It should’ve been one drink, but with Arthur it often became two. Three. Four, and five. Not enough fingers on one hand to keep on counting. Made Francis muse about calling it a day, but then Arthur placed yet another whiskey in front of him, and there really wasn’t any will left in his mouth to turn it down.
“You know…” Francis eyed Arthur from the corner of the eye. The other was making small gestures in the air with one hand, the other had a strong grip around his beer. As was he afraid anyone would claim it theirs.
“Oui? What do I know?” The way Arthur was wrinkling his browns, Francis was quite sure he didn’t knew at all.
“That-ehh..” Arthur seemed to have lost it himself. He tapped the fingers wonderingly at the desk, sending Francis a pondering look. “That… There’s… alcohol. In that one. Whiskey.” He nodded shortly towards Francis’ glass before turning his back to him again, suddenly very interested in the wall. It could be a fairy, the Frenchman reminded himself, but for him it just looked like a plain old wall.
Francis nodded. “Ah, well, thanks for reminding me.” He gulped down the shot in one mouthful. His head was starting to feel surprisingly light and his brain a little dizzy. It was like there were only two thoughts left, one telling him to stop drinking, the other to continue; and right now they were chasing one another with forks, yelling: “I’ve got you, I’ve got you!” The picture made him chuckle.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he whispered breathless with a smile, fingering the glass of whiskey closer. Seemed like Arthur had ordered him yet a shot. The Englishman’s eyes were resting on him, he became aware.
“No, you haven’t, you git,” Arthur spat back, guessing the words were meant on him. He turned in the chair to face him, reaching out a hand. It hesitated. Fingers touched his shoulder lightly. “I’ve got you.”
Francis blinked. The look on the other’s face wasn’t jokingly (well, at least not on purpose). Arthur’s green eyes were calm, and his cheeks flustered. He felt an urge to point it out getting stuck in his throat. “What’s that you say in England? Oh, now I remember – bullocks.” He chuckled and placed a warm hand at the top of Arthur’s. Just as he let go of the desk to do that, he felt the body sway a little, and had to support himself with the other. “Who.. no more whiskey for me.”
“Can’t take it?” A smile flashed across Arthur’s lips. It reminded Francis of Alfred, but then again, they were almost family. Arthur freed his hand from underneath Francis’ and let it slide down his back instead. “I knew it. You’re a pussy.”
“Mind your language.”
“Could be my pussy.” It wasn’t like he didn’t like Arthur coming on to him, but heck no; it wasn’t like he was going to be anyone’s pussy. What kind of word was that anyway? Certainly not French.
“Speak French, it’s the only language I understand,” Francis said sluggishly. Arthur grinned. The Frenchman tried keeping an eye on him as he leaned in, his hand now resting on his rear.
Shut up; Arthur knows how it's done (1/4)
“You know…” Francis eyed Arthur from the corner of the eye. The other was making small gestures in the air with one hand, the other had a strong grip around his beer. As was he afraid anyone would claim it theirs.
“Oui? What do I know?” The way Arthur was wrinkling his browns, Francis was quite sure he didn’t knew at all.
“That-ehh..” Arthur seemed to have lost it himself. He tapped the fingers wonderingly at the desk, sending Francis a pondering look. “That… There’s… alcohol. In that one. Whiskey.” He nodded shortly towards Francis’ glass before turning his back to him again, suddenly very interested in the wall. It could be a fairy, the Frenchman reminded himself, but for him it just looked like a plain old wall.
Francis nodded. “Ah, well, thanks for reminding me.” He gulped down the shot in one mouthful. His head was starting to feel surprisingly light and his brain a little dizzy. It was like there were only two thoughts left, one telling him to stop drinking, the other to continue; and right now they were chasing one another with forks, yelling: “I’ve got you, I’ve got you!” The picture made him chuckle.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he whispered breathless with a smile, fingering the glass of whiskey closer. Seemed like Arthur had ordered him yet a shot. The Englishman’s eyes were resting on him, he became aware.
“No, you haven’t, you git,” Arthur spat back, guessing the words were meant on him. He turned in the chair to face him, reaching out a hand. It hesitated. Fingers touched his shoulder lightly. “I’ve got you.”
Francis blinked. The look on the other’s face wasn’t jokingly (well, at least not on purpose). Arthur’s green eyes were calm, and his cheeks flustered. He felt an urge to point it out getting stuck in his throat. “What’s that you say in England? Oh, now I remember – bullocks.” He chuckled and placed a warm hand at the top of Arthur’s. Just as he let go of the desk to do that, he felt the body sway a little, and had to support himself with the other. “Who.. no more whiskey for me.”
“Can’t take it?” A smile flashed across Arthur’s lips. It reminded Francis of Alfred, but then again, they were almost family. Arthur freed his hand from underneath Francis’ and let it slide down his back instead. “I knew it. You’re a pussy.”
“Mind your language.”
“Could be my pussy.” It wasn’t like he didn’t like Arthur coming on to him, but heck no; it wasn’t like he was going to be anyone’s pussy. What kind of word was that anyway? Certainly not French.
“Speak French, it’s the only language I understand,” Francis said sluggishly. Arthur grinned. The Frenchman tried keeping an eye on him as he leaned in, his hand now resting on his rear.