So I was on tumblr and I reblogged this (snark-sniper . tumblr post/153750127144/a-bunch-of-weddingengangement-themed-prompts) and I was thinking to myself (and therefore rambling in the tags about it), "Hey, wouldn't it be cool if we had a FrUK wedding planner scenario?" And then I got an anon request to write it. And then I was like, "Oh, I'll just write a scene," and then I was like, "Oh, maybe I can do this in 5,000 words," and now I have themes that I feel like I need to follow through on, so I tentatively put myself down for three chapters so I could give myself a stopping point and go study for my business exam.
I'm going to try this new thing where I DON'T write the whole fic before posting it, and see where that gets me.
Title from "Je t'écris d'Angleterre" ("I'm writing you from England"), which I saw in a FrUK AMV a few years back and which was stuck in my head as I wrote this; it translates as "tomorrow, who knows?"
For the first time in a long while, Francis has forgotten Jeanne.
He's working late into the night, doing all but designing the waistcoat and jacket himself. Because that's what Arthur Kirkland wants—not a dress like his brothers and his fiancé tease him about, but a proper waistcoat.
Mr. Kirkland's tastes in all else are equally proper, and Francis gets the sense that he and Alfred Jones—the fiancé—disagree on such matters. But with Mr. Jones too busy and Mr. Kirkland being the only one to attend the initial meeting, Francis only has the view of one of the two spouses.
Francis sits up straight, realizing at once that he's begun to slouch over his work table. His eyes flick away from the screen of his laptop, filled with designs he needs to propose, to the photo he keeps at his workstation at home.
Jeanne wanted a simpler wedding, he thinks. White flowers, an intimate gathering, a humble church. Her funeral looked much the same.
Francis shakes his head. At least for a moment, the challenge of catering to Mr. Kirkland—soon to be Jones—has drawn him away from the mourning stupor that has swallowed him in the past several months.
Francis reviews his hodgepodge handwritten notes beside him.
Yellow/blue flowers—European if poss.
Old church (cathedral?)
Lace
Doves? Or rice…
Reception:
-large tables
-only friends (& Kirkland brothers)
-rock music?
The initial consultation with Mr. Kirkland veered in a sharp turn when the groom-to-be firmly insisted on rock music. If nothing else, this enigma is the only thing keeping Francis focused on his work. After all, how to integrate a string quartet and the Stones?
"Don't you have any tea?"
Francis hums absently.
"Mr. Bonnefoy."
"Yes?" Francis looks up from his armchair. Staying up as late as he has—and yet failing to fall asleep until hours after he finished, Jeanne's eyes haunting him as always—he's finding himself entirely too lost in his notes.
Arthur Kirkland frowns, unimpressed. "Tea."
"Ah. Yes, right." Francis stands, but he forgets that his laptop is charging and snags his shin on the cord. As he stumbles and rights himself, he looks up to see Mr. Kirkland holding his hands up as if taming a horse.
"Er. No, that's quite alright, I'll get it," says Mr. Kirkland. He looks over Francis with a warier eye, and Francis wonders if his gaze lingers on his baggy eyes and the stain on his collar.
"Thank you," says Francis. "There's some Twinnings right beside the kettle."
"I see it," says Mr. Kirkland, now calling from the kitchen.
Francis takes a second to violently shake his head, willing himself to wake up. This is his first big case since Jeanne's death, and he can't afford to mess up for someone as fastidious as Mr. Kirkland and as—let's face it—wealthy as Mr. Jones.
He locates his notes for today's discussion and reviews them in the minutes it takes for the tea to boil and for Mr. Kirkland to rummage around in the cabinet above the kettle for cups. He emerges with two mugs, one of which Francis recognizes with a jolt in his gut.
"You know, we might have rescheduled if you phoned ahead," says Mr. Kirkland.
To Francis's infinite relief, he holds out to Francis the red and blue fleur-de-lis mug that belonged to Jeanne.
"Ah," says Francis, taking the mug with both hands, "but if we go by that logic, you and I will never again meet until your wedding day. Weddings are inherently stressful, Mr. Kirkland."
Mr. Kirkland hums noncommittally and sits in the chair across from Francis's. The laptop sits on the coffee table between them. "So I've been told," he says. "And I confess that I rather wish we didn't have to go through with it all. But Alfred wants to make a good impression on my brothers after not having asked for the family's blessing, and if he wants a wedding, I at least want a proper one."
"Most grooms would ask for a memorable one."
Mr. Kirkland snorts. "Given my brothers, it'll be bloody memorable, all right."
Despite himself, Francis smiles. "Tell me more about your brothers. I imagine I'll need to prepare some measures to minimize their damage."
As he speaks, he blows off a wisp of steam and takes a sip from his mug. He pauses, looking down at the tea bag steeping in his mug.
Mr. Kirkland notices his confused expression. "I saw you had some English Breakfast behind your oolongs. Can't have you falling asleep any more than you are, now, can I?"
Francis hums thoughtfully and takes a deeper sip. "How kind of you."
Francis's third meeting with Arthur Kirkland takes place in public, two weeks after their last meeting and three after the initial visit. Alfred Jones has insisted they meet at a Starbucks halfway across the city from Francis's flat.
"Hope it wasn't too long a commute," says Mr. Jones, shaking Francis's hand with a grip that inadvertently cracks a few knuckles. "Arthur wouldn't tell me where your base of operations is, and hey, here's close to my work!"
"Couldn't—I couldn't tell you," says Mr. Kirkland at Mr. Jones's side. He offers a handshake that doesn't make Francis's fingers throb nearly as much, and turns to his fiancé. "The first time we met we had lunch, and the second time we went to his flat."
"I go where I'm needed," says Francis with a professional smile. "Please, let's sit." He doesn't mention that he has never enjoyed the burnt flavor of Starbucks' coffee, and neither Mr. Kirkland nor Jones seem to protest that he's not ordering. Mr. Jones has already bought something exceedingly tall and filled with ice and sugar, and Mr. Kirkland has taken tea.
"So," says Francis once they're seated, "I'm aware that Mr. Kirkland is hoping for a more traditional wedding, but Mr. Jones, I thought I might request your input. What kind of ceremony do you see yourself having?"
"Oh. Huh." Jones looks at a loss. He takes a contemplative sip from his straw. "I guess I never really had anything in mind. Figured we'd just get married, right?"
Francis isn't one to stereotype, but he immediately sorts Jones in the mental category of "helpless groom". He reframes his questions. "Let's start with locale. Your fiancé has requested a church, and I have connections at some very nice ones downtown—"
Jones snaps his fingers. "We could have a beach wedding."
Francis and Mr. Kirkland stare at him.
"Alfred, love," begins Mr. Kirkland, "you could have said something much earlier if you were thinking about that."
"I mean…yeah, I guess, but I just thought of it." Jones leans forward, a gleam in his eyes. "Kiku and Mattie could bring supersoakers, too, for when we're kissing and all. Hell, everyone could have a squirt gun! Then we could have the reception right there, maybe a buffet or something—"
"You mean…you want us to be squirted with water the minute we're married?" Something in Mr. Kirkland's tone weighs far too much to be casual.
"It'd be a little fun, you gotta admit," says Jones. "I mean, after all the seriousness and the vows, you need something, am I right?" He looks at Francis expectantly. Francis doesn't know what he's expecting.
"Alright," says Mr. Kirkland. His fingers wrap around his cup lightly but with a tense grip, as if they were Alfred's neck. "Water guns aside, you expect your boss, the entire board of directors, the CEO of your job, and pretty much everyone who knows me in New York City—to stand on a beach carrying a water pistol?"
"Thought you were leaving the water guns aside," says Jones. He looks chagrined, but a glint of defiance remains in his set jaw.
"I'm only saying, it doesn't quite seem the place to invite everyone if you want to make a good impression—"
"Oh? And what makes a good impression, Artie? Some stuffy church neither of us go to? You don't even know if you're Catholic or Protestant, so what's the point in choosing if you're just going to be angry with yourself for years because you chose the wrong one?"
"Alright," butts in Francis. "Let's hold off on a discussion of the venue. We have plenty of time to decide, after all." He neglects to mention that many of the venues he books have months-long waiting lists, but the slump in Mr. Kirkland's and Jones's shoulders makes the omission worth it. "How about the reception? It can be held separately from the wedding, of course. Mr. Jones, I understand you enjoy rock music?"
"Ehhhhh… That's more Artie's thing," says Jones. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I love me some classic rock, but I'm more of a pop guy, you know? Oh! But Green Day's pretty great."
"Classic rock, alright," says Francis before Mr. Kirkland can intervene, "let's discuss a little more. What are some of your favorite songs?"
Francis has a long meeting ahead of him.
Around a month and a half into his acquaintance with Mr. Kirkland and Jones, Francis picks up work for another client, a Mr. Oxenstierna and Mr. Vainamoinen. They appear to be a very low-maintenance couple, low enough to the point where Francis really doubts he's needed, but he takes their case all the same.
Francis has an odd quirk of being able to focus on each case only in a very specific location. Jones and Kirkland are a fluke—he works from home for their case because he was initially so shocked to have work, and too shy still to venture into the outside world. But for his newest clients, he takes up near-daily residence at Amante Café, run by his friend Antonio and his spouse Lovino.
He's hunched over the laptop when he hears the voice.
"Mr. Bonnefoy?"
Francis looks up to see none other than Arthur Kirkland, an umbrella tucked under his arm and a cup of—well, he would be amiss not to guess tea. Mr. Kirkland looks ready to stay for a while.
"Mr. Kirkland," says Francis, smiling and straightening up. "Pleasure to see you here." He doesn't realize until after he's spoken that, because he's been torn out of his work and lost concentration, his French accent is a little stronger.
Mr. Kirkland raises an eyebrow. "You look well," he says. "A bit harried, maybe. I hope Alfred's ideas haven't been keeping you up very late."
"Oh, no, I have another client," says Francis. "I'm working on their case now." He works to smooth out his accent, though he knows it will never quite go away. Jeanne always teased him for never being able to rid himself of the French-sounding "r". The passing memory dims his smile by half a watt.
Mr. Kirkland looks at the laptop Francis is working on. His eye rests on his left hand. "Won't your wife be missing you?" he asks.
"Ah. No, er. I lost her. Just haven't remembered to take off the ring."
Something in Mr. Kirkland's expression falls. "No! Er, that's fine. You have every reason to keep it on. Of course. That's very…caring of you," he concludes. "Sorry, now that I've made a complete arse of myself, I'll just go find a table—"
"You haven't made an arse of yourself," says Francis, and he's surprised to find how much he means it. He likes that Mr. Kirkland understands. His mother didn't; she gently reminded him that if he hoped to bring his life back to normal, he ought not to wear something so heavily reminding. Secretly, he thinks she hopes he'll manage to attract another wife sooner for lack of a ring. But he can't go back to the days before Jeanne, back to flirting and flings, all innocent but none meaningful. So the ring stays.
"You're welcome to share this table with me, if you like," says Francis. He gestures to the seat across from him.
Mr. Kirkland looks between Francis and the window. After a moment, he sits. "You did manage to find a good view," he says.
He takes out a novel out from under his arm beside the umbrella, cracks it open, and takes a sip of tea. Francis returns to his typing, but as the minutes pass he realizes that Arthur hasn't yet turned a page. He slows his typing, wondering why.
Arthur finally summons the nerve. "May I ask how you met?"
"My wife and I?" says Francis. He sits back in his chair.
"Yes," says Arthur. He's looking out the window, but Francis meets his gaze in the glass's reflection.
"It was a setup, actually," says Francis. "We were two of the only French students at Columbia, and the girlfriend of one of my roommates insisted I meet her. At first I was skeptical—all I knew about her was that she was French, and that didn't guarantee anything. But I met her for dinner all the same, and she…dazzled me."
"Oh?"
"She studied biology," says Francis. "She wanted to heal people. But she had such an intense faith to accompany her studies that it made me want to believe too. And I did, for a time." He feels like he shouldn't be revealing something so deep to Mr. Kirkland, but when he pauses, Mr. Kirkland looks at him with such clear curiosity and expectation that he reconsiders. "When she said becoming a doctor was a calling, she meant it beyond our sense—I would swear she felt chosen by God to heal others."
"I imagine you married in a church," says Arthur, kindly but with a wry smile.
"Oh, the oldest in her hometown," says Francis. "We went back to France for our families' sake, and because we'd graduated. I was satisfied with my bachelor's in business, but she needed to return to Columbia to continue her medical track, so we only stayed the summer and then moved back to New York together."
"And your wedding planning business came from there?"
"From France? No. But it was there that I found endless frustration in arranging so many different things just to prove to our families that I loved her. And I thought, these Americans, they're so busy. Why not spare them some time and go through it again? For them?"
"A clear opportunity."
"But it's even more than that, Mr. Kirkland." Francis has been explaining himself aloofly, but now he looks Mr. Kirkland in the eye. "It's hard to love your work in business, if you sell something you don't believe in. But I believe in love."
Mr. Kirkland's expression flickers. "Still?"
"Even still."
"…May I ask?"
"Car accident. She was walking home from class."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you."
The two look at each other. Francis sees through Mr. Kirkland, allowing himself a moment's grief, but Mr. Kirkland isn't done yet. "You still believe in love. But what about God?"
Francis sighs. Mr. Kirkland senses his reluctance and backpedals. "Of course, you have every right not to answer, but I just thought because you'd mentioned your wife was—"
"I don't know," says Francis. "I don't know if I believe in God, but I talk to him. Only to ask questions. I feel like I don't have a right to ask anything except about Jeanne. But you know," and here Francis chuckles, "sometimes I feel like I'm making deals with him. I bring new lovers to his churches, and in return…well. I don't know."
Mr. Kirkland nods, processing. Francis expects to have cowed Mr. Kirkland enough with his beliefs, half expects him to nod and leave. But instead he only takes another sip of his tea.
"You know," he says, "I wouldn't call that a deal. I don't think that's what you're doing. I know it's not my place to assume"—and here Francis suddenly reminds himself that this is a client he's speaking to—"but if I could, I'd say you were making an offering."
"Oh?" says Francis. He's trying to be nonchalant, but it isn't working. "To bring her back?"
"Perhaps," says Mr. Kirkland. "Like I said, it's not my place. But I know it when I see it, because I used to do something of the same thing."
Francis tilts his chin up, listening. Maybe he can compensate for his breach in professionalism by trying to turn this talk to Mr. Kirkland's wedding.
"Mum was always religious," says Mr. Kirkland. He sets his elbows on the table and hunches over his drink. "And every time I'd come back from school—Cambridge, by the way, an actual proper school," he says with a teasing grin that Francis is surprised and pleased to see, "every Sunday she'd take me to Mass, or to church when my father decided to go. But if we went to Mass we could light a candle, and the only way she got any of us to do it as kids was to tell us we could pray to God for a wish."
"So you wished for love."
"Yes. Every time. I felt horrible about it, like some orphan in Africa was going to drop dead because I didn't pray for them. But I figured after a while that candle or not, they were probably making their own prayers, and God knew what I really meant to ask for."
"And now you have it, yes? With Mr. Jones."
Mr. Kirkland hums. He looks down at his drink. "Alfred loves me, yes. I'm very lucky."
Francis opens his mouth to comment, to congratulate him and bring him to discussions of his wedding. But the shape of Mr. Kirkland's shoulders and the fold of his arms stops him. He can't put his finger on why he redirects himself, but he follows his instinct.
"Luck comes in strange forms," says Francis instead. "Weddings usually have a way of showing where true luck comes in."
Mr. Kirkland snorts, leaving brief ripples in his tea. "Is that why there are so many nervous brides out there?"
"Nerves are a symptom of many things. But I suppose worrying about your own luck can be a cause."
Mr. Kirkland doesn't respond. He stares down into his tea, now as lost as Francis was when thinking about Jeanne. His green eyes cloud over and crease at the edges with a pain that Francis isn't familiar with but that he feels filling the space between them. Something in Arthur Kirkland hurts, even after his wish has come true.
"You won't go through it alone," says Francis, the best promise he thinks he can make. "I'll be here for every step of it."
Mr. Kirkland invisibly shakes himself from his reverie. He looks up and offers a—is that a smirk? The tilt of his lip and the narrowing of his eyes sear themselves into Francis's memory. Francis attributes his disorientation to emotional whiplash.
"You'd better," says Mr. Kirkland.
A notification appears on Francis's laptop and gives a small "blip".
"Urgent?" asks Mr. Kirkland.
"No, just a reminder of an appointment in fifteen minutes."
"Fifteen—" Mr. Kirkland lifts his sleeve to reveal a watch. "Fuck! I've got one too, and it's further away than I'd like it to be." He snatches his book and umbrella and jams them under his arm, and finishes his tea in one gulp. "So sorry, I have to—"
"No, please," says Francis, waving him off with a small smile. "Of course I can't take up the rest of your day, Mr. Kirkland."
"Please—after a talk like this, I think you're all but required to call me Arthur."
"Arthur," repeats Francis. "No, leave the cup, I'll return it for you."
"Thanks so much," says Mr. Kirkland as he straightens his collar. He flashes Francis another smile, less stirring than his smirk but more genuine. Francis returns it.
Mr. Kirkland—Arthur—leaves the café in a flurry. Francis watches him pass in front of the window and settles down to wrap up the few notes he has.
Moments later, he finds himself staring at the empty seat and cup across from him. Now that he's not in the moment, now that he's seen a smile and a smirk and a sad gaze on Arthur Kirkland, he understands what unnerved him enough to keep him from congratulating Arthur on having his wish come true.
Arthur didn't say he loved Alfred back.
Alright, now everyone ignore the fact that they're sharing their deepest thoughts and desires in like their fourth meeting. They're falling in love. Shush.