Slowly feeling hopeless, Chéri looked around, in search of assistance, and threw a brief, pleading look to Zechariah, identifying him as the most decent person in the room. But before he could let his eyes work their magic -or at least, try to- an unexpected saviour materialised in the person of Tristan.

Chéri had once spoken no word of French himself and had mostly grown surrounded by people who spoke dialect first and then French, so he wasn’t gonna be bothered by accents, but that was also why he failed to guess the lack of ease the stranger might encounter in speaking another language.

Besides, he was just happy to meet someone -anyone- who could communicate with him.
Turning to Tristan, he offered a warm smile that reached his eyes and made them twinkle. Now cheerful like a schoolboy, Chéri touched his chest and gratefully exclaimed “Kind sir, what a relief to meet someone who can speak!” French. Chéri failed to mention French, specifically. But never mind.
“I am trying to ask this men if I can help with his pub. I am sure I could render myself useful,” he said, showing an optimism he did not feel. If there was something Chéri could declare himself to be, always, was a performer and right now his full skills were employed in making him look grateful to the kind stranger and enthusiastic to the potential employer.