A Rivalry of Passion
Chapter 1. Finding the way
Even in the modern culture of the City of Light, small bakeries aren't uncommon. But nestled somewhere in the 20th arrondissement, there was an English bakery. It was a family business, though only one member of said family worked there; the others were happily installed in the busy tussle of London's food industry. The blonde young man who wandered off to Paris to start a new branch wanted to get away from said family. Thinking about said family usually upset him in some way or another.
He had left some time ago. The business did quite well, especially among English tourists and others looking for something a little less rich than the standard fare of the French. The man, Arthur, knew his bread wasn't quite as good as the other's- he'd followed his mother's recipe, and he'd learned the ropes of baking, but his bread lacked heart. It wasn't his passion, and he knew it translated into the bread somehow. Cooking wasn't natural for him. It took many years of trial and error, yelling and sometimes beatings from his brothers to turn his baking skills into something respectable. Baking was really his mother's passion, though like their father, they carried on the business as not to disappoint her.
Even though she wasn't here anymore, they couldn't disgrace her memory. So Arthur did his best to "expand the business," since that's what he told his family when he left. They didn't want for money- didn't really need another branch, much less a branch in Paris. For a while they'd wanted him to try and start up on the other side of London, but they caught on to his real reason. He needed distance. He was being swallowed up by his family, and needed to not only find his niche, but find out who he was. So they let him go, but only grudgingly.
He admitted it was lonely sometimes, especially since he never really got to know any of his employees. Living his whole life surrounded by family, and then suddenly being all alone was a shock, but also oddly comforting. A confident spring found its way into his stride. Smiles came more often. It got easier to give his customers a warm one and the "bonjour" he gave them as they walked in became more welcoming.
That is, until another bakery moved in just two buildings over.
The presence of another bakery itself wasn't too threatening. He had a good customer base already, and the Parisians of the area longed for an actual French-styled boulangerie/patisserie. His bakery served a slightly different clientele, even though he did keep baguettes handy. He had a contract with the restaurant across the street, and they were grateful for his help because their size problems made it difficult to offer all meals of the day. But the owner was magnetic. A trio of girls that were regulars at his English bakery- they were fond of the Barkwell tarts- still came by daily after school, though he noticed they also popped in at the other shop, and mostly oogled the charismatic owner. It pissed him off, a little. Especially when the flamboyantly French man came over and asked to borrow sugar or salt or flour or –anything-. How could he not have those things on hand anyway? Just what kind of business was he running!
He held his tongue, though, and kept the few French obscenities he'd picked up stashed in reserve. Mostly, it was the other man's command, or more accurately, lacking in command of the English language made him cringe. He made every pronunciation error in the book. Was he even trying?— Or, was he actually making the mistakes on purpose? But he doubted it was deliberate, because every other Frenchman he'd met was particularly shy about making mistakes. Especially after learning he was an English major before he was drafted into the family company.
"So, how eez ze petit Anglais zis morning?" The other man, Francis, started. Arthur immediately replied in French, in attempt at dissuading him from misusing English any further.
"I was okay. But a few minutes ago I developed this nagging headache…"
"Dommage… mais pouvez-vous épargner un peu de farine, pour moi, s'il vous plait?"
He was asking for flour. Again. If he was out of flour, he should've taken care of it after closing yesterday. So he declined, saying that he was already pushing it for what he was going to use in his quota today. It wasn't a lie, but he still felt a little guilty. Arthur shoved the feeling away quickly, knowing he had to look out for his own finances first. Francis didn't seem bothered at all, which roused some suspicion. Did he really need it? Or was his real reason, then, to come over and bother him? He couldn't believe that either. Arthur hadn't done anything to bring on this nuisance, and if Francis hated him, he'd send threats about running him out of business. Eventually the other man left, and Arthur was left to his baking in peace.
He didn't see the Frenchman much outside of work and his daily pestering. But one day, on a morning unusually chilly for summer, he was in the park. It was a Sunday. Arthur had brought out his laptop and intended to write –something-, because even if it ended up a cookbook, he swore he'd see his name in print someday. The little blonde hadn't quite settled on a place to sit yet and walked around the park's paths aimlessly. That's when he saw him, Francis. He was walking with a girl he judged to be around the same age, and they were laughing. Arthur recognized the laugh, even though in his detached life, he'd never gotten to share that kind with anyone. It was the same kind of laugh his brothers used when bringing up an inside joke. The two must be close. Escaping his judgment, the Englishman was intrigued. But he'd never approach the Frenchman, let alone intrude on his… outing with his lady friend. She was cute. Arthur thought himself lucky she was, because he believed it would give him time to escape and find a different part to write in.
But he was wrong. Immediately following this thought, Francis happened to look in his direction, turned to his friend and said something quickly, before turning away and hurrying across the park grass to the neighboring path Arthur was wandering along. Cursing under his breath, Arthur pretended he wasn't looking, and didn't see him. It didn't matter, though, because that French bastard came over anyway.
"Mon petit Anglais! Ça va?" Startled by his directness, Arthur replied quickly in English.
"I'm fine, thank you."
"Would you like to walk with me?" Francis asked, grinning, batting his eyelashes and clasping his hands together in a begging motion. Arthur was dumbfounded. For one, this request came from nowhere, and second—
"What happened to your accent?"
"Oh! Oops." The Frenchman covered his mouth. "That was a dare. For the first day. The others… I just like poking fun at you." His smile faded, knowing he'd started off on the wrong foot. Arthur turned his head away, annoyed.
"Why would I want to spend time with someone who does idiotic things like that?" He spit out, and started walking again. Distressed, Francis hurried to follow.
"I'm very sorry! My friends… teased me, and you know how friends are." His voice did sound very sincere, but his words made Arthur stop, and in his iciest, harshest British English he could muster, replied,
"No, I don't know how friends are. I've been blessed to never have any."
Francis stopped following him after that. He didn't give up though. Later that evening, he met him again, in the bulk section of the supermarket, buying sugar. His friend was nearby, giggling, and Arthur's eyes set in a hard glare. Some friends. Even here, all anybody ever did was tease him. He knew at home, it was because he was the youngest of his family. Here, he didn't know if it was because he was English, or maybe it was his face. His hair wouldn't cooperate and his eyebrows disgusted even himself. The scowl he wore in everyday life didn't help, but it did keep away most people. Most. The exceptions being his current tormentors.
"If you're here on another dare by miss sniggering over there, shove off. I'm trying to prepare for work tomorrow, and you're in the bloody way."
"Non, Monsieur Kirkland. I'm here… " the man looked nervous, Arthur could see it in his eyes, "to ask…" around now, Arthur was prepared to immediately reply to anything he asked with a solid no, even if no didn't make grammatical sense as an answer, "…for a date."
Author's note:
I'm not terribly good at writing on a schedule, but I'm determined to finish this.