Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [3/7?]
anonymous
May 18 2009, 23:05:45 UTC
They meet again in Paris with other nations to discuss the Marshall Plan, and for a moment Arthur doesn’t recognize the man sitting across the table from him. He frowns and tries to place the wavy blond hair that ends just above his ears; it looks wrong, doesn’t look right. He thinks it might be a nation’s boss.
The man lifts his head, and Arthur’s green eyes meet blue ones. For a second, Arthur doesn’t recognize the eyes, either. They’re calm and flat, but they’re still familiar. It takes Arthur another second, but recognition clicks into place as he looks a little longer.
The man’s lips flicker. Arthur sees a ghost of a smirk in that mouth as the other gives him a small wave. He feels despair radiate outward from his chest when he realizes that this man in front of him is Francis - just not Francis at all. ___
“Francis. Hey, Francis.”
“Hm?”
Arthur catches Francis by the elbow as they make their way to the dining room for lunch break.
“Take a walk with me down the halls?” he asks. Francis doesn’t even smirk or lick his lips- he just nods and walks with Arthur to a quiet, private place, leans with him against the wall.
“…so.” Arthur shifts and curls his fingers in his pockets. “How…how have you been since we last saw each other?”
Francis shrugs. “Busy,” Francis murmurs, and doesn’t look into Arthur’s eyes. “I have been helping de Gaulle with the remaining trials.”
“Trials?”
“For people suspected of collaborating with the Vichy government,” Francis murmurs. “There aren’t as many now, but there are still people that must be investigated for pro-German acts and sentiments…”
And finally Arthur sees something; a flicker of flint, something hard and disgusted at the back of Francis’ eyes. Francis’ upper lip curls a little.
It’s not what Arthur wants. But it’s something other than saccharine politeness. It’s emotion, it’s something solid, and Arthur wants to kiss Francis’ mouth and suck it in.
He curls his fingers into a tight, unforgiving fist. “Why haven’t you let your hair grow out?” he asks. On instinct, he lifts his hand to touch Francis’ hair before he realizes what he’s doing and stops.
Francis’ single, clear moment vanishes, and he gives Arthur a blank, polite look. He tilts his head away from Arthur’s hand and stares at him, and Arthur can’t help but wonder what’s going on behind those eyes.
“We should go get something to eat now,” Francis says, quiet and gentle. “Before the lunch break ends. We won’t be able to listen to Alfred’s plans on an empty stomach, yes?”
Arthur doesn’t move, just watches as Francis fades down the corridor and out of his sight. His hand hangs, unmoving, in the air; he watches his fingers curl into his fist and bite his palm as -
Arthur swings his arm back and into the wall. His head hangs forward, and his bangs hide his eyes and the fury burning inside.
You were mine. And they stole you from me.
His mind throws itself against his skull, a wild animal entrapped. He can’t help but feel as though he’s missing something important - that he’s letting something dark grow large and threaten to suck him down. ___
“Alfred?” Arthur calls to Alfred on the last meeting day, waving his hand.
“Oh, Arthur!”
“I…I’m terribly sorry, but…may I ask a favor of you?”
Arthur watches Alfred frown, confused. “Sure, I guess. Depends on what it is, though I think I’m awesome enough that I can do it.”
“…Look after Francis.” Arthur’s voice grows quiet as he looks away.
“Eh?”
“Both of you - you and Matthew.”
“Well, yeah, I was going to anyway, Arthur. Don’t worry, we’re making sure that he has the best help, and we’re here if he needs anything at all.”
“That’s all I wanted to know. Thank you.” Arthur turns and leaves the room. He sees Francis standing down the hall, hears Matthew talking with Francis in rapid French.
He looks away and walks to the front of the building. He does not look back. He does not want to think about Francis, nor does he want to hear the terrible, tempting voice trying to tell him to go back and claim Francis from Matthew.
He will not think about Francis until he absolutely must.
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [4/7?]
anonymous
May 18 2009, 23:07:44 UTC
April 9, 1948
His majesties and Prime Minister insist that Arthur accept Francis’ invitation to Paris to celebrate the anniversary of the Entente Cordiale. It is only logical, they argue, only natural, that the two embodiments of their nations entertain one another during the commemoration.
That is why Arthur is seated on Francis’, hunched over a book of Shakespeare’s plays he’s not actually reading, waiting for the other to come and get him for a tour of Paris’ streets. In the meantime, he sits here, tense, and tries not to think about how the room smells like Francis, all musk with an underlying of damask roses.
He hears the bedroom door open and close behind him, turns around and looks at Francis’ careful face (he ignores the short hair). “Are you going to take me out to see Paris, or do you have something else planned?” Francis’ face is still beautiful, even after all this time; it is easy to look at.
Francis doesn’t respond, just stands there and watches Arthur with a look he can’t place for a little longer. He sees Francis blink as realization flickers over his face, as he snorts and looks away. “Is that what you want?” Francis asks.
Arthur feels himself stiffen and frown as slow footsteps cross the room, as the mattress behind him dips a little with weight. Arthur can’t look away as Francis crawls to him, as moist, hot breath puffs over his lips. “Francis, what -”
Francis leans forward and presses his mouth to Arthur’s, firm and warm.
Something within Arthur roars up and through him. The book slides from his fingers to the floor, and he turns presses into the kiss, pushes his tongue against and through Francis’ lips.
Mine, he thinks as he presses Francis into the comforter. This is mine, your warmth. And Arthur feels genuine joy - joy that Francis is finally opening up again, that he’s letting Arthur suffocate him with kisses as he unbuttons that thin silk shirt.
He holds that joy for a few, precious seconds before he realizes something is wrong. He pulls back, eyes fluttering open, and frowns down at Francis.
The look in those eyes and that face is a punch to the gut.
Francis is blank. Not crying, not yelling, and not enjoying this. His eyes are glassy and flat, and his breath comes in quick little bursts that Arthur somehow knows isn’t from arousal.
“Francis.” No response, so he tries again. “Francis, are you all right?”
The edges of Francis’ lips twitch. “I am fine. This is what you want, oui?”
And Arthur realizes in a rush of nausea that Francis has seen and knows what Arthur wants and desires. Offers it to him in the form of a complacent, quiet surrender.
But he’s wrong. Arthur doesn’t want this.
Arthur looks at the cropped, wavy hair. He remembers sleeping next to Francis when they were little and the Fair Folk gave him nightmares, thinks of how Francis’ long locks would splay against the white pillowcase. Sunrays, bondless and beautiful, even in the room’s darkness.
“Goddamnit,” Arthur grits out, and slides off the bed, his fingers popping the buttons of his shirt back into their eyeholes.
Arthur backs up and off the bed, fixing the few undone buttons on his shirt; he does not look at Francis, splayed on the bed, eyes fixed on his back.
“Why will you not take what you want?”
Arthur hesitates, his hand on the doorknob, but he does not look back. “Because I do not want you to surrender,” Arthur admits. “Because I’m not going to fuck something so lifeless.”
“Arthur -”
Arthur closes the door behind him with a soft click behind him. He moves in quick, measured steps to his own room. He wants to pack and be on the next boat back to London before Francis can catch him. ___
“Dear Britannia,” Puck tells him as Arthur sips his drink, “you’ve made such a mess of things.”
“I know, Robin, I’ve heard enough from Their Majesties and the Prime Minister, thank you very much.”
Two weeks later, Arthur sits on the balcony in his room and downs the rest of his scotch. His fairy friends are still about, flitting around his head in small, winking lights, and Puck is curled up at his feet.
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [5/7]
anonymous
May 18 2009, 23:09:39 UTC
“…I know it was rude of me to leave,” Arthur says. “I just…I couldn’t….” Arthur rubs his forehead and sighs.
Puck nods, though his face tells Arthur he doesn’t quite understand. “You’re very worried about him.”
Arthur snorts. “What gave you that ridiculous idea?”
Puck doesn’t smile. “I’m a part of you, dear Britannia. I sense your thoughts as a human as well as a Nation.”
Arthur ponders this, chases it down with the rest of his scotch. “I’m so confused,” he murmurs as he bows his back and speaks to the melting ice in his glass. “I suppose you know that, too.”
“I wouldn’t know what confusion feels like.”
Arthur looks up at Big Ben’s silhouette on the red and orange horizon.
“I think I understand now why he won’t let his hair grow out,” Arthur murmurs, eyes narrowing in thought. “It…just....”
“It feels as though you don’t understand at the same time.”
Arthur looks down at Puck, gives him one slow nod. “Yes,” he says, taking the bottle of scotch and pouring himself another glass. “That. He has…he has a good support group, and I’ve done my best to be considerate of his feelings by keeping my distance -”
“Perhaps that’s the problem.”
Arthur frowns down at Puck, confused.
“Is that really who your Francis is, Britannia? Someone who needs to be alone to recover?”
Arthur blinks once, twice. Something solid and definite forms at the back of his mind; he feels as though he’s on the edge of realizing something important. It remains there even as he takes a long sip of his drink.
“He’s got Alfred and Matthew,” he murmurs. “They’re being careful with him, too - staying by his side and helping him to recover. He was a victim of the -”
Arthur’s voice halts as he finally understands. Understands that he’s merely seeing Francis as a victim, rather than someone trying to move on and become stronger. Understands that his want, his desire to possess, is twisted and one-sided as it is now - and that if he’s not careful, he’ll end up hurting Francis even worse.
“I’ve been going about this all wrong,” he murmurs, putting his glass aside and covering his eyes.
“It’s good that you realize that.”
“So how do I set it right?”
Puck doesn’t answer, and when Arthur opens his eyes he sees that his fairy friends are gone. Arthur’s annoyed, but not mad; that’s their way, after all, and they’re not the ones to ask for easy answers, given their flights of fancy.
Arthur finishes his scotch and watches the London skyline with bleary eyes as he thinks. ___
April 8, 1949
The king extends his apologies to France for Arthur’s behavior and invites Francis and his boss to the palace this year to celebrate. He knows it’s succeeded when the queen stops shooting him dirty looks over her cup at teatime, and when the Prime Minister starts trying to tell him, the very Nation, how not to screw things up.
We cannot afford to get on France’s bad side, he remembers being coached. Don’t screw this up, Kirkland.
Arthur scowls a little and doesn’t look back as he guides Francis through the halls, walking a little ahead of the other. He has an idea of what he should do now. It’s just a matter of seeing if Francis tries to seduce him again in the first place. If he doesn’t, fine, then he’ll let it be. If he does….
“You are awfully quiet, Arthur. I wonder what’s on your mind.” There’s no suggestive hint in Francis’ tone, just knowing resignation.
Arthur bites his lip and stops, reaching a hand out to open the door to the guest room. Well. If he does, he thinks, he’ll have to take a risk. He’s not good at treating people like fine china.
“You’ll sleep here for your visit,” Arthur says, reaching back and taking Francis’ suitcase and leading him into the room. “There’s a bathroom over there, and a bookshelf - feel free to read anything you see up there.” Arthur opens a drawer on the bedside cabinet. “You can put your clothes in here, if you’d like, or you can use the closet -”
Long, thin fingers slide around and grip Arthur’s, feathers press against the juncture of jaw and neck. Arthur stiffens, feels something roar and echo through him - the desire to take and to own, to hold tight and never let go.
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [6/7]
anonymous
May 18 2009, 23:11:26 UTC
Arthur turns in Francis’ arms and kisses him, letting Francis lead him to the bed and pull him down onto the sheets on top of him.
Arthur lets his hands roam, takes care to keep his touch feather-light and ticklish. In earlier days, it drove Francis to thrashing and cursing; now he feels only trembles in the muscle under soft, pale skin.
He frowns and kisses harder, trying to draw reactions that he feels he deserves, that he’s earned. No such luck. Francis lies still and lets Arthur touch him.
Arthur changes tactics, kisses across Francis’ cheek and down his neck with an open mouth. “Tell me,” he hisses into that neck. “Tell me what you want, Francis.”
He feels Francis’ throat jump as his breath hitches, but otherwise remains silent. Arthur lifts his head and looks into Francis’ face.
“Tell me,” he demands, his hands coming up to grab Francis’ shoulders. “Tell me. Anything. Tell me what you like. Tell me to stop. Please, Francis, say something.”
But Francis’ eyes don’t open, hidden behind dark lashes and squeezed eyelids. Those lips turn white with pressing; Francis isn’t enjoying but enduring.
Arthur feels his eyes crinkle and he gives into his anger, weak, giving Francis’ shoulders one good shake.
“Is this what you want?” he asks, his voice high and frustrated. “Do you want me to conquer you? Do you want me to hurt you or use you or -”
Something wet and warm and clear splatters on Francis’ cheek; blue eyes flutter open in surprise. Another drop lands, and Arthur realizes he’s crying, despairing. His eyes slide shut and he lets his breath hitch and his body shake with sobs. I was wrong, he thinks, I was wrong to believe that -
It takes Arthur a moment to feel the fingers on his face, and his eyes flutter open, stinging with tears.
Francis smiles up at him, not small and polite but wide and thankful and beautiful. Something in his eyes is alive, so alive, becoming stronger with every second.
Arthur’s mesmerized, unable to look away as Francis cups the back of his head, pulls Arthur into the crook of his neck. “I like being licked here,” he whispers, breath hot and soft as Francis’ tongue teases Arthur’s ear.
Arthur’s brain starts to work and respond, slow, lethargic.
“Yes,” he murmurs, grazing Francis’ neck with the tip of his tongue. “Yes.”
It’s summer, so naturally it’s hot, but the air still feels warm as they shuck their clothes off, as Arthur follows Francis’ directions and kisses, bites, licks wherever the other asks, over here, there right there -ow not so hard, stupid bastard, leave it to the Anglais to be so unrefined.
Arthur swallows the shards slicing his throat and turns Francis’ swears into gasps and sighs as he fucks him, slow and hard and steady, and runs his thumb over Francis’ lower lip. He looks at Francis’ face, the closed eyes, the parted mouth, and says welcome back with his entire body.
They only pause once when Francis opens his eyes with a gasp and looks at Arthur with a wide, confused expression. Arthur blinks, looks down between them and sees the hand resting right on the center of Francis’ chest, feels the rapid, rhythmic thud of Francis’ heart.
His eyes quirk back up to look at Francis, his cheeks flushed and his hands clumsy and awkward.
Francis’ lips curve upward, teasing, gentle. A long-fingered, soft hand clasps over one of Arthur’s own. “Yours,” he says.
It’s hot out. Arthur uses that heat, lets it burn his skin as he gives Francis a lazy, enthusiastic, returned kiss. ___
“Arthur,” Francis whispers, after, as they sleep turned away from one another on principle.
“Mmmmn.”
“Arthur!”
“What?! Gh, stupid frog, m’ tryin’ t’ sleep….”
“…My hair.”
“What ‘bout it?”
“I said I want to grow it out again.”
“…Ah.”
“Would you like that?”
Arthur snorts and shuts his eyes. “Do whatever you bloody want,” he mutters, closing his eyes. “I’m not your maid.”
Silence. Francis shifts, presses his own back to Arthur’s.
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [7/7]
anonymous
May 18 2009, 23:12:44 UTC
___
March 2008
The years pass, their relationship goes up and down. This is one of their better years, and they sit together and watch London’s sunset from the castle, sipping wine together on the balcony.
“Y’know we’re probably going to start arguing again,” Arthur warns. “Even though we’re supposed to be getting along better and all that bollocks.”
“My dear, I do not think our relationship can be healthy otherwise.”
“Look, there’s healthy relationship arguing, and then there’s starting foreplay off with insults. I think they are two different things.”
“You have a problem with my method of getting you all hot and bothered?”
“It’s not exactly polite to tell your bedmate that they kiss like the Blarney Stone!”
Francis snorts, and then laughs. Arthur takes the opportunity to sneak a glance at him - he is lovely in vivid twilight, his skin a bit pale from the cool breezes, tears of laughter beading at the corner of his eyes.
Arthur frowns when he sees the dark ribbon bound into Francis’ hair. It brings back memories of a more broken, silent Francis, even when longer wisps escape and brush the nape of his neck.
“D’you have to wear that thing?”
Francis looks at him and raises an eyebrow.
“That ribbon. It brings back…bad memories.”
Francis watches him for a moment, smiling and thoughtful. He waits until Arthur blushes and shifts in place before standing and making his way over to the balcony rail.
“Would you like to take it out?”
Two fingers take the edge and tug before Arthur answers; the ribbon gives, slides from his hair in a quick, fluid movement.
Arthur doesn’t see Francis let the ribbon go; his eyes widen as he watches Francis’ hair whip around his head. It’s not merely long, it’s longer, wavy and fluid and bright.
Arthur thinks of sunsets on wide fields, of Francis looking back at him with confident eyes, a cocky smirk, and hair blowing free and wild in the wind. He feels the image burn away for this; for Francis smirking down at him, eyes half-lidded, back straight and strong as his hair settles on and a little past his shoulders, longer and silkier than he’s ever seen it.
Francis holds out a hand, and Arthur feels powerless to do anything but take it, let Francis pull him from his chair. Their arms twine as they kiss, as Arthur lets Francis draw his tongue from his shy, dumbfounded mouth.
And Arthur understands the final piece now, the key to helping Francis heal. It’s not enough to possess Francis, to reclaim what World War II stole. It’s in belonging to Francis that the overpowering want fizzles out and dies, feels like something almost normal.
Francis bends his neck and kisses the edge of Arthur’s mouth, letting him feel the smile. “Mine,” Francis says.
Arthur smiles and wraps his arms around Francis’ neck; fingers thread through golden hair as he pulls Francis’ head down to kiss his ear.
“Yours.” ___
This was…hard to write, and I don’t think I got it exactly right. I tried to make it work, I really did.
Historical notes:
The Épuration légale: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vichy_France#.C3.89puration_l.C3.A9gale. This is where you’ll find the four stages I used to sort of illustrate Francis’ actions and gradual healing in this fic. It also explains shorthaired!France; during the first wave, the épuration sauvage was a time where prostitutes who had or were suspected of being Nazi consorts had their heads shaved as public humiliation.
Admittedly I didn't have in mind something nearly this complex when I banged out the silly prompt, but you, writernon, you. sdlaj;sljdLSJFLSJdkjfdkljfs you've taken this concept and run with it above and beyond and--and I'm just totally speechless with awe right now. This is the fic I've always wanted for this pairing and WWII, no contest, no exaggeration, and you've done it.
OP is the happiest person on the entire Internet right now. This is immutable fact.
I hope you'll excuse the total incoherence, I'm going to have to come back and leave a better review in a few days once I've reread this a couple dozen more times.
In the meantime, I LOVE YOU, ACCEPT MY PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE OR AT LEAST A DIAMOND OF EPIC PROPORTIONS, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS MASTERPIECE, and I have some inkling of who you might be and I do believe you've also written my other two favorite France/England fics in the fandom.
I'm so happy you enjoyed it - this took several days to write, and I had to go over and edit it once because I didn't feel it ready. Thank you for giving such a good prompt. No diamond rings are necessary - I was happy to do it.
I recognized who you were from your comment on the previous fill. Hint: If your gut tells you something, it's probably right ;)
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [7/7]
anonymous
May 19 2009, 03:39:37 UTC
O-oh my god, I don't even know what to say to this. I absolutely loved this. Absolutely, absolutely loved it. I really like the limited perspective we get from Arthur, and his struggle to deal with this and to understand. I really love the descriptions of Francis through his eyes -- as infuriating and beautiful at the same time, and the sharp contrast of post-WWII France. I think I especially love the way this captures what I love about Arthur and Francis's relationship-- that sort of mutual fixation over history that has the possibility of developing into something more. So, yes, I really, really loved this.
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [7/7]
anonymous
May 19 2009, 19:26:48 UTC
Puck was very interesting to write. He had a habit of causing trouble for humans, even when he meant to help them. I suppose he felt some vindication in calling Arthur out on his screw-up. xDDD
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [7/7]
anonymous
May 19 2009, 05:53:26 UTC
Oh wow, authornon. This fic left me speechless right after I finished it. This is most definitely one of the best fics I've had the pleasure of reading in this meme. Thanks a lot for posting.
The man lifts his head, and Arthur’s green eyes meet blue ones. For a second, Arthur doesn’t recognize the eyes, either. They’re calm and flat, but they’re still familiar. It takes Arthur another second, but recognition clicks into place as he looks a little longer.
The man’s lips flicker. Arthur sees a ghost of a smirk in that mouth as the other gives him a small wave. He feels despair radiate outward from his chest when he realizes that this man in front of him is Francis - just not Francis at all.
___
“Francis. Hey, Francis.”
“Hm?”
Arthur catches Francis by the elbow as they make their way to the dining room for lunch break.
“Take a walk with me down the halls?” he asks. Francis doesn’t even smirk or lick his lips- he just nods and walks with Arthur to a quiet, private place, leans with him against the wall.
“…so.” Arthur shifts and curls his fingers in his pockets. “How…how have you been since we last saw each other?”
Francis shrugs. “Busy,” Francis murmurs, and doesn’t look into Arthur’s eyes. “I have been helping de Gaulle with the remaining trials.”
“Trials?”
“For people suspected of collaborating with the Vichy government,” Francis murmurs. “There aren’t as many now, but there are still people that must be investigated for pro-German acts and sentiments…”
And finally Arthur sees something; a flicker of flint, something hard and disgusted at the back of Francis’ eyes. Francis’ upper lip curls a little.
It’s not what Arthur wants. But it’s something other than saccharine politeness. It’s emotion, it’s something solid, and Arthur wants to kiss Francis’ mouth and suck it in.
He curls his fingers into a tight, unforgiving fist. “Why haven’t you let your hair grow out?” he asks. On instinct, he lifts his hand to touch Francis’ hair before he realizes what he’s doing and stops.
Francis’ single, clear moment vanishes, and he gives Arthur a blank, polite look. He tilts his head away from Arthur’s hand and stares at him, and Arthur can’t help but wonder what’s going on behind those eyes.
“We should go get something to eat now,” Francis says, quiet and gentle. “Before the lunch break ends. We won’t be able to listen to Alfred’s plans on an empty stomach, yes?”
Arthur doesn’t move, just watches as Francis fades down the corridor and out of his sight. His hand hangs, unmoving, in the air; he watches his fingers curl into his fist and bite his palm as -
Arthur swings his arm back and into the wall. His head hangs forward, and his bangs hide his eyes and the fury burning inside.
You were mine. And they stole you from me.
His mind throws itself against his skull, a wild animal entrapped. He can’t help but feel as though he’s missing something important - that he’s letting something dark grow large and threaten to suck him down.
___
“Alfred?” Arthur calls to Alfred on the last meeting day, waving his hand.
“Oh, Arthur!”
“I…I’m terribly sorry, but…may I ask a favor of you?”
Arthur watches Alfred frown, confused. “Sure, I guess. Depends on what it is, though I think I’m awesome enough that I can do it.”
“…Look after Francis.” Arthur’s voice grows quiet as he looks away.
“Eh?”
“Both of you - you and Matthew.”
“Well, yeah, I was going to anyway, Arthur. Don’t worry, we’re making sure that he has the best help, and we’re here if he needs anything at all.”
“That’s all I wanted to know. Thank you.” Arthur turns and leaves the room. He sees Francis standing down the hall, hears Matthew talking with Francis in rapid French.
He looks away and walks to the front of the building. He does not look back. He does not want to think about Francis, nor does he want to hear the terrible, tempting voice trying to tell him to go back and claim Francis from Matthew.
He will not think about Francis until he absolutely must.
It is better this way.
___
Reply
His majesties and Prime Minister insist that Arthur accept Francis’ invitation to Paris to celebrate the anniversary of the Entente Cordiale. It is only logical, they argue, only natural, that the two embodiments of their nations entertain one another during the commemoration.
That is why Arthur is seated on Francis’, hunched over a book of Shakespeare’s plays he’s not actually reading, waiting for the other to come and get him for a tour of Paris’ streets. In the meantime, he sits here, tense, and tries not to think about how the room smells like Francis, all musk with an underlying of damask roses.
He hears the bedroom door open and close behind him, turns around and looks at Francis’ careful face (he ignores the short hair). “Are you going to take me out to see Paris, or do you have something else planned?” Francis’ face is still beautiful, even after all this time; it is easy to look at.
Francis doesn’t respond, just stands there and watches Arthur with a look he can’t place for a little longer. He sees Francis blink as realization flickers over his face, as he snorts and looks away. “Is that what you want?” Francis asks.
Arthur feels himself stiffen and frown as slow footsteps cross the room, as the mattress behind him dips a little with weight. Arthur can’t look away as Francis crawls to him, as moist, hot breath puffs over his lips. “Francis, what -”
Francis leans forward and presses his mouth to Arthur’s, firm and warm.
Something within Arthur roars up and through him. The book slides from his fingers to the floor, and he turns presses into the kiss, pushes his tongue against and through Francis’ lips.
Mine, he thinks as he presses Francis into the comforter. This is mine, your warmth. And Arthur feels genuine joy - joy that Francis is finally opening up again, that he’s letting Arthur suffocate him with kisses as he unbuttons that thin silk shirt.
He holds that joy for a few, precious seconds before he realizes something is wrong. He pulls back, eyes fluttering open, and frowns down at Francis.
The look in those eyes and that face is a punch to the gut.
Francis is blank. Not crying, not yelling, and not enjoying this. His eyes are glassy and flat, and his breath comes in quick little bursts that Arthur somehow knows isn’t from arousal.
“Francis.” No response, so he tries again. “Francis, are you all right?”
The edges of Francis’ lips twitch. “I am fine. This is what you want, oui?”
And Arthur realizes in a rush of nausea that Francis has seen and knows what Arthur wants and desires. Offers it to him in the form of a complacent, quiet surrender.
But he’s wrong. Arthur doesn’t want this.
Arthur looks at the cropped, wavy hair. He remembers sleeping next to Francis when they were little and the Fair Folk gave him nightmares, thinks of how Francis’ long locks would splay against the white pillowcase. Sunrays, bondless and beautiful, even in the room’s darkness.
“Goddamnit,” Arthur grits out, and slides off the bed, his fingers popping the buttons of his shirt back into their eyeholes.
Arthur backs up and off the bed, fixing the few undone buttons on his shirt; he does not look at Francis, splayed on the bed, eyes fixed on his back.
“Why will you not take what you want?”
Arthur hesitates, his hand on the doorknob, but he does not look back. “Because I do not want you to surrender,” Arthur admits. “Because I’m not going to fuck something so lifeless.”
“Arthur -”
Arthur closes the door behind him with a soft click behind him. He moves in quick, measured steps to his own room. He wants to pack and be on the next boat back to London before Francis can catch him.
___
“Dear Britannia,” Puck tells him as Arthur sips his drink, “you’ve made such a mess of things.”
“I know, Robin, I’ve heard enough from Their Majesties and the Prime Minister, thank you very much.”
Two weeks later, Arthur sits on the balcony in his room and downs the rest of his scotch. His fairy friends are still about, flitting around his head in small, winking lights, and Puck is curled up at his feet.
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Puck nods, though his face tells Arthur he doesn’t quite understand. “You’re very worried about him.”
Arthur snorts. “What gave you that ridiculous idea?”
Puck doesn’t smile. “I’m a part of you, dear Britannia. I sense your thoughts as a human as well as a Nation.”
Arthur ponders this, chases it down with the rest of his scotch. “I’m so confused,” he murmurs as he bows his back and speaks to the melting ice in his glass. “I suppose you know that, too.”
“I wouldn’t know what confusion feels like.”
Arthur looks up at Big Ben’s silhouette on the red and orange horizon.
“I think I understand now why he won’t let his hair grow out,” Arthur murmurs, eyes narrowing in thought. “It…just....”
“It feels as though you don’t understand at the same time.”
Arthur looks down at Puck, gives him one slow nod. “Yes,” he says, taking the bottle of scotch and pouring himself another glass. “That. He has…he has a good support group, and I’ve done my best to be considerate of his feelings by keeping my distance -”
“Perhaps that’s the problem.”
Arthur frowns down at Puck, confused.
“Is that really who your Francis is, Britannia? Someone who needs to be alone to recover?”
Arthur blinks once, twice. Something solid and definite forms at the back of his mind; he feels as though he’s on the edge of realizing something important. It remains there even as he takes a long sip of his drink.
“He’s got Alfred and Matthew,” he murmurs. “They’re being careful with him, too - staying by his side and helping him to recover. He was a victim of the -”
Arthur’s voice halts as he finally understands. Understands that he’s merely seeing Francis as a victim, rather than someone trying to move on and become stronger. Understands that his want, his desire to possess, is twisted and one-sided as it is now - and that if he’s not careful, he’ll end up hurting Francis even worse.
“I’ve been going about this all wrong,” he murmurs, putting his glass aside and covering his eyes.
“It’s good that you realize that.”
“So how do I set it right?”
Puck doesn’t answer, and when Arthur opens his eyes he sees that his fairy friends are gone. Arthur’s annoyed, but not mad; that’s their way, after all, and they’re not the ones to ask for easy answers, given their flights of fancy.
Arthur finishes his scotch and watches the London skyline with bleary eyes as he thinks.
___
April 8, 1949
The king extends his apologies to France for Arthur’s behavior and invites Francis and his boss to the palace this year to celebrate. He knows it’s succeeded when the queen stops shooting him dirty looks over her cup at teatime, and when the Prime Minister starts trying to tell him, the very Nation, how not to screw things up.
We cannot afford to get on France’s bad side, he remembers being coached. Don’t screw this up, Kirkland.
Arthur scowls a little and doesn’t look back as he guides Francis through the halls, walking a little ahead of the other. He has an idea of what he should do now. It’s just a matter of seeing if Francis tries to seduce him again in the first place. If he doesn’t, fine, then he’ll let it be. If he does….
“You are awfully quiet, Arthur. I wonder what’s on your mind.” There’s no suggestive hint in Francis’ tone, just knowing resignation.
Arthur bites his lip and stops, reaching a hand out to open the door to the guest room. Well. If he does, he thinks, he’ll have to take a risk. He’s not good at treating people like fine china.
“You’ll sleep here for your visit,” Arthur says, reaching back and taking Francis’ suitcase and leading him into the room. “There’s a bathroom over there, and a bookshelf - feel free to read anything you see up there.” Arthur opens a drawer on the bedside cabinet. “You can put your clothes in here, if you’d like, or you can use the closet -”
Long, thin fingers slide around and grip Arthur’s, feathers press against the juncture of jaw and neck. Arthur stiffens, feels something roar and echo through him - the desire to take and to own, to hold tight and never let go.
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Arthur lets his hands roam, takes care to keep his touch feather-light and ticklish. In earlier days, it drove Francis to thrashing and cursing; now he feels only trembles in the muscle under soft, pale skin.
He frowns and kisses harder, trying to draw reactions that he feels he deserves, that he’s earned. No such luck. Francis lies still and lets Arthur touch him.
Arthur changes tactics, kisses across Francis’ cheek and down his neck with an open mouth. “Tell me,” he hisses into that neck. “Tell me what you want, Francis.”
He feels Francis’ throat jump as his breath hitches, but otherwise remains silent. Arthur lifts his head and looks into Francis’ face.
“Tell me,” he demands, his hands coming up to grab Francis’ shoulders. “Tell me. Anything. Tell me what you like. Tell me to stop. Please, Francis, say something.”
But Francis’ eyes don’t open, hidden behind dark lashes and squeezed eyelids. Those lips turn white with pressing; Francis isn’t enjoying but enduring.
Arthur feels his eyes crinkle and he gives into his anger, weak, giving Francis’ shoulders one good shake.
“Is this what you want?” he asks, his voice high and frustrated. “Do you want me to conquer you? Do you want me to hurt you or use you or -”
Something wet and warm and clear splatters on Francis’ cheek; blue eyes flutter open in surprise. Another drop lands, and Arthur realizes he’s crying, despairing. His eyes slide shut and he lets his breath hitch and his body shake with sobs. I was wrong, he thinks, I was wrong to believe that -
It takes Arthur a moment to feel the fingers on his face, and his eyes flutter open, stinging with tears.
Francis smiles up at him, not small and polite but wide and thankful and beautiful. Something in his eyes is alive, so alive, becoming stronger with every second.
Arthur’s mesmerized, unable to look away as Francis cups the back of his head, pulls Arthur into the crook of his neck. “I like being licked here,” he whispers, breath hot and soft as Francis’ tongue teases Arthur’s ear.
Arthur’s brain starts to work and respond, slow, lethargic.
“Yes,” he murmurs, grazing Francis’ neck with the tip of his tongue. “Yes.”
It’s summer, so naturally it’s hot, but the air still feels warm as they shuck their clothes off, as Arthur follows Francis’ directions and kisses, bites, licks wherever the other asks, over here, there right there -ow not so hard, stupid bastard, leave it to the Anglais to be so unrefined.
Arthur swallows the shards slicing his throat and turns Francis’ swears into gasps and sighs as he fucks him, slow and hard and steady, and runs his thumb over Francis’ lower lip. He looks at Francis’ face, the closed eyes, the parted mouth, and says welcome back with his entire body.
They only pause once when Francis opens his eyes with a gasp and looks at Arthur with a wide, confused expression. Arthur blinks, looks down between them and sees the hand resting right on the center of Francis’ chest, feels the rapid, rhythmic thud of Francis’ heart.
His eyes quirk back up to look at Francis, his cheeks flushed and his hands clumsy and awkward.
Francis’ lips curve upward, teasing, gentle. A long-fingered, soft hand clasps over one of Arthur’s own. “Yours,” he says.
It’s hot out. Arthur uses that heat, lets it burn his skin as he gives Francis a lazy, enthusiastic, returned kiss.
___
“Arthur,” Francis whispers, after, as they sleep turned away from one another on principle.
“Mmmmn.”
“Arthur!”
“What?! Gh, stupid frog, m’ tryin’ t’ sleep….”
“…My hair.”
“What ‘bout it?”
“I said I want to grow it out again.”
“…Ah.”
“Would you like that?”
Arthur snorts and shuts his eyes. “Do whatever you bloody want,” he mutters, closing his eyes. “I’m not your maid.”
Silence. Francis shifts, presses his own back to Arthur’s.
“Arthur.”
“WHAT?”
“…Thank you.”
“…Hmph.” You’re welcome.
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March 2008
The years pass, their relationship goes up and down. This is one of their better years, and they sit together and watch London’s sunset from the castle, sipping wine together on the balcony.
“Y’know we’re probably going to start arguing again,” Arthur warns. “Even though we’re supposed to be getting along better and all that bollocks.”
“My dear, I do not think our relationship can be healthy otherwise.”
“Look, there’s healthy relationship arguing, and then there’s starting foreplay off with insults. I think they are two different things.”
“You have a problem with my method of getting you all hot and bothered?”
“It’s not exactly polite to tell your bedmate that they kiss like the Blarney Stone!”
Francis snorts, and then laughs. Arthur takes the opportunity to sneak a glance at him - he is lovely in vivid twilight, his skin a bit pale from the cool breezes, tears of laughter beading at the corner of his eyes.
Arthur frowns when he sees the dark ribbon bound into Francis’ hair. It brings back memories of a more broken, silent Francis, even when longer wisps escape and brush the nape of his neck.
“D’you have to wear that thing?”
Francis looks at him and raises an eyebrow.
“That ribbon. It brings back…bad memories.”
Francis watches him for a moment, smiling and thoughtful. He waits until Arthur blushes and shifts in place before standing and making his way over to the balcony rail.
“Would you like to take it out?”
Two fingers take the edge and tug before Arthur answers; the ribbon gives, slides from his hair in a quick, fluid movement.
Arthur doesn’t see Francis let the ribbon go; his eyes widen as he watches Francis’ hair whip around his head. It’s not merely long, it’s longer, wavy and fluid and bright.
Arthur thinks of sunsets on wide fields, of Francis looking back at him with confident eyes, a cocky smirk, and hair blowing free and wild in the wind. He feels the image burn away for this; for Francis smirking down at him, eyes half-lidded, back straight and strong as his hair settles on and a little past his shoulders, longer and silkier than he’s ever seen it.
Francis holds out a hand, and Arthur feels powerless to do anything but take it, let Francis pull him from his chair. Their arms twine as they kiss, as Arthur lets Francis draw his tongue from his shy, dumbfounded mouth.
And Arthur understands the final piece now, the key to helping Francis heal. It’s not enough to possess Francis, to reclaim what World War II stole. It’s in belonging to Francis that the overpowering want fizzles out and dies, feels like something almost normal.
Francis bends his neck and kisses the edge of Arthur’s mouth, letting him feel the smile. “Mine,” Francis says.
Arthur smiles and wraps his arms around Francis’ neck; fingers thread through golden hair as he pulls Francis’ head down to kiss his ear.
“Yours.”
___
This was…hard to write, and I don’t think I got it exactly right. I tried to make it work, I really did.
Historical notes:
The Épuration légale: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vichy_France#.C3.89puration_l.C3.A9gale. This is where you’ll find the four stages I used to sort of illustrate Francis’ actions and gradual healing in this fic. It also explains shorthaired!France; during the first wave, the épuration sauvage was a time where prostitutes who had or were suspected of being Nazi consorts had their heads shaved as public humiliation.
More info in it can be found here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89puration_l%C3%A9gale.
The title comes from the fourth stage, which was when amnesties and graces were given.
That’s it. Thank you for reading, and I hope you all enjoyed that, at least a little.
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I--
This--
Admittedly I didn't have in mind something nearly this complex when I banged out the silly prompt, but you, writernon, you. sdlaj;sljdLSJFLSJdkjfdkljfs you've taken this concept and run with it above and beyond and--and I'm just totally speechless with awe right now. This is the fic I've always wanted for this pairing and WWII, no contest, no exaggeration, and you've done it.
OP is the happiest person on the entire Internet right now. This is immutable fact.
I hope you'll excuse the total incoherence, I'm going to have to come back and leave a better review in a few days once I've reread this a couple dozen more times.
In the meantime, I LOVE YOU, ACCEPT MY PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE OR AT LEAST A DIAMOND OF EPIC PROPORTIONS, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS MASTERPIECE, and I have some inkling of who you might be and I do believe you've also written my other two favorite France/England fics in the fandom.
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I recognized who you were from your comment on the previous fill. Hint: If your gut tells you something, it's probably right ;)
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Thank you anon
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I'm very happy that you enjoyed this, thank you!
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