Astin

and the vision that was planted in my brain still remains...

Fri, 23 May 2003 15:09:53 GMT

She smelled like perfume that had somehow found a way to decompose. Her clothes were clinging to his hands (straps that were easily pulled away, snaps and not buttons, clasps that fell under the littlest amount of pressure) as if the fabric was sticky, like a spider's web.

Astin closed his eyes, not wanting to dwell on that, not even wanting to think of the fact that she spread her legs like it was a chore, like he was a chore, like life is, and might as well, be a chore.

It was her eyes that made him consider it. Round, blue, like the ocean as he had seen it out of the plane's window, like her chipped and cracking fingernail polish. It pulled him in like a fish that had given up hope of survival. She had smiled and asked in a breathy voice, cigarette between her fingers, lipstick on the filter, "Voulez-vous me prendre maison?" Home. Take. Astin was nodding and being reeled in closer, closer, before he knew exactly what was going on.

He kissed her once on the neck, and the smell had been so strong there that he had almost choked. She was murmuring to him in French, but he did not bother to sift through the words to find the meaning. It's like riding a bike, people say. You never forget how. And even though it has been a couple years, even though his heart was pounding in his throat, and her eyes were wide open and staring at him, he managed to remember, without exactly remembering.

Instinct, people call it. Astin would much rather call it obligation.

He thought it was the suit, the tie, the briefcase, and the shiny shoes, that made her pause before she gave him the price. He winced and paid her, face burning, eyes down. When he looked back up, the corner of her mouth was raised in what he thought was a smug smirk. Her eyes were black and void of whatever charm he thought she might possess.

He dreamed of the ocean that night, and when he awoke, it was because his face was shoved so very deep in his pillow that he couldn't breathe.

look down and see the sweepings at your feet...

Tue, 15 Apr 2003 03:01:36 GMT

"I've changed," Astin thinks as he looks into his clean, unsmudged, uncracked, uneverything, living room mirror.

Changed.

His face is rosy in the light that spills in from the open window. Rosy and bathed in shadow, so that half of it is obscured, half of it is unreal. He can run his fingertips over this dark area and know that the lines are more finely chiseled... he is more finely chiseled.

In a couple hours he will lock up his apartment (new, brand new. more money means more options, and he doesn't miss his battered little place that he had when he first came to Paris. no, not at all), and leave for work. The charcoal suit that used to be tight across the shoulders fits him perfectly. Lack of sleep and increase of activity has seen it fit to shed a little weight. Shiny, new shoes sans scuffs. A gentleman's haircut.

He will walk out of his apartment (warm and snug and bright) when it is fully dark, and lock the door, handling his briefcase like an expert. That Sean Astin... he certainly knows what he's doing. He has power, for once in his life. (Harry has seen to that.) He will watch where he is going. He'll meet people's eyes (even though his face flushes and his ears burn and he has to look away, quick, quick, before they recognize the fact that he still doesn't belong, that there's still something wrong, he's still incomplete) and move on, not thinking about anything but, work, work, what must be done, what he must do, things that need to be tended to, things that need him, him alone, he's the only one can do it. And by the end of the night when the sun is gaining confidence in the sky, he'll crawl into bed and sleep, dreaming of nothing but numbers and contracts and people walking up to him saying, "Mister Astin, sir."

Changed.

"Hello," Sean murmurs to the two-faced image of himself in the mirror. The light is fading rapidly, and his eyes are itching with the sleep he has just awoken from. "My name is Sean Astin.

"Astin. Sean."

He watches as the light dissipates completely and he is bathed in shadow, smiling strangely to himself.

you meet, you greet, you feel incomplete...

Sat, 08 Feb 2003 19:01:04 GMT

He had never intended to call. Never intended to have a reason to call. Elijah had given his number simply because it was the polite thing to do. And when he had said, "call me if you need help," he had really meant, "call me as a last resort."

Of course, Sean didn't have any resorts. Let alone a last one.

He had stood there, phone receiver (which was always a little sticky, as if someone had spilt syrup on it) in hand, Elijah's scribbled number in another. It had been written on a corner of newspaper. The last few digits were blurred from where Sean kept rubbing his fingers over it as he walked home with it in his pocket.

"call me..." Elijah had said.

"Hi, um, Elijah? It's Sean. Sean Astin. Yeah. Am I...? No? Okay. Look, I ah. Have a favor to ask you...?"

humanboyewood: *walking up the sidewalk, eyes on the street addresses- I look for you, somehow knowing you'll be standing with your head down. Your phone call was only a bit of a surprise; when I gave you my number- in case you became hopelessly lost in Paris again- I'd still thought you wouldn't call, wouldn't want to impose. Finally I catch sight of you, head down as I suspected, standing by a lamppost* Bonjour, Sean.

bookishastin: *I look up, maybe expecting to see a sour, damnit, can't believe I'm doing this... look on your face, but there's nothing of the kind. A soft smile. Wide, awake eyes. I smile in return, shifting from one foot to another, stuffing my hands into my pockets* Bon... jour, Elijah. I can't, ah, thank you enough for this. Really. *I chuckle nervously, quietly, taking up the pause with it*

humanboyewood: *you seem a bit more comfortable with me, if only slightly, and that's good* It's no problem. I'm glad you called me. So, where it is you need to go?

bookishastin: *my forehead screws up, I bite my lip... what was it, what was it...* I. ahh. Wait, I wrote it down... *I dig in the back pocket of my pants for the little slip of paper that I had hurriedly penned whatever the hell it was Harry had muttered, something French, something fancy. I don't even think (stupid, sean!) if you will be able to read my handwriting as I pass you the note, still folded up* I had no clue even where to start looking...

humanboyewood: *I take the slightly crumpled paper from you and open it, smoothing it out. I read the scrawled address with only a bit of difficulty- yes, I know where this is. A wine bar, in the gay district. My eyebrows raise slightly* L'escalier. All right. I know how to get there. Shall we? *I gesture with my hand for you to come with me*

bookishastin: *I nod, blinking, stepping forward to join you. My head dips down unconsciously. I lift it with some effort. Look the world in its face, Astin. I clear my throat* Le... scalear? Ah. What is it, exactly? My boss doesn't exactly... give much... information about these things. *I risk a glance sideways at you, catching your eye. I look away quickly.*

humanboyewood: *small chuckle at your mispronunciation* Les-cal-ee-a. The Staircase. It's a wine bar...in the gay district. Why is your boss sending you there, if you don't mind my asking? I don't mean to pry.

bookishastin: *my throat closes with shock. I halt, blinking at your back ahead of me* Gay... distract? What? Why would he... I don't... are you sure? *I feel faint. Your eyes are so bright, why, huh?*

humanboyewood: *stopping and turning around- I seem to have lost you; oh- you don't look at all well. Somehow this doesn't come as a surprise to me; I should have known you'd shock easily* Yes, quite sure. *I step closer to you, concerned* Are you going to be all right? I assure you, it's a very nice place. You needn't worry we're going somewhere seedy.

bookishastin: I... wasn't worried it was... uhm. *I chuckle, running a hand over my face* Sure, okay. *You're smiling reassuredly at me, and I think, okay, well. You knew. You knew, how would you...? oh. ohh. I have to bite back a stammering question, a nervous laugh, a, "why?"* It's no problem, it just. um. Took me by surprise. And. Yeah.

humanboyewood: *slight smile, and you're so transparent I really have to make a concerted effort not to laugh; your thoughts are writ plainly on your face as I watch the gears turning; and I note that you didn't answer why your boss is sending you there* All right, then. Come on. It isn't that far- we just need to catch the metro again and change stations once.

bookishastin: Oh. Right. Okay. *I'm breathing more shallow than I was five minutes ago, but you're still... looking at me like everything's okay, so yeah, just a little reminder, I guess, not to spaz out and try to screw things over any more.* So. *make ammends, astin, fix it...* How... how have you been?

humanboyewood: *weaving our way through people, slightly difficult to talk in this setting, but I can guess it wasn't easy for you to ask. You look like a startled deer. Somehow I want to tell you how it really has been, and that's strange. But that would only scare you away for sure, and just now it doesn't seem like a bad thing, to want a friend* I've...been okay. Busy, of course, working on the material for the spring concerto.

bookishastin: *I can practically feel my confidence building as you talk. good. It's okay, then. I nod, pressing close to you on accident as I sidestep a begger. He catches my eye and I a rush of pathos, a rush of sadness... and then I'm pulling away from you* Really? I don't know much about music... *I smile to myself* Actually, I know crap about music. But, ah. What material? If you don't mind... ahh. You know.

humanboyewood: I don't mind at all. *smiling- as if you think I'd mind talking about music* This time we'll be doing several selections by Khachaturian. *blank look, not surprising, so I hurry on* He was a Russian composer from the Soviet period and he's sadly very much overlooked today. His orchestration is quite colorful. I don't think I mentioned it before- I play the violin.

bookishastin: Oh. Wow. *You're practically thrumming. I can feel it even from over here.* I have so much respect for... ah, musicians. Discipline and talent and lessons. I mean, whoa. *you're smiling, looking down; humble. I suddenly have the strongest need to ask you what your favorite piece (is that what they're called) to play is, if you like to play alone or in front of people, if you dream about music...* The only thing I can do is play the kazoo... not too good at that, either.

humanboyewood: *once more you manage to make me laugh, and it's a welcome change from the heaviness that I've been carrying with me* Well, there's nothing wrong with the kazoo. Perhaps with practice we'll work you up to the harmonica.

bookishastin: *I hide a grin, pleased, comfortable... I even take my hands out of my pockets. let my arms swing at my sides. I don't flinch when our hands brush.* Gee, you think? *I chuckle* I'll be a real artist, yet. Get a band. Someone to kill our lyrics...

humanboyewood: *we're at the metro station, and I start down the stairs to the platform* *smiling* Perhaps so.

bookishastin: *I've only been in here twice. I usually avoid it. so many people... the walls are covered with grafitti that I can't read, pictures that do not make sense, and the air smells like vomit and piss. I pull back a little bit, but you keep going, so. I follow. You move through the crowd like it parts for you.* How long have you been playing? Ah, random. Yeah, but. I'm curious. Really.

humanboyewood: I'm flattered by your curiosity. *stopping at the appropriate number on the platform* Since I was four. I barely remember a time I wasn't playing. It's my life.

bookishastin: Wow. *I look at you sideways, my head tilted. Profile. You not looking at me, and that's all right.* Did your parents, um... just, press it on you? Get up, homework, lessons for three hours?

humanboyewood: No, no, nothing like that. *my smile shifts a tiny bit as I remember- yes, the times that papa did press, times when I was tired and didn't want to play- but in truth they were rare. There is no taskmaster as hard on me as myself* I just always wanted to play. My...mother loved classical music, and when she would play it I would hum along. When I was three they got me a tiny piano, and I started picking out the rudimentary melodies of the songs. That's when they thought perhaps there was something there...and I began lessons at four.

bookishastin: Damn. *I shake my head, my forehead creasing.* And it didn't drive you crazy? I mean, not even... a little? Wow. You must be... pretty driven. *I can feel my ears redden; I had wanted to say something else, but no, driven, that's what I meant to say..., yes*

humanboyewood: *I see your blush deepen just as the train pulls in, rumble of noise and screech of brakes* Yes, I suppose I am. *we step onto the train, and I grasp a hanging strap* And what about you? Did you always want to be an accountant?

bookishastin: *I can't help but laugh, long and deep, from the stomach, at your question* No one starts out saying, "guess what, mom? I wanna debit and credit for the rest of my life." *I grin at you. light and airy. good.*

humanboyewood: *that's the first time I've ever heard you really, really laugh, and it's nice to hear* No? You mean you didn't want an abacus for Christmas?

bookishastin: Yes. Right along with my little toy train and GI Joes. *I almost lose my balance, almost slam into a young woman behind me.* Oh, ah. Sorry. S -- ah, pardon... *fucking French. I stumble through what I hope is I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. she gives me a funny look. I turn back to you, trying not to laugh, just barely making it* I don't, um. remember, actually. What I wanted to be...

humanboyewood: *regarding you carefully- that's a very sad thing to say, implying that now you aren't what you want to be at all* What about now? What do you want to be?

bookishastin: I. *I purse my lips together, my face reddening. Not in embarressment, but... what? confusion? the train rocks us side to side.* No one's ever asked me that. I mean, since, like. Middle-school. *I shrug my shoulders. lift, drop. I chew my lip* I honestly don't know. I'm only good for one thing, you know? No need... wanting, right?

humanboyewood: *I see the woman you jostled turning and staring, and I don't speak until she looks away, embarrassed by my gaze* There's always a need for wanting. Otherwise, you might as well lay down and die.

bookishastin: *there's a warm tingle that moves through my chest and stomach. tingle, tingle, and it makes my mouth twitch and my brow knit. I look away, stare at the blackness out of the window. I can see lights whizz by. I sigh. I want to disappear.*

humanboyewood: *the silence between us descends awkwardly and I sense I've said too much, spoken too frankly, and now you're withdrawing* *I look out the window as well, grateful that our stop is approaching* We're about to get out and we'll need to change trains.

bookishastin: *I nod, breathing a more pleasant disposition in as I turn back to you. I don't quite meet your eyes* Thanks again for, um, taking me, Elijah. I... greatly appreciate it. *my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears*

humanboyewood: You don't need to keep thanking me, Sean, but you're welcome. In French that's je vous en prie, if you're wondering...you're welcome. *the train stops, and the doors slide open. The air seems a bit more damp here, at this stop, and I wonder vaguely if it will snow today. It's been threatening for days, but hasn't yet*

bookishastin: *Je view in pree. remember that, astin.* Oh. Right. *we step outside, and my hands are back in my pockets. my eyes are stinging from the cold, and I blink moisture away from the corners of my vision.* Much more, ah. Noisier here...

humanboyewood: Yes, but we just need to switch platforms- this way- *walking through the crowd, nearly tripping over a toddler in a red stroller* - and get on this next train here. Then it's just one stop to L'Escalier.

bookishastin: *I have to pick up my pace to catch up with you. You're hurrying. I almost trip over a beer bottle. almost. I duck my chin into the V of my coat and breathe in the warmth from my own body. I keep my eyes trained on the back of your head. Little curls of dark hair hiding at the nape of your neck. You need a haircut.*

humanboyewood: *a quick dash onto our new train, barely making it before the doors close; you fly in behind me. slightly out of breath* So, once we get to L'Escalier...what do you need to do?

bookishastin: I, ah. *I clear my throat, taking deep and steady breaths.* Talk with the owner. Facts. Histories. Copies of financial agreements. *a lopsided smile* Usual boring crap.

humanboyewood: I see. *We've barely begun to get rolling, it seems, before the train is skidding down to another slow grinding halt* See, I told you it wasn't far. *you nod, and we get out, and I turn left. Within half a block I see it, the green and white striped awning bright in the gray air* There. *pointing*

bookishastin: *It's actually... a charming little place, I think. It doesn't look anything like I was picturing it to be shortly ago when... yeah, then.* Oh. Wow. *I can't help but smile. This won't be too bad. I had been imagining a monster. something rabid, something that would eat me alive. ruin me.*

humanboyewood: *chuckling* I take it you were expecting something different? It's nice enough. It gets its name from the large spiral iron staircase in the middle of the room. The food's decent, if a bit overpriced. Their onion soup is nice.

bookishastin: *my stomach grumbles as if on cue. I smile, shrug my shoulders. what can I do.* Thanks for the tip. You, um. Want to go in with me? *I run a hand through my hair distractedly* It's just... you came all this way for, ah, no reason. I feel guilty.

humanboyewood: *yes, it's lunchtime, and there's no reason not to- except now I wonder* Sure...why not? *quick smile* After you...

In which it cannot be avoided.

Sat, 25 Jan 2003 17:30:56 GMT

humanboyewood: *Standing at Msr. Sablon's vegetable stall at the Marche Raspail- George's father was most pleased with all the help I provided George last semester, and his thank-you cheque was very generous...enough that I'm considering the beautiful artichokes; the weather's warmer again today, wet muck of mud underfoot with slick thaw, and I'm pleased they had market today*

bookishastin: *Oh, damnit. This isn't the place I was looking for at all. Damn the French. Asking for directions to a grocery store with limited French skills definitely isn't the answer. They'll give you directions you can't understand to a little hole in the wall with FRUIT stands and no sign whatsoever of carts or even little baskets, and, ohh. Might as well look around. Check. Find something to eat. There's nothing in the apartment to eat but left over pastries, and mother would be so very disappointed if she knew... damnit, DAMNit. The grocer looks up when I walk closer, and grumbles something French. Yes, uh, bonjour to you, too, uh huh. God help me.*

humanboyewood: *arguing with Msr. Sablon- 3 Euros each for the artichokes, is he mad?- I give up and decide to go instead to the stall three over that always has the lovely pears, and I put the artichokes down and turn to go*

bookishastin: *okay, fruit. Right. Fruit's not so bad. Doesn't everyone need fruit in order to be healthy? That's what they always say on TV, anyway. I could always buy some of this (uh. money conversion... damnit!) and then go for the necessaries later and maybe even go get a haircut and th -- bam. Foreheads colliding with, uh, ow. My hand comes up by its own accord, and I'm hissing. Soft head, always not been one for playing it rough, and when I look up, blinking embarresed eyes at whomever I hit, I'm already starting to grumble* I -- I'm sorry, sir, uhm. Ex... no, I mean. Pardon me...wah? *I groan. stupid, stupid. Pay more attention! I see you're nothing more than a boy.*

humanboyewood: *...pain when he smacks into me, crack of foreheads together, and why wasn't I watching where I was going instead of trailing off into thoughts irrelevant to getting this shopping accomplished; a moment and his mumbled apologies, the flat nasal, sharp r, and I realize he's American* No, pardon me. Are you all right?

bookishastin: Uh. *I can feel my ears and cheeks burning. In a way I'm wishing that you spoke nothing but French, which would mean that we'd mumble our sorries in two different languages and then slink off to go buy our pointless fruit, end of story. But here you are speaking to me in your French accent, all tilted and off center, and I'm having to look you in the eye, wanting to duck my head and turn away, go find food somewhere else, but of course I can't. Manners. Right. And you do seem honestly concerned.* I'm... you just took me by surprise, that's all. Quite a. Um. Hard head. Sorry, I should just... *I back away, nearly ramming my hip into a table. A few oranges fall and scatter on the ground* Shit.

humanboyewood: Wait, here- let me help. *bending down, careful not to crack heads again, I pick up the oranges and replace them on the table before standing and extending my hand* Perhaps since we've injured each other we should be properly introduced. Elijah. *watching you squirm and I know how hard it must be for you- I'm willing to bet you speak little or no French...a fish very much out of water, and alone*

bookishastin: *My hand jerks by my side naturally, and then stops. Knowing it would be impolite to shake, but not wanting to, because your hand is small and slim but hard looking, and who knows who you may be or what you may be capable of, and, oh. Paris. What the hell am I doing here?* I'm, ah. Sean. *I reach out, grasp your hand. It's nothing more than a business deal, I think. That's all. Just like meeting a client. I paste on a semi-confident smile* Pleasure. *the word only wavers a bit halfway, I congratulate myself. I remove my hand and look away when your smile hits your eyes.*

humanboyewood: *your eyes drop, and this is unsettling- I'm torn between wanting to get away, to leave this new...problem?...here, and finish my shopping, no more cares on my mind than the multitude already there- and wanting to help you, knowing the difficulty of finding your way in new places. I venture a question, tucking the baguette I'd purchased under my arm* How long have you been in Paris?

bookishastin: *You seem so genuine. And it's a shock, yes, because it's hard to find a genuinly kind face in a city where you know no one and all you get is looks that scream, ugh, toursist, whenever you dare to stoop so low as to ask someone for directions or help in any way. But your wide eyes are kind and curious, and if it were any other way, I'd be gone, back to my search for a *real* grocery store, and you'd be back picking up other people's fruit. And you're so calm as you stand there, easy, confident. I'm so very tense and nervy that I'm sure I resemble a string from a violin bow; if you were to run your fingers over me, I'm sure I'd play a note. This knowledge makes my cheeks burn even hotter. Stupid.* Ah, three weeks. I live here. I mean, um, not *here* of course. Nearby. Um. Yes. I'm sorry, am I talking too fast? I tend to. *I swallow quickly* Ramble.

humanboyewood: *three weeks...not long at all, and by the looks of it, you're not adjusting well* No, you're fine. *slight smile, trying to put you at ease* My father was American. Don't worry.

bookishastin: Oh. Okay. So, you're... from here? *Everyday conversation. Everyone does it. No problem. Except my palms are itching and I want to run my hand through my hair and shuffle my feet around, but I can't, of course. You're watching me with a creased brow, smiling gently, and this is just utterly bizarre, isn't it? I bet you want to get away.*

humanboyewood: Yes, I am. *smiling again, sensing your discomfort* So...Sean, was it?...is this your first time shopping in the Marche Raspail? It can be a bit...overwhelming.

bookishastin: Marsh... Raspayle, yes. I'm, ah. *I laugh quietly, making a vague hand gesture around us.* Not sure if this is where I want to be, though. It's kind of... foo-fooish. If you get what I mean. I'm not used to it. *I smile, almost conspiring-like, at you. The tension slowly begins to ease from my shoulders. It's... comforting. You called me by my name. And I almost feel like correcting you, saying, ah, well... everyone at work calls me Astin. But I don't. I like the friendliness. I miss it, sometimes. Sometimes.*

humanboyewood: *laughing out loud* Foo-fooish? *my smile widens, and this is a pleasant surprise today, to laugh at small things* Yes, I suppose it is. What sort of...non-foo-fooish things are you looking for? American food?

bookishastin: *I smile despite myself, big and broad and with teeth, and I duck my head a little bit, as if checking to see if my shoes are there.* Well, yeah. Is there... any around here? Please tell me they sell, like, cereal or granola or something *somewhere* in Paris. I can't eat fruit twenty-four seven. *I chuckle, almost expecting it to sound raspy in my chest, unused, even. It doesn't. I like your smile.*

humanboyewood: Cereal? *thinking- I'm willing to bet you don't mean mueslix* There's a supermarche in Saint Germain des Pres, but you'll need to take the metro. They have some American food, although it's expensive. *leaning over slightly in a conspiratorial tone, hushed voice* I sort of like Apple Jacks myself.

bookishastin: *laughing, tone maybe a little too trying* Shh, they might hear you. Say you're not a nationalist or something. *And this time I do run a hand through my hair, rocking back and forth on my feet. People near us are milling around, giving us strange glances. but, hey, if you can ignore them, so can I. I can try, at least* Saint Germain...? I haven't heard of that. I haven't... really heard anything. Much.

humanboyewood: Well, it's...*small pause and a shadow flickers through my mind*...where I used to live. If you want...*hesitation, and I'm not even sure why I'm doing this- but I find I like you, rather surprising*...I can show you where it is.

bookishastin: *I blink, mouth stumbling into a response before I even meant it to* Really? I mean, you wouldn't mind? Is it far? I don't, um, want to... bother you or anything. *I saw the tentative look cross your face. Damn, and we were getting along rather well... I pushed it. I should have known better.*

humanboyewood: *seeing your worry, I regret what must have seemed like reluctance to you* No bother. I volunteered, didn't I? *starting to walk, I stop and wait for you to follow* It's this way. Allons-y. *smiles*

bookishastin: *I nod.* Right. Okay. *I follow you almost hessitantly at first, and then match your pace as we begin to walk side by side.* It's not far, is it? I don't want you walking across Paris just because I... know nothing. At all. *A sort of forced chuckle*

humanboyewood: It's not far to the metro, and that will take us the rest of the way there. *your self-deprecation is unnerving...so much of it, and I wonder why*

bookishastin: *I make a face, not hiding it from you* The Metro? Ugh, I still haven't gotten used to riding that thing. I don't have a car, so, yeah. No choice, right? *I shrug, my shoulder casually touching yours. Surprising myself, I don't flinch away.*

humanboyewood: *a casual touch, and you seem to be relaxing, and that's good* No, no choice. *I try not to think about the other things in my life that applies to, and force my smile to remain*

A day in the life...

Mon, 20 Jan 2003 08:17:02 GMT

His alarm goes off directly at 7:05am every Monday-Friday. eei, eei, eei, piercing through dreamless sleep of the nearly dead from exhaustion and homesickness and, oh, man, where is he, again?

Oh. Right.

He climbs out of his warm and comfy bed on such mornings and stumbles in his gentleman's pajamas (blue plaid or red stripes or green flannel) to the small bathroom attached to his slightly bigger bedroom which leads into the deplorably sized sitting room. Wash, wash, brush, brush. Making himself presentable. Transforming himself from bed-head crusty eyed slack mouthed Sean Astin into Astin, business man of finance, Accounting extraordinaire, debiting and crediting like nobody's business before your very eyes! Ta-da! And he's in his relaxed winter suitish thing that is a little too big on him in the cuffs of the arm and trouser leg, and he stands in front of his cracked bedroom mirror with a smile of accomplishment on his face and thinks, "...The hell am I kidding?"

Thirty-one years old and he's across the ocean away from all he's ever known, working for a place he'd rather see burn to the ground with people who look at him with sympathizing eyes who most of the time don't even speak English, which is one of the many sources of Astin's nervousness, because, yeah, American, and he had taken Spanish in school, but that's it. And, really, though. All they see is a drone. All they see is a money maker. And if Sean's tongue were to be unglued from the roof of his mouth, he'd probably say, You know, I'm a human being, damnit! I do my job and I do it damn well. I deserve some respect. I deserve... something else.

And this is the point of his morning where Sean's shoulders slump and he chews on his bottom lip, looking down at the scuffs covering his best shoes. I deserve what, exactly?, he asks himself, the weight of life itself bearing down on his shoulders, enough to make his fingers shake and his knees want to buckle.

Soon he will gather his briefcase with its files and sheets and legal notepads and Bic pens and number two pencils from the sitting room. Wrap himself in his worn, this close to being old, coat. Take one look around his shabby, drab, but meticulously clean apartment. And then sigh to himself before opening the door and letting himself out, already steering himself for the blast of cold Parisian air and the condescending looks on the faces of the people he will pass. There goes Astin. The nobody. Right.