Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship (1b/?)
anonymous
April 12 2011, 22:11:42 UTC
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, and, while in the act of doing said supporting, be flawlessly and exquisitely dressed.
It’s an outdoor baseball match, you say? Why, that’s the perfect occasion to don his brand new Louis Vuitton sunglasses! They did cost a good bit of money, after all, and it would be a terrible shame to leave them to waste away in the closet. A nativity play, put on by the first-grade class? The perfect occasion to wear the Armani suit he purchased last month!
And if his extravagant clothing catches others’ attention, Francis doesn’t mind. There are several beautiful single mothers 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.
During these school activities, Francis consistently finds himself near a frumpy man roughly around his age who 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 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. Not that it matters, he thinks, because he’s sure he must be a dreadfully dull man at any rate.
“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. Yes, he thinks, this is going to be interesting, isn’t it.
Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship (1c/?)
anonymous
April 12 2011, 22:14:59 UTC
Arthur tries his damndest to hate Matthew and fails miserably.
He automatically assumes that Matthew will be just as big of an ass 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.”
An hour later, Arthur calls them down to the kitchen. He stares 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 in his six-year-old body into taking another scone and ingesting it. “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.
Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship (1d/?)
anonymous
April 12 2011, 22:16:18 UTC
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.
Re: Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship (1d/?)
anonymous
April 12 2011, 23:01:27 UTC
This is awesome :) I really hope you continue cause miniMatt has stolen my heart too and I wanna see how Francis manages to worm his way into a real conversation with Arthur XD
Re: Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship (1d/?)
anonymous
April 13 2011, 01:15:24 UTC
If you are who I think you are: I fucking love you. If you're not, I still fucking love you.
God I've been just aching for a new FrUK family fic and then DELIVERANCE - this beginning is just amazing. I love your writing (I swear, is it or isn't it you) and I've just been smiling the whole time reading this. Fantastic job so far, I seriously can't wait for more!
Re: Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship (1d/?)
anonymous
April 13 2011, 07:22:03 UTC
This is so freaking brilliant. No really, I think I recognize your sense of humour and love it to bits and this is instantly on my list of an-update-of-this-makes-my-whole-day fills list and I feel like it's Christmas now that you started this adorable prompt.
The best part - little Matt squeezing his papa's hand and "Be nice."
Re: Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship (1d/?)
anonymous
April 14 2011, 04:24:11 UTC
FJDIOFAPJADSKAFJ AUTHOR!ANON YOU HAVE REVIVED THIS WITHERED HEART OF MINE MUCH LIKE ARTHUR'S WITHERED/BLACKENED SCONE OF A HEART DISINTEGRATED INTO A PILE OF MUSHY GOO.
(They're all so adorable! I want to gather them all up and cuddle them. O______________________O)
I love this so much even all caps cannot express my joy. Fantastic job anon!
Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship (2a/?)
anonymous
April 28 2011, 22:39:28 UTC
Thank you ever so much for your lovely comments! ♥ To those who think they know who I am - this is actually my first fill on the kink meme, so chances are I'm probably not who you think I am? But, gosh, that's flattering, to be compared to some of the authors on here. They're all so brilliant. Without further ado, here's the second part!
“How was school?” Francis asks as both boys climb into the leather seats of his car. Matthew answers with a quiet “Fine, Papa,” but Alfred barrels on without a second thought.
“It was great!” he chirps. Francis slowly backs out of his parking space, half-listening as Alfred goes on about everything that happened that day: how he lost a pencil, almost swallowed a bug, tripped on his untied shoelaces and skinned his knees. For a good fifteen minutes, Francis is content to drive with Alfred’s excited chatter echoing through the car.
As he slowly pulls into the driveway, Alfred turns to Matthew and whacks him, without warning, on the shoulder.
“Hey! Why haven’t you told him yet?”
Matthew flushes. “Later,” he mumbles.
“Naw! Tell him now! He’ll be super happy, right?” Alfred turns to Francis, who’s gotten out of his seat by this point and is in the process of helping the boys out of the car.
“Tell me what?” Francis unbuckles Matthew’s seatbelt, peering at him curiously.
Alfred nudges him. “Go on!”
Matthew, if possible, turns redder. “I, um. I got the highest grade on our spelling test. See, I got a -” He rummages through his backpack. “A lollipop.” He holds out a cherry-flavored Tootsie Pop.
Francis lights up immediately. “I’m so proud of you!” Matthew smiles back, a tentative and shy upturn of lips, and Francis drops a light kiss on his forehead.
“Hey, hey, Mattie’s papa!” Alfred waves frantically at him.
Francis chuckles lowly at the nickname. “Yes?”
“I got a gold star on my math homework! Are you proud of me, too?” Alfred grins, wide and unabashed, brimming with desire for his approval.
“Of course I am,” he reassures him, stepping back to let Alfred jump out of the car. He watches him race Matthew to the front door and finds himself surprised at how much he means it.
Arthur picks Alfred up from the Bonnefoy household at six-thirty sharp, standing uncomfortably in the foyer. The house, surprisingly, is modest-sized and charming, tastefully decorated with sleek furniture.
Francis smiles at him, all white teeth and charm. Arthur’s eyes flicker towards the stairs, waiting for Alfred to come leaping down.
“Long day at work?” Francis inquires.
“Thought it would never end.” Arthur starts tapping his foot impatiently. Where is that boy, he wonders, and what could he possibly be doing?
“Your writers not making their deadlines?” Francis inches closer, ever so subtly and naturally. Arthur flushes and moves away, sending him a baleful glare.
“Of course not; they’ll turn in their articles the night before the paper’s due to come out, as usual. And what the hell are you doing, get the fu -”
“I’m ready, Dad!” Alfred sprints down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Arthur practically bites his tongue off as he exerts every drop of self-control he possesses to stop the words from rushing out. Francis smirks and lets his hand slowly trail up from Arthur’s elbow to his shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Arthur grits out, shoving Francis’ arm away. He grabs Alfred’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
Francis steps forward and holds the door open for the two of them. “Have a good night.” As Arthur moves past, he reaches over and lightly brushes his fingers across his lower back. Arthur spins around, enraged, and opens his mouth, all sorts of profanity hovering on the tip of his tongue.
“Bye, Alfred,” Matthew says, appearing from seemingly nowhere. For the second time that night, Arthur literally has to bite his tongue to keep his mouth shut.
“Bye!” Alfred chirps, oblivious to the fury emanating from his father as he skips off towards the car.
Arthur makes sure Alfred’s properly buckled in, vicious thoughts swirling around his mind the whole time. The last thing he sees before driving off is Francis’ silhouette in the doorway, waving obnoxiously.
Git, he thinks, savagely, irritated during the entire drive home.
It’s an outdoor baseball match, you say? Why, that’s the perfect occasion to don his brand new Louis Vuitton sunglasses! They did cost a good bit of money, after all, and it would be a terrible shame to leave them to waste away in the closet. A nativity play, put on by the first-grade class? The perfect occasion to wear the Armani suit he purchased last month!
And if his extravagant clothing catches others’ attention, Francis doesn’t mind. There are several beautiful single mothers 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.
During these school activities, Francis consistently finds himself near a frumpy man roughly around his age who 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 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. Not that it matters, he thinks, because he’s sure he must be a dreadfully dull man at any rate.
“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. Yes, he thinks, this is going to be interesting, isn’t it.
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He automatically assumes that Matthew will be just as big of an ass 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.”
An hour later, Arthur calls them down to the kitchen. He stares 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 in his six-year-old body into taking another scone and ingesting it. “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.
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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.
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God I've been just aching for a new FrUK family fic and then DELIVERANCE - this beginning is just amazing. I love your writing (I swear, is it or isn't it you) and I've just been smiling the whole time reading this. Fantastic job so far, I seriously can't wait for more!
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The best part - little Matt squeezing his papa's hand and "Be nice."
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Omg, totally. WHICH ONE OF YOU IS THE PARENT AGAIN? xD
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I approve of this.
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(They're all so adorable! I want to gather them all up and cuddle them. O______________________O)
I love this so much even all caps cannot express my joy. Fantastic job anon!
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“How was school?” Francis asks as both boys climb into the leather seats of his car. Matthew answers with a quiet “Fine, Papa,” but Alfred barrels on without a second thought.
“It was great!” he chirps. Francis slowly backs out of his parking space, half-listening as Alfred goes on about everything that happened that day: how he lost a pencil, almost swallowed a bug, tripped on his untied shoelaces and skinned his knees. For a good fifteen minutes, Francis is content to drive with Alfred’s excited chatter echoing through the car.
As he slowly pulls into the driveway, Alfred turns to Matthew and whacks him, without warning, on the shoulder.
“Hey! Why haven’t you told him yet?”
Matthew flushes. “Later,” he mumbles.
“Naw! Tell him now! He’ll be super happy, right?” Alfred turns to Francis, who’s gotten out of his seat by this point and is in the process of helping the boys out of the car.
“Tell me what?” Francis unbuckles Matthew’s seatbelt, peering at him curiously.
Alfred nudges him. “Go on!”
Matthew, if possible, turns redder. “I, um. I got the highest grade on our spelling test. See, I got a -” He rummages through his backpack. “A lollipop.” He holds out a cherry-flavored Tootsie Pop.
Francis lights up immediately. “I’m so proud of you!” Matthew smiles back, a tentative and shy upturn of lips, and Francis drops a light kiss on his forehead.
“Hey, hey, Mattie’s papa!” Alfred waves frantically at him.
Francis chuckles lowly at the nickname. “Yes?”
“I got a gold star on my math homework! Are you proud of me, too?” Alfred grins, wide and unabashed, brimming with desire for his approval.
“Of course I am,” he reassures him, stepping back to let Alfred jump out of the car. He watches him race Matthew to the front door and finds himself surprised at how much he means it.
Arthur picks Alfred up from the Bonnefoy household at six-thirty sharp, standing uncomfortably in the foyer. The house, surprisingly, is modest-sized and charming, tastefully decorated with sleek furniture.
Francis smiles at him, all white teeth and charm. Arthur’s eyes flicker towards the stairs, waiting for Alfred to come leaping down.
“Long day at work?” Francis inquires.
“Thought it would never end.” Arthur starts tapping his foot impatiently. Where is that boy, he wonders, and what could he possibly be doing?
“Your writers not making their deadlines?” Francis inches closer, ever so subtly and naturally. Arthur flushes and moves away, sending him a baleful glare.
“Of course not; they’ll turn in their articles the night before the paper’s due to come out, as usual. And what the hell are you doing, get the fu -”
“I’m ready, Dad!” Alfred sprints down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Arthur practically bites his tongue off as he exerts every drop of self-control he possesses to stop the words from rushing out. Francis smirks and lets his hand slowly trail up from Arthur’s elbow to his shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Arthur grits out, shoving Francis’ arm away. He grabs Alfred’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
Francis steps forward and holds the door open for the two of them. “Have a good night.” As Arthur moves past, he reaches over and lightly brushes his fingers across his lower back. Arthur spins around, enraged, and opens his mouth, all sorts of profanity hovering on the tip of his tongue.
“Bye, Alfred,” Matthew says, appearing from seemingly nowhere. For the second time that night, Arthur literally has to bite his tongue to keep his mouth shut.
“Bye!” Alfred chirps, oblivious to the fury emanating from his father as he skips off towards the car.
Arthur makes sure Alfred’s properly buckled in, vicious thoughts swirling around his mind the whole time. The last thing he sees before driving off is Francis’ silhouette in the doorway, waving obnoxiously.
Git, he thinks, savagely, irritated during the entire drive home.
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