Tea for none

Oh, the French...

He was alone... There was no question about it. He was a private man with a right to privacy. From the week's start to it's end, he worked hard and at five o'clock precisely he would clock out and begin his commute home. Oh yes, the simple man lived a simple life. Never bothering to stop and smell the roses or any of that poetic nonsense. Ironically his simple self had expensive tastes and an eye for finery. One could easily observe that from the embroidered silk pajamas and handkerchiefs, the imported teas and porcelain tea set neatly tucked away in a forgettable corner of the kitchen.

To the rest of the world he was shabby and out of date but within the comfort of his own home he could relax with style. Today, just like the rest he would have a nice cup of tea. He practically glided from one end of the kitchen to the next, heating the water in his kettle, finding his tea bags, his special mug... Soon he was waiting for the bag to steep in the water, frowning at the rain outside as he drummed his fingers on the counter. He held his breath counting the seconds...

He flung the teabag into the sink the moment he was done and left his tea on the counter. When it was cool he would come back to it, now his mission was to find his latest book and resume reading. As soon as he picked it up however a crash resounded from the kitchen and he gave a disgruntled sigh and slammed his book back down on the shelf. In the kitchen there lay his mug, in pieces, on the ground with tea spreading rapidly across the floor. A smug feline lapped up the murky brown drink, with it's tail swishing back and forth in the air.

"Despicable little creature." He said almost fondly. That mug was his favorite. Then again the cat, Shakespeare was also his favorite. "I ought to put you outside for what you've done this time... but I won't and you're lucky I don't."

The only response said despicable creature gave was a pleased meow and began to rub up against his leg. He picked up the pieces and shooed the cat away. Shakespeare was a brat. It was most likely his fault the posh feline was so spoiled. The door bell rang just as he had gotten on his knees to wipe it up. There was hardly time to make himself look presentable. Why now? He got to the door, a bit disgruntled and opened it.

"Bonjour, my name is Francis. I just moved in with my sweet son- Now come here, Matthew. Now is not the time to be shy." The so called Francis looked completely ridiculous and all too French for his tastes.

To start with Francis had long damp blond hair and wore a less than classy dress shirt and slacks. The man had it unbuttoned partially for Pete's sake and he could see his chest hair. Outfit and hair aside he had to admit... Francis looked like he could've been a model. He glanced down at the poor dear called Matthew. Oh, he was so terribly shy and seemed to be the spitting image of his over the top father. Hm... The boy had a firm grip on his position behind his father's leg with no intention of coming forward any time soon.

"Arthur. Pleasure to meet you, now go away." Swiftly and with little care Arthur went to slam the door.

Francis' foot had already been in the doorframe, anticipating such a reaction. However he hadn't been expecting the brute force in the irritable man and winced. Matthew stared from behind his father's leg, as if silently daring him to be rude again.

"But Arthur... Please be sensible. Do neighbors not get to know each other here in England?" Francis said, almost forcing the custom on him.

"Look Frank-"

"Francis."

"Francis then. Not to be rude but I don't believe you're my neighbor and I am certainly not going to let a stranger into my home."

"I live right across the street. See there?"

He pointed and Arthur followed his finger with annoyance. The house that had been up for sale was undoubtedly sold. That didn't mean it belonged to this frenchman and his child- If indeed the boy was his. Arthur looked closer however and almost regretted noticing his name on the mailbox. Wait. Francis hadn't told him his last name. It could belong to another Francis Bonnefoy... Ah but that was just being ridiculous. The house belonged to him and Arthur would be a dunce to deny it. He turned back to him, nodding.

"Yes, I suppose I believe you. That has nothing to do with why you're on my doorstep though."

"Ah, yes... About that." Francis smiled whilst trying to detach his son from his leg. "I'm having a little get together tonight and my sweet Matthew's nanny cancelled on me. Of course I can't expose my little boy to such festivities at such a young age so..."

Arthur only looked at him blankly, anger quickly building internally.

"You want me. An absolute stranger. To watch your young son. Could you be anymore fu-" With a certain amount of practiced temperament he stopped himself. Young children didn't need to hear that kind of language. "Pardon me but for all you know I'm a man of unsavory character. If. You get my meaning."

The absolutely unfit to be a parent man merely laughed, waving his concerns away with the hand not firmly planted on his son's shoulder. Fifteen minutes later Arthur would wonder how exactly he'd been persuaded so easily...