[PART I]
Many people understand the feeling of isolation as they walk into an unfamiliar building. A new surrounding, instead of being welcoming and warm, is more so anxious and made backs hunch slightly, just to let the eyes stray away from someone alien. Though it was difficult to do so at the moment, as Matthew stood in front of his new classmates, the teacher in charge going through the 'new student' procedures as his fingers in his pockets pinched at the lint on the fabric to keep himself from being too nervous—he knew that he'd start to feel as if his ribs were being constricted, and his breathing would be quick and harsh—he never enjoyed that feeling.
"Why don't you take your seat over there, next to—yes, him," the teacher added as Matthew glanced at the student he'd be sitting next to for the rest of the year, he supposed. Until that person decided that Matthew is too boring, too bland for his tastes, and leaves the cursed seat to find someone better.
He sighed discreetly, under his breath as he finally nodded and walked over to the empty seat, gaze on the floor and not on the curious ones of his new peers. Stopping at the seat, he put his bag down and sat down, scooting forward before quickly flashing a pursed, slightly forced smile at his seatmate. "I'm Matthew," he introduced, before wanting to use his newly sharpened pencils to stab himself in the eye. The teacher had already told them his name. Ten minutes and he already proved himself to be an idiot.
"I'm Arthur," the (obviously) older teen said, his green eyes glancing over the side to look at the Canadian, his smile mirroring Matthew's formal and forced one, "… It's nice to meet you."
Still shy as ever, and feeling like he wet his pants in front of his classmates, Matthew responded with a short nod and lets his hands rummage through his bag to grab his pens and a notepad so he could start learning. It was school. It was what he was supposed to do.
Even after half a year, it was what he was supposed to do.
Arthur gives him a nudge, in the middle of class as Matthew is shaken from his little nostalgic trip back to the beginning of the year, and he elbows Arthur with a roll of his eyes, mumbling, "What."
"You zoned out for a bit there—Jones was walking past, so I saved your arse."
"Oh. Sorry—I was thinking about when we first met and how horribly awkward it was," Matthew rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, a small chuckle leaving his lips as he gives the other a look, "I can't believe you didn't even care."
"It wasn't that bad," Arthur shrugs, biting the end of his pen as he focuses on the white board, the pen leaving his teeth to swiftly scribble down a few notes, "I suppose it was funny. Least I got to know you, right?"
Playing with the strands of his hair—Arthur knew that was an indication that either Matthew was thinking about something, or that he was feeling sheepish—Matthew bit at the edge of his lower lip and answers with, "That's a good thing. I'm pretty glad about that."
"Should be," Arthur replies, his tone teasing, yet he was sure that Matthew was serious. Arthur liked him too, to be honest. Despite how quiet and introverted Matthew was, Arthur still enjoyed his company. They had comfortable silences, and even if it was calm, Arthur wasn't bored. He liked him, and it was easier to just sit down next to him in the library with a nod, and he could read beside him, without feeling like he was bothering Matthew either.
This time his thoughts were interrupted, as Matthew blurts, "You free tonight?"
"Matthew, I know we're best friends, but I didn't know you liked me that way—"
"Shut the fuck up," Matthew rolls his eyes and gives his shoulder a light punch before continuing, "I'm just asking 'cause my dad said he wanted me to bring over some friends. And since I've been to your place, he thinks it's only fair if you come over for dinner. If you don't want to—I won't, like, force you or anything. My dad's also a way better cook than you," he adds, just for good measure.
Taking his phone out, Arthur checks the date and time after giving Matthew a raise of his brow, which Matthew then proceeds to hold his desk and shake it slightly, his eyes wide and his face showing mock horror, indicating that the slight movement from Arthur's massive brow could create an earthquake. How immature. Arthur can't help but smile at the childish gesture.
He gives Matthew a nod after putting his phone back into his bag, and he says, "Stop that, it's stupid," his accent is strong as he huffs lightly, and continues, "But fine. I'll come over. If it's better than my own cooking—I'll take anything better than my cooking or take out, so."
Matthew's eyes practically shine in delight as he instantly purses his lips together so that he won't look too happy about this. His dad asked him to, and it wasn't like he wanted Arthur in his house so early anyway. (Even if it seems like it'd be good fun). "… I'll pick you up after school then."
"Sounds like a plan."
Arthur's lips are pursed too.
Pushing up his glasses, Matthew presses the doorbell and glances over his shoulder to see Arthur looking at the door with determination. He's nervous and it is so obvious Matthew almost wants to snort, but he is greeted by his father, who—oh god, he looked ridiculous.
"Un tablier?" Matthew hisses in rapid French, "Dieu, papa— … C'est mon ami."
"I didn't know you had a friend coming over, you should've told me," Francis answers calmly, keeping his lips curved in a polite and friendly smile as he notices the mysterious friend (whom he had heard could not cook to save his life).
Arthur can instantly see the resemblance between the two, with the same beeline honey shade of blonde hair, the mirroring bright blue irises—yet he can also see the differences after a minute or so, after Francis led them inside, closing the door behind them. The bridge of Matthew's nose isn't as high, and the tip isn't as pointy as Francis's; he probably got that from his mum then, Arthur thinks to himself as he tries to keep his gaze off of the other's father. He didn't want to be that creepy friend. Also, Matthew didn't seem to have stubble, much less of a five o'clock shadow, whereas his father had a trimmed goatee that faded to his side burns.
"—I'm Arthur Kirkland, it's nice to meet you, Mr. Bonnefoy," Arthur manages to say without sounding too nervous or intimidated, his hand reaching out to give the taller man a formal handshake.
"Please, call me Francis," the man replies, hand giving his a squeeze and a shake before pulling away and peeling his apron off (after giving Matthew a look), "It's nice to finally meet you, Arthur, I've heard a lot about you."
"Christ, dad."
"Don't worry, it's nothing bad," Francis laughes, the sound low, and brings Arthur's cheeks to feel slightly more heated than usual. He is quite embarrassed at the moment, but he forces out a small, awkward laugh of acceptance.
Matthew was going to scold his dad later. He was making this weird already. Great.
"Make yourself comfortable, would you like some wine?" he asks, his smile still plastered on, though he is quite delighted at how he obviously makes Arthur uncomfortable. He doesn't really care, Arthur seems like he'd be fine with it. If he was Matthew's age, he'd be able to drink—thankfully in England, the legal age was eighteen. Francis knew that he was never one to follow the rules, but twenty one was too long of a wait.
Arthur gives Matthew a look, who nods encouragingly, and he says, "Um, yes, that would be nice, thank you, Mr—Sorry, Francis." Arthur is thankfully nineteen years old.
"Why don't you help me in the kitchen? Matthew can get the table ready by himself," Francis gestures towards the kitchen, and Matthew gives his dad a glare before sighing and muttering under his breath to his friend, "He's doing this because I didn't tell him I'd have someone over today. God knows this man needs to plan everything first."
"It's all right, I'm like an angel in front of parents, I'll be cool," Arthur breathes back, between his teeth as his fingers grab at the edge of his shirt, unconsciously wondering if he'd have to wear an apron like Francis needed to earlier.
Once they both are in the kitchen, Francis ties his hair up and says in a gentle, strangely motherly tone, "Why don't you help me plate the food up while I go and pour us some wine?"
Arthur nods and does as he's told; keeping silent and still feeling like he stood out like a sore thumb as Francis continues with the small talk, "How's Matthew in school then? Has he been bothering you in any way?" he jokes.
"Oh—of course not," Arthur says quickly, thanking Francis for the glass of wine before taking a cautious sip to make sure he doesn't seem like the type to drink for no reason (even though he didn't know Francis was one of those people), "He's great, really. You've got a nice son," Arthur almost stops himself, but the words slip out of his lips, and his cheeks flush again, lips pursing so hard they form a straight line under his nose.
And Francis laughs.
His cheeks feel like they had been burned by hot coal.
"I-I uh—I'm not trying to—Um—I don't—" Arthur's face was practically burning up so much the fire alarms could go off, as he tries to save himself and his comment that was maybe a little too much for a parent to hear.
"It's fine, I know he's a nice son. I've had him for a while," Francis jokes again, thinking his jokes are funny, but he knows they aren't the best, "I'm sure he's finished up the table, shall we?" he lifts his glass of wine before taking a plate and motioning for the other to follow him.
By the looks of the tip of Arthur's nose, which is still resembling a certain Christmas reindeer, Matthew can quickly deduce that his father tortured the poor soul. God, Arthur was never going to come here again. Matthew was going to throw his dad's phone into the toilet tonight. It's what he deserved for this. As the trio finally take their seats, Francis smiles at Arthur, and with a small hand flick, he says, "Enjoy. Please ask for more wine if you're thirsty. Or water. Whatever you fancy."
Tonight, Francis decides that he wants to make something more oriental—if he knew he was having a guest over tonight, he'd be making something less common and would at least have salad—but they'd have chicken chow mein only. With wine. Sometimes Francis wasn't that great of planning the best meals, but at least they tasted nice and hit all the right spots; he quickly realizes as he hears the small noise of delight that seems to escape from Arthur's lips as he takes the first bite.
"You like it?" he asks, the corners of his lips curving pleasantly.
"Oh, definitely—it's lovely. Way better than whatever I was going to have tonight."
"Which would be curry takeaway. As usual," Matthew grins, looking down at his meal before poking it with his fork, teeth showing playfully as Arthur rolls his eyes, showing a tiny grin, and tells him to shut up.
The atmosphere is finally comfortable for all three of them, and they eat while Matthew tells Francis about how his day went at school, including how he watched a documentary about how pets had a positive effect on families, once again hinting how he wanted a kitten to join the family. After a few huffs, stubborn comments, and harassing Arthur about his opinion (which he gladly pretended he was too occupied with his food to answer), Francis finally nods and leans back into his chair, sighing, "Fine. Arthur—you're here to witness this. If he doesn't take care of the cat, it's his fault, not mine."
"You're going to help too, it's not like you don't like cats."
"I like cats, I don't like cleaning up after them."
"I said I'd clean up, you just need to buy the cat food and the bed and the toys—"
"You're the one who said you'd pay for the to—"
Interrupting the quarreling couple, Arthur clears his throat and lifts his empty glass wine, "… I'd like some more wine please."
Both of the strikingly blue eyes turn to look at him, and Arthur notices how by the side of Francis's eyes, his wrinkles show slightly as he smiles and mutters, "I like him," and reaches for the bottle of Pinot Noir, pouring him another glass as he silently thanked him for stopping the slightly immature and slowly growing argument between the father son combo.
Arthur gulps down a mouthful of wine and blames it for the sudden tugging feeling he feels in his stomach.
"Well, it was very nice to meet you today, Arthur, I hope I get to see you again soon," Francis says as he leans against the wall with his shoulder, a leg crossed over at the ankle, his hand still holding the same wine glass. Arthur might need to talk to his friend about his father's drinking habits. Though Francis seems completely sober so far.
Arthur returns the smile despite knowing that Francis won't be able to see it, since he was slipping his Toms on as Matthew opens the front door for him to leave. "It was nice meeting you too, Mr. Bonnefoy. And thank you again for the meal."
"No problem, Arthur, have a good night," he waves his free hand casually.
Before Matthew closes the door, he says his farewells to his friend, and also gives him a wave—Arthur nods, returns the polite words and finally leaves the house.
"I like him," Francis immediately tells his son once the door closes, "He seems like a good boy. You should invite him over more often."
"He seemed to like it after the first half hour. He's a good friend, dad, don't fuck this up."
"I never fuck stuff up. And don't say that word," Francis snorts and finishes his glass of wine before ordering, "Also, you're washing up the dishes tonight. Since I was not informed about Arthur tonight."
"Fine."
"Good boy."
[END OF PART I]
[thank you for reading part I! I hope you enjoy the story so far—the relationship will build throughout the chapters (if anyone was wondering). Also, if I got any of the French wrong, I apologize ;; if anyone could perhaps check it for me, that'd be amazing xx I'll post a new chapter every week (hopefully on Mondays) and at the moment I'm not sure how many chapters this story will be!
Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it and follow the story if you are curious to what happen to the two xx thank you for reading – GreyFortress]
