., give me sympathy -- luc

[adèle bouchard]

“Five more minutes, Yvette called from deep inside her closet. Her voice, accompanied with various articles being thrown out, were the only signs that the girl had not been swallowed whole. Adèle groaned in response as she flopped back onto the plush bedding. Her long hair trailed across the hardwood floor as she peered upside down at the back of her friend. “That’s what you said an hour ago!” she protested.

“You can’t rush perfection, Adèle.”

“I’m ready…”

Yvette’s blonde head emerged from the closet with a smirk. One crimson and one jade scarf were draped over each shoulder, her cheeks flushed from exertion. “My point exactly.” Frowning, Adèle righted herself, staring down at her ensemble for the evening. A denim miniskirt with a frayed hem, a white blouse with the sleeves rolled to the elbow. Over that she had opted for a plaid vest in various shades of blue. Several silver chains in varying lengths decorated her neck and a myriad of beaded bracelets in every conceivable color brightened each wrist. An aubergine cardigan that ended just before her skirt did was draped carelessly over her knee-high, brown leather boots – both she would don prior to departing for the party that evening. That was if Yvette ever finished getting ready. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Adèle demanded.

“Nothing,” Yvette assured her as she pulled a form-fitting royal blue sweater dress over her head. Tossing Adèle an indulgent smile she smoothed the fabric over her lithe frame. “It’s just… very high school.”

“We’re in high school,” Adèle reminded her.

“Yes, but I’m a model. People expect more from me.” Yvette’s eyes traveled over her friends figure. “You know, height aside, you really do have the figure for it. I could—”

“And eat your soy-wheat germ-grass grossness?” Adèle interrupted, shaking her head. “I’ll pass.”

“Whatever.” Buckling a large belt with a gaudy silver clasp around her impossibly narrow waist, Yvette finally seemed to have selected an outfit. She turned in a slow circle with her arms outstretched by her side as she awaited her friends’ approval. “How do I look?”

“Like a Smurf. Can we go now?”

Before Yvette could think of something to say, Adèle had grabbed her hand and was pushing her out the door.

- - - - -

The party was already in full swing when they arrived. It was a breath of fresh air for Adèle given the sort of stuck-up party Yvette preferred to drag her to. Gone were the glittering flutes of golden champagne and untouched tables of food, replaced with bright plastic glasses containing an assortment of cocktails and large bowls overflowing with potato chips and other snack foods. “This is awesome,” Adèle breathed in conjunction to Yvette’s, “Oh, god.” The two girls turned to face each other, their eyes reflecting each other’s confusion over their reaction to the setting. This was a far cry from the stuffy after-parties that Yvette preferred. The familiar pop ballad could barely be heard over the riotous conversations and laughter. Adèle instantly felt at ease. “Emil did not say the party would be like this,” Yvette muttered under her breath. “Can we please go?”

Shaking her head, Adèle laughed. Reaching for Yvette’s perfectly manicured hand she dragged her toward the overflowing snack table. Ignoring the manner in which her friend stiffened at the site of the food before them, Adèle handed her a paper plate and dumped a fistful of the nearest chips onto it. “Live a little,” she whispered before popping a corn chip into her mouth. “See how the other half does it.”

“Do you know how many calories are in that?” Yvette gasped.

“Nope! Don’t care, either. That’s what makes it taste so good!” Holding up another chip, Adèle waved it beneath Yvette’s pert nose. “C’mon. I bet the smell is driving you wild. Live a little. You don’t want Emil to think you’re some stuck up model who doesn’t eat, do you? I dare you.”

Yvette’s eyes widened as she glanced around them. “Oh my god. Do you see him is he here?” She didn’t wait for Adèle’s response as she took the chip and popped it boldly into her mouth. Her azure eyes widened in surprise as the salty taste engulfed her taste buds and she reached for another. “You didn’t tell me they tasted so good!”

“No,” Adèle corrected, “you didn’t listen.”

Ignoring her snide remark, Yvette gripped Adèle’s elbow and spun her around to face the party. “I can’t believe how many people are here. Like real people – people I know.” Extending her manicured hand she fluttered it toward various acquaintances, chirping their names and details about them that Adèle found irksome. She had become friends with Yvette quite by accident at a party her brother had taken her to. That was before Yvette had her break with her modeling career, and before she had turned into a snob as a result. The only vestiges of the girl Adèle had met those years ago was how utterly ridiculous most of the things that came out of her mouth sounded. Her brother, Pierre, had often quipped that it was fortunate Yvette was pretty because it was the only thing she had going for her. Adèle missed his sardonic humor more than ever. “…and that’s Lucas something-or-other over there. I’m shocked he even goes to parties. He’s kind of… I dunno. He walked away the last time I talked to him. Too bad, he’s gorgeous. Then again, most models are. Probably gay…” Yvette rambled, pausing only long enough to sip a beverage that had been left unattended on the table. Before Adèle could attempt to warn her against such actions, Yvette had grabbed her hand and dragged her into the middle of the room.

“Excusez!” she called to Adèle’s embarrassment. Staring at the carpet she could feel her cheeks warm and she frantically jerked her hand free from Yvette’s grasp. Unaffected by the crowd’s annoyance, Yvette continued, “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Yvette Desprès. You may recognize my face from billboards? Anyway, I was just thinking that this party was missing something. And do you know what that something is?” Silence ensued, nervous whispers breaking the silence. Adèle took a step backward praying that no one had seen them enter together, or, if they had, that they would not associate her with whatever ridiculous plot was being hatched in Yvette’s mind.

“A game!” the blonde girl squealed, clapping her hands together and causing the drink she was holding to splash onto the floor. “Oopsi!” she giggled. “Who’s up for seven minutes in heaven? We’ll need a bottle and some volunteers…” She whirled around to face Adèle. “You’re game, right?”

“Uh…,” Adèle stammered, aware of the curious eyes that were now locked on her – a dozen razors piercing her. She wanted to tell Yvette that this was a silly plan, one that no one else was into, but she couldn’t. Locked in the other girls’ azure eyes was an excited pleading. They both knew that if Adèle backed out there would be no one who would participate. Sighing she nodded. “Sounds fun. As long as I’m not going to be stuck kissing you – your lip gloss tastes like rotten seaweed.”

[lucas murray]

Luc had never been one for parties. They were loud, overcrowded, and, as far as he was concerned, utterly pointless. Yet, instead of spending his Friday night studying as he would have liked to, he was at a party, in the midst of a crowd of people he hardly knew and certainly didn’t care to know any better than he did. There was no real reason for his presence there. Not, at least, if one was looking at the simple fact that Lucas Murray was attending yet another party in the middle of Paris. But, in the grand scheme of things, it made a world of difference. Despite what people might think, Luc didn’t have much of a say in what he did or did not do, nor where he did or did not go. Everything came down to what his agent, Marco, said. If Luc said no too many times, he could say goodbye to his job and, along with it, the smile on his mother’s face. So here he was, leaning casually against a wall and pretending as though he actually belonged in this world of fame and riches. Which, no matter what anyone else said or thought, he did not.

“Lucas!” The voice sparked a small sense of familiarity and Lucas turned around to find yet another acquaintance staring at him with bright, shining eyes. His lips formed into a polite smile and he offered a casual nod. “Thomas,” he said.

“How have you been?” Thomas asked, grinning. He had been in a few shoots with Luc over the course of the last few months and Marco had seemed to make it his mission to ensure that he and Luc became good friends. Thomas hadn’t needed much encouragement, but Luc wasn’t one to easily form friendships, even when he wanted to, which, quite honestly, he didn’t. Still, from watching Thomas, he’d seen no evidence that the other boy has any interest in him other than friendship, which was more than he could say for most of the other young men he’d met since he’d started modeling. For that reason, if nothing else, he had decided to put up with Thomas’s never-ending excitement and apparent inability to shut up.

“Busy,” he responded, shrugging. “You know how it goes.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his designer jeans—courtesy, of course, of his company—and asked, “How about you?”

“Oh, great! My agent’s setting me up with this new…” And just like that, Mr. Motormouth himself was going off and it was likely that he wouldn’t stop talking again for at least another five minutes, if not more. Taking a deep breath, Luc casually surveyed the party scene, not really looking for anyone in particular but looking nonetheless. If only Luis were here, surely he would know how to blend in. Even after almost two years, Luc still felt like a stranger in his own world. Briefly, he wondered if the feeling would ever go away.

“Come on,” Thomas said as he finished his spiel. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“I really—” Luc started, but his ‘friend’ was already dragging him across the room, to a group of about six or so other young men.

“Florence!” Thomas called enthusiastically, dropping Lucas’s arm and grasping one of the young men in a hug. “This is Lucas Murray. You know, the one I was telling you about?” Turning back to Luc, he said, “This is Florence. We go way back.”

Florence—a tall, altogether too feminine boy of about eighteen or nineteen—nodded and offered his hand for Luc to shake. His gaze moved up and down Luc’s body, appraising. After a moment, he smiled broadly and spoke in a thick French accent. “I must say, you’re even more gorgeous in person.” He looked at his friends, still grinning. “Isn’t he, boys?” From around him, the boys chorused their agreement.

Luc’s polite smile wavered as he quickly withdrew his hand and slid it back into his pocket. He suddenly felt altogether too noticeable in his simple jeans and fitted shirt, covered by a leather jacket. It was a subtle enough outfit while still acceptable among the crowd at this particular party. Still, he suddenly felt as though he was wearing something bright and sparkly for all the attention he was getting. He should have been used to the attention—indeed, he was—but the idea of being hit on by another guy was almost too much for him to handle.

“Thank you. It’s... nice to meet you,” he said with far more confidence than he felt. He opened his mouth to speak again, but stopped when a loud voice interrupted the noise of the party. As he turned around to see who had spoken, he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Yvette Despès. Beautiful yet utterly and completely brain dead, as far as he could tell. He had worked with her only once, and that single time had been more than enough for him.

His eyes were drawn to the girl beside her. He had seen her at other parties but never actually spoken to her. Who she was, he had no idea, but he had never seen her apart from her ditzy counterpart. That fact alone was enough to discount her in his mind. Anyone who could stomach Yvette’s behaviour that often likely had no more intelligence than the girl herself.

“Who’s up for seven minutes in heaven? We’ll need a bottle and some volunteers…” At the suggestion, Luc’s resolve to walk away was only strengthened. He turned to look for Thomas, but the boy was nowhere to be found. Looking at Florence, he said, “I need to head out, but—”

“The party’s just beginning, friend,” Florence interrupted, smiling. “Come, this will be fun!” He draped an arm around Luc’s slender shoulders and pulled him forward through the crowd. “You have two volunteers right here,” he called to Yvette, indicating himself and Luc. He pushed forward through the crowd until they were at the front of the group. ”Loosen up, sweetie,” he said with a wink. ”You look like you’re going to get teeth pulled.”

Lucas sighed. I wish I was, he thought. Instead of voicing this thought, he pasted what he hoped was a smile on his face and wondered how in the world he had gotten himself into this impossible situation.

[adèle bouchard]

“This is going to be amazing!” Yvette enthused as she tucked her hand into the crook of Adèle’s arm and ushered her forward. The silver polish glinted off Yvette’s nails, sparking in the dim light like a disco ball. The excited chirping was lost on Adèle as she fought to maintain a carefree façade. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” she muttered softly as she kept her eyes firmly trained on the Berber carpet. “It seems a little… you know, fifth grade.”

“You’re the one who said we were still kids,” Yvette reminded her, missing Adèle’s earlier point entirely. Grabbing an empty water bottle from a cluttered end table she turned to face her friend, her eyes bright with excitement. “Okay, okay, I know it probably sounds lame to you but I’ve always wanted to play this game. Every time I saw it in the movies I thought it would be fun. Please? For me? Who knows, maybe you’ll find your Prince Charming here tonight.” Rolling her eyes, Adèle knew any argument she might have had had already been lost. Although she knew Yvette would never give up the modeling world to return to what she deemed to be a ‘normal’ existence – as normal as someone from as affluent a family as the Bouchards could be – it was forever her argument. She had been deprived because of her beauty, because her face was needed by the world. The logic always failed on Adèle and yet she never argued the point. It wasn’t worth it. Though it was nights like this where she doubted her friendship with the older girl. “Something tells me that most of the guys here have more estrogen than I do. No offense, Yvee, but model parties don’t exactly harvest a lot of straight guys, and the ones who are make this carpet look intelligent—”

“You’re just too picky,” Yvette interrupted with a wave of her hand, immediately turning her attention to the two guys that had just announced that they were game for the festivities.

It came as no surprise that there was soon a group of people circled around Yvette, each pledging that they were interested in playing along. Adèle never assumed that she possessed the same charisma as Yvette. While she wasn’t one to disappear shyly into the shadows at a party, she wasn’t the one to command it either. When she was with Yvette she fell easily into the role of sidekick. No one asked who her family was or presumed to know things about her. She loved Paris for the anonymity it provided. In Beaune, everyone knew everything. Despite the thick brick walls that encircled their estate there were no secrets.

“At my friend’s suggestion, I think everyone should participate – guys and girls. It’ll make it more interesting!” Adèle’s mouth dropped at her friend’s lie. She was certain that Yvette only heard what she wanted and made up everything else. “And because she is such a good sport, my best friend in the entire world”—this time Adèle was unable to keep her eyes from rolling—“Adèle will go first.”

“I will?” she echoed as Yvette handed her the bottle and, gripping her shoulders, led her into the circle. “Everyone sit!” came the command as Adèle nervously fingered the white plastic cap of the bottle and looked around at the group. Please land on a straight guy, she silently prayed as she placed the bottle in the center of the circle and set it spinning in a rapid circle.

Her dark eyes never left the bottle as it slowed and then finally stopped. Taking a deep breath she followed the direction it pointed in. Her gaze traveled over sneakered feet to jeans, up to his fitted tee and leather jacket before resting on his face. It was Lucas Something-or-Other—Yvette’s gay friend. Great, just great. While it had landed on a guy, Adèle was fairly certain that she would have been just as uncomfortable had the bottle landed on another girl. Sighing, she smoothed her shirt and walked toward the closet that Yvette was animatedly gesturing toward. “Don’t just stand there!” Yvette chided as Lucas reluctantly made his way toward the closet, looking more the part of a prisoner about to be executed than eager party-goer.

“I’m really sorry about this,” Adèle said as they stepped into the darkened closet. “I’m Adèle, by the way.”

[lucas murray]

Life, Luc had long ago decided, was little more than a series of convoluted events, decided by chance, or perhaps some sort fate. He’d never found any reason to believe in God, but hadn’t fully discounted the idea either. Not that it mattered. Regardless of what force was in charge of haphazardly throwing these events together, one thing was clear. Whatever—or whoever—it was had something against Luc. He thought this as he stared down in horror at the bottle, which had slid to a stop and was now pointing directly at him. He stood in response to the cajoling voices around him, but his feet refused to move once he had done so. The seconds ticked by agonizingly as he tried to think of any excuse to leave. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind.

A warm hand on his back jerked him out of his self-absorbed thoughts and he looked to his left to see Florence standing beside him, an amused smile playing at his lips. Without a word, he pushed Luc forward, enough to get his feet moving, then sat back down in his spot. Luc heard Yvette scolding him, but ignored her as he forced one foot in front of the other. He could do this, he told himself as he walked steadily toward the closet, cheeks burning red with embarrassment. He had to, or be labeled as just another gay model for the rest of his career. It was this knowledge, more than anything else, that kept his feet moving toward the girl he neither knew nor liked.

It wasn’t that he’d never kissed a girl before. It was just that he’d never done it because he’d wanted to. In reality, he’d only ever kissed one girl, on an order from a photographer, and it had lasted less than half a second. He’d certainly never made out with anyone before. But if he didn’t now, even more guys like Florence would be crowding around him. He’d rather make out with a total airhead like Yvette’s friend than another male. In fact, he’d rather make out with a rabid squirrel than another male. The thought made the corners of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly into a smile. It lasted only the briefest of moments, but it happened nonetheless.

“I’m really sorry about this,” the girl told him as he followed her into the closet. He rolled his eyes, suddenly grateful for the darkness that hid his expressions better than he himself had the ability to. He wanted to ask her if she really was, but he already knew the answer. Girls like Yvette didn’t feel remorse for their little games—they enjoyed them. “I’m Adèle, by the way.” Like he cared. But it was convenient to have a name for her, instead of Yvette’s little friend. Luc had always liked conveniences.

“Luc,” he said simply. He tried to keep his voice light and friendly, but it came out tense and hoarse. Even though the darkness hid his nervousness, she surely could hear it in his voice. He swallowed noisily, suddenly wishing that they weren’t in the dark. He felt suddenly powerless not being able to see her expression, to gauge her reactions. His greatest strength had been taken from him in an instant, just like everything else. As he took another deep breath, he decided that he now truly hated Yvette Despès.

He knew that, if he waited too long in the silence of that closet, she would have something to talk about to her friend’s later. He could hear her now, as if she were truly speaking. ”He was a total loser. Gay, probably. Waited a whole five minutes…” Besides that, he might go insane if he stood there any longer, still and silent, listening to fake voices in his head.

”So.” His own voice, a soft baritone, surprised him. Finding that he had no other words, he inched closer to her in the dark, already claustrophobic space, and fumbled slightly with his hand to find her face. His breath let out in a silent whoosh, heat creeping once again into his cheeks. And, without another sound, he bent his head forward, closing the space between them, and pressed his lips, ever so gently, against her own.

[adèle bouchard]

A soft breath caressed the gentle camber of Adèle’s lips as she pressed herself further into the closet. Long woolen sleeves itched against her delicate cheeks and she swatted idly into the darkness that swallowed them whole. Her heart hammered steadily in her ears causing everything else to fade to a hollow tenor beneath its relentless volume. Licking her lips tentatively, she tucked a silken strand of hair behind her ear and rocked back on her heels. “Luc,” he rasped, his voice wavering beneath the weight of his own nerves. At least they shared that, she thought with a smile.

And then his lips found hers.

Clumsy and hesitant, they pressed against hers. Warmth flooded her cheeks, her eyes wide and staring ahead into the darkness. For a moment she stood motionless, frozen beneath shock. In her limited observations she hadn’t imagined this to be the course that he would take. Slowly her mind began to turn once more, the world drifting back into an inky-black focus. She needed to do something besides stand there before he thought her to be a terrible kisser or something. Blinking she held her hands up, pushing against his firm chest as she pulled away. “Um… what?” she hissed, her voice no more than a soft whisper against the darkness. Stuffing her hand into the pocket of her jeans, Adèle pulled out her cell phone and quickly turned it on to illuminate the small, confused space between them.

“Okay, hold this,” she stated with wavering authority as she thrust the phone into his hand. “And hold it steady so I can see what I’m doing.” Again her hand disappeared into her pocket only to retrieve a slender tube of raspberry-tinted lip gloss. With a smile she turned the cap and pulled out the wand with a flourish before applying it generously to her lips. With little regard or care for how her actions might be perceived she smacked her lips together dramatically before holding the tube toward Luc. “Alright, it’s your turn,” she announced, switching the tube of lip gloss with her phone.

It was unfortunate that he had to be gay, she thought wryly as she took in his confused expression, he was sort of cute. Of course he was a model and that sort of went with the job description. “Don’t look so shocked – it’s not like you’ve never worn the stuff before,” she joked easily.

“And don’t feel bad about not wanting to kiss me. It doesn’t bother me. My brother’s gay, too. But yeah, so Yvette doesn’t pitch a fit and annoy us all put some on and smear it a bit. She’ll think we kissed and you don’t have to deal with the whole awkwardness of kissing a girl. This whole thing is stupid enough without adding to the fact that I am entirely not your type.”

[lucas murray]

It only took a single instant for Luc to cross the distance between Adèle’s lips and his own. In that instant, a million things tumbled through his mind at once, then lost themselves within the inescapable awareness of the girl before him as contact was made. The skin of her cheek was smooth and warm beneath his palm, her lips soft and pliable. She smelled of flowers and soap, with a hint of something else he found himself unable to identify. If early summer had a scent, he thought, it had manifested itself in this girl. He could almost imagine that he’d wanted this, that he’d voluntarily come into the closet with her. However, as his mouth moved against her own, she stood motionless, utterly responsive. Bewildered, he began to pull away just as she planted her palms against his chest and shoved him off of her, turning away from him as she did so.

“Um… what?” She demanded in a harsh whisper, confusing him further. She hadn’t seemed so reluctant initially, when Yvette had first suggested the game. His breath escaped in a sigh as he stepped back, holding the phone as she commanded. He ran a hand over his short crop of brown hair, unsure of what to do now but hold the phone steady and ignore the absurd pang of rejection rising in his chest.

His bafflement continued to escalate as she began carefully applying lip gloss, of all things. Weren’t they supposed to be kissing, not applying make-up under the light of a cell phone? Not, he amended silently, that he was actually interested in kissing the airhead in front of him. He ignored the voice in his head that taunted him, pointing out that he’d been rather enthusiastic mere moments before. After all, was it his fault if Yvette’s flighty little friend was attractive?

As she took the cell phone from him and pressed the tube of lip gloss into his hand, declaring that it was his turn, Luc began to consider that something was seriously wrong with Adèle. The absurdity of the thought caused him to snort in disbelief. What next? Would they put on pink tutus and prance out of the closet like a couple of ballerinas rehearsing Swan Lake? There was just as much chance of her getting him into a tutu as there was that he was going to put on lip gloss. He opened his mouth to tell her exactly that, but she cut him off.

“Don’t look so shocked—it’s not like you’ve never worn the stuff before.” She seemed amused, he noted, though he couldn’t imagine why. There was nothing at all funny about this situation, especially not now that she was accusing him of being gay. He waited for her to finish her spiel, his fists clenched into fists by his side. By the saints, he was going to kill Marco for making him attend this stupid party. If only, he thought wryly, he could actually do that without getting fired. Turning his attention back to Adèle as she finished speaking, Lucas found that it was, in fact, possible for him to be even more irritated than he already was. “This whole thing is stupid enough without adding to the fact that I am entirely not your type,” she said, quite matter-of-factly. He knew that he should be agreeing with her—it was stupid, after all, and she most certainly was not his type—but the fact that she said it infuriated him. Who was she to dictate who, precisely, could be considered his type?

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he hissed in a low whisper. “Do I seriously look gay to you?” He glanced down at his outfit in the pale light—not exactly sparkly sequins, but still fitted and one-hundred percent designer—and let out a sigh of exasperation. Probably not the best choice of words, but he couldn't take them back now. His mind spun as he attempted to think of a way out of this dreadful situation he’d somehow managed to find himself in. He was not a skilled conversationalist, nor had he ever wished to be. However, at this point in time, he longed for the ability to, just once, be able to talk his way out of an awkward situation such as this one. That had been Luis’s strong suit, one of many that the two had not shared. Not for the first time in the last two years, he wished his twin could be there to help him. Instead, he was left painfully aware of just how alone he was in that closet, even with Malibu Barbie standing beside him.

Mentally shaking off all thoughts of Luis and taking a step toward her—which was more difficult than he’d expected in the small space—Luc stared closely at Adèle’s face in the glowing light of the cell phone. When he opened his mouth to speak, the words came out slowly and deliberately, leaving no room whatsoever for misunderstanding. “I. Am. Not. Gay. Alright?” He took a deep breath and backed away a bit. Irritation coursed through his words as he added in a harsh whisper, “And there's no way I’m putting on your lip gloss.”

[adèle bouchard]

The light from her phone cast a blue cocoon about them. Shadows wavered, trembling alongside her nerves. In the dimness everything appeared larger, as though the harmless objects contained inside were waiting to consume her whole. Reaching up Adèle’s fingers brushed against the sleeve of a jacket, hesitating for a moment as she considered batting it away and then deciding to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear instead. Luc seemed to pale before her, the ghostly lighting causing him to appear more sallow; his eyes larger. It truly was a shame that he was gay, she thought to herself once more, he really was cute and, had the kiss not been coerced, decent in that regards as well. She could still feel the warm press of his hand against her cheek, now another shadow lingering in the space between them. Pressing her lips together, Adèle sought to recapture the feeling of his against her own in vain. Such moments could not be recaptured. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Luc hissed, forcing her into the present once more. “Do I seriously look gay to you?”

Adèle pursed her lips, allowing her eyes to travel over the dimly lit boy in front of her. Everything about him screamed designer and new. More poignant than his attire had been the company he’d kept. Despite her best efforts to avoid such functions, Adèle often found herself Yvette’s date for the evening and she’d seen Florence using his tongue to inspect the tonsils of many a young model before the night was over. He’d had the same predatory look when he’d pulled Luc toward Yvette’s game, and despite his hesitation, Luc had joined in. That coupled with Yvette’s admission that he’d been gay was all the evidence she had needed. She knew better than to assume that every male model was gay but most of them fit the bill. If he was straight, he’d picked the wrong career and look to convince people otherwise. She was about to tell him this when he continued in an angry whisper; “I. Am. Not. Gay. Alright? And there’s no way I’m putting on your lip gloss.”

“Well excuuuuse me,” Adèle retorted. “You didn’t have a problem with my lip gloss a minute ago when you were slobbering all over my lips. Don’t worry, it’s organic so you won’t die of wax poisoning or whatever it is that we’re supposed to be worried about.” She folded her arms across her chest as she regarded him, angling her phone so that the light continued to bathe his features. “You don’t need to get all huffy about it. Yvette told me you were gay, okay? She said she’d worked with you before or something. It’s not my fault that she’s so into herself that she has a hard time getting why other people might not be.” She had never understood why straight guys found it so insulting to be mistaken as gay. Her brother, Pierre, never acted so offended when the reverse held true. She supposed if he’d thought she was a lesbian she might have been mildly offended – especially if it was one of the plaid-wearing, buzz-cut ones. Adèle was certain that she’d look terrible without her hair. She had even gone as far as putting on a shower cap to see if she could work it. She couldn’t.

Sighing, she allowed her thoughts to drift back to the party taking place outside the closet. She was going to kill Yvette when she got out of here. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, hoping he wasn’t contemplating ways to murder her. “It’s really not a big deal either way. I didn’t mean to offend you. Can we start over… or at least call a truce?”

[lucas murray]

His heart beat at an irregular rhythm, telling tales that he wished to keep hidden away within his being. His composure had been compromised, impassiveness exchanged for outward annoyance and a lingering sense of pleasure that he would have liked to bury a great many kilometres beneath the surface of the earth. Instead, it manifested itself on his features in subtle but still all too noticeable ways. The crests of his cheeks were tinted a rosy hue, hinting none too carefully at his obvious inexperience. His hands fidgeted uncomfortably by his sides, longing to slide upward to cup her face once more. His lips were parted ever so slightly, drawing in deep breaths that made his lungs ache with effort. The knowledge that she had affected him in such a way did little to improve his mood. The annoyance burning in his chest spread, overtaking the remainder of his tall lean form until his head felt loud and crowded with unwelcome thoughts. He craved silence in that moment, longed for the feeling of empty thoughtlessness. He wished suddenly that he had brought a book.

Her jabbering continued to grate on his nerves. Petty insults worked their way past the surface of his skin—worryingly thin in the tense atmosphere of this all-too-stuffy closet—and made him bristle. How could someone so attractive be so annoying, he wondered briefly before the answer came to him only moments later. The fact that she kept company with Yvette, of all people, was evidence enough at her poor mental capabilities. Her apparent inability to shut up? Well, this only served to prove his point.

“Yvette told me you were gay, okay? She said she'd worked with you before or something.” Lucas's body stiffened. Yeah, I've worked with Yvette, he thought of telling her. She was so high, it's a wonder she remembered anything at all. Oh wait... no. That's right. She acts like that all the time, doesn't she? Admittedly, in his less-that-coherent state of disgust and annoyance, his own insults hardly qualified as anything beyond petty and nonsensical. Thankfully, unlike Yvette's moronic counterpart, he had enough sense to keep quiet. He leaned against the wall behind him, attempting to ignore his increasing feeling of claustrophobia. He slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and wondered silently, Who dies of wax poisoning, anyway?

There was a small part of him—though one that was far too large for his liking—that found it appealing to entertain the option of kissing her again, this time with the intent of stopping her mid-speech. Of course, if her previous reaction was any indication, this would do precious little to stop her. Stubbornness was a quality she donned quite well, and the reactions or overall well-being of others were clearly not concerns of hers. For all he knew, she was hiding a Taser in that purse of hers, and, if so, he has no doubt that she would use it without hesitation. As pleasurable as their brief kiss had been, it was hardly worth the risk to try again.

“I'm sorry.” The words caught him wildly off guard, a fact that was made apparent by the widening of his yes and the way he stood up straighter and leaned forward ever so slightly, interested now to see what else she had to say. “It's really not a big deal either way. I didn't mean to offend you. Can we start over... or at least call a truce?”

The raise of his eyebrows was involuntary, further evidence of his utter astonishment. She sounded sincere enough, but he found it difficult—nigh impossible—to believe that this was anything more than a game to her. The question was, then, what did she want from him? If it was an actual make-out session—one that they had little time left for thanks to her non-stop word vomiting—he was fairly certain that it wouldn't kill him. Whatever she way be, she was certainly attractive. In any case, kissing would take away her ability to speak. If only for the latter of these inescapable truths, Lucas felt himself warming to this particular idea.

There was, of course, a flaw in this plan. He had no way of knowing what it was she wanted and very few options available to him for extracting this information. In fact, assuming the possibility that her purse did contain some sort of defensive devise—perhaps pepper spray was a more reasonable assumption than a Taser—his only real option was to ask directly, unless he wished to wait out the next few minutes wishing for silence as she took to talking once more—an inevitable fate, he feared, unless her lips happened to become suddenly otherwise occupied.

The air in his lungs came out in the form of a long sigh. He painted his face with a mask of indifference once more, careful not to allow the full extent of his annoyance to slip past the surface. A hidden sneer coloured his voice as he responded quietly, “That depends. Does this entail kissing you again? Or, oh, what did you call it? Slobbering all over your lips?”

[adèle bouchard]

“I am shamed you are my daughter. Shamed we share a name. How do you think this makes me look? Our friends – they know what school you attend. If you care nothing of me, think of your mother, Adèle. You are her only –”

[/i]

“You have a son,” Adèle interrupted. Her father turned to face her, his face stained crimson with anger. Resting his palms on the large desk in his office, he inhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “That is not what I was saying, and you know it. This is not about Pierre, it is about you.” Adèle remained silent; her only response was to fold her arms tightly across her chest and glare. Her recent exploits of academia leapfrogging had everything to do with the forced departure of her brother and her parents inability to recognize their part in it. Annoying them was the only thing that reminded them that she was alive, and Adèle was good at annoying. For a long moment they remained, locked in silence, and staring at the other in hopes that the gaze would somehow articulate everything for them. Richard’s sigh broke the silence, and he moved from his desk to the bar and poured two glasses of red wine – one for him and Adèle. He set the glass before her and sat down, taking a long sip before continuing. “The list of schools is shortening, mon chou. We need to find one where you will stay put for a little while, yes? Lorraine? What is the name of that school the Deprès sent their daughter to?”

Her mother bustled into the room from her post behind the door, casting a baleful glare toward Adèle before replying, “I do not know. Something in Saint Michel. Yvette liked it, though she is so busy in Paris now. But just think, Adèle, you can spend time with a good influence for once…”

- - - - -

Adèle had been forced to associate with Yvette Desprès since she was eleven, and had despised her just as long. Her mother thought Yvette was the epitome of French perfection and wanted nothing more than to mould her daughter into the lithe models’ image. Adèle often wondered if her mother would feel the same way if she knew some of Yvette’s vices – the way her diet consisted primarily of cheap wine and imported beer, and that the reason she was always so giggly was because she was high on something. After being expelled from the school in Scotland, however, Adèle needed some way to appease her parents, and spending copious amounts of time with Yvette seemed to serve that purpose. At least it meant she was invited to a lot of good parties.

She pressed herself further into the shadows of the closet, idly swatting at the woollen sleeve of a jacket when it brushed across her face. It seemed like she was forever saying the wrong thing, stepping on toes, or unintentionally causing offence. Before her, Luc was nothing more than a mere silhouette, the darkness masking his features. Adèle longed to turn her cell phone on once more and use the faint light to inspect his expression. She was certain that she knew what she would find there – it was the same thing everyone expected when they realized she spent time with Yvette: that she was the same as the blonde. She could hear their comments, unbidden, echo in her mind. “Yvette’s friend? Yeah, she’s hot, too bad she’s too much of a flake for anyone to notice.” “You’re hot enough for a fuck, but nothing more than that. You’re a little odd.”

So what, Adèle had told herself each time. She didn’t care what they thought. She didn’t need them. But their words cut all the same, and indifference was becoming harder to feign.

“That depends,” Luc finally sneered, his tone hitting her like a slap. “Does this entail kissing you again? Or, oh, what did you call it? Slobbering all over your lips?”

“I said I was sorry, okay? What do you want me to do, get on my knees and grovel? There’s no room. Besides, our time has got to be just about up so you can go and tell all your friends that I’m a horrible kisser or rocked your world or whatever. I don’t even get what the big deal is here: it’s not like you wanted to play this stupid game any more than I did. I’m sorry you got stuck with me and not some six-foot, fake-and-baked goddess. I’m sorry I’m not Yvette, but, news flash? Once you wash off her face she’s not all that.” Adèle paused, staring at the small line of light along the outline of the door, and willing it to open. She wanted to leave. She wanted to disappear. She wanted to stop being the sore thumb that was impossible to ignore. The problem was that Adèle didn’t know how. “How can I unsuck this whole thing for you? Tell you what, you tell me who caught your eye and I’ll tell her how you were the most incredible kisser ever and that I may need to stalk you for the sheer pleasure of watching your lips when you eat an apple. Will that make this better for you?” [/blockquote]

[lucas murray]

There were very few things in this world that made Luc happy. Fewer still made him comfortable enough that he could relax his tense shoulders, take a deep breath, and actually smile. He was, it seemed, destined to be just a bit too awkward, too angry, too desperate for a happily ever after that would never come. The problem was this: Lucas Murray was only half of a person, and so long as his twin was gone—he was no longer naïve enough to believe that Luis would one day magically appear, but irrational dreams plagued his sleep nonetheless—he would remain wholly incomplete. He would never be outgoing as the other models he worked with, he would never be able to laugh as loudly or as freely as he ought to have, and he most certainly would never love someone else the way that they deserved. His love had been used up on his brother, who had taken it with him to his grave. All that Luc had left was the anger.

He sulked silently against the wall of the closet, fighting back the desperation that clawed at his throat. The only way to cure his feelings was with anger, but it was more difficult than one might expect to remain angry with someone who seemed at least mostly remorseful. He could not quell the thoughts of Luis, who surely would have known how to respond to this creature in front of him. Not for the first time, he wished that he had been the one to die in place of his twin. At least Luis wouldn’t fuck up everything he touched, at least their mother would still smile, at least…

“I said I was sorry, okay? What do you want me to do, get on my knees and grovel? There’s no room.” His eyes swept the corners of the closet, clothed in shadows that made the space seem even smaller than it actually was. Serious or not, though, she was wrong. If she’d wanted to get on her knees, she could have, but the last thing he wanted was to feel even more guilty than he already did. No, grovelling would not be necessary. He only wanted to be out of that closet as soon as possible.

“I don’t even get what the big deal is here: it’s not like you wanted to play this stupid game any more than I did.” That much, at least, was true. He hadn’t wanted to be shoved into a closet with a complete stranger any more than he’d like to have open heart surgery, even if it was presented to him with a pretty pink bow and all. He smirked a little, wondering whether she knew just how correct she was in her assumption. After a moment, however, the smirk faded and he considered the other half of her statement, that she had not wanted this either. The thought that she might be just as miserable as him sent a wave of cold through his body. He didn’t exactly like her, this self-centred, obnoxious girl, but he wasn’t so spiteful that he would wish misery on anyone who didn’t deeply deserve it. Sighing, he dropped his head back against the plush cushion of coats behind him. When the door opened, life would instantly be better for the both of them. That was all there was to it.

“I’m sorry I’m not Yvette, but, news flash? Once you wash off her face she’s not all that.” He lifted his gaze lazily, having not processed whatever she’d just said, and began what was meant to be a sort of apology. “Look…” he began, but was suddenly hit by the wait of what she said. Had she actually just implied that he was attracted to Yvette? And just when he’d begun to think that she had some intelligence after all.

He snorted, fixing her with a look that was somewhere between amusement and hostility. “Wow, you’re just full of brilliant little observations tonight, aren’t you? First I’m gay, and now I’m, what? A jerk attracted to sluts? No thanks. You can keep your apologies and whatever else you have to offer me. As far as I’m concerned, as soon as that door opens, I’m going to forget everything that happened in this stupid closet, including you.”

He folded his arms across his chest, feeling simultaneously self-satisfied and lower than dirt. The decent half of him knew that he was only proving her preconceived notions right. He was a jerk. As to who he was attracted to, it didn’t much matter just then. Even so, he couldn’t help one final comment falling from his lips. “News flash? Nothing will make this better for me.”

[adèle bouchard]

Adèle had no idea what his problem was. He was too young to have such a large chip on his shoulder. It was his youth, she surmised, that likely enabled him to play the martyr so well. He was acting as though she was the one responsible for locking him in the closet with her. She would rather be anywhere else. The whole angst-riddled adolescent persona was totally played out. She was about to tell him this, too, when he interrupted her by speaking. “Wow, you’re just full of brilliant little observations tonight, aren’t you? First I’m gay, and now I’m, what? A jerk attracted to sluts? No thanks. You can keep your apologies and whatever else you have to offer me. As far as I’m concerned, as soon as that door opens, I’m going to forget everything that happened in this stupid closed, including you.”

“Seriously, who peed in your cereal this morning?” Adèle threw back. “Are you always this –” A sharp knock at the door interrupted her as Yvette’s drunken voice declared that the pair hand one minute left. Thank god for small miracles, she thought as she folded her arms across her chest and glowered at Luc. She could last another sixty seconds with this clown easily. He just needed to keep his obnoxious mouth shut. “News flash? Nothing will make this better for me.”

[/i]

Adèle was about to tell him that made two of them when inspiration hit her sharp and quick. She knew that if the door to the closet opened and she was found glaring at Luc that Yvette would never let her live it down. Competition was the only language Yvette spoke, and she would use anything to gain an advantage over her competition. It explained the petty remarks and judgements that were never requested but always plentiful. This time, at least, Adèle was not going to give in so easily.

“Nothing, hmm?” she said. She arched her brow and studied him for a second longer. By her best estimates they had at least thirty seconds left together, and she was going to make them count.

Adèle stepped toward him, her eyes never leaving his. She could see the confusion as it replaced the frustration on his face. Her fingers sank into the soft material of his t-shirt as she pulled him closer. Her right hand reached up, fingers tangling in his thick hair as their lips met. Warm and passionate, Adèle poured all of her frustration and annoyance into the kiss. He stiffened at first but as her kiss continued, she felt him soften and surrender to the moment. It was just a kiss after all; it didn’t have to mean anything. As his own hands wrapped around her slender waist, the door to the closet flew open.

Bright light flooded the small space and Adèle wrenched her eyes closed. She could feel Luc tense, but she held him close, wanting the crowd to get a good view. She wanted to make certain that Yvette saw – that she bought the idea that Adèle and Luc had been kissing rather than bickering the entire time. Just as the catcalls and whistling began, she pulled away and winked at Luc. She rose onto her toes, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, “Too bad you’ve already forgotten that.” And then she stepped away, allowing Yvette to grab her sleeve and pull her further into the crowd of people. Away from Luc. Away from the closet. And Adèle didn’t look back once. [/blockquote]