The Cream Coat
Title: The Cream Coat
Rating: PG
Summary: Even going to a cafe with Francis is a trial, because Arthur is sure he's doing this on purpose.
Explanation: Apparently, I'm too dumb to stop. Here's another short blurb from my creative writing class. My teacher was seriously all, "Is he really that good-looking?" I will leave it to all two people reading this to decide the answer to that one.
The Cream Coat
I hadn’t been waiting long when he arrived, sweeping into the café, the tails of his cream coat trailing behind him. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.
“I hope you managed without me, darling,” he said. He dropped into his chair in an elegant sprawl, slinging one leg over the other. A twitch of his fingers brought the barista scrambling to our side, blushing, nervously tucking her hair behind her ears.
“What would you like?” she asked, even though technically she wasn’t supposed to come out from behind the counter. I sighed.
“Coffee, two sugars,” Francis said. He slipped his jacket off and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt with a twist of his wrist. “Thank you ever so much.”
Still flushing, the girl scurried away, glancing furtively over her shoulder. Of course he pretended not to notice-just slid down in his chair a little, trying to emphasize his long limbs, and every customer in the place watched him out of the corners of their eyes. I pushed my fingers against my forehead. “What held you up?” If I admitted that I saw what he was doing, he would tease me for weeks.
“Traffic, cher.” He plucked at the hem of his shirt with his fingers, testing the fabric against his nails. “You, of all people, should know that, yes?” Most likely, his smile was blinding, but I resolutely didn’t look up from my teacup. I would not give him the satisfaction.
“Surprised you made the effort,” I said. At least my sarcasm was still intact.
When he laughed, it rumbled up out of his chest, just enough to be noticeable. Francis pushed a hand through his hair. “I would always make the effort for you,” he said. I looked down at his feet instead of his face, the expensive, hand-made loafers.
The barista returned, balancing the coffee on her tray, and slid it in front of him, breathless. She twisted her fingers together when she was nervous, crumpling her order forms in her pocket if she didn’t want a customer to see, and I watched her do it now, trying to be impassive.
“Merci, cherie,” Francis murmured. He leaned forward and curled his hands around the mug, a sinuous movement of his joints, his back flexing and curving forward. I took a determined sip of my Earl Grey and pretended that I didn’t see all of this, or the way the girl turned red to the roots of her badly dyed hair. She stammered a moment before scrambling away again, tripping on the long laces of her trainers.
“Silly girl,” I muttered, unable to help myself.
He was smirking. I could feel the back of my neck prickling; I glared at him defensively, the line of my shoulders tensing, my whole too-skinny, ugly body tightening. Even the line of his arms was graceful as he cradled his coffee.
“Jealous, Arthur?” he asked. His smile was like a shark’s.
Rating: PG
Summary: Even going to a cafe with Francis is a trial, because Arthur is sure he's doing this on purpose.
Explanation: Apparently, I'm too dumb to stop. Here's another short blurb from my creative writing class. My teacher was seriously all, "Is he really that good-looking?" I will leave it to all two people reading this to decide the answer to that one.
The Cream Coat
I hadn’t been waiting long when he arrived, sweeping into the café, the tails of his cream coat trailing behind him. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.
“I hope you managed without me, darling,” he said. He dropped into his chair in an elegant sprawl, slinging one leg over the other. A twitch of his fingers brought the barista scrambling to our side, blushing, nervously tucking her hair behind her ears.
“What would you like?” she asked, even though technically she wasn’t supposed to come out from behind the counter. I sighed.
“Coffee, two sugars,” Francis said. He slipped his jacket off and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt with a twist of his wrist. “Thank you ever so much.”
Still flushing, the girl scurried away, glancing furtively over her shoulder. Of course he pretended not to notice-just slid down in his chair a little, trying to emphasize his long limbs, and every customer in the place watched him out of the corners of their eyes. I pushed my fingers against my forehead. “What held you up?” If I admitted that I saw what he was doing, he would tease me for weeks.
“Traffic, cher.” He plucked at the hem of his shirt with his fingers, testing the fabric against his nails. “You, of all people, should know that, yes?” Most likely, his smile was blinding, but I resolutely didn’t look up from my teacup. I would not give him the satisfaction.
“Surprised you made the effort,” I said. At least my sarcasm was still intact.
When he laughed, it rumbled up out of his chest, just enough to be noticeable. Francis pushed a hand through his hair. “I would always make the effort for you,” he said. I looked down at his feet instead of his face, the expensive, hand-made loafers.
The barista returned, balancing the coffee on her tray, and slid it in front of him, breathless. She twisted her fingers together when she was nervous, crumpling her order forms in her pocket if she didn’t want a customer to see, and I watched her do it now, trying to be impassive.
“Merci, cherie,” Francis murmured. He leaned forward and curled his hands around the mug, a sinuous movement of his joints, his back flexing and curving forward. I took a determined sip of my Earl Grey and pretended that I didn’t see all of this, or the way the girl turned red to the roots of her badly dyed hair. She stammered a moment before scrambling away again, tripping on the long laces of her trainers.
“Silly girl,” I muttered, unable to help myself.
He was smirking. I could feel the back of my neck prickling; I glared at him defensively, the line of my shoulders tensing, my whole too-skinny, ugly body tightening. Even the line of his arms was graceful as he cradled his coffee.
“Jealous, Arthur?” he asked. His smile was like a shark’s.