Series: « L'histoire française », 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles. Written for lj/hetachallenge. Find my table at lj/coeurgryffondor.
Author's note: I'm really hoping this time all those years of studying French and all those years living in France have finally paid off; if any native French speakers have suggestions message me and let me know, I always want to improve my French.
Where there is French it isn't translated since this piece is so much about English versus French and it felt wrong to try and insert the translations. If Google Translate doesn't give you a good translation on something let me know and I will gladly assist you.
L'histoire française
Betrayal
To feel him in his arms again after over a century apart is beautiful, Francis not even attempting to hold back his emotions. Matthew grips him tightly around his torso, squeezing him with a strength he didn't have last he saw him.
"Mon Dieu," Francis gasps against his boy's hair, hands cradling that head. "Tu es si beau, c'est incroyable, je t'aime, je t'aime mon petit Mathieu, tu es parfait mon beau fils, je t'aime."
He's not sure how long they stand there, holding each other, because no matter how long it had been when they pull apart it is still reluctant.
Francis watches from the corner of the office as Matthew works behind the desk, officials coming in and out. They speak in some combination of English and French and at that, Francis isn't sure what he feels.
He knew Matthew would learn to speak English. This was Arthur after all, and beyond that it was right that he learn the language. Francis speaks English and Arthur speaks French; Matthew, now, can speak both as well.
And yet this is different: his Canadian boy speaks English with English officials and French with French officials, but when they can speak both?
Matthew speaks in English.
From the corner Francis watches, discontent.
When he used to visit in the eighteenth century Matthew would get to leave his normal room and spend the night with Francis in the king sized bed. Now in the nineteenth century, Matthew brings Francis to the Canadian's bed.
"I guess we might both be too big now?" Matthew almost-asks, his head cocked to one side, hand scratching the side of his face. He still looks young, less clean-shaven and more like he can't grow a beard. "We can try all the same still though, right?" Shrugging he looks over his shoulder at Francis.
The Frenchman blinks, his face blank, taking in the boy.
"Francis?"
He starts to shake in anger.
"Papa?" Matthew steps to him and those big eyes are wide, searching.
Francis leaves the room.
Outside Matthew finds him on one of the benches in the dark, the sound of cool water streaming down a fountain of a woman pouring water.
Sitting the boy says nothing, threading his fingers through Francis's and letting his head rest on one of the French shoulders.
"Je suis désolé Papa," Matthew whispers, switching to French. "J'ai besoin de te rendre heureux. Je suis ton fils, j'étais toujours ton fils. Je suis à toi."
It's the sense of betrayal he can't shake: that Matthew is so English, that Arthur did that, that Francis didn't have the strength to stop it, that the world is cruel, that he has no control over his own fate let alone the fate of those he loves.
Next time he sees Matthew the boy is quiet, speaking in over-enunciated French to try and make up for something he didn't do.
Finally Francis can't take it anymore. "Matthew, don't." He speaks in English and at that violet eyes stare at him. "This isn't your doing, this isn't your fault."
Matthew nods. "Merci, Papa."
That night they reminisce about the past in French; it feels wonderful.