[Axis Powers Hetalia] Something Special [France/England]
Title: Something Special
Author/Artist: halflight007 /lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/France
Rating: M
Warnings: Sex, flangst
Summary: For Francis, that Christmas Eve is their first time. For Arthur, it is so much more than that. Set during “What the Heart Forgets”, told from Arthur’s point of view.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back. Cut text and text in the fic itself comes from the movie It’s a Wonderful Life.
Author’s Notes: You’re probably going to be seeing a lot more WtHF-verse stories in the coming days. Hope y’all don’t mind.
What the Heart Forgets (Something Special)| A Room of Their Own | Ours for Real |
This Same Rain That Draws You Near Me | Everything the Same
___
Something will happen tonight.
The thread of a whisper, something like a promise, reaches Arthur through the echo of Christmas carols in the baggage claim area, through people bumping and colliding into one another. Like water molecules, he thinks, and pulls his arm back a bit to keep from bumping into someone, mumbles out a “sorry” as someone brushes his shoulder.
It’s just enough distraction to make him yelp when a hand closes over his eyes. It’s just as well that a hand closes over his mouth as well.
“Guess who?”
Arthur relaxes at the voice, rolling his eyes behind a soft palm. “You’re going to haul me off into some abandoned, seedy bathroom and have your way with me, right?” he mutters into the hand cupping his mouth.
That chuckle sounds rich as ever, like thick, rich cream. “Don’t tempt me.”
“You would be, wouldn’t you. Gerroff,” he grunts, and with a half-hearted jut of his elbow he frees himself, only to turn around and embrace Francis, tucking his face into that long neck and taking a deep breath. God, it’s so bloody good to see you, is what he thinks. “Your perfume stinks,” is what he grumbles.
“It is cologne, my dear, but I’m glad you like it.” Francis’s hands come to rest in the small of Arthur’s back. It’s just for a moment, a second, but Arthur thinks he will melt. “Happy Christmas, Arthur,” Francis whispers, and kisses Arthur’s temple.
“R-right, yes.” Arthur starts back, squeezing his eyes and blinking rapidly. “We need to get your bag before someone else picks it up by accident and gets a whole bunch of worthless garbage.”
“I should hope not, or else you’re not going to get your gift,” Francis says, threading their fingers together as they walk.
“Bah, let them have it. Having you here is enough.”
Arthur walks two more steps before he realizes Francis has stopped walking; he turns to see Francis looking at him with scrutinizing, analytical eyes -
And for just a second, he sees a condescending smirk, eyes gleaming with lust and hands twitching with a desire to strip him down -
“I - I mean,” Arthur grinds out through a throat thickening with needles and pain. “I mean…a-as a host, your presence is the best I can ask for, of course. So if your gift is a little late, or gets lost, or - ah!”
Francis pulls him close and holds him tight, pressing a cheek to Arthur’s tawdry brown hair. “You’re not alone,” Francis murmurs, rubbing Arthur’s back. And if I have anything to say about it, you’ll never spend another Christmas alone again goes unsaid as the radio starts playing the Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s “Wizards in Winter.”
“Hmph,” Arthur sniffles, half-expecting France (is it’s Francis now) to pull out a rose and start misquoting lines from Shakespeare.
But there’s none of that. Just silence and the hands wandering down, down, to rest again in the curve of Arthur’s back. It makes Arthur start a little and pull away, settling his hands on Francis’s forearms and looking him in the eyes. Their breath shudders together a little; they just look, feeling this strange newness sink into them and make them shiver.
Something’s will happen tonight.
“C-c-come on, then, let’s get your bag.”
“O-Oui…right behind you.”
Something very special.
___
Francis waits in the dining room while Arthur pours them some wine. Arthur watches him and wonders why he’s not picking everything up, smirking at it, making comments about how everything is so much nicer and prettier at his place, of course, but since he is English -
Arthur braces himself as Francis picks up a picture frame. “Who are these people?” he asks. “That one with the dark hair…he has the same eyebrows as you.”
Scotland, Arthur realizes as something pricks at his heart.
“That’d probably be Clyde,” Arthur says, pulling a bottle of brandy out from beneath the bar. “He’s the oldest brother - well, next to me.”
“And the two redheads?”
“Molly and Allen. Twins.” Northern Ireland. Her brother.
“And the boy with the gap in his teeth?”
“Davis.” Wales, the dear little one, bless his heart. He finishes filling the glasses, picks them up, and carries them over to Francis. “Here’s your glass…Francis?”
Francis looks up at Arthur with an expression Arthur can almost place, but not quite. It’s a mixture between nostalgia and sadness; it’s as though Francis wants to reach through the glass and pull them all out. “Why aren’t you spending Christmas with them?”
And I used to be England and I knew them all once upon a time. But that time is past and I have two lives now, two sets of memory, but it hurts because they get tangled up in inseparable snarls and it hurts to think -
“…thur - Arthur!”
The sting in Arthur’s head fades until it’s nothing but an echo, and he finds himself in Francis’s arms, his wine a purple splash against the hardwood floor. “I…”
“Arthur, dear, what happened?”
“I….”
“Shh.” Hands half-carry, half-guide him to the couch. “Are you all right?” The back of a hand presses against his forehead. “No fever….”
“F-Francis,” he grinds out, reaching up and taking Francis’s wrist. “I…I’m all right, I just get bad headaches from time to time.”
When I think of the earthquakes and riots and plague. When I think of how I watched my siblings die - how I never found Northern Ireland’s brother, never got to resolve things with him.
When I imagine finding America, dead, his body broken and bleeding from when he fell.
When I can’t remember Canada’s face - dear Canada, who disappeared that very same day we found his brother.
When I think of your body covered in sores and recall how you couldn’t even recognize my face -
“Arthur, here.” A glass gets pressed to his lips, and Arthur takes a sip of some nice, cool water. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I… I’ll be all right.” But the words drop from his mouth like dead weight; his body drags and sloughs itself as he tries to push Francis’s arm away and sit up. “Francis, I - l-let me up, I need to make dinner -”
“Hush.” Hands push him back into the sofa, stroke his hair. “Don’t worry about dinner - I’m going to be here for a week, remember? We’ll have plenty of time to eat it later. But for now, let’s just rest - rest, Arthur, don’t get up - and enjoy one another’s presence. I’ll go clean the mess and get us some more wine.”
“Francis….”
But it’s too late; in that moment, Francis is gone, moving to the next room to dispose of the leftover water and tidy up. Arthur stares after him for a moment, and then he flops his head back onto the throw pillow and laughs, a little broken, a little frazzled at the edges.
I don’t have to be surrounded by people at Christmas, he thinks, carding through his foreign mortal memories - the lifetime he knows he didn’t live, but that are there anyway. Sometimes, it feels like all alone, anyway.
___
One and a half glasses of wine later, Arthur feels much better. He enjoys the glow of Francis’s warmth on his back, the arms around his waist, the quiet sounds of Yuletide and warmth coming from the television. It loosens his tongue, makes him want to talk more.
“I had a falling-out with my family,” he says. He’s not slurring, but his words feel looser, warm as they spill from his lips.
“You did?”
“That’s….” Arthur frowns, considers. “Well. That’s a mild way of putting it, I guess.”
Francis presses his mouth to Arthur’s shoulder, to the stockinet stitches Arthur wove himself. “What happened?”
“What version do you want?”
Arthur’s eyes widen the second the last word escapes his lips, when he realizes what he’s said. The small silence hangs in his gut as a lead weight.
“Arthur, are you sure -”
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, a bit too quick, a bit too scared. “I - I didn’t mean for it to sound like -” But of course you wouldn’t understand, because you don’t remember. But still. But still.
Francis silences him with those wine-rich chuckles, pulls Arthur’s head back onto his shoulder as a palm cups his forehead. “I was just going to ask if you were sure you’re all right,” he murmurs into Arthur’s ear. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”
Arthur wants to bluster something back, opens his mouth so he can.
But Francis’s breath is on his ear, his body close and even warmer. That warmth makes Arthur’s bluster stumble and trip; it comes out as a soft choking sound and color on his cheekbones.
And before he can say anything else, Francis lifts the remote and changes the channel to-
“ - and then I’m gonna build things. I’m gonna build airfields, I’m gonna build skyscrapers….”
“Ah!” Francis says, and if Arthur closes his eyes he thinks he can see the way Francis’s face lights up behind his eyelids, just from hearing his voice. “I love this film!”
Arthur cracks open one eye and watches Mary throw a rock. “What, this?”
“We used to watch it all the time when I was younger. It is American, but I still like it.”
Arthur feels his gut twist and his heart flare up at the mere mention. His bones ache at the memory of blue eyes and a sunny smile and little arms holding a rabbit, once upon a time.
“What’d you wish, Mary?”
Francis hums into Arthur’s his shoulder, his arms tightening around Arthur’s waist as he murmurs along to the song.
“You - you sound ridiculous, you know,” Arthur says, and feels the lameness of his words catch up to his heart.
“And you…well, you remind me a bit of George, I think.” Francis nods after a moment. “Yes. I think you are like George.”
“I - hawhat?” Arthur snorts and turns around to face Francis’s smirk with a snide comment. A comment that dies when he sees the look on Francis’s face, somber and serious as blue eyes stare into Arthur’s.
“You give, Arthur,” Francis says, his thumb coming up to brush along Arthur’s cheek. “When we met in March, you offered to help me find my way around the city - do you know how many people ignored me when I asked for the time of day?”
“That was -”
“You gave me your phone number and e-mail address and talked to me everyday, and you’ve never once judged or disparaged what I’ve said. Not once. Even if I do deserve it sometimes.”
“Whatdidyouwishwhenyouthrewthatrock?” the television interjects behind them.
“Francis, I -”
“And now this,” Francis says, motioning around the room with his hand. “You’ve invited me up to spend the holiday in your home - and all you’ve ever asked for is a little bit of my time, my companionship.”
“Please, stop,” Arthur says, his voice tight and tattered.
Stop. Stop acting like I’m some sort of saint. Like I’m doing you a favor. Like I haven’t owed you this since we were children, not human children, but - but -
Francis’s facial expression changes as he looks at Arthur - as though he’s trying to read Arthur’s thoughts in some garbled foreign language that he can’t understand. “What is it that you want, Arthur? What do you want?”
Arthur’s mouth goes dry; his eyelashes flutter, and when he looks away from that darkening blue, it’s discover that his telly is on mute and that Francis must be speaking these lines from memory. God. Oh, God.
“You want the moon? Just say the word, and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.” Fingers on his temple. Down his jaw. Resting on his throat. “Hey. That's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon.”
Oh God oh God I don’t know the words - “D-don’t be daft, what’d I do with a thing like that?” asks Arthur, his eyes held to the TV screen as though they were magnets.
That’s probably why he doesn’t realize what Francis was planning until he feels soft, rubbery warmth nip at his neck.
“Well, then you could swallow it,” Francis says. Kisses up his neck. A voice as dark as the night outside.
“And it'd all dissolve.” Teeth on the juncture of neck and shoulder. Tongue tracing the heartbeat in his neck. “And the moonbeams'd shoot out of your fingers and your toes…” Nip, lick, and suck, “...and the ends of your hair.”
Arthur trembles and watches the silent TV. So slow and sure, he peels his eyes away from there to stare into Francis’s eyes.
Francis looks at him with tenderness in those blue eyes and an even gentler smile. And those cobalt irises soak in the light from the room and shine it back out - like so many stars, the alcohol in him thinks, and it makes him tremble even harder.
“N-now see here,” Arthur says, and his voice shakes as Francis moves closer. “Now - now wait just a minute, Francis Bonnefoy -”
Their lips touch, even gentler and sweeter than that moment months ago, when they stood watching Paris from the Eiffel Tower.
But the whisper in him shocks his entire body and makes it stiffen as Francis wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, makes it pitch forward as Francis pulls them both down and submerges them deeper into the kiss. And Arthur follows him down and down, and he feels like he’s dunking himself in a warm bubble bath, only better, only closer.
Arthur’s body moves on its own; it wraps around Francis, deepens their kisses as they pant, nip, and lick at one another’s slippery mouths. And Arthur’s becoming a sap, because he thinks he can feel Francis’s light from deep within himself - that soft and silver light, bleeding through his fingertips, his hair, and every pore on his body.
The something in him surges and writhes, and Arthur breaks their kiss with a gasp, stares down at Francis, panting and open and just as raw as Francis looks. Raw and a little bit...nervous? Scared?
“Francis….”
“I want you,” Francis says, and the flicker of doubt in those eyes is gone, replaced by something stronger and sweeter.
“Now?”
“Oui.”
“But….”
“Arthur, please.”
Arthur’s going to say no. He’s going to push himself off and away, insist that they wait until tomorrow to have a proper talk about this, and finish watching movies that night on opposite sides of the sofa.
He looks into those eyes again - those blue eyes, drunk on more than just wine - and Arthur wonders who he’s fooling.
“Bedroom,” Arthur insists, and Francis nods, slow and dazed, taking Arthur’s hand.
And Arthur wonders how they somehow stretch a twenty-second journey into two minutes. It must have something to do with the way they keep getting sidetracked - how Francis presses him against the wall, all wine-warm weight and sensual tongue, lacing their fingers together.
“F-Francis, we - ohgod - Francis, the bedroom, we - ah!” he yelps, as Francis bites the sensitive skin beneath his earlobe, traces a path with his tongue down to a pulse point. “Francis -”
“Fuck the bedroom,” Francis snarls, but it’s a soft snarl, a gentle sound, one that lacks bite and anger. “What’s wrong with here?”
Arthur pauses, remembers bathrooms and seedy motels, clichés where they left their hatred and sniping and something deeper than that - places that could be used for fucking, but not necessarily love or intimacy.
“Please,” Arthur says, his hands curling into the silk of Francis’s shirt. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”
And Francis leans back to look at him for a moment before he sighs, shakes his head, and smiles, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. “To the bedroom it is, then,” Francis murmurs, and makes Arthur shudder by nuzzling his neck.
And that’s all they do until they open the door to Arthur’s room and step inside, shutting the door behind them. The light from outside streams in and makes everything softer and more mysterious, makes them pause as they stand front-to-front, not quite touching.
Looking into Francis’s eyes - into the darkness that shifts to blue and back - the thought to turn on the light does not even cross his mind as his hands move to cup Francis’s cheek, as he leans in to kiss Francis on the mouth once again, firm, soft. “You’re…mmm…sure?” he asks, murmuring against that soft mouth. Francis’s only response is to deepen their kiss, and that is enough.
They part, and for a moment they just watch one another, touching and feeling. Arthur’s hands move first, feeling one mother-of-pearl button beneath his fingers. Feeling, and then slipping them through eyeholes as he undoes Francis’s shirt, button by button. He tries not to tremble at the feeling of fingertips on his belly.
“Arthur?” Francis asks when Arthur’s three buttons away from the bottom of his shirt, when Arthur’s knees start to buckle and give, when Francis himself sounds close to unraveling. “Arthur, I think it’s time to….”
“Y-yes. Bed.” Arthur takes Francis’s wrist and makes it a point not to look down at that hand as they make their way to the bed.
His own quilted comforter feels soft against his back, and he takes the time to stretch out against it as Francis straddles his hips and drags his fingertips up Arthur’s belly and pushes the sweater vest and shirt off of Arthur’s torso. Arthur shuts his eyes as the collar moves up and over his head, restraining his wrists.
And when his eyes flutter open again, it’s to the feel of knuckles caressing the side of his face, to blue eyes staring at him with a familiar, raw look.
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut against the intensity of the moment; it’s much, almost too much, and it’s everything I tried to deny when I was more than mortal but now I see it and I see how stupid I was, how stupid I -
“Arthur?” Lips on his eyelids. Fingers feeling his eyelashes. “Arthur, you’re crying.”
“I’m…I’m happy.” I’m more than that, he thinks. So much more.
A pause, and then Francis kisses his lower lip, tongues it in a way that makes Arthur shiver and arch. “All right, Arthur,” he whispers, and his fingers move down to caress the column of Arthur’s neck. “All right.”
Arthur doesn’t immediately throw his shirt and sweater vest to the floor. He keeps them where they are, around his wrists and above his head, watching as Francis shucks off his own shirt (and folds it, the git, he always folds it before setting it aside) and draws elegant hands and long fingers down his body, taking his time to explore and feel and learn Arthur’s body and what makes him feel the best.
And Arthur just shuts his eyes and feels the newness of it all; the newness of Francis’s fingers exploring his skin, every inch, seeking out and searching for places where Arthur reacts.
Because he knew all those places long ago, knew how to play them and that’s what he always went for when we fucked, when we stared at one another, fierce eyes and fiercer mouths, one sneering, one snarling, intense and hating the something more they’d never admit to one another -
Because it’s a new feeling, a good feeling; it’s a rarity, something to treasure.
Fingertips curl into his pants; uncurl, and then curl again into his boxers. “Arthur…may I…?” he whispers into Arthur’s ear, nuzzling his hairline.
“Y-yes. Please. I….”
And whatever he wants to say gets lost as Francis’s gentle teeth nip the skin behind his ear, making his hips arch as Francis pulls down his pants and takes his cock in hand with a gentle, exploring squeeze.
Arthur moans, breathless, and starts struggling out of the shirt around his wrists; Francis reaches up and helps him a bit. When they come free, when the shirt gets tossed to the floor, Arthur feels the stillness in him surge and swell, the passion inside of him bubbling up and breaking the surface tension -
His arms move up and around Francis’s shoulders, and Arthur clings as if he will never let go. Francis will have to take off his own pants, and that will be hard when Arthur’s kissing him silly.
But Francis does not comment as his hands move down to the zipper and button of his own slacks, and Arthur thinks he’s being forgiven for his selfishness.
And that’s good, because he’s not about to let go.
“Ar - ah - Aaaaarthur,” Francis slurs out between their kisses and pants, between long, slow strokes to his cock and fingers feeling his nipples. “Arthur…you have….”
Arthur breaks the way their lips join by turning his head and panting. “God, oh God, Francis.
“Tell…tell me….” Francis pleads, pressing kisses over Arthur’s cheek, as though lips will sprout with each kiss he plants there.
“You - you’re going to go get iiitaaaah.” Arthur blanks out and wriggles into the miniscule touch beneath his bellybutton. “Um. Now.”
“So impatient,” Francis chuckles against the corner of Arthur’s eye. But he kisses it anyway and presses his cheek to Arthur’s temple; Arthur shudders at the scrabble of stubble on his own cheek. “But I’ll indulge you, if you tell me where it is.”
“It’s innnnngh th-the bathroom,” Arthur manages to get out, and gets his revenge for Francis’s tongue with a sharp squeeze to the cock in his hand. “Medicine c-cabinet. Third shelf.”
“All right.” One, two, three more kisses. Francis slides off from atop Arthur, fingers lingering on skin. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
And then Arthur is alone, save for the light coming from the bathroom, a deep, melodic humming, and the sound of plastics and pills bumping into each other.
And that’s when it hits Arthur that it’s happening, and it’s shocking and a little bit sorrowful because it’s not the thought that this is really happening; it’s the thought that this is happening again. With an entirely different mood and attitude.
And it’s beautiful. It’s loving.
It’s what he never had in his former life, in little wayside clichés and petty arguments. And the thought that this is what he could have had, if he’d just looked deep enough, makes his heart ache and his bones flare up and -
And there are footsteps on the floor, and Arthur opens his eyes to see blue eyes looking at his body - at everything Arthur’s about to give him. And Arthur looks at Francis in turn, at the eyes so dark and wide and gentle, at the way the muscles bulge and relax beneath skin, at how hungry and needing Francis seems, red and dripping between his thighs.
“You’re all right?” Francis asks, handing Arthur the lotion when he holds a hand out for it and sliding between Arthur’s thighs. Arthur takes one of Francis’s hands and coats it with lotion.
“I - I’m fine.”
“You didn’t have any…well, I didn’t see anything to use for protection beyond the lotion,” Francis says. “And I didn’t bring my own, um....”
Arthur frowns as Francis talks. What in the bloody hell is he getting on - oh.
And Arthur feels something a bit like tenderness well up at the thought of Francis being cautious and caring with something even so small as that. He smiles and laughs a little, leaning up to kiss Francis’s blushing cheek while he puts long, slick fingers into “It’s okay,” he whispers. It’s so much more than that.
Francis hesitates a moment; and there it is, Arthur feels it, the tremble. “Francis?”
“A-ah. Oh. I’m sorry.”
Arthur just nods and holds his shoulders as Francis presses fingers into his body; he grimaces, but manages to his hiss at the chill of it. His hands go to squeeze a dollop of lotion into his own hand, and then he’s soothing one set of fingertips down a taut, nervous back even as the other goes to slick Francis up.
He hears Francis make a sound a bit like a sob and soothes his lover with quick little collarbone kisses as he’s filled with fingers, and as he pulls them both back to lie on the bed. “It’s all right,” he whispers with a quick peck of their lips as he lets Francis go and hooks one leg over Francis’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I - I’m ready.”
“Arthur…Arthur, are you -”
“Francis, please.”
Francis nods, and Arthur takes a breath when he feels Francis’s cock rub against him, feels his own body giving, relaxing. He feels a hand curl over the curve of his bent knee; through shut eyes, he senses Francis bend down to kiss his right eye. “Arthur,” Francis whispers, and presses in.
And it hasn’t been so long, really, not for his mind and heart. But his body lurches and reacts; he twists and hisses at the unexpected burn, and he feels Francis panic and try to pull out. “N-no, don’t -”
“Arthur - ah, I d-don’t want to hurt -”
Arthur digs the heel of his other leg into the small of Francis’s back, trapping him there. “It’ll go away,” he grinds out. “Keep…going.”
So Francis does, at Arthur’s coaxing, keeps pressing in until skin meets skin with a small slap and a soft sigh. Francis is still, his cock throbbing inside of Arthur as he crouches over him. It burns. Just a little - but more than he thought.
And Arthur treasures that, too.
His eyes flutter open to see Francis looking down at him with newness and uncertainty in those blue eyes. He sits up and kisses those lips with a small smile of his own. “You can move now,” he whispers. “I’m okay.”
Francis’s first thrust is too shallow, his second too rough. When Arthur opens his mouth to help him out Francis moves just like so and brushes his prostate just hard enough to make them echo with shiver, to make him cry out. “Yes yes yes just like that -”
So Francis does it again.
And again.
And they settle into that rhythm as Arthur feels his body relax, as he helps Francis learn how to pleasure him with small twitches of his hips and cries of yes more please. With both of his hands, he takes one of Francis’s and guides it to his cock as it leaks out onto his own stomach.
He feels a hand on his face, lips on his forehead.
“Arthur.”
Arthur freezes, and he looks into Francis’s face, sees the softness and respect and love so intense that it hurts. And he remembers when he called that smile a leer and claimed those eyes were filled with lust, but it’s the same, oh God, it’s just the same.
Arthur loses control of himself in the moment before he comes undone; he throws his arms around broad shoulders and sobs into the ear next to his mouth, sobs and cries a name as he spills out between their bodies, as Francis stiffens and chokes a broken, ecstatic cry.
Arthur pants and clings and shivers as he comes back to himself, as he realizes that he called out a name - a name that wasn’t Francis.
With wide eyes he looks up into Francis’s face, babbling and tense. “Francis - Francis, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I -”
“Shhh,” Francis soothes, pressing Arthur’s face into his shoulder. “It’s all right, cherí, you’re all right.”
And Arthur lets Francis comfort him, lets him pet him and soothe him with little words and hummed lullabies.
It’s funny, Arthur thinks as he pulls back at last with a watery smile, how that sadness didn’t fade into regret. Just peace, peace and a desire to run his fingers around the jagged rosebud of a hickey as they maneuver and move so that Francis can pull the comforter over their cooling, sweating bodies.
“You had a lover before me, didn’t you?”
Arthur’s body goes stone-still again. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to, as Francis reaches down to take his hand and tilt his chin up so that their eyes meet. “Did you love him as well?” he asks.
Arthur looks into those eyes, into the blue that’s not as deep and dark as before, but still beautiful and velvety.
And in the tangle of his emotions and his despair, he realizes something. But as it is, all he can manage is a small smile and a kiss on the lips. “No,” he says, “I did not have a lover.” Because lovers are people who cherish the physical as well as the spiritual, which I never tried to do. “But long, long ago, I did have somebody I loved. I never told him, and I’m not going to repeat with you the same mistakes I made with him.”
And that’s as close as he can get right now to those three little words he never said all that time ago - time that wasn’t so long ago, really, but feels like a lifetime.
If Francis understands, he doesn’t say a word. He just kisses Arthur again, and that’s everything he needs.
___
Arthur blinks awake on Christmas morning to find snow falling in large, downy flakes. His cheek is pressed to Francis’s chest, and his hand curled up beside his nose; he feels the heartbeat beneath it, the pulse-out-pulse-in.
It’s the sound of something being born, he thinks, and looks up into Francis’s face, jolting when he sees blue eyes and a smile.
“Good morning, Arthur.”
“I - how long have you been awake?”
“Long enough.”
As Francis threads spider-long fingers through his hair, Arthur leans up and presses his nose to the crook of neck and shoulder, taking a deep breath. And he still smells cologne, but it’s different now - it’s mixed with the scent of musk and Francis’s skin. His hands grow playful at the smell, start wandering down and about Francis’s body.
“We should get up soon, exchange presents.”
“Mmm.”
“And then make Christmas breakfast together…”
“Hmm.” Lower, now, dipping below the blankets.
“There are a thousand things we need to do.”
“Mm-hmm.” He finds what he wants and squeezes.
“Ah - Arthur, the p-presents -”
“Will be there all day,” he says, and as he leans in to kiss Francis he just wants this for Christmas - this gift of this time moving in slow, steady drips, melting away like ice cream as they bask in the togetherness and love.
___
Endnotes: I’ve had a bit of a stressful week, so this was a little hard to get out; maybe it’s just that Arthur’s voice comes a bit harder to me than Francis. But I’m glad that I was able to write it before Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas, everyone. <3
Comments/concrit are always welcomed. Thanks for stopping by!
Author/Artist: halflight007 /lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/France
Rating: M
Warnings: Sex, flangst
Summary: For Francis, that Christmas Eve is their first time. For Arthur, it is so much more than that. Set during “What the Heart Forgets”, told from Arthur’s point of view.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back. Cut text and text in the fic itself comes from the movie It’s a Wonderful Life.
Author’s Notes: You’re probably going to be seeing a lot more WtHF-verse stories in the coming days. Hope y’all don’t mind.
What the Heart Forgets (Something Special)| A Room of Their Own | Ours for Real |
This Same Rain That Draws You Near Me | Everything the Same
___
Something will happen tonight.
The thread of a whisper, something like a promise, reaches Arthur through the echo of Christmas carols in the baggage claim area, through people bumping and colliding into one another. Like water molecules, he thinks, and pulls his arm back a bit to keep from bumping into someone, mumbles out a “sorry” as someone brushes his shoulder.
It’s just enough distraction to make him yelp when a hand closes over his eyes. It’s just as well that a hand closes over his mouth as well.
“Guess who?”
Arthur relaxes at the voice, rolling his eyes behind a soft palm. “You’re going to haul me off into some abandoned, seedy bathroom and have your way with me, right?” he mutters into the hand cupping his mouth.
That chuckle sounds rich as ever, like thick, rich cream. “Don’t tempt me.”
“You would be, wouldn’t you. Gerroff,” he grunts, and with a half-hearted jut of his elbow he frees himself, only to turn around and embrace Francis, tucking his face into that long neck and taking a deep breath. God, it’s so bloody good to see you, is what he thinks. “Your perfume stinks,” is what he grumbles.
“It is cologne, my dear, but I’m glad you like it.” Francis’s hands come to rest in the small of Arthur’s back. It’s just for a moment, a second, but Arthur thinks he will melt. “Happy Christmas, Arthur,” Francis whispers, and kisses Arthur’s temple.
“R-right, yes.” Arthur starts back, squeezing his eyes and blinking rapidly. “We need to get your bag before someone else picks it up by accident and gets a whole bunch of worthless garbage.”
“I should hope not, or else you’re not going to get your gift,” Francis says, threading their fingers together as they walk.
“Bah, let them have it. Having you here is enough.”
Arthur walks two more steps before he realizes Francis has stopped walking; he turns to see Francis looking at him with scrutinizing, analytical eyes -
And for just a second, he sees a condescending smirk, eyes gleaming with lust and hands twitching with a desire to strip him down -
“I - I mean,” Arthur grinds out through a throat thickening with needles and pain. “I mean…a-as a host, your presence is the best I can ask for, of course. So if your gift is a little late, or gets lost, or - ah!”
Francis pulls him close and holds him tight, pressing a cheek to Arthur’s tawdry brown hair. “You’re not alone,” Francis murmurs, rubbing Arthur’s back. And if I have anything to say about it, you’ll never spend another Christmas alone again goes unsaid as the radio starts playing the Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s “Wizards in Winter.”
“Hmph,” Arthur sniffles, half-expecting France (is it’s Francis now) to pull out a rose and start misquoting lines from Shakespeare.
But there’s none of that. Just silence and the hands wandering down, down, to rest again in the curve of Arthur’s back. It makes Arthur start a little and pull away, settling his hands on Francis’s forearms and looking him in the eyes. Their breath shudders together a little; they just look, feeling this strange newness sink into them and make them shiver.
Something’s will happen tonight.
“C-c-come on, then, let’s get your bag.”
“O-Oui…right behind you.”
Something very special.
___
Francis waits in the dining room while Arthur pours them some wine. Arthur watches him and wonders why he’s not picking everything up, smirking at it, making comments about how everything is so much nicer and prettier at his place, of course, but since he is English -
Arthur braces himself as Francis picks up a picture frame. “Who are these people?” he asks. “That one with the dark hair…he has the same eyebrows as you.”
Scotland, Arthur realizes as something pricks at his heart.
“That’d probably be Clyde,” Arthur says, pulling a bottle of brandy out from beneath the bar. “He’s the oldest brother - well, next to me.”
“And the two redheads?”
“Molly and Allen. Twins.” Northern Ireland. Her brother.
“And the boy with the gap in his teeth?”
“Davis.” Wales, the dear little one, bless his heart. He finishes filling the glasses, picks them up, and carries them over to Francis. “Here’s your glass…Francis?”
Francis looks up at Arthur with an expression Arthur can almost place, but not quite. It’s a mixture between nostalgia and sadness; it’s as though Francis wants to reach through the glass and pull them all out. “Why aren’t you spending Christmas with them?”
And I used to be England and I knew them all once upon a time. But that time is past and I have two lives now, two sets of memory, but it hurts because they get tangled up in inseparable snarls and it hurts to think -
“…thur - Arthur!”
The sting in Arthur’s head fades until it’s nothing but an echo, and he finds himself in Francis’s arms, his wine a purple splash against the hardwood floor. “I…”
“Arthur, dear, what happened?”
“I….”
“Shh.” Hands half-carry, half-guide him to the couch. “Are you all right?” The back of a hand presses against his forehead. “No fever….”
“F-Francis,” he grinds out, reaching up and taking Francis’s wrist. “I…I’m all right, I just get bad headaches from time to time.”
When I think of the earthquakes and riots and plague. When I think of how I watched my siblings die - how I never found Northern Ireland’s brother, never got to resolve things with him.
When I imagine finding America, dead, his body broken and bleeding from when he fell.
When I can’t remember Canada’s face - dear Canada, who disappeared that very same day we found his brother.
When I think of your body covered in sores and recall how you couldn’t even recognize my face -
“Arthur, here.” A glass gets pressed to his lips, and Arthur takes a sip of some nice, cool water. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I… I’ll be all right.” But the words drop from his mouth like dead weight; his body drags and sloughs itself as he tries to push Francis’s arm away and sit up. “Francis, I - l-let me up, I need to make dinner -”
“Hush.” Hands push him back into the sofa, stroke his hair. “Don’t worry about dinner - I’m going to be here for a week, remember? We’ll have plenty of time to eat it later. But for now, let’s just rest - rest, Arthur, don’t get up - and enjoy one another’s presence. I’ll go clean the mess and get us some more wine.”
“Francis….”
But it’s too late; in that moment, Francis is gone, moving to the next room to dispose of the leftover water and tidy up. Arthur stares after him for a moment, and then he flops his head back onto the throw pillow and laughs, a little broken, a little frazzled at the edges.
I don’t have to be surrounded by people at Christmas, he thinks, carding through his foreign mortal memories - the lifetime he knows he didn’t live, but that are there anyway. Sometimes, it feels like all alone, anyway.
___
One and a half glasses of wine later, Arthur feels much better. He enjoys the glow of Francis’s warmth on his back, the arms around his waist, the quiet sounds of Yuletide and warmth coming from the television. It loosens his tongue, makes him want to talk more.
“I had a falling-out with my family,” he says. He’s not slurring, but his words feel looser, warm as they spill from his lips.
“You did?”
“That’s….” Arthur frowns, considers. “Well. That’s a mild way of putting it, I guess.”
Francis presses his mouth to Arthur’s shoulder, to the stockinet stitches Arthur wove himself. “What happened?”
“What version do you want?”
Arthur’s eyes widen the second the last word escapes his lips, when he realizes what he’s said. The small silence hangs in his gut as a lead weight.
“Arthur, are you sure -”
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, a bit too quick, a bit too scared. “I - I didn’t mean for it to sound like -” But of course you wouldn’t understand, because you don’t remember. But still. But still.
Francis silences him with those wine-rich chuckles, pulls Arthur’s head back onto his shoulder as a palm cups his forehead. “I was just going to ask if you were sure you’re all right,” he murmurs into Arthur’s ear. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”
Arthur wants to bluster something back, opens his mouth so he can.
But Francis’s breath is on his ear, his body close and even warmer. That warmth makes Arthur’s bluster stumble and trip; it comes out as a soft choking sound and color on his cheekbones.
And before he can say anything else, Francis lifts the remote and changes the channel to-
“ - and then I’m gonna build things. I’m gonna build airfields, I’m gonna build skyscrapers….”
“Ah!” Francis says, and if Arthur closes his eyes he thinks he can see the way Francis’s face lights up behind his eyelids, just from hearing his voice. “I love this film!”
Arthur cracks open one eye and watches Mary throw a rock. “What, this?”
“We used to watch it all the time when I was younger. It is American, but I still like it.”
Arthur feels his gut twist and his heart flare up at the mere mention. His bones ache at the memory of blue eyes and a sunny smile and little arms holding a rabbit, once upon a time.
“What’d you wish, Mary?”
Francis hums into Arthur’s his shoulder, his arms tightening around Arthur’s waist as he murmurs along to the song.
“You - you sound ridiculous, you know,” Arthur says, and feels the lameness of his words catch up to his heart.
“And you…well, you remind me a bit of George, I think.” Francis nods after a moment. “Yes. I think you are like George.”
“I - hawhat?” Arthur snorts and turns around to face Francis’s smirk with a snide comment. A comment that dies when he sees the look on Francis’s face, somber and serious as blue eyes stare into Arthur’s.
“You give, Arthur,” Francis says, his thumb coming up to brush along Arthur’s cheek. “When we met in March, you offered to help me find my way around the city - do you know how many people ignored me when I asked for the time of day?”
“That was -”
“You gave me your phone number and e-mail address and talked to me everyday, and you’ve never once judged or disparaged what I’ve said. Not once. Even if I do deserve it sometimes.”
“Whatdidyouwishwhenyouthrewthatrock?” the television interjects behind them.
“Francis, I -”
“And now this,” Francis says, motioning around the room with his hand. “You’ve invited me up to spend the holiday in your home - and all you’ve ever asked for is a little bit of my time, my companionship.”
“Please, stop,” Arthur says, his voice tight and tattered.
Stop. Stop acting like I’m some sort of saint. Like I’m doing you a favor. Like I haven’t owed you this since we were children, not human children, but - but -
Francis’s facial expression changes as he looks at Arthur - as though he’s trying to read Arthur’s thoughts in some garbled foreign language that he can’t understand. “What is it that you want, Arthur? What do you want?”
Arthur’s mouth goes dry; his eyelashes flutter, and when he looks away from that darkening blue, it’s discover that his telly is on mute and that Francis must be speaking these lines from memory. God. Oh, God.
“You want the moon? Just say the word, and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.” Fingers on his temple. Down his jaw. Resting on his throat. “Hey. That's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon.”
Oh God oh God I don’t know the words - “D-don’t be daft, what’d I do with a thing like that?” asks Arthur, his eyes held to the TV screen as though they were magnets.
That’s probably why he doesn’t realize what Francis was planning until he feels soft, rubbery warmth nip at his neck.
“Well, then you could swallow it,” Francis says. Kisses up his neck. A voice as dark as the night outside.
“And it'd all dissolve.” Teeth on the juncture of neck and shoulder. Tongue tracing the heartbeat in his neck. “And the moonbeams'd shoot out of your fingers and your toes…” Nip, lick, and suck, “...and the ends of your hair.”
Arthur trembles and watches the silent TV. So slow and sure, he peels his eyes away from there to stare into Francis’s eyes.
Francis looks at him with tenderness in those blue eyes and an even gentler smile. And those cobalt irises soak in the light from the room and shine it back out - like so many stars, the alcohol in him thinks, and it makes him tremble even harder.
“N-now see here,” Arthur says, and his voice shakes as Francis moves closer. “Now - now wait just a minute, Francis Bonnefoy -”
Their lips touch, even gentler and sweeter than that moment months ago, when they stood watching Paris from the Eiffel Tower.
But the whisper in him shocks his entire body and makes it stiffen as Francis wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, makes it pitch forward as Francis pulls them both down and submerges them deeper into the kiss. And Arthur follows him down and down, and he feels like he’s dunking himself in a warm bubble bath, only better, only closer.
Arthur’s body moves on its own; it wraps around Francis, deepens their kisses as they pant, nip, and lick at one another’s slippery mouths. And Arthur’s becoming a sap, because he thinks he can feel Francis’s light from deep within himself - that soft and silver light, bleeding through his fingertips, his hair, and every pore on his body.
The something in him surges and writhes, and Arthur breaks their kiss with a gasp, stares down at Francis, panting and open and just as raw as Francis looks. Raw and a little bit...nervous? Scared?
“Francis….”
“I want you,” Francis says, and the flicker of doubt in those eyes is gone, replaced by something stronger and sweeter.
“Now?”
“Oui.”
“But….”
“Arthur, please.”
Arthur’s going to say no. He’s going to push himself off and away, insist that they wait until tomorrow to have a proper talk about this, and finish watching movies that night on opposite sides of the sofa.
He looks into those eyes again - those blue eyes, drunk on more than just wine - and Arthur wonders who he’s fooling.
“Bedroom,” Arthur insists, and Francis nods, slow and dazed, taking Arthur’s hand.
And Arthur wonders how they somehow stretch a twenty-second journey into two minutes. It must have something to do with the way they keep getting sidetracked - how Francis presses him against the wall, all wine-warm weight and sensual tongue, lacing their fingers together.
“F-Francis, we - ohgod - Francis, the bedroom, we - ah!” he yelps, as Francis bites the sensitive skin beneath his earlobe, traces a path with his tongue down to a pulse point. “Francis -”
“Fuck the bedroom,” Francis snarls, but it’s a soft snarl, a gentle sound, one that lacks bite and anger. “What’s wrong with here?”
Arthur pauses, remembers bathrooms and seedy motels, clichés where they left their hatred and sniping and something deeper than that - places that could be used for fucking, but not necessarily love or intimacy.
“Please,” Arthur says, his hands curling into the silk of Francis’s shirt. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”
And Francis leans back to look at him for a moment before he sighs, shakes his head, and smiles, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. “To the bedroom it is, then,” Francis murmurs, and makes Arthur shudder by nuzzling his neck.
And that’s all they do until they open the door to Arthur’s room and step inside, shutting the door behind them. The light from outside streams in and makes everything softer and more mysterious, makes them pause as they stand front-to-front, not quite touching.
Looking into Francis’s eyes - into the darkness that shifts to blue and back - the thought to turn on the light does not even cross his mind as his hands move to cup Francis’s cheek, as he leans in to kiss Francis on the mouth once again, firm, soft. “You’re…mmm…sure?” he asks, murmuring against that soft mouth. Francis’s only response is to deepen their kiss, and that is enough.
They part, and for a moment they just watch one another, touching and feeling. Arthur’s hands move first, feeling one mother-of-pearl button beneath his fingers. Feeling, and then slipping them through eyeholes as he undoes Francis’s shirt, button by button. He tries not to tremble at the feeling of fingertips on his belly.
“Arthur?” Francis asks when Arthur’s three buttons away from the bottom of his shirt, when Arthur’s knees start to buckle and give, when Francis himself sounds close to unraveling. “Arthur, I think it’s time to….”
“Y-yes. Bed.” Arthur takes Francis’s wrist and makes it a point not to look down at that hand as they make their way to the bed.
His own quilted comforter feels soft against his back, and he takes the time to stretch out against it as Francis straddles his hips and drags his fingertips up Arthur’s belly and pushes the sweater vest and shirt off of Arthur’s torso. Arthur shuts his eyes as the collar moves up and over his head, restraining his wrists.
And when his eyes flutter open again, it’s to the feel of knuckles caressing the side of his face, to blue eyes staring at him with a familiar, raw look.
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut against the intensity of the moment; it’s much, almost too much, and it’s everything I tried to deny when I was more than mortal but now I see it and I see how stupid I was, how stupid I -
“Arthur?” Lips on his eyelids. Fingers feeling his eyelashes. “Arthur, you’re crying.”
“I’m…I’m happy.” I’m more than that, he thinks. So much more.
A pause, and then Francis kisses his lower lip, tongues it in a way that makes Arthur shiver and arch. “All right, Arthur,” he whispers, and his fingers move down to caress the column of Arthur’s neck. “All right.”
Arthur doesn’t immediately throw his shirt and sweater vest to the floor. He keeps them where they are, around his wrists and above his head, watching as Francis shucks off his own shirt (and folds it, the git, he always folds it before setting it aside) and draws elegant hands and long fingers down his body, taking his time to explore and feel and learn Arthur’s body and what makes him feel the best.
And Arthur just shuts his eyes and feels the newness of it all; the newness of Francis’s fingers exploring his skin, every inch, seeking out and searching for places where Arthur reacts.
Because he knew all those places long ago, knew how to play them and that’s what he always went for when we fucked, when we stared at one another, fierce eyes and fiercer mouths, one sneering, one snarling, intense and hating the something more they’d never admit to one another -
Because it’s a new feeling, a good feeling; it’s a rarity, something to treasure.
Fingertips curl into his pants; uncurl, and then curl again into his boxers. “Arthur…may I…?” he whispers into Arthur’s ear, nuzzling his hairline.
“Y-yes. Please. I….”
And whatever he wants to say gets lost as Francis’s gentle teeth nip the skin behind his ear, making his hips arch as Francis pulls down his pants and takes his cock in hand with a gentle, exploring squeeze.
Arthur moans, breathless, and starts struggling out of the shirt around his wrists; Francis reaches up and helps him a bit. When they come free, when the shirt gets tossed to the floor, Arthur feels the stillness in him surge and swell, the passion inside of him bubbling up and breaking the surface tension -
His arms move up and around Francis’s shoulders, and Arthur clings as if he will never let go. Francis will have to take off his own pants, and that will be hard when Arthur’s kissing him silly.
But Francis does not comment as his hands move down to the zipper and button of his own slacks, and Arthur thinks he’s being forgiven for his selfishness.
And that’s good, because he’s not about to let go.
“Ar - ah - Aaaaarthur,” Francis slurs out between their kisses and pants, between long, slow strokes to his cock and fingers feeling his nipples. “Arthur…you have….”
Arthur breaks the way their lips join by turning his head and panting. “God, oh God, Francis.
“Tell…tell me….” Francis pleads, pressing kisses over Arthur’s cheek, as though lips will sprout with each kiss he plants there.
“You - you’re going to go get iiitaaaah.” Arthur blanks out and wriggles into the miniscule touch beneath his bellybutton. “Um. Now.”
“So impatient,” Francis chuckles against the corner of Arthur’s eye. But he kisses it anyway and presses his cheek to Arthur’s temple; Arthur shudders at the scrabble of stubble on his own cheek. “But I’ll indulge you, if you tell me where it is.”
“It’s innnnngh th-the bathroom,” Arthur manages to get out, and gets his revenge for Francis’s tongue with a sharp squeeze to the cock in his hand. “Medicine c-cabinet. Third shelf.”
“All right.” One, two, three more kisses. Francis slides off from atop Arthur, fingers lingering on skin. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
And then Arthur is alone, save for the light coming from the bathroom, a deep, melodic humming, and the sound of plastics and pills bumping into each other.
And that’s when it hits Arthur that it’s happening, and it’s shocking and a little bit sorrowful because it’s not the thought that this is really happening; it’s the thought that this is happening again. With an entirely different mood and attitude.
And it’s beautiful. It’s loving.
It’s what he never had in his former life, in little wayside clichés and petty arguments. And the thought that this is what he could have had, if he’d just looked deep enough, makes his heart ache and his bones flare up and -
And there are footsteps on the floor, and Arthur opens his eyes to see blue eyes looking at his body - at everything Arthur’s about to give him. And Arthur looks at Francis in turn, at the eyes so dark and wide and gentle, at the way the muscles bulge and relax beneath skin, at how hungry and needing Francis seems, red and dripping between his thighs.
“You’re all right?” Francis asks, handing Arthur the lotion when he holds a hand out for it and sliding between Arthur’s thighs. Arthur takes one of Francis’s hands and coats it with lotion.
“I - I’m fine.”
“You didn’t have any…well, I didn’t see anything to use for protection beyond the lotion,” Francis says. “And I didn’t bring my own, um....”
Arthur frowns as Francis talks. What in the bloody hell is he getting on - oh.
And Arthur feels something a bit like tenderness well up at the thought of Francis being cautious and caring with something even so small as that. He smiles and laughs a little, leaning up to kiss Francis’s blushing cheek while he puts long, slick fingers into “It’s okay,” he whispers. It’s so much more than that.
Francis hesitates a moment; and there it is, Arthur feels it, the tremble. “Francis?”
“A-ah. Oh. I’m sorry.”
Arthur just nods and holds his shoulders as Francis presses fingers into his body; he grimaces, but manages to his hiss at the chill of it. His hands go to squeeze a dollop of lotion into his own hand, and then he’s soothing one set of fingertips down a taut, nervous back even as the other goes to slick Francis up.
He hears Francis make a sound a bit like a sob and soothes his lover with quick little collarbone kisses as he’s filled with fingers, and as he pulls them both back to lie on the bed. “It’s all right,” he whispers with a quick peck of their lips as he lets Francis go and hooks one leg over Francis’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I - I’m ready.”
“Arthur…Arthur, are you -”
“Francis, please.”
Francis nods, and Arthur takes a breath when he feels Francis’s cock rub against him, feels his own body giving, relaxing. He feels a hand curl over the curve of his bent knee; through shut eyes, he senses Francis bend down to kiss his right eye. “Arthur,” Francis whispers, and presses in.
And it hasn’t been so long, really, not for his mind and heart. But his body lurches and reacts; he twists and hisses at the unexpected burn, and he feels Francis panic and try to pull out. “N-no, don’t -”
“Arthur - ah, I d-don’t want to hurt -”
Arthur digs the heel of his other leg into the small of Francis’s back, trapping him there. “It’ll go away,” he grinds out. “Keep…going.”
So Francis does, at Arthur’s coaxing, keeps pressing in until skin meets skin with a small slap and a soft sigh. Francis is still, his cock throbbing inside of Arthur as he crouches over him. It burns. Just a little - but more than he thought.
And Arthur treasures that, too.
His eyes flutter open to see Francis looking down at him with newness and uncertainty in those blue eyes. He sits up and kisses those lips with a small smile of his own. “You can move now,” he whispers. “I’m okay.”
Francis’s first thrust is too shallow, his second too rough. When Arthur opens his mouth to help him out Francis moves just like so and brushes his prostate just hard enough to make them echo with shiver, to make him cry out. “Yes yes yes just like that -”
So Francis does it again.
And again.
And they settle into that rhythm as Arthur feels his body relax, as he helps Francis learn how to pleasure him with small twitches of his hips and cries of yes more please. With both of his hands, he takes one of Francis’s and guides it to his cock as it leaks out onto his own stomach.
He feels a hand on his face, lips on his forehead.
“Arthur.”
Arthur freezes, and he looks into Francis’s face, sees the softness and respect and love so intense that it hurts. And he remembers when he called that smile a leer and claimed those eyes were filled with lust, but it’s the same, oh God, it’s just the same.
Arthur loses control of himself in the moment before he comes undone; he throws his arms around broad shoulders and sobs into the ear next to his mouth, sobs and cries a name as he spills out between their bodies, as Francis stiffens and chokes a broken, ecstatic cry.
Arthur pants and clings and shivers as he comes back to himself, as he realizes that he called out a name - a name that wasn’t Francis.
With wide eyes he looks up into Francis’s face, babbling and tense. “Francis - Francis, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I -”
“Shhh,” Francis soothes, pressing Arthur’s face into his shoulder. “It’s all right, cherí, you’re all right.”
And Arthur lets Francis comfort him, lets him pet him and soothe him with little words and hummed lullabies.
It’s funny, Arthur thinks as he pulls back at last with a watery smile, how that sadness didn’t fade into regret. Just peace, peace and a desire to run his fingers around the jagged rosebud of a hickey as they maneuver and move so that Francis can pull the comforter over their cooling, sweating bodies.
“You had a lover before me, didn’t you?”
Arthur’s body goes stone-still again. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to, as Francis reaches down to take his hand and tilt his chin up so that their eyes meet. “Did you love him as well?” he asks.
Arthur looks into those eyes, into the blue that’s not as deep and dark as before, but still beautiful and velvety.
And in the tangle of his emotions and his despair, he realizes something. But as it is, all he can manage is a small smile and a kiss on the lips. “No,” he says, “I did not have a lover.” Because lovers are people who cherish the physical as well as the spiritual, which I never tried to do. “But long, long ago, I did have somebody I loved. I never told him, and I’m not going to repeat with you the same mistakes I made with him.”
And that’s as close as he can get right now to those three little words he never said all that time ago - time that wasn’t so long ago, really, but feels like a lifetime.
If Francis understands, he doesn’t say a word. He just kisses Arthur again, and that’s everything he needs.
___
Arthur blinks awake on Christmas morning to find snow falling in large, downy flakes. His cheek is pressed to Francis’s chest, and his hand curled up beside his nose; he feels the heartbeat beneath it, the pulse-out-pulse-in.
It’s the sound of something being born, he thinks, and looks up into Francis’s face, jolting when he sees blue eyes and a smile.
“Good morning, Arthur.”
“I - how long have you been awake?”
“Long enough.”
As Francis threads spider-long fingers through his hair, Arthur leans up and presses his nose to the crook of neck and shoulder, taking a deep breath. And he still smells cologne, but it’s different now - it’s mixed with the scent of musk and Francis’s skin. His hands grow playful at the smell, start wandering down and about Francis’s body.
“We should get up soon, exchange presents.”
“Mmm.”
“And then make Christmas breakfast together…”
“Hmm.” Lower, now, dipping below the blankets.
“There are a thousand things we need to do.”
“Mm-hmm.” He finds what he wants and squeezes.
“Ah - Arthur, the p-presents -”
“Will be there all day,” he says, and as he leans in to kiss Francis he just wants this for Christmas - this gift of this time moving in slow, steady drips, melting away like ice cream as they bask in the togetherness and love.
___
Endnotes: I’ve had a bit of a stressful week, so this was a little hard to get out; maybe it’s just that Arthur’s voice comes a bit harder to me than Francis. But I’m glad that I was able to write it before Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas, everyone. <3
Comments/concrit are always welcomed. Thanks for stopping by!