Chapter Three: Living With My Enemy
A/N: Should've mentioned this before if I didn't but the smut stuff won't even begin to start until chapter five. Hope you can wait that long. In addition to that I will probably be updating every two to three days since the whole story is already written…it just needs to be posted. I have a bad habit of posting first chapters and then getting lost in a new idea SO I actually sat down and wrote this one out before posting. It took a whole month! Enjoy!
If there are any grammar mistakes (I know I've caught a few here and there) don't hesitate to point them out to me. Oh, and before you point out the whole Francis' thing I should mention that that is the "American/Sometimes Canadian" way of spelling it. Typing Francis's is also acceptable. That would be the British/Australian/New Zealand/Sometimes Canadian way of spelling it. XD We Canadians have a mixture of spelling... "favourite with a U, realize with a Z". But either form is accepted here (U, no U, Z, S, whatever). We're flexible people.
Oh, and if you're curious about the tub...Arthur just draws water from some invisible well I neglected to mention and puts it in his bath. I dunno...they did have running water but it was kinda gross...most of it was through old, hollowed out tree trunks and was meant for rainwater. If you want to learn more about that (and the gin craze that I wrote about in chapter one) you can type in: PBS, Water & Waste, London into Goggle and click on the PBS website. XD If you get a headtitle that has something to do with Sweeney Todd you're in the right place. LOL!
Arthur opened the door to his flat with Francis following behind. It was a simple dwelling with two rooms, a main room with a bed and desk and a bathroom with nothing but a tub and a closet where the Brit kept his cloths.
"I'll push the tub to the far wall and find some blankets to put on the floor." He said taking off his coat, lying it on his bed, "That'll be your room."
Francis peaked into the room that would be his, "This is a rather…cozy place, Artur."
Arthur grumbled at the mispronunciation of his name but ignored it, feeling too tired to bicker.
Francis stood and stared as Arthur leaned back onto his bed and rolled over facing the wall, "Um…"
"What?" The Englishman closed his eyes.
"Aren't you going to move the tub?"
Arthur had planned on doing that the next day since it was nearly 1 am, but he realized that Francis would have nowhere to sleep if he didn't. Grunting, he pushed himself up off the bed and lazily made his way towards the other room. He mustered up his strength and pushed the tub to the far side then returned to his bed.
"…And the blankets?" Francis blinked.
"Can't you just sleep on your coat tonight?" Arthur replied, but in truth he didn't have extra blankets. The only ones that he did have were already on his bed. He was rather sensitive to the cold and had decided to bring the blankets out for his own use a few weeks ago.
Arthur didn't have to see the look on the Frenchman's face to know he was smiling, "Perhaps I should sleep with you then. …In your bed."
Arthur's eyes shot open. There was no way he was going to share a bed with someone he just met, and a person from his most hated country at that. Pulling himself up again he ripped off one of the blankets on his bed and tossed it to Francis. He'd rather freeze for the night than huddle with this strange fellow, "Here."
"Merci." Francis carried the cotton sheet to the other room.
"And shut the door, please." Arthur called after him. He felt satisfied when he heard a click.
Arthur wrinkled his face as the light from the sun shone through the window of his apartment. He slowly opened his eyes and stretched feeling some of his muscles twitch. Sitting up he looked over at the door of what was his bathroom. It was still closed. Arthur lifted his legs and swung them over the side of the bed, stood up and crossed the floor, knocking on the wooden door. There was no answer.
"Francis?" Arthur called out in a rather shy voice. No response came.
Sighing, Arthur opened the door to see the tub back in its proper position and the blanket folded neatly hanging off the side. There was no sign of Francis.
"Where the devil did he go?" Arthur whispered to himself aloud.
Before he could even begin to imagine up scenarios that might explain the Frenchman's absence, the door to his flat swung open. The sudden noise of the door hitting the wall as it pushed open all the way made the Brit jump out of his skin.
"Good Morning Artur!" Francis' face glowed as he skipped in. He was carrying a weaved basket with bread and cheese in it.
Arthur stared at the food. He could feel his stomach grumbling though luckily no sounds were emitted. "Did you buy that this morning?"
"I did!" Francis replied cheerfully, "Do you want some?"
Arthur stared with caution, "Why?"
"Well," Francis looked up at him, holding a piece of cheese, "It's the least I can do since you're letting me stay here rent free."
"Rent free?" Arthur raised a brow, "Who said I was letting you stay rent free?"
Francis looked at his new roommate and frowned, "You're not? I thought you invited me. That means it's rent free, does it not?"
Arthur rolled his eyes but said nothing. He supposed that as long as Francis continued to provide quality food – cheese and white bread was far from cheap, than he could stay 'rent free'.
Francis walked over to the desk in front of the window and sat on the chair facing away from the invading sunlight. "I was hoping you would show me around the city today. I am here on vacation after all."
Arthur pouted. He did not like the idea of wandering the streets with a Frenchman, lest it ruin his budding reputation. He had only recently finished his education and was now looking for an experienced lawyer to take him on as an apprentice.
"Didn't you already see enough of the city yesterday? You also went to the market this morning, did you not?"
"Yes, but there's so much to see Artur! I was hoping you'd show off your supposedly wonderful city to me."
Arthur glared, "What do you mean supposedly wonderful?"
"Well," Francis started, "The people of Paris think London is a rather dirty sub-par place. Paris is, after all, the only true city of Europe. The rest of this continent is a mere suburb around us."
Arthur gritted his teeth. Francis' words were unconvincing and yet there was some truth to them. The people of England yearned for French silks, porcelain, mirrors, clocks and all the rest. However, they were required to swallow their desires since France was the only real economic and diplomatic threat to Great Britain.
Francis could see Arthur seething, "I bring this up because I am giving you an opportunity to prove them wrong."
Arthur bellowed out a growl before biting into the white bread. After chewing and swallowing he agreed to take Francis on one condition, "You don't utter a word. The last thing I want is for people to think I'm friendly to the French. You DO know our countries are enemies, right?"
Francis grinned, "I am well aware. That's why I came. I wanted to see what made this country so detestable in the first place. It's hard to hate something when you know little about it, non?"
Arthur refused to answer. He headed into the bathroom and shut the door to get changed. It was going to be a long day.
The two Europeans casually wandered down the street. They crossed a variety of stores before one shop caught Francis' eye.
"Artur! Let's go in there!" Francis grabbed Arthur's arm and pointed at a townhouse shop with the sign The Wax Work on it.
Arthur immediately snapped, "What did I tell you about speaking!"
The Parisian gave a heartbroken look but remained silent.
Arthur sighed, "Alright, fine. We'll take a peak."
They crossed the street and entered the shop. Inside was an elaborate display of wax scenes from historical battles with the signature figures accompanying them.
"Ah," The Brit placed a hand on the wax image of Queen Elizabeth I, "It's like a wax museum."
He wandered off towards the back of the museum. In one corner of the store a miniature display of the Battle of Hastings was being played out on a frozen stage. Arthur stared at it momentarily unsure of his feelings towards it. On one hand he admired it because it was, essentially, the birth of his country, but on another level he despised it feeling pity for the Englishman who would be subjected under a foreign king, one Guillaume de Normandy, or William the Conqueror.
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard a short gasp come from his guest. He looked over to France who was looking rather shocked by one of the displays. Walking over Arthur saw the Frenchman gazing at a scene of the English and Burgundian armies burning Joan of Arc.
As Arthur approached Francis laughed, "I'm surprised people outside of France know her."
The Brit seemed sullen, "Yes. She's becoming rather popular, even here."
"Poor thing," France continued, "How on earth she managed to remain a virgin in the army is astonishing."
Arthur blinked in shock. This feared figure from his home country, a heroine in her own right, was displayed in glory before him by the nation who destroyed her out of fear and he was making a satire of it.
"Oh, hello." An old woman came out of the back room, "Browsing are you?"
"Oui-" Francis was cut short by Arthur's hand over his mouth.
"Yes, ma'am. They were rather interesting. Thank you for the educational displays." Arthur waved good-bye as he dragged Francis out the door. When they exited the building the Englishman turned to Francis and scowled, "Are you trying to get yourself into trouble?"
Francis blinked, "I don't see what the big deal is Anglais. You act like I'm the first and only Frenchman to visit your country. I'm more than positive I'm not the only person from France that is here. In fact, I know I'm not."
Arthur cocked his head in curiosity.
Francis continued, "Only a few months ago the writer, Voltaire, was sent away in exile here. I was actually hoping I'd run into him."
"Yes well," Arthur glanced away, concentrating on the people in the streets, "if he was exiled then perhaps it'd be better if you didn't see him. This city is a breeding ground for gossip. Word would certainly get back to France one way or another and you could be exiled yourself."
Arthur looked back in time to see a sincere smile on Francis' face.
"Well merci for caring enough to tell me."
A slight blush crossed the Brit's face, "T-that's….not what I was getting at you damn frog! I just don't want you overstaying your welcome, that's all!"
Francis gave a low chuckle before turning on his heels and heading down the street, "Come Artur! There is still more to see!"
Arthur muttered under his breath and reluctantly followed.
"What else could we see? I hear London if full of strange things."
Once again the Frenchman seemed more informed than he appeared. London was home to numerous freak fests. For one penny you could gain entry to the infamous Bethlem Royal Hospital to gawk at the mentally insane or take a gander at the dwarves and hermaphrodites at the freak circuses. There always seemed to be a show on display to distract Londoners from their horrid lives.
"Oh!" Francis spun around and grinned at Arthur, "Let's see a puppet show!"
Arthur raised one of his heavy eyebrows, "A puppet show? Why on earth would you want to see that?"
The Parisian shrugged, "I don't know…it just sounds interesting. I wonder if it can match our Polichinelles."
"I suppose we could find a nearby rendition of Punch and Judy."
Francis slapped his hands together, "Bien! Let us go! Vite!"
"That's the way to do it!" The elaborate looking puppet shouted waving its silk hands.
Francis clapped with the children sitting on the ground. He looked around him at all the smiling faces and it made him all the more excited.
Arthur however, was less amused. He had seen this play several times in his life and despite it always being somewhat different from the previous performances he'd become rather disillusioned with the story as a whole. The plot was seemingly basic to him: Mr. Punch is asked to watch the baby he has with Judy, but fails miserably. The puppet is threatened with jail time but ends up being interrupted by a series of characters showing up…almost all of whom seem to get beaten up by Mr. Punch. After he tricks the hangman into putting his own head in the noose the devil comes for him and is beaten up. End of story.
The Puppeteer came crawling out of his booth warranting more applause and cheers from the crowd. Many of the children got to their feet, their hands thunderously slamming into each other. Francis was also on his feet shouting "Bravo!"
Arthur twitched irritatingly. How many times would he have to warn the Frenchman about his language? Perhaps the Parisian simply didn't care. 'Oh well,' Arthur thought to himself, 'It he gets taken away that's his own fault, not mine.'
When Francis returned to his side he sighed, "Are we finished now?"
"Not quite," Francis winked, "There's still one more placed I'd like to visit but we cannot do so now, we must do it after dark."
Arthur narrowed his brows in confusion. What on earth could Francis want to see so late at night?
The two spend the rest of the afternoon and evening exploring the shops, sights and sounds of London. They visited the site of the Tower of London, scampered past the fairly new estate of the Duke of Buckingham, and stopped to admire Hampton Court where the British Royal family lived.
As the sun began to fade the two settled into a quiet coffeehouse for something quick to eat. Arthur enjoyed a plate of roast beef, which Francis found rather humorous, and the other had duck with French beans.
Francis poked his meal, "Is meat all you Englishman eat?"
Arthur looked up from his coffee, "Do you have a problem with that?"
The Parisian frowned, "Well I wouldn't if it had any taste. Not to mention the temperature. This meat is far too cold."
The Londoner glared putting his coffee down on the table. Instead of starting a quarrel in the café he decided to inquire about Francis' evening plan, "So where exactly are we going tonight?"
"It's a secret," Francis hummed in a singsong voice, checking his silver pocket watch, "We should get going though, since it should be open now."
Arthur was too entranced by the Frenchman's luxury watch; only the richest of the rich could afford one, to even hear what he said. He was jolted back to reality when Francis called his name,
"Artur," Francis blinked, "Are you ready?"
"Um," Arthur shuffled about, recollecting himself, "yes, let's get going shall we?"
Leaving their uneaten food, in particular Francis, on the table they stood up from their seats and exited the coffeehouse.
"That was rather interesting." Francis smiled as they walked down the street towards their final destination.
"How so?" inquired the Brit.
"Well," The Parisian started, "Nearly all the people in there were discussing politics. They were criticising the government and debating trials and such."
"What's so interesting about that?" Arthur questioned, looking at his guest unenthusiastically.
Francis raised an index finger, "Because, it's unheard of to do that in Paris. That is what I like about England; you're more…tolerant of open politics. That is not the case in France. We are open, yes, but to arts and crafts and luxury and romance; not politics. England feels more…democratic."
Arthur laughed, "I can't blame you for thinking that. After all you have that baboon, Louis, for a king."
"Yes," Francis sighed, "An absolute monarch is certainly more strict than one who shares power with an elected assembly."
Crossing a darkened street, with only a few oil lamps providing any light, the two crossed into a back alley. Coming out at the other end Francis pointed to a building with a single oil lamp in front of it.
"I was out this morning and inquired about it."
"About what?" Arthur looked him in the eye.
"The Molly Houses."
"THE WHAT!" Arthur screeched.
"Shhh," Francis placed a finger of the Brit's mouth. "Luckily, I bumped into the right person. It turns out he's a member of one and invited me to do my research there."
"Your…research?"
"Oui." Francis grinned, "I'm a writer too you know. Like Voltaire! Only he writes philosophy and I write La Libertine."
Arthur raised a brow, "La what?"
"La Libertine."
"And what's that?"
"Erotic novels!"
Arthur's jaw dropped. First, he had to become associated with the Society for Reformation of Manners, then he runs into a Frenchman whose inn burns down and in turn must live with him and now this. Oh but it could be worse, "Are you a sodomite?"
"If by sodomite you mean lover of men, then I suppose. But I am, truly, a lover of all things."
It just got worse. Arthur felt a chill down his spine. He wasn't just sharing a flat with a Frenchman, but a homosexual Frenchman who wrote sexual fantasies.
"Come now, let's go inside." Francis walked to the building with curtains over the windows to avoid any unwanted eyes.
"I…really don't want to." Arthur shuddered taking a few steps back.
Francis sighed. He walked over and grabbed Arthur's arm, "It's fine. They won't bite you. I'll make sure of it."
"You idiot," Arthur pulled away, "Sodomy is a capital offense! If we're caught in there we could be hanged!"
"Well if you keep screaming the whole world will know we're in there." Francis frowned. He turned on his heels, "Regardless, I'm going in. You can go home if you want. I'll see you tomorrow."
The Brit watched his roommate disappear into the bawdy establishment and it made him worry even more. If the place was raided and Francis was taken to Newgate he could easily become targeted. The best he could do at this point was enter the Molly House and keep an eye out for the authorities – in particular his own group the Society for Reformation of Manners, who especially sought the destruction of these houses of sin. Clenching his fist and stomping the ground, Arthur made his way over to the brick structure and went inside.
Out of another alleyway dark, narrow eyes watched the Englishman open and close the door behind him. He jingled some coins in his pocket, laughing lowly at his discovery.
Some small endnotes:
I won't go into detail but...:
~White bread really WAS expensive. Some bakers would bleach their bread to jack up the price. It caused a lot of people to become sick.
~Wax Museums started showing up in the early 18th century. The Wax Works was the first major one.
~France's feelings towards Joan of Arc might seem harsh but...that's the mentality thinkers in France had about her at the time.
~Voltaire really was exiled to Great Britain in 1725 for insulting a French nobleman. P'g does not really like him because he insulted her country calling it "a few acres of snow". (glares at Voltaire) We are/were not a few acres of snow, sir! Maybe if he had VISITED New France (now Quebec, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, the Ohio Valley, and Louisiana) he'd have a different opinion.
~It wasn't until later towards the 19th century that the British started refering to the French as "frogs" (O.o;; Meaning my usage of it is not accurate...sorry). In the 18th century the word was used to describe the Dutch (yeah, seriously).