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Description
They had finished for the night, he and Lucille, and Francouer was glad. Lucille had introduced him to the vibrant world of the bourjois. He loved the bright music and the roar of hands that clapped a seemingly never ending beat which he often found himself wanting to play against, to join with, to blend with. He especially loved how Lucille's and his own voice twined easily in song. How they fit.
But Lucille had also taught him to enjoy the music of silence. When the clapping petered out and the crowd slowly poured out of the club, in dribs and drabs at first, then when it hit midnight the silence would sneak in and he and lucille would just sit and listen.
Franceour hummed happily, his mask was finally off and he was now tapping his hands on his guitar ever so slightly. The gloves muffled the noise and didn't interupt the quiet too much. He just paradiddled, slowly building pace. If he used all of his hands, he could do it even faster but it wouldn't be quiet then.
"Hush, Franceour." The small woman said from her vanity.
Softly though.
He could see her face in the mirror and so could see she wasn't scolding, not really. She was smiling so he knew. She was slowly brushing her hair with his favourite comb, the one that sang, and it dripped waves of wine coloured hair onto the back of her white gown every time she brushed. Franceour heard it as it settled, making a quiet little puff noise against the chiffon. He could have only heard it in the deep quiet, that soft brush. The light from the gas lamps that bookended her vainty turned the loose strands golden. She caught his eye and smiled at Franceours reflection as she began to twist the red into her usual high bun.
He sighed and lay the guitar gently on the floor beside the sofa. He was a little disappointed, he had hoped that she would keep it down, let it pour down her back in its it's liquidity. This must have shown in his face as Lucille dropped the bundle of hair as if it were hot and turned to him, face concerned.
"What's wrong?" She turned in her seat and her hair followed, allowing a twist of it to lay on a pale shoulder.
Never more had Franceour wished for speech without melody. He was flustered for a moment, only producing chirps, he then cautiously leant foward and brushed the hair covered shoulder with a gloved hand. He hated for blunt they felt, so clumsy. And he couldn't feel the hair through them at all.
Lucille brushed through her hair with her small hands and gestured with them. "My hair? Is it dirty? Is there something in it?"
Franceour shook his head, thought a moment and took off a glove. One three fingered hand reached back through the sleeve and touched the red sheaf on her shoulder. He allowed his fingers to test the texture and weight and comb through her hair with his fingers as she had done with her own. There was a whisper, a quiet but malleable one, as the hair slid through them.
"Ahh." She muttered, with a small and strangely shy smile. "You want to brush it?"
It wasn't quite what he wanted but Franceour nodded just the same. It would keep the hair out of that bun at least.
The small woman, and she was small, stood up before him.
"Well? Move up!" she gestured at the sofa, of which he had taken most of the room, and made shooing movements. She laughed as Franceour moved as far up the chaise as he could. It left only a small space but that was as much as she had needed, so had sat down and turned slightly to her left.
She held out the singing comb, his favourite but Franceour didn't take it. He removed his arms from the jacket's sleeves and used his fingers. This was quieter anyway. The big hardbacked brush seemed to growl when Lucille used it and would snag on knots which made her face knot. His fingers wouldn't do that. They would be good and gentle.
Lucille sighed softly and leant gently against his arm when he started but Franceour didn't really notice. He was taking notes on the hair.
He had none this long, the little hair he had was short, sleek but short. Lucille had once tried to brush the hair on his head but it didn't change much. It felt nice but it did nothing to his appearance. But with her hair she changed. It was up when she performed, up to be out of her face when she danced but twirls of it always escaped, as if they meant to be there, they were simply waiting for the rest to be set free. Like now.
Franceour though this was how Lucille was meant to be. The long hair made her face look softer. She always acts tough and that everything is fine Franceour, fine, everything is absoloutely fine but her hair told the truth. It made her look as she was: breakable.
It was then that he noticed one of his hands had stopped moving and that was because the girl whom's hair it had been combing was leaning on it, quite asleep, even dribbling a little on his sleeve.
Franceour didn't know quite what to do.
If he moved she might wake and she might get up and put her hair up and that wouldn't do.
Lucille sighed in her sleep and turned a little towards the soft jacket arm of Franceour's coat and he felt a strange little thrill race up it when she snuggled her face into his arm. He didn't know what to do about that either.
He eventually decided to turn ever so slighty and slowly that he could stretch his long legs and that the sleeping girl woman could sleep in the crook of his arm. She wouldn't fall that way, she'd sleep through.
Plus he could carry on playing with her hair as she slept, all arms free and perhaps one or two making sure she wouldn't fall away from him in her sleep.
And he would listen to the music of silence, as she had taught him to.

My first sort of fanfic, never really done one before and it's odd.
But I am so adoring this movie. Franceour is so damn adorable!!
These two belong to A monster in Paris and whoever made that masterpiece.
The art is mine

Description
They had finished for the night, he and Lucille, and Francouer was glad. Lucille had introduced him to the vibrant world of the bourjois. He loved the bright music and the roar of hands that clapped a seemingly never ending beat which he often found himself wanting to play against, to join with, to blend with. He especially loved how Lucille's and his own voice twined easily in song. How they fit.
But Lucille had also taught him to enjoy the music of silence. When the clapping petered out and the crowd slowly poured out of the club, in dribs and drabs at first, then when it hit midnight the silence would sneak in and he and lucille would just sit and listen.
Franceour hummed happily, his mask was finally off and he was now tapping his hands on his guitar ever so slightly. The gloves muffled the noise and didn't interupt the quiet too much. He just paradiddled, slowly building pace. If he used all of his hands, he could do it even faster but it wouldn't be quiet then.
"Hush, Franceour." The small woman said from her vanity.
Softly though.
He could see her face in the mirror and so could see she wasn't scolding, not really. She was smiling so he knew. She was slowly brushing her hair with his favourite comb, the one that sang, and it dripped waves of wine coloured hair onto the back of her white gown every time she brushed. Franceour heard it as it settled, making a quiet little puff noise against the chiffon. He could have only heard it in the deep quiet, that soft brush. The light from the gas lamps that bookended her vainty turned the loose strands golden. She caught his eye and smiled at Franceours reflection as she began to twist the red into her usual high bun.
He sighed and lay the guitar gently on the floor beside the sofa. He was a little disappointed, he had hoped that she would keep it down, let it pour down her back in its it's liquidity. This must have shown in his face as Lucille dropped the bundle of hair as if it were hot and turned to him, face concerned.
"What's wrong?" She turned in her seat and her hair followed, allowing a twist of it to lay on a pale shoulder.
Never more had Franceour wished for speech without melody. He was flustered for a moment, only producing chirps, he then cautiously leant foward and brushed the hair covered shoulder with a gloved hand. He hated for blunt they felt, so clumsy. And he couldn't feel the hair through them at all.
Lucille brushed through her hair with her small hands and gestured with them. "My hair? Is it dirty? Is there something in it?"
Franceour shook his head, thought a moment and took off a glove. One three fingered hand reached back through the sleeve and touched the red sheaf on her shoulder. He allowed his fingers to test the texture and weight and comb through her hair with his fingers as she had done with her own. There was a whisper, a quiet but malleable one, as the hair slid through them.
"Ahh." She muttered, with a small and strangely shy smile. "You want to brush it?"
It wasn't quite what he wanted but Franceour nodded just the same. It would keep the hair out of that bun at least.
The small woman, and she was small, stood up before him.
"Well? Move up!" she gestured at the sofa, of which he had taken most of the room, and made shooing movements. She laughed as Franceour moved as far up the chaise as he could. It left only a small space but that was as much as she had needed, so had sat down and turned slightly to her left.
She held out the singing comb, his favourite but Franceour didn't take it. He removed his arms from the jacket's sleeves and used his fingers. This was quieter anyway. The big hardbacked brush seemed to growl when Lucille used it and would snag on knots which made her face knot. His fingers wouldn't do that. They would be good and gentle.
Lucille sighed softly and leant gently against his arm when he started but Franceour didn't really notice. He was taking notes on the hair.
He had none this long, the little hair he had was short, sleek but short. Lucille had once tried to brush the hair on his head but it didn't change much. It felt nice but it did nothing to his appearance. But with her hair she changed. It was up when she performed, up to be out of her face when she danced but twirls of it always escaped, as if they meant to be there, they were simply waiting for the rest to be set free. Like now.
Franceour though this was how Lucille was meant to be. The long hair made her face look softer. She always acts tough and that everything is fine Franceour, fine, everything is absoloutely fine but her hair told the truth. It made her look as she was: breakable.
It was then that he noticed one of his hands had stopped moving and that was because the girl whom's hair it had been combing was leaning on it, quite asleep, even dribbling a little on his sleeve.
Franceour didn't know quite what to do.
If he moved she might wake and she might get up and put her hair up and that wouldn't do.
Lucille sighed in her sleep and turned a little towards the soft jacket arm of Franceour's coat and he felt a strange little thrill race up it when she snuggled her face into his arm. He didn't know what to do about that either.
He eventually decided to turn ever so slighty and slowly that he could stretch his long legs and that the sleeping girl woman could sleep in the crook of his arm. She wouldn't fall that way, she'd sleep through.
Plus he could carry on playing with her hair as she slept, all arms free and perhaps one or two making sure she wouldn't fall away from him in her sleep.
And he would listen to the music of silence, as she had taught him to.

My first sort of fanfic, never really done one before and it's odd.
But I am so adoring this movie. Franceour is so damn adorable!!
These two belong to A monster in Paris and whoever made that masterpiece.
The art is mine