, our days are long . [open]

[callum lamontagne]

He suffered from a curious case of bread-envy.

It wasn't that the bread roll located in the hands of the girl sitting next to him on the bench looked particularly appealing, like it might just be the most delicious piece of bread ever baked - succulent and appropriately moist, with a crisp and crunchy crust that would not crumble into his lap when he bit into it, but break evenly - it was simply the close proximity of the commonplace baked treat. He eyed it almost lasciviously; thoughts of greedily stuffing it into his mouth - he'd been told he had a big one, so he suspected the entire thing would fit without difficulty - and moaning loudly as he sank his teeth into white bread - almost sensual, that - filled his mind, though his expression was quite calm, and existed on an even keel, hence almost. He was on the verge of expressed lasciviousness, and he suspected that his particular choice of language in his inner narration of his experience with the bread roll would, indeed, qualify his treatment of the baked delight as profoundly lascivious. It was undeniable: He was hungry.

He was hungry, and he was just a little bit cold, seated in the shaded half of the bench - the girl had not only the coveted bready goodness, but the joy of sunlight, as well, and she hogged it like the hog she was (the pretty, delicate hog she was, with tender lines and pale skin, surrounded by sleek, dark hair, almost mousy; especially appealing when she took bird-bites out of the bread roll that looked positively massive in her petite hands) - though appropriately dressed, if he may say so himself. Long jeans, gray, boot cut, low rise, just warm enough for a day where a light breeze seemed to be snaking its way through cobblestone paths, and a navy-and-white striped shirt, short-sleeved enough to rob the koi fish on his arm of its identity - assuming that a koi fish's identity resides in its head - but not enough to deny its existence. Absent-mindedly, his arm reached over and ran over the coloured patch of skin, all along his right upper-arm, keeping it busy so he didn't give into the growing urge to snap his companion's bun right out of her hands.

Actually, it wouldn't be such a bad sight.

He gave a mild groan when the thought surfaced, and for the first time drew the girl's startled attention. He greeted the presence of her attention with a serious nod, brows pinching together as though the matter between them - whatever this matter was - was of utmost gravity, and she furrowed her brow at him and shifted an inch away from him on the bench. In all probability, she could sense his lust for the bit of food in her hands - or maybe she was confused about the object of his lascivious tendencies, and thought he was preparing to lunge at her - and at this point perceived him to be creepy, whereas she'd formerly only considered him a person in existence. Truthfully, Callum would take creepy over 'in existence' any day of the week, but that was just a personal preference. Even so, he could only assume that the girl's shifting away and slight twist of her body to turn away from him was due to discomfort, and as much as Callum enjoyed pushing people's buttons, the girl next to him was too quiet, too sweet-looking, too withdrawn to provide him with entertainment through her discomfort.

Sighing, he placed his palms flat on the bench's surface and pushed off, getting to his feet and wasting not a moment before he started walking away, following the cobbled path around a bend, where a patch of grass was stretched out between intricate garden-rows, forming a half-moon of colour and life. He dropped to his knees on the cobbled path before he moved towards the grass, crawling onto it on all fours, where he could fall to his side and roll onto his back, stretching out his limbs in all directions and staring up at the sky, hands open and fingers curving in relaxation. "Like a Messiah in the grass," he whispered to himself, a slight smile coming to his lips as he spoke the words. The smile faded a second later, and he closed his eyes and closed his hands, listening to the sound of the world, and to the lower sound of his stomach rumbling.

He should have grabbed the bread and ran.

[julianna sellenger]

She had been staring at a blank page for nearly an hour now. She had stared and stared, twirled her pencil, envisioned shapes dancing across the page, but nothing helped. No matter how long she stared, no matter how hard she concentrated, she remained wholly unable to change the state of that flat, lifeless sheet of paper. She had lifted her gaze every so often, scanning the world around her for potential muses. However, nothing had inspired her enough to erase the fear that paralysed her hand, effectively acting as an invisible shackle that kept said appendage a fair distance from the sketchpad. The knowledge that she had failed no longer hurt, only acted as a dull thud against her weak heart as it pitter-pattered away, a machine that acted on necessity despite the lack of will fuelling it.

Her feet dangled below her, trainer-clad toes playing tag with breezy gusts of air. The blossoms on the tree were a vibrant, powdery pink, the kind of sight that would have once compelled her to open her pastel set and capture their brilliance on paper. Now, she simply stared in muted wonder, the dull ache of time and memories pressing against her ribcage like an ever-expanding bubble within her, growing and growing but never popping. She wondered that she had not yet shown signs of swelling. On the contrary, she had lost weight in the last year. It was unintentional, entirely so, hardly anything that could be considered an eating disorder or any such nonsense. She simply forgot on occasion. Memories kept her busy, burned into her retinas to replay at the most inopportune times. It was difficult, considering the circumstances, to remember something so trivial as eating.

Her left hand moved to close the pad, a soft sigh tripping across her lips and falling down, down, past her feet to join in the early fall breeze. If she tried, she wondered, would she be permitted to do the same? Could she become a vapour and dance among the wind, a little bit of cloud that remained, through everything, unable to be broken?

She pulled the sleeves of her powder blue hoodie down further over her wrists, shivering a bit in the cool air outside. The leaves and branches above her perch provided the perfect shade on a hot, sunny day—a fact that she could attest to, as she had first found her way up the tree years before—but provided just a bit too much shade on this slightly cooler day. She tucked one leg beneath her and leaned against the trunk beside her. Clearly, she thought, staring down at the sketchpad in her hands, full of entirely blank pages, she was not much of an artist anymore. Could she be considered anything but a mere shell now that she had lost everything? Was she worth anything at all now that she had lost her ability to create something beautiful with such simple tools?

A movement to her left distracted her. She looked down to see a young man crawling across the grass. He looked like a panther, she thought, though perhaps a cartoon version or something equally sweet. He hardly looked threatening, simply… well, feline. She could not explain it, but the sight of him made her wish to draw despite the fact that she had just spent an hour clearly demonstrating her obvious inability to do so. She had not drawn in almost a year.

She was unable to tell if she knew him in his current position, though his figure did look somewhat familiar. Perhaps she had seen him around campus at some point, she thought, though she could hardly be certain of this. Friends were not something that Juli possessed anymore. There was only one exception to this rule, Noah Davis. Why he remained, she would never know, but she could not help but hold on to the belief that he would leave one day as well, After all, that was the way that things worked in her life. Justifiably so, in fact. She was quite obviously destined to be alone.

"Like a Messiah in the grass," the boy below said, presumably to himself. Her brow furrowed as she attempted to pick apart the words. Her English had developed considerably in her last couple years at the academy. However, she still found herself confused from time to time by the bewildering idioms used by native English speakers. There were times, such as this one, when she wondered whether she would ever understand the meaning of such phrases without having to first ask for a detailed explanation.

He looked comfortable, Julianna thought as she watched him from above. It seemed rude to disrupt his relaxation by coming down, but her bum was beginning to ache from sitting too long on the hard, unyielding branch. She slipped down from her perch, landing with a quiet but generally graceful thump on the ground not far from him. Offering a sheepish smile, she backed up a step. “Um. Hello. I am sorry to have disturbed you, sir…” She wondered if it was impolite to refer to someone so near her age as sir. Truly, she did not have enough experience in this area. “I… oui, yes… I will leave you in peace. Please forgive me.” She looked over her shoulder briefly as she backed up another step, hoping that she wouldn’t trip over any tree roots and go sprawling across the grass. As comfortable as he looked, she doubted that falling was the best method to make acquaintance with the ground.

||Birthe-love! I hope it's alright that I replied to this. Erm... Juli is a pain. If you don't want to write with her or if this post isn't adequate, just let me know and I can delete it, no problem. <33||

[callum lamontagne]

In his horizontal position on the grass, he realized, as he had realized before in the same position, that the world provided the perfect backdrop on days like these, when your need for adventure took a small - and he knew it would be fleeting - break, and enabled you simply to exist in a single moment, without movement, without progress, without development. He felt the grass against his hands, mostly dry, but lightly damp - he could only guess that this was due to earlier watering - and twisted them so that his palms faced down, moving his fingers so the thin strands of green could play between them, lightly caressing the skin between his fingers and wrapping all the way around them, at times. The rustling of leaves in the trees nearby provided a light and natural applause in the background, and he listened intently with a slight smile across his lips, wondering what he could be doing to solicit such a positive response from the trees in his near vicinity. Perhaps they were appreciating his little comment, or maybe they were applauding the idea of suddenly falling and crushing him where he lay. His smile grew slightly, becoming amused at the thought, but he contained it a moment later, letting his expression settle back into its stoic mask.

A content sigh slipped through his lips, released as a puff into the air, and he tugged lightly at a strand of grass, and let his mind wander to placed it had been before. He'd always enjoyed these quiet times when he could simply lie in the grass and listen to existence, without feeling any particular need to participate in anything that was going on, but lately - a long lately - since he came to France, he'd found that every time his thoughts quieted to a near stand-still, they'd eventually stray to that place back home that he was so afraid, and yet so eager, to visit. Where he could relive his wrongs again, see Cali's eyes and hear his voice, his laughter, picture his smile and remember the day he seemed to stop offering it to him. A furrow appeared in his brow, deepening with every second he allowed himself to consider those thoughts, to relive those memories and think of actions and consequences, of living without thinking and thinking without living, and started to wonder which was the better alternative.

A thump shook the ground - or, well, at least he liked to think that it shook the ground, when really, he could only feel the slightest tremor from the impact something (or someone) had made with the ground close to him - and sounded nearby, and he suddenly opened his eyes and turned his head to the side, seeking out the creature that had suddenly landed - quite literally - in his presence. He propped himself up on his elbows, lifting his upper body up from the ground and twisting it slightly in her direction to enable him to look at her as she slowly backed away. “Um. Hello. I am sorry to have disturbed you, sir…” He quirked a brow in a show of slight surprise that in no way matched the surprise and amusement he felt upon being referred to as "sir"; he didn't think that had ever happened before, except, perhaps, when his younger siblings had played army and declared that Callum was their General. (He had, of course, abused the situation by sending Tiberius off to rummage around in Maria's things, effectively overturning any semblance of structure in her room, and landing Callum in the gravest trouble that he had elegantly chosen to overlook.)

He sat up a little more, elbows creeping closer to his body from his sides to allow him a little more distance from the ground, and watched her as she offered to leave him in peace and backed further away, checking behind her as she did so. His quirked brow rose further, but he forced it to settle alongside the other, matching its height and hiding his amusement.

"Are you the one who stole my dog?" His expression took on a quizzical quality, and he waited for a few moments in expectant silence after he'd spoken the words, well aware that he didn't have a dog and had never had a dog, and certainly hadn't had his non-existent dog stolen from him. "I mean, I don't have a dog, but if I did, and you took it? You'd certainly have something to apologize for." He placed one hand flat on the grass behind him, pushing himself up into a sitting position, and lifted his knees closer to his chest, where he could rest both arms on them as he looked at her. "Since I don't have a dog, though, I can only assume that you didn't steal it. So there's really no need to apologize." He smiled lightly, a trace of amusement breaking through the stoicism of his expression to reveal that he was, in fact, only joking, and one arm lifted away from his knees to extend a hand to the ground next to him. He tapped it twice, lightly, and nodded to her. "You're welcome to sit down. I wouldn't mind some company." His smile widened slightly, taking on a sincere, he hoped friendly, quality. In truth, she had saved him from a long and unpleasant trip down memory lane, and that was certainly nothing she had to apologize for. As much as he enjoyed the memory of his ex, he couldn't stand the memory of how it had all ended, and despite his best efforts to keep his thoughts in the earlier days of their relationship, that was, inevitably, where they eventually strayed. To the end, to the misery, to the broken-hearted eyes and to the disappointment he'd made Cali feel. He smiled again.

"As long as you promise not to call me sir again. I'm Callum. Sir is my..." He paused, trying to think of anyone he knew or was related to that he'd ever referred to as sir. His first instinct was his father, but the only time the former generation Lamontagne had been called sir in Callum's presence, he'd burst out in laughter and clarified that he was no sir, no sir at all, as he was still waiting for his request to be knighted to be taken seriously. Callum shook his head lightly. "My teacher. Sir is my teacher."

[julianna sellenger]

In years past, Juli had learned to pay careful attention to the world around her. The universe had become her teacher, placing before her concepts of rationality and human behaviour. She had become its student, drinking in the information, shifting her actions and perceptions accordingly. By the time that apathy had overtaken her, she had long since learned the ways of the world. The unwritten rules were clear and distinct, boundary lines clearly defined. She could not have crossed them, had she even wished to.

The rules were simple. She, in her state of unnecessary existence, did not matter. All that she could do—indeed, the requirement placed on her very existence—was to please others. If someone asked her for a fiver, she would spot him or her ten. If someone told her to jump, she would ask how high. If she saw a person crying, she would comfort them. Any request, spoken or unspoken, was always met with her compliance. She was a giver, a follower. She was meant to make life simpler for others. In return, they would walk away. Because this was, inevitably, how life worked.

Some may have argued that her views were skewed. The nicer people would, certainly, but Julianna knew the truth. Experience had taught her, time and again, that she was not worthy to be given any affection for long, Those who loved her had all left, just as those who had not. The method by which this was done mattered not. It was, in the end, exactly the same.

When the stranger on the ground turned to her, she was expecting the worst and hoping for the best. If only, she thought, he would pay her no mind and go back to his daydreaming, she could be free of any obligation. He certainly didn’t seem upset, in need of her assistance in any way. Without spoken cue, she would be free to leave. She silently begged him to give her such respite. Instead, however, he gazed at her and asked in plain—or, not entirely plain, from her perspective—English, whether she had stolen his dog. She was prepared to apologise, regardless of the fact that she had not even seen a dog recently, much less stolen one, but he continued on, taking from her the ability to reply—and, in the process, make a fool of herself. Only moments later, she discovered that he, in fact, did not have a dog. Truly, the only point of his question seemed to be a lesson to her, a request—though not overtly so—that she not apologise again. It was always interesting to her to encounter such people, ones that insisted that she not apologise. Overall, those who made such requests tended to be particularly kind—more than she deserved, to be sure—and, though she ducked her head, the redness of shame colouring her fair cheeks, she felt more comfortable in the presence of this young man, knowing that he was likely not the angry, domineering sort.

“You're welcome to sit down. I wouldn't mind some company.” Her back stiffened involuntarily. It was rare these days for someone to make such a request of her, particularly not a stranger. Typically, her presence went unnoticed. She was a ghost travelling about the halls of the Académie d'Ouvrard—unknown, invisible, unimportant. She had looked down more than once to study her hands, wondering if her skin has, indeed, become transparent in recent moments. However, she remained quite alive, and the occasional offer did make its way to her, as it had now. She had never refused. To refuse would be rude and careless, not to mention the fact that she would be ignoring her place in life. If she could not make others happy, then what was left for her?

True to her earlier suspicions, she had addressed him with far too much formality. Sir was clearly not an acceptable title for him. Her blush deepened and she nodded her head slowly as she eased herself to the ground beside him. She felt awkward and uncomfortable, uncertain of what she should say now that he had effectively taken away her ability to apologise. Various forms of apologies filled her mind, insisting that they ought to be spoken. She focused on blocking them out for a moment—after all, the last thing she wanted to do was upset him or make him uncomfortable—then forced herself to think of an alternate response.

“No to sir, then.” She swallowed heavily and crossed her legs in a fashion that had always reminded her of a pretzel, regardless of the physical comfort she had always found in this particular pose. Her hands clasped one another in her lap before flitting to rest on her kneecaps, raising to smooth her hair, then finally settling back in her lap again. “Callum… it is a pleasure to meet you.” Her pause was too long, too uncertain, but she pressed on regardless, offering to him information that he may not have even wanted. “My name is Julianna.”

She shifted again, risking a glance over at him as her right hand rubbed nervously at her left. “I wonder… Do you refer to every teacher as sir?” Her face flamed once more at the realisation that her words sounded entirely ludicrous. “I-I-I mean, of course… whether you refer to the men as sir. I think… not the women?” Ducking her head yet again, Julianna awaited his response, knowing that she would at least not have the time to form an attachment to him before he left her or sent her away. Surely no one would wish to be associated with such an empty-headed girl for long.