[Fanfic] Youth in Rebellion [CH2/4]
Youth in Rebellion
Chapter Two: Two Centimeters Short
» Rating: T
» Classification(s): Humor, Romance
» Warnings: Language, Sexual Situations
» Pairing(s): Arthur/Francis (England/France)
» Summary: AU. Young Arthur Kirkland is being rebellious. He's sick of rules, tired of being good, and just wants to change himself for the dirtier. So why isn't anyone but this beardy French frog taking him seriously...! ? M in future.
[ Chapter One]
» Disclaimer: I don't own APH. I don't own this title. I don't even own this plot! It's a (relatively) shameless rip-off of a manga by Yukimura, "Usotsuki wa Dareda (spin-off)". But.. it was just too perfect... I couldn't resist. Following that storyline, then, there will be three chapters, and one extra special bonus chapter with the smex in it. :-) I am nothing if not benevolent.
Into the silence of the very early morning, a cellphone rang on a nightstand. The high pile of blankets in the bed next to it twitched, and grunted. The insistent, grating ring continued, prompting an angry groan, and the barely discernible figure of a person stuck a hand out from under several layers to fumble for the offending, noise-making object. After a few minutes, more ringing and much more mumbled cursing, the phone was silenced. The hand retracted, and there was quiet.
Another annoyed grumble, and the hand returned to the nightstand, patting around on its surface until it fell on the tight coil of a tape measure. The tape was pulled under the covers, and the pile rustled and wiggled as the boy at the bottom of it... measured.
After a moment, the pile was shoved violently to the side and one Arthur Kirkland was revealed, wearing a scowl that could have curdled milk. "Bloody, buggering hell," he whispered. He flung the tape away from him, into the dim, soft darkness of his bedroom, and sighed heavily.
The window was cracked open from the night before, and the room was cooler for it. Through the open pane birdsong and the sweet smell of a spring morning seeped into the room. There was still some time before he had to get up for school, and so he tugged the pile of comforters back over him, twisted in them like a caterpillar in an extremely bulky cocoon and prepared to doze.
Or mope. Arthur's eyes blinked open and he glowered at the blank expanse of his wall. Well, what exactly had he been expecting? Some kind of, of magical growth spurt, from one night to the next? There were pills for this kind of thing on late night television, but Arthur had never understood the attraction until this very moment.
Damn that pervert, anyway.
But really, Arthur thought gloomily, damn him, for not being able to do this one thing Francis wanted.
When he came to the salon that evening, the 'FERMÉ' sign was already up and Frenchman was behind the counter, counting out piles of bills. "Ah, Arthur," he said, looking up as the door jingled. "Sorry, not quite finished with this. Go on up." He fished in a pocket and slid his key across the counter to him. "Do you think you could start the water for the pasta, mon petit?"
Enough time had passed that they were comfortable like this, sharing dinner a few times a week and occasionally for other suitably friendly activity. Nothing really dramatic. Nothing, truth be told, really romantic. It was driving Arthur a bit crazy to be honest, as their behavior with each other could not really be classified as dating. But they were dating. Right? Francis was his... boyfr-? Ergh, no, that sounded awful. Lover? No, because Arthur didn't measure up. Significant other person? Bloody hell, it sounded like code.
And what was he to Francis?
"Would you like me to make dinner, then?" he asked, rather than the 'Tell me what you think of me, RIGHT NOW!' that wanted to erupt.
That jerked Francis's attention from the calculator he'd been using. "Mon petit, I am deathly frightened of you in my kitchen alone as it is. Do you not remember what happened last time?"
Who knew that yorkshire puddings burned purple? "I'll follow the recipe."
Francis raised an eyebrow. "You know I do not cook from recipes."
"Please?" Arthur wheedled. "I've been getting better. You said so yourself."
"Better does not mean good." But a reluctant smile was flickering around his mouth.
"I want to cook for you," Arthur said, widening his eyes a bit and blinking.
Francis chuckled, and leaned in to kiss his forehead. "Petit charmeur, I cannot refuse such a look from a boy who normally never stops scowling at me." He flicked his nose. "But, start the water first, please. At least then you will have something to throw on the flames."
He turned his attention back to the money, and Arthur indulged in a "Hmph!" before trudging up the stairs to the apartment.
By now, Arthur knew Francis's kitchen very well, and felt it reflected the man's eclectic personality to a tee. Odd spices crammed the cabinets, the plates were all weirdly-shaped, handmade glazed pottery from some artist friend, and the fridge was piled high with fresh bits of everything. Herbs grew in fragrant profusion on the windowsill.
In a cabinet on the far wall, a small collection of ancient cookbooks was nearly subsumed by jars and bottles. He pulled one out at random and opened to a middle page.
French. He should have expected that.
It took some digging, but waving away powdery clouds of nutmeg and cloves he finally had a cookbook, in English, with fairly simple recipes. Arthur discarded his uniform jacket and tie and rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow. After his first experiments, Francis had said in sincere and perfect horror that he could never date a man who couldn't cook. So Arthur cooked. Practice made perfect, right? In his case, practice also involved the fire department on a more or less regular basis, but that would change. Eventually.
Close to an hour later, Francis's footsteps echoed up the stairwell and sent him scrambling for the last presentation plate. He slid into his chair with enough force that it rocked just as the doorknob turned, and the Frenchman warily poked his head into the apartment.
"I thought I smelled smoke," he said suspiciously.
"It was nothing!" Arthur said brightly. "Come in! Eat!"
There was a bit of a breathless moment as Francis seated himself, picked up a spoon, and took a delicate bite of the colorful array splattered across the plate.
"... pas mal," the man judged, with a grudging note of surprise.
"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Arthur cried.
Francis gestured broadly with the spoon, adopting a lecturing tone. "It is acceptable. Overdone, a bit greasy, and far too salty, but, it is not on fire. You are learning."
Arthur let out his breath in an explosive whoosh and dug in to his own portion. "Well, it tastes great to me," he mumbled around a mouthful.
Francis shuddered. "We will have to work on that too, mon petit."
The dinner continued amicably until Francis saw the state of his kitchen-"Sacre bleu, mes CASSAROLES!"-and ordered Arthur to scrub each pot and pan until they shone like mirrors. Grumbling but meek, Arthur pulled on the apron Francis threw at him and waded in.
By the time the last of the dishes done, it was nearing midnight. Arthur wearily dried the last of the knives and set the towel aside, slipping out of his apron and wandering out into the living room where he'd heard the telly come on before Francis had banished him to the kitchen.
The man was on the floor, head propped on a small pillow and apparently fast asleep. It occurred to Arthur to be mad...
But Francis looked so good, even beardy. He'd taken the tie out of his hair and the strands spread out around his chiseled face like a halo of gold. Arthur's fingers itched to touch them, stroke them away from those cheeks and kiss those barely parted lips until Francis woke, gave him that dirty smile of his-and-
And imagination failed him, as he had yet to get past second base with the man he was probably dating. Almost certainly was dating.
Almost certainly was enough for a kiss.
Arthur had knelt down and his lips had barely brushed over the ripe softness that were Francis's lips when they suddenly curved under his mouth. Arthur jerked back as the man's eyes slitted open, and he smiled at him with the lazy sensuality of a cat.
"Sorry," Arthur felt compelled to mumble.
"Cher Arthur," Francis murmured, sitting up as well. "Don't tell me that that was enough for you?"
Arthur felt flushed, too warm from the bare contact and the insinuating words. "Erm," he began, looking down at his knees. "If possible, a bit more...?"
"Then come here," Francis purred, voice like dark velvet, and without waiting captured Arthur's mouth with his own and proceeded to light every nerve the boy had on fire. Oh God, hot and wet and messy enough to make Arthur's blush go supernova. He had had virtually no experience of his own before this, and might have felt embarrassed at his ineptness had their kisses allowed any room for thought at all. Francis was just too good at this, he thought blurrily. As his heartbeat pounded louder and was echoed by a second, more insistent beat between his legs he had the wild thought of flinging his arms around Francis's neck, overbalancing them back onto the floor and losing some of these clothes--
He moaned into the kiss and Francis chuckled, nipping lightly at his lower lip before breaking contact. Arthur swayed after him before he caught himself.
I have such an indecent imagination...
... and no centimeters to back it up.
"No matter how much time passes, you have such a cute kiss," Francis whispered. He stretched, and Arthur watched the play of muscle under his shirt hungrily. "Oh! It's so late. Do you need a ride home?"
Francis was a truly a mystery. He kissed Arthur, teased him, called him fruity French pet names like 'charmeur' and 'mignon', wound him up into slippery knots of uneasy, all-consuming desire-and then drove him home and left him with a pat on the head, like a dog.
Just because he kisses me, doesn't mean he likes me.
"He's about... ten years older, or something like that, right?" he mused aloud. "I'm still growing taller, but..."
But, three centimeters. Arthur yanked the covers up over his head and curled on his side. Another night, another mope. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to will his churning mind to settle.
I'm not at the point where we can actually date. Be a couple.
But he kisses me whenever I ask. Does that mean he's just... playing around with me?
"IGGY!"
The shout nearly launched him into the stratosphere, and he choked on a scream as the first thing he saw were the lambent orange eyes of the family cat. He scrambled back until his back hit the wall, and as his night vision adjusted saw two identical silhouettes against the light from his open bedroom door.
"Bloody buggering hell, what are you two doing out of bed at this hour?" he yelled furiously. Alfred, the little monster, was squeezing the poor cat until its eyes bulged and giggling madly. Matthew at least looked apologetic.
"Sowwy, big brother. It was Alfwed-"
"Bloody buggery hell! Bloody buggery hell!" the imp sang happily.
Arthur blanched. "Oh, no. No no no."
"Bloody buggery!"
"Stop SAYING that, what if Mum-"
"BLOODY BUGGERIES~!"
"ALFRED--"
At that point, the beleaguered cat had had enough. With an ear-splitting scream of outrage, it clawed its way out of Alfred's vise-like grip and scrambled for the safety of the hallway.
There was a short two-second pause as the toddler stared at his scratched arms. "Ah-!" He looked up at Arthur in utter shock, tears beginning to run down his cheeks. "AH--!"
Matthew resolutely clapped his hands over his ears.
Alfred screamed, a pure, perfect, piercing note of agony that was one of his specialties. Ignoring the tinny ringing in his ears that probably signaled permanent damage, Arthur picked up the howling child and grabbed Matthew's hand, tugging him into the hall and to the bathroom, where band aids and kisses were liberally administered.
His mother, as always, was away on a shoot, but since the day he'd met Francis the hard ball of hurt and anger he'd felt at her absences had eased, had almost disappeared entirely. He owed him so much.
This isn't just playing around. I just haven't reached that guy yet.
But... even when I do, if I do, would he be mine?
"I'll try confessing one more time," he decided aloud.
"Hrm?" Matthew mumbled, tucked into Arthur's bed. Alfred, on his left, kicked out in his sleep.
Alfred absently patted his downy head. "Shh... go to sleep, Matty."
He left them there, grabbing his jacket and cell on the way out.
... the answer has probably changed.
Well, at least the lights were on. That was a good sign.
The rear access door had been propped open with a cinderblock, another good omen. How sad and pointless to have come all the way here, and not be able to get in.
Breath fogging around his head like smoke, Arthur gazed up in trepidation at the lit windows, hand on the frigid metal of the handle. The first time, alcohol and the strange weight of a day full of weirdness had carried him through to the blurted declaration. Cold and sober, could he say it again?
As he entered the mildly less arctic air of the stairwell, the sound of a door banging open and voices echoed down to him. One belonged to Francis. A brief flare of panic froze his feet to the treads and he fought the urge to duck back, instead leaning slowly over the middle railing to see up to the second-floor landing. Just in time, as it happened, to see framed in Francis's open doorway the spectacle of a another man apparently attempting to suck the Frenchman's tonsils out through his open mouth.
In much the same way that the conductor of a crashing train absorbs the exact design and colors of the graffiti on the wall he is about to hit, so Arthur took in all of the details: Francis, smiling, in that one pair of pajama bottoms with little naked mermaids and seashells. The mysterious man, shorter, white-haired but not old, cheeks flushed, singing "Love yoooou," in a German accent thick as batter and hanging off of Francis like a limpet. Francis, gently disentangling his arms and responding, "I know you do, you horrible drunkard. Until next week." Laughter, and "Ja, if you can stand to be away from my awesomeness for that long!"
Then, Francis glancing down the stairs.
At this point, Arthur's body made the decision without his stupefied brain to leave. Quickly. He'd almost made it out the door, too, when Francis's voice reached him. "Arthur! ARTHUR! Wait!"
And then, of course, he could only stand there facing the door and wait for the damn frog and his German boytoy to come all the way down the stairs after him.
"Ooh, Frans, is this him?" the German said suddenly as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "It is, isn't it?"
"Gilbert, please do me the very large favor of leaving immediatement, s'il te plait," Francis said, with an edge.
"Ja, ja, I'll leave you," the German snickered, and slapped Arthur on the back as he pushed past to the door. "Guten nacht, mein liebe!"
From behind him, Francis asked, "Are you coming up?"
"... sure."
The next few awkward minutes found them facing each other across the kitchen table, Arthur studying the wood grain with great attention and Francis gazing meditatively at him, sprawled back in his chair and slowly sipping a mug of the coffee that the boy had refused.
"Is something the matter, mon petit? Coming here so late."
The electronic buzz of the overhead light was loud in the silence.
"Gilbert... he's just a drunken fool."
"... why are giving me that kind of excuse?"
Francis set the mug down with a sharp clunk. "Because, you... aren't you upset about something?"
Yes. He was. It burst from him, the virulent anger coiled in his gut surprising even him. "Is there anyone who wouldn't be upset, when they figured out they were just being played around with?"
Francis jerked back like he'd been slapped. "What? Playing?"
"Haven't you been playing with me this whole time? We...! You...! Do you realize it's been a WHOLE YEAR since we first met?" Arthur yelled, eyes screwed shut. "Kissing... SAYING all those things you do... I know I have huge eyebrows and can't cook and can't speak your damn frog-language and I'm too young and short and just a student, but this is it! It's all I've got! And if it wasn't good enough you should have just, just, told me in the first place and not started anything, any of this! IF I WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH YOU SHOULD HAVE--!"
Francis struck the tabletop with a closed fist, hard enough that the sound echoed like a gunshot through the apartment. Arthur was startled into silence, and to his utter horror felt wetness on his cheeks.
"What are you saying?" Francis asked, low and dangerously even. "Aren't you the one who's been playing with me?"
"What?" Arthur said blankly.
"Your 'love' seems fairly weak," the man said bluntly. "Do you really like me, mon petit? If you consider the fact that you have been coming here for an entire year and have yet to pursue anything beyond a kiss? You hardly touch me, when we do kiss. Even when I begin something, it feels like romancing a particularly shy glacier!"
"B-but," Arthur sniffled. "But!"
"'But'?" Francis quoted cruelly.
"BUT I'M STILL TWO CENTIMETERS SHORT!"
A pause.
"...eh? Two centimeters?"
"W-when I first confessed, y-you said I had to grow three centimeters there."
"What? Where?"
"There."
"Oh. Ah!"
Arthur stared at him in complete consternation. "You forgot? I... I measured every day...!"
"Is... that so?" Francis said, voice quivering. His shoulders started shaking, and he hung his head down.
"Francis?" Arthur asked, concerned.
And with that, the other man was down for the count, laughing hugely while Arthur's confusion abated and pique grew. "Trois centi- c'est impossible! C'est physiquement impossible! Oh la la, trois centimètre-!"
"Impossible?" Arthur picked that much up, at least, from the stream of French that made it between bursts of laughter. He stood up from his seat, leaning forward across the table. "You mean, you weren't playing with me after all? Hey!"
With one last wheezy chuckle, the Frenchman closed a hand around his where it fisted on the table and looked up into Arthur's desperate gaze. "Mon petit, I am the type that gets tired of playing easily. I would not play for a whole year. From this view, I am very, how do you say? Pure of heart." He brought his hand to Arthur's face and the boy leaned shamelessly into the soft touch. Francis ruefully shook his head. "Truly, cher Arthur, I've felt very flustered! I didn't understand your attitude at all. I thought, perhaps you do not like doing it?"
I thought I hadn't reached him.
"Doing... it...? You mean, doing it?" Of course he liked doing it!
Francis's slow smile was very... unpure. "Then, do you want...?"
"YES!" Arthur hurriedly exclaimed, and bruised their lips in his eagerness. Francis seemed to like it, arching into it with a little groan that flash-fried higher functions from Arthur's brain. He enjoyed the sensation. Moreover, he enjoyed the sensation of being free to wrap his arms around Francis's neck and crawl across the table into his lap without any stinging second thoughts about three centimeters.
That lasted for about five minutes.
"As for size... I guess l'amour will make up for it?" Francis drawled, with a pointed stare at Arthur's crotch.
Arthur yanked his shirt down to cover his tented pants and glared. "That's the kind of thing I'd rather you not say, even if you think it!"
More Frog Bits:
- sacre bleu - my god
- casserole - pot/pan