Work Text:
Eames had bitten off more than he could chew. He stared at his computer, wondering how in hell he was going to get out of this pickle.
Being a children’s book author had always been a dream of his, and he should have been happy with his small publishing gig. It wasn’t enough to pay the bills, but no one ever said that dreams were supposed to put food on the table. He should just have kept on working two jobs and been satisfied with the fact that his books got on a few bookstore shelves, although he did not receive any kind of promotion from his now former publisher. His mum could proudly provide distant family members with an Amazon link and brag about that one crate of books that was sent across the pond to a small bookshop in Bumfuck, Montana. Nothing glorious, but under contract all the same.
No. At the end of his contract, he had to get greedy. During a rather disastrous negotiation, he got on the wrong side of the publishers and suddenly, he was persona non grata. Screw them. They screwed him in the first place with that shitty contract.
During the last few weeks, he had contacted each and every publisher in Great Britain. He might have oversold his capabilities a little. A bilingual children’s book author sounded pretty damn good on his resume, and laying it on thick served him well in the past. Dealing with the fallout, that would be a problem for Future Eames. Well. It was catching up with him, now.
In his inbox was the much hoped-for answer from his top-pick publisher, offering him an even better deal than his wildest dreams could come up with. This could change his life. There was just one tiny issue, though, taunting him in the penultimate paragraph. The email made it clear that what sealed the deal was the fact that they were thrilled to have an author who could carry along with both the French and the English version of the children’s tale. They gave him some self-serving bullshit about spirit and letter fidelity being better served by having the author purposely choosing his own words in both languages. Why hire competent translators when you can ask your authors to subcontract and work twice as hard for the same paycheque, right?
But it wasn’t the same paycheque, was it? What they offered was everything he’d ever hoped for, and even more. Plus, he already created his own art for each story he published. The book would be entirely his, from beginning to end, in both languages. He couldn’t deny that the idea was attractive. Could he fake it until he made it? His French was just abysmal. He had never bothered to learn anything more than oui, non et voulez-vous coucher avec moi. Be prepared, they said.
A simple use of Google Translate left too much room for error. He needed to be on top of his game. Grabbing his phone, he went through his contacts, trying to find his saving grace among the short list of acquaintances. He ended up firing off two texts.
A soft chime rang through the flat a few minutes later, followed by numerous others. As usual, Ariadne was quick to answer. Unfortunately, she wrote that she was terribly out of practice and that her French should not be trusted. She was ecstatic for him, though, and made him promise to show her the draft before sending it to the publisher.
His last hope was now Yusuf, who had a scarily large number of connections. He put his phone in his pocket and let the universe decide his fate. Time to come up with a blinding story to impress the new boss.
Eames grabbed a cup of coffee and made his way to the second bedroom of his flat, repurposed into an art studio. More often than not, his creative process started in here, with a blank canvas and whatever medium struck his fancy that day. He let his fingers slide over various art supplies before settling on oil pastels.
He spent the entire morning blending, scratching and smudging, creating abstract backgrounds in various hues. Soon, every flat surface in the little art room was littered with papers. He scratched his chin, lost in thought. Unfortunately, nothing he produced gave him a promising story idea.
His ringtone resonated from the back pocket of his battered jeans, startling him. Looking at his pastel-stained hands, then wildly around the room for a towel, he resigned himself to trying to rub the colour off his right hand onto his t-shirt. Better ruin his old clothes than his phone.
By the time he reached back to get the device, the caller had already hung up. The phone display barely had time to show a missed call from Yusuf when the doorbell rang.
He had only just cracked open the door when his friend started talking. “I tried to call you before showing up to make sure you were decent but you wouldn’t—“ Yusuf stopped talking abruptly, then burst out laughing. “Whoa, dude! I swear he doesn’t usually sport that many colours on his face!”
Eames frowned and peeked out of the doorway, trying to figure out who the hell Yusuf was speaking to. Just behind him stood a gorgeous, dark-haired man.
“I was having lunch with Arthur here when I read your text. He’s the new French Canadian intern I was telling you about,” Yusuf said, pulling the newcomer forward by the shoulder. “Sorry. I can’t stay, I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. Bye!”
Eames coughed, nervously rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand. Arthur tried and failed at repressing a laugh, and Eames realized belatedly that he was spreading even more colour on his skin.
“Well … please come in! Make yourself at home, Arthur.”
The sudden meeting’s uneasiness behind them, they quickly got along really well. Arthur was not only gorgeous, but also funny and clever. Hours went by unnoticed, filled with brainstorming and discussions over the art he had created this morning, and eventually migrated seamlessly from professional to personal life. They ended up having dinner and agreed to meet the following evening, after Arthur was done with work.
Eames could barely contain his enthusiasm when he called Ariadne the following day. He rambled on and on, scarcely letting her get a word in.
“Stop, Eames. Calm down. Who the hell is this Arthur you’ve been talking about for the last five minutes?” said Ariadne, confusion clear in her voice.
“My muse, Ari. My gorgeous, French Canadian muse,” he whispered dreamily. “The writer’s block is over. We’ll write about a tiny mouse looking for a new house. It will be my best one yet, you’ll see!”
They met every night, getting more and more attuned to each other, Eames enraptured by the incomprehensible, melodic sounds of Arthur speaking French. He only smiled and nodded, fully trusting him to work his linguistic magic with the story. They both grew more and more tactile, orbiting in each other’s vicinity as if they had always belonged there.
“You really don’t understand a single word I say in French, do you?” Arthur asked after a week.
“Try me, darling.”
“Avec des lèvres comme les tiennes, c’est un sacrilège que personne ne t’embrasses sur une base régulière,” Arthur whispered, averting his eyes.
Eames frowned. Why was he averting his eyes? Time for his most sincere smile. “I lied, love.” Arthur snapped his head up, eyes opened wide. “You’ve just told me I’m the greatest children’s book author that has ever graced the Earth, am I right?” Arthur scoffed, a weird indecipherable look on his face.
Slowly but surely, the story was taking shape. A little mouse named Fromage grew tired of her tiny home, always threatened by a mean cat. Throughout the book, she met different people, who all gave her very good reasons not to welcome her in their house. The florist did not want her to eat his plants. The photographer did not want her to spook his clients when he snapped a portrait. The chef finally offered her a home and a job because of her exceptionally good taste in cheese. Cute, and all better because of Arthur’s influence, voluntary or not.
On their last evening working together, Arthur gave him a USB key containing the final translation of the story, asking him for Ariadne’s feedback before Eames sent the final version to the publisher. Eames agreed in a heartbeat, glad to have a reason to contact him again.
When he finally got Ariadne on the phone, he had a hard time curbing his enthusiasm. “So? What do you think? It’s brilliant, isn’t it?”
Silence. “Ariadne?”
“Eames. I’m confused.” He could hear the clatter of computer keys in the background. “Yup. Don’t get me wrong. I love the story, I love the illustrations. Care to explain why they don’t match each other?”
“What are you on about, Ari?”
“Look it up yourself. This Arthur guy pulled a trick on you. This makes no sense.”
He hung up and plugged the USB key into the computer, then opened the Quel Dommage, Fromage document.
The locations checked out. It was the answers each character gave to Fromage that were making no sense. According to the translation website, gone was the cute mouse. Fromage was now a googly-eyed cheese wedge, with no friends nor family. What the hell, Arthur?
“Quel dommage, fromage! Ton odeur traverse le feuillage!” dit le fleuriste.
“Quel dommage, fromage! Tes émanations me distraient du paysage!” dit le photographe.”
“Quel dommage, fromage! Tes effluves feraient échouer mon cambriolage!” dit le voleur.
“Quel dommage, fromage! Ta senteur m’en fait oublier mes personnages!” dit l’écrivain.
“Quel dommage, fromage! Ton exhalaison m’en font rater mon ramonage!” dit le ramoneur.
“Comme c’est plaisant, parmesan! Tu seras parfait pour mon restaurant!” dit le chef.
The story ended with the cheese wedge getting adopted by the chef, learning it was top quality parmesan. It would be cute, if it was not terribly confusing. Why did Arthur rewrite the story?
He grabbed his phone, sending a very eloquent “What the hell, Arthur?!?”
The response was immediate. “There’s a “Read Me” document on the key. Do it now.”
Eames humoured him, his eyes getting wider with each sentence read. Arthur had translated the real story, but would only give it to him in exchange for a proper date.
This wouldn’t be a hardship. Not at all. Grinning from ear to ear, he grabbed his phone, ready to set a date and a place.