La Vie en Rose

Author’s Note: And welcome at last to chapter 1! Aaaa sorry that took like forever but I traipsed off to Vegas for a drunken weekend in celebration of a dear friend’s birthday and was henceforth delayed for that merriment and the detoxification thereafter! That and some fruitless job hunting! But at last I can truly begin this fic! Ohoho, I did warn there would be some AMERICA popping up and I made good! It seems our hero is a bit twitterpated, what shall become of this? Read on and we shall see!

Chapter 1
In which our intrepid hero sets off on his journey and meets a boorish, yet obnoxiously charming American.

Arthur stood at the helm of the cheery little ferry merrily beginning its chugging away across the English Channel with his stuffed suitcase at his feet, his tweed coat over his three-piece suit drawn close against the frigid wind, and his fedora clasped in his hands as he leaned over the railing anxious to watch France arrive. The waters that day flowed darkly beneath icy gray clouds that chilled the air and obscured the sun, and a light mist settled and churned contentedly on the banks of old Britain as they pulled slowly away from land. Edith Piaf’s sultry, impassioned voice crooned the lyrics to La Vie en Rose from the gramophone on board and the gulls chimed in overhead as they circled the pier and followed the vessel out into the calm waters that lapped rhythmically against the flat, purposeful hull. They rocked the stately and sturdy ferry at an easy pace that was rather soothing rather than nauseating, Arthur found, as speed and the wind picked up and he was transported further away from home. Cold gray England would soon be but a distant memory of monotony, and that both terrified and excited the author all at once.

The day he had selected to leave his homeland behind proved to be a particularly cold and bitter one at the end of winter, one where the elements reared their ugly heads once more to remind the inhabitants of the island nation that it would return once more in a year’s time, but he chose to remain out on the deck in spite of it. A spray of excited water peppered his face in frosty flecks of surf as his shaggy blond hair whipped and stung across his face and into his emerald green eyes so adoringly focused on the horizon. He pushed the unruly mop back behind his ears with a huff, anxiously wishing the winds would calm enough to put his hat back on and the fog would clear enough to actually see to the other side of the narrow swatch of water dividing England from the mainland of Europe.

Despite the minor annoyances of water travel and weather, however, he was still pleased he decided to go the ferry and train route to France rather than booking an airplane ticket. He wanted to enjoy the scenery and the trip first hand and fully immerse himself rather than watching through a paltry little circle of glass thousands of feet above the earth. He had barely been outside the borders of his small town, much less an entirely new country, and he knew precious little about the culture he was about to fully immerse himself in. He spoke a smattering of French from secondary school classes and from reading some of the French greats in college, he knew he disliked brie cheese, champagne was only champagne if it came from Champagne, and Edith Piaf had the voice of an angel, but otherwise he was completely ignorant of the country that had been England’s greatest friend and greatest enemy all at once. All around him the other passengers chatted with one another in either rapid, excited French or drawling English, and he wondered just how much they all knew about their destination.

They could be returning home, off on business, on a pleasure trip, or even perhaps seeking something new and thrilling like him. He actually rather enjoyed not knowing, for in the void his ignorance left his long dormant imagination began to flourish once more. Two businessmen chatted brusquely and with little interest in one another, clearly on a diplomatic mission for some company where they probably worked in offices clear on opposite sides of the building. Yet, as the trip went on they would discover they were distantly related somehow through a long, twisted, and fascinatingly sordid family tale. The little girl clutching her mother’s skirts with wide blue eyes taking in everything was on her very first ferry ride to France, perhaps to visit a beloved older sister who was marrying a handsome Frenchman finally come home from the war. They would visit all the fancy boutiques and she would be dressed all in white lace, and she would be the prettiest flower girl in the gardens of Versailles in all its bloody and beautiful history.

Arthur smiled privately to himself at the spontaneous and wonderful, brief little vignettes he crafted in his head, and instantly knew he had made the right choice. For a brief moment, he felt just like his old self again, filled with stories and characters he could bring to life on a page with but a deft stroke of his pen. Edith Piaf’s words only rang in complete accord with him as her song belted to its robust finale speaking of life, love, and the ultimate of happiness. La Vie en Rose, the good life; the proverbial perfect existence heroes of great novels had fallen trying to achieve, the very thing Keiran and his armies of good had been fighting for and the very thing he sought for himself. He could only hope it lay in lands unknown, a precious gem waiting to be discovered.

The beautiful melody swooned and filled the air as the cruise went on leaving a white trail of foam in its wake streaking across the water. Arthur stayed where he was right at the helm, letting the gentler winds of the open waters toss his hair and his coat, looking wistfully to the sky and watching the victorious golden sun finally breaking through the thick layer of gloom in boldly seeking rays. The boat rambled on, the passengers milling about, ducking in and out of the cabin, checking their luggage, going downstairs to get a different vantage point, snapping photos and laughing with their companions and perfect strangers alike. Only Arthur remained like a master marble carving, poised elegantly with his eyes to the sky and bathed in the pale golden light of the emerging sun, so lost in his reverie and his excitement he failed to notice the pair of eyes fixated on him from the adjacent railing that had been for quite some time.

All at once, a tall, slender figure clad in a rustically fragrant leather bomber jacket with a dark fleece trim sidled up next to him at the foremost of the small ferry. Mildly alarmed, but paying him no mind, Arthur spared him only the briefest of glances away from the thinning clouds overhead. The man beside him stayed while his black-gloved hands searched the inner pockets of his jacket and finally found a rumpled pack of Lucky Strikes. He expertly shook out one singular white cylinder from the sleeve and put it directly to his lips, which Arthur followed with curious green eyes to the face of a grinning, bespectacled man with lively blue eyes and windswept sandy hair. He lit his cigarette jauntily with a silver Zippo that had a single bright gold star enameled onto the side and clicked it neatly shut, replacing it in his pocket as he turned and leaned against the railing beside the intrigued author to smoke. Oddly, he made no attempt to talk to him just yet, simply gazed upward with his azure irises as if attempting to focus in on just what was so fascinating. They watched the sky for a moment together in silence that way, tobacco smoke wafting through the salt air, side by side in wordless communion.

“You know, I always wonder about people like you. People who look at the sky all the time,” the stranger said at length in an effervescent American accent.

Arthur finally glanced over at his strikingly handsome face again, his own cheeks coloring slightly, but said nothing. The American grinned, the corners of his radiant eyes crinkling attractively, and shrugged as he took a long, thoughtful drag on his smoldering cigarette and exhaled once more over the edge of the ferry.

“I can’t help but wonder what in the hell it is you’re looking at,” he continued with a jovial laugh, “Always figured it was something I just plain couldn’t see.”

Arthur couldn’t help but smirk at that, and drew himself up to his full height with a playfully haughty shrug.

“Well, perhaps it isn’t something we’re seeing that you’re not, but rather something we’re thinking about that you’re not,” he replied.

The American looked struck by that answer for a moment, or perhaps just because the blond haired Brit was finally talking, then promptly threw his head back in booming laughter.

“I guess you’ve got me there!” he guffawed, grinned, and then thrust out a hand forcefully, “Name’s Alfred, Alfred Jones, pleasure to meet you!”

Arthur turned and took the proffered hand with a politely firm shake and a smile.

“Arthur Kirkland, a pleasure indeed,” he concurred.

A spark of recognition flashed across Alfred’s eyes and his face lit up with fiery excitement.

“No way! Arthur Kirkland? You aren’t the guy who wrote all those unicorn books or whatever are you?” he asked rapidly.

Oddly pleased to be recognized by an American, especially such a boldly good-looking one, Arthur nodded humbly once.

“Ah, the very same. You’ve read them then?”

“Me? Oh hell no, but my kid brother absolutely loves you! We just started getting them back home! Across the pond or whatever you guys say! HEY MATT! You’ll NEVER guess who I just found over here!” Alfred yelled across the boat with his hands cupped over his mouth to amplify a voice that had little need of amplification.

Arthur’s lower lid twitched, all of a sudden far less charmed by the American than he initially hoped he would be. He turned to look in the direction he was yelling and out of the crowd like a specter he never even knew was there came a much slighter, timid young man who looked very much like Alfred, though hardly the child he was imagining. He was burdened down with what he guessed was every piece of luggage the two brothers had brought along, his light hair was longer with a slight wave to it, and though he too wore a pair of glasses perched delicately on his nose his own bright blue eyes were much softer and subdued behind them. He wore a heavy camel colored coat with a white fleece trim, and atop his head he sported an inexplicable pair of flight goggles. The expression on his face was distinctly put upon as he shuffled painfully over covered in attaches and suitcases and looked imploringly up at his brother.

“You could have helped you kn-“ the younger of the two began in a soft voice barely above a whisper.

“Took you long enough!” Alfred cut in before he could even finish, and clapped a hand firmly on his shoulder to display him to his new companion, “Matt! You’ll NEVER guess who this is!”

Matthew sighed deeply and looked up at Arthur, almost seeming to apologize.

“I don-“

“This is Arthur Kirkland! You know! The unicorn guy!” Alfred proclaimed with zeal, interrupting Matthew again.

“I’ll have you know that my novels are about so much more than just the damn unicorn!” Arthur finally snapped, balling his fists and bristling, “They’re about loyalty, love, sacrifice, and honor! And I have plenty more thoughts in my head than just-!”

Arthur stopped his tirade, however, as he finally noticed the look of sheer adoration that had spread over Matthew’s glowing face. He stared at him, slack jawed, cheeks flushed and sweet blue eyes glittering with his gloved hands clasped at his chest, looking terrified to speak and uncontrollably excited all at once.

“A-Are you really him? THE Arthur Kirkland?” he whispered, “D-Did you really write The Sabrehaven Chronicles?”

Arthur couldn’t help but forget his rage to smile tenderly at the younger of the two brothers so enchanted by simply being in his presence.

“Indeed I did, and I’m very glad to hear you’re enjoying it so far,” he replied with a gentlemanly bow.

Matthew’s face lit up even more as he gasped in delight.

“It’s beyond phenomenal! Th-They’re the most amazing books I’ve ever read!” he gushed, “I-I waited in line forever, and I can’t put them down when I finally get them! They really… Mean the world to me. I-I can’t believe I’m really meeting you!”

Arthur smiled radiantly and his cheeks flushed bright red, more flattered and thrilled at Matthew’s earnest, innocent praise than all of the fan mail he had ever received combined.

“It’s just as exciting to meet you, trust me. There would be no Sabrehaven if it weren’t for loyal blokes like you,” he answered jovially.

Matthew continued to stare in silent awe for a moment, blue eyes glittering, faceted gems of adoration in his gentle face, then suddenly gasped and flailed as if struck hard by memory.

“Oh goodness! I just remembered! I-I picked up the last novel while we were in England because it hasn’t come overseas! I haven’t gotten a chance to read it yet but! If you don’t mind, um… If you could? Er… What I mean is… If it wouldn’t be too much trouble…? I would, um-“ he started, voice as tiny as ever, going for the satchel he had slung over his shoulder and rooting around in it shyly.

The author didn’t even need to ask to know what he meant, and chuckled.

“I would be delighted to autograph it for you,” he interjected as he reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out his pen.

Matthew finally unearthed his copy of the final chapter of Keiran’s epic tale from his baggage and handed it over in trembling hands to the master of his most beloved fantasy. Arthur took it, opened it to the first page and deftly signed the inside cover with a note to the young man to, “Always keep dreaming- Arthur Kirkland”. Allowing a few moments for the ink to dry in the cool wind, he snapped the book shut neatly and handed it back to its rightful owner. He took it back as if he were being handed an ancient, magical relic and closed his eyes in sheer bliss as he hugged it preciously to his chest.

“Thank you… Thank you so much!” Matthew whispered, on the verge of tears.

“Don’t mention it. And you’ll enjoy the ending, that much I assure you!” Arthur proclaimed with a wink and a friendly grin.

Impatient witness to it all, Alfred finished his cigarette and flicked it into the water thoughtlessly as he watched the exchange of the autograph and praise. He wore a crooked, but devoted smirk the entire time, and reached out to ruffle his younger brother’s hair affectionately the moment he could insert himself back into the conversation.

“Aw see? Now what am I always telling you about just speaking up?” he chided loudly to make himself known again.

Matthew wrinkled his nose but briefly at him and huddled his book away, saying nothing more. Alfred laughed heartily and turned his blazing gaze back onto their new companion, capturing his emerald irises slyly.

“Told you he was a fanatic. This is Matt Williams, by the way! Totally forgot to introduce him to you! Williams because he’s only my half brother, he was born in Canada actually! But we grew up together, thick as thieves! Especially with Mattie to take all the blame when we got in trouble right?” the older of the brothers proclaimed, laughing a bit too loudly and slinging an arm around his sibling.

The grimace on Matthew’s face suggested there was much more truth to that statement than the joke Alfred had meant it to be, and Arthur quickly decided to divert the subject.

“Ah, I see. Interesting! So what were you doing in England, then? And what brings you to France?” he asked with a nervous smile, hoping the boisterous American would take the bait.

Luckily he did, untangling himself from his brother and spreading his hands charmingly.

“Nothing more than pleasure, my friend!” he answered with a wink, “Well that, and a little business for me in England. Mattie’s still got some relatives in France, so while we were here we figured why the hell not? See the City of Light”

Intrigued, the Brit canted his head to the side and leaned comfortably against the railing of the ferry again.

“Really? What kind of business do you do?” he queried.

“Sales,” came the immediate and simple reply, “Hoping to expand some of our markets overseas. You guys could REALLY use some good American made stuff over here, if you know what I mean!”

The perpetual grin on Alfred’s face turned slightly predatory and teasing, and he leaned in closer toward the other.

“Better question is, what’s a big shot author like you doing riding a little ferry like this out to France with us common folk?” he continued.

Taken aback by the brazen question, Arthur froze for several moments, processing his tumultuous emotions attached to the subject.

“Uh well! That is to say! I only-! I merely-! It’s a matter of-! It’s not like I’m a millionaire or anything!” he defended curtly with an accusing finger pointed at the American, “And it just so happens my next novel is going to be set in France, so I’m going for research! I need to be able to see the REAL trip to France! Not live like some disinterested aristocrat who only cares about flying first class and seeing only the highlights! It’s going to be about uh-! The common folk! Like you say! In the m-middle ages!”

Alfred took his turn to look completely flabbergasted and ever so slightly amused at the touchy reply he received, quirking an eyebrow and laughing.

“You don’t have to say all that! The correct response would have been, ‘I’m going because I want to, and it sounds like an adventure!’ That’s all! You don’t have to excuse it!” he asserted with a carefree smile, completely unfazed by the incensed words he had endured.

A bright flush spread swiftly over Arthur’s cheeks, heart skipping a beat in his chest and any further ranting silenced on his lips. He hazarded looking up into the beguiling blue depths of Alfred’s eyes once more, their gazes meeting for a single moment of hope that perhaps, he had met someone who felt the same way he did.

“I mean, isn’t that why anyone goes anywhere? To have an adventure? To see things and do things you never imagined? Otherwise what would be the point of leaving your house at all? You might as well be a shut-in! A kook in a nuthouse!” Alfred filled the silence cheerfully with a shrug, but never took his eyes from the other.

Arthur could scarcely believe the words coming from the tall, brash, thoughtless, boorish, obnoxious and yet still magnetic sandy-haired mysterious stranger. One moment he could be spewing completely unfiltered, nigh unto offensive sentiments, but just as quickly that same shrewd, knowing gleam would come to his eye and he would feel so utterly transparent it left him breathless. There was something raw, unfettered, and free about him. A self-given permission to say, do, and be as he pleased; something Arthur had never known in his sheltered life.

“Yes, I-I… Suppose you’re very right…” the spellbound author breathed at last.

Alfred snorted through his nose, shrugged and casually turned away, leaning on the rail and lifting his bespectacled gaze back to the sky.

“Reckon that looking at the sky to think thing really works, huh?” he mused, crossing his arms and closing his eyes against the winds carelessly tossing his hair.

A shy, half smile quirked Arthur’s lips as he too turned back to look up into the sky where the clouds had become but airy white streaks across a crystal blue strata. The sun shone triumphantly down through their taffeta veils and bathed the ferry and all of her passengers in warm, welcoming golden light.

“I’m rarely wrong about such things,” Arthur murmured wryly.

“Except… Now every time I look at the sky I won’t have any choice but to think of you.”

The breath immediately left Arthur’s chest. His heart stopped in dread and hope at once and his body went distinctly weightless even grounded solidly on the iron deck of the sturdy little ferry. He whipped his head around, gawking, his mouth making the motions of speech, but no sound issued forth and his body froze rigid with his hands gripping the railing. Alfred let his openly flirtatious statement hang in the air a few moments, then turned toward the flustered Brit with a mischievous grin and a mock salute.

“Well, guess we better get going, ferry’s gonna be docking soon! See you around… Unicorn guy,” he crooned invitingly as he peeled away from the railing, slung an arm around his brother, and vanished into the crowded cabin of the ferry just as mysteriously as he appeared.

In his wake he left Arthur, staring, the wind toying playfully with his richly blonde and unkempt mane, the mainland of France just beginning to appear behind him. Caught somewhere between a waking dream and conscious illusion, he was unaware of anything until the loud and booming voice of the captain shouted out in French, and then in begrudging English that they were about to dock in Northern France. With an urgent gasp Arthur whirled back around, and his vision filled with the bustling, busy port at last.

The French ferry terminal was but a teeming blur distantly layered against the bright blue water glittering brightly in the sun, but to the eager young author it may as well have been Atlantis rising from the deep. The cream white buildings capped in chateau style roofs, welcoming docks stretching out into cerulean waves to embrace his vessel, and the distant glow of yellow sun on pale green leaves just beginning to show their waxy naked bodies to the new warmth after the long winter painted a lush portrait of the fantasy he was entering. The lackadaisical murmurs of the musettes, the smell of baguettes on the balmy breeze, and the decadent sights of Paris were one step closer. He was nearly there. Only a train ride stood between him and the plunge into culture and madness he hoped would awaken the genius that had dozed off inside of him. Though even as he readied his bag, replaced his fedora on his head at last, and rode at the helm of the ferry for the remainder of the voyage excitedly, his mind would not be persuaded from sparing the American one brief thought.

In everything he could have possibly imagined and had imagined for his trip, never in his wildest dreams would he ever have envisioned them being invaded by a boisterous laugh, rugged leather, the pungent odor of Lucky Strikes, and piercing blue eyes. Yet invaded they were, for all Arthur could think of as he pulled into the beautiful port in France, was if Alfred had truly meant it when he had said he would see him again.

***

Wow, end of chapter already? But we just started! Thanks for making it this far! If you enjoyed it please do drop me a line and tell me so c: It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside! And stay tuned for me!