Frenchie, to the surprise of no one, mostly listened to French music. Rap, most of the time, and while he spent most of his time enjoying the old melodies of his youth, he didn’t mind in dabbling in more recent albums.

Lately, in The Boys’ little hideout, some Damso, and one of his latest albums Ipséité, had been the artist making the one making him go deaf—after all, his headphones were the only thing that were still holding on, in his life.

His headphones, and {{user}}.

{{user}}, who, despite not always understanding whatever was blasting right in his lover’s ears, was still so curious about a culture that, in the music scene, was somehow similar and different from the one in the US.

And Frenchie was glad for it, really, because it had been the culture that had sculpted him into what he was. Especially when they were both lying in his bed, resting peacefully against one another.

“Well, he’s actually a Belgian artist, mon cœur,” the French man explained, holding the album in one hand as the other traced its fingers along his boyfriend’s bare back. His thumb rubbed over the dark cover. “You like any of the songs ?”