The soft sound of pencil strokes on thick parchment paper was a soothing one. Just the right amount of noise to assure Arthur that Francis wasn't just mindlessly ogling at him from his current standpoint on the opposite of the chaise lounge, pad of paper in hand and his long blond hair pulled back away from his face in a messy almost strategically careless manner. When it came down to it Arthur couldn't remember exactly how he'd ended up doing this. This being sprawling out in an easy and supposedly provocative pose on Francis' chaise lounge, nude except for the gentle swath of silk draped haphazardly over his lap and tangled with his legs. A glass of wine was still held loosely with the younger of the two men's fingertips caressing the rim.
If Arthur hadn't been so relaxed, lazily watching Francis drawing him, he might have had half the thought to complain about him taking so long or that he was getting cold. It was a tad nippy in the room, though the open French doors letting in a warm lull of a French countryside night was creating a very pleasant mixture of chill and warmth. With a languid movement, Arthur raised the glass up to his lips and took a short sip of the deep red alcohol in it. As there was no complaint from Francis upon his movement, the Englishman gave a satisfied hum from deep in his throat and kept the glass raised on the chance he might take another sip soon.
A pause in the other blonde's drawing was surprising and quickly noted by the Englishman. He watched Francis' closely for several long silent moments where all that could be heard was the old clock ticking and tocking on the wall and the cry of crickets somewhere out on the balcony. Their gazes, blue to green and green to blue, were locked in this time as Francis held his pencil in an off-handed grip between his fingers as he ran his thumb absently over his bottom lip. It was an almost perplexing sight to Arthur who was almost all too taken for his own good by the calculated look the Frenchman was giving him. It spoke far too many words for just a simple glance.
When no signal was given for Arthur to stand the man settled once more and let his gaze wander away to the open windows as he took a another sip from his drink. He almost felt impatient. It was a fleeting thought but a thought all the same on why Francis so insisted on doing this. It seemed like something right out of a cheesy American romance novel—two lovers escape off to a small retreat home in the French countryside where nobody can find them… There's wine and slow dancing and star gazing and in the deep dead of the night where only the soft glow of the candles is their witness, the artistic romanticist illustrates a stunning art piece of their mate with careful attention to detail! It was something they'd done over and over, and over once more in these long years and neither had dared to question it out-loud; As far as Arthur was concerned he supposed he could let the sleeping dog lie.
In an almost hesitant way, Francis flipped the pencil back around to continue drawing. The way those clear blue eyes of his seemed to not just be looking but really seeing had a special kind of effect on Arthur that he would never have the audacity or lack of pride to say to the other man's face or even to himself. He really did love it though. It was a satisfying thing—to know that someone is not just observing you but taking in what you look like as if you were the Mona Lisa of the physical world. And from the sharp eyed but borderline loving looks that Francis was giving Arthur, the younger of the two could clearly tell he was more than just the Mona Lisa to the Frenchman. So much more.
It was by the time that Arthur had polished off the last of his wine glass, green eyes still focused but slightly glazed, that Francis finally set both the pencil and the notebook down and got up to come closer to the lounging man. Running one hand back through Arthur's hair and then tracing it forward along his jaw line and to his chin, Francis pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of Arthur's lips while slipping the emptied glass from his hands and going to set it a safe distance away near the bucket of ice housing the wine. The ice had already successfully melted down to mostly water; the state of the ice was not of any concerns to the two of them at the time.
Fingers tapping, running together, and curling and twining with Francis' own as Arthur gave a wordless call for his attention again, a sigh of contempt managed to find its way into the world from the longer haired blond who had an unreadable smile twixing the corners of his lips up minutely. Moving back to Arthur, Francis went to his knees by the settee, firmly clasping one of Arthur's hands between both of his own as they sat looking at one another.
It was all so quiet. Not as if they truly needed to speak in times like this. The two older men never really needed to speak while they were here in this house. It was as if they stepped past the threshold and everything melted into a silent comfort where no hurtful words or mean-spirited jokes were said yet no desperate cries of 'I love you' were thrown into the dark either. The perfect kind of balance that was brought about in this place was simply because they were being together.
When Francis tentatively kissed Arthur's knuckles it was a damp kiss, leaving the barest traces of wetness on Arthur's pale and fairly calloused hand. The gesture made the cold a little colder on Arthur's skin and caused gooseflesh to prick up along his bare arms, his shoulders rolling back slightly with the chill. When green eyes flickered to the abandoned sketchbook a nod from the former artist was given. He was done drawing. A minute inclination of the head, several golden strands of hair falling into his face, was a clear question. Would you like to see it, mon cher? A nod was given in return.
Francis stood slowly, taking his time to get up up off his knees. The sketching book was recovered from its spot and brought back for Arthur see in stately timing. Pulling the silk covering up over his exposed lap, Arthur took the book gladly with no protest to Francis running a hand over the curve of his torso to his hip. A pleased smile came across his features, thick dark blonde eyebrows arching up to give Arthur the slight air of someone who was more than just happy with themselves. He swore Francis was never more truthful with anything—his illustrations of Arthur were always spot on yet still hauntingly beautiful in a way that the Englishman couldn't really describe. Most would just accuse him or narcissism in the end probably.
Although there was always one thing that Arthur had admitted to being appreciative about when it came to Francis drawing him; that admittance had always been in reference to how the Frenchman drew his eyebrows. Not too exaggerated but not downplayed. It was just that perfect somewhere in the middle that made Arthur look particularly comely. Who wouldn't love that?
A motion of a single finger brought Francis closer to Arthur, and as a result close enough for Arthur to press his lips tenderly to the other man's as he put the sketchbook to the side. Perfect as always François is what this said. The kiss was returned, Francis' lips parted but not begging for anything except for the kiss to keep going as the man shifted to get comfortable with Arthur. After all, he would need to be with how this was going. The younger blond was content to just meld his lips to Francis' and tug the clip in the Frenchman's hair out to let the soft gently curled locks tumble around his shoulder. With a couple more quick and careful movements Arthur had made room for Francis to comfortably lay on top of him on the chaise, kiss never breaking as this happened.
As if Arthur hadn't been having enough trouble keeping his eyes open while resting back relaxed and watching Francis, he couldn't help but close his eyes now. It always was strange to keep one's eyes open when kissing anyways. So the two did close their eyes—even if they didn't so much want to as feel the need to. The feel of soft hands running down the sides of his stomach and over onto his back and further downward made Arthur arch his back instinctively, and the short puff of air Francis proceeded to release through his nose was near enough to make Arthur give a small chuckle.
When Francis' lips left Arthur's to trail along his jaw and down to the soft of his throat, the emerald eyed blonde gave a breathy exhale and tilted his head back. Still no tongue was used, but the feeling of lips and the occasional glance of teeth on his skin was a sort of pure yet decadently sinful sort of pleasure enough to make Arthur card his fingers into the man's hair and drag his fingers gently across his scalp.
Small dull love-marks, no doubt ones that would have faded away come morning light, were left in various spots over Arthur's neck as Francis' hands went from massaging Arthur's hips to a more sensual course along his upper legs and thighs. Tracing his fingertips along skin currently covered in silk, the Frenchman gave a deep throated but almost inaudible laugh comparable to the first spring breeze. When an insistent tug on his hair was felt, Francis lifted his head to look at Arthur questioningly, a finely arched eyebrow raised and that cryptic smile still in place.
Arthur could almost feel the annoyance rising at Francis' smile but it was tapped down by the overwhelming need to get the Frenchman out of his clothing. There we qualms with this either. Francis even seemed to know just by the pink cheeked look on Arthur's face that he wanted Francis to remove his clothing—which Francis was now trying to do, but the sudden presence of the Englishman's hands made it hard. So that's how it was going to be, said the sly and amused look on Francis' face. When Arthur pursed his lip and sat up a bit more, fingers slowly working at the buttons of the Frenchman's dress shirt, the answer was revealed. Yes, of course.
As each button was slipped from its hole and the fine cotton of Francis' shirt pushed farther apart, Arthur grew a bit jittery. They sure weren't the young men they'd once been but he couldn't say that Francis hadn't managed to stay in-shape. He wasn't cut, but not slim or slender like the pretty lady-things he'd always been so famous for chasing after. Arthur let himself get caught up his thoughts as he ran his hands over Francis' collarbones and along his shoulders before finally and almost too slowly pushing the man's shirt off.
Another capture kiss was brought to being as Francis slid his arms out of the shirt sleeves and leaned into Arthur. It was a little more aggressive than the kiss before, lips pressing harder and the occasional nip of the lip thrown into the mix. Slowly Arthur reclined back down onto the chaise again, bringing Francis down with him so they could lie together again. A breathless exhale seemed to pass between the two as they moved against one another on the lounge, the silk covering over Arthur's lower body being lost to the floor as Francis slipped his pants off slowly but surely.
A steady buzz still fluttering around Arthur's head kept him from doing anything too impressive like trying to roll onto Francis and throw them both on the floor on accident or some other awful thing that would certainly ruin the mood. He was just drunk enough to feel more sensitive and open but Arthur Kirkland liked to think himself a man of reason and logic in comparison to the emotion and passion of the older man currently licking his bottom lip lightly. The warm wet glide of a tongue was whole-heartedly accepted by the British man who even went so far as to push his own tongue back against Francis' in a vaguely excited manner.
This was a kind of kiss usually saved for the messy and rushed encounters in hotel rooms after particularly stressful meetings or for a bout of anger fueled sex when an argument broke out between the two and biting words and fists just weren't enough. Very rarely did they kiss like this here in this place where only peace was allowed. When Arthur had inquired Francis about it when they were working on paperwork together back in the 'real world' the man had paused a moment and said that it just wasn't right for the place and the time. Of course Arthur had bickered about the name of the kissing style and how the time or place had never bothered Francis before, but it all came back to the fact Arthur quite liked when Francis kissed him like that.
And so while the kiss lasted Arthur enjoyed it; he drew it out for as long as he could until Francis pulled away to catch his breath. By this time the Englishman was sure his face and shoulders were probably flushed a nice shade of pink. Judging by the faint pink blush dusting Francis' face Arthur could guess that his assumptions were entirely correct. Francis was by no means an easy-blusher. Meanwhile, Arthur's face turned 60 shades of Red just when he was mad. As the Frenchman had once said- Arthur's face was more colorful than his wardrobe.
A hand caught the band of Francis' boxer-briefs and gave a good firm tug downward, successfully exposing the Frenchman to to Arthur at last. When even this was thrown off to the floor, there was nothing left between the two of them. This was noted happily as Francis settled back down flush on top of Arthur, once again pleased that they were the same height as it made things like this so much easier. The longer haired blond pressed his face into Arthur's neck with a wordless whisper, mouth against the tender skin of the man's throat as he let his lips move delicately down to the sensitive area where Arthur's jugular, Adam's apple, and windpipe were and mouthing the silent phrase again.
Je T'aime. The borderline moan of a hum that resonated from Arthur was enough for Francis.
I love you too.