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“Je t’adore, mon petit chou.”
His mouth was half full of pain au chocolat but that didn’t stop Bartolomeo from slamming a hand down on the table and sputtering animatedly at the man across from him.
“There it is! I just heard it again!”
Cavendish glanced up from his phone and it was a toss-up as to whether the look he sent his partner or directed at the crumbs spewed between them was more derisive.
“What on Earth are you yelling about, Barto? Honestly, I think you’re singlehandedly the reason why the French have such a bad impression of people from the New World.”
Bartolomeo huffed irritably and looked to their third companion. “Help me out here, Sulei. I keep hearin’ people say somethin’ about a little ‘shoe’ or some shit and I just wanna know what it means. Cabbage is bein’ weird about it.”
Suleiman glanced toward Cavendish who gave him a warning glare. To say he enjoyed helping Bartolomeo get under his star client’s skin would be an understatement, but this particular battle had been going on for a few days now and ultimately, Barto wasn’t the one who paid him.
“I can’t help you,” he said drily, shrugging at Bartolomeo’s dubious scowl. “Cavendish has always been able to pick up French better than I have. I know how to say bathroom, if you ever need it, and coffee, because I need that.”
“And I just won’t help you,” the model piped up, rather, well, unhelpfully.
As a matter of fact, one of the two of them was fluent in French, and it wasn’t Cavendish. The odds of Bartolomeo catching them in their lie, however, were slim to none.
“Goddamn you both,” Barto grumbled, sulkily finishing his pastry and cleaning up the mess across the tabletop. “I just need to buy a French dictionary.”
It was the third time that Bartolomeo had said as much since their arrival, but each time he’d immediately forgotten said need so, really, he wouldn’t. For the time being, that little phrase would continue to remain a mystery.
Cavendish simultaneously cursed the French and thanked God for small favors.
“Bartolomeo, this is Han—”
“—cock, yeah, I know,” Barto finished, and Cavendish blinked a few times in rapid succession because suddenly his boyfriend and the other model were…hugging?!
“I’ve known Barto for years!” Boa crooned happily. Cavendish was left sputtering as Bartolomeo nodded in confirmation.
“We met online. We’re both admins for Luffy-senpai’s official fan site.”
The scream that bubbled from Cavendish’s throat was only partially bitten back by his clenched teeth and Suleiman dragged the fuming man away before he could make a scene and attract the wrong kind of publicity.
Bartolomeo was given a seat of honor in the front row, just back from the runway, and someone in the second row was almost certainly pissed beyond belief, between Suleiman’s ever-present hat, Bartolomeo’s mohawk, and the natural height advantage of the two men and Hancock, who was seated to Barto’s left.
She was leaned over, practically in his lap, as Cavendish watched from backstage, features twisted into a scowl. He wasn’t jealous—well, okay, yes, he was. But not because of Hancock. It’s because he knew why Barto’s cheeks were flushed and eyes were dreamily distant, and it had nothing to do with the almost certainly fake breasts pressed against his arm. If he’d had an overhead view, Cavendish would have been able to see a picture of Luffy D. Monkey on Hancock’s screen, and the model knew that that little shit was the only one he really had to fight for Bartolomeo’s affections.
When Cavendish took his first turn on the runway, Bartolomeo whistled, etiquette be damned, and despite the slight smirk that twitched at the older man’s lips, Barto could tell he was upset. He’d been tense almost since they arrived, and Bartolomeo couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. It was work, not vacation, sure, but they’d had a decent amount of time to themselves, wandering the city and soaking in the type of romantic shit that Cavendish loved so much.
Hancock was still absorbed in her own fantasies, and Bartolomeo could hear her muttering under her breath in her mother tongue. “Je t’aime, Luffy, mon trésor. Tu es parfait, mon ange. Je suis fou amoureux de toi, mon petit chou.”
Bartolomeo heard those words again and swore internally at the reminder that he still hadn’t found out what they meant. Admittedly, it wasn’t the most important thing in the world, but, well…he wanted to make Cavendish feel better, wanted to shake him out of whatever funk this trip had put him in.
His plan was pretty simple, and hinged on one of the many kinks that Cavendish had which stemmed from his insatiable narcissism. The older man loved pet names, loved to hear Bartolomeo tell him how sweet and pretty he was, and Barto had been not-so-subtly trying to pick up a good French endearment to whip out once they had a moment to indulge themselves.
Mon cœur tied his tongue in knots, mon chéri Cavendish had almost certainly heard from past lovers who could actually manage the French accent, mon amour was unoriginal at best. And that was why Bartolomeo had latched so strongly onto those three little words he kept hearing and forgetting. Mon petit chou. It was always said fondly, so Bartolomeo thought he was on the right track, and it was something he could actually pronounce without making a fool of himself. He just wanted to know what it meant, because with his luck, he was going to call his partner something like ‘my little duck’ when he was about to come and Cavendish was going to break up with him on the spot.
He was about to ask Hancock what it meant when Suleiman nudged his elbow and he was broken out of his trance in time to see Cavendish reappear in an outfit that would definitely have to make an appearance in their bedroom.
And once again, the thought was gone before he could grasp hold of it.
Cavendish’s expression was wary and distrustful when he caught sight of Bartolomeo’s smirk. “What?”
“Nothin’. I just like hearin’ ya speak French. It’s pretty sexy.”
Cavendish snorted and thanked the man behind the desk before addressing his boyfriend. “That’s because, unlike you, I actually can speak it. Just stick to Italian, please.”
“Aww…pourquoi, tesorino?”
He grinned as Cavendish wrinkled his nose.
“God, that just made it even more obvious how atrocious your French accent is. You’re going to embarrass yourself. And me.”
“Oh, oui oui?”
“Hey, Barto?” Cavendish’s tone was light and airy and Bartolomeo should have known how dangerous that was.
“Mmhm?”
“Seriously, if you try to speak French one more time, just go ahead and kill me first.”
Bartolomeo’s eyes rolled as Cavendish twined their fingers together, but he knew better than to start an argument as they began to meander through the museum.
“I should take up painting again,” Cavendish mused absently.
Bartolomeo nodded in agreement. “I’ll model for you.”
Cavendish’s answering laugh was snide and it made Barto frown.
“Don’t be a dick, Cabbage. Now my feelings are hurt. Say somethin’ in French to make up for it.”
“Va te faire cuire un œuf.”
“I know you probably just told me to go fuck myself, but,” Bartolomeo wrapped his arms around Cavendish’s waist as he stopped before one of the paintings and rested his chin on top of the smaller man’s head. “That’s really doin’ it for me. Add berating me in French to the list of shit to try. You’re makin’ me all kinds of hot and bothered.”
Cavendish’s eyes rolled but he couldn’t help smiling. Leave it to Bartolomeo to develop a humiliation fetish in another language.
“You’re awful, you know that?”
“I feel like you’ve mentioned it once or twice.”
Tipping his head back, Cavendish let his lips brush against Bartolomeo’s in a simple gesture of affection.
“I love you, mon p—”
Cavendish’s hand landed across Bartolomeo’s mouth before he could finish. “I said kill me first and I meant it.”
Barto huffed in annoyance and Cavendish let out a sigh of resignation.
At this point, it was only a matter of time before he figured it out, and when he did, Cavendish was never, ever going to live it down.
They went out to dinner with Hancock and her sisters on their last night in France, and Cavendish was relieved that her siblings seemed to mellow her somewhat. He had never particularly minded her company, and being in the same echelon of their career they saw quite a lot of each other, but Hancock and Bartolomeo were only amplified in each other’s presence and he didn’t have the patience to spend an entire night hearing about that goddamned boxer.
It was also a night of absolute freedom, now that Cavendish’s obligations in the city had been fulfilled, and Bartolomeo had been letting him know all day long that he intended to use the night off to their benefit.
Bartolomeo’s hand settled comfortably on Cavendish’s thigh under the table, fingertips pressing deliciously into the muscle as it tensed beneath his touch.
“Oi, Cabbage, pass the salt?”
Bartolomeo could tell that Cavendish was already wound up from his incessant teasing, and it was only because he was watching a flush creep up to tint his boyfriend’s cheeks that he missed Hancock’s furrowed brow.
She leaned over to Suleiman, and Bartolomeo only heard fragments of her question, the words going in one ear and right out the other.
“—bage…endearment…—glish too?”
Suleiman snorted in amusement and shook his head. Bartolomeo was too busy stroking the erection that Cavendish was desperately trying to avoid to life with his thumb to hear Suleiman’s reply.
As soon as they bid the women farewell and were locked into the privacy of their hotel room, Cavendish was furiously yanking Bartolomeo’s shirt off over his head and swearing.
“You goddamned fucking tease. I’m going to absolutely ruin you, you cocky bastard.”
Oh. Oh. Bartolomeo liked the sound of that. Before he could even reply, Cavendish’s hands were on his belt and he was biting into his chest hard enough to break the skin.
“You fuckin’ me then, baby?”
“No,” Cavendish answered, much to Bartolomeo’s surprise. He was positively seething, and it was only because he was so turned on that he was angry at all. “You’re going to fuck me so hard I can’t sit right tomorrow, casse-couilles.”
He slipped into French without even realizing it, having been using it every day for the better part of a week, and Bartolomeo moaned eagerly at the sound of it.
“Shit, Cav, fuck. Alright. Lemme suck you off first, yeah? I’ve been dyin’ to taste ya all week.”
Cavendish didn’t know when his own clothes came off, or how he wound up sitting on the edge of the bed with Bartolomeo kneeling between his thighs and his cock at the back of his boyfriend’s throat.
“Mmm, yesss…oh mon dieu.” He had enough of his sanity left to know he could pay Bartolomeo back for all of his teasing by mixing a little French into his typical litany of praise, and the way Barto hummed approvingly was confirmation enough of that.
Bartolomeo lapped along the underside of Cavendish’s dick and then growled around it when the older man instinctively grabbed a harsh handful of his messy mohawk to push himself in deeper. That damned tongue and the way Bartolomeo fell apart when Cavendish pulled his hair was a dangerous combination, and Cavendish was reminded why he always came embarrassingly fast when Barto went down on him.
“B-Barto, fuck!” Bartolomeo’s eyes cut up toward his face and Cavendish felt his thighs begin to shake. “Merde. I don’t want to come like this.”
Pulling back, Bartolomeo maintained a steady rhythm with his fist, head dipping to mouth sloppily at Cavendish’s swiftly tightening balls. “No? I want you to.”
Bartolomeo could see by the distracted haze of Cavendish’s eyes that he was already too far gone to be making any such claims, and he decided to, pun intended, fuck it. If he ended up calling him some sort of waterfowl in a moment of passion, so be it. He was fairly confident Cavendish would at least wait until after his orgasm to dump him.
“Please?” His eyes were dark and beseeching and Cavendish whined helplessly. “Come for me, mon petit chou.”
Bartolomeo’s hand was moving with indecent ease, slick with spit and pre-cum and goddammit, his accent was still terrible, and Bartolomeo promised, but he was right, there was something sexy about it, and Cavendish was suddenly so so pathetically close, and he didn’t even realize what he was saying as the words slipped from his lips.
“Bartolomeo, you said you’d never call me that when we’re fucking.”
Eyes blowing comically wide, Bartolomeo’s hand tightened involuntarily as he realized, finally realized, and it was enough to rip a startlingly sudden orgasm out of Cavendish. His back arched as he came, toes curling, fingers gripping tightly in Bartolomeo’s hair as his face was sprayed with cum.
When the capacity for thought returned, Cavendish began to apologize for his unintended aim, but Bartolomeo was licking his lips, lips that were curved in an absolutely shit-eating grin, so maybe he didn’t mind despite not having asked for it on this particular occasion. It wasn’t until Bartolomeo broke into loud laughter that Cavendish’s mind ran back enough to replay his words and a mottled flush of embarrassment overtook his chest.
“I abhor you, Bartolomeo.”
His tone lacked the venom of his words and he smiled in spite of himself because they had played this particular game before and he knew what Bartolomeo was going to say before he even said it.
“Aww, Cav, you’re too sweet. I adore you too, mon petit chou.”
Defeated, Cavendish flopped down onto the mattress.
It was only because he was still horny that Cavendish even let Bartolomeo continue, or so he told himself. Barto made infuriating use of the technical loophole in his promise, and when Bartolomeo murmured those words against the curve of his spine, smug, but adoring, Cavendish made a mess of the sheets.
Bartolomeo aimed to please and so it wasn’t until he deemed Cavendish sufficiently wrecked that he let himself come, and then he was draped over Cavendish’s boneless form, whispering the worst endearment in the whole of the French language in a tone that was as cocky as it was frustratingly fond.
Cavendish was still pissed, and oversensitive, but satisfied.
And he was never going to forgive himself.
“How was your last night in Paris, Bartolomeo?”
Suleiman sounded disinterested, but Cavendish could see from the knowing gleam in his eye that he had some idea of what might have occurred after their dinner. He flipped absently through the in-flight magazine as Bartolomeo answered.
“Enjoyable enough, don’tcha think, babe?”
Cavendish was sitting in the seat between them, arms crossed and bottom lip jutted in a pout. He wasn’t sulking because Bartolomeo had used that newfound pet name when they jerked each other off in the shower that morning, but rather because he hadn’t, and he just knew that his boyfriend knew that. He was honestly amazed that he’d managed to secure the most infuriatingly annoying man in the entire world as his partner.
“It was fine,” he ground out between his teeth.
“Fine?” Bartolomeo frowned and sighed dramatically. “Well, I thought I was a better lay than that.”
Suleiman snickered and Cavendish decided that actually, in fact, he hated them both.
“Anyway, it was a good trip,” Bartolomeo continued. “Productive and fun, right, Cabbage?”
The nickname that Bartolomeo had been using since they were teenagers sounded different now, rolling off of his tongue in a mischievous purr that only proved that he knew exactly why Cavendish shifted uncomfortably at the sound of it, sore ass aside.
Ultimately, Cavendish didn’t know what was worse: the fact that he knew Bartolomeo was going to continue to bring his limited knowledge of French into their bedroom, or the fact that he wanted him to.
The latter, he decided, conclusively, as Bartolomeo pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek and whispered “something wrong, mon petit chou?” against his reddening skin.
Definitely the latter.