Work Text:
Sunday. Middle of april. The weather's getting warmer and warmer, the sun's constantly shining and newborn life is everywhere. Camus isn't necessarily amused.
He had no work that day. Being a paralegal in a prestigious law office, his life was more or less consumed by his career. Even though he is by all means hardworking, one could only do so much, an occasional break was mandatory. The young man hardly complained, instead was thankful for his job as it keeps his mind busy, for he has a tendency to get lost in his very own thoughts, his own reality, his own dimension.
Camus had been walking through the park brimming with people, exact opposite of his preference. He looks around for something to seat himself, which happens to be a bench, quite naturally. He sits and exhales, as if to let out the piled up stress and pressure. His signature frown is nowhere to be seen. He thinks he might as well relax, as he's all by himself, excluding the loud crowd marching. Why did everyone liked the warm weather so much, anyway? Camus personally wanted to lock himself in his room and never go out until the first leaf falls down. The only thing that kept him from doing so was his dog, since walking him was always more enjoyable in the cozier months. And money, being away from his homeland and the child to a careless mother. Not that he really cared about her, though. It was all in the past now.
"Excuse me?" His thoughts get interrupted by a honeyed voice. He looks up to see the owner.
His blue eyes meet the vibrant green ones of the stranger. A face unlike any he had seen. Dark skin gleaming, youthful features radiating life and serenity. He can't help but frown at the sudden encounter with such a person.
The stranger notices the change in look in an instant. "I'm sorry?" He gets a better hold of the papers in his hand and takes a step back, intimidated.
"No, I am sorry," answers the blond. "What was it?" He tries his hardest to neutralise his expression.
The dark skinned man relaxes his grip, tries to get rid of the creases he had just created on the paper. He seems somewhat embarrassed. He leans in and speaks "I'm no master of your language. I'm having… Well, some problems with these papers. Could you help me with this part? I mean, you do know Japanese, don't you? You look foreign, that's why I..." He doesn't end his sentence, instead sighes.
Camus stares at the stranger. Did it really have to be him, out of all people currently there?
"Why are you asking me for help if you doubt I know Japanese?" He knows it probably sounded rude, but he was too late.
The younger man (probably at least, as Camus thought) scowls at the question. He doesn't seem offended though, instead, a genuine smile emerges on his face. Camus feels his chest tighten. "You're right," he says. He pouts slightly. "I don't know why, but I thought it would be best to ask you. You seemed professional. You're wearing a suit anyway."
"Not bad," Camus says quietly, scoots over to make room for the stranger. He makes no waste of time and contently sits next to the former, closer than supposed to be. He hands him the paper, the faint brush of their hands makes Camus feel things he can't word.
"Which part?" Camus asks.
"Here," says the stranger and circles long paragraphs with his slender finger. Or the whole paper. Camus didn't really catch that.
Camus gives him a raised brow "You want help with all of those papers, don't you?" He gets a michievous smile in response.
"If you're willing." The stranger looks directly into Camus's eyes, a shiver runs down his spine.
"I am. It'd be better to do that somewhere else though. I know a good café, if you'd let me." Camus doesn't know why he's being so nice and it's making him afraid.
"All fine by me," the man stands up without further questioning. "I don't know it very well here."
Camus also stands up, noticeably taller. He takes the chance to have a better look at the other. An overall slim but athletic body, tall legs, a small waist, firm arms exposed by a light tank top. His gaze lingers just a bit longer than normal.
"What's your name?" He asks.
"Cecil. Aijima. Aijima Cecil. You?"
"Camus." The paralegal takes the lead and starts walking.
"Camus what?" Cecil clearly wasn't satisfied.
The blond man squints at him. "Camus." Cecil doesn't respond to that, softly nods and picks up his pace to catch up.
None of them speaks a word during the 15 minute walk to said café. Camus can feel Cecil staring at him every now and then. He does the same, even though he wouldn't like to admit. There was something with the green eyed foreigner. His movements, so full of agility but not lacking in comfort, his gaze adorned with curiosity and an honest showcase of emotions. Like glass. Camus somehow knew that those eyes could see through everyone, even the toughest. Cecil ultimately reminded him of summertime, which Camus despised, but he felt deadly attracted.
They enter the dimly lit café, not as crowded as Camus thought it would be. Cecil sits down at a table by the window, Camus has no chance but to follow.
Cecil hands him the papers again, hand under his chin. Camus scans them, trying to get an idea about the context. "The regular, please," he tells the waitress that approaches them without lifting his head. Cecil smiles and says he wants the same. Camus pays him a glance. The waitress smiles in agony with her eyes wide open. She takes the order and withdraws, nevertheless.
"It might be too sweet for you," Camus warns him.
"I love sweets," Cecil responds.
The older man sighs. "Anyway. May I ask what these papers are really about? I work at a law office and it's not familiar at all."
"Formalities," speaks Cecil, shrugging. Camus would normally get angry at such a carefree response, but he doesn't mind that time. He even finds it endearing. He observes the younger man as if he was a phenomenon. Cecil was something completely new to him. Completely different. A limited look at a world he will never get to experience. He intrigues him greatly. Camus always thought he could be called an honest person, yet he was nothing compared to the other man. Being so open with every aspect of one's self was something Camus could never dream of achieving. It felt unreal. He wants to learn more. Wants to see more. Wants to get a taste.
He helps Cecil with the paperwork as he had said. He tries not to pay too much attention to the private details, for he doesn't want to stick his nose up other people's personal lives. He knows for a fact that it's complicated, though. Why, though, he thinks to himself. A freewheeling young man, dressed in a casual fashion, no sign of anything formal. Why would such a person be invested in such paperwork? He ignores the urge to ask it.
The whole thing takes some time, but they are finally done with it. Camus finds himself talking to the tanned man who was now sitting next to him. He was on his third cup of ice cream, yet Cecil hadn't eaten or drunk anything except the single sip of the drink he had ordered. A single sip and it was more than enough for an adult's daily need of sugar.
Hours pass. Cecil jumps from topic to topic, Camus follows him, already dazed by the intense energy of the former. He doesn't mind. He feels like Cecil could talk for days and he would still be listening. He was like alcohol, his beautiful voice felt like needles, alerting his senses. Neither of them breaks eye contact even for a split second. Occasionally, a playful smile shows itself on the dark haired man's face. Camus watches him like he's watching a theatre.
He doesn't waste much time before kissing the other, rather heatedly. It was too much for him to handle. Cecil smiles into the kiss, as if he had been waiting for this from the very beginning. Camus wants to guide the former into his lap, even holds his waist to do so, but later realises that they were in public, and that they had just met. Some things could wait, for sure.
Cecil breaks the kiss, taking a piece of paper from his backpack and hurriedly writing his number down. "Call me," he says, his breath heavy. He places a chaste kiss on the taller man's lips, doesn't wait further before he puts on his backpack and heads out. Just as he steps outside, he looks back at the other man and winks, then disappears into the crowd.
Camus has a hard time going back home.