lonely bored and bad @petreconstcntin - Tumblr Blog

-—— p e t r e c o n s t a n t i n ——-

Know this: I live beast days. I am a water hour. At night my eyelids droop like forest and sky. My love knows few words: I like it in your blood.

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a study in petre constantin

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lonalice-blog

Not much of an enforcer to begin with (at least, not outside of work), seeing wizards and witches making fools of themselves during the holidays was the least surprising thing in the world. There were those poor, elderly squibs, discarded and uncared for, and then there were the youthful, albeit maybe off-their-kilter young adults that seemed to have an affinity for alcohol, particularly the intoxicating type. She herself wanted to go get some alcohol on her walk home, but before she could finish processing the thought, the sound of a foreign song infiltrated her ears and caught her attention almost immediately.

It was kind of distant, but with a couple of good, precise steps, she found her way towards the source of the singing: a (nearly) shirtless man that held a bottle in his hand and looked to be having a hard time finding his footing. It was a disheartened but amusing sight, and while Alice normally didn’t go out of her way to socialize with wizards and witches that tended to loiter the outdoors, she felt a sting of pity. He continued to stumble away from her, oblivious in his world, but she set down her bag by her feet and shrugged off her jacket, ignoring the cold that invaded her skin. Hell, it was a new year; her first good deed? She picked up her light tan trench coat and her bag as she hurried after him.

“Wait!” She shouted, trying to make her voice heard. Her heels hit the pavement steadily until she finally reached up to him, and before he could break his tune, she held out her coat, adding a smile for the hell of it. “Here. You look… um, cold.”

petreconstcntin

It wasn’t until he saw her that he warbled out a bad note, flashed a crooked smile and tried to stand upright. Tried and failed. Many things could be said about the great Petre Constantin, pride of the Romanian pack, but one of them was not that he was an attractive drunk. Or even a coherent drunk. One hand came up to scratch somewhat violently at his chest, silver Crucifix pitching and swinging with every breath he took.

When the mystery blonde held out her jacket to him, he absently took it, missing a few times before finally securing it, grinning moronically the whole time. “Tu esti...” He trailed off, voice hoarse and gravelly. No. No, that was the wrong language. “You are very pretty girl,” he finally got out, English broken and weighed down by a thick Romanian accent. “Frumos,” he tacked on to the end of the compliment, just for emphasis, forgetting that she wouldn’t know what it meant.

It took him a moment to notice that he was holding something now -- a coat? the fuck did he need a coat for? -- and he immediately held it back out to her when he did. Not waiting to see when, or if, she would take her jacket back, he finished what was left in his bottle and then let it fall to the pavement, landing with a sharp c r a c k. Once his eyes focused on the nameless woman in front of him, Petre was all smiles again, searching once more for the right words in the right language. “You... you come home with me, yes?” Perfect.

#01.01.80 #alice1 #opp: alice longbottom #please excuse him

New Years was fun. Wasn’t New Years fun? Petre thought so, and he had been sure to tell everyone he saw that he thought so -- at the top of his lungs, no less, shirt unbuttoned halfway and reeking of cheap booze. That was the state he found himself in well after midnight. Stumbling through the streets singing in Romanian, trying to either find his way home or find his way to the bottom of the bottle in his hand.