Color my world.
a oneshot.
The first time Francis had seen him, Francis had ignored him completely. Even though deep down inside, he had wanted to approach the guy, smile sweetly and say, "I'm sorry, but your violet jersey jacket doesn't match at all with your all with your red shirt and your yellow pants. You look like you took a bath in the rainbow or something."
The rainbow guy has been coming to the cafe at exactly the same time everyday ever since the world began, or so Antonio says. Which is pure exaggeration since he has only been their customer for 6 months, and not, obviously ever since the start of the world. Their manager informs him this during his first week in the business.
Two weeks later of not paying attention to the colorful customer, though quite interested if he is to be honest, he sees the boy go inside the cafe, in the middle of summer, and sunshine, and heat waves, wearing a large red sweatshirt over green jeans. Francis flinches involuntarily at the sight.
Antonio, who is closest to the kid, and has known him for over half a year already, doesn't bother to take his order anymore and just goes over to the chef, tells him to whip up a cappucino and a maple cake. Once done, Francis races to the counter and grabs the tray even before Antonio can touch it. "I'll give these."
Antonio looks at him suspiciously at first but then shrugs and turns to accommodate other customers.
"Good morning, Antoni-oh." the stranger's voice drops, looking quite disappointed to see someone different from the Spanish man who usually gives him his food everyday.
"Good morning, sir," Francis greets him politely, and places the drink and the pastry on the table next to various papers, making sure to place it somewhere it won't dirty the stranger's work.
The boy thanks him with his soft voice and picks up a pen to continue his work.
Francis, curious as to what he's writing, sits on the chair across the guy, propping his chin on one hand. The stranger doesn't seem to notice, or just doesn't really care, because he doesn't raise his head up to look at him.
Bored, Francis tells him, "Merry Christmas,"
The stranger looks up to the sound through his long fringe, and starts, seeing Francis sitting across him. "Excuse me, what?"
"Merry Christmas,"
The guy furrows his eyebrows together in such a cute way, a confused look on his face, a sign he's not getting it.
Francis chuckles. "Don't wear green and red together." He tells him, pointing at the boy's clothes.
The boy's face drops, an expression Francis wasn't expecting, and mutters, "Okay." and continues with his work as if nothing happened and doesn't tell him to go away nor stay either.
Feeling like a complete and total jerk, Francis is about to apologize when another waiter calls for him. So instead, he says, "See ya,"
The stranger does not reply.
The next day, Francis takes the food to him again.
The stranger is wearing a printed shirt this time, over normal denim pants. The problem now are his shoes. Though Francis decides to not criticize this mistake.
The stranger, still polite as ever, thanks Francis for the food, failing to hide his disappointment about not seeing Antonio instead, and goes back to work immediately after.
It's a nice morning, delicious scents come out of the kitchen, making the cafe smell decent and nice. There aren't that many people in the store yet, save for a couple of businessmen, a lady which Antonio's currently flirting with, and the boy. Francis decides to sit with him again.
The stranger stops writing after Francis has settled across him, and adjusts his glasses as he looks up. Now that he can actually look straight into his eyes, Francis notes how beautiful his violet eyes are. "Um,"
"Please, carry on, don't mind me," Francis smiles, waving his hand dismissively. The stranger looks unsure, biting his lips, but continues with his work nonetheless.
Francis leans over to see a little of the boy's work, but gets distracted by his hand instead. His lands look pretty, delicate, almost like a girl's, as it writes down words of everything and anything on the sheet of paper.
"I'm Francis, by the way,"
The boy looks up, beams slightly at him and replies, "Matthew."
The boy continues writing afterwards, but the image burns in Francis' head-an innocent smile, a pair of shiny purple eyes, and a face so beautiful and perfect-maybe, just maybe, he is in love.
And that's what exactly he tells Antonio.
"In love?" Antonio says with so much incredulity that stabbed Francis a little. "But you've only talked to him twice!"
"But he's cute," Francis argues out of whim, because really, it's true. "And he has pretty eyes."
Antonio looks at him like he's mad or something, with matching raised eyebrows and a scrunched up face, then shrugs, proceeding to wipe the dishes Francis is done with.
"He's only 23, Francis. You're like, 3 years older."
Francis smiles a very suave smile and then replies, "Age is just a number, my friend."
Antonio opens his mouth to protest, but shuts it and proceeds to his work at hand.
The following days, Francis has taken over Antonio's job in giving Matthew his everyday cup of coffee and his favorite cake. Francis has successfully gained Matthew's trust, earning himself a glimpse of Matthew's genuine smile and his purple eyes every time.
Matthew starts to acknowledge Francis as a friend, a close friend at that, and that made Francis happy. Francis looks forward to seeing Matthew everyday, and, if Francis has to say so himself, Matthew does too. Of course, Francis wouldn't admit that Matthew has been like this to Antonio too, so he tries his best to make Matthew like him more than he Antonio.
Not that Antonio cares though. As much as he misses talking with Matthew, since nowadays Francis has to always talk to him only for a span of 30 minutes, he's busy trying to win the heart of a new worker named Lovino himself.
In the weeks that has gone by, Francis has come to learn that Matthew has just finished literature in college and is now trying to hone his skills by writing his very own book. Francis had told him he thinks it's interesting, resulting to Matthew blushing and Francis taking a mental note to make the boy blush more, and tells him that he'll support him all the way. Matthew blushes yet again and Francis mentally fist pumps.
Francis, in turn, tells Matthew about his profession as a painter. Matthew had asked him why he was working in this cafe instead of, well, painting. Francis had expected the question-he gets that a lot. He had replied that not all paintings get bought and not all painters are rich, talented, maybe, but not wealthy.
"And besides, if I never worked in this cafe, I wouldn't have met you,"
Matthew had blushed so hard, even his ears turned red. Francis had grinned triumphantly.
Francis has come to like Matthew not only because his eyes are pretty, his blonde hair is soft, he smells good and child-like, he's adorable, and, in his humble opinion, perfect, but also because ever since he has met him, Francis has seen his enthusiasm about his work, his writing, and he has admired him deeply for that.
One day, months after they have first met, while Francis is wiping the counter, and while Antonio and Lovino are bickering so loudly in the men's room, he sees Matthew enter, wearing a neon pink shirt and green shorts. A teenager laughs at him from his seat and immediately shuts up once he saw Francis giving him vicious glare.
Francis convinces himself that he has gotten past Matthew's imperfections, especially his fashion sense. He has ignored this for the past months, often making comments but never really getting to the point and stating that it sucked, but it's too ridiculous to ignore this time. Neon colors? Bright and almost blinding Neon?
"Hi, Francis." Matthew beams at him once he arrives at his table, usual cup of cappuccino and maple cake in hand. He takes his usual place across him.
Francis gets to the point. "Matthieu, I know you're adorable and all-but, what are you wearing?"
Francis expected the reaction, Matthew's face immediately drops. "Um," he attempts to laugh, but his voice cracks at the end and he stops altogether. "My brother . . . he buys them for me . . . and he . . . he also puts the colors and-"
"Puts the colors?"
Matthew gasps. "I-I mean, he-I'm sorry," Matthew looks down to his beverage, pursing his lips.
Francis sighs, blaming himself for this, and reaches over to raise Matthew's chin up. Matthew looks like he wants to cry. "Is there something you want to tell me?"
Matthew shakes his head a little harshly, and attempts to smile thought it looks more like a grimace. "Nothing,"
Francis is genuinely worried by now. He wonders how the talk about fashion and clothes turned into Matthew hiding something from him. Then again, they aren't dating anyway. Francis even thinks this is only a one sided relationship. But still, after months of talking, and sharing, and bonding, Francis can't help but feel disappointed knowing that Matthew's hiding something from him.
He wipes a lone tear on the brink of falling from Matthew's left eye and smiles warmly at him, hoping to cheer him up because he knows he started this. "I'm sorry,"
Francis walks away and goes into the kitchen.
Purple eyes are the only things inside his mind that night. He has mentally cussed himself for the nth time already, angry for being inconsiderate and making those eyes, those beautiful eyes, look like that. But if he hadn't brought up the fashion talk, Francis wouldn't have known that Matthew is hiding something from him, something he can't even talk about with his close friend. Francis knows Matthew all too well to know that he can cry easily, any time, any place. And that secret, which Francis has yet to know, is hurting Matthew, and Francis could see it in his face, his eyes.
It's not only because he's Matthew's secret lover that he wanted to know what Matthew has to hide. Because in truth, he just wanted to help.
The next day, Francis notices the awkward atmosphere at the table when he sat down. Matthew looks disturbed, burdened for some reason, and all Francis could do is wait for him to start talking.
"Please correct me if I'm wrong," Matthew tells him after a while, smiling as he did so. "Um, it's for my book,"
Relieved that Matthew has gotten over what happened yesterday, Francis smiles back. "Okay."
"Um, yellow." Francis raises and eyebrow at the word, but lets Matthew continue nonetheless. "It's the color that's too bright, it's the color of the sun, color of banana, color of happiness, and wisdom,"
Francis is completely bewildered at the moment and is about to say something when Matthew raises a hand as if to say he shouldn't interfere. "Green is the color of the leaves of trees. The color of grass. The color of vegetables. Antonio's eyes are green. And so are Arthur's who is a friend of my brother.
"Blue is the color of the sea, the sky, and it is very pretty. It symbolizes peace and tranquility and my brother's eyes are blue,"
Matthew is determined to continue even though Francis has been showing his confusion on his face for quite a while now. He talked about browns, and reds, and oranges, and pinks, and Francis is stupid and can't make out anything out of it. He can't understand Matthew's reason for telling him this.
"Violet is the color of my eyes," Matthew is still speaking, though a little softer than before. "It's the color of grapes, and other flowers, and eggplant. It symbolizes royalty. And-" at this point, Matthew stops, takes a deep breath, and wipes his eyes furiously. "And-" And then he starts crying.
Francis reaches over to wipe Matthew's tears, tears that has betrayed Matthew and that kept falling down nonstop, and tells Matthew to stop crying and other words of comfort. Matthew doesn't stop that fast like Francis hoped he would, and Francis even needed the help of Antonio to stop him.
Antonio stops him faster than Francis has managed, and before Matthew heads home, with Antonio's reassuring hands on his shoulders that made Francis feel jealousy bubble inside of him, he apologizes to Francis.
Francis wants to yell that he doesn't need to apologize but figures Matthew might cry harder if he did.
The weekend progresses at a very infuriatingly slow speed. Francis can't help but replay the last time he had his talk with Matthew, with the boy telling him all about colors and its meaning and what the fuck does he care about colors, anyway? If you ask him, he never wanted to talk about colors ever again, especially after seeing his precious Matthew cry like that.
Francis has never been the smartest person in class, heck, isn't even smart in general, but it didn't take a genius to know that the source of Matthew's hurting and problems are colors. Francis had had a hard time figuring out what, and now he did, but having to figure out why? Francis thinks he'll go crazy.
He goes up to the attic to where he usually paints, picks up an unused canvas, places it on the stand, and sits in front of it, palette and brush in hand, thinking of something to paint. Francis looks down at his palette, sees a beautiful shade, and is suddenly inspired, just like that.
He picks up a thinner brush, dips in the beautiful shade, and starts to paint with circular strokes, lessening the amount at this side, darkens the shade at that side. He then dips the paint in a new color, not bothering to wipe it or anything and proceeds to make downward strokes, making sure it looks soft, and remembers to add shades here and there: lightening it to where the sun should touch it; darkening some parts where shadows should be present.
He continues to paint, determined to finish it, determined to make it perfect. He only realizes that it's pretty late, when the blinding light of the sun starts diminishing in the room, getting replaced by a very familiar hue that makes Francis conscious of why he painted to start with.
It also reminds him of why he fell in love with a certain Canadian.
The room fills slowly with red, then slowly, it fills with violet, and Francis looks at his finished work in contentment.
Francis enjoyed the moment of perfection and serenity for only a few minutes before the scene slowly gets bathe in blue and wait-
That's when it suddenly hits him. Looking at his painting, almost hidden in the shadow of the room, Francis observes the shades to which his colors from before has reduced to. The painting isn't really colorless in the dark, nor is it hard to differentiate a color from color but it made Francis realize nonetheless.
The reason for Matthew's ridiculous color combinations, his mismatched shoes, the way his face drops when it's about colors.
Of course. It's because he can't see colors.
"What do you think?"
Matthew doesn't speak for some time, delicately touching the canvas as if it might break any moment, looking at himself smiling beautifully back at him. Matthew's face slowly breaks into a smile, turning around to let Francis, to let the whole world, see how happy he is. "I love it!"
"I'm happy you think that way, mon cher," Francis tells him, walking closer to the boy. Upon reaching him, he cups Matthew's face, much to Matthew's surprise, and touches their foreheads together. It's quite awkward, really, since Matthew's taller by at least a couple of few centimeters. Francis doesn't seem to care.
"I don't know why you kept it from me, Matthieu," Francis tells him earnestly, pouring all hurt into his voice. "If I have known from the start, I would've been considerate of your feelings more."
"What-"
"I know you're color blind. And I know you can't see any color except black and white and gray," Matthew's eyes widen in shock at finding out that Francis knows his eye problem already and is about to say something when Francis wraps his arms around his neck and hugs him tightly. "If you told me sooner, I could've helped you-like, make you, I don't know, understand colors more? I'm sorry for being inconsiderate and indifferent and insensitive all this time, really, I am-"
Francis knows he's just blabbering nonsense. But he can't stop now, because he feels too much guilt, too much sympathy for the kid. For him, as a son of two painters, and as a painter himself, colors are his life. And then Matthew comes along, a boy living in a colorless world ever since his world began, and most probably until his world ends, and Francis is just feeling too much emotion at the moment and-"I could've colored your world for you, let you experience and see stuff you haven't done and seen before." Francis pulls back to look at Matthew in the eye. Matthew isn't crying. Which is strange knowing how touching and heartfelt Francis' words are. But Francis ignores it and just continues to speak. "I wish you could see your eyes. They're the most beautiful color I've ever seen. It's the reason I fell in love with you in the first place."
Matthew smiles at him, a very, very grateful smile at that, and leans forward-downward, even, and kisses Francis on the lips. Francis likes it, so he pulls Matthew lower, wrapping his arms around his neck tighter. Unspoken words, and hidden emotions manifest themselves in the kiss they shared, and Francis thinks he's falling too fast and-
"Francis," Matthew tells him, warm breath touching his ear. "You've already colored my world."
notes: This color blind thing started when my teacher told us that Mark Zuckerberg is color blind. Ridiculous, i know. :)) Last sunday, i kind of got inspired so instead of studying for my Trigonometry exams for the day after, i wrote this fic on a spare notebook instead. And voila.
Also, this is first time writing this pairing. Sorry for the characterization inaccuracies. ; w ;
disclaimers: I do not own Hetalia and the characters in it.
ps. This is unbeta'd. I apologize. :))