Disclaimer: Conversations are in French unless said otherwise or America is in the scene.
“Oh. You’re awake. Breakfast is almost ready.”
“Right,” said Arthur with a yawn as he sat down.
One would say that having your French chef neighbour breaking and entering your loft to cook for you regularly is lucky. It didn’t mean that Arthur was happy about being lucky though.
It wasn’t always like this. He’d only started living in Paris a few months ago. He had found a job the year before, which was located in France, but that wasn’t the only reason why he came.
A few years back, when he was still a student and vacationing in Beijing, he’d been distraught. The rigours of his studies had taken a toll on him and he decided to just sit somewhere in the middle of the busy street one late November evening and just break down. He had been doing well at being ignored until a man with black hair and grey eyes stopped right in front of him.
“Are you all right?” the man asked with an unmistakable French accent.
At the time, Arthur couldn’t answer because he was hiccupping. But he did try his best to tell the nosy stranger to leave him the fuck alone.
The man put the groceries he was carrying on Arthur’s lap. The Brit had looked up at the man, outraged.
“Mon dieu, zhat was ‘eavy.” He proceeded to stretch his limbs. “If you can carry zhat for me, I will gladly treat you to some ‘ot chocolate.”
Before Arthur could tell him to fuck off, the man had already started walking away. He didn’t know what possessed him but he followed the man all the way to the café.
“You don’t ‘ave to tell me anything,” the man said, sipping his chocolate. “But it might take off some load from your shoulders if you opened up to somebody. I’m someone ‘om you don’t know and will likely never meet again. I sink you should exploit ze opportunity.”
It made sense, so Arthur did. It was strange being comforted by a stranger, but it was nonetheless uplifting. They had talked for hours and parted without exchanging names or personal details.
Now that Arthur was in Paris, he regretted not asking for it, especially because he could not, for the love of the queen, remember the man’s face. He was curious in finding out who the man was and properly introduce himself as a gentleman ought to do.
Sadly, he didn’t remember much of the conversation they had or what his problem was back then. He remembered nothing save for his hair and eye colour. Unfortunately, that was not enough information for him to search properly. He wasn’t even sure if the man could remember him either. He’d decided that he’d go to Paris on the off-chance that he might meet the man again.
The last thing he remembered was the last thing the man had said to him before they parted ways.
“Come and visit Paris some time. It is a wonderful city.”
So he did.
Like a true Englishman, he wasn’t particularly happy the moment he stepped on French soil. He didn’t really expect to be particularly jolly-after all, he was in France-even if he actually liked the job he had here. His first week in Paris was normal enough: the apartment he'd found was typically French (except for that heavenly aroma of food that seemed to surround the place), his first days in the job were doing quite well (even though his patients were a little sceptical at first about having an Englishman in that profession, which is just a stupid stereotype, thank you very much), French people wrinkled their noses at his English-accented French, his cooking wasn’t ruined by the Frenchness of the air, some poor bloke in the building occasionally screaming profanities early in the morning, etc.
“Oh. You’re awake. Breakfast is almost ready.”
“Right,” said Arthur with a yawn as he sat down.
One would say that having your French chef neighbour breaking and entering your loft to cook for you regularly is lucky. It didn’t mean that Arthur was happy about being lucky though.
It wasn’t always like this. He’d only started living in Paris a few months ago. He had found a job the year before, which was located in France, but that wasn’t the only reason why he came.
A few years back, when he was still a student and vacationing in Beijing, he’d been distraught. The rigours of his studies had taken a toll on him and he decided to just sit somewhere in the middle of the busy street one late November evening and just break down. He had been doing well at being ignored until a man with black hair and grey eyes stopped right in front of him.
“Are you all right?” the man asked with an unmistakable French accent.
At the time, Arthur couldn’t answer because he was hiccupping. But he did try his best to tell the nosy stranger to leave him the fuck alone.
The man put the groceries he was carrying on Arthur’s lap. The Brit had looked up at the man, outraged.
“Mon dieu, zhat was ‘eavy.” He proceeded to stretch his limbs. “If you can carry zhat for me, I will gladly treat you to some ‘ot chocolate.”
Before Arthur could tell him to fuck off, the man had already started walking away. He didn’t know what possessed him but he followed the man all the way to the café.
“You don’t ‘ave to tell me anything,” the man said, sipping his chocolate. “But it might take off some load from your shoulders if you opened up to somebody. I’m someone ‘om you don’t know and will likely never meet again. I sink you should exploit ze opportunity.”
It made sense, so Arthur did. It was strange being comforted by a stranger, but it was nonetheless uplifting. They had talked for hours and parted without exchanging names or personal details.
Now that Arthur was in Paris, he regretted not asking for it, especially because he could not, for the love of the queen, remember the man’s face. He was curious in finding out who the man was and properly introduce himself as a gentleman ought to do.
Sadly, he didn’t remember much of the conversation they had or what his problem was back then. He remembered nothing save for his hair and eye colour. Unfortunately, that was not enough information for him to search properly. He wasn’t even sure if the man could remember him either. He’d decided that he’d go to Paris on the off-chance that he might meet the man again.
The last thing he remembered was the last thing the man had said to him before they parted ways.
“Come and visit Paris some time. It is a wonderful city.”
So he did.
Like a true Englishman, he wasn’t particularly happy the moment he stepped on French soil. He didn’t really expect to be particularly jolly-after all, he was in France-even if he actually liked the job he had here. His first week in Paris was normal enough: the apartment he'd found was typically French (except for that heavenly aroma of food that seemed to surround the place), his first days in the job were doing quite well (even though his patients were a little sceptical at first about having an Englishman in that profession, which is just a stupid stereotype, thank you very much), French people wrinkled their noses at his English-accented French, his cooking wasn’t ruined by the Frenchness of the air, some poor bloke in the building occasionally screaming profanities early in the morning, etc.
It was too bad that it didn’t last long.
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