First Stanza: [Action/Written]

[burns_so_brightly]

[The gentleman walking out of Community Building 1 does not live there, and in fact didn’t even walk in there in the first place. He’s dressed in a suit, tie, and trench coat and is tossing a fedora between his hands. Julian Bell walks through Luceti with a smile, as if this is nothing more than an exceptionally lucky day. He’s keen to explore and peers into every shop, sometimes actually going inside. The library holds his fascination for some time, and he’s delighted to find his own published books of poetry there (even if he’d admit it’s a faintly narcissistic pleasure).

He eventually sits down at the tea shop to read, looking for all the world like this is a vacation day and not the day after his death. That part, he’ll address once this actually sinks in.

At night, he’s at Cloud Nine, enjoying a Scotch on the rocks and a cigarette and listening to the music. For a crappy oppressed town, this place is doing very well!

Eventually, he works past an unusual (for him) nervousness and writes over the journals.]

Am I allowed to take any empty flat, or is that supposed to be assigned?

-Julian Bell

Comments

[written]

[winksandnods]

[The name and the handwriting...

It isn't possible, but it's hard to say that when it's staring him in the face. His Journal's camera has long since had ink applied to it and been taped over. Just in case. He likes his privacy, and he doesn't trust something like this.

He writes, taking pains to conceal familiar slants of the letters and such.]

We've all been assuming they're free to take.

Action

[thelittlemacthatcould]

It is in the midst of his routine jog around town that Mac lifts his head and just so happens to catch a glimpse of a smartly-dressed man from the corner of his eye - and in an instant, his brain leaps to the conclusion that it's likely to be good old Guy Burgess before he has even gotten a good look. Slowing slightly, he offers a mild, goodnatured "Hey, Mr.Gu- -" in greeting while turning his head and- - oh.

Crap.

[ action ]

[herotypical]

[ a short blonde breezes into the tea shop. confident -- at least superficially so. though she doesn't seem to know what she wants. so she stands back and surveys the selection and stands back a little more.

eventually she stands back so much until she bumps into a stranger's chair. ] O-oh. Jeez. Sorry. My bad.

[action]

[thatmadbastard]

[Guy had left House 32 sometime that afternoon, leaving his journal at home, as per usual. He rarely walked around with it, finding that if he was set on perusing the recent twaddle-speak of other citizens he'd need to be properly set for it. That usually meant being set at his desk in his room. Otherwise, the journal was less than carefully thrown into a trunk in a corner of his room. He didn't like the idea of accidental recordings since he'd heard of them and he doesn't like the idea of the Malnosso even after researching for them. It wasn't for them anyway. It was for him.

Regardless, it was better he didn't have his journal.

It's a rather mundane Monday that brings Guy to the club. Sometimes he frequents Good Spirits because he's keen on the conversations he has with Buffy, but tonight he fancies something a bit more... well, a bit more says it nicely.

It isn't during the initial stroll in but when he's finding a place to sit down that Guy spots something too familiar. He'd sworn he'd seen that figure in two blazing fires, that in the wavering lick of flames there'd been a flash of that brightness that made up Julian Bell.

There's a ghost in front of him and suddenly Guy's jaw is slack, cigarette hanging on his bottom lip in desperate need of a flicking, ash clinging to the paper as it smokes without him. A bonfire ago, Guy had all the time and reflection in the world and the mindset to wonder what it is he would say to the poet he loved. Still loves. He finds himself as utterly crushed and silent as he was then, shoulders rounding as his frame sinks.

He hadn't drank that much, or at least he can't recall it. He doesn't know the last time he's eaten anything, but he also doesn't bloody know how that's important when he's hallucinating the man he loves into full form in front of him.

Every single line is right. The smaller tendrils of hair. His posture in the chair of the club. The way he holds his scotch. Julian Bell is fucking perfect in front of him, like a photograph in colour. Except there are no ripped edges, and this isn't Cambridge.

How cruel, though, to see Julian with wings, bespeckled like the print of morning news, like volumes of poetry and feathered gently because only heaven could cradle such a soul.

All the moments of madness Guy has ever felt creep on his mind have given warning. Utter madness falls on the men that don't know they're mad. Guy Burgess has moments of madness, but with a certain brilliance, he has always controlled them. It dawns on him--the moment his eyes begin to water and he feels every inch of clothing on his skin and he can't tear away from that face--that he has to be completely fucking insane.

He never saw it coming.

His voice is quiet... breathy... weary and wary all at once.

He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know anything but that little bit of Auden from bursting into flames.]

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day...

[action]

[theoniongirl]

It had been awhile since she'd replenished her stock of books, so that meant a trip to the library. She'd gathered a fair-sized stack to take back to House 7 and, for once, is more focused on the books on the shelf than the people around her.

[Written]

[shadedsunlight]

Flats and houses are free to take as long as no one is living there, or if someone is, that they don't mind a roommate. Everything else is also free.

[relictusdeus]

[A certain redhead devil is now making something of a habit of prowling through the village in the evening, as if it is his playground. Improperly dressed for the weather (if one could consider it being dressed at all,) he walks smoothly and smugly in his heels, twirling his spear every so often as if in anticipation of driving it through the next man he sees. The fact that he has restrained himself from doing so is rather impressive.

He glances at every stranger coming his way - and Julian is yet another his gaze settles over. His fierce, white eyes are almost luminescent in the dark.