staaaace, light of my life, can you write a little fraliech soulmate au to inspire me to write the one I was supposed to all those months ago after seeing that shitty headcanon
friend you know i am all about soulmate aus and fraliech
Francis had always thought that Jeanne was his one, hisonly. She wasn’t an artist, wasn’t one to draw, and if she ever did, it wouldn’tbe on skin. That was fine by him; he wasn’t, either. He didn’t need to see hisbadly drawn drunken biro stickmen appearing on her arms to know that she washis. They were a done deal, and that was it. That was the thing.
They were It. They were the One.
But they weren’t. Fate couldn’t be so cruel, surely.
Fate could not be so cruel to take his soulmate from him soyoung.
No, of course not.
But then, a year of grieving later, as he drinks himselfdown the far end of a bottle of wine, sat alone at a corner of a bar too dingyfor the Saint Laurent suit he’d worn to work. It’s cheap wine, cheaper than hissocks. But it gets the job done quickly. Tastes like drain cleaner, but it’swhat he needs right now.
And then he feels it; a prickle on his arm, like a polyestershirt catching on his arm hair.
He’s never yanked off his jacket and undone his cufflinks sofast in all his life, but there it is, in bright orange felt tip pen. A littlefat rabbit, right on the back of his arm, like it’s just been drawn there by thatEnglish bastard’s toddler. Of course Kirkland manages to find his soulmate andkeep her by his side, of course hemanages it. And of course she giveshim the most angelic looking child in the history of cherubim. Peter Kirklandis a little bundle of joy, and for all Francis loves him, he hates theround-cheeked, blond-curled little shit.
It’s not fair that Arthur got happiness while Francis wassat in a two-thousand pound suit drinking ten pound wine in a bar he could buy atleast twice over, most likely. If he did the figures properly, anyway. He mighteven be able to stretch it to thrice.
But here he is, with a shittily-drawn cartoon rabbit on hisarm.
And then a squirrel appears. And a dog, and a bear and awhole menagerie. All in that same shitty style. Either his soulmate is terribleat drawing cartoons, or they’re a fucking child, and wouldn’t that be just hisfucking luck.
It takes him the better part of thirteen years to find EliseVogel.
It’s harder, he thinks, moving on from losing Jeanne, whenhis soulmate’s art appears on his body every couple of days. Most of the time,it’s on his left arm – they’re right-handed, whoever they are, because it neverappears anywhere his right hand cannot reach – but sometimes it’s on his leftthigh or shin or calf, and on one memorable occasion as he was trying to findsome measure of sexuality, a gory stickman war got scrawled in red and blackfelt tip across his belly and thighs, and that killed whatever kind of mood he’dalmost managed to build up.
Almost funny, though, in a twisted sort of way. Like they knew,and didn’t approve. He’s fairly certain they’d drawn the French revolution. Therewas a guillotine on his thigh for two days, drawn with military precision. Ithad almost been terrifying.
During the summer months, it bothers him, not because he hashis soulmate’s art scrawled over his body in places vests and t-shirts won’thide, but because the art is not always something he can have shown. As most,if not all, body art is considered a soulmate’s, it’s accepted, regardless ofcontent. He knows sometimes Marie will draw a penis on her hand while she knowsArthur’s in a meeting, just to fluster him. But it’s rare that Arthur’s in ameeting these days, so mostly she just draws flowers and hearts and other mushyshit to fluster him in front of the old men he has to give bed baths to, and that’ssweet.
Francis would take that over this nonsense.
But as time flows, and Jeanne becomes an ache, rather than astabbing hole in his chest, he notices the artwork improving. Gone are thecutesy, awful cartoon animals, and in come the swirling, geometric animaldesigns, stark and beautifully raw, shaded in every colour available. He buys apack of copic markers on his way home, and spends a month trying to draw theFrench eagle. It doesn’t go at all well, and so the copics sit in a drawer athome, forgotten alongside pressed flowers and a locket he hadn’t the heart toget rid of.
One day, maybe, he’ll write his address on his arm, for hissoulmate to see. They can come find him. Maybe.
But maybe he will pretend like the art is nothing, like hedoesn’t notice it.
Francis turns thirty with little preamble in the ninth yearof having the rapidly improving art plastered across his body. His soulmatemust have come to understand the importance of drawing on themselves, becausehe wakes in the middle of the night to find a ring of teeth drawn in a perfectring on his ass.
A sense of humour is appreciated, but sitting down stingsfor a few days with the burn of it, like he’d actually been bitten.
He considers drawing something back, a ring of teeth on theinside of his thigh, right at the apex. Just to tease back, but it reminds himof teasing with Jeanne – he’d always threatened to bite, but he’d never gonethrough with it.
He goes as far as getting the copics from the drawer, but helooks at them, shaking in his two hands as he clutches them, white-knuckle, andthen puts them back in the drawer and goes to pour himself a glass of wine.
The glass never does get used, and he chugs it straight fromthe bottle. It’s better than the cheap shit he’d drunk in the bar that firstnight, but not by much.
The art continues to improve, the style becoming more andmore definitive, more identifiable. Sincetrue body art is rare, tattoos being all but outright banned, there’s no marketfor it. But the art his soulmate draws on themselves is art he could live withforever. It’s beautiful, watercolours and geometry and something raw. Like apiece of his mate’s soul has been etched into his skin alongside the stern owlsand proud wolves and gentle rabbits.
He feels privileged to see the art, and finds himself yearningto wake up to the latest burn of a sketch on his body.
Arthur tells him to just write his name and address on hisarm for his soulmate to see, but Francis won’t.
One morning, Arthur sends him a link to an article on somenews site or another, captions it
Looks like that owlyou had on you last week, ey?
Francis is prone in bed, hungover and feeling like hell onearth, but he clicks it despite the light from the phone burning his eyes. Hestares at the picture that loads, and stares at it some more when he sees the namebeneath.
‘Elise Vogel,’ he reads, and it tastes like everything hethought he’d lost.
He scrambles, despite the weak knees and bad eyes andbanging head, to the drawer where the copics are, and yanks one out at random,flops onto the nearest surface and writes his name and address into the insideof his thigh.
Nobody would see it there, but she’d be able to feel it, she’dbe able to know he’d written something to her.
Half an hour later, a message appears on his other thigh.
A phone number, a heart.
For what he thinks is the first time since Jeanne died,Francis feels a smile curl across his mouth, and he reaches for the phone.
Elise is nineteen, freshly moved from Liechtenstein, and she’sbeen mortified about drawing bad art on her skin since she first realised thatthere would be someone in some part of the world who would have that art ontheir body in a really obvious place.
Francis has never laughed like this before, so easy and freeand genuine. Not even with Jeanne was his laughter so real.
‘I like your laugh,’ Elise says, in a voice too girlish forher age, for the photo of herself that she sends to return the favour of himsending her one, because he’s very much not nineteen, and hasn’t been nineteen forfifteen years.
