WELCOME

OLIVER PASCAL D'AUBINGE


You'll never touch - these things that I hold
The skin of my emotions lies beneath my own
You'll never feel the heat of this soul
My fever burns me deeper than Ive ever shown - to you

You'll say, dont fear your dreams, its easier than it seems
You'll say youd never let me fall from hopes so high
But never is a promise and you cant afford to lie

• OH, BABY. LET’S HEAR YOU SAY MY NAME
NAME/ALIAS: Char
AGE: Seventeen and a half
CONTACTS: PM and email will work until I can get AIM to be nice.
OTHER CHARACTERS? None (...yet).
HOW’D YOU FIND US? I stumbled upon it in the advertisements on Graves & Roses


• KEEP STARING WITHOUT SHAME
HAIR:

"As a young lad, I grew my hair out once to nearly the middle of my back, just because I could. I wasn't fond of the barber, anyway; he looked at me oddly every time I came in for a haircut,. so I told my mother I wasn't going for haircuts anymore. She had no qualms about it, it was a little less money she had to spend every so often. It was when my sister began braiding it into plaits and putting bows on it in my sleep that I realized that truly, too much of anything is rarely a good thing. I think the breaking factor was really when I was cast as Pocohontas' understudy in a little recital about the famous Indian princess. I still wasn't wanting for the barber, though, so I cut it myself. It was a bit bedraggled and uneven, but it was a nice length at my shoulders, and I've kept it ever since. I think I'd not recognize myself with short hair. It's always been dark, darker than anyone in my family; they're all blonde and blue-eyed and rosy-cheeked, and I'm the sullen boy with dark colouring and tanned skin sulking in the corner at family gatherings. All the aunties used to coo over me because I was something interesting, and because they could get in well-concealed jabs that suggested my lengthy hair would make finding a wife difficult, or some nonsense, but now that I'm old enough to make jokes about their ages and not be afraid of scolding, they leave me alone."

EYES:

"My eyes are a bit far apart, I think, and pretty out of the ordinary in my family. They've all got sunny, light coloured eyes and mine are so brown they're almost black. I got the strange genes between my parents that hadn't gotten used yet in our family for quite a while, so they all sort of ganged up on me at once and I'm dark haired, dark eyed, darker skinned compared to everyone I know. I've also got ridiculously long eyelashes for a boy, which has always gotten me compliments from the aunties. When I was younger, when we were in England (I was born in France, and while the rest of my family was as French as all get out, right after my birth we moved to mum's old home in England and I grew up talking like her and laughing at my older brother rolling his r's like some highbrow) I fancied myself a gypsy boy, landed in the middle of this English Rose sort of family by mistake, and someday my gypsy family would come to claim me and I'd traipse around for the rest of my life in bangles and deerskin and wreak havoc in the woods and sing songs for money. It was a good game to play, too, though my brother and sisters never quite got the hang of the dancing."

FACIAL FEATURES:

"Most of my family members have 'heart-shaped' sorts of faces, and mine is somewhere between that and oval. It's quite long, actually. My brother and my sisters have somewhat squished-looking faces compared to mine. My father had a longish face, though, so I wasn't entirely suspicious of my origins. Some have said that I'm practically my great-aunt reincarnate and male, but I've never seen any pictures, so I can't attest to anything. I've always had sort of a large nose and have never really grown into it. Somehow, it works with the rest of my face. My chin is dimpled, which has always added to my illusion of being younger than I am, and my mother quite enjoys it much more than I do. I've got a strong jawline, which I suppose is something to be proud of, as it balances out the rest of me quite nicely. My browline is curved and a little heavy over my eyes, but not in a Neanderthal-ish way. My mouth is wide and full, and naturally curls up a bit. All of my features are a bit strange on their own, but thrown together on my face, they work. I'm certainly not a model, but I'm not Quasimodo, either."

BUILD/HEIGHT/WEIGHT:

"I've always been sort of small and compact; athletic, in a weird way. I'm around 5'8", which, while it's not midgetry by far, it's somewhat short for men, especially in my family. Where they have squished faces, they have looong bodies and I have the opposite, except my legs are absurdly long-looking for my body at this height. Like I was a lanky, awkward teenager and 6'0 tall and never grew into them, except I'm only 5'8", so you can imagine I have a strange torso issue going on. If I were a woman, I'd have plenty of leg, but being a man, I feel a bit awkward, like I need to get some of it surgically removed to look normal. At least low-waisted pants can sort of offset the effect, but still. Annoying. I always feel a certain sense of femininity when I obsess over things like the fact that I have odd legs or that I'm starting to develop love-handly bits on my sides or that my toes look odd, but I'm to the point. I don't go on and on forever and- :quiets: I'm manly about my body issues. I am. :discreetly flexes:"

CLOTHING STYLE:

"I'm fond of fancy sort of dressing; tuxedos, suits done up to the nines with coattails and buttons and decorative flair everywhere, but only for special occaisions and the like. I see men every day that wear suits, nice suits that aren't just going-to-work suits, and I think, 'Man, I could NOT do that every day.' Though I go all-out when the opportunity presents itself. I'm definitely more of a comfort-oriented man. I'm especially font of low-waisted (for that leg minimizing effect) black and denim pants, a little baggy in the thigh and a nice tight bootcut near the end. I've been an avid fan of the old-school slip on tennis shoes, like Vans and the like, so it's either that or Docs, because I've been told by many (including men) that deck shoes/sandals are just no longer an option for men that aren't celebrities/live in sunny areas/have large amounts of money and sex appeal. I'm a connoissieur of the ironic/slogan tshirt, and wear them under fitted blazers of sorts, usually, or jumpers with zippers up the front. If it's really awful outside, I'm the walking cloth tower you just passed on the street wearing multiple layers of irony and thick sweatshirts with heavy jeans and three scarves. You know, the one who can barely move but is fabulously warm and has managed to create a microclimate around himself with cotton and wool/rayon blends. If I'm out on a date or scouting for ladies, I'm in the aforementioned somewhat-tight-but-not-girly-jean-size-pants with a blazer, but I usually go for one of my rare collared shirts. I even make an attempt to not mix stripes or patterns or whatever, because apparently I've been told I'm a bit of a fashion mishap, but I say if you do it right, multiple striped items can be pulled off. C'mon."

DISTINGUISHING MARKS/OTHER:

"My chin, definitely. Not many can get away cleanly with the cleft chin; it's very noticeable, and if it is completely shaven/shiny/paired with baldness or a receding hairline, you're in trouble. I have no idea what I'll do when I start to lose my hair, but I'm sure chin amputations are reasonably priced. I'm kidding, I think. I can't really be sure."

FACE CLAIM:

Ben Barnes

• HONEY, I’LL IGNITE A DESIRING FLAME
FULL NAME: Oliver Pascal D'Aubinge
NICKNAMES: The only possibility would be "Ollie" or something silly like that, and someone would have to be ridiculously close/have a death wish to call him that.
DATE OF BIRTH: The eighteenth of December
CURRENT AGE: Twenty-four
GENDER: Male
OCCUPATION: Owns a bookshop called "Les Petits Chiens". It used to be a cafe, and the fact that it was called "The Little Dogs" in the first place was odd, so he kept the name for sheer novelty (that and his inability to come up with anything better that didn't involve a silly book pun). There aren't too many customers, and he spends much of his free time working on short stories and novels of his own, though he hasn't really finished any of them yet. He'd liked to be published one day, but has a bit of a self-deprecating sense about his own work and is a bit frightened of giving it out for others to read.
CLASSIFICATION: Chrono supporter, all the way.
SEXUAL ORIENTATION:Mostly heterosexual, but is very open-minded. Many musical artists have found their way into Oliver's CD collection purely because the singer/someone in the band was attractive, and when he listened to them, they usually turned out to be quite pleasing. He's always been inclined to just be attracted to who he will, man or woman, and it's been more women-oriented, but he does have an unending curiosity about men.

LIKES:

[+]Clean notebook paper - Oliver likes crisp, clean paper to write on; crumpled, written-on, smudged or marred-in-any-way paper just feels wrong. He'll save the messy pages for scrap, but to feel good about something he's just written includes the condition of the paper. It's always been a little bit of an obsessive-compulsive measure for him.

[+]Blue pens only. Black ink is boring, green makes him a little dizzy, red is abrasive. Blue, however, is vibrant and welcoming, and always contrasts to the black ink on forms and the like.

[+]Vinyl seats (except in terribly hot weather, because honestly, sticking to them is no treat).

[+] Nice fabrics like egyptian cotton, cashmere, suede, leather, and the like. He can rarely afford anything of the sort, but he likes to run his fingers over 500-count egyptian cotton sheets in the department stores or immerse himself in the deep, woodsy scent of the leatherworks shops.

[+]Music- Oliver treasures old blues and jazz; Nat King Cole, Billie Holiday, and the like. He loves late 50s-early 60s rock and roll, as well. He has almost every album the Beatles ever made neatly stored into the memory of his mp3 player. After that time, music started to get messy, thrashy, complicated. He delights, modern-music-wise, in light indie pop/rock tunes, alternative, interesting, songs with lyrics that mean something or that don't make any sense but feel fantastic.

[+]Old movies - "Casablanca" has seen the inside of Oliver's cheap DVD player more than anything else. He loves black and white movies, old 50s films, originals of today's bad remakes. Ingrid Bergman, Gene Kelly, Greta Garbo, Audrey Hepburn and company make regular appearances on his Blockbuster receipts. Though it's not easy to admit, Oliver likes to let his inner hopeless romantic roam free, sympathizing with the wronged, cajoling the hapless wrongers and mentally willing them to reconcile, even sighing a little when they finally reunite in a "Hollywood kiss" to the dramatic exit music. Coincidentally, he steers his pals away from his television and toward their own DVD collections rife with more mindless, modern slapstick comedies or action films. They aren't as enjoyable, but he likes the companionship they all feel when they laugh at the hopeless antics of the star, even if Oliver feels somewhat numbed afterward, like his brain took a bit of a vacation during the whole thing.

[+]Spicy food and anything exotic or downright odd. Oliver is one for experimenting (ahem), and relishes trying new things. If he didn't love writing and owning the bookstore so much, he muses, he'd probably pursue some sort of career in culinary arts, but he feels more comfortable strewing together strange combinations in his kitchen for himself.


[+]Running - Putting on a pair of running shoes and taking off has always been his favorite way to clear his mind. When he's running, nothing matters except what's in front of him and whether or not he's going to trip over anything. He used to run when the fighting in his house became unbearable, and it came to be a defense mechanism to deal with whatever was thrown at him, as well as a way to work out frustration with writer's block.

DISLIKES:

[-]Crowded, noisy rooms. They're a mess to get through, and they throw off his concentration.

[-]Littering. It's disgusting, and it is so terrifically frustrating to watch someone throw a frappucino cup or muffin wrapper on the sidewalk TWO FEET FROM A TRASHBIN. Oliver has to control himself a great deal to keep from shouting at them to pick up their damned trash, and often takes the passive route of doing it for them, though he loathes it.

[-]Smoking and drinking, and other addictive behaviors, though he is privy to them himself. He smokes rarely, usually when he's writing, and drinking is only social and limited to small quantities. He hates watching people fall all over themselves in drunken stupors, and he hates cleaning up after them, but he takes to his role as designated driver and protector of wastoids in his circle of friends with a motherly precision.

[-]Action movies with giant plot holes filled by excessive explosions and special effects.

[-]Most horror films after the 1980s - Some are up to par, but mostly they just aren't as frightening as, say, the original Exorcist.

[-]Insects - The sight of any sort of bug from ant to spider makes Oliver's skin positively crawl as if they were on him en masse.

[-]Abused books. It pains him to see torn covers and bindings, ripped-out pages, writing (unless it's for academic purposes, then it's mostly alright), the works. Books are his children, and when he finds them with stains or cracked spines, he feels like his daughter or son has just come home with a black eye.

[-]Pencils - The shavings get absolutely everywhere, and they smudge.

[-]Sweating - It's disgusting. If he could run without being all sweaty afterwards, he would be content. He may comfort-centric and messy, but sweating is just... unnatural.

HOBBIES:

WRITING.
Sale-and-thrift-store hopping for old castoffs like vinyl records and the like.
Running.
Managing Le Petits Chiens.
Working on sounding not-so-English; even though he speaks French fluently, he has spoken, most of his life, with an English accent and therefore sounds funny.
Exploring.
Trying new things.

GOALS AND DREAMS:

To attract more customers to Le Petits Chiens, because he makes it a point to stock it with quality reading material and he wants more people to be exposed to GOOD literature; to learn to let people in more easily; to gain height through pure mindpower; to put his past behind him; to stay open-minded, always; to explore the world of men in a romantic sense more (hey, one can't rule out all the experiences life has to offer just because they are sometimes taboo, as your only priority is to feel content, not placate others with safe options); to have a solid relationship if he ever finds love; to have children, whether biologically or through adoption or both; to have something published before the age of 30.

FEARS:

Not finding love or happiness with anyone, being alone for the rest of his life, losing the bookstore to bankruptcy, the Stopwatch screwing over all chrono-displaced permanently and changing them against their will, his rent being destabilized.

PERSONALITY:

Oliver lives for the moment, and likes to take any opportunities he can, just to try, like salsa dancing classes advertised on flyers in the coffee shop he enjoys, or 2-for-1 sales on rainboots. He has a bit of a haphazard tendency to leap BEFORE he looks, and sometimes gets cheated out of a good deal or finds himself in a bind, but he manages a way out. Oliver has good intentions in almost everything he does (unless there is a specific target at which he is aiming revenge), and is a bit hapless sometimes, but manages to pull it together in the end. He's terribly clumsy and has a tendency to let his apartment get to the point where he has to pull out the ole' machete and hack a path through the junk. He's a fun-loving person, and enjoys entertaining those around him; his sense of humor is boundless, and he enjoys making people laugh, often with self-deprecating humor that is mostly harmless but sometimes echoes of some hidden confidence issues he has with himself. Likewise, he's an appreciator of sarcasm and irony, and has an arsenal of sharp comebacks and witty oneliners built up and stored in his mind for when the occaision arises. If something or someone truly irritates him or makes him feel the need to defend himself or a friend, he will rip into the threat with the same savage concentration a lion takes to a carcass and will not stop until he's won.

There are a few things he's passionate about that will really get him going, whether in defense of them or to spread his love for them to others. The foremost is literature and writing, and Oliver loves finding someone who appreciates the classics as much as he does. Oliver appears, sometimes, to be an "open book", but this book only contains his external personality; he keeps himself very protected and closed off. He uses humor and entertaining his friends as a sort of protective measure, holding most away from his inner feelings and ideas at a comfortable length. He is slow to make friends and truly trust them, because he finds it difficult to trust in people fully. He acts confident, outgoing, the class clown of sorts, but he's afraid of people getting too close, because that's where the risk begins to spike. They could hurt or betray him, they could let him down, and some part of him wants to prevent that at all costs. He carefully regulates his emotions and his demeanor around others, gauging them, and if he thinks the risk is worth taking, he begins to trust them bit by bit. Oliver has many good friends, but has rarely had friends he could call "close". He has one or two that he could maybe call close, who feel comfortable sharing things with him like troubles or worries in their lives, and who with Oliver feels comfortable enough sharing a bit of himself, as well, but again, he's careful. The feeling of being raw and exposed at the mercy of someone else's thoughts and judgement is always a scary feeling, but for Oliver it's crucial to skirt around it, avoid being possibly hurt by not letting it be a possibility.

Out with mates or on the town, Oliver likes to have fun, but alone he's quiet, introverted; he's usually buried in a book. He is a retainer of useless and random information, from the mating habits of black ferrets to the amount of power it takes to launch a space shuttle into the air. His social life is balanced with a fair amount of privacy and relaxed free time, where he can think whatever he wishes or let himself tear up a bit during a film without worrying about what others think; because, really, that's where much of his confidence issues come from, the worry of judgement. He knows it's a petty fear, but he can't help it. He's always been a people pleaser, and often this has come in the way of his ability to trust more easily, to make friends readily, to open himself to possibilities. Oliver is modest, self-deprecating, and deflects praise oftentimes with an embarrassed laugh and a change of subject to someone else and their more desirable traits.

Oliver finds that he's not too terrible at flirting, but past that he's terrified of what will happen and that he'll screw up, crack dumb jokes or suddenly forget everything he knows and become unable to answer questions or discuss things intelligently with a date. He's open-minded, supports all sexualities and life choices, and he's always had a strong curiosity about men and experimenting, but hasn't really done much to explore. He is primarily interested in women (if he could compose himself around one long enough to make her see that yes, he is smart and makes jokes, he's not a total bumbling fool, she should ask him out again!), but doesn't rule out the possibility of men. At least with a man, they'd each know where the other was coming from, whereas with women, Oliver had trouble understanding because he had never been a woman. He supposes this is the root of all relationship trouble; lack of understanding. He'd like to know what all successful couples do to get past that, and if one of them wouldn't mind writing a book about it. A detailed book. With diagrams.

• THE WINDING ROADS TO FAME
HOMETOWN: Born in Paris, but grew up in/considers his home town to be Liverpool.
NATIONALITY: French and English.
PARENTS:

Ferdinand D'Aubinge, 43, merchant. Deceased.
Harriet D'Aubinge (neè Osbourne), 38, Manager of a Department Store. Living

SIBLINGS:

Older Brother - Gregory D'Aubinge, 27, pilot.
Older Sister - Louisa D'Aubinge, 26, teaches english literature classes in a university.

SIGNIFICANT OTHERS: Girlfriend, Jeanette, deceased.
HISTORY:

When Ferdinand D'Aubinge walked into Fabermeyer's Department Store for the first time and headed toward the elevators, he had no idea that he would land more than a business deal with the owners of Fabermeyer's. Much more. He didn't think much of the sprightly blonde in the elevator with him, until she came into the conference room just behind him and presented herself as general manager of the store. It was her he would have to convince that the connection between Fabermeyer's and Ferdinand's own set of five small but successful grocers was important, that it would bring profit and enhance appeal. Ferdinand walked away with a thirty thousand dollar business contract to be discussed and possibly renewed in two years time, and Harriet Osbourne's phone number. He was so taken with this charming woman; she had a steely determination about her, and yet made you feel at home whilst bickering about product consumption rates. The rest, as they say, was history; one disasterous date in which the reservations Ferdinand had made were overridden by a large, wealthy party seeking a 14-top, the movie was sold out, and they ended up in a dark, crowded, smoky little bar together, where the beer had a sharp, metallic taste to it and they had to practically scream in each others' ears to be heard over the large men in biker's leather taking turns doing karaoke of the best hits of the 1980s. When one (fueled by one too many bottles) lumbered up, stripped off his vest and began, in quibbling, sweaty glory, a rendition of Cindy Lauper's "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun", Ferdinand and Harriet promptly fled and found themselves walking through the park, having a laugh about how bad everything had turned out. It was there that Harriet, who spoke French as if she had all her life, spoke in her normal, sweet British accent, and Ferdinand spoke fluent French-tinged English with her (he'd learned it since uni, for traveling and business purposes) and thought briefly that he might marry this woman. Four months later, Ferdinand proposed in the middle of the drugstore inbetween the cat food aisle and the many varieties of laxative and, appropriately, adult diapers. Eight months later, Gregory was born. They sold their separate apartments and purchased a brownstone together in the art district, and were so immersed in their little boy and their prosperous business that they decided to put off having any more children for a while. Two years seemed time enough, and Harriet assumed it would be a brother for Gregory, as her family had a history of having at least two to three boys before a girl was concieved, but Louisa was born that November, and Harriet threw tradition out the window. Truth be told, little Oliver, three years after his sister, was somewhat of a surprise.

Shortly after Oliver's birth, Harriet and Ferdinand decided to change location. Their businesses were both branching out, and they needed someone to take stores into England and Belgium. Harriet and Ferdinand both agreed on England, and moved to Brighton, where Harriet had grown up. Oliver learned both English and French in his elementary school classes, and spoke with an English accent, like his mother. Growing up, his brother and sister always delighted in playing with him, but because of the age difference, they soon reached ages where they had much better things to do than indulge Oliver, like discuss model airplanes (Gregory) or buy makeup (Louisa) or call boys (both). He had a few friends in elementary-level school, but none that were very close. He felt on the fringes of the world, even in his own family. When he reached middle school, he had a thickened skin and a new tactic; he was an entertainer. A people-pleaser. This garnered him much attention and he soon was in with a group of boys commonly known for their clowning about, and Oliver figured this was the good life. It wasn't until he was fifteen years old that he realized that he was actually a bit afraid of sharing his feelings. He would make jokes and change the subject, turn the conversation away from him in any way possible, and he realized just how afraid he was of being hurt. It was, really, a risky business of having relationships. When he worked up the courage to ask out a girl in his class, a redheaded beauty named Jeanette, he vowed to try and open up to her.
They had chemistry, and an easy relationship that felt as though he were settling into something he'd been made for. She made him feel open to possibility, and she encouraged him to share with her, while he made her laugh and remembered little things, like her favorite flavor of ice cream (green tea, from the shop on the corner of Turner and Grohst) or the songs she sang to the loudest on the radio when they drove through the streets (he made a list and had a friend compile them and make them into a CD for her). It felt so grown up and natural, like they weren't both seventeen years old and as naive as their classmates, like they were a world apart. Oliver knew he wasn't spending as much time with his friends anymore, and he made an effort, but they all had girls of some degree (some steady, some newly dating) and were as immersed as he was in teenagerdom. So he let them be, resolving always to call them the next day or the day after that, promising to meet up when everyone was available (no one rarely was), but what he and Jeannette had was special and it didn't matter too much, did it? Oliver was afraid it was too good to be true, and in a way, it was. He didn't find out she was one of the chrono-displaced (it wasn't called that back then, when it was still new) until she found out herself the hard way. They were both thrill-seekers, and had decided to take a hangliding course at one of the little adventure clubs along the seaboard. Jeanette's parents were making conversation with Oliver's at the refreshment area and challenged them to a game of double's tennis. Jeannette went first, soaring off of the cliffside as Oliver watched with a mixture of worry and admiration for the brave, beautiful girl who held his hand on the boardwalk and bought him argyle socks for no particular reason. It was when she was a good 20 feet out with the instructor, who was trying to calm her by saying that below was just calm sea, that if she fell her harness would pop open easly and she could swim back (she didn't need calming, she was having a terrific time, but she appreciated his efforts) that she was suddenly gone, her glider falling uselessly into the water below. No one quite knew what had happened until she reappeared five minutes later in midair, only closer to the cliffside than was safe, and as she fell into the water below she broke her leg quite violently on a rock. She was taken to the hospital and had to wear a cast from toe to hip for three months, but it wasn't her broken bones that bothered her, Oliver, or her parents; it was the fact that she was suddenly one of the people being talked about in the papers, the ones with the dangerous time-travelling disease, the ones being beaten in alleyways and dragged to mental institutions.

That was when they concocted the treatment.

Oliver didn't like the idea of it; what would it do to her? Would she be the same Jeanette? Her parents, however, only wanted her to be safe, and so offered her up for treatment. Jeannette promised Oliver that everything would be okay, that they'd go for ice cream after and wouldn't have to worry about accidents anymore. She didn't realize she was lying, that it would never happen. The treatment was still new, and when the assistant accidentally put a little too much guanine into that particular mixture before handing the syringe to the administrator, Jeanette didn't come out of the operating room of her own accord. She was wheeled out; she couldn't walk, felt wrong, like her balance was thrown off and the world was tilting upside down. They took her to the car and drove her home, asking Oliver to please just come tomorrow to see her, she needed to be alone for the night. When Oliver came early the next morning, flowers in hand, there was an ambulance sitting silently outside on the street. Her parents answered the door sobbing. Jeannette had gone to bed still feeling strange, and when they'd gone to wake her up that morning, she was unresponsive. Cold. They had called the paramedics, but they hadn't been able to revive her. The treatment had thrown off the DNA sequence in one part of her body, and through the night it had changed in each of her cells until her entire body was rife with a lethal encoding mistake. She was still alive, but she was basically a vegetable, and her heart was beating more slowly each minute. Oliver was allowed in, and silently lay on her bed next to her, holding her hand until the pulse faded completely from her wrist and the paramedics brought in a body bag. Oliver watched as she was zipped into it and carried away, and her parents found him still on her bed, pale and stunned, staring at the pillow where she had just been. They sobbed, and he remained stony and silent. They were crying enough for him, anyway. They couldn't do anything but usher him out the door and phone his parents.

When he arrived home, he was treated like he'd just recieved news of his death sentence. His family was quiet and careful around him, though every time they offered condolence or the last piece of the cake mum had made, he refused it. It hurt to watch him drift through the house like a ghost, and it hurt to be rejected each time someone tried to hug him or interest him in a game. They stayed supportive, though, until the day Oliver finally woke up and came downstairs, and spoke to them. His voice was hoarse from lack of use, and to his family it was a beautiful sound. They'd been worried that he was seriously ill. He still couldn't cry, no matter how hard he wished he could. He eased back into life and found that he had no friends to return to; their conversation was halted and awkward, and he knew he shouldn't have expected them to miss him or anything. It was his own defense, anyway. He kept them at arm's length, they complied and there was no messy emotions. They simply agreed to see each other around and went their separate ways, and Oliver finished school as fast as he could. He moved to France to pursue university that summer, and he finally cried the night he moved into his little threadbare apartment, sinking into the back of his closet and sobbing until he thought his bones were going to shatter from the sheer force of the sudden misery. He was alone in a new country, he was alone in his hometown, he knew nowhere else. Jeannette was gone, and now that he was thousands of miles from it, he saw it as it was.

There was only moving forward to look to.

It's been a good five years since the death of his first girlfriend. He still has trouble making friends; they abandoned him, though it was his own fault, and what's the point of opening up to anyone if they're just going to drop you? He's had a few dates, but hasn't found anyone yet. He fears he's measuring everyone up to Jeannette, but he knows it's difficult not to. She was his first love (or something like it). He's tried to put her memory to rest as well as possible. Her parents call every once in a while to ask after him, and he always tells them that he's 'just fine'. Oliver suspects this is not the case, but they need not know that. He completed a degree in English Literature and wants to be a professor, and so is taking some classes here and there to complete his master's degree while he manages Le Petit Chiens. He still suspects strongly that he's caught up in feeling sorry for himself and still working as hard as he can not to be close to anyone, but it's hard to tell. It's become so routine, faking his way through connections, that it's hard to tell what's sincere and what's just easy to say. He's able to laugh and entertain again, but something in him is closed off firmly and will not (cannot?) be opened again.

• HURRY AND STAKE YOUR CLAIM
MEMBER TITLE: ;;buried s.i.x feet _under in [forced smiles]
READ THE RULES? Yes!
RP SAMPLE:

DONE. Crikey, I'm so sorry it took this long.