Post by England - Arthur Kirkland on Apr 19, 2019 6:23:49 GMT
Arthur had wanted a sufficient and sparkling distraction from the new sort of grimness that had descended heavily upon the nations with the start of the time slips, frequent and unpredictable, triggered not only by touch but sometimes just by being within another nation’s close proximity. And with what their typical nation duties included, that very well couldn’t be avoided. It was best to live life as normally as possible and to soldier through the time slips whenever they happened, no matter how unpleasant many of them were. None of them harbored ideal histories, the pain of an eternal and ruthless existence, and those histories were being brought to the surface, recreated, and kept sickeningly alive in the present. As such, Arthur began to crave rather superficial distractions from this new reality. This time, he wanted to be away from his home where quite a few of these memories had been revived; he wanted to be in a place that begrudgingly also felt nearly as familiar as a home. And he wanted something to drink. He; furthermore, wanted someone familiar, for better or for worse. As non-idealistic as their history was together, France was still someone special, someone different to him. Even if some of the binds between them were created from pain, an ugly history wrought with their separate past cruelties, the occasional utter obsession, and the desire that weaved itself like poison from the very beginning. Suffice to say, it was a very complicated relationship.
He barely gave Francis much of a choice, having sent him a message that he was currently in his beloved city of Paris and wanted to see him tonight, in one of the more obscure lounges that catered to the wealthy. Arthur was, at times, the sort who preferred the back-ally pubs that served piss-water over the fancier venues that served obscenely priced spirits. This time, Arthur felt like splurging a bit, if only because the higher price tag was placed over the lovely distraction that it covered. This lounge was in one of the upper levels of a posh restaurant, offering a view of Paris at night. It was glittering, just as these steadily filling glasses, and these excessively priced crystal decorations throughout the darkened area were shining, almost matching the City of Light overhead.
Everything was transparent, just as England was transparent. A poised, well-dressed distracted display of a man. The coldness, a stare carved out of marble, hadn’t entirely left Arthur’s gaze as his eyes frequently trailed to the view. Attention had been occasionally given to the whiskey that he’d ordered, tasting the bitter reminder for why he’d chosen to come here. His attention would also occasionally linger briefly at the entrance whenever someone new came in, expecting it to be the nation he’d extended the invitation to. In the meantime, Arthur waited calmly, one leg crossed over the other, ignoring the chatter around him and only responding to the bartender in perfect French when the man asked if Arthur wanted another drink.
tag // France - Francis Bonnefoy
