Post by sidonie on Jul 1, 2011 10:59:21 GMT 10
Title: Northern Line
Rating: PG
Couple/Character: Roald II of Conté/Zahir ibn Alhaz
Event: AU pole vault
Words: 765
Summary: On a chill day in London, Roald Conté meets a tall, dark, and handsome stranger.
Disclaimer: I am not actually a resident of the UK, so I'm not working from a native's knowledge. I spent a term in London, and have tried to only use places/things I remember from that time, but feel free to correct me if I screwed anything up.
~~~~~~
The clouds were grey and heavy with rain, threatening the city as they glowered overhead. Roald glanced briefly up at them, jamming his hands deeper into his coat pockets in a futile attempt to warm them. He'd been outside for just a few minutes and already his fingers were stiff with cold. The damp chill of London winter settled into his bones, making him feel a bit like a doddering old man. He really should have worn something warmer than a wool peacoat and a scarf.
A woman in high heels and a pencil skirt brushed by him, talking loudly on her headset. She didn't seem to notice that the briefcase swinging by her side smashed into his knee, sending him staggering back a few steps. He took a deep breath, biting his lower lip against the dull pain. That was the problem with Trafalgar Square: even in the off season, it was jam-packed with people, mostly clueless tourists who clogged up foot traffic as they stood gaping at the monumental buildings. Roald had seen the National Gallery a thousand times; the structure no longer awed him, though the collection it housed could still inspire reverential silence.
Whatever Trafalgar Square's faults, though, he still came here every Tuesday for the lunchtime concert at St. Martin-in-the-fields. The church looked no different than the countless others scattered throughout London—certainly it was less impressive than St. Paul's—but by some quirk of architecture, it had perfect acoustics, and Roald never ceased to be amazed by the purity of the sound.
As he gazed out over the busy intersection, trying to decide if the warmth and caffeine of a cup of coffee was worth the lines, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, which informed him he had a new text.
A bunch of us r going to the roundhouse tonight. Wanna come? ~Kel
He took a moment to consider, then tapped out a reply, his fingers clumsy with cold.
Rsc? -Roald
Yeah, much ado. Supposed to be rly good. Tickets r £40, but consider it an early xmas present. ~Kel
Sounds good, but no need to buy my ticket. Ill pay. Time? -Roald
7:30, but come down to camden town now and hang with us? ~Kel
Yeah, sure. Ive got nothing else to do. See you there! -Roald
The exchange concluded, Roald returned his phone to his pocket and began walking toward the Leicester Square tube station. It wasn't far, but the cold was making him irritable, and so he hurried. Once there, it took three tries to fumble his Oyster Card out of his wallet, only to find he needed to top it up. Of course none of the machines were working, the queue for the help desk was predictably a hundred people long, and he was muttering curses and seriously contemplating running to Charing Cross when a slim, dark hand intruded on his field of vision, proffering a ticket.
“Here, use mine,” said a smooth, lightly accented voice.
Roald glanced up to see a tall, slim young man with Arabic features. “Oh, no, I couldn't,” he protested. “This queue will go down eventually, I'm sure. You go ahead.”
The stranger gave a wry smile, teeth flashing white in his dark face. “I'm afraid you've misunderstood. By 'mine,' I rather meant 'yours, the ticket I bought for you, seeing as I have my own Oyster Card and yours seems to be done for.'” He was standing just a touch too close, his liquid dark eyes intent. Roald flushed under the scrutiny, ducking his head a little, trying to ignore the slightly breathless feeling in his chest.
“I—uh, well—thank you. That's very kind.”
“Don't mention it. I'm Zahir, by the by. Zahir ibn Alhaz.”
“Roald. Um . . . Roald Conté.” Seeing Zahir's shocked expression, he blushed again.
“ Conté? As in Prime Minister Jonathan Conté?”
“Yeah. A bit. I'm his son.” Which is why I really shouldn't let this bloke flirt with me, he thought. The tabloids would have a field day. This is not a good idea.
Zahir threw back his head and laughed. “God help me, I'm chatting up the future of the Labour Party. Well, I never could resist a pretty face.” He gave Roald a nearly imperceptible wink. “Where are you headed, Roald Conté?”
The decision to reply truthfully was all too easy. “I'm taking the Northern Line to Chalk Farm.”
“What a coincidence—so am I!”
Roald was fairly certain his face had gone permanently red. He didn't much care.
Rating: PG
Couple/Character: Roald II of Conté/Zahir ibn Alhaz
Event: AU pole vault
Words: 765
Summary: On a chill day in London, Roald Conté meets a tall, dark, and handsome stranger.
Disclaimer: I am not actually a resident of the UK, so I'm not working from a native's knowledge. I spent a term in London, and have tried to only use places/things I remember from that time, but feel free to correct me if I screwed anything up.
~~~~~~
The clouds were grey and heavy with rain, threatening the city as they glowered overhead. Roald glanced briefly up at them, jamming his hands deeper into his coat pockets in a futile attempt to warm them. He'd been outside for just a few minutes and already his fingers were stiff with cold. The damp chill of London winter settled into his bones, making him feel a bit like a doddering old man. He really should have worn something warmer than a wool peacoat and a scarf.
A woman in high heels and a pencil skirt brushed by him, talking loudly on her headset. She didn't seem to notice that the briefcase swinging by her side smashed into his knee, sending him staggering back a few steps. He took a deep breath, biting his lower lip against the dull pain. That was the problem with Trafalgar Square: even in the off season, it was jam-packed with people, mostly clueless tourists who clogged up foot traffic as they stood gaping at the monumental buildings. Roald had seen the National Gallery a thousand times; the structure no longer awed him, though the collection it housed could still inspire reverential silence.
Whatever Trafalgar Square's faults, though, he still came here every Tuesday for the lunchtime concert at St. Martin-in-the-fields. The church looked no different than the countless others scattered throughout London—certainly it was less impressive than St. Paul's—but by some quirk of architecture, it had perfect acoustics, and Roald never ceased to be amazed by the purity of the sound.
As he gazed out over the busy intersection, trying to decide if the warmth and caffeine of a cup of coffee was worth the lines, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, which informed him he had a new text.
A bunch of us r going to the roundhouse tonight. Wanna come? ~Kel
He took a moment to consider, then tapped out a reply, his fingers clumsy with cold.
Rsc? -Roald
Yeah, much ado. Supposed to be rly good. Tickets r £40, but consider it an early xmas present. ~Kel
Sounds good, but no need to buy my ticket. Ill pay. Time? -Roald
7:30, but come down to camden town now and hang with us? ~Kel
Yeah, sure. Ive got nothing else to do. See you there! -Roald
The exchange concluded, Roald returned his phone to his pocket and began walking toward the Leicester Square tube station. It wasn't far, but the cold was making him irritable, and so he hurried. Once there, it took three tries to fumble his Oyster Card out of his wallet, only to find he needed to top it up. Of course none of the machines were working, the queue for the help desk was predictably a hundred people long, and he was muttering curses and seriously contemplating running to Charing Cross when a slim, dark hand intruded on his field of vision, proffering a ticket.
“Here, use mine,” said a smooth, lightly accented voice.
Roald glanced up to see a tall, slim young man with Arabic features. “Oh, no, I couldn't,” he protested. “This queue will go down eventually, I'm sure. You go ahead.”
The stranger gave a wry smile, teeth flashing white in his dark face. “I'm afraid you've misunderstood. By 'mine,' I rather meant 'yours, the ticket I bought for you, seeing as I have my own Oyster Card and yours seems to be done for.'” He was standing just a touch too close, his liquid dark eyes intent. Roald flushed under the scrutiny, ducking his head a little, trying to ignore the slightly breathless feeling in his chest.
“I—uh, well—thank you. That's very kind.”
“Don't mention it. I'm Zahir, by the by. Zahir ibn Alhaz.”
“Roald. Um . . . Roald Conté.” Seeing Zahir's shocked expression, he blushed again.
“ Conté? As in Prime Minister Jonathan Conté?”
“Yeah. A bit. I'm his son.” Which is why I really shouldn't let this bloke flirt with me, he thought. The tabloids would have a field day. This is not a good idea.
Zahir threw back his head and laughed. “God help me, I'm chatting up the future of the Labour Party. Well, I never could resist a pretty face.” He gave Roald a nearly imperceptible wink. “Where are you headed, Roald Conté?”
The decision to reply truthfully was all too easy. “I'm taking the Northern Line to Chalk Farm.”
“What a coincidence—so am I!”
Roald was fairly certain his face had gone permanently red. He didn't much care.