Work Text:
Feyre hated French. She hated the snobbish accent, the garish vowels and the fanciful spelling that had no logic or practical use. Whoever dubbed it the language of arts and love and all that was beautiful in life was a fool. Beauty was simplicity. It was a stroke of paint on a blank canvas, vibrant colors coming to life under an inspired gaze. It was the stars glowing in the night sky, the violet of amethyst and crocuses, an irreverent smirk on sensuous lips -
She scowled at the turn her thoughts had taken, fighting the blush creeping up her neck.
“Here, translate these sentences for me.”
She huffed, rolling her eyes at the tutor the principal had forced on her. As if she needed more reasons to stand Rhysand putain de Night’s company.
See? She spoke French just fine.
He tapped the paper in front of him. “It’s just so I can see what level you’re at.”
She dragged it to her side of the table, avoiding his gaze. The handwriting was elegant, the letters beautifully looping into one another.
Rhysand est le gars le plus beau du lycée.
She frowned at the name, knowing mischief was afoot. It was a simple, short sentence, and yet it took longer and much more effort than she cared to admit, but –
“Are you fucking kidding me? Just how stupid do you think I am?”
Rhys’s eyes were twinkling with amusement. “What is it?”
She nearly slammed her hand – or his face – on the table. “This says Rhysand is the most handsome guy in school!”
“I’m glad you think so, Feyre darling,” he purred, his voice sinfully seductive in the shadowed corner of the stuffy school library.
“No, I –” she protested but she knew her blazing cheeks betrayed her.
She’d had a strong, albeit reluctant crush on Rhysand since sophomore year. He was one year older, her best friend’s cousin, the most popular guy in school and every other trope imaginable, but whenever their eyes locked and he winked or smirked or smiled, she stopped caring how silly she was being.
Rhys was already writing down other sentences, and she could see his name every couple of lines. Gods, how was she supposed to keep a straight face, let alone learn French, when the hottest guy in existence seemed hell-bent on teasing her until she died of embarrassment and/or intense emotional repression?
“Since we’re past that, how about we move to la conjugaison?”
Feyre scowled at him. “Prick,” she muttered under her breath. He’d known that was the area she needed help with from the beginning.
Rhysand … (être, pr ésent) merveilleux.
Je … (faire, futur simple) n’importe quoi pour ses beaux yeux.
J’… (adorer, pr ésent) la compagnie de Rhysand.
Feyre was careful to keep her face blank as she worked through the ridiculous exercise, until the last sentence had her snapping her head up so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.
(Vouloir, tu) … sortir avec moi? ‘Would you like to go out with me?’
She couldn’t gauge Rhys’s intentions with his face buried in a textbook. Was he serious? Or was it just his usual shameless flirting?
Feyre’s heart was beating so loud she was sure he could somehow hear it. The guy never missed anything. There was no way he didn’t know about her silly crush on him, and he wasn’t so cruel to tease her this way… or was he?
There was only one way to find out.
She steeled herself and scribbled down at the bottom of the page, her handwriting a messy scrawl near Rhys’s picture perfect penmanship.
“Rhys,” her voice was breathless. She cleared her throat and pushed the paper towards him. He slowly closed the book, or maybe it was only slow to Feyre’s heightened senses. His gaze was inscrutable. “When you finish correcting, there is a question in vocabulary I need your help on.”
He clicked his pen open and got to work. She winced at all the wrong answers she had, barely less than half, then held her breath as he read what she’d written.
She couldn’t read French upside down, nor could she decipher Rhys’s face through its impenetrable mask, so she waited.
After what seemed like an eternity, he handed her back the paper. He had filled out the blanks she’d left for him.
Feyre est… belle (adjectif). ‘Feyre is beautiful.’
Je voudrais … sortir avec elle. ‘I would like to go out with her.’
She bit her lip, shyly glancing back at him. His eyes were glowing, as bright as the stars in the night star, as vibrant as amethyst and crocuses.
“So?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, I would love to go out with you.”
Rhysand’s answering smile was nothing short of magnifique.