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 Share your windward dreams, Flo<3
Martín Marzán
 Posted: Apr 18 2017, 10:53 AM
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"By the grace of the fire and the flames 🔥"
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Somewhere in the distance, birds were singing, and as warm sunlight gently kissed the skin of the young boy, he wondered if he could ever reach them. They often sang, but he could rarely ever see them, gardens untainted by the presence of any creature yet still blooming with the life of a thousand flowers - beautiful, spreading their sweet fragrance over anything that surrounded them. And while the boy frequently wanted to destroy that place, tear down white pillar after another and break every single one of those carefully polished statues, he would have never harmed those flowers, marveling at their elegance and often hiding among them. They were one of the only things he liked about the villa, one of the only things that brought smiles upon his soft lips instead of anger. It was all a trap, but he was too young to understand it, caged behind those golden bars that took away the freedom his father had once granted him.

That day, he wasn’t hiding, for there were no responsibilities to avoid and no tutors to annoy, being given one of those rare breaks in between the lessons that had filled his life ever since he had arrived at Spain. Even if months had passed, even if he wasn’t as scared as he once had been and had found reasons to smile, it was all still rather strange and confusing, cherishing those moments spent away from the adults whose only goal seemed to be controlling him. The child stepped on the edge of the fountain, balancing on his tiptoes as he walked around the water, careful not to fall - though if he did, it wouldn’t have been surprising.

It was one of the constants of his life at that mansion, he may have been caged, but that most definitely did not mean he was going to stand around quietly. He ran, he jumped, he climbed and he fell, earning injuries which had to be healed time and again by the skillfully pronounced spells of servants or even his coldhearted grandmother. No matter how painful it was, how much blood and how many bruises, the boy never cried, huffing quietly as he was scolded and never listening to threats or warnings. He hated that place, and he hated the people: the tutors, and the grandmother who would check on him with emotionless stares, acting as if she cared when the boy could never trust her.

He didn’t trust anyone. Not the house elves, not the servants that acted as if they liked him, and most certainly not those who now called themselves his ‘family’, only allowing close a rare few of the individuals he had met ever since arriving at that place, mostly those of his own age. Because while adults were annoying, rude, scary and avoided, friendship was sought after, especially as a child who had spent one too many years being lonely, a loneliness that only seemed to increase with every moment spent at that mansion. Maybe that’s why he had so easily developed liking and affection for his cousins, why he adored Victoria and did everything to make her happy. And maybe, that’s why his turquoise eyes widened as his name was called, watching the short figure he had never seen before.

One day, Martín Marzán would become fit of being called divine, and he would consider himself to be that too. Yet that day, at that garden, he was merely a child enjoying a day of Summer.

@Florentin Deschamps

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Florentin Deschamps
 Posted: Apr 18 2017, 12:24 PM
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Somewhere in between leaving the marvelous villa in Neuilly-sur-Seine and arriving in Spain, something had gone wrong - at least that was how Florentin tried to explain the situation to himself while his small, fragile body almost toppled over as he opened his eyes again, pale and big eyes blinking at his mother’s face in confusion as she dabbed his forehead with a finely embroidered handkerchief, leaving it to his own hands to wipe his mouth before a cup of water was handed to him, fingers fixing his hair and a quick spell removing the traces of the boy having passed out. It was most likely the unexpected heat that had triggered this fainting spell, yet fortunately magic could fix most mistakes nature had so carelessly made. Thanks to helping hands - and the disdainful looks of his father - Florentin got up, another spell making the dust fade from his clothes while the boy was clutching his doll to his chest again, following his parents into the villa where the heavy doors opened invitingly for them.

He knew what it was like to visit other pureblood families all too well - it meant meeting other children as well, getting used to their faces and their attitude even while they did not understand a single word of what Florentin was saying. It often turned out to be a problem, like Preben Nilsson turning down every protest he was voicing and still dragging him along to places the delicate boy did not want to see and into activities that were too wild for his liking. The past winter had been a prime example of finding himself clinging to the other boy while sitting on a sleigh, screaming like his last moment on earth had come. One could only guess how relieved he had been when he had been able to leave the sleigh behind and all his limbs had still been in place. Every time they visited Norway, Flo wished the smaller Nilsson boy would finally engage in his vain attempts to play with him, the doll dropped beside the boy’s plush dragon, pale blue eyes wide when looking at the messy child that refused to speak to him. He would not be surprised if another savage child like this was going to wait for him within these walls.

Aceline reached out and fixed Florentin’s pale blue hair bow that held his honey-coloured strands in place, before she focused her whole attention on his little brother instead. There was not much to see apart from the processes of greeting each other and exchanging words that meant little to the ears of a seven year old boy who wanted to explore what was hidden behind those pillars. He could see the garden, the fountain that was there - and he knew exactly that if he was going to run there, his brother would not follow. The memories of Florentin pushing his head underwater not too long ago were recent enough to keep him away from waters as long as his brother was around, too. Patiently he waited until he was free to wander down those clean stairs, fascinated by the blooming flowers and the sunlight that seemed to reflect from the water in the fountain, as well as from single decorative elements carved out of shiny materials. Flo was so caught in the sight, the doll with her luscious brown hair and a pretty blue dress with matching shoes still pressed tightly against his chest, almost like a shield, that he did not hear the name that was called, and he also did not see the boy who occupied these gardens already.

Instead, he sat down on the edge of the fountain, carefully placing the doll beside himself, with one hand still holding onto her. His other dipped into the water that felt warmed from the sun, a small smile appearing on his face as he quietly splashed around just a little - not enough to stain his clothes or even the stone edge of the fountain he was currently kneeling on, like a lost merboy who had lost his tail.

@Martín Marzán

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Martín Marzán
 Posted: Apr 18 2017, 09:59 PM
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America had never been like this. There had been apartments and hotel rooms, there had been constantly interchanged cars, and there had been the homes of stranger, but nothing like that mansion. Had he been taken there under different circumstances, had he been there with his father, the boy would have loved it, he would have been amazed by the statutes and the relics, by the way everything seemed so elegant and golden. Too bad his father wasn’t there. Too bad he was gone forever, taken by those who owned that luxurious villa. Taken by the man who Martín had soon come to know as his grandfather. It all still haunted him, memories becoming vivid everytime Emilio Marzán appeared, making the boy want to run away and hide forever.

Thankfully, his grandfather was rarely around, too preoccupied with his own affairs to worry about the boy for whom he had searched for so long. Ironic, was it not? Things had been explained to him, yet he still struggle to understand much of it, as his father had never really spoken about his mother or the rest of their family despite the child’s constant insistence on the matter. Everything had changed too quickly. One minute he was just another kid playing soccer with his father in the parks of Philadelphia and the next he was… here, given a thousand responsibilities and having everyone he met trying to change the way he acted. How could he not hate it? How could he not try to rebel? Kicking and screaming and doing everything in his power to anger the man who haunted him in nightmares.

The more time he spent at that mansion, the more it changed his concept of family, becoming one he slowly began to despise, for those who called themselves his family were far from being people of his liking. Still, there were those who made him happy, there was Theodore and there was Victoria, but the cousins who he had come to know when becoming a Marzán weren’t always there, and that meant that in general Martín had quite a terrible opinion of family. Most of the time he tried not to think about it, though it was hard when stuck in that place, not even being able to forget while walking through those pretty gardens. Fun did help with forgetting, yet how could he have fun when he lived life in such a lonely matter?

From the other side of the fountain, he peaked at the other child, and as his gaze wandered over the sight, Martín was sure he had never seen anyone quite like them. Pretty was the word that came to mind, as it did with so many things in that mansion, though not in a way he despised. Pretty like the flowers, like those gardens in which he spent so much time. Being raised by only his father and moving quite often, the young Spaniard rarely interacted with other children, especially with females, so could anyone really blame him for mistaking Florentin for a girl when looking at that long and luscious honey coloured hair and the doll besides him? Because see, his cousin was a female, but this boy was most certainly more feminine than his dear Tori.

With care not to fall from the edge on which he was still standing, the young Spaniard tiptoed his way around the fountain until standing close to that which he believed was a girl, blinking in curiosity as he watched Florentin’s actions. “Hola” Martín greeted in natural Spanish, a gentle smile curving his lips, because despite still learning the language, he had grown accustomed to speaking it at that place, soon learning that most did not understand English at all when he tried to communicate with them...or at least pretended not to.

@Florentin Deschamps

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Florentin Deschamps
 Posted: Apr 19 2017, 02:58 AM
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Florentin had never been alone - but he might have been lonely a few times, although there was always someone around: his parents, his little brother, the house elves that tried so hard not to be seen but never quite suceeded. Yet one could be lonely in a room full of people, too - although those were twisted emotions a boy of his age could not understand yet. It did not mean he could not feel them, when pressing his face into his soft pillows at night, doll held tightly against his chest and thumb in his mouth while anxiously waiting for anything to happen. For what? He could not tell, but it had taken only few years on this earth to find out that a soft breeze could turn into a storm within seconds - and his father was one of these storms. The little boy was glad he had escaped the watch of his parents for a while, and it almost felt like he could feel his brother's icy gaze on his back. For now, he was going to ignore it, wormed in by the beauty of a garden that looked like the ones in the picture books they had at come - all that was missing were the fairies with sparkling wings and adorable little dresses, so unlike the real creatures that were of course to be despised and not admired.

In the turquoise waves of the fountain, Flo could see his own reflection - a small face that looked even smaller when all hair was tied back neatly and falling over his back instead. Huge, azure blue eyes stared back at him, the same colouring as the sky above his head. There was still a sickly shade around his nose, pouty lips being pulled in an expression of disgust about himself. Slowly, he pulled his hand out of the water and wiped it carelessly on his pants, before his gaze wandered back to the flowers, bees humming around and a single butterfly passing by. Florentin smiled for a moment, hand clutching his doll again while all care for the rest of the world was generously abandoned. Even at home, the gardens around the mansion were his favourite place, hours spent playing there while their mother would sit on the terrace and watch them in quiet amusement, welcoming the picked flowers that got dropped in her lap.

When there was a shadow falling upon him, Flo winced - almost toppling over again and falling into the fountain rather than keeping his balance. Yet he somehow managed to take a hold onto the edge of the fountain, slowly staring up to the boy who looked like he had been balancing around the stone frame and was now greeting Florentin. At least the French boy assumed it was a greeting, as the word came with a gentle smile. Still it made Flo - not shy, yet cautious - recoil just a little, inconveniently changing his sitting position and holding the doll with both hands, slender fingers digging into the dress and causing it to wrinkle while he looked at the boy. No one had told him there would be another child here - or maybe they had, and he had forgotten over the mayhem of the fainting spell earlier. Either way, Florentin was not sure what to do, slowly remembering his manners while his expression changed to something way more stubborn.

"Bonjour, je m'appelle Florentin Deschamps, et toi? The words tumbled over his lips fastly, familiar French so much easier than struggling through the motions of English - or that, potentially Spanish, but Flo did not know. The phrases were learned by heart, easily repeated whenever it was necessary, with only the toi replaced by vous depending on who he was talking to. There was still a fluttter of nervousness in his guts as he carefully watched the boy, unsure what he was supposed to do with him and if he even belonged here or was nothing but a human servant's child - although the attire spoke volumes about the child's social status.

@Martín Marzán

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Martín Marzán
 Posted: Apr 19 2017, 04:14 AM
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Later in life, Martín would describe his first few months at the Marzán villa as a slow process of change, one in which he had been forced to leave behind the child he had once been and began to turn into the heir to the cursed Marzán name. Yet, at that time, the boy didn’t really know how to explain it, and it only felt as if people were constantly trying to make him do things he didn’t want to do, learn things he didn’t want to learn, and even wear things he didn’t want to wear. It was very annoying, and while he could hardly fight against it, it surely didn’t happen without protest. Neat clothes would easily end up dirty, earning him scolding. Books would end up getting scribbled on, earning him the strict stares of tutors who seemed too afraid of that place to give him any sort of punishment for his misbehavior.

It was the sort of thing Martín noticed when living in Spain, as all people were unfamiliar and strange. Watching others had always fascinated him, but at that time it had helped him begin to gain understanding. It was one of those things the child could not really explain, though that was quite clear to him - the position of the Marzán family, the way others saw him, the new status he had gained when being recognized as the heir of such a family. For a child who was used to living in secrecy, to have the world ignore him and only count on his father, it all resulted to be quite… alarming. The boy did not want attention, he did not want those fancy clothes or that mansion, he just wanted his father, wanted to return to the hotel rooms and leave behind those beautiful gardens.

The same way he understood how terrible the Marzáns were, he understood he could never escape that mansion, for his father had tried escaping and hiding, and it had only lead to suffering. It had been explained to him by his grandfather, by the man who’s voice resulted so terrifyingly melodic to Martín - he had told him the story of his father, of why they moved around and never met any of their relatives, because they were always escaping, always running. The boy had tried deny it, screaming at his grandfather, and it had all only earned him a slap, followed by a cruel reminder to stop being so foolish and childish. And so he began to understand all these new truths, all why desperately trying to fight the inevitable change occurring inside him.

Change like those languages, Spanish and French forced upon him, the first learned with so much more ease than the latter, making him wrinkle his small nose for a single second as the child in front of him spoke, his eyes - much alike the clear turquoise waters of the fountain- finding those of the stranger to whom he could now give a name. Florentin Deschamps. It was long and complicated and he was almost sure he couldn’t pronounce it. Tentatively repeating the words in his mind over and over as he had been taught to do while learning the language. In surrender, he huffed, instead choosing to give an answer to the question which he had heard heard a hundred times over those months. ’Martin Alders’ was the answer he wanted to give, the one he knew to be true, and yet the one he could not pronounce, as mentioning his father never seemed to end well for the young Spaniard. “Je suis...Martín Marzán” the boy responded, still not quite used to pronouncing his name in a Spanish manner but doing so with an unmistakable Castilian accent, the language taking over as if it was always meant to be spoken him.

With agility and somewhat grace, he hopped down onto the ground, staring at the other child in silence before extending a hand, as he definitely was not the kind to make friends just by sitting around. Interacting with girls was hard, as he was well aware that most of them weren’t like the cousin who so easily followed him on his every misadventure, and it was even harden when he couldn’t even remember the single French word he wanted to pronounce. Instead, he chose something more familiar, more instinctive, word leaving his lips with a smile as warm as the Summer sun. “Come.”

@Florentin Deschamps

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Florentin Deschamps
 Posted: Apr 19 2017, 11:17 AM
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At this time, Florentin was even more delicate, and a lot smaller than he would be approximately ten years later - but the first signs that the boy would one day be a beauty were already visible in the fine structure of his bones, the high cheekbones and the thick lashes that could easily trick a stranger into thinking that this boy was a girl. His clothes did not speak of any particular gender either, white pants combined with white sneakers made to run and yet too bright to be stained, and a soft cotton shirt in pastel blue on top, picking up the colour of the carefully tied hairbow and of the boy’s pale eyes. Flo did not have the chubby cheeks or the baby fat of other children, his body looked fragile with skinny wrists visible now he was sitting there and staring at the other boy, his forearm pressing his doll against his body while his thumb found its way in between his lips, absently sucking on the tip while blinking slowly. The little boy did not like surprises - but so far, everything was fine. If that was going to change, he could still walk back to his family.

His life had always taken place in widely spreading gardens, in ballrooms that were so rarely used and mansions where one was bigger than the other. The names and faces barely stuck to his mind for long, apart from those he was seeing again and again, at least twice a year for the parents to talk about business and the children to try and get along with each other. Usually Florentin was doing well at staying at the table as long as possible, blindly knowing which fork or knife to use for which dish and keeping his mouth shut while the adults were talking. Yet he was also relieved when the children got the call to leave the table to entertain themselves. This time, everything was a little different. Spain had already showed its bad side to the boy because the unexpected heat had made him pass out and throw up, and he was reluctant to embrace the mansion and its inhabitants with open arms now. Still, the other boy made him curious, and he listened carefully to the introduction. “Martin,” he repeated, but failed to pick up the Spanish prononciation and made the name sound as French as his own instead. A soft blush appeared on Flo’s cheeks as he lowered his gaze again.

Marzán, that was the important part here. So the boy did belong to the household, because Florentin remembered they were going to visit the Marzáns today. He lowered his arm, wiping the wet thumb on his shirt in the process. A hand was extended to him once the boy had jumped off the fountain, and Flo thought he was supposed to shake it before the word came with it. They had been teaching him English ever since, yet he was reluctant about it as it never seemed to get him anywhere. But he understood the simple command, nodding timidly and getting up as well before he reached out and took the boy’s hand, squeezing lightly. Flo did not know where they were going to, but he was going to leave it to the other, that warm hand strangely reassuring and so unlike being dragged in one direction or the other.

His free hand was still holding on his beloved toy, the one thing his father constantly wanted to take from him because it was not meant to be cherished by a boy. Aceline always raised her voice mildly, giving Florentin the little doll back when the tears were already spilling over his cheeks, well aware how much her son loved the dolls she had bought and the dresses they could be changed into. If he was going to get involved in an adventure, the doll - Claire - was of course coming along, her wide eyes blinking when the boy walked, curls bouncing with every step that shook the doll.

@Martín Marzán

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Martín Marzán
 Posted: Apr 20 2017, 08:00 AM
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In many ways, Martín was like any other boy his age, he liked running and playing and the sort of adventures that used to drive his dad insane. He liked doing risky things, as children rarely put any thought in how dangerous their actions may have resulted until it was too late. He also liked talking to strangers, despite his father’s constant warnings about it, but strangers had always been something that fascinated him and he had never been one to shy away from conversation, as shyness didn’t seem to be a trait ever displayed by the small future deity. Mostly it was out of loneliness, out of the fact that he rarely got a chance to interact with other children, leaving him craving for those friendships he would always see in tv and movies. And perhaps this were the reasons why he would grow to be sociable, constantly seeking attention and a spotlight, making friends wherever he went to.

At that time, Martín care little for spotlights, though he did care about friends, and having his name pronounced in an even more unfamiliar way made the boy’s eyes widen as he stared at the French. It wasn’t the pronunciation he wanted, yet it wasn’t the Spanish one he disliked, making the boy giggle with happiness as he did not even notice the other’s embarrassment. Children didn’t need to know how to make friends, how to be polite or how to say things which would please others and make them seem likable to their eyes, and while Martín would one day know all those things, he didn’t then, acting on instinct alone and a the simple desire to spend time with another. While he liked those gardens, life at the Marzán villa was lonely, and he cherished every moment he got someone else to play with, even if it was someone he had just met and who probably didn’t like any of the things he liked doing. Not like he had even thought about that anyways.

Then, it was his turn to blush, gentle shades of pink colouring his cheeks as his hand was squeezed, returning the gesture with a smile. The nod was all confirmation he needed, as a severe language barrier was surely nothing capable of stopping Martín, setting foot forward and beginning their journey through the gardens rather excitedly. Where were they going? Well, it was hard to tell, the gardens of the Marzán villa extended far, and the boy had explored almost every single part of them during his time there. After all, it was where he spent most of his time, be it to entertain himself or to hide in order to avoid performing this or that task. Those gardens were one of the only things about the mansion that he liked, and soon he found himself almost dragging Florentin to one of his favorite places as they walked past countless colourful and perfectly kept bushes and flowers.

They arrived at the foot of a apple tree, standing tall and strong, covered in small white flowers despite that it was no longer Spring, as if it frozen in time forever, deliberately left at the most beautiful of it’s hours. It could have been the result of magic, or that the tree was coming late into the Summer season, but whatever it was, the grass around it found itself covered in delicate white petals, as if remnants of snow. And, from one of the strongest branches of the tree, hang a swing, simple in it’s looks and almost unfitting for the wonderful image of those gardens. How it had got there was a mystery, as the boy had discovered it quite recently as he explored the gardens, though it seemed as if it had been there forever, part of the tree itself, made for a child who no longer was one and abandoned ever since. He turned to look at Florentin, smiling with warmth and delight.

@Florentin Deschamps

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Florentin Deschamps
 Posted: Apr 20 2017, 11:55 AM
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When one was always in the company of someone else, one learned to appreciate the moments alone. And sometimes Florentin wanted to do just that - sit down and play with only himself and his dolls as company. He had another one with blonde hair at home, tucked away in his bed at home. He barely got away with bringing one along, a second was obviously unacceptable, no matter what his mother said. But this boy had done nothing to annoy Flo so far - he was not overly loud or intense, and seemed to be just a little more confident than the French boy himself. The child was used to the company of others, he knew children both older, younger and of his own age from their visits in Norway. Yet this was different, and it was very exciting. A small part of him felt guilty for leaving his brother behind, but the louder and bigger part said that his little brother did not deserve being dragged around. The day he had pushed Honoré’s head underwater in their poor had changed a lot of things between the two small boys, and he realised in those times his hand was not taken and the nights when there was no tiny body pressing against his own and keeping him warm.

It was the giggle - such a carefree and uncontrolled sound - that made Florentin look up again, frowning for a moment. Was Martín laughing about him? He was going to pull his hair if he dared such a stunt, even though it was not as long and pullable as Honoré’s strands of gold. But it seemed like the other boy was a nice one, not as wild - or just hiding his wildness better than the boys Florentin was usually forced to play with. It seemed like the two of them did not need words to communicate, simple nods and squeezing of fingers enough to confirm that they were now going to spend time together, no matter what they were going to do afterwards and where they were going. Flo let Martín drag him along, never looking back for a single moment. If someone was going to look for them, he was sure their names would be called - and children of their age often cared little about what they were and weren’t allowed to do.

Holding tightly onto Martín’s hand, the boy’s azure gaze wandered over the flowers, trees and bushes they passed, fascinated by everything he saw. It charmed a small smile on his pouty lips, and excitement made his stomach flutter. The place they were visiting looked well-hidden, and so much more like the landscapes of the fairy picture book Flo could not stop thinking about ever since he had entered this garden. There was a swing hanging from an apple tree that was covered in blossoms, and Florentin’s mouth dropped open. They did not have a swing back in their garden at home, and it almost made him jump in excitement. The other boy’s smile was encouraging, as if they were sharing a secret - and slowly, Flo let go off his hand, hesitantly taking a step forward, shoes crushing the grass that was covered in white petals.

A single slender hand gave the seat of the swing a gentle push before a decision was made. He wanted to try this, but he was going to be in need of both his hands to do so. Slowly he reached out, handing Claire to the other boy while his pale gaze settled on Martín’s face. “Ne la laissez pas tomber!” he declared, before turning around to drop his scrawny backside onto the swing, fingers wrapping around the ropes that tied the construction to the thick branch above their head and legs tentatively swinging back and forth to get the swing to move. It showed that he had not done this a lot of times before all by himself, mosly receiving support by either his parents or older, stronger children.

@Martín Marzán

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Martín Marzán
 Posted: Apr 22 2017, 10:03 AM
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From the moment he could walk, he had done so with no hesitation, rarely finding reason to fear any challenge placed in front of him. And when he did fear, his father had been there, filled with reassuring words and reminders of the stories he would tell the boy when it was time for him to sleep, myths of great warriors, of heroes, of legends and of deities. Tales of the God after whom his parents had named him. Martin… Martis… Mars. Always so strong, always so fearless, always so powerful and always so admired and respected, everything the boy wanted to be, playing and pretending to be the God himself. That’s how the nickname had first been granted, called ‘Mars’ by his father as the man laughed at his antics, yet only encouraging his son’s actions when doing so, all which would result on the boy finding himself to be more comfortable when called this than when called by the name that was rightfully his own.

Though while he would one day be referred to as ‘Mars’ by all who knew him, at that time the child was no deity, no God, and far from being considered divinely perfect. He was merely a child, one who was brave, one who was reckless, who had an unquestionable sense of adventure, never backed down from any form of challenge and did everything for the happiness of those dear and cherished. The young and beautiful sun who had forgotten how to shine, reminded once he had once again found those he would grow to love, filled with smiles of warmth and radiance despite how much he hated the place he was forced to live in. Because he may have hated that place, but he did not hate Florentin, as that girly looking child had done nothing to earn the boy’s anger. And when someone didn’t anger them, he smiled at them, for smiles were often the best course of action, or so he had been taught by his father.

Seeing the other child happy was...gratifying, especially as he noticed the obvious excitement. When he had found that swing, Martín had been excited too, swinging fast all by himself and attempting to figure out how high he could go. After all, in the life of a child who went on many adventures yet had little friends, things like learning how to swing by himself were inevitably learned in order to avoid boredom and disaster. For such a reason it, it was easy for him to guess that Florentin did not spend too much time alone -or around swings- when the doll was handed to him, staring at the delicate porcelain object for a second before turning his attention to the ‘girl’ once again. Truth be told, Martín had never even held a doll before, as he knew no girls who played with them or who would actually let him touch such a delicate looking toy in the first place.

Maybe they were right to do so, as the French warning clearly went over the boy’s head, not understanding most of what had been said and caring little for trying to decipher what Florentin meant. Instead, he moved on to more important concerns, like teaching that ‘girl’ how to properly swing, making his way around the apple tree until standing right behind the French. For a moment, he hesitated, gaze wandering from the other child’s back to the doll. Surely there would be no problem with leaving the toy on the ground for a mere moment, right? He did need both hands, and a toy was just a toy, quickly deciding to discard the doll onto the soft grass and place his hands on the other’s back, pushing lightly yet strongly enough to create some sort of momentum.

@Florentin Deschamps

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Florentin Deschamps
 Posted: Apr 22 2017, 10:54 AM
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"Looks still cute but lips are sore"
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Kindness rarely came without conditions, and even the softest touch was often only meant to convey a certain plea or the question for a favour. Even at such a young age, Florentin knew these things. Therefore it was rather surprising that there seemed to be no conditions tied to holding Martín’s hand - all he had to do was to come along, and walking through the garden was pleasant. The dizziness from earlier had mostly faded, the sickly shade around the boy’s nose slowly turning to a softer, healthier rosé colour as he was skipping beside his new friend, long lashes fluttering whenever he gazed up into the sun. At least maman had but sunscreen on her sons’ faces earlier, and the soft, pleasant scent was still lingering on Flo’s skin - only noticeable when one was close enough to the delicate little boy.

Those smiles the other boy was giving him were different than the one Honoré offered, and also different than the soft, almost guilty smile of his mother. This was genuine, full of excitement and happiness - and it was confusing, because Florentin barely knew this child and yet felt safe as long as they were holding hands. He could not get lost when being guided like this, and the excitement was too big to allow him any worries about the consequences of running off with a boy he had found in the gardens - or had the boy found him? Such details did not matter any more, as there were adventures to be mastered, and swings to be climbed. But Florentin had to realize that his legs were short and did not quite reach the ground unless he stood on the tips of his toes like a ballerina. A small pout was shaping on his lips, azure gaze wandering back to Martín.

The other boy was eyeing his dull much like Flo had just handed him a dead insect. It meant a lot that Martín was allowed to hold the delicate thing which could be so easily broken when handled without the same care Florentin showed towards Claire. Not even his brother was allowed to touch his dolls on most days, and he was clinging to them with a despair of a drowning child - a fitting metaphor, given he had seen how a child that was about to drown looked like not so long ago. But for a moment, Claire was forgotten when Martín disappeared behind him, as he had obviously seen the boy’s struggle with getting the swing to move. He lacked the height and strength to push himself up in the air, relieved when those hands met his back and helped him to send his legs flying towards the blue, blue sky. Florentin squealed for a moment in nothing but pure joy, eyes wide and cheeks blushed while his grip around the ropes tightened. “Plus haut!” he demanded happily, almost as if he last lost all suspicions and insecurities towards the boy.

A child’s attention span only lasted for so long, and soon his pale blue gaze fluttered back to the soft grass, where his beloved doll was lying abandoned and facedown. His eyes widened and he wiggled his legs, calling out a “Non!” as if the power of his words alone could stop the swing from moving. Once it had relatively stopped because non was something most people understood, he pointed accusingly at his doll, eyes already starting to water while his bottom lip was shaking. “Claire!”

@Martín Marzán

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Martín Marzán
 Posted: Apr 24 2017, 01:38 AM
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The most wonderful thing about childhood is that there are often no concerns, that life can be easy and carefree and that every moment can be enjoyed despite the terrible circumstances which lead to it. Such a thing was true even for someone like Martín, for while he did fear, while nightmares haunted him and while he was constantly reminded of the lose of his father, he still enjoyed those moments at the gardens of the villa he was trapped in. It may have been blamed on the short attention span of a child, on how simple things like pretty flowers or a sunny day could so easily brighten his mood, but was it not for the best? Had his anger burned every waking moment, had he been filled with the constant need for revenge that would fuel his actions many years later, then things would have been much more difficult at the Marzán villa, specially with guests currently visiting.

Yet the mind of a child is not one fit of concerning itself with such matters, and instead of spending every single second planning his much deserved vendetta, he spent his time playing in those gardens, now with that new friend of his who was considered as such despite the clear language barrier existing between them. Listening to the other’s gleeful cries as he pushed the swing brought a smile to the young Spaniard’s lips, as such a sound brought back memories of parks and laughing children, of friendships that never lasted for more than minutes and sometimes even hours. Martín didn’t know for how long he would be friends with Florentin, nor did he bother thinking about it, for children rarely worried about the future and he had long ago learned that enjoying the present was what mattered.

Too bad the present soon turned grim, blinking in confusion at the clear protests coming from the other child’s lips as he lowered his arms, no longer pushing the swing -he may not have been the best when it came to learning French, but even he understood such a simple request. Once the ‘girl’ jumped off, Martín quirked a brow, wondering what the fuss was all about before his gaze followed the direction in which that small and delicate looking hand was pointing. Oh. The doll. Obviously, the boy had never been one to care much for his toys, something which had once earned him more than one scolding from his father, and for such reason he truly did not understand why a doll was a matter for tears, but he did understand that tears were bad. What was it that his father always said? ‘Never make a girl cry’.

A huff left him, walking reluctantly towards the discarded doll and picking it up, brushing away white flower petals with surprising gentleness before handing it to the small French… not like brushing away petals would do much about the dirt or anything. For a second, he stared at the other, cheeks puffing as he wondered how to say he was sorry and stop his new friend from crying when he had forgotten how to say ‘sorry’ in French. Then, an idea popped into his head, single index finger rising for the other to see, universal gesture for wait...or at least that’s what television had taught him during his years living among no-majs. Television had also taught him that girls liked flowers, and so, this was exactly what he looked for, a task not too hard when being in gardens like those of the Marzán family. Soon, he found a rosebush, reaching in to take one of those white and slightly pink flowers, and completely forgetting about the thorns that so easily drew blood from his finger.

Despite the quiet wince, he did not mind it, for he had had much worse injuries, caring little for the blood as he smiled victorious, rose safely in his hands. And when he returned to the apple tree soon after, the flower was offered to the other child with a smile, wiping away blood on the fabric of his dark shorts as if nothing had happened.

@Florentin Deschamps

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Florentin Deschamps
 Posted: Apr 26 2017, 11:57 AM
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"Looks still cute but lips are sore"
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It was this age when tears still came easy, no matter how often Florentin was scolded for them. They did not come from sadness and pain - often it was just frustration that made them quietly roll over his cheeks, no sobbing sounds accompanying those tears. He had not meant to cry, yet often the mood of a small child changed within a few seconds, sunshine and rain taking turns several times a day without leaving much of a trace on their faces - it was at night when all those emotions got mulled over, and found their ways into the dreams that were anything but calm and quiet. It was hard to explain to Martín that Claire meant a lot, that she could not just lie on the floor like every other discarded toy. Still he raised his hand, wiping those tears away with the back of it and sniffling a little while his pale gaze followed the other boy, watching intently what he was doing.

Those gentle gestures surprised him, yet they also reminded him how Martín had been holding his hand - with great care, as if something was going to break. Flo tilted his head and watched, feeling the tears drying in the sun and leaving those tense spots of skin in his face - salt drying on his cheeks. Suspiciously, Florentin watched him brush off the flower petals, immediately pressing the doll to his chest with both arms as soon as Martín handed it over again, muttering something in French that had not been meant to be heard by the other boy. But soon his attention was dragged away from Claire again, because Martín was a distraction in every way possible, up for adventures Flo could not even fathom. He looked at the finger that got raised at him, nodding softly to show he did understand such gesture, while there was a flutter of excitement in his stomach. Once more, a delicate hand wiped off the tears that still clung to long lashes.

He turned into the direction of the rosebush that seemed to be his new friend’s destination, wincing as the boy reached for the roses. Did he not know that roses had thorns which tore the skin open with ease? Flo’s eyes widened as one of the roses was handed to him, cheeks blushing immediately before he reached out, hesitation in each movement. Bowing his head, he sniffed on the rose and smiled, muttering a very quiet “Merci” before taking a step forward, lips brushing over Martín’s cheek for a second. It was the way Florentin always said thank you, pressing lips against soft cheeks - a gesture he often repeated for his brother even if there was nothing to thank him for, affection given out with ease when he was comfortable around someone. But once he drew away from the boy, he saw the bleeding finger that had been carelessly wiped on the shorts, and he made a short, scared sound before pulling himself together again.

Florentin had never been capable of seeing blood without passing out - and it meant a lot, given he was already cursed with fainting spells that could easily be blamed on his fragile body and sickly constitution that did not speak for him at all. But in this moment, he just pressed Claire and the rose against the side of his body, slender fingers reaching out and wrapping around the boy’s wrist to pull the bleeding finger to his lips. Instead of looking at the blood, he gazed at Martín’s face, blowing onto the wound with the same care his mother always showed when doing so.

@Martín Marzán

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Martín Marzán
 Posted: Apr 29 2017, 10:08 PM
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In life of a child there are definitive moments, those which result memorable even years later and come to shape important parts of their future personalities. It was impossible to tell if the interactions of that day would be memorable for both boys, if they would still think about it years later when they passed by each other in beautiful hallways or when they met once again under completely different circumstances - especially considering Martín didn’t even know he was talking to another boy. Still, some things were certain, for example the fact that such an interaction would begin to shape key aspects of the young Spaniard’s personality, specially regarding the way he acted towards others.

He couldn’t really tell why he wanted to see Florentin happy, why he felt so bad about dropping the doll when usually most toys hardly mattered at all to the boy, nor why he wanted to apologize despite the fact that even at that age Martín rarely ever apologized for anything. Was it because he wanted Florentin to be his friend? To like him? To want to spend more time playing together? Possibly, as the boy often felt much more lonely than what he would have liked to admit to anyone else, forced to spend time in those gardens that seemed all too big for him to play all by himself. He wasn’t even allowed a pet, and while Martín blamed this on Emilio Marzán being the cruel man he knew him to be, later he would learn that the reasons for such a thing were much more...specific. So, he was stuck there, alone, hoping to make whatever friends he could make.

Being the child he was, the boy understood little of how small gestures mattered, of how giving someone a rose was not touching because the rose was beautiful, but because he had thought of going out of his way in order to go grab it. It was the impulsive action of a desperate child, one all too frustrated by the fact that no words could make Florentin understand how he felt at the time, and yet it had worked, making him smile brightly at the recognizable words of gratitude spoken by his new friend. At the kiss, his eyes widened, as he honestly had not expected to be forgiven that easily, blood rushing to his cheeks as he watched the actions of that ‘girl’, as he stared back at those eyes while feeling the slight itch of the air against an open wound, a gesture more gentle and caring than any of the ones he had received at that mansion so far.

It made him smile, finally gazing away from Florentin to look at the tree, at the fallen flowers and at the swing. If they could not swing without risking the doll’s well being once again, then what could they do? The boy pondered on the matter for a moment, brows furrowing until a new idea came to mind, soon reaching for Florentin’s hand instead of offering his as he had done before. It was strange how easily trust existed between children, how it could so easily be broken and then regained unless speaking of the most extreme of situations, and how Martín simply knew taking the other’s hand would be okay, smiling as he began to walk away from the swing once more.

@Florentin Deschamps

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Florentin Deschamps
 Posted: May 1 2017, 01:48 PM
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"Looks still cute but lips are sore"
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Years later, Florentin might remember snippets of this spring day in the gardens of the Marzán villa, yet only few details. He might remember the scent of the rose he would keep and preserve, ten years later still looking at it sometimes as if it were a valuable treasure. He might remember the doll that was still sitting on his shelf back home, her hair not as shiny any more and her dress worn out. In this moment, he could not know what the future was going to bring over the two boys, and all that mattered was the very moment they were living in - the soft skin his lips was grazing, the rose in his hand and the intense scent of it, as well as the gentle blush on Martín’s cheek that surprised him, because the other boy had come across as so confident that blushing seemed almost impossible. With the boy’s hand still in his own, Florentin lowered his gaze and pressed his lips together, slowly lowering their fingers again as he was done performing the simple and yet cathartic act of blowing on an open wound - all dizziness due to the blood he was seeing tossed aside.

It was odd how much of an influence their families had on their friendships simply by the sake of forcing them together with other children of the purest of bloods. But Florentin was also well aware that only because they were supposed to spend time with each other, it did not always work out. All too well he remembered his fruitless attempts to make friends with Sigurd Nilsson whose silence was so much more tempting than Preben’s noise - and yet it never worked, no matter what he tried. Things were so much easier if Martín, even if they were not speaking that much due to the invisible language barrier between them. The natural distrust Flo was supposed to feel towards strangers did not want to settle in with the other boy, and he was grateful for his own decision to abandon his parents and his little brother in order to come here, into this enchanted garden.

There was a part of the small boy that just wanted to lie down in the petals that covered the grass like freshly fallen snow, yet without the pesky cold that came with it. He did not like winter, even though he loved the cosy sweaters their mother was putting on her sons during the cold days, and he loved rich, dark hot chocolate despite how rarely he got it because it contained too much sugar to be given out freely. The hand that reached for his own dragged him out of his desires to play in a sea of flower petal again, and he looked up again, smiling timidly at his new friend and following him away from the swing and the crime scene where Claire had suffered so much.

Où est-ce que… W-where are we going?” Florentin asked quietly, his English drenched in a thick French accent while his pale eyes widened a little, still struggling to keep both the doll and the rose in his free hand without losing his belongings. As they walked away from the tree again, he stared back towards the villa, wondering whether his parents were watching from behind the pillars or whether they had already forgotten about him, too caught up in all this adult talk Flo barely understood when sitting at the same table. He sped up his steps to keep up with Martín, curiously eyeing the garden around them.

@Martín Marzán

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Martín Marzán
 Posted: May 4 2017, 11:24 PM
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Sometimes life took unexpected turns, and even being the child he was, Martín Marzán knew that better than anyone. There had always been turns, since before the boy could even remember, starting by the death of his dear mother when he was a mere toddler - a woman he would eventually have no memory of other than those bits and pieces of information provided by his father and the Marzán family. It had all always been about Isabel, about his father’s love for her and about the catastrophically long chain of events which was set in motion the moment of her demise. About what had lead to Martín Marzán becoming Martin Alders, to his father fleeing to America, to the boy growing up among muggles (or no-majs rather) and the constant moving that occurred during his life there - from hotel to hotel, from city to city. About Emilio Marzán, about revenge, about returning to Spain and about being Martín Marzán once again.

Some turns of events were much better than others, and while meeting Florentin Deschamps that day had definitely been unexpected and unforeseen, it was one of those few turns that made the young boy happy, squeezing the hand he was holding as they once again made their way through the gardens. Where are we going? It was a simple question, yet it almost made the boy stop, giggling to himself at how strange the words sounded when pronounced with Florentin’s French accent and being completely oblivious to the fact that he did have an accent as well, as those things did have a tendency to go way over the head of a child like Martín. Still, he understood the question, at it made him smile brightly at his friend as they walked back towards the mansion. “You’ll see!”

He hadn’t meant to be mysterious nor enigmatic, it was the simple childish lack of need to explain things, it was frugal and simple, much alike the trust and friendship that had rapidly built between them despite how little they knew about each other (for example the fact that Martín didn’t even know Florentin was a boy to begin with). Once his feet were on carefully painted tiles instead of soft grass, he raised one finger to his mouth, signaling Florentin to keep quiet as they walked past one of the rooms, chatter audible from the inside. From the corner of his eye, Martín could see the recognizable figure of his grandfather sitting on a couch, and just like his every instinct told him, he walked pass that open door as fast as he could, soon making their way up the stairs that lead to the second floor.

It was not a small place, and in the beginning he had often been lost, running away from tutors and then being unavailable to find his way back to the main halls when he was too hungry to keep hiding, often falling asleep in this distant room or the other. The one room he did learn to find his way to was his, and that was where he was taking Florentin. There was nothing special about the place, just another luxurious room in an overly luxurious Spanish mansion, and not much about it gave away that it was the room of a child - other than those insignificant details like the small slippers by the bed, the trunk full of toys or the soccer ball that seemed rather strange for a pureblood child to have.

@Florentin Deschamps

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Florentin Deschamps
 Posted: May 9 2017, 01:32 PM
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In Florentin’s life, most ways were mapped out for him already, with little chances to take a wrong turn. He was being nudged and guided, kept at the right track without allowing him to stray away too far from the path. But this was different, as the hand that was guiding him was warm and gentle squeezing his fingers with affection he only received from his little brother. The small boy’s eyes were wide as he followed quickly through the garden, almost disappointed that they walked back into the house now, leaving the wonders of hidden swings and beautiful flower petals behind for the sake of walking through the villa that made Flo think of an abandoned palace: too many rooms and not enough life to fill them all. Obediently he nodded as Martín gestured towards him to be quiet, as he was good at staying absolutely mute unless he was spoken to again. Curiously he gazed at statues and portraits, at pillars and impressive decorations that still seemed to pale when compared to blooming flowers like the rose in his hand.

With childlike wonder, he followed his new friend, gazing into the room they passed, although he only spotted the backs of his parents’ heads, his little brother most likely too small to be seen unless he was taking a nap while the adults were talking. For once, Florentin did not bother, because he had other adventures to live through right now, speeding up a little as he had lingered for a second, despite the two boys’ intertwined fingers. Claire’s eyes were falling close and opening again with each step, but he had no mind for taking care of his doll right now, pale gaze wandering from the corridor’s floor to Martín again, offering gentle smiles whenever their eyes met.

He did not like walking up stairs as it always got him out of breath, given he was a small and delicate child that was used to being carried if he only cried convincingly enough. But now, Florentin had to walk all by himself, panting softly as he did and sighing in relief as they had reached the top of the staircase. Slowly it dawned on him that they were going to Martín’s room, and excitement bubbled up in the boy’s chest. With pale eyes wide, he slowly let go off the other boy’s hand to walk around, yet there was little that caught his attention in this room - it was almost impersonal, even though Flo did not know such a word yet. Carefully, he placed his doll on the edge of the bed, draping the rose on Claire’s lap before he spun around again, slender fingers pointing at the soccer ball with a questioning gaze.

The small boy did not wait for a reply and confidently walked towards the toy, picking it up with the same care he had handled his doll before. Of course Florentin knew what a ball was for, but this one looked and felt different than the pastel-coloured balls they had tossed around back in their garden. “What is this?” he asked quietly, holding the ball towards Martín once he was close enough to the other boy again, long lashes fluttering while his fingertips dug into the leather, his head tilted so the hair of his ponytail swished from one side to the other for a moment, tickling his neck.

@Martín Marzán

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Martín Marzán
 Posted: May 14 2017, 02:46 AM
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Compromises was a word that was all too big and complicated for Martín to know or understand at such a young age, yet they were something that was quite present in his day to day life without his knowledge. For example, compromises like the ones made by the Marzán family, as they soon realized that as much as they could have taken everything away from the child and tried their best to mold him to their image, he was still a child, and a quite a stubborn one, one who disliked them for their doings and who could not be forced into becoming what they wanted him to be. So, there were those small compromises, like allowing him to spend his time playing even after so many tantrums and disasters, and like those toys that seemed so unfitting of the child of a pureblooded family. Like the soccer ball which was being held by the small French who Martín was still sure was a girl, and quite a pretty one too.

As someone who had grown up aware of magic, yet among muggles, Martín had never even considered the possibility that maybe a sport as well known and fun as soccer wasn’t popular in wizarding society, and that it may have even been frowned upon. However, he did know his grandparents did not want him to play it, as the only reason that soccer ball was there was because he had cried and yelled and broken things until they had allowed him to have one - this seeming the to be the only way the boy ever found to get what he wanted in such a home. He had blamed it on his grandparents, on the cold grandmother and the strict grandfather who he did his very best to avoid, but he had never blamed it on being a purebloods, as such things were still not quite understood by the boy, still not used to the new reality into which he had been forced.

His head tilted as he looked at the ball, wondering how it was that Florentin did not know what it was, but he smiled, full of excitement as he pronounced his reply rather rapidly. “That’s a soccer ball! Have you never played soccer before?” he questioned, though the answer would have been quite obvious to anyone else in that situation. Maybe Martín just wasn’t that bright, or maybe he was just too happy to care, his hands reaching for the ball and kindly taking it from Florentin’s fingers. “Watch this!” he demanded with a grin, moving to the more spacious and open area of the room before throwing the ball up in the air. He kicked it up, and then he kicked it with his other foot, juggling it from side to side as he had learned to do from other children at parks and from watching the sport on the televisions at this or that hotel room.

Even then, as a child, he was much better and fond of sports than academics, his surprising -and seemingly endless- amounts of energy resulting perfect to run around from place to place and never stop. When he had first heard about Quidditch, it had resulted hard for the family's servants to stop him from hoping onto the nearest broom, promising he would get lessons when the time came… and he was still waiting for those. Though while Martín was fond of and good at sports, he was still just a boy, a boy who made mistakes and got mischievous ideas which’s only purpose were to anger the man he hated the most. Ideas like the one he had at that moment, demeanor suddenly changing as he took just a bit more impulse for his next kick, kicking forwards instead of upwards...straight for the window before him. It smashed soundly into a million pieces, and with the sound also rose laughter. “GOL!”

@Florentin Deschamps

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Florentin Deschamps
 Posted: May 18 2017, 01:33 PM
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"Looks still cute but lips are sore"
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One might think that a house with two brothers who were merely a year apart would be a rowdy, noisy place - and yet the Deschamps manor had never been noisy, rather filled with an expectant, insecure silence than the noise of children fighting. It was their upbringing, and the fact that their mother kept them busy with quiet activities such as drawing or playing in the gardens. At home, things were never quite as exciting as they were right now, and Florentin could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest - like the hooves of the horses he had watched in their last holiday, when they had galloped freely over the fields of the Camargue, with wind dragging on their tails and manes. To be as free as one of these horses was as a dream that would never come true, and yet Flo found himself wishing he would learn how to ride a horse like that - a wish that would be fulfilled only a few months later, although he could not know at this point. Living in the moment, there was a strange child’s room full of promises, and the danger of any of their family members bursting in as if they were doing something forbidden in here.

Florentin was familiar with the fear of a door opening, of a voice being raised and of fingers grabbing his small upper arm and dragging him roughly aside. It was not often that their father went further than words, yet the boys knew what it was like to be bent over a lap and receive the kind of punishment that made sitting painful for the rest of the day, as well as being grabbed by these slender arms without a care for eventual bruises when it was for the sake of disciplining them. But while he was in Martín’s room, feeling the cold leather of the soccer ball in his hands, it was hard to think of the bad things in his life. He was seven years old - consequences mattered little in the moment, and all he wanted was to learn what this ball that was so unlike a quaffle was actually used for. “Soccer?” he echoed quietly and tilted his head, a concentrated and very focused expression on the small, pretty face as he shook his head - ponytail swishing just a little more. So much the prettily tied bow almost became loose as he watched Martín taking the toy back.

Watch this. Nodding, the boy moved towards the bed and sat down on the soft mattress beside Claire, reaching out to place the doll on his lap while his feet dangled from the edge of the bed. Only now he could see that wet soil, petals and grass was staining his shoes - but for once, Florentin did not care, because his pale blue gaze wandered towards his new friend again, holding his breath at these tricks the other boy displayed. It made him smile and clutch the doll to his chest. It was magic, without even considering to use a wand. A child was so easy to impress, especially as Martín decided to kick the ball - unlike a quaffle who had to be thrown, an endeavour Flo’s father only ever had little patience for, as none of his sons seem to show a certain affinity towards such activities.

Almost in slow-motion, the ball was sailing through the air - and then, there was the noise of shards raining down on the floor, of the window bursting apart with such force that Florentin’s eyes widened and he screeched. Yet it was no sound of fear - it was glee, and he clapped his hands together joyfully and laughed, eyes sparkling as he looked at Martín. He let Claire drop aside and toddled towards the other boy, clutching his arm instead as he batted his lashes and asked “Encore une fois?”

@Martín Marzán

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Martín Marzán
 Posted: Jun 12 2017, 09:12 PM
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"By the grace of the fire and the flames 🔥"
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When Martín had been younger, or younger than what he was, life had been an adventure. There had been laughter and cheer - he had ran as fast as he could run, he had climbed and he had played and he had hurt himself more than once. All of which still happened of course, though none of it was filled with the amount of joy it once was. It was because of his father. Because he had always been there to laugh with him, to follow him, to yell warnings, and to comfort him once the pain came. Because Johan Alders had not once raised a hand to his son, because he had been kind, and loving, and the type of father any boy would have wanted to have. His whole life had revolved around his son, even though Martín definitely did not know as much at the time, and he had brought happiness in a world that should have been dark.

It had been his father who had taught him to smile, to laugh, and to play soccer as well, spending afternoons at parks whenever the possibility came. As the child he was, Martín had not once questioned how a pureblood like his father knew things like soccer and seemed to adapt so easily to the no-maj world, for words like ‘pureblood’ had had little meaning in the boy’s life until the Marzáns came and explain it all. He still did not question it, and he would not for years, because to Martín Marzán his father would still be so much better than most purebloods he met in the whole of his existence. His father had shown him what it was to be truly happy and to be kind, the same happiness he often forgot about in that villa...until he heard joyous laughter coming out of the lips of the girl who soon enough was holding his arms.

Eyes as bright as the most beautiful of aquamarines opened wide, wondering exactly what it was that Florentin meant as he stared back. Instead of responding, the boy laughed as well, and it was a gleeful and innocent sound, filling the air in the room and leaving place for nothing else. The smile he offered Florentin was bright, displaying pearly white teeth before fading away at the sound of the door opening with an audible bang. If Martín Marzán was really to become fit of being called a god someday, then Emilio Marzán would have been his creator, and the one who hated him for all he became. And as the boy turned to face the cold and loathful gaze of his grandfather, he feared, a chill running down his spine as he moved closer to Florentin in an almost protective way.

His father had not one raised a hand to him, not once had meant him harm, and even scolding was often later on followed by a hug. Perhaps he had been too lax, perhaps he was the reason why the boy could so easily rebel against other forms of authority, especially that of Emilio Marzán. Ever since arriving at Spain, the child had not been stranger to the painful feeling of a slap, to someone grabbing his arm and dragging him around, to yelling and scolding and harsh punishment which was meant to make him behave. As he stared as his grandfather and the unfamiliar man next to him, the boy knew those things were to come, and he instinctively reached for Florentin’s hand, sticking out his tongue defiantly at the men who entered the room before breaking for a run. It was easy to get away when being of such small height, the problem was finding a place where to hide.

@Florentin Deschamps

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Goosin' around since June 11th, 2k17
Storm is a cute and made me this ❤

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Florentin Deschamps
 Posted: Jun 13 2017, 10:09 AM
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This day was different from any other day Florentin had lived so far. Of course he had met other children before, and he had also struggled with language barriers ever so often, communicating with gestures more than anything else. A nod always meant yes, a well-placed shove no, because at times, shaking his head was simply not enough. Martín was one of a kind - a wild child that seemed to know little rules, that fixed issues with a rose and a smile. Even at this young age, Flo felt the sudden wish to be more like the younger boy, because life seemed to be so much easier when you could kick balls through windows and wipe bleeding hands on your clothes. Martín almost appeared to be anything but a child of pure blood, and yet Florentin knew that his parents would not be making business with the Marzáns if they were anything less.

The perfect bubble the children had been playing bursted with the bang of the door, and Florentin almost immediately pulled his hand away from Martín’s arm, pale eyes wide as he stared at his father who had appeared behind Emilio Marzán who looked too old to be his new friend’s father. Little did the French boy knew about the family arrangements, yet he knew the look of anger on his father’s face, the way his brow was furrowed. Slaps to the face were not rare in the Deschamps household, although only ever freely given by Giles Deschamps. Slaps on the backside were worse, because they guaranteed being unable to sit properly for the next few hours, as well as being unable to sit on the back of a horse - something Flo adored at the tender age of seven already, even though he did not have his own horse yet. He received riding lessons on the horses in their stables, and at times he loved them more than he loved his own brother.

“What is your grandson doing to my son?” Mr Deschamps asked sharply, fury audible despite the melodic French accent that played in his words. “Florentin, amène-toi,” he added, finger pointing at the spot in front of him. But the boy only glanced at him, before his gaze wandered towards Martín by his side. There was trouble ahead, and both of them could feel it in the air - much like one could feel a thunderstorm approaching on a warm summer’s day like this. Florentin reached for the rose and his doll, pressing both against his chest again before Martín reached for his hand. The small boy clung to it fiercely, shivering as his friend stuck out his tongue to the adults. And then they ran.

Flo was not used to running - Deschamps children did not run, they walked with grace and did not get themselves dirty in the process. Yet his legs obeyed immediately and he followed, still clinging to those fingers that were holding his while he was sure his father would follow him and grab him - by the arm, by the air, sometimes by the back of his neck like he was a wayward kitten and not a human child. Soon, his breath came ragged and he coughed softly, hoping their flight would soon find an end that was more satisfying than running along endless hallways with a strange pain in his lungs.

@Martín Marzán

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