Against The Grafiti Wall [med/Open]

[Francis Bonnefoy]

A hundred times I wanted to ask

"Why?"

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There was something to be said about malls and their entirety.

They weren’t elegant, their faire wasn’t haut couture, but they held a certain almost rusticness that he was unused to. Not to say that Francis Bonnefoy was a snob (well, certainly he wouldn’t have classified himself as such), he was merely used to a more…high-class environment. Even as a child, he hadn’t been taken to places like the Glòries, as it had been considered beneath any member of the Bonnefoy clan to deal with those that were less off. Of course, Francis himself didn’t subscribe at all to that sort of elitism, but there had never really been a time or place for him to venture out to malls before Barcelona. Though his family would have been rather displeased with his current actions, he justified everything under the guise that he was still a sophisticated gentleman, just merely one that had little access to the high fashions and custom tailors of his homeland.

Of course sophisticated usually didn’t ever involve being thrown hard against the wall in one of the stalls in the men’s bathroom, a lovely blond pressed ever so close to him, her fingers working feverishly at the buttons on his clothes.

In his defense, the Frenchman had not been out looking for such a depraved encounter when he had entered the building. No, there had been a lovely silk shirt in one of the stores that had caught his eye a week back and he had finally found the time to make it back down to the mall in order to finally purchase the blasted thing. If he just so happened to catch a certain saleswoman’s eye, that was something entirely different, and now, after things had settled down, he felt distinctly conflicted about their relations. On one hand, it had been a new experience, because certainly he had never done such things in such a location, on the other, he still had yet to purchase the shirt that he had coveted.

Still, he consoled himself that it would still be there after the hour break that had elapsed, because, after all, it wasn’t as if silk was in high demand in the scorching Spanish heat. For now though, there were more important things to deal with, such as making himself presentable once again. The lovely lady had long since departed, leaving him in a seemingly empty bathroom, poking and preening in front of the small, dirty mirror. To others he would have been acceptable, attractive even, but every slight imperfection in his hair, in his now wrinkled shirt, was a detriment for the vain man.

The sound of running water echoed throughout the room as he wet his fingers, nudging a few errant locks back into place, a slightly annoyed grimace crossing his face. It wasn’t as if he regretted the sordid encounter, not one bit actually, but it had been a bit plain for his tastes, despite the potential for exhibitionism that had presented itself. Sex was sex, but it was still a blow to his pride as a lover to think that things had been so rushed, so common. It could have been attributed to how sudden she had come on to him, of course, but Francis disliked that excuse. Splashing cool water upon his face, he mentally berated himself for how sloppy he had gotten, making a mental promise to polish up his skills later in the night, after his shopping trip had ended and the city’s nightlife had woken.

Truthfully, he had not expected Barcelona to be so accommodating to his tastes. Certainly it wasn’t Paris proper, but the city itself held an exotic flair to it that he found to his liking. It was no wonder Antonio spoke with such passion about his home country, the blond could see now why he was so fond of the area. The people were nice enough, the food was acceptable, the wines were exquisite, and the debauchery to be found…well it was almost perfect. With the single fact that he was working at an institution that went against every one of his morals, it would have been the perfect vacation, but c’est la vie, there were always obstacles. Even the dreary job had at least been mitigated by the fact that his family, as odd as they were, had congregated in the area, and the nights spent drinking and celebrating with Gilbert and Antonio both were more than enough to get him through the days of looking after disrespectful and uncultured children.

Still, a job was a job, and while he didn’t need the money at all, it was the work that kept him sane. Sure he could have taken his proper position within his family’s company, but the work was dull, boring, and cold, everything that Francis prided himself on not being. He couldn’t handle how distant the people were, and thus he had fled, fled to a city on the rumor that his friends and family had congregated there. It had been a gamble, it had paid off, and now he was reaping the rewards. He never would have been able to know what Barcelona would have been like before he had arrived, and now he found himself quite pleased.

Of course, had he imagined himself in his present situation, he would have, of course, laughed at the absurdity. “Il arrive aux meilleurs d’entre nous, eh bien.”

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Tags: Open~
Wordcount: Nineohsix
Music: In The Bathroom Is Where I Want You - Nightmare Of You
Outfit: Click me~!
Notes: Ahaha, oh the fail intro post.. Agh

[Arthur Kirkland]

and i am a weapon
A N D I T ' S N O T M Y F A U L T I T ' S

H O W I ' M P R O G R A M M E D T O F U N C T I O N
of massive consumption
-----------------------------

The Spanish were clearly on a different time-frame than the rest of the world; this much Arthur had quickly learned in his months of Barcelona. The people worked in slow motion—the concept of urgency was a rarity at best. Arthur had yet to see a Spaniard move quickly…unless one were to count their altogether dangerous way of driving, which was more equitable to reckless abandon for a thrill than a desire to get anywhere in a timely fashion.

It was why, after once again trying on a favorite shirt and praying that it had miraculously grown longer in the sleeve, Arthur had decided to time how long it took a local tailor to mend the shirt to his desired preferences. He had left the shirt and his number at what had been called the best shop in Barcelona, and asked for a phone call when it was finished. One hour and counting, thus far. One hour to mend the sleeves of one simple, cotton shirt to a one inch margin.

He tried to not feel bitter over the affair, but this was adverse to his own nature. Arthur was simply a being who expected things to go according to plan, with few hindrances and deviations along the road. Pre-planning was a special talent of his, wherein he could often tactically organize events and interactions to his own means and ends. This, however, generally only applied to business means. Throw in the human element, the natural, true feelings and beings of individuals out of a work environment, and you would have one irritable, confused Englishman.

This wasn’t to say that Arthur frowned upon all aspects of Spain. He had grown to enjoy the warm climate and nature of Spain…but that was where the affinity ended. There was a true, latent hate when you threw in the language, the crowded streets, the children he worked with, and, most of all, the people of the country. Oooooh, the people. He was tired of their jaunts, their endless jibes and loud, airy voices. The beautiful, tall women with their dark hair, and all of their fruity little festivals—of which there seemed to be a new one to celebrate each weekend.

Yet in truth…despite the fact that he turned his nose at so many of Spain’s unique characteristics, it was something stimulating for a change. It was a break from the monotony of business. The people he claimed to loathe were a breath of fresh air, so free in themselves and their environment. They didn’t wear stuffy business suits and talk in refined manner. They laughed and breathed, alive in each others’ presence. They were…real, in a sense; though in the same sense, unreal to Arthur. At the very least, he had never been propositioned so openly by a prostitute before his time in Spain.

Another thing he had always hated were public malls. London was a haven of high class fashion and shopping—where there were no screaming children or gaggles of giggling teenage girls. He was used to trained attendants rushing to his side and practically castrating themselves at his feet. The quiet ambiance of classical music, the hanging crimson drapes made of crushed velvet and golden lining.

In spite of all of that, Arthur was still in Spain, and wandering through a mall with no sense of elegance or grandeur—doing both with neither purpose nor direction. It was a day of breaking old standards—why not break one more, and not call up the old tailor to curse him out for his lack of punctuality?

In its defense, the mall was not as horrible as he had imagined. The children and girls were present, but not to an extent of frustration. Minus the Spanish inscriptions he had only a vague notion of, it was an altogether decent place. And as his footsteps lead him down yet another long hall-way, eyes following the signs overhead, Arthur only hoped that the same could be said of its bathrooms.

‘Hombres’ read one door…hombres meant men, didn’t it? He had come to a grinding stop in front of the two different doors, marked not with the typical male and female figures he was accustomed to, but instead two distinctly different Spanish words. Hombres, Mujeres…why hadn’t he spent more time learning Spanish? A quick, deep breath, and a silent prayer muttered beneath his breath before he pushed open the Hombres door.

At the moment he entered, he nearly immediately turned around, mind scrambling for a quick apology to utter. That was, of course, until he realized that he had not been mistaken as he had so quickly concluded—the thick head of long, ribboned hair did not belong to a woman.

No, it certainly wasn’t a woman….and he hated himself for once again making the mistake he so often did with the damned Frenchman before him.

He paused for a moment, trying to weigh his options. As far as horrid situations went, being stuck in a bathroom with a man whose very presence on this Earth seemed to be to irritate him was among the worst. The moment came and passed—the bathroom was empty besides Francis, and his chance of sneaking out unnoticed was nil. So with a soft cough and straightening of back (if he was going to be in the same room as the bastard, he was damn well going to do so with a confident air), he turned a scowl towards the preening man. “Francis.” He stated in a flat tone, hoping to give no inflection of meaning or surprise. Given the chance, Arthur took a moment to inspect the man. He could not tell initially, but something about the Frenchman seemed a bit off…

…ah. Ah. Arthur truly wished he didn't know Francis quite so well. He was accustomed to the man looking perfect--Francis never went anywhere without scrutinizing each and every piece of hair, each misplaced fold put into its place, and a whole other degree of techniques that Arthur would never be able to understand. It was but these very slight cues that alerted Arthur to the fact that something had happened. As for the thing...it was hardly a chore to discern what it was. Francis tended to be a transparent man when it came to such ordeals. He wrinkled his nose in displeasure when the realization hit him. He gave a soft sneer—if only in a self-victorious signs at being able to analyze the others’ situation based off of appearance. “Was it at least a woman this time? Or are you really stooping so low as to bugger another bloke in a bathroom?”

He didn’t wait for a response. Within the gentleman’s code, he was certain there would have to be a rule against conversing in a bathroom. On another hand, he really wasn’t fond of the idea of using a urinal with Francis just…standing there. There was no question that Francis was the one person who saw the younger Brit at his most natural and unreserved of times, but even that wasn’t saying much. He formulated a simple plan in his mind—knowing that a carefully laid plan would ease the situation. Walk over, unzip & hold, piss, wash hands, flick the water-droplets from his hands at Francis, leave and actually start shopping. It seemed altogether perfect.

He made his way past Francis, making certain to not so much as glance at him, and to the farthest urinal possible. First two steps: complete. Only four steps to go, and he could be back to his mall wandering.

Fuck.

Oh bloody fucking hell!.

He stood there awkwardly, poised for the act and simply staring at the plaster wall before him as he waited. Truly stuck in the most awkward of stances, Arthur mentally cursed whomever had created his body in that moment. Paruresis—he knew the word through a psychology class, and could distinctly recall thinking back then that he would pity anyone with. Perhaps it was only the present company—perhaps it was the fact that he was completely out of his element. Whatever the reason for its sudden occurrence, Arthur was suddenly aware of how anxious he felt. And like a double-edged sword, the more time that passed, the more he found himself thinking about it…and the more he thought about it, the more time he knew it would take.

He rested an arm against the wall, and placed his forehead against it, swearing underneath his breath. Either something needed to happen, or God really needed to strike him down and end his embarrassment. All he could think about was Francis standing by that fucking mirror, completely composed and sneering that snarky, condescending little grin of his…and there he was, standing rigidly over a urinal and praying to the gods of bodily fluids to get him the hell out of there already.

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WORDS . Somewhere above my fellatio count, and under 9000
TLDR; . -Arthur is wasting time as he's getting a shirt tailored
-Wanders around the mall, before deciding that it's bathroom time
-FFFFFs when he sees Francis
-Lawls when he realizes that Francis has totz just had sexy time
-Goes to piss and hopefully gtfo
-Suddenly has a case of chronic dick shyness
-Hates life
OUTFIT . HEEEEERE
NOTES . Do you see what I mean about awkward? DO YOU SEEEE? I seriously had to stop writing at different intervals, and erase many things that made me feel too silly. And it is still absurdly silly.
Lyrics . Lily Allen, The Fear
LAYOUT CREDS . RACHEL of CAUTION

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[Francis Bonnefoy]

A hundred times I wanted to ask

"Why?"

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As lovely as spontaneity was, Francis was starting to think that perhaps a bit of restraint should have been had as he tried seemingly in vain to tame some of the small whips of hair that had fallen out of his artfully messy styling. While they really didn’t detract from the overall style, he was incensed and annoyed at the entire situation. What he would have given for a proper brush and comb at that moment, and he cursed under his breath, debating taking his hair down entirely, but realizing that it would just look worse. It was a lose-lose situation, and he very nearly growled in displeasure, almost completely oblivious to the sound of the bathroom door being opened. After all, he had a reputation to uphold, and important to get himself presentable as quickly as possible.

The curt, crass way that his name was spoken, however, did successfully manage to grab his attention, and he looked over, confusion written across his face. Upon recognition as to the origin, however, the lack of clarity faded away, replaced by a smug leer that all but reeked of contempt. Had it been any other person, he would have felt rather self-conscious, even more annoyed, with his disheveled appearance, but the Englishman currently sneering at him had seen him raw in too many situations for it to really matter. Instead, it was much more important to throw his haughty words right back, as was the tradition between them.

“Why Anglais, if I didn’t know better I’d zink zat I ‘eard a ‘int of jealousy in your tone. Zurely you can live one day wizout me, or did you really miss my company zo much zat you ‘ad to follow me all ze way ‘ere,” he commented dryly, raising an eyebrow and smirking. Truly, it was bizarre to have run into Arthur in such a place, much less when he was at his most vulnerable. The younger man seemed to have the annoying habit of being able to find him when he was weak, or at least perceived himself to be weak, which was slightly disconcerting. The saving grace, however, was that it was very, very unlikely that Arthur was drunk, though he couldn’t rule that out entirely, because such comments as his previous were usually met with fists or whatever large, heavy objects were nearby while the Briton was inebriated.

He quirked his head at the last question, however, honestly intrigued. Though the other was known for throwing venomous barbs his way, rarely did they usually revolve around the topic of whom the Frenchman had bedded. Of course there were always the comments about his ‘loose morals’, and ‘faggotry’ and such, but he knew from firsthand experience that Arthur never, ever wanted to know about what actually went on behind closed doors. Or open doors in this case, he corrected himself. Still, it was meant to be a jibe at his sexuality once again, and once again Francis merely shrugged it off. He had never been ashamed at whom he was or what he did, unlike his closeted relative.

“A true gentleman never kisses and tells,” he scolded playfully, entirely too amused by the prospects that had been offered to him. If there was one thing that he could always hold above the younger, it was his inability to stand for anything even remotely risqué. There was always the added bonus of being able to see the man flustered as well, which was always nice. If nothing else, it was an escape from his current predicament, and it would hopefully draw away from his own problems.

Apparently Arthur was having none of it though, and, being the gentleman he was, Francis averted his eyes as the other moved back to the urinals. Yes, he was a lover of the male form, and there was beauty in the freedom of nudity, but there lines that even he didn’t cross. Staring at other men’s junk while they were relieving themselves was definitely, definitely one of those lines. That did not mean, however, that he wasn’t above still tormenting the Brit, and as he turned back to the mirror to continue his work, he hummed under his breath, brain trying to come up with anything he could use to bother the blond when he had finished. As he pondered, silence permeated the small room, and he was momentarily confused. Not that he really wanted to think about why it was so, but a thought crept into his head after a minute or so, and he could barely retain his laughter. It seemed that Arthur was even more upset with his presence then he had previously thought.

“Is it zat unresponsive wiz ozure zings as well? No wonder you’re always zo uptight.” In truth, it shouldn’t have been a funny situation, and nor should he have been observing it. It was crass, it was disgusting, and it was downright vile, but even with all of the above, Francis couldn’t help himself. There would always be amusement in annoying the younger Brit, as childish as it was at their ages. For some reason it was a habit he had taken from childhood, something that he had never outgrown, no matter how the both of them fought, how they wounded each other. It was a simple pleasure, one that was both twofold: not only did it serve the purpose of riling up the other man, it also served to form some sort of bond between them, even if it was built on fighting and strife. Though he would never admit to it unless under great duress, Francis supposed it was his way of keeping an eye on the boy that he had used to care for when they had been younger. Even if it did mean risking bodily harm from time to time. “Mais zat explains everyzing. Oh you poor, poor man~”

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Tags: Arthur
Wordcount: Nineeightfour
Music: Moon dance - Michael Buble
Outfit: Same
Notes: I can indeed see what you meant by awkward~!

[Arthur Kirkland]

and i am a weapon
A N D I T ' S N O T M Y F A U L T I T ' S

H O W I ' M P R O G R A M M E D T O F U N C T I O N
of massive consumption
-----------------------------

There had never been a moment in Arthur’s life when death had been a considered option. Certainly there was the occasional moment when, embarrassed at a short-coming of his own, he had the natural human desire to crawl into a hole and pass from memory—but never had he wished more than he did now that he could simply pass from existence. There was no hole he could stay in long enough to erase this embarrassment, no amount of time long enough to make Francis forget the power he held over Arthur in that moment.

Unfortunately for him, he could easily see the irony of the situation. Had he been but an observer at the weekend’s latest performance, he would have chuckled at the hilarity of the contrast. Two men with a discussion of genital performance—one who by most standards had just performed spectacularly with his, and one who could not perform the most simple of functions with his own. Yes, he would have quite a laugh at that.

It was a bit different when he was the person playing the comic foil; the person the audience would laugh at for his pitiable state. As he sat there, taking the heaps and heaps of sass that Francis threw his way, the humor was lost on him. Were Francis not so far away, Arthur would have thrown a punch into that smug bastard’s face; anything to shut him up, really. He was used to Francis’ verbal degradations and biting insults. Their relationship had always been founded off of mutual taunts and jibes; equal parts irritation and childish fun. Yet there was one stark difference in the current situation, one that completely changed their usual means of conversation: Arthur had absolutely no ground to stand on. There was no sarcastic wit or logic he could call fourth to aid him in the situation. Francis clearly had the upper-hand—the cards were all in his favor. And oh, if the bastard didn’t know it!

He snarled under his breath, eyes screwed shut as he tried to control his anger. He hated Francis for it. Not his childish insults, nor his humiliating statement, it was the fact that Francis was truly the only person who could rile him up so much. There was no other person in the world that could drive Arthur to almost completely lose control of his carefully laid system of checks and balances. No other person, not even Alfred, had the means of so thoroughly getting under his skin—and for that matter, dicking around with their expansive knowledge. He hated not being able to do a single thing about it, either. If only the human will was malleable enough to mentally determine who ought and ought not to have an effect on the being! Then perhaps this whole ordeal might have been avoided. Perhaps if Francis had simply been some irrelevant male preening himself, Arthur would already be out of the bathroom and back to his meanderings. Unfortunately it was not so—and the idea of Francis watching while he was taking a piss made the action quite impossible.

Cracking open one eye, he glared at Francis, finding his constant distaste for the man quickly spiraling into full-blown (if not momentary) hate. “Like the toad, ugly and venomous.” He spat the Shakespearean quote at Francis, summoning forth all of the spite he could possibly muster. He may not have had much to fight back with, but he certainly wasn’t going to stand there uselessly and take Francis’ verbal lashing. Quickly putting himself away and zipping up his pants, Arthur made a quick turn and ripped open the nearest stall’s door. He walked in, slamming and locking it behind him. When he had been a child, Arthur’s response to any uncomfortable or upsetting situation had been to place his hands at the side of his head and, after making a grasping motion, would pull his arms away and toward the ground. His parents would have told you with a half-ashamed laugh that it was him pretending to pull rabbit ears that he could hide behind out of his head. To him, there was no pretending. Those ears had gotten him out of at least a smidgen of the mental scarring his family had planned for him. Now of course, that hardly worked—and hiding in a stall was his next best action.

With a resigned sigh, he closed the toilet’s lid and sat on it, peering at Francis through the small crack in the door. Could the bastard still see him? He lifted his middle finger and closed one eye, using the digit to completely eradicate Francis from his plane of vision. “What was that about you being a true gentleman? Last I checked, a true gentleman doesn’t watch other men piss, or comment on it for that matter! Why don’t you just go off and have another of your little bathroom fucks in the lady’s room? Or are you having too much fun torturing a boy from your past?” It was a childish statement—even Arthur could tell that much. Francis brought out the worst side of him; more often than not, when speaking to him, Arthur wondered why he even kept their relationship. It was something that thrived off of insulting and harming one another, which should have been reason enough to cut the man out of his life…but in truth, he knew such a cut-and-dry explanation wasn’t possible for what they had. On the flipped side of that coin, his contact was Francis was one of the few that could be considered even borderline personal. It wasn't the dull relationships he had with employees or other business leaders--neither was it the searing hate he had for so many others.

The truth of their relationship was something he could not explain. It was not a matter of semantics; nor something that could rely on a lexical definition. It was a complex entity, impossible to reduce to any mere set of components. There were no components, no stead-fast rules and explanations that lasted past a moment’s occurrence. Stating that it was mere hate, mere irritation, was a fallacy—despite Arthur’s tendency to do such when asked. The very notion of breaking down the relationship into simple elements and precise definitions was laughable.

It should have been simple—something intuitively known. After all, any human being, regardless of mental state, had the necessary cognition to accurately understand the relationships they were in. It was something that ought to have not required the vast analysis he had given it. Yet no matter how many times Arthur pondered over the matter, he constantly contradicted whatever ends he came to. Only a few days ago, his birthday had rolled around and he had felt Francis to be one of the greatest people to have entered his life. Today, with humility shoved down his throat, he found himself wondering if a contract killer would be within his price range. It was not love and hate, nor capable of any definitive terms. A definition of the relationship would presuppose a notion of the people occupying the relationship—being who they were, correctly naming their properties and considering them beings capable of considered definition was nigh impossible. Assuming that any one thing about them was completely ‘wrong’ or ‘right’ was a falsity in itself. Francis was not merely irritating for a simple reason; nor was the reason for Arthur’s current indignance capable of a single explanation.

It was easiest for him to think that they had their own unique, undecipherable dynamic—and despite his current murderous glare through the thin crack in the door, it was one that he could never chastise.

Francis was a permanent structure in his life, regardless of how strongly he wished the contrary at the moment.

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WORDS . One Two Seven Four
TLDR; . -Arthur still can't piss
-Basically tells Francis that he's a douche
-Locks himself in a bathroom stall
-Tells Francis to GTFO
-Considers why they're still friends
-Still hates life
OUTFIT . HEEEEERE
NOTES . Yessss. The worst part of awkward time is over. Sorry for taking so long, life has been pms'ing at me.
Lyrics . Lily Allen, The Fear
LAYOUT CREDS . RACHEL of CAUTION

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