Fitz (undercurrent) wrote in cambioncity, @ 2011-10-02 01:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | farrah, farrah and fitz, fitz |
Who: Farrah and Fitz
What: Fitz is looking for Dex. Farrah is looking for Gwen. Whoo random encounters!
When: Saturday, mid-afternoon
Where: Downtown Oktoberfest festivities
Warnings: None?
Fitz had lost Dex. It was pretty official.
He actually didn’t keep that close of tabs on his friend. They were both grown men and therefore able to take care of themselves. It was a nice theory, not necessarily true at all times, but Fitz liked to believe it in the same vein that children growing older tried to cling to the fantasy of Santa Claus. In any case, what was done was done, and Dex, despite his nearly six and a half feet of height, had been swallowed by the crowd from view. Fitz might have been able to keep better track if he wasn’t drinking as much as he was, but what was done was done and there was no crying over spilt lager.
It wasn’t that they were irresponsible when they drank, there was just less of a barrier for Fitz over what made up good behaviour, and for Dex it tended to disappear completely. He was therefore vaguely worried that his friend was going to end up in jail, it being Oktoberfest and all; then again, combing extensively through the crowd would be impossible this deep into the main drag. There was a very large amount of people around, the various beer gardens blending into one another, stalls thrown up in haphazard yet neat rows between the usual storefronts of downtown. Unless Fitz felt like going into one of the buildings and leaning out of a window to do a proper scan, he really just had to trust he would either bump into Dex again, or that there would be a huge commotion he could get to first before security did. Until then there was no use being overly worried about it.
As he was casting a glance around in case he saw a familiar head of blond hair, someone shouldered by him, rather roughly. He was too tall to see the man’s face, just glimpsed a mess of dark greasy hair tumbling over a leather jacket, a creased and torn and wrinkled creation compared to the sleek dark brown one that Fitz himself was wearing. “Yes, excuse me,” he said, sardonically, to the man’s back, before his attention was instead stolen to the woman he knocked into next, scattering the contents of her purse to the ground. Fitz really couldn’t stand drunken idiots; he himself was drunk, and, he supposed, also idiotic, but there was a point that shouldn’t be crossed. He stepped forward and wordlessly bent to help her with her things.