Self-Invited || Open

nemorinwithcherrylips:

“There is a reason,” Montparnasse answered easily, leaning back in his seat and crossing both his arms and legs, making himself as comfortable as he pleased. “Quite a few of them, in fact. Of course, I don’t intend to share those with you either. It’s complicated, you understand.”

He grinned, a lazy sort of expression in which he did not bother to even open his eyes fully. “I’d be happy enough to give you a fake name, if you’d like,” he added. “I have quite a few of them. Funny the things that people choose to collect, isn’t it?”

He kept his eyes on Montparnasse, much as a predator would on another invading his territory. For that was exactly what Montparnasse was–an invader. This man was here, opposite him, at his table, no less, let alone in his café, but he powered through, he didn’t mind. Achille was all about equality after all. But this man was a threat, he didn’t know why and he didn’t know how but he knew that he was, somehow.

     ‘I don’t collect anything,’ he replied simply, his eyebrows furrowed and knitted in the centre. 'I’ve never collected anything.’

     That was probably a lie but he made no move to correct himself, he didn’t remember having collected anything when he was a child, or even now.

     'Any name is fine.’

Self-Invited || Open

nemorinwithcherrylips:

“What a name,” Montparnasse replied, grinning to himself and leaning back in his seat. He kept his eyes firmly locked with the Achille’s, pleased with the expression. He liked it when people tried to figure him out. It gave him a sort of thrill to see how far they would get.

Could they do it? Could anyone really see through the act he’d worked so hard to perfect?

He doubted it, really, but it was a fun game to play.

“Boredom, mostly,” he replied honestly, not bothering to feel ashamed. “And an aversion to crowds. Really I just saw this little group disappearing into a back room and thought… why not?” He smiled, but there was nothing particularly genuine about it.

‘Yes, what a name indeed,’ he replied a little smile on his face. This mysterious man held something over him, he could feel that, see it already, something in his sweet, deadly eyes. There was something incredibly dangerous about the man and the way in which he held himself, suave and self-assured.

     'I see. I suppose that does make some kind of sense, but why not introduce yourself, or is there a reason you do not?’ He was interested and for good reason, he liked to unwarp the mysteries of the world and Montparnasse was one of them. He sat back, glanced at his friends and then looked back to the dark-haired stranger in front of him.

     'Though I cannot promise you will find more entertainment here.’

Self-Invited || Open

nemorinwithcherrylips:

The bright afternoon burned Montparnasse’s eyes as he walked through the street. He spent plenty of time out during the day, but he didn’t prefer it. There was too much light, too much noise, and far too many people. Basile craved an audience, that was true, but he had become fond of a tailored performance, designed for fewer eyes.

In an effort to escape at least the brightness overhead, if not the noise or the crowd, he ducked into the closest cafe. It wasn’t a vast improvement, and his mood remained sour as he scanned his surroundings.

It was then that he spotted a group of men—mostly younger men, although they were all likely older than himself—filing into a back room. He cocked an eyebrow and, bored, decided to follow. He hung back only for a second or so, a short enough time to catch the door with his foot. Then as everyone was seated, he invited himself in and sat with them, leaning back in his chair and grinning widely. “Okay, boys, what is it we’re talking about?” he asked, feeling rather pleased with himself for the interruption.

This was much better.

They had all been talking about something that entirely uninterested him, something to do with Jean Prouvaire’s latest espcapade into whatever weird fetish he’d decided to peruse this time. Achille lay his head down atop arms folded on the table and he sighed–as he’d walked ahead he now had the pleasure of watching all of his friends clamber through the door in a mess of what looked like awkward limbs and overenthusiasm.

     Perhaps he was tired, perhaps he was just stressed out. Whaever it was he was not in the mood for their chipper conversation. He felt like Grantaire. With another sigh he continued to watch them. Only when Montparnasse spoke did his head poke up from the table. He wasn’t entirely sure if he recognised this man and frankly a part of him wanted to. He sat up, he looked, he stared.

          ‘Who are you?’ he asked, his French tainted by the Middle Eastern accent.