• F a c a d e •
C h a p t e r _ O n e -
T o _ b e _ c o n t i n u e d '
AN/- AU fan-fiction. My first Hetalia fan-fiction that is something other than GerIta - Yay! Well, after lots of debate I decided to make this one FrUk. I hope you all enjoy, and if you would, please review if you've read it! I accept all reviews - you don't even have to have an account.
Once upon a time I thought
"What's the one thing I haven't got?"
There's not a single thing in this world I couldn't buy
That's when a gentleman caught my eye.
Once or twice we went around
But now I'll tell you the thing I've found
You shouldn't make your move until you know the price
Because gentlemen aren't nice.
Just because I leave him all alone for days
And go about with others of his kind
He dares complain about my evil ways
And drive me out of my - out of my mind.
What I relate is hard to bear
I only endure it so that I might spare you ladies
I'm not known for my good advice
But gentlemen aren't
So agreeable
Love ain't a paradise
And if I told you once, I won't tell you twice
Gentlemen aren't nice
Gentlemen aren't nice.
Emilie Autumn - Gentlemen aren't nice.
S t a r t '
F r a n c i s ' _ P o i n t _ O f _ V i e w
The boy - fairly tall - sat on a bench by the pier, violin resting across his lap as he fixed his bow. It was around 5:00 in the evening, and the sun was now sinking down towards the Western reaches of the city, Hide park and Piccadilly. In truth, he didn't know why he was here. It was a city he didn't visited for years, yet he found it held a somewhat special place, in his heart.
A hat covered his messy blond hair which was partially tucked back into a ponytail, tied with a small piece of twine that he had most probably taken off of a stack of newspapers. His cheeks were dirty, as was the back of his neck and his attire, a pair of patched trousers and worn shirt with a couple missing buttons sitting below an oversized and tattered leather coat. He took off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket, careful not to crush the small crust of bread he had been saving there.
Francis found that he felt ashamed of himself, when he was dressed like this in public. Most of the time he would hide from public eye, crouching under a small bridge, and seeking what comfort he could be looking at pretty girls from far away, thinking about what he would do, if luck would strike him and he managed to get more money. A bakery shop, that was it! Yes, that's right. Concentrate on the happy things, practice the music.
It's the only thing that will get you there.
He carefully checked the tuning of the dirtied strings and the bow one last time, sighing happily. Then he picked up the instrument and began to play. The strings screeched at first against the bow in protest, but with an adjustment or two to his hand position, the sweet melody began to flow from the wooden instrument.
Francis Bonnefoy had made it a ritual to come to the wharf on the Thames every day to practice. He did play on the streets too, but found that he got shoved around when he played there, which made the whole situation just a little bit more degrading. Sure, there was the possibility of earning more money there, but eventually he just resorted to acting as a cutpurse like he used to be, and while it was not often that he got caught, was always nervous about it.
But at any rate, he played his song with more confidence than he he had in his anything else - apart from his abilty to cook, that was, but he never had the means or ingrediants to do anything with that. Besides, nothing could come from it.
He never knew what it was called, but he had learned it by heart a very long time ago... Music was the only thing this boy could read other than the occasional word here and there. He thought that someone had tried to teach him once, perhaps before his father was sent to debtors prison.
He heard somebody walking towards him across the wooden pilings, and pushed his violin case a bit more out to the front. He kept playing, perhaps a bit more expressively as the person passed. Then— on some off chance— the clack of a coin dropping into the violin case could be heard. It was a heavy coin too, by the sound of it. Francis quickly finished his piece to peer into the case. A single guinea lay in there. He had never even so much as touched a guinea in his whole life. He quickly stowed the instrument and ran after the male on his thin legs, nearly tripping over the pilings. He dug around in his pocket and retrieved a small wooden rosary, finally reaching the taller gentleman and tugging on his sleeve desperately.
"Monsieur! I wanted to thank you!" he said, taking the finely dressed boy's hand and put the cross in it. "This, Please take it. You're the only person who has so much as stopped to listen, and I want to thank you. May God bless you and keep you!"
And then, muttering under his breath, he added a few final words. "Keep it close to your heart!" The blonde French boy had guessed that the other was close to his age if anything else, and in the pit of his heart he couldn't help but wish that that... gentleman would come again, tomorrow night.
A r t h u r ' s _ P o i n t _ O f _ V i e w
Stepping off a large boat, the steel heal of his boot rang on the flat cobbles of the pavement, as he took his first step onto new land. The Englishmen was smaller than average, and although he looked barely older than a mere fourteen years of age it was obvious from his simple but effective attire that he would be judged fairly highly in society, an upper class citizen that no doubt many people would be envious of. Clothed in straight black dress trousers - which he actually found rather too tight, too crisp, and rather uncomfortable - a small and delicate watch hung from his pocket. A small hand reached up, grabbing the chain on which it was held, and lifted it to said man's face, allowing a clearer view of the clock hands, which were ticking slowly but surely past the roman numerals inscribed.
Scrunching up his eyes, the blonde's emerald orbs followed the hands around the clock, counting the fives. That was 10, yes. Ten to five, then. Throwing the watch back down, as if he was annoyed at himself, and wanted to ask someone else instead, he sighed. Mathematics had never been one of his best attributes, but he found himself getting along just fine with his literature, and cooking. He /really/ should get going.
Nodding to the man behind him, he gestured for him to place his suitcases down, taking them up in both hands and allowing him a happy smile, the brief facade of a businessman gone as the grin graced the corners of his mouth, tugging them upwards. Suddenly he became the child that he was years ago, happy, so happy. Youthful, and full of delight. Not that there was much happiness to this place, he thought, eyes scanning around. His eyebrows raised slightly as Arthur - as we would later find out was his name - raised the suitcases to a height in which he could carry them, taking his second step into the chilly, palely clothed night which was London.
It was awhile until he realised that everything had become silent, just the echoes of his feet, and laboured breathing. It was fine to slow down, it seemed, although the area did not look pleasant. Everything was bathed in a half light, half cast from the setting sun, half from the art deco light posts stationed all around, and it lit the streets eerily, made worse by the complete lack of sound. Was this what /his/ city had been reduced too? Good god. He stood for a moment then, chest heaving as he caught his breath, reaching out to glance at the pocket watch again. Five o'clock; he was late. Bloody hell, not again!
Then, a sharp noise cut the air as if a glass had been dropped, a pebble thrown into the water by a small child. Next, a screeching noise that Arthur couldn't put his finger on, rising so high it almost hurt, then dropping low and quiet again, a whispering pile of notes that floated through the air. The tune would rise and fall, and he couldn't help but imagine dancers at the rise and fall of the music, raising and pointing toes and fingers as the note held for a while, causing silence. And then the whole thing would start again, full of raw passion and emotion, as if the violinist was drawing out the best a from a simple instrument.
Arthur stood, stock still, for a few moments. If there was one thing that he really admired, it was someone who could play something such as, for example, a violin, and provoke such emotions in people, tear at the heartstrings. And all at once, it didn't matter that he was late, didn't matter that he was lost. All the mattered was the vibrations travelling through the night air to him, and he knew that he had to find the source of such beautiful music. Smiling to himself, he skipped along the alley now, thinking that a new light had been shed on the city.
He riffled through his pockets, searching for the coin that he wanted. Finding it, he held it in his sweat covered hand, keeping at the ready and hoping his aim was true, to throw it into the violinists case. After all, it was the least they deserved from such a display. Sure enough, the coin landed true, as he turned to see, out of the corner of his eye, a small boy his age, but in contrast, pale and thin. Sickly looking, almost. Arthur cast him a pitying glance, before really rushing. Yes, he knew this street. Why, it seemed that simple melody had given him luck, after all.
A tug on his sleeve. Gentle, but persistent. Turning, he expected to see some little beggar, but instead he met eyes with the small boy that had played before, recognisable simply because he was carrying his instrument in a case, at his side. Laughing, Arthur's eyes little up. "It's fine, lad, keep playing," he said, nodding and closing the outstretched hand around the coin he had been presented with earlier.
He had been about to turn away, staying simply because his eye caught the boy searching through his pockets, and pulling something small on a chain out. Arthur recognized it; a cross, detailed and chained. He would have refused, knowing that it would most likely pay for the young boys dinner, and was possibly the brink between life and death, but the other looked so intent, and so desperate, that he put it around his neck, to keep him happy. The simple weight of it felt good, and comforting, and he set on his way with a lighter heart, crying out a loud "Thank you, lad.~" behind him, not bothering to glance around again.
Yes, the boy played wondrous music, but after all, he was just a boy. Worthy of a coin, and a couple of smiles, if nothing else. It was unlikely that they would met again, after all, even though Arthur felt him drawn towards the boy. He longed to turn back, and talk to him, but he was... just a boy.
E n d '
AN/- Please review! Thank you for reading this far, and I'm sorry it was a little short.