(no subject)
Arthur’s hard-on is gone by the time he gets back to his room. He’s grateful for that, because with it went all his anger. Now he just feels drained and heavy as he unlocks his door and walks into the room. He closes his eyes, and the first thing he sees in the darkness is Francis’ face.
With a soft curse he shuts his door, the swear firm and solid on his ears. He takes off his suit jacket, opens the nearby closet door and hangs it up along with his tie. Arthur doesn’t want to think about that right now. He just wants to lay down on his bed and sleep.
Arthur sighs, turning to his bed.
“Tiring day, Arthur?”
Arthur blinks, and his eyes go wide.
Matthew and Alfred sit on his bed, their faces spread with too-wide smiles that speak no good for him.
“Why don’t you come have a seat?” Alfred asks, and before Arthur can object Matthew stands, grabs his wrist, and tugs him down onto the bed with them.
“Yeah,” Matthew adds, smirking in a way that sets alarm bells off in Arthur’s head. “No better place to rest after a tiring day, after all.”
“How the hell did you get in my room?”
“We had Lovino pick the lock for us,” Alfred answers. He smirks and tightens his grip as Arthur tries to pull his hand away.
“We paid him in tomatoes,” Matthew adds with a grin. His grip, too, is iron-tight around Arthur’s other wrist.
Arthur realizes it’s futile to struggle, and instead settles for glaring at the two of them. “What do you want?” he asks, trying to sound as firm as possible.
“Nothing really,” Alfred says, and lets go of Arthur as Matthew jerks his wrist and makes him face Alfred. Once he’s eye-to-eye with Arthur, Alfred’s smile melts into something a bit angrier. “I just want to tell you what an absolute dick you’re being.”
Arthur sputters and scowls. “Th-that is no way to speak to your - GAH!” he says, cut off by something hard connecting with the back of his head.
Arthur straightens up and glares at Matthew, who just glares right back at him. Should have whipped respect into them before they became independent, he thinks.
“Thank you, Matthew. Now, Arthur, unless you want that to keep happening, I suggest you only talk when you have to answer a direct question. Understood?”
Arthur glowers, but bites his lip and swallows the string of curses threatening their way out.
“Good. Now then, at lunchtime today we saw you eating in a corner of the room dining room. Alone. And Francis came up to speak with you.”
Oh what the hell - are they really - But Arthur bites the inside of his cheek and keeps his mouth shut.
“But we saw you stand up and walk away from him after a few seconds.”
“Is that what this is all about? People walk away from Francis all the ti - OW! Matthew, stop that -”
“So is that the only reason why you did it?” asks Matthew, frowning. “Because other people do it?”
“No, I walked away from him because he was being his usual depraved self!”
“Really?” Alfred cocks an eyebrow, and the edge of his lips quirks up a bit. “Because it looked to me like he was just trying to be nice and give you an apple.”
“He does that when he wants me to -”
Arthur stutters and crashes to a stop as he realizes what he’s saying.
“When he wants you to screw him?” Matthew asks, and his fingers seem to be cutting off Alfred’s blood circulation.
“I - y-yes.” Arthur shoots Matthew a dirty look over his shoulder; Matthew rolls his eyes in disgust. “And who can blame me for thinking that way?” he asks as he turns back to Alfred. “The man gave me a bloody apple and called me Eve!”
Alfred snorts and bows his head. He hears Matthew burst into suspicious-sounding coughs behind him.
“It’s NOT FUNNY!”
“Well, to you it’s not. But then again you have no sense of humor.”
“Wh - we have the original Office!”
“Like I just said, no sense of humor.” Alfred’s smirking at him now, and Arthur longs for the past when he could just smack that smirk off his face.
Alfred looks at him again, but he’s not glaring - just frowning in a sad way. “Arthur. I think this means more to Francis than it means to you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Francis hasn’t shown any interest in taking this beyond sexual.”
“You’re wrong, Arthur.”
Arthur pauses. “Wait, what are you talking about? It’s a known fact that -”
Alfred reaches into his jacket. When he pulls his hand out, he’s holding the stem of a rose. The petal ends are starting to darken, the flower is starting to droop, and it smells faintly of old coffee.
Arthur can’t miss the little slip of paper tied to the stem by a gold ribbon.
Matthew’s grip on his wrist slackens, and Arthur feels himself starting to tremble a little as he reaches out and takes the rose in both hands. His fingers reach up to the small flap of paper and flick it open.
It’s good to see you again.
Francis
“…I…I’m sure it was -”
“Francis doesn’t give gifts to people,” Matthew says. “It’s a well-known fact that he thinks the greatest gift he can give people is his ‘glorious body’.”
“…This….” Arthur’s hand smoothes over the paper. “But this is his handwriting….”
“Well.” Alfred leans over, raises an eyebrow. “So it is.”
“Maybe he’s trying a change in tactics,” Arthur says, except now his voice is wavering because his mind no longer believes the bullshit his mouth spews.
“Why? What would the point be? You’re as eager to fuck him as ever, right?” Arthur can’t stand it, watching Alfred dissect his logic with cruel, crude words. “Only in certain circumstances, though, right?”
Arthur bows his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to block those words out.
“I have dignity I have to uphold,” Arthur whispers, one last plea as he looks up at Alfred.
Alfred stands, and Matthew joins his side. Their eyes are respectively merciless and sad. “Then keep upholding it,” says Alfred. “Keep your dignity at Francis’ sake.”
Matthew’s voice is more sorrowful, and somehow that hurts more. “Just remember that one day time will run out, and that dignity will be the only thing to keep you company when you’re alone.”
They turn their backs to him, Matthew taking the handle from Alfred as he walks out.
When the door to Arthur’s room closes, he curls up on the bed, the rose clenched in his hand. His eyes won’t shut. His mind won’t let him fall asleep, even when he finally remembers to reach up and turn off the lamp.
He lays there, blanketed by darkness, and wonders how he could have ever thought himself lucky that he got one of the few single rooms.
___
Francis frowns to himself as Alfred tramples into the room, tactless and noisy as always. Sleeping is hard enough as it is; he doesn’t need Alfred going and adding to the epic headache building behind his temples.
Alfred, oblivious as always, doesn’t quiet down a bit, and Francis has to lie through his humming and trampling. It’s quite annoying.
Arthur’s not like that. He may hate me, but he’s at least got respect for those he dislikes.
He smiles a bit, remembering mornings when he pretended to sleep in just to watch Arthur walk through the room, soundless as possible, shooting glances at him over his shoulder that looked almost tender through squinted eyes.
He lets the smile fade, and wonders how much longer he’ll be able to carry the baggage that comes with that luxury.
Francis sighs with relief when America decides to turn off his bedside lamp and settle into his bed. He’s almost asleep again when Alfred speaks words that send him straight to wide awake all over again.
“You know, Francis, Arthur really does love roses.”
___
When Alfred asks him if he slept well the night before, Arthur returns his infectious grin with a glare.
Alfred, ever the unfeeling wanker, just laughs, taking a seat next to Canada as the other nations begin to file in.
Francis is last in line. Arthur watches him.
Francis looks up, happens to look over at Arthur and realize that the other man is staring at him. Their gazes catch and hold to one another.
Francis doesn’t wink or leer. He doesn’t even smile, or wave. He just looks at Arthur with tired eyes. England feels something in his stomach lurch when he thinks he might have caused that.
Francis looks away first, his eyes dropping to the polished table surface as he slides into his chair.
Arthur knows he has no right to feel hurt - but he does. Francis’ reaction stings.
But Arthur is a nation whose history is marked with wars and bombings; he has a personality given over to bullish stubbornness and a certain order of things.
It’s because of this that he spends about five more seconds kicking himself for being such a bastard.
And then his thoughts are geared only towards ways that he can set this right.
___
“Hi.”
Francis blinks and lifts his head. He shouldn’t be surprised to come face-to-face with Arthur. Shouldn’t being the objective word.
“…Arthur.” He feels like he should smile, wink, do something, but he’s weary and tiring of this game. So he just sits there, his arms crossed on the table, and stares up at Arthur as he shifts from foot to foot.
“…Um. Can I sit here, or are you waiting for…”
“Non, non, it’s open.” Francis lifts his hand and waves it. “Sit down, if you wish.”
Arthur pauses, and then slides into a seat across from Francis. Francis watches his fingers curl, grip, relax, move towards his tray. Francis isn’t really hungry, so he’s fine with watching Arthur eat.
What he doesn’t expect is for Arthur to pick a small bowl of strawberries off his tray and shove it towards him. “Here,” Arthur says, his voice tight and low.
Francis blinks, not quite processing that the bowl is his. “U…uh. P-pardonnez-moi,, Arthur, but I think those are your -”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about of course those are yours you got them from the cafeteria didn’t you?” Arthur shoves his mouth full of mashed potato and cuts off any argument Francis could make.
Francis blinks again, staring down at the bowl of strawberries. He doesn’t smile, because he feels like he’ll jinx this…whatever is going on.
But he does pull the bowl closer, picking out a particularly large strawberry and taking a bite.
The burst of ripe flavor on the tip of his tongue banishes his lacking appetite. Still, he takes his time eating the strawberries, picking up one at a time, suckling the juice from the fruit before sinking his teeth in and biting off another small portion.
On a whim, he looks up to find Arthur staring at him, mouth threatening to fall open, his potatoes almost gone but everything else untouched.
Francis looks back, his gaze neutral. His lover’s heart, however, splits into an evil grin.
He takes the last strawberry and draws it out, a spider-thin thread on a spindle. He takes longer in sucking, pursing his lips; sometimes he throws his tongue into the mix; and every now and then he’ll make a small sound and glance up at Arthur, who grows steadily redder with each quick look.
He’s sure that Arthur’s panting when he places the last stem in the bowl. “Bloody hell, Francis,” is all he can say after a few seconds.
“Haha. That is nothing. You should see me when I eat bananas.”
Someone bursts into snickers close behind him, followed by loud coughing. So Alfred and Matthew are sitting behind them.
“Wanker,” Arthur mumbles, but he doesn’t look up as he scoops up the last bite of pot roast.
Francis stares at Arthur, tries to catch his eyes. He succeeds, for a moment, and feels himself go breathless at the look he sees, the heat and the lust that darken those light green eyes.
It’s almost as though he’s looking into the pirate that Arthur Kirkland once was, and the thought makes his body feel a little warmer.
“Tell me, Francis, do you like ice cream?”
Francis meets that gaze head on. “Oui,” he says.
“It’s a shame they don’t have any here.”
“Indeed.”
“You know…Alfred’s told me there’s a nice little coffee shop that sells ice cream down the block. The last meeting isn’t until tomorrow.”
Francis raises an eyebrow. “And how do you propose we get out of here? I don’t feel I need to remind you that we’re locked in - assassination and terrorism and those terribly inconvenient fears.”
He hears two chairs scrape the floor. “Matthew, do you want to go back to my room and watch movies?” Alfred asks, his voice loud and monotone.
“That sounds great, Al. Maybe we can watch Finding Nemo, eh?” Matthew’s voice sounds a little more natural. But only a little.
Arthur doesn’t speak until Matthew and Alfred leave their hearing range. “Well,” he says. “That’s a shame.”
“Oui. Quite a shame.”
They sit and stare at each other with awkward smirks and comfortable grins.
They are the only ones that don’t start screaming and running when the fire alarm starts blaring and the automatic spray turns on.
“Oh, look at that.” Arthur’s voice is matter-of-fact as he looks up at the water drenching them both.
“Très pratique,” Francis adds.
They move in the same moment. Francis is faster, out of his seat and towards the door before Arthur. But that’s okay. All he has to do is grab Arthur’s wrist and pull him along as they both run through the spray and panicked bodies, towards the nearest exit.
Francis decides to chance a glance over his shoulder for a moment and peeks back at Arthur.
Arthur’s grinning face looks back at him.
Francis can’t help it. The sound in him bubbles up, sudden and unexpected, and they both laugh as they run out of the building and across the concrete.
___
They’re still chuckling when they slow to a stop. Arthur has since taken the lead, though Francis’ hand is still gripping his wrist.
“It should be…right around…ah, there it is.” Arthur comes to a stop in front of a small café. The neon light in the window informs them that it’s called Uptown Coffee.
“Alfred said that their ice cream was his favorite, but we didn’t have time to - oh, shoot.” Arthur reaches into his pocket, coming away with a cellphone that’s still vibrating. “You go on in and order - I happen to like their peanut butter fudge flavor.”
Francis stands there for a moment, staring as Arthur flips open his phone and starts talking. He doesn’t stick around when Arthur motions him in with a flick of his wrist.
Francis takes his time looking over the flavors while he waits in line, though his thoughts are mostly on Arthur’s changing behavior and attitude.
He remembers the days when Alfred was a pirate, a soldier, a fighter. He remembers the days before stiff rules and social niceties buried the swashbuckler with a cocky smirk and a cocked gun. They had been beautiful, the two of them, and Francis keeps that image in his heart when he thinks of Arthur.
“…nd send those flowers to room 202 by tomorrow, please - yes, that’s fine. Thank you.” Francis jolts back into himself when Arthur claps a hand down on his shoulder. “Have you ordered yet, Francis?”
Francis looks up and blushes as he realizes he’s been standing here this whole time. The grumbling behind him is indistinct and disgruntled, and the attendant is watching him with raised eyebrows.
“Here, Francis, let me pay for this. You go find us a table.”
“B-bien, Francis stutters, turning away and leaving the line. It’s not until he’s found a seat - a small corner table facing out towards New York’s streets - that he realizes that Arthur’s paying for both of their ice creams. “Merde,” he mutters, and digs his coin purse out of his pocket.
He lays two bills down on the table only to have them covered by a bowl filled with chocolate toffee ice cream. Arthur sits across from him, taking a spoon and slipping it into Francis’ bowl; Arthur himself holds a cone.
“Ah, Arthur - how much was my bowl of -”
“Put your money away, Francis.”
“Pourquoi? You were kind enough to pay for le treat, you should not -”
“It’s on me today,” Arthur says. Francis knows that tone of voice doesn’t permit argument.
He tries anyway. “I-I would not want to inconvenie -”
Arthur grabs one of Francis’ hands, guides it to the plastic spoon. “It’s. On. Me.” And Arthur smirks, a quick quirk of the left side of his mouth. “Now shut up and eat your bloody ice cream.”
And Francis suddenly finds himself smirking back as his fingers wrap around the plastic handle. “Si vous insistez,” he replies, and spoons some ice cream into his mouth before he tucks the two dollars back into his pocket.
They sit in silence for a bit after that, enjoying the silence and each other (or so Francis likes to think). He spends his time looking at Arthur - the green eyes looking out the window, the way his hands grip the cone, the pink tongue that flicks out and licks at the ice cream. (Francis spends a lot of time looking at that tongue).
“Hey, Francis.”
“Uh, tong - I mean, oui?”
Arthur quirks an eyebrow but decides to let it slide. “You do realize that the boys got that atrocious behavior from you, right?”
Francis stares at Arthur and knows he must look pretty stupid, but he really has no idea what Arthur’s trying to say.
“Oh, come on. You don’t think Matthew and Arthur got their harebrained tactics from me, do you?”
Francis thinks he’s catching on as he leans back in his chair. “You mean the…”
“Yep. Those were our boys crying wolf back there with the fire alarm.”
Francis chuckles, leaning back in the chair. “Mon Dieu,” he mutters, bringing a hand up to cup his forehead.
“That’s where Alfred gets it from, at least. I think.”
“I didn’t even raise him!”
“Yes, but you were the one who encouraged his rebellion, if I recall correctly.”
“Mes excuses, Arthur, but you weren’t exactly the most lenient of parents.”
Francis is sad when Arthur only thinks about this for a little, hums in agreement. “No, I guess you’re right,” he says. (Arthur is cute when he gets worked up.)
They focus on their ice cream a little more. It’s starting to warm up, and the chocolate is soft and decadent on Francis’ tongue.
“…We’re not terribly good at small talk, are we?”
Francis snickers. “Non. We’re not.”
“It’s just….” Arthur pauses, mouth open, tongue partway out to lick at his ice cream. Francis is disappointed when he ends up closing it. “It’s…different from what we usually do.”
Francis smile fades a little. He doesn’t do anything but nod and look out over the streets and people walking.
“We used to only get together to have sex,” Arthur murmurs. He might be eating his ice cream - Francis isn’t sure, because he’s not looking at Arthur. “You’d come to me and do or say something lewd, and we’d shag -”
“ - but not without you making un bruit horrible - ”
“Don’t interrupt. But…that would be it.”
Francis doesn’t look at Arthur.
“…When did it change for you?”
Francis jerks back a bit in his chair, frowning thoughtfully at England. “Quoi?”
“This…this arrangement we have. The fuckbuddies thing.” Francis doesn’t like England’s intense look, but he can’t look away. “When did it become something more to you?”
“Sometime in 2007,” Francis says. The words come to his lips in an instant. “The first time I made love to you, rather than you doing me.” There’s a small wisp of cloud in the sky, and he watches it disappear behind a skyscraper. “You were drunk, and I was tipsy. But you were beautiful, though still stubborn. Telling me what you wanted rather than making me try to decide…”
Francis shudders, takes another bite of ice cream. “I regretted it - taking you while drunk. Even though you said ‘thank you’ and kissed me. But even so, I liked that side of you - the honest, stubborn side. I wanted to get to know it more.”
Francis glances over at Arthur and has to look away again, because he just looks so stricken and it hurts him.
“And at some point, I lost my head and fell in love.”
“So…so for two years, then, you’ve…” Arthur sounds faint. Francis is second guessing himself now. “Oh…Christ, Francis, why didn’t you just say something?”
This, too, comes to Francis in an easy wave. “I was in love. In love, Arthur. That hadn’t happened before. I had no idea what to do. I…” Francis tries to think of words, fails, tries again. “I suppose you Englishmen would call it un manque de notion.”
A pause.
“Francis, that’s French.”
“Oui. And you would not say it in French.”
Neither one of them laugh. Their ice cream is starting to dribble.
“Let’s finish our dessert,” murmurs Arthur. “We’ll be missed at the headquarters if we’re gone too long.”
“Oui. We will.”
Still, they don’t move for quite some time.
___
Part I // Part II // Part III