La Vie en Rose

Author’s Note: Ah well! I said I was gonna try and have a chapter out a week! So much for that :T! But hey, here we have another much anticipated addition! Because Francis finally shows up just like I promised heheh >:T I had an absolute blast finally getting to write him, he’s my favorite character of the series and I just adore him to death! Now also seems a good time to remind everyone that this is definitely one of those US/UK/FR fics, yep one of THOSE. I really wish FF.net would let you set three main characters dangit! What are we supposed to do for all these torrid love triangle fics of deliciousness?? Anyhoo! Enjoy the next chapter! :3

Chapter Three
In which Arthur ventures at last into Paris and gets more of Paris than he bargained for.

Arthur was so exhausted by the time he dragged his sorry carcass to bed, he was nearly instantly asleep despite the strange room, the unfamiliar bed, and the thoughts of Alfred plaguing his mind. He did remember in the fog of it all to set the alarm clock on the nightstand for precisely seven o’clock, however, as he did not want to risk sleeping in and missing his appointment, or meeting, or outing, or date. Arthur frankly had no idea. He would find out in the morning, he was certain, and barred it from even invading his dreams that night as he slept under the Parisian sky.

Arthur slept peacefully, but the city did not. It continued to pulse with life and vigor long into the night, pausing only briefly when dawn touched the horizon with rosy fingers and gently urged the creatures of the night back home. Replacing the sultry lights, the seductive aroma of perfume, and the swish of satin dresses, store awnings blossomed in the pale golden light, the smell of fresh pastries and the finest coffee and tea filled the air, and the sky washed to a radiant cornflower blue, all before the impatient jangle of the alarm even went off. Accustomed to waking up to the sound of frantic bells every morning, Arthur rolled over with a grunt and batted blindly at the source of the noise until his hand made violent contact with metal. The ringing ceased and he spent one blissful moment between sleeping and waking remembering his adventure so far with a sleepy smile on his face.

The sound of birds chirping and heralding the morning drifted into his room echoed, and Arthur finally opened his emerald green eyes. He rose slowly, stretched and yawned, and then made his way groggily in his dressing gown to the window where he pushed the curtains aside to let in the triumphant light of morning. It blinded him for a brief moment, but when his eyes focused he was greeted with the gilded beauty of Paris in the daylight. The city became an entirely different creature when touched and brought to life by the warm rays of the sun and beneath the wispy veil of clouds. People on bicycles whizzed through the streets on their way to wherever they spent their days, the trees shone and glinted warm yellow and green in the balmy breeze, and the Eiffel tower became an elegant and lacy guardian of all its beauty and splendor.

The sight was so beautiful and captivating, Arthur nearly lost track of time and himself in the rich canvas of colors, life, and decadence, but he remembered his appointed outing and drew himself away from his perch to the bathroom. There was, in fact, a shower, he noted with amusement, completely and totally shattering all the foul-smelling Frenchman jokes he had told and laughed at over the years. He undressed and got in, cleaning himself thoroughly and shaving, refreshing the slight lingering effects of the brandy, and still wondering all the while if there were only showers in French hotels purely for foreign tourists with a smirk on his face.

After he was finished, the author finally got around to unpacking his suitcase and selected a simple white shirt, forest green argyle sweater vest and a bright red tie to match for the day. Arthur donned them quickly, and was ready to leave with his wallet and keys stashed in his pockets a full five minutes before Alfred’s appointed hour. He sat on his bed, heart racing, and watched the clock as he waited for the arrival of his American friend. Eight o’clock flew in on the rapid wings of time, but then just as quickly vanished into five minutes past the hour. Arthur watched with increasing irritation as the small hand of the clock slid past the one, caressed the two, and was just flirting with three, when then loud, jarring knock finally sounded at his door.

“Finally…” he grumbled to himself as he got up, and stalked over to the door.

He threw it open angrily and revealed the perpetually cheery, grinning face of Alfred once again. He was dressed in a pair of crisp brown slacks with a pressed cream-colored shirt and suspenders, rectangular glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and bright blue eyes glinting behind them as he raised a hand in greeting.

“Morning, Arthur!” he chirped loudly, “Ready to have the best damn breakfast you ever ate?”

“I was ready over fifteen minutes ago! I thought you said eight!” Arthur snapped.

“I said around eight, there’s a difference,” Alfred chuckled in reply.

He offered out his arm, continuing to grin even despite the rankled glare he endured.

“Shall we?”

Arthur took one look at the arm held out in only the most gentlemanly of manners, flushed angrily, and slammed the door to his room shut behind him as he brushed past without even considering taking it.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he huffed.

Alfred pursed his lips, drew his hand back, and settled for watching Arthur’s rear end gleefully as he marched to the elevator and nearly crushed the button to call it. The American followed close behind, and together they rode down to the lobby where they exited out onto the street.

The sun shone bright and warm down over the already bustling and busy city sparkling with life, and the duo was immediately swept into the robust heartbeat of it. Men and women alike walked the streets in bright bold colors, smoking pungent cigarettes and speaking in rapid, melodic French. All around him he could smell pastries, fresh coffee and tea all mixed with the bright, clear air and the distinct odor of petrol and exhaust from the pristinely polished cars that sped noisily past on the wrong side of the street. It was all so fascinating and new and poignantly different, Arthur completely forgot his irritation at Alfred for delaying him from seeing it.

“This is just extraordinary!” he gasped as they wended their way through the sprawling rues and streets, “Look at it! Look at the artistry on every building! The landscaping! The people! I never could have imagined from the pictures in the travel brochure!”

Alfred smiled, watching the look of sheer joy and wonder replace the scowl on Arthur’s face.

“You’re pretty easily impressed aren’t you?” he chuckled amusedly.

“I am not! I just appreciate the simple beauty of this place! It’s the whole reason I came after all!” Arthur quipped back, “Experiencing a new place isn’t just all about big monuments or fancy food or even the famous sites! It’s about just seeing something different for once!”

The sandy-haired, younger man held his hands up defensively, and replied with his usual carefree laugh.

“Hey hey now, did I say it was a bad thing?” he defended himself merrily, “I mean, if you couldn’t find something amazing in something little or whatever, you’d be pretty damn bored all the time wouldn’t you?”

Arthur flinched, suddenly feeling just the slightest bit guilty for snapping, and flushed all over again.

“I suppose you’re right…” he grumbled.

“Plus, isn’t it all these little details that make your books so amazing? I sure as hell could never think up anything like all those places and people and magic and stuff!” Alfred laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“How would you know that? You didn’t even READ my novels!” Arthur hissed cantankerously, almost to himself.

The part of him that considered Alfred a complete ignorant lout won out over the part of him that liked to color his face and make his heart flutter in his chest, and he paused a moment to let the American get one pace ahead of him as he fumed. Sensing the sudden change in the mood, Alfred cast a glance over his shoulder with an obliviously cheery grin.

“Then why don’t you tell me all about them?” he suggested genuinely.

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks, emerald eyes wide.

“Y-You want to hear about them?” he asked, flabbergasted.

Alfred paused in his stroll to wait for the older blonde he had stunned, smirking.

“Of course I do! Mattie loves them, and the author is a pretty damn interesting guy, I have to say. It’s about time I was schooled, don’t you think?” he replied invitingly.

Arthur could scarcely believe what he was hearing, and seeing the shock on his face Alfred interjected again.

“I want to know all about you… And those books are a big part of who you are. I know how you creative types get about your works,” he said with a flirtatious wink, “So come on. Show the big American idiot what the big deal is all about!”

Arthur stood on the tree-lined Paris sidewalk for several more moments, response after response whizzing through his head, but none making it past his lips.

“I-I well…” he finally managed to stammer, thick brows furrowing and finally snapping, “You have to promise you’ll actually pay attention then! Or else I swear I’m giving you a pop bloody quiz when we get to the café!”

Alfred reached out and gently put a hand on Arthur’s back to urge him forward, laughing brightly as they began their journey again.

“Trust me, I’m all yours.”

The indignant flush lingered stubbornly on Arthur’s cheeks as they walked and he shyly began relating the story of his novels, the condensed version. He told him of how the idea first came to him, of how he had sketched Keiran, his unicorn hero, in the midst of battle triumphant beside his loyal phoenix companion ablaze with virtuous flame, and how thrilling it had felt to be transported to the fantasy realm of Sabrehaven in his head and in his heart. The famed author told Alfred the entire process, from beginning to end, gave him a brief biography of each of the heroes and each of the villains, a run down on all the intricate relationships between the players and the lands they roamed, and then finally moved on to the story that had spanned several heavy tomes, sparing no detail he deemed vital. Arthur did talk the entire time, as he had expected, but the thought of letting his mind wander elsewhere never even whispered into Alfred’s ear. Talking about his writing and his art made Arthur glow with an enthusiasm, a joy, and a deep pride that was obvious and strikingly beautiful, and he found himself transfixed. The entire few blocks they walked to get to the café he chose for them he listened intently to his every word, just as he had promised.

The duo walked close together through the shady streets, the crisp breeze refreshing under the gentle warmth of the steadily rising sun, and chatted as easily as they had the night before, as if they were old friends. It seemed no time at all before they rounded the final block, and finally came up the street to the corner café on the bustling corner of a crowded intersection. Patrons drifted casually in and out of the tall, inviting building in a steady stream, its tall glass windows covered lovingly in lacy, apple-patterned curtains on the inside. Creeping ivy climbed around the glass entrance doors, which bore the gilded insignia of, ‘Café Pomme’ in intricate golden cursive over the logo of a lushly painted red apple. A white, potted fence filled with immaculately trimmed hedges, marigolds, tulips, pansies, and all manner of delicate and beautiful flowers lovingly encircled its sprawling patio peppered in pink and white umbrella-covered tables and the smell of freshly baked goods and exotic coffee filled the very air, titillating Arthur’s every sense as they walked up the pathway to the entrance.

“Café Apple, is it?” he remarked in amusement, “It’s cute, and it certainly smells delicious.”

“It is delicious!” Alfred confirmed happily, looking around the crowded patio area, “Busy as hell apparently, but delicious. Hey, how about you hunt us down a table out here and guard it with your life, and I’ll go get us a little sampler of pastries and fruit and such and two coffees?”

Arthur wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

“Tea for me, thanks. Earl grey. But otherwise, great idea. You don’t mind sitting outside do you? It’s lovely out.”

“Not at all!” Alfred announced loudly as he turned toward the door, “I’ll be RIGHT back!”

With that, the American dashed inside the café and forcibly inserted himself into the ponderous line ahead of a man tragically not paying attention and taking too much time perusing the pastry case. Arthur smirked fondly at him and watched him through the glass doors for only a few moments, marveling at his uniquely carefree way of existing in the world. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, but the smile never left it as he turned to go on a hunt for a place to sit at the very popular café.

Most of the tables near the door and near the street had been taken already and were occupied by grinning men in suits, beautiful women smoking thin cigarettes in long black lacquer holders, and gaggles of school children chattering excitedly and stuffing croissants into their mouths as they scurried quickly on their way. Near the back corners of the patio a few lonely tables remained unoccupied, however, and Arthur confidently forded his way through the sea of people and quaint white tablecloths to the one furthest away from any other diners where he and Alfred could have the area, small as it was, to themselves. The idea made his cheeks burn and the smile on his lips a little brighter, and so enthralled was he with the vision of sitting with his handsome companion on a glorious morning in absolutely breathtaking Paris watching the world go by together, he failed to notice every single chair had vanished from the near vicinity of his chosen perch save for only one.

Utterly dismayed with his fantasy in jeopardy thanks to one lousy chair, Arthur looked around frantically for any that might have been abandoned by a careless extra patron at a table where it did not belong. Luckily, he happened to spot just exactly what he was looking for pushed up against the hedge growing along the café wall and forgotten. A single, solitary unoccupied chair sat alone, its pink cushion clean and inviting, white painted back coiling intricately and shining in the sun. Hope and his fantasy immediately stoked back to life, Arthur dashed back across the patio and zeroed in on his target to claim it before anyone else could steal it from him. His hand darted out, he took one final quick stride and finally landed it on the cool metal of the chair’s back victoriously, but the moment his fingers closed around the delicate iron another broad, warm palm and elegant fingers closed around his own.

Surprised, Arthur jerked his head up and looked straight into a pair of equally shocked, startling sky blue eyes. The chair thief stared back at him, his handsome, ruggedly unshaven face framed in a loose fall of long, wavy golden hair tied at the nape of his neck with a bright blue satin ribbon and wearing a similar expression of astonishment. For one silent, long moment their eyes stayed locked, a disarmingly charming grin crossed the lips of the other man, and Arthur held his breath in momentary bedazzlement of the beautiful stranger and the altogether awkward situation. Once he realized the strong, tender hand was still on his, they both retracted them hastily and laughed.

“Pardon,” Arthur said politely, and reached for the chair again.

The tall, golden-haired stranger did the same, and each tugged on the opposite of the chair at the exact same moment, leaving it unmoved in any way and still sitting daintily in the exact same spot. Green eyes leveled with a twitch of irritation at the then perturbed blue irises, and crooked, annoyed smiles graced the lips of both men still gripping the chair just a little tighter.

“If you don’t mind,” Arthur continued, his voice thinly veiled in feigned courtesy, “I believe I had it first.”

His adversary made no move to allow him to leave with his prize, and both remained stubbornly in their standoff with their hands still clenching the chair.

“I think not, mon ami,” the other retorted testily in a lilting French accent, “Clearly, it was I who saw this chair first. I merely got distracted for a moment on the way over, and my table is further away, I had longer to go!”

Arthur felt him give another tug on the contested chair, but he dug in his heels and yanked right back with a growl.

“What kind of a bollocks excuse is that? My hand was on it first! It’s mine!”

“There is a perfectly good chair over there in the corner for your sad lonely breakfast by yourself!” the Frenchman countered mockingly.

Arthur was so appalled by the sheer nerve of that statement he nearly forgot to keep his hold.

“Excuse me!? My friend is merely waiting in line for the both of us inside and he asked me to secure us both a table! I’m not eating alone! And even if I were, who gives a damn?” he sibilated.

The golden blonde laughed derisively again and shrugged.

“Not I, certainly, but you will find that my entire party is already here and at a table and we just need one more chair. Why don’t you go and find a place to sit inside for your silly little breakfast date?” he sneered with a snide grin.

Arthur felt his cheeks burn with humiliated hellfire as he nearly lost his grip on the coveted piece of furniture.

“I-It’s not a DATE. How dare you insinuate that!” he spluttered before he could stop himself.

Clearly sensing a weak spot, the taller man grinned wolfishly and hooded his crystalline eyes.

“Ohhh? But clearly you want it to be, non?” he crooned.

“NO!” Arthur gasped too quickly, “I mean! It’s nothing! We’re both on holiday! We met on the train! He knows this place and merely wanted to treat me to it my first day in Paris!”

The melodic laugh that rang in reply from the throat of the other made a shiver run up and down Arthur’s spine.

“If you are to be wooed over breakfast, I hope for your sake he is French,” he chuckled.

The author scowled again and drew himself up importantly.

“No, actually, he just so happens to be American.”

The expression that flashed across the chair burglar’s face looked something akin to a combination of surprise, disgust and hilarity all at once.

“Then I feel even more sorry for you! Dining alone would be far more pleasant than dining with an American! I shall do you a favor and take the chair so you can make your escape while you still can,” he laughed harshly with another firm tug at the hapless piece of furniture.

“Not if I have anything to do with it!” Arthur countered furiously with a hard pull of his own, “I came here to experience Paris damn it, and I’m not going to let this bloody chair ruin it!”

“Experience Paris? Heh, well if you want to live like we do here, then all you have to do is follow Monsieur charming American to his room tonight.”

Arthur’s eyes went wide, his face went white, and his grip loosened on the chair just enough to allow the Frenchman to finally wrest it from his grasp.

“Merci,” he purred with a smug grin.

Arthur’s brain quickly regained vital function as he saw the other turn away with the chair. Not to be undone by a simple tease, he darted forward and snatched a leg boldly in both hands, nearly tripping the retreating Frenchman who had only managed to escape a few feet. He whirled around indignantly, shocked that the Brit continued to dog him even still.

“Mon dieu! It’s a CHAIR!” he snarled exasperatedly.

“Now it’s the principle of the thing! You can stand and eat breakfast for all I care, but I will be sitting on a damned beautiful Paris street with my new friend who invited me, drinking my sodding tea and eating the best damn breakfast I ever ate while I watch the world go by, whether you like it or not!” Arthur raved, jabbing a finger toward the other.

Impressed by the irate Brit’s stubbornness and passion, the temporarily triumphant blue-eyed young man softened and managed a gentle smirk.

“You are truly hell bent on having this breakfast romantique,” he mused, “There is something to be admired about that I suppose.”

“It’s not bloody romantic!” Arthur seethed.

The momentary tenderness that had graced the handsome face of the stranger instantly melted away back to tetchy distaste.

“Then you don’t need the chair that badly!” he huffed haughtily.

Arthur’s rage grew hotter and more volatile by the moment. The utterly smug, infuriatingly gorgeous man dressed in nothing but wine red shirt unbuttoned lewdly halfway down his chest and a green striped scarf and yet treating him like he was some sort of aged prude made him almost want to release his hold on the chair, just so he could slug him properly in the face.

“Oh, so if I’d told you I needed it to get into someone’s pants you’d be more inclined to give it up!?” the enraged Brit bristled.

He should have known even obliquely mentioning sex would make his adversary grin, but when he did it only riled and disgusted him exponentially more so despite being prepared for it.

“Peut-être. It would be at least a much more interesting excuse than some boring breakfast with someone you just met on a train!” the Frenchman said silkily with a suggestive grin.

“That tears it. Unhand it before this gets really ugly!” Arthur finally bellowed.

“I am more than prepared for ugly! I was handling ugly the moment I laid eyes on your face and those ghastly caterpillars you pass off for eyebrows!” challenged the thief, leaning in closer.

Arthur met his challenge and leaned in as well, glaring straight into his eyes and baring his teeth in a twitching, furious grin.

“Oh yeah? And here I was thinking you’d just lay down and give up like you people always do!” he quipped back smugly.

“Arrogant, bullheaded rosbif!”

“Perverse, foppish frog!”

The thought that he should finally raise his fist to pummel the impertinent stranger was just beginning to percolate through the haze of anger in Arthur’s mind when suddenly, the door to the café swung open a few feet away and the bell attached to it tinkled sweetly. Alfred Jones’ head poked out, searched around, and his hand followed suit with a cheerful wave once he spotted his breakfast partner at last.

“Hey Arthur! What are you still doing out here? Patio’s way too crowded, so I found us a great spot inside! It’s by the window and everything! Come on I got all the best stuff! These croissants are fresh out of the oven!” he called gallantly.

Arthur’s bushy brows twitched in defeat, and the Frenchman took the opportunity to finally snatch his coveted chair away from him at last.

“A-Alright! Coming!” he piped shakily back at the American.

Alfred grinned and disappeared back into the café while Arthur glowered one last time at the infuriating Frenchman still lingering and grinning despite having won.

“Arthur, is it?” he chimed sweetly, “Well, félicitations, it appears a happy medium has been reached!”

“Bugger off! You won, now we can both go enjoy our breakfasts where we don’t have to look at each other!” Arthur spat.

The Frenchman laughed as he reached a hand into his pocket, dug around for a moment, and then finally procured a small pink card.

“Here,” he said, holding the card out between two long, elegant fingers, “In case you ever want to experience the REAL Paris. Take this.”

Part of him told himself to swat the scrap of whatever it was out of his hand, curse him out, and stomp off, but curiosity got the better of Arthur and he reached out to take it. A delicate illustration of a beautifully intricate birdcage with a tiny yellow bird perched on the swing inside decorated the business card along with the words, ‘Le Petit Oiseau Chanteur’ in bold print across the top. Beneath it, in smaller letters, read ‘Francis Bonnefoy – Amuseur Extraordinaire’ in coiling, sensual script. The bottom of the card consisted of a rather large blank space, and other than that there seemed to be nothing special or even remotely intriguing about it at all. Arthur frowned and looked up, but before he could even inquire, Francis, as the card had kindly informed him, answered his question.

“Hold it gently to a candle later,” he said with a wink, “It will show you the way. We open around eight, and the show starts at nine.”

Arthur colored ever so slightly as he scowled, and promptly crammed the card carelessly into his pocket.

“Like I’d come to some seedy, sleazy, run down bar or nightclub or whatever it is!” he snapped, “Especially if YOU go there.”

Francis grinned and shrugged, then picked up his chair to go to finally go to breakfast.

“That, mon rosbif mignon… Is entirely up to you,” he crooned, kissing the tips of his fingers and blowing the kiss toward the horrified Brit, “Au revoir.”

Arthur quivered in sheer revulsion as Francis turned over his shoulder, lush waves of golden hair and silk blue ribbon glinting in the sun, hips swaying as he walked to the other end of the patio and joined a table filled with people who all greeted him warmly as he sat down. It took Arthur several moments to even realize that he had watched Francis go and that he was no longer required to even look at him, and once he did he swore under his breath and stalked angrily back inside the café.

Alfred was inside waiting for him at a table beside a sunny window, just as he had promise, lavishly piled with pastries, croissants, spreads, the pot of tea he had requested, and fresh fruits, sipping his coffee as he smoked lazily. He smiled when he saw him, and Arthur smiled in return, and forced himself to forget the random fight with the obnoxious blonde as he rejoined his friend for a pleasant meal.

“This looks smashing!” he exclaimed eagerly as he slid into the seat.

“It is trust me! So lets quit dawdling and dig in!” Alfred cheered and vigorously stubbed out his cigarette before picking up a fork to jab at a fruit crepe.

Arthur took the time to put a napkin in his lap neatly before he surveyed the mountain of food Alfred had purchased. Though even as he perused and eventually settled on a croissant, as he dipped a knife into the strawberry preserves seeing French food only made Francis’ mocking words resurface in his mind. He twitched angrily, and made a point of puncturing the pastry violently.

“Can I… Ask you something, Alfred?” he began, lips twisting to the side.

The American crammed another bite of crepe into his mouth and nodded cheerily.

“Sure! Shoot!” he mumbled, mouth filled with cream and strawberries.

Arthur hesitated a moment, twisting the knife through the flaky layers and watching the bright red sugary spread drip morbidly through it.

“Do you… Think my eyebrows… Look like… Caterpillars…?” he asked slowly and timidly.

A moment of silence followed the question.

“Well yeah! But you can’t help that now can you?” Alfred answered with an obliviously delighted grin.

A choked sound of shock, insult, and rage wrenched its way out of Arthur’s throat, and Alfred kept on shoveling food into his mouth. His answer, coupled with the still pent up rage from his argument before, finally boiled over and before he could even stop himself he was flinging his croissant right into that obnoxious smile. The baked treat bounced off the bridge of Alfred’s nose and left a bright streak of sticky red across his stunned face and his spectacles.

“Git,” Arthur grumbled moodily.

Alfred stared at him for a few moments, blinking, before a wry grin graced his dirtied face. Without a word in retaliation or defense, he swiped a finger through the whipped cream on his crepe, reached across the table and smeared it playfully across Arthur’s cheek, brushing his thumb over his lips. The Brit sat straight up in his chair, cheeks flushing scarlet, feeling the warmth of the fingers and the smooth sweetness of the cream lingering on his quivering lips. His tongue ventured out to taste it, and the rich flavor coupled with Alfred’s playful grin soothed his frayed nerves and replaced them with the exhilarated racing of his heart.

“It is good…” Arthur murmured, snickering and wiping the rest from his cheek.

Alfred laughed as well as he cleaned his glasses with his napkin.

“Told you so.”

Both of them erupted into raucous laughter at once as they cleaned their faces and finally settled in to enjoy the meal they had set out to enjoy. Conversation flourished and they once again returned to the easy, pleasant repartee they had enjoyed since their first meeting. Arthur forgot all about Francis and their annoying altercation and spent his morning gazing both at Alfred’s handsome, smiling face and out the window to the Paris street, sipping his perfectly brewed Earl Grey, eating the most amazing croissants he had ever tasted, and conveniently forgetting all about the mysterious pink card still stuffed deep inside his pocket.

~ ~ ~

Ohoho! The plot thickens! Will Arthur actually accept the invitation of the bloody frog? And more importantly, what will happen if he does? Stay tuned!