22. Crumble
Shattered. Pieces of the large plate scatter across the floor, and a vague obscenity echoes through the room. Francis chuckles to himself from the other room; his caterpillar hasn't changed in over two thousand years. But silence greets him, instead of the sounds of glass being swept away. Listening closer, he realises that maybe Arthur is different. Instead of simply picking up the pieces and moving on (like so many other events in their long lives), soft weeping reaches his ears.
Arthur is standing in the kitchen, surrounded by glass as his fists clench in frustration. Another curse falls from his lips, eyes bright with frustration. "It's always the same fucking thing," he murmurs, oblivious to Francis' presence. Francis expects him to pick up the broom, or simply magic the pieces away. His eyes widen, though, when Arthur leans down to grab the shards bare-handed, palms bloodied in a shockingly short amount of time.
His heart breaks into as many pieces as the plate when he sees Arthur grip them tight, blood dripping into the waste basket. The Englishman is in One of His Moods, the state of mind that causes Francis' heart to ache and mourn for his caterpillar. Throwing the shards away, Arthur moves to wash his hands, and Francis can stand and watch no longer.
He spans the room in only a few steps, graceful arms looped around the other's middle to pull him close. A hand covers Arthur's mouth first, before covering his eyes. He does not speak - only inhales the scent of Earl Grey tea and morning rain showers. For once, Arthur doesn't struggle. He knows it's a battle he won't win.
"Pas maintenant," he murmurs softly. "Jamais. Ce n'est jaimais la même chose, mon papillon." And as Arthur slowly translates, he can't help but crumble against Francis.
[I'm not so fond of this one. I'll probably end up re-writing it. I had this image of France covering England's face, to calm him down or something, and it wouldn't go away.
Translations: "Not now. Never. It is never the same thing, my butterfly."]
Arthur is standing in the kitchen, surrounded by glass as his fists clench in frustration. Another curse falls from his lips, eyes bright with frustration. "It's always the same fucking thing," he murmurs, oblivious to Francis' presence. Francis expects him to pick up the broom, or simply magic the pieces away. His eyes widen, though, when Arthur leans down to grab the shards bare-handed, palms bloodied in a shockingly short amount of time.
His heart breaks into as many pieces as the plate when he sees Arthur grip them tight, blood dripping into the waste basket. The Englishman is in One of His Moods, the state of mind that causes Francis' heart to ache and mourn for his caterpillar. Throwing the shards away, Arthur moves to wash his hands, and Francis can stand and watch no longer.
He spans the room in only a few steps, graceful arms looped around the other's middle to pull him close. A hand covers Arthur's mouth first, before covering his eyes. He does not speak - only inhales the scent of Earl Grey tea and morning rain showers. For once, Arthur doesn't struggle. He knows it's a battle he won't win.
"Pas maintenant," he murmurs softly. "Jamais. Ce n'est jaimais la même chose, mon papillon." And as Arthur slowly translates, he can't help but crumble against Francis.
[I'm not so fond of this one. I'll probably end up re-writing it. I had this image of France covering England's face, to calm him down or something, and it wouldn't go away.
Translations: "Not now. Never. It is never the same thing, my butterfly."]