They say that time almost stops when you first see your soulmate. Arthur Kirkland thinks that's nonsense. The third child of a well-renowned british lawyer, Arthur had been taught that "soulmates" were a thing of myth, and that acting on impulse, believing in lore was a fallacy. He'd been told to scorn, to shun his sister, Alice, for eloping with a woman, and hadn't questioned his parents- or rather, his father's thinking.
Because his father's teachings were law. Arthur believed that's how the world was. Believed until a homeless, drunk mess came barging into his life, and turned it upside down.
Arthur had graduated from Cambridge a few years before with an major in Journalism, and was enjoying his life as a freelance writer in the US. He had rented a small apartment in New York when he first met Francis, or the drunk mess.
Arthur's assignment was to write an article on how average citizens felt about a new law passed in the area, something to do with regulations on tattoos. The bushy-browed brit had a meeting with a well known tattooist, a dutchman named Abel, at a modern-looking cafe nearby. Arthur arrived on time, and had an ordinary interview with the tattooist. He didn't feel particularly motivated to write, and decided to walk the longer route home.
Which was when he heard the wailing. It wasn't beautiful, no, it was human. Arthur was never a charitable man, and he could've cared less about the crying, yet he started to walk toward the source.
It was coming from a dumpster. Or more specifically, from a man standing in front of a dumpster. He couldn't be any older than thirty, and was wearing a tuxedo and dress pants, hinting his wealth, yet, the state that he was in implied that he was homeless. When the teary-eyed soul finally noticed Arthur, his eyes widened in surprise. The man hastily tried to make himself presentable to no avail.
"Please don't mind me." The man hoarsely croaked out as he urged Arthur to walk on.
"Easier said than done; you're practically audible to the whole neighborhood."
"You're accent. British." The tuxedo-man practically spat out.
"Indeed. Does that change anything?" Arthur smirked, because the way the tuxedo said it was eerily satisfying.
"Well, it proves why you're being such an connard de première."
"Ah, you're French." Arthur muttered in an equally venomous tone.
Which made tuxedo glare at Arthur. Arthur glared back almost instantly.
They then walked around each other, glaring, like feral dogs fighting over a piece of meat- except there was no meat.
Soon, realizing the idiocy of it all, the duo started to laugh.
Tuxedo lifted a hand into the air.
"I'm Francis. Francis Bonnefoy."
"I'm Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."
Tears were streaming down both of their faces as the laughter started to bubble up once more. They didn't even remember what was so funny, what they were initially laughing over, but it felt good.
"You want a cuppa tea?" Arthur wheezed once he could talk again.
Francis suddenly stopped laughing, face paling as he remembered the state he was in.
"I'm in an.. undesirable ...financial situation." Francis scratched behind his ear, eyes straying from the Brit.
There was an uncomfortable silence between the two men, until-
"Uh... I'll pay."
Francis's eyes light up and he smiled, radiant. Arthur blushed. What the heck, he asked himself.
Arthur looked away from Francis, to find the latter's smile imprinted in his mind.
"So you want to come or not?"
"Oui! Merci, mon cher."
"Please shut up with the French. And please, for the love of god, please don't call me dear." Arthur started to walk ahead.
"Alright, mon cher."