#lauderholmes

'josh!' 

after the set was over and she had zeroed in on his presence, an excited squeal betrayed the arrival of ren de reignier mere moments before her arms were thrown unceremoniously around the other. pulled tight against her, with a slight ‘i’ve missed the hell out of you’ starfish-dance to boot. 

disclaimer: ren was not a dancer, and that much was plainly obvious — she was atrocious, and could probably do with more a few lessons from professor lauder-holmes. 

‘ cause when i open my body i breathe and lie.

if she was being honest, she could scarcely hear the music she was listening to — having found a corner far from the fire itself when her throat grew a little hoarse from the smoke — over the ambience. and by ‘ambience,’ of course, ‘chaos,’ is what is meant, but she was so rarely hopeful for the best, sue her for wanting it then. a notebook balances on the writer’s knees, and occasionally, she’d gingerly sip at the wine she had brought with her ( she was taking no chances with the communal drinks, thank you very much; they were both vile and quite possibly a dance with death ) and cross out a line she didn’t much like, anymore.

‘artist is merely a by-word for fool; for naivete, for charlatans, but also for godless liars with smiling faces.’ she stared at the neat cursive, at her own words, and glanced up at the madness. instead locking eyes with someone stood over her, she took a moment to process the figure of joshua lauder-holmes. or, as he’d been called by one of her brothers — césaire, she thinks — ‘the monacan icarus.’

it had the same kind of rhythm as ‘the modern prometheus,’ and, marinette pondered, was just as damning.