Chapter Text
“Kirkland-Bonnefoy.”
“Bonnefoy-Kirkland.”
“I don’t think so.”
Twin half glasses of pastis sit forgotten on the table, condensation already pooling around the bottom and creating rings that threaten to trickle across the wood with every drop. On either side of the table sit twin expressions of dissatisfaction: one expressed through narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow while the other pursues its lips and curls its finger round an errant lock of hair.
The other occupants of the restaurant sit blithely unaware of the brewing tension just beyond their booths, much more preoccupied with the delicious appetisers making their way out of the kitchen - likely the last ones of the night if the sky is anything to go by. Nondescript classics float out of an antique radio buried somewhere near the counter, doing little to cover the sound of dishes dancing together in the sink.
Francis’ leather shoe taps its staccato rhythm on cracked tiles. “I think…” He untangles his fingers in a flourish, sending his ponytail across his shoulder. “You are being unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable?” Arthur’s got his arms crossed and spine straight the way he does when he’s got an idea in his mind and unwilling to let it go. He looks entirely out of place amongst the graceful curves of the Art-Nouveau decor. “Between the two of us, it seems I’m the only one who’s got any reason at all.”
“Unreasonable and stubborn.” Francis ploughs on, momentarily distracted by the waiter who walks past with a tray of steaming bowls. “Bonnefoy-Kirkland sounds better.”
“Only the French would prefer an order as mangled as that. Kirkland-Bonnefoy more accurately follows common phonetic sensibilities.”
“English sensibilities.”
“Nothing wrong with those.”
Were he a lesser man, of lesser taste and reservations of getting barred from one of the few establishments he would gladly dine in regularly, Francis might have lunged over the table and stuffed the stuffy grey tie Arthur was wearing right into where he kept his stuffy sensibilities. As it were though, Francis had yet to find another place within walking distance of his Parisian apartment that knew how to make good cassoulet and served the kind of pastis that didn’t make one’s tongue retreat from the bitterness, so he contented himself with the mental image of the chandelier above them falling on Arthur’s head instead.
Arthur, who had once proven himself a lesser man thirteen times in half as many minutes, remained frightfully calm - the kind that only comes from being 100% behind one's convictions, to the detriment of everybody else.
“Bonnefoy-Kirkland is alphabetical.” Francis counters.
Arthur snorts. The cherry leather seat cracks under him. “Alphabetical position has nothing to do with it.”
“Yes it does.”
“It does not.” The table shakes under his elbows. “Besides, if we were going alphabetically, Arthur appears before Francis.”
Francis redirects his exasperation into drawing spirals from the water migrating slowly from his glass down a crack in the table. “People do not hyphenate their first names when they get married.”
“I know that, I’m just saying-”
“Do you have a middle name?” Francis interjects, brandishing a damp fingertip in Arthur’s direction.
“Course not. You know that. Never chose one.”
“So it does not matter. Last names before first.” Like a Queen about to check the opposing King, he slides the trail of water across the table, finger skidding slightly when it dries up a moment too quickly. “Following common semantic sensibilities.”
“Oh fuck off.” Arthur mutters, and Francis counts it a great personal victory when he grabs the slippery pastis and takes too large of a swig, cheeks puffing comically as he tries to compensate for the increased volume of liquid.
Much more gracefully, Francis takes up his own glass and sips it delicately, eyes bright over the rim. “Don’t be mad because I’m right.”
Arthur makes to speak, huffs, downs the rest of his drink, and plonks the glass firmly on the newly-created ring of light wood, taking a moment to adjust and make sure the damp is completely covered.
“You brute, this is not one of your pubs with your￡3 pints you can just throw back.”
“You bother me.” Arthur says, fingers tracing the rim, yet there’s equal parts fondness to his tone.
The world’s quickest tango ensues when Francis attempts to tangle their fingers together. Arthur jerks back, offended, and when the ping of glass against wood gets more than a few curious glances directed their way, Francis waves them off magnanimously while Arthur scrabbles with getting the offending piece of glassware upright and mutters an impressive array of Cornish curses.
“You’re going to get us kicked out chéri.”
Like a toreador flaring his serviette, Arthur makes a show of mopping up the three drops. “Don’t blame your lechery on me!”
Francis only laughs in response, looking longingly at the last sip before he too finishes and shuffles out of the booth, a thin snap belying as his trousers catch on a crack in the leather and leave behind one of their cotton threads.
He pays the cheery granddaughter of the first owner and they strike up a casual conversation as she rings them up on the antique register that dings in tandem with her ‘goodnight’ as Francis waves to her brother in the kitchen, weaving through the organised mess of of emptying tables to rejoin Arthur in the cloud of cigarette smoke at the entrance.
“Care for one?” Arthur asks, nodding at the group clustered just outside.
“Not right now.” Francis says, diving into the cool night and the distinct aroma of the city. “You?”
Arthur shakes his head, rolling his shoulders as he acclimatises to the temperature. On the cusp of Summer, the nights hover between cool and pleasant, the occasional breeze rushing down from antique buildings reminding any evening pieton of Winter’s reluctance to acquiesce. Optimistic from their afternoon around town, neither of them had elected to wear a jacket.
The meander leisurely down the street, hands brushing as Arthur becomes more comfortable under the cover of dark. A heavy rumble signals the incoming metro below. Sporadic cars churn up enough wind to send Arthur’s tie flapping by his chest.
“You know.” He says, pensively regarding the few stars that have managed their way past the city lights, “I’ve thought of a potential middle name for you.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. What do you think about Francis P. Bonnefoy?”
“What does the ‘P’ stand for?”
“Pain in my arse.”
Francis gasps and shoves him. Arthur is hardly dissuaded, breaking out into self-satisfied laughter as he stumbles briefly into the street and bounces back onto the pavement, grinning like a madman.
“You horrible little man. That’s not funny.” Francis whines.
“Come on, it’s a little funny.”
Francis sniffs and nearly smacks Arthur in the face with his hair when he turns away. “Even so, you have offended me, and thus we will have to go with Bonnefoy-Kirkland to right this wrong.”
“Kirkland-Bonnefoy.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
Stone turns to grass as they crest the corner and take a shortcut through the park. Arthur makes a mental note to visit here sometime with a good book when it’s a tad warmer and Francis is occupied with work like earlier this week.
“You could always take my last name.” He says, sidestepping a muddy patch.
“Francis Kirkland?” His face looks as if he’s just been told potage will be served at the next UN council, “I would sooner die than be mistaken for an Englishman.”
Arthur goes to elbow him in the ribs and is evaded, grass squeaking under Francis’ shoes as he dances away down the path worn through by hundreds of short-cut seeking shoes.
“Much better than Arthur Bonnefoy.”
“You just have to be more French about it. Arthur Bonnefoy .” Francis purrs, and Arthur’s cheeks heat up.
“I see. À la française then?”
“Toujours.”
Separate from the weak orange streetlamps, Francis wiggles his fingers in invitation, crowing when Arthur rolls his eyes and accepts his proffered hand, swinging them together in the space between their sides.
“If we can’t agree on this, what will we do about the wedding?” Francis asks when they cross the narrow side street to the back entrance of his apartment building. Arthur is too busy looking for any cars and their perhaps too speedy French drivers to respond at first, leaving Francis to pull his keys from his back pocket one-handed.
“Argue about it like we do everything else, I suppose.” He says finally, content with the lack of people around. “Isn’t that s’pposed to be the fun part?”
The door opens with a grating that proves his landlord still hasn’t oiled it. Francis yanks Arthur in and pecks him on the lips the second they’re hidden from the outside. “As long as you don’t insist on anything red.”
Arthur smiles into the kiss, then mock-frowns - not nearly as deeply as he normally would. “I happen to like that colour.”
“Not at our wedding you don’t.”
Our. It’s a word that Arthur still can’t believe he’s hearing, no matter how many times Francis loves to say it and says it all the more because he knows Arthur loves hearing him say it.
It’s late at night though, and right now it feels as if they have all the time in the world, so he lets Francis loop their arms together as they go up the stairs and makes a promise. For himself, for Francis. For their forever.