Chapter 10 – Rossignol

There were times when Francis regretted not having anyone to share his lonesome apartment with.

But a good month in the company of two very loud people certainly made him appreciate the benefits of living alone.

For one, he didn't have to fear going out of his bedroom and being graced, first thing in the morning, with a pretty much naked Lovino slugging his way over to the bathroom. And second, he didn't have to oblige anyone like he had to oblige Antonia, who demanded that they spend their all of their remaining days together.

She would usually bring Francis to museums or art galleries; she knew he had a particular soft spot for the latter. But he never seemed too enthusiastic…Every now and again she'd hear her friend grumble something about having been to this or that place with a certain 'Arthur', but when she'd ask him about it, he'd smile and pretend it was nothing.

She didn't like it.

And Francis didn't quite like her prying into his affairs, either.

While he had come to London for a vacation, he was starting to question exactly what the hell he had been thinking when he had agreed to Antonia's idea. His time in the rainy and unpleasant city had only earned him two things:

One, work to catch up on back in Paris.

Two, uncomfortable thoughts about a certain enticing blond with the most enchanting green eyes he had ever seen and the sharpest tongue he had had the displeasure to be an audience to.

And neither were good.

In fact, Francis could go as far as to say that it sucked and that he couldn't wait to get back to his own lush apartment where he wouldn't have to be dragged around a city that he didn't like by the one person who had the power to bring back every single damned memory of Jeanne. It didn't mean that he didn't enjoy Antonia's company; no, she was a charming woman. If only she didn't remind Francis of her.

Thankfully for him, though, Antonia usually spent her evenings fast asleep either on her bed or on the couch, with her hands always lazily rubbing her growing stomach, and Lovino was not one to provide entertainment for his guest (especially if that guest was Francis). That of course gave the Frenchman the time to have a breather – he could rest, read a book, or maybe even try his hand at sketching again. He could be productive.

But no.

Instead, every evening of his last week in London was devoted to sitting on a barstool in a more-than-comfortably ambient bar, breathing in thick nicotine mixed with whiskey fumes and drowning all of his earthly sorrows in the contents of a dirty tall glass.

Depressing as his situation might have sounded, though, he was actually quite content. Francis didn't go to that particular small, hole-in-the-wall pub for nothing; he didn't go for the good drinks, either.

He went for the green eyes. He went for the lightness that caught him every time they settled on him. He went for the deep dark pleasure that he felt pooling warmly in his stomach whenever he heard the gruff voice mumble out a surprised "Hullo…"

He went for Arthur.

Francis would sit happily there on his uncomfortable stool and watch the Briton pour beer by the tap with the efficiency of a factory worker. He didn't mind that Arthur would barely glance at him on busy nights; but when he did, the Frenchman felt ecstatic. It was that simple pleasure that made his day, and he didn't mind that he'd be scolded by Antonia the next morning for reeking of cheap wine; it was completely worth it.

One night, it must have been the Tuesday or the Wednesday, Francis had also had the distinct pleasure of seeing Arthur sing. From what he could gather from the replacement bartender, the usual musician had gone out to a funeral or something like that, and so Frej had offered the job to the Briton and his band.

'Unknown Menace'.

'Kind of clichéd for a band name, especially when they're punk…'

But all of Francis' scepticism grew wings and flew away as the music started. It wasn't as much of a disarrayed clashing of strings as he thought it'd be. In fact, the bassist (who was so familiar!) had pulled a flute out at some moment and Arthur had started to sing a folkish tune. Francis wasn't aware that such beauty could be held in the voice of the same rough boy he had met with just a few days ago. And with the flute, it was perfect. The flutist (where had he seen him before?) stood in the warm spotlight diligently next to the singer as the two hums, high and low, mixed like the sweetest of flavours. Francis imagined that it was what love sounded like.

He was also jealous of them.

The two boys – Arthur and the albino, they looked like angels together on the stage. And Francis was not one to miss the red-eyed glances full of adoration thrown to the Briton every once in a while.

'But of course,' he grimaced bitterly as he swallowed his drink and slammed it on the bar, 'everyone gets their fairy tale love but me.'

With an angry lump stuck in his throat, he was ready to leave. But before that, he dared look up one last time to the stage again to see the band start on a livelier tune that the patrons started singing along with. Arthur was strumming the strings and smiling like a child at Christmas; his eyes shimmered with malice and Francis was struck by how young he suddenly looked.

'Then again…' he waved for another round and sat back down, 'I didn't come here for love, and I certainly don't want it with this silly little English boy. So where's the harm in visiting him?'

The noise continued as Arthur's pretty song rang clearly through the air; Francis closed his eyes with a blissful smile. 'His voice is so melodic…Just like that of un rossignol, a nightingale. Perhaps that is what I should call him: my little rossignol.'

Sunday, it was raining.

Again.

Lovino was muttering angrily beside Francis and occasionally looking at the blond, hissing out a string of something in Italian, and then fixing his eyes back on the road. With the amount of times he did it, Francis was afraid that he was putting a curse on him – after all, who knew? Lovino was famous or being close to his Sicilian 'nana' who was a woman very much into the occult. Finally, the Italian broke the silence:

"So, happy to finally be returning to Paris?" He didn't give the other man the time to answer. "'Cause I god damn am."

Francis only rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"But I'm glad you came."

Blue eyes widened in surprise as Lovino kept going.

"'Tonia has – no, 'Tonia and I have been really worried about you. You know, ever since that thing with Jeanne…" A dark hand rested on Francis' shoulder as eyes were kept on the road. "I know I seem like an arsehole most of the time, and that's because I don't like you. But…you're a good man, Francesco, as much as I hate to admit it.

"Lovino—"

"And I know you're probably thinking 'how the fuck did me coming over to a cesspool of a town do anything for me?!', but you needed to get away from Paris. Away from, well, your memories. So I hope you don't hold too much of a grudge for us taking you away from work and stuff…And hey, if you ever need anything, we're always there for you."

The hand was put back on the steering wheel and Francis smiled gratefully. "Merci, mon ami…"

"Hey!" A smirk crossed Lovino's face. "None of that 'ami' shit; I ain't your friend. More like…a casual drinking buddy. Capiche?"

"Capiche…Mon ami tout chou tout cher!"

"Ah, vaffanculo!"

Both the men erupted in laughter as the drive continued; shortly after, they were parking at the train station and Francis was pre-emptively opening his umbrella right outside the red Porsche. Before going off with his briefcase and suitcase, though, he looked back one last time at the driver. Smirking, bastardous annoyance that he may be, Lovino was a nice man, and Francis was thankful for his friendship. He told him to greet his wife for him (she hadn't been able to come as she was feeling very sick that morning), they both said their goodbyes, and then the Frenchman headed off towards the train once more, leaving London and all it held for him behind.

In Paris, it didn't rain every damned day of the week.

In Paris, the streets weren't littered with passed out drunks and garbage.

In Paris, the smog wasn't thick enough to physically feel on your skin as you elbowed your way through the streets.

Paris was, quite honestly, very pleasant.

So why wasn't Francis happy?

It had been a good month since he'd returned from his trip in London and was rolling deep into November, when he had realised that something was off. Very off. And the green eyes were to blame.

They had first interrupted his work; whenever he was filing through his documents and trying to advance at least a little bit through his 'big case', he would catch himself looking off into the distance, watching as autumn would steal the green breath of life from the scenery and wondering if the falling leaves looked the same in London, in that little garden cove…Of course, if he wasn't so lucky, Michelle would catch him and slap him upside the head with instructions to "get his gears back on work before she had to spank him."

The Briton had also been troublesome for his sex life; he was kissing a particularly pretty prostitute one evening in his apartment and was ready to finally satisfy the libido he had put on hold for far too long. But just as he was laying down with her pinned under him, Arthur's face, bright and youthful, chose it a perfect time to pop up into the Frenchman's mind and refused to leave. It made the whole affair incredibly awkward, so Francis simply paid the woman and made her leave quickly. What's worse was that not only was the image still not leaving, but it was making Francis' urges worse.

Francis had also had a few business trips to London during December, and there the memory of those brilliant, beautiful eyes had been only strengthened. When he could spare a minute, the Frenchman had tried to find Arthur again; as he had visited the diner, however, the manager had shrugged his shoulders and said that the boy had quit recently. He couldn't remember his flat adress and the pub had been closed down.

'It's for the best, I suppose.' Francis had been thinking as he was staring at the now-empty building where the bar had been. 'If I can't meet him, he'll probably get out of my mind quicker.'

Back in his home town again, though, he found that the memory of the Englishman was apparently as stubborn as the small man himself because contrary to what Francis expected, green eyes like murky water still haunted his very best dreams. It was somewhat torturous, and the Frenchman had at first been very angry that he couldn't get over a silly little man that he hadn't even liked all that much. But his brooding didn't do anything to fix the problem, and eventually he found himself able to ignore it for the most part.

He figured that it was a minor inconvenience that would go away at some point. It wasn't anything that he should dwell on.

Because it would go away soon, right?

It was December.

Francis lounged on his nice beige couch, watching as the snowflakes floated lazily down from the clouds, covering Paris in a sparkling sheet.

The television was broadcasting some kind of Christmas movie in the background. But Francis never really had cared for seasonal films; they seemed a bit too happy for his tastes. Too unrealistic.

A crystal flute of champagne rested, lonely on his mahogany coffee table, along with a few 'Joyeux Noël' cards that he hadn't really looked at yet. He wasn't going to bother with them anytime soon, either; they could be answered later. Francis glanced at the small fake tree that he had brought down from his closet a couple of days ago – he may have been spending the holiday alone, but he could at least offer himself a little bit of Christmas spirit. Even if the plastic pine looked oddly cheer-less with its branches empty of decoration and with no presents under it… It didn't really matter, though, and Francis had been much too lazy to find a few bulbs or tassels for it anyways.

He bent over, minding the returning pain to his back, and picked up the flute. A thoughtful swirl of the golden liquid before he lifted it up with the grace of a prince and gave a toast to an imaginary guest. "Wherever you are, Arthur, I wish you a very merry Christmas." He leaned into the comfortable pillows of his couch and brought the glass to his lips. "Santé, Rossignol."

Line breaks are beautiful, sexy things, and I used them here to the point of abuse...

So anyways, with the swift approach of summer, HAVE SOME WINTER AND SOME CHRISTMAS! Here in Canada, it's customary to always keep in mind that winter is out there somewhere and that you should probably be prepared for some snow in July because I have seen it happen and omg it is both the most beautiful and angering thing that I have ever seen!

Anyways, for the translations:

"Mon ami tout chou tout cher!" It's meant to be along the lines of a very sarcastic "my buddy, my pal, my bestest friend in the whole wide world!"

"Santé" Basically means "cheers"; it's what you say right before you drink alcohol.

So, I hope you enjoyed this, and again a big thanks to people who have favourited, alerted, reviewed, etc..., you guys are awesome!

Until the next time!