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?”
- 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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