[fic] sign a new agreement with itunes - ii [france/england]
Excerpt from Francis Bonnefoy’s master thesis on History of a mutual obsession: cultural resemblances and dissensions across the English Channel (revised title):
… The Entente Cordiale, signed on April 8th, 1904, after several months of negociations between France and Britain, was theoretically a mere political and strategic exchange of colonial pleasantries: France agreed to recognize British domination over Egypt, and Britain agreed to encourage France’s claims over Morocco. It was then necessary for England to make peace with its old, hereditary enemy (and, via French alliances, with Russia as well) in light of a possible future war with rapidly-industrializing Germany.
Viewed in context, however, and considering the centuries of enmity that both countries had previously continually shared, the signature of the Entente was a considerable (and historic) step forward in Anglo-French relationships. Although the agreement itself resembled more a wary truce than a promise in amenity, and although stereotypes, caricatures and mutual distaste remained strong, wonders did occur that would have been unthinkable only ten years before - French crowds cheered for King Edward (nicknamed by them ‘le roi Parisien’ - the Parisian king) as he visited Paris, British Marines sang La Marseillaise out to passing French ships, English custard and York ham became the fashion in Parisian restaurants, and expressions of warm friendship and understanding were generally expressed on both sides.
Symbolically, the Entente was the mark of an abrupt shift in perspectives - as though two lovers who had been sleeping on opposite sides of the bed (and kicking each other under the blankets for good measure) for a very long time had suddenly rolled over at the same moment and were forced to face love head-on…
- from Part III
There isn’t much to know about Francis that Arthur doesn’t, already. He’s French; his parents divorced when he was thirteen; his mother moved with him to London, where she lived until she died two years ago. He graduated in History, gets on surprisingly well with Arthur’s family (a feat, because Arthur doesn’t), is an absolute prick when it comes to admitting he was wrong, but does spin up splendid meals out of practically nothing. He’s a bit of an open book. He’s oddly fascinated by Franco-British history.
“It’s endearing,” he explained, when Arthur asked about his thesis’ subject. “One decade you think they’re going to jump each other’s bones and the next they’re back to throwing cutlery at each other.”
“Sounds familiar,” Arthur snorted, and then flushed bright red and refused to elaborate when Francis looked at him funny.
Arthur’s band - the Eye of the Whale, blame Alfred for the name - gets a gig around the middle of the month, as it usually does, because fall drops temperatures in London to an alarming level every year, and people seek warmth and light and entertainment in the same places. Francis comes, because he always does, no matter how reluctant he may pretend to be - mostly that’s the way they work, like the way Francis charms up Alfred’s younger brother during the pauses between songs but listens to the music in rapt silence, like the way he’ll only ever pay a few words of compliment to Arthur but the tunes’ll remain in his head, and’ll keep him warm, for days afterwards. Sometimes he brings a date, some bloke with a nice arse or a girl who he can coax into the local bog. This time he doesn’t. He tells himself it’s because he’s tired of husky voices and giggles (he’s not), but really it’s to observe Arthur, try and puzzle it out, this newfound attraction.
The band isn’t the best that ever did exist, but they’re good at what they do, and they like it plenty. And Arthur loves the trumpet, loves music, loves jazz. When he plays his entire body moves and relaxes, face smoothing, the perpetual crease between his eyebrows disappearing; his eyes go glassy and soft, and unfocused, nearly shut - it startled Francis at first, how concentrated he can be.
He watches Tino say something, during a lull in the music; watches Arthur laugh and say something back. His lips are shiny and red from playing too much, slightly swollen, bitten-down, and - and things are getting a little too warm and too tight down there, so Francis makes a quiet escape, slips out the side door as the last of the applause dies away, hoping the evening freeze can settle him down a bit.
He smokes three cigarettes, outside, by the artists’ entrance, one after the other, in the brittle streetlight. Arthur emerges after twenty minutes, laughing at something somebody said behind him, and then raising an eyebrow at the sight of him.
“Thought you’d buggered off already,” he tells him. “The bartender cashed your drink on my tab, thanks very much.”
“Sorry,” Francis says easily, not caring much. “Want a ride?”
Arthur snorts, “On foot?” but falls into step alongside him amicably enough, adjusting the straps of the trumpet’s case over his shoulder. “Gonna be cold,” he observes, with a critical glance at Francis’ V-necked shirt and open jacket, and something warm and comfortable breaks dam inside Francis and floods his belly. It’s surprising. And it’s good.
“I’ve got mittens,” he says, picking his hands out of his pockets to wriggle his fingers, for show. Arthur grins, never in a better mood than when he’s been playing, and wraps his Union Jack-themed scarf around his neck. (‘Very patriotic,’ Francis said, when he first bought it. ‘Sod off,’ Arthur said back, ‘I like it.’)
“Getting late,” Arthur says now, blinking up at the cloudy sky, a little owlishly. His cheeks are flushed from cold and probably the leftover excitement due to being onstage; and his nose is pink as a rabbit’s, poking out of the frayed layers of his scarf. It really shouldn’t be endearing (but it sort of is.)
Ask anyone: Francis is a charmer. He dates because This Girl has nice breasts, or nice eyes, or nice legs; because This Bloke has made it obvious that he wouldn’t mind a tumble in the men’s - he usually doesn’t have to chase anyone for too long before they chase him back. He’s used to being wanted, to being the one pursued, to running his knuckles down somebody’s bare back and have them melt into his arms, just because he’s handsome enough, smooth enough, experimented enough, and a born talker.
So it’s rather new, and rather strange, wanting without being wanted back, watching Arthur buy roasted chestnuts from the vendor near the train station, with a hiss when he (inevitably) scalds his fingers, and not being able to rest his hand at the back of his neck, palm warm, fingertips just touching his jaw - an odd sensation, settling in his chest, making its way in quietly, not quite uncomfortable (yet).
(Alfred mentioned it in passing, seven months ago, laughing at something unimportant, and saying, “Right, that bloke you’re living with - your boyfriend, right? Think he’d be up to -“ and would’ve prattled on, except he couldn’t.
Arthur, presumably enough, screeched.
It was a remarkable fifteen-minute rant that nobody listened to, mostly because its main argumentative qualities were qualifying Francis of anything from a frog to a sexually enhanced exhibitionist, and the continued refrain of ‘we’re just fucking roommates for Chrissake - oh Alfred shut up, not that way - why is that so difficult for you people to understand?’
Alfred let the shitstorm blow over, idly selecting a Coke in the nearest vending machine, and then shrugged and said,
“Yessh, ‘s just. I assumed, y’know people are gonna do that, you two living together an’ all,” he flapped a hand, grinned that stupid James Dean grin, “don’t shoot the fuckin’ messenger, mate.”)
Within a month of their living together they reached a (hard-won) argument: Francis cooks everyday but Thursdays, because he for some reason hates Thursdays and is for some reason unable to cook anything then without botching it up; and Arthur cleans the kitchen and living-room, and does the laundry. Except their ancient washing machine died, last August, and nearly flooded the bathroom, and it’s expensive to buy another, so Arthur treks down to the launderette on the corner, every other Saturday morning, in the rain (it always rains), with all the old ladies in the neighbourhood (they always cheat for the soap, and they all have rabid terriers who like nothing better than to sink their teeth in Arthur’s ankles.)
There’s change clinking in his pockets and far more of Francis’ clothes than his in the sports bag he’s got them piled in, sorted out by colour. There’re red round plastic chairs, all lined up in a row, and little beige ashtrays on the shelves, but instead he sits on a disused washer, headphones over his ears, ankles crossed and well out of reach: he presses his hand on the machine next to his, feels it rumbling, trembling, under his palm.
The clothes smell of wet and starch, when he takes them out to put in the dryer. His hands catch, there, on a pink shirt of Francis’, thumbs brushing the mother-of-pearl buttons (‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Francis said primly, first time he wore it, long fingers plucking at the edges of the collar, ‘I’ll have you know that it’s in the best of fashion in Paris,’ and Arthur wanted to laugh, wanted to scoff, wanted to roll his eyes and say You daft sod, it doesn’t go well with your eyes-)
He thinks Oh god, I’m washing his pink shirts which quickly morphs into Oh god, he’s been making me homemade meals and then into Oh god, how long have we been each other’s housewife?
And then - and then into something entirely different.
He’s stock-still, hands full of cheap soap powder and wet laundry, with underneath his coat the black fitting pullover Francis gave him for his birthday (saying, laughing, that it broadened his shoulders, and You’re way too skinny, now do eat this hyper-sweetened ultra-pink strawberry cake I made you), crouched in front of the dryer, blinking, clutching the shirt, and staring, because somehow in the last five seconds he has forgotten how to breathe.
He never wanted this, never even thought he wanted this, this - revelation or whatever it’s called - one that doesn’t belong with pink dress shirts and washing machines and old ladies with dogs because who has epiphanies in launderettes anyway - it’s too wide and too abrupt and too much like the stars and he’s choking on it: and the world it’s, he thinks, the world is drowning, changing, because I like him, I sodding like him, and aren’t we just completely screwed, at that.
Once, in their second college year, Francis took him out for shopping, to buy you some more refined clothes, mon cher, you need them badly, with a moue of distaste at Arthur’s formless jeans and frayed t-shirts (because Francis is French at heart, loves fine clothing, the delicate nuances in textures and sewing, the full of a sleeve, the slant of a collar, the feel of fresh linen on bare skin - loves them the way he loves old wines and well-made food, the way Arthur sometimes falls asleep to Strawberry Fields, nose on his knees, in the leather armchair.
“Dedicated follower of fashion,” Arthur calls him.
“Heathen,” Francis calls him back, with a leer and a duck when Arthur throws a frying pan at him.)
Arthur was dragged all that afternoon around the mall, forced to try on flannel trousers and navy shirts and mauve polos, and silk underpants, for Chrissake, what on earth am I supposed to do with them? You never know, chéri.
It was a terrifying experience and they never did it again.
(But Arthur kept the clothes he did buy, in the end - keeps them hidden, deep in the lower drawer of his shelves, under a layer of socks he never puts on. He never opens it, never digs in to touch them, but in a strange way it’s something of a comfort, something of a certainty, to know they’re there.)
It’s a funny thing, wanting Arthur. It’s become utterly different from wanting anybody else, not so much in the intensity of it than in its daily routine: it’s not just wanting Arthur when he’s meant to be wanted, when he’s dressed up, outside, mindful of other people and of the hierarchy of appearances, another face in a crowd. It’s wanting Arthur in the unexpected moments, too, when he doesn’t care or doesn’t even know that he’s being looked at - when he’s half-asleep or eating or shouting or drunk up to his tits, slurring and dishevelled, seconds of intense delirium that leave Francis reeling, obliged to fist his hands in his pockets to keep himself from reaching out in habit.
It’s Arthur doing the dishes, humming to himself and swinging with it; at the music store, crouched in front of the shelves, browsing, nose all crunched up in concentration; in the morning, padding barefoot into the kitchen, with bed-tousled hair and that oversized t-shirt and slacks he wears for pyjamas (except Francis knows for a fact that he sleeps in just the t-shirt, and really that isn’t all that funny, anymore.)
And now, there’s this: Arthur on the couch, knees pulled up, toes buried under a cushion, reading a jazz magazine in tight jeans and that big black jumper he likes to bury his nose in, the one that covers down his hips. Francis vaguely remembers laughing at it once, but now all he can think about is how soft it was, how good it would feel to bury himself in it like a frog in leaves (an apt comparison, Arthur would say dryly), between Arthur’s thighs, and to wriggle his hands under thick black wool to touch cool fingertips to the dips between Arthur’s ribs, the soft skin at the small of his back, the slight bumps of his spine. It would be good to kiss him, he thinks, to feel that mouth open, pliant, against his, the magazine slipping to the floor unnoticed - and Arthur would curl around him, slowly, a little exasperated maybe, warm and comfortable, in the mess of limbs.
“Francis.”
He blinks. Arthur has - oh merde - crossed one leg over the other, and is frowning at him over his magazine.
“The fuck with you? You were staring. Something on my nose again?”
“N-non…” Francis is startled into French, “uh. I don’t. Think.”
“Not much, no you don’t.” Arthur smirks at him, and it’s an awkward gorgeous moment, the twitch upward of his eyebrows, and shit but Francis is far gone, and how on earth did that happen?
“You’re funny,” Arthur mutters, returning to his reading, - and it sort of is, this situation.
They don’t call it a date, because it’s not, even though Francis buys popcorn, hot and buttery, which he hates, and Arthur agrees to go see one of those existentialist author’s movies that he normally wouldn’t touch with a three-foot pole. They’re unnaturally subdued on the way, in the tube, and they stand too close in the queue to the cinema, flinching when they brush, Arthur’s fingers flushed cold and stuffed in his coat pockets, curling into knots (but inside, in the dark, they both set their elbows on the same armrest, and if the back of their hands touch neither seems to care enough to move his away.)
They pause for groceries, on the way back. Francis stands in front of the shelves, scanning macaroni boxes, with his hair in his eyes, tickling his nose, and his hands jammed in his pockets; he looks too tall for his frame, all long, jean-clag legs and hunched shoulders as he chews on his lower lip. Arthur looks over at him up from selecting tomatoes and wonders at the familiarity of it, at the thought that in a minute Francis will choose an onion sauce and amble over to him with his easy grin, stubble making electric shadows on his jaw from the neon lights, and ask Do we need any more toothpaste - and he’s asked it a thousand times before but it’s never made Arthur’s toes tingle the way it does now, in anticipation.
It’s grown dim by the time they go out, streetlamps blinking on; they stand in the grocer’s automatic doors, for a moment, half in the light and half out. Then they run to catch the bus, red and double-decked, one block up, the bags’ handles slicing into their palms, and they plop in the seats breathless and laughing, Arthur sitting by the window out of habit, because he likes to prop his knee on the side. He curls his fingers close, tucks them under the hem of his jacket, and pretends not to watch the lights defile on Francis’ cheeks, in the glass.
Here’s something of a secret, even though Francis has probably figured it out by now: Arthur loves buses, and trains, at night. The lights are brighter, cosy and gold, when the sky’s dark; you get to see people better, more angular, clearer defined. There’s the childish sensation of being somehow out of bounds, out of time, and yet, in juxtaposition, the familiar bustle and hustle of those hurrying by with bags of their own, families rushing in to dinner, single men or women in smart clothes, the old couple with their trembling hands and tender ways.
Beside him, Francis is doing the crossword in the newspaper they bought at the cinema (later tonight, Arthur will steal it, and they’ll be filling in the crossword in bits and pieces on the coffee table for the rest of the week). The doors creak like a snicker when they close.
Lull-a-lull-a-lull-a, the bus rocks him, and Francis’ thigh is warm against his own.
un. | deux. | trois. | quatre. | cinq.