disclaimer: nonnnn.
dedication: uh, sudden burst of inspiration?
notes1: i feel really shitty that i haven't updated this in forever.
notes2: …i thought this chapter was going to be back to depressing. uh, be happy?
summary: "And me, I took my head in my hands, and I cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.
pairing: franceengland.

Chapter 10:
(he put the ashes in the ashtray)

When we got home after visiting the park, I was kind of glad I didn't have any homework. We went immediately to his room, but we don't sex or even make out. We just…talk.

We're leaning on our sides to face other, the room pitch black except for the light form the kitchen under the door crack.

"Sometimes, I think that she's hiding things from me," he says, playing with my hand that tangled with his.

"How do you figure that?" I ask, even though I know its true.

"I met my brother once, tu sais," he responds, and my shocked reaction is enough to keep him going. "Looks a lot like me. Well, en peu. Same hair, same tall lankiness. But he has her eyes."

I'm really surprised, because this is something that I would have never even thought of.

"We knew we were brothers, even if he did speak some weird French," he continues. I can tell he's not looking at me anymore, but at something distant memory, deep in his mind. "But we also knew that had been separated for a reason. We started mailing each other, leaning about one another, trying to figure out why our parents split.

"Il s'appelle Matthieu. He lives in Canada. We have the same birthday, same names on our birth certificates, and were both born in the same hospital. But his — our, whatever — father is absolutely rich. He lives in an enormous house in the richest district of Québec, and son père is a doctor."

I can't think of anything comforting to say, so all that comes out of my mouth is, "Oh."

"Mamon discovered one of his letters, once. It was the one where we traded birth certificates. She asked who it was from. I told her.

"She went absolutely fucking psycho. She threw things, she hit me, and she told me I was never, under any circumstances, allowed to talk to him again. She threw away all the envelopes, all the letters, everything that ever proved he existed." He pauses, and it sounds strangled. I can tell he's trying to resist crying.

"I just wish she had told me," he whispers, and I lift our intertwined hands to cheek and brush away his tears. "It hurts so much, knowing that she lied to me. That she's still lying, and that she doesn't want me to know. The whole reason we moved from France is because of that.

" 'It'll be good for you,' elle a me dit. 'New changes.' I knew she was punishing me. I knew London was going to be my own personal hell." He smiles, then, his fingertips ghosting my cheek. "But she was right, anyway, even if she didn't mean to be. I met Gilbert and Antonio — and, most of all, you."

I smile at him and lean in to kiss him, gently. He pulls me close to him, and I love how warm he feels.

"Je ne sais pas qu'est-ce je ferais sans toi."

"Neither do I," I answer honestly. Really, my life would be miserable without him. I would still be the same old prude who spent all my time with Student Council. I would still be the same little pussy who couldn't ever stand up to my father, who could never break out the hair dye.

"Je t'aime," he breathes, his fingers gripping the back of my shirt, and he pulls my chin toward him for a soft kiss.

I smile as I say, "I love you, too."