Mom!Reader x Child!England x Child!France | visit

A gentle breeze ruffled the fat raindrops that rested on top of the green foliage in your garden. All around you, trees stretched up to kiss the fluffy, white clouds overhead; light after having rained down on your garden all morning. Wide leaves of exotic plants were almost like cups as they retained the water. The leaves of your common flowers, such as buttercups, tulips and roses were a lush shade of green from all the water they'd had to drink; the stems just as wet as its surroundings. Drops trickled down the blades off grass.

Among this, in the middle of the garden, was a wooden patio. There you sat with your son of the tender age of seven.

His back was straight as he calmly sipped from a delicate China cup, painted with dainty blue flowers. He pursed his lips to swallow his mouthful when a droplet, like a brown teardrop, fell from the corner of his mouth and ran down his chin to drop down onto his crisp, white shirt.

You liked your son to dress like a gentleman, not like an uneducated boy. You always bought him the best of things. He was your entire world and you felt like he deserved the best of everything.

"Sorry, mother," he said, emerald eyes meeting yours. "I've ruined my shirt."

You smiled, reaching across the table to brush his unruly hair from his forehead. "Don't worry about it, baby. It's only a stain. Besides, we don't have any arrangements for this evening. So there's no need to worry."

He leaned into your touch, inhaling the scent of your perfume.

He loved times spent with you like this; drinking tea while he held your entire, undivided attention. He never doubted he had it all the time, because he knew he did. He saw the love shine in your eyes. But it was somehow different at times like this; when he could enjoy the tea warming him from the inside while you were sweet and tender to him.

"Where's father?"

"He's in France, remember? He promised to bring his associate here with him next week. This man promises to bring his son; Francis I believe his name is. Do you remember him? You played with him maybe two years ago. He was a charming boy."

Arthur's mood soured. He didn't remember hearing about his fathers business trip to France, but he certainly remembered the associates son. It was hard to forget hell when you've laid eyes on it. Francis was like a leech, latching onto you and showering you with compliments that turned your cheeks red and made Arthur's father laugh. But he saw through Francis; saw him for the blood-sucking creature he really was.

"Don't pull that face!" You ruffled his hair. "Hopefully he'll be more behaved than last time."

"I doubt it. How long have we been trying to teach Bella not to pee on the carpet and she still does it." Bella was his dog, one that he wasn't overly fond of. The dog, despite many attempts of being house trained, refused to go to the toilet outside and much preferred the carpet inside. She barked in the middle of the night for no reason and drank from the toilet. Plus, she liked to leap on you and take your attention away from Arthur; which he wasn't liking at all. This made that dog his enemy.

You laughed. "Don't be so rude, dear!" But you found his comment too funny to be really annoyed. "This just means the maids will have to ready the guest room for them. I should tell them this evening."

"Mother? Can I room with you for that week?"

"Whatever for?"

Arthur's cheeks darkened. He gazed down at the tablecloth that had been placed there after the maid had wiped off the table. She had chosen a tablecloth with embroidered leaves at each corner, to match the season of Spring that you were in.

"Because you're my Mum?"

"And where will your father sleep?"

He shrugged.

"I'll see if I can convince him to sleep in the other guest bedroom. I can't promise anything though. You know how your father likes to spend time with us when he's home. I doubt he'll be too happy to sleep in a separate room."

.  .  .

"Bonjour, Madame. You are looking as magnifique as zhe last time I saw you!" the young Francis said, presenting you with a bouquet of red roses, much like those in your own garden, and a beautifully shaped glass diamond with French perfume inside.

"Be careful, mother," Arthur said, glued to your side and holding your hand. "One spritz of that and you may smell like frog and bad cheese forever."

You rested a hand on his messy head. "Be nice, dear!" you warned.

He blinked innocently up at you. "But, mother, I was!"

Blue eyes cut through him but Arthur ignored them. Francis was nothing to him, unless he began to do what he had done last time. Which was stare at you with awe and admiration. It was no secret that his mother had been a lady of the night, which was the polite term for a prostitute. She dumped him off with his father and returned to her life, seemingly not even moved by this life that had come from inside her. He'd always craved the affection of a mother. And you were everything he'd envision a mother should be. But Arthur didn't want to share his mom with anyone, especially not Francis.

Static seemed to spark in the air between them, but Francis' father put a hand on his sons shoulder and said, "Now, little Prince Charming, let's follow our guests to zhe dining room and see what British cuisine has to offer. Surely nothing on zhe French!"

He fell into playful banter with your husband, over whose food was better.

Francis followed beside his father silently, footsteps so light and airy he almost seemed like a swan; gliding across the surface of the polished wooden floor like the graceful animal on water. His clothing was different to Arthur's; sophisticated in a different way to his with its beautiful silk. But Arthur's was crisp and had solid colours of green that brought out his eyes. You thought both boys looked well suited to the countries they came from; because imagining one in the others clothes just didn't suite.

At the dinner table, Arthur ate with his elbows off the table. He didn't want to be chastised for looking improper in front of guests, even if they were French.

Dinner was mostly silent, apart from idle chat as Francis's father occasionally asked you or Arthur questions.

.  .  .

"Mother?"

"Yes, my little angel?"

The nickname warmed his insides more than the soup you'd had for dinner.

He smiled and leaned against you even more, as he sat on your lap while you brushed his hair before bed. He was perfectly capable of all this himself, as you refused to let the maids pamper him too much. You wanted your son to be a gentleman, not a grown baby who couldn't even tie his own shoe laces. But he did like it when you babied him sometimes, such as this moment while you were brushing his hair.

"Is father mad at me for sleeping here?"

"Actually, he didn't mind as much as I thought he would. He's in front of the fire right now, sharing a drink with Mr. Bonnefoy and talking with him. I think he's rather over-joyed to have his good friend over and would prefer not to waste a second of it sleeping."

"And Francis?"

"In their bedroom. Shall we pay him a visit?"

Arthur brought his bushy eyebrows together. "No."

"Come on! Let's read him a story and tuck him in; I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

"I'm sure he's fine on his own."

You ignored the dark look on your sons face as you picked him up with a struggle (as he was seven now). You rested him on your hip and picked up his favourite book; Robin Hood. Knocking on the door to Francis's bedroom, you heard him grant you entrance.

Inside you found him laying in his plush, royal red blanket. He looked so tiny in that huge bed. And lonely too. The whole bed just seemed to swallow him up.

You sat at the edge of the bed, his eyes watching your every movement. Arthur sat on your lap, possessively wrapping his arms around your neck and resting his head on your shoulder.

"Would you like a bedtime story?"

"Oui, s'il vous plaît."

"It's called Robin Hood. Have you ever heard of it?"

He shook his head. You began reading the book to him, finishing it within a half hour as Francis liked to question you every so often. When you finished, he seemed like he had something to say.

"If it's no problem, would you sleep in here tonight?" he eventually asked.

Arthur shot up like a dog about to pounce and rip him to shreds. His eyes were a violent shade of green you'd never seen before. You kissed his temple which immediately calmed him down. Setting him into the bed beside Francis, you tucked them both in and lay a kiss to both of their foreheads.

"Of coarse. It's no problem. You two can share the bed and I'll bring that chair over here." There was room enough for you on the bed, but you figured your husband wouldn't like the thought of you sleeping in another man's bed, even if he hadn't slept it in yet. Plus, sharing a bed with a child that wasn't your own seemed questionable to you and you preferred to stay on the safe side of the law. So you decided to rest in the chair for the night.

You picked up the chair that was in front of the writing table, which had a sheet of paper on it with a drawing. When you looked closely, you saw that the woman standing beside a little boy looked rather like you; even wearing the same clothes you had wore to dinner. You picked it up.

"It's very nice, Francis. Do you take art classes?"

He turned a shocking shade of red, having been caught drawing a picture of his most truest desire; a mother who stood beside him with a smile. The little boy in the picture had long, blond hair and blue eyes while he held the woman's hand. It broke your heart.

"Uh, oui. I do, Madame."

You sat the chair beside the bed and took a seat, feeling two pairs of eyes on you. "Come now, it's well past both your bedtimes. Rest your eyes and go to sleep."

"Madame? May I have another kiss?"

Arthur wanted to protest, but he saw a look of utter sadness cross your face and though he didn't fully understand why, he knew enough to stay silent.

"Of coarse, Francis. Don't look so afraid when you're asking me! I won't bite!"

You got back up and kissed his nose which made him giggle, then his cheeks and finally his forehead. You ran your fingers through Arthur's coarse hair, so much unlike the silky, golden locks that Francis had.

"Goodnight, mother. I love you."

"Bonne nuit, Madame Kirkland."

"Night, boys. Sweet dreams."