On a bad day, Francis' life consisted of cigarettes, half a bottle of wine, and an irrefutable sense of loss. On a good day, his life consisted of him.
Francis didn't quite know how he got there, in all honesty.
Hell, he'd be damned if he questioned it.
Just one day, he woke up and…he was there.
It was an odd attraction, like the way his people had grown to adore the Eiffel tower. An imposing structure at first, a terrible, looming, ugly thing, but somehow it went just right with another.
Who knew a pair of terrible eyebrows could be used for good?
Today, they would occupy a small café, just east of the very structure, admiring the lit sky. The scenery of Paris was symbolic in its own right. The air would be buzzing with life – the Christmas market, the heavy, drowsy scent of roasted chestnuts plastering equally dopey grins upon their faces – and there, in those precious moments of silence requiring no speech, would Francis look over.
It felt so long ago, since he had seen such defined cheekbones, smouldering greens that seemed to be glaring at everyone and everything. They always softened when he was caught staring, and a bout of laughter would pass through them. No particular reason why.
It felt so long since he had seen him.
He wasn't his Arthur. Francis knew this. This Arthur was much more…fragile. As though cast a porcelain more profound than his countenance. He wasn't the pirate anymore, the conqueror, the general fighter. He was just Arthur Kirkland, in Paris on business, and profound murderer of the French language.
Some things, clearly, left little room for change.
Others, not so much.
Later, they would find themselves entwined. It was a silent match of blanket tugging, fake-coughing just to ensure the other was awake, and accidental rolling over, cheeks pressing together.
There was another thing.
This Arthur, he'd noticed, had warmth. It was as though throughout the world and over, in these kind few moments before sleep would claim them, there was nothing else that could provide a spark.
And he was right.
"Get up."
The scenery was cast a grizzly monochrome. All around, bombshells rung, obscuring whatever remainder of speech his ally could muster. Francis knew he wouldn't be able to survive, surely not with that hideous amount of blood – a deep, flushed red: romantic? Ha. He knew better now – but he would not relent.
"Se lever!"
He would rouse, though. What use was the Empire if he couldn't bounce back? He had done it many a time before, much to Francis' chagrin. He was just playing with him. He hadn't matured beyond the child on the plains at all – this was all a game, in the middle of a war, at that! – they would surely laugh about it later.
And the only laughter was his own.
Bitter.
"You cannot die... You really think I can do this on my own?"
But Arthur didn't care.
His body remained unmoving, pulse a dull static, refusing to budge from his nest in the mud.
There was no startling flash of green irises.
Life was not as kind as that.
The world was cruel.
And Francis now had to face it on his own.
"Bad dream?"
A cup of coffee was placed before him. His Arthur had hated coffee, wouldn't touch the stuff.
He clinked a spoon around the edge, tracing the rim absently.
"Don't we all have them?"
A sip.
Bitter.
"True…" Arthur rolled his shoulders ineffectually. The chair legs scraped beside him. "Though I never tend to recall my own."
His sip was premature – the liquid burnt at his throat. "Oh?" A strained smile, on Francis' part. Those trademark eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.
"You seem surprised." Gaunt fingers reached for his own cup – tea, of course – and Francis wouldn't notice it at the time, but the faintest of tremors passed through each muscle.
"Hm… Never mind."
The next time he had noticed was during an outing gone wrong. Prussia and Spain had invited them out for drinks, which, of course, inspired awkwardness and a terrible aftertaste. Arthur had gotten wasted, and fought with Spain for seemingly no reason. Francis' disposition didn't help – gazing on with a silly little smile.
He must have recalled something.
Anything.
Arthur's steps had grown weak.
"Too rough?" Francis had joked that morning, reaching for the semi-skimmed milk. The air was cool, the various trinkets in the kitchen set alight by the sun's peaceful glow. Mornings like these highlighted their meeting, Francis thought. Not with this Arthur, but hundreds of years ago. How long had it been? A century? Two?
"Oh, shut up," Came the response. Arthur had yanked the carton from his hands and poured himself a glass. He had to admit, it had been a while since he had taken a moment to enjoy things. Work had been piling up – it was a miracle he'd even had this day off. Arthur would vehemently deny he had missed him.
Francis was the first to break their silence, "Would you like to do something? You know, once all of these silly conflicts are dealt with."
Arthur shifted in his seat. "I'd like that." To conceal his blush, he would raise his glass to his lips, grateful for its deft concealing.
Once he lowered it, Francis would try his hand at concealing something of his own – a bubbling laugh.
Narrowed greens. "What?" The milk found its rightful place upon the table. Arthur's expression, scowling not-so-hideously as endearing, yielded another retort, "Cat got your tongue?"
"You have a… Look, I will get it for you."
"You know, there's really no need for-!" But before he knew it, Francis had already begun to exact his terrible plot – wiping a stray napkin across Arthur's upper lip, tutting in disapproval. It vaguely reminded him of the child, the little boy who would thrash and pout for all his life was worth.
So when Francis pulled back, gazing at the look of pure indignation sent his way, he couldn't help but grin. "Milk moustache," He elaborated.
"Oh, bugger off." Unfortunately for Arthur, none of the face-burying in the world could save him from what was to come – the chaste contact of lips against forehead.
"You love me."
"Hm."
The next time he visited, it was with flowers.
His officials had informed him that Arthur had been hospitalised – by Francis' request, of course – and he had come right away upon hearing the news.
He froze in the doorframe.
It couldn't have been that long.
Arthur was wrinkled.
Arthur was pale.
His hands, so slim still, were shaking, a last protest his body could give.
And his eyes.
They were hollow. They exhibited no light, nothing to colour his world, nothing to ease him into a smile.
A rose petal fell to the floor.
"You're late."
Francis gulped.
"Always so late."
Each one of his footsteps ricocheted off the linoleum. "I did not mean…"
Arthur cut him off, "Fuck what you meant."
Silence.
"I'm dying, you idiot. Dying, and it took you over five miserable months to take notice." Francis' throat was dry. In comparison, Arthur's eyes were astoundingly wet – such a sight that had been unforeseeable beforehand. "Was it not up to standard for you? Old age – must be so terribly dull, mustn't it? Poor you. You know? Poor fucking you."
"Things were getting clogged up… I came as soon as I heard it from my officials." Downcast. That would be the only way to describe Francis at that time, the dull look in his eye as he took hold of a hand, balled into a fist. It couldn't be happening again. He wouldn't allow it.
"It doesn't matter, anyway."
This, above all things, chilled him the most.
"I'll be dead in the ground either way. I'd like to think I had something to show for it, but it's clear that the facts think otherwise."
His grip turned lethal. "After all of this – nothing? You can really say such a thing?"
Arthur turned his head away. "I don't see why I shouldn't. Is it not your job to stick around, if indeed you did enjoy my company?" Tap. Tap. It was a haunting metronome – his index finger against Francis' hand. "Consider it payback. Though I doubt you'll be as affected."
Those final words were what did it.
"What are you saying? That I do not love you? That I would…ignore you, this entire time? Quelle sottise. Merde." He dabbed at his eyes, slick with tears, and retracted his therefore tarnished sleeve. "If I cannot make it up to you as we are… Wait for me. We may reconvene – two fools in hell."
At last. Arthur's last smile – unearthly on his countenance, stretched and warped. But hell, as if Francis would ever stop loving it. "As if I have a choice."
And during that moment, that embrace between rivals made lovers, not a sound could reach them. The bustle of paramedics, the quickened bleating of the heart monitor, all save for the final whisper.
"France."
French translations:
Se lever! - Get up!
Quelle sottise. - Such foolishness.
Merde. - Shit.