And fanfic!
Title: Friends With Berets
Characters/Pairings: fem!FrUK, Austria/Hungary, mentions of various others.
Rating: PG, soon to go up for language and... adult suggestions (with the pairing, what did you expect?)
Summary: Sixth form is hard work even without an annoying childhood friend turning up at the start of it- and that's before Gwen's family decides to get involved. What's a girl to do?
Notes: You can blame igiko for this- she asked if there were any FrUK fics we could rec her, and I sent her a bit of one I was working on. After that, there was no getting out of actually working on it properly- though updates may be a little far between.
Also, thanks to littlelinor for the heads-up on the French fail. Whoops...
“Hello.” Gwen looked up to see a face- a girl’s face- peering down at where she sat at the bottom of her house.
“Hello.” She said to the face. Then, because it was what you did when you met a new friend, “what’s your name?”
“Marianne. Yours?”
“Guinevere Elizabeth Kirkland.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“So is yours.”
“Why are you sitting down there?”
Gwen shrugged. “Because it’s my house, and I can’t get out.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no doors.”
“Oh.” Marianne disappeared for a moment, then reappeared, giggling. “No, there aren’t.”
“I can’t reach the top too.” Gwen told her solemnly. “I might stay here forever.”
“Well,” said Marianne after a moment, “I can, so maybe you won’t.”
Gwen smiled up at her, and as soon as she was out of the house they became the best of friends.
Well, sort of.
-
“Let’s play husbands and wives!”
Gwen shook her head, didn’t look up. “Don’t want to.”
Marianne pouted at her. “But you can’t just read books all day! Books are for boring people and Archana always sends you out to read in lesson time. Can’t you play with me now? Just for a little bit?”
“...alright,” Gwen agreed, because she was right, even though the book had been a very nice one. She put it down obediently and Marianne grinned.
“Yay! Now, I’m going to be the wife-”
“But I want to be the wife! You’re always the wife!”
“That’s because I’m so good at it. Even Maman said so,” said Marianne, as though that settled it. Gwen didn’t think so though.
“No you’re not. You’re a horrible wife. You be the man.”
“But Gwen, why can’t you be the man?”
“Because I’m always the man!” Gwen insisted.
Marianne laughed, the sunlight sparkling ever so prettily in her hair and- but Gwen wasn’t looking at that. Not at all. “But you are always wearing trousers, and you have such short hair!”
“So?” Gwen pulled on her own, cropped hair, sulky and just a little bit ashamed of it.
“So you are the man.”
“But my Mummy said-”
“Your Mummy says lots of strange things.” Marianne sneered. “Are you playing with me or not?”
“No!”
A snake-y smile. “Then I’ll go and play with someone else. Maybe Eli-”
“No! Don’t want you playing with anyone else.”
The smile widened, though it still looked like a snake's. “Then you’ll be the man?”
“...fine.”
-
But there was something more than arguments coming between them. Every time they went to each others’ houses Gwen felt a little more inadequate, intimidated by the luxury her friend lived in compared to her own, shabbier home (she asked, once, if they couldn’t have a nice house, nice furniture like Marianne and her Mummy did and was so badly teased by her siblings and so patronised by her parents’ not-quite-apologies that she never asked again). Marianne always came into school in the very latest fashions while Gwen’s fourth-hand leggings were patched until there was nothing left of the original fabric. She always had the cutest of haircuts, the choicest of French sweets and was so happy to give them away that Gwen was driven to tears by her inability to hold it against her.
And then, one day, Marianne's mother met a holidaying Italian businessman. A whirlwind romance led to plans to move back to Paris with him, and before long invitations were sent out for the Bonnefoys' leaving party. Gwen’s mother hovered in the living room, uncomfortable, as the high class French expats gathered around them, and Marianne was too busy playing with her many cousins to notice how small and alone Gwen was in the corner.
The next day, she was gone.
-
Eleven Years Later
-
Welcome back to Facespace! You have 1 new friend request.
*click!*
Marianne Bonnefoy
Lycée Janson de Sailly, Paris
“Je t’ai trouvée! And I hope you know enough French now to understand that much, chérie, else we-”
*click!*
No more friend requests.
You have rejected a friend request from Marianne Bonnefoy.
-
The tiny corridor leading to the North Exit was full to bursting with Year 12s by the time Gwen arrived, a fact not helped by the fact that people in other years who got the bus to school were also using it as their customary way in to school. The noise made as a result was atrocious, so much so that she barely heard Elizabeta’s squeak of “Gwen! Let’s see what form group we’re in!” before she was pulled headlong into the crowd.
The start of Year 12 meant a shake-up of form groups. Prior to this, Greenfields students were registered according to what house they were in- Ashworth, Donaghue, Kings, Larkin, Lefevre or Wyatt- but now, with new students meaning the size of the year had doubled, this was impossible. While nobody left their designated house, and the new students were all given one, the year group as a whole was sorted randomly into groups and assigned to form tutors.
The system worked well enough most of the time, but putting the lists of form groups up in a cramped space always led to chaos. Gwen’s complaint of “you’d think they’d know better than to do it like this by now” went entirely unheard as she was dragged through the heaving mass. Thanks to Elizabeta’s determined shoving, it took only five minutes to find the lists, and she held Gwen firm against the jostling of the other pupils as they read.
“Mr Braginsky- the creep, I don’t know why they still keep him on- Mr Vargas, Mr Wang ... Mr Wang!” Elizabeta sounded simultaneously excited and horrified as she turned to face Gwen. “You’re not in my class!”
“Evidently not,” Gwen nodded, running her eyes over the remainder of the classes. “It seems I’ve got Mr. Väinämöinen instead- that’s going to be fun to write on the planners.”
“Is he the hot one?”
“You use that term to refer to any male member of staff who’s below thirty.” Gwen reminded her. "Right before you start planning to perv on them having sex."
“Yes, well, that’s not the point!”
Gwen snickered slightly. “Well, I suppose he is, if skinny Geography teachers are what you go for. (“Oh! Him!”) Come on, we’d better get out of here before the others crush us. We’ll do better to discuss this in the common room or something.”
“Ooh yes- we can go there now, can’t we?” Elizabeta enthused. Gwen rolled her eyes, but grinned despite herself.
“Indeed we can.”
-
“Roderich! Roderich, which class are you in? I forgot to check!” Gwen chuckled as Elizabeta launched herself at her boyfriend, who was looking like he’d much rather be in the music block. He and Gwen exchanged nods as Elizabeta babbled on, both knowing that they were unlikely to get a word in edgeways while she was like this.
Holidays alright? Gwen mouthed. She got a shrug in response and decided to give up- Roderich rarely tended to communicate with anyone bar Elizabeta, and she was rubbish at silent communication anyway. Elizabeta, still talking nineteen to the dozen, began to drag her boyfriend up the stairs to the seating area and Gwen was about to follow when- “mais Gwen, chérie, c’est toi!”
Gwen turned slowly to see a tall blonde girl standing in the doorway, waving at her enthusiastically. The profile image on Facespace the night before returned- but there was no way...
“Gwen! Don’t you remember me? Ta meilleure amie?”
Gwen stood there for a moment. Then blinked. Then said “oh my God” in a very small voice. Because it really was Marianne Bonnefoy standing there, and she didn’t have a clue what else she could say to that.
-
Notes
-The Lycée Janson de Sailly
-In England, compulsory schooling ends at 16, although most people do choose to remain in education. Many schools offer a sixth form for students between the ages of 16 and 18, or Years 12-13. There students usually do three or four AS-Levels in Year 12, followed by two or three A2s in Year 13.
Characters/Pairings: fem!FrUK, Austria/Hungary, mentions of various others.
Rating: PG, soon to go up for language and... adult suggestions (with the pairing, what did you expect?)
Summary: Sixth form is hard work even without an annoying childhood friend turning up at the start of it- and that's before Gwen's family decides to get involved. What's a girl to do?
Notes: You can blame igiko for this- she asked if there were any FrUK fics we could rec her, and I sent her a bit of one I was working on. After that, there was no getting out of actually working on it properly- though updates may be a little far between.
Also, thanks to littlelinor for the heads-up on the French fail. Whoops...
“Hello.” Gwen looked up to see a face- a girl’s face- peering down at where she sat at the bottom of her house.
“Hello.” She said to the face. Then, because it was what you did when you met a new friend, “what’s your name?”
“Marianne. Yours?”
“Guinevere Elizabeth Kirkland.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“So is yours.”
“Why are you sitting down there?”
Gwen shrugged. “Because it’s my house, and I can’t get out.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no doors.”
“Oh.” Marianne disappeared for a moment, then reappeared, giggling. “No, there aren’t.”
“I can’t reach the top too.” Gwen told her solemnly. “I might stay here forever.”
“Well,” said Marianne after a moment, “I can, so maybe you won’t.”
Gwen smiled up at her, and as soon as she was out of the house they became the best of friends.
Well, sort of.
-
“Let’s play husbands and wives!”
Gwen shook her head, didn’t look up. “Don’t want to.”
Marianne pouted at her. “But you can’t just read books all day! Books are for boring people and Archana always sends you out to read in lesson time. Can’t you play with me now? Just for a little bit?”
“...alright,” Gwen agreed, because she was right, even though the book had been a very nice one. She put it down obediently and Marianne grinned.
“Yay! Now, I’m going to be the wife-”
“But I want to be the wife! You’re always the wife!”
“That’s because I’m so good at it. Even Maman said so,” said Marianne, as though that settled it. Gwen didn’t think so though.
“No you’re not. You’re a horrible wife. You be the man.”
“But Gwen, why can’t you be the man?”
“Because I’m always the man!” Gwen insisted.
Marianne laughed, the sunlight sparkling ever so prettily in her hair and- but Gwen wasn’t looking at that. Not at all. “But you are always wearing trousers, and you have such short hair!”
“So?” Gwen pulled on her own, cropped hair, sulky and just a little bit ashamed of it.
“So you are the man.”
“But my Mummy said-”
“Your Mummy says lots of strange things.” Marianne sneered. “Are you playing with me or not?”
“No!”
A snake-y smile. “Then I’ll go and play with someone else. Maybe Eli-”
“No! Don’t want you playing with anyone else.”
The smile widened, though it still looked like a snake's. “Then you’ll be the man?”
“...fine.”
-
But there was something more than arguments coming between them. Every time they went to each others’ houses Gwen felt a little more inadequate, intimidated by the luxury her friend lived in compared to her own, shabbier home (she asked, once, if they couldn’t have a nice house, nice furniture like Marianne and her Mummy did and was so badly teased by her siblings and so patronised by her parents’ not-quite-apologies that she never asked again). Marianne always came into school in the very latest fashions while Gwen’s fourth-hand leggings were patched until there was nothing left of the original fabric. She always had the cutest of haircuts, the choicest of French sweets and was so happy to give them away that Gwen was driven to tears by her inability to hold it against her.
And then, one day, Marianne's mother met a holidaying Italian businessman. A whirlwind romance led to plans to move back to Paris with him, and before long invitations were sent out for the Bonnefoys' leaving party. Gwen’s mother hovered in the living room, uncomfortable, as the high class French expats gathered around them, and Marianne was too busy playing with her many cousins to notice how small and alone Gwen was in the corner.
The next day, she was gone.
-
Eleven Years Later
-
Welcome back to Facespace! You have 1 new friend request.
*click!*
Marianne Bonnefoy
Lycée Janson de Sailly, Paris
“Je t’ai trouvée! And I hope you know enough French now to understand that much, chérie, else we-”
*click!*
No more friend requests.
You have rejected a friend request from Marianne Bonnefoy.
-
The tiny corridor leading to the North Exit was full to bursting with Year 12s by the time Gwen arrived, a fact not helped by the fact that people in other years who got the bus to school were also using it as their customary way in to school. The noise made as a result was atrocious, so much so that she barely heard Elizabeta’s squeak of “Gwen! Let’s see what form group we’re in!” before she was pulled headlong into the crowd.
The start of Year 12 meant a shake-up of form groups. Prior to this, Greenfields students were registered according to what house they were in- Ashworth, Donaghue, Kings, Larkin, Lefevre or Wyatt- but now, with new students meaning the size of the year had doubled, this was impossible. While nobody left their designated house, and the new students were all given one, the year group as a whole was sorted randomly into groups and assigned to form tutors.
The system worked well enough most of the time, but putting the lists of form groups up in a cramped space always led to chaos. Gwen’s complaint of “you’d think they’d know better than to do it like this by now” went entirely unheard as she was dragged through the heaving mass. Thanks to Elizabeta’s determined shoving, it took only five minutes to find the lists, and she held Gwen firm against the jostling of the other pupils as they read.
“Mr Braginsky- the creep, I don’t know why they still keep him on- Mr Vargas, Mr Wang ... Mr Wang!” Elizabeta sounded simultaneously excited and horrified as she turned to face Gwen. “You’re not in my class!”
“Evidently not,” Gwen nodded, running her eyes over the remainder of the classes. “It seems I’ve got Mr. Väinämöinen instead- that’s going to be fun to write on the planners.”
“Is he the hot one?”
“You use that term to refer to any male member of staff who’s below thirty.” Gwen reminded her. "Right before you start planning to perv on them having sex."
“Yes, well, that’s not the point!”
Gwen snickered slightly. “Well, I suppose he is, if skinny Geography teachers are what you go for. (“Oh! Him!”) Come on, we’d better get out of here before the others crush us. We’ll do better to discuss this in the common room or something.”
“Ooh yes- we can go there now, can’t we?” Elizabeta enthused. Gwen rolled her eyes, but grinned despite herself.
“Indeed we can.”
-
“Roderich! Roderich, which class are you in? I forgot to check!” Gwen chuckled as Elizabeta launched herself at her boyfriend, who was looking like he’d much rather be in the music block. He and Gwen exchanged nods as Elizabeta babbled on, both knowing that they were unlikely to get a word in edgeways while she was like this.
Holidays alright? Gwen mouthed. She got a shrug in response and decided to give up- Roderich rarely tended to communicate with anyone bar Elizabeta, and she was rubbish at silent communication anyway. Elizabeta, still talking nineteen to the dozen, began to drag her boyfriend up the stairs to the seating area and Gwen was about to follow when- “mais Gwen, chérie, c’est toi!”
Gwen turned slowly to see a tall blonde girl standing in the doorway, waving at her enthusiastically. The profile image on Facespace the night before returned- but there was no way...
“Gwen! Don’t you remember me? Ta meilleure amie?”
Gwen stood there for a moment. Then blinked. Then said “oh my God” in a very small voice. Because it really was Marianne Bonnefoy standing there, and she didn’t have a clue what else she could say to that.
-
Notes
-The Lycée Janson de Sailly
-In England, compulsory schooling ends at 16, although most people do choose to remain in education. Many schools offer a sixth form for students between the ages of 16 and 18, or Years 12-13. There students usually do three or four AS-Levels in Year 12, followed by two or three A2s in Year 13.