Post by virtu2 on May 19, 2013 1:34:13 GMT -8
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,10,true][atrb=style, width:500px;,bTable] It was difficult to pinpoint exactly when and where the current problem had started. It had less to do with the accompanying haze and more to do with the fact that it had started somewhere over the British side of the Atlantic Ocean and continued until the wheels hit the tarmac on the West Coast of the United States. Honestly, Dorian had never expected this to be a problem sort of flight. After all nonstop Virgin Airlines flights from London to Los Angeles happened all the time, that was why he was on that particular plane to begin with. But on this particular flight the flight attendant had apparently realized who was trapped for eleven odd hours in her company and decided to act upon it. Dorian found himself practically showered with smiles and attention, and he was far too polite to tell the woman to stop. It was terrifying how much alcohol the woman seemed to think he needed to drink in order to deign to speak to her. The minute he stopped drinking she began making that face Dorian had come to associate with 'abject heartbreak' and so he had kept right on draining his glasses of champagne. At least she had been appeased by his small sips and frequent reassurances that he didn't want to impose. So it was that an extremely drunk Dorian de Vere stumbled off his plane, forgot that he had a chauffeured vehicle provided by the airline to get him to his new studio, left his luggage to be taken care of by same chauffeur, and finally managed to curl his body around the biggest cup of black tea the Virgin Airlines concierge could provide. He was hungover like no one's business, head aching and waving off refills. Dorian could tap a foxtrot to the pounding behind his eyes and he drummed his gloved fingers subconsciously on the tabletop at the thought. One two three, there was a woman with a phone. Four five six, there was a second with her hand over her mouth. Seven and eight, two teenagers clutching each others hands and screaming to themselves. Dimly he realizes that he has in fact been messily drunk since the third hour on the plane, and wasn't that just a cheerful thought for the paparazzi to hound over. As long as he stayed put he would be fine. No messy scene: no public intoxication charges. One two three, another woman with a camera. Four five six, a girl dragging a little girl by the hand. Seven and eight, there's a man that Dorian is fairly certain is a spectacular kind of homosexual. Oh dear. The first woman walks to his table and he sits up to smile. “May I help you?” His voice is careful and cultured, low in volume so as not to offend his impending migraine. She holds out her phone and fidgets. “Milady?” Oh dear. He knows this facial expression, carefully unwraps his fingers from his tea cup and smiles as kindly as he can at the now gaping woman. “Can I take a photo with you? |
Somewhere on the internet the cry goes up that there is a literal Prince Charming giving out photos in Terminal Three at LAX. For his part, Dorian can feel a shiver go up his spine as the first woman becomes two and then rapidly three. Twitter. He's probably been put on Twitter. So much for making it to his new studio at a normal human hour. Dorian is tired and drunk enough that the fact that a teenage girl is running off with his suit jacket does not set off any internal alarms. His phone, and his chances of contacting anyone to save him from the horde, has just run off in the arms of a fifteen year old girl who hailed from a strange town he can't even pronounce. At least the women are happy to let him drink his tea, if the screams of rapture are an indication at least.[/div][/div][/td][/tr][/table]
LAIKA OF GS!
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