Silently Adoring

It shouldn't be like this, Arthur told himself.

He wasn't meant to feel the smell of the other's hair, to feel the scent of the fruity cologne that the other had found out was his favourite.

They weren't supposed to hold onto each other, gasping and groaning and crying, while he thrusted repeatedly into the body below him.

"You cannot choose whom to love". People had told him that, and he guessed it was correct. Ever since he had saw his dear one that day, hundreds and hundreds of years ago - He had been enchanted. Ensnarled in the curse of the naturally soft hair that was just as silky as the skin that never burnt but tanned, the thick lashes that hid the saliva blue eyes that sparkled like stars, those lips that one could only expect of a woman.

It was no wonder everyone mistook him for a girl, or that everyone seemed to seek his company, some watching with mischievous smiles and hungry eyes as he aged to an adult.

Arthur shuddered, his grip on the hips bound to leave marks. He had slowed down, staring intensively on the face he adored back then, even more today.

More masculine, yet not... Edgy. Soft, almost like the locks framing it. Feminine. Everything was slim, sharp on the right place and rounded at the right places. Especially the body. Beautiful, outstanding, adored. No wonder people always took a second glance...

Something Arthur would never be, but he didn't mind as he leaned down to plant a soft kiss on the damp forehead, already tasting the salt even though he had not yet licked his lips.

Francis cracked his teary eyes open, confusion painted on his face. "... Ah... Arthur...?" He asked, voice hoarse yet soft. "Why... Are you slowing down...?" He murmured, now looking a bit dissatisfied as he tried to breath evenly.

Arthur said nothing, just covered the Frenchman's lips with his own, greedily swallowing the suffocated gasp as he suddenly thrusted into the other as hard as he could. Limbs trembled as they latched and grasped onto his bare back as he picked up the pace again, and groans of fulfilled desires once again filled the dim lit bedroom.

He smiled slyly into the crook of the elegant neck. No matter how innocent these traits could make Francis look, how pure his soul could be, he'd always be just as rotten as Arthur. Always wanting, always needing, throwing his pride away for heavenly pleasure.

And none of them would tell anyone about these dark corners, whose dust they've wiped under the closest matt. They weren't better than humans, their hands having been covered in each other's blood, dripping. Dripping. Drunk by the ground, making it mushy and the grass painted a reddish brown, a colour the rain would later wash away along with their tears.

As they lay in the glow, silent and only breathing, they're both agreeing by locking their gaze that this will not be spoken of.

Just because of their damned pride that most people would spit upon, while the rest would admire and pity its greatness.

Tough they knew it wouldn't last long until they lie there again, marking each other either with kisses and bites or scratches and bruises. It had been in the beginning a game they liked. Make the other miserable, make him cry, make him bleed.

But they also knew that they were no longer capable of ending it as Francis scoots closer and Arthur accepts it wholeheartedly, burying his face into the pale neck that still smells of his favourite scented cologne, while enjoying having his hair caressed by graceful hands.

They're too deep into it to turn back, that war which turned into an understanding none but themselves know exists.

The End.