[FIC] Between the Lines
Title: Between the Lines
Characters/Pairing: Francis, Arthur, FrUK
Rating: T+ / PG-13
Word Count: 4329
Summary: Francis is a writer, Arthur a critic; Francis is asexual, Arthur... confused.
Notes: Written for qichi for what_the_fruk's October lovefest; this prompt.
I meant this to be some sort of portrayal of an asexual/non-asexual relationship based more on conjecture and my personal experiences than anything, which it somewhat is, but at the same time, I'm not sure I did everything I could. And I don't mean this to in any way reflect... on the asexual community as a whole? I don't consider myself a spokesperson; I don't want any attitudes and values expressed here to be taken as attitudes and values of asexuals in general -- everyone has different boundaries, not every "way" of being asexual is the same. So um without further ado...
They're both drunk, and that's the most important thing right now; never mind the fact that it's a Thursday night and tomorrow Arthur will have to drag himself out of bed for another stultifying day at the office. Never mind that, really, because right now Francis's tie is loose and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing touchable, lickable collarbones and the tiniest bit of chest hair and whoever invented buttons, Arthur thinks, was some sort of sadistic god because they are simultaneously enticing and absolutely bloody impossible.
"No, no," Francis says and laughs. His back is against the wall and his cheeks are flushed from alcohol. He pushes Arthur's hands away. "You will ruin my shirt and it's new, it was expensive, I'm poor!" He laughs, and Arthur laughs too, giving up on the buttons to push Francis up against the wall and kiss him.
There's a moment of hesitation (it barely registers in Arthur's mind) and then Francis opens his mouth, kissing back; he presses one hand, palm flat and fingers spread, to the side of Arthur's face, just touching. Somehow, that's more erotic than grabbing or squeezing and Arthur growls a little into the kiss, biting Francis's lip and eliciting a gasp. The fingers tighten on the side of his face and then Francis is slipping out from underneath him.
"Arthur, Arthur," Francis says, and for a moment Arthur thinks (hopes) Francis is going to slam him against the wall and ravage him. Instead, Francis laces the fingers of both of their hands together and Arthur is mildly disappointed. "Let's go home; would you like..." A pause, Arthur takes in the smoky atmosphere of the bar, the chatter within, the flickering light above them in the bathroom hallway. Francis worries at his lip; Arthur loses himself in a pleasant haze of drunken abandon. "Would you like to go home with me?" Francis asks finally, and Arthur kisses him again as an answer.
---
Francis's flat is smallish but tastefully decorated, not that Arthur notices any of that. As soon as Francis gets the door open they're inside, kissing in the hallway, Arthur's hands tangled in Francis's hair and Francis's resting on the small of Arthur's back, gently lifting up his shirt, fingers teasing the skin of his back. Arthur shivers and presses closer. "God," he says.
"You can't even restrain yourself to the bedroom," Francis observes and laughs, until Arthur cuts off his laughter with a sharp nip to his lower lip and then another kiss.
"'Snot my fault you're the biggest flirt in the world," Arthur growls when he finally feels coherent again. The coherency, however, is soon lost as Francis slides his fingers under Arthur's waistband, drawing them around. Arthur gasps.
"I love your kisses," Francis says, tracing circles around Arthur's hipbones. "You have very interesting technique. I wonder why we didn't do this sooner." And he lolls his head back against the wall (see? he's drunk too!) and smiles at Arthur through half-lidded eyes.
That - damn him, Arthur thinks, and shoves Francis against the wall with his body, a knee between his legs. "Will you just-" he grunts, and snakes his hand down to Francis's crotch. But as soon as he touches Francis there, gets his hand on the zipper of Francis's jeans, Francis's entire body goes still, and before either of them know entirely what's going on, Francis has twisted out of his reach and pushed him away.
Unbalanced by the alcohol in his system, Arthur staggers, hitting the other side of the hallway shoulder-first. It's painful. "What the -" he begins, looking up at Francis.
But Francis is pale, somehow, the flush on his cheeks gone along with the dazed look in his eyes. "I can't, I," he begins, and runs a hand through his hair, standing straight. "We can't do this, and I'm sorry, I was drunk, but if you let me explain..."
Arthur, though, has heard enough, which is to say, he knows what Francis means and he knows... Damn, damn, and fucking damn. "No," he says, and while he's still not entirely clearheaded, he does manage to draw himself up and glare at Francis. "No, no need to explain, I understand perfectly well what you mean."
Francis opens his mouth, raises a hand, but Arthur, bitter now (which means he's getting into that emotional stage of drunkenness), opens Francis's door, steps out, and slams it shut, marching away as fast as his legs will carry him.
---
Arthur does not get much sleep that night. He had taken a while to get home, meandering down every detour possible - stomping down them, rather, and kicking rocks and pebbles and empty cans. He even punched a wall once, which led him to nothing but scraped knuckles and an aching hand.
As soon as he's in his doorway he lights a cigarette and hunches down in his leather armchair, brooding. There's a no smoking policy in the apartment but he doesn't care; he disabled his fire alarm long ago and the smell of tobacco, he thinks, is comforting at the oddest times. Like now, for example, when he's confused and hurt and my fucking God Francis really is the biggest flirt in the world.
Because that's all it was, flirting, and really Francis is revolted and really, really...
With a snarl of disgust, he smashes his cigarette butt against the metal ashtray to put out the flame.
---
Friday morning is hell on earth, even after a cold shower, three aspirin, and two cups of coffee. Arthur sits at his desk like a not-quite-rejuvenated corpse, staring straight ahead, waiting for the day to end. At least the office is a nice temperature, his job, at the moment, is undemanding, and he invested in a comfortable chair.
Around noon, Francis comes in with pastries and a brown paper-wrapped package. "Hello!" he says brightly, giving Arthur the dazzling smile that (Arthur imagines) causes women around the world to swoon right into Francis Bonnefoy's bed. "You left your scarf last night and I brought..." His voice trails off. "Mon Dieu, you look terrible; did you get any sleep at all last night?" He places the package and the pastry bag on Arthur's desk and reaches out to touch Arthur's face.
Arthur slaps his hand away, and Francis has the gall to look hurt about it. "Sod off, already," he snaps, feeling his headache returning.
"I," Francis begins, and takes a step back. "Enjoy your pastries, then," he says, while looking thoroughly as though he wishes to say something else, and, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, hurries from the room.
Vindictively, Arthur thinks about dumping the bag right into the trash, but instead gives it to the receptionist for their office, to be shared with his three children. And then he spends the rest of his day composing a vicious critique of every single one of Francis Bonnefoy's published work. It's not going to be published, at least not now, but it makes Arthur feel much better.
---
On Saturday, Arthur (purposefully) leaves his phone on his desk all evening and comes back to three texts and one missed call from Francis. He deletes them all and doesn't listen to the voicemail.
Five minutes later, he regrets deleting them and wishes he kept the voicemail, but it's no use crying over spilled milk and anyway, he has dinner with a colleague at eight.
They don't get drunk, they don't kiss, and Arthur isn't rejected, so he considers it a much better evening than the last.
---
Sunday, a text from Francis. Brunch, if you're up to it?
Arthur stares at it and thinks of hurtling his phone across the room, but last time he did that, it broke and he had to invest in a new one. Money is tight these days, so he contents himself with punching the red button viciously, then hurling his pillow across the room. It doesn't break, so it is much less satisfactory, but much more economical.
---
He doesn't understand what Francis is doing, honestly, and although Arthur is reluctant to admit it, he is hurt, very hurt, by Francis's rejection. In his moments of idleness he goes over that evening, replaying it like one used to replay videocassettes, over and over and over again, rewinding and then playing until there was no more footage and the screen went blue.
They were at some sort of soiree and Francis was flirtatious as usual. He touched Arthur's hand, touched his hair, gave him a drink, touched the small of his back as they stood together. It was almost possessive, and Arthur enjoyed it (as he always enjoyed attention from Francis), and when Francis invited him for drinks he saw no reason to refuse.
And then they were both drunk, Francis said something uproariously funny, Arthur remembered, though he wasn't sure what it was, and then suddenly Francis - it was Francis, then, who initiated this whole thing - was tugging him off the barstool and into the hallway, and Francis had put a hand on his face and slid it around to the back of Arthur's neck and they were looking at each other and kissing and it was...
Fuck.
This is where Arthur pauses the tape for the final time, metaphorically speaking, ejects it from the VCR, and destroys it.
---
Monday passes, and Tuesday, and the rest of the week in a dreary blur that is only accented by the recent rainy weather. Everything is misted and drippy; scarves and raincoats and umbrellas are necessary if one wants to go outside without ruining one's clothes or one's health. Arthur ignores Francis's calls and texts and when Francis does drop by the office - on Wednesday - he treats him curtly. He can see Francis's expression fall, see the defensive hunch in his shoulders as he walks away, and doesn't understand it. Arthur is the one who was hurt through all of this. Francis doesn't have the right...
And then it's Saturday, and Arthur is knotting his red silk tie for the gala being held by some rich literati who likes seeing critics and writers mingle. Which means Francis is there but that Arthur tells himself firmly as he runs a comb through his scruffy hair, is not going to make a difference.
Except it does, it really does, because Francis is wearing a cream colored suit jacket and has the audacity to be wearing a pocket square, honestly, and the glass of champagne fits in his hand as though he was born with it, and he comes over to Arthur as soon as he spots him.
"Arthur," Francis says and has the audacity to smile. "I thought you might be here. How are you?"
Arthur gives him the best look he can muster. "Go away," he snaps. "I don't need you ruining my night, Bonnefoy."
Francis winces - it's almost imperceptible, and a moment later he has regained his friendly smile. "Look," he begins, and touches Arthur's elbow. Arthur shakes him off, and Francis sighs. "Look," he repeats, only this time he doesn't reach out to touch Arthur. "I am... I think... I..."
And then he fails, and serves him right, Arthur thinks viciously. "Spit it out," he snaps, "so I can get on with my night."
"Please," Francis says, and Arthur wonders how on earth he's been reduced to begging so quickly. What has happened to Bonnefoy's famous charm? And, more than that, why is Francis still talking to him, when it's been made clear that Francis doesn't want him at all? Why not charm the pants off of some innocent, unsuspecting stranger? "Just let me... We need to talk," he says finally, and glances toward an unoccupied hallway.
The last time Arthur let Francis get him alone... But no, that's stupid, that was just as much his own doing as it was Francis's. And he was drunk, then. He's not now, more's the pity. "Five minutes," Arthur snaps, and Francis smiles gratefully.
---
They end up in some staircase near the kitchen, one that's mostly deserted. Arthur is nearly one hundred percent sure they are not supposed to be here, but it doesn't really matter. Five minutes, he tells himself.
Francis turns toward him and his eyes are dark in the half light. "I must apologize for last Thursday; I really am sorry, I just..."
They're both standing rather close together, so it isn't entirely surprising when Francis leans closer, touches Arthur's cheek, and kisses him. Arthur almost lets it happen; it's hard to forget how soft Francis's lips are and how good he is at kissing - slow and sensuous, really, paying attention to the sensation and the... art of it, he supposes, but -
"Stop it!" Arthur snaps and shoves him off. "You've got some nerve to be doing that, you know, after last time." He glares at Francis and feels more than a little hurt; what kind of game is Francis playing? Arthur's not, not a toy or anything like that.
Francis steps back and looks away. "I have to explain," he says.
"You kissed me, you invited me home, and you practically shoved me out the door!" Arthur snaps. "What's there to explain? You aren't interested in me, not that way, and now you're just... I don't know, being an idiot!"
After a few moments, Francis laughs. "I cannot deny that," he says ruefully. "But I... I was drunk."
"Yeah, you were," Arthur snaps, but is ignored.
"I got ahead of myself, I wasn't thinking, it's just..." He looks at Arthur and his expression is raw, more open than it should be if this is just some sort of friendly rejection. "I like you, I do, and your hair and your eyebrows, even -" he laughs and Arthur scowls "- and the way we disagree on everything in person but you write me good reviews and I love your writing, and your humor, and..." He sighs and touches Arthur's cheek. Arthur lets him, barely.
"And what?" he asks sharply. There's a leaden weight in his chest and he realizes he’s preparing himself for rejection - a second rejection, as it were. He hates rejection, has experienced it often enough, and.... He swallows.
"And I would like to... be close to you," Francis finishes, rather lamely. "But not... not have sex with you."
Arthur frowns. "So you want to be friends, but you're not into me that way, okay, I get it. That was rather clear the first time, you know, on Thursday." He glares at Francis. "So I don't really see the point -"
"No!" Francis says quickly, grabbing Arthur's sleeve. Arthur almost pulls away but, seeing the desperation in Francis's eyes, doesn't. "I... I want to be closer to you than that. Romantically. I want to kiss you, I want to wake up with you in the morning and make you coffee, I..." He looks away, embarrassed.
"That doesn't make sense," Arthur says flatly.
Francis gives a sheepish half smile. "I know."
---
They end up at Francis's flat again. Arthur knows he is going to get a lot of flak from his colleagues on Monday for leaving early, but some things (well, a lot of things) are more important than stupid fashionable parties.
Francis has lost the suit jacket and untucked his shirt, and right now he is making coffee for himself and hot chocolate for Arthur. While Arthur waits, he looks around the apartment. There are bookshelves lining every wall and they're all full of notebooks, old paperbacks, stacks of paper... There is more paper on the coffee table too, and although the furniture is fashionable, it's old and worn. This is a writer's apartment, Arthur thinks, and breathes in the smell of books and ink and Francis's aftershave.
When Francis returns he places two mugs on coasters on the table, and sits next to Arthur on the couch. "You can... ask questions, I suppose," he says, "though this really doesn't have to... be anything." He rubs his hands together, determinedly looking anywhere but Arthur's face. "I appreciate, I mean... Thank you, Arthur, for... coming here."
Francis's adam's apple bobs up and down when he swallows and that leads Arthur's gaze back down to those tempting collarbones, and... He frowns. "So... you like me. But you don't want to have sex with me, which means..." He picks up the mug of hot chocolate, cradling it in both hands. "I don't get it. Why don't you find someone with whom you want to have sex?"
"Because," Francis says, and smiles halfway, "in thirty-three years I have never found anyone... attractive in that way."
"But you..." Arthur frowns. "Boyfriends? Girlfriends?"
"I have had them, yes," Francis says and chuckles. "It isn't impossible, you know, and sometimes there will be certain people..." He pauses, frowns, and shakes his head, starting over. "Just because I am not sexually attracted to anyone does not mean I cannot like them romantically. Like, ah, like you." And then he smiles and Arthur can't help but notice the way Francis hunches his shoulders, slightly defensive and hopeful at the same time. He's given this talk before, Arthur can tell, and from the way he's acting...
"What are people's usual reactions to this sort of thing?" Arthur asks.
Francis shrugs. "Confusion. Disbelief. Some of them leave, I suppose. And, ah, the door is open?" Once again, there's that hidden vulnerability in his eyes as he gestures toward the door.
"Don't be stupid," Arthur says brusquely, when what he really wants to do is grab Francis and tell him it's going to be all right. But he doesn't know that for sure; he's still not even sure if he has forgiven Francis, or whether he cares, or if this even makes sense. But he doesn't like the hurt look in Francis's eyes. That he knows.
His response, at the very least, elicits a smile from Francis. "I try not to be stupid," he says. "But I still owe you an apology, for last Thursday; I was drunk, and I just wanted you, your company, and I forgot - or at least I didn't think - about what you wanted, and I'm sorry."
"You kissed me first," Arthur says, almost petulantly. He feels like he's getting in over his head... into something, though he's not sure what. He's not even drunk and still, this is largely eluding his grasp.
"I don't mind kissing," Francis replies, almost sheepish again. "It's nice, with the some people. People I like. And it's not slimy if you do it right. My first kisses were terrible, but I think that might be a universal experience."
It probably is a universal experience, because Arthur's first kisses were terrible too. "And," he says, grasping at straws, "you're really the biggest flirt I've ever met, and I don't understand..."
Now Francis grins and shrugs. "Just because I don't like sex doesn't mean I can't like everything else, does it?"
"No," Arthur says. He supposes it doesn't.
---
Arthur ends up spending the night. He tells Francis he needs some more time to think about things, really think, and that he's not sure he understands all of it. But by the time they're finished talking (and they don't only talk about sex; somehow the conversation meanders to movies and high school and where they thought they'd be by now), it's two-thirty a.m., and he doesn't see anything wrong in falling into bed with Francis. Chastely, of course.
Francis presses his lips in a quick good night kiss, then rolls over, keeping a good distance between them. Arthur falls asleep staring at the ceiling, but when he wakes up in the morning, Francis has somehow managed to snuggle into his side, and Arthur himself is rock hard. He sighs and bites his lip, thinking about everything he's ever fantasized about doing to and with the man currently sleeping at his side.
"Oh, fuck," Arthur mutters, and rolls off the bed to find the shower.
---
Arthur borrows a t-shirt and pants from Francis; they are almost the same size, though Arthur has narrower hips. Francis makes them pancakes.
"I suppose what I am trying to say is," Francis says, putting two plates, two sets of utensils, and two cups onto the small dining table, "that I would... like to have a relationship with you, of some... some sort, as if that were not clear already." He laughs a little, and Arthur marks the tension high in his shoulders as he turns to tend the stove.
Arthur himself isn't quite sure how to react. He supposes it's a good thing, or at least he's not opposed to a relationship with Francis. Of some sort. He likes Francis. In fact, he finds Francis disgustingly attractive, even, which is why he adds, "But no sex."
There's a lull in the conversation as Francis slides out the last two pancakes, making a stack of six - three for each of them. He puts the stack on the table as well, in the middle, as well as a small container of syrup. "Not... sex," he says finally, equivocally, "but of course I would not expect you to enter into a relationship devoid of, ah, physical affection."
"So, kissing," Arthur surmises.
Francis smiles.
"More than kissing?"
The smile grows wider.
---
They discuss boundaries over pancakes; it is surprisingly businesslike. Francis even procures a notebook for the occasion; once their discussion is finished, he tears out the page and hands it to Arthur. Written in Francis's barely legible scrawling, it looks like... no list Arthur has ever seen:
Allowed:
Hugging
Kissing
Hand-holding
Nonsexual touching
Not allowed:
Penetrative sex
Groping (without warning)
Oral sex (A giving, F receiving)
Conditional:
Oral sex (F giving, A receiving)
Mutual masturbation &
Hand jobs
"Right," Arthur says, and licks his lips. They're still not... official yet, though Francis's cooking is divine. He puts the list in his pocket when he leaves.
---
That Monday, Francis visits Arthur at work, just around lunchtime, and invites him to a Chinese place just a few blocks away. Arthur agrees, and as they walk, he is extremely aware of Francis's gloved fingers, dangling just inches away from his own. All he has to do is reach out...
But he doesn't, not in time, anyway, and by the time he's just about mustered the courage (because it's a commitment, isn't it, all this reaching and holding) they're already in the restaurant. The server, obviously on familiar terms with Francis, gives them a secluded corner table.
"I'm paying," Francis says as soon as they sit down, and overrides Arthur's protest. "It's cheap, don't worry." He smiles, and Arthur feels his stomach do a lazy sort of flip at the way Francis's eyes look, and his hair... Everything, really.
He sighs.
"I was just, I was just thinking," Francis says and taps his menu with nervous fingers, pretending to skim it but not reading a thing, "if you didn't want this, what I'm offering, anything, I mean, it's alright. Which is to say, I understand, and I would still like to be friends with you?" He glances up and gives Arthur a small smile. "I'm sorry; you say I'm so good at flirting but that's only the superficial things. I'm, ah, rather awful at, at all this..." He waves a hand in an all-encompassing gesture.
"Oh no, it's fine," Arthur replies automatically, "I don't mind Chinese."
There's a pause, barely a breath, and then both of them start laughing, Francis first, snickering, and then Arthur joining in with a sheepish chuckle. "I mean," he says quickly, trying to cover up his misunderstanding, "it's that..."
He attempts to reach across the table to grab Francis's hand but almost knocks over his water. It takes a few breathless seconds to sort that all out and then, finally, he says, "I like you too. Not that it wasn't obvious. I've probably said it before." He meets Francis's eyes and looks away; he's shit at romance too.
A few moments pass, when neither of them is willing to say anything. A server comes and takes their orders, Arthur pointing wildly at the first thing on the menu he sees, not having glanced at it beforehand.
"Well," Francis says.
"Well," Arthur agrees, and smiles at him.
---
If anyone asked (no one does), Arthur supposes he would call Francis his "boyfriend," though that's not really what Francis is - which isn't to say he's less than any of that; it's just that he's Francis, and Arthur is Arthur.
And now Francis has practically moved into Arthur's flat, or is it Arthur who's moved into Francis's flat? He finds Francis's papers on his kitchen table; he finds his own drafts of articles on Francis's dresser. Their two flats are, he imagines, becoming one flat; soon they'll be mirror images of each other and he won't know which one he's in until he looks out the window.
Winter comes inexorably and they haven't had sex, real sex anyway, but then, Arthur finds himself asking, what is real sex? Penetration, sure, that's obvious, but there are so many other things, and different ways to achieve satisfaction, and it doesn't make you any less of a person for wanting those sorts of things or not wanting anything at all.
He says as much to Francis one day while Francis is doing a writer sort of thing, staring out the window at the foggy streets. And Francis laughs. "That's terribly maudlin of you, Arthur, really." His smile is brilliant, Arthur thinks.
"Shut up, it's true," Arthur says, and his prickliness is more from habit than actual defensiveness.
"But I also give amazing blow jobs," Francis adds, and that's got something to do with sex, Arthur supposes, but it's not everything, it's just a thing.
He smiles at Francis. "That you do."
Characters/Pairing: Francis, Arthur, FrUK
Rating: T+ / PG-13
Word Count: 4329
Summary: Francis is a writer, Arthur a critic; Francis is asexual, Arthur... confused.
Notes: Written for qichi for what_the_fruk's October lovefest; this prompt.
I meant this to be some sort of portrayal of an asexual/non-asexual relationship based more on conjecture and my personal experiences than anything, which it somewhat is, but at the same time, I'm not sure I did everything I could. And I don't mean this to in any way reflect... on the asexual community as a whole? I don't consider myself a spokesperson; I don't want any attitudes and values expressed here to be taken as attitudes and values of asexuals in general -- everyone has different boundaries, not every "way" of being asexual is the same. So um without further ado...
They're both drunk, and that's the most important thing right now; never mind the fact that it's a Thursday night and tomorrow Arthur will have to drag himself out of bed for another stultifying day at the office. Never mind that, really, because right now Francis's tie is loose and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing touchable, lickable collarbones and the tiniest bit of chest hair and whoever invented buttons, Arthur thinks, was some sort of sadistic god because they are simultaneously enticing and absolutely bloody impossible.
"No, no," Francis says and laughs. His back is against the wall and his cheeks are flushed from alcohol. He pushes Arthur's hands away. "You will ruin my shirt and it's new, it was expensive, I'm poor!" He laughs, and Arthur laughs too, giving up on the buttons to push Francis up against the wall and kiss him.
There's a moment of hesitation (it barely registers in Arthur's mind) and then Francis opens his mouth, kissing back; he presses one hand, palm flat and fingers spread, to the side of Arthur's face, just touching. Somehow, that's more erotic than grabbing or squeezing and Arthur growls a little into the kiss, biting Francis's lip and eliciting a gasp. The fingers tighten on the side of his face and then Francis is slipping out from underneath him.
"Arthur, Arthur," Francis says, and for a moment Arthur thinks (hopes) Francis is going to slam him against the wall and ravage him. Instead, Francis laces the fingers of both of their hands together and Arthur is mildly disappointed. "Let's go home; would you like..." A pause, Arthur takes in the smoky atmosphere of the bar, the chatter within, the flickering light above them in the bathroom hallway. Francis worries at his lip; Arthur loses himself in a pleasant haze of drunken abandon. "Would you like to go home with me?" Francis asks finally, and Arthur kisses him again as an answer.
---
Francis's flat is smallish but tastefully decorated, not that Arthur notices any of that. As soon as Francis gets the door open they're inside, kissing in the hallway, Arthur's hands tangled in Francis's hair and Francis's resting on the small of Arthur's back, gently lifting up his shirt, fingers teasing the skin of his back. Arthur shivers and presses closer. "God," he says.
"You can't even restrain yourself to the bedroom," Francis observes and laughs, until Arthur cuts off his laughter with a sharp nip to his lower lip and then another kiss.
"'Snot my fault you're the biggest flirt in the world," Arthur growls when he finally feels coherent again. The coherency, however, is soon lost as Francis slides his fingers under Arthur's waistband, drawing them around. Arthur gasps.
"I love your kisses," Francis says, tracing circles around Arthur's hipbones. "You have very interesting technique. I wonder why we didn't do this sooner." And he lolls his head back against the wall (see? he's drunk too!) and smiles at Arthur through half-lidded eyes.
That - damn him, Arthur thinks, and shoves Francis against the wall with his body, a knee between his legs. "Will you just-" he grunts, and snakes his hand down to Francis's crotch. But as soon as he touches Francis there, gets his hand on the zipper of Francis's jeans, Francis's entire body goes still, and before either of them know entirely what's going on, Francis has twisted out of his reach and pushed him away.
Unbalanced by the alcohol in his system, Arthur staggers, hitting the other side of the hallway shoulder-first. It's painful. "What the -" he begins, looking up at Francis.
But Francis is pale, somehow, the flush on his cheeks gone along with the dazed look in his eyes. "I can't, I," he begins, and runs a hand through his hair, standing straight. "We can't do this, and I'm sorry, I was drunk, but if you let me explain..."
Arthur, though, has heard enough, which is to say, he knows what Francis means and he knows... Damn, damn, and fucking damn. "No," he says, and while he's still not entirely clearheaded, he does manage to draw himself up and glare at Francis. "No, no need to explain, I understand perfectly well what you mean."
Francis opens his mouth, raises a hand, but Arthur, bitter now (which means he's getting into that emotional stage of drunkenness), opens Francis's door, steps out, and slams it shut, marching away as fast as his legs will carry him.
---
Arthur does not get much sleep that night. He had taken a while to get home, meandering down every detour possible - stomping down them, rather, and kicking rocks and pebbles and empty cans. He even punched a wall once, which led him to nothing but scraped knuckles and an aching hand.
As soon as he's in his doorway he lights a cigarette and hunches down in his leather armchair, brooding. There's a no smoking policy in the apartment but he doesn't care; he disabled his fire alarm long ago and the smell of tobacco, he thinks, is comforting at the oddest times. Like now, for example, when he's confused and hurt and my fucking God Francis really is the biggest flirt in the world.
Because that's all it was, flirting, and really Francis is revolted and really, really...
With a snarl of disgust, he smashes his cigarette butt against the metal ashtray to put out the flame.
---
Friday morning is hell on earth, even after a cold shower, three aspirin, and two cups of coffee. Arthur sits at his desk like a not-quite-rejuvenated corpse, staring straight ahead, waiting for the day to end. At least the office is a nice temperature, his job, at the moment, is undemanding, and he invested in a comfortable chair.
Around noon, Francis comes in with pastries and a brown paper-wrapped package. "Hello!" he says brightly, giving Arthur the dazzling smile that (Arthur imagines) causes women around the world to swoon right into Francis Bonnefoy's bed. "You left your scarf last night and I brought..." His voice trails off. "Mon Dieu, you look terrible; did you get any sleep at all last night?" He places the package and the pastry bag on Arthur's desk and reaches out to touch Arthur's face.
Arthur slaps his hand away, and Francis has the gall to look hurt about it. "Sod off, already," he snaps, feeling his headache returning.
"I," Francis begins, and takes a step back. "Enjoy your pastries, then," he says, while looking thoroughly as though he wishes to say something else, and, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, hurries from the room.
Vindictively, Arthur thinks about dumping the bag right into the trash, but instead gives it to the receptionist for their office, to be shared with his three children. And then he spends the rest of his day composing a vicious critique of every single one of Francis Bonnefoy's published work. It's not going to be published, at least not now, but it makes Arthur feel much better.
---
On Saturday, Arthur (purposefully) leaves his phone on his desk all evening and comes back to three texts and one missed call from Francis. He deletes them all and doesn't listen to the voicemail.
Five minutes later, he regrets deleting them and wishes he kept the voicemail, but it's no use crying over spilled milk and anyway, he has dinner with a colleague at eight.
They don't get drunk, they don't kiss, and Arthur isn't rejected, so he considers it a much better evening than the last.
---
Sunday, a text from Francis. Brunch, if you're up to it?
Arthur stares at it and thinks of hurtling his phone across the room, but last time he did that, it broke and he had to invest in a new one. Money is tight these days, so he contents himself with punching the red button viciously, then hurling his pillow across the room. It doesn't break, so it is much less satisfactory, but much more economical.
---
He doesn't understand what Francis is doing, honestly, and although Arthur is reluctant to admit it, he is hurt, very hurt, by Francis's rejection. In his moments of idleness he goes over that evening, replaying it like one used to replay videocassettes, over and over and over again, rewinding and then playing until there was no more footage and the screen went blue.
They were at some sort of soiree and Francis was flirtatious as usual. He touched Arthur's hand, touched his hair, gave him a drink, touched the small of his back as they stood together. It was almost possessive, and Arthur enjoyed it (as he always enjoyed attention from Francis), and when Francis invited him for drinks he saw no reason to refuse.
And then they were both drunk, Francis said something uproariously funny, Arthur remembered, though he wasn't sure what it was, and then suddenly Francis - it was Francis, then, who initiated this whole thing - was tugging him off the barstool and into the hallway, and Francis had put a hand on his face and slid it around to the back of Arthur's neck and they were looking at each other and kissing and it was...
Fuck.
This is where Arthur pauses the tape for the final time, metaphorically speaking, ejects it from the VCR, and destroys it.
---
Monday passes, and Tuesday, and the rest of the week in a dreary blur that is only accented by the recent rainy weather. Everything is misted and drippy; scarves and raincoats and umbrellas are necessary if one wants to go outside without ruining one's clothes or one's health. Arthur ignores Francis's calls and texts and when Francis does drop by the office - on Wednesday - he treats him curtly. He can see Francis's expression fall, see the defensive hunch in his shoulders as he walks away, and doesn't understand it. Arthur is the one who was hurt through all of this. Francis doesn't have the right...
And then it's Saturday, and Arthur is knotting his red silk tie for the gala being held by some rich literati who likes seeing critics and writers mingle. Which means Francis is there but that Arthur tells himself firmly as he runs a comb through his scruffy hair, is not going to make a difference.
Except it does, it really does, because Francis is wearing a cream colored suit jacket and has the audacity to be wearing a pocket square, honestly, and the glass of champagne fits in his hand as though he was born with it, and he comes over to Arthur as soon as he spots him.
"Arthur," Francis says and has the audacity to smile. "I thought you might be here. How are you?"
Arthur gives him the best look he can muster. "Go away," he snaps. "I don't need you ruining my night, Bonnefoy."
Francis winces - it's almost imperceptible, and a moment later he has regained his friendly smile. "Look," he begins, and touches Arthur's elbow. Arthur shakes him off, and Francis sighs. "Look," he repeats, only this time he doesn't reach out to touch Arthur. "I am... I think... I..."
And then he fails, and serves him right, Arthur thinks viciously. "Spit it out," he snaps, "so I can get on with my night."
"Please," Francis says, and Arthur wonders how on earth he's been reduced to begging so quickly. What has happened to Bonnefoy's famous charm? And, more than that, why is Francis still talking to him, when it's been made clear that Francis doesn't want him at all? Why not charm the pants off of some innocent, unsuspecting stranger? "Just let me... We need to talk," he says finally, and glances toward an unoccupied hallway.
The last time Arthur let Francis get him alone... But no, that's stupid, that was just as much his own doing as it was Francis's. And he was drunk, then. He's not now, more's the pity. "Five minutes," Arthur snaps, and Francis smiles gratefully.
---
They end up in some staircase near the kitchen, one that's mostly deserted. Arthur is nearly one hundred percent sure they are not supposed to be here, but it doesn't really matter. Five minutes, he tells himself.
Francis turns toward him and his eyes are dark in the half light. "I must apologize for last Thursday; I really am sorry, I just..."
They're both standing rather close together, so it isn't entirely surprising when Francis leans closer, touches Arthur's cheek, and kisses him. Arthur almost lets it happen; it's hard to forget how soft Francis's lips are and how good he is at kissing - slow and sensuous, really, paying attention to the sensation and the... art of it, he supposes, but -
"Stop it!" Arthur snaps and shoves him off. "You've got some nerve to be doing that, you know, after last time." He glares at Francis and feels more than a little hurt; what kind of game is Francis playing? Arthur's not, not a toy or anything like that.
Francis steps back and looks away. "I have to explain," he says.
"You kissed me, you invited me home, and you practically shoved me out the door!" Arthur snaps. "What's there to explain? You aren't interested in me, not that way, and now you're just... I don't know, being an idiot!"
After a few moments, Francis laughs. "I cannot deny that," he says ruefully. "But I... I was drunk."
"Yeah, you were," Arthur snaps, but is ignored.
"I got ahead of myself, I wasn't thinking, it's just..." He looks at Arthur and his expression is raw, more open than it should be if this is just some sort of friendly rejection. "I like you, I do, and your hair and your eyebrows, even -" he laughs and Arthur scowls "- and the way we disagree on everything in person but you write me good reviews and I love your writing, and your humor, and..." He sighs and touches Arthur's cheek. Arthur lets him, barely.
"And what?" he asks sharply. There's a leaden weight in his chest and he realizes he’s preparing himself for rejection - a second rejection, as it were. He hates rejection, has experienced it often enough, and.... He swallows.
"And I would like to... be close to you," Francis finishes, rather lamely. "But not... not have sex with you."
Arthur frowns. "So you want to be friends, but you're not into me that way, okay, I get it. That was rather clear the first time, you know, on Thursday." He glares at Francis. "So I don't really see the point -"
"No!" Francis says quickly, grabbing Arthur's sleeve. Arthur almost pulls away but, seeing the desperation in Francis's eyes, doesn't. "I... I want to be closer to you than that. Romantically. I want to kiss you, I want to wake up with you in the morning and make you coffee, I..." He looks away, embarrassed.
"That doesn't make sense," Arthur says flatly.
Francis gives a sheepish half smile. "I know."
---
They end up at Francis's flat again. Arthur knows he is going to get a lot of flak from his colleagues on Monday for leaving early, but some things (well, a lot of things) are more important than stupid fashionable parties.
Francis has lost the suit jacket and untucked his shirt, and right now he is making coffee for himself and hot chocolate for Arthur. While Arthur waits, he looks around the apartment. There are bookshelves lining every wall and they're all full of notebooks, old paperbacks, stacks of paper... There is more paper on the coffee table too, and although the furniture is fashionable, it's old and worn. This is a writer's apartment, Arthur thinks, and breathes in the smell of books and ink and Francis's aftershave.
When Francis returns he places two mugs on coasters on the table, and sits next to Arthur on the couch. "You can... ask questions, I suppose," he says, "though this really doesn't have to... be anything." He rubs his hands together, determinedly looking anywhere but Arthur's face. "I appreciate, I mean... Thank you, Arthur, for... coming here."
Francis's adam's apple bobs up and down when he swallows and that leads Arthur's gaze back down to those tempting collarbones, and... He frowns. "So... you like me. But you don't want to have sex with me, which means..." He picks up the mug of hot chocolate, cradling it in both hands. "I don't get it. Why don't you find someone with whom you want to have sex?"
"Because," Francis says, and smiles halfway, "in thirty-three years I have never found anyone... attractive in that way."
"But you..." Arthur frowns. "Boyfriends? Girlfriends?"
"I have had them, yes," Francis says and chuckles. "It isn't impossible, you know, and sometimes there will be certain people..." He pauses, frowns, and shakes his head, starting over. "Just because I am not sexually attracted to anyone does not mean I cannot like them romantically. Like, ah, like you." And then he smiles and Arthur can't help but notice the way Francis hunches his shoulders, slightly defensive and hopeful at the same time. He's given this talk before, Arthur can tell, and from the way he's acting...
"What are people's usual reactions to this sort of thing?" Arthur asks.
Francis shrugs. "Confusion. Disbelief. Some of them leave, I suppose. And, ah, the door is open?" Once again, there's that hidden vulnerability in his eyes as he gestures toward the door.
"Don't be stupid," Arthur says brusquely, when what he really wants to do is grab Francis and tell him it's going to be all right. But he doesn't know that for sure; he's still not even sure if he has forgiven Francis, or whether he cares, or if this even makes sense. But he doesn't like the hurt look in Francis's eyes. That he knows.
His response, at the very least, elicits a smile from Francis. "I try not to be stupid," he says. "But I still owe you an apology, for last Thursday; I was drunk, and I just wanted you, your company, and I forgot - or at least I didn't think - about what you wanted, and I'm sorry."
"You kissed me first," Arthur says, almost petulantly. He feels like he's getting in over his head... into something, though he's not sure what. He's not even drunk and still, this is largely eluding his grasp.
"I don't mind kissing," Francis replies, almost sheepish again. "It's nice, with the some people. People I like. And it's not slimy if you do it right. My first kisses were terrible, but I think that might be a universal experience."
It probably is a universal experience, because Arthur's first kisses were terrible too. "And," he says, grasping at straws, "you're really the biggest flirt I've ever met, and I don't understand..."
Now Francis grins and shrugs. "Just because I don't like sex doesn't mean I can't like everything else, does it?"
"No," Arthur says. He supposes it doesn't.
---
Arthur ends up spending the night. He tells Francis he needs some more time to think about things, really think, and that he's not sure he understands all of it. But by the time they're finished talking (and they don't only talk about sex; somehow the conversation meanders to movies and high school and where they thought they'd be by now), it's two-thirty a.m., and he doesn't see anything wrong in falling into bed with Francis. Chastely, of course.
Francis presses his lips in a quick good night kiss, then rolls over, keeping a good distance between them. Arthur falls asleep staring at the ceiling, but when he wakes up in the morning, Francis has somehow managed to snuggle into his side, and Arthur himself is rock hard. He sighs and bites his lip, thinking about everything he's ever fantasized about doing to and with the man currently sleeping at his side.
"Oh, fuck," Arthur mutters, and rolls off the bed to find the shower.
---
Arthur borrows a t-shirt and pants from Francis; they are almost the same size, though Arthur has narrower hips. Francis makes them pancakes.
"I suppose what I am trying to say is," Francis says, putting two plates, two sets of utensils, and two cups onto the small dining table, "that I would... like to have a relationship with you, of some... some sort, as if that were not clear already." He laughs a little, and Arthur marks the tension high in his shoulders as he turns to tend the stove.
Arthur himself isn't quite sure how to react. He supposes it's a good thing, or at least he's not opposed to a relationship with Francis. Of some sort. He likes Francis. In fact, he finds Francis disgustingly attractive, even, which is why he adds, "But no sex."
There's a lull in the conversation as Francis slides out the last two pancakes, making a stack of six - three for each of them. He puts the stack on the table as well, in the middle, as well as a small container of syrup. "Not... sex," he says finally, equivocally, "but of course I would not expect you to enter into a relationship devoid of, ah, physical affection."
"So, kissing," Arthur surmises.
Francis smiles.
"More than kissing?"
The smile grows wider.
---
They discuss boundaries over pancakes; it is surprisingly businesslike. Francis even procures a notebook for the occasion; once their discussion is finished, he tears out the page and hands it to Arthur. Written in Francis's barely legible scrawling, it looks like... no list Arthur has ever seen:
Allowed:
Hugging
Kissing
Hand-holding
Nonsexual touching
Not allowed:
Penetrative sex
Groping (without warning)
Oral sex (A giving, F receiving)
Conditional:
Oral sex (F giving, A receiving)
Mutual masturbation &
Hand jobs
"Right," Arthur says, and licks his lips. They're still not... official yet, though Francis's cooking is divine. He puts the list in his pocket when he leaves.
---
That Monday, Francis visits Arthur at work, just around lunchtime, and invites him to a Chinese place just a few blocks away. Arthur agrees, and as they walk, he is extremely aware of Francis's gloved fingers, dangling just inches away from his own. All he has to do is reach out...
But he doesn't, not in time, anyway, and by the time he's just about mustered the courage (because it's a commitment, isn't it, all this reaching and holding) they're already in the restaurant. The server, obviously on familiar terms with Francis, gives them a secluded corner table.
"I'm paying," Francis says as soon as they sit down, and overrides Arthur's protest. "It's cheap, don't worry." He smiles, and Arthur feels his stomach do a lazy sort of flip at the way Francis's eyes look, and his hair... Everything, really.
He sighs.
"I was just, I was just thinking," Francis says and taps his menu with nervous fingers, pretending to skim it but not reading a thing, "if you didn't want this, what I'm offering, anything, I mean, it's alright. Which is to say, I understand, and I would still like to be friends with you?" He glances up and gives Arthur a small smile. "I'm sorry; you say I'm so good at flirting but that's only the superficial things. I'm, ah, rather awful at, at all this..." He waves a hand in an all-encompassing gesture.
"Oh no, it's fine," Arthur replies automatically, "I don't mind Chinese."
There's a pause, barely a breath, and then both of them start laughing, Francis first, snickering, and then Arthur joining in with a sheepish chuckle. "I mean," he says quickly, trying to cover up his misunderstanding, "it's that..."
He attempts to reach across the table to grab Francis's hand but almost knocks over his water. It takes a few breathless seconds to sort that all out and then, finally, he says, "I like you too. Not that it wasn't obvious. I've probably said it before." He meets Francis's eyes and looks away; he's shit at romance too.
A few moments pass, when neither of them is willing to say anything. A server comes and takes their orders, Arthur pointing wildly at the first thing on the menu he sees, not having glanced at it beforehand.
"Well," Francis says.
"Well," Arthur agrees, and smiles at him.
---
If anyone asked (no one does), Arthur supposes he would call Francis his "boyfriend," though that's not really what Francis is - which isn't to say he's less than any of that; it's just that he's Francis, and Arthur is Arthur.
And now Francis has practically moved into Arthur's flat, or is it Arthur who's moved into Francis's flat? He finds Francis's papers on his kitchen table; he finds his own drafts of articles on Francis's dresser. Their two flats are, he imagines, becoming one flat; soon they'll be mirror images of each other and he won't know which one he's in until he looks out the window.
Winter comes inexorably and they haven't had sex, real sex anyway, but then, Arthur finds himself asking, what is real sex? Penetration, sure, that's obvious, but there are so many other things, and different ways to achieve satisfaction, and it doesn't make you any less of a person for wanting those sorts of things or not wanting anything at all.
He says as much to Francis one day while Francis is doing a writer sort of thing, staring out the window at the foggy streets. And Francis laughs. "That's terribly maudlin of you, Arthur, really." His smile is brilliant, Arthur thinks.
"Shut up, it's true," Arthur says, and his prickliness is more from habit than actual defensiveness.
"But I also give amazing blow jobs," Francis adds, and that's got something to do with sex, Arthur supposes, but it's not everything, it's just a thing.
He smiles at Francis. "That you do."