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faenos · 16 days ago

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MEANT TO BE

a Joseph Descamps Fanfiction

DISCLAIMER: I made some small changes to the plot, so as not to make everything too chaotic. I hope you like it!

CHAPTER ONE: Game of Superiority

Chapter 2 — Long time, no see

Summary: It's Ophelia's first day at school. Having just moved to Saint-Jean-d'Angély, in France, she will not only have to face linguistic difficulties and the presence of boys in her new class due to the addition of mixed classes, but she will also meet an old acquaintance of hers. And it won't be that pleasant.

Word Count: 6,146 words.

Warnings: Pichon being bullied, Joseph being Joseph as usual, some bully scenes, slightly angst.

📍Voltaire High, Saint-Jean-D’Angély, France. September 9th, 1963

It was 7:24 in the morning, and Ophelia was already ready to face her first day of school. A mix of excitement and nervousness churned in her stomach, sparked by a tangle of reasons bouncing around in her mind. First of all, she was in France, a land still foreign to her, heading to an unfamiliar building filled with new faces and stories completely unknown to her. That alone would have been enough to make her uneasy, but there was another detail that made her even more hesitant: the school was unlike any she had attended in England. It wouldn’t be all girls; instead, she would be in a mixed class, sharing lessons with both boys and girls.

At fifteen years old, such a situation felt more than unusual—almost revolutionary. Mixed classes? How strange, even slightly uncomfortable concept, she thought. Her mother, Catherine, with her usual reassuring yet firm tone as the teacher she was, had repeated several times that it was time to embrace this modernity.

Nonetheless her father, ever protective, had unsuccessfully tried to enroll her in a private girls' school, but the enrollment at the Voltaire high had already been completed, and neither parent wanted their daughter traveling to another city every morning.

With a sigh, Ophelia looked at herself in the mirror, scrutinizing her reflection as if seeking confirmation that she was truly ready. She had styled her hair into two neat, broad braids—a simple choice that revealed her meticulousness. She had chosen a skirt paired with a modest blouse, aiming to appear polished without drawing too much attention. In England, she had been used to wearing school uniforms—identical for everyone, with their neutral colors and striped blazers and skirts. It was a routine she had always found comforting, a way to avoid thinking about what to wear each day.

In France, however, the system was different. Here, there were no uniforms, and this freedom of choice made her feel slightly uneasy. She feared standing out, feeling too English, too different. Yet at the same time, she was determined to do her best, to face the day as an adventure—a chance to discover who she really was, far from the certainties of home.

Before leaving the house, Ophelia made a quick detour to her brother’s bedroom. Oliver was still sound asleep, curled up under the covers, his face relaxed in that typical childhood slumber. His school wouldn’t start for another week, so for him summer wasn’t over yet. Ophelia leaned down to place a gentle kiss on his forehead, a small tradition that had become second nature between them. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her brother, so peaceful and unaware of the turmoil bubbling inside her. Then, with a sigh, she returned to her room to grab the bag she had carefully prepared the night before and headed for the door.

She already knew the way to the school, thanks to Miss Couret—a new face but an unexpectedly pleasant surprise. Shortly after moving to Saint-Jean-d’Angély, Ophelia and her mother had discovered, much to their astonishment, that this woman had been one of Catherine’s old schoolmates. The connection had immediately rekindled, with stories of youth and anecdotes lighting up Catherine’s face with nostalgic smiles.

Miss Couret, who now was a new teacher at Voltaire, had enthusiastically offered to show Ophelia the route to school, accompanying her with a genuine warmth the girl had appreciated. For Catherine, this coincidence was a true blessing. Knowing her daughter would have a familiar face in a completely new environment had been deeply reassuring. She often reminded Ophelia how lucky she was to have a trusted friend like Couret looking out for her at school.

Ophelia, however, wasn’t entirely convinced that this would be enough to put her at ease. Yet, despite her doubts, she forced herself to maintain a steady stride and hold her chin high. This day, for better or worse, would only be the beginning.

She arrived at the gates of Voltaire High School when the clock struck 7:40. The morning air was fresh and crisp, still tinged with the dampness of the night, while the first rays of sunlight brushed against the building’s walls. The gates, just opened, creaked faintly in the wind. Ophelia paused for a moment, her heart pounding, and observed the scene before her. A stream of students poured inside, but there was one detail she couldn’t ignore: everywhere she looked, there were only boys.

Boys, boys, and more boys. It was like finding herself in the middle of a soccer match, with her as the sole outsider. There wasn’t even a hint of another girl—except for herself, of course. The realization of being so out of place stung like a sharp jab, as if every gaze pierced through her. The buzz of conversations almost magically died down as she walked by, leaving behind an oppressive silence that weighed on her shoulders. Everyone stared at her, their eyes filled with curiosity, surprise, or perhaps judgment. To them, she must have seemed like an alien who had landed from another planet.

With a sigh and a surge of determination, she lowered her gaze and pressed on, trying to ignore the sea of eyes fixed on her. But as she moved through the clusters of boys, she noticed someone different—a girl, at last, standing out among all those male faces. She had blonde hair tied into two braids, but not like hers; they were intricately twisted and more stylish. Her outfit gave her a composed air and perhaps a hint of sternness. Ophelia didn’t think twice. She quickened her pace to reach her, trying not to appear too eager, and stopped in front of the bulletin board, pretending to look for her name.

"I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you here!" She said with a smile, putting on her best French accent. The blonde girl turned to her, surprised. Her frown softened, and her face lit up with an equally relieved smile.

"I could say the same thing!" she replied, keeping her smile intact. Just as Ophelia began to feel a small sense of relief, a third figure approached them.

"There are less than twenty of us, right?" The newcomer had a confident air about her and short hair styled so elegantly that Ophelia couldn’t help but envy it. Her mother would never allow her to cut her hair like that, and the idea gave her a pang of frustration.

"I thought I was the only one!" exclaimed the blonde girl, now visibly more at ease.

"I waited for you to go in." the short-haired girl said, stepping forward with her hands clasped behind her back. "My name is Simone."

"Michèle," replied the blonde. Both turned to Ophelia, waiting for her to introduce herself. She hesitated for a moment but then mustered her courage.

"My name is Ophelia." she said, smiling timidly as she tried to pronounce her name clearly.

"Ophelia?" Simone repeated, intrigued. "What a beautiful name!"

"You’re not French, are you?" Michèle asked.

Ophelia shook her head and straightened her posture. "British. I’m here for a year. My dad got… a job offer, so we all moved here."

"Cool!" Michèle exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. She seemed genuinely excited. Perhaps, Ophelia thought, she could find a friend in her. But the thought was quickly followed by a bittersweet smile, a reflection of the homesickness she already felt for her life in England.

"I’m from Algeria." Simone said, breaking the silence.

Ophelia’s face lit up. Another outsider like me, she thought, feeling a sudden kinship. Maybe we could support each other if things got tough.

"Everyone seems to be staring at us…" Simone whispered, glancing furtively around.

"They are." Michèle confirmed with a wry smile.

"Do you think they’ll ever find the courage to talk to us?" Ophelia asked, her eyes scanning the crowd around them.

"Someone’s coming!" Simone announced, suddenly lowering her voice and turning towards the noticeboard. "Act casual."

The three girls exchanged a knowing look and turned in unison as if nothing had happened. Footsteps grew closer until a surprisingly gentle male voice broke the silence.

"Oh no…" the boy muttered, his tone filled with dismay. His words caught the attention of Ophelia and Michèle, who turned to look at him. Standing before them was a boy with kind features, soft eyes, and an almost shy smile. He was nothing like the groups of boys who had been observing the trio from afar, as if analyzing a curious spectacle.

"Is something wrong?" Michèle asked, curious and slightly concerned.

"My homeroom teacher is Bluebeard." he replied, shaking his head with a resigned expression as he looked at the group of girls.

The faint murmur of conversations around them suddenly ceased, as if someone had turned down the volume in the courtyard. Everyone seemed to direct their attention to a single point. Ophelia followed their gazes with a sense of apprehension, turning along with Michèle, Simone, and the boy beside them.

That’s when they saw her: an elegant figure stood out among the crowd, drawing every gaze like a magnet.

She was a blonde girl whose blue dress, simple yet impeccable, enhanced the color of her eyes and the shine of her hair, neatly tied back with a matching headband. Her proud yet reserved demeanor made her seem almost untouchable, as if she had stepped out of an old painting.

"Do you know her?" Michèle whispered to the boy, leaning slightly towards his ear. But he didn’t answer, merely shaking his head. His gaze was fixed on her, completely captivated, just like the rest of the courtyard.

Ophelia watched the scene unfold with a mix of curiosity and admiration. She tried to come up with a compliment in her mind, wrestling with her still-uncertain French. But just as she was about to speak, the bell interrupted her thoughts. The start of lessons forced them all to gather and head toward the school building.

Once gathered just outside the building, the students listened attentively to the solemn words of the Headmaster, Mr. Bellanger. His speech, though formal, carried a reassuring tone—a way to welcome the new students, and especially the girls, into the school community. Then, with efficient organization, the students were divided into their respective classes.

Ophelia felt a mix of relief and joy when she discovered she would be sharing a class with Michèle and Simone. However, her enthusiasm dimmed slightly upon reaching the classroom. All the seats next to her new friends were already taken, forcing her to sit alone at the back of the middle row. I hate sitting in the back, she thought, casting a disheartened glance at the desk before her. Nonetheless, it was the only seat available from which she could clearly see the blackboard.

As she settled in, she noticed a certain buzz of excitement among her classmates. Moments later, the girl in the blue dress entered the room. Her elegant figure once again drew everyone’s attention, but she seemed utterly indifferent to the murmurings. Ophelia followed her with her eyes, observing every movement with growing curiosity.

To her great surprise and relief, the girl walked directly toward the seat next to hers and sat down without a word. I’m not alone, Ophelia thought, mentally repeating those words like a mantra.

“Good morning!” Ophelia greeted her cheerfully, attempting to break the ice in a discreet tone.

The girl, busy neatly arranging her notebooks and books on the desk, did not lift her gaze. Her face remained neutral, devoid of any expression that might suggest an openness to conversation. After a moment of silence, she simply replied, “Hello.”

Her tone was flat and distant, yet Ophelia did not lose hope. She still felt grateful not to be entirely isolated. Every friendship starts somewhere, she told herself, hoping that “hello” could be the first step for something new.

The lesson began, and Ophelia tried hard to focus. Miss Giraud reminded her of her old teacher, Miss Campbell, back at her English school—a thought that brought a wistful smile to her lips. But despite this fleeting resemblance, there was no way to spark a conversation with her desk mate. The girl next to her, completely absorbed in the lesson, seemed as inaccessible as an island surrounded by an invisible barrier.

Ophelia, on the other hand, couldn’t help but feel out of place. Back in England, she had always been one of the best in her French class, but in this room, amidst heavy accents and a rapid pace, she could barely grasp half the words. Every sentence uttered by the teachers seemed to wash over her, leaving her increasingly confused.

The chaotic atmosphere created by the boys in her class didn’t help at all. They seemed constantly distracted, ready to break the silence with silly jokes or pointless remarks. None of them gave the impression of being there to learn. This behavior felt alien, almost absurd, only adding to the sense of inadequacy already weighing on her.

An intense feeling of being watched suddenly distracted her. She felt a strange warmth, as if a persistent gaze were burning her skin. Following that primal instinct, she turned to her left, interrupting her train of thought.

A boy was staring at her. His arms were crossed, and his expression was stern yet veiled with an unspoken curiosity. The glasses resting lightly on his nose framed a tired gaze, but one illuminated by an unusual light, almost investigative. Ophelia felt a chill of discomfort mixed with curiosity. She had the impression she had seen him before but couldn’t recall where.

Maybe at the butcher’s? Or in the bookstore? She wondered, trying to make sense of her muddled memories. Yes, that must be it, she convinced herself, though deep down, she remained uncertain.

The same question lingered in the mind of the boy who responded to the roll call as Joseph Descamps, sitting at the parallel desk not far from hers. His attention never wavered from this new and unexpected figure. There was something about her that unsettled and intrigued him at the same time. It wasn’t just the fact that she was a foreigner, nor her unusual name, Ophelia Montgomery, which sounded completely alien to him.

He scrutinized the girl’s face, her wavy brown hair cascading softly over her shoulders, framing a delicate and almost ethereal visage. He felt as though she had stepped out of a story he knew, and it tormented him. Where have I seen her before? He asked himself repeatedly, unable to find an answer.

Even her name was new to him, of course. A British foreigner, arriving in France for reasons unknown to him, for now. The thought amused him, bringing to mind the vacation he had spent that summer in England. What were the odds that he would now find himself with a classmate from there?

“British,” Jean Dupin, his best friend and inseparable desk mate, murmured, lowering his voice. “They’ve followed you here.”

Joseph let out a muffled laugh, shaking his head slightly. “The charm of a French, what can I say.” he replied with a grin, playing along with his friend.

While the exchanges between the two continued, thoughts of Ophelia continued to haunt him. Despite his efforts to distract himself, every time his eyes wandered, they inevitably returned to her, as if she were the only mystery in that room worth solving.

Ophelia, meanwhile, made a conscious decision: to deliberately ignore the matter of the boy who kept staring at her. She could still feel his intense gaze fixed on her, but she refused to let it distract her. She was determined to make the most of her lessons, striving to follow the content with interest. Over time, she managed to find a certain focus, and, surprisingly, after two and a half hours of study, she was able to grasp almost every word spoken by the teacher.

The voice of the girl sitting next to her, however, distracted her from her thoughts. It was a soft sound that caught her by surprise.

"Are you having trouble with the language?" asked the girl beside her, whose name was Annick Sabiani.

Ophelia hesitated for a moment before nodding. "A little." she admitted honestly, not trying to hide her vulnerability.

Annick, who had been distant until then, turned to look at her. For the first time, a smile appeared on her face.

"I can lend you my notes, if you want." The blonde girl offered with an unexpected kindness.

Ophelia’s face lit up, surprised and relieved by the offer. "You’d save my life, yes." she replied quickly, showing all her gratitude.

That reaction seemed to amuse Annick, who smiled again. Then, with a slightly conspiratorial air, she added: "As long as you can help me with English." Her voice was determined, as if sealing an important deal. Ophelia smiled even more, finding the idea quite amusing.

"Of course, I can." She said, extending her hand toward her in a sign of understanding.

Annick looked at her for a moment, hesitant, but eventually shook her hand. That simple but sincere exchange of gestures and words gave Ophelia new hope. Perhaps, she thought, finding a balance in this new world wouldn’t be so impossible.

In Latin class, the difficulties reappeared relentlessly. Professor Douillard spoke at such a speed that his French, mixed with Latin constructions, became incomprehensible to Ophelia. However, it was in this subject that she felt most comfortable; Latin had always been one of her strengths.

Beside her, Annick Sabiani continued to raise her hand energetically, almost climbing onto the desk in an attempt to get the professor's attention. Yet, Douillard seemed stubbornly intent on ignoring her, indeed, systematically ignoring all the girls in the classroom. No matter how accurate or relevant an answer was, if it came from a girl, it was as if it had never been spoken.

On the board, the phrase read: "Romani ovantes ac graturantes Horatium accipiunt et domum deducunt." Now, the professor waited for someone in the class to volunteer to translate it. A low murmur spread across the room, but no one dared to raise their hand, except for Annick, who didn’t give up on her gesture, determined as ever.

"No one knows it?" The professor urged, with a hint of irritation in his voice.

Finally, a hand was raised halfway across the desks. It was Joseph Descamps.

Ophelia, surprised, turned to look at him again, observing him closely. The profile of the boy struck her like a déjà vu, almost as if his face was hiding something crucial, an enigma yet to be solved.

"Yes, sir." Professor Douillard handed him the floor.

"I think she raised her hand." he said with an ironic smile, while his classmates burst into muffled laughter.

Forced by the situation, Professor Douillard finally turned to Annick, who was still holding up her arm like a banner of resistance. He adjusted the collar of his shirt with an irritated air, then conceded.

"The Romans welcome Horatio with joy and congratulations and escort him to his house." Annick said, standing up with impeccable composure. Ophelia nodded silently, recognizing the correctness of the translation.

Douillard, taken aback, seemed to choke for a moment before correcting her with a synonym: "The Romans cheer Horatio."

Annick didn’t flinch and remained still, ready to face the test. The professor, perhaps annoyed by her confidence, decided to challenge her further.

"Miss, can you conjugate the verb ovare?"

Ophelia, fascinated by her classmate’s determination, found herself silently conjugating the verb alongside her, immersed in the tension of the moment. It was only then that she noticed a movement beside her: Joseph was scribbling something on a piece of paper and discreetly passing it to the boy sitting behind her.

The scene didn’t escape the keen eye of Douillard.

"Give it to me." He ordered, addressing the recipient of the note.

The boy, confused and reluctant, stood up and handed the note to the teacher. A single glance at its content was enough to provoke his indignation. "Do you think this is funny?" he asked in a cutting tone, trying to identify the culprit.

"It’s not mine." the boy stammered, keeping his eyes down.

"Not yours, right? And who is the author of this masterpiece?" Douillard pressed, scanning the faces of the class.

Ophelia turned to Joseph, who was watching the scene with insolent calm, as if it were a movie, completely immune to the rising tension. He was absentmindedly playing with his pen, with no intention of confessing.

"Your name?" the professor continued, fixing his gaze on the curly-haired boy, who was now visibly uncomfortable.

"I didn’t do anything." he answered in a mortified voice.

"I didn’t do anything," Douillard repeated with sarcasm, his tone growing sharper. "Of course, that's what all guilty people say. So, what’s your name?"

"Laubrac," the boy replied after a moment of hesitation. "My name is Laubrac."

A sudden look of understanding crossed the professor’s face. "You are the boy from foster care?" he asked, pointing at him with contempt.

The class erupted in a series of malicious giggles. Douillard sneered.

"An orphan who wants to graduate? How amusing." Laubrac visibly fidgeted, hurt by the public humiliation. He began nervously twisting the cuffs of his shirt.

"Didn’t anyone teach you discipline in the care system?" the professor continued, striking with a chilling cruelty. "I don’t want bastards in my class, so get out of here."

A tense silence fell over the room, suddenly broken by a female voice: "But he didn’t do anything!"

Ophelia spun around quickly to see Michèle standing up, fists clenched, and cheeks flushed with indignation. The girl’s courage struck Ophelia deeply. No one, she thought, would have dared to intervene in her place.

"Weren’t you taught to raise your hand in the girls' school, Miss Magnan?" Douillard retorted, his voice venomous. "Do you think you have a pass just because you’re the dean's niece?"

Michèle lowered her gaze, visibly embarrassed, as the murmurs from the students turned into suppressed laughter.

"Well, go accompany your new friend to your uncle," Douillard concluded with a dismissive tone. "You’ll stay an hour too."

With hesitant steps, Michèle followed Laubrac out of the room, leaving behind a trail of looks and comments. Ophelia, in silence, reflected on how enlightening that scene had been: not all her classmates were passive spectators, and Michèle’s courage inspired a deep respect in her.

Ophelia turned one last time toward Descamps, looking at him with a mixture of disapproval and disbelief. He was laughing with his friends, as if the scene that had just unfolded was a performance put on for his personal amusement. She pressed her lips into a thin line, shaking her head slightly. It was clear that this boy embodied everything she found unbearable: arrogance, superficiality, and that blatant indifference to the world around him. She mentally noted the names of the classmates to avoid, and Joseph Descamps had rightfully earned the top spot on the list.

This thought resurfaced with force later, during the lunch break, when he dared to approach her in the cafeteria. It was clear he was trying to get her attention with his usual arrogant attitude. He almost seemed to want to escort her, following her with a certain ostentation as she walked toward the girls' table.

Ophelia, completely indifferent to his presence, kept her pace steady, the sound of her heels rhythmically echoing on the floor. She held her books tightly against her chest, as if they were a shield against the world around her. Every movement radiated composure and determination, a clear message that she had no intention of being bothered by him. His smug smile, that relaxed and almost theatrical way of accompanying her to the table, made her feel like she was part of a game he had already decided to win. She found him unbearable, a perfect example of the superficiality she despised with every fiber of her being.

"You're British, right?" he asked, deliberately emphasizing his French accent. There was a hint of irony in his tone, a clear attempt to make her uncomfortable or get her to talk. His face wore that familiar smug grin, a twist of the lips that seemed to say I know something you don't. But he was just pretending.

Ophelia kept her gaze fixed ahead, her steps steady and rhythmic, echoing in the controlled silence of the cafeteria. She pressed her books against her chest, almost as though they were a shield. She had no intention of engaging in a frivolous exchange with him.

"Yes." She replied, curt and definitive. She didn't say more; the word was there, suspended like a door shut firmly.

Joseph slowed his pace, now walking beside her with an irritating nonchalance.

"London, I suppose? Or am I wrong?" He guessed, pretending to recognize it from her accent, not mentioning that it had been the only city he visited that summer.

The girl turned slightly, giving him an irritated look. Then, she went back to looking straight ahead.

"You're not wrong." Her voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge to the words, like a thin blade.

Joseph tilted his head, the smile more pronounced, as if he were enjoying every moment of the conversation.

"Interesting. I was in London this summer. A cultural trip, let's say. I was trying to perfect my English. What do you think?" he asked, changing tone and exaggeratedly flaunting his pronunciation.

Ophelia couldn't help but chuckle, though imperceptibly. Her expression, however, remained composed.

"I think London wasn't as lucky to have you there." The response, subtle and well-aimed, hit the mark.

Joseph raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Touché. But I believe the city will suffer from my absence. I'm pretty sure your fellow countrymen found me... fascinating."

Ophelia suddenly stopped, turning to look at him with an expression that oscillated between surprise and disbelief.

"Fascinating? Really?" she asked, unable to tell if he was being ironic or not.

"You know, I find it strange that London didn’t feel the need to erect a statue in your honor. It must have been an oversight."

He laughed, the sound low and relaxed. "Well, maybe there's still time. You can suggest it next time you're home."

"I’ll do my best." She retorted, resuming her walk and tightening her grip on the books with a bit more energy. The tension between them was palpable, but beneath the facade of barbs and arrogant smiles, there was something undefined that seemed to suggest this wasn't the first time their paths had crossed.

When they reached the table, Joseph stopped, theatrically gesturing for her to go first.

"After you, Miss England." Ophelia shot him a sharp look and ignored him. She then sat down without another word, determined to ignore him for the rest of lunch. But something inside her told her that Joseph Descamps would not disappear so easily from her life.

And indeed, while she listened attentively to Simone’s stories about Algeria, Ophelia heard a small thud. She diverted her gaze from her interlocutor and noticed, with displeasure, Henry Pichon's hand�� the boy with kind eyes who had introduced himself with a shy smile at the entrance of the school—completely submerged in Annick's plate. The embarrassment on the boy's face was immediately amplified by the loud laughter of Joseph Descamps and his group of friends, whose raucous voices echoed through the cafeteria, drawing the attention of other students into an irreverent chorus.

Descamps had pushed him, on purpose.

"Sorry, Annick..." Henry stammered, the redness invading his cheeks seemed ready to devour him. He lowered his head, avoiding the mocking gazes surrounding him. "Do you want my plate?" he asked, his tone mortified, revealing how much he wished he could disappear at that moment.

"That idiot should be the one to give it to her." Michèle's sharp comment broke the echo of laughter, plunging the room into a heavy silence. All eyes turned to her, who seemed unfazed by the attention. She nodded toward Descamps, her eyes blazing with indignation.

Joseph, on the other hand, received the provocation with a cold smile. His dark, calculating eyes scanned her from head to toe, as if evaluating his next move. Then, with the composure of someone accustomed to dominating the situation, he straightened up in his chair, allowing an expression of irritating superiority to settle on his face.

"Does the dean's niece have a problem?" he asked with a sneering tone, his voice dripping with an almost theatrical arrogance. The general attention remained focused on him, as though he were the undisputed star of the scene.

"What did you say to your uncle?" he insisted, pretending to be curious. Then, with an obviously intentional exaggeration, he modulated his voice into a high-pitched falsetto to mog her.

"Laubrac is innocent, Descamps is the bad one!" The irony of his words triggered another round of laughter, but the final blow came with his next line: "The niece and the bastard, a new love story."

Ophelia watched the scene with disgust. The dynamics of social power were all too clear: Joseph Descamps held authority based on toxic charisma and the humiliation of others, and the crowd around him happily followed him like a flock of sheep.

Michèle, however, wasn’t intimidated. She raised her head with determination, her gaze fixed on Joseph, a clear sign of defiance.

"Why don't you tell us what you wrote on that note?" she asked, her tone dripping with bravado.

Joseph, with the nonchalance of someone who enjoys teasing others, shrugged. "Nothing," he replied, feigning innocence. "It was a drawing. Let me show you."

With theatrical flair, he grabbed some sauce and poured it over his mashed potatoes, drawing a stylized image of a busty breast. He raised the plate with a pleased look, showing his "masterpiece" to the other onlookers.

"It’s a portrait." he announced, with a triumphant grin that widened as the crowd burst into self-satisfied laughter.

Ophelia was overwhelmed by a wave of nausea. There’s a limit to everything, she thought, rolling her eyes with a gesture as natural as it was eloquent. Her expression of disgust didn’t escape Joseph, who noticed it and intensified his smile. The silent challenge exchanged between them lasted an instant but felt eternal.

"Does this remind you of anyone?" Simone, sitting next to Michèle, couldn’t hold back any longer. With unexpected speed, she grabbed a sausage from her plate, raised it with theatrical flair, and snapped it in half with a force that left everyone speechless. Her eyes, locked on Joseph, seemed to promise she’d do the same to him.

The cafeteria froze, enveloped in an eerie silence. For the first time, Joseph didn’t respond.

Ophelia watched with a mix of admiration and disbelief. Maybe not everyone here is a sheep, she reflected, allowing a small smile to slip onto her lips.

Meanwhile, Joseph, with an unreadable expression on his face, shifted his gaze back to Michèle. This time, however, there was something different in his eyes: pure calculation. He was already scheming against her.

And sure enough, he made plans with his friends for revenge against Bellanger’s niece the following day.

On the first day of school, the students were allowed to leave after lunch, an unusual concession from the headmaster, who watched with satisfaction from the window of his office as the students slowly streamed out. The excitement over that small freedom was palpable, and Ophelia blended into the crowd, until she spotted an unexpected scene.

Waiting for her by the family car were her mother and little brother Oliver. The surprise filled her heart with joy, and with a radiant smile, she hurried toward them. Oliver, like a rocket, ran toward his sister, arms wide and a crystal-clear laugh filling her ears.

"Sis!" he exclaimed, hugging her with all the strength of his nine years. Ophelia bent down without hesitation, ignoring the scrapes on her knees from the gravel in the courtyard.

"Olly!" she exclaimed sweetly, stroking his chubby face. "What are you doing here? Weren’t you supposed to be at home with Mom?"

Oliver laughed, as though guarding a little secret. "We came to pick you up from school, can’t you see?" he replied with a serious tone that made her laugh out loud.

However, the magic of the moment was shattered by a voice behind her, a voice she never expected to hear so soon.

"I can’t believe it." Those words, spoken with a tone straddling amusement and disbelief, sank into her ears like an annoying buzz. Ophelia turned, her heart skipping a beat.

Joseph Descamps was there, now standing in front of her, with that cocky grin that seemed like a trademark. His eyes betrayed a flash of amusement, and perhaps something deeper.

"So it was you…" he murmured, staring at her with intensity. Then his gaze moved to Oliver, who was looking at the newcomer with confused curiosity.

"Hey, kid," Joseph bent down toward the little one, ruffling his hair. "How’s the bump?"

Ophelia froze. It took her a few seconds to piece the puzzle together, but when she did, reality hit her like a lightning bolt. It was him. The boy from the park. The one who had hurt her brother and mocked him for no reason.

"You." She said with a cold voice, her gaze turning into an icy blade.

"Well, good morning! Welcome back among us!" Joseph replied, theatrically, with exaggerated surprise. He seemed to fully enjoy the effect he was having on her, like a cat toying with a mouse.

"The world is so small, huh?" he added, tilting his head slightly, the grin widening.

Meanwhile, Oliver was watching the scene with a questioning expression. He didn’t understand a word of the French they were exchanging, but Joseph’s attitude was enough to make him realize he wasn’t exactly a friend. And he remembered him, oh yes, of course he did.

"I can’t believe it." Ophelia muttered, taking a step back. Her protective instinct kicked in immediately, and she pulled Oliver close, wrapping a hand around his arm.

Joseph didn’t flinch. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it even more.

"How’s it going, champ? Still playing soccer with the big kids?" he asked, feigning friendliness.

"Enough." Ophelia cut him off, her voice firm, solemn, almost imperious. Her patience had run out. She wasn’t going to let that guy keep playing with them as if they were pawns in a cruel game.

Joseph theatrically recoiled, pretending to be taken aback.

"What a temper!" he exclaimed, laughing under his breath and casually fixing his hair. "You know, I was just trying to be friendly. After all, you’re my new classmate, and I’m always so friendly with my lovely classmates, i just can't help it."

Ophelia didn’t even bother to respond. She knew perfectly well that every word would be bait for more provocations. He had made it clear many times that day that he wasn’t at all what he had just claimed, and she wasn’t going to discuss it right then, especially not in front of her brother.

"He doesn’t speak French." she replied coldly.

Joseph tilted his head, half-interested. "Oh, I see. What a shame." But then he lowered himself again to Oliver’s height and, with a surprisingly genuine smile, said to him in broken English, "You’re in great shape, kid."

Oliver, though skeptical, gave a small smile, not really knowing how to interpret the comment. Joseph stood up again, ruffling his hair once more.

"See you tomorrow, Miss England," he said, adjusting his jacket. His grin back on his lips.

"See you, Champion." He waved to Oliver before turning and walking out of the schoolyard, which was now almost completely empty.

Ophelia stood there, watching him walk away, a whirlwind of emotions battling in her chest: anger, confusion, but also a strange curiosity she couldn’t suppress. Joseph Descamps was irritating, arrogant, and cruel, but there was something about him, something she couldn’t yet decipher. And that bothered her more than any insult.

Author's Nothes:

I'm so happy about how this chapter turned on.

I postponed the incident to the next day of school because i think it would have been so full of events otherwise. I hope you don't mind!

What do you think about the relationship between Joseph and Ophelia so far? we have just laid the foundations, you will be so surprised by the next chapters.

I love them ngl.

Thank you for reading this, leave a comment, a like or repost if you'd like! Thank you, thank you, thank you.

faenos ©

#joseph descamps #joseph descamps x reader #joseph descamps fanfiction #mixte1963 #mixte 1963 #enemies to lovers #slow burn #fanfiction #fanfic #london #france #angst #friendship #faenos stories

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faenos · 17 days ago

Text

MEANT TO BE

a Joseph Descamps fanfiction

DISCLAIMER: This story is a fanfiction inspired by the series 'Mixte 1963. The characters, locations, and situations have been modified or expanded, but the original work belongs to its creators. I do not own any rights to the original work, and this piece is written purely for entertainment purposes and without any intent for profit.

This is not your typical 'Joseph Descamps x Reader' story simply because I don’t like writing with 'Y/N'; I prefer to give the protagonist a proper name.

English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical errors or typos. I usually help myself using google translate, so iykyk.

Chapter 1 — Game of Superiority

Summary: Ophelia Montgomery is having a typical summer in Bloomsbury. She went out with her little brother for a summer walk, but as usual, he always manages to get into trouble. He plays soccer with some boys much older than him in the park, and she ends up defending him from a boy with a French accent and a cocky attitude who hurt him by hitting him straight in the face. A few days later, Ophelia receives some unpleasant news from her father.

Word Count: 5,294 words.

Warnings: Minor injury, Joseph being a pain in the ass, some sad thoughts.

📍Bloomsbury Square Garden, London. July 17th, 1963

The birds chirped among themselves, weaving light and unfamiliar melodies, as if lost in a secret symphony. Ophelia Montgomery, lost in thought, walked with a light step, absorbed in reading one of her usual novels pilfered from her mother’s private library. Beside her, her younger brother Oliver looked around with curious eyes. He had already spotted the birds responsible for the singing, perched on one of the sturdiest branches of the tree they had just passed. Now his gaze was captivated by a red butterfly that gracefully made two complete circles around his sister. Ophelia, however, was too engrossed in the adventures of the protagonist in her book to notice the butterfly’s delicate dance or its striking red color.

It had become a habit for Ophelia to take Oliver along on her walks, both out of routine and because it was her only way to escape, at least for a while, the confines of their home. Her mother, after all, would never allow her to go out alone, despite her having turned fifteen.

Still, Ophelia found comfort and joy in his company. Oliver — or Olly, as she had lovingly started calling him from the moment she first held him in her arms — was a child blessed with natural sweetness and an insatiable curiosity, which brightened every moment they spent together. His liveliness, often accompanied by an almost contagious enthusiasm, turned Ophelia's walks into unique occasions, full of laughter and unexpected discoveries. What might have seemed like a simple stroll to her became enriched with a new dimension thanks to him, filled with innocent questions, sharp observations, and small adventures that might have gone unnoticed had she been alone. Olly wasn’t just a walking companion but a bond that, with his effortless lightheartedness, reminded her of the importance of finding beauty in the simplest things.

Oliver, in fact, stood out for his innate talent for observing the world around him and his deep passion for nature. From an early age, he had shown an unquenchable curiosity about the animal kingdom, spending hours immersed in illustrated books and specialized texts that delved into the wonders of creation. His enthusiasm was contagious, and not a day went by without him sharing with anyone willing to listen—especially his sister—the fascinating facts and insights he had learned.

Every conversation with him turned into a small biology lesson, enriched by the liveliness and wonder that only a child could convey. He could recount, in incredible detail, the habits of a rare tropical bird or the life cycle of a butterfly, as if he had witnessed them firsthand. His dedication didn’t stop at theory: he often lost himself in explorations of the backyard or nearby parks, searching for traces, feathers, or insects to study and collect. This passion not only fueled his curious spirit but also enriched Ophelia’s daily life, as she ended up learning, almost without realizing it, many of the marvels Oliver eagerly shared with her.

Ophelia, on the other hand, embodied the essence of the classic "bookworm." However, it wasn’t just a scholarly attitude of always having her nose buried in books; her passion for reading had deep roots, cultivated since childhood thanks to her mother’s influence. Her mother, a university professor of classical literature, had not only passed down the fascination for literary works but had also instilled in her a love for the beauty of words and the power of stories.

Ophelia's mother was a cultured woman, driven by an inexhaustible passion for literature, to the point where books became a central element of family life. Even the names of her children, Ophelia and Oliver, were carefully chosen, inspired by characters from some of her favorite books. Whenever someone asked about the origin of those names, she would recount their stories with a touch of pride, revealing a part of her literary soul.

Ophelia had inherited not only a love for reading but also the habit of retreating into the pages of a book whenever she felt the need to escape reality. For her, books were more than mere objects: they were portals to distant worlds, fascinating ideas, and characters she somehow felt were old friends. If Oliver found his refuge in nature, Ophelia sought hers among the written lines, in the web of words that offered her both comfort and inspiration.

She struggled to admit it, but on that hot July 17th, Ophelia keenly felt the absence of her best friend and inseparable classmate, Lottie. The latter, however, was far away, visiting her maternal grandparents in Italy and wouldn’t return until the start of the new school year. The thought of an entire summer slipping by without her weighed on Ophelia more than she wanted to acknowledge.

Ophelia walked absentmindedly, clutching her book in her hands, while little Oliver told her something clever about the colors of butterflies. His words, however, faded into the void, drowned out by the murmur of the girl’s thoughts. She kept rereading the same lines of the novel, almost obsessively, in an attempt to dispel that gnawing feeling of emptiness.

With Lottie by her side, she thought, those long summer days would have felt completely different. There would have been no room for boredom or the silent melancholy that crept into her moments of solitude. Lottie wasn’t just a friend; she was a refuge, a lively and comforting presence that made every moment lighter and more memorable. Without her, summer seemed to drag on slowly, devoid of the carefree episodes and laughter she cherished so much.

"Did you hear me?" Oliver asked, tugging at her arm to get her attention. Pulled out of her thoughts, Ophelia finally looked up and closed her book, carefully placing the bookmark between its pages.

"No, sorry," she replied, shaking her head slightly to dispel her distraction. "I was lost in thought."

Her brother’s face lit up with an amused smile.

"Yeah, I noticed!" he said with a laugh, turning to face away from the path and beginning to walk backward with a mischievous air.

"Stop it," she scolded, her tone blending slight exasperation with concern. She hated it when Oliver amused himself by walking backward—a risky habit that often ended in inevitable falls. "You’ll hurt yourself, I keep telling you."

"Are you even listening to me?" he insisted, raising his voice in a faintly whining tone, waving his arms dramatically to emphasize his frustration. She looked at him with a questioning expression, not understanding where he was going with this. Oliver, exasperated, rolled his eyes theatrically.

"Can I go play with them?" he finally asked, pointing toward a group of boys engaged in a lively soccer game on an improvised field nearby. In the tall grass, the players moved with a mix of enthusiasm and strategy, alternating between goals and minor fouls no one seemed eager to contest. Ophelia watched the scene for a moment and then firmly shook her head.

"Not a chance." she replied in a decisive tone that left no room for negotiation.

"Oh, come on!" Oliver protested, grabbing her arm again and tugging harder this time. He bounced impatiently, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a nearly comical dance. The gesture brought a smile to Ophelia’s face, but she still shook her head.

"They’re much older than you." she explained, her tone patient and affectionate, almost maternal.

"But you’re older than me too!" he countered with the kind of childish logic that seemed irrefutable to him.

Ophelia laughed, shaking her head once more. "They play in a way that’s not for you."

"Oh! Please!" the little boy pleaded, tugging at her arm with more force, his tone growing more desperate. It was impossible to ignore the determination in his gaze, not to mention the sweet puppy-dog eyes he used whenever he wanted something. Finally, Ophelia gave in. She chuckled softly, resigning herself to the inevitable, and sighed.

"Fine!" she said with a nod, finally granting him permission. She immediately felt her arm released from his strong grip.

"But we’re going home in half an hour! And don’t you dare sweat too much, or Mom will start asking questions and I don’t want any problems!"

"I promise, I swear!" Oliver shouted enthusiastically while darting off toward the group of boys, who were erupting in cheers for a goal just scored by the team on the right.

Ophelia sighed, sat down on a nearby bench, and reopened her book, ready to keep an eye on her brother while trying to immerse herself in reading once again. However, the smile lingering on her lips betrayed the joy she felt at seeing Oliver so happy, even if just for one afternoon.

Oliver, meanwhile, slowed his pace as he reached one of the boys. This boy wore glasses, with a tuft of hair slightly plastered to his forehead with sweat. The older boy’s smile faded slightly as he stared at Oliver, casting him a questioning look.

"Are you lost, kid?" he asked, maintaining a mocking smirk. Oliver didn’t let himself be intimidated; in fact, he responded with a confident grin. The boy’s strange accent made him giggle—it was unusual, and Oliver thought he had never heard one like it before.

"Not at all," he replied, rocking back on his heels with a carefree air. "Can I play with you?"

The older boy, someone who enjoyed stirring up trouble and taking pleasure in making others uncomfortable, smirked even wider. His mind was already racing through the possible ways this little kid could entertain him. Not only would he get a chance to test him, but he could also have fun at his expense, along with his friends. He turned toward the others, who were already starting to grin at the idea.

"He’s asking if he can join us," the boy said, not even waiting for a response from the others. Catching the amused grins of his friends, he turned back to Oliver, slipping a hand into his pocket.

"Alright, shorty." he replied, and Oliver’s face lit up with visible excitement. "Let’s see what you can do." With that, the boy walked off toward his team, which was currently celebrating another goal.

"You’re with them," he added, pointing to the other team, who were outnumbered. "They're less than us."

Oliver nodded eagerly and ran toward the boys. He carefully watched where he was stepping, unaware that one of the players of his team had just mouthed the words, "Are you serious?" to the boy with the glasses.

He got into position and started playing with them.

From her bench, Ophelia watched Oliver’s clumsy efforts to chase the ball with an amused smile. The way he ran, full of energy and determination, reminded her of a tiny warrior fighting an invisible battle. But as always, the ball seemed to evade him with every move.

With a sigh, she shifted her gaze back to her book, Pride and Prejudice, which she had borrowed from her mother’s library. The elegant prose of Jane Austen flowed across the pages, carrying her into the world of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, who were just beginning to grapple with their misunderstandings and cold impressions of one another.

The summer heat and the distant noise of the game made it hard to concentrate entirely, but Ophelia’s fingers turned the pages naturally, as if reading were an essential part of her being. She felt a kinship with Elizabeth—more for her courage in facing pride and prejudice than for the story itself. Elizabeth’s fiery, challenging words seemed to resonate within her, inspiring Ophelia to see the world with a sharper, yet kinder, perspective.

Sometimes, she glanced at Oliver, still doggedly chasing the elusive ball, but she never truly lost her place in the story. Even the boys’ chatter failed to fully distract her.

Meanwhile, on the makeshift field, one of the older boys grinned slyly, his intentions clear. Holding the ball in one hand, he prepared to throw it. His aim was deliberate. In one swift motion, he launched the ball with considerable force, targeting Oliver’s forehead directly.

The hit landed with a dull thud. The ball smacked Oliver straight on his face, making him stumble backward in shock. Caught off guard and unsteady, he toppled onto the grass with a soft thump, his small frame hitting the ground awkwardly.

The older boy laughed mockingly as Oliver lay on the ground, rubbing his forehead in a daze. He hadn’t anticipated such a blow. Gathering himself, Oliver sat up, his confusion mingling with embarrassment.

The boy with glasses sauntered over, leaning down with a smug smirk.

"Did that hurt, kid?" he asked in a taunting tone, feigning indifference as his amusement shone through.

Oliver scrambled to his feet quickly, trying to mask the wave of humiliation washing over him. His flushed cheeks betrayed him, though. He brushed his hand over his aching forehead, determined not to show weakness.

"It’s nothing!" he replied, his voice wavering slightly as he tried to sound braver than he felt.

The older boy turned to his friends, muttering with a satisfied grin, "Look at him. The little guy just got wrecked." Then, looking back at Oliver, he raised his hands in mock innocence.

"Hey, sorry about that. Didn’t mean to. But, you know, maybe you should watch where you’re going next time."

Laughter erupted from the other boys, their jeers cutting through the air as Oliver, his face still red and his heart pounding, tried desperately to ignore them. He clenched his fists and swallowed hard, determined not to appear too vulnerable.

Ophelia, who had heard the dull thud and the laughter of the other boys, lifted her gaze from the book. The moment she spotted her brother lying on the ground, his face twisted in pain, she sprang to her feet. With speed and determination, she ran to him, gently cradling his head in a touch that contrasted with the irritation burning inside her. Concern for her little brother was immediate, but the thought that another boy had caused this stirred an instinctive reaction within her.

"A truly admirable gesture," she said firmly, her voice dripping with sarcasm, as she stared at the boy who was still laughing with his friends, as though Oliver’s pain were a joke worth bragging about. "You must feel like a real man now."

The boy looked at her, slightly taken aback by her intervention but showing no real emotion. He flicked his hair away from his forehead with a deliberate motion, clearly unused to being challenged in public. Her audacity amused him. Tilting his head to the side, he looked at her with a disdainful expression that radiated arrogance.

"Have you lost something, mademoiselle?" he asked, his tone heavy with deliberate slowness and contempt. "Or is meddling in other people’s business just a hobby of yours?"

Ophelia, if possible, doubled down. Her hands landed on her hips with determination, her posture exuding pride and fierce protectiveness for her brother. And that French accent only made her feel nauseous at that moment.

"It’s not a hobby—he's my brother," she retorted sharply. "And if you think bullying a little kid is fun, then you’re even more pathetic than you look."

The boy’s smirk stretched into an even more derisive grin. He adjusted his glasses casually, as if her sharp comment was just another minor episode in his daily showcase of superiority.

"Pathetic? Interesting. Maybe where you come from, yelling insults at strangers is the norm."

"Only when I meet people who deserve them," Ophelia shot back, folding her arms in a gesture of clear defiance. "And you’re definitely at the top of the list."

The boy paused briefly, as if weighing the force of her response, then broke into a dismissive, irreverent laugh, as if he found the entire situation absurd.

"If you’re done playing the heroine, you can go back to your brother," he said, his tone indifferent, barely masking a hint of scorn. "And maybe tell him not to get involved in grown-up games again."

Ophelia shook her head, visibly exasperated. "Grown-up? Where are they?" she quipped, her voice sharp with fiery irony. "All I see here are a bunch of idiots." With a decisive motion, she turned to Oliver, who clung nervously at her side. The smile that had lit up his face earlier was now completely gone, replaced by an expression of embarrassment and sadness.

"Come on, Olly, let's go home." she said, trying to bolster her brother but also eager to walk away from the scene that disgusted her.

As they walked away, the sound of the boy’s laughter still reached her ears. Ophelia felt an overwhelming urge to turn back, but she kept her gaze fixed ahead. Meanwhile, the boy watched them leave with amused interest, continuing to laugh with his friends, though a flicker of curiosity about Ophelia’s boldness glimmered in his eyes. Ophelia, however, didn’t falter and kept walking, angry and proud, despite the furious pounding of her heart at the intolerable sense of helplessness.

"I told you," she said after a while, her tone laced with mild regret but free of reproach. Her little brother walked beside her, his head hung low and silent as a fish. Ophelia sighed as she looked at him—she wasn’t truly angry. She knew Oliver wasn’t at fault. He had simply stumbled into the cruelty of someone who enjoyed causing trouble. Yet she couldn’t suppress her irritation toward that boy with his smug smirk and arrogant demeanor. How dare he pick on someone so much smaller than himself? The thought kept buzzing in her mind, fueling a simmering anger she tried not to let out on Oliver.

Oliver, meanwhile, walked in silence. His eyes no longer wandered in search of butterflies, snails, or ants on tree trunks as they usually did. All he saw now were the pebbles on the path, which he kicked absentmindedly, one after another. Ophelia immediately noticed the change—her little brother’s lively smile had vanished, swallowed by a shadow of mortification.

"Hey," she called softly, stopping and crouching down to his height. She gently placed her hands on his arms, her gesture radiating warmth and reassurance. When she spoke, her voice was a tender whisper filled with affection.

"It wasn’t your fault, Olly. Sometimes these things just happen."

Carefully, Ophelia brushed his hair aside to examine the spot where the ball had hit him. There was only a red mark for now, but soon a bump would appear. She touched it lightly, taking care not to cause him more pain.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

Oliver shook his head decisively but then, in a hesitant whisper, admitted, "A little."

Ophelia stood up and took his hand.

"Come." she said with a gentle smile, leading him toward the ice cream truck parked nearby. She pulled out some coins from her purse, preferring to use her own savings instead of her mother’s money, so she could replace them if asked. After choosing Oliver’s favorite flavor, she led him to a quieter bench, away from the field and the boy who had upset her so much.

Sitting beside her, Oliver nibbled at his ice cream with a now relaxed expression. After a few moments of silence, his voice rang out, "Sis?"

Ophelia turned to him, surprised by his suddenly tender tone.

"I love you." Oliver said, his smile timid but sincere.

Ophelia couldn’t help but laugh softly. "I love you more." she replied, leaning down to plant a light kiss on his head, carefully avoiding the bump.

Then she straightened up and added with a note of irony, "But now we need to figure out how to explain that bump to mom."

Oliver looked at her with a mischievous expression, the ice cream now reduced to a blue stain on his tongue. "I could say you did it!" he suggested, leaning forward with a playful tongue out.

Ophelia raised an eyebrow, pretending to be stern. "Don’t you dare, little rascal!" she replied, shaking her head, but with a smile that betrayed her deep affection.

As her little brother laughed, Ophelia threw one last glance toward the field, where the French boy was still chatting with his friends. His arrogant laugh echoed in her ears, sharp and annoying.

She turned back to Oliver, who had resumed watching a group of pigeons pecking hungrily around, searching for crumbs. The scene brought a faint smile to Ophelia’s face as she let out an amused thought while pondering the most plausible excuse to make up.

"We could tell them you were looking for snails or ants under a tree, and distracted, you hit your forehead against a low branch?" she suggested with a slightly ironic tone, pointing to an overhanging branch nearby. Her voice was firm, but she had deliberately chosen a simple yet believable alternative, aware that a more elaborate explanation would raise suspicions.

Oliver, finally diverting his gaze from the pigeons, lifted his eyes to her and nodded, though fear still showed on his face. "Do you think she’ll get angry?" he murmured uncertainly, almost hoping his sister could ease that worry.

Ophelia leaned slightly toward him, her smile gentle and reassuring. "No, she won’t." she replied sweetly, stroking his cheek to comfort him. The gesture managed to bring out a faint smile from him, which was enough for Ophelia to feel relieved.

Though she knew the bump would still attract her mother’s attention, Ophelia was determined to protect her brother from any feelings of guilt. She sensed how fragile Oliver was in that moment, and her goal was clear: to make him believe that no matter what had happened, he would always find unconditional support in her.

—

In the following days, the small red mark on Oliver's forehead swelled, turning into a visible bump. However, their mother accepted the explanation about the tree branch without suspicion, believing it to be true. Oliver received a light scolding for his distraction, while Ophelia had to endure a long lecture on the need to watch over her brother more carefully and stop losing herself in her thoughts.

Despite a thread of frustration at the unfair scolding, Ophelia took care of Oliver with affection in those days. She spent a lot of time with him in his room, organizing games and telling him stories to make him forget the incident. Meanwhile, her mind slowly drifted further from the French-accented boy, relegating him to a vague and annoying memory.

Between a card game and a drawing session with her brother, she even found time to finish the book she had started at the park, finding in the final chapters a pleasant escape from the worries of those days.

The warm light from the chandelier illuminated the sturdy wooden table, where the dishes were arranged with almost meticulous order. The Montgomery family dining room, with its walls covered in bookshelves full of well-organized volumes and a window overlooking the flowered garden, had an intimate, family atmosphere. Ophelia, sitting across from her mother, had her face partially hidden behind the glass of sparkling water she was drinking, trying to mask her discomfort with a barely perceptible sigh. Oliver, beside her, was laughing as he recounted his misadventures with his friends, but his enthusiasm felt distant, like Ophelia wasn’t fully present.

The conversation flowed without much substance between the family members until it was her father who interrupted the delicate flow of words. Edward Montgomery set his fork on the plate and, with an elegant gesture, turned to his wife, Catherine.

"Catherine, dear," he said in a calm, almost solemn tone, "I received confirmation from our colleague in Paris: the restoration of the Royal Abbey of Saint-Jean-d’Angély has officially begun. The project will span a long period, and our role is crucial. As the lead architect, I’ve been offered the chance to temporarily move to France to supervise the work."

Ophelia finally looked up, captivated by the revelation. She hadn’t expected something so significant, let alone that it would affect her own life.

Edward continued, his voice calm and measured, but with a subtle note of determination. "We’ve discussed it at length, and after considering the opportunities, we’ve decided it would be best for us to move for a year, if not longer. It will be a unique opportunity, not just for me but for the whole family. The French culture, history, architecture... it will be an experience we can’t afford to ignore."

A cold silence fell over the table. Ophelia felt her heart race. She had no intention of leaving London, her city, her life as it was, her friends, her routine. She bit her lower lip, trying to keep calm. Her mother’s voice finally interrupted her thoughts.

"Edward, do you really think this is the right time?" Catherine asked, though her tone held a certain approval beneath the veil of concern. "Ophelia has just started her fifth year, the most important one before the final exams to access higher education, and Oliver is in the middle of primary school. Moving might disrupt everything. London is their home, it’s our home."

Edward looked at his wife with a barely perceptible smile, as if his proposal were already an unchangeable truth. "I know, Kate, but we can’t ignore the magnitude of this opportunity. In Saint-Jean-d'Angély, Ophelia will have the chance to face a different reality, to grow in an environment that stimulates her curiosity. Also, the project will require my commitment for an indefinite period. We can’t let an opportunity like this slip away."

Ophelia, hearing her father’s words, suddenly felt overwhelmed. Her fingers, still holding the glass, trembled imperceptibly. She couldn’t fathom the idea of leaving her London, of moving to a foreign country where everything would be different. Her life would change in an instant, without asking for her opinion.

With a smile that masked her frustration, Ophelia spoke, her voice barely audible but firm: "When will we move?"

Edward looked at her, but the answer seemed to come with the same naturalness with which he had announced his project. "In September, darling. Soon, so. There’s not much time."

Ophelia felt as if a huge weight had been placed on her shoulders. She looked at Oliver, who didn’t even seem to notice the gravity of the situation, too absorbed in his games and childish ideas.

"I don’t think I like the idea." Ophelia murmured, not hiding her displeasure.

Edward looked at her with an enigmatic smile, as if he had predicted her reaction. "I understand it’s not easy, but I assure you it will be a change that brings benefits for all of us. It will be an opportunity. Once you settle in, you’ll see."

Ophelia didn’t respond immediately. She looked around, observing the house she loved, the garden she knew like the back of her hand, and suddenly everything seemed distant, out of reach. A year in France, far from everything she knew. It was an idea she couldn’t process.

At that moment, her mother, who had not participated in the conversation assertively, spoke with a voice that, while trying to sound understanding, had an undertone of determination: "Ophelia, I’m sure you’ll find a way to adapt. This will be a challenge, but also an opportunity for growth."

Ophelia felt suddenly overwhelmed by loneliness, as if that proposal, that already decided future, was a step she had to take with no possibility of changing direction.

"And then," her mother continued, giving her a smile full of solidarity. "You’ll finally benefit from your French studies."

The rest of the dinner passed in a heavy silence. Her father’s words echoed in Ophelia’s mind, blending with her fears and uncertainties. On that warm summer evening, her life was already taking a turn she had never imagined.

Ophelia tossed and turned in bed, unable to find a position that would bring her comfort. The soft light from the bedside lamp cast gentle shadows on the walls of her room, a sanctuary she would soon leave forever. The thought clenched her heart, a knot of conflicting emotions that seemed impossible to untangle.

Before retreating to her room, she had stopped in Oliver’s bedroom. She found him already under the covers, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm that knew no hesitation. Talking about the move, her little brother had eagerly imagined a school full of adventures and new friends, as if the change was a promise of a whole new world to explore.

"Do you think there will be kids in France who will play soccer with me?" he had asked, his eyes wide with innocent curiosity.

Ophelia smiled at him, an almost instinctive gesture, trying to hide the weight on her chest. "I’m sure you’ll find them," she replied as she tucked him in. Oliver was her opposite at that moment: where she saw uncertainties, he saw possibilities.

Later, her mother came into her room to say goodnight. Catherine, with her affectionate yet resolute smile, spoke to her about the beauty of living an experience in another country, the richness she would find in meeting new schoolmates and growing in a different environment. Her words, though full of good intentions, seemed to Ophelia like a mosaic of unreachable hopes.

And yet, what really weighed on her heart was the thought of Lottie. Her best friend, with whom she had shared every secret, every dream, and every laugh, would be left behind, anchored to the life Ophelia would leave. She knew that letters and phone calls wouldn’t be enough to bridge the gap of distance. With Lottie, there were no filters, no need for explanations: a glance was enough to understand each other, a laugh to get through tough moments. Leaving her meant leaving a part of herself, a bond she feared she would never rebuild with anyone else.

Lying in the dark, Ophelia felt trapped between the duty to appear mature and the desire to scream her discontent. Her mind kept returning to her father’s words: "A unique opportunity." But an opportunity for whom? For him, surely. For Oliver, perhaps. But what about her? Where did she fit in this grand plan?

She realized that her heart was torn between the desire to please her family and the instinct to stay anchored to her life. It was as if London was a part of her, a place that had shaped her, that knew every thought and dream of hers. Leaving it meant leaving behind a part of her identity.

She pulled the covers up to her chest, holding them tightly as a solitary tear slid down her cheek. No matter how much she tried to convince herself that everything would turn out fine, the truth was she was scared. Scared of what she would find, but even more so of what she would lose.

The silence of the night deepened, and Ophelia closed her eyes, seeking refuge in the memories of days spent with Lottie, of Oliver’s laughter, of the quiet moments in the house that would soon no longer be hers. Before falling asleep, she made a silent promise to herself: no matter how difficult it might be, she would not allow this change to break who she was. London would always remain inside her, and whatever awaited her in France, she would find a way to stay true to herself.

CHAPTER TWO: Long time, no see

Author's Notes:

THE FIRST CHAPTER IS DONE. Hope you enjoyed it!

This is an introductory chapter where the characters are introduced, but it lays the foundation for the story to come.

For those wondering, JOSEPH X OLIVER will get their redemption! Maybe... later on.

Thank you for reading! Leave a comment and repost if you’d like!

faenos ©

#joseph descamps #joseph descamps x reader #mixte 1963 #enemies to lovers #mixte1963 #london #france #angst #slow burn #friendship #fanfiction #faenos stories

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