Pairing: FrancexOC (male), Francis x Gwenael
Genre: Romance, Slice of Life, Shounen-ai
POV: Gwenael, third-person
*Human name used*
This was a request fic by pie1313. Gwenael is a youthful French university student living in England. More information within my other fanfiction titled Never Forget based off Lord of the Flies by William Golding.
Summary: Is it worth it spending the remaining few days of summer with someone you've only just met and whose presence beckons you back to your homeland?
Disclaimer: Francis belongs to Himaruya Hidekazu, Hetalia Axis Powers and also history
OC Gwen belongs to me
Any references to Lord of the Flies belongs to William Golding
First-hand French translations:
Excusez-moi - Excuse me
Oui - Yes
Se détendre - Relax
Belle - Beautiful
Non - No
Mon cher - My dear
Etes-vous d'accord? - Are you okay?
Je vais bien - I'm fine
Bonjour tout le monde - Hello world
.
.
.
The familiar sweet scent of flowers pervaded gradually through the air, following those who cared to sniff. It was more likely that the occasional pedestrian walking along the cement tiling had been ill to clarify what particular flower had decided to make its musky, beautifully natural scent known, buggering upon them even as they began to ignore the wonders that surround.
A man, no more than eighteen years of age walked amongst the thin throng of people, silently evading his stare at the ground as he passed by an elderly woman whose face reminded the young man of a pug. His pure silver-yellow eyes glanced up as soon as the scent of roses embraced his nostrils. Immediately, a nostalgic smile crossed his lips, which elicited a small response from a young brunette passing by, her lips full and painted scarlet as they smiled in return in the utmost friendly of ways. The man flushed lightly as soon as the acknowledgement struck him. Who was that...?
His short, creamy maize hair ruffled in the summer winds, enjoying whatever aromas floating about, dancing with each strand. The young man didn't mind. On the contrary, he rather enjoyed it; the feeling of his maize hair gently tossed around by the wind after being washed down by a shower tap. That was one of his favourite feelings. Especially extolled during a friendly break from work.
Half an hour ago, his body strained over an essay that his university demanded him to finish before the coming of Friday. Today was Tuesday. He had plenty of time. But by then, the relaxing days of summer hiatus would soon come to its close. It never made any sense that his English teacher always assigned his class summer homework. That was more of an eleventh year sort of thing to do… But the blonde didn't mind too greatly, though he had been procrastinating throughout the entire summer until right about a week ago when he started the paper. He must have been a bit too over confident in his ability to write and finish a paper on time before the due date.
His antagonizing thoughts eased when the scent of fresh baked bread filtered through the air, enticing his senses. There wasn't a bakery within sight, however. And as the young blonde continued his stroll along the sidewalk, strictly hugging the fence side, he noticed a pearl white house among many almost identical to the last, resting peacefully under the warm sun high above. He passed their matching white picket fence, accidentally drawn into their dark windowsill that had opened moments before the young man had even realized an elderly gentleman resting a fresh loaf of bread down near the newly opened window. The bread was obviously too hot for the poor man to handle. Yet it didn't seem to bother him when his face looked so bright and pleased.
Another smile added to his face. The young blonde kept walking, his shoes silently tapping the ground littered in the occasional crushed fag butt surrounded in a thin puddle of small leaves, each varying in shades of green to yellow. Summer was warning to end already. The man's brain just wasn't optimistic about the matter. He loved the summer. It reminded him of home.
A few blocks had passed and the young man's legs couldn't last forever. He really ought to keep track of his health more as he takes these frequent walks. He never minded a break, however. Especially when the roads were practically the definition of deserted. An endless line of bushes peppered in crimson raced along the sidewalk where the young gent followed peacefully, admiring the wild assortment. He frequently found himself walking down this path, mainly during the summer when all the flowers were at full bloom. Today was a great day to see the final few spectacles of the beautiful presentation.
The young man would see this strictly during the summer when he would take a hiatus away from his dorm at university. It was a traditional English summer home, invaded by French décor. The house only held one story, but that's all that he needed. He lived alone, anyway. His grandparents were kind enough to lend him their house for rent, on several conditions: if their grandson does well in school, and doesn't use up any unneeded amount of electricity, among many other factors.
Though his lodging there was pricey in condition, he was truly thankful despite, knowing he had somewhere to vacate during the summer. With all his friends gone and left to their own families or hiatus' spent alone, what more could he ask for just to avoid the stingy dorm life he lives throughout the majority of the year? He was immensely grateful having such homage and riches filtering through his entire family. He would merely be served the best. He was an only child, after-all.
Balancing on legs of dry spaghetti now, he simply wished for a bench or even a ledge to situate himself upon to catch up with his mind, which remained ecstatic to continue walking. Sometimes he really disliked his brain for it would get too restless for him and result in something involving a sore body the following morning. With all that aside, he was glad to have such a brain if it would make him healthy.
Finally, through several excruciating minutes of searching, the young man discovered a bench, coloured grey and composed of cleverly crafted cement. He dashed across the narrow singe lane private street (which remained rather desolate) to approach it, the bench bathing in cool shade surrounded by a small forest of bushes and shrubbery and a convenient backrest for those individuals similar to the young man. He sat himself down with a great sigh of relief, settling until properly pleased with a slight hunch of the spine and dangling arms and feet heavily pressing into the beautifully green grass below.
The young man considered slipping off his shoes, but he was afraid a clever little thief would come round and steal them if he'd accidentally fall asleep in this serene abode. He sat here before throughout the summer and prior to even that, and he wasn't one to keep awake every time he'd sit here in the same spot. By the time he would awaken, at least one item from his body would be missing: like a watch or spare change he had rotting in his pocket. He decided to keep his shoes on.
Already he leaned his head back, relaxing himself, pressing his stout back against the wooden backrest which, in its failed attempt at mocking a tree, never stimulated that natural feeling one gets from leaning against a real tree's trunk. His eyes fluttered shut by themselves, begging him to take advantage of this peaceful day and just treat himself to a well-needed rest. His mind already beginning to doze off to the tranquillity of the gentle hum of wind and the muffled songbirds in the distance. This was his little spot of safety; to get away from it all; simply relax the day away.
His fazing thoughts rippled when responsibility struck a heavy reminder upon his brain: his eyes screwed open under furrowed brows. He didn't feel up to it at all. It wasn't as if the essay was close to being finished though. Finally, after weighing the pros and cons, the pros won and helped the young blonde to his feet, much to his reluctant state of mind.
The grass muted his steps as he walked along the empty green field; reversing his exact route, heading toward the barren road until something caught his eye – something he'd never seen before. He would have chuckled at himself if the obstruction in his peripherals ended up as a simple row of more rose bushes. However, when his body followed his eyes, meeting the opposite direction of home, he saw, as predicted, a rose bush. These roses were different, however: their assortment ran tall and oddly specific in placement. Curious, the young blonde found himself approaching the odd assortment.
Once his feet almost licked the loose leafs drooping below the rose dots bleeding out against the green of the bush, a glimpse of white distracted him. The young man glanced over, noticing an obscurity between the shrubberies. With pale, almost thrilled hands, the young man pushed away the foliage like parting long strands of hair cascading down a girl's face, discovering what looked to be a fence – No; a gate. Upon his approach, he noticed its decaying white paint, having shreds of it begging to snap off.
Millions of roses, budding, blooming and falling weighed down upon the mysterious peeling gate, as if they didn't want it to leave or to open. Now naked, the gate surrounds in a magnificent and humble display, framed in beauty of all senses.
Before curiousity beckoned him on, responsibility tugged him back into reality, trying to fix him into shape. That essay must be finished. But what could the little lonesome place beyond this gate be composed of? Perhaps it followed a trail, leading him to some undiscovered area.
He wasn't a child any more.
He glanced over his shoulder, searching for any other soul: nothing. Only the birds and dragonfly buzzed about, minding their own business. Perhaps he was acting too paranoid.
His silver-yellow eyes automatically returned to the peeling gate, admiring the tiniest of details. The slight helix to each metal bar vertically running down from the humble arch resting above them. Even the handle was a sorry though inspiring sight to behold with its dainty swerve just begging to be taken in hand. Temptations tickled his fingers.
What if this was someone's garden? Surely he'd get into trouble by then.
As if possessed, the tips of his fingers brought themselves along the waving texture, following the curve, admiring it. What had gotten into him so suddenly? It wasn't as if he disliked this, though…
Metal squeaked, piercing into his ears as he gradually pressed into the petite handle. The young man followed the gate as it opened. The grass soft beneath his shoes. The wind still humming. Everything was fine. No one was watching.
The young man entered a trail painted beautifully in shades of green and sprinkled in reds and whites. Tall trees hiding behind the surrounding shrubbery stood tall, peeking over as if to see the new guest. They waved as the wind gently tickled their branches.
The perfume of roses elated his nose, beckoning him to continue forward as if he wasn't immensely curious to begin with. He advanced as silently promised, the grass only growing softer. His shoes begged to slip off. This wasn't his, though.
The trail finally broke out into a clearing where the flowers stole the noise and displayed a quaint garden fixed to perfection with flowers abound. Petals groped the air as they fell; caressing the young man's cheek as his feet stepped forward, not even acknowledging the glass table set in front of his toes. An abandoned tea set lay untouched upon the centre. It was cute… Should he have a sit or should he simply leave like what his essay would want him to do? He did only have three days remaining. He could risk it.
The metal squeaked to his weight as he sat comfortably, observing everything. This wasn't his garden, but he would have been right proud of it if it were. His fingers already began to play with a fragile tea cup, rolling round the rim, listening to its silent melody. It was so calm here. So welcoming. Why would anyone abandon such a wonderful piece of art?
"Excusez-moi?"
Nerves spiked, the young blonde launched out of the glass seat, scrambling to his feet as he swore under his breath when he rattled the table.
Someone giggled. His face grew hot with embarrassment. Reluctant, he turned round when he thought he was at a safe enough distance, only to see a man clad in a formal white collared shirt tucked into snug blue trousers eaten by his tall, slim brown boots. The top of his head split in the middle with a wavy waterfall of gold, reaching for each of his shoulders. His blue eyes glowed intensely, directing them at the young man before him, unusually relaxed.
"I'm sorry, is this garden yours? I'll leave…" The young blonde hasted, backing up haphazardly, glancing off anywhere else, cheeks flaring wildly.
"That won't be necessary: this isn't my property." The other replied, his accent flooding with thick French dialect. The former halted. "But if I were to guess, you were interested in the roses?"
The young man swallowed nothing, astonished by such a familiar tongue. Immediately, thoughts of home resurfaced.
"Hm?" A faint smile grew upon the other man's lips, drawing out a simple nod from the young gentleman.
"I see you have an accent," His smile only grew deeper "Being in England, it's a rare occasion to find such French nuances. Where are you from, if you don't mind my asking?"
"U-Uhm..." Stuttering, the young blonde vexed to calm himself, straining to remember words. "Uh, I-I'm...M-My family and I lived in...uh...Troyes. We lived there for a good portion of my life."
The older man hummed in delight, approaching the glass table and running a finger over the rim, his azure eyes indulging upon the tea set momentarily before meeting troubled spheres of yellow.
"What possessed your family to move here to England?"
The young blonde nervously shifted his weight to one side, blood still rushing with anxiety.
"My father...he...he took business here and in turn, he had to take the entire family over with him. He thought it was best." His words came slow, avoiding the essence of blatant anxiety. "H-how about you? I've noticed you have a similar accent..."
"Oui, I am from everywhere. I don't tend to settle in just one home. But it is France that locks my feet into place."
"Do you live here at all? Or - I mean...That was rash of me... I apologise." His face couldn't grow any deeper shade of red. His flustered eyes only sought the grass.
"Se détendre..." The elder Frenchman soothed, rounding the table soundlessly with a smooth touch, approaching the youth who, in turn, heightened at the presence. "Might I ask what it is that you call yourself?"
Why was he so nervous? He shouldn't feel the need to be. The initial shock of a new pair of eyes catching him had ended quite some time ago. But he was still so unusually anxious.
"My name is...is Gwenael Vauclain. But people tend to call me Gwen for short." Flustered, Gwen didn't bother meeting the other man's fond gaze. In the corner of his eye, the older man smirked, delighted.
"What a fantastic name." The man mused, elated. "It is only predictable that the English here would shorten such a beautiful name..."
With a twitch, Gwen thought the implication rude. Although this man... his tone was slightly absent-minded, perhaps his thoughts were simply something a bit more personal. Gwen decided to leave the thought alone.
"And would you mind telling me yours?" Gwen enquired pointedly, still evading eye-contact. The latter chuckled handsomely.
"Not at all: Francis Bonnefoy. Pleasure to meet you." Francis then lowered his head nobly, swinging a pointed foot back and holding his heart at Gwen, gaining his silver-yellow eyes upon his return. A smile lifted his lips, revealing a perfect row of pearl white teeth.
"Fascinating..." Gwen's lips curled in return, admiring Francis' mannerism. It has been seemingly ages since he's seen such proper courtesy like this...
Realising their too-close proximity, the young man backed away in delight, and stepped toward the exit spilling over with roses.
"Where are you off to so soon, young Gwenael?" Francis called after the young man, his voice sprinkled in slight concern.
"This is neither my garden nor yours," Gwen called back with a charming smirk, leaning his steps away "It's only polite we leave."
"O, but it must be fine if we stay for a little longer. What if I never see you again?"
"We can leave together, if you so wish, Bonnefoy. Come." And he disappeared through the parted ocean of red pearls. As if he entered a game of hide-and-seek, Francis briskly walked after him, fascinated by the young man's interesting style of playing.
...
Like entering a dream, the streets remained deserted. The gentle winds just tickling the trees, wading past the pearl white homes. The pebble-shaped sun stuck in the centre of a periwinkle sky. It was as if nothing changed, or ever wanted to change.
"Do you visit here often?" Gwen enquired, facing Francis, trusting his feet walking backwards. The older man couldn't help another smile.
"Sometimes; not often." The latter replied smoothly, slipping his fingers into his tight back pockets. "It is beautiful, do not mistake me. I have only recently discovered it myself."
"Belle..." The younger blonde turned round after the placid murmur, continuing forward until he hesitated, the tips of his black leather shoes just stopping where grass met cement. An arm linked through his before Gwen could even mention their destination. A fleeting glance, he only saw a wink of an azure eye.
"Come; follow." The man said knowingly, escorting the youth down the road along the field of green. Gwen obeyed without hesitation, his mind slipping from responsibility. He wanted the break. He enjoyed the extension of time. Though he knew it was unhealthy.
Upon every step the pair took, the undying reminisce of home flowed passionately through Gwen's heart, coaxing him into relaxation; of sentimentality.
He absently squeezed the arm round his, heedless of their contiguity, their direction. Every step seemed to peel his worry away, leaving it behind in each invisible footprint. It was relaxing, soothing...
His thoughts flooded out of his ears when the other man spoke, his voice drawing out,
"I feel I neglected to answer your question properly..." His azure eyes, kept focused in front of him, his long jasmine hair gently brushing his pale pink cheek, avoiding shielding the man's slight stubble dotting his chin.
"Didn't you though?" Gwen asked tenderly, hardly attempting to set foot into reality. This man was awfully warm. So satisfying; so...reminiscent.
"I was rash. Perhaps you were mentioning to something else," Francis continued, his voice soft as the breeze. "Of England, possibly?"
Pleasant silence.
"I wish to edit myself; to answer you. Would you mind at all?"
"Do as you must, sir."
"Please," The man smiled delightfully; turning his head just enough to reveal the very tips on his eyelashes "Call me Francis."
"'Francis...'" Gwen repeated, testing it out. He felt unquestionably young again for some unknown reason...
"Oui, and as for England, I do cross the pond often... if you consider 'often' as the seasonal visit of every summer."
"How long are your 'seasonal' visits usually? A week?" The young Frenchman suggested, loosening his grip round the other man's elbow. The blonde gent shook his head.
"Non, I promised someone many years ago that my visits would only last up until three days each coming of summer." Francis answered, soft-hearted, his gaze racing along the ground below.
"A 'promise?' For three days?" Gwen asked, concerned, slightly appalled. He paused, absorbing the information a moment. When his thoughts clicked, his stare met with the fine dark hairs of the other man's chin. "I...That's when...My essay – I mean: When summer ends. Must you leave then?"
"What are you saying, dear Gwenael?" Francis queried, a charmed smile running along his pale lips, azure eyes catching yellow. "Have you fallen in love with me already?" He chuckled wonderfully.
"I've only just met you," Gwen defended, "You're interesting: I...want to get to...know you better, perhaps - If that's all right."
"There is no need to be so polite, mon cher," Their eyes finally locked, clicking like two correct puzzle pieces. "Of course I will allow you to explore me."
The young Frenchman immediately drowned in red and pointed his face to the ground, his arm turning weak, as if expecting the other gent to release him. Nothing happened. Chuckle.
"S-So..." Gwen bit his bottom lip, eyes blindly searching the ground, his thoughts on fire. "Three days...When was it you arrived here in England? - To visit, I mean."
"Yesterday evening. Turn left here..." Francis pointed absently, the arm behind his finger squeezing Gwen's with a tickle of a tease as they turned together, passing into another empty street.
"Three days..."
"Are you misfortunate, young Gwenael?"
The young Frenchman shook his head as if he meant it, evading the man's curious sidelong gaze.
"I would hate to cause you distress..."
"Where are we going?" Gwen suddenly brought up, gazing straight ahead at the familiar road of grey, the slick white sidewalks protecting the wooden houses surrounded by white picket fence. This neighbourhood could easily make people lose themselves.
"Around. I know this place quite well." The older man explained warmly, giving a tender squeeze to Gwen's arm that refused to respond.
"But not that garden we found?" The youth pointed out, smirking a bit, only growing wider when his notion confirmed a reply, azure eyes glancing over to his with a stylish pout. He made pouting look so mature...
"Silly boy," He scolded lightly, tapping the youth's shoulder with a single finger. "There's always room for discovery."
And he couldn't help but chuckle. What a gentleman. Never seizes that charm...That certain appeal of something. Gwen couldn't quite pin-point it. But its familiarity struck him into a pool of positivity, of...nostalgia. Very pleasant nostalgia. Like a bed, it was welcoming and comfortable. The youth squeezed the man's arm who returned the motion.
He belonged to France. He even held the scent of France. Gwen's father couldn't even beat this man's rich French accent. Granted; British tongues have proven influential. The bitter feeling of greed befell upon Gwen like a bomb: he desired to hear more. Of course, that would be rude and selfish of the youth. He was better than that.
"Is there something on your mind, Gwenael?"
...Without having to utter a request. Was that acceptable?
"You've turned unresponsive for quite some time."
He didn't deserve it.
"Are you feeling all right?"
His very culture, all stocked into this one man; this one man sharing the style, the scent, accent, language; the everything. England was Gwen's wing now. He had to abandon his childhood; that bed of land called home now a beckoning hand, just out of his reach. Was that the right thing? Was his father to blame? His mother?
No...
It was a simple formula.
And the arm hung tight round his elbow held him secure as if letting go would let his culture go. So tight, it was almost suffocating and yet so unusually supportive. His world spun. Filled with grey. His clothes heavy on his back. His feet were missing. His strongest muscles turned weak. He didn't want to let go.
Was this karma?
Etes-vous d'accord?
Oui - je vais bien...
A hand filled his. A light blinded him. He felt defenceless. Drained of dignity and pride. Heat pieced him together. Reminding him...Reality.
He lives in England.
Was this feeling right?
Leather ran smooth underneath him. Cool metal pressed against his back, seeping through his shirt. A hand still intertwined in his. Comforting. Familiar...
Voices conversing so casually. A sweet scent flooding his nostrils.
"Are you sure you're all right?"
He blinked. The shutters opened. Bonjour tout le monde...
Fine dark hair lined upon a pale chin. A sharp nose. Gentle azure eyes under concerned thin brows. Smooth jasmine hair running wavy down to his shoulders. Split in the middle like a true Frenchman.
Their hands separated. The lad blinked. Anonymous people surrounded, searching for something suiting. The room painted in white and pink, latent of plaid, of plump cinnamon rolls and perfect crescents protected by glass smudged by grubby hands. Their eager fingers extended with discrimination behind every nail.
"...I brought you to the nearest place of rest I could find."
Why? I was perfectly fine...
"You kept on about how your legs would be fine if you sat down..."
A walk was all that occurred. Nothing more...
"You were...paying attention, no?"
"What are you talking about?"
Subtle astonishment filled the man's features. Confusion seemed to overwhelm him, even if he concealed it. Suddenly his mouth shut and heat pressed onto the youth's forehead.
"Your legs gave out," The Frenchman explained, feeling his own plane above his eyebrows. "And you complained that you were fine – despite the obvious that you really weren't. You couldn't have blacked out with eyes as wide as dinner plates."
He retracted his palms and shifted in his seat, bringing his entire body in attention to the other. Gwen's face crumpled into an immature scowl.
"I didn't."
"Why the sudden change in heart, young Gwenael?" The older Frenchman remarked, his smile ripe and handsome. "You had been so...jovial. Unless a fall changes a man."
"Are you misfortunate?" Gwen countered mock obliviously. "Have you fallen in love with my better spirit?"
Francis chuckled, patting the lad's shoulder dismissively, saying his praise to Gwen's health.
"Still in high spirits, in fact," Francis murmured elatedly. He peeked over his shoulder a moment, returning with a raised brow. "Do you want something while we're here?"
The question seemed almost unfitting. A defeated smile reached Gwen's lips, his eyes downcast in pastry-filled considerations.
"I wouldn't want much..." He admitted, looking through the table in front of him as he picked absently at the rim.
"Think of it as a gift – from me. Or an apology cupcake." Already at his feet, Francis shrugged with a smile that could win awards. Gwen glanced up curiously, almost side-long, impeding his absent-minded movements.
"'Apology cupcake'? What have you done wrong?" He enquired incredulously, hiding his smirk.
Francis, caught in his act, grabbed his small metal chair and scooted it over until when he sat down, his and Gwen's knees conflicted with each other. He zeroed in on the lad's face that leaned back in avoidance. The older Frenchman lowered his voice
"I've interrupted a time in which you thought you were alone, dragged you around without even asking, inquired personal questions and encountered you at your worst," His azure eyes glowed ablaze, scanning over the youth's face hurriedly as if afraid of his conscientiousness catching him. "I've been unfair to you. Do you understand my plea? My offering?"
Gwen swallowed the lump in his throat and held the man's eyes, bidding them to shrink. His cheeks beginning to smoulder.
"Do as you wish..."
A complete and relieved smile brought Francis away from the other's face, sitting up before his shoes tacked away at the floor toward the counter.
"Is there anything in particular you had in mind...?" He offered, slowly turning on his heels. Gwen's eyes followed him, not wanting them to beg Francis to stop.
"No; anything's fine."
A quick smile before its descend. Gwen peeked down, meeting his lap. His legs were fine.
Perfectly bloody fine.
A/N: For those who are stupid: no. My first language is not French and I'm not studying it either. But I insist for those who do know the language better than myself, I want you to correct any mistakes I've made. Merci. C:
If you've seen any sort of spelling/grammar mistake, I'd like you to point them out for me so I may edit them.