The clock rung with clear precision with the strike of ten o'clock. Francis jumped out of bed. He had already been awake for quite a while for it was not just any morning. It was Bastille Day. Not only did the 14th of July mark the beginning of the French Revolution, but it also marked the birth of a certain blue-eyed and madly attractive young man who was turning fourteen that day.
"Bon matin le monde!" Francis said pushing open the window and greeting the streets South London.
Oh dear, did not seem the world was giving him the same greeting in return. It was cloudy with a bit of a drizzle. Francis scrunched up a nose a bit. He was glad when his mother had told him about her remarriage, but he was not so happy when she told him they were selling their family home in Normady and moving in with her new fiancée in London, England.
He let out a long sigh. This was the first birthday he had to spend out of France. He shut the window, and crawled back beneath his coverlets, snuggling a quilt. It still had the faint smell of hay. He could remember how he sometimes used it to nap near the horse stable with his riding stallion, Étoile.
Another sigh.
She had to stay in France. Everything he cared about the most was still in France. Sure, he loved his mother, she meant the world to him, but for the past few months he had been terribly homesick. He missed the barn and the cows. He missed the stablehand, Jeanne, the way they used to race through the endless acres of land, and the way they were almost something more than "just friends." He missed picking apples and grapes, making flower garlands out of field flowers and dandelions, and he even missed the way his mother would make him do the farm chores sometimes when they were low on hands during the holidays.
Francis covered his head with his pillow. He was lucky his birthday was on a Saturday this year. That meant he could spend all of it in bed snuggling his quilt and dreaming he was in France.
"What are you still doing in bed you bloody frog, or do all Frenchmen sleep in like this?" This was the one and only Arthur Kirkland, one of his new stepbrothers who seemed to be particularly surly toward him. It looked like he was not getting to sleep in today. Maybe if he ignored him he would go away. Then there was a light kick in his side, and he realised this was not so. "Oi, get the fuck off your bum you lazy prat."
Francis only curled more into the blankets. Usually, he would play along with Arthur's insults, but he was not in the mood. "Désolé mon cher... I am not in the mood. I am staying inside today."
Arthur raised a brow. That was... not expected. He was used to Francis' weird come-ons and whatnot. He was getting used to it anyway. The lack of one only meant one thing: the Frenchman was feeling off. He poked him again with his foot. "... Are you feeling a bit ill... or something...?" he asked unsurely. This was the first time he had actually tried being a bit nice to his new houseguest. Afterall, he kind of felt like him and his mother just invaded his home. He admitted he was not all open arms with him, but maybe...
"Hey. Seriously. Get up Francis," he bent down and shook the other a little. It was not like he was worried. No. Not at all. He just thought it was unhealthy to lay in bed and seep so... unhappy. That was what it was. There was this dark cloud in the room with a chance of rain to match the skies outside.
Then he heard it, the first sniffle. Then there was another and another until there was sobbing from beneath the blankets and the pillows. Arthur was flabbergasted. He tried to find the words to say in this situation, but they were lost to him.
"Buggers...," he finally said. This would not do. He reached down and tugged down the blanket. "Okay. You are leaving now." He did not know what was wrong with him, but he would definitely not let him just lay in bed and bawl his eyes out. That was just pitiful. No matter how much he disliked Francis, he would not wish that on anyone. Especially when Francis' obvious hurt was bringing Arthur's mood down with it.
"C'mon. Up and up," he said hoisting Francis up with a huff. "We are going to get smashed, get some smokes and do whatever you fancy doing, but I am not allowing you to sod off in bed all day. It is pathetic, even for you frog." He had managed to get Francis to the floor, but was a bit out of breath. Curses to Francis for weighing so much.
Francis sighed. He had managed to stop his tears, but was still very obviously upset. "Pourquoi?" he asked with a frown and red eyes. He rubbed at them. His hair was as dishevelled as he was, a blond, wavy mess that fell to his shoulders. He looked up at Arthur and said it again in English. "Why? I do not want to be here. You do not eithre, so do not pretend Arthur."
He got up, and crawled back into bed. He just felt so horrible right now. Pathetic, just like Arthur had said. The same Arthur's whose rather large brows furrowed in something more than frustration. He did not understand why, but he felt a bit of guilt now. Afterall, Francis was right; Arthur did not want him here. At least Arthur had not wanted him here until now.
He kicked the lump that was Francis roughly. "Okay. Listen here Frenchie. That is rubbish. I might not have wanted you here, but you must admit you never wanted to be here eithre." He gave a good hard glare to that lump in the bed that still was not moving. "But our parents are happy together, and we just have to fucking deal with it, so get up you twat." He kicked him again, a nice and rough one straight into what he took to be Francis' bottom.
The blankets resounded in a short yelp, and then suddenly a hand reached out and hit Arthur straight in the jaw. Francis was not usually a fighter, but this was finally enough. Who was Arthur to tell him what to do? The Briton was younger than him afterall. "You have a really foul mouth for a twelve-year-old. You should fix it," he said furiously. "I do not care about any of that! Do you not get it? I want to go back to Normadie! To Étoile! To Jeanne! I wan-"
And that is when he received an uppercut into his gut. The wind was knocked out of him, and he was on his back on the soft red carpet. Arthur was breathing heavily, some of his dark blond hair cascading into his eyes. He pounces onto Francis, and the fighting ensues.
By the end of it all, they had made a mess of Francis' room. The bed was completely undone, with blankets and sheets spilling to the floor. There were a few pillows tossed here and there, a lamp had fallen and Francis' wardrobe was open with clothing falling from hangers. They were both panting with grasping for air, their backs to the floor.
"On est anniversaire du moi," he finally says. He lets a moment of silence pass between them before speaking again. "I thought... I could make it the best here in London, but..." He sighed. Oh no, he felt like crying again.
Arthur sighed with him. "Pass."
"Pourquoi?"
"I don't know."
They simply just stayed there on their backs for a while. One minute wasted away, and then another. They had been laying there side by side for nearly thirty minutes before one of them said something again.
"Hey Francis," Arthur said staring at the ceiling and thinking of nothing and everything at the same time. It is a sort of bored thinking, the same sort of bored thinking Francis is doing at that exact moment before tilting his head slightly to look at Arthur.
"What mon amour?"
"Joyeux... Anniversaire." Arthur did not know too much French, but he did know the basic words and phrases. Just like how Francis knew the bits and pieces of Arthur's slang. Neithre of them were all that good at each other's languages, but they understood.
That was why, even the small effort of saying such a small phrase in his own tongue, made the corners of Francis' lips turn up slightly. He propped himself up and pecked Arthur on the cheek lightly. "Merci Arthur."
He stood and held out a hand, that smile still on his face. The clouds had lightened, and there was even a bit of sun shining through now. "Still want to go... smashing?"
Arthur smiled softly at that and took the hand. He laughed a bit as they both left the room hand-in-hand. "Oui. Let's go 'smashing.'"