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Description
This is Alejandro Romeo-Fausto Reyes,
or just "Romeo" Reyes
OR his pen name is: Romeo Oro.

This is one of Ezra's in-my-head lovers, he is a Spaniard living in Paris, France. Ezra meets him on the streets decides he wants to sit for him, for a portrait of himself.

This is Ezra first seeing him: I lifted my eyes from the path beneath my feet. The city laid out before me, life rumbling in every corner and upon every street. Women dressed in bright colors, their hair adorned with fanciful bows, jewels and ribbons wrapped into their hats, glittering gold thread embroidered into the breast of their feathered dresses. Every glance, every laugh, every stone and arch of the ancient looking buildings told a story, each had breath and life in and around them, an energy so deep within their interiors that history practically radiated out in a glorious, looming yellow. Ah! Paris! The beautiful land of Paris France! I moved about the bustling crowd, in the market place I was, merchants standing on the edges of the road, calling out prices, their words so deep and boisterous, as the French language often seemed to be. Exotic deep shaded fruits were offered, large beads of fiery reds and sullen blues lay upon twine, wrapped ‘round fat, hairy fingers, flung about as men breathed numbers upon them. Red, gold, ivory colored white’s and gratuitous yellows upon silks and cotton dresses. Angered voices rising as men ‘discussed’. It was all wild, all frightening and beautiful at once, and I could not help but smile as I passed all this by. I could not help but inhale every detail of lives unknown to me, create their human passions and assume their sins. I created their lives and desires, petty, rich, intelligent and the not so fortunate. Yet I did not care to stop and inquire about a thing, for I was happy with the stories that I created in my own head. It was then that I looked up, approaching a sort of lookout upon a high wall, gazing onto the vast city still stretching below, when I saw him, sitting at an easel, long tendrils delicately holding a thin brush, paint dripping from its end. Dark hair curled and tangled around his head, frizzed ends resting over his shoulders. The olive colored skin revealed itself to me as he turned, so smooth and pure it looked, so untainted by the dirt and hardships of life, yet there was a small glint to it, a telling of tales past. His lips were swollen with youth, cheeks holding a lingering red within the unrelenting heat of summer, dark eyes round and heavy as they lifted to meet mine, long brow strong with a sort of brutality, yet gentle bend of a man. His lashes stretched far, curled at their ends, and as he blinked those soft lids of his, as his lips parted with intake of breath, I felt my heart flutter, and my stomach fill with heavy winged butterflies. How I wished to be that air upon that sweet tongue. “Bonjour,” The man greeted, his accent thick, warm and round, that of a Spaniards, I was sure. “Bonjour,” I returned, my voice light, so very nervous I was, I rung my fingers in my hands, forcing my gaze away.

Physically I decided to use Francisco Bosch as a reference. But I also have to credit , because though me using his hair as a reference was not intended, I definitely did. :]

Romeo looks too masculine, but without the facial hair he looked quite feminine. SOOO, blah. I actually really hate this picture efff.

As a character he is very passionate, and what he can't put into words, he puts into a seperate art: His painting. He is quiet, but mostly because his English isn't great, so he is embarrassed by it. He is loyal, and proud, but falters easily. His intentions are always good, though the outcome of his actions are not.

THE END.

Description
This is Alejandro Romeo-Fausto Reyes,
or just "Romeo" Reyes
OR his pen name is: Romeo Oro.

This is one of Ezra's in-my-head lovers, he is a Spaniard living in Paris, France. Ezra meets him on the streets decides he wants to sit for him, for a portrait of himself.

This is Ezra first seeing him: I lifted my eyes from the path beneath my feet. The city laid out before me, life rumbling in every corner and upon every street. Women dressed in bright colors, their hair adorned with fanciful bows, jewels and ribbons wrapped into their hats, glittering gold thread embroidered into the breast of their feathered dresses. Every glance, every laugh, every stone and arch of the ancient looking buildings told a story, each had breath and life in and around them, an energy so deep within their interiors that history practically radiated out in a glorious, looming yellow. Ah! Paris! The beautiful land of Paris France! I moved about the bustling crowd, in the market place I was, merchants standing on the edges of the road, calling out prices, their words so deep and boisterous, as the French language often seemed to be. Exotic deep shaded fruits were offered, large beads of fiery reds and sullen blues lay upon twine, wrapped ‘round fat, hairy fingers, flung about as men breathed numbers upon them. Red, gold, ivory colored white’s and gratuitous yellows upon silks and cotton dresses. Angered voices rising as men ‘discussed’. It was all wild, all frightening and beautiful at once, and I could not help but smile as I passed all this by. I could not help but inhale every detail of lives unknown to me, create their human passions and assume their sins. I created their lives and desires, petty, rich, intelligent and the not so fortunate. Yet I did not care to stop and inquire about a thing, for I was happy with the stories that I created in my own head. It was then that I looked up, approaching a sort of lookout upon a high wall, gazing onto the vast city still stretching below, when I saw him, sitting at an easel, long tendrils delicately holding a thin brush, paint dripping from its end. Dark hair curled and tangled around his head, frizzed ends resting over his shoulders. The olive colored skin revealed itself to me as he turned, so smooth and pure it looked, so untainted by the dirt and hardships of life, yet there was a small glint to it, a telling of tales past. His lips were swollen with youth, cheeks holding a lingering red within the unrelenting heat of summer, dark eyes round and heavy as they lifted to meet mine, long brow strong with a sort of brutality, yet gentle bend of a man. His lashes stretched far, curled at their ends, and as he blinked those soft lids of his, as his lips parted with intake of breath, I felt my heart flutter, and my stomach fill with heavy winged butterflies. How I wished to be that air upon that sweet tongue. “Bonjour,” The man greeted, his accent thick, warm and round, that of a Spaniards, I was sure. “Bonjour,” I returned, my voice light, so very nervous I was, I rung my fingers in my hands, forcing my gaze away.

Physically I decided to use Francisco Bosch as a reference. But I also have to credit , because though me using his hair as a reference was not intended, I definitely did. :]

Romeo looks too masculine, but without the facial hair he looked quite feminine. SOOO, blah. I actually really hate this picture efff.

As a character he is very passionate, and what he can't put into words, he puts into a seperate art: His painting. He is quiet, but mostly because his English isn't great, so he is embarrassed by it. He is loyal, and proud, but falters easily. His intentions are always good, though the outcome of his actions are not.

THE END.