Hey there! So, wow, this is not what I should have been spending my time on in any capacity. But I just wanted to try out something a little different. I'm going to be honest, this is really really sappy, and inspired by random stuff I've seen on the internet, including a guy who got so drunk he got on a plane to Paris, and someone who accidentally got on the Eurostar and sent themselves to France. I'm American, and I'm honestly not sure if anything that happens in this fic is possible. It certainly isn't plausible, but...anything in the name of fluff. I hope you like it! (And for those of you reading my other story, I hope this makes up for how dark it's getting ha).
The Wrong Train Home
"So, how did you two meet?"
It was a question that Arthur dreaded, and one that Francis waited for, hungrily, desperate for his next chance to feed on upon Arthur's long-lived suffering.
"Oh, I am so glad you asked! It is an incredibly entertaining story..."
Painful nudges to the ribcage, kicks under the table, glares promising a dark future when they were no longer in the public eye, surrounded by witnesses. None of these things did anything to stop Francis from pursuing his absolute favorite hobby: embarrassing Arthur.
Arthur firmly believed that the story of their meeting was not the sort of story that was meant to be told. It was the sort of story that one kicked under the covers, and hid in the darkest recesses of the mind in order to retain some false feeling of dignity and self-respect, almost but not-quite forgotten, until perhaps one of the so called "friends" from That Night bumps into you on the pavement a decade later, drenched in rain, shaking their head and saying, "Christ, d'you remember that time when you..." But even then, you stop them, cutting them off with slightly bitter laugh and a stiff smile, encouraging them to lead the conversation into greener pastures.
But the fates were cruel, and so instead of rotting in the most neglected, cobwebbed corner of Arthur's memory, never glimpsing daylight, the story was on constant display, his dirty laundry perpetually airing out for the entire word to see. Whether it be at parties with friends, or dinners with respectable acquaintances, or uncomfortable family gatherings, the story always managed to make itself be told. Arthur could only imagine how many times it would be told at their wedding (maybe, someday. Or not. Probably not. But maybe.) even though that thought always made Arthur sweat in many unusual places, and the issue usually had to be shelved to be taken up again at a later date, to be reviewed by a jury.
No, Arthur did not particularly enjoy having everyone and their great-aunt's second cousin gossip and titter about his worst and lowest point of Childish Drunken Escapades, even if it did lead to a development that most people would consider to be "Important" or "Life-changing" or "Good".
Although, whenever Francis decided to open his big, vulgar French trap and start spinning the tail of their fated meeting, he seriously doubted if he could apply any of those adjectives to the fact that the Frenchman was now an assumedly permanent figure in Arthur's life.
"Well, you see, It was several years ago, and as you probably know, Arthur used to be something of a delinquent. Didn't you, Arthur?"
A delinquent, indeed. More like a recent college graduate with a still confused and uncertain position in life, and a group of friends who were determined to keep the Punk in him even as he took his first, terrifying steps into Actual Adulthood, even if that meant pumping him full of as much alcohol as the human body could conceivably ingest without shutting down entirely.
Could he really be blamed if, after two consecutive job rejections and a failed book publication, Arthur was at just the right level of not-giving-a-flying-fuck to go along with them? Everyone had been there at some point. It was just that not everyone, in fact, happened to meet their "Soul Mate," or whatever romantic fucking nonsense Francis liked to call himself, as a result of one of their life's greatest moments of debauchery.
Of course, Arthur certainly hadn't known that that was where the night was going to lead him when the night in question had actually been occurring.
In fact, it was safe to say that Arthur didn't know much of anything, as he sat on a cold, damp street corner in London, gazing into a puddle that rippled and swam in his vision like an ocean, trying desperately to force his body into a standing position while gravity's pull on it seemed to have increased about a thousand times.
"Bl…bloody hell," he garbled, head swimming and stomach lurching as he managed to win his momentary battle with gravity. Dazed, he looked around himself, trying to sort out the lethargic and messy connections in his brain enough to remember such important things as where he was, where he was supposed to be going, and why he couldn't just set himself down on the nearest available surface and have a kip, just for a second.
The only thing that anchored him to his true objective was the realization that he was standing outside of what the subconscious part of his brain that was too intimately acquainted with London after four years of studying there for a little alcohol to do any damage to recognized as the train station.
Right, Arthur thought, shaking his head a bit in an attempt to keep this new, surprisingly productive line of thought in check, you need to get home. You need to go back to your shitty apartment in Ashford that you can't afford, because your friends have run off somewhere for what were probably shit reasons even though you can't quite remember them, because if you stay here you'll most likely become unconscious on the street and end up being robbed or arrested or murdered, and also because you promised yourself that you would keep that plant on your windowsill alive, if only to prove to yourself that not everything you touch turns to absolute dry and withered crap, and it probably needed to be watered sooner rather than later.
So, Arthur put on a brave face, whirling his body around to face the entrance to the station and- oh, wait, no, that was probably a bad idea.
Arthur vomited into a nearby trashbin.
"Bloody hell…"
Okay, Arthur thought, now you're fine. You got it all out of you system, now all you have to do is act as sober as possible while purchasing your ticket, get yourself onto the train without falling onto the tracks, and maybe sleep it off a bit on the way home. It shouldn't be too difficult. It's not like it's the first time in your life you've had to pretend to be sober, is it?
So, it was with entirely fabricated confidence that Arthur strode through the doors of the station, counteracting the sway in his walk with deliberate effort.
Later on, when the many, many people who would be told the story of this night would say, in amused astonishment, "But how did you manage to buy a ticket to Calais instead of Ashford?" Arthur would admit that, out of the muddled haze of memory that was That Night, his conversation with the ticket seller was particularly lacking in clarity. That he could vaguely remember his words getting a bit lost and confused as they departed his mouth, and the man at the booth saying something to Arthur that sounded like a question but could have been anything content-wise, because Arthur's brain had chosen that very moment to glitch, leaving him to simply stutter a hasty affirmative before handing over whatever money he could grasp in his pocket, before receiving his ticket, and, honestly, feeling quite proud of his success.
Arthur was unaware of the abnormally long length of the trip, because by the time they flew past Ashford, Arthur was already sound asleep, head lolling onto his chest, and drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. He might have mumbled a bit in his sleep as the train tunneled under the Straight of Dover, but that was the closest he came to becoming aware of what was happening to him.
What he did remember, possibly with more definition than anything else from that night, was the face of the woman who had woken him, a gentle nudge raising him from the depths of black-out sleep into the harsh reality of Transitioning Between Being Drunk and Being Hung-over Hell.
"Uagh," he groaned as he came to, head pounding, nausea resonating through his entire being. For a moment, he kept his eyes closed, body momentarily forgetting how to go about the act of waking up. But then he was further roused by the sound of a woman speaking.
Arthur opened his eyes, peeling his eyelids off of each other with effort, and saw that she was a middle-aged, heavy set woman with brown hair and gentle eyes, and that she was gazing down at him with what appeared to be concern. When she spoke to him again, however, the words sounded like a string of unintelligible nonsense, and Arthur heaved his useless body into a sitting position.
"Hmm…m'sorry?" He slurred, closing his eyes very tightly and then opening them again in an attempt to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright lights of the train.
The woman seemed to understand something when Arthur spoke, and instead of saying another word to him, she simply pointed towards the train's nearest exit, obviously indicating that the few people aboard the train this late at night were trickling out.
"Oh! Right," Arthur said, feeling the word spin around him as he stood a bit too hastily. He clutched one hand to his throbbing head, "Thank you."
But the woman simply nodded, smiling gently, but keeping her lips firmly shut. Probably a foreigner, Arthur's mind managed to deduct as he stumbled out onto the platform, the world seeming bright and hazy and confusing even with the lights of the station being the only ones shining in the late night darkness. Or maybe the early morning darkness, Arthur rectified- it had to be at least three o'clock by now.
Arthur sighed wearily as he weaved his way out of the train station and onto the street. He just wanted to get home, have a cuppa and probably some ibuprofen, and collapse onto the nearest soft, welcoming surface in his apartment. But, his simple goals were being constantly compromised, by many strange visions and perceptions that Arthur chalked up to his still muddled state of consciousness. First, he became hopelessly lost in the train station, which he knew he should have been able to navigate with confidence. Then, when he had finally made his way out into the town, he found that for some reason none of the streets quite looked familiar, and, even stranger still, that he could not seem to read any of the signs when he tried to ascertain his location.
And he assumed that that sound which bore a remarkable resemblance to the distant crashing of ocean waves on the shore was merely the sound of his own pulverized brain matter sloshing around inside of his skull.
After almost a half hour of wandering, weaving his way through strangely foreign looking streets and occasionally asking a stray pedestrian (of which there weren't many, at this hour) for directions, only to receive what sounded to him like a string of garbled nonsense, Arthur started to worry that he had finally managed to give himself permanent brain damage.
And so, defeated, homeless, and very near the point of emptying the contents of his stomach yet again, Arthur collapsed onto the sidewalk, covering his face with his cupped hands.
"Why did you go with them?" he groaned into his palms, "You knew it was a bad idea. Why did you go?"
As if Arthur didn't already know the reason- that he would rather be smashed out of his bloody mind than have to think even for the slightest second about becoming a responsible adult. That he would rather self-destruct entirely than face the reality of having to get a job, and pay bills, and try to make something out of his life.
Arthur forced himself to stand.
But then, something that seemed to Arthur's poor, barely coherent mind to be nothing short of a miracle occurred. It came like a beacon of light- a beautiful, shining, golden beacon that showed the way like a guiding star.
It was his doorknob.
It was the one thing he had recognized since he had gotten off the train, and it was unmistakable- he had only been taking up residence in his current flat for a matter of months, but he had still put his hand to that very doorknob enough times to recognize the pattern, the metalwork, everything about the ancient piece that adorned the entrance to his ancient, moldy, leaking flat.
Although, at that moment, ancient and leaking sounded just heavenly, so long as there was a bed waiting for him on the other side of that door.
But when Arthur tried to insert his key, and was met with only a fumbling resistance, his sense of defeat and frustration returned with even greater force than before. There he was, standing outside in the dark, nauseous and exhausted and in pain, and now he couldn't get his fucking lock in the fucking key to get into his fucking apartment.
So, naturally, Arthur began to pound on the door in a blind rage.
"Come on," he groaned at the unresponsive slab of wood in front of him, slamming into it with his fists until they began to feel sore and damaged, "Come on, open up you bloody fucking piece of worthless-"
And the door apparently heard him, because it swung open, violently enough to almost send a very surprised and still slightly delirious Arthur flying down to hard cold ground from whence he came.
"Augh!" Arthur exclaimed, flailing his arms wildly in an attempt to keep his feet rooted to the ground, every bit ready to apologize to his door for apparently insulting its honor.
He was a bit distracted from begging the forgiveness of an inanimate object by the sight of a strange man standing in his doorway. The man had long blond hair that was mussed and sticking out all over his lightly stubbled face and a wild look in his eyes, and he was brandishing a spatula in one hand as if it were a nightstick.
Arthur screamed. The strange man also screamed. Their mutual, increasingly loud screams echoed in the empty street even for a moment after they had stopped, pausing to stare, dumbfounded, at one another, before the strange man promptly began attacking Arthur with his cooking utensil.
Great, Arthur thought, now you're going to be run out of your own flat by a homeless man with a spatula. Mum told you to look for a flat in the better part of town….
"Ahg,"Arthur said, holding his arms up in self-defense against the viciously whirling spatula, "Wait, stop, stop!"
But before Arthur could bargain any further with the intruder, another wave of nausea hit him like a kick in the stomach, and soon he was throwing himself onto the ground, much to the confusion of his assailant, and promptly vomiting into what seemed to be a nicely maintained bed of flowers. Excellent, Arthur thought, the strange man who's currently squatting in your flat is better at keeping the plants watered than you are.
Arthur heard the man say something from the doorway. It sounded like an exclamation of some kind, but Arthur's now decidedly alcohol-damaged brain couldn't make it out. He turned back to look at the man, to see that his weapon was now dangling at his side, instead of being brandished threateningly, and that he was staring at Arthur with an equal mixture of confusion and disgust.
"You are English," the man said, words so heavily accented that Arthur almost couldn't understand them. As it was, they didn't make very much sense to him anyway.
"Of…of course I'm English," he gasped, still recovering from his vomiting spell, "We're in England. You're in my flat, in England." Arthur put a hand over his mouth as the muscles in his abdomen gave it one last go. "By the way, um, if you could leave, that would be nice. Or even just let me sleep on the couch or something, honestly. It's been a very difficult night for me."
The man's face became, if possible, even more confused and disgusted. It seemed to take him a moment to sort out what he wanted to say, the words apparently a struggle for him. "This…is not England," he said.
Arthur blinked up at the strange man. "Wha…." he said, eye opening and closing, slowly, vacantly. Then, the memories of everything that had happened to him since he had gotten off of the train played through his mind fast enough to make him even dizzier than he already was. "Oh, god…" he groaned, as he suddenly saw himself wandering through the station, confused, trying to read signs that seemed like another language….
"Oh, my fucking god. I…fuck. Jesus Christ," Arthur babbled incoherently into the now soiled flowerbed. After a moment, he stared, wide-eyed, at the stranger in the doorway, who was still watching him with irritation and revulsion.
"I'm in France, aren't I?" Arthur slurred, his the words laced with nothing short of absolute horror.
The strange man slammed the door on Arthur without a hint of hesitation.
It is a somewhat universally shared experience that, no matter where you happen to fall asleep, you still wake up expecting to be at home, in your own bed. This was particularly true for Arthur the Next Morning, as he had been so befuddled before finally allowing his body to shut down in a stranger's vomit-covered flower bed that the events which brought him to where he actually was seemed like nothing but a dream, vague and undefined.
Needless to say, Arthur was very surprised to find upon waking that he was not, in fact, in his bed, in his apartment. After that initial shock, he was also surprised, upon beginning to remember some small, embarrassing glimpses from the previous night, by the discovery that he was not asleep outside on a flowerbed, next to a pile of his own sick, unless the ground in France was unnaturally squishy and warm and smelled faintly of roses.
Arthur groaned, a loud sound full of pain and embarrassment and regret, as he sat up, crusted eyes blinking in the sudden daylight. Looking around himself, he realized that he was in a quaint, small living area, and sitting on a plush couch, draped with a quilt that looked handmade. Across from him was a tiny, dated television set with a VCR, and on each side of him were a couple of old wooden chairs. Upon seeing his surroundings, Arthur had the sudden thought that this home looked much more like that of an elderly woman than of the young stranger whose door he had tried to break down the night before.
"Oh, God," Arthur groaned, putting his face in his hands at the realization that the man from last night must have literally and physically carried him inside, placed him on the couch, and covered him with the patterned quilt (that was probably some kind of family heirloom or something, and that now probably smelled of his sweat and vomit). That is, unless an elderly woman had found him on the street and she had carried him like a small, helpless child into her nicely furnished living space. Of both scenarios, Arthur couldn't quite decide which was the most objectively humiliating.
Arthur received an answer to this puzzle very quickly, as his excessive moaning and cursing upon waking had apparently driven out the person in question. And, sure enough, standing in the doorway was the long-haired, stubbly Frenchman from earlier, looking every bit as disheveled and sleep deprived as before. And, now that he was getting a decent look at him, Arthur could definitely confirm that the stranger's appearance clashed terribly with his surroundings, with his shiny hair pulled back into a ponytail and stylish long sleeved V-neck and silk trousers serving as his nightclothes.
"I'm sorry," Arthur said, after the two had stared at each other, both bleary-eyed, for just a few moments past the amount of time it took to become uncomfortable, "Did I wake you?"
The man continued to stare at him, supplying nothing more than a minute gesture that was somewhere between a shrug and a shake of the head.
Arthur looked up at the man, trying to fight past his shame enough to seem at least not entirely defeated. "Did you, um, did you carry me inside, by any chance?" he asked, after a significant amount of nervous throat-clearing.
The man just shook his head once again. "I, ah, I do not…" he said, waving his arms around a bit in apparent frustration, every word sounding like a struggle.
"Oh," Arthur said in realization, "You don't speak English, do you?"
The man shrugged. "Ah, a little, but…very bad." He admitted, not seeming terribly ashamed of that fact. Not that Arthur was ashamed to say that his French was about on the same level, of course. He would be lying if he said that he hadn't struggled with the subject in school, that he hadn't fought with tenses and accents and verb conjugations as if they were enemies on a battlefield, only to eventually add French to the list of things he'd deemed unnecessary for Real Life, and therefore unworthy of his attention.
Well, he could add that to the ever-growing list of things he had been wrong about in his misspent youth.
"Well then," Arthur said, mostly to himself as the strange man apparently could not understand him, "I suppose I should say, uh…merci?"
The man rolled his eyes in a way that seemed so abominably French to Arthur that he almost retaliated, but held back as he remembered his current position as the man who had woken up a stranger at five in the morning, before vomiting into his flower bed, and spending the day sleeping on his couch.
After several more uncomfortable moments passed with no interaction occurring between them, Arthur sat up from the couch, groaning again as he felt his head pound. "Well, I should probably get out of your hair," he said. Then, when the man continued to give him a look that said 'I cannot believe you are still speaking English to me as if I can understand you', he said, "Oh. Uh, je….fuck it," before resorting to rudimentary sign language, using one hand to point to himself, and then to the door.
The Frenchman shook his head. "Breakfast," he said, much more statement than question.
"Oh, no, that's alright, you don't have to…." But the man cut Arthur off with yet another eye roll, before shuffling off wordlessly out of the living room, leaving Arthur with no choice but to follow him.
When Arthur entered the kitchen, the man was busying himself preparing a small meal, yawning and stretching all the while. He went to the cabinet to grab boxes of cereal, put on coffee, stuck croissants in the toaster to heat, and fetched pots of jam, some milk, and several different types of juice from the refrigerator. Arthur must have slept for a very long time, because he felt much more hunger than nausea upon seeing and smelling all of the food that was being laid out for him.
"Uh," Arthur said, walking up to the man with a helpless expression, realizing that he couldn't figure out how to ask if he could help in French. Damn it all, this was frustrating.
But the man must have understood what Arthur was trying to communicate, because he waved him away dismissively with his hand, gesturing for him to have a seat.
Arthur pulled out a chair from the small wooden dining set, taking a seat with obvious discomfort. His fingers drummed unconsciously on the table as he waited, attempting to look anywhere but the Frenchman. The kitchen was bright and cheerful, covered in all soft yellows and blues, and sunlight was streaming in from a small window above the counter.
After the man had finished preparing breakfast, he took a seat across from Arthur, stirring his petite cup of coffee with a small spoon, seemingly unfazed by a situation that Arthur himself would classify as extraordinarily awkward.
"So, uh…" Arthur said, clearing out quite a few cobwebs in still slightly hung-over mind in search of the first French phrase he could remember, "Comment t'appelle-tu?"
The man looked up from his plate, where he had been focusing on tearing apart a freshly heated scone with delicate fingers, eyebrows raised. Arthur immediately wondered what he had done wrong…he knew his accent was completely horrific, mostly because he found the sounds of the French language repulsive and refused to mimic them in any way, but he had supposed that he would have at least been understandable….maybe he should have used the 'vous' form? But he had no idea how to rearrange the sentence with vous…..
"Francis," the man said simply, cutting off Arthur's panicked train of thought.
Arthur took a deep breath. "Oh," he said, "Right. Well, I'm Arthur."
"Hello, Arthur," Francis said, and there was something there, a slight glimmer of mischief in the man's eyes, an almost undetectable quirk of the mouth that Arthur recognized as mockery.
It irritated Arthur to no end, no matter how much he knew he deserved it, filthy degenerate drunkard that he was.
"Eat," Francis said, returning to his own food with apparent disinterest in the person sitting across from him. Arthur shot him a narrow-eyed look of non-amusement while the other man's eyes were focused down at his plate, before reaching out to grab one of the boxes of cereal.
"Sa maison est…bon," Arthur said over the sounds of his cereal hitting his bowl, almost wincing at how wrong and uncomfortable the words sounded coming from his English lips.
Francis did not look up at him, but swallowed a mouthful of croissant before saying, "My mother," as if that was a proper response to Arthur's compliment. Arthur also noted that the way Francis mercilessly slaughtered his 'r's made him feel significantly better about his own pronunciation issues.
Arthur was already reaching for the milk to pour into his cereal before he realized what Francis had been trying to say to him. "Oh! The house is your mother's."
The resulting look which he received from Francis was so saturated in dry patronization that Arthur couldn't help but feel a little hot around the ears. No, the house is my mother, he could imagine Francis saying, in a universe where the Frenchman had a decent enough grasp of the English language to employ such complex nuances as sarcasm. As it was, the look communicated his feelings rather efficiently.
Francis reached out across the table to grab the newspaper that was laid out across its surface, flicking it open with a flourish and Jesus how on Earth could the way he reads the paper be irritating?
"It was," Francis added, a bit more quietly, eyes now trained decidedly on the newspaper.
Arthur blinked. "Oh," he said, understanding. Shit, shit, fucking, shit fuck…
"I'm sorry," Arthur mumbled, "Uh…je suis dessolée."
Francis only nodded, still not looking at Arthur.
Arthur quickly went to shoveling spoonfuls of chocolaty cereal into his mouth in order to ease his growing discomfort. He wished the damned pretentious Frenchman had just let him leave, like any normal person would, when he had awoken, even if that would have left him to scavenge for food in a foreign land with nothing but a few (unusable) pounds in his wallet. But apparently the man was enjoying the spectacle of Arthur's humiliation too much to allow his source of entertainment to escape and scamper, head down, back to England.
Arthur finished his food quickly, with the intention of removing himself form this house and from this country as soon as conceivably possible. But when he began to rise, tentatively, from his seat, Francis's eyes flickered up from his paper and he said, "Shower."
Arthur almost groaned outwardly. "No, really, that's…that's quite alright," he insisted, hoping that Francis would at least catch the gist of what he was trying to say. Apparently he did, because he responded by wrinkling his nose in an expression of disgust.
Suddenly even more self-conscious, Arthur attempted to smell his shirt as subtly as possible. He nearly gagged- of course, he was drenched in the magnificent odor of sweat, vomit, and stale alcohol.
"Oh, fine," he grumbled, seething at Francis's insulting behavior, but unable to deny that he couldn't really go out in public smelling the way that he did. Francis smirked, pointing over to a hallway that Arthur assumed was the way to the bathroom.
On his way down the hallway, Arthur's eyes searched, scrutinizing, amongst the tastefully pastel-colored walls for anything that he could use, if only mentally, against the mysterious Frenchman, in order to make himself feel better about his current humiliating situation. Maybe some embarrassing family photos, or naked baby pictures, or something that could possibly help him claw his way up to some sort of high ground.
Although, Arthur considered, if he did find something, he would probably just keep it to himself. He had to admit, he did feel a bit bad about bring up the Frenchman's apparently recently deceased mother….
Arthur shook his head to himself as he made his way into the bathroom, realizing that there was probably no way for him to make this situation any less embarrassing for himself no matter what he might find in the house. It was probably best for him to simply shower and get out of this damned country as soon as conceivably possible, hope to never see the man again if he could manage it, and repress all of these upsetting memories as deeply as he possibly could.
The pipes in the bathroom seemed to work well enough, despite the ancient look of the shower, and Arthur would be lying if he said that he didn't make the best of whatever fancy body and hair products littered the stranger's bathroom. After living with his own collection of generically-scented pharmacy brand shower products, the soft lather of the soaps and the accompanying scent of vanilla or roses or whatever the fuck it said on the bottles, made Arthur feel strangely spoiled for his…current situation. Not to mention the fact that the layer of grime coating his skin had been accumulating for probably more than twenty-four hours, and it felt wonderful to finally be clean.
Despite his enjoyment of the warm shower, and his general lack of desire to leave the bathroom and see Francis again, Arthur tried not to take very long, thinking that it would just be the icing on the cake if he used up all of the man's hot water, on top of everything.
When Arthur was done, he dried himself off with a fluffy towel, and sighed heavily as he reached for his dirty clothes. But he was surprised to find that they had been replaced- by a tshirt and slim jeans that undoubtedly must have belonged to Francis.
Arthur narrowed his eyes at the little pile of carefully folded clothing, noting with relief that his undergarments, at least, were still his own. But that still left the unsettling fact that Francis must have snuck into the bathroom while he was bloody showering and naked, and that this was a violation that Arthur simply could not stand for, no matter how forgivingly hospitable the Frenchman had been to him thus far. And so (after begrudgingly throwing the slightly-too-large clothes onto his damp body) Arthur swung open the bathroom door and stomped indignantly out into the hallway, with every intention to give the bastard a Piece of His Mind…if not with words, then with many insulting hand gestures.
Arthur was disappointed to find that Francis was nowhere to be found inside of the house, and he found himself standing alone in the middle of the living room, with both his body and his rage left with no direction.
"Where the fuck's he gone?" Arthur mumbled to himself as he stood, a bit dumbly, in the middle of the living area where he had woken up less than an hour beforehand. Suddenly, Arthur was struck with a concerning realization- that Francis was a complete stranger, who had inexplicably brought his unconscious form into his home, made him breakfast, forced him to take a shower, and had now apparently made off with his clothing. Arthur felt a stirring of nervousness in his gut as this thought carried him down an alarming path of possibilities…what if he had been brought into the house of some weird pervert? Obviously normal people weren't so insistently helpful to random drunkards who tried to break into their houses during the wee hours of the morning. No, a normal person would have called the police.
That is, after all, what Arthur would have done.
And so, confused and alone and a little bit spooked, Arthur began to consider just leaving his clothing for dead (although it wasn't as if he had much of anything in abundance at this point in his life) and sneaking out of the house while Francis was off in some unknown location doing some unknown, and most likely sinister, deed.
But before Arthur could bring his plan into fruition, something caught his eye on the antique fireplace's mantelpiece. It was a framed picture, and as Arthur stepped closer to it, it became clearer and clearer that it was, in fact, a picture of Francis with someone he definitely recognized. In the photo, the Frenchman's arm was draped over the familiar person's shoulders, and they were both smiling amiably.
"What the….bloody…." Arthur murmured, in a state of confused awe, never taking his eyes from the picture.
A moment later, Arthur made a grab for his phone, which he had left sitting on the nearest coffee table, snapped a quick picture (checking over his shoulder for Francis the entire time) and hit send, barely pausing to think about the act.
A few moments passed. Arthur's heart was beating quickly, still struggling to recover from the shock of his very perplexing discovery. It seemed to take several centuries for his phone to buzz, and when it did, he jumped like a startled rabbit, the sound of the vibrations seeming to him like a foghorn going off in the quiet house.
"Arthur, what's going on? Tts' 7 am. Where did you get that picture?"
Shit, Arthur thought, realizing that he'd forgotten the gaping time difference between where he was, and where his poor little cousin was probably trying to get some rest on a Saturday morning in Canada. He was usually much better at that- it was usually Matthew's brother who would make that mistake, calling Arthur during the wee hours of the morning to prattle on about some trivial nonsense. But Arthur assumed that the urgency of his current situation had distracted him from basic courtesies.
"Sorry," the expression of remorse not entirely genuine, as he was still too focused on his panicked confusion. As such, he jumped back to the point as quickly as he could. "Do you know that man?" he asked.
It took a moment for Arthur's phone to buzz with Matthew's reply, and Arthur worried that he had scared the poor boy off with his bizarre interrogations. But the reply did come, and Arthur's eyebrows shot up in astonishment when he read it.
"Um, yeah. He's that friend I met when I was studying in Paris last year, remember? Why, do you know him?"
Arthur shook his head a bit in disbelief. What were the fucking odds?
After a moment Arthur realized that he had been staring at the screen of his phone numbly, almost forgetting to punch in a reply to the probably very confused college student.
"That is fucking bizarre," Arthur typed, "I'm in his house right now."
This time, Matthew's reply was almost immediate, and, although it had to have been Arthur's imagination, the buzzing seemed to be a bit more urgent and frantic.
"What? Why? What's going on," came the reply, but before Arthur could answer and clear up his poor brother's confusion, Arthur's ears picked up the sound of a door opening and closing in the kitchen.
"Fuck," Arthur said quietly, head whipping towards the source of the noise.
"I'm sorry Matthew," he typed furiously into his phone, wishing for the first time in his life that he was a little more up to date on texting-lingo, so that he might be able to write a bit faster, "I think he's coming back. Can you translate for us? Hold on, I'm going to call you."
Arthur then found his half-brother in his contacts, punching the number with his thumb with what was probably unnecessary force before the boy could say another word about it. As the dial tone began to emanate from the speakers, Arthur risked taking a few steps towards the entrance to the kitchen, peeking inside to see what Francis was up to.
The sight Arthur was greeted with was, admittedly, far less menacing than the ones he had been imagining only moments before. In fact, the picture Francis made in the brightly lit kitchen was rather domestic- it looked as if the man had just come in from his garden, as he was carrying a woven basket under one arm that appeared to be full of various vegetables- Arthur thought he recognized a couple of green squash-like items (zucchinis? Arthur really didn't know much about that sort of thing) as well as a few ripe, red tomatoes. On top of this, Francis was humming lightly as he moved through the kitchen, searching for the right place to keep his small harvest.
Arthur almost laughed out loud at how quintessentially non-threatening the man's actions where, and shook his head at himself for being so utterly and unnecessarily paranoid.
His train of thought was ended by the sound of a sleepy voice coming from the speaker that was still pressed to Arthur's ear. "Hello?" it said, quietly, as was Matthew's natural tambour, "Arthur? What's going on?"
"Matthew," Arthur said, causing his host's head to snap towards him as Francis was alerted of his presence, "Francis is here; I'm going to put you on speakerphone."
Francis watched in confusion, still halfway through putting away his vegetables, as Arthur pressed the button on his phone that would allow Matthew to be heard by the both of them.
"Go on," Arthur said into the once again uncomfortable silence, "Just..tell him who you are and everything. I can't do it."
"Wha-" Matthew stuttered, "But…uh….." He trailed off, and for what was an incredibly tense moment for Arthur, left the phone to emit nothing but empty air. Arthur realized that he probably shouldn't have put Matthew on the spot; in his desperation to communicate with Francis, he had forgotten about the boy's nervous nature.
But good old Matthew came through in the end, and Arthur wanted to swim across the Atlantic just to give him a good hug when he finally heard the sound of his tentative little voice speaking French through the speakers.
"F-Francis?" he stuttered, "Est-tu la?"
Francis blinked confoundedly at the sound of Matthew's voice, but Arthur was pleased to see the spark of recognition in the stranger's eyes, however confused. "Matthew?" he said in wonder, even as he somehow managed to make Matthew's name sound entirely French, much to Arthur's dismay, "C'est toi?"
"Oui, c'est moi," Matthew said, now sounding less anxious, and more happy to be talking with his old friend, "Arthur est mon demi-frère."
After that, Francis looked up at Arthur in disbelief. In response, Arthur merely gave an exaggerated shrug, expressing that he was just as bewildered by the strange coincidence as he was.
After that brief exchange, however, Francis returned immediately to the phone, uttering what sounded like a string of very fast phlegm-laced nonsense to Arthur. After a few exchanges between Matthew and Francis, Matthew began to laugh, Francis soon joining in. Arthur wasn't dense enough to miss how many times his name was appearing in their conversation, and scowled.
"What are you two saying about me?" he demanded, mostly to Matthew, as questioning Francis about it would have been about as pointless as interrogating the dining set.
The tone of Matthew's voice changed when he addressed Arthur, becoming slightly more harsh and scolding…at least, as close as Arthur's gentle half-brother could manage to harsh and scolding. As it was, Arthur thought he sounded more like a patient kindergarten teacher addressing a student who had been found making a meal of the paste again than anything else.
"I can't believe you did that, Arthur," Matthew reprimanded, "You could have gotten really badly hurt! I had no idea your drinking had gotten so bad…."
Arthur rolled his eyes, leaning against the kitchen wall with his arms crossed, and feeling very unpleasantly like he had been sent back to his teenage self, and was being scolded by his parents for his wrongdoings. "It hasn't! It was only one night!" he scoffed.
"One night is enough for you to fall over and get a concussion, or wander out into traffic," Matthew said with genuine concern, "You're really lucky Francis was there. It sounds like he's been really good to you."
"Good?" Arthur spluttered, "He attacked me with a bloody spatula!"
Arthur could faintly hear Matthew's quiet laughter from the other end of the line. Oh, but he was just loving all of this, wasn't he? He should never have called the little brat.
Matthew spoke to Francis through his mirth, sounding to Arthur as if he was asking a question. Francis scowled as he responded, with an air of a very reasonable person trying to discredit the ramblings of a whining child. Even though Arthur couldn't tell what Francis was saying, his tone made Arthur's chest tighten in frustrated irritation.
"He says he thought you were an intruder," Matthew translated to Arthur, still audibly attempting to stifle his laughter. Arthur sighed, deciding that he might as well just toss his pride in the trashbin, as it was more or less unsalvageable at this point.
"Yes, fine. Well, tell him…tell him that I'm sorry for inconveniencing him. And that I said thank you for everything," the words felt like utter defeat leaving Arthur's lips, but it still made him feel a bit more mature than simply pouting and continuing to bicker with Francis through Matthew.
Matthew told Francis what Arthur had said to him. When Francis replied, it was with a delicate smirk on his lips that Arthur took as a warning sign.
"He says not to worry about it," Matthew said, a little nervous edge to his voice that made Arthur even more suspicious, "And, uh…."
"Well?" Arthur asked flatly, already greatly unamused by this whole charade.
Matthew's voice was even smaller than usual. "Well…he said you looked so pathetic laying there that he felt like he had to do something about it."
Arthur let out a puff of air in an attempt to level himself. "Alright," Arthur spat, "Well, I should be heading home now. Tell your friend I said 'adieu', or, you know, whatever."
When Matthew relayed this message to Francis, it was with a similar chastising note as when he had talked to Arthur before. Francis sighed lightly in response, seeming exasperated, but not enough to distract him from how amused he still was by the entire situation. Arthur suddenly had a horrifyingly clear metal image of the smug Frenchman going out and telling all of his smug, French friends and family members…he could see them, with terrible vividness, all gathered around tables and at bars, laughing joyously at his expense…surely, the story of the drunken Englishman who attempted to break into Francis' flat one quiet Summer night would become legendary within the man's social sphere….
Arthur was shaken out of his unpleasant imaginings by another bit of quiet laughter on the part of Matthew, who had been carrying on with his rapid French conversation with Francis.
"Oui, il est," Matthew was saying through the phone, and Arthur could hear a little laughing smile in his tone. Francis grinned, this time wider, seeming almost viciously pleased by whatever Matthew had just told him as his eyes flickered briefly to meet Arthur's.
"Je le savais," Francis chuckled, "Je sais toujours."
Arthur's mouth formed a thin line of displeasure. "What are you saying about me now?" he snapped, starting to become increasingly frustrated by his little brother's tone.
Matthew cleared his throat. "Oh, uh, nothing," he said, unconvincingly. At the same time, Francis began to speak over him, and Matthew struggled to keep up with the fast translation, "Oh, uh, he says…ha, he says he wants to show you around a little before you leave."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "What? Why the hell would he want that?" he demanded.
"I'm not gonna say that, Arthur," Matthew said uncomfortably, "That's so rude."
"You let him call me pathetic!" Arthur said in disbelief, "Besides, why would he want to spend time with someone who he can barely communicate with?"
"I don't know, Arthur," Matthew said tiredly, "He's just trying to be nice. Just let him take you to the beach for like an hour. I'm going back to bed."
"Wait, no! Don't-" Arthur began to protest desperately, horrified by the prospect of being left alone with Francis yet again. But Matthew cut him off by turning his conversation back to Francis, uttering what Matthew assumed to be his goodbyes, although he couldn't quiet be sure because of the small problem that he hardly spoke a word of French and oh God Matthew please don't leave me all alone to deal with this I'm begging you….
It took Arthur a moment to realize that Matthew had switched back to English. Was it natural for someone to be able to juggle two languages so easily? It seemed like a freakish ability to Arthur.
"Well, anyway, please call me when you get home safely, okay?" Matthew was asking.
"Yes, alright, fine," Arthur muttered. If this French lunatic doesn't drown me in the ocean, anyway, because why else would he want to take me anywhere….
"Thanks. I'll talk to you later then," Matthew said, already sounding as if he was already drifting back into bed, "Bye Arthur. Au revoir, Francis!"
Arthur's barely audible grumbled 'Bye' and Francis' charmingly enthusiastic 'Au revoir' intersected each other, sounding like some twisted bilingual harmony that rang spectacularly off-key. A moment later, the dial tone that signified Matthew's departure from the conversation droned from the speaker, leaving Arthur alone once again.
Francis shot him a lopsided grin. Arthur resisted the urge to attack him with pieces of his wooden dining set.
"Well, let's get this over with then," Arthur mumbled, going off to try and find his things.
And so, Arthur somehow found himself with a Frenchman, walking on a French beach, wearing French clothes, with a French cone of ice cream in his hand, and the hot, French sun assaulting his pasty cheeks.
And, no matter how grateful he was to not be lying dead in an ally somewhere, Arthur would never in a million years admit how pleasant and refreshing it was to hear the sound of gulls overhead, to smell the spray of the sea, and to look up and see nothing but clear blue skies overhead. No, Arthur was certainly not about to admit that he was actually having quite a good time…even though most of that probably was owed to the fact that he and Francis were as yet incapable of speaking to one another beyond the occasional word.
After a bit of time that seemed rather short to Arthur (he had always had a particular fondness for the ocean) Francis began to lead him back to the train station.
"Well," Arthur said once they had reached their (or his) destination, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth uncomfortably "Uh, merci. Um…you know. For everything."
Francis nodded, smiling with a surprising warmth that made Arthur blink in surprise, like he had just accidentally tried to stare up into the sun.
Arthur cleared his throat. "Hm. Yes, well-"
"Call me," Francis said suddenly, surprising Arthur in a way that made him feel like all of his internal organs had suddenly been rearranged without his knowledge.
"I'm sorry?" Arthur blurted, hoping that his recently acquired sunburn would help to shield the growing blush on his cheeks. Now is not the time for that, Arthur Kirkland, he scolded himself.
Francis stared at him innocently. "Yes. So that I can…ah…know that you are…okay."
Arthur let out a puff of air. "Right. Yes, fine." He then looked down at himself. "Oh, and, uh, your clothes…."
Francis nodded, but didn't seem to know what to say. Arthur made a mental note to send them to Francis as soon as he could.
"Alright then," Arthur said, "Well, I will…call you." Arthur then nodded to himself briskly, and was about to turn to go into the station when he found that Francis' face was suddenly very close to his own.
"Augh!" Arthur exclaimed in shock. By the time he had recovered, Francis was already walking away from him, giving a small, teasing wave as he walked down the street.
"Ugh," Arthur griped, wiping both of his cheeks in disgust, "Disgusting French and their disgusting customs…"
But, as Arthur made his way to the train that would take him back to his side of the channel, he couldn't help but think that his little mishap could have ended a hell of a lot worse.
Arthur made good on his promise to call Francis as soon as he made it back safely (the person in question having somehow managed to sneak himself into Arthur's contacts). After that difficult and brief conversation, Francis had called again, a few days later, to inquire about the state of his garments. Arthur had called Francis again, the very next day, to let him know that they were on their way back to him.
Somehow, Arthur came to expect several texts from Francis a day…mostly insults, of which they kept up a constant digital back and forth. Why they began doing this, Arthur never could say- only that it felt so natural that he could hardly even recall when it started.
Arthur began to text Matthew frequently to ask for help with his French. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Arthur, Francis was doing the same with his English. Matthew bared it all quite heroically.
Arthur learned that Francis had been living in Paris, painting and starving and generally enjoying himself, until his mother had recently passed, and he had taken on the responsibility of taking care of her old house, which had been left to him. Francis learned quite a lot about Arthur, as well.
The story of Arthur's mistake spread through their family like wildfire, and he received so many phone calls from people wanting to make fun of him that it almost made the calls from Francis seem like a pleasure. They weren't, though. Of course.
Arthur got a job working for a small, terrible magazine. Francis decided to remain in his mother's house in Calais. He claimed that the fresh air was working wonders on his health.
Eventually, the two called each other almost every night. Neither of them acknowledged it. Neither of them ever suggested that they see one other in person again.
That is, until one abnormally, bitterly cold night in early December. Arthur had been put in charge of an article that he was entirely uninterested in, and had, in regular fashion, put it off until the last minute. His deadline quickly approaching, Arthur hadn't had time to make his usual call to Francis- and had ignored when Francis had tried to call him.
Arthur looked at the time and groaned miserably. "You've really done it this time," he said to himself, shivering in the damp cold of his apartment, and standing up to get a fresh hot cup of tea. Before he could make it to the kitchen area, he heard the familiar sound of his cellphone buzzing on the hard surface of his desk.
Arthur couldn't resist taking the bait of distraction. When he checked the phone, he was entirely unsurprised to see who was texting him.
"Call me," the text read. Arthur huffed.
"Demanding tonight, are we?" he replied, leaning against his desk, the knowledge of his deadline still nagging at the back of his head like a stubborn grain of sand.
Francis' response came abnormally quickly. Arthur knew that the man usually preferred to be fashionably late with his texts.
"I want to talk to you," it said.
Arthur scowled. He reached for his cup of tea distractedly, only to spit it out in disgust when he remembered that it had gone cold. "I can't tonight," he explained.
It took a bit longer for the next text to arrive, and when it did, it only made Arthur's scowl deepen in confusion.
"I want to see you."
Arthur licked his chapped lips. "Are you drunk?" he texted, rather furiously.
The phone buzzed. "Of course not."
Arthur raised an impressive eyebrow. The phone buzzed a second time.
"Well, maybe a little. But I still want to see you."
Arthur stared at the phone, suddenly feeling rather warm. His heard was thumping in his chest in the most irritating way, and he attempted to force it to slow down despite knowing that it was impossible.
Arthur would never know what possessed him to send his next text.
"Well come and see me then."
After that, Arthur received no more texts from Francis. The bizarre, irrational part of his brain that always seemed to crop up to handle (poorly) situations involving Francis, told him that maybe Francis had jumped on a train and was coming to see him for the first time since they had met so many months ago. Every other part of his brain, however, told him that Francis had probably just passed out drunk in his living room, and that this was probably for the best.
It was past one in the morning when the doorbell rang.
Arthur started awake, taking a dozen pieces of notepaper with him, as they had stuck themselves onto his cheek. When he saw the time, Arthur's stomach plummeted in terror.
"Shit!" he exclaimed, realizing that he had taken an unplanned nap (again) halfway through finishing his article. Then, the doorbell rang a second time. Arthur's flat was actually the bottom floor of a little ancient townhouse, his door lead directly out into the cold night air.
He approached the door carefully, hair all sticking up on one side, and still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He couldn't have….
But, sure enough, when Arthur tentatively cracked the door open shivering at the amount of cool night air that crept in through the opening, Francis was the one standing at his doorstep.
"Hello," he said, smiling sheepishly, "Did I wake you?"
Arthur stared at him in disbelief, opening the door the rest of the way. "It's good that you did, actually," he said numbly. After a moment, Arthur noticed that Francis was shivering, his arms wrapped closely around himself, and that thick puffs of mist were drifting from his mouth.
"Oh! Je suis désolée. Uh…entrer." Arthur stepped aside, allowing Francis to enter the apartment, and closed the door swiftly behind him.
Francis groaned. "I am sorry," he said, "This was a terrible idea."
Arthur continued to stare at him, as if he still thought he was some kind of apparition. After so much time, he had almost begun to feel like one. But no, Francis was a real, flesh and blood human, and the evidence was right there in front of him.
"Why did you come here?" Arthur asked, wincing at how rude it sounded.
Francis cleared his throat nervously. "Well…it sounds a bit silly now, but, I ah…I thought that I might come and kiss you."
"Oh my god. You didn't!" Arthur's sister, Kaitlyn, said loudly, grinning broadly at Francis, who smiled slyly at the attention.
Arthur scowled through his furious blush. "He's romanticizing it, as usual," he said, "Besides, you've all heard this story about a thousand times. How can you still act surprised about it?"
"Aw, come on, Arthur," Arthur's brother Thomas whined, "Why do you always have to be such a stick in the mud?"
"I am not! It's just that-"
Francis smirked as he listened to Arthur bicker with his siblings. It was Christmas, and everyone had, as per tradition, convened at the Kirkland household in England. The house- an ancient, beautiful English cottage in the middle of nowhere, now owned by Arthur's mother and her recent husband- functioned as a sort of home base for the family, although in reality there were Kirklands and Kirkland relations strewn across what seemed like nearly every continent. Most years, only a handful were able to make it all the way to England for the holidays, but for whatever the reason this year the stars had all seemed to align, and now Arthur's childhood home was overpopulated, buzzing with the activity of parents and step parents half-siblings and step siblings and nieces and nephews and cousins.
Francis liked Arthur's noisy, patchwork family. He himself had never had a large family growing up, although he had always been the type to surround himself with a network of very close friends. But feeling like a part of Arthur's family filled him with a sense of warmth and completeness.
"Alright, alright, I get it!" Arthur snapped, face red with frustration. Around the large table, everyone was laughing, presumably at Arthur's expense. Most of the younger children had abandoned the dining table for more interesting pursuits, and the sounds of banging and clashing and laughter resonated throughout the house. "Can we just not talk about it anymore? I hate that bloody story."
Francis frowned a bit. Arthur's other half-brother, Matthews' twin, groaned. "Aw, c'mon Artie, it's an awesome story! It's, like, my favorite story ever," he complained, before proceeding to rip open a Christmas cracker with an alarming bang. "Aw, hell yeah! A little kaleidoscope!"
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Alfred, you are twenty-four years old."
"…And?" Alfred said, staring at Arthur through the tiny plastic tube and gently turning it, a flimsy paper crown resting on top of his blond head.
Suddenly, but inevitably, Arthur's brother Alistair decided to bring them back to the previous topic of conversation. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he pressed Francis, as loudly as ever, "Finish the story!"
All heads turned back to Francis, who grinned, happy to have the spotlight fall on him once again. "Well, that is pretty much the end. Arthur had to finish working, so I stayed up with him…and then, the next day we just…talked."
Several wolf-whistles echoed one another around the table. "Yeah, talked," Alistair chuckled, "Hehe…Ow!"
"You shut your filthy mouth," Arthur's mother snapped, having just whapped Alistair with a wooden spoon as she was passing by with the dishes, "What your brother does with other men is none of your business."
Arthur laid his head down on the table, while everyone roared with laughter.
Francis fought his own laughter, reaching over to place a soothing hand on Arthur's back. "No, stop, stop," he said, hushing Arthur's boisterous family members. Arthur peeked up at him from where his face was buried in the crook of his arm.
"I think that we should toast to Arthur," Francis continued, raising his glass, "To Arthur, and all of the wonderful stories we can laugh about thanks of him."
Everyone raised their own glasses, laughing. That is, everyone accept for Arthur, who snapped up out of his chair in on sharp, angry movement, striding briskly out of the room and mumbling something about needing some air.
"Ooooh" Alfred said, like a teenager whose friend had just been sent to the principal's office, causing Matthew to smack him on the arm. Meanwhile, Francis cursed, jumping up out of his own seat to chase after Arthur.
Francis found Arthur out by the back door, hidden among hedges and standing on cobblestone. He didn't turn to look when Francis closed the door behind him, but he must have had no trouble guessing who had come to bother him, because he spoke in French.
"Je veux être seul," he said morosely into the darkness. Francis sighed, breath visible in the slight winter chill. He took slow, cautious steps towards his boyfriend of three years, before finally wrapping his arms around him from behind, sharing his warmth.
"I am sorry," he said earnestly into Arthur's neck. He smelled like champagne, and soot from the fireplace. "I know it was too much."
"Hate it when you do that," Arthur mumbled, not making any move to shove Francis away. This wasn't a big fight- not that they hadn't had plenty of those- and Francis knew that the storm would soon be over, that an hour and a few more drinks from now Arthur would be laughing in the living room, red-cheeked and festive as the rest of them. But that didn't mean there wasn't something more under the surface. It seemed to always be like that, with relationships- the big things always come out in little ways, at first.
Francis pressed a light kiss to Arthur's neck. "Oui, je sais."
A moment of calm passed, during which there was nothing but the still, crisp night air, the warmth of each other's bodies, the clear, dim light of the stars.
"…I hate when you tell that story," Arthur finally said, so quietly that it was almost lost to the darkness. "It's embarrassing. I hate that you use it against me."
Francis scowled. He let go of Arthur, moving so that they were facing one another. "You know that is not why I like to talk about it, Arthur," he said.
"Oh, that's right," Arthur muttered, "It's because you're a narcissistic arse who will do anything for a cheap laugh. How could I have forgotten?"
Francis winced. "That was a little bit harsh." When Arthur made no sign that he was going to apologize, Arthur continued. "It is because…because it is how I was lucky enough to meet you. It is the best thing that has ever happened to me."
Arthur wrinkled his nose, but Francis could see a corner of his mouth twitch upwards. "Stop it. You're going to make me vomit."
Francis smirked. "Please do not. That would be…ah…disheartening."
Before Arthur could even open his mouth to ask what Francis meant, his eyes opened wide, seeing that Francis was reaching into his pocket.
"Francis…" Arthur said, a warning tone to his voice that only increased Francis' nerves. Oh well…there was no turning back now.
"I know we talked and said that we would want to do it eventually," Francis explained hastily, "And, if you are not ready, there is no pressure. But…I could not resist."
Arthur stared at the little black box in Francis' hand the way one might stare at a bus that was about to hit them. Francis didn't take that as a particularly good sign, but he cracked it open anyway, revealing the simple silver band inside.
"God," Arthur choked, "I, uh…I think I need to sit down." And, almost before Francis could react, Arthur was sinking ungracefully onto the cold cobblestone.
Francis reached out a hand to grab Arthur's arm, going down to the ground with him and laughing nervously. "It is alright. Take deep breaths. We can wait, if you want."
"Oh, shut up," Arthur said, still attempting to collect himself, "I fucking knew you were going to do something like this. Romantic bastard." But then he sent Francis a small, nervous smile that said everything that Francis to know.
Francis kissed Arthur, and managed to slip the ring onto his finger in the process.
They were very close to making it to the end of the night without anyone noticing. Surprisingly, it was Alfred's not usually keen eyes that caught sight of the new additions to Francis and Arthur's left hands, and his resulting, slightly drunken shout of "Holy shit!" that outed them.
Arthur didn't particularly mind. It was easier than having to tell them all himself, and it was late enough by this time that they only had to deal with the fallout for about an hour and a half, before everyone began drifting to their beds or spaces on the floor. That, and they were all intoxicated enough that all of their reactions were unfiltered and entertaining. Some of his siblings even shed a few tears, which Arthur would have considered excellent blackmail material, had he not been secretly touched by it.
Arthur and Francis, however, remained more or less sober, and stayed up on the couch together, watching the fire slowly die and speaking in hushed voices so as not to wake the family members sleeping on the floor.
"I do not have to tell the story anymore, if it upsets you," Francis said quietly. They were leaning against each other, and Arthur was playing with Francis' hair.
Arthur pondered this for a moments, then sighed.
"Actually…it's fine. It is a pretty good story."