Waiting for The Kite (Chapter 1.1)
This isn't my first Fanfiction about these two. But I admit thi is y first Fanfiction entry in this site. And just to make sure nothing would go wrong, I have to say that I don't own 100% of this story. My friend sent me a translation of a fiction from her place and I couldn't resist the temptation to put the two in it. Anyone can consider this as a parody, though I had to bend the storylin here and ther to keep our beloved pairing in characters.
Hope I'm not failing so much, considering half of this story isn't even mine.
Title Waiting for the Kite
Author: cacaoboter
Rating T (may change later)
Characters France, England, Canada, mention of America
Pairing: France/England
Summary an AU/Their relationship is like a ritual of drinking bitter bitter medicine followed by a tablespoon of thick honey.
Waiting for the Kite
CHAPTER 1.1
Just like yesterday, and the day before, and God knows how many yesterdays that have passed, 6.45 his alarm clock rings. “Ring” not “Beep”. For him, the stabbing noise of classic alarm clock has better ability to penetrate into his consciousness. Not 6.30 nor 7.00, but exactly six-forty-five. The moment the sun’s in a very mysterious state. When the morning’s holding both little piece of night and a promise for an oncoming day.
A smart phone’s display shines, playing a playlist personally titled “Good Morning Songs”. Has been through years of experiments and trials, he’s come to conclude the best seventeen songs to listen when the sun is in its mysterious state.
He doesn't go straight to shower. First he gulps a glass of water on the bedside, then prepares a cup of hot, classic English Breakfast tea. His power source to last until lunch comes from four slices of whole wheat breads; thinly sliced cheese tucked into the first pair, and a sunny-side up, cooked in the microwave for one and a half minute, for the second pair.
Breakfast done, he showers with cold water tap turned exactly 80 degrees to the left, whilst the hot water one’s 45 degrees. Marked by two pieces of red tape-result of a long experiment of various water temperature and taps positions.
Shower’s done, he gets ready to wear his office suit and all of its equipment. Not long after, he’s rushing through the street accompanied by another song compilation of up-spirited songs in order to get him arrive at his office, smiling brightly and greet everyone, from securities at the front gate to an office boy who comes to his room with a glass of water.
Upon the arrival of 700 millilitre of water, his phone rings.
“Bonjour.” Francis typical voice sings to him. Melodious, yet disturbing. Good to the ears, but always tailed by a not-so-good ending. Based on his statistics, this man mostly calls for a favour. Just some information about Francis: he and Francis met when they were both new officers. Arthur was an architect and Francis was an interior designer, and for a few years they worked together in a building design consultant office. Now they work separately. Francis is a freelancer, while the other has his own consultant office. Francis likes to call them as best friends. Arthur doesn’t even want to think there’s anything to do between them that’s worth called relationship. They keep being in touch can be categorised as a miracle itself.
“I’ve seen your new hospital. It was simply… you,” is his first greeting. “Try MRI. Your brain has probably eventually turned square now,” he continues.
The corner of Arthur’s lips unintentionally quirks upward. For him, it’s a compliment. It has been his expertise to design massive buildings such as hospitals, office buildings, or malls. Completely the opposite of Francis, he feels challenged to work for gigantic designs which the Frenchman thinks are utterly boring.
“Likewise. Yours must look far from a brain, most likely like an abstract painting. Then you can frame it and hang it in a living room of one of your modern tropical houses.”
Francis heartily laughs. “The only thing keeping you alive is your sense of humour, chéri.”
The Brit sighs. “Francis. Don’t let me try looking for the reason of why you’re still alive. Because only God knows why.”
There’s another laugh jingling from across the line.
That’s how they are. Their relationship is like a ritual of drinking bitter medicine followed by a tablespoon of thick honey. The immense incompatibility leads to an inseparable friendship instead, even though the English half is reluctant in admitting it. So much knowing how extreme the difference of their respective personalities and preferences, they never bother to question them anymore, just laugh it off. Francis admits, the one he calls most often is Arthur. At least once in a week they make a phone call. Wasting up their times, piling up their phone bills, listening to Francis’s fantastic stories, and Arthur’s monotonous ones.
“Your compilation… ummm… what did you name it again? The beach thing one….”
Francis never remembers.
“For what occasion? Noon, evening?” Arthur cuts impatiently.
“Evening.”
“Under the Moonlight.”
“Yes, that’s it. Can I borrow it? I need it for this weekend. I’ll fetch it later.”
“Okay, bye!”
“Why are all your playlists names so strange? It’s lucky you still have good taste of music.”
“To make them easy to remember. Though apparently some particular people still stubbornly fail to do so. Bye, Francis!”
“We’ll have lunch together, lapin.”
“Would you ever stop calling me that?”
“Don’t know, lapin. I have no plan to anyway. Bye!”
The line cuts at the other end. How come he gets to hang up first? Bugger.