Setting: Slice of Life, R for possible language

[grim_poet]

[there's a very tall, bespectacled man folded up at a table in the corner of the cafe you find yourself in. he looks like a stiff breeze would probably send him flying off into the sunset, and he's staring off into the distance, intently, a stub of gnawed pencil hovering in one hand over a battered notebook.

after a moment, he turns his head sharply and looks directly at you, as though he's been talking to you for hours, and you already know each other. you totally don't.]

Is 'aubergine' too elite an adjective, do you think? Normally I trust my own judgement, but I'm really not sure.

((A/N: Simon here is a poet who tends to write about controversial things. If there are any issues that you would rather NOT come up in the conversation, please note them in your tag header. For the most part, I will keep the details of his writing generic so as not to trigger anyone. As in his canon, it's not the end product that matters so much as the reactions to it and the things that inspire.))

Comments

[downplaying]

Androgynous... Anonymous, too?

[Accepting the notebook, he reads over the other man's writings carefully. Takes his time to savour the precision of it, the control of the language, the flow. Then, the images begin to hit him - stark and unpolished, despite the polished finish of the poetic form itself. It's remarkable. Perhaps not beautiful, perhaps there are no pretty words to be found in the cluster, but you can't ignore it. You can't read it and remain ignorant. Claude doesn't push the notebook back to its owner. He keeps it, for the time being. Because it feels enriched.]

[grim_poet]

Mmhm.

[even that wordless reply is hesitant, because he doesn't want to break his concentration. he knows how irritated he, himself, gets when people interrupt him while he's reading. he's learned the art of watching other people read without staring, without making them feel like they're under a microscope - how to gauge their general reaction without hovering. it came easier than the conversation did, sometimes, mostly because he'd spent the majority of his life before the writing in silent observation, anyway.

he waits, patiently, for Claude to give it back, and sips at his own coffee.]

[downplaying]

[After a long moment of silence, simply contemplating the words before him, Claude hands back the notebook, returning his attention to his coffee. A part of him would love for Didier to read some of what he's just read, but at the same time - Claude isn't entirely sure that he'd appreciate the bleak honesty of it. Didier is an idealist just like Claude is, but Claude is much more prone to accepting reality in whatever shape it takes. Glancing up at Simon over the rim of his cup, he comments.]

I think aubergine would dye the sentence in a feminine hue.

[grim_poet]

[he skims the page once his work is returned, lips pressed together in a thin, determined line as he absorbs the feedback and applies it to the poem, then nods once, with an almost surgical precision as he crosses the word out and scribbles a notation in the margin, a reminder to find a better word]

You're right.

I knew it seemed off, but for the wrong reason. Thank you.

[downplaying]

[Claude just smiles. And takes another sip of his coffee. This cafe makes good coffee.]

You're welcome. I'm Claude Bérubé, by the way.

[Holding out his free hand across the table, available for a handshake if Simon should so wish, Claude raises one eyebrow slightly, nodding at the notebook that is being treated with such care. His colleagues may laugh at him for still resorting to writing by hand, but certain things are just better conveyed when they've flown through your fingers.]

It's lovely to see someone else honouring the old ways.

[grim_poet]

Simon Grim. [he does shake his hand, but it's the short, perfunctory kind of handshake people give when they're only big on manners, not human contact. he also pauses, watching Claude's face for that glimmer of recognition ... and seems relieved when whatever he's looking for doesn't appear]

Thank you. It's ... nice to talk to someone without -

[how does he put this without seeming like a self-aggrandizing prick? no, really, how? he decides to start over.]

Before I came here, people knew my name. Not me. Just ... my name.

[downplaying]

[Fame. Claude is no stranger to it. Not that he himself is famous - writing biographies is no short-cut to a rock star status, but the people he has portrayed have all been of a certain standing. Famous, yes. Their fame cemented in his writing. With his name attached to theirs, maybe the golden dust has rubbed off on him, too. Just a little. He withdraws his hand. Looks Simon up and down once, then smiles.]

If you don't wish to be synonymous with your name, I'll ask you to describe yourself in ten adjectives.

[grim_poet]

[Simon's eyebrows raise in mild, if pleasant surprise, and he tilts his head a little. no one's ever asked him to describe himself, before. well. there was a newspaper reporter, once, but he ignored her and let his mother and sister do all the talking, then. now that his work has spread, no one asks him to describe himself, anymore. they just want him to talk about the work, and assume that it and he are inseparable, that he IS his work, and it is him. he lets them be that way, and stays quiet. it's easier, somehow]

I'd have to think about it for a moment. ... What about you? What would your adjectives be?

[downplaying]

[Oh. That was clever. He's the journalist, usually he is the one to ask the questions.]

Curious, first and foremost. Passionate. Dedicated. Warm. Friendly. Laidback. [He pauses to consider which direction to go from here. Had he been talking to Vincent, the word sexy would have sneaked in, but Simon is a new acquaintance and Claude minds his manners.] Mature. Romantic... Inviting. French.

[He emphasises the last word for its importance. Despite living in Luxembourg on a day to day basis, despite travelling Africa in part and the world at large, he remains French at heart.]

[grim_poet]

French. [that amuses him, some things in his life considered, and he smiles a little.] I wish I could say American with the same conviction you do.

[he pauses] For starters ... Observant. [he licks his lips, thinking] Introspective. Straightforward. Loyal. .... Curious and dedicated, too ...

[he's really giving it serious thought. he stops to count up the words he's listed thus far and tries to come up with the final four. he's mostly covered his poetic side, the parts his mentor helped to shape, but his mind drifts to his family: mostly his sister and nephew, to who he is at his core, and always has been, even before it all] Responsible. Cautious. Honest.

[for some reason, the image of Warren and his fucktoy bullying Gnoc floats across his mind, the poor mute girl's eyes meeting his in his memory, and he latches on to it. they'd had something in common, then, something he still carries in every word he writes. it might be the most important adjective, this final one. maybe that's why he saved it, like Claude did 'French', only subconsciously]

.... Outcast.

[downplaying]

[So whereas Claude belongs somewhere, to his homeland, to Paris (and, regardless of country, to Vincent as well), Simon has been cast out. Is removed from. Everything. That is the significance of that particular word, he senses and thus proceeds to tread with extreme care. They may have certain adjectives in common, Simon and him, but they are also diametrical opposites which is always dangerous business, if you neither want to step on toes nor cut corners here and there. Claude watches Simon in silence for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is neutral.]

Society can turn its back on someone for many reasons. [He raises his chin.] Sometimes the best way to move beyond it is by turning your back on society. Maybe just for a while.