privatekinships:
@bluffoldbunny pre-murder; the twins’ apartment
He HATES uncertainty; it always make him anxious, the circus act of balancing on the precipice of multiple possibilities at the same time. So when dinner plans at the twins had been left up in the air for nearly FOUR DAYS, he was in a foul mood when Henry called at the last minute to finally confirm the gathering. He had arrived almost OBSCENELY early (as always), and of course, Camilla had realized she was short some of the necessary ingredients. And where Camilla WENT, Charles followed, despite Francis’ small flicker of hope that he might get some private time with the latter. As it was, he was left watching the apartment while they ran to town. ALONE.
There’s a knock, and he assumes it to be Henry, or perhaps Richard. Hopes, rather. Really, anyone but “BUNNY,” he greets, hiding the sinking feeling of dread as he pulls the door open for him. Divergent from the church or not, he already feels the temptation to PRAY to God that the twins return soon.
‘ Fran-çois. ’
The arabesque of a name turns painfully American in the slack of Bunny’s jaw ( read: FRAN-SWAS ). Though even more painful then pronunciation, perhaps, is the fervour and gall with which our Lapin friend grasps Francis’ face. Index and thumb on either cheek, straining as if to pass through maw and teeth–– Francis’ chin tucked into the crook of Bun’s palm.
He tilts the face to the left, et la droit, scrutinizing the foxlike features with a lazy interest,
‘ You’re looking pale, old friend. You’ve been getting your citrus fruits–– no? ’
There’s no hesitation, his question barely earning it’s name. Bun sucks through his teeth, removing his grip and patting the side of his peer’s cheek as he shuffles past.
‘ Hope that’s not scurvy. It’s a drag. Puts your joints on the fritz. Maybe you can snag some of Charles’ marmalade and cream cheese, hey? Bet that would pair well with an old fashioned. ’
He enters, glances around. His sunny blaze turns to a slow burn as he realizes that neither pan nor twin rattle in the kitchen. The couch remains veritably Richard-less. The prattle of Henry’s mutterings are apparently absent. He spins on his heel and taps it in reverie,
‘ Speaking of the guy. You didn’t eat the whole gang for dinner–– did you, now? ’
