A/N - Yep, this is one of the sappier things I have written. Even including that Spamano fic which was just fluff with a side helping of sweetness.
Oh, in case anyone cared, La Mouette means The Seagull. Named after the pirate ship in Daphne du Maurier's Frenchman's Creek. Great book. Read it now :)
Arthur went to the café La Mouette every day.
Mondays Arthur never had enough time for more than a quick chat and a cup of tea. But Wednesdays and Thursdays he'd spend as long as he wanted at his table by the window, working on his next novel or chatting to Francis - usually both. Fridays Francis would try out a recipe for a new cake, and he'd invariably end up letting Arthur have the first taste.
On the weekends Francis might be too busy to stop and chat, but whenever he could he'd catch Arthur's eye and smile, and Arthur's heart would give a little skip and it would be enough.
But it was Tuesdays that he looked forward to the most. Every Tuesday, Francis would close the café for an extra hour over lunch, and he and Arthur would leave the world behind and do whatever they wanted.
Sometimes when the weather was good, they'd take sandwiches and champagne and picnic by the river. Sometimes they did so when it wasn't, because soggy sandwiches and being soaked to the skin didn't really bother Arthur when he was with Francis. Sometimes they chatted, about whatever came to mind; sometimes they sat together in silence, Arthur scribbling and Francis sketching.
Once, they'd hitchhiked to the next village and had to walk back through miles of countryside. La Mouette stayed shut that afternoon. The week after that, Francis had taught Arthur how to waltz in the rain, and Arthur had realised with terrible certainty that he was in love with him.
Arthur frowned and started walking more briskly. He wasn't going to think about that. And he definitely wasn't going to think about Sunday, when he'd had to flee the café because Elizabeta, Francis' part-time helper, had somehow worked out about Arthur's feelings for her boss and was gleefully threatening to tell him.
He'd only barely managed to silence her, by explaining in great detail why exactly it was impossible for Francis and Arthur to ever go out, the most important reason being that the Frenchman was as flippant about his lovers as he was constant about his friendships. Francis would go out with a different girl almost every week, whereas he'd been friends with Arthur for almost a year now.
Arthur reached the café and shook his head in an attempt to banish the thoughts. Ignoring the sign that said 'Closed', Arthur pushed open the door and entered La Mouette. Francis was hanging his apron on a hook behind the counter, and hadn't seen him yet.
"It's Tuesday," Arthur said unnecessarily.
"Je t'aime," Francis said, and Arthur froze.
"It means, I love you." He stepped round the counter and gently touched Arthur's cheek, bringing their faces impossibly close. "Je t'aime," he said again, and Arthur could feel the breath of the words on his lips.
And then Francis closed that tiny distance and kissed him, sweet. Arthur could taste the faint traces of sugar and sweet whipped cream on his lips. He hummed, dizzy with pleasure, and Francis' tongue gently parted his lips.
Arthur was so close to losing himself in Francis when Sunday and Elizabeta suddenly sprang to mind. She must have told him! That was why Francis was doing this now; he'd dumped his latest girlfriend and a new one hadn't come along yet. Elizabeta had told him about Arthur and he must have decided to give it a go.
But what did that matter? A tiny part of him said. You get what you want, he gets what he wants. It's a win win!
Except Arthur would be the one to come out of it with a broken heart. He managed to force himself to shove Francis away and stared at him with undisguised hatred. To think he'd thought that Francis valued his friendship. He was nothing more to Francis than the latest in a long line of momentary flings.
Turning, Arthur fled the café.
