What Fate Denies

Pairing: Arthur Kirkland/Francis Bonnefoy (FrUK), previous Arthur Kirkland/Alfred F. Jones (USUK)

Rating: T

Warnings: Possible character death (undecided), depression issues. (Warnings will be tagged at the beginning of each chapter.)

Updates every two weeks on Friday evenings.

Edit: No longer updating on a schedule - now updated every three to seven days. (August 8, 2014)

Arthur had always hated affairs such as this. He didn't see the point of them, really. They were all sitting in the stuffy living room and making boring, idle small-talk as the radio crackled feebly upon the mantle. A pot of hot cider stood forgotten in a dim corner, filling the hot air with its sickly sweet stench. The house wasn't built to hold anywhere near this many people; it was hard to find a place to sit where he wouldn't be brushing elbows with an uncle or a godmother or a second-cousin-once-removed. Instead, he sat stock still on the couch, trying to take up as little space as possible as he brushed biscuit crumbs off of his vest and made an attempt to block out the sound of nervous laughter and muffled weeping.

His countless relatives had been filing into the room all night. Arthur couldn't help but think cynically about how fast his grandfather had gotten to work once he had settled down. And what did he have to show for it? Fifty people with whom Arthur was expected to deal now that his grandfather was finally passing. Feigning interest was exhausting. Remind me of your husband's name? I'm sorry to hear that your cat is at the vet again. How is hockey practice going? If they expected Arthur to keep these meaningless conversations going for the rest of the night, he didn't know how he would make it through the next few hours.

Of course, this was also the night when he would be written into his grandfather's will. Arthur begrudgingly promised himself to see it through to the end of the evening. There was no use in purposefully removing himself, after all.

"Arthur?"

Arthur looked up. His mother gazed back at him with tear-ridden eyes, trying to keep a shaky smile on her face.

"He's asking for you," she said.

Arthur sighed and stood up, brushing the remainder of the crumbs from his lap. "Alright, let's get this over with," he said, grateful for an excuse to leave his nosy relatives behind on the couch.

She smacked his shoulder. "Don't be like that," she told him sternly. "Show some respect."

Arthur waved her off. After all, he'd be free to go after this was all over.

He pushed open the creaky door to his grandfather's room. It was even more dim in here than the living room, but the sounds of speech and shaky laughter from outside were replaced with the constant whir of a dehumidifier once the door clicked shut behind him. The air was cool and dry and dark, and although there were only three people in the room, the atmosphere was nearly as stifling as that of the crowded room outside.

"Arthur?" came his grandfather's voice, as strong now even in sickness as it had been in health.

Arthur took a seat in the armchair beside the bed. "You don't sound sick at all, old man," he said.

His grandfather laughed. "I've never felt better," he said, his voice echoing tremulously off of the walls.

The young nurse who was sitting on the opposite side of the room shot a harrowed glance at Arthur. "Quiet down, you're only going to worsen his condition."

Arthur was about to point out that he hadn't hardly made a sound, but his grandfather cut in. "Nonsense, Marie. In fact," he said, grinning at the nurse with his familiar age-worn smile, "I'd like to speak with my grandson alone for a while. Could you go see how the missus is doing?"

Marie pursed her lips but nodded. "Very well, sir. I will be back shortly."

"Such a sweet girl," said Arthur's grandfather after the door had closed behind her.

"You just like her because she speaks to you as if you're royalty," noted Arthur.

"My boy, I am royalty," responded his grandfather with a twinkle in his eye.

"You're just a farmer whose father happened to strike it rich," Arthur pointed out. He settled into the chair in a more comfortable position now that it was just the two of them. He felt bad that he had been so cynical earlier about seeing his grandfather. Although the two of them were never particularly close, they got along rather well. He was the only one who seemed to really understand Arthur when no one else in his family did.

To that, his grandfather laughed. "How are you holding up?" he asked after a bit.

Arthur stifled a yawn. The dry air was making him a bit lightheaded and he was reminded that he hadn't been graced with enough sleep the night before. "What do you mean?"

"There are too many people in this house for you right now, aren't there? I'm sorry that you had to sit with them for so long. I wanted to call you in sooner but your mother wouldn't leave. You know how she gets." He chuckled lightly. "Did you have to hear your Aunt Annie's gerbil story?"

Arthur shuddered. "Twice," he said.

"Hmm." His grandfather sighed happily. "It is indeed comforting to be surrounded with loved ones in your last moments."

To that, Arthur had no suitable response. He knew that his grandfather wasn't long for this world, but the fact that he was so flippant in mentioning it made him unsure of what to say. Instead of replying to the statement, he simply closed his eyes and deeply breathed in the refreshingly cool air as he waited for the old man to continue.

A short time later, he did. "I have something for you," he said. From behind one of his pillows, he pulled a regal, leather-bound book.

Arthur took it from him and turned it over in his hands. "What's this?" he asked, flipping through the pages. Every single one of them was devoid of lines, markings, or ink of any kind. "A sketchbook?"

"Not quite."

"A journal?"

"Getting closer."

"A-"

"Don't get yourself too worked-up," said his grandfather in that same strong voice.

"Why are you giving me this?" asked Arthur. Wasn't this meeting supposed to determine what would be bequeathed unto him in his grandfather's will? Was this shoddy book all that he was going to receive? "I don't understand."

"You will, Arthur." He settled back onto his mountain of pillows. "Not today, maybe not even anytime soon. But, my boy, you will understand. And when you do realize, I will be here to help you." He pulled the sheets up to his neck. "Now, Arthur," he said, turning to smile at him. "Would you be so kind as to call Marie back on your way out?"

Arthur hadn't realized that his mouth had been hanging open. "Of course," he said, standing up. "Erm…" He wasn't exactly sure how to begin to say goodbye. But this could very well be the last time he saw his grandfather alive, so there was no way that he could leave without saying anything. "Well, in case I don't get the chance to speak with you again, I-"

"We'll speak again. We'll see each other very soon, in fact." Arthur's grandfather gave him a knowing grin. "Now, fetch Marie, if you please."

Arthur nodded silently, confused. His grandfather was extremely old, no doubt, but there had been no onset of any sort of dementia. However, there was no reason to doubt what he was saying. If it made him feel better to believe that Arthur would come to see him again, then so be it. "Alright. Goodbye then, Grandfather."

"Until next time, my boy," the old man called after him as he left the room.

Arthur brushed past his mother in the living room. He was vaguely aware of her attempting to speak to him, but he had no desire to respond. He called over his shoulder that it was late and that he really should be leaving; it was getting dark and it was a long ride back to his apartment. After a quick and entirely unavoidable goodbye speech from his mother, he was out of that stifling house at long last.

Arthur tossed the book into the holding compartment of his motorcycle and, after securing his helmet over his head, began the long drive back to London. He was perfectly content to forget all about the strange book.

Until the following Monday morning, that is. It was a dark, rainy day, and he found himself sprinting across campus to class while trying to keep a paper cup of mediocre black tea from spilling and scalding him. He was late to class - obscenely late - and here he was backtracking through the driving rain because he had forgotten the damn book.

He hadn't even meant to bring it with him that morning in the first place. He'd accidentally picked it up along with the rest of his textbooks that had been in the holding compartment of his motorcycle. By the time he realized, he was already waiting for his tea at the campus center.

And now, because of this damned book, he was going to be late to the first lecture of the semester.

He rounded the final corner of the campus centre building, his clothes sopping wet from the rain and puddles that he had braved in order to reach the building. Frantically, he glanced around the area in which he had been sitting as he waited for his tea. "What?" he breathed in confusion as he approached his table. The book was nowhere to be found. "Shit, no-"

"Are you looking for this?" came a light voice from nearby.

Arthur turned to see a man no older than he standing a few feet away. His long blonde hair clung to the sides of his face with water from the rain and he looked every bit as drenched as Arthur. In his hand was the dark, leather-bound book.

In normal circumstances, Arthur would proceed in a gentlemanly manner. However, this day had already been too disappointing even to consider politeness towards the stranger with his ridiculously lilting light French accent, especially after this man had taken his grandfather's book from him. "As a matter of fact, I was," said Arthur, advancing towards him. "Get your hands off of it, you prick."

The Frenchman's expression became slightly hurt. "I only picked it up," he said, "I wasn't trying to steal it, je promis. Anyway, what would I want with a blank book?"

Arthur snatched the book away from him and turned on his heel, rearing to sprint all the way to the lecture hall. He didn't look back at the stranger as he ran.

He was too distracted to pay close attention to his class. He took bare notes, but since the first class of the semester was never extremely substantial, he was left to mull over his dark mood. Today was definitely not turning out well. First the late arrival, then the spilt tea and burned hand, the rain, the ignorant stranger, the lost book…

Arthur glanced at his watch. There were still ten minutes left of class and his economics professor was droning on and on about the syllabus and classroom policies for the semester. Resigned to boredom, Arthur took out the leather-bound book. If anything, he could doodle a bit.

He absently flipped through the book, tapping the desk with his pen and knowing that he would find the pages naturally blank. However, around three pages from the end of the book, he stopped.

At the top of the page was an elaborate symbol, a strong, spindly design like something that one would find at the top of a headstone or within the pages of a long-forgotten classic.

Arthur's eyes widened as he stared down at the page. Below the regal heading, words began to appear as if they were fading in from the other side of the paper.

January 14th, 8:26 AM

First contact.

Truth be told, Arthur should have been more careful on the road. Wind tore at his jacket and rain pelted his skin as he rode, skidding through puddles and jolting across sunken potholes. Though he was usually quite concerned with road safety, especially in conditions such as this, he made his way out of the city at top speed. Sooner than he had believed was possible, he found himself standing, drenched head to toe, on his grandfather's front porch.

Marie's expression was one of surprise as she opened the door to let Arthur in out of the rain. His grandfather was seated behind her at the kitchen table with a newspaper and a bowl of soup before him. He looked up, smiling, when Arthur entered the kitchen.

"Ah, back again so soon?" he asked, folding his newspaper and tossing it onto the table. "I was just about to have lunch. Sit down, Marie can get you something warm to eat."

Arthur moved wordlessly over to the table, glancing at Marie as she stood with her back to them at the stove.

His grandfather motioned to her with a nod of his head. "Wait," he said quietly. "I promise that everything will be explained."

Marie set a bowl of soup before Arthur – a broth-heavy vegetable stew – before turning to clean the pots and stove. After determining that her work was done and asking if there was anything else her elderly client needed, she departed for the living room.

Arthur hardly waited until she had disappeared from sight before pulling the leather book from his bag and pushing it across the table. "What the hell is this?"

His grandfather chuckled. "I see that it's taken you a surprisingly short amount of time to be made aware. Very good, very good indeed."

"What's very good?" he asked, irritation boiling inside of him. "All I know is that this book was blank until that tosser picked it up and for however long afterwards." He leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "Grandfather, I saw words appear on the page. What the hell is this book?"

The old man was silent for a moment. "This book," he said, gazing wistfully at the cover, "possesses a great power. Not one of strength, but one of safety and guidance." He reached towards the book and, after a nod of assent from Arthur, picked it up. Abruptly, his speech shifted back into its usual light tone. "What about this tosser who picked it up?" he asked. "What were they like?"

"What do you want to know?" asked Arthur, his growing irritation seeping into his voice. "He looks about the same age as me. A damn French bastard. Don't even know his name."

"You do," said his grandfather, opening to the front cover.

"Come again?" said Arthur. He couldn't recall hearing the man say anything remotely related to a name during their brief meeting.

"His name. It's right here." The old man slid the book back across the table and pointed to the inside of the front cover.

Looking at the cover now, Arthur didn't know how he could have missed it. There, in tiny printing in the top left corner, were the words Francis Bonnefoy.

Author's note:

This fic is an emotional release for me, so I expect that it will not be a particularly light read. Most of the plot will be determined by how I feel while writing it so it will most likely lean more towards depressing than happy.

Thank you for reading this far! If you liked this chapter then please drop a message or favorite, since if it gets no reception then I will most likely not continue posting chapters. However, if there is a single person who enjoyed it, I will continue. Thank you for your input!