Due to the need to tie up some loose ends with schoolwork and prioritize taking care of myself, I regret that I will not be able to maintain this RP blog like I had planned I would be able to. For everyone that I am currently RPing with, if you are interested in continuing our RPs or just generally RPing, you can reach me at:

Skype - englishmajor22

Gmail - frannybonnefoy@gmail.com

For anyone else who is interested, the same goes for you as well. It is much more manageable for me to do short-post/real-time/casual RPs than the more formal ones I engage in here on Tumblr, especially since my phone allows portability that I can’t get with Tumblr.

I know you’ll all understand!

Best wishes.

Franny & Nicole

countrylostatsea:

frannybonnefoy:

His cheek stretched with a smiling chuckle as she paid her affections to him. “We will have to do what we must.” Softly, his hand worked delicate circles into her stomach, as if to dote upon his unborn child with that same affection he was familiar with. “Let me leave you now. I will call upon those midwives, and send for for new dresses. We will get our money’s worth of them, I promise you.” He knew she worried about those sorts of details, the worth of things and spending too much, but he figured that the basic necessities of birthing mothers were important to keep around in budding families; for the future’s sake, it was an investment. One last kiss parted them, and Francis prepared for a busy evening of preparations.

The maid was at his side in an instant, demanding that he could not pick a good midwife without her assistance. What did a man know about baring children anyway? She would remain by him for the rest of the preparations. Victoria, on the other hand, took her time dressing herself as comfortably as possible without her corset and restricting birdcage. She took a moment to pray and thank the heavens for her unborn child before venturing out and down the stairs to the garden. As she walked, she complimented the gardener for his work and made a list of things she would have to do. She would write to Corsica and check on her people, inform her old tyrants that she had kept the last part of the arrangement, and work with her maid and midwife to prepare herself for the physical changes. Victoria wished she could check on the families money, but knew that was Francis’ job alone and she trusted he would do well with it. This was not Corsica, she was no longer in poverty, and she had to remember that. 

The process delighted him as much as the news of Victoria’s pregnancy had, if for no other reason than it made this gift real. He appropriately delegated the business of employing a proper midwife to the maid, trusting that she was quite capable of handling the task on her own, and when she insisted on helping in other preparations he did not object. In fact, with time, he urged her involvement as the political climate began to shift with the progression of Victoria’s childbearing. He was kept away more with each passing day, until he barely had his hand in the matter anymore; he dare not worry Victoria with this new business, but assured her that they were doing just fine without him in the way.

countrylostatsea:

frannybonnefoy:

He agreed to each of these necessary sacrifices, nodding in earnest and putting forth his own new, agreeable gifts in favor of her and their child’s overall health, “I will have your chambers moved downstairs nearest the gardens, and I will send to Corsica for more appropriate attire, if that suits you best; you will have your choice of midwife, of course, and-” He paused, smiling with the starting glimmer of a father’s pride, “Every party will know that Mrs. Bonnefoy is absent due to being with child.” He dipped to kiss her again, but this time on her forehead, lovingly. His lips parted there, against her skin, wanting to voice his happiness but finding it an impossible task at first, until, “You are a gift from God…”

“Oh, Francis…” A blush painted itself on her face and her eyes traveled up to look at him. A mixtures of emotions came to her and it made her catch her breath, unlike anything Victoria had ever felt. She wondered if this what her poetry and books had spoken of? Love? It was no longer a question, but words failed her to speak of such things. She settled for leaning up to give him a kiss on the cheek with fluttering eyelashes. “The doctor gave me the information for three midwifes he would highly recommend, and clothes from France will suit me fine, but I will miss sleeping by your side. Though, you do know I love that garden.” 

His cheek stretched with a smiling chuckle as she paid her affections to him. “We will have to do what we must.” Softly, his hand worked delicate circles into her stomach, as if to dote upon his unborn child with that same affection he was familiar with. “Let me leave you now. I will call upon those midwives, and send for for new dresses. We will get our money’s worth of them, I promise you.” He knew she worried about those sorts of details, the worth of things and spending too much, but he figured that the basic necessities of birthing mothers were important to keep around in budding families; for the future’s sake, it was an investment. One last kiss parted them, and Francis prepared for a busy evening of preparations.

countrylostatsea:

frannybonnefoy:

His breath left him in a quiet rush of exhilarated delight; so quiet, in fact, that he could nearly hear the tears drip from her chin and hit his fingers, where he had taken her softly to pull her into a hurried kiss, before he felt them. How many years it had taken to come to this- His fingers, no longer occupied at her chin, had found there way restlessly under her dressing gown where he pressed an open palm to her stomach. He could swear he felt the subtle swell of it, traced the curve of it with a delicate touch and wondered that there was a child so close to him. “The best,” he confirmed once his mouth has left her’s, “all the best for you, you know that, and for-” He stopped, looked down to his hand on her stomach and for a moment went bleary-eyed. “Him…her…them…” he tried, each in turn, smiling all the wider with each passing substitution.

She kissed him back, pushing to give him all the joy she felt. She put no effort into stopping him from touching her, her body mostly bare from the examination anyway. As he spoke, she nodded and wiped her tears away from her face while taking a deep breath to calm her down. Her hands brushed his cheek, his hair, even his neck. Relief swept her as she came to the realization that he stated he would be happy with a daughter, another rarity in a world were women were wanted to bare sons. Victoria realized she would be happy no matter the sex of the child as well, and a hand left his neck to cover his on her belly with her eyes following. “I will also be unable to keep doing certain things-as I am sure you know- no more horse rides and partying will be lax…I’ll need new clothes,” She sighed, feeling that she had already spent too much on clothes, “I know you will not mind these things though.” 

He agreed to each of these necessary sacrifices, nodding in earnest and putting forth his own new, agreeable gifts in favor of her and their child’s overall health, “I will have your chambers moved downstairs nearest the gardens, and I will send to Corsica for more appropriate attire, if that suits you best; you will have your choice of midwife, of course, and-” He paused, smiling with the starting glimmer of a father’s pride, “Every party will know that Mrs. Bonnefoy is absent due to being with child.” He dipped to kiss her again, but this time on her forehead, lovingly. His lips parted there, against her skin, wanting to voice his happiness but finding it an impossible task at first, until, “You are a gift from God…”

countrylostatsea:

frannybonnefoy:

countrylostatsea:

frannybonnefoy:

When Victoria’s maid had returned to him without his wife, it had been with no small amount of surprise; when she had told him, while busying herself unnecessarily around their chambers - he supposed that it was for no other reason than to give her hands something to do, or to avoid looking at him with that glinting stare he recognized regardless - that she had instead requested the company of a physician, he quit his chambers immediately to go to her. The first thought that had risen in his mind was that she had fallen ill, and his feet took him quickly to her. Though, as his speculation drew on with his journey just down the hall to her, he began to wonder what she had fallen ill with. Then, his footsteps took him much quicker with some great excitement in his heart.

When they would not let him in to see her, it nearly killed him; he thought, perhaps, he would drop dead pacing.

It was many a minute alone in her room with her doctor, filled with questions and being examined. Victoria shared her worries, her hopes, and the man took it with a smile and worked slowly with her. He explained things slowly to her and she found herself highly grateful to his gentleness with her. Completely unaware of her husband outside the door, the doctor gave his final opinion.

The man shut his bag, leaving her bedchamber and waddling to Francis. He tipped his hat to the man and told him that his wife was fine-he may go in and see her- before taking his pay from the maid and leaving. 

He paid the physician no social gratitude, tipped him no small monetary gratuity, but hurried into Victoria’s bedchambers before the door could even shut behind the doctor. What news the man had given him had flooded him with relief, but it still left an urgency churning in his stomach that was enough to make him sick. He quickly positioned himself at her side where she lay in her bed - smiling, he noted, with a tenderness he had never seen in all her softest looks - and took up her hand in his. “What news have you, darling?”

Her smile only grew at the worry that shown all over his face. She fought back tears as she spoke, her voice cracking, “I am afraid that you have made me into a terrible woman, one who will demand many things from you.” She failed her fight against the tears, her free hand moving to grab a hold of the two. She cried freely for him, her smile only growing. “A midwife for one, and she better be a good one!” Teary eyes were forced open to look up at him, hoping he will be as happy as her for this news.  

His breath left him in a quiet rush of exhilarated delight; so quiet, in fact, that he could nearly hear the tears drip from her chin and hit his fingers, where he had taken her softly to pull her into a hurried kiss, before he felt them. How many years it had taken to come to this- His fingers, no longer occupied at her chin, had found there way restlessly under her dressing gown where he pressed an open palm to her stomach. He could swear he felt the subtle swell of it, traced the curve of it with a delicate touch and wondered that there was a child so close to him. “The best,” he confirmed once his mouth has left her’s, “all the best for you, you know that, and for-” He stopped, looked down to his hand on her stomach and for a moment went bleary-eyed. “Him…her…them…” he tried, each in turn, smiling all the wider with each passing substitution.

countrylostatsea:

frannybonnefoy:

When Victoria’s maid had returned to him without his wife, it had been with no small amount of surprise; when she had told him, while busying herself unnecessarily around their chambers - he supposed that it was for no other reason than to give her hands something to do, or to avoid looking at him with that glinting stare he recognized regardless - that she had instead requested the company of a physician, he quit his chambers immediately to go to her. The first thought that had risen in his mind was that she had fallen ill, and his feet took him quickly to her. Though, as his speculation drew on with his journey just down the hall to her, he began to wonder what she had fallen ill with. Then, his footsteps took him much quicker with some great excitement in his heart.

When they would not let him in to see her, it nearly killed him; he thought, perhaps, he would drop dead pacing.

It was many a minute alone in her room with her doctor, filled with questions and being examined. Victoria shared her worries, her hopes, and the man took it with a smile and worked slowly with her. He explained things slowly to her and she found herself highly grateful to his gentleness with her. Completely unaware of her husband outside the door, the doctor gave his final opinion.

The man shut his bag, leaving her bedchamber and waddling to Francis. He tipped his hat to the man and told him that his wife was fine-he may go in and see her- before taking his pay from the maid and leaving. 

He paid the physician no social gratitude, tipped him no small monetary gratuity, but hurried into Victoria’s bedchambers before the door could even shut behind the doctor. What news the man had given him had flooded him with relief, but it still left an urgency churning in his stomach that was enough to make him sick. He quickly positioned himself at her side where she lay in her bed - smiling, he noted, with a tenderness he had never seen in all her softest looks - and took up her hand in his. “What news have you, darling?”

countrylostatsea:

frannybonnefoy:

He did not send her away that evening; he did not send her away for many evenings after that, but preferred her sleep beside him than to have them lay both alone in their own bedchambers. He found that, despite sleeping many nights alone in preparation for receiving her, it was difficult to release Victoria once she was with him. With her, he was happy, and she made the evenings even far more pleasant than their days together. These days, which they spent in each others’ company tirelessly, were filled with post-marital excitements - dinners, parties, tea times, callings, and all requirements of general society for newlyweds - that seemed to maintain their amusement for Francis much more now that he had a constant companion, and a companion who he could dote upon with adoration that grew more into love by the day. It was during these loving days that he waited for evenings, and through them, too, he continued to wait with a private urgency for good news; he dreamed about it just three nights after their union, and it had not laid to rest in his mind since.

Victoria was grateful for these nights alone with her husband. He kept away the fears brought to her with the new world she had been placed in. She rewarded his attention and whenever his lingering fingers traveled to her bodice she almost always allowed him in, discovering that a married woman’s duties to her husband suited her. Victoria quickly grew more accustomed to the activities her husband seemed to be constantly busy with, her confidence growing with each party they attended. Friendships blossomed easily, but her good reputation was still none compared to her husband’s and never would be. Her maid was often busy collecting constant gifts for them to open and riding to town for new dresses that her lady would need. Victoria found herself feeling spoiled during this time, especially when Francis would join her for a picnic or a horse ride just for her enjoyment. However, she stopped requesting rides a week or two into their marriage, fearing that it might hurt her. 

It was something that caused her to take long walks in deep silence through the garden, alone to her thoughts while Francis was busy with other things. It was her only worry now and one of the few things she prayed for during her talks with God. When small signs that her wish had come true started to appear she still remained silent about it, wanting to be completely sure before bringing the issue to her loving husband. Yet when nearly two months passed after their wedding had passed Victoria grew too excited to wait any longer. She called her favorite maid into her bedchambers, turning down Francis’ request to see her for the first time, and sent the servant to receive a physician. 

When Victoria’s maid had returned to him without his wife, it had been with no small amount of surprise; when she had told him, while busying herself unnecessarily around their chambers - he supposed that it was for no other reason than to give her hands something to do, or to avoid looking at him with that glinting stare he recognized regardless - that she had instead requested the company of a physician, he quit his chambers immediately to go to her. The first thought that had risen in his mind was that she had fallen ill, and his feet took him quickly to her. Though, as his speculation drew on with his journey just down the hall to her, he began to wonder what she had fallen ill with. Then, his footsteps took him much quicker with some great excitement in his heart.

When they would not let him in to see her, it nearly killed him; he thought, perhaps, he would drop dead pacing.

countrylostatsea:

frannybonnefoy:

The world, in its entirety, turned slow and golden. He remained inside her for a few glowing minutes, smiling some dumb madman’s smile, before showering her neck and shoulders with thick kisses - sticky and sweet, with slow lips and a hazy warmth radiating from his whole body. Eventually, when he removed himself from her, it was only to lay himself at rest and pull her close, engulfing her with his body once more as he whispered sweet nothings against the salty curl of her hair.

He thought, maybe, as he gradually regained his composure, that along with his overwhelming happiness he should feel mildly apprehensive, but then he remembered that they had both wanted this and it was never a contract at all; he had wanted a wife, a permanent lover… A family. He wanted a family, and this was the first step, was it not? His arms tightened around her, fingers ghosting over her stomach, the thin sheen of sweat that had filmed over her skin making it easy, even sensual in its own right.

Feeling her body tired and weaker than usual, she allowed him to do with her body what her pleased. It struck her as she felt her body hit the bed that her purity was gone. She was a woman now more than ever and she vaguely wondered if she would make a terrible woman, to which she only had him to blame. Excepting each of his kisses with a smile, but too faint to regift the motion back to him. She felt as though she would never be able to part from him again. “P-please Francis,” Her voice hardly above a whisper in her weak state, “Even if you should send me away every other evening, do not send me to my own bedchambers tonight.” 

He did not send her away that evening; he did not send her away for many evenings after that, but preferred her sleep beside him than to have them lay both alone in their own bedchambers. He found that, despite sleeping many nights alone in preparation for receiving her, it was difficult to release Victoria once she was with him. With her, he was happy, and she made the evenings even far more pleasant than their days together. These days, which they spent in each others’ company tirelessly, were filled with post-marital excitements - dinners, parties, tea times, callings, and all requirements of general society for newlyweds - that seemed to maintain their amusement for Francis much more now that he had a constant companion, and a companion who he could dote upon with adoration that grew more into love by the day. It was during these loving days that he waited for evenings, and through them, too, he continued to wait with a private urgency for good news; he dreamed about it just three nights after their union, and it had not laid to rest in his mind since.

ukrainianlady:

Kat scooted up higher on the bed, careful of his IV and hugged him gently, “Alright well… Did you try to ease yourself off of it or did you just stop flat out…? And if I may ask, which drugs…?”, she rested a hand gently on his arm, pulling the the IV drip closer so it wouldn’t pull if he moved, “… And d-drinking isn’t that bad… I drink plenty… But them again I drink too…”

At the inquiry, his hands had began to work restlessly at his hair again, and for a moment he noted her readjustment of his IV and was grateful, but it did not last too long. “Lord, everything…” He worked the ball of his palms into his eyes for a moment before his fingers swept back through his hair, continuing with a shake of his head, “I quit it all at once. I had to…” Then, with a sudden urgency, feeling much too uncomfortable under her attention for no real reason at all that he could figure, asked, “You drink?”

englishgentlemanforever:

& CALL ME FRANNY.: englishgentlemanforever: & CALL ME FRANNY.: englishgentlemanforever: &…

frannybonnefoy:

englishgentlemanforever:

& CALL ME FRANNY.: englishgentlemanforever: & CALL ME FRANNY.:…

frannybonnefoy:

englishgentlemanforever:

& CALL ME FRANNY.: @frannybonnefoy

frannybonnefoy:

englishgentlemanforever:

frannybonnefoy:

englishgentlemanforever:

The rays of the sun found a that hidden opening between the curtains, shining directly in Arthur’s eye. With a disturbed whine, Arthur shifted his position to his side. He was dreadfully tired and Mother Nature wasn’t letting him get any sleep. Ever since he had started to make progress in his book, he would spend all hours of the night, trying to perfect a small portion of writing. He was too tired to think, the frustration of not developing a main character yet pulling at his insides.

Unable to fall back asleep, he threw off his covers and sat up, running a hand through his wild bed head. He had hoped his trip to Paris wouldn’t be for nothing.  Venturing away from his home town in London wasn’t his favourite thing to do, but for the sake of his writing, which he wanted to do so badly, he’d travel anywhere.

Though Paris wasn’t his first choice, it was the cheapest for him. It could’ve been from his grumpy attitude or antisocial lifestyle, or even his comfort with back home. Either way, he’d learn to suffer through it, since it was what he wanted to do for a living, travel and write novels based upon it.

After readying himself in the bathroom and finding something quick to eat that he brought with him, he grabbed his notebook and a pen and left the hotel room, hopes on collecting notes while people watching to create his characters.

Passing by the front desk without a ‘hello’ to the receptionist, he brought himself to the Metro to get to the Eiffel Tower, Arthur’s ideal spot for people watching.

As he walked to an area by his destination, he noticed a man holding out fliers out front of an art museum. Intrigued, Arthur went and grabbed one and examined it.

 New exhibition by Francis Bonnefoy, huh? Sounds interesting enough… considering I’m reading this correctly… he  thought as he looked to the building. Might as well check it out. If I get lucky, this Bonnefoy character could make a good base for my character.  

Arthur checked his watch then the time on the flyer. He had until lunch time to get some other characters in, staying close to the Museum.

With noon rapidly approaching, Francis Bonnefoy was the busiest he had, perhaps, ever been in his life up to date. He had to make sure the gallery looked was just the way he wanted it to, meet with several prestigious members of the art world for an early preview, and - and put up with the director of the gallery, also his close personal friend, constantly readjusting his tie every time they touched base with one another; Francis, most likely, would have thought this endearing even after the dozenth time if pressing matters had not made him so stressed.

Five minutes to noon brought the director, a tiny woman in too-big heels and a still bigger smile, back into the main hall of the gallery, but this time with a bouquet of flowers that she had shoved quite hurriedly into Francis’ hands before embracing him. After some last minute words of encouragement and Francis returning her embrace with a free arm, she decidedly took back the flowers and disappeared in a flurry to put them somewhere where they would not wilt before the end of the showing; that way, she discussed with herself as she left, as if Francis was not meant to hear, he could put them in his flat and give it the feminine touch it needed. He ignored what he thought he should have taken as a misguided compliment, for he was sure she had neither been in his apartment nor recognized that it was quite feminine enough, and did his own rearranging of his tie before his exhibit opened to the public.

Midway through a thought of doing away with his tie altogether, he spared his work a long look and, satisfied, mentally congratulated himself and each individual piece for getting this far; the art was really to thank, he figured, because most of it just makes itself while he sweats and bleeds and cries only in the vicinity of it.

The doors flew open to let in all of Paris before he was satisfied with his tie.

Arthur sat directly across the gallery for most of the duration of his time until the doors opened. He waited a while for the crowd outside to calm down before heading in himself. Keeping his notebook close without the intention to lose it, he ventured through the crowd.

This guy must be popular… he thought to himself as he glanced around. He chose a less populated hall to travel down, hating the crowded area. He though, perhaps, it wasn’t such a great idea to have gone in so early after all.

It was not too much of a bother seeing as Arthur now had the moment to examine the couple of paintings of Bonnefoy’s that were in the hall he stood in. He admired the paintings, noticing the different hues and texture and depth of each painting. Each different, yet similar in it’s style to show the Frenchman’s signature art style. Arthur quickly jotted down what he saw before standing at the start of the massive sea of people.

He tapped on the shoulder of one of the guests, “Pardon. Which is Francis Bonnefoy?” Receiving an explanation in French, Arthur followed the man’s quick point across the room in the corner by a more intricate painting. He saw multiple candidates, but one stood out in particular. His flawless wavy hair, slight stubble, and bright blue eyes screamed “Francis.” Whether that was the truth or not, Arthur had to go over and find out, which meant venturing through the crowd again.

Sighing, he continued to remind himself that it was all for his future and a potentially great story. And with the time it would take for Arthur to get from point A to point B, he could think of an excuse to get to interview Francis. As he began his thinking, he also began his polite shoving through to get by.

There were too many people in here for Francis’ liking. It was not because he did not like people - no, they were perfect models, divine creatures, each and every one in their own right - but their close proximity to his work made him dreadfully nervous; proud, but in a way that made his fingers tremble so that he had to either clasp his hands together or willfully jam them into his pockets. He was afraid, ridiculously enough, he recognized, that the perfect world he created, when introduced to the world in which he lived, may cause some great warfare upon the initial meeting. The people in his paintings were Parisians, all of them, and replacements in Francis’ own heart of people he had observed in the street - with names and stories he fancied himself - which he knew was a dangerous prospect.

Reality had a way of raging war against the ideal, and against Francis.

His friend the director was nowhere to be found, leaving Francis alone bear the burden of introductions and interrogations, targetted by those avid art appreciators who he had seen waiting almost hungrily outside, and by those students who he did not feel quite comfortable learning from him. He took it all, though, shaking hands and floundering to come up with reasons why - why he chose a medium, a concept, a model, and what everything was all supposed to mean - his voice, smooth, and his smile, easy; products of a complete strength of will and practiced confidence that the director had coached him on every time she had fixed his tie.

It was only after wishing a grateful good day to his most recent acquaintance, that he found himself looking down upon a rather flustered looking blonde with a notepad.

Once making it, finally, passed the crowd, Arthur suddenly found himself standing directly in front of the Frenchman with flawless hair and gorgeous blue eyes. Standing up straight, Arthur cleared his throat and smiled something fake, “Hello, Francis Bonnefoy, I presume?I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m Arthur Kirkland a.. an intern at the Telegraph newspaper of London. I’m aiming to get my own column in it, but I needed something to give them to show I am capable of doing what they are looking for. The mentioned this art opening showing your work and recommended me to come and take a look and write about the artist. Would you be able to help me out by allowing me to conduct an interview with you?”

Arthur wrapped up his little explanation, unable to think of anymore lies to add on top of the mound of skeletons already in his closet just for one damn character. He had just surprised himself in general, thinking of something convincing on such short notice. He hoped the man wasn’t stuck up, being kind enough to help Arthur out. All he needed was a little bit on information. Arthur had taken a good look at the Frenchman, though, and judging by his hesitant posture, something Arthur knew much about, the other was nervous, probably for being surrounded by an enormous amount of people, which Arthur could fully understand. Though the thought of how the man couldn’t have expected this rolled it’s way through Arthur’s mind. Francis had to know.. or maybe not, which would explain his nervousness. Arthur could vouch that the man had nothing to worry about seeing as his art was admirable.

Francis’ lips parted to speak - he thought about turning him away in favor of retreating from the gallery altogether - but they quickly shut to instead quirk into a trusting smile as he extended a hand in both proper greeting and agreement, saying, “It would be my pleasure to have you conduct an interview-” The sound of what he thought was the director nearby cut off his voice, and he turned his head to survey the hall for a moment. Once spotting her, he quickly returned his attention to the man and offered him a mildly apologetic look for getting distracted. “Please, if you’d follow me, I know where we can talk in private.” He figured, what with the director having vacated her office, that it would be the perfect place to conduct an interview;it was altogether unlikely that she would be able to keep herself away from the excitement of the opening anymore for the rest of the evening, let alone the afternoon, so he doubted that she would interrupt them at all.

Arthur was a bit surprised that he was being led somewhere quiet now. He didn’t think the artist would be so accepting of conducting an interview during his opening. Though, he didn’t think too much about it, following right behind him. “I really appreciate you doing this for me… and on such short notice……. and in the middle of your art opening. Which, by the way, your art is really beautiful. I can see why there are so many people in here.”

Arthur didn’t want to try to hard to bring up conversation. He should have just been thinking of ways to perform an interview that was supposed to be about Bonnefoy’s art instead of Bonnefoy’s life. That, probably, wasn’t Arthur’s smartest ideas when thinking of an excuse to question the other. The only thing on Arthur’s side, was the want for a good story, and so far, Francis had seemed like the perfect candidate for the main character. If Arthur could play this right, he’d have him for sure.

Francis smiled at the man over his shoulder, mouth lopsided and framed with loose curls, “It is my pleasure-” Then, eyes quickly lighting up with the successive compliment before softening with the quick, secretive turn of his head, he continued, thrilled, “Ah, I am glad you think so. That makes me…” He stopped,testing the doorknob to see if she had left her office open, before leading him inside and shutting them in together quietly. “Happy.”

He took a moment, in this new privacy, to survey his interviewer with a carefulness he was not able to afford in the company of so many others - he decided that there was something about him that was generally pleasing, and something glowed dimly in his eyes that not even he dared identify in the moment - before bidding him come inside and make himself comfortable, assuring his guest that they would not be interrupted. “Now,” he said, taking a seat behind the director’s desk just to seem a little more official in the wake of his previous assessment of the man, just in case he noticed, “what questions do you have for me?”

Arthur took a seat, pulling his notebook and pen out. He had a list, but it was one he used to create his characters. He had to put that list into questions fit for an interview. The hardest part was trying not to make them sound too personal.

“Well, uhm.. how long have you been painting for? And has your painting style been the same since you started?”

Arthur didn’t realize how nervous he actually was until he started asking questions. He never talked to others like this. Not to mention his list of friends was very very small, so his social knowledge was slim. The most interactions he’s had was with editors with his writing. Though nervous, he kept as calm as he could, attempting not to make it apparent. H ekept his posture straight, crossing one leg over the other and avoided direct eye contact.

Oh Lord, I can’t pull this off….

Francis stared at him over his fingers, which had poised themselves in front of his face, laced casually as he moved to lean on the desk thoughtfully. Admittedly, it was a good question, and he surprised himself when he found that he actually had to count the years; something in him felt, with no little amount of personal shame, that he really should know offhand. Eventually, he answered with a certain, “Nine years.” Smiling to himself behind his fingers momentarily, pleased with the number in itself, he continued onto the second part of the man’s question, “It’s changed…quite a lot. I was never able to paint people- People are relatively new to me, and… certain subjects have made my style much more realistic.” He wondered if that answered the question at all - what had it been, anyway? he’d forgotten, perhaps, he thought - because he was focusing more on the man than the question.