Chapter Text
Francis remembers with vivid clarity the first time he met Arthur.
It was on the roof of that shitty flat block, on one of those hazy summer nights where the sky never truly darkens and everything appears stained in blue. Even long after the sweltering sun had disappeared heat still seemed to permeate everywhere, a stifling hotness rising up from the ground itself, leaving you constantly warm and sticky.
It was the type of night that made Francis glad he was off shift and not stuck in the sweltering kitchens cooking food for ungrateful guests at the goddamn IHOP.
He, Antonio and Gil had dragged out some old lawn chairs into the roof, along with the wine bottles Francis periodically pilfered from work. Gilbert had brought his subwoofer and it was booming out music, drowning out the sounds of the main road and the people below.
The air was hazy and as it grew dimmer, somehow, even this shitty nowhere town they were forced to live in looked pretty, the yellow street lamps glowing against the dark blue night looked like pretty twinkling fairy lights.
It was one of those nights where the three of them felt unstoppable. Their current circumstances of living in a shitty apartment block and having shitty jobs in a shitty nowhere town felt temporary and in those moments Francis really believed they were all heading for greatness. Antonio had inherited a rundown old restaurant from an old aunt and some day soon he would have it up and running, Francis would /finally/ be able to put his cooking skills to real use and they’d make a fortune and be able to move the business from this nowhere town in upstate New York to some high end joint in /The/ New York City, were Francis originally wanted to be when he came to the states.
It was the type of night where dreams really felt like they could become reality. So between the alcohol, the heat and the pleasant vibes the three didn’t realise how loud they were being or how late it had gotten.
“-I’m just saying, once you have your fancy-ass restaurant up and running you’re gonna need some security and you don’t know anyone with more experience than me!” Gilbert declared, already trying to get himself a job at the restaurant that currently only potentially existed.
“Ah, Gil. Your experience is bare knuckle boxing and racketeering. Zat is not the same as being a professional in security.” Francis said, shaking his head and taking another sip of his wine (definitely far from the best he’d ever had, but he was drinking for the effects not the taste).
“It wasn’t racketeering!” Gilbert insisted, his words slurred. “I was jus’ getting a few shops to pay me to protect them.”
“That’s racketeering!” Antonio and Francis exclaimed in unison.
“Whatever! That was back in Germany. I’m on the straight and narrow now.” Gilbert said. There was a moment of silence where the other two gave him a knowing look, before all three of them burst out laughing.
“Cause toujours. You’ve got a new scheme every week!” Francis chuckled.
“Si. Even I can’t keep track.” Antonio added. “I mean, selling fake designer handbags, drug dealing- “
“Hey- I don’t see you guys complaining when I use the money I make to buy drinks!” Gilbert started to say, when suddenly, the entrance to the roof was kicked open, the doors swinging on its hinges and bashing into the brick wall.
Stood there, was a raging punk. He looked the picture of anger, with spiky blond hair decorated with red streaks and metal spikes through his ears. His eyebrows were thick and set into a furious scowl.
That was the first time Francis met Arthur.
“Do you wankers have any idea how loud you’re being? It’s three in the fucking morning!” He shouted. “Some of us actually have work tomorrow! We can’t all be unemployed alcoholics.”
He was English, Francis realised, which perhaps went some way to explain the bad attitude.
Francis was affronted instantly felt his defences raise. Apparently, his friends felt the same.
“Ya know, I would have turned it down if you had just asked nicely.” Gilbert said, rising from his chair, a dangerous smirk on his face. “But now I think I’m gonna turn it up even louder.”
Francis and Antonio got up too. They could both sense when a fight was brewing and no matter how annoying Gilbert could be, he was still their friend and they weren’t about to let him get into a scuffle without backup. If this guy lived in their block it was better that he learned quickly that the three of them were not to be fucked with.
The punk must realise he was outnumbered. This was usually the point where people backed off. For whatever reason people found the three of them intimidating when they were together.
Arthur (although, Francis didn’t know his name yet), looked completely undeterred. He smirked at Gilbert as if the others were the ones who should be frightened.
“Turn it up.” The punk challenged. “I dare you.”
It was unnerving, honestly, it made Francis wonder what sort of tricks this scrawny little punk could have up his sleeve that lent such confidence. There didn’t appear to be a gun in his waistband.
Not one to back down from a challenge, however, Gilbert swanned over to the subwoofer with deliberate exaggerated movements. “Ja. Good idea. I think I will.” Gilbert said. “You think this is loud now, wait until I put it on max- your ear drums are gonna be blown. Let’s see you just try and stop me- “
Between Antonio, Gilbert and Francis there remains some debate about what happened next, but this is how Francis remembers it; Gilbert reached for the dial of the subwoofer and the moment he touched it, his body seemed to seize up, red eyes bulging, jaw clenching, muscles contracting and going rigid as his whole body was wracked with uncontrollable shaking. It was only when Francis saw the sparks flying from the machine that he realised Gilbert was being electrocuted. Terror gripped Francis, and for a moment, he was frozen.
Antonio sprung into action first, rushing over and grabbing Gilbert by the back of his jacket, pulling him away. Gilbert collapsed onto the floor, thankfully no longer convulsing. The subwoofer smoked and spat more sparks, no more music emitting from it.
“Mon dieu, Gilbert!” Francis cried, hurrying over to his friend who looked dazed but thankfully, alive. So great was Francis’ concern that he forgot about the fourth person there until he spoke.
“Thank you, gentleman.” Arthur said, with a triumphant grin. He gave a theatrical bow before turning on his heel and walking back down the stairwell.
“Mein Gott- “ Gilbert muttered. There was a trail of blood down his chin, evidently he’d bitten his tongue. “I’m fine- “ he batted Antonio and Francis away, apparently embarrassed he needed their ministrations. He sat up fully. “I’m fine.”
“What was that?” Francis asked with a frown, still trying to make sense of what had happened. “Gilbert, I warned you about buying blackmarket electronics! You are lucky you weren’t fried to a crisp!”
“That’s never happened before! Damn! It made me look like an idiot in front of that punk!” Gilbert cursed.
“That was some truly bad luck.” Francis agreed.
“Bad luck?” Antonio exclaimed. “You really think that what just happened was a coincidence? You don’t think he was behind it?”
Gilbert and Francis both gave Antonio a confused look.
“How?” Francis asked. “He didn’t move from the door?”
“Ja, he was like ten feet away.” Gilbert added. “How would he even do anything?”
“A hex! A curse!” Antonio said, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. Gilbert and Francis shared a look with each other, before they both burst out laughing.
“You don’t really believe in that stuff do you?” Francis scoffed.
“Ooh, the scary punk has scary spooky powers.” Gilbert teased. Both he and Francis laughed even harder.
“Aye Dios Mio! Dark magic is a real thing, you know. I’ve seen it before!” Antonio tried to explain, but he had lost the room- Francis and Gilbert were too busy laughing and pretending to zap each other with magical electrical powers.
“You two are such children.” Antonio complained.
“Who was that punk, anyway?” Francis asked, after getting over his fit of giggles.
“I don’t know his name but his flat is next to yours. You’ve not seen him before? I think he moved in about a week ago.” Antonio said. Francis hummed to himself, a smile growing on his face.
“Hmm. I see. I should be polite and introduce myself to him soon.” Francis said. “That punk look is so tacky, but there’s a certain charm to it, don’t you think - “
“Don’t you dare.” Antonio said, at the same time Gilbert exclaimed;
“Nein, Franny!”
“What?” Francis asked, batting his eyelashes, voice laced with faux innocence.
“You know what!” Gilbert said.
“Do not try and sleep with him.” Antonio said. “He’s trouble I can tell.”
“Honestly. The two of you have such terrible dirty minds.” Francis said. It looked like his friends knew him too well.
Over the next few weeks, Francis learns the punk’s name is Arthur, he is indeed British and he has a terribly moody disposition.
Francis is unfortunate enough to live next door to him. Most of their interactions take the form of banging on each others walls when the when music is played too loud (or when Francis’ lover for the night is too vocal), barging into each other in the corridor, arguing who’s turn it is in the laundry room and occasionally lending each other cigarettes when they’re both out on their respective balconies (if the tiny space outside each flat could really be called that). Arthur always had a permanent snarl on his face and often wore an oversized leather jacket even when it was unreasonably hot. One of his canines were capped in silver and Francis was often reminded of an unruly pirate when he encountered him. Naturally, when dealing with someone who had such a short temper and expressive reactions, Francis couldn’t help but wind him up at any opportunity he got.
“I see Matthias didn’t waste any time getting his claws in the newbie.” Francis commented, nodding his head towards the pavement outside.
There, partially obscured by the bushes, Arthur and the tall blond figure that was Matthias were stood close together, conversing about something almost certainly illegal. He doubted that it was just a friendly chat. Arthur had made it quite clear he had no interest in that and was consistently prickly to anyone who dared be nice to him.
It was a bright clear morning, Francis and Antonio were sat out on the balcony, trying to soak in as much sun as they could before their respective shifts began. Francis had his legs leaning across Toni’s lap- there really wasn’t a lot of room.
“More fool him.” Toni commented, giving the two of them a disapproving look.
“What do you think he’s trying to convince him to do? Selling? Holding?” Francis mused. “Gil won’t be happy with more competition.”
“Knowing Matthias it could be anything. He’s almost as bad as Gilbert.” Antonio said, narrowing his eyes. Gilbert was their friend, but Francis and Antonio knew not to trust his schemes. Most of the time.
“I wonder if he needs the money? Eyebrows, I mean. He’s always leaving the house in that little black uniform. I think he must be a waiter. I can’t imagine the wage is good.” Francis commented. “- And I don’t think he gets a lot of hours.”
“Francis, Don’t.” Antonio said, uncharacteristically serious.
“Don’t what?” Francis simpered.
“Don’t try to sleep with him.” Antonio commanded. “I know you like novelty. I know you probably see him as another challenge, but you should be careful of that one. I’m serious. I don’t like his vibe.”
“Ah, he’s harmless.” Francis said dismissively.
“He’s given Gil a black eye.” Antonio pointed out, referring to a fight the two of them had the other week over a package or something g.
“Gil swung for him first.” Francis said.
“You should be careful of him.” Antonio reiterated again.
“You scared he’s going to curse me?” Francis scoffed, rolling his eyes. Antonio didn’t seem to find the jest funny. With a frown, the Spaniard stubbed out his cigarette.
“Have you seen those little drawings he’s always got scrawled on his hands? They’re runes. It’s witchcraft, my abuela warned me- “
“Oh! You’re actually serious about the dark magic thing.” Francis laughed. “Honestly, Toni, Mon ami, you are so suspicious.”
“Just be careful.” Antonio said ruefully.
It was around a month later that Arthur stepped foot into Francis’ flat for the first time.
It was evening time at the end of another uncomfortably hot day. Francis was enjoying a cigarette on the balcony, trying to release the stress of the day he had just been forced to endure (summer holidays were the worst, all day he was stuck cooking an endless amount of pancakes for a hoard of screaming children).
Arthur was already on his own balcony when he arrived, no cigarette (he couldn’t afford them, near the end of the month, Francis later learned) and book in hand.
“You look like shit.” Arthur told him. Usually that comment would lead to bickering, but Francis was too tired to argue today. He simply nodded.
“I feel like shit.”
For a moment, the two sat in comfortable silence. Francis was too tired to try and tease him today.
“You’re good at cooking.” Arthur stated after perhaps twenty minutes had passed. It was a statement, not a question. Francis looked over, broken from his trance.
“What lead you to that conclusion?” Francis asked with a lazy half-smile.
“Outside your flat always smells good. Like cooking.” Arthur said. “And I’ve seen your uniform. I know you’re a chef.”
Actually, Francis’ current position was unfortunately line-cook and he hadn’t been able to finish his formal chef training. He didn’t want to get into all of that though.
“Oui, it is true. I am a spectacular cook.” Francis said. “It’s a gift not all of us are fortunate to be blessed with. Are you jealous?”
“How do you know? I could be a spectacular chef too.” Arthur said, in an imitation of Francis’ accent that was almost uncannily accurate.
“How many times have you set the fire alarm off since you’ve arrived here? Three? Four?” Francis teased. Arthur’s ears went pink.
“Shut up!” He scowled, that temper flaring up again instantaneously. Francis just laughed.
Silence set in between them again, and once again it was Arthur who broke it.
“What are you cooking tonight then?” He asked, looking up from his book to give Francis a furtive glance a sort of forced nonchalance in his tone. “It smells good, I suppose.”
It was then that Francis realised when Arthur wanted.
“French onion soup.” He said. “Do you perhaps want to come over to try some?”
Arthur got this look when he was attempting to hide how pleased he was about something. His eyes would light up and his jaw would tense as if he was trying hard not to smile. Over the years, Francis ended up knowing that expression well, but tonight was the first time. Francis felt like he was making the first steps in taming a wild animal.
“Well. If you insist.” Arthur said.
“Mon ami, I am not insisting just suggesting- Merde! Mon dieu! Stop!”
Arthur had climbed up onto the railing of his balcony with all the deftness of an ally cat,
“What are you doing?” Francis cried.
“Don’t worry, my flat is locked and I have the key.” Arthur said.
“Zat is not what I’m worried about? Get down before you break your neck!” Francis shouted. Arthur ignored him. He balanced on his tiptoes before leaping across to Francis’ landing with one foot on the railing and a hand gripped onto the windowsill for purchase, wobbling a little.
Francis rushed forward, wrapping his arms around the other’s leg then stumbling back, both of them falling onto the balcony, Arthur on top of Francis.
Francis’ heart pounded his chest, taking a moment to realise that both of them were safe. “T'es con! imbécile! what were you thinking?”
He sat up, limbs still tangled with the other. Arthur, frustratingly, was laughing. What an unhinged maniac!
“What could possibly be funny?” Francis hissed, peeved.
“Sorry.” Arthur said, climbing off Francis and offering him a hand. “It’s just- you always seem so aloof and suave. I didn’t know you could shout like that like that.”
Francis huffed, annoyed he was being laughed at for potentially saving this idiot’s life, but he couldn’t help but notice how different Arthur looked without his permanent scowl. It was hard to stay truly angry at Arthur when he smiled like that. Francis often wonders if half his life troubles could have been avoided if he wasn’t so weak to Arthur’s smiles.
Up close, he could see the intense shade of green of Arthur’s eyes. There was a softness to him that Francis hadn’t noticed before and he was smaller than Francis realised. He was younger too, perhaps a couple years Francis’ junior. Francis wondered if the leather jackets and the piercings and combat boots was an attempt to seem bigger and tougher than he actually was.
There was something almost rodent-like with his big eyes and general scrawniness. Francis couldn’t help but be reminded of a rabbit. Perhaps he wasn’t as dangerous as everyone apparently thought he was.
He took Arthur’s hand and stood up. “I am already regretting inviting you over, Lapin.” He muttered.
It had been a long while since somebody had actually enjoyed Francis’ cooking as much as Arthur did that night. At work he was stuck making the same low-quality slop and Gil and Toni- though appreciative- were used to Francis skills.
Arthur ate a bowl in mere moments and when Francis offered him another, he looked for a moment as if he had been offered a winning lottery ticket. When Francis told him he had also baked the bread himself Arthur looked as impressed as if Francis said he had invented the concept of bread itself.
It reminded Francis of why he wanted to be a chef in the first place. How wonderful it is to have one’s work appreciated!
“One would think you haven’t eaten all day.” Francis commented, when Arthur finished scraping the last remnants of his second bowl.
“I haven’t.” Arthur said quickly. He frowned, cheeks reddening. Perhaps he hadn’t planned on saying that out loud, he glared at his empty wine glass as if it was responsible. “I mean, it’s the end of the month, I don’t get paid till Friday. You know how it is.” His frown deepened. “I do still have food left. I have a whole box of cereal. I’m just being careful with it.”
Francis was broke, but Arthur was apparently a whole different level of broke. It wasn’t unusual, it was a shitty area.
“I’ve been curious since you’ve arrived. What exactly are you doing here?” Francis asked. “I’m sure there are plenty of opportunities to work a shitty job for shitty pay in a shitty flat back in England. Why did you emigrate here?”
“I could ask you the same thing!” Arthur said, instantly defensive.
“Me and Toni have been friends since forever. His aunt died and left him this flat and his.” Francis said, as well as a few more properties that were currently haemorrhaging money. “I wanted to come to America. This town is depressing but it’s convenient. For now.”
“Oh.” Arthur said. “No rent. Lucky you.”
“Unfortunately there’s still the mortgage to pay off, so we’re paying no less than you.” Francis said. “Your turn.”
“I came here because I wanted a fresh start after I was kicked out of the army- “
There is no point relaying in any detail what Arthur told Francis next, because it was all lies, something Francis realised that very night as they both drank more wine and Arthur’s backstory got more outlandish. By the time the bottle was finished, Arthur had apparently been kicked out of army boot camp for beating up the Sargent major, had a semi successful band touring London, had started a history degree at Oxford but then had to relocate to the states to escape his mafia ties.
Francis truly thought he would ever meet a more flagrant bullshitter than Gilbert. He couldn’t help but find it amusing- it suited Francis just fine, as he didn’t want to go into real details about why he came here either. It did pique his curiosity about what the actual truth was though.
“So I’m basically just here until things calm down- “ Arthur was saying. It was dark now, the wine was finished, the room was warm and the moment felt right. Francis leaned forward and kissed him.
It was always a risk doing that. Especially with men. Francis had misjudged the situation a couple of times and nearly gotten filled in. But it was like a compulsion. When someone caught Francis’ eye (and a lot of people did), he always felt compelled to pursue them, to get them to like him and make them his, even for just half an hour . Many years later therapists would give various theories This is a misplaced way to seek the affection and approval your parents never gave you or This is a way of establishing power and dominance in an uncertain world. Francis resents that it has to be some Freudian mechanism behind it. Sometimes you just want to kiss a pretty punk with pierced ears.
Arthur didn’t push Francis away or hit him. In fact, he kissed back. It was only when Francis pulled away that he realised how rigid Arthur was sat and he noticed the dazed almost blank look behind those green eyes. It was unnerving.
“Do you not want to?” Francis asked. Arthur blinked and looked at him as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was being asked.
“We don’t have to continue, if you don’t want.” Francis promoted, when he got no answer. Arthur looked at him with wide eyes. He looked younger, somehow. More vulnerable. Definitely not ex-army with Mafia ties, Francis was sure.
“But- you know- “ Arthur trailed off and indicated to the empty bowl in front of him. It took Francis a moment to realise what the other was referring to.
“Arthur!” Francis cried, incredulous. “I wouldn’t not expect you to prostitute yourself. For soup.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that.” Arthur scowled, except he was, he definitely was. Red creeped up his neck and he glared at the table. This wasn’t just embarrassment, he was deeply ashamed.
“I understand. My cooking is excellent.” Francis said. “But you could barter for more than some soup. You have pretty eyes. You should at least expect some desert as well.”
Arthur gave a small laugh at that, looking relieved that Francis was treating the situation with humour rather than outright mockery or contempt. “I thought that’s what you wanted.” He said.
“I am an unrepentant rake. I want to sleep with you and almost half the people I meet.” Francis said. “But I’m only interested if the other party is too. Sex should not be a thing one person inflicts on the other, it’s only pleasurable if both parties are equally enthusiastic.”
Francis was several glasses of wine deep so those words felt like wise, sagely advice. Arthur, at least, was looking at Francis as if he had said something very smart.
A few days later, Francis knocks one Arthur’s door and passes him a plate of carbonara before leaving for work. He was disappointed that apparently pursuing Arthur in that way was a dead end, but he did not want the other to think that sharing food was contingent on sexual favours.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t take Francis long to notice a pattern- every couple of weeks, an expensive blue Cadillac is parked in the rundown lot outside the flat, a bright misnomer between all the old dusty bangers. A middle aged man in an expensive suit gets out and walks into Arthur’s flat and a few hours later, suddenly the punk can pay back all of the money he owes.
At least he’s getting paid in more than soup. At least he’s not on the street corner.
Francis tapped the worn leather of the steering wheel, his irritation growing the longer Gilbert had him wait.
He glared at white and blue building Gilbert had disappeared into what felt like forever ago. Why the help did Gilbert need to go to an aquarium so badly? When Gilbert said he needed a lift, Francis did not think it would involve driving for over two hours then waiting here in the car park. This drive itself had been stressful enough; Francis hadn’t been behind a wheel since he left France last year and American drivers were complete maniacs! Gilbert’s car was a wreck, they should have impounded it when they suspended his license (too many speeding fines).
Francis was also concerned it wasn’t completely legal to drive in the US a French license, despite Gilbert’s assurances that it was ‘totally cool’. Francis had known Gilbert for a year now- they moved into the block at the same time- and even though they had become close friends fast, Francis was still no closer to figuring out what was going on in that crazy German bastard’s head.
It was still too hot, even with the windows rolled down there was no breeze, Francis sat there in that stifling car thinking of millions of better ways he could have spent his precious day off.
Finally, finally that familiar hear of white hair appeared out of a back entrance. Gilbert had his arms full with a large black bag, and shit- he was sprinting.
“Start the car!” He heard Gilbert below. Equal parts alarmed and confused, Francis jammed the keys in the ignition and turn them, the engine rumbling to life.
Gilbert yanked reached the car and yanked the door open, diving into the back seats just as two security guards emerged from the door he had just left from, they spotted Gilbert and immediately started running over.
“Du fährst! Drive! Drive!” Gilbert screamed. He was dripping wet, like he’d dived into a bath with his clothes on.
“What did you do?” Francis yelled, reversing the car out, the engine revving and wheels screeching.
“Just drive!” Gilbert shouted. Heart thundering, Francis turned out of the car park, vehicle nearly tipping over as he went around the bend, hitting the kerb in the process.
“Careful!” Gilbert exclaimed, the black canvas bag turning over as the car jolted, spilling its contents out over the car. They looked like large blue bubbles. It took Francis a moment to realise what he was looking at. Live fish in plastic bags, like when you win them from the fair, except these look far more exotic. Francis saw flashes of bright blue and orange.
“Merde, Gilbert I am going to kill you!” Francis cursed as the security guards became distant in the rear view mirror. He kept his foot pressed down at full throttle. “Did you just make me an accessory to robbing a damn aquarium?”
“Ja- I’ll give you a cut, don’t worry!” Gilbert said, trying to gather up the bags of fish, water from his sodden clothes splashing everywhere, the fish bags rolling all over the car. “Some of these little guys are super exotic worth their weight in gold- “
“I am never, ever, doing you a favour again, you hear me!” Francis shouted. “If you get me a criminal record for stealing goddamn fish then I swear- “ Francis descended into angry French from there to the rest of the journey. No police ever pursued them, thankfully, although Francis spent the whole journey home white knuckling the wheel and checking the mirror like a paranoid mad man.
Francis wondered why he couldn’t just have normal friends! He was mad at Gilbert for a week after, until his friend posted him an envelope filled with cash.
Then Francis suddenly found himself in a much more forgiving mood.
The laundry room was always a battle ground. Six washing machines and four dryers for sixteen flats. Most people didn’t have their own- some sort of structural issue with leaks and plumbing (there was a reason Toni hadn’t just sold the apartments willed to him, not many people would be willing to buy such a wreck, even potential slum landlords were hesitant) so it was a constant fight to try and secure a machine and keep on top of the washing (or else, you’d be forced to trek to the rip-off laundromat in town).
Francis was incredibly regimented about washing his clothes. He may be forced to live in poorer circumstances than he ever had in his life before, but that doesn’t mean he would allow himself to descend to the level of a slob. so when he made a trip down to the laundry room to collect his clothes- which should be finished - he was furious to find them out of of the tumble dryer and still soaking wet in left on the side on a bench like yesterdays rubbish. When he saw the now-familiar band tees and jeans swirling around the machine Francis knew instantly who was responsible.
He didn’t know how Arthur had managed to jimmy the machine open and replace Francis’ clothes with his own without breaking it. If Francis knew that he would return the favour, but he didn’t, so instead he stormed up the stairs to hunt that bastard down, furious.
Francis didn’t knock at Arthur’s door, he just kicked it open and luckily, it wasn’t locked-
“Arthur, tu es un crétin.” Francis shouted, jostling his washing basket full of soggy clothes for effect. “You took my clothes out before they were dry! Don’t lie to me, you selfish little troll, you- “
Francis stopped in his tracks, taking in the sight before him; Arthur was stood against the fridge, as some middle aged man loomed over him, pressing his back against the handle. The man was sucking on Arthur’s neck and had a hand up his shirt, half way pulling it off. His face was obscured by the man’s arm but Francis just knew Arthur would have that blank-eyed stare again.
They both turned to look at him. So this was Mr Blue Cadillac. Francis had never met this man before, but he knew him- his crisp white suite, his Rolex, his grey-streaked hair, his perfect white teeth and sensible brown loafers.
He was the man who brought the church Youth Group to the waffle house and paid for all the meals, he’d be all smiles until one little thing was wrong with the order then he’d raise holy hell. He was the man who looked at service workers like they were beneath them and felt entitled to their constant smiles. He was the man who’d cruise on the gay dating apps and call Francis a dirty fag whore while getting fucked. He was the man who was a lawyer, or a business owner, or a manager who had a perfect house with a perfect mowed lawn and a perfect stay at home wife and perfect kids, but he still paid for sex with men half his age. He was the man who was a hubris of entitlement, authority and silent self loathing.
The man skidded away, letting go of Arthur like he was poison. His eyes widened in horror at Francis sudden intrusion.
“I- you- this is private property you can’t just barge in. I could sue! If you say a word! Slander!” Mr Blue Cadillac looked like he was glitching, shouting out random threatening phrases, his face getting increasingly blotchier.
Francis wasn’t the least bit fazed, an amused grin spread across his face. “Oh Lala. Désolé monsieur. I thought it was far too early for this sort of thing.”
The man didn’t even give a response to that, he just slammed a white envelope down on the table snatched up his briefcase and blazer from the back of the chair and stormed to the door, head down. He paused briefly at the door.
“Arthur, make that last. And be sure to lock the door in future.” He said, in a tone that dripped with authority, before walking out.
Once he disappeared, the life seemed to return to Arthur’s face. He stepped away from the fridge, adjusting his shirt, face red, unable to look Francis in the eye.
“Ah, Arthur, if you had explained that you needed your clothes dry for when your sugar Daddy came then perhaps I would have been more understanding- “ Francis said.
“It’s nothing like that you stupid French twat!“ Arthur shouted.
Francis was used to Arthur’s insults by now, he just smirked and rolled his eyes. “Oh yes. I’m sure he’s giving you that big wads of cash because of your sparkling personality.” He said, indicating to the white envelope still on the table. “You can pay back the what you owe me, while your at it- “
Arthur scowled at him, but sat at the table and started taking bills out the envelope, leafing out the thirty he owed Francis for topping up the electric meter. “Here. Now shut up and go away.”
Francis had no intention of doing either of those things. He eyed how thick the wad of cash was.
“He’s generous. That’s certainly more than some onion soup. He gave you all that even though I interrupted before you did anything?” Francis mused. “Perhaps you should be teaching me your tricks.”
“You’ve got your money now fuck off.” Arthur said through gritted teeth.
“Ah, don’t be so angry- he’s clean and he pays well. You’re lucky.”
Arthur slammed his fist down on the table, glaring at Francis with hate-filled eyes, looking too angry to even speak. Francis was startled for a moment, this was different from Arthur’s usual prickliness. It occurred to Francis that his last comment was pretty insensitive. Being so broke you have to sell yourself isn’t a position most would consider lucky, especially if you’re as prideful as Arthur.
Francis was about to apologise, but it was too late. Arthur was already raging. He stood up from his chair so forcefully it clattered to the ground. “Get out.” He hissed, before repeating it even louder. “Get out! Get out!”
“I’m sorry, Lapin- it was a joke- “ Francis said. “Gallow’s humour. “
Arthur’s eyes were wild and livid, clouded over by fury. He was past listening to whatever Francis had to say, he just kept repeating ‘Get out! Get out!’. He seemed truly demented and when Francis apparently wasn’t moving quick enough, Arthur grabbed a fist full of magnets off the fridge and threw them, pelting Francis with tiny projectiles.
“I am going, you lunatic!” Francis cried, rushing to the door before Arthur started throwing knives. He almost forgot his laundry. “See if I ever lend you money again!”
Francis slammed the door, heart racing. Thankfully, Arthur didn’t follow.
Years later, Francis often looked back at that moment, replaying it in his head. If he knew back then all the things he would eventually learn, Francis would have handled that so differently. If he wasn’t a dumb twenty year old maybe he could have found some better words and now things would be different. Maybe. Or maybe things were always destined to be irreparably fucked up and there was nothing Francis could say that would make a difference.