HOW I LOVE TO LOVE HIM FROM AFAR / DAMIEN

[MAGGIE LOU DEVEROUX]

i will live my life as a lobsterman's wife

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ON AN ISLAND IN THE BLUE BAY, HE WILL TAKE CARE OF ME, SMELL LIKE THE
SEA, AND CLOSE TO MY HEART HE'LL ALWAYS STAY, FAR AWAY, FAR AWAY.[/center]

though brilliantly bright, a bit too sunny for maggie's tastes, saturday evening was just around the corner, a few minutes shy from five o'clock, and the woman was panicking, though the real question was, when was she not? frazzled was an understatement to describe her condition, as she scattered about the house, tidying it up and putting things exactly in their place and exactly as they should be, not that it had been clean enough. nothing was ever clean or organized or perfect enough for maggie's taste. but hey, it was maggie and she was a mad woman. a mad, french woman.

it was raining again, which held no particular meaning to maggie except she knew that if she had dared brave a step outside, her hair would frizz and she would get wet. why any ridiculous human being would dance in the rain. was it their way of rebelling against society? by looking godawful, not to mention ridiculous (doing the soulja boy in the rain? say what?) and tracking mud on the carpet? nonconformists, cult followers, and everyone in between were no different from one another; they were all stupid, in maggie's mind, with the rare exception of people like damien. people like damien were people she could tolerate, perhaps even befriend, people whom she hoped would forgive her for her constant negativity, insults, and poor english. the girl couldn't help it if she was just naturally better than everyone else, or so she liked to think, in a world filled with dimwits.

she lived in a humble, small (because the words 'snug' or 'cozy' would suggest a friendly and welcoming environment, which should not be associated with the name maggie deveroux) home, a three bedroom, two bathroom, two-story house embellished with french furniture, old-fashioned wallpaper, and many, many paintings. "that looks off," she mumbled to herself, pondering and investigating the wall, scratching her chin. it was intense, but only for a moment, until she decided, with very much considerable thought, that the wall was crooked, not the painting. nope, it couldn't have been her fault. maggie brushed her fingers over her blouse and then her sweatpants, an odd combination, before she adjusted her ponytail, pushing away some stray hairs, then continuing with her routine, adjusting everything in her path, mumbling in french. "où est l'oreiller pour ce canapé? pourquoi tout off? ce qui ne va avec tout?!" (where is the pillow for the couch? why is everything off? what is wrong with everything?!) she exclaimed, before giving up, that panicked expression long-gone and replaced with an apathetic frown. oh well, damien would just have to deal.

she proceeded to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients, one by one, sugar, eggs, flour, baking soda, the like. soon enough, maggie was perfecting the cupcake batter, having a taste then making faces, rinse, repeat. every so often would she glance at the cuckoo clock, and every so often would the frown grow and her eyebrows would furrow. where was damien? the kitchen grew silent but the humming refrigerator after maggie turned off the fuzzy radio, but there was no loss- it overplayed shitty music anyway, and earbuds made her ears feel claustrophobic, and claustrophobia was simply not her thing. but then again, what was her thing? the girl proceeded to pour the batter into the metal pan, before slipping it into the oven, preheated to 350 degrees fahrenheit.

not even a moment pass then did she shovel around the kitchen counter, pulling out a marlboro and with a flick of her finger, she lit the cigarette and took a long drag. perching it right between her lips, she began on the icing. maggie hadn't enjoyed many things in life, and smoking was beginning to aggravate her; why have such ridiculously high taxes for something as soothing, as relaxing as cigarettes? she probably should have cracked a window open, and she contemplated this thought for a moment, but she was nicely reminded by the pattering rain that it was not a good idea to open any windows, and instead just pray that the smoke alarm wouldn't go off. maggie rambled to herself, with a minor interruption for another drag, as she waited, whisking away at the bowl, scattering about in the kitchen, rummaging for ingredients and bowls, bowls and ingredients, not exactly knowing what she was doing. well, that's what she was usually doing most of the time- not knowing what she was doing.

WORD COUNT 748 D:
LISTENING TO modern nature by sondre lerche aka my husband
NOTES BLAH, THIS POST IS BLAH. D: it'll get better, i promise <333

[DAMIEN ILIA MILAN]

well, there's a secret i've been perfecting.

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I SWORE I WOULDN'T, BUT YOU LET ME. I'M COMFORTABLY CONFUSED. YOU'VE GOTTEN SO REMOVED.
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damien was the type of guy that sat back and watched. jokingly, his friends often called him a parasite, but he was more likely to observe than actually act. especially in maggie's humble abode. why? 'cos the petite french woman was just so entertaining, the way she rambled to herself, the way she walked around the house -- her own house, in this slight daze that just said "i have no idea what i'm doing." yeah, to damien maggie was just this little bottle of cute. a mean sort of cute, but still, cute. that was why she was his best friend. that, and the fact that they both spoke french. and the fact that they came to terms on not acknowledging any insults thrown either way. this sounded like a goddamn business deal, not a friendship, then again damien was always better at business than he was at keeping friends. not a lot of people appreciated his honest tactics. in reality, they weren't really honest. they were just mean. and damien milan did not know how to put it any other way. there were very few people in the world that compelled damien to be nice, and they were all dead, or really really old. and it was kind of funny, 'cos his job should require some especially sensitive teachers to deal with these troubled kids. damien was a charming man, he convinced them that what the kids really needed was a firm hand. then again, truth be told, damien might as well be one of the kids. lets just say he had had his fair share of appointments with a handful of therapists. he wasn't crazy. he wasn't completely sound though either, according to his medical records. then again, some "mental illnesses" were merely figments of people's overactive imagination to damien. some meaning all of them.

but really, he loved teaching. he loved being around the teenagers, especially. to him it was all entertaining, and he was pretty sure that his best friend could not completely relate to that. then again, she had to teach them a whole new language. all he had to do was talk about their main one. guess who had the easier job? sometimes it felt like he had no life outside his teaching, but mostly it was 'cos damien sometimes blanked out on a huge part of his life. he went to work. went to church. saw a couple of a friends -- half his friends whom are school-related-colleagues-whatever -- and then sleep to wake up early to an other school day. and if he was unfortunate, he had to take night-rounds in the dorms making sure everyone was in line. of course, they never were. of course, they always were either drinking, fucking, or snorting coke. and of course, damien always disregarded all of it just so he could get some sleep. well, now, don't act like its something bad that he does overlook it. they are at the school 'cos they're fucked up, the teachers deal with it all day -- they do not have to put up with it all night too. especially not when they're as young as mr milan himself, first week at the school he tried to pry a bottle away from a junior girl and she ended up trying to drag him into bed. that had been one of the first moments he met the french teacher, and his best friend, who informed him that it was no use "to fight it, is stupid. they always drunk, fuck, or high. or all at the same time. or talking to themself." and it was true. although a lot of the students were medicated and polite, the majority were loud obnoxious little fucks.

and stepping into deveroux's home, he did not knock, or even announce his presence as he opened the door to maggie's place. he just watched her walk around cluelessly for a second before announcing his presence in a very well.. damien-ish sort of way, "even inside your own home you look lost," he remarked, but it took him five seconds to catch the beautiful smell of baked goods coming from the oven, "[color-a4bcbf]ahh, je sens quelque chose de bon.

[/color]"[/b] can you guess why the word parasite was often stamped on his forhead? maggie was a baker, a fantastic baker, and every time she would take out the flour, eggs, and whole shabang, you could find damien sitting there across from her only giving her the help of his words. then again, how helpful could "come on, fasterrr." "i'm really hungry." "i hate that fucking brown girl, she keeps disrupting my class." etcetc be? "you know, you could always quit your job. open a bakery, oui?" he said suggestively as he sat his ass down on the stool and watched her take the goods out of the oven. his eyes practically attacked the cupcakes. "can i have one? please? please? please? that one, right there," he pointed at one of the cupcakes she had already iced. anyone who knew damien would know that someone about baked goods just made him digress, and it was like you were sitting with an five year old childhood with the patience of a fairly impatient mouse.

words 940 , ooc startpostfails. <3 lolol.

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