[Axis Powers Hetalia] This Same Rain that Draws You Near Me (France/England, Canada, America)
Title: This Same Rain that Draws You Near Me
Author/Artist: halflight007/lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/England, America, Canada
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Sap, Ham, And Cheese
Warnings: sap, enough fluff to give a blue whale diabetes, implied sexual situations, unbeta’d
Summary: Francis returns from a trip abroad to his family, and when the boys flee to their bed during a storm, Arthur tells them the story of how rain came to the world. Placed in the universe of “ What the Heart Forgets”.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back. The title and cut text is from Vienna Tang’s “Lullaby for a Stormy Night.”
Author’s Notes: From my request post. The prompt was “happy FrUK family tiems.”
___
When Francis opens the door, he doesn’t realize how quiet it is until after he lets the cool air of the house blow over his sweat-dewed temples, his humid skin. He opens his eyes, but it’s not until he sets his suitcases down that he heads into the living room, his mouth open to call out for Arthur and the boys.
His voice thickens and sticks in his throat when he sees the couch, and who’s on it, and lets his mouth melt into a smile as he leans against the doorframe.
Arthur is sipping his tea and reading from what Francis thinks is the newspaper. On either side of him are Alfred and Mathieu, fast asleep in their pajamas, their heads leaning against Arthur’s side. A thick blanket is tucked around all three of them.
“This is unusual,” Francis says, and keeps his voice soft and sweet so that Arthur won’t glare up and shush him for waking the children. He prefers seeing Arthur smile and set his things aside.
“The boys - well, Alfred - wanted to stay up and see you. It escalated into a screaming match. You know how he can be. And Mathieu wanted to, as well, and then he started crying, and….”
“How did you calm them down?”
“Warm milk, telling them they could stay up if they put on their nightclothes, and nine minutes of storybooks.”
Francis feels like he should be a bit prouder of Arthur - but then again, Arthur could calm down a room of surly, rebellious teenagers with nothing but a book of Grimm’s Fairy Tales and twenty minutes. “Your skill with children never ceases to amaze me.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“Ah, you think you know me better than I know myself, Arthur?” he replies, and laughs when Arthur blushes deep red and smacks him on the arm.
“J-just - help me get them up to bed, please?”
“Oui, oui, of course,” Francis murmurs, and as Arthur nudges and scoops a limp Alfred into his sleeping arms, Francis tries to do the same with Mathieu. But his hands and fingers aren’t gentle enough, and with a quivering groan and a stretch, those soft blue eyes blink up into his.
“Papa…?” he asks, and Francis feels his heart swell when he looks into those sleep-dark, precious eyes.
“Oui, mon petit chou, I’m home,” he whispers, hefting Mathieu in his arms so that he’s propped against Francis’ waist. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”
Mathieu blinks up at him for a few more moments, then shuts his eyes and nuzzles into Francis’ collarbone with a precious little sigh, his bones melting back into sleep. And oh, it’s so beautiful that Francis has to reach up and cup Mathieu’s cheek, kiss his forehead with little more than a brush of breath.
“Francis,” Arthur mutters, and Francis starts out of himself, looks at Alfred still asleep on Arthur’s shoulder. “He’s…getting a bit heavy.”
“Ah, right. Sorry.”
They make their way up the stairs, slow and quiet, avoiding the creaky eighth one. The boys remain asleep even as they tiptoe down the hall, into the first room on the left; Arthur turns on the hall light, bathing the small beds and the toy-strewn floor in a partial, weak light.
Francis hears Alfred stirring, listens to Arthur shushing him and crooning him back to slumber. But it’s Mathieu who stays asleep this time as Francis lays him down in the unmade bed and tucks him in up to the chin.
Francis cannot help the smile that lifts the corners of his mouth as Mathieu curls into his teddy bear - Kumajirou, he thinks, a string of babble that has stuck over the six years of this child’s life. His body warms as he thinks of how happy Mathieu sounds when he reaches for his second best friend and holds him close, and he can’t help but brush soft gold hair out of that round face and press another kiss to Matthew’s head.
Arthur is waiting for him by the door when he stands, and his warmth and joy must be shining from his very pores, because Arthur smiles at him and laces their fingers together as he closes the door, leaving it open just a crack.
They don’t speak until they get back to their own room, where their hands finally slip free of one another. They turn away and begin undressing, bit by bit, trying to ignore the thick, heavy desire vibrating in the room’s air and failing.
“So,” Arthur says, startling Francis and making him turn around. “How was Berlin?”
“Magnificent,” Francis says, relaxing a bit as he undoes the last button of his shirt and slides himself free. “Someday, when the boys are older, we’ll have to go together, the four of us.”
“You think you have enough for a story?”
“I have more than enough.” Francis tosses his wife-beater on a nearby chair ignoring the way Arthur huffs, and starts on his belt. “You’d love to see the Brandenburg Gate…and maybe the Cathedral of St. Hedwig…non, you don’t like that Roman Catholic stuff, do y -”
Arthur grabs his shoulder, and Francis is whirled about and kissed before he can say another word. Francis doesn’t even pretend to act surprised, his hands clawing at Arthur’s skin, hair, anywhere he can reach and touch and splay his hands.
They kiss with hunger and desire, stumble back and fall onto the bed in jumble of limbs and tongue and warm, solid flesh.
“ - Mmmmissed you - nmm - bl…bloody hell I missed you -” Arthur grits out between teeth and tongue and connected mouths.
“Ah - ah - yes, I as well, Arthur -”
But with a firm grasp, a wicked smirk, and a quick move, Arthur makes Francis gasp and arch, awakening parts of his mind that knock out his mental lexicon.
Francis shudders, pulls Arthur close, and freefalls.
___
A sharp, booming sound makes Francis jolt awake, gasping, the feeling buzzing in his bones.
He comes back to himself as his breath evens out, and he takes in his surroundings: their room, dark, save for the lightning flashing in the window; the comforter, pulled up and over their naked bodies; and Arthur, warm and heavy on top of him, pressed together along the length of their bodies, sleeping off their afterglow.
Francis smiles and nuzzles Arthur’s forehead with his cheek, feeling his whiskers rake over the smoother skin.
“That hurts,” Arthur mumbles, and Francis jolts in surprise when he pinches the skin near his pulse.
“Well, so does that. How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough to get even with you for that stubble burn.” Arthur stretches and settles himself again, pushing his thigh between Francis’ legs.
“I’m not surprised,” Francis says. Arthur’s always been a light sleeper. “Was it the storm?”
“Well, that, and…I just couldn’t go back to sleep.” Francis feels the heat of Arthur’s cheek against his cheekbone. “S-so I’ve just been s-staring at your mug, hoping that watching something so boring will…help me get back to…don’t look at me like that, dammit.”
Francis just chuckles and reaches up, fluffing the blond hair. “I suppose listening to my heartbeat is boring as well, ah?”
“M-my head just happened to be there, you - mmm.”
Francis shuts Arthur up with a slow, wet kiss, feels something spark through his nerves at the sharp crack of thunder outside. He slips his tongue through Arthur’s lips, coaxing, teasing Arthur into his mouth -
“DAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!”
Arthur rolls over and tugs the sheets over their shoulders just as Alfred bursts into the room, a confused and stumbling Mathieu in tow.
“Alfred?” Francis says, quirking an eyebrow as Alfred shoves himself between their bodies and curls up against Arthur’s side. “Alfred, what are you doing here?”
“I - I - w-w-well, M-Mattie was scared of - of the thunder -”
“Not really,” Mathieu mumbles, blinking.
“W-w-was too! Y-you said so! I’m b-b-being a good brother b-by bringing you here! That’s what a hero d-does, after all!”
“Eh…?”
Arthur sighs, reaching under his pillow. “It’s all right, boys. Just wait there a moment.”
When Arthur pulls his hand back out, Francis sees the flash of green-and-back plaid - his boxers. Of course. With a sigh, Francis leans over, pulls his own shorts from the pile of his pants on the floor, and then ducks under the covers for a moment to slide them on.
It takes some fumbling and soft, mouthed curses, but Francis smiles when he surfaces again and holds his arms out for his sons. “Come, garçons," he croons, and Mathieu crawls over to curl into his side - Mathieu, the sweet one, so quiet and gentle.
So different from their other son, Francis notes, looking up and smiling as Alfred hugs his husband and shudders into his side.
“M-m-make it go away, it’s s-scaring Mattie….”
“ ‘S not really,” Mathieu murmurs. “We learned about this from the teacher, remember? All electricity an’ electrons rubbing each other an’ -”
“B-but the janitor said it was g-g-ghosts!”
“Was this the same janitor who told you that Walt Disney’s frozen body was hidden somewhere in your school basement?” Francis asks, amusement threading its way into his voice.
“Y-y-yeah…bu-but Papa, it’s scary!” Alfred yelps, clutching Arthur tighter around the waist as thunder cracks the sky hard enough to feel in their bones. “R-right, Dad?”
A few moments of silence.
“No. I…don’t really find it scary.”
No? Francis finds his intrigue piqued, and he props himself up on his elbows as Mathieu rolls around.
“R…really?” Alfred asks.
“Yes. I…actually think it’s a little sad. It reminds me of a story I once heard.”
Lightning flashes, sending snapshots of Arthur’s nostalgic, bittersweet face into Francis’ mind.
“Once upon a time,” he says, “when the world was still new, the people of earth suffered because the crops would not grow from beneath the hard, cracked ground. The sun was merciless and hot, and people began to perish from thirst. And the people prayed and begged and cried for water - but because the gods could not understand human emotions, they could not give it to them.”
“But the teachers said -” Mathieu begins, but Francis hushes him with a gentle sound and a hand brushing through beautiful yellow hair.
“The torment continued until one day, a noble prince stood and said, ‘I shall go to the gods and ask what must be done to get water.’ And so he bid his family goodbye and traveled to the highest mountain in the world, where he knelt and began to pray.
“‘Lords of the world,’ he said, ‘my people are dying. Crops will not grow. Cattle starve and perish. We desperately need water. What must we do?’ And because he was noble and kind, the gods spoke to him and told him how to give the world water.”
“What did he need to do?”
“They said, ‘You must give up your life on earth and come to the heavens. You may never go back again. You will be forced to watch the world you left behind - and then, only then, will you be able to provide the world with life.’
“The prince was heartbroken, and begged and pleaded for some other way. For three days, he tried; but in the end, his love for the people of the world won out, and the gods reached down and placed him on the lowest floor of heaven, the sky. From there, he could see the whole world - but they could not see him.
“And as he looked down on the world, the prince felt a great, unbearable sadness, and he fell to the ground and cried. Clouds gathered in the sky, blocking out the sun, and his tears spread out and fell to earth. And though he pounded against the sky’s vault, it would not yield, though sometimes sparks and the great, loud pound of his fists would come from it. And that was the world’s first thunderstorm - it, and many others, helped to create the green, fertile earth we live upon.”
And Francis feels as though the very rain itself was touched by Arthur’s story - by his voice, his rhythm, and the pain Francis can see past his eyes, a pain Arthur insists on bearing by himself.
“An’ that’s the end?” Mathieu asks, and Francis’ heart nearly breaks at the small, trembling voice. Alfred’s sniffles give him away as well as he hides his face in Arthur’s hip. “He…he’s just…alone?”
Arthur turns his head, and Francis catches his eye and lets his own sadness shine through. Whatever it is, he thinks, you are not alone. Whatever ending this story has…please do not claim you are the prince.
Arthur blinks, and as Francis’ eyes adjust to the light, the lips seem to perk up in the tiniest of smiles.
“No,” Arthur says. “He’s not.”
Alfred looks up, his eyes wide and watery. “R-really?”
“Well, of course,” Arthur says, leaning back against the mattress. “After a while, the rains grew too great and numerous, and the ground grew soggy. Crops drowned, and people died in great mudslides and floods. And even the gods, who could not understand human hearts, looked down upon the earth and said, ‘We have made a mistake.’ But because they could not understand, they could not fix it.
“But there was one god who was not fully a god at all, but a child born of a human mother and a deity, though the god did not know it. The mother perished, and his father brought him up to heaven and never told him or the other gods of his human origins. But because part of him was human, he could feel. And he watched the prince, and began to understand sadness.”
Francis hugged Mathieu’s frame as they both leaned closer, closer to Alfred and Arthur’s warmth. Arthur had them all now, trapped in the spell of his words and his story.
“One day, the demi-god could no longer watch the man’s sad face, and walked down to the floor of heaven to stand by him. Though the prince raged and screamed, he gathered his courage, walked up, and cupped the prince’s cheek to make him look up into his face.
“The prince truly saw, then, through his despair and his sorrow, saw the beautiful demi-god’s face and the sadness on it. And when the demi-god knelt and embraced the prince, the tears stopped flowing, and the sky grew calm and quiet for the first time since the prince ascended.”
“Did the demi-god eve learn of his human mother?” Francis asks, the words slipping from his mouth before he can stop them.
“Papa, you need to be quiet and listen to the story,” Alfred gripes at him, and Francis thinks he should scold him but doesn’t, because it’s cute, how Alfred teases him.
“He didn’t,” Arthur says, his voice calm and gentle now. “But he stayed with the human, and they grew to be friends, then lovers, and eventually the demi-god asked the prince to take him as his consort, so that he could stay with him always.
“Sometimes, though, the demi-god must leave on official business, and the prince remembers his human life, and the rain falls down on the plants and gives life to the earth. But when the demi-god returns, the prince smiles, the sun comes out, and the world grows warm and sweet once again.” Arthur looks down at little Alfred, who has pressed a cheek into his hip. “And that is why rain is sad,” he explains, running a knuckle over that cheek, “but that is also why I don’t find rains scary. Because they come and go, just part of the cycle of life. Just like joy.”
Alfred’s eyelids flutter as the knuckle runs over his cheek, drawing them closed; when thunder purrs around them this time, he doesn’t open his eyes.
Mathieu murmurs, huddles up near Alfred, and goes back to sleep, his breath evening out. My sons, Francis thinks, and pulls a bit of Alfred’s hair out of his face. My dear, sweet little ones.
Arthur’s hand closes over his, and he looks up into green eyes. “Where did you hear that story?” he murmurs, allowing himself to feel awed and reverent.
Arthur chuckles and kisses the corner of his mouth. “A bit here, a bit there,” he murmurs into Francis’ cheek. “It’s extraordinary what stories you can weave from what you’ve lived.”
Francis frowns, tries to think of what Arthur might have lived through to create a story like that; but the harder he thinks, the more his head hurts, and the heavier his eyes feel. And with Arthur holding them all close and whispering words that are water and waves and sleep into his ear, Francis can only fight his body for so long.
He slips into slumber embracing the three most precious people in his life, with fading thunder promising the beauty of a misty, sunny morning.
___
Endnotes: …I’m sorry the whole little legend-story-thing popped into my head and wouldn’t leave. I shall accept any smacks my way for it.
Also, you can find the song here. It’s absolutely beautiful.
Comments/concrit appreciated. Thanks for stopping by, guys.
Author/Artist: halflight007/lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/England, America, Canada
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Sap, Ham, And Cheese
Warnings: sap, enough fluff to give a blue whale diabetes, implied sexual situations, unbeta’d
Summary: Francis returns from a trip abroad to his family, and when the boys flee to their bed during a storm, Arthur tells them the story of how rain came to the world. Placed in the universe of “ What the Heart Forgets”.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back. The title and cut text is from Vienna Tang’s “Lullaby for a Stormy Night.”
Author’s Notes: From my request post. The prompt was “happy FrUK family tiems.”
___
When Francis opens the door, he doesn’t realize how quiet it is until after he lets the cool air of the house blow over his sweat-dewed temples, his humid skin. He opens his eyes, but it’s not until he sets his suitcases down that he heads into the living room, his mouth open to call out for Arthur and the boys.
His voice thickens and sticks in his throat when he sees the couch, and who’s on it, and lets his mouth melt into a smile as he leans against the doorframe.
Arthur is sipping his tea and reading from what Francis thinks is the newspaper. On either side of him are Alfred and Mathieu, fast asleep in their pajamas, their heads leaning against Arthur’s side. A thick blanket is tucked around all three of them.
“This is unusual,” Francis says, and keeps his voice soft and sweet so that Arthur won’t glare up and shush him for waking the children. He prefers seeing Arthur smile and set his things aside.
“The boys - well, Alfred - wanted to stay up and see you. It escalated into a screaming match. You know how he can be. And Mathieu wanted to, as well, and then he started crying, and….”
“How did you calm them down?”
“Warm milk, telling them they could stay up if they put on their nightclothes, and nine minutes of storybooks.”
Francis feels like he should be a bit prouder of Arthur - but then again, Arthur could calm down a room of surly, rebellious teenagers with nothing but a book of Grimm’s Fairy Tales and twenty minutes. “Your skill with children never ceases to amaze me.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“Ah, you think you know me better than I know myself, Arthur?” he replies, and laughs when Arthur blushes deep red and smacks him on the arm.
“J-just - help me get them up to bed, please?”
“Oui, oui, of course,” Francis murmurs, and as Arthur nudges and scoops a limp Alfred into his sleeping arms, Francis tries to do the same with Mathieu. But his hands and fingers aren’t gentle enough, and with a quivering groan and a stretch, those soft blue eyes blink up into his.
“Papa…?” he asks, and Francis feels his heart swell when he looks into those sleep-dark, precious eyes.
“Oui, mon petit chou, I’m home,” he whispers, hefting Mathieu in his arms so that he’s propped against Francis’ waist. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”
Mathieu blinks up at him for a few more moments, then shuts his eyes and nuzzles into Francis’ collarbone with a precious little sigh, his bones melting back into sleep. And oh, it’s so beautiful that Francis has to reach up and cup Mathieu’s cheek, kiss his forehead with little more than a brush of breath.
“Francis,” Arthur mutters, and Francis starts out of himself, looks at Alfred still asleep on Arthur’s shoulder. “He’s…getting a bit heavy.”
“Ah, right. Sorry.”
They make their way up the stairs, slow and quiet, avoiding the creaky eighth one. The boys remain asleep even as they tiptoe down the hall, into the first room on the left; Arthur turns on the hall light, bathing the small beds and the toy-strewn floor in a partial, weak light.
Francis hears Alfred stirring, listens to Arthur shushing him and crooning him back to slumber. But it’s Mathieu who stays asleep this time as Francis lays him down in the unmade bed and tucks him in up to the chin.
Francis cannot help the smile that lifts the corners of his mouth as Mathieu curls into his teddy bear - Kumajirou, he thinks, a string of babble that has stuck over the six years of this child’s life. His body warms as he thinks of how happy Mathieu sounds when he reaches for his second best friend and holds him close, and he can’t help but brush soft gold hair out of that round face and press another kiss to Matthew’s head.
Arthur is waiting for him by the door when he stands, and his warmth and joy must be shining from his very pores, because Arthur smiles at him and laces their fingers together as he closes the door, leaving it open just a crack.
They don’t speak until they get back to their own room, where their hands finally slip free of one another. They turn away and begin undressing, bit by bit, trying to ignore the thick, heavy desire vibrating in the room’s air and failing.
“So,” Arthur says, startling Francis and making him turn around. “How was Berlin?”
“Magnificent,” Francis says, relaxing a bit as he undoes the last button of his shirt and slides himself free. “Someday, when the boys are older, we’ll have to go together, the four of us.”
“You think you have enough for a story?”
“I have more than enough.” Francis tosses his wife-beater on a nearby chair ignoring the way Arthur huffs, and starts on his belt. “You’d love to see the Brandenburg Gate…and maybe the Cathedral of St. Hedwig…non, you don’t like that Roman Catholic stuff, do y -”
Arthur grabs his shoulder, and Francis is whirled about and kissed before he can say another word. Francis doesn’t even pretend to act surprised, his hands clawing at Arthur’s skin, hair, anywhere he can reach and touch and splay his hands.
They kiss with hunger and desire, stumble back and fall onto the bed in jumble of limbs and tongue and warm, solid flesh.
“ - Mmmmissed you - nmm - bl…bloody hell I missed you -” Arthur grits out between teeth and tongue and connected mouths.
“Ah - ah - yes, I as well, Arthur -”
But with a firm grasp, a wicked smirk, and a quick move, Arthur makes Francis gasp and arch, awakening parts of his mind that knock out his mental lexicon.
Francis shudders, pulls Arthur close, and freefalls.
___
A sharp, booming sound makes Francis jolt awake, gasping, the feeling buzzing in his bones.
He comes back to himself as his breath evens out, and he takes in his surroundings: their room, dark, save for the lightning flashing in the window; the comforter, pulled up and over their naked bodies; and Arthur, warm and heavy on top of him, pressed together along the length of their bodies, sleeping off their afterglow.
Francis smiles and nuzzles Arthur’s forehead with his cheek, feeling his whiskers rake over the smoother skin.
“That hurts,” Arthur mumbles, and Francis jolts in surprise when he pinches the skin near his pulse.
“Well, so does that. How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough to get even with you for that stubble burn.” Arthur stretches and settles himself again, pushing his thigh between Francis’ legs.
“I’m not surprised,” Francis says. Arthur’s always been a light sleeper. “Was it the storm?”
“Well, that, and…I just couldn’t go back to sleep.” Francis feels the heat of Arthur’s cheek against his cheekbone. “S-so I’ve just been s-staring at your mug, hoping that watching something so boring will…help me get back to…don’t look at me like that, dammit.”
Francis just chuckles and reaches up, fluffing the blond hair. “I suppose listening to my heartbeat is boring as well, ah?”
“M-my head just happened to be there, you - mmm.”
Francis shuts Arthur up with a slow, wet kiss, feels something spark through his nerves at the sharp crack of thunder outside. He slips his tongue through Arthur’s lips, coaxing, teasing Arthur into his mouth -
“DAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!”
Arthur rolls over and tugs the sheets over their shoulders just as Alfred bursts into the room, a confused and stumbling Mathieu in tow.
“Alfred?” Francis says, quirking an eyebrow as Alfred shoves himself between their bodies and curls up against Arthur’s side. “Alfred, what are you doing here?”
“I - I - w-w-well, M-Mattie was scared of - of the thunder -”
“Not really,” Mathieu mumbles, blinking.
“W-w-was too! Y-you said so! I’m b-b-being a good brother b-by bringing you here! That’s what a hero d-does, after all!”
“Eh…?”
Arthur sighs, reaching under his pillow. “It’s all right, boys. Just wait there a moment.”
When Arthur pulls his hand back out, Francis sees the flash of green-and-back plaid - his boxers. Of course. With a sigh, Francis leans over, pulls his own shorts from the pile of his pants on the floor, and then ducks under the covers for a moment to slide them on.
It takes some fumbling and soft, mouthed curses, but Francis smiles when he surfaces again and holds his arms out for his sons. “Come, garçons," he croons, and Mathieu crawls over to curl into his side - Mathieu, the sweet one, so quiet and gentle.
So different from their other son, Francis notes, looking up and smiling as Alfred hugs his husband and shudders into his side.
“M-m-make it go away, it’s s-scaring Mattie….”
“ ‘S not really,” Mathieu murmurs. “We learned about this from the teacher, remember? All electricity an’ electrons rubbing each other an’ -”
“B-but the janitor said it was g-g-ghosts!”
“Was this the same janitor who told you that Walt Disney’s frozen body was hidden somewhere in your school basement?” Francis asks, amusement threading its way into his voice.
“Y-y-yeah…bu-but Papa, it’s scary!” Alfred yelps, clutching Arthur tighter around the waist as thunder cracks the sky hard enough to feel in their bones. “R-right, Dad?”
A few moments of silence.
“No. I…don’t really find it scary.”
No? Francis finds his intrigue piqued, and he props himself up on his elbows as Mathieu rolls around.
“R…really?” Alfred asks.
“Yes. I…actually think it’s a little sad. It reminds me of a story I once heard.”
Lightning flashes, sending snapshots of Arthur’s nostalgic, bittersweet face into Francis’ mind.
“Once upon a time,” he says, “when the world was still new, the people of earth suffered because the crops would not grow from beneath the hard, cracked ground. The sun was merciless and hot, and people began to perish from thirst. And the people prayed and begged and cried for water - but because the gods could not understand human emotions, they could not give it to them.”
“But the teachers said -” Mathieu begins, but Francis hushes him with a gentle sound and a hand brushing through beautiful yellow hair.
“The torment continued until one day, a noble prince stood and said, ‘I shall go to the gods and ask what must be done to get water.’ And so he bid his family goodbye and traveled to the highest mountain in the world, where he knelt and began to pray.
“‘Lords of the world,’ he said, ‘my people are dying. Crops will not grow. Cattle starve and perish. We desperately need water. What must we do?’ And because he was noble and kind, the gods spoke to him and told him how to give the world water.”
“What did he need to do?”
“They said, ‘You must give up your life on earth and come to the heavens. You may never go back again. You will be forced to watch the world you left behind - and then, only then, will you be able to provide the world with life.’
“The prince was heartbroken, and begged and pleaded for some other way. For three days, he tried; but in the end, his love for the people of the world won out, and the gods reached down and placed him on the lowest floor of heaven, the sky. From there, he could see the whole world - but they could not see him.
“And as he looked down on the world, the prince felt a great, unbearable sadness, and he fell to the ground and cried. Clouds gathered in the sky, blocking out the sun, and his tears spread out and fell to earth. And though he pounded against the sky’s vault, it would not yield, though sometimes sparks and the great, loud pound of his fists would come from it. And that was the world’s first thunderstorm - it, and many others, helped to create the green, fertile earth we live upon.”
And Francis feels as though the very rain itself was touched by Arthur’s story - by his voice, his rhythm, and the pain Francis can see past his eyes, a pain Arthur insists on bearing by himself.
“An’ that’s the end?” Mathieu asks, and Francis’ heart nearly breaks at the small, trembling voice. Alfred’s sniffles give him away as well as he hides his face in Arthur’s hip. “He…he’s just…alone?”
Arthur turns his head, and Francis catches his eye and lets his own sadness shine through. Whatever it is, he thinks, you are not alone. Whatever ending this story has…please do not claim you are the prince.
Arthur blinks, and as Francis’ eyes adjust to the light, the lips seem to perk up in the tiniest of smiles.
“No,” Arthur says. “He’s not.”
Alfred looks up, his eyes wide and watery. “R-really?”
“Well, of course,” Arthur says, leaning back against the mattress. “After a while, the rains grew too great and numerous, and the ground grew soggy. Crops drowned, and people died in great mudslides and floods. And even the gods, who could not understand human hearts, looked down upon the earth and said, ‘We have made a mistake.’ But because they could not understand, they could not fix it.
“But there was one god who was not fully a god at all, but a child born of a human mother and a deity, though the god did not know it. The mother perished, and his father brought him up to heaven and never told him or the other gods of his human origins. But because part of him was human, he could feel. And he watched the prince, and began to understand sadness.”
Francis hugged Mathieu’s frame as they both leaned closer, closer to Alfred and Arthur’s warmth. Arthur had them all now, trapped in the spell of his words and his story.
“One day, the demi-god could no longer watch the man’s sad face, and walked down to the floor of heaven to stand by him. Though the prince raged and screamed, he gathered his courage, walked up, and cupped the prince’s cheek to make him look up into his face.
“The prince truly saw, then, through his despair and his sorrow, saw the beautiful demi-god’s face and the sadness on it. And when the demi-god knelt and embraced the prince, the tears stopped flowing, and the sky grew calm and quiet for the first time since the prince ascended.”
“Did the demi-god eve learn of his human mother?” Francis asks, the words slipping from his mouth before he can stop them.
“Papa, you need to be quiet and listen to the story,” Alfred gripes at him, and Francis thinks he should scold him but doesn’t, because it’s cute, how Alfred teases him.
“He didn’t,” Arthur says, his voice calm and gentle now. “But he stayed with the human, and they grew to be friends, then lovers, and eventually the demi-god asked the prince to take him as his consort, so that he could stay with him always.
“Sometimes, though, the demi-god must leave on official business, and the prince remembers his human life, and the rain falls down on the plants and gives life to the earth. But when the demi-god returns, the prince smiles, the sun comes out, and the world grows warm and sweet once again.” Arthur looks down at little Alfred, who has pressed a cheek into his hip. “And that is why rain is sad,” he explains, running a knuckle over that cheek, “but that is also why I don’t find rains scary. Because they come and go, just part of the cycle of life. Just like joy.”
Alfred’s eyelids flutter as the knuckle runs over his cheek, drawing them closed; when thunder purrs around them this time, he doesn’t open his eyes.
Mathieu murmurs, huddles up near Alfred, and goes back to sleep, his breath evening out. My sons, Francis thinks, and pulls a bit of Alfred’s hair out of his face. My dear, sweet little ones.
Arthur’s hand closes over his, and he looks up into green eyes. “Where did you hear that story?” he murmurs, allowing himself to feel awed and reverent.
Arthur chuckles and kisses the corner of his mouth. “A bit here, a bit there,” he murmurs into Francis’ cheek. “It’s extraordinary what stories you can weave from what you’ve lived.”
Francis frowns, tries to think of what Arthur might have lived through to create a story like that; but the harder he thinks, the more his head hurts, and the heavier his eyes feel. And with Arthur holding them all close and whispering words that are water and waves and sleep into his ear, Francis can only fight his body for so long.
He slips into slumber embracing the three most precious people in his life, with fading thunder promising the beauty of a misty, sunny morning.
___
Endnotes: …I’m sorry the whole little legend-story-thing popped into my head and wouldn’t leave. I shall accept any smacks my way for it.
Also, you can find the song here. It’s absolutely beautiful.
Comments/concrit appreciated. Thanks for stopping by, guys.