The next few weeks were about as normal as life in college could get, with a disturbing lack of the Frenchman I had met. Because we were studying different things, I was an English Major and he was an Art major, we didn't see each other too often, but when we did, it was usually with the band. I was slightly sad not to be near him. He seemed like an ok guy. I sighed and continued with my homework about all the writings of Edgar Allan Poe from my poetry class, even if it was almost 11 o'clock at night. Suddenly, there was a knock at my door. I wasn't expecting any visitors due to the late hour, but i went to answer the door anyway. "Hello?" I asked sleepily, not looking at the person in the door way immediately. "Bonsoir. I'm sorry for bothering you so late, I was just wondering if- Arthur?" I looked up and saw Francis.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here? And so late, at that!" I asked, shocked.
"I recently moved out of my dorm because I finally had enough money for my own apartment!" He exclaimed. "I didn't know you lived here though!"
"Well, there's been no reason to tell you!"
"Perhaps there will be soon?" He asked, flirtatiously. He always did that. Said something with a perverted meaning with a freaking flirty tone. And it pissed me off to no end.
"Shut the hell up you goddamn frog!" I shouted at him.
"Relax! I'm only kidding! Mon dieu!" He laughed.
"Damn you. What the hell do you want?"
"I need 1/2 cup of sugar for the macaroons I'm making," he smiled.
"why are you making macaroons at 11 at night?!" I asked the idiot frog.
"I always cook when I can't sleep," he replied.
"Why?"
"Do I really interest you that much?"
"No. I just want to know why the hell you need sugar at 11 o'clock for macaroons!"
"Would you like to help me make them?" he asked as I led him into the kitchen, despite me being completely pissed off.
"I can't. For one thing, I still have homework that's due tomorrow, and for another thing, I'm a godawful cook," I confessed as I got the sugar out.
"Well, my papa was a chef, so I'm pretty good at it. I can show you how to cook if you'd like," He offered.
"No use turning down a nice offer," I replied.
"Manifque! Want to come down the hall to my apartment so we can start?"
"Can't. I have homework for my Poetry Analysis class, and I still have homework for my minor study, Creative Writing."
"I should've known you'd be an author."
"What's that supposed to mean, frog?!"
"Nothing! But...I can help you with your homework over coffee tomorrow," he said.
"If you make it like a date, I will murder you, bastard," I glared at him.
"I won't, unless you want it to be one!" He smirked, and I glared again, "Now, what time is your homework for your poetry due?"
"After lunch."
"And your minor study's homework?"
"Two days."
"That should be easy," he smiled as we walked down the hall to his apartment. Why I went, I still don't know, and I doubt I ever will.
"So, how do we start these bloody things?" I asked as we walked into his room.
"Well, I've already pre-heated the oven, whisked the egg whites, added the cream of tarter to that, and added the last bit of superfine sugar I had, but I couldn't do more than that thanks to my lack of regular sugar," he confessed. I looked at the counter and saw that a mixing bowl had a peaking sort of mixture. The oven was at about 325 degrees.
"Why do you need only a 1/2 cup of sugar?"
"Because that's all I had, and I need a full cup," Francis said, completely serious as he walked back to the counter, sugar in hand. I watched him combine it with something-I think it was a type of flour-in a food processor. Once they were combined, he sifted the mixture. He worked quickly, and professionally. It was completely different from the Francis I met with when we are with the band.
"What do you want me to help with?" I asked, quietly as if not to wake anything in his quiet apartment.
"Do you know fold this?" he asked as he sifted the flour mixture over the peaking mixture.
"Fold?"
"No...well, there's not much to do right now that I can't take care of."
"Why not teach me how to fold it?" I suggested.
He contemplated my suggestion for a while, then finally agreed. He brought me over and began showing me how to fold the mixture. I wasn't good at it at all, so he just took over and soon the mixture was smooth and shiny. I simply sat back and watched his expert hands work, as if they were making a wonderful work of art, not just a French treat. A couple of times he had me do something, but it was always small, never major. I quite enjoyed just watching him work though, so I didn't mind.
Once each batch of the 35 macaroons were done, we sat together and let them cool. It was about 11:45 once they were done, and he had decided it was a good idea for us to have coffee. "So, for how long have you wanted to be an author?" he asked as we ate the snack and drank the coffee. I honestly preferred tea, but I didn't want to be a bother.
"Since I was a young boy. I always loved telling stories and creating characters and such. What about you? Why an artist, and not a chef?" I asked, grabbing another macaroon. They were amazing, and this was my 5th. He had put chocolate as the filling, and I'll admit, I have a sweet-tooth.
"Well, like I said before, my father was a chef, but my talents and passions have always lived in art," He smiled. He took another macaroon before continuing, "My little sister, Lucille. She's always loved cooking like my father, but I have always been an artist like my mother," he sighed with a nostalgic smile.
"Wish my family was as nice as yours sounds," I said.
"Why isn't nice?" He asked gently. "And mine's not that great. If it was, I'd still be in France," he said.
"Well...my mum and dad...they died when I was 13. My two younger brothers were barely a year old and 4, while my three older brothers were 16," I frowned.
"I am so sorry, Arthur. I didn't know," He whispered.
"It's fine. It isn't your fault, and my brothers were good at taking care of me, Peter, and Kaelin," I said.
"Well, that's good," He smiled at me, his eyes showing the slightest bit of pity.
"How old is your sister?" I asked, eager to change the subject, and take the pity out of his eyes. I hated being pitied.
"She is 18. So about 5 years younger than me, but she acts like a grandmother sometimes," He laughed. I smiled and laughed with him. He had a warm, happy laugh. We sat and talked for a while longer, and I learned he grew up in Paris, that Matthew and Alfred are his cousins on his mother's side, and that he used to be infatuated with Jeanne D'Arc. I revealed that I had loved music for ever, as my Mum was a musician and that's how she met Dad, that I'd known Alfred since we were children thanks to our fathers being co-owners of a hospital, despite him living in New York, and that I was in love with magic and the Harry Potter series. Overall, Francis wasn't a bad guy. He was quite fun to hang out with if you can get over all the idiotic comments and perverted-ness.
"Why did you move to New York with your brothers after living in England for so long?" He asked and I stiffened. "Yo-you don't have to answer though," he said quickly, noticing that that was a sensitive spot.
"Thanks, Francis...It's still a sore spot, even to this day," I said, softly.
"I'm sorry for asking," he replied.
"It's fine. I don't mind too much," I said, making sure he didn't feel bad.

We continued to chat until about 1 o'clock in the morning, when I could barely keep my eyes open. Francis simply laughed, walked me back to my apartment, tucked me in as though I were a child, and kissed my forehead.

I woke up to my alarm blaring my favorite song at 5:30, as usual. The main difference was that today, a sticky note was on top of the clock. I peeled it off, and read the following:

Bonjour, Arthur!

I hope you know I had fun baking with you last night (though I did most of the baking). I hope that our agreement last night will work out. I'd really like to see you again, mon ami.

Much love,

Francis~3

I took the note with curly handwriting and crumpled it up. That stupid Frenchman and how goddamn nice he was. I want to hate him. I really do. But I just can't be mean to him for some reason, and it pisses me off to no end! I wasn't going to see him. Nope! I'm not going to have a coffee with him. Grumbling about how awful he was, I got in the shower, and got ready for my day.

As I prepared a cup of tea, I saw the bastard left me a plate of macaroons. Damn it. I'm not gonna get away from him so easily, now am I? Sighing, I took several macarons and walked outside, only to see him waiting for the elevator.

Damn.