Learning Experience [kiss with a fist]
title: Learning Experience
pairing: kiss with a fist
age: 29
rating: T-ish?
summary: Arthur knows that one should learn from their mistakes.
History is the best teacher; one should learn from the mistakes of the past, should understand what went wrong, should try to not make that same mistake. It's a policy that Arthur, more often than not, follows. He has a history, after all, a history of mistakes and bad decisions. Everyone's been young once, after all.
Yet here he is. Making the same mistake. A delicious mistake, for sure, but a mistake nonetheless. This has happened so many times that it would be impossible to not learn from it, to not be able to recognize the cause and avoid it.
The thing is, Arthur doesn't want to.
He likes the fine wines, the sweet scent of roses, the satin-softness of Francis's sheets that never seem to roughen, not in all the years that Arthur has know him. The gentle, reverent touches haven't changed, either, and being wooed by the Frenchman is similar to the high he feels when he walks on ice, climbs cliffs, does anything that he knows is dangerous and stupid and unhealthy.
Francis knows exactly what he's doing, and Arthur hates it. Francis knows exactly how to touch him, how to run his damnably beautiful fingers through his hair. It's addictive, but that is only the wooing.
After the wooing comes the loving, and, Arthur has to be honest with himself, the loving is one of the finer things he has ever experienced. With the loving comes the expensive dates, the luxury of security, the extravagant gifts far finer than any he's received from any other lover.
And then there is the sex. Like aged wine, undisturbed for decades, brought out for one occasion and one alone, if that one occasion could occur every other night, suddenly, without warning or prelude. Francis is good at sex. He knows how it's supposed to be done, how it is supposed to feel, how it should be approached, as if on a whim, at any moment that one feels that it is appropriate.
Naturally, Arthur hates that, the spontaneity of it, and he hates that it's Francis, of all the good-looking men it could be, but...
He and Francis have far too much history for him to only have one reason to dislike the Frenchman. They are far too different to be compatible, in Arthur's mind, and he hates it, hates that it doesn't make sense anymore.
Regardless, when he hears his phone vibrate, sees the eloquently-spelled text, he cannot help the smile that touches his face, and he doesn't bother to put on a jacket as he hurries to his car, pouting at the rain. He walks gladly into the arms of his mistake, accepts his kiss, and follows him in to the sweet-smelling kitchen for dinner and wine.
It's a miracle, after all this time, that he can still manage to lie to himself so completely.
pairing: kiss with a fist
age: 29
rating: T-ish?
summary: Arthur knows that one should learn from their mistakes.
History is the best teacher; one should learn from the mistakes of the past, should understand what went wrong, should try to not make that same mistake. It's a policy that Arthur, more often than not, follows. He has a history, after all, a history of mistakes and bad decisions. Everyone's been young once, after all.
Yet here he is. Making the same mistake. A delicious mistake, for sure, but a mistake nonetheless. This has happened so many times that it would be impossible to not learn from it, to not be able to recognize the cause and avoid it.
The thing is, Arthur doesn't want to.
He likes the fine wines, the sweet scent of roses, the satin-softness of Francis's sheets that never seem to roughen, not in all the years that Arthur has know him. The gentle, reverent touches haven't changed, either, and being wooed by the Frenchman is similar to the high he feels when he walks on ice, climbs cliffs, does anything that he knows is dangerous and stupid and unhealthy.
Francis knows exactly what he's doing, and Arthur hates it. Francis knows exactly how to touch him, how to run his damnably beautiful fingers through his hair. It's addictive, but that is only the wooing.
After the wooing comes the loving, and, Arthur has to be honest with himself, the loving is one of the finer things he has ever experienced. With the loving comes the expensive dates, the luxury of security, the extravagant gifts far finer than any he's received from any other lover.
And then there is the sex. Like aged wine, undisturbed for decades, brought out for one occasion and one alone, if that one occasion could occur every other night, suddenly, without warning or prelude. Francis is good at sex. He knows how it's supposed to be done, how it is supposed to feel, how it should be approached, as if on a whim, at any moment that one feels that it is appropriate.
Naturally, Arthur hates that, the spontaneity of it, and he hates that it's Francis, of all the good-looking men it could be, but...
He and Francis have far too much history for him to only have one reason to dislike the Frenchman. They are far too different to be compatible, in Arthur's mind, and he hates it, hates that it doesn't make sense anymore.
Regardless, when he hears his phone vibrate, sees the eloquently-spelled text, he cannot help the smile that touches his face, and he doesn't bother to put on a jacket as he hurries to his car, pouting at the rain. He walks gladly into the arms of his mistake, accepts his kiss, and follows him in to the sweet-smelling kitchen for dinner and wine.
It's a miracle, after all this time, that he can still manage to lie to himself so completely.