Feeling Lonely (Open to all! Mature content likely)

“Ah, Anabel, so good to see you!” He smiled, eyes combing over her outfit once before flickering back up to her face. Unlike some patrons, Francis found the entirety of each employee’s appearance (and not just their body) appealing. And Anabel was by far one of the best in beauty – her outfits always complimented her perfectly, not surprising as she herself had sewn them. “I ‘ave been...better, but my day is much improved wiz you ‘ere~” It had been years since he’d moved from Paris, yet his thick accent still overtook his words, often causing confusing among native Englishmen. But he knew that wouldn’t be a problem with Anabel.

“You are looking nice today, is zat a new outfit? It’s amazing ‘ow quick you can create zem.” Francis was so used to buying all his clothing that he never put much thought into where each stylish item came from. But even with all the money in the world, there was no way to find any outfit like the ones Anabel made in an ordinary factory-supplied store. Such craftsmanship like that had to be handmade. He would have to get her to sew him one, some day.

France smiled, his eyes sparkling a bit when Anabel’s face brightened up. He couldn’t tell if her adorably bouncy personality an act or not, but he found it tres mignon. One could tell how much of her blood, sweat, and tears she poured into each sewn creation just by the way she beamed with pride at the tiniest compliment.

His mind immediately went to the gutter when she mentioned outfit ideas, a smirk starting to appear on his face. His thought was immediately interrupted when another blonde suddenly interrupted their conversation, a clear American accent booming loudly through the room. “Bonjour. Je m’appelle Francis.” He instinctively reached out to take Alfred’s palm, used to kissing the back of the hand of those he first met, but withdrew quickly once he remembered that customers should wait to be invited before they touched the employee. Though he should have known better anyway – even in Paris a kiss upon a first meeting would be too forward, no matter where the lips touched. It was only once a couple became better acquainted that the standard four kiss greeting.

He suddenly realized he didn’t recognize Alfred in the slightest, despite usually knowing at least the appearance of everyone in the club. He grinned, showing off dazzling teeth in an attempt to make a good first impression. “I ‘ave not seen you before. Are you new ‘ere?”

Francis smiled as he found himself suddenly surrounded by a bundle of beautiful beaux. And while he was used to flustered women, it was a rare treat to see such a blushing blonde like this new employee. The other man gave off an air of false confidence, his body language giving away just how awkward he felt in the presence of strangers. Perhaps he felt like he had to impress them. “Well,” Francis thought to himself with a smirk as his eyes wandered over the American’s body. “’e certainly is impressive~”

As the long-haired brunette (one he had watched perform many a time but didn’t know by name) popped the very question Francis himself had been wondering, he joined in, vocalizing his own curiosity. “Oui, comment t'appelles-tu? Ah, wait…” He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He thought to himself in French, so he often had to pause from his stream of consciousness before switching back to English again. “E I mean…what is your name?" He turned to the brunette, flashing his illustrious grin in her direction. "And yours as well, I 'ave seen your performances before but I don't believe we 'ave been formally acquainted~

The French caught her off guard - surely it hadn't come from the blonde in front of her. No, that wouldn't do - looking past him, she took notice once more of the other blonde.

“E I mean…what is your name?"

He was talking to the blonde, not her.

"And yours as well, I 'ave seen your performances before but I don't believe we 'ave been formally acquainted~"

She blinked, presenting a smile to the curious Frenchman. "Oh, me? It's Elizaveta, but just call me Veta~" Shrugging, she let her eyes wander back from the blonde in front of her and the blonde sitting next to Anabel. She needed names, and she needed them now. Calling them Blonde 1 and Blonde 2 just wouldn't do (hm~ it rhymed~). "But how about yours?" She was interested in the French that had left his mouth - French so flawlessly perfect, she couldn't help but enjoy it even more. Besides, hearing a foreign tongue was always a treat, even for a Hungarian like herself.

“Je m’appelle Francis. Francis Bonnefoy.” He was quite pleased to find himself the only customer in a center of the establishment’s employees. After all, Arthur did choose what Francis considered the best of the best in both looks in personality...he found everyone here was excellent at what they did, no matter whether their behavior was an act or not.

He quirked an eyebrow as Alfred started on about Arthur again, seeing his chance to get some information on that eluding yet alluring blonde. “So, do you talk to Arzur often?” He posed his question casually, glancing down at his well-manicured nails as if already bored with his own inquiry. Inside he had to stop himself from bombarding the whole group with questions about the inner works of their bushy-browed boss – what was he really like? Did he hate Frenchmen? Why did he dress and act so stuffy yet ran such one of the most popular strip clubs in London? And most importantly – how did Francis get into his pants?