#fruknewyears2017

[humblerumble]

My FrUK gift exchange for @chartini !

She asked for a Fairytale AU with a witch on the side, I hope you enjoy Francis being extra, Chara :’D Happy Holiday and Happy New Year! <3

[shachaai]

[Fic] Second-Hand Smoke

Title: Second-Hand Smoke Pairings/Characters: England/France Rating: Teen Summary: England, France, a small balcony in Paris, and New Year's Eve. Between the cigarette smoke, atmosphere, and the party in the background, things are bitter, bittersweet. Notes: A pinch-hit for @grand-guardian-deity, for the 2017 FrUK Gift Exchange. One of your wishes was for a ‘Midnight Kiss,’ but more kisses seem to have snuck in. I’m so, so sorry this is so late; it fought against me every step of the way.

[hehebread]

A ring on the right hand says we’re engaged; a ring on the left hand says we’re married.

My FrUK Gift Exchange for the lovely @scandinavian-pleather @leathersama!!

Omegaverse and a proposal. Hope you like it!!!

[cyniquedapollon]

So!!! Despite this being so, so late (exam stress took over me, I’m sorry!!) I’m finally happy enough with how this fic turned out to upload it. I’ve spent a lot of time perfecting it, so I hope you enjoy it @leo-library !!

Title: Define living

Pairing: FrUK (France x England) (Past USUK mentioned)

Theme: Culture shock

About: Francis has spent all his life in Lavardin, as small French village with only 200 residents. When he turns 24, he’s desperate for a change, and moves to London on a whim. How wrong could this possibly go?

Warnings: Minor character death

Word count: 5,895 

Lavardin, France

June 1997

Dream

driːm

noun

1.       a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person’s mind during sleep.

“I had a recurrent dream about falling from great heights.

synonyms: fantasy, nightmare

2.       a cherished aspiration, ambition, or ideal.

"I fulfilled a childhood dream when I became champion”

synonyms: ambition, aspiration, hope

When Francis Bonnefoy was 5 years old, he told his mother that when he was older, he was going to run away with the circus.  He would be the trapeze artist, he stated, and everybody would clap for him as he leapt from one end of the circus tent to another, spinning and twirling with ease. He would wear ribbons, which would be blue, because blue is mummy’s favourite, and they would fly behind him, delicate as butterfly wings, a symbol of his skill to the audience below. He would be beautiful, he said. So beautiful, in fact, that somewhere in the audience, a little boy would look up in awe, and tell his mother that he wanted to be just as beautiful as him one day. That’s a nice dream, dear, his mother had cooed, ruffling his blonde curls, before ushering him out of the kitchen, so that she could continue cutting the carrots for dinner. Francis, being the stubborn child that he oftentimes was, stayed awake that evening, until he could hear the familiar noise of his mother in the shower, before leaving his room in search of supplies. He couldn’t find ribbon, so he instead had to settle for some thread he found in his mothers sewing box. It wasn’t the same, but he didn’t allow it to stop him from pushing the door into the back garden open, climbing up one of their apple trees, and attempting to leap to the branch of another nearby. When recounting this story later on in life, he always used the word attempt, for while it was a valiant attempt for a boy his age, his hand didn’t even manage to touch the branch he was aiming for before he landed on the ground with a thud and a cry. His mother had rushed out, her hair still dripping water, having practically leapt out of the shower at the sound of her son crying, to find Francis in a heap of tears between the two trees.  His hair was full of dirt, and he near screamed when she tried to check his arm. Gently, she had picked him up and taken him inside; trying to think of what she was to do.

Francis had never left Lavardin before the incident of the two trees (a nickname lovingly given to it by his mother). There was no reason for him to; the town, having only 200 inhabitants, was one built on tradition and friendships – people had no desire to go elsewhere. But with his crying not seeming to cease, and his arm already bruising, his mother had had no choice but to call an ambulance to take them to the nearest hospital. The ambulance itself took nearly an hour to arrive, due to the difficult dirt road that lead to the small village, but with no car and the idea of a three kilometre bike ride out of the question, all his mother was able to do was sing gently to Francis, and try to distract him from the ever growing purple mark on his arm. The arrival of the ambulance caused chaos as it was – nothing much interesting ever happened in Lavardin, so the call for external aid had nearly all 200 residents swarmed around their house; the ‘more respectful’ ones choosing to just watch over the event through a gap in their curtains.

Francis essentially blocked out the whole experience at the hospital; the bright lights, the overly friendly nurses and the X-Ray left him overwhelmed, and by the time the cast was put on his arm, he was virtually asleep, exhausted from almost nonstop crying.  Over time, the memories of how his mother had slept worriedly by his bedside all night hazed, the face of the nurse who checked over him loyally that night blurring in his mind. What Francis could clearly recall, however, even 20 years on, was the view he had seen from the window of the café his mother had taken him to for breakfast the next morning. He had seen the bustle of a busy high street - he heard the loudness of music played through speakers, saw the vibrant colours of graffiti on walls and the rush of morning traffic, men in smart suits and women in bright dresses, a life he could hardly imagine. And that morning, Francis made a vow.

He was going to leave Lavardin.

Orphan

ˈɔːf(ə)n

noun

1.       A child whose parents are dead.

“he was left an orphan as a small boy”

2.       The first line of a paragraph set as the last line of a page or column, considered undesirable.

When Francis was 18, he begged his mother for the opportunity to attend university in Paris. Paris, he had claimed, was the only way he would get anywhere in the world of art. She had laughed at first, assuming he was joking – few people from their home town even went to university, most boys working on the land once they turned 18, and even the few of those who were determined enough to go had to travel near 50 kilometres just to reach the nearest one, much too far a distance for the inhabitants of such a small village. For teenagers in Lavardin, university was simply a nice idea.

In 18 years, Francis had never argued with his mother. It could be said, that in those hours that they spent in dispute over his wish to leave for Paris, they made up for the missed years. Francis wanted more than anything to leave, to have a chance at life, and couldn’t understand why his mother opposed it so much. He was 18, an adult, and what could she do about it anyway? He watched her face crumple, watched tears fall down her face, watched as his own mother cried because of him, and froze. He had never seen his mother cry, and certainly did not want the first time he saw it to be because of him. He dropped the subject entirely.

When Francis was 22, his mother died. A woman prone to illness all her life, a winters chill was all it took to knock her off of her feet; before Francis even had chance to grasp the word ‘terminal’, she had been swept away as autumn leaves often are to the wind. He had held her hand as she died, fighting back the urge to cry, to scream, to do something to comfort her. In the end, he settled for singing, gently, the same way she had when he broke his arm. He sang to her all night, until the sun began to rise, and her hand lost its warmth. He didn’t stop singing to her, in fact, until his song turned to keening, pain struck gasps all that was left of him by the time a neighbour found him.  

‘Life goes on’ is a phrase mostly used for spilling red wine on a white carpet, or breaking a favourite mug – not for coping with the death of your mother. But for Francis, the phrase didn’t have meaning until that day. His mother was dead. His village was still the same. The flowers in the gardens were still pink, the trees still held apples, the paths were still rough and covered in dirt, and the hill on the outskirts still stood tall, as it had for Francis’ whole life,

The view from the hill was one Francis had always enjoyed. He had first climbed in when he was 6, days after having his cast removed, to the annoyance of his overly-cautious mother. Since then, it had proved to be a maker of memories; he had oftentimes escaped to the hill to smoke as a teenager, or to paint when nothing else inspired him - he had even had his first kiss there when he turned 16.  And it felt almost fitting, that the hill he had his ‘firsts’ on would be where he felt his first feelings of grief, screaming at the sky, at a God he had almost lost faith in, that it wasn’t fair, that none of this was fair.

On Francis’ 24th birthday, he bought a plane ticket, destined to London. He hadn’t thought much about what he was doing the night he bought it, his actions mostly due to the bottle of red wine he had managed to drink while reading another one of his sad novels. His mother, if she was there, would have scalded him for ignoring his responsibilities in place of wine. His mother, however, was not there, nor had she been for the past 2 years. 2 years, for most, was a long time, and certainly long enough that people no longer looked at Francis with pity, or brought him flowers and food and offers to help – instead, people in his village were growing impatient with him, waiting for him to do something with himself, to help in one of the bakeries or on the land. He stared at the booking reference on the computer screen, trying to understand what he’d just done. The realisation hadn’t hit him, yet, but he was sure it would with time.

He arrived at London Heathrow at 8:15pm on Wednesday 23rd March. He hadn’t payed attention for most of the morning; he remembered hesitating as he locked the door of his house for what could be the last time in years, arriving at the airport, and the fear he felt as the plane took off, but it had gone by so quickly, he wasn’t sure wht was real and what he’d just imagined. Francis wasn’t stupid – of course, he knew London was big, and that the airport would be crowded and absolutely nothing like his home town, but he hadn’t quite anticipated the shock that ran through his body as he saw the hundreds of people all milling around, travellers like himself. He wanted to stop, to think, to ask where they were going, what their stories were, but a sudden push brought him back to earth, and in the general direction that everyone else was headed. Getting through the initial airport security was fairly easy, signs were placed everywhere, in around 10 different languages, informing those just off of planes exactly what they needed to do, where to stand and when to move. This was fine, in Francis’ eyes, because he didn’t have to think about why he was doing it, or what for, he just had to walk forward and follow instructions. He was through passport checks fairly quickly; the security guard examined it, nodding in approval at the information, before letting him through. The passport was barely a month old, having been bought specially for the purpose of his flight to London, and Francis had read up exactly what to do to get through these checks as smoothly as possible.

He thought he was prepared – but once allowed through, he found himself in the main area of the airport, where shops were located and .For the first time in his life, Francis was alone. Alone, in an airport, with no instructions on what to do, where to go, or how to live his new life. For a moment, Francis allowed himself to be excited – he was independent, finally, in a city where he could make something of himself; in a city where he could make his mother proud.  Then, the realisation that he had been waiting for hit him, quite like a truck, all at once. He didn’t know how to get to his hotel, what he was going to do in London, hell, he didn’t even have a degree he could apply for a job with. He was alone, in a foreign city, with no way home or means of supporting himself.

A woman, mid 50s, had tapped him on the shoulder. She had a kind face, and blonde hair pulled into a bun, and reminded him far too much of his mother for him to want to stay talking to her for too long. Francis realised how out of place he must look, stood in an airport with the items for his new life fitting neatly into a brown leather satchel, gawking around open mouthed like a child who had finally been allowed in a sweet shop. He had no idea how he was actually meant to get to the hotel he booked himself for the night, nor where it was, and by the pity evident on this woman’s face, this was fairly obvious for those around him.

“Do you need a hand, love?” she smiled assuringly, and despite himself, Francis smiled back. Later on, stood in his hotel room, he cursed himself for nor asking for her name, some way of contacting her later on and thanking her for her help. He was quite certain that if she hadn’t called a taxi for him, he would have ended up sleeping on the floor of the airport that night. He’d only booked himself a night, planning to explore London the next day, which, now that he thought about it, was about as good an idea as punching a wasp’s nest.  Francis stared at himself in the hotel mirror, and laughed. He was an idiot, he supposed, for leaving everything at the drop of a hat, but then again, he was the boy who leapt from trees and rolled down hills. Life was supposed to be an adventure, in his eyes, and London was the first chapter.

How wrong could it go anyway?

London, England.

Thursday 24th March

18:37

Experience

ɪkˈspɪərɪəns,ɛkˈspɪərɪəns

noun

1.       practical contact with and observation of facts or events.

“he had learned his lesson by painful experience”

synonyms:          involvement in, participation in; More

2.       an event or occurrence which leaves an impression on someone.

“audition day is an enjoyable experience for any seven-year old”

synonyms: incident, occurrence, event, happening, affair, episode, encounter;

verb

1.       encounter or undergo (an event or occurrence).

“the company is experiencing difficulties”

synonyms: undergo, encounter, meet, have experience of, come into contact with, run into, come across, come up against, face, be faced with, confront, be forced to contend with;

When Arthur left his office that evening, it was raining. That wasn’t anything new, of course - it was late March, and it was England, so rain was practically a guarantee. However, due to his unwavering faith in the BBC and its meteorologist, he had left his umbrella (which had, that morning, still been damp from yesterday) airing in the vestibule of his apartment, his stubbornness and reliance on basic knowledge of weather fronts had won his eternal ‘should I bring an umbrella or not because it’s rather bulky but it is March’ debate.

In hindsight, taking the umbrella would have been the wise choice. It was worse than normal rain: water was falling from the sky in sheets. Despite the walk from his office to the nearest Underground station being a mere sixty metres, Arthur’s suit was sticking to his frame, almost completely soaked, and his usually pristine hair was plastered to his scalp, droplets occasionally running into his eyes. This was not the first time the rain had ruined him after work, but though hindsight was said to be a beautiful thing, Arthur never paid it much heed - after all, his single mother kept having children, even when she said 'never again’ after his older brother, 'never again’ after him and 'never again’ after the twins (although her little golden child had stemmed the flow of babies for now). Learning from the past wasn’t something done in his family.

Getting the Tube was a mechanical process for Arthur these days. Knowing which stops were where was never an issue: if you looked into Arthur’s mind, he was sure there was a Tube map imprinted on his brain. When in the station, it was always the same: walk on the left, stand on the right, know if you’re westbound or eastbound so you aren’t gawking at a map, get in a compartment as soon as you can see space, mind the gap, stand clear of the doors, but most importantly, have your ticket or card ready to get through the barrier before you’re directly in front of it.

Unfortunately, some people did not seem to know this. He just wanted an efficient journey home: but this particular trip was being blighted by the man in front of him at the barrier he’d been funnelled to by the staff. Arthur watched this person - either a tourist or just stupid - attempt to feed his ticket into the slot on the machine, but he clearly had no idea which way up to put it in, or indeed where to take it back from. A queue of impatient, tutting Brits was growing behind Arthur, and the pressure was obviously making it worse for the confused soul at the front. Arthur was irritated, yes, but also had a little sympathy for this person who just wanted to use a subway system.

Mob rule won over Arthur though, and so his question to the stuck person was dripping with annoyance.

“Do you need a hand?”

“I…uh. If you… could help me?” came the unsure reply. When walking along the London streets, Arthur liked to play 'guess the accent’ (he’d learned recently to distinguish between Polish and Russian accents, which he thought was quite an achievement considering he grew up in England and Scotland), but he denied himself time to consider the accent that came from the man before him. Without even bothering to reply, he took the ticket from the stressed foreigner’s hand and slotted it into the machine himself, practically pushing the stranger through the gate as soon as it opened and taking his ticket himself. Arthur tapped his Oyster card against the reader and went through the barrier himself, handing the ticket back to the man as soon as he was the other side.

“Thank you very much,” relief audible even through the tourist’s accent. Arthur shrugged minutely.

“No problem,” he replied, and began his brisker-than-usual walk to the platform. He thought that would be the end of it: he did a necessary good deed, and could now go home as normal to his flat and change out of his wet clothes. What he did not expect, was the man he had helped to hurry alongside him and follow him to the platform. It wouldn’t have immediately been following - it wasn’t unreasonable that the stranger had to get the same Tube as him out of the three possible options at this station. It still wasn’t following when they were both headed west. It became following when the stranger walked with him to the other end of the platform and sat next to him in the carriage when there were empty seats in it.

Great. Now there was going to be a conversation.

Stranger

ˈstreɪn(d)ʒə/Submit

noun

1.       a person whom one does not know or with whom one is not familiar.

“don’t talk to strangers”

2.       a person who does not know, or is not known in, a particular place or community.

“I’m a stranger in these parts”

synonyms: unknown person;

3.       a person entirely unaccustomed to (a feeling, experience, or situation).

“he is no stranger to controversy”

synonyms: unaccustomed to, unfamiliar with, unused to, unacquainted with, new to, fresh to, inexperienced in, unpractised in, unversed in, unconversant with; archaicstrange to

“Harker was a stranger to self-doubt”

“Thank you, for, the, helping back there.”

“You said. And I said, you’re welcome.” There was a pause, which Arthur hoped was due to the frostiness of his tone.

“My name is Francis. You are…?” Damn. The git knew how to force Arthur to keep talking to him.

“It's… I’m Arthur.” Another pause. This one allowed the Englishman to analyse the other’s accent. The dropping of his aitches and the way he said 'fron-sis’ led Arthur to the conclusion that-

“I’m French.” Yes. Another accent guessed. The slightly sad triumph Arthur felt, however, did not overwhelm the feeling of dread that this awkward chat was still being perpetuated. It was time to use his secret foreigner-repellant weapon.

“But you just told me you were Francis.” Sarcasm may have been the lowest form of wit, yes, but it proved effective in confusing non-natives. Poor Francis just looked at Arthur, not knowing how to respond.

“Ignore me. Do you know where to get off the Tube?” Perhaps functional conversation could nip this encounter in the bud.

“Uh…well. I don't…actually have a destination.” That actually made Arthur stop and think.

“You…what?” Ugh, now he was asking the damn questions. This probably wouldn’t end any time soon.

“Well, I’m just… exploring London. I arrived, uh, only yesterday.” Francis looked a little sheepish. Arthur looked the Frenchman over, and it was only on noticing his wavy hair was damp and slightly stringy that he remembered how much of a mess he himself looked. At least, he supposed, trying to calm his sudden embarrassment at his outward appearance, he knew where he was going.

“It’s almost seven o'clock on a dark night in March. In London. And it’s pissing it down,” Francis looked mildly confused, “raining a lot. I know tourism is important but Christ, exploration isn’t a great idea right now.”

“Well, I need… an… a place to stay. Hotel. If, as you say, if it is too rainy to explore.”

“The rain probably isn’t your biggest concern. I’d be worried about getting mugged, to be honest.”

There was a pregnant pause. Arthur was hoping Francis would get out a map, or mobile phone, or something, out of the satchel Arthur hadn’t noticed he was carrying until now. But as the seconds ticked by, Arthur began to suspect the Frenchman was expecting him to do something. What, though? He supposed suggest a hotel to him - after all, it was clear he was a Londoner, and Francis might not know what hotels were around here, if he had just been following Arthur to a location unknown to him. At this precise moment, though, there was nothing Arthur could do: due to being underground, his iPhone had no Internet, and though he was a local, he wasn’t AirB&B. He summarised all this to Francis in a simpler way:

“Do you want me to find you a hotel when I have signal again?” gesturing to his phone as he spoke.

“If… if that is not an inconvenience.” Francis smiled gratefully at Arthur.

“That’s fine. My stop is in about ten minutes, so we’ll alight there.” Francis blinked a few times directly at Arthur.

“Oh. Alight means get off,” explained Arthur. He felt himself almost smile, but then stopped. This man, he reminded himself, is a total stranger. He unlocked his phone and began reading a book he had downloaded, finally doing something that even across a slight language and cultural barrier, signalled 'stop talking to me’. Francis tried to speak to Arthur a few more times, but never actually finished a first word; Arthur hoped due to the standoffish look on his face. He absently wondered if Francis felt bad. He decided he didn’t need to care.

The station announcement said 'Ealing Common’ and Arthur moved to stand, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Francis followed suit, disembarking the train with Arthur and the two heading up the escalators to street level together. Since this was no longer central London, there were significantly fewer people, and so Arthur stood back and allowed Francis to try and get through the barrier unaided. He succeeded on his second attempt, and he made a small, happy noise. Amusement was clear in Arthur’s voice as he spoke.

“Well done. That took you only a tenth of how long it did the first time.” Francis laughed a little and looked at Arthur, who again, tapped his Oyster card on the reader and walked through the barrier like it was second nature (which, Francis supposed, it probably was).

“Right. I’ll find you a hotel, then. Give me a second.” Francis nodded and murmured a 'thank you’, which Arthur waved off. He got his phone out, unlocked it and turned his data on for Safari. While waiting for a signal to appear, he noticed his battery level. 2%. Shit. Hopefully it’d last for one search and Arthur could memorise where the hotel was (there had to be one close enough - this was London, for God’s sake). He tapped in 'hotels near Ealing Common’ into the search bar and waited for a result, glancing at Francis while it loaded. The man was idly combing through his hair with his fingers, probably trying to separate the pieces the rain had split it into. An address came up on the screen, but to Arthur’s dismay, he didn’t recognise the street name. He’d have to open it in Maps and find the nearest road he recognised. He tapped the address, willing his phone to live just this once.

Of course, it didn’t. Arthur cursed again, loudly, and Francis looked up suddenly like a deer in the headlights.

“What is…the matter? Are you okay?” Francis asked.

“Fine. But…it’s dead,” motioning at his phone, “and I didn’t recognise the address of the hotel. Do you have a phone? I could call a taxi.” Francis didn’t answer for a second. The gap was long enough to say what he meant without words.

“You don’t, do you?”

“Uh. No. Non. I’m sorry.”

Arthur sighed. “Well. What the hell do I do with you now? I can’t just abandon you here.”

“You could, that’s what I would have done anyway. Gone somewhere I didn’t know.”

“Absolutely not. Since I didn’t recognise the address, that means it’s at least a mile away, and it’s still chucking it down,” Francis looked blank, “which means raining as well. You know the Inuits have a hundred words for snow? Yeah, well they just took all the British words for rain and put 'cold’ at the start of them all.” Francis grinned and Arthur laughed a little despite himself. “The point is. I’m not leaving you here when you have nowhere to go. Come with me.”

“Where are you taking me?” Arthur had already started walking towards the exit.

“My flat. We have no other choice. I can find you a hotel from there, or you can just sleep on the sofa. Whatever.” Francis ran a little to catch up with the Englishman, and paused with him in the doorway, in the face of the falling rain.

“You know what, just sleep on my sofa. You’ve disturbed my journey home, you’re going to drench my flat, and you sound like you have no idea how to survive in London. I don’t have work in the morning.”

“Why, uh, are you telling me this? Can’t we start walking?”

“If you can hear me over that bloody gale, love, I’ll be extremely impressed.” Arthur looked at Francis with something of a grimace before stepping out into the abysmal weather.

Know

nəʊ/

verb

1.       be aware of through observation, inquiry, or information.

“most people know that CFCs can damage the ozone layer”

synonyms: be aware, realize, be conscious, have knowledge, be informed, have information;

2.       have developed a relationship with (someone) through meeting and spending time with them; be familiar or friendly with.

“he knew and respected Laura”

synonyms: be acquainted with, have met, be familiar with;

Arthur and Francis practically fell through the doorway of Arthur’s apartment building together. The walk from the station had taken about five minutes, and both of them had been brutally assaulted by the rain in that time. Arthur had watched Francis desperately try to keep his satchel as dry as possible, and after shaking the water from his hands, checking it was the first thing the Frenchman did. Arthur began to climb the stairs to his flat, just wanting to get in and dry and changed. As he ascended the second flight of stairs, the flight to his floor, Francis ran up the first flight to catch up with Arthur.

“Is your stuff alright?” Arthur asked, slotting his key into the lock of his door.

“It’s fine. The bag itself, it is leather, so no water got in.”

“That’s good, yeah. Don’t want your stuff ruined as well as your plans.” Francis didn’t notice the subtle sarcasm in Arthur’s statement. Arthur didn’t suppose he would.

Arthur’s umbrella was mocking him when him and Francis stood, soaked, on the mat just inside Arthur’s flat.

“Just take your shoes off there. I’ll get you and me some towels.” Francis smiled gratefully, and Arthur headed deeper into his home to retrieve the towels. Francis stood, somewhat awkwardly, in the vestibule. But just looking around the entrance to Arthur’s house, Francis began to learn things. Arthur lived alone, clearly. There were only four pairs of shoes by the door: Francis’ own, Arthur’s work shoes, a pair of black Doc Martens and a pair of black Converse. The coat hooks on the wall held only a long, black duffel coat and a thinner black zipped jacket. He was getting a strong sense of Arthur’s favourite colour. There was a photograph on the wall, though, of Arthur and a man, holding hands at what appeared to be Disneyland. He was blond, with glasses. Arthur was smiling in a way Francis hadn’t seen in person, though he supposed he had only known Arthur for an hour at most. He wondered what had happened between Arthur and the man in the picture.

Before Francis could deduce anything else, Arthur returned with several large towels. He handed a couple to Francis wordlessly and then beckoned him into the flat. Francis followed. They went into Arthur’s bedroom.

“I was going to change my sheets anyway, so don’t worry about getting water on my bed. Do you have dry clothes in your satchel?” Francis shook his head.

“Alright. I’ll give you some pyjamas and put those straight in the wash so you can wear them tomorrow, alright?” Francis nodded. He didn’t really know what to say. Arthur sighed, before turning to his wardrobe and pulling out some tartan pyjama bottoms and a grey t-shirt. He dropped them onto the bed next to Francis, and picked up some other pyjamas from a crumpled pile in the corner.

“I’m going to get changed in the bathroom. If you’d like to shower, you can when I’m dressed, alright?” Arthur didn’t actually wait for a reply, leaving and shutting the door immediately. Francis sat down and looked around for a minute before beginning to change.

Francis emerged from Arthur’s bedroom carrying his wet clothes and walked back to the entryway, since he didn’t know which door was which here. When he got there, the door to the left of the front door was ajar and light was coming from inside, so he nudged it open. It was the kitchen, and Arthur was stood dumping spoonfuls of instant coffee into two mugs. Francis cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Oh. Hi. They fit you, then?”

“Oui, they are fine. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. Here, pass me those clothes,” and upon receiving them, Arthur put them straight into the washing machine below the counter-top. “Do you want milk in your coffee?”

“Um, yes. Yes please. Thank you.” Arthur said nothing else, and the smell of coffee permeated the room in silence.

When Arthur handed Francis a mug, the Frenchman smiled and took it gratefully. They drank for a while, stood in the kitchen in silence.

“Well, you may as well come into the living room, since you’ll be sleeping there.” Arthur led Francis through the flat to one of the two remaining unopened doors, behind which was a fairly big lounge with a dining table at one end. Arthur sat on the sofa and Francis sat next to him when Arthur patted the cushion.

“I’m going to put the TV on. Is there anything in particular you’d care to watch?” Francis shook his head. Arthur shrugged, placed his coffee on a coaster on the coffee table in front of them, took the remote from the table and switched the TV on, settling for BBC One (as of course, like always, he forgave the weather-related betrayal from that morning). They sat quietly for a while, watching Casualty. Each of them, unbeknownst to the other, was thinking hard about the situation, processing what had happened and planning what to do next.

Francis was the first to speak again. “Thank you. Thank you so much for this. I would, uh, be lost without your help.”

“I’ve told you. You’re welcome. I’m just glad you aren’t an axe murderer or a rapist, to be fair.” Francis thought for a split second about his next comment, but decided it would be fine, considering what he already knew about Arthur.

“I couldn’t be a rapist. I am a bottom.” Arthur snorted with laughter and when he looked back at Francis, he smiled. It was like the smile in the photo, thought Francis.

“And the axe murderer idea?”

“Do I look like an, um, a lumberjack?” Francis gestured to the stubble on his chin.

“Excellent points. Alright. I believe you. You’re harmless.” Arthur sank back into the sofa cushions, looking happy. Francis kept smiling at this. There was another few minutes where neither of them spoke, but it was a lot more comfortable.

The stillness was broken when Francis stood up. Arthur looked at him.

“Do you want something?” Arthur asked.

“Ah, ouais, could I have some water?”

“Sure. Come to the kitchen.” Arthur led the Frenchman into the kitchen and got a glass out of the cupboard, turning on the tap to let it run until the water went from cool to cold. When it did, he filled the glass. When the glass was full, he passed it to Francis.

“Thank you. Again,” Francis said.

“You’re welcome. Again.” Arthur smiled a little again. He had a nice smile, Francis thought. Francis put the glass, half-full, on the side.

“You can take the rest in the living room, you know.” Francis simply smiled. Arthur shrugged minutely and went to leave the kitchen. Francis took his wrist and Arthur looked round, surprised.

“Honestly. Thank you very, very much. I’d be in the cold, with, uh, without a place to stay. And the ticket machine scared me enough.”

“And honestly. You’re welcome. You made me laugh, anyone who can do that is good company.” Francis didn’t let go of Arthur’s wrist, and Arthur looked at him, slight confusion visible in his eyes.

Before Arthur knew what was happening, Francis kissed him.

“Customary greeting in France.”

“I thought… I thought a big part of it was that you didn’t actually kiss each other. And I didn’t think it was ever… proper kissing.” Arthur was slightly pink.

“Customary greeting if you like the person.” Francis smiled, and Arthur smiled back, cheeks reddening further, and the two kissed again.

Living

ˈlɪvɪŋ/

noun

1.       an income sufficient to live on or the means of earning it.

“she was struggling to make a living as a dancer”

synonyms: livelihood, income, source of income, means of support, means, subsistence, keep, maintenance, sustenance, nourishment, daily bread, upkeep;

2.       the pursuit of a lifestyle of the specified type.

“the benefits of country living”

synonyms: way of life, lifestyle, manner of living, way of living, mode of living, life;

adjective

1.       alive.

“living creatures”

synonyms: alive, live, having life;

�

[prettyhistorical]

For @blazenight-it who requested some warmth in the snowy weather as part of the FrUK gift exchange :) this was fun to draw! I haven’t drawn these two in so long and was really feeling the weather thing (the weather is gross in the midwest)

[imakemywings]

The Mermaid and Her Sea Captain

Here I am, shockingly ready on time! My target for this year’s exchange was @archangelunmei! They asked for:

Pirate!Arthur and Mermaid/Merman!Francis [Bonus points if “Captain Kirkland” is actually a woman crossdressing, but not necessary.]

I hope this fits! For your reading ease this can also be found on

FF.net | AO3 | Pillowfort

Darkness enveloped the ship, and the world was utterly silent, but for the soft whisper of tiny waves reaching up to rub themselves against the sides of Captain Arthur’s ship, The Bawdy Englishman. In the quietude of the night, a skeleton crew of sailors moved like apparitions, flashes of coarse white cloth and the occasional glint of moonlight against a gleaming belt buckle or earring, tending the sails and keeping watch over the endless expanse around them. Far in the stern of the ship, the captain himself lingered against the weather-beaten railing, the catch of rough wood against his sleeves reminding him he needed to sand it down again. The captain’s eyes—a shade of green reminiscent of nothing so much as slightly dried-up moss—were fixated on the black water with singular intensity. He might’ve been waiting for the Kraken of Davy Jones to burst through the surface, or the tentacles of a behemoth to wrap around the ship and drag them all down to their grisly ends.

               However, despite the pinched look of focus on the captain’s face, he was, in fact, looking for something slightly less dangerous—a woman, to be precise. His ears strained for any anomalous sounds, and his eyes squinted as his mind turned to focus more on sound than sight—his vision was poor, especially in the dark, and he didn’t trust his eyes to see quicker than his ears would hear.

               Eventually his laboring audio cortex picked up on a splash that sounded dissonant against those of the waves against his ship—something else was in the water, near the surface. Taking a breath, he gathered himself to call down.

               “Marianne?” His whole body tensed with the effort of keeping his voice soft, but making it carry down to the water. “Anne, are you there?” Was that patch of water a different shade of dark than the rest? He squinted more, and wiggled his shoulders to try to shift the binding around his chest into a more comfortable position. He could hear the almost imperceptible shift of water, and down in the ocean a face peered up at him with big blue eyes. Her pale face was luminescent in the light of the half-moon, and although Arthur could not see her face, he bet she was smirking—she often was. He raised a hand to her, and she raised herself up further, so he could see her whole face.

               “Alice!” she chirped.

               “Sh!” The curt, clipped noise from the captain was scolding; he had spoken to her about this before! “Arthur,” he insisted. “Anne, you know that!” Marianne did not look impressed—Arthur knew Marianne disapproved of his lie, but not because it was a lie—because Marianne thought it was a waste for Alice to pretend to be a man. But how else was she to have her own ship? Marianne thrashed her tail and Arthur frowned at her. “Don’t argue, it has to be this way.”

               Marianne slouched in the water, and then moved closer, putting a little white hand against the slimy, slippery wood of Arthur’s ship.

               “Come down,” she said.

               “I can’t.” This was another discussion they had frequently, and as much as Arthur wearied of it, it pained him more than it annoyed him, because he wanted to comply.

               “I would save you,” Marianne promised, flashing a sharp-toothed grin. Arthur could tell she was using glamor, because he could hear her voice too clearly. Marianne could speak English, but without the glamor, it was very clear her vocal chords were not shaped to speak any human tongue. Her voice was hoarse and rough, and she couldn’t speak very long without her throat becoming sore. But Arthur didn’t have a crab’s chance in a French kitchen of mimicking the sounds of Marianne’s birth tongue. “Again.”

               “I’d rather not.” Arthur’s tone was dry, but his expression didn’t stay so long. He slumped down against the railing, watching Marianne’s tail give little flutters to keep up with the slow-moving ship. She didn’t speak either, but read his face as Arthur did the many books in his cabin. Her hands pressed uselessly against the wood of the ship, and he could see plainly the distress on her face. “Don’t be upset, love,” he whispered. “I’ll take a vacation soon.” He promised this with growing frequency, promising to return to the island that had been Marianne’s territory before she left it behind to follow his ships around the western hemisphere.

               “After you go home?” Arthur’s ship was bound for England now, having delivered the cargo to Virginia as directed. Arthur shook his head.

               “I only have two months,” he said. “I’m staying in England.” Marianne’s hands dropped from the ship.

               “I won’t see you,” she said. It wasn’t a question, it was a reality. Arthur pressed his thumbnail into the pad of his index finger anxiously.

               “I had an idea,” he blurted out before he could lose nerve or talk himself out of it (It was a stupid idea, it wouldn’t work, Marianne wouldn’t want to, someone might catch them…) But the mermaid perked up at once, turning her face up to him again. “I could take you with me.”

               “England is cold,” Marianne said, shuddering. She preferred the warm waters of southern France, where they had first met. “And there are many ships. Too many people.” Her infatuation with Arthur had not remedied her natural wariness and dislike of humans.

               “Not if I take you to my home,” Arthur said.

               “Home?” Marianne cocked her head to the side, bobbing in the water. “On land?” Arthur nodded.

               “I’ve thought about it, and we could manage,” he said. “Not without  a bit of planning, but we could manage. I’ve a tub big enough for you. Just until I have to sail out again.”

               “Two months.” Time meant little to Marianne; she had no concept of months, weeks or years. She couldn’t even tell Arthur how old she was. She might’ve been four, or four hundred; it was impossible to say.

               “Yes, two months. Sixty days,” he said. “Sixty nights. If we move you at night, it’d be easier. But if you don’t want to, just forget about it.” He had explained it all so perfectly in his head, the past few days that he’d been thinking about it, but somehow he was jumbling it all up now. This was precisely why he preferred books and boats to people. But Marianne smiled wide, showing her wickedly sharp teeth.

               “Yes! Let me see Alice home!”

               “Sh!” Arthur turned back to see if anyone was near, and saw his first mate coming down the steps from the bow.      

               “Trouble, sir?” Fernando asked.

               “Splinter,” Arthur grunted. “Everything’s quiet.”

               “Aye, it’s a good night for sailing,” Fernando agreed. “Y’ought to get some sleep, sir. I’ve got things up here.” Arthur nodded.

               “Aye, I’ll go down for a bit,” he allowed, raising his voice slightly for Marianne’s benefit, if she was still surfaced. “Wake me at next watch.”

***

               When the ship docked in Alice’s home bay, she was unsure whether or not Marianne had followed. With hope in her heart, she skulked down to the pier where her ship was moored that night. Docking was always a busy day, most of all for Alice because it involved shifting back to her female persona, a shift that could be jarring going either way. It also meant she had to keep her head covered constantly—with hats, scarves or bonnets—to be sure no one saw her close-cropped men’s haircut. She could’ve worn it long to more easily switch from Arthur to Alice, but she wanted Arthur to be truly convincing.

               With her, she carried a net and a long cloak for purposes of transportation. She stooped to grab a handful of stones from the road before walking out onto the pier. When she reached the end, she threw two stones in quick succession. A few more followed, and then Marianne surfaced.  

               “Ah, good, you came.” Alice crouched down. “Can you get onto the pier?” She tapped the wet wood. Marianne scoffed, and the glamor faded. Without it, her breasts shrank to almost nothing, and the same sort of purple-blue scaling that characterized her tale broke out around her body, gathering at the boniest parts of her—elbows, shoulders, cheekbones, etc. Her ears were smaller, with webbing fanning out around the shell, holding them flat to the sides of her head. Her nose flattened as well, and when she lunged up for the dock, Alice could see the webbing on her fingers. She could also see the muscles flexing and bulging in Marianne’s upper arms as she hauled herself out of the water, dragging her tail up with her, water glistening and pooling in the dips between her muscles. Alice reached out to help, but there was nothing she could grab onto, and she knew firsthand how strong mermaids were.

               Once Marianne was on the pier, Alice began to wrap her up in the net. She felt Marianne tense.

               “Just for a bit,” she promised. “I’ve got to be able to carry you.” Looking suspicious, but without protesting, Marianne allowed it. “Here.” Alice passed Marianne the clasps of the cloak. “When I got you on my back, I need you to put this on me. Cover yourself up.” Grasping the four corners of the net in her hands, Alice lifted Marianne up. It was like carrying a bag of stones, but Alice was strong from her work on the ship—lean, wiry muscle roped her frame, binding her scrawny figure together.

               As she took the first few wobbly steps, she felt Marianne’s cold arms reaching around her neck, fumbling with the closing of the cloak. Once she managed, she wriggled around trying to spread it out until it sufficiently hid her from view. Then it was the walk back to Alice’s tiny home.

               By the time she dropped Marianne somewhat unceremoniously on the floor, she was sure her back was going to ache the next day. The mermaid gurgled unhappily as she hit the ground, and rolled onto her back.

               “Not nice!”

               “You have no idea how heavy you are,” Alice grumbled back. She dropped the net and tossed the cloak over the back of her dining chair. The room was just so—one room, into which Alice fit her bed, table, washtub and all the belongings she didn’t store on The Bawdy Englishman.

               Furthermore, her dress was soaked all down the back from having Marianne pressed against it. But she quickly forgot about that when she saw Marianne crawling over to her chest of clothes, reaching out with great interest to rub her fingers against the brass corners and leather straps.

               “Alice’s treasure?” Living at the bottom of the sea, Marianne was accustomed to dredging up things that had been lost in shipwrecks, and she knew valuables were often stored in such trunks.

               “Hardly,” Alice replied. “It’s just clothes—hey!” Marianne apparently took the denial to mean she was free to open it up and start rummaging around. Alice quickly strode over, shooed the mermaid’s hands out and shut the trunk, nearly catching Marianne’s fingers. There wasn’t anything particularly private in there, she just…didn’t like people going through her things.

               “I want to see,” Marianne whined. Alice look at her for a moment, her face twisted up with indecision, then flung the trunk open again.

               “As you will, have a look.” Marianne pawed through Alice’s dresses, stockings and brassieres, laughing and holding things up. She grabbed a scarf and wrapped it around her head, then grinned up at Alice, whose lips twitched despite herself.

               “Do you wear these every day?” Marianne asked, pulling at a blue dress sleeve.

               “On land, aye,” Alice said. “I’ve got to.”

               “Why?”

               “It’s…it’s proper,” she said. “Folks would ask questions if I didn’t.”

               “But Alice doesn’t like being on land.” It was more a statement than a question, something Marianne already knew, somehow without Alice telling her. Her seemingly preternatural ability to know what Alice was thinking often irritated the Englishwoman, but Marianne had promised her that mind-reading or telepathy were not powers mermaids had. Which meant Alice was just that easily readable, at the least for Marianne.

               “No, I don’t.”

               “So odd,” Marianne said, pulling the scarf off and putting it away. “What if a mermaid didn’t like the ocean?”

               “I suppose she’d be bang out of luck, eh?” Alice smiled and reached a hand out. Marianne took it and pressed it against her cheek.

               “It’s so dry here,” Marianne protested softly. Alice could tell from the warmth of Marianne’s cheek that she was overheated, and her skin was drying out.

               “Fuck, right, the tub. Hold on.” Alice went over and pulled the blanket cover off the tub. She had filled it earlier that day, with a great deal of hauling water, in preparation for Marianne’s arrival. With Alice’s help, Marianne tumbled in, sloshing water all over the edges of the tub. She sank in, her head, shoulders and the fan of her tail still above water. If she arranged herself right, with the majority of her tail flopping over the side, she could submerge her head, which she did for several minutes, sucking oxygen in through her gills. She had lungs, and could breathe like a human, but she preferred this, and her gills were so delicate, it wouldn’t do for them to dry out. Alice folded the blanket under her to stay dry, and sat down by the tub. “Better?” she asked when Marianne’s head surfaced. She nodded.

               “No room for Alice,” Marianne said mournfully, reaching out to the blonde.

               “Well it’s not meant for two,” Alice said. “But maybe…” Marianne gave her a devious smile, and blew bubbles in the water, fluttering her fingers against the surface. She had explained to Alice that mermaids reproduced by and large like fish—that is, the female laid eggs and the male came by later to fertilize. But Marianne had discovered the truth about land mammals, and took advantage of Alice’s various weaknesses with those slender, webbed fingers of hers.

               Alice would like to have said that she was far above the temptations of wicked sirens, and that she would never be so weak as to fall for a sea creature’s machinations, but that was not only untrue now, it had been since her first meeting with Marianne. She stripped down to her skivvies and stepped into the tub. They found she could squeeze in beside Marianne with her knees against her less-than-mountainous chest, or kneels over Marianne’s lap. Marianne encouraged her to settle for the latter.

               “Mm, Alice is warm,” Marianne sighed, sitting up and laying her head against Alice’s breast. In point of fact, Alice was rather chilly after the walk, but her usual body temperature was too warm for Marianne to find cozy. She ran her fingers through the tangle of Marianne’s dark hair, silky soft under her fingertips.

               Marianne pressed a kiss to Alice’s skin, nuzzling her. She reached up and slipped the strap-like sleeves of Alice’s undershirt off her shoulders, and pulled the neckline down to expose Alice’s chest. Her lips brushed between Alice’s breasts and Alice felt her sharp teeth graze her skin, making her shiver. Instinctively, she pressed her weight down heavier on Marianne’s lap.

               “I missed you,” Marianne told her, reaching up to drag her fingers over Alice’s left breast. It had been a long time since they had been able to touch—not since Alice had been rescued by a passing Moroccan trade ship after two months marooned on Marianne’s island.

               “I missed you too,” she confessed lowly, tracing her nails down Marianne’s back. She leaned in and Marianne met her with a kiss, and did Alice the courtesy of taking advantage of some more of her weaknesses, her fingers slipping and creeping lower across Alice’s flat stomach, exploring down into the nest of blonde curls between her legs. Marianne was very good with her fingers.  

               When they were done, Alice tucked herself up into a space beside Marianne, and leaned against her in peaceable silence. Alice was not a talkative person (outside the bottle), so her mermaid of few words was perfect for her. Eventually Alice felt that her innards had dipped to far too low a temperature, and reluctantly parted the tub.

               “Bedtime,” she said. Since she had soaked her clothes in the tub with Marianne, she slept with nothing, and woke freezing in the night. The absence of splashes from the tub suggested Marianne was sleeping though, which was good. Anxiety was still kneading its claws in her gut, but it was good that the mermaid could at least get some rest.

               When she woke in the morning, Marianne was draped over the edge of the tub, submerging her tail.

               “Eat? Alice, time to eat?” Alice groaned and ran a hand through her thin blonde hair.

               “Yeah, yeah…give me a minute to get up.” She couldn’t have breakfast ready for Marianne, because she was carnivorous—it had to be meat, and it had to be seafood. She’d never eaten anything like chicken or mutton before, and Alice didn’t want to find out what happened when she tried it the first time.

               So she dressed and went out to the market. She found a nice big fish, and a loaf of bread for herself, and returned to find Marianne curled into a most unnatural position following the curve of the tub, so her tail was in her face. She tossed the fish into the water and her room was again doused in water as Marianne jerked upright to catch it.

               Alice spent the day with Marianne and went shopping again in the evening for dinner. They began to establish a routine this way, but by the end of the first week, Alice could already see Marianne was restless. She could hear the mermaid splashing at night, and she began to respond less to Alice’s talk during the day.

               “Feeling alright, love?” she asked when she went over to the tub to give Marianne her fish. Marianne took it and began peeling strips of flesh off. There was a small pile of bones beside the tub that Alice still needed to clean up.

               “Yes, fine.” She nodded and flicked a scale at Alice, but the gesture lacked something. Alice wanted to let it go, move on, say nothing if Marianne was going to say nothing, but guilt prickled her gut. She had brought Marianne here, and it was irresponsible of her not to press when Marianne was clearly not settling in well.

               “Sleeping alright?” Marianne shrugged a scaly shoulder and nibbled at the fish, burying her face in it to avoid having to answer. “Is the…is the tub big enough?”

               “No.” Alice found herself half-irritated, wishing Marianne would just lie because obviously there was nothing Alice could do. Any decent person would lie instead of honestly sharing their unhappiness!

               “Well it’s for a few weeks more, hm?” She stroked Marianne’s hair, but Marianne, who disliked being touched while she was eating, shrugged away.

               With a sigh, Alice got to her feet. Her fantasies about life with Marianne were evaporating like steam from her tea kettle, and it rent her heart. It had been a long time since she had felt so conflicted—not since she’d made the decision to create Arthur and live at least a part of her life on her own terms. But unlike her love of the sea, her love for Marianne was not so easily bent into a shape to fit into her life. She couldn’t create a persona for Marianne that would allow her to live on land.

               Perhaps a tank of some sort? she thought. It was conceivable…returning to the stove, she stirred her morning oats and considered the engineering and capital required to attempt such a thing.

               But then…could she condemn Marianne to life in a cage? A gilded cage was still a cage—something Alice had said to her mother, before she’d left home. And that’s what any sort of tank would be—a cage, to keep Marianne in Alice’s life. How selfish.

               By the end of another week, Marianne was showing signs of physical deterioration from her captivity. She slumped in the tub, and picked at her food. Her skin looked sallower, Alice thought, and she had grown quieter. Marianne was not talkative, because of how difficult human speech was for her, but she was always alert, and she responded to Alice, if without words. But that was happening less and less. It was as though she were withdrawing in on herself—as if she were genuinely ill.

               “This isn’t working, is it?” Alice said quietly late one night, sitting with her back against Marianne’s tub. The mermaid gave her a pained smile and touched the top of her head, caressing Alice’s short hair.

               “No,” she replied.

               “I have to take you back, don’t I?” It was something Alice had known for days, but she didn’t want to admit it. It wasn’t just the end of their time together here, now—it was the end of a dream.

               “Yes.” Marianne’s fingers moved down to Alice’s cheek. Her own rested uncomfortably against the edge of the tub. “I’m sorry.”

               “Don’t be,” Alice said brusquely, getting up and shaking Marianne’s hand off. “It is what it is.”

               “Alice!” The Englishwoman was ready to move away, but Marianne lurched forward, grabbing for her again. “Don’t be angry,” she pleaded, the shimmer of glamor wavering over her, turning her eyes to those big blue orbs that would suck in any land-dwelling man.

               “Stop that, you don’t have the strength,” Alice scolded. Marianne’s face returned to normal. She jerked, making to continue her flight, but the flash of Marianne’s “human” eyes haunted the backs of her eyelids and she couldn’t go. “I’m not angry,” she said, unconvincingly, though she truly wasn’t. “I’ll take you tomorrow night, okay?”

               “I will miss you,” Marianne rasped, grabbing at Alice’s skirt. Alice grunted some sort of assent, and looked down at the sad fish in the tub.

               Christ, she thought. I did this to you. I took a perfectly healthy thing and ruined it, for myself.

               Marianne pressed the back of Alice’s hand against her scaly cheek. Her temperature was too warm.

               “Alice will still be with me,” Marianne told her, moving Alice’s hand to her chest. Her heart wasn’t in the same place, but she had been delighted when she found she could listen to Alice’s heartbeat, so she used the gesture with humans in mind.

               “Not near enough,” Alice muttered under her breath. She took her hand back and patted Marianne’s head. “Right. Of course, pet. I’ll see you when I sail.” And on land, I’ll grow into an old maid, until my hands are too weak to climb the rigging, my back to stiff to sleep in a berth, until I am too old to sail, and I never see you again, and the only thing I have left to comfort myself is some vague notion of sentimentality.

               But she knew she had to do the right thing—she had to return Marianne to her home, before the poor thing wasted away in Alice’s bathtub.

               She could feel how much weight Marianne had lost as she hoisted the mermaid in the net onto her back once more. They arranged the cloak before she stepped out, and then began the long walk back to the docks. On the pier, she lowered Marianne down as gently as she could, remembering how she’d dropped her on the floor the first time. She still hit the wood heavily, whining quietly.

               “Can Alice take me out more?” she croaked. “Water here is so shallow…”

               It’s the least I can do…Alice thought. “Let me get a dingy from The Englishman.” She went to her own ship nearby, and lowered the dinghy down herself, paddling it over to the pier where she’d left her wayward mermaid. It was a trick getting her into the boat, but Alice was fortunately supported by years of maintaining her balance on rocking ships.

               A waning half-moon was in the sky as Alice stroked them across the inky waters. She supposed she took Marianne out further than necessary, but it was the last time, she suspected, they’d be so close. In the end, was their relationship anything more than a figment of imagination? She could’ve rowed all night, she had the strength for it, but she stopped before the shore got too small, and pulled up the oars.

               “How’s this, love?” Marianne, trailing her fingers happily in the water, nodded and smiled.

               “Perfect!” Another of her favorite words. Alice had hoped to find her a bit more morose at the idea of their parting, but Marianne seemed utterly unaffected. Perhaps that’s the best, Alice thought wearily. Fooling myself into this…what a twat I’ve made of myself.

               She reached out to help Marianne over the side, but with a might thrash, Marianne flipped over, sending Alice’s boat dancing wildly in the water. She leaned over for a last close look at Marianne’s blue and purple tail disappearing, and that was when the hands seized her collar. There was barely time to gasp before she was toppling into the frigid water, feeling it rush into her mouth and up her nose.

               Marianne!

               The damnable mermaid!

               As Alice choked, she remembered Marianne’s priceless stash of stolen goods, piled up and falling over each other, glinting and sparkling in the dim light of her cavern—she remembered the boots and silk shirts, the necklaces and rings, the finger bones picked clean in the shallows, the skull that had once washed up on the island after a storm. Mermaids were greedy creatures, possessive, violent and primitive—she had known this! Alice was no fool—she had known! And she knew Marianne—she knew how she hated to lose, how she jealously guarded what was hers, how strong she was! What in the world had made her believe that if Marianne couldn’t have her, she would let her go?

               Underwater, Marianne’s wiry fingers dug more securely into Alice’s dress, hands creeping up her back. Alice’s precious seconds of strength had been wasted on her surprise, and now she was losing air and power fast. Marianne’s muscular tail rippled, sending them sailing yards into the darkness with each smooth flick.

               Alice opened her mouth to scream at the traitor, but she knew she couldn’t waste her air. She punched and kicked, but Marianne’s arms were steel around her, and she didn’t seem to be bothered by Alice’s fighting at all.

               Above them, the moon grew smaller, its light weaker, and Alice’s aching throat told her this would be the last sight she would see. Marianne’s arms wrapped around her in a deadly embrace, and the mermaid leaned in, sinking her teeth into Alice’s neck. The Englishwoman wasn’t sure whether to be angry that she was being treated so poorly, or relieved that Marianne intended to give her a quick death, not just drown her.

               Heat—initially a relief from the freezing water—swept up her until it burned. Her eyes were dimming, white gauze stretching over her vision. She heard nothing, and her brain could no longer form a coherent thought.

               Marianne, she thought with varying emotions. Marianne, Marianne…cursed siren!

               Marianne held her tightly, close against her, and nuzzled her face into the crook of Alice’s neck, not taking them deeper, nor returning the body to the surface.

               And Alice took a breath.

               Oxygen rushed back into her with such force that a sob caught in her throat. Her eyes were on fire, and her whole body throbbed and shrieked with pains. She shoved Marianne off, and looked about. A hand flew up to her neck—she could feel rips in the flesh, probably from where she’d been bitten…but they felt so smooth?

               Down—sticking out from her dress, rather than her pallid, skinny legs, was a tail. Green and gold scales, dark in the depths of the ocean, made a gradient across it. She gasped, and rather than choking on the water, she felt more precious oxygen restoring life to her brain and heart. Her gaze snapped to Marianne, watching her expectantly, excitedly.

               What did you do?

               I fixed you! The mermaid chirped. Since I cannot live on land, now Alice can live with me!

               You can do that?

               Marianne just smiled and took Alice’s hand.

               Come. Let me show you how lovely the island is from under the water. Abandoning the dinghy and leaving Arthur’s crew to wonder what foolishness he’d been up to the night he disappeared, the two mermaids headed south—swimming for warmer waters.

[blazenight-it]

FrUK New Year’s Surprise

For the FrUK gift exchange, I drew @aph-nerdynard‘s surprise party wish! Thanks for waiting a bit longer for me to finish; I ended up behind schedule. From working on this I learned a lot! Tried a different way of shading and it’s interesting...

Hope you enjoy!

[battypastel]

Perfect Date

@twinksilver, here’s your gift! :) I hope you like it!! + Word count: 3544 + Characters: APH France and APH England + Ship: FrUK   Here’s the link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12328088/1/Perfect-Date Also posted under the Keep Reading tab.

“Oh, amour! You simply shouldn’t have!”, the Frenchman delighted, the bright lights from the Christmas tree colouring his face, beautifully. Puffing his chest some, wearing a proud smile, Arthur responded with a smooth, “Well, my darling, nothing is too god for you.” And just as Francis was leaning in to give him a proper thank you kiss on the cheek… Arthur woke up. The Englishman was actually rather quick to get up. He was definitely excited. Arthur had been planning this night for weeks and he felt like he had a full proof plan. Pick up his date, take him to the fine restaurant that he’d booked reservations at when he’d planned this night, escort him on a nice walk through the park, and have a lovely Christmas evening with his darling Francis.            They’d only recently started dating and it felt like Francis was doing all of the wooing. It’s not that the Englishman felt emasculated by the romantic Frenchman, but Arthur wanted his chance to prove that he could be just as charming and romantic as the other.            During the last date to a carnival, sure he had a good time, but he insisted that he handle the next date. He remembered it like it was yesterday: amused with his lover’s enthusiasm, Francis agreed. “Of course, mon cher”, he began with a lifted brow, “I’d love to see what you have planned.” It was genuine. Francis truly wanted to let himself be romanced by the English gentleman, and while Arthur didn’t show his delight on the outside, Francis could easily see through his boyfriend’s tough exterior. He knew that he was beaming on the inside. The Englishman checked the weather for the third time in the past hour. Sunny skies. Snow to be expected late in the night. Sure, it was a bit cloudy, but all of his weather sources said otherwise, so it was fine. ***            Finally the time came! Arthur was dressed in his finest Winter date wear, A lovely light brown sweater that tapered into the slightest V-neck shape. His red scarf peeked from the opening of the V-neck and covered his white turtleneck shirt. And his pants were a simple dark denim. Formal, yet casual. The only thing that refused to work with him was his stubborn hair. Oh well, can’t have it all. When the time came, he hopped in his car and headed off to meet Francis. Of course, since Francis was visiting, he’d be taking Francis home with him so the remainder of his vacation could be cheap and they could maximize their time together. It only made sense!

Soon enough, he was pulled in front of the hotel. He gave Francis a phone call as he pulled up to the large hotel doors and soon enough, Francis emerged from the luxurious building with his large suitcase.            Arthur was caught off guard by just how beautiful his date was. He was sporting an unbuttoned wine coloured windbreaker with a white plaid scarf lining the sides. Beneath that was an obvious navy turtleneck shirt and a pair of khakis. The short gust of wind made the Frenchman pull his windbreaker closed and button the bottom two buttons. That’s when he spotted Arthur in his car. The blonde waved before trotting over with his suitcase, he curls blown to the sides of his face as he moved against the pressure of the breeze. Arthur returned the wave, smiling a little. Thankfully, he unlocked his doors just before the Frenchman arrived. First, Francis opened the back doors to put his suitcase away. “Bonjour, lapin!”, “Don’t speak your silly language around me”, he responded lightly- Francis knew he was poking fun though. Francis settled in the passenger seat and the two met for a brief pre-date kiss on the lips. “Hello, my darling. Are you ready to start our evening?”, “But of course.”            And so, the two caught up and exchanged pleasantries on their way to the fancy restaurant. Once the pulled up, Francis’ eyes grew slightly, “Oh, here? Pulling out all the stops are we?”, he grinned back at his lover. “Nothing is too good for you”, Arthur responded with a wink, and continued with: “And don’t you dare open your door.” Francis chuckled, “My, what a gentleman~”, he cooed. Arthur got out, opened Francis’ door for him, once he got out, the Englishman locked the car, then they walked in hand in hand.

This restaurant was one of the finest places in all of London. Expensive, atmospheric, and beautiful. Arthur put down a little cash ahead when he had reserved so that they could sit in front of the grand fireplace and he was quite proud of himself for reserving such a space.             Arthur walked to the podium and was greeted by an older gentleman, “Reservation?”, “Yes. Under the name Kirkland. For six-thirty.” Francis let go of his boyfriend’s hand, caught p in memories from the first time they had come here. He’d completely tuned out as he admired the fine curtains and new paintings. The man flipped pages in the book at the desk. “Ah yes. Kirkland… A window seat perhaps?” Arthur blinked, his brows furrowing some at the mere suggestion, “What?”, he kept his voice controlled, though, “No. We’re in front of the fireplace.”, “Yes, well…”, the man cleared his throat, “I’m sorry to say, Mr. Kirkland, but we’ve double booked”, he didn’t sound sorry, “All seats around the fireplace are booked, including the one you wanted, I’m afraid.” That made him mad.

           Glancing back at his lover to make sure he wasn’t listening, he stepped closer to the podium, whispering in an angry, but hushed tone, “Listen, you. I paid extra for that spot. I wanted that fireplace seat!” Something about the aggression in Arthur’s voice seemed to work on the man. He wasn’t threatening to pummel him in the street, but the man knew that this irritated customer could put paychecks at risk if he dared to call management… And this green eyed man seemed just like the type of person to do that. The man took a gentle, but slightly urgent tone: “You can have the meal for free, but I simply can’t give you a seat that someone else has already taken.” Arthur slumped some, defeated. Sure, he could throw a fit, but it would ruin his, and his lover’s date. “Fine. What do you have left…?” A sigh left the Englishman, soft as it was it grabbed the attention of his date. A free meal would be fine, certainly, the seat couldn’t be that bad.            The man grabbed two menus and started off into the dining area, “Right this way…” He led the two to a far seat- just across from the seat that Arthur had expected to have. Francis settled in front of the window and Arthur in the chair across from him. “Here are your menus, gentlemen…”, the older man said before handing out the two menus. “Your waiter will be here in a moment to get your drink orders.”            Francis knew that something was up by the way that Arthur was steadily collecting himself. He decided to pay attention to subtleties for the remainder of the evening. “You’ve picked a lovely place, mon cher”, he began sweetly. That alone caused a lot of his stress to go away- for now at least. The way the light hit Francis from behind, making the edges of his sun kissed skin look completely white. It made him look like an angel. “Yes, well. Only the best”, he stammered, slightly. You’d think after dating him for so long that his breath wouldn’t be absolutely taken so easily. That wasn’t the case.            “Oh, Monsieur Kirkland, you’re too kind~”, Francis always flirted like it was the first date. And while Arthur knew that not every time that they saw each other had to be extravagant, Francis was worth it.

After a few moments the waiter came and got their drink orders before leaving to fetch the drinks and tend to other tables. The two knew that he would be back soon and decided to actually look at the menu. After a short, but fast look through, both men knew what they wanted. They were discussing it as the waiter approached. Francis was watching him from his peripheral. “Okay, so are you ordering, or me?”, “I will. What did you want”, they were talking fast “The Filet.” About that time, the waiter was upon them and interrupted. “Have you two settled on a meal?” he questioned while setting their drinks down, “Yes”, Arthur responded. The waiter took out his notepad to record the orders.            Arthur had a surprise for his lover, though. After ordering their meals, he continued on: “Also, for an appetizer we’d like the fondue. And would you bring us two glasses of your finest wine?” Francis was impressed. They didn’t have to pay and Arthur was clearly going to jab at them in any way he could. The worst part was, now that it was established without any rules, none could be established, now. The waiter nodded, “Yes, sir.” And he was off. “My, you’re baring no expenses”, Francis pointed out.            Just as Arthur was forgetting how much he initially didn’t want this seat for them, the crowd behind them at the Englishman’s much coveted fireplace began to get loud. Apparently, they had quite a bit to drink. It reminded him that his perfect date night wasn’t going perfect. He turned a bit to look at them. Francis could easily tell that it was bothering Arthur. “Amour-“, Francis began, “Don’t worry, they’ll likely be escorted out. This is the sort of place that doesn’t tolerate such behavior.” He knew Francis was right, but it still bothered him. Mostly because that seat was wasted. There was no way they could take it, even if the couple there were escorted out. “Yes, I know, but…” His ideal spot would be empty and ever teasing him. “But nothing. It’s fine!”, The Frenchman soothed, consoling his boyfriend, “Hrm-“, he huffed a little. Truly, he didn’t feel any better, but he was going to stifle it for his date’s sake. Besides, he still had dinner and the upcoming walk, and even better; the quiet evening. “Yes, you’re right. Although I hate to admit it”, he teased the Frenchman, earning a grin from the other. Arthur was incredibly relieved that Francis believed him.            From that point, things seemed to get better. Conversation became a nice distraction along with thoughts of the near future. The food came and their dinner was peaceful. Francis’ joy was a good distraction for the Englishman. After all, his date was just happy to be there and his joy was contagious. He was only reminded of the loud couple when they were escorted away. And about that time, their appetizer was brought- great timing, honestly. Everything was going brilliantly, the conversation picked up and the entrees were brought out. Arthur wasn’t bothered by the empty table as much as he thought he would be- he was having too good of a time. When the meal was almost done, though… Their conversation was interrupted by the rumble of thunder.

           Instantly, Arthur’s smile dropped. His attention was brought to the window. Francis paused, turning to follow his gaze. “Oh! Look, it’s starting to rain”, the Frenchman mused. Francis was indifferent, but Arthur? The rain’s presence truly upset him and it was obvious on the Englishman’s face. When Francis turned, his blue eyes widened; Arthur looked absolutely disheartened just from the rain! “Is everything okay?” Arthur visibly sunk when he registered the question, “Yes, it’s fine, don’t worry”, the Englishman managed to get out. Francis knew better. He aimed to get it out of him.            “Did you want to head back to your place, amour?”, Francis asked in a soft, gentle voice, “I’m full.” Truth was, He’d noticed Arthur’s odd behavior from the start. “Just… Let me check something”, the Englishman took his phone out, checking the weather radar… … Nothing but rain for the remainder of the night. But the current weather still read only cloudy. He was so frustrated. A long sigh left him, “… Yeah. I’m not hungry anymore, either.” Noticing the two men not looking too happy, the fearful waiter moved back to the two men, “Can I get you anything else?”, “No”, Arthur responded, “We were just leaving.”

***            The two had gotten wet from the downpour while running to Arthur’s car. Thankfully, the locks were electric, so before they were even three feet to the car doors, the Englishman had unlocked his vehicle for them. He had an umbrella, but it had been in the boot of the car since Arthur didn’t expect any rain that day.            The car ride was quiet at first, neither of the men talking, but for two entirely different reasons. Arthur was upset that his day had been ruined, and Francis was concerned for his lover. The only thing that made any sound at all was the hum of the engine and some pop song playing softly on the radio. Francis finally decided to speak, “Arthur…?”, “Hm?”, “What about the rain made your mood drop so suddenly?”, the question was genuine and sprinkled with concern. “It always rains here. Why should today be any different?” Thankfully, they weren’t hitting too many red lights. And Arthur’s house was a short trip away. Arthur decided to be somewhat honest, but he didn’t want to tell him everything yet, “Well. I expected the skies to be clear.” The letdown was still very fresh, and he was feeling particularly emotional at this moment. He needed a few minutes. “I had other plans today, and I specifically chose a day that it wasn’t supposed to rain. Or at least rain as much.”, “Plans?”, “Yes.” Arthur clearly didn’t want to elaborate, but Francis wanted answers. “Would you like to talk about it?”, “Not really.” Francis was determined to get it out of him. But perhaps not now, the Englishman seemed as though he wasn’t ready or willing to give answers. He opted to change the subject, “Did you have any plans for us when we got home?”, he questioned, curiosity dancing in his voice. “Something at home?”,  Arthur perked up a bit, “I do, actually!”, “Do tell, amour.” Francis’ cool gaze was on his boyfriend, who’d perked up at the mention. “Well, I figured we’d decorate my tree and enjoy some hot cider together.” “Magnifique!”, Francis chirped. Afterwards, he had planned to watch the snow with Francis, but there was no harm in parting the blinds and listening to the peaceful rainfall in his lover’s arms. There was still tonight!            Once they got home, Francis shed his windbreaker and scarf and Arthur removed his own scarf, the discarded clothes hanging nicely in the entry way. Shoes were removed and two pairs of house shoes were taken to protect the lovebirds’ feet from the cold hardwood floors. “I’ll put the cider on then?”, Before Arthur could even say yes, Francis was in his kitchen, “You know where everything is?”, Arthur called, a faint smile touching his lips, “Yes, and if I need anything, I’ll call you.”                        Arthur busied himself by opening the blinds to the glass sliding door so that the rain could be seen and cast a nice light into the room. Paired with that he turned on his ceiling lights. He recently put in some recessed lighting similar to the situation at Francis’ house. He liked how stylish it looked, and it made the room brighter and bigger. “I like what you’ve done with the place”, Francis commented, playfully from the open bar section where he could see into the den. “Why that you, I came up with the idea myself”, Arthur playfully jabbed back, earning a laugh from Francis. “I’ll be right back, keep the cider coming.”

Then he treaded back to his storage room where he kept various decorations. He’d moved his ornament and light box close to the door in anticipation, early in the month in anticipation for this night. The box was fairly light, and an easy push to its destination.            Francis stepped out from the kitchen and joined Arthur in the den. “The apples have to boil a bit. Let’s work on the tree.” Arthur could tell that he was excited to do this. How could he say no? “Alright, let’s put the lights on first”, he picked up a box, “These are brand new. They’ll work just fine”, “Let’s test it for good measure…~”, the Frenchman plucked the box out of his hands and pulled the light strand out. Seeking the nearest outlet, he plugged them in. “They all work!”, “Okay, okay, you get on that side, and I’ll be on this side…” They started stringing the branches when Francis piped up again, “Arthur, let’s not plug it in until the tree is complete.” He was like an excited child. Arthur grinned, “Your wish is my command, dear.”            They had a fun time stringing the tree. When they got to the tinsel, Francis would continuously catch his English lover with it, pull him close and kiss him, but he’d also try to tickle his cheeks with the shiny silver decoration. It was a lot of fun. By the time that they got to the beaded layer, Francis had to go tend to the cider “Keep going, amour! I’ll be right back!” A soft laugh left Arthur, he was right. Despite being in an ideal situation to finish decorating a tree faster, they were giggling and goofing off. If Arthur didn’t get the string of beads on quick enough, they would be there all night.

So he took the beads and draped them over and through the branches to create a wavy effect. Once Francis was back, he was taking out ornaments and setting them out on the table. He didn’t have many, so it didn’t take too terribly long. By the time they were done, the rich smell of cinnamon and apples wafted through the air, mingling with the fresh pine and the subtle mint smell from the air freshener. It smelled like Winter should smell for the both of them, but what made it feel like Christmas morning already was the presence of each other. It was getting dark and the storm hadn’t let up, but the flashes of lightening wasn’t too bad. As Francis put it: it was a lightshow to celebrate them being together. So what if they missed the walk? This was perfect.

           “Ready?”, Arthur questioned, holding up the plug, “Ready”, Francis responded, holding up his phone to capture the memory with his camera. “One. Two… Three.” He plugged it it and just as the tree lit up, the power went out. All of the lights in the house were off, the heater was out, and the icing on the cake for the date was ruined.            Instead of taking a snapshot, Francis turned on his flashlight. “Hah. This is one for the books, isn’t it, lapin??”, Francis’ smile instantly left when he saw Arthur’s face, though. His lover was silently on the verge of tears! “Arthur! Oh, what’s wrong? Talk to me.” He reached out, caressing his soft, slightly chubby cheek. “Don’t cry-“, “And why not?? Everything I’ve planned… Nothing has followed through!” Francis took his hand and guided him to sit on the loveseat. “Here. Have a seat. Why would you say that…?” Francis settled next to him and sat his phone away. He pulled Arthur’s legs into his lap and held him close to comfort him while he spoke. “First… We were going out to that restaurant, and I booked the fireplace seat. They double booked and I lost our seat”, “But we had a lovely seat. The way the sky coloured your skin was magnifique. And we still got to eat at the restaurant you wanted, non?”, “Yes, well… I had planned for a walk afterwards through the park, but the downpour put a stop to that plan…”, “Running through the rain to your car was exciting. We can walk another time.” “But the power-“            The two’s vision had somewhat adjusted to the light, and they could see each other face to face in the dim light only provided by the window. Francis cupped his cheeks and spoke gently, “Arthur, as far as I’m concerned, this has been a successful date.” That shocked him. Francis continued on. “We ate at a nice restaurant, sprinted through the rain, and warmed up in your car before spending time together decorating your tree. A date isn’t about being precise. I do not care for schedules or what may be considered a perfect date. Not when I’m with my perfect person…”, he soothed, softly. Arthur smiled. “That’s better. You know what we have until the electric company fixes the power?”, “What’s that?”, “Hot cider and good company.” Francis stood to fetch them each a cup, taking his phone with him to work as a flashlight. Arthur thought quietly to himself with only the steps and clatters in the kitchen from his loving boyfriend accompanied by the sound of the rain hitting the roof, that this was a wonderful, successful night after all.