Prince's Hand and Half of the Kingdom (10/12) [fanfiction]
Title: Prince's Hand And Half of the Kingdom
Author: marinoa
Characters/Pairings: England, France, Spain, Prussia, Romano. FrUK, some Prumano.
Rating: T
Summary: Having once refused to obey a frog, Prince Arthur is now forced to marry one. Both parties are unwilling, but even with the help of their friends, can they win against spells... and time? FrUK AU.
Author's note: Ahem. Now, after several obstacles, I'm finally back here with a new chapter. I'm sorry it took this long. And before you move on to the story, be warned that after this there will be two chapters more; we are nearing the end.
Prince's Hand And Half of the Kingdom
Chapter Ten:
The Cursed Truth
The sun had barely risen over horizon, only beginning to share its warmth, but the barn-yard was already filled with bustle. Neighing of horses, shouted commands of supervisory servants, scampering of sidekicks - the whole scene was sort of a chaos under control.
Arthur kept himself away from the centre of it. He stood in the shadows of an archway and leant his back against the stone wall, not registering the coldness of it as he watched the whole hassle on the yard with unseeing eyes. It was The Morning, it was almost time of Francis' departure, and yet he felt no sadness. He felt no anxiety. He felt nothing.
Romano and Gilbert were saddling horses - one for each of the three men - and fastening saddlebags and making sure that horseshoes were all properly fixed on the hooves. Antonio was talking with some supervisory servants, making sure that everything needed - provisions, tent, items for the hunt - was packed. Francis was the only one of the leaving trio who was nowhere to be seen.
Arthur didn't even note his absence. Not until someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to see the Frenchman himself behind him.
Francis looked splendid as always, even though he was wearing a simple tunic instead of his usual flamboyant silks. In fact, in his hunting attire - leather vest on the tunic, boots reaching his knee, sword on his hip - the Frenchman was more handsome than ever; he looked strong, reliable, royal. He looked glorious, but when Arthur turned and saw him, his heart didn't react in any way. His breath didn't hitch in his throat. He was numb inside out.
“Francis,” he greeted the Frenchman monotonously, giving a curt nod. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
“You are all ready, I see.”
The sky-blue eyes bored into his, but Arthur barely noticed them. He saw Francis' lips moving, but registered no sounds. Funny, he thought, it's like I were wrapped all over in finest veil brought from the edge of the world. He could see, but his vision was vague, and the sounds around him seemed mostly muted, coming from somewhere far. It was an interesting feeling, seeing someone talking to him but not hearing the voice...except Francis was no longer talking; his lips were still as he watched Arthur with a questioning expression. Whoops, maybe Arthur should crack his veil of that peculiarly funny isolation, otherwise he would look like a retard and that would not do for a prince!
“Sorry, did you just say something?” he asked the Frenchman, trying to suppress his sudden urge to laugh at the hilarity of the situation. “I didn't quite catch it, you see.”
“Arthur, are you quite alright?” Oh dear, perhaps it was too late to pretend being attentive, because Francis was already giving him the sort of look that one gave when questioning someone's sanity. Arthur burst into laughter.
“Arthur?”
Why did Francis sound so crept out? Didn't he see the how funny it all was? Didn't he realise that he was a victim of situational irony, that they all were just game pieces in the hands of fate or faeries or some mad author, created for pure entertainment of others, dancing like puppets in master's strings to the music of a piper? It was hilarious, it truly was, why didn't Francis just see? Then Arthur realised that he had said those questions only in his own mind instead of voicing them for the Frenchman to hear, and doubled over with uncontrollable laughter. Dear God, he was going insane, now wasn't he?
And then suddenly his vision went all white with stars and he realised he was facing dirt instead of Francis. His left ear was ringing and for a moment he heard nothing beside that. His laughter had stopped as abruptly as it had began and he blinked once, twice. Only then did he register the burning pain on the left side of his head where the blow had got him.
“Oh Lord,” he muttered, staring at the ground where he lay sprawled, horrified at himself.
A strong pair of arms grabbed him in the armpits and yanked him up on his own two feet, and Arthur found himself staring at the stern face of his father. “Son,” the King said, quietly but firmly, locking Arthur's eyes with his own grey ones, and no other words were needed. King Lionheart held his son's shoulders, his grip sure and reassuring, and Arthur found himself calming down. He uttered not a word, but as his breathing became more even, he dared a quick glance at Francis. The Frenchman stood behind his father, eyebrows furrowed, and Arthur moved his eyes on the ground. What the hell had got into him?
Seeing that his son had regained his composure, the King let go of his shoulders and stepped back. Arthur dusted himself off, took a breath and looked at Francis, this time with enough courage to maintain the eye contact. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I... I don't know what got into me.”
“Well,” Lionheart uttered loudly, cutting of any chances Francis could have had for responding, “now that my son seems to have quitted shaming himself in front of the whole bloody castle and regained all the little sense he has, I believe it safe for me to go and see the stables.” The King took a few steps and stopped beside Arthur to tap him on the shoulder. “It's hard to sink to the level of a Frenchman, boy, but you were almost there.” The the old King looked over his shoulder to frown at Francis. “Almost,” he emphasised to make sure the Frenchman wouldn't commit the crime of thinking too highly of himself.
Arthur crooked a smile, knowing his father well enough not to dwell on his words. In spite of his dubious words, the old King meant well... mostly. “Glad to know there's always someone lower than I,” he said as his father left for the stables. Arthur offered Francis a hesitant, slightly apologetic smile (whether for his or his father's behaviour, he wasn't quite sure), waiting for the Frenchman to react in some way.
Francis gave him an odd smile. “Well, soon enough you won't have even that.”
“False. You'll remain lower than I, regardless of your whereabouts, idiot.”
“Fine,” Francis said, and this time his smile was a friendly one. “I'll give you that.”
Arthur got no pleasure of his victory.
“Well.” Francis scratched his head. “I should go check my horse at the stables.”
Arthur could have told him that his horse was not at the stables but closer to the gate already, yet he didn't. If Francis had taken so much time to look so bloody stunning, he could blame only himself for not knowing what had been happening at the barn-yard while he was dressing. Stupid frog. Then he remembered that his father was at the stables too, and smiled with dark mischief; King Lionheart would always find an excuse to tell off Francis. Served him right.
Now that he was alone again, Arthur resumed his previous post at the wall; it was better to watch the bustle on the yard than let himself a chance to think. Thinking was overestimated in any case - ignorance was way easier.
Neither Gilbert nor Antonio were anywhere in sight, and Arthur vaguely remembered that he hadn't had a chance to bid them farewell, and now it was too late... unless he got a moment with them hidden from other people's gazes. On the other hand, maybe it was for the best - what would Arthur say, anyway? Hi, it was fun as long as it lasted, it was nice to know you, now would you be so kind and fuck off already to get it over and done with. And by the way, did I mention that you are probably the only real friends I've ever had? Pathetic. Even more so, because the instant the “Bad Touch Trio” left the gates of London behind their backs, they would find new people to befriend and fall in love with. Unlike Arthur, who would continue playing a prince, unable to leave anything behind.
Then Arthur thought of Romano. If Francis was to be trusted, his stableman had formed a special bond with Gilbert. Now it would be broken, too. But then again, if Gilbert had no problems with leaving Romano behind, could it have been anything so special? Just as since Francis was leaving Arthur behind, he couldn't have been anything special to the Frenchman.
So much for his resolution not to think.
“Hello? Are you daydreaming or what?”
Arthur blinked as the voice cut through his dark musings. Gilbert and Antonio stood before him, in the shadow of the archway. Speak of the devil... “Huh?” was the Englishman's response to whatever they had said.
Gilbert pushed him further into the shadows, to hide them from any curious eyes. Antonio followed him, and Arthur noted that he wore a solemn expression for once.
“So,” Gilbert said, giving a lopsided, somehow helpless smile. “What now?”
Arthur knew perfectly well what he was taking about. “What do you mean?”
The Prussian's funny smile faded away in a second. “Quit that shit, you know perfectly well what I mean.”
“Francis hasn't kissed you yet,” Antonio clarified helpfully, as if that particular piece of information was a surprise to Arthur. “What will happen when we leave?”
“How should I know?” Arthur snapped sullenly. “Maybe the curse will find a new frog for me to marry, or maybe some queer chance will bring you back. I personally believe it's the former one, but don't worry - even if you were forced to return, you can always go and die again after the bloody wedding.” Is this how you want to bid farewell to your friends, Arthur?
“Whoa, hold your horses!” Gilbert retorted, raising his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “No need to freak out.”
“Nice to hear you say that, after this morning's fit you threw,” Antonio said calmly yet the tiniest bit sarcastically. Arthur hadn't even imagined Antonio being capable of any sort of sarcasm.
“Okay, well, we'll see how it goes,” Gilbert muttered awkwardly. “Anyhow,” he spoke to Arthur, “we'll send back one of the horses, or maybe two. We might have to, well, uh, make them look like there had been a fight or something, so... you know.”
“As long as you don't truly harm them,” Arthur said flatly. It looked like Gilbert was going to continue, but a servant interrupted them then to tell that everything was ready. So, Arthur thought as they walked to the gate where the horses were waiting, nice way of ruining the very last chance for final goodbyes.
Francis was already there, thoughtfully patting his white mare named Desdemona. Arthur wanted to turn around and run away and end the whole damn farce, but he forced himself to stay and act out the last few moments of the play. He halted a few feet from Francis and gave him a small smile. “Well,” he said, “I suppose this is it.”
“I suppose it is,” Francis agreed, looking at Arthur with an unreadable expression.
No, this can't be it, not yet, not like this. Gilbert and Antonio both mounted their horses, and everybody was now waiting for Francis to follow their example and go. Arthur felt his palms sweating. He had to do something, say something, he had to, had to... it couldn't be the end! Shuddering, Arthur was starting to feel like he had earlier in the morning before his moment of madness, and tried to take a hold of himself. Easy now, remember what Gilbert said, don't freak out, just don't freak out now, say something, do something... But what? He couldn't stop Francis from leaving. He couldn't ask him to stay...
“I,” Arthur started, managing to close his inner storm out of his voice and act almost normal, “I think I might miss you.” He grinned the best he could. “A bit. If you are lucky.”
“I'm always lucky, I'm Lady Fortune's favourite, remember?” Francis said with a wink, and that seemed to scatter Arthur's sanity, because the Prince found himself stepping forward almost unconsciously. If Francis will never do it, I might as well. He's leaving for ever, after all, so I can as well...
But Arthur never got the chance to finish even his train of thought, because right then Francis went and pulled himself on his horse, leaving Arthur standing small below him, small and cold and alone, unable to reach up to him.
“Francis,” Antonio said quietly, and Arthur realised the guards at the gate were giving them odd glances. Not that he cared. The failure of this one last chance he might have had to achieve something, to leave Francis a memory of himself, made him drop all his masks, leaving only a blank face to blink up at the Frenchman sitting high in his saddle. He was like a knight on his white horse, gorgeous, sunlight dancing in his golden hair, straight out of any faery tale. Any other but Arthur's.
Francis looked down at him with a sad smile. “I guess it's time for goodbye, then,” he said.
“Goodbye.” The word came out as a mere whisper, but it was all Arthur could muster.
And then, graciously as ever, Francis leant down in his saddle, touched Arthur's cheek with his fingers and planted a small, gentle kiss on his lips. It was chaste, light, and brief as wing beat of butterfly, but undeniably a kiss of Francis' own free will, without any knowledge of the curse upon Arthur or pressure from others. “Au revoir, Arthur.” With that, before Arthur could even start to comprehend what had just happened, Francis straightened again and without sparing Arthur so much as a single glance, pressed his heels in his mare's sides and galloped out of the gates, leaving it upon his friends to follow.
Gilbert and Antonio exchanged a shocked look, mouths hanging open and disbelief evident in their eyes. Then they turned to Arthur in union, but the Englishman didn't meet their gazes. He was busy staring at Francis' retreating back, with a memory of warm lips on his own and nothing else. Soon two other retreating backs joined to Francis', and the Bad Touch Trio rode together away from him and into the freedom.
“There they go,” Arthur heard his father's voice behind him. “Too bad it's only for a couple of days.”
Arthur didn't say anything. The old King turned to look at him.
“It's only for a couple of days, Arthur,” he repeated. “No need to sulk like that.”
You are wrong, Arthur thought.
“What's with that face, I told you to stop sulking! If you're afraid he'll just leave, don't worry; I had a talk with him at the stables.”
It was somehow so ironical, so deliciously ironical that Arthur felt he held a thunderstorm within himself. His father was wrong, regardless of how Francis had managed to convince him otherwise. Francis was leaving, for ever, and worst of all, he was doing so with Arthur's own assistance. But that wasn't something he could tell his father, so he settled for the second best option.
“Would you just shut up now?” he snapped. “All this talk of Francis annoys the hell out of me!”
The King smacked the back of Arthur's head. “How many times do I have to repeat that that's not a way to talk to others! Clean your shitty mouth and try again!”
Arthur couldn't find it in himself to continue the argument - he felt far too weary for quarrelling with his father. “Whatever,” he muttered, watching how the guards were closing the gate. His effortlessness, however, seemed to startle the old King.
“Arthur, son. What the hell is your problem?”
“The problem is you! If you hadn't decided to amuse yourself by playing with my life, this whole marriage issue with Francis would never have happened!”
“If you had shown courtesy to that frog all those years ago, it wouldn't be a Frenchman you are to marry, so blame yourself.”
Arthur groaned. “Father, the problem is not his freaking nationality!”
“Then what is?” the King demanded. “Are you so fucking ratty because he left or because you love him?”
“Both, but more because he-” Arthur caught himself in time to prevent telling his father that Francis truly wouldn't return, and then he realised what he had just confessed. “I'm not in love with him, how many times do I have to repeat that? It was just... just...” It was just the curse that had made him feel like that. But now the curse was gone, Francis had kissed him, so why on earth was the ache inside him even greater than before?
Finding himself tangled in his own words, Arthur shut his mouth firmly, this time determined to maintain his sulking silence. The King sighed. “Stop acting like a spoiled child, Arthur. Be a man and get over it.”
God knew that spoiling a child with King Lionheart's raising methods was just as possible as pleasing peasants by raising taxes, so Arthur, being very mature, ignored his father's undignified comment.
“He's a swineherd,” he blurted out instead, out of sheer spite. Let his father burn in agony a bit before he realises Francis won't return. But alas, King Lionheart left him without even that small satisfaction. “A French swineherd, unfortunately. I had hoped you would have been found by a proper poor English peasant. But that's only wistful thinking at this point and better be forgotten.”
Arthur, finally completely muted, turned his back to his father, to Francis and to the gates that would close the Frenchman out of his life for ever, and left for the safety of his chamber.
xXx
Arthur was known for his incredible ability to hide his true feelings and thoughts when he set his mind to it, but now every step the Englishman took toward his room added a new crack to his crumbling composure. He feared he would explode at any moment, and that would be no good in sight of the servants, so he'd better reach his chambers soon; this time he couldn't keep it all inside himself.
As soon as he was safely within his walls, Arthur slammed his door shut so hard the stone seemed to shake, and kicked it once for a good measure. That, however, didn't make him feel any better, so he kicked it again, but the action still stubbornly lacked the desired effect. Arthur whirled around and marched to the object nearest to him, which happened to be a shelf with wooden figures, candlesticks and ornamental boxes.
The first thing to break was a small, wooden box with beautiful carvings. Arthur had hurled it down on the floor in desperate, blind wave of something he couldn't, nor cared to name. All he knew was that the sound of wood splintering against stone was relieving, and it was satisfactory to feel the power of breaking in his muscles. Blindly he reached for the next item.
He kissed me!
Break!
He kissed me, so why isn't it gone?
Break!
Why do I still..?
BREAK!
“Whoops, there went the mirror. Sadly; I've always rather liked it.”
Arthur froze, vaguely familiar voice breaking through his foggy mind. Wildly he whirled around, but saw no one in his room but himself. Great. Now he was imagining things.
Something small and rather green shifted in the corner of his eye, and he looked to his bed - to see an all too familiar, cursed frog on it.
“Croak!” it greeted him smugly.
“You,” Arthur whispered, shocked, but then found himself again. “You!” he yelled. “You! You fucking treacherous, wicked thing! What have you done?”
The frog looked at him innocently, tilting its head to one side. “What might you mean, Arthur?”
“He kissed me!” Arthur cried out, pleadingly and angrily at the same time. “He fucking kissed me of his own bloody will so why the hell isn't this curse gone? Why isn't it?”
The frog shook its head pityingly. “It is gone,” it answered. “It's not my fault you are too much of a coward to admit the truth to yourself.”
Its words didn't reach Arthur, not truly. “Take it away,” he pleaded hoarsely. “Take the curse fully away, with all its side effects... please!”
“You really are as stubborn as your father so often says,” the frog muttered grimly. “Listen, Arthur. Falling in love was never part of the curse... you managed it all by yourself!”
Arthur didn't reply, only stared numbly, so the frog continued. “Let me congratulate you,” it said, grinning. “The curse is gone... Too bad that he is gone too!” And then it burst into croaking, cruel froggy laughter. “Now I believe that you have learnt your lesson, Arthur. Don't forget it.”
With those final words, the frog, as was its habit, disappeared - and this time most likely for good. Arthur was left alone in his chambers among the things he had broken.
The things he had broken.
xXx
That evening King Lionheart found his son curled up in a ball, clutching his own face and shaking all over, surrounded with broken glass and wood.
Had there been any witnesses that night, Lionheart's reputation as an... eccentric father would have been forced to be dramatically rethought. But as nobody happened to wander into Arthur's chambers, no rumours of the old King's soft side could spread to ruin the image his people had of him.
xXx
It wasn't before nightfall when Gilbert and Antonio decided to tell him.
The ride had been rather quiet after they took off. No one was truly in the mood of an adventure, even though in the beginning they all had tried to maintain the fake image of excitement of hitting the road again. It hadn't worked, so they had soon fallen into silence, each having their own regrets. Francis, no doubt, was thinking of Arthur; Gilbert's mind was surely on Romano... and Antonio himself, well, aside his friends' grief he was slightly sad that he hadn't made anything concrete about that pretty girl named Bella that he had glimpsed in the castle several times.
Once Antonio had tried to talk to his friends about what they really wanted - seeing them so miserable saddened the Spaniard - but that had been of little avail.
“You shouldn't leave Arthur if you love him,” he had told Francis, but the Frenchman had merely snorted and kept riding. “I do not intend to stay where my presence is not desired,” he had answered coldly.
Antonio had tried to comfort Gilbert as well. “You at least know that your interest in one another is mutual, you could have stayed,” he had pointed out to the Prussian, because unlike Francis, Gilbert was fully certain that Romano could not be not interested in such an awesome guy (as Gilbert himself had put it). But the Prussian had kept staring grimly straight in front of him and replied, “It's not awesome to leave your friends behind.”
“It's not awesome to leave your lovers behind, either,” the Spaniard had said quietly, which had earned him two murderous glares.
After that he had given up trying to cheer up the mood.
But when the night came and the three men sat around a small camp fire and Francis had bitterly wondered aloud about the mixed messages Arthur had sent him, Antonio and Gilbert shared a solemn look. Francis had a right to know what had been happening behind his back, and even if that knowledge would not please him, best friends kept no such secrets from one another.
“Hey, Franny,” Gilbert started uncharacteristically carefully, “Uh, there is something you should know...”
Francis uttered not a single sound as the whole story was revealed to him.
X
Addition to author's note: Bella is Belgium. I'm not well acquainted with Spain-pairings, but I have seen him with Belgium in a fic or two, and a quick research in the Internet revealed me that Spain/Belgium is relatively common a pairing. That's why Antonio's implied object of interest is her.
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Author: marinoa
Characters/Pairings: England, France, Spain, Prussia, Romano. FrUK, some Prumano.
Rating: T
Summary: Having once refused to obey a frog, Prince Arthur is now forced to marry one. Both parties are unwilling, but even with the help of their friends, can they win against spells... and time? FrUK AU.
Author's note: Ahem. Now, after several obstacles, I'm finally back here with a new chapter. I'm sorry it took this long. And before you move on to the story, be warned that after this there will be two chapters more; we are nearing the end.
Prince's Hand And Half of the Kingdom
Chapter Ten:
The Cursed Truth
The sun had barely risen over horizon, only beginning to share its warmth, but the barn-yard was already filled with bustle. Neighing of horses, shouted commands of supervisory servants, scampering of sidekicks - the whole scene was sort of a chaos under control.
Arthur kept himself away from the centre of it. He stood in the shadows of an archway and leant his back against the stone wall, not registering the coldness of it as he watched the whole hassle on the yard with unseeing eyes. It was The Morning, it was almost time of Francis' departure, and yet he felt no sadness. He felt no anxiety. He felt nothing.
Romano and Gilbert were saddling horses - one for each of the three men - and fastening saddlebags and making sure that horseshoes were all properly fixed on the hooves. Antonio was talking with some supervisory servants, making sure that everything needed - provisions, tent, items for the hunt - was packed. Francis was the only one of the leaving trio who was nowhere to be seen.
Arthur didn't even note his absence. Not until someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to see the Frenchman himself behind him.
Francis looked splendid as always, even though he was wearing a simple tunic instead of his usual flamboyant silks. In fact, in his hunting attire - leather vest on the tunic, boots reaching his knee, sword on his hip - the Frenchman was more handsome than ever; he looked strong, reliable, royal. He looked glorious, but when Arthur turned and saw him, his heart didn't react in any way. His breath didn't hitch in his throat. He was numb inside out.
“Francis,” he greeted the Frenchman monotonously, giving a curt nod. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
“You are all ready, I see.”
The sky-blue eyes bored into his, but Arthur barely noticed them. He saw Francis' lips moving, but registered no sounds. Funny, he thought, it's like I were wrapped all over in finest veil brought from the edge of the world. He could see, but his vision was vague, and the sounds around him seemed mostly muted, coming from somewhere far. It was an interesting feeling, seeing someone talking to him but not hearing the voice...except Francis was no longer talking; his lips were still as he watched Arthur with a questioning expression. Whoops, maybe Arthur should crack his veil of that peculiarly funny isolation, otherwise he would look like a retard and that would not do for a prince!
“Sorry, did you just say something?” he asked the Frenchman, trying to suppress his sudden urge to laugh at the hilarity of the situation. “I didn't quite catch it, you see.”
“Arthur, are you quite alright?” Oh dear, perhaps it was too late to pretend being attentive, because Francis was already giving him the sort of look that one gave when questioning someone's sanity. Arthur burst into laughter.
“Arthur?”
Why did Francis sound so crept out? Didn't he see the how funny it all was? Didn't he realise that he was a victim of situational irony, that they all were just game pieces in the hands of fate or faeries or some mad author, created for pure entertainment of others, dancing like puppets in master's strings to the music of a piper? It was hilarious, it truly was, why didn't Francis just see? Then Arthur realised that he had said those questions only in his own mind instead of voicing them for the Frenchman to hear, and doubled over with uncontrollable laughter. Dear God, he was going insane, now wasn't he?
And then suddenly his vision went all white with stars and he realised he was facing dirt instead of Francis. His left ear was ringing and for a moment he heard nothing beside that. His laughter had stopped as abruptly as it had began and he blinked once, twice. Only then did he register the burning pain on the left side of his head where the blow had got him.
“Oh Lord,” he muttered, staring at the ground where he lay sprawled, horrified at himself.
A strong pair of arms grabbed him in the armpits and yanked him up on his own two feet, and Arthur found himself staring at the stern face of his father. “Son,” the King said, quietly but firmly, locking Arthur's eyes with his own grey ones, and no other words were needed. King Lionheart held his son's shoulders, his grip sure and reassuring, and Arthur found himself calming down. He uttered not a word, but as his breathing became more even, he dared a quick glance at Francis. The Frenchman stood behind his father, eyebrows furrowed, and Arthur moved his eyes on the ground. What the hell had got into him?
Seeing that his son had regained his composure, the King let go of his shoulders and stepped back. Arthur dusted himself off, took a breath and looked at Francis, this time with enough courage to maintain the eye contact. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I... I don't know what got into me.”
“Well,” Lionheart uttered loudly, cutting of any chances Francis could have had for responding, “now that my son seems to have quitted shaming himself in front of the whole bloody castle and regained all the little sense he has, I believe it safe for me to go and see the stables.” The King took a few steps and stopped beside Arthur to tap him on the shoulder. “It's hard to sink to the level of a Frenchman, boy, but you were almost there.” The the old King looked over his shoulder to frown at Francis. “Almost,” he emphasised to make sure the Frenchman wouldn't commit the crime of thinking too highly of himself.
Arthur crooked a smile, knowing his father well enough not to dwell on his words. In spite of his dubious words, the old King meant well... mostly. “Glad to know there's always someone lower than I,” he said as his father left for the stables. Arthur offered Francis a hesitant, slightly apologetic smile (whether for his or his father's behaviour, he wasn't quite sure), waiting for the Frenchman to react in some way.
Francis gave him an odd smile. “Well, soon enough you won't have even that.”
“False. You'll remain lower than I, regardless of your whereabouts, idiot.”
“Fine,” Francis said, and this time his smile was a friendly one. “I'll give you that.”
Arthur got no pleasure of his victory.
“Well.” Francis scratched his head. “I should go check my horse at the stables.”
Arthur could have told him that his horse was not at the stables but closer to the gate already, yet he didn't. If Francis had taken so much time to look so bloody stunning, he could blame only himself for not knowing what had been happening at the barn-yard while he was dressing. Stupid frog. Then he remembered that his father was at the stables too, and smiled with dark mischief; King Lionheart would always find an excuse to tell off Francis. Served him right.
Now that he was alone again, Arthur resumed his previous post at the wall; it was better to watch the bustle on the yard than let himself a chance to think. Thinking was overestimated in any case - ignorance was way easier.
Neither Gilbert nor Antonio were anywhere in sight, and Arthur vaguely remembered that he hadn't had a chance to bid them farewell, and now it was too late... unless he got a moment with them hidden from other people's gazes. On the other hand, maybe it was for the best - what would Arthur say, anyway? Hi, it was fun as long as it lasted, it was nice to know you, now would you be so kind and fuck off already to get it over and done with. And by the way, did I mention that you are probably the only real friends I've ever had? Pathetic. Even more so, because the instant the “Bad Touch Trio” left the gates of London behind their backs, they would find new people to befriend and fall in love with. Unlike Arthur, who would continue playing a prince, unable to leave anything behind.
Then Arthur thought of Romano. If Francis was to be trusted, his stableman had formed a special bond with Gilbert. Now it would be broken, too. But then again, if Gilbert had no problems with leaving Romano behind, could it have been anything so special? Just as since Francis was leaving Arthur behind, he couldn't have been anything special to the Frenchman.
So much for his resolution not to think.
“Hello? Are you daydreaming or what?”
Arthur blinked as the voice cut through his dark musings. Gilbert and Antonio stood before him, in the shadow of the archway. Speak of the devil... “Huh?” was the Englishman's response to whatever they had said.
Gilbert pushed him further into the shadows, to hide them from any curious eyes. Antonio followed him, and Arthur noted that he wore a solemn expression for once.
“So,” Gilbert said, giving a lopsided, somehow helpless smile. “What now?”
Arthur knew perfectly well what he was taking about. “What do you mean?”
The Prussian's funny smile faded away in a second. “Quit that shit, you know perfectly well what I mean.”
“Francis hasn't kissed you yet,” Antonio clarified helpfully, as if that particular piece of information was a surprise to Arthur. “What will happen when we leave?”
“How should I know?” Arthur snapped sullenly. “Maybe the curse will find a new frog for me to marry, or maybe some queer chance will bring you back. I personally believe it's the former one, but don't worry - even if you were forced to return, you can always go and die again after the bloody wedding.” Is this how you want to bid farewell to your friends, Arthur?
“Whoa, hold your horses!” Gilbert retorted, raising his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “No need to freak out.”
“Nice to hear you say that, after this morning's fit you threw,” Antonio said calmly yet the tiniest bit sarcastically. Arthur hadn't even imagined Antonio being capable of any sort of sarcasm.
“Okay, well, we'll see how it goes,” Gilbert muttered awkwardly. “Anyhow,” he spoke to Arthur, “we'll send back one of the horses, or maybe two. We might have to, well, uh, make them look like there had been a fight or something, so... you know.”
“As long as you don't truly harm them,” Arthur said flatly. It looked like Gilbert was going to continue, but a servant interrupted them then to tell that everything was ready. So, Arthur thought as they walked to the gate where the horses were waiting, nice way of ruining the very last chance for final goodbyes.
Francis was already there, thoughtfully patting his white mare named Desdemona. Arthur wanted to turn around and run away and end the whole damn farce, but he forced himself to stay and act out the last few moments of the play. He halted a few feet from Francis and gave him a small smile. “Well,” he said, “I suppose this is it.”
“I suppose it is,” Francis agreed, looking at Arthur with an unreadable expression.
No, this can't be it, not yet, not like this. Gilbert and Antonio both mounted their horses, and everybody was now waiting for Francis to follow their example and go. Arthur felt his palms sweating. He had to do something, say something, he had to, had to... it couldn't be the end! Shuddering, Arthur was starting to feel like he had earlier in the morning before his moment of madness, and tried to take a hold of himself. Easy now, remember what Gilbert said, don't freak out, just don't freak out now, say something, do something... But what? He couldn't stop Francis from leaving. He couldn't ask him to stay...
“I,” Arthur started, managing to close his inner storm out of his voice and act almost normal, “I think I might miss you.” He grinned the best he could. “A bit. If you are lucky.”
“I'm always lucky, I'm Lady Fortune's favourite, remember?” Francis said with a wink, and that seemed to scatter Arthur's sanity, because the Prince found himself stepping forward almost unconsciously. If Francis will never do it, I might as well. He's leaving for ever, after all, so I can as well...
But Arthur never got the chance to finish even his train of thought, because right then Francis went and pulled himself on his horse, leaving Arthur standing small below him, small and cold and alone, unable to reach up to him.
“Francis,” Antonio said quietly, and Arthur realised the guards at the gate were giving them odd glances. Not that he cared. The failure of this one last chance he might have had to achieve something, to leave Francis a memory of himself, made him drop all his masks, leaving only a blank face to blink up at the Frenchman sitting high in his saddle. He was like a knight on his white horse, gorgeous, sunlight dancing in his golden hair, straight out of any faery tale. Any other but Arthur's.
Francis looked down at him with a sad smile. “I guess it's time for goodbye, then,” he said.
“Goodbye.” The word came out as a mere whisper, but it was all Arthur could muster.
And then, graciously as ever, Francis leant down in his saddle, touched Arthur's cheek with his fingers and planted a small, gentle kiss on his lips. It was chaste, light, and brief as wing beat of butterfly, but undeniably a kiss of Francis' own free will, without any knowledge of the curse upon Arthur or pressure from others. “Au revoir, Arthur.” With that, before Arthur could even start to comprehend what had just happened, Francis straightened again and without sparing Arthur so much as a single glance, pressed his heels in his mare's sides and galloped out of the gates, leaving it upon his friends to follow.
Gilbert and Antonio exchanged a shocked look, mouths hanging open and disbelief evident in their eyes. Then they turned to Arthur in union, but the Englishman didn't meet their gazes. He was busy staring at Francis' retreating back, with a memory of warm lips on his own and nothing else. Soon two other retreating backs joined to Francis', and the Bad Touch Trio rode together away from him and into the freedom.
“There they go,” Arthur heard his father's voice behind him. “Too bad it's only for a couple of days.”
Arthur didn't say anything. The old King turned to look at him.
“It's only for a couple of days, Arthur,” he repeated. “No need to sulk like that.”
You are wrong, Arthur thought.
“What's with that face, I told you to stop sulking! If you're afraid he'll just leave, don't worry; I had a talk with him at the stables.”
It was somehow so ironical, so deliciously ironical that Arthur felt he held a thunderstorm within himself. His father was wrong, regardless of how Francis had managed to convince him otherwise. Francis was leaving, for ever, and worst of all, he was doing so with Arthur's own assistance. But that wasn't something he could tell his father, so he settled for the second best option.
“Would you just shut up now?” he snapped. “All this talk of Francis annoys the hell out of me!”
The King smacked the back of Arthur's head. “How many times do I have to repeat that that's not a way to talk to others! Clean your shitty mouth and try again!”
Arthur couldn't find it in himself to continue the argument - he felt far too weary for quarrelling with his father. “Whatever,” he muttered, watching how the guards were closing the gate. His effortlessness, however, seemed to startle the old King.
“Arthur, son. What the hell is your problem?”
“The problem is you! If you hadn't decided to amuse yourself by playing with my life, this whole marriage issue with Francis would never have happened!”
“If you had shown courtesy to that frog all those years ago, it wouldn't be a Frenchman you are to marry, so blame yourself.”
Arthur groaned. “Father, the problem is not his freaking nationality!”
“Then what is?” the King demanded. “Are you so fucking ratty because he left or because you love him?”
“Both, but more because he-” Arthur caught himself in time to prevent telling his father that Francis truly wouldn't return, and then he realised what he had just confessed. “I'm not in love with him, how many times do I have to repeat that? It was just... just...” It was just the curse that had made him feel like that. But now the curse was gone, Francis had kissed him, so why on earth was the ache inside him even greater than before?
Finding himself tangled in his own words, Arthur shut his mouth firmly, this time determined to maintain his sulking silence. The King sighed. “Stop acting like a spoiled child, Arthur. Be a man and get over it.”
God knew that spoiling a child with King Lionheart's raising methods was just as possible as pleasing peasants by raising taxes, so Arthur, being very mature, ignored his father's undignified comment.
“He's a swineherd,” he blurted out instead, out of sheer spite. Let his father burn in agony a bit before he realises Francis won't return. But alas, King Lionheart left him without even that small satisfaction. “A French swineherd, unfortunately. I had hoped you would have been found by a proper poor English peasant. But that's only wistful thinking at this point and better be forgotten.”
Arthur, finally completely muted, turned his back to his father, to Francis and to the gates that would close the Frenchman out of his life for ever, and left for the safety of his chamber.
xXx
Arthur was known for his incredible ability to hide his true feelings and thoughts when he set his mind to it, but now every step the Englishman took toward his room added a new crack to his crumbling composure. He feared he would explode at any moment, and that would be no good in sight of the servants, so he'd better reach his chambers soon; this time he couldn't keep it all inside himself.
As soon as he was safely within his walls, Arthur slammed his door shut so hard the stone seemed to shake, and kicked it once for a good measure. That, however, didn't make him feel any better, so he kicked it again, but the action still stubbornly lacked the desired effect. Arthur whirled around and marched to the object nearest to him, which happened to be a shelf with wooden figures, candlesticks and ornamental boxes.
The first thing to break was a small, wooden box with beautiful carvings. Arthur had hurled it down on the floor in desperate, blind wave of something he couldn't, nor cared to name. All he knew was that the sound of wood splintering against stone was relieving, and it was satisfactory to feel the power of breaking in his muscles. Blindly he reached for the next item.
He kissed me!
Break!
He kissed me, so why isn't it gone?
Break!
Why do I still..?
BREAK!
“Whoops, there went the mirror. Sadly; I've always rather liked it.”
Arthur froze, vaguely familiar voice breaking through his foggy mind. Wildly he whirled around, but saw no one in his room but himself. Great. Now he was imagining things.
Something small and rather green shifted in the corner of his eye, and he looked to his bed - to see an all too familiar, cursed frog on it.
“Croak!” it greeted him smugly.
“You,” Arthur whispered, shocked, but then found himself again. “You!” he yelled. “You! You fucking treacherous, wicked thing! What have you done?”
The frog looked at him innocently, tilting its head to one side. “What might you mean, Arthur?”
“He kissed me!” Arthur cried out, pleadingly and angrily at the same time. “He fucking kissed me of his own bloody will so why the hell isn't this curse gone? Why isn't it?”
The frog shook its head pityingly. “It is gone,” it answered. “It's not my fault you are too much of a coward to admit the truth to yourself.”
Its words didn't reach Arthur, not truly. “Take it away,” he pleaded hoarsely. “Take the curse fully away, with all its side effects... please!”
“You really are as stubborn as your father so often says,” the frog muttered grimly. “Listen, Arthur. Falling in love was never part of the curse... you managed it all by yourself!”
Arthur didn't reply, only stared numbly, so the frog continued. “Let me congratulate you,” it said, grinning. “The curse is gone... Too bad that he is gone too!” And then it burst into croaking, cruel froggy laughter. “Now I believe that you have learnt your lesson, Arthur. Don't forget it.”
With those final words, the frog, as was its habit, disappeared - and this time most likely for good. Arthur was left alone in his chambers among the things he had broken.
The things he had broken.
xXx
That evening King Lionheart found his son curled up in a ball, clutching his own face and shaking all over, surrounded with broken glass and wood.
Had there been any witnesses that night, Lionheart's reputation as an... eccentric father would have been forced to be dramatically rethought. But as nobody happened to wander into Arthur's chambers, no rumours of the old King's soft side could spread to ruin the image his people had of him.
xXx
It wasn't before nightfall when Gilbert and Antonio decided to tell him.
The ride had been rather quiet after they took off. No one was truly in the mood of an adventure, even though in the beginning they all had tried to maintain the fake image of excitement of hitting the road again. It hadn't worked, so they had soon fallen into silence, each having their own regrets. Francis, no doubt, was thinking of Arthur; Gilbert's mind was surely on Romano... and Antonio himself, well, aside his friends' grief he was slightly sad that he hadn't made anything concrete about that pretty girl named Bella that he had glimpsed in the castle several times.
Once Antonio had tried to talk to his friends about what they really wanted - seeing them so miserable saddened the Spaniard - but that had been of little avail.
“You shouldn't leave Arthur if you love him,” he had told Francis, but the Frenchman had merely snorted and kept riding. “I do not intend to stay where my presence is not desired,” he had answered coldly.
Antonio had tried to comfort Gilbert as well. “You at least know that your interest in one another is mutual, you could have stayed,” he had pointed out to the Prussian, because unlike Francis, Gilbert was fully certain that Romano could not be not interested in such an awesome guy (as Gilbert himself had put it). But the Prussian had kept staring grimly straight in front of him and replied, “It's not awesome to leave your friends behind.”
“It's not awesome to leave your lovers behind, either,” the Spaniard had said quietly, which had earned him two murderous glares.
After that he had given up trying to cheer up the mood.
But when the night came and the three men sat around a small camp fire and Francis had bitterly wondered aloud about the mixed messages Arthur had sent him, Antonio and Gilbert shared a solemn look. Francis had a right to know what had been happening behind his back, and even if that knowledge would not please him, best friends kept no such secrets from one another.
“Hey, Franny,” Gilbert started uncharacteristically carefully, “Uh, there is something you should know...”
Francis uttered not a single sound as the whole story was revealed to him.
X
Addition to author's note: Bella is Belgium. I'm not well acquainted with Spain-pairings, but I have seen him with Belgium in a fic or two, and a quick research in the Internet revealed me that Spain/Belgium is relatively common a pairing. That's why Antonio's implied object of interest is her.
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