Chapter 10

If love were a colour

Mid-afternoon art lectures always had been bliss for Francis Bonnefoy. A simple hour spent in front of a plain white canvas was all he needed to get through the remainder of the day in which he would be separated from Arthur, and at times, he thought of it as one of the things that kept him sane. The way the oily paints clung onto the bristles of his brush for dear life, the way each stroke brought about a thousand possibilities…what wasn't to like about such a tranquil state?

However, there was something else on the Frenchman's mind, something a lot stronger than the necessity of deciding which vibrant colour to initiate his piece with. The sheet was kept in his left breast pocket. If Arthur had noticed he had taken it, he certainly hadn't said anything. He was in possession of a completely average sheet of paper, a flimsy, delicate thing. But to Francis, it was so much more than that. Its contents were, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen the English language used for, and he wouldn't give it up for the world.

More than once during the hour he had raised his hand to cover it, feeling the steady pulse of his heartbeat underneath it. Just to know it was there. Just to know that it was entirely real, no matter how many times he had pinched himself to gain the confirmation in the first place. Arthur Kirkland loved him back. That was all that mattered. That no matter how cold or distant he was, Francis would always have these words. He had his proof, and Arthur had more than enough himself to realise it was returned.

They could make it work. The imperfections were what would keep it going, what would keep them from growing tired of each other. Ever since the Briton's arrival in his dormitory, it had been one big rollercoaster, they could both agree on that.

And if this were any other day, the Frenchman would scold himself for getting too ahead of himself, for fantasising when it was a bad call, but something had just…clicked since then. None of this felt unreasonable. It was as though the outcome he desired was so close, he could simply reach out at this very moment and embrace it. And lord knows he wouldn't let go.

At some point, without his knowing it, Francis had already begun to sketch, the thin lead of his pencil making a delicate scratch upon the rough surface. His movements were so calm, so perfectionist, that he had to block out each individual murmur around him to get each line done to standard. If someone were to set off a bomb under his nose, he wouldn't even flinch. He was too focused on his work, too focused on making everything just so in case he somehow offended the piece, even though it was currently without form. It didn't even cross his mind that he may be taking this a bit too seriously, even if it was an assessed piece of work.

Francis' mind was slipping away from him, however. Each stroke brought up a select word from the sheet, the sheet that he oh so desperately wanted to re-read again and again until the words were nothing more than squiggles on a page, the sheet that was so close yet so far at the same time. He wasn't quite sure how or when he did it, but he made it through the short period of time, positioned in front of a rather perplexing bit of art. Had he done this? It was his canvas, but it had all seemed so…distant for a while.

He traced his index finger along the narrow outline, almost in awe. He had never seen anything like this, let alone from his own hand. In the centre of the canvas, the very nexus, was a rough (almost hexagonal by terms of which the lines connected) oval-shaped form, but it wasn't the framework that impressed him the most. The mass of colours were what truly grasped his attention, the deep greens, the slivers of light seeping across it, and the small flickers of amber surrounding a second, smaller black circle within it.

It took the Frenchman a while to process what it truly was. An eye. Arthur's eye. He lowered his hand; all of a sudden it felt rather out of place for him to attempt to touch it, let alone stare into it in disbelief for the next ten minutes and into his break.

Without even processing it, he had managed to replicate such a flawless spectacle. Without even processing it, he had managed to manifest all of his feelings towards Arthur into something anyone could experience by simply looking at the work. And without even processing it, he was smiling.

Now, originally, I hadn't planned to put this chapter in at all. But then again, what's the harm in concocting 800+ words of Fransu's feelings? ^w^ Oh, and the lack of Iggy's perspective isn't by accident, it's not like I forgot. I'm doing one of those weird "it's a mystery to Francis so it's a mystery for the reader" things. Fourth wall? What fourth wall?