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rcoul‌:

date: 12 August time: 1:00 PM location: Église Saint-Gervais availability: open to all !!

He’s drunk - comme d'habitude. 

In fact, he can’t remember the last time he wasn’t drunk; the past few days have been a blur of meaningless clock-ticks, marked only by the clink of a bottle, signifying nothing. He began before the sun arose, and has not stopped since, finding himself wandering the streets between his home and the church without aim. In fact, it is a wonder he has found himself here, slumped on the steps of the church with flask in hand, bottle in breast pocket, and cigarette shakily propped between his chapped lips. Raoul can’t remember how he got here; he doesn’t even remember leaving his flat - he is adorned in a jacket and tie gifted to him by his dearly departed brother, and yet it smothers where it should comfort. Upon the steps he slouches, shrugging off his jacket and loosening his tie before the wake even begins. Bottle and flask thumping lamely against his body as he half-undresses, he wonders what Philippe might think to see him now. 

He thinks of their last conversation. Then he thinks of their first.

Another drink, and the thought is quelled; jacket discarded atop the religious statue to his right, he turns his attention entirely to his flask. Though it would behoove him to think otherwise, he hardly cares for his appearance, for what it means for the Chaney image, as is so much more dearly vital than the merit of their own souls. Raoul half-wishes a kind soul would take pity on him, usher him inside where only God can see his gaping seams; the other half only wishes that he had been able to fit more Pinot Noir into his unseemly flask. 

And so he cannot bring himself to move, cannot bring himself to care; with drink upon his lips he gives a silent toast to the departed, teetering on the edge of no return, the cavernous abyss into which he falls all too slowly, all too surely. 

to say that it has been a shitty few weeks would be entirely too much of an understatement. to acel’s life has felt like absolute SHIT would be a bit closer to the mark. their sleeping has been erratic at best, especially since the news of the chaney’s murder. not that they particularly knew the man, but death is a sensitive subject at the moment and life just seems to be consistently throwing it acel’s face. 

they’re walking back to the theatre from the lunch break they were all sent out on. usually acel doesn’t get to actually use that time for lunch, but this time they needed the time to themselves. it might incur mathieu’s wrath, but they can’t make themself bother with that right now. it seems FATE has deemed it an appropriate use of their time as well, for who do they run into on their walk back but one of the chaneys themselves. and looking rather worse for wear. a frown creases acel’s brow as they slowly make their way over, in case the man is volatile. 

       ❝ are you alright? ❞ they ask somewhat delicately. ❝ do you need me to---          CALL someone, or...? ❞

CURRENTLY PLAYING: yes! - dario marianelli

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❛ i just wanna make sure you’re okay . ❜

IN TONGUES

their head lifts with a touch of a surprise. meg. one of the dancers. acel swallows, realizing only now how they’d been zoning out. they know now isn’t really the time to have their head about 3,000 miles away, but it’s difficult. 

      ❝ i’m------- ❞ but it catches and their brows furrow. they’re what?         FINE? not particularly. ❝ i’ll be okay, ❞ they finally answer and          it’s truth enough. pain, after all, does not last forever. 

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phantomonabudget‌:

666-rueful‌:

maybe i’m ugly but my music taste is better than yours

Phantom of the Opera, ladies and gentlemen.

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date: august 11th time: 1:00 am location: seat in the back of le théâtre de nuit. status: open currently playing: theme no. 1 - balmorhea

there is a heavy silence about them as they sit alone. throat thick with grief for both the man that lies slain and the one that lies in a quaint grave in a quaint cemetery far from here. and here acel had thought they’d get away from it. that they would return to paris, to the theatre and to faust, and could away from dying fathers. 

their throat is tight as they refuse to make a sound, though tears are stubborn things, refusing to listen to commands as they streak silently down their cheeks. eyes stare unblinking up at the stage, glowing faintly from the dimmed lights above. suddenly a sound breaks acel from their grief reverie. a door. their head snaps toward the sound. 

     ❝ who’s there? the theatre is CLOSED. ❞

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fameuxfleur‌:

date: august 13th time: 1:30 pm location: top corner box of Le Théâtre de Nuit. status: open

It wasn’t as if she was breaking any rules. Fleur hadn’t been needed earlier, most higher ups wrapped in the whirlwind of what had happened just a few short days before. Police still popped up here and there for statements and such, the cavernous halls still mostly calm for the next few hours. Madame had waved her off like a little flea, and so she’d scampered off…and out into the streets. Was leaving permitted? Debatable. But she’d been waved away, what could the woman expect from Fleur? 

And so she’d walked to her favorite Pâtisserie and left with a box of treats. Now she sat, curled away in the upper levels to watch as the madness flowed on below. She raised a macaron to her lips, this one baby blue and flecked with gold–as the door behind her opened. Pink lips pursing, she dropped the treat back down and turned to face the person. “If you rat me out, I will cry.” Brown eyes widened dramatically as if to emphasize her point. “—But if you remain silent, I could be persuaded to share.”

there has been too much death in acel’s life recently. it feels too much as if they cannot get away from it no matter what they do. for someone that is very good at remaining optimistic, it’s becoming----- difficult. time at the museum, more time than that even at the café. slowly, they are doing their best to come back together with themself, find who they are under the death and the grief in the city.

they’d seen her from below, from their space off-stage, avoiding the insanity of the aftermath of the death. FAUST  continues, and so must the theatre, but there’s less heart in all of it. if acel can understand anything, it’s the need to get away. softly, they open the door behind her and moves to sit next to her. there is a soft smile on their lips, but it is tinged with sadness. 

      ❝ i’m not here to rat you at. i thought you might want company. away          from all of----- ❞ they make a gesture to everything below, ❝ that. ❞

CURRENTLY PLAYING: we don’t eat - james vincent mcmorrow

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symphonicspectre‌:

time frame: august 10th, morning

setting: the lake museum of natural history

status: open to all 

There’s something about the phantom that seems best acquainted with the darkness and small spaces, the thick curtains of the theater that allow for no light or the passages beneath the stage itself where a hand on the wall is the best way to navigate, and yet, here he stands in the light of an open room, looking out of place at best: a forgotten relic of some long gone exhibit, one that should quickly and quietly be put away into storage as not to frighten the patrons. Before they start asking about what lurks behind the face covering. Before they ask is that supposed to be blood or dirt beneath his fingernails?

Unlike an exhibit though, he moves – his feet echoing coldly against the marble floor. Still, he feels at home here (despite his appearance) among the preserved, the not quite dead but the certainly not living. A museum is a purgatory of thoughts and things. His own thoughts seem to be haunting him, distracting him from the rest of the world, allowing him to take that corner a bit too quickly and a bit too short. When he rounds it and finds himself close to a face he was not expecting, he is drawn partially from his reverie, enough to accusingly ask the other about their presence.

“What are you doing?” he poses the question, seemingly startled by something living in his halls of the undead.

acel enjoys the museum. their own handle on most art is somewhat---- mediocre at best, but they still feel at home, somehow, surrounded by it. there is a comfort there, a feeling of belonging. a sigh escapes their lips as they wander the halls, fingertips gently brushing along marble that bear signs that say DO NOT TOUCH. the signs are ignored, feeling the cold travel through the tips of their fingers up their arm and around their nervous system. settling them. a feeling that feels like it’s been missing for some time. 

abruptly, they’re stopped by a voice. dark eyes fly open to see a man in front of them, mask covering their face. PHANTOM flickers through their brain, followed swiftly by the knowledge that if mathieu were here, the man before them would get an earful, mostly of curse words. they glance at their fingers on the marble of the statue, arm most certainly reached over the barricade that demands the art not be defiled by fingerprints. still, acel does not remove them. their eyes return to the man. 

      ❝ admiring the art, ❞ they say simply and succinctly. 

CURRENTLY PLAYING: find my love - the avett brothers

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monsieur-reyer‌:

There was a pocket three dancers wide directly on centerstage, an aching eyesore at the focal point of the scene. Though Mathieu could forgive the one girl’s temporary dismissal in her desperate need for a restroom, he could not excuse the rest of the dancers for their clumsiness and apparent cluelessness at their friend’s absence. For months, they’d rehearsed the same dance, countless times, over and over, the blocking remaining consistent. And yet, one dancer short and the entirety of the group began to collapse like a deck of cards. Mathieu’s teeth set on edge, his gaze boring into the dancers, making them all the more skittish and graceless under his direct scrutiny. 

A sudden crash from the rafters and the totality of the stage dove for the sides, terrified of another catastrophe of falling lights that might crush them as they had Carlotta. Jumping to his own feet, Mathieu glanced up, pupils wide - and sighed. From above, a stagehand muttered his apologies as he glanced at the four sandbags he’d dropped. Luckily, nobody had been hurt though as people started to settle again, Mathieu sighed loudly, closing his eyes as he scrubbed his face in frustration. They were too close to be making mistakes like this. 

Jolting him from his thoughts, he heard Acel’s quiet voice beside him. At his assistant’s request, his blue eyes hardened. His assistant had requested time off recently during the most vital point of rehearsals and, though he’d never admit it out loud, Mathieu had desperately needed his help. For this very reason alone, Mathieu almost denied Acel the request for a break. He could be petty and he knew it. But one more look at the stage and Mathieu couldn’t deny that he could use a break of his own, needed a nicotine hit like he needed his next breath. With mild reluctance, Mathieu nodded. “Fine.” 

Just the one word and then Mathieu was looking back toward his cast. “Take ten, everyone! And bring your fucking brains with you when you get back!” Shaking his head as everyone scattered, he looked back at Acel. “Lead the way.”

they understand the stress that mathieu is under. as of right now, it seems like everything that possibly could go wrong is. part of acel wonders if maybe this whole production is CURSED, along the lines of the scottish play. first the phantom, demanding things. then their father, taking them away from the production for an entire week. and now this. this agonizing almost- incompetency when acel knows that everyone in this production is more talented than this. 

they let out a breath of relief when mathieu acquiesces, standing abruptly and shouting out at the cast. they don’t BLAME him, not really. but acel can’t imagine it’s helping anything either. they walk outside together and acel lets him light his cigarette and take a drag before speaking.

     ❝ they’re scared, mathieu, ❞ they say with abrupt honesty. ❝ not of you,         really, but of everything that’s going wrong, of this PHANTOM. and         you’re not helping. i’m sure they know they’re fucking up. i doubt         they want to be messing up as much as you do. i’m not sure------         BERATING them is the route to go right now. ❞

CURRENTLY PLAYING: ill with want - the avett brothers

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Miles bringing back this gem to wish Sebastian happy birthday. What a beauty! 🎂🌷

Original: milesmcmillan IG

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Miles McMillan

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crownedchaney‌:

location : the yellow room cafe 

timestamp : august

status : open

She wears a mask. The woman crowned queen wears a mask covered in her own lipstick smile, red war paint. To blend in, to feel as though the streets of Paris were not to betray her with every click her heels made down cobblestone streets. Annabella Chaney had wanted nothing but power, and with an iron fist she’d gained it. Yet, upon rising to the top, she’d known betrayal all too well. Round every corner there was a secret, ‘round every corner there was an enemy. Yet, she’d walked with purpose, slid into her usual seat at the petite cafe that remained around the corner of the Theatre. Papers neatly pressed in front of her, delicate digits tapping pen against stack before gaze catches sight of movement. A mind rattled with chaos, where everyone she’d ever known remained suspect and she’d learned to count accomplices with one hand, Annabella had mastered the art of the facade of a delicately stern businesswoman. She’d circled galas and drank champagne with Paris’ finest only to rule as Hades herself. Brow perks with interest, hues following before she speaks, the once bustling streets no match for sultry tone. “ –––– Sit.” Lips adorned crimson curl into a smile, as warm as the fires she’d lit to the houses of those who’d wronged her.  There was no saying no to Annabella, no dismissing her wishes nor denying her what she’d wanted. If she’d asked you to stand, you stood. If she’d wanted you to die at the mercy of her hounds, you did so with your dignity still in tact. So when vocals ring through the air once more, a sickeningly saccharine disguise melting into the summers air, she cannot help but feel as though she’s already won. “Please, I don’t bite.”

there is confusion and consideration more than there is anger or offense. acel is used to orders in a general sense. they are, after all, mathieu’s assistant and there is no doubt that if there is one thing that man adores, it’s shouting his orders. but this is different. they do not know this woman, yet regardless she commands attention - OBEDIENCE. acel can’t deny the curiosity of why they of all people is being singled out by her, by her attention. and there is no doubt that the command in fact for them, however odd it may seem. though they have not yet ordered their coffee, they slowly sit ( a testament to their curiosity if there ever was one ). they tilt their head, hair brushing their shoulders as t hey take in the woman before them. 

     ❝ have we met? ❞ they ask in that soft way of theirs, though their eyes         remain focused, almost INTENSE. the question is careful, not wanting         to offend any polite sensibilities should they have in fact already met         and they’ve so rudely forgotten. 

CURRENTLY PLAYING: el tango de roxanne - moulin rouge

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date: august 7th time: 2:00pm location: inside theatre  status: closed / @monsieur-reyer   currently playing: dans ma rue - zaz

things are getting serious now. times is ticking closer and closer down to the opening of the show. acel is stressed out. and if acel is stressed out, that means everyone else is too. and if everyone else is stressed out, that means that mathieu is downright unbearable. moreso than usual, anyway. the coffee is clutched in acel’s hand like a lifeline ( at this point, that’s exactly what it is ), as they sit off to the side of mathieu, notebook in hand, eyes heavy with exhaustion despite the rivers of caffeine in their system. their teeth bite into their lip as they watch the rehearsal on the stage. IT’S WRONG, they think, eyes flicking over to see mathieu’s reaction. they’re doing it wrong. acel’s mouth opens, considers, then leans over to mathieu, hand discreetly placed over their lips to keep quiet. 

      ❝ can you call for a break? i’d like to talk to you. ❞

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Miles McMillan by Jack Pierson for Tomorrow’s Man 4

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Miles McMillan for Peuterey’s FW 17/18 Campaign

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Miles McMillan by Bryan Hyunh, At Large

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Miles McMillan at the Oxford Union on Thursday, October 5th, 2017.

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Gorgeous Miles…❤💙💚💜💛

Original: 📸 sebastianfaena IG

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