To all the reviewers: I'm so glad you guys like where this story is going! Here's hoping this chapter lives up to expectations.
The total chapter count has moved up to 5 because I have a better idea of where I want the plot to go.
"Just a moment!"
Arthur's door is ajar as he calls through it, and Francis takes the liberty of pushing it open. His secretary, Francis has been informed, is gone for the day, leaving only Arthur to receive him for their evening appointment. Francis recommended a diner over text, and much to his surprise, Arthur offered him a ride there and gave him directions to his office.
Arthur's office resembles what Francis knows of Arthur: well put together, but with a few things left a mess. The drawers of his filing cabinet are well-filed but left open; his floor lacks even a scrap of paper, but his trash bin is filled nearly to the brim with takeout boxes and files he seems to have forgotten to recycle. He clearly has a system to organize the papers on his desk—it's only that there are a lot of papers.
Francis's mind flashes back to Jeanne. It's been doing that more often in the past two weeks, as if his last conversation with Arthur at the café opened a floodgate he'd just managed to close. Jeanne had the same sort of controlled chaos, only with the odd textbook or plastic skeleton tossed in the bunch. Francis's mother had had to clear her desk after the funeral; Francis couldn't bear to.
On the bright side, he's been thinking over Arthur's suggestion—that he makes offerings to God—and thinking of changing his approach. He usually defaults to churches with his clients, but he could stand to make some connections at newer venues. He owes it to himself as much as anyone.
He only hopes Arthur hasn't been too put off by their abnormally intimate conversation. He still regrets his breach in professionalism, and he hopes Arthur will forgive him for it.
Arthur is lifting piles upon piles of papers, and finally murmurs an "aha!" and extracts three pages stapled together. He only notices Francis when he sets the pile down.
"Ah, Francis," he says. Francis raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment. He's allowed to call Arthur by his name, but they had no time to figure out what to call Francis.
"Thought I'd let myself in," says Francis. "Unless I'm intruding?"
"No, it's fine—I'm almost done," says Arthur. He looks down to skim through the document he's uncovered, finally finding a key term in the middle of the second page. He turns and makes notes on his laptop, brow furrowed.
Francis looks around further. Arthur hung only five things on his wall: his undergraduate and masters of law diplomas, his authorization to practice law in the state of New York, a photo of the day he accepted his current status with his firm, and a smaller photo of him and Alfred Jones. Jones offers the camera his widest smile while Arthur stares at the camera with a calmness Francis hasn't yet seen in person. They're sitting at what appears to be a company-sponsored dinner. Odd. Isn't Jones in business, not law?
"That should do it," mutters Arthur. He closes the laptop with a decisive snap and stands. "Ready to go?"
"Whenever you are," says Francis.
Arthur puts on his jacket and follows Francis's gaze to his photo. "Ah, yeah. That was taken three months after Alfred first asked me out."
"Where is it?"
"His company's Christmas dinner. Our firm is their primary legal counsel."
"You met through work, then?"
"Sort of," explains Arthur as he wraps his scarf around his neck and gestures to exit. Francis follows Arthur by half a step through the sea of office doors and cubicles. "My first major assignment as an associate was to handle Eagle Industries, and I ended up barking at a man for nearly taking off my foot on his rush to the elevator. Turns out it was him—he was trying not to be late for his meeting with me." Arthur shakes his head with a slight smile.
"Unconventional, I suppose," says Francis. He matches Arthur's smile. "But I always enjoy unconventional meetings."
"Especially when they lead to unconventional matches, I suppose," says Arthur. His smile has diminished, but it's still there. He ushers Francis into an elevator and stands with his briefcase held in front of him with both hands. If his posture hadn't deteriorated with every step away from the office, Francis would suspect he was preparing to meet the head of the firm.
"Ah, there are no unconventional matches—only unexpected ones," says Francis. "What is a conventional couple, anyway?"
Arthur looks prepared to answer, but stops himself. The elevator dings, breaking the sudden silence. "This way," he says quietly.
Francis wonders at the sudden change in atmosphere, but when he holds open the parking garage door for Arthur, he follows his eyes to Francis's wedding ring. Of course—Arthur meant to ask about Jeanne again, and decided not to.
Does Arthur feel as guilty about their last conversation as Francis does? He can't be upset about not keeping up professional behavior—he's the client, after all, and he has the power in their discussions. Maybe he worries he's overstepped personal boundaries; he wishes he hadn't asked about Jeanne.
"Jeanne and I were hardly conventional," Francis says. Arthur's eyes are on him the moment he speaks, even as he leads the way down the aisle to his car. "If anything, she gave herself eternal grief because she couldn't cook to save her life."
Arthur laughs. He sounds as if he's been taken by surprise, like he doesn't do it often. Francis likes how his face lightens. "I know that grief," Arthur says. "I once burnt macaroni and cheese."
"By leaving it too long?"
"By forgetting the water."
"I don't think she was quite that bad," says Francis with a chuckle. "No offense."
"None taken."
"But she did lament that she never knew what spices to use, so she'd end up using none of them. She'd also forget how long to leave things cooking, so we'd have pink chicken and limp asparagus in the same meal. So I cooked for both of us."
Arthur stops beside a dark blue car—small, practical, the front seats empty but the back covered in dry cleaning. He unlocks the doors and gestures for Francis to take the passenger seat. "You cook?"
"It's part of what made us unconventional." Without being asked, Francis takes Arthur's suitcase and sets it at his feet. "She would study all day, and I would cook after finishing my own work. As we ate she'd usually tell me what she was learning about nutrition, and I usually ended up taking her recommendations for the next meal."
"Sounds like a good time," says Arthur. He starts the car and pulls out of the garage, but says nothing more. Francis wishes he knew where to go from here. He doesn't care much to talk about…well, about his current meal situation. He skips more meals and eats at more diners and cafes than he cares to admit.
He hesitates to ask Arthur about Mr. Jones's eating habits. Based simply on Jones's venti Frappuccino which he drank at their first meeting, Francis can deduce that neither of them are the healthiest of eaters. And furthermore, he wonders whether discussing Jones in general is the best idea.
You're being ridiculous, he tells himself. It should be assumed that if you've agreed to marry someone, you love him. Why, then, does Francis think back to Arthur's slumped shoulders and lost gaze so often? No one who loves his fiancé should look that haunted, not after describing a lifetime of wishing for love.
He decides to test his limits. He can already call Arthur by his first name—what harm is a little more investigation, to see where the leeway stops?
"May I ask—er, when Mr. Jones proposed?"
"Ah. Right. About…oh, three months ago?" says Arthur. He keeps his eyes on the traffic, which is heavy. They're driving to a diner Francis knows and recommends, one of his many sites for planning wedding matters. "We contacted you only a few weeks after."
"And how did he do it?" When Arthur glances at him, Francis assumes an innocent expression. "I find engagement stories help me plan weddings."
"Do tell," mutters Arthur. "Alright, so we'd been dating for about six months."
"So soon?"
"It was maybe a bit rushed, yes," says Arthur, "but what can I say, Alfred throws himself into things when he gets an idea he likes. And he liked the thought of marrying me."
"So where did he ask?"
"He took me to dinner at Serendipity 3."
"Ah. Home of the world's most expensive ice cream sundae."
"Precisely. He ended up eating it by himself—I couldn't stomach the thought of, well, stomaching gold leaf. But at the bottom of the crystal goblet was the ring."
"Ah." Francis tries to sound appreciative. Arthur sees through him.
"Yes, it was dripping in fudge and melted ice cream. I couldn't wear it that evening. But the ring itself was lovely," says Arthur.
Francis's eyes flash to Arthur's hands on the steering wheel. Arthur glances too, and blushes. "I, er, don't like to wear it at work," he says. "Not quite used to the weight of it."
"It's—jarring, I'm sure," says Francis. He doesn't mention how, when he first bought his own engagement rings, he'd worn his around the house all day. When Jeanne came home early he'd had to jam his hands under the faucet and pretend to be knuckles-deep in washing a pot. He'd been so ready to wear it, so ready that he'd offered Jeanne hers only three days later.
As if through telepathy, Arthur senses Francis's doubt and his hands tense on the wheel. Francis watches pedestrians cross the street in front of them. How can Arthur really drive in this traffic every day?
"Music?" Arthur asks abruptly, and without waiting for Francis's answer he jams a button on his stereo. Francis recognizes the tune that plays and smiles to himself. He chooses to drop the topic—he hasn't heard this song in ages. His finger taps along on the car door.
Arthur said he likes rock, and Francis supposes the Beatles count.
"You say yes, I say no," he sings under his breath.
"You know this?" Arthur asks.
"It's pretty standard of the Beatles, isn't it?" asks Francis. He looks back from the window to find Arthur looking at him with a thoughtful expression.
"Alfred didn't know it," Arthur says, half to himself.
"He probably knows other songs," says Francis. "'All You Need is Love', at the very least."
"Of course that would be your first choice," says Arthur. Just as he begins to grin, the horn behind them blares. The light has turned green.
Arthur mutters his apologies and speeds into the next block. "Hello, Goodbye" croons on into the ending, which Francis sings quietly. He grins to hear Arthur hum along too.
The track changes as they reach their next light.
"Thank you for the days,
Those endless days, those sacred days you gave me.
I'm thinking of the days,
I won't forget a single day, believe me…"
The tune is cheery, but Francis doesn't know the band. The lyrics, however, cut into him as if his body is made of wet paper.
"What—er, what CD is this?" he asks.
"Oh? Just my cheer-up mix," says Arthur. "This is the Kinks. 'Days', you know it?"
"I bless the light,
I bless the light that lights on you believe me.
And though you're gone,
You're with me every single day, believe me."
"…No," says Francis. "But I like it."
"Glad you do," says Arthur. If Francis's eyes grow glassier as he looks out the window again, Arthur has the good grace not to comment.
"I swear it was a sign," says Francis.
"Francis, you think everything is a sign," says Gilbert. He, Francis, and Antonio are at one of their favorite bars, at the booth against the wall that overlooks the pool table and allows them to people-watch as they chat.
"No, this time it really was!" says Francis.
"Francis," says Antonio with the smile that lives on his face nearly every minute, "I'm as Catholic as she was"—none of them need to confirm who she is—"and I have to tell you, you see signs more than she or I ever did."
"She saw callings, I see signs. It's complementary, really," says Francis.
"And another reason you two were meant to be," says Gilbert with a mocking edge to his voice. He receives an elbow in the ribs from Antonio and remembers belatedly to be kinder about Francis's dead wife. "But look, it was just a playlist."
"In Arthur's car," says Francis. "A playlist made by Arthur."
"And you think she was speaking to you in your client's playlist?" Antonio asks. "I could think of better places."
"Like hiding messages in your husband's pasta sauce," says Gilbert, snickering into his beer. Jeanne may be off-limits for Gilbert's snark, but Lovino isn't. Antonio elbows him again anyway.
"And what's she even trying to say?" asks Antonio.
"She wants me to move on."
Antonio and Gilbert look at one another, and then back at Francis. "Dude," says Gilbert. "We've been trying to say that."
"Gently," adds Antonio. "And we're very proud of you for going back to work. But maybe the best way to go back to work would be—I don't know, to not think of Jeanne at every moment."
"That's not a very reasonable request," says Francis. "If it were Lovino—"
"Oh god, here we go," says Gilbert. He stretches his arms across the table as if trying to reach Francis and physically stop him. "Let me just stop you guys right there, because I can't hear it anymore. Antonio," he says, pointing, "I thought you were supposed to be the supporting one. Francis," he says, turning to him, "alright, we hear you. Jeanne spoke to you. Great. Topic over."
"Topic not over," says Francis.
"Well say the rest before I fall asleep right here."
"I…I think Arthur doesn't love his fiancé."
Antonio's "Huh?" is delivered at the same time as Gilbert's "So?"
"So," says Francis pointedly to Gilbert, "how can I plan a wedding for two people who don't love each other?"
"Does the fiancé love Arthur?" asks Antonio.
"Arthur says so," says Francis.
"Wait, you asked?" says Gilbert. "Isn't that, like, against your professional code or something?"
"He volunteered it," says Francis. He omits that Arthur only volunteered it after Francis asked him. He didn't have to respond. "But even if it's not true, how can I plan a wedding like that?"
"What about that Dutch guy who married that Ukrainian girl?" asks Gilbert. "You didn't think that was a marriage of convenience or something?"
"Anyone who has a reception that large—"
"I have a question," interrupts Antonio. "Why did you say, 'Jeanne wants me to move on', and then the next thing you wanted to talk about was how your latest client doesn't love his groom?"
Francis and Gilbert both blink. "Well…you wanted me to go back to work, didn't you?" asks Francis, but he feels like he's giving the wrong answer. "This is a work topic."
"Yeah," says Gilbert, now turning to Francis with an appraising eye. "But you usually focus a lot less on your clients and a lot more on what your clients want. But not this time. Now all we hear about is Arthur."
"What? No, I—"
"'Arthur drinks black tea in our morning meetings,'" quotes Antonio, "'but when we meet for dinner he takes oolong.'"
"'He would fit right in at Woodstock,'" Gilbert adds, grinning. "'He probably has a guitar somewhere, I'm sure of it.'"
"So I don't get out much," Francis mutters.
"Don't you have another client?" asks Antonio. "I don't even remember their names."
"He didn't tell us their names," says Gilbert.
"So what are you trying to say?" asks Francis. "That I…?" But the conclusion doesn't reach him.
Antonio and Gilbert look at each other. Between them they seem to conclude that Gilbert will explain it too bluntly, because Antonio is the one to turn to Francis and speak. "Maybe you like him."
"…What? So soon after…?"
"Timing has nothing to do with it," says Antonio, smiling wider. "If he's meant to be yours, it doesn't matter when he appears. Just like how Gilbert found his current boyfriend after—"
"Oh god, I almost forgot Tonio is as much of a romantic as you are." Gilbert rubs his eyes as he addresses Francis. "But look. This might not be such a bad thing for you—you just gotta be careful."
"How so?" asks Francis. He means the first part, and Gilbert catches his intention.
"You're always a fan of love, right? S'why you got into the wedding business. Maybe all you need is a crush to get yourself going again."
"A crush?" Francis doesn't blush—he's nowhere near that new to romance—but he feels a stirring in his stomach that he thought died with Jeanne. It's heavier, creakier than he remembers, but alive.
"A crush," Gilbert confirms. "Just…like, put it in your work or whatever. Whether he's in love with his fiancé or not, he's taken. And maybe you can go out and find someone kind of like him." Gilbert grins. "Maybe you've already had a wife and now it's time for a boyfriend."
"Does he know you're bisexual?" asks Antonio. "If he does, maybe he'll stop flirting so much."
"He's not—"
"He has to be," says Gilbert. "Or else why's he asking you to meet him at work?"
"He said he wanted to discuss along the way."
"But you didn't, did you?"
Francis thinks back to their conversation. Work, meeting Jones, cooking, Jeanne… "Then maybe he wants tips. He asks about Jeanne a lot."
"Maybe he wants to know what type of person you like," Antonio volunteers.
"I really don't think that's it," says Francis. "If anything, I think he wants to know…" How to have that relationship with Alfred Jones, he finishes in his mind. The words catch in his throat, and he doesn't quite know why.
Gilbert smirks and leans back in his seat. "Francis, it's not such a bad thing. And if you need a random song to give yourself permission to start moving on from Jeanne, I can't complain." His countenance turns serious. "Just…don't let anyone get hurt. You included. And definitely try not to ruin your business. Just let yourself like him, and give him the best damn wedding he ever wanted."
"And you think that will help me," says Francis.
Gilbert looks at Antonio. Francis rather wishes they would stop doing this, discussing how delicate they need to be with him, but deep down he knows they're some of the best friends he has on this continent.
"Well," says Antonio finally, "this case is the only thing that's made you smile since the funeral."
Francis plants himself in his window-side seat at Antonio's café. Antonio himself is out, but Francis wouldn't be surprised if he's instructed Lovino to keep an eye on him.
Francis has to spend today picking up some new clients. He only has two cases, barely enough to live on, but even despite his low workload he's spent the past three days on various calls about flowers. Arthur has an oddly specific opinion on what flowers he wants, and half of them won't be in season by the date he and Mr. Jones have set.
Francis would be lying if he said he wasn't procrastinating on finding more clients. He only sees Arthur about once every two weeks—largely because Arthur claims emails will go straight to his junk mail—and still he wants to keep himself available.
For him, a small voice whispers. For Arthur.
He tries to squash the voice—which sounds suspiciously like Antonio, the more he thinks about it—but he can't help but turn the idea of a crush over and over in his mind. A crush—an infatuation, an illogical urge that chooses his object of affection with criteria completely invisible to Francis.
Alright, not invisible. He likes Arthur's smile. He likes when he laughs. He likes when he talks, and when he listens. But he likes that of anyone; it's very reasonable to like those things.
The way he taps his steering wheel to his music, the voice whispers again, the way his smile tilts to one side when he thinks of his English family sitting at his reception. The way he wistfully touches his favorite photos of the venues you show him. The way he drinks his tea intentionally, with two hands holding the cup only by the fingertips.
His eyes.
Francis shakes himself. Arthur is intriguing and fun and yes, handsome, but he is a client. Francis may believe in love, but he really ought to invest more in his love for his work.
He logs back into his advertising accounts and sets about updating some of his banner ads. It's a start, and maybe it will remind him of how much he likes designing.
He's settled into his task and done half an hour's work when the door opens.
Arthur throws himself into the chair across from Francis.
Francis looks up and blinks. Arthur's hair looks as if it hasn't been left alone, as if hands have torn through it many times, and his cheeks are pink. Francis can't identify the emotion in Arthur's eyes—anger? embarrassment? shame?—but he looks positively feral.
"Sorry, didn't mean to barge in," says Arthur. He clearly does mean to, but Francis is too surprised to comment. "I just wanted to get away from the firm for a while. Took the day sick."
"Oh?" asks Francis.
"Alfred surprised me at the office."
"…Oh?"
"D'you know how hard it is to make partner?" asks Arthur abruptly. His gaze jolts up to meet Francis's as if he's about to test him, as if Francis is already failing him. "Not to be an associate, like I am, but a full partner."
Francis shakes his head.
"It bloody well sucks," says Arthur. "You portion out every minute of your day—every minute, you have to log it—and prove you're productive, prove you're trustworthy, good with numbers and sheets, all of it. You suck up. You schmooze. And ultimately what you're building, and mine's taken me six bloody years to build, is your reputation.
"And then some—some idiot decides to storm your office, the one you worked so hard for, the one that assures you you might actually be going somewhere with the firm, and he calls you pet names and goes—goes kissing you in front of everyone!"
"Oi!" From the counter at the other side of the café, Lovino barks at them. "Keep it down!" He glares at Arthur, then turns his gaze to Francis as if Francis has any control over the circumstance.
"Oi, piss off!" Arthur calls back, and only through a pleading look from Francis does Lovino not begin a shouting match right there. Arthur throws both his elbows on the table and knots his hands in his sandy hair. "I'm bloody humiliated."
Francis stares at Arthur, who only breathes heavily. He pushes his laptop aside. "You wish he wouldn't have come?"
"Not…I mean, he can come. Fine. I like surprises, and I suppose in his own way he was being romantic. But he just…doesn't he listen, when I tell him how much I need to be taken seriously? Of all people, he ought to know how much you need to keep a reputation in our lines of work. I'm already bloody young enough as it is, I'm competing with associates twice my age, and I don't need someone swooping in with an overly loud voice and nicknames that'll echo around the office for ages, when I have to work—and oh god, if the board saw me wasting time, they'd—"
"They'd what?"
"I mean…they wouldn't fire me. But I'm already on rather thin ice. Messed up a deal," he explains, "lost my client a few thousand. Not a lot, and Alfred covered for me, thank god. But they have their suspicions. And god knows if they can actually pin something on me, even if it's just immaturity or lack of dedication, I'll never make partner."
"So…" Francis is trying to find a place to put this new information about Arthur and Mr. Jones. "Wouldn't your marriage then be a…conflict of interest? If your firm serves his company?"
"On the contrary. Once I make partner, I won't even be working for Alfred's firm anymore—I'll have larger cases. And connections, which are perhaps even more valuable."
"Connections thanks to your husband?"
"Thanks to the trustworthiness of the firm, which largely came from my and Alfred's work." Arthur's embarrassment and anger begin to fade, and he straightens into a proper lawyer. "I may not personally handle Eagle Industry's affairs, but my underlings will. There'll be an unspoken expectation of cooperation between our two firms—maybe one that will even lead to a permanent relationship. If they can look past my one fuck-up, Alfred and I could serve them. Together."
"I still don't fully understand why you need to marry to do it."
"Well. That's not why we're marrying. There's love, of course. And…well, there's another unspoken expectation within our firms. In the past, oh, forty years, no bachelors have ever been promoted."
"Oh?"
"They're all family men. Career men, sure, firm devotees and so on, but when the board that evaluates you for partnership only takes on people who have achieved a certain stage in life, nobody wants to take any chances by deviating. Me included."
"And here I thought you were going to say you were marrying Mr. Jones for his citizenship."
Arthur barks a laugh. He's still cooling down, but it's a start. "Not quite. I do believe I'm painting a worse picture than it really is," he says. "Alfred does love me, and yes, there's partnership for me to think of, and promotions for Alfred too. But we'll help each other, yeah? We understand each other's worlds. I doubt anyone else would take me with the life I lead, anyway."
Francis frowns so sharply that Arthur's attention is drawn from his own thoughts. He looks back at Francis with a lightly puzzled expression.
"I don't believe that," says Francis.
"What, that we understand each other?"
"No, that no one else would take you."
Arthur's puzzled expression turns bitter. "Well you don't see people exactly lining out the door, do you?" says Arthur. "It's always been that way. Why d'you think I made the wishes I did?"
Francis breathes deeply. He doesn't know why he finds himself so offended by Arthur's self-deprecation. There's a lot concerning Arthur that he doesn't know, he's realizing. "I don't mean to judge," he says. "I'm only confused. You sound almost…ashamed to be associated with…" He shakes his head. He doesn't want to go down that route. "You say Alfred understands your life, and then you say he's ruined your reputation. It doesn't sound like he understands."
Arthur's anger sobers. "Maybe he doesn't," says Arthur. "Not that one aspect, anyway. But I'll make him understand." His lips twist into a wry smile. "We'll have the rest of our lives, after all."
"And you think he's the best you'll get," says Francis.
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "A bit judgmental for a wedding planner, isn't that?"
The realization drenches Francis like a cold shower. He bows his head, chagrined. "I'm sorry. You're right, that's very rude of me."
"Hey," says Arthur. His tone is so casual it makes Francis look up. "I'm the one who came here, aren't I?"
"That's true," says Francis. "I thought you just wanted to leave work."
"Y'know, I came here a few times before, actually. Seems I only ever want to stay when you're here."
Francis's stomach nearly turns inside out.
"I hope you don't mind it," says Arthur. "It's just, you listen well enough. You're probably the best friend I have in this city, and I didn't realize until I was on my way here just now." He laughs ruefully. "I hope you don't mind. I seem to have hired you to be my listening ear more than anything."
Francis needs to take a second to calm his racing heart. At first he swore Gilbert was right—he's flirting, says the voice, he's always been flirting and you're a widow, but you don't care do you, you don't care because he's flirting and you like it—but as Arthur continues he finds the will to squelch the tiny voice once more. Francis doesn't need a crush, and nor does Arthur. Arthur needs a friend.
Francis can do that much.
"I don't mind at all," he says. "I really don't."
Please let me know if Arthur's discussion of his and Alfred's work doesn't make sense. I'm reading a book with a character who's going through similar stuff to Arthur (minus the whole marriage thing), and but I think the model only extends so far.
Fair warning: this will probably be my last post until mid to late next week. I have to write 20 pages for my honors thesis this weekend, so...yeah, that'll take up a lot of my time.
