The French Teacher and The English Student.
It was weird seeing Paris again after so long. The streets still shined liked they used too. The famous Eiffel Tower still stood with all its glory. Francis put his hands deep in his pockets as the cold French winter crept over him. In truth, he loved being back, but he also felt a horrible guilt because he hadn't told Arthur. He wondered if the English boy had yet found out that he was gone. And if he had found out, what was the reaction?
Francis continued walking through streets that he could still remember off by heart, even though he had been gone for so long. He only had one destination, and that was his parent's house. He dreaded going up and knocking on their apartment door. He hadn't seen them in so long. And his small daughter was now two; he had missed a lot if he thought back. Her first words, first steps, everything a father would be joyful and happy to see, though he never knew that joy, and he was never going to.
The small apartment block wasn't far from the main city of Paris. It was a quiet, secluded area, that Francis always loved. The interior of the building was the very same as the French man remembered and he found himself tracing a finger against the green papered walls as he walked up the stairs. Fourth floor and he was there, just inches away from his parents. He took a deep breath and walked forward; knocking lightly against the wooden door and then stepping back to let someone answer.
"Eh, bonjour?" An elder woman opened the door. Her hair was blonde in colour, though streaks of grey made their way through some of her locks. Age decayed her face, though she was the same as she was when Francis left. She looked oddly at the stranger. One of her silvery eyebrows raised she asked, "Puis-je vous aider? (Can I help you?)"
Francis looked into her cerulean eyes, the same as his, "Mere, c'est moi, Francois (Mother, It's me, Francis)"
"Francois?" The woman lifted her hand and gently touched it against her son's face, "You're back?"
"Oui, I didn't like England very much!" He laughed nervously, hiding the real reason, "I mean, can I... can I see Lilly?"
"Oui, of course! One second! Luc, Francois is 'ome!" She smiled happily, an expression Francis missed seeing. "Please, Francois, come in!"
The French man nodded at his mother before walking into the apartment. It was warmer than it was in the hallway, so Francis left his coat and scarf on the Coat hanger beside the door. Looking around, Francis grinned, it had never changed. Each picture, piece of furniture and wallpaper still stood and stuck were they were when Francis was a mere teen. He walked through an arch and into the living room. An old man sat at one of the couches, watching the French news, and a small girl sat at his feet drawing and colouring on various sheets of sprawled out paper.
"Lilly?" Francis muttered. She was more beautiful than he had imagined her to be. With shoulder length blonde hair, two plaits tied around the back of her hair and into a red bow. Her skin was tanned like him and the rest of Francis' family, and when she looked at him she had Joan's big blue eyes.
"Grand-mere, qui est-ce? (Grandmother, who is that?)" She asked, and a strange shyness overshadowed Francis. Her sweet voice was just like Joan's. He sighed to himself, he had to get over that now, he also had to get over Arthur, but...Why was that so hard?
"Lilly, c'est votre pere, Francois!" It wasn't a look of kindness that the small girl gave Francis; she didn't even try and smile. It was more of a look mixed with confusion and hurt, a look similar to the one Arthur had given to him before they had parted. Francis looked over to his mother. She seemed overjoyed about their reunion, and Francis was to, but, he couldn't help but feel extremely sickened by the fact he had left this small girl.
He slowly but surely began to walk towards Lilly, all the time she kept staring at him, but it was only natural, he was a stranger.
"I'll make tea!" Said Francis' mother proudly.
"I might go and 'elp." The elder man on the chair finally spoke. He was Francis's father, and everyone said they looked alike but Francis didn't think so at all. Maybe in his father's younger years but defiantly not now.
When the two elders left they closed the door purposely behind them. Francis rolled his eyes. He knew their plan. It was obvious they wanted him and his daughter to reconcile, but that wouldn't be as easy as it sounds.
Finally Francis decided to sit down beside Lilly. She continued on colouring in the picture she had started, completely ignoring him.
"Bonjour, Lilly." He helloed, his fingers lacing through the carpet underneath his hands.
"Bonjour, Papa." Lilly coloured her person in with long, blonde hair. She looked up at her father every so often before starting to colour in again.
"Tu aimez l'art? (Do you like art?)" Francis picked up a picture with the French flag scribbled in the background and three people labelled, "Ma grand-mere, mon grand-pere et moi!" Francis smiled.
"Oui, et vous? (Yes, and you?)" She asks, taking this time a blue coloured colouring pencil. "Oui, J'etais un art et professeur de Francais de Angleterre. (I was an art and French teacher in England.)
For a mere second there was silence, until Lilly held up her picture with great aspiration. "Je suis fini! (I'm finished!)"
Francis saw the girls face light up as she looked over her picture. A man and a smaller child like girl stood side by side, one, the girl was labelled, "Moi!" and the other, the man, was labelled... "Mon pere."
"Papa, regarde, regarde! C'est vous! (Papa, look, look it's you!)" She smiled, pointing at the man that was holding the small child's hand. "Lilly..."
Taking the picture from the girl carefully, Francis observed every bit of the neatly drawn and coloured picture. He couldn't describe what he really felt, joy, pride, happiness? Maybe all!
Francis' mother left the tray of tea gently on the table, "She 'as been waiting until you came back until she could finally draw you. She wouldn't even look at the pictures we should her of when you were young. She kept saying: "J'ai besoin de le dessiner comme il est maintenant!"
"I need to draw 'im as he is now." Francis and his mother said in unison.
"'As she ever drawn... Joan?" He asked taking up a small cup after he gave the picture back to Lilly. "Oui," His mother replied, "But only as an angel..."
The clock in Arthur's room ticked back and forward, each hour passed and Arthur didn't move from his position. He lay face down on his bed, his right leg was flung lazily over a pillow, and his hand was to his mouth, so whenever he felt the urge to cry he bit down hard on his knuckles.
His door was locked, and his mother had been trying to get him to eat for hours now, but he wouldn't. He refused anything she offered and that was everything they had.
His mind kept playing back over the day he'd just had. He thought It would be like every other, trying to ignore Mr. Bonnefoy, and wondering why Alfred had began to ignore him again. But it wasn't, he didn't have to ignore Mr. Bonnefoy anymore because... he was already gone.
"Right girls and boys you have a free class today so I'll be minding you." It was quite the shock to Arthur that Francis was absent. Never since the start of the crazy year he had been through was the Frenchman out sick, or just not bothered to come in. In fact, it was a surprise to them all when Ms. Braginskaya came in and put her books down on his desk. "You can talk and do homework if you like! If anyone needs help, just put up your hand!"
There was more than a few puzzled looks around the classroom, but each student happily got on with their work and began to take out homework and chat amongst themselves. Arthur's mind was too occupied to do anything, and when Feliks tried to talk to him he simply turned a blind eye.
Francis was sick? The thought played over and over in his head. But, Francis had told him he had a strong immune system. So he was just gone then?
"Eh excuse me, boy down the back with the blonde hair, are you going to do some work?" The teacher asked and Arthur came back to reality. "Eh sorry miss!"
And for the rest of the class Arthur tried to study his poetry, but his mind wandered off to another place. And each time he tried to banish the thoughts they brought him back to one place: France.
"Arthur's pretty down Al!" Alfred ignored his brother. "You need to tell him!"
"Tell him what Mattie!? That I made him and his boyfriend break up!? That I started the rumours!? I can't Matt, I can't! Can't you see he'll hate me for the rest of my life!"Alfred barked at the blonde haired boy. Matthew simply pushed up his glasses, nodding his head at Alfred's ignorance and immaturity.
"W-what?" A small voice squeaked from behind the brothers. Alfred swung around. Arthur stood shivering tears rolling down from his lime eyes.
"You made him go!?" Arthur cried putting his hand up to his eyes to hide the obvious tears streaming down his face.
"No! Arthur I didn't! I'm sorry Artie!" Alfred caught Arthur's hands, forcefully bringing them down from the boy's face.
"Don't call me that! Why!? Why would you say such things about him!?" Arthur thick eyebrows furrowed in anger, his hands clenched into fists.
"Artie, I mean Arthur, I didn't mean it I-"
"Tell me why!" Arthur interrupted.
"Because... I love you."
Even curled in bed hours later the words 'I love you' stood out the most in the English boy's head. He couldn't have slapped Alfred harder than he did, and now he was beginning to feel guilty. Why? Why did Alfred make up those things?
There was another knock at his door, followed by a small voice, "Dinner's ready you jerk, mum said you should come out."
It couldn't be anyone other than Peter. Though instead of annoyance in his voice there was pity, almost as if he worried for Arthur. Arthur looked over at his door. Another knock this time further up the door signalling someone taller than Peter.
"Art, mam is really worried." It was Ayva, her northern Irish accent being very recognizable. "Please come out."
Arthur sniffed, wiping the wet tears from his eyes before finally getting up from his bed and opening the door. Peter and Ayva watched as he walked past them without an acknowledgement and down the stairs. The two siblings looked at each other before running down after him.
"Arthur! You're alive!" Mrs. Kirkland flung her arms around her son, and squeezed him near to death. "Ms. William Jones told me you and her boys had a fight. Artie, I was so worried."
"Well, I'm fine!" Arthur protested, struggling out of his mother's death grip.
"Honey... Is everything okay?" From the corner of his eye Arthur could see his brothers watching him. They probably thought he was such a wimp, crying over a fight. But, they would be wrong, it was more, much, much more.
"Yes mum." Arthur replied, still aware of his brother's gazes.
