Thank you for reviewing and this is chapter 11! I'm…almost certain….not really….
ANYWAYS! This is from Francis' POV so…yeah….i don't know what warnings to put but….you should be warned…
"Seems that I have been held, in some dreaming state
A tourist in the waking world, never quite awake
No kiss, no gentle word could wake me from this slumber
Until I realize that it was you who held me under
Felt it in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids
Shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs
No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone
No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden
No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love
No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love
No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world"
~Blinding by Florence and the Machine
Francis was French; therefore, logic dictated he was the master of l'amour. That didn't mean he wasn't wasn't aware of his own stupidity.
It made him happy to see Gilbert, once again, filled with life. He couldn't help but laugh everytime Gilbert said "awesome" or disrupted many of the classes the albino had with him. And Francis couldn't help but grin whenever he saw the new lovers together. Rather it was descretely holding hands, watching each other walk to their next class or giving the other a quick kiss in greeting. Don't get Francis wrong, he was happy for them. He was happy that they were happy.
But sometimes, for some unknown reason, he really wanted to take their happiness and shove it up their ass. Looking back on it, Francis saw how obvious it was, but, apparently, the French could be victims of denial, as well.
At the time, though, he was confused. The day he finally came out of his denial was actually one day in January, almost a month after Gilbert and Matthew had officially been made an item.
Francis was getting his books together, preparing to leave school and be assaulted by snow, and throwing on his grey winter jacket. Why is January so much colder than December?! He saw Matthew in Gilbert's arms, kissing right outside the classroom he was supposed to go in for tutoring. Matthew was a tutor. Francis grinned, also feeling violently ill, until he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.
The principle was walking down the hall. He was notorious for his hatred of homosexuality. If he came down the hallway and a couple was making out –mainly obsessive Berwald pinning poor Tino to the lockers, or horny Feliks that always looked ready to let Toris fuck him in the hallways and last year when Yao was a high school Senior and Ivan a Junior –they would immediately separate. If caught, they'd get a "talking to" about why it was wrong and a phone call would be sent home. Mr. Newman said it was because PDA wasn't allowed in school, but he never reacted harshly when a couple like Rodrich and Liz were –basically –all over each other.
To many people these phone calls didn't matter. Berwald and Tino's parents knew they'd eventually hook up and even had a bet going at one point about when they'd officially get together, Mr. Vargas was bisexual and was completely comfortable having two gay grandsons, Mr. Beilschmidt just didn't care, Feliks' aunt was a hippie and believed in free love and Ivan and Yao's parents were always away on business or trips.
To others, it was a big deal. Antonio's parents hated homosexuality but had resigned themselves to the fact their son was totally gay for a certain feisty Italian, Lukas and Emil's mother was a homophobe with a crack addiction, Matthias got into fist fights with his step-father about dating Lukas and, if Yao's father did happen to be home and get a phone call, Yao and his father would scream at each other –in both English and Chinese –and it could be heard by almost every one of their neighbors. Then…there was Mr. Jones, who took the cake of crappy father of the generation. He was crappier than Francis' own father, who left Francine once the ass found out he had knocked her up.
Alfred and Matthew had never been caught kissing a man but…if they did…it'd get ugly. Mr. Newman was coming from behind Matthew so the blonde couldn't see. And Gilbert didn't care.
"Mon cher, why don't you go to tutoring, hmm?" he said quickly approaching them, wrapping an arm around the albino's neck and pulling him back.
He followed Francis' eyes, turning around and paling. "O-Oui," Matthew said looking grateful as he took a step back, "I'll go do that." The blonde gave his boyfriend a reassuring smile before quickly ducking into the classroom.
"Boys, what are you doing?" Mr. Newman snapped glaring at Francis and Gilbert.
"There are zome lovely filles in there, non?" Francis smirked, beginning to tug the albino to his still open locker, "Oh, mon mère zays 'bonjour'."
Mr. Newman blushed; remembering the beautiful French woman with her heart shaped face, long eyelashes, big, ocean blue eyes, pouting lips and long, honey colored hair. He compared her to his own wife, who had greying hair, crow's feet and sagging breasts. Quickly, he walked away least Francis figure out his perverted, sinful thoughts.
But Francis already knew Mr. Newman had a… "crush" on his mother. His mother, though, was creeped out by the older man's constant staring.
"Vhat ze Hell? Are you seriously trying to cock-block me?" Gilbert yelled gaining odd looks from teachers and other students.
The blonde gave him a scolding look, slipping his Pre-Cal book into his purple backpack. "Of course not, don't be stupid! Besides, I know 'im well enough to know your… 'cock' 'as gotten no where near 'im."
"I'm French, I am a genius."
"…Vhat ze Hell vas zhat?"
Francis sighed, zipping his school bag closed and slipping it over both of his shoulders. "Look, Gil, be careful wizh 'ow you go about PDA," he warned seriously, "You don't know w'at will 'appen to 'im."
"Vhat? It can't be zhat bad."
Of course. He didn't want to tell you… "On Sunday, eleven AM, go to this address" –taking a pen from the pocket of his winter coat, he scribbled an address on Gilbert's hand –"you'll understand."
"Nein! I don't vant to vake up zhat-!"
"Do zhis for Matthieu, Gilbert!" Francis snapped, his accent thicker in his anger. He cleared his throat at Gilbert's shocked look, blushing. "I care about 'im, mon ami," he said quietly, running a hand through his hair anxiously, "I…I 'aven't been able to protect 'im like 'e deserves. Zo just…trust moi. Go to zhis address and wear a wig and contacts." With that, he closed his locker and walked down the hall.
I'll leave it up to him…
Francis had to walk pass to room 205 in order to get outside. He was about to walk right passed it, too, when someone suddenly charged from the room, barreling right into him. Francis, being the tall, toned Frenchman he was, didn't move. He just looked down in shock at the person sitting on the ground.
A cute, British person.
"A-Angleterre?" he asked, shocked, until he noticed the tear stained cheeks and puffy eyes, he began to panic. "Ar-Arzhur? Are you alright? W'at ze 'ell was zhat all about?!"
The Brit shook his head, refusing to speak as Francis helped him to his feet.
"…I'll 'elp you to your locker," he decided, knowing that it was in a part of the "I" shaped school hardly anyone ventured to.
Only two other people were by Arthur's locker, Emil and Leon, two Sophomores that would mind their own business. The Brit looked numb, devoid of feeling, as he put in his combination on the lock.
"Emil, this is, like, so stupid," Francis over heard Leon whisper.
"Shut up! Not now!" the pale haired boy hissed as he packed his stuff into his book bag.
"Baby, you know my mom is, like, totally accepting of us."
Suddenly, Arthur opened his locker and hundreds of marigolds fell from his locker, onto the ground. Emil and Leon looked at them curiously, while Arthur looked at them with loathing creeping into his blank stare, until Arthur stepped on them to get to his locker. The blossoms were crushed beneath his combat boots, but the blonde, seemingly, didn't care or notice. He grabbed his worn satchel and began tossing books into it.
The Sophomores resumed their conversation.
"Yes, I know that, Leon," Emil snapped, "but she gossips! I don't want my mother to hear it and your father isn't exactly warm and cuddly towards me. And don't call me 'baby' in front of other people!"
"Why? Arthur knows your brother and Francis is, like, the biggest whore around."
Usually, comments like those didn't bother Francis. After all, what did they know? But, apparently, Arthur didn't think the same way.
"Don't you dare call him that, you wankers!" Arthur suddenly exploded, clutching his bag to his chest and eyes ignighting in anger.
"Arthur…" he breathed placing a hand on the smaller teen's shoulder, "Calm down."
"No!" the Brit's accent was thicker, his voice cracking, as he yelled. His big, green eyes were glassy and he clutched at Francis' blazer sleeve as he looked up at the taller male. "No! You shouldn't let twats say those things about you!" Arthur looked over his shoulder, glaring at the Sophomores. Emil was obviously frightened and trying, unsuccessfully, to hide it, while Leon just looked pissed. Wrapping his arm protectively around Emil's waist, Leon dragged him down the hall and gave Arthur a nasty look over his shoulder.
"Angleterre, w'at was that about?" the Frenchman exclaimed.
"They called you a whore!"
"I don't care, mon lapin," he said waving his hand as if to swat away the notion, "They don't know w'at they're talking about. It iz just name calling, rumors and gossip, don't get zo worked up-."
"Don't get worked up? Where is your bloody dignity?!" Arthur exclaimed cheeks pink in rage, "Don't you care that the boy with a crack whore for a mother thinks of you as trash? Don't you care that the boy with a father that hates him thinks you're pathetic?! (A/N: he's talking about Emil and Leon)Don't you…don't you…?" Suddenly, he turned away, brought his hands up to his face and sobbed into them.
Francis' mouth dropped open as he saw and heard him sob. What...just happened? "Arthur..." the Frenchman whispered, pulling his hands away from his face. Tears poured from Arthur's eyes, dripping off his chin, his cheeks and nose were red, snot was beginning to drip from his nose and he was taking hiccupping breaths. I should be disgusted, Francis mused, reaching in his coat pocket for a pocket sized package of Kleenex, but he is truly the most adorable, heart wrenching thing I have ever seen. " 'ere, mon ami," Francis said handing a tissue to the Brit, "Will you tell moi w'at iz wrong?"
He shook his head, holding the tissue to his nose and clenching his teeth. Arthur's body shook with the force of his sobs, sobs he refused to let anyone hear.
"Arthur, mon lapin-."
"D-Don't call me th-that!" the shorter male snapped, green eyes shockingly bright with sadness, anger and fear, "Pl-Please!"
"I'll continue to call you 'mon lapin' until you tell moi why you are in tears!" Francis hissed, taking a step forward and grabbing the Brit by the upper arms.
Arthur looked up at him, fear overriding all other emotion in his green eyes, before he let out a choked gasp and looked away. "D...Did you know I have brothers? And a sister?" he rasped and Francis' grip on his arms loosened.
"Non," Francis said, secretly glad the Brit hadn't pulled away, "You 'ave siblings?"
"Yes...my mother had a hard life before she became a police officer. She took many lovers who genuinely loved her but she didn't love them. Except my father. They wanted to marry but my mum was evicted from her apartment and they lost touch...she had three other sons and a daughter before me but I was the only one she kept..." Arthur looked up at the Frenchman, eyes cold, "Does the name 'Alaister' ring a bell?"
His body went still, the name was familiar. "I think zo... 'e may 'ave bought me coffee once."
Arthur nodded, stepping closer to the taller male. His arms wrapped around Arthur's shoulders and waist, holding the Brit comfortably close. "Five months after mother had me, Alaister's father died. He was a rich, Scottish business man and kept tabs on my mother to make sure she was alright. Alaister's father died in a car accident, hit by a drunk driver. M-Mum used to say Alaister wa-was the only five year old to have a tailored suit..." He broke down crying again, this time in Francis' chest.
He knew that the flood gates had opened for Arthur, that he was telling him his life story. Arthur's trusting me. "Let's go somewhere more private, mon cher," Francis said wiping the smaller male's tears with his thumbs.
The Brit whimpered, nodding and taking a step back, "L...Let's go to my house. No one's home."
Arthur gathered up his school supplies, snapping shut his satchel, and pulling on a brown peacoat and green knit scarf. They took Francis' simple, silver car since Arthur didn't have one. The Brit only spoke to give directions, mainly looking at his surroundings. The seats were made of off-black upholstery and it smelled like cigarettes, roses and cologne. There was a picture of the Bad Touch Trio at the beach sticking from the sun blinder by Francis and a rosary -made of clear white and pink beads with a silver crucifix at the end -hanging from the rear view mirror.
It didn't take long to get to the Brit's house. It was big, brick with white window frames, a white door, a white fence, ivy crawling up the left side of the mansion and square hedges on either side of the cement pathway leading to the front door.
Francis parked in front of the house, getting out quickly and opening the smaller teen's door, like a gentleman would for a lady. He blushed, making his way to the front door and keeping his eyes on the ground. After unlocking the front door, Arthur shyly grabbed Francis' hand and tugged him tot his room.
"You're very cute when you're being shy," Francis couldn't help saying. The blush on Arthur's face got redder and he punched the Frenchman in the arm.
When the door to his room was pushed open, he ducked his head down, "S-Sorry for the, um, mess." The room was the color of sea foam with oak wood floors and white painted, French doors leading to a balcony. He had a brass framed bed with dark green sheets and the English flag above it, two night stands, an antique, white dresser, a white vanity, rock posters on the walls, an over flowing ashtray and clothes scattered all over the place.
"W-Would you like some t-tea or...or coffee-?"
"Tea iz fine, mon lapin."
Arthur visibly flinched, remembering the conversation they had yet to finish, leaning over the banister and yelling, "Richard, may you please start making tea for two?" The Frenchman enjoyed the "view" -cough, cough, Arthur's ass, cough -for a moment, before quickly turning around and walking into Arthur's bedroom. He dumped the ashtray out into a small waste basket -that ashtray had seriously been starting to bother him -and took off his shoes before sitting cross legged on the unmade bed.
Arthur soon joined him, kicking his boots off in a corner with many other shoes; he sat on the bed, legs tucked under him and his side prompt up by the many pillows on the bed. The Brit looked visibly awkward and Francis had to smile.
"Now that we 'ave zome privacy," the Frenchman said moving his hand so his finger's brushed Arthur's hand, "we were talking about your brozher?"
He nodded, moving his hand discreetly so his hand was underneath Francis'. "A couple of months after Alaister moved in with us Dylan's father -a Welsh man who owned a sheep farm and was relatively well off -died from liver cancer. It seeped into the man's blood, ultimately killing him. Dylan was four. A year later, Seamus and Fiona came to live with us. They were three year old twins with a father in the IRA. Their father was killed and they were sent to live with their aunts and uncles; Seamus lived in Ireland with his father's brother while Fiona lived in North Ireland with her father's half sister...their parents were on a cruise together when it sank."
Francis squeezed the Brit's hand, giving him the support he needed to continue with the story.
"They used to bully me, they'd push me over, tug my hair, shove me, hit me and take my toys. They said I was unloved, that I'd never be loved. They...they hated me because mum kept me. I was hungry for her attention and so were they, but...I was a baby, Francis, I needed her!" Arthur slapped a hand over his eyes, taking a deep breath that was wet with suppressed sobs.
Francis laced their fingers together, silently giving Arthur strength.
"When I was four, a man got mum pregnant, but he was a military man; he had agreed to provide for her -for us -and she thought he was a good man. Until..." Arthur shook his head, appearing to try and rid himself of a horrible memory. "When I was eleven, she packed us up and moved back to London. By...By a stroke of luck she ran into my father a year ago. They got married and we moved to America since this is where my brothers and sister go to college."
"You're life 'as been zo complicated, sourcils," he said drawing the Brit closer and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, "But...why were you crying?"
Arthur blushed, hiding his face in Francis' shirt, his back pack and coat on a nearby chair. "My younger brother, Peter, is a Freshman," he explained, "He...He said he saw you and Alaister having coffee together. He s-said you would stop being friends with me because I'm nothing but an annoying, ugly, Limey bastard that can't cook for shit. And...and Alaister is Alaister with his ginger hair and charming" -this was said sarcastically -"Scottish accent."
"Angleterre..." the Frenchman said placing his hand beneath Arthur's chin and tilting his head up. His beautiful, green eyes shined, his cheeks were pink, his pouty lips glossy and his cute eyebrows were drawn together. "Arzhur, you are mon lapin. Not 'im. Never 'im and never anyone else."
Arthur blushed bright red, glancing towards the other's mouth and his eyes becoming glassy. "They tea should be ready..." he said pulling away hesitantly, eyes still on the other's lips, "I'll go see."
He watched the Brit slowly leave the room with a surprised expression. Francis swore on his mother's grave that, for a moment, Arthur had looked like he wanted to kiss him.
Before he could change his mind, Francis dialed his one friend with even more romantic bones in his body than Francis himself.
"Hola, Buenos tardes!"
"Toni!" Francis cheered, thankful that he wasn't busy, "I need your 'elp, mon ami!"
"I'm at Arzhur's 'ouse!"
"...Oh," Antonio said distastefully, "What do you need, then?"
"I-I need to know if...well...if-."
"Spit it out, amigo!" the Spaniard snapped, "Lovi's in el baño, he'll be out any second and I really want to make love to him~!"
" 'ow...sh-should I ask Arzhur out? On a date?"
For a nerve racking moment, Antonio was silent and Francis was afraid the Spaniard wouldn't answer him, due to his hatred for Arthur. He thought that, until he heard a weary sigh come from the other end of the line. "The way I see it...Arthur is like Lovino in some ways, although I hate to admit it. Both of them are stubborn," he said wisely, "I took a chance, asking Lovino to be mi novio but at least I know what to think around him, how to act, how much I can hug him. I know how Lovi feels about me and you have to do the same, amigo."
Francis took a deep breath, running a hand through his long, wavy, blonde hair and mentally preparing himself for a soul crippling rejection. "...Ok, ok. Merci, mon ami. 'ave fun wizh your little Italian."
"De nada, amigo," Antonio said and they both hung up their cell phones.
Almost thirty seconds later, Arthur appeared with tea and a package of cigarettes. "How do you take your tea?"
"Four sugars. Merci."
"No problem, Frog."
Francis smiled, relieved the old Arthur was coming back. He didn't hate the clingy, emotional, cuddly Arthur but it had seriously began to worry him. The blonde accepted the tea with a mocking, humble bow, looking out the window as he tentatively sipped the tea. "You 'ave a lovely view."
"It's better on the balcony," Arthur said hopping of the bed and looking at the other expectedly. Dutifully, Francis followed him, taking his cup of tea and the pack of cigarettes. He walked out of the French doors and gasped. The balcony looked out over a beautiful garden filled with fruit trees, vegetable and flowers. White roses crawled up the side of the house, clinging and twisting around the white guard rails. There was also a big oak tree close enough to climb onto.
"We can sit here," he said pointing to two chairs and a small, round table, a glass ashtray in the middle. They sat down and Arthur pointed to the balcony to the left of his. "That's Peter's room." He pointed to the right, "That's mum and dad's room. Fiona sleeps in the attic, Seamus sleeps in the basement and Alaister and Dylan have their own apartments."
"Do you zee them often?"
"Not so much. The four older ones are in college, Peter's always with friends or playing videogames in his room, mum is a police captain and my father is a lawyer." Arthur sighed, retrieving a cigarette, "They're all very bloody busy."
"W'at do you do then, Angleterre?" he asked, shocked that the Brit's family spent no time with him. Arthur was one of the most interesting people he had ever met!
"I play guitar, read and...and, um..."
"Arthur," Francis placed a hand on top of the Brit's, he smiled gently, "You know I won't judge you. I zhink...I think you're amazing, smart and interesting. I will never tire of 'earing you speak and talk about your interests, your life."
He blushed, looking down at his burning cigarette. "I...I write," the blonde admitted, swallowing thickly, "I...want to become a ro-romance writer and get my stories published. Become a respected author."
Francis stared at a blushing Brit as Arthur sipped his tea, uneasy. A sudden, unexpected smile appeared on the Frenchman's face and he grabbed Arthur by the shoulders. "Mon cher, zhat's amazing~!" Francis exclaimed, excitement and adoration making his accent thick, "Why didn't you tell moi this before?!"
"You...You think it's-it's cool?"
"Of course! Do you realize 'ow- 'ow awesome that iz? You are an artist, a genius!"
Arthur blushed, smiling bashfully and giggling.
I've never heard him do that...it's really cute. "Your laugh iz adorable, mon ami," Francis chuckled, a flirtatious smirk playing at the corners of his lips, "W'at can I do to make you giggle like zhat again?"
He tried to look serious but he kept on smiling. "I don't giggle, Frog," he said stroking Francis' hand with his fingertips flirtatiously. "Try all you want, I doubt you'll be able to do it."
Chuckling, Francis stood and walked towards the Brit with an overly flamboyant and dramatic swagger. Arthur pressed a hand to his mouth as the other flipped his long, blonde hair over his shoulder and batted his eyelashes.
"Hello, there," Francis greeted lowering his voice and slowing it down, so it resembled Alfred's American accent, "Come 'ere often?"
Arthur's eyes widened and he fought the laughter bubbling in his throat. "I...live...here...?" he sputtered, lips twitching as he tried to control himself.
"HAHAHAHA!" Francis placed his hands on his hips, threw his head back and copied the American's obnoxious laugh, "Oh, really?"
Arthur slammed his hands over his mouth, shoulder shaking and eyes tearing up as he nodded. "Y-You sound ins-insane!" he hissed, voice strained with suppressed laughter.
"Zo mean~!" the taller male pouted, exactly like Alfred would, "Hey, Arthur, are you from Tennessee?"
"Cause you're the only ten I see!"
Arthur burst into a fit of giggles, the shitty pick up line his undoing. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking down his cheeks, and he clutched his stomach. The Brit was laughing the hardest he had ever laughed; he was so distracted that he forgot what happened when he laughed really hard. Soon enough, it happened. Mid giggle, he snorted. Immediately, he realized what happened and slapped his hand over his mouth and nose, red faced and embarrassed.
Francis paused his laughter, blinking in shock at the adorable little sound. "Why are you covering your face?" he asked blushing slightly and smiling gently, "Zhat was adorable, lapin."
He looked away, eyes half closed and feeling guilty.
"Arthur? May I…May I ask you a serious question?"
The Brit lowered his hand slowly, curiosity in his eyes. "You may…"
Francis dropped to both knees beside the chair the smaller teen was sitting in. He took Arthur's hands, kissing the knuckles adoringly. "You 'ave bewitched moi," he said closing his eyes and pressing his face to Arthur's hands, "Every day I'm excited to zee you, to zee zhat charming smirk, zhose adorable eyebrows. I look forward to our fights, our jokes, our teasing. You are w'at I look forward to everyday." When Francis opened his eyes and looked up at him, his blue eyes were intent and imploring, questioning. "Go on a date wizh…with moi. Pl-Please?"
The look Francis gave him was nothing like Alfred's looks. Alfred's eyes were always begging and a bit manic. Arthur felt suffocated and afraid, he felt as if the American might do something drastic. But…Francis looked at him…it was as if Francis was exposing his soul to the Brit and was still, simply, asking Arthur to make the next move. It wasn't a challenge, simply a question. He was letting Arthur know that it wasn't his choice, it was the Brit's.
"Of-Of course I will…" he scoffed, blushing and looking away, "You wanker, be happy that you're the only one around that knows how to woo properly."
The smile on Francis' face was filled with pure happiness, and Arthur couldn't help but smile back. Francis pulled him down into a hug, raining kisses all over his face –avoiding his lips –and the Brit let him.
PHEW! Ok, so, I have a feeling that sucked. I had no idea how to organize this but I HAD to put this in here…it is essential to the plot
ANYWAYS! Despite how horribly organized this was, I hope you like this! Please continue to review, right now (in the story) it's kinda calm but there will be drama soon…? Maybe…I really don't know
Mr. Newman (OC)
Fiona (North Ireland)
Leon (Hong Kong)
Remember to review! PLEASE!