The rest of lunch consisted of severely awkward conversations, nudges from Elizabeta, obnoxious comments from Alfred, and wandering gazes from Gilbert to me from everyone else. I couldn't blame them. It was strange and unprecedented. However Eli saw this working was something only her mind could process. It was cliché and weird, simply put.

Gilbert, I found out, was a Communications major and was getting the final pieces of his thesis in place. He was planning a road trip through most of Western Europe where he'd take note of the usage of media in six different countries, France included. He was planning it for late February, enough time for the trip and enough time to finish writing it all for submission.

His brother, who I realized was the blond, would groan when he started speaking about the trip.

I guess not everyone's into the freelance type of living.

Ludwig decided to major in Business, so it made sense for the stoic disposition. Still, you'd have to wonder what kind of life they led at home to wind up being so different.

Francis was studying was studying Fine Arts and his senior project was way easier in my opinion: he had to submit a compilation of reports on different pieces of over twenty art periods. He started rambling on about Rococo and only Lovino paid attention by then, albeit it with plenty of cursing when Francis wouldn't "capture the spirit of the Italian Renaissance correctly". Roderich, the dark-haired guy with the mole, was uptight, although apparently interested in the conversation as well. I briefly heard from Eli that he was studying Fine Arts too, but for music.

I also picked up on the sexual tension between them.

Interestingly enough, I had barely heard about Lovino, Feliciano's twin, until now. Feliciano would focus in class, unless it was updates on Antonio and Lovino, so between the glares of the instructors and our concentration, there was hardly any time for family history lectures. I had to admit, though, it was genius to divide and conquer. Their grandfather was the headmaster and helped guide them to culinary and art history career paths for Feliciano and Lovino, respectively. I was envious; Feliciano wouldn't have to be as cutthroat to make it in the culinary world. He had the necessary connections.

I would graduate after another three and a half years, hopefully with more recommendations – enough to make it out there – and then have to figure it out from there. Ontario and New York were promising enough; the rest of the world was a labyrinth of more cuisine to discover. I was already behind. There were kids out there who started as young as ten, eleven, twelve, they had a future paved for them. I had honors classes and APs and Alfred to think about. And family? Another responsibility.

I'm too burdened by reality to gallivant across Europe. Sorry.

Okay, so yeah, I was a little bitter, only a bit. It was just… there. The appeal. The notoriety. The connections. The charm. The charisma. The intelligence. All three are geniuses in their own right, everyone knew that by day one, and the rest of their circle is too. Alfred fit in perfectly; I was the outlier, the unknown.

Maybe it came across my face pretty obviously by the time everyone was done talking about their lavish lives because afterwards Francis came up to me. Maybe I wasn't as good at hiding my poker face as I thought.

"Matthew."

A firm hand rested on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks as I headed to my next class.

Twisting back, I saw it was the infamous Frenchman himself. "Yeah?" You can't blame me for being apprehensive, the man was as intimidating as he was handsome.

He hesitated slightly, the cool composure cracking a little at the edges. "Come to the party we're having on Saturday. It'll be these same people here, and then some. Sound up to it?"

"Uh, can I have some time to thi–?" His fingers squeezed my shoulder tightly. "Never mind, yeah, I'll be there, definitely," I said, mumbling, "If I don't die getting there that is."

The blue eyes of the Frenchman in front of me peered down at me with confusion.

"Nothing, nothing." I waved off the stare, my leg starting to fidget and twitch noticing I'd have to haul ass to get to the classroom and not get cursed out in smooth French. I let out a sigh of relief once Francis' hand left my shoulder, patting it once before giving me that same inquisitive stare as before.

Just as he was turning around, I willed myself to ask what was bothering me. "Francis, hey." He turned back. "Why… why invite me? I mean, I get Alfred because he'll probably be there anyway, but I don't tend to have…" I waved between the two of us, referencing the exchange, "this happen to me. So, I don't know it's just, awkward." I rushed out, "Not because of you, because of me. So, yeah, I, yeah, I don't know really know where I was going with this. Sorry."

The last thing I expected to hear was a low chuckle from the blond. It was a laugh that gets to your core. It was like silk and rich at the same time. It fit him, down to the stubble on his jawline and the deep blue eyes; it was all striking. The whole group of them.

"Don't worry about the details, mon ami," he claimed, already tightening the scarlet scarf looped around his neck, gracefully waving as he went on his way.

Damn French kids with their propriety.

I had less than five days to figure out what Elizabeta was planning because, let's be honest, I'm the kid to have flour all over his face, more focused on mousse than on trying to make the flour-face sexy (see Antonio, Feliciano, Eli). There was something going on and I wanted to know what it was.

After I got to class and made said mousse.


I could feel the sweat dripping down the back of my neck. I could feel my right arm throb from the pressure I was putting. I could feel my lungs tighten up.

The French had an aversion for mechanical tools, everything was by hand, so that meant I was going to be ripped in one arm by the end of my fourth year. Yesterday was bad enough, but this was a thousand times worse. Last semester was basics with cutlery and proper knife upkeep. This was putting yourself to work.

The rooms were tight and small enough without everyone hunched over a bowl and whipping the creams into a smooth consistency. It wasn't a room made for camaraderie, it was a place for efficiency and ruthlessness and sweets. It was fantastic.

The instructor called time and you instantly felt the heat of the kitchen lessen. I wiped away the coat of sweat on my face, leaning forward onto my hands as I awaited my critique. Out of the corner of my eye I could see one girl whimpering from the harsh nature of the teacher, rapidly brushing off the tears that just kept coming back. Her partner started to comfort her, but it was too much for her; she walked right out.

I sighed, thinking about how that could be me. I mean, probably not because I already had Alfred taste-testing my food and he was picky enough as it was. Sure, he'd eat everything, but nefariously criticize it if it wasn't exactly to his liking. I was immune. You stand there and you take the pointers; I didn't come here to have some rendezvous away from my parents, I came here for the learning. As long as I'm here I'm going to think about my food and my future.

"Williams."

"Oui, monsieur."

Too thin.

Good sugar content.

Needs less manic whipping, more paced and precise strokes.

Not too horrible.

I think. I melted back into my stool as he continued to make his rounds. I started thinking about what to make for dinner tonight – Alfred and I agreed to one "us" dinner a week, cooked by me, to appease our parents. He still criticized me for following through because, according to him, they wouldn't know if we actually ate together or not. He had a point, but it was still nice to get together; things seemed a little more normal, no delusions of grandeur.

Letting out another sigh while I lazily thought about what the menu would be, I caught several eyes peering over at me from across the aisle. There was a green pair of eyes glancing at me through long lashes, Antonio gazing over, seemingly coming to conclusions. He looked away quickly enough, yet there were still others. Elizabeta was whispering to Feliciano next to her, mumbling to herself at times, and speaking to the Italian for confirmation.

It all led me to wonder if the invitations the other day didn't have a hidden meaning behind them. Besides trying to be set up with the albino German, maybe they took pity on me. I don't doubt it, it wasn't often that I was at one of the major parties if Alfred didn't drag me. Chances were I'd be practicing new recipes.

Unknowingly, I smiled a bit at the thought of having new people try the foods. It was nice. It was… new, I guess, and unexpected.

Orientation stressed the generic student cooperation. Orientation talked about spending time with one another in morale boosting events.

Orientation didn't stress parties, alcohol, smoking, any of that. Orientation didn't stress what to do if you're socially inept and an introvert in a school full of partying international students.

Engaging in this crowd had to be taught by the very same students I was with, and I think I was going to have to learn from these people whether I wanted to or not.


Thanks to everyone who has read thus far! I appreciate all the support and I look forward to continuing this story. I have high hopes for this story.