Serendipity had been Francis' earliest and longest lover. She showered him often with gifts and in turn, he would often turn his life entirely into her hands.
She rarely disappointed.
For example: he was rooting through Alfred's things quietly (as Francis was almost positive that Alfred's answer to the question of whether or not the Frenchman could look through his things would be a resounding `NO', Francis figured it would be impolite to ask, then do it anyway, so he merely skipped the first step) looking for his old Edith Piaf record he was sure the American had had last, when his love dropped something down onto his head from on top of a bookshelf.
“The Communist Crisis in Canada?” he murmured, wiping the dust off the cover of the cerlox bound manual. He flipped open the first few pages and a smile slowly began to cross his face. She had done it again.
“Merci beacoup, mon amour,” he whispered, blowing a kiss up to the sky.
It took him less than ten minutes to find the receiver and pack all of the things up and back home. It took a little longer to figure out how the technology worked and find a television with the right extensions, but finally, glass of wine in hand, the Frenchman flicked on the receiver, flicked on the television, and hit the whole thing with a bang of his fist.
The tv shuddered, then flashed up four separate pictures in the corners. Francis smiled and sipped his wine. It was Matthew's house alright. The boy was standing in his kitchen, looking as though he were cutting vegetables. And there was his bathroom, and his living room, and his bedroom.
He hadn't really thought about the Canadian in a long while; he had been just a kid really last time Francis saw him. He often heard Arthur talking about him, but really, he sounded a little, well, boring. No fighting, no posturing, no real bullying, much like he remembered of him as a child. Matthew looked older now, Francis supposed, even in the fuzzy lines of the black and white screen.
Francis sat back in one of his plush armchairs, twirling the wineglass on his lip, considering. This was an excellent find indeed. However, steps could probably be made to update the old black and white into a nice sharp colour, and maybe add some sound…
Perhaps it was time to pay Matthew a few visits.
**
It was on these excursions that Francis learned a few things about the younger man that he wasn't quite sure why he hadn't noticed before. Like the fact that Matthew tended to pepper his conversations with an engaging little `eh?' and a raise of an eyebrow that inspired all kind of naughty thoughts. Or like when Matthew blushed, he turned the colour of his favourite Rosé. Or that he had the sexiest little lip chewing habit that was slowly driving Francis mad.
The boy was quiet as his reputation claimed, but there was something incessantly enthralling about him that made Francis keep coming back, even after he had replaced all the cameras.
But the real gem came from his lady love yet again.
Matthew was up on a stool, giving Francis quite a delicious view of tight cheeks and round thighs encased in blue jeans, trying to reach a bottle of cooking wine that somehow got pushed to the very back. The stool looked quite unstable, and the boy was already a little bit tipsy from the wine the Frenchman had brought over. Francis stood, still holding his own glass of wine, and went to stand beside the boy, half afraid he might fall, half wanting to stare at his ass from a closer vantage point.
“Veux-tu le baisser ŕ moi?” Francis offered.
Immediately, Matthew nearly fell off his precarious perch, forcing Francis to put a shoulder underneath the boy's thighs to keep him righted until he managed to grab onto the edge of the cupboards for balance. His face was bright with colour.
“Oh. Uh,” the boy stammered, “wouldn't you prefer someone with more experience?”
Francis raised a confused eyebrow. He knew what he was thinking, but what was going through the boy's head exactly? “Pardon?”
“Not that I'm not flattered, but I know you've had a ton of lovers, eh? And frankly, I'm still… still…” He broke off, his blush deepening, his teeth almost viciously capturing the skin of his lower lip as he stared resolutely into the cupboard.
Three things hit Francis at once.
One, Matthew needed to brush up on his French.
Two, Matthew was a virgin.
Three…
Well, honestly, his mind kept circling back to two.
His eyes slid closed at he raised his face to the ceiling in a deeply meaningful thank you to his lovely lady, before setting his glass down on the counter firmly.
“Oh?” Francis smiled, moving in closer as Matthew nervously stepped down off the stool, holding the cooking wine bottle in his hand, pressing his back against the counter as if needing something solid behind him. “Not even Al?” the Frenchman continued.
The poor lip was nearly bruised in Matthew's agitation. “Only with our hands,” he groaned in embarrassment. “He's really rough, eh? And so I kinda held out, but then he… he…” An unnamed emotion twisted up the boy's face. Pain? Anger? Resentment? Either way, Francis didn't like to see the expression.
“I wouldn't be rough,” Francis told him in a soft coo. Not at first, at least. He wanted Matthew writhing underneath him, begging and pleading. He wanted that Rosé blush from the tips of his ears down to his chest. He wanted those thighs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in tight.
Matthew looked up at him, his eyes a question and a demand all at once, and Francis couldn't help but lower his head to taste those wine stained lips. It was sweet and slow, like molasses, like Sunday afternoons. His tongue feathered along the soft, abused skin of the boy's lower lip, but even when Matthew's mouth parted in a moan, he didn't take him up on that invitation. Instead, he continued to taste the corners of his mouth with light teasing flickers.
Slowly, he slid back away from the boy, wanting to see the look on his face. He nearly came right then and there. Those lips were rosy red, his eyes a hazy dark blue, the lids dropped down to half mast. His lashes were longer than they looked, the blond tips brushing against the inside of his lenses. He had to get out of there, or else he was going to pound this boy into the floor right that second.
“Bonsoir, Mathieu,” Francis murmured, placing a final kiss to those tempting lips before turning and letting himself out, leaving the dazed boy in the kitchen.
Francis was still hard by the time he settled back in the armchair in his own home and turned on the television. Thank God he had updated the entire system a week ago. The crystal clear sound of a shower filled the room, and Francis hit a button to switch the screen to the bathroom.
Matthew's silhouette was illuminated on the shower curtain, and if Francis didn't know better, he would say that the boy was deliberately placing himself so that nothing was left to Francis' imagination while simultaneously everything was left to Francis' imagination.
He could hear Matthew's pants above the sound of the water, and with a flick of his wrist, he had to release his own pants before he simply tore through them. Stroking himself along with the silhouette, the sounds of the two men's breathing filled the room. It wasn't long before he saw the boy's shadow shudder and heard his name slip past those lips, triggering his own thundering orgasm.
It continued like this for a week, Francis leaving Matthew in a state of arousal slightly higher every night, only to rush back to the television where they would both get off, although only one of them was aware of the other.
Matthew, however, seemed to be slowly becoming more bold as his growing frustration at Francis' teasing mounted, if his increasingly agitated kisses were any clue.
“Mathieu!” Francis greeted the blond cheerfully one night, and held up a bottle of chardonnay. “J'ai amené le vin.”
The blond made a sound that was suspiciously close to a growl and pulled the Frenchman in by the front of his shirt for a punishing kiss right there in the doorway.
“If we don't fuck right now, I'm kicking you out of my house,” Matthew warned against the other man's lips.
“Mm, aggressif,” Francis smirked, not insulted in the least. “J'aime.”
He pushed into the doorway, shrugging off his coat and toeing off his shoes, his mouth not leaving Matthew's for a single second. He did take a pause to make sure that the bottle he set on the table actually stayed upright (it was really good chardonnay), but then he was pushing Matthew towards the boy's bedroom, his hands sliding up into that soft blond hair, his teeth capturing the lip that Matthew had tortured him with so long.
“You're pretty eager tonight, mon mignon,” Francis teased, his lips travelling up to find the crease of the boy's nose, the curve of his cheekbone, the little piece of cartilage in front of his ear. He chuckled softly when he felt the boy shudder as he dipped his tongue into the well of his ear. “I'd almost think you've done this before.”
“I'm a virgin, not asexual,” Matthew replied tartly, his own hands busy sliding up Francis' front, undoing buttons and sliding his fingers through the pale hair on the other man's chest. His fingers slid over a nipple, an appreciative noise coming from Francis' throat that spurned on the young man.
“Je vois cela,” Francis said, brushing his hips over the other man's, eliciting a strangled groan. He pulled off the boy's shirt, and in the same motion, pushed him backwards so that he fell onto the single twin bed, bouncing slightly on his butt, a surprised look on his face. Francis removed the rest of his shirt, then crawled after the boy, his larger frame taking up most of the bed.
He took that sweet mouth again, his tongue invading the wet warmth as his hands slid down the pale torso, feeling the smooth skin and the slight bumps of his ribcage. He splayed his fingers over the other's slightly rounded belly, loving it when he arched up towards him unabashedly.
“Les pantalons, les jeans, pants, whatever, I need them off,” Matthew gasped in his ear before taking the lobe in his teeth and tugging.
Francis complied, but at a speed sloths would have found agonising. He flicked the button out of the slot and using his teeth, dragged down his zipper, rubbing the tip of his nose along Matthew's length as he did so.
“Do you have preparations?” Francis asked, nibbling at the youth's hardness through his underwear as he tugged the jeans down those magnificent legs, making the blond choke and arch, his hand banging away at the bedside table, until he found the handle for the drawer and nearly pulled the thing clean out. In his brain addled state, it took him several minutes to locate a bottle of lube and a package of condoms.
“And I bought them yesterday,” Matthew said, still apparently coherent enough to be saucy when Francis took them from him with an amused grin. “Maybe we should switch and I should be on top, eh? Since you don't seem to mmmnn.” Francis immediately stopped that train of thought by sliding a slippery finger right into Matthew's tight entrance.
Matthew panted, and wiggled (and oh God, did that wiggle ever do things to Francis' groin), a strange look coming over his face. “Well that's… new,” he said finally, his voice a little bit throaty. Francis chuckled and began to slowly pump in and out, watching the sensations flicker over the youth's open face. He pressed a second finger against the first, but this one didn't go in nearly as easily.
“No,” Matthew gasped, arching, “too much. Oh, ngh.”
Francis however, did what he could to distract him from the pressure. Blowing softly on the head of Matthew's hardness, he swiped his tongue around the tip, gathering the wetness that had leaked out and down the side. As soon as his lips touched that heated flesh, however, a cry flew from the youth's lips, his entire body tightening.
Francis sucked hard, swiping his tongue underneath the sensitive ridge, his fingers finding and stroking Matthew's prostate in tandem.
“Francis, Francis, I'm gonna…” Matthew attempted to warn the other man, but couldn't stop himself from crashing over.
As soon as Francis felt the first twitchings of Matthew's release, he immediately pressed a third finger into him, heightening the youth's cry to a level just below all out screaming. His back wasn't even touching the sheets, although the cloth was fisted in his hands, the tendons standing out in his forearms he was gripping them so tightly. The Frenchman didn't stop his fingers or his mouth, sucking every last drop out of him, until Matthew collapsed on the bed, shaky, sweaty, and twitching like a livewire.
Francis leaned up to kiss that panting mouth, removing the boy's smeared glasses and setting them on the bedside table so he could see those heady dark blue eyes unobstructed.
“Es-tu bien?” Francis teased, running his lips over the soft blond tipped lashes.
“Très bien,” Matthew replied, running his hands down Francis' back and tugging at the waistband of his entirely too tight pants. “Mais, maintenant, je veux votre bite.”
So the boy had been brushing up on his French. And who was he to deny such a request?
Francis gave a final thanks to his wondrous lady love for sending him this delightful boy, before shucking off his pants in record time and sliding his fingers back into Matthew's still tight entrance. He immediately found that sweet lump inside and stroked it until Matthew was writhing just like he wanted, a mixture of Franglais dropping from his mouth unchecked.
“Oh, Francis, please, more, plus please, martelez moi, I need you dans moi.”
Francis smiled around the condom package in his teeth, before ripping it open and sliding it on one handed, efficient from experience. Gripping underneath the boy's knee, he removed his fingers only to replace it with the thick head of his length.
“Respires, mon petit,” Francis smiled, holding one of Matthew's legs in the air and dragging his tongue up the Achilles tendon. The blond youth let out his breath in a gust of sound, gasping oxygen back into his lungs as Francis pushed in slowly.
Francis felt those hands reach around to grab his hips, the fingers almost shyly stroking his skin, and he admitted he might have lost his head a little bit at that point. He didn't go slow for the last bit, but slammed himself deep within Matthew's hot, sexy, virgin little body, watching as Matthew threw his head back, his adam's apple bobbing with his cries.
He couldn't go slow. Not when Matthew's ass gripped him so tightly. Not when he dropped the youth's leg and the boy wrapped them around his hips. Not when he called Francis' name with every thrust, his blue eyes dark with lust staring into his boldly. Francis took the boy's hands and intertwined them above Matthew's head on the headboard, holding them pinned with only one of his hands, loving the line it made of his pale torso. Lowering his head so that his blond hair tickled against the Canadian's skin, he licked along the line between his pectoral and his armpit, hearing the catch in Matthew's voice, loving it.
“I'm s-so close,” Matthew gasped, his body twisting underneath Francis'. “I need, j'ai besoin, oh, oh.”
Francis knew exactly what he needed, and reached down. As soon as his fingers touched Matthew's hardness, the youth arched hard, his head digging into the pillow, an ear shattering shout of completion torn from his throat, his body tightening almost painfully around Francis.
Francis held on for maybe a fraction of a second before he too was crying out a plethora of nonsensical French, his hips driving deep into the other man as he shuddered on top of him, the only thought flying through his mind, Thank God I remembered to hit record.
They collapsed together, a mesh of blond hair and sweaty limbs, and just lay there, breathing for a moment. Then Francis rolled slightly, slipping out of the young blond, reaching down to find Matthew's hastily discarded underwear. Using the makeshift rag, he quickly wiped off most of the mess on both of them before dropping it and his tied off condom to the floor to clean up later.
“That was… wow,” Matthew told the Frenchman, wrapping his arms around the other's neck and pulling himself up into the crook of the older man's neck.
Francis grinned, wanting to tease the younger man a little. “So, what was it?”
“What was what?”
Francis crossed his arms behind his head. “Was it my charm? My unadulterated good looks? What made you have sex with me?”
“Revenge.”
Well, that certainly wasn't the response Francis was expecting.
“Comment?”
He felt Matthew shrug, trying to look casual, but the effect was ruined by the feeling of his face on Francis' shoulder heating up. “I dunno. It's just… I always kind of thought that Al and I would be each other's firsts. Then, next thing I know, I see him and Arthur going at it. It… rather upset me. Then, while sitting around, thinking about what I could do that would upset both Alfred and Arthur, who should knock at my door but you?”
Francis burst out laughing. He wasn't insulted, oh no, far from it. He had had sex for less savoury reasons than revenge against that uptight Brit. Looping an arm around the delightful Canadian and flipping them so that the boy lay on top of him, he grinned at the ceiling.
Vous avez travaillait des heures supplémentaires, n'avez pas, ma chéri?
**
Alfred was hunting through Francis' collection of DVDs, hoping to find something that didn't look too boring. Matthew had made some snide remarks about his culture (or lack thereof) and he wasn't about to take that lying down. Francis may be a lot of things, but even Alfred had to admit that the man was practically eyebrow deep in culture, and thought that maybe watching one of his movies might help boost his artistic knowledge.
But why were his movies all in French? And without subtitles. Or even proper labels on most of them. Probably pirated, the bastard.
One of the DVDs caught his eye, and he picked out the home burned DVD from the pile.
“Oon nweet dans Canada, huh?” Bonus. Culture, plus maybe if he learned a thing or two about Canada, Matthew might ease up the cold shoulder he had been giving him lately.
Alfred smiled, and slipped the DVD into his pocket.