masquerading rose

Username: masquerading rose
Character name: William MaCarthy
Character age: 27
Desired apartment: Bill knows better than anyone that you don't need much to be happy. Which is why his apartment is modest, 75 square meters. With constantly visiting relatives and friends, the apartment has two bedrooms and sleeps four. There's a roof over his head, and food on the able; which is why, like in most homes, permanent or temporary, the kitchen is the heart of the apartment.

http://www.parisattitude.com/apartme...umProduit=3375

---

If I can't hear the music, and the audience is gone,

I'll dance here on my own.


Banners by Rose, my sister, and me.

masquerading rose

William MaCarthy

Bill let out a puff of smoke from his cigarette, watching it lift into the air and then putter away, permeating his whole living room in a bluey haze. The apartment said, in bold, freshly repainted letters ’No Smoking’ but after several months, he hadn’t been evicted yet, and his nicotine addiction thanked him for that.

He could just hear his mother’s voice, telling him to “take that outside”, or to “stop swallowing smoke”, or warning him that he would die before her if he kept it up. They were all borderline laughable. It was brilliant, taking a drag off death and living everyday to tell the tale. His mother’s concerns were sweet, but unrealistic. He was fine, and the only thing killing him was the thought of Victorine. It was a thought that filled him up with the most beautiful ecstasy, but ate at him until he was left paralyzed. The only thing that could put a stopper in the Victorine spill was his little helper, the orangey brown bottle that rattled in his satchel and now looked at him comfortingly, offering itself to him. It was a long, slow, virtually painless suicide. Just a handful of the circular pills could finish it. Downing them would put him into a permanent, heavenly sleep.

But as he dumped them into his waiting palm, images filled his mind. Him and Virginia running through the summer sprinklers in their backyard. Him and Ben illegally fishing in the park pond at midnight. Him and Damien speeding down the Castle Combe streets at dawn to get to Salisbury. Gimpy asking him for advice, him and Fred putting glue in Penny’s nail polish. He lived in a beautiful world. He lived a beautiful life. He couldn’t end it now all because of Victorine.

He replaced the pills in their container and smashed out the remainder of his cigarette in the hideous frog ash tray Virginia had made five years ago. He closed the prescription bottle, leaving one pill out for later. He leaned back on his couch with a huff.

Closing his eyes, Bill attempted to fall asleep without the aid of Valium.

But his blue-green eyes flew open with surprise when he heard his front door open.

---

If I can't hear the music, and the audience is gone,

I'll dance here on my own.


Banners by Rose, my sister, and me.

Mrs Nadir Khan

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

“For the hundredth time, Mum,” Damien said into the phone. “I already talked to him. He said it’s fine. … No! Don’t call him. I’m a block away. No one is going to mug me! It’s Paris! … Yes, I love you, too. Bye!”

And as Damien turned down the Rue Severo, he got his first real taste of sweet freedom. It was like being eight years old and sneaking chocolate ice cream from the icebox. Somehow, treating yourself was sweeter when no one else was around or even privy to what you were doing. Like those stolen midnight snacks, his trip to Paris was something both Damien’s parents were oblivious to.

For the most part.

Lucian Michaud didn’t even know his son was in town. Damien planned to keep it that way until Easter. It was a big enough city. There was simply no way that the pair would run across each other until then. Damien would be playing around in the city’s clubbing district with Bill, doing job interviews with local museums and theatres. Lucian would be too busy travelling between his Paris home and ancestral villa to go to the theatre or museum. And if Damien ran into his dad at a club, he would probably die of shock.

Natalie Blackwood-Michaud knew Damien was in Paris. However, she truly believed Damien when he said that he and Lucian worked it all out. She pestered and pestered Damien for details and he provided. And, honestly, there was no way his mum was calling his dad. They were divorced and while part of Damien was holding out for his parents to reconcile and for them to be a normal family again, he knew better. So, why not take advantage of their marital strife?

After twenty-three years, Damien Alexandre Blackwood-Michaud was an independent adult.

For the most part.

After all, he was still planning to crash at his best friend’s flat until he found his own place. Bill MaCarthy was the only one who knew the whole truth about Damien’s jaunt to Paris. In a way, Bill was an accomplice. Giving a fugitive refuge, lying to the Michaud patriarch and matriarch, not telling Damien’s fiancée… It was like old times.

Well, old times plus a fiancée that Damien landed in a deal with his mum. But that was another story.

Damien was excited to be staying with Bill. The older man was pretty much Damien’s big brother. An only child from an upper-class family, Damien grew up with everything he asked for except siblings. When he was a kid, he asked. A lot. And even if his parents weren’t listening, God was. Because it didn’t take too long for Damien to fall into the MaCarthys’ laps and become their adopted eighth child. He spent more time, it felt like, at Bill’s sprawling house in Castle Combe than his parents’ McMansion in Salisbury. His formative years were filled with as many memories of stuffy social galas as it was open fields and dirt roads. And as Bill had back then, he was taking Damien in. The fantasy of tearing up the City of Lights with his best mate for the next couple of weeks excited Damien beyond all reason. He could see them, pressed together on Bill’s old Harley like they had as gangly teenagers or cruising over the tan-and-brown cobblestone streets in the cherry red convertible Artie MaCarthy fixed up for his eldest. It was a delicious return to carefree childhood; sweet relief after being pressured to marry a girl he didn’t love and a string of failed job interviews.

Behind him, Damien’s two suitcases jolted along over the uneven sidewalks. He passed building after building slowly, occasionally stopping to marvel at the architecture. Buildings didn’t look like that in Salisbury. And if they did in London, Damien never noticed. He admired the ivy-covered walls and wrought-iron balconies, almost salivating at the dream of owning his own studio apartment. The numbers in gold-leaf and bronze glittered from the side of the buildings as Damien sought 924 Rue Severo.

Spotting it, he stepped inside and was directed to the lift. Damien rode up to Bill’s floor and, once there, reached under the mat for the spare key. Finding it, he unlocked and opened the door.

The room smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. If Damien didn’t have a pack in his pocket, he supposed the overpowering aroma would have knocked him to the floor. His eyes scanned the room and saw Bill laying on the couch by Weasel’s ugly frog ashtray. A few centimetres away, sat a bottle of prescription drugs. Damien’s cerulean eyes widened and he released the handle of one of his suitcases. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple evident against the thin white flesh of his throat.

“Christ, Bill!” Damien crossed his arms. “You’re damn lucky it’s me and not your mum! I mean… honestly. She’d kill you for smoking inside.”

masquerading rose

William MaCarthy

All the negative thoughts, the sadness, and frightening ideas fell away when the beautiful sound of Damien’s voice hit Bill’s ears.

“Christ, Bill! You’re damn lucky it’s me and not your mum! I mean… honestly. She’d kill you for smoking inside.”

Standing there, just over the threshold of Bill’s living room was the one person who knew how make Bill smile without selfish intent or a hold bard. It was one thing he always loved about his best friend. Damien was always so honest with Bill, could read him like a book, and knew the best thing to say at the optimum time.

Bill stood and crossed to his friend, arms wide. “Hypocrite,” he pulled him into a hug. “Come here.”

Hugging your best mate never grew old, and as he pulled him into the tight squeeze, Bill was thrown back to the days of yore when breaking school rules and sneaking midnight snacks like they were forbidden fruit was the norm; when responsibilities were to your friends and not your rent; when ‘worry’ was a bad word.

“Oh, I’ve missed you.”

Bill released his friend and glanced around at the mess.

“Sh*t. Here, let me clean this up.” He dove for the empty glasses and half full prescription bottle, walking into the kitchen to hide them from sight. “You’re early, mate. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” he called from the kitchen. “But make yourself at home. Can I get you anything? Tea? Beer? Tap water?”

---

If I can't hear the music, and the audience is gone,

I'll dance here on my own.


Banners by Rose, my sister, and me.

Mrs Nadir Khan

Damien Michaud

Bill smiled and pushed off the couch and Damien grinned. God, the place was a mess. Damien knew full well that if Mildred MaCarthy had seen Bill’s living room she would be bustling around exasperatedly to clean it up. Thank God no one’s mum was here to scold. Bill opened his arms to Damien.

“Hypocrite,” Bill teased, pulling him into a hug. “Come here.”

Damien tossed his arms around Bill. This was what he missed when Bill made the big move to Paris. He’d been witnessing his parents’ marriage crumple and trying to understand his own uncertain future without his best friend there to hug him and make it seem like everything was okay. Damien wouldn’t admit to craving affection—he didn’t want to seem needy—but after being the birdie in an ongoing badminton match between his parents and between Ashton and Criss, a simple hug was the best, most normal thing ever.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” Bill said, releasing Damien.

“Missed you, too,” Damien said, still smiling. But Bill didn’t seem to be listening. Instead, his blue-green eyes swept over the living room.

“Sh*t,” he said. “Here, let me clean this up.”

“Don’t worry—“

Bill snatched up the bottle from the table a little too hastily and grabbed one too many of the glasses. As if Damien hadn’t seen them… He’d pretend he hadn’t for Bill’s sake. Unless he got worried. But, it was Bill. Bill was responsible most of the time. He liked a good time, but he wasn’t reckless.

“You’re early, mate. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” Bill hollered from the kitchen. “But make yourself at home. Can I get you anything? Tea? Beer? Tap water?”
“Is it too early to drink?” Damien asked, coming to the kitchen. “It’s not a long flight, but you know how it gets at the airport.”

Never mind that Damien and Criss had a row about Ashton before Damien boarded the plane. The angry words still replayed in Damien’s brain. The kiss he’d stolen off of Criss’ lips before dashing off had been a forceful, hard mashing of lips, fuelled more by frustration and desperation than anything else.

“I’m doing all I can, sweetheart,” Damien insisted, breaking away. “Just be patient with me.”

“I’m not waiting forever, Damien Michaud.”

Damien sighed and leaned against the counter. That didn’t matter now. He was here with Bill. The one person who actually understood the sodding mess besides Damien. The one person who didn’t judge or get mad. His best friend.

“I’m sorry if being early’s an imposition,” he said, knowing it wasn’t, but going through the motions. “They pushed my flight up.”

masquerading rose

William MaCarthy

Bill had just closed the medicine cabinet when Damien entered the kitchen. It was a small space, but not unlike his kitchen back at home. In fact, having another body occupy the space made it feel more like his mother’s kitchen. It put Bill at a gentle calm that no amount of narcotics could replicate.

“Is it too early to drink? It’s not a long flight, but you know how it gets at the airport.”

Damien didn’t have to explain for Bill to understand. For one, he had seen his share of airports to fully grasp ‘how it got’ there. For two, Damien was his best friend, and after twelve or so years, there were some things that were just understood and needn’t be elaborated on.

“I’m sorry if being early’s an imposition. They pushed my flight up.”

Bill looked at his friend from his spot at the sink. “Excuse me, but was that an apology I just heard?” Bill shook his head and put his hands on his best friend’s shoulders. “Damien, when has your presence in a MaCarthy household ever been an imposition?” Bill crossed to his refrigerator, and plucked out two beers. “Also in a MaCarthy household, when has it been too early to drink?” He tossed one to his friend who got the cold bottle in his two hands.

It was true. Bill’s father was Irish, his mother half English, half Scottish. Drinking was a staple in his family, liquor was a chaser for Grandmum’s eggnog, and a toddy was a remedy for the common cold. Ben had been known to put Bailey’s in his porridge, a secret ingredient he learned from Granda’, and Frederic once put Virginia’s goldfish in a cup of Irish Car Bombs to see if it got drunk. They weren’t irresponsible drinkers, just jolly, casual ones.

“Can I take your bags?” he said, closing the refrigerator door with too much gusto.

---

If I can't hear the music, and the audience is gone,

I'll dance here on my own.


Banners by Rose, my sister, and me.

Mrs Nadir Khan

Damien Michaud

Bill looked over at Damien, and the demure little façade Damien had going melted on the spot. A grin climbed onto his lips as he met Bill’s gaze.

“Excuse me, but was that an apology I just heard?” Bill asked, thudding his large hands onto Damien’s slender shoulders. “Damien, when has your presence in a MaCarthy household ever been an imposition?”

Only when Ben didn’t want me there… And no one ever counts Ben’s opinion, anyway…

Bill moved to the icebox and pulled out two brown, glass bottles with a grin.

“Also in a MaCarthy household, when has it been too early to drink?”

Damien laughed as he caught the carelessly tossed bottle with both hands. This sent him back. Being seventeen and breaking into Lucian Michaud’s wine cellars. Being eighteen and grabbing a beer from the mini-fridge in the MaCarthy’s garage. Being twenty one and hitting up a bar near his new flat. All with Bill. All before six PM.

“Can I take your bags?” he said, closing the refrigerator door with too much gusto.

“Let’s leave ‘em,” Damien said, twisting the top off his drink. “We’re adults now, Billy-boy. No one’s going to gnaw your ear off over a couple of bags lying out.”

He lifted his glass in a toasting salute and grinned.

“Cheers.”

masquerading rose

William MaCarthy

Bill wanted to pretend things hadn’t changed. He wanted to pretend things weren’t awkward between the two, and that speaking with Damien was just as natural as breathing, thrusting him back into the old days of boyhood glory.

Luckily, he didn’t have to pretend. Luckily, it all came naturally, like a river floating with a current. He and Damien just worked together and he couldn’t imagine a better best friend.

“Let’s leave ‘em. We’re adults now, Billy-boy. No one’s going to gnaw your ear off over a couple of bags lying out.”

Bill laughed at the lackadaisical, mature way Damien spoke, a glint in his eyes as they shifted quickly from the suitcases to Bill again. He was right. They were adults. And though independence was a bullet point on his pros list, maturity was not.

He’s right, he thought. I am an adult. It’s about time I started acting like it. Bill’s eyes fell on the medicine cabinet. The abused Valium was there because Bill, instead of facing his problems and fixing them like a grown-up, he ran away and crawled inside the bottle with his hands over his ears.

But with Damien here, Bill returned to being the same Bill he was, and the Bill Damien wanted him to be.

“Cheers.”

Bill tossed back a swig, before growing bored with the drink, setting it on the counter. “You can stay as long as you like, you know. I have a bed and room all set up for you. I must warn you, though; Ben slept in it last. You’ll just have to ignore the fleas.”

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If I can't hear the music, and the audience is gone,

I'll dance here on my own.


Banners by Rose, my sister, and me.

Mrs Nadir Khan

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

After a flight, fight, and a series of lies to the people he loved best, Damien was exhausted and in need of a strong drink. Beer wasn’t exactly “strong”, but it’d do for now. Maybe tonight, he’d treat Bill to a couple rounds at a local bar. The beer tasted good; his mum would have called it “plebian” with a derisive lip curl. Oh, well. It was the company that made alcohol taste any kind of decent. Bill set his own drink down on the counter.

“You can stay as long as you like, you know. I have a bed and room all set up for you.”

“You’re the best,” Damien said automatically, beaming. It was good to know some things didn’t change. He took another swig of beer.

“I must warn you, though; Ben slept in it last. You’ll just have to ignore the fleas.”

Damien swallowed hard and grinned.

“Ben’s fleas never kept me out of a bed before,” Damien deadpanned, pushing himself up to sit on the counter. “It’s the ticks that drove me mad back in the day.”

He brought his beer to his lips, swinging his legs, but paused and shook his head with a laugh. Ben MaCarthy had been Damien’s first puppy love—doomed from the start because of the boys’ stark differences. But, they were still good friends. Almost as close as Bill and Damien, once you got past the tension of being exes. Which actually wasn’t that hard. Damien wholeheartedly approved of Ben’s latest longtime flame: Matvey Kaminiski, a chemistry professor from Romania. Ben, on the other hand, didn’t approve of anyone Damien dated: male or female. Not Criss, not Ashton. No one.

Ben doesn’t approve of shaving or air conditioning, either, though, Damien thought. I wonder what Matvey sees in him that I missed.

“No, it’s fine,” Damien assured Bill, laughing at himself. “Chances are you or Matvey made him wash up. He cleans up pretty nice when you two hound him.”

Mrs Nadir Khan

Damien Blackwood-Michaud

Damien stared at his laptop screen intensely, scrolling through the list of flower arrangements online. He’d never been very good at these kind of gestures, preferring to leave the task to his practical and green-thumbed mother when it involved floral arrangements. But Damien couldn’t very well call up Natalie Blackwood now and ask what type of flower mean “I’m sorry for being an ass. You’re one of the bravest, most compassionate men I know. Also, I like your eyes.” She’d probably have an epileptic fit to hear that, despite Damien’s promise to marry Ashton Greene, that he wanted to send flowers to Toddy St. James. She wouldn’t care that it was a “Get Well” gesture of solidarity. She’d just care that Toddy had all his male bits and proudly wore his flag of many colors on his sleeve. Damien drummed his fingers against his lower lip. Roses were too forward. They screamed love, sex, and romance. Damien had already screamed that he had a fiancée at Toddy. He didn’t need to send him mixed messages.

There were just so many options. Carnations, lilies, chrysanthemums, daisies, hydrangeas, gardenias… Damien scrolled through the website, eyeing the array of colors with interest. There was an arrangement of irises that were just a shade purpler than the indigo flecks in Toddy’s midnight eyes he’d accidentally noticed in the subway station a few nights ago. They had Damien’s mouse hovering over the “Add to Cart” button. He already knew what he’d write in the accompanying card and how he’d sign it. And right now, Damien felt like a reluctant genius. There were a couple things keeping him from making that purchase.

Price was a nonissue. Damien had plenty of money.

Arrangement wasn’t a problem. Damien didn’t know what irises meant, but they were pretty.

Toddy finding out who sent them didn’t scare him. Damien didn’t mind if Toddy knew, as long as it was just between them.

Every creak in the apartment had Damien’s pulse drumming too loudly and too quickly. He didn’t want Bill to push open his bedroom door and ask what he was doing. Since coming home that day after almost kissing Toddy, Damien had been withdrawn and quiet around his friend. He didn’t want to tell Bill he’d gone and messed things up worse. Bill was the only one who knew most all of Damien’s cards in this game of engagement he played with Ashton. Bill was also the only one who was in a position to judge and whose judgment would hurt. If he didn’t have Bill, Damien had no one. Nothing was worth throwing away over a decade of friendship. Not Toddy’s approval. Not getting his parents back together. Not his engagement to Ashton. Not even his inheritance. And Damien just knew that the second he started to make the buy, Bill would burst through that door and everything would go south.

So Damien’s cursor played chicken with the “Add to Cart” button. And probably would until dinnertime.