Work Text:
tu m'as entendu
i. e minor
"Who's there?" Arthur called out, placing his violin carefully into its case. There was someone climbing up the steps behind him. It must be a man—footsteps too heavy and strides much longer than that of a woman's—footsteps that halted at Arthur's words, at the edge of the stage, judging from the time it took for the acoustics of the concert hall to bounce the sounds back to his ears. It was an unfamiliar gait, so it couldn't have been any of his siblings; they knew better to approach him without verbally announcing their presence first, anyway.
The violinist closed the case and turned to greet his visitor. "I'm sorry?" Arthur said after a long pause, though he was sure the man hadn't spoken. "I didn't quite catch that."
And still, when Arthur heard nothing from the man standing there, Arthur began to grow apprehensive. There were some shuffling noises in the general direction, and the violinist wondered what he would do if the man turned out to be a madman of some sort come to murder him. His brothers who had escorted him here were nowhere to be seen at the moment (though Arthur hadn't seen them since he was sixteen), and he had only his violin case to defend himself with.
The rustling grew louder, more frenzied, and Arthur picked his violin up, clutching it warily to his chest. He remembered the layout of the stage well enough; he began to edge away backwards, stepping over where he believed the equipment and wires were. The fear sharpened his senses and he soon recognized the scuffling sound as the rustling of clothing as when one was removing them quickly, or searching through them. Either way, Arthur did not believe that that was something for him to celebrate. He repeated himself, voice gruff, and bolted from the stage. "I can't hear you!"
ii. une voix
He had lost his voice and didn't know how to find it again. The doctors all said that physically, he was fine, he was capable of speech, he should be able to speak, and so they sent him to psychologists. They, in turn, said that there was nothing wrong, he was capable of speaking, should be able to, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. In the end, he had lost his voice, and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't find Francis's voice again.
His friends believed differently. While the medical professionals continued to tackle the cause of the problem, his friends attempted to fix it in their various ways. Usually, 'attempted' meant that they would take him to a strange place filled with strange people, and then suddenly disperse, leaving a mute Francis at the mercy of a random crowd. Their attempts always ended badly, but Francis knew that they meant well. They thought that by forcing Francis to interact with people in different situations, his voice would be miraculously brought back.
For the meantime, his friends had eased off of involuntarily taking him to obscure locations in the city and leaving him there. They had left him alone for a while after the debacle with the cement mixer, but then they'd begun to subtly press him to leave the confines of his house. He'd protested initially, since he could continue to work from home due to his profession, and if he needed anything, well, his friends popped in periodically regardless of what he said, and they could always interpret him quite easily. When confusion did arise, though, he could type up his thoughts on his laptop for them to read.
Then, there was the zoo incident, in which, unfortunately, Francis's laptop had to be retired. During those few agonizing weeks, a certain albino slunk into his home with a present in apology. Gilbert had went out to replace his laptop with a newer model, one that was fitted with a program that would read out Francis's words as he typed them to simulate his speech.
"It's nothing like you," Gilbert admitted, "but it's a voice."
Francis nodded soberly, taking in Gilbert's disheartened expression, but was pleasantly surprised when his lips curved back into his devious smile. "I'll show you how to change the tone quality! How'd you like to sound like Darth Vader?"
iii.(a) perdu…
Francis had literally been driven from his home by his friends ("Haha! How long are you gonna stay in this shit-hole—a nice shit-hole, but a shit-hole all the same? Go out and get a life, Franny!"), and had a ticket stuffed into his hands ("I got this from Roderich; he says that he's actually really good! Lo siento, Francis. Gil's right; you'll thank us for this later! Go out and have fun!"). That ticket had been for a concert, featuring what was apparently a renowned violinist who'd just recently returned to big performances such as this.
Francis was sure that that ticket had had at least a pair, if not more, but his friends had all refused to go with him, and he knew that they were still trying to subtly force him to interact with others. Francis had sighed and decided that he might as well humour his friends if they'd gone through that much trouble to wrest him from his home.
He hadn't been able to grab his laptop before the ticket was pressed into his hand and he was forced out of his home, his jacket thrown to him and door slammed in his face. He'd wanted to shout for them to at least leave some food for him, and how dare they, this was his home! But, he could only make an angry sound and barely stop himself before he kicked at the door. No, he reminded himself, the door did not deserve scuff marks. He would go to this concert and perhaps find himself someone to bring back home tonight—yes, that would be the sweetest revenge.
iii.(b) …et trouvé
Francis had not been paying attention at the beginning when the orchestra had begun to play, and was fiddling with the little bits of lint in his pockets when he encountered his phone. He'd had no use for his phone after he'd lost his voice—people either conversed with him through email, or they barged right into his home—so he was surprised to find that the phone was in his jacket pocket halfway through the concert, and that it still had some battery power left. After his discovery, he fiddled with the phone instead. He hadn't been out since the zoo incident a few weeks ago, and he still felt that vague anxiety of being in a crowd. It soon faded to the back of his mind when the lead violinist came out on stage and the crowds quietened and settled down to listen—now, nobody would be trying to make awkward conversation with him, a man who could not reply, or shuffling about to their seats.
It was beautifully orchestrated, the music was. So when everyone around him was on their feet, Francis stood and clapped along with them. Of the crowd, he was the only one not cheering. It was an amazing performance, at least, more than what he was expecting. The violinist had earned himself a standing ovation, to which he took a humble bow and made his way offstage.
Francis smiled thoughtfully. Well, he couldn't very well go back empty-handed, now could he~? If one looked past the man's big eyebrows, he had a nice face; though, the eyebrows could be endearing, Francis supposed.
And so he'd waited for a chance to speak with the violinist, to give his compliments to him personally. It took a long time for the other concert-goers to disperse, and an even longer time for the violinist to finally venture from the little backroom that he was hiding in. Carrying his violin, he ventured back onto the stage to put his instrument in its case. Francis approached him, climbing up the stairs.
"Who's there?" The man called, placing the violin down carefully. Francis opened his mouth to speak, and when no words came out (of course none did, did he think that it would really change now of all times?), the man closed the case smartly, and turned to him, a slight frown on his face. "I'm sorry? I didn't quite catch that."
Francis could see the man growing suspicious, and quickly felt at his side, but his laptop wasn't there to read his message out to the big-eyebrowed violinist. Then it hit him. He felt himself down for his cell phone, fumbling when he finally pulled it out of his pocket. He quickly typed out a message on the phone, holding it out to the man, but he'd already clutched his violin case to his chest and begun to back away from him. Francis began to walk over to him to show him the message. He tried to explain by pointing at his throat with an apologetic expression, then at his phone, and offered it out to him again, but the man didn't even look at it, staring right at Francis.
Francis wished that he had his laptop and the speech function that Gilbert had installed on it. But when the man bolted from the stage, yelling "I can't hear you!" Francis really wished that he had his voice.
iv. objectives
Francis was determined to find the violinist and apologize for his silence at his concert after he learned from Roderich that the man was blind. ("Of course he is; that's part of his musical genius. Why else do you think he hasn't been putting on performances recently? He was going through intensive therapy.")
He must've frightened the poor man, approaching him all of a sudden like that, and of course he couldn't have read his message. Francis was thankful that he had Gilbert's speech application on his laptop. He would find the man, this violinist, this—he paused to look at the webpage Gilbert had directed him to—this Arthur Kirkland. He would find him and he would give his compliments then, as well as apologize for having scared him off as he had done.
His friends were all well and cooperating with him, happy that he was beginning to rejoin the world again. They offered to help him track down this man, and they conferred in secret behind his back, saying that this man might be their best bet in getting Francis to go out and interact with people again, communication barriers be damned. This looked very promising to them.
The concert had received plenty of positive feedback, so Roderich kept an eye out for more concerts that their violinist might be involved in. There didn't seem to be any, but they had Francis go out to investigate on many occasions, and he reluctantly obliged. He came back disappointed many of the times. Sometimes, though, he returned in good spirits when he'd met a particularly friendly person, or encountered a stranger that he could help in some way, and though Francis had failed in his objective, his friends had succeeded in theirs.
Francis had turned down Antonio's insistence that they go bar-hopping. He wouldn't have thought twice before agreeing, even suggest it himself had he the voice to talk the talk that matched the walk. Gilbert had tried to persuade him to come as well, but to no avail.
Francis was despondent. Their searching seemed to be in vain, and now they wanted to take him to a crowded place, a noisy place where people shouted to be heard, a place that reminded him of how he used to be, a place filled with all these wonderful conversationalists (and maybe more), that he was basically barred access from simply because he could no longer speak, and no one had the time or space to accommodate him and his laptop, even with its speech capabilities (would it even be heard over the stereo systems?).
He pushed away the nagging doubt that suggested that Arthur had already moved onto the next venue; after all, he was a renowned violinist. Perhaps they would never meet again. He refused to believe that this ended here, that they'd lost the trail. He wasn't sure why he pursued this topic relentlessly, and even his friends doubted if this was the right way to go about getting Francis to socialize again. Perhaps they were all going about it in the wrong way.
v. scent trails
His friends had all gone out, convened somewhere else to discuss things behind Francis's back, no doubt. His search was over, he supposed, and now, when he actually wanted to go for a drink, there was no one here. He sighed. Just this once. Just this once.
As he took the cab down to the bar that Gilbert had suggested weeks previous, Francis typed up his orders on his laptop. He could always make changes to it later, but he didn't want to have to type it all up from scratch while the bartender looked on impatiently.
When he reached the address and paid the driver, he was surprised to find that it was, in fact, a pub. Of course, bars and pubs were all the same to Gilbert. It seemed to be quite a rowdy one as well; warm lights from the inside silhouetted figures frenziedly dancing to slurred singing. Francis almost turned right back around, but the cab had already driven off and it would be a pain to get another one. Besides, from the sounds of it, he wouldn't even have to try and speak in there—he wouldn't be heard over the noise.
He was already there, he might as well chance it. Francis stepped into the building; it was even more crazed from the inside. People pressed in from all sides, dancing, chanting, singing. And above it all, the sound of a fiddle carried. Francis made his way through the crowd and sat down at the bar, preparing to show the bartender his order when he noticed that there was a game on, which the red-haired man sitting next to him was watching intently, groaning when Chelsea scored.
There was a loud thump behind him and a subsequent appreciative roar from the crowd. Francis turned to see what was going on, and found the fiddler stepping over tabletops, his singing and playing growing louder, egging the crowd on in their captivating tantric dance. The striking chords underneath a melody rapidly increasing in volume, arpreggiating and modulating e minor, g major, c major, e minor, fingers flitting over the strings quickly, quickly, quickly, gliding into keys and modes in a way that would've left even Roderich breathless because it was more wild rush and adrenaline than structured sonata cycle.
It made it even more amazing because Francis had heard this sound before, but when he'd first heard it, it was contained in a sonata. Now, it flowed freely, improvised in leaping melody and tabletop dancing with the backing of a roaring crowd.
"Yeah," the red-haired man sitting beside him said and Francis looked over, surprised to find him looking back at him, and not still watching the football match, "that's Arthur."
Francis wondered if he was talking to him.
"You're the guy that was at the concert," he said, examining Francis's face. Then he answered his unspoken question, "I was there on the sidelines. I saw you trying to show Arthur something on your mobile, I just didn't think I needed to step in. Artie can handle himself." The man chuckled, taking another long drink. "You, on the other hand," he chuckled, "you didn't even know he was blind!"
Francis gave him a sour look. He pulled his laptop out and began to type. "And you, my friend, have failed to notice that I cannot speak." He leaned back, pleased at both the program's ability to recognize the need for the use of a scathing tone (though it was only a coincidence), and the red-haired man's temporary shock.
"Well," he said, clearing his throat, then he looked at Francis, sticking his hand out. "Call me Scotty; I'm Arthur's brother."
Francis snickered inwardly, seeing the pink dusting the redhead's cheeks, and shook his hand. "I'll buy you a drink," Scotty said, his embarrassment still evident, though he was trying to make up for it, Francis could tell. So he nodded and smiled in thanks as a drink was placed in front of him (not what he would've ordered, but it was on Scotty's tab, so he wouldn't complain). He finished the drink quickly, not believing what he was hearing, even as Arthur hopped down from the table, not needing anyone's help getting down.
"Oh come on, Artie! There's a cute guy asking for yer number!" another one of his brothers grabbed him in a headlock and yelled the digits out despite Arthur's protests and flailing.
He'd found him. He didn't even question the uselessness of knowing Arthur's number, since nether texting or calling would work in their case, but he was preoccupied with being drunk on success to notice. He took a swig of Scotty's drink, grinning from ear to ear.
vi. blindsight
"Hello! I don't believe I've introduced myself before. My name is Francis Bonnefoy and I was at your concert a few weeks ago."
It would have served as a good introduction, a little stiff, but still presentable…. Save for the fact that the damn device was still stuck in its Daffy Duck voice, and as soon as Francis heard the first few words, he had paled and tried to disable it or change the tone quality.
Arthur was caught between raising an eyebrow, unimpressed, or bursting out into laughter. So he chuckled softly as he tucked into his meal, violin safely at his side in its case. Arthur's brothers had convened and then gave Francis their rubber stamp of approval, finally allowing him to speak with Arthur, though Arthur maintained his position that they were being overzealous with their quote-unquote 'bodyguard' positions and they could just stand down or risk seeming like the rabid dogs that they were.
"I wonder what your voice sounds like," Arthur said. "Would it be loud or quiet? High or deep? No doubt squeaky," he laughed, which earned him a well-aimed kick under the table—a kick that Arthur easily avoided, much to Francis's surprise. "Well, you'd sound more lifelike than that thing," he snickered, gesturing in the general direction of his laptop.
Currently, another one of Arthur's brothers was up on tabletops with his own violin, as Arthur had done a few days ago. He seemed to be in his element, more comfortable up there than Arthur was, but maybe it was because he could actually see where he was stepping.
"Patty enjoys it; the attention, I mean," Arthur said. "He can't read scores, but he's got a great ear and he can improvise fluently."
Francis blinked, turning back to Arthur, surprised.
Arthur ducked his head and went back to his fish and chips and pub pies. "I'm sorry, I must've alarmed you."
"Are you reading my mind?" Francis typed, amused. The computer read it out in a borderline panicked tone though, and Arthur must've taken it the wrong way because he scoffed. Francis mentally cursed the laptop.
"No, I am not reading your mind," Arthur said, fidgeting slightly.
"But you're blind," Francis typed, then added, "You shouldn't be able to see me."
Arthur wiped his mouth and took a drink before saying, "I can tell that you're not looking at me, and the rest is just a matter of reasoning out where else you'd be looking at, and since there's no game on, you must be looking at someone else."
"Yes, but how can you tell that I'm not looking at you? Can you still see a little?" Francis typed it up, and as his laptop read it out, he waved his hand slowly in front of Arthur's face. There was no reaction to the change in light, but Arthur slowly frowned.
"Stop that," he growled.
"SEE?!" Francis typed.
"No, I can't see," Arthur said bluntly.
Francis reached forward to snatch a chip from his plate, and Arthur swatted his arm away. He'd been aiming for his hand, but that worked well enough to prove Francis's point, he realized. So he sighed as Francis crossed his arms.
"I've a condition known as blindsight," Arthur said. "I can't see you per se, but I can just tell when you're reaching for my food—now stop that—or if you've turned away from me. It's not really seeing, rather than sensing and feeling. And sometimes it even plays tricks on me," Arthur murmured. It was as if he wanted to see more than he was able to.
Francis listened intently, noting when Arthur's expression fell just slightly. His face was like an open book, probably because he couldn't see others' reactions to his expressions. Whatever Arthur was thinking of now, it wasn't making him very happy. But when Francis adopted a wolfish grin, looking right at Arthur, he seemed to notice, looking up at him with a wary frown. "What?"
Francis began to type, turning the volume up to max as the fiddle too, grew louder.
'Would you be able to tell if I was naked?'
Francis grinned, then hit enter.
(After a lengthy display of just how accurately violent a blind man could be, in conclusion, the answer was yes.)
vii. sucrée
Francis had noted the button when Arthur pressed it the first time he'd invited him to escort him back to his flat; not the number (floor 20), but rather the positioning of the button—the uppermost button on the right-hand side of the elevator panel. No doubt, Arthur chose to live on that floor for what he would grudgingly admit was for his ease. Francis would take it to mean that Arthur chose floor twenty so that his condition wouldn't be noticeable to other passengers; that would result in an atmosphere more unbearable than the tasteless music in the very same elevator.
After Francis had realized that, he'd waited until they were alone in the lift before taking Arthur's hand and placing his fingers on the much more accessible penthouse button, and looked at him questioningly.
Arthur had snorted disdainfully. "Why didn't I rent out the penthouse?" He paused for a moment, and Francis nodded, watching Arthur's features twist into a wry smile. "I may be a renowned musician, but my paycheck doesn't quite allow me to live in the splendor you seem to think that I can afford."
True to his words, Arthur's flat was small and simple, but felt cozy. It felt…. homey, and welcoming. It was also very tidy, and Francis could very well imagine why. Arthur had told him enough stories of the early days of his condition, and whatever he didn't say, his brothers had filled in for him ("Poor bloke; stumbling all over the place, cursing up a storm, he was, those first few months—Years.Years.").
"Make yourself at home," he'd said. "Relax," he'd said. And when the little flat began filling with smoke, Francis was horrified to find that Arthur cooked for himself. He didn't need a laptop message to shoo Arthur out of the kitchen. Francis sighed again, hurrying over to open the window. He grabbed one of his folders and shoved it into Arthur's hand, manipulating his hand into a fanning motion and set him directly underneath the smoke detector so that he would stop trying to 'help' him clean up the mess in the kitchen because he was being a household hazard, and not just because he was blind.
"I had everything under control," Arthur had said petulantly half an hour later as they sat at the kitchen table, eating the meal that Francis had been able to salvage.
Francis rolled his eyes, not bothering to use his laptop to tell him exactly what he thought of his cooking skills. Arthur stomped on his foot underneath the table, and Francis winced. "Don't roll your eyes at me."
Francis made an indignant noise to which Arthur snickered. "And I have a home-field advantage as well."
He was silenced when a spoonful of curry rice hit him in the face. Spluttering, he glared at Francis who was chuckling, pleased at his reaction. Oh yes, he did.
That's when the mango chutney was poured over Francis's head, surprising him. Arthur soon followed the sauce, pinning him down; the chairs were lying overturned on the ground, and Francis could only stare up at him.
"Don't throw food," Arthur hissed. Then he smirked, guessing what Francis would say. "Your hair will be fine. And you're lucky I'm not one to waste food." He touched Francis's face gently, the fingers sliding down until he encountered the chutney. He swiped a bit of it onto his finger, licking it off. "Sweet," he commented. "Then," he murmured, "I'll enjoy the rest of my meal…"Then he leaned down kiss his cheek, slowly to allow Francis to push him away if he wanted. He missed, ending up with a faceful of sticky floorboard.
Francis chuckled at his attempts, and cupped Arthur's face, leaning up to kiss him. I'm here.
viii. les bêtes sauvages
"So how did you end up here?" Francis typed and the laptop read out one day.
"Well," Arthur said, setting his violin down carefully, "I met a man without a voice at a concert of mine, and was stalked for months by him and his friends."
Francis frowned, knowing that Arthur knew fully well that that was not the question as he'd intended it, but the first thing he typed was: "I haven't been out with my friends ever since we went to the zoo."
Arthur scoffed. "I didn't take you for a recluse. Your outing couldn't have been enough to dissuade you from stepping foot outside of your home," he added doubtfully.
It was Francis's turn to scoff. "I suppose your zoo outings don't result in scraping your friend out of an angry chimpanzee exhibit, or an escaped rhino. Last I heard, there was still a capuchin monkey still at large."
Arthur listened, morbidly amused. "So that incident at the zoo that everyone was touting about was you."
Francis shook his head quickly, fingers struggling to fly over the keys, trying to both rationalize as well as explain.
Arthur seemed to sense his denial, and before Francis could finish his explanation, Arthur added, "You know, it was because of that zoo incident that our attention was brought to this city. It was because of that news story that my brothers decided to come here. I believe Patrick said that 'this city is alive. You boys are just too dull to see it.'"
Francis's fingers had paused in mid-flight, staring at Arthur. The zoo incident had brought them here.
"My brothers and I are like… symbiotic organisms, I suppose, to put it crudely," Arthur said, moving on quickly when he seemed to notice Francis's expression. "I provide the money and they provide the shelter and food and whatnots of everyday life. They're also keen to assert themselves as my 'bodyguards' though they forget that I'm the breadwinner."
Francis quickly backspaced. "You mean to say that you only came for the wild animals?"
Arthur paused. "I can't tell if that's an innuendo or a legitimate question when you're using that ridiculous tone."
Francis chuckled and changed the tone quality from that suave new one that Gilbert had installed for him after he'd botched a download and let a slew of viruses onto his laptop. Thankfully Gilbert had been able to save his laptop, but not without a few snarky remarks about Francis being so technologically backward.
Arthur sighed, deciding to answer him while he looked for a new voice. "And because we managed to secure a venue for a performance here. It's a small town, and I thought it might be best to start slowly, ease into the business again."
Francis nodded, and then selected a prototype recorded voice, and typed out his question. Arthur waited, hearing the clicking of the keyboard.
"And what do you think of the wild animals in this town?" Arthur's voice came from the laptop, robotic, but it was Arthur nonetheless.
Arthur's face turned red, scowling at Francis.
"Winky face~" Francis added in Arthur's voice.
ix. warmth
Arthur reached out slowly, carefully, and placed a hand over Francis's eyes. "This is sort of what it's like; not completely dark, yet certainly not bright. It was… strange… at first," he murmured, "after the accident." He shifted closer to Francis, having long grown accustomed to his silence. Francis ran a hand through Arthur's hair in a soothing motion when he scoffed.
"What an idiotic way to lose your eyesight—as a teenager playing polo!" Arthur laughed bitterly, and it was Francis's turn to scoff. Arthur didn't take offense, no; he supplied Francis's words: "I know you think polo is a pompous sport, I know that.
"But just remember that I can still beat you at football!" he said. "Oh yes, yes I can!" he added when Francis made an affronted sound and nudged him quite forcefully with his leg. "I most definitely can! I'll prove it to you, and then I can boast of it—Francis Bonnefoy having lost a football match to a blind man!" He laughed.
Francis grumbled and pinched his waist. Arthur hissed in response, smacking his hand. "What do you mean I'm not blind? Are you daft? Of course I am! I'm not playing at this! Just who do you think I am?"
Francis just made a derisive noise. "Oh," said Arthur. "I guess if you look at it like that… Blindsight and all. But that shouldn't count," he said; only arguing for the sake of not letting Francis be right. "It's only a sensory sort of thing. I still can't actually see," he groused. "Though I would give anything to b—"
Francis had had enough of his griping. He'd closed his eyes cooperatively when Arthur had placed his hand over them, and then listened to his complaints (mostly) silently, and now he would like to get some sleep. So, with Arthur's hand still over his eyes, he put a finger to where he thought Arthur's lips were. It was a lucky guess, and Arthur was effectively hushed. Francis gave him a drowsily triumphant smile that he would probably be able to sense if he had any sense at all, that silly old Englishman.
"Oh…" Arthur returned Francis's smile, understanding, and ceded to the sleepy warmth that they were emanating. "I see... I hear you."