Chapter Text
The print shop has a rather distinctive smell; a heavy layer of cigarette smoke combined with the fuming chemicals of ink and paint. If it were any other day, Zayn would’ve smiled at the scent while unlocking the front door. Maybe he’d bathe in the familiarity of it all before stepping in and opening up shop for the day. He’d usually set up the printers and take out the bins – try to do at least half his chores before Christian comes striding in, muttering under his breath about employing a British boy with little background and too much ambition.
But on a Monday morning it feels to Zayn that the disenchantment he’d kind of been dreading has finally arrived. Le Marais is still beautiful of course, with its enriching history and string of art galleries – but really, the print shop itself doesn’t seem so quaint with the loud bustling of the crowd outside encouraging an oncoming headache.
So Zayn takes his time setting up; has a cigarette balanced between his lips while he rolls the bins inside and then starts turning on the lights.
*
Halfway through the day, the shop bell chimes; Zayn can hear it even over the clanging of the print machines. He hears Christian greeting the customers from a distance and stands up quickly when his name is called.
From the the almost week Zayn has been his apprentice, Zayn’s learned that Christian’s method includes the brilliant notion of constantly throwing him into the deep end and then stubbornly watching from afar as Zayn struggles to catch the current and swim.
So of course Christian refuses to speak in English when he speaks in front of his clients and all Zayn can decipher is something about pouring wine for the guests. It’s easy enough for Zayn to translate that particular sentence though, since it’s uttered so much. When he’d first dreamt of Paris, Zayn hadn’t exactly envisioned himself pouring wine for other people or taking out the garbage, but as an aspiring artist he’s willing to make compromises for a bit of experience and of course, to pay off his share of the rent.
So Zayn goes to the back storeroom to fetch the wine glasses without complaint, doesn’t even look up to see the customers until he’s inside the room and he’s got the wine out of the cupboard.
The view’s not so great, but he can see three figures crowding over a piece. Christian’s there of course, his ever-present frown deepening as he speaks to a sort of plump middle-aged blonde lady. But Zayn’s eyes move right past them and onto a shock of curly brown hair. He’s got his back to Zayn, but Zayn can see that the guy’s wearing a pair expensive looking boots and dark grey skinny jeans that are almost too tight. He’s also wearing a black button-down with most of the top unbuttoned.
Zayn would’ve normally snorted at Curly’s style since it’s so typically the elitist new age French-boy look – but instead Zayn finds himself focusing on the creamy line of the back of his forearms. The black rolled up sleeves of his shirt contrasts nicely with the pale skin of his forearms, skin that seems to be scattered with a variety of tattoos that Zayn can only just make out.
When the guy finally tilts his head towards Zayn, he gets a proper view of Curly’s face – and he kind of shocks himself by taking a genuine step backwards.
Something strange comes over Zayn when the guy catches his eye. It’s the kind of feeling Zayn would never even try to describe because he knows that the attempt will tarnish the memory of whatever it is he’s feeling at that moment. It’s all encompassing to the point where it’s almost exhausting. The familiarity of that particular shade of green completely knocks the breath out Zayn but at the same time Zayn knows that they’re unacquainted, that he’s never seen this guy before in his entire life. Because he definitely would’ve remembered meeting this guy, would’ve at least memorised the guy’s voice when he’d spoken, would’ve dreamt of their supposed meeting over and over again until it was imprinted in the back of Zayn’s mind and he couldn’t eat, sleep, paint or fucking breathe without frequent reminders of the moment they had met.
Zayn looks away quickly, because he’s never been a romantic and he isn’t about to start now. Sure, he has a big heart and loves people that are close to him quite easily, but that doesn’t mean he’ll believe in something as ridiculous as love at first sight – or something like it at least.
So he resorts to blaming the lack of coffee in his morning routine and the constant exposure to paint fumes for the sudden onslaught of emotions that a brief moment of eye contact had brought on. His hands certainly do not shake as he pours the wine and he commends himself for keeping a fairly casual composure as he walks towards the guests.
He hands a glass to Curly first, and is almost thrown off by the intensity of the guy’s staring as he accepts the glass of wine. Zayn tries his best not to pay any mind to it as he hands the blonde woman her glass. The woman takes it without so much as glancing Zayn’s way, but Zayn really couldn’t care less. His heart is thumping in his chest as he walks past them and takes a seat at a nearby desk. He’s close enough to get a clear view, but hearing them would be difficult unless Christian calls out to him.
From a distance, Zayn can see that the woman is asking something to Curly. Curly shakes his head in reply and starts explaining something extensively, using his hands and everything. Zayn takes out a cigarette and fiddles with it as he watches Christian nod and then take the woman away to look at something, leaving Curly all alone to wander about.
The guy doesn’t seem to hesitate though, only looking around the shop briefly before landing his eyes on Zayn and walking right over to him, wineglass still in hand.
And Zayn – Zayn doesn’t really know how to react to this. He’s not exactly sure whether he’s up for a polite conversation with Curly until he’s sorted out a few confusing emotions, like fucking love at first sight.
But Curly can’t know that of course, so he starts speaking. The first thing Zayn notices is that his voice is much deeper than Zayn would’ve imagined; has a kind of rough-edged feel to it even though it’s as smooth as Zayn’s bottle of DaVinci.
“On s'est déjà rencontrés non?” He starts. It sounds like a question, but he doesn’t wait for Zayn’s answer and goes on speaking. “J'ai l'impression qu'on s'est croisé quelque part.”
He’s not talking fast or anything, but Zayn still struggles to catch up with every word. It’s obvious the guy thinks that Zayn understands the French coming out of his pretty pink mouth, but all Zayn can do is try not to stare too intensely as the guy goes on and on about something, using hand movements and little quirks to his lips.
So Zayn looks down and avoids eye contact instead of attempting to reply. He starts fiddling with his cigarette again, a hundred million thoughts spiralling in his mind like objects stuck in a massive hurricane. But he doesn’t bother opening his mouth to voice any of his thoughts – because really, Zayn figures that he’s not particularly ready to bare his heart out on a Monday morning and make a complete fool of himself. And it’s also a little weird because Zayn can’t figure out why Curly’s even talking to him so intently. It’s obvious that it’s not exactly small talk from the way he keeps pausing and staring at Zayn.
Curly seems to be waiting for an answer to a question of some sort, but Zayn honestly has no clue what the guy had said. He’s only picked up a few words from the string of sentences, things that could either mean “spirits” or “ghosts”, which is of course ridiculous all on it’s own so Zayn’s most likely not translating correctly.
“Je me dis qu'on aurait pu se connaître dans un autre temps, une autre époque”
He really has no idea what to reply, but Zayn suddenly feels like he needs to say something. And it’s not even because he feels obligated to contribute to the one-sided conversation Curly’s got going on since Zayn’s never felt too fazed by social cues or anything. Usually he does whatever he feels most comfortable with, and if that means shutting himself off for a bit then he’ll do it.
But right now, Zayn gets a little anxious thinking about how this ridiculously gorgeous curly haired guy with his high cheekbones and pale forearms might just give up on the conversation if Zayn doesn’t speak soon. He would probably walk away feeling offended or something, and leave Zayn all alone wondering about what-ifs and could’ve-beens.
So he looks down at his hands, sees the cigarette between his own fingers and says the first French words that come to mind.
“Du feu?”
“Oh,” the guy pauses, and he looks a little surprised that Zayn’s spoken. He nods though, smiling so big that Zayn wonders whether it hurts. “Du feu.”
Zayn watches as the guy quickly digs into his pocket and takes out a lighter. It looks pretty under his long fingers. Zayn puts the cigarette in his mouth and leans forward.
He’s not sure if it’s all in his mind, but the closeness of their bodies as the guy lights up Zayn’s cigarette makes him wonder if the heat is from the lighter’s flame or maybe something else. He’s probably reading too much into it if anything, so he shakes the thought off and manages to mumble out a quick, “Merci”, between the smoke.
Curly nods and smiles some more, and then speaks again when he realises Zayn isn’t gonna start.
“C'est étonnant. Des que je t'ai vu J'ai eu besoin de te parler.” He dimples at Zayn and his eyes are softer than ever. There’s a certain sincerity that resounds in his words, though Zayn is still having trouble understanding him.
“C'est comme si... je ne sais pas... c'est très fort, c'est etrange. Je me suis dit que si je ne te parlais pas avant de disparaitre j'allais surement passer a cote de quelque chose.”
Curly talks and talks, this time looking around the shop a bit. Zayn watches quietly as the guy murmurs on in French, using slang and phrases Zayn definitely did not study, but now is wishing that he had.
He still has his wineglass in his hand as Curly wanders off behind a nearby door that’s filled with crevices and has a dirty old window. Zayn watches the guy’s distorted image from behind the glass as he looks right at Zayn and takes a sip of his wine. He’s only there for about a second though, before he walks right back to Zayn and starts speaking again, this time much more rapidly.
Zayn only understands the “May I?” at the end of a sentence as Curly gestures to the seat across from Zayn. And of course Zayn nods at him and says yes.
“Tu crois en l'âme sœur? Quelqu'un qui serait comme notre moitié?”
Zayn frowns, knowing that he’s being asked a deliberate question. But he doesn’t get a chance to answer anyway, ‘cause the guy just waves a hand and starts speaking again.
Zayn catches the word “music” and then Curly starts naming a few indie rock bands. Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever been in a more bizarre situation but he still finds himself smiling a bit and nodding at the guy. “Oui,” Zayn says, though he has little to no idea what he’s agreeing to.
They both hear Christian and the blonde woman approaching, their voices carrying over the loud clanking of print machines. For a moment the guy looks flustered, but his face lightens up when he notices the pen and notebook sitting beside Zayn’s elbow on the desk. He talks and talks while scribbling down something, looking up to smile at Zayn after he finishes writing and then pushing the notebook towards him.
Zayn’s still struck by whatever was going on and has barely enough time to glance at a few scribbles before Curly’s standing up and heading towards the exit.
Zayn watches as the guy picks up a few folders and joins the woman, politely saying goodbye to Christian. Christian follows them out, blocking the view a little, so Zayn kind of cranes his neck to get a better angle. He wonders whether the guy will turn around and catch Zayn’s eye again, or maybe he’ll wave a little wave.
But Curly doesn’t turn around, and it’s not until Zayn hears the final clang of the entrance door shutting that he looks down at the whatever’s scribbled on his open notebook.
It’s a phone number. No name next to it.
Zayn stares at it so intensely that he hardly notices Christian approaching until he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“What is that about?” His accent is heavy, but Zayn has better luck understanding English than French anyway.
Zayn frowns, “I’m not sure exactly.”
Christian peers at the paper. “Hm, he has left a telephone number?”
Zayn nods. “Yeah…I don’t know what he was saying though half the time…” he trails off, remembering the sincerity in the guy’s voice. “I don’t even know his name.”
“Téléphone lui tu verras bien.” Call him and see. Zayn understands that one.
He looks down at the number for a moment, written in a kind of curvy handwriting but not very neat either. Zayn looks down at the loopdie-loops of the eights and zeroes and suddenly feels entirely stupid.
Why hadn’t he just told the guy that he can’t speak French very well, and can they please switch to English if it’s possible? Why hadn’t Zayn asked for Curly’s real name – Zayn’s not an complete knob, he’s smart enough to brush up on a few greetings before spontaneously heading to live in Paris, so he certainly knows how to ask for a name.
He can call now and ask him of course, but the number’s for a landline and Curly had only just left the shop.
“Tu crois en l'âme sœur?” He had asked.
Maybe he’s still nearby.