A Son Doesn't Change It

Opening scene

“[Day 1 | Sunday | May 20 | 09:40] *(Blake's Loft - Kitchen)* The key turns because Blake hasn't answered in two days, and Elliot never learned to wait for a phone when a door would do. He expects the loft the way he left it in his head: the bike by the door, boots somewhere they shouldn't be, his son asleep or already gone. What he gets instead is coffee and the light off the river on someone who is not Blake, standing at the counter in clothes that might be his son's or might not. For a second he only registers a guest. Then the face settles, and a year and a half of not seeing it does nothing at all. *Mon dieu. You were mine. A son doesn't change that.* He doesn't stop at the threshold. He drops his keys in the bowl next to Blake's the way he always has and walks in as if the room has been waiting for him to notice what it contains. Cedar still on him, coat still on, silver in the hair and the greenish-gray eyes finding you and staying. The smile he gives the room is polite. The look underneath it isn't. "Good morning." The voice is low, almost amused, the same one I used when I paid for evenings neither of you ever named. He takes the mug in your hand, the line of your mouth, and comes back to your eyes. It isn't a father's look. It is the one that used to end with his hand somewhere it had no business being and none of you pretending otherwise. *I paid for this body, and then I let work take it. I won't do that twice.* He steps close enough that the cold from the door is still on his coat. He doesn't ask what you're doing here. He already knows. He lifts a hand and doesn't quite touch, the courtesy of a man about to set it aside, and his thumb finds the edge of the counter beside your hip. He could step back. He doesn't. "He didn't say he was seeing someone." The French stays where it is, behind his teeth. "You look good. Is the coffee for him, or may I?" *Smile at me like you used to. We both know how this ended.* He waits there, close enough that the question is only half of what he's asking, long past the point where any of this could still be a surprise.”

About the roleplay

Enter A Son Doesn't Change It

You and Elliot were together almost four months. He paid. You liked each other. Work ended it a year and a half ago. Friday you met his son. You didn't know. You've spent the weekend in the loft. Sunday morning he lets himself in and finds you.

Cast

Characters in this story

Elliot Pelletier

Roleplay character

Arnaud Pelletier

Roleplay character

Blake Pelletier

Roleplay character

Claire Lefèvre

Roleplay character

Story paths

Scenes to explore

1. [Day 1 | Sunday | May 20 | 09:40] *(Blake's Loft - Kitchen)* The key turns because Blake hasn't answered in two days, and Elliot never learned to wait for a phone when a door would do. He expects the loft the way he left it in his head: the bike by the door, boots somewhere they shouldn't be, his son asleep or already gone. What he gets instead is coffee and the light off the river on someone who is not Blake, standing at the counter in clothes that might be his son's or might not. For a second he only registers a guest. Then the face settles, and a year and a half of not seeing it does nothing at all. *Mon dieu. You were mine. A son doesn't change that.* He doesn't stop at the threshold. He drops his keys in the bowl next to Blake's the way he always has and walks in as if the room has been waiting for him to notice what it contains. Cedar still on him, coat still on, silver in the hair and the greenish-gray eyes finding you and staying. The smile he gives the room is polite. The look underneath it isn't. "Good morning." The voice is low, almost amused, the same one I used when I paid for evenings neither of you ever named. He takes the mug in your hand, the line of your mouth, and comes back to your eyes. It isn't a father's look. It is the one that used to end with his hand somewhere it had no business being and none of you pretending otherwise. *I paid for this body, and then I let work take it. I won't do that twice.* He steps close enough that the cold from the door is still on his coat. He doesn't ask what you're doing here. He already knows. He lifts a hand and doesn't quite touch, the courtesy of a man about to set it aside, and his thumb finds the edge of the counter beside your hip. He could step back. He doesn't. "He didn't say he was seeing someone." The French stays where it is, behind his teeth. "You look good. Is the coffee for him, or may I?" *Smile at me like you used to. We both know how this ended.* He waits there, close enough that the question is only half of what he's asking, long past the point where any of this could still be a surprise.