What the Heart Forgets [1]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 17:16:42 UTC
Something very quick that I typed up, and I have a feeling everybody’s going to know who I am just from what’s written here oh god why do I do this to myself. Hope the OP and others enjoy, anyway. ___
He finds himself in front of a shop positioned on the edge of time and space, in front of a woman with witch-red eyes and power that sets the hairs of his neck on edge.
What is this place?
It is a shop that grants wishes.
Can you grant my wish?
That depends.
On what?
Your willingness to pay the price.
The first time Francis Bonnefoy sees Arthur Kirkland is in a coffee shop somewhere in London, in spring of the year 2013.
Even if the food is inedible, the coffee tastes good enough to tolerate, and the caffeine boost is just what he needs to travel around London on foot for an entire day and still manage to write his travel piece at night. Not a bad tradeoff, Francis thinks, and takes a sip of his latte.
The bell tinkles. On instinct, Francis finds his eyes drawn to the door of the shop.
The man who walks in looks tired, back bent and eyes sunk into the shadows surrounding them. A raccoon, he thinks, snickering when he sees the overgrown eyebrows (caterpillars). He looks down on his journal; the pencil skitters over the page.
He watches the funny man order a latte, eyes trained on that hand as he pulls a wallet out of his pocket and roots around for dollar bills and spare change.
He sees that perpetual frown deepen in confusion as he continues to sort through bills, muttering and frowning. He thinks he hears the man say, “…’s got to be enough, I know I counted….”
Francis stands and makes his way over to the counter, smiling as he leans behind him. “How much does he owe you?”
“I can pay for my own, thank you very -” the man starts, turning towards him with an irate glare. Francis doesn’t look as the man freezes, instead looking at the coffee girl holding the man’s iced chai latte hostage.
“How much more?”
“J - just a dollar, sir.”
Francis allows his smile to gentle a little as he pulls a dollar out of his pocket and slaps it down on the counter. “Merci, darling,” he says, taking the cup out of her hand and dragging the man off towards his table without another word.
“I have an extra seat - there, you can sit there.” Francis pushes the man into the seat across from him and then takes his own again.
The look on the man’s eyes - so open and pained and surprised - is a backhand to his mind. “I…what’s wrong?”
“What are you doing here?” the man asks Francis, his voice low and disturbed.
“I’m a journalist. I’m doing an article on London. See?” Francis holds up his notepad filled with scribbles and accents. The man’s face relaxes a little - then frowns.
“Is that my face on your notes?”
“I was bored, and you were so cute. Like a little raccoon.” He baits the man, his blood heating for some reason at the thought of him lashing out, blustering and blushing, saying no I do not look like a bloody animal -
Instead the man just smiles, such a jagged and broken thing it hurts to look at. “I suppose I do, don’t I?” he murmurs. “That’s to be expected.”
Francis feels shame glow on his cheekbones, and he lowers his notes and closes them. They sit in silence for a few moments.
“How long will you be here?”
“Another week. Perhaps longer.”
“Would you like a guide to help show you around?” Francis looks up and into green eyes that are smooth and happy again, so different from the mere seconds that have passed. “I live here. I’m sure I can find places for you to look at that will entertain you.”
Francis just looks at this stranger for a moment more, this stranger that makes him feel so warm and strange.
And then he smiles.
“Francis Bonnefoy.”
“Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.”
(Francis cannot know of the maelstrom Arthur’s heart is trying to weather; sadness, joy, something tender and sweet, but above and beyond all that a vast loneliness that the years have not yet become used to. Francis doesn’t know of the screams and the tears that Arthur’s holding inside of himself.)
Re: What the Heart Forgets [2]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 17:19:34 UTC
I’ll pay. I’ll pay anything. It’s just - this world, the lines between us are fading. Francis and Antonio - they’re dying, they’re almost gone, and I’m just so afraid that -
- your other friends will disappear.
…Please. There must be something you can do.
Inhale. Exhale. Smoke on the air, curling and ethereal, there one moment, gone the next.
You have come to me, she says, because you know I can grant wishes. Because you’ve heard from your Mab and your Clover and your Peaseblossom that as long as you stay within certain rules, I have the power to give anybody what they most desire. You desire the life and the safety of your friends.
The problem, she continues, is that I don’t know if you have enough to pay.
The second time they meet that year is the first time they kiss.
“It’s beautiful,” Arthur says, his fingers curling into the railing. “Thank you so much for inviting me out here.”
“Yes.” Francis leans forward on his elbows and smiles over the scenery. “I am glad that the World Federation decided not to tear this monument down, because this is my second favorite view of Paris.”
“Second favorite?” Arthur asks, turning to look at him. That mouth quirks up in a little smirk, and oh, how Francis loves the words and the way they sound from that mouth.
“As beautiful as it is up here - and I must admit, I think it is unmatchable in the world - it’s slightly beat out by my favorite place. One that’s a bit more personal.”
“Your rooftop,” Arthur murmurs. “Sitting on the edge of your chimney.”
Francis feels his smile drop off his face, and he looks up into Arthur’s eyes. And ah, that look, he knows it well; the faraway, distant eyes of someone remembering something so very painful.
“How did you know?” Francis whispers, pushing himself up and off the railing.
Arthur blinks twice, comes back to himself. “I - ah - just a lucky guess. Nothing more than that.”
Arthur tries to look away. Francis takes Arthur’s chin, forces their gazes to stay joined. Arthur’s eyes are so close, so green, and the intensity of this nameless feeling almost makes Francis weep.
He cannot help himself. He leans in and captures Arthur’s lips.
Their first kiss is dry and warm, and brief. Francis tries to pull away, but his body won’t let him; and this time Arthur leans in as they kiss, sighs a little as Francis flicks the tip of his tongue against those lips.
When they manage to part again, Francis’ eyes flutter open, and he looks down into Arthur’s unreadable, raw face. He wonders if he’s done something wrong.
He jumps a little when Arthur hugs him tight enough to crush his ribs and buries his face in his chest. He blubbers something into Francis’ shirt; and if it’s wet with spittle, well, Francis doesn’t say a word as he lets his arms come up around Arthur’s shoulders.
(And Arthur’s tears are a lot more restrained than what he feels. “It’s just the same,” he mutters into the silk of Francis’ shirt, “dear fucking Lord, it feels like the same sodding kiss.” And he gives Francis the privilege, in this moment, of watching his spirit crumble, if only for a little bit; and when Francis asks him later what was wrong, he just smiles, kisses him again, and says nothing else.)
If I were to take anything, she says, it would be your identity as England.
My…my Nationhood?
The immortality that comes with your national identity is the price. If you wait, you will lose it anyway to this subtle Ragnarok; if you give it to me, though, of your own free will, I can use it to restore the lives of your friends. None of you will be Nations anymore - but they will be alive.
That’s perfect, he says, and feels tears in his eyes. Fucking perfect, it all works out, it’s -
It’s not enough to pay for your wish, she says.
The third time Francis comes to visit Arthur is the first time they make love.
It’s Christmas of the year 2013, and Arthur insists on letting Francis stay at his house for the holidays. “Because you have to be here for your job, anyway,” he says, and then what will you do when your Christmas break starts?”
Re: What the Heart Forgets [3]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 19:42:18 UTC
Francis can’t quite think of a good rebuttal for that, nor does he really want to. He enjoys the time he spends with Arthur, can’t wait for breaks when they text, e-mail one another, or even exchange a rare phone call.
Still, sitting here with England, watching old Christmas classics and sipping wine, is infinitely preferable to the alternative of spending Christmas alone.
At some point, Arthur’s neck becomes more appealing than It’s a Wonderful Life. Kissing it, licking it, and planting little nips along it becomes more important than the sound from the television.
The moments melt into one another, indistinct and slippery, until Arthur’s naked and sighing under Francis’ hands and tongue and deep, blue eyes.
Francis feels something in the air between them, something soft and velvety and reverent. He keeps his thrusts slow and steady, tries to keep that something intact and beautiful.
He touches Arthur and jerks him off, watches every little flicker and twitch of pleasure on that face. He brings his free hand up to cup Arthur’s cheek and kisses him on the head with a light brush of lips. “Arthur,” he whispers.
Arthur freezes under his fingers, and then shakes, throws his arms over Francis’ shoulders and sobs what sounds like a name into his ear. And it’s so sad, and the wetness on the shoulder is so wet, that Arthur can’t even bring himself to be angry as they gasp and jerk and come.
(“You had a lover before me, didn’t you?” Francis asks him afterwards, as Arthur traces circles around one of the hickeys on Francis’ collarbone. The question makes him freeze. “Did you love him as well?” And Arthur gives Francis a sad smile, kisses his lips, and says no, I did not have a lover, but long, long ago, I did have somebody I loved, and I’m not going to repeat the same mistake I made with him.)
Not enough?! What - but -
There is something more you must pay if you wish for them to live. She inhales, exhales, and the smoke slithers past her lips. The other half of your price is that you must bear these memories, and you alone.
Memories…?
Of nationhood.
The breeze stills, and the smoke hangs suspended in the air.
If I grant this wish, you and you alone will remember your Nationhood in your mortality. The others shall live their lives as humans, and they shall not remember. You will be alone.
That is the price, Arthur Kirkland. Are you willing to pay it?
Francis discovers the store room on his thirtieth birthday, four years since he moved to London to live with Arthur.
He comes home early, pausing for a moment to look in the mirror. He doesn’t think he looks that different. Arthur told him he does, and Francis asked him how. “It’s your eyes,” he remembers Arthur saying, touches his cheek with the memory of Arthur’s fingertips. “They’re a bit wiser than last year.” Pause. “That, and you have a few new wrinkles.”
Francis snorts and hangs his purse up. Well, he may be older, but that doesn’t mean he’s more mature. He’ll take this extra time to look for whatever present Arthur got him. He’ll find it this year, he knows.
Francis sets about searching, under bed, couch, and table, in cupboards and drawers, even underneath Arthur’s boxers. Nothing. No such luck. He has no idea where Arthur could be hiding his gift, and for a brief second he’s stumped.
…And then he remembers the store room.
“Don’t go in there,” Arthur told him when he moved in. “There’s nothing interesting - just dust and a lot of old memories.”
And my gift, Francis thinks with a smirk. What a perfect hiding place.
Francis walks down the hall and turns the knob. The door creaks and reveals a stairwell peppered with spiderwebs and dust.
Francis climbs the stairs and turns on the flickering lightbulb. His eyes grow wide at what he sees.
Surrounding him are cardboard boxes, yes, but also things Francis never imagined Arthur having - guns, old WWII uniforms, books that look ancient and crumbling. He lifts one with ginger fingers and feels his eyes widen when he sees writing on the parchment. They really are as old as they look, then.
Francis lifts fingertips to his temple and rubs, bracing himself for an oncoming headache. Present. Right.
Re: What the Heart Forgets [4]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 19:43:53 UTC
Francis moves on, stumbles and curses as he almost trips over something. Frowning, he reaches down to pick it up. It looks like a rag, a little - but no, it’s too nice to be a rag.
Francis unfolds it to discover a green shirt with yellow embroidery.
“Oh, you don’t want this? I guess I’ll just wear it on my head, then~”
“Y-you bastard, give it back!”
Francis shakes his head. The whispers in his head do not help his headache. He puts the shirt down and moves on, just looking now. Presents are the farthest thing from his mind, and -
His eyes land on a frame. He pauses. He reaches up and lifts it off the wall.
His fingers trace over the glass, and the daisy chain the frame holds.
God.
Oh, God.
He is granted a single, clear moment of comprehension, of memories of warm evenings in a field - with a little boy, who looked just like Arthur, but that’s ridiculous, because Arthur’s just a human name, he’s really England, and -
“I’m…Gaul. I’m France,” he whispers.
Oh God. The kiss. The name Arthur’s cried a few times they’ve had sex with a voice so heart-wrenching that Francis forgives him, always forgives him.
It makes sense.
He remembers, oh, God, he remembers little Italy, remembers taunting England and chasing after Spain and the occupation of his lands and fighting back and oh dear God it hurts so much
“Francis? Francis, where - oh, you are up here. Bloody hell, you never grow up, do you?”
France turns around with wide eyes and parted lips, and there’s England, looking more tired and older than he ever did as a Nation, but still England. “Angleterre,” he whispers.
A look of horror and surprise crosses Arthur’s face. “France,” he whispers. “God, France, no.”
“I remember,” France says, running over and grabbing Arthur’s shoulders with shaking hands. “God, dear God, I remember, Angleterre - I - I never got to tell you -”
But it’s slipping, this revelation; his human mind can’t hold onto those memories for some reason, and no, no! Not now!
“Angleterre,” he says, feeling these memories slip fast from him. “I lo - I -”
And no, he’s not going to get it out, so he smashes his lips against England’s and hopes in his last moments of remembering that Arthur understands.
When they part, Francis Bonnefoy blinks down at a shellshocked Arthur. “Arthur?” he asks, frowning in concern. “Arthur, are you all right?”
“I - oh, y-yes, Francis, I’m all right.” He gives the other a shaky grin and kisses the corner of his mouth, taking the frame from his hands. “You?”
Francis blinks. “I…feel a little dizzy. My head hurts.”
“Always such a whiner,” Arthur teases, thumping Francis on the shoulder. “Go down and take a nap, then.”
“I think…I think that is a good idea.” Francis walks past Arthur, down the stairs, leaving the storeroom behind. Bits and pieces of his mind come back through the throbbing, and by the time he lays his head down on the pillow he’s floating on the disappointment that he never found his gift.
He only meant to rest his eyes, but when he opens them again, sunset is filtering through the curtains and Arthur is watching him sleep. Francis frowns and blinks away sleep, notices how red and swollen Arthur’s eyes look, how utterly miserable he seems.
Francis feels tenderness unfurl in his belly, and hugs Arthur’s head to his chest. His hand smoothes over his back and his cheek presses to the other’s temple.
His body moves on his own; he’s not even aware of what he’s done right until he backs away and sees Arthur smiling. “Have a nice nap?” Arthur asks.
“An excellent one. My headache is entirely gone.”
“That’s good.” Arthur stretches, yawns, and swings his legs off their bed. “C’mon, then, you need to get fancied up for dinner.”
“Erm, Arthur, I appreciate that you want to make me a homemade meal, but -”
“If you don’t hurry up, I will home cook for you instead of taking you out to this nice restaurant.”
Francis laughs as he gets off the bed and moves towards his closet.
Re: What the Heart Forgets [Final]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 19:46:17 UTC
(Arthur never tells Francis how he took the daisy chain out from its frame, the petals breaking under his fingers. He crushed it in his fist, into something finer than dust, and took the ashes of his old life down to their bedroom. Francis was fast asleep, and he never saw how Arthur pressed one tear-stained cheek to the pile before opening the window and casting it out on the wind, scattering it, reminding himself that he loved France, but France was dead; and he loved Francis, so he just focused on the jewelry box in his pocket while making a note to himself to run by the hardware store and get something to keep Francis away from those memories for good.)
…I will pay it.
Are you certain?
I’m not going to let them die.
She says no more, but guides him around to the back of her shop. He lets her position him how she wants, watches as magic circles blossom under both their feet. Something lifts from him, something heavy and bittersweet. He feels bones replace his islands, feels the headache as his newly-mortal brain tries to maintain his memories as this Nation, this land.
When it’s finished, he falls to the ground and sobs, broken, quiet; and this is how it ends, he thinks.
On their fifth anniversary, Francis catches Arthur nearly walking in on him rocking Mathieu to sleep, humming a lullaby under his breath. Arthur leans against the doorframe and waits.
Once those little eyelids flutter closed, Francis kisses Mathieu’s delicate temple and carries him back to the crib, laying him next to his brother, Alfred. Francis takes a moment to run fingertips through their wispy hair; it was an uphill fight to adopt these two, their precious sons, but Francis regrets none of it.
“Working overtime again?” Francis asks as he turns on the monitor and turns off the light.
“You have no bloody idea,” Arthur mutters. “You’re lucky your job lets you work from home, Francis.”
“True, but I can’t wait until I’m traveling again. Local news can only be so interesting.”
Arthur snorts as they turn into the bedroom, as he eases off his suit and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Francis chuckles and leans back on the bed, watching through lidded eyes.
“Are you expecting a show, you horny bastard?” Arthur mutters.
“Am I not allowed to look at my husband?”
“I keep forgetting you have that excuse,” Arthur mutters. He tosses his pants aside, and in nothing but his boxers he crawls into bed beside Francis. They don’t kiss, not yet; they just lay there and watch one another. Francis frowns in thought.
“What?”
“I’m just thinking.”
“You look like you’re constipated.”
Francis rolls his eyes and tries not to whap Arthur upside the head.
“What are you thinking about?” Arthur asks.
Francis pauses a moment and gathers his thoughts.
“Do you ever wonder if we…rushed through this?”
Arthur blinks. “What?”
“If we moved too fast with this relationship. Do you think…do you think we’ll ever come to regret this?”
Arthur is quiet for a moment. Francis is about to tell him to forget it, it’s stupid, anyway, when Arthur answers.
“What do you feel? What did you feel - when you saw me those nine years ago?”
Now it is Francis who is quiet as he reaches forward to touch Arthur’s cheek, thinking, letting the words form behind his lips.
“…I thought you were adorable,” he murmured. “I also thought you were very sad, and tired.”
Arthur turns his lips into Francis’ palm. “What else?”
Francis digs deep for the answer. “I felt as though I knew you,” he murmurs. “I felt as though we’d been separated, and that we could make up for lost time.” A pause. “I wondered why I felt like I already loved you.” His eyes flick up to Arthur’s. “That sounds completely ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
Arthur leans forward and kisses him through a smile. That’s all the answer Francis needs, falling into the kiss that feels too familiar and sweet to be coincidence.
(That’s all the answer Arthur needs, too.)
She says only one thing as Arthur gathers himself and turns to leave, gives him only one spot of comfort in his growing loneliness:
What the heart forgets, Arthur Kirkland, the body remembers. ___
So, aside from the horrible plot-device-no-jutsu, I hope you guys got some enjoyment from that. Thank you for reading!
Re: What the Heart Forgets [Final]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 20:59:42 UTC
Yuuko~~~~~~~~~~~ 8DDDDDDDDDDDDDD The moment I read the 'shop that grants wishes'... *cough*
This is all kinds of sad and sweet and and and... ;A; This anon's heart was ripped and mended and cracked and patched back again and again. I always love the thought of 'heart forgets, body remembers'. ^^ Ahhhhhhhhhh~ This is just too wonderful!!!
For part three, this sentence: Still, sitting here with England, watching old Christmas classics and sipping wine... It's supposed to be Arthur right? =]
<3333333333333 Love love this fill, and Matt and Al... Also, not OP though a massive FrUK fan.
Gawd I love the FrUK one you wrote, that had me in tears. ;A; Anon admits that I'm a FrUK and Spain/Romano fan so anything on them works... Or with Germany, Prussia, Russia, China, Canada... >_<
Re: What the Heart Forgets [Final]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 22:16:28 UTC
oh, god. this was utterly painful. i've myself entertained in yuuko-related crosses, but i would have never thought this would be so terribly beautiful and terribly hurtful. *reduced to tears*
everything was just so perfect, and it pains me that france will never really remember. it is SO yuuko to do something like this, it is SO england to make this choice and be the onyl one to remember. just so that he could save them all.
i was moved to tears by the first part, but it kept getting more painful every part passing by. when france had the subtle remembrance, it broke my heart. he forgetting afterwards was even more painful.
and england's sacrifice... god, how much this is beautiful...
and matthew and alfred... they're THE alfred and matthew, right? and they're a family.
thanks for writing this. I'm not op, but i'm terribly happy i read this, even though it hurt me. thanks. really, thanks.
Re: What the Heart Forgets [Final]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 23:03:32 UTC
Well, aside from the massive Tsubasa fandom nostalgia this caused, the writing was utterly spectacular--I really liked that we got this principally from Francis' point of view, while the little snatches of Arthur's just finish the reader off. Just. *incoherent hand motions* ;;
Man, every fic you write is a fic I never knew I wanted but definitely end up rereading about 5 million times (seriously, sob) because they're so well done and well-developed and fill out an entire facet to the pairing (France/England in this case) so thoroughly.
IDK YOUR FICS ARE JUST SO SATISFYING, GD IT. ♥;;
P.S. One thing I noticed:
And it’s so sad, and the wetness on the shoulder is so wet, that Arthur can’t even bring himself to be angry as they gasp and jerk and come.
Re: What the Heart Forgets [Final]
anonymous
July 10 2009, 03:59:41 UTC
Oh wow... I cried reading this as well. I thought the plot device was used to the best possible effect, it was just so beautifully done. All those memories, oh Yuuko... Thank you for sharing this beautiful piece with us.
___
He finds himself in front of a shop positioned on the edge of time and space, in front of a woman with witch-red eyes and power that sets the hairs of his neck on edge.
What is this place?
It is a shop that grants wishes.
Can you grant my wish?
That depends.
On what?
Your willingness to pay the price.
The first time Francis Bonnefoy sees Arthur Kirkland is in a coffee shop somewhere in London, in spring of the year 2013.
Even if the food is inedible, the coffee tastes good enough to tolerate, and the caffeine boost is just what he needs to travel around London on foot for an entire day and still manage to write his travel piece at night. Not a bad tradeoff, Francis thinks, and takes a sip of his latte.
The bell tinkles. On instinct, Francis finds his eyes drawn to the door of the shop.
The man who walks in looks tired, back bent and eyes sunk into the shadows surrounding them. A raccoon, he thinks, snickering when he sees the overgrown eyebrows (caterpillars). He looks down on his journal; the pencil skitters over the page.
He watches the funny man order a latte, eyes trained on that hand as he pulls a wallet out of his pocket and roots around for dollar bills and spare change.
He sees that perpetual frown deepen in confusion as he continues to sort through bills, muttering and frowning. He thinks he hears the man say, “…’s got to be enough, I know I counted….”
Francis stands and makes his way over to the counter, smiling as he leans behind him. “How much does he owe you?”
“I can pay for my own, thank you very -” the man starts, turning towards him with an irate glare. Francis doesn’t look as the man freezes, instead looking at the coffee girl holding the man’s iced chai latte hostage.
“How much more?”
“J - just a dollar, sir.”
Francis allows his smile to gentle a little as he pulls a dollar out of his pocket and slaps it down on the counter. “Merci, darling,” he says, taking the cup out of her hand and dragging the man off towards his table without another word.
“I have an extra seat - there, you can sit there.” Francis pushes the man into the seat across from him and then takes his own again.
The look on the man’s eyes - so open and pained and surprised - is a backhand to his mind. “I…what’s wrong?”
“What are you doing here?” the man asks Francis, his voice low and disturbed.
“I’m a journalist. I’m doing an article on London. See?” Francis holds up his notepad filled with scribbles and accents. The man’s face relaxes a little - then frowns.
“Is that my face on your notes?”
“I was bored, and you were so cute. Like a little raccoon.” He baits the man, his blood heating for some reason at the thought of him lashing out, blustering and blushing, saying no I do not look like a bloody animal -
Instead the man just smiles, such a jagged and broken thing it hurts to look at. “I suppose I do, don’t I?” he murmurs. “That’s to be expected.”
Francis feels shame glow on his cheekbones, and he lowers his notes and closes them. They sit in silence for a few moments.
“How long will you be here?”
“Another week. Perhaps longer.”
“Would you like a guide to help show you around?” Francis looks up and into green eyes that are smooth and happy again, so different from the mere seconds that have passed. “I live here. I’m sure I can find places for you to look at that will entertain you.”
Francis just looks at this stranger for a moment more, this stranger that makes him feel so warm and strange.
And then he smiles.
“Francis Bonnefoy.”
“Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.”
(Francis cannot know of the maelstrom Arthur’s heart is trying to weather; sadness, joy, something tender and sweet, but above and beyond all that a vast loneliness that the years have not yet become used to. Francis doesn’t know of the screams and the tears that Arthur’s holding inside of himself.)
Reply
- your other friends will disappear.
…Please. There must be something you can do.
Inhale. Exhale. Smoke on the air, curling and ethereal, there one moment, gone the next.
You have come to me, she says, because you know I can grant wishes. Because you’ve heard from your Mab and your Clover and your Peaseblossom that as long as you stay within certain rules, I have the power to give anybody what they most desire. You desire the life and the safety of your friends.
The problem, she continues, is that I don’t know if you have enough to pay.
The second time they meet that year is the first time they kiss.
“It’s beautiful,” Arthur says, his fingers curling into the railing. “Thank you so much for inviting me out here.”
“Yes.” Francis leans forward on his elbows and smiles over the scenery. “I am glad that the World Federation decided not to tear this monument down, because this is my second favorite view of Paris.”
“Second favorite?” Arthur asks, turning to look at him. That mouth quirks up in a little smirk, and oh, how Francis loves the words and the way they sound from that mouth.
“As beautiful as it is up here - and I must admit, I think it is unmatchable in the world - it’s slightly beat out by my favorite place. One that’s a bit more personal.”
“Your rooftop,” Arthur murmurs. “Sitting on the edge of your chimney.”
Francis feels his smile drop off his face, and he looks up into Arthur’s eyes. And ah, that look, he knows it well; the faraway, distant eyes of someone remembering something so very painful.
“How did you know?” Francis whispers, pushing himself up and off the railing.
Arthur blinks twice, comes back to himself. “I - ah - just a lucky guess. Nothing more than that.”
Arthur tries to look away. Francis takes Arthur’s chin, forces their gazes to stay joined. Arthur’s eyes are so close, so green, and the intensity of this nameless feeling almost makes Francis weep.
He cannot help himself. He leans in and captures Arthur’s lips.
Their first kiss is dry and warm, and brief. Francis tries to pull away, but his body won’t let him; and this time Arthur leans in as they kiss, sighs a little as Francis flicks the tip of his tongue against those lips.
When they manage to part again, Francis’ eyes flutter open, and he looks down into Arthur’s unreadable, raw face. He wonders if he’s done something wrong.
He jumps a little when Arthur hugs him tight enough to crush his ribs and buries his face in his chest. He blubbers something into Francis’ shirt; and if it’s wet with spittle, well, Francis doesn’t say a word as he lets his arms come up around Arthur’s shoulders.
(And Arthur’s tears are a lot more restrained than what he feels. “It’s just the same,” he mutters into the silk of Francis’ shirt, “dear fucking Lord, it feels like the same sodding kiss.” And he gives Francis the privilege, in this moment, of watching his spirit crumble, if only for a little bit; and when Francis asks him later what was wrong, he just smiles, kisses him again, and says nothing else.)
If I were to take anything, she says, it would be your identity as England.
My…my Nationhood?
The immortality that comes with your national identity is the price. If you wait, you will lose it anyway to this subtle Ragnarok; if you give it to me, though, of your own free will, I can use it to restore the lives of your friends. None of you will be Nations anymore - but they will be alive.
That’s perfect, he says, and feels tears in his eyes. Fucking perfect, it all works out, it’s -
It’s not enough to pay for your wish, she says.
The third time Francis comes to visit Arthur is the first time they make love.
It’s Christmas of the year 2013, and Arthur insists on letting Francis stay at his house for the holidays. “Because you have to be here for your job, anyway,” he says, and then what will you do when your Christmas break starts?”
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... and yes, you are totally obvious. Hi thar, Yuuko.
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Still, sitting here with England, watching old Christmas classics and sipping wine, is infinitely preferable to the alternative of spending Christmas alone.
At some point, Arthur’s neck becomes more appealing than It’s a Wonderful Life. Kissing it, licking it, and planting little nips along it becomes more important than the sound from the television.
The moments melt into one another, indistinct and slippery, until Arthur’s naked and sighing under Francis’ hands and tongue and deep, blue eyes.
Francis feels something in the air between them, something soft and velvety and reverent. He keeps his thrusts slow and steady, tries to keep that something intact and beautiful.
He touches Arthur and jerks him off, watches every little flicker and twitch of pleasure on that face. He brings his free hand up to cup Arthur’s cheek and kisses him on the head with a light brush of lips. “Arthur,” he whispers.
Arthur freezes under his fingers, and then shakes, throws his arms over Francis’ shoulders and sobs what sounds like a name into his ear. And it’s so sad, and the wetness on the shoulder is so wet, that Arthur can’t even bring himself to be angry as they gasp and jerk and come.
(“You had a lover before me, didn’t you?” Francis asks him afterwards, as Arthur traces circles around one of the hickeys on Francis’ collarbone. The question makes him freeze. “Did you love him as well?” And Arthur gives Francis a sad smile, kisses his lips, and says no, I did not have a lover, but long, long ago, I did have somebody I loved, and I’m not going to repeat the same mistake I made with him.)
Not enough?! What - but -
There is something more you must pay if you wish for them to live. She inhales, exhales, and the smoke slithers past her lips. The other half of your price is that you must bear these memories, and you alone.
Memories…?
Of nationhood.
The breeze stills, and the smoke hangs suspended in the air.
If I grant this wish, you and you alone will remember your Nationhood in your mortality. The others shall live their lives as humans, and they shall not remember. You will be alone.
That is the price, Arthur Kirkland. Are you willing to pay it?
Francis discovers the store room on his thirtieth birthday, four years since he moved to London to live with Arthur.
He comes home early, pausing for a moment to look in the mirror. He doesn’t think he looks that different. Arthur told him he does, and Francis asked him how. “It’s your eyes,” he remembers Arthur saying, touches his cheek with the memory of Arthur’s fingertips. “They’re a bit wiser than last year.” Pause. “That, and you have a few new wrinkles.”
Francis snorts and hangs his purse up. Well, he may be older, but that doesn’t mean he’s more mature. He’ll take this extra time to look for whatever present Arthur got him. He’ll find it this year, he knows.
Francis sets about searching, under bed, couch, and table, in cupboards and drawers, even underneath Arthur’s boxers. Nothing. No such luck. He has no idea where Arthur could be hiding his gift, and for a brief second he’s stumped.
…And then he remembers the store room.
“Don’t go in there,” Arthur told him when he moved in. “There’s nothing interesting - just dust and a lot of old memories.”
And my gift, Francis thinks with a smirk. What a perfect hiding place.
Francis walks down the hall and turns the knob. The door creaks and reveals a stairwell peppered with spiderwebs and dust.
Francis climbs the stairs and turns on the flickering lightbulb. His eyes grow wide at what he sees.
Surrounding him are cardboard boxes, yes, but also things Francis never imagined Arthur having - guns, old WWII uniforms, books that look ancient and crumbling. He lifts one with ginger fingers and feels his eyes widen when he sees writing on the parchment. They really are as old as they look, then.
Francis lifts fingertips to his temple and rubs, bracing himself for an oncoming headache. Present. Right.
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Francis unfolds it to discover a green shirt with yellow embroidery.
“Oh, you don’t want this? I guess I’ll just wear it on my head, then~”
“Y-you bastard, give it back!”
Francis shakes his head. The whispers in his head do not help his headache. He puts the shirt down and moves on, just looking now. Presents are the farthest thing from his mind, and -
His eyes land on a frame. He pauses. He reaches up and lifts it off the wall.
His fingers trace over the glass, and the daisy chain the frame holds.
God.
Oh, God.
He is granted a single, clear moment of comprehension, of memories of warm evenings in a field - with a little boy, who looked just like Arthur, but that’s ridiculous, because Arthur’s just a human name, he’s really England, and -
“I’m…Gaul. I’m France,” he whispers.
Oh God. The kiss. The name Arthur’s cried a few times they’ve had sex with a voice so heart-wrenching that Francis forgives him, always forgives him.
It makes sense.
He remembers, oh, God, he remembers little Italy, remembers taunting England and chasing after Spain and the occupation of his lands and fighting back and oh dear God it hurts so much
“Francis? Francis, where - oh, you are up here. Bloody hell, you never grow up, do you?”
France turns around with wide eyes and parted lips, and there’s England, looking more tired and older than he ever did as a Nation, but still England. “Angleterre,” he whispers.
A look of horror and surprise crosses Arthur’s face. “France,” he whispers. “God, France, no.”
“I remember,” France says, running over and grabbing Arthur’s shoulders with shaking hands. “God, dear God, I remember, Angleterre - I - I never got to tell you -”
But it’s slipping, this revelation; his human mind can’t hold onto those memories for some reason, and no, no! Not now!
“Angleterre,” he says, feeling these memories slip fast from him. “I lo - I -”
And no, he’s not going to get it out, so he smashes his lips against England’s and hopes in his last moments of remembering that Arthur understands.
When they part, Francis Bonnefoy blinks down at a shellshocked Arthur. “Arthur?” he asks, frowning in concern. “Arthur, are you all right?”
“I - oh, y-yes, Francis, I’m all right.” He gives the other a shaky grin and kisses the corner of his mouth, taking the frame from his hands. “You?”
Francis blinks. “I…feel a little dizzy. My head hurts.”
“Always such a whiner,” Arthur teases, thumping Francis on the shoulder. “Go down and take a nap, then.”
“I think…I think that is a good idea.” Francis walks past Arthur, down the stairs, leaving the storeroom behind. Bits and pieces of his mind come back through the throbbing, and by the time he lays his head down on the pillow he’s floating on the disappointment that he never found his gift.
He only meant to rest his eyes, but when he opens them again, sunset is filtering through the curtains and Arthur is watching him sleep. Francis frowns and blinks away sleep, notices how red and swollen Arthur’s eyes look, how utterly miserable he seems.
Francis feels tenderness unfurl in his belly, and hugs Arthur’s head to his chest. His hand smoothes over his back and his cheek presses to the other’s temple.
His body moves on his own; he’s not even aware of what he’s done right until he backs away and sees Arthur smiling. “Have a nice nap?” Arthur asks.
“An excellent one. My headache is entirely gone.”
“That’s good.” Arthur stretches, yawns, and swings his legs off their bed. “C’mon, then, you need to get fancied up for dinner.”
“Erm, Arthur, I appreciate that you want to make me a homemade meal, but -”
“If you don’t hurry up, I will home cook for you instead of taking you out to this nice restaurant.”
Francis laughs as he gets off the bed and moves towards his closet.
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…I will pay it.
Are you certain?
I’m not going to let them die.
She says no more, but guides him around to the back of her shop. He lets her position him how she wants, watches as magic circles blossom under both their feet. Something lifts from him, something heavy and bittersweet. He feels bones replace his islands, feels the headache as his newly-mortal brain tries to maintain his memories as this Nation, this land.
When it’s finished, he falls to the ground and sobs, broken, quiet; and this is how it ends, he thinks.
On their fifth anniversary, Francis catches Arthur nearly walking in on him rocking Mathieu to sleep, humming a lullaby under his breath. Arthur leans against the doorframe and waits.
Once those little eyelids flutter closed, Francis kisses Mathieu’s delicate temple and carries him back to the crib, laying him next to his brother, Alfred. Francis takes a moment to run fingertips through their wispy hair; it was an uphill fight to adopt these two, their precious sons, but Francis regrets none of it.
“Working overtime again?” Francis asks as he turns on the monitor and turns off the light.
“You have no bloody idea,” Arthur mutters. “You’re lucky your job lets you work from home, Francis.”
“True, but I can’t wait until I’m traveling again. Local news can only be so interesting.”
Arthur snorts as they turn into the bedroom, as he eases off his suit and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Francis chuckles and leans back on the bed, watching through lidded eyes.
“Are you expecting a show, you horny bastard?” Arthur mutters.
“Am I not allowed to look at my husband?”
“I keep forgetting you have that excuse,” Arthur mutters. He tosses his pants aside, and in nothing but his boxers he crawls into bed beside Francis. They don’t kiss, not yet; they just lay there and watch one another. Francis frowns in thought.
“What?”
“I’m just thinking.”
“You look like you’re constipated.”
Francis rolls his eyes and tries not to whap Arthur upside the head.
“What are you thinking about?” Arthur asks.
Francis pauses a moment and gathers his thoughts.
“Do you ever wonder if we…rushed through this?”
Arthur blinks. “What?”
“If we moved too fast with this relationship. Do you think…do you think we’ll ever come to regret this?”
Arthur is quiet for a moment. Francis is about to tell him to forget it, it’s stupid, anyway, when Arthur answers.
“What do you feel? What did you feel - when you saw me those nine years ago?”
Now it is Francis who is quiet as he reaches forward to touch Arthur’s cheek, thinking, letting the words form behind his lips.
“…I thought you were adorable,” he murmured. “I also thought you were very sad, and tired.”
Arthur turns his lips into Francis’ palm. “What else?”
Francis digs deep for the answer. “I felt as though I knew you,” he murmurs. “I felt as though we’d been separated, and that we could make up for lost time.” A pause. “I wondered why I felt like I already loved you.” His eyes flick up to Arthur’s. “That sounds completely ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
Arthur leans forward and kisses him through a smile. That’s all the answer Francis needs, falling into the kiss that feels too familiar and sweet to be coincidence.
(That’s all the answer Arthur needs, too.)
She says only one thing as Arthur gathers himself and turns to leave, gives him only one spot of comfort in his growing loneliness:
What the heart forgets, Arthur Kirkland, the body remembers.
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So, aside from the horrible plot-device-no-jutsu, I hope you guys got some enjoyment from that. Thank you for reading!
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This is all kinds of sad and sweet and and and... ;A; This anon's heart was ripped and mended and cracked and patched back again and again. I always love the thought of 'heart forgets, body remembers'. ^^ Ahhhhhhhhhh~ This is just too wonderful!!!
For part three, this sentence: Still, sitting here with England, watching old Christmas classics and sipping wine... It's supposed to be Arthur right? =]
<3333333333333 Love love this fill, and Matt and Al... Also, not OP though a massive FrUK fan.
recaptcha: parently moroni. =D
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Have you written other fills on the meme here?
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I wrote Are You Sleeping, Brother John?, and some America/Japan. I've done two Fem!England fills, but my favorite is Just That Good.
And, uh, I'm also writing "But Hold Me Fast" on page 1.
If you'd like more links, just ask.
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Yes, anon here wouldn't mind links~ \o/
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everything was just so perfect, and it pains me that france will never really remember. it is SO yuuko to do something like this, it is SO england to make this choice and be the onyl one to remember. just so that he could save them all.
i was moved to tears by the first part, but it kept getting more painful every part passing by. when france had the subtle remembrance, it broke my heart. he forgetting afterwards was even more painful.
and england's sacrifice... god, how much this is beautiful...
and matthew and alfred... they're THE alfred and matthew, right? and they're a family.
thanks for writing this. I'm not op, but i'm terribly happy i read this, even though it hurt me. thanks. really, thanks.
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Man, every fic you write is a fic I never knew I wanted but definitely end up rereading about 5 million times (seriously, sob) because they're so well done and well-developed and fill out an entire facet to the pairing (France/England in this case) so thoroughly.
IDK YOUR FICS ARE JUST SO SATISFYING, GD IT. ♥;;
P.S. One thing I noticed:
And it’s so sad, and the wetness on the shoulder is so wet, that Arthur can’t even bring himself to be angry as they gasp and jerk and come.
Should that be 'Francis'?
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