[fanfiction] Le Lys & La Rose - In the Backroom
Title: In the Backroom
Author/Artist: twilightrose2
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Francis/Arthur (main) Matthew and Alfred sneak in here and there.
Rating: T
Summary: AU. When Arthur first explores the lovely town Eadem he falls in love almost at once. The only thing he thinks he’s fallen in love faster with is Francis Bonnefoy. He wants to open a pub there. Francis does not.
Note: Takes place in grosse_averse's AUverse "Le Lys & La Rose"
In the Backroom
When Arthur first explores the lovely town Eadem he falls in love almost at once. The only thing he thinks he’s fallen in love faster with is Francis Bonnefoy (though it was more hate which turned out to be adoration after a long year and a well-placed proposal.) He didn’t know what exactly he was going to do in this town, or what this town was going to do to him, but he knew it would be life changing.
The news that Arthur has bought a pub and is selling everything they own in London, the Coventry countryside and the small Parisian flat (used for those special weekends where they leave the kids with the neighbours) does not impress Francis in the slightest. When Arthur first takes him to Eadem, he hates it almost at once. The only thing Francis thinks he’s hated faster was Arthur’s cooking (but he didn’t mention this to the Brit, the beaming smile on his face absolutely thrilling.)
It takes Arthur three weeks to convince Francis that the pub is a good idea and finally after days of pleading, sulking and trying to be as loving as possible, they are soon trundling along a small road in the countryside, London far behind, Francis driving a sulky Alfred and a excited Matthew, Arthur following in a large moving van.
Enrolling the boys in the local high school doesn’t take long and soon they are all comfortably settled in the home just in time for the twins to start the fall semester. There is only one, huge, overlying issue and neither Francis nor Arthur really wants to talk about it.
The tension between them grows steadily for a week and even their boys are scared for the two. Arthur is being too polite; Francis is being too conservative. Arthur is being pleasant; Francis is being moody. Arthur is smiling; Francis is frowning. The day Matthew and Alfred plan an intervention -mostly because Francis’ mood is starting to affect his cooking and Arthur is muttering something about taking over- it is the same day that Francis confronts Arthur about The Issue.
“This pub needs a name.” Arthur is currently on a ladder in the backroom, attempting to reach his secret stash of Branston Pickles, cigarettes and gin -he was going for the pickles. His hand stops rummaging as he looks down at the Frenchman, shaggy blond hair hanging in his eyes in a vague attempt to hide his eyebrows (not that he’s ashamed, they just seem to scare little kids and give retirees coronaries.)
“What?” He says, as if he didn’t hear the Frenchman loud and clear. Francis leans against the bottom of the ladder, trapping Arthur there. The Brit’s lips hardened into a thin line. “Is this really necessary?”
The look on Francis’ face (of hurt, of anger and of sternness) pulls another sigh from Arthur as, for a moment, he considers escape; he’ll only shatter his ankle, right? “Arthur, we cannot keep on like zis… we have to open ze pub. We have to start making money.”
Arthur knows his husband is right. “Well,” He sits down on a rung of the ladder, staring down at Francis, “I have a few ideas. Victoria, Globe, King’s Head or even-”
“Non.” Francis says simply. He reaches into his back pocket and Arthur doesn’t know what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t a neatly folded piece of lined paper, “I am choosing.”
This simple statement drives a hard blow to Arthur’s ego. “B-But,” He wavers on the ladder for a moment, “It’s my pub Francis! I get to chose the name!”
A smile turns Francis’ sombre look bright for a moment. “Rosbif… number one, it is our pub. And two; don’t you remember what you promised me that night I agreed to move to this… town?” He speaks the word, but Arthur can hear ‘small, rundown, hole on the coast, non-urban and cold place that I absolutely loathe’ in his tone.
Arthur’s memory immediately flips to the night. His cheeks burn and his immediately rubs his wrists. “I-I remember… certain things.” He admits, even though he remembers it all. Even the chocolate. And the leather.
“You promised me that I would get to chose the name if I moved.” Francis says, unfolding the piece of paper with a deliberate slowness and his husband knows that he is only doing it to bother him and give himself time to enjoy the blush on this Englishman’s cheeks. “I believe it was around the time we had made it to the bed, hm~?”
Reaching up a hand, Arthur tried to cover his face, which now closely resembles a beet. “Oh… right.” The position he had been in really didn’t give him much choice than to agree with the Frenchman. Under any other circumstance, he would’ve fought for the right tooth and nail. “Well, what do you have?”
Finally the list was unfolded and Francis leaned against the ladder, hooking the heel of his boot on the bottom step. “How about L’Autrement Dit?”
“What does it mean?”
“In other words.”
“Try again.”
“Le Bastringue? I believe it means… dance hall.”
“Francis…”
The Frenchman sighs and leans his head back, staring up at Arthur. “Amoureux…” He mumbles, “You know that we will never agree on anything.”
Absently, Arthur reaches down a hand, brushing a piece of hair away from the cobalt eyes. “That’s because you are a insufferable romantic.”
“And you are a stubborn bastard.” Francis replies easily, catching Arthur’s hand with his own, stealing a kiss across the knuckles before Arthur has to pull his hand back so as not to fall off the ladder. “Per’aps we should wait… a name will come with time.”
Holding the sides of the steps, wobbling slightly, Arthur runs a hand through his hair tiredly. He can almost feel the grey hairs between his fingers. “No, we should pick a name. You go ahead Francis, you did… earn that right.” His ego growls and he tries to tell himself that he will top later in the week. He finds it sad that even he can’t believe that statement.
Francis turns around and climbs the ladder, making sure to fit himself between the Englishman’s legs, gripping the shelf behind them for support. His fingers almost knock over a jar of olives. “Arthur,” He says seriously, “We both know that if I pick the name, you will never be ‘appy.”
Flushing again, but less out of shame and more out of the closeness, Arthur purses his lips. “You’re right.” He admits, “But… I’d much rather have money and be grumpy than poor and mildly displeased.” Gently, he leans back, head bumping against a stock of vodka; the clinking of bottles is the only sound in the empty pub.
Arthur watched out the high window as leaves tear from branches and fling themselves into the breeze. The wind guides them out into the foggy ocean and Arthur’s eyes strain to see where water meets sky but they meld together too perfectly.
“Let’s pick a name together.”
This suggestion almost surprises Francis. “A… compromise?” Francis rubs his temple, his brow puckering “What ‘ave you done with my ‘usband?”
“Twit.” Arthur mutters, flicking the long nose and glaring. “You’re lucky I even married you. I doubt anyone else in this bloody world could handle you.”
Long arms wrap around him and lips find the spot right below his jaw, above the long, thin scar around his neck and Arthur squirms on the ladder, head leaning back slightly. “Very lucky…” Francis whispers quietly against the Brit’s skin, nipping it fondly.
Arthur, still flushing, pushes him away. Climbing down the ladder, Francis grins up at him. “I will pick one word, and you will pick the other. Is that enough of a compromise for you?”
The Brit frowns down at the Frenchman, carefully following after, his knees shaking slightly. “Alright.” He ran over the list of names he had chosen for his pub. “Rose, then. It is the King’s flower after all.”
Blue eyes close and the Frenchman shakes his head. “Anglais.” He mutters, “Fine. Then I will pick something along the same lines then, oui?”
A non-committal shrug. The green eyes flick to the door and Arthur shuffles towards it.
“Lily then.” Francis says, sticking out a hand as Arthur tries to escape and shutting the door. “But that’s still not enough…” His voice purrs slightly and Arthur feels the heat on his cheeks creep up to grace his ears. Eighteen years of marriage and Francis still makes him blush like they’ve just met.
Leaning against the shelves, Arthur swallows as Francis’ arms lean on either side of him. “Le Lys et La Rose.” He whispered quietly, “A good French name for an English pub.”
Arthur tries to shove the Frenchman away but Francis holds strong. “That’s a bloody terrible name!” He sputters, “It should be The Rose and Lily.”
His sense seems to have abandoned him, hands tightening around Francis’ shirt as his husband leans closer. “Really?” Francis’ voice is low and the blue eyes boring into him. “Tell me why the rose comes first…”
“B-Because…” But the word dies and Arthur cannot think of a reason with Francis so close, the room so empty and his face so hot.
When Arthur first feels Francis’ kiss him in the pub’s backroom, he falls in love all over again. The whine of the shelf as they press again it, the quiet wind and the distant lap of wave on sand all quiet down, and all Arthur’s ears pick up is the slow and steady heartbeat, the whisper of fingers on his skin and the breath along his lips.
He tries to say why the rose should come first, a noble and proud flower, beautiful and dangerous with its thorns. Francis’ hands splay across his back, pulling him close, cradling him, holding him and kisses his neck, making Arthur’s words come out breathless. The words in his ear and along his lips tell him the lily should come first; a quiet and beautiful flower with a long and ancient history.
Arthur tells Francis he is a prick. Francis smiles. “A prick you married.”
All at once, Arthur’s ego is comforted and shrivels a little more.
-
Matthew and Alfred arrive home, prepared for a serious confrontation but instead they find their parents naked in the backroom, Arthur lying on Francis’ chest, dead to the world while the Frenchman idly pets his hair, smoking a cigarette.
That night Matthew makes dinner.
Author's Note
lol I was suddenly inspired to finish this. grosse_averse was telling me how the 'verse wasn't fruk-y enough. I was quite happy to remedy the situation. I actually really like this piece and I can't quite put my finger on why... oh well~
oh, and Branston pickles <3