Who: Petit & Artan What: Meeting for the first time, again, once more. Where: Guildhall, NOLA Warnings: Snark, cussin'.
Artan decided to trade in the BMW the morning after he landed in. He got himself a BMW bike instead of a car, because fuck cars, man. It was with that, that he pulled up into the backwards-ass Guildhall, and hopped off, tucking the helmet under his arm. He whistled low, shaking his head. "She ain't kiddin'," he said under his breath, before starting up the steps.
It had been about seven years since he'd seen Petit. The last time he'd seen her, he was hopping onto a boat to get off the tiny island of Tortuga. He'd told her how he felt about her, and she'd laughed in his face. He hadn't had any other reason but Petit to stay on the island. He had to find a foothold on his own, without the help of the Guild or the pirates. And he had. He'd made a name for himself on the touring tattoo circuit. He had spent five years slinging ink across the country, and had done a damned good job carving out a place in the world.
And then he got dumped in this world. He hadn't even thought about Petit for a couple years. His memories of her were bittersweet; she was one of the best friends he'd ever had, but on the other hand... Well, she broke his heart. There was that. He stood in the front of the large front door, and stared at it. He hesitated - Fuck, he didn't want to go through a bunch of bullshit, but on the other hand, he had a burning curiosity to see what Petit looked like now. She was a pretty chick before, but they were just kids back then. Now... who the hell even knew.
That, and she had his van.
He knocked and the door swung open. In front of him was a kid that could very easily have been him back in the day. "You're knocking like you don't live here," Ronan huffed a chuckle and nodded. "Good to see you back, or... whatever. Petit's in the parlor." He nodded towards the room, and Artan nodded. "Thanks, kid," he muttered and slicked his hair back as he set the helmet down on a side table, walking in.
And there was Artan. The scruffy little gutter rat, in his leather jacket and workman's boots, with a gaudy belt buckle and a pair of well-worn jeans, in the doorway. "You'd think that we'd be used to fucked up shit by now," He said with a huff, his smile gone lopsided.