[FIC] A Home for Christmas
Title: A Home for Christmas
Author: mikkary_bones
Rating: PG/K+
Prompt: Can't take my eyes off you (what_the_fruk holiday event, day one)
Notes: Based on the famous FrUK doujinshi Long November. If you haven't read it, go check it out! Basically, Francis is a photographer who lives with Arthur and his dog, Al, for a year. The day Francis leaves, Arthur calls him to tell him he loves him, and then the doujinshi ends. I've been meaning to do something with this universe for a while. It's pretty weird, though, writing a fanfiction of a fanwork....
Winter in London was cold, but not as cold as it had been in Germany, and Francis found the change of climate refreshing, though he did miss walking in the clean snow that would blanket the fields in the rural German town where he had stayed. Here it was wet, crowded... and Christmas Eve.
He knew the way by heart, from the Underground station to Arthur's small house. He could have walked it blindfolded, really; he felt like they were settling back into grooves that had been made a year ago. Like clockwork, everything was falling back into place.
This was where he belonged, Francis thought, or at least it was a place where he belonged more than anywhere else in the world. And who would have thought that he would have found London, London of all places, feeling like home? Not him, certainly, two years ago, when he had travelled here in search of an escape, or at least some kind of ending.
Francis adjusted the luggage in his hands. This time, he had packed more than a camera and his passport. He had clothes, photography equipment, souvenirs from Germany (Christmas presents), and even a few groceries, and the bags seemed to get heavier by the minute. His steps slowed, too, until he came to a stop outside a small electronics shop that was blaring Christmas carols from its outside speakers. It wasn't that he was unsure about Arthur's, well, feelings for him. Arthur had made them perfectly clear when he left the year before. Francis had been so close to leaving the airport right then -- getting out of the boarding line and hurrying back to Arthur's, to their house.
But he hadn't. He had said, "I love you too," hung up the phone, and stepped onto the plane, shedding a year in London like an old coat. And now, here he was again. He had promised Arthur, hadn't he, to be back the next year? And they had talked, occasionally, while Francis was in Germany. But no promises were made, and eventually their communication had slowed until it was just Francis sending Arthur a note on the back of a photograph, just like the old days, maybe once every two months. He wondered if Arthur had forgotten him. It had been more than a year -- a year was long enough, wasn't it? If it was long enough to fall in love, maybe it was long enough to fall out of love. Maybe Arthur -- irascible, prickly, lonely Arthur -- had found someone new.
And who could blame him, really? When you were lonely, you would cling to whatever person or thing made you feel less lonely. Like Francis and his camera, and later, like Francis and Arthur and Al the dog. And now Francis, still lonely, was coming back.
It had seemed to him a good idea to make this a surprise, and so he hadn't left Arthur any hints aside from a scribbled note on the back of a picture of some cows: My assignment will be over soon. I'll miss it here. He had thought his presence might make a good Christmas present. He had thought -- or rather, hoped -- that Arthur had missed him as much as he had missed Arthur.
They had lived together an entire year, and only shared one kiss. Francis wondered -- was that good enough? Was it enough to tie Arthur to him, as much as he had been tied to Arthur? He almost put down his bags right then and there. He could book a hotel room. Surely somewhere had space left, even though it was Christmas Eve. And then -- after Christmas -- he could call Arthur, tell him he was in London, ask to meet up. Reintroduce himself slowly, gently; give himself time to prepare for what heartbreak might follow.
That was the coward's way out, though, and Francis had had enough of cowardice. He had come this far, anyway. Humming along to the choral version of Auld Lang Syne coming from the shop's speakers, he hefted his luggage once more and set off down the sidewalk. It was a few blocks more, a quick left turn, and then there he was, in front of the stairs up to Arthur's lovely London house. He wondered if Arthur was home. He wondered if someone was home with Arthur. At this point, there was no way to go but forward. Al had probably seen him from the window already.
Francis climbed the stairs and felt simultaneously terrified and relieved. Terrified, because, well, who knew what was waiting for him on the other side of the door? And relieved because... he was here. He was back. It was like home.
He knocked on the door and heard Al barking from behind it. The familiar sound made him smile. But the door was locked -- it seemed like Arthur wasn't home. Francis hadn't factored that into any of his plans (truth be told, he hadn't factored much of anything into his plans, aside from that last I love you and the desire to come back to this place). Perhaps... Francis bit his lip and looked around the entryway. That brittle, half-dead potted plant was still there, and underneath it, yes, there was the spare key. Still. It was good to see that some things hadn't changed; it gave Francis hope.
As soon as he opened the door, Al was on top of him, jumping up and down, wagging his tail so hard that it nearly knocked down the end table in the hallway. Francis dropped his luggage and fell down to his knees so that Al could put his paws on his shoulders and lick his face. He hugged the warm body of the golden retriever. "Hey there, hey there, I see you missed me, at least." He was surprised to find tears in his eyes and he hugged the dog tightly before standing up again, ruffling Al's ears. "How has your master been, then? What's he doing out and about on Christmas Eve?"
Al just wagged his tail and nudged Francis's thigh with his nose. Francis laughed a little and wiped his eyes. "All right, all right. I'm glad to see you too." He flicked on the lights in the hallway and then made his way to the kitchen. The house looked much the same as it had when he had arrived for the first time, an indignant Arthur in tow. Perhaps there was more furniture. The house seemed a little more lived in. And on the refrigerator -- Francis smiled and brought a hand to his mouth upon seeing this -- were the photographs he had taken in Germany and sent to Arthur. There were those hopeless looking cows, and there, the stream he had found one day on a hike through the mountains, and there, a picture of Gilbert and the farm family with which he had been staying.
Francis picked that one up -- it had been stuck to the refrigerator with a piece of tape; apparently Arthur did not understand the concept of magnets. On the back was the date -- December 18th, more than a year ago -- and a note. It had been the first thing he had sent to Arthur.
Hello from Germany!
It is very cold here, but I've found some friends!
Tell Al not to miss me too much.
Happy Christmas! That's how they say it in England, right?
Francis
Arthur hadn't written anything else on the back -- of course not, why would he? It was displayed though, on his fridge, which, Francis felt, meant something, or should mean something. Pensively, he taped it back up, and ruffled Al's head again. The dog had been nosing at his thigh. "Sorry," Francis told him. "I don't know if you've been fed yet." He opened the refrigerator -- it was nearly empty, just like the first day he had arrived. "What to cook, then?" he asked Al, who was looking up at him with big brown eyes. "Your master's been getting takeout again, hasn't he? I thought I cured him of that habit." But Arthur could never cook.
"I suppose we can make do, can't we?" Francis asked Al, who thumped his tail against the floor. There was pasta in the cupboards (he didn't want to think about how old it was) and some red sauce -- instant, yes, but better than nothing. "I would make a run to the grocery store, but I really don't know... I mean..."
Halfway between the pantry cupboard and the stove, Francis paused, consumed once again by doubt. Though really, it was too late to be worrying about this sort of thing. But what if Arthur was already bringing something home? He supposed they could put it in the refrigerator tomorrow, if need be. And what if... what if Arthur was bringing someone home? Seeing his photographs taped up on the refrigerator had helped ease Francis's mind, but... one never knew, did one?
The pots were still in the same place, and Francis filled one with water before setting it on the stove and turning up the gas. "So how have you been, Al?" he asked the golden retriever, who had been trailing him through the kitchen. "I hope you've kept him busy." Aside from Al's panting, the only sound in the room was the faint noise from the stove. Francis shuffled his weight from foot to foot, braided and rebraided his hair behind his neck, and tapped his fingers against the counter, his anxiety slowly increasing with every minute that passed.
"It's time for some music, don't you think?" he asked Al finally. Without waiting for the dog's reply (which was just a wag of the tail, anyway), he padded to Arthur's stereo system, which must have been state of the art when it was new, but, right now, had seen better days. It took him a bit of fiddling, but eventually there was a rush of static and the radio came to life.
"-- rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing ye dismay!"
Christmas carols. London in December was always Christmas carols. Francis squatted down and fiddled with the tuner, trying and rejecting several more stations.
"-- golden oldies for Christmas Eve! Let's start off with an old favorite, Frankie Valli and 'Can't Take My Eyes off You.'"
There, that was better. Francis got to his feet and moved back into the kitchen, where the water had already begun to boil. Perfect! He poured in the spaghetti noodles. Together, he and Arthur usually ate about three or four servings. He erred on the side of caution, putting in more than usual. After all, if there was someone else coming to dinner...
That didn't matter. Francis hummed loudly along to the brassy, orchestral introduction on the radio, tapping his foot to the beat and looking around the house. Christmastime in London. Evening had come long ago; where was Arthur?
"You're just too good to be true," he sang, loud enough to forget his anxiety, as he began to waltz around with the cooking spoon. "Can't take my eyes off you. You'd be like heaven to touch; I wanna hold you so much--"
Absorbed in the song and dance, he failed to notice the sound of the door opening, or Al's abrupt absence from the kitchen. He only noticed something had changed when, on one of his turns, he happened to come face to face with Arthur in the kitchen doorway. Arthur -- his Arthur, eyebrows, messy hair, and all, in one of those absolutely terrible sweater vests, the same kind he would always wear two years ago, when it was cold.
The wooden spoon fell to the ground with a clatter even as the music continued.
At long last my love has arrived, and I thank God I'm alive. You're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off you.
"Oh," Francis said, his voice almost drowned out by the American crooner on the radio.
The expression in Arthur's green eyes was unreadable, and Francis found himself hesitating. Should they hug? Kiss? Should he -- should he fall at Arthur's feet and beg to be let back into his life? That wasn't the sort of thing Francis did, ever, but... for Arthur....
"You-- you didn't tell me you were going to come back," Arthur snapped, finally, looking away. His chest was heaving. "You could have-- called."
Francis took a small step back, his face falling. "I..." he began, and bent down to pick up the spoon. But he hesitated before retreating to the pasta, his eyes on Arthur's face.
"You could have called," Arthur snapped, his voice loud over the music, and grabbed both of Francis's wrist in a death grip. His expression was wild, his face was full of tears. "You could have called -- me."
Francis let Arthur shove him back against the wall. He remembered this, too -- tears in Arthur's eyes, these outbursts of emotions. Sometimes it had seemed like Arthur couldn't feel a thing without crying from it. Sometimes Francis envied that. When his eyes were full of tears, Arthur seemed so alive. "I could have called," he agreed, then worked his wrists free of Arthur's grasp in order to wrap his arms around Arthur. "But I thought a surprise would be nicer." Though his words were nonchalant, his voice was uneven, and he was holding onto Arthur like a drowning man clinging to a rope. "Were you lonely without me?" he asked, murmuring the question into Arthur's ear. "How do you say it... Happy Christmas?"
"You bastard," Arthur said, his shoulders shaking. "You bastard." But instead of hitting at Francis, he had wrapped his arms around him instead. Francis felt like the air was being squeezed from his lungs but he didn't mind, really. He leaned back against the wall. This meant, then, he supposed, that he was home. "What the hell is this music?" Arthur asked him, his voice muffled because his face was practically buried in Francis's shoulder.
Francis laughed a little, burying his fingers in Arthur's hair and closing his eyes. "American oldies. Frankie Valli."
-- to warm a lonely night. I love you, baby, trust in me when I say--
"It's ruining the mood," Arthur grumbled, and Francis laughed for real this time. He sank to the floor, bringing Arthur down to sprawl with him, and shoved a worried Al away (but only after the dog had managed to lick his face, twice).
"I missed you so much," Francis said. He brushed his lips across Arthur's hair. "In Germany, I had many friends, but I was lonely without you."
"Tch," Arthur said, and rubbed at his eyes. "How d'you think I felt, then, stuck in this place?"
"You did have Al," Francis said, and let the dog come within arm's length again. Al immediately started licking them both, wagging his tail wildly. Francis laughed. After a moment, Arthur did too.
Eventually, Arthur got to his feet. "Can't stand this music," he told Francis, by way of explanation. "Stay there-- I mean," he amended, looking away. "Don't, don't leave."
Francis smiled at Arthur's back. He was still the same old Arthur, and terrible at all of this. Not that Francis minded. He was out of practice himself. He picked up the spoon again and got to his feet to check on the pasta while Arthur fiddled with the radio.
Oh pretty baby, now that I've found you--
-- have snow and mistletoe, and presents on the tree.
"Christmas carols," Francis said, smiling fondly in the direction of the stove as Arthur came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist.
"What?" Arthur asked. "It's Christmas time."
Francis smiled and leaned back against Arthur's warm body. "In London, at Christmas, the songs are inescapable, I suppose," he said and stirred the noodles. "I missed London," he added. "I missed you. Germany was very nice, but it didn't have..." He waved the spoon, encompassing the kitchen. "This, it didn't have... you. Us? You said it, on the phone, as I left."
"Yeah," Arthur said, and Francis could feel his grip tightening slightly. "I did, I--"
"You said you wrote me a letter," Francis added. "Do you still have it? Will I get to see it?"
Arthur shook his head; Francis felt it against the back of his neck. "No, no, it's too embarrassing." He laughed a little. "This is embarrassing too, I just..." He rested his forehead on Francis's shoulder. "I'm sorry I never called. I didn't want to, I mean..." He sighed. "Thank you for not giving up on me."
Francis stirred the pasta, determined that it was fully cooked, and turned off the stove. Only then did he turn around to wrap his arms around Arthur. "I'm too selfish to do something like that," he said, rubbing his lips against Arthur's hair. "You know how hard it is to let go of something that helps you feel less lonely. Now... help me drain the pasta?"
"I usually get takeout, you know," Arthur said, releasing Francis reluctantly to fetch a colander and put it in the sink, dumping the water and pasta into it. He leaned back to avoid the resultant column of steam.
"Al told me," Francis said, looking at the dog, which had now lain down in the middle of the kitchen and would occasionally thump his tail in pleasure. "It's not very healthy, you know. We'll have to go grocery shopping tomorrow." Tomorrow. That word was a promise.
"Tomorrow's Christmas," Arthur pointed out, shaking the last drops from the colander and dumping the pasta back into the pot. At least he knew his way around the kitchen, even though he couldn't actually cook.
Francis grinned. "The next day, then, or the next day." He waited until Arthur put the pot down and then kissed him. It was a gentle kiss -- also a promise. "We have all the time in the world, don't we?"
It felt like home, this house in the middle of London. And London itself -- fairy lights and carolers and rainy weather -- was somewhere Francis thought that maybe (with Arthur and Al's help) he could belong. Perhaps this time, he was here to stay.
I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams...
"I don't have a present for you," Arthur said. "Because you didn't warn me you were coming." He had that grumpy look on his face -- another thing about him that Francis had learned to love.
And Francis laughed. "That's fine with me," he said, and kissed Arthur again.
Author: mikkary_bones
Rating: PG/K+
Prompt: Can't take my eyes off you (what_the_fruk holiday event, day one)
Notes: Based on the famous FrUK doujinshi Long November. If you haven't read it, go check it out! Basically, Francis is a photographer who lives with Arthur and his dog, Al, for a year. The day Francis leaves, Arthur calls him to tell him he loves him, and then the doujinshi ends. I've been meaning to do something with this universe for a while. It's pretty weird, though, writing a fanfiction of a fanwork....
Winter in London was cold, but not as cold as it had been in Germany, and Francis found the change of climate refreshing, though he did miss walking in the clean snow that would blanket the fields in the rural German town where he had stayed. Here it was wet, crowded... and Christmas Eve.
He knew the way by heart, from the Underground station to Arthur's small house. He could have walked it blindfolded, really; he felt like they were settling back into grooves that had been made a year ago. Like clockwork, everything was falling back into place.
This was where he belonged, Francis thought, or at least it was a place where he belonged more than anywhere else in the world. And who would have thought that he would have found London, London of all places, feeling like home? Not him, certainly, two years ago, when he had travelled here in search of an escape, or at least some kind of ending.
Francis adjusted the luggage in his hands. This time, he had packed more than a camera and his passport. He had clothes, photography equipment, souvenirs from Germany (Christmas presents), and even a few groceries, and the bags seemed to get heavier by the minute. His steps slowed, too, until he came to a stop outside a small electronics shop that was blaring Christmas carols from its outside speakers. It wasn't that he was unsure about Arthur's, well, feelings for him. Arthur had made them perfectly clear when he left the year before. Francis had been so close to leaving the airport right then -- getting out of the boarding line and hurrying back to Arthur's, to their house.
But he hadn't. He had said, "I love you too," hung up the phone, and stepped onto the plane, shedding a year in London like an old coat. And now, here he was again. He had promised Arthur, hadn't he, to be back the next year? And they had talked, occasionally, while Francis was in Germany. But no promises were made, and eventually their communication had slowed until it was just Francis sending Arthur a note on the back of a photograph, just like the old days, maybe once every two months. He wondered if Arthur had forgotten him. It had been more than a year -- a year was long enough, wasn't it? If it was long enough to fall in love, maybe it was long enough to fall out of love. Maybe Arthur -- irascible, prickly, lonely Arthur -- had found someone new.
And who could blame him, really? When you were lonely, you would cling to whatever person or thing made you feel less lonely. Like Francis and his camera, and later, like Francis and Arthur and Al the dog. And now Francis, still lonely, was coming back.
It had seemed to him a good idea to make this a surprise, and so he hadn't left Arthur any hints aside from a scribbled note on the back of a picture of some cows: My assignment will be over soon. I'll miss it here. He had thought his presence might make a good Christmas present. He had thought -- or rather, hoped -- that Arthur had missed him as much as he had missed Arthur.
They had lived together an entire year, and only shared one kiss. Francis wondered -- was that good enough? Was it enough to tie Arthur to him, as much as he had been tied to Arthur? He almost put down his bags right then and there. He could book a hotel room. Surely somewhere had space left, even though it was Christmas Eve. And then -- after Christmas -- he could call Arthur, tell him he was in London, ask to meet up. Reintroduce himself slowly, gently; give himself time to prepare for what heartbreak might follow.
That was the coward's way out, though, and Francis had had enough of cowardice. He had come this far, anyway. Humming along to the choral version of Auld Lang Syne coming from the shop's speakers, he hefted his luggage once more and set off down the sidewalk. It was a few blocks more, a quick left turn, and then there he was, in front of the stairs up to Arthur's lovely London house. He wondered if Arthur was home. He wondered if someone was home with Arthur. At this point, there was no way to go but forward. Al had probably seen him from the window already.
Francis climbed the stairs and felt simultaneously terrified and relieved. Terrified, because, well, who knew what was waiting for him on the other side of the door? And relieved because... he was here. He was back. It was like home.
He knocked on the door and heard Al barking from behind it. The familiar sound made him smile. But the door was locked -- it seemed like Arthur wasn't home. Francis hadn't factored that into any of his plans (truth be told, he hadn't factored much of anything into his plans, aside from that last I love you and the desire to come back to this place). Perhaps... Francis bit his lip and looked around the entryway. That brittle, half-dead potted plant was still there, and underneath it, yes, there was the spare key. Still. It was good to see that some things hadn't changed; it gave Francis hope.
As soon as he opened the door, Al was on top of him, jumping up and down, wagging his tail so hard that it nearly knocked down the end table in the hallway. Francis dropped his luggage and fell down to his knees so that Al could put his paws on his shoulders and lick his face. He hugged the warm body of the golden retriever. "Hey there, hey there, I see you missed me, at least." He was surprised to find tears in his eyes and he hugged the dog tightly before standing up again, ruffling Al's ears. "How has your master been, then? What's he doing out and about on Christmas Eve?"
Al just wagged his tail and nudged Francis's thigh with his nose. Francis laughed a little and wiped his eyes. "All right, all right. I'm glad to see you too." He flicked on the lights in the hallway and then made his way to the kitchen. The house looked much the same as it had when he had arrived for the first time, an indignant Arthur in tow. Perhaps there was more furniture. The house seemed a little more lived in. And on the refrigerator -- Francis smiled and brought a hand to his mouth upon seeing this -- were the photographs he had taken in Germany and sent to Arthur. There were those hopeless looking cows, and there, the stream he had found one day on a hike through the mountains, and there, a picture of Gilbert and the farm family with which he had been staying.
Francis picked that one up -- it had been stuck to the refrigerator with a piece of tape; apparently Arthur did not understand the concept of magnets. On the back was the date -- December 18th, more than a year ago -- and a note. It had been the first thing he had sent to Arthur.
Hello from Germany!
It is very cold here, but I've found some friends!
Tell Al not to miss me too much.
Happy Christmas! That's how they say it in England, right?
Francis
Arthur hadn't written anything else on the back -- of course not, why would he? It was displayed though, on his fridge, which, Francis felt, meant something, or should mean something. Pensively, he taped it back up, and ruffled Al's head again. The dog had been nosing at his thigh. "Sorry," Francis told him. "I don't know if you've been fed yet." He opened the refrigerator -- it was nearly empty, just like the first day he had arrived. "What to cook, then?" he asked Al, who was looking up at him with big brown eyes. "Your master's been getting takeout again, hasn't he? I thought I cured him of that habit." But Arthur could never cook.
"I suppose we can make do, can't we?" Francis asked Al, who thumped his tail against the floor. There was pasta in the cupboards (he didn't want to think about how old it was) and some red sauce -- instant, yes, but better than nothing. "I would make a run to the grocery store, but I really don't know... I mean..."
Halfway between the pantry cupboard and the stove, Francis paused, consumed once again by doubt. Though really, it was too late to be worrying about this sort of thing. But what if Arthur was already bringing something home? He supposed they could put it in the refrigerator tomorrow, if need be. And what if... what if Arthur was bringing someone home? Seeing his photographs taped up on the refrigerator had helped ease Francis's mind, but... one never knew, did one?
The pots were still in the same place, and Francis filled one with water before setting it on the stove and turning up the gas. "So how have you been, Al?" he asked the golden retriever, who had been trailing him through the kitchen. "I hope you've kept him busy." Aside from Al's panting, the only sound in the room was the faint noise from the stove. Francis shuffled his weight from foot to foot, braided and rebraided his hair behind his neck, and tapped his fingers against the counter, his anxiety slowly increasing with every minute that passed.
"It's time for some music, don't you think?" he asked Al finally. Without waiting for the dog's reply (which was just a wag of the tail, anyway), he padded to Arthur's stereo system, which must have been state of the art when it was new, but, right now, had seen better days. It took him a bit of fiddling, but eventually there was a rush of static and the radio came to life.
"-- rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing ye dismay!"
Christmas carols. London in December was always Christmas carols. Francis squatted down and fiddled with the tuner, trying and rejecting several more stations.
"-- golden oldies for Christmas Eve! Let's start off with an old favorite, Frankie Valli and 'Can't Take My Eyes off You.'"
There, that was better. Francis got to his feet and moved back into the kitchen, where the water had already begun to boil. Perfect! He poured in the spaghetti noodles. Together, he and Arthur usually ate about three or four servings. He erred on the side of caution, putting in more than usual. After all, if there was someone else coming to dinner...
That didn't matter. Francis hummed loudly along to the brassy, orchestral introduction on the radio, tapping his foot to the beat and looking around the house. Christmastime in London. Evening had come long ago; where was Arthur?
"You're just too good to be true," he sang, loud enough to forget his anxiety, as he began to waltz around with the cooking spoon. "Can't take my eyes off you. You'd be like heaven to touch; I wanna hold you so much--"
Absorbed in the song and dance, he failed to notice the sound of the door opening, or Al's abrupt absence from the kitchen. He only noticed something had changed when, on one of his turns, he happened to come face to face with Arthur in the kitchen doorway. Arthur -- his Arthur, eyebrows, messy hair, and all, in one of those absolutely terrible sweater vests, the same kind he would always wear two years ago, when it was cold.
The wooden spoon fell to the ground with a clatter even as the music continued.
At long last my love has arrived, and I thank God I'm alive. You're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off you.
"Oh," Francis said, his voice almost drowned out by the American crooner on the radio.
The expression in Arthur's green eyes was unreadable, and Francis found himself hesitating. Should they hug? Kiss? Should he -- should he fall at Arthur's feet and beg to be let back into his life? That wasn't the sort of thing Francis did, ever, but... for Arthur....
"You-- you didn't tell me you were going to come back," Arthur snapped, finally, looking away. His chest was heaving. "You could have-- called."
Francis took a small step back, his face falling. "I..." he began, and bent down to pick up the spoon. But he hesitated before retreating to the pasta, his eyes on Arthur's face.
"You could have called," Arthur snapped, his voice loud over the music, and grabbed both of Francis's wrist in a death grip. His expression was wild, his face was full of tears. "You could have called -- me."
Francis let Arthur shove him back against the wall. He remembered this, too -- tears in Arthur's eyes, these outbursts of emotions. Sometimes it had seemed like Arthur couldn't feel a thing without crying from it. Sometimes Francis envied that. When his eyes were full of tears, Arthur seemed so alive. "I could have called," he agreed, then worked his wrists free of Arthur's grasp in order to wrap his arms around Arthur. "But I thought a surprise would be nicer." Though his words were nonchalant, his voice was uneven, and he was holding onto Arthur like a drowning man clinging to a rope. "Were you lonely without me?" he asked, murmuring the question into Arthur's ear. "How do you say it... Happy Christmas?"
"You bastard," Arthur said, his shoulders shaking. "You bastard." But instead of hitting at Francis, he had wrapped his arms around him instead. Francis felt like the air was being squeezed from his lungs but he didn't mind, really. He leaned back against the wall. This meant, then, he supposed, that he was home. "What the hell is this music?" Arthur asked him, his voice muffled because his face was practically buried in Francis's shoulder.
Francis laughed a little, burying his fingers in Arthur's hair and closing his eyes. "American oldies. Frankie Valli."
-- to warm a lonely night. I love you, baby, trust in me when I say--
"It's ruining the mood," Arthur grumbled, and Francis laughed for real this time. He sank to the floor, bringing Arthur down to sprawl with him, and shoved a worried Al away (but only after the dog had managed to lick his face, twice).
"I missed you so much," Francis said. He brushed his lips across Arthur's hair. "In Germany, I had many friends, but I was lonely without you."
"Tch," Arthur said, and rubbed at his eyes. "How d'you think I felt, then, stuck in this place?"
"You did have Al," Francis said, and let the dog come within arm's length again. Al immediately started licking them both, wagging his tail wildly. Francis laughed. After a moment, Arthur did too.
Eventually, Arthur got to his feet. "Can't stand this music," he told Francis, by way of explanation. "Stay there-- I mean," he amended, looking away. "Don't, don't leave."
Francis smiled at Arthur's back. He was still the same old Arthur, and terrible at all of this. Not that Francis minded. He was out of practice himself. He picked up the spoon again and got to his feet to check on the pasta while Arthur fiddled with the radio.
Oh pretty baby, now that I've found you--
-- have snow and mistletoe, and presents on the tree.
"Christmas carols," Francis said, smiling fondly in the direction of the stove as Arthur came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist.
"What?" Arthur asked. "It's Christmas time."
Francis smiled and leaned back against Arthur's warm body. "In London, at Christmas, the songs are inescapable, I suppose," he said and stirred the noodles. "I missed London," he added. "I missed you. Germany was very nice, but it didn't have..." He waved the spoon, encompassing the kitchen. "This, it didn't have... you. Us? You said it, on the phone, as I left."
"Yeah," Arthur said, and Francis could feel his grip tightening slightly. "I did, I--"
"You said you wrote me a letter," Francis added. "Do you still have it? Will I get to see it?"
Arthur shook his head; Francis felt it against the back of his neck. "No, no, it's too embarrassing." He laughed a little. "This is embarrassing too, I just..." He rested his forehead on Francis's shoulder. "I'm sorry I never called. I didn't want to, I mean..." He sighed. "Thank you for not giving up on me."
Francis stirred the pasta, determined that it was fully cooked, and turned off the stove. Only then did he turn around to wrap his arms around Arthur. "I'm too selfish to do something like that," he said, rubbing his lips against Arthur's hair. "You know how hard it is to let go of something that helps you feel less lonely. Now... help me drain the pasta?"
"I usually get takeout, you know," Arthur said, releasing Francis reluctantly to fetch a colander and put it in the sink, dumping the water and pasta into it. He leaned back to avoid the resultant column of steam.
"Al told me," Francis said, looking at the dog, which had now lain down in the middle of the kitchen and would occasionally thump his tail in pleasure. "It's not very healthy, you know. We'll have to go grocery shopping tomorrow." Tomorrow. That word was a promise.
"Tomorrow's Christmas," Arthur pointed out, shaking the last drops from the colander and dumping the pasta back into the pot. At least he knew his way around the kitchen, even though he couldn't actually cook.
Francis grinned. "The next day, then, or the next day." He waited until Arthur put the pot down and then kissed him. It was a gentle kiss -- also a promise. "We have all the time in the world, don't we?"
It felt like home, this house in the middle of London. And London itself -- fairy lights and carolers and rainy weather -- was somewhere Francis thought that maybe (with Arthur and Al's help) he could belong. Perhaps this time, he was here to stay.
I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams...
"I don't have a present for you," Arthur said. "Because you didn't warn me you were coming." He had that grumpy look on his face -- another thing about him that Francis had learned to love.
And Francis laughed. "That's fine with me," he said, and kissed Arthur again.