Frank is sort of my interpretation of the Kingdom of the Franks, aka France's dad.

The words in Italics are spoken in French, while the bolded italicised words are the words spoken by Frank. Also, Francis is really OOC in this chapter, so you may want to watch out.

He walked back into the apartment. Silence greeted him as Francis closed the door.

Resting in the corner was his saxophone. Francis walked over and unpacked it, before playing some quiet notes that filled in the silence.

For a moment, he savoured those notes. He wanted to play a tune, but he knew that the landlord would probably be noise complaints, and he didn't feel like busking.

Instead, he zipped open the case's upper pocket and grabbed his folder. He had printed some new pieces the previous night, so maybe it would be good to memorise them.

After roughly half an hour of marking in accents, crescendos, as well as notes, he grew restless and set aside the folder.

It was all that he did in his spare time; learning new music pieces. What else was there that he could do? The apartment was cleaned up, (thanks to Gilbert) and they went grocery shopping earlier on the week. While Antonio should be back soon, Gilbert was working overtime and shouldn't be back until 5.

Seeing nothing else to do, he grabbed the laptop resting on the coffee table and searched for new music pieces. Purple links showed up repeatedly as he scrolled down; done, done, done-

An incoming Skype call notification popped up in the corner; it was from his dad.

He tapped on it, and the video message of his dad came up. Francis was an almost mirror image of his dad. However, Frank had a constant, musing expression, greyer eyes, and a crooked nose.

"Hi."

"Hi dad. How… are you?"

"I'm good."

A brief silence filled the gap as the Skype message glitched a bit. He could see that from how the computer screen's light shone on his dad's face, it was dark in France already.

"Did you find a job yet?"

"What? No, I-I'm good. And besides, it's not as if we're completely broke." He smiled for good measure. Frank peered, unconvinced. He wasn't the type who were easily fooled. He sighed.

"It's not the issue about money, and you know that." Francis nodded. Frank wasn't great with words, but he still knew why Francis was looking for a job.

"Alright, alright." Francis sighed, and looked to the side. They had talked about it the previous week. "It's true, the last couple of years here were quite rough." He saw his dad nod. "But searching for a job is not my top priority right now," he quickly added. Frank nodded.

"If you have to, you can just move back," he suggested. Francis thought. He could move back to Paris. However, Paris had less jobs than London. If he was to move back, he would just be leeching off of his father's fortunes with even less luck of employment.

Furthermore… Paris still held too much painful memories. Sure, three years had passed already since his mother and Lisa's death, but he couldn't bear to remember them. The Paris of his childhood, back when everything was tainted pink with rose coloured lenses…

"No thanks."

"Alright. I understand." Francis nodded. They were both affected. Of course.

"Are you eating well?"

"Yeah."

"Sleeping well?"

"... Yeah." Again, Frank sighed.

"Remember to sleep well then" Francis smiled at his dad's bluntness.

"Dad, it's alright to stay up for a bit longer; I'm not a child anymore." A small, rare smile formed formed on Frank's face.

"Just checking. Anything else happening to you?" He shook his head.

"Hm, no, not really."

"Alright." More silence. "See you next week, then." And then the Skype message ended. Francis browsed the internet for more music pieces, and watched some YouTube videos them.

Soon, the lock behind him rattled, and he whipped his head around. As expected, Antonio strolled back into the apartment while carrying a sportsbag.

"Hey Fran!" He greeted, swinging the sportsbag onto the couch.

"Hi!" Francis scooted to the side as Antonio lied down onto the couch and sighed, exhausted. He knew that Antonio's schedule was exhausting, but he could sense that something was on his mind.

"How was the day at the workshop?" Antonio shrugged.

"Mhm, yeah, it was good." He sighed, but more out of satisfaction than tiredness. "We're actually going to start rehearsing for the musical next week!"

"Wow! Congratulations!" Antonio and his partner Roderich had been working on a musical for a local theatre company. He was still shocked at the news. It seemed that it was only yesterday when Antonio started on the project.

"I can't believe it! We're actually going to start rehearsing it! I never thought..." He nodded and hummed in agreement as Antonio continued to chatter about the musical. Eventually, his words became jumbled up, and his mind wandered to other things.

What had he been doing during that time period while Antonio was helping Roderich create the musical, while so much had happened? Floating in time, more like.

"So yeah!" The last word broke Francis' train of thought. "Wow!" Antonio flopped back onto the couch, content. Again, he put up a smile.

"Congratulations!" He smiled. Antonio sat up.

"It's nothing honestly…" He paused when he saw Francis. "Hey Fran, are you alright?"

"No? I'm alright. Why?" He replied coolly. In reality, panic was hammering within him so much, he could pop.

Antonio's features relaxed.

"Ah." A wave of relief washed over him. "Just checking. I thought that you-"

"I'm fine." It came out harsher than expected. Antonio didn't seem to notice it too much, however.

The sinking feeling had beginning to appear again. "I'm going out." Francis grabbed his saxophone case and headed towards the door.

"What?"

"To busk. It's a new hobby of mine." The door behind him slammed shut louder than he had expected.

For a second he stood, and let go of the door knob. The silence and solitude was eerie. As he went down the stairs, his footsteps echoed inside the grey concrete walls.

He was floating in space and time with no reason. Why-

He shook his head. He shouldn't let those negative thoughts fill him and poison him into a thing that he was not.

What was wrong with him? He was fine the previous day. His friend had just reached a milestone, he shouldn't be selfish and pity himself.

When he reached to his regular busking spot, he opened the case, assembled his saxophone, and channelled his thoughts into playing with all his vigor.

It was a new piece that he recently memorised, and he racked his brain to remember how it went so that the piece was all that was in his mind.

He had started out busking on a whim simply as a hobby. Now, it could be a form of therapy.

The sound of the saxophone helped him feel like any good music should. If he converted his frustrations into music, it should help him feel better.

It should.