AN: My first posted story on FFnet, and it's a Frain drabble rather than FrUK. Eh, they're plenty cute...Let me know if there are any grammar/formatting issues, give constructive criticism, and enjoy?
It has often been said that friends make the best lovers. The cliché, like many of its kind, seems to be well-based in reason.
Francis rests his chin in his palm, leaning against the arm of the couch and staring absently at the beige curtains a few feet in front of him. Love is a strange emotion, full of hidden depths. No, not infatuation, the feelings that burst in one's chest like a flame and then flicker out just as quickly. Infatuation is trivial to a near-immortal like him; Francis likes to consider himself beyond such simplistic things, or at least beyond mistaking such a transient feeling for real.
Infatuation hardly matters. What Francis is contemplating is love; the kind everyone seems to be searching for but only a relative few find permanently. The kind between soul mates, even. The kind that—
"What are you thinking?" Antonio's voice interrupts his reverie. Francis looks up and meets lazy green eyes with a smile and a soft hum. He's woken up, then. Francis has no idea how the Spaniard manages to contort into such positions in his sleep, but the man who was once sitting on the other end of the couch is now sprawled comfortably across the fluffy blue cushions, bare feet resting in Francis's lap. He doesn't really mind.
"Nothing much," he replies honestly. Antonio tilts his head, pokes Francis's knee with his big toe. If it were anyone else, Francis would have pushed them away with a frown. As is, he only sets his hand over Antonio's ankle and squeezes lightly.
"Tell me anyway," he insists. Francis chuckles.
"You're such a child, cher...I suppose I'll indulge you this once."
Still, no matter what Francis says, whether he scolds or teases or rolls his eyes with affected exasperation, they both know full well he'll always yield to those warm eyes and carefree smile. Antonio is his biggest weakness—always has been, ever since they were little and the other boy first begged him to come play tag in a forest that no longer exists.
"I was thinking about love," he says at last, forcing himself out of the nostalgia that comes with the memories. How silly of him—how maudlin! He doesn't even have the excuse of being drunk; he hasn't had a single sip of wine today, hasn't had alcohol in almost a week, strange as it is (but then again, maybe he is drunk—drunk on bright grins and tenderly whispered Spanish and casual mornings spent in nothing but a t-shirt and Antonio's warm arms; and who would have thought the two biggest playboys of Europe could settle into domesticity so easily?).
And there he goes again, losing himself in fuzzy thoughts. Francis is lucky Antonio's so patient; the brunet is still looking at him, lips quirked up with amusement. Finally, he clears his throat and elaborates,
"Real love, and the forms it shows itself in, I suppose. Romantic, familial, spiritual…On one level, the possibility of finding all three with the same person, and of being able to sustain them for more than a brief time, seems practically impossible. And yet...here we are."
"Here we are," Antonio agrees. He pauses, sits up a little more. His soft white shirt shifts up a little, exposing a hint of well-muscled abdomen. Once upon a time, it made Francis jealous—now he adores it, lavishes it with kisses and tender caresses more nights than not.
He misses his lover's next question and has to ask Antonio to repeat himself, something that makes the Spaniard's normally smooth brow furrow and his eyes flicker with the slightest doubt. "Does it bother you?"
But this time, Francis doesn't even have to think.
"Not at all," he says. He reaches over to take Antonio's warm, work-callused hand in his own soft one; these days, Francis only has a writer's callus, and even that has begun to disappear as he grows to depend on computers more and more for his work. Their fingers intertwine with ease (impeded only by the brief rasp of two gold rings brushing against each other, and that's not an obstacle but proof of their promise), and Antonio's momentary worry seems to disappear entirely as Francis adds, "You know I adore you, cheri." When their eyes meet, the truth is more than clear.
"I know," the Spaniard murmurs, meeting Francis in the middle when he goes in for a light kiss. Afterwards, both of them return to their own activities; Antonio to his nap and Francis to his private thoughts. They don't need any more than that.
Maybe they're soul mates, maybe not. But they're certainly best friends, and maybe...maybe it all means the same thing. Maybe that's what having a soul mate is—having someone with whom the silences are never uncomfortable, and anything that needs to be conveyed can be communicated with a simple touch or a kiss. Besides, in the end…does it even matter? Best friends, lovers, soul mates, or all three; Francis is happier now than he's ever been.