A/N: This idea is inspired by a prompt online.
Prompt: 19th century people viewed tuberculosis/sickliness as beauty. An artist falls in love with his model who suffers from the disease, but he only realizes the cruelty of such aesthetics when it is too late...
(Note: The story does not follow the prompt exactly. For example, happy ending or not? Guess.)
I like both USUK and FrUk, so I thought about both and decided that France would be a better fit for the artist persona instead of America. The age gap is about seven to eight years? It's set that way somewhat purposefully, but not really. I will try to make the setting and historical details accurate, but if there are mistakes, please just think of the AU as a faux-1800s era.
Excuse any oocs moments that might occur, please. I hope you enjoy the story.
Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't mine.
fog
It was a humid and rainy summer.
The 24th of August, 1839, was when Francis Bonnefoy first met Arthur Kirkland. A year that would soon meet an end, a page of his life that in no doubt was soon to be forgotten—he'd thought. Contradiction was long proved now; Francis could recall the moment any day, with as much color and sensation as if it was frozen right there, in that very moment of time. A snapshot to be preserved by a camera he did not have.
It was morning. Not as early as daybreak, certainly, but a few hours away from noon. Somewhere in between, when there was light leaking through the clouds, and the world wasn't as gray as it usually was in London.
All that no longer mattered, however, with the city enshrouded in a vast fog, covering people, buildings, streets, and obscuring generally everything. As typical of the weather there.
Francis was taking his morning stroll, a habit of his which stemmed from attempts to find inspiration for his paintings when he was at a loss. Usually, he'd be watching and looking at things purposefully, but today, he was simply walking for the purpose of walking, just to spend a moment outdoors.
It felt unpleasant to admit, but Francis was at a stagnant point in his artistic career. Despite his paintings selling one after another, met with success and praise, it wasn't 'success' in any form—he knew what dissatisfaction felt like.
Francis came to England on a whim, as some might say. There were only minimal protests when Francis announced his newest desire—traveling, and even his mother, who'd greatly disapproved his ventures in art at first, had agreed.
His family was not the pinnacle of nobility, but they certainly weren't lacking in the prospects of money.
London was not horrible, despite the dreary atmosphere and generally bad weather. No place was horrible, Francis believed, but he'd felt much more content back in Marseille, when painting had been a newly found avocation.
Nothing, in terms of the landscape of the area, was very attractive, yet there was a peaceful quiet that Francis enjoyed as he walked down the side of the street. The crowds, when they came together, were relatively hushed as well.
But everything was for nought. The serene and silent atmosphere soon vanished when a very audible voice intrudes into the silence, speaking loudly, to which Francis turned his glance to. With some annoyance, naturally.
And there he was.
He stood out among the mundane crowd, one distinct figure amongst the masses of people, one voice among the mutters and hushed noises of Francis's monotonous day.
He was a boy, clearly—perhaps no more than seventeen years old, with a ruffled mess of flaxen hair and eyes the color of verdant leaves. The eyebrows, though, were certainly well-defined, to say the least.
But all of that paled in comparison to the features that made the boy truly something special to look at, in Francis's eyes.
His skin was pale. Very pale, a good shade or two lighter than most. Very thin around the waist...everywhere, really, and limbs that looked slim and long. He also looked unhealthy, but that only added to the image of the ailing beauty, which so many aspire to become yet fail to achieve.
Francis had seen the various personalities of society before. The women frequently strived for the pale skin and faint blush, yet here is a natural, perfect example, and not one of the fairer sex.
The boy reminded Francis of the porcelain dolls he'd seen as a child, in the toy stores he frequented as a child. Skin that was almost white, rosy cheeks, and the like. The only difference was that the dolls were always clothed in dainty dresses and suits, while the boy wore only a ragged jacket and faded trousers, typical dress of the poor.
He stood there, scolding two small boys at his side, but Francis was unable to hear their exchange, being much too far away. Judging by appearances, the three of them were family, perhaps brothers. But Francis couldn't be sure.
But then, he would see things for himself.
Francis stepped closer without any hesitation, a faint smile already tugging at his lips.
It wasn't everyday that he found someone who could actually intrigue him. Francis searched for beauty often, and occasionally searched for models, but there was a reason why those instances never became frequent.
For all the ones he met, models they were, but interesting, they were not.
Francis had always wanted to paint something that wasn't a still life. Perhaps this boy was who he was looking for all along. He was attractive by society's standards, too, and with some coercion...
The boy gazed up, eyes wide and curious, as if he'd noticed Francis watching.
Their gazes met in one awkward moment, Francis briefly taken aback for another, but he soon brushed away his momentary loss of composure. Francis only stood there, and he watched as the boy narrowed his eyes, staring at him questioningly.
Francis smiled, but only with a fraction of his usual flair.
After all, this one looked rather young. And angry too, much like a bristling kitten. Vexed, yes, but harmless looking. Though still vexed.
The boy did indeed see the gesture, and he stiffened, face flushing slightly and expression torn between looking confused and looking offended. After another moment, he scowled weakly before turning away, much to Francis's amusement.
Now, what was better than someone with a distinct appearance and personality?
It usually took only attractive features to pique Francis's interest—he had natural talent for spying things with beauty, after all—but this boy, though a stranger, was already making himself out to be an interesting character.
His mind made up a while ago, Francis began to walk closer, planning on having an actual conversation. He wanted to know some more details about this...mystery, and to hopefully unravel it further and further, if he could.
Francis loved mysteries. Challenges. Things of beauty that almost seemed to call for him to approach them.
Maneuvering his way around a passerby or two, Francis made his way over to the boy, who was just a few steps away, already prepared with a greeting and further remarks to engage the other in some conversation. And, if successful, Francis would thus depart with a name and an agreement for a rendezvous.
Though all that vanished when Francis arrived to nothing but emptiness.
There was no sight of the boy in the location he should've been in, and Francis was feeling baffled...until he spied the retreating figure far ahead, already disappearing behind the fog.
The boy glanced back once, only to turn away when he saw Francis, though not before giving him a pointed look. One that had a good bit of a...taunting air to it.
Well.
Francis raised an eyebrow, feeling relatively impressed that someone could resist his charms, but also quite aggravated. At that look the boy gave him, especially, with little bits of smug and devious and many other things.
He continued to stay there for a while before moving on to continue the walk that had been so abruptly interrupted, his displeasure fading away after a while.
Francis admitted that he felt very dissatisfied. Never had he failed with charming, or even simply striking up a conversation with anyone. It was practically inherent for him, a born talent.
But here was the undeniable truth. The boy was already out of his sight, as if he was just an illusion, along with his ghost-like features and fiery attitude that contrasted his feeble appearance.
If they met again, he most definitely would not be walking out of Francis's sights again.
If they would even meet again. It was all a matter of chance.
Francis walked on. He felt vaguely annoyed by himself, and more at the boy, whose fascinating mysterious qualities and face wouldn't quite leave Francis's mind.
Seemed like he finally found a pursuit that would last longer than the majority—even if it does not end in romantic relations.
Contrary to general opinion—that is, the flirtatious image his friends and acquaintances usually assimilate to him, Francis liked to approach things with a certain measure of distance. He was not one to be impulsive and overly invested.
But Francis found himself continuously thinking about the strange boy, whose name he didn't know. Those looks...And despite the aggravating behavior, he would make a fine model, lover, whatever it may be. But if there was one thing he knew, it was that the boy was definitely more interesting than the many people Francis has met or done portraits for.
It was a passing thought that slowly drifted into the back of his mind as the day passed on and other matters began to consume Francis's time, though everything would soon be roused from the back of his mind when he met Arthur Kirkland, again.