My first fic in God knows how long. I've probably given up on everything else I've written, so sorry if you were expecting me to update any time soon.
~O~
The smoke curled around itself, rising slowly and unfolding like silken grey handkerchiefs in the wind.
Francis pulled the cigarette away from his mouth, delicate fingers grasping it lightly as he lowered it to his side with a wry smirk. "You were staring," he remarked in amusement.
Arthur turned his eyes away from Francis' hands to the sheer mud walls of their new 'home'. The sun shone dimly from behind veils of cloud, making the tunnels seem darker and cramped. It didn't matter though. They'd be gone by Christmas.
"Angleterre?" Still the same amusement, coupled with a slight teasing edge.
"Nothing."
A raised eyebrow, and Arthur mentally cursed himself for answering with something that sounded wrong.
"If you insist." Francis wasn't one to let things go easily, and it surprised him that he was willing to leave this conversation, leave a chance to embarrass his childhood rival hanging. "Why are you here?"
Arthur flicked his eyes back to Francis, to his intense blue eyes and then to the lips curved around the cigarette like a mother protecting her child.
"Why shouldn't I be?" he asked, his gaze going back to the grey clouds threatening to burst on then, bringing a prospect he hadn't been expecting, a prospect of steady drizzle, making up for its lack of enthusiasm with sheer pig-headedness, and a prospect of mud. He shuddered inwardly at the thought, especially since he was in France and bad weather really shouldn't follow him around because it was unfair above all things.
"You have no reason to be here. You're not in any imminent danger yet. You should save your troops until I'm fallen."
Arthur furrowed his large eyebrows together, because it always managed to surprise him how little Francis believe in his soldiers', his people's will to live, and how he could talk of falling with such a brazen attitude.
"And fight on my borders? I'd rather not. I'm investing in the long term, not just the benefit of fighting later."
Francis' eyes turned to the end of their tunnel, where a trio of soldiers were huddled together talking. Half their regiment had been killed, including their captain.
"Why do you bother?"
"Because," here Arthur faltered, mind racing. "Because it's what we do."
There was a moment of silence where they simply stared at each other, Francis at Arthur's face, his eyes narrowed as though working out a particularly puzzling conundrum (Arthur liked the idea of him being complicated, because he really isn't, he's so simple to work out. It's Francis who is the puzzle, the diamond with many faces), Arthur staring at Francis' hands, his fingers, and wondered why Francis was here. His hands showed he wasn't a soldier, the delicate long fingers and smooth palms were made to hold wine glasses and paintbrushes, not guns.
"Oui. It is what we do. But you must have another reason for this."
Was it shame that Arthur was feeling, for only having one major reason to be on the front lines, mere metres away from his own men who knew nothing about the fact that they were in the presence of the embodiment of their home nation and the nation they were fighting in (fighting for)? No, it was merely annoyance that Francis had decided there had to be more. Fighting alongside your men was a good enough reason, anyway.
"Why are you here, Francis?"
The Frenchman seemed surprised at the use of his first name instead of the customary frog. Their situations were very much different now. Can't we at least refer to each other by our names now, if nowhere else, he thought, picking at non-existent lint on the lapels of his jacket. Disconcerted by Francis' probing eyes, Arthur looked away, eyes caught once more by the trail of smoke from the cigarette.
"I am scared." Arthur blinked once in surprise and again in disbelief as he turned back to his companion who was still watching him. "Of what will happen if I am not here."
A moment of silence, where Arthur's breath had caught in his throat and Francis seemed to be trying to gouge his reaction.
"So...so am I."
They both turned to stare at each other, eyes full of unasked questions, unanswered confirmations and unsaid words.
"Sirs? We're going for the big push," came the distant voice of Colonel Rees.
"They're going to die," Francis said softly, voice almost drowned out by the rumbling of men preparing themselves for their death.
"I know." And it was horribly stupid how he had no control over his people and there was no way he could persuade the Field Marshall to change his mind and all he could do was watch his men shot, bombed, die repeatedly and there was nothing he could do about it. "I know."
They stood from their makeshift chairs and nodded to each other.
"I'll see you afterwards," Arthur smiled, already imagining the blood and the shots and the wounds and the cries that would come soon.
They began the walk to the end of the tunnel in silence, lost in their own thoughts, coming at last to the line of soldiers ready to run across a barren stretch of land covered in craters.
"Good luck boys!"
A hand clasped Arthur's and squeezed ever so gently. Arthur took a breath.
The cigarette was stubbed out, the last wisps drifting up before they were snatched away by the wind and the pounding of the boots of desperate men.
~O~0~
Recondite. Adjective: (of a subject or knowledge) Little known; abstruse: "recondite information"