In France, there is a writer. His name, Blaine Anderson. His life, in the past. You will know from what you hear, and what you read, what you think and experience is all you. Who he is is all him. And who he will be is made up of him. Not him though, the other him. But we'll get to that. The writer, Blaine. What he writes and what he believes was his forever. Here you will witness that. Right Now.
Only the sounds of the click and tap echoed through the isolated, dusty room. The rest you only hear if you're close. He breathes through the pipe in his mouth. Up at his eyes, they moved where his fingers went, dancing across the keys, only glancing up to see if the rhythm created what was needed on the page. A dark curl fell over his face yet his tan arms leading to his lanky fingers never flinched to correctly place it. Clothing clung to him resembled what you saw on the streets. Tan overcoat that, of course was off, to prevent perspiration. A white undershirt pinned down with suspenders that were also pulling up his pants by stretching over his well-built shoulders. His short legs lead to shoes he's had for years easily. Scuffed and warn at the tips from experience. Underneath his shirt his chest heaved steadily up and down at a very different pace than his fast thinking. He let out a breath and halted, taking the pipe out of his mouth and swallowing to somehow moisten his dry throat. His honey-amber eyes gazed contently to the paper and he pulled it out with his sore fingers. The fifteen words at the top, "the greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love, and be loved in return."
The comfortable silence was shifted by a sudden thud on the ancient wood plastered on the architecture. Caused by a man dressed similarly, but cleaner. The man opened the door and Blaine recognized him immediately, a smile glazing over his face.
"Wes, nice to see you." He greeted in his soft voice.
"And you as well." The man smiled and tipped his hat, as they did. He let out a breath and looked around at the place littered in paper, cigars, towels, and dirty clothes. "How long have you been hibernating, my friend?" He inquired.
Blaine chuckled and shook his head. "Ah, to hibernate I would need food and warmth. You lack in research." He smiled charmingly and stood, attempting to tighten up the place.
Wes smiled at his friend and straightened out his hat. "David should be here shortly. You are still joining us for lunch?"
Blaine raised his eyebrows. "Of course, I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Just as Wes took in a breath to begin a response, heavy breathing entered the room, interrupting him.
"And there he is." Wes finished lamely.
"Hello lads," David managed to breathe out and smiled.
"Don't have the baby in here, Wes." Blaine joked as his usual self, smiling and chuckling lightly under his breath.
David gave a dry, stifled laugh. "If you must know, I rushed in here for you. I am in desperate need of a screenwriter. No time to waste, pack your typewriter and printer paper. Your pipe, too."
Blaine raised his eyebrows once again, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. "I'm always one for surprises, but this seems a little out of character for you. Why such little notice?"
