#amasqueradeofhumanity

[frozenandbrazengamin-blog]

"Ya know somethin'," the woman began, tone stoic as it always was. "I don't know why I pay ya, that's what." She sat, legs crossed, upon her couch- Just as she always did- Watching Gavroche with sharp eyes, with weary eyes. "Hell, I don' even pay my own heatin' bills- Why am I payin' you?" Montparnasse mused aloud, almost idly. Quite likely, she didn't realize she had spoken- She turned her gaze to the half-empty glass in her hand and swirled the liquid slightly. "Hell!"

Gavroche turned to face her, raising an eyebrow and eyeing the glass in her hand. She was a light-weight. He wouldn't tell her that-- not until she was more drunk than this. She could still chase him around the house if she chose. "I dunno why ya pay me-- maybe 'cause I ain't plannin' ta clean if ya don't," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. He was fourteen now-- and still it seemed he had no issues mouthing off to the most feared criminal in Paris. 

[masquesous]

"You know, I think a found a Bible in your rooms the other day. Does that really work with your work?" Montparnasse turned her gaze lazily towards Claquesous before dipping back so that she was stretched across the couch in such a way that she almost seemed feline. A delicate hand brushed ink hair from her face; traces a small, smug smile were etched upon her lips.

Claquesous instantly froze. While his religion was never truly a secret as evidenced by the various verses and symbols inked permanently onto his skin, he had up until this point taken for granted the fact that people didn't think about it all that much. But now Montparnasse was questioning him, and he didn't know what to say. 

"That's none of your business." 

Several things were making him mal à l'aise, though: First of all, what the hell had this sleek little cat been doing in his house? That was perhaps the worst part, that someone had broken into his home and gone through all his things without him even knowing. Secondly was the question Montparnasse had asked herself, but Claquesous preferred not to think about that. 

[agreatidleforce]

        ((I love my regular RP partners because I could literally have mine walk up and shoot theirs in the back of the head and we'll start an RP from it somehow.))

[nemorinwithcherrylips]

"I didn't actually think you'd do it."

Basile dropped the gun immediately and covered his mouth. It had been a moment of weakness in a boy who had been taught for years to kill without remorse. He’d gotten quite good at it, until this moment.

The truth was, he wasn’t sure whether it was he who had pulled the trigger, or Montparnasse, a character he wore like a second skin. Where one ended and the other began had been confusing to him for a while now, and he had never told Claquesous. Maybe that was what had led him to this point. The confusion, the lack of guidance. He should have told Claquesous and let the other sort it for him. He was no good at figuring things out on his own. He had left his independence behind at ten years old, when they had met.

He immediately knelt next to the bleeding body on the floor, gasping for breath he couldn’t seem to find. He was panicking, he realized, in some sort of absent-minded haze—a moment of clarity in which his mind removed him from the situation so he could handle the sight of a dying Claquesous.

And all too suddenly it was real again, and there was screaming in his head, but it wouldn’t reach his lips. Instead he choked on his own breath and weakly tipped forward, his head on Claquesous’ chest. “I di-didn’t…” he started, his voice shaky and weak. “Let me take it back…” he pleaded quietly.

In the past, every time he had made a mess of things, he had turned to Claquesous, and he found himself wishing now that he could do the same. He wanted to ask him for help, ask him how to fix things, but this was the one problem there was no fix to. He had dedicated the last nine years to being a living, breathing mask for the other, and he had never minded much, until all the sudden it had hit him all at once that there was hardly any Basile left to him at all, and he had taken it out on the man who had given him Montparnasse.

But oh, it was not freedom he felt now. In killing Claquesous, he knew he had killed Basile as well.

For years, no one had seen the boy beneath the criminal except for the one who had found him on the streets in the first place. He had no idea how to be Basile for anyone else, and he would not dare let Claquesous’ death be marked by any further betrayal. He could not let the identity Claquesous had fought so hard to keep hidden be revealed in death.

He would burn the body, he decided, in secret. In his mask. Even he would not look on the face beneath. He released a sudden shriek of mourning, of regret. He had taken from himself the only two things he had ever held dear—Claquesous, who had been his mentor and the only person he had been close with since childhood, and Basile. There would be no more Basile, of that he was certain. To keep Claquesous’ secrets, he knew he would have to continue on as Montparnasse. For now, just for these last few moments, however, he put aside the act for the last time, allowing himself to scream and to cry and to beg.

When his energy was spent, however, he wiped his face and stood, his gaze cold now, and a little emptier than it had been before. He lit himself a cigarette, then bent down to begin burning Claquesous’ clothes. He took a few steps away and watched just to make sure the fire started properly, then left. Let the whole damn house burn with him, and every piece of pretty clothing he had been given through the years with it. He wanted no reminders.

[thetremorofahymn]

{blocked number} Answer yes or no. Would you, or would you not, act as an executioner should justice deem it necessary?

[text] I’m sorry? What kind of a question is that? Who is this?

[capitalr]

((Papa Grantaire really hurts my heart. ; n ; ))

[capitalr]

Alain didn't turn towards his father. He wasn't quite little anymore- Eight was still young, but he was less naive than he had been before. Alain loved his father, certainly- And he was sure Grantaire loved him. But he was almost certain... That Grantaire didn't know what to do with him... And it weighed heavily upon his shoulders. "Papa," he began again and fell silent. The lion was stalking an antelope now. "How can you afford me? Maman left."

Grantaire shifted closer to Alain on the couch and slid his arm around him, pulling him close. Any time that his mother was mentioned, Grantaire felt this painful jab of guilt in his chest. He was a horrible father, really— He drank less, only going back to the bottle when he felt withdrawal beginning to kick in. He couldn’t let his son see him go through that, and who could watch him while he did? Not to mention— he loved his son, but that didn’t mean that he was happy. “I just do— I get a lot of money for my paintings sometimes.” And a lot more money for drugs. If he could completely stop drinking, he could get a real job.

[capitalr]

Alain liked documentaries. From one movie, he could learn more than he could in class. Sometimes. Once he watched a documentary about alligators- There were bits of it that he found horrific at the time... But it was interesting. Now he sat before the television- It was a nature documentary about lions now. He liked the alligators better. "Papa," the child began. "Today I had to say what my parents did- Hobbies and jobs. Why is it I-" Don't know you? "What do you do you do?" He finished lamely.

Grantaire glanced over at Alain with a bit of a dreary expression, and he made a quick effort to make himself look happy— like a good father. He’d known this would happen. That his own child would realize that he was worthless. He was, wasn’t he? “Well— I don’t have a job. Not a real one, really. I sell my paintings sometimes.” Sometimes he sold drugs. Whatever he had to do to help, right? Whatever he had to do to get the money to support him. “I have a lot of hobbies. I like to read, and I like to draw and paint. I box occasionally, and I was once a dancer.”

[agreatidleforce]

★

1. Child!AU: Our characters suddenly find themselves responsible for an infant and attempt to look after it until they can find who the child belongs to with little luck.

Guelemer stared down at the kid for a long time, frowning lightly. What the hell did it want? It had walked up to him, staring at him, making it particularly awkward to try and break into someone’s house. This kid didn’t even belong to this house— no one was home. He shifted lightly, opening his mouth to speak and closing it again. The youngest sibling he had was 18 now, so he’d long forgotten what you were supposed to say to a child.

When Brujon came to inspect what was taking him so long, Guelemer grabbed his arm with no intention of letting him escape this. “This kid is… lost?” he assumed, but the kid just stared at him. “… Hungry?” Again, no answer. Since the kid wasn’t answering, Guelemer tried to walk away from it, but it followed them, and he huffed. “Brujon, what the hell are we supposed to do with that thing?” he mumbled, leaning in to talk softly beside the other man’s ear. Still, he didn’t let him go. If he was stuck with the kid, so was Brujon.

"Where are your parents?" No answer. Well, this was going to be one hell of a story to explain to Montparnasse, wasn’t it? Why didn’t you break into the house like I asked you to? Because a kid started stalking us.