Daedalus

all this gay shit

I have found, through my extensive time with Lent Rosella, that he has some kind of obsession with flowers. Surely it is better than having an obsession with the toenails of stray cats, or shards of glass left on the roads beside bars, but it is just as present as those two. He is always selecting flowers from his walks through Paris to bring back to me and Loire, always marveling over how many types there are here, and now he has brought one back to the apartment to draw.

I shouldn't be criticizing him for it, though, because he looks as peaceful as ever, so serene in his enjoyments. He mulls over each bend of the flower, each shadow and mark, as if it is incomplete without every detail. It's somewhat harrowing to see how meticulous he is about this, but it's also comforting to know that he never leaves things behind, even if they are minute, even if they would be left behind by any other artist in favor of an easy drawing. If only he could draw me that way.

A strand of silver hair swoops into Lent's vision, but before he can remove it on his own, my fingers slide to tuck it behind his ear. Although he does not detach his focus from the sketchpad, he offers me a smile that brightens my entire day, and wordlessly continues drawing the flower.

All of the sudden, our rest is interrupted by someone bursting through the door of our apartment uninvited, but at least it's not a burglar, only the familiar face of Loire Babinot, except there's something different about the aforementioned face. She's not angry, really, just on a mission of some sorts, a mission that she will not let be disturbed until her goal has been fulfilled.

"Oh, hello, Loire," Lent greets, oblivious to her malicious expression.

"Hello, mon ange," Loire coos, temporarily dropping her antipathy for her darling of a friend, but immediately when she spots me, her affection once again drowns in seriousness. "Basil, I need to speak to you." Before I even glance up from the book I recently snatched from the coffee table, her fingers are digging into the fabric of my shirt as they carry me away.

Lent is nothing short of confounded, his pencil suspended halfway from his body to the canvas of his sketchpad, mouth slack, and it seems as though our emotions are finally matched for once, the cynic and the Icarus merging into one feeling of pandemonium. As far as either of us know, I have done nothing wrong, or at least nothing to warrant this kind of behavior from a woman who generally could portray the sweet auntie in any film without even practicing, and my wonder is now tainted by the slightest bit of fear.

"What do you need?"

She doesn't answer me until she has dragged me by the shirt into the bedroom, closed the door, and folded her arms across her chest accusatively, as if I've done something immoral besides what is to be expected from my regular nature. She just stands there, staring at me, confusing me, like she's willing me to figure out what the hell it is that she's called me in here for, but I have no fucking idea, and my confusion is lapsing into uneasiness. She finally elucidates her motives. "I really enjoyed your writing. Your piece about Paris." All enthusiasm that would be typical of such a phrase is null, swept out of the window and into the streets of the twentieth arrondissement. Although nothing in her tone indicates this, she is most likely pausing to allow me time to solve the mystery about something I myself wrote, something I know better than she does, better than anyone does.

"So why are you glaring at me like that?"

Loire flicks me in the arm, sighs arduously, resembling the sentiment of someone claiming that they're the one who has to do all of the work around here. "Because you're so incredibly stupid, mon hère."

"I thought my vocabulary is more advanced than that of a second grader. Don't be so harsh."

"No, your vocabulary is superb, but your content is..." — Loire searches desperately for the correct word to use, much like I do when I'm writing, although my writing is the thing that's landing me in trouble in the current moment — "let's just say...questionable."