Alfred goes to Paris.
He doesn't really know why; he just knows that he is young and wealthy and everyone speaks of Paris, this big, glittering, eccentric city and Alfred wants to go and see. He looks for something and doesn't know what for, but being clueless in Paris is at least more interesting than being clueless in New York.
So he goes to Paris and Paris welcomes him by swallowing him whole.
/
Paris swallows him whole and guides him through the night. There is a party in one of the houses; Alfred can see the light shining down on the street, hears the music pouring down the walls like warm shadows and Alfred wants. Alfred wants life and music and people, wants to taste French celebrating, and so he stops, stares up the house, breathes, wants.
And it seems as if he is wanted back because a man appears on the doorstep and watches him with an amused smile. He is blonde, with hair that almost reaches his shoulders, and his eyes are almost terrifyingly blue. He is a few inches smaller than Alfred, but his smile is stunning and his shoulders are broad.
"Bon soir," He says and Alfred blinks, takes a step towards him and gets pulled into the house, to the music, the light.
/
Alfred doesn't speak French. Francois probably knows English, but is completely unwilling to speak it.
"Seulement Francais," He says with great determination. Alfred tries to learn his language, but it takes agonizingly long until he can say something reasonable. Francois moans and grimaces because of his articulation, but his eyes glint with mirth.
In between, they find their own language.
/
There are nights Alfred searches for the stars in Francois's hair. They slip through his fingers like smooth silk, but for a few moments, Alfred holds eternity in his hands. It's in Francois's golden skin, in the smooth little hairs running down in a thin line from his navel to his groin, in the way his lips tremble a silent sigh against Alfred's when he comes, arches his back, digs his fingernails into Alfred's back before he moans.
Alfred buries his nose against Francois's pale throat, breathes in, breathes out. Doesn't look for something else for once.
/
Alfred doesn't know how to say "I love you" in French. He doesn't know how to say "You're the most beautiful person I have ever seen" in a language Francois will understand. He doesn't know how to say "I need you so much". He doesn't know how to say "I want to stay with you, search for the stars in your hair until we're both old". He doesn't know how to say "I want to know how life is at your side".
He doesn't know how to say a lot of important things, so he tries to signal them by loving Francois as much as he can, doing things he hates but Francois likes, pausing for a minute now and then and just watching him with a smile.
And sometimes, sometimes he thinks Francois knows.