Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 8/F ♟ Canvas [FSC]

THE ART OF WAR - FINALS

There was a special sort of art, Florian thought, in starting anew. Awfully cliche of a thing to say, but it was the honest truth, and he'd never had any qualms with seeming overdramatic before. A clean slate was ideal in any given situation, and just about every person in the world wished for some magic eraser or a chisel to scratch away the previous engravings. People rarely ever got what they wished for. They could bury the mistakes, yes, but like putting coating after coating on something, things got clunky and harder to scrape away once the day was done.

He tried to find the eraser, but for now, three years after the fact, he buried the slate. He buried it deep.

The matter of erasers and slates meant little at the time, though, for he'd found a suitable distraction, one that'd last ten minutes more, at least. He convinced himself that every land of his foot on polished wood was crafted of pure enjoyment, and that the music was the sort that did wonders for clogging the ears. When the bodies grew tired of dancing, they'd drift over to their stools, and when the smiles grew tired of standing, they'd fall to something softer. The lights were a dim sort of bright - the kind of bars, his bar, specifically.

The constant promises that he'd never bartend again had been lies, it seemed. Whatever, they mattered little now. And it wasn't like this was any wild joint. It was a calm establishment on a regular basis, nothing like the clubs of Sarcelle. Today was one of few exceptions. A graduation party, that's what it was. Or, rather, a party in celebration of the graduation party.

He spoiled Chris.

In a sudden decision to add a random whirl to the dance, Florian turned around so that he faced the counter. Sweating at the brow, he flicked his eyes over the various sitters, the ones either too old or too lazy to take to the middle of the room. Eventually, he saw a collection of curly browns and drooped shoulders. He thought nothing of it; Chris was a sloucher and that would never change. He'd never been much of an extrovert, either, so Florian figured it was all too normal to see the kid sitting there, swinging his feet back and forth because, despite being eighteen now, he still couldn't reach the floor. Florian thought perhaps giving him his old shoes would've helped - but alas, those marked sneakers were well above the ground.

Florian snorted. How they'd come from the same set of parents, he had no clue. He'd thought perhaps giving Chris the old shoes would've helped (in a passing comment, the boy had said he'd love to have them, and Florian had made some half-assed excuse that his feet had grown - though they totally hadn't - to pass them on), but alas, his marked toes never met solid ground.

Florian's did, though. Many times, in quick succession, all the way up until the song ended and another one failed to come on.

His employees were rather slow individuals. No matter. He'd use the time to talk to his angel of a brother.

Sleeves rolled up just below the elbows, Florian used his forearms to gently nudge disoriented dancers out of the way, offering a nervous apology to those that took it personally. Eventually he made it through the ebb and flow so that he stood, panting, in front of his brother. "How's the celebration coming along for you, bud?"

Chris shrugged but smiled. "Seems a little excessive. I mean, the class party already happened, so..."

"Oh, c'mon," Florian said, nudging Chris's shoulder with his knuckles. "Just a little bit ago we didn't think you'd even get here. It's worth it, okay? Have some fun - but not too much fun. You're still underage, in my standards."

Chris snorted, looking down. "I guess. It's funny to see you trip over pretty girls out there, at least. That one in the blue dress looked about ready to throttle you. Still does. I advise against direct eye contact."