I haven't written a fanfiction in many years. Please let me know what you think of the first chapter.

Chapter 1: Dépaysement

/de.pɛ.iz.mɑ̃/

noun, m (plural dépaysements)

1. the feeling of being disoriented in a foreign country

2. exile

A flat on the outskirts of the town looked out over the cobblestone streets where the two boys played. Laughter, roughhousing, and shouting, the neighbors found them obnoxious, but the spirit of youth they brought to the quiet neighborhood was still welcomed.

"You can never catch the awesome Prussian~," a young voice said, a distinct German accent was clear when he spoke French.

"Prussia isn't real!," another voice called out from further behind, this one rang out with a southern accent, a native.

The German boy with alabaster skin dug his heels in the ground with an abrupt stop, causing his friend to crash into his back, and both boys tumbled to the ground. Tangled limbs, scraped knees, and harsh insults were flung between the two, just another day in the sleepy suburbs of Marseille.

The two boys raced into the nearest flat, tracking mud indoors, but the kind blonde mother didn't scold the boys. She merely smiled and warned the boys to bathe before had their snacks, earning groans and protests. Although Marianne Bonnefoy was kind, she was assertive, not accepting no for an answer.

After their baths, the pre-teen boys spent the evening having dinner and chatting the evening away, sharing their books and stories with each others, somehow making hours dissolve into minutes. And those were the days in the happy lives the two boys, Francis Bonnefoy and Gilbert Beilschmidt.

"You're saying we can really find those kinds of videos there?," Gilbert asked in a whisper, yet his voice was shaking with anticipation, curious to find what Francis had described. Now at the age of fourteen, his cheeks felt flushed from both shame that his younger friend knew more about these things than he did, and from the hormones his growing body couldn't control.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. My girlfriend's sister told me so," the French boy said with confidence, aged thirteen, although he too, couldn't deny the excitement he could feel, as he snuck through the city at dusk, beside his friend.

Standing by the DVD shop, they exchanged a glance before arguing who would be the one to enter the shop. Begrudgingly, Gilbert had been elected on the basis that he could feign a lack of French language skills and walk out of the shop without having to explain himself. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Francis grew worried standing outside of the shop, wondering if something had happened to Gilbert. After 20 minutes, he was ready to enter to retrieve the other, when the German boy finally stepped out, and immediately, Francis smacked his arm without holding back.

"You idiot, why did you take so long?," he yelled, not even noticing that the other was holding a black plastic bag, indicating that their mission had succeeded. Despite the throbbing in his arm, however, the albino's grin didn't fade. Quickly, they stuffed their loot into the backpack they brought along, rattling with old pencils and markers at the bottom.

"Glad I was the one to go in," was all he said, cryptically, never answering the French boy's question, only furthering to irritate him, especially as he started walking away, leaving him to carry the bag.

"Gilbert! Wait! Tell me what was in there! What were you doing?," Francis demanded with burning curiosity, swinging the sack over his shoulder, leaning close to Gilbert as he tried to keep pace with his taller, longer limbed friend, yet the other just kept his smug grin, clearly satisfied that he knew something the other didn't. Not willing to beg any longer, the Francis crossed his arms in frustration and sealed his lips, not willing to succumb to his arrogant friend's taunts. The boys walked towards their home in silence as through the winding streets of Marseille, towards what they thought to be their homes.

"Fran? I don't think this looks familiar," Gilbert whispered cautiously, unconsciously walking closer to the petite boy, while Francis had been thinking the same thing a few minutes sooner, but had been fearful of mentioning it.

"Shit. I have no idea where we are," he finally said, stopping completely in his tracks, holding onto the hem of Gilbert's jacket, realizing the streets were far too quiet, far too dirty, and far too eerie to be safe here. A nervous chill ran through his spine, and he could tell that his friend too was scared.

Footsteps could be heard walking towards them from behind, and the boys didn't dare turn around, afraid of what could happen if they did. What they didn't expect however, was a shaky young voice to speak up.

"Are you guys lost?," he asked tentatively, his French had a thick accent, evident that he was an immigrant. Slowly, the two suburban boys turned around to take a look at the voice who spoke to them. The boy before them was shorter than the both of them, but he had to be about their age, maybe a year younger. What stood out, however, was his skin the color of ground cinnamon and green eyes shiny like sea glass. Shaken from their original stupor, the boys nodded after realizing this kid couldn't be a threat or so they thought.

Offering them a smile, the neighborhood boy felt protective over these two boys who clearly didn't belong in these parts of town. Had anyone else found them, they would have been in serious trouble. "You live out in the suburbs, right?," he asked in broken French, his cheeks flushed in embarrassment, having never spoken to such affluent people, wondering if they were judging him. He decided to keep his eyes to the ground and lead them out of the slums through the most neutral territories in silence, none of the boys daring to speak a word.

"Thank you, we really owe you one," Francis finally said when they reached a familiar part of town, looking at the boy gratefully, smiling in relief. Gilbert on the other hand remained silent until the blonde jabbed his side with his elbow. "Yeah, yeah, really owe you one, thanks," he groaned, rubbing the sore spot, trying to not to look weak in front of them.

Antonio felt his lips curl into a smile, but it wasn't out of his own volition, and he tore his eyes away from Francis' embarrassed by how deep, how innocent, and how blue they were. He didn't deserve to look at such eyes with his own filthy, tainted ones. He told himself that, but the smile that grew couldn't be willed away. "You're welcome," he said quietly, turning to leave the boys.

Soft, slender, fingers wrapped around his wrists like warm handcuffs preventing his escape. Warmth rose to his cheeks, and his breath caught in his throat. Sensations that were foreign, exciting, but unwelcome to the mysterious dark boy spread from his core down to the tips of his fingers. Unbeknownst to him, from that day on, Antonio was trapped.

"Wait," Francis found himself saying, unsure of what to say, once he had the boy's attention. Gilbert's red eyes scanned him with confusion, while Antonio looked at him with something akin to both fear and fascination. Momentarily stupefied, he quickly reoriented himself and whipped out a brick phone. "Give me your cell phone number!," he requested with quiet desperation, unsure why he suddenly felt the need to see this boy again.

With furrowed brows, Antonio couldn't help but laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of a child affording a cell phone. Unsure of what was so funny, Francis sought a comforting glance from Gilbert. "I don't have one," he finally said, after his laugh dissipated, shaking his head, assuaging Francis' self-doubts from earlier. Scrambling to find something in the bag on his shoulders, Francis seemed satisfied when he pulled out a permanent marker.

"Your arm?," he demanded, although the tone wasn't as harsh as the words could have been. Gilbert raised an eyebrow, seeming almost annoyed at being forgotten. Tapping his foot impatiently, he started tugging on the backpack the French boy wore, "Come on, Fran, it's really late already, maman is going to have our asses," he reminded, feeling uneasy around the dirty, strange kid. Looking pained between the new boy and his dear old friend, he pried himself free of Gilbert, looking desperately at Antonio, silently urging him to quickly do as he was asked. Hesitantly, Antonio raised his arm toward Francis, unsure of what he wanted, but the morbid curiosity eating away at him.

Moments later, the two boys were gone, and all the foreign boy could think about was the warmth he felt pooling inside him as he recited the numbers messily scrawled on his arm.

Chapter 2: Blé

/ble/

noun, m (plural blés)

1. wheat, corn

2. (slang) dough, cash

"My goodness, how could you have done this to me?," his mother cried, holding both boys in her arms, distressed equally at the thought of losing them both, growing to think of the German boy with no blood relation to her as a son.

"Sorry, maman," the chanted guiltily in perfect unison, unable to meet her glossy violet eyes, swollen from the tears she had shed all night. "Chouchou, we need to call your mutter," she sniffed trying to sound stern, failing before letting another sob of relief tear from her throat. Having torn the entire neighborhood searching for her troublemakers, she had prayed to every entity that they would return to her safely, knowing the German mother was equally worried. Gilbert's pale pink eyes, looked worriedly at the young woman, silently begging her for anything but that. Tutting at him, she shoved him towards the phone. "She has been calling me desperately, you must tell her you are safe."

Francis watched his friend mouthing words of encouragement as he heard the shouts of German on the other line. His friend responded in garbled words he couldn't understand, but he looked frightened and unhappy, and after a few moments handed the phone back to Maman. "She says I can stay here the night, but I'm grounded for the next month," he groaned, holding himself back from kicking anything in the Bonnefoy residence in frustration. After all, he couldn't show ingratitude to the people who always showed him such kindness, such mercy. Murmurs of sweet goodbyes from Marianne to Monika Beildschmidt, then she sent the boys upstairs, unable to bring herself to scold them, despite deserving it.

"Those boys are going to be the death of me," she quietly whispered to herself with a smile; inexplicable joy washed over her knowing that God hadn't stolen the other most important man in her life.

"Man, this better be worth it," Gilbert threatened, launching his body onto Francis' tidy bed, while he could only watch in horror, having told the other hundreds of times how he hated it when he crawled into his bed without showering. "You're dirty! Could you at least take off your shoes?," he scolded the other, already trying to pry off his muddy sneakers.

"Jesus, Fran, stop being such a priss," he snickered, kicking off his shoes to assuage the other's worries. "Hey, why did you write on that kid's arm?," he finally asked, surprised with himself that he managed to wait so long before asking. The question made the blonde pause. Unable to lie to Gilbert, he answered truthfully.

"My cellphone number," he responded succinctly as though it were the most obvious thing.

"Yeah, I saw that, but why?," Gilbert leaned over the edge of the bed, erotic DVD forgotten. "He seemed really weird, are you sure you want him just calling you? And he didn't even have a phone? How's he going to call you?," he fired questions, angry at his friend's recklessness. Usually he was the reckless one, but as the older one, he felt the need to watch over Francis this time, and something about the kid screamed danger.

"He seemed…," Francis paused for a second to consider his words. He didn't know much about the boy, except for that he had helped them, and he had an accent. It was somewhat European, but also not, at the same time. "...nice," he finished lamely unsure what to say to his friend. He couldn't explain why, but the boy had a je ne sais quoi that lured him in. "We should hang out with him," the blonde insisted, looking at his friend earnestly.

He murmured the numbers to himself again and again, Spanish and Arabic rolling off of his tongue far more easily than the jumbled mess that French was. Having memorized the digits, he still hadn't been able to bring up the nerve to actually dial them after two weeks had gone by. The blonde boy had been like a ray of sunshine, even in the flickering street pale kid, too, seemed like an ethereal angel, and Antonio felt hopelessly out of place when he walked beside to them. A dirty mutt. No place next to them, he thought to himself in Spanish. Tossing and turning in his makeshift bed, he tried to calm his racing heart and scattered thoughts, which somehow always wandered back to that boy with the hair like golden wheat fields.

"H-Hello…," he stammered, feeling his previous determination suddenly wither away once the call was actually received. Now that all he had was his voice and broken French, he felt weaker and smaller than ever before, tempted to forget the numbers he had memorized, although he knew the task would be practically impossible. They had been burned into his mind like hot coals on styrofoam.

"Yes, this is Francis speaking?," a smooth and perfect southern French accent responded, and the sound made Antonio's face feel impossibly warm. Before he could speak, he slammed the public phone back onto the receiver, not even caring that he wasted another 5 euro cents on yet another failed call. On the other end of the line, Francis was frustrated. He knew that this was the boy from the slums, yet no matter how many times he tried to call the number back, all he would get is an error message. And soon, he found himself wandering back to the same spot with Gilbert following reluctantly.

"Fran, this is a terrible idea," he muttered for the umpteenth time that afternoon, grateful that the neighborhood wasn't as eerie in the sunlight, however, the graffiti and unkempt streets didn't do too much to soothe his worries."You do realize I'm supposed to be grounded, right?," he reminded, trying to convince the other to turn back around. "I just want to know why he keeps calling, Gil," he repeated, as though the line were rehearsed in his head countless times. Knowing that he couldn't dissuade his friend, Gilbert jammed his hands in his pockets and followed closely behind the French boy, afraid of what would happen if he let him slip beyond his grasp. Mutter was definitely not as scary as losing his Fran forever.

"What are you doing here?," a voice hissed at them, clearly upset at their presence, but Francis' eyes lit up, amazed at how surprisingly easy it had been to find him. The owner of the hiss, however, was not thrilled at all. Hair the color of wheat, and cheeks rosy like summer peaches, the face that haunted his thoughts the last few days suddenly materialized, and Antonio hadn't prepared at all. Ashamed that they saw him in the daylight, unable to use the cloak of night to shield himself from their unassuming eyes. Francis. He knew that name from his many phone greetings. Francis. Francis Francis. And here he was in the flesh.

"You called me!," Francis pointed an accusing finger at the boy, who he noticed was much younger than he appeared to be last time. The pained look in his eyes, however, gave pause to the blonde, "...what is it?," he tentatively asked, voice now just above a whisper.

"Please you have to leave," the boy begged, feeling responsible for the two older boys who seemed to loom over him. Despite their clear advantage in height and age, Antonio beat them in experience with the world he has seen. "Please…," he pleaded again, hands trembling, more afraid for them, than he was for himself. Francis however stood his ground, unafraid and determined.

"Then come with us," he demanded. Gilbert opened his mouth to protest, already against the idea, but his words went unheeded. Green and blue eyes clashed and out of desperation, the brunette gripped both Gilbert and Francis' wrist tighter than he intended to and began running from there, running far away from wherever there even was.

Chapter 3: S'appeler

/sa. ple/

verb

1. to be called; to have the name of

"Let go, damnit!," Gilbert finally tore his arm away from the shorter kid, equal parts impressed and annoyed by his strength. They had made it all the way to the suburbs of Marseille. Catching their breaths, Antonio looked over his shoulder, checking to make sure they hadn't been followed, and visibly relaxed, before finally turning his attention to the two boys. "What were you even doing there?," he shouted, the frustration from the last few weeks having built up inside of him. Frustration from his living situation, from the phone calls, from the Francis, from everything!

"Hang out with us," Francis said simply as though he casually mentioned the weather, crossing his arms across his chest, staring the foreign boy down. Both Gilbert and Antonio looked at him incredulously, unsure if they had heard him correctly. All of this for a new playmate? Yet, to feel wanted like this made the warm feeling Antonio had been suppressing, radiate from his core to the tips of his fingers, to his cheeks. Momentarily dumbfounded, he responded in Spanish, then quickly apologized in French for his mistake, "What are you talking about?," he asked, averting his earnest gaze.

"Yeah, Francis, what are you talking about?," Gilbert cleared his throat, reminding the blonde of his disapproval. "This kid barely speaks French," he pointed, not even glancing at him. The harsh tone the albino used only served to irritate Antonio, however, and his warm feeling, was instantly replaced with a much colder attitude.

"Look who is talking. You are obviously not from here, either," he retorted, taking a step towards the German. Even if his grammar was better, and his words flowed better, the accent was strong when he spoke French. In fact, amongst the trio gathered, it seemed it was only the blonde who was a native. Antonio's fists tightened, and he did his best to contain his thinly veiled temper, knowing that if this wasn't a rich suburban boy, his hands would have been around his neck by now. Gilbert on the other hand, living his sheltered life had no idea what the other was capable of and kept pressing, despite Francis' pleads.

"Gilbert, leave him alone that's not why we're here!," the blonde tugged on his friend's arm, afraid of the argument escalating.

"Go back to where you came from, and leave Fran alone!," he threatened, and at those words, the snarling brunette snapped, pouncing on the albino like a starved animal. Punches and scratches were thrown from both ends, and Francis did his best to pull them apart, but he too ended up in the fray, throwing punches and kicks to both Gilbert and the mysterious boy. After tiring themselves out, they all laid out on the cobblestone streets.

"Francis," the blonde panted, turning his face slightly to the left to the foreign boy. "My name is Francis," he repeated, smiling at him as he stayed laying on the ground spread out comfortably soaking in the sun. Captivated by the sight, Antonio realized the other looked more like an angel than human. "I'm Gilbert!," a voice called from Francis' right.

The albino sprung up from his spot, grinning at the two boys, while Antonio sat up and glared, preparing for another fight. "Easy there kid. You'll beat the shit out of me if we fight again," he raised his hands in defeat, signalling a truce. "You definitely went easy on me, so you must be a good guy," the albino reasoned, albeit a bit reluctantly, averting his gaze, "So, uh, I guess you can hang out with us," he sighed, knowing that it was what Francis wanted, and when Francis wanted something, eventually he got it. Antonio relaxed his body, yet he kept an eye on Gilbert, still unsure of his intentions.

The blonde stood from his place and dusted himself off, throwing a look of gratitude towards his friend, mouthing a word of thanks. He turned to the foreign boy who was still sitting on the ground and offered a hand. "And what about you? What's your name?," he asked watching him expectantly, yet the foreign boy did not take the offered hand, choosing to stand on his own instead. A look of hurt crossed his features, and Antonio immediately regretted it. "Antonio," he mumbled quietly, looking down at his feet, frowning, sharing the information warily. Although the idea of befriending the boys was tempting, the thought scared him. Why would they want to hang out with someone like him?

Sensing the shift in mood, Gilbert threw his arms around both their shoulders and pulled them in for a hug, grinning widely. Francis scooted closer, used to his friend's affection, while Antonio squirmed, trying to get as far away as possible, but Gilbert's grip was firm. "Gil, Fran, and Toni," he said with a satisfied sigh, "We're gonna fuck shit up," he promised, and that was the start of the boys' friendship.