Judge a Book By Its Cover [Francis]

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The first things that Arthur Kirkland had thought to pack for his two-year stay were books. An entire suitcase full, if he were to be precise. They had been a monstrosity to lug around, but he couldn’t let his fate be determined by the lack of diversity in an academy’s library.
Books were Arthur’s life, his everything.
Which is why as soon as he’d unpacked into his dorm room, on a dreary Saturday afternoon, he’d headed straight for the library. Just to scope things out, really. He had no classes to attend that day, after all, and there’d be plenty of time to wander through the rest of the academy later. Arthur planned to spend his time immersed in writing.

The room, as he inspected closely, was spacious. Multiple tables dotted the center and aisles of shelves lined the walls. The library was near empty, all but for a few studying students and an exhausted librarian who didn’t spare the young man so much as a second glance. He cracked his knuckles and strode in with a determined smirk. Now was the time of judgment.

The young man followed rather strict rules when it came to browsing literature. For one, he never dared to read a back cover synopsis - those flashes of illusion gave him more information about the book than he needed to know. Cover art, though lovely at times, did not determine the overall quality of the book. No, Arthur did not place these decisions based on superficial details. What mattered the most was how the book felt in his hands. Natural, inviting. Others, old and worn. He’d always have a vague sense of how many people the story had impacted, how many lives it had changed.

The variety throughout the library was fairly adequate. It contained many of the classics that he’d read time and again, which was sufficient.
Then again, most of the books were new to him: peculiar, modern, and American.
And that was far from appeasing. Though, he mused, it may do him good to broaden his mind, once in a while. The young man picked out a few stories unknown to him, just as a mix with the rest. He worked at a quick pace, collecting this book and that with only a moment of consideration.
What Arthur found most interesting was the section labeled “Foreign”, which seemed to contain a mish-mosh of genres from all over the world. Asher was known to be an academy built on diversity, and this was certainly a courteous touch for those who weren’t speaking English as a first language. Arthur ended up taking many a novel from this section: from the names of the authors, he inferred that a few were Italian and French, one was Bulgarian, and the last, Russian. By the time he’d finished, his stack of selected books spanned the length of his torso. He glanced this way and that, a light smile adorning his face. The only matter of affairs left was in securing a niche.

Arthur always took to finding a comfortable, secluded spot where others seldom bothered to look. There were two ways that he could possibly escape fictional projections: by self-will, or by an outside disturbance. As time had tested, all it took was a light shake to melt back into reality. If someone were to pay attention for more than a few seconds, they’d realize that his glassy eyes and blank expression while reading were unnatural; this normally led to being jostled awake and out of his blissful illusion. This eminently irked Arthur. Being out in the open would do him no good.

In this specific case, he chose to hide in the history aisle: rows upon rows of dust-coated, heavy volumes, all contained far from the entrance. Arthur nestled at the dead end, his back resting against the wall. The space between the two impending shelves was narrow; long enough for his shoulders to fit, with a few inches of room to adjust. Legs tucked, his neck craned as he stared blankly into the book. Once every minute or so, his hand mechanically turned a page. Though it would be strange for some to believe, at that precise moment, he was floating in a canoe with Henry David Thoreau.

The Night Thoreau Spent In Jail. It was the first book Arthur had picked from his pile. Historical fiction wasn’t always (or ever) his first choice, but this was a play, and as far as he could tell, a tale to be treasured. He hadn’t raised any expectations, but as the story rolled on, Arthur found himself to be somewhat enthralled. The timing of the play’s ever-changing scenes was near brilliance, the humor was smooth and intelligent, and the characters were far from disappointing. Arthur felt a small bit of admiration for the protagonist, especially in his stubborn and argumentative nature. As far as an American book went, it was satisfactory.
Yes, things were shaping up well, the way he saw it.

”We are born as innocents. We are polluted by advice. Here is life in front of us, like the surface of this pond, inviting us to sail on it. A voyage, an experiment. Waiting to be performed.”

Arthur couldn’t help but find amusement in how theatrical Thoreau was - gesturing this way and that, his eyes alight with passionate ideals. He spoke feverishly of Transcendentalism, living joyously by every last word he uttered. Miss Ellen Sewell fidgeted opposite him, smiling and interested, but obviously unused to a man of his caliber. Arthur took in everything surrounding him: the shimmering lake at high noon, the far-off chirping of birds, and sighed in content.

Perhaps his stay here wouldn’t be so dreadful, after all.

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Every now and then, Francis would sit down and read a romantic novel.

He enjoyed reading; it was a pleasant enough pastime. It wasn’t always his first choice (cooking probably claimed that spot), but he wouldn’t adamantly object to the prospect of a good book.

And so, he found himself on a rather boring Saturday afternoon with nothing to do. He had already completed a majority of his homework, and didn’t feel like finishing the rest of it immediately. The idea of visiting the Academy’s library struck upon him when he began reminiscing about a book he had read in previous years – Francis was hopelessly in love with it, and had a sudden longing to read it once again: Les Misérables by Victor Hugo.

It was a beautiful and tragic story, filled with romanticism of the mid-19th century and taking place during the French Revolution. It was his favorite book, and he would tear up every time he read it (which wasn’t exactly unusual). Les Misérables told a tale that would always touch his heart, causing it to break into a thousand pieces.

Francis entered the library, a small, wry smile on his face as he already thought about Cosette and Marius. He found their love to be far more bittersweet and pained than Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Francis did not dislike Shakespeare’s work (he had enjoyed a Midsummer Night’s Dream), but he most certainly did not love it.

He easily and familiarly made his way to the historical fiction section of the library. He searched among the hundreds and hundreds of colorful books’ spines, humming to himself and fingers brushing along the smooth edges.

After a brief minute or so of looking, Francis found the book. He happily plucked it off the shelf, still smiling to nobody in particular, and quickly scanned it over. It was just as he remembered it…

At that moment, he senior happened to recognize the fact that the library wasn’t as quiet as it usually was. There was humming coming from somewhere, and he couldn’t quite place w—

It was then Francis realized it was him who was humming.

Immediately panicked, Francis looked down the aisle on the left from him. No one was there; it was empty. He then sharply glanced the other way and to his horror, he saw another blonde student, seemingly reading his book in a daze. His eyes were a stunning shade of green, but Francis paid no attention to that. He could only noticed that they were unfocused and in an almost dreamlike state.

Normally, if a person was under the Siren Song’s spell, they would come flocking to him, but Francis didn’t have time to focus on this particular detail. All he could think about was that he caused a fellow classmate to fall victim to his cursed ability because of his carelessness. He launched himself at the other, placed his left hand on the boy’s shoulder, and started shaking him vigorously.

“Ah, hello… S’il vous plait, wake up, mon ami! Please, wake up…” Francis begged, his right hand clutching Les Misérables tightly. He continued to shake him. The French teen was growing more and more concerned as time went on and he got no reply. “Hello?”

–she stared at him, her blue eyes empty; entranced. She gazed down upon him with those vacant eyes with a faux smile, almost as if expecting something.

“Maman? Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas, Maman?”

He didn’t understand why she stood there, waiting. Her apron was adulterated by specks of flour and some other unidentifiable liquid. It smelled of her homemade crepes.

She didn’t answer, still smiling. But it wasn’t like her usual, warm smile that he adored. This smile was void of any emotion. Just lips curling upwards into a “smile”. It scared him.

“Maman? S'il vous plaît, réveille-toi! Réveille-toi Maman! Réveille-toi–“

“Wake up!” Francis shouted, not realizing exactly how close he was to breaking down. He forgot his surroundings. He was having another breakdown, his counselor had warned him of what to do in situations such as these. Stay calm and breathe. In and out. In and out.

“Shhh!” A tired librarian shushed from her desk, obviously irritated at the noise disturbing her library. Francis paid no heed to her and nearly pushed the other boy to the ground as his shaking only continued to steadily become more violent.

He felt like his younger, seven year old self again. Alone, afraid, and having absolutely no idea as to what he should do.

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((AHAHAHAHAHaaha... What am I doing with my life THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE HAPPY NOT ANGSTY BUT LOOK HOW WELL THAT WORKED OUT. FORGIVE MEEEEEEE *flies away in the sun*

Also I probably used the wrong French I'm sorry))

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Arthur had done his best to ignore the interruption when he first felt it starting. This was a difficult path to tread, but with a certain amount of resistance, the projections could continue on, despite outside disturbances. They moved forward with only a small bump in the images; almost like a scratch on a record. However, after what felt like the third rough shake, Thoreau and the canoe were starting to fade out. The process of moving from fiction to reality was occasionally slow, and Arthur spent the period of time tapping his foot impatiently, wondering who the hell had found him and just what they wanted. Whomever it was, they were about to receive a fierce scolding.

Or so he had planned.

The assaulter in question was in such close proximity that it made Arthur’s heart jump. He’d crouched down to Arthur’s level with one hand on the Englishman’s shoulder, his blonde locks nearly inches from the bookworm’s face. Out of instinct, Arthur scruffed up his legs, trying to move backwards and put distance between them - he soon realized that it was impossible, as he couldn't press any further into the wall. Thankfully, the flustered feeling subsided when he noticed his peer’s near hysteria. The student's vibrant blue eyes seemed to clear when he noticed Arthur’s consciousness, but it was obvious that he was still panicked. Something like grief was spread across his face, and it struck a long-forgotten feeling in the back of the Englishman’s mind. The vague remembrance indicated that it was déjà vu, that he’d somehow been in this situation before. The obscure familiarity was unnerving.

He gulped, realizing that his throat had turned dry. The adolescent promptly shut his book and set it aside, giving all of his focus to this stranger. It was an extremely uncomfortable situation, and he felt the need to say something, at least. So with a gruff voice (scratched from disuse, as he hadn't spoken for the entirety of the day), he stated the first thing that came to mind.

“Goodness, would you relax? I’m awake now.”

Not good.
As soon as the harsh words had left his lips, Arthur cringed, instantly regretting them. Sure, the boy had rather violently woken him up, but he seemed to be at his wit’s end. It was a pitiful sight, and it tugged at a feeling deep inside of the Englishman. Despite many rumors that his previous school had started, Arthur’s heart was not made of stone. He reached forward and gently grasped at the boy’s sleeve in an effort to better calm him. The bookworm’s eyebrows furrowed and he tilted his head slightly. Arthur may have been irked, but there was benevolence in him yet. His tone quickly turned from agitated to calm.

“Are you alright?”

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Francis had nearly been on the verge of having a panic attack. Or, to be completely clear, he was already in the midst of having one. His hands were shaking, his body was trembling and his chest hurt with a terrible pain. He may have been overreacting to others, certainly, but he was truly frightened. He had managed to prevent this from happening ever since he was younger, and he had never wanted to see anyone in a trance like that again.

But he was surprised when the boy blinked a few times and then turned to scowl at him. He felt slightly confused, as that hadn’t happened before, but he was relieved that it had seemingly worked. Perhaps since he had gained more control over the ability, it was easier for the person to awaken…?

“Goodness, would you relax? I’m awake now.”

Francis was very lost now. People under the spell of the Siren’s Song didn’t remember being in a trance. Perhaps he had made a mistake? Oh, how embarrassing that would be! But it seemed that he had.

“Uh…” He said intelligibly, standing there like a complete fool and flushed indignantly at the prospect. He was going to find out exactly what had happened, and maybe it would aid him in understanding his cursed power.

“Are you alright?”

“I am… fine, my apologies,” No, he wasn’t, not quite yet. But he was in the process of recovering. He offered a polite smile, his breath beginning to slow back down to its normal pace – but not at a rate quite fast enough for him. ”But, euh, you are alright as well?” Francis smoothly added, genuine concern evident in his blue eyes. He needed to confirm whether he had been responsible or not for his fellow student’s apparent trance.

The senior took a moment now to finally peruse the other boy’s face, now that it was finally out of the book. He had sandy, short and somewhat un-kept blonde hair and a rather lean figure, approximately the same height as Francis himself. He studied his expression for anything noticeabl –

Mon Dieu. What were those monstrous things resting above those green eyes? They were absolutely atrocious! Francis shuddered, and immediately averted his gaze. He couldn’t believe someone could have eyebrows that thick, let alone look at them!

But Francis needed to remember his manners, despite the boy having humongous caterpillars that had apparently fossilized and nestled themselves at the bottom of his forehead. He was required to be polite in company he didn’t know. Yes.

Don’t look away, don’t look away…

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“Well, I was,” He commented evenly, keeping a neutral expression. It was important to be courteous when first meeting someone, no matter how rudely awoken one had been. Besides, the look of utter anguish just seconds ago on the other boy’s face was enough to dent Arthur’s conscience. He seemed very scared, for some reason. Whatever it was, the bookworm decided to refrain from biting remarks from that point on out. He was chivalrous enough to know never to kick a man while he was down.

Instead, it was time to hone in on his inner Sherlock Holmes.

The boy wasn’t wearing an academy uniform. That made sense, as it was the weekend; Arthur had been informed that students could dress casually around this time. He gripped a copy of Les Misérables in his hand, which sparked the bookworm’s curiosity. He recalled some painful feelings over that particular novel; Hugo’s creativity formed some of the most astounding scenery he’d ever seen.
Ah, but Arthur digressed. He focused in again.
The boy wore trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, both fitted. He was obviously a man, due to the range of his voice, stubble, and lack of a womanly figure. Angular jaw, flowing blonde hair. From the shine of product in his hair to his neatly trimmed eyebrows, it was easy to infer that he paid attention to his looks – everything about him screamed elegance. It wasn’t surprising, as his accent was very distinctly French. The Englishman suddenly felt conscious of his ratty green sweater and torn jeans, but left that feeling aside once he got a good look at the boy’s face.

It frightened Arthur how easily he was lost in those blue eyes.
Something about them was particularly peculiar – distracting, despite the Frenchman’s half-disgusted expression. Ah, yet another person was having an over-reaction to his eyebrows. He would have rolled his eyes, had he not made a pact to be polite. What drew in Arthur’s focus was not necessarily beauty, but remembrance. It was irksome, how familiar the gaze felt to him, and yet…the bookworm couldn’t place just how they’d previously met.

“It seems as though…” he mumbled, thinking aloud. His tone was soft, weak. Vulnerable.

It became apparent that Arthur’s hand still held a grip on the boy’s sleeve. He shook his head slightly and removed it, a simple frown forming once more. Open weaknesses were deadly, and it wouldn’t do himself any justice to become an easy target. Especially in relation to this pretty boy. And yet again, he was forgetting his manners. Arthur hardened his gaze and held out his right hand, turning stoic by default.

“Arthur Kirkland. Bibliokinetic, fresh off the boat. Pleasure to meet you, Mister…?”

Hopefully the Frenchman’s name would trigger some sort of memory in Arthur’s mind. He had to get to the bottom of this feeling of déjà vu.

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As he was unable to take his eyes off of the other’s eyebrows, Francis felt a nagging tug as if he had met him before. Surely I would have remember seeing those monstrosities somewhere before, he thought jokingly to himself, but as he did so, the feeling became more intense. His expression curved into a frown, now concentrating as he attempted to remember just where he may have possibly seen the boy previously. It was most definitely more than simply seeing him around school; it wouldn’t give Francis such a feeling.

“It seems as though…” Francis was dragged out of his private thoughts by the other’s muttered words, and he blinked. Judging by his expression, it appeared that almost as if he was in the same predicament as he was – some form of nostalgia striking upon them. And besides that, he noticed bemusedly, it seemed as though he was also struggling to remain polite. But Francis couldn’t really say anything about that; he had interrupted him, after all. “Arthur Kirkland. Bibliokinetic, fresh off the boat. Pleasure to meet you, Mister…?”

Kirkland.

Kirkland.

Francis could only stare at the boy – Arthur, not even twitching for a moment. Then he snapped himself out of his trance, inwardly slapping himself. He laughed, as if a burden was taken off his chest. ”Kirkland? Oh Dieu, Kirkland… C’est pourquoi!”

A few seconds later, Francis realized what a fool he must sound like, especially for his sudden switch to his first language. There was also the fact that they were in the library, and the librarian from her desk glared at him again, ready to kick him out this time. He swallowed his laughter now, finally ceasing it.

”M-My apologies,” He managed to gasp out, another snicker escaping. He inhaled deeply, and slowly came down from his sudden high, smiling widely. He now knew why Arthur seemed so familiar -- it was most likely because of Iain. He could start to see the resemblance now. ”How rude of me. I am Francis Bonnefoy, pleasure to meet you.” He hesitated for a brief moment, before continuing. ”My ability is the Siren Song.”

He hadn’t wanted to immediately inform Arthur of what he could do, but he was remaining courteous – Arthur had introduced himself with his ability. ”I should explain myself.” Well, actually, now he had two things to explain. ”Concerning before… I saw you, and you appeared to be in a trance, yes? I realized I had been humming, and was fearful that I had accidentally triggered my ability.”