You're Too Old to Lose It, Too Young to Choose It, a FrUK fic
Characters/Pairings: FrUK, France/England/France
Rating: T
Warnings: human AU and names, NSFW oral (non-explicit, really), drunkenness, overuse of parenthesis
Synopsis: Feeling nostalgic for the punk rock persona of his youth, Arthur has been going to a weekly punk show at a club near home for two months. Each week he meets up with the same man. He's French and charming; they talk over the music, buy each other drinks, and screw in the alley behind the club. But it’s fine as long as they don’t talk about real life or exchange names. Right? It's nothing.
You're Too Old to Lose It, Too Young to Choose It
by crashedtimemachine
London, 2000
(He shows up every weekend, clad in leather and chains, a piercing through his nose and a chip on his shoulder. He drinks, he smokes, he thrashes with the rest of them. Punk rock may be dead, but it's alive and well in this shabby club in Hackney.)
The gritty cement is littered with all manner of discarded detritus. It's also uncomfortably damp; Arthur vaguely remembers that it had started drizzling just before the show was supposed to start.
This should concern him; the worn out knees of his ripped up jeans are hardly proper protection from the elements, much less the pebbled glass that crunches and grinds under his bony knees.
In point of fact, it doesn't bother him at all.
Arthur couldn't care less.
He's currently preoccupied by the hands tugging his gelled hair (mussing the carefully sculpted spikes) and the heady scent of smoke and posh French cologne. He's concentrating on lacing his fingers a bit more securely into the belt loops of the owner of said hands and scent. He's trying to swallow every inch of of the nameless Frenchman's cock (and he's doing a fine job of it, if the moans that carry over the loud music filtering out of the club are any indication).
Funny that. Despite all his apparent ability to tug Arthur's hair and thrust roughly into his mouth until he was practically fucking his throat, this frog, thisbloody wanker has the audacity not to warn him before releasing all of his apparent sexual frustration against the back of Arthur's throat.
Arthur scrambles back just in time to haul himself over and lose the contents of his stomach, including most of the night's alcohol, all over the damp cement.
God, he hates vomiting.
And it's ten times worse when there's a smug Frenchman leaning over your shoulder, grinning, eyes hazy with intoxication and satisfaction. Ugh, does he have to look so amused?
God, he hates the French.
And then the man's hand is on Arthur's shoulder, and he's asking him something currently incoherent over the ringing in his ears, probably if he's okay. When Arthur doesn't respond, his companion tries to haul him up off the ground, but Arthur's having none of it.
"Ger'roff, frawg! Feck you!" He swipes at him with a half-clenched fist, but it's enough to get his point across. The nameless Frenchman (nameless, but not a stranger, and how did they end up like this...) starts backing away, slowly, as if still trying to decide. "Gawd, just go 'way ar'ready!" he growls at him.
Arthur is too drunk and humiliated; he's looking away and misses the man's crooked little frown and the way his shoulders slump ever so slightly as he finally retreats from the alley.
Then, Arthur is alone. It's filthy here, Arthur thinks, but he lies back on the cement anyway and listens to the band inside playing their own punk rendition of "...Baby One More Time." It's terrible.
Why is he even here? He supposes he'd wanted to relive the glory days. Or something.
Come to think of it, this isn't so different from how he remembers his punk phase all those years ago. What little he remembers, anyway.
A crash at the end of the alley causes him to sit up too fast and all the blood rushes to his head. He shakes it off and squints, trying to decide if he's in imminent danger or if it had only been the scraggly alley cat that sometimes frequented the back of the club. (Oh, no, this hadn't been their first time slipping out the side door, another point of blush-inducing humiliation.)
Still, he doesn't want to be assaulted back here all alone; it doesn't sound nearly as appealing as heading home to slip beneath the cool sheets of his bed and sleep 'til noon the next day. He presses his palms into the cement and grunts as he pushes himself shakily to his feet. He winces at the tiny glass pebbles that cut into his hands, completely aware of the pain now that most of the alcohol is out of his system. Great...
Rife with embarrassment over the whole situation, Arthur pauses at the opening of the alley, checking that the Frenchman, who is usually overly attentive, hasn't done something stupid and chivalrous, like wait to take him home.
God, he hates men.
Well, that's not strictly true. He hates a certain Frenchman with eyes that undress you in a single gaze, white teeth that sparkle when he laughs, and a smile that draws you in like perfectly laid bait, irresistible. He hates that he's been stalking Arthur for two months, showing up at the club to wait for him before all of the punk shows (every Friday night without fail). He hates that he buys him drinks at the bar, chats him up and asks leading questions. He especially hates that he's always touching him, one way or the other, and regularly eliciting from Arthur every sort of emotion up and down the spectrum with just a glance and a well-placed insult veiled as a compliment.
And then there are the times when they tire of the chase and slip out into the alley...
God...
He hates the Frenchman, and he'll never forgive him for this, for his humiliation.
And with that thought held firmly in mind and the street free of the current object of his animosity, he carries himself home, a tripping, stumbling mess of leather and hair gel and the fading scent of French cologne soaked into his skin.
Francis is late. He likes to think he is still only fashionably late, but just barely.
"Mon dieu..." he mutters under his breath, wondering why British university campuses have to be so poorly laid out? Were the architects and landscapers drunk when they were finalizing the design?
Well, would it really be that surprising if they had been?
When he finally finds the right building, he takes the steps two-by-two up to the English literature department where he's supposed to be observing one of the professors. He pauses at the top of the stairwell to compose himself, letting his breath even out and the flush fade from his cheeks. Hurrying is not his style.
When he's good and ready (and still only a little late), he strides down the corridor with his head held high, comes to a stop in front of the right classroom, and raps twice on the door in quick succession.
"Come in, please!" a gruff voice calls from beyond the plain, beaten up door. It's a little harsh (he's not that late) and very British (the "please" is not friendly at all, so why bother adding it?). Francis lets himself be disappointed for a moment-before he received his assignment, he had hoped it would be a woman this time, most of these bookish types were, but instead had quickly realized he'd be dealing with a cranky Brit for an hour or so of boredom; at least it pays the bills and lets him pursue his true passion-art.
With a wistful sigh, he lets himself into the classroom.
Arthur is grading papers when the observer from the board of education arrives. He doesn't look up as the classroom door closes. This is all a formality anyway; he's doing a fine job and everyone knows it.
He only pauses his pen after marking through yet another sentence fragment-Doesn't anyone teach grade-school English anymore? The observer is merely standing by the door, with no introduction, not a word at all, and it's all very irregular. There's a protocol, a way of doing things, and-
Oh.
Oh god.
"What are you doing here?!" he practically yells across the nearly silent classroom. He glances at his students who had been reading silently to themselves and finds every pair of eyes taking in the scene with rapt attention (Really? Why can't they pay that kind of attention when we're discussing A Midsummer Night's Dream?)
Arthur starts to panic, just a little, when the realization that his entire career rests in the hands of this...this...ugh. His life is over.
At least the intruder is just as surprised as he is. His mouth is half open and he seems to have paused mid-step. It's all very unbecoming, and he's glad to witness the Frenchman's awkwardness and discomfort, something he'd previously thought impossible.
Scooting out of his chair and ignoring it's loud screech across the floor, Arthur stalks over to the supposed government observer, latches onto his bicep, and drags him out the door. It slams behind them and the echo rings up and down the empty corridor.
"What are you doing here?!" he demands again, this time in a harsh stage whisper.
"Should it not be I asking the questions, Professor," the man whispers back, making no effort to hide his amusement. And it's the same expression, the same bloody stupid expression that he'd made in the alley before walking away.
He's laughing at you, Arthur's subconscious whispers to him, and it makes him angry all over again.
Before he can act on it, the man shifts a bit closer and pins him with his blue-sky gaze. "I am here to observe and evaluate Professor Arthur Kirkland." He sniffs slightly. "With a name like that, I had expected an old man, not..." His eyes wander up and down Arthur's body, as they've done so many times before, and he suddenly feels self-conscious in his pressed pants, argyle sweater vest, and Oxford shoes. "Well, not this."
"This?" Arthur's lip curls in disgust as he says it, and he crosses his arms over his chest so that he won't punch the git standing so obtrusively in his personal space. "I require a new observer, someone who can evaluate my performance without bias. I have the right, you know!" he declares, mostly sure he's correct. Probably.
The man is smirking - and god, it's so infuriating - then, he leans in, right next to Arthur's ear and whispers, "But, mon cher, I owe you for the other night...do I not?"
He drapes an arm over Arthur's shoulder and nothing has changed. He's still in the bar, and the man is as charming as ever, except they're not! They're at work and this...this... "This is fraternization! We could both be fired!" he hisses and takes a step back, out of the aura of the man's heat and scent.
"Francis Bonnefoy," he says, still smirking.
"Wh-what?" Arthur is staring at him dumbly.
"My name. It is Francis Bonnefoy." He offers him his hand, and Arthur surprisingly takes it, ever the gentleman, even when only operating on instinct. (Even to a git like this guy - this Francis.)
Instead of shaking it properly, Francis lifts it to his lips and brushes them across his knuckles.
Arthur jerks his hand away, glaring with all his might despite the heat flushing his cheeks.
Francis laughs quietly, and if Arthur were paying more attention, he would notice it's faintly shy, a little nervous.
There is a brief, but heavy pause, and then... "Have dinner with me."
It doesn't sound like a question to Arthur, and he decides to test it. "Why should I?" He may be mentally re-experiencing every ounce of the humiliation from the last time they had met, but this is his job. It's serious. Francis literally holds the future of his career in the palm of his hand, and Arthur...well...he really loves teaching.
"Because I have spent the last two months chasing you?" Francis raises a brow, his smirk turning a bit lopsided. "Because I listened to hours of terrible music-" At this, Arthur tries to argue, but Francis places a finger on his lips, silencing him. "-and just when I think you are out of reach, voila! Here you are."
"Well, I mean, that's hardly..." Arthur mumbles against his finger. It smells faintly of cigarettes.
"Fate has spoken; who are we to disobey?" He slides his finger down along Arthur's jaw, and they're both surprised that Arthur doesn't pull away. "Go to dinner with me, and I promise to make it worth your time."
When Arthur looks confused, Francis raises the clipboard to remind him of his options. "Oh..." Of course. He can go to dinner with this harassing frog or he can get a poor review and potentially lose his job. Who could resist such an offer?
Arthur sighs and nods. "Fine. But only because I value my career."
"But of course," Francis agrees, almost too easily.
It sets off alarms in Arthur's mind, and he turns to reach for the classroom door, intent on fleeing into the safety of the presence of witnesses, but it's too late.
Francis catches his wrist and tugs him back. He places a strong hand on his chest and presses him against the wall. The cool brick digs at him through his sweater and the rumpled dress shirt underneath. For a moment, everything is slow motion and crystallized dread because Arthur knows what's going to happen next. Even though they've done this a thousand times, there were never names involved or consequences. They were anonymous strangers then, even if they knew practically everything about each other aside from the essentials. (He knows this man tastes like cigarettes and wears expensive perfume, that he likes to go dancing-real dancing - and never drinks to get drunk. He has memorized the way their bodies fit together against whatever flat surface is unfortunate enough to support the combined weight of one pinning the other down, and they both enjoy Shakespeare's sonnets rather more than his plays.)
But those stolen nights of chaotic music and smoke and frantic desperation have nothing to do with this. This is reality, and the two were never supposed to overlap. Neither had been on the market for yet another disastrous relationship. They had both been happy not knowing, hadn't they?
Time begins again. It moves forward with a vengeance, and Arthur's eyes flutter closed. Francis's mouth covers over his, and he's so pliant beneath him because it's familiar and warm - his heat is seeping into his bones - and it still sends a shiver down his spine.
The kiss itself is more tender than before, and over far too soon.
When Francis ends it, he's wearing that overconfident smile Arthur has come to expect, and his eyes are bright with amusement. He turns on his heel and walks away, a wave thrown over his shoulder in goodbye. "Au revoir, Arthur," he calls as he strides down the corridor.
Arthur is sure Francis is laughing at him all over again. As if I'd go anywhere with a git like you. But he eyes Francis's rear appreciatively until he disappears into the stairwell, then he lets himself finally take a full, decent breath. What the hell was that...? He doesn't have time to ponder it all, however, as the bell rings and he slips back into the classroom to dismiss his neglected students.
Later, when he's preparing tomorrow's lesson, he'll reach into his pocket for who-knows-what, and instead he'll withdraw a crisp, gray business card. Beside a stylized lily emblem is the name Francis Bonnefoy and a title, and then, Board of Education. It's followed by a phone number.
He should toss it in the bin and forget the whole thing. He should do anything at all, really, other than what he actually does, which is to slide the card back into his pocket and continue making his lesson plans.
He secretly imagines it's burning him through his trouser pocket for the rest of the afternoon, so when he finally leaves campus and takes a seat on the bus that will carry him home, he is relieved to pull it out again. He runs his fingers over the gold embossed lettering and purses his lips. Then, he sends a single, terse text message to the number on the card.
Hungry? - AK
He receives a reply almost immediately. It's just an address (followed by a heart), which he quickly works out is the cafe down the street from the club where they met, which is luckily not that far from his own apartment.
He stares out the window for the rest of the ride home, not really thinking much of anything. As he steps off the bus, he pauses at the corner to tap in a final reply.
7pm. Don't be late.
..
Rating: T
Warnings: human AU and names, NSFW oral (non-explicit, really), drunkenness, overuse of parenthesis
Synopsis: Feeling nostalgic for the punk rock persona of his youth, Arthur has been going to a weekly punk show at a club near home for two months. Each week he meets up with the same man. He's French and charming; they talk over the music, buy each other drinks, and screw in the alley behind the club. But it’s fine as long as they don’t talk about real life or exchange names. Right? It's nothing.
You're Too Old to Lose It, Too Young to Choose It
by crashedtimemachine
London, 2000
(He shows up every weekend, clad in leather and chains, a piercing through his nose and a chip on his shoulder. He drinks, he smokes, he thrashes with the rest of them. Punk rock may be dead, but it's alive and well in this shabby club in Hackney.)
The gritty cement is littered with all manner of discarded detritus. It's also uncomfortably damp; Arthur vaguely remembers that it had started drizzling just before the show was supposed to start.
This should concern him; the worn out knees of his ripped up jeans are hardly proper protection from the elements, much less the pebbled glass that crunches and grinds under his bony knees.
In point of fact, it doesn't bother him at all.
Arthur couldn't care less.
He's currently preoccupied by the hands tugging his gelled hair (mussing the carefully sculpted spikes) and the heady scent of smoke and posh French cologne. He's concentrating on lacing his fingers a bit more securely into the belt loops of the owner of said hands and scent. He's trying to swallow every inch of of the nameless Frenchman's cock (and he's doing a fine job of it, if the moans that carry over the loud music filtering out of the club are any indication).
Funny that. Despite all his apparent ability to tug Arthur's hair and thrust roughly into his mouth until he was practically fucking his throat, this frog, thisbloody wanker has the audacity not to warn him before releasing all of his apparent sexual frustration against the back of Arthur's throat.
Arthur scrambles back just in time to haul himself over and lose the contents of his stomach, including most of the night's alcohol, all over the damp cement.
God, he hates vomiting.
And it's ten times worse when there's a smug Frenchman leaning over your shoulder, grinning, eyes hazy with intoxication and satisfaction. Ugh, does he have to look so amused?
God, he hates the French.
And then the man's hand is on Arthur's shoulder, and he's asking him something currently incoherent over the ringing in his ears, probably if he's okay. When Arthur doesn't respond, his companion tries to haul him up off the ground, but Arthur's having none of it.
"Ger'roff, frawg! Feck you!" He swipes at him with a half-clenched fist, but it's enough to get his point across. The nameless Frenchman (nameless, but not a stranger, and how did they end up like this...) starts backing away, slowly, as if still trying to decide. "Gawd, just go 'way ar'ready!" he growls at him.
Arthur is too drunk and humiliated; he's looking away and misses the man's crooked little frown and the way his shoulders slump ever so slightly as he finally retreats from the alley.
Then, Arthur is alone. It's filthy here, Arthur thinks, but he lies back on the cement anyway and listens to the band inside playing their own punk rendition of "...Baby One More Time." It's terrible.
Why is he even here? He supposes he'd wanted to relive the glory days. Or something.
Come to think of it, this isn't so different from how he remembers his punk phase all those years ago. What little he remembers, anyway.
A crash at the end of the alley causes him to sit up too fast and all the blood rushes to his head. He shakes it off and squints, trying to decide if he's in imminent danger or if it had only been the scraggly alley cat that sometimes frequented the back of the club. (Oh, no, this hadn't been their first time slipping out the side door, another point of blush-inducing humiliation.)
Still, he doesn't want to be assaulted back here all alone; it doesn't sound nearly as appealing as heading home to slip beneath the cool sheets of his bed and sleep 'til noon the next day. He presses his palms into the cement and grunts as he pushes himself shakily to his feet. He winces at the tiny glass pebbles that cut into his hands, completely aware of the pain now that most of the alcohol is out of his system. Great...
Rife with embarrassment over the whole situation, Arthur pauses at the opening of the alley, checking that the Frenchman, who is usually overly attentive, hasn't done something stupid and chivalrous, like wait to take him home.
God, he hates men.
Well, that's not strictly true. He hates a certain Frenchman with eyes that undress you in a single gaze, white teeth that sparkle when he laughs, and a smile that draws you in like perfectly laid bait, irresistible. He hates that he's been stalking Arthur for two months, showing up at the club to wait for him before all of the punk shows (every Friday night without fail). He hates that he buys him drinks at the bar, chats him up and asks leading questions. He especially hates that he's always touching him, one way or the other, and regularly eliciting from Arthur every sort of emotion up and down the spectrum with just a glance and a well-placed insult veiled as a compliment.
And then there are the times when they tire of the chase and slip out into the alley...
God...
He hates the Frenchman, and he'll never forgive him for this, for his humiliation.
And with that thought held firmly in mind and the street free of the current object of his animosity, he carries himself home, a tripping, stumbling mess of leather and hair gel and the fading scent of French cologne soaked into his skin.
Francis is late. He likes to think he is still only fashionably late, but just barely.
"Mon dieu..." he mutters under his breath, wondering why British university campuses have to be so poorly laid out? Were the architects and landscapers drunk when they were finalizing the design?
Well, would it really be that surprising if they had been?
When he finally finds the right building, he takes the steps two-by-two up to the English literature department where he's supposed to be observing one of the professors. He pauses at the top of the stairwell to compose himself, letting his breath even out and the flush fade from his cheeks. Hurrying is not his style.
When he's good and ready (and still only a little late), he strides down the corridor with his head held high, comes to a stop in front of the right classroom, and raps twice on the door in quick succession.
"Come in, please!" a gruff voice calls from beyond the plain, beaten up door. It's a little harsh (he's not that late) and very British (the "please" is not friendly at all, so why bother adding it?). Francis lets himself be disappointed for a moment-before he received his assignment, he had hoped it would be a woman this time, most of these bookish types were, but instead had quickly realized he'd be dealing with a cranky Brit for an hour or so of boredom; at least it pays the bills and lets him pursue his true passion-art.
With a wistful sigh, he lets himself into the classroom.
Arthur is grading papers when the observer from the board of education arrives. He doesn't look up as the classroom door closes. This is all a formality anyway; he's doing a fine job and everyone knows it.
He only pauses his pen after marking through yet another sentence fragment-Doesn't anyone teach grade-school English anymore? The observer is merely standing by the door, with no introduction, not a word at all, and it's all very irregular. There's a protocol, a way of doing things, and-
Oh.
Oh god.
"What are you doing here?!" he practically yells across the nearly silent classroom. He glances at his students who had been reading silently to themselves and finds every pair of eyes taking in the scene with rapt attention (Really? Why can't they pay that kind of attention when we're discussing A Midsummer Night's Dream?)
Arthur starts to panic, just a little, when the realization that his entire career rests in the hands of this...this...ugh. His life is over.
At least the intruder is just as surprised as he is. His mouth is half open and he seems to have paused mid-step. It's all very unbecoming, and he's glad to witness the Frenchman's awkwardness and discomfort, something he'd previously thought impossible.
Scooting out of his chair and ignoring it's loud screech across the floor, Arthur stalks over to the supposed government observer, latches onto his bicep, and drags him out the door. It slams behind them and the echo rings up and down the empty corridor.
"What are you doing here?!" he demands again, this time in a harsh stage whisper.
"Should it not be I asking the questions, Professor," the man whispers back, making no effort to hide his amusement. And it's the same expression, the same bloody stupid expression that he'd made in the alley before walking away.
He's laughing at you, Arthur's subconscious whispers to him, and it makes him angry all over again.
Before he can act on it, the man shifts a bit closer and pins him with his blue-sky gaze. "I am here to observe and evaluate Professor Arthur Kirkland." He sniffs slightly. "With a name like that, I had expected an old man, not..." His eyes wander up and down Arthur's body, as they've done so many times before, and he suddenly feels self-conscious in his pressed pants, argyle sweater vest, and Oxford shoes. "Well, not this."
"This?" Arthur's lip curls in disgust as he says it, and he crosses his arms over his chest so that he won't punch the git standing so obtrusively in his personal space. "I require a new observer, someone who can evaluate my performance without bias. I have the right, you know!" he declares, mostly sure he's correct. Probably.
The man is smirking - and god, it's so infuriating - then, he leans in, right next to Arthur's ear and whispers, "But, mon cher, I owe you for the other night...do I not?"
He drapes an arm over Arthur's shoulder and nothing has changed. He's still in the bar, and the man is as charming as ever, except they're not! They're at work and this...this... "This is fraternization! We could both be fired!" he hisses and takes a step back, out of the aura of the man's heat and scent.
"Francis Bonnefoy," he says, still smirking.
"Wh-what?" Arthur is staring at him dumbly.
"My name. It is Francis Bonnefoy." He offers him his hand, and Arthur surprisingly takes it, ever the gentleman, even when only operating on instinct. (Even to a git like this guy - this Francis.)
Instead of shaking it properly, Francis lifts it to his lips and brushes them across his knuckles.
Arthur jerks his hand away, glaring with all his might despite the heat flushing his cheeks.
Francis laughs quietly, and if Arthur were paying more attention, he would notice it's faintly shy, a little nervous.
There is a brief, but heavy pause, and then... "Have dinner with me."
It doesn't sound like a question to Arthur, and he decides to test it. "Why should I?" He may be mentally re-experiencing every ounce of the humiliation from the last time they had met, but this is his job. It's serious. Francis literally holds the future of his career in the palm of his hand, and Arthur...well...he really loves teaching.
"Because I have spent the last two months chasing you?" Francis raises a brow, his smirk turning a bit lopsided. "Because I listened to hours of terrible music-" At this, Arthur tries to argue, but Francis places a finger on his lips, silencing him. "-and just when I think you are out of reach, voila! Here you are."
"Well, I mean, that's hardly..." Arthur mumbles against his finger. It smells faintly of cigarettes.
"Fate has spoken; who are we to disobey?" He slides his finger down along Arthur's jaw, and they're both surprised that Arthur doesn't pull away. "Go to dinner with me, and I promise to make it worth your time."
When Arthur looks confused, Francis raises the clipboard to remind him of his options. "Oh..." Of course. He can go to dinner with this harassing frog or he can get a poor review and potentially lose his job. Who could resist such an offer?
Arthur sighs and nods. "Fine. But only because I value my career."
"But of course," Francis agrees, almost too easily.
It sets off alarms in Arthur's mind, and he turns to reach for the classroom door, intent on fleeing into the safety of the presence of witnesses, but it's too late.
Francis catches his wrist and tugs him back. He places a strong hand on his chest and presses him against the wall. The cool brick digs at him through his sweater and the rumpled dress shirt underneath. For a moment, everything is slow motion and crystallized dread because Arthur knows what's going to happen next. Even though they've done this a thousand times, there were never names involved or consequences. They were anonymous strangers then, even if they knew practically everything about each other aside from the essentials. (He knows this man tastes like cigarettes and wears expensive perfume, that he likes to go dancing-real dancing - and never drinks to get drunk. He has memorized the way their bodies fit together against whatever flat surface is unfortunate enough to support the combined weight of one pinning the other down, and they both enjoy Shakespeare's sonnets rather more than his plays.)
But those stolen nights of chaotic music and smoke and frantic desperation have nothing to do with this. This is reality, and the two were never supposed to overlap. Neither had been on the market for yet another disastrous relationship. They had both been happy not knowing, hadn't they?
Time begins again. It moves forward with a vengeance, and Arthur's eyes flutter closed. Francis's mouth covers over his, and he's so pliant beneath him because it's familiar and warm - his heat is seeping into his bones - and it still sends a shiver down his spine.
The kiss itself is more tender than before, and over far too soon.
When Francis ends it, he's wearing that overconfident smile Arthur has come to expect, and his eyes are bright with amusement. He turns on his heel and walks away, a wave thrown over his shoulder in goodbye. "Au revoir, Arthur," he calls as he strides down the corridor.
Arthur is sure Francis is laughing at him all over again. As if I'd go anywhere with a git like you. But he eyes Francis's rear appreciatively until he disappears into the stairwell, then he lets himself finally take a full, decent breath. What the hell was that...? He doesn't have time to ponder it all, however, as the bell rings and he slips back into the classroom to dismiss his neglected students.
Later, when he's preparing tomorrow's lesson, he'll reach into his pocket for who-knows-what, and instead he'll withdraw a crisp, gray business card. Beside a stylized lily emblem is the name Francis Bonnefoy and a title, and then, Board of Education. It's followed by a phone number.
He should toss it in the bin and forget the whole thing. He should do anything at all, really, other than what he actually does, which is to slide the card back into his pocket and continue making his lesson plans.
He secretly imagines it's burning him through his trouser pocket for the rest of the afternoon, so when he finally leaves campus and takes a seat on the bus that will carry him home, he is relieved to pull it out again. He runs his fingers over the gold embossed lettering and purses his lips. Then, he sends a single, terse text message to the number on the card.
Hungry? - AK
He receives a reply almost immediately. It's just an address (followed by a heart), which he quickly works out is the cafe down the street from the club where they met, which is luckily not that far from his own apartment.
He stares out the window for the rest of the ride home, not really thinking much of anything. As he steps off the bus, he pauses at the corner to tap in a final reply.
7pm. Don't be late.
..