#Emil Baudelaire

[tragediambulante]

Coin de table, Henri Fantin-Latour, 1872

[yorgunherakles]

şimdi korkunç aldırmazlığınla baş başasın. yeryüzü seni ilgilendirmiyor. insanlar seni ilgilendirmiyor.

selçuk baran - arjantin tangoları

[dors-ee]

Bonjour!

J'espère que tu ne m'en voudras pas de glisser un petit message dans ta boîte aujourd'hui!

Pour cette journée "Parle ta langue", je me demandais si tu aimerais nous présenter deux ou trois œuvres d'art françaises que tu apprécies particulièrement?

Evidemment, aucune pression ; ne réponds que si tu en as envie!

Je te souhaite une très belle journée!

Salut ! Aucun problème ! Art plastique j'admets préférer des peintres non français, en général. Après en littérature -j'ai fais une licence de lettres modernes- j'ai plusieurs auteurs que j'apprécie !

Albert Camus, du 20ème siècle, j'apprécie non pas seulement sa philosophie. La Peste est très poignant, une vraie histoire qui touche profondément. Caligula de ce dont je me souviens, pour quelqu'un qui n'apprécie pas plus que cela le théâtre, était assez agréable à lire. L'étranger, j'ai également bien apprécié, là aussi non pas uniquement pour la philosophie mais le personnage, l'histoire même. Camus était un romancier, même si j'ai l'impression qu'hors de France il est plus connu pour ses idées sur l'absurde.

À l'époque, jeune idiot en lycée, je n'accrochais pas mais maintenant des années après je dois citer Phedre de Racine. Je dois aussi citer Zola, Madame Bovary de Flaubert, et je n'ai plus le nom mais un truc obscur de fin 19eme. Je me souviens quand on a eu le nom en 1ere année de licence, puis lu le livre, tout le monde se demandait "mais c'est quoi ce truc?!". Mais j'en ai de bons souvenirs, ne serait-ce que pour l'étrangeté !

Pour Zola bien que c'était très laborieux à l'époque de le lire, jeune idiot en collège encore une fois, je reconnais aujourd'hui son apport. Et le fait qu'en vrai il est bien moins laborieux et ennuyant que Balzac! Quant à Madame Bovary je ne sais si je recommanderais de le lire. Il représente tellement bien l'ennui et sa souffrance à elle, ses aspirations, son ambition ses erreurs... Mais il est long et bien chiant soyons honnête. (Et c'est là qu'est son génie. Je trouve cela drôle).

En poésie j'apprécie Rimbaud, Les saisons, et autres je n'ai plus les noms exacts raaaaah, Baudelaire j'ai personnellement moins aimé, mais peut-être que c'était l'âge. Rimbaud me parlait plus. Jeune âme artiste torturé. Je me retrouvais dans ses élans émotionnels et élucubrations existentielles. Dans ses images surtout... J'adore ses images et son language.

J'ai perdu pas mal de références, je ne me souviens pas de tout... Donc je pense qu'il y en a plus pais ma mémoire me fait défaut.

Je citerai peut-être Antigone de Cocteau, là aussi mon idiotie de jeunesse me faisait le rejeter, mais il n'est pas si mal.

Maintenant, si tu permets, j'ai aussi lu des auteurs non français mais non anglais et certains j'aimerais en parler : Lampedusa et Le Guépard, très très intéressant et l'air de rien lui aussi peut aller assez en profondeur et faire réfléchir sur certaines choses. Il campe aussi la Sicile, à une certaine époque. Bien intéressant.

Zweig, magnifique, qu'en dire. Il est poignant, prenant, mais ausis exude un certain calme. Ce n'est pas le tumultueux Rimbaud, loin de là. Au contraire. Il n'est également pas aussi obscure et complexe que les russes. Et pourtant il parle d'émotions humaines, il donne des lessons qui touchent profondément rt marquent à jamais oserais-je dire. Je me souviendrai toujours de La Pitié dangereuse je pense. Ou de La confusion des sentiments. Ou de certaines de ses nouvelles.

J'ai aussi lu des auteurs russes, même si je ne sais si c'est vraiment une bonne idée d'en parler. Je dirais Dostoyevsky et Tolstoy sont... quelque chose. Chacun à leur manière. Mais Anna Karenina est lui aussi un de ceux qui restent en mémoire. Je n'aime pas Anna, ni Vronsky, ni son mari. J'aime Kitty et Levin, oh surtout Levin de ce dont je me souviens je pouvais tellement m'identifier à sa recherche de sens, son fonctionnement mental, ses pensées. Sa réponse était dans la famille la tradition et dieu... Mais je ne peux m'empêcher de penser et si ? Et si aujourd'hui ? Si il était un homme moderne avec tous nos philosophes ? avec les connaissances et diagnostiques...

A meek one, Crime et Chatiment de Dostoyevski m'ont marqué. Le grand inquisiteur... Mais bon Dois-je vraiment décrire Dostoyesvki ? Si vous avez des semaines à perdre à vous torturer et triturer les méninges je le recommanderais. Sinon... Je ne sais pas. Il apporte des choses évidemment mais il est si complexe !

Ah je pense à un dernier auteur français, plus un philosophe : Henri Bergson. Les philosophes ont tendance à m'énerver mais lui j'ai bien aimé.

Oh un dernier nom désolé ! Théophile Gautier (h ou sans h je ne sais plus. Les tags disent sans h donc sans h!). Bien pour des nouvelles ghotiques et fantastiques. (Je préfère largement à Maupassant je dois avouer. Jamais pu digérer Maupassant.)

Jeune j'ai apprécié quelques pensées sur l'art et le théâtre d'Artaud, et un peu de sa poésie. Mais je n'ai jamais pu pardonner son sexisme et sa misogynie. Je ne veux pas entendre l'qrgument "c'est son temps" pour lui. Si Monsieur était si spécial et un génie, il pouvait aller contre son temps non?

Oh non français... hum... celui qui a écrit la maison de poupée je crois... Icksen?

Bref je dois m'arrêter haha 🤣 (et retrouver le nom du gars avec sa torture ornée de gemmes oui celui qui était étrange et nous a tous questionnés en licence 1 haha).

Voilà j'espère que c'est ok haha !

Bonne journée à toi aussi ! Enfin, fin de journée si tu es sur la même timezone que moi !

(Je suis content d'avoir pu parler de littérature... je n'ai jamais terminé ma licence, dernier semestre non complété, et je suis maintenant perdu en psycho... La littérature me manque beaucoup. Donc c'est cool...).

[fox-buried-in-maple-leaves]

Autober #2 High Fantasy

Prompt List Here

Taglist: @cerasus--flores, @taraxacum-vulpes

Knight Emil<3

It was a silly little habit, one he did because he was bored more than anything. He timed how fast it took him to get into his armour every morning. 

Being your highness’ royal guardian often meant he had to be ready earlier than everyone else, and ready before you were so as to make sure he could be there upon your awakening. 

And so he found humour where he could, the time it took him to get ready in the morning. It usually took about thirty minutes, from start to finish. A record speed given how much armour he had to put on, and the fact he always struggled with the printed cape of his House.

So Emil was pleasantly surprised when the timer on his stopwatch read twenty nine minutes and thirty three seconds. A new record. He smiled to himself, soft and hidden in the dawn of his room. 

It wasn’t long before the knight left the room afterwards, walking the halls of the old but well kept castle. His boots clicked on the floor, announcing his arrival everywhere he went. 

His first duty was to talk to the guard captain, making sure Ohm had placements for your highness’ activities that day. Then he had to make sure breakfast was nearly prepared before he made his way to your bedroom.

Emil knocked once, twice, then let himself into the room. 

The room was dark and the knight made his way to the large heavy curtains that blocked the windows and balcony. Armoured hands brought the curtains back, letting the early morning sun pour through the glass. 

He tied off the one side with the golden rope before he moved to the other side. Keen ears heard you stirring in your bed behind him, but he paid you no mind as he finished pulling the curtains back. 

It was a warm bright day even for him.

“Good morning, your highness.”

Emil turned towards you, walking to the side of the bed where your bleary eyes looked up at him, barely visible beneath the heavy blankets. 

Animal ears twitched and he held back his urge to smile.

“It's time to wake, your highness.” 

“No…” You pulled the blanket over your head, exhaling loudly, you didn’t want to wake up and he knew that better than anybody. After all, he was the one that was met with this sight nearly every morning since he was hired as your personal guard.

“Please?”

“Mmm, nuh uh.”

Emil sighed, watching you roll over underneath the blankets. His arms crossed over his chest, an eyebrow quirked at the lump beneath the thick blanket. But you didn’t budge, pulling your pillow over your head instead.

You let out a sudden scream as your mattress was pulled up, you slid off of it, blankets and all onto the floor. You grimaced as you hit the cold floor, your pillow hitting you in the head before it bounced off and landed nearby to you.

You frowned, looking up at your knight as if he’d just betrayed you. He had, after all.

“Good morning!” He mused, his smile now present on his face. 

[pixelsandpapers]

Just another lil fanart

Another fanart made by Pixels for @fox-buried-in-maple-leave of their OC Emil!

(Pixels says he likes Emil's "he/they swag")

sketch/prrof of artistship under the cut

[papillondusublime]

"Spend my days patiently Waiting for the night to creep, yeah Chasing clouds, counting sheep I don't know why, but we call it killing time Oh, always killing time Always killing (...) It only takes a minute to forget a week Count up all the years that we spend asleep If time is meant for living, why's it killing me? (...) It only takes a minute Now I'm taking mine There's always time for killing but never time for me"

[nicklloydnow]

José Millán-Astray y Terreros

“Spain

Each nation translates the divine attributes into process in its own way, yet Spain's ardor remains unique; had the rest of the world shared it, God would be exhausted, drained, and deprived of Himself. It is in order not to vanish that he makes atheism prosper in His countries - out of self-defense. Fearing the flames He has inspired, He reacts against His sons, against their frenzy which diminishes Him; their love undermines His power and His authority; only unbelief leaves Him intact, it is not doubts which erode God, but faith. For centuries the Church has trivialized His prestige, and by making Him accessible, is preparing for Him, thanks to theology, a death without enigmas, a glossed, enlightened agony: overwhelmed by the weight of prayers, how could He help being still more so by that of explanations? He dreads Spain as He dreads Russia - and multiplies atheists in both. Their attacks at least let Him retain the illusion of omnipotence: still an attribute preserved! But the believers! Dostoyevsky, El Greco: has He ever had more feverish enemies? And how could He keep from preferring Baudelaire to John of the Cross? He fears those who see Him and those through whom He sees.

All sanctity is more or less Spanish: if God were a cyclops, Spain would be His eye.” - Emil Cioran ‘A Short History of Decay’ (1949) [pages 132, 133]

Juan José Padilla

[minoracts]

"Baudelaire has taught me that life is the ecstasy of worms basking in the sun."

– Emil Cioran, from 'Nature and Nihilism'

[poemaseletras]

ENCONTRE UM AUTOR:

Envie sugestões. Leia uma citação no modo aleatório.

Autores Desconhecidos

Adélia Prado

Adrian Tchaikovsky

Affonso Romano de Sant’anna

Alain de Botton

Albert Einstein

Aldous Huxley

Alexander Pushkin

Amanda Gorman

Anaïs Nin

Andy Warhol

Andy Wootea

Anna Quindlen

Anne Frank

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Aristóteles

Arnaldo Jabor

Arthur Schopenhauer

Augusto Cury

Ben Howard

Benjamin Alire Sáenz

Benjamin Rush

Bill Keane

Bob Dylan

Brigitte Nicole

C. JoyBell C.

C.S. Lewis

Carl Jung

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Carlos Fuentes

Carol Ann Duffy

Carol Rifka Brunt

Carolina Maria de Jesus

Caroline Kennedy

Cassandra Clare

Cecelia Ahern

Cecília Meireles

Cesare Pavese

Charles Baudelaire

Charles Chaplin

Charlotte Nsingi

Cheryl Strayed

Clarice Lispector

Claude Debussy

Coco Chanel

Connor Franta

Coolleen Hoover

Cora Coralina

Czesław Miłosz

Dale Carnegie

David Hume

Deborah Levy

Djuna Barnes

Dmitri Shostakovich

Douglas Coupland

Dream Hampton

E. E. Cummings

E. Grin

E. Lockhart

EA Bucchianeri

Edith Wharton

Ekta Somera

Elbert Hubbard

Elizabeth Acevedo

Elizabeth Strout

Emile Coue

Emily Brontë

Ernest Hemingway

Esther Hicks

Faraaz Kazi

Farah Gabdon

Fernando Pessoa

Fiódor Dostoiévski

Florbela Espanca

Franz Kafka

Frédéric Chopin

Fredrik Backman

Friedrich Nietzsche

Galileu Galilei

Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel

George Orwell  

Hafiz

Hanif Abdurraqib

Helen Oyeyemi

Henry Miller

Henry Rollins

Hilda Hilst

Iain Thomas

Immanuel Kant

Jacki Joyner-Kersee

James Baldwin

James Patterson

Jane Austen

Jean Jacques Rousseau

Jean Rhys

Jean-Paul Sartre

Jeremy Hammond

JK Rowling

João Guimarães Rosa

Joe Brock

Johannes Brahms

John Banville

John C. Maxwell

John Green

John Wooden

Jojo Moyes

Jorge Amado

José Leite Lopes

Joy Harjo

Juan Ramón Jiménez

Juansen Dizon

Katrina Mayer

Kurt Cobain

L.J. Smith

L.M. Montgomery

Leo Tolstoy

Lisa Kleypas

Lord Byron

Lord Huron

Louise Glück

Lucille Clifton

Ludwig van Beethoven

Lya Luft

Machado de Assis

Maggi Myers

Mahmoud Darwish

Manila Luzon

Manuel Bandeira

Marcel Proust

Margaret Mead

Marina Abramović

Mario Quintana

Mark Yakich

Marla de Queiroz

Martha Medeiros

Martin Luther King

Mary Oliver

Mattia

Maya Angelou

Mehdi Akhavan-Sales

Melissa Cox

Michaela Chung

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Mitch Albom

N.K. Jemisin

Neal Shusterman

Neil Gaiman

Nicholas Sparks

Nietzsche

Nikita Gill

Nora Roberts

Ocean Vuong

Osho

Pablo Neruda

Patrick Rothfuss

Patti Smith

Paulo Coelho

Paulo Leminski

Perina

Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky

Phil Good

Pierre Ronsard

Platão

Poe

R.M. Drake

Raamai

Rabindranath Tagore

Rachel de Queiroz

Ralph Emerson

Raymond Chandler

René Descartes

Reyna Biddy

Richard Kadrey

Richard Wagner

Ritu Ghatourey

Roald Dahl

Robert Schumann

Roy T. Bennett

Rumi

Ruth Rendell

Sage Francis

Séneca

Sérgio Vaz

Shirley Jackson

Sigmund Freud

Simone de Beauvoir

Spike Jonze

Stars Go Dim

Steve Jobs

Stephen Chbosky

Stevie Nicks

Sumaiya

Susan Gale

Sydney J. Harris

Sylvester McNutt

Sylvia Plath

Sysanna Kaysen  

Ted Chiang

Thomas Keneally

Thomas Mann

Truman Capote

Tyler Knott Gregson

Veronica Roth

Victor Hugo

Vincent van Gogh

Virgílio Ferreira

Virginia Woolf

Vladimir Nabokov

Voltaire

Wale Ayinla

Warsan Shire

William C. Hannan

William Shakespeare

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Yasmin Mogahed

Yoke Lore

Yoko Ogawa

[forthegothicheroine]

His tattered mantle: In addition to Lear and Baudelaire's old man, Chambers may have drawn on another source for the King's garment: the Breton legend that he refers to elsewhere as "the Man in Purple Tatters." The French novelist Emile Souvestre wrote Le Foyer Breton, a collection of tales inspired by Breton folktales, which included "La Souris de terre et le corbeau gris" ("The Field-Mouse and the Gray Raven"). In that story, the heroine Tinah's fiance Alann returns from the dead: by day, he appears as a handsome youth wearing velvet, but by night, he takes on his true form of a skeleton wearing "a shroud in tatters". Le Foyer Breton was hugely popular, going into numerous printings and editions in France and inspiring a whole shoal of Breton-inflected stories. Chambers doubtless drew on Le Foyer Breton not only for "The Demoiselle d'Ys" but for his later collection of Breton-inflected and Brittany-set weird stories, The Mystery of Choice. He again refers to the tale of "the Man in Purple Tatters" in his story "The Messenger" in that collection. Another tale in Le Foyer Breton, "Perronik l'idiot" features "la dame jaune," a "yellow woman" in black silk named "la Peste," or "the Plague." A yellow figure bringing death, in other words.

Kenneth Hite, The King in Yellow Annotated

[cat-buried-in-tall-grass]

this is a good ending they WILL be snuggled

dark haired men with rough pasts they're running away from got me doing shit i haven't in ages (writing down lysander's kit and also writing down vesper shopkeep voicelines)

[schizografia]

- Perché Cioran è un ribelle?

- Io non sono un ribelle. Chi si ribella, vuole rimediare a qualche cosa. Il ribelle è un militante; io non sono un militante. È pur vero che ho denunciato parecchie cose, ma con un sentimento dell’irreparabile. Per esempio, non si può dire che Baudelaire sia un ribelle, proprio perché egli aveva il sentimento dell’irreparabile e neppure Pascal era un ribelle, aveva aveva il sentimento dell’irreparabile. In tal senso, io mi sento prossimo loro: non sono un ribelle”

Emil Cioran

[fox-buried-in-maple-leaves]

The Baudelaire Family

A family who gained their aristocratic rank through dedication and bloodshed. The descendants of Marvelle and Bellamy Baudelaire, the twin guards of the rightful Queen.

Well known for both magical and combative feats. The Baudelaire Family still touts their positions as Her Majesty's guards.

A recent misstep and loss of the family's heir has started a panic within the family as they attempt to groom his replacement. Secrets run aplenty in France, but the people of Montagnes-Des-Renards know better than to say anything.

Emil Voie Baudelaire

Age: 21

Pronouns: He/They

Birthday: October 30th

Titles: The Baudelaire Heir, Sir Baudelaire, The Frozen Guardian of Montagnes-Des-Renards, The Shadow.

"An expert swordsman with a mastery over cryomancy and chronomancy. The once respected heir of the Baudelaire legacy, Emil now finds himself on the run from his family, his government, and the men he once led. A wanted criminal, Emil is barely human."

Cyrille Tilde Baudelaire

Age: 18

Pronouns: She/They

Birthday: January 3rd

Titles: The Newly Elected Baudelaire Heiress, Lady Baudelaire, The Watcher of Montagnes-Des-Renards.

"A young woman with a penchant for tricks and mischief, Cyrille is the last to want to ascend her brother's position. Her cyromancy is tied to her anger and she finds herself using illusions in place of real magic to protect herself."

Maude Enide Baudelaire

Age: 16

Pronouns: She/Her

Birthday: March 7th

Titles: Lady Baudelaire, Montagnes-Des-Renards' Angel.

"A healer whose magic is tied to her emotions, her hydromancy renders her unable to heal emotional aches. While she pretends she doesn't understand the magnitude of the situation around her, Maude is painfully and angrily aware of everything."

Veronique Fleurette Baudelaire

Age: 43

Pronouns: She/Her

Birthday: February 29th

Titles: Lady Baudelaire, Lady Carcaseau.

"Marrying into the Baudelaire family was no easy feat for Lady Veronique Carcaseau. But she finds herself in the ideal position within the family dynamic. Whilst boasting no magical abilities of her own, her quick wit gets her by."

Julien Mahut Baudelaire

Age: 50

Pronouns: He/Him

Birthday: December 18th

Titles: Lord Baudelaire, Sir Baudelaire, The Sword of Montagnes-Des-Renards.

"A proud descendent of the Baudelaire lineage, Julien is a man determined to see his family remain at the top. Julien's prowess in electromancy is unmatched, as is his grit and hard hand. It was he who damaged his son's eye."

[theinkedfoxsl]

im so sorry to every person emil baudelaire has ever slept with

[mosertone]

"Syllogisms of Bitterness". By Emil Ciuran~ "If Nietzsche, Proust, Baudelaire or Rimbaud survive the fluctuations of fashion, it is due to the gratuitousness of their cruelty, to their demonic surgery, to the generosity of their bile. What allows a work to endure, what prevents it from aging, is its ferocity. Gratuitous statement? Consider the prestige of the Gospel, an aggressive book, the most poisonous book of all." ~The Sacrifice of Isaac~ by Gerhard Wilhelm ~

[circusgoth-dotcom]

Two Decades Apart, I Still See Your Heart

Ship: Norman Osborn x Keaton Baudelaire (Divorcees AU)

Word Count: 1331

Summary: While at the same press event, Norman and Keaton cross paths for the first time in the two decades since they divorced. They discuss how life had changed for both of them since that decision, and find they may still be attracted to each other... | Cws for brief alcohol and food mentions, implications of death (for Norman's second spouse/ex-wife), possibly vague ideations of cheating if you squint.

Tag List: @canongf @futurewife

Two decades passed before Norman Osborn crossed paths with his first spouse again. In that time, he had met a woman, remarried, had a child with her, and watched her leave him for her untimely death. Grief threw him more into his business, Oscorp, than ever before, leaving little time for him to connect with his son, Harry. Luckily, Harry had Peter Parker, his dear teenhood friend. In months, they would be graduating.

On the opposite side of the pond, Keaton Baudelaire, Norman’s ex-husband, had become a thriving author and was currently dating a radio host. He was, for the most part, content. He had enough money to live the way he wanted while remaining modest, he had a fun boyfriend, and most importantly, people liked his art. He didn’t think about Norman much these days… after all, that was roughly twenty years ago. They had moved up and on from each other.

Little did either of them know they had been invited to the same press event one night. Keaton had seen Norman across the room, socializing, as soon as he had entered the convention hall. He almost hadn’t recognized him, with his now-lined face and the subtle start of grey at the tips of his chestnut hair. Choosing to ignore him for the time being, he busied himself with the catering and talked amongst his own peers: publishers, fellow authors, and rich fans. The ex-husbands managed to keep their distance throughout a large part of the event, until Norman purposefully approached Keaton at the drinks table.

“Keaton?” He prompted curiously, making him jolt and spill champagne on the front of his peacock-coloured suit.

“Gee, thanks Norman,” Keaton responded as he turned to face him, though his snark held no real contempt.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Here,” he quickly produced a baby blue handkerchief and, in an act of second nature, began dabbing at the front of Keaton’s suit. As he realized what he was doing, his cheeks and ears burned and his hand hesitantly drew away from his chest. “Good lord, what am I doing??”

“It’s fine,” Keaton assured him, taking the handkerchief from him and finishing sopping up the champagne by himself. “Let’s go outside, if you want to talk.”

“That’d be nice.”

As the two began making their way to the courtyard outside of the convention centre, someone called out.

“Hey, are you Emile West?!”

Keaton paused and turned. “That would be me, yes.”

An excited-looking man ran up with a book, eagerly shaking Keaton’s hand. “Jeff Kassner, huge fan. Would you sign my copy of Planet Rose?”

“Sure, kid.” He took the book off of Jeff’s hands and borrowed a pen.

To Jeff, always reach for the stars -E. WEST

Jeff thanked Keaton, hugging the book to his chest, and sped off.

“Emile West??” Norman asked as they exited the building.

“It’s a pen name, Jack. Emile West for sci-fi, C.C. Egbert for mystery, thriller, and horror stories, and simply Keaton Baudelaire for the very few non-fiction books I’ve written. You know, I wrote one about our relationship, I’d be surprised if you didn’t pick it up.”

“Really?? When was it published?”

“Oh, a couple of years after we divorced. One of my firsts, since it detailed something I had recently gone through. Ambitious For Ambitious.”

“Huh. Well, I’m not sure if I would like to read that…” Norman smiled a little, sipping his own drink. “So, you’re an author, now. Anything else I should know?”

“I started dating again, though I’ve only been with Roger… a year now, probably. Maybe less, you know I’ve never been good with dates.”

“You divorced me for a man named Roger???”

“Says a ‘Norman’?” Keaton arched an eyebrow, smirking. This banter felt familiar, even with the time passed between them.

“Alright, alright, you have a point. So what does Roger do?”

“Roger Almond is a radio DJ, but he went to college for astrophysics.”

“Excuse me?!” Norman was so flabbergasted, he had to pause in their walking and set his drink on a nearby bench. “You’re dating a radio DJ who went to college… for astrophysics? How…? Where…?”

“Don’t ask me. I think he just chose to do something that made him happy instead of something that would pay well… I suppose I can admire it. Wouldn’t be dating him if I didn’t.”

“I’m glad you’re happy but he sounds like a real schmuck if you ask me.”

“Oh, Norman, how could you say that, you haven’t even met him.” Even as Keaton felt like laughing, he slowly and quietly sat on the bench beside Norman’s drink. Norman immediately sensed the change in mood, picking up his drink and sitting beside his ex while leaving ample room between the two of them.

“You are happy, aren’t you?”

“Yeah…! Well… I think so. But maybe I don’t know. Ever since I got successful with the writing gig my life’s kind of been go-go-go…” He cleared his throat. “But… enough about me, let’s talk you, Mr. Big Shot.” He playfully poked Norman’s chest, forcing the conversation along.

“You know me, same old, same old… I… I remarried, but it didn’t last long. Lasted long enough to produce a son, Harry…” Norman shook his head. “I don’t need to get into it now.”

“You’ve got a son? How old?”

“He’ll be graduating in just a few months, he’s eighteen and grew like a weed… everybody says he looks like me but… I guess I wouldn’t really know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Norman sighed. “You’re not going to like my answer, but you knew I was a busy man even in our marriage. I don’t have enough time to be a single parent and the head of a megacorporation. So we’ve never been very close.”

Keaton frowned over what was left of his champagne. “Oh, Norman…”

He felt a mixture of emotions toward his ex. Pity, irritation, understanding. For a moment, they simply held each other’s company, silently taking in how the years apart had treated them.

“You look great, by the way. Haven’t aged a day since I saw you for the last time.” Norman hummed after a beat.

“Ah, you’re just saying that…” Keaton dismissed, blushing. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Norm. Age looks good on you.”

“Only you could say that and have me believe it.”

“And we’re complimenting each other as… just friends, right?”

They shared another lengthy gaze and a longing pang stirred in Keaton.

“Yeah. Just friends,” Norman took Keaton’s hand, gently brushing his thumb over his knuckles. It could be seen in his eyes, too. They had missed each other, but were currently experiencing entirely different flavours of the feeling.

Norman then cleared his throat. “Do you want to do dinner sometime?”

“Oh! Well! I suppose. Why not? Though Roger will likely want to come…”

“Fine by me, so long as he’s not the jealous type,” Norman smiled. “You can meet Harry and I can meet Roger, what time works for you?”

“Here…” Keaton pulled an old receipt from his pocket, “have you…?”

Norman handed him a pen and Keaton quickly jotted down his phone number. “It’s new, I didn’t want you calling my old number and asking who knows out instead. Get a reservation where you can and we’ll work something out, you know what I like.”

Norman nodded, taking the receipt. “I’m glad we can still talk like this,” he said as they stood.

“Me too…” They were less than a foot apart from each other, now. Keaton could smell Norman’s cologne, like a ghost from his past. It had changed in two decades, but it was still the familiar notes he always went for, something minty and clean and speaking volumes to his wealth. “Well. We should get back to the event, shouldn’t we?”

“Yes, yes… you’re right.”

They both faltered, struggling against the urge to do something drastic, before turning and heading back inside.