Title: Three Time's A Charm

Authoress: Ankaris123

Summary: AU. Their first connection was when they were switched at birth, the second was the internet, the third was love. Eventual AlfredxMatthew.

A/Ns: Ajkdflsjfls, so like, I was reading cute fluff stuff and then this thing slapped me in the face and screamed at me to write it. After a persistent three hours, I caved. OTL. I spent a whole goddamn day writing the complete plot line for this fic [four pages] and god, it makes my teeth melt [in a good way]. Anyways, let's begin!

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Paris, France

It was a late midsummer evening at the hospital and a busy night all around in the ER. A flustered intern lost his footing while answering the frantic call of a doctor, tearing down the thin plastic curtain separating two women in labour.

"D-desolé!" he yelped, scrambling to fix the partition.

"N-never mind that, boy!" one of the women rasped in a distinct London accent. Her chest heaved with each syllable, her perspiring face showing obvious discomfort. "Just go! GO! Allez, whatever! Move!"

The young man gave her a brief look of incomprehension before dropping the crumpled curtain and rushing off. Instructions shot across the spacious room as heavily injured patients were wheeled in one after another. Breathing heavily, the woman attempted to make herself comfortable as the pandemonium escalated around her. She turned her head to the side, her flustered gaze falling upon the woman next to her. Sensing the pair of eyes on her, the blonde female turned, their eyes meeting.

A silent, instantaneous message passed through them and they reached out, grasping each other's shaking hand for comfort.

"Lovely…lovely day to give birth, innit? I'm vacationing with my husband, you know. Late honeymoon, very, very late," she broke off to gasp as a particularly strong contraction stole her breath. "Bloody stupid thing to happen, he isn't even due for another month! Hold on-"

Her clammy grasp on the other woman's hand tightened to excruciating proportions but the painfully-gripped hand held on, squeezing back lightly.

"Thanks, what's your name, love? I'm Emma."

She received a blank expression in return though one laced with desperately suppressed pain.

"Ah, right, French." Try as she may, all the French phrases she memorized for the trip had completely slipped her mind. Going back to the basics, she settled for simple gestural communication.

"Emma," she pointed at herself with her free hand and then at the unknown French woman. "You?"

"Elodie," the woman whispered barely audible above the noise. In truth, Elodie did know English but couldn't answer from gritting her teeth against the pangs of childbirth.

"That's a lovely name. An E name, I like the sound of that. This…this here," Emma rubbed her swelling belly affectionately. "He's Alfred. Oh!" she winced. "He's got a nasty kick, he does. Maybe he'll…be a football player when he grows up, his father would like that."

Elodie nodded her fair head feebly, casting her dark violet eyes at her own tummy. She muttered something in French and then smiled sheepishly, repeating one word.

"Matthieu."

"Little Matt-…Matt…Matthew? I'm sure he'll be a healthy child."

Their exchange was cut short as a single nurse looking exceptionally harassed appeared out of the increasing chaos ready to attend to them.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"He's beautiful, Elodie," Francis said, cradling the newborn reverently as he sat by his exhausted wife's bed. "Look, he's got my eyes, such a lovely blue."

They had been moved to a private room mere minutes ago after the child had been delivered. In a heartbeat, he had rushed to his beloved's side, overjoyed from the news.

Physically drained, Elodie's slight movements could not be distinguished in the dim light as shaking her head in negative. Her hitching breath was still laboured and her skin though normally pale was ghostly white and glistening.

"There was a terrible auto accident on the highway. Over five collisions I heard, that was why the people in the emergency room were so held up, but the worst is over. Soon we'll return home with our little Matthieu. We'll have to pick out a new colour for the wallpaper in the baby's room, I don't think the purple is really suited for-"

He was cut off in his babbling by a small slender hand on his elbow. Immediately, he shifted his chair over to his wife, leaning close in concern.

"What's wrong, my angel? Do you need something? Shall I call for the doctor?"

This time she managed to shake her head fully, her perfectly shaped nails digging into his skin.

"N-no, he's not…"

"He? Do you mean Matthieu?"

She nodded sharply. Her pale lips moved but no words came out. Francis leaned in even closer until they were centimetres apart.

"H-he's not…he's…Alfred." Releasing her vice-grip, a shuddering breath shook through her fragile frame as she collapsed limp on the white bed sheets.

"Alfred? But, my dear, I thought we agreed to name him Matthieu, you were quite firm about it if I remember correctly-, Dear? Are you-, Elodie?"

As the Frenchman hollered for a doctor, a nurse, anyone, a similar scene occurred just a room over to another father carrying his own blond baby boy.

When their anguished calls and distressed button-pushing was answered, they were beyond help.

Midnight of June 2nd, two children were born and two mothers joined the list of deceased.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Paris, France – Sixteen Years Later

"Pops, I'm home!" There was a jingle of keys being pocketed followed by the front door slamming closed with a well-placed kick.

"En français, Alfred!" Francis chided before regretting his words. He cringed as his son deliberately mutilated his mother tongue, laying on the American accent thickly with each exaggerated syllable.

"Alright, stop, stop!"

Alfred grinned cheekily before heading for the cabinets for a light snack, shrugging his jacket off on the way and throwing it onto a wooden kitchen stool. His father followed him in with a sigh and leaned against a counter with his arms crossed, bemused.

"Really, mon fils, will you stop being stubborn and speak properly? Might I remind you that you are in Paris and not in America anymore? You can't speak just English forever."

"What's stopping me?" he said between swallows, digging into his bag of potato chips with fervour. "I'm enrolled in international school, right? Everyone speaks English there."

"The point of international school is so you won't have to adjust to a foreign learning environment. I don't want your grades slipping," Francis added a quiet 'any further' under his breath, "because of language difficulties. I suspect you want an active social life and I'd say that would be a difficult task in Paris without French."

"That's what Toris is for though. He's my interpreter, you said so yourself."

Toris Lorinaitis was a student at the same international school Alfred was to attend come autumn. The Lithuanian teen was able to gain entrance to the school by scholarships alone but was low on cash to sustain his day-to-day needs. Being an exemplary student and avid learner, he became rather fluent in the language (both the language of teaching and the language of the city) and was recently hired by Francis as a sort of translator until Alfred picked up the local language again. Unfortunately that didn't seem to be happening any time soon.

"Toris is hired on a temporary basis. And I heard from him that you've been neglecting his lessons."

"But they are so boring, pops. Besides, I know all that conjugation stuff already, I'm not stupid, you know."

"I know, son, I know. But I'd appreciate it if you tried a little harder, if not for me, for Toris. The boy puts a lot of effort in his work. S'il te plaît?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. I'm going up to my room. Call me when dinner's right, 'kay?" Alfred said, waving it off nonchalantly. Swiping a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread off the counter, he stomped up the stairs without looking back.

Francis sighed deeply wondering where he had gone wrong. Alfred had been a good boy in his childhood, fluent in French and infinitely curious. Perhaps it started going wrong when he agreed to transfer to the United States for the opening of his employer's branch restaurant where he spent two years training the staff and establishing a good name for the company (he did receive a handsome pay cheque for it). Indeed he had been shocked when he was approached by the sports coach of a renowned private school about Alfred's talent in football. It was not even football (the European kind) but American football. Yet he just couldn't say no to the wide eyes and the wobbly lips that begged him to let him attend.

Now five years later, Francis decided it was about time to recall his son from overseas and hopefully remind his son of his Parisian roots before Alfred defected completely. It was regrettable that Alfred had no intention of doing so and adamantly stuck to conversing solely in English even though Francis suspected that Alfred had no problems understanding spoken French at all and could easily pick up the verbal part given enough time and exposure.

He sighed again, running a hand through his wavy blond hair. Just where did he get his stubbornness from? Definitely not from his mother, Elodie had been a sweet, gentle soul always accepting and adapting, never asking for much. Everything she did from the shy secret smiles to the consoling brush of her graceful fingers on his cheek made him fall deeper and deeper in love with her. No, definitely not from Elodie.

A loud crash followed by the sound of muffled gunfire jolted him out of his thoughts. He almost raced up the stairs in fear for his son's life until he recognized the noise to be movie sound effects turned up to unbearable decibels. The racket it made was disgraceful and he was certain the neighbours would hear.

Sometimes Francis wondered if Alfred was a real Bonnefoy. He sure did not act it.

"Pops," the Frenchman muttered, heading for the living room and his discarded newspaper. "He called me pops."

How he longed for the day when his son would address him properly as papa.

Upstairs in his room, Alfred lowered the volume until it was no more than a scratchy disturbance with the occasional coherent screech of tires. It only took a couple minutes for him to get tired of the movie. Flopping onto the large bed, he stared up at the blank white plaster above feeling unbelievably bored.

He missed the States so much it almost hurt. Right about now, he could be out with the guys, maybe playing some touch football (which never stayed as touch football for long) at the park, or crashing some beach party they happened upon. Whatever they'd do it was certainly better than this mundane nothing. He knew next to no one (he liked Toris, honest, but he didn't really count) and he didn't know where he could go to find something fun to do.

It was the pits, simple as that.

Groaning in frustration, Alfred sat up and scooted towards the laptop computer on his desk. The internet was always an interesting place. No one he knew was online at the moment (damn, time zones) so he settled for aimless surfing.

After getting tired of various flash game sites, he scrolled through his e-mails, murmuring 'junk mail' at each message as he checked them off for deletion. Halfway down the list, he paused, the cursor hovering over the subject line.

"Pen pals, huh?" he said, opening it after deleting the others. It took barely five seconds to skim the contents, less than one to open and load the webpage, and several minutes to create an account.

As he inputted personal information to the user homepage, he wondered if it was a bit boring, using his given name as the username. Too late now, he mused, scrolling to the hobbies section. American football was added without a second thought to the text box. Actually, Alfred was pretty good at most sports at his old boarding school so he added 'sports' right after before hitting the backspace. He should be more specific to be interesting.

Humming and distantly wondering what sort of people would 'chat' with him, he began appending the names of all and every sport he'd ever played and to some extent enjoyed starting with ice hockey.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

London, England

"Is that you, dad?" Matthew called out as the door slammed shut. Wiping down his hands, he peeked into the hallway to catch his father stalking down its length in a dark temper.

"Did things go wrong at the office?" he asked, almost jumping when his father's gaze met his. There was a raging fire in his green eyes that wanted something dead. Swallowing hard, Matthew strode forward and took the long rain-drenched coat from Arthur's chilled but relenting fingers.

"Rejected my latest draft, they did. Sodding idiots, the lot of them! They wouldn't know good writing even if it bit them on the-," he sniffed the air curiously. "What's that I smell?"

"Spaghetti Bolognese. I've made some for dinner."

"Ah, right then, thank you," his father gave him a blank look for a moment before adding, "-Matthew."

"I'll bring a plate up to your study later if you want," the meek blond said prompting an approving nod from Arthur who then continued down the hallway eager to work his anger out on the typewriter. When his father disappeared up the stairs, Matthew's shoulder slumped in dejection as he hung up the coat in the closet by the entrance and put the discarded Wellington boats upright. A gentle summer rain fell outside, giving the city a short and sudden respite from the heat.

On the dining table, two places were set, the freshly served spaghetti and sauce sat steaming and waiting. Silently, he took his seat and ate his meal alone, finishing it quickly. By then the other plate had cooled enough that Matthew could wrap it in cling-film and put into the refrigerator. He'll have it tomorrow for breakfast, he decided, reheating the rest of the batch.

A stream of classical music warbled out of the study as Matthew approached the door with a hot serving of spaghetti. He knocked and received no response.

"Dad? I brought your dinner. I'll leave it out here, alright? If you need me, I'll be in my room down the hall."

Still no reply.

Out of habit, he pressed his ear against the cool oak and barely made out the persistent taps of the old typewriter in action. Call him old-fashioned but his father Arthur had a soft spot for the out-dated contraption and refused to use the desktop computer they brought in for him. It was lucky for Matthew since that allowed him to move it to his room. They even had internet access for which Arthur grudgingly paid the bill after a decent amount of pleading from his son.

Padding softly down into his small room of modest decoration, he flicked the machine on, delighting in the gentle whir of start-up. While the computer booted up, Matthew picked up a thin book off the desk, opening it to the bookmarked page and began reading. It was a short children's story written entirely in French and its page were marked with notes on translation and meaning in his handwriting.

The French language fascinated Matthew (a fact he should never let known to his French-hating father) and always had since he was first exposed to it. During the early years of his life when his dad was still a working police officer, Nanny Cecile cared for and raised him. She spoke fluent English and French but was careful to use English when Arthur was in the house. Forced to take a vacation after overworking, his father spent the free time exploring literature particularly writing it. It started out as more of a journal before blossoming into a full-fledged award winning novel. Since then, he retired from policing and took up a job as a columnist for a local newspaper while writing other stories on the side. With him being home most of the time, there was no need for Nanny Cecile and in time they had to part ways.

Every since then, the two of them, father and son, had lived quite separate lives, not much different from before but so much more lonely for Matthew whom his father often forgot or ignored especially when he came home with his temper tested by the editor-in-chief. His father wrote notoriously critical papers, Matthew knew because they had the paper delivered to their house regularly and he always took the time to read through them.

It was a feat for Matthew several months ago when he managed to bring Arthur down to the dining room for dinner and told him he was considering (actually he had already applied) an exchange trip to Canada. There was little protest, just some nodding and hums of understanding. Frankly, Matthew was more worried about his dad being alone with no one to cook him a proper meal than anything else. It appeared he managed fine after Matthew convinced his friend and classmate Feliciano to look in once in a while.

Those four months had been an exciting chapter in his life. He fell in love with Montreal, Quebec and of course, the language. At the school where he was an exchange student, the language of instruction was French. He struggled to keep up but it was an exhilarating experience. It was only a pity that he was too shy and hadn't made any fast friendships with his temporary classmates who insisted on speaking English with him on the basis that he was British and spoke it easier than French.

In Montreal he discovered French, he discovered Ice Hockey (another thing he longed for and loved dearly), and he also discovered a little something else.

"It's finished loading, y'know."

Matthew kept his eyes fixed on the large print, rereading the same line over and over.

"It's no good ignoring me when you know I'm here."

Replacing the bookmark, he inhaled calmly before throwing the book at the figure sitting on his bed. It blinked unimpressed at him as the object fell through without any resistance.

"Throwing things again? Talk about rude. Now if I were you, I'd have thrown something heavier, something that could deal more damage than this, this leaf of a thing."

Sitting on his bed was himself. A perfect clone in every way except that he was wearing (a replica of) Matthew's favourite red hoodie (his father disliked it and preferred him wearing jumpers and button shirts even though he barely noticed him most of the time anyways) and his personality was nothing at all the same. Inner Matthew he called him when Matt actually acknowledged his existence always popping up spontaneously and offering advice and encouragement to his meeker counterpart. He also spoke in a perfect Canadian accent.

"I'm not listening to you. You're just a figment of my imagination," Matthew grumbled, turning to the computer and opening up the internet browser. It had surprised him when Inner Matthew gained a voice, urging him to join the impromptu hockey game on the frozen river, and it surprised him again when he gain a visual presence the first night back home.

"I didn't say I wasn't. But I guess it runs in the family with dad and his imaginary friends and all. You should be more assertive. Speak up, drag him out. Do something. Let out some of that pent up aggression, oh wait, that's me. You have a weird way to express yourself, kid, you know that?"

"Be quiet, you."

While he checked up on his bookmarked websites for updates, Inner Matthew continued on his spiel about all the things Matt could have done, should have done, and all the problems about him in the same even-toned voice. It was driving him crazy and he really considered, snapping back, when he scrolled over an ad and remembered something Feliciano told him.

"-and you should have at least try to make a protest that time when-, oh, that thing, you were going to sign up right? Sign up already."

"I'm thinking about it." Feliciano, knowing Matt's interest in learning French, suggested getting an internet pen pal like his older brother had done when he was studying Spanish. He was still hesitant about the whole affair since he wasn't good with talking to strangers and his confidence in his French was abysmal in the long run.

He dragged the cursor over to the sign up link and clicked it.

"Bravo! Now, are you going to get on with it or what?"

"Get out of here!" The figure vanished without a trace. Matthew shook his head free of the lingering irritation and concentrated on the task at hand. Click-clacks of fingers dancing across the keyboard filled the small room until at last all the information was filled in. That had been the easy part, now he had to find someone to talk to.

Matthew considered the possibility of waiting for someone else to take the initiative but rejected the option almost immediately. Chewing his lip nervously, his eyes swept over the search engine's preferences, selecting a similar age group and then after a moment of contemplation, chose France. His heart skipped a beat when the results loaded.

Ice hockey…he mused, reading the blurb on the first and newest entry.

Opening all his reference pages and online English-to-French dictionaries in subsequent tabs, Matthew smiled and set to work composing the private message.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

A/Ns: Yeah, I chose the most generic places ever for them to live in. I know I shouldn't be starting yet another fic but I couldn't help it. I'm sorry. But yeah, French(sorta)!Alfred and British!Matthew. This will be some sort of dorky romance thing. Sorry if the childbirth thing is inaccurate…I've never been at an actual, um, yeah. –cough-. I'm going to try and make locations vague in fear of being completely inaccurate about things but it's AU, so let's not let technicalities get in the way, shall we? Also, think I should keep going?

Thank you for reading! If you catch any embarrassing typoes and such, don't hesitate to call me out on it. Let me know what you think, thanks!