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Post by Deleted on Jan 19, 2013 19:12:48 GMT -8
On a weekday such as this, the museum was barely populated. Various staff and people roamed about, their shoes echoing off the floor and bouncing between the walls. Some schoolchildren ambled down long hallways with their classmates, hushed, looking at the exhibits in awe and reaching out with nervous fingers to touch, only to have them yanked back by either their peers or their teachers.
Some people had their notepads out, large headphones on as they listened to whatever audio lesson they had decided to take. Some stood as they stared intently at a piece of old furniture and sketched it out on a blank sheet of paper, and others sat on benches lining the walls, jotting down notes.
Arthur was one of the few people doing neither. He ambled down the hall of the medieval section, hands in his pockets, marveling in the tapestries hung on the walls, the stained glass of windows, the carved wood and the antique furniture. He loved history, and for some reason, the medieval period fascinated him the most. Perhaps it was because it was a time riddled with plague and quarreling lords—he did learn a lot from the feuds, but in the modern world, almost none of it would be relevant.
Maybe it was the magic of it that had him intrigued. Arthur constantly referred back to the time period for his writing, looking from all points of view; the peasants and their hardships; the nobles in their struggles to maintain their power; the women and the oppression that surrounded them even in peasantry. His favorite thing to do with the time period, however, was to place it in the realm of fantasy, where dragons attacked and raided villages and elves and faeries inhabited the woods.
There was something romantic about it all, even a little bit tragic. Still, the inspiration was always there, and for that, Arthur was thankful.
He sat down on a bench and studied a suit of armor behind a glass case. The metal looked dull and rugged, but the sword still looked sharp and Arthur could feel the weight of the iron on him. It took a lot of strength to fight in one of those suits.
As he studied the armor, Arthur felt the tension ease itself off his shoulder and he relaxed against the wall behind him. He always went to the museum after a hard week of work, though he only ever went on the weekdays and avoided it during the time schools got off for holiday (at those times, people were everywhere, especially tourists). Monday through Friday, though, was usually peaceful, quiet, empty. Arthur could spend his entire time in one section of the museum and not be bothered or hassled, and people wouldn’t shove past him to get whatever pictures they wanted to take because there was no one there to do so. He could clear his mind. He didn’t have to concentrate on anything, worry about being on time to a meeting, or fret over work that needed to be finished.
It was in this place that Arthur could have time to himself, undisturbed, and he loved it.
He let out a soft sigh and smiled to himself. He couldn’t understand why anyone would hate a museum when they were the perfect place to be. So much history surrounded him, so much knowledge to absorb, and even just a place to linger when one needed to get off the busy streets of London, or hide away from someone for a time. No one ever thought to look in a museum, after all.
Arthur glanced at his watch. It was only noon. He still had plenty of time before he needed to be anywhere, and he’d been taking calls and filling out papers nonstop the past week. He felt like he deserved this moment’s peace, and there was no one else around in the room he was in.
He was alone and for once, this was exactly how he wanted it to be. It was a shame he wouldn’t be able to stay here all day, though. Eventually, he’d have to get back to work at three.
Three hours seemed so short. Arthur’s smile fell neutral and he stared at the armor. He wished he could stay there forever, gazing at the tapestries and admiring the swords and shields. It was more appealing than anything else he could think of, other than writing. Perhaps he should’ve brought his journal with him, now that he thought about it. So many ideas ran through his mind and he was at a loss of what to do with them. He didn’t want to forget them, but he didn’t want to put them into his phone either, where someone could look or the ramblings would get lost.
He had a pen. He just needed paper now. The only problem was he wasn’t likely to find some anytime soon, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave his spot.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 10, 2013 15:09:47 GMT -8
| | | | | "You see, I'm not a man I am the king of illusion At heart, may I be forgiven, I am the king, the king of fools" |
On such a bleak day with nothing to do, money to spend, and time to waste, Francis found himself slowly climbing the steps of the Victoria and Albert Museum. But it was free admission anyways; he wouldn’t have any use for his money, though he wasn’t complaining. Yet the time was nearing closer and closer to noon, and perhaps he would treat himself to a nice restaurant today. Whether he did or whether he didn’t depended on the chances of him finding a suitable person to join him.
As he glanced around the nearly empty museum, however, he felt himself grow rather disappointed. There was barely anyone around, except for the children on a field trip and a few weary staff members in various rooms. But once again, he wasn’t complaining. He didn’t mind the peace and tranquility that the museum offered on this dreary weekday.
It was very lonely.
And so, Francis still looked about for a possible companion, expectations low, but hopes quite high. Yet the only people that seemed to be around were too young, too elderly, or too busy. It was quite disappointing.
An abandoned slip of paper laying on the ground, perhaps from a notebook, caught his eye, and he picked it up. There were no marks on the front, and when he flipped it to examine the other side, the back was just as bare and blank as its other half. He shrugged to himself, and pocked it.
His shoes, the soles damp from walking around outside, made very unflattering noises on the tiled floors, and echoed in the large hallways. He winced every time he took a step, willing for the sounds to cease, and wishing he had taken just a bit longer to wipe his shoes on the carpet at the entrance.
In hopes of muffling the infuriating noises, he slipped into the nearest room to sit down on a bench and wait for them to dry. He had plenty of time for this, and really didn’t feel that hungry yet; he had had a relatively filling breakfast.
As he sat down, he glanced around curiously at his surroundings. Grand, intricate styled tapestries embellished the museum’s walls; some older, antique furniture placed beside it. Multi-colored and equally elegantly crafted stained glass also decorated the room. Francis marveled at the beauty of all of the objects, quite enraptured, and quickly found himself falling in love with them. He was beginning to remember what it was like to visit museums (it had been months – perhaps even years), and the pure rush of pleasure he felt from seeing such brilliantly preserved items from history.
He then took the time to observe the occupants in the room. A youthful woman stood studying a painting, and an older man with brown hair sat on a bench quite a distance away from him. Closer, though, was another man, also quite young – probably around the same age as Francis himself – sitting the closest to him, perhaps approximately a meter or so away. With a rather average body build and being quite slim, he had sandy blonde hair, obviously combed, but still looked to be a bit disheveled. He had piercing, intelligent green eyes, and immediately Francis was enamored. His heart began to beat faster. They were stunning; the most pleasing shade of green he had ever seen in his life. He had seen many, many pairs of eyes before, but they were nothing in comparison to this man’s. Yet, at the same time, they were almost familiar in a way.
The next feature Francis could clearly notice while facing him at a side view was his abnormally thick eyebrows, furrowed in seemingly deep concentration at a suit of amor in front of him. They would have been completely wondrous if Francis hadn’t seen them before.
But alas, he had.
Besides recognizing the man as Arthur Kirkland, leader of the Labour Party and member of the Parliament from London’s finest newspapers, he also recognized his particular eyebrow trait. Iain Stuart-Kirkland and Aoife O’Neil, two dear friends of his, both possessed it and he had always been just the slightest bit amused by the thick lines of hair above their also green (but distinctly different from Arthur’s and each other’s) eyes. At first, the large eyebrows had been quite disgruntling, but he soon had grown rather fond of them.
Being a politician’s son, Francis had grown up being taught to always learn the current events of the country and the world daily. So of course it was no surprise that he would be able to discern the head of the Labour Party with his distinct features; his eyes, his face, his stature, and especially the way he held himself with dignity and pride, even while studiously examining the medieval display in front of him.
His interest was piqued. Ever so casually, he moved over towards the other man, also turning to study the impressive suit of armor, until he was only several inches away. He composed himself, not exactly nervous – no, that certainly wasn’t the right word to describe what he was feeling. Anxious and apprehensive were merely synonyms for nervous… But overall, he was simply curious about Arthur Kirkland. He obviously enjoyed the art the museum held; otherwise, he wouldn’t be there.
Now Francis faced a fork in the path: how to begin the conversation? Suave, urbane, and possibly overbearing; or casual, relatively mild-mannered, and appearing to make small talk? He considered both options for a brief moment, before settling on the former. While he wanted to make a good first impression, he also wanted to make a memorable one.
”Hello, monsieur,” he began easily, a charming smile placed delicately upon his face, “You have the most beautiful green eyes I have ever had the good fortune to see in my humble life. They glow with such a brilliant, stunning light; I am nearly blinded as I gaze into them now.” electric has gangnam style
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Post by Deleted on Jun 26, 2013 19:27:38 GMT -8
The faeries danced around her, wings like moonlight, their laughter like the chime of bells swaying in the wind. She turned to and fro, attempting to catch a glimpse of the tiny bodies in their shrouds of white, but her legs, weighed down by exhaustion and heavy armor, collapsed underneath her. She sat on the dew covered grass, staring up in a dazed wonder at the bright creatures, a half-smile on her lips. One neared her and she reached out with a dirt-streaked hand. It seated itself on her knuckles and through the light it emitted she could see it was grinning—
”Hello, monsieur,” said a voice from his side, and Arthur nearly jumped to his feet. Managing to not do that, he instead jolted up and looked at the source of the sound. The owner of the voice was a young looking man—Arthur couldn’t imagine that the man was much older than him. Blond hair framed his face and his eyes were a miraculous shade of blue, the hue of the ocean on a bright day—
“You have the most beautiful green eyes I have ever had the good fortune to see in my humble life. They glow with such a brilliant, stunning light; I am nearly blinded as I gaze into them now,” the man continued in a very French accent.
Arthur blinked dumbly. He opened his mouth to say something, and finding that he had nothing to say whatsoever, he closed it. He furrowed his brows and narrowed his eyes at the man. After a good amount of silence, he finally uttered, “Excuse me?” It came out harsher than he meant it to, as sounding as though he were offended. He wasn’t at all. Just extremely surprised (and confused, not to mention feeling as though he’d been placed in an awkward position). Arthur was used to taking criticism about everything: his appearance, his views, his intelligence; anything that people could make fun of, he could take in stride.
Compliments (if it could even be called one) were another matter, especially one so out of the blue like this. Arthur stared at the man for a second or two, unable to discern for what reason this man was doing here, what the statement was for, and why he was sitting so close. Feeling that his personal bubble had been intruded upon, he inched away from the stranger.
“I’m very sorry. I don’t mean to be rude but, that is, erm, why did you—who are you?” Arthur exclaimed, standing up. “Are you flirting with me? You couldn’t have just said hello and left it at that?”
The museum started to feel less like a sanctuary at this point. Arthur felt the safety of the place vanish and the golden tapestries hanging around him offered no comfort. His quiet place was gone. He didn’t know why he’d considered it his quiet place at all, because the museum was open to everyone, and anyone in there was liable to make conversation with him. He’d just assumed that since it was a weekday and most people were quiet in museums to be respectful to others that he wouldn’t be bothered.
Arthur decided that he would stop making assumptions from now on.
An awkward silence descended upon them. Arthur ran a hand over his mouth and started to shift from side to side, looking everywhere but at the man. His eyes shifted from the floor to the tapestries, finally resting once more on the armor. The magic the exhibit had held had dissipated, leaving Arthur to flounder once more in reality. No more knights in armor, mystical woods, or playful fairies, or—
Oh fuck.
The story—he’d been in the middle of such a good scene and now he’d lost it. Lost it forever as far as he knew and it’d been going so well until this frog had shown up and took Arthur’s attention away from it.
“You broke my train of thought,” Arthur accused, a scowl making its way to his lips. “I was thinking of something quite good and I’ve lost it now.”
But really, he was just looking for someone to blame. It was his own fault for not putting it down in his phone.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 20, 2013 15:59:16 GMT -8
| | | | | "You see, I'm not a man I am the king of illusion At heart, may I be forgiven, I am the king, the king of fools" |
There was a long stretch of silence. Francis continued to smile, although it was quickly becoming a touch awkward. Mr. Kirkland - it felt a little weird calling him Arthur since they had not previously conversed, even if it was just in his head - opened and closed his mouth once, looking very similar to a gaping fish. It worked somewhat to take away the charm of his lovely eyes, much to Francis's chagrin.
"Excuse me?"
Francis's expression faltered, only a little, at the pure coarseness in Mr. Kirkland's tone, and he inwardly felt himself fall down a few rings on his ladder of success of wooing people. The tone reminded him very much of his father's, when he used to reprimand Francis for not being absolutely perfect in everything; especially his studies, and he inwardly cringed. But now that he thought about it, Francis didn't quite know what he had been expecting. The Englishman's initial reaction wasn't one he had considered in his brief moment of thrilled excitement at stumbling across the politician; obviously clouding his better judgement. He didn't notice when the other moved away to give himself more space, but focused back to the reality in front of his eyes when he stood up.
“I’m very sorry. I don’t mean to be rude but, that is, erm, why did you—who are you? Are you flirting with me? You couldn’t have just said hello and left it at that?”
Well done, Francis, he thought glumly, berating himself. You most certainly left a memorable impression on him.
He heaved a sigh, now regretting his action of interrupting the politician, but it was too late. He had come off as a creeper, most likely a homosexual one, and possibly made Mr. Kirkland think he was a deranged and perverted fan who miraculously found him here on a weekday at the museum and had to hit on him. He should have really taken the fact that he was a well-known man in politics in this country and probably just wanted a day off into consideration before bothering him. His father had always complained about that... And it seemed even after years of being separated from that man, Francis still could not get away from him no matter how hard he tried. He now felt ashamed, and wanted to apologize, but another long stretch of silence had settled in and he wasn't sure if he had the heart to break it at this very moment.
“You broke my train of thought. I was thinking of something quite good and I’ve lost it now.”
Of course, more salt to lovingly use to tend to his still open and bleeding wound. He winced. It was his own fault, but Francis decided that from now on he would spend more time debating to himself if it was really a good idea to try to use a pick up line as a greeting to a politician next time. Yes, that sounded smart.
Mr. Kirkland's words reminded the Frenchman of the slip of paper he had found that was currently residing comfortably in his pocket. Somewhat weakly, he removed it and offered it to the other man with a half-hearted smile with faint hope. He had no personal need for the paper, and it was a rather strange way to placate somebody, but if Mr. Kirkland liked to write down his thoughts, then hopefully it would be seen as at least a small peace offering and not a misintepreted insult to his intelligence for not writing down whatever he had been thinking before.
"My sincerest apologies for disrupting you," Francis said, sounding dejected and somewhat similar to a sulking child. It was a one hundred and eighty degree turn from his debonair manner from only a minute before, his tone suddenly lacking the confidence he had previously possessed. The grandness of the exhibits surrounding them started to fade, leaving them in little more than a bright room (that seemed to grow dimmer with every second), and a large amount of extremely old, delicate, and expensive artifacts. "Please accept this paper as a consolation for my inept rudeness. I would like to introduce myself as Francis Bonnefoy, and also ask you to pardon my disrespectful greeting."
Francis hoped Mr. Kirkland would not make a connection to him being his father's son, although there was a reasonably good chance he might. It was concerning, but the man in front of him deserved at least to know the man's name who eloquently ruined his day. If he showed any sign of possibly bringing an end to the years (surprisingly good in comparison to back home and how life used to be) that Christyna and he had spent so far in England, Francis resolved to distract him in some way to prevent everyone from finding the, as they were known to the rest of the world, Princess of the Principality of Monaco and her fiancee; also known as the son of the leader of France who ran away from his duties and heritage, following in his betrothed's footsteps.
But ultimately, in the end, Francis doubted it would escalate to such a predicament. There were probably quite a few Francis Bonnefoys in the Earth, especially from France. After all, no one else he had met had connected the dots before, suspected him, or even asked him the possibility during his four years in England. Mr. Kirkland would most likely just brush it off as a coincidence, even if he did recognize the name.
(God, he hoped so.)
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