[Axis Powers Hetalia] Ours for Real (France/England, Canada, America)
Title: Ours for Real
Author/Artist: halflight007 /lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/England, America, Canada
Rating: G
Warnings: rainbows will be projectile-vomited, possible research-no-jutsu fail
Summary: After years of petitioning, planning, and searching, Arthur and Francis visit a little out-of-the-way orphanage - and Arthur meets two very special little boys. Story from the What the Heart Forgets-verse.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back.
Author’s Notes: So there is support to the theory that if you ask for something hard enough, you’ll get it. Who’da thunk it. Also, the research for this made my love for England crank up to 11 and proved to me that there is cultural canon to England’s love of children.
What the Heart Forgets | A Room of Their Own | This Same Rain That Draws You Near Me | Everything the Same___
Francis’s eyes open to find the left side of the bed empty and the sheets cold. Sleepy puzzlement gives way to waking realization, and then to an exasperated sort of affection.
So Arthur is there again.
With a sigh and a shake of his head, Francis slips from the bed, slides on his robe, and makes his way down the hall, his eyes drawn to the rectangle of light that paints the open door.
“Arthur?” Francis places his hand on the doorframe and peaks in.
Arthur sits in the rocking chair. He does not look at Francis but at the room around him; at the oversized crib, at the blue-painted walls that they worked together on. Arthur turns to look him in the eyes with a sleepy, uncertain gaze, the work of many nights lost to nerves.
“Is it tomorrow yet?”
“My dear, it is not even midnight.”
“Oh God,” Arthur moans, and buries his face in his hands, “Oh, good God.”
Francis walks into the room, bare feet wriggling in the soft plush of the carpet. It feels good against his knees as he lowers himself to the ground, puts his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, and kisses the skin just below his husband’s ear. “Are you going to spend another night in here, like you did yesterday?”
And here Arthur turns to look at Francis, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. “You - you knew?”
“Yes, and I did not say anything then. But I am going to now, because we’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow at Thompson House Orphanage, and I do not want you to embarrass yourself in front of our new potential son or daughter.”
He expects Arthur to snort and relax into his arms, so it surprises Francis when Arthur shoves him away with a choked sound, stands, and strides over to the crib. Francis watches him with wary eyes before sighing and following, sliding his arms around Arthur’s middle. “Arthur,” he whispers. “What’s wrong?”
“I feel like we should just give up sometimes,” Arthur murmurs, and Francis watches his hand go to the stuffed bear and bunny he spent months stitching together. “I mean - I - it took us forever to get our petition approved...and now here I am, going from orphanage to closed adoption agency to orphanage again, because nothing feels right.”
Arthur’s voice trembles - it’s a bit like an unbalanced pile of books about to topple over. Francis takes Arthur’s shoulders, turns him around, and kisses him. It’s full and soft; it’s Francis’s way of making love to Arthur’s mouth and being with his own lips and tongue, when physical union isn’t enough.
“Arthur,” he whispers when they break the kiss, pulling Arthur’s head into the crook of his neck. “It’s all right, Arthur.”
“But I’m dragging you into this, too, and -”
“And at least your country’s laws allow us to adopt together and make things difficult for us based on what we do and how much we make, instead of who we love,” Francis murmurs, pressing a finger to Arthur’s lips. “And I want you to adopt a child that you feel that we can love. If it takes time to see to it that you do not regret, my dear…well, I cannot fault you for that.”
But Arthur still looks so shaky and sad, so Francis bends his head and kisses his mouth. “This is what we are going to do,” Francis murmurs, taking both of Arthur’s hands in his own. “We’re going to go back to our own room, and I am going to make the most amazing, mind-blowing love to you so that you sleep the entire night away without a single dream. We’re going to wake up well-rested and optimistic, we’re going to go to Thompson House, and we’re not going to think about what happens if this is a dead end, too. Understood?”
Arthur swallows, tremulous and hesitant; but he smiles, and that is a gift that Francis takes with a bend of his head and a press of their mouths.
___
The morning drive seems quieter today, and Francis thinks that it’s because this isn’t quite their usual morning work commute together.
He hears the echoes of it in their little car as they drive, the snarky don’t you dare spill your bloody coffee all over my seats and I’m going to have to put up with this smell all day, aren’t I and I’ll come pick you up after work, you idiot, hope your day doesn’t suck too much and remember I love you.
“You’re quiet today, Arthur. Bee in your bonnet?”
“No.” Arthur shifts, his arms still crossed over his chest, his eyes looking out the window at the passing scenery through the small droplets of rain.
“Arthur…”
“Francis, I. I can’t really talk right now because I’m excited and nervous and please.”
“…All right.”
Francis keeps his eyes fixed on the road. He does not pay attention to the way the rain starts to let up, or how the sun presses its sunrays against the curtain of clouds over the land. The only thing he really notices is when he sees the orphanage at last, standing out in stark contrast against the trees and the buildings around it.
Only then does Francis risk a split-second glance at Arthur through the corner of his eyes to see that he’s stopped grumping out the window. Instead, he sees an Arthur with folded hands pressed to his lips; his eyes are closed, and his mouth moves, giving whispering voice to the barely-there twitching of his lips.
As Francis’s eyes turn back to the road, he feels the cross Arthur gave him warm against his chest. And he decides to chance his own little prayer.
Dearest Mary, Mother of God, I ask only this: That You be an intercessor on Arthur’s side to the Father. Grant him just a small bit of Your peace; give him just a little grace.
I beg you, Holiest of Mothers, if it is Your will, please help him to find what he is looking for.
___
The Headmistress, one Maria Susan Thompson, is a charming lady with wrinkles wrought by smiles and hands curled with arthritis and years of love. She guides them through the halls of the orphanage, turning back over her shoulder to smile to them as she explains a bit of the institution’s history. Francis likes her soft-spoken demeanor and her nonjudgmental smile, how she takes all of Arthur’s questions in stride.
“And you take care of both babies and older children?” Arthur asks.
“Yes, we do. I’m afraid that makes us a bit overcrowded at times, but I don’t always view that as a bad thing, of course.”
“What?” Francis murmurs with a little frown.
“It’s the children, isn’t it?” Arthur murmurs in reply. “They help make this place feel warm.”
Maria smiles, but she doesn’t say a word, and Francis tries with all his heart to understand.
“You scheduled a visit at a good time,” Maria says, placing her hand on the door to the play room. “The younger children have just finished studies for the day - I’m sure they’ll be eager for someone to play with.”
Maria opens the door.
“MISS THOOOOOMPSOOOOON BILLY RIPPED MY BOOOOOK!
“I-it was an accident, though!”
“Was not!”
“Was too!”
Francis blinks, a bit overwhelmed by the sound of children talking and shouting. After a moment, he realizes that Maria and Arthur have walked into the room together, and stumbles in after them before the door closes. He takes a quick look around to see that children who were playing with toy stoves, fire trucks, and dolls pause to watch the fuss, and feels a bit self-conscious at the thought of so many kids paying this much attention to him. Lord, he thinks, how does Arthur do this every day?
“Now, now, Emily,” Maria says, bending down to look one little girl in the eye, “what’s this all about?”
“I was readin’ a book and Billy wanted to take it from me -”
“But I -”
“-and I said no, wait ‘til I’m done, like you told us to, and I was real nice about it, but Billy’s a bully so he grabbed it and pulled and I tried to pull it back and then he tore a page out to get back at me!”
Maria sighs, and the way her face settles into the well-worn, familiar lines of exasperation tells Francis this isn’t the first time for little Billy. “William…” she starts, and Francis feels something in him twist as William cringes, waiting for his scolding.
And then Francis gets a flash of inspiration.
“Wait a moment, Miss Thompson, if you please.” Francis walks forward, kneels down, and smiles at the teary little boy. “William, I’m guessing?”
“Y-yes.”
“Well, William, my name is Francis, and I write for the newspaper. I was wondering if maybe you could tell us what happened.”
“I already told you guys what happened!” Emily says, her voice loud and eardrum-bursting. Francis grits his teeth, prays for patience, and smiles at her.
“Yes, my dear, but you must remember that in reporting, you have to ask questions from a lot of people - not just one, because some people don’t tell the truth, even if they intend to.” Francis ignores her affronted scoff, turning back to William. “Now then, William - will you tell us what happened? Why did you tear out the page?”
“I just wan’ed to see one of the pitchers,” he murmured, wiping his eye with the back of his hand. “An’ I didn’t wanna wait. Didn’ mean to tear a page out. It was an accident.”
Francis feels a hand on his shoulder, and he glances over his shoulder to find Arthur smiling at him. “Just one picture? That’s all?” Arthur asks, and Francis marvels at how gentle and quiet he sounds, wondering why Arthur can’t talk to him like that once in a while.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well then,” Arthur says, smiling as he leans forward to look William in the eye. “William, I think there’s a lesson here. Do you think you could have waited until she was done with the book?”
William sniffles a little. “M-maybe.”
“So what are you going to do next time?”
“M’gonna wait my turn an’ ask nicely,” William muttered, bowing his head. Arthur lifts a hand, tilts Williams’ chin up.
“I think that’s a good start,” Arthur says with a grin. “But I also think that next time, maybe you and Emily should share the book.”
“Well we can’t read it now, anyway,” Emily says, and Francis can hear the eye roll in her voice. “It’s all broken ‘n stuff.”
Arthur frowns, thoughtful, and reaches out to take the book. “The Frog Prince?” Arthur asks, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Oh, this isn’t a problem. I know the story by heart; I can tell it to you guys.”
“But…but the pictures -” William starts.
“I’ll actually need a few volunteers for this,” Arthur says. “I’ll need a princess, a king, a queen and a frog prince. And it just so happens that I have a frog right here, so nobody has to argue over who plays the frog.” Arthur thumps his hand on Francis’s back.
“Wait, what? Oh, no, Arthur, I am not going to be the frog in your little narrative.”
“Hey, Francis, who’s telling this story? You can be the frog or the princess, it’s your choice,” Arthur snaps right back with a smirk. “Or you can go and cry about it with the babies in the nursery, it’s your choice.”
William and Emily laugh at this, united in their ridicule against him. Children are starting to walk towards them, giggling and laughing, shouting out the parts they want to play.
Francis does not turn around. Because that would mean seeing a old lady laughing very politely at his blindingly handsome, seductive self. And the thought of that makes him want to crawl under the nearest lily pad he can find and die.
___
Maria brings Francis coffee later after Francis has begged exhaustion as he laughs, clutching his aching middle. But Arthur seems tireless, smiling and speaking with the children as he colors and draws unicorns with them, stories dropping from his mouth like overlooked jewels.
“You’re both very good with children,” she says, watching him sip from the Styrofoam cup.
“Thank you. Though I will be the first to admit that I’m not at the same level as Arthur. Not yet, at least.”
“That’s saying something about your skill with children, though,” Maria says, smiling and turning back to Arthur as he plays and laughs, his eyes kind and soft. “We’ve had many people come in here looking to be parents…but I’ve never seen someone like him. He’s different. Rare.”
Rare. Francis mouths the word. She’s right. “How so?” Francis asks instead, between sips of his coffee.
“I’ve never seen another person whose eyes are as deep as his - who expresses the depth of emotion he does. He carries a burden that exhausts him - but it’s as if that burden makes his emotions and their expression genuine.” She smiles. “He will make a good father to any one of these children.”
Francis watches Arthur again and thinks about it. Looks at his eyes, his face, the way he smiles as he accepts a drawing from one of the little girls.
“…No. It’s not like that.”
“But he seems so -”
“Miss Thompson, Arthur loves children - whatever burden he carries in his heart, they help to ease it and make him smile. But the look in his eyes…it’s the same that I see when he’s with his kindergarten classes. He loves them, he loves playing with them - they’re probably some of the best friends he has…but he cannot be their father.”
And that makes Francis despair - he does not want to think about the car ride home, he doesn’t want to see Arthur’s tense back and averted gaze, he doesn’t want to hear Arthur stifle his sobs into the pillow again…
Everyone in the room jumps at the sound of a distant wail. Francis thinks it’s an ambulance at first, maybe a broken air raid siren, before it comes closer.
And then he realizes it’s a baby’s crying.
“Thompson! Miss Thompson!” And the door bursts open, revealing a young caretaker who looks on the verge of tears herself, her arms holding a baby each. “They won’t stop crying again! I’ve tried -”
“It’s all right, Theresa, calm down,” Maria says, standing and making her way over to them. “It’s…oh, dear me, it’s these two again…” she sighs, taking the loudest, purple-faced baby from Theresa and cradling him against her chest. “Shhh, little one, shh, it’s okay….”
Francis almost misses the choked little sound Arthur makes. Almost. But Arthur is his husband, and someone so precious and dear to him, that he hears the little hitch in Arthur’s voice, even from where he is, even over the sound of the babies wailing. He turns his head to look - and what he sees in Arthur’s eyes as he stares at those babes sends him reeling.
It’s the same look Arthur wore in a little café all the way back in 2013, when Francis bought him a coffee and dragged him over to his table. It’s that stricken, pained look, and it makes Francis want to stand and run to him, to gather Arthur in and take him away from here.
Wait, part of him whispers. Look again.
Francis blinks, and looks. And as Arthur stands and makes his way over to Maria, he sees something shining out of those eyes - something raw and beautiful and very much like pure joy.
“May…may I please hold him?” Arthur asks, and Francis thinks his voice teeters on the edge of breaking, and it breaks Francis’s heart just to hear it.
It seems to break Maria’s, as well; she looks as though she wants to say no, but her protest seems to die on her lips when she sees Arthur’s face. With a wordless sigh, she hands the baby off to him, takes the other baby from Theresa and whispers something to her.
“A-all right, children, come now, it’s almost time for supper….” Theresa says, motioning with one arm even as the children whine and groan and stand.
Arthur smiles and waves to the children, wishing them a good supper, but Francis knows Arthur well enough to see the focus in his entire being is focused on the warm little bundle in his arms. The warm little bundle that is now only whimpering, soft little sounds that are more endearing than ear-ruining.
“Francis,” Maria murmurs, and Francis looks up as Arthur sits next to him. “Would you like to hold him?”
“Ah - all right.” He holds out his arms, and Maria slides the baby into his arms. Francis looks down at it; and for just a moment, he feels his entire being go blank.
When he starts thinking again, it’s in slow, steady increments. It’s the feel of Arthur’s forearm against his own, warm and steady. It’s the way he thinks this little baby is so small, so precious and beautiful beyond words as he strokes the golden fuzz away and twirls his fingers around one stubborn little curl.
“These twins came to us about a month ago from the hospital,” Maria says, sitting across from the two of them. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose any information about the birth mother, beyond the fact that…that she didn’t make it.” Maria shuts her eyes, and Francis shivers and sends a smaller prayer to heaven - more of a feeling than anything else.
“What…what are their names?” asks Arthur in that same quivering, wondering tone as he brushes a knuckle down the other baby’s cheek.
“The one you’re holding is Alfred - the other’s name is Mathieu.”
“Alfred,” Arthur whispers, testing the name on his tongue as though it’s a vintage wine. “Alfred. Hello, little Alfred.” His fingers trace the little lips; Arthur chuckles when they pucker and try to suckle.
Francis looks at Arthur again. Really looks, in that way he’s had to learn how to do.
Arthur’s eyes are shining and bright and beautiful, filled with something ancient and nameless. They move between Alfred and Mathieu, thick with that something -
And Francis realizes two things.
First, he realizes that Arthur cannot go on without these boys. And when he looks down into Mathieu’s eyes, into the depthless blue that all babies have when they are born, he realizes he can’t, either.
The second thing he realizes is that this is love.
Not the same as what he shares with Arthur - but it is still powerful and brilliant in its own right, the tide that pulls him out into a sea of fierce protectiveness. Francis feels himself drowning in it, and it’s wonderful.
He wants to keep drowning
“I…M-Miss Thompson,” Arthur stutters. “I -”
“Visiting hours will end soon, I’m afraid. But you can go and say goodbye to the children, and we can set up an appointment to draw up and sign the final adoption papers.”
Arthur chokes on his own breath. “You -”
“I’ve been watching you, Arthur Kirkland,” she says, and her eyes are warm and piercing; Francis watches them go straight through the skin and into Arthur’s soul. “And I’ve never seen anyone on my staff calm these boys down so quietly and quickly. That’s the sort of touch and love only a parent can give.”
Francis feels Arthur tremble, feels tenderness deep within him. He lets his arm drape over Arthur’s shoulder, feels what Arthur wants to say in the trembles and tremors. “Is it okay if we hold them until it’s time to leave?” he asks. Translating for his husband.
Maria’s smile is a gift from God himself. “Just this once, I suppose it’s all right.”
___
Arthur does not cry when he has to relinquish Alfred, or when they set up the few final meetings with Maria.
He does not cry on the car ride home, though the air is filled with the same tense silence.
Arthur does not go to their bedroom once they come home. Ignores it entirely, in fact. “Arthur?” Francis calls, but Arthur acts like he doesn’t even hear him, walking into the little room at the end of the hallway. Francis follows him and finds Arthur standing in the middle of the room when he arrives - just standing there, stock still, his face turned to the crib.
Francis walks up and wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulders. “Arthur,” he says. His voice grants; it permits.
Arthur trembles, breaks, and turns in Francis’s arms.
Fingers claw into the back of Francis’s shirt; they collapse to the floor of the nursery together, holding, comforting. “Shhh,” Francis soothes, his hand rubbing circles into Arthur’s back. “Shhh. It’s all right, mon cher cœur,” he croons, his lips rubbing at Arthur’s jaw. “It’s all okay. They’re ours, Arthur, they are, even if it’s not legal yet.”
“Th-they really are,” Arthur says, pulling back and looking Francis in the eyes. “Th-th - oh, G-God, I’m not tricking you this time. Fighting, I mean. We’re not - it’s not fighting over - we’re sharing them, Francis, they’re ours for real th-this time.”
Francis’s smile fades, when he sees the look in Arthur’s eyes. It’s a wild, ecstatic look that seemed to border on madness to Francis at first. He remembers it giving him a sense that Arthur isn’t quite here with him.
Time has changed that. Now, as silly and irrational as it sounds, he wonders if he’s missing something, if he’s not quite with Arthur.
It’s no use thinking about it, he tells himself, and pulls Arthur close. “If you say so,” he murmurs, and sings soothing French lullabies as Arthur weeps from joy and emotions too complex for Francis to name.
( - and two years from this moment, Francis will walk in on Arthur sprawled out on the floor of the sun-drenched nursery, his eyes closed, his lips turned up in a way that tells Francis he’s awake. And Mathieu will be crawling all over him, little hands poking into nostrils and ears, and pulling at hair and feeling eyebrows, while Alfred demolishes woodblock skyscrapers with Boston the Bunny. And in that moment before Arthur’s hands sneak up to tickle Mathieu’s sides, before Mathieu squeals in delight, before Alfred looks up from his wreckage and shrieks Paaaaa! as he waddles towards Francis, and before Francis himself scoops up his son, holds him up over his head and kisses his nose -
In that moment, Francis will take the picture that will be his cellphone wallpaper for the rest of his life; a secret all his own, even from Arthur, even though it’s as close as the breast-pocket of his dress shirt.)
___
Endnotes: Yeah, basically a Christmas gift to the people who asked about this fic and whether or not I’d ever write it. Well, I have, folks, and here ya go. Happy Holidays, y’all. :D
Also, bluef0x is an amazing artist and did a beautiful sketch of Francis and Arthur with the babies. GO CHECK OUT ALL OF HER WORK.
Comments/Concrit always welcomed. Thanks for reading!
Author/Artist: halflight007 /lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/England, America, Canada
Rating: G
Warnings: rainbows will be projectile-vomited, possible research-no-jutsu fail
Summary: After years of petitioning, planning, and searching, Arthur and Francis visit a little out-of-the-way orphanage - and Arthur meets two very special little boys. Story from the What the Heart Forgets-verse.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back.
Author’s Notes: So there is support to the theory that if you ask for something hard enough, you’ll get it. Who’da thunk it. Also, the research for this made my love for England crank up to 11 and proved to me that there is cultural canon to England’s love of children.
What the Heart Forgets | A Room of Their Own | This Same Rain That Draws You Near Me | Everything the Same___
Francis’s eyes open to find the left side of the bed empty and the sheets cold. Sleepy puzzlement gives way to waking realization, and then to an exasperated sort of affection.
So Arthur is there again.
With a sigh and a shake of his head, Francis slips from the bed, slides on his robe, and makes his way down the hall, his eyes drawn to the rectangle of light that paints the open door.
“Arthur?” Francis places his hand on the doorframe and peaks in.
Arthur sits in the rocking chair. He does not look at Francis but at the room around him; at the oversized crib, at the blue-painted walls that they worked together on. Arthur turns to look him in the eyes with a sleepy, uncertain gaze, the work of many nights lost to nerves.
“Is it tomorrow yet?”
“My dear, it is not even midnight.”
“Oh God,” Arthur moans, and buries his face in his hands, “Oh, good God.”
Francis walks into the room, bare feet wriggling in the soft plush of the carpet. It feels good against his knees as he lowers himself to the ground, puts his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, and kisses the skin just below his husband’s ear. “Are you going to spend another night in here, like you did yesterday?”
And here Arthur turns to look at Francis, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. “You - you knew?”
“Yes, and I did not say anything then. But I am going to now, because we’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow at Thompson House Orphanage, and I do not want you to embarrass yourself in front of our new potential son or daughter.”
He expects Arthur to snort and relax into his arms, so it surprises Francis when Arthur shoves him away with a choked sound, stands, and strides over to the crib. Francis watches him with wary eyes before sighing and following, sliding his arms around Arthur’s middle. “Arthur,” he whispers. “What’s wrong?”
“I feel like we should just give up sometimes,” Arthur murmurs, and Francis watches his hand go to the stuffed bear and bunny he spent months stitching together. “I mean - I - it took us forever to get our petition approved...and now here I am, going from orphanage to closed adoption agency to orphanage again, because nothing feels right.”
Arthur’s voice trembles - it’s a bit like an unbalanced pile of books about to topple over. Francis takes Arthur’s shoulders, turns him around, and kisses him. It’s full and soft; it’s Francis’s way of making love to Arthur’s mouth and being with his own lips and tongue, when physical union isn’t enough.
“Arthur,” he whispers when they break the kiss, pulling Arthur’s head into the crook of his neck. “It’s all right, Arthur.”
“But I’m dragging you into this, too, and -”
“And at least your country’s laws allow us to adopt together and make things difficult for us based on what we do and how much we make, instead of who we love,” Francis murmurs, pressing a finger to Arthur’s lips. “And I want you to adopt a child that you feel that we can love. If it takes time to see to it that you do not regret, my dear…well, I cannot fault you for that.”
But Arthur still looks so shaky and sad, so Francis bends his head and kisses his mouth. “This is what we are going to do,” Francis murmurs, taking both of Arthur’s hands in his own. “We’re going to go back to our own room, and I am going to make the most amazing, mind-blowing love to you so that you sleep the entire night away without a single dream. We’re going to wake up well-rested and optimistic, we’re going to go to Thompson House, and we’re not going to think about what happens if this is a dead end, too. Understood?”
Arthur swallows, tremulous and hesitant; but he smiles, and that is a gift that Francis takes with a bend of his head and a press of their mouths.
___
The morning drive seems quieter today, and Francis thinks that it’s because this isn’t quite their usual morning work commute together.
He hears the echoes of it in their little car as they drive, the snarky don’t you dare spill your bloody coffee all over my seats and I’m going to have to put up with this smell all day, aren’t I and I’ll come pick you up after work, you idiot, hope your day doesn’t suck too much and remember I love you.
“You’re quiet today, Arthur. Bee in your bonnet?”
“No.” Arthur shifts, his arms still crossed over his chest, his eyes looking out the window at the passing scenery through the small droplets of rain.
“Arthur…”
“Francis, I. I can’t really talk right now because I’m excited and nervous and please.”
“…All right.”
Francis keeps his eyes fixed on the road. He does not pay attention to the way the rain starts to let up, or how the sun presses its sunrays against the curtain of clouds over the land. The only thing he really notices is when he sees the orphanage at last, standing out in stark contrast against the trees and the buildings around it.
Only then does Francis risk a split-second glance at Arthur through the corner of his eyes to see that he’s stopped grumping out the window. Instead, he sees an Arthur with folded hands pressed to his lips; his eyes are closed, and his mouth moves, giving whispering voice to the barely-there twitching of his lips.
As Francis’s eyes turn back to the road, he feels the cross Arthur gave him warm against his chest. And he decides to chance his own little prayer.
Dearest Mary, Mother of God, I ask only this: That You be an intercessor on Arthur’s side to the Father. Grant him just a small bit of Your peace; give him just a little grace.
I beg you, Holiest of Mothers, if it is Your will, please help him to find what he is looking for.
___
The Headmistress, one Maria Susan Thompson, is a charming lady with wrinkles wrought by smiles and hands curled with arthritis and years of love. She guides them through the halls of the orphanage, turning back over her shoulder to smile to them as she explains a bit of the institution’s history. Francis likes her soft-spoken demeanor and her nonjudgmental smile, how she takes all of Arthur’s questions in stride.
“And you take care of both babies and older children?” Arthur asks.
“Yes, we do. I’m afraid that makes us a bit overcrowded at times, but I don’t always view that as a bad thing, of course.”
“What?” Francis murmurs with a little frown.
“It’s the children, isn’t it?” Arthur murmurs in reply. “They help make this place feel warm.”
Maria smiles, but she doesn’t say a word, and Francis tries with all his heart to understand.
“You scheduled a visit at a good time,” Maria says, placing her hand on the door to the play room. “The younger children have just finished studies for the day - I’m sure they’ll be eager for someone to play with.”
Maria opens the door.
“MISS THOOOOOMPSOOOOON BILLY RIPPED MY BOOOOOK!
“I-it was an accident, though!”
“Was not!”
“Was too!”
Francis blinks, a bit overwhelmed by the sound of children talking and shouting. After a moment, he realizes that Maria and Arthur have walked into the room together, and stumbles in after them before the door closes. He takes a quick look around to see that children who were playing with toy stoves, fire trucks, and dolls pause to watch the fuss, and feels a bit self-conscious at the thought of so many kids paying this much attention to him. Lord, he thinks, how does Arthur do this every day?
“Now, now, Emily,” Maria says, bending down to look one little girl in the eye, “what’s this all about?”
“I was readin’ a book and Billy wanted to take it from me -”
“But I -”
“-and I said no, wait ‘til I’m done, like you told us to, and I was real nice about it, but Billy’s a bully so he grabbed it and pulled and I tried to pull it back and then he tore a page out to get back at me!”
Maria sighs, and the way her face settles into the well-worn, familiar lines of exasperation tells Francis this isn’t the first time for little Billy. “William…” she starts, and Francis feels something in him twist as William cringes, waiting for his scolding.
And then Francis gets a flash of inspiration.
“Wait a moment, Miss Thompson, if you please.” Francis walks forward, kneels down, and smiles at the teary little boy. “William, I’m guessing?”
“Y-yes.”
“Well, William, my name is Francis, and I write for the newspaper. I was wondering if maybe you could tell us what happened.”
“I already told you guys what happened!” Emily says, her voice loud and eardrum-bursting. Francis grits his teeth, prays for patience, and smiles at her.
“Yes, my dear, but you must remember that in reporting, you have to ask questions from a lot of people - not just one, because some people don’t tell the truth, even if they intend to.” Francis ignores her affronted scoff, turning back to William. “Now then, William - will you tell us what happened? Why did you tear out the page?”
“I just wan’ed to see one of the pitchers,” he murmured, wiping his eye with the back of his hand. “An’ I didn’t wanna wait. Didn’ mean to tear a page out. It was an accident.”
Francis feels a hand on his shoulder, and he glances over his shoulder to find Arthur smiling at him. “Just one picture? That’s all?” Arthur asks, and Francis marvels at how gentle and quiet he sounds, wondering why Arthur can’t talk to him like that once in a while.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well then,” Arthur says, smiling as he leans forward to look William in the eye. “William, I think there’s a lesson here. Do you think you could have waited until she was done with the book?”
William sniffles a little. “M-maybe.”
“So what are you going to do next time?”
“M’gonna wait my turn an’ ask nicely,” William muttered, bowing his head. Arthur lifts a hand, tilts Williams’ chin up.
“I think that’s a good start,” Arthur says with a grin. “But I also think that next time, maybe you and Emily should share the book.”
“Well we can’t read it now, anyway,” Emily says, and Francis can hear the eye roll in her voice. “It’s all broken ‘n stuff.”
Arthur frowns, thoughtful, and reaches out to take the book. “The Frog Prince?” Arthur asks, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Oh, this isn’t a problem. I know the story by heart; I can tell it to you guys.”
“But…but the pictures -” William starts.
“I’ll actually need a few volunteers for this,” Arthur says. “I’ll need a princess, a king, a queen and a frog prince. And it just so happens that I have a frog right here, so nobody has to argue over who plays the frog.” Arthur thumps his hand on Francis’s back.
“Wait, what? Oh, no, Arthur, I am not going to be the frog in your little narrative.”
“Hey, Francis, who’s telling this story? You can be the frog or the princess, it’s your choice,” Arthur snaps right back with a smirk. “Or you can go and cry about it with the babies in the nursery, it’s your choice.”
William and Emily laugh at this, united in their ridicule against him. Children are starting to walk towards them, giggling and laughing, shouting out the parts they want to play.
Francis does not turn around. Because that would mean seeing a old lady laughing very politely at his blindingly handsome, seductive self. And the thought of that makes him want to crawl under the nearest lily pad he can find and die.
___
Maria brings Francis coffee later after Francis has begged exhaustion as he laughs, clutching his aching middle. But Arthur seems tireless, smiling and speaking with the children as he colors and draws unicorns with them, stories dropping from his mouth like overlooked jewels.
“You’re both very good with children,” she says, watching him sip from the Styrofoam cup.
“Thank you. Though I will be the first to admit that I’m not at the same level as Arthur. Not yet, at least.”
“That’s saying something about your skill with children, though,” Maria says, smiling and turning back to Arthur as he plays and laughs, his eyes kind and soft. “We’ve had many people come in here looking to be parents…but I’ve never seen someone like him. He’s different. Rare.”
Rare. Francis mouths the word. She’s right. “How so?” Francis asks instead, between sips of his coffee.
“I’ve never seen another person whose eyes are as deep as his - who expresses the depth of emotion he does. He carries a burden that exhausts him - but it’s as if that burden makes his emotions and their expression genuine.” She smiles. “He will make a good father to any one of these children.”
Francis watches Arthur again and thinks about it. Looks at his eyes, his face, the way he smiles as he accepts a drawing from one of the little girls.
“…No. It’s not like that.”
“But he seems so -”
“Miss Thompson, Arthur loves children - whatever burden he carries in his heart, they help to ease it and make him smile. But the look in his eyes…it’s the same that I see when he’s with his kindergarten classes. He loves them, he loves playing with them - they’re probably some of the best friends he has…but he cannot be their father.”
And that makes Francis despair - he does not want to think about the car ride home, he doesn’t want to see Arthur’s tense back and averted gaze, he doesn’t want to hear Arthur stifle his sobs into the pillow again…
Everyone in the room jumps at the sound of a distant wail. Francis thinks it’s an ambulance at first, maybe a broken air raid siren, before it comes closer.
And then he realizes it’s a baby’s crying.
“Thompson! Miss Thompson!” And the door bursts open, revealing a young caretaker who looks on the verge of tears herself, her arms holding a baby each. “They won’t stop crying again! I’ve tried -”
“It’s all right, Theresa, calm down,” Maria says, standing and making her way over to them. “It’s…oh, dear me, it’s these two again…” she sighs, taking the loudest, purple-faced baby from Theresa and cradling him against her chest. “Shhh, little one, shh, it’s okay….”
Francis almost misses the choked little sound Arthur makes. Almost. But Arthur is his husband, and someone so precious and dear to him, that he hears the little hitch in Arthur’s voice, even from where he is, even over the sound of the babies wailing. He turns his head to look - and what he sees in Arthur’s eyes as he stares at those babes sends him reeling.
It’s the same look Arthur wore in a little café all the way back in 2013, when Francis bought him a coffee and dragged him over to his table. It’s that stricken, pained look, and it makes Francis want to stand and run to him, to gather Arthur in and take him away from here.
Wait, part of him whispers. Look again.
Francis blinks, and looks. And as Arthur stands and makes his way over to Maria, he sees something shining out of those eyes - something raw and beautiful and very much like pure joy.
“May…may I please hold him?” Arthur asks, and Francis thinks his voice teeters on the edge of breaking, and it breaks Francis’s heart just to hear it.
It seems to break Maria’s, as well; she looks as though she wants to say no, but her protest seems to die on her lips when she sees Arthur’s face. With a wordless sigh, she hands the baby off to him, takes the other baby from Theresa and whispers something to her.
“A-all right, children, come now, it’s almost time for supper….” Theresa says, motioning with one arm even as the children whine and groan and stand.
Arthur smiles and waves to the children, wishing them a good supper, but Francis knows Arthur well enough to see the focus in his entire being is focused on the warm little bundle in his arms. The warm little bundle that is now only whimpering, soft little sounds that are more endearing than ear-ruining.
“Francis,” Maria murmurs, and Francis looks up as Arthur sits next to him. “Would you like to hold him?”
“Ah - all right.” He holds out his arms, and Maria slides the baby into his arms. Francis looks down at it; and for just a moment, he feels his entire being go blank.
When he starts thinking again, it’s in slow, steady increments. It’s the feel of Arthur’s forearm against his own, warm and steady. It’s the way he thinks this little baby is so small, so precious and beautiful beyond words as he strokes the golden fuzz away and twirls his fingers around one stubborn little curl.
“These twins came to us about a month ago from the hospital,” Maria says, sitting across from the two of them. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose any information about the birth mother, beyond the fact that…that she didn’t make it.” Maria shuts her eyes, and Francis shivers and sends a smaller prayer to heaven - more of a feeling than anything else.
“What…what are their names?” asks Arthur in that same quivering, wondering tone as he brushes a knuckle down the other baby’s cheek.
“The one you’re holding is Alfred - the other’s name is Mathieu.”
“Alfred,” Arthur whispers, testing the name on his tongue as though it’s a vintage wine. “Alfred. Hello, little Alfred.” His fingers trace the little lips; Arthur chuckles when they pucker and try to suckle.
Francis looks at Arthur again. Really looks, in that way he’s had to learn how to do.
Arthur’s eyes are shining and bright and beautiful, filled with something ancient and nameless. They move between Alfred and Mathieu, thick with that something -
And Francis realizes two things.
First, he realizes that Arthur cannot go on without these boys. And when he looks down into Mathieu’s eyes, into the depthless blue that all babies have when they are born, he realizes he can’t, either.
The second thing he realizes is that this is love.
Not the same as what he shares with Arthur - but it is still powerful and brilliant in its own right, the tide that pulls him out into a sea of fierce protectiveness. Francis feels himself drowning in it, and it’s wonderful.
He wants to keep drowning
“I…M-Miss Thompson,” Arthur stutters. “I -”
“Visiting hours will end soon, I’m afraid. But you can go and say goodbye to the children, and we can set up an appointment to draw up and sign the final adoption papers.”
Arthur chokes on his own breath. “You -”
“I’ve been watching you, Arthur Kirkland,” she says, and her eyes are warm and piercing; Francis watches them go straight through the skin and into Arthur’s soul. “And I’ve never seen anyone on my staff calm these boys down so quietly and quickly. That’s the sort of touch and love only a parent can give.”
Francis feels Arthur tremble, feels tenderness deep within him. He lets his arm drape over Arthur’s shoulder, feels what Arthur wants to say in the trembles and tremors. “Is it okay if we hold them until it’s time to leave?” he asks. Translating for his husband.
Maria’s smile is a gift from God himself. “Just this once, I suppose it’s all right.”
___
Arthur does not cry when he has to relinquish Alfred, or when they set up the few final meetings with Maria.
He does not cry on the car ride home, though the air is filled with the same tense silence.
Arthur does not go to their bedroom once they come home. Ignores it entirely, in fact. “Arthur?” Francis calls, but Arthur acts like he doesn’t even hear him, walking into the little room at the end of the hallway. Francis follows him and finds Arthur standing in the middle of the room when he arrives - just standing there, stock still, his face turned to the crib.
Francis walks up and wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulders. “Arthur,” he says. His voice grants; it permits.
Arthur trembles, breaks, and turns in Francis’s arms.
Fingers claw into the back of Francis’s shirt; they collapse to the floor of the nursery together, holding, comforting. “Shhh,” Francis soothes, his hand rubbing circles into Arthur’s back. “Shhh. It’s all right, mon cher cœur,” he croons, his lips rubbing at Arthur’s jaw. “It’s all okay. They’re ours, Arthur, they are, even if it’s not legal yet.”
“Th-they really are,” Arthur says, pulling back and looking Francis in the eyes. “Th-th - oh, G-God, I’m not tricking you this time. Fighting, I mean. We’re not - it’s not fighting over - we’re sharing them, Francis, they’re ours for real th-this time.”
Francis’s smile fades, when he sees the look in Arthur’s eyes. It’s a wild, ecstatic look that seemed to border on madness to Francis at first. He remembers it giving him a sense that Arthur isn’t quite here with him.
Time has changed that. Now, as silly and irrational as it sounds, he wonders if he’s missing something, if he’s not quite with Arthur.
It’s no use thinking about it, he tells himself, and pulls Arthur close. “If you say so,” he murmurs, and sings soothing French lullabies as Arthur weeps from joy and emotions too complex for Francis to name.
( - and two years from this moment, Francis will walk in on Arthur sprawled out on the floor of the sun-drenched nursery, his eyes closed, his lips turned up in a way that tells Francis he’s awake. And Mathieu will be crawling all over him, little hands poking into nostrils and ears, and pulling at hair and feeling eyebrows, while Alfred demolishes woodblock skyscrapers with Boston the Bunny. And in that moment before Arthur’s hands sneak up to tickle Mathieu’s sides, before Mathieu squeals in delight, before Alfred looks up from his wreckage and shrieks Paaaaa! as he waddles towards Francis, and before Francis himself scoops up his son, holds him up over his head and kisses his nose -
In that moment, Francis will take the picture that will be his cellphone wallpaper for the rest of his life; a secret all his own, even from Arthur, even though it’s as close as the breast-pocket of his dress shirt.)
___
Endnotes: Yeah, basically a Christmas gift to the people who asked about this fic and whether or not I’d ever write it. Well, I have, folks, and here ya go. Happy Holidays, y’all. :D
Also, bluef0x is an amazing artist and did a beautiful sketch of Francis and Arthur with the babies. GO CHECK OUT ALL OF HER WORK.
Comments/Concrit always welcomed. Thanks for reading!