I think that by now it is obvious that Loire is going above and beyond her call of duty to make this the best experience it can be for me and Lent, and I doubt she will ever stop for as long as we're in Paris. Because of the fact that we're living a personal life here, not one of tourism and exploration, Loire has the opportunity to be around us very often, and she seizes that opportunity whenever she can, including today, as she has invited Lent and me to join her for a picnic outside of the apartment.
She has a perfectly functional wine shop in which to hold a proper lunch, and she also could've used either her apartment or my apartment, so that we would be out of the harsh cold of Paris, but she's accustomed to the weather, having lived here for all of her life, which means that she pays no mind to how I, as an American, feel. She's very perceptive, on the contrary, so she probably is aware but just doesn't give a shit, because I can see that there's something special about picnics, even in the bite of European summers, and I might come to enjoy it. The right people can turn any terrible situation into a pleasant one, and Lent and Loire are those kinds of people (I suppose that's why I spent my morning writing a fucking essay about them out of my mind's questionable inertia). We'll see how it goes.
Loire has prepared a meal for us, like she did last night, except this time it is more casual, with hand-sliced blocks of cheese, rolls of toasted bread, and grapes, a light snack more than a lunch. In the basket of food, I think I spy a dessert of eclairs, too. It's obvious that Loire is avid about showing us just how delicious French bread and cheese is, in case we didn't know already.
She soaks up the sun as fervidly as she can, as it is a rare treat reserved for summer, and it is for this reason that she selected dark colors for today's ensemble. She is donning a blouse in the shade of eggplant that matches fantastically with her dark afro, in addition to black jeans hoisted up by a quite fashionable belt. Her feet are hugged by mundane flats, which she waves around gently in the air with ankles crossed, as her arms lean back to prop her up across the fleece blanket protecting the goods. With eyes blocked against the sun, peace has consumed her entirely.
"Did you finish all that you needed for your painting, mon ange?" Loire inquires, unlatching her lids from overtop her eyes in order to address the young artist beside her.
"Yes, and I cannot thank you enough for your services as my model."
Steadying herself with only one arm, she utilizes her other arm to extend her hand towards her friend, swimming it through his silver locks. "Anything for you, Lent." Loire shuts her eyes again, but soon swats them open again fiercely to ask me a question this time. "By the way, Basil, where were you while Lent and I were painting?"
I don't know why Loire is so interested in this — I'm not a criminal who would be sneaking out to steal something while she participates in wholesome activities with friends — but I answer her question anyway. "I was outside writing."
Loire shifts from her reclining position to instead fold her legs into a crisscrossed formation, hunching forward in fascination for something that would be terribly ponderous to anyone else. "What were you writing?"
This is always the question that always debilitates me, debilitates any writer, in fact. When you spew out metaphysics with an ending of tragedy like I do, also layering melancholy into the main plot, detailing your plot to other people is quite an arduous activity, more so than it should be. It's inordinately difficult to tell people that you write about drugs and art and heretics going off to kill themselves, but that's what my normal writing entails. Thankfully, Loire is not investigating my normal writing, rather a brief description of how I feel about France, so it shouldn't be too strenuous to share.
On my way to snatch a grape from the platter Loire has prepared, I sheepishly murmur, "Just a little blurb about my experience in Paris so far."
"I hope all is suitable for you here."
I wink. "Thanks to you, Loire."
"Hold your thanks for now, buddy," Loire commands, focus now centered on digging through her basket to procure a miniature bottle of liquid. "I brought some great wine for us."
"I should've known that I'd be spending my two weeks with a modern day Dionysus," I jest with a chuckle, and Lent follows suit.
Loire pokes her tongue out at me bitterly as she pops open the bottle of wine with sheer strength against the cork — that, or she opened it before, and replaced the cork loosely. Perhaps she is not to be reckoned with, as if I was not aware of that before.
Lent pipes up from across the blanket, having just swallowed a cube of cheese that it seems like he's thoroughly enjoying. "If Loire is Dionysus, and I am Icarus, than what are you? You must be Daedalus, yes?"
"In theory, perhaps, but I feel that I resonate more with the title of Apollo's bastard child." I offer a devilish smirk to Lent, who blushes and giggles in response.
"You'd be a perfect Daedalus," Loire assures me, patting my knee like a mother would do while she's lying to her petulant son about his lack of talent. "And about that writing, I would like to read it, if you would allow me to do so."
I'm oftentimes hesitant about handing over my writing for other people to read, especially if they are to critique the content that I produced for a definite reason, content that I wouldn't like to change to satisfy other people, but Loire wouldn't be that kind of person. She would appreciate what I've done, without the intentions of molding it to fit her personal preferences of writing, and I haven't asked her to provide constructive criticism. I should be fine, primarily because this writing isn't as metaphysical as my writing usually is. It isn't deep and dreary, isn't scary enough to shoo people away. It's just a simple description of my encounters in Paris so far, nothing horrid.
Remembering that I tore out the pages from my notebook and stuffed them in my pocket, I draw them out now to give to Loire, which she graciously accepts, studying them for a moment before tucking it into her belt. In this moment, I my memory slips, neglecting the part where I went on a tangent about my friends, but it's too late now, and it's not like I even recall that fact in the current time, so as far as I know, everything's fine. It rarely ever is, though.
"I look forward to reading it." Loire nods, a gesture to signify that she's done with me for now, moving on to Lent for unfinished business. "When can I see the painting? I starred in it, for god's sake."
Lent shrugs, genuinely careless about what Loire does, and whether that's because he knows that she can achieve anything beyond people's whims, I have no idea. "You can come around whenever, I guess. If you're up to model for another painting, you can do that when you're ready, and see the painting then."
Loire's rouged lips creep into a welcoming line, and her hand creeps onto Lent's face to cup his cheek tenderly. "I'd love to be your model, Lent."
Yeah, so would I, but I'm too much of a coward to suggest the idea. Lent probably doesn't need two models anyway, so if I ever asked, he would most likely choose the charming Loire Babinot over the cynical Basil Eads, as anyone would. I should just forget about my desire to interact with him, because I've always treated him like shit when it comes to art until now, so I don't deserve to all of the sudden step into the place of someone who does deserve it, someone who deserves the world, in fact. It's unfair of me to impose like this. Modeling isn't even that important. My wish to do it is probably born out of wanting to spend time with Lent, but I have all the time in the world with him in Paris, and even more in Prague. I should drop the subject now, and never return. However, my mind doesn't work like that — I'm pretty sure no one's mind works like that — so, as much as I fight against it, the thoughts of desire come crawling back. Fuck my mind, yeah? I should become a Buddhist, and find nirvana, and then everything will be okay.
"I have great plans for this one," Lent informs us, an enthusiasm in his voice unlike anything I've ever produced in my lifetime.
I suppose, however, that his great enthusiasm is more than warranted, as he's been very enthusiastic about his plans since this morning, which is when he must have devised them. What else could explain why I found him in the bedroom ripping up the spare sheets from the closet? He's still alive, so he obviously wasn't utilizing them to fucking hang himself — although I have no idea why such a cheerful young boy would do that; I just speculate often when I don't understand things — so I really don't know why he was engaging in minor acts of vandalism so early in the morning. He may have an explanation for me. He always seems to.
"Well, Lent" — Loire claps a hand to his knee, again like a mother but not like the disappointed mother she was to me — "I am very excited to see what you have planned."
I, for one, would also like to know why he was off tearing up sheets at six o'clock in the morning, but I'm sure I'll figure that one out soon.
~~~~~
A/N: lmao u wild wyd tho (why must I quote memes at every opportunity like seriously I just turned to my mom and muttered "we dem boyz r us" I need to stop)
I accidentally started writing this one instead of the one before it so I'm just switching them up because I'm so lazy that I didn't want to give up my 50 words honestly I'm a wreck
~Dakotipton