The first time Matthew meets Francis, he's looking out the window of a bus, on his way to the train station. He rests his chin on an upturned palm, absorbed in his own thoughts. Outside, the air is crisp and cool with the last breaths of winter, the skies a faded blue and the palest web of clouds stretched overhead. The streets are crowded with hundreds of people, everyone constantly moving as if pausing for the briefest of seconds would be impossible. For all the times he's come this way, Matthew has never gotten used to the bustle of New York City.
The Canadian watches the buildings pass by one by one, skimming over them idly. He absentmindedly thrums his fingers against the glass window, eyes open yet not seeing. After a tedious week of typing numbers and staring at computer screens, he's in no mood for scenery, looking instead at the people walking by.
There's the local flower shop owner making beautiful bouquets and arrangements, pleasant and cheerful as always. A lighthearted young man walks his fluffy little dog that reminds him fondly of a stuffed polar bear he had as a child. He spots that tall Russian with his mysterious pink scarf, and the feminine blonde wearing a miniskirt. Matthew always searches for their familiar faces on his trips to and from the station, feels as though he's been friends with them for years. But he chides himself for thinking that way; he doesn't even know their names.
Matthew leans back in his seat as the bus slows to a halt. He waits expectantly for the doors to close and his journey to resume, but a lone figure stands on the sidewalk—too far to get on, too close to be a passerby. Matthew has never seen him before, and that alone captures his curiosity.
The man has long blonde hair, silky and smooth even as the strands whisk about him. His clothes are fitted and sophisticated. Elegant features grace his face, each one accenting the others; exasperation and fondness play on his expression as he fiddles with his cell phone. All Matthew can do is hope he gets on the bus.
Like almost every New Yorker he's met, the driver seems fed up and in a hurry. "Hey, you on or off?"
The blonde grins and raises an eyebrow. "Why, on, of course." He steps up, pays the toll, and heads down the aisle, looking very comfortable and out of place all at once.
Then he stops at Matthew's side. "Is this seat taken?" he asks, gesturing at the empty spot. Matthew is suddenly very aware of the distance between them, or the lack thereof. From here, he can hear the man's delicate French accent, see the faint shadow of stubble on his chin. Usually, people just sit down without a second glance, but those four simple words make his heart flutter.
"N-no," he stammers. Matthew turns to his window, his safe haven, rolling his eyes and trying to hide the blush rising on his cheeks. He mentally slaps himself for being so easily affected.
"I'm Francis," the man says, as if it is perfectly normal to introduce yourself to a stranger on the bus. "Francis Bonnefoy."
Matthew looks back, and against all odds, the world stands still. He meets a pair of amazingly blue eyes, deep and clear and sparkling with a hint of amusement. He feels more lost in them than on the crowded bus. It takes a couple moments for him to realize he's staring, and his eyes dart downwards, embarrassed.
"Matthew Williams." His own name feels awkward and strange on his tongue.
Francis laughs lightly. His demeanor is friendly, verging on flirtatious. A charmer. "Nice to meet you, Matthieu. Where are you headed?"
"To the train station," he replies hesitantly. "And then back to Toronto."
"Ah, a Canadian? Why do you travel so far, may I ask?" Francis tilts his head slightly, as if he is genuinely interested.
Matthew isn't exactly sure why himself. "I work here," he responds. "I'm in the process of moving, but…" He shrugs. Ever since his cousin landed him this accounting job, he was supposed to be apartment hunting, but in all honesty, he didn't want to leave Canada. Toronto was his home, the only thing that kept him sane after wild and foreign New York. If he has to stay nights in hotels and spend half of his a weekends traveling by train, so be it. Not a long term solution, but enough for him to procrastinate.
"I know just how you feel," Francis agrees, yet Matthew has the impression that their feelings are quite different. His face starts to color again, but he doesn't turn away.
"Where are you from?" he asks, fumbling slightly over the question. His lack of eloquence with words is really getting quite irritating.
"I moved here when I was 14," Francis answers fluently. "But my heart lies in my hometown, the City of Light."
Matthew pauses, biting his lip. "… Las Vegas?"
Francis gasps dramatically. "Oh, mon Dieu, no! These American nicknames are so difficult. No, it is Paris." He stretches out the French pronunciation generously and offers a challenging wink. Matthew raises an eyebrow at the exaggeration, but Francis seems like one of those people who can get away with things like that.
"I'm sorry," the Canadian says tentatively.
"Don't be," Francis assures him, and his heartbeat stutters again without permission.
The trip continues with easy conversation, bringing up fond memories of high school French, even though his tongue is a little rusty now. Matthew listens intently, soaks up everything he can about this stranger, who, by the end of the ride, isn't so strange at all. Francis, who works odd jobs to support his passion, and is an aspiring romance novelist. Whose friend was too preoccupied to drive him home today. Who says he doesn't mind riding the bus if all the rides will be like this one. Matthew blushes and stammers and smiles. Damn that French accent.
Then it's a half hour later and Francis is at his stop. Already, the last rays of light dip through gaps between the skyscrapers, and traces of purple begin to streak through the sky. For once, Matthew doesn't want to go home.
"Thank you for your company, Matthieu," Francis says. His fingers brush by gently as he stands.
"Anytime." Matthew takes a breath, adding, "I-I will see you tomorrow?"
The Frenchman pauses, letting his hand rest briefly on the Canadian's. "Yes," he answers. "Of course, mon cher." He straightens up, letting a hint of a smile rest on his lips. "Until tomorrow then. Au revoir."
"Bye," Matthew murmurs. He realizes that his skin is still tingling from Francis' touch, and his mind is the tiniest bit dizzy. He cranes his head to look behind as the bus starts to depart, spotting Francis waving to him before walking off. Matthew waves back shyly and sits back, letting the bus drive him away.
Only when he's halfway home does he realize what Francis called him.
AN: My attempt to write a shy/observant/awkward Matthew. I hope I got their characters right!
Recontre fortuite- French, chance meeting
By the way, it's about 12 hours from New York City to Toronto by train. Seriously, if I were Matthew, I would definitely start looking for a solution, other than procrastinating.
Reviews are much appreciated. Hope you enjoyed!