[fanfiction] Risqué - Memoirs of an English Busboy 2/3
Chapter 2
Life is nothing without a little Risqué.
This was the official tagline of Risqué. Now, most people find it very charming and yet with an edge to it, but it is not the byword that really attracts the clientele Risqué has come to pride itself in. No, surprisingly enough it is not the cosy yet chic atmosphere, nor the charmingly caring hostess, adorably flustered headwaiter or the poshly natty owner, and to top that all off it wasn’t even the five-star, internationally recognized, multiple-award winning food.
It all came down to one very important, very lovely and very talented Frenchman. Now, for a quick recap of just what makes Francis Bonnefoy one of the best at what he does, we must go back and see what blood Francis comes from. Both his parents are world-renown chefs; one being French, owning a large restaurant in Paris (known as Le Jules Verne, one might say it’s rather well-known). The other being Italian, owning a small restaurant in Rome (known as Tramonto, one might say it’s rather utterly-unknown)
Seemingly born with the genes that would guarantee a gifted chef, Francis’ gourmet path did not end there. By the age of ten he had already perfected his father’s pasta recipe, completely reworked his mother’s speciality dish and managed bake a soufflé while a jackhammer was digging right outside his Parisian flat.
After that, Francis was enrolled in L'Art Culinaire in which he spent eight years at the top of his class, graduating as the most decorated of any student to pass through it’s doors. Not to mention this is the period where Francis also earned the title of “Paris’ Best Lover” but that’s not something he brags about, rather saving it for those intimate moments.
Between the sex and cooking, one would assume that Francis had almost time for nothing else. This is true, which is why once he turned eighteen, he disappeared into the world, popping up in the kitchens of Louisiana, the páos of Shanghai and the barbies of Australia. Some say he was trying to master every kind of cuisine. Others say he just got lost.
Finally his journey stopped in Vienna wherein he met a pianist trying to start a restaurant but missing one key thing. A chef. One might call it destiny, others may call it stupidity while the wisest call it a risk. This risk obviously paid off because within two months Roderich and Francis were standing outside Risqué, a cue of Londoners already forming.
However, none of these things mattered to one very temperamental, very angry and very flustered Englishman. There is nothing that makes Arthur Kirkland more special than anyone save for one fact. He is the best guitarist in all of England (maybe the world) and he knew it. But you don’t care about Arthur’s history (not at the moment anyway) because the aftermath of the Groping Incident is much more interesting.
Namely the aftermath wherein Arthur was elbowing the talented French chef in the side.
All that could be heard was the moan of “Dieu” and the murmur of the restaurants patrons. No one spoke. No one moved. Even Yao, who always had something to say if it involved the Brit, was silent. Katya was holding her arms over her chest looking ready to break down completely.
“What’s going on back here?” The swinging doors creaked open and Roderich Edelstein appeared, Elizaveta not far behind. His deep purple eyes trailed over Arthur’s burning yet angered face, Katya’s arms pulled tight against her chest and Francis who was favouring his left side.
Part of Arthur wanted to say that it was all one big misunderstanding (which was the truth) and another part of him wanted to say that it was all on purpose (also, coincidentally, the truth) while a quieter, much more sensible part of him was making a list of possible jobs he could get once he was fired from Risqué. This part wondered vaguely if working for only three days entitled him to a letter of recommendation even though he had just hit the head chef in the ribs.
Just as he was about to claim sexual harassment, Francis finally spoke. “It was my fault,” he said, grinning at the Austrian, “I was merely playing around and frightened dear Arthur. ‘e hit me and, well, ‘ere we are.” He gestured around the silent kitchen.
Yao’s voice perked up next, effectively waking the rest of the staff from their stupor. “It’s great that Bonnefoy’s back, but we’ve still got people to feed! Everyone back to work or you’re doing dish duty with Yong Soo.” This threat had the kitchen back up and running within thirty seconds.
“You ‘ave not let the kitchen get lazy,” Francis observed, “I must say I am not surprised. You are always ze best Yao.”
The amber eyes sparkled slightly at the compliment and the man bowed his head. “I only wish I could say the same thing about the serving staff..” He said, shooting a pointed look at Arthur before turning on his heel and taking control of the kitchen.
Arthur could only glare, knowing that a sharp response would only get him in more trouble.
Still smiling, Francis looked between Arthur and Katya, the blue eyes favouring the latter. “I ‘ave already met Toris.” He said, looking at the Lithuanian, who nodded his head slightly and muttered ‘good to have you back Mr. Bonnefoy’ before hurrying out to the front, “But I have yet to be introduced to you two. Francis Bonnefoy, Head Chef of Risqué.” He held out a long and elegant hand, the restaurant’s name rolling off his tongue.
The Ukrainian took the hand first, peeping and flushing as Francis grazed his lips over her knuckles. “K-Katya Bra-Braginski,” she managed, “I have been working here two weeks. I-I am trying to pay f-for my brother and s-sister’s schooling.” She bowed her head, biting her lip obviously regretting revealing so much.
“A noble cause.” Francis said kindly, taking her hand and cradling it between his. “Roderich says he is pleased with your work. And with ze number of tips you bring in.” he added, winking.
Blushing, but looking much more relaxed, Katya nodded before walking away, her head just a little higher. This left Roderich, Francis, Arthur and Elizaveta; the hostess quickly excused herself, slipping back out front. The Austrian continued to watch silently, arms folded over his chest.
Deciding that it was time to be a man, the Englishman held out a hand. “Arthur Kirkland.” He said, finally meeting Francis’ eye. To his great relief, the chef took the hand, almost gratefully, “I’m sorry about before, you did startle me quite a bit.”
This was apparently enough for Roderich because he gave a curt nod of approval before disappearing behind the swinging doors. Arthur’s shoulders visibly relaxed and even Francis looked a little less tense.
“Enchanté,” he said, thankfully not kissing the back of Arthur’s hand, “It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Kirkland.”
Releasing the Frenchman’s hand, Arthur shook his head. “Don’t… I’m just Arthur.” He said quietly, unable to bring himself to complete the cliché by adding something about his father being Mr. Kirkland.
The Frenchman smiled. Now, Arthur would come to be able to tell the difference between these grins, whether it be the ‘I’m-going-to-kill-you’ smile or the ever popular ‘You-should-take-your-clothes-off-right-now’ smirk, but at that moment, he was only novice in reading Francis and while his current smile was anything but innocent, Arthur couldn’t tell.
“Well, Arthur,” He said, taking a step towards the Englishman and cupping his cheek for only a moment, before letting his arm drop, “I will enjoy having you work under me.”
With that, Francis moved into the kitchen, leaving a flustered Arthur wondering bitterly why his cheeks were a bright red.
-
It was raining. Not that this is a surprising fact to anyone -it was England after all- but Francis still seemed utterly putout by the foggy weather. Thus, Risqué found itself relatively empty, as though customers could sense the depressed air and didn’t want it seeping into their normally bright and loving meals.
This didn’t bother Arthur in the slightest. One might find it a little odd to hang out at one’s workplace when one wasn’t working, but Arthur liked it because he got discounts and Feliks often slipped him free drinks when Toris wasn’t looking. Which is why, on this particularly stormy day, he was sitting at a booth near the swinging doors leading to the back, two familiar faces sitting across from him.
“What about Pathetic?” Gilbert suggested, idly sucking the maraschino cherry off its stem before flicking the bright red stalk into the small pile forming near his hand. Beside Gilbert, Mathias was nursing his rum and coke, a patch covering his bruised eye as he watched the other two bicker.
“Gilbert,” Arthur took a long drink from his tea, fixing the Prussian with a somewhat exasperated look, “Do a favour for me.”
“Okay.”
“Pretend we’re opening in London. You know the opening you want to shout? Say that out loud with Pathetic in there.”
“Hello Londooooooooooooon!” Gilbert said loudly, half-standing out of his seat, getting an offended look from Toris and Elizaveta. He gripped an invisible microphone stand, “We are Pathe-” a pause, “Well played Kirkland, well played.”
Mathias finally spoke, grinning a little. “What about Jagged?”
“No…” Arthur sighed, “Then everyone would just think we’re bent.”
“Well, I don’t know about you two but my awesomeness only applies to chicks.”
The Dane and the Brit exchanged a glance. “This coming from the guy that spends an hour everyday getting ready?”
“Say what you want. It takes time to look this good.”
“And only a few seconds to ruin.” Reaching over, Mathias pulled Gilbert into a headlock, rubbing his knuckle all over the pale hair.
“Fick dich!” the Prussian squawked, “Du dämliche Schlampe!” Finally he was released by a laughing Mathias, attempting to settle his hair which now resembled a bleached hedgehog, “Schwuchtel…” he muttered, glaring. While neither spoke a word of German, Mathias and Arthur had learned that he usually wasn’t saying the kindest of thing if he was using his mother tongue.
“Now what is all ze racket out here?” Arthur stopped laughing as arms wrapped around his shoulders and a chin found the top of his head the perfect place to rest. “You are scaring away customers.”
Arthur tried to wrestle out of the French chef’s grip but failed and was forced to sit, cheeks a light pink, while Gilbert and Mathias stared, both grinning. “We’re just trying to think of a name for our band.” He explained, trying to keep his voice steady. Francis had been making passes at him since arriving, but Arthur had grown used to them - that and he wasn’t the only one subject to the Frenchman’s too-grabby hands - and it was practically commonplace to be hit on by Francis.
“Oh, sounds fun!” Francis said and Arthur could feel the warm breath ruffling his hair, “Are you playing somewhere?”
Mathias finished his drink, rolling the empty glass between his hands. “We wish…” He said bitterly, “But no one will let us play. They all say we’re too young!”
“Just wait until we’re famous!” Gilbert said, managing to calm his hair slightly, “They’ll be begging us to play, just you wait!”
What Arthur had come to expect with Francis was the unexpected. He didn’t know whether it was the resentment in the Dane’s voice or the pure earnestness in the Prussian’s, but something made the chef say, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world; “Well, why don’t you open ‘ere? At Risqué?”
This made even Arthur look up at Francis. “You’re joking, right?” He asked weakly.
“Non.” The arms pulled back, “I think it is a good idea. And I am sure Roderich would not mind, as long as things stayed under control.”
“Holy shit.” Gilbert was on his feet, hands planted firmly on the table, “Are you for serious?”
Francis folded his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. “Do I look serious to you? I am offering a chance for you to play, do you accept or not?”
“Yes!” Arthur also stood up, turning around in his seat and staring a Francis. “We accept!”
“Then I will start making arrangements at once. ‘ow does next week sound-” Now, Arthur was never really one for showing his affection, but this one break in his iciness could perhaps be blamed by the heat of the moment and the small shot of vodka in his tea.
Arthur hugged Francis. And then promptly let go. “Thank you.” He muttered, giving a small smile before sitting back down and staring at the table. Almost hearing the grin in Francis’ voice as the Frenchman made a quiet comment about his affections being returned before sauntering away.
Looking up only once the swinging doors at stopped whining, he caught the looks Mathias and Gilbert were giving him. “What?!” He demanded, trying to appear as though he had not just hugged someone he’d known for less than two weeks.
“And you’re scared of us being called bent?”
“Oh shut up.”
Chapter 3>>
Author’s Note
Mathias = Denmark <3
I’m currently trying to learn some basic German and so Julia (My comic artist for the Avatar next-gen comic Insult of a False Kindness /plug) decided to teach me some proper slang/offensive terms.
Fick dich! - Fuck off!
Du dämliche Schlampe! - You retarded shit!
Schwuchtel - Fag
Páos - Chinese for ‘kitchen’ (or so I hope…)
Le Jules Verne is the restaurant on in the Eiffel Tower (one of them at least) and Tramonto is the little restaurant from the Two Weeks of Sunshine ‘verse. And don’t you just love the stereotyping with the ‘barbies’ thing? I always wonder if Aussies actually say that… LOL THEY DO. <3333
The name Pathetic actually is a reference to the lesser known “Pathetic Trio/Fail Older Brothers Trio” of Hetalia which is made up of Denmark, England and Prussia. This trio needs moar luffs.
AND MY GOD. TOTALLY FORGOT TO MENTION. The restaurant Risqué and it's tagline bother belong to luciole_solange and I am a terrible friend for not mentioning this before. Hopefully she'll find forgiveness somewhere in her heart~ If not, well... ;A;