[FIC] Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship, 1/6
Title: Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship
Characters/Pairings: FACE family, France/England
Rating: T / light R
Summary: They were single fathers at the same school, barely acquaintances. But then their children decided to do the unthinkable: become friends.
Notes: De-anon from the kink meme
At every school function or extracurricular activity, there’s always that one parent who sticks out like a sore thumb.
In this case, however, Arthur thinks it’s probably more apt to say that if one considers the “normal” parents unobtrusive, common wildflowers, then Francis Bonnefoy is a fucking orchid that grows with the tenacity of a weed and insists on outshining them all.
He positively oozes charm and sleaze, dresses in stupidly expensive designer clothing-because really, who wears Dior to an outdoor baseball game?-but what bothers Arthur the most about the man is the fact that he never sits still.
He is, in essence, his son’s cheerleader. And that’s fine. Lovely. Wonderful. Arthur gets it, the desire to support your child and such, but can’t he do it in a manner that doesn’t grate on Arthur’s nerves? Arthur fails to see how drumming his long, manicured fingers on his plastic chair in an anxious, staccato rhythm (tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-bloody-fucking-tap) will help his kid score a goal or block the opposing team’s shot. Fails to see how wearing Italian shoes that probably cost the equivalent of Arthur’s car will ensure that his son remembers his lines for the school play. And must he sway so exaggeratedly when the children start singing? It’s hardly Pavarotti.
And then, as if that weren’t enough, there are the women.
And, occasionally, the men.
Enough said.
Arthur takes comfort in the fact that he at least only has to deal with the man for two hours, give or take, once every other week. To have that sort of excessive, foolish man as a permanent fixture in his life-well, that would be unbearable. There are far more pleasant things Arthur would rather go through, such as having a root canal or passing a kidney stone.
Unfortunately for him, his teeth are clean and his kidneys are fine, so the universe decides to play with him in other ways.
“Dad,” Alfred tugs on his sleeve, rocking back and forth on his feet. “Daddy, I asked you a question.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Alfred.” Arthur shakes himself from his thoughts, patting his young son absentmindedly on the head. “What do you need?”
“I asked if my friend could come over tomorrow and play. Please, please?”
Arthur glances down at him. Alfred practically trembles with excitement. “Who’s this friend of yours?”
“Matthew!”
Arthur frowns. “Who?” The name is vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite place it.
“He’s in my class and we always play the same sports and stuff! He’s really, really nice, I promise! Really quiet, too. Sometimes the teacher forgets he’s even there.”
“Well, I don’t see why not,” Arthur says, “have his parents drop him off tomorrow, then.”
“Yay!” Alfred cheers, clearly thrilled, a grin stretching across his face as he bounds off to watch television.
Matthew, Matthew, Matthew, Arthur ponders as he’s washing the dishes. I know there’s a Matthew in Alfred’s class… Who could it be?
When the doorbell rings twenty minutes past the appointed time, Arthur swings open the door only to be met with those damn Italian shoes.
“You must be Alfred’s father.” An all-too-familiar voice from an all-too-familiar face greets him.
Matthew Bonnefoy, Arthur realizes belatedly, and for the first time in years is overwhelmed with the urge to curl up in the corner and cry.
Francis, contrary to popular belief, doesn’t actually try to stand out. It’s simply that he loves his son very, very much, and staunchly believes that he should be supportive of his extracurricular excursions-while flawlessly and exquisitely dressed.
In his mind, outdoor baseball matches are the perfect occasion to wear his Louis Vuitton sunglasses. No sense in letting a damn good pair of sunglasses go to waste, after all. And nativity plays, put on by the elementary school? Where else would one wear a custom-tailored Armani suit?
And if his extravagant clothing catches others’ attention, Francis doesn’t mind. There are several beautiful single mothers and fathers he’s had the pleasure of entertaining over the years, sating any physical needs he may have. None have ever stayed the night, but if he’s quite honest with himself, that’s just the way he wants it anyway. He may be free with his affections and caresses, but that hardly means he’s looking for a long-term commitment.
Despite these distractions, Francis can’t help but notice the frumpy man who consistently finds a seat near him when he attends Matthew’s activities. He would probably be quite handsome if it weren’t for his unfortunate eyebrows and argyle sweater vests. He always seems so angry, too, glaring daggers at the world and muttering bitter epithets underscored by an English accent under his breath. Word on the street is that his name is Arthur Kirkland, single dad to Alfred Kirkland, the happiest little boy you’ll ever meet.
He always tells himself he’ll try to start a conversation with him, but he inevitably gets distracted by something else-the main sporting event, for example, or, as is often the case, a woman who’s been giving him the eye all night.
Which is why he’s inordinately pleased when Matthew inadvertently brings them together.
“Papa, may I go to a friend’s house tomorrow, please?” Matthew asks quietly.
“Of course!” Francis beams. “Ever the social butterfly, aren’t you? Which friend are we talking about?”
Matthew fidgets. “Alfred.”
Francis’ eyebrows go up. “Kirkland?”
“Uh-huh. Do you know him?”
“No, not really.” Francis smoothes out Matthew’s hair, smirking. “But I suppose we’ll finally meet tomorrow, won’t we?”
He makes sure to wear one of his finest shirts, a blue one that brings out the color of his eyes. He checks his watch-fashionably late, as he had planned-and rings the doorbell, brimming with anticipation.
“Papa,” Matthew squeezes his hand anxiously. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Francis stage-whispers, and, as the door slowly creaks open, slaps on the biggest grin he can muster.
“You must be Alfred’s father,” he declares, and finds himself utterly enthralled with the expression of complete horror that crosses Arthur Kirkland’s face. Oh, yes, he thinks, this is going to be interesting, isn’t it?
Arthur tries his damndest to hate Matthew and fails miserably.
He automatically assumes that Matthew will be just as big of an arse as his father, with perfectly coiffed hair and an inherently arrogant demeanor. He is wrong on both counts-Matthew’s hair does possess a waviness about it that’s not unlike that of his father’s, but more often than not it’s tangled in knots that cause tears to spring into his eyes whenever he tries to comb them out, and as for the arrogance-well. Well.
Arthur asks, “Is there anything specific you’d like to eat? I’m, er, not much of a cook, but I’d be willing to give just about anything a try…”
“Cheeseburgers!” Alfred demands, and Arthur quickly silences him with a glare.
“No, thank you,” Matthew says, shyly, “I’m not very picky.”
Arthur latches onto this piece of information. “Oh, is that so? No fancy French restaurants for you? Snails? Frog legs? Nothing like that?”
“Um, Papa makes them, sometimes, but I like pancakes best.” Matthew’s already quiet voice tapers off into barely audible sound. “Alfred says you make really good scones…”
Arthur stares at him, at a total loss for words. Do you hear that, Arthur? That is the sound of your cold, frozen heart melting into a damn puddle.
“Ooh, scones are yummy,” Alfred chimes in, “they’re like burnt crumbly things.”
Arthur smoothly nudges Alfred aside. “I’ll be happy to make you some scones. Go on and play; I’ll call you when they’re ready.”
“Ready” is clearly a subjective term, as an hour later finds Arthur staring forlornly at his scones, which are slightly worse than usual due to Oprah distracting him on the television. He sighs. Still, they ought to be edible…
Alfred pokes at one suspiciously. “Gee, these are really burnt.” He watches with delight as a large black mass of burnt dough crackles into fine powder. “Cool!”
“Oh, fine,” Arthur snaps, plucking a magnet from the fridge. “Should I just order a pizza, then?”
“No, no,” Matthew says hurriedly, “I bet these are-” He bites into a scone and turns faintly green, but chews determinedly on. “They’re, um, very good,” he concludes weakly.
“You don’t have to do that.” Arthur reaches for the house phone. “Even I can tell they’re horrid.”
“No, I mean it!” Even as his small hands tremble, Matthew puts forth every ounce of effort into ingesting yet another scone. “It’s-um-good.”
Alfred says, “Oh, Mattie, you’re too nice,” and as Matthew forces himself to swallow his second scone, Arthur realizes there’s absolutely no way in hell he’ll ever be able to hate this little boy.
“He was well-behaved, I hope?” Francis asks, watching Matthew put on his shoes. Arthur makes a noise of disbelief.
“Ridiculously so,” he replies, looking at Matthew with genuine fondness in his eyes. Francis notices and tucks this information away. He clears his throat.
“If Alfred ever wants to come over and play, he’s more than welcome to,” he offers.
“Ooh, can I, Daddy?” Alfred pipes up.
He doesn’t miss the way Arthur suddenly stiffens. “Yes, well, we’ll see.”
“Matthew does get terribly lonely sometimes,” Francis goes on, heaving a dramatic sigh. He even gets down on his knees and brushes stray strands of hair away from his son’s face. “Having a friend over every once in a while would make him so happy.”
Arthur shifts uncomfortably. Francis inwardly smirks and draws Matthew nearer, positioning him to where he knows those blue-violet eyes are at their most luminous. “Wouldn’t you like that, my dear?”
Matthew nods mutely, casting a shy gaze sideways towards Arthur. Francis waits for it.
There it is-a quick exhale of capitulation. “I suppose we could figure something out,” Arthur mutters.
“Of course,” Francis agrees, ever the picture of amiability.
Before they realize it, they’re in a strange arrangement with proper schedules concerning who has to pick the kids up from school and who’s going over to whose house and oh-yes-there-is-a-game-Friday-night-I’ll-drop-the-kids-off-there-and-we’ll-just-meet-each-other-there-okay?
It’s all strictly for convenience, of course, because Francis’ off-days happen to coincide with Arthur’s overtime shifts and so forth. Besides, the children are always in the same after-school activities and they get along so well anyway-isn’t it just common sense to have such a system?
Because that’s all it is. Common sense, convenience, making their lives easier in the long run. They still haven’t had an actual conversation outside of making sure the kids are picked up and dropped off when and where they are supposed to (although Francis has tried, oh, he has), but that’s because there hasn’t been any actual need for it.
After all, Arthur thinks, there’s no reason for them to go beyond the quick, perfunctory greetings at the door or to ever become more than passing acquaintances.
Here’s a spoiler: They do.
|| Two ||
Characters/Pairings: FACE family, France/England
Rating: T / light R
Summary: They were single fathers at the same school, barely acquaintances. But then their children decided to do the unthinkable: become friends.
Notes: De-anon from the kink meme
At every school function or extracurricular activity, there’s always that one parent who sticks out like a sore thumb.
In this case, however, Arthur thinks it’s probably more apt to say that if one considers the “normal” parents unobtrusive, common wildflowers, then Francis Bonnefoy is a fucking orchid that grows with the tenacity of a weed and insists on outshining them all.
He positively oozes charm and sleaze, dresses in stupidly expensive designer clothing-because really, who wears Dior to an outdoor baseball game?-but what bothers Arthur the most about the man is the fact that he never sits still.
He is, in essence, his son’s cheerleader. And that’s fine. Lovely. Wonderful. Arthur gets it, the desire to support your child and such, but can’t he do it in a manner that doesn’t grate on Arthur’s nerves? Arthur fails to see how drumming his long, manicured fingers on his plastic chair in an anxious, staccato rhythm (tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-bloody-fucking-tap) will help his kid score a goal or block the opposing team’s shot. Fails to see how wearing Italian shoes that probably cost the equivalent of Arthur’s car will ensure that his son remembers his lines for the school play. And must he sway so exaggeratedly when the children start singing? It’s hardly Pavarotti.
And then, as if that weren’t enough, there are the women.
And, occasionally, the men.
Enough said.
Arthur takes comfort in the fact that he at least only has to deal with the man for two hours, give or take, once every other week. To have that sort of excessive, foolish man as a permanent fixture in his life-well, that would be unbearable. There are far more pleasant things Arthur would rather go through, such as having a root canal or passing a kidney stone.
Unfortunately for him, his teeth are clean and his kidneys are fine, so the universe decides to play with him in other ways.
“Dad,” Alfred tugs on his sleeve, rocking back and forth on his feet. “Daddy, I asked you a question.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Alfred.” Arthur shakes himself from his thoughts, patting his young son absentmindedly on the head. “What do you need?”
“I asked if my friend could come over tomorrow and play. Please, please?”
Arthur glances down at him. Alfred practically trembles with excitement. “Who’s this friend of yours?”
“Matthew!”
Arthur frowns. “Who?” The name is vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite place it.
“He’s in my class and we always play the same sports and stuff! He’s really, really nice, I promise! Really quiet, too. Sometimes the teacher forgets he’s even there.”
“Well, I don’t see why not,” Arthur says, “have his parents drop him off tomorrow, then.”
“Yay!” Alfred cheers, clearly thrilled, a grin stretching across his face as he bounds off to watch television.
Matthew, Matthew, Matthew, Arthur ponders as he’s washing the dishes. I know there’s a Matthew in Alfred’s class… Who could it be?
When the doorbell rings twenty minutes past the appointed time, Arthur swings open the door only to be met with those damn Italian shoes.
“You must be Alfred’s father.” An all-too-familiar voice from an all-too-familiar face greets him.
Matthew Bonnefoy, Arthur realizes belatedly, and for the first time in years is overwhelmed with the urge to curl up in the corner and cry.
Francis, contrary to popular belief, doesn’t actually try to stand out. It’s simply that he loves his son very, very much, and staunchly believes that he should be supportive of his extracurricular excursions-while flawlessly and exquisitely dressed.
In his mind, outdoor baseball matches are the perfect occasion to wear his Louis Vuitton sunglasses. No sense in letting a damn good pair of sunglasses go to waste, after all. And nativity plays, put on by the elementary school? Where else would one wear a custom-tailored Armani suit?
And if his extravagant clothing catches others’ attention, Francis doesn’t mind. There are several beautiful single mothers and fathers he’s had the pleasure of entertaining over the years, sating any physical needs he may have. None have ever stayed the night, but if he’s quite honest with himself, that’s just the way he wants it anyway. He may be free with his affections and caresses, but that hardly means he’s looking for a long-term commitment.
Despite these distractions, Francis can’t help but notice the frumpy man who consistently finds a seat near him when he attends Matthew’s activities. He would probably be quite handsome if it weren’t for his unfortunate eyebrows and argyle sweater vests. He always seems so angry, too, glaring daggers at the world and muttering bitter epithets underscored by an English accent under his breath. Word on the street is that his name is Arthur Kirkland, single dad to Alfred Kirkland, the happiest little boy you’ll ever meet.
He always tells himself he’ll try to start a conversation with him, but he inevitably gets distracted by something else-the main sporting event, for example, or, as is often the case, a woman who’s been giving him the eye all night.
Which is why he’s inordinately pleased when Matthew inadvertently brings them together.
“Papa, may I go to a friend’s house tomorrow, please?” Matthew asks quietly.
“Of course!” Francis beams. “Ever the social butterfly, aren’t you? Which friend are we talking about?”
Matthew fidgets. “Alfred.”
Francis’ eyebrows go up. “Kirkland?”
“Uh-huh. Do you know him?”
“No, not really.” Francis smoothes out Matthew’s hair, smirking. “But I suppose we’ll finally meet tomorrow, won’t we?”
He makes sure to wear one of his finest shirts, a blue one that brings out the color of his eyes. He checks his watch-fashionably late, as he had planned-and rings the doorbell, brimming with anticipation.
“Papa,” Matthew squeezes his hand anxiously. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Francis stage-whispers, and, as the door slowly creaks open, slaps on the biggest grin he can muster.
“You must be Alfred’s father,” he declares, and finds himself utterly enthralled with the expression of complete horror that crosses Arthur Kirkland’s face. Oh, yes, he thinks, this is going to be interesting, isn’t it?
Arthur tries his damndest to hate Matthew and fails miserably.
He automatically assumes that Matthew will be just as big of an arse as his father, with perfectly coiffed hair and an inherently arrogant demeanor. He is wrong on both counts-Matthew’s hair does possess a waviness about it that’s not unlike that of his father’s, but more often than not it’s tangled in knots that cause tears to spring into his eyes whenever he tries to comb them out, and as for the arrogance-well. Well.
Arthur asks, “Is there anything specific you’d like to eat? I’m, er, not much of a cook, but I’d be willing to give just about anything a try…”
“Cheeseburgers!” Alfred demands, and Arthur quickly silences him with a glare.
“No, thank you,” Matthew says, shyly, “I’m not very picky.”
Arthur latches onto this piece of information. “Oh, is that so? No fancy French restaurants for you? Snails? Frog legs? Nothing like that?”
“Um, Papa makes them, sometimes, but I like pancakes best.” Matthew’s already quiet voice tapers off into barely audible sound. “Alfred says you make really good scones…”
Arthur stares at him, at a total loss for words. Do you hear that, Arthur? That is the sound of your cold, frozen heart melting into a damn puddle.
“Ooh, scones are yummy,” Alfred chimes in, “they’re like burnt crumbly things.”
Arthur smoothly nudges Alfred aside. “I’ll be happy to make you some scones. Go on and play; I’ll call you when they’re ready.”
“Ready” is clearly a subjective term, as an hour later finds Arthur staring forlornly at his scones, which are slightly worse than usual due to Oprah distracting him on the television. He sighs. Still, they ought to be edible…
Alfred pokes at one suspiciously. “Gee, these are really burnt.” He watches with delight as a large black mass of burnt dough crackles into fine powder. “Cool!”
“Oh, fine,” Arthur snaps, plucking a magnet from the fridge. “Should I just order a pizza, then?”
“No, no,” Matthew says hurriedly, “I bet these are-” He bites into a scone and turns faintly green, but chews determinedly on. “They’re, um, very good,” he concludes weakly.
“You don’t have to do that.” Arthur reaches for the house phone. “Even I can tell they’re horrid.”
“No, I mean it!” Even as his small hands tremble, Matthew puts forth every ounce of effort into ingesting yet another scone. “It’s-um-good.”
Alfred says, “Oh, Mattie, you’re too nice,” and as Matthew forces himself to swallow his second scone, Arthur realizes there’s absolutely no way in hell he’ll ever be able to hate this little boy.
“He was well-behaved, I hope?” Francis asks, watching Matthew put on his shoes. Arthur makes a noise of disbelief.
“Ridiculously so,” he replies, looking at Matthew with genuine fondness in his eyes. Francis notices and tucks this information away. He clears his throat.
“If Alfred ever wants to come over and play, he’s more than welcome to,” he offers.
“Ooh, can I, Daddy?” Alfred pipes up.
He doesn’t miss the way Arthur suddenly stiffens. “Yes, well, we’ll see.”
“Matthew does get terribly lonely sometimes,” Francis goes on, heaving a dramatic sigh. He even gets down on his knees and brushes stray strands of hair away from his son’s face. “Having a friend over every once in a while would make him so happy.”
Arthur shifts uncomfortably. Francis inwardly smirks and draws Matthew nearer, positioning him to where he knows those blue-violet eyes are at their most luminous. “Wouldn’t you like that, my dear?”
Matthew nods mutely, casting a shy gaze sideways towards Arthur. Francis waits for it.
There it is-a quick exhale of capitulation. “I suppose we could figure something out,” Arthur mutters.
“Of course,” Francis agrees, ever the picture of amiability.
Before they realize it, they’re in a strange arrangement with proper schedules concerning who has to pick the kids up from school and who’s going over to whose house and oh-yes-there-is-a-game-Friday-night-I’ll-drop-the-kids-off-there-and-we’ll-just-meet-each-other-there-okay?
It’s all strictly for convenience, of course, because Francis’ off-days happen to coincide with Arthur’s overtime shifts and so forth. Besides, the children are always in the same after-school activities and they get along so well anyway-isn’t it just common sense to have such a system?
Because that’s all it is. Common sense, convenience, making their lives easier in the long run. They still haven’t had an actual conversation outside of making sure the kids are picked up and dropped off when and where they are supposed to (although Francis has tried, oh, he has), but that’s because there hasn’t been any actual need for it.
After all, Arthur thinks, there’s no reason for them to go beyond the quick, perfunctory greetings at the door or to ever become more than passing acquaintances.
Here’s a spoiler: They do.
|| Two ||