Ash 3, 121
It was in the wee hours of the morning, somewhere after midnight, as the Gobbler was winding down after another successful Lysanrin Happy Hour Night. The kitchen had already closed up and cleaned. Last call had been about twenty minutes ago, and the people who could still walk had wobbled their way out into the night. Franky had just finished picking up all of the passed out people and laying them all cuddled together in the corner, the overnight bills pinned to their chests.
Franky had just finished sweeping the floor and wiping down the tables, and was happy with the state of the bar. He went and poured himself a drink, a Weissburg Honeyweiss, sweet and golden, moving over to lean on the bar and keep company of the last man standing for the night. Across from him, perked upon the stool, was Florian, who had come in earlier that night with the request that Franky 'Fuck him up'.
This was only the second time they had ever met, but the last one was memorable to Franky. Florian had gotten so drunk that Franky had to carry him to bed, tucking him in. He was a small, skinny man, even for his heritage, but he had the heart of a juggernaut. The lad certainly didn't give up on what he set his mind to do, be it drinking games or getting fucked up. And Franky could respect that. He would always respect that in anyone.
Franky hadn't pressed the man on what led him to get so fucked up in the first place. Franky wasn't a pushy bartender, he let people come to him. He provided the drinks and the food and his ear and his various words of wisdom, be they what they were, to anyone who sought them out. So Franky leaned there, sipped at his beer, and waited for the man to speak, to thump face first into the bar, or to wobble on his way out. Until then, he would drink and provide company.
