A Lovesick Dream
A white cloud emerged from between his pale lips, rising in the cold and torn apart by the wind. Arthur stuck his hands deep in his pockets. He settled his chin deeper into his muffler and allowed his feet to carry him wherever they pleased. Francis next to him didn't mind at all. He followed Arthur, a step behind or a step before, his silk scarf trailing behind him like an excited shadow.
People bustled by them, all in winter clothing. Though snow hinted to fall all morning, not a single flake had kissed the ground. The sun poked through a layer of dense, smooth clouds. The streetlamps were turned on, even though it was far from being nighttime. Francis watched the people flow past, like fish in a stream. A woman with downcast doe eyes blushed when she neared the large Frenchman. Next to her a friend giggled, hiding between a mass of blonde hair. Francis shot them a charming smile. Arthur's eyes slid across the cobbled stones at their feet and greeted Francis with a half-jealous glare.
"Don't be so sour." Francis said laughingly.
"I am not sour." Arthur said crossly, not meaning a word of it.
"Jealousy can rot any heart."
Arthur rolled his bright green eyes. His dense eyebrows rose, partially hiding under his shock of hair.
"Oh, I forgot, you are the poet." Francis said, casually applying force to the pronoun therein.
The poet, Arthur, only faintly responded with a light nod of his head. He stopped before a café, breathing in the rich scent of coffee. He opened the door. A wave of warmth crashed against him. A waitress greeted the two and offered a table near a window, where they could watch the lake below. Arthur and Francis agreed, shedding their coats, and sitting on the circular black table. The lake had frozen over with a thick layer of ice. A pair of children skated across its surface, falling into the powdery snow left behind from the previous day. Footprints spiraled around the lake in a wild dance.
Their coffee came, steaming before them. Arthur picked his up and took a nimble sip, his lips pursed and hardly wrinkled. Francis leaned back in his chair. He listened intently to the music playing in the dimly lit space. Everything had reached a spot of peaceful hush within the café. There was no more stress or haste. That all flicked by the windows. The music was Chopin, though Francis couldn't tell which piece. A black bird, a raven, flashed by the window: blink and you'll miss it.
"You haven't told me yet about your novel." Francis said. "You always stay locked up in your room. I can hear you typing madly, but not a word of it has left the pages."
Arthur frowned. Without his muffler or jacket, he seemed several times smaller. He had a stocky build and average height. However something about his stature gave the illusion that he was a small, cunning, wicked man. Francis considered this briefly, while Arthur debated whether or not to reveal the plot of his story. Francis conjectured that perhaps the color of Arthur's eyes: like venom, was the cause of this. When he looked into those eyes, though, he saw the rich color of trees and the huge life they possessed.
"I suppose it doesn't hurt to tell you. I doubt you'll steal it." Arthur said, intending a joke. "The story is called Something Wicked This Way Comes, a line from Macbeth as you know. It's about a woman who, after hearing a concerto, is so filled with passion that anything she does or sees excites her. She is tempted to do both great good and great evil. At one point a man murders her brother. As she is so extraordinarily overflowing with vigor she decides to have her revenge on said man."
Francis nodded slowly, taking a sip from his coffee. "I see. You have a theme of great passion and revenge nicely laced into one. What concerto is it, if I may ask?"
"It's Sibelius' Violin Concerto."
"Yes, I can see how that piece can make anyone mad with passion, as you put it."
"I listen to it whenever I write. At least, I try to."
"It suits you. You are a passionate man. To make art you need to have passion, and therefore you must suffer." Francis couldn't remember exactly who he had quoted. The phrase leaped from his mind eagerly, leaving behind the memory of its origins. He fought to recall. He couldn't and gave up the chase. He settled back in his chair and called a waitress to bring him a slice of chocolate cake, the day's special. He turned back to Arthur. "How far are you along?"
"I've reached the second Act." Arthur replied. "I've written the set-up for her motivation and I've explained that their world is different. They don't have a moon and their sun is white. I thought I would add some surrealism, since we don't always see the world for what it is. Now I'm moving on to her discovering her brother's dead body, the critical point of this act. I don't know what she'll do with it though."
"Maybe she could grieve over it. You could overplay her grief, make it seem like Achilles had lost his dearest friend. A handful of ash on her head might not be bad."
"That's good."
Arthur curled his lower lip in and bit it, as he did when he craved a cigarette or an alcoholic beverage. He didn't drink much anymore and he scarcely smoked. Francis had learned he suffered from spells of great desire, often when something troubled him.
"How do you think she'll plan to kill that man?" Francis asked.
Time ticked by, singing a slow, sweet song. The waitress arrived with the cake. Francis dipped his fork into it. It glided smoothly, as if the cake was made from air or silk. He took a bite. It was delicious, but not quite what he expected. It lacked sugar. Francis polished the cake off and asked for the bill, and still Arthur did not reply.
Arthur downed the rest of the coffee, which had gone stale, and frowned again. "I don't know yet."
"Is that why you wanted me to walk with you? Sometimes it's good to leave the house for inspiration."
Instead of responding, Arthur cast him a strange look, like a cornered animal.
Francis paid the bill. After they gathered their belongings, they continued their walk. Arthur this time walked closer to Francis. Francis watched Arthur's hand hover over his pocket, as if pondering, and then drop to his side, his fingers spread out and trembling.
"We can go watch a movie if you want." Francis offered.
Arthur shook his head.
"What do you want to do?"
Silence reigned. Arthur took several steps ahead and led Francis through the city. He took several decided turns. He took long detours and ended up in a nearly abandoned portion of town. The roads were free of garbage and people alike. The building's blind eyes stared into the gray sky. A light snow began to fall and peck Francis's cheeks. Arthur finally came to a stop before a large building with drooping, rectangular windows. Arthur fumbled for a key from his pocket. His hands continued to shake. He pushed the door open and Francis stepped inside.
It was a ballroom.
The floors were swept and empty. Several chairs and tables remained stacked along the corners. But, undoubtedly, it was a ballroom. The floor was colored gold and red, a floor made to be danced on. The ceiling was high and arced. Several chandeliers hung. It had been used in the past two weeks or so, but not sooner. Francis surveyed the scene while Arthur went to the back, where the music was kept. An old record player leaned against the wall. Arthur pulled a large vinyl disk and blew the dust from its surface.
"You can dance, can't you?" He asked.
Francis nodded. "Of course, what do you think?"
"Then would you mind if you taught me?" Arthur asked, his cheeks burning.
"What music will you put on?" Francis asked, pulling his jacket off. Arthur had already tossed his on a nearby couch.
"How about Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty Waltz?"
"Sounds perfect, Arthur."
Arthur put the record on and lithely marched to Francis. Francis was roughly the same height. He went to place his hand on Arthur's shoulder, to play the part of the woman, but Arthur gently took his hand and placed it on his hip. Francis watched as Arthur placed the correct hand on his shoulder and clasped Francis's arm with the other.
"It looks like you already know what you're doing." Francis tried to say, but he could only grunt. Suddenly his heart was threatening to fly out of his chest.
Francis led Arthur through several steps. Arthur already knew how to waltz, apparently, but Francis still was unable to speak. They waltzed to the high-energy pace that grew more romantic and tender as it continued. The violins sung beautifully, as though in a lovesick dream.
Arthur stared intently at Francis.
"I didn't bring you out to talk about my novel. I wanted to talk about something else."
"What would that be?"
"I wanted to say that I have become enamored with you." His formal shoes tapped with the rhythm. Francis barely focused on the dance, unable to comprehend what Arthur was telling him. Arthur moved delicately to the Russian music which would then switch to the Swan Lake Waltz, an even dreamier piece.
"Is that true?" Francis asked. He was the man of romance and he barely understood what Arthur was getting across. Arthur nodded at him.
"Do you feel the same way towards me?"
"For a long time, yes."
Arthur's eyelashes fluttered and his gaze became blurry. The focused on Francis's eyes, his lips parting slightly. Francis bent down as the music began to fade. He could see nothing but Arthur. He kissed him, gently, and pulled back, still dancing.
"I feel like a…" but Arthur couldn't continue. His hand slid to the base of Francis's head and pulled him in once more. The lovesick violins continued to chant. All else faded away but the softly falling snow and the feel of Arthur's lips.
I do not own Hetalia
After listening to music for a few hours I felt like writing this lovey-dovey mush.