Only British Summers - On Hiatus

Missing Ingredients

" Et puis il s'est enfui ! Vous pouvez imaginer à quel point j'étais désemparée. Surtout quand j'ai réalisé que- " Francis rambled, leaning forward on the stool he was perched atop in order to express his exasperation, cranberry juice sloshing dangerously close to the edge of his wine glass all the while.

" Yeah, yeah, I get it Francis, I've gotten it the first few 'undred times you've told me. The boy was a jerk, but what do you expect? " Interrupted the brunette adjacent him, her face gleaming under the sun's tight embrace. Her eyes resembled turquoise chippings, two glimmering jewles framed by strands of choppy, chocolate coated hair, a singular peach coloured flower behind her right ear.

Taking another sip from her bendy straw, Jeanne leaned back in a relaxed manor, orange juice cooling her arid mouth. " Mais comme tu dis toujours, tous les Anglais sont comme ça. "

" Je sais que c'est juste. . . J'essayais de l'aider et tout ce qu'il a fait c'est me repousser. " Pouted the Frenchman, downcast eyes watching as the crimson paint sloshed around inside his cup, reflecting his sorrow across it's smooth surface. At this, Jeanne reached across the circular table and pat Francis' shoulder sympathetically, a weak smile on her faintly tanned face. " I know, I know, you just wanted to 'elp, but the British are just to stubborn to allow that. "

At his friend's last comment Francis allowed himself a smile, brightening up considerably at the attention and empathy he received. " Tu as raison comme toujours mon ami. Il ne sert à rien d'être contrarié par une cause perdue. " Retracting her hand, Jeanne grinned at how swiftly Francis could change his expressions.

' Some things will never change. ' She observed, referring to Francis' unique ability to change moods faster than the weather, he was always so contradictory like that, the passionate young man would commonly fail to fall through with his words. Of course the boy didn't intend to do this, but he was too passionate to try and stick with one thing, whether for the better or worse.

Taking a moment to watch Francis, she came to realise the presence of a miniature bird nestled on his right shoulder and the gentle way Francis' fingers moved over it's back, receiving small chirps of delight as ruffled feathers leaned into his touch obligingly, causing Francis to awe at how cute he was.

Pierre was their name. The Bonnefoy family had past down other Pierre's for generations now, typically the strongest being kept as the heir of the Pierre name, while the others are either sold or randomly assigned a name and given to another branch of the family tree. But instead of choosing the fittest ( as was tradition ) when it came to be Francis' turn to choose the heir that time around, he had instead set his heart on owning the most adorable pipsqueak of the bunch.

Unfortunately, he had also chosen the most yappy one, so whenever Francis stayed for the summer holidays Jeanne would have the displeasure of trying to adjust to Pierre's constant chirping if she wanted to get in even a wink of sleep.

This was due to Francis staying at Jeanne's residence, as not only was she the only person Francis knew who lived in England, but he would need someone to supervise him while his parents stayed either at home or went on holiday, that was how he made his two pen pals Gilbert and Antonio. Gilbert was made to participate in writing to Francis by his grandfather, whom was a powerful man whom his parents worked with in Germany. Antonio on the other hand wrote to Francis willingly, after his parents had met the Spaniard's during a trip to Madrid. The three now wrote to each other willingly of course, becoming close friends and partners in crime.