edgar roni figaro will leave his hairbows on. (cointossed) wrote in missions, @ 2012-08-03 00:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! thread, edgar figaro, ruby argente |
well, it's a minor altercation.
WHO: Ruby Argente & Edgar! Just Edgar. No surname. No sirree.
WHAT: A disastrous meet cute in which he unwittingly flirts with his fiancé's best friend, and vice versa. And no one is any the wiser.
WHEN: Tonight!
WHERE: 7th Heaven.
Getting the lay of the land. That's what his military advisor would have called it, at least. His second week at this Garden was drawing to a close, and the king had spent his time getting to know the cadets in his classes and laughing it up as 'Edgar', conveniently anonymous for the time being. Just another normal average everyman, like the rest of you. He would nod to the other royals in the hallways, however, lingering in doorways to chat to Lenna, Garnet, Alma, Cecil, or Kain. (Aire tended to turn up her nose at him and keep walking, with stubborn strides of those prim little heels.) But there had been no grand announcements. No pomp, circumstance, or fanfare for his every little movement. No bodyguards tailing him wherever he went -- as long as one refrained from counting Sabin, that loyal pup.
It was lovely. A refreshing break. He'd been able to spend two weeks focusing on being a student and a boy and a brother, rather than king and all that entailed.
So tonight, in the interests of tactical socialisation, the boy found himself in the sort of watering hole that King Edgar Figaro would normally never be caught dead in and would make the regent's head spin right off its shoulders -- white tablecloths and fluted champagne glasses were the monarchy's norm, not the greasy tabletops of 7th Heaven. He'd accompanied two of the boys from one of his engineering classes and they'd settled themselves at the bar; he was neatly perched on an elevated stool, booted heel planted firmly on the chair's rung. It was a strategic move, Edgar told himself. A reconnaissance mission. Rubbing elbows -- literally! -- with other cadets in a casual, social, non-academic environment in order to gain a better feel for Balamb and its population.
He still had to do the official royal announcement. It nagged at him like a thorn in his side, a lingering to-do squatting on his list with a baleful stare. The big reveal on the journals, the press release that would declare King Figaro's presence in Balamb. (Yet that name still sounded wrong. Four years were not enough; 'King Figaro' still meant Stewart Figaro to his oldest son.)
'Take it at your own pace,' Kramer had told him. Royal duty beckoned, however, and Edgar knew he had to raise the wool from the others' eyes eventually.
But not tonight. Instead, he spun on the stool and scanned the crowded room for the sight of a waitress, mulling over the question of yet another drink.