It was an entirely different experience, kissing Arthur compared to anyone else. An unexpected, bizarre, and… horribly distracting, really, experience. To some extent, Francis figured he was likely horrified, somewhere underneath it all (or he’d claim to have been, later, possibly). Not that he could properly process any such thing, not when that was Arthur pushing onto his toes and doing a damned good job at keeping this as disorienting as possible. From pause to what seemed to Francis like plenty of confidence, his hands finally settled against Arthur’s waist. Not so much firm or holding as there.
What in the world were they doing? Why did it so effectively shut off the part of his brain that would normally react with disgust? And why was he encouraging it?! Responding to that trace and answering it with a little more coaxing, a little more space to invite further. It was like he wanted Arthur to keep kissing him, like that!
But he was always inviting Arthur closer in little ways, unusual ways. Violent ways, angry ways, mocking ways—unkind and unpleasant ways that were just part of their cycle, but it wasn’t just in those ways. It wasn’t just “keep your enemies closer”, but he’d die before admitting it.They just worked together, somehow, in a way that worked for them. Their “thing”. It wasn’t all vitriol and malice, but sometimes a brand of care. So who was full of it—or was it both of them?
It wasn’t something Francis bothered to think about except when he sat down with Antonio, except when he’d briefly considered the wisdom of talking to the more fearsome Scot, except when he was stuck in that line of thought for long enough it came around to what was going on. What had been going on. What the fuck was going on?
He’d probably be wordless for a while longer, so no real concerns over being punched for teasing, at least. His brain just wasn’t up for it. Lucky they were in the street, though; limited the potential for being punched quite significantly.