the lotus eater
a plume of crimson smoke
THE HEDONIST
some things once you’ve loved them, become yours forever.
some things once you’ve loved them, become yours forever.
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Realistic or Modern 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑯𝑬𝑫𝑶𝑵𝑰𝑺𝑻
- Thread starter the lotus eater
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the lotus eater
a plume of crimson smoke
A M B R O S E THOMAS Q U I N N
19 | avant garde | eccentric | moodboard
narcoleptic | his life is but a dream within a dream
19 | avant garde | eccentric | moodboard
narcoleptic | his life is but a dream within a dream
twoheadedcalf
qu'est-ce que c'est
H E N R Y J O N A T H A N K I N G
[18] [naive] [a dreamer] [loyal] [weak-willed] [insp]
[It should be enough. To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be. - richard siken]
[18] [naive] [a dreamer] [loyal] [weak-willed] [insp]
[It should be enough. To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be. - richard siken]
the lotus eater
a plume of crimson smoke
The boys weren't technically allowed to smoke, no. Under page three, paragraph four of the guidebook, it stated that under no circumstances must recreational substances be used upon the premises. But the old dogs found a way. Lauchlan would be the eyes, standing at the edge of the building, keeping his eyes peeled and ears ready for the sound of clicking teacher's boots on the pavement.
All of them scattered like cicadas at even the faintest clip-clop of a heel on the concrete floor. It was their alarm sound.
It was funny to watch, really. The dapper lads chucking their cigarette butts to the floor and frantically trying to rid the smoke from their mouths, and the smell of it from their clothes.
Ambrose barely batted an eye though. Perhaps Lauchlan and the other boys had something to fear from the scolding of a teacher, but Ambrose would rise at any occasion to make a nuisance. He wasn’t a bad boy, no. But he believes it was in his divine rights to rebel against rules. Call it a manifesto if you will, or call it pretentious. There isn’t really an in between with him.
He threw his butt to the floor before turning on his heels, hands plunging into the deep pockets of his overcoat before entering the building, breath that seemed like the remenents of his cigarette, but was actually just the cold winter air slipping from his mouth like smoke.
An involuntary shiver went through him as he slid throughout the corridors unnoticed, up the flights of grand stairs, and into the safety of his room.
twoheadedcalf
qu'est-ce que c'est
The archways of St Matthew's boarding school seemed as unwelcoming as they could be, the stained cream stone holding the disdain of hundreds of years. Henry looked up at them passing overhead as their car trudnled down the road that lead into the school itself, and then out at the fields where the dew was still wet on the grass from the fog of the early morning. His father was saying something, probably along the lines of this being a school that would support the upbringing of young men properly, and how he should take every opportunity given to him.
It was the same old thing he'd been saying ever since Henry had been enrolled, so he couldn't really be bothered to tune in. Instead, he focussed on his suitcase sitting between his legs, the taut leather texture and the handle that rattled with every bump their car hit on the road. He was already wearing the uniform and blazer underneath his coat as instructed, and it itched slightly at the collar.
Finally, they pulled up to the main building where stairs led up to a tall, imposing wooden door with stained glass framing it at the top.
Inside, Henrys shoes clicked loudly against the marble floor, and he was hyperaware of his father's firm hand on his shoulder as they walked through to the administrative reception. The whole building seemed to be cold, holding chill in a way he'd never experienced before. He kept his head bowed looking at the ground as the murmur of his father's low voice and the assistants echoed through the room and into the hallway. There was something about the building that made you want to keep quiet. He fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve, before the assistants cough made him raise his head. His father looked at him sharply, and Henry could see his annoyances lining his shoulders with tension.
"You can sit over there and wait while I call someone to come show you around the school." She nodded towards the three chairs lined up against the wall, underneath a distinctly impressionistic painting of a garden. It seemed to be a long while wherein he stared anywhere but the desk where the two adults spoke, before his father came to stand in front of him once more.
"It's quite a privilege that you're being allowed to transfer here so late, do you understand?" He nodded, still fiddling with a button that seemed to be coming loose on his coat. There was a pause, before a sigh and- "try not to do anything."
Then he was gone. Henry slid his eyes over to look at the receptionist, who considered him for a second before clearing her throat and rounding the desk to sit back in front of her papers, "Your guide should be here soon."
It was the same old thing he'd been saying ever since Henry had been enrolled, so he couldn't really be bothered to tune in. Instead, he focussed on his suitcase sitting between his legs, the taut leather texture and the handle that rattled with every bump their car hit on the road. He was already wearing the uniform and blazer underneath his coat as instructed, and it itched slightly at the collar.
Finally, they pulled up to the main building where stairs led up to a tall, imposing wooden door with stained glass framing it at the top.
Inside, Henrys shoes clicked loudly against the marble floor, and he was hyperaware of his father's firm hand on his shoulder as they walked through to the administrative reception. The whole building seemed to be cold, holding chill in a way he'd never experienced before. He kept his head bowed looking at the ground as the murmur of his father's low voice and the assistants echoed through the room and into the hallway. There was something about the building that made you want to keep quiet. He fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve, before the assistants cough made him raise his head. His father looked at him sharply, and Henry could see his annoyances lining his shoulders with tension.
"You can sit over there and wait while I call someone to come show you around the school." She nodded towards the three chairs lined up against the wall, underneath a distinctly impressionistic painting of a garden. It seemed to be a long while wherein he stared anywhere but the desk where the two adults spoke, before his father came to stand in front of him once more.
"It's quite a privilege that you're being allowed to transfer here so late, do you understand?" He nodded, still fiddling with a button that seemed to be coming loose on his coat. There was a pause, before a sigh and- "try not to do anything."
Then he was gone. Henry slid his eyes over to look at the receptionist, who considered him for a second before clearing her throat and rounding the desk to sit back in front of her papers, "Your guide should be here soon."
the lotus eater
a plume of crimson smoke
One thing at the top of Ambrose’s long list of complaints about the world, was being bothered. Especially when he was reading. He was leaning into the wall in the confines of his room, fingers delicately, gracefully, falling over the pages of his bruised and battered library borrowed/stolen copy of East of Eden, when he hears the rap-tap on his door.
As if the door didn’t shield his expression, he rolled his eyes so much to express his annoyance with whoever it were on the other side. The outside world seemed a light year away when he was behind the brown door. His room was another galaxy, in which he liked nobody to go travelling to. It was a prolonged moment of silence, Ambrose still pretending to not have heard the door, hoping whoever it was would go away, yet still knowing deep down they wouldn’t. He was trying to concentrate on the book still, his eyes jittering from the pages to the door, so on an so forth.
Though when he heard the slightly increased volume of a second set of knocks, he, in a fit of frustration, threw the book on the bed and stood up in an agitated manner, swiftly going to the door, and opening it. The person he was greeted with was not somebody he would’ve expected to see, but nonetheless, he greeted them the way he would any other and let them speak. A guide? God the idea made his skin crawl.
It could be a good way to pray on the new meat though. The thought made him smirk – only when he was left to himself again. He gathered his book into his hand before going down to the place that was instructed upon him. Fashionably late, of course. It wasn’t a surprise to anybody when he was late. In fact, it really was a surprise when he was on time. And it usually meant you were in trouble.
Not even a moment after walking into the room, was he unaware of who the fresh meat was. The smirk toyed at the corners of his lips once more but hid it after entering. Ambrose slouched up against the archway which joined the two room, crossing his arms over one another, slotting the book between.
“Mr Quinn.” He heard, eyes shifting to the receptionist, though not a single other muscle in his body moved. He stared at her for a moment before moving his hand, twirling his fingers towards her.
“At your service. Now, onto minor matters.” With that, his eyes turned to the brunette. He smiled graciously before pushing himself away from the wall, trailing over to him. Finally, he held out his hand, as if to greet him. “You’ve heard my name. Whatever could yours be?”
As if the door didn’t shield his expression, he rolled his eyes so much to express his annoyance with whoever it were on the other side. The outside world seemed a light year away when he was behind the brown door. His room was another galaxy, in which he liked nobody to go travelling to. It was a prolonged moment of silence, Ambrose still pretending to not have heard the door, hoping whoever it was would go away, yet still knowing deep down they wouldn’t. He was trying to concentrate on the book still, his eyes jittering from the pages to the door, so on an so forth.
Though when he heard the slightly increased volume of a second set of knocks, he, in a fit of frustration, threw the book on the bed and stood up in an agitated manner, swiftly going to the door, and opening it. The person he was greeted with was not somebody he would’ve expected to see, but nonetheless, he greeted them the way he would any other and let them speak. A guide? God the idea made his skin crawl.
It could be a good way to pray on the new meat though. The thought made him smirk – only when he was left to himself again. He gathered his book into his hand before going down to the place that was instructed upon him. Fashionably late, of course. It wasn’t a surprise to anybody when he was late. In fact, it really was a surprise when he was on time. And it usually meant you were in trouble.
Not even a moment after walking into the room, was he unaware of who the fresh meat was. The smirk toyed at the corners of his lips once more but hid it after entering. Ambrose slouched up against the archway which joined the two room, crossing his arms over one another, slotting the book between.
“Mr Quinn.” He heard, eyes shifting to the receptionist, though not a single other muscle in his body moved. He stared at her for a moment before moving his hand, twirling his fingers towards her.
“At your service. Now, onto minor matters.” With that, his eyes turned to the brunette. He smiled graciously before pushing himself away from the wall, trailing over to him. Finally, he held out his hand, as if to greet him. “You’ve heard my name. Whatever could yours be?”
twoheadedcalf
qu'est-ce que c'est
It was awkward. That was the only way to describe how Henry felt, sitting in the seat that had handles a little bit too low to be comfortable, and his suitcase sat leaning against his legs. He tugged at his collar- still itching- and looked out the window that framed the field just outside the window. He could see some other students walking past clearly enjoying the weekend break, laughing and chatting amongst themselves. He found himself longing, and looked down again at his hands. He hadn't really had friends at the best of times, more...people that he spent time with. And more often than not that was just because their parents were friends so they were more or less forced together. He didn't think he was an unlikable person but he certainly didn't make the real effort to put himself out there either. His mother seemed to have a switch she could turn on and off to go from stiff and uncomfortable, to a genial party host, all warm smiles and offers of drinks and snacks.
Henry heard his 'guide' coming before he saw him, a set of somehow confident footsteps echoing down the hall until he entered. He raised his head to look, and his eyes were almost immediately drawn to the shock of platinum hair, before moving down to the arrogant tilt of his lips and a posh, upturned nose. He was leaned casually against the archway, and every fibre of his being seemed to ooze a sense of assurance that Henry himself could only dream of. He had a book tucked away under his arm and Henry found himself making a futile effort to try and read the title. It was a bad habit of his, getting distracted and caught up in details that left him missing parts of conversations, and more frequently important parts of classes.
When 'Mr Quinn' shifted his attention towards him, he met his gaze before his eyes skittered nervously away. "My name's Henry but most people call me John or Johnny. After my middle name, Jonathan." He felt the words stumble out of his mouth in a nervous mass, and he felt his ears turn red. "But um, Henry's also fine." He shook the offered hand. "I guess you've been roped into showing me around?"
He stood, taking up his suitcase and smiled awkwardly, feeling more than ever out of place in his own skin. Henry looked over his shoulder at the receptionist, who met his gaze and gave a thin smile, more or less just an upturn of her lips. "Ambrose I'm sure you know all of the spots you have to show him."
Henry heard his 'guide' coming before he saw him, a set of somehow confident footsteps echoing down the hall until he entered. He raised his head to look, and his eyes were almost immediately drawn to the shock of platinum hair, before moving down to the arrogant tilt of his lips and a posh, upturned nose. He was leaned casually against the archway, and every fibre of his being seemed to ooze a sense of assurance that Henry himself could only dream of. He had a book tucked away under his arm and Henry found himself making a futile effort to try and read the title. It was a bad habit of his, getting distracted and caught up in details that left him missing parts of conversations, and more frequently important parts of classes.
When 'Mr Quinn' shifted his attention towards him, he met his gaze before his eyes skittered nervously away. "My name's Henry but most people call me John or Johnny. After my middle name, Jonathan." He felt the words stumble out of his mouth in a nervous mass, and he felt his ears turn red. "But um, Henry's also fine." He shook the offered hand. "I guess you've been roped into showing me around?"
He stood, taking up his suitcase and smiled awkwardly, feeling more than ever out of place in his own skin. Henry looked over his shoulder at the receptionist, who met his gaze and gave a thin smile, more or less just an upturn of her lips. "Ambrose I'm sure you know all of the spots you have to show him."
the lotus eater
a plume of crimson smoke
God this was amusing him. The poor boy looked like a deer before an oncoming car. It was always the innocent ones that tugged on his heartstrings. And not through sympathy or empathy, but because he knew he had a clay of a person he could mould together with his own gruesome ways. Somebody he could make rotten over time, from the sweet and delicate rose they were in the beginning. You’d be a fool to think it hadn’t happened before. In fact, a lot of the most rotten and bitter inhabitants of the college were once under Ambrose’s spell. It’s what he yearned for. The weak hearts of boys, which he could crush under his thumb. What could he say, he liked attention, and being loved, being the cause of obsession. But he would never return it. Not until the day he died.
“Well? Which is it?” He questioned with a short tone, brows creasing into a frown. “John, Jonny, Henry?” He continued. “Because they’re vastly different, if you ask me.” His expression then softened as he dropped the hand back to his side and smiled. “I’m joking. But for now a think I’ll take the joy in calling you newbie.” Ambrose hoped he didn’t shake him up too much so held out his hand to take the luggage that his newbie had been carrying. Interesting, he thought. Usually it was the parent holding it as one last courteous gesture before their departure from their child, which they may not see for months at a time. Perhaps it meant something more. Ambrose reas into everything. It was a fatal flaw and a gift moulded into one trait. His eyes narrowed for a split second before returning to themselves, if you blinked you wouldn’t have even noticed it.
“What have I told you about using my christian name? It’s either Mr Quinn, or not a word.” Disrespectful, of course. If it had been anybody else, any other member of authority, he probably would’ve kept his lips sealed, but he couldn’t help it here. What was she going to do? Nothing. There wasn’t a thing he hated more than having tutors call him by his christian name. A patronising concept. “Indeed I have.” He nodded, turning his body and heading towards the large hallway, leading to the dorms. “Come.”
“Well? Which is it?” He questioned with a short tone, brows creasing into a frown. “John, Jonny, Henry?” He continued. “Because they’re vastly different, if you ask me.” His expression then softened as he dropped the hand back to his side and smiled. “I’m joking. But for now a think I’ll take the joy in calling you newbie.” Ambrose hoped he didn’t shake him up too much so held out his hand to take the luggage that his newbie had been carrying. Interesting, he thought. Usually it was the parent holding it as one last courteous gesture before their departure from their child, which they may not see for months at a time. Perhaps it meant something more. Ambrose reas into everything. It was a fatal flaw and a gift moulded into one trait. His eyes narrowed for a split second before returning to themselves, if you blinked you wouldn’t have even noticed it.
“What have I told you about using my christian name? It’s either Mr Quinn, or not a word.” Disrespectful, of course. If it had been anybody else, any other member of authority, he probably would’ve kept his lips sealed, but he couldn’t help it here. What was she going to do? Nothing. There wasn’t a thing he hated more than having tutors call him by his christian name. A patronising concept. “Indeed I have.” He nodded, turning his body and heading towards the large hallway, leading to the dorms. “Come.”
twoheadedcalf
qu'est-ce que c'est
Henry felt his ears turn red at Ambrose' teasing. He knew he always said too much, as if the word vomit of sentences that came out of his mouth made up for him not knowing what to say the rest of the time. And he wasn't wrong, the nicknames that he'd amassed over the years didn't really suit him at all. They weren't ever really said with the easygoing tone that years of friendship brought. More often than not it was just because there was someone else called Henry in the vicinity who took precedent. He wasn't a Johnny at all really, but he'd put up with it amiably, responding whenever somebody called it loudly over a classroom or the field. Assuming that there was anybody that wanted to get his attention.
So newbie, in the scheme of things wasn't so bad. It gave him a position to slip into, and he felt his shoulders ease just slightly. That was easy, he already felt nervous out of his mind that this would be just like his last school. Being the newbie wasn't great, but it was something he knew how to play, and from Ambrose's mouth it somehow...didn't sound so bad. He muttered a "thank you" as he took his bag, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, eager to give them something to do. If his mother had come with him, she'd've probably stayed, holding his bag and crying about leaving him, just for show of course. But no. She'd had more important things to do at home, and his father only came because he'd had to sign some final papers at the school. If they'd had it perfectly their way, he would probably have been forced to come in a taxi.
He noted Ambrose's sudden change in tone with wide eyes. He went so quickly from teasing, to a softer, friendier tone and then all of a sudden his eyes seemed flinty as he- well talked back to the receptionist. Henry couldn't dream of speaking like that to any adult, and he could almost hear his father's voice echoing in his head, reprimanding him. Then he was setting off down the hallway, and Henry was quick to follow. He got a better look at the building itself while following the other boy, and he marvelled at how...old everything was. There were busts, and pieces of art framed out the walls, interspersed with large windows framing the grounds, giving him glimpses of other buildings and the forest that surrounded the school.
He didn't ask where Ambrose was leading him, half because of his general nervousness on speaking and half because he didn't yet know how to get a read on him. Henry assumed that they had a destination of course, and Ambrose did have his suitcase so he was fairly sure he wouldn't be lead astray.
So newbie, in the scheme of things wasn't so bad. It gave him a position to slip into, and he felt his shoulders ease just slightly. That was easy, he already felt nervous out of his mind that this would be just like his last school. Being the newbie wasn't great, but it was something he knew how to play, and from Ambrose's mouth it somehow...didn't sound so bad. He muttered a "thank you" as he took his bag, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, eager to give them something to do. If his mother had come with him, she'd've probably stayed, holding his bag and crying about leaving him, just for show of course. But no. She'd had more important things to do at home, and his father only came because he'd had to sign some final papers at the school. If they'd had it perfectly their way, he would probably have been forced to come in a taxi.
He noted Ambrose's sudden change in tone with wide eyes. He went so quickly from teasing, to a softer, friendier tone and then all of a sudden his eyes seemed flinty as he- well talked back to the receptionist. Henry couldn't dream of speaking like that to any adult, and he could almost hear his father's voice echoing in his head, reprimanding him. Then he was setting off down the hallway, and Henry was quick to follow. He got a better look at the building itself while following the other boy, and he marvelled at how...old everything was. There were busts, and pieces of art framed out the walls, interspersed with large windows framing the grounds, giving him glimpses of other buildings and the forest that surrounded the school.
He didn't ask where Ambrose was leading him, half because of his general nervousness on speaking and half because he didn't yet know how to get a read on him. Henry assumed that they had a destination of course, and Ambrose did have his suitcase so he was fairly sure he wouldn't be lead astray.
the lotus eater
a plume of crimson smoke
Silence wasn’t something that Ambrose detested. In fact, he quite enjoyed it. The depths of his mind were loud at majority of times, and having quiet surroundings helped him put the mingled fragments of thoughts into their rightful crevices of his head. It’s why he liked reading so much. It was a distraction from what was going on upstairs. He didn’t call it an escape, and found anybody that called reading an escape ludicrous. It was merely a distraction. That as well as music from his record player. There wasn’t any rule against having one in your room, but he hadn’t seen many others with them. Lucky for him, he played it quietly as ambient sound, so even if it wasn’t allowed, he wouldn’t get caught. Perhaps he wanted to get caught though. What were they going to do? Expel him? He doubted very highly.
“I assume you read?” He asked, finally breaking the silence. The only sound up until now had been his imperial stride, brogues clipping on the floor. His voice came out pretentious, patronising even, but that wasn’t what he was going for. Ambrose usually just sounded like that. Snark was something he was infamous for around the school grounds. Ambrose didn’t bother to turn around though, still walking a pace ahead of the new student. “And if, for some reason, you don’t. Then you should.” With that, he stopped at the end of the longest corridor in the school and held his hand, book hitched under his under arm, against the two colosal doors which roomed the library.
That was the moment he turned, face still stagnant and unemotional. He looked neither inviting nor unwelcoming. “And this is where you will come to do so. We have a menagerie of art books, novels, non fiction. And if you don’t like the old smell, you e come to the wrong place. It’s most pungent in here that it is the whole campus.” Ambrose then curtly nodded, and entered the room.
The library was a beautiful place to anybody who liked any artistic subject. An abundance of books which seemed to spam for miles and miles. If you started reading now and read every second of the day for years, you still wouldn’t have read them all after a century. The older man led him through, holding open the door as they passed. “I’ll let you decide where you want to go. I always judge a man on what he reads. So, show me the way.” He held out his arm and bowed back as if to say without talking, proceed.
“I assume you read?” He asked, finally breaking the silence. The only sound up until now had been his imperial stride, brogues clipping on the floor. His voice came out pretentious, patronising even, but that wasn’t what he was going for. Ambrose usually just sounded like that. Snark was something he was infamous for around the school grounds. Ambrose didn’t bother to turn around though, still walking a pace ahead of the new student. “And if, for some reason, you don’t. Then you should.” With that, he stopped at the end of the longest corridor in the school and held his hand, book hitched under his under arm, against the two colosal doors which roomed the library.
That was the moment he turned, face still stagnant and unemotional. He looked neither inviting nor unwelcoming. “And this is where you will come to do so. We have a menagerie of art books, novels, non fiction. And if you don’t like the old smell, you e come to the wrong place. It’s most pungent in here that it is the whole campus.” Ambrose then curtly nodded, and entered the room.
The library was a beautiful place to anybody who liked any artistic subject. An abundance of books which seemed to spam for miles and miles. If you started reading now and read every second of the day for years, you still wouldn’t have read them all after a century. The older man led him through, holding open the door as they passed. “I’ll let you decide where you want to go. I always judge a man on what he reads. So, show me the way.” He held out his arm and bowed back as if to say without talking, proceed.
