Chapter Text
I.
Lysander.
“No, please don’t-”
As hard as he tried, Lys was unable not to succumb to the itch that the powder brought to his nose, hastily sneezing on his inner elbow. His makeup artist, exasperated, held back a sigh as she reached for a small cotton brush to erase the thin veil of mascara that had bled under his eyes. Embarrassed, the singer murmured a sincere apology. He wasn’t allergic to anything- well, at least, he hoped so- but their damn makeup powder always made him sneeze uncontrollably. Thankfully, it was only one of the numerous steps that one had to get through to get ready for live shows, and he had learned to endure it like a champion. He sometimes insisted on doing it himself; but most shows wouldn’t allow it as he would always skip matte powder, rendering his skin shiny and seemingly oily under the cameras. He felt powerless as he sat through all the curling and straightening and bronzing and sculpting; and that never changed, no matter how many times he went through it.
The professionals had, whatsoever, done a great job of preparing him nice and clean for the camera. His beard, which he cared of every other day in any ways, was carefully shaved and exposed a perfectly smooth skin. His long waves were carefully tied on the back of his head, showing off jaws sharp enough to kill, and he was wrapped in a gorgeous vintage Vivienne Westwood suit. When they had handed it to him, he had thought about how crazy his younger self would’ve gone if anybody had asked him to wear such a garment, and that small sense of nostalgia had highlighted his afternoon. The blazer cinched around his toned waist, exposing a perfectly androgynous silhouette which he knew people thought was his trademark. Silver sparkles danced on his eyelids, and his lips were covered in a soft shade of natural pink, making him look less like a ghost, and more like an angel. When she added a final touch of blush on his cheekbones, the makeup artist looked proud of herself, satisfied; and Lysander thanked her for her work. He even complimented her on her perfume, and it seemed like she instantly forgot about his sneezing, twitching and moving at unfortunate moments. Yet, the clock was running, and there was no more time to waste chatting; the countdown on the small screens spread all around the room backstage was diminishing considerably every time he looked at it.
Yet, when the channel dingle rang and the pixel covered doors opened, Lysander was ready. As usual, he put on his best smile, charming look and determined allure; the host was ready as well, standing on the stage and finishing his short presentation. “Now ladies and gentlemen,” the man announced, tall and broad, “let us welcome properly on special guest, mister Lysander Ainsworth!”.
Now don’t get him wrong, Lys had always loved the crowds. He did, he loved the rush and adrenaline that sprinted in his blood when the audience would sing along with him and jump in the pit and throw stuff on stage. He loved meeting the people who adored and even sometimes worshipped his art, their art. It had been his dream, once, and the public had always been a part of his lifestyle. But there was something terribly fake, artificial, surrounding the world of television and cinema. The faces of each member of the audience felt odd and plastic; and the host’s smile seemed to him like a mask of wax, one that he struggled to imitate. But none of it mattered, as long as he got the means, the ways to tell the truth. Their truth. So, Lysander tried his best to grin under the roaring applause of the audience as he walked to the comfortable looking sofa facing the host’s seat. It was olive green, and looked like it was trying really hard to look like a grandma style, cozy couch. After all, the ambiance was quite comforting; dim lights, wooden floors, and some strange overall smell of old tobacco and spice, something a bit like a businessman’s office.
“My, my, what a pleasure to have you here, mister Ainsworth,” the host declared. It took a few seconds for Lys to remember his name, but thankfully, the letters aligned in front of him in his mind like a solved crossword. Tom Brown; a name awfully British for a man awfully British.
“ Please, none of this nonsense,” Lys smiled, shaking his hand slightly in negation. “ Call me Lys. And I am, just as you, immensely pleased to be standing on your stage tonight. Or should I say, seated,” he added with tentative humor, his awkward timidity returning to him under the watchful eyes of the perch man filming him. He fiddled with one of the silver rings on his left hand to cope with it.
“Not as much as we are, trust me. Well then, you look absolutely fantastic, Lysander. It’s an honor, to have such a talent by my sides tonight. It’s crazy, it seems like you haven’t aged at all since the last time we’ve welcomed you on this channel. How old are you now?
-I’m twenty-eight; I headlined this show a couple of years ago, when I was twenty. In fact, it was a couple of days after my 20th birthday. I think I was still a bit hungover the celebrations,” the singer chuckled crossing his arms to suppress any possible fidgeting. The last thing he wanted to appear to her was nervous. The audience’s laugh followed his, and so did Tom’s as the man comfortable sat across Lysander. He sat confidently, like he owned the place, which he did. In front of him, Lys thought that he must’ve looked very out of place. He was very hardly intimidated, though, so he kept his composure.
“Ah,” the host giggled, yes, yes. “Well, you did just have earned your very first award with CrowStorm, back then. That wasn’t something to be taken lightly, especially at such a young age. The beginning of a bit of an empire, yes?
-I guess you could say that, in some ways,” He nodded, reaching for the cup of coffee that rested on the small side table neighboring his sofa. It was cold. He masked a grimace.
“So, as you all know, today isn’t just any day. After all, Velvet Melancholy turns ten years old tonight. Ten! Ah, it’s so crazy, how time flies by, right?
-You are, dear Tom. To think that this album was conceived and recorded from start to finish in an old garage.. It is- was, our very own flesh and blood.
-And we are so very eager tonight, to hear more about its conception, its little making of and how it came to life. But first, let us take a look at this post. Because, as you might know, Lysander, you were not the only one who wanted to serve an homage to your art today,” Brown hinted as he turned his chair towards the main screen situated behind them. Stung by curiosity, Lys leaned forwards, resting his weight on his elbows against his knees, while the screen slowly came to show off an Instagram post. It displayed the photo of an old book, clearly damaged by time and use. The spine was slightly coming apart at the seams, displaying raw threads; and the titles, printed multiple times on the cover, was slowly vanishing, leaving behind the ghost of its letters. It was captioned with a slim phrase. “To Emily Bronte, and most certainly, to Kate Bush; thank you for leading us to Velvet Melancholy.”
Lys did not have to check the username to know who had composed this; in fact, he knew very well in whose possession this book was. The hint of a smile stretched his lips, a ball of warmth resting candidly in between his ribs. He didn’t quite know if it was melancholy or nostalgia, but whatever it was had flashed on his face, and it was now too late to avoid Tom Brown’s curious, questioning glances.
“Wuthering Heights,” the singer stated with a soft quirk of his mouth.
“Ah, so there is, after all, a story to be told here. I am sure, and I speak on behalf of all of us, that we are all very eager to hear some more about this intriguing element. Because it isn’t the first time that your fans have spotted signs and mysteries surrounding Wuthering Heights. Now, where does this come from? How did this book- or song, mind you- have so much impact on your writing?
-To be quite frank, Tom, if I were to tell you how, I would have to start from the very, very beginning.”
And so, after taking his courage in both hands, and a sip of cold coffee, he did.
Lysander panted as he leaned against one of the sweaty metro bars, his breath caught up in a suffocating rhythm. He was used to the rushing, the running, the forgetting, the escaping. Every other day, he'd suddenly remember, on his way to the station, that he'd forgotten his phone on his bedside table. Or, that he'd left his wallet on the kitchen counter. Worse, that he'd accidentally left his metro pass in his pockets- in another coat. Then, unconvinced but unsurprised, he'd retrace each of his steps. Discovering that the world kept going after he vanished underground always surprised him, and it was always a delight to escape from the intensity of the crowds, pushing and pulling around to reach their metro in time. Usually, he could afford being late; one minute saved here, another spent there, and a heartfelt apology to whoever awaited his presence usually sealed the deal. He knew every street seller in Paris just by the rose they sold; he had gotten his pockets done so many times while paying for a single flower or a small bouquet, hoping to ease the annoyance caused by his delays. He knew all the right words, and he was, in fact, sincerely sorry for his forgetfulness, and his recklessness.
Yet tonight, Lys really could not afford being late. His mother, a wise woman full of manners, had always taught him about how first impressions were never ephemeral, like engrained in stone. She told him about how the first glimpse of a stranger would be transfixed in anyone's memory; and how it took years and years to take down the preconceptions made from a wrong introduction. Punctuality was, from her clever words, one of the criteria for an impeccable appearance. This was, for him, easier said than done. Especially when the whole of the world seemed to be scheming against him, gods plotting mischievously and moving enemy pawns across the board of his existence. First of all, on his way out of the apartment, he had held the door for a group of young teens, grimacing at the shrieks and laughter resonating amongst their restricted group. Lys wasn't much older than them, maybe barely four or five years, but their youthfulness made him feel mature and a slightly nostalgic, a feeling that faded away as soon as one of the giggling teenagers bumped into his slender silhouette, spilling half of her frappucino across his silk button-up shirt. Now, what kind of impression could he make with a stained shirt?
After hurrying back up the stairs and changing into impeccably clean clothing, Lys sprinted back down the stairs, skipping the elevator which- he knew- would take way too long to get to the sixth floor. Now, six landings were no easy feat, and it had already taken a good piece of his cardio to make it alive to the front door of the building. It would take him another fifteen minutes to make it to his bus stop; but he made it in twenty, considering the time he lost trying to make his way through crowds of tourists and locals going home. Paris never slept; and even in September, in felt invaded from all sides by all kinds of people from all kinds of backgrounds; CEOs, travelers, interns, students, outcasts and much more would meet in the streets of the city of love, racing against the clock of a never-ending system, in a never-ending city. But at least, today, he hadn't broken any selfie sticks my accident. He also hadn't had time for a cigarette break which made him jumpy and grumpy. His nasty habit was turning into an addiction, and Lysander didn't feel like he was in any position of power to do something against it.
A fifteen minute bus ride separated the Marais neighborhood from the young man's destination. It wasn't in Lys's habit to commute to Montmartre. He knew how beautiful it was, with the gleaming Sacré Cœur, still standing proud and tall after so many years, filled daily by groups of Christians and architecture enthusiasts. He didn't remember how long it had been since he had last walked up the two hundred steps to the basilisk; after all, he'd only been living in the capital for a couple of month. Most of his knowledge about Paris came from the yearly trip he used to take with his parents to visit his uncle Rutledge, a successful man who always offered him expensive writing supplies and old antique books for Christmas. Rutledge had been of immense help, lately, and Lys could only be so grateful for it. Never would he have found an apartment without his support, even less anything alike his lovely attic duplex positioned ideally near every place he usually frequented. After all, just like the whole of Paris, the Marais neighborhood contained multiple transport links, making it child's play to travel to any place he'd like to go.
Now, he didn't get especially worried when the first bus didn't stop by, nor when the second one never showed up. Loads of transports rhymed with loads of troubles, and there was always a strike going on or an accident exploding somewhere in his lines. But as the third was still missing, the young man anxiously checked his pocket watch, stress starting to knot up his throat. It was way too late to make it on foot, which would take nearly an hour; and there was no available bicycle on the city-shared bikes, which he paid for rather frequently to get some fresh air. Which made the metro his last available option.
The long wait for his bus had made him lose a considerable amount of time, but he was relieved to have made it to the metro. Exhausted from his rapid sprint, the young man finally started to catch his breath after a couple of minutes, sliding one of his gloved hands on his damp forehead. The cool velvet grounded him, as the train rattled to a start underneath his boots, speeding through the tunnels of the line four. At this time of the day, it was mostly filled with businessmen napping on their cases, and disrespectful highschoolers listening to their music on full blast with no headphones on. Most of them gave him the odd look, which Lys didn't really mind, nor care about anymore, out of habit. There was so much to wonder about, to ponder over his appearance. From his unsubtle polychrome eyes, which he knew made some people feel uneasy; a skill he had learnt to master in order to shrug off the judging stares he received all throughout the city. To his pale hair, white like frost; it gleamed silver under the neon lights. The dark ombre he usually applied on his ends had faded away, leaving away some sort of peculiar shade of greenish gray, like swamp water staining the strands of his immaculate hair. He grimaced, reminding himself that they needed an immediate re-dye in the following days. Same for his eyebrows, which were starting to pale. He had once hated his condition, and how it made him look like an abnormality, a curiosity; but Lys had grown to accept it, and even enjoy it, making it a weapon, a bonus. And obviously, his clothing didn't help; but it wasn't very rare to come across peculiar outfits in the capital. The yearly Fashion week even brought him some compliments and contacts from fashion amateurs and experts, designers interrupting his strides to his apartment to ask him about his coats or his hair, or his skin. Or for recruitment purposes; because after all, his six feet tall, svelte silhouette and out of ordinary appearance did make him ideal for the runway.
Yet Lys wasn't interested by the spotlights, or at least not by these. Carefully, he knotted his hair with a stray ribbon he found in his pocket, and palmed his pockets for his phone, sliding the small device out of his pants. He had missed four different calls from Cas, all of them signaled by the angry, blinking notifications piling up on his home screen. The young man decided against calling him back, which would be useless in anyways, since he'd probably already be performing by this time. Scoring an evening show in Montmartre wasn't something Cas opted for very often, as his physique didn't really fit there; Lys felt a smile stretch his lips as he thought about his best friend sitting there amidst the richest of the Parisian society, with his scarlet fried hair and his illegal stick'n'poke tattoos. He had gotten free tickets for an extra meal and seat, which Lys had gladly accepted; because who was he to deny a tasty gourmet dinner, a glass of red wine and a chic acoustic performance?
Thankfully, the commute between the two neighborhoods was short and quick. Half of the metro got off at his stop, and he held back a curse as he shouldered his way out, wide eyes snapping left and right to find the right exit. The restaurant was located a couple of streets away from his station, in the immaculate side of the neighborhood, where no street vendors tried to sell you tacky bracelets and no amateur artists painted your portrait. Montmartre was lovely, even in the biting cold of November; with its steep streets, it gave him one last workout. The paved concrete was slightly frozen underneath his feet, and it took everything in him not to slip and fall; he thought about the burning shame that would cover his cheeks if that were to happen, and toned down his rhythm, trotting more carefully.
L'Arcane seemed like a lovely little restaurant, with its typical white brick facade and minimalistic anthracite color theme. At the entrance, a golden angel statue smiled widely at him, the cherub playfully displayed over the door. Lys caught his breath before entering, the ambient warmth instantly easing the tension stuck in his shoulders. It smelled like fresh aioli butter and crisp grilled meat; and the lights were dimmed, reinforcing the cozy atmosphere reigning over the place. A young woman in a fully white uniform, with a strict bun, awaited in the corridors, seemingly there to welcome any new customer.
" Bonjour Monsieur, hello sir, do you have a reservation? She questioned, her hand reaching for a leather reservation book cleverly hidden under a small desk.
-Good evening, Lysander saluted back, standing straight and elegant. I'm here with the guitarist- the young man performing tonight. I was told he was allowed to bring a plus one?
-Ah, yes. Mister Ainsworth, right ? You may follow me, I'll lead you to your table. "
He traced her steps all the way to a single serving table, right next to the small stage where his friend was performing. A single candle burnt on a modern candelabra, and a leather covered menu sat neatly next to his plate, an impeccable crystal wine glass twinkling under the brim of a spotlight. Lysander thanked the woman and shrugged off his coat, gently letting it rest on a nearby wire coat hanger, before sitting down on his assigned chair. Finally, he could enjoy some time to appreciate the music and bathe in the mood; the acoustic notes had already caught his attention back in the hallway, and he had recognized Cas' occasional grain of voice, humming underneath the main singer's voice.
Just as he had predicted, Castiel had opted for a long-sleeved suit, something he didn't usually wear. The restaurant probably had imposed a dress code; the luxurious etiquette wouldn't have matched with his tattoo sleeve and ripped jeans. They had apparently tolerated his crimson hair, smoothly washed and straightened, tied in a careful half bun standing proudly on the back of his head. In a way, he looked differently handsome than usual, far away from his casual, marginal self. The guitarist clashed from the pale wall standing behind him, flames reflecting on his shiny platform boots. The stage was bordered in a generous quantity of different sized candles, wax dripping onto the hardwood, melting down its side, covering the duo in a warm candlelight. Small, modern smoke machines were discreetly hidden near their feet, hiding the bottom of their silhouettes in a dream-like haze. Cas's face was slightly scrunched in focus as his fingers danced across the strings of his instrument; his nails were carefully manicured and covered in black matte polish. He had abandoned his usual dozen silver rings, and Lys was so close that he could almost see the calluses on his fingers, and the tail of a tattoo inked down his inner forearm.
The waitress returned to take Lysander's order; and he had grimaced when he had glanced at the only menu which sold for a humble one hundred forty-five euros. Thank god, the bill wasn't on him. Once she had cleared the table of his menu, Lys reported his scrutinizing attention on the singer. He didn't attend each and all of Cas' performances, as he was often busy with his own; but his friend had insisted that he had to be there to meet her. He had been hearing about the girl for a while, as she had moved into Cas's apartment recently, completely platonically from what he had told him. Splitting the bills made it easier for both of them, and they had quickly bonded. It was only natural for the two musicians to start performing together, like common sense. Plus, Lysander was becoming less and less available, and Cas needed urgently a new vocalist, as he refused to sing by himself in front of an audience.
The young man observed her quietly as she stared at her audience. She was, just like Cas, dressed in a suit, something uncommon. He'd expect for such places to force her into a gala dress, but she stood in a perfectly tailored two pieces, straight pants and sleeveless vest. As Lys ran his eyes down her legs, he frowned. He had seen these pants before; he was in fact pretty certain that his brother had sewn them, his signature small ribbon glued to the back of the pant leg's end. They fit her like a glove, and it was no doubt that she had them custom made. He could recognize his brother's flawless work anywhere, but as his work was still emerging, it was rather rare to see any of his clothing out there. Especially here, in France, while Leigh kept his workshop in London. He made a note to mention it to the girl, if he were to greet her after the show.
It was difficult for Lysander to focus on her voice, as he was captivated by her simple presence, and appearance. She was gorgeous, in a way few were. In some way, she was ordinary, but in some others, she was breath-taking. Her chestnut hair fell in waves of luscious wave, all the way to her chest; and he could tell that these curls were artificial, because they were slowly falling down and releasing their tension, like flowers opening in the spring. She wore oversized, wireframed round glasses that made her eyes look like a doe's, and they found their way into his, Lys instantly broke off the contact, his cheeks burning in embarrassment. He indulged into his glass of wine as an excuse to look away, and he noticed a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. They were the color of a ripe plum. She wore dark makeup, like a Salem witch; and her voice was simply bewitching. It was the only word that came to his mind that could describe it. Whoever she was, she was putting a spell on them, and there was no resisting. He felt seduced, and his curiosity was overflowing like a too full glass of water. Now, he thought he could understand it, why Cas wanted him to meet her. On the stage, she was tantalizing.
They sang Wuthering Heights, and he saw a bit of Kate Bush in her, with her wild hair and sparkling eyes. She played as well, while she sang; a cherry red Fender that probably cost as much as a kidney on the black market. Her guitar was well worn, scratched probably hundreds of times by her coffin shaped nails, painted a shiny shade of mystical purple. He found himself shivering a bit as they dove into the chorus, because the marriage of their voices sounded divine, in a way. Cas grounded her, while her voice reached for the sky.
Lys slowly ate his way through the courses of the menu half-heartedly, despite being served exquisite food. Cas and the girl went through a nineties playlist of what the guitarist called " man-eater music "; songs written and composed by peculiar female artists, feminist and devoted and angry. The singer flew through Kate Bush, before settling for Fiona Apple. They played Fleetwood Mac as well, and 4 Non-Blondes, and time flew by incredibly quick. Around them, none of the customers paid much attention, because after all, they were paid to perform background music. Lys was painfully going through his seventh and last serving, a delicious dessert where chocolate truffles and Williams pear and old rhum met in a pear sorbet, when they closed their evening performance with a Mazzy Star song that he adored, which Cas must've known because he had given him a small smile before kicking the first notes off. Only then had they quietly set their guitars back on their respective stands, and disappeared in a small room in the back of the restaurant.
" Can I serve you anything more sir ? Lys's waiter had returned, and she stood straight like a choir kid, her hand linked behind her back.
-I will be okay, thanks. It was perfect.
-Allow me, then, to wish you a wonderful evening," she concluded as she led him back to the entrance, making sure to take along the coat he had left behind on the coat hanger. Lys accepted it with an embarrassed thanks, and pushed the door open, instantly taken aback by the freezing wind crashing into him. He took a step to the left, finding shelter under an outdoor umbrella on the terrace; and patted his pockets for his cigarettes and lighter. His thin fingers curled around the pack, and he delightfully lit one up, bringing it to his lips to inhale its intoxicating smoke. He also reached for his phone, and was about to text Cas when a female voice resonated by, taking him by surprise.
" Je peux avoir du feu? "
He pivoted, and there she stood, wrapped up in an ankle length black coat. She was like a raven, her dark eyes illuminated by the silver glitter spread on her eyelids. Disconcerted, he grappled for his weak French. He used to be fluent, as a kid, but years had torn his memory down, and he was now at a lack of words.
" I'm so sorry, I don't-
-Ohhh okay, no worries. I was just wondering if you could light this one up for me- I think I left my lighter at home or something.
-Oh, yes, of course." She stuck out her cigarette. It was a Vogue cigarette, and he knew that these weren't commercialized in France anymore, which meant she most likely ordered them online- or had contacts. It stood elegantly between her manicured fingers, and Lys approximated his to it, lighting it's tip up quite easily.
"Thanks," she sighed, before inhaling from the cigarette. They stood there a moment, smoking in silence, and he gave her discreet side glances like a child scared to get caught.
"You're Lysander, right ? I've heard a lot about you.
-I am, Lys nodded, facing the young lady as he took another drag from his cigarette. I've heard about you too. I didn't quite catch your name, though ?
-Oh. I'm Arabella- but you can call me Ara. It's nice to finally meet you, Lysander.
-So, like the bird ?
-Yes, kind of. So tell me, Lysander. Where are you from? You have an accent, definitely, but...
-Ah; I'm from Manchester, he cleared up with a nod. My French got a bit, let's say, lost in translation.
-Ahaa, British then. Makes sense, in a way. My English isn't perfect either, no worries. Enjoyed the show, did you?"
Lysander chuckled at the typical British turn of phrase, and relaxed a bit, leaning against the umbrella pole. Rain was starting to drip, and then pour down onto the streets of Montmartre. It was almost midnight, and most bars were coming to life. Through the smoke, he could sense the citrus aroma of her perfume, and a sweet undernote lying beneath it, like something feminine and powerful, and dangerous.
"Yes ma'am, I did. Very tasteful setlist, if I may say.
-Did you sneak some of the leftovers from your meal in a bag for us ? Arabella chuckled softly, white smoke exhaled through her lightened red lips. Her lipstick had left a distinct mark on her cigarette and Lys could not help but note how mischievously attractive that felt to him. He laughed alongside her soft giggles.
-I'm afraid not. But I know an excellent bar that sells delightful snacks and liqueur shots nearby, and if our friend deigned to join us, I'd gladly lead you both to it-and offer a round.
-You do know how to appeal to a lady, Lysander...?
-Ainsworth. Lysander Ainsworth.
-You do know how to appeal to a lady, Mister Lysander Ainsworth from Manchester.
-I've been told, he joked, surprised by his own ability to chat so carelessly. He was usually stuck in his shyness and kept to two, three words sentences, or even nods. But it came to him naturally to strike a conversation with this charming girl; after all, it was only the both of us, making it less overwhelming than discussing with a whole group of people.
-And how old are you, if I may ask, Lys ? It looks you're somewhere between sixteen and twenty-five, she bantered with a smile.
-Nice try. It is, indeed, somewhere within that range. I'm turning eighteen in a couple of months. How about you?
-Same here, she sighed, before stifling a yawn, hiding her mouth with the back of her hand. Ah, I'd kill for coffee. If only Cas could get ready in less than forty minutes, for once. I swear, I don't know what he's doing to spend all that time in the changing room.
-I'd be gallant and pay you a coffee, but I'm afraid it would sadly put me in financial debt forever if I did so here. But maybe I can offer you to carry your guitar; it looks pretty heavy."
The left side of her leaned underneath the weight of the instrument, wrapped up in a classic fabric case. If she were to lay it on the ground, it would probably either get dirty, or wet. And if the guitar's wood got humidified, it could rot and damage the instrument. Arabella sighed in relief as she shrugged the instrument off her shoulder and gently handed it to him; and Lys easily slid it over his shoulder, not even flinching under its pressure.
"Thank you so much. I know it's stupid, cause I've just been standing almost still for two hours, but I'm exhausted. And it is quite heavy, to be fair.
-I'm sure it is. These Fender's look like they're made out of straight metal. It's a beautiful instrument that you've got yourself, by the way.
-Ah, thanks. It was my uncle's. He was too lazy to sell it so..
-Oh, here you are! I was looking everywhere for you, for fuck's sake.."
Cas grumbled as he came through the backdoor, appearing right next to them and carelessly dropping his guitar case next to him on the ground like some random school backpack. Lys grimaced at the sight, but smiled at his friend, happy to see him back in his big old vintage leather jacket, all patched up with random bits and pieces of different fabrics, and thick jeans. His red hair was covered in a black beanie, and it had cat ears, making him hold back a giggle.
"Oh well, I see you both took your eases to do the introductions yourselves- Can I get one ?
-Cas, Lys sighed, do you ever buy your own cigarettes ?
-No, Cas winked. I only get them from my Fangirls- and fanboys, he answered with a falsely flirtatious wink, earning a discrete eyeroll from the girl standing between them. Lysander, exasperated, shook his head before handing him a cigarette. Castiel lit it with his own silver lighter; an old fashioned little jewel he had bought for nearly nothing on a flea market. Lysander was eternally jealous of him for it.
-Sorry for leaving you both to die in the cold, by the way. My guitar string died on me.
-And you had to fix it right then and then? Arabella smirked, obviously mocking her friend. She was done with her cigarette, and was now rubbing her arms in a useless attempt to warm herself up. Her cheeks blushed pink from the cold, and so did the tip of her nose. She had a strong nose, with a visible bridge, and Lys noted that she had a charming portrait as she batted her long lashes.
-Yeah, miss know-it-all, I did. Otherwise I'd have to do it tomorrow, and I'd forget, and I'd be fucked for Sunday. Anyways, Lys, enjoyed your dinner ?
-It was pretty ravishing, yes. I think I might be full for three days. The waitress was really nice as well, and the wine was very tasteful.
-Oooh la la, the waitress was suited to your taste huh? Cas teased him as he elbowed his sides, ripping a small embarrassed chuckle from him. Arabella smiled, checking her phone for the time before texting someone. He ripped his eyes away from her; Lysander wasn't a nosey person.
-Anyways, you guys were perfect. As I told Arabella, it was very melodious.
-Oh, so you got the opportunity to get acquainted a bit, right. No, no, wait, I'll still make the formal presentations- Ara listen up.
-Huh? Arabella snapped out of her phone, back in focus, lit by the unflattering neon light of her phone's screen.
-Arabella, this is Lysa-
-Yeah, I know.
-No, I mean, let me finish. This is Lysander Edward Alexander Ainsworth, born in Manchester. Born from French and British parents, studying at the Voltaire high school in the Marais. I've known this guy for more than ten years now.
-Nice to meet you, Lys, Arabella mimicked as she stepped towards him. They did the bise, the typical French greeting, and she planted her cheeks on his, one after the other. They were cold against his freshly shaved skin, and as she approached him, he smelled her divinely sweet perfume filling up his nose again. His stomach gave a little turn, and he hurriedly stepped away from her, disconcerted by his own reaction.
-The pleasure is all mine, he replied sincerely.
-Lys, this is Arabella Élisabeth Bianchi, born in Manarola, studying with me at the lycée Christie in the 12th arrondissement. As you can see, she sings.
-Well, that wasn't really hard to catch, he highlighted as he shoved his cold hands in his coat pockets.
-Should I introduce my-
-No Cas, that won't be necessary, Arabella stated, stopping their friend right in his tracks. God, I'm freezing. I think I'm gonna set sails and go home. My throat is killing me, and I do have to wake up early tomorrow, so..
Lys felt a pinch of disappointment in his chest as Ara reached out for her guitar case.
-Wait, then let us at least take you back to the metro station. It's pretty late already, and who knows what kind of individuals roams the streets at these hours, Lys debated.
-Yeah, true. Plus, you're sure you don't wanna have a drink or something?
-No, no- I've had classes today, so I think I'd really like to rest. But thanks for the invitation."
The three of them set off towards the nearest metro station, a couple of minutes away from the restaurant. The downpour had gotten harsher, and they speed-walked their way towards shelter as water dripped down their skulls, freezing their very bones. The Paris chill was piercing, and Lysander prayed that they wouldn't all wake up with an awful cold tomorrow. They made a strange trio, one besides the other; Castiel, with his scarlet hair, dye remnants from his latest dying session dripping with the rain water onto his punkish clothing, Arabella, wrapped in a too-thin coat over her 50's man's suit, her past curled hair now completely straight like a veil around her hair, and Lysander, with his stringy silhouette and his heeled boots that cracked against the pavement like a nobleman. Under the ghostly light, they all looked like they came out of an elaborate costume party, or separate time travel portals; and while they all stood different and peculiar, the three of them fit to each other like a glove.
Once they had reached the metro station, Lys handed Ara's guitar back to its owner, and she thanked him again for carrying it for her. Her shoulder once again dropped under the instrument's weight; but she seemed relieved to be finally in a closed space, where the breeze couldn't enter. The station wasn't so badly frequented; in fact, barely anyone walked its halls. Montmartre was falling asleep, and Arabella was soon to follow. When the familiar rumbling of the engine came to their ears, she turned towards both boys, her hands crossed against her chest.
"-Well, thanks for escorting me, guys. By the way, Cas, I'll leave a key under the entrance rug, kay?
-Gotcha. Be careful on your way home, okay? Cas knew that she could easily count an hour of commute between the 12th arrondissement and Montmartre. Paris was huge, but they were used to circulating around for sometimes long hours to reach their destinations. Also, text me when you get there. And I might crash at Lys's, so don't get worried or something if I don't make it home.
-Sure. Try not to skip classes tomorrow, she reminded him with a playful smile. Lysander, it was a pleasure to meet you- Hopefully, our paths will cross again very soon.
-The pleasure was all mine, Lys sincerely told her with a kind smile. The teenager part of him- the one that wasn't an old soul or a Victorian ghost- took pleasure in the fact that she wanted to see him again. It bloomed in his chest, and while he wouldn't remark that on the spot, he would years later ponder over the signs, even the smallest ones. I most certainly know we will see each other very soon, he added.
-Then, I shall let you two boys go do whatever mischief you're up to, Ara concluded, as the metro doors opened. Have a good evening!"
She disappeared in the vehicle in a flurry of brown hair, soaking wet from the rain. She looked like she came out of the famous Evanescence cover, with her makeup running dark in her cheeks and under her eyes; but he noted that she could make even that look fashionable. They looked at her, saw her sit on a cushioned seat as the doors closed. And then, just like that, she was gone with the echo of the metro's motor groaning into life, speeding away towards other lands. Castiel stood there besides him, peeling chirped nail polish off his nails as Lys stared at the metro until it completely vanished out of sight, before reporting his attention to his best friend.
" So, Cas grinned as devilish smile, shoving his hands in his pockets. Shots ? "