Post by julien lanc on Jan 7, 2015 19:19:18 GMT -5
all of your flaws and all of my flaws are laid out one by one, look at the wonderful mess that we made, we pick ourselves undone
he's got a pretty good head for detail, normally, but Julien honestly can't ever remember names. He'll get that vague feeling of recognition, and he knows when he's met someone before, but there's almost always that awkward silence when he just can't think exactly who they are.
those he does have are extremely important to him, and to them he is both as generous as humanly possible and fiercely, utterly loyal. so yes, he gets very attached to certain people, and should they disappoint him in some way he's prone to feelings of betrayal.
transitions have always left an agreeable taste in his mouth; leaving home, the taste of adventure hanging excitedly on his tongue because he's leaving all he's ever known behind and believe me you, he wants to escape. He's leaving the warmth of his home country's oceans, leaving the dusty roads of the Cape, leaving the uniformity his life has seen for years and he can't wait to go. though, now that he's older, (old as some might say); he's really fallen in comfortably to a routine for the first time in his life.
one thing you really can't say about Julien is that you see him coming. Many a pushy person thinking they can take advantage of a lone, physically unimposing teacher has found himself backed into a corner.
given his tendency to get wrapped up in work, he really is singularly driven by something if it captures enough of his attention. Sometimes he'll forget to eat or sleep in pursuit of it.
he's something of an enthusiast when it comes to electronic and synth, particularly the work of the eighties. He readily admits that his absolute favourite music is by the China Crisis, New Order and Oum despite being French-African has a rather disproportionate collection of music by English artists. And if he happens to have it playing loudly when his next class come in, tough luck.
besides his somewhat skeptical claims to a considerable inheritance back east; Julien is kind of obsessed with shiny ancient pieces which he's amassed over his years of travel into something of a private collection (which may or may not be partly stolen). He is particularly fond of gold jewelry.
the more recklessly the better - going fast in general. Everyone's got their one adrenaline kick, and Julien's just happens to be accelerating round corners and then off-roading it down the middle of the I5.
being the only thing he really bothered with outside music during his education, Julien's fairly well-versed in languages - fluent in Afrikans, Zulu and French. He can swear and ask about sex in about ten.
big ones especially! Growing up Julien made friends with plenty of the strays back home. Besides, animals are much easier to talk to than humans are, and he makes that point clearly known when he'd rather curl up with his Shiba Inu, Inja (dog in Zulu) or take him for a walk than be slumped over a bar stool.
where his fighter is something of a firecracker, he thinks, going off in a colorful hustle of sparks that blind him. Julien thinks he's not at a safe distance, so he steels himself to get burned by the flames - Julien has always been the quiet burn of an empty forest on fire while his other half's the snap of lightning felling a tree, boisterous, noticeable, inspiring.
deceitful - to put it bluntly, he's a distrustful, cynical bastard. Honesty is something that happens to other people, and if he thinks it can divert attentions elsewhere or slip under the radar past people's defences, he's going to do it. He lies because he doesn't put his trust in people.
even if he's open he still wavers on the fault lines of 'should I?' or 'shouldn't I?' sometimes places/persons are too formidable for him to handle alone. It's too much at once and sometimes he's still blinking his eyes because he just can't seem to take everything in. He tends to let his fighter's choices lead him while he puts on a brave face and a smile that is as unsure as he is.
he's still a little broken, a little shaken, not yet prepared to accept the fact that he is an adult now, a teacher with an education under his belt just above the 'social skills' rung of the ladder. Julien has always spoken better with action than he does with words; maybe that is why his fighter carries on most of the conversation, casts the spells.
being scowly with a lot of people doesn't really earn Julien friends. He'll sidestep everyone until they think he fell of the face of the earth as he never calls them, goes back on plans because he'd rather do something else, and generally not waste time on maintaining social links he has no interest in; his fighter & dog are the exceptions.
from a warm region, liked it that way. Enough said.
if he's wearing one, he'll always be fiddling with it -he finds having something flapping about his chest distracting, even if he likes the tie itself.
since his private school days, he hasn't once attended Mass, and as such has lasped out of his faith.
his lifestyle throughout youth was marred with constant abuse of pretty much everything he could [il]legally get his hands on, Julien was in a perpetual spiral of being mildly run-down and unwell. Even if most of his chain smoking habits have vanished; Julien is still wondering when the effects will catch up with him.
about his treatment of his own body, about his lifestyle; don't invite him to attack your beliefs and he won't.
Born into heat and dust and a land of little rain and about as 'exotic' as one could get when asked to come up with an example: Africa, specifically in a bushveld village outside Cape Town. His brother, Adrien was more family than his distance parents or twice removed 'chief' uncle. Julien really doubted that last part.
He remembered Julien in school: angry all the time, full of threats, a good heart hidden behind scowls and quiet and gold and tribal ink. It surprised his brother a little. Julien seemed to care so little about his education. He was always late to class, but he didn't bother to slink in or offer excuses for his tardiness. A simple "Sorry, teach'," and he took his seat just behind his sibling. Sometimes, Julien didn't show up at all.
His brother was the peace-maker, the genius student, Adrien had always been the one to kiss and make it better, to use his prodigal academic talent for scholarships and unending opportunities. Julien couldn't have known he wouldn't get the chance.
Of course, the other students avoided Julien because they thought him scary, but Adrien didn't see that at all. Adrien didn't think he was scary, just strange. Which was cool; Adrien was strange too, in that school-smart-student way that he had. And nothing scared Adrien like it did Julien.
Kneeling before those quivering jaws, what he thought about, strangely enough, was his brother. He imagined the wide-eyed, tearful look on his brother's face, were his brother still there, but Julien was used to it, used to the nightmares.
And when Julien squeezed his eyes tight, let his mouth fall open a bit, and stopped his heartbeat for a count, he remembered his brother's death very vividly and was very grateful for his fighter's absence. Often he tried to close his eyes and shake away the pungent scent of nightmarish memory. He didn't want to remember the blood. He'd seen enough already.
A vision of his brother pooled against a red outline in the back savannah near a never-used dusty road skittered through his brain. He'd never seen eyes as black and cold as in the beast that haunted them, a predator smelling them out like a blood trail, waiting low before it attacked. It was the saddest, loneliest, most painful thing he had ever seen. Julien gritted his teeth and froze in fear and tried to convince himself that it would be counterproductive to escape right that instance, to try and drag his brother away from the jaws of a lion.
Julien never talked, but the scars on his bare back did and he was anything if not modest.
The moments stretched like a sting of pain, stretched long and slow like African ink, and Julien was a specimen beneath foreingers' gazes, a caged animal or a work of art trapped behind glass.
His brother was the genius, not him, and when a letter addressed to Adrien showed up in the mail, Julien knew he could pretend to be intelligent, put on a guise and be 'Adrien', that smart kid who at fourteen was invited to attend high school in America. It would be easy because Adrien had been his other half, his twin and this had become a matter of perspective and pride.
Yet, he knew he couldn't save him or even come close to honoring his memory this way - no, he would always moor himself in his guilt and mutter it was his own fault. If he'd known then what he'd grown to know as he approached adulthood, he would have been stronger. He would have offered a hand in the garden, been more studious.
He remembered; he had images that he couldn't banish of Adrien knelt in the lamplight, rings under his eyes as he read up on topics Julien couldn't pronounce and aced tests with a certain awe. He remembered him bent against the shade of a baobab tree drawing figures in the dust. He remembered his naivete wondering why he would choose to work so hard that made his pretty features contort into such tired expressions. Julien remembered him saying they shouldn't go into the savannah after nightfall, too.
He boared the redeye for America, passed himself off as 'Adrien' and arrived in Massachusetts to attend Winchendon private school. Julien became a stellar student for his brother and at least kept up his grades for appearances' sake. Julien attended Boston College to obtain a BsC and an MA in literature before he was hired on at Blackwood after his internship.
The details are few and muddled but when he'd first laid eyes on his fighter he wasn't ever the same again. He was merely sixteen, stupid and innocent with his fluffy ears and tail languidly cutting the air behind him. Sinclair was from up North, three years his elder, and a lot louder and impervious than himself - but Julien found his fighter to be a leader, a rock, stability and calm, sturdy in the throes of crackling reaction. He stuck his tongue out at him a lot.
Julien knew that when he reentered the living room, his shirt off and exposing all of his new wounds, exposing his fresh blood, his deep purple bruises, the other would merely frown and sigh. Julien knew that no soothing words, or questions of concern would be muttered. He knew also that it was better for both of them if that weakness never passed between them. They needed strength more than they needed comfort. Frailty was unnecessary.
"It wasn't too bad," he would say after a battle, patting at some still-glistening blood with his abused coat, "My own fault." It was never "too bad;" it was always "his own fault."
They spent more weeks apart than together after their thirtieth loss.
Yet, despite his reservation, he found that he rather liked being the center of Sinclair Bastien's attention.
They were bonded, after all, and given to fits of near-illogical tangential introspection. No matter where their conversations started, they ended in reconcile. It was comfortable and right and in terms they both understood so intimately. They'd put everything in terms of their bond, everything including their battles. Even that, they'd tried to arrange it in terms of words and nearness and warmth and equivalency. But there was torment and mistrust and determination and lies too; it drove them apart as much as it had sealed them together.
They grew older; filling out from all that coltish apprehension and idiocy that had plagued them in their teens and grew quite synonymous with their name, their bond became more about stability and with it they became lovers of twelves years.
He had intended to say that it wasn't too bad. Meant to say that it was his own fault, his own indecision that had formed the mottled, swollen scars at his back. He wanted to tell Sinclair that it was nothing, wanted to allow his little white lies to stitch up the guilt.
His true name is located on his tongue.
He teaches literature.
He's told his dog things he's kept from his fighter.
Always one to be the first to rise; Julien is a light sleeper.
Consistently dresses in layers - scarfs, boots, gloves, hat; he even wears layers to bed sometimes.
OTHER CHARACTERS n/a
LAIKA OF GS!