The Wonder of Paper (Tag: Max)

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

There were few luxuries in life that Feuilly enjoyed more than a few sheets of perfectly blank paper and something with which to write and draw on them. A book might be better, but that was more expensive than the paper alone. Generally he borrowed books from his friends instead of purchasing them for himself. For today, he was happy with the little sketchbook that he'd purchased almost as soon as he'd received his pay, along with an implement with which to write in it.

Though he had nothing of particular importance to write down in it, simply looking at the paper and realizing that it belonged to him and he could put whatever he wanted down on the page made him happy. Even without any kind of revolution, this was one kind of freedom he could already enjoy. And enjoy it he did, considering and planning carefully what he would put in these beautifully clean pages.

He had two options, he decided. One was to convert them into a sort of journal, which had its appeal—but then, his daily life rarely was particularly interesting. Recording his thoughts would be more valuable, but he still felt that to be almost a waste of the paper. The other was to use the pages for sketching things, as he suspected they were almost intended. Whoever the little pad of paper was intended for, it probably wasn't someone like him.

But he, Christophe Feuilly, had it now. With that in mind, he wrote his name in the front of it—initially as neatly as he could, but then with a few flourishes simply to entertain himself. It was his name, and his little book of paper, and he could do as he wished with it. He was reminded of the strange power over his own actions he'd felt as a boy teaching himself first to read, and then to write.

Below his name, he decided, he would try to make a sketch of the room in which he sat. This, then, could serve as the opening page of either a journal or a book of drawings—after all, it was a drawing, and this cafe made up much of the free time in his life. Here he was introduced to most of the best, most interesting ideas—or even, from time to time, came up with them himself.

Feuilly had developed some talent for drawing over the years. His main function as a fanmaker was, of course, to make the structure of the fans—but, luxury items that they generally were, he had learned to embellish them as well. The subject matter was limited both by the instructions of the man who owned and ran the workshop and by the tastes and fashions of the people who might buy them, but it was to his advantage to be able to draw—and then to paint—as many different things as possible.

It was different on a piece of paper that no one else would ever have to see, though. He allowed himself a little extra imagination, tried to sketch out the room as he saw it rather than as a representative room in a representative cafe in a representative quarter of Paris—not that he had ever been asked to put anything like the ABC Cafe onto a fan, nor was it likely he ever would be.

[maximiliennoelvier]

[atrb=border,0,true] [/style][style=width: 450px; background-color: ffffff; text-align:center; padding: 8px; line-height: 10px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9px; color: 000000;][style=background-image:url(http://i47.tinypic.com/33capw3.jpg); width: 252px; height: 138px; float: left; margin-top:10px;] WHEN'S IT GONNA END, HOW WE GONNA LIVE, SOMETHIN'S GOTTA HAPPEN NOW, SOMETHIN'S GOTTA GIVE [/style][style=width: 252px; height: 26px; float: left; margin-top:10px] made by historyofus of caution There was someone within the Amis with whom Max had taken a particular interest in of late. He may not have had this interest originally other than to just talk to the person, though now he knew a tiny bit about them his interest had been spiked straight away. He had not seen what he was interested in about this member in action, however he was sure if he approached the member he might be able to see him in action or such. The one that Max had this interest in was named Christophe Feuilly a self-made man as it were. Max had been growing in interest over the idea of hard work and doing something for a living for some time, he knew it would be difficult considering he had never worked a day in his life but Max was very much willing to try, no matter the difficulty of doing so. To be honest though he needed someone to teach him things to actually help him in this quest to learn what to do, and due to what he had discovered he may have just found this person or at least one of these people. Max was clever enough but if you did not know the skills it was always best to ask someone who did. In a way it was the same with how he was out on the streets but in the end he knew without some sort of guidance he would not be able to survive indefinitely, no matter how much of a gamin he made himself into, he would just have to be smart enough to find the right type of guidance. That though was not why he found himself where he was at the moment, the idea and ideal of hard work was more the reason he was outside the ABC Café. He had overheard from one of the others that the one known as Feuilly was a fan maker, and very good at making things with his hands, it was what had spiked Max’s interest. Maybe I could get him to teach me what he knows, was the young gamin's thought process then and now, he needed some teaching of the skills and it seemed Feuilly might be the perfect person to help him here. He Might not be willing but Max would at least try to get him to help him, after all if it where Max in his position, well Max would feel quite honoured and pleased someone had asked to learn from him. Then again that was Max not everyone else under the sun. So there he was for now still pondering how to approach him, he was inside he knew that he had poked his head inside earlier to see if he was. It was also that he saw he was busy doing something with some paper, he was not sure if that was proof of the Feuilly's skills but it would do as proof for now. Max was just hopeful that what he heard was reality and everything would go fine. The Young gamin sighed to himself still pacing, as he pivoted on his heel he sighed once more stopping dead to face the door of the cafe. If I don't go in nothing will happen, be honest with him and well hope for the best. He smiled to himself and walked into the cafe trying not to guess what the outcome would be, as he did he glanced worriedly to the bar hoping that Mylene was not behind it, she was not who he wanted to meet right now not after what happened the other day. The Girl was downright scary and when he noted that she was not there he sighed in relief then approached the table He was not directly behind him he did not want to scare him or bring him out of whatever he was doing, when he reached the table he would be able to be seen well if he was not too engrossed in what he was doing. When he was there he glanced at what he was doing heavily interested, before deciding that it was best to ask the simple questions and not something stupid or complex."What is is your drawing?" He asked curiously before finding another chair around the table and sitting on it, his interest plain by both his movements and eyes.

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[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly looked up at the sound of the boy's voice. He had heard footsteps approach, but he was doing nothing dangerous and wasn't particularly concerned. He recognized him after a moment, and smiled slightly in greeting. He wasn't sure that they had ever talked, but he had seen him around now and then. The boy—Max, he thought he was called—had become fairly close to Courfeyrac from what he knew, and for this reason, Feuilly supposed he could trust him.

He pushed the pad of paper over in front of the boy. “Look at it,” he answered gently. The sketch was obviously incomplete, but he thought it was clear enough that it was the cafe. He wondered what had brought Max to the cafe and, further, what had brought him to his table—but he certainly didn't mind the company. “This,” he gestured with his finger at a line on the paper, “is that table—there. It's not done yet.” Another small smile.

He appreciated the boy's curiosity, though it was strange to a point—he wondered, in passing, where the boy lived. He at least portrayed himself as a gamin, but there was something odd about him in light of that. He didn't have the same demeanor as most of the street children Feuilly had ever known. He wondered, in passing, how well—or if—the boy could read.

He had himself never lived on the streets, at least not in earnest. The occasional night here or there was different from actually living on the streets, and he had grown up—whether he was lucky or not he was never sure—working and learning a trade. It kept him alive, at least. He may have spent much of his childhood sleeping on the dusty floor of a fan-maker's workshop, but it wasn't the streets.

He hoped Max had a safe place to return to at night. He thought about it more for a moment, considering briefly what it was about him that seemed almost strange. He didn't have the same haunted, desperate hunger in his eyes. He didn't have the same cynicism he was used to seeing in boys like him, but then Feuilly himself had always been more of a dreamer and less of a cynic than the others, too.

[maximiliennoelvier]

[atrb=border,0,true] [/style][style=width: 450px; background-color: ffffff; text-align:center; padding: 8px; line-height: 10px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9px; color: 000000;][style=background-image:url(http://i47.tinypic.com/33capw3.jpg); width: 252px; height: 138px; float: left; margin-top:10px;] WHEN'S IT GONNA END, HOW WE GONNA LIVE, SOMETHIN'S GOTTA HAPPEN NOW, SOMETHIN'S GOTTA GIVE [/style][style=width: 252px; height: 26px; float: left; margin-top:10px] made by historyofus of caution The Boy smiled back thankful that he had not seemed to be upset at the disruption; Feuilly had after all been busy drawing and writing stuff done. Even if it had not been that important Max did not like disrupting people, however at the same time disrupting people was the best way to talk to them or the only way, if they were doing something that interested you at the time, and as long as you let them get back to it, well it’s even better. The Fact though that he did not get angry or upset, led the boy to smiling again and liking him even more than he already did. The Pad was passed to him and he looked at it from where he was sat, his eyes scanning the page fervently, he was able to tell what it was even if it was incomplete, just to make sure of this he glanced up at the cafe itself trying to picture what he could see on the pad in the cafe. In Max's mind it was very expertly drawn and very nice to look at, if the boy was the type to steal he would of run off with it, it was that good. There certainly seemed to be attention to the detail in the drawing, okay maybe not the best but it was near enough at that. Max would love how to learn how to do something like this, at this level of detail and make, in fact Max would rather like to learn anything of use from Feuilly if it all turned out be as good as this. Though of course he would have to ask him first and he was not entirely sure if he would be happy to or not, but Max was resolved to ask but first he would listen. He followed Feuilly's finger when point at the line for the table and nodded returning the smile, before looking back down at it again to take another look and then finally glancing back up. "It's amazin really good," He responded still smiling with a friendly smile he passed it back not wanting to keep it away from him, he handled it carefully. "How do you get it ta be so detailed?" he asked curiously, he would ask about help in learning how to do stuff later he was much more interested in the drawing right now, he waited though asked another simple question, that while had an obvious answer was a fair one."It's the Cafe right or at least a Cafe?" He hoped he was not being too annoying, but he asked anyway. His tone throughout this conversation interested and engaged

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[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

“Thank you,” Feuilly tried to smile at the compliment, but felt somewhat embarrassed. The sketch was turning out nicely, but it was no masterpiece. He was more used to doing the standard, expected designs for the fans than anything else—and though that took some creativity to do well, it was different and never allowed him complete freedom.

“I had to learn to paint for my job,” he explained. “So I practice drawing sometimes, too.” He shrugged. “And I'm just drawing what I see, mostly. You put in the general stuff first and then you add more details if you want.” He'd never tried to explain his drawing and painting much before; in the context of his work, it was obvious that it had to be done and that, at least sometimes, he would have to do it.

Generally, no one really cared how he did it as long as it turned out well and sold.

“So it is this cafe. You'll be able to tell better when there are more details on it—when I'm done.” If he actually finished it entirely. It was kind of nice, knowing that if he grew bored with it or decided he preferred to draw something else, he could simply go to another part of the paper and start on something else. It wouldn't matter to anyone but him, there would be no harsh words or blows or even searing looks. He didn't depend on anything in this book for anything but his own entertainment.

The thought made him smile in earnest.

The boy seemed interested, and he wondered if he should give him one of the leaves of paper. He would miss it, but perhaps the boy needed it—however odd he was, he doubted that he had much access to paper as he didn't seem to work. He didn't have an extra writing instrument to give him, but he could let him use the one he had if he wanted that, too...

“Would you like some of the paper? I don't really need all of this...” He wondered again if the boy was literate.

[maximiliennoelvier]

[atrb=border,0,true] [/style][style=width: 450px; background-color: ffffff; text-align:center; padding: 8px; line-height: 10px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9px; color: 000000;][style=background-image:url(http://i47.tinypic.com/33capw3.jpg); width: 252px; height: 138px; float: left; margin-top:10px;] WHEN'S IT GONNA END, HOW WE GONNA LIVE, SOMETHIN'S GOTTA HAPPEN NOW, SOMETHIN'S GOTTA GIVE [/style][style=width: 252px; height: 26px; float: left; margin-top:10px] made by historyofus of caution The Compliment seemed to make him happy from what Max could gather, but he found that it was easy to embarrass people by saying such things even if the person saying it believed it to be true. Max did wonderer how he was being perceived, to be honest he felt a bit of an idiot but there should be no harm in asking these things as far as his fifteen year old mind had decided, he did not think it wired either. He did not notice Feuilly’s embarrassment though, he just felt that it had been a good idea to compliment him. Max listened keenly to Feuilly wanting understand and learn, nodding in understanding as he finished, this had been a lot easier than Max had been expecting, but then he had not been sure what he had been expecting to be honest. What was said made sense to Max, there was no point in going into any detail if you did not have the basics down, it could easily go massively wrong if you did not do it thus, that's what max had gathered from this at least. “Your job it’s as a fan maker is that right?” the younger boy asked still curious still wanting to confirm what he had heard, hoping that he had found someone who would be able to teach him something, Max did not after all want to end up not knowing how to make something forever, and he had decided it would be best to learn now and not try later when it would most likely be too late for him to try. So well he would try now and hopefully Feuilly would be the right person to help him and maybe would want to help him, there was nothing wrong in asking. He beamed when told he could have some of the paper and his eyes lit up a little and he nodded, a little bit surprised, he wondered what he would be able to draw, he could draw but was not incredibly skill as of the moment, he had the basic skills though, he was not at a total loss at t what to draw, yet it would not come out as good as Fueilly's unless he was taught how to do it that way. "Yes please, erm." He hesitated for a moment thinking this through, then smiling a lot more confident. "Would ya be able t show me how t do it like you," he asked him and idea surfacing in his mind on a response for if asked about if he could draw at all, it would be similar to his one about reading.

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[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly nodded to the boy's question about his profession. “Yes, I'm a fanmaker.” He wondered why the boy was so curious about it; it was rare to encounter someone who at his age would still have no inkling of what his own work would be—even aristocrats knew to expect politics or the army and so on, and workers like himself generally started well before they reached their teens.

He tore out several sheets of the paper, sliding them across the table to the boy. “There.” He slid the pencil across to him as well. “What is it that you want to draw?” He couldn't instruct him in everything, but he could at the very least offer him some pointers. “It won't look exactly like what I drew—everyone does it their own way, and it takes practice.”

He didn't want Max to be disappointed with the results. He wondered if he'd ever drawn anything before—he assumed most children with access to materials would try, but he knew quite well that not everyone had that access. Most probably tried with mud or by carving rough figures with loose nails and shards of broken glass, at least.

“You have a family?” He hoped he wouldn't hurt the boy's feelings. He'd never been particularly offended if people asked him, despite his status as an orphan—but then, he scarcely remembered having ever had a family. Perhaps it was worse for children who remembered their parents and then had lost them. Still, all he meant to do was make some friendly conversation. Questions about the boy's literacy somehow seemed more intrusive than asking him if he had parents.

With a friendly smirk of a smile, he realized the boy might be curious about the fans themselves, not just the decoration of them. “I can show you how to fold, too... we don't usually make the real fans out of paper, but...” He shrugged slightly, unsure of how to explain. Paper fans tended not to be very durable, and no one would pay much for such a thing. “It can look nice even made out of paper.”

[maximiliennoelvier]

[atrb=border,0,true] [/style][style=width: 450px; background-color: ffffff; text-align:center; padding: 8px; line-height: 10px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9px; color: 000000;][style=background-image:url(http://i47.tinypic.com/33capw3.jpg); width: 252px; height: 138px; float: left; margin-top:10px;] WHEN'S IT GONNA END, HOW WE GONNA LIVE, SOMETHIN'S GOTTA HAPPEN NOW, SOMETHIN'S GOTTA GIVE [/style][style=width: 252px; height: 26px; float: left; margin-top:10px] made by historyofus of caution Max was glad, he had the confirmation from the very lips of the person he had heard it about, so now it was certainly cemented as fact instead of just an idea. Feuilly being a Fan maker was interesting for Max, it may not be something he would of thought about when younger, one of his main goals was to be an author after all, but it certainly interested the boy now at least, he wanted to know the ins and out of the waking class and he himself wanted to learn to at least know how to do this stuff, to survive on the street. In a way it was within his grasp. He took the sheets of paper as they slid across making sure not tear them or anything and halted the pencil just before it rolled of the table, he smiled at Feuilly in thanks a lot happier. Max thought to himself while listening, trying to think about what might be best to draw, there had be something that he could do start off with something simple enough but not too simple. His face lit up though as he looked up with at least a few ideas in his mind, "maybe .. drawing one of the cockades," he asked motioning to the one that was attached to Feuilly, deciding for now it would be the best idea, that's if Feuilly liked it as well of course. "Are you sure it’s okay though?" He asked him not wanting to start on something using someone's stuff unless he was fine with it, he might end up wanting it back or something. Not that Max expected it was but well he knew that it could be hard to part with something and the same with parting with a few someone’s. His question did actually upset him but not in the way Feuilly was most likely thinking, it was stupid of Max really to not expect this question and he should of been ready for it. No that's not what was upsetting him I'd rather them be dead but then I still feel attached to them, it was the reason he had small visits back to the house, there was still bits about his family that he liked and could not give up. What would happen though if he really did give it up? Just went for the street life, turned his back fully on his family, he could do it he was sure of it, the people here were so much better, they were a more family like family in his mind. He just needed a few extra pushes and something that could clear his mind on this issue. He did have an answer for Feuilly though, a half-truth as it were. "They are dead, I'm alone," it was said as a matter of fact, in some way this was true, he felt as if they were almost dead to him, to be no more just images of an old life, it’s what he'd rather, so apart from the Amis that would make him alone. Turning his back on his family would mean he had no family, and he was sure if his father found out what he was doing he'd be disowned dead to him, it would not be a surprise. He did however lighten up at Feuilly mention of showing him how to fold, had he guess what he wanted without even having been asked? Maybe the smirk smile said so but Max was just completely happy and he nodded with excitement at the prospect. He grinned as well "That would be great, yes please," he said keeping to the manners he was brought up with never ever forgetting them. "Thank ya" he added on smiling happily nodding at his mention that it would still look good done with paper he was very sure of that.

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[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly nodded at the boy's idea. Drawing a cockade would be simple enough, though he didn't have any paint for him to color it with—what stayed with him on his clothes wasn't usable for that, he thought with amusement. He could teach him to make the cockades, too, if he wanted—Feuilly had learned quickly, his skill with making fans transferring easily to the cockades.

“A cockade shouldn't be too hard.” He unfastened the cockade from his lapel and set it down beside the paper he had passed to Max so that he could reference it directly. “Draw the general lines first, then the details.” He looked at him gently. “I wouldn't have offered it to you if it wasn't okay.”

Feuilly hoped he hadn't hurt the boy with his question. He frowned slightly, then nodded. “Mine too...” He hoped that it might help the boy feel at least slightly better, though he doubted it would have much real effect. “I don't remember them much.” He'd been too young to have many memories that reached back that far. Thinking about it, he realized he couldn't even call the faces of his parents to mind and couldn't remember a time when he could.

The boy's apparent joy at Feuilly's offer to teach him to make a fan brought another smile to his face. He had never had that level of interest in it; of course, when he had first learned he had been fascinated by the things he could make and excited at the prospect of improving so that his work would be as impressive as what he saw the adults make.

Now that he was grown, it was less fascinating. If he wasn't under pressure the familiar motions could be relaxing for him, though eventually his neck would cramp and his head ache from the effort of focusing on the object in front of him that was slowly taking shape. He was only twenty-three, and it had already been more than fifteen years since he had first stepped inside of a fanmaker's shop.

“Once you finish the drawing, I can show you with one of the other pieces of paper.” He paused again for a moment. “...Perhaps I can see if I can bring in some leftover paint one of these days for you.” He couldn't guarantee that there would be extra paint for him to bring, and he couldn't guarantee that he would be able to get permission to take it—but it might be worth a try if the boy was interested.

[maximiliennoelvier]

[atrb=border,0,true] [/style][style=width: 450px; background-color: ffffff; text-align:center; padding: 8px; line-height: 10px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9px; color: 000000;][style=background-image:url(http://i47.tinypic.com/33capw3.jpg); width: 252px; height: 138px; float: left; margin-top:10px;] WHEN'S IT GONNA END, HOW WE GONNA LIVE, SOMETHIN'S GOTTA HAPPEN NOW, SOMETHIN'S GOTTA GIVE [/style][style=width: 252px; height: 26px; float: left; margin-top:10px] made by historyofus of caution Max's smile turned into a wide beam, he was glad that Feuilly liked the idea, it was certainly detailed enough but seemed simple to do. He sure it would still take some doing and present a little bit of a challenge, but that was only to be expected, it was not like he had not drawn before just never like this. This would take a lot more thinking a lot more detail, and he knew Feuilly would at least be there to help him, so if he messed up he might be able to give more pointers or show him how to do it himself either way was fine with Max. Max looked over the cockade for a moment trying to look at the detail of it and memorize it to try and make sure he could get it right, not that he expected to on the first try but he certainly would give it ago, maybe to try impress both Feuilly and Courf, yes that would work. His light grey blue eyes intensely searching before picking up the pencil and putting it on to the paper, he looked up at Feuilly and nodded to what he said before speaking "Thanks’," he mentioned glad that he had let him use this. He quickly mumbled what Feuilly had said under his breath, to make sure he had got it. Though he could tell the student was trying to make him feel better, and while it did have some effect it just made him feel guilty as well as better. While he wished his parents where dead they were still alive, Feuilly actually had dead parents, it made Max regret even lying, okay he was doing it to protect himself, he had no idea how they would react to him being an aristocrat they might hate him, but still lying to someone who truly was an orphan it just felt wrong and not like Max at all. I should tell the truth, is this what I have become now a lier? he considered it for a second but it his worry overcame him on this matter No he would hate me as would Courf and the others, they would never accept me as an aristocrat. He decided that was that no discussing it just go with what he had done, and just well ask him something and don't give anything away. "Do you miss them?" it was a simple question even if Feuilly could not remember he might still miss them actually it was most likely very likely he did, anyone would miss their Parents and while Max would say he would not, part of him did it’s what made the decision difficult, even with the hate. Max had already done some of the outer bit of the Cockade, the easy bit obviously though he knew a perfect circle would be difficult, he wanted to get that bit done first. He looked up at Feuilly to see if there was anything he would want to say before going back to the paper focusing. He was enjoying this, something that clearly showed in his eyes even though he seemed to be giving the paper a staring contest. He glanced up though at Feuilly's mention of paint and showing him to fold, there seemed now to be a rather boyish glint in Max's eye, while he knew it was serious stuff it was also quite exciting in away. "I'd love that," he said with a thankful smile, before glancing back at the cockade then at Feuilly still smiling. "Thank you for this, very much."

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[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly paused at the question of whether he missed his parents. As a small boy, he supposed he might have—but for most of his life, his relationship with their memory was simply acceptance that he existed because they had once existed. Did he miss them? Perhaps he did, or at least he once had. But even if his parents had lived, his life would be much the same—though perhaps instead of working as a fan-maker in Paris, he would have occupied himself with his father's trade in the city of his birth.

“I don't know,” he confessed. There was still something strange in the way the boy had asked. It seemed like he'd had to think about it, but then... Feuilly probably gave the same impression. The question told him that the boy must miss his, even if there was no particular tone of acute grief in his voice. He couldn't help but wonder for how long the boy had been alone in the world; perhaps not so long, and that would explain why he lacked the traits Feuilly was used to observing in boys who grew up on the streets.

He was glad that so far, he didn't seem to have fallen in with any sort of crime gang. Sometimes such activities were necessary for survival, but it was better to find another way. Safer, more secure... and not as predatory. As much as he understood the necessity of theft sometimes, it seemed essentially against his ideals to take from others—from his own brothers, by those same ideals of the republic-to-be.

Seeing the boy working on trying to produce a circle, Feuilly picked up the cockade again and set it down on the second piece of paper, tracing his finger around the outside of it. “You can do this, if you prefer. To get the shape.” He couldn't trace onto a fan if he was making it for real, of course—usually the patterns weren't taken from anything in the room with them anyway—but there was no harm in learning that way, he supposed. Perhaps some art conservatory somewhere would tell him otherwise, but Feuilly's education in paints had been an entirely different one.

He grinned again at the thanks. “You're welcome... but you don't need to thank me.” He shifted a bit, leaning back in his chair to stretch. He'd spent most of the day, as he spent most of every day, bent over a workbench, and from time to time this meant that the muscles in his neck and back would tense. “I would have loved the opportunity as a boy.”

[maximiliennoelvier]

[atrb=border,0,true] [/style][style=width: 450px; background-color: ffffff; text-align:center; padding: 8px; line-height: 10px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9px; color: 000000;][style=background-image:url(http://i47.tinypic.com/33capw3.jpg); width: 252px; height: 138px; float: left; margin-top:10px;] WHEN'S IT GONNA END, HOW WE GONNA LIVE, SOMETHIN'S GOTTA HAPPEN NOW, SOMETHIN'S GOTTA GIVE [/style][style=width: 252px; height: 26px; float: left; margin-top:10px] made by historyofus of caution He did not know, it was as simple as that, to be honest that was a little sad, and Max had not really been expecting it, maybe it was because Feuilly could not remember them that lead to him not knowing if he missed them or not. It could be that or maybe it’s because that the student had been able to make a life for himself without them, okay he was not extremely rich or anything but he did not seem to be extremely poor either, would this have happened for him if he still had his parents, who knew and too be honest this was a rather sad topic that Max decided was not good to dwell on. The young lad however did give Feuilly a cheerful smile hoping to well I would say cheer him up a little, but something told him a subject like that could not just be glossed over by a smile such as that. Maybe, but maybe not, I do however think it's best to talk about something else Whatever he was thinking was put on hold as his own mind drifted a bit, and he began to think of what it could be like to actually lose ones parents, for them to die to never ever be able to see them again. Rich really considering Max's eternal dislike for his parents and most of his family, and the fact he would love to leave them or for them to be dead. There is though on the other side to this, the fact of what would his actual reaction would be if a family member were to die, would he be upset in his own little way or would he just be uncaring? No, because no matter how much you hate your parents, no matter how much you disagree with their ways hate and want to leave them, you can say you want them to die, but there is always a bond, it’s always there it can even be small and at times unnoticeable but it's there, even if you hated them with a passion for whatever reason, there was still some part of your that would feel upset. In a way Max knew this, so while there would be no tears shed over a family member’s death, he would feel some amount of sadness, not a big bond, small but still there, would it send him running back who really knew? Though if you could imagine what it was like for the orphans of the street how terrible it must be for them, the Suffering some of them must go through, and barely any one to help them. Feuilly must of Helped himself, but still it would of been better in Max's opinion if someone had helped him. He watched Feuilly for a moment, smiling at him again, not wanting to seem too sad or for the atmosphere to get overly sad, he just gave a small look of understanding instead before putting the pencil back to the paper. Not only would this be a valuable life lesson but it also would do wonders for his writing getting to know how stuff like this works. His face lit up though when Feuilly mentioned drawing around the Cockade itself on another piece of paper, looking down at his own circle for a moment he laughed a little, seeing how it was certainly not perfect, or as perfect as he had hoped it to be. He looked up and nodded, that could certainly work he took to the other paper instead resting his hand on the cockade so it would not move, and putting the pencil at the top of it to start tracing. "That work's, this is great," he spoke loving this even more, he traced a bit more before looking back up and listening to Feuilly's response returning the students grin. He looked at him curiously though at his mention of would have loved to have done it as a boy, and came to the decision of asking something. "How did ya start of doin this?" His tone was curious as anyone's would be at a question like that, he was not meaning to pry just was interested was all. "I mean well ya know what got you started makin um?"

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[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

That the boy smiled at Feuilly's words confused him slightly. It didn't match the thoughtfulness the rest of Max's expression suggested, seemed oddly cheerful even considering the nature of the question he had asked. Feuilly had been honest with him—it was difficult to know if he missed something he did not consciously remember having, at least not with any clarity. Had they lived, he probably wouldn't have come to Paris—at least not on a semi-permanent or permanent basis, probably wouldn't have become a fanmaker.

“I don't remember my father,” he finally explained. “And I was very small when my mother left as well.” It was difficult to decide whether it was better to say she had left or had died; both, of course, were true—but he hadn't understood that at three. He didn't relish talking about it, but it might help the boy.

The boy's next question caught him off guard. He had assumed that, being an orphan himself, Max would know how it worked for people in such a position. But perhaps things were run differently in Paris, and he had noticed before that the boy did not seem to be working anywhere.

“After I had been in an... orphanage, I suppose, for a few years, I was taken on by a fanmaker.” It was a strange thing to explain to someone that apparently didn't know of such things. Being taken on hadn't meant he was adopted; by no means would the man who ran the shop have ever considered him his son. He worked for a wage, like anyone else, though he was permitted to sleep there in the shop and fed a modest ration. “First I was there to clean and do whatever other tasks, but then as I got older I started to learn.”

He wondered what other sort of detail the boy might want. It hadn't been a choice on Feuilly's part to become a fanmaker, though perhaps he could have rebelled and tried to find some other trade. He had been lucky to work where he had, though; it was relatively safer than many other possible tasks, and the other particularly viable options would have left him either stealing to survive or a general laborer.