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Monsieur Bonnefoy.

The foggy sliver of yellowed crescent moon hanging languidly in the midnight sky did nothing to illuminate the dirt path that Alfred found himself bolting across. Fiery, frustrated tears blurred his periphery as abbreviated flashbacks of the fight between him and his father relentlessly flickered past his mind. He found his feet halt automatically, just a few feet before the sand that rimmed the lake morphed into calm water that lapped its shore. There's something about this lake that he doesn't want me to find out about, that's got to be it. He's never yelled at me like that before.

He slipped his shoes and socks off before pacing closer to the edge of the sand, crouching down as his right hand's pointer finger began to trace unintelligible patterns in the damp surface. I can't go back there. Not for a while anyway… maybe not for forever. Dad hates me by now, I'm sure of it! …maybe he never loved me in the first place. Fresh tears stung Alfred's vibrant azure eyes at the thought, adding a pink tinge to his milky corneas; his gaze shifted upward, staring across the lake to the empty opposite shore. A novel idea struck him as he brushed off the fine particles of sand from his right hand, standing up straight and clutching his shoes. He took a step back for momentum's sake and broke into a dash, headed straight for the still cobalt waters directly in front of him.

A surprised gasp stifled in his throat as the unexpectedly cool water immediately soaked through any part of his clothes that it touched, though it did not impede his advancement. He thanked God that the lake was relatively shallow, reaching the middle of his chest at its heart. Chilly tremors wracked his frame as he emerged unscathed on the other side, wringing out his clothes and once again sliding on his socks and shoes. His chest heaved in relief as he espied a dirt trail similar to the one on his side of the lake that he had familiarized himself with, following it like a dog with a bone dangling in front of its nose.

The brightly-lit square of a quaint country town unfurled in front of Alfred as he scaled a diminutive hill, stealing away all of the breath in his lungs. He wandered straight toward a marvelous fountain in the center of the square, its clear, purified water twinkling in the artificial light. Most of the passersby stared at the half-drenched child that had discovered this town off of the beaten path; Alfred was able to catch a few clips and phrases of those who whispered about him—"Where did that child come from?" "He resembles that Williams kid, doesn't he? Is he a relative?" "No, he looks like Monsieur Bonnefoy!"

An airy, moderate voice, louder than the rest, sliced through the useless ramblings of the townspeople, forcing Alfred to turn about face: "Bon soir, little boy. I don't remember ever seeing you here before… why are your clothes soaked?"

A blonde man towered over him, his wheat-hued, chin-length wavy hair pulled into a loose ponytail and secured with a decorative red, white, and blue ribbon. An odd expression played across the man's face as his quartzite sky eyes met Alfred's, the color of his irises almost an exact copy of the boy's own. Alfred scrambled for words, his teeth cutting the inside of his cheek nervously. "Um, I kinda swam through a lake because my dad's mad at me and I kinda ran away from home… kinda."

"Oh?" the man's face transformed as a warmhearted expression of understanding overtook his defined features. "It sounds like you're in a little predicament, hmm?"

Alfred nodded, his eyes flickering to the cobbled street underfoot and examining the different shapes and sizes of the cemented stones. "I can't go home. I don't know what I'm gonna do or where I'm gonna go, but I have to be strong…! That's what Dad always told me."

The man reached out and patted the child's head, ruffling his hair; the affectionate gesture plucked Alfred's heartstrings, his chest aching from the raw familiarity that it evoked. Though he certainly knew that he had never met the blonde in front of him, some unknown electric current seemed to channel through the two: Alfred had the strangest urge to call the man something endearing and informal, such as 'pop,' though he bit back the word that began to form in his throat. "At least it's not the end of the world, oui? Why don't you come with me and get cleaned up? I have a son around your age that you can play with. I'm sure he'd like the company."

Dodger blue eyes fluttered up to the man, alighting with newfound hope that welled behind his irises. "Yeah, I'd like that. If that's okay with you."

"Mais bien sûr!" the man replied emphatically, removing his hand from Alfred's hair and extending it to the boy. "I would not offer if it were not all right! By the way, I am Francis Bonnefoy. Et vous, le petit garçon?"

Alfred clutched Francis's long-fingered hand, letting his new acquaintance tow him along the uneven road leading away from the square. "I'm Alfred… Alfred Jones. Nice to meetcha."

Francis seemed to hesitate for a moment, turning away from Alfred to stare in front of them before he responded, his voice adopting a strange shaky tone that it lacked before. "Nice to meet you too, Alfred…!"

A huge home unfolded in front of them after walking in silence for a few moments. Fluorescent light spilled from the arched French windows, fashioning neat amber pools against the soft grass on the lawn. A sly grin slithered across Francis's lips as he heard the distinct sound of an innocent gasp emit from the boy beside him. He led Alfred through the ivory double doors that served as the main entrance, kicking his shoes off at the base of a coat tree. "Matthieu! Where are you? Come down to the foyer, s'il vous plaît!" Francis called, unfastening the ribbon that held his hair back as Alfred disposed of his shoes that appeared tattered and worn compared to the others at the bottom of the coat tree.

Distant footsteps echoed through the home, sounding against the vaulted ceilings and the connected first story before Matthew appeared, waltzing with almost grace for an eight-year-old down the main staircase that stretched in front of Francis and Alfred. "Alfred? How did you get here?" A pair of indigo eyes scrutinized Alfred as Matthew scurried right up to him, abashed astonishment threaded through his voice.

"Oh? You two have met before?" Francis interjected before Alfred could explain, an interrogative flavescent brow quirking as he curiously watched his son.

Matthew nodded, glancing up to his father for the duration of his spiel, "Yeah, I went down to that lake the other day, remember? You actually gave me permission to go down there since it was really foggy, and you know how I like fog. That's where I saw Alfred, but he was on the other side of the lake." His periphery tilted from Francis's face to Alfred's, a shy smile upturning the corners of his mouth. "It's neat that you're here, Al!"

A triumphant chuckle resonated in Alfred's throat as a grin as wide as the aforementioned lake itself spread across his face. "Thanks, Mattie. I crossed the lake and came here because my dad got mad at me so I ran away… I'm pretty sure he doesn't want anything to do with me after I made him so angry like that... I ended up in the middle of the town when your dad found me."

Matthew moved toward Francis, wrapping an arm around his sinewy waist in a grateful embrace. "Thanks for bringing him here, Papa!" He looked away from Alfred to smile at his father, the one curly strand that stuck up from the rest of his hair bouncing in front of his forehead.

Francis patted Matthew's head gently before nodding, returning the smile. "It wasn't a problem, Matthieu! Now, I have some business to attend to before bed, do you think you could show Alfred to the guest room for the night? I'm sure he's tired, as are you! Your glasses don't hide those dark circles under your eyes, mon cher."

"Oui, Papa," Matthew nodded, uncurling his arm from around his father and taking a few steps toward the stairs before motioning for his friend to follow. "The guest room's right beside mine upstairs."

Alfred tailed Matthew up the winding staircase and down the longest hallway that he had ever seen in someone's house until the other stopped in front of a closed door. He prodded it open and flicked on the light before entering, pivoting to face Alfred. "You can sleep here tonight. I'll come wake you up in the morning for breakfast! Maybe Papa will make pancakes since you're here!"

"Thanks for being so nice to me even though we don't really know much about each other yet, Mattie," Alfred mused gratefully, his crystal eyes darting around the poshly-decorated room: he felt like he had been taken to a hotel room instead of the guest room in Matthew's home. "Sorry I kinda butted into your house tonight. I didn't think I was really gonna run away until I had climbed down from my window… and the first place I went was to the lake… I don't even know what made me cross it."

A hand flitted through the air, as if dismissing Alfred's apology. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Al! This is kinda like a sleepover, isn't it? I'm really glad you came here, I haven't had a friend over in forever. Everyone at my school ignores me."

"Kids are really mean, huh?" Alfred remarked before a yawn betrayed him, his right hand popping up to cover his mouth. "Oh wow, I didn't know how tired I was…."

Matthew grinned sheepishly before his features illuminated with an idea. "Oh, wait here! I'll get you some pajamas you can borrow, and then you can get some sleep."

He scampered out of the room and within a minute or two he returned, clutching a folded pile of clean clothes. "Sleep tight, 'kay? Bon nuit," Matthew stated, holding out the clothes to the other.

Alfred nodded, taking the stack of pajamas. "Thanks, Mattie. Ni-Night."

Matthew turned and strutted out of the room, lifting his rounded glasses and wiping the developing sleep from his eyes, partially closing the door but leaving it cracked. Alfred scrambled to change out of his damp clothes, leaving them in an untidy pile on the floor as he pulled on the comfortable pants and t-shirt that Matthew had brought him. He had to climb up onto the bed that stood to about his nose, burrowing in the neatly-made covers. A wave of nostalgia swept over him as he settled into the fluffy bed, tugging the pillows down to cradle his head comfortably. He almost felt as if he had been in this house before, though he knew that he never had. The image of his father conjured in the abyssal cavern of his mind, standing beside his bedroom window and wearing an expression of pure despondence; tears welled in his eyes but he brushed them away, turning his face into the pillow under his head. Goodnight, Dad.

The faint, accented voice of Matthew's father reverberated through the house from downstairs, reaching Alfred as he drifted off into a fuzzy sleep: "Arthur? It's Francis."

To be continued.

Translations (if needed):
Bon soir = Good evening
Mais bien sûr = But of course
Et vous, le petit garçon = And you, little boy
S'il vous plaît = Please
Bon nuit = Good night