A Lover's Creation - Chapter 3 - ScotFran AU

A Lover's Creation

"Ye!"
"Vous!"

The Frenchman cried in surprise, his blue eyes starring deep into Scott's greens as both jaws drop in surprise, clearly shocked by one another's presence. Francis soon abandoning the Scottish hand held in his frozen figure, looking up and down Scott, noting the similar appearances of his kilt that hugged affectionately around his hips, an extravagant bag as always, hanging from the front of the weaved patterning of the woollen skirt. The leather sack stitched with fraying thread in which held stained rabbit fur that coated the flap of the sack. His shirt in a similar condition, its ragged appearance partly tucked into his vibrantly coloured kilt unfortunately his crumpled shirt was covered in a number of disgusting accidents, a splatter of breakfast butter, drops of evening whisky lazily spilt into the fabric weaves and silver smears of pencil scribbles critiquing his pupils works, they all had grabbed a chance to cling to the colour of Scott's beige front.

"..Uncle?... W..What are you doing here?", the Canadian asked just as surprised as Francis who's jaw drops further than before, his adopted son's comment causing shivers down his spine as he gulps. "On..Oncle", Francis asks as he steps back looking back to Scott and then to Matthew, his finger swinging back and forth to his son and that vile snobby Art teacher who knew nothing of kindness. It just didn't make sense, the Frenchman unable to process it in his head as he stares blankly ahead, only coming around when he finds his hands cupped to hold a hot cup of instant coffee.

His nostrils wrinkling at the stench of such a cheaply made concoction, as he awakens from his shock, starring up to notice that his son and Scott both have left him in what appears to be the Englishman's lounge. The TV shouting out odd Japanese or even Chinese slogans in which barely entertained the small blonde boy, who sat on the soft carpet floor beside the coffee table that embedded into Francis' legs. The boy's knees up to his chest and wrapped by his pale arms, as he looks on with a disinterested gaze to the programmes flashing images.

"Dieu.... Alors.. que.. que l'enseignant et.. et.. Mathieu sont.. sont liée?!?!" (God…. So.. zat..zat teacher and..and Mathieu are.. are related!?), the Frenchman crows in panic, his cup of coffee quickly dismissed and placed to the coffee table covered in messy magazines and a number of cigarette packets, as he looks to his finely made Italian shoes. "Alors... l'enseignant se doit d'être le frère de... le frère d'Arzur!!" (Zen…ze teacher 'as got to… to be Arzur's brother!!), he cries out his dreams crushed at the thought that the big brother he had dreamt of courting was… was this horrid mess of snide and rude comments mixed into one cold hearted Scotsman.

"Aye.. A'm the big brothur ye talkin' of~", the sound of a metal case flicking open resounds in Francis' ears as he turned to look to the Scotsman, lighting up his cigarette and grunts his question. "Ye dinnae mind if A smoke here do ye?", the Frenchman gradually shaking his head, eyes still caught in the headlights as he follows the Scot to his seat on the opposite lounge chair, sighing in relief as he lays back taking a deep puff on his cigarette and blowing out the smoke to Francis' direction.

"Tu know zat smokin is..is", the Frenchman hacks and coughs at the thick smoke beginning to choke his lungs, his hand pulled up to wave in front of his mouth, flapping away for what fresh air could reach his lungs which in turn caused a delighted grin to appear on the Scotsman's mouth. "W..Wait", Francis looks up stopping his actions as he raises a brow. "Y..You understood moi?", he asks, interests pricked by the teachers smile who reaches up taking the small stick from his mouth, dark greens sliding their gaze to the Frenchman.

"Oui~", the Scotsman chuckled as Francis felt a tinge of colour flush his cheeks, the sound of French on another's tongue had always been the Frenchman's weakness. His heart disgusted though, trying to calm down the heat appearing to his skin as he backs his gaze off to the side surely he reminds himself, he would not become enthralled by this man's rough Scottish accent. "Ye see A've got a wee Art trip comin' up tae Yreps or some town like tha'"

The Frenchman finding his interests perked none the less, after all he never imagined this Scotsman as much of a traveller although as the Frenchman thought, perhaps it was because Francis had always imagined that the teacher would be immediately stopped at the cliffs of Calais, French Police ordering the Scotsman to turn around back to England due to his lack of love contained in his words. That would be until the fashion police would jump their way into an extraordinary entrance, and arrest him for the state of his style, hopefully teaching the Scotsman a lesson or two.

The thought bringing a smile to the Frenchman as he chuckles at the thought, Scott looking suddenly puzzled as his Cheshire grin fads. "Wha'?", the Scotsman bluntly asks pulling the Frenchman from his daze and shakes his head.

"Oh Rien~ <3 Just…w..why is it zat Mathieu calls tu Oncle?"

"Ah. So Mattie never told ye?", Francis shaking his head, his hand reaching forward to clutch the warm coffee, his mind forgetting about its cheap consistency. "Aye, well we figured since ye and Arthur are Pa and Da".

Francis spluttered out his coffee in response, a spray of chocolate drops covering the floor and browning the polyester of the sofa he sits on. Both men starring in shock once again, until Francis quickly apologises trying his best to mop up the liquid drops with the spare scrapped pages of lonely magazines laying on the coffee table, causing the pictures printed on the smooth pages to blotch and bleach.

"Do ye mind… tha' was mine", the Scotsman spat at Francis causing him to stop in his wiping up, and stare at the page that had caused such a repulsed tone to flow from the teacher's lips. Now crumpled up were the pictures of school clubs, the drama club celebrating another successful Christmas play whilst the literature club were promoting book week through the school's paper. His eyes finally landing to the smallest of the pictures as a smiling class of school girls and boys, covered in paint, tools and paperwork grinned to the photographer. And behind them now was a coffee stained face, gazing awkwardly to the camera but was none the less happily stood in the middle, his expression grinning proud of their success which read, "Art Club does it again! Our winners of the Under 15's Nationals".

"Oh…S..sorry", the Frenchman feebly replies, even confused at his sudden lack of resent in his voice as he continued to stare at the look on this picture. His eyes unable to glance away from that expression as the sound of his heart beating like hammers, softly warming his cold chest. P..Perhaps this man isn't that bad he thinks to himself, the small grin captured on the page looked pleasantly fitting on the Scotsman, even a little handsome the Frenchman agrees. A finger reached out to caress the slender face, his finger stopping over his smile as he let his expression soften from warmth spreading through his veins.

"Oi", the Scotsman spits out, pulling himself from the lounge chair and taking the magazine from Francis' slimy hands, and quickly proceeds to hit the pages against the thick Frenchman's skull.

"G..Gahh!!! Monsieurrrr!!", the artist cries out clutching his head as he stares up in annoyance to this figure, who just smirks taking another puff of grey smoke before ignoring the muttering Frenchman, looking onto the little boy completely distracted from his TV and now watching the both of them as he grunts in response. "Peter.. ye better go up stairs an' get dressed before Arthur gets back"

"But Scott! I'm an adolescent now! That means I can dress later when it is the Winter holidays!"

"Et dinnae mean anythin' ye wee pipsqueak, now off ye go!", Peter letting out a whine in frustration but is soon to make his way up the creaking stairs, leaving the two adults to think in silence. Francis thankful that the Scotsman's attention had been taken by Peter, as he rubs the sore intend of the paper now left to his skin, glaring at the calm Scotsman who raises an eye to the Frenchman's gaze before shaking him off and sitting back down to the green fabric chair.

"Excuse moi", Francis called out in a hacked off tone, attracting Scott's attention as he raised a thick Auburn brow to the Frenchman, his fiery eyes now casting their gaze to the teeth gritting artist, who raises his nose up, disgusted by his glance. "An apology would be kind Monsieur", a bemused look only enraging the Frenchman further as he pulls himself up, standing firm and steady his eyes glaring holes into the Scotsman's brain.

"Oh! So ze 'igh and mighty professeur is too good to talk to moi?", another snort of laughter at his growing anger only fuels his anger as the Frenchman then decides to pull himself over, a vein popping in his brain as he holds the Scotsman's shirt within his sharp finger tips. The feeling of being verbally teased into a raging fury feeling oddly familiar to the pair, the pads of his fingers now clung desperately into the beige fabric below them allowing the Frenchman to keep the Scotsman's close eyes starring back into his, who tried to ignore their perfect beauty.

"Your very presence annoys moi Monsieur, Why don't you put zose "good" looks of yours to use and become ze main feature of a zoo?!", Francis huffs in annoyance as not even an eyelid is battered at his statement, no sign or action to help the Frenchman's anger feel thrilled in his insults. "'ow about you just drop dead and let ze rest of us artists live in peace!".

Once again the silence lingers between the two, Francis' head pounding at the lack of response from the Scot, his fingers curled into his cheap tacky clothes just itching to punch some words into this man as he finally coos out, not even thinking of his words, letting them just flow out from his mouth before he can think about reclaim them.

"But zen I would feel sorry for whatever 'alf brained ape of a girl zat you would leave be'ind, unless zat femme 'as already left tu and tes repulsive ways".

It was then a bone chilling silence clouded between them, Francis looking to Scott's eyes as he feels a deathly want behind them, his muscles draining of blood as he feels a very different hate boiling behind the teacher's pupils. Though shocked by the sudden veil of despise soon clung to the small now surprised Frenchman, Francis proceeds to gulp at this force pushing his confidence down. His breathing quickened at the possible thoughts that this man is to kill him, but then as his proud nature slides in, for some reason the thought that he's finally cracked the Scotsman, causes his lips to split into a pleased smile that flashes to the darkening figure.  His giddy ego cooing in excitement childishly pleased at the growing darkness that consumed the Scot.

"Que?... Cat got your tongue?", the Frenchman teases, his mind not even thinking of the possibilities as his slick grin widens from the enthralling joy of now. His laughs resounding through the greying lounge as finally Scott's eyes pin to the Frenchman, who stiffens. A silent and deadly force soon gripped the Frenchman where he stood. The hairs on Francis' hands jumped up in fear stuck rigidly straight like the Frenchman, who's smile quickly disappears about to reach out and pat the Scott's shoulder and apologise for the whole thing. That is, until a very strong and gripped hand shoots out and smashes thick knuckles into the delicate porcelain bleached skin of Francis' cheek.

Soon a surprised squawk drops from the Frenchman's throat, who was clearly not expecting such a violent jab to his face, leaving him wide open as the Scotsman raises his other fist ready to strike once more. In a flash, Francis' hand shoots up pushing back on the force behind the Scot's fist stopping him in his tracks, taking a second to react the Scotsman's looks to him surprised, glancing up to his blocked attack, frozen stuck in his stance. Finally realising the position he's in as a faint pressure is now firmly in lined to his defenceless groin. A relieved sigh soon flowing out, as Francis increased the pressure behind his bent knee into the dip of Scott's kilt. A strong glare now pierced its message clear into the Scot, 'Any furzer and you will 'ave squished nuts for dinner', such a message hoping behind its strong and tough exterior to defer the Scot from getting any closer.

Though the glare is soon dropped, flickering to his arm that begins to shake, the strength behind that Scottish force now pushing down to pin the Frenchman in his place, his back arching to recover from this sudden return of power, until he swings his leg backwards. Jutting it into the fluffed carpet below as the action thankfully helps the Frenchman to return the pressure and oddly draws the teeth gritting Blonde closer to the snarling Scot.

However, this sudden pull closer to the Scotsman had only worked in the teacher's favour, the Frenchman gulping as he finds himself stuck in this awkward position, the hot huffs of the Scotsman's rage fuelled anger now tickling his hands. His arm now twitching at the odd sensation, as it tries desperately to keep the Frenchman up, its deathly cling into the fabric of the near sofa causes the threading within it to crackle and snap.  Scott soon taking the advantage of France's unbalanced nature, his red hot anger snapping furiously as his vicious hand shunted the Frenchman backwards, flying him straight into the pillows and springs of the greying leather sofa.

"YE TAKE THA' BACK!!! YE DINNAE KEN ANYTHIN' YE BASTARD!!"

The tension running high in that room, as it only continued to grow worse with every growing second, fingers now embedding themselves into the Scotsman's palms. In which Francis can only look on, finally the deadly realisation sinks in of what this man can do, his shocked expression now leaving him powerless, as all he can do is stare into those burning greens.

Only, the lack of voice furthers the enraged Scot who pushes Francis deeper into the sofa, his frozen face wincing as another fist is raised up to take out the croaking frog, his cowering soul now picking up his body to defend himself from the blow.  Both Scot and Frenchman expecting his punch to once again connect to Francis' jaw, except what occurs next is far different than the two planned.

Soon the sound of two pans clashed in one almighty fit, shattered all echoes running through the house, a chestnut haired man instantly pulling off the Uncle's hand from it revengeful cling to Francis' weakened shirt, which now showed fraying and scratches of blunt nails to its precious needlework.  Both adults now calming from their violent fight as they both look beyond one another toward the source of such noise. A shy Canadian now stood smiling timidly at the sudden attention, his hands both containing the pans in questioning as the metals wince and groan at the excessive force used behind them.

"Geez Scoutt! It's been ten minutes and yeu're already tried t'batter our guest! What do yeu think Arthur would say?!"

A grunt erupting in response, as Scott spares the cowered Frenchman a glance before turning his spiteful gaze to the brown haired, "A dinnae care Rhys, Arthur's es not home A can do wha' A like!"

"U..Uncle…", Mathieu calls out, distress now showing through his normally calm expression, the sight instantly cutting through the Scot's burning hatred. Letting out a much needed huff, before lighting up another cigarette much to Rhys' disgust, who turns to look to look at the gradually relaxed artist.

"I..I'm sorry about that, our Scoutt doesn't usually try to pick fights", Francis brushed his shirt of any violent germs he might have picked up before casting a gaze up, instantly spotting those familiar thick brows and forest greens. As he blinks confused, his thoughts stuck in pause as all he can do is wonder about his words, why they appeared to cut so deep into the Scot. It..it just didn't make sense.

"Uh…. Hello?... Anyone there?", Francis ' view soon caught by the waving Welshman, who smiles warmly at the flicker of Francis' blues. Sitting down beside him his white shirt decorated in a dedication to Tom Jones soon crumpled as he pushed himself into the cushions of the sofa beneath him. Allowing the Frenchman to inspect this new brother, yes, definitely a brother he thinks, playfully matching up those thick brows and glistening greens to the others, as the penny finally drops. Those thick glossy bangs that framed his child like face perfectly, baby fat still giving his jaw line that child like look. Yes! The Frenchman remembers, this is the Rhys who once shouted a promise to dye his hair blue so that he would no longer confused him with his baby brother.

"Oh.. Desole Rhys… I was just remembering who you were~", the Frenchman teases only causing the Welshman to huff crossing his arms at the statement. Although Francis was far more preoccupied, a wriggling thought in the depths of his mind guiltily wondering why such a comment about the Scot's love interest had caused him to violently lash out.

-------------------------------

Perhaps this wasn't the greatest idea Rhys sobs to himself, dreading every moment that came as his legs carried him past the dull collections of shops trying to grip his attention. Unfortunately the Welshman has other more uncomfortable thoughts, finding himself placed between the huffing Frenchman and the brooding Scot, as they made their paths along damp pavements of the high street. The Welshman tries his hardest to force a weak smile to his expression, hoping that he can brew up a friendly atmosphere between the three of them. He is however only to be rewarded with cold jagged glares from Francis who aims them past his own green eyes and glared straight at his eldest brother who simply brushes it off like nothing. Turning his head away in disinterest and continued to ignore the two of them, far more preoccupied in smoking the end of his dying cigarette.

Oh Mattie, the silently sobbing Welshman cursed under his breath, fist curled in misery as he looks to both men and lets out a much need sigh. His nephew had never been wrong in his ways of how to cheer up his eldest kilt loving Uncle, or even his fondly loved Papa. But this time, the Welshman groans in misery, Matthew must have been way out of league. A shopping trip was the best the two could come up with in the time they saw the pair fighting in the lounge, after Peter, the small blonde boy came through with his bowl of cherrios informing the pair that his oldest brother was fighting with a frog.

But, with another tired sigh slipping from his chest his head shaking as the three of them turn the corner towards the farmer's market. He was now sure he should have just separated the two into other rooms and hoped that at a later time they'd make up, surely that would have been better for the Welshman's health either way. The deadly silence now grown into something the Welshman felt the emerging need to flee from, to dive underneath his bed and never resurface until the all clear was sounded.

"So.. R..Rhys w..what 'ave you been doing since I last saw you?", Francis coos curiously, his ice blues melted into swirling ceruleans as they helped the Welshman escape from his worrying thoughts. A grateful expression now bloomed to Rhys' lips, thankful that the Frenchman had at least pulled him out from the freezing grips of silence.

"Oh.. nothing much, yeu know.. still got ma Veterinary t'look after, al..although I've.. I've been getting sum help these past few months", Rhys shyly admits, a faint rouge colouring his complexion allowing the Frenchman to chuckle playfully.

"'elp? Mon cher~ Why who is ze lucky Miss?", Francis teases putting a hand on Rhys' shoulder and patting him proud. "She must certainly be able to put up wiz a lot, are you still as lazy mon petit?", the Welshman huffs at the statement as he looks away, arms crossed in annoyance. He knew the Frenchman had been informed that his constant naps of his teens had been the side effects of his childhood disease. But none the less, the Frenchman soon apologized allowing Rhys to look back to his glimmering blues and continue in their conversation.

"Well..Wellesley.. He's called"

"'..'e!?!", the Frenchman calls out surprised, causing the Welshman's face only to now furiously flood with a bashful red. Tilting his head and hunching his shoulders as Rhys mutters under his breath to calm himself down, while the Frenchman continues to happily chatter away, inspired by the news of the Welshman's love interest.

"Ohhonhonhon~ I would 'ave never zought mon petit Rhys would go for un homme~ Zey must certainly 'ave somezing special about zem <3", the smuggest of expression glowing on his face, now stroking his chin as he looks to the passersby, his mind already flooding with thoughts and plan for this dear sweet Wellesley.

The Welshman shoots up in shock, realising that the Frenchman and his famous love hunting skills are fast in uncover his feelings. Quickly shaking his head in denial and stretching his arms, hands flailing out to stop the Frenchman in saying any more. His little crush had never meant to turn into something like this, but he'd tried so hard to keep it quiet, he couldn't just let the Frenchman spoil it all now! "N..No! No.. Ye…Yeu've got it all wrong!! He..He's just a v..volunteer d..down at..at te veterinary! N..nothing more!"

"Ohhh?", a Cheshire grin widening to the artist's lips as he chuckles knowingly, Rhys only sighed defeated about to tell the Frenchman to stop nosing into his business when a deep gruff voice surprises both men.

"Some of us dinnae wan' tae ken abou' ye wild accusations Bonnefoy", a roll of the eyes and a huffed out grunt being the Frenchman's response, as Rhys mentally thanks Scott for saving him from the would be bombardment of questions. Francis however retracted himself from the Welshman's side, arm slinking back to his hips as he sulks in his steps along the pavement's edge. The three once again swarmed in silence, only, now an increased number of French glares and huffs fiercely battering the Scotsman.

The Welshman sighing once more, giving up on the pair of them as he glances up to the dusted sky, eyes darting around for even a glimpse of evening blue sky to bleed through the ugly cloak of clouds that sealed its colours away. Not even a ray of sunlight blessed that afternoon sky, leaving the three of them cold and shivering, well only in the Frenchman's case who had carelessly gone out in a shirt and tailored trousers, arms quivering at the fluttering wind gushing past him with chilling speeds.

Rhys' eyes slide over to his brother, noting his more appropriate clothing his usual green winter coat pulled up to his neck, with its worn out belt wrapped around the Scot's middle. And yet, something about Scott didn't feel quiet as usual. Whether it be the constant refusal to apologise for his actions or how his emerald eyes would glare to the Frenchman despising every moment of his presence.

It was something the Welshman soon put to the back of his mind, hoping it'll fade away before he has to sort out the problem bothering his brother himself, as he looked over to that said problem. Only to stop in his tracks, feet frozen to the very ground beneath them, his eyes stared wide at where the Frenchman once was and jaw dropping at the realisation that Francis was no longer with them.

"W..Where!?.. S..Scoutt!?Wh..Where's he gune!?", but the Scotsman just continued in his tracks, shrugging as he takes brisk steps past the Welshman, who shoots out a hand and grabs onto his arm to stop him in his escape. "Scoutt!!! Th..This is serious, Wh..Where'd he go?" a small rewarding tinkle of a golden bell echoes to the panicked Welshman as he spun on his heel , stopping to find a small art workshop in his path. A small thing sat straight on the corner of two ignored roads, as its fading sea blue paint began to peel away, but with its door slinging back to rest in place once more, the Welshman knew instantly that Francis must have been distracted by its charm.

Quickly dragging himself and the Scot, who grunts, shrugging off Rhys' arm and begrudgingly follows him into the art shop as the two are greeted with a muffled Welcome, the owner seeming too enthused in frantically drawing something on his desk than to look up and greet his visitors properly.

"Oh… Uhh.. Ta..", Rhys replies awkwardly taking a few steps that are followed with his brother's larger boots, the pair taking cautious steps into the much larger than expected store, their eyes flickering about to investigate for the missing blonde.

That is until Scott's mood suddenly drops as he took his third step into the mysterious building. Rhys gulping in response to the sudden chill that ran down his spine, realising that a large collection of famous artist's posters and books stood to the middle of the aisles that lined the shop, as its covers and open pages taunted the focus of the Scot's now angered mood, forcing him to eventually storm off with narrowed eyes glaring at the display, leaving Rhys to crumple over in dismay, sighing in relief and annoyance of his brother's actions.

Another sigh of annoyance joined his as Rhys looks up startled, finding the sigh coming from the owner who brushes a hand through his tangled spikes of chestnut hair, his table covered in pencil shavings and grey smudges of his frantically used rubber. "..Excuse me…Excuse me", Rhys tries to ask, but to no avail as the artist continues in his rapid sketching and shading of his graphite pencil now chipped and smothered in multiple shades of an off putting taupe that now stained the once elegant amber wood behind it.

"Err… H..Hello?...", he tries again, stepping to the counter's work top as he tries to wave innocently enough. But is once again ignored, the Welshman starting to sympathise with his adopted nephew and at how he had mistakenly ignored him once or twice whilst flipping through the endless files of his animal patients.

A French chuckle soon pulled Rhys' attention from the uninterested owner, leaving him so his forest greens could glance three aisles up, watching a bob of luscious silk honey blonde curls bounce like crisp golden waves as its beautiful owner began to hum a quiet content tune from his childhood. Rhys smiling at the recognisable tune as he quietly decides to look about the shop, wondering what it is that is intriguing the Frenchman so much.

"…Mais je sais qu'la porte sur eux se ferma~" (…Mais I know zat ze door is firmly shut), ending his soft melody with a warmed smile as he looks down to the numbers of fiery red bristled brushes kindly grasped within his fingers, their fiery nature slowly warming in his hold as they listen to his rhythmic footsteps that danced down the aisle.

"Ah! Je vais avoir ce ... et ce, Oh, et qui semble assez" (Ah! I will 'ave zis… and zis, Oh, and zat looks pretty)

The Frenchman glides from side to side, eyes instantly latching onto every and any interesting objects sitting bare and lonely on the shelves, all wishing for the artist's tender touch.

The glistening glass of paint pots flickered their bursts of colours to the Artist's trained eye, bristles of paint brushes straightened out, becoming glossy and textured to the touch. Canvas' lining up in a perfect order, complimenting one another's size as the Frenchman continues to walk down the blossoming walkway, Rhys' eyes wide in surprise at the rainbows of colours that seemed to flourish like flowers wherever the artist walked.

But to the Frenchman, all was quiet, sucked into his own world his ceruleans darting about in a waltz of motion, attracted to only the finest in crafts, his fine fingers picking out books, brushes and chalks, each to be rejected as Francis pushed them back to rest, completely clouded from the others looks as he continues his routine of twirls, spins, steps and glides on his nimble feet.

That is.. until a grumbling mutter breaks his peace.

His ears perked at the sound of such mumbles, as he cocks a brow in thought his body still patiently a waiting for the sound to resurface. But as the seconds grow long, he shakes his head sure that it must have been his mind playing tricks on him. Until, another grunt startles the Frenchman from his thoughts of getting a hot steaming cup of coffee after his shopping spree, Francis feeling his curiosity tugged to the source, letting himself slowly peek his gaze around the corner.

Scott was stood, back turned to the Frenchman as he flicked another page of the book through his fingers, his eyes narrowed furious in concentration. His pupils fluttering about the colourful pages with the greatest of speed before his hand would roll the page to the next and restart his fiery gaze in inspecting the page's words.

Now, you have to understand by this point, that even if the Frenchman despised the Scot for more than his brutish behaviour and cold personality, even he could not ignore what occurred next as Scott turned his head to the side, eyes glanced down in miserable, his greens pooling with a sense of loss and mouth still and lifeless, a broken expression clinging to his face.

In a flash, before he could even stop himself, Francis had made his way drawn to that expression that tightened his heart. Extending out a tender hand to reach out and comfort that cold shattered expression, his warm touch settling to the Scot, as the Frenchman looks up to him, big blue eyes shimmering with a golden glow as he gently tilts his head up with a pleasant smile that bloomed perfectly.

Unfortunately, this sudden display of comfort only elected a surprised stare in response, Scott's pupils shrunk back in shock before he turns his head away from the Frenchman's sparkling smile and shoves the flimsy paper back book to the racks. Scott turning on his heel as he tries to escape from another conversation with the Frenchman about what had what had just happened, that is until Francis coos a question, freezing the Scot in his place.

"What is wrong Monsieur?"

The Scotsman clenched his hands trying his best to simmer his flooding emotions as he stands still looking to the ground, ignoring the artist's questioning eyes.

"Nothin'"

".. It can not 'ave been nozing mon cher! </3 It must 'ave been somezing!", the Frenchman frowned in response, furrowing his brows as he looks to the first culprit and pulls out the art book, a glance going to Scott as he confirms his still presence, to then flickering through the pages he saw before. Pages blurring in his actions, fingers brushing each page, until he stops, eyes starring wide at one chapter as all his emotions sink like a rock to the ground. Scott Kirkland, the name printed in large print block letters across the top of the page. Spread on it, a number of paintings with paragraphs of critiques marvelling and applauding the Scottish artist's work, every stroke of his art work seemed to ignite another enthusiastic review as the Frenchman flicks through, finding not just two pages but a good twenty stacked with his works, leaving the Frenchman shocked to say the least.

"Z..Zis.Zis is you?!?"

The Scots expression dropped dramatically as he tilted his head and looked away turning to escape, not just from the Frenchman but the confining space of the shop tightening its inquisitive grip on the Scotsman's figure, as he takes a step only for an arm to once again cling to his wrist, the Frenchman pushing on with his questions.

"Explain zis!? Wha… What is… Why is your face zere!?", his finger pointed to a much younger Scott grinning away in pride with an alluring charm to the camera causing Scott to turn away as if in pain, looking to the door as he tries to push the Frenchman off.

"Ge'off!!!  Et's jus' thin's A painted a long time ago"

Francis face falls as slowly all the insults and bickers from the Scotsman were gradually making clearer sense. "You..You..you really were un grand artist!?... Tell moi 'ow you got so far!?"

"NAE!!", Scott grunted taking another step against the Frenchman's weight and tries so frantically to reach the safe exit, his head flooding with exploding thoughts as the veins in his head pounded like ten tonne hammers. The Frenchman whines and tugs at the Scot for answers as finally the commotion causes the Welshman to stir from his attempts of a conversation, spotting the two as Scott's nostrils flare with a heated anger, furious in rage at this clingy Frenchman. As he finally snapped, eyes dangerously narrowed and voice laced with the blackest of fury. "A dinnae wan' tae explain et tae some arrogant stupid spoilt piss poor frenchie LIKE YE!!"

Francis and Rhys both frozen to the spot as if Scott's booming voice had stopped all time. His breathes panting from his actions, as he spots a chance snatching his wrist from the Frenchman's pale grip as he flings open the door with an earth shaking thud and storms out the shop, striding over the road with speed as he instantly tries to find a place to drink and have a fag to rest his nerves.

The crash of the door followed by the tinkling of the quivering bell awoke the Frenchman from his numbing shock, his mind quickly processing through those deep words, teeth gritting furious that he'd been called something like that by someone who had left the profession and still now refuses to tell anyone like the stubborn little Kirkland he is.

It was enough to make Francis' blood boil, teeth grating and voice snarl as the last straw had been broken. His leg swung up, kicking open the brittle door of the whimpering structure as he furiously roars down the road. "Ego sum magis lautus quam vos, Torva!" (I'm more refined than you, Savage!)

----------------------

"Hmph… Zat man would not know what art is if it bite 'im on ze derrière", the Frenchman huffs, still thinking over the day's events as he sits alone in the spare room of Arthur's house. Body surrounded in multitudes of paints, pastels and oils, a confident grin to his expression as he rolled his sleeves up and brushes down his much loved apron. The words of his son rung faintly through his mind, about how this was a silly idea and that it would only annoy Uncle more, but the Frenchman rolled his eyes, gently dapping the end of his brush to the speckled canvas.

It was just going to be a small experiment the Frenchman reminds himself, peering over his shoulder mid-stroke to ensure that the teacher hadn't returned home to see him do this. Letting out a sigh of relief as he gracefully becomes absorbed into his work, canvas beginning to bloom in splashes of colour, swirling reds into blue and blending greens into golden yellows. His eyes glancing back and forth to the very book that had caused the Scot to snap at Francis, as he smiles fondly to his pages, his eyes caught on a particular painting. One that faintly resembled the start of Francis' work.

A gentle expression highlighted to the Frenchman's features, as the light of the day slips into the dark of the night, his fingers smudging in thicker pastels to his art. His thoughts reminding him to continue on, to prove that thick skulled Scot that he was someone worth his artist skills, someone who had worked hard to get to where he now stood and someone that could produce the Scot's work flawlessly.

Another dap of his brush's bristles followed by a swoosh of Francis' fingers furiously concentrating on bringing this work to life, a fiery courage building within him as he grins with a solid confidence. His breathing becoming steady in beat and foot tapping in time to the radio that sang once more, igniting the blazing flame of Francis fiery soul.

"…Francis?", Rhys peered his head around the door, finally coming up the stairs from his movie marathon to investigate the Frenchman's disappearance since they returned to the house.  The bass of the radio however blurred out the Welshman's calls, leaving Francis to still be mesmerised by his work, mind a flurry with dizzying numbers of thoughts.

"Francis?" Rhys tries once again, fingers gripping to the doorframe as he gradually makes his way into the room, hoping the Frenchman won't mind, as he finally puts a hand to his mouth and gives a forced cough.

"Oh! Dieu! Arzur you nearly gave moi a scare!", a surprised look to the Frenchman's face as he looked back to his painting and rests his brush to the side. Turning around he looks over with a charming smile, hair pulled up into a fluffy ponytail that swayed in his motions.

His smile though soon vanished as he gradually realised the difference in clothes and snaps his fingers together, a sheepish expression printed to his face. "Ah.. Desole Desole Rhys mon cher! You sound so much like petit lapin zat I..", the Welshman laughed lightly as he waves his hands out, trying his best to stop the Frenchman from apologising any further.

"These things happen, don't kick yeurself over it", chuckling lightly, Francis continues to apologise for his mistake to the point Rhys fears he'll run out of oxygen. Thinking quick, he rattled his brain for something until a flash of lightening sparks an idea, as he quickly suggests. "Did…Did yeu want a cup of tea?"

"Well… as long as you 'ave learnt not to burn it mon cher, I would be delighted"

The sounds of his muscles groan, crackle and crunch, stretching out for the first time in hours that Francis had been glued to his artwork. A hum of delight cooing from his voice enjoying the feeling of relaxation swept threw his body as he made his way to the kitchen. Softly leaning himself against the table counter as he a waits patiently for his cup of rich tea to awaken his senses. Eyes flittering about the grey and white surfaces of England's kitchen, amused that the details of it didn't match with the words his son had described the room to be.

The sound of the kettle's switch flicked as the Welshman turned to Francis, green eyes glancing up to blues. "Francis..", who hummed in response, leaning his head in his hands and arches forward to stretch out his back once more. "Can I ask yeu something about yeur work?".

A surprised look to his face but none the less motions for Rhys to continue on, the Welshman nods in return and takes a plentiful breath in as he questions.

"Why.. exactly are yeu copying Scott's work? I thought yeu two hate each other?"

Chuckling at the Welshman's words, Francis lets himself have a moment to pluck the right words from his mind and form them perfectly to his lips. "Rhys… it is true zat I do detest your brozer… but it does not mean zat I do not respect 'is work. Zerefore, I was 'oping to recreate ze feelings be'ind 'is artwork, to use 'im and to make somezing zat 'e will not be able to criticise!".

The Frenchman stood proud, spirit glowing stronger than before as if his own words had reassured him in his grand goal. That he was finally going to get Scott to praise him for who he is.

Looking up to Rhys his hopes that his powerful words might have encouraged the Welshman to root for him, were only to be crushed. The brunette was now looking awkwardly to the ground, lips pressed shut as he keeps awfully quiet.

"Wh..what is it mon cher?", the Frenchman asked, quick in picking himself from the table surface and stands up, wandering over to Rhys' form with concern. "…Wait", Francis grins knowingly, as he nudges the Welshman with his elbow. "Do not tell moi, ton frère was lying was 'e not?… 'ow could such a stuck up professeur be someone zat famous?". A roar of laughter erupted from the Frenchman laughing at himself for getting so riled up for nothing, whilst Rhys perks up from his silence, looking over to Francis wide eyed as he shakes his head.

"No.. They… they're his alright… just, things were really different back then", a far off look clouded the Welshman's stare as he continues on as if in a trance. Francis noticing this as he tilts his head around hoping to catch the young brother's eyes, waving in front of his eyes until he snaps him out of his gaze and awkwardly smiles in return.

The action soon returned, as the blonde smiles sweetly and presses on. "Oh?... Back zen?....", a quizzical tone to his voice as he tries to pry the Welshman for more. "What is it zat was so different back zen?"

Rhys quietens once again, his glance elsewhere as he tries instead to busy himself with pulling out two mugs his fingers plucking two tea bags to his hand and is about to place them into the mugs, when Francis rests a comforting hand to Rhys' shoulders and gives him a gentle smile. "Rhys~ Come on… I promise zat if you tell moi I will cook you dinner~", Rhys' smile cracks, looking up to Francis with an expression that pleas 'Don't do this to me'.

It took the Frenchman a couple of chocolate biscuits and two cups of refreshing fruit tea, as he gently leads the kettle into its stand to boil once more, and makes a calm pace over to the sitting Welshman, clutching the warmth of his beverage between his hands. Francis smiled as the Welshman takes another calming sip of his tea, a wonderful sigh flowing from his lips.

"Rhys~ <3 Tell moi, We are good friends non?... Remember zat time we swapped Arzur's sun screen wiz mayonnaise?", Rhys chuckles remembering a furious red Arthur chasing after a small innocent giggling Alfred, as him and Francis hid away with a very confused Matthew. Another pleading look is soon shot his way, as the Welshman finally cracks under the pressure.

"Fine…", a guilty sigh escaped his welsh lips, as he takes a gulp of air for comfort. A glance shifted past the Frenchman thankful that his eldest brother isn't here to shout at him for telling Francis one of his deeper secrets as he slowly reveals the truth. "Well..this..this really isn't my place to say this yeu know…", the blonde nods but insists him to continue, trying to calm him with another cup of tea. "But.. Scott's paintings.. well most of them that got famous were inspired by… by… No.. I can't tell yeu, Scott would kill me"

Francis takes a moment, his curiosity perked on the edge as he tries to give Rhys a kind smile and sweetly explains. "Rhys… I am only 'ere for ze one week, Scott will never find out".

A worried thought despite it all, still managed to run through the Frenchman's mind, a sickening clutch grasped tightly to his stomach as he sits, waiting nervous with curiosity and, something else much darker than he could have guessed. The Welshman looked worse for wear as he gulped in fear, eyes flicking about as if contemplating the idea, a small bite to the inside of his cheek as finally he looks to Francis' unready blues. Taking a slow long sip from his mug, Rhys looks into the bare remains of his empty cup as he speaks with a voice filled to the brim with sorrows, tears and broken dreams.

"His artworks.. they..they were all inspired by his.. wife Mary, but…but…she", having to stop, Rhys solemnly swallows his words, thoughtful eyes glanced back to his once filled mug for what seemed to be reassurance in his motives. His ivory hands moving up to the table's cold surface, holding one another in a calm and caring embrace as he finds his courage from before, a tender French nod pushing the Welshman on, as he speaks out once more.

"She's..She…She gone..Francis. She died during childbirth"

A dying scream of the finished kettle shrieked through the house, freezing the Frenchman in his bone chilling shock, as he mumbles out numbly, "Childbirz?"