[fanfiction] Divine Intervention 4/9
Okayokayokay, no more slightmoe!Francis everyone just calm down XD And surprisingly long chapter for… no reason but Trio backstory.
Chapter 4
Francis sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Light streamed in through his blinds and the thought of being late for work on flit through his head for only a moment. Again, he felt light and his chest seemed to breath easy for the first time in a year.
Something moved across the bottom of his door. Shifting in his bed, he peered into the room across from his own. Arthur was standing beside a window, shirtless for no apparent reason, the dawn sunlight floating around him. His lips were moving soundlessly and his fingers were gently caressing the long-dead stalk of Francis’ lily - something he had bought as a symbol of remembrance and let die within a week of purchase.
Snorting, Francis threw the covers off his bed, intending to ask the man why he was molesting his flower. And then, he stopped, clutching the doorway to the living room. Soft light slipped from between the delicately brushing fingers, enveloping the lily. Slowly, vibrant green began to seep from the roots of the plant, moving upwards. Francis would only watch in awe as a white bud bloomed at the end of the stem, opening it’s tiny petals to the sun.
The light left Arthur’s hands and the Brit sighed happily, giving the flower a fond smile. Turning, his green eyes fell upon the Frenchman and his blissful countenance fell, giving way to a look of pure rage. “You were watching?” He ground out, folding his arms.
“You really are an angel.” Francis said, taking a careful step into the side room, still staring at the flower. “You saved my lily…”
Arthur nodded and pushed by Francis. “I did. I don’t like seeing plants suffer due to their owner’s idiocy.”
When the Frenchman turned to retort, the words were lost of his tongue as Arthur’s back was cast into ragged shadows. The skin was rough and chaos of red lines and pearly white skin that stretched thin and tight over bones. “W-What happened to your back?” He asked. It was amazing Arthur was still alive after getting so badly wounded. If you could consider his current situation ‘alive.’
Twisting around, making the scars blend and meld into each around, Arthur looked over his shoulder, glaring at Francis. “None of your business.” He said, starting down the stairs, quickly leaving the Frenchman.
Not dropping it, feeling some of his old spirit returning, Francis chased after him. “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?” He joked, watching Arthur disappear into the kitchen.
“Hardly.” As Francis stepped into the kitchen, Arthur was already fully dressed; tight pants ending in tanned boots, a faux-military jacket and dark green tartan scarf with slender lines of bright colours nestled in the thistle green. “More like I didn’t even wake up on the goddamn thing. Which would be your fault.” The angel bent backward, cracking his back and moaning with pleasure before opening the fridge, pulling out the orange juice.
“Oh désolé,” Francis said, rolling his eyes, “Next time you can sleep with me, oui? Though that may be breaking first date rules.” Grinning at the blush on the pale cheeks, the Frenchman sidled up beside the Brit, pulling down two glasses and taking the carton of juice out of Arthur’s hand, pouring two cups.
Without a thank-you, Arthur picked up the glass, downing the drink while Francis took his time, savouring the taste, humming. “We’re going riding today.” The Brit said, tossing the glass into the sink which, by a miracle of God, did not shatter. “You better be ready to go in five minutes.”
Nodding, Francis winked at Arthur, who quickly left, leaving the Frenchman to finish his juice and begin getting ready for the day. Glancing outside at the cool, slightly rainy day, he pulled out a black sweater, enjoy the cosy warmth before slipping on dark slacks and - upon consideration of Arthur’s plans for the day - leather boots. Heading back downstairs, he was unsurprised to find the Brit sitting in his convertible, blaring music and ignoring the scandalized looks he was getting. At least he wasn't smoking.
“You’re in a rather chipper mood.” He commented as Francis practically bounded to the car, smiling. “It’s… unsettling to say the least.”
Francis just laughed, opening the car door and sliding inside. “I don’t know… I just feel so… libre.”
The car purred into life and Arthur shook his head at the Frenchman’s bright smile, pulling away and speeding out of the small city. Looking at the passing countryside, Francis couldn’t help but hum along to the music on the Brit’s radio, not even a fan but just wanting to sing along to such warm and happy songs. The roadster turned suddenly and Francis looked forward, seeing a sprawling stable ahead. Horses littered the nearby fields and Francis stared at them, grinning even wider. There was something... childish about the way his nose pressed against the glass, fogging the window.
Stopping the car outside of a large ranchhouse, Arthur stepped out, ordering Francis to stay put while he approached a pair of men that were sitting on the outside porch, bickering at each other. The younger one had numerous cats flitting around his shoulders and feet while the other seemed to be wearing a heavy turban of sorts, eyes hooded.
Deciding that as long as he was near the car he was technically ‘staying put’ Francis got out of the car, stretching and wandering over to an enclosure where two horses were huddled together near the fence. One was black while the other was a light, almost-white, grey, both regarding him warily, the white one's head sitting on the back of the black one. Taking his time, he carefully approached the beasts, holding out his hand and clicking at them, muttering quiet assurances. The white snort brushed against his palm and the Frenchman laughed as the lips chomped uselessly at his hand, searching for a treat. He smiled, a memory tugging at his mind of a warm field and a hazy summer-
“What part of ‘don’t fucking move’ did you not understand?” Arthur was at his side, arms over his chest and boot tapping impatiently against the ground. Before Francis could answer, Arthur just shook his head, “I don’t even want to know, and these are our horses.” He said.
The smaller brunette was making his way across the field from the ranch house -brigade of cats in tow- patting the horses as he eased bridles onto their heads, leading them back to a large stable. Arthur jumped the fence with ease, following after the man, while Francis sighed, heaving himself over with some difficulty, wondering vaguely when he had gotten so out-of-shape.
Inside, the stable was warm and slightly stuffy, like a mother’s kitchen but with the small smell of fresh hay and horses instead of baking. Francis hugged himself slightly, the sheer number of stalls unnerving him slightly, the horses staring at him, some neighing at him most just staring interestedly at the newcomers.
Heracles, or the young man, was very amiable, explaining that he owned this farm with his uncle. The Brit ignored him, instead focusing all his attention on cinching the saddle onto the black horse, running his hands over the dark withers as one would when examining a prized car. Meanwhile, Francis listened intently, finding the quiet and reserved man very interesting and more than once he allowed their hands to brush as Heracles helped saddle the white horse.
“Merci~” Francis called as Heracles left, wishing them a pleasant ride. Grinning, he looked at Arthur, catching the end of the Brit’s eyeroll, “Jealous?” He chided lightly.
“Hardly.” Grabbing the saddle, Arthur pulled himself onto the black horse, wheeling it around and glaring down at Francis. “Can we go?”
The Frenchman stared at the horse, then back at Arthur’s unimpressed face, then back at the horse. Big, expectant hazel eyes turned to stare at him and the horse shifted slightly. “Uh…” Francis frowned, grabbing the saddle but not pulling himself on, “How does this work?”
“Just get on the bloody horse,” Arthur said unhelpfully. “I’ll help you with the rest.”
Francis didn’t move. “Are you purposely just angry all the time?”
“Only when I’m stuck with people like you.” Arthur bit back.
“Then I am flattered.” Francis muttered. He tried pulling himself onto the horse but only managing to get his stomach onto the leather before sliding back to the ground, almost tripping. Growling, Arthur got off his own steed, walking over to the Frenchman, grabbing his hips.
Francis grinned; Arthur scowled.
With the added help from Arthur, he managed to mount the horse. Taking the reins, the Frenchman tested them, lightly pulling his horse’s head to the left and delighting in the way it followed his guide. “So… can people see you?” He asked, feeling very proud and noble when mounted on the horse.
Arthur clambered onto his own horse, gently urging it into a walk, heading towards the backdoor which led to a dark and slightly foreboding storm front hanging above the green fields. “They can, but no one will remember me or recognize me unless they were very close.” Carefully, Francis tapped his heels against the flanks of his horse and followed after Arthur, “I had few close friends when I was alive so I was almost the perfect candidate for you. No running the chance of seeing someone I was close to.”
“You mean, no one remembers you?” Francis said, frowning at Arthur, the angel becoming even more of a conundrum. “How terrible.”
The angel was silent, head turned to look out into the west where the sun could be seen, glowing behind the dark clouds. “They remember the idea of me. If you were to ask if the stable hand who you went riding with, they would be able to tell you that I was a male, maybe even hair colour or eyes if they were really paying attention, but besides that, they can’t remember anything.” Arthur said, urging his horse into a steady canter, leaving Francis behind.
As Francis watched the dark horse jog away, it’s rider’s back straight and dignified, he sat back on his own saddle, looking down at the mane, patting it carefully. Francis sighed, closing his eyes and hanging his head, the memory Arthur had interrupted coming back to his mind.
Jabbing his heels into the horse, he shouted, some pent of emotion released as the horse burst into a run, chasing after Arthur. The jostling of the uneven ride, the hooves moving under him and the near-flying feeling were all-too familiar.
-
Francis remembered he wants to run.
Francis wanders alone along the road that leads to the only town for miles. He plans on getting a ride back to Paris and away from this horrid backwater countryside his mother has forced him to live in. Hate is nothing like the feelings of loathing he has for his mother for taking him from his city. So his father had left, did that really mean he had to move? The man was hardly home ever anyway.
Moodily kicking a rock into a bush, he jumps when it yelps, cursing in Spanish.
“Bonjour?” He calls out, hoping dearly he isn’t about to be mugged by men in matador outfits and bulls, “Is someone there?” Leaning closer to the underbrush, he cries out in surprise as a hand reaches out and pulls him forward. Before he can right himself, another clamps around his mouth, muffling his screams.
“I told you to stay quiet Antonio!” The hand’s owner says, his crimson eyes glaring at the cowering boy, who is nursing a growing lump on his head, “You’re going to scare it away!”
Francis manages to pry the hand off and scramble away, looking around wildly. “Merde!” He shouts, in frustration and surprise again. His two attackers are making shushing gesture, frantically trying to get the Frenchman to calm down. Chest heaving, Francis manages to whisper, “Who are you!?”
The silvered-hair youth speaks first and though his voice is low and careful, it still carries a boastful and arrogant tone. “Gilbert Beilschmidt the First! And I’m Prussian, not German.” He raises himself to his knees, placing his fists on his hips, “You can call me ‘Your Awesomeness.’”
“Can’t I just call you Gilbert?” Francis asks.
The Germa- Prussian seems to deflate. “I guess… But you won’t be allowed in our Secret Club if you call me Gilbert!” He says matter-of-factly. Obviously ‘Your Awesomeness’ was used to making rules. but Francis didn't car, his blue eyes going wide. The absolute magic words to convince any young boy to do anything. Secret Club. Just what he wanted. Friends that he wouldn’t have to share with anyone.
“I don’t call you Your Awesomeness…” The tanned boy pipes up from Gilbert’s side, his head quirked in confusion, “But aren’t I in your club?” His accent is light and reminds Francis of an unripe tomato, green and not quite ready to be used.
“You idiot!” Gilbert hisses, knocking his fist on the top of brown hair, making the Spaniard mewl in pain, clutching his head, “He didn’t need to know that!”
Staring at the two, wondering if the bulls would’ve been better. “What were you doing in the bush anyway?” Francis asks, his blue eyes travelling over the muddy and grungy ditch, his face twitching into a grimace. “Surly this isn’t your clubhouse.”
Gilbert exchanges a wary look with Antonio, a secret shared between crimson and emerald. A blond eyebrow quirks and Francis crosses his arms over his chest in a much too unimpressed-motherly way, waiting to be informed. The white-haired youth gives a curt nod and the Spaniard beckons Francis forward, putting a finger to his lips. Crawling forward on his hands and knee, the Frenchman glances through the brush Antonio has pulled aside.
A brilliant white mare stood in the glade, long mane tangled with twigs and matted with dirt, betraying it’s wild ancestry. Francis watches, completely enraptured by the animals’ careful but graceful moves, the sweep of it’s head bows to drink, the watchful hazel eyes and the hooves, pawing at the ground, waiting to burst into a gallop.
“Dieu…c’est magnifique…” Francis mutters, pulling his back to stare wide-eyed at Gilbert, who is nodding confidentially and Antonio who is giving a beaming smile, “What are you planning on doing?”
Reaching into his pocket, the Prussian pulls out two gleaming sugar cubes. “It’s the last wild horse in the whole wide world.” He says “And we’re gonna catch it and ride it.”
“That’s a stupid idea.” Francis wonders if it’s himself or his mother speaking, “You could get killed.”
Gilbert looks as if he wants to laugh, but holds back, just grinning. “I won’t die! I’m too awesome! And anyway, you’re just a Frenchy, it’s in your DNA to run away.” Ignoring Francis’ scowl Gilbert puts his hand in the middle of the hiding place, letting hover. “You’re still in, right Toni?”
The Spaniard doesn’t hesitate to put his hand on Gilbert’s, making the ivory skin almost seem translucent, “Of course! We are best friends, we can die together.” Francis is taken aback by the morbid words coming out of the smile.
Two gazes fix onto the Frenchman and he fidgets nervously. Best friends. There was nothing he wanted more in the world. “I will have to break that stereotype then oui?” he placing his hand on top of theirs, smirking.
There is a bond between them now. An understanding that if one falls, two will always bring him back. In their jejune and innocence, they do not quite comprehend what has happened but as they age and face life’s challenges, from Antonio’s unrest within his family when he reveals that he dates other men, Gilbert’s constant stress at raising his younger brother with only a stoic and unloving father and Francis’ own problems with his mother, who only sinks deeper into her own madness, they will realize that they are truly there for each other. A quiet laugh, a shoulder to breakdown on and a hand to hold when no one else would.
However, bond or not, Francis still wasn’t sure why he was saddled with the job of distracting the horse with the sugar cubes. Taking a deep breath, feeling the sweetness already melting in his sweaty palms, he took a step out of the bush. The white ears twitch in his direction and the hooves stop pawing, shoving into the ground, ready bolt. The beast raises it’s head, regarding Francis with such apathy that the Frenchman had to lower his eyes, practically bowing at the steed.
Five minutes pass and the horse seem to figure he wasn’t a threat and approached him, huge nose sniffing interestedly at Francis’ hand. Giggling slightly as the tongue tickled his palm, licking away the sugar, Francis reached out his other hand, feeling the horse's face, marvelling at the softness of the coat.
“FOR THE TRIO!” Gilbert and Antonio suddenly burst out of the bush, throwing himself onto the horse’s back. The horse screamed, rearing and stomping around, trying to dislodge the two boys. “Quick! Franny, get on!”
Antonio’s hand was offered on a rare moment that the horse was not flailing around and before Francis knows anything beside his saliva soaked hand in the Spaniard's, he is on the horse and they’re speeding through the forest. Gilbert whoops loudly, hands tangled in the mane of the horse, pretending he was steering the wild animal gripping the while the other two cling to each other, trying to stay on.
The horse tears through the forest, Francis sustaining numerous cuts but caring as he whooped loudly, Antonio and Gilbert echoing it. The world is a blurry mess of colours, sounds and Francis feels free for the first time moving away from his city. It is a wonderful feeling and Francis wants it to lost forever. The mare, however, had different plans for the three creatures currently residing on her back.
Five minutes later, Francis is on the ground, his pride almost as bruised as his backside and Antonio lay beside him, equally as broken. Gilbert is hurt the worst, his gut now marked with a brilliant red branch-shaped mark. But they are all laughing, chests heaving for air and grinning at each other. White hairs were still clinging to the Prussian’s fingers and when lifted them they glinted in the sun, like a spider’s web.
“You said…” Francis says, looking at Gilbert, “For the Trio. What did you mean?”
“It’s the name of our club!” Gilbert says, his hand turning into a fist, punching the sky. “We’re the Trio!”
There is the grinding on tires on rocks near their feet and they looked up at the sound of a car slamming. “Francis Jean-Louise Bonnefoy!” The Frenchman sits up at the sound of his mother’s shrill voice, groaning slightly, “Do you know how much trouble your in!? I just saw you running across the countryside on the back of a wild horse with these two… urchins!” She screeches the last word, seizing her son’s hand, and drags him away from his two new best friends.
She drives away and Francis hangs over the backseat, waving at the two boys. For a moment, he fells alone again. But he looks down to see his hand still covered in horsespit and sighs to himself, clutching his hand.
Just as he predicted (hoped, prayed, begged) the next day there was a knock at his front door as when he opened it, Antonio and Gilbert were standing there, both holding fishing rods, Gilbert talking about catching the biggest fish ever while Antonio was trying to tell Francis that he would have it make his own rod, but that he would be glad to help.
Ignoring his mother’s calls, Francis ran.
-
Francis pulled his horse to a stop, laughing wildly, patting his huffing horse’s neck. “Thank you…” He whispered, feeling his eyes close as the warm day from his memory left him, leaving a full feeling in his chest. Letting the sound of Gilbert and Antonio fade from his mind, Francis looked around, trying to find Arthur.
There, showing off or something, was the Brit resting beside a fence, his horse side-stepping nervously. Without so much as a twitch, the beast exploded into a gallop, streaking along the railing while Arthur was standing in the stirrups, bent low over the horse. It was amazing, the pure speed and elegance the horse held and it’s rider not too bad either. Francis watched, wondering why, when the Englishman slowed he looked angry and disappointed.
"What's wrong?" Francis asked, walking his horse over to Arthur.
"I didn't fly." Arthur answered. Cold. Uncaring. And quiet.
The car ride home is just as awkward as the day before.
1. Paint picture of countryside.
2. Ave Maria live.
3. Horseback riding.
4. Ask waitress out.
5. Love.
Chapter 5>>
Author's Note
In my headcanon for this story:
Antonio has a really catholic and big family (see Spanish Inquisition.) When he revealed that he was dating another man, and not a Spanish one at the very least, he was practically ostracized from the family and lived with Lovino and Feliciano until announcing his plans to move to Italy and open a small tomato farm with his fiancé.
Francis’ mother slowly fell away from the world, muttering to herself and barely noticing that her son was growing up. Young Francis carefully tended to her and when her rages and blows at ghosts only she could see fell on him, he always found a place to stay down the road at Gilbert or Antonio’s. She is American, while Francis’ father lived in Francis, but was of Italian descent, whom left for a woman in Greece or Egypt, Francis doesn’t really know or care.
Arnold (Germania) is Gilbert and Ludwig’s cold and unloving father, who was rarely around because he runs a company that makes planes in their homeland, Germany. Gilbert spent most of his childhood caring for his brother, unwilling to leave him with the numerous nannies his father kept on staff, wanting him to grow up feeling at least some love from his kin. Roderich, their cousin, often came over, also lending a hand in Ludwig’s upbringing and also fostering the Prussian’s love of music and competitive spirit.
I could just write a story about these three…
Chapter 4
Francis sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Light streamed in through his blinds and the thought of being late for work on flit through his head for only a moment. Again, he felt light and his chest seemed to breath easy for the first time in a year.
Something moved across the bottom of his door. Shifting in his bed, he peered into the room across from his own. Arthur was standing beside a window, shirtless for no apparent reason, the dawn sunlight floating around him. His lips were moving soundlessly and his fingers were gently caressing the long-dead stalk of Francis’ lily - something he had bought as a symbol of remembrance and let die within a week of purchase.
Snorting, Francis threw the covers off his bed, intending to ask the man why he was molesting his flower. And then, he stopped, clutching the doorway to the living room. Soft light slipped from between the delicately brushing fingers, enveloping the lily. Slowly, vibrant green began to seep from the roots of the plant, moving upwards. Francis would only watch in awe as a white bud bloomed at the end of the stem, opening it’s tiny petals to the sun.
The light left Arthur’s hands and the Brit sighed happily, giving the flower a fond smile. Turning, his green eyes fell upon the Frenchman and his blissful countenance fell, giving way to a look of pure rage. “You were watching?” He ground out, folding his arms.
“You really are an angel.” Francis said, taking a careful step into the side room, still staring at the flower. “You saved my lily…”
Arthur nodded and pushed by Francis. “I did. I don’t like seeing plants suffer due to their owner’s idiocy.”
When the Frenchman turned to retort, the words were lost of his tongue as Arthur’s back was cast into ragged shadows. The skin was rough and chaos of red lines and pearly white skin that stretched thin and tight over bones. “W-What happened to your back?” He asked. It was amazing Arthur was still alive after getting so badly wounded. If you could consider his current situation ‘alive.’
Twisting around, making the scars blend and meld into each around, Arthur looked over his shoulder, glaring at Francis. “None of your business.” He said, starting down the stairs, quickly leaving the Frenchman.
Not dropping it, feeling some of his old spirit returning, Francis chased after him. “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?” He joked, watching Arthur disappear into the kitchen.
“Hardly.” As Francis stepped into the kitchen, Arthur was already fully dressed; tight pants ending in tanned boots, a faux-military jacket and dark green tartan scarf with slender lines of bright colours nestled in the thistle green. “More like I didn’t even wake up on the goddamn thing. Which would be your fault.” The angel bent backward, cracking his back and moaning with pleasure before opening the fridge, pulling out the orange juice.
“Oh désolé,” Francis said, rolling his eyes, “Next time you can sleep with me, oui? Though that may be breaking first date rules.” Grinning at the blush on the pale cheeks, the Frenchman sidled up beside the Brit, pulling down two glasses and taking the carton of juice out of Arthur’s hand, pouring two cups.
Without a thank-you, Arthur picked up the glass, downing the drink while Francis took his time, savouring the taste, humming. “We’re going riding today.” The Brit said, tossing the glass into the sink which, by a miracle of God, did not shatter. “You better be ready to go in five minutes.”
Nodding, Francis winked at Arthur, who quickly left, leaving the Frenchman to finish his juice and begin getting ready for the day. Glancing outside at the cool, slightly rainy day, he pulled out a black sweater, enjoy the cosy warmth before slipping on dark slacks and - upon consideration of Arthur’s plans for the day - leather boots. Heading back downstairs, he was unsurprised to find the Brit sitting in his convertible, blaring music and ignoring the scandalized looks he was getting. At least he wasn't smoking.
“You’re in a rather chipper mood.” He commented as Francis practically bounded to the car, smiling. “It’s… unsettling to say the least.”
Francis just laughed, opening the car door and sliding inside. “I don’t know… I just feel so… libre.”
The car purred into life and Arthur shook his head at the Frenchman’s bright smile, pulling away and speeding out of the small city. Looking at the passing countryside, Francis couldn’t help but hum along to the music on the Brit’s radio, not even a fan but just wanting to sing along to such warm and happy songs. The roadster turned suddenly and Francis looked forward, seeing a sprawling stable ahead. Horses littered the nearby fields and Francis stared at them, grinning even wider. There was something... childish about the way his nose pressed against the glass, fogging the window.
Stopping the car outside of a large ranchhouse, Arthur stepped out, ordering Francis to stay put while he approached a pair of men that were sitting on the outside porch, bickering at each other. The younger one had numerous cats flitting around his shoulders and feet while the other seemed to be wearing a heavy turban of sorts, eyes hooded.
Deciding that as long as he was near the car he was technically ‘staying put’ Francis got out of the car, stretching and wandering over to an enclosure where two horses were huddled together near the fence. One was black while the other was a light, almost-white, grey, both regarding him warily, the white one's head sitting on the back of the black one. Taking his time, he carefully approached the beasts, holding out his hand and clicking at them, muttering quiet assurances. The white snort brushed against his palm and the Frenchman laughed as the lips chomped uselessly at his hand, searching for a treat. He smiled, a memory tugging at his mind of a warm field and a hazy summer-
“What part of ‘don’t fucking move’ did you not understand?” Arthur was at his side, arms over his chest and boot tapping impatiently against the ground. Before Francis could answer, Arthur just shook his head, “I don’t even want to know, and these are our horses.” He said.
The smaller brunette was making his way across the field from the ranch house -brigade of cats in tow- patting the horses as he eased bridles onto their heads, leading them back to a large stable. Arthur jumped the fence with ease, following after the man, while Francis sighed, heaving himself over with some difficulty, wondering vaguely when he had gotten so out-of-shape.
Inside, the stable was warm and slightly stuffy, like a mother’s kitchen but with the small smell of fresh hay and horses instead of baking. Francis hugged himself slightly, the sheer number of stalls unnerving him slightly, the horses staring at him, some neighing at him most just staring interestedly at the newcomers.
Heracles, or the young man, was very amiable, explaining that he owned this farm with his uncle. The Brit ignored him, instead focusing all his attention on cinching the saddle onto the black horse, running his hands over the dark withers as one would when examining a prized car. Meanwhile, Francis listened intently, finding the quiet and reserved man very interesting and more than once he allowed their hands to brush as Heracles helped saddle the white horse.
“Merci~” Francis called as Heracles left, wishing them a pleasant ride. Grinning, he looked at Arthur, catching the end of the Brit’s eyeroll, “Jealous?” He chided lightly.
“Hardly.” Grabbing the saddle, Arthur pulled himself onto the black horse, wheeling it around and glaring down at Francis. “Can we go?”
The Frenchman stared at the horse, then back at Arthur’s unimpressed face, then back at the horse. Big, expectant hazel eyes turned to stare at him and the horse shifted slightly. “Uh…” Francis frowned, grabbing the saddle but not pulling himself on, “How does this work?”
“Just get on the bloody horse,” Arthur said unhelpfully. “I’ll help you with the rest.”
Francis didn’t move. “Are you purposely just angry all the time?”
“Only when I’m stuck with people like you.” Arthur bit back.
“Then I am flattered.” Francis muttered. He tried pulling himself onto the horse but only managing to get his stomach onto the leather before sliding back to the ground, almost tripping. Growling, Arthur got off his own steed, walking over to the Frenchman, grabbing his hips.
Francis grinned; Arthur scowled.
With the added help from Arthur, he managed to mount the horse. Taking the reins, the Frenchman tested them, lightly pulling his horse’s head to the left and delighting in the way it followed his guide. “So… can people see you?” He asked, feeling very proud and noble when mounted on the horse.
Arthur clambered onto his own horse, gently urging it into a walk, heading towards the backdoor which led to a dark and slightly foreboding storm front hanging above the green fields. “They can, but no one will remember me or recognize me unless they were very close.” Carefully, Francis tapped his heels against the flanks of his horse and followed after Arthur, “I had few close friends when I was alive so I was almost the perfect candidate for you. No running the chance of seeing someone I was close to.”
“You mean, no one remembers you?” Francis said, frowning at Arthur, the angel becoming even more of a conundrum. “How terrible.”
The angel was silent, head turned to look out into the west where the sun could be seen, glowing behind the dark clouds. “They remember the idea of me. If you were to ask if the stable hand who you went riding with, they would be able to tell you that I was a male, maybe even hair colour or eyes if they were really paying attention, but besides that, they can’t remember anything.” Arthur said, urging his horse into a steady canter, leaving Francis behind.
As Francis watched the dark horse jog away, it’s rider’s back straight and dignified, he sat back on his own saddle, looking down at the mane, patting it carefully. Francis sighed, closing his eyes and hanging his head, the memory Arthur had interrupted coming back to his mind.
Jabbing his heels into the horse, he shouted, some pent of emotion released as the horse burst into a run, chasing after Arthur. The jostling of the uneven ride, the hooves moving under him and the near-flying feeling were all-too familiar.
-
Francis remembered he wants to run.
Francis wanders alone along the road that leads to the only town for miles. He plans on getting a ride back to Paris and away from this horrid backwater countryside his mother has forced him to live in. Hate is nothing like the feelings of loathing he has for his mother for taking him from his city. So his father had left, did that really mean he had to move? The man was hardly home ever anyway.
Moodily kicking a rock into a bush, he jumps when it yelps, cursing in Spanish.
“Bonjour?” He calls out, hoping dearly he isn’t about to be mugged by men in matador outfits and bulls, “Is someone there?” Leaning closer to the underbrush, he cries out in surprise as a hand reaches out and pulls him forward. Before he can right himself, another clamps around his mouth, muffling his screams.
“I told you to stay quiet Antonio!” The hand’s owner says, his crimson eyes glaring at the cowering boy, who is nursing a growing lump on his head, “You’re going to scare it away!”
Francis manages to pry the hand off and scramble away, looking around wildly. “Merde!” He shouts, in frustration and surprise again. His two attackers are making shushing gesture, frantically trying to get the Frenchman to calm down. Chest heaving, Francis manages to whisper, “Who are you!?”
The silvered-hair youth speaks first and though his voice is low and careful, it still carries a boastful and arrogant tone. “Gilbert Beilschmidt the First! And I’m Prussian, not German.” He raises himself to his knees, placing his fists on his hips, “You can call me ‘Your Awesomeness.’”
“Can’t I just call you Gilbert?” Francis asks.
The Germa- Prussian seems to deflate. “I guess… But you won’t be allowed in our Secret Club if you call me Gilbert!” He says matter-of-factly. Obviously ‘Your Awesomeness’ was used to making rules. but Francis didn't car, his blue eyes going wide. The absolute magic words to convince any young boy to do anything. Secret Club. Just what he wanted. Friends that he wouldn’t have to share with anyone.
“I don’t call you Your Awesomeness…” The tanned boy pipes up from Gilbert’s side, his head quirked in confusion, “But aren’t I in your club?” His accent is light and reminds Francis of an unripe tomato, green and not quite ready to be used.
“You idiot!” Gilbert hisses, knocking his fist on the top of brown hair, making the Spaniard mewl in pain, clutching his head, “He didn’t need to know that!”
Staring at the two, wondering if the bulls would’ve been better. “What were you doing in the bush anyway?” Francis asks, his blue eyes travelling over the muddy and grungy ditch, his face twitching into a grimace. “Surly this isn’t your clubhouse.”
Gilbert exchanges a wary look with Antonio, a secret shared between crimson and emerald. A blond eyebrow quirks and Francis crosses his arms over his chest in a much too unimpressed-motherly way, waiting to be informed. The white-haired youth gives a curt nod and the Spaniard beckons Francis forward, putting a finger to his lips. Crawling forward on his hands and knee, the Frenchman glances through the brush Antonio has pulled aside.
A brilliant white mare stood in the glade, long mane tangled with twigs and matted with dirt, betraying it’s wild ancestry. Francis watches, completely enraptured by the animals’ careful but graceful moves, the sweep of it’s head bows to drink, the watchful hazel eyes and the hooves, pawing at the ground, waiting to burst into a gallop.
“Dieu…c’est magnifique…” Francis mutters, pulling his back to stare wide-eyed at Gilbert, who is nodding confidentially and Antonio who is giving a beaming smile, “What are you planning on doing?”
Reaching into his pocket, the Prussian pulls out two gleaming sugar cubes. “It’s the last wild horse in the whole wide world.” He says “And we’re gonna catch it and ride it.”
“That’s a stupid idea.” Francis wonders if it’s himself or his mother speaking, “You could get killed.”
Gilbert looks as if he wants to laugh, but holds back, just grinning. “I won’t die! I’m too awesome! And anyway, you’re just a Frenchy, it’s in your DNA to run away.” Ignoring Francis’ scowl Gilbert puts his hand in the middle of the hiding place, letting hover. “You’re still in, right Toni?”
The Spaniard doesn’t hesitate to put his hand on Gilbert’s, making the ivory skin almost seem translucent, “Of course! We are best friends, we can die together.” Francis is taken aback by the morbid words coming out of the smile.
Two gazes fix onto the Frenchman and he fidgets nervously. Best friends. There was nothing he wanted more in the world. “I will have to break that stereotype then oui?” he placing his hand on top of theirs, smirking.
There is a bond between them now. An understanding that if one falls, two will always bring him back. In their jejune and innocence, they do not quite comprehend what has happened but as they age and face life’s challenges, from Antonio’s unrest within his family when he reveals that he dates other men, Gilbert’s constant stress at raising his younger brother with only a stoic and unloving father and Francis’ own problems with his mother, who only sinks deeper into her own madness, they will realize that they are truly there for each other. A quiet laugh, a shoulder to breakdown on and a hand to hold when no one else would.
However, bond or not, Francis still wasn’t sure why he was saddled with the job of distracting the horse with the sugar cubes. Taking a deep breath, feeling the sweetness already melting in his sweaty palms, he took a step out of the bush. The white ears twitch in his direction and the hooves stop pawing, shoving into the ground, ready bolt. The beast raises it’s head, regarding Francis with such apathy that the Frenchman had to lower his eyes, practically bowing at the steed.
Five minutes pass and the horse seem to figure he wasn’t a threat and approached him, huge nose sniffing interestedly at Francis’ hand. Giggling slightly as the tongue tickled his palm, licking away the sugar, Francis reached out his other hand, feeling the horse's face, marvelling at the softness of the coat.
“FOR THE TRIO!” Gilbert and Antonio suddenly burst out of the bush, throwing himself onto the horse’s back. The horse screamed, rearing and stomping around, trying to dislodge the two boys. “Quick! Franny, get on!”
Antonio’s hand was offered on a rare moment that the horse was not flailing around and before Francis knows anything beside his saliva soaked hand in the Spaniard's, he is on the horse and they’re speeding through the forest. Gilbert whoops loudly, hands tangled in the mane of the horse, pretending he was steering the wild animal gripping the while the other two cling to each other, trying to stay on.
The horse tears through the forest, Francis sustaining numerous cuts but caring as he whooped loudly, Antonio and Gilbert echoing it. The world is a blurry mess of colours, sounds and Francis feels free for the first time moving away from his city. It is a wonderful feeling and Francis wants it to lost forever. The mare, however, had different plans for the three creatures currently residing on her back.
Five minutes later, Francis is on the ground, his pride almost as bruised as his backside and Antonio lay beside him, equally as broken. Gilbert is hurt the worst, his gut now marked with a brilliant red branch-shaped mark. But they are all laughing, chests heaving for air and grinning at each other. White hairs were still clinging to the Prussian’s fingers and when lifted them they glinted in the sun, like a spider’s web.
“You said…” Francis says, looking at Gilbert, “For the Trio. What did you mean?”
“It’s the name of our club!” Gilbert says, his hand turning into a fist, punching the sky. “We’re the Trio!”
There is the grinding on tires on rocks near their feet and they looked up at the sound of a car slamming. “Francis Jean-Louise Bonnefoy!” The Frenchman sits up at the sound of his mother’s shrill voice, groaning slightly, “Do you know how much trouble your in!? I just saw you running across the countryside on the back of a wild horse with these two… urchins!” She screeches the last word, seizing her son’s hand, and drags him away from his two new best friends.
She drives away and Francis hangs over the backseat, waving at the two boys. For a moment, he fells alone again. But he looks down to see his hand still covered in horsespit and sighs to himself, clutching his hand.
Just as he predicted (hoped, prayed, begged) the next day there was a knock at his front door as when he opened it, Antonio and Gilbert were standing there, both holding fishing rods, Gilbert talking about catching the biggest fish ever while Antonio was trying to tell Francis that he would have it make his own rod, but that he would be glad to help.
Ignoring his mother’s calls, Francis ran.
-
Francis pulled his horse to a stop, laughing wildly, patting his huffing horse’s neck. “Thank you…” He whispered, feeling his eyes close as the warm day from his memory left him, leaving a full feeling in his chest. Letting the sound of Gilbert and Antonio fade from his mind, Francis looked around, trying to find Arthur.
There, showing off or something, was the Brit resting beside a fence, his horse side-stepping nervously. Without so much as a twitch, the beast exploded into a gallop, streaking along the railing while Arthur was standing in the stirrups, bent low over the horse. It was amazing, the pure speed and elegance the horse held and it’s rider not too bad either. Francis watched, wondering why, when the Englishman slowed he looked angry and disappointed.
"What's wrong?" Francis asked, walking his horse over to Arthur.
"I didn't fly." Arthur answered. Cold. Uncaring. And quiet.
The car ride home is just as awkward as the day before.
1. Paint picture of countryside.
2. Ave Maria live.
3. Horseback riding.
4. Ask waitress out.
5. Love.
Chapter 5>>
Author's Note
In my headcanon for this story:
Antonio has a really catholic and big family (see Spanish Inquisition.) When he revealed that he was dating another man, and not a Spanish one at the very least, he was practically ostracized from the family and lived with Lovino and Feliciano until announcing his plans to move to Italy and open a small tomato farm with his fiancé.
Francis’ mother slowly fell away from the world, muttering to herself and barely noticing that her son was growing up. Young Francis carefully tended to her and when her rages and blows at ghosts only she could see fell on him, he always found a place to stay down the road at Gilbert or Antonio’s. She is American, while Francis’ father lived in Francis, but was of Italian descent, whom left for a woman in Greece or Egypt, Francis doesn’t really know or care.
Arnold (Germania) is Gilbert and Ludwig’s cold and unloving father, who was rarely around because he runs a company that makes planes in their homeland, Germany. Gilbert spent most of his childhood caring for his brother, unwilling to leave him with the numerous nannies his father kept on staff, wanting him to grow up feeling at least some love from his kin. Roderich, their cousin, often came over, also lending a hand in Ludwig’s upbringing and also fostering the Prussian’s love of music and competitive spirit.
I could just write a story about these three…