kinkmeme deanon, slightly tweaked
Francis looked at Arthur and Arthur was reminded of the first time they met. On that fateful lonely afternoon in June when the cool warmth drew Arthur out for a stroll, only to walk into another person and have his nostrils filled with strong cologne instead of thick fresh air.
"You were so irritated," said Francis, voice quiet but smoothed by the happiness of remembering. "You wanted my number for 'insurance purposes'."
"My shoes scuffed because of you," snorted Arthur and turned Francis' thin hand in his own, not looking down at the contrasting paleness.
"Do not be silly." Francis chuckled and watched Arthur play with his hand, how he dipped his fingers between his own bony digits and played with his wrinkles that would never grow deep enough. "You were never one to care about that. Remember the 'camping incident'?"
Arthur remembered the camping incident. How could he forget the camping incident? Trudging half the day through mud and dirt with Francis yammering on and on about his nice trousers ruined, and having to set up camp with two perfect handprints on each of his butt cheeks. At least Francis had his own matching one smeared across his face.
That had been a good night, the evening spent bickering and huddled together while they cupped their mugs of soup snugly in their hands. Then Arthur had brought out his old dual radio slash CD player, that ran on batteries and abusive fist-poundings, and purposefully avoided answering Francis' questions about the strange appearance of wine - that was his gimmick, not Arthur's.
Dancing by the campfire had been fun. Arthur had found out that night that the light of smouldering embers cast a lovely orange hue to the hair on Francis' head and the finer ones on his legs. Arthur had smiled too, into Francis' shoulder where he thought he wouldn't see, but where Francis could most definitely feel it.
Francis teased Arthur that night, about how he was the fool on the hill as beetles set a low humming to the music, and they tripped the light fantastic, swirling around the campfire carefully and ungracefully, as two fools would.
A single tear welled up in the corner of Arthur's eye before he could hold it back. "Idiot frog," he said, trying his hardest to wish the unwanted display of emotion back into his tear duct and all the way down into his heart.
"Perhaps," said Francis, sitting up and startling Arthur with his movement, "we should dance, oui? One last time."
Arthur swallowed and clenched his fist, holding France's hand in his grip. He scowled, truly angry. "What do you mean 'one last time'?"
"Shush, Arthur, we are in a hospital."
"I can see-!" Arthur breathed deeply. "I can see that." He moved off the bed and stood up, ready to help Francis onto his feet. If life spent with the man had taught Arthur anything, it was that behind the frivolous outward appearance and smooth talk, Francis was as stubborn as a mule.
"I know what you are thinking," said Francis, mouth and eyes creasing into a smile that made him look so much older than he was though time had been kind to him, "and I am not stubborn."
"You are too," Arthur muttered under his breath and spluttered at Francis' comment on how childish he still was.
Gingerly, Arthur helped Francis straighten and when he looked stable enough to support himself, wrapped his arms around his hips and hugged him to his body. Francis rested his head against Arthur's cheek and let his own arms slip around him, commenting on the softness of Arthur's jumper.
"New fabric softener." Arthur began to move them, slowly swaying from side to side, testing Francis' strength. He swallowed a little uneasily. "I um, I started adding it to the washes when you came here."
"Such a housewife." Francis chuckled at Arthur's grumpy grunt. "I like it."
Arthur paused at that, mid-sway. "I don't," and then they were moving away from the bed in slow, sure circles. "There's no one inferior at home to boost my mood, but the fabric softener helps sometimes."
Francis laughed into Arthur's neck, letting a hand travel to the back of his head and delighting in the hairs standing up there. Such an honest statement, for Arthur.
They danced to their own beat until sunset. The orange glow streaming through the window once again cast that beautiful hue on Francis and Arthur's heart clenched. He knew there was time for one last dance.
He nudged at Francis' ankle so he lost balance, just right for Arthur to catch him. Francis nearly squawked before gripping Arthur's arms tightly. "What are you-?"
"Shut up," said Arthur and then he was dancing with Francis across the room, out of the circle they had worn in the linoleum and to the table with Francis' medication, to the edge of the bed with medical gobbledygook on a clipboard and to the window where they began to form a new circle.
"Do you remember," began Francis a little out of breath, "the horizontal tango we did in London after we visited your family?"
Yes, yes, Arthur could remember it clearly and he would never forget it. The stress had him throwing Francis onto the bed before they had even unlocked the door – how that was possible, he didn't even know, all he did know was that for several weeks after that, Francis had tried to rile him up as much as possible for another chance at tango like that.
"Or perhaps you remember," said Francis as Arthur lifted him up, just so his toes barely touched the floor, "how you waltzed right out of my life?"
Nearly a year spent apart, more like eleven months and a handful of days; Arthur never forgot nor will he ever forget. He didn't crave Francis in their time spent apart, there was just a dull ache in his chest, enough to live with. The only thing that even brought him back was that annoying nagging in the back of his mind that was there each time he woke up and each time he tried to fall asleep in his single bed with only a small teddy bear to hug.
'Apologise' it would say (sometimes even the teddy would whisper encouragements to him) – and as if that same old nagger had found him too, Francis apologised first (it was one in the morning somewhere on Earth). They spent the next few weeks arguing over who actually apologised first and was the 'bigger man', which Francis eventually won and rewarded himself by prancing about the house like a gazelle whenever he passed Arthur.
"Or," said Francis and Arthur stopped them, gently coming into a close embrace, "maybe you remember how we danced around each other like the fools we are?"
The revelation that it was Francis who he had been throwing mudpies at and trying to woo when he was younger and not a pretty girl who would grow up into a lovely maiden with flaxen hair and big blue eyes like two shimmering seas on a sunny day who Arthur could whisk away on a white horse like one of those cool knights (romantic), just about crushed every single hope and dream Arthur had ever had.
All that hard work, finding the dirtiest dirt he could find and mixing it with the muddiest water he could manufacture to make the soppiest mudpies he could manage - all that time hurling them one after the other at the pretty girl who retaliated with equally lovingly crafted mudpies (but hers had grass, the bitch, Arthur should have known) thrown back.
Arthur had been so close to asking Francis to, hey, maybe we should hang out more often? Go for a walk? Take a picnic? Snog? – But then that perfect vision of his childhood was utterly crushed and Arthur to this day, this final day, did not forgive Francis.
When Arthur stopped showing up for tea and coffee at their - because it was theirs and no one else's, those other patrons be damned, theirs - café tucked away in the corner of a backstreet, Francis had the audacity to call and ask what's wrong? like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Francis had laughed when Arthur told him, part of the reason why Arthur never forgave him. Five tea cups' worth of do I dazzle you? and I assure you, rosbif, would you like to check? and worst of all, you like me- it was hell.
It had also been the best knuckle sandwich Francis had ever tasted.
But it was only a week after, did Arthur start showing up more at Francis' door. Another toothbrush mysteriously appeared next to Francis' and boxes upon boxes of teabags and tea leaves with different flavours from different brands and countries Francis had never heard of before began manifesting themselves out of thin air and took up his pantry space. Arthur's house was a ghost town the one time they decided that it would probably be a good (and rather logical) idea to move some of Arthur's (more practical) belongings into Francis' house. Ten tea sets made the move first. Francis was not impressed, but he lived.
Days were spent in and around the house, walking to and from work, strolling in the park, spending time with friends and alone together, just the two of them. They tripped lightly up and down stairs, through their hallways, in the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom and in the garden, and sometimes Francis would say, "Fantastic."
"We never stopped dancing," said Arthur, voice high. He hugged Francis tightly and kissed his cheek. He leaned his head against Francis' as he felt the other remove his hands from their tight hold so he could stroke Arthur's face.
"I'm tired," said Francis, smiling sadly, thumb stroking the corners of Arthur's eyes and making it harder not to cry. He stood on the balls of his feet and hugged Arthur's head to his chest, rocking them from side to side. One last dance. "I'm tired."
Arthur helped Francis walk back to the bed, supporting most of his weight the last few steps and tucked him in tenderly.
"Where are the others? Matthew?" Francis laughed. "I'm sure Alfred is buying me a hamburger from the canteen. I think he thinks it will help me get better." He coughed once and Arthur patted his back. "I do not like hospital food. Antonio and Gilbert must still be caught in traffic."
"Ivan called earlier when you were asleep."
Francis cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? Ivan called you?"
"He was worried about you, he flew in today. Everyone's worried." Arthur took Francis' hand once again, playing with the fingers between his own, can-canning together.
"They shouldn't be." Francis breathed a deep sigh, breath suddenly quickening at the end.
Arthur arose worriedly, "Francis-?"
"Non, non, I am quite alright-"
"How can you say that? Are you daft?"
"Plenty daft, falling for a fool like you."
"You're the fool," said Arthur fondly, sadly, remembering a lifetime spent with Francis and wishing he could do it again. "I'll get Matthew and Al-"
"Non, stay." So Arthur stayed and held Francis' hand lightly in a closed position.
"We'll have our memories." Francis smirked and Arthur could see that young man he bumped into that afternoon in June where he scuffed his shoe on the pavement.
"I know."
"I'll find you in the afterlife and haunt you." Francis grinned and Arthur could see that little child with his soft face caked in mud and blond hair washed a dirty brown.
"I don't doubt it for a second."
"You will always dance with me?" And then Francis smiled and closed his eyes, and Arthur could see him for all that he was.
"Always, my fantastic forgiven fool," said Arthur, lip quivering as he smiled.
But Francis was already asleep.
trip the light fantastic - to dance lightly or nimbly, in an imaginative or 'fantastic' manner. I've always wanted to use this as a title.