Blurred horizons and salty winds bring Francis Bonnefoy to the conclusion that he loves the seaside, and to be beside it. To close his eyes and immerse in the cool water licking at his ankles while the wild gulls call overhead; it is a sensation no wine, man, or woman can replicate.

This small British beach offers an indulgent sanctuary; it is his own secret place, hardly known to anyone but him and the secretive owner of the lighthouse and accompanying cottage which overlook the bay. As a self proclaimed man of romance and fanciful things, he indulges himself in painting and sketching on the dunes most days, even if sometimes his easel tips over from the weather or the instability of the sand, or his black beret believes it is a seagull, there is no place he would rather be idle and jobless.

Stroking his stubble, he is pleased with today's creativities, packing away. The low sun is casting a dark orange glow across the sea and sand, dancing across the rippling waters and turning the day to dusk, which signifies that he has done a good day's romanticising.

Beneath his feet – his shoes are off and are being carried in one hand - the cool, soft, grainy sand moulds and succumbs to the contours and pressure of his bare feet, and he does his best to hopscotch around the sharp pebbles scattered about; nature's lego.

Francis thinks about how he will have a peaceful walk home in the serene evening breeze, and make himself a delicious hot dinner, get changed into something amazingly comfortable, perhaps have a candle-lit bubble bath as he sips on a fine glass of red wine, and relax. A smile can't help but form on his already glowing face, so he hurries faster to get home, cozy.

Despite his bliss, the route back to the land bridge is a hazardous one full of stumbles and muttered French curses, and there is a cry as he goes over on his ankle. He bites his lip and hobbles onwards with a smile, though when he makes it, Francis curses once more, upon registering a problem.

The land bridge is nowhere in sight.

Instead, a taunting blanket of ocean lies in its place. He groans, and the smile is gone.

It appears Francis Bonnefoy has found himself stranded.

There is no chance he is swimming back to shore, mostly because his hair would get wet – it had just been trimmed and reshaped, mind you; that's not a cheap job – and partially due to the fact that he never learnt how to swim.

He pouts and looks about for an alternative; for a second, thinking about simply laying on the rocks until the tide goes back out like a damsel in distress. Perhaps he'll join a family of seals and live off limpets foraged from the rock pools.

Pulling himself out of his depressive internal monologue, Francis looks up. The sunset has disappeared over the grey horizon and Francis is left with nothing but the vast pinprick stars and the lashings of cold rain beginning to fall on his face. He groans desperately. This island he's on only has one house on it, and that is the lighthouse owner's cottage. The lights aren't on inside, he notices, so he wonders if he could ease the doorhandle and let himself in.

Being rational, he can probably go inside the lighthouse if it's still open. But the cute cottage did look so inviting... Maybe some kindhearted Samaritan would be inside.

Cold, bony hands stuffed into his pockets, and long hair plastered to the sides of his face, he makes his wobbly way over and looks the simple cottage door up and down. He rubs his numb hands together before pushing the handle carefully, once, twice, harder, thrice, then when that proves ineffective, in a bid of desperation, yanking it up and down and backwards and forwards and putting his foot to the door and-

'...Haven't you ever heard of knocking?'

Francis freezes. That is quite possibly the most boldly accusative, pretentious tone he has ever been spoken to in all his life. His hands raised slightly in the air and a guilty look on his wet face, he whips around, long wet hair slapping his cheeks. He blows a rain droplet off his upper lip and awkwardly acknowledges the stranger, who is decorated by the synthetic orange of the rusty lamplight towering above, illuminating their meeting.

'Uh, bonjour! Good evening, is it not?' He cringes into himself slightly, under the sudden and unforgiving glare of the stranger, the man's "imposing" look is completed by his (hideous) baggy black raincoat, and umbrella, not even opened.

'Just what do you think you're doing to my poor cottage? Are you some sort of burglar? I should have you arrested for breaking and entering!'

'I'm not doing anything! I haven't even broken in yet- ah, wait, no that isn't what I meant to say, merde- what I mean is-'

'You're trespassing!'

'No, I'm just lost- not lost- stranded! Stranded.'

'You're stranded? Well why didn't you check the time for the tides before you came out?' Francis winces at the man's abrasive voice, so pompous it could make the Queen cry.

'Well I'm sorry, monsieur. I hope I have not offended you.'

The stranger radiates absolute lack of interest beneath his harsh expression and bushy, untrimmed eyebrows. He sighs, releasing his arms from the tight fold across his chest. He places his lantern on the ground, and Francis notices a dirty brown and white dog at his feet.

'No. You've only offended me with that awful beret,' the man derides. He brushes past Francis and Francis notices that he smells strongly like tobacco mixed with the salt of the ocean rain they're both standing in. The man coughs. 'I expect you wish to be sheltered, if you are stranded?'

Francis gawks at him, and stutters a gracious reply, cautious of his current bedraggled appearance. 'Oh, I uh, oui, yes! Thank you, I'll be sure to repay your kindness!'

The man scoffs. 'Well, Frenchy - or wherever you're from – you can't stay in my cottage.' Francis winces and the smile drains from his face, not sure whether to feel embarrassed or insulted. 'You could be anyone, and I don't quite feel like harbouring criminals, trespassers, or illegal immigrants tonight.' Francis gasps, having half a mind to stand up for himself and inform the man that he is, in fact nearly a British citizen... in just a five and half years longer. (His outrageously "foreign" accent might make that comical.) Instead, he keeps a straight face and accepts his fate. His wet, dark, freezing fate that would have his clothes ruined and his hair in a mess and oh, God, his hair-!

There is a tense silence as both men contemplate their situations.

It appears Francis may have to revert to his plan of living with the seals. He begins to bitterly thank the man for nothing and turn away, hand on his art satchel.

But Francis jumps, nearly dropping his shoes, as the man suddenly huffs and rolls his eyes.

'God. So difficult... Look. You can stay in the lighthouse until the morning, and then I want you gone. There should be a bench or something you can lie on. I don't know.' He rummaged in his pocket and thrust out a set of old keys, frowning. 'The big one is for the lighthouse door. Do not get any ideas with the other ones, got it...?'

.

With his best efforts, Francis tries to get comfortable on the stale bench, despite the knobbles of wood and nails pressing against his bones, and the blue colour developing in his fingertips.

On the inside, the lighthouse is dark – too dark to see his own hands outstretched if he had not lit the crooked lantern on the wall with his personal lighter – it is cold – too cold for comfort and it's the same exact temperature as outside, though he is thankful for the walls, at least, blocking out the wild, whistling wind.

As he lies, numbly rubbing his arms for what warmth he can get, he thinks about his day. His newly devised, romantic daily routine had been interrupted, and now he is stranded on some small island with no blanket, a sore back, a sore ankle, and a very angry Englishman who Francis was certain had half a mind to push him down the rocks.

Rotten luck, if ever he should have it.

"That man..." he ponders. He'd never seen him before and yet he now knew the man to be the owner of the lighthouse, which he visited every other day. How strange.

He wonders if the man had ever seen him painting, and if he had, how did Francis seem, in his eyes? A lonely artist? Just a weird foreigner?

...Not that he cares. Obviously the man is just a brute who wants Francis to suffer. Francis turns over bitterly on his bench.

Now, he's endured a few hours of deafening, crashing waves and terrifying gales that he's sure would tear the tall building right in half, when there's a knock on the lighthouse door. He can feel himself creaking and his bones ache from the cold, and the hard of the bench. Hopefully this is the man come to bless him with a blanket. Or maybe it's the opposite, and Francis is being thrown out to the mercy of the gulls. Either way his gut lurches for some reason.

Francis' eyes water from the huge gust of wind that blasts through the door as soon as he opens it. "Lovely weather we're having!" is a phrase Francis recently picked up from the English locals, and is how he greets the lighthouse owner at the door, with a hostly (if rather forced) smile.

'Yeah,' he rolls his eyes, dismissive. He looks freezing but hasn't put a coat on, so he's gripping his arms in the same way Francis was before. Both men's hair are being recklessly whipped about by the wind, though Francis suffers a tad more. 'I didn't realise it would be this bad of a storm. This dingy old lighthouse is hardly shelter, and I have hot tea in the cottage. Come on.'

The entire storm seems to stop raging for a brief moment, the moon shines brightly through the dark, booming clouds, the cold goosebumps on Francis' skin disappear, and he stops looking so bitter. 'How hospitable! I don't suppose you have crumpets and scones, too?'

'Watch it.' The man raises a finger in warning, and Francis quickly zips his mouth.

.

Without being asked, all of Francis' belongings are carried through for him, which he thinks is very kind, if quite unnecessary. Francis places his already-taken-off shoes beside the welcome mat, being thoroughly inspected by the man's bulldog as he does. 'Shhh, I'm nice.' He smiles and pats the dog on the head, earning a lick.

'That's Churchill.' He's told with pride, as the dog plods across the floor and hops onto the owner's lap when he sits down after bringing he and Francis' tea in from the kitchen and setting it on the dainty coffee table in the middle of the living room.

'He's wonderful,' says Francis, just about melting into the sofa, biting down on his lip to stop himself from expressing his pleasure. Infinitely preferable to a moist bench. He makes himself very at home, stretching his arm over the back of the settee and cracking his stiff neck. 'I have a poodle at home. Cherie.'

Opposite him, the man nods. 'Lovely. My name is Arthur, by the way.' The man sips his tea as if Francis should have asked his name earlier, so he blushes, feeling a bit foolish.

'Ah! My name is Francis Bonnefoy, monsieur!' Arthur seems satisfied with this, judging by the small roll of his eyes – which Francis now sees are a most intruiging shade of green.

'Well, that's about as French as you can get! No wonder I didn't want to trust you.' He laughs curtly, then frowns, pushing his huge eyebrows together almost into one ghastly monobrow. 'Agh. I should apologise... I'm just very wary of strangers. I hope you can forgive me, though I don't really expect you to. I didn't mean to come off so, um, cruel.' Francis' (trimmed and shapely) eyebrows arch magnificently and he sits forward, almost spilling his tea.

'No! It's alright. I mean, I almost broke your doorhandle off, so…'

'Oh, yeah. You could be paying for that.'

'Ah…'

The two men drink their hot tea, warming their fingers on the mugs and apologising backwards and forwards until Arthur suggests that he have the final apology "for being so..." "brutish", Francis finishes his sentence nonchalantly, and Arthur clicks his tongue, unable to counter.

The cottage is just as beautiful and cozy-looking inside, as outside; the floors are wooden so your steps reverberate when you walk across them, the walls are made of chunky grey bricks which remind Francis of old English buildings – maybe an old pub or a castle, there are heavy rugs laid down all about, one of which Francis is gratefully resting his feet on, and the gentle crackle of the fireplace is the only sound in the dimly-lit room.

'So where's your wife?' Francis asks innocently, looking around at how well kept the place is, he just assumes. Other men Francis' age usually aren't as meticulous as he is. Arthur shifts a bit on his seat and stares into his teacup. Francis suddenly wonders if he shouldn't have asked that. Oh, merde. Is she dead? Oh no. I hope she's not dead.

'I'm not married.' Arthur says. Francis laughs breathily. Thank God... 'No, never married. Probably never will. I'm quite alright being alone. That's just how I am.' Arthur still stares fixedly into his tea, stirring it with a little spoon, almost therapeutically. He's smiling though, albeit wryly. Francis suddenly shakes his head and sets his empty cup on the table.

'Alone is never a good way to be, Arthur. Maybe your future wife will soon crash into your life like a wave on a stormy sea like tonight's, you never know.'

'Yes, perhaps,' Arthur sighs, smiling but then catching himself. 'Ah, crap. I didn't mean to stay up so late, I have work tomorrow. I'll be off to bed, and you can sleep on your sofa there. If you need any food or drink just help yourself. Goodnight, Francis.'

'Oh, bonsoir, Arthur cher! Fais de beaux rêves.'

'...now what does that mean?'

'Have the sweetest dreams.' Francis gives a sickly sweet smile and Arthur scoffs and turns away, shaking his head, which makes Francis chuckle the slightest bit as he watches Arthur retire to his bedroom.

.

So, Francis sleeps on the sofa that night, under a hand-knitted blanket which smells distinctly like homely things. Of course, this isn't his home at all... but it does smell nice.

Arthur had already gotten up and gone to work by the time Francis even stirs the next morning, which (he checks his phone) happens to be around half past ten AM. Nothing unusual there, besides that that is maybe even early for him. White sunlight streams delicately in through the windows, hardly believable that there was a storm the night before. He relaxes and hears the sea, smells the homely smell of the cottage and the slight manly cologne left by Arthur and the burning- wait… what?

A flutter of panic jolts Francis fully awake as he smells a faint burning coming from the kitchen, and stumbling slightly, he checks it out.

"Good morning. I made breakfast. The tide is out, so return home when you please. -A"

Francis reads the (incredibly neat) note left in front of a small plate of hours-old buttered toast and cold coffee, giving a look of pity to the sad pile of burnt bread. A funny practical joke, or a scary truth about Arthur's culinary expertise. Regardless, he eats it – as the polite man he is – grimacing all the way, and downing the cold coffee like a massive, non-alcoholic shot. An involuntary shiver passes through him, then he takes the note and a random pen from the kitchen countertop.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Arthur. Thank you for the delicious food, your hospitality and conversation. I wish you a good day at work – you, and your eyebrows.

*****-***-*** xx"

Francis puts two kisses on the end of his brief note as he leaves his number for Arthur to find - and possibly throw straight in the bin. Making a friend or two in England would not only be useful but good for his health. He sets it down after cleaning the plate.

.

The breath comes out of Francis like billowing dragon's smoke on the cold British air – he's not quite used to it yet and he'd much rather be smoking an actual cigarette. But those are at home and he will have to wait.

His pointy shoes clack along the land bridge and he smiles at a family passing by with their children laughing and the mother and father holding hands, still very much in love. It warms his heart, even in this grey British weather.

Over his shoulder, he takes a last look at the lighthouse before turning onto the streets. The blue, blurred horizon is brighter today and the lighthouse blinks its light his way.

Thinking of those fluffy black brows and those stony green eyes, Francis Bonnefoy keeps his hand on his phone, and comes to the conclusion that he wants to see Arthur again.