Arthur danced slowly around the kitchen, swaying, moving along with the melody that surrounded him while he waited for the kettle to whistle. His movements were slow and rusty, nay every few lines his socks would slip a bit on the linoleum floor and send a jolt through his body, waking him enough to catch his balance. Still, the music was all around him and it filled him to the brim with a longing that couldn't be filled for three more days. His lips moved along with the lyrics, echoing back the words in his old tongue, Francis' native tongue. And he could feel the ache in his bones when the kettle whistled and the music faded away.
The tea burnt his tongue as he gulped it down, finishing it off in less than five minutes. There was nothing to do on that day: all of his business had been completed days ago and all he had to do was complete his paper work before the end of the month. Arthur poured himself another cup of tea and carried it with him to his office. The silence of the house settling in his ears with a small ringing. His office was a sad sight. Everything was in its place and there were no stray clothes strewn about. Francis had picked everything up before he left. "I'll be back in five days, Arthur. Yes, I'll be careful. Really, I thought you weren't worried about me, huh?" Arthur rolled his eyes. Francis had to be over-dramatic about everything.
Arthur still found it somewhat hard to admit, but his desk felt empty without a Frenchman hogging half of it. If Francis were here he would be singing because really, that's just how he was: he always left his own paperwork to the last minute and finished it in the car as they pulled up to the meeting. Arthur snorted. The Frenchman was such a procrastinator. Regardless, Francis would be singing some French song that Arthur had never heard and would never care to hear again and it would be a bit off key, but beautiful all the same. And Arthur would pinch his thigh or his shoulder and tell him to stop because he was distracting Arthur from doing his work.
It was hard to concentrate without a melody. An hour of Arthur staring at his paperwork whilst reading the same sentence over and over passed before he got up, distractedly rubbed his eyes, and put a record on. It was an old record, one of the many that Francis had given him. The vocals were quiet and breathy, almost as if the singer was eternally out-of-breath. Arthur supposed he knew how that felt: to suffocate slowly while surrounded by air. As the breathless French surrounded him, he closed his eyes. It wasn't the same. Her voice was too high, bordering on shrill, and her French was choppy and modern. Arthur sighed before settling back into his desk and set to work.
He was halfway through his paperwork when his phone rang. His fingers fumbled in his pocket, clumsily pulling it out and hitting the 'answer call' button.
"Hello?"
"Allo, mon cher." There was a small silence.
"Is there something you needed?"
"No, just calling to make sure you're still alive."
"Ah."
"You're unusually subdued tonight."
"I'm doing paperwork."
"Aren't you always?" Another pause, "Is that the record I gave you playing in the background?"
"No." Arthur could practically see Francis smirking through the phone.
"I'll be home tomorrow, love. I promise."
"You'd better be, frog."
The next morning was much of the same: Arthur rose, showered, ate breakfast, brushed his teeth, and sat down in the living room with the morning's newspaper and a cup of his favorite morning tea. / Amelia Kohler and Matthew Wilkins were married this past Tuesday. / A little girl named Alice Toklas has disappeared and was last seen around the outskirts of London. / There is more trouble brewing in the EU. / It was always the same news. And in the back of his mind he could hear a distinct French accent reading the headlines out-loud, always a twinge of sarcasm in his voice until he hit something dark (A child's body found in the woods near a park in one of the bigger cities). If there was nothing else to do in the mornings, Francis would read the entire paper to him: making fun of the personal ads and nuzzling into him when he started reading anything sad.
Arthur closed the newspaper and massaged his temples. This had gone too far; he didn't care if the idiot would be back tonight anyway. He could get some shopping done (without having to buy all of the senseless things that Francis insisted on getting), he could reorganize the bedroom (because, now that he thought about it, the bookshelf would definitely look better against the south wall instead of the west wall), and he could also get some uninterrupted reading done. His mind began to wander again, trying to decide on how to spend his day, as he absently stood and took his now-empty mug to the kitchen. He rinsed the cup out and placed it in the dishwasher. His fingertips drummed absently on the counter-top, matching a tune that had been stuck in his head all morning. "Francis, je m'en vais bientôt et je panse très fort à toi / Pendant que mes doigts au piano te jouent tout se que je te dois / Et rappelle toi que tu peux avoir le monde à tes pieds / Si tu ne te laisse pas abattre par ceux qui te laisse de cote." And then he was gone, out the door, his coat wrapped hastily around his shoulders.
His pace was too brisk for a stroll, too slow for a jog, and too indefinite to have a clear destination. He tired quickly, the chilled November air making his breath into a small fog as he approached the outskirts of downtown. Hands trembling, he dug them into his pockets in search of gloves and warmth. Instead he found something cold and smooth: his iPod. Steadily, he unwrapped the earphones and brought the ear-buds to his ears. He tapped the unlock button and the screen brightened, his fingers making quick work of their mission. The music began to play, surrounding him, drowning out the sounds of the approaching city, and he drew himself back into a slow, meandering walk. With each step unknowingly timed with the rhythm he walked through downtown, edging his way closer to being somewhere and doing something. And the song pounded into his ears: "Vient la douleur... / Dans tout Paris, je m'abandonne / Et je m'envole, vole, vole, vole, vole, / Que d'espérance... / Sur ce chemin en ton absence / J'ai beau trimer, sans toi ma vie n'est / qu'un décor qui brille, vide de sens."
It was noon when he made it to the other side of town. He was growing tired of walking. The cold had made its way into his jacket, creeping over his skin in light waves. His steps were heavy against the pavement as he made his way into the park. The trees had already lost their leaves, the vivid oranges and reds dulled and scattered across the ground. After a while of wandering, Arthur found a bench that sat on the edge of a pond and settled down on it. He watched the leaves fall, watched people walk or run or jog through on the pavement paths, watched the occasional wayward leaf fall from the trees.
Supposedly, the idiot would be back around four in the afternoon, giving Arthur an ample amount of time to amble around town in search of something to bring home for dinner. His options were vast and Arthur was in no rush, casually browsing and scanning through the windows of the shops downtown. All of the different aromas from the shops mingled in the air, creating a heartwarming scent that Arthur familiarized with home: fresh bread and a multitude (an overabundance, as Arthur would complain) of spices. He walked around a little longer, watching people pass by and occasionally wondering what their reasons for walking around downtown were. Were they meeting someone? Were they out to get groceries, to get a book, to steal something? Were they out, wandering around downtown and looking for a suitable takeaway place, just as he was? The sun was still high in the sky, but had just begun its descent downward when he checked his watch, 3pm.
Arthur's pace quickened, his mind quickly running through all of the possible takeout shops he could buy from. He had originally decided on a small Thai food shop, but it seemed that it was closed for repairs. There was too long of a line at the next two stops for him to make it home in time. By the time he found out his fourth pick was closed for the day (since when did they close at 3:30?), it was 3:45 and that was just enough time for Arthur to make a quick retreat home.
Arthur walked home quickly, the proverbial tail between his legs, once again drumming out the melody to a song beating in his ears, the irony hitting him halfway through and forcing a smirk onto his face, "Je cours (dimdamdam), je ris (dimdamdam), Oui je ris (dimdamdam), et puis je ris (dimdamdam)…" He arrived at home, five minutes to spare, and as he walked through the door that familiar smell hit him: spices. Shit. Arthur shut the door, slid off his shoes, and made his way to the kitchen as silently as possible. And there he was: Francis, apron tied around his waist, two pans going on the stove and bread baking in the oven. The last lyrics whispered, "Au lieu de passer le temps à m'nourrir / Je fuis, pense, avant de mourir."
The oven began to buzz and Francis turned to shut it off, freezing when his eyes found Arthur's. Francis smiled, his face lighting up as soon as he saw Arthur. Francis quickly turned off the oven and stove.
"Mon amour," he purred, moving forward to pull the shorter man into a tight hug and whispered a barely audible, "I missed you." Arthur wrapped his arms lightly around Francis as well, burying his face into his lover's shoulder. Francis kissed Arthur's forehead, his cheek, and his nose before claiming his lips. They pulled apart, foreheads touching, "Did you miss me?"
Arthur grinned, chuckling under his breath, "Of course not, idiot."
Bonjour, tout le monde! The first song is Francis by Coeur de Pirate, the second is Derniere Danse by Indila, and the third/fourth is Je cours by Stromae. Gotta get some Stromae in there because he's the bae. If you'd like translations I can either add them here or message them to you, just let me know! I felt as though it would deter from the meaning of the story to translate them directly into English.