Work Text:
Francis watched, hair blown wildly out of place, as the train screeched into Westminster station, its arrival announced with the trademark ‘Mind the gap.’ The doors hissed open and commuters flooded out, wrapped up in their business suits and overcoats, heading for fresh air. Francis stepped onto the train, reaching up for the railing above him, and settled himself in for his usual ten minute journey.
He followed the same pattern every morning. As many people as possible would try to squeeze onto the train, the cloying smell of cologne not much better than the sweat that would have replaced it by his journey home in the evening, and Francis would find himself shoved against the doors. The only noise would be the buzz of somebody’s music or a cough in the crowd as the train lurched forwards, each and every one of them keeping their heads down and avoiding eye contact. These English really are entirely incapable of being friendly to one another, Francis thought, it's a wonder they are even alive.
At exactly 8:21 he glanced over to his left, peering through the gaps in heads and searching for a mop of messy blonde hair. The man was there, as ever, sitting with his hands in his lap and staunchly refusing to look anywhere other than at his feet. There was very little that distinguished him from the rest of the people on the train, but Francis had been oddly fascinated with him ever since he’d appeared on Francis’ commute four months previous. Perhaps it was the fact that he always, always, had a seat on the train, no matter how busy it was. There really was no explanation for it.
The man also got off at the same station as him, following the others up the escalators and out into the light. He never appeared to notice Francis’ presence, despite seeing him at the same time every weekday, and for some reason Francis found that this irked him. He was normally able to command the attention of everyone in the room with some charm and a witty comment, but this Englishman was entirely oblivious to it. Francis blamed the Tube.
As he stepped out of the station among the hordes of people hurrying off to work, something was thrust into his hands, and he looked down to see a copy of that morning’s Metro. He stuffed it in his bag as he went, making for one of the many glass towers that loomed over the Isle of Dogs, the grey English sky reflected in the many windows and making him sigh.
Francis, like many young men looking for success, worked in the European headquarters of an international investment banking company. His parents had encouraged him to come to London once he had finished his degree, and he had gladly followed their advice, knowing the City was full of thriving businesses. However, in order to fund his dream of setting up his own café and gallery, he’d found an office job that seemed simple enough and would allow him time to pursue his hobbies. Unfortunately, his boss had been far too pleased with his work and Francis had been promoted, and the time he’d set aside for painting and socialising had been soaked up by work. The dream all but forgotten, Francis had followed the same routine for the past two years, allowing the bank to slowly take over his life.
His first port of call when he arrived was the bathroom, where he quickly rearranged his hair after the journey and made sure he hadn’t made a drastic error when dressing – mornings had always made his judgement dubious. Then he made his way to the kitchenette, pouring himself a coffee to take to the lounge. He was half way through drinking it, eyes closed as he savoured the taste, when he remembered the newspaper in his bag.
Fishing it from the pocket, he spread it out across his legs and began to idly flip through while he waited for his colleagues to arrive. There were a few articles about celebrities who had been spotted around, which was nothing new, as well as a heart-warming story about a successful charity and at least four less heart-warming tales of assaults and thefts. Towards the back of the paper, however, nestled among many adverts, there was a pale green page entitled ‘Rush Hour Crushes’. It was no secret that Francis fancied himself a bit of a matchmaker, and his lips curled into a smile as he began reading the anonymous confessions printed in the paper.
“Morgen, Francis!” A shout came from behind, giving him advance warning before two hands clapped down on his shoulders.
“Bonjour, Gilbert,” he replied, glancing up at his friend, “you’re as boisterous as ever this fine morning.”
“That’s me! And you’re only halfway through your coffee, which explains why you’re such a grump.” Francis didn’t even deign to give him an answer, simply raising an eyebrow as he took another sip. Gilbert peered over his shoulder and scanned the paper in his lap. He was quiet for a few blissful moments before he started cackling, his grip tightening on Francis’ shoulder. “Hey, Francis, don’t you get that train?”
Francis followed his finger to where it was pointing at a message that had been sent in:
To the man with the silky blonde hair on the 8:17 from Westminster. O! learn to read what silent love hath writ: to hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit. I wish I was brave enough to speak to you.
Shakespeare Fan
He stared at the page for a few more moments, shocked into silence by such a heartfelt confession, before he shook his head and laughed quietly.
“It can’t be me, that’d be too much of a coincidence. Besides, I’m sure there are multiple trains leaving Westminster at that time, with plenty of people with nice hair on it. That doesn’t mean it’s about me.”
“Modesty doesn’t suit you, Francis,” Gilbert scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I think you should reply to them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, they hardly left any identification. How am I supposed to know which miserable face on that train likes to read Shakespearean sonnets?”
Gilbert shrugged. “Worth a try, right? Anyway, we’d better get to work.”
The paper was dumped unceremoniously on the coffee table as Gilbert dragged him to his office, promptly forgotten about until Francis was staring at his laptop screen at home that evening. He had never liked computers, yet his work demanded the use of one, and working until 8 in the evening was now commonplace. As he watched the cursor blinking on the page and tried to think how to best word this letter to one of his clients, he suddenly remembered the newspaper. Without realising it, he was on the Metro website, faced with a page of questions.
What was he going to write? If only Shakespeare Fan had left more details about themself, like some of the other, weirdly specific messages, so that Francis could identify them the next morning. Perhaps they weren’t even really ready to speak to him, considering they were too shy to give much away. How would he ever approach them and have something come of it?
Instead, a face sprung to mind, framed by messy hair and almost permanently set in a frown, head bobbing about with the jerks of the train. He looked like he could have quite a sweet face if it weren’t marred by stress wrinkles all the time, not to mention those eyebrows. It might be a nice idea to try and make him smile, and maybe Francis would even get a reply.
He began typing.
*
The following morning, Francis realised the flaw in his plan. Although he himself had obtained a copy of the newspaper, he had no idea whether the other man read it himself. He probably had a copy of The Times folded away in his briefcase, or even an app on his phone that he read during breakfast. How could Francis possibly be sure that he would receive the message? He’d have to think fast, otherwise the man would slip out of his grasp at the station.
When they pulled in at Canary Wharf, Francis finally saw his chance. He hurried to the doors and reached them at the same time as the other man, bumping into his side and jostling him in the rush of people.
“Sorry,” the other muttered, frowning disapprovingly when Francis did not reply in kind, instead striding off down the platform and letting the newspaper drop from his bag. “Excuse me!” came the call he was expecting, and he resisted the urge to turn at the man’s voice, walking a little faster so that he would soon be out of sight. “Excuse me, you dropped this. Wait!”
Francis rounded the corner, disappearing up the escalators and leaving the man on the platform, holding a slightly battered copy of Metro, his routine ruined.
*
To the charming little Englishman who stares at his shoes every morning. As cute as your grumpy face is, I’d love to see you smiling. How about a home-cooked dinner to ease those commuting blues?
The Romantic Parisian
*
The next morning Francis was nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for the train to arrive. He was desperate to know if the other had seen his message, and he might even have replied to it. Maybe the man would actually try to speak to him today, or at the very least make eye contact. The thought made his heart beat that tiny bit faster.
As he stepped onto the train, however, a glance to the left produced a sinking feeling in his chest. The blond was nowhere to be seen, a sharply dressed older woman sitting in his usual seat, and there was no sign of him anywhere else on the carriage either. Had something happened to him? There hadn’t been a single day yet that Francis hadn’t seen him sitting in that spot.
Unless…unless he had seen the message and it had scared him off. Did he find it creepy that Francis had been watching him all this time? Had he moved to another carriage, or even gone out of his way to take a different train, just to avoid the other man?
It was only when Francis caught himself chewing on his lip like a schoolgirl that he realised how ridiculous this all was. He was smooth and charming, and he knew it. It was simply the English culture that was making it impossible for love to flourish. Why he’d moved to this horrible city, he’d never know.
*
There was no sign of the other in the evening, nor was he to be found on Thursday or Friday either. Francis kept making excuses for his absence, that he had come down with a cold and couldn’t face going to work, or that he’d burnt his toast in the morning and was running late, or that he’d gone on holiday with his girlfriend and never entertained the thought of being with Francis at all…
He sighed to himself over his coffee, absently flipping through the pages of Metro to try and distract himself from these thoughts, when suddenly something caught his eye.
To the frog from Tuesday’s issue. I do believe the aim of these letters is to be specific, yet you choose to simply address any Englishman in London? I always thought you lot were overly amorous, but this is something else.
Definitely Charming But Certainly Not Cute
Francis gasped and pressed a hand to his chest, affronted. How dare this man reply to him like this! That message had been meant for the man on the 8:17, not just any old salaud in the city. Francis had standards!
“Yo, Frenchie, what’s got your knickers in a twist this morning?” Gilbert asked, slouching on the chair next to him.
“Look at this!” he cried, thrusting the paper in Gilbert’s face. “Do you see this? The people in this country are so rude, you would never find this in Paris!”
Gilbert snorted.
“You really got told, didn’t you?” Francis rose from his seat, unfinished coffee left on the table as he headed for his office.
“I won’t allow him to get away with this!” Gilbert smirked and drank the abandoned coffee.
*
To le rosbif from last week. No need to be bitter just because I was not referring to you. I can understand your jealousy, what with my gorgeous looks, but my heart is set on a better man.
The Cultured and Glamorous Parisian
*
To the hairy cheese-monkey who won’t give up. I highly doubt the credibility of your claims, especially since you love Paris so much yet you remain here. Why don’t you spread your ‘love’ somewhere it’ll be appreciated?
Maker of an Excellent Roast Beef
*
To the pig-headed connard from yesterday. Since you are English, I am absolutely sure that you cannot cook anything, let alone your darling roast beef. Just accept the truth and let me prove that French cooking is superior.
Je Ne Regrette Rien
*
To the two men who seem to think that this newspaper is their own personal messageboard. Get a room already.
An Appreciator of Some Bloody Peace and Quiet
*
To the wily Frenchman. I will accept your surrender at Waterloo on Monday, 8:20, beneath the clock.
The Esteemed Pirate
*
Monday rolled around after an inconsequential weekend and Francis had been awake for several hours already, anticipating his clash with the man from the newspaper. He made sure to dress extra sharply, practising his most stunning smile in the mirror, before he determined that he was ready to face him.
His life had suddenly got more exciting with the addition of the messages. Among the grey skies and the endless number crunching, there was that little thrill of checking the paper each day and trying to think of how best to reply. Surprisingly, he found he might even miss the exchange when monotony returned.
As the 8:17 pulled up and Francis stepped on, he glanced to the side out of habit. He hadn’t forgotten about the cute blond during this time, but the other man hadn’t returned to his usual seat, nor did it seem like he had replied to the message with one of his own. All that Francis had accomplished was making an enemy out of a man he didn’t even know.
Still, there was no change, the seat instead filled by a young man wearing an ‘I <3 London’ shirt. Francis didn’t know why he had expected anything else.
The train shot through the tunnel, pulling him closer and closer to his destination. At 8:19 it pulled into Waterloo station, Francis scowling at the implications of the message. He pushed through the crowds of people, expecting his anonymous messenger to be the pedantic type who would leave if he was even one minute late.
His eyes alighted on the clock just as the hands reached 8:20, and he glanced beneath it to assess his opponent. But there – surely not!
“You!” they both cried, jabbing accusing fingers at each other. The scruffy blond man stood before him, his thick eyebrows pulled together in a strange mixture of anger and bewilderment. Francis had been expecting somebody who would shout at him for what he’d said, perhaps somebody bigger and more boisterous. At least now he had an idea as to how the other managed to get a seat on every train.
“You were the one sending those messages?” he questioned, seemingly unable to believe the situation.
“Well, you were the one who started it!” Francis retorted. “I simply posted something nice, but you had to respond so cruelly. I can’t believe you would do that!” The blond folded his arms across his chest, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Why would you expect anything else? You don’t even know me. All that you know is that I insulted you through a national newspaper.” Francis floundered, caught, as the situation dawned on the other. “In fact, why did you even say ‘you’ when you saw me? That’s quite suspicious.”
“I could say the same about you. You recognised me, did you not?”
“W-Well, I-“ A blush crept up the man’s cheeks and he glanced away, unexpectedly bashful.
“Well, you?” Francis prompted, eyebrows raised judgingly. The other shifted.
“I just…well, that is to say – Do you like Shakespeare?” he blurted suddenly, face blazing red. Francis blinked at him, feeling slightly uncomfortable himself at the man's awkwardness. Honestly, these Anglais really were -
Oh. Shakespeare.
Francis watched as the other refused to look at him, took in green eyes and pale freckles scattered over his nose, and realised that the universe really had worked in his favour. Could it really be that the pursued had been the pursuer all along?
"I was right, you know," Francis said with a grin, his avoidance of the question making the other give him a quizzical look. "You are cute when you're not angry." The other man gasped.
"That message was meant for me?" he asked, scandalised.
"Oui. I apologise for calling you jealous, since I didn't expect you to be the same person."
"And I apologise for telling you to go back to Paris. I don't really believe you're a hairy cheese-monkey."
Francis laughed and watched him crack a smile.
"All is forgiven, mon cher."
"Right. I'm Arthur, by the way." He stuck his hand out and Francis took it, testing the name on his tongue.
"Enchanté, Arthur. I'm Francis. Would you still be up for that home-cooked meal?"
Arthur tilted his head playfully, pretending to consider it.
"I suppose that could be arranged. Send me a date through the paper?"
"How else?"