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2; The Nature of Mate Selection

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Young people in love; it was such a beautiful, magical experience. Wild, rebellious, inexperienced, longing for something to make them feel alive, because in their short lives, they'd known so little.

Boy meets girl; it sounds so cliche, but it always seemed to be the infallible beginning. Or perhaps it was simply the beginning of one end, leading to others. But regardless of the blase nature of this beginning, it was like so; boy meets girl. He was newly out of school, seeking to make a life for himself, full of dreams and ambition, but empty of consideration for consequences, as many young people tend to be.

She was young success; already so near the top of her field despite her age. He was her subordinate, and at first, he saw no harm in using his own charming ways to win her favor. But young people are inexperienced and so apt to make mistakes that remain with them for the rest of their lives.

Unfamiliarity with one another inspires curiosity, which leads to infatuation, which ends with two individuals hopelessly in love, helplessly incapable of being torn apart, and too enamored to disengage from their collision course, until in a rush of heat and passion they become so entangled, pushing ever nearer that they unite as one.

It is a crash. A snap trap. A joyride where nobody's eyes are even on the road.

And then a few years later, she is suddenly unwilling to sacrifice her own success for the result of one joy ride, and a small boy with a mess of golden curls and glassy blue eyes filled with confusion is left standing with a single bag of possessions in the doorway of Francis Bonnefoy.

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'L'Histoire d'Adèle H'; Francis Bonnefoy had secluded himself in the privacy of his bedroom, where he decidedly began viewing 'L'Histoire d'Adèle H'. with something of a renewed perspective.

It was the tale of beautiful young woman from Paris who, after settling in Canada, fell madly in love with a British soldier; however, the madness of her romance was ever more literal as her love was left unrequited and she fell into ruin.

But even as Adele Hugo wrote falsehoods to her parents, declaring that she would be marrying her beloved, Francis's attention had drifted to his own melancholy histoire d'amour, one that was regretfully laden with selfishness and hypocrisy.

Matthew's mother had been such a heavy smoker. She even smoked throughout her pregnancy, which, looking back on it, Francis supposed it was but a foreshadow to her abandonment of the child she carried, the first sign of her resolution to do as she pleased, without a care for anybody else. But, the young, naive man that Francis was at that time didn't quite see the entire picture. He was helplessly incapable of seeing his lover's potential flaws, viewing her through a foggy veil that was his fascination and adoration for her.

And then she said to him, 'Francis, my sweet darling, you're looking for a pretty little songbird. This is not me.' That was the only explanation she offered to him when she went on with her life, leaving behind the man she'd seemingly loved for a few sweet years, and the young child they created together.

He hadn't been fully sure what she meant at the time.

Even a full year after the two lovers parted ways, Francis still clung to the silliest memories, he still kept the lover who'd abandoned him close in ways that he knew were fatuous. Francis had become a heavy smoker (though, unlike her, he never put Matthew at risk because of this habit). He even smoked the same cigarettes as she; long, slender, elegant to behold between effeminate fingers. They looked perhaps too small in his masculine hands, and he always held them terribly gently, as though he could break them with ease, whereas she'd gestured in a way that was overly showy and vibrantly expressive, and the tiny cylinder between her fingers was simply a piece of her wardrobe, a tiny prop in her caricature.

Still, it kept the memories of those good times fresh in Francis's mind.

It served to remind him now, as 'L'Histoire d'Adèle' played in the background and he busied his hands with a glass of wine and one of his past lover's cigarettes, that he'd been doing this precise thing when he met Arthur Kirkland.

With a heart that was still healing and a child who was still adjusting to living with his father and never seeing his mother, Francis had decided that they would take a father-son vacation, on a whim. The small, broken family packed their bags and flew away from France, away from Europe, to a place surrounded in wilderness, the slow, silent, beautiful serenity of nature meant to mend both father and son.

It was there, on a campground of tiny cabins spaced a short walk from one another, that Arthur Kirkland wandered into sight; he'd climbed a short set of brick stairs, his footsteps so quiet that he seemed to appear, like a phantom. (Or maybe it was because Francis had already had a few glasses of wine, and his senses just weren't as sharp as they could have been.)

Tired, blue eyes watched carefully as Arthur approached, observing this tiny man, the way he kept his arms tucked near to himself as if he expected the world outside his personal bubble to consume him. At first there was something contradictory about him; dressed a tad more nicely than what was typical on a trip to the woods, though his blonde hair was perhaps in greater disarray than any person presented themselves publically, even in the woods.

But as Arthur drew near, Francis found the answer to this riddle of a man, one that was readily displayed, or at least the Frenchman felt he'd discovered it with ease. It was in Arthur's eyes; the glimmer of life one found in the eyes of a happy person was absent, and all that was present was a dispirited haze, an abyss of woe that left Arthur's eyes as dull and weary as a wilted plant.

Even so, Arthur wore a mask of bitterness over his sorrow, and he maintained this as though it made him seem strong.

'Your son was down by the lake unattended. I've been looking after him for quite some time while he was playing with my son, but you really should take better care in looking after him. This may be a campground but there are dangerous wild animals in the surrounding areas and should someone wander onto the grounds, a small boy would probably be an easy target. You are listening, aren't you?'

That was the first thing Arthur ever said to Francis. The Frenchman looked the overprotective father in his midst from top to bottom then back to the top again, taking the final draw from his cigarette before discarding it, and at last responding.

'How funny. Fellow Europeans on a father-son vacation in the Canadian wilderness? Well then, since you looked after Matthew, I have no choice but to show you my gratitude. Why don't you and your son stay for dinner? I can cook up something delightful,' Francis had replied, confident in his pursuit, in his charm, already so sure that this Englishman was alone, aside from the small boy at his side. He was curious.

That curiosity led to infatuation, which ended with two individuals hopelessly in love, helplessly incapable of being torn apart, and too enamored to disengage from their collision course, until in a rush of heat and passion they became so entangled, pushing ever nearer that they united as one.

Francis was a discarded man. Arthur was a widower. They were two broken men, half of what they must have been, once upon a time. But, in this way, the two sought completion..and found it, for a time.

Until one day, Arthur said to Francis, '..you're never here anymore,' to which Francis responded, 'I have just been pursuing my career. I want to be successful, and I am so close.'

But this was not enough to convince Arthur to stay. He needed something more to console him, to keep him content. Francis convinced himself, when Arthur left him, that the man had been selfish, and needy, and impatient. It wasn't worth his time. He had his own desires to chase, achievements awaiting him. He couldn't be caged. He wasn't meant to be the one to simply sit on a nest and remain stationary. He wasn't going to be Arthur's songbird.

But when Francis finally realized his mistakes, that he was no better than the mother of his child.. it was already far too late. He tried to call Arthur, wanting to apologize, wanting to make things right, wanting to try again... but nobody ever answered. Eventually the number was disconnected, and Francis just assumed Arthur didn't even wish to grant him a second chance.. so he gave up.

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Apart from the sound of the television, multiple voices all speaking in his father's home language, Matthew heard very little on the other side of his father's bedroom door. He gently knocked once, waiting to hear the sound of Francis's voice beckoning him to come in, though as he waited, it didn't come.

Matthew turned the knob and jarred the door slightly, just enough to speak up in the hopes of gaining his father's attention, not wanting to barge in. "Papa?," he called, peering through the crack to see the Frenchman nestled on his chaise longue, as apparent from the backside of the piece of furniture where Francis had rested his head, his soft golden curls freely flowing over the side.

At the sound of Matthew's voice, the Frenchman's arm quickly shot out to an end table positioned beside him and he stubbed out his cigarette in the decorative ashtray that was stationed there, fanning the smoke away before he answered. "Yes? Come in, Matthew!," he called to his son.

Slowly, somehow wary, the younger male entered his father's room, curious blue eyes observing the images on the television as he approached, then, as he came to stand beside the chaise longue, he firstly fanned at the remnants of the smokey haze before his gaze shifted to fall upon Francis.

The man had an emptied glass of wine in one hand, while his elbow was propped upon the armrest of the seat, and his head lolled into his open palm, his neck without the strength to hold it up. His hair fell against his shoulder and his lightly stubbled cheek was caressed by the evidence of mournful tears.

"This movie gets me every time," he said in a somber tone, his deep blue eyes glassy and reflective enough that Matthew could see the television screen within, though in his usual way, Francis painted over the sad, lonely mask of his countenance with a bittersweet smile and pretenses, "hoping Adele will find her happily ever after next to that dashing soldier, but knowing love will tear her apart and leave her all alone to deal with her illness.. It is so disheartening."

"It isn't the movie," Matthew stated in his usual soft-spoken tone, his own emotions more masterfully hidden beneath his calm exterior, "It's Arthur."

Francis just chuckled and set his empty glass aside. "Oui. Yes, it is."

"You don't have to make excuses for your emotions," Matthew explained as though his words were the truest ever spoken, "You loved him. You still love him. You never stopped, you just managed to busy your mind with your work."

Here, the Frenchman's chuckle escalated to an amused laugh, and he moved aside in his seat to make room for Matthew next to him, patting the cushion to beckon his child. With a sigh, Francis nodded his head, carefully watching his son as Matthew eyed the seat, as though estimating whether or not there was enough room. "You have such an intuition, mon cher. It's enviable. I wish I'd been so perceptive at your age."

Though he could see it was an ill fit, Matthew still plopped himself down next to his father, staring forward at the television. He was still listening to Francis, yet at the same time he was oddly bemused at how rusty his French had become, finding that he didn't understand all of what was being discussed in the film that continued to play.

"..and you are just the same," Francis muttered, "you still love that boy."

"What?," Matthew instantly replied, his head snapping to one side to give his father a surprised stare.

Again, Francis just chuckled, though this time it was genuine. "You wouldn't have pined for him so long if you weren't in love."

"I haven't been pining for anybody!," Matthew insisted, though an embarrassed flush pinkened his cheeks. "I thought of him as my brother, just as I was told to do. And because he became my brother, I care for him as family."

"Don't try to pull a fast one on me, I know you better than that," came Francis's playfully insistent voice as he waggled his finger at his son in disapproval.

"I invited him to come with me to the cabin," Matthew confessed, "You could come too, and it would be kind of like old times," he offered, truly thinking that his papa could use a vacation. Or was it that he simply longed to spend some time with his normally busy father? Or perhaps he considered that the presence of one other person could break up any potential for awkward silences between Matthew and this other young man who was, more or less, a stranger- Matthew wasn't sure.

"No.. I'm afraid it wouldn't be at all like old times for me..," Francis spoke, his tone falling back into a smooth, soft, somber resonance, though he was quick to disguise this, "but don't trouble yourself with me! You go and have fun! This is your time. Your chance. I am happy for you!," he insisted.

There was a pause. Francis turned pensive blue eyes back to the screen, though he wasn't truly watching the movie now any more than he had been before Matthew disturbed him. "Just..," he began,"..Matthew, if you love that boy, don't you dare let him go before he knows it."

"Alright, alright," Matthew answered to his father's insistence before holding up the packages of photographs he'd been looking over earlier, "Here. I brought these for you to look at."

"Ah, merci, Matthew," the older man answered as he carefully took the paper-wrapped photos.

The father and son fell into a comfortable silence as Francis placed the packages on his lap, opening one and slowly looking over the images, chuckling every now and then. Matthew was certain he understood his father's emotional state in reminiscing, aware of how much happiness was contained within those little pieces of captured time, yet how much sadness there was in knowing these moments were in the past and could never be relived.

This awareness was passed between the two; neither of them could reclaim these moments, neither of them could touch or feel what was so far behind them. It became even more evident when Francis paused in flipping through the pictures, stopping on a photo he had snapped of Arthur years ago.

It appeared that Arthur had baked scones, as he commonly did, and in the photo Arthur was rather forcefully offering Francis, who was taking the photo, a scone, to which Francis was attempting to refuse at the same time as he was attempting to take Arthur's picture.

The man traced his thumb along the image, his touch following the line of sunlight pouring through the curtains over the kitchen window in the background, the sunlight that was highlighting Arthur from one side in an almost ethereal fashion.

"That's a really nice one," Matthew observed as he leaned his head slightly against his father's shoulder, resting his neck, "I'm pretty sure I inherited my skills from you."

Francis nodded to his son, blue eyes not shifting from the photograph as a bittersweet smile tugged at his lips.

"You should keep that one," Matthew suggested, to which, again, Francis but nodded.

Matthew continued to watch his father look through the photographs, from one set to the next, not interrupting him any further, and at some point the lull of their silence allowed him to fall asleep.

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Matthew awakened the next morning to find himself tucked under the plush blankets of his father's bed. Perplexed, he sat upright, attempting to recall how he ended up here, to no avail.

Francis appeared moments later from his ensuite, already dressed and ready for work. He wore a smirk of playful mockery as he addressed his grown son with his usual exuberance restored. "You still sleep as heavily as you did when you were just a little one, mon cher! Looks like you're not too old to have Papa carry you to bed after all, no?"

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Wandering downstairs, Matthew groaned sleepily to himself to find that his laptop had spent the night on the breakfast bar. He ambled over, yawning and rubbing at his tired eyes, always having such a difficult time with feeling awake in the morning.

The sound of Matthew's yawning and plopping down on the barstool easily alerted the house worker. He had already been busily preparing Francis's breakfast, but was ever watchful over Matthew, as most of the house workers had lived here for years and had tended to Matthew, even when he was but a child; in this way, they were very much like a family, familiar to him, though he had always remained distant.

The man came over to stand near Matthew's side, inquiring about the boy's appetite, and if he would like something to drink. He seemed particularly worried, since Matthew hadn't eaten much of his dinner the previous evening.

"Don't worry about me," Matthew insisted in a soft, sleepy voice, combing his fingers through his messy bedhead, "just give me whatever my Papa asked for, with coffee and a small glass of orange juice."

As the house worker made haste back to working on breakfast, his shoes clicking all the way, Matthew opened up his laptop, which instantly flickered to life, bringing up the last page Matthew had accessed. There, the young Canadian found that Alfred had already responded to his invitation.

'Wow, man, are you serious? I mean, you knew me once, but I'm like a total stranger now! Are you sure? It would be seriously cool and great and awesome, though, if you mean it. I think it would really help! I don't even know what to say! I'm kinda overwhelmed! Except yeah, duh, I'd love to!'

Alfred Jones. 13 hours ago.

Something strange happened as Matthew read over the comment; he smiled. A genuine smile had become a sight so rare, as such a thing hardly ever broke his exterior walls, even when he was given reason. Smiles were something he did from time to time, just to give himself a friendly and unassuming appearance, a mask he wore, just like his father.

But reading over Alfred's words, Matthew couldn't help but observe what a spastic little dork it was that he'd been addressing, one just like that sweet, charming boy he used to know.

Nothing had really changed; that gave Matthew reason for happiness.

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TBC

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