Title: Crooked Smiles
Characters: Francis Bonnefoy, Arthur Kirkland
Summary: "What do you write about anyway?" he asked agitatedly. "Curious people with crooked smiles like yours," Arthur responded.
Notes: Four hundred thirty-nine words. Implied FrUK. School AU. Drabble.
He transferred into Francis's class. He was a year younger than the rest, had atrocious eyebrows that the French boy would do anything to get rid of, and God despite that, he was so devilishly charming that he managed to miss the name of the Briton. Merde.
Nine days passed since the transfer student arrived. Francis noticed something peculiar. Rather than paying attention in English Literature, the transfer student seemed to have preferred getting lost in his own thoughts, scribbling away in a tattered black journal that was hidden behind the painfully dull textbook. Either this kid was a songwriter plus musician (très sexy), or he was a poet (also sexy, but maybe not as much as the former).
Eleven days since the arrival: the discovery of the transfer student's name. Francis had the pleasure of staying after school for detention with Gilbert. Reason: really, there was never one except that a slip and a sigh were given by the teacher the moment she took notice of the mischievous grins fixed upon the boys' faces (they really needed to work on their poker faces). Antonio managed to get out of it with the fact that he just looked far too innocent (despite being anything but). And if it weren't for the fact that a scribbled 'Arthur Kirkland' with an attached photo slipped out of the teacher's folders, the detention would have been filled with muttered complaints about the blasted Spaniard who decided to mock them by taking a siesta under a tree where the German and Frenchman could see.
Sixteen days have passed. Francis decided to "casually" bump into Arthur Kirkland. "Casually" ended up failing and resulted in a clusterfuck with Arthur glaring at him and Francis cursing to himself in French, only to realize that the Briton was nodding with agreement and muttering "grenouille" under his breath. "You understand French?" Francis asked stupidly. The Brits were not supposed to understand his language, let alone speak it. "I'm just as shocked that you're competent enough to speak English," Arthur responded, bemused. God damn it.
Eighteen days in, and Francis decided to attempt to charm the Briton. During lunch, he approached the lone Arthur, busily writing away in that same journal. "What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone?" he purred, giving his best smile. Arthur looked up, smirking. "Try again." The French teen frowned. He's not supposed to understand French, nor is he supposed to give such a snarky rejection. He squatted down to be at the other's eye level. "What do you write about anyway?" he asked agitatedly. "Curious people with crooked smiles like yours," Arthur responded.