#hi everyone I’ve had absolute grief uploading this and it’s taken me 2 whole hours because it’s 1 min long (god forbid)

[theaidanturnercult]

“𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌” 🕯

[cyniquedapollon]

So!!! Despite this being so, so late (exam stress took over me, I’m sorry!!) I’m finally happy enough with how this fic turned out to upload it. I’ve spent a lot of time perfecting it, so I hope you enjoy it @leo-library !!

Title: Define living

Pairing: FrUK (France x England) (Past USUK mentioned)

Theme: Culture shock

About: Francis has spent all his life in Lavardin, as small French village with only 200 residents. When he turns 24, he’s desperate for a change, and moves to London on a whim. How wrong could this possibly go?

Warnings: Minor character death

Word count: 5,895 

Lavardin, France

June 1997

Dream

driːm

noun

1.       a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person’s mind during sleep.

“I had a recurrent dream about falling from great heights.

synonyms: fantasy, nightmare

2.       a cherished aspiration, ambition, or ideal.

"I fulfilled a childhood dream when I became champion”

synonyms: ambition, aspiration, hope

When Francis Bonnefoy was 5 years old, he told his mother that when he was older, he was going to run away with the circus.  He would be the trapeze artist, he stated, and everybody would clap for him as he leapt from one end of the circus tent to another, spinning and twirling with ease. He would wear ribbons, which would be blue, because blue is mummy’s favourite, and they would fly behind him, delicate as butterfly wings, a symbol of his skill to the audience below. He would be beautiful, he said. So beautiful, in fact, that somewhere in the audience, a little boy would look up in awe, and tell his mother that he wanted to be just as beautiful as him one day. That’s a nice dream, dear, his mother had cooed, ruffling his blonde curls, before ushering him out of the kitchen, so that she could continue cutting the carrots for dinner. Francis, being the stubborn child that he oftentimes was, stayed awake that evening, until he could hear the familiar noise of his mother in the shower, before leaving his room in search of supplies. He couldn’t find ribbon, so he instead had to settle for some thread he found in his mothers sewing box. It wasn’t the same, but he didn’t allow it to stop him from pushing the door into the back garden open, climbing up one of their apple trees, and attempting to leap to the branch of another nearby. When recounting this story later on in life, he always used the word attempt, for while it was a valiant attempt for a boy his age, his hand didn’t even manage to touch the branch he was aiming for before he landed on the ground with a thud and a cry. His mother had rushed out, her hair still dripping water, having practically leapt out of the shower at the sound of her son crying, to find Francis in a heap of tears between the two trees.  His hair was full of dirt, and he near screamed when she tried to check his arm. Gently, she had picked him up and taken him inside; trying to think of what she was to do.

Francis had never left Lavardin before the incident of the two trees (a nickname lovingly given to it by his mother). There was no reason for him to; the town, having only 200 inhabitants, was one built on tradition and friendships – people had no desire to go elsewhere. But with his crying not seeming to cease, and his arm already bruising, his mother had had no choice but to call an ambulance to take them to the nearest hospital. The ambulance itself took nearly an hour to arrive, due to the difficult dirt road that lead to the small village, but with no car and the idea of a three kilometre bike ride out of the question, all his mother was able to do was sing gently to Francis, and try to distract him from the ever growing purple mark on his arm. The arrival of the ambulance caused chaos as it was – nothing much interesting ever happened in Lavardin, so the call for external aid had nearly all 200 residents swarmed around their house; the ‘more respectful’ ones choosing to just watch over the event through a gap in their curtains.

Francis essentially blocked out the whole experience at the hospital; the bright lights, the overly friendly nurses and the X-Ray left him overwhelmed, and by the time the cast was put on his arm, he was virtually asleep, exhausted from almost nonstop crying.  Over time, the memories of how his mother had slept worriedly by his bedside all night hazed, the face of the nurse who checked over him loyally that night blurring in his mind. What Francis could clearly recall, however, even 20 years on, was the view he had seen from the window of the café his mother had taken him to for breakfast the next morning. He had seen the bustle of a busy high street - he heard the loudness of music played through speakers, saw the vibrant colours of graffiti on walls and the rush of morning traffic, men in smart suits and women in bright dresses, a life he could hardly imagine. And that morning, Francis made a vow.

He was going to leave Lavardin.

Orphan

ˈɔːf(ə)n

noun

1.       A child whose parents are dead.

“he was left an orphan as a small boy”

2.       The first line of a paragraph set as the last line of a page or column, considered undesirable.

When Francis was 18, he begged his mother for the opportunity to attend university in Paris. Paris, he had claimed, was the only way he would get anywhere in the world of art. She had laughed at first, assuming he was joking – few people from their home town even went to university, most boys working on the land once they turned 18, and even the few of those who were determined enough to go had to travel near 50 kilometres just to reach the nearest one, much too far a distance for the inhabitants of such a small village. For teenagers in Lavardin, university was simply a nice idea.

In 18 years, Francis had never argued with his mother. It could be said, that in those hours that they spent in dispute over his wish to leave for Paris, they made up for the missed years. Francis wanted more than anything to leave, to have a chance at life, and couldn’t understand why his mother opposed it so much. He was 18, an adult, and what could she do about it anyway? He watched her face crumple, watched tears fall down her face, watched as his own mother cried because of him, and froze. He had never seen his mother cry, and certainly did not want the first time he saw it to be because of him. He dropped the subject entirely.

When Francis was 22, his mother died. A woman prone to illness all her life, a winters chill was all it took to knock her off of her feet; before Francis even had chance to grasp the word ‘terminal’, she had been swept away as autumn leaves often are to the wind. He had held her hand as she died, fighting back the urge to cry, to scream, to do something to comfort her. In the end, he settled for singing, gently, the same way she had when he broke his arm. He sang to her all night, until the sun began to rise, and her hand lost its warmth. He didn’t stop singing to her, in fact, until his song turned to keening, pain struck gasps all that was left of him by the time a neighbour found him.  

‘Life goes on’ is a phrase mostly used for spilling red wine on a white carpet, or breaking a favourite mug – not for coping with the death of your mother. But for Francis, the phrase didn’t have meaning until that day. His mother was dead. His village was still the same. The flowers in the gardens were still pink, the trees still held apples, the paths were still rough and covered in dirt, and the hill on the outskirts still stood tall, as it had for Francis’ whole life,

The view from the hill was one Francis had always enjoyed. He had first climbed in when he was 6, days after having his cast removed, to the annoyance of his overly-cautious mother. Since then, it had proved to be a maker of memories; he had oftentimes escaped to the hill to smoke as a teenager, or to paint when nothing else inspired him - he had even had his first kiss there when he turned 16.  And it felt almost fitting, that the hill he had his ‘firsts’ on would be where he felt his first feelings of grief, screaming at the sky, at a God he had almost lost faith in, that it wasn’t fair, that none of this was fair.

On Francis’ 24th birthday, he bought a plane ticket, destined to London. He hadn’t thought much about what he was doing the night he bought it, his actions mostly due to the bottle of red wine he had managed to drink while reading another one of his sad novels. His mother, if she was there, would have scalded him for ignoring his responsibilities in place of wine. His mother, however, was not there, nor had she been for the past 2 years. 2 years, for most, was a long time, and certainly long enough that people no longer looked at Francis with pity, or brought him flowers and food and offers to help – instead, people in his village were growing impatient with him, waiting for him to do something with himself, to help in one of the bakeries or on the land. He stared at the booking reference on the computer screen, trying to understand what he’d just done. The realisation hadn’t hit him, yet, but he was sure it would with time.

He arrived at London Heathrow at 8:15pm on Wednesday 23rd March. He hadn’t payed attention for most of the morning; he remembered hesitating as he locked the door of his house for what could be the last time in years, arriving at the airport, and the fear he felt as the plane took off, but it had gone by so quickly, he wasn’t sure wht was real and what he’d just imagined. Francis wasn’t stupid – of course, he knew London was big, and that the airport would be crowded and absolutely nothing like his home town, but he hadn’t quite anticipated the shock that ran through his body as he saw the hundreds of people all milling around, travellers like himself. He wanted to stop, to think, to ask where they were going, what their stories were, but a sudden push brought him back to earth, and in the general direction that everyone else was headed. Getting through the initial airport security was fairly easy, signs were placed everywhere, in around 10 different languages, informing those just off of planes exactly what they needed to do, where to stand and when to move. This was fine, in Francis’ eyes, because he didn’t have to think about why he was doing it, or what for, he just had to walk forward and follow instructions. He was through passport checks fairly quickly; the security guard examined it, nodding in approval at the information, before letting him through. The passport was barely a month old, having been bought specially for the purpose of his flight to London, and Francis had read up exactly what to do to get through these checks as smoothly as possible.

He thought he was prepared – but once allowed through, he found himself in the main area of the airport, where shops were located and .For the first time in his life, Francis was alone. Alone, in an airport, with no instructions on what to do, where to go, or how to live his new life. For a moment, Francis allowed himself to be excited – he was independent, finally, in a city where he could make something of himself; in a city where he could make his mother proud.  Then, the realisation that he had been waiting for hit him, quite like a truck, all at once. He didn’t know how to get to his hotel, what he was going to do in London, hell, he didn’t even have a degree he could apply for a job with. He was alone, in a foreign city, with no way home or means of supporting himself.

A woman, mid 50s, had tapped him on the shoulder. She had a kind face, and blonde hair pulled into a bun, and reminded him far too much of his mother for him to want to stay talking to her for too long. Francis realised how out of place he must look, stood in an airport with the items for his new life fitting neatly into a brown leather satchel, gawking around open mouthed like a child who had finally been allowed in a sweet shop. He had no idea how he was actually meant to get to the hotel he booked himself for the night, nor where it was, and by the pity evident on this woman’s face, this was fairly obvious for those around him.

“Do you need a hand, love?” she smiled assuringly, and despite himself, Francis smiled back. Later on, stood in his hotel room, he cursed himself for nor asking for her name, some way of contacting her later on and thanking her for her help. He was quite certain that if she hadn’t called a taxi for him, he would have ended up sleeping on the floor of the airport that night. He’d only booked himself a night, planning to explore London the next day, which, now that he thought about it, was about as good an idea as punching a wasp’s nest.  Francis stared at himself in the hotel mirror, and laughed. He was an idiot, he supposed, for leaving everything at the drop of a hat, but then again, he was the boy who leapt from trees and rolled down hills. Life was supposed to be an adventure, in his eyes, and London was the first chapter.

How wrong could it go anyway?

London, England.

Thursday 24th March

18:37

Experience

ɪkˈspɪərɪəns,ɛkˈspɪərɪəns

noun

1.       practical contact with and observation of facts or events.

“he had learned his lesson by painful experience”

synonyms:          involvement in, participation in; More

2.       an event or occurrence which leaves an impression on someone.

“audition day is an enjoyable experience for any seven-year old”

synonyms: incident, occurrence, event, happening, affair, episode, encounter;

verb

1.       encounter or undergo (an event or occurrence).

“the company is experiencing difficulties”

synonyms: undergo, encounter, meet, have experience of, come into contact with, run into, come across, come up against, face, be faced with, confront, be forced to contend with;

When Arthur left his office that evening, it was raining. That wasn’t anything new, of course - it was late March, and it was England, so rain was practically a guarantee. However, due to his unwavering faith in the BBC and its meteorologist, he had left his umbrella (which had, that morning, still been damp from yesterday) airing in the vestibule of his apartment, his stubbornness and reliance on basic knowledge of weather fronts had won his eternal ‘should I bring an umbrella or not because it’s rather bulky but it is March’ debate.

In hindsight, taking the umbrella would have been the wise choice. It was worse than normal rain: water was falling from the sky in sheets. Despite the walk from his office to the nearest Underground station being a mere sixty metres, Arthur’s suit was sticking to his frame, almost completely soaked, and his usually pristine hair was plastered to his scalp, droplets occasionally running into his eyes. This was not the first time the rain had ruined him after work, but though hindsight was said to be a beautiful thing, Arthur never paid it much heed - after all, his single mother kept having children, even when she said 'never again’ after his older brother, 'never again’ after him and 'never again’ after the twins (although her little golden child had stemmed the flow of babies for now). Learning from the past wasn’t something done in his family.

Getting the Tube was a mechanical process for Arthur these days. Knowing which stops were where was never an issue: if you looked into Arthur’s mind, he was sure there was a Tube map imprinted on his brain. When in the station, it was always the same: walk on the left, stand on the right, know if you’re westbound or eastbound so you aren’t gawking at a map, get in a compartment as soon as you can see space, mind the gap, stand clear of the doors, but most importantly, have your ticket or card ready to get through the barrier before you’re directly in front of it.

Unfortunately, some people did not seem to know this. He just wanted an efficient journey home: but this particular trip was being blighted by the man in front of him at the barrier he’d been funnelled to by the staff. Arthur watched this person - either a tourist or just stupid - attempt to feed his ticket into the slot on the machine, but he clearly had no idea which way up to put it in, or indeed where to take it back from. A queue of impatient, tutting Brits was growing behind Arthur, and the pressure was obviously making it worse for the confused soul at the front. Arthur was irritated, yes, but also had a little sympathy for this person who just wanted to use a subway system.

Mob rule won over Arthur though, and so his question to the stuck person was dripping with annoyance.

“Do you need a hand?”

“I…uh. If you… could help me?” came the unsure reply. When walking along the London streets, Arthur liked to play 'guess the accent’ (he’d learned recently to distinguish between Polish and Russian accents, which he thought was quite an achievement considering he grew up in England and Scotland), but he denied himself time to consider the accent that came from the man before him. Without even bothering to reply, he took the ticket from the stressed foreigner’s hand and slotted it into the machine himself, practically pushing the stranger through the gate as soon as it opened and taking his ticket himself. Arthur tapped his Oyster card against the reader and went through the barrier himself, handing the ticket back to the man as soon as he was the other side.

“Thank you very much,” relief audible even through the tourist’s accent. Arthur shrugged minutely.

“No problem,” he replied, and began his brisker-than-usual walk to the platform. He thought that would be the end of it: he did a necessary good deed, and could now go home as normal to his flat and change out of his wet clothes. What he did not expect, was the man he had helped to hurry alongside him and follow him to the platform. It wouldn’t have immediately been following - it wasn’t unreasonable that the stranger had to get the same Tube as him out of the three possible options at this station. It still wasn’t following when they were both headed west. It became following when the stranger walked with him to the other end of the platform and sat next to him in the carriage when there were empty seats in it.

Great. Now there was going to be a conversation.

Stranger

ˈstreɪn(d)ʒə/Submit

noun

1.       a person whom one does not know or with whom one is not familiar.

“don’t talk to strangers”

2.       a person who does not know, or is not known in, a particular place or community.

“I’m a stranger in these parts”

synonyms: unknown person;

3.       a person entirely unaccustomed to (a feeling, experience, or situation).

“he is no stranger to controversy”

synonyms: unaccustomed to, unfamiliar with, unused to, unacquainted with, new to, fresh to, inexperienced in, unpractised in, unversed in, unconversant with; archaicstrange to

“Harker was a stranger to self-doubt”

“Thank you, for, the, helping back there.”

“You said. And I said, you’re welcome.” There was a pause, which Arthur hoped was due to the frostiness of his tone.

“My name is Francis. You are…?” Damn. The git knew how to force Arthur to keep talking to him.

“It's… I’m Arthur.” Another pause. This one allowed the Englishman to analyse the other’s accent. The dropping of his aitches and the way he said 'fron-sis’ led Arthur to the conclusion that-

“I’m French.” Yes. Another accent guessed. The slightly sad triumph Arthur felt, however, did not overwhelm the feeling of dread that this awkward chat was still being perpetuated. It was time to use his secret foreigner-repellant weapon.

“But you just told me you were Francis.” Sarcasm may have been the lowest form of wit, yes, but it proved effective in confusing non-natives. Poor Francis just looked at Arthur, not knowing how to respond.

“Ignore me. Do you know where to get off the Tube?” Perhaps functional conversation could nip this encounter in the bud.

“Uh…well. I don't…actually have a destination.” That actually made Arthur stop and think.

“You…what?” Ugh, now he was asking the damn questions. This probably wouldn’t end any time soon.

“Well, I’m just… exploring London. I arrived, uh, only yesterday.” Francis looked a little sheepish. Arthur looked the Frenchman over, and it was only on noticing his wavy hair was damp and slightly stringy that he remembered how much of a mess he himself looked. At least, he supposed, trying to calm his sudden embarrassment at his outward appearance, he knew where he was going.

“It’s almost seven o'clock on a dark night in March. In London. And it’s pissing it down,” Francis looked mildly confused, “raining a lot. I know tourism is important but Christ, exploration isn’t a great idea right now.”

“Well, I need… an… a place to stay. Hotel. If, as you say, if it is too rainy to explore.”

“The rain probably isn’t your biggest concern. I’d be worried about getting mugged, to be honest.”

There was a pregnant pause. Arthur was hoping Francis would get out a map, or mobile phone, or something, out of the satchel Arthur hadn’t noticed he was carrying until now. But as the seconds ticked by, Arthur began to suspect the Frenchman was expecting him to do something. What, though? He supposed suggest a hotel to him - after all, it was clear he was a Londoner, and Francis might not know what hotels were around here, if he had just been following Arthur to a location unknown to him. At this precise moment, though, there was nothing Arthur could do: due to being underground, his iPhone had no Internet, and though he was a local, he wasn’t AirB&B. He summarised all this to Francis in a simpler way:

“Do you want me to find you a hotel when I have signal again?” gesturing to his phone as he spoke.

“If… if that is not an inconvenience.” Francis smiled gratefully at Arthur.

“That’s fine. My stop is in about ten minutes, so we’ll alight there.” Francis blinked a few times directly at Arthur.

“Oh. Alight means get off,” explained Arthur. He felt himself almost smile, but then stopped. This man, he reminded himself, is a total stranger. He unlocked his phone and began reading a book he had downloaded, finally doing something that even across a slight language and cultural barrier, signalled 'stop talking to me’. Francis tried to speak to Arthur a few more times, but never actually finished a first word; Arthur hoped due to the standoffish look on his face. He absently wondered if Francis felt bad. He decided he didn’t need to care.

The station announcement said 'Ealing Common’ and Arthur moved to stand, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Francis followed suit, disembarking the train with Arthur and the two heading up the escalators to street level together. Since this was no longer central London, there were significantly fewer people, and so Arthur stood back and allowed Francis to try and get through the barrier unaided. He succeeded on his second attempt, and he made a small, happy noise. Amusement was clear in Arthur’s voice as he spoke.

“Well done. That took you only a tenth of how long it did the first time.” Francis laughed a little and looked at Arthur, who again, tapped his Oyster card on the reader and walked through the barrier like it was second nature (which, Francis supposed, it probably was).

“Right. I’ll find you a hotel, then. Give me a second.” Francis nodded and murmured a 'thank you’, which Arthur waved off. He got his phone out, unlocked it and turned his data on for Safari. While waiting for a signal to appear, he noticed his battery level. 2%. Shit. Hopefully it’d last for one search and Arthur could memorise where the hotel was (there had to be one close enough - this was London, for God’s sake). He tapped in 'hotels near Ealing Common’ into the search bar and waited for a result, glancing at Francis while it loaded. The man was idly combing through his hair with his fingers, probably trying to separate the pieces the rain had split it into. An address came up on the screen, but to Arthur’s dismay, he didn’t recognise the street name. He’d have to open it in Maps and find the nearest road he recognised. He tapped the address, willing his phone to live just this once.

Of course, it didn’t. Arthur cursed again, loudly, and Francis looked up suddenly like a deer in the headlights.

“What is…the matter? Are you okay?” Francis asked.

“Fine. But…it’s dead,” motioning at his phone, “and I didn’t recognise the address of the hotel. Do you have a phone? I could call a taxi.” Francis didn’t answer for a second. The gap was long enough to say what he meant without words.

“You don’t, do you?”

“Uh. No. Non. I’m sorry.”

Arthur sighed. “Well. What the hell do I do with you now? I can’t just abandon you here.”

“You could, that’s what I would have done anyway. Gone somewhere I didn’t know.”

“Absolutely not. Since I didn’t recognise the address, that means it’s at least a mile away, and it’s still chucking it down,” Francis looked blank, “which means raining as well. You know the Inuits have a hundred words for snow? Yeah, well they just took all the British words for rain and put 'cold’ at the start of them all.” Francis grinned and Arthur laughed a little despite himself. “The point is. I’m not leaving you here when you have nowhere to go. Come with me.”

“Where are you taking me?” Arthur had already started walking towards the exit.

“My flat. We have no other choice. I can find you a hotel from there, or you can just sleep on the sofa. Whatever.” Francis ran a little to catch up with the Englishman, and paused with him in the doorway, in the face of the falling rain.

“You know what, just sleep on my sofa. You’ve disturbed my journey home, you’re going to drench my flat, and you sound like you have no idea how to survive in London. I don’t have work in the morning.”

“Why, uh, are you telling me this? Can’t we start walking?”

“If you can hear me over that bloody gale, love, I’ll be extremely impressed.” Arthur looked at Francis with something of a grimace before stepping out into the abysmal weather.

Know

nəʊ/

verb

1.       be aware of through observation, inquiry, or information.

“most people know that CFCs can damage the ozone layer”

synonyms: be aware, realize, be conscious, have knowledge, be informed, have information;

2.       have developed a relationship with (someone) through meeting and spending time with them; be familiar or friendly with.

“he knew and respected Laura”

synonyms: be acquainted with, have met, be familiar with;

Arthur and Francis practically fell through the doorway of Arthur’s apartment building together. The walk from the station had taken about five minutes, and both of them had been brutally assaulted by the rain in that time. Arthur had watched Francis desperately try to keep his satchel as dry as possible, and after shaking the water from his hands, checking it was the first thing the Frenchman did. Arthur began to climb the stairs to his flat, just wanting to get in and dry and changed. As he ascended the second flight of stairs, the flight to his floor, Francis ran up the first flight to catch up with Arthur.

“Is your stuff alright?” Arthur asked, slotting his key into the lock of his door.

“It’s fine. The bag itself, it is leather, so no water got in.”

“That’s good, yeah. Don’t want your stuff ruined as well as your plans.” Francis didn’t notice the subtle sarcasm in Arthur’s statement. Arthur didn’t suppose he would.

Arthur’s umbrella was mocking him when him and Francis stood, soaked, on the mat just inside Arthur’s flat.

“Just take your shoes off there. I’ll get you and me some towels.” Francis smiled gratefully, and Arthur headed deeper into his home to retrieve the towels. Francis stood, somewhat awkwardly, in the vestibule. But just looking around the entrance to Arthur’s house, Francis began to learn things. Arthur lived alone, clearly. There were only four pairs of shoes by the door: Francis’ own, Arthur’s work shoes, a pair of black Doc Martens and a pair of black Converse. The coat hooks on the wall held only a long, black duffel coat and a thinner black zipped jacket. He was getting a strong sense of Arthur’s favourite colour. There was a photograph on the wall, though, of Arthur and a man, holding hands at what appeared to be Disneyland. He was blond, with glasses. Arthur was smiling in a way Francis hadn’t seen in person, though he supposed he had only known Arthur for an hour at most. He wondered what had happened between Arthur and the man in the picture.

Before Francis could deduce anything else, Arthur returned with several large towels. He handed a couple to Francis wordlessly and then beckoned him into the flat. Francis followed. They went into Arthur’s bedroom.

“I was going to change my sheets anyway, so don’t worry about getting water on my bed. Do you have dry clothes in your satchel?” Francis shook his head.

“Alright. I’ll give you some pyjamas and put those straight in the wash so you can wear them tomorrow, alright?” Francis nodded. He didn’t really know what to say. Arthur sighed, before turning to his wardrobe and pulling out some tartan pyjama bottoms and a grey t-shirt. He dropped them onto the bed next to Francis, and picked up some other pyjamas from a crumpled pile in the corner.

“I’m going to get changed in the bathroom. If you’d like to shower, you can when I’m dressed, alright?” Arthur didn’t actually wait for a reply, leaving and shutting the door immediately. Francis sat down and looked around for a minute before beginning to change.

Francis emerged from Arthur’s bedroom carrying his wet clothes and walked back to the entryway, since he didn’t know which door was which here. When he got there, the door to the left of the front door was ajar and light was coming from inside, so he nudged it open. It was the kitchen, and Arthur was stood dumping spoonfuls of instant coffee into two mugs. Francis cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Oh. Hi. They fit you, then?”

“Oui, they are fine. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. Here, pass me those clothes,” and upon receiving them, Arthur put them straight into the washing machine below the counter-top. “Do you want milk in your coffee?”

“Um, yes. Yes please. Thank you.” Arthur said nothing else, and the smell of coffee permeated the room in silence.

When Arthur handed Francis a mug, the Frenchman smiled and took it gratefully. They drank for a while, stood in the kitchen in silence.

“Well, you may as well come into the living room, since you’ll be sleeping there.” Arthur led Francis through the flat to one of the two remaining unopened doors, behind which was a fairly big lounge with a dining table at one end. Arthur sat on the sofa and Francis sat next to him when Arthur patted the cushion.

“I’m going to put the TV on. Is there anything in particular you’d care to watch?” Francis shook his head. Arthur shrugged, placed his coffee on a coaster on the coffee table in front of them, took the remote from the table and switched the TV on, settling for BBC One (as of course, like always, he forgave the weather-related betrayal from that morning). They sat quietly for a while, watching Casualty. Each of them, unbeknownst to the other, was thinking hard about the situation, processing what had happened and planning what to do next.

Francis was the first to speak again. “Thank you. Thank you so much for this. I would, uh, be lost without your help.”

“I’ve told you. You’re welcome. I’m just glad you aren’t an axe murderer or a rapist, to be fair.” Francis thought for a split second about his next comment, but decided it would be fine, considering what he already knew about Arthur.

“I couldn’t be a rapist. I am a bottom.” Arthur snorted with laughter and when he looked back at Francis, he smiled. It was like the smile in the photo, thought Francis.

“And the axe murderer idea?”

“Do I look like an, um, a lumberjack?” Francis gestured to the stubble on his chin.

“Excellent points. Alright. I believe you. You’re harmless.” Arthur sank back into the sofa cushions, looking happy. Francis kept smiling at this. There was another few minutes where neither of them spoke, but it was a lot more comfortable.

The stillness was broken when Francis stood up. Arthur looked at him.

“Do you want something?” Arthur asked.

“Ah, ouais, could I have some water?”

“Sure. Come to the kitchen.” Arthur led the Frenchman into the kitchen and got a glass out of the cupboard, turning on the tap to let it run until the water went from cool to cold. When it did, he filled the glass. When the glass was full, he passed it to Francis.

“Thank you. Again,” Francis said.

“You’re welcome. Again.” Arthur smiled a little again. He had a nice smile, Francis thought. Francis put the glass, half-full, on the side.

“You can take the rest in the living room, you know.” Francis simply smiled. Arthur shrugged minutely and went to leave the kitchen. Francis took his wrist and Arthur looked round, surprised.

“Honestly. Thank you very, very much. I’d be in the cold, with, uh, without a place to stay. And the ticket machine scared me enough.”

“And honestly. You’re welcome. You made me laugh, anyone who can do that is good company.” Francis didn’t let go of Arthur’s wrist, and Arthur looked at him, slight confusion visible in his eyes.

Before Arthur knew what was happening, Francis kissed him.

“Customary greeting in France.”

“I thought… I thought a big part of it was that you didn’t actually kiss each other. And I didn’t think it was ever… proper kissing.” Arthur was slightly pink.

“Customary greeting if you like the person.” Francis smiled, and Arthur smiled back, cheeks reddening further, and the two kissed again.

Living

ˈlɪvɪŋ/

noun

1.       an income sufficient to live on or the means of earning it.

“she was struggling to make a living as a dancer”

synonyms: livelihood, income, source of income, means of support, means, subsistence, keep, maintenance, sustenance, nourishment, daily bread, upkeep;

2.       the pursuit of a lifestyle of the specified type.

“the benefits of country living”

synonyms: way of life, lifestyle, manner of living, way of living, mode of living, life;

adjective

1.       alive.

“living creatures”

synonyms: alive, live, having life;

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