Feliks leaned against the cold brick of the restaurant's outer wall, nursing a lit cigarette between his lips. His crutch, battered and worn, rested against his side, for the moment unneeded. From under the brim of his hat, green eyes searched the passing crowds for a familiar face. As much as he would like to be warm in Erzsébet's kitchen with a hot cup of tea between his hands, he was not in Budapest to spend time with his friend; the person he was slated to meet that day (if everything went according to plan) did not even come close to qualification.
Arthur Kirkland–also known as England–had washed his hands clean of the continent years ago it seemed, and as much as Feliks hated it, he was standing here, bundled up in civilian clothes to try to convince Arthur otherwise. He'd argue that this should have been France's job in the first place, considering their relationship and all, but what was there to do when the Vichy kept their eyes on the entire country like birds of prey? At least Feliks's government was still his own, and it wasn't like taking things into his own hands was new by now. In the end, as always, he could only rely on himself.
Dropping the stub of his cigarette and crushing it under his heel, Feliks buried his nose back inside his scarf. The woolen glory had been thrust upon him just that day by Erzsi, saying something about warding off the chilly fall wind. It was still soft, fresh, and lacking of holes–even though he'd managed to scavenge some clothing that looked half-presentable, the scarf was still the only thing that looked like it hadn't been fighting a war. Which, he supposed, was true enough.
He sighed into the red wool, hoping to build up some warmth. His eyes danced over the pedestrians on the street again, all like him, with their shoulders hunched up and whatever cloth they had pulled up around their ears. It must be slightly past three by now; the last time he'd asked a stranger in his best Hungarian for the hour, it had been 2:27, and by his estimation, that had been around forty minutes ago. About twenty minutes ago, he'd stopped a boy of eleven or so, producing a brooch of colorful glasswork from his pocket and promising the lad the bauble would be his if he brought an Arthur Kirkland from St. Mathias Church to where Feliks was waiting.
Still, no Arthur yet. In another situation, this would have frustrated Feliks (he
hated being kept waiting), but this entire meeting stood on flimsy enough legs despite its complexity that tardiness could only be expected. He dropped his head back against the wall. He'd give it another fifteen minutes.
It was something rather less than fifteen when he heard a call from the end of the street, and when he glanced over, the boy he'd sent on the mission waved as he ran the last few meters to Feliks's spot. "Megtettem, amit kért!" the boy chirped, pointing at the Englishman lagging behind him.
"Köszi." Feliks pulled down his scarf and managed a smile as he pressed the brooch into the boy's hand. Perhaps he would be able to sell it later, or exchange it for something else of value. God knows money was almost worthless here.
The boy took off back down the street, and Feliks finally turned his attention toward Arthur. Despite having mentally repeated all of the arguments he'd make and all of the goals he'd state when he met Arthur today, he found himself at a loss for an acceptable greeting. Instead his gut clenched with a rush of feeling over how… how
all right Arthur looked. He was suddenly quite conscious of the wounds he hid beneath his clothes, the dull ache in his left leg that had become a constant companion, the thinness that must make his clothing sag like ill-fitting skin. The corners of his lips twisted with bitterness.
"You know, you didn't even fight in the war, you could wear something a little less drab," he said finally, not particularly caring if that was rude or callous. He'd been living among rubble and rats and gunfire for the past six years–a lapse in manners should be forgiven.
"Everything is green and brown and grey these days. It's so boring." Fortunate that no one was within earshot to hear the subdued words; English would undoubtedly have drawn attention, which was why Feliks would have to take them elsewhere to talk.
He grabbed the crutch, put his weight on it as he gestured for Arthur to follow. The trek was an awkward one–the messenger bag he carried bumped heavily against his leg with each footfall, and he couldn't help but feel self-conscious at his own inelegant hobbling. At least he'd had enough practice by now to be quick. Not quick enough to outrun any hypothetical Nazis that might be on the lookout for him, but quick enough as an adequate strolling companion.
"How's your Hungarian, Artek?" he continued. His voice remained subdued, but talking usually made him feel better. And
feel better was something he desperately needed right now. The truth was, there was almost nothing to gain from this conference. As much as some of his people hoped against hope that the British Empire would finally intervene, Feliks knew it was a long shot when there was no immediate threat nor assurance that they would win. What he could do here was just… to even the scales a little. Give a little incentive to start
engineering opportunities than just waiting for one to present itself. He hoped to God that it would work. He needed to be able to see an
end to all this, or it'd only be all too easy to give up.
