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Anthony speaks English.
He knows it, he speaks it, he understands it.
He could spell a word faster than you can think it, his pronunciation is flawless, you'd never even guess that it's his second language.
But he thinks in French, he breathes in French and he feels in French.
Oh, does he feel in French.
peine d'amour
(heartbreak)
Sometimes, Anthony can't control his mouth.
But that's okay, because if it's raw and uncontrolled, it's probably French.
Ian doesn't speak French.
Well, he knows phrases and swear words here and there because he's been around Anthony so long, but most times he'll just stare blankly at Anthony and request a translation.
(If Anthony translates it, he's probably lying.)
one.
"Vous êtes si belle.”
It slips through his lips like a breathless laugh on a summer night, and he instantly regrets it, even if he knows that he'd said it too fast for Ian to even begin to pick up the meaning of what he'd said.
"English?" His lips crack a smile and Anthony's ribs crack in his chest, praying for the feelings to not pour out like his word salad that means so much to him, yet so little to his best friend.
"I said you're a nerd."
(He didn't.)
"Fuck you, you're a nerd." Ian's mouth is full of off-brand Ramen noodles but he meant every syllable of what he said, he's still beautiful and the flickering light bulb in the room just barely illuminates the freckles on his nose.
"Shut up and eat your food," And if Anthony's voice stutters, it's nobody's business but his own if his hands shake so much that he can barely hold his fork straight.
(If Ian notices, he doesn't say anything.)
two.
"Tu as attendu? Il pleut, stupide!"
Maybe it's harsh and would've been to someone else, but Ian knows that tone and just cracks a smile, even though rain is dripping off his nose and off his hair and he's damn soaked through.
He waited, in the rain, for five minutes and there was a sudden downpour but Ian said he'd wait-
And he did.
"The only thing I got from that was 'stupide'," Ian mocks his accent but Anthony takes it in stride because how could he not, when all he wants to do is grab Ian by the waist and be cheesy and kiss him in the rain and wrap his jacket around him-
But he couldn't. He wouldn't.
So he shoves his jacket into Ian's arms and he grins anyways, and Anthony wonders what he did to deserve this idiot, this stupid motherfucker, this dumbass, this-
Trésor.
(He is a treasure, when Anthony thinks about it. He's rubies and golden chains and all the coins in the world.)
three.
Over time, Anthony finds himself using French as a means to state how he feels without letting anyone actually know what he means.
Sometimes, it's an "Ian, tais-toi!"
But other times, it's more like-
"Je suis si heureux je vous ai rencontré."
It's spoken quietly into the night, during a sitcom marathon and there are stray pizza boxes and water bottles around the room and Ian's half asleep but his mouth tilts up and Anthony feels like the Grinch with how much his heart swells. He feels warm inside, despite how cold it is inside the dorm room, because Ian is always complaining about the heat.
(Besides, Ian's worth freezing for.)
four.
"I am so going to fail this fucking exam." Ian's panicking, pacing across the room, back and forth like clockwork.
"You won't," Anthony says, and it's true. Ian is absolutely brilliant. He could do the freakin' exam in his sleep, but he worries and worries and Anthony just wants to take it away from him.
"What if I do, though? What if I fail and what If I have to retake calculus and everyone will think I'm an idiot? I'll fail then I'll fail it again and I'll be kicked out of college and I'll be homeless and stupid and alone-"
(He's rambling again. He's stressed and word salad is being metaphorically tossed all over the room and he feels like such a shitty friend because half of his brain is thinking about how to help Ian and half of his brain is thinking about how sinful he looks in those tight jeans.)
"It'll be fine, mon coeur. You know it will, you're smart as fuck!" Anthony exclaims, and the pet name in his mother tongue slips out but Ian is too strung-out to even pick up that was, in fact, not English.
five.
" Tu me fais tellement heureux."
This time, it's in the middle of physics because the two of them were both idiots in high school and since it wasn't required for graduation, they skipped out on it for the senior release fourth period.
"Is that French for 'Acceleration is the rate at which velocity changes?'" Ian looks amused, and man, is Anthony glad Ian took Spanish instead of French this semester.
"Wow, after eight years of knowing me, you're finally learning French!" Anthony entertains him, his heart strings are yanked on viciously rather than tugged when Ian tried to look disgruntled but he only looks like a puppy who isn't allowed on the couch.
"Oui," Ian says, in the most American way possible, and Anthony wishes he could hate how Ian manages to butcher his beautiful native language with a single syllable.
(But he doesn't.)
six.
There are many reasons Anthony doesn't get drunk.
One, he hates the taste of alcohol. It's bitter and the only bearable way to drink it is in a fruity mixed drink. You know, the ones he sees shared on facebook with the
(He loves those.)
Two, he is absolutely a lightweight and always overestimates the amount of Bloody Mary's he can drink without being completely and totally incoherent.
There's definitely a third, but Anthony can't remember it right now. He's rambling to Ian, who's seated on the couch.
Anthony had been invited to a party and since Ian doesn't really do parties, he declined to be Anthony's plus one, so Ian took Mari.
(Unfortunately, Mari is more of a lightweight than Anthony is.)
But thank God for Joven, being responsible and calling Ian to get Anthony.
Internally, Anthony knew what he was saying probably made little to no sense to Ian, but that didn't mean his mouth would stop spewing Frenglish.
"Your yeux are like un lac." Anthony smiles, booping Ian on the nose, and the latter just rolls his eyes, Anthony too intoxicated to recognize the fondness masked by faux-annoyance.
"Yeah, man, you too," Ian says, seemingly at a complete loss of what the fuck he even means.
"Je souhaite que nous étions mariés."
(In the morning, Anthony refuses to tell him what that means.)
seven.
"Hé, c'est le mien!"
Ian had grabbed the remote from his hand at a moment of inattentiveness, and sometimes shouting in French was just a reflex of Anthony's.
"Your mom goes to college!" Ian yells back, fighting back a smile at the confused recognition on Anthony's face.
(He'll never understand how Ian manages to make quoting Napoleon Dynamite cute.)
"Did you just quote Napoleon Dynamite at me, dude?" Anthony says harshly, but Ian already knows the gleam in his eyes means he's pretending.
"Maybe," Ian teases, and he has one eyebrow delicately quirked up questioningly and Anthony can only think about how beautiful he is and it's becoming increasingly difficult for him to pretend he doesn't notice how his stomach is flip-flopping like a tilt-a-whirl or how he feels like his ribcage shrinks a little bit with every goddamn second that goes by
Anthony grabs it, gloating in his victory for a fraction of a second too long, and does Ian use that fraction of a second.
Ian leaps onto him without a semblance of grace, and Anthony is fighting every muscle in his body to not tense up at the proximity and he can feel Ian's breath on his neck and-
"Got it," Ian says, triumphantly, standing up and changing the channel while Anthony lays there dumbfounded.
(Sometimes, he wonders if Ian knows.)
eight.
Concerts were some of Ian's favorite things and if the local radio station was giving away two tickets to Ian's favorite band, how could Anthony not resist calling in?
But, um, he hadn't expected to win.
So, naturally, he kept it a secret and told Ian a week before it.
It wasn't even ceremoniously, he'd shoved the tickets in his hands with a weak "Surprise!"
Any awkwardness was completely thrown in the trash and promptly composted when Ian threw his arms around Anthony, and Anthony could only try to say you're welcome and not focus on the sweet scent that Ian emitted.
He might've forgotten how close he'd actually be to Ian.
But damn, he was so happy and smiling and singing to every word and maybe Anthony does like this band and does know the song, but he can't help but stare at Ian in his element.
He's so carefree and he's pressed into Anthony because of the crowd and he's so pretty.
Ian's hand fumbles, looking for Anthony's and Anthony just smiles and slips his into Ian's. It's standard concert protocol so they don't get separated, they learned that the hard way.
"Je suis ici!" Anthony yells over the music, and Ian doesn't even turn around, but he knows he heard him.
"Est il ton petit ami?" Someone Anthony recognizes but doesn't know the name of practically screams to be heard over the thumping bass. He's a French exchange student, he remembers that much.
"Oh, non, il est juste mon meilleur ami." Anthony frantically tries to explain, Ian now turned around and looking at the stranger with confusion.
"Je Suis très sûr." Is all he says, though he winks as he finishes his sentence and turns around, Ian looking very confused.
"What was that?"
"He just asked if I was French."
Anthony vaguely hears the guy giggling at that.
(He's really glad Ian doesn't understand.)
(...one)
They're sitting on the roof in the pale moonlight, and it just reflects off of Ian in the best way. He looks ethereal, wearing that stupidly cute gray cardigan and he leans over to Anthony's side, and the taller man has to close his eyes and take a deep breath.
Every time there's a meteor shower, Anthony is dragged up to the campus roof after hours.
"Do you think stars know that they're stars?" Ian offhandedly questions and the question is so typically Ian that Anthony can't help but snort.
"I mean, they're not exactly sentient..."
"You don't know that!" Ian shoots back, oddly defensive for talking about stars, except that it's not odd at all for him.
And maybe he doesn't know that, but maybe he does understand Ian's fascination with space because right now he swears he sees stars in his eyes and nebulae in his smile and galaxies in the way his lips lift up and there are comets in the way the wind sifts through his hair.
"I saw one!" Ian says, and it's hushed, like he's scared he's gonna scare the stars away.
"Shit, I missed it," Anthony says, and though he's not as enthusiastic, he still wants to see one.
Ian is silent, but he's pointing at the sky and Anthony can't not listen to him when he's so happy about the stupid night sky above him.
There's a bright streak through the sky, and it leaves a brilliant trail behind, slowly fizzling away. Anthony definitely saw it that time.
"Make a wish," Ian whispers, more to himself than anything.
"Je souhaiterais pouvoir t'embrasser." Anthony blurts out, before remembering if he says it out loud, it won't come true.
He looks at the moon and the small specks of light. He wonders if there's something written in the stars in a language he doesn't speak, telling him things he's never meant to know until after. He doesn't know how he feels about fate.
"Anthony," Ian says, quietly, nudging him to get his attention.
"Huh?"
"Tu veux m'embrasser?" Ian asks, and it's halfway mispronounced and he stumbles every other syllable, but Anthony understands it, nonetheless.
"Uh," Anthony says, because he doesn't know where this is going. He doesn't know why Ian is speaking French, did he understand what he said?
"Did... you understand what I said?" Anthony says, and it's weak and shaky, but it's exactly how he feels in that moment. Adrenaline surges up through his veins in the worst way, prickling in fear. He backs away from Ian, slowly, as not to scare him.
"Oui." He says, and he's smiling, but Anthony doesn't get it. Is there some kind of joke he's not getting? Why would he smile about his best friend telling him he wants to kiss him? How long has he been... presumably learning French? Why would he do that? He has so many questions but the fight or flight instinct is just too strong to resist right now.
"Pardon, I'll just... go," Anthony mumbles, and he's not gonna cry because he doesn't do that, he's so embarrassed and his face is bright red.
Ian grabs his arm and if he doesn't leave now, he's not gonna be able to hold himself together anymore.
"Where do you think you're going?" Ian sounds... Anthony can't quite make out how he sounds, quite frankly, because the blood in his head is just positively roaring.
Anthony shakes his head because he can't think right now, much less talk.
"Turn the fuck around and come here," Ian says, tugging on his wrist, and Anthony knows there is no choice for him.
Anthony turns around to face him, refusing to meet his eyes because the thing he thought he'd been so cleverly hiding... isn't so hidden anymore.
"Anthony, look at me," Ian says softly, and it's a pleading tone that makes the taller man's head snap up in an instant.
He's getting closer and closer and Anthony can't breathe and his chest is caving in and voices in his head simultaneously chant go away and please come closer.
His head is a hurricane of what the fuck but he's rooted to the spot, he's frozen.
"Maybe I wanted to kiss you, too," Ian says, so quietly he's questioning whether or not he heard him correctly because there is no way in hell he heard that right. This doesn't happen to Anthony. He's dreaming and any minute he's gonna wake up-
(But he doesn't. He's here and he's awake.)
Soft, softer lips than he could've ever imagined are on his.
Anthony's body reacts before his brain, winding his arms around Ian and grabbing his back, fisting a hand in the back of his sweater and letting the other one trail up to rest on the nape of his neck.
Holy shit Holy shit holyshitholyshit.
Ian slides his hands up his chest and fuck, this can't be real. This can't be happening.
Ian tastes so nice and he's so soft and pliant and he's grabbing onto Anthony to make sure he doesn't leave and goddamn, there's no way Anthony's leaving.
Anthony is dreading the moment Ian pulls away because he is terrified he's gonna regret this, or worse, never bring it up again and that will be the end of it and he knows that will fuck him up so much more. Now that he's had Ian pressed so close to him that he can feel his heartbeat and felt his eyelashes on his cheek he can't go back.
Instead, Ian just smiles.
"Fuckin' took you long enough," he says, but there's no malice anywhere to be found in his voice. He's aglow with happiness and Anthony's insides are melting and slipping into a puddle onto the floor right about now.
"I love you," Anthony blurts out, and it sounds a little desperate and rushed.
(Probably because that's exactly what it is.)
"Tell me that again, but say it in French," Ian says, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer, so close that if you asked Anthony about this moment, he'd tell you there was a meteor shower outside but the only one he cared about was the one in Ian's eyes.
He's flirting, Anthony realizes.
(And shit, he does it so well.)
"Je t'aime," He whispers, the cold air catching his breath in its grasp but it doesn't matter because warmth is flooding through him, starting at his fingertips and flowing all the way to his toes.
Ian's lips tilt up in a lopsided grin.
"I love you, too. I'd tell you in French, but you're really interrupting my brain functioning," he huffs out a laugh into the night.
Anthony can't keep himself from taking the shorter man's face in his palms and kissing him hard. Ian hums deep in his throat, content and this is what Anthony's been looking for all this time, this is why it's never worked with anyone else. He doesn't understand why it took the both of them so long, but he does understand that is was so, so worth the wait.
He hates to stop this, he really does. But oxygen is something he needs and there's no anxiety in the pit of his stomach, he knows it's not the last time.
"I've wanted to kiss you for so fucking long," Anthony mumbles just loud enough for the other man to hear, and he surprises himself by saying it in English.
(There are no feelings for him try to mask with his mother tongue. No foreign words to hide behind, just the truth.)
Actions are worth a thousand words, people say. It's universal, the way his hand slips into Ian's and how the hand in his squeezes real tight for a second before releasing.
(Words are sometimes unneeded. Anthony realizes this when the look on Ian's face tells him everything he'll ever need to know.)
"Me too," Ian says, just as quietly. It's redundant and they both know that, but it's still somehow nice to hear confirmation.
Anthony learns that though French is what he feels, English is what he knows. He knows that he'll find the words to talk all of this through, soon. He knows he'll memorize the feeling of Ian's hair tickling his neck and he'll memorize the taste of Ian's laughter when he swallows it.
Bonheur
(Happiness)