Written for the fruk gift exchange to @kenobi. Fem!England x France. Modern day setting. The gist of the prompt is that the two of them have been out of hegemony for very long time, and are learning to settle back as former empires, and to enjoy life slowly. I’ve chosen to focus primarily on their struggles to deal with their postcolonial guilt from all the devastation they caused as former hegemons that played the game of great power politics. I’m also deeply ashamed by how edgey it turned out lol.
EDIT: Silly me I forgot to tag @fruk-net, whom I’d like to thank for organising this wonderful event :D
Once, there was a precious little space in a deep, green woods. Beloved by the personification of England in her youngest days, where the little child would cautiously watch out for intruders tread in her forest.
The only exception she made was for her siblings who occasionally dropped by on short visits to visit her. That, and this strange boy from across the ocean. He said his name was Francis. He spoke in a strange tongue that was like the burbling of a flowing stream. He dressed in ridiculous silk robes that he should never be worn on visits to a forest.
But this Francis was acceptable. He would bring along different treats and snacks for Alice to try. He would speak gently to her, eyes sparkling without a hint of comprehension. On such days, Alice would deign to allow him to sit with her in a clearing in the forest, to quietly look up at the stars and be filled with a quiet awe.
Once, there was flurry of construction — bold and brazen — of a gargantuan house smack at the center of that spot in the forest. It was presided over by a certain English nation, who had grown more sharp-eyed and scrutinising, with the weight of many, many years behind her. Those were years steeped in bloodshed. (And no small amount of enmity. That little French boy had grown up tall and vain, with a sword by his side that he would point and stick into her if he could. As she would him. At any rate…...)
The House being built was to be tall. Impressive. Overriding those memories of the most naive times when she had slept there with one whom she had believed to be a friend; and over the trails of the invading armies that had punctured through these very forests to pierce at the heart of the England.
It was to be a landmark signifying a new start and a new direction for the English nation. The roar of a dragon with the irrepressible desire to devour the world entire. (Especially since said nation had to face a world that would rapaciously tear every right to power from her grasp simply because of her gender.)
In keeping with that thought, when the House was finished, Alice commissioned for a massive, sprawling map of the world to be hung up in the drawing room, serving as a centerpiece. Over that map, she peremptorily struck in pins with the British flag upon them, to mark all the foreign lands and peoples that were to be brought under her rule— for the glory of Britain.
Then she smirked a little, at the thought that perhaps she could dye these lands in the trademark red of her empire’s colour. Specifically, in the blood of that French fool, who was bound to stand in her way. Well, Alice certainly looked forward to it:
To crushing him, wherever he rose to fight her.
Then the days of reckoning came. Alice thinks days, because there was not one single moment that led her to question what lay in at the foundations of her empire. To look, and realise, that all along it stood upon a mountain of bones.
It was only one night, sleeping in that House of hers, that it struck her in a nightmare with the force of a typhoon. The question how many have I killed.
Instantly, from the depths of her mind she sees garbled visions of so many children and civilisations, looking back at her — the personification of the empire that took everything away from them — through what she called a ‘civilising mission’, but what they screamed was colonialism.
(Somehow Alice remembers their faces just a little, because in some twisted way they were her people too. Just like how some small part of her had always known that it was wrong for her to march into someone else’s land, and take possession of it, by deriding them as ‘savages’ incapable of self-governance).
But what scares her most isn’t the way these faces at her, as if bearing witness to what she had done.
What scares her most is how human they look. How diverse the faces are. How beautiful they were…... and the infinity of what-could-have-beens stretching out from their faces — blowing apart her mind’s ability to comprehend — how they could have had dreams, grown old with their families, thrived within their communities….
If her Empire had never come coming knocking at their doorsteps.
The first awareness that she’d had of the nightmare fading away, was when she felt a cool cloth being placed upon her forehead, and a voice speaking softly over her. Even semi-conscious, she recognises from instinct that the timbre and lilt of that voice belongs to Francis.
As the hours go by, Francis’ words start to sound more intelligible. “You’ve been missing for days,” is the first thing he says to her that she fully understands.
And then, “You need more rest,” is what he tells her, when she gets up from her bed.
But Alice doesn’t think that she should be resting. A sickening, twisting feeling in her gut tells her that something is terribly, terribly wrong. When she feels enough strength in her body, she immediately gets up, in spite of Francis’ efforts to stop her…... She takes in the sight of her bedroom around her…...
And immediately she retches. There are faces, faces everywhere, staring at her, unblinking. She tries to scream but no sound comes out. She starts to convulse, and she can’t suppress the impulse to cry.
Her mind is clogged up by the white noise of terror. Francis’ urgent voice barely makes it through to her fog of fear, and it feels like eternity before she can take to heart his urgings to calm down, take deep breaths…...
And then she realises that the faces staring at her are but crude etchings along her bedroom walls.
“You drew them” Francis tells her, in a cool voice meant to steady her. The statement just makes her mind spin, “When I found you, you were delirious, still babbling incoherently, still trying to use one of your sharper daggers to desperately carve more faces into the walls…...It took quite a while for me to restrain you…...”
“Oh,” Alice responds, breath still short. She takes in the sight of the once-grand facades of her bedroom, which have now become a memorial to these ghosts, eerie and tarnished. Then her heart drops when she thinks of all the manuscripts and precious novels she’d also stowed away in this House.
“What about my private library?” she asks, voice shaky, mind numb.
Francis shakes his head. “I’ve looked through many of the books. Many pages have been torn out….. And the faces…... many of the books have been damaged beyond repair.”
Alice looks down at her hands. Feels the buzzing sensation still coursing through her twitching fingers, and the panic still exploding within her head, telling her to continue, that not all might be lost — if only — if only she could stop a little bit of the past from slipping away, just etch into the walls one more face…...
But what’s done is done. Soon after Alice locks the House up, and abandons it, leaving it standing in the woods, like a mausoleum never to be opened.
One last thing: just before Francis leaves, he turns to her with a softness she hasn’t seen in his eyes for centuries. “Just so you know, I don’t judge you for this at all.”
“Oh really,” Alice remarks, tone soaking with self-depreciation.
“Because I too have done something similar to this before.”
And suddenly, Alice realises that the tiredness about Francis isn’t just his defeat and occupation during WWII weighing down on him: its guilt. It’s the recognition that all along Big Brother France was simply brutalising all his so called siblings, smiling at them with an arm slung tightly over their shoulder, as he continued to exploit them ruthlessly for resources…...far more ruthlessly than anything he suffered under the boot of Vichy France…...
Alice nods, and tells him that she understands.
For some reason, after this incident, Alice feels drawn to Francis, like a moth to a flame. It seems Francis feels likewise. He starts meeting up with her very often often. They chat, in cafes, and meeting rooms, and in their various houses. They talk about current day events, the headaches of being a nation. But also, about progress made, in making apologies to the nations they’d belittled as colonies; and more importantly, sitting down to listen to these nations for the first time, with an open mind attuned to all the wisdom and the skill that they’d somehow ignored when they were supposedly infallible empires.
It feels a little like forgiveness, when Indira makes jabs at Alice’s bastardized renditions of Indian cuisines, cheeky rather than spiteful, wielding the English language like it’s one of her other hundreds of native tongues (“I may have thrown the Englishmen out of my country, but there’s no need to throw away your language, which I have perfected). Or like the easing of a long-held burden for Francis, when Vietnam buys him some Bahn Mi and urges him to try it. (“It’s a step up from your silly baguettes. Not the first time I’ve beaten you at your own game.”)
Even though it is not quite redemption, because there are still days when certain ex-colonies refuse to look them in the eye, and the nightmares do return to remind them both that some wounds never close.
But still, one day, the House in that forgotten spot in the forest opens up.
It’s Amelia’s suggestion. The feisty American abruptly remembers spending a small bit of her childhood roaming about that House. She immediately declares in the middle of a World Meeting that it would be the perfect location to host the Christmas party — an extravagant traditional English manor house. Alice immediately feels like throttling all the final vestiges of Downton Abbey out of her (just let the damn show die already), but she’s shot down by all the expectant looks thrown her way, and by then the silence on her part has stretched too long to be taken as anything other than consent.
Amelia (the spoilt and ignorant brat) looks immeasurably pleased with herself. Alice buries her face in her hands and groans. But then, she feels a warm hand resting on her shoulder.
“You know, this might not necessarily a bad thing mon cher — you hosting a Christmas Party.”
“I don’t get what you mean, Francis.”
“Perhaps this is a chance for you to try something new. Do something a little different for once, in that wretched House of yours.”
“Oh,” Alice replies, the cogs in her mind starting to spin rapidly. “Well Francis, don’t think for a second that you won’t be dragged into this.”
On the day itself, when the doors of the House swing open for the Christmas party, and all the nations of the world stream in, Alice spots it: something intense in their eyes, especially for the ex-colonies, who seem to pause for a moment to take a look around them. For one heart-stopping second, Alice thinks that it’s because it’s all not enough. She can tell her co-host standing beside her, Francis, is suspecting the same, because his face is panicked and pale. But then, as the different nations start to move about to different parts of the manor, Alice hears Francis let out a soft breath in relief. And she too realises that what’s burning bright in their eyes is recognition. The South Asian nations have gravitated towards the rangoli designs on the floor, cheerily critiquing the Christmas themed patterns that have been drawn out using brightly coloured flour. The Philippines seems even more radiant than usual, as she bring along the other Southeast Asian nations to bask under the light of her parols — one of her favourite Christmas traditions — great, gorgeous star-shaped lanterns, that represent the Star of Bethlehem that brought the three shepherds to the infant Jesus.
It’s recognition, Alice realises, as she watches Francis — who was in charge of catering — get swamped by other nations, excitedly commenting on the quality of the food that comes from their homes (“You ordered tamales!”; “The injera with wat tastes exactly like it should!”). Alice imagines herself in their shoes — walking into a Christmas party for the first time without the sensation of intruding into an event that feels alien, and strange, and blatantly White European; but something more comforting and familiar — Christmas as it is truly celebrated by their own citizens, with a twist infusing local customs with the spirit of Christmas.
And once again, Alice becomes aware of all the faces looking out at her, still hidden behind the drapes that she and Francis had hastily put up before the party. The faces that she had etched in a manic state, bearing witness to what her Empire had taken away, and what it still has to give back, even if it no longer exists anymore.
Alice knows, as one of America’s poets say, that she contains multitudes. That she is many different people all at once; and that some part of her will always be sick with the desire to hoard, and to possess and to conquer. And she will always be responsible for the mistakes that she has made, and the cruelties that she has inflicted. Not just by reining in the darker side of her personality, but also actively trying to make it up to other nations. She thinks of all the ghosts that drift about her mind and Francis’, that appear in their dreams and their nightmares. And decides that it’s okay that the two of them will always be haunted by the past. Maybe both she and Francis have grown, enough for their souls to buzz alive both with these ghosts and the magic of the world.
Especially when they can find a bit of magic in each other, in how they’re both trying to change for the better, and make amends for past wrongs. Alice takes another look at her co-host, who catches her gaze, and smiles back at her. Francis is beautiful like that, with the lights glinting off his hair, and his eyes sparkling with conviviality. It’s definitely more than enough to dull the memories of when those eyes and hair reminded her more of swords and lightning. Certainly soft enough to draw her back to the earliest and brightest days, when it was just the two of them — tiny nations against the world; to start telling their story from there, and blur out the times when they were less than civil with each other; as her eyes trace a line from his blue, blue eyes...down the ridge of his nose...to his red, red lips...
Suddenly, the room bursts into an uproar, snapping the both of them out of the reverie with a jerk. Alice barely makes out the words, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” being chanted by the entire room. She looks up and sees a single sprig of mistletoe, innovatively and skillfully catapulted exactly above their heads, with just enough sticky foodstuff smeared onto it so it’s stuck to the ceiling.
“Seriously?” Alice shouts. Amelia, the literal incarnation of the devil, whoops and waves, shouting, “Merry Christmas, enjoy your gift.” Everyone else cheers, bending over in laughter.
Francis laughs too, before turning to her and asking, “Well, shall we give it a go?”
“If you insist,” Alice replies, blushing. Before Francis has a chance to respond, she cups one side of his cheek with a gentle hand and kisses him.
It’s a sweet, chaste kiss. There’s a flutter in her chest, and she feels a thrill pass through the both of them. At the back of her mind she registers Amelia letting out an earsplitting whoop — really, Alice, will have to strangle her later — but for the most part she’s absorbed in the feeling of Francis’ soft lips against hers, the intoxicating scent of Francis’ cologne tickling her nose. Then Francis’ tongue makes a quick swipe at her lips — and well maybe the American deserves to live a little longer, if her nosiness leads to this…...
They part for air, smiling so hard their cheeks hurt. By all means, Alice considers this a damned good kiss. Especially, when it’s framed by the applause of the rest of the world, giving them their blessings.
It feels like a great start. The both of them are no longer hegemons looking down upon the rest of the earth. Instead, they’re living shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the world, living and loving in a House that has transformed from a trophy room collecting dust, to a place where all the world feels at home.
Now, as the centerpiece of the the drawing room in the House, there is still a map of the world.
But this time it’s a little smaller, with no imperial flags, or red markings. It does not come with battle plans on how to pillage and conquer.
It is simply one of those scratch maps sold in curio shops, where you’re supposed to use a coin, and scratch
It’s a honeymoon gift Amelia and Madeline got for Francis and Alice.
These days, nations have a tendency to crowd around it, and point to different locations, suggesting that Francis and Alice go there next.
“Try coming to India,” Indira tells the two of them. “Don’t just come for the Taj Mahal. The Ajanta caves are as much, if not more impressive. And there are many more sights to see South of India, that tourists usually miss out.”
“Try coming to China,” Yao Wang badgers them. “The West Lake in Hangzhou is a classic. Also I’m sure you know our food is amazing”
At this the two of them usually laugh, and protest a little, reminding the others that they’re still nations with duties; they don’t have so much time and money to go sightseeing all the time.
But at least, when they’re too cash-strapped to catch the snow-peaked caps of Mt Fuji, they’ll settle for sharing a cup of vanilla ice cream. When there’s not enough time to relax to the sound of the waves kissing the shore, they’ll listen to the ebb and flow to the rhythm of each other’s voices. When they’re together, Alice feels like she’s already won the world entire.
At this, the tendrils of want and desire that have always wrapped around Alice’s heart deaden, and relax their hold.
Sometimes Francis just pressurises himself too much while cooking, freaks out over what only he would consider to be an imperfection, over and over, until he enters an infinite loop of stress-induced mistake making. And produces something completely inedible.
Arthur genuinely doesn’t get why everything that happens, Francis is so touched, when he eats it like it’s standard fare, because Francis put so much effort into it, and it really is delicious
When someone grabs Francis’ ass because they say it looks so grabbable, Arthur punches their face, and tell them it’s because it looks so punchable
[Francis is perfectly capable of defending himself, but his thing is to sniff at said harasser in disdain and ask “who are you and why are you so rude & ugly”]
Francis: Aww Angleterre you named this station after Waterloo! How cute! Even though most competent historians refer to it as “The Greatest Irrelevance”.
Arthur: ……
Francis: It's like when your people made that adorable caricature of a tiny Napoleon standing angrily on the palm of King George’s hand, because they forgot to convert the measurements for his height from French inches to British inches!
Arthur: ……
Francis: but in reality he was taller than both your Admiral Nelson and the Duke of Wellington
Arthur: …...
Francis: A monument to your endless capacity for self-delusion. I know you need these to fall asleep at night. So don’t worry. I’ll allow it!
Arthur: *walks into the London rain without an umbrella, in a fruitless attempt to try soothe the burnnnnss
extra note: here’s the pic of that famous caricature
Francis: I can't believe you named this station Waterloo. *tosses hair back with an indignant huff* When I get back to my fashionable city, I will surely rename “Gare Du Nord”, after the battle of “Hastings”
Arthur: *suddenly full of concern* Francis does your arm hurt…?
Francis: *puzzled* ...Non why?
Arthur: ...from how far you had to reach back in history to find a historically significant instance when you one-upped me in the battlefield?
Francis: ……I’m not cooking for you until you apologise......
(inspired by a scene in the legendary fruk fic The Waterloo Line)
Arthur: Your lips are red like wine, and I want to grow drunk on them
Francis: Your eyes glitter, green like absinthe — which is hallucinogenic — and I swear I keep seeing unicorns and brownies and pixies about your house — giving me suggestive looks — which I find deeply disturbing
What do Arthur's siblings think about him dating Francis?
Ooo interesting — surprisingly I haven’t thought much about that! This turned out longer than I expected. Let’s see:
Scotland:
At first he felt slightly awkward, since he and Francis were ex’s, due to the Auld Alliance.
But he’s moved on, to the role of alternating between protective older brother, and the traitorous spy in the family that will sell out his younger brother’s secrets.
In the former role, when he thinks Francis is bullying his younger brother, he ditches his typical debonair vibe, to thoroughly recreate the most obnoxious caricature of a scotsman that Francis used to tease him with. After hours of torture, and being subjected to ear-splitting cackling, and alcohol splattering everywhere, Francis usually gives up and apologies to Arthur.
In the latter role, he’s Francis’ co-conspirator, in breaking Arthur’s stubbornness down. Especially, by sneaking out of the uk family’s shared library all those romantic poetry books where Arthur’s absentmindedly scribbled annotations, so Francis knows all the weak spots in the Englishman’s heart.
And hey, he’s got romantic experience, along with Robert Burns and Sir Walter Scott in his veins, so Arthur is also doomed, by his masterful hand.
He’s a good bro and a good friend to Arthur and Francis. A very hard balance to strike.
Wales:
Is completely amused that they’re dating, since if he had a dime for every time a piss-drunk Arthur told him in excruciating detail about how he was going to kill Francis in as slow and painful a way as possible….well...let’s just say the all the wealth would collapse the currency market
He’s also the one that Arthur called at 2am in the morning, piss-drunk, and sobbing about how straight-up gorgeous Francis’ hair is, and his eyes, and his face, and that he can’t even look at it, without his heart bursting with feels, and how is he ever going to stop crying it’s all too beautiful…for three hours straight…...
He totally called it when Arthur and Francis started dating. Saw it coming from miles away.
Still receives phone calls from piss-drunk Arthur about Francis. Oh well...
Ireland:
Another one of Francis’ ex’s
When Arthur and Francis told her they were dating, they literally snorted Guinness out of her nose, straight into Arand started laughing hysterically when Arthur and Francis told her they were dating, and then kept laughing even when it was just completely awkward
Also most violent of the U.K. fam
As the protective elder sister, if she feels that her younger bro is being bullied, she will swap Francis’ moisturiser for bleach, mix his salt and sugar together, add talcum powder into his flour... Because she is nothing, if not classy and strategic in guerrilla warfare. Even Arthur is blown away by her brutality, and occasionally pleads for clemency for Francis.
...similar horrors await Arthur if she finds that he’s the unreasonable one in the relationship...
…...she’s a major reason why Francis and Arthur try and resolve issues in their relationship with open communication......
North Ireland:
They just grabs popcorn every time Francis and Arthur have a spat, and the whole UK family support system kicks into motion
Ends up having to broker peace treaties between fruk and the rest of the British Isles.
Loves all the drama, the good and the bad, so much. And approves of the relationship. :)
Matthew: Oh Papa — I know — and then Snow White and the Prince made her evil stepmother wear red hot iron shoes, and dance and dance until she died...
Francis: Non, non, non, mon petit chou! They were far less merciful. For you see, Snow White and the Prince sent her evil stepmother to England, where all the grumpy and ill-tempered people live, and they have to eat nasty cabbage soup all day!
Matthew: …...that’s not what Uncle Gilbert said happened in the Grimm version
Alfred: Oooh ooh and then Cinderella’s stepsisters had their eyes pecked out by crows and chased out of their house?
Arthur: No. And then all of Cinderella’s stepsisters moved to France. Because that’s where all the jealous and nasty go to live, which is far, far, worse.
Alfred: that’s not what Ludwig told me in the Grimm version…….
I’m a day late, but I still wanted to do something for the last day of @frukweek. I don’t know how to draw full bodies so there was no way I could do a sexy piece, but they’re not wearing shirts so I’ll leave it to everyone’s imagination.
Welp I’ve written a spoken word poetry style brotherly usuk fic! To clarify, I got nothing against usuk shippers.
But yea, I like the idea of two of them as bros, that support each other, through their crazy love lives, and their crazy life-life’s
And its inspired by Sarah Kay and Philip Kaye’s spoken word poem An Origin Story. Cos writings about friendship are so underrated!
You can also read it on A03
Enjoy~!
Title: Friends Fall in Love with each other Sometimes (**Platonically**)
Arthur:
Here’s a toast! [raises glass]
Alfred:
Here’s a toast! [takes a PB&J from the inside of his coat] [Arthur eye-rolls]
Together:
To the both of us — !
Alfred:
And a vow, very solemn...
Arthur:
For better and for worse...
Alfred:
In the crazy wreck of life….we’ve found each other...
Arthur:
And in each other, one of the most wonderful things that can be found in life…….
…...In me you’ve found…a friend
Alfred:
Someone who will dash over to the bar when you’re piss drunk — to pick you up, and send you home safe
Arthur:
Someone who will put up with all the pop songs you play, and all your ridiculous memey balderdash
Alfred:
Someone who will actually listen to you go on and on about 15th century literature, only because I know you care about it!
Arthur:
Right back at you, regarding comic books, and whatever nation walked past us that was “totally a hot piece of ass”
Alfred:
though bitterness and sorrow and madfests and shitshows, I promise and I swear...
Arthur:
…...if you need me, I’ll be there...
Alfred:
When I'm in trouble, I know you’ll swoop by. And be my hero —
…...Even though…...I’m no longer the Robin to your brooding Batman...because I’ve stepped out of your shadow.
And dang has that caused so many rifts and tensions between us…...
But it's not all that bad. I know that if I need you I can reach you — even if the bat-signal is broken…...
Because I already know your secret identity. Your darkest nightmares. Your most crippling traumas. Your tears and your resolve. You don't have anything you need to hide from me, because I know you...and I know that your secret hideout will always have a place for me...
Cos we’re still, as ever, the dynamic duo
And here's a special offer, eh? I’ll generously reprise my old role as Robin for you, on the special occasion where you need Robin…...to be…...YOUR WINGMAN...aha...aha...get it?
Arthur:
Psssh, lame
And I’ll always remember that you’re boy-scout Clarke Kent, even when you take off the glasses, and put on the supersuit.
Count on me, always, to step on your cape when you’re about to take off — when what you really need — is to get your hero head out of the clouds, and your all-too-human feet back on earthy ground
I’ll tell you without hesitation — when your actions make the ‘S’ emblazoned on your chest stand for ‘Stupid’ rather than ‘Super’.
And no holds barred, I’ll say it to you straight, when part of your superhero costume…... reaaaaally looks like red underwear…...and you’re speeding off to impress Lois Lane
And I promise, I will never, ever, be afraid of you — and your superpowers. Because in my eyes, you’ll always be my brother. I’ll never carry kryptonite on me, as a guarantee for my own safety. Cos I know I can count on your kindness and your integrity...and that's more powerful...
Alfred:
If someone bursts your bubble, I’ll whip out my bubble gun and blast them away, like Team Rocket
Arthur:
You’re strong enough to lift loads of weights at the gym. And I’m certainly stubborn enough to try lift any weight off your shoulders
Alfred:
And when the going gets tough and you’ve feelin’ the heat,
Arthur:
but you insist on handling it on your own
Alfred:
I’ll know when you’re being stubborn, and drag you out of there, no matter how badly you kick and scream for me to let go…...
Arthur:
…...Because I’ve seen you make coffee……
Alfred:
......And I’ve seen you make tea…...
Arthur:
…...So I know when the heat makes people and drinks stronger…
Alfred:
Or just plain bitter
Arthur:
And if the latter happens I'll throw in some chocolate, marshmallows, or caramel into your drink of choice...and the flavours your life
Alfred:
Add in a sugar cube, some creamer, or even cinnamon to spice things up!
Together:
With the power of caffeine, we’ll be unstoppable!
Arthur:
And of course I’ll see you through the crazy adventure that is searching for true love in life
Alfred:
I’ll encourage you, seriously, to ask your crush out
With the classic proverb that hey……
Even GOOGLE had to ask to be your default browser for the first time
Arthur:
And I won't judge you for poring over your crush’s texts for hours
In fact, I’ll dissect them with you
I've interpreted Beowulf and scrutinised Bridget Jones
a couple of texts from your potential bae is nothing!
Alfred:
And I solemnly swear to tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the Truth
…….when you’re trying to freshen up for a date….....
And you ask me how'dya look......well......
Don’t worry I'll help you look cool —
my pomade, my leather jackets, and my badass motorbike...are free for your use!
Arthur:
And if you already look cool, and are trying to freshen up for a date —
My…...err…...extensive collection of romantic poems...the highlight of which is…...18th Century English Romantic Poet Keats….is…yours…along...with...my...well...wishes???
But also…………
…...if the one you love, is not the one who loves you...
And it becomes such that you start to say
“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the ugliest of them all”
And see through the mirror, that the answer is you
I’ll trace my finger over what you think is the misshapen lump of your face
And draw out your every feature that stands out bold and proud:
That shine in your eye that could warm the sun
Your beaming smile that dares the world entire with a note of kindness
And your “double chin” — for god’s sake you don’t have it
in fact the way you hold it up suggests strength and athleticism— which I will remind you social convention finds very attractive
And anyway whoever falls in love, with you, will find a way to be enamoured your every other facial flaw
Because love is NOT a mirror, it sees the world through a completely different kind of lens, that distorts things, in the favour of you, the cherished
That’s not even to mention how I as your friend, already think that you’re beautiful just the way you are
Alfred:
And every time, your crush looks away, and hurts you in ways that he doesn’t even know
When you start to think it’s because you’re not enough, and not even worthy of true love
I’ll tell you all about the times I fell in love with you, as a friend, platonically
That moment when you took my breath away, by showing up at my work desk, with a toasted golden-brown marshmallow chocolate-sauce pizza, when I was starving after six hours of non-stop work
That look in your eye, when you listened to me, all through the night, blabber about my horrible insecurities, ugly jealousies, and nonsensical fears
And that patience, when you put cold spoons over my eyes — to stop them from swelling — and soothed me in the toilet as I cried, hiding away from the rest of the world, in the middle of a World meeting, and I was so ashamed
So how can you believe, that you are any less worthy, of beauty and of grace? Put a smile back on your face!
But hey now, you’ve found your SO,
and I’ll keep a lookout for if he’s an asshole.
If he is, I'll deliver him a painful blow.
For you, mah man, my best bro
Arthur:
And now that you've decided that he's the one, Shakespeare’ll have nothing on the shovel talk I give your bae
Alfred:
But even then, I’ll still need you to stand by me, to watch my back, and help me with the little-big things in life
Arthur:
Well I can’t hang the stars in the sky for you, but I’ll make sure you hang your laundry
Alfred:
I’ll always share with you the cool things I find on the internet, the cat vids and the touching stories
Arthur:
You’re not Snow White or Sleeping Beauty —
and I’m certainly no Prince Charming either
I won’t wake you with a kiss to your lips.
But like hell I’ll let you oversleep and be late for world meetings
Alfred:
Throw away your ouija board, you don’t need to stress and obsess over predicting every trouble in your future.
Cos you’ve got me. And for you, I’ll raise demons and hell
Arthur:
Don't toss your coins into the fountain — toss ‘em to me
I’ll save them up for you — for a rainy day — and one day you’ll thank me
Alfred:
If you’re tearing your hair out, cos you’re about to be checkmated in chess
I’ll help you turn the tables on your opponent...literally.
As the chess pieces scatter across the floor, I’ll remind you that there's a real world out there, beyond the chessboard.
Even if your fellow chess competitors don't see it......
Arthur:
If you grin too cockily while looking through your telescope,
thinking that you’ve already got the stars,
I’ll flip your telescope the other way round,
so you'll look through the tiny end,
and see another world where the stars are further than they actually are,
to get a heart-attack,
that shocks you back into perspective
Alfred:
And hey, I know, I won't always give you the right answers to life,
but at least like Siri, I'm programmed to listen
Arthur:
I’ll won’t ever settle for just being your compass in life.
I’ll be more like your Google Maps and 4G
tracking you each step of the way, until you reach your destination,
even if my signal gets a little spotty sometimes
Alfred:
And whenever I’m having a snack, I’ll always snap my kit-kats and kinder-buenos in half,
cos half of it will always be for you.
Arthur:
What I call crisps, but you call potato chips —
even if I’ve eaten through most of the bag in a wild binge
and am down to that one last hyper-addictive handful —
if you need it because you’re stressed —
then those crisps I will gladly give to you
Alfred:
And the TLDR; is basically, as the classic song goes: ~If you wanna be my lover, ya gotta get with
my friends, make it last forever, friendship never ends~ [from SPICE girls]
Arthur:
And as the annoying Swiftie beside me would also like to sing — the two of us
Alfred:
We’ll never go out of style! We’ll never go out of style!
Arthur:
Because there were so many before us, before our days — their footsteps echo down to us, to show and light the way!
Alfred:
I’m talking ‘bout Ash and Pikachu
Arthur:
Sherlock and Watson
Alfred:
Spongebob and Patrick
Arthur:
Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee
Alfred:
Susan B Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton
Arthur:
Peter Pan and Tinkerbelle
Alfred:
Capt’n Kirk and Spock
Arthur:
the Doctor and his Tardis
Alfred:
Charlotte the Spider and Wilbur the Pig
Arthur:
J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis
Alfred:
Cookies ‘n Cream!
Arthur:
Jam ‘n Scones!
Arthur:
Sophie and the BFG
Alfred:
Elliot and E.T.
Alfred:
Together, we boys got chemistry! We’re unstoppable! — And even if we aren't —
Arthur:
~with a little help from our friends~ [from The Beetles]
Posting my late submission for frukweek2017 this time on Tumblr! It’s for the Day 5 prompt: “It’s really hard to say I love you”. Beware, its 9,228 words long, and there are slight spoilers for Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo! Or you could read it nicely sectioned out on A03. Enjoy!
@frukweek
Title: It’s Hard for Me to Say “I Love You” (But I do!)
At half-past three in the morning, Arthur wraps his mitten-insulated hands around a hot baking tray.
He pulls out of his oven a batch of souffles — standing proud and puffed up in several flavours — orange blossom, French vanilla, pistachio, lemon and so on. With a critical eye, he carefully puts them down.
So they dot his already crowded mahogany breakfast table. Swim amidst bowls filled with stuffed figs, pastries piled upon lavish porcelain plates, and a hearty mille crepe cake that brings this all together in a picture of domestic felicity.
It’s enough food to comfortably feed an army. But in the zero-dark hours of the morning, there’s only Arthur sitting down in his apartment to not-really-appreciate it. He listens to the droning of the London traffic outside of his apartment. Listlessly pokes at his empty plate with a fork. It’s just him, and his tired eyes, and his shoulders sore from cooking all night — aching to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Mirthlessly, he entertains the scenario of what would happen if a few nations happened to stumble through his doorstep. Spot the burgeoning breakfast spread he’s set up all on his own. Have their minds blown, because surprise-surprise obviously England can cook...it’s been centuries and he’s not stupid.
Then England snaps out of it. Executes this notion with absolute swiftness. With a cool flame slicking across his skin, he thinks: “nonononono — the world must never know — never find out — he must never be known to cook competently.
Why?
Because he is England. English. Horrible-foodland. God Save the Queen, tally-ho and whatnot. It’s who he is, of course.
Arthur gags at how quickly this self-deluding lie comes to his mind. “Bullshit.” He’s perfectly aware of the truth. England looks tiredly over his shoulder, at the kitchen counter behind him, where he knows what he’ll see.
He sees the phantom of an old memory: A slender and handsome figure. Whose blue-ribboned ponytail is swept elegantly over his right shoulder. His nimble hands flying over the stove, adjusting all the buttons, as his lively eyes keep track of all the things bubbling and stewing. He’s got an apron tied around his hips, and he speaks with a gentle voice, teasing, “Oh Angleterre, what would you do without me cooking for you in the morning? Why, die of food poisoning of course.”
Then, there are even more distant memories, of a delicately beautiful youth calling across the fields to a stubborn bushy-browed barbarian— to come feast on the fish that he’s caught and cooked with a delicious mix of wild herbs — before it grows cold.
Gaul. France. Francis.
He doesn’t visit anymore. Not since The Quarrel . The lock of his apartment hasn’t been broken for ages. A pretty face hasn’t poked his head through the door — to remark upon incorrigible Angleterre and his damp little island — for the longest time.
Even though England has kept everything else the same — his stuffy attitude — his stuffier sweater vests — his horrible taste — everything that France would want to taunt England over, and more.
So shouldn’t France be here by now to insult everything with his poncey accent.
Shouldn’t that be the way things are?
If, there is light, there is shadow. If there are heights, there are abysses.
If there is English artlessness, then there is French finesse.
So where is Francis now?
It’s an absurd instinct, carried to the finest degree of stupidity. But Arthur is despondent and desperate. He will stubbornly cling to his faults and foibles, because they are the scraps of what he has left of their light-and-shadow, point-and-counterpoint, intertwined past relationship. And maybe, maybe if he waits long enough he’ll come back...the dead will rise from their graves...and frozen lakes will burst ablaze...The bright days will return...
Sitting at the breakfast table alone, staring at all the dishes, Arthur knows he is waiting for a moment that will never come. He had thought that maybe making a breakfast spread of his own could bring back the comforting nostalgia of the past. Instead, too many vivid little memories of better breakfasts crowd around the plates and bowls, gibbering and yammering, and just making Arthur feel queasy, and unbearably sick.
He ends up bringing all the breakfast foodstuffs to this homeless shelter. The lady in charge“Are you sure you want to give this all away? Again?”
“Sure,” Arthur replies.
After all, it’s not as if I have anyone I to share this breakfast with.
England walks home alone.
Really, if anything, England had thought that his relationship with France would end in a cataclysmic catharsis of centuries of hatred. The fallout would have been stupendous, the impression made on the world indelible.
Never in his wildest imaginings would he have expected for it to end in a gradual slide into total obsolescence. Not when for centuries Europe and the world seemed to revolve around Anglo-Franco powerplay and rivalry. These days France and England seem less politically relevant, especially in relation to each other.
The final nail in the coffin was Brexit.
Now England just sits at the back of meetings, watching France and Germany run the EU like an old married couple. Their dynamic is so powerful, they have become the de-facto runners of world meetings. Germany is relentless focus and brutal efficiency, forcing discussions to stay on track. Whereas France is silver-tongued, and quick-witted. He soothes the ruffled feathers of nations whose squabbles are halted by Germany, holds the attention of the world with clever quips, and generally maintains an amiable balance in the atmosphere, that facilitates the smooth running of meetings.
The two are undeniably a power couple. What place does England have in this new world?
In this, Italy is sympathetic. Sure, he appears bubbly as always on the outside. But Arthur knows that in truth, Feliciano is a complete wreck. He’s guilty about how his economy just isn't holding up, compared to the other EU economies. Hence, his disastrous breakup with Germany a few years back. Shortly after that, England had stumbled upon Italy in Prague, hysterically hitting on anything that walked on two legs, before collapsing from a pub-run induced alcohol poisoning. Since then, they’ve shared something of a silent understanding. Arthur checking in on Feliciano, to make sure his self-medicating doesn’t go out of control, and the sweetheart giving him gifts of limoncello and chocolates in to ease his pain in turn.
“Dude, you okay?” Alfred asks, concerned, poking his arm with a pen, and rousing him from his reminiscences. Like this, America only manages to remind England that while only a tiny strip of water separates England from France, but a whole Atlantic ocean separates him from the American, it is Alfred who is seated by his side in his meeting. While Francis (and Arthur knows he’s in charge of the seating arrangements), has found it fit to fling him as far away from his royal Frenchiness as possible.
Something inside him snaps. Deep down, England is still a spoilt and selfish brat — that wants attention — and will throw violent tempers if that is what it takes to get some.
When he and Francis happen to be in the same room alone (the latter innocently turning to the coffee machine for a drink), Arthur convolutes some topic raised during the meeting, angles it at France, and rips into him.
Let it never be said that the English are not gifted at bloodsport. In a matter of minutes, Arthur conjures up saints set on fire during the Hundred Years War. Sobbing surrendering French foot soldiers slaughtered on the battlefields of Agincourt. William the Conqueror’s Harrying of the North. The British military conquest of Canada. French-funded American Wars of Independence...and so on.
The effect is instantaneous. Francis changes from a graceful sylph, to an Angel of Death. His blue eyes become burning sapphire that can raze and maim. His creamy complexioned countenance becomes becomes cold ivory. His features are angular and cutting, far from the wide fond smiles the Nation of Love is so famed for melting into.
There is even blood spilt.
"You know what ," Arthur thinks, " maybe this is what we’ve been reduced to, this is as good as we’re going to get along…..."
And he resigns himself to it.
warning The Count of Monte Cristo spoilers here
Fate though, occasionally gets bored of melodrama. Sometimes other strings are pulled, other forces, set in motion. Situations transform into things startlingly foreign......and completely alien.
It happens one afternoon, on another world meeting. After a particularly productive session, when all the centuries-old minds of the nations were surprisingly engaged in heated intellectual debate, Germany calls for a four hour recess, just to positively reinforce that behaviour.
England sees no need to leave the building then. He settles down in some inconspicuous corner with an armchair, and pulls out a massive novel to read. The words thrum gently through his mind. The weight of it in his lap is comforting.
Unfortunately, he is soon interrupted. France shows up, with sleek glasses, an attache, and a few papers in hand. He says something about his boss needing England to sign the papers. England pointedly ignores him. France can just leave the paperwork on the table and sod off. What’s the point. It’s not as if they have anything meaningful to say to each other.
Besides, Arthur’s getting to one of his favourite parts of the novel. The skies could come crashing down, and the Brit couldn’t care less, especially if it had no plot significance.
And then, abruptly, the book is snatched from his hands. England is jarred from his meditative reading state. He looks up to hiss at France with fire, fury, and shock.
France is scrutinising the cover of the novel with piercing eyes, before he jeers out “Angleterre — you’re reading The Count of Monte Cristo?”
Arthur blinks, just as surprised as France is. He had just let his hands grab a book from his bookshelf in his apartment, guided by the whim of his heart, before he’d started reading, and didn't stop. He hadn’t, for a moment, considered the nationality of the book, or noticed the unfamiliarity of its language, when he had perused the pages. Now Arthur expects taunts about the undeniable superiority of the French language, along with rounds and rounds of humiliation utilizing this as ammunition.
Instead, France is furious, snarling out: “You finally pick up one of my works, at long last after so many years. You could have stories of fairies, of paradise, of kinship, just about anything beautiful. But you choose — you choose Angleterre — to bloat yourself on a story of REVENGE? ”
For a terrifying split-second, England finds himself buckling under the weight of France’s gaze, which is creaking with the baggage of thousands of years, seizing with mangled corpses trying to tear away from the silence that holds them back...stinking with gangrene and rotting blood...
But old habits die hard. Under fire, Arthur whips out his intellectual halberd and charges Francis.
“What are you buggering on about you gormless berk. Did you even read the Sparknotes for The Count of Monte Cristo? Fine, this is a book about the Count’s vicious revenge against those who have so grievously wronged him. But you would have to be blind not to see that there is more. ”
Arthur snatches the book back from Francis’ grip. Speeds the pages of the book through his fingers, until he reaches the page that he was on, before he was so rudely interrupted. He then shoves the book in Francis’ face, and says, with the irritation of a disrespected schoolteacher, “Read the section I’ve highlighted in turquoise.” Then he begins to lecture.
“O.K., there’s a revenge plot swirling around with the Count and his machinations. But other things are unfolding at the same time. Look at Chapter Ninety-Five. You may recall here the subplot where the nobleman M. Danglars (one of the count’s future victims) wants his daughter — Eugenie Danglars to marry this aristocrat she has no love for — to uphold their family’s noble image.”
“He reminds her of how she is tied down by her family’s legacy, their history. She must be dragged down with disappointment, if that is what the arranged marriage holds for her. Her history necessitates it.”
“In the novel, so far, we’ve only seen the example of the Count twisting his deeds to match the evil done to him in his past.
“See how Lady Danglars responds instead to her father’s insistence that she be tied down to her obligations and her history as a member of the Danglars history.”
Francis reads out the section:
“in the shipwreck of life—for life is an eternal shipwreck of our hopes—I cast into the sea my useless encumbrance, that is all, and I remain with my own will, disposed to live perfectly alone, and consequently perfectly free.”
Arthur can’t help but grin: “Clever girl gives the middle finger to the illusion that she must live a life pervaded with a sense of waste — as a slave to her family, her past and her history. She rejects the marriage that is foisted upon her, and makes her own decisions unfettered by others.”
And then with more vigour and energy he adds: “Later, she even elopes with her true love, her singing teacher Louise d’Armilly, to the shock and scandal of everyone else. They create their own little love story, away from the brutal machinations of the Count’s revenge plot, and the novel.”
“Is that not beautiful?”
Arthur can’t quite read the expression on Francis’ face — the room’s lighting means that he can only be sure that his lips are wryly arching across his countenance. That usually signifies the sharpening of a verbal blade, and Arthur braces for impact.
“You know, Arthur, some would say that Louise and Eugenie were just friends that ran away from Eugenie’s troubled family situation. And that you are reading far too much into their relationship.”
There it is. Arthur bristles in absolute indignation. Takes up his pen, and jabs Francis hard in his chest. “And you call yourself the Nation of Love! For chrissake, Louise and Eugenie are said to sleep together in the same bed. Everyone comments on how intimate their so called ‘friendship’ is. Dumas even uses the phrase ‘the breast of Sappho’ to refer to Eugenie’s nature. He literally refers to the poetess that lived on the island that lesbians are named after. How much queer subtext do you bloody need?”
With an unassailable conviction, Arthur declares: “Screw you Francis. This is love that escapes from the entanglements and trappings of vendettas and grievances. Eugenie and Louise figure out how stupid it is to be tied down by the past, ages before the Count even has an inkling. They learn to, as Dumas writes, Live and be happy...wait and hope .”
Arthur stands upright, chin raised and defiant, challenging Francis to even try rebut his argument. His emerald eyes pierce deeply into azure ones. Until, he realises that his glower is completely lost on Francis — because Francis is laughing, mirthful and amused.
“I know, I know,” Francis’s eyes are twinkling, and he raises his hands in mock surrender. “I just wanted to rile you up. It’s so rare that I get to prod you into stripping off all those prudish pretenses, to expose you bare as the die-hard romantic that you truly are!”
Arthur squawks, and rather fails to pass it off as a refined sniff, before he responds “I’m just interpreting the text as it was intended to be understood.”
“Sure, mon cher, revert back to your priggish facade. With you, it’s always one step forward, two steps back — into splendid emotional suppression” Francis teases. Arthur is surprised to find himself letting out a shaky breath of relief, so he can’t quite respond to Francis’ words.
“Although come now, Angleterre, perhaps after Dumas, you could read a nicer book. A Tale of Two Cities, perhaps? A story intertwining both our hearts, our capitals...”
Arthur rolls his eyes in irritation. “The title is misleading. You mean a Tale briefly of London, but mostly of Paris. Chiefly about how sure, England and its justice system is corrupt — we’re going to talk about that for a while. But by jove, the Frenchies are so bonkers — we’ll spend chapter after chapter talking about how barmy they’ve become.” Arthur adds with a smirk, “I believe I don’t even need to read the book to know how problematic you are.”
Arthur is mentally shaking his own hands, congratulating himself for one-upping Francis in the literary arena TWICE in a row .
But Francis, for some reason, is grinning like a cat that’s got the cream. This unsettles Arthur deeply.
“Well of course, Angleterre, comfort yourself with a long story of the glory days when all the angry populism and demagoguery was on the other side of la Manche , and not in England. You would really need that now, wouldn’t you .”
Arthur gives Francis a warning look: This Taunt comes Too Soon, Too Contemporaneous, Too Fresh, don’t you bloody raise that up as a point...
“Because Brexit.”
Over 1,000 pages of The Count of Monte Cristo nearly smash into Francis’ obnoxious countenance. Arthur’s suitcase is next in line for his use as a makeshift projectile. Francis has the nerve to cheer, when it misses. So Arthur doesn’t hesitate to try knock Francis’ head off his shoulders, with the metal chair that he swings at the bloody git. Francis manages to parry, by raising the entire desk over him as a defensive shield.
It’s stupid, it’s dangerous, but it’s them .
Somehow, this is the best that Arthur’s felt in ages.
There was their relationship, rotting and shrivelling away in this coffin, with England staring at it morosely, reading it it’s last rites. Until out of the blue, it had sprung up, thrown open the coffin lid and screamed “SURPRISE MOTHARFUCKAARR. YOU THOUGHT I WAS DEAD?”. It had swiftly proceeded to upend everything all over again in Arthur’s life.
Maybe that’s the TLDR; of Anglo-Franco relations.
They exchange volleys of insults over text messages. Engage in snark-to-snark combat over phone calls (because real life face time is not enough to get it out of their system). There are long emails, that really belong to the long, winding speeches before epic set-piece battles in dramatised historical enactments.
It’s breathtaking. The alacrity with which everything had snapped back together. Arthur can’t help but feel giddy at the thought of how quickly they’ve fallen back in step with each other, because of how deeply their quarrelsome ways are coded into their being.
Things get so good, Arthur finds himself taking the chunnel to Paris more often. And when he does, Francis is always waiting for him outside the train station, with a smile, and some teasing variation of how ‘he’d gladly offer asylum to another sodden Englishman clawing for an escape from their damp, grey, island’. Earning him a glare from Arthur. Just like that, he would motion for Arthur to come walk with him along the glittering streets of Paris. And Arthur, would respond with some half-hearted slur like “You watch out, you cheese-eating surrender monkey. I’ll might take over your country by accident.”
Of course, there are still slip-ups. One time, after Arthur pops out of Gare du Nord Station, the first thing he says to Francis is “Ugh, why does your metro reek so thoroughly of piss.”
Immediately, he knows that it’s the wrong thing to say. Francis’ expression darkens. The wistful, romantic air about him dissipates into a horrifying nothingness. He grits out “Really, Angleterre? You have all the sights and smells of my beautiful Paris to behold, but this is what you notice.”
A knee-jerk reaction: Arthur scoffs and digs his heels in: “It’s true! You can't deny that there's the stench of piss. It’s what so many tourists comment on when they first arrive in your city. What use is there denying it, when the smell is wafting about everywhere...You might as well go around telling people that gravity doesn’t exist.”
Francis’s gaze hardens. Some tiny voice at the back of Arthur’s mind is screaming at him to stop, but centuries of habit continue to stubbornly push him along, over the cliff edge, to the point of no return: “It's hardly my fault — why should I be reproached —” Arthur can’t slam the brakes — “for telling you what is clearly the truth. You,” he points at Francis, “and your people — you talk of prettiness, and elegance. You say that everything must be perfection ...anything less has no place here. And yet —”
“— yet, when push comes to shove, your City of Love doesn’t smell only of pastries and springtime flowers. Your Metro stinks of piss. Because after all that, in truth, you will pick the messiness of the common people, over your abstract renaissance elegance. You let the homeless and the destitute hide away in your Metro, especially during the cold and bitter winters, because liberté, égalité, fraternité, and some things are more important than looking pretty.”
“Your hypocrisy — it makes me sick — do you get what I mean?” Arthur finishes furiously, his heartbeat pounding madly in his ears.
“Oui, crystal clear, Angleterre,” Francis purrs, his face now relaxed into an annoying cheshire grin. He readily puts his arm in Arthur’s, before sweeping him across Paris. Arthur is simultaneously infuriated and relieved. He’s not sure how long he’s going to be able to last like this — to be able to keep his trap shut and all the poisonous insults in — especially when Paris is such that every time he visits, he finds more reasons to hate the city.
For instance, Arthur can't help but tell Francis that You French are too poncey . Bloody hell, they just need to grab a bite at a cafe. But no, the cafe has to toast the bread, like the bread itself is a five star dish. And the fillings, what kind of schmancy-bourgeois stuff do they even put in there? And the system is also completely rigged, because how is Arthur supposed to make his incredulity known to Francis, when whatever drugs the French put in their food makes Arthur gag himself, by stuffing as much of it in his mouth as quickly as possible, effectively making him shut himself up.
And France is a den of temptation and debauchery. For god's sake, they have entire shops dedicated to just selling cheese (‘fromageries’), which is obviously just an excuse so they can pair it with wine and get drunk. And oh, Francis keeps plying him with too many wines, until his head spins from all the flavours, and the bevy of wine appreciation tips that Francis serenades him with in a lilting tone; and then the blasted frog has to nerve to laugh when his stiff-upper lip isn't so stiff anymore, and he can’t argue back properly.
And finally, French are just plain rude .
Arthur, completely drunk, just wants to stumble along the River Seine looking thoroughly put out by every French civilian. But this blasted bereted mine has the AUDACITY to mock his uptight mannerisms. This is nothing short of CASUS BELLI. He will respond by mocking the mime’s mimicry in furious retaliation! God save the Queen! So the First Anglo-Franco Pantomime war begins! Bollocks to the bystanders asphyxiating with laughter. Along with the French philosophical types standing around, watching he and the friggin bereted frog mime their way into satirical infinite regression, with all the seriousness they would pay some Derridian poststructuralist commentary on ‘sign’, ‘signifier’ and ‘symbol’.
(Eventually, Francis has to drag him away, while he's still hollerin“you got nuthin on Rowan Atkinson, ya hear me? NUTHIN.” “Oh Angleterre, there's no doubt you would have won. If not eventually because you would be arguing with an enfeebled old man” )
Francis, surprisingly, decides to return the visit — grace the poor sodden mess that is British Isles with his lovely presence — because what else would the poor English folk live for? Arthur meets him at Waterloo station, and greets him with a smack of a rolled up copy of The Sunday Times .
Together, they stroll through Trafalgar Square. Point at the columns, the arches and the statued impressions of people they used to know so well…...
Francis makes a disappointed crooning-noise in his throat, when he sees that there are no more vendors selling pigeon feed to eager tourists. “Really”, he sighs dramatically, “Somehow I find myself missing your crazen devil-hordes of pigeons. Your people and tourists eagerly offering up their foodstuffs to the winged harbingers of poor sanitation — and the inevitable ‘shitzkrieg’ they would unleash on your dear Nelson’s monument. The ultimate essentialization of the Anglo-Saxon spirit!”
Arthur scowls, but kind of agrees. Then, infected with French cooties (i.e.civil disobedience), he screeches at this security guard that’s forbids these parents from putting their little kids between the paws of the large iconic lion statues. Francis, backs him up with a shout of “Viva la Revolution.” Then the security team arrives. The Anglo-Franco duo chuck them into the fountain. And make what both have always preferred to diplomatically word as a tactical retreat .
On another day, Arthur meets Francis along his coastline at Dover. As Francis skips off the ferry boat to join him near the docks, Arthur tries to memorise every detail of the experience: golden sunlight glimmering off Francis’ hair, the salty scent of the ocean breeze mingling with those silky locks, and the way fresh air fills up their lungs, adding colour to their faces.
And then suddenly, Francis’ arm is wrapped and pressed tightly against his, his face smiling startlingly close to Arthur’s. It takes Arthur everything to try regain enough presence of his mind, to pull Francis along to this spot he’d spread a picnic mat across, near a lighthouse at the White Cliffs of Dover. From a large knapsack, he pulls out what he proudly thinks are ten particularly handsome kites. “Handmade — I designed them myself,” he tells Francis, with a hint of pride.
“Kite-flying? Surely there’s something more stylish and sophisticated we can do today, rather than this childish sport.” Francis sniffs, his designer coat and scarf now very evident.
“...Trust me, by the end of today you’ll be begging to take those words back, you frog...”
Despite this early vote against his plans, Arthur stubbornly hands a kite over to Francis.
As soon as Francis takes the kite, Arthur notes smugly, that the promising seeds of repentance are shimmering in his cerulean eyes. Francis lets out a hum of delight, as said kite immediately comes alive between his fingers — shivering and crackling at the lightest touch of the breeze. Of course, as one would expect of his nature, Francis quickly lets go of the kite, so it soars eagerly out of his hands, carried by the wind to a place amongst the sun’s rays.
After that, it’s a scramble — to get more and more kites in the air: ones that puff up like linen-clouds...ones that swirl about in a whirlpool of colours...ones that trail excessively long iridescent tails across the horizon...
Then, they’re laughing and trying to do kite tricks: loop-the-loops, cartwheels and downward swoops. There’s a little good natured competition, where they snidely give each other tips, and try to one up each other's kite tricks with something more extravagant each time.
After a while, Francis takes a kite down, and starts to tie something to it with nimble fingers. Arthur braces himself, and watches cautiously, because he suspects that Francis is about to do something mean — like tie a key to the kitestring, so when he lets the kite fly back into the air, he can maneuver it, such that the jagged edge of the key cuts off the string of one of Arthur’s kites, causing it to be lost to the sky’s void forever...
But when Arthur looks closer, he realises that contrary to his fears, Francis is not tying anything sharp to the kite to weaponise it. Instead, he’s fiddling with a dainty fairy-like trinket, that Arthur guesses he’d cleverly fashioned out his blue hair ribbon, and a few tiny seashells he’d picked up earlier — from the beaches of Calais before getting on the ferry. “For you, mon petit Angleterre,” Francis calls out, giving Arthur a cheeky wink, before releasing the kite. It shoots up into the air, and the fairy strung along to it flies higher and higher — with beautifully, fluttering blue-ribboned wings…...
Instantly, Arthur is hit by another vision from another time: when a young, and irritated Britannia spent hours and hours running across fields, chasing after yet another one of those pesky silk ribbons that Gaul liked to tie in his hair, which the blasted wind always managed to work free and carry away like a prize...
Of the summer breezes that would sweep over the tall grasses in the fields of Normandy where the two of them had first met, carrying the scent of earth, and grass and flowers.
Of the zephyrs, that billowed the pretty, voluminous tunic of a rosy-cheeked youth, and the dusty green cloak of an irritated boy that just wanted it to stop blowing leaf-bits into his eyebrows.
Of the wind, that tousled silky golden locks of hair until they melted into the air like spun-sunlight…...that cranked the windmills of two strange lands in the Middle Ages until their personifications started quarreling over whose windmill design was superior…...that puffed up the sails of English and French boats that took off on long journeys in search of the New World….or directed this ridiculous contraption fuelled by hot air that Arthur insisted was ludicrous but Francis maintained was romantic because it would carry a rooster, a duck, and a sheep for the first time in flight over the heads of the French court in Versailles….
And then, memory swings back again to the earliest days, when the colours of the world were too vivid and bright to actually be real. When a grumpy little boy would angrily insist that his self-proclaimed ‘grand frère’ hoist him up onto his ‘strong’ shoulders, so he could look at very top of the tallest shrubs, where the fairies would lovingly put their little babies in cradles, so the wind could gently rock them to sleep…...
Arthur shoots an equally formidable grin back at Francis. Because today, there is the two of them, running along the White Cliffs of Dover, with kites soaring in the air, like wishes trying to fill up the sky……
In the evening, just before he leaves to take a ferry back to Calais, Francis nearly makes Arthur’s eyes pop out, and his heart burst in his chest, when he admits that he actually did enjoy what they had for lunch: cod, cooked crisp in lard and batter, drizzled over in balsamic vinegar, and lightly dusted in sea salt. British, but snackable.
(Touch wood...Snap a wishbone...Find a four leaf clover...Hang horse shoes all around...will this luck last?)
Although, as Arthur quickly learns, some things certainly have changed, compared to the past.
The first sign is a cordial invitation that Arthur receives — to what Francis cheekily calls a workdate but what Ludwig calls an emergency EU prep session.
He arrives in Berlin at six in the morning, German time, to meet Francis and Ludwig at the station.
At first it is puzzling, and painfully awkward. Arthur finds himself uneasily trying to skirt around the powerhouse that is Francis’ and Ludwig’s dynamic collaboration. After finishing a modest pile of relatively trivial paperwork, and eying how the duo’s working styles complement each other so perfectly , Arthur is frustrated, and wants nothing more than to leave. But Francis pins him down to his seat, with this open, honest, anxious look that he probably doesn’t know he’s shooting Arthur — every now and then when he looks up from his work to glance at the stuffy Englishman...as though he were worried that Arthur might disappear...
And then, in a swift moment, with an intangible build-up, all the pieces fall together. Arthur starts sniggering at the sight of Ludwig and Francis scrambling about like headless chickens: Ludwig wildly gesticulating at Francis from across the room, and Francis indignantly shushing him whilst charismatically cooing at whatever vital personage is on the telephone.
It’s all too easy to join forces with Ludwig, to bully technophobic Francis into accepting that "there's an app for this!" (“The trick, you see, is to threaten to steal his carry-on chapstick and moisturiser.” “...NON, LUDWIG!!! DON’T LISTEN TO HIS SAVAGERY!!!” “Or you keep speaking with a terrible French accent until he agrees to use the apps—” “— ROSBIF DON’T YOU DARE —” “—For instance ‘zees eez le baguette ohonhonhon’—” “— Merde — ”)
The three of them fall in step with each other, when they escape from Ludwig’s office building, into the crisp wintery air of noontime Berlin, humming with the catchy tunes of streetside buskers. Francis chatters on and on about all the pretty things he notices about Berlin, Ludwig nods his head intently, and Arthur throws in his more utilitarian observations into the mix.
As they pass under the broad-brimmed shade of a tree, Arthur fancies that time slows down a little — just enough for him to observe how dappled sunlight falls on Francis and Ludwig, how jovially the former links his arm with the latter, and how he's looking at the dusting of little snowflakes on Ludwig’s nose. He feels something like the sensation of a key warming in his hand...the need to let out something from a certain door
“The two of you will be good for each other. I wish the both of you all the happiness in the world,” Arthur finds himself saying, quite sincerely, despite how each word constricts his chest agonisingly.
Francis and Ludwig are startled — clearly the ongoing conversation was nowhere near this territory. Almost too quickly, Francis responds: “Non, non, non, Arthur — the two of us are just friends —” he laughs — “with some benefits I’ll admit — but nothing more!”
“Riiight,” Arthur responds skeptically, not entirely convinced. Francis is not done speaking though, and Arthur reads depth in his eyes when he continues, “I however, along with Ludwig, wish you and Alfred all the luck in love.” There is even the slightest tremble to Francis’ lilting voice as he says this.
It’s Arthur’s turn to be utterly baffled.
“Please don’t say that in front of Ivan — he will definitely assassinate me in my sleep, even I was the one that gave him tips on how to proposition Alfred in the first place...”
“Besides,” Arthur adds haughtily, “I will have you know that I wrote a fifty page theory on personality trait compatibility, based on our American and Russian — complete with diagrams, flowcharts, and excel sheets. Cambridge is publishing it, by the way.”
Ludwig perks up, “You mentioned diagrams, flowcharts, and excel sheets.”
Arthur’s countenance twists into a deranged grin, and he whips something out of his suitcase.
Francis and Ludwig quickly learn why Hungary, Japan, and Korea rejected Arthur’s application to the Yaoi fanclub, citing ‘intensity’ as their primary reason.
The sensation of a key warming in his hand intensifies. In fact, it spreads out, permeating his entire being — as though the universe were wrapping him up in a swaddling cloth, and babying his every whim. And he sees in his mind a wondrous vision: a building full of doors, so many possibilities, so many futures he could walk into if only he were willing to use that key.
Now, that he’s certain that Francis is single and available on the market again — he can freely indulge in — and yes he can outright call it that now — his massive crush on the Frenchman. (he’d read far too much Austen, and Bridget Jones to not be able to recognise infatuation, especially if it had been going on for centuries.)
So he gives himself full licence to read too much into Francis’ every word an action:
Go giddy with glee when Francis casually comments that Earl Grey cream might make good choux filling.
Soak up and savour every lilt and syllable of Francis’ voice, over the telephone or over his shoulder, when they’re physically apart or together.
Or wake up with his insides completely messed up, when someone breaks into his apartment at 3am, wielding a bag of groceries, and an umbrella for fencing, because “ surely the second Great Fire of London will happen if incorrigible Angleterre tries cooking his own breakfast ”)
(All along his apartment, Arthur hangs: rabbit foots and sprigs of lilies of the valley. He cheers far too much when a ladybug lands on his balcony rail. If Francis notices this latest eccentricity in his behaviour, he does not comment.
Lady fortune has smiled upon him, and Arthur swears that this time, he’ll take the chance. )
Unfortunately, for all the best laid plans of mice and men, Arthur’s completely fucks up those he made for Valentine's Day.
The World meeting that precedes each year’s Valentine’s Day celebrations starts at one.
It is four , when Arthur’s motorbike screeches to a halt, at the base of the neo-classical building that the meeting is being held in.
Self-consciously, Arthur checks himself in his motorbike’s side mirrors. And screams internally. Oh God, his hair is such a tangle, not even birds will nest there, not even if the rest of the world were spikes.
And he probably reeks. He’d been sweat-soaked in sweltering heat, and then drenched sopping wet by torrential rains, before arriving. Only his waterproofed trench coat lends to his appearance some semblance of order.
“Dammit,” — he spots the nations slowly filing out of the building — the meeting obviously over. Cursing his own poor timing, Arthur dashes up the building’s stone steps, trying to make up for lost timing. His eyes dart to and fro, searching for a specific suave and smiling countenance, amidst the swirling sea of nation’s faces. But this quest is not too hard, for like how Ariadne’s thread guided Theseus out of the Labyrinth of the Minataur, there are clues to lead Arthur to the one he is seeking out.
You see, every Valentine's Day, just after this particular meeting ends, the self-proclaimed country of love will present each and every national personification with a single rose. Hence, the ocean of roses that are bobbing about in the air, held aloft by nations, as they make their way down the balustrade stairs. All Arthur has to do is barrel through these nations upstream, to the epicentre of where the roses are radiating from…
Arthur’s heart is pounding furiously in his chest, and into his ears. Trying to distract from the stress, Arthur keeps track of and counts the number of roses, because it’s like counting sheep right? Instead the stars dancing about his vision burn brighter — when a sonorous voice tangles with his thoughts, and whispers into his ear a lesson about roses, their numbers, and what they mean when they are gathered together in a bouquet...
One rose (love at first sight)
Two roses (your love is returned)
Arthur spots Tino and Berwald. Tino is tickling Berwald on the nose with the rose, as Berwald sneezes...Arthur can’t help but wonder if this is what they could be, as he leaves the marble steps of the building behind, and enters the building’s ornate entrance…...
Ten roses (you are perfection)
Twenty roses (believe in our love)
Thirty six roses (I cherish our moments, keep them in my heart...)
Abruptly, a hand reaches out from the crowd, and slams him against a pillar.
It's Antonio — brandishing his rose like a customised weapon of torture, his green eyes gleaming like the shattered end of a beer bottle. “You’re late, mi amigo. Bad move. You’ll want to watch out, if you keep making such stupid blunders.”
Behind him, is the ridiculous Prussian — Gilbert — crudely sliding the stem of his rose across his throat, and making gurgling and slitting noises for sound effect.
Arthur scowls, and pushes them off. Romano and Matthew are more much more helpful to his cause. The former angrily hauls two-thirds of the Bad Touch Trio away, screaming into their ears about micromanaging other people’s lives. Matthew the sweetheart, uses his rose, to point down one of the branching hallways.
Arthur firmly nods his head, and continues on his journey.
Forty-four roses (till death do us part)
Fifty roses (unconditional love)
Seventy-seven roses (it was fate that we’ve met)
Arthur just groans, when Ludwig brushes past his shoulder so hard, that he’s nearly knocked off his feet. He almost doesn’t bother to register the threat growled into his ear, “Just remember, I can snap you like a twig.”
How many shovel talks is he going to have to sit through? How painfully obvious were his plans for today? And does he appear so unreliable that nearly everyone needs to warn him off……
(Of course he does. To them all it seems like he’s just horrendously late, and for one of the few occasions this year that actually matters — Valentines Day. And yet here he still is, still wandering through these hallways, with the gall to hope that Francis is such a loser that he’s still stuck sitting around waiting for him, rather than the freaking pinnacle of gorgeousness and charm that has places to go, who deserves to be waited on hand and foot, rather than treated like this shitshow Arthur’s……)
His salvation arrives in the unexpected form of Feliciano. To Arthur’s infinite shock he silences Ludwig by pulling him into a deep kiss, his softness and reverence in touch melting into the rigid ardence of Ludwig’s figure. When they part for air, Feliciano gives Arthur a cheeky wink, that says “Buona fortuna”, and also “there’s still some time to mend things”. And then he takes off, whisking off a blushing Ludwig who’s still stuttering as he hangs off the Italian’s arm.
Well...that’s probably counts as a good sign….
99 roses.....
Finally, passing a corridor, Arthur drinks in a sight that brings him relief. France, still sitting by a window.
Even standing by the doorframe, Arthur catches a whiff of Francis’ perfume — lilies and lavender — that sings of softness and elegance. The sophisticated cut of Francis’ suit: a tight-fitting jet-black vest and a fuchsia undershirt wrapping especially tightly about his waist bring out the slightness and strength of his figure.
And of course, there is Francis’ hair, swept down his right shoulder in glorious cascading curls, it's spun-sunlight ethereality brought out by the solid shine of its rose-gold clasp by the crook of his neck. Their striking beauty is only paralleled by the intense vividness of Francis’ azure eyes, set off beautifully by the sapphire earrings hanging by each ear.
This is a siren’s song, each note hit upon so perfectly, that any sailor would gladly throw themselves to their watery deaths just to drown in that enchanting melody. And any bright-eyed youth after reckless Paris, would still hand the golden apple to Aphrodite over Hera and Athena, in vain hope. Even they knew the tragedy of the Iliad by heart...
(...Arthur wants nothing more than to to brush his chapped lips against the softness of Francis’ neck……
But the thought also makes him feel nauseous…..
Because isn’t that what the rest of the world thought, when they’d passed Francis?
Isn’t he permanently…’on call’ during Valentine's Days?
...For all the lonely nations, that can’t bear to sit alone with their frustrations, their hands, and a box of tissues… Just shoot him a text, and Big Brother France will be there...)
But Arthur pushes these thoughts down.
Instead, he’s preoccupied another more pressing observation: there is a heaviness about Francis in this moment.
His gaze is downcast, fixed on his hands. Slender fingers curl about thin air. Not a single rose rests between them... Not one rose for Francis…...This…...was surprising. Arthur wonders why he’d never noticed before, that hardly anyone ever thought of giving roses to the nation of love, when he gave them out so freely and so abundantly.
And so, the nation of love was now staring at the angry red scratches criss-crossing his palms — Francis never did believe in shorning roses of their thorns — looking oddly pensive.
And as the afternoon light streaming from the window by him fades, eerie things are done to the depths of his face. Shadows pool in the callouses on his palms, and in the shallows under his eyes that Francis always pretends isn’t there….
“You reek, you know. Like someone who got dumped in a ditch full of roses. No wonder they warn — that the fragrance of roses lingers around the the hand that gives them out. Really, frog. You should have listened —”
Francis looks up.
Arthur tries to (casually) slide himself to the seat beside Francis. For a moment, he sees Francis’ expression melt into appreciative relief, before a thought flits across his mind — that crashes indignance and hurt across his face like a rogue wave.
“Well if it isn't the Black Sheep of Europe — I don't suppose he has any reason for why he’s so unfashionably late, on the day of l’amour. ”
Arthur blinks, the glinting edge of the rapier in Francis’ voice cutting deep into him.
“I’m sorry...I’m truly sorry...I got…...held up,” Arthur fumbles for words. In a blind panic, he sticks his hand on the inside of his trench coat and sparks some magic there. “Here’s a peace offering though?” he manages to say out nervously,
With trepidation, he pulls out of his coat flaps a steaming cup of tea that he’d just conjured up then and there.
He slides it anxiously, across the table to Francis, watching closely for his reaction.
For a moment, it seems like he’s forgiven.
Francis gives him a funny look — one elegant eyebrow raised, and one corner of his lips quirked slightly downward. His hands catch and cradle the steaming cup, so the porcelain warms the cuts on his palms. The spark starting in Francis’ eye suggests that he is mildly impressed with how the silvery bud that slowly blooms in the cup as it absorbs the heat of the water swirling about it. And after he lifts the cup to his lips to take a first sip, the cerulean depths of his pupils are alight with all the wondrous velocity of thought that an experienced chef greets a flavourful drink.
‘Of course he likes it’, Arthur thinks giddily, ‘I just stole it from Queen Titania, Ruler of all the Fae folk, with a shoddy spell’. One day, he’ll wake up cursed to be a crumpet, his eyebrows mounted above the Fairy Queens throne. But for now, he thinks that it's all worth it…...
Then abruptly, Francis’ expression crumples, as though stricken by a thought so terrible, the tea’s tastes more abhorrent than bile. He sets the cup down with a sigh so heavy, it threatens to crumble all of Arthur’s being.
Silence looms over them, like the blade of a guillotine.
When Francis finally speaks, his voice is soft — but in the way physics states that the light flutter of a butterfly’s wing might sets off a tornado elsewhere. “Thank you Arthur, I appreciate the tea. But it still doesn’t change one very important fact…” Here, Francis pauses briefly...
“Arthur, you were busy preparing something special for someone else during today , which is why you were late — I know.”
Immediately, Arthur starts protesting, but the intense quality of Francis’ gaze crushes all his words.
“No — I have to say this, let me finish Angleterre.”
So Arthur stares at him, like his whole existence boils down to Francis’ every breath, and word, and expression.
“Listen, Arthur — you certainly won’t believe your ears when you hear it.”
There’s a laugh, silvery and lovely in the way beautiful and tragic things are.
“It’s hard for me to say I love you…...but please believe me when I say… that I truly do.”
“Oh,” Arthur thinks, completely dazed.
“Mon coeur, mon beau Angleterre. I have wasted all my poetry and art on whirlwind romances. I have lavished my most passionate kisses and most skillful moves in bed on the most trivial one-night stands. So now…...I have nothing truly special to give you, no matter how much I want to...So it is no wonder…” — here Francis chokes a little — “it no wonder you don't return my feelings. You are wise, you keep your loveliest turns of phrase, and your most ardent declarations of love to yourself — until that special person that manages to capture your heart comes along. I am clearly not that person…”
“I know — I can see it from how you smile, amused, whenever you see me flirt with others — like you’re watching the silly antics of some wool-brained eccentric. When it already drives me crazy just seeing you chatter with Alfred, even though I know now that you’re only brothers.”
“We shouldn’t talk to each other for a while after this, just give me enough time to get over — ”
Sharply, Francis stops. Arthur stares at him blankly in return. Their eyes shift slowly to their hands. Arthur’s hands have caught Francis’ midair, just a heartbeat before they could fly to Francis’ silken locks, to tug at them like he does when he’s distressed.
Arthur gently sets Francis’ hands on his lap, his emerald eyes never wavering from cerulean. Then he tries to find words, not even the best ones, just anything to fill the silence between them before the moment slips away. Eventually he settles on this as an opening line: “Francis, you’re completely wrong.” Because isn't that what he’d always loved to tell him, since long ago?
“You...make too much of my hesitance to express affection. I am just as afraid as you are, of baring my heart, and making myself vulnerable. In fact it’s also lack of practice, that makes me unwilling to try put my...fondness for you into words.”
“And your flirting...you’re kind of right — I’m always entranced when I watch you do it — the way with a few words and fashion tips, you bring out the charm in anyone. Until the world stops spinning, and we all realise that oh god, the person you were hitting on, they were beautiful all along. I’ve seen you make the days of so many strangers like that. You’re also partly wrong, however, because it strains all of my acting skills to stop my jealousy from showing…especially whenever you find the need to preface anything nice you do for me with “Big Brother France”......”
“But back to my reluctance to voice my deepest the feelings of my heart. You know I don’t have practice, so it’s hard for me to say I love you — even though by God, I do! But fortunately, for clumsy idiots for me there are…”
Arthur sparks some more magic under the table, hoping desperately with all his heart that this magic spells works.
It does. After a dazzling flash of light, Francis gasps — because bouquets of roses start falling all around them in a neat circle. Ten bouquets in total. Ten roses in them each. Arthur catches one, and holds it out to Francis.
“Fortunately for idiots like me, who are clumsy with words...there are roses.”
Arthur is breathless, so the words come out raspily, not at all suave. And with the loud ringing in his ears from how bloody petrified he is, he can’t quite hear whatever words Francis is whispering.
The roses in the bouquet — they come in a disorganised riot of colours, and varieties, shapes and sizes. There’s only one common thing that these roses share, that unifies them into a bouquet…...
“They’re nothing much,” Arthur chokes out with a dry mouth. “Florists find them all the time, in their supplies of roses that are delivered to them. But they throw them away, because these roses are deformed, and ugly.”
Which is, again, a half-truth.
Because what Arthur wants to ask Francis is this: Doesn’t he also think, that in a most peculiar way, these ‘defective’ roses are beautiful?
That although these blossoms are no doubt nature’s ‘mistakes’, don’t they look so tender? Coming from all over the world, and despite being such garden varieties, haven’t they all still found something special? Appearing like petaled-lovers that had pressed against each other so ardently, that the faeries granted their wish and allowed them to join together as one.
Aren’t these roses, freaks of nature, just as freakish as like the two of them -- personifications of their nations but also just human? And can Arthur and Francis be like these roses...drawing close together…...?
But all these meanings are scattered everywhere in his mind — he can't gather them up together and present them nicely to Francis like a gift. Not like how he could call in favours from all the faerie folk in the world, to gather all these peculiar roses together into a bouquet for Francis. Or madly teleport about florist shops in England using his nation-shifting abilities, to scrounge up these roses, until he was almost too late for the meeting today. It’s just him and his emotional stuntedness now. And argh, he knows he’s doing that sullen, brooding thing right now, where he just sulks at Francis like a child. All while expecting the Frenchman to know exactly what he wants to say, even if Arthur himself can’t make sense of the awful mishmash of his own feelings that slosh about him.
Francis pulls through. His right hand lightly carcasses one of Arthur's cheeks, and thumbs the rims of his ear so fondly, it sends shivers ricocheting down Arthur’s spine.
Slowly, Francis guides Arthur closer, while himself leaning slightly forward. Until their lips meet. Arthur can’t help but let out a contented sigh when that happens. Francis’ lips are softer than he could ever have imagined, and there’s the sweet taste of whatever vanilla chapstick he’s using. Embarrassingly enough, when Francis’ tongue flicks out to lick his lips and he can't help but laugh and draw away slightly. To look into cerulean eyes, glistening slightly with tears, because if Francis is feeling anything close to what he’s feeling, then of course he’s crying, his heart is close to bursting with happiness.
They both laugh.
“Well, mon amour, I’m glad we haven’t missed out on any of the typical drama that happens during a love confession scene in literature — !” Arthur and he snigger.
“But,” Francis swiftly adds, “Perhaps it is now time for us to move to more...intimate forms to express our mutual admiration .” His hands now suggestively tug at the collar of Arthur’s trenchcoat, as his being takes on a despicably debonair mien.
Arthur rolls his eyes, “You’re incorrigible, you know that? Are you sure you don’t want me to freshen up first? I think I need a shower.”
“Trust me, with your hair ruffled like that, and your crisp scent of guy and petrichor -- you’re the delectable embodiment of boyishness begging to be defiled.” — and that voice immediately sends all of Arthur’s blood running up his face, but also down south.
So Arthur smirks, and leans back, and lets Francis take him just like that.
Surprisingly enough, deep down, Francis wrestles with self-image issues
He's perfectly aware that all "charming" and "affectionate" mannerisms, and along with his 'mon chers' and 'mon amours' would be be considered "repulsive" and "sexual harassment", if he weren't so handsome
Because he often disguises himself as a hideous freak, and people are creeped out by the attention he pays them, rather than complimented
so he has nightmares about losing his beauty in a freak accident and having to destroy his entire persona if that happens
that is, until he enters a London pub and meets a familiar bushy browed Brit
who immediately buys him a drink, and says that he looks like he's got a story to tell
the hours fly by. Arthur repeatedly asks in-disguise Francis, for relationship advice, reveals some embarrassing things he would never tell Francis, and they chat about life
Arthur quotes Bacon: “There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion”
then the night ends
Francis leaves the bar, feeling happier
but also insanely jealous of his uglier alter-ego who got Arthur to sneak a napkin with his number into his coat pocket
Arthur is still waiting for a call back from that charming chap at the bar.
England would probably cook for a friendly / family get-together, but when he excuses himself for the bathroom France pulls freaking magic to replace everything to a T. Don’t ask how. He’ll just do it.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
My late entry for fruk week Day 5, prompt: “It’s really hard for me to say I love you.”
It kind of grew a lot longer than I’d originally planned, so y’all can skip straight ahead to chapter 5, where the promised prompt-line is finally uttered.
