Chapter Text
There is something about the seaside, maybe it’s the sand under your feet, the wind in your hair, or the cheap ice cream. It’s a special place. Who doesn’t like the seaside? Well, Arthur Kirkland.
Not only did he not like it, he loathed it. Sand haunted every last inch of his life, tourists had no respect, and there was nothing to do. Growing up surrounded by a dying industry is a unique one. For many living by the seaside seems like a dream, but it grows dull if it’s your whole life.
Why anyone would willingly visit this crumbling relic was strange to Arthur but what plagued him more was why anyone would like living here. That’s what struck Arthur when he first met Francis Bonnefoy, he loved their town. It was early summer when he first laid eyes on the man. Arthur was sitting in the cashbox, working the same dull job when a boy he’d never seen walked in and stuck out like a saw thumb. The blond carried himself with a slight arrogance that could almost be excused by his impeccable style and beautiful wavy hair tied in a ribbon. His hair wrapped around his face framing the deepest eyes Arthur had ever seen.
The man strolled through the arcade that had not changed since the 1970s with a look in his eyes he could never forget, delight. Arthur’s eyes glued to him from the second he walked in, till the very moment he walked out. Elegant in a way he’d never seen before, a beauty so rare that you couldn’t help but stare. Arthur felt something like never before but couldn’t place it. Thinking about that face made him angry, maybe jealous? Well, the feeling would continue for some time because soon the two would become more acquainted than either could imagine. In one of his few last moments alone Arthur thought about nothing but this mystery man.
Even in mid-July, it was quiet on a Tuesday, he couldn’t say why it’s just the way it always is. So, even when opening late there was no rush about him. He did the usual slow and repetitive actions, turned on lights, the machines, checked they all turned on, fixed the ones that didn’t and then opened the shutters. That day however the routine was interrupted.
The shutters opened and there stood the boy from yesterday, still as beautiful and arrogant but this time with a slightly bemused look on his face. His fair hair blew in the summer’s breeze, he stood out against the plain features behind.
“Are you always an hour late opening?” he asked, with an unmistakable French accent that sent a wave through Arthur.
“On a Tuesday, yeah,” The weird tension in the air hung on Arthur's every word. It wasn’t what he wanted; the safety of sameness was a comforting calmness. He wanted to get to his busy schedule of moping and reading alone in the cash box. Arthur turned around as calm and cool as he could manage to find the Frenchman still standing there. He hesitated “...are you going in or what then?”
“Oui, I was here yesterday and I was taken by you and your, umm… what is it now, establishment!” He smiled, in a very specific way, which pulled you in like a siren at sea.
“Are you messing with me?” Arthur said.
“Non?” I’m Francis Bonnfoy, I just moved here” he stuck his hand out.
“Arthur Kirkland,” and he shook it “from France I guess?” between his accent and name it was almost humorously French.
“Oui, but I have lived in Britain for quite some time now…” he trailed off at the end distracted by something.
Arthur still rattled by before wanted the conversation to end, “That’s nice, but I’m kind of working here so if you would be so kind and let me?”
“I am the only one in here and you were an hour late, I don’t think you are,” he said, not amused. Arthur was flustered by the directness and was lost for a second.
“...What do you want then?” Arthur finally managed to ask.
“A job maybe,”
“Well...I’ll ask but I don’t think there’s enough money, my dad barely pays me minimum wage” he laughed but clearly didn’t find it funny. Walking further into the building Arthur sat down in the cash box, Francis followed but put himself on the other side of the glass.
“I like this place, maybe I could just help for free?
“Now why on earth would you subject yourself to this place for free?” Arthur said dumbfounded. Francis pulled a very old camera from a bag, the type that you had to develop the photos yourself. Even Arthur couldn’t help but marvel at it. Francis looked at it tenderly and placed it on the desk.
“It is a vintage 50s camera, it’s cool, non?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it wasn’t” there was quiet for a moment “So, you want to take pictures then?” he asked, and other nodded. Arthur thought about it, he wasn’t the picture taking type, but then again if he was offering to help for free he could have more time reading and less fixing the bloody machines. “I don’t see why not; I’ll ask my dad but I can’t imagine him saying no”
He stared down the camera's lens as it gleamed in the flashy lights. The leather sides were worn and scuffed in a loved way. There was something so classic about it. His eyes were drawn to it till the very last glimpse as the other put it away into a little leather bag.
“Tomorrow at ten o’clock?” Arthur asked.
“Will you be on time too?”
“Yes I bloody well will, are you trying to lose the job before you even start?”
“See you soon then, Arthur” He strolled out of the arcade, Arthur took a few minutes to cool down, for some reason he was quite flustered by the short conversation.
“Perfect hair, perfect walk, what an insufferable prick” Arthur mumbled to himself.
“Who’s insufferable this time? Is it me again?” Owain joked. He must have come in from the back because in his hands were two pails of 2 pence coins. He had a silly grin and wild hair, exactly like their mum… The man’s creative and joyful spirit made him at least bearable to be around, but his two-second attention span made him difficult to work with.
“no one just some random guy”
“Oh, cute one?” he teased, ever the sportive type. Well at least of Arthur’s sexuality, less could be said about his ‘bloody Englishness’ as Owain so elegantly puts it.
“No.”
“That’s all I get?! Come on tell me! He must be something, cos you’re all flustered like”
“It was just some pompous French frog, he was like- I am Francis Bonnefoy, I am ‘ery french, hon hon hon, look at me I ‘arry a cameraaa,” he said mockingly.
“Oh? I recognize that name, Bonnefoy...”
“Well, he said he’d come and help tomorrow for free, so if you feel like helping too, maybe you’ll see him. But it's not like he’s anything special…”
“Well then, I’ll be here! More importantly, right now, are you going to get off your lazy arse and help me or do I have to carry these by myself?” Owain then put one of the VERY heavy metal buckets full of two pence coins on Arthur’s lap. Crushing him a little.
“This doesn’t bother me”
“You’re going to get blood clots y’know” Owain said, getting the ridiculously large ring of machine keys out. Trying to find the matching one out of the hundreds that looked the same. The little sound the keys made as they all hit against each other made Arthur irrationally angry. “Why do they all look the same?!” Owain complained.
Arthur grabbed them out of his hand and picked the matching one straight out. “I think maybe you’re the lazy one?”
“There’s a difference between being forgetful and lazy Artie”
“Sure, I think however you might be both”
“Remind me again of how many plays you’ve been in?”
“Remind me again how many shifts you’ve done this week?” Arthur shot back, Owain thought for a second then said touché.
“Still, I do worry about you getting blood clots” he laughed
“Bugger off”
“At least I do help like! The others never,” Owain argued whilst stealing a lollipop from the pushers, “right, one machine down thirty-one to go!”
“Can’t we just do them tomorrow,” Arthur complained.
It was well past ten o’clock when he finally got everyone out, by the time Arthur was home there was nothing left of him. Truly, there is nothing worse than working around people having fun. People having fun are loud, and he just wanted to read in peace. People having fun want him to exchange money and fix a machine they very clearly kicked.
His brain was a blank fog. Keeping his eyes open seemed an impossible task until his head hit the pillow. Wide awake, all sleep gone. All the sounds of the arcade played out in his mind. He sat up and sulked. Owain was fast asleep, occasionally making a snoring sound. There was no way he was waking up, so Arthur got out of bed to sulk at the desk instead. Which recently, if by recently you mean the last four years, he’d been doing often. It seemed to be the only place he really felt was his.
His bedroom was a reasonable size; it housed him and Owain fine. The house was in typical inter-war fashion, you could see it in the redbrick and bay windows, his room was no exception to the style with its boxy shape and wooden floors. There was just about enough space for their beds, a desk and two wardrobes. Sharing has never Arthur's strong suit, he just shoved Owain’s scrips off their desk straight onto the floor and pulled out his notebook. Leather bound and green, it was his pride and joy. No one knew it existed but him, which was perfect. Like a little tome of his soul for only him. He flicked through his work.
It’s not that he wasn’t proud of his poetry, it’s more he was conscious of what people would say. These words were from his heart just for him. He wasn’t a master poet and hadn’t the slightest want for it. Still, he did take pride in what he did and loved making it. Well, up until recently. Life was busy, but even when he set aside time, the words didn’t come. Twenty minutes, nothing had been written, not a word. A whole twenty minutes of having a phrase, maybe a single word, something on the tip of his tongue. Like there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t explain it yet. After writing down a few words he called it quits. This time sleep came easily.