disclaimer: oh, nope.
dedication: bipolar weeks.
notes1: i love writing a chapter every day. really, i do.
notes2: it makes me feel accomplished.
notes3: i feel like i had some problems with this chapter. if anyone has any critique plot-wise on how this chapter worked out, please let me know?
summary: "And me, I put my head in my hands and I cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.
pairing: franceengland.
Chapter 7:
(without speaking to me)
It's Monday morning, and I'm really, really tired. I wake up to the sound of a blaring alarm clock. I have to turn over to his side to shut it off, and I realize he's not in bed. He must have already gotten up.
It's 6:00. I groan.
When I walk out, him and his mother are speaking quietly, in French that's so heavily accented and so fast I can't understand a slight of what they're saying. Even though they see me, they don't stop talking. I lay my head down on the counter, and wait him to hand me something, anything — coffee, tea, I don't ever care at this point.
"Bonjour," his mother grumbles to me in her gravelly voice. It's always interesting to hear her speak French — so curt, so quick, so natural. I mean, he may also be natively French, but he at least slows down for my benefit — and partially because I think he's a drawler, but I digress.
"Um, hello," I murmur. "Good morning."
"Regarde à moi," she says suddenly, and by instinct, I look at her immediately.
She looks especially trashy today, with red lipsticks smudged a little on her teeth and mascara clumps in her eyelashes. Her hair is frizzy and thin, and it almost seems like she has balding spots on her scalp. Sometimes, I wonder how she created such a beauty like Francis.
"I don't mind you here at all," she tells me, sipping some coffee, "parce-que je sais la famille et le drama qu'ils apportent."
"Of course," I respond, "thank you so, so much — "
"Just shut it. I don't care for 'merci's. My only rules: Don't do anything that would get us kicked out, don't go into my room, and if a strange man comes to the door looking for me, never tell him where I am."
I nodded with fervor. "I can do that."
"Bon," she says simply, washing out her now empty cup in the sink. "We're clear then."
"Your mum's kind of alright," I say as soon as I hear her door 'click' shut. He laughs and shrugs.
"Je suppose."
He hands me a cup of tea and I smile at him, and kiss him. We both still have morning breath but I can't seem to care, and neither can he. He sighs against my lips and tucks my head under his chin.
"We should hurry for school," he says, but still makes no motion to release me.
"Oh, right," I say, pouting. "That."
He chuckles and brushes my hair away from my forehead, before he kisses me one more time. He nudges me with his elbow, before walking off to his room to get dressed. I sip my tea as I walk into his bedroom — well, our bedroom now, I suppose — and set it down on the nightstand to get dressed.
I frown as I open up my trunk. All my school clothes are wrinkled, especially my tie. I think I look ridiculous as I look at myself in the mirror, and as he stands next to me and wraps his arms around my waist, kissing my ear, I realize his are equally as wrinkled.
"How can you stand that?"
"Quoi?"
"Wrinkled clothes."
He just laughs and shoos me out the room so I finish my tea before it gets cold.
The bus ride to school is somewhat awkward, somewhat peaceful. We don't speak much, just quietly hold hands in the privacy of our seat. We're comfortable, but I don't the silence — for some reason, it seems tense. When we arrive at school, he shakes off my hand and continues to walk faster.
Gilbert and Antonio, Idiot 1 and 2 greet him with mischievous grins as he steps off the bus. They eye me and elbow him with a grin.
"Hey, hey, what's Prude Boy doing on your bus?"
And just when I expect him to smile and relay everything, he just chuckles and shakes his head. "Nothing like that, guys. He just must've been late or something."
…What? He isn't even going to acknowledge my existence now? Even to his best friends? Before, we used to at least have small glances, and flashed smiles.
He doesn't look at me the rest of the day. He never responded to my text about a quick make-out session during lunch. He doesn't even look at the note I pass him in Chemistry.
We sit in the same bus aisle, and this time the silence is deafening. We don't touch, at all, and neither of us make a move to talk to one another, to touch one another.
When we get home, I drop my bookbag in the doorway and look at him. He raises an eyebrow at me, and I can feel the cold attitude in just his stare.
"What was that?" I demand.
"What was what?" he snaps back at me, tossing his bag carelessly on the floor. Its times like this when I hate that he's taller than me.
"That — thing, you know, where you didn't look at me all day, where you didn't even acknowledge my existence!"
"I thought you didn't want anyone to know," he whispers, without looking at me. He has his hand placed awkwardly on his shoulder, playing with the pleat of the jacket there.
My mouth drops open, and I'm utterly speechless. Am I really that much of an arsehole?
"…I…"
He shakes his head, almost without any movement at all, and walks off to the kitchen. He takes out the wine bottle and pours himself a glass, swishing the rich, thick red liquid around.
"It doesn't matter," he says, without looking at me. His voice cracks, and he bites his lip to keep from saying anything more.
"Yes, it does," I say, after a long a silence. His head turns sharply toward me, an almost invisible eyebrow raised. "Yes, it does," I repeat once more. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I — I don't want to have to hide anything anymore."
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" he asks softly, never taking his eyes off mine.
"I want people to know you're my boyfriend, I want to be proud of it. I want to know your friends — well, I don't want to know them, because quite frankly they're annoying but — "
He chuckles and reaches to pull me close. His embrace is almost constricting, and I can't breathe because my head's pulled too tightly to his chest, but I don't care, because God, this feels so right. He kisses me, and I can feel his happiness, his joy, his love.
"Je t'aime," he whispers breathlessly against my lips. He opens his eyes to look at me, and although I open my mouth, nothing can come out. The words choke themselves in my throat, my eyes start to water, and my stomachs knots itself over and over again. His smile is sad, and his hands slide off my cheeks with defeat.
I try to speak, but he just shakes his head, staring at the floor.
"I'll be back later."
I slide down to the floor as the door 'clicks' shut, and stare at the door. I can hear every step he takes down the hallway, down the stairs, his heavy and quick steps sounding especially loud on the concrete flooring.
"I love you, too," I whisper to an empty flat.
