[FIC] permanently black and blue (for you), 4/5
4.
Today, Arthur wakes up in Paris.
He can feel it in his bones, the weight of this city and what it means to be here, to wake up here. His body is pleasantly sore, but he’s not ready to think about what that means just yet.
He doesn’t open his eyes, not yet. He feels the sheets against his bare skin and wonders idly about the thread-count. He feels the warmth of the blankets piled on top of his form and, with every fiber of courage he can dredge up, hesitantly reaches an arm towards his right.
Nothing.
Disappointment slams into him and breaks down the dam he’s built inside his heart for so long. He starts to shake, uncontrollably, and he curls up into a ball, jamming his head roughly beneath a pillow. He breathes rapidly, somehow hoping that with every exhale he can be rid of all these silly, foolish feelings.
What did he really expect?
“Arthur?”
Arthur jumps out from beneath the blankets. He sees familiar blue eyes, looking at him with concern. Familiar wavy hair, slightly tousled from sleep. Warm hands, touching his shoulder gently.
“I -” Arthur swallows, fumbling for words. Why are you still here? hovers on the tip of his tongue but he’d die before letting them escape. His eyes dart nervously across the room, then back at him. Francis is wearing a casual black shirt and trousers. The black makes his hair seem even blonder, he thinks.
“Are you all right? You were shaking.” Francis kneels on the bed, shifting closer. Arthur panics and scrambles away. Francis’ face stiffens, and Arthur knows he’s just done something wrong. He searches desperately for something to say.
“That’s - that’s mine,” he blurts out inanely.
Francis pauses.
“The book,” Arthur rushes to clarify, gesturing towards a well-worn paperback near Francis’ knee. A Tale of Two Cities. “I, er, didn’t think you’d find it interesting. One of my novels, I mean.”
Francis continues to give him that look, a steady, unfaltering gaze. Arthur’s always hated it; it makes him feel so naked and exposed. He pulls the blankets up, feeling self-conscious.
“Why wouldn’t I like it?” Francis says, and Arthur hates that he can’t quite read that tone in his voice. “It’s a story about both of our homes, after all.”
It’s also a story about the worst time in your history is what Arthur doesn’t say.
“What would be proper for me to read, then?” There’s a slight teasing glint in his blue eyes, and Arthur takes a second to feel relief, relief that he hasn’t completely screwed up.
“I - well, one of your own, I suppose,” he answers, clutching at the sheets beneath the blankets. “I always rather liked The Count of Monte Cristo.”
Something flickers in Francis’ eyes, and Arthur panics. What has he said now?
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Francis smiles at him fondly. “But perhaps I am tired of revenge.”
Arthur freezes.
What?
The silence is deafening. Arthur's gaze lands on his lap, staring at the wrinkled sheets. “Well,” Francis finally speaks, rising. “You must be hungry. I will go to the bakery and buy us some breakfast, a proper breakfast.” Arthur doesn’t even rise to the bait. “You can have a shower. I won’t be long.” He runs a hand through his hair twice, pauses to check his reflection in the mirror, and with a quick smile, walks out the door. Arthur waits until the front door slams shut before leaping out of bed.
“What the hell,” he mutters, pacing furiously. He’s completely naked. In Paris. Oh, god. He buries his hands in his hair and tugs violently.
“I need a shower,” he mutters, and storms into the bathroom, confused and angry. The counter is littered with cosmetics, and his scowl turns into an exasperated almost-smile. He turns towards the bathtub, where bottles and bottles of shampoo and conditioner and moisturizer and soaps line the ceramic tiles.
He wonders what it would be like, to wake up here every morning. To use this bathroom, to sit in his kitchen and eat breakfast. To go to sleep here every night, with silk sheets and the warmth of someone next to him.
He steps into the shower and tilts his head back, allowing the hot spray of water to drip down his face and neck. He pretends he’s on the ocean again, navigating the stormy waters with the spray of salt on his face, adrenaline coursing through his veins. This time, he’s not out for blood or gold or land, he’s there because he finally can be, no strings attached, without the weight of a country on his shoulders. And this time, when he turns at the sound of footsteps walking easily across his ship, there’s no surprise, just a calm acceptance as he smiles at the sight of a face peppered with perpetual stubble, wavy tresses pulled back into a neat ponytail.
Ah, he thinks, and the pieces finally slide together and lock into place, ah.
. . .
Francis returns in ten minutes, bringing with him a bag of croissants that smell heavenly, not that Arthur would ever admit that. He walks into the kitchen as he towels his hair dry, wearing clothes he’d nicked from Francis’ closet - a pair of dark jeans that hang low on his hips and a dark green polo that’s a little loose around the shoulders.
Francis looks up at him, and an impish smile crosses his face. “You look good in my clothes.”
Arthur stutters and feels a flush creep up his neck. “Shut up, frog,” he grits out, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.
Francis brushes past him, his shirtsleeves brushing past Arthur’s bare forearm. Arthur barely represses the shiver that ripples down his back. He sets the bag of croissants down on the table, and gestures towards the stove. “You want tea, I assume? I can boil water - no, really, I’ll do it.”
Arthur scowls, but doesn’t argue. He drapes the towel around his neck and pushes himself onto the granite counter. He pretends to be fixated on the stray threads sticking out of the towel, but surreptitiously watches Francis move. He watches him set two plates on the kitchenette, watches as he prepares a cup of coffee. He watches as he casually tosses in a teabag into a dark blue mug and his stomach feels distinctly funny, and damn, but this is an irritating feeling.
The kettle whistles shrilly.
Francis turns off the stove and pours the water in the mug. Arthur is entranced with his long, slender fingers as he gently sits the mug on the counter, right next to Arthur’s lap. He can feel the heat radiating through the fabric of his jeans.
“You’re quiet,” Francis suddenly says, eyeing him oddly.
Arthur clears his throat, uncomfortable. “Just tired, is all,” he murmurs, staring at the floor. He hears Francis heave a sigh, an exhausted sigh, before turning away. He reaches out instinctively, fingertips brushing the soft material of his shirt.
Francis turns and looks at him, really looks at him, and Arthur flails and he knows he looks ridiculous but that’s what he does; his hand catches the handle of the mug sitting next to him and boiling hot liquid splatters onto his lap.
“Oh, fuck,” he hisses, leaping off the counter and straight into Francis’ chest.
He hears Francis choke back laughter. “Are you so eager to take off your pants in front of me?”
“Bastard,” Arthur scowls. “They’re not my pants.”
Francis shakes his head, mirth in his eyes. “Go on and change. I’ll fix your tea for you.”
Arthur obeys, still embarrassed and angry at himself. He finds himself, once again, in Francis’ bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. As usual, he has a surly frown on his face, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed. He looks down at the second pair of pants he’s grabbed from Francis’ closet, a pair of khaki trousers. Knowing Francis, he’s sure they must have cost an obscene amount of money.
He groans, hands clenching a fistful of khaki. He knows he must be leaving wrinkles, but he doesn’t care. He bends over the sink and rests his head against the cold mirror.
When did this happen? When did the lines separating enemies and fuck buddies and something more blur into nothingness?
When did he fall for him?
Try as he might, he can’t pinpoint the exact moment. He pulls back from the mirror and drapes the towel still hanging from his neck over his head, enveloping himself in darkness. It’s a foolish thought, but maybe if he can’t see anything, then nothing can see him…
“Arthur? What’s taking you?”
Arthur jerks clumsily, banging his elbow against the sink. He swallows a curse just as Francis enters the bathroom. He hastily removes the towel from his head.
Francis looks like he wants to laugh, but settles for an awfully amused smile. “Do you need help putting those pants on? I’d be glad to -”
Arthur throws the towel at him, hitting him squarely in the face. “Get out, I’m changing.”
“No, you’re not,” comes the easy reply. “You’re standing there, doing who knows what.”
“Out,” Arthur repeats.
Francis shrugs, turning to leave. And it is right at that moment that something inexplicably shifts. Arthur couldn’t explain it even if he tried - but what happens is that Francis turns and Arthur is faced with his back and all of a sudden he thinks, no, no, I don’t want to see that back anymore, and he takes two steps towards him and reaches out, grabbing his shoulder.
Francis stops.
Arthur stares intently at the blackness of his shirt, at the line of his shoulder. He swallows. “I - I don’t know how to do this,” he says, helplessly.
He feels the tension build and fall in Francis’ shoulders. Francis turns, and as his eyes land on his face, Arthur shuts his eyes.
“Arthur, look at me,” he says softly.
“No.” Because he is nothing if not stupidly stubborn.
Francis heaves a sigh that Arthur has learned to recognize as fond frustration. Arthur feels something wet being dropped on his head, and then he’s being yanked towards the other man. When he ventures to open his eyes, he finds that Francis has unceremoniously thrown the towel over both of their heads. He wrinkles his nose at the smell of water and soap clinging to the microfiber threads.
“I give up,” Francis says, affectionate and exasperated all at once. His hands linger on Arthur’s too-skinny hips, his forehead a comfortable weight on his own. From this angle, Francis’ face is blurry, but his eyes are brighter and bluer than Arthur’s ever seen.
Arthur relaxes in his hold, resting his hands on the backs of Francis’ elbows. “Yes, well, we both know you’ve had plenty of experience with that,” and, before his courage fails him, leans in and presses his lips against his.
. . .
“I can’t promise you perfection,” Francis reminds him, voice low and gravelly.
Arthur shrugs. “Never asked for it.”
They’re lying in the middle of Francis’ rumpled sheets. Arthur thinks he could get used to this, the familiarity of someone - no, not someone, not anyone, but Francis - sharing a bed with him.
“We never ate the croissants.” Francis sounds regretful.
Arthur’s stomach rumbles and he languidly pushes himself into a sitting position. “Let’s go, then.” He slips on his boxers and the borrowed pair of khakis and shuffles towards the bathroom. Francis follows him soon after, naked save for black silk pajama pants. He smirks when Arthur pulls out a new toothbrush from one of the bathroom cabinets. In response, Arthur rolls his eyes and elbows him sharply in the ribs.
Francis leans against the spacious counter, watching Arthur brush his teeth. Suddenly, he frowns and stands upright, retrieving something from a small back pocket.
“Oh.” He looks mournfully at the nearly empty tube of lip balm. Arthur resists the urge to snort, and rather fails at it. Francis gives him a cheeky smile before unscrewing the cap and squeezing out a small amount onto his index finger. He presses close to Arthur’s side, bare hips touching, as he scribbles something across the bathroom mirror.
Je t’aime.
The effect is rather ruined, Arthur thinks, by some strange looking blob that he supposes could pass for a heart. He spits into the sink, glaring at Francis through the mirror. Naturally, the only response he gets is a grin.
Arthur rinses his mouth and dumps his toothbrush into the glass cup sitting on the counter with a clatter. As Francis moves to throw the lip balm away, Arthur yanks it from his hands.
Francis looks at him questioningly and Arthur’s eyes flicker towards the words on the mirror, and damn it but there’s a distinct fluttery feeling in his stomach.
“There’s still a bit left,” he informs the Frenchman, squeezing out the last bits of gel and smearing it haphazardly over Francis’ lips. Francis frowns, confused, but then Arthur flings the empty tube into the trash and tugs him closer, fully intending to wipe Francis’ lips clean with his tongue.
“We’re not going to have our croissants, are we?” Francis teases, in between hurried kisses.
“Do you really want them?” Arthur retorts, biting down on his lower lip and angling his hips just - there.
Francis groans and shoves him against the wall.
. . .
This is what happens last night:
Arthur shows up in Paris, sitting down morosely at a terrace café. In front of him is a cup of tea and some kind of lemon tart he hadn’t really wanted.
“Why am I even here?” he mutters, glaring sullenly at his drink. It tastes all wrong, too - too French - and maybe if he gets going now he can still make it back to London before midnight. Or perhaps he’ll find a bar and get drunk. Alcohol, at least, is his one constant companion.
He senses his presence before he sees him.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Francis says, sitting down gracefully in the chair across from him.
“Don’t think anything of it,” Arthur answers, eyeing him warily. They haven’t really spoken since that disastrous night two weeks ago, when the words exclusive and dirty little secret had been hurled painfully into his heart.
“No, no, of course not,” Francis says amicably, “I am sure you have merely realized that my home is better than yours. Is it still raining there?”
It actually is raining in London; Arthur can feel it in the steady thrumming sensation in his ribcage. He knows better than to answer, and instead bites into the pastry he’d ordered. He wrinkles his nose. It’s sourer than he’d anticipated and he puts it back down on the plate.
Francis, predictably, slides the plate over and finishes what’s left, shaking his head. “You really have no taste for fine cuisine, do you?”
Arthur, for lack of a better response, glowers. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“What, couldn’t find anybody else to fuck?” He almost - almost - regrets the words that spill from his lips. He hadn’t meant for them to come out. A dark look crosses Francis’ face, but it’s gone so quickly Arthur’s not sure it ever happened at all.
Arthur turns away, hides his expression behind the mug of tea that’s lukewarm by now. Maybe this are how things are supposed to be, he muses, each of them tossing out words that sting and stab and burn, beating each other senseless and leaving behind bruises and scars that never truly fade.
“What do you want from me, Arthur?” And he sounds so honest for once that Arthur can’t help but look back at him.
“What do you want from me?” he retorts, trying to mask his vulnerability.
He sees the shift in Francis’ face, the shift from that easygoing, careless façade to something he only sees late at night when the moonlight casts eerie shadows on his face. It’s something he’s never acknowledged because he's always been too afraid to find out what it means. His instinct to run flares up inside him, but he fists his hands in the tablecloth and forces himself to sit still.
“Isn’t that obvious?” Francis smiles at him, slow and sad. “Just you. Only you. Always.”
Arthur chokes on his tea.
Naturally, Francis laughs as Arthur coughs and splutters. At the end of the day, they’re still better at hurting rather than loving each other (or maybe it’s the same thing). When he recovers, he narrows his green eyes into slits and slams the mug onto the table.
“If this is just a damn joke to you -”
“It’s not,” Francis says, and Arthur instinctively knows that he’s telling the truth, which frightens him more than he’d like to admit.
“It’s not like I’m the only one you’ve ever wanted,” he murmurs, both hands gripping the mug in front of him, desperately needing something to hold onto.
“No,” Francis agrees, and Arthur braces himself for disappointment, tells himself not to get his hopes up, but then Francis surprises him as always, “but you’re the only one I could imagine still wanting, five hundred years from now.”
Arthur inhales sharply. “Five hundred?”
“Well,” Francis amends, “I suppose I could be convinced to stay for another thousand.”
“Francis,” Arthur starts, and then falls abruptly silent. “I don’t - I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t.” Francis raises his hand to Arthur’s cheek, thumbs rubbing at the circles beneath his eyes. “Still, will you come home with me?”
Arthur says yes, as he’d known he would. What he doesn’t know, however, is that for the first time in years, he won’t wake up alone in the morning.
Part Five