He likes Paris. Paris, Felix thinks, is romantic. Sure, any place is romantic if you really make it -- romance is less about location but instead people--but he likes Paris nonetheless. People are what it's really about, isn't it? Gazing at each other, living that one moment where nothing matters but their other half, no matter who or where they are.
This is the moons' fault that he feels so wistful, sitting outside a cafe with a bottle of wine. The waiter had asked if he was waiting for someone, to which he simply grinned and replied 'Isn't everyone?' as he sat down. Maybe he can make friends with the moon if no one catches his interest tonight. It wouldn't be the first time Felix has had imaginary conversations with himself, nor the last.
He tips his chair as he watches people walking by--lovers, mostly-- and hears violin playing somewhere off in the distance. A song he doesn't know, but he's sure the B flat is supposed to be a C, and he manages to balance said chair on two legs as the augmented 7th hangs uncomfortably in the air. It doesn't bother him as much as it used to in his youth. He barely even winces. Instead, he takes a whiff of his wine before sipping, mimicking what the person the third table over has done.
He'll never understand sniffing it when it's a drink, and he'll never understand what 'oaky tones' mean, but he does enjoy wine. He enjoys anything with love and a little dash of creativity put into it. Creativity is his favourite thing humans are capable of, besides love.
He wishes he were capable of it, too.
The violin stops, mercifully, and Felix is about half a bottle in, red staining his lips before he sees it. It's hard not to see it: a man caught in anguish, stumbling about and Felix is unsure if its bad medicine or not before he sees the gun. Heartbreak.
He rises immediately.
"Monsieur," A few hops and a skip and his long legs have caught up to the handsome man. He offers his best smile. "Perhaps you're having a rough day?"
~justolove
This is the moons' fault that he feels so wistful, sitting outside a cafe with a bottle of wine. The waiter had asked if he was waiting for someone, to which he simply grinned and replied 'Isn't everyone?' as he sat down. Maybe he can make friends with the moon if no one catches his interest tonight. It wouldn't be the first time Felix has had imaginary conversations with himself, nor the last.
He tips his chair as he watches people walking by--lovers, mostly-- and hears violin playing somewhere off in the distance. A song he doesn't know, but he's sure the B flat is supposed to be a C, and he manages to balance said chair on two legs as the augmented 7th hangs uncomfortably in the air. It doesn't bother him as much as it used to in his youth. He barely even winces. Instead, he takes a whiff of his wine before sipping, mimicking what the person the third table over has done.
He'll never understand sniffing it when it's a drink, and he'll never understand what 'oaky tones' mean, but he does enjoy wine. He enjoys anything with love and a little dash of creativity put into it. Creativity is his favourite thing humans are capable of, besides love.
He wishes he were capable of it, too.
The violin stops, mercifully, and Felix is about half a bottle in, red staining his lips before he sees it. It's hard not to see it: a man caught in anguish, stumbling about and Felix is unsure if its bad medicine or not before he sees the gun. Heartbreak.
He rises immediately.
"Monsieur," A few hops and a skip and his long legs have caught up to the handsome man. He offers his best smile. "Perhaps you're having a rough day?"