La Vie en Rose

Author’s Note: And here we have chapter 2! I was hoping to get this out a week after chapter 1, but hey! Soon enough eh? And this is a good meat and potatoes long chapter too! I’m going to attempt to get one chapter out every week or so, just because I’m enjoying writing this so very much and I’d really like to get to the main story sooner or later hehe. Also I promise promise Francis will show up soon. After all, they are in Paris now c:! Also a big giant thank you to everyone who’s reviewed so far! It really means a lot to me. That said, continue to enjoy “La Vie en Rose” X3

Chapter 2
In which Arthur has an altogether fascinating voyage by train that has little to do with the train at all.

The little ferry sidled up coquettishly against her favorite dock at the end of the short jaunt across the English Channel as she glided into sunny Calais, France to discharge her passengers. Arthur lingered until the bitter end and was one of the very last in line to get off, banishing thoughts of the rakish American forcefully in order to fully enjoy his arrival in France. So enraptured had he been, he was horrified to realize he could barely remember even seeing the port come into view and had been staring at the same spot on the same building the entire time yet had no idea what it looked like at all. And here he was supposed to be absorbing everything he could about a new place and a new way of life to inspire him and yet thinking only of some strange man.

He shook his head forcefully as he milled his way down the gangplank behind a French couple already arguing about something and cursed himself for getting so irredeemably deviated. After the spell had passed, he couldn’t possibly fathom why he had been so bewitched by the man in the first place. There really was very little that was charming or appealing at all about Alfred Jones, or Americans in general, he decided. The way he had nigh unto abused his meek brother right in front of him, that cocky grin, his brazen flirtatiousness, even the smell of his noxious, filthy American cigarettes; all of it culminated to a portrait of a boor that he would have no further ado with.

Even his bizarrely animated face, the drab sandy color of his hair, the steely cold blue of his eyes, and the irritating bravado with which he wore a leather bomber jacket as if he were some sort of hero fighter pilot grated on Arthur’s nerves. He fumed, growling and grumbling under his breath as he walked down the gangplank and onto the dock, and his hand gripped angrily at the handle of his suitcase. His eyes darted around the crowd, glowering, searching for any sign of Alfred and his sibling, but like a spirit or a fairy out of one of his beloved legends and myths, there was no trace of him at all.

“Good riddance…” Arthur muttered under his breath, and mentally bid him farewell.

After all, he had tainted his arrival into the land he had chosen for his personal adventure with feelings and thoughts he was none too keen to be grappling with. However, pests were all too easily swatted and eliminated, and like nothing more than a pesky fly silenced forever with a smartly rolled newspaper, he would plague him no more. Arthur’s thoughts on the matter were resolute and definitive, and at last, he fully banished Alfred Jones’ Cheshire face from his mind and turned his gaze to the bustling port to take it all in with a clear canvas of the mind.

The port of Calais, once he finally took the time to gaze upon it, was breathtakingly beautiful. The buildings of the ferry station sat regally on the rocky shores in all of their stately elegance and decadence, watching the new arrivals with their towering glass windows sparkling in the sun set in calm, rich creamy white accented in intricate Baroque scrollwork and dark, brooding roofs. Just beyond it, the town was just visible in a few hazy, tantalizing glimpses of cobblestone streets, quaint chateaus and rows of apartments covered in seductively creeping ivy and window boxes of sinful red and pink roses.

Wondering if he had time to explore the enclave of pastoral beauty and peace before he had to depart, Arthur checked the clock high above the station keeping ancient watch over its domain from the highest tower. The elaborate hands read nearly five in the afternoon. Stunned, Arthur actually stopped dead in the middle of the constant flow of foot traffic and stared as realization washed over him. For the first time in his life he had missed afternoon tea. He grinned slowly, eyes glittering, and found that simple little revelation to be one of the most wonderful, liberating sensations he had ever been graced with.

After a private moment of glee, Arthur finally dug his train ticket out of the breast pocket of his coat and checked the time printed onto it. His train would be departing in less than half an hour, he was dismayed to discover, but he supposed the ferry company did it purposefully to keep people flowing in and out of their ports efficiently. Left with no choice, he hefted his suitcase again and made his way through the gates of the ferry station and down the street to catch his train.

The black and silver streamlined mechanical behemoth pulled into the station wreathed in white steam, hissing cheerfully and thundering along the stalwart steel tracks still beneath it. It was a welcome sight for the Brit, who knew all too well that the war had taken a heavy toll on them, as well as the engines that traversed their deft black trails across Europe. The one that had arrived to spirit him across the countryside into Paris was an older model as well, still complete with its sleeper, passenger, and dining cars lined in fine velvet curtains and rich, antique oak paneling. An altogether delighted Arthur was first in line to board and handed his ticket off to the conductor with a hurried, ‘merci beaucoup,’ as he dashed down the corridor to find the finest compartment in which to enjoy his journey.

His feet tread on a brand new plush velour carpet lining the floors, the brass handle holders outside each passenger compartment had been replaced with electric lights and everything shone with a fresh coat of lacquer, but otherwise the train cars retained their musty antique odor and classic charms. Arthur trotted briskly down the center aisle, peering into each individual room and inspecting it before he settled at last on one in a car situated near the middle of the train. It was far enough away from the engine, close enough to amenities, and just out of the way and nondescript enough he might just be passed over by all the other passengers and enjoy a quiet trip alone with his thoughts and inspiration.

The wooden and glass paneled door slid open with a pleasantly smooth hiss and Arthur stealthily crept in with a glance over his shoulder as if someone might invite themselves along. Much to his delight, no one did. Inside and with the door securely shut, the author stashed his suitcase securely in the luggage compartment above one side of the plush seats along with his fedora, peeled off his slightly damp tweed coat and hung it on the rack, and after a moment of thought, removed his suit jacket as well to leave him in only his crisp white shirt, forest green vest and black tie. The train compartment was pleasantly warm and dry after a long, chilly sea voyage, and the soft cushions of the seat welcomed him lovingly as he sat down and reclined back into their cozy embrace.

Several uninterrupted minutes of solitude and relaxation later, Arthur heard the conductor give the last call for boarding, followed shortly after by the sharp departing whistle of the engine as it gave a jaunty little lurch into motion. He sat up eagerly and pushed back the curtain, peering out the window and grinning as he watched the station slide past and finally out of view. The milky white painted buildings and steel reinforcements melted away into cottages and streets as the train picked up speed, baring its passengers through Calais and out at last into the dewy green countryside just awakening after the long winter.

Arthur watched with a soft sigh of bliss. His breath fogged the polished glass, and he settled in to the pleasant jostling of the train, the nostalgic clacking of the wheels and the distant rumbling breath of the engine. Late passengers scurried past his compartment, banging luggage against his door and chattering noisily, but none of them entered so the Brit paid them no mind. He was too lost in the rolling fields and hills sweeping past his window and into his imagination, painting it in vivid colors of newness and intrigue. He sat oblivious to even the loud, booming English ringing through the car ahead of his and still clearly audible, the slam of the doors connecting them together bursting open, and then a peal of triumphant laughter.

Loudly rapid footsteps galloped down the hall, but halted abruptly, and the voice died out altogether as a pair of crystalline blue eyes glanced into the compartment occupied by one sole passenger. A hand waved away a burdened companion hurriedly, and as he begrudgingly trudged off, dragging suitcases and whimpering, the door to Arthur’s private sanctum slid cheerfully open. His peaceful fantasy shattered, and his head jerked up toward the doorway where, propped crookedly against it with the very same Cheshire grin plastered to his handsome face, was none other than Alfred Jones.

“Bloody hell! Y-You!” Arthur sputtered in sheer shock.

Alfred laughed boisterously and shook his head.

“Yeah me. So very nice to see you again too!” he said pointedly, making the Brit wince.

“Sorry,” Arthur ground out between his teeth with a scowl, “You just… Surprised me.”

Alfred crossed his arms over his chest and one leg over the other, whistling through his teeth.

“Fancy meeting you again, though huh? Who would have thought we’d have the same train too! And even staring at the sky again,” he replied coyly, “Doesn’t that ever get old?”

Arthur’s face colored and his lower lid twitched as he balled his fists defensively.

“I wasn’t staring at the sky again, I was watching the scenery! Everyone watches the scenery on a train! What else is there to do? And what are you doing just barging into other people’s compartments anyway? Don’t you Americans know it’s common bloody courtesy to knock?!” he spat.

His seething only seemed to amuse Alfred more, and he slid fully into the compartment to sprawl across the bench across from the flustered author.

“Dunno, I think I forgot to read that page of the handbook of stuffy British social rules before I left,” he quipped back with a snicker.

“It’s not just a BRITISH rule,” a horrified Arthur retaliated, “Though if that’s the way you like to play, clearly you are well-versed in the rules from the handbook for rude and obnoxious Americans!”

Alfred’s brows lifted, impressed, and he doubled over with hearty laughter.

“Got me there I suppose! But as long as your book doesn’t include kicking said rude Americans out now, or worse, throwing them from the moving train, I think I’m alright with it,” he joked warmly.

His mirth and irreverence was so infectious, even Arthur forgot his irritation and smirked briefly with a roll of his eyes. He conceded to the idea that perhaps, ever so slightly, he had overreacted. He had just been so shocked to see the American again after he had resolved to not let him disturb his thoughts or his trip, and surprised at his unexpected and unannounced entrance he had lashed out rashly.

“Well, I suppose I can’t stop you from continuing to insert yourself into my holiday anymore, can I?” he asked with a teasing air of lofty exasperation.

“Ain’t easy to get rid of me, nope,” Alfred answered, leaning forward and propping his chin up against his palm, “What the hell kind of a vacation is it if you’re alone, anyway?”

Arthur shrugged.

“Like I said on the ferry, it’s not so much a holiday as it is a-“

“Research trip, right. For that novel or whatever. Tell you what, it’s a few hours from here to Paris, how about we go and research what they got to eat in the dining car?” Alfred cut in suddenly with an inviting grin.

Arthur’s cheeks burned hotly and it was several moments before he could form a complete thought to offer the other.

“Oh, isn’t it a tad early for dinner? Um, I was just going to get something at my hotel or something when we arrived. It’s just that I-“

“The correct response this time is, ‘Dinner sounds amazing, Alfred. I’d love to go with you!’” the American finished for him, eyes closed and a finger commandingly in the air.

Arthur sat speechless for a moment in the wake of the same outrageous ploy Alfred had used on the ferry. Emerald eyes shifted shyly upward, met puckish blue and a slow, gentle smile spread over his lips. As much as he wanted to deny him outright, he did have to begrudgingly admit to himself that dinner with company did sound far better than sitting alone in his compartment for several hours. Finally, he tilted his head in acceptance and rose from his bench with his arms stretched casually over his head.

“Alright, you win. Dinner does sound amazing, Alfred. I would love to go with you,” he acquiesced.

“Damn right you would!” Alfred cheered as he too leapt to his feet and lunged for the door to push it gallantly open for him, “After you, of course!”

Arthur sauntered out of the door, flashing the other a challenging grin over his shoulder, but turned away to head down the center hall of the car just in time to miss the altogether seductive purr he got in reply.

The duo made their way through the center aisles of the train to the dining car swiftly. Arthur paused but once in one of the junctures between individual cars out in the open to admire the wind whipping around the speeding locomotive and France whipping by in a blur of warm, melted pastels. Alfred bumped into him too soon after he stopped, not minding where he was going, and caused his heart to flutter in his chest and his cheeks to flush madly all over again. They exchanged amused apologies and Arthur hurried on, still feeling the warm, firm beauty of Alfred’s body so scantly against his.

The dining car was located near the back of the train and was decorated in all of the finery, velvet, crystal, and silver Arthur would have expected from a five star restaurant. Arthur had never actually been to a five star restaurant, but he imagined it would have been exactly the same as it was walking into the lavish car already beginning to fill up with diners. Tables covered in crisp white linen cloths and each adorned with a tiny crystal bud vase cradling a single red rose blossom. A sensual votive candleholder sat next to each vase as well, illuminating the fine bone china and glittering silver in its flickering caramel glow. The windows were draped in plush red velvet to match the carpet, and as Arthur looked up he could see the ceiling was lushly painted in the style of the old masters themselves with gallant knights, beautiful ladies and cherubs all beneath small golden chandeliers.

“Th-This is phenomenal!” he breathed.

“Pretty swell, I have to admit,” Alfred echoed, despite the fact that all he had been looking at was the way Arthur’s face had lit up so beautifully upon entering.

The maître d’ in all of his tuxedoed, grinning hospitality slathered himself against them and showed them quickly to a table. Alfred made a point of pulling out the chair for Arthur, who tried his hardest not to look embarrassed as he took his menu and opened it as fast as he could to hide his face. The bespectacled American took the seat across from the other blonde and took his own menu to give it only the most cursory of glances before quickly ordering a glass of their finest cognac for each of them. The mere word made Arthur perk up considerably, grinning from ear to ear over the top of his leather bound menu.

“Cognac? Quite presumptive of you to order for me,” he teased, “What if I don’t happen to drink? Or what if I don’t care for brandy?”

Alfred pursed his lips coyly.

“Don’t tell me you don’t… You’ll break my poor little heart,” he replied, sensing the jest and peering over the rims of his rectangular glasses.

“Heh, quite the opposite actually. I’ll have you know I could drink all my mates back at Oxford under the table,” Arthur bragged in return.

Alfred chuckled and fished his pack of Lucky Strikes back out from its home in his jacket.

“Good! Not much of a brandy man myself but I figured they wouldn’t have bourbon on a French train. The French are such snobs about their liquor, you know?” he said with a smirk as he lit his cigarette and reached for the crystal ashtray on the table.

Arthur laughed brightly and nodded fervently in agreement.

“Utterly. But I’ll never turn down a good brandy, even if it’s a French one.”

Alfred echoed the cheerful laughter through a light puff of tobacco smoke and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs.

“So, an Oxford man huh? Let me guess… Literature. Or maybe Classics? No wait! MODERN literature. No! I know, I’ve got it. You’ve got to be a Shakespeare scholar right?” he queried with zeal.

“As much as I love the Bard, no,” Arthur replied with amusement, “You were right the first time. Just literature. I wanted to read as much as I could from as many masters as I could. I couldn’t bear to focus on just one emphasis, then I would be leaving someone out!”

The duo both chuckled as the waiter arrived promptly with two intricately etched, heavy-bottomed tumblers filled with cognac on the rocks and set one down in front of each. Arthur snatched his up greedily and took a substantial swig, letting the chilled liquid burn down his throat in a satisfyingly smooth rush.

“Mmm, I minored in art, too, believe it or not,” he mused, licking his lips, “This is good…”

Alfred took a much more reserved sip of his liquor as he thought and while he gracefully tapped the ash of his cigarette into the tray.

“Oh yeah!” he said suddenly, illumination dawning on him, “Mattie showed me all the illustrations in the books one time while he was visiting. You’re good! I mean really good! You could totally kick what’s his face’s ass! The one with that plain looking broad with that creepy grin or whatever?”

Arthur snorted over the rim of his glass as he polished the brandy off and gestured across the table with it.

“Thank you. Though I think the name you’re grappling for is da Vinci. And you are aware we could go see that while we’re in Paris,” he added.

“No shit? That is in Paris isn’t it? Hah! Well then I suppose we’ll have to make a date!” Alfred agreed, “You’ll have to draw my portrait like that, too. Only better. Get that old dusty relic replaced in that fancy museum. I’d be more than happy to pose for you.”

Alfred winked, and Arthur flushed deeply once more as if on cue, much to his delight. He turned away to hide the color and hailed the waiter for a refill on his cognac, clearing his throat as he handed off his glass.

“So um, you said you were in sales? What kind exactly?” he asked, hoping to divert the conversation.

“Auto sales, as a matter of actual fact! American carmakers are finally getting the respect they deserve nowadays and the demand for overseas is huge!” Alfred announced proudly, hooding his eyes, “I have quite a few clients in London. I’m there all the time.”

Arthur’s heart twittered in his chest. The waiter returned with his second cognac and he swept it into his awaiting fingers before it could even light upon the crisp tablecloth.

“Really? Next time you come across the pond, as we say, I’ll have to show you the sights. I’m sure you don’t get to any of the good spots being there on business,” he invited, taking a sip before he spoke again, “Where in the States do you live, by the way?”

“New York, New York, born and bred,” Alfred informed him with robust pleasure.

“Fascinating!” Arthur piped with genuine fervor, “I’ve always wanted to visit there. And what about your brother? Matthew? You said you grew up together? Is he still nearby?”

“Close enough. Like I said before, he’s originally from Canada. He decided he wanted to go back to Montreal once we got outta mom’s house, but it’s not too terribly far away from where I am. We see each other all the time! Even if Mattie might prefer it if we didn’t!” Alfred laughed as he took a long and thoughtful drag on his cigarette.

Arthur’s thick brows furrowed sadly.

“Really? That’s too bad,” he mused, swirling his brandy around the ice cubes.

It took Alfred several moments to realize the other was being sincere in his regret.

“Oh no, it’s not really like that! I’m just joshing you! That’s what brothers are like! Don’t you have any siblings?” he asked with a snort.

“Oh, I see. No, no, I’m an only child. Grew up kind of isolated actually,” Arthur admitted with a half smile and a shrug, “One of those picturesque little old houses off in the wilds that has a name instead of a proper post address? Like something out of Jane Austen.”

“I have absolutely no idea who that is, but I’ll take your word for it!” Alfred asserted, tipping his head to the side with a shrewd grin, “I bet you were a kid with a lot of imaginary friends.”

Arthur felt his spine go solidly rigid and his fingers tighten around the glass. It was uncanny, how the seemingly tactless American knew just what to say to get a rise out of him. What was worse was that he seemed to enjoy it far too much.

“W-Well I-!” the author stammered, “Well what child wouldn’t have imaginary friends in that situation? It’s not as if there’s something WRONG with it! It’s perfectly ordinary for children to invent playmates! Even when they have regular playmates! I bet you had one too, you just wouldn’t dare admit it in polite company!”

Alfred grinned with relish as he watched Arthur flush, snarl, and snap all too easily with one innocent little prod.

“You know you’re damn adorable when you get all spitting mad like that,” he crooned.

Arthur found himself altogether stymied, all intelligent or witty responses obliterated before they even found life in his mind. All he could do was stare, jaw hanging open and emerald eyes wide, torn between believing what he had just heard and blaming it on his once lush imagination finally coming back to life.

“E-Excuse me?” he managed to rasp at length.

The only answer he got was a cryptically smug grin, as if the American had won some sort of private competition with himself, before the waiter came back to take their dinner orders. Alfred ordered the filet mignon with finesse, rare with extra béarnaise, and handed the menu back over to the smiling attendant, his gaze never leaving his companion. Arthur felt two pairs of eyes on him for several moments before he panicked and hurriedly ordered the first thing he saw on the menu, which happened to be a meat pie of some sort he deducted from the vaguely familiar words. Undoubtedly it had been begrudgingly put down and prepared with pinched noses to appease the English travelers, but Arthur was oddly relieved. He certainly didn’t need coping with some sort of ridiculous French dish on top of talking to Alfred and his relentless flirting and teasing.

“Normally I’d rather just have a cheeseburger and fries, but a steak is just as good!” Alfred chirped as soon as the waiter had glided off to fill their orders.

Arthur snapped back to reality with a start and laughed nervously.

“Nothing wrong ordering old favorites. But isn’t part of the charm of going to France the food?” he suggested.

“Says the guy who just ordered a meat pie,” Alfred teased him in return as he cheerfully stubbed out his cigarette.

Arthur twitched and opened his mouth to give the other the tongue-lashing he so deserved, but he stopped himself with a grin. If Alfred wanted to play that sort of game, he too could play just as well as he could, and he would not give him the satisfaction of getting so adorably spitting mad again.

“I’m British. We’ve killed our taste buds after centuries of eating nothing but shoe leather and mush. I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyway,” he said casually.

A thoroughly shocked Alfred was left speechless for a moment for the first time, but then just as quickly exploded into riotous laughter. He scooped up his glass of brandy and raised it boldly into the air, inviting Arthur to do the same.

“I’ll drink to that!” he guffawed playfully.

Arthur picked up his own glass and clinked it cordially against his.

“Cheers,” he concurred, and downed the rest of his second cognac while Alfred polished off his first.

After Alfred’s challenges had been so successfully met, conversation flourished for the rest of the meal. Both men engrossed themselves fully in their flirtatiously combative banter, which proved to be a more effective vehicle for getting to know one another than they ever could have imagined. They discovered each of them had grown up hearing about the second world war, but neither of them had ever had the misfortune of being drafted or dispatched. Both readily enjoyed sports, but they had to come to the conclusion to agree to disagree on that particular subject. Alfred had never even heard of rugby, and Arthur just didn’t quite understand baseball. As far as he was concerned, Alfred himself was a Yankee, and why they would name their much beloved team after their word for Americans was beyond him. Alfred confessed he had never been much of a reader, but listened with genuine interest as Arthur so kindly educated him on all of his favorite authors and works. A passion for alcohol brought them no end of spirited discussion, which moved on to types of music, motion pictures, food, and hobbies. They shared much of them in common, and even happened to discover by some stroke of fate that they were booked into the very same hotel in Paris.

Dinner arrived promptly, and even as they hungrily devoured their meals they continued to talk and laugh without so much as a single lull in the dialogue. The brandy kept coming, and eventually the bottle simply stayed on the table and drained lower and lower as the ashtray filled with Lucky Strike butts and the train chugged closer to Paris in the coming dusk. Spirits loosened tongues, and once they had exhausted the usual small talk and platitudes neither hesitated to delve into more intimate subjects. Alfred told his new English confidant the short version of his relationship with Matthew, and Arthur listened enraptured as he heard how his mother had fallen in love with a Canadian man and left his father for Matthew’s father. Matthew had been born shortly afterward in Montreal, and Alfred had stayed in New York with his other parent for several years until the second marriage crumbled and she had finally come back for him. After that, he had grown up with his half brother in upstate New York and had lived dangerously every moment.

Arthur heard tale after tale of Alfred’s wild youth; everything from fixing up an old car to race with through a field just out of town, pulling pranks at school, various broken bones and injuries, smoking behind the school after hours, sneaking alcohol and shoplifting to less horrifying adventures such as hunting and camping trips to Canada with Matthew and his father, Coney Island, and sailing in Lake Ontario. Alfred produced grand stories with the littlest inspiration or invocation, and as Arthur listened he found himself sinking into a strange, jealous despair. He had not one singular anecdote that could even hold a flame to any belonging to the sandy-haired American. Alfred had been so many places and seen so many things he felt even more like he had lived his life in a prison. Luckily the much more readily verbose man was perfectly content to chatter on about his own life for most of the evening, until they were thoroughly flush with drink and polishing off the last of the crème brûlée they had ordered to share and he had finally asked about tight-lipped new friend’s life.

Arthur sputtered and gestured with his spoon and stalled as long as he could, but under the coaxing sly blue gaze and the warm smile on Alfred’s face he had finally confessed his entire drab, uneventful life. With a subtle note of regret in his voice, he recounted his perfectly ordinary childhood with both parents in the tiny town in the countryside of imagination and fairies and never going on holiday once, his school years of being a teacher’s pet, earning perfect marks, playing rugby, and his college years of confining himself to the library, only emerging for a night of drinking with his friends or perhaps a dinner out. He spoke of listening to the reports on the wireless and of his inspiration for his novels, which lead to the story of actually writing them. Only then did his voice finally come alive, did pride fill his tale and his words, and a smile wash over his lips. Though as he came to the end of his one story of pride and victory, sadness replaced the glow of joy as he finally told his companion just how empty finishing his saga had made him, and why he had so suddenly up and decided to leave.

“I’m barking mad for taking this trip,” he moaned drunkenly, rubbing his face, “But there’s nothing left. I’m bored to death.”

“But I thought you had an idea for a novel or something. Didn’t you say?” Alfred mused, squinting his eyes as he thought back.

“There is no novel,” Arthur bitterly confessed, shaking his head, “I’m dried up, washed up, completely blank. My muses have flown back to Olympus! There’s nary a single creative thought left in my head. I haven’t done a single sodding thing in my entire life and I’m twenty five years old!”

“Well, you wrote your other books, and they make a lot of people really happy, including my little brother, that’s worth something isn’t it?” Alfred posed softly.

Arthur flushed and bobbed his hanging head in agreement, brushing the spoon thoughtfully over his lips.

“Of course it is, I’m not questioning that it’s just… Writing them made me really happy too, and now that it’s over I don’t know what to do. I WANT to write again, there’s just… Nothing inside me. I’m just empty.”

Alfred watched him for a moment in silent contemplation, seeing the pain and the yearning so clearly etched on his beautiful face. He sat up slowly in his chair and reached a broad hand over the table to cup his chin tenderly and lift his head, catching his emerald eyes once more with a smile.

“I don’t think so,” he whispered, caressing his cheek with his thumb, “I think you’re doing exactly what it is you need to do. Writing is about life, you can’t write if you don’t LIVE. And someone who was truly empty wouldn’t feel that irresistible pull of adventure. You’re just a little lost right now. That’s all.”

Alfred smiled handsomely and Arthur’s heart raced once again in his chest as he stayed transfixed in his powerful spell.

“A-Alfred…” was all he could manage to breath.

Alfred opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could get a word out the train gave a dull shudder, the whistle blew, and the voice of the conductor rang through the car announcing their imminent arrival into Paris. Arthur gasped and sat bolt upright in his chair, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“We’re here already? How long were we at dinner? I’ve got to fetch my things! Come on!” he barked, and darted out of the dining car.

Alfred watched him go amusedly and rose from his perch with far less urgency. He fished a few more bills out of his wallet to toss on the table as a tip before he too strode out of the dining car after him. Arthur tore like a flash through the center aisle and to his abandoned compartment where his coat, jacket, hat, and suitcase were all still exactly where he had left them. He donned them all again as quickly as he could and stepped back into the hall where the other passengers were beginning to emerge to disembark, including a very familiar figure in a camel suede coat, goggles, and bogged down on every limb with luggage.

“Matthew!” he cried in surprise.

Guilt seized his chest as he realized he had altogether forgotten about the younger of the two brothers and had whittled away the hours monopolizing the only company he had.

“I’m so sorry! I should have come and invited you to dinner too!” he spluttered.

Matthew smiled cheerfully, shook his head, and held up his copy of the final book of the Sabrehaven Chronicles.

“It’s really no trouble at all. Honestly, I was a bit relieved Alfred wanted to go to dinner with you. It gave me some nice, quiet time alone to read without him bothering me,” he replied sweetly.

Unable to argue with that logic, Arthur freed himself from any more guilt, laughed, and promptly insisted on shouldering some of the burden of the luggage since he only had his one suitcase. Alfred joined them a few minutes later and together, the trio exited the train and onto the platform in Paris.

Dusk cloaked the city of lights in a scandalously rich stole of sensual reds, flaming oranges and blushing pinks. Beneath it, Paris lay like rich dark velvet studded with diamonds flashing in the brazen smoldering sunset and above it all, the proud, yet elegantly intricate silhouette of the Eiffel Tower rose and caressed the clouds. To Arthur, he might as well have stepped off the train and into another world.

The Seine rippled and flashed brightly through the teeming, crowded streets where the wrought iron lamps flickered to life and lit the paths of lovers and vagabonds alike as night gave the city over to her people. Thousands of years of civilization, culture, and history rose proudly, scarred and beautiful, into the darkening sky and beckoned Arthur into their dew-studded web of intrigue and promise. He knew nothing of what awaited him in the labyrinth of Paris with her alleys and sewers of legend, but Alfred was right about him. He yearned for the adventure.

Arthur led the charge away from the train station, insisting on traveling on foot to the Hotel Ècarlate where they were all staying in order to fully enjoy their first night in Paris as much as they could. Exhausted, and still reeling from the brandy at dinner, as they all were, not one protested the fairly substantial walk through the busiest streets of France’s capital and most cherished city. Arthur took the time to chat with Matthew, since he had been denied the pleasure of much of his company, and found him to be quite the opposite of his brother. Sweet, shy, and utterly soft-spoken, conversation did not come quite so readily with him as it did with his older sibling, but it was much kinder and distinctly lacking in twitching eyelids and bouts of temper. They got along fabulously and talked as Alfred took up the lead of the group and smoked another cigarette, grinning as he eavesdropped.

Hotel Ècarlate was a few miles through the main thoroughfares of Paris, past several fragrant patisseries, cafes, and a long rue of nothing but fine boutiques with mannequins donning all of their satin, feathered luxury and posing for each passerby enticingly. It stood at the helm of a long block of shops and apartments, the neon sign emblazoned with its name glowing bright red against a vivid painting of a phoenix beneath it. Arthur grinned privately, and looked the rest of the building over, wondering just which balcony and window would be his to gaze out of and survey all there was to see.

They entered through the rotating door of the main entrance and while Arthur and Matthew paused to admire the interior with its crystal chandeliers and oil paintings, Alfred took the liberty of checking them in. Arthur greeted the concierge kindly in French, checked in, received his own key, and the trio of foreigners trudged wearily onto the elevator to retire at last for the night. Matthew and Alfred were to be staying in a room on the fifth floor, where Arthur had been awarded one almost on the top level on the ninth. He could only hope it was high enough to see over the entire cityscape.

Too soon, the elevator jostled to a halt on the fifth floor, and Alfred turned to bid his new friends good night, but Alfred made no move to leave. Instead, he urged Matthew to go and take the bags to his room while he escorted Arthur to his. His chivalry incited a few bristly remarks about not being a damsel in distress, which he laughed all the way through, but Matthew finally obeyed and left the two of them together in the elevator all the way to the ninth floor. They rode in silence, Arthur blushing and fuming and Alfred grinning like the cat that just caught the mouse, until the car came to another jarring halt and the doors slid open with a pleasant hiss.

Alfred gestured for Arthur to exit ahead of him, and Arthur stalked out quickly, making a sharp right down the hall. Alfred followed close at his heels and once Arthur stopped in front of the door matching the number on his key, he folded his arms over his chest and leaned roguishly against the wall.

“Well, this is it. Nice riding with you, and I’ll see you around, I suppose?” Arthur said jocularly, sticking his key into the lock and turning it.

“I can do better than that,” Alfred chortled, “Tell you what! Mattie and I have a date or something with some cousins of his tomorrow afternoon and night, but! It just so happens I’m free all morning. What do you say I come up and sweep you off your feet and take you to your first real Parisian breakfast? I know a great place nearby, all the locals go!”

Arthur nearly dropped his key as he jerked it free of the door, whirling around to face the American.

“Sweep me off my- For the last time I am NOT a damsel in distress and I don’t NEED-“ he started to protest, only to find Alfred’s finger pressed tenderly against his lips, quieting him.

“Yes or no, Arthur,” he instructed with a smirk.

Arthur stayed silent for a moment, weighing his options, before he even remembered to swat Alfred’s hand away and bristle, the warmth of those strong, commanding digits lingering on his lips.

“Fine, I guess that would be alright,” he grumbled, wiping at his mouth.

“Finally getting the right answers eh? Great! I’ll be up around eight, how’s that?” Alfred asked in an excited tone that was much more informative than it was a true question.

Arthur nodded tersely in response and opened his door.

“Good. I’ll… See you then, then,” he said with an uneasy smirk.

“See you then,” Alfred echoed, a much softer smile on his face, “Goodnight, Unicorn guy.”

The Brit scowled and flushed one last time for him, but could not help the smile that erased it.

“Goodnight.”

Alfred gave him a crooked salute, turned over his shoulder and strolled down the hallway with his hands in his pockets and a loudly whistled tune on his lips. Arthur lingered in the doorway of his hotel room until he heard the elevator doors shut and the cheerful melody fade away into nothingness. Only then did he remember to breathe. With Alfred finally gone and the fog lifted from his mind, he could finally remember that he was alone, and his sanctuary was awaiting him. He picked up his suitcase clumsily and retreated into the simple room painted a calming cream color with red and gold accents, and set his suitcase down at the foot of the four poster bed pushed up against the wall beneath a pastoral painting. Immediately, he went to window and threw open the curtains, gazing out into the brilliant sight that greeted him.

From his window, he did indeed feel as if he could see all of Paris. The road lead straight away from beneath it, paving its way into the city in bright golden light like a pathway opening only for him. He could see the grand, lighted shape of the Eiffel Tower perched on the horizon as well the sinuous flash of the Seine nearby, and distantly, he could hear the faint, jubilant sounds of a musette played by deft hands somewhere on the street. He had finally made it. He was there at last, in the center of it all, watching a brand new country with brand new people on the first night of his new adventure. Everything was perfect. He had been concerned about what exactly he was going to do or where he was going to go upon arriving in Paris, but so unexpectedly the grinning, bespectacled American had breezed in and solved that for him.

In the morning, he would be striking out into a new city, eating foods he had never tried before with someone who made him feel like no one had ever made him feel. He had expected to be inspired by Paris, by a change of scenery and a new way of life, someplace new and something new, what he never counted on was finding someone new who would turn everything he expected upside down. Though as much as he wanted to be angry that his plans had been thus far nothing like he had carefully outlined and angry at Alfred for being so able to get a rise out of him, as he sat there on his windowsill, watching the night sky and the glitter of Paris, his heart raced and he silently begged the dawn to come as soon as it could.

Perhaps there was just a tiny bit that was charming about Alfred Jones.

@->->-

And the end of chapter 2! That Alfred Jones, such a slick little charmer he is, isn’t he? But now that Arthur is in Paris, he’s probably not the only slick little charmer in town, ohohohoh! Stay tuned for chapter 3 and please do review if you enjoyed! X3