[fanfiction] Two Weeks 17/17 -complete-
in case you're interested in which song I was listening to while writing this... feels kinda nostalgic~ please give it a listen while reading this chapter if you're so inclined.
fff- I said I wouldn’t talk, but I will anyway. The epilogue was probably one of the harder chapters to write. Never wanting Two Weeks to end aside, I kept playing with where the ending would occur. London, so there would be a final confrontation between Al, Art and Francis? Paris, so there would be much fluff and wine? Or Rome, where the entire story had taken place?
On reflection, I realized that this story was really made by the side-characters… without the Rome Crew, the story wouldn’t have been half as interesting. So, out of respect for the people that really helped, and hindered at times, Francis and Arthur’s relationship, I decided on Rome.
Chapter 17
Francis would always wonder what had made him approach Arthur. What had compelled him to taking the man off of the street? What had made him stop and offer aid instead of walking by? What about the strange man yelling in the middle of road was so appealing? His mother had always called him an odd one. Too nice, too charming and too sly for his own good, but he always laughed, kissing her cheek before hurrying off and one of the many dates he had while in high school.
Perhaps it was the fact that he looked almost as helpless as Francis had felt -lost between girlfriend/boyfriends and in state of constant monotony- that made him walk over, and whisk the Englishman away, only to find that Arthur Kirkland was rude, unpleasant, snarky and British. And despite this, Francis still asked him to come with him to Rome, perhaps not the smartest move at the time, but by the end of their journey he felt it was the best decision he had ever made.
After making it to the hostel and realizing that Italians were perhaps some of the friendliest, if not oddest, people on the face of the planet, Francis was lucky enough to see another side of Arthur as they ate am unexpectedly delicious pasta dinner. A blush when his tiramisù was eaten, a hesitation to talk and an utter social ineptitude that was almost charming in its clumsiness. The Brit was shy and Francis almost marvelled at how quickly he could go from loud and angry to quiet and subdued. It only piqued his interest further, making Arthur suddenly seem like more than just a two-week fling.
The next day, Francis was even more thrown by Arthur’s actions. After lending him the turtleneck and ending up at the laundromat, Francis felt an unexpected roar in the pit of his gut as he watched Arthur chat up a young lady. As he watched them talk, Arthur subtly moving closer, the young woman all smiles Francis was on his feet, pulling them apart, ruining the moment. During the meeting with the Austrian banker, he could only trying to figure out what had possessed him to do such a thing. And, just as Arthur was saying how they couldn’t share a bed, he realized that it was the emotion he had only heard of before this. Jealousy, and it was every bit as unpleasant as it was made out to be.
Just when he was sure he had the Englishman figured out, he went off and got drunk and Francis had to deal with yet another wave of jealousy when he had seen Gilbert on top of Arthur. That night, as he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, slightly dried hair clinging to his face he found that he could only think of the Englishman lying in the bed next to his. Was Arthur trying to be this tempting, or was it all ready just the way the Brit was? Either way, Francis found that he felt rather un-rested that morning when he agreed to accompany Roma down to the docks.
He really didn’t care about Alfred, but when Arthur told his story, which such kindness, such tenderness and such longing in his voice, Francis couldn’t help but listen and wonder vaguely if Arthur would ever talk about him like that. Filled with a sudden, inexplicable urge to give the Englishman a reason to talk about him like that, Francis found himself cuddled with Arthur under the safety of a chapel as the rain poured down around them.
It was at this point that Francis realized he had fallen for Arthur. The next few days seemed so blissful and he barely remembers the tango, the Swedish and Finnish guests and the trip to the beach Finally, he gets over his fear and the constant parade of distractions and interruptions and kisses Arthur and for once he actually realizes what it feels like to kiss someone you truly love. This memory, of Arthur’s small and soggy form, pressed against his, returning the kiss, eagerly even, remains close to his heart, never to be forgotten, even if old age should claim the rest of his mind.
But the memories become quickly raw and emotional as he watches Arthur slam the car door shut and drive away leaving words that still haunt Francis when he finds his mind wandering. Two men at a bar offer a small comfort and for once he actually realizes what it feels like to have your heart broken by someone you truly love. His mood does not improve when the old lady at the airport tells him his flight had been delayed for another six hours. His hope has abandoned him by now, seeking refuge away from the storm.
And doesn’t hesitate as he catches sight of Arthur -his Arthur by now he should think - standing in the rain. They exchange what barbarians may consider pleasantries and, ignoring his own heart, Francis tells the Englishman goodbye. He doesn’t quite understand why he says it, but the way Arthur’s face falls gives him both great pleasure and pain at once. Before he can even begin to walk away, the Brit calls out for him and they kiss for the second time and Francis believes that it is perhaps the best kiss he has ever shared with someone.
And after all that. The teasing, the heartbreak, the realization and the confession, Francis still found himself walking in on Arthur standing in the middle of their kitchen, looking positively adorable in a red apron, as he attempted to cook.
“Add how many cups of flour?” Arthur called into the living room, poking his head around the corner, eyebrows furrowed as he attempted to locate the Frenchman. In his hands he held a bowl, a white, lumpy substance inside with a whisk sitting in it.
Francis sidled into the roon, holding two paper bags in his arms. “Non, non, mon cher. There is no flour in tiramisu, remember?”
Arthur pulled a face. “It has bread in it.”
Sliding the bags on to the counter, Francis walked over, placing a kiss on Arthur’s nose. “Exactly. You don’t need to add more.” He started unpacking the bags as Arthur sighed, re-reading the recipe for what felt like the hundredth time. You’d think that after ten failed attempts he’d at least know what the recipe required. Hopefully today - it was his birthday after all - he’d get it right.
As Arthur opened the pack of ladyfingers, he listened to Francis move around the kitchen, putting the groceries away. Since Francis did most of the cooking, Arthur usually opted out of joining him on his jaunts down to the shop instead trying to help Roderich organize the numerous businesses and accounts that Via Del Sol seemed to get. “You’ll never guess who I saw at the store today,” Francis said, closing the door the pantry and leaning against the counter.
Arthur didn’t look at him, focusing on placing the ladyfingers side-by-side. “Oh yeah?” He said, listening with only half an ear. When there wasn’t any answer, he looked up from the task at hand. Francis was gone, but another blond was standing in the kitchen instead. Arthur gasped, dropping a ladyfinger onto the floor. “Matthew!?”
His younger brother smiled, quirking his head to the side and closing his eyes guiltily as he had done for his entire life. “Surprise?” He said weakly before he was engulfed in a hug from Arthur.
“What are you doing here?” Arthur demanded, holding him at arms length. Matthew had grown since he had last seen him, but his big blue eyes had barely changed since their childhood. Here was expecting Feliciano or Ludwig, but not his brother. He would have to thank the Frenchman later tonight.
Matthew looked slightly insulted. “You think I’d miss my brother’s birthday?” He said, pushing his glasses up his nose, baggy sleeves hiding most of his hand.
Before Arthur could ask more questions, a voice he had only heard in his wildest nightmares rang through the house. “Oh my god, like, don’t we get, like, hugs too?”
Groaning, the Englishman stared at the Canadian. “Matthew you didn’t…” he said pleadingly, clutching his brother’s arm.
“Sorry… they said they would come with or without me. Sorry?” He repeated, shrugging apologetically.
Before Arthur could flee, Toris and Felix had appeared, the Pole in a dress, his blond hair held back by a small barrette and the Lithuanian standing behind him, grinning nervously and waving. “Hello Arthur.” Toris said, stepping forward and offering his hand, “It’s good to see you.”
Arthur took the hand, shaking it slowly, eyes still flickering to Felix, waiting for a sign to jump back and avoid contact, but the blond seemed completely all right with bothering Matthew, fussing about his hair. “I’m glad you came.” Arthur said, putting particular emphasis on the word. “Francis, this is Toris, he works with Matthew.” The Englishman waved his partner over.
“I hope, like, you haven’t, like, totally forgotten me Arthur!” Apparently Felix had finished fixing the Canadian’s hair (it now had a small red barrette in it that matched the shade of his brother’s cheeks perfectly) and was now hurrying over to Arthur, arms outstretched, intending to tackle-hug him. The Brit could only exchange a worried look with Francis - who was looking amused of all things - before preparing himself for the hug.
There was a knock at the door and, with an amount of dexterity he didn’t even know he possessed, Arthur slid by Felix, avoiding the hug. As he listened to Toris catch the Pole, Arthur opened the door, panting slightly. Eight people were gathered in the door and the minute he opened it, a wall of sound assaulted him.
“I brought oysters!”
“Idiot bastard! It’s supposed to be a surprise for Arthur!”
“Gilbert? I dearly hope you aren’t grabbing my husband’s ass.”
“Why Lizzie? ‘Cause you don’t have your camera on you?”
“If you two are going to be like this all night, I’m leaving.”
“Roderich, you can’t leave, it’s Arthur’s birthday.”
“Ve~ Ludwig is right Roderich! We are here for Arthur.”
Arthur could help but smile, listening to the conversations breeze by as the guests walked into the house, their pleasant babble filling the background with a low hum. He watched Francis introduce Toris, Felix and Matthew to the rest of them, glad to see how accepting the Romans were to the scientists.
A hand suddenly clamped his back enthusiastically, almost sending him toppling. “The birthday boy!” Roma boomed, closing the door behind him. In one hand, he held a small tray covered in tinfoil.
“What’s this?” Arthur said, recovering reaching out a hand and lifting the aluminium.
“Tiramisù,” Roma said with a small wink, “In case you screw up.” And despite the insult to his cooking, the Englishman couldn’t help but smile.
The small home was soon filled with sound and laughter. Gilbert had already set out getting everyone drinks and was currently deep in conversation with Felix and a blushing Matthew. The crossdresser and bartender seemed to be taking in turn to hit on the young Canadian.
Across the room, Ludwig was keeping an eye on the three, making sure things didn’t get to out of hand while beside him, Feliciano was having his hair stroked and braided by a very pleased looked Elizaveta. Her husband just shook his head in disapproval, turning back to the game of poker he was currently embroiled in with Lovino, Antonio and Ray (who was apparently a long lost cousin of the Spaniard’s)
Toris and Francis were standing near the grand piano - Francis had it brought all the way from Paris. Apparently he still needed to express himself musically; Arthur just thought it was silly - the Frenchman’s blue eyes flicking to Arthur’s every few minutes, giving him quiet smiles and half winks. It was making it very hard to finish the tiramisu and Roma ended up making most of it in the end, also preparing the rest of dinner. “It’s no problem.” The chef has said in response to Arthur’s stuttered promises to pay him, pouring noodles into a tall pot, “I love cooking for people Arthur, that’s why I own a restaurant.” And Arthur found he really couldn’t argue when the Italian was making such a delicious smelling sauce.
Dinner was quickly served and everyone squished around the small table, the sound even louder than before as people talked over one and other. Even Arthur found himself locked in a fierce debate with Antonio about the Spanish Inquisition and it’s legitimacy, finding that the tanned man actually knew quite a fair amount. The entire time, Francis held Arthur’s hand under the table, smiling as he sipped his wine.
Arthur blushed furiously when Roma brought out the dessert, singing happy birthday in Italian. The others soon joined in - each in their respective languages - and it became a garbled mess of off tune notes and words the Englishman couldn’t even hope to understand, which only made it all the more special.
“Make a wish mon cher.” Francis whispered into his ear as the candle flickered up at him. The eyes of everyone at the table were on him but he could only see Francis’ blue ones. Smiling, he took a deep breath and exhaled, managing to extinguish every flame much to the thrill of the guests, who all burst into cheers. As the tiramisu was passed around and Gilbert refilled everyone’s drinks, Francis leaned close to Arthur’s ear again. “What did you wish for?” He asked quietly.
Turning his head, Arthur kissed Francis softly. “Just that.” He answered simply, beginning to eat the tiramisu, pretending to not notice the pink tinge to the Frenchman’s cheeks. Returning to his own dessert, Francis squeezed Arthur’s hand under the table, their rings brushing against one and other for a moment.
A few hours later, as the sun was beginning to set and after a few more rounds of drinks and a particularly rousing game of Monopoly (Lovino managed to win without cheating for the first time in his life, but that could’ve been due entirely to the fact that he was drunk out of his mind) Ludwig and Ray began shepherding their drunken lot out of the house. Toris, meanwhile, was carrying a passed-out Felix up the stairs to the guest rooms while a yawning Matthew clung to his shirt, muttering a sleepy goodnight to his brother. Soon the house was quiet again and Arthur sighed, feeling unexpectedly old.
Grunting slightly, he got to his feet, stretching. Beside him, Francis was lazily finishing his glass of wine, his eyes slightly glassy. Before he could suggest they go to bed, Arthur caught sight of the clouds rolling over the sky. Sighing, he approached the window, touching the glass.
“What’s wrong Arthur?” Francis asked, sneaking up behind him and wrapping his arms around Arthur’s hips. Unconsciously, Arthur reached down with his hands, gently touching Francis as lips pressed against his neck. He said nothing for a few minutes, enjoying the way their reflections seemed to fit so perfectly around each other.
“It looks like rain.” He muttered quietly.
“I don’t know Sourcils.” Francis said, grinning at the Englishman, “I’ve always found sunshine to be quite dull.”
fin
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fff- I said I wouldn’t talk, but I will anyway. The epilogue was probably one of the harder chapters to write. Never wanting Two Weeks to end aside, I kept playing with where the ending would occur. London, so there would be a final confrontation between Al, Art and Francis? Paris, so there would be much fluff and wine? Or Rome, where the entire story had taken place?
On reflection, I realized that this story was really made by the side-characters… without the Rome Crew, the story wouldn’t have been half as interesting. So, out of respect for the people that really helped, and hindered at times, Francis and Arthur’s relationship, I decided on Rome.
Chapter 17
Francis would always wonder what had made him approach Arthur. What had compelled him to taking the man off of the street? What had made him stop and offer aid instead of walking by? What about the strange man yelling in the middle of road was so appealing? His mother had always called him an odd one. Too nice, too charming and too sly for his own good, but he always laughed, kissing her cheek before hurrying off and one of the many dates he had while in high school.
Perhaps it was the fact that he looked almost as helpless as Francis had felt -lost between girlfriend/boyfriends and in state of constant monotony- that made him walk over, and whisk the Englishman away, only to find that Arthur Kirkland was rude, unpleasant, snarky and British. And despite this, Francis still asked him to come with him to Rome, perhaps not the smartest move at the time, but by the end of their journey he felt it was the best decision he had ever made.
After making it to the hostel and realizing that Italians were perhaps some of the friendliest, if not oddest, people on the face of the planet, Francis was lucky enough to see another side of Arthur as they ate am unexpectedly delicious pasta dinner. A blush when his tiramisù was eaten, a hesitation to talk and an utter social ineptitude that was almost charming in its clumsiness. The Brit was shy and Francis almost marvelled at how quickly he could go from loud and angry to quiet and subdued. It only piqued his interest further, making Arthur suddenly seem like more than just a two-week fling.
The next day, Francis was even more thrown by Arthur’s actions. After lending him the turtleneck and ending up at the laundromat, Francis felt an unexpected roar in the pit of his gut as he watched Arthur chat up a young lady. As he watched them talk, Arthur subtly moving closer, the young woman all smiles Francis was on his feet, pulling them apart, ruining the moment. During the meeting with the Austrian banker, he could only trying to figure out what had possessed him to do such a thing. And, just as Arthur was saying how they couldn’t share a bed, he realized that it was the emotion he had only heard of before this. Jealousy, and it was every bit as unpleasant as it was made out to be.
Just when he was sure he had the Englishman figured out, he went off and got drunk and Francis had to deal with yet another wave of jealousy when he had seen Gilbert on top of Arthur. That night, as he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, slightly dried hair clinging to his face he found that he could only think of the Englishman lying in the bed next to his. Was Arthur trying to be this tempting, or was it all ready just the way the Brit was? Either way, Francis found that he felt rather un-rested that morning when he agreed to accompany Roma down to the docks.
He really didn’t care about Alfred, but when Arthur told his story, which such kindness, such tenderness and such longing in his voice, Francis couldn’t help but listen and wonder vaguely if Arthur would ever talk about him like that. Filled with a sudden, inexplicable urge to give the Englishman a reason to talk about him like that, Francis found himself cuddled with Arthur under the safety of a chapel as the rain poured down around them.
It was at this point that Francis realized he had fallen for Arthur. The next few days seemed so blissful and he barely remembers the tango, the Swedish and Finnish guests and the trip to the beach Finally, he gets over his fear and the constant parade of distractions and interruptions and kisses Arthur and for once he actually realizes what it feels like to kiss someone you truly love. This memory, of Arthur’s small and soggy form, pressed against his, returning the kiss, eagerly even, remains close to his heart, never to be forgotten, even if old age should claim the rest of his mind.
But the memories become quickly raw and emotional as he watches Arthur slam the car door shut and drive away leaving words that still haunt Francis when he finds his mind wandering. Two men at a bar offer a small comfort and for once he actually realizes what it feels like to have your heart broken by someone you truly love. His mood does not improve when the old lady at the airport tells him his flight had been delayed for another six hours. His hope has abandoned him by now, seeking refuge away from the storm.
And doesn’t hesitate as he catches sight of Arthur -his Arthur by now he should think - standing in the rain. They exchange what barbarians may consider pleasantries and, ignoring his own heart, Francis tells the Englishman goodbye. He doesn’t quite understand why he says it, but the way Arthur’s face falls gives him both great pleasure and pain at once. Before he can even begin to walk away, the Brit calls out for him and they kiss for the second time and Francis believes that it is perhaps the best kiss he has ever shared with someone.
And after all that. The teasing, the heartbreak, the realization and the confession, Francis still found himself walking in on Arthur standing in the middle of their kitchen, looking positively adorable in a red apron, as he attempted to cook.
“Add how many cups of flour?” Arthur called into the living room, poking his head around the corner, eyebrows furrowed as he attempted to locate the Frenchman. In his hands he held a bowl, a white, lumpy substance inside with a whisk sitting in it.
Francis sidled into the roon, holding two paper bags in his arms. “Non, non, mon cher. There is no flour in tiramisu, remember?”
Arthur pulled a face. “It has bread in it.”
Sliding the bags on to the counter, Francis walked over, placing a kiss on Arthur’s nose. “Exactly. You don’t need to add more.” He started unpacking the bags as Arthur sighed, re-reading the recipe for what felt like the hundredth time. You’d think that after ten failed attempts he’d at least know what the recipe required. Hopefully today - it was his birthday after all - he’d get it right.
As Arthur opened the pack of ladyfingers, he listened to Francis move around the kitchen, putting the groceries away. Since Francis did most of the cooking, Arthur usually opted out of joining him on his jaunts down to the shop instead trying to help Roderich organize the numerous businesses and accounts that Via Del Sol seemed to get. “You’ll never guess who I saw at the store today,” Francis said, closing the door the pantry and leaning against the counter.
Arthur didn’t look at him, focusing on placing the ladyfingers side-by-side. “Oh yeah?” He said, listening with only half an ear. When there wasn’t any answer, he looked up from the task at hand. Francis was gone, but another blond was standing in the kitchen instead. Arthur gasped, dropping a ladyfinger onto the floor. “Matthew!?”
His younger brother smiled, quirking his head to the side and closing his eyes guiltily as he had done for his entire life. “Surprise?” He said weakly before he was engulfed in a hug from Arthur.
“What are you doing here?” Arthur demanded, holding him at arms length. Matthew had grown since he had last seen him, but his big blue eyes had barely changed since their childhood. Here was expecting Feliciano or Ludwig, but not his brother. He would have to thank the Frenchman later tonight.
Matthew looked slightly insulted. “You think I’d miss my brother’s birthday?” He said, pushing his glasses up his nose, baggy sleeves hiding most of his hand.
Before Arthur could ask more questions, a voice he had only heard in his wildest nightmares rang through the house. “Oh my god, like, don’t we get, like, hugs too?”
Groaning, the Englishman stared at the Canadian. “Matthew you didn’t…” he said pleadingly, clutching his brother’s arm.
“Sorry… they said they would come with or without me. Sorry?” He repeated, shrugging apologetically.
Before Arthur could flee, Toris and Felix had appeared, the Pole in a dress, his blond hair held back by a small barrette and the Lithuanian standing behind him, grinning nervously and waving. “Hello Arthur.” Toris said, stepping forward and offering his hand, “It’s good to see you.”
Arthur took the hand, shaking it slowly, eyes still flickering to Felix, waiting for a sign to jump back and avoid contact, but the blond seemed completely all right with bothering Matthew, fussing about his hair. “I’m glad you came.” Arthur said, putting particular emphasis on the word. “Francis, this is Toris, he works with Matthew.” The Englishman waved his partner over.
“I hope, like, you haven’t, like, totally forgotten me Arthur!” Apparently Felix had finished fixing the Canadian’s hair (it now had a small red barrette in it that matched the shade of his brother’s cheeks perfectly) and was now hurrying over to Arthur, arms outstretched, intending to tackle-hug him. The Brit could only exchange a worried look with Francis - who was looking amused of all things - before preparing himself for the hug.
There was a knock at the door and, with an amount of dexterity he didn’t even know he possessed, Arthur slid by Felix, avoiding the hug. As he listened to Toris catch the Pole, Arthur opened the door, panting slightly. Eight people were gathered in the door and the minute he opened it, a wall of sound assaulted him.
“I brought oysters!”
“Idiot bastard! It’s supposed to be a surprise for Arthur!”
“Gilbert? I dearly hope you aren’t grabbing my husband’s ass.”
“Why Lizzie? ‘Cause you don’t have your camera on you?”
“If you two are going to be like this all night, I’m leaving.”
“Roderich, you can’t leave, it’s Arthur’s birthday.”
“Ve~ Ludwig is right Roderich! We are here for Arthur.”
Arthur could help but smile, listening to the conversations breeze by as the guests walked into the house, their pleasant babble filling the background with a low hum. He watched Francis introduce Toris, Felix and Matthew to the rest of them, glad to see how accepting the Romans were to the scientists.
A hand suddenly clamped his back enthusiastically, almost sending him toppling. “The birthday boy!” Roma boomed, closing the door behind him. In one hand, he held a small tray covered in tinfoil.
“What’s this?” Arthur said, recovering reaching out a hand and lifting the aluminium.
“Tiramisù,” Roma said with a small wink, “In case you screw up.” And despite the insult to his cooking, the Englishman couldn’t help but smile.
The small home was soon filled with sound and laughter. Gilbert had already set out getting everyone drinks and was currently deep in conversation with Felix and a blushing Matthew. The crossdresser and bartender seemed to be taking in turn to hit on the young Canadian.
Across the room, Ludwig was keeping an eye on the three, making sure things didn’t get to out of hand while beside him, Feliciano was having his hair stroked and braided by a very pleased looked Elizaveta. Her husband just shook his head in disapproval, turning back to the game of poker he was currently embroiled in with Lovino, Antonio and Ray (who was apparently a long lost cousin of the Spaniard’s)
Toris and Francis were standing near the grand piano - Francis had it brought all the way from Paris. Apparently he still needed to express himself musically; Arthur just thought it was silly - the Frenchman’s blue eyes flicking to Arthur’s every few minutes, giving him quiet smiles and half winks. It was making it very hard to finish the tiramisu and Roma ended up making most of it in the end, also preparing the rest of dinner. “It’s no problem.” The chef has said in response to Arthur’s stuttered promises to pay him, pouring noodles into a tall pot, “I love cooking for people Arthur, that’s why I own a restaurant.” And Arthur found he really couldn’t argue when the Italian was making such a delicious smelling sauce.
Dinner was quickly served and everyone squished around the small table, the sound even louder than before as people talked over one and other. Even Arthur found himself locked in a fierce debate with Antonio about the Spanish Inquisition and it’s legitimacy, finding that the tanned man actually knew quite a fair amount. The entire time, Francis held Arthur’s hand under the table, smiling as he sipped his wine.
Arthur blushed furiously when Roma brought out the dessert, singing happy birthday in Italian. The others soon joined in - each in their respective languages - and it became a garbled mess of off tune notes and words the Englishman couldn’t even hope to understand, which only made it all the more special.
“Make a wish mon cher.” Francis whispered into his ear as the candle flickered up at him. The eyes of everyone at the table were on him but he could only see Francis’ blue ones. Smiling, he took a deep breath and exhaled, managing to extinguish every flame much to the thrill of the guests, who all burst into cheers. As the tiramisu was passed around and Gilbert refilled everyone’s drinks, Francis leaned close to Arthur’s ear again. “What did you wish for?” He asked quietly.
Turning his head, Arthur kissed Francis softly. “Just that.” He answered simply, beginning to eat the tiramisu, pretending to not notice the pink tinge to the Frenchman’s cheeks. Returning to his own dessert, Francis squeezed Arthur’s hand under the table, their rings brushing against one and other for a moment.
A few hours later, as the sun was beginning to set and after a few more rounds of drinks and a particularly rousing game of Monopoly (Lovino managed to win without cheating for the first time in his life, but that could’ve been due entirely to the fact that he was drunk out of his mind) Ludwig and Ray began shepherding their drunken lot out of the house. Toris, meanwhile, was carrying a passed-out Felix up the stairs to the guest rooms while a yawning Matthew clung to his shirt, muttering a sleepy goodnight to his brother. Soon the house was quiet again and Arthur sighed, feeling unexpectedly old.
Grunting slightly, he got to his feet, stretching. Beside him, Francis was lazily finishing his glass of wine, his eyes slightly glassy. Before he could suggest they go to bed, Arthur caught sight of the clouds rolling over the sky. Sighing, he approached the window, touching the glass.
“What’s wrong Arthur?” Francis asked, sneaking up behind him and wrapping his arms around Arthur’s hips. Unconsciously, Arthur reached down with his hands, gently touching Francis as lips pressed against his neck. He said nothing for a few minutes, enjoying the way their reflections seemed to fit so perfectly around each other.
“It looks like rain.” He muttered quietly.
“I don’t know Sourcils.” Francis said, grinning at the Englishman, “I’ve always found sunshine to be quite dull.”
fin
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