Friends Are Always The Best Lovers
"I'm just trying to get more people to like me..."
It sounded like the voice of a kicked little boy, and the man who the voice belonged to certainly looked the part. His dirty blonde hair seemed to cooperate less than usual, his green eyes dulled, and clothes rumpled from long days spent watching two energetic boys. Arthur had been having the worst week he could have possibly remembered. He had just finished telling Francis, the long-haired, blue-eyed Frenchman standing opposite him, about how rough things had been. It all started when their oldest son, Alfred, had taught Arthur how to use an American accent and lots of the modern slang that went with it. However, after attempting to use it out in public and getting several odd looks and no positive feedback, he was feeling bashed.
Arthur Kirkland was not the popular type of guy. He was British, which accounted for most of his personality. He was proper, rather stingy, a hot-head, and a terrible, terrible cook (though he liked to think his stellar embroidery skills made up for that). He was, however, incredibly smart and good with his two sons, along with other small children although their loud noises scratched his ears in a way nothing else did. However deep down, when you got close to him, he loved like no other and was protective of the things he held most dear. It was a very small window for people to peek through, but no matter how large it was, it was always there.
If Arthur was like that, then Francis was definitely the Mitchell to his Cam.
"Well I like you, and zat should count for everzing, mon amour."
Francis Bonnefoy was Arthur's opposite; a Frenchman with a strangely charming disposition that seemed to lurk behind his blue eyes. He was, true to his nature, an artist with both foods and paints, with a songbird's voice and was practically the male equivalent of Marilyn Monroe and Audery Hepburn put into one. Because of this, and because he could easily get away with it, he loved love. Affection. The act of kissing of having sex. Physical contact. A mental connection. It was a whole array of things that he craved with every fiber in his body and failed to receive from the person he needed it most from.
Francis was not all tough talk and pretty face. He had the most insecurities of anyone on the planet, keeping them well hidden. Usually covering them usually led to the extremely rare over-emotional crying session that lasted so long he made himself sick. Francis was so desperate to please people, to make good and lasting impressions at any cost. So many things came into conflict with that want, and the way he portrayed himself on the outside. He bottled fear, boxed anger, packaged jealousy, and stored them all in neat little shelves inside himself. After there became less room on said shelves, though, then things got messy. And he always cleaned it up alone. Yes, Arthur knew nothing about this, and Francis kept a jar of the guilt he felt for hiding it in the very back, so that one would never topple over. He had to stay strong and make that impression for Arthur.
It was a damn miracle how they stayed together for as long as they had. Every possible thing pointed the other direction. Arthur was up-tight; Francis was extremely laid-back. Arthur was a neat freak; Francis would habitually leave clothes around. Arthur didn't like being touched; Francis loved to touch people. Arthur was English; Francis was French. Anyone who knew a bit of history knows that the two countries have been at each other's throats long before the Hundred Years' War. There was no reason why they should love each other at all. But they did. It was affection slid under doors and pushed through the cracks of windows when their practically marital bantering was absent and they both weren't occupied elsewhere.
This was a convenient system they had had for some time. No one really knew when it started. Arthur insisted that they had always been this way since the day they met, and ever since then the Frenchman absolute disgusted him. Francis believed, on the other hand, that there had been a point when they would laugh and talk together for hours about anything during the day and go drinking in the afternoon. Arthur always said Francis was delusional and that he had no reconciling of those days. That hurt just so happened to be stored on the top shelf and was gathering a bit of dust because it had not resurfaced for so long until now, when Arthur felt the need to brush it away and try again. Try again to find other people to fill the supposed empty spaces he believed were in his life. The problem was, there were no empty spaces. The person that was filling them just had no idea he was doing it. This created a gap in their system, and that gap was the subject of friendship.
"But I want friends, Francis, because now I just have... you." That stung, probably a little more than Arthur had intended. Francis, as we know, brushed it back into a corner and crossed his arms.
"And what is so bad about being stuck with me? I see nothing wrong with zat!" He shifted his weight to his other hip and lightened his tone with a lovely smile. Arthur felt an ache in his chest and automatically assumed it was because of Francis's teasing and the constant hurting of those gaps. A hint: That wasn't it.
"Don't get me wrong Francis. I don't despise you. I just want friends that won't shove their hands down my trousers every chance they get," the Englishman explained calmly, sitting down in their suede couch. Their living room felt quiet for a moment. Francis took a glace around. It had changed since they bought the house; lighter walls, more pictures, decorated curtains. Over the years there had been several more additions; toy chests, patterned blankets and quilts, smaller chairs covered in printed fabric for Saturday television time in the mornings. They had made a home, Francis, Arthur, and their two children, and their joint efforts of simply being there did most of the work. The tallest sighed, lowering himself into the armchair across from the other.
"Well, if zat is what will make you happy," he said reluctantly, and he could hear Arthur let out a relieved breath. Francis deiced he might as well assist this slow process rather than cripple it. Maybe it would knock sense into Arthur sooner. "'Ow can I help?" The Englishman sat straighter suddenly, and shook his head at Francis.
"Please, don't. I want to make friends on my own. I'll go... take a walk...or something." He let his voice drift off. He really had no idea what he was doing. Arthur did not have as many issues as Francis, but one of them was trying new things, alone. Just the thought made him feel extremely self-conscious.
"Alright Angleterre." Francis was complying nicely today. He knew this inner soul searching stuff was big for Arthur and that his determination was boundless. "Zen I'll just wait here in ze house with Matthew and Alfred until you get back," he offered, standing and beginning the cross to the kitchen. Truth was he had no idea where their kids were. Matthew and Alfred would always run off and cause all sorts of trouble that usually end up in a broke vase or mud tracked all through the house. This was all orchestrated by Alfred, of course, the oldest. Matthew was too quiet and shy to do any damage on his own. Together they were the most troublesome kids Francis had ever had to deal with, and although he minded it a bit, they were cute. And that made up for everything.
"Wait!" Arthur sprung up from the couch and reached out to Francis but did not actually touch him. When the taller turned, rather surprised, the Englishman quickly lowered his hand. He didn't like his partner to see those moments of weakness. "C-Could you..." he was having such a hard time forcing himself to speak. If he wanted it so bad, why was it so damn hard to say? "...maybe...come with me?"
There. There it was for just a second.
This fondness was folded into the words and actions of that very moment and they both caught it, and they both did different things with it. Arthur basked in it, sucked it through the pores of his heart, and for once instance those gaps were gone. Francis took one of the many empty containers and corked it inside, storing it away for those gloomy moments when he didn't have Arthur to look at.
As quickly as it had come; it was gone. Swept away by the next words from Arthur's mouth not a half-second later.
"And just call Antonio up and have him watch the kids? It's not like I want you to come or anything!" he finished hastily, face suddenly going red and hands clenched up by his sides. Francis smiled teasingly, and Arthur couldn't see the warmth that was flooding through his chest.
"Of course I can, zough I do not zink Lovino will be too happy about being stuck with ze kids again," he replied, making his way over to the phone sitting in the corner of the counter. The Englishman followed close behind, smiling to himself and rather glad he wasn't going to have to do this all alone. However when Francis grabbed the phone and turned to rest his back on the counter, Arthur's demeanor changed back to the protective mother-bear state.
"Like hell we'd let Gilbert do it again! Last time he brought beer! And he let the kids drink it! Just call Antonio." He, likewise, leaned on the opposite counter and watched Francis snort in a laugh.
"It was only a little sip, nozing zat could have hurt zem," and he pressed the buttons on the phone before holding it to his ear and listening. Despite that Arthur continued to glare at the other and open his mouth.
"A sip?" he exclaimed, aghast, "Alfred was hiccuping when we got home!" Francis shrugged.
"Well maybe 'e just had ze hiccups!" He knew it wasn't the good, parental way to react, but Gil was his friend and that meant sticking up for him. Arthur huffed irritatedly, shaking his head.
"I still don't trust him." More head shaking, and Francis rolled his eyes.
"Alright, alright." He would have heckled more, but the line picked up and Francis's face took on a grin again. "Bonjour Tony!" He paused listening, and the Englishman watched his face take on a look he only saw when he was with Antonio and Gilbert, when he was around friends. Arthur, as he was bitterly reminded, didn't really have friends, and that look seemed so lovely. His thoughts were shaken with a laugh from the taller. "No, actually, Eyebrows and I were wondering if you could watch ze kids for a bit." Arthur glared poisonously at the other.
"Don't call me Eyebrows, frog."
"Shh," and Francis put a finger up to Arthur's mouth. He blushed bright red as the taller kept talking. "Just a few hours, nozing extensive."
"Mhmhp," Arthur tried to speak, but his partner shushed him again.
"Arthur, you are being awfully noisy, shh." The Englishman crossed his arms a pouted, which Francis smiled at. It was a rather lovely touch to the cherry color of his face. "Five minutes? Zat would be lovely Tony." Francis cocked his head and listened some more. "Merci beaucoup. We can talk payment when we get back, Eyebrows 'ere is anxious to get going." He listened for a few seconds longer as Arthur kept glaring, and said a few last goodbyes before hanging up and setting the phone back on its stand. "You are so noisy Angleterre," he chided, lowering his hand.