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A Lover's Creation - Chapter 2 - ScotFran AU

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A Lover's Creation

He never did call back. The Frenchman had made sure that during his first night from the Scotsman, that his mobile phone was on its loudest setting placed safely beside him and his fidgeting fingers that painted spirals, splashes and twirls into the canvas below them, his enthusiasm sparkling brighter than before as those vibrant colours burst to life, sprouting with emotions and messages that only the Frenchman truly understood. But as the day soon faded into the darkened night, so too did Francis' memory of the intriguing Scot.

But none the less Francis continued on his life, soon forgetting the whole ordeal that occurred in that hot London summer. His mind far more preoccupied on his more complex artwork, as even though Scott might have slipped away from the Frenchman's mind, his dazzling words were firmly etched into his artist ways.

It was from that, that helped Francis sell his replicated painting for a hefty sum of Euros, which even though the world had talked of the tiny coin's great demise, the Frenchman was none the less as pleased as punch to be living in the lap of luxury with his Canadian son, who was unfortunately adopted by the slimy frog according to Francis' arch rival Arthur Kirkland.

Now by this time in Francis's diverted path, his son hadn't played much of a role in the final creation of what was to be. However, as this tale will unfold you'll come to realise how his usual faint presence will indefinitely make or break the Frenchman.

".. Papa?.. Papa..réveiller.. nous allons être en retard pour l'avion" (..Papa?..Papa..wake up.. we'll be late for the plane!), his son frantically spoke, shaking Francis' shoulders as his violets flicker to his father's awaking eyes, a groan slipping from his lips in response to the shimmering rays of golden sunlight that escaped past the buttercup curtains and blinded the Frenchman, who slowly raised a hand allowing his eyes to blink back to his Canadian boy.

"Papa!" the Canadian sighed in relief at his awoken father, gradually pulling himself up from his huddled position next to the leather sofa in which Francis had slept on for a quick nap, which when Francis gazed up to the steady ticking clock, had elongated into an eight hour sleep.

"Desole! Desole mon petit Mathieu~ Papa avait besoin de son sommeil de beaute, pendant qu'il attendait pour tu de revenir au l'Université… As-tu trouve tout ce qu'il tu faut?"(Sorry! Sorry mon little Mathew~  Papa needed 'is beauty sleep, while waiting for you to get back from ze University… Did you find everyzing?), Francis asked his busy son, who rushed about the room in a flurry of white and brown fur. His honey locks springing in action as Matthew runs up the Frenchman's stairs, his usual faint footsteps of his presence barely audible over Francis' yawns.

As you see, Francis was never a morning person. Much preferring to stay in his plump bed and snuggle up into his luxurious covers than have to give into the penetrating light of the day and waken himself from his warm haven.

Although the Frenchman was soon to be disturbed from his second attempt of a snooze as a monstrous bang of something invaluable, Francis hoped, went and thudded onto the floor above, awakening the Frenchman from his clouded thoughts.

"Matheiu!? Mathieu?! Que es tu fais là-haut?"(Mathew! Mathew! What are you doing up zere?), Francis questions, his thin brows furrowing as he huffs at the thought of his son having knocked over one of the priceless vases he bought whilst visiting his cousins in Italy. Their fine hand crafted detail had cost the Frenchman a fortune, but no matter. In Francis' mind every purchase he had ever made was to express his fashion, his feelings and his own public image.

Of course his rising fame had recently become the catalyst of his consistently changing appearances. As Francis always said, you can not be truly famous wearing the same outfit every day.

"Rien Papa, j'ai juste cogné par-dessus les livres scolaires anciens du Lycée, il n'y a rien de grand!" (Nothing Papa, I I just knocked over the old school books of the school, It was nothing big!), cried Mathieu, sighing in relief at the pause of his father downstairs as he gradually places the vase back into its original position, before dipping down into his pocket to reveal the culprit who's form stuck out from the Canadian's coat and caused the vase to fall in the first place. "Kumaiji!" Mathieu whined at the toy within his grasp, his fingers softly stroking its battered fur that had seen better years of his childhood. The worn toy still smiling as cheerful as the day Mathieu remembered receiving him, unwrapping all of Francis's fancy bows and extraordinary wrapping to reveal, a plush little polar bear awaiting his heart felt love.

A nostalgic smile formed to his lips as his fingers firmly pressed against the polar bear's tummy, just like he used to do. In which the shy polar bear croaked out in its greying age, "Who?". rolling his head forward in dismay, the Canadian huffed much like his father, as he had often been reminded by his Welsh uncle who commented when father and son had been put side by side the both of them looked identical in their frustration, the same puffed out cheeks, gritted teeth and a knitted brow that could never be taken seriously.

"C'est Mathieu!", the Canadian called out in self pity forgetting about the bear's old age. As around the third year of the bear's arrival to the Bonnefoy family, the quiet message of his father's simple "I love you" had unfortunately been degraded into a less audible "you" before finally battered into a feeble question of, "Who?".

But none the less the Canadian loved his old friend who had accompanied him since he was small. As his needed security blanket, comforting him through the nights when Francis was off working hard on whatever job the Frenchman could find his hands on. As a loyal friend who gave him courage to stand up against the school bullies and most of all, that degraded old bear served as a gentle reminder for all the Frenchman had done for him. Mathieu's mind drifting back at the thought, taken to a time much younger than now, about nine years back on a very damp and rainy February night.

"Je vous ai dit l'Angleterre!, Vous n'auriez pas jamais eu votre art de gagne dans le concours d'art. Vous ne devriez pas avoir utilisé votre poésie influencée par votre ... nouveau style" (I told you England!, Your art would 'ave never won in an art competition. You shouldn't 'ave used your poetry influenced by your ... new style) jabbed rather French voice which echoed through the lonely backstreets of Paris, the pavements grey and miserable like the feelings of the city when rain came to cloud the evening skies. In which covered two twin orphans abandoned and surviving between themselves, as they raised their damp heads, their childish curiosity deafening their growling stomachs as their little eyes peered into the darkness of the echoing street. Straining their eyes from the dingy lit setting trying to make out the stranger's face. Their fragile bodies slowly unfolding, pulling up as they wait for their next meal from the kindness of this stranger's heart.

The older twin's stomach grumbling impatiently for the stranger's arrival, the younger shushing him, quickly whispering in his horse voice, dry and rough like sandpaper against his throat, reminding him of the many days without any water to drink.

"Shhh Alfie, or else your stomach will scare them"

"But Matt!" Alfie cried, cradling his empty stomach as it's whines echoed down the narrow gaps of passages within the tired city. "I'm really hungry… like really really really hungry",Alfie moaned in which his twin shushes him once again, sending him into a huff in retaliation.

"Ssh-Shut up frog face! Like you did any better with your block painting? It looked more like something Patrick threw up" another more strict and stern voice boomed frustrated at the Frenchman, the twins both jumped in surprise before they grinned smugly to one another. Knowing silently that their chances for a meal have now become doubled in success.

"Vomi!?! Mon Dieu J'espère que vous ne dites pas que mon travail a été jeter par un des membres de votre malheureux famille"(Vomitted!?! My God I 'ope you are not saying zat my work 'as been zrown up by a member of your un'appy family") , Francis huffs, thankful that all his time being stuck as this guy's neighbour had helped him become an expert in understanding the tired words bellowing from the Englishman.

"Why Yes! Yes I do frenchie"

Matt raised a soft golden brow as his curtained locks flounced in movement, turning around to Alfie surprised, who looks back just as confused, the pair of them wondering if the two men were just two friends arguing or enemies fighting their opinions as the voices increase louder and louder, causing the ever growing curiosity of the twins to peak at as the conversation grew.

"Batard!"
"Snail eater!"
"Rosbif"
"Surrender monkey"

The twins finally spotted the pair appearing into the pale lamp light that shone down, to reveal the men in a rather violent discussion. The gentleman with a thick French accent had a hand pulled down on the other man's ear, the other man's sandy blonde mop now blending into the snow crisp skin of his now aching ear. Matt winced at the sight of the two, as they continue their struggle allowing the Englishman's arm to loop around the other's neck colouring the Frenchman's face a tinge of violet blue.

The two spiralling into a violent fight as soon enough the pair of men send all limbs flying into action, like two forces of greatness driving for survival. Only causing the orphaned twins to stare in bewilderment at the odd sight before them. A sturdy leg jabbed into the Englishman's stomach as he swung a pale fist in retaliation connecting in a vengeful motion to the Frenchman's tanned jaw. Even as the seconds turned into minutes, the two panting recklessly, snatching any oxygen to fuel their fighting spirits, their gazes piercing through their souls in icy glares, circling around one another in a predatorial dance their heartbeats racing, pulsating for their certain victory.

Taking a gulp of saliva, as without warning the two ran towards each other, the twins now in a state of panic their feelings of concern for the men's health growing with every strike, their emotions finally getting the better of them as they rush into the scene.

Alfie soon puffing out his chest, arms crossed as he grinned playfully standing right in the way of the teeth gritting Englishman, forcing him into a screeching halt. Matt in turn putting out his hands spread out wide in a kind and gentle action to stop the incoming Frenchman who notices his faint presence at the last moment and quickly diverts his path, gracefully stepping his motion to come to a stop beside the young Canadian.

"What are on earth are you doing?!" Matt whispered softly, unlike the annoyed expression on his face, which glared into the stare of the Frenchman's befuddled look until it melts, as the concern in those sea blues shine, opening his mouth as he steps closer, his hands raising up to stroke through those glossy curls.

"Good gracious, my dear lad, Why on earth would you run out into the way of us! You could have been seriously harmed!" the Englishman shot out to Alfie still stood in his way, before he deflates sighing in relief for the two boys safety. His thick heavy brows unknotted in their relaxation as they suddenly perk the interest of Alfie, mesmerising him with his childish curiosity, cooing in excitement as they wiggle about.

"Arzur… Je pense que ces garçons nous disent d'arrêter" (Arzur… I zink zese boys are telling us to stop), the Frenchman explains, looking up from Matt, with his hand safely settled onto his shoulder. Matt smiling in response as through his rough red jumper the warmth of another melts through the knitted wool and warms his skin. "Isn't that right?" (Ce n'est pas ca vrai?) he asks, Matt starring deep into those watery blues as he nods gently. That is until Francis' happy expression soon shifts into concern noting the degraded appearance of both twins, kneeling down to the damp ground Francis raises his hands to Matt's shoulders, eyes shining in concern. "Dieu! mon fil! Comment avez-vous si maigre! Ne sont pas vos parents inquiets?" (God! my boy! 'ow 'ave you got so zin?! Aren't your parents worried?), Matt starred to the floor at the statement, unable to bring himself to admit the reality of their situation, moments of awkward silence passing until Alfie finally belts out his own answer in great volume compared to his quieter brother.

"Is he being mean to you Matt?" soon given a stand offish gaze, Francis gulps looking to Matt who shakes his head, his skeleton hands rubbing over the raw knuckles of his brother.

"Désolé Monsieur, mon frère et moi étions inquiets que vous alliez à s'entre-tuer eh?… nous sorte de sauté et nous avons eu peur vous?"(Sorry Monsieur, me and my brother were worried you were going to kill each other eh?... we sort of jumped out and scared you both didn't we?)

"Nous a fait peur?" (Scared us?), Francis chuckles in response as he looks to Arthur's expression, his hand pulled up to ruffle through Matt's damp hair. "Non... Il faudrait beaucoup plus pour le faire ça... mais.."(Non.. It would take a lot more to do zat… mais..) The Frenchman pauses, to sway his look between Alfie and the Matt before sitting on his heels, his mind not even moved by the dampening around his knees that rub against the polished surface of the cobbles below him. "Je dois demander.. où sont tes parents?.." (I 'ave to ask.. Where are your parents?..), once again the twins fall silent as Arthur clears his throat the sound cutting through the silence like a sharp blade.

"You.. You do have parents right lads?..", the Englishman asks sheepishly when both twins start to shake their frail heads, in which both men look to one another, until Francis sweetly speaks up.

"Juste .. attendre ici un moment mes cheries, moi et mon ... euh ...mon collègue besoin de parler"(Just… wait 'ere a moment my dears, me and my…err.. my colleague need to talk)

"W..What ..What are you doing you unsanitary frog! Let me down this instant" Arthur cries, flailing about in Francis' hold as the Frenchman's arm is placed firmly around his chest, his feet dragged against the rigid stones below them as the Frenchman drops the Englishman by the lamp light, a far enough distance so that the twins can not hear their whispering.

"Arzur! Nous devons aider ces enfants!.. Regardez-les, ils ne sont rien, mais la peau et les os" (Arzur! We should 'elp zese children!.. Look at zem zey are nozing mais skin and bones!), Francis pleas out in his hushed tone, his blues dart to the confused twins that stare back to the pair of adults and then to themselves, still as clueless as before.

"It's not in our place to pick up some random children!, I mean for god's sake! you and I both know how dangerous it is helping out strangers around this part of Paris!"

"Mais Arzur! Regardez-les... pouvez-vous pas voir qu'ils ont besoin de nous" (Mais Arzur! Look at zem… can you not see zat zey need us), Arthur still not wavered by the Frenchman's pleas, as he huffs in frustration, thinking about the situation until, like a flash of lightening he has an brilliant idea formed within his mind and shortly begins in setting it into action.

"Vous vous souvenez? Aime ton prochain comme toi-même?... L'histoire du bon Samaritain, Comment Jésus se tourna un peu dans un grand nombre, la générosité de Moïse comme il---" (Ohh~ Azur… remember? Love zy neighbour like yourself?... Ze story of ze good Samaritan, 'ow Jesus turned little into many, Ze generosity of Moses as 'e---)

"Alright! I get it I get it you idiot!... Geez you and your bible reading" Arthur rolls his eyes, as Francis' puppy eyes glisten in sadness, their gaze pooling disheartenment into the Englishman as he sighs once more, brows furrowing together, but a gentle smile to his face as he glances to the side. "Fine… but you better have a plan on how to help them, or so be it Mrs Landlord will yell at us again!"

Francis chuckling at Arthur's words, nodding sweetly as he twirled in an elegant fashion back to the orphaned brothers, a charming smile to his jaw as he places his hands on each twin. "Mes Cheries, Moi et Arzur ont un proposition  peu pour vous deux" (My dears, Me and Arzur 'ave a little proposition for you two), Alfie raises a brow as he looks to Matthew and tilts his head, a perplexed look on his face.

"Matt..W..What's he saying?", Francis' dropped his head in defeat, that response had definitely been uncalled for the Frenchman whines, his fists balling up into disheartened annoyance, biting his lip as he asks within the depths of his mind, Why oh Why are English speakers never bilingual like the rest of us Europeans?, that is, until Matt speaks up, causing Francis' anger to be drowned.

"He said that he's got a preposition for us", Francis' face lit up like a firework as he nods, already finding himself enjoying the younger twins company, whilst Arthur who had watched the scene from afar, still brushing himself off finally makes his way over to the group, intending to make the difference in languages simpler.

"Oh Boy! An Preposition.. I love prepositions… err… Matt.. what's a Preposition?", Alfie once again asks, his brother sighing with a gentle smile about to croak out in his horse voice when Arthur stands in, tilting his head down as he proudly regurgitates his own profound knowledge of the dictionary.

"Preposition my dear boy, is a simply logically meaning in which a word used before a noun in which comes from the late fourteenth century Latin praepositiō , meaning, a putting before, from pōnere  to place"

Arthur now looking incredibly proud of himself as he looks about, hoping to see the glimmering knowledge brewing from his audience.. only to find Francis and Matt conversing in French, mostly frantic questions from Francis who asks how the orphan had been learning French and for how long, leaving the Englishman to crumple up onto the floor sighing in defeat as he wears a lonely forgotten expression. "Fine.. I can take a sodding hint.."

"W..Wow mister… I..I don't know what you said but that was awesome! Tell me another word!" Alfie cries out in excitement, his eyes dazzling at Arthur's endless tale as he finally removes his head from his knees, starring pink eyed at this boy, who gifts him with a contagious smile, bemusing Arthur into soft chuckles of laughter.

"R..Really?.. You find my words.. interesting?", the Englishman asks, only to be rewarded with another over enthusiastic response in the form of a nod, as soon enough the Englishman is back to his feet, a hand running through his dirty mop of blond flicks as he grins down to Alfie.

"Why I could tell you endless amou---"

"Arzur!... vraiment? .. vous etes allez portait le pauvre garçon comme ça?" (Arzur!... really?.. you are going to bore ze poor boy like zat?), Francis plainly jabs out, causing the Englishman to grunt and grit his teeth as a vein pulsed beneath his skin in annoyance at being so rudely cut of, but the Frenchman simply ignores him and continues on with his fluent words. "Mais comme je le disais, ma sœur dirige un orphelinat près d'ici, il est obtenu lits chauds et des plats chauds et même une école à proximité"(But as I said, my sister runs an Orphanage close to 'ere, it 'as got warm beds and 'ot food and even a school close by)

Both twins blink in confusion as they wonder, their hearts fluttering at the thought of.. an Orphanage, a cozy place to sleep at night, the worries of night thieves and muggers all erased from mind, and the touch and smell the sight and the sound of a warm plate of food put in front of their mouths, no begging no fighting, just a bowl of food which was theirs and only theirs, both orphans licked their dry lips in delicious thoughts, stomachs groaning in unison as the Frenchman chuckles.

"Dois-je prendre cela comme un oui?" (Shall I take zat as a Oui?)The Frenchman coos playfully, both twins shying as their cheeks flushed pink in embarrassment, even Arthur chuckling at the image as he looks to Alfie who turns and whispers to Matt using his grubby hand to quieten his voice for his listener, who nodded furiously at his question, enlightening Alfie's face in return turning back to Francis as he salutes Francis with his battered sleeves of his hoodie falling down to show his blackened skin.

"It.. It be a real honour Mister if you let us stay there!"

"Non mon cher .. l'honneur serait tout à moi" (Non my dear.. ze 'onour is all mine), Francis nods gently and proceeds in placing out a hand to Matt, in turn Arthur offers his own pale hand to Alfie the twins smiling in joy at finally being rescued from the back streets of Paris, thankful to these two men who were to change their lives, although a lingering thought clouded Matt's mind, causing him to stop as he peers up at Francis and asks once more.

"S'il vous plaît Monsieur.. q.. quel est ton nom?" (Please Sir.. Wh..what's your name?), his violet amethysts glittering like the stars above as Francis warmly replies, the warmth of his hand spreading through into Matt's as his smile soon grows in size like the beating in his heart as his angelic expression soon catches up in warmth with Francis'.  

"Mon nom?... Mon petit.. Mon nom est Francis Bonnefoy, artiste de renom et le génial partenaire de l'amour"(My name?.... My petit.. My name is Francis Bonnefoy, renowned artist and ze great lover of love)


And that was how Matt, had come to be Mathieu. As the Canadian fondly remembers of how Francis and Arthur had regularly visited him and his twin throughout the year, taking them for walks through the glistening spring parks of March, played on the warm sunny beaches of the July Summer, watched the oranges and browns of Autumn slowly frost into the snowflakes of Winter. It had truly been a magical year for the brothers, until Arthur turned eighteen.

Mathieu sighs at the thought his fingers brushed gently against the polar bear within his hands as he gazes at the paintings his adopted father had painted for him. It had happened due to an argument over a simple painting, one that painted a little Matt and Alfie holding hands. Unfortunately during his birthday celebrations, Arthur had drunk one too many of his famous Ales, and stumbled his crooked way to the art studio where Francis' works lay defenceless and displayed for Arthur's clouded eyes.

When Francis had found out that a fire had started in his studio, he ran straight there with the speed of a thousand men. Only to come face to face with the fiery inferno of what used to be his perfect haven, crumpling to his knees, Matt remembers it was the only time he saw his Papa cry. And so the next day came, with Francis and Arthur shooting razor sharp words at one another, until Francis lost it, picking up Mathieu and finally adopting him, as he took him away to Canada, the Frenchman sick of his home country as he became determined to make his name famous in the world of Art.

"Mathieu!? Mathieu!? Qui es tu parler?" (Mathew! Mathew! Who are you talking to?), Francis asks, finally appearing from the stairs as he peers into his bedroom finding the Canadian starring at his wrapped up artworks, a nostalgic smile to his face as he makes his way over and slowly embraces Mathew into a hug. "Je sais mon petit ange"(I know my little angel), he soothes in a honey soft voice, his hands slowly guided Matthew down so his hair can be stroked, as the Canadian lets out a soft sigh.

"M..Merci Beaucoup P.P..Papa" he whispers out, smiling in gentle joy as another feathery finger combs through his locks.

Soon the pair separating as they sort out the bags, suitcases and paintings into the back of Francis' Lotus, Mathieu wincing as he hears the groaning of the car's structure against the three suitcases Francis had packed, but as he reminded himself that his father always did enjoy showing off his wardrobe to the masses of fans and paparazzi keen to capture his good side. "Eh.. P..papa comment l'idée de quitter l'un des dessins?" (Eh.. P..papa how about leaving one of the drawings?) , Matthew asks as the cramped car squeaked and moaned under the load of its luggage, a sheepish laugh leaving the Canadian's lips as his hand scratched nervously at the back of his head.

"…" Francis jaw hanging in shock of Matthew's statement who quickly waves his hands, flushed and quickly interjects.

"..Ne vous inquiétez pas Papa .. Je vais .. Je vais prendre un de mes boîtes.. Eh?" (.. Do not worry Papa… I'll… I'll move one of my boxes.. eh?), rushing his laughter as he pulls out his box of hockey trophies he was to show his Uncle, but noticing his fathers look he quickly pushes them back into the house. A sigh in relief at the car jittering into life, the engine waking up into the warmth of life as Matthew makes his way, thankful for stopping his father before he gave the Canadian another of his famous rants about how important the works of his art were.

With a roar of the vehicles engine the two shoot off down the roads of icy Canada, the white scenery freezing the thinly clothed Frenchman, as his adopted son shakes his head defeated. Pulling out his extra fur lined coat and places it to his father's lap, sighing in relief as Francis no longer looks as if he's in a violent battle deciding whether to turn up the plentiful heating or to produce further amounts of carbon dioxide in which would cause even more little polar bears to be unable to make it this year. As you see whilst Mathieu had lived with his father for these eight years, the Frenchman's habit of being eco friendly had never ceased to amuse him, as even in dire situations like this the Frenchman would rather freeze than harm others, it was something the Canadian wondered if only he himself knew of his Papa's caring nature.

"Mathieu… Avons-nous besoin de la prochaine à gauche?" (Matthew… Do we need ze next left?)

"Non.. Err.. Oui..", The Canadian hurried his words, his eyes frantically trying to pin point their location on his folded up map as he finally spots their junction and interjects as quickly as he had in his life, "Oui! Papa!!! Nous avons besoin de celui-ci!" (Yes! Papa!! We need this one!), Mathews face suddenly dropping as he realises what he's done, as with a violent swerve the Frenchman sends the car into an almost u turn through the left, Mathew's stomach swirling in horror as Francis puts the pedal under weight the two of them shooting down towards the highway, as the Canadian sinks down in his chair, feeling the sickening bubbles of his breakfast making their way up.

"Merci Mathieu~ <3" Francis coos out, not even phased by his speed or driving as his son pulls himself up in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of his brown suede glove as he tries to nicely ask. "P..Papa…S'il vous plaît ... un peu plus lent?" (P..Papa…please… a little slower?), his son pleas to Francis' ears who takes his eyes from the blurring road to notice his sons frail complexion, and eased the pressure behind his accelerating foot.

"Ah.. Desole Mathieu.. J'ai oublié tu n'aimes pas conduire vite" (Ah.. Desole Mathew.. I forgot zat you do not like driving fast), a gentle smile coming from the Canadian as his eyes look up to the traffic ahead, before his jaw dropped in shock, as he yelps.

"P..PAPAAAAA!", Francis eyes looking up to realise they're on the wrong side of the road, a car heading straight for them causing Francis to once again drift with great motion, the gravity on the Canadian causing him to gag on the feeling of his breakfast making its quick way up. This.. the Canadian thought, was going to be a painfully long trip.

It was then after a daring few hours with Francis at the wheel, and his son painfully reminded of the reason why only he drives his father's hardly used car, as he unfortunately reacquainted himself with the vomited entrails of his morning waffles.

"Papaaaaaaaaa!!!!" Mathieu groaned to the Frenchman, his hands finally touching the firm leather of his father's car wheel, a fleeting thought running through his mind, as his foot pressed against the accelerator, in which he wondered why his Papa even bothered to purchase this pristine Toyota Lotus when he was always more of a cyclist, but the saddening realisation dawns on him, that this was his father, if anything he most probably bought the car for its appearance to the media, not for its complex machinery.

None the less, both father and son soon drove out from the heavy traffic flow of the highway into the complex system circling the Quebec airport. The two men striding through in great rushes due to the hassle of finding a parking space that the Frenchman agreed with, both were shortly off onto their flight to London in England. Mathieu soon asleep as the plane finally stretched its wings and flew off into the evening sky, the day's troubles with listening to every beckoning command of his father soon grinded the Canadian down into a tired state. Not that Francis didn't notice this, as he smiled to the sleeping Canadian who's seat was drawn back and a white shawl draped over him as he slept. The sight blooming a smile to the Frenchman's lips leant over to his quiet son, and soon resting a goodnight kiss to his plump cheek, chuckling at Mathieu's sleepy retaliations of still being kissed by his Papa.

His smile however dropping as Francis puts his hand to his head, flashes of memories from the past shone before his eyes, his thoughts rapidly remembering a piercing heat scorching his skin, the scream of a woman and the slices of wood crushing under the burning weight. A greater sense of loss gripped him whilst the feeling of his heart dropping resounded through his chest. In all these actions, they came crashing down in a sudden fall to the Frenchman who continues in gazing straight at those closed eyelids before him.

" ..Non ..I.. Il suffit de penser à autre chose Francis" (..Non.. J.. Just zink of somezing else Francis), the Frenchman whispered to himself in an ushered tone his eyes glancing down to the laptop within his lap, as he sighs pushing the glaring screen closed as he looked out to the passenger window beside him, starring down to the fluffy tops of the grey clouds below. The sun's rays bouncing elegantly off them as they glow orange like the burning embers of a fire sat at home. The thought causing Francis' muscles to ripple at the cold air conditioning that began to penetrate through the weaving of his cotton shirt. An instinctive shudder in his seat as he quickly picks up the spare coat Mathieu brought, and instantly cuddles it around his form.

"Excuse me sir, would you like me to turn up the heating for you?", Francis' eyes glancing up to a seductive air hostess, who smiles sweetly to his curled up form, her platinum blonde hair falling down in twirling locks in which the Frenchman's eyes quickly climbed up to her rosy plump lips. A charming smile quickly shooting to his expression as he sits up straight taking her hand and placing a kiss to the back of it.

"Please ma cherie, I believe you can 'elp moi warm up~ <3", a lick to his lips as Francis' mind coos at the find before him, his skin definitely pricking for  the nearing thrills to occur on this interesting plane flight.

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"Rappelez-moi de vous botter le papa quand nous y arriverons, ses dessins à sa nouvelle maison sont la pire que j'ai jamais vu" (Remind me to kick your Dad when we get zere, 'is drawings to 'is new 'ouse are ze worst I 'ave ever seen), Francis huffs, dragging one of his smaller suitcases behind him, up towards the large family sized house that towered before him and Mathieu. A rather Victorian styled building with it's elegantly cast windows scowled down at the Frenchman, who shivers in response feeling the sensation of being watched.

"Calmez-vous Papa... Nous y sommes presque!" (Calm down Papa… We're almost there!), Mathew pleas his body straining underneath the multiple bags and suitcases, as he groaned at the feeling of a collapsed easel digging straight into his back.

However Mathew's words fell onto deaf ears, as the Frenchman's attention was taken by the glaring frame of the house. The porch of the rosewood extension stretching out its disgusted steps to the Frenchman who slowly climbed the creaking timbers that revolted against the indents of his soles. "Dieu ... j'ai oublié le goût d'Arzur dans les bâtiments" (God… I forgot Arzur's taste in buildings), Francis' spoke wincing at the howling wind that objected to his presence, roaring in fury as the Frenchman sheepishly laughs, quickening his strides to the front door in a greater panic of whatever force of nature wished to seek anger on his body.

"Papa! C.. Com .. Combien avez-vous dans ces valises?!??!?" (Papa….H..ho..how much do you have in these suitcases?!?)

"Oh ~ Juste assez pour les deux prochaines semaines ~ .. Vraiment Mathieu, tu n'aurais pas dû réalisée tout ce en une seule fois.." (Oh~ Just enough for ze next two weeks~.. Really Mathieu, you should not 'ave carried it all in one go..) a faint smile to Mathew's face, as he pants exhausted from the simple walk up from the car, but a thankful Francis soon turned on his heel and takes another of the suitcases off of Mathew's hands, who sighs in delight, the feeling of his blood soon returned to his fingers as he curiously wiggles them, before tracing his gaze up to the tapping toes of his father and soon catches up to his adopted father.

"Maintenant .. Mathieu me souviens ... peu importe ce qui se passe ton papa et dad t'aime beaucoup" (Now.. remember Mathieu… no matter what 'appens your Papa and Dad love you very much), Francis teasingly coos, in which Mathieu flushes and gently pushes a hand against the Frenchman's arm in response, as he smiled back to the playful Canadian and slowly extended his finger to press against the metal door bell before them, coated in iron rusting as the green of copper coating surrounding it looked worn with age and harsh weather. But before the Frenchman could investigate it further, the sounds of a figure inside are heard dropping something painful as sudden roars of curses and swearing erupt from inside the monstrous dwelling.

"..Q.. Qui pourrais ce sont?" (..W..Who could zat be?), the curious Frenchman asked, his face soon planted against the door, trying to peak in through the rectangular glass slotted into the oak frame, but sadly only the refracted colours of red, white and blue danced through the patterned glass causing Francis to huff in annoyance, wishing to investigate who it could be inside.

Of course whilst he and Arthur were still college friends, he'd heard all about Arthur's brothers through his endless rants and complaints about their behaviour to their baby brother. His mind reeling in the flashbacks, each brother's details replaying in his mind as he thinks of the second youngest, Rhys, Arthur's almost twin brother in both personality and physic as the Frenchman fondly remembers one interesting rugby game he played along side the defenceless Welshman. Of course his soft Welsh accent was nothing to be taken of his personality, as when angered his thick brows would furrow much like his younger brother's, making it hard for the Frenchman to tell the two apart.

Then came Arthur's second oldest, his rather loud and obnoxious Irish brother even if he was born underneath a different surname he certainly drank like a Kirkland as the Frenchman recalls one evening, him and Finnegan sat down to drink away the night, it didn't take long for the Frenchman to lose the Irishman to his Guinness and had to promptly leave him to his table dancing before the pub owner got them to pay for the expenses. As if memory served the Frenchman right, his thoughts now collected on the sounds of crying resounding through his mind as he once stayed around Finnegan's house during the rough times. Remembering that there was a much smaller red head found curled up in the Irishman's arms as Finnegan boasted of how his little brother would take on the world, making the McKingley name famous. Ah sweet memories the Frenchman thought, clearly not with reality as the heavy footsteps of a brother inside come striding closer to the Burgundy door.

"Err… P..Papa… Pa..paapa!", Mathieu asks, his father still starring dazed at the worn away door bell as he continues to think back. His mind flickering with day dreams as he thinks about Arthur's words telling him all about the oldest of the Englishman's brothers. The Frenchman having been unable to find out much about him, as the Kirkland's never did have a family picture together apart from one when Arthur was but a mere infant. Unfortunately he'd been told that his eldest no longer looked like the cute and charming self in that photo. Even after the Frenchman had tried to pester his Irish frienemy for more clues about this mysterious figure, he would often change the details claiming his eldest to be six foot on day and then shrinking him to 4 foot another, blonde curly locks flowing from his head and then another story later claiming his bald head shone like the sun.

It was enough to make the Frenchman quit in pestering and just imagine the figure himself, as the only things he had to go on where his Scottish heritage that he had gained whilst escaping to Glasgow for his University years, and his eyebrows, or at least the Frenchman had sketched him out to have those thick dark brows that everyone else of the Kirkland family wore. Perhaps he was incredibly muscular, muscles rippling as he swung a golf club striking the miniscule ball into a hole in one. Or it could be that, the Frenchman had him wrong instead being, a photographer who would only show his shy smile for him, his rugged looks toned down as he would blissfully snap tranquil photos of a flapping butterfly dancing across the swaying fields of grass.

Ah.. Yes the Frenchman thinks, feeling his body lift at the thought of such a perfect man, his mind in a trance as his playful thoughts already playing out how he would sweep this eldest brother off his feet, and encourage him to his plump bedroom. "P..Paapa!!!", Oh and then slowly remove his clothes ensuring to cover every inch of revealed skin in hot sticky kiss before trailing his mouth up to catch an unsuspecting nipple, "PA..Papaa!!!", and then finally his lips perched against his, he would then finally flip the poor moaning boy over and proceed to have his way with him. "..F.FRANCIS!!!".

"Hein?.. Oh….désolé Mathieu .. J'ai dû m'assoupir il.. désolé" (Huh?.... Oh.. sorry Mathieu.. I must 'ave dozed off zere.. Sorry), laughing sheepishly as Mathew tired sighs come flowing out, knowing exactly what that grin on his father's face means as he pulls out his little stuffed polar bear to help keep him sane for what events were to ensue. As his violets glance up, the firm oak door finally opening up into the unknown home showing a rather tall apron wearing red head. As Francis gracefully bowed to the stranger, and took a chalk white hand and gently pressed it to his lips. "Bon Matin Mon Petit Amo-----"

"Hulo ye here fur Arth---"

Both men stopping in their speeches as they stare at one another, Francis mind rolling back to last summer, a snide teacher splattering him in deep and insincere critiques, that five o'clock shadow that smugly smirked at his growing frustrations and then.. those eyes, those purest of forest green eyes that glistened like dazzling emeralds. All of a sudden those fleeting thoughts came to him, just as in turn did they come to the Scotsman as in unison, there expression change from gentle greeting to shock, their eyes connecting as they sang their first words from that long summer.

"Ye!"
"Vous!"
So.. As you might have guessed this is all set in an Alternative Universe than that of Hetalia, where France is an artist and Scotland is an ex-artist/art teacher.

Previous Chapter: [link]

Next Chapter: [link]

So finally got this chapter sorted, and I'm really sorry that this hasn't come out week earlier but LFCC caused a delay in writing this chapter. I hope that this chapter shows Francis' kinder side, and explains a few more characters to appear later on in the next chapter.
All of my thanks for this go to *Claremon as TWT she has helped massively with all of this! <3
And of course Thank you to my watchers who are sticking around for these chapters! <3
© 2012 - 2024 Little-Innocence
Comments4
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Lichtherz's avatar
Well done o:

Was it difficult to get all the french words/phrases? :3