reached out, skimming her hip as it joined the other on the table behind her.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he crooned in her ear, deliberately misinterpreting her words, “you know I love it when you talk dirty to me in public.”

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When Camille had first moved to Vancouver, she had taken up football. (Well, soccer, but she had enough European pride to never call it that.) Partly because it was the exact kind of unladylike behaviour that her Grandmère would hate, and partly because it was an excellent outlet for her aggression. As a result, she would return to her dorm every Friday night too exhausted to wallow in her loneliness or her frustration with the situation. That was exactly what it felt like bickering with Xander. No, it was not ideal, but it was making the best of a bad situation. It would be worse, she thought, to ever even try replicating this — their bond ran too deeply rooted to ever emulate. Subsequently, even when there was nothing nice left to say, they still had to say it. The alternative was so much worse.

What else was she going to do? Admitting defeat sounded painful, but shutting up and walking away was worse. It was always so much easier to fight him instead; to aggravate him until he snapped, however that happened to be. She was used to being the focus of his attention — what was she supposed to do, not provoke it? Even it hurt, it was better than the alternative. It just happened to be a particularly sore spot, one that made her set her jaw and revert back to a sulky teenager who snapped all the time. “Still shifting the blame onto people more capable of taking it,” she mused aloud, because she could neither accept his brutally accurate accusations nor let go the chance to get back at him. And then, just to divert the inevitable argument: “I think you’re overselling how attractive you are, old man. Really working the dad bod lately, I see.”

It would kill her to admit to it, but Camille nearly trembled. Just from a brush against her hip and a sarcastic endearment? Christ, she needed to get out more. It had been too long since a gratifying tumble with an attractive stranger if mere seconds of her ex being an asshole was enough to get her mind straight in the gutter. Not that they’d ever had trouble with that aspect, but still. This is what she got for not letting many people in — the one person who had knew exactly how to get under her skin – in more ways than one.

He was so absurd. She didn’t know whether to laugh or smack him over the head. Instead, she chose to rise up to meet his stupid gaze, leaning up on her tiptoes with her other hand braced on his chest. “Wow, how celibate have you been to forget what dirty talk sounds like? I thought we had higher standards than this, babe.”

Family was one of the most important things in her culture. She was raised by her parents and was taught that she would take over as they grew older and care of them. Despite knowing that their intent was for the best, she still couldn’t help but resent the ways in which they wanted to ensure their daughter became successful. It felt like her wellbeing had to be put aside for the sake of a large pay check and financial stability. Surely her passion was not to be taken into account. “Not everyone sees it that way but I think it’s a generation thing. If they don’t approve, I’m here to say that you aren’t doing anyone or yourself any harm so you could be doing a lot worse.” Alice had always been one to suggest people follow their passion as it would ensure a fulfilled life and it had been what she’d done despite her parents disapproval and she hadn’t regretted yet. 

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There were times when Camille regretted her distance from her own culture. Even before she had moved to Vancouver and decided to make the city her home as she grew older, she hadn’t often thought of herself as Korean. She was French. She was British. Thanks to her family’s insistence on assimilating into their adopted home, she had never considered herself anything other than European, even though the reflection in the mirror said otherwise. With friends like Alice, however, it made her think of what she had missed out on. However, disappointing the older generation did seem to be a universal experience — Camille laughed a little at the similarity. “I completely agree with that. Besides, who says they have to know otherwise? I’m a big proponent of only telling your family exactly as much as they need to. Opening up and sharing voluntary information is just an enthusiastic invitation for interference.”

Camille would never let him live it down if she knew he did Taylor Swift karokee in the car with Sophie. If she knew that sometimes, he found himself humming the music while he worked. It wasn’t his fault the damn songs were seared onto his brain.“Well, you know me.” Xander flashed Camille a smile. “I’ve never met a bad decision I don’t commit to.” If there was a bite to his words, well, Xander wasn’t going to be the one who mentioned it first. His gazed dropped to her hand covering his. Provoking a reaction from Camille had been his intention — was always his intention when it came to her —, but Xander hadn’t expected this. He met her gaze, lips curving into a lazy smirk.

“Seems the feeling is mutual,” Xander drawled, impulsively flipping his palm in hers and squeezing their joined hands in a mocking parody of affection. Oh, he truly had a death wish today but old habits died hard, even after a decade of separation. “If you wanted to hold my hand that badly, you could’ve just asked.”

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It took seconds for her easy smirk to freeze. There was always a few moments of easy forgetfulness with them; when they hadn’t forgotten precisely but easily slipped back into old habits. After all, they had been well-honed over the years of bickering through annoying teachers and sneaking out after curfew. But then, there was always this: the slip. One or the other always crossed the invisible line that took them from jests into jibes. “So you’re just bad at the commitment part? Is that it?”

Camille had to mentally take a deep fortifying breath and tell herself: You are thirty-six years old and you cannot strangle a man in public. Even so, it was tempting. That fucking smirk, oh, it made her blood boil. She loathed how much it aggravated her. They had been divorced nearly ten years now, for fuck’s sake. Surely, that was long enough to change how much a stupid little man affected her but no. Ugh. How appalling. The only thing that made it easier was proving to herself that the allure was mutual — that she was not alone in being drawn to him like moth to a flame. Which is why she untangled her fingers from his, only to wrap a hand around the back of his neck and drag him closer, only to whisper: “Oh, darling, you know it’s not your hand I want to hold and squeeze the life out of.”

Alice could have likely guessed what the reason was based on her own experience with hers. She’d taken a swift turn away from her parents plan for her and they’d almost disowned her because of it. It had taken a lost and a fall into a deep hole for her parents to understand. Sometimes wealth wasn’t everything. Then again, it had taken them just long enough for her to get better to try and steer her back into her law studies. Investigative journalist was a danger and waste of time. Now, they’d grown tired of singing the same song so a silent understanding is what they’d settled on. “I understand. I go to my parents every Sunday and it’s basically a prosecution on why I’m not doing more and how high my credit score is at.” 

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Alarmingly, even that much interaction with her own family seemed… not appealing, precisely, but interesting. She couldn’t remember the last time her grandmother had been pleased to see her. Maybe if she had made different choices in life, they could have still had a relationship, but grandparents in their nineties had no interest in understanding why she would follow in her mother’s artistic footprints or the elopement, baby, divorce and estrangement. It was admittedly a lot, but that didn’t mean the disconnect from her background didn’t rankle. Suddenly, it was a lot more complex relating to what Alice was saying. She decided to redirect the conversation a little. “See, that just makes me vaguely relieved about Sophie’s whole ethnic disconnect because she doesn’t see my family much. Who cares, as long as you’re content with your life and not actively causing yourself harm?”

Jace loved the music store and before walking in he had to scan the shop to make sure that Melina wasn’t working. He had done enough to ruin her life, the last thing he wanted to do was ruin her day. He walked over towards one of the crates, shifting through the vinyls when he heard a voice, turning his head to look over at her. A low chuckle left his lips as he shook his head. “You’ll be surprised the amount of distaste there is in this town.”

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It wasn’t often that the casual passerby caught her interest, but Camille could always be counted upon to be nosier than necessary — even if she would rather die than admit it. Would she ever divulge personal information about herself? Probably not. But other people’s banal little problems? There was always the possibility of it being fascinating. “Well, yes, I have lived here a long time, but tell me more. Why do you think so?”

The scenery of the early hours of day is great, but the company is even better. Having unfiltered conversation with Camille is always a treat as she is one of the curated few that is just as sharp-tongued as he is, and there’s never the compulsion to hold back his criticisms. Hers are equally matched, and he sets his mug down on the bar table that he had hooked up to the edge of his balcony with a hearty chuckle. “I didn’t see him unlatching a helmet, so we can guess that his brains have been scrambled a few times and that’s why he thinks it’s socially acceptable to be seen like that in broad daylight.” He picks off a piece of his chocolate croissant, eyes sweeping for another patron to pick apart. 

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People are fond of saying that you can be judged by the company you keep, but she’s pretty sure that’s not right. It should probably be something about judging with the company you keep, completely unfiltered. It’s rare for someone like her to feel so comfortable, but in the moment, she can’t find herself concerned about anything more than the butter-slathered toast beside her. That’s why there is laughter in her voice as she basks in the summer sun, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. “Oh, I cannot even look at him. It’s worse than watching a Marina Abramovic performance — they could design a Met exhibit against the crimes against fashion on this street alone. See her rounding the street?” She points out a woman turning onto the street in a neon hoodie cropped under the collarbone and drop-crotch dungarees. “It could work as a fashion statement, yet?”

CLOSED starter for @parkcamille​ set in The Drive

The ceramic mug in his hand that he had crafted himself is filled to the brim with only the finest brew crafted from Tanzania Peaberry coffee beans that he had finally received after being wait-listed for the past year. As he brings the cup to his lips, Kareem’s eyes dart over the passerbys on the street below. “That one has to be going through a mid-life crisis,” he mulls to his neighbor companion from across their balconies, casually and discreetly pointing to a patron that has hopped off of a neon orange Harley Davidson in full chaps and a cowboy hat. “That or they took the wrong turn on their way to the nearest rally.” 

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There’s something to be said for the absolute delight it is to find a kindred spirit. Camille has a newfound appreciation for it as she leans back in her lounge chair, crossing her ankles as she sips her own steaming coffee. You can say what you want about living downtown, but it’s never a dull day. She squints down at the sight Kareem has highlighted, coughing out a laugh. “A rally for absolute clowns, sure. Has he really matched his atrocious cowboy boots to that horrifying bike? And his dog’s collar while he’s at it? What in the white people audacity is happening?”

Alice flipped the vinyl in her hands and looked over at the songs and the art etched into it. When satisfied with the choice, she tucked it beneath her arm and smirked at the mention of colonizers. “It tends to work.” She nodded, having heard it mentioned at the dinning table a few times. It would get people going, that was for certain. “Is there a reason you don’t spend my time with your family?” She asked absentmindedly, her curiosity getting the best of her. Journalism was second nature and she often didn’t realize that sometimes her questions could be too intrusive.

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It was always awkward to be asked something you had absolutely no intention of answering. It wasn’t that she couldn’t or shouldn’t — it was the only way she was making bloody North America work was by pretending her family didn’t extend beyond Christmas. It worked remarkably well, especially now that she preferred to spend the holidays with her kid and had not a single particle of shame about using that as an excuse to avoid her grandparents. She could hardly say that though, not even to Alice who was pleasant but nowhere near Level 4 trauma-swapping friendship level. “Oh, you know Asian families,” she diverted airily. “Sixty percent obligation and thirty percent overbearingness.”

“Yeah it was actually — a song called mad woman, it reminds me of you, you know? Brings back fond memories.” Sophie was in her Taylor Swift phase, it was all she’d play at the moment subjecting Xander to the same five songs on repeat everytime they were in the car together. The one time he’d attempted to gently suggest she play something else, she’d thrown him a withering glare so eerily reminiscent of the look Camille was giving him right now, he’d promptly shut his mouth and never suggested it again. Twelve year olds were terrifying. “Although, maybe no body, no crime is a better fit,” he mused, drumming his fingers on the table next to Camille. “It’s gotta be tough, being the only interesting person in the entire city. Luckily for you, I’m back to save our sanity — you’re welcome.”

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“See, I know you think you’re making points, but you’re actually just showing off your extensive knowledge of Taylor Swift so who’s really winning here?” Sophie — it was always Sophie winning between them — but that was okay. Even when she couldn’t stand him, she could respect a man for learning their kid’s musical choices. Still, she didn’t respect him that much: the finger drumming was so irritating that she immediately reached out to clasp the offending fingers, realising just a second too late that she was now holding his hand — was that on purpose? was she really that obvious? “Aw, I knew you think I’m the only thing worth caring about in Vancouver. Thanks for admitting it at last.”

“Well, they welcomed me back into town, so I supposed they must have,” Xander drawled, coming up behind his ex-wife to peer over her shoulder at the records. Needling Camille Park was a surefire way to way to make sure his body was never found, but he’d never been terribly good at making smart decisions when it came to her. “No accounting for your taste, though. Epik High, really?”

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Being a petite person was a trial when your personality needed to loom over others, but none more so than when it was Xander Delgado encroaching on her personal space. Instantly, Camille stiffened, head popping up to shoot him an incredulous glare. “Sorry, what was playing in your car last time I checked, Taylor Swift?” Yeah, it was probably Sophie’s, but who was counting? “Besides, why do you think I question their taste? Accepting all sorts of fools here.”

The question deserved some thought and consideration rather than tossing out an instinctual response. Amusement was winning through though, especially with her comment on pasta and Matt had to stifle a laugh because she clearly wasn’t kidding. She seemed to have a bit of a sharp edge to her, which wasn’t bad or wrong, just meant her opinions were likely very solidified.

“Nah, I don’t think I can agree with that. Freedom of thought and choice, along with different tastes wouldn’t allow that to work. Perception is individual, and—” Matt shook his head gently while wearing a smile. “There are people out there in the world that don’t like pasta. Awful, I know, but it exists.”

Thick shoulders shrugged, “never really listened but I’m not opposed . How about we strike a deal?”

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Not even on pain of death would Camille Park admit that she had a soft spot for tall, dark and charming boys, but that didn’t mean she could hold back her reaction. In her opinion, where there was opportunity to engage with someone in amiable argument about trifles, there was a way. And his easily engaging with her comments definitely opened the path to getting Camille started.

“Well, somebody should really see about fixing that, don’t you think? I mean, I’m all for free will over predetermination and writing your own destiny, all of that individuality shit, but some thoughts and choices? Absolutely no space for them in the rational world. Maybe not based on musical taste, but there are people who tattoo their skulls with swastikas, did you know? Something does have to be said about choice.”

Aware that she had definitely said too much with too much investment for a casual meeting, Camille cut herself off with a deep breath and offered a smile to indicate the lack of hard feelings. It all a hypothetical, after all. “Anyway, what’s the deal? Shoot.”

“I’ll have to take a listen.” Broadening his usual genre was never off the table. He wasn’t set in his ways or anything of that regards. Well besides of the whole mainstream shit that seemed to carry the same tune and was just worthless to him. “Honestly, you took the words right out of my mouth.” The male’s appreciative nature began to be shown her way. “I’m sure all of them have writers at their beck and call. That’s not a musician. It’s like it’s more about dancing now too then the lyrics or the story behind the song.” Something he would never begin to comprehend. It nonetheless irritated the living hell out of him.

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Any form of art was not worth any less, just because more than one person had worked on it or even directly inspired it, Camille believed that wholeheartedly. She was someone who barely called herself a painter because it felt too limiting—because all forms of art had worth. But she had to agree with the man, some things were just going too far.

“In that case, you should definitely have a listen. Whether it’s your type or not, it’s definitely authentic. Which, you are astoundingly correct? If you want to do a dance track or hire fifteen people to create it,at least don’t pretend like you can sing. And the singing, by the way? No training, no vocal support, just surviving on attractive faces and bad autotune? It’s an insult to music.”