A Question of Phrasing

In the shadowy light reaching its fingers around the edges of Arthur's heavy, deep red curtains, which seemed to whisper silent complaints of age when rustled, the outlines of the room could barely be seen. Arthur could not see the clock on the end table opposite him, dimmed with age and half-hidden behind the pile of pillows Francis had accumulated overnight. Thus, he had no real concept of the hour, and seemed curiously unperturbed by this state of affairs.

This may have been because he was too busy staring at his sleeping companion to be thinking overmuch about the hour. Furthermore, it was Saturday—ostensibly, a day off.

Francis was dozing still, which he likely needed after his nighttime arrival in London yesterday. Waves of wheat-gold hair spread across his cheek and neck, and his lips were parted softly, his breathing quiet, but not silent. Arthur's gaze next traced the lines of muscle in Francis' shoulder and upper back. How he maintained it was a mystery, as Arthur had never known Francis to even set foot in a gym, and so was forced to conclude it was just one of those annoying, seemingly perfect things about him that so stoked the fires of Arthur's loathing—er. Well. These days those fires were little more than embers.

When he stirred, Francis moved slowly, to suggest he had just woken, and rolled onto his back to look up at Arthur, caught red-handed in the act of watching him. It was too early for words, in Francis' opinion, and how to put his kaleidoscope of feelings about Arthur to something as mundane as human language anyway? Like trying to paint a canvas with a toothpick—the tool was simply woefully inadequate to the task before it.

Instead, he propped himself up with an elbow, and used his other hand to draw Arthur into a gentle kiss, a sleepy cocktail of longing and undemanding desire, understanding and familiarity. When he pulled back, silence continued to embrace the room, and he brushed his thumb over Arthur's cheek a number of times.

"Do you want to go to the bakery for breakfast?" he asked. Typically, he went alone—Arthur didn't know when Francis had found the time to locate a bakery nearby that was acceptable to his insane standards—but today he felt lazy and wanted to oblige Arthur to go with him.

"…yeah, alright," Arthur consented after a few moments, throwing the covers off. Francis groaned and sat up, rubbing his eyes before heading straight for the bathroom. Now it was Arthur's turn to groan like the old wooden fourposter they had slept in. "You're going to take forever," he whined.

"Make yourself a cup of tea," Francis replied, turning on the shower and stepping out of his briefs. Rolling his eyes, Arthur shambled off to do just that, while Francis contemplated the entire rise and fall of mankind in the shower.

By the time Francis was satisfied with his "casual" look to stop by the bakery, Arthur was dressed in a pair of weary khakis and an old, vaguely vomit-toned sweater, and was sipping a second cup of tea in the parlor, BBC's late morning news report playing on the radio.

"Sleeping Dandy appears at last," he remarked as Francis meandered into the room, checking his shoulder bag for the proper contents. Francis simply scowled briefly at him and went back to digging through his bag. Outside the wide windows, Arthur's garden gleamed wet and green, the cloudy sky casting its usual pallor over the neighborhood. A tabby cat rolled around on his front walk.

"Are you ready to go?" The note of impatience in Francis' voice was no more than an aftershock of Arthur's numerous remarks on the amount of time it took him to go ready. By way of apology, Arthur bumped him with his shoulder on their way down the front steps. Francis responded by nearly body-checking him, and Arthur had to fight the urge to jam his elbow into Francis' kidney.

"We still have that apricot jam, right?" All was forgiven, as shown by the question as they settled into the car.

"Don't stress yourself," Arthur said dryly in confirmation. "I can't imagine how having only one type of jam at breakfast would ruin your day." He must have been feeling relaxed (or lazy) indeed, to allow Francis behind the wheel in his car—especially as Francis began with his customary disregard for trifles like "speed limits". Perhaps in acknowledgement of this generosity, Francis silently allowed Arthur control of the car radio, although after flicking through a few stations, he simply shut it off.

The bakery was a very convenient distance from his house—walkable, if they weren't acting like such slugs on this particular day. That was another thing—Arthur had lived in this neighborhood for over sixty years, and Francis pranced in and somehow tap-danced his way down a street Arthur hadn't been down since 1950 and discovered this bakery Arthur had never been to. Next time he was in Paris, he was coming during the week, so he could use Francis' working ("working" being used in only the loosest, and slightly facetious, terms) hours to find some excellent tea house in Francis' neighborhood that he'd never heard of. That would show him, the pretentious fucker.

Inside the small shop, they perused their options. Francis did not take Arthur's hand, but continually brushed it with his own, tapping his fingers almost purposefully against Arthur's, as if to remind him he was there. When they had come to their decisions about what, and how much, to order, Francis stepped up to the cashier, a familiar, freckle-faced young woman with her dark hair wrapped up in a bun. She greeted him with a sunny smile, accustomed to his visits by now.

"Oh! Is this the boyfriend?" she asked, glancing over at Arthur with a cheery look as she took Francis' card.

"Ah, yes, this is him," Francis said with a placating laugh, grabbing the card back as soon as he was able to get his fingers on it, and picking up their bag of goods. "Thank you!" No extra conversation today—they took maybe three breaths before they were outside again, and Arthur leaped into form.

"Did you tell her I was your boyfriend?" The word sounded vulgar the way Arthur said it, and Francis winced.

"I mentioned it once," he said. "I can't believe she even remembered."

"Is that what you call me?" Arthur wasn't getting in the car.

"I don't know what to call you," Francis said, metaphorically throwing his hands up. Arthur's frown twitched in agitation, but he opened the passenger-side door. Letting out a quiet sigh and rolling his shoulders, Francis got in, passing the paper bag to Arthur as he buckled in.

"Well don't call me that," Arthur said as Francis started up the car.

"Fine," was the curt reply, clearly irritated. "Whatever you want, Arthur."

The ride back was as quiet as the ride there had been, but infinitely less comfortable. Francis only just dared to believe the issue might be over. But Arthur still said nothing as they pulled into the drive and got out of the car, so it was hard to tell, and Francis figured his best shot in this case was to say nothing.

"I don't want you going around calling me your boyfriend," Arthur reiterated as he took his coat off inside.

"I don't 'go around' telling people anything about you," Francis said.

"Because I'm not."

"I don't see why you're making such a big deal about it," Francis said tightly, placing the bag of things forcibly on the counter. He drummed his fingers against its surface. "Why is it such a horrible concept to you?"

"It's not about that, I just don't want to be called something I'm not," Arthur said in a voice intended to end the discussion. He grabbed the kettle, although he didn't really want another cup of tea, and began filling it up and rifling through his tea shelf.

"No, clearly you have some aversion to the idea." Naturally Francis refused to let it drop. "Why? Why is it so awful that someone might think you're my boyfriend?"

"I told you—because I'm not. I'm not in the habit of telling people I'm something I'm not."

"Would it be so terrible to be my boyfriend?"

"Christ, Francis, how juvenile are you?" Arthur demanded, snatching a mug from the cupboard. "It's such a childish word—oh, my boyfriend," he said in a mocking tone. "What are we, fifteen?" Francis huffed loudly through his prominent nose, and took a bowl from Arthur's cabinet, setting it down harder than Arthur would have liked.

Breakfast went forward in the same uneasy silence, and at the table, Francis stubbornly went on dipping his pastries in his coffee, despite the tacit disapproval from Arthur.

"What are you, then?" he asked, setting a croissant back down on his plate. "If you're so insistent you're not my boyfriend, what are you?" Arthur paused and looked warily at Francis.

"I'm not your anything," he said after several moments. "I'm just—we're. Friends."

"Friends?" Francis echoed incredulously. "That's how you would describe this?"

"What's 'this'?" Arthur snapped, putting his own pastry down. "What are you going on about?"

"I have shampoo in your shower, Arthur!" Francis said, raising his voice. "We practically live on the train. There's coffee in your kitchen that I know you don't drink when I'm not here! You've left at least six pairs of socks at my house, a pair of glasses, and a toothbrush. Does that not warrant some kind of updated definition from 'well I guess we don't hate each other'?"

"Why do you have to be so difficult about everything?" Arthur got to his feet, knocking his pastry away in disgust.

"I'm being difficult?" Francis' voice jumped an entire register, but Arthur was already escaping through the kitchen and upstairs.

Realizing the conversation was going nowhere when he was in this state, Francis angrily ate the rest of his pastry and then made himself a cup of chamomile tea, which Arthur had said was calming, and took it down to the den to watch TV. He made it through two cooking shows, a short nap, and the beginning of a BBC film special before he heard Arthur moving down the stairs. He shut off the TV and wrapped his hands around his mug of tea. It was the second one he'd had, more for the pleasure of holding the warm cup than anything else. It still tasted like hot leaves.

Against some considerable probability, Arthur appeared in the doorway, and looked at Francis curled up in one corner of the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, clutching his teacup. Francis' aggressive insistence on questioning and destroying emotional status quos was a source of constant frustration to Arthur—why spoil a good thing by digging into it like it was some kind of artwork to be analyzed and theorized about?

He sighed. "Francis, look, I—"

"I love you."

"Fuck?" It was if, for a long second, Arthur had completely forgotten the English language, and that there were words that meant things and they needed to be put into a specific order to say what he wanted.

"I love you." Francis' face was far too calm, it was hiding that damnably mulish part of his personality and Arthur knew it, he knew everything about that smug bastard—

"I'm not having this conversation." The words were audible, but seemed like Arthur had meant them only for himself, and not to actually leave his mouth. Almost as he spoke, he turned around and fled back upstairs, and Francis sighed quietly.

That, he told himself, was a churlish thing to have done.

The rest of the day, and indeed of the next, was passed in near silence. At some point, Francis went out for a long walk just to get out of the house. He wanted to talk to Arthur about what he'd said, and even apologize, but the moment never seemed right, and Arthur was vigilant to a truly admirable degree in avoiding the chance of the subject arising.

"Arthur," Francis said gently, as they were winding down from dinner on Sunday night. "We need to talk, about before, I—" Arthur, who had been stymied from cutting this off sooner by the fact that his mouth was full of fruit and whipped cream, swallowed probably sooner than was advisable in his haste to cut Francis off.

"We don't need to—"

"I just wanted to say—"

"You don't have to—"

"—I don't need you to say it," Francis plowed on, lifting his voice over Arthur's. "I'm not asking you to. Not right now. But Arthur, I need…something. I don't want to make things complicated but…" He didn't have long to think about his words, because Arthur would take any chance to shut this down, he was sure. "I need some acknowledgement of what this means to you," he said in a voice softer still. "I know you don't, but I do." He rose from his seat and took the initiative to leave first, to relieve Arthur of having to respond, placing a hand briefly on Arthur's shoulder as he passed by his seat. He paused, thinking of something to say, then decided that nothing else needed to be said. He squeezed Arthur's shoulder and went on into the kitchen to make sure all the dishes had been cleaned and put away.

Their structure had still not been restored when Francis was moving his luggage out the door on Monday morning. Arthur did show him out, though, and they hugged and kissed cheeks as he departed. As Francis was adjusting his scarf, and Arthur was getting ready to go back in, he shoved an envelope into Francis' hand.

"Open it on the train," he said, promptly slamming the door shut. Somewhat taken aback, and yet not surprised, Francis looked at the envelope. It was tempting, naturally, to tear it open immediately, but for some reason, he didn't. Rather, he slipped it into his coat pocket and carried his things to the taxi waiting by the curb.

He could have equally opened it at the train station, but something drove him to actually listen to Arthur's request, and it wasn't until he was settled in his window seat (mysteriously, he always seemed to come away with a window seat…), with a cup of hot decaf, that he slit open the envelope.

Francis,

Here, Francis took a pause to enjoy the way his name looked carefully scripted out in Arthur's neat, tight hand. Appreciation sufficient, he moved on.

I am sure I do not need to remind you that discussions of the heart are not my strong suit. Particularly as it pertains to romantic matters. But this is not because I lack the feeling—it is simply distasteful to me to openly discuss personal matters.

I understand, in light of our relationship, that this comes off as somewhat ridiculous. But it is the way I am, and I do not plan to bother changing. I'm too old for that.

Nevertheless, you have asked very little of this relationship, as it has developed, and I know these things hold great weight for you. You have always been far more open—dare I say comfortable?—with your feelings than I, and your ease has made me yet more uncomfortable. I find it far more preferable to deal with men as aversive to personal discussion as I am. But I knew you were this way a long time ago, and if it were untenable to me, we would not be here. There is, I suppose, value in such comfort with one's openness, despite the trouble it seems to cause you. I would be lying if I said the depth of your passion does not draw my attention. See—it is so much easier for me to say things like this now, knowing you are miles and miles away, under the sea.

In light of your fixation on feelings, and your continual quest for love, I feel it would be beyond rude—bordering on cruel—for me to deny you any kind of affirmation. But I do mean to do it in my own way, which for now, will be to consign these feelings to paper, rather than try to speak over my own foolish tongue, which I am sure would end up saying something I never meant to say. It does seem to do that so often, particularly around you.

Now you've made me start rambling, and I have no intention of making this a ten-page love letter for you to gush and swoon over. The simple truth is this:

I love you.

And that's all.

Arthur

Francis finished the letter, folded it up, unfolded it, read it again, and sighed. There was only one thing to do, he knew. When the train arrived in Calais, he disembarked, bought another train ticket, and got right back on to go back to London.

Arthur had not driven him to the train station himself because he had a parliamentary meeting to attend. Knowing Arthur would not yet be home from that, Francis took a taxi to Parliament rather than Arthur's house. He sought out Arthur's office there, but it was empty. He left his luggage in the office, and went to wait outside the main hall. Hand in his pockets, leaning back against the wall, scanning each face that walked by, he waited for the end of the session. Fortunately, as it had taken him so long to arrive in France, and then come back to England, he didn't have to wait terribly long. Less than an hour, and people began to stream out of the hall.

"Angleterre!" This way, he knew Arthur would listen, and know it was he who called him. Sure enough, it took only a second call of his name for Arthur to look up from the two MPs he was speaking with as they walked. Clearly, the man was baffled.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "I—you left this morning!"

"I got home and realized I forgot something."

"You twit, you forget something every time you're here," Arthur said. "I could have mailed it. But what are you doing here? You can—get whatever you left." You have a key, nitwit.

Francis tipped his head from side to side, a tiny smile tugging at his lips that hinted at such radiance as would be too bright to look at, should he smile for real.

"You—did you get on the train, then?" Arthur suddenly remembered the letter, and his face took on a few more shades of color. Francis nodded silently. "So, what are you…?"

"I forgot something," Francis reminded him, straightening up off the wall. He crossed over to Arthur in a few steps, too close for a casual conversation. "Run away to Paris with me," he said. Arthur opened his mouth to say something stupid and irrelevant, Francis was sure. He stopped him. "Just for a few days. Run away with me." Arthur refused to turn and look at the MPs who had stopped to watch with expressions of suppressed amusement at the scene.

"You could have called," he responded at last.

"Oh, Arthur. You've read a library full of novels and still you know nothing about romance," Francis lamented.

"Oh—fine. Let's go. But I have to stop by my office," he said, walking past Francis in that direction.

"I know, I left my luggage in there."

"Francis! I have told you I hate it when let yourself into my office when I'm not there!" The only response was a burst of laughter as light and unrestrained as a spring breeze over a virgin meadow, a joyous sound that rang off the old ceilings and spoke to a carefreeness of heart unseen in Francis' breast in some centuries.

In Paris, in the fading haze of post-coital bliss, Francis curled around Arthur, their bodies fitting neatly together, in a sweet position they'd never maintain all night. He nuzzled Arthur's ear and pressed his lips against it.

"Je t'aime," he whispered, wrapping an arm loosely around Arthur's middle. He closed his eyes, not troubling himself to wait for a reply. However, Arthur's hand found Francis' on the mattress, and he wove their fingers together, pulling Francis' arm a little tighter around him.

And that was enough of an answer, for now.