This story begins in the evening, when the sun has set. In the heart of the dark, twisting streets of London, past the bright downtown restaurants and the alleyway stink to a little pub just near the center, a little to the north. It's not a place that is easy to find. The music isn't very loud, and the lights are dim and not harsh. Quiet mumbling drunks stagger away in the dead of night and murmur hellos or goodbyes to sober newcomers, crisp in their bright white shirts and their haughty English eyes.
All in all, this modest building, shoved right up in between two larger, more important apartments, does not stand out. It isn't a place to tell your friends about; to say "let's go out to The Blue Lion". It is a place where proud men leave their homes and wives and scamper to, desperately, wearing the cloak of drunkenness in shame. It is a place to forget.
On this particularly rainy night, The Blue Lion was bursting at the seams with quiet people. Men in dripping linen shirts hurried in, shifty eyed and wet. The tables and chairs were covered in people, the bartender hurried to fill orders, and smoke filled the room. Other than the unexpected aliveness, there was nothing much different to this pub than on any other night. There was no one with prying questions; no watching eyes to bring the gossip back to the next party.
And Arthur Kirkland - leaning comfortably on the smooth wooden bar table, smoking a fat and dark cigar - thrived on this. He reveled in the chance to become faceless in the crowd; he basked in the inattention that he received. That was why he was here nearly every night, for smokes and rum and pleasant conversations about the weather with names he couldn't bother to remember; faces that were not important.
Tonight was no different. There was no agenda, no reason to accomplish anything, nothing but the burn of alcohol in his veins and the familiar layout of the bar; a layout that was sadly becoming more familiar than the floor plan of his own house. He pushed himself off of the stool, smiling cordially at the busty bartender he had been idly and accidentally flirting with, and walked through the crowd. He pressed gently against the bodies, careful to not upset the movement of the tide, finally squeezing his way to the edge of the dance floor. Eagerly he waited, watched, as the young upstart band brought out their shiny new instruments and shuffled on stage awkwardly as they stared across the disinterested crowd, completely out of their element. Finally, they began to play, quietly at first, then louder and bigger as they realized that the men here were not picky connoisseurs; no, in fact, the worse they played, the more they fit in.
Arthur Kirkland stood quietly in the shadow near the dance floor, watching as young men beckoned younger, giggling girls into their arms, twirling and dipping them in flurries of passionate and naïve masculinity. Eventually, the older, more hesitant ones came shuffling on, grinning apologetically at no one in particular as they moved; almost creaking like un-oiled hinges. By the time one o'clock rolled upon them, the floor was musky and crowded, and the whole pub smelled like sweat and gin.
But he didn't mind. He liked to watch the pretty girls with their flying colored dresses, and the couples hurrying outside, one at a time, for a few minutes before (sometimes) returning again, a little more tired than when they had left.
There was nothing particularly special about Arthur Kirkland, and for that he was grateful. His hair was coarse and yellow and unruly, his eyes a dull shade of green. He wasn't particularly tall or strong; his jaw was weak and not prominent, and his only distinguishing quality was his oversized and too- dark eyebrows. It was this appearance that allowed him to disappear, to watch the world turn without being pulled in. Because no one asked Arthur Kirkland to dance; no one paid him a second glance when he stumbled out, angry and confused and blurry at four in the morning to wander the streets until he passed out; no one noticed a man that didn't stand out. And for that he was grateful.
But his drink was empty, and he was not nearly drunk enough. And So he pushed himself up and began to work his way back up to the bar, leaving his daydream (or rather, evening dream) to lay forgotten, trampled, among the bright music and the dancing shoes.
Reaching the bar, he caught the eye of the barista, and waved his empty glass in the air to bring her by. But then there was a bump, and his glass was lying, shattered in glittering pieces on the floor. He flicked his eyes up to the man who had knocked into him, willing his irritation at him quietly.
"Ah! I am sorry" the man waved his hands apologetically, deflecting Arthur's piercing glare and sending it skidding away.
French. Arthur noted, from the accent he had heard. He hated the French. Looking the man up and down, not at all discreetly, he continued making rapid mental notes. Sober, from the looks of it. Fairly attractive, blonde. Probably leaves with a lot of women, he thought with a grimace. Shutting his thoughts off, he waved his hand to dismiss the man, already done and moving on.
"Wait!" the other man yelled out at him, "let me buy you a drink?" He said, letting the phrasing morph into a hopeful question. Arthur stopped, and sighed. A conversation could do him good, he knew. He was too old and too grumpy, and as some would put it, 'needed to take the stick out of his arse.' So he turned around and smiled, half reluctant and half sorry.
"Alright. But really, you mustn't worry. There was no harm done."
Blue eyes danced happily in front of him as the Frenchman practically purred in delight, and Arthur watched, fascinated as the man lit up and his smile grew to cover his entire face, and spill out into the room.
"What would you like?"
"Just rum, I suppose." Arthur said distantly, relaxed.
"Non!" A fist slammed stubbornly on the bar table, and Arthur jumped, turning to the Frenchman, surprise written on his face as he mentally demanded an answer.
The Frenchman did not look at him, or explain himself, but simply beckoned the barista to their side, and ordered their drinks. "Two reds, pinot noir if you have any. The best you have." The barista left, fumbling with her papers, face a red mess, clearly infatuated. And Arthur could grudgingly see why. He was sitting by the most attractive man in the bar, a man who gave off an energy, a radiance of beauty and calmness, drawing eyes and smiles as if he were a gem.
"Why'd you get me wine?" Arthur asked gruffly, scowling.
The Frenchman turned back to him, now pleasant again, and shrugged. "You seem like someone who needs some good taste."
Deepening his scowl, Arthur chose to be offended. "How do you mean; do you imply that I have none?"
He only received a smile and another shrug. "I didn't say you had none. You just have the wrong kind. It's not beautiful enough for you."
Arthur furrowed his brows, and turned his head away, grabbing his drink somewhat rudely from the returning barista, letting the silence grow between them. Not knowing how to answer, he blurted out something that, on any other day, with any other person, he would never have asked. "So what's your name? I can't just keep calling you Frenchie forever, you know."
"Oh, you noticed! I'm so flattered that you noticed that I am from the land of amour." Breaking off his speech at Arthur's irritated gaze, he laughed. "My name is Francis- and yours, si tu plait?"
"I'm Arthur. And we're in England, if you hadn't noticed. So please refrain from speaking that frog language- at least in front of me."
The Frenchman- no, Francis, took a large swallow of wine and laughed again. "I should be offended, I suppose. But then again, like you say, this is England; I should have expected some rudeness. C'est la vie!"
There was a moment of tension as they both stared at each other; Arthur in anger, glaring, and Francis in mirth, calmly. Arthur looked down. Feeling the beginnings of a blush, he busied himself by drinking more of the wine. It was, as Francis had said, good.
"So what brings you to such a place? It's not easy to find, especially for a foreigner." Arthur leaned back, studying him curiously, and took a large gulp of wine, letting the excess spill from his lips, not at all concerned by the bleeding lines of wine snaking down his chin.
"Accident? Fate? Je ne sais pas." Francis twirled his wine glass in his fingers expertly. Leaning forward, he suddenly frowned. "Mais… you have something on your face. Let me get it for you." And before Arthur could so much as protest, there was a lacy handkerchief he hadn't noticed before dabbing at his wine-streaked chin by skilled fingers. He jerked away and blushed again.
"You French obviously don't understand personal space, do you?" He bit out, trying to ignore the heat in his face and the growing smirk plastered upon Francis' face.
"Personal Space," the Frenchman waved his hand, as if shooing it away. "Such a formal word. Parfait pour tout d'Anglettere, mais-" he leaned in closer, ignoring Arthur's shooting glare and unhappy frown, "-ne pas pour vous"
"Must you ruin every little phrase by making it French?" Arthur snapped at Francis. But he did not move away.
Francis seemed to pout a little. "Français est la langue d'amour." He grabbed Arthur's hand and his face suddenly snapped back into his regular smile. "Et tu es plus belle pour Anglais." Arthur was beginning to wonder if this man was bipolar.
He pulled his hand out of the Frenchman's grasp and moved backwards, only now noticing the close proximity between them; the heat that they were sharing that was growing and growing.
"Don't say that ever, you inconsiderate git."
"Mais pourquoi?" Francis stood up from his chair and leaned forward again, leaving Arthur with an arching back and no way to escape. "You don't even know what I said."
Arthur looked down and turned another shade darker. "Actually… I do know. And you referred to me in the feminine tense. That was just bloody cruel."
Francis clapped his hands, causing Arthur to look up in disbelief. The Frenchman had moved back and spun in a circle, grinning. "So you do know French!"
"And it's nowhere near as bloody beautiful as English." He cried, indignant and embarrassed.
Francis sat down again in his chair, intimidation tactics seemingly forgotten. "Well it's not my fault that you're so beautiful. It almost makes me want to eat you up." He giggled.
"Pervert!" Arthur accused, slamming his drink down on the table. Francis reached over and grabbed it, downing it in one fluid sip.
"Don't waste wine" He scolded, and waved the barista over again. "Two more reds. My friend here needs to loosen up a bit. Si tu plait?" This time the barista really did trip, and almost fell down.
Arthur suppressed a laugh. It was what the bloody skank deserved, swooning after a Frenchman, of all people. He couldn't understand why she was attracted to this person. It wasn't like he was jealous. Oh, not at all.
Turning back to Francis with his accusing mask set firmly in place again, he studied the handsome man. His sparkling blue eyes, shoulder length blonde hair, toned body- was it wrong that he was attracted?
"So do you do this a lot? You know, tell people they're beautiful and then bed them." The words slipped out of his mouth, bitter and tight. He hadn't slept with a single person since four years ago, when Alfred had died. Every encounter had seemed silly, and every flirt had seemed trivial. There had been no reason for him to move on.
"How do you know I want sex? What if I just think you're beautiful, and c'est tout?" Francis raised an eyebrow, cocky.
Arthur felt his glare waver a bit. "I just know."
"Stubborn rosbif, you are." Francis sighed. "But you're right, I want you. However," he continued, patiently, "I am not a whore. I do not sleep around with just anyone, anytime."
Arthur felt anger bubble up inside of him at those words. His hand swept across the table. "Look at all these people, Francis! They are beautiful. I am not. Why would you choose me? Unless you are lying and you really do this every night."
"Merde!" Francis swore, loud enough for a few heads to turn. "Tu ne comprends pas! They are not beautiful, Arthur. They are toy dolls, puppets, playing along, making their way through life. But not you!" He stopped to catch his breath, waving a thank you at the barista who had come back with their drinks, smiling coyly and hurrying away.
"Your eyes. The moment I saw them, I knew you were more. You have seduced me without even trying, mon petit problem."
"You don't know anything about me!"
"I know that you are sad. I know that you deserve to be happy." Francis said, quietly. "I can make you happy."
Arthur was uncomfortable. No one called him beautiful. No one wanted to make him happy. No one except Alfred. But Alfred is gone, his mind reminded him. What would he want me to do?
He would want Arthur to be happy.
"Fine!" He said, a little more shaky than he had wanted to. And he got up from the chair, avoiding Francis' eyes, taking a first step towards the door. His first step away from Alfred. And then another and another, and he almost ran out the door, hearing the laughing Frenchman behind him. And then they were gone, leaving two cups of perfectly wasted, good pinot noir.
Arthur made it to the wall behind the shack of a bar, and turned around to face Francis. Awkwardly he shuffled his feet as the sudden desire that had possessed him earlier began to quell. "So…" he trailed off, not knowing how to start. He felt like he had back when he had lost his virginity to some girl in high school, way back when. And now he was wondering again. He had stayed faithful to his love for four years already, why should he stop? Even if, for the first time in four years, someone called him beautiful.
Francis moved forward, chuckling. "you are not scared because I am a man, oui?"
"N-no. Nothing like that. I just, I don't- what am I supposed to do?"
Green eyes looked up hopelessly into blue ones. And Francis shook his head. "Why, rosbif, you have to do nothing."
And then lips were upon his lips, moving and twisting and dancing. Hands grabbed his shoulders, roughly, and pushed his back up against the faded bricks. And Francis' hands were everywhere at once, on his chest, his stomach, his legs.
He moaned. For the first time in four years, and a tongue slipped inside his mouth, tasting him.
Francis pulled back, and Arthur stared at him with half lidded eyes, brimming with passion. He had no idea four years of restraint would leave him this needy. "More" he groaned, grinding his already bulging pants with the other, trying to push off the wall, but the stupid Frenchman was pinning him down with his weight.
He chuckled. "Patience, ma belle."
And Arthur would have corrected him. 'I'm not a girl, don't call me that,' he wanted to say. But there was a mouth covering his own and cold icy hands began to work their way up his chest and under his shirt, grabbing the top, ripping it open; buttons bouncing against the walls in either direction.
And Arthur lost control. He ripped his hands from each other's grasp, and attacked Francis' shirt with vigor, pulling it off, and tugging at it violently. He felt a nip at his neck, and he gasped. "Don't ruin my shirt." Arthur tried to listen as a skilled tongue began lapping its way up his neck, lips occasionally touching and sucking, teeth grazing over sensitive skin unapologetically.
"Nng- Francis there, right there ah ghnd!"
A pause. Blue eyes lifted from their previous work to stare amusedly at the desperate Brit.
"say it in French, and maybe I'll continue."
And Arthur thought about arguing, yelling, pushing him off. But when he opened his mouth, his lips obediently formed the word. "Oui." He grimaced at the taste of French in his mouth. "Et arrete de deconner!" he added, more forcefully.
"Il me fera plaisir" And Francis continued. His hands worked their way up and down his chest, his back, his arms- till finally they went lower, and lower. He shivered as he felt his belt being undone and his pants slide down. Stepping out of them clumsily, he kicked them far away and wrapped his legs around Francis' torso, continuing to bury his hands in the golden hair.
But Arthur was denied, and gently pried off. "Ah, tu oublie tes sous-vetements" He blushed. He had forgotten. Detangling himself from Francis, he turned his face away, blushing, as his boxers were pulled down, slowly, and he felt cool air breeze across his throbbing member. Letting his undergarments fall to the sides, he again brought his legs up around the Frenchman's waist, and held up by the wall and the warm body, he was ravished with kisses.
Kisses on his chest, kisses on his nose. Even kisses on his eyebrows. "You truly are beautiful, rosbif."
"What happened to French?"
"You made me forget."
And Arthur would have replied, except Francis silenced him with three fingers at the entrance of his mouth. Hesitantly, he took them inside of him, and ran his tongue experimentally over them. He busied himself in making them thoroughly soaked, trying not to bite down when he felt a hand reach down and grasp his member, stroking it in rhythmic, musical gestures.
Then the hand was pulled out of his mouth with a pop and one finger at a time, they were inserted into his hole. It was painful, but he was expecting that. After celibacy for this long, he was surprised that he even remembered how to have sex.
"Are you ready?"
"Francis yes now go in!" The pleas tumbled out of his mouth uncontrollably, as he wrapped himself tighter around the solid man. For a moment, there was nothing inside of him as the fingers came out and Francis quickly fumbled with his own pants, pulling them down and lining himself up. And then he was impaled with a deep quick thrust and the pain. His backside was being ripped in two and he screamed.
"Shh, mon petit" The words were whispered quietly, apologetically in his ear. It still hurt Arthur, but he was burning and throbbing and he needed it now. "Move" he hissed, and Francis complied. It was awkward, with his legs thrown up around the Frenchman's neck and his back pressed into the wall. But as Francis began to move, slowly, surely, in and out, all he knew was pain and pleasure and more. He began bucking himself against the thrusts, timing his movements, slamming himself down trying to reach his own spot. There were no words, no empty quips, just lips smashing on lips, and rolling hips and slapping skin.
Then he hit that spot, and Arthur saw stars. "Again!" he managed to gasp out between the kisses and the moans. And Francis did it again. And again, and again. And then that knot coiled up inside his belly, growing bigger and bigger as the waves of pleasure rolled through him, and then he exploded, white hot liquid all over their stomachs. "Francis" he hissed into the other's mouth.
There were a few more weak thrusts, and then Francis also succumbed to the tight wet heat. With a spasm and a cry; "Arthur!" he spewed his seed into Arthur, and withdrew his now flaccid member.
They leaned against the wall, panting. They said nothing, for a moment. These two strangers, who found comfort in a night, and love in a moment, because there wasn't really much to say to someone you've never met, someone who knows your body, your pleasure your pain.
Arthur was the first to untangle himself, free his hands gently from the hair they had tangled in, move to collect his undergarments; his pants.
Francis moved somewhat slower, buckling his belt, buttoning his shirt.
They looked at each other.
"Well, I suppose… I suppose I have to go?" Arthur twisted his words into a question. He didn't do this sort of thing. He didn't know how he was supposed to act.
"Of course, mon petit." Francis frowned. " You wouldn't mind if I walked with you, non?"
Arthur opened his mouth, prepared with a no, and an excused. But then he remembered his home, cold and dark and lonely. And maybe someone to walk him home wasn't so bad. Maybe he would invite him in and they would have tea and talk, and his house wouldn't be empty anymore.
"Okay" he said, simply.
And they didn't hold hands as they walked. They didn't even brush shoulders. They talked, two lonely souls, searching for hope in the vast grey world. It was awkward. And it was a slow conversation. They fought at least thrice on the way and twice over tea later that night, at Arthur's house.
But Arthur didn't mind, much. After all, it was the first night in four years he had come home sober. It was the first time in four years that he realized that he was beautiful.