Why Life's a Joke 2/2 [Fanfiction]
Title: Why Life's a JokeAuthor: marinoa
Rating: T
Characters / Pairing: England, France, FrUK
Sumary: Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy are simply trying to live their respective lives, but apparently someone up there has decided not to make it easy for them. FrUK, oneshot, AU.
Part 2
“Fuck. Fuck! Fucking shit, don't you do this to me now!”
But it did. What exactly did what, Arthur wasn't really sure, but what he knew instead was that life must fucking hate him. Why else would his current location be in the middle of nowhere, alone in winter night's darkness, his phone's battery dead and his car's back tire broken?
The day had began relatively well. He had a day off from work, and as he had not seen Alfred, one of his rare friends in France for a long time (though Alfred wasn't French - he was American, which was hardly any better an option), he had driven to spend the they with him. The problem was that Alfred lived in a different town than Arthur, and it took over an hour's time to drive there. Well, it wasn't normally a problem - but it was a problem now, when Arthur was stuck on the road somewhere in-between the two towns, only fields and some forest surrounding him.
“Fuck my life,” Arthur grumbled and gave the broken tire a malicious kick for a good measure. Great. Fucking great. What would he do now? He would not walk anywhere in the dark, thank you very much, but waiting and hoping that someone would drive his way was almost equally terrible an option. What were the odds that someone would be on the road so late on a Thursday night? Besides, the night was cold, and the longer Arthur kept waited, the colder he kept getting.
There weren't many things to entertain oneself with in Arthur's situation, so the Englishman got into his car, leant back on the front seat, and let his thoughts wander freely. He had left the triangle sign on the road, so if someone really passed by, they would notice that something was amiss whether he was standing on the side of the road or sitting in his car.
Arthur thought of England. He thought about his family, his mother and father, his older brothers. Lord, would his brothers ever hear of his plight, they would have a jolly good laugh at his expense. He thought of his home town back in England, his real home, and he imagined hearing his native language all around him, not French. He pictured the old couple who had been his neighbours in his home town, remembered the delicious scones they had always served him whenever he had popped in for a visit. They had given their scone recipe to Arthur on hearing of his departure for France, but somehow he had never got them right. Arthur liked to think that his scones were always ruined by the French air, but deep inside he did know and admit that he had never been one for cooking.
Arthur opened his eyes and looked at the starry sky. He was homesick. He felt he didn't fit in among the French, and it wasn't easy for him to socialise with strangers anyway, especially when he had to communicate in a language that wasn't his native one.
A flash of light in the rear mirror caught Arthur's attention and cut off his musings. A car! Someone was coming his way! He wouldn't freeze to death in the middle of nowhere! He would be saved!
Arthur saw how the approaching car slowed down as it passed Arthur's car, then parked on the side of the road a bit ahead. Arthur opened the front door and stiffly climbed out of his car to meet his saviour. Someone got out of the stopped car and a man approached Arthur. The Englishman walked to meet him, but as soon as he was close enough to distinguish the man slightly better, he halted abruptly. “You've got to be kidding me,” he muttered to himself. No. Not him. Anyone but him.
The approaching man stopped, too. “You,” he said, voice full of disbelief. Then he laughed. “You!”
Yes, life definitely hated Arthur.
The all too familiar, lean form of the damned Frenchman walked up to stand right before Arthur. The blue eyes sparkled with amusement as they observed the Englishman, and a chuckle broke free from his chest. “I can't believe this,” the man said. “To think that it actually were you, of all people, alone here in trouble.”
Arthur was not amused. He mentally fumbled for words but found none; the situation was too surreal. It just wasn't possible.
“On the other hand,” the Frenchman continued, “I shouldn't be surprised.” He eyed the Englishman's car over his shoulder. “Especially if it involves you and cars.”
“Very funny,” Arthur managed, vexed and embarrassed at the same time. “Well, will you help me as well, or will you just be laughing at me?”
The Frenchman held up his palms in a diplomatic manner. “I'll help you, I'll help you,” he assured the Englishman in the least assuring a tone, but then he got serious. “All right, it's cold here,” he said as if had only then noticed it. “So what's wrong here?”
“My back tire,” Arthur said simply.
“Oh. Well have you called some help?”
“The battery is dead.”
“Oh.” The Frenchman uttered a laughter. “Bad luck.”
The situation was getting on Arthur's nerves. First, he had been waiting for help for almost two hours and he was cold and hungry. Second, he felt uncomfortable around the Frenchman, especially in such a deserted area. There were no other people nearby to be distracted with or hide behind, and that's why the situation felt oddly intimate. And third, every time they had met before had been in hostile circumstances, one of then ruining something for the other. But this time it wasn't so; this time Arthur could hardly blame his misfortune on the Frenchman, so theoretically he had no reason to be angry at him - and yet he didn't know how not to be. It was just too weird. The sooner it was over, the better.
“Yeah. So can you lend me your phone? I have to get my car towed.”
“Sure.” The Frenchman made to fish his phone from his pocket, but then halted. “Wait,” he said instead. “I might have some rope in my trunk. Might be we won't have to call to the tow service.”
Arthur swallowed his objections. It would be much cheaper for him to accept the Frenchman's offer than to call the service centre, even if mentally more uncomfortable.
However, that plan didn't work out. “Seems I don't have it after all,” the Frenchman shouted from his own car - the very same that Arthur had crashed into the very first time they had met.
“Can't be helped,” he muttered, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed. The Frenchman came to him again. “Bad luck,” he said, shrugging. Then he winked at Arthur. “Must be your influence.”
Arthur had been standing too long in the cold to be amused or even provoked. “Must be,” he uttered dryly. “Can I have your phone, please?”
The Frenchman seemed to notice that Arthur wasn't in the mood. “I'm sorry,” he said without any signs of mockery. He dialled the number on his phone and put it to his ear. “Let me call,” he said while waiting for an answer. “Might be better.”
Arthur made no objections. He buried his hands deep in his pockets and tried not to shiver. It would be a long wait. Even though a truck would be sent their way immediately, it would take almost an hour for it to arrive. And then he would have to put up with arrogant drivers who would blame everything on him because he was English (or because at that point he would be rude towards them, which he undeniably would, but that was beside the point).
“Thank you, bye,” he heard the Frenchman say on the phone and turned to him. “So?”
“They will send someone for us within twenty minutes, so we have about an hour's wait.”
Arthur arched his eyebrow (which he really shouldn't do since his eyebrows attracted enough negative attention as they were). “We?”
The Frenchman blinked at him, seemingly as surprised at himself as Arthur. “Well, yes. I can't leave you here alone, can I?”
“You really don't have to stay.”
“Of course I won't stay if it bothers you. Do you want me to leave?”
There was no mischief, no mockery, no irritation in the Frenchman's voice, and again Arthur thought how weird it was. Of course he bothered him! And yet he heard himself say, “No, it's okay.”
“Very well then.” The Frenchman rubbed his palms together to get some heat. “Have you been waiting here for long?”
“Nearly two hours if I'm not mistaken.”
“Two hours?” The Frenchman's eyes widened and Arthur took some kind of twisted satisfaction in his shocked expression; the Frenchman had been there for only ten minutes or so and he was cold already, but Arthur had stood there for two hours and was even colder, so that made him a winner, sort of...
“Let's get into my car,” the Frenchman suggested. “I have a sweater there, don't need it myself and you must be freezing.” Not waiting for an answer, he started to make his way to his car, expecting Arthur to follow. Which he did. Wearing that frog's sweater sounded suspicious, but it could easily beat freezing his arse off.
The Frenchman had already sat on the driver's seat, so Arthur sat on the passengers seat and accepted the offered sweater. It was warm and had a faint, pleasant scent on it.
“Thanks,” Arthur said.
“No problem,” the Frenchman replied.
“Hm,” Arthur said to say something.
The Frenchman started drumming the windowsill with his fingers.
Arthur stared counting minutes to the arrival of the truck.
“Oh!” Francis suddenly exclaimed. “I've been meaning to... I mean those twenty Euros you lent me a couple of weeks ago. Thanks.”
“Don't mention it.”
“Here, let me pay you back.”
“No need to, really,” Arthur assured him. He'd rather forget the whole thing ever happened.
“No, I-”
“Let's say that it's a refund for your help now.”
The Frenchman frowned. “I didn't stop to help for money.”
“Well neither did I, so let's then forget it.”
“As you wish then.”
Silence took over the car again and Arthur resumed counting minutes.
“Listen,” the Frenchman broke the silence again, “We haven't even introduced ourselves.” He chuckled a bit. “We've been bumping into one another several times recently and I'm starting to feel like I know you, even when I don't.” He offered his hand. “Francis Bonnefoy.”
Arthur grabbed it. “Arthur Kirkland.”
“Pleasure to meet you.”
Arthur couldn't help uttering a laughter. “I think this is the first time when it actually is, more or less.”
The blue-eyed blond beside him gave a laughter as well. “Yes, we might have, how do they say, got off on the wrong foot.”
“Or maybe we got off on the right foot and you just are like that naturally.”
The Frenchman - Francis - raised his eyebrow. “Excuse me? I'm like what?”
Well said, Arthur. “Actually, that was my attempt for a joke.”
“Oh. Silly of me not to realise that.”
How could one make a conversation with that man? There was a barrier of awkwardness between them, and Arthur felt that the Frenchman was aware of it, too. Any attempts to get rid of it only resulted in more awkwardness, so Arthur resolved to being awkwardly silent in favour of being awkward and embarrassed over something he said.
However, it was easier said than done. Silence weighed heavily upon Arthur's shoulders, and soon he blurted out the first things he could come up with in order to lighten the mood. “So,” he started. “Why is it that you happened to drive this way?”
“I was visiting my parents.”
“Oh.”
“What about you?”
“I was visiting my friend.”
“I see.”
And the silence again. Small-talk could be bloody difficult at times.
And so the time passed, alternating between awkward silence and awkward small-talk. When the truck finally arrived, it arrived none too early - and the men in it were none too amused. They told off Francis Bonnefoy for careless driving (Arthur did not correct them, but neither did the Frenchman, despite sending him a pointed look), towed the Englishman's car on the truck stage and informed them that they would take the car to their garage. Arthur could go and get it back on the following day, repaired.
“Are you taking him home?” the men asked Francis, who said that he was, and so Arthur found himself in the Frenchman's car again.
“Finally,” Francis muttered. “Homewards we go.”
“I'm sorry for the trouble,” Arthur said, disliking the feeling of being in debt to the Frenchman. “I can pay for-”
“Non, I'll have none of that. We already agreed you wouldn't pay.”
“Right.”
Fortunately, now that the car was in the movement, they could turn the radio on, and so the silence wasn't disturbing Arthur in the same way as earlier. Francis didn't attempt any conversation either, and so both remained silent, listening to the music or just focusing to driving.
Francis had turned the heating up and Arthur was still wearing the Frenchman's sweater, so he was feeling pleasantly warm and cosy, and as the night was dragging on closer two two in the morning, it was no wonder that the Englishman's eyelids became heavier and heavier. He drowsily gazed at the road before them, trying not to doze off. The truck with his car had been left far behind.
But then Arthur's eyes caught something on the road. “Watch out!” he cried without a second thought. Immediately on hearing his shouted warning Francis hit the brakes and with relief Arthur saw that the rabbit that had run across the road made it safely to the other side and disappeared between the bushes. That was about all he had time to notice before Francis apparently lost control of his car on the icy road, and before they could even blink, they found themselves in the ditch beside the road.
One.
Two.
Three. Three seconds before the Frenchman turned to Arthur. “How do you do it?” he asked, and now the Englishman could hear again that tinge of suppressed rage that he had become so familiar with during his past meetings with the Frenchman. “Why is it that every time, every damned time, something bad happens to me when you are around?”
Did that frog seriously have the nerve to accuse him of what had happened? “Are you fucking serious?” Arthur spat, safely annoyed again. “It's you who lost control!”
“You disturbed me with your yelling! I thought that there was something on the road and tried to avoid it!”
“There was something on the road!”
Francis crossed his arms. “Well, what? I didn't see anything.”
“Are you blind?” Arthur ranted. “The likes of you shouldn't be allowed to even drive if you are this careless on the road! No wonder I crashed into your car back then!”
“Excuse me?” the Frenchman shouted back. “And now it's my fault? You turned on the wrong lane! You don't even know the traffic rules! And I think that this incident today just proved that it's you who shouldn't be allowed to drive!”
“It isn't my fault that you Frenchies don't know how to drive!”
“You English just think that the world keeps turning according to your rules, don't you?”
Both men glared at one another, neither of them ready to admit defeat. Finally Francis turned the car back on. “Whatever. I'm going to get the car back on the road.”
That, however, proved not to be quite so easy. They hadn't crashed into anything when the car had fallen off the road, but the ditch was just deep enough that Francis couldn't get the car moving; the tires got no friction in the snow.
“Merde,” he muttered, then shot a glance at Arthur. “Are you happy now?”
Arthur was just about to start another verbal battle, but Francis was quicker and cut him off before he even started. “Someone has to go and push the car.”
Somehow Arthur had very little doubt of who that 'someone' ought to be in the Frenchman's opinion. After a short battle of stares he finally opened the passenger's door and got out of the car - not because the stupid frog, being the owner of the car, had an upper hand in the matter, but because he would probably be too weak to try and push the car moving.
But even with Arthur pushing the car, it proved to be a fruitless attempt to get it back on the road. The Frenchman got out of the car as well and the two men stood side by side, glaring at the car and at each other and trying to force the car on the road by sheer willpower.
“Well,” Arthur said finally. “It's not that bad. The truck should be here soon, they can tow us back on the road.”
The Frenchman shook his head. “I bet they'll be very glad to do that.”
And he was right; when the truck reached them and saw the plight there were in, they did tow Francis' car back on the road - but not without first hauling the Frenchman over the coals.
“How did you even manage to get there?” the very annoyed truck driver demanded to know.
Francis turned to Arthur and raised his eyebrows, as if telling him now to explain himself and convince the men of his innocence in the matter. Arthur frowned in response.
“There was something on the road,” he said defiantly.
“And what exactly?”
“A... a rabbit.”
All the eyes turned on him. “A rabbit?” one of the men repeated. “Are you telling me that you risked it for a rabbit?”
Arthur looked them in the eyes, unblinking, though he had to admit that the three truck men looked rather intimidating. “Yes.”
Then it was Arthur's turn to receive a a good telling off about safety and priorities on the road, and then Francis was scolded again for listening to him (especially after they realised he was an Englishman), but finally they could continue driving home. The rest of the journey passed if not in a pleasant atmosphere, then at least without any unfortunate mishaps. Both Francis and Arthur were sulking, and when Francis finally stopped the car in front of the block-of-flats where Arthur was living, the top emotion of Englishman was relief.
“Well then,” he said and made to open the door.
“Wait,” Francis said. Arthur's hand froze on the door handle and carefully he looked over to the Frenchman. What did he want now? A reward? Money?
“My sweater,” the man said instead, pointing at Arthur's chest.
“Oh, right.” How could he have been so stupid? It proved to be very embarrassing to strip before the Frenchman's eyes (though he made a point of not looking directly at him), but Arthur went through it with all the dignity he could muster. When the sweater was folded on the back seat and Arthur's coat was back on him, there was nothing to stop him from finally ridding himself of the obnoxious Frenchman. Nothing - but an awkward feeling that something should be said or done before he left.
Apparently Francis had a similar feeling. He tapped the steering wheel and said, “Well.” As he said nothing else, Arthur remembered a phrase rather suitable for the situation. “Thanks,” he said.
“Don't mention it.”
All right, it was definitely time to go. “Well then,” Arthur said again and reached for the handle once more. “Good night.”
“Bonne nuit,” the Frenchman said and grinned.
Arthur opened the door. The he halted and looked back at Francis. He got a feeling that perhaps he should offer the Frenchman a cup or tea or coffee, as a small thank you for helping him. That would be only appropriate, wouldn't it? Should he invite him over? But then again, wouldn't it be a bit too weird? Besides, it was too late for that, Francis probably just wanted go to sleep already.
Francis looked at him expectantly and he cleared his throat. Just ask if he fancies some tea and be done with it! At least then you won't be in debt to him.
“I-” he began, but precisely that moment a melodious tune cut him off. “Huh.”
The Frenchman frowned just a bit and gave Arthur an apologetic look. “Sounds like my phone.”
“Yes, well, I guess I was just going to say thanks again,” Arthur quickly blurted and got out of the car. “So. Good night.” He didn't give the Frenchman time to answer (not that he expected an answer) and closed the door behind himself. Without looking back he entered the building and got into the lift.
“Good,” he said to himself. “Now that's over.” He looked at himself in the mirror. “Probably his girlfriend,” he explained to his reflection. “No one else would call at this hour.” He frowned at the expression of his reflection. “Not that I care,” he added to make things clear between them.
When he got into his apartment and accidentally happened to glance out of the window, Francis' car was already gone.
xXx
After the nightly incident on the road, Arthur hadn't seen a trace of the blue-eyed Frenchman. Not that it bothered him - it was simply a bit weird, because since their very first encounter they had bumped into one other at least once in two weeks. But now winter had already started turning to spring and Arthur hadn't caught a glimpse of the Frenchman for almost a month. Again, not that it bothered him! He was simply making observations.
“Here or takeaway?”
“Takeaway, please.” Well, at least without the Frenchman he could live his life without a fear of something bad happening. Like now. He was enjoying his day off from work, it was sunny outside, and though the streets were wet due to melting snow, the weather was overall good. There hadn't been that much snow to begin with.
Paying for his ordered tea, Arthur idly contemplated what he should do next. He had two winning options: either he could go to his favourite antiquarian bookshop, or then he could take a walk in a park. Or then he could first go for a walk and then to the bookshop. Settling for the last option, Arthur exited the café and headed for the park, sipping the hot liquid in the paper mug. It was going to be a good day.
Or not.
As Arthur was about to turn around a corner, someone ran into him from behind it, bumping hard against him. Arthur managed to keep his balance and didn't fall, but despite the lid on the mud, some tea spilled on his bare hand, burning the skin. “Shit!” the Englishman cried and took a better look at the person who had caused the accident - the young woman blinked at him, collecting her purse from the pavement. “I'm terribly sorry,” she blabbered in French, “but I have to run!” Which she did. Arthur looked after her, rolling his eyes, then dried his hand with a napkin he had taken back at the café. “People these days...” he muttered to himself and turned to continue his way.
Which was how he bumped into someone. This time his mug of tea did fall from his hands, and it landed on the leg of the other person. Arthur raised his eyes to apologise, but words died in his mouth as he saw just who he had bumped into. Of course, Arthur shouldn't have been surprised; he should have known that sooner or later, he would meet his nemesis again, and in circumstances not different from the current ones. And in spite of all of that, all he could do was stare at Francis Bonnefoy without any coherent thing to say in his mind.
Francis, however, seemed to be exactly as dumbfounded as Arthur. He stared first at Arthur, then at his shoes and slightly tea-stained jeans, then at Arthur again. And then, unexpectedly, he burst into mirthful, uncontrollable laughter. Arthur kept staring at him, slowly coming back to his senses, and raised his eyebrow. “Had I known you enjoy getting tea on your shoes I would have done it earlier,” he commented, feeling the corners of his mouth tugging up into a grin.
The Frenchman wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “How- how is-” he started to say, but broke into laughter once again. Arthur listened to him, trying to maintain an unaffected expression, but found that to extremely hard; laughter was contagious. And so the two men stood in the middle of the street and laughed.
Finally Francis calmed down enough to speak. “You are an odd one,” he said, shaking his head. “You really have the talent, don't you?”
“Someone has to,” Arthur replied with a grin. “But I don't believe it's only me. I lost my tea, thanks to you.”
The Frenchman raised his eyebrows and considered him for a moment. Then a smile spread on his lips. “Listen,” he said. “You clearly need a new tea and I haven't had my coffee yet, so how about we go to some nice café and for once have a proper conversation or something?”
Arthur tilted his head. “Are you sure you dare?” he asked. “After all, none of our previous encounters could be called particularly pleasant.”
The Frenchman smiled. “Precisely. And that is why I find it's about time that we got to know each other a bit better. I'm fairly sure that I've seen some potential in you for you to become a decent human being.”
Arthur snorted. “I'm yet to find the same in you.”
Francis laughed again. “I'm giving you a chance to.” He looked Arthur in the eyes. “So, what say you?”
Arthur considered for a moment. Was he really certain that he wanted to get better acquainted with this Frenchman, who had always been part of his late mishaps in some way or another, often even the cause of them?
The answer was obvious. He met the blue eyes and grinned. “Absolutely.”
X
Part 1