Chapter Text
At precisely ten minutes to twelve on Wednesday, Arthur finds himself standing outside the Restaurant d'amour et d'apprentissage drop-in once more.
But it's different this time.
This time he's not here as a random guess to learn, this time, he's here for a date.
Taking a calming breath, he pushes the door open and walks in.
He's not been back here since he nearly burnt the place down almost two weeks ago, but he's glad to see there are no lasting signs of damage. The counter top and electrical socket have been replaced, he can tell this by the ever so slightly shinier surfaces that don't quite match up with the rest. But he can only really tell because he's looking for it and knows it would be different. At a passing glance no one else would be able to see.
Something that is a little more noticeable is the repair to the wall where the spoon had been embedded in it. The slight difference in colour and roughness of the lines in the fresh coat of paint stand out from the rest of the smooth soft blue wall.
It's while he's running his fingers over the patch that Francis walks in, beaming as soon as he spies the green eyed blonde.
"Ah, you are here! Bien." He greets warmly, coming over to the other.
"Oh, um, Hello. I was just uh..." He trails off, still not fully sure how to talk to the Frenchman.
Before, it was easy for him to use his sarcastic and sharp tongued responses he uses with everyone as he wasn't worried about what Francis might think of him for it. He wasn't concerned that he'd alienate the man, because he didn't care if Francis liked him or not, so long as he could teach him to cook it didn't really matter.
But now, there's this bubble of warmth inside his chest whenever he sees the man, and as wonderful as it feels, it destabilises him. He doesn't know how to act, or what to say.
He's always relied on his sharp wit and barbed tongue to keep people at a distance. For him, his words are his defence mechanism to keep him from getting hurt. After all, you can't get hurt if no one can get close enough to reach you.
But he's been pushing people away for so long, he doesn't know how to let someone in. It was hard enough building tentative relations with Peter, and he's his brother.
"Admiring the repair?" Francis' voice brings him out of his thoughts.
The blonde frowns ever so slightly, blue eyes looking critically at the patch of wall.
"The painter did their best but it is still noticeable."
"Ah, sorry about that again."
"It is fine." Francis shrugs, turning away from the wall, "More importantly, what would you like for lunch?"
"Lunch?"
"Oui, whatever you'd like, just name it."
"Oh, I um..." Arthur coughs, trying to get a hold of himself, "I'm not particularly fussy. Anything is fine with me."
Since Francis is such an accomplished chef, he's worried that anything he chooses won't be good enough. So he hopes that by being open he won't disappoint the man. Only, Francis appears disappointed by this as well as he deflates slightly.
"Well that's no good. Come on, you must want something you'd like. Just pick something, anything. It doesn't matter."
Arthur still doesn't really know what to say, but not wanting to upset Francis by not choosing, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.
"Cheese sandwich?"
He winces at his own words, it's never a good idea for him to skip the vocal filter, and going by the look of Francis' face, he's really messed up.
Or so he thinks, until the blonde chuckles, face crinkling in mirth.
"Alright. I was expecting something a little more, but we can do a cheese sandwich."
Arthur blinks as Francis wanders off into the back room, coming out a few moments later, arms full of bread, cheese, butter and and few other things.
"Wait, your going to make it?"
"Non, we are. Together." Francis explains nonchalantly as he drops his supplies onto one of the counters, "Come." He smiles warmly as he waves Arthur over, "We shall make the greatest cheese sandwich you have ever had."
Still a little unsure, Arthur walks over, joining the French chef as he sets out the ingredients into a more orderly arrangement.
"First, we shall get out the cutting board for the cheese."
Pulling out a blue cutting board, Francis waits for Arthur to do the same before continuing.
"Now, what kind of cheese would you like? We have plenty to choose from."
"Um, I'm not sure..." Arthur's pretty sure he's not seen so many types of cheese in one place outside of a shop before, let alone even knows what half of them are.
"Well, would you like a hard cheese like Cheddar or Manchega, or maybe a soft one like this Taleggio or Chèvre, or perhaps you'd like a more spreadable cheese that we don't have to cut, like Camembert?" Francis rattles off, holding up each one as he offers it up.
Deciding to go with one he knows he likes, Arthur selects the block of Cheddar.
"Ah, an English cheese for an Englishman." The Frenchman says highly, as if he expected Arthur to pick it.
"Shut up." Arthur snaps back before he realises what he's saying.
He opens his mouth to apologise for being rude, but Francis is smiling, so he just closes his mouth without saying anything and looks away.
"Next, let's pick the bread."
This choice is a lot easier, as Arthur is much more familiar with the brands he's offered, selecting a seeded wholemeal brown bread. He's quite happy with this, since Peter is fussy and refuses to eat anything but plain white bread, he rarely buys his more preferred brown bread since it would be a waste to by two loafs all the time, as they would never get finished before they had to be thrown out.
Francis too, picks the same bread, and appears very please that Arthur picked this one.
"Now we shall butter the bread."
Again Arthur is met with a choice that seems far too excessive for this simple task, but he doesn't argue as Francis happily offers him a range of salted, unsalted, full fat and low fat butters.
They butter their bread, and Arthur's pretty sure Francis was watching him out the corner of his eye the whole time, but he doesn't say anything about it. After nearly burning the place down while trying to whisk egg whites, he doesn't doubt that the blonde must think he's capable of messing this up somehow.
Thankfully, he can do at least this much without causing a minor disaster.
He goes to add the cheese, but Francis stops him.
"Non, Non. Not yet."
"Why? There's nothing else to it besides putting the cheese on."
"I told you we're going to make the best sandwich you've ever had."
Confused, Arthur watches as Francis picks up a lettuce, slices of ham and a pepper grinders from behind the assortment of cheeses and bread.
"By using the freshest lettuce it maintains it's crisp fresh taste, and pairing it with the nutty taste of the cheese and the saltiness of this cured sliced ham, and seasoned with with just a sprinkle of black cracked pepper, I guarantee your mouth shall be in heaven."
Arthur's never been particularly fussy about the taste of his food, but he won't lie, Francis' description has him drooling a little. He astutely watches as the French chef shows him how to pick the best leaves from the lettuce, pointing out early signs of wilting that would ruin the taste. He watches, mesmerised by the artistic way the blonde places the cheese slices, along with the ham folded in curvy waves onto the bread.
"Next, we season. For this, we only need two twists and no more."
Just as he says, two twists of the grinder, sprinkling the ham and topped with the lettuce and other slice of bread, and he's done.
"See? Now your turn."
Arthur blinks, then refocuses on his own station. He's nowhere near as artful as Francis is in his presentation, despite how much he tries to make it look nice, but he completes it none the less.
Side by side, his sandwich looks like a sad squished mess compared to the chefs, but Francis smiles proudly at him anyway.
"See? You did good."
"It's not as nice looking as yours." Arthur grumbles, unhappy that he couldn't even mimic something as simple as this.
"So? It does not matter so much what it looks like when your not serving it to someone else. And besides, it's still good, go on, try it. Tell me it's not the best cheese sandwich you've ever tasted." Francis boasts proudly.
Rolling his eyes, Arthur picks up the bread knife, halving his sandwich and takes a bite, eyes widening.
"You see?" The Frenchman grins, seeing the look on the others face.
"It's good." Arthur finally says after swallowing, trying to sound nonchalant about it, but Francis can tell he likes it.
"Good. Now eat up. Then, we can try something a little more adventurous than a cheese sandwich."
"More adventurous?" Arthur asks cautiously between bites.
"Oui, you first came here to learn to cook did you not? And I doubt that has changed much in the two weeks since you were last here."
"It could have."
"I severely doubt that. There is no better chef in all of London than me!" Francis boasts proudly, flipping his hair.
"That's a bold statement."
"It is the truth, and I shall prove it to you."
"Oh? And how do you plan to do that? There's plenty of good restaurants all over. Anyone of them could have a chef better than you." Arthur challenges.
"Impossible!" Francis cries over dramatically, making Arthur chuckle, "I will prove my salt as the best chef around by doing what no other can, I shall teach you to cook. And not just sandwiches," he grins, standing proudly, "I shall teach you to cook gourmet food, or my name is not Francis Louis Bardot Bonnefoy!"
Arthur chuckles again at the bold claim, "Your full name is Francis Louis Bardot Bonnefoy?"
"Oui."
"Very well Louis," Arthur smirks at the annoyed face the Frenchman makes when he uses the English pronunciation of his middle name, "I should like to see this."
"Really?" Francis asks a bit more excitedly than he meant to.
He had planned to get to know Arthur better through dates of one-on-one cooking lessons, since that was how they met and Arthur seemed more relaxed around him then, but he didn't think the other man would agree so readily.
"Génial!" He beams, "Then let's get right to it! Your first lesson starts right now, cleaning!"
"Cleaning?" Arthur looks less then impressed at this, "I have enough of that to do at home thanks to Peter thank you very much."
"Aha, true. We'll just put all this here for now then shall we?" Francis' grin turns a bit sheepish as he moves all the dirty dishes into the sink.
He was getting so carried away, he forgot Arthur might not be amused with all his jokes.
"Moving right along," he continues, trying to get back on track, "The first thing any good chef needs to learn to do, is how to make a decent soup."
"Soup? I thought you said we'd be doing something adventurous? That doesn't sound very adventurous to me." Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Well, since you burned soup the first time, I think we need to revisit this lesson, plus, you did nearly burn the place down with an electric whisk. I think soup is about as adventurous as I'm willing to do right now." When Arthur frowns again he grins, "Just until I know you won't set fire to my restaurant."
Arthur huffs, crossing his arms, "You make it sound like I'm some sort of arsonist."
"Of course not mon cher. Now wait here, I'll go get us everything we need."
True to his word, Francis heads into the pantry, taking all the unused ingredients for the sandwiches with him, and a few minutes later, comes back with everything they need to make their next dish.
"So what are we making exactly?"
"I am going to teach you how to make summer pistou."
"Summer...What?" Arthur asks, confused.
"Pistou, it's a type of sauce. Now, here's a recipe card for it, but I'll be walking you through every step." Francis explains, setting the ingredients out on the counter, "This is actually more of a cross between a soup and stew, but it's full of vegetables so it's very good for you."
Once everything is set out, Francis turns to the blonde man.
"Now, the key to any good meal is preparation, to ensure everything is ready before you start cooking, that way, you won't have to worry about chopping this, or peeling that in time before the dish is ruined. So, first, I like to make a checklist of what we need and set it all out in front of me."
"Alright..." Arthur agrees slowly, looking over the recipe card.
It looks simple enough, but they're quite a few ingredients used, and he knows from experience, the more he has to use the more likely he is to mess up. Still, he doubts he can mess up too badly with Francis watching his every move like a hawk right next to him.
So, first things first, he'll work his way through the list of ingredients, making sure everything is just like it asks for.
With that, he reaches for the rapeseed oil, using the measuring spoons Francis hands him, he pours one table spoon into a small glass bowl Francis sets in front of him. Next, he sets that aside and pulls a chopping board over, grabbing two leeks and a knife, before Francis quickly jumps back in.
"Careful now, these knives are very sharp, don't want you to cut yourself."
Arthur just rolls his eyes and starts to chop, but again Francis stops him after only a few cuts.
"Non,non,non. Finely sliced, this is much too thick. Here, let me show you."
Arthur expects Francis to take the knife from him and demonstrate, he doesn't expect the man to move behind him, wrapping his hands over his and placing his head over his shoulder.
"Like this."
Arthur stiffens at the close contact, but his arms become like jelly as Francis guides his hands to hold and chop the leeks. He's so close that he can smell his cologne, feel his hair tickling the side of his face, feel the warmth of his hands on his.
It's maddening.
It makes that thing in his chest flutter and warmth spread through his core and his head dizzy so much that he barely has any sense left to pay attention to what he's being shown.
"See? Now you try." Francis smiles at him, pulling back and leaving Arthur oddly missing the others presence.
It takes some doing, but he just about manages to slice the leeks somewhat finely.
Next, he moves on to the courgette, but this proves to be just as troublesome.
Having only just managed to survive an attempt at finely slicing, now he has to finely dice. Something that Francis again takes the liberty to walk him through. It's basically the same, only with more cuts parallel to the first, but that doesn't stop Francis taking his hands to guide him. And, much to Arthur's own bewilderment, he doesn't protest it.
Courgette done, Francis moves back again, and Arthur dazedly looks around, spying the large jug of stock Francis had brought out.
"So," he coughs, trying to regain control over his voice, "This is the vegetables stock?"
"Oui, I make my own from scratch. Do well and I might just be willing to one day give you the recipe."
One day... Arthur's insides twist at that, whether that's a good thing or not, he's not sure.
"Right, then next is..." he looks to the sheet, trying to refocus his mind on the task at hand, "Four hundred grams of cannellini or haricot beans."
"Oui, I personally prefer haricot, but we have both, so pick which ever you like."
Arthur will agree, he's no expert on cooking, and that includes the things that go into it. A beans a bean as he sees it, so he's not even sure what the difference is. But he doesn't want to ask and seem foolish, so he'll just go with Francis on this.
He weighs the beans as Francis tells him, "We use dry beans here, since it's easier for precise measurements and storage, but you can by tins of them in water too, just drain the beans before you use them if your buying those kind."
Next up, green beans.
Arthur slowly starts to relax again as he weighs and chops the beans, now that Francis isn't so close. Once they're done, he moves on to chop the tomatoes and garlic cloves. Then Francis hands him basil he picks straight from a potted plant to wash, and finally he weighs and grates the parmesan.
"Good, everything is now ready to start cooking." Francis nods at the collection of bowls before them, "First, heat the oil in the pan."
Simple enough, but Arthur knows not to get complacent, and for some reason he really doesn't want to mess this up and disappoint Francis.
Once heated, Francis continues with his instructions, "Now fry the leeks and courgette to soften them. It'll take about five minutes to do, but don't let them sit or they'll burn, so make sure to keep stirring them and move them around."
"Right."
With Francis' close eye watching to stop any burning before it can even start, Arthur is surprised he's able to fry the veg with out burning at least some of it like he normally would.
"Now add the stock, three quarters of the haricot beans, the green beans and half the tomatoes. Then we'll turn the heat down a bit to simmer it all for about five minutes to tender everything up."
The sudden demand for quarters and half's of stuff through Arthur for a bit, but he nods, following Francis' instructions.
“Now, while that's going, we'll blitz everything else except the parmesan in this food processor until smooth.”
The Frenchman has to remind him to stir the simmering broth more than once, as he quickly realises Arthur has a tendency to space out when waiting and forget, or distracted with the food processor, not realising how long it's been since he last stirred it. But, thankfully, it dosn't burn.
"Now just stir the parmesan into the sauce, then add the sauce to the soup and cook for a minute. Then serve!"
Somehow, Arthur manages to not burn the soup and he could almost cry, for the first time in his life, he's not burned something new he's tried to make. He could almost kiss Francis, but stops short when the thought makes his chest flutter again.
Instead, he makes some excuse up about the time and having to get back to Peter, accepting the thermos filled with their soup Francis gives him before he hurriedly leaves.
As much as he tries to tell himself otherwise, Arthur knows the truth.
He's running away.
When Peter returns from his after school club that evening, he notices one thing as soon as he steps through the door.
The flat is absolutely spotless.
Knowing what this means, he carefully sets his bag down and takes off his shoes and jacket, thankful that he didn't bring any dirt in with him. Slipping on the slippers by the door that he rarely uses, he pads his way through the flat to find the time bomb he knows is somewhere inside.
Because sure, Arthur cleans the place on a regular basis, but he only ever cleans compulsively —until it's so clean you can smell the disinfectant and air fresheners and can see your reflection in the kitchen table— when he's avoiding something that's bothering him.
Back when Peter first came to live with him and would shut himself away in his room for days on end, the house would be so clean, he's sure a forensic team of specialist wouldn't even be able to find a spec of dirt.
But he also remembers the emotional explosion that came with that when he finally stepped outside of his room.
Not wanting to ever have a repeat of that, he knows it's best to try to defuse Arthur now, rather that wait for the inevitable explosion.
The flat's not big, so it doesn't take much searching to find his brother in the storage closet, cleaning the thousand and one nicknacks and whatnots cluttering the place.
"Arthur?" He asks cautiously as he approaches.
"Oh, Pete, your home. How was school?" Arthur asks immediately, looking up but still compulsively polishing some sort of medal.
"Uh, Fine..."
He peeks at the far side of his brother and feels dread set in.
Oh, this isn't good. He has the box.
The box, being an innocent looking blue plastic tub full of every kind of cleaning supply known to man. It only ever comes out when things are really bad.
Deciding to just get this over with quickly, he asks, "So... How are you?"
"Fine, Fine." Arthur waves him off, but by the way he starts rubbing more at the medal, Peter knows that's about as far from the truth as Pluto is from Mars.
Right, he should have known that flat out asking wouldn't work, so he decides on a different tactic, one that Arthur himself is a master at.
Time for some subterfuge.
"So, you know Paul in my class?"
Arthur pauses for a moment to think, "The tall boy with the glasses?"
"Yeah him. Well, the guys on the football field were talking and I happened to over hear them as I was passing."
"You shouldn't eavesdrop Peter."
"I wasn't! I was just walking past and they were talking loudly, not my fault I heard them."
"Riiiight."
"Well anyyyyway, apparently Paul was seen at the cinema on a date last weekend."
At the word date Arthur clearly stiffens, so Peter's guess that this has something to do with the date his brother was supposed to be on today is correct.
"Isn't he a bit young for that?" Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow, trying to hide his previous discomfort.
"No! Anyway, apparently he was seen with another guy from some other school."
Arthur has slowed in his cleaning, which means Peter has his attention. Good, now he just needs to fish for the right things and he'll be able to crack his brother.
"R-really now?"
"Yup. And, though it's just a rumour, but apparently they kissed too."
"K-kissed?"
"Yup, right there outside the cinema. Gross huh?"
"Now Peter! You shouldn't be prejudiced, I thought I taught you better. You should be accepting of others preferences in, well, others."
Forcing down his smile, Peter gives his brother a perplexed look, "Eh? I don't care about that, your dating a guy remember? I meant that kissing was gross."
"O-oh..." Arthur shifts uncomfortably, setting down the medal as Peter continues to try not to smile.
He's caught him.
"So...your really okay with that? Me dating I mean..."
"Why wouldn't I be? It's your life, not mine."
"But... I am dating another man. Your really not bothered by that?"
"Like you said, I should be accepting of people's choices." He shrugs, "You do you."
When Arthur doesn't say anything else Peter continues, "Your my brother. Who you like or not doesn't change that. You taught me that, remember?"
His brother is quiet for a moment before he sighs, dropping his hand onto Peter's head and ruffling his hair.
"The world is so simple to you, isn't it?" He chuckles as Peter tries to pull away, "Come on, I have soup. And it's not burnt."
"I doubt that."
"Why you!"
Peter pulls away and makes for the door, but Arthur uses his size to his advantage, catching his brother under the arms in the hallway and pulling him back. He wrestles and tickles him until they are both rolling on the floor, crying tears of laughter.
If only life could be this simple all the time.