#rowanparis

rowanparis‌:

It was obvious Rowan didn’t belong on this side of the Seine. His hair was curlier than usual under a well-worn beanie. He’d been a complete spectacle.

The man who was dressed dashingly spoke first. Rowan grinned. The kitchen bustled behind him. Unless he was a fancy chef, somehow superior in not splashing sauces onto his expensive clothes, the man didn’t belong in this particular room either. Rowan held the door open for a waiter who didn’t think twice about either of them, oddly enough. “The bathroom is one door down, for chums.”

The curious look on his face turned into a sheepish grin. “Oh gosh, yes. You’re...” He pointed behind the younger man at the behind the scenes area where Guillaume strangely felt much more of a connection to than the glittering candelabras and champagne worth more than a month of a normal man’s salary. 

“Well I wasn’t seeking out the bathroom, really.” He slipped a hand into his pocket as he leaned against the door languidly, said champagne having totally erased all good judgement from his mind. “I hope they feed you well here. God knows we didn’t need that much food out here.”

@geridurand

Octobre 1917

After wearing black every single day of the year, one almost adopts the achromatic color as their second skin — at least, that’s how Jacqueline felt since the “mysterious” passing of her beloved husband.  There wasn’t an official handbook on mourning fashion etiquette, but to play up on her “heartbroken-widow” act, Jacqueline had removed every single article of clothing that had color to it from her closet and packed them away.  It was a fucking pain in her derrière to dress herself in noir throughout the scorching heat of summer, and now that it was just breaking through crisp autumn was when she decided it was socially acceptable to begin to don color yet again.

Her deep plum dress fit snugly across the feminine contours of her bodice and stopped just at the curve of her calf, picking up slightly in the light but brisk autumn breeze. It wasn’t a drastic change, but one that did not go by unnoticed as she walked through the busy streets of the street market.  The heads of many men and women alike that recognized her as the widow to Gaston Choquette, a notable mafia man in the streets of Paris, turned to watch her slip through the crowds of the street.  She regarded the familiar faces with a polite smile, stopping in between the stands to sample the fruits and breads as she walked.  The clicking of her heels against the pavement only came to a halt when she saw a uniquely familiar face; one that she had spent years of her childhood regarding with adoration. 

That was the face of Gerald Durand. 

Tossing her head back, Carmen laughed haughtily at the very thought. “I think we’re already there, mi amor. Between the idiots who fall in love with every person they see in Le Ciel and the freaks who believe every woman on their lap only has eyes for them in L’Enfer, all we need is a clown and we have us a fine madhouse.”

Humming pensively, watching the acts rehearse in L’Enfer in the daytime was not a favourite past time of hers, but Rowan was scoping out the place again for what he promised would be a spellbinding act to introduce her next set. Her attention was easily taken away though as she leaned back on the side of the sofa, stretching like a cat before placing both legs in the man’s lap. “Won’t you please tell me what your act will be? I am technically part of it if it leads into my dance.”