literature

The Wino And I Know (2p!FranceXReader)

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You shuffled into the run-down bar, a well-loved spot known only to New Orleans locals. Your guitar case felt heavier than normal as you placed it on the ground and slid onto your bar stool. Francis glanced up from his glass of wine and grunted a greeting, and you smiled in return, dropping a handful of quarters on the counter and attempted to scrounge together enough money for a drink. Being a street performer was tough most days. You shoved your hand into your pocket and withdrew a crumpled, stained piece of lined paper and scribbled down a few more lines.

“What have you got there?” Francis asked, more out of politeness rather than actual interest, but you knew the wino better than most, so you answered the question anyways.

“A song I’m working on. But it’s not like you care much,” you replied, not looking up. Francis had been around since you could remember, but somehow you really weren’t friends, or lovers, or anything really. You just sat next to each other at the bar and his friend occasionally gave you donuts. It wasn’t a bad setup, but somehow you felt that something was missing.

“Sing it. There’s a microphone over there,” Francis grunted, taking a gulp of wine and sending you a bored look out of the corner of his eye. You shook your head.

“No way, Francis. No way in hell. The song isn’t ready yet, anyways,” you went back to scribbling on the paper.

“Oh come on, ______, you’re the best street singer this city has got!” the bartender said, shooing you towards the slightly elevated platform that doubled as a stage whenever someone felt the need to perform.

You grabbed your guitar from its case and shuffled to the stage, shoulders slack and head bent. This was not how you had anticipated your evening to go. You had wanted a quiet drink next to the cranky old man who didn’t look more than twenty-five before shuffling off to the homeless shelter in hopes of getting a cot for the night. Now here you were, adjusting an old microphone while tuning your guitar in preparation for singing a song you had never meant to be shared.

You strummed your guitar a few times before you hit the correct chord and the song began.

”Ice cream man, he's a hillbilly fan
Got seventy-eights by Hank Snow
Walks through the street of the city so neat
City that only he knows
And I've seen him in so many places
Saw him the night I was born
In a Bourbon Street Bar, I received my first scar
From an old man so tattered and torn”


You thought back to Francis, and how in every memory you seemed to have, he was there, off to the side. You had never spoken, not until you were seventeen, when you had gotten on the wrong side of one of the regulars because he had mistaken your polite friendliness as “take me!” After you slapped him when his hands had begun to roam, he responded with a right hook, sending you crashing to the floor. That didn’t stop you for long, because you tackled him to the ground and punched him again and again until Francis had pulled you off him.
When the police arrived, Francis’s testimony on what had happened was the only thing that had saved you from jail. But whenever you asked about it, he would deny it had ever happened.

”And the wino and I know the pain of street singin'
Like a door-to-door salesman knows the pains of bell ringin'
It's a strange situation, a wild occupation
Just livin' my life like a song”


You had started out on your own, just you and your thrift shop guitar, walking the city and singing your songs on crowded street corners, occasionally scraping together enough money for a sandwich. You had run into your fair share of trouble, but you had also seen the best of what the city and humanity had so offer.  That’s why you were reluctant to do anything else.

“Coffee is strong at the Cafe Du Monde
The donuts are too hot to touch
Just like a fool, when those sweet goodies cool
I eat 'til I eat way too much
'Cause I'm livin' on things that excite me
Be they pastries, lobsters or love, thank you for yours, brother
I'm just tryin' to get by bein' quiet and shy
In a world full of pushin' and shovin’”


You mind wandered to Arthur’s little café, where his endless supplies of sweet goods and rich coffee were dispersed to patrons, and whenever you would stop by, there would always be a cup of coffee and a stack of fresh donuts waiting on the counter. You would sip at your coffee while waiting for the soft, sweet treats to cool to an acceptable temperature. You were surprised by his kindness, but he waved any form of payment off because you were a friend of Francis’s, and any friend of Francis’s was a friend of his, and no friends would ever have to pay in his store.

You were endlessly grateful for the cheerful Brit and his kindness, because you had become so used to being pushed around and brushed aside because (for the most part) you were a person who avoided conflict. It was just ingrained in your nature to not want to fight unless it was necessary, and that caused people to try and take advantage of that.

But Francis wouldn’t let them.

“That's why, the wino and I know the pain of back bustin'
Like the farmer knows the pain of his pickup truck rustin'
It's a strange situation, wild occupation
Just livin' my life like a song
Sweet senorita, won't you please come with me?
Back to the island, honey, back to the sea
Back to the only place that I want to be”


You thought of all the odd jobs you worked, of all the men who tried to take you away from your city, but you would never leave, not for the most beautiful of islands or the richest of lifestyles. You loved what you did, and that’s why you did it. No one understood, but you did. And Francis. But he always seemed to.

“ And the wino and I know the joy of the ocean
Like a boy knows the joy of his milkshake in motion
It's a strange situation, wild occupation
Just livin' my life like a song
Say it's a strange situation, a wild occupation
Just livin' my life like my song”

You strummed your guitar for the last time and shuffled back to your seat, deaf to the applause you were receiving. You packed up your guitar and sat back down, eyes widening at the mass of bills that had accumulated in front of the seat. You looked at the bartender, who winked at Francis. When you turned your attention to the man, he slid a ten dollar bill into the pile and took a sip of wine as if nothing happened.

You smiled lightly and shook your head. The wino and you knew the wonder of song and the beauty it spoke.

Life was a strange situation, a wild occupation, and you just lived your life like a song.
So my parents are big Jimmy Buffett fans, and they were listening to some of his music while making dinner, and this song struck me as the perfect 2p!France insert. However, I don't know too much about him aside from he's a drunk and he doesn't care about much, so I worked with what I have.

For the song, look here ----> www.youtube.com/watch?v=nEQxNN…

I only own the plot.
© 2013 - 2024 moriartyssniper
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12bfeygirl42's avatar
Jimmy Buffett! You have won my respect! It's rare to find someone who likes to mix things up like that!