gracefully : FRANCE / FRANCIS BONNEFOY x READER

The sunlight poured in through the glass door whose luxuriously soft curtains were pulled aside (as always). The beams of light shone on the small hairs on your exposed arms as you pulled the blankets further to conceal your bare chest.
 

“Stop fidgeting. And you’ve gone out of position.” The Frenchman says in a monotone voice, used to your squirming by now. He holds his pencil between his teeth as his thumb smears pencil lines on the canvas. “Pull the blanket back, please.”

 
“Francis, is it really necessary for me to be naked?” Your face was flushed as you tipped your head up to address your gifted lover.

 
“Essential, ma fleur [1],” He smirked as he snuck glances from behind his canvas. “It’s only your breast. At least I let you cover your bottom half.”

 
“I’m never modelling for you again.” You huffed indignantly once he called out that he was finished (he had even thrown a sheet over the canvas, the exhibitionist). Gathering the blanket around your body, you rushed into your bedroom to change into something comfortable.
 

“Would you rather I scout the streets of Paris for a prostitute to do it for me?” He lit a cigarette and opened the windows to let the smoke drift out. The view was spectacular, and was often the cynosure of most of Francis’s earliest paintings (that he later destroyed in a fit of insecurity).
 

“Certainly not.” You strode into the room in one of his old shirts and short shorts you dug out from the bottom of your drawers.
 

“You’re acting much too prudish. Perhaps you shouldn’t spend that much time with that British boy.”
 

“Arthur is my friend.”
 

“You’re even talking like him.” Francis’s brows furrowed as he drew another drag off his fag. Miniscule, but you noticed. A twinge of jealousy, maybe?

 
“He’s just helping me edit my book, you know that.” You rested your head on his broad chest and let him wrap his arms around your waist, his stubble tickling your cheek as he showered your face and neck with kisses. His hands slid over your body with grace – pretty much like everything else he did, you noted. Francis was such a charming and elegant man, especially in comparison to your awkwardness and ineptness. Yet he still loved you, cherished you, to use one of his favorite English words. Artists were known for being superficial, but even your horrid clumsiness was divine in his lovely azure eyes.
 

“What are you thinking about, hmm?” He spoke softly in your ear and you felt yourself blush.
 

“About how ugly I must look in that piece of yours.” You held his hands before they could wander farther. “You have a knack for being painfully realistic.”
 

“Ma petite [2], I assure you, you could never look ugly.” Francis smiled and gestured for you to climb down from the window ledge. You stepped on the wooden floors and he tossed his stub of a cigarette outside, closing the window and unveiling his finished piece.
 

Even though it was just a sketch, the beauty of his carefully strategized lines made your eyes well with tears. It was impossible, how beautiful he had made you. He had given you curves, a secretive smile Mona Lisa would’ve been envious of, and slender, doll-like hands. You looked like an angel, but still, remarkably, like you. Except… graceful.
 
“Oh, Francis.”
 

“I want you to look at this whenever you’re having one of those days,” You were a little alarmed that he knew about your insecurity, but you figured you didn’t hide it well enough either, “I want you to feel as beautiful as I see you.”
 

For once, you, the writer, was at a loss for words. It seemed like all the words you wanted to say were already lingering in the air, eloquent and clear.

 
And for once, gracefully spoken.