Work Text:
"The Mona Lisa, also known as La Gioconda, is a painting by Leonardo da Vinci. It was created between 1503 and 1506, or possibly as late as 1517, as the artist died on May 2, 1519. It is a half-length portrait of Lisa Gherardini, a Florentine woman and the wife of Francesco del Giocondo. Acquired most likely by Francis I, this oil painting on a 79 × 53 cm poplar wood panel is one of the few works definitively attributed to Leonardo da Vinci.”
Erza, who had been lost in contemplation of the painting by his favorite artist, turned his head toward the man whose voice rose above the crowd gathered in front of the famous painting. What had caught his attention was the perfect English tinged with a Scottish accent with which the sentence had been spoken. Having been in Paris for only a few weeks, he still struggled with the language.
From where he stood, all he could see was the top of a ginger-haired man’s head, slightly taller than the rest of the crowd. Curious, he weaved his way through the museum visitors to get closer to the owner of that voice.
The man was tall and slender with red hair that seemed to catch the museum’s artificial light. He wore a name tag hanging from a lanyard that read: Anthony Crowley – Guide (English, French, and Italian).
Erza discreetly watched the guide as he continued his explanation. Anthony’s gestures were somewhat theatrical; his long fingers traced shapes in the air as if he were sculpting the story he was telling. To Erza, this demonstrated his passion for the subject. The painter couldn’t deny that the guide exuded a certain magnetism. Erza stayed on the outskirts, following the group at a respectful distance and straining to hear Anthony’s explanations. There was warmth in this man’s voice, a sincere love for the artwork he was trying to convey to the group of tourists he was guiding through the museum’s galleries. There was no doubt that English was his native language, judging by the way he spoke and answered questions from the English tourists. However, Erza had also heard him speak excellent French to his colleague, which made Erza a little jealous as he struggled every day to make himself understood by the workers in his gallery.
The guided tour ended, and Erza watched the guide walk away with a sense of longing. Making the best of a bad situation, he continued exploring on his own. Three hours later, when he left the museum, he decided to treat himself to a cup of tea and a pastry at a tea room before heading home.
Sitting on the tea room’s terrace, having just finished his strawberry crêpe, Erza was still thinking about the handsome tour guide. When the waitress came to clear his plate, he ordered a second cup of Earl Grey and took his sketchbook out of his bag.
Very quickly, his pencil began to dance across the page, guided by a sudden, frantic need to capture the redheaded guide’s features before the memory faded. He sketched the sharpness of Anthony’s profile, the intensity of his gaze, and how his hair danced when he moved. He also added a few sketches of the guide’s long fingers.
After an hour of drawing, he wrote “Louvre, May 13, 2026, Anthony” at the bottom of the page, slipped his museum admission ticket inside, closed his sketchbook, and put it away in his bag.
As always after an intense drawing session, he was in a daze as he left the tea room, his mind still inhabited by the subject of his sketch. He was jostled a bit as he made his way through the dense afternoon crowd on the pedestrian street toward his apartment. It wasn’t until he arrived home that he realized his bag had come open and the sketchbook was missing. It had probably fallen out when he had been bumped into, since nothing else was missing.
After spending an hour retracing his steps, asking the tea room staff if they had seen his sketchbook, and scouring the pedestrian street with no luck, his phone rang in his pocket. Erza grabbed it and, seeing that it was an unknown number, hesitated to answer. By the time he made up his mind, the voicemail had kicked in. He figured that if it were important, the caller would leave a message.
A minute later, he received a notification. He had a new voicemail.
He pressed play on his phone and held it to his ear. "Mr. Fell, this is the reception desk at the Louvre Museum. It’s about your sketchbook. If you could please call us back at this number.”
Erza almost let out a cry of joy and frantically dialed the number.
"Hello, this is Mr. Fell. You called me about my sketchbook.”
"Yes, that's right. We found your sketchbook. It was turned in to Lost and Found thanks to the ticket you left in it. We found information in it that allowed us to identify you.”
After a brief exchange, fortunately, the person he was speaking with spoke excellent English, Erza was on his way to the museum. His steps were light with anticipation at the thought of retrieving his precious notebook.
When he arrived at the front desk, the receptionist pointed him to a secluded area with a few deserted benches and comfortable armchairs at the end of the day.
"Please wait here, sir. The person in charge will bring you your sketchbook.”
A few moments later, a door set slightly back opened, and Erza gasped softly upon seeing the object of half his thoughts that day, the handsome guide, Anthony Crowley. He was holding Erza's well-worn, leather-bound sketchbook.
"Good evening. Is this your sketchbook, Mr. Fell?” the guide asked, standing before him. He had addressed him in English, and his voice was lower and more natural than the theatrical voice he used as a guide. Erza stood up, nodded quickly, and said, "Yes, that’s it! Thank you! Thank you!”
Erza was about to grab the notebook that had been extended to him when Anthony moved it out of his reach with a teasing smile and said softly, “You’re really talented, but I have to say, it’s a little unsettling to be the subject of such close scrutiny.”
Erza felt heat rise from the nape of his neck to his hairline, spreading across his cheeks. Of course, the guide had seen those pages; that's where he'd found the ticket that led him to information about Erza.
"I...I'm sorry," Erza stammered. "It's a habit. If I see something that catches the light, I have to draw it.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow and asked, "So I caught the light?"
Erza’s thoughts were racing. He could lie. He could talk about the play of light on Anthony’s chiseled features or the aesthetics of his silhouette. That was the painter’s answer. The safe answer. To leave it at that.
Then, Erza remembered his old drawing teacher's voice when he was stuck in front of a painting he couldn’t seem to finish: “When the situation seems impossible, dig deeper and paint as if you could finish your work.”
Feeling emboldened, Erza replied, "No, that's not why. I lied. I only draw what I find beautiful,” he said, his voice suddenly gaining confidence. “And I found you beautiful. Besides, it's nice to have a fellow countryman in a foreign city that seems so vast. For a while, I didn’t feel alone. Thanks to you, I felt at home at the museum for a few hours. I wanted to sketch that so I could remember it when I look at these drawings of you.”
After a moment of silence, Anthony took half a step forward and replied softly, "That's sweet of you, Erza. I haven’t been in Paris very long either, and I haven’t met many people since I arrived. I know exactly what it’s like to feel alone in this huge city."
The guide held out his hand to Erza. "Nice to meet you. I'm Anthony." Then, he winked and added, "How about we spend some time being alone together?"
Erza took his hand and said softly, "Nice to meet you. I'm Erza."
Neither of them pulled their hands away. They stood there, hand in hand, at the reception desk, under the watchful, smiling gaze of the security guards.
"My shift is over," Anthony said gently as he brushed his thumb against the back of Erza's hand. "Would you like to have dinner with me? I know a place that serves tea that doesn't insult English tradition."
Erza laughed, a sincere, spontaneous laugh that surprised even him, and replied softly, "I'd love to, Anthony."
They walked out of the museum side by side and unhurriedly. The conversation flowed easily between them.
Erza thought of the sketchbook in his pocket. He had the feeling the pages would soon be filled not only with works of art and inspiring subjects, but also with the quiet, intimate beauty of a life beginning to take shape.
For the first time since packing his bags and leaving home, Erza no longer felt like a stranger.
He felt as though he had finally found his place.