[Axis Powers Hetalia] Are You Sleeping, Brother John? [England/France]
Title: Are You Sleeping, Brother John?
Author/Artist: halflight007/
lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/France
Rating: M
Warnings: fade-to-black sex, SENSITIVE SUBJECT MATTER LIKE WHOA, may be triggering, French Revolution, secondhand depictions of child abuse.
Summary: Arthur only got to see the nursery twice; once before Francis’s Revolution, and once after.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back. Title comes from a French song
Author’s Notes: Uh…yeah. This is one of the darkest things I think I've written, and one of those things where there are no words, so I’ll apologize in advance to anyone expecting smut, fluff, or WAFF and promise you that I have a lot more fluffy, sweet things on the way. France, why are you such an easy puppy to kick.
___
Arthur shouldn’t be surprised when he finds the great git in the nursery, but he can’t help but just stop and stare.
He’s Francis. No, he is more than that, Arthur thinks - he is France itself. He’s regarded as a country of culture and elegance.
But right now, he’s a man fast asleep on the carpeted floor, snoring loud and long as he presses his face into a doll’s dress. The candlelight casts thin highlights in his hair and shadows on his face.
And Arthur almost thinks he’s beautiful when he realizes that the daft bastard is fast asleep on the floor of the children’s room.
Arthur huffs out a sigh and puts a foot in the room, opening his mouth to tell the poncy twit off.
Someone giggles in that same moment, low and sweet. Arthur freezes, and his eyes dart about the room.
He sees the laughter’s owner in the next instant; a small, slippered foot stepping out from behind the couch, a single eye peeking around the corner. Dark ringlets fall over a small shoulder, and green eyes glint in the candlelight. Just below, a small head pokes around and watches Francis’ sleeping form with a cautious face.
A girl slips out from behind the couch and presses one small, slim finger to her lips when she sees Arthur.
“Marie Therese,” he mouths, which means that boy must be the Dauphin. My, how they’ve grown, and they’re asking him to be quiet. But why would they want him to stay silent?
He gets his answer as he watches the children creep towards Francis’ prone form on tiptoe. Arthur’s eyes flick down to catch Francis’s, the blue a deep navy in the darkness.
Francis grins up at him and winks before closing both of his eyes and relaxing his face. Arthur smirks in response and leans against the door, watching and waiting to see how this will unravel.
The children creep closer. Three steps away…two….
“Raaaaagh!” Francis sits up, turns his face to the children, and growls with bared teeth. The children shriek and giggle, starting back only a step or two.
“Get him!” Marie Therese shouts, and they both jump on him.
“Oh, oh noooooo~!” Francis flops on the ground, garnishing his actions with great melodrama, all but inviting the children crawl and paw at his prone form. “Oh, please, my lieges, have mercy on me!”
“Never!, Louis Joseph shouts, leaning on Francis’ legs.
Arthur bites his cheek when he realizes he’s smiling. The bastard does not need to see that. Fortunatey, Francis’ head snaps up the minute he hears whimpers from the opposite corner of the room.
“Ah - Louis Charles!” The children scramble off Francis’ form and he stands, running to the cradle and lifting something from within.
The children look at their toes and blush. Arthur smiles as he walks into the room, kneels in front of Francis’s royal children, and bows his head. “Lady Marie-Therese,” he murmurs, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Your Royal Highness Louis-Joseph.”
They both remember their manners in a sudden rush; Marie blushes and curtsies, while Louis bows.
Arthur’s smile fades a little when he sees Louis’ shoulders shake with hidden coughs, remembering how sickly this oldest child is. “Why aren’t you two in bed?” Arthur asks with a gentle smile, though he makes his voice loud enough for Francis to hear as well.
“We - we wanted to surprise Francis -”
“And you certainly did,” Francis says, walking over, an infant cradled in his arms. “But if your mother comes in and catches you two like this, she will be after my hide. So off to bed with you two, come on.”
Marie pouts, but trudges off to her little bed; Louis is not far behind, covering his mouth with his fist as he stifles his hacks with his shut mouth and his hand. Arthur helps by tucking Marie in, while Francis pulls the sheets over Louis’ body and runs his fingers through the other’s hair. “Francis?” Louis asks.
“Mm?”
“Will I be stronger when I’m king?”
Arthur watches as Louis wraps his tiny arms around Francis’ waist; Francis curls a hand over Louis’ shoulder. Only Arthur sees the smile fade, sees the darkness and worry flare to life behind those too-blue eyes.
“I have no doubt you will,” Francis murmurs, giving Louis’ shoulder two pats. Louis smiles and lies back, permitting Francis to kiss him on the forehead. “I also know that you will get better if you sleep well, little one.”
Louis yawns, and Francis smiles and smoothes his hair back before making his way over to Marie’s bedside. “And the same goes for you, Madame Royale,” he murmurs.
Marie pouts up at him, but she still lifts her head to kiss his cheek before lying back and shutting her eyes.
Arthur starts as the baby whimpers; Francis shushes the infant in response, bouncing the bundle in his arms as he makes his way over to the loveseat. Arthur leans over the back and watches the child’s gray eyes and the fuzz of dark hair. Francis croons nursery songs to the boy (“Frère Jacques, frère Jacques, dormez-vous? Dormez-vous ? ”), and Arthur just watches Louis-Charles’s eyes flutter shut to the sound of Francis’s liquid, lulling voice.
“That lullaby sounds familiar,” Arthur murmurs, watching Francis press a small kiss to Louis-Charles’s temple. Francis’ smile flits over his face, enigmatic and lovely as Arthur walks back with him to the crib.
“It should,” he murmurs, and pulls Louis-Charles’ blankets up around the boy’s chin. Francis turns dark, vibrant blue eyes on Arthur’s face, picks up the candle from the bedside table, and beckons Arthur out the door. “I sang it to you, once upon a time.”
Arthur blinks. “You did?”
“Oui.” Francis turns his face away from Arthur onto the streets outside. Arthur watches the corner of Francis’ eye crease and crinkle, troubled and torn as he watches people walk by in the streetlights, weaving in and out of sight.
“Is it bad?” Arthur tries to make his voice as gentle and tactful as possible. He fails when Francis sighs and looks at the floor.
“I do not like to think about it,” Francis says. “It feels as though….” Francis shudders and motions to Arthur. “You know how social and political rebellion and reform can be,” he murmurs. Arthur’s gut jerks, and he looks away.
“Yes. Yes I do.”
“The children help with that,” Francis says. Arthur feels an immediate shift in his attitude, something that brightens the darkness around them. “Their parents are so busy - even their mother.”
“Louis-Joseph and Marie-Therese have grown,” Arthur says. “And your prince looks much healthier - more color in his cheeks.”
“Ah, mon dauphin,” Francis chuckles, even though Arthur sees the worry collecting behind those blue eyes. “He is such a sweet boy. He bears his burden as well as he can - hopefully he will grow stronger with age and rule my people well.”
“You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”
“Louis-Joseph? Yes, but he is not my favorite - ah, here we are.” Francis pushes the door to his room open, motions Arthur in with a sweep of his arm. Arthur frowns as he walks past.
“Not your favorite? What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
Francis shuts the door behind them, and Arthur feels the shadows of the room swath his body. “I’ve loved the children of my royal families,” Francis says, “at least until they grow up and begin to rule. I love Marie-Therese, and I love Louis-Joseph - but little Louis-Charles holds a special place in my heart.” Francis walks over to the window and closes the curtains, and he is a splash of color on crimson velvet in the flickering candlelight.
“Why’s that? I mean, that’s bollocks. Sounds like it, anyway.”
Francis turns his profile to Arthur. His little half-smile winks in and out of the shadows.
“Because he is so like somebody I know, mon Angleterre.”
Arthur’s eyes flutter as he shivers out a breath, his body reacting to the pet name Francis uses only when they’re moving in the darkness and on the sheets. “How’s that?” he asks, and ignores how his voice sounds just an octave lower.
“Hmm. Let’s see.”
A sudden rush of breath, and the candle’s flame flattens and dies out. The room curls and fills with the scent of smoke, thin and already memory-distant.
“He is a beautiful child to look at,” Francis murmurs, and Arthur strains his ears to hear boots padding on the carpet. “Those warm gray eyes, and that thin hair is so soft, so easy on the fingertips. He is such a soft and lovely baby.”
Arthur breathes in slow, lets it out in a deep rush. In. Out.
“But he is also such a fussy child - a light sleeper, a picky eater.” Arthur jumps, body tensing at Francis’ voice prowling around him. Arthur tries to focus his eyes and see Francis’ body. He fails. “And when he doesn’t get his way -” Francis breaks off with a chuckle somewhere behind England. “He is terrifying to see.”
Arthur blinks, realizes something, and scowls. “Now wait one second, you frog, this has something to do with me, doesn’t it?”
He yelps when arms come up and circle his shoulders in response, fingers splaying on his collarbone and over his chest.
“He is so warm,” Francis murmurs into his neck. “He never grows uncomfortable to hold, even in the summer sun or on hot nights.” Arthur sighs as Francis presses a wet, open kiss to his pulse.
“And Louis-Charles, too, will only fall asleep if sung one particular little song.”
Silence for a second. Francis hums ten clear, high notes - two sets of five tones, climbing, falling, and Arthur gets it at last.
“Oh!” he exclaims, a soft sound in the silence. “Brother John!”
“Mmm?”
“That song. It’s ‘Brother John’, isn’t it?” England feels a rush of warmth and sweetness through him at Francis’s answering chuckle, the same as the rush of a breeze through the curtains. Arthur turns his face towards Francis, even as Francis bends his own head.
Their kiss is chaste, gentle, and deceptive in its lack of tongue and teeth and biting. Francis smiles against his lips and tightens his arms as he falls back onto his bed. The world becomes a mess of multi-tasking as Arthur tries to sprawl out on the comforter, take off his shirt, and kiss Francis all at the same time.
He notices the desperation in Francis’ kisses at about the same time he feels the shaking on his lover’s skin. He leans back, runs a thumb over Francis’ cheekbone. “All right?” he asks.
Francis doesn’t answer.
“Francis?”
Francis’ voice trembles. “If…if my people should revolt…if I should not remember the way we are now….”
Arthur frowns and lifts his hips into Francis’s, lets them rub together. Francis gasps and falls on top of Arthur, sprawling over his form.
“It might not even happen. Don’t think of that right now, Francis.”
“But your people -”
Arthur kisses the skin below Francis’ earlobe. “My people are behind your peasants right now. They are for the reform your people want, Francis.”
“And what if it should go the other way?” Francis voice is a tight, sharp whisper. “What if you should hate me again? It’s happened before.”
Arthur’s not sure how to respond to that. Instead, he presses his lips to Francis’, moves his hands up to the cravat and starts to loosen it. Encourages Francis to give up to the here and now; tries to make Francis believe that he, Arthur Kirkland, not England, has a bond with Francis wrought in blood and brotherhood that won’t be sundered by something like this.
And Francis believes, pressing his tongue into Arthur’s mouth. They move together. Arthur thinks that if he focuses enough, he can feel the future in his bones, the faint vibration of the ringing morning bells from the coming dawn.
___
And yet, it’s just as Francis said.
The next time they see each other, Paris’s streets are thick with blood, screams, and marvelous insanity. Arthur shivers with the memory as he walks through the castle halls and wonders if sneaking out to see Francis was worth plunging himself into this world of darkness and high, mad laughter.
Arthur almost passes the nursery, but stops in his tracks and walks back, looking in.
There are broken toys, torn sheets, and fine layers of dust littered over everything. The children’s beds are disordered and ramshackle, never cleaned or made after the royal family was spirited away in the night.
Someone shifts on the ground and hums five broken, unrecognizable notes.
Arthur feels his gut shift when he recognizes the man on the floor, clutching dirty baby blankets to his chest.
He feels sicker when he sees that the man’s shirt is red, rusty with blood. Some of it is still fresh and smeared on the delicate sheets.
Blue eyes and a thin smile are his only greeting. And for once, Arthur doesn’t know how to respond.
“They say he died of consumption,” Francis murmurs, his voice high and eerie. A brown bottle slips from his fingers and rolls back and forth on the floor, spilling some of its contents.
Arthur can’t read what the label says beneath the skull-and-crossbones. He doesn’t want to.
“They - they said he was fine with Monsieur Simon,” he said. “They - they never told anyone of how his parents did not love him anymore, how they made him sick with venereal disease. They never told anyone of the humiliation - the fear - they never told anyone of how he cursed and swore on his parents’ names, how he was threatened constantly with the guillotine.”
Francis breaks off and laughs, broken, quiet. Arthur slips into the room, slow and careful, as though trying to calm and capture a rabid lion.
“They never knew of how he died without any human contact, all alone in a filthy cell. But I know, dear Arthur. I know. They made me bring the dauphin his food, every day.” He rubs his cheek against the blankets; some dried, crusted blood smears on the white. “I was the one who listened to his silence.” He grins, and his teeth glint in the darkness. “The bastards didn’t think to test his food for poison.”
“Francis.” Arthur’s lips and tongue feel so numb.
“It’s for the best, right?” Francis laughs so hard that he almost cries. “The people do not want a monarchy. Louis-Charles does not have to suffer. And I….” Francis’ eyes are wild as they bore into Arthur’s. “I do not have to watch the boy grow up into a power-guzzling, arrogant, pompous bastard who would -”
Arthur surges forward and folds Francis tightly in his arms. Francis freezes as Arthur presses a dry kiss to Francis’ blood-stained cheek.
They don’t say anything for a few moments.
Then Francis starts to tremble, hard, hard enough to dislocate all the joints in his body. Hands come up and clasp at his back.
“They took my children from me,” he whispers in horror. “They - God took Louis-Joseph, and the Holy Roman Empire had to take in little Marie to save her - God, dear God, why Louis-Charles? Why did the dear have to suffer?”
Arthur feels warmth spot his shoulder, and he knows it’s staining his nice clothes. He doesn’t care. He clings, and he listens.
“Hush, poppet,” he soothes, smoothing Francis’ hair as he descends into babbling, sloppy French. “It’s all right. He’s sleeping now, Francis.”
Bells in the distance, the roar of a crowd. Somewhere in between, Arthur’s mind fills the silence with the swoop of a guilloutine’s blade.
“Brother John’s asleep.”
___
Notes:
- Marie-Therese was the eldest of Louis’s children, and got fairly lucky (as far as luck goes in a situation like this), as she was the only one in her family to survive the Reign of Terror. She was liberated on her seventeeth birthday and went to her cousin, the Holy Roman Emperor Francis II, and went on to marry Louis-Antoine, who was a Duke. She died at age 72 of pneumonia. She was known as “Madame Royale” by the court.
- Louis-Joseph was born next and became the heir to the throne, but he was a very sickly boy. He died when he was 7. Dauphin County, Pennsylvania, was actually named after him to thank France for their help in the American Revolution. source
- Louis-Charles was actually meant to be prince after his brother, but was imprisoned and watched up until the day he died. According to records, he died of consumption and was poorly cared for - you can click on the link to see all the things his guardian apparently did to him (and some of it was hinted at in the fic, as well). After the Simons left France, he was walled in and secluded from all other people, and never spoke of his mistreatment out of fear. He died when he was ten years old, and though he was technically the “ruler” of France for two years, he never actually reigned. source
There’s…not really anything you can say after something like this. Comments/concrit are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!
Author/Artist: halflight007/
lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/France
Rating: M
Warnings: fade-to-black sex, SENSITIVE SUBJECT MATTER LIKE WHOA, may be triggering, French Revolution, secondhand depictions of child abuse.
Summary: Arthur only got to see the nursery twice; once before Francis’s Revolution, and once after.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back. Title comes from a French song
Author’s Notes: Uh…yeah. This is one of the darkest things I think I've written, and one of those things where there are no words, so I’ll apologize in advance to anyone expecting smut, fluff, or WAFF and promise you that I have a lot more fluffy, sweet things on the way. France, why are you such an easy puppy to kick.
___
Arthur shouldn’t be surprised when he finds the great git in the nursery, but he can’t help but just stop and stare.
He’s Francis. No, he is more than that, Arthur thinks - he is France itself. He’s regarded as a country of culture and elegance.
But right now, he’s a man fast asleep on the carpeted floor, snoring loud and long as he presses his face into a doll’s dress. The candlelight casts thin highlights in his hair and shadows on his face.
And Arthur almost thinks he’s beautiful when he realizes that the daft bastard is fast asleep on the floor of the children’s room.
Arthur huffs out a sigh and puts a foot in the room, opening his mouth to tell the poncy twit off.
Someone giggles in that same moment, low and sweet. Arthur freezes, and his eyes dart about the room.
He sees the laughter’s owner in the next instant; a small, slippered foot stepping out from behind the couch, a single eye peeking around the corner. Dark ringlets fall over a small shoulder, and green eyes glint in the candlelight. Just below, a small head pokes around and watches Francis’ sleeping form with a cautious face.
A girl slips out from behind the couch and presses one small, slim finger to her lips when she sees Arthur.
“Marie Therese,” he mouths, which means that boy must be the Dauphin. My, how they’ve grown, and they’re asking him to be quiet. But why would they want him to stay silent?
He gets his answer as he watches the children creep towards Francis’ prone form on tiptoe. Arthur’s eyes flick down to catch Francis’s, the blue a deep navy in the darkness.
Francis grins up at him and winks before closing both of his eyes and relaxing his face. Arthur smirks in response and leans against the door, watching and waiting to see how this will unravel.
The children creep closer. Three steps away…two….
“Raaaaagh!” Francis sits up, turns his face to the children, and growls with bared teeth. The children shriek and giggle, starting back only a step or two.
“Get him!” Marie Therese shouts, and they both jump on him.
“Oh, oh noooooo~!” Francis flops on the ground, garnishing his actions with great melodrama, all but inviting the children crawl and paw at his prone form. “Oh, please, my lieges, have mercy on me!”
“Never!, Louis Joseph shouts, leaning on Francis’ legs.
Arthur bites his cheek when he realizes he’s smiling. The bastard does not need to see that. Fortunatey, Francis’ head snaps up the minute he hears whimpers from the opposite corner of the room.
“Ah - Louis Charles!” The children scramble off Francis’ form and he stands, running to the cradle and lifting something from within.
The children look at their toes and blush. Arthur smiles as he walks into the room, kneels in front of Francis’s royal children, and bows his head. “Lady Marie-Therese,” he murmurs, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Your Royal Highness Louis-Joseph.”
They both remember their manners in a sudden rush; Marie blushes and curtsies, while Louis bows.
Arthur’s smile fades a little when he sees Louis’ shoulders shake with hidden coughs, remembering how sickly this oldest child is. “Why aren’t you two in bed?” Arthur asks with a gentle smile, though he makes his voice loud enough for Francis to hear as well.
“We - we wanted to surprise Francis -”
“And you certainly did,” Francis says, walking over, an infant cradled in his arms. “But if your mother comes in and catches you two like this, she will be after my hide. So off to bed with you two, come on.”
Marie pouts, but trudges off to her little bed; Louis is not far behind, covering his mouth with his fist as he stifles his hacks with his shut mouth and his hand. Arthur helps by tucking Marie in, while Francis pulls the sheets over Louis’ body and runs his fingers through the other’s hair. “Francis?” Louis asks.
“Mm?”
“Will I be stronger when I’m king?”
Arthur watches as Louis wraps his tiny arms around Francis’ waist; Francis curls a hand over Louis’ shoulder. Only Arthur sees the smile fade, sees the darkness and worry flare to life behind those too-blue eyes.
“I have no doubt you will,” Francis murmurs, giving Louis’ shoulder two pats. Louis smiles and lies back, permitting Francis to kiss him on the forehead. “I also know that you will get better if you sleep well, little one.”
Louis yawns, and Francis smiles and smoothes his hair back before making his way over to Marie’s bedside. “And the same goes for you, Madame Royale,” he murmurs.
Marie pouts up at him, but she still lifts her head to kiss his cheek before lying back and shutting her eyes.
Arthur starts as the baby whimpers; Francis shushes the infant in response, bouncing the bundle in his arms as he makes his way over to the loveseat. Arthur leans over the back and watches the child’s gray eyes and the fuzz of dark hair. Francis croons nursery songs to the boy (“Frère Jacques, frère Jacques, dormez-vous? Dormez-vous ? ”), and Arthur just watches Louis-Charles’s eyes flutter shut to the sound of Francis’s liquid, lulling voice.
“That lullaby sounds familiar,” Arthur murmurs, watching Francis press a small kiss to Louis-Charles’s temple. Francis’ smile flits over his face, enigmatic and lovely as Arthur walks back with him to the crib.
“It should,” he murmurs, and pulls Louis-Charles’ blankets up around the boy’s chin. Francis turns dark, vibrant blue eyes on Arthur’s face, picks up the candle from the bedside table, and beckons Arthur out the door. “I sang it to you, once upon a time.”
Arthur blinks. “You did?”
“Oui.” Francis turns his face away from Arthur onto the streets outside. Arthur watches the corner of Francis’ eye crease and crinkle, troubled and torn as he watches people walk by in the streetlights, weaving in and out of sight.
“Is it bad?” Arthur tries to make his voice as gentle and tactful as possible. He fails when Francis sighs and looks at the floor.
“I do not like to think about it,” Francis says. “It feels as though….” Francis shudders and motions to Arthur. “You know how social and political rebellion and reform can be,” he murmurs. Arthur’s gut jerks, and he looks away.
“Yes. Yes I do.”
“The children help with that,” Francis says. Arthur feels an immediate shift in his attitude, something that brightens the darkness around them. “Their parents are so busy - even their mother.”
“Louis-Joseph and Marie-Therese have grown,” Arthur says. “And your prince looks much healthier - more color in his cheeks.”
“Ah, mon dauphin,” Francis chuckles, even though Arthur sees the worry collecting behind those blue eyes. “He is such a sweet boy. He bears his burden as well as he can - hopefully he will grow stronger with age and rule my people well.”
“You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”
“Louis-Joseph? Yes, but he is not my favorite - ah, here we are.” Francis pushes the door to his room open, motions Arthur in with a sweep of his arm. Arthur frowns as he walks past.
“Not your favorite? What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
Francis shuts the door behind them, and Arthur feels the shadows of the room swath his body. “I’ve loved the children of my royal families,” Francis says, “at least until they grow up and begin to rule. I love Marie-Therese, and I love Louis-Joseph - but little Louis-Charles holds a special place in my heart.” Francis walks over to the window and closes the curtains, and he is a splash of color on crimson velvet in the flickering candlelight.
“Why’s that? I mean, that’s bollocks. Sounds like it, anyway.”
Francis turns his profile to Arthur. His little half-smile winks in and out of the shadows.
“Because he is so like somebody I know, mon Angleterre.”
Arthur’s eyes flutter as he shivers out a breath, his body reacting to the pet name Francis uses only when they’re moving in the darkness and on the sheets. “How’s that?” he asks, and ignores how his voice sounds just an octave lower.
“Hmm. Let’s see.”
A sudden rush of breath, and the candle’s flame flattens and dies out. The room curls and fills with the scent of smoke, thin and already memory-distant.
“He is a beautiful child to look at,” Francis murmurs, and Arthur strains his ears to hear boots padding on the carpet. “Those warm gray eyes, and that thin hair is so soft, so easy on the fingertips. He is such a soft and lovely baby.”
Arthur breathes in slow, lets it out in a deep rush. In. Out.
“But he is also such a fussy child - a light sleeper, a picky eater.” Arthur jumps, body tensing at Francis’ voice prowling around him. Arthur tries to focus his eyes and see Francis’ body. He fails. “And when he doesn’t get his way -” Francis breaks off with a chuckle somewhere behind England. “He is terrifying to see.”
Arthur blinks, realizes something, and scowls. “Now wait one second, you frog, this has something to do with me, doesn’t it?”
He yelps when arms come up and circle his shoulders in response, fingers splaying on his collarbone and over his chest.
“He is so warm,” Francis murmurs into his neck. “He never grows uncomfortable to hold, even in the summer sun or on hot nights.” Arthur sighs as Francis presses a wet, open kiss to his pulse.
“And Louis-Charles, too, will only fall asleep if sung one particular little song.”
Silence for a second. Francis hums ten clear, high notes - two sets of five tones, climbing, falling, and Arthur gets it at last.
“Oh!” he exclaims, a soft sound in the silence. “Brother John!”
“Mmm?”
“That song. It’s ‘Brother John’, isn’t it?” England feels a rush of warmth and sweetness through him at Francis’s answering chuckle, the same as the rush of a breeze through the curtains. Arthur turns his face towards Francis, even as Francis bends his own head.
Their kiss is chaste, gentle, and deceptive in its lack of tongue and teeth and biting. Francis smiles against his lips and tightens his arms as he falls back onto his bed. The world becomes a mess of multi-tasking as Arthur tries to sprawl out on the comforter, take off his shirt, and kiss Francis all at the same time.
He notices the desperation in Francis’ kisses at about the same time he feels the shaking on his lover’s skin. He leans back, runs a thumb over Francis’ cheekbone. “All right?” he asks.
Francis doesn’t answer.
“Francis?”
Francis’ voice trembles. “If…if my people should revolt…if I should not remember the way we are now….”
Arthur frowns and lifts his hips into Francis’s, lets them rub together. Francis gasps and falls on top of Arthur, sprawling over his form.
“It might not even happen. Don’t think of that right now, Francis.”
“But your people -”
Arthur kisses the skin below Francis’ earlobe. “My people are behind your peasants right now. They are for the reform your people want, Francis.”
“And what if it should go the other way?” Francis voice is a tight, sharp whisper. “What if you should hate me again? It’s happened before.”
Arthur’s not sure how to respond to that. Instead, he presses his lips to Francis’, moves his hands up to the cravat and starts to loosen it. Encourages Francis to give up to the here and now; tries to make Francis believe that he, Arthur Kirkland, not England, has a bond with Francis wrought in blood and brotherhood that won’t be sundered by something like this.
And Francis believes, pressing his tongue into Arthur’s mouth. They move together. Arthur thinks that if he focuses enough, he can feel the future in his bones, the faint vibration of the ringing morning bells from the coming dawn.
___
And yet, it’s just as Francis said.
The next time they see each other, Paris’s streets are thick with blood, screams, and marvelous insanity. Arthur shivers with the memory as he walks through the castle halls and wonders if sneaking out to see Francis was worth plunging himself into this world of darkness and high, mad laughter.
Arthur almost passes the nursery, but stops in his tracks and walks back, looking in.
There are broken toys, torn sheets, and fine layers of dust littered over everything. The children’s beds are disordered and ramshackle, never cleaned or made after the royal family was spirited away in the night.
Someone shifts on the ground and hums five broken, unrecognizable notes.
Arthur feels his gut shift when he recognizes the man on the floor, clutching dirty baby blankets to his chest.
He feels sicker when he sees that the man’s shirt is red, rusty with blood. Some of it is still fresh and smeared on the delicate sheets.
Blue eyes and a thin smile are his only greeting. And for once, Arthur doesn’t know how to respond.
“They say he died of consumption,” Francis murmurs, his voice high and eerie. A brown bottle slips from his fingers and rolls back and forth on the floor, spilling some of its contents.
Arthur can’t read what the label says beneath the skull-and-crossbones. He doesn’t want to.
“They - they said he was fine with Monsieur Simon,” he said. “They - they never told anyone of how his parents did not love him anymore, how they made him sick with venereal disease. They never told anyone of the humiliation - the fear - they never told anyone of how he cursed and swore on his parents’ names, how he was threatened constantly with the guillotine.”
Francis breaks off and laughs, broken, quiet. Arthur slips into the room, slow and careful, as though trying to calm and capture a rabid lion.
“They never knew of how he died without any human contact, all alone in a filthy cell. But I know, dear Arthur. I know. They made me bring the dauphin his food, every day.” He rubs his cheek against the blankets; some dried, crusted blood smears on the white. “I was the one who listened to his silence.” He grins, and his teeth glint in the darkness. “The bastards didn’t think to test his food for poison.”
“Francis.” Arthur’s lips and tongue feel so numb.
“It’s for the best, right?” Francis laughs so hard that he almost cries. “The people do not want a monarchy. Louis-Charles does not have to suffer. And I….” Francis’ eyes are wild as they bore into Arthur’s. “I do not have to watch the boy grow up into a power-guzzling, arrogant, pompous bastard who would -”
Arthur surges forward and folds Francis tightly in his arms. Francis freezes as Arthur presses a dry kiss to Francis’ blood-stained cheek.
They don’t say anything for a few moments.
Then Francis starts to tremble, hard, hard enough to dislocate all the joints in his body. Hands come up and clasp at his back.
“They took my children from me,” he whispers in horror. “They - God took Louis-Joseph, and the Holy Roman Empire had to take in little Marie to save her - God, dear God, why Louis-Charles? Why did the dear have to suffer?”
Arthur feels warmth spot his shoulder, and he knows it’s staining his nice clothes. He doesn’t care. He clings, and he listens.
“Hush, poppet,” he soothes, smoothing Francis’ hair as he descends into babbling, sloppy French. “It’s all right. He’s sleeping now, Francis.”
Bells in the distance, the roar of a crowd. Somewhere in between, Arthur’s mind fills the silence with the swoop of a guilloutine’s blade.
“Brother John’s asleep.”
___
Notes:
- Marie-Therese was the eldest of Louis’s children, and got fairly lucky (as far as luck goes in a situation like this), as she was the only one in her family to survive the Reign of Terror. She was liberated on her seventeeth birthday and went to her cousin, the Holy Roman Emperor Francis II, and went on to marry Louis-Antoine, who was a Duke. She died at age 72 of pneumonia. She was known as “Madame Royale” by the court.
- Louis-Joseph was born next and became the heir to the throne, but he was a very sickly boy. He died when he was 7. Dauphin County, Pennsylvania, was actually named after him to thank France for their help in the American Revolution. source
- Louis-Charles was actually meant to be prince after his brother, but was imprisoned and watched up until the day he died. According to records, he died of consumption and was poorly cared for - you can click on the link to see all the things his guardian apparently did to him (and some of it was hinted at in the fic, as well). After the Simons left France, he was walled in and secluded from all other people, and never spoke of his mistreatment out of fear. He died when he was ten years old, and though he was technically the “ruler” of France for two years, he never actually reigned. source
There’s…not really anything you can say after something like this. Comments/concrit are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!