Author's note: Tumblr FrUK prompt: (idontwanted) "Some kind of school AU. With Francis as the French teacher, and Arthur an annoying punk." I kind of tweaked it a bit but I think it's more amusing this way, you'll see why.

The Third Vexin War

Everyone knows M. Bonnefoy and Mr Kirkland are mortal enemies, and that they are very stuck in their ways.

Monsieur Bonnefoy, for example, never answers to Mister Bonnefoy.

Mr Kirkland, on the other hand, fails anyone who dares put a full stop after the r, Mr., as Americans tend to.

And so no one is surprised that the two rile each other up all the time.

In October Mr Kirkland had decided the Brit Lit kids (though he never called his course that, always spelling it out: British Literature) needed to learn to respect Shakespeare and all his glory more despite their moans of "no, make it stop, please Sir, make it stop!"

Which, of course, had given M. Bonnefoy a great idea. Well, he had found it to be great. Mr Kirkland, upon entering the school and finding out that the theater had been booked the day he had wished to stage "Hamlet" to allow for a performance by the French IV and V kids of Molière's "Le Malade imaginaire", thinks differently. First Mr Kirkland's confused, having never realized that that damn Bonnefoy somehow kept kids in French up until French V. But immediately after is the fuming realization that the frog had done this on purpose.

He corners the French teacher after second period, when they both have a free slot to grade papers. Well, Mr Kirkland spends it grading papers; M. Bonnefoy spends it visiting fellow teachers and interrupting their classes.

"You bastard," Mr Kirkland immediately fumes, slamming the door behind him. M. Bonnefoy, leaning on a desk by an open window, looks up from his book to smirk.

"Bonjour M. Kirkland, comment allez-vous?"

"What do you think you're on about huh?" He comes to stand on the other side of the desk, eyeing the Frenchman with all the anger he has in him. That makes his companion only raise an eyebrow.

"I do not zink I 'ave understood." Fuck him and this thick accent.

"The theatre!" and Mr Kirkland throws his hands in the air, M. Bonnefoy finally sighing and smiling and nodding.

"Oh, voilà, I zee." He places the book gently down on the desk, Victor Hugo's "Le Dernier Jour d'un Condamné", The Last Day of a Condemned Man. "You are not, zen, a fan of Molière?"

"You," Mr Kirkland starts, pointing at the center of M. Bonnefoy's chest, "and your God-damn Molière need to stay out of the way of me and my Shakespeare."

"I did not realize you two vere so in love." His grin is wide as Mr Kirkland storms out of the room.

Come December Mr Kirkland finally gets some taste of sweet revenge when M. Bonnefoy's class trip to New York City has to be cancelled because the Spanish teacher called in sick. At the morning meeting of the language teachers M. Bonnefoy looks almost heartbroken hearing the news. Victory, however, only ever seems to last so long for Mr Kirkland.

"Can't someone else go?" Hr Beilschmidt, the German teacher that Mr Kirkland sometimes liked, sometimes loathed, asks.

"On zis short notice?" and Mr Kirkland hates the way he says that word, notice, so much. "I cannot imagine who could accompany us."

"Who's us?" Mr Kirkland asks, confused; M. Bonnefoy had been going with Sr. Carriedo only.

"Did you not know?" M. Bonnefoy asks curiously, smiling a little despite his appearance of misery. "Herr Beilschmidt waz set to come along az well." Mr Kirkland becomes M. Kirkland when the Frenchman speaks; why does everyone else get to keep their language's title save him?

"Kirkland," the head of the department announces suddenly, as if an idea has occurred to him, "you should go with them."

"What‽ Me? No!" but the man won't take his answer, insisting that the Brit Lit kids would be fine watching a film adaptation in class while he watched them.

And so, three hours later, Mr Kirkland finds himself on a school bus behind M. Bonnefoy and Hr Beilschmidt who are engaged in a deep conversation in German, a language Mr Kirkland barely understands.

As they make their way to the French library they would be visiting someone stops to ask in Spanish for directions; with ease M. Bonnefoy directs the woman to where she wants to go.

"Wow M. Bonnefoy," one of the girls sighs, "you're so good with languages." Mr Kirkland recognizes her from one of his Brit Lit courses, a brilliant girl who liked French too much for his taste. The man winks at her; it's so inappropriate Mr Kirkland could gag though he settles on pulling a face and wrinkling his nose instead.

Once at the library in its theater, Mr Kirkland finds himself sitting between a wall and M. Bonnefoy to watch the film. "Fuck my life," he mutters aloud which makes his companion chuckle.

The bus ride back Hr Beilschmidt is deep in a conversation with one of the students, leaving Mr Kirkland to be attacked by M. Bonnefoy.

"You enjoyed ze film?"

"No."

"I zink perhapz you did, zough you did not vant to."

"Go away."

M. Bonnefoy only smiles.

Mid-February and M. Bonnefoy's desk is filled with chocolates; he passes out bonbons from one of the boxes during the morning meeting, laughing as he leaves with Sr. Carriedo. Mr Kirkland dodges out behind them, ignoring Hr Beilschmidt today in favor of escape. This was what he got for insisting that British Literature should be treated separate from the regular American English classes.

On his desk there's a red box; on top of it sits a deep blue envelope. Mr Kirkland eyes it suspiciously, checks that no one is watching, then opens the envelope with shaking hands. There's a photograph of a very put-off looking Mr Kirkland with one of M. Bonnefoy's arms around him in Time Square from the field trip before Winter Break. On the back is a simple note:

"Life is far too important a thing ever to talk seriously about. -Oscar Wilde. Happy Valentine's Day, mon Arthur."

Mr Kirkland will never know what compels him to stick the card back in the envelope, then place it in his top drawer along with his favorite student essays he's read over the years, but he does. He's grateful that M. Bonnefoy never asks after either his message or the chocolates.

Early April and as the students become antsy waiting for Spring Break Mr Kirkland sits patiently on one of the desks at the front of the room. He's trying to coax his students into discussing "Heart of Darkness", his favorite novel; he's failing miserably.

"Sir-" one of the girls raises her hand "-M. Bonnefoy is about to interrupt. She points to the door. As he turns his head M. Bonnefoy does in fact interrupt, opening it; Mr Kirkland would have to remember to cover the glass in his door and lock it to keep the Frenchman out.

"May I 'ave a vord viz you Monsieur?" the man asks. All the students go quiet, shocked to see the two enemies speaking.

"No, I'm teaching."

"Quel livre?" and one of the boys by the door hands M. Bonnefoy his book. "Oh, Joseph Conrad? I love zis book."

"Really?" Mr Kirkland and several of the students ask at the same time. M. Bonnefoy only smiles at that, Mr Kirkland standing. "When I come back, I want answers," he tells the class before shooing his fellow teacher out of the room, closing the door behind him. He positions himself so that he can see in through the glass in the door, refusing to look at M. Bonnefoy. "What did you want?"

The man is quiet for a while, a student passing through the hall, before he speaks. "Artur," he purrs, no h in the name; Mr Kirkland huffs. "I vaz zinking it could be nice if you 'ad lunch viz me today, non?"

"What are you going on about?" He's sure he misheard.

M. Bonnefoy shrugs, looking almost genuinely sad, as he stands up straight. Had his shoulders always been that broad? His face that handsomely framed by his hair? His skin that pale? The man walks away, little of his normal strut to his step, before disappearing into his room. Mr Kirkland is sure he's imagining things.

The end of May there's a picture on his desk waiting for him, of Arthur Kirkland, age nineteen, dressed like a punk in some club in London. His face burns as a voice from the door calls out, "You should dress like zat more often, it is very becoming on a man 'andsome like you are."

Mr Kirkland turns, balling the picture up in his hand, intent on snapping at the man. Then he freezes, his mind processing the words. M. Bonnefoy smiles.

"You can be zo stupid," and it's definitely French pronunciation on that last word as he turns to walk away.

"Wait!" Mr Kirkland doesn't know why he calls out, but maybe it's the same reason he put the photograph in the envelope in his desk drawer, or the same as why he enjoyed that box of chocolates so much even though some of them were flavored coffee. Or perhaps it goes back to why he felt so upset after turning down M. Bonnefoy's offer to join him for lunch, and how angry he felt when casually strolling by his room he found M. Bonnefoy eating with one of the cute history teachers, Ms. Rose.

Those blue eyes are so beautiful and hopeful as M. Bonnefoy stands at the door. His yellow scarf is draped about his neck carelessly, covering parts of the deep gray cardigan he's wearing over his teal button-up shirt, black slacks tight and fashionable.

In that moment Mr Kirkland in his too-big khakis and too-ugly red sweater-vest with his mismatched purple tie and chunky glasses feels inadequate, his face burning.

Everything hangs in the balance.

"Want to join me for lunch?" he asks in a weak, squeaky voice sounding less like a twenty-seven year old Englishman and more like one of his seventeen year old American students.

"I vould love to," M. Bonnefoy sighs, winking and leaving.

The last week of classes and Mr Kirkland finally admits to speaking French. "Vraiment?" M. Bonnefoy asks, shocked and laughing at the same time.

"Shut up Francis," Mr Kirkland mutters, that name still foreign to his lips. It's too hot to have the lights on as they grade papers in the small Brit Lit room, students gone for the day. Mr Kirkland had assigned ten true/false questions to be answered and, if false, corrected, five multiple choice questions, three short essays, and one long essay for his final; M. Bonnefoy had told his students to write whatever they wanted so long as it was in French for levels III and up, or at least one page of French with English after for the lowest two levels.

"Vhen did you learn?" M. Bonnefoy asks, his finals seemingly forgotten in a pile before him on one of the student desks.

"Uni," Mr Kirkland mumbles, "I was a student of British literature but did a year in France to practice. When did you learn English?" He wants desperately to move the conversation away from himself.

"In 'igh school zo I could read Shakespeare for myself." He winks mischievously at Mr Kirkland who is taken aback by that.

"Seriously?"

"Oui."

"Really?"

"Oui."

"You're not lying are you?"

"Non I am not."

"Because if you are, I'm not going to forgive you for zis," and he accidentally slips up and copies M. Bonnefoy's accent at the end. The Frenchman roars with laughter as Mr Kirkland slams his head against his desk. "Fuck me."

"Perhapz later," and his breath catches in his lungs at those simple words from this complex man he's just beginning to discover.

Everyone knows M. Bonnefoy and Mr Kirkland are mortal enemies, and that they are very stuck in their ways.

Monsieur Bonnefoy, for example, never answers to Mister Bonnefoy.

Mr Kirkland, on the other hand, fails anyone who dares put a full stop after the r, Mr., as Americans tend to.

And so everyone is surprised when the rumors start, though neither man will come out and confirm if they're a couple.

Enemies, they always correct, we are mortal enemies, because some things never change.