Just a quick note: I've never seen Rock of Ages, so this story was just the spawn of listening to the cast album a million times and pretty much falling in love with Wesley's German accent. I don't think there will be any issues as far as staying true to the plot/timeline of the musical since it's largely a kid!Franz story, but just in case there are, apologies all around. Enjoy!
Also, I didn't type phonetically because it just looked way too silly. As amazing as the accent sounds, it just can't be translated to paper without looking dumb.
He had never been like the other boys his age. He liked to watch people, always analyzing the situations with scrutinizing, narrowed eyes. He brows would furrow, knitting together evenly, giving him the appearance of being angry. That was the hazard of having such slanted, bushy eyebrows, but no matter. Those that knew him were smart enough to know when he truly was angry.
Watching people was a hobby that paid off. He always knew when people were happy or upset, when to offer a shoulder to cry on or a hand to hold, when to back away slowly and avoid the situation, or when to jump up and down excitedly, clapping his small hands. It always amazed adults how this little eight year old was so in tune to others' feelings when they themselves were sometimes clueless.
He also knew how to make people happy. He started this observation with his parents, noting how his father would give is mother flowers on her birthday, Mother's Day, their anniversary, and sometimes just because he felt like it. His father would always come inside smiling after a good day at work, and if he liked the smell of whatever Mother was cooking, his eyes would close and his smile would become fixed. He came to realize that he himself made both of his parents very happy, but only when he acted in turn and did not misbehave.
This prompted him to turn into the perfect little gentleman much earlier than most boys. He would always throw his dirty clothes in the hamper, carrying it down the stairs when it was full so his mother would not have to strain her back. He made sure that his schoolwork was done before his father returned home, because he knew Father liked to play outside with him before it got dark. He helped his mother with the cooking, pulling one of Father's old shirts over his head as a makeshift apron.
However, it did not escape his mother's attention that he loved baking much more than stirring spaghetti noodles in boiling water or prodding the turkey with a fork to see if it was finished. So she would always put him in charge of the cookies, the cake, the pie, or whatever it was she was baking on that particular day.
But one day, a very confused eight and a half year old came down the stairs to see his mother pouring endless amounts of ice into the blender, crushing them into tiny pieces and tipping it into a small pot.
"Mama, what are you doing?" he asked timidly, for the blender's loud noise and churning blades had always frightened him. He would never admit this, of course, for boys of his age were supposed to revel in loud revving noises, not unlike that of a blender.
"Oh, Franz, perfect!" Her face was practically glowing and she flashed him a giant smile. "Do me a favor, dear, and stir the chocolate?" She jerked a thumb over towards the stove, where another pot was resting on a low flame, a wooden spoon sticking out.
Franz's face lit up, and he hastened to do his mother's bidding. Standing on his tip-toes so as to see the insides of the pot, he began stirring the thick liquid, inhaling deeply and feeling the sugar practically travel up his nose. His mother knew chocolate was his favorite treat – in any shape or form – and he was excited to see just what they would be making today.
The liquid started to bubble and Franz gasped, stirring a little faster. He didn't want the chocolate to burn. He made sure to scrape the bottom of the pot as he stirred, ensuring that none of the chocolate would stay on the bottom too long. His mother started up the blender again as he stirred, and he winced slightly at the noise.
It wasn't long before the blender was shut off and his mother came to hover over his shoulder.
"Per-fect!" she said, emphasizing the 'per.' Turning off the flame, she scooped up the pot, taking the spoon from Franz's hand and stirring the liquid a little more. She motioned for him to follow, and he did, watching as she slowly poured the liquid chocolate over the crushed ice in the other pot.
"What will that do?" he asked, brows knitting together from confusion.
"We're making candy," she announced, looking round to smile at him before turning her attention back to the molten chocolate. "Here, you come pour out the rest."
She helped him get a proper grip on the pot without having to touch the hot metal, and then steadied his hand as he began to pour it out on the ice. It pooled and formed a small lump. His mother guided his hand to make a squiggly line, which Franz thought looked silly. He looked up at her and smiled.
"Good, good," she told him, returning the smile. "Keep going while I crush some more ice."
Franz turned his attention back to the chocolate as his mother bustled about, taking the ice tray out of the freezer. He made several other small lumps of chocolate, before deciding to spell out his name. The 'F' was easy enough, it was just three little lines, but his 'R' looked nothing like it was supposed to. To cover his blunder, he turned it into a squiggle line. Then he made an 'H' for Father, wondering what he would say when he came home and found that his wife and son had made candy.
He jumped when his mother started the blender, causing a little more of the chocolate to fall out of the pot, creating another lump. Looking guiltily over his shoulder to see if his mother was watching, Franz dipped his finger into the largest of the lumps, sticking his mow chocolate-covered finger into his mouth to taste it.
A small noise of contentment came out of his mouth, and he smiled to himself, moving the pot around to make another funny chocolate shape.
His mother pretended not to notice the finger-sized dent in the particular lump when she came back over, presenting him with another pot full of crushed ice. He moved onto that pot, pouring the chocolate out until no more would come out. His mother took the pot from him then, scraping the insides with a spatula and using her finger to make it drop from the spatula to the ice. Franz watched her lick the chocolate off her finger, feeling only the tiniest pit guilty when she handed the pot and spatula to him, telling him with a wink that he could eat anything he could get out of the pot.
By then the pot was cool, so Franz curled up with it in a corner of the kitchen, scooping out the remains and licking the spatula greedily.
Perhaps his father's absence was the main reason that he never understood Franz's liking for making and giving candy. He never saw how his son's face lit up while making something new. He never watched his son run up the drive at Christmas time, bundled up and cheeks flushed, clutching packages of peppermint bark for the neighbors. He wasn't the one who took his son to a sweet shop for the first time and laughed at the way Franz stood completely still for a full minute, mesmerized by everything inside.
No, Franz's father was the one that took the little boy who loved to cook and make people happy and tried to give him a career in real estate. Franz would have thrived if all it entailed was smiling and showing excited soon-to-be home owners around condos and town houses and making sure the bowl of mints near the door was never empty, but his father's business was one that entailed much less smiling and much more haggling.
But one thing that Franz loved even more than candy was making his father happy, so he tried his best to be a good little businessman and find ways to turn run-down or dying towns into huge money-makers. So he tucked the half-completed blueprints of his confectionary store in the back of his briefcase, swapped the apron for a suit and tie, and did a lot less smiling and a lot more negotiating.
Franz wasn't giving up on his dreams, oh no. He was just waiting for the perfect moment to tell his father about his plans. After all, Father's plans were taking him to America, and he'd always wanted to go there. He'd heard there was an entire theme park devoted to chocolate, and Franz could definitely wheedle his father into visiting.