[FrUK] Everything but Temptation [Fanfic]
Mar. 3rd, 2012 11:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blood_wingedTitle: Everything but Temptation
Genre: Romance.
Characters/Pairing: France, England. FrUK.
Rating/Warnings: PG, mentions of sex, cursing.
Summary: Bittersweet romance fic. Arthur can never resist Francis, no matter how much he tries or how much he knows he must.
*****
When Arthur walked into Francis’ bedroom, intending to snap at him for missing an important meeting, what he didn’t expect was to find the man there, bound and blindfolded, breathing softly but not struggling against the silk scarf securing him to the rail at the top of the bed. He didn’t want to know how he got there. A few suggestions came to mind, the most likely, he thought, involving Francis playing around with someone who had left him that way. He would have to check if the man still had his wallet. Anything he might have said died on his lips, and he knew that he could so easily back out of the room and leave him none the wiser. He didn’t. What he did, his steps slow and measured, was cross to the bed and touch one fingertip gently to the French nation’s chest. He didn’t stir, and Arthur bit his lip, running that same finger down his jawline, admiring him.
Francis was always so beautiful. Painfully so, and no more so than now. He was clothed still but that didn’t keep Arthur from remembering what he looked like, from recalling every dip and curve of his body. Every scar and blemish that he would try to deny. A lock of hair slipped down in front of the blindfold, and Arthur moved it, brushing it back, clearing his throat nervously. He touched the skin of his hands – smooth, as if he had never done a day of honest work, but Arthur knew that wasn’t so.
He leaned close, brushing his thumb over that rose-pink lower lip. Francis’ brow twitched. You’re awake, Arthur realised. You’re awake, you delicious bastard. He frowned, and leaned forwards, touching a feather-light kiss to his mouth.
Too tempting… just too tempting.
Lying still, Francis was trying to figure out who it was by touch, by scent, and he didn’t want to gesture or speak, to ruin the magic of whatever this situation held. When that kiss touched his lips he didn’t react. Not such a light one, he thought.
Arthur stared at the blindfold, as if he could look through it if he glared hard enough, and he cupped the other man’s cheek, skimming his thumb just under the fabric then further back, tucking his hair behind his ear with an odd kind of tenderness. It was like spun gold in his fingers, and while Francis could appreciate the passion of any rough rut or nails and teeth on skin, he lived for touches like those. When Arthur tucked his hair back again, gently tracing the shell of his ear, he shivered. A kiss was pressed to his neck, soft and warm, followed by a weight against his shoulder, a heart pounding steadily against his own, and he turned his head to that direction, nuzzling lightly.
Tea… sea salt… the faintest lingering scent of opium and exotic spices…
Arthur.
Arthur didn’t know what to do. Francis nuzzled at him again, silent, comforting, and he brought his arms up to embrace the man as best he could, just holding him tightly. He whispered, “I’m sorry”, and heard the quiet “Sssh” in response, and he looked up, releasing the older nation’s hands but leaving the blindfold there because damn it, it was always easier to deal with Francis when he didn’t have to look him in the eye. Francis held him, and he pressed his face into the welcoming, warm curve of his neck, and closed his eyes as he was allowed to hide there with slim fingers running slowly through his hair.
It seemed like an eternity of breathing in the scent of the man, coffee and fresh bread and fleur-de-lis, before he moved. He couldn’t do this.
Francis felt an unexpected panic grip him. He grabbed for Arthur and for a moment cursed the blindfold, but his fingers closed around a slim wrist and Please, just let the illusion happen a little longer, please he begged silently as he moved his hand down to take Arthur’s, pressing his cheek to the palm.
There was a gut-wrenching delay before Arthur sat back down, his weight dipping the bed slightly. He touched Francis’ cheek with his free hand and leaned down to kiss him again and it wasn’t light this time but firm and warm as he held the man’s other hand over his heart. He wasn’t pushed away – Francis was trembling, kissing him back – and he stroked over his ear again, then behind his head, cherishing.
Francis’ cheeks flushed, his breath shivered, but it wasn’t embarrassment or fear, or even arousal, only simple enjoyment. This was perfect for them… and sadly something like this would probably be the closest they ever got. They were willingly blind to each other’s feelings. Faking. It hurt less to pretend. The kiss was broken and he could almost feel the fierceness of Arthur’s gaze against the fabric of the blindfold, the way his heart was still beating so hard against his ribs, and he clenched his hand into the fabric of his shirt. He swallowed.
You don’t want me to leave, I know, I know… Arthur knew it was best not to speak, and his hand shifted from behind the man’s head, skimming over his chest, slipping two, three inches under his shirt. It was dangerous, this contact, he knew, but he craved it.
“You will be the death of me,” he murmured.
“Je suis désolé…” Francis said, his voice barely there.
“Oh, Francis…” It was the worst thing he could have said, and in the next moment that blindfold was off, and Arthur was looking at him, still holding his hand pressed to his heart. Francis froze, and met his eyes, and just like that the lie was gone. His heart raced.
“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that, don’t you?” Arthur sounded annoyed, but he didn’t move, his eyes a little wide and filled with some unreadable emotion, or perhaps simply too many to be read. There was a quiver of hope in the French nation’s voice as he whispered.
“I know…”
Arthur sighed. “What are you doing..?” he asked, and Francis watched him, feeling suddenly resigned. Fingers twitched against his ribs, and they both hate and love that closeness. “It…”
“I don’t…” Francis said, his voice quiet. “I just want you to stay a while, nothing else matters.”
Another sigh passed through Arthur’s lips, something defeated and weary in it. “Francis, why do you do this to me?”
“Because I’m insatiable…” You Know Why.
That was the wrong answer. Arthur knew, and Francis realised it within moments. The oath was written in his eyes as it flashed through his mind – merde – and his grip on Arthur’s shirt loosened.
“I…” Francis swallowed, and his voice grew small, almost timid. “You and I both know it would be better if I didn’t say.”
“I know, Francis…” Arthur smiled, so sadly, and touched his cheek again. “And that’s why it’s better if I leave.”
Francis murmured his assent. He pressed that hand to his cheek and tried to smile. He forces it, because pretending hurt less, or so he had always assured himself. Released, Arthur got up and moved to the door, but stopped before he could set foot into the hallway. He clenched the door frame with such strength that it turned his knuckles white.
The English nation hadn’t anticipated such a battle within his own mind. Try as he might he couldn’t cross the threshold of the room. He couldn’t move, but if he looked back, he knew he won’t be able to leave. He could feel Francis’ eyes boring into his back, and he knew how much depended upon his ability to walk out.
“Arthur…”
“Tais-toi.”
The words slipped from him before he could help it, in that language, and Francis was instantly stunned. He blinked, not understanding why Arthur would speak… Why he would do something like that, when he was right there, so close, close enough he could just step over and hold…
When Arthur spoke again it was as if through gritted teeth. “Je ne te parles plus,” he hissed. He wasn’t talking to Francis. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Talking would make it too hard and he knew he had to leave, and soon, before… He took one step forward, and it felt like he was wading through treacle.
Francis stood, and the room might as well have been rocking beneath him for how steady he felt. “S'il te plait,” he implored. Please. “Ce n’est pas la peine. Viens juste faire une sieste avec moi.” That was all he wanted now, to hold the man while he slept.
Arthur shook his head. “C’est trop difficile.” Had it been anyone else, he would have said he didn’t expect them to understand, but this was Francis, and he knew he understood, and somehow, that only made it all the more infuriating.
Francis swallowed again. “Je suis en train de devenir fou, Arthur.” He was going crazy. Every inch of him was telling him to beg, to plead. He would do anything for this man, he’d move the earth if he were capable of such a feat, and even knowing such a thing was impossible, he’d still try his damn hardest if that was what Arthur wanted. “Je t’en supplie.”
“T’as pas idée…”
“Si.”
“Arrête!”
“Tu veux que je m'agenouille devant toi, mon coeur?” He would kneel, if that was what Arthur demanded. There was no shame in kneeling for this. “Moi, Francis le fier.. Je n'ai pas honte à me defaire de mon orgeuil pour cela.”
“Stop it. Just… just stop.” The return to English from those lips sounded harsh to Francis’ ears, and he looked to the floor.
“You…” Arthur wet his lips. He could feel himself trembling. He’d already lingered too long, and he knew there was no hope of him leaving now. “You drive me insane, and you don’t even give a toss, do you? Enough people to fall to pieces of you, what’s one more?” He was frustrated, and it was radiating from him in waves, choking the air around him.
“Non… that is not it at all.” It was so painful for Francis to look at his back, knowing what was on the other side – that face, those eyes… “You know the truth, Arthur…”
“Say it.”
Arthur’s words were short, clipped, and Francis knew that if he didn’t take this, the man would be lost to him. Perhaps forever. It was a chance, and he threw caution to the wind, drowning out the warnings screaming at him in his head as he uttered those forbidden words…
“Je t’aime…”
Arthur’s shoulder’s tensed immediately. Francis saw how still he became and with a clenching, twisting feeling around his heart realised that the man never expected those words. He watched Arthur for what felt like forever, until finally, there was a flash of green.
Francis looked so vulnerable stood there, Arthur thought, and his heart ached. “Does it speak ill of me,” he muttered. “That I wish you were lying?” He watched as the French nation shut his eyes, and he knew that he wished that he was lying, too.
“Non,” he replied. “This is… so damn ‘ard… I cannot blame you.”
Fuck it. Arthur was across the room in an instant, one hand in the Frenchman’s hair, the other at his waist, lips pressed to his whispering je t’aime, je t’aime aussi against them. It was as if he left all of his tension at the door, and Francis’ arms came up around him, pulling him close. The kiss was desperate, deep, and Arthur knew he shouldn’t, mustn’t, that it was wrong and would only end in heartache yet again but he couldn’t help himself, he fit against Francis as well as he ever did. He nipped gently, then pressed his tongue past lips and teeth to demand more, feeling the response in kind, the fingers buried in his hair and spread gently out at his back.
Arthur shifted up onto his toes, just a little, to press closer and made a soft sound in the back of his throat, and Francis held him as close as he could, losing his breath to each moment but he dared not pull away. The younger man broke away first, gasping for air, a blush high on his cheeks as he lowered himself back on his heels. Francis would have liked to have compared him to a rose, the first flush of sunrise on a horizon, and many other beautiful things had he the breath to do it, but he contented himself with thinking it as he pressed his nose against Arthur’s cheek.
“This is a mistake…” Arthur murmured. They both knew it was. This was not new territory for them.
“Oui… but... just for now. Just for one day.”
Arthur looked down. He knew how much it would hurt, but as ever, he couldn’t bring himself to refuse. He drew away from the man and sat on the bed, sliding back, and Francis followed. It would hurt just as much for him, but for one day of being near one another, it was worth it. They sat quietly for a moment before Arthur touched his hand, and he smoothly laced their fingers together, lifted them, and kissed Arthur’s knuckles. A smile came to Arthur’s face, and he wrapped his arm around Francis’ shoulders, kissing him and feeling the smile against his lips as it was returned.
There was no movement from Francis to take charge, so Arthur pressed him back, and he went down easily, the younger man uttering a soft ‘ah, chéri…’, perfectly accented French from English lips and when Francis made a passing comment on the pronunciation Arthur only smiled again, and reminded him of the past in a way that didn’t burn or sting, as if they had never fought at all.
It was too easy to fall into this again, to fall into loving one another. Their shirts were slid off and tossed aside, the scarred skin on both of their bodies well known to the other but still they touched, as if exploring a stranger. Francis didn’t fight, didn’t struggle and when his fingers were twisting in the sheets, his spine was arching with pleasure and Arthur was gasping for breath as he broke and spilled inside him it was as if they could simply take one another out of time, to where nothing they had been through mattered save for what brought them irresistibly, irrevocably together.
When Arthur collapsed, sated, and Francis saw the splash of colour across his back he couldn’t help but smile. Arthur, always the rebel. He did so love to poke fun at him when he slipped up on being a gentleman, and now there was another way. With the English nation quietly panting, warm and curled up to his chest, the wish for this to work was almost painful. He wanted it. So badly, he wanted, but for now… this was fine.
“Mon coeur…” he murmured, running his hand into Arthur’s hair again. There were so many things he wanted to say… to do… “Never change, mon amour.”
“Too old, now… too stubborn.” Arthur responded. He chuckled.
Francis thought about Arthur often. He’d begin sketching various eyes and hands. Faces. Before realising who they all hauntingly resembled. Arthur smiled – soft, sleepy.
“I’d let you have me, Francis… if I thought for a moment that it would work.”
That ‘if’… she was a cruel bitch. For that moment, Francis felt like crying, forcing back that treacherous heat behind his eyes. Arthur shifted slowly, and murmured Francis’ name, and when the French nation opened his eyes there was such a loving, pained look hidden behind a smile that he could do nothing else but kiss him.
Don’t you dare hide your sadness behind that wretched thing, the thought was fierce, even as the warmth of Arthur’s lips took the fire out of him. You’re still too beautiful for that.
But that look wasn’t gone, and Francis could do nothing but hold him close.
Arthur thumbed across Francis’ shoulder, their legs tangled together, ignoring how much he hated that sticky after-sex feeling because to move might break the spell hanging over them.
“Do you think,” Francis uttered, and his voice was growing as tired as Arthur felt. “There is a chance we could… do something like this again? Just… one day.”
Such a question made Arthur wary. They had done this so many times before, just one day, and always, it became so much more than that. They would be happy together, for a little while, Arthur knew, but inevitably, they would part again, to the same pain and heartache. Over and over they did this, and Arthur had to wonder when it would end.
He didn’t know if he wanted it to.
So, he agreed, with only a token hesitation.
They slept, then. Arthur always slept best when he was with Francis, and for Francis, a night without nightmares was a welcome one.
Damn you, Arthur… Damn you. I love you.
-------------
Translations:
Je suis désolé = I'm sorry
Tais-toi = Shut up
Je ne te parles plus = I'm not talking to you
S'il te plait, ce n’est pas la peine. Viens juste faire une sieste avec moi = Please, you don't have to. Just take a nap with me
C’est trop difficile = It's too difficult
Je suis en train de devenir fou = I'm going crazy
Je t’en supplie = I beg you
T’as pas idée = You have no idea
Si = I do
Arrête = Stop it
Tu veux que je m'agenouille devant toi, mon coeur? Moi, Francis le fier.. Je n'ai pas honte à me defaire de mon orgeuil pour cela = You want me to kneel before you, my heart? I, Francis the proud .. I am not ashamed to rid myself of my pride for this
Je t'aime = I love you
Genre: Romance.
Characters/Pairing: France, England. FrUK.
Rating/Warnings: PG, mentions of sex, cursing.
Summary: Bittersweet romance fic. Arthur can never resist Francis, no matter how much he tries or how much he knows he must.
*****
When Arthur walked into Francis’ bedroom, intending to snap at him for missing an important meeting, what he didn’t expect was to find the man there, bound and blindfolded, breathing softly but not struggling against the silk scarf securing him to the rail at the top of the bed. He didn’t want to know how he got there. A few suggestions came to mind, the most likely, he thought, involving Francis playing around with someone who had left him that way. He would have to check if the man still had his wallet. Anything he might have said died on his lips, and he knew that he could so easily back out of the room and leave him none the wiser. He didn’t. What he did, his steps slow and measured, was cross to the bed and touch one fingertip gently to the French nation’s chest. He didn’t stir, and Arthur bit his lip, running that same finger down his jawline, admiring him.
Francis was always so beautiful. Painfully so, and no more so than now. He was clothed still but that didn’t keep Arthur from remembering what he looked like, from recalling every dip and curve of his body. Every scar and blemish that he would try to deny. A lock of hair slipped down in front of the blindfold, and Arthur moved it, brushing it back, clearing his throat nervously. He touched the skin of his hands – smooth, as if he had never done a day of honest work, but Arthur knew that wasn’t so.
He leaned close, brushing his thumb over that rose-pink lower lip. Francis’ brow twitched. You’re awake, Arthur realised. You’re awake, you delicious bastard. He frowned, and leaned forwards, touching a feather-light kiss to his mouth.
Too tempting… just too tempting.
Lying still, Francis was trying to figure out who it was by touch, by scent, and he didn’t want to gesture or speak, to ruin the magic of whatever this situation held. When that kiss touched his lips he didn’t react. Not such a light one, he thought.
Arthur stared at the blindfold, as if he could look through it if he glared hard enough, and he cupped the other man’s cheek, skimming his thumb just under the fabric then further back, tucking his hair behind his ear with an odd kind of tenderness. It was like spun gold in his fingers, and while Francis could appreciate the passion of any rough rut or nails and teeth on skin, he lived for touches like those. When Arthur tucked his hair back again, gently tracing the shell of his ear, he shivered. A kiss was pressed to his neck, soft and warm, followed by a weight against his shoulder, a heart pounding steadily against his own, and he turned his head to that direction, nuzzling lightly.
Tea… sea salt… the faintest lingering scent of opium and exotic spices…
Arthur.
Arthur didn’t know what to do. Francis nuzzled at him again, silent, comforting, and he brought his arms up to embrace the man as best he could, just holding him tightly. He whispered, “I’m sorry”, and heard the quiet “Sssh” in response, and he looked up, releasing the older nation’s hands but leaving the blindfold there because damn it, it was always easier to deal with Francis when he didn’t have to look him in the eye. Francis held him, and he pressed his face into the welcoming, warm curve of his neck, and closed his eyes as he was allowed to hide there with slim fingers running slowly through his hair.
It seemed like an eternity of breathing in the scent of the man, coffee and fresh bread and fleur-de-lis, before he moved. He couldn’t do this.
Francis felt an unexpected panic grip him. He grabbed for Arthur and for a moment cursed the blindfold, but his fingers closed around a slim wrist and Please, just let the illusion happen a little longer, please he begged silently as he moved his hand down to take Arthur’s, pressing his cheek to the palm.
There was a gut-wrenching delay before Arthur sat back down, his weight dipping the bed slightly. He touched Francis’ cheek with his free hand and leaned down to kiss him again and it wasn’t light this time but firm and warm as he held the man’s other hand over his heart. He wasn’t pushed away – Francis was trembling, kissing him back – and he stroked over his ear again, then behind his head, cherishing.
Francis’ cheeks flushed, his breath shivered, but it wasn’t embarrassment or fear, or even arousal, only simple enjoyment. This was perfect for them… and sadly something like this would probably be the closest they ever got. They were willingly blind to each other’s feelings. Faking. It hurt less to pretend. The kiss was broken and he could almost feel the fierceness of Arthur’s gaze against the fabric of the blindfold, the way his heart was still beating so hard against his ribs, and he clenched his hand into the fabric of his shirt. He swallowed.
You don’t want me to leave, I know, I know… Arthur knew it was best not to speak, and his hand shifted from behind the man’s head, skimming over his chest, slipping two, three inches under his shirt. It was dangerous, this contact, he knew, but he craved it.
“You will be the death of me,” he murmured.
“Je suis désolé…” Francis said, his voice barely there.
“Oh, Francis…” It was the worst thing he could have said, and in the next moment that blindfold was off, and Arthur was looking at him, still holding his hand pressed to his heart. Francis froze, and met his eyes, and just like that the lie was gone. His heart raced.
“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that, don’t you?” Arthur sounded annoyed, but he didn’t move, his eyes a little wide and filled with some unreadable emotion, or perhaps simply too many to be read. There was a quiver of hope in the French nation’s voice as he whispered.
“I know…”
Arthur sighed. “What are you doing..?” he asked, and Francis watched him, feeling suddenly resigned. Fingers twitched against his ribs, and they both hate and love that closeness. “It…”
“I don’t…” Francis said, his voice quiet. “I just want you to stay a while, nothing else matters.”
Another sigh passed through Arthur’s lips, something defeated and weary in it. “Francis, why do you do this to me?”
“Because I’m insatiable…” You Know Why.
That was the wrong answer. Arthur knew, and Francis realised it within moments. The oath was written in his eyes as it flashed through his mind – merde – and his grip on Arthur’s shirt loosened.
“I…” Francis swallowed, and his voice grew small, almost timid. “You and I both know it would be better if I didn’t say.”
“I know, Francis…” Arthur smiled, so sadly, and touched his cheek again. “And that’s why it’s better if I leave.”
Francis murmured his assent. He pressed that hand to his cheek and tried to smile. He forces it, because pretending hurt less, or so he had always assured himself. Released, Arthur got up and moved to the door, but stopped before he could set foot into the hallway. He clenched the door frame with such strength that it turned his knuckles white.
The English nation hadn’t anticipated such a battle within his own mind. Try as he might he couldn’t cross the threshold of the room. He couldn’t move, but if he looked back, he knew he won’t be able to leave. He could feel Francis’ eyes boring into his back, and he knew how much depended upon his ability to walk out.
“Arthur…”
“Tais-toi.”
The words slipped from him before he could help it, in that language, and Francis was instantly stunned. He blinked, not understanding why Arthur would speak… Why he would do something like that, when he was right there, so close, close enough he could just step over and hold…
When Arthur spoke again it was as if through gritted teeth. “Je ne te parles plus,” he hissed. He wasn’t talking to Francis. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Talking would make it too hard and he knew he had to leave, and soon, before… He took one step forward, and it felt like he was wading through treacle.
Francis stood, and the room might as well have been rocking beneath him for how steady he felt. “S'il te plait,” he implored. Please. “Ce n’est pas la peine. Viens juste faire une sieste avec moi.” That was all he wanted now, to hold the man while he slept.
Arthur shook his head. “C’est trop difficile.” Had it been anyone else, he would have said he didn’t expect them to understand, but this was Francis, and he knew he understood, and somehow, that only made it all the more infuriating.
Francis swallowed again. “Je suis en train de devenir fou, Arthur.” He was going crazy. Every inch of him was telling him to beg, to plead. He would do anything for this man, he’d move the earth if he were capable of such a feat, and even knowing such a thing was impossible, he’d still try his damn hardest if that was what Arthur wanted. “Je t’en supplie.”
“T’as pas idée…”
“Si.”
“Arrête!”
“Tu veux que je m'agenouille devant toi, mon coeur?” He would kneel, if that was what Arthur demanded. There was no shame in kneeling for this. “Moi, Francis le fier.. Je n'ai pas honte à me defaire de mon orgeuil pour cela.”
“Stop it. Just… just stop.” The return to English from those lips sounded harsh to Francis’ ears, and he looked to the floor.
“You…” Arthur wet his lips. He could feel himself trembling. He’d already lingered too long, and he knew there was no hope of him leaving now. “You drive me insane, and you don’t even give a toss, do you? Enough people to fall to pieces of you, what’s one more?” He was frustrated, and it was radiating from him in waves, choking the air around him.
“Non… that is not it at all.” It was so painful for Francis to look at his back, knowing what was on the other side – that face, those eyes… “You know the truth, Arthur…”
“Say it.”
Arthur’s words were short, clipped, and Francis knew that if he didn’t take this, the man would be lost to him. Perhaps forever. It was a chance, and he threw caution to the wind, drowning out the warnings screaming at him in his head as he uttered those forbidden words…
“Je t’aime…”
Arthur’s shoulder’s tensed immediately. Francis saw how still he became and with a clenching, twisting feeling around his heart realised that the man never expected those words. He watched Arthur for what felt like forever, until finally, there was a flash of green.
Francis looked so vulnerable stood there, Arthur thought, and his heart ached. “Does it speak ill of me,” he muttered. “That I wish you were lying?” He watched as the French nation shut his eyes, and he knew that he wished that he was lying, too.
“Non,” he replied. “This is… so damn ‘ard… I cannot blame you.”
Fuck it. Arthur was across the room in an instant, one hand in the Frenchman’s hair, the other at his waist, lips pressed to his whispering je t’aime, je t’aime aussi against them. It was as if he left all of his tension at the door, and Francis’ arms came up around him, pulling him close. The kiss was desperate, deep, and Arthur knew he shouldn’t, mustn’t, that it was wrong and would only end in heartache yet again but he couldn’t help himself, he fit against Francis as well as he ever did. He nipped gently, then pressed his tongue past lips and teeth to demand more, feeling the response in kind, the fingers buried in his hair and spread gently out at his back.
Arthur shifted up onto his toes, just a little, to press closer and made a soft sound in the back of his throat, and Francis held him as close as he could, losing his breath to each moment but he dared not pull away. The younger man broke away first, gasping for air, a blush high on his cheeks as he lowered himself back on his heels. Francis would have liked to have compared him to a rose, the first flush of sunrise on a horizon, and many other beautiful things had he the breath to do it, but he contented himself with thinking it as he pressed his nose against Arthur’s cheek.
“This is a mistake…” Arthur murmured. They both knew it was. This was not new territory for them.
“Oui… but... just for now. Just for one day.”
Arthur looked down. He knew how much it would hurt, but as ever, he couldn’t bring himself to refuse. He drew away from the man and sat on the bed, sliding back, and Francis followed. It would hurt just as much for him, but for one day of being near one another, it was worth it. They sat quietly for a moment before Arthur touched his hand, and he smoothly laced their fingers together, lifted them, and kissed Arthur’s knuckles. A smile came to Arthur’s face, and he wrapped his arm around Francis’ shoulders, kissing him and feeling the smile against his lips as it was returned.
There was no movement from Francis to take charge, so Arthur pressed him back, and he went down easily, the younger man uttering a soft ‘ah, chéri…’, perfectly accented French from English lips and when Francis made a passing comment on the pronunciation Arthur only smiled again, and reminded him of the past in a way that didn’t burn or sting, as if they had never fought at all.
It was too easy to fall into this again, to fall into loving one another. Their shirts were slid off and tossed aside, the scarred skin on both of their bodies well known to the other but still they touched, as if exploring a stranger. Francis didn’t fight, didn’t struggle and when his fingers were twisting in the sheets, his spine was arching with pleasure and Arthur was gasping for breath as he broke and spilled inside him it was as if they could simply take one another out of time, to where nothing they had been through mattered save for what brought them irresistibly, irrevocably together.
When Arthur collapsed, sated, and Francis saw the splash of colour across his back he couldn’t help but smile. Arthur, always the rebel. He did so love to poke fun at him when he slipped up on being a gentleman, and now there was another way. With the English nation quietly panting, warm and curled up to his chest, the wish for this to work was almost painful. He wanted it. So badly, he wanted, but for now… this was fine.
“Mon coeur…” he murmured, running his hand into Arthur’s hair again. There were so many things he wanted to say… to do… “Never change, mon amour.”
“Too old, now… too stubborn.” Arthur responded. He chuckled.
Francis thought about Arthur often. He’d begin sketching various eyes and hands. Faces. Before realising who they all hauntingly resembled. Arthur smiled – soft, sleepy.
“I’d let you have me, Francis… if I thought for a moment that it would work.”
That ‘if’… she was a cruel bitch. For that moment, Francis felt like crying, forcing back that treacherous heat behind his eyes. Arthur shifted slowly, and murmured Francis’ name, and when the French nation opened his eyes there was such a loving, pained look hidden behind a smile that he could do nothing else but kiss him.
Don’t you dare hide your sadness behind that wretched thing, the thought was fierce, even as the warmth of Arthur’s lips took the fire out of him. You’re still too beautiful for that.
But that look wasn’t gone, and Francis could do nothing but hold him close.
Arthur thumbed across Francis’ shoulder, their legs tangled together, ignoring how much he hated that sticky after-sex feeling because to move might break the spell hanging over them.
“Do you think,” Francis uttered, and his voice was growing as tired as Arthur felt. “There is a chance we could… do something like this again? Just… one day.”
Such a question made Arthur wary. They had done this so many times before, just one day, and always, it became so much more than that. They would be happy together, for a little while, Arthur knew, but inevitably, they would part again, to the same pain and heartache. Over and over they did this, and Arthur had to wonder when it would end.
He didn’t know if he wanted it to.
So, he agreed, with only a token hesitation.
They slept, then. Arthur always slept best when he was with Francis, and for Francis, a night without nightmares was a welcome one.
Damn you, Arthur… Damn you. I love you.
-------------
Translations:
Je suis désolé = I'm sorry
Tais-toi = Shut up
Je ne te parles plus = I'm not talking to you
S'il te plait, ce n’est pas la peine. Viens juste faire une sieste avec moi = Please, you don't have to. Just take a nap with me
C’est trop difficile = It's too difficult
Je suis en train de devenir fou = I'm going crazy
Je t’en supplie = I beg you
T’as pas idée = You have no idea
Si = I do
Arrête = Stop it
Tu veux que je m'agenouille devant toi, mon coeur? Moi, Francis le fier.. Je n'ai pas honte à me defaire de mon orgeuil pour cela = You want me to kneel before you, my heart? I, Francis the proud .. I am not ashamed to rid myself of my pride for this
Je t'aime = I love you
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Date: 2012-03-03 11:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2012-03-18 03:20 pm (UTC)