Chapter Text
London’s winter chill and deluge of rain were exceptionally more severe than anything Francis Bonnefoy had expected. Coming from the far south of France, he wasn’t quite used to below freezing.
Although the most important question was definitely why he had even come here in the first place, Francis set his mind to wondering where he’d find shelter instead.
It had gotten remarkably late in the time he spent searching for the cheap hostel he had booked (and getting lost). The lights in most establishments were off, filling Francis with something close to desperation.
Just when he was starting to consider looking for a box to sleep in, He noticed a gentle light coming from the cafe ahead of him.
Without catching its name, he pushed open the door and was promptly greeted with a comforting warmth and… hard rock music.
Somewhat stunned by the whiplash, Francis stood in the entrance of the small coffee shop, dripping rainwater onto the wooden floor.
A man with short, golden blond hair who looked about his age, standing behind the counter, suddenly whipped around and glared at him. His face was a little flushed.
“How long are you going to stand there? You’re getting water everywhere,” The man said impatiently.
“Oh putain! I’m sor-" Francis snorted as he locked eyes with the man. His pale face was small and rounded, adorned with the wildest eyebrows Francis had ever seen.
The object of Francis’s mirth scowled, and to Francis’s further amusement, he looked a little like a rabbit. “What.”
“Your.. your eyebrows!” He blurted out between cackles.
As if he were holding himself back from something, the man clenched his jaw and turned on his heel toward a door leading to (presumably) a staff room.
“Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment,” He said with enough bite to at least somewhat quiet Francis’s snickering, if not pique his interest even more.
Francis took his suggestion—or rather command—and chose a bar stool to get comfortable on. He set his heavy messenger bag on the stool next to him.
He took the opportunity to get a better look at his surroundings. The inside, just like the outside, was small but inviting. He noticed on his hasty way inside that it was sandwiched between two other small buildings.
Cream colored walls surrounded the cozy interior. Wooden chairs facing small round tables were placed against the wall opposite him in pairs, each table decorated with freshly cut flowers in a vase.
Behind the counter Francis was sitting at were shelves of jars filled with coffee beans and bottles of syrups. There wasn’t much space to move around, but Francis was the only customer, and the man seemed to be the only one on shift.
The smell of coffee was so potent, Francis was sure he would have smelled it from down the street had the door been open.
While he took in the cafe's atmosphere, the speakers suddenly cut off, switching from rock to light jazz. An arguably more fitting choice for the quaint shop.
After a few more moments of waiting, a jaded-looking barista emerged from the staff room holding two fluffy towels, once again shooting daggers at Francis with his eyes.
“Here. Dry yourself off,” he said, extending one of the towels to him.
Francis did as he was told while the man moved to start sopping up the puddle Francis created on his way in, muttering angrily about how he ‘just mopped’.
“Arthur,” Francis began, “Can I order something?”
Arthur whipped around for the second time. Francis was starting to wonder if he’d give himself a headache.
“How do you- oh, right. The nametag,” He said gruffly. “And give me a second, would you? I’m still cleaning up your mess.”
Francis watched him the whole time, indignantly running the soaked-through towel back and forth through the puddle, not making much progress.
After a few moments of second-hand embarrassment, Francis relented, getting down onto his knees and laying his own towel into the puddle.
Arthur opened his mouth as if about to say something like ‘I don’t need help from you,’ but shut it when the second towel soaked up the rest of the water.
“What can I get you?” Arthur hissed as he stood, his voice still dripping with the sarcasm every other word from him contained.
Francis put a finger to his lips and hummed, completely ignoring the man’s tone. “Hmm, what’s your favorite drink to make?”
“Water. It’s pretty easy to pour water into a cup.”
The wavy-haired man frowned. “I’ll get hot chocolate.. please.”
“Great,” Arthur snarked as he made his way behind the counter and got busy with his back turned to Francis.
“Sooo…” Francis began, grasping for a way to continue their interaction. He could sense Arthur rolling his eyes. “Do you live around here?”
“I do,” Arthur replied, “Do you?” He shot back, accusatively.
“I’m from France. I arrived in London this morning, actually,”
Arthur quirked an eyebrow. “Why did you come here?” He snorted.
Francis hesitated. “I’m... I’m not too sure, actually. I guess I was just looking for a change. Since I speak the language—my mother taught me English—and it’s close enough to France, it just... seemed like somewhere I might find inspiration.”
The barista paused after listening to Francis ramble, slightly put off by his sudden sincerity. “Inspiration?” He echoed.
“I’m an artist,” He clarified.
“Ah,” Arthur replied sardonically. He looked at Francis almost pityingly. “Are you staying with family?”
“Non, my family is all back in France. I booked a hostel to stay at, but I had some trouble finding it. Do you know the directions to-”
“Wait, a hostel?” Arthur blurted out in the most genuine emotional display Francis had seen from him thus far.
“Yes? It’s all I can afford at the moment.”
“No…” Arthur said, now facing Francis at the counter, “No, you don’t want to stay at one of those. They’re not safe… especially not for someone like you.”
Before Francis could fully register the shock he was experiencing at Arthur’s concern for him, he said something that shocked him even more.
“If you really have nowhere else to stay,” Arthur paused, sighing deeply. He placed a mug of hot chocolate in front of Francis. “I guess you could… maybe… stay at my place for tonight.” Although he looked like he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, he didn’t take them back.
Francis watched the steam rise out of the mug and curl in the air. He then glanced towards the windows at the front of the cafe. It was pitch black outside. Probably past 8 PM by now.
Under any regular circumstances, Francis would immediately turn down such an offer. However, his circumstances were not exactly regular.
Between staying at a public hostel with strangers he’s never met and staying at a house with a stranger he’s kind of met, there seemed to be a clear choice. (Though neither were exactly ideal, Francis would take what he could get.)
“Well, it’s hard to refuse when you ask so eagerly,” Francis teased.
Arthur was going to regret this.
ꕤ ꕤ ꕤ
Francis’s mug of hot chocolate was half empty by the time they came to a conclusion about his temporary residency: he would sleep on the couch tonight and leave in the morning to find a cheap-enough hotel.
What followed their discussion was an almost uncomfortable silence in which Arthur finished cleaning up the store, and Francis finished his drink.
“Do you like rock music?” Francis asked suddenly, making Arthur jump as he restocked cups.
“..Why?”
“You were playing rock music when I came in.”
“We don’t get a lot of customers this late. I usually get to play whatever I want when I close.”
“Hmm,” Francis hummed, “I think the jazz is better.” He said matter-of-factly.
He expected Arthur to send him a hot-tempered remark, but he simply turned to him with a half-hearted glare and let out a yawn.
Francis then noticed the dark circles under his eyes. As he stared longer, the man’s exhaustion became increasingly apparent to him.
‘Maybe that’s why he’s so short-tempered,’ he thought as he smirked to himself.
He brushed the thought aside, however, as he placed the empty mug down, and Arthur took it from him and washed it swiftly.
When Arthur finished, he retrieved a small backpack from the staff room and fished out a ring of keys.
“I’m about done closing up. Get your stuff, and we’ll go.”
“I have everything,” Francis gestured to the bag he placed on the stool next to him.
Arthur paused with his hand on the light switch. “That’s it? That’s everything you brought with you from France?”
“Oui, I prefer to travel light,” He answered, as if that was an excuse for his singular bag.
In his defense, the bag was stuffed to the brim with belongings—mostly clothes and art supplies—but there was no way he could’ve fit all the items one would need when travelling abroad, especially for an extended period of time.
Arthur gave him an incredulous look but shrugged and motioned for Francis to follow him as he flicked off the lights and opened the door, flipping the sign to ‘closed’.
The walk from the cafe to Arthur’s apartment building was somewhat brief. Francis was surprised at how the young, shabby-looking barista could afford to live in the heart of London.
He pondered over various explanations for the man’s alleged wealth in his head as they walked together in silence.
As Arthur came to a stop in front of a tall building, he awkwardly turned to face Francis, as if suddenly remembering something.
“Um, maybe it’s a bit late for introductions, but I still don’t know your name.”
After a short pause of realization, the wavy-haired man chuckled and properly introduced himself. “My name is Francis,” He grinned.
ꕤ ꕤ ꕤ
After being ushered inside the small, homey apartment and told insistently to keep quiet, Francis was given a blanket and a pillow and left to his own devices in the living room of Arthur's oddly lived-in home.
Looking around the perimeter of the room, Francis could barely make out through the darkness clothes—that, oddly enough, didn’t look his size whatsoever— scattered around the floor along with other general clutter.
‘I didn’t take him for the messy type,’ he thought to himself, ‘he comes off more like a fervid neat freak.’
Without giving it much more thought, Francis dropped onto the sofa and draped the blanket over himself.
Perhaps it was the jetlag, or the low hum of the heater, or maybe even the strange sense of long-lost contentment Francis felt in that moment that lulled him to sleep so quickly.
But either way, morning came without warning, and soon, the sporadic clattering of pans against metal and coinciding voices filled his senses.
As well as the smell of something burning.
Francis opened his eyes to find a big, blue pair staring back.