Author's Note:
Hello, I'm changing the updating format of this fic so please keep reading the Author's Note if you'd like to know. Otherwise, please continue onto the story. You won't miss anything major by skipping this A/N.
I'm going to try to make updates more frequent so that I'll be able to finish writing most of this before I go back to college. From here on out, though, the chapters may be a bit shorter (two or three thousand words rather than my usual four or five thousand). I hope to wrap this up in sixteen chapters total, because there's still a lot that needs to happen but I'm trying to finish this quickly before I have to balance writing, school, and work starting later this month. Now I'll be devoting all of my time and effort to writing this, so expect to see them more often!
Updates may not necessarily be on Fridays anymore. Now I'll just be posting chapters as soon as they're finished, so they may take anywhere from three days to a week. Thanks for bearing with me!
"I brought your dumb bread. Get up, you lazy ass."
Francis grumbled and rolled over, clamping a pillow over his ears.
When Arthur had gotten up to start coffee at nearly seven that morning, Francis had hardly budged. He hadn't made any indication that he was going to move at all until an hour later when he called Arthur over, told him to go get breakfast from a nearby bakery, and rolled over once more. By the time Arthur retuned, having traveled across the neighborhood and bought two loaves of bread, Francis still hadn't moved a muscle. Arthur was reminded of how Francis had confided that he wasn't a morning person during their first coffee date a few weeks earlier. That was obvious now.
It must feel strange to be able to sleep in so much after having to get up early for school and work for such a long time, like waking up each morning during the first week of summer holiday and easing into the peculiarity of a lack of responsibility. Arthur wondered what Francis would do with his time now that he had no classes or jobs to fill his schedule.
Arthur threw the curtains back from the window to fill the room with the brightness of the brilliantly clear sky. He knew that the air outside was thin and cold, but he couldn't deny that the city looked lovely under the blue sky – as long as he was able to view it from the slightly-warmer apartment, that is.
"Wake up," Arthur repeated, pulling the curtains back from the next window as well. "And I know you're awake, so don't pretend that you're not."
"Bread first," came Francis's muffled voice.
"A compromise, interesting," replied Arthur. More than anything, he was relieved that Francis was finally showing signs of movement at long last. Satisfied that the room was sufficiently lit, he made his way over to the table where the loaves of bread lay beside the laptop. "Butter or jam?"
"Just bread," came the muffled answer.
Arthur cut a slice from one of the loaves and tossed it at him.
Francis sat up with a scowl. "What was that for?" He mumbled, picking up the bread and taking a disgruntled bite.
"For laying around like a slug." Arthur set a cup of black coffee on the bedside table beside Francis. "And you're the kind of person who can't walk a straight line without a cup of coffee first, right?"
"Rude." He dropped the bread on the table and reached for the coffee mug. "You're my guest, and this is how you treat me," he mused, only half-serious.
Arthur let out a snort of laughter before taking a seat at the table and cutting a slice of bread for himself. "I dunno, I'd say having your breakfast delivered right to you is a pretty good deal."
"Not when it's thrown at the side of your head." Francis stood, dragging the biggest blanket he could find towards the table with him like a cape as he tried to balance his breakfast in one hand.
And such was the start of their morning. All of the awkwardness of the previous day was as good as forgotten as they chatted over breakfast, Francis having returned to his normal self after a cup of coffee. Arthur's enthusiasm about the clear weather led Francis to list off the ideas he had for the day: he wanted to go to mass at Cathédrale Notre Dame and stop by the outdoor market on the way home for ingredients for dinner, but the schedule allowed time to wander and do as they pleased.
So, after finishing breakfast and squabbling about where to go first, they made their way to the nearby metro station to catch a train to the inner city.
They were still quarreling over whether or not the Paris Metro was more efficient than the London Underground when they stepped onto the platform at a station near Île de la Cité. Francis was having none of Arthur's insistence that the Tube was much cleaner and more punctual.
"It doesn't matter how clean it is if you end up ten kilometers from where you're trying to go," Francis argued, shepherding him up the stairs at the end of the platform. "There are, what, ten different routes? Fifteen? And good luck getting on the right line."
"It's simple if you have at least a smidge of directional sense," Arthur quipped. "Damnit, it's freezing!" he shouted as they reached the top of the stairs and were hit with a gust of frigid air.
"Language, Arthur, there are children about," Francis said before pulling his scarf up over his nose and sticking his hands in his pockets.
"Little French kids who don't know what the hell I'm saying," he grumbled, zipping up the jacket that Francis had lent him earlier that morning. Two degrees Celsius had sounded warmer than this while he was checking the Paris weather report online and deciding what to pack a few days earlier. He'd been under the impression that he'd be getting away from London's dreary skies with this vacation, but he ended up woefully unprepared and thankful that he and Francis wore roughly the same sized jackets.
"You'd be surprised, actually." Francis freed one hand from his pocket and pointed to the right. "This way to the bridge," he announced, shoving his hand back into his pocket and leading the way.
The air was thin and frigid and Arthur couldn't stop himself from shivering as he trailed behind. Although he enjoyed arguing for the sake of arguing, especially with Francis, he wasn't actually all that put out about the weather, or the metro, or anything for that matter. He was, more than anything, excited to finally be out and about to explore the city after two days of settling in.
They turned a corner and made their way through a narrow alley that opened onto a bustling street, then crossed over to a white bridge that stood pristinely over the Seine. The sidewalk to the right of the bridge was crowded with pedestrians, and Arthur grabbed hold of the hood of Francis's jacket to avoid being separated as they crossed over the murky river.
Then, as they reached the other side of the bridge and arrived at the island, Cathédrale Notre Dame stood tall and regal before them, looking just like Arthur had seen on the cheesy postcards that adorned his own family's refrigerator - Al had taken a weekend trip to Paris during his stay in England, and Arthur had found postcards and pictures hidden in his room for weeks afterwards.
It looked even bigger in person, with its twin steeples and magnificent sculptures above the grandiose doorways. The cold stone of the cathedral shone bright with the light of early morning, the stained glass windows reflecting a sort of faint glow onto the ground below.
All around them, people were hurrying towards the gigantic doors in preparation for the service that was to begin any minute now. The sweet scent of vanilla hung in the air, likely trailing from beneath the umbrella of a nearby crêpe stand, it's vendor at work spinning crêpe batter across a large, round skillet as a customer waited, speaking rapidly into the receiver of a cell phone. Unseen birds chirped despite the cold from within the branches of trees that lined the paths at the sides of the building. As the two of them stood, the cathedral bells began to ring out the start of mass.
"It's been a while," said Francis, smiling as they stood before the towering church. "Come on, the priest won't like it if we walk in late."
"I didn't know you were a church-goer," Arthur said after the service.
It was nearing noon and they were behind the cathedral, strolling beneath the trees of a small, geometric grove beneath the church's gothic-era spires. Arthur had treated them to overpriced crêpes from the vendor near the cathedral for a lunch light enough to leave them hungry for dinner, which Francis was hinting at being a big deal.
"Not exactly," Francis responded after another bite of sugar and lemon crêpe. "I'm more of a Christmas Eve and Easter person, though I skipped this December. Or whenever have some time on my hands – which, up until now, hasn't been too often."
"Same here," Arthur admitted. "My parents always made me go with them when I was a kid, but I stopped when I went into sixth form. Alfred went to mass once and hated it because he didn't like sitting still for that long. He managed to convince my parents that we had homework every single weekend afterwards." Arthur laughed a little before continuing. "Pretty soon they just stopped inviting us, and I haven't been since."
"That's a shame," he responded, crumpling up the empty crêpe wrapper and putting it in his pocket. "You're always welcome to visit this Easter, if you'd like. There's usually a nice service at Cathédrale Sacré Cœur over in Montmartre."
Arthur finished up the last bite of his cinnamon crêpe and folded the paper neatly before slipping it into his pocket. "I might take you up on that," he said, stretching with a yawn. "Even though it's hard to sit through such a long service. I've never really liked going to church."
"Yeah, you spent half the time ogling at the stained glass," said Francis, turning and beginning to walk around to the front of the cathedral.
"It was very nice to look at," Arthur said in his defense. "It's practically a national monument. And you seem to be forgetting that I don't actually understand French. Did you expect me to pay attention the whole time?"
Francis shrugged, not bothering to slow down.
Arthur hurried along behind him. "Are we headed to the market now?" he asked. He was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers from the biting cold, so he couldn't help but be glad that they were finally moving at a brisker pace.
"We'll get there soon enough," said Francis. "I want to show you something on the way, though. Have you heard of the Pont des Arts?"
"Doesn't ring a bell," he responded, resorting back to shoving his hands in his pockets in hopes of finding some warmth within the fabric.
"You'll know it when you see it," Francis assured him before leading the way to a bridge on the opposite side of the church than where they had arrived at the island.
They passed a vast hospital, and then, after reaching the bank of the Seine, they passed another that was even more expansive than the first. They were large buildings, obviously old as well, but not poorly-maintained. Much like the rest of the buildings in Paris, the hospitals were regal and stood tall along the banks of the murky river, proud assurances that their patients were in good – and, of course, competent – hands.
After a short walk on the street beside the bank of the river, Francis took Arthur by the sleeve of his jacket and directed him towards yet another bridge.
Arthur almost asked why they went in such a roundabout way instead of crossing back the way they had come, but he was stopped by the realization that he recognized the bridge on which they were standing.
It was a pedestrian bridge hardly more than ten meters across, and the chain link fences beneath the railings were covered with what were unmistakably metal locks, like the ones found on lockers in the schoolyard or bikes chained up in the city.
"Love locks?" Arthur asked, turning one in his hand and seeing "Emmanuel + Alina, 2007" engraved on the back.
"Sorry for the indirect way back to the metro station," said Francis, beginning to walk ahead. "I like to pass through here when I have the chance. It's been a while."
Arthur jogged to catch up with him. "Al's told me about this bridge, but I didn't think it'd be this big," he said. "Don't they worry about the bridge collapsing under the weight?"
"Not particularly," he responded. "Anyway, there's not much to do here if you don't want to read the locks, but I guess it's a place to say you've been."
"They're interesting to read though," said Arthur, stopping for a moment to glance at one of the locks. "Look, Emilie and Ana, 2011. Two real people who put a lock here, and there've got to be thousands of others..." He hurried to keep up, having fallen behind once again. "Is there one here that has your name on it?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
Francis let out a quick laugh, but it was different than usual; it sounded more like a giggle. "More than one," he said, grinning as if recalling a fond memory. "I usually visit this place on dates. There were a few young women who were more than happy to add another lock to the fence."
Arthur decided against shooting a quip about monogamy. It wasn't his business, after all. "Alfred's name's on one of these," he said after a short pause. "No one else's. Just his. He took a picture to prove it."
"I hope you're not going to try to look for it," came Francis's voice as he continued towards a stately building at the end of the bridge. "In that case, I'll just head back to the apartment. You'll be here a while."
"Of course I'm not, don't be ridiculous," said Arthur, unable to stop himself from shivering as another gust of cold wind rustled through his jacket. "It's too cold to be out here any longer." He hurried up next to Francis, unashamedly pressing his arm against his in the cold. "Besides, it's enough to know that it's around here somewhere."
Francis hummed in agreement. "Cold?" he asked after a quick glance at Arthur.
"You're asking as if you haven't heard me say it repeatedly," Arthur grumbled, the novelty of the bridge beginning to wear off once they stepped back onto the opposite bank and were confronted once again by a frigid gust of wind.
"We'll be back home soon," said Francis, laying an arm over Arthur's shoulders and pulling him closer. "To the market first, and then home for hot coffee. Is this good?"
"Fine," Arthur sputtered, not knowing whether Francis was referring to the plan or the close proximity – it was alright by him either way. In fact, he was counting on the cold to hide the heat on his cheeks that he knew he could only thank Francis for.
They caught the vendors packing up at the market after a metro ride across the city and were able to haggle prices of cheese and garnishes before heading back in the direction of the apartment. The space between them had increased during their time on the metro, but Francis had linked his arm through Arthur's on the walk to the house, the bag of newly-purchased groceries secured beneath his other arm.
Arthur hardly paid attention to Francis's incessant small-talk as they wove their way through hordes of pedestrians to reach the boulangerie on the quiet side street. He occasionally interjected with a "hm" or "is that so," but found his mind to be lingering instead upon the memories of the day, his first real day in Paris. The cathedral, the Pont des Arts, even the simple street market was lovely. All in all, it had been a wonderful debut – apart from the lasting cold, of course.
He glanced over at Francis, who was now telling an animated story about a time when he and Antonio stayed at the bar until three in the morning and then woke up outside the opera house with no recollection of how they arrived there. Francis's arm, linked casually through his as they walked, was warm even through their jackets. Arthur didn't quite know what to think about it. Francis seemed to be acting more or less the same that he had been during the past few days. Was this just a show of friendship? He'd kissed Antonio upon their reunion, so there was no doubt that he was affectionate with his friends. But should he just take it at face value, or was there something else that he should be looking into?
"Arthur?" Francis said, jolting him out of his thoughts.
"Huh?" Arthur shook his head to clear his mind, and realized that they were standing before the front door of Francis's apartment. He'd hardly noticed that they had arrived, let alone walked up the stairway.
"You still have the key," Francis reminded him. "These groceries are heavy and it's still freezing out here. The sooner, the better."
Arthur jammed a hand in his pocket in search of the key that he had forgotten was still in his possession after the bread run that morning. "Right, sorry," he said, fitting the key into the lock and letting them into the frigid room.
It was even colder in the room than it was outside, and Arthur pulled a blanket from the bed and draped it over his shoulders before inquiring what they were going to do now.
"Make dinner," said Francis, setting the groceries down on the table and moving into the kitchen.
"It's only two in the afternoon," Arthur protested, looking longingly at the coffee pot on the counter. At this point, anything warm would be welcome.
"It'll be at least four by the time we're finished," Francis retorted. He handed him a green bell pepper and a paring knife before setting a saucepan on the stove and lighting the burner. "Chop that, will you? There's a cutting board over here…"
It turned out that Francis had been right to start dinner early. Just as he had said, it wasn't until after 4 PM that they were able to sit down to a meal composed of cheese soufflé, salad with feta, and fruit parfait. Arthur wondered how he'd managed to find the fruits and vegetables in the dead of winter. Probably imported from Spain or somewhere where it was still warm.
Arthur curled up on the bed with the blanket heaped over him. He'd gotten up hours before Francis had, and now he was starting to notice just how tired he actually was. The early waking paired with the walking they had done that day made him ready for an early evening.
"It's barely 5 PM, what are you doing going to sleep now?" Francis asked from the kitchen. He'd just finished washing the last of the dishes and was now working on organizing them back into cupboards. "Are you serious?" He hung up a dishtowel and jumped up to sit on the counter. "Who's the lazy slug now?"
"I'm just resting," Arthur protested.
Francis shrugged and flicked on the television. "Take a nap," he said, not attempting to pursue an argument for once. "But if you wake up when it's still light out, there should still be enough time to go into the city again."
"Great," Arthur muttered, covering his face with the blanket and allowing himself to nod off without so much as changing his clothes.
It was so warm beneath the blanket in comparison to the room, and Arthur didn't attempt to stifle a yawn that rose to his lips as he settled in against the pillows. The quiet stream of French from the television faded into white noise in the background as he lost himself into the waiting darkness and warmth…
His eyes snapped open when he felt hands shaking him awake. "S'the matter?" he asked, his words stringing together as he sat up. The analog clock beside the bed read 22:16. "Something wrong?" The lamps and the television had been turned off and the only sources of light were Francis's computer screen and the window overlooking the street.
"Sorry for waking you, but I thought you'd want to see this," came Francis's voice. He took Arthur by the hands and coaxed him towards the window.
Arthur squinted out the window, trying to focus his eyes against the sudden light. His sight cleared with a few blinks and he gazed through the icy windowpane into the street below. In his groggy state, it took a few moments to register what he was seeing.
Shimmery spots of silver were drifting down from the gray sky, and the ground and rooftops were blanketed in a powdered-sugar dusting of white. A heavy silence had fallen upon the street while he slept, the only color coming from the orange light of the lamp in front of the building across the alley. Not a single pair of footprints tarnished the light covering, leaving the drifts to lay in undisturbed peace on the sidewalks.
"Snow," said Arthur, his mouth hanging open with the realization. He'd seen snow fall once in London, but it had been an unforeseen incident in the spring of one year. There was something different about this, something more untroubled. He felt the corners of his mouth turn up in what he realized was a smile.
Arthur stumbled back towards the table and searched around for his jacket in the darkness. He wrapped it over his shoulders as he slipped on his shoes before feeling his way into the hallway. Once out of the front door, he treaded his way down the stairwell as best as he could in the dim light. Ignoring Francis's inquiries, he stepped out of the doorway at the bottom of the stairs and into the newly fallen snow.
The thin layer of powder covering the street crunched beneath his shoes as he stepped upon the sidewalk. The air of silence that had been prevalent even from the window above was even more ubiquitous now that he was standing beneath the heavy sky, soft flakes sparkling in the lamplight as they drifted gently to join the thin blanket of white covering the streets and sidewalks.
"Are you seeing this?" Arthur asked, looking over his shoulder to where Francis stood in the doorway.
"Of course," he replied. He was smiling, but looked half-frozen as he leaned against the doorway with his hands in his pockets.
Arthur reached down to pick up a handful of snow, then watched as it began to melt at his touch. His hand stung as if pricked by needles until he dropped the ice back to the ground and put his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
"Happens every few years or so here," Francis said. He smiled over at him in the dim light of the streetlamp. "I'm glad you're here to see it."
"Me too," he replied as a shiver ran through him. "Still cold as fuck, though."
Francis laughed. "You should go back to bed. Sorry for waking you. I just thought you should see this because it might not still be here tomorrow."
Arthur mumbled in assent before taking one more long look down the street and making his way back up the narrow staircase to the apartment. He fell at once into the bed after tossing his jacket and shoes beside the door. He didn't care that he was still in his slacks from before his nap. Now, he just wanted to go back to that warm place he was in before Francis woke him up.
Beside him, Francis powered down the laptop and set it on the floor. Silence fell after Francis had settled in. And then, "Arthur?"
Arthur jolted out of what had been the first clutches of sleep. He'd already started to fade into the relaxed world of blankets and warmth. "Huh?" he asked, trying to bring himself to attention once more in order to focus.
There was a pause, and then Arthur felt Francis drape an arm around his waist. "Is this okay?" came his voice from the darkness, barely more than a whisper.
"Yes," Arthur said without hesitation, surprising even himself with the immediate reply. His own lack of time spent debating it was worrying to him. He'd fallen asleep many times with Alfred's arms around him, whether on purpose or by accident. It had been seven months since then. This hardly felt any different. But under normal circumstances, it should have taken him longer to decide whether or not he was comfortable falling asleep in someone's arms once again.
A voice in his head asked if these circumstances were really that abnormal.
He quickly shut up that outlandish notion. He'd been in love before, and this was different. Completely different. Francis was just some person he'd helped out once or twice, so there was no way. Right?
"Arthur?"
"Hm?"
The pause that followed lasted such a long time that Arthur assumed that Francis had fallen asleep. Although he was intrigued about what he had to say, Arthur guessed that it was a better idea to let him sleep. However, the answer came nonetheless.
"I'm sorry for dragging you into this."
Arthur adjusted his pillow. "What do you mean?"
"I didn't mean to pull you along through this," he said, seeming to take his time in choosing his words. "I was just thinking about how strange it is that you're here right now. That you even agreed to come along." He paused. "I guess it's more than that, though. I mean… I guess I'm talking about all of it. Since the first day. And more recently, especially. I'm sorry for getting you involved with that sort of shit."
All of it from day one… He didn't really mean that, did he? And "more recently…" He could guess what Francis meant by that, but there was no chance that he wanted to talk about it any more than he had that one morning in Arthur's kitchen. "Don't apologize," Arthur said. It would be best not to bring up what he had been previously referring to. "I had time to spare, so don't think you're imposing. You needed help and I'm glad that you got it."
Arthur nearly apologized himself, realizing how corny and cliché that sounded, but Francis interrupted him. "That's not—" He stopped without finishing whatever it was he was about to say. "I mean…"
It seemed as if he wanted to continue, and Arthur waited patiently. After a while, though, it became clear that the conversation was over. Arthur realized that he was the only one awake when Francis's breathing grew deep and even.
He gazed over Francis's shoulder at the square of orange light that the window cast on the opposite wall. Tiny shadows drifted silently down, reminiscent of the snow falling without a hint of sound into the street below.
Arthur closed his eyes, slipping his own arm around Francis's waist. His fingers and toes were still cold and numb from the walk through the freezing powder, but the blissful warmth shared between the two of them offered a welcome comfort after the bitterly cold excursion, and Arthur graciously fell into an untroubled sleep once again.
He hadn't thought about the notebook at all since he'd tossed it in his suitcase along with the rest of the things that he had packed up to bring to Paris. Vacations have a strange way of doing that – they make it so easy to keep difficult thoughts out of your head by filling your mind with the wonders and curiosities that always come around while visiting a new place. But if he had checked the book before he laid down his head that night, his carefree mood would have dissipated like smoke.