AN:

Heyyyyy folks welcome back! This is the sequel to What About the Children? but you don't really have to have read that one to read this. A warning for those that did read the prequel though: This one's going to deal with heavier themes than the last story. I won't say the last one was light, but this is a more adult story that will deal with (as the tags mention), both internal and external homophobia typical of the time, themes of depression and general struggles of a young person trying to figure life out. If that's not your cup of tea, you have been forewarned! And now-on with the show.

When Arthur J. Kirkland was 20 years old, he decided to go to Paris. Why he chose Paris was unfathomable to the friends and family he informed of this abrupt decision, but to him, it seemed the only suitable place to work through the shadowy malaise gripping his brain.

He had reached an age where he was meant to know what he wanted to do with his life, and in absence of that, be prepared to follow in his father's footsteps. Two of his older siblings were married already, and Daffyd had been working the same job for three years now. Arthur had quit his position in the same brewery two weeks ago, in preparation for his trip. If it would be there when he got back, he didn't know.

The thing was, Arthur had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, and although he had been of a young age when the war ended, he felt as mired in its bog as his father, with his missing half a leg, and the others who had fought in it. Every conversation still seemed to swing back around to the war, as if it hadn't been six years since its end. Six years! Every time he thought of it, he was shocked anew. It had now been longer since the end of the war than it had lasted, at least for Britain. Everyone was still picking up the worse-for-wear bits of their lives and trying to reconstruct them into something manageable, Arthur no less.

But the wretched business of it was that he couldn't put a name to the foot-dragging unease in his heart. He hated that—it was a feeling he couldn't even understand, let alone explain. His father had sat him down for a talk after he quit his job, and he had utterly failed to give an accurate explanation of why he had done it.

"I know you're young," Mr. Kirkland had grunted, seated at the table with his knees a few miles apart, balancing himself with a beefy forearm on the table. "But you won't be forever, son. You need to think about your future."

"I am thinking about my future," Arthur said. He was thinking it was a big, blank void right now, and he had no idea how to fill it.

"You're going to have to work," Dad said. "Mum n' I can't support you forever."

"I know." Mr. Kirkland had heaved a sigh and reached for the pint on the table to take a drink. Arthur's sat uncharacteristically full in front of him.

"Why'd you do it then? The bewery's a good job, you n' Daffyd can go in together…" He paused, giving Arthur the chance to leap in with an explanation, but none was forthcoming. So he went on. "I hope you're not setting yourself up for disappointment is all, Art."

Arthur had never liked that nickname, but Dad wasn't available for criticism from his neophyte son.

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked, his jaw stiffening, an edge in his tone. Dad also wasn't available for "tones" taken by his children, but Arthur's control over his temper had not benefited in the slightest from his aging.

"I don't know what's going on in that head of yours," Dad said. "I never have. I know you're a hard worker, but…there's only so much can be in your future. You're not going to become a wealthy man, Art. And it's no good to turn your nose up at a job like the brewery. It's good, honest work."

"Just because I've made one choice you don't agree with doesn't mean my whole life is about to go down the shitter," Arthur replied, reaching out to grip his pint.

"Don't take that tone with me," Dad warned. "You're a man now, it's time you started behaving like one. Your mum isn't going to coddle you and find your temper tantrums charming for the rest of your life."

"I just need to go, dad," he said, squeezing the handle of the mug. He wanted to explain why he was doing it, but now dad had riled him all up and he was forgetting that he had intended to offer explanation. "It's…I feel…it's just necessary. I need to…figure some things out."

Dad grunted and looked unimpressed, like Arthur was some muddled protagonist of a Romantic novel, beset by hysterical unrest with no root cause. Dad didn't think much of novels. Arthur's face colored, and he took a long drink.

"Well you best figure it out quick," Mr. Kirkland said at length. "Paris ain't cheap."

Arthur was not a man (or a boy, depending on the attitude of the adult speaking to him) of hasty, uninformed decisions. Thus he decided it must be a mark of his upset that he arrived in Paris with only the vaguest notion of where he was going. He had been told (by Englishmen) that Montmartre would be his best chance at a cheap hotel, but he had none in mind as he carted his valise through the cobbled avenues. It was a relatively small bag, dark brown with a big, forest green patch on one side, and withered leather handles. He hadn't packed very much.

The other thing he hadn't considered was that he spoke no French (excepting basics like "Where's the toilet?" and "My name is…" and "Fuck your mother"). His education had been somewhat piecemeal, having been evacuated to Scotland near the start of the war, and then later to America, only to return to England shortly before his final years of school.

The French were not interested in expanding Arthur's knowledge.

No one bothered to give him directions to anything once they realized he didn't speak French, and his arms were becoming weary of carrying the bag everywhere. He stopped at a café to have a cup of tea and a rest, which he at least managed, but he came across another problem—his money supply. First of all, he had to change some of his pounds to francs. Secondly, he didn't have very much of either. Growing more irritated with himself by the minute, he slapped down the money for a cup of black tea anyway, and glared at the passers-by while stirring a teaspoon and a half of sugar into his tea.

Then, lo—an angel. Okay, not quite. The sound of English. English being spoken by someone who had a grasp on the sound of an H (eg. Someone who was not French). Arthur turned, and saw a young man chatting up a pair of girls, who Arthur couldn't have said understood a word the man was saying. Deciding this was his only chance to get some directions, Arthur girded his loins and butted into the conversation.

"Are you from North Carolina?" he asked, recognizing the accent only because of the time he had spent living with an American family there. Alfred had talked so much Arthur didn't think he'd forget that accent for the rest of his life.

The man's brow lifted in surprise. "Yeah, how'd you know?"

"I've been there," Arthur said dismissively. "Do you live here?"

"Now I do," he said, flashing an easy grin and leaning back in his seat. "They threw such a party at the end of the war I decided never to go home. Besides, you'll never find prettier ladies than in Paris!" The dark-skinned woman to his left showed a cheeky smile and helped herself to a macaron from their plate.

"Right." Arthur could not have cared less. "Do you know how to get to Montmartre from here?"

"It's a bit of a walk, but yeah," the man said. "Looking for something in particular?"

"No. Just need to get there." The American blinked, and Arthur sensed the man found him rude, but he was too impatient to care. The directions were rambling and Arthur frantically tried to memorize the details that sounded important, but he was only ten minutes out from the café when he realized he had no more luck of finding Montmartre now than he did before talking to the man.

"I could get a cab," he acknowledged, seating himself on a bench by the Seine. But he didn't know how much it would cost, so he wouldn't know how many pounds to change, and he was loathe to waste some of his allowance just getting to the right neighborhood. "I can find it," he insisted, getting up.

It was late afternoon, and the growing shadows made it increasingly difficult to see the map he had purchased at a more expensive hotel he had no intention of staying at. He bought himself a crepe from a street vendor, thinking the day might seem less god-awful with some food in him. It helped somewhat, but what he really wanted was a place to sit in peace. When he was passing by the Tuileries gardens again, he decided he might as well go sit in the park. Hopefully I don't get mugged, he thought irascibly.

After giving his feet fifteen minutes' rest and figuring out that nothing short of a good night's sleep would cure their ache, he left the park and resigned himself to catching a cab. If he waited much longer they would stop running, and he would be condemned to spending the whole night on the street. Early evening was descending over the city as he crossed the Seine for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. A few people were lingering around the stone walls of the bridge, and a man turned in Arthur's direction as he walked. Something about the intensity of his look slowed Arthur's step, and he felt there was something happening he ought to understand.

The man stared, and Arthur's step weakened further, hoping the fellow would look away or leave before Arthur had to pass him. Instead, the blond hurried forward and Arthur resisted the temptation to turn around and walk away.

"Are you lost?" he asked, his eyes like murky springs of unknown depth, fixed unwaveringly on Arthur's face. It was unnerving and he almost said no, merci, he was fine.

"A bit," he said hesitatingly. "Do I…" No, he didn't know this strange Frenchman. How could he? He'd never been to France.

"You might," the man replied. "You were sent away during the war, weren't you? As a child?" Arthur stiffened and all at once, the situation was clear, and he was staggered.

"Francis?"

"It is you! Arthur!" While Francis embraced his limp body, Arthur tried to reconcile the waifish boy he had known at Robinson House with the broad-shouldered man in front of him, sporting a carefully trimmed beard. Last time he'd seen Francis, he could've easily donned a dress and passed for a girl. "What are you doing in Paris?" he asked, pulling back, moving his hands to grip Arthur's shoulders. "Have you been walking long? It's been so long!"

"I. Er. Your English. It's better." Questions. Francis was asking him questions. But he was still trying to get over running into his old playmate, and Francis was asking so many at once.

"I spent the rest of the war at Robinson House," Francis said with a shrug. "I learned."

"Oh. Was it…" Before Arthur even finished the question, he knew it was going to be a stupid one, whatever adjective he chose to put at the end.

"I never heard how America was." Francis touched his elbow and guided him over to one of the half-moon benches built into the bridge, and Arthur's knees were grateful for the seat. They began to fire questions back and forth like a naval battle, but Francis managed to ply much more information from Arthur than vis-versa. Francis insisted nothing interesting happened at Robinson House, although he said he was grateful for Daffyd's support after Arthur's departure.

"What did your mum say? When you came home?" Francis asked.

"She cried, of course," Arthur said. "Bawled. Right in the airport. And she was beside herself that none of my clothes were going to fit anymore. What about yours?" Francis' face darkened like the sky above them, and he looked away. Somehow, Arthur felt the perpetual specter of sorrow in Francis' eyes had not changed at all since their youth.

"She came to meet me at the train station," he began quietly. "When she first looked at me, I don't think she recognized me. But she looked again, and just stared, and didn't say anything. I was afraid she was disappointed, or that I'd done something, or not known something. Then she said 'I sent you away to keep you safe from the war. But now that I look at your face, I can see I spared you nothing.' Then she cried. Just a little though. Maman doesn't think much of crying, she says it doesn't solve anything."

Arthur remembered how sweetly Francis had spoken of his mother at Robinson House, and he felt something was being left out of the story, some underlying reason for the shade over his eyes. He also remembered Francis' father.

"And um…and your…your dad? Did you ever…?" It seemed rude not to ask, but Arthur was afraid to dredge up something Francis didn't want to talk about. No proper Brit ever raised an uncomfortable conversation topic.

Francis closed his eyes briefly, and Arthur wondered if he might just pitch himself into the river. Idiot! He chastised himself. Asking about his father! What a ninny you are!

"He died," Francis said softly, shrugging his left shoulder. "Probably not long after he was captured." He could've been dead already—probably had been— when Francis had asked one of the ladies at Robinson House what happened to the Germans' prisoners of war. Arthur remembered how Francis' chest had heaved like a trapped bird hearing all the speculation from the boys around them, and how his hands had shook on his paper after the discussion was silenced. "You know I…after the war, I read everything I could about what had happened to them…all the newspapers, the books, the radio programs…it was just…some form of self-torture, I guess, but I wanted to know…like I could take some of his pain, their suffering, on myself by making myself hear about it all."

Arthur regretted the conversation topic more than ever. He couldn't have been so emotionally forthright and honest with a man who was—frankly—nearly a stranger if he wanted to. He supposed it was possible Francis still considered him a friend, but even then…he couldn't imagine telling Francis how horrifying the death of Alfred's father had been, or how he had come to Paris because he felt so lost and directionless, and afraid his life would pass him by before he figured out what he wanted from it. People just didn't say those things.

"It didn't work," Francis added, a note of bitterness in his voice that Arthur had never heard before. In the silence that followed, Arthur studied Francis' face—the crescent shadow beneath his eyes, the withdrawn tilt of his head, the way he allowed his hair to partially cover his face (Arthur remembered he wore it back in a ponytail as a boy). It seemed Francis was no happier now than he had been as a war exile. Perhaps he labored under some curse, and was doomed to be forever melancholy. Arthur would have accused him of melodrama, but he knew Francis' melodrama—it was something he shoved in one's face, and this was not that—this simply was, which gave it a ring of truth his drama never had.

"Why are you in Paris?" he asked suddenly. "I thought you lived in the north."

"I do. I did." Francis confused himself for a moment. "I moved here."

"Why?"

"I'm looking for something," Francis replied.

"What?"

"I don't know."

Arthur opened his mouth to say that was stupid, and what sort of fool moved his whole life on a whim like that, when he remembered his conversation with his father and decided he wasn't in a position to throw stones. Not with his suitcase still sitting beside him on the ground.

"I hope you find it," he said instead, surprising himself with the sincerity of his tone.

"Me too," Francis said. They were quiet once more, and then Francis got to his feet. His legs were longer, Arthur noted. Proportionally. He thought of his own awkward teenage phases (which had progressed, quite honestly, into an awkward adult phase), and his mind echoed the curiosities of his thirteen-year-old self, wondering if Francis had ever had an awkward phase in his life. "Do you want to walk and stretch?" Francis asked at the same time Arthur said, almost accusingly, "When did you get so tall?"

"I'm hardly taller than you, Arthur," he said. He still couldn't say Arthur's name right, and for some reason this pleased the Englishman. He too, got to his feet.

"You…feel taller," he said, feeling his cheeks glow at the stupidity of his remark.

"It's my dancer legs," Francis sighed emphatically, with an exquisitely pained look, forever troubled by his own beauty. Arthur could've slapped him. "Oh don't look so angry," he said, which Arthur supposed he did. A little smile played on Francis' face. "I waited a long time to grow into these."

"You?" Arthur scoffed. "You've never had an awkward phase in your life, don't give me that."

"It's true," Francis lamented. "You should have seen me as a teenager, I looked like a stork."

"I don't want to hear it from you," Arthur warned. It was no good to hear Francis' pitiful attempts to sound relatable when Arthur was a literal goblin, all pointy bits and harsh lines. He couldn't fathom Francis ever being insecure about anything—what would be the cause?

"Then tell me about home," Francis said, taking Arthur's arm and making him jump. Continentals were so handsy. He had heard it all over back home, but it was different to see. Even with his closest friends (admittedly not that close) back home he never would've done this. "How are your brothers? Your sister? Your sweetheart?"

"I think you're just trying to annoy me," Arthur said, looking annoyed.

"What? I'm asking about your life, I want to know," Francis said, taken aback.

"'Your sweetheart'," Arthur mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "Don't make an idiot of yourself, Francis. At least not more than you can help."

"I take it that means you don't have one," Francis surmised. Another look was the only response. "I didn't mean to scratch an open wound," he cooed, leading Arthur off down the bridge. Arthur fought the desire to pinch him somewhere soft.

"It's not a wound, you unutterable wretch. And my family is fine. All home from the war, and busy with other things," he said.

"That's good to hear."

"Where are we going?" Arthur asked. Again, Francis appeared surprised.

"Oh, I don't know. Just walking. Why? Do you have somewhere to be?"

"Just—you—" He looked down at their linked arms. "I thought you were taking us somewhere." Francis looked too, and then up at Arthur, and Arthur had the sudden sensation they were far too close, on the Continent or not. But Francis didn't let go and Arthur didn't pull away, and it was growing dark anyway, so they continued on.

"Are any of them married yet?" Francis asked, guiding the conversation back to something acceptable.

"Mairead and Iain are," he said. "Iain's moved up north, he's in Scotland now."

"Does he like it?"

"I don't know, I guess. He hasn't come back."

"Has anyone ever told you you're a terrible conversationalist?" Francis asked.

"Has anyone ever told you—" Arthur looked over at him and tried to think of or at least decide on an insult. "…shut up."

Francis let out a burst of laughter and his grip on Arthur's arm tightened. "Yes, as a matter of fact, they have," he said, smiling. "Many times."

"I don't doubt it," Arthur grumbled.

They wandered along the bank of the river and Francis kept up a flow of conversation, but not in a way that seemed like babbling. He continued to press Arthur to engage, so he couldn't just tune out. But sometimes they were quiet, and that didn't seem to bother the Frenchman—sometimes, in fact, it seemed like a more natural state of being for him. Arthur found himself constantly confused between what was Francis and what was the weight in his spirit pressing him down.

He also didn't care at all for when Francis met his gaze too long—there were too many things in Francis' eyes that he couldn't understand or discern, and it unsettled him.

Francis led them down the steps onto the lower bank, where the water lapped at the stone inches from their feet. Shady characters lingered along the edges, and couples pressed into shadows, and a few drunks lying about or singing La Marseillaise, or something like it. Arthur swore he heard the word 'guillotine' at least once.

"I think the war has left an eternal mark on all of us," Francis was murmuring, purposefully, Arthur felt, keeping his voice low, so that Arthur had to lean in to hear. They had come around again to the war, as usual. Sometimes Arthur played a game with himself—how innocuous a conversation could come around to the war? And how long would it take? He'd once listened to a few folks in a dried goods shop begin by talking about the price of raisins and end with the Blitz over the span of less than ten minutes. "Whether or not we fought, it is a part of us. It will always be a part of us."

"I don't think so," Arthur disagreed. "We'll move past it. Time heals all wounds and whatnot."

"Time heals nothing," Francis said. "Time only dulls the pain with forgetfulness. Amnesia is an opium." A narrow boat drifted by them, with a couple young people lighting candles on the roof of it, no doubt off to have a good time doing whatever young people did in a mythical land like Paris.

"That's morbid," Arthur told him.

"It's not morbid, it's true," Francis said. He sighed and his eyelids drooped, and he tilted his head, almost as if he meant to lean it against Arthur's shoulder, but all he got was the brush of hair.

"You're young," Arthur said. Only the elderly were allowed to share such scandalously depressing thoughts. Or even have them.

"So are you," Francis responded before Arthur could continue. "Younger than me."

"I remember." He remembered how much older Francis had seemed at Robinson House! How mature a twelve-year-old had been! And how he had tried, likely too hard, to maintain Francis' attention. What a stupid kid, he thought.

"Have you forgotten the pains of your childhood?" Francis asked, stopping beneath a bridge. It smelled like it hadn't been dry since the French Revolution.

"A lot of them," Arthur said. "Most of them."

"I don't mean the ones like losing a toy," Francis said. "Like being sent away from home. Like being separated from your family."

"It was for my own good."

"But have you forgotten how it felt?"

"It doesn't bother me anymore."

"Because you're with them again. Only that could soothe your pain."

He died. Probably not long after he was captured.

"Why are you in Paris?" Arthur asked.

"It doesn't matter," Francis said.

"What do you m—"

"You know what I mean. It doesn't matter, it's not important. If I wasn't in Paris, I wouldn't have found you again," he said.

"I'm not what you're looking for," Arthur said.

"You might be," Francis said. Arthur noticed then, that they were close in a way that put a pain in his chest, a pain that felt so vaguely familiar, like a memory passed down from someone else before him. It was on the tip of his tongue, but if he had tried for the rest of the night he couldn't have named it. He also had the premonitory sense he should know what was happening, that in another situation, he would know, or even that he had been through this before. "When I saw you," he said softly, "I was so sure it was you. Even though you're so grown-up now. I thought, if I was wrong, the whole day would be worthless. Maybe I would leave Paris."

"You sound like someone out of a novel. Don't be so hysterical," Arthur said, wondering if there was any truth in Francis' words. "To be honest, I never stopped thinking of you as twelve. So I didn't think to look for you."

"That explains why you looked so shocked," Francis said, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. "Did you think I would stay in your memory forever?"

"Yes." Arthur had resigned himself to the end of their friendship by the time he returned to Britain, seeing no reason why they would ever cross paths again. It just another tumult of the war, a violent, untamed tide that pushed them together and just as quickly ripped them apart.

"Maybe this is all a dream," Francis said. "And I am."

If it is a dream, then it is a good dream.

"It seems unlikely," Arthur said.

"Oh?"

"You're an adult," Arthur explained. "I could never dream that. It's not in my memory." Then he wondered what he was doing having such a pointless conversation. And when had Francis become so existentialist?

"Perhaps it's mine then," Francis said. "I always wondered what you grew up to look like."

"It's not a dream," Arthur said.

"I know how to figure it out," Francis said.

"Think like a rational human being?" Arthur suggested, lacking the antagonizing, caustic tone he imagined.

Francis half-smiled, looking amused, and then they were closer, and closer, and closer…

It was dark, and when they were so close, Arthur could barely see, but he could hear the shuffle of their feet on the wet stone, and the sound of their breathing. All of Paris receded away from them and their one foot-by-one foot patch on the bank of the Seine, and the terrible, taboo closeness of them. It wasn't Continental, when Francis' lips touched his. It just was. And it was as if someone had shone a light onto all the parts of Arthur's understanding of the world that he had chosen to forget, and explained all the things he had brushed off, saying he didn't care, because he didn't understand. His throat was tight, and he went rigid beneath the touch, and maybe that was why Francis pulled away, looking so sad, with that little smile, like the sound of the violin songs Arthur had heard passing by certain dining venues.

"It must be r—" He didn't finish before Arthur had grabbed him, too hard, too tight, and kissed him back. He saw Francis wince at the roughness of his touch, but he squeezed his eyes shut when he kissed back, and that touch was halting and hesitant and unsure of itself. They both moved in a similar jerky, uncertain way, dipping their toes into waters unspeakably forbidden.

When they separated again, they were both panting lightly, even though they had barely kissed. Arthur could see Francis' shoulders trembling, and he realized he was shaking as well.

"Are you hungry?" Francis asked softly.

"Um. Yes. Starving, actually," Arthur blurted out, having eaten nothing the whole day besides the crepe. The thoughts in his head were moving too fast to even bother trying to pick them apart. Francis was…? Somehow it wasn't shocking, but on the surface, the visceral taboo-ness of it remained. It forbade him even asking, but the question burned at the tip of his tongue. He refused to consider what it meant for himself. He refused to dredge up any memories of his childhood and re-examine them. Maybe this was all a dream, and he would wake back in London, and take his father's advice to skip Paris and go beg for his job back.

But if it was a dream, he may as well get something to eat, because he was hungry.

Francis pulled out of his space, with some reluctance, and began to lead them back up to the street. He did not take Arthur's arm, or touch him at all, or even walk closer than Arthur might've to a friend at home. At last, very lowly, as he led them down a quieter street, he said, "I'm sorry. If that was too much. I didn't mean to scare you." He looked over at Arthur from the corners of his eyes, and Arthur saw genuine regret there.

"No—I wasn't—. It's just. No. It's fine. I. Don't worry about it." It wasn't fine, and he wasn't scared only because he was blocking out all the thoughts he knew were waiting to sink their teeth into his heels and drag him under the black tar of fear and realization, but never, never, never could he have told Francis he regretted it, and made him believe it. He couldn't even make himself believe it. His mind began to formulate "what-ifs" and he immediately shut it down. "Where are we going?"

"There's a café I know," Francis said, as if there weren't a hundred cafes he knew. "We can get you something to eat and drink there."

"I don't have many francs," Arthur sighed.

"I can pay," Francis said, waving a hand. "Let me give you a treat. It looks like you've had a rough day."

"Is it that obvious?" Francis tried a little smile and didn't reply. It was decidedly nighttime when they reached the café and got a table. Francis got coffee, and Arthur a decaffeinated tea, and they both had sandwiches—something Francis called a "Croque Monsieur", if Arthur heard him right. He realized with a jolt it was the first time he had ever heard Francis speak his native tongue. His voice sounded different than when he spoke English. Arthur thought he would like to hear it more, to compare the two.

"What are you looking at?" Francis asked when he was done placing their order.

"I've never heard you speak French before," Arthur said. Francis blinked a few times, and realized Arthur was right.

"Oh. Well." He shrugged. "It's just like other people speaking French." Arthur shook his head in disagreement, but stopped himself from saying anything regrettable. "Arthur…do you have a place to stay?" Francis asked after a less-than-comfortable pause as the settled in with their drinks. Arthur ratcheted up the awkwardness by not responding.

"There's a hotel…in Montmartre…"

"Montmartre?" Francis asked in a tone that immediately put Arthur on the defensive. "Is that where you were trying to go? That's across the city from where I found you!"

"I got lost!" he snapped. "Some stupid American gave me some horrible directions!"

"You got directions for a place in Paris from an American." Francis deadpanned.

"He lives here! And none of the damned French would talk to me because I don't speak French!"

"You don't speak French," Francis said, tapping one index finger with another. "You have no francs." He tapped his middle finger. "You don't have a place to stay." Ring finger. "And you don't even know why you're here. This is some trip you've planned."

"I have some francs!" Arthur bristled. "I changed them at the bank earlier!"

"You should've gotten them in London before you left," Francis chided. "It's less expensive."

"Well thanks for the tip," Arthur said, liberally laying on the sarcasm. "I'll be sure and go back to London to change my pounds before tomorrow."

"I'm just saying this seems a little haphazard."

"Stop being a judgmental ass and go get our sandwiches," Arthur said, waving a hand at the counter where they had been placed moments ago. He wasn't used to being the object of judgement like this—he wasn't a reckless, exciting sort who did things that got him in trouble. Hence why everyone was shocked to hear he'd suddenly quit his job and was running off to Paris for an indeterminate amount of time. "I didn't come to Paris for lectures, I can get those at home."

"Maybe you'll actually listen to mine." Francis got up, though, and fetched their food. Arthur nearly choked on the first bite. "Is it bad?" Francis asked. "I didn't notice anyone new behind the counter…"

"What the fuck is this bread?" Arthur asked.

"What?" He seemed to leave Francis perpetually bewildered. "It's just bread. Normal bread."

"No. This can't be normal French bread."

"Why not?"

"This is the fucking best bread I've ever tasted," he said. Francis blinked again, and then laughed, and he sounded so French, and it was wonderful. "You use this on…" He peeled it open. "A ham and cheese sandwich?"

"It's baked," Francis pointed out mildly, as if this radically altered the situation. "Oh Arthur, you poor English thing," Francis said, shaking his head. "You're used to that pig swill they call food over there. Actually, I take it back. I'd never feed a pig the bread I ate in Britain. It would spoil the meat. And it would be cruel."

"Shut up," Arthur said, his mouth full of food. "'m tryn eat." Even without the heaven-blessed bread, he was sure this would feel like one of the best things he'd ever eaten—like the first time he'd had cake with the full allotment of sugar after the war.

Francis just gave a little titter and stirred his coffee and ate in a civilized way. Everything he did was poised and made Arthur question whether it was natural or purposeful. Even the way he tilted his head when they were quiet, and the way he rested his hand on the table after finishing his sandwich.

"So you have nowhere to go." Appropriately, they resumed the topic of Arthur's resting place for the night. Francis seemed to be approaching an enormous question. "If you wanted," he said, in a tone easier to reject or ignore, "you could stay with me. I have a couch." It was vitally important that in the same breath he made the offer, he gave Arthur space. They both felt the importance of this, although Arthur alone knew it was unnecessary. He put the remains of his sandwich down.

"I couldn't. I have money, I just need to get somewhere I can spend it," he said.

"You could save the money," Francis said. "With your trip-planning skills, you're going to need some back-up." There was another pause as Arthur tried to find a way to accept the offer.

"Just for a few nights," he promised. "Tonight. Tomorrow I'll find a hotel."

"No you won't," Francis said. "You're staying in my city and I haven't seen you in ten years, you're staying with me." He rethought the events of the night, and then added, in a lower voice, "Unless you'd prefer a hotel, and then it will be just tonight."

Feeling discombobulated, Arthur tried desperately to take stock of the situation. Maybe this was his chance to walk away, to kindly thank Francis for the meal and apologize that he couldn't, he had somewhere to be. And never speak to him again, or tell anyone that they had met. Better to leave Francis out of the story altogether. Just come home and say Paris hadn't worked out, he'd go find a new job and stay put in Britain.

"I just don't want to put you out," he said. Francis relaxed, slightly.

"You're not," Francis reassured him. "The company would be—I would be happy to give you a place to stay while you visit Paris." There was a flighty, fledgling hopefulness in Francis' hands and posture as he offered, a diffident excitement that Arthur tried sincerely to understand. He began to feel that Francis was an ocean, and he had as much chance of comprehending those depths as he did of the one that lapped at the shores of his homeland. To say the least, it was frustrating.

Relief overtook everything else momentarily, as he registered that he wasn't going to be sleeping on a bench or in an alleyway tonight. A couch, a roof over his head, maybe a blanket—maybe God was on his side after all. Or at least not opposed to his being in Paris.

"Capital. I'll stay the night with you then. Just like old times, right?" He tried to brush off the fact that he was accepting because he had nowhere else to go.

"Hopefully with less crying," Francis remarked.

"You were the one doing most of that," Arthur said, and regretted it at once. Francis gave him a withering look and finished the rest of his coffee. Arthur wondered if there was a doctor around that specialized in removing one's foot from one's mouth, if it had an unfortunate habit of being there.

Francis paid their bill and took them at no rushed pace up to his apartment, a door down from the café and upstairs. Arthur followed close behind, itching to get his valise off his abused fingers for a decent length of time. The hall was dark, and off in the distance, he could hear the sound of someone really going at an accordion. It took Francis a moment to get the key in the door, but he did, and swung the door open, and Arthur stepped into a whole other life.