"Look, will you just shove a frog in it and get on the horse." Arthur was already on his own; a large bay Welsh Cob. As much as he hated to admit it, his brother did breed fine horses. Francis remained on the ground, holding the grey gelding at an arm's length.

"I cannot."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Why?"

"I..." he flushed a little. "I – that is to say – there was always someone to help me."

"You can't actually be serious."

Francis didn't reply. So yes then.

"Oh for God's sake." Arthur dismounted, and roughly helped the Frenchman into the saddle.

"Merci." He winked and the nudged the horse into a trot out of the yard, and into a canter when they reached the dusty field.

"Cheeky bastard!"Arthur grabbed his own reins and pulled himself back up. "Come on lad, let's catch up with the tosser before he injures himself."

This was when Arthur felt most at home. Yes, he enjoyed time spent in his garden, library, or stepping into his role politically when needed, but he'd swap any of those things for an hour on horseback. It sounded a little cliché: the dull roll of hoof beats, the pressure from the horse's mouth on the reins, the feeling the two of you could achieve anything in the world, as you watch the country slip by. It was something he had always done, or, as far back as he could remember. Even before Mathias plagued his shores. Being as old as he was, he had grown to know many people, and in turn lost many. The loss of each of his horses had been just as bitter.

When he finally caught up with Francis, he had slowed the grey to a walk. The horse was enjoying the rest, stretching his head low to the ground and nipping at the grass as he walked. Arthur slowed to match his pace.

"You French bastard."

"Your lack of variation in insults astounds me Angleterre." He closed his eyes, let the horse choose their path. "You would think, after all this time, and all the fine writers you've produced, you could come up with something better."

Arthur frowned. "Perhaps. But it sums you up so well I've never felt the need." He slid into a smirk. "And I would think, after all this time, you would have learnt how to get on a horse unassisted."

Francis shrugged. "I've never needed to."

"What? How the bloody fuck is that even possible? You mean to tell me that after all the travelling, the exploration, after all the wars, all the... I don't know... fucking sport we've engaged in over God knows how many centuries, you've never needed to mount a horse by yourself?"

"Exactly." Arthur stared at the Frenchman as though he had spontaneously announced his love for Yorkshire pudding. Francis sighed. "Angleterre, you ride for pleasure, correct?"

Arthur cringed, pushing perverted thoughts from his mind. "Yes."

"Because there's so little to do in your dirty little rock of a country, you've had to find things to entertain yourself with – fox-hunting, show jumping, polo, and so on. It all involves horses."

"I'll let that horrendous insult slide. What's your point?"

Francis absently twined his horse's mane around his fingers. "I do not see it as a hobby. I can ride perfectly well of course, our role as nations demands it. You know that. You've been through just as much conflict and ceremonial pomp as I have." He looked up. "And I've seen you admiring my seat."

Arthur felt the familiar dull flush crawl over his cheeks. "Don't be so arrogant, you pervert."

"Besides," Francis grinned, "I am the personification of the nation of France. It is fairly easy to find a willing citizen to give me hand, non?"

"I suppose that makes sense in your ridiculous twisted logic. But what's this shit about you not enjoying it? We took Alfred and Mattie horse riding hundreds of times; you never complained."

"Quality family time, cher. Not a hobby."

"Fine, what about the times we've raced? The times you and those idiot friends of yours made bets on whose mount was the fastest then tore all over the countryside like things possessed?"

"Ah." Francis flashed his smile again, and shortened his reins with a creak of soft leather. "The rush, Angleterre." The grey gelding sensed the shift in his rider's mood and raised his head, his steps quicker. "When man and beast are one, they are unstoppable. You know the feeling. That you can do anything." His horse broke into a trot, tossing his head and pulling at the bit. "Arthur?"

Said man looked up.

"Fancy a race?" Francis looked at him; that same look that could sometimes keep Arthur awake at night.

"With you Frog? Anytime."

The horses needed little encouragement. They sprang forward, matched stride for stride, despite their different builds. Before long, both men were laughing, breathless, hurling only half serious insults back and forth as their mounts surged through the English countryside. Arthur's gaze slipped to Francis every so often, taking in his tensed muscles and sweating neck as he urged his horse forward.

In the end, Francis won. The gelding was a far better sprinter than Arthur's Cob. Francis was waiting for them under a large oak tree; reins slack as he let the horse catch his breath. Arthur's eyes once more dropped to Francis' thighs, resting on either side of the animal. At least his flushed face hid his blush.

Of course, Francis had prepared a string of taunts for the loser. Unfortunately, he didn't have time to use them.

Arthur gave his horse a firm, grateful pat on his sweaty neck and dismounted, before moving to Francis and grabbing his waist. Francis slapped at his hands.

"Merde! What are you doing?"

"I helped you get on the horse. Now I'm helping you get off."

"Oh." Francis stopped struggling, and all but jumped from the saddle, knocking Arthur backwards onto the shady grass.

He groaned as dull pain thudded along his back. "You bastard. The fuck did you do that for?"

Francis simply pushed Arthur's sweaty hair back from his face. "Shut up," he said as his lips met Arthur's, "loser."

Arthur would have hit him, but it was easier to humour the git. For now. He rested his hand gently on Francis' back as they kissed, the resting horses looking on in slight confusion as to why they were receiving no attention.