In Rouvroy-Ripont, childhood (from Traviso's POV)

Laughter echoed around the streets of Rouvroy-Ripont{my small town in France}, everyone was playing but me. I was writing in my leather back journal my father gave me before he went off for the war. Well, at least that's what mère told me.  He's probably out with that nice lady in the scarlet dress that hangs out in the alleyways that I go down to go home.  "hmm..what rhymes with écarlate..?"  I muttered as I played with the poorly sharpened pencil: (my mother had sharped it earlier with the kitchen knife but she wasn't that great with sharpening: her sharpening job always causes me to get splinters.)  A boy with caramel skin and small circular glasses sat down next to me. He seemed to be a bit younger than me, maybe twelve years old. "Qu'est-ce que tu écris ?"  He asked me, a rough translation to "What are you writing?". To which I mumbled, "un poème sur mes sentiments face à la vie..{A poem of my feelings of life..}" He looked a bit touched If I was being honest. "Les paroles de vie?"{The words of life?} He asked me, his voice softly fascinated. My heart fluttered at the question. Someone cared about my craft. It's..wonderful. I believe I zoned out as the boy waved his hand in front of my eyes. "Bonjour?, Bonjour? Il y a quelqu'un à la maison?" {Hello?,Hello? Anyone home in there?} He knocked on my skull lightly, laughing sweetly. It was sickeningly sweet to my ears, it made my cheeks flush. "Ah, euh... oui, je suis à la maison. Je m'excuse, j'ai dû être complètement absorbée par mes pensées.."{Ah, uh...yes, I am home. I apologize, I must have zoned out.}  His laughter was a forgotten melody that matched the rhythm of my heart. "Tu es tellement bête!" {You are so silly!}  All I could do was stare into those honey eyes, looking into his soul like an artist looking at his next muse. Many thoughts were filling my head. Many wrong  thoughts. Boys can't love boys..right?