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Violette Elise Beaulieu

"Je suis une revoltee. C'est dans mon sang."

0 · 481 views · located in Budapest, Hungary

a character in “Luna Brilla”, as played by katyisaladybug

Description




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"fais de ta vie un rΓͺve et d'un rΓͺve une rΓ©alitΓ©" ~antoine de saint-exupΓ©ry



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ImageImage { N A M E }
Violette Elise Beaulieu. ("Vi" for short.)

{ N A T I O N A L I T Y }
French

{ A G E }
20

{ S E X U A L I T Y }
Pansexual (Male preference, but open to dating women.)

{ R O L E }
Guest. She's an artist hoping to keep her gig at the festival.




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A P P E A R A N C E
_________________________________

{ E Y E S }
Brown with green rings around her pupils.

{ H A I R }
Brown, short, and poker straight.

{ H E I G H T }
Only 5'2''

{ W E I G H T }
About 105 lbs. She's lost a few pounds these last couple months because she's forgotten to eat.

{ V O I C E }
Has always been light, quiet, and somewhat dark in tone. She has a heavy French accent, as her English, although fluent, is not the best.

{ S C A R S }
A few on her knees, and a long line across her right wrist.


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P E R S O N A L I T Y
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To the few fans that happen to hear her sing at small-town pubs or plaza squares, Violette Elise Beaulieu is known for her complicated, thought-provoking lyrics that bring soul and character into the music she performs. However, no one delves deeper into the lyrics that she creates, consequently making the French country girl a dark, lengthy book just waiting to be cracked open.

Mysterious, reserved, and always occupied with something, it's quite normal for people to get out of Vi's way. She doesn't feel an obligation to entertain others unless she's on a stage, and has built quite a few walls around her backstory that she doesn't intend on breaking down. She's not cold-hearted, but she's definitely more serious, cynical, ambitious and pensive than the majority of young adults that oftentimes surround her. Creative, progressive and never shying away from the contemporary, she's a young woman who doesn't mind being dynamic. She may be stubborn when it comes to her honesty and somewhat dour disposition, but every day she's trying something new and reaching outside her many comfort zones.

Still, there is a loyal, humorous, caring, even beautiful side to Vi, but it can only be purchased in exchange for understanding, intelligence, and some sort of passionate nature. Getting her to open up deserves an award, but once the door to her demons is opened, there's no turning back.


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H I S T O R Y
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Violette Elise Beaulieu's backstory: the greatest mystery the world has to offer.

It's true that Vi keeps her history extremely close to her chest, but through blog posts, newspapers, and photos shared on Instagram, it's at least possible to decipher something about the girl's life so far. She was born to two poor parents in the French countryside, and learned to walk before she was able to crawl. Running was her specialty, and much of her childhood was spent playing in fields and flowerbeds. She'd get lost on the roads from time to time, but eventually she learned to always come back home before nightfall, despite the fact that she didn't want to. Her parents decided to get divorced when she was about nine years old, and it was around that time she lived with her wonderful grandmother, who taught her how to sing and play piano. Vi enjoyed those music sessions very much, but never thought of the arts as anything but a hobby.

Once the deal of divorce was done and custody of the couple's child was discussed, Vi returned home to live with her dad, who had gotten fired from his job after an emotional outburst at the office. She was about as poor as you could get without being homeless, yet still wanted to gain an education from the lycΓ©e. Unfortunately, she had to drop out of secondary school when she was seventeen, and was forced to move to Paris in order to make some money. She quit her job and began training for another profession when suddenly she had a spiritual awakening. Vi, age nineteen, began playing piano at local pubs and jazz clubs. One of her employers asked if she could sing one night, so she did. She made more tips in her hat that evening than any other time she had played at a drunken bar before.

Eventually she picked up guitar and began writing her own songs, posting her demos on music sharing websites and sending them to record labels. It took her many months to get signed by a label, but once it happened, she started to garner a few fans. After sending her new EP to managers (as well as countless letters), she was able to book a gig at the Sziget festival in Budapest. However, she may be put on the waiting list now that one of the famous artists who originally cancelled his gig might be changing his mind and coming back to the festival for a performance. If that happens, then there is no chance she will receive a legitimate opportunity to sing. And if that happens, then her trip to the luxurious Luna Brilla hotel will have been in vain.



So begins...

Violette Elise Beaulieu's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Bastiaan Vos Character Portrait: Tati Laurido Character Portrait: Cameron R. Character Portrait: Deacon Beauchene Character Portrait: Max Evans Character Portrait: Violette Elise Beaulieu
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V I O L E T T EXE L I S EXB E A U L I E U





Sunrise, sunset, and midday again. This time, she woke up at one in the afternoon with her little black dress still zipped to her back and a mysterious bruise located on her right elbow. She could hear the screams of children playing on the streets outside, as well as laughter coming from the floor below her.

She had almost forgotten about the crumpled pieces of notebook paper, which were scattered all across the floor and spiraled on top of her linen sheets. The girl had planned on attending the open mic night being held in the hostel bar the night before, but after changing into formal wear and the necklace her grandmother had given her many years ago, she had decided against performing due to a spontaneous moment of inspiration and a lack of extroversion. Getting a song out of her head was far more important than socializing, that was for sure.

Underneath the warm covers, she shifted her body towards the night stand and grabbed her phone. She entered her password and sighed. No emails, no texts, no missed calls.

With all her strength, she touched her bare feet to the carpet and reluctantly started her day. She changed into a striped shirt, a navy blue cardigan and her faded jean shorts that had holes in the back pockets, where pebbles and stolen bank pens used to be hidden. She had worn those shorts on so many occasions; she knew it was only a matter of time before they fell apart, which was disappointing because she didn't have enough money to afford a new pair. A shower was unnecessary, as her hair was still dry and there was a tiny bit of floral perfume still lingering upon her skin. Violette decided she would clean up the mess in her room later, and grabbed her phone, purse, headphones, room key, a pen, and notepad. No shoes; she wouldn't need them where she was going.

Invisible to most of the guests she had observed, there was a dusty grand piano located in one of the many foyers at the Luna Brilla hostel. It sat in an open space where the walls spread apart, the crisp sunlight shined through an open window, and multicolored seats were scattered all around, just waiting to be sat in. The hostel was small and quaint, but it had enough awareness and artistic energy to include a simple place like this. A safe place for Violette. A work space. While all the others considered the esteemed bar their temple, the piano was hers. After all, she was more of a ghost than a guest anyways.

The musician sat down at the bench and decided to check her phone again. No emails, no texts, no missed calls. She chomped on her lips in apprehension, and placed the device upon the top of the piano. After setting the black headphones upon her neck and placing her purse on the ground, she began to lightly tap the keys. She started with one of her own songs, then a piece she had learned in primary school. After that, her fingers improvised a melody until she finally wrote it down in her notepad. She added a few halfhearted lyrics on top of the notes and checked her phone again. No emails, no texts, no missed calls.

She started on another song. Tiny beads of sweat began to drip down her forehead, so her fingers played a slower song. Then a faster song. Back to the song she had learned in primary school. Up the scale, down the scale. She stared into space for a while. Then ten Nina Simone songs. Half of "La Vie en rose". Twenty songs that reminded her of home. Two hours had passed. No emails, no texts, no missed calls.

Now she banged on the keys. Beethoven songs. Grimaud songs. Chopin, Gershwin, even Billy Joel. Her back was aching. Her sanity was slipping. Just one more. And then another. And another. Now two more hours were gone. She checked her phone.

No emails, no texts, no missed calls.

She let out a furious scream, and threw it against the wall, where it made a loud bang that echoed all throughout the hallway for everyone to hear. When it hit the floor, she noticed that there was a crack across the side of the screen. It was a rather large crack, and she couldn't get it fixed because she knew she didn't have the money. She stared at it for a while. The silence vibrated throughout her head, and her cheeks went florid. A gasp. A blink of the eyes. Shaky fingers. An impossible future.

When she finally caught her breath, Violette Beaulieu stared back at the eighty-eight keys and began to play Mozart's Sonata in C. Her stomach was grumbling and her mouth went dry, but she didn't notice. She didn't make any plans for the day, so perhaps she'd spend it starving herself. No one would notice if she just fainted onto the floor right there. After all, she was a more of a ghost than a guest anyways.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Bastiaan Vos Character Portrait: Elise Solomon Character Portrait: Tati Laurido Character Portrait: Cameron R. Character Portrait: Deacon Beauchene Character Portrait: Max Evans Character Portrait: Violette Elise Beaulieu Character Portrait: Keon Kingsley
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As soon as daylight kissed the windowsill, Keon had already slipped out of bed and smoothed out the wrinkles from his sheets, crisply tucked in and folded two hands-down, like Tati had first showed him when he stumbled into Luna Brilla. Surprisingly broad shoulders dipped low, forefinger and thumb rubbing at his stubbled chin to admire his handiwork. Across the room was a softly snoring Max, face pressed into his pillow, as if he were embracing a lover. No doubt dreaming that he was. Even though he knew no amount of noise would wake him before those telltale alarms: one, two, three, four, five, six, Keon was still careful to tiptoe around the room, determined not to wake him until Tati drew in, momma-bear mode on, calling them all beaches in a way that sounded far more affectionate, than how his own mom had managed to snarl it.

Only moments before Tati had shoved their door open, narrow-eyes sweeping across the room like lamplight’s, demanding that they get their asses in gear with languid words curling around her native tongue, words he'd come to understand from being here so long. He might've still domiciled that deer-in-the-headlights look, but he made a damn mean bed. Equipped with nimble fingers, he fought meticulous battles in whatever room he was sent to clean up after, though it wasn't his central function. He dollyed luggage up the stairwells, through the elevator and into whichever room they belonged to; swept jackets off of shoulders, blubbered etiquette and politeness, and shuffled off to do whatever else Tati needed him to do, as quickly as possible.

Hush hush, this world is quiet.

Besides, getting up earlier than the others had its own set of perks. First dibs in the bathroom, and the shower, before anyone else could stumble in, snatching towels and shirts and pants, like Max had the habit of doing. One time, he'd been holed up in LB's indoor pool when Cameron convinced him that this right here, this was the prime time to take a dip, naked, because no one else would wander down at this time, and he'd listened, because he'd never done it before, and why the hell not? Or else, that was what he understood. With his limited Spanish vocabulary, he took shots in the dark. He'd been wrong before. Keon bundled himself up in the shower and washed his hair, with spear-mint and cantaloupe scented what-have you, before exiting just as quickly. Casual clothes. He slipped on a fitted shirt, long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, two top buttons undone, because that was risque, and Tati said he didn't live life on the edge. Not nearly enough to sashay with LB's high lifestyle. Nice slacks, Converse shoes. Brown hair tousled.

He checked the mirror, tested out a cheesy grin, and dropped it into a hard line, swallowing around the thick lump in his throat. It wasn't that working around LB made him inherently nervous, but... he'd opened up last night when they had karaoke. Drank way too much wine, or whiskey, or whatever drinks they were pushing into his sweaty palms. It'd been a hell of a party. Ties bound around heads, maybe even underwear. He wasn't sure he remembered. But he'd bumbled onto the stage, guitar in hand and sung embarrassing songs. Requests taken from the intoxicated, swilling crowd. I'm Too Sexy and That's Amore and I Want To Break Free. They came in hazy flashes, humiliating waves of things he didn't want to remember. He hoped everyone else forgot. Fortunately, only a thrumming headache teased at his temples, easily remedied with a good cup of coffee. Luna Brilla had the unfortunate habit of never letting you live down the things you did, even if it came at the expense of heartening back-slaps, cheek kisses and butt pinches.

Just as the sixth alarm sounded, Keon ghosted out of the room and into the hallways, delivering papers to their designated areas and picking up wayward trays left in the hallways, before delivering them back to the kitchen area. As soon as he was finished pacing down the hallways, picking up any trash as he went, he spotted Max lounging outside, sheets fashioned around his bodyβ€”a toga, though he was wearing clothes. He jerked to a halt and scuttled way, shaky hands combing through his hair. He swore, if Max could traipse around Luna Brilla completely naked, around all of the clients, and get away with it, he probably would. A treat, he'd say, for everyone else. Wasn't that kind of shin-dig anyway.

It was the cloying smell of coffee wafting through the air that pulled him into the room, seduced him over to the coffee machine, and the french press, and hefted a content sigh from his lips, giddy as a kitten with a saucy of milk. This was the best time of day, in his opinion, even if his neighbors were cap-eyed boozers, late-night carousers, dragging their limbs like zombies rising from the dead. At least, they liked coffee. And they were too tired to throw him knowing winks, or make any saucy remarks about what happened last night on stage. Anyhow, if he remembered right, he hadn't been the only one singing. Though, Max always sang into the mic as if he were sweeping someone off to bed. Sometimes, he didn't doubt it. Eyes bright like two fevers, lidded invitations.

And he walked past one of Elise' rooms. He knew it was her, because he heard the ariose tones, silky hums, drifting from inside. Door propped open. Practically begging someone to overhear, as far as he was concerned. Sometimes, he idled beside them, though he'd never admit it. Other times, he shuffled past like he'd caught her coming out of the shower, face down-cast and hands shoved in his pockets, escaping like a thief in the night. Scrape at the bottom of Luna Brilla's barrels, and you found kind souls like hers under all that guff, all the parties, and wild stories, colors too bright for him.

Work day complete, it'd gone off without a hitch. Just like he liked it to go, and besides, Tati hadn't chuffed him for messing anything up, and he hadn't stepped on anyone's toes. Keon joined the others at the bar, a little more quietly than they had, slipping into a seat of his own, dropping his elbows across the freshly-wiped counter, a few feet away from Max and Elise. He offered a lopsided grin, β€œHey guys.” A soft greeting accompanied by fingers scritch-scratching across his chin. Beer. Celebratory beer, always. He waggled his fingers and snatched it up, took a mouthful. Enough to appease. Besides, it was Deacon who'd pushed it across to him, feline-smile and expressive brows a sure-fire greeting in the heart of Luna Brilla, before he turned back towards the more stalwart of clients, already nursing fabulously crafted drinks. The bartender was a master at his craft, flipping up shakers, twirling them across his forearms, and tossing them in the air. Poured them into distinct glasses, coupled with quips. It seemed like he could guess at drinks before the orders left their lips: an ability that was mesmerizing, as it was impressive.

There was Cameron, too. A wildfire with a flare for confusing him at the best of times. She was nice, like the rest of them. Patted him on the head, coddled words in quick-fire succession, too fast to rearrange in his head, but he still liked the sound of it. She'd taught him a few words, told him they were loving ones. Suggested that he could whisper them against someone's collar bones. Not likely, he'd say, but she might be able to help him write a song, at least. He watched as she sidled up beside Deacon and offered a small wave, and a sheepish grin, before surveying the rest of the area.

There were clients he actually recognized. Those who didn't ghost in and out of Luna Brilla as if it was a stop-in depot. To these people, it was more of a home away from home. It was the way he looked at it too. Busying himself in his work, and his thoughts, was Bastiaan Vos. An icy-eyed author, absorbing his surroundings as if he could gather everyone up and shepherd them onto his pages. He'd been kind enough to let him peek over his shoulders, ever curious to what he was writing. Never quite shooing him away, as if he were a wet-nosed pup, too curious for his own good. It was appreciated. He never lingered for too long anyway. His eyes raked across the room of casual chatters, towards the more intimate ones, leaning across tables and chairs, lips pursed and mused over earlobes, just long enough for him to get hot under the collar, and focus further away, to the lonely, dusty piano. Occupied for once, which was surprising... someone was playing music surprisingly well, slender fingers plucking across ivory keys.

It was the clattering of an object smashing against the wall, and a frantic scream, that almost made Keon jerk out of his skin, hands cupping his beer before he accidentally swatted it off the counter. He knew where it'd come from and he'd seen many things before, but this was different. And he wasn't sure what he should do, in this case. His breath hitched, β€œOi. She threw the phone. Against the wall. Should I—” An invitation for someone to step up to the plate, because he wasn't so good with smoothing out ruffled feathers. Leave that to those with silver-tongues, and speak-easies. He wore his emotions like a blanket snipped up to his chin. Not quite right for random outbursts.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Bastiaan Vos Character Portrait: Elise Solomon Character Portrait: Tati Laurido Character Portrait: Cameron R. Character Portrait: Max Evans Character Portrait: Violette Elise Beaulieu Character Portrait: Keon Kingsley
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Slowly people began to filter into the bar, as expected. From sunrise to sunset the hostel workers had been running around the place, it was no surprise when they came to settle in the bar. The sun was almost down, and while it’s light was no longer beating down on the masses, a humid heat still hung in the air. Tati could feel the fabric of her stool stick to the back of her legs, the jean shorts she wore hardly covered her legs. Her dark hair weighed down heavily, matting with sweat at the base of her neck, she did her best to wrap up the messy locks but she had very little luck.

The staff behind the bar had their usual charm, Tati expected nothing less. The tight skin across Cam’s abdomen beaded with sweat, the girl fanned herself, mentioning the heat. Tati grinned, it was strange to hear an Argentine complain about the heat. Half of the year the northern part of the country was as pleasant as wading through a murky New Orlean swamp, although Budapest summers were intense, their longevity was nothing compared to their home country. ”Re calor, claro.” She affirmed Cam’s statement, ”Pero por cuanto aΓ±os vivΓ© en Argentina, chabon? Eso es nadaa.”

Speaking with Cam was like a slice of home, she already was like family. Tati had grown up with Cam’s ex husband, their families would vacation together and spend every birthday and holiday together. When Tati heard of their divorce it broke her heart, she had always been fond of Cameron. The peliroja was a breath of fresh air for Tati, when her family would meet for birthdays Tati and Cam would be on the sidelines drinking beer and sharing spliffs. Tati had heard from relatives that Cam had plans to travel, so naturally Tati offered her a position at the hostel. It wasn’t long until the tattooed vixen found her way to Tati’s home and made it her own.

Max was serving the tables, Tati watched him out of the corner of her eye. While she hated to constantly be breathing over his shoulder, the free spirit had the tendency to piss around and leave the rest of the staff picking up his slack. His good nature made it difficult to yell at him, but when she saw him lifting the hem of his shirt she called out his name sharply. Either he heard her or lost interest because he laughed and carried on with his work, ending up in front of Bass, their longest guest at the moment. He was possibly the longest staying guest that didn’t become staff, but as a famous author he had no reason to work at the hostel. Tati never even offered because she couldn’t imagine the man folding sheets or making small talk with guests, it seemed surreal just to imagine it.

Tati finished the last of her beer when Elise and Keon joined the group. Keon had the same look of a lost puppy he always maintained, Elise just looked happy to be ending the day. Tati hopped to her feet, kissing them each on the cheek as a greeting - ruffling Keon’s hair. ”Good job today guys,” she said cheerily. Two beers in thirty minutes, she felt like she could do better. She motioned to Cameron to give her another to take off the edge, it was a very stressful week for her.

A loud crash was heard behind her, she looked to where one of their guests was hunched over the piano. β€œOi. She threw the phone. Against the wall. Should I—” Keon started, letting his sentence trail off. It took everything in Tati not to laugh, dealing with a woman in a crisis was perhaps not his strong suit. ”Appreciate your initiative bebito, but I’ve got this one.” She said, patting his cheek affectionately.

Before she walked away, Tati wagged her finger at the rest of the bar staff, β€œDon’t over serve tonight, remember we have to walk them to the boat from here.” She warned, turning on her heel to approach the guest she recognized as Violette, the singer who was performing at the festival this weekend. She set down her half gone beer on a table and picked up Violette’s phone gingerly, setting it beside the girl on the bench. The music continued, and Tati didn’t dare interrupt it. She had her own love for piano, it’s notes were filled with so much melancholy, eliciting goosebumps along her entire arms.

”Impressive.” She said when the girl finally finished, Tati motioned to the phone. ”Hate to be this person, but probably not the safest thing to be throwing your phone at the wall. Tanto fuerza.” She teased, making herself comfortable at the edge of the bench. ”Nervous about performing?” Tati asked, glancing at her staff at the bar, with Max she always felt on edge to try and catch any shenanigans before they became a potential lawsuit. Reaching for her beer, Tati finished the rest and lit her cigarette, finally she felt like she would be able to handle the night.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Bastiaan Vos Character Portrait: Elise Solomon Character Portrait: Tati Laurido Character Portrait: Cameron R. Character Portrait: Max Evans Character Portrait: Violette Elise Beaulieu Character Portrait: Keon Kingsley
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β€œNada para ti. Hell for me! No estoy hecho para esto. You’re just a sweet talker. So I stay.” Cameron reached over the bar to a beloved piece of home. The home she used to know, and the newer version. Sometimes it was hard not to get caught up in it. Every day with an ex-inlaw. But what Tati had given her was more than her husband ever could, and with no hard feelings amongst them and only understanding, native love... Cameron considered herself very lucky. A porcelain finger pushed some hair from Tati’s tawny face. β€œMujer malvada.” They laughed, but only for seconds before an outburst interruption created silence among the happy affair. Keon’s eyes went a bit wide with surprise, the desire to fix the situation [surely not by himself, judging by the iron clad non-existence of reaction]. Tati was by no means surprised and well, Max - he was off doing a belly dance or some shit.

Cameron threw her hands up and raised eyebrows, β€œLoca blanca. Manejarlo. Not my β€˜forte’.” She’d recognized the dark-haired fury from around the hostel, but Cameron was not an asylum to anyone. Not even herself. This particular pixie had a bone to pick and answers to find. She’d wandered around, half wonder, half woe. Sort of like a lost dog. Cameron did wonder what she was all about. What locks she was picking in her life, what demons were on the run to place her at Luna.

A watering hole for sin and salvation. It was all right as rain with Tati nearby, conducting the circus in a fashion that would never cause second guessing, but LB was just as much beauty as it was pain. An oasis that housed the excess that the rest of the world could not handle, all the elegance and agony of life’s abandonment. Runaways. Wives. Husbands. Rookies. Politicians. Orphans. Addicts. Saints. Aliases. Strays. Celebrities. What they all had in common was this sort of intact hope, however dingy, dangling from the end of their rope. And they weren’t all sad. But they were all here. And that had to say something about them, especially when they never left.

To prepare for an evening on some vessel, overloaded with champagne-wielding bottle poppers whose shouts echoed against rivulet walls, one had to have a certain tenacity about them. She sure had it, but sometimes it had to be developed by Jose Cuervo. Cameron’s cinnamon hair came into her hands to be tied into a messy pile atop her head as she breathed deeply, β€œTomalo con soda,” Argentinian reel wrapped around her tongue, β€œBut you sleep so much.” More than you fuck or fare. Her body pressed itself into a corner of the bar for a private minute. Eyes rolled toward the sky. It was criss-crossed with lamp wires, branches like broken wings shielding sloped hostel balconies. Sometimes it was better to talk to herself than seek the refuge of other people. This was home, and so was everyone there.

A twist of the ring on her finger had set her apart from conversation. The laughter and the slur of an evening underway, climbing steadily into Luna Brilla oblivion. The best kind of oblivion there is. Bats in the belfry, bewitching and glowing even more fierce than the river light that guided party boats through exotic euphoria. She basked in it. This is why she never left.

ImageThough she had heeded the warning of not over-drinking the guests, Cameron poured a few more before cleaning up the bar. Pushed the envelope of hip swiveling and smiles for tips. For the damage dealt against strict orders, she'd counter with a deal. Yep, you get your drink. But you have to drink eight ounces of water before you even think of getting your ass off that barstool. Perhaps Cameron had stayed mostly out of trouble because she'd handled a home before. Taken care of garbling messes, as well as cleaned up after them. Nobody left the bar on her watch in a dangerous state, whether to themselves or others.

Small talk amongst the suit and Max yanked her attention away from the tip jar. Had her closing it up and pondering curiously the quiver ripping through Max when he mentioned his former home, as well as Bastiaan's rather sudden intrigue. Cameron cocked a brow. Oh I just have to see where this goes.

But that blond haired baby boy just grinned goofy, same as always. Deflected in a way that most people couldn't detect. Carried on without a tick or falter in composure, though broken bones of burdens pricked under his skin. He was a GI of jacked up efforts. History and turmoil - he understood it. She'd picked up on it long ago, thanks to one too many secrets shared on the same row of bodies. "Isn't he gay?" They'd ask.

Well, yeah. Until I need him and this ring on my finger starts burning into my knuckles and I'm more adrift than the discarded plastic of Danube.

Locking up the register, Cameron poured herself an adios shot, as well as for Keon who was eyeing the chalky keys barely touched by agile fingers. His bright eyes needed a little more glaze. "Salud," she took it straight back, nodded to Tati, and then him, "Going to be a hell of a night."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Bastiaan Vos Character Portrait: Elise Solomon Character Portrait: Tati Laurido Character Portrait: Cameron R. Character Portrait: Deacon Beauchene Character Portrait: Max Evans Character Portrait: Violette Elise Beaulieu Character Portrait: Keon Kingsley
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#, as written by Ivisbo
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Bastiaan watched his subject’s movements with a critical blue gaze, his eyes focused on Max’s hesitant retreat to the excited grin that broke across his roguishly young face as he turned back around. Bass knew from the minute he met Max that the boy has an insistent need to verbalize all thoughts- even those others might deem too private to share with a drunk stranger- an over sharer, a trait most people might find incredibly irritating. But Bass was one of those beings that hated to share himself with others, socializing and reveals of any kind was about as appealing as bullet to the face- so he was glad for the people in this world that felt the need to express every detail about themselves to whomever asked. Maybe his insistent curiosity did not meld well with his cold, aloof demeanor. Maybe he seemed to be dissecting rather then learning, and perhaps his ulterior motives painted him as an untrustworthy confidante. But whatever others thought of him, he always had a knack for leeching their dirty little secrets out and tucking them away in his mind and journals for later use.

"London, mate. Born there, grew up there. Don't miss it much. Beautiful place, yeah. But cold. So bloody cold." Bass's gaze flicked to the quivering of shoulders, the look of discomfort, and a the revolving memories passing through Max's eyes like a film reel, "Why?"

A non-committal shrug, the slight movement of his shoulders being his only reply for a moment as he took a long sip of whiskey, "I lived in London mate, there’s no hiding where you grew up". Icy blue rolled up to meet sky blue, eyebrows raised, hands crossing in front of his mouth. Max’s deep drawling Londoner slang had pricked his ears when he first arrived- it took a lot for the dwellers of the grey north to abandon their precious city- a city that Bass himself equally adored and dreaded. Maybe that little slice of a past life in Max’s ever excited accent conjured memories of a life that could have been- another component into why Bastiaan often found himself following Max’s echoing jubilance through the bar.

Bastiaan could make up stories for the lives he saw in others footsteps. Max had been hurt as a child- that much he could tell. His insistent charisma and joy was a cover for something, and while Bastiaan could create his own series of events that left this young Londoner working in this strange little hostel so far away from home, he found himself interested in knowing exactly why Max was able to pretend to be so damn happy.

"Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough… I wanted to know where you are from" The corners of his lips switched into a small smirk, "Tell me something interesting. I know you’ve read my work, maybe you can wow me enough to be the next Simon"

Usually, Bastiaan wouldn’t push. Usually he’d avoid talking too much, seldom did he bring up his book, but with Max he knew what he needed to say to get the other male to talk. He required looseness, a slap of humor, maybe a bit of flirtatious sarcasm- traits Bastiaan knew well enough to copy for himself. Writing was acting, you needed to be able to flip between personality’s and mimic things that you would never do yourself. Bastiaan excelled at this to a point that he sometimes forgot where his personality started and the ones he created began.

Other then this excited puppy of a man, the others at the hostel all shared a communal aura of lost- a feeling that Bastiaan himself covered up with alcohol, anger, and blackout nights.

The leader of this strange little oasis, the beautiful Argentinian that Bas found himself opening up to in more ways then one, was an individual who’s warmth smothered you into a sense of compliance. Her abusive caring nature is infectious- her warm tan skin and long, exotic dark hair made a drunk Bastiaan loose his reservations and melted icy blue. Of all the workers and guests at Luna, Tati seemed the most grounded to him, but he knew that people that ordered their lives and those around them so meticulously had to have developed that need for a reason.

Other then Tati, the bartenders were the only other hostel workers that Bastiaan payed much attention to. The faces that kept his glass filled, the ones he silently watched and recorded, the ones that had to deal with his drunk mess when he went a little too far. Cameron, a woman who you’d have to be blind to not rake your eyes over, though Bastiaan continued to remind himself that those were the kind of women you avoided. Too at ease, too comfortable with themselves- a girl ripe and ready to wrap depraved men around her little finger. Keon and Deacon, the two males that had to manage guests and that flurry of red hair and Spanish, stroked Bastiaans need for reserved and quite when he needed. Their presence always paled in comparison to the two other bartenders, but Bastiaan would often purposefully place himself in either of the boys section if he wanted to avoid the rambunctiousness wake that fallowed Max and Cameron.