Lorne (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nomorekaraoke) wrote2009-12-20 06:22 pm
nomorekaraoke) wrote2009-12-20 06:22 pm
Entry tags:
Chance Encounter
Any given Sunday around this time of day (or night, as the case may be, sometimes) will find Lorne seeking the familiar comforts of his favourite tea house. Francis', named after its owner and proprietor, is a very hush hush place most readily accessible from smack dab in the middle of Manhattan's China Town. Or rather, the tea house itself can be accessed from China Town in various locations, should you know enough to gain entrance.
One needs only find the right door, knock on it twice, and speak the demonic pass word to be let in. Inside, the lone bouncer will gruffily jab a thumb at the wrought metal staircase winding its way down, down, down to the tea house proper. The moment one sets foot on the first step, the scents of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries will seize one's olfactory sense and urge one down the may twists of the staircase. There are three floors made available for guests and patrons alike, full of tables and plush armchairs and couches of varying shapes and sizes and color that blend into a warmth one seldom finds above ground. At the very bottom of the stairs is a polished wooden floor, coated with several layers of protective magic for those unfortunate demons to whom oak is toxic. To the side, a massive counter with all manner of treats available for inspection, all of which - rare though it may be for such establishments - are safe for human consumption.
Behind the counter stands Francis himself, rivalling the counter with his own gigantic, infectiously exuberant bulk, ever ready to take one's order.
In the far corner, blanketed by the warmth emanating from the nearby kitchens, sits Lorne enjoying his usual treat of very, very green tea and very, very scrumptious red bean pastries.
One needs only find the right door, knock on it twice, and speak the demonic pass word to be let in. Inside, the lone bouncer will gruffily jab a thumb at the wrought metal staircase winding its way down, down, down to the tea house proper. The moment one sets foot on the first step, the scents of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries will seize one's olfactory sense and urge one down the may twists of the staircase. There are three floors made available for guests and patrons alike, full of tables and plush armchairs and couches of varying shapes and sizes and color that blend into a warmth one seldom finds above ground. At the very bottom of the stairs is a polished wooden floor, coated with several layers of protective magic for those unfortunate demons to whom oak is toxic. To the side, a massive counter with all manner of treats available for inspection, all of which - rare though it may be for such establishments - are safe for human consumption.
Behind the counter stands Francis himself, rivalling the counter with his own gigantic, infectiously exuberant bulk, ever ready to take one's order.
In the far corner, blanketed by the warmth emanating from the nearby kitchens, sits Lorne enjoying his usual treat of very, very green tea and very, very scrumptious red bean pastries.
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A beat.
Cautiously: "I don't suppose I could ask you to give me a heads-up if you hear any more details about it?"
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"Sure thing, pop tart. I'll write you a very flashy note at the Milli-board."
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Because it isn't just the satisfaction and anticipation of knowing he might get an advance warning of a show he's going to enjoy; it's also knowing that Lorne's going to do that for him, just because he likes him.
(You'd think that making a new friend -- knowing you can make a new friend -- is something you might get used to, but it's still always a little surprising.)
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And...
And it's some kind of wonderful, tingly little thing he can't put a name to. He ducks his head, still smiling, and breaks off another piece of crumbly croissant.
"I think you'll love it. I hope you will, now that I've kicked your expectations clear into the orbit."
In an undertone, red eyes glinting. "...the Balrog is gayer than me."
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Andrew cracks up very satisfactorily.
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"This is nice. Just hanging out, like this."
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Beat.
"Okay why do I even say things like that where the universe can hear me."
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"Who, me? Never."
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He's smiling as he gets to his feet. "See you."
And heads for the stairs, feeling unaccountably pleased with the day.