#auclair: skel

[lighthouseroleplay]

ROMAIN AUCLAIR

                          ( 21 ,  cis male , he/him )

♪♫ currently listening  ⧸⧸  victorious by panic at the disco!

a bottle of champagne shattered on the ground, syllables fumbled in a mouth unused to them, fingertips that smell of smoke. a smear of crimson lipstick, white teeth grinning widely, dark leather jackets on broad shoulders. neatly tailored shirts, autumn trees’ burnt orange hue, marble statues, an ever-present disdain for authority. the gleam of fireworks, dark alleys, a loud arrogance.

    •  montgomery was a hookup, nothing more. or at least that’s what you’d assumed? in a back corner of a party, kissing gently, until you or he disappeared back into it — barely something to register on your own radar. it seemed to have registered, on his, though, and the way he blushed to look at you, avoided you in class and stammered, shyly: it was endearing, and made you curious, made you wonder if to him it was perhaps more than that to him.

    •  ramirez was your partner in crime, unused to the type of luxury you reveled in, but a willing participant nonetheless. you appreciated their effortless cool, shared their music with your friends back in france, and wanted their success, not for the acclaim it would bring you, as their friend, but in a surprisingly selfless way. they had a passion for music in a way you didn’t understand, but admired: you’d never felt so passionate about anything. music, intellectual pursuits, sports, all had always felt almost useless, a means to an end, never anything you wanted to devote your life to. ramirez knew what they wanted to do, who they wanted to be, and you longed for that kind of certainty.

taken by julie ⧸⧸   younes kahlaoui

PARIS, FRANCE

“vraiment, cette attitude, il tient ça de ta famille.”

“t’es pas sérieux? t’as vue ta mère? elle se prend pour la reine-mère, nous parle comme si on était qu’une bande de chiens. elle est aussi arrogante que ton fils!”

“non. définitivement pas. ce gamin, c’est ton fils.” 

the road ahead is flat, uneventful. trees are running, and romain tries to find someone, something, hiding into the trees. his father’s driving, fast and careless. his mother is fixing her makeup again. they’re both trying to convince each other that romain is not their son; that his faults are a result of either DNA, and not a result of their parenting. never would they win an award for being the most present, caring parents. both are successful, father works in the financial world, his mother a up-and-coming fashion designer. they fight, alot. not often about their three older sons. but mostly about the youngest. they often do that when the boy messes up. today, it’s a fist in an annoying girl’s face. she kept telling him that he was stupid. kept laughing at him you have girl lips and pointing at him. his mother always told him that he should never hit girls (but boys are ok, right mother?) but his father always told him that real men stood up when they are intimidated, bullied. so why, oh why, is it bad that he hit angela’s bird-like face? she certainly deserved it. romain is a real man, he stood up. 

his mother sighs, romain keeps his attention focused on the road outside. she turns to him, her dark hair encircling her face, accentuating her jaw. his mother, imane auclair, née imane karam, is the epitome of refinement. though, her eyes are never kind. especially not towards her last son. she told him, once, that she hated him. hated how gorgeous he was, as if he stole all of her remaining beauty. romain was seven at that time, and he remembers this as if it just happened. he despises imane. can’t wait to be out of her clutches. “mais pour l’amour de dieu romain, pourquoi t’as frappé cette fille? t’es en manque d’attention, c’est ça?” she barks the words at him, but he focuses on the scenery outside. thinks that if he keeps his attention elsewhere, then her words would glide off him. she scoffs and turns back to rearranging her lipstick. 

romain does not understand where his anger comes from; would never quite be brave enough to look deep. it is probably rooted in this twisted thing the auclairs call family. 

the trees are running, and romain thinks he spots something dark, dangerous, lingering in the woods. 

**

they send him to Sainte Perpetue’s lycee, in the heart of Paris. he’s fourteen and has been expelled from three different elementary schools. no matter the price his parents offer, not a lot of lycees wants him in their ranks. he’s been into fights, he’s been arrogant, he’s been abusive. he’s a bully and he knows it. 

of all the things they do, they send him to a boarding school. he wouldn’t have minded the public educational system, rather than this prissy, snob school. it’s a school known for its disciplinary measures. nuns march the corridors, brothers watch their recess time. it’s a prison, disguised as higher education. they think that he will learn his place in the world.

instead of discipline, romain learns procrastination. 

instead of rigueur, romain learns the taste of stolen champagne bottles. 

he meets beatrice there, whom is highly mean but highly fun. she teaches him how to put makeup on, lipstick red and messed up on his face. une image de sa mère, pâle parodie, un amour cynique. she does not care much about a lot of things. romain can relate.

he meets martin there, whom he kisses in front of the whole school in cinquième. martin does not speak to him for two whole months after that; romain knew he was not ready to come out. but romain has never been much of a good friend, or patient. but martin is a steady, if not a bit overwhelming, friend. 

he despises the uniform, gets detention everytime he forgets his tie. the evergoing stares of the teachers, watching them, making sure they form a line, that they don’t run in corridors, that the uniforms are pressed and cleaned. nothing better for difficult childs, the principal assured his mother. she did not even say goodbye, désolé, mon chéri. j’ai une réunion avec les investisseurs. 

it’s not all bad, romain knows. he discovers literature, and poetry, then. gets lost in music. martin makes him listen to new bands, americans, french, even canadians. he joins beatrice in secret parties, they get into bars during the weekends, even though they’re underaged. they drink and smoke, and it eases everything. no more pressure, just the low, warm feeling in his belly, like a beast that has finally calmed down. he kisses martin again, in a dark alley, the night heavy around them, like a blanket protecting them from the outside, the reality of their own situation. martin is pliant, flexible, under his hands. and when romain gets on his knees, martin whispers his name against the silence, and romain loves how it sounds like a prayer. 

**

martin comes up to them with a crumbled sheet, sits next to romain (close, always too close, romain feels claustrophobic) and ignores the dirty looks sent by beatrice, who was busy talking about romain’s mother new collection (she keeps insisting that romain introduces her to his mother). “vous savez pas, je fais partie de l’échange!” he’s shaking the paper so much, which contains a list of name, and romain tries to take a look but can’t. he frowns and goes to fetch it as soon as martin calms down a little, an agile move, like a panther going for the kill. as soon as he reads it, he scoffs. gives back the paper. “quoi, romain? t’as pas été pris? hallelujah pour ces pauvres américains.” beatrice snickers, steals the rest of romain’s vegetables. 

romain is pissed. not that he’s definitely passionate about traveling, but everything sounds better than france right now. and he’s got good grades (he’s got excellent grades). and he didn’t get into detention for the last three weeks. he wanted a place in the exchange, mostly to shut up martin. but they decided to choose martin, of all people. sweet, immaculate, pure and well-mannered martin. he looks over at martin, who’s ecstatic, listening to beatrice’s advices on how to get in bed with american boys with a small smile. he feels robbed.

**

martin is called to the principal’s office a few days later. 

martin gets detention for the rest of the year, then. loses his spot in the exchange. that’s what you get when the schools finds pot and alcohol in your room, under your bed. they don’t listen to his defenses, because nothing can go against cold, hard evidence. 

and coup de théâtre! romain gets the spot (also gets a black eye from martin’s fist, but no one comments on that). 

THE DAY

“Grief is something you carry around inside of you, like a secret second heart, its rhythm known only to you.”

she keeps talking and talking about it. it’s an obsession, one he can’t quite get into. he wishes they could go back to smoking joints by the port without andy going on about the damned lighthouse. he tells her that; romain hasn’t known her for as long as some other students here, but they developed an easy, honest kind of friendship. harsh she is, she often tells him how an asshole he is. and in the same way, he calls her out when she’s being too much. “can you … chill? i mean, you were supposed to show me california, not some dusty, old … books.” he gestures to the book she borrowed (stole) from the archives. she fixes him with a glare, one he’s come to know so well in the last two years. he likes tenebrin, more than he would admit to martin an beatrice. but he felt somewhat calmer here, away from the imposing pressure of his family. he still got detention in tenebrin, though. it seems that teachers did not like his french callouts. or french replies. fair enough, he guesses.

“fine, walk me through it again.” that’s something they both have in common. their curiosity. how much they both can push against tenebrin before tenebrin pushes back? when she asks him, have you ever swam in the ocean and he easily says yes, he can see the jealousy in her eyes. he thinks he understands then. 

so he follows where she goes, because he’s curious. though, there’s an anxious feeling that creeps up in the back of his mind as soon as they arrive in the port. a storm is brewing, the waves crashing upon the shoreline. violent, angry. he’s familiar now, with the weather, grey skies painting the scenery, the morning fog and the dark waves. andrea is far in front of him, and he takes a moment to look at the lighthouse. standing strong in the port, he never really gave it too much attention. but now, he thinks, it feels as if its guarding the town from something. he wonders about the tales that andrea filled his mind with, all those months ago, when he first set foot in tenebrin. reaching out without much thinking for his phone, he texts ramirez real quick. a message, void of any fun or jokes. like they’re used to. “andy! wait up!” he runs after her. 

** 

he comes back, mouth shut, eyes empty. martin and beatrice shoot him looks, they’re worried. he keeps reaching for his phone, an unsent text to andrea. if he calls her number, he can still hear her voicemail. his cellphone bills explode, long distance fees ignored. the clares hasn’t deactivated it yet. maybe like him, they like to call her. maybe like him, they have unsaid things, heavy on their heart, that they pour in andrea’s voicemail. he didn’t even stay for the burial. unable to meet mrs. clare’s eyes, guilt pressing on his shoulders. pressing, and pushing down. soon he’ll join her. maybe he should have joined her, should have tried to save her. a voice in the back of his mind (why didn’t you help) keeps interrupting his every thoughts. his days are (coward, coward) disrupted, short and too long. 

beatrice brings him to the school’s counselor; romain doesn’t see the point. in less than a week, they’ll graduate. he will leave the Sainte Perpetue’s white halls, will bid adieu to the white, austere marble statues adorning the school’s corridors. will shed the school’s uniform like a second skin, and will fly away. the school knows what happened, of course they do. they probably think it’s his fault. but they say nothing to him, and the counselor only hands him pamphlets to help him deal with his fucking grief. 

romain laughs in his face, something twisted and ugly. remembers; that’s what you get when you let people in. 

le deuil. 

** 

his brother says something, accuses the dead. time holds still, all of them waiting for the other shoe to drop. her mother silently scoffs at manu, sends him a glare. manu shrugs. romain understands, in this very moment, that they don’t really get what happened. they think it’s his fault (they don’t say it, but he knows. oh yes, he knows that this guilt, eating and gnawing at his heart, is nothing but deserved). 

romain hits manu, his mother screams and brunch is, once again, ruined because of him. his brother said well she just had to put a lifevest or something. his knuckles are red, tainted by his anger, by blood that’s not his. gabe grabs him and shoves him away. he wants to tear them apart, he wants to see them in her place, fighting against the waves. 

WELCOME BACK, WILD CHILD 

Sometimes it makes no sense at all

If I stumble, will I fall?

If I fall, I'll tuck and roll

Close my eyes and let the love-light guide me home

Let the love-light guide me home

martin looks at him, smoke hanging from his lips. romain would like to immortalize this look, he thinks. the moon plays with shadows on the other man’s pale skin, an halo around his head. a marble statues in a long corridors of mistakes and lies. a fixture in his life, unmoving. present. “romain, you know you’re an asshole, yeah?” 

waves crashing upon the shoreline. violent, angry

romain nods, moves slowly, like a cat ready to hunt. kneels before martin, the wooden floor hard underneath him. “yeah, i guess.” his long fingers takes the cigarette, brings it to his own lips. inhales, exhales. martin leans, breathes the smoke for a moment. crashes in romain a second later, hand in his hair. they kiss for awhile, practically unmoving. romain realizes that he missed him, somewhere between the end of the high school and his moving away to london. it resurfaces now, as he came back to france. romain’s father suffered a fall from horseback, a tragic, ugly thing. his death does not come that much of a surprise, or does not bring grief. 

after what happened, three years ago, romain knows grief well enough. does not need it anymore. his father’s death is a sad affair, brought him back to la mère patrie. he’s been studying photography, back in london. working with some of his mother’s contacts (a debt he knows he could never repay). heard through beatrice that martin was sick. some kind of unpronounceable cancer. if romain had been a poet, he might have convinced himself that he was cursed to love ghosts. 

the waves are --

“you’re leaving. again.”

romain nods, again. he hates how martin always sees through him, but revels in this easiness. the dreams came and stayed. romain told himself at first that he perhaps associated martin to everything that happened in tenebrin. that would be the reason why he kept having those horrible dreams. 

-- crashing.

“are you coming back?” martin’s fingers follows the hard lines of romain’s jaw, cheekbones, lips. romain closes his eyes for a moment, focuses on the feeling. he’s not sure what will happen back in tenebrin. he has a bad feeling about this. 

“i don’t know.” 

have you ever swam in the ocean

(well she just had to put a life vest or something)

“what a fucking asshole.” 

romain chuckles, looks up at martin’s perfect face. if he’d been less than an horrible man, perhaps he would have told him that he’d call him. that he’d miss him. romain does not know about those things; his head is filled with waves, crashing and violent. 

** 

he sets foot in tenebrin port once again, his jacket heavy on his shoulders. he walks, slowly, through the silent streets. it’s too early, and ramirez won’t answer his texts. he got practically nothing with him, beside a small hand bag. he remembers some of the stores, colourful against the usual monotony of the port. fishermen told him, once when he travelled in newfoundland, that the people used to paint their houses with bright colours so that the sailors could see the coast, and recognize their homes. why would tenebrin do the same, when their sea was nothing but murderous? 

romain walks, and walks. and ends up here. their bench. he sits, looks down at the tips of his fingers, pink with cold. looks back up, at the sea : “alors, on fait quoi maintenant?”.