Lovely Form [MtF!France and Sister!Reader]

Little hiccups were the only things that remained of Francine's depressed state. You smoothed the golden ringlets from her face, your own nuzzling her throat. Giggling in small, choked gasps, Francine flushed breathlessly as she tried to calm the both of you down. Her rasping didn't help much as your own relieved laughter matched your big sister's until you both were lying on the bed in screeching hysteria. Why the situation was funny or why the two of you had to laugh at it remained a mystery.

When you were back snuggled in Francine's arms, the two of you just rested there; waiting for something. Anything.

Soon enough you grew anxious; the steady beat of your heart to Francine's the only noise you could hear. A loud thumping that rocked you into a lull that you did not wish to enter; a sleep that would make you forget the reason why you were in your sister's bed that night instead of your own.

Blinking away the drowsiness, you gazed up at Francine and her quivering eyelashes; the only thing that told you she was not truly asleep. You knew how she slept, with the careless grace of a bespelled princess- the image seared under your eyes from years of her falling asleep before you as she read you bedtime stories. No, now she shifted, a tension in her muscles, a tip to her lips, a crease to her brow.

Francine was faking it. Quite horribly, too, you added as a whispered thought.

As if she could feel the burn of your questioning eyes, or perhaps just your questions, Francine breathed a resigned sigh and opened her eyes. You grew worried as your big sister just looked at you; tracing your cheekbones, eyelashes, the bridge of your nose, your jawline. It was like she was committing the exact slope to memory, the smooth arch, every color your eyes held, as if you would not be there in the morning.

Pressing her lips to your forehead, Francine whispered, "Oh, darling, do you truly wish to know? You are too sweet for this sort of thing." Each word was a caress to your skin, each syllable an invisible kiss.

You responded by leaning in closer, making her lips press against you, as if that would leave an imprint, and whispered back, "You once said, 'Every sweet thing has a bitterness that everyone just looks over.' Maybe this time, it should be the sweetness looked over."


And so, Francine went on to tell you the horrible things that had happened. Not just earlier that day, but ever since Francine was, as you soon found out, Francis. "I could never fully change my name like I wished. It seemed like I was trying too hard to be someone else, and I didn't want that," she explained. While you were young and had to ask many questions- mainly what some words meant and why anyone would do such a thing- you understood your sister just fine.

You were young, but you knew what was nice and what was mean. You would say that everything that you heard was strictly mean.

While Francine never got into the details (she swore that you would know everything when you were older) she told you just enough. The protests, the riots, the slurs; everything the blonde Frenchwoman could. Francine spoke, in a soft and wispy way, how she was treated back when she was still a man. You took to the idea of being transgendered very easily, and you liked saying the word, too, when your tongue allowed itself to wrap around the long word.

("Why do you keep whispering it, my dear?" Francine asked during a pause. You looked up and simply said, "Well, it describes you, and big sister is beautiful. So, transgender is a beautiful word.")

Francine told you of the years passed by to become comfortable as she was now, how the transition was both liberating and painful; she was giving up a piece of herself to finally feel free. You thought it was unfair, but, with the wisdom of only your big sister, she spoke of how wonderful it was to think of Francis and know he would think the woman in the mirror was stunning.

You focused on her words, intent on hearing everything even as each sentence spilled from Francine's mouth in a waterfall; a never-ending thing. Of signs and threats and ugly words made by beautiful intentions.

Francine spoke not one ill word towards the people who did only that; as if their ill-will would pass to Francine and give her a sickness she would never recover from. You, however, still could not understand why someone, anyone, would choose such a hate against love.

You said as such and the look you got made you feel so much more young and naive. As wise as she was brave, Francine asked, "Now, don't you remember? Sometimes people just love to hate. Sometimes their love is different."

Your hurricane of feelings finally depleted your energy, and you just remained silent in the warmth of your sister's arms. As you drifted into the embrace only a deep sleep could give, you could have sworn you heard Francine say, "Sometimes they just don't want love. They don't have any left to give."

.
.
.

"And remember, love should never be forced upon anyone." Francine wiggled her finger in front of your nose, winking joyfully. You were still confused; how could love be forced, anyway?