Author Note: Kink-meme de-anon. A bit different from the original. Work in progress. Thankfully I have the actual outline finalized. The pairings are USUK and Franada. I'll add notes at the end of the entire work as necessary. Though if you have questions with respect to Victorian times and basic aesthetic philosophy or the decadent movement, feel free to ask. Rated for aesthetic philosophy, discussions of Victorian decadence, and language.
Contemporary Decadence
Beautiful spouse
I love your tears!
They're the dew
Befitting flowers.
Beautiful things
Have but one spring
With roses let's sow
Time's footprints!
Blonde or brunette
Must we select?
Pleasure is
The god of this world.
-Gérard de Nerval; Gothic Song
January 1887
When they meet, it is at a mutual friend's evening soirée.
Francis is relatively poor. All he owns worth much of anything is the poems in his pocket, which he keeps with a fountain pen that stains his jacket. All Arthur owns is halfof England. They hate each other instantly. It is obvious in the way Arthur bristles when they touch.
Then Arthur comes to love Francis' notebook, the one in his pocket. Francis comes to love Arthur's checkbook, the one in the inside pocket of his dinner jacket. And when the evening ends, they still hate each other, but in the edge of their grins there is a secret: acceptance.
It isn't often a poor writer meets his muse.
It isn't often a young man becomes a muse.
.
March 1887
Arthur is proud of his nature. More than he will ever be ashamed of his reputation. It's the principle that drives him, after all. Breeding is such a strong puppeteer.
If he was cleverer, he would say it was in his nature to be a gentleman, even if it is in his reputation to be an eccentric. Maybe then he would fall into the casualty of being quoted. People do like quoting others. He's not sure he'd like being quoted.
Truly, it isn't his fault, though.
People will make what they will of everything. It is the spittoon of critics that are to blame. Everyone feels entitled to an opinion. Arthur isn't sure everyone deserves one, but he can appreciate the ember of passion so easily fueled by the exercise of mind and matter in building the bridge over the gap of honesty and lies so common to his society.
Arthur understands. He doesn't like it. If he's honest, he can admit he doesn't have to like it. No one cares if he likes it or not. He just has to compromise.
To be fair, no one likes the trench of hypocrisy—dark and lucid, breaching in the fantasy of the act like a luminary without talent. He isn't fond of critics, either. Is anyone? But he can understand the constructed ideals of the age. All that matters if what heknows, really, and that is that few men in confidence would ever deny to loving the company of beautiful things. It is in their nature, and it is in his.
He's rebellious.
It's still not his fault.
Francis always tells him it isn't his fault, and who should a man trust if not his best friend?
Besides, he doubts his briefs in matters of style will ever find fruition in the threats of pecuniary excommunication his brother likes to throw at him. No one was ever hurt by beauty. Insulted, maybe, but hurt? Certainly not.
(Beauty is like a pillow. It cradles the soul. Or at least it should.)
Arthur likes to focus on what he knows. And he knows beauty, just as much as he knows human nature.
There's little chance that his brother would ultimately cut him off for wearing costumes of white velvet, and gold-embroidered waistcoats, and gloves tight like skin—simple, seamless messages like little calls of attention to his own alabaster skin and the bright emerald of his eyes.
Youth is but a wink. Close your eyes for too long and it is gone. Thisis what Arthur knows.
Arthur has a lifetime to don black. For now, he'd rather bask in light.
Praise is so short-lived, after all.
But who likes thinking about such tedious matters? For now, he just wants to wear bouquets of Parma in the opening of his shirt instead of cravats. Oh, he doesn't dislike cravats. He loves them—enough to want to curl the same cravats in his fingers, untie them, and then throw them by his feet. He likes letting his fingers run over the jugulars of men that nip praises of poetry close to his skin.
Yes, Arthur likes what he knows, mostly because he knows what he likes. He does not always know what he loves. Who does?
His axiom is relative. Literature is simple. Beauty even simpler – who would not like beauty? Who should not like literature? – He has always had a love for literature, especially for those that create literature. Not that any of his lovers have ever created beautifulliterature.
But if he's learned anything about writers, authors, and other men of letters, is that the world is cold to beauty unborn.
Arthur thinks this is cruel. Why should a poem trapped in the reverberations of someone's throat – wrapped in the curl of someone's tongue – be thought any less beautiful than a poem drawn in ink? Ink is messy anyway. It's black and thick and stains white. And, velvet is ever so hard to clean.
Francis teaches him that – from one friend to another. To be fair, Francis has taught Arthur a lot of things. Ink's threat to fine clothing is just one of them.
.
April 1891
Arthur is the kind to get bored easily. It's a shame considering he is mostly charmed by simple things, not because he finds them exciting or pretty, but just because there's a charisma to them, like old antiques or magical baubles. This soon becomes a problem, mostly for Francis.
Francis becomes too famous for his tastes in a few years.
Noise is never welcome in Arthur Kirkland's life. Symphonies yes; noise never.
Francis is like noise, like air too vapid to be breathed in, always coming with the thunder of applause and praise and Arthur hates it because he can admit he has always liked it when Francis' attention was only his. His friendship has become a reminder of Arthur's worth—Arthur has only ever been a good muse. Now, he is not even half of that. He's not even a muse.
Maybe Francis had always known the question would come. He stares at his friend, who seems content to lie on the divan of his bedroom in Paris, letting out small puffs of tobacco from his very red lips. And, still, the question does not come. Muses are fickle sometimes, he assumes.
"I am growing old, Francis," Arthur breathes out, much like a confession.
Francis snorts, sketching disinterestedly a picture of Arthur's eyes, "Is that why you are wearing gray today?"
Arthur hums his acknowledgement, rolling on his side. The ashes of his cigarette fall on Francis' carpet, but neither seems to care. The carpet was a present from one of Francis' newer patrons, and it is ugly—demure and brown with gaudy pink flowers. Its loss is not worth much to Francis.
"The way I see it," Arthur purses his lips, "I have at best a couple of years left."
Seldom do muses give themselves an expiration date. Francis pauses his inking. The advice he gives is simple. Maybe that's why Arthur likes it.
"Let me guess. You want to befriend men of letters, Arthur? — Then feed them. Few hard pressed artists would give up the opportunity of acquiring a patron as influential as yourself, much less a meal. Only the truly great ones live from words alone, tu sais."
"Oh yes," green eyes shine like a cat's in the dim light of the room, "that's certainly something I learned from you years ago. But I do not want just beautiful artists, Francis. No, I want a genius. Geniuses. And a genius is not attracted by a simple meal. He craves something else."
"I was," Francis retorts, coughing. "Attracted by a meal. I mean."
"Ah yes," Arthur rolls his eyes, "but you are not a genius, are you now? – You were talented. Now you are famous. But you are not a genius. Seldom does genius attract fame."
"How would you know? – 'Ave you ever met a genius? They are often not beautiful." Francis scoffed, "Your tastes are always so contradictory."
"Have you met one?" Arthur snaps, sulking again. "My tastes are never fickle. I know what I like and want it just as much as I like what I know I want."
"Come with me tonight to Paris, then," Francis smirks, pushing his sketch away. "I have been invited to a petite soirée that I think you will be most intrigued to attend. Will you come? I can bring a guest, and I am sure you will be most impressed by the genius you will meet tonight."
Arthur tenses, almost instantly aware of Francis's offer. He has known that his expiration date was fast-approaching, but he is not sure that he is ready to meet Francis' replacement. Ifsuch a thing was even possible—and still, here he was with his stomach in his chest from nerves. He shrugs. "I've little else to do, I suppose. And if you promise me a genius, then how can I refuse?"
.
It is in Paris that Arthur learns to transform simple dining rooms into dreams: gardens with ash-powdered walks and pools bordered with basalt and filled with ink, lit by candelabra from which green flames blaze. He is inspired by chandeliers from which wax tapers flare. He learns from a Duchess, whose husband, a man of letters and a genius himself, is beautiful like a painting and supports her eccentric habits. She, herself, is beautiful like a marble statue. She is brilliant like a luminary in rustic darkness. Oh, how he comes to love her, and respect her husband, if only because he managed to collect such a beautiful living piece of art, for she breathes air and exhales perfume.
All sorts of men of letters come to her table just for her husband, even if he stays for only half a cup of tea. And if Arthur had never thought he'd find something to lull his eternal boredom, well, he finds it in banquets and murmurs and music and flowers and white and gold.
Yes, Arthur meets the Duke but for a fleeting moment, lost in the violet of his eyes and the dark ebony of his hair. He is beautiful and young and eternal in the way ice feels strangely magical to the touch of warm skin—like a tingle and burn. Francis whispers the Duke's name in Arthur's ear. He whispers his age, too.
Fifty.
And to look even less than half your age! – Now that'sa mystery Arthur wants to solve. But already there's a flash of recognition between them.
"You wear black," Arthur blinks, informing the Duke of his poor choice. "To appear so young and to wear black…"
The Duke laughs, his black-clad fingers flexing, "Oh Monsieur Kirkland, we all wear black. And those that do not really should. Do you not see?—everyone has something to mourn, except perhaps the fool. Only a fool would wear white. It stains. And nothing stains more than little sin, wouldn't you say?"
The Duke takes Arthur's hand, giving him a quirk of a smile before excusing himself. He climbs the stairs of marble, hiding in the shadows of his own home. Green eyes can only scan the expanse of his broad-shoulders and tapered waist, even as the Duchess excuses her husband.
"He is currently attached to his lab, I'm afraid," she informs him, leading him back to the table. A few gentlemen groan their disappointment, only cheering up when she engages them in conversation again, mostly surrounding something or other that Arthur no longer cares about.
Arthur can only enjoy the warmth still tingling on his fingers. And it is only then that Arthur learns what a genius feels like.
It is surprisingly addictive.
.
That evening, Arthur paces Francis's room, unable to sleep and not quite willing to leave his friend time to sleep either. There's a bubble in his chest that expands and bursts, over and over again. When he feels his shame bleed into his heart, he turns.
"He called me a fool!" he hisses, slamming his gloves against the palm of his hand until it is a bleeding red that inks the contours of his fingers and knuckles.
"He is a decadent, Arthur."
"I am no fool, Francis. I have been worshipping at the altar of beauty for far too long for him to even dare—"
"It is normal, you know, amongst such circles. You are younger than he is and you are a shining beacon of English decadence—is that what you called yourself that evening?" Francis sighs, moving to rub at his temples. "Yes, yes, not a fool, though. Quite. Think we can discuss this in the morn? My headache has returned, I'm afraid, and I've a deadline to meet soon."
Arthur turns again, blinking. He sits on the edge of Francis' bed, watching his friend palm his head.
"Have you considered the holiday I mentioned to you? – Lord Bracknell really is eager to have you in the countryside for some time this summer. All you need do is accept. You are more than welcome to always stay in my private summer home if you find it all too tedious later."
"I am touched by your concern," Francis smiles, pained. His thumbs press above his eyebrows.
"Nonsense," Arthur huffs, brushing over his lapels. "I am never concerned for your sake. But, you are one of my greater investments."
Francis scoffs, "I am also your onlyfriend."
Arthur chooses to ignore the comment, waving him off. "Have you seen a doctor at least?"
"Yes."
"French?"
"Yes."
"At least take a trip to London to visit me, then. It will do you good to get a second opinion. Oh, don't pout. After your deadline has passed, of course, then come see me. And if it your pride that impedes you from it, then know that it won't be just as holiday as I will need you, anyway. Tonight has been a most eye-opening experience, and I think I am ready to make the most of my last two years."
"Goodness, can you for once nottalk nonsense?—Why do you think I brought you with me tonight? You saw the Duke today and he is—"
"An exception. An admirable one at best, but I am not. No one can ever fault me for not being honest. Two years. It is what I have, and I have accepted as much, so should you."
"Can we speak of it in the morning?" Francis cringed, still holding to the side of his head. The throbbing burned against his skin. "I pray of you, morning. You can spew more nonsense then. I'm not sure my head can take any more tonight."
"Yes, yes, morning then," Arthur sighs, waving dismissively as he walks out the door. He leans against the wall for a minute, pursing his lips. "I will send someone with an aspirin."
"Don't bother," Francis eases his head against his desk. The wood feels cool on his temple. "It will be gone in a few hours."
"Yes, but in the meanwhile Iwill suffer through your groans. You're quite loud, Francis. An aspirin and maybe something or other later if it grows worse," he nods decisively, already disappearing behind the door: French wood with staccato-accents of gold leafs. His fingers press against the gold a moment too long. "Yes. Do let me know. Good evening, my friend."
The door closes with a slam.
Francis would cry, except it would ruin his desk. And fine wood is ever so difficult to find now-a-days.
.
May 1891
Arthur documents everything in passing. It's what he tends to do when he is mourning, a not uncommon state when dealing with his family.
Today, his brother brought him a set of new books. Or, not his brother, but the people that brought the new books did it on behalf of his brother. For Arthur, the association is everything.
It was this simple fact that led Arthur to lie listless and torpor, silent in the midst of the horror his recently perturbed library had become. He was irritated, fingers tapping and twitching as he eyed the gaps in his shelves: the only sign of the raid. That would soon be resolved, though.
When the servant brought in the new books, Arthur examined each one, growing all the more depressed. In exchange for some of his more beautiful love novels, his brother had given him romance stories. They oppressed him in the shackles of literary criticism.
After a while, he grew tired from the perfection of these more vigorous writers that could not in one of their troubled pages even emit the same tremor in his body that his missing novels had managed with a sentence.
Not one to be easily defeated, Arthur told his servant he liked the books.
"Pray send to my brother my thanks," he dismissed him with a wave, throwing himself against his arm-chair again in the catatonia of anger and frustration.
In a way, the imperfection of the new books pleased him, but only in the way a thorn's prickle burned under the pretense of natural beauty. He sighed, barely kicking his legs out in front of him before he dropped the book to a side with relative carelessness. Leaning toward a particular shelf, he pulled out one of his favorite novels.
Yes, it was just his opinion, but it was in the turbulent sketches of the decadent writer's mind – and only there – that the depravities of language married the caprices of sensations and ideas. A most delicious exaltation of the languid, intellectual sense…
Arthur had the rest of his life to read romance.
(Besides, moans were ever so much prettier sounding than sobs.)
Right now he just wanted love, even if in the shapes of letters and hanging stanzas stitched together into a deluge of sentences.
.
Alfred F. Jones would never understand dandies. That's what they called them in England, right? – In America they were dudes. Not that a change of names could help him understand any better the impulse of men to… well. Alfred could probably leave it at that.
If only it was that easy.
But the thought of dudes reminded him of New York. It reminded him of the New York American, a journal from back home that had reported that Evander Berry Wall had worn boots of patent leather that stopped at the hip in winter of 1889, or was it 1888? – Alfred just couldn't understand the ways in which people could crave the artificial with the same sense of incensed passion with which he yearned for the iridescent blue clashing against the trapped gold of the American prairies.
No, Alfred could never understand the allure of colored velvet and …
"Alfred?" Matthew touched his arm lightly. "What were you saying earlier? I'm afraid I missed it in the noise of the street."
Alfred blinked, bringing his brother into focus. "Oh. I was just telling you about this invitation. Remember John? Not the doctor from Barts. The other John. We spoke to him about your situation, how we're here seeking a sponsor for your novel."
"Poems," Matthew bristled, albeit amazed that his brother could at least remember that much. "They're poems. You're meant to be my editor. Shouldn't you know this?—Why do you not know this?"
"Yes, yes, poems, novel, the aim of publishing is not very different." Alfred waved him off, eyes still twinkling. "Listen! John's employer is hosting a most formidable ball next week. He was in charge of making the invitations, you know, and he was confided in by him—this is all very hush, hush, you know."
Matthew rolled his eyes, watching as his overly-excited brother pulled him toward the shadows of the street alley. "Don't dally about it. Just tell me."
"His employer was alarmed because he'd decided to keep the affair small so as not to invite Lord Arthur Kirkland for reasons, to be honest, I don't understand—"
"—do you not read the papers? The Duke of—"
"But the affair has grown out of hand: it seems some aristocratic family from France will be attending, and now he simply cannotnot invite Lord Kirkland, and he cannot take back the invitation to this French family unless he also wish to insult the Earl of something."
"Yes!" Matthew nodded, "because Lord Arthur Kirkland has become part of a war of influence between—"
"These people, or, I really don't know much on that, but they've accepted to attend, and John explained that because of that Kirkland willat least have to make an appearance, especially since his good friend… that French fellow whose writing you fancy so much…"
"Francis Bonnefoy?" Matthew's eyes bugged and he palmed his brother's arms. "Alfred, Francis Bonnefoy will be there?—we must go! If we can convince him to become my sponsor—"
"Him?—Our target is Kirkland. He financed Bonnefoy in his early days."
Matthew blinked. His palate grew dry and salty all at once. A part of him was concerned. Still, he shook his head, amused. "How do you know thatbut can't keep straight that I am seeking to publish a series of poems and not a novel?"
Alfred shrugged, "it's not that serious. Novel, poems, we just want to publish, don't we? Money, in this case, is far more important. As the businessmen of the two, I must worry about that. As for the arts, the beauty of words and all of that, well, I will leave that to you. I don't understand any of it. You just leave the numbers to me. ThatI know best!"
"Wait, but what good is it to us to know about this wonderful ball?"
"You're underestimating me again, Mattie!" He grinned, slipping from his pocket a set of invitations. Two pieces of Manila paper shone under the midday sun. "John said he's a tailor friend that might be able to loan us a few proper robes for a reasonable price."
Matthew laughed, elated as he embraced his brother. He even pressed a kiss against his twin's cheek. "You're wonderful! You are!"
Alfred coughed; cheeks flushed pink, "aww, Mattie. Yes, I know. Now come! – We've much work to do!"
The question of Arthur Kirkland's own problems was left to be considered for another day. If anything, Matthew was too elated by the prospect of meeting his literary idol too much to care for details. Details were like numbers. He'd leave that to his brother.
.
It was his favorite servant that interrupted Arthur's torpid afternoon with a cup of tea and a small envelope, square and familiar with a crest that both called and demanded his attention. He thanked his servant, picking at the letter with curiosity.
"A ball, Petry?" he asked languidly, sighing.
"Yes, m'lord."
"And what do you know about it?"
"Just that a highly affluent and influential family will be arriving from France tomorrow in the company of Mister Bonnefoy for the strict purposes of attending this event," Petry confided, leaning close to his master's ear as he prepared his tea. He cut open one of the scones with brevity, making sure to slop plenty of jam and butter on each side of the small cake before slamming them together into a sandwich and cutting it in half—right down the middle.
Arthur nodded, pushing away the small plate before opening the letter. He smiled, deeply amused. "The Taylor-Eirren family, I see. I'd been told Lord Taylor-Eirren was considering not inviting me, but now I see that he is a lot more intelligent than I tend to give him credit for being what with his attention to continental affairs. Amusing, isn't it, Petry? I should now mention that I will need you to make a trip to the train station tomorrow."
"The train station, m'lord?" the servant asked, preening.
"Oh yes. You must remind Francis who paid his rent for years, Petry. If I am to attend Lord Taylor-Eirren's event, then I will be most pressed for a companion. And, I am left with only a week to find one. Surely Lord Taylor-Eirren knew I'd be accepting and must have waited until the last possible day to send his invitation."
The servant nodded mutely, handing his master the saucer and tea. "Yes, m'lord."
"Just tell Francis that he will need to choose sides at once."
"M'lord?" Petry blinked.
"Then inform him that his regular guest-room has been waiting for him for a week. Do say it loudly, but not so loud that you might bring shame upon the Duchess. I know you will do it quite well." He took a sip from his tea. "You are dismissed, Petry."
His favorite servant left.
The emptiness of the room echoed around Arthur, and he spent the rest of the afternoon picking at the scone, barely dipping a few crumbs into his mouth. He was far more preoccupied with the aroma of his tea.
.
May 1891
Go and dance.
Words whisper and run sometimes. They press too tight against his lips, peeking from the jail of his throat into the world, far too scary sometimes for such innocent sentiments. It is then that he must choose, for some words deserve peace, deserve to be courted coyly. But others? Other words are coy on their own accord. They run because they want to play. These he chases.
Yes, Francis takes words hostage. He takes sentiments and weaves them together into frocks of dreams and magic, which might all sound quite cliché if it wasn't because it is the truth. And that is the only not lie he will ever tell.
.
He does not feel in debt to anyone, or he does not think himself to be in debt to anyone, until Petry comes to him and throws the shackles of obligation around his neck. Francis had long considered himself free from his favorite puppeteer. Now, he is not so sure.
It is in the ink of blue he typically drowns. The feeling of dancing without moving is foreign, but for an afternoon, he is frozen in a sea of violet. That's the only way he knows the Duke will never want to be friends with him again. So he gives his excuses, cursing silently at the nerve of Arthur Kirkland's childish follies before he follows Petry into the cabbie, and jumps almost instantly at the sight of pale green shining in the dark—like melted emeralds. Maybe more like a cat? A skittish one at that.
"For god's sake!" Francis presses a palm to his heart, "Are you trying to give me a fright?"
Arthur shrugs, tapping the empty seat across from him with his cane. "I see you made the proper choice. Surprising, really. You." He grins, "Being considered any kind of proper. Though I suppose out of the two of us, most would consider you the better gentleman."
Francis feels offended. He might have a penchant for the beautiful, for literature and for grace, but seldom would he position himself in the same constellation as the likes of Arthur Kirkland. If they share anything, it is their taste in handsome men, but even there Francis might draw the line: Arthur seeks a thrill; Francis seeks a romance. He thrives on romance. It's too bad he only gets love, shoddy love stories that amount to a verse at most in his books.
"More like I had no other choice," he huffs, undoing his cravat. "The Duke looked every bit as if he was mulling in his mind how best to off me. I'm not so sure that I will be welcome in France for a while..."
Green eyes watch him carefully as Francis runs his nimble fingers through the thick strands of blond now loose around his shoulders.
"Pray tell me this is not just some fancy you've taken to recently. Playing with grown-ups is not something spoiled children should do without careful consideration, Arthur."
"Oh come now," Arthur preens, staring at his reflection on the shine of his tin cigarette-holder. "Think of it as a forced vacation. I've been pressing you to go on holiday for how long now? – To the tailor's, Petry, and be swift about it. We are late already."
The cabbie bounces in the typical discomfort of the cobble lined roads, and Francis sighs, pulling out his pocket moleskin and preparing to scribble a few lines. He will likely never know what runs through Arthur's mind. On days like today, it drives him mad. This is what makes Arthur such a beautiful muse.
"You're playing with a most dangerous lot," he warns, sketching the white rose that lies untouched by Arthur's side.
"As ifthe Duke would really risk his reputation for you; don't flatter yourself so much, Francis. Now, then, I was thinking that perhaps I ought to do something out of the ordinary for Lord Taylor-Eirren's small soirée. Personally, I was gearing toward something mildly scandalous, though surely not so poisonous to my station as to force my brother into cutting my pension in half for the next year."
"Oh?" Francis continues writing, blinking away the beginnings of a throbbing headache. He watches as his friend picks at the petals of the rose, taking one to press it on his lips. "Don't eat that. Damnation. Why must you act like a toddler with an oral fixation at times? – As for this plan of yours: dotell. Such balance seems far too avant-garde for even you, my friend. Arthur, stop it."
"Indeed," Arthur grinned, leaning back. He dropped the rose, bored. The petal remained pressed to his bottom lip. "Do tell. I am most eager to find out what this perfect balance might be, Francis."
Francis barely flinched, pausing to look up. "I fail to follow."
"I don't think you do. I think you're playing the part now, Francis. Typically I always assume you a fool, but right now I am not in the mood for your insufferable act. Now then, be a friend. Do tell."
"I've no time for your fancies, Arthur," he scratched at his temples before massaging it with his fingertips. "Be frank at once."
"Oh bother," Arthur pouts, beginning to peel at the curtains of the cabbie window. He leans forward, the sight of tan skin and blue eyes catching his attention. A perk grin curls over his lips as he leans on his cane, knuckles turning white from the pressure exerted on the diamond top. "I think you know what I want Francis. Oh, oh, Petry, do stop the cabbie here, will you? I feel like taking a short walk. The route is rather scenic today."
"Something catch your eye?"
"I won't know until you tell me, will I?"
Francis rolled his eyes. "He's going to wear a normal evening jacket instead of a tuxedo. There, happy?"
"Ah, yes. Well, that is scandalous, isn't it? – I like it. It's simple. Still elegant with the right tailor at the hems of the planning, don't you think? Oh, and that does remind me of the Earl of Mayberry. I heard the Earl of Mayberry and the Duke are intimate friends. How dangerous is this little game I am playing?"
"You ask this now? Now that you're in it?" Francis breathes through his nose waving him off. "Quite. Not only will you now have the Earl of poisons at your neck, but you will now have the muses of an entire old continent seeking to destroy you. I do hope you are happy. We are thoroughly damned."
"I won't know yet how happy I will be, will I? – Petry, I said stop."
Francis stuffs his notebook back into his pocket.
"What is it that you have found? Let big brother have a look. Sometimes you have a most questionable taste."
"All this talk of the old continent and poisons and danger has made me rather eager to explore the newcontinent. Come have a look," Arthur murmured, sliding around to give Francis enough leverage to peek out the window. "There are two. The curly-haired one seems more your type. Don't his pretty eyes remind you of the Duke's?"
"I've a feeling you think gifting me a conquest will make up for my recently debauched friendship. My friends are certainly not that easy to replace."
Arthur sighed, waving him off. "You aresentimental today. Bother. Had I known, I'd stayed at home instead of coming to get you myself. Fine, then, if you are not interested in the lavender boy, then the least you can do is let me approach the other one."
"You mean the puritan? – Just look at his sensible clothes. Black, black everywhere and not a wrinkle on that face. You are in over your head. I say you leave them before you find yourself in court. Treat me to lunch instead? –I can tell you more about the Duke's expected wardrobe."
Francis words seem to tug at Arthur's sleeve. They wrap around Arthur like a blanket, welcoming him into the deceit.
Arthur stares at the two young men for one last lingering moment. They stand together conspirationally, whispering to each other with the vibrant excitement of their age. Had they been standing in front of a better tailor, Arthur might had thought them to be noble, though even he was aware that seldom were nobles the owners of any nobility. He inched closer to the window, letting his eyes focus on the short-haired blond – the one with the cornflower blue sky for eyes. And his lips parted but a slight, wet with the determination of his desire.
There was a flicker of acknowledgement when those blue eyes met his, but they quickly moved away in dismissal, perhaps the result of shyness. Arthur only bristled in response, dropping the curtains. He huffed, cheeks red. And he pouted, tempted to cross his arms.
"You're right," he acknowledges Francis. "Too comely. A right puritan if I ever saw one. Maybe a vicar's son, if not a vicar himself."
Francis chuckles, "Ah. Did he not look upon you as if you were the moon come to enchant the sun?"
"He did not. Most insulting. And after allthe trouble I went through to catch his eye. Right down prat that one."
"Yes, yes," Francis looks away, still amused. "So much work that was, leaning close to the window, opening those heavy drapes of muslin and batting those long, oh, so long and curled eyelashes. Yes, Arthur, how do you ever live with yourself?"
Arthur grabs for his cane, slapping Francis' knee with it. "Hush you. Lunch, then?"
"Assuming you're still paying."
"When do I not? – Then that's settled. After a visit to the tailor's," Arthur murmurs, growing all the more flustered and frustrated whenever his eyes flicker to the curtain. "Why are we remaining stationary? – Petry! Petry, carry on now. I've decided the route is not so scenic after all. I'd rather stay the rest of the day indoors."
Francis shakes his head, bringing out his book again. He hides behind the crinkly pages, thumbs brushing over the leather of his moleskin.
"Yes, indoors," he muses rather loudly. From behind tinted leather, a pale blue eye focuses on Arthur's blushing cheeks. "Mirrors have always been your dearest friends, haven't they, Arthur?"
.
Matthew grabs for his brother's arm, shaking him from the momentary trance he seemed to have entered. He picks at a piece of lint from his dark jacket.
"What is it?"
The question hangs for a while, until slowly it ebbs away with the cabbie that seemed to have enchanted his brother.
Alfred only blinks the dream away, shaking his head. "Oh, no, sorry! I... it was nothing. I just thought I saw something, but it wasn't, and—we should go in now before we're late for our appointment."
Matthew nodded, staring at his brother a long while before pulling over the door to the tailor. He looked behind him at the cabbie now disappearing into the corner.
They only talked again when it was time to pay for the suits.
TBC