Arthur lay in bed, musing to himself. He was musing about a subject that occurred to him quite often nowadays, the subject of his greatest enemy, his oldest friend, his… Lover. The word felt strange on Arthur's tongue, he had never even thought about loving Francis before. Their relationship was one of hate, of violence, not of love. The closest they came to that was their occasional one-night stands, where one of them would always leave before the other woke up. Because they both knew, deep in their hearts, that sex isn't always about love, and hate is just another form of passion.

But in the last few decades, something had changed. They'd been through two world wars, and more had changed in the past hundred years than they ever could have expected. And suddenly, there were no more great European wars that lasted for ages, and the conflict between the two of them was reduced to arguments and fistfights. Eventually, (with a lot more fighting along the way) that evolved into the give and take of love, though neither of them knew it for what it was. The rest of the world wasn't shocked by them getting together; Alfred and Matthew had given them their blessing (in fact, Arthur remembered, Alfred had said something along the lines of "It's great to have Mom and Dad together again. Like a real family." And of course, Arthur had hit him on principal then blushed on instinct) and everyone else claimed they knew it would happen eventually. Hate was not the opposite of love, not at all.

So Arthur sat in bed, still feeling slightly dirty from what had happened before he and Francis fell asleep, but too lethargic to go take a nice cold shower. He cradled Francis' head over the coverlet in his lap and ran his fingers gently through the golden waves of hair, untangling it slowly. He knew Francis was asleep; could hear his deep, steady breathing. It calmed him, a reassurance that he would be there in the morning. That even with everything changing, this would stay the same, Arthur and Francis, lying in bed while the sun longed to peek over the horizon, but couldn't while the moon and stars still illuminated the velvet sky.

He luxuriated in the silky smooth feel of Francis' hair, glad that the man was asleep so he wouldn't wake up and tease Arthur about being a secret romantic. The shimmering waves fell through his fingers, and Arthur smiled softly to himself. This was a side of Francis that was purely his, this Francis that slept quietly and clutched whoever was near him. This peaceful face, unmarred by the tragedies over the years.

Arthur knew that in a few minutes he'd fall asleep as well, his eyes were beginning to drift shut already. He knew that Francis would end up moving in his sleep, and his head would migrate off Arthur's lap to behind his shoulder. And Arthur would be spared the humiliation of Francis completely understanding the depths of his love. Because, to Arthur, love was something that if it was articulated, wasn't as magical. As real. So he never said it, but he knew Francis knew it. Felt it in his touch, saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice…

And Arthur fell asleep, dreaming of Francis' cerulean eyes staring into his own, and the warm weight on his lap disappeared suddenly, a lighter one replacing it, crossing across his chest. But he managed to murmur three words before he slipped off into unconsciousness, three words he couldn't recall saying so clearly ever before.

Francis let Arthur move his head into his lap, held in a grin when his lover began to comb through his hair. He enjoyed these late night half-cuddles, even though Arthur would never admit to them. He made sure to breathe slowly and evenly, so Arthur would still believe him to be asleep. The sun hadn't risen yet, and he knew that Arthur would end up asleep before it did. It made him wonder; did the man have a pathological fear of falling asleep first? He acted like he was sleeping, then when he thought Francis was truly asleep, began to comb through his hair or trace patterns on his face, or something equally romantic.

Francis kept up his façade, because he knew that for some odd reason, Arthur was embarrassed by open displays of affection. They seemed to make love less real for him, like it was just something to parade around. Francis had no problem with publicizing their relationship, but he respected the wishes of his lover. He wouldn't tease Arthur about being a romantic either, although Arthur was sure that he would. His cher always did assume the worst, a trait Francis found rather endearing. It made Arthur jealous, and a jealous Arthur was a hot Arthur.

So Francis pretended to sleep. It was just easier that way, for the both of them. Francis knew he was loved, even if Arthur rarely said it aloud-or where others could hear him. Francis respected his quirks, after all, opposites attract. Francis preached about love all the time, so it was necessary that Arthur did the opposite.
But he was dumbfounded when Arthur finally fell asleep, because he distinctly said three words, three beautiful words Francis had been waiting to hear for centuries… And as Arthur said those words, Francis moved his head off Arthur's lap and snaked his arm around Arthur's torso instead, pulling the one he loved close to him.

And as Arthur's words still echoed in his mind, Francis beamed. He knew it. All along he knew it. Because Arthur's three words had been, undeniably…

I love you.

Authoress' Random Ramble

This came to me when I realized that I'd never consciously used the word 'luxuriated' in a fanfic before (and that I don't write nearly enough FrUk). So I constructed this to specifically use that word :D

I own nothing, sadly, and if you have any more words you want me to know, just drop me a review! (hint hint)

Less than three. Less than three