Well. Today was the day.

Golden locks had been tugged back with a royal purple ribbon that complemented his cerulean eyes. Elegant bangs framed his face, in an attempt to look effortlessly handsome. (Which had actually taken him twenty minutes to arrange.) A simple patterned tie sat securely around his neck. His sweater had been artfully layered, a broken-in dress shirt that tapered in all the right places lying underneath. The sleeves were rolled up and showing off his graceful forearms, and the untucked shirt hung over his Kenneth Cole trousers. Black socks dove into brown second-hand Ferragamos, laced just so the strings fell even across the shoe. He glanced up at the post-modern wall clock.

Two hours before he had to leave—and that was if he wanted to be early.

Francis let out a wistful breath. He settled himself onto the sofa, trying with difficulty not to rumple any part of his getup. Once he had successfully managed to sit down without doing too much damage, his eyes skirted the room, looking for something—anything, really—to volunteer as a distraction. Instinctively, his hand reached out for his smartphone on the table, but he already knew he wouldn't find anything remotely attention-grabbing when he was this excited.

He opened up Instagram anyway, switching between fashion inspo accounts and mutuals. The iconic orange notification faded into view: 112 likes and 17 comments on his last photo. Not bad for food porn of a bottle of Burgundy and artistically arranged blocks of cheese. Francis rested his chin on his left hand, the beginnings of a beard scratching against his palm. He made his way through the individual feeds of Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook, and Google Plus. (Just kidding. No one uses Google Plus.) By the time he was finished with that, he still had a good hour-and-a-half until 12:45.

So, like any other human being, he went through them all over again. (Y'know, in case he missed something while he was looking at everything else.)

And then it was 11:33. If only the rest of the world could procrastinate as ineffectively as Francis. He could eat, but he was on a diet again and his breakfast omelette from that morning had him pretty filled up, anyway.

Without realizing, his legs had started another round of perusing the house. He paced back and forth, lost in thought, through the open kitchen to a quaint adjoining breakfast nook, back through the kitchen and into the dining area. The living room followed, all of it one big space, his wandering gaze failing to notice the impeccable décor he so prided himself on. Into the entry hall, where he opened and closed the doors of the closet and the powder room in a bizarre rhythm, through the living area again, and now pacing through the hall. He passed the bath, the bedroom, the guest bedroom, and the study, and then he stopped and looked up to realize where his subconscious had taken him.

A little smile tugged at his lips as he entered the room, the morning sun casting golden beams of light upon the walls, falling over the furniture, revealing every hue and soothing pastel in all its glory. The lightweight, sunflower-yellow fabric of the curtains let just enough sunshine through, a pattern of scattered teddy bears and sailboats and maple leaves making miniscule shadows on the plush, cream carpet. He walked slowly over to the toy chest and ran his fingers along the half-domed lid. On the top he and his friends had each painted their symbol, leftovers from a pact made in middle school they never cared to break. A white bird, a smiling tomato, and a rose sans-stem lay side-by-side, in a field of rolling hills and blue sky. The same three appeared on the walls of the room, on the frame of the bed—even hiding in the closet. Red striped trim adorned the chest, and marched around the edge of the sidetable. Antonio had found the most adorable bedset from back when Lovino had been a toddler, and brought it over, all the while enthusing about the possibilities for playdates and trips to the park and vacations on the beach. Even Gil dug up a few toys from Ludwig's childhood: a wooden dachshund with wheels in the feet and a worn, fraying collar; a hockey stick he'd repainted in a fire engine red; and even a petite play kitchenette, among others. After they had finished painting all the intricate little scenes on the walls, hiding details and puzzles in the unlikeliest of places and staining a good number of old shirts, Gil and Antonio helped him put the whole room together until everything was perfect. (It took an entire week of rearranging everything except for the dresser, and countless switching out of the play kitchen and toy chest, before Francis finally gave in that it would do.)

Those two meant the world to him. He couldn't have asked for better friends. It was a wonder they'd made it this far, through all the trials and tribulations of growing up. (As if they were already done growing up.) Honestly, considering how often he came running back to them after trading out their friendship for the company of his latest infatuation, he was surprised they even talked to him at all.

With a slight groan he arose from the ground, glancing down at his watch. What time was it? Time to stop reminiscing. Just kidding, it was 12:02.

UGHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

He picked up his phone again. Maybe he could call Antonio…

The other line rang once. Twice. The phone rang five times before a beep emitted and Antonio's voice began to play.

"Lo siento, I am not available to talk right n—"

Francis sighed and hung up. Scrolling through his contacts, he selected Gil's home number instead. As long as he wasn't out drinking beer, he probably wasn't busy.

Brring. Brring.

"Beilschmidt. How can I help you?"

"Bonjour, Ludwig. C'est Francis. Could you give me Gil?"

"Oh. Em, ja, ein moment." He could hear Ludwig yelling for Gil, then a rustle as he brought his mouth back to the microphone. "Sorry, I guess you know already that I took away his phone for a week…"

"Ha, oui, I was made very aware of that," Francis replied, grinning.

"Ja…the police—" There was a scuffle and a loud, harsh yell.

"Franceypants! What's up?" Gil said, almost blowing out Francis' eardrums.

"Hey Gil. Just killing time until my appointment to pick up Matthieu," he said, holding the phone about an arm's length away and furiously lowering the volume. When he was at a significantly lesser risk of hearing loss, he brought the phone back to his ear.

"Ah ja, today's the day you become a papa! Congratulations," he said.

"I'm about to burst, it's so exciting! The room looks absolutely perfect, and I've childproofed the house and I have so many ideas for meals, and Antonio and I were discussing if maybe Lovino would take up babysitting, and Anri* has a toddler now, so we had been talking about playdates—c'est tre bien! He's the sweetest little child I've ever met!"

"Playdates, huh? I'll bring along Ludwig, he'll enjoy the company—" There was a thump and a cackling. From what he could tell, a minute-long chase ensued, and by the time it was over, Gil was out of breath and laughing with the grace of a drunken seal.** "Oh man, can West put up a fight," he said, alternating between cackling and heavy wheezing. Francis could practically hear him grinning over the phone. He almost did, too. Gil was infectious.

"But you will come visit us, non?"

His tone became more serious, if ever so slightly. "Naturlich, Franny. Of course I want to see the kid whose bedroom we painted together. You haven't shut up about him since you got the idea in your head. 10 months! I'm surprised you haven't talked my awesome ears off."

"You know, you might as well bring Ludwig. I'm sure he'd want to see him too."

"Sure, why the heck not? HEY WEST!" Pause. "YOU WANNA SEE FRANNY'S NEW KID?" Another, longer pause. "He said ja!"

"Fantastic. He always seemed like the type to be good with kids."

"How much you wanna bet him an' Feli will have one of their own this time next year? They've been spending an awful lot of time in his room discussing 'battle pla—HEY! OW! DON'T BEAT UP YOUR OLDER BROTHER! STOP THAT! I'M TOO AWESOME FOR THIS!"

He really couldn't take anything seriously, could he?

Eventually Gil got back on the line, but not before throwing a couple curses Ludwig's way. "Seriously though, Franny. You'll be an awesome papa. You two are gonna have a great time together. Er will sich wie ein schnitzel freuen."*** High praise, coming from him.

"Thank you, Gil. You have no idea how much better that makes me feel." Francis smiled.

"Is not a problem. I'm looking forward to meeting the little bugger!" Someone was yelling to him from another room. "Hey, man, I've gotta go, Roder-dick's got his panties in a bunch 'cause someone might've filled his grand piano with feathers." Gil stifled a chuckle.

"Where on earth did you pick up the phrase 'panties in a bunch'?"

"I was binge-watching one of those British detective shows the other day so I could learn how to solve crimes. Was better than I expected," Gil replied. Another yell, this time accompanied by loud stomping. "Right—see you soon!"

"Salut, mon ami," Francis said, but he was cut short by the dial tone. He brought the phone down, and, though the phone call had only lasted 5 minutes, he found himself to be almost calmer. Francis wandered back into the kitchen, finding solace in the trivial rearrangement of a few city landscapes until he had no choice but to consult Pinterest on the matter. By the time he'd gathered enough inspiration for a final decision, he was pleasantly surprised to realize that 12:45 had come and gone. He dashed out the door without even checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. (Hard to believe anything could be more important to him than his own reflection, huh?) Francis was still tugging on his coat when he threw open the entrance to the apartment building, the doorman looking on with bewilderment. He may or may not have yelled at him; whatever it was, Francis was too far away at that point to hear. A fast walk rushed him by the plain, dingy stone buildings, their facades matching the late February skies. The sky was gray and brooding, but then again, it always looked like that. After living here for a year, you got used to keeping an umbrella on hand.

How he longed for the red brick buildings and bright awnings. Pops of color showing up no matter where you looked. Colorful signs and clothes and store displays drowning out the dreary puffs of cold spilling from pedestrians' mouths. The city of Paris was and always would be a rainbow. But when spring came around: now that was when Paris truly was at its best. Francis couldn't wait until roses and violets would spill out of the window boxes. Although I won't live to see them if I don't watch where I'm going, he thought to himself as he nearly tumbled down the concrete steps to the Underground. He was too impatient swiping his card, and it took 5 tries and a few annoyed glances from impatient strangers before the gates let him through. The train had just pulled in, and lucky Francis snatched a seat next to a simply strapping young lad. Sadly, so did the lad's girlfriend. Francis cursed God for his misfortune and people-watched until the couple got up, freeing up space for a new passenger to take a seat next to him. He looked single, and Francis would have taken his chances, but the man's eyebrows were much too thick. Ew.

Thankfully, his stop was up next, and he made a quick escape from Eyebrows onto All Saints'. Yummy smells wafted from a nearby café, and an image of him and Matthieu eating croissants together came to mind. Did Matthieu like hot cocoa? What sort of child didn't? Oh, being a papa was going to be so fantastic!

He nearly walked past the adoption center in his excitement. Once he'd doubled back, he almost walked into the glass doors. So much for being graceful. A pretty young lady was about to walk through, too. Francis tugged open the door and bowed with a flourish, leaving her with roses for cheeks and a barely audible "thank you" muttered in his direction. Being courteous (or maybe trying to attract attention to his freshly-polished shoes), he wiped his feet on the black mat in the waiting room and immediately struck up a conversation with a couple sitting nearby. Elise and Natalya, **** they said were their names, and they were waiting to visit their soon-to-be daughter. Francis took note of the matching wedding bands on their fingers and smiled, ever the sucker for romance. By the time the receptionist called his name, they had made plans to meet sometime soon for some coffee and a playdate.

"You are Mr. Francis Bonnefoy?" the receptionist asked. His name sounded queer coming off her English tongue.

"Yes," he replied, his eyes drifting where they shouldn't.

"Excuse me. May I see your ID?" she snarled. Francis realized what he was doing a second too late and, feeling awful, handed over his license immediately. She examined it, matching up the data on file, then handed it back. "Alright. Please wait in Room 2, down the south hall. Matthew is still getting together his belongings, so we'll bring him out in a few minutes."

"Thank you very much, mademoiselle," he said, before heading towards the hall. It was all he could do not to sprint.

Tap-tap-tap-tap. Staccato beats of shoes, bouncing off the framed art of countless children come and gone. Hallway acoustics sending sharp waves of sound through one ear and out the other. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Kishhhhhhhh. The door made a sound like pneumatic pumps when you opened it. The sort of door that's really heavy, and takes two minutes and a bodybuilder to tug open. Maybe it was heavy so the children couldn't run out? He could understand the temptation; the room wasn't the sort he would really want to spend any longer in than he had to. Sparsely decorated, with a shiny, plastic-looking living room set pushed against the light gray walls. The coffee table was from IKEA, he noted immediately. Classy. There were blinds hanging in front of the only window, blocking the little sunlight there was in England from entering the room. Francis tap-tap-tapped over to the blinds and tugged on the cord.

It wouldn't budge.

He tried pulling it to the left, then the right. Then the left again.

Francis understood that the room would be child-proofed, but he was 26. Maybe a combination of the two? Right-left-up-left-down-left-right-up.

With a horrible zipping sound the blinds came tumbling down, one after the other, falling into a messy pile on the floor. Francis jumped back and his eyes darted to the door. It must have been soundproof as well, because no one seemed to have heard the ruckus. He took back the now-unlatched cord and pulled the blinds all the way up to the top, securing it with a satisfying click. To be honest, the dismal increase in lighting wasn't really worth the chaos he'd gone through, but Francis felt proud nonetheless. Contented by his initiative, he plopped down onto the nearest available surface.

THUD.

The chair was not as soft as it looked, as Francis learned the hard way. Rubbing his bum and checking if the door had a window, he made an executive decision to stand and examine the children's paintings on the wall instead. About halfway through deciphering the handwriting on a piece with what appeared to be a girl with sausages for hair, the sound of pneumatic pumps and heavy grunting reached his ears. Before he could even turn around, he felt two chubby little arms and two floppy furry ones wrapping around his leg.

"Papa!" Matthew yelled. Or half-whispered, depending on your point of view. Matt was a remarkably quiet child.

"Salut, Matthieu! Salut, Kuma!" he said in greeting. Francis leaned down to hug the toddler, who for once was actually jumping with excitement. He lifted the precious little dumpling into the air, who squealed with joy. Kuma hung onto Matt's arm for dear life (or maybe it was the other way around).

The attendant cleared her throat. Her chocolate brown hair was tied back in a very professional way, enough to make Francis put down Matt fast, who fixated himself to his new papa's leg. They made their way over to the sofa, and Francis was pleasantly surprised to find that the sofa was much more comfortable than the chair. After dumping a few clipboards and an intimidating pile of paperwork onto the table, the woman sat down across from them, cheap black pen in hand.

"Alright, Mr. Bonnefoy. I have on file here for you the legal papers, as well as the court hearing and household inspection, so all we need now is for you to sign a few forms and you and Matt should be out of here in no time." She handed him the pen, gesturing with absurd stick-on nails at the places where he needed to sign. Ink danced across the sheets of legal jargon, one after another. Kumajiro and Matthieu were playing a quiet game of pattycake, made significantly more difficult by Kuma's distinct lack of muscles (or consciousness, for that matter). Matthieu wouldn't let that discourage him, though. Francis didn't catch the whole storyline, but it seemed events had shifted from hand games to a preschool-esque telenovela.

There was no clock in the room, but it felt like a few dozen hours before they were finally finished. (He checked later—it had only been 75 minutes.) The attendant shuffled the papers and shook his hand, leaving little nail marks in his skin. Francis rubbed his palm and thanked her once again for her service, and with the formalities out of the way, they were free to go.

Matthieu took the straps of his backpack in his pudgy little hands, and with great care, placed Kuma inside and zipped up the sides so that his head would stick out. "So he can breathe," he explained to Francis. "And…watch the trip home."

Francis smiled. "That is very courteous of you, Matthieu." With Matt's hand in one hand and Matt's duffel in the other, Francis and his new family walked out into the lobby and bid goodbye to Elise and Natalya.

"Who are they?" shy Matt said as he slowly emerged from behind Francis's leg.

"Oh, they are here to adopt a child too. If I remember correctly, her name was Lucille.**** Do you know her?"

They were out on the city streets now, puffs of breath floating from their mouths through the chilly air. Matthieu thought over his papa's question.

"Yeah. Loo-seel is…quiet. She's like me. But she wears…glasses. And sometimes we dress up Kumajiro together and…share my cray-ons."

"Oh? She has glasses? What does she look like?"

"…She has long pretty hair. Some-times she lets me…play with it. But it's u—uzu—uzulally in a braid."

"She sounds very nice. Tell you what, once we and her family get settled in, we can set up a playdate for the two of you."

Mattie smiled, gripping Francis' finger tighter as they made their way down the steps to the trains. He beamed when Francis held him up so he could swipe the Oyster card, and was fascinated by every train that pulled into the station. They looked at adverts while they waited, Francis translating them into French and Mattie stumbling across the words as he tried to repeat them. He was extra cautious to mind the gap, and peered through the window while Francis looked on with what could only be described as pure joy. Francis introduced him and Kumajiro to the doorman, who tipped his hat as a sign of courtesy. The lobby was so exciting and full of secrets Francis promised they would go back down once they'd gotten all of Mattie's belongings into the apartment. His eyes widened, full of curiosity, when he got to push the buttons to make the elevator go. They grew even bigger when the buttons lit up a neon orange, and he watched the big red digital display of their current floor, entranced.

At long last they made it to the apartment. Francis took Mattie's jacket and hung it up on a little plastic hook he'd stuck onto the wall near the coat closet. Two little boots sat next to two large dress shoes, one of them toppled. The little dumpling plopped onto the couch tentatively. Kuma jumped up and down after finally being released from the backpack. With Francis as their guide, they received the grand tour of the home, stopping finally at the entrance to Mattie's new room.

His eyes grew wide, and he pattered over in his tiny socks across the carpeting, grinning and lying down and getting all up in that fuzzy goodness. The toy chest was particularly exciting, full of mystical objects they had yet to encounter. Mattie explored while Francis transferred the clothes in the duffel to the closet and dresser. Honestly, he would have been content to just sit and watch Matt poke around, but there were (slightly) more important matters to attend to.

"So, Matthieu. We have a few choices for dinner, but first I want to ask: do you have a favorite food?"

Mattie turned around from the kitchenette, and, looking thoughtful, replied, "Pancakes are yummy…"

"Oh? I know a dinner recipe for omelettes; do you know what those are?"

Mattie shook his head.

"They are like pancakes, but they are made with eggs. It is a French recipe. Do you want to try it for dinner tonight?"

"…Egg pancakes?"

"Oui. Crêpesaux œufs. Omelettes."

"Cre…po-zu?" Mattie sounded out the syllables.

"Oui, very good! Should we have that for dinner?" he said, smiling.

Mattie toddler smiled a tiny smile back. "…um…oo-wee?"

This is going to work out just fine, Francis thought as he rose to retrieve 5 eggs from the fridge.

* She makes the best waffles.

** I've never been very good with metaphors.

*** A hilarious German slang term which literally means, "He will be as happy as a schnitzel (a type of sausage)."

**** Elise is Liechtenstein, Natalya is Belarus, and Lucille is Monaco.