The pitter-pattering of raindrops thud softly on the window and he wiggles the pen in his hand contemplatively, eyes flickering from the beads of water on the pane to his Scottish fold Ollie stretched out on the windowsill inside. The little grump of a cat yawns, reaching out a paw to press his pads to the cool glass, green eyes flickering between the trickling streams of rainwater.
Arthur looks back at the blank sheet of paper in front of him, then to the awaiting paperwork to the right of his elbow. Ignoring the work, he poises the pen on the blank page.
If Francis is anything to me, he's rain.
The ink pen Arthur is holding loosely pauses in its pursuit across the page. A fleeting thought crosses his mind that all this is pointless, that he'll never have the courage to show his penned ramblings to anyone, never mind Francis himself, that in the grand scheme of things, he'll never find a way to express his love as ardently and freely as Francis presents his. Perhaps Arthur was cursed to have a stiff-upper lip forever, to choke on his words the minute he considers being anything other than the stifler in the room. He worries he'll starve their fire one day - believes it to be inevitable and although he doesn't think he could ever admit it aloud, he worries he can't match Francis' thoughtfulness.
Sometimes, he panics he'll be the end of them. He would be panicking now if not for the rain falling outside, calming his entire being, extinguishing his frazzled nerves after their latest fight. Francis will leave him, he insists, he's sure of that, it's only a matter of time.
His home is decorated in beautiful paintings of Arthur's favourite landscapes; seasides, coastlines, patchwork blanket fields of wheat, lentils and potatoes, animals - dogs mainly, which Arthur feels slightly guilty about, every time his cat plods past them, nose high in the air, giving the paintings of canines some side-eye.
Some are bought, some are gifted.
The gifted ones are from a select few. An old local English painter who wanted to thank Arthur for taking so much interest in his previous works over the years, his little sister who paints to soothe the unrest in her mind brought about by the tensions in her land, and Francis.
Francis paints the most breathtaking landscapes and the most intriguing abstract art, almost hypnotic in nature. In his bedroom, where few venture, there is painting of the strait of Dover painted from Francis' perspective. To anyone unfamiliar with the channel that separates them, it just appears to be a calm ocean on a clear day with chalky cliffs off in the distance. An old 17th century frigate floats serenely between the white cliffs on either side of the channel. When Francis had first gifted it to him a few months after the close of WW2, Arthur had stared at the large frame he held gingerly in his hands, speechless, mouth dry, heart pounding.
It was Arthur's old ship, exactly as she'd been, painted in vivid glistening oils.
"She saw some war in her time," Francis had said when Arthur couldn't lift his eyes from it, nor find his voice. "I did not see her out of it, and would sweat when I saw her coming, but I would anticipate her arrival all the same. I imagine if she was still around today, she would be made of steel, coal powered, but every bit as fierce, and hopefully a friend. I would still anticipate seeing her, but for different reasons."
Arthur wet his lips, slightly breathless. "France I- I... don't know what to say..."
"It's fine, you don't have to say anything. Thank you for being my ally, even after I fell."
England looked up at him, the gratefulness and sincerity in Francis' eyes being matched in his eyes own stunned ones. "And- thank you. It's... beautiful."
"She is- was." Francis smiled at him, another layer to the admiration in his eyes that didn't quite involve the painting as he looked down at his own work in Arthur's hands, then meaningfully into Arthur's eyes before he excused himself.
It was at that exact moment Arthur realised he was completely and unequivocally enraptured by someone he should not be enraptured with, it was that exact moment he realised that he had been for quite a while. It was that exact moment the crashing realisation occurred as to why Arthur's self-contained fretting and suffocating, suppressed panic ranging from June 1940 to August 1944 had happened. War had never done as such to him before.
But he'd never been at war, not while he'd been in love.
He blinks out of his reverie, scratches out his previous sentence.
Francis is everything to me, he is my rain. he tries again.
Rain grates on me, when it comes as a surprise, and I'm without a coat or umbrella. It's my fault, those times. Sometimes, I haven't brought in the washing, or I've forgotten to close the car window. I probably grate on others, complaining about it so frequently.
He thinks of every petty fight they've ever had - last week when Arthur had put a red in with Francis' overpriced whites, then forgotten the fabric softener, or when Francis, three weeks ago, amidst the panic of catching the Chunnel back to France for a meeting with his boss, had reversed into Arthur's hedges. Fights that were ridiculous to look back on now, but had been much too heated at the time.
In a strange way I have a soft spot for it, all the same. he writes, chewing on his lip. His cat sits up and meows softly at him for his undivided attention. Arthur pauses, sets down his pen and sits back to allow Ollie to jump gracefully into his lap once he'd plodded over, kneading and bunting his head against Arthur's abdomen. The Englishman smiles and scratches Ollie's head for a long moment. listening to the rain, before he returns to what he was doing.
When it falls at night, there's nothing more soothing. It finally lulls me to sleep when the insomnia hasn't lifted for nights on end. There's a comfort in hearing it running down the roof slates, trickling down the gutters, pattering on the glass and dripping from the windowsill. It's like a melody, soft and distant, a reminder that I'm sheltered, wrapped up in bed, cosy, untouchable, safe and settled for the night.
Toasty memories of his legs entangled with Francis lanky, hairy ones surface, his body tucked snug against Francis, chest to back, Francis' gentle lips kissing the nape of his neck. Oftentimes, those lips work their way down his vertebrae to his lumber region as Arthur's body burns while he counts the kisses. Other times, they're happy to lie wrapped in cotton quilted duvet covers, slumbering in each other's arms, and if not tired enough, talking into each other's hair or skin. Francis snores, not as obnoxiously as he sings, it's quite sweet, a little bit French - if that's possible. Like the rhythmic ticking of the clock on his wall, the constancy of it makes Arthur's eyes heavy when he wakes in the middle of the night. It's easy getting back over to sleep when he counts each breath like he's counting sheep. Contentment is a feeling almost as satisfying as love. Arthur isn't sure how to write this, isn't sure if this articulates enough how much he appreciates Francis, for all their arguing and flaws.
I can concentrate easier to the sound of rain, see things clearer, it can anchor my mind.
When he had been younger and having the occasional existential crisis about his purpose and path, he focused on Francis. He focused on the rivalry, that need to be on the same level, or better, than France, driving him even when he was most lost. He'd become reliant on Francis before they'd even put aside or started to ignore most of their differences, he'd needed Francis before they had ever attempted civility after centuries of war.
In a way, Francis is a balm. He scratches this line out with a purse of his lips, Ollie's green eyes follow the pen back and forth.
I love the smell rain leaves behind, nowhere near as much as I love him, but it's one of the more enjoyable things in life. Petrichor, it's supposedly called, that earthy smell of wet soil and soaked grass and flowers and trees - I can only ever catch it before the city awakens to smother it with the smell of fumes from exhaust pipes. It brings serenity, during early, quiet summer mornings. With starlings and goldfinches flitting between the branches of the trees in the garden, tiny feet jostling the water free from its perch in the distant morning sunlight, he thinks, but doesn't write it. He loves sharing those mornings with Francis. It's comparable to the smell of peat burning in fireplaces during sharp winter evenings. It's beautiful - like him, he's gorgeous.
Francis sometimes leaves behind the scent of lavender on his sheets, other times it's coconut, or the smell of some undoubtedly pricey designer cologne, an ambiguous citrusy-floral scent that's both sharp but feminine. He's always up first, leaving Arthur to roll over, snore and drool into Francis' pillow and eventually come to consciousness himself. Arthur didn't know the tranquillity of domesticity until he sat slumped at his kitchen table, cradling a cup of tea languidly and rubbing morning sleep from his eyes as Francis pattered about the kitchen, yawning while he mumbled his theories on the whereabouts of the misplaced butter. Arthur would smile into his cup fondly every time Francis' robe, a robe of pale yellow silk in the French summer and thick fleecy light blue in the English winter, slipped from his shoulder and he reached to tug it back up absently. The Frenchman would catch Arthur's eye across the table, and he'd smile devilishly around a mouthful of plain homemade brioche. Arthur would nudge is ankle with his foot under the table.
And like rain, I need Francis. Even if the occasional thunderstorms make me flinch, I wouldn't have it any other way. The grass is always greener, roses firmer, hydrangea's larger. I couldn't garden without it. I couldn't grow and change without him by my side.
"This is silly," Arthur grumbles to himself, suddenly stopping and sighing, he scrunches up the paper. His cat's tiny ears twitch and Ollie looks up at the curious crunching noise. Then, Arthur tosses it over to the bin. It bounces out of the basket onto the floor by the door. "What am I doing? All I have to do is say sorry, tell him I love him anyway. None of this- whatever this is. He'll just laugh like a prat. Or act insulted that I tried comparing him to rain - he's more like the sun anyway."
Ollie peers up at him with a meow, sensing his owner's frustration.
"Why can't I ever find the words..." Arthur says dejectedly, absently scratching under his cat's chin. Ollie closes his eyes and Arthur feels the vibrations of his cat's purring. "He's the romantic one, not me. Damn it..." It's something that always eats at Arthur, worries at him day after day, more than he'd care to admit, that he's never giving enough, that he's inadequate for the man who's supposed to be the country of love.
When Arthur was too busy sleeping through his alarm clock, Francis would be up cooking them breakfast. While Arthur doubted he had a creative bone in his body, Francis was painting him landscapes. Arthur always tried to book Francis' favourite restaurants, but somehow ended up booking the wrong one because he misinterpreted the French. When he bought Francis gifts, he always felt like-
A quiet knock on the study door startles him out of the spiral in his mind. When Arthur looks up, he's met with the sight of Francis standing in the archway with a cup of tea in one hand.
"C'est moi, ta da~!" Francis announces cheerily, "You've been in here all afternoon," he says, presenting the tea proudly as if it was his freshest batch of mouth watering éclairs. "I thought you'd need some sustenance. And I couldn't go another minute without seeing those magnificent brows, I missed them and the man attached to them."
Arthur swallows, forcing a smile to mask the trepidation that had gripped him moments ago. "Thank you, the tea's well needed."
Immediately, Francis knows something is wrong, having received no snarky comment on his tea making abilities or any comeback for Francis' teasing about the brows. "Is everything okay mon cher?"
Arthur eyes widen slightly, and he nods stiffly under Francis' enquiring blue gaze. "Yes, fine, just- I'm tired, and busy. Bad combination."
"That impressive brow of yours is furrowed for reasons other than work. I know tired and busy when I see it." answers Francis, nursing the tea, his own brows furrowing in concern. "Are you still annoyed about that silly fight this morning? It really was so pointless, I'm sorry."
"No, well yes- but, not really. No, I guess it's not that, I'm, well... I'm not sure..." he trails off, looking elsewhere, anywhere, other than at Francis' compassionate expression. his eyes settle on the bookcase by the window.
At the silence - and the absence of Arthur's demands for him to piss off, as he so usually did when he was irritated or frustrated - the Frenchman ambles into Arthur's study and sets the tea on top of the stack of paperwork, perching himself on the edge of the desk and studying Arthur's anxious green eyes, which he only managed to do after placing a few gentle fingers under his chin to tilt Arthur's head, getting him to look at him. Ollie meows, almost as if he's bemoaning Francis' proximity, and hops from Arthur's lap.
"You were in a strange mood all day yesterday too. Is it something I've done?" Francis asks, worried.
"No, um. You see, it's not you, it's me -" Arthur stammers, not quite sure how to word his insecurities. "It's really nothing, Francis."
"I don't like the sound of that." The Frenchman winces.
"What? Oh. No no, Hell no." Arthur scrambles to say at seeing Francis' grimace, realizing what Francis might have interpreted his previous words as. "That's not what I meant, definitely not! I'm not ending things with you, if that's what you're thinking," He frets, exhaling "God no, quite the contrary actually."
Francis chuckled, eyes dancing over Arthur affectionately. "What's the contrary of breaking up? You're proposing? Finally?" he joked, eyes shining as a fresh panic entered Arthur eyes, he was simply relieved to see that solemn expression from beforehand gone.
"Ah bollocks, no, not that either, bugger-"
"Relax, Arthur." Francis soothes, resting his hand on Arthur's shoulder and giving in a comforting squeeze. "I know you couldn't, not without the permission of your boss. Besides, marriage isn't really for people like us."
Arthur's face is burning. "I'm... I'm glad you understand." Unknown to Francis, it was something he had thought about multiple times over the years.
"I do." Francis nods resolutely, hand sliding from Arthur's shoulder, a moment later he pushes the warm cup of tea into Arthur's hands, noticing how the Englishman wrings them distractedly every so often, a sure sign he was worried about something beyond marriage and work and deadlines. "You know, we've been together for decades now." Francis continues, "I hope you can tell me everything," A reminiscence enters his eyes as he looked at his old English companion, tucking some of Arthur's short - sometimes messy and uncooperative - blonde hair behind his ear. "And you can show me anything too. Whatever's bothering you, it can't be any worse than that time your nipple piercing got caught on-"
"Oi! You don't have to remind me of that." Arthur puffs, a small smile curling on his lips at Francis amused, yet fond eyes.
"Then you'll tell me if whatever it is keeps bothering you?"
Arthur nods, then sighs. "Of course I will, it's just rather, well... it's stupid, really."
"Mm? Try me," Francis challenges, softly all-the-same. "I've heard my own fair share of stupid come out of my own mouth."
"Me too," Arthur agrees, a small smirk forming as he sips his tea, which wasn't a bad cup considering it was made by a man who never drinks it and rarely makes it. There's a perfect amount of milk in it this time. "Your mouth does come out with some bizarre things." Francis takes a gentle swipe at the top of Arthur's head for the chaffing. "What?" Arthur shrugs. "You said so yourself."
"Arthur... You're trying to distract me," Francis raises his brows at him knowingly. "Are you sure you don't want to talk about it? It might help?"
"Fine- I..." Arthur relents, taking a breath to steel himself. "Am I enough for you?" he asks hurriedly.
Francis squints at him, puzzled for a moment, then he cupped Arthur's cheek with warmth and downright relief flickering in his eyes. "That's it? Of course you are- in every sense." he answers fervently. "What makes you ask such a question?"
Arthur shrugged, trying to give off an air of nonchalance but failing miserably. "I never feel like- this whole relationship thing, it's never really been my forte. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing enough to keep you." he confesses.
"What aren't you doing enough of mon lapin?" Francis strokes Arthur's cheek with his thumb and Arthur leans into it, relishing the touch. "You know I'm a simple man, right?" Francis continues, smile widening. "And you're the horniest person in the world- we're the perfect match!" Francis smiles brightly at Arthur's elegant eye roll. The Frenchman has provided plenty of opportunities for Arthur to perfect his eye roll over the centuries.
Arthur puffs out a little laugh. "Everything else but the sex, you giant perverted Frenchman." As bashful and bloody ridiculous as he feels, Arthur can't look away anymore, he's starting to feel better about everything. "You're always spoiling me when you get the chance, like the breakfasts and the spa getaways and the football games you attend even though you fall asleep in every match that doesn't involve a French team-"
He receives a pointed blue stare in return. "You're conveniently forgetting about the holiday to the French Riviera you booked us for our anniversary last year, and the trip to Monaco the year before that-"
"But-"
"And the night you dusted off your old electric to serenade me with Scorpions' Rock You Like a Hurricane where you split your old leather pantalons doing an electric slide towards my crotch?" Francis ploughs on, a delight lighting his face, quiet laughter lifting his shoulders.
Arthur's face is suddenly fifty shades of mortification. "Oh, God, please don't remind me..."
"And do you remember the little sculpture of a sunrise you made for me? It was out of the melted iron of the first ever sword you used against the French. You had it engraved with look to a new dawn?" recalls Francis, completely smitten at the memory."That made me blubber like little Italie-"
"I suppose so, but-"
Francis shuts Arthur's protests up by tilting his face up so he could kiss him slowly, deeply, tenderly. When he finally pulled away, Arthur was completely breathless.
"Besides, love isn't really about grand gestures," Francis murmurs, their breaths mingling. He looks into Arthur's eyes - so green, the colour of rich farmland, oak and ash and fur forestry, the embankments of an undiscovered stream bursting with flora and fauna - Francis swears the colour changes minutely sometimes, depending on the crops growing at that time of year. They're fascinating. "We're just lucky enough to be able to make them." Francis continues so quietly it's almost as if he's whispering, Arthur leans in closer, breath quivering. "To me? Love, when everything is stripped away, it is something that makes you feel like you need nothing else in the world to get by." Arthur's nose brushes against the Frenchman's as he drinks in Francis' voice and words, the feeling from beforehand seeming so distant now, chased away with Francis being so close like this. "If you left me tomorrow, it would feel like I had nothing left. Someone else could give me everything they owned, but it wouldn't compare."
As Francis finished, Arthur was wide-eyed, the cloud having lifted. Francis blinked slowly and smiled at him. Not for the first time in his life, Arthur set his tea aside and felt such an overwhelming sense of solace and gaiety that he pulled Francis into a randy, long, handsy kiss that made the cat flee the room in embarrassment. Every moment they broke for air, the gasps they shared were filled with "I love you so much-", "Shut up, I love you more-", "You probably can't", "I definitely can and I will-".
It was amazing how their childish proclamations of "I hate you." and "I hate you more." from the mouths of their younger selves had become this, an argument over who loved the other more. It was amazing how things turn out eventually.
Francis' reading was rudely interrupted by Arthur's cat shoving his paw through the pages of the Financial Times. Reeling back, the Frenchman blinked in astonishment as the normally very francophobic cat clambered onto his lap, sitting his arse directly on top of the now crinkled pages of the newspaper.
"What are you doing, Ollie? Mon Dieu, please don't pee on me again. This shirt is Burberry." he pleaded as the cat turned in his lap to blink at him with big green eyes. In his small mouth, a ball of paper was trapped. Francis' brow furrowed as the cat squatted his chest with a small, soft paw.
"Non, don't eat that- it'll make you sick- hand it over p'tit chaton, come on-" but Ollie didn't put up much of a fuss and spat the ball of paper straight into Francis' incoming hand. "You're being very compliant today, what are you up to?" he asked the stubborn little cat with a laugh, feigning suspicion.
Francis glanced down at the scrap quickly, intending to dump it as soon as he could get Ollie to budge, but his eyes lingered when they caught an inked Fran in Arthur's meticulous handwriting peeking out at him from within. Curious, and fixed to the settee considering Ollie had decided he liked Francis today, thus having already curled up on him, Francis opened it slightly, feeling a little bit guilty, but sure enough, it revealed his name. Unable to resist temptation, he unravelled the rest.
For a moment there was silence as he read back and forth, then re-read the page over again as a completely besotted look entered his blue eyes. Touching the corner of his mouth as if contemplating covering the beginnings of his soppy smile, he hummed.
"Oi Frog! I forgot a bloody towel again!" Arthur shouts from where he's soaking in the bath in the other room. "Can you grab me one from the hot press?"
"Want me to grab myself one too?" Francis calls back, lifting his eyes from the paper and smiling stupidly.
"Absolutely not! I'm in here to clean myself up after that fiasco in the kitchen - which was your fault, by the way," Ah, yes, the lidless blender. "- Not get dirtier with you!"
Francis laughs, smoothing out and folding up the piece of paper carefully, planning to tuck it away in his pocket for a rainy day once he teased Arthur enough about it and thanked him thoroughly "Oui oui, your highness. By the way, you wouldn't happen to like the rain by chance, would you?"
"What?" The sound of Arthur knocking some of the bath products lining the tub into the water in his surprise at the question is quickly followed by his cry of "Fuck, the soap! Get back here you slippery piece of-"
It makes Francis laugh loudly and long to be in that bath with him as he lifts one protesting Ollie Kirkland from his lap to grab Arthur his much needed towel.
He'll never be able to be truly upset with rainy days ever again.
End Notes:
- It is I! I'm here, I'm queer, and I'm uploading my one fanfiction a year!
- Pluie Fine - Light rain/drizzle, taken from a song I heard yonks ago by artist Corine. The song is completely unrelated to this fic though.
- This started as a 300-400 word dribble drabble I wrote to the sound of rain when sleep evaded me. I'm projecting my love of rain onto England here lol. I kind of wanted this to go with Laissez-Faire Love, but I don't really think it matches all that much. When I wrote LFL I was so much better at writing, these dudes here feel super mellow in comparison? - there's no fighting!
- Thank you for reading! I'm trying to write more lately, struggling, but trying! So hopefully I'll be back with something FrUK soon. I have many, many ideas, the problem is writing them~ Thank you again and I hope your enjoyed this slow oneshot somewhat!