Nagi's out and wandering around because being alone in his empty-feeling apartment sucks. It's really all the excuse he could even work up for it today.
When Nagi catches sight of Francis, he crosses the street over to harrass him (though it isn't the street that Francis wants to cross). Once Nagi gets into a reasonable distance of the guy, he says, "Damn, you're stupid. Just in case you didn't get the memo? Telephone poles aren't girls, no matter how drunk you are." Long time no see!
Francis just rolls his eyes at Nagi, waving at him dismissively.
"And why the fuck would I want to fucking lean on a girl, no matter how drunk I am?" he slurs out. He does not need to be harassed right now. He needs another drink. Or five. Or something like that. Or to start another fight. The one in the sports bar had been boring. He'd gotten kicked out too fast. And besides, that bastard couldn't've taken much more anyway. Would have been boring either way. At least the cops hadn't been called on him. That's a plus. He doesn't like jail. Right. Nagi. He focuses his attention on the boy, squinting slightly. "And what the hell are you doing here?"
Nagi rolls his eyes. "I'm looking for a decent place to eat dinner. Which direction did you come from? I won't bother looking that way. If you're stupid enough to like it, it's gotta suck."
...Nagi might be trying to pick a fight. It's hard to tell since he's such a little shit most of the time anyway. "It's not like it's late. The sun is still up." Nagi points at it, half-hoping that Francis is dumb-drunk enough to look and blind himself.
"S'not like they serve much food anyway," Francis mumbles. "Nor do they cater to little brats who don't know how to keep themselves in line like proper Wanderers should." Oh, Francis, you're just in a brilliant mood aren't you?
And yes. Francis is dumb-drunk enough to stare up at the sun as Nagi points at it. And then he lets go of the pole, taking a half step back. The sun is bright.
"It's not my fault you're rather play with filth," he adds, as if this is pertinent to the conversation. It's not like Francis cares. Of course not.
Here, Francis. Here's something you want, even if you won't admit it. It's a Katja! She's also a little bit drunk, not that anyone would be able to tell because she's a chatty drunk when she's not a violent one, and chatty drunk Katja is pretty similar to normal Katja, all told. She's actually been half-looking for you, sir. Not that you'll like the reason why, but that's okay. You don't have to. You won't remember it in the morning anyway.
Katja zeroes in on Francis pretty quickly, once he's in her sights, because she has this need to just wrap her fingers around his throat or put a couple knives in his back or preferably stick him with all the fucking needles in her purse and watch as his body explodes. Or implodes. She's not really sure what all those chemicals mixed together would do, but she bets it wouldn't be pretty. And that it would be awesome.
But no, instead she's going to walk up and clap him on the back, exclaiming "Ангел! Long time no see, and you weren't in our favorite bar this evening so I figured I'd
( ... )
Francis has missed Katja something horrible. But yes, he's not about to admit that, not even to himself. She's a good bar-buddy, and that's about it. He's not attached to her, or anything. And honestly, even if he started admitting some of these things to himself, he wouldn't understand them one bit. He wouldn't know how to process something like that if it hit him in the face
( ... )
Katja tilts her head, still smirking. It's not an incredibly nice smirk, but it's hard to keep the nice in her face when she's not terribly practiced at doing so, and when something is telling her to stick him now, just do it do it do it do it. "What, no rebuke? No witty comeback? Tch, come now, clearly you've either had too much or not enough."
She hooks an arm around his shoulders, very literally dragging him into the street, other hand still wrapped around the syringe. Bit by bit, she forces herself to let it go -- she can find it again, later, once they're seated somewhere or at least not in the middle of the street. Car horns blare at them, she shouts a few Russian obscenities back, and flips a few of them off. Well. At least her hand's out of her purse, now.
"I know exactly where all my chickens are, Francis," she continues as they approach the other side of the street. "And they're out cannibalizing your chicken coop. My chickens are mutants. So perhaps instead of putting skates on your feet, your suggestion of
( ... )
"More it is then," Francis says, raising his eyebrows at the woman. He's got no issues leaning on her. If she's going to enable him, drag him to another bar, Katja is his best friend right now. His drunk mind doesn't register the heat, but the closeness hits him so hard. He wants to write it off as being drunk; he's never really felt this way before, and her skin is so warm, and the scent of her perfume is alluring. It's hard to struggle or say no; he's entranced, and the sound of her voice... Her words are slipping past him, so fast. He's just listening, kind of lost. She really is beautiful. In so many ways.
He doesn't want her to let go. Francis wants to stay like this for a while, leaning on her for support. Which is bullshit because he shouldn't need support. Not from anyone. But. Still.
"Right," he says simply, not even sure what she said at all.
Francis has no idea what's going on. But it's such a clear distraction from his one-track mind that he will indulge himself for now.
Comments 78
When Nagi catches sight of Francis, he crosses the street over to harrass him (though it isn't the street that Francis wants to cross). Once Nagi gets into a reasonable distance of the guy, he says, "Damn, you're stupid. Just in case you didn't get the memo? Telephone poles aren't girls, no matter how drunk you are." Long time no see!
Reply
"And why the fuck would I want to fucking lean on a girl, no matter how drunk I am?" he slurs out. He does not need to be harassed right now. He needs another drink. Or five. Or something like that. Or to start another fight. The one in the sports bar had been boring. He'd gotten kicked out too fast. And besides, that bastard couldn't've taken much more anyway. Would have been boring either way. At least the cops hadn't been called on him. That's a plus. He doesn't like jail. Right. Nagi. He focuses his attention on the boy, squinting slightly. "And what the hell are you doing here?"
Nice to see you, too, Nagi.
Reply
...Nagi might be trying to pick a fight. It's hard to tell since he's such a little shit most of the time anyway. "It's not like it's late. The sun is still up." Nagi points at it, half-hoping that Francis is dumb-drunk enough to look and blind himself.
Reply
And yes. Francis is dumb-drunk enough to stare up at the sun as Nagi points at it. And then he lets go of the pole, taking a half step back. The sun is bright.
"It's not my fault you're rather play with filth," he adds, as if this is pertinent to the conversation. It's not like Francis cares. Of course not.
Reply
Katja zeroes in on Francis pretty quickly, once he's in her sights, because she has this need to just wrap her fingers around his throat or put a couple knives in his back or preferably stick him with all the fucking needles in her purse and watch as his body explodes. Or implodes. She's not really sure what all those chemicals mixed together would do, but she bets it wouldn't be pretty. And that it would be awesome.
But no, instead she's going to walk up and clap him on the back, exclaiming "Ангел! Long time no see, and you weren't in our favorite bar this evening so I figured I'd ( ... )
Reply
Reply
She hooks an arm around his shoulders, very literally dragging him into the street, other hand still wrapped around the syringe. Bit by bit, she forces herself to let it go -- she can find it again, later, once they're seated somewhere or at least not in the middle of the street. Car horns blare at them, she shouts a few Russian obscenities back, and flips a few of them off. Well. At least her hand's out of her purse, now.
"I know exactly where all my chickens are, Francis," she continues as they approach the other side of the street. "And they're out cannibalizing your chicken coop. My chickens are mutants. So perhaps instead of putting skates on your feet, your suggestion of ( ... )
Reply
He doesn't want her to let go. Francis wants to stay like this for a while, leaning on her for support. Which is bullshit because he shouldn't need support. Not from anyone. But. Still.
"Right," he says simply, not even sure what she said at all.
Francis has no idea what's going on. But it's such a clear distraction from his one-track mind that he will indulge himself for now.
Reply
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