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Post by arthurkirkland on Oct 5, 2011 1:16:59 GMT -5
People tend to think a lot more at night, and Arthur completely agrees. These nights, he was haunted by memories of the clearest blue eyes one could ever see. The events linked to it were a bit hazy at first but it was coming back to him slowly... And to be honest, he wasn't sure if he liked it.
"And what can I get for you, Arthur?"
The Englishman looked up to the female bartender, "Ah. The usual is fine."
Outside, the rain was pouring heavily onto the streets of London, the pitter patters echoing softly as the music in the almost empty bar played.
"So, how's the trip to New York?" She asks while mixing and pouring out his drink. Arthur flushes a little.
"Fine." He mumbles, causing the bartender to nod in response.
"So how long are you staying this time?"
"Not sure, but I am staying in London a little longer this time." He replies. He needed more time to think over things... She puts the drink in front of him with a smile.
"In that case, do drop by here more often. The bar gets a little lonely at times." She laughs, gesturing towards the empty seats.
"Thanks." He lifted up his glass. "I will."
Four more years of obeying authority, without question. Don't reach super sighted. There's only one thousand four hundred sixteen pages left to read, it will be time to celebrate when its time to graduate.
"Catchy chorus." Arthur commented before taking a sip. Just then, there was a newcomer. The bartender looks up with a smile.
"Welcome."
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Post by fbonnefoy on Oct 9, 2011 1:12:03 GMT -5
[OOC] ASDF I've been so busy, I don't even. I DON'T EVEN.
As welcome as his trip to New York and Tokyo had been, it was seeing his nephew flush in delight at the sights and sounds of Paris (mon dieu, to think that Mathieu had never visited his aunt or uncle in the beautiful lights of his hometown; it wrenched at his heart, it did) that made Francis's month. Tourists were always greeted with open arms (although Americans, in particular, seemed to have a difficult time overlooking their own egos, ahem), and family members were only outside of that spectrum in the sense that they were coddled and showered with affection like none other. It killed him to watch Mathieu board his plane (to go back to that monotonous workplace of his--with his dreadfully dull supervisor--, mostly), but life was never so kind as to prolong sweet peace and prospect.
Cue the rain.
Francis frowned a bit deeper as he rushed about the outskirts of West London, huddled underneath the stretched nylon and steel wings of his poor umbrella as it was harassed by the relentless autumn (year-round, really) torrents of London rain. He must have been drunk when he purchased a flat here. As a token Parisian once said, "We don't come here for the food or the weather." Clicking his tongue at the quotation, Francis eyed the street he'd been rushing down once more--a futile attempt in finding the damned studio he'd planned on visiting this evening--before expelling a frustrated breath and resorting to seeking shelter from the atrocious (and all-too-common) English... "weather." The gods were not too fond of England. Tonight, at least.
Spying a half-illuminated 'open' sign out of the corner of his eye, the Frenchman took a few seconds to weigh his options. Cold sleet? Or some food before running up and down the cursed English streets to find a black cab?
In less than a breath, Francis stepped underneath the overhang, shook out his beleaguered umbrella, and pushed open the door, ridding himself of his fedora with his free hand as he made his way into the all-encompassing warmth of the stereotypical--but welcome--English pub.
An immediate "welcome" caught his ears--halting his cursory glance over the new environment --and Francis turned to face the bartender (and an odd-looking (were those eyebrows? Or did the poor, mmm, chap have an unfortunate reversal of facial hair?) gentleman at the counter) with a slight smile. "Mer--Thank you." His accent was subtle, but present. "A drink would be nice, in this weather." Slight footsteps toward the counter, where he propped his folded umbrella against the seat, his fedora upon the counter. "Something warm, s'il vous plaƮt." A mild, slightly interested look at his newly claimed seat-mate (with some rather vivid emerald eyes, if he didn't say so himself) before his glance slid back to the rather attractive bartender.
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