You have found yourself a France!
He had just begun to doze off when he realized that the notes had faded away. When he strained his ears, he could just barely make out a smooth voice muttering to itself. It was sporadically punctuated by the same line, over and over. Each time, the player would falter at the same note.
Curious, Matthew jammed his shoes onto his feet and pulled on his hoodie. Closing the cabin door behind him, he crept through the trees toward the practice hut. About five feet away from the open door, he realized that the soft stream of words floating through the air was actually a ribbon of French curses. His strange Quebec-French allowed him to translate most of the words, and the musician's imaginative phrasing soon had him blushing to the roots of his hair.
Swallowing hard, he peered around the edge of the wall. The tall blond boy inside blinked at him, pausing in the middle of describing what exactly one could do with one's mother's uncle's toenail.
"… 'allo?" The accent that laced that single word was unmistakably French. "Can I 'elp you?"
"H-hello," Matthew stammered. "I was just—I think you're missing the F sharp."
The French student raised an elegant eyebrow. "Are you telling me 'ow to play my instrument?"
Matthew cringed at the disdain that dripped from that pale, perfectly shaped mouth. "I—I—" Shamefaced, he turned to flee.
A quiet chuckle made his eyes widen. "Cheri, I apologize," the musician told him. "I was only playing with your 'ead." When Matthew whirled around, his small smirk widened. "Ah, you are tres mignon when you blush! Come in, come in!"
With a graceful wave of his hand, he ushered a bewildered Matthew into the practice hut, closing the door firmly behind him.
Matthew gulped, very aware that he was in a small, enclosed room and alone with this boy—well, man, really, if the stubble on his chin was anything to judge by. "Y-you play wonderfully, eh…"
The violinist beamed, setting the instrument down on a bench. "Ah, thank you! You 'ave been listening to me?"
The Canadian flushed, reluctant to admit his stalkerish ways.
The Frenchman laughed lightly. "No need to be so embarrassed, cheri," he chided. "You love music; I can see."
"I do!" Matthew leaned forward slightly, eager to discuss this topic. "I love the Mozart—I love all the pieces the orchestra's doing this year, actually. It's—" He drew back, realizing that his nose was centimeters from the other boy's.
Gentle fingers gripped his chin, bringing his face back to its original position. Light blue eyes observed him with soft amusement, thin lips curling up into a small smile.
" 'ow adorable," the older student cooed, bringing his other hand up to stroke Matthew's hair.
"Umm… I… I'm sorry, um…"
"Oh!" The Frenchman's eyes widened in shock. " 'ow rude! I 'ave forgotten my manners in my excitement! I am Francis Bonnefoy, violin major from Paris. May I know your name, mon ami?"
"N-nice to meet you, Francis." Matthew ducked his head. "I'm Matthew Williams. I'm a photography major, from Canada. Bonjour."
"Ah… So you understand French?" Francis' eyes gleamed as he nodded approval of Matthew's pronunciation.
Matthew's blush darkened and spread. "A little," he mumbled. "But apparently my accent's really weird."
"Ah, no matter." Francis brushed it away as unimportant. "We will speak English 'ere. C'est bon. Now, you were saying something about an F sharp…?"
Matthew nodded hesitantly, pointing out the indicated note. "My cousin plays the violin," he explained when the French student looked at him in askance. "I've heard this piece so many times, but it never gets old. Good music's like that, eh?"
"Hmm…" Francis tested out the new phrase, the pads of his fingers drumming softly against the wood of the instrument. He finally nodded. "I think it will work."
Matthew watched in amazement as music flowed from the small, curvy instrument in Francis' hands. When the older boy managed to cleanly bypass the trouble spot, he put down the violin and gathered Matthew up into an enthusiastic hug.
"Thank you, Mathieu," he murmured into an overwhelmed Matthew's ear. " 'ow can I repay you?"
"W-well…" Matthew could hardly believe his daring. "Can I listen to you practice? I've taken up so much of your time already…"
Francis chuckled, releasing the poor boy from his embrace. " 'ow could I refuse? You asked so… You are so… how do you say it… adorable!"
Matthew knew that word. His blush, which had been slowly fading, returned with a vengeance. "I'm going to miss listening to you when camp is over," he whispered. He squeaked when something slid into his back pocket.
Francis winked, letting his fingers linger as he withdrew his hand. "Call me when you get your phone back," he told the bright red boy, his voice full of all things suggestive. "France is not so far from Canada, yes?"
Unable to deal with such overwhelming pressure, Matthew fled. Francis grinned after him, wagging his fingers in a fond goodbye.
After all, he would be back tomorrow.
Haha, who am I kidding? I don't know the first thing about geography. I really have no idea how easy or hard it is to get from France to Canada or the other way around. Ah, well.
Tell me what you think?