Work Text:
"That'll be 4 pounds, thaaaaaank you -oh how's your wife by the way?"
The bookshop owner got into yet another conversation with one of the clients, and Tommy's nervosity kept getting worse.
He had started by drumming lightly against the cover of the dictionary he was holding, and now he was also bouncing from one foot to another, trying to calculate when it would be his turn.
So far, every conversation had lasted no longer than three minutes, but considering there were more than half a dozen people in the shop, and he was the last in line, it felt like an eternity.
It was almost eight o'clock, which meant it was almost time for the bookshop to close, and almost time for Philippe to come home and find it empty.
They both found jobs after it ended -and by 'it', they meant pretty much everything-. Philippe was working in this tiny flowershop, with a french name and a dutch owner and colourful tulips. Tommy was working in a car factory, smellt like oil all the time.
And Philippe's work always ended after Tommy's, and now he was probably going to wonder where he was, all because Tommy had forgotten to notify him.
Great. Just great.
"Young man?"
He got back to reality with the bookshop owner's high pitched voice and kind smile, and he realized the other clients were gone.
He quickly moved towards her, showed the dictionary.
"Alright", she said.
She glanced at his neck, and he remembered the identification tags he still had as a necklace.
"Rough years?", she said, in such a gentle way it surprised him.
"Kinda", he replied.
"Learning french?"
He shrugged.
"Kinda."
She gave him a reassuring smile, and pat his hand lightly.
"That'll be two pounds, darling."
He paid, and left as quickly as he could, with her cheerful "good night!", as he walked out.
Once outside, he started running, checked his watch. Shit. Philippe should've already been home by now.
He got a few remarks from people outside, protests as he accidentally bumped into passerbys. He had to go home fast. The dictionary was heavy.
At the thought of it, of maybe being able to exchange a few words with Philippe, of hearing his voice again -well that was dramatic: he did hear his voice sometimes, just not full on sentences, and Philippe only ever spoke when he was nervous or angry so it's not like he talked all that much-, he almost slowed down, feeling so ridiculously happy, bubbles in his chest and hands shaking slightly, before remembering Philippe was probably waiting for him.
Finally, he recognized their street, their house.
The door was closed, but not locked.
He opened it abruptly, was met with the familiar smell and warmth that seemed to always surround Philippe.
Philippe who had apparently gone to the door right when he arrived, and was now looking, surprised, at a breathless Tommy, who had almost fell into his arms.
He looked so confused it amused Tommy, as he tried to catch his breath, but then Philippe tilted his head and his heartbeat went up again.
He looked breath-taking, as usual, with some clothes Tommy could no longer tell which of them owned, and the smell of flowers clinging to him. Curly hair and questionning eyes, dry lips and features he knew by heart.
"Dictionary", said Tommy, once he had stopped panting.
Philippe raised an eyebrow, but followed him, after closing the door.
They got in the kitchen, at the table, and Philippe brought his chair closer to Tommy's.
Their table was always filled with newspapers and notebooks and pencils, and Tommy grabbed a paper and something to write with.
"I don't know what to ask you", he admitted. "It's a bilingual dictionary, that means... wait."
He started flipping through the pages, Philippe looking at him expectantly.
Finally, he stopped, wrote down the word.
"Bonjour", he wrote.
He glanced at Philippe, whose lips slightly stretched upwards.
"Bonjour", replied Philippe, his voice a bit odd from not speaking for so long.
Tommy got back to the dictionary, tried to make a sentence.
"Je vouloir de parler à tu", he managed to write.
"Je... ça veux rien dire", snorted Philippe.
Tommy frowned, not understanding.
Philippe moved closer to him, started going through the dictionary quickly, wrote a word down.
"Hello", it said.
"Hi", said Tommy, and he grinned too.
"Your sentence being bad", added Philippe.
"Yours too", chuckled Tommy. "Wait, I'll try again."
Neither could conjugate in the other's language, and the words were all written in a strange order, but Tommy thought they might get the hang of it quickly, as Philippe tried to repeat whatever he had written down -'you, your smile? Your smile? Je like? J'aime ton, tu comprends ce que je dis? Smile?'.
The dictionary had full sentences to use, the most common phrases; they tried hesistant "how are you", "je suis anglais", "my name is philippe", "quelle heure est-il" before snickering, because they never needed words anyways.
But the dictionary was there.
And when Tommy woke up to find a piece of paper, folded in two, on his nightstand, and he opened it to find the words "i love you" in a messy handwriting, he decided that it was worth it.