A/N: No real deep meanings here; a somewhat shallow view on beauty. xD But it may get deeper as I go along. Right now, it's mostly skin-deep. Still, I hope you all enjoy it. 3
Beauty
Being
Francis Bonnefoy was beauty.
Is beauty.
It was the same difference to him. Really, no one bothered to disagree with him; after all, France was the nation of love, and love was beautiful. Simple logic, and yet Arthur Kirkland seemed to deny it on every turn. Ah, Arthur – was it really surprising to say that Francis was still in love with him? The long, cruel centuries had not let him lose the need to be with the Briton, but Arthur had lost the need, the wanting. No, not lost – it had been given to someone else. The Frenchman winced. No matter who he slept around with, he could not seem to give his love, his beauty, his being to anyone else but Arthur. It was foolish and painful and bittersweet whenever he saw the shorter man. When Francis had gone to visit him earlier that day, he had been so excruciatingly frightened; not of the Briton, but of what he would say to him. Francis knew what was going on, he always did. He knew what had been bothering the shorter man and Francis did not want to face it, but he never could leave things alone, could he?
The weather had changed drastically since he escaped England – Arthur had given him spare clothing, or rather his old clothing from when he used to come over Arthur's home. It was surprisingly pleasant to find that after many years, they fit him perfectly. He had left Arthur sleeping soundly on his bed, warm sheets wrapped around his figure tightly and mouth slightly open as he grumbled in his sleep; he didn't even stir as Francis slipped out. Francis frowned upwards; the sky was darker than it was supposed to be – it was actually only the middle of the day, but it seemed the rain made Arthur lethargic. It should have been bright blue skies in France though; despite cooling weather. Yet the sky was a navy blue shade, only beginning to be interrupted by sluggish orange and red rays; a sun rising. Francis stopped and looked at his surroundings for the first time since leaving Arthur.
Had he really just walked all the way to –
Francis scratched his chin for a moment. He knew this place, and he knew exactly who lived here; someone close...Francis clicked his fingers and let out a throaty laugh. It was Matthew, of course – or rather, Matthieu. How could he forget Matthew Williams? He had been his colony and he had taken care of him, however short that time was. Francis shook his head in disbelief at his neglecting of the poor boy and began to walk; footsteps up to mid-calf staining the white expanse. Matthew's house was much larger than Francis remembered – it had been a long time since his last visit and Francis almost felt abashed to knock on the oak doors. But knock his did.
There was a creak and a noise of surprise from a boy with the same silk hair as Francis. While Francis was the ocean and its shore, Matthew Williams was the violet-blue and gold of the aurora borealis.
One offered a polite smile and the other gave a shaky laugh.
Then a greeting and some quick ushering into a warm setting.
Francis glanced around, mildly interested. Despite the size of the house, it was sparsely decorated; few photos here and there and an occasional vase of flowers. Matthew took his coat and beamed, boyish yet effeminate face glowing wonderfully fair like the snow outside – he was not used to visitors save for Ivan's frequent offer to become one with him and Alfred's dutiful big brother routine.
"Please," the nation of Canada murmured softly. "Take a seat – I'll go make us some tea."
"Polite as ever, I see, mon Matthieu," Francis smiled and obediently sunk into a cosy arm chair. "I've taught you well." The polar bear, Kuma-something was staring intently at him before uttering a quizzical: "Who?" and shuffling away. Francis blinked. Matthew peered in from the kitchen, lovely mauve eyes wide. "Pardon?"
Francis opened his mouth, and the wrong words fell out. "Have you and Alfred been getting along lately?"
Matthew's smile faded, though only a little and he let out a breathy laugh. "We've been getting along pretty well." A pause. "He's still upset about Arthur."
"Of course," Francis nodded slowly. "As Arthur is still upset about Alfred."
"You spoke to him?"
Another nod.
Another laugh.
Francis could see it then, Matthew's heart. It was sliding out his chest, dribbling onto the floor and then shattering. Or perhaps they were tears. The older man could not tell.
"I want to be there for him, Francis," the words were whispered. Nothing but wind. "But to really be there for him. Always. Not only because I'm his brother. I don't want it to be an obligation."
"I understand." And he did. Francis understood all too well when he held Arthur in the rain.
Maybe that's why he held Matthew's – his Matthieu's – fragile frame now.
He would be there for him, like he had been once a long time ago.
This was not an obligation; this was what Francis wanted and this was what Matthew needed, and what Alfred and Arthur lacked.
Francis Bonnefoy was beauty.
Is beauty.
It was the same difference to him.
But Matthew Williams was something beautiful.