@distopea // Frenchie for Oliver.
He makes his way through the people under a kaleidoscope of lights, his eyes taking in the club, the air smelling of desperation and secrets. He’s just another shadow passing through, despite the way people’s back straighten as they notice him and how men screw polite smiles on to welcome him with. He ignores it all, instead moving towards a door tucked in the back that gives way to a ‘Staff Only’ room.
He ignores the presence of the man at first, instead dropping his bag on the big desk towards the back of the room. Frenchie catches the light flinch of the other and, once again, something foreign twists inside him - an anger that he can almost taste at the back of his throat. He turns and sits on the desk, gaze measuring the other quietly.
He’s sure Luca has taken care of him, yet when their eyes meet Frenchie can see the wild thing inside the other - a look that makes Frenchie believe that given the opportunity, the man might plant a knife in his chest and not look back.
Fear. Slight confusion. Fury.
“I got you some stuff,” the blond says and taps the bag next to him, before rolling one of his shoulders back, still painful from landing on it when he jumped from one roof to another during a chase. The silence stretches between them and Frenchie lets it engulf them until it becomes suffocating. When Astra rolled to the club with the man in tow, Frenchie only slightly questioned it. He was blindfolded for the whole of the meeting. The whole affair left a bad taste in Frenchie’s mouth who decided before Astra was even out of the club to never see the man again. Astra was cruel and took pleasure in pain and suffering, unlike Frenchie who only tolerated both. That much was clear when Astra proceeded to break the man’s fingers for no other reason than showing off. It might have been then when Frenchie decided that given the opportunity, he would gladly put a bullet between his soulless eyes.
“Aight, we gotta go,” he says with a soft inhale, climbing down from the desk and moving towards the couch the man is sitting on instead. It’s the same couch that a few days ago the man was thrown onto as a simple pawn, an object in Astra’s play for control.
Frenchie didn’t care for gifts or pawns, but he also didn’t want to send Oliver back with Astra. Instead, he took Oliver’s blindfold off and checked him over, bandaging his fingers just as he did to the many birds he’s looked after.
“Come on,” he encourages again with a nod of the head, shifting the bag from one hand to another before making his way towards the exit.
