Chapter Text
He knew he was going to die; he eventually will have to. After years of dealing with what was dealt with, he knew he was expecting this soon. but not this soon.
As he looks into the window of his deathbed, trying desperately to find a certain person as he takes his last breath.
Of course, that certain person was me, but he knew. He knew I was never looking back, never going to look at those ashy green… No, no… hazel blue…? Ah, who am I kidding? Even after years of knowing him, I still don't know what eye color he had.
I loved him too much to see him in such a state. And, as someone who looks up to him dearly, I guess I shall tell the story of Francis Bonnefoy.
--
It all started in the winter of 1934.
The cold, moist air hit my face as I and my little brother, Alfred, were making our way to the tube as usual.
Alfred, having only gotten out of school, had an appetite for something, so of course, I took him to a diner on the way to underground London.
I ordered him to find a seat for us whilst I order, wanting to gain even just a few minutes from my annoying little brother.
Subsequently finishing making my order, I tried to find my little brother, only to have found him next to the table of a gentleman with a swarm of women.
Jerk. Didnt even consider a child was literally in the booth next to him while he passionately kisses one of the ladies sitting next to him at once, disgusting sight i may say.
As the order came, my brother's eyes glinting under the fluorescent lights of the diner, I couldn't help but stare at the shameful man from the next booth.
But I guess my staring got too intense when we locked eyes. "Oh ho~ Can't help but stare, hm, little London boy?~" the blond jested with a flirty French accent.
Stupid…stupid Parisians! Face flushed slightly, I decided to reply back: "L-London boy…? Don't call me that! Parisians are insufferable indeed…!" I managed to exclaim. "Insufferable? Yet you're blushing, trés intéressant~," he replied back once again, the girls around him giggling softly at the exchange.
My little brother, watching the little banter between me and the French, eyebrows arched.
Alfred tugged at my sleeve impatiently, his food already half done before him. “Arthur, quit talking and come eat already! ”
I scowled down at him, glad for the excuse to turn away from the Frenchman’s insufferable smirk. “Yes, yes, I’m coming. Don’t shove it all in your mouth at once; you’ll choke.”
But of course, as I tried to sit, my eyes betrayed me—sliding once more to the booth across. He was watching me, chin in hand, as though I’d just become the most fascinating thing in the diner. The women around him whispered, clearly amused, and I cursed myself for giving them more reason to titter.
“You know, mon petit Anglais,” he called over, voice smooth as cream and twice as dangerous, “if you glare any harder, you’ll burn a hole through me.”
I gripped my teacup so tight I thought it might shatter. “If only,” I muttered under my breath.
But he heard. Of course he heard. That damned chuckle rolled out of him, low and lazy, sending a peculiar chill crawling down my spine. “Fiery, hm? I like that.”
Alfred, mouth full of pie, looked between us with wide eyes. “Arthur, do you know him? ”
“Absolutely not,” I said, far too quickly.
The Frenchman leaned back, spreading his arms across the booth as if the whole diner belonged to him. “Non, but we will, très bientôt.” His grin sharpened. “It seems fate has introduced us already.”
I should have looked away. I should have ignored him and devoted myself to Alfred’s endless chatter about school and the sweetness of his pie. But instead, I felt myself caught—like a moth before a flame, wings trembling with both fear and… something else.
Something I refused to name.
I ignored the jerk and continued eating with my little brother. The diner bells chimed as more people came in, letting the winter air react with the warmth of the diner.
"Arthur," Alfred whispered suddenly, nudging me. "He's still staring…"
"I've figured," I hissed, trying not to glance back at the Frenchmen.
But Alfred was already grinning, cheeks smeared with jam. “He's winking at you.”
I nearly choked on my tea. “W-what absolute nonsense are you talking about—? ”
“Pardon, little brother of London,” came that insufferable voice again, rich with amusement. “He is correct, you know. You have… how do you say… a face one remembers.”
Heat shot through me, though I fought to scowl in reply. “And you have the face of someone I’d much rather forget.”
That earned me a laugh—loud, shameless, drawing the attention of nearly every patron in the diner. His companions giggled again, but I noticed their eyes weren’t really on him anymore. No, they were on me, curious, as if wondering why I was the one he found interesting.
I turned back to Alfred, determined to ignore him, but Alfred—blast him—was already waving. “Hi! I’m Alfred! My brother’s Arthur! ”
I slammed my palm on the table. “Alfred! ”The Frenchman’s eyes glinted like he’d just been handed a precious secret. “Arthur,” he repeated slowly, rolling the name across his tongue. My heart betrayed me, stumbling over itself as he said it like it was something to savor.
“Arthur,” he said again, softer this time, just for me. “Enchanté.”
I hated how the word felt. Like a spell.
I hated it even more that, as we left the diner later—Alfred skipping ahead, full and happy—I glanced back, just once. He was still there, leaning lazily against the booth, watching me leave as though he already knew.
As though he knew that wouldn’t be the last time.
As I and my little brother finally head to the tube, he suddenly speaks and breaks the silence: "Arthur, wasn't that man a little weird…? He was literally toying with you…" My little brother pauses before adding, "…as if you were a woman."
Right. How embarrassing. Shameful even!
I barked out a laugh, a little too sharp, a little too quick. “Don’t be daft, Alf. He was just…French.” That was explanation enough, wasn’t it? They were all strange, with their looks and their words, all honey and vinegar.
But my ears still burned. My chest still felt tight, like I’d swallowed the spell whole and it was sitting there, stubborn, refusing to dissolve.
Alfred shrugged, distracted already by the hum of the approaching train, and bounded forward like nothing had happened. I envied him—his ease, his lightness.
I followed after, but my eyes kept flicking to the glass of the carriage door once we’d boarded, half-expecting, half-dreading that lazy figure to be there still, smirking at me through the reflection.
He wasn’t.
And yet—God help me—I wished he was.
As we sat, I couldn't help but feel a tad bit of sonder. These strangers in front of me have their own complex lives as I do. Hell, maybe this mate to my right has a family back home, or a dog maybe? Maybe he's also met the Frenchman... No, no, no, Arthur! Stop thinking about him! That pillock made you look like a sissy to your own brother!
But he can't. He really can't stop thinking. Even as he ate dinner, he still couldn't stop thinking about that stupid blond prat.
Matthew, another one of his little brothers, extended the plate of fries. "French fry, big brother…?" Matt offered. I turned to look up, not because of the food itself but rather the mentioning of 'French.'
"Chips, Matt, chips. Not French fries or whatever the Americans call them," I replied bluntly, my face turning red for whatever reason. Matthew blinked at me, startled by my sharpness, then pulled the plate back a little. “...Right. Chips.” His voice was softer than Alfred’s ever was, hesitant, like he thought he’d stepped wrong.
And damn it, that guilt twisted in my stomach. I hadn’t meant to snap at him. It wasn’t his fault that one ridiculous word had dug under my skin, like a splinter I couldn’t dig out.
I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. “Sorry, Matt. Just—long day, you know.”
He gave me that look, the one he always did. A bit too knowing for someone so quiet. It made me feel exposed, as if he could hear the thoughts rattling in my skull. I hated it. I hated that he might see right through me, past the sarcasm, past the scowls—straight to the place where the Frenchman’s voice still lingered, curling soft and wicked around my name.
Arthur.
I shoved a chip into my mouth before I could think any further, crunching angrily. Stupid. Bloody stupid.
But still—when I went upstairs later, when the house fell quiet and my brothers’ laughter faded into the hum of the night, I found myself standing by the window.
The glass was cold against my fingers, London fog pressing against the panes. I stared out into the blur of streetlamps and moving shadows, and for one wild moment, I imagined him there. That same lazy stance, one hand tucked in his coat pocket, a smirk playing at his mouth as if he’d been waiting all this time.
The thought made my pulse leap traitorously, and I cursed under my breath, slamming the curtain shut.
“Not again,” I muttered.
But when I finally collapsed into bed, the darkness didn’t help. It only brought his voice back, low and velvet, spelling my name the way no one else ever had.
Arthur. He'd only say my name once. Bloody hell, we've only even interacted once.
And God help me, I didn’t know if I wanted it to stop.