w what about... fruk.... BUT they just started dating and arthur is trying his best to learn how to Express His Feelings Openly And Directly and also how to Show Affection 👉👈 its just an idea honestly ill take anything as long as its fruk 🥺 (also ur writing is good!!!)
aww thank you I rly appreciate you!! here is as requested Arthur being emotionally constipated and Francis just Vibing Along... very good dynamic tyvm for the request. hopefully this isn’t too late.
but I hope you like this :)
It’s the fourth date, and I’m still like this, Arthur bitterly thinks. Not like I’m keeping track.
This, in question, is the absolutely idiotic set of actions he’s been pigeonholing himself into— frankly, it’s getting a little intolerable. First it was his horrified muteness for five minutes after Francis blew him a kiss. Then it was his terrified silence (something completely different, honest) after Francis made some offhand remark about enjoying their dates. And now, for some reason he truly can’t comprehend, his whole arm going limp and numb when Francis reaches across the table to hold his hand.
The cafe they’re in isn’t the most hostile environment, really. Arthur has a lavender London Fog that’s quite calming and delicious, if he says so himself, and the ambiance is easygoing but clean. Francis’s hand is warm against his. Their conversation has been nice, bar the awkward moments on his part. Nothing is wrong, so of course…
Of course I can’t deal with that, can I.
“Arthur, dearest,” says Francis, and oh, there goes any resolve he has left. “Let’s go on a walk?”
“O-oh, yes, that’s fine,” he stammers out.
“Wonderful.” Francis takes his cappuccino in one hand and keeps holding onto Arthur with the other.
Watch that whole half of my body stop functioning. Bet it feels like he’s holding onto a dead fish of some sort.
The air outside is pleasant, springy. Arthur mostly focuses on making sure his feet land right on the sidewalk, on having some kind of control of his hand holding Francis’s, the aroma of lavender and coffee swirling easily around them.
“So,” Francis says. “Let’s find a place to sit and talk, hmm?”
Oh, dear. This is it. We’re not seeing each other anymore, are we.
Arthur can’t really formulate a passable response to that, so he nods, something horrible and dry in his throat.
At least the weather is nice. The cars passing do so quickly and without much fanfare, and so everything feels natural and quiet between them. Before he knows it, they’re approaching a park, Francis smoothly directing them toward a tucked-away bench.
“Here,” he says. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you,” Arthur manages to say, sitting down and nursing his drink with entirely too much weariness for the situation at hand.
“Arthur,” Francis says, looking straight at Arthur with a gentle smile, so he has no choice but to hold that brilliant eye contact, “tell me if I’m misinterpreting anything. But I really want you to know it’s alright to speak openly with me, or to take your time, or to do whatever you need to do to feel comfortable.”
That was not. Not what I was expecting in the slightest.
“Just let me know how I can help,” Francis continues, still smiling in a way that radiates such warmth Arthur distantly feels like he could bask in it forever.
“I mean it. I really enjoy my time with you,” Francis says. “And I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but I’d like to think you feel the same. Still, expressing oneself has never been easy, especially when…”
“I’m sorry,” Arthur blurts. “I know I’ve been so embarrassing. I’m embarrassed, myself.”
Francis frowns, tilting his head and grasping Arthur’s hand just a little more, his expression strangely devoid of pity—
“Arthur, you’re not embarrassing,” he says, voice quiet. “And if you express how you feel, I really won’t think you’re embarrassing, either.”
“Really,” Arthur says faintly.
“Honestly, I feel…” Arthur starts, and he finds himself already drying out, flattening into fear.
Francis just gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “Take your time. Have some of your drink.”
Alright, good call. So he takes a couple of sips, focuses on the light sweetness of the tea, the warmth in his hands, relaxing into it all.
“I think,” he finally says. “I just. I don’t know how to show that kind of thing. Affection. My emotions. I don’t know. It never comes out right, and I always feel unbelievably humiliated, and… I don’t know. Sorry.”
“Well, do you want me to go first?” Francis says.
First? What is that supposed to mean, is he…
Francis just nods. “I’ll go first. There’s no right way to put your emotions into the world, I believe, but I’ll do it anyway.”
“You—” Arthur gulps, his pulse already thudding in his ears. “You really don’t have to do anything. For me. At all. I’m just, I, I’m just like that.”
Francis beams that smile full-force in Arthur’s direction. “No, I insist.”
“Ah. Okay,” Arthur says, feeling more than a little breathless, feeling acutely aware of the hand holding his.
“I told you I enjoy our time together,” Francis says, “and I really do mean it. I love talking to you about even the most mundane things. I love learning about you— I think you’re fascinating, really, and it’s always easy for me to laugh with you. And I completely understand how difficult opening up can be, but I hope you know you can do it safely.”
Arthur opens his mouth to say something back—
Dear lord, I think I’m about to explode. I think I’m going to self-destruct. This impossibly gorgeous and talented man just told me all of… that.
“Take your time,” Francis says, gentle, a little amused.
“Thank you,” Arthur says, his voice hoarse. “I, ah. Alright. Thank you.”
“Of course,” Francis replies smoothly.
“I… I like our time together too,” Arthur finds himself mumbling. “And I want to keep spending time together. You’re the most… compelling. Compelling person I’ve met in a long time. And I do feel safe around you, I do feel like I can talk to you, I want to keep working on that. If that makes sense.”
“It does,” Francis says, his smile electric.
“Alright,” Arthur says. “I, erm. I really like spending time together because I really just like… you.”
Francis pulls closer, leans against Arthur’s shoulder. He’s impossibly warm.
“I’m glad,” Francis says. “Incredibly happy you feel that way, really.”
Francis huffs out a laugh, and they sit there for a while, strangely devoid of awkwardness in their silence— just staring at the trees together, and the blue sky blooming above.
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