LIFE AND STYLE
Chapter Four
AN: To the lovely guest reviewer (Ali6132) who asked some good questions, I thought I would I would share my response here:
I'm careful not to specify an exact setting for this story – half the time I envision it to be in England, the other half in Canada/USA. I live in Canada and have never BEEN to England, so I try not to name specific places so you can imagine whatever setting you would like. It could be in Canada, or in America... doesn't matter. Arthur and his sister ARE English - perhaps having moved when they were small. If they are in England, Lizzie moves to the USA/Canada, and vice versa, for her career.
Alfred and Matthew are not twins. I struggled with what ages to make them, but my headcanon would be that Alfie is about a year older than Mattie. Their ages are somewhere in the 3-5 years. Young enough to not be in school, old enough to talk and run around and be very opinionated.
Francis did his best to push Arthur from his thoughts over the weekend, but was finding it more and more difficult as time went on. He wondered how he was coping with two young boys suddenly living with him. He thought back on how he had slowly unbuttoned his shirt and back up again. His hands still felt hot from when he ran them down Arthur's front, feeling Arthur beneath his thin shirt. Francis was quite accustomed to being attracted to both men and women, but he was not used to the idea of being attracted to an Englishman, specifically Arthur.
When Monday morning rolled around, Francis was surprised to discover Arthur not in his chair by the time he arrived. The hours seemed to creep by, painfully slow, and Arthur still did not come in for the day. It was noon when Francis wandered out of his office to find someone to talk to.
"Have you seen Arthur today?" He asked his friend, Antonio, on his way to the bathroom.
"Hey, bud," Antonio paused, "no, not yet. Is he not in today?"
Francis shook his head, "no, it's unusual, non?" Antonio shrugged and ducked into the bathroom, leaving Francis to wander, hands stuffed in his suit pants, deep in thought.
He eventually found himself standing in front of Mr. Edelstein's office, the golden plaque on the door shining brightly and proudly declaring 'RODERICH EDELSTEIN' below that, 'EDITOR'. Francis knocked lightly before opening it after hearing a soft, "enter," from inside.
He slid into a smooth, studded leather chair in front of Roderich's oversized walnut desk.
Roderich raised an elegant eyebrow at Francis, but said nothing, folding his hands on top of his paperwork. If there was ever a face Francis would want to lick, Roderich's was it. His skin was smooth, a small beauty mark just to the left of a relaxed mouth, his nose elegantly curved, two deep amber eyes framed by long eyelashes behind thick-rimmed rectangle glasses. His hair was a dark brown, perfectly combed, aside from one stubborn curl that seemed to have a mind of its own.
"Can I help you, Bonnefoy?" Roderich finally asked, his tone neutral. Roderich expected only the best from his employees without being too hard.
"Has Arthur been through here today by chance?" Both of Roderich's eyebrows now raised into his hairline.
"Kirkland?" He rubbed his chin, narrowing his eyes at Francis, "he turned in his required articles for the issue release on Friday afternoon. He requested to take some vacation time."
"He did?"
"Did he not tell you these things? He requested to be placed as a freelance writer until further notice." Francis felt like he got punched in the chest. Why wouldn't Arthur tell him something like that? Their relationship did not warrant a secret handshake and a clubhouse, but surely they were closer than just casual coworkers – at least, to Francis they were. He didn't go out of his way to annoy anyone else in the building, that had to count for something.
"What of his desk?" Francis asked, his stomach sliding in to his shoes.
"Ah, his temporary replacement will use it until he returns." Francis pursed his lips, Roderich pushed his glasses up his nose with a single finger. "He should be arriving soon, actually." Great. Francis excused himself and meandered back to his office.
By the time he arrived there was a large, blonde man standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.
"Oui? Can I help you?"
The hulking man slowly turned, affixing a piercing gaze at Francis. He had shockingly blonde hair, neatly slicked back, and a icy blue eyes that reminded Francis of fresh snow in an early winter evening. His square jaw was firmly set in a concerned frown. His dark brown suit was neatly pressed and full of trim angles, not a crease or thread out of place.
"Ja, hallo, I am Mr. Kirkland's replacement. Which is his desk?" Francis waved his hand in its direction and watched as the large man immediately sat himself in Arthur's chair, placed his briefcase neatly on top of Arthur's desk, and began to pull out a small laptop and several notebooks. He got himself neatly situated before looking back up at Francis.
They blinked at each other for a moment before Francis found his voice and extended his hand in greeting, "Francis Bonnefoy,"
"Ja, I know who you are." Francis faltered, unsure of how exactly to proceed, then the man reached out and engulfed his hand in a warm embrace, "Beilschmidt. Ludwig Beilschmidt." This man did not seem the type to write articles for a home and lifestyle magazine.
By mid-afternoon, Ludwig and Francis had exchanged only a handful of words in brief, halting conversation. The only time Ludwig paused for more than a moment to look up from his work was when Feliciano came by the bring in the mail.
"Ciao, Francey!" he called as he swirled into the office, "I have your- oh!" Feli turned to Ludwig and smiled brightly, "Prestante! Who is this?"
"Ludwig Beilschmidt, Arthur's replacement while he is on leave." Francis explained not bothering to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "This is Feliciano Vargas," he explained to the German man, who was looking rather dazed.
"Ve?! Where is Arthur?"
"He thought it best to take some time off in order to deal with family matters," Ludwig offered, cheeks warming to a rather alarming shade of pink. Francis was shocked the man could string more than three words together in a sentence, then even more dumbfounded that Ludwig seemed to know more about his office-mate than he did.
"Ohh," Feli bounced on his heels, rubbing his chin in thought before bending at the waist with his hands on his hips so he was eye-level with the German, "that is too bad. But, I am glad that you are his replacement!" And then, like the whirlwind that he was, Feli breezed out of the office with a cheerful, "arrivederci!"
.
Francis was got more work done in a handful of days sharing an office with Ludwig than he had in the few months he had shared with Arthur. The office seemed forever cast in a busied silence. Not that Ludwig was unfriendly. He warmed up after a few days, and their awkward conversations, albeit few and far between, were a lot more flowing and cordial.
Francis missed Arthur and his petty insults. He made the day so much more entertaining, to have someone to pick on, argue with, and to politely (occasionally) discuss whatever they were currently working on.
"Ciao, Francey, Luddy!" Feli popped his head in to the office before twirling in dramatically. Francis smiled warmly in greeting and noted how Ludwig froze in his focused writing before attempting to look casually up at Feli, who beamed at the German.
"I've got some mail for you, here's Arthur's," Feli handed Ludwig a stack of envelopes held together by an elastic band, "and Francis! You got a package!"
"Pourquoi? Really?" Feli ducked out of the office to his mail cart just outside the door and returned again, a narrow brown box cradled in his arms.
"What is it?" Feli asked, leaning on Ludwig's shoulders as Francis gingerly took the box.
There was no return address so he grabbed a pen and stabbed at the packing tape, ripping it open. A small note fell out and inside was a bottle of wine.
"Ooh!" Feli cooed, practically pushing Ludwig's face in to the desk as he leaned across for a closer look. "Francis!"
'Mr. F. Bonnefoy;
I have thoroughly enjoyed your Haute Cuisine column, especially the series on wine pairings.
It would give me a great honor if you would consider mentioning our wine in any upcoming wine pairing articles you may write in the future.
I have sent to you one of my favorite red wines, and I particularly enjoy it with beef in a reduction sauce.
Please, do not hesitate to contact my assistant directly if you require additional samples or to try any of our other fine wines.
Sincerely,'
The note was signed by the owner of a prestigious winery with a flourish, the contact information to his office listed at the bottom of the page. Francis plucked the bottle of wine from the box and gasped.
"Mon dieu, this is...!"
Ludwig blinked and Feli looked impressed, wiggling with excitement he could barely contain.
"That is a very generous gift, Francis!" Feli cried.
Francis loved wine, but a bottle of this caliber he was not sure what to do with. It was too fancy to drink alone; he was unsure with whom to share it. As much of an interest Feli and Ludwig had in it, both leaning across the desk curiously, Feli reaching out to touch the bottle, Francis wasn't sure he wanted to share it with either of them. Antonio would not be so able to fully appreciate such a fine wine, he thought, and he wasn't that close with many others in the office. He thought of Lukas or any of the guys in the art department, but when you invite one out, all the others are sure to follow. He stared at the label and thought for a while. There was only one other person he could think of that he wouldn't mind sharing such a fancy thing with, but he wasn't certain it was a good idea. With no other options, however, since he refused to drink it alone, he smiled up at Feli and Ludwig and slid the wine back into the box it came in. Feli did not bother to hide the disappointment on his face as Francis packed the wine away; Ludwig looked indifferent and more than a bit flustered at the close proximity of the Italian draping himself over his broad shoulders.
He would share the wine with Arthur.
However, Francis did not go to Arthur's house that night or the next. In fact, it took him the remainder of the week to talk himself in to going at all.
Friday morning rolled around and he decided that that night would be it.
"Francis," he told his reflection in his bathroom mirror in the morning. "Pull yourself together. You're just visiting a coworker and sharing a bottle of $1200 wine. No big deal."
The butterflies in his stomach disagreed, it was a big deal.
He double and triple-checked his appearance before leaving for work.
At some point in the day Francis realized he could not simply bring wine over to an Englishman's house and assume he had the right food to pair with it. The man was British, after all. Much of his afternoon was then consumed with browsing the internet for recipes he could easily whip up in someone else's kitchen.
.
He was standing at Arthur's front door, arms laden with grocery bags, bottle of wine securely clutched in one hand, when he was overcome by a sensation he did not expect – fear.
What was he thinking, showing up uninvited to Arthur's house? What if Arthur wouldn't let him in? Examining their relationship, this seemed a highly plausible idea. He was about to turn around and sneak back home when there was a resounding crash followed by screaming from inside.
Without thinking, Francis tried the door handle; finding it to be unlocked he pushed the door open calling, "Bonjour? Arthur, are you alright?"
"Arthuuuuuuur!" shrieked one of the boys, "Help!"
"Bloody hell!" came Arthur's voice from somewhere inside.
"Nooo!"
Francis kicked open the door the rest of the way and hurried inside, dropping his grocery bags on the floor and placing down his wine gently. Once through the entryway, the air started to smell distinctly of burning and there was an angry cloud of smoke rolling out of what Francis assumed was the kitchen.
"Arthur?" Francis called again, picking his way through a toy-strewn sitting room towards the smoky doorway. "Where are you? Mon dieu!"
Francis coughed, waving the air in front of his face, eyes watering from the smoke – the fire alarm started to scream.
"Francis?! What on earth are you doing here?" Arthur was standing over the oven, black smoke seeping from the shut door, desperate to escape. Arthur was leaning against it, trying to keep more smoke from filling the room, one hand inside a blackened oven mitt, the other holding a broom. The floor was a disaster of some sort of batter and broken glass, one of the boys – Alfred – was covered head-to-toe in flour, sitting right in the centre of the mess looking distressed.
Matthew stood frozen on the counter, mid-reach for something in the upper cupboards.
"I just heard screaming –"
"Bloody hell, am I glad to see you."
Everything that seemed momentarily frozen in the kitchen slid back into motion.
Alfred began crying loudly, Arthur was no longer able to contain the cough of smoke coming from the oven, and as if it was happening in slow motion, Matthew teetered –
Francis leapt forward, feet sliding in whatever was on the floor, arms outstretched to catch the small boy whose eyes were wide in shock as his stocking feet slipped off the counter. Francis caught him and held him tight to his chest as he crashed to the floor, making sure he took the impact of the fall.
"Francis!"
"Merde, Arthur! Do something about that alarm!" He released Matthew, who was looking up at him with wonder in his eyes. "Are you alright?" Matthew nodded and Francis struggled to his own feet.
Alfred was still screaming on the floor, but the shrill alarm fell silent. Francis threw open the patio door, removed his suit jacket, and began beating at the smoke in the air, trying to get it flowing towards the open door. Arthur hurried back, kneeling beside Alfred.
"Alfred, what is – oh!" Francis turned in time to see Arthur crumple to the floor right in to the goopy mess beside his wailing nephew, who began to cry harder. Matthew started to whimper from the corner of the kitchen where Francis had left him. This evening was not going the way Francis had planned.
Alfred had an angry red line slashed across the palm of his hand which he was holding out for Francis to see, thin lines of blood running down his arm.
Francis dropped his coat, went to Alfred, and picked him up out of the mess on the floor. He cringed when Alfred wrapped his little arms around him, smearing blood on his crisp, white shirt.
"Mattieu, are you hurt?" still whimpering, he shook his head, Francis gave him an encouraging smile. "You are very brave. Do you know where your uncle keeps his band-aids?" Matt nodded, "Wonderful, do you think you can bring them to me?" The blonde boy dashed out of the room, avoiding the glass and puddles of goop on the floor. Francis sat Alfred on the counter and searched for a dish towel, finding one, he dampened it in the sink and pressed it to Alfred's hand. He stopped crying, eyes red and shiny, and sniffled as he watched.
"Uncle Arthur?" He looked up at Francis, "I-I-I killed him!" his bottom lip quivered, Francis glanced over his shoulder at the motionless body on the floor before responding, "non, mon petit lapin! He will be alright. Hold this here, sit very still, oui? I will make sure Uncle Art is okay."
Alfred nodded, sniffing.
Francis carefully made his way to the man on the floor and knelt down beside him. He cradled Arthur's head in his hand as he gently rolled him onto his back, with his other hand he swiped the batter that was smeared on his cheeks and clumping in his hair.
His eyes fluttered open, the breath in Francis' chest hitched. He was momentarily caught up in their striking shade of green; he was reminded of new buds of leaves, twirling open at the first sign of spring melting away the crisp, winter air. The colour itself was rather innocent and new, curious; the emotion that flashed through them, however, was startled.
"What the bloody hell are you doing in my kitchen, frog?" Arthur very suddenly asked, shattering whatever peaceful illusion Francis had just created in his head.
"Rescuing you, apparently," he offered a smirk as Arthur pushed himself to a sitting position. The smoke had mostly cleared from the room, only a haze lingering near the ceiling.
Matthew bounded into the kitchen holding a first aide kit above his head triumphantly and Alfred was perched wide-eyed on the counter.
"Dear God, did I faint?"
Francis helped Arthur to his feet and the two of them began putting the kitchen back in to order. Francis cleaned up Alfred, giving his 'owie' a light kiss on the band-aid at Alfred's request (Arthur refused) while Arthur started to clean the floor.
"I actually came to make you dinner," Francis said as he washed his hands. "I heard all the commotion and just let myself in, désolé."
"Dinner?" Arthur wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and continued to gingerly pick up pieces of glass from the floor. "Given how my afternoon has been going, I'd happily accept any help I can get tonight." Francis blinked; that hardly seemed like a response he'd expect to receive from the Brit. Smiling, he couldn't help but think the two boys were changing his prickly personality for the better.
Once the kitchen was sufficiently tidy, Arthur put a movie on for the kids, and Francis began dinner preparations. He fetched his groceries from the hall and unloaded them on the counter. Arthur directed him to the appropriate cupboards when he needed something ("Cher, where are your cutting boards and sharp knives?" Arthur pointed them out. "I said sharp knives, non? These are terrible." Arthur sighed and scowled, Francis said, "remind me to bring my own set next time,").
"Is there anything I can do to help you?" Arthur asked from the kitchen table. He had unrolled a newspaper and was sipping on a cup of tea looking quite relaxed.
"Non," Francis shook his head, pausing from slicing onions to look over at Arthur, "let us not already forget the mess I walked into," he laughed. Arthur looked like he was fighting back a scathing retort, but Francis turned away and continued to slice onions. After a minute he heard the newspaper rustle as Arthur read. Francis added the onions to a pan with a tablespoon of butter; while they were browning, he sliced beef into thin strips. Once the meat was cooking he peeled and cubed potatoes, adding them to a large pot to boil. Next, he prepped a garden salad, adding fresh thyme, basil, and oregano to crisp butter, green, and red leaf lettuce. He topped it with tomatoes, cucumbers, apples, and shredded carrots. He was content working in silence while he knew Arthur relaxed, reading the paper, occasionally staring wistfully out the window at his back garden. Francis felt quite natural in the whole situation, which then made him feel quite unnatural. He tried to brush it off, to not dwell on the way his stomach wound into a knot when he considered for whom he was cooking. He also did his best to ignore the way his pulse quickened when he caught himself staring at Arthur from the corner of his eye, enjoying the serene expression that settled into his tired face as he sipped on his tea, one leg crossed neatly over the other, reading.
He was straining the potatoes into the sink, frowning at how the steam must be mussing up his hair, when Arthur broke the comfortable silence.
"I've been pretty lucky since the boys arrived," he said, Francis hummed in response, dumping the potatoes back into the pot so he could mash them. "Lukas has been over almost every night to help me," Francis' caught himself before he dropped the pot of potatoes to the floor. Carefully, he placed them firmly on the counter, out of harm's way.
"Oh?" he asked through clenched teeth. His tone sounded suspiciously jealous in his own ears. He rifled through drawers until locating a potato masher, trying very hard not to slam the doors closed.
"Yeah, actually, if you hadn't suggested taking the boys to the Children's Lit Department, we never would have met! I mean, I knew who he was, but we really only started talking because of you." Francis said nothing. "We have a lot more in common than I thought. And the boys adore him – they call him Uncle Lukas," Arthur chuckled.
"Uncle... Lukas?" Francis tried to squash the jealousy bubbling in his gut, "he's here... almost every night?"
Arthur hummed, "yeah. He's been a wonderful help. I'm pretty sure I would have shipped the two of them to their mother in a crate by the end of the last week." Francis wasn't sure what to say; he never thought he'd have to worry about Lukas encroaching on his office-mate – he could have sworn the man was immune to any form of romance and charm. He never seemed to give anyone special attention, and he was quick to brush off any and all of Francis' attempts to flirt with him (and he had tried very hard, not in serious pursuit of any sort of relationship,but simply out of curiosity). Francis did not like the way Arthur's face lit up when he talked about the stoic author.
He hardly seemed Arthur's type, after all.
Arthur continued to babble about Lukas, his newspaper lying forgotten on the table. He talked about the troubles he faced with the boys in their first week of living with him and all the help precious Lukas gave him. He talked about the e-mails he received from his sister and the frustrations that stemmed from them. He talked about how he was happy he didn't have to go to work anymore, but he also didn't have to give up his career. He never once mentioned being sad that he wouldn't have to see Francis during the week.
Francis handed Arthur a stack of plates and he automatically took them, clearing then setting the table, still chatting. Francis had no idea he could talk so much without getting angry.
"Arthur, where do you keep your wine glasses?" Francis cut in to the Brit's current anecdote and Arthur raised an eyebrow. He said nothing, fetching two crystal glasses from a hutch in the formal dining room.
"Boys! Dinner!" Arthur called, settling himself back into his chair, the brothers came bouncing in, smelling the air happily.
"Where is Uncle Lukas?" Matthew asked quietly, the pan Francis was rinsing in the sink fell with a clatter.
"Désolé, I lost my grip."
"He's probably at his own house tonight, pet."
The boys slid in to their chairs, Francis retrieved the wine from the front hall where he had left it by the door.
"What is that?" Arthur asked as Francis joined the three at the table. "Bloody hell, frog, this is..." Francis passed him the bottle then he took the napkin at his place and draped it over his lap.
"Oui."
"How did you...?" Arthur spluttered as he turned the bottle over in his hands. Francis , meanwhile, was relieved Arthur did have an appreciation for such a fine wine.
"Ah, the vineyard mailed it to me with the request to talk about it in an upcoming article."
"Francis, this is... well, congratulations, first of all." he handed the bottle back to Francis to uncork. "But, are you sure you want to waste it on me? It seems much too fine a wine to enjoy on a Friday night in my little kitchen."
"Nonsense, mon petit ami, it was either this or drink it alone." He caught Matthew's eye, who was staring at him with a strange expression on his pudgy face, and winked.
Alfred, unable to sit still and listen to adults talk any longer, suddenly burst, "we have to say grace!" and grabbed his brother's hand and Arthur's who was next to him. Arthur shrugged, smiling, before hesitantly taking Francis' hand, whose other was filled with Matthew's.
"Dear Jesus," Alfred said loudly, little eyes squeezed shut tight, "Thank you for Uncle Art. I miss Uncle Lukas, he can cook better. Thank you for Mr. Francis and that he came and put a band-aid on my owie and got Uncle Art to wake up and he made dinner, which will be better than whatever Uncle Art was making," he took a breath, "thank you for Mattie ("and Kuma!") and Kuma, too. Please make mummy safe and that she will come home soon, amen!"
"Amen!"
Francis uncorked the wine then poured himself and Arthur a glass.
"Cheers, to coming in the nick of time."
"Bloody frog."
They clinked their glasses together.