a/n: Thanks to Ioni24 for the review and to anyone who followed/favourited
Francis arrived outside Arthur's apartment earlier than he was expected. He parked his car and walked towards the huge, expensive looking building. Of course, Arthur must earn a lot of money, judging my his extraordinary prices. Francis pressed the buzzer.
"You're early," Arthur said, after two rings.
"How did you know it was me, cher?" Francis said.
"Come up." Arthur said, and unlocked the door. He was in the middle of packing, something he didn't usually like to do on the same day as travelling, but it had been a busy week and a very late night. He went into his bathroom, and took his toothbrush, catching sight of the slight lilac marks under his eyes and sighed. Arthur wasn't a vain man, but his job depended on his appearance. He put his toiletry bag in his suitcase and zipped it shut, just in time to answer the door to Francis. Francis was leaning casually against the doorframe. He smiled with great smarminess, and produced an iris. Arthur suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He had to get into character. Instead, he took the flower in one hand and Francis's hand in the other, and led him into the apartment, kicking the door the closed. He led Francis into the kitchen, straight past his bedroom. Nobody but him ever entered the bedroom. It was rare that he allowed clients in his home, he had few friends, no non-work related lovers.
It was all wholly unnecessary.
"Do you want something to drink?" He said to Francis.
"What do you have?" Francis said.
"I have tea. And there's water." Arthur said, he lets go of Francis's hand, which was softer than he'd imagined, even for someone as delicately good-looking as Francis. Arthur wasn't a liar and he wasn't blind, Francis was attractive, beautiful even, and graceful, and adamant that relationships were a worthwhile venture. So why was he single?
"Do you have any coffee?" Francis said.
"I'm afraid not." Arthur said. "I'd offer you something stronger but you're driving and I don't trust French drivers."
"Ah."
"What?" Arthur said, flicking on his kettle and deciding he'd make himself tea even if Francis wasn't having any. It was his own damn fault he arrived twenty minutes before he was supposed to.
"I was wondering how long it would take for you British charm to shine through." Francis said. "At least in France we drive on the correct side of the road."
"Do you want a drink or not?" Arthur said, impatiently dropping the teaspoon on the kitchen top.
"I suppose I'll have tea. Do you have chamomile?" Francis said.
"Of course." Arthur said. Francis watched him make the tea. The kitchen was nice, modern, but looked criminally unused. The oven, a new, expensive model looked like it hadn't ever been in use. Arthur put a mug down in front of him, and sat down at the breakfast bar next to him.
"So, we're going to your Canadian cousins wedding. He's marrying an Ukrainian. Why are they having it here?" Arthur said.
"Kat moved here with her siblings a few years ago." Francis said. "Matthew had a year studying. They met and fell in love very near the place they're getting married."
Francis was looking off into the distance as he spoke, as if enamoured by the air.
Arthur heard a ringing from the next room.
"I hope you'll excuse me, I can hear my phone." Arthur said. "I won't be long."
He took his tea into his bedroom to take his phone call, so Francis assumed it would take long. He waited until the door closed to slip off his stool and move further into the kitchen. The walls, like all the rest of Arthur's apartment were painted a deep red, almost burgundy. He slid his fingers against black marble and silver stainless steel. He opened the refrigerator. It was empty, except for milk and a six-pack of expensive beer. He closed it and looked in the freezer drawer. Only frozen microwave meals. He closed it and checked the cupboards. One was full of tea and nothing else, but every kind of tea. Another housed chocolate biscuits, most likely for dipping in tea. He rolled his eyes. At least, Francis thought, there was a bowl of fresh fruit on the breakfast bar. The apartment was smaller than Francis had imagined. The living room barely a separate room from the kitchen. There was no television, just a wall lined with hundreds of books. A desk looking out the window held a laptop, a set of notebooks identical to the one Arthur carried, and a collection of pens that all looked the same. Francis picked one up, making note of exactly where it went, and flicked through it. Names, addresses, services, payment. Dozens and dozens in one book, maybe hundreds of clients in all of them. He slipped it back. A cabinet between two doors, which Francis assumed was Arthur's room and the bathroom, was home to a small but varied personal bar. There was a sofa, the same deep red as the walls, and a mahogany coffee table, with a small pile of newspapers and magazines. A cream throw blanket was slung over the sofa, rumpled. Francis stood and looked around, noticing that the apartment could easily belong to just about anyone. There was no artwork on the walls, no photographs of family or friends. No trinkets. The only thing that was remotely unique or personal to Arthur were the notebooks.
Francis sat on the sofa. He could hear Arthur talk but couldn't make out the words. He leaned back, and felt something dig into him.
Another notebook. No, not just any of the notebooks. Arthur's current one. Francis went straight to the last page, expecting that to be where his information was.
Instead, he found information on a Sophie Smith, who was twice Arthur's age, maybe more, and wanted a lot more than a wedding date.
"Excuse you." Arthur said. "Are you reading anything interesting?"
"I was -"
"You were snooping." Arthur said. He held out his hand. Francis gave the book to him. "This is exactly why I don't have people here."
"You were with someone last night." Francis said. "Even though I am your client -"
"You can't possibly be jealous for a whore? I have other clients. Faithful ones, like Ms Smith. We've been doing business for years." Arthur said. "Have you finished your tea? We really should go."
"You shouldn't call yourself a whore, Arthur." Francis said.
"I won't in front of your family, don't worry." said Arthur. He went in his bedroom, wheeling out his suitcase.
"That's not what I meant." Francis said. "I do not like that word, cher."
"And I don't like that word, frog, or any French one for that matter." Arthur said. "I am a whore, people give me money and I give them sex. Sometimes people just want company, or to lie to their families like you do. I don't know what Gilbert told you, but primarily, this is what I do. The only difference between me and someone on the side of the road is useless pHd and some airs and graces. Now, be a dear and grab my suit. It's hanging up on the bathroom door." Arthur said. Francis took the suit and followed Arthur out the door, not commenting when Arthur didn't lock it.
88
Francis had to break the silence.
"You look tired, mon ange."
He caught Arthur glancing in the mirror.
"It was a late night last " said Arthur, "I was marking."
"What -" Francis said. "I see."
Arthur had gritted his teeth. He'd wanted to say, I was up late fucking a woman thirty years older than me, but he didn't. He'd promised himself that as soon as he sat in Francis's car, he would be charming. It was hard. Especially with how apparently tired he looked.
"I didn't mean anything by saying you looked tired, ange, I was just concerned." Francis said.
"I don't care." Arthur said. He sat up straighter, adjusting his seatbelt to avoid wrinkling his shirt. He stomach rumbled. He probably should not have skipped breakfast.
"Hungry?" Francis said. "We could stop off at a service station, if you want. It's not exactly fine dining, but you sound like you need it."
Shut up, frog.
"No, thank you." Arthur said. "I'm fine."
"You look pale." Francis said. Arthur undid his top button.
"Feel free to stop insulting me at anytime."
"More green, really, ange."
Arthur pressed his hot forehead against the cool windowpane.
"Please pull into the next services." Arthur said. Francis felt a flash of concern in the pit of his stomach.
As soon as they stopped, Arthur dove out the car and half-ran away into the building. Francis locked the car before jogging after him.
Arthur cursed his stupid doctor as he pulled his head out of the toilet, wiping his mouth with a wad of toilet roll. He swayed as he pulled himself to his feet, but regained his composure. He pulled the flush and walked out. Francis stood next to the sinks, arms crossed.
"Is everything okay?" Francis said. "Were you sick?"
Arthur ignored him, splashing his face with cold water. He dug in his pockets for mint, and stuck two in his mouth.
"I get car sick." Arthur said, quietly. "My stupid doctor messed up my prescription and I didn't get strong enough medication. Usually I can -"
"Arthur, don't worry." Francis said, putting his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "It's nothing to worry about."
"Yes it is, I smell like vomit and I look bloody terrible." Arthur said. "I skipped breakfast so I wouldn't have much to throw up, but I still..."
"You should eat, then." Francis said. "You're running on empty, no wonder you're tired.
Francis pushed a strand of Arthur's hair out of his face.
"And you look fine. Once you've eaten you'll look even better, and you can sleep in the car. You don't smell of anything bad, either." Francis said. Arthur wasn't sure how reassured he felt, but nodded, smoothing his shirt and flashing a smile at Francis.
88
After an early lunch, Arthur felt slightly more settled, if still nauseated.
He told Francis he'd go to sleep as long as he promised to wake him up thirty minutes before they arrived at their destination.
He'd always hated travel by car. Trains and boats were okay, air travel was fine as long as he had a drink. But cars had always made him sick. It just got worse.
He still felt hotly embarrassed.
This didn't add to his allure at all. This didn't make him at all attractive.
Soon enough, he'd let himself relax enough to fall asleep.
