Chapter Text
They meet at the center of a whirlwind, or perhaps it's just the library and the whirlwinds are their own, four crazy years of mounting debt and parties and term papers and all nighters.
They run into each other - literally - books and papers falling to the ground in a clatter only dwarfed in sound by Arthur's fervent swearing. Francis crouches to sort out his papers, ignoring the freshman (surely he's a freshman, isn't he?) until he picks up an organic chemistry book that definitely isn't his and Arthur snatches it out of his hands with a snarl.
They go their separate ways, and it isn't until two days later when he's sorting through his notes that Francis comes across a sheaf of papers held together by a folded corner, lists of formula written in what at first appears to be ancient runes until he looks closer and realizes it is only math. It takes him nearly as long to find the name, scribbled in the top corner fold in handwriting that seems to be trying to slant eight directions at once, Arthur Kirkland.
This is how it begins.
Francis tracks him down through the campus directory (thank God Kirkland isn't a common name around here, and these days neither is Arthur) and waits outside of Arthur's anatomy lab. They go for coffee so they can sort through their mixed up notes and worksheets.
"Bloody poofter, figures you'd be an art major," Arthur says, and Francis chooses to think that's an implied compliment to his fashion sense.
"And you," he counters evenly, tapping one finger against the papers on the table between them and their lattés, "I never would have imagined someone like you would be a med student."
Arthur snarls and sweeps the papers off and into his bag, standing with a jerk to storm out and leave Francis behind with two lattés and the idle observation that Arthur has just walked off with his notes on Van Gogh.
The next time they see each other, there's a party and booze and Alfred laughing hysterically between them. Francis has a headache and says so; he only came because Matthew had given him The Eyes and begged him (Francis) not to leave him (Matthew) to be the only sane person there.
So Francis excuses himself to go out onto the fire escape and have a smoke, ignoring the two people (possibly two men, possibly a man and a slightly butch girl, it's so hard to tell in this light) who'd thought that same fire escape would be a good place to have a bit of a snog.
When he returns inside the noise of the music hits him like a solid wall, and he thinks about finding Matthew and making his apologies before escaping, possibly citing a test he has tomorrow or some other such rubbish. But before he has the chance Arthur stumbles out of the crowd, falling practically into Francis's arms.
He reeks of alcohol, and Francis wrinkles his nose as Matthew slides out of the crowd, spouting apologies and he lives in your building, Francis, (that's news to him) and can't you please make sure he gets home all right? And Francis agrees because it's Matthew who asked, but he regrets it once he's out in the chilly night air having to support a staggering Arthur all the way home.
And it turns out that Arthur has forgotten his room number and may or may not have forgotten his keys, and if he'd not been keeping Arthur from staggering into the street Francis would have thrown up his hands and been done with him. But as it is his hands are full. And he wonders, as he bullies and prods Arthur into the lift, if that saying about puppies following you home is true.
When Arthur wakes, it's to light shining in his eyes around the pounding in his head, and the realization that this isn't his room unless someone decided to replace his Rolling Stones poster with something weird in too many colors that may or may not be a Warhol print. There's a note taped to his forehead, and after a minute of trying to read it cross-eyed it occurs to him to pull it off and take a look at it.
Get out of my apartment, rosbif.
Arthur bristles and crumples the note up, tossing it across the room. He sits up, trying to will his head to stop spinning and his stomach to stay in place. He's still wearing the jeans and shirt he was last night, and he vaguely recalls leaning against someone's arm as he staggered home, but wherever he is, the apartment seems to be empty now.
Class books are lined up on the bookshelf beside the desk, a stack of larger, heavier art books on top is the first clue to the owner of this bed. Clothes are flung over the back of the chair; jeans and sweatshirts and a leather jacket that Arthur recognizes after a moment as his own. The entire apartment smells faintly of paint and turpentine and cologne, and Arthur wrinkles his nose as he gets up to stalk out of the bedroom. It had to be the French bloke who'd hauled him home, but Arthur doesn't see much of a point in throwing a hissy when there isn't anyone around to notice it.
The paint on the walls is peeling and the floorboards creak under his feet, but there's a large bank of windows facing out onto the street. Arthur knows nothing about painting, but he knows that north windows give good light. Sure enough, there's an easel set up under them, and Arthur finds that he's curious, since Francis will never know he looked.
He detours around furniture older than he is and skirts the tiled area of the kitchen, approaching the easel. It's a painting, obviously, finished enough that Arthur can tell it's going to be a shapely woman with a halo of golden curls and bright blue eyes. A bookshelf beside the easel has been commandeered into a table, holding a disorganized spill of paint tubes and palettes and a crystal flower vase holding a whole bouquet of brushes.
Arthur shakes his head and helps himself to Francis's kitchen, scowling fiercely at the lack of proper tea. After stomping about a bit he catches sight of the clock and realizes he has class in forty minutes and none of his books. He quickly grabs his jacket and boots, wallet and keys, though he makes a note of Francis's apartment number as he slams the door behind him and runs upstairs to his own.
They don't run into each other much after that, their schedules run almost counter to each other. Francis is a graduate student, it turns out, and he has classes and workshops, teaches one of the undergrad painting classes and spends most of his free time working on his masters' project. Arthur has classes and labs and practices and performances with the band, and he shadows at the local children's hospital whenever he manages a free afternoon.
But two days after he wakes in Francis's bed, Arthur leaves a plate of homemade scones outside his door in silent apology for Francis having to drag his drunk arse home. The morning after that, Arthur opens his door to find the same plate of scones with a note on top in looping, elegant handwriting.
He starts swearing, eyebrows drawing down into a fuzzy thundercloud as he reads the note.
Dearest Arthur, it reads in what must be Francis's handwriting. I understand you must be upset at awaking in my bed without the blessing of my presence, but please refrain from delivering poison to my doorstep. Lots of love, Francis
FROG, reads the sticky note that Arthur leaves on Francis's door on his way to band practice.
And maybe it would have stayed there, with Arthur and Francis as loose acquaintances who occasionally exchanged insults when they met in the lift, except that they have another common friend besides Alfred and Matthew, and he is entirely to blame for what comes next.
Gilbert Beilschmidt plays bass in Arthur's band and, as far as Arthur can tell, not much else. He lives in his brother's basement, works as a mechanic at a local garage, and occasionally disappears on long, wandering journeys to who knows where. Arthur views him in the same pragmatic way that most people would see wayward puppies. He'd come home when he got hungry enough, and if he didn't it probably meant someone else had adopted him.
Gilbert has just come back from one of these week-long jaunts, and he and Arthur are hanging out in Gilbert's basement room. They're relaxing, passing a joint back and forth as Arthur tries to concentrate on his physiology book, which is admittedly counter-productive. Gilbert is busy rambling on about some chick he slept with in Prague, so Arthur doesn't bother to pay attention. He lets his mind and eyes wander, studying Gilbert's ever changing clutter of world memorabilia, fragments of a hundred unidentifiable cultures.
"Gil," he says suddenly, interrupting Gilbert's impassioned description of the girl's breasts. "Where did that painting come from?"
Gilbert twists around in his beanbag chair to see what Arthur's looking at. The painting isn't very big, depicting a girl with golden curls standing in a field of white lilies. She wears a shapeless brown dress and carries a silver shield, a gust of painted wind revealing a long line of muscled leg, the outline of a rounded breast. She's facing away from the painter, looking up toward the sun, but Arthur is sure her eyes must be blue. He's sure he's seen her somewhere before.
"A friend of mine painted it," Gilbert shrugs, flopping back into the beanbag and taking a long drag on the joint. "He's nuts over some French girl, she's practically all he paints."
Arthur frowns, feeling something like inevitability creeping up on him. "Grad student at the local university? Perpetual stubble? No taste in tea or scones?"
Gilbert blinks at him stupidly for a minute, then grins, wide and bright like the kid Arthur often thinks he is inside. "Hey, yeah, I didn't know you knew Frannie."
Arthur tries to protest that no, I don't, but Gilbert will hear none of it. "You should invite him to come see the band!" Gilbert grins and talks right over Arthur's protests, leaning forward as though to convince Arthur through proximity alone. "Come on, Artie, he'd love it!"
"Don't call me Artie," Arthur snaps for the 283rd time in their friendship. (He hates being called Artie enough that he keeps track. He's determined that if the count ever reaches a thousand he'll drown Gilbert in the Thames.) "And I am not inviting that frog anywhere. And neither are you!" he adds quickly, seeing the look on Gilbert's face, like a German Cheshire Cat. He resigns himself, knowing it's probably futile. A lot of things are, when it comes to Gilbert.
That proves to be the case now, too.
The Saturday after the next, Francis finds himself dragged to a local pub by Alfred and Matthew. (Mostly Alfred, to be fair. Francis had grabbed Matthew on the way out the door in a sadistic desire to not suffer alone.)
Alfred's babbling on like a lunatic, so Francis and Matthew have both mostly tuned him out as they stand in line and wait for the doors to open. Francis feels oddly out of place in his tidy jeans and jumper. Matthew's wearing a university hoodie, but Alfred and nearly everyone else in line are wearing torn jeans and faded t-shirts with illegible logos, and leather and denim jackets that have seen far better days. Francis wonders again just what exactly he's doing here. He shoves his hands into his pockets, fingering the crumpled note that rests there.
Come to the Galloping Rabbit Pub with Alfred next Saturday, it reads in anonymous but vaguely familiar handwriting. You won't regret it.
Francis looks at the poster hanging beside the door. It's an abstract; charcoal grays with splashes of yellows and pale greens and what appears to be a skeletal lion, with ßrïtøn printed across the top. Francis snorts. Musicians. What an atrocity of language. He doesn't even want to think about how that might really be pronounced.
But now the doors are opening, and Alfred grabs Francis's arm to drag inside. Matthew tries to melt back into the crowd and slip away, but Francis shoots him a dark look and grabs him by the hood to prevent escape.
Inside, the pub is actually pretty nice, or would be if it wasn't packed to bursting with rowdy uni students. The lights are relatively dimmed, wood paneling on the walls making it seem even darker. They pass several tables, but Alfred refuses to let them claim one, instead dragging them up to the very front of the area roped off for the band. There's a slight stage there, really not much more than a step up. A drum set is assembled at the back, a keyboard off to one side with a microphone suspended over it. Another, free-standing mike is set up at the front.
Francis can feel the pub filling up behind them, the press of bodies and increasing volume of voices. He exchanges a long glance with Matt, both of them plotting Alfred's demise. Alfred is oblivious to their conspiracy, and mercifully soon there's a rustle from the side of the stage as the band files on.
The drummer looks about Francis's age, with a bright, mischievous grin and far too much gel in his hair. He's bare chested as he seats himself behind his drums, showing off a nipple ring and a tattoo of a battle axe across one shoulder. He looks familiar, but Francis is distracted from trying to place him by the entrance of the next band member.
The keyboardist, to Francis's surprise and delight, is a woman. Red ribbons make rivers of color through her brown hair, a black and red and silver corset of leather and lace contrasting beautifully with her creamy skin. Francis wonders if she would let him paint her. It doesn't hurt that she's wearing tight black leather pants.
The next band member to step up onto the stage has a black and white bass guitar slung across his back, and his smirk makes Francis start in surprise and recognition. Pale skin, hair like bleached bone (though Francis knows it's natural), red eyed that gleam almost orange in the stage lights. It's been awhile since they've been able to get together, but Francis would know Gilbert anywhere. Suddenly, the handwriting on the note is making a lot more sense.
Gilbert meets his eyes and laughs at him, swinging his bass around those slim hips to tune it. He licks his lips teasingly, then his eyes flick sideways and Francis realizes he's missed the entrance of the lead guitarist.
He looks over, eyes sweeping across a silver guitar with a Union Jack sticker slapped on it, and then up, into eyes the exact color of grass in spring, the color Francis can never get right in paintings because it's nearly impossible to mix. Francis feels caught in those eyes now, drawn in, and it takes him a good minute and Matthew nudging his elbow before Francis notices the furry eyebrows above the eyes and realizes he is staring.
Unfortunately, he can't seem to stop. Tearing his eyes away from Arthur's face only makes it worse. He notes things about Arthur's appearance in sections, in little flashes. Black combat boots, with heels. A ring in his nose (left nostril, why hadn't Francis noticed the hole before?). Tight black jeans. A white oxford shirt only held closed by two buttons, showing pale sections of chest and stomach. A black and red tartan waistcoat, left hanging open. Fingernails painted black. Jewelry, something silver on a doubled black cord around his neck, black and silver cuffs on his wrists.
Francis finds himself wondering if perhaps Arthur might have an identical twin, because surely this isn't the same surly med student he's come to know. Arthur seems younger somehow, with his hair tousled and wearing tight pants.
Arthur is staring too, startled to find that damn frog standing right at the front of the crowd. He keeps staring, mouth hanging open slightly, until Gilbert pegs him in the cheek with his spare guitar pick. He whips around to glare, lips curling back in a snarl, and Gilbert just snickers at him. He makes a rather sarcastic gesture, Our audience awaits, and Arthur feels his cheeks flush.
He glances to his other side - Nik looks confused, and Eliza raises her eyebrows at him questioningly - then returns to face forward. (He's going to kill Gilbert later, even if that does leave them short a bassist. There wasn't any need to invite Francis anywhere, and anyway, Arthur's sure he's not a rock'n'roll sort of bloke.) Arthur squares his jaw and resolutely blocks the Frenchman from his mind.
"We're ßrïtøn," he calls into the mike, though as always he pronounces it just Briton, "So get ready to be blown away!"
Over the cheers of the crowd, Eliza hits her first chord so Arthur and Gilbert can take their notes from it, and Nik taps off the opening beat on the edge of his snare. Following tradition that dates back to when it was just him and Nik banging away in the Dane's garage, Gilbert counts them off in German.
"Ein! Zwei! Ein zwei drei!"
And then they're off, and once the music begins it's easier for Arthur to relax and forget the audience, his world narrowing down to the pulse of the drums, the underlying bass and accompanying keyboard, the thrum of the guitar in his hands; the music a living, wild thing only Arthur can tame.
It's like being high, sometimes, where everything is right in the world. Everything works, everything makes sense when he's playing, when he's singing, the music weaving the entire world into a cohesive whole.
In this dreamlike state, he doesn't so much as falter a note when his eyes drift open and he finds himself staring right at Francis. Arthur's rather surprised he's still here, actually. And rather than looking vaguely bored (like Matthew), or trying to start a mosh pit (like Alfred), Francis looks almost in awe. He's gazing up at the band with a look of soft wonder, as though he can't quite believe music like this is coming out of four raggedy young adults.
Arthur bares his teeth in a sharp, feral grin, leans into the mike and sings.
The show doesn't last nearly long enough for Arthur; it never does. Afterward he slings his guitar around to his back and steps off the stage, accepting the ale someone offers him and still swaggering from the hum of music in his blood. He spends a few minutes thanking people for coming and talking to his fans, up until the point Alfred pounces him and Arthur starts yelling at him to watch out for his guitar. When he finally manages to shove Alfred off and look back, Francis is still standing there chatting amicably with Gilbert and Eliza.
"Nikki!" Gilbert raises his voice above the crowd, waving the drummer over. Nik grins widely when he sees Francis, leaning over the slap him on the back, and even from here Arthur can hear the enthusiastic greeting. He hangs back, observing and wondering how Gilbert and Nik know Francis. They don't exactly seem like the types who would mix in the same social circles.
Francis talks with his hands (how like a Frenchman), making broad, expansive gestures as he speaks. His eyes are lit up, sparkling in excitement, and Arthur's struck with a sudden curiosity about what he's saying. Trying to be unobtrusive and not knock into anyone with his guitar, Arthur slides a few steps closer. It helps that Francis isn't bothering to try and be quiet.
"That was magnifique," he's saying, slipping into French with an easy grin sideways at Eliza. "The way you blended together and didn't overpower each other, you must have been playing together for a long time, non?"
"Almost three years," Nik drawls, leaning easily on Gilbert's shoulder, sweat from the performance gleaming on his bare chest, making his hair dark at the roots with damp. "We told you we formed a band, Frannie."
"Yes, and because it involved you two I didn't think it was worth coming to see," Francis teases gently, and Eliza muffles a laugh, looking back and forth between the three.
"How did you three meet?" she asks, and Arthur nearly grins because it means he can get an answer without having to ask himself.
"High school," Gilbert and Francis say at the same time, and Arthur rolls his eyes. It figures.
"I still blame you both for getting suspended," Nik sighs, but he doesn't clarify, just raises a hand in greeting. "Yo, Arthur."
Arthur wants to ask, but then decides he doesn't want to know. He can imagine the sort of thing it would take to get the three of them suspended, and he would really prefer to keep plausible deniability. So he just steps forward to join the circle.
They talk and laugh, up until the point where Matthew materializes out of the crowd at Francis's elbow and tells him Alfred's drunk and trying to beat up the bartender again. Francis groans and Arthur yelps, and they set off to rescue Alfred before he gets them all permabanned.
It's interesting, Arthur notices later, how easily Francis fits in.
It's about three cups of coffee past midnight, a few weeks later. Francis shows up outside Arthur's door wearing sweat pants and a paint splattered t-shirt, carrying a pillow and a toothbrush and looking weary.
"My neighbor," he explains when Arthur opens the door. "Will not shut up."
Arthur raises an eyebrow, leaning against the door frame in a pair of Union Jack boxers and a scrub top. "Loud music?" He's not as perturbed as he might otherwise be, because he was actually still awake, working on a lab report due in seven hours (give or take).
"Rap music."
Arthur winces and steps aside to let him in.
"I'm going to kill her," Francis mutters mutinously as he shuffles inside. "I'm going to spike her tap water with turpentine."
"Don't poison the whole building," Arthur cautions, mostly because he lives in it. He closes the door behind Francis and turns to go back to his desk, leaving Francis to look around the apartment in bemusement.
The layout is basically the same as Francis's downstairs, minus the large window bank. The furniture is just as old, and Francis swears their battered couches must be twins. Where Francis has an easel, stacks of canvases and racks of paints, Arthur has a large desk where he can spread out several books at once and shelves crammed with thick medical texts and what Francis swears is and hopes isn't a human skull. The whole place smells faintly musty, like old books and alcohol and brewing coffee and steeping tea.
Arthur is already back at his desk, flipping through a book with far too many long Latin words for Francis's liking. And Francis is tired. So he drops his pillow onto the couch and wanders into the bathroom to brush his teeth, stealing a squeeze of Arthur's sharp mint toothpaste without bothering to ask. He rinses and spits, then flops on the couch and peers over at Arthur's back. "Bon nuit, Arthur."
Arthur twists to look back at him, then gets up to pad across the room and flip off the overhead light, leaving just the desk lamp shining. "Sleep well, frog."
Francis is just dozing off when a loud bang jerks him awake again and startles a yelp out of him. "What-"
Arthur laughs softly, not bothering to turn around again as he points up at the ceiling. "It's the air compressor on the roof. I think it's older than I am. Go back to sleep."
Francis grumbles that he's more used to the sound of the pipes pinging down on the lower floors, but settles down again and burrows deeper into the blankets.
It takes another hour for Arthur to finish the report, grumbling swearwords under his breath and listening to Francis's soft breathing behind him. But finally he leans back, stretching his arms over his head and wincing as his spine cracks in protest. He drains the last of the tea from the mug sitting by his elbow and makes a face. It's gone cold.
He sighs again, glaring over at the pile of reading he still has to do for his other classes. So much for sleep.
The next morning, Francis wakes by rolling off the couch when his phone buzzes in the pocket of his sweats. He lands on the floor with a yelp and a thud, and lays there blinking in disorientation with his phone vibrating under his hip. He finally has the presence of mind to dig it out, rolling over onto his back and holding it above him as though that angle will lend more answers. He still has to spend another moment staring uncomprehendingly while his brain fully boots up.
He has a text.
Where the fuck r u? it reads, and Francis has to smile. He only knows one person who's likely to use fully spelled swear words and chatspeak in the same text.
He checks the time and groans. No wonder Sadiq's texting, so much for making class. Luckily, not one of the ones he's supposed to teach, but he does have a private lesson in an hour.
He sits up, looking around. Ah, right, Arthur's apartment. There's a dusty sunbeam filtering through the window, gleaming golden off Arthur's hair where he's asleep at his desk, cheek pillowed on a diagram of the human cardiovascular system.
Francis sighs and shakes his head, levering himself off the floor and retrieving the blanket from the couch to drape around Arthur's shoulders. He mumbles, but doesn't wake, and Francis has to smile. He looks so peaceful when he's asleep, almost cute when he's not scowling or yelling. Francis can't help but brush his fingers through Arthur's springy hair briefly.
He steals the last of the coffee in the pot on the counter, knocking it back black and cold and making terrible noises at the taste that completely fail to wake Arthur. Poor med student. Francis, being a warm hearted human being, puts on a fresh pot to brew before he leaves.
When he wakes later to the smell of fresh coffee, Arthur wonders fuzzily if Francis showing up at his door was all a dream. But in the bathroom, he has to stop and stare at the strange toothbrush sharing the cup with his own. It's weird. Arthur's lived on his own ever since he managed to fight his way out from under his brothers and leave his parents' house. He's not used to the thought of sharing a bathroom with anyone anymore. It gives him a sort of fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach, staring at their paired toothbrushes nestled in the same cup beside the sink, with its drippy faucet and rust stains.
Obviously, indigestion. Arthur decides all-nighters aren't good for him.
Francis could walk the path between his apartment and the art building in his sleep, and today he nearly does. His feet move on autopilot, stopping briefly at the coffee shop on campus to get some proper caffeine before breezing into the studio an hour and a half after he should have been there.
Sadiq looks up from the sculpture he's working on as Francis comes in.
"You look like shit," he comments casually. "Get laid?"
Francis makes a face at him, going to flop behind the desk in the corner that the five art department graduate student aides have to share. He sets his bag and portfolio down, wrinkling his nose at the chaotic state of the desktop. "Who was in here earlier?"
"Uh," Sadiq scratches at his beard, ignoring the streak of clay it leaves. "Natalia, I think." He grins at Francis's shudder of horror. "She's gone. Passed her on her way out."
"Thank God," Francis mutters, stretching his arms over his head.
Sadiq chuckles, going back to his sculpture. To Francis, it just looks like a lump of whitish clay, but he has faith that Sadiq will be able to turn it into a naked woman within a few days. "You never answered my question, Fran. Get laid?"
Francis debates throwing something at him, and decides it's too much effort. "No. Spent the night on a friend's couch."
"Your neighbor again?" Sadiq asks. Francis just nods, watching his fingers work the clay, brown skin turning dusty, muddy white. "Your friend cute?"
Francis chokes on the mouthful of coffee he's just taken.
"Must be a good friend, to put up with you for a night," Sadiq keeps talking right over Francis's sputtering. "I know I wouldn't."
"You would too," Francis manages, "You have before."
"Have I?" Sadiq grins. "Must'a been drunk."
Francis's (rather profane) answer in French is interrupted by a knock on the studio's door.
"Come in!" Sadiq calls out cheerfully, and Francis looks up as the door opens.
The girl who pokes her head in is only in her late teens, and looks even younger than that. Her short blond hair is tied with lace ribbons, and she's wearing a pink and write dress that can only be described as fluffy. She's wearing sensible shoes, at least, and carrying her portfolio.
"Mister Bonnefoy?" she asks, uncertain whether or not she's interrupted something, and Francis just smiles at her.
"It's fine, Lili, come in. Haven't I told you to call me Francis?"
"Oh, I couldn't!" She steps into the studio, apparently not noticing Sadiq snickering. "My brother says it wouldn't be right to get too friendly with my tutor."
"I'll just bet he does," Francis rolls his eyes. He's met Vash once or twice, and always wonders how such a prickly guy can have such a sweet sister. He ushers Lili over to the easel set up under the windows. She starts to unzip her portfolio, then glances over at Sadiq uncertainly.
He waves one clay covered hand at her. "Don't mind me, Miss Zwingli. You can even tell your brother you had a chaperon today."
Lili smiles, but Francis flips Sadiq off when her back is turned. He'll never understand why everyone treats him like such a pervert. Sure, he's slept around (okay, a lot), but it's not like he'll jump anything that moves.
Francis loves women, but in a generic sense, an artistic sense. He loves painting the perfect curve of a rounded breast, the grace inherent in a delicate wrist. But the truth is, the truth is, outside of paintings he's really not sure what he'd ever do with a woman. Not in a long-term relationship, anyway. They're so... flighty. Prone to loud outbursts of emotion. Like Arthur.
This brings to mind the mental image of Arthur in a long dress and a curly wig, face flushed in righteous anger. Perhaps with pigtails. Francis snickers, making a mental note to draw that later, just so he'll have something to laugh at during final exams.
Lili gives him a confused, curious look at his snickering, and with an effort Francis schools his expression and turns his attention back to the tutoring session.
The rest of the day passes in peace.
They're both half-drunk, and Francis is chain smoking. They both have books open across their knees for appearances' sake, but it's too dark out on the fire escape for them to be doing any reading. Instead, they're watching the smoke from Francis's cigarettes curl up toward the stars and discussing attraction.
"He's so cute!" Matthew moans, sounding more despairing than anything else. "And hot! And he keeps flirting with me whenever I go in!"
"And the problem is...?" Francis raises an eyebrow, flicking the butt of his cigarette into the darkness of the alley below and digging into his pocket for another.
"Al hates him," Matthew hangs his head and trails off into bastardized French (Quebeçois, really) that Francis is compelled to elbow him sharply for. Then he pauses.
"Wait," Francis peers over at him. "Are you talking about the bartender at the Galloping Rabbit? Tall, scar on his forehead, older than Sadiq?"
"Yes," Matthew mumbles. "He's 28."
"And you're 19," Francis's eyebrows creep up.
"That's why Al hates him. That, and we're pretty sure he deals drugs out of the Rabbit."
"Oh," Francis's eyebrows raise further. "Goodness."
"Yeah," Matthew sighs, leaning back against the wall. Then he glances over at Francis. "What about you?"
"Hm?" Francis blows a smoke ring and watches it drift upward, fragmenting against the iron bars and the wires that criss-cross the narrow alley. "What about me?"
"Well, you seem to be spending an awful lot of time with Arthur lately..."
Francis nearly inhales his cigarette. "Why would you even bring that up? It's convenient that we live in the same building."
Matthew rolls his eyes. "You don't have to pretend with me, Francis. You're both really busy. You make time to run into each other."
"I certainly don't!" Francis huffs, though he's not really sure who he's trying to convince. "He's surly and prone to fits of anger, he cannot cook and he drinks like a fish. His apartment is full of dust and moldering books. He is British. If anything, I go out of my way to avoid the rosbif."
Matthew shakes his head, but doesn't protest in the face of Francis's scowl. "Whatever you say."
"Please, Matt," Francis sniffs a bit self-righteously. "I may spread my affections far, but I have standards."
Being twenty minutes late for practice earns him a raised eyebrow from Nik, a stern look from Eliza, and a sneer from Gilbert. They want to know where he's been, obviously. Which is understandable, since usually Arthur is the first one there, tuning his guitar and humming whatever fragment of music is running through his head.
"I had to stop in to see the frog and we lost track of time talking," he says absently, concentrating on plugging his guitar into the amp, and doesn't realize how that must sound until Gilbert starts cackling at him. Arthur scowls and bristles, and the next twenty minutes are spent in impassioned argument about why he and Francis are not friends, let alone anything more. It isn't until he begins winding down that he notices none of them are arguing against him. So it's been more like a ranting monologue.
"Fuck my life," Arthur mutters viciously, turning red as Gilbert starts laughing again behind his back.