#af.starter

“Merci, mes amis, et bonsoir!” 

Blowing the audience cheeky little kisses, Josette can’t help but want to stay in this moment forever. The warmth of the spotlight, the thunderous applause and laughter of the crowd, her heart beating wildly against her rib cage- not even chugging an entire bottle of absinthe could make one so deliciously, deliriously happy. 

That being said, absinthe or another drink of the sort would certainly hit the spot right now, and so, after introducing the next act, Josette made her way through the crowd to the bar. Too full of adrenaline to decide what to drink, she leaned over to the patron beside her and noticed their own drink of choice. 

“Now that looks delicious,” said Josette as she beckoned over the bartender. “One of these, please!” 

Then, raising her drink, Josette turned to the patron and declared, “A toast to the future, our health, blah blah blah, let’s drink.” 

The park had always been a place for her to brainstorm, to organize her thoughts... and to take a breath, when things were getting stressful. It was a great place to watch strangers: young lovers chatting back and forth, an artist selling their wares, and even more people like her, just trying to have a moment of peace in their busy lives. It was at this time, subtly watching passers-by while she finished her lunch, that she spotted a peculiar green spot atop someone’s head. Her eyes blinked a few times as she tried to decipher what it could be... before she realized exactly what it was.

“Oh, excuse me!” She called after the other, quickly standing from her seat and taking a few steps to catch up with them. “It seems you have a caterpillar on your head... a stowaway of sorts.” A small laugh escaped her, finding the situation quite amusing. “May I? I doubt he wants to stray too far from his tree.”

Availability: Open to all!

Vivienne had been looking forward to this night for months. She’d heard fantastic things about the combined efforts of Ernst and Miró, whispered about with hushed reverence in the wings of her theatres or at avant garde gatherings, and with raised, skeptical eyebrows in Motmartre cafés.

Modernist, psychological Romeo & Juliet wasn’t for everyone, clearly.

Vivienne, however, had been buzzing with excitement. And it certainly was striking, she must say - with all those dancers in their masks and slight lines barely suggesting a setting.

But she couldn't say it was setting her imagination alight, exactly.

As the lights faded up for intermission, she shifted in her seat, tempted to flick through the program again, in the hope that she could squeeze even a drop of clarity. As she looked around, scanning the faces of fellow ballet-goers for their thoughts, she spied a familiar form not too far away and raced over.

“Well!, she said, a bright smile crossing her face, “Who would’ve expected that we’d all be graced with your esteemed company tonight?”

She crept a step or two closer, and dropped her voice to a whisper.

“Now, tell me if you can, my dear. . .  what on earth does all of this mean with our star-crossed pair flying off by plane? Is it some kind of odd symbolism? And the dressing gown? They haven’t slipped anything into the champagne on offer, to cause such confusion, surely? Though, I wouldn’t put it past them, at this point.”

The people on the way to the Arène de Atlas chatted and roared in large groups, clouds of liquor and laughter emerging from their mouths. It wasn’t the sort of environment Emile usually thrived in. And yet, that night, aware that the sight of two opponents lovingly beating each other into a pulp was only a few minutes away, he was close to glowing. Which is to say that there wasn’t a hint of anger in the way he shoved through the crowd. Even his trademark scowl was conspicuously soft.

Perhaps it was that lightness that led Emile to pass a coin to the child selling flowers, impulsively grabbing a posy of hydrangeas with his other hand. Then, barely registering the gender, age or appearance of the closest passerby, he extended the flowers towards them.

“Here. I don’t have much use for these.”

Home. It was as close as he got to home.

Still so very, very far away. But it had to do. Tonight’s contender, some rangy Brit - Lyle “Left Hook” McLennan, a solid bruiser - had been a few years younger, had some height on Dani. Age, being tied to experience and all, was a tough one to call as factors went. As for height, the difference of a couple inches could be a big one. Only if you knew how to use it, though. Dani did. Gave the schmuck a few extra rounds out of sportsmanship, mostly. So long as it was a good show. As soon as Lyle there started to plainly lose his step, Dani did the decent thing and brought it to an end. One solid left hook.

As the bookies churned out the winnings and the ring cleared out, Dani stepped between the ropes, toweling off. Heading for the makeshift bar, stacked crates draped with crisp tablecloths. The Arène’s night matches - the less than legal ones - offered certain amenities. The better to bring in the high rollers. These included a charming cigar girl and, of course, a respectable quantity of liquor. On the way, Dani helped himself to a bottle of champagne, crackling loose from one of the gleaming, sweating ice buckets, and... two flutes, from behind the counter. Glancing down the bar, he threw a bloodied, punch-drunk smile to the closest patron as he worked on the cork, hands still wrapped for a brawl. “Help me finish this? If you placed your bets right,” on him, “it’s celebrating. If you didn’t, hell, it’s some small consolation, at least. And a toast. For better luck, next time.” Or better judgment. You could get by on one or the other.  

After an hour or two of thinking, and scribbling down some ideas in a notebook, Maelie stood from the bench and brushed herself off, before heading towards an exit. She paused just when someone passed her, not because they spoke, but because she’d caught a spot of green on their head. 

“Excuse me!” She called after them, quickly taking a few steps to catch up with them. “It seems you have a caterpillar on your head. May I?”

The events of the fire were still vivid in Annette’s mind -- and even it they weren’t, the sling holding her fractured wrist was even more difficult to ignore. She hadn’t gotten the name of the young man who had stopped her from running in in search of Bhari, but she was sure she would know his face if she saw it. She had always been quite good with faces (a skill that proved handy when she ran into patrons outside of the Moulin -- which happened more often than what she would like).

Many apologies followed the petite blonde popping her head into several rooms and wards, until finally she managed to find the young man she’d been looking for.

“Pardon me,” Annette excused herself as she stepped into his room, a bouquet of bright yellow flowers in her arm wrapped in brown paper. 

“We...We met at L’Enfer--Well, not properly. Do you remember?”

He didn’t want to be there, but Gabriel would rather be outside than be left with his thoughts. The music provided a soothing balm to his hyper mind at the moment, and there were plenty of people at the jazz club that evening for him to observe as he finished a bottle. A young, male singer had just finished his set and the critic recognized him as someone he’d written about a few years back, to see him still performing pleased Gabriel for some reason, he’d seen enough young talent disappear after a year or less.

He would strike a conversation with the performer, the Spaniard decided as he got up from his chair, but the appearance of a beautiful man with a commanding height prevented him from doing so; Jean-Baptiste Sauvage approached the boy and like reliving an old memory, Jack transformed into Sebastián de Silva and the singer, an eighteen-year-old version of the filmmaker.

Gabriel fell back into his seat and spent the rest of his night drinking and watching the two from afar; it was strange to feel strong emotions at that moment when he’d been complaining about being number earlier. There were nothing and no one of interest to him in that jazz club save for the two, and when the pair finally got up and made their leave, the Spaniard couldn’t help but look offended. A disgusted noise escaped him and he banished the sight of Jack preying on the young singer with more liquor. It proved to be dangerous.