24th September, 2009; London, England
-
The bottle of wine France orders with their meal makes Wales feel inadequate simply by existing in the same space as it.
The sommelier had nodded with what appears to be approval for France's superlative taste as he ordered it, and when she delivers it to their table, she handles it with the same careful reverence as an ornithologist would show to a rare hen harrier egg.
Whilst she holds out the bottle for France to inspect, Wales peers at the label. Although he doesn't recognise the name of the estate printed there, the understated elegance of its design makes him unaccountably aware of the fact that his hair is being particularly defiant and voluminous this evening, his suit is from Primark, and that he'd dribbled some tea onto his shirt cuff earlier and hadn't managed to get all of the stain out.
When he curls his fingers around the stem of his glass in order to taste the sample the sommelier pours for their approval, his eyes are inexorably drawn towards the serrated edges of his chewed-up nails. He hurriedly gulps down the sample in attempt to distract himself from the embarrassment resulting from that observation.
The wine is rich and smooth, bursting with so many hints and notes of different flavours, Wales cannot hope to even begin to unpick one from another amongst them.
Feeling, though, that the steady weight of France's gaze upon him is begging his input at this juncture, Wales ventures, "Full-bodied."
Frances smiles at him. A faint, mellow smile that looks to be pleased as well as amused. "Indeed," he says quietly, before nodding his approval.
The sommelier fills both of their glasses before gliding away to leave them alone with their menus.
Wales studies his own with the diligence of a student revising for an exam, but enlightenment continues to elude him. The dishes are all far more complex than those served in the sort of dining establishment he usually frequents, and although he's familiar with most of the terms used in their descriptions thanks to Masterchef, lacking practical experience, he can't be sure if that jus will add to that fondant to produce a combination flavoursome enough to justify the hair-raising price listed alongside them.
Eventually, he admits defeat, and tells France, "Why don't you just order for me?" The longer he thinks on that decision, the less it seems like the coward's way out, and more like a compliment. This is a French restaurant, after all, and it would perhaps be a small arrogance to presume he knows better than the nation himself what's best to eat from the selection of his country's cuisine on offer. "I can't choose. It all looks lovely."
France's smile grows, and when their waiter returns to take their order, he rattles it off in such rapid-fire French that Wales' ears cannot keep up. Neither can the waiter's, apparently, as he asks France to repeat himself a couple of times, then slinks away wearing a slightly perplexed expression and very harassed air. Wales suspects the poor lad probably only knows enough of the language to recognise the names of the dishes.
After he leaves, France leans back in his chair, wineglass cupped in hand, and regards Wales steadily across the linen-draped expanse of the table with heavy-lidded eyes. His mouth is still delicately curved, and he seems satisfied with himself, with their current situation, and the world in general.
And as he's watching Wales so closely and so openly, Wales feels free to do the same in return.
In contrast to Wales himself, France seems to have been created to occupy places such as this, a missing puzzle piece that has been slotted into place so neatly that none of the edges show. Under the subdued lighting, his hair gleams a rich gold that beautifully complements the understated opulence of the outrageously expensive restaurant.
His suit has doubtless never even heard Primark mentioned in its vicinity. More than likely, it's never even been near a shop. It looks as though it was probably constructed to France's exact and exacting specifications, adjusted by a personal tailor with a scrupulously trained eye and rock-steady hand, in order to make it nip at his waist and skim his shoulders at just the right angle to enclose France like a second, extremely flattering skin and emphasise all the most pertinent parts of his already well-proportioned physique.
France's smile broadens, suggesting that he's noticed Wales returning his attention, and, flustered, Wales hurriedly casts his gaze downwards and begins fiddling with his cutlery, attempting, with deep, deliberate concentration, to align each piece perfectly with its neighbours.
Many years ago, for Scotland's sake, Wales made the decision to stop being attracted to France. It has never worked particularly well, and the best he's ever been able to manage is to stop actively acknowledging his attraction, and even that itself is a precarious proposition. He certainly shouldn't be indulging in any staring, which inevitably leads, if he doesn't curtail it in time, to thoughts of that year he won't allow himself to remember.
Instead, he stares at the tines of his dessert fork, and asks, "What did you want to talk to me about?" because he's in sore need of the distraction the enquiry offers.
During their lunch earlier that day, France had seemed poised to discuss something of great import with him, judging by his pensive expression throughout, and the way he kept saying Wales' name, low and beseeching, asking a question that he couldn't quite seem to spit out. In fact, he'd ended up not saying much of anything at all, save for some snappish complaints about the bitterness of the coffee he was served, and the dryness of the cake Wales had personally found deliciously moist.
They'd ended up eating in cold, oppressive silence, and Wales had been honestly surprised when France had asked to submit himself to more of the same that evening. It was only later, when he researched the restaurant France suggested they meet at and saw how pricey and exclusive it looked to be, that he realised that France might simply have wanted a little more privacy to discuss whatever it was that was so obviously preying on his mind than a cafe in the middle of the lunch rush provided.
It's just gone seven o'clock, and there are only three other tables occupied on the opposite side of the restaurant to Wales and France's, but apparently it still isn't quite private enough, because France says, "That can wait. I don't like to speak of serious matters over dinner."
"Oh," says Wales, nonplussed and suddenly feeling superfluous. There seems little point to him being there if not to provide an open ear, ready to hear whatever it is France wants to unburden himself from. "What do you like to talk about, then?"
"Anything else," France says. His eyes are glittering now, sparking with what Wales suspects to be silent laughter at his expense. "I just want to enjoy the pleasure of your company, mon ami."
Wales is even more puzzled now, but he nods his uncertain acquiescence nonetheless, and resolves to oblige France's ridiculous whims as best he can.
-
-
Wales has been told that he's a good listener, but he's certain he's nothing but a rank amateur when compared to France.
France may be flighty at times, and often easily distracted, but if he chooses to pay an interest, he has a way of making a person feel as though they're not just the only person in the room, but the only person in the entire cosmos worth listening to.
And he'd voiced an interest in Wales' life, which was daunting to start with, to be the recipient of the laser focus France could bring to bear at such times, but soon became flattering, encouraging Wales with his gentle, attentive questions and the warm intent of his gaze to move from halting banalities about the weather to expressing his frustrations with England and sharing his hopes regarding his Senned.
France's eyes never leave his, save for those moments where he has no choice to turn his attentions to his food or their waiter for a while, and the wine proves heady, far stronger than Wales had anticipated, and as his mouth keeps running dry, he also drinks far more than is sensible.
They drain the first bottle by the middle of their main course. The second France orders is down to its dregs by the end of dessert, and Wales finds himself talking and talking and talking about Cerys, because France is the only person of his acquaintance who's ever asked how he's coping since they split up without looking as though he'd much prefer it if Wales didn't actually answer.
At some point - around the time Wales' eyes started to prickle, most likely - France had laid his hand over Wales' on the table, and, when his voice grew hoarse, France had shuffled his chair around the table and touched his shoulder to Wales'; leant a little of his weight against him.
The tips of his index and forefinger are a soft but insistent pressure against Wales' wrist, his breath heated against Wales' cheek. The clean, fresh scent of France's aftershave envelops him, and Wales begins to think very foolish things.
He thinks about that year he has tried so very hard to forget. The memories are dim now, forcefully muddied by his determined neglect, but they've never faded entirely.
He thinks, too, about Scotland, and how England had told him that their brother had insisted that he had finished with France entirely this time. Full stop, never again, finished.
He can't stop thinking about how close they are.
He moves a little closer, angles his head towards France's.
France startles back from Wales, and Wales almost loses his balance, rocking precariously on the edge of his chair before France steadies him with a swift hand on his elbow, which is then just as swiftly withdrawn again.
"I'm sorry," France says, his voice subdued and thready. "I didn't... I apologise if I gave you the wrong impression. That wasn't why I invited you here tonight."
"Right," Wales says hurriedly. "Okay." Of course not. "I... The wine's just gone to my head. Wasn't really thinking."
France's nod is vague but accepting, though he doesn't seem inclined to add more until Wales asks him, in slight desperation to move on as quickly as possible from the shame of his terrible misstep, "Why did you invite me, anyway?"
France opens his mouth as if to answer, but after looking around the restaurant, and no doubt noting that every other table around them is now filled, he shakes his head. "Not here," he says, beckoning for their waiter. "I think you and I should go for a walk."