Arthur Kirkland really didn't have company over often, if at all, despite there being two chairs build for a table to sit two. His little solitude was rarely even mentioned by him at all, and if you asked, he'd simply say "Oh, I'm going on holiday." and that would be the end of it. Nonetheless, his little solitude was real, for once, and was located in one of the last forests that still manage to stand in his nearly treeless country only managing to exist because because of the oath his brother signed many years prior. It wasn't too big and certainly not lavish, as he had made an effort to exclude all forms of modern technology from reaching any crevice of the home or "spoiling artifacts," as he liked to call it. Upon reflection, he could only recall having only one other person to visit regularly, but then again, his old mind could hardly manage to separate delusion from reality. He was starting to come on in years, his clock constantly ticking to a point where he didn't know if it'd ever stop. Stubborn and old as he was, the home still held the inner treads of his youth, tied in awkward knots that were dispersed around earlier renovations of the place.
The foundation was built solely by his hands, be young or old, and managed to stand for around 600 some years at the oldest parts and a mere 30 years in the newest additions. Nevertheless, he was constantly editing and revising, just as he would with his writing, nothing ever seeming good enough for the aged man, whom always played the role of the perfectionist. The furniture was plain and simple; he had worn cloths and rugs scattered throughout, dwelling a hint of a medieval air. He had added certain rooms to address his needs as they came up, some including a small kitchen with very little utensils, a parlor that had many bookcases lined neatly across the wall with a grand fireplace that served as the house's main source of heat. A small bedroom in the attic with a large window that looked out to the forest to which he found peace in watching the rain. A workshop for further renovations, and three huge storage rooms where he kept what little of his life he could salvage. These rooms were designed with delicate care and displayed a tone of either simplicity or complexity, depending on the era it had been created, which he marked with wooden scratches on the wall; one or two horizontal scratches marked the millennium, several vertical scratches marked the century, a neat pattern of diagonal scratches marked the decade, and a single Roman numeral marked the year. This method of aging the place was used by the him since the day he had laid down his first board, and it was easy to tell by the clarity and crispness of the markings when the room was created, even without a thought to the code.
Despite the large array of rooms that he had built over the centuries, he never seemed to occupy each one of them equally as he had done in his earlier years, like when he would lay out blueprints for a new machine or conduct experiments in his little workshop during the shift to industry that enlightened his country in the 19th century. Nowadays, he will spend his time clicking at his typewriter or listening to the rainfall with a book inside the biggest room of his solitude - the library. The ceiling of said library was rich in height, almost as if it were competing with the trees, and books were stocked in every crevice and crack and corner. Hundreds of genres from fairy tales to encyclopedias didn't merely line the walls - they made the walls. Save for a trap door that led to an underground passage, books were also stored beneath the floorboards; however, these were mostly the Englishman's most despised works to which he stomped on angrily when the mood striked. You could call it an organized chaos, as he knew where nearly every single book was located. If the solitude were his foundation, the library would be his heart. No place in the room was immune to the vast amounts of literature save for one tiny corner that was home to a large rocking chair with a footrest that peered out a large window. Complex with an air of simplicity, those who were to visit the Englishman's home would be in a state of utter awe. That is, if more than one person knew of the place and was allowed to come and visit.
Despite the wonderful accommodies that the man had designed to fit him perfectly in this almost fairy-tale like home, he rarely visited. Duty calls back in London, where he served a minor position in the English government. Actually, he was the government, but it was because of this that he was never allowed to make many large scale decisions. When subtracted from his everyday occupation, that of a police chief, the constant rush left him with twenty vacation days in which he almost always spent in his solitude. And it was he sat now, quietly reading while his companion stood before an easel, somehow interested in the forest landscape that could be seen from the library's window.
Francis Bonnefoy hadn't intended to stay for as long as he had. There were so many other things he knew he could be doing with his time, like organizing his mountains of paperwork that cluttered his office and perhaps even filling some of it out and turning it in on time for once. Yet, the Frenchman could always come up with some colorful excuse to spend his days at the island just near to him, which he liked to tell himself was purely out of jealousy of the more successful nation to which his own seemed to be crumbling beneath his feet. Of course he'd never tell anyone; he had far too much pride for anything of that sort. Still, every time he found he had nowhere to be or perhaps many places to go, he'd somehow wind up in England. Sometimes he'd simply peruse the historical landmarks that dotted the nation and not even pay any word to his dear enemy, maybe just to listen to the soft echoes of London rain. Other times, like this one, he'd wind up staying at Arthur's quiet home in the northern part of his country where the latter could be seen with his nose buried in a book for hour after timeless hour. Their routine was always the same; Francis would enter without knocking, brew some coffee in the almost desolate kitchen, and then enter the library to find the other immersed in some leather bound story or, occasionally, typing away at his old typewriter which he insists is due to fall apart any day. True, Francis secretly adored the Englishman's massive book collection, but there were other times where he wished Arthur would put down the book and pay attention to him. He moved from his post where he had been attempting to paint the forest landscape that was so beautifully laid out for him through the library's window. They had been working in silence for the past hours, as they always had, with Francis sipping a freshly brewed coffee while Arthur enjoyed his afternoon tea. Unfortunately, Francis had quite a limited attention span, and he quickly grew bored.
"What story are you so absorbed into now?" the Frenchman spoke softly into the other's ear from behind his chair.
"One of dull interest," Arthur dryly replied, more to himself than to his companion.
"Hm," Francis hummed, "That's a shame." He lightly rested his chin in the mess of choppy blonde hair.
Arthur sighed through his nose, closing the book with such a force that was not delicate, but couldn't be called slamming. He'd hardly ever damage book, no matter how poorly it had been written. The story was, he noted, another one to add to his floorboard collection.
"Does this mean you're no longer occupied?" Francis lightly wrapped his arms around the annoyed reader, "I could make better use of your time."
Arthur snorted, "That is insulting to literature."
"Not to bad literature." He innocently trailed his lips along the others neck, soft kisses at first but then with added flicks of his tongue. He never did like to be kept waiting.
Surprised, Arthur's breath caught in the dusty air. Francis smirked at his reaction, side stepping so that he faced Arthur eye to eye. "Too soon?"
Arthur gritted his teeth. He could have strangled him, forced that too-prideful grin off his stupid well-groomed face, or pulled that silky blonde hair until he yelped. Instead, Arthur found that he couldn't exactly ignore the impending erection that begged for attention under his Francis' jeans. He tended to forget just how beautiful his companion was, and how damn sensual he could be when he acted in this way. He tugged at the other's sweater and forced him into a strong kiss and finally – finally! – put down the book. Francis smiled into the kiss, pulling away for a moment to kiss along his jawline before returning to his lips as he forcefully yet somehow gracefully pulled him from the chair. He paused, pausing for a moment before trailing his fingers down Arthur's arms, causing goose bumps to rise beneath the fabric. Francis enjoyed playing in this way: making his lover silently beg.
"If you're going to interrupt me, at least make good use of my time," Arthur growled, desire laced in his voice, he too the picture of impatience. With this, Francis complied, pushing him against the wooden wall, which creaked slightly at the sudden force. He kissed the Englishman more harshly, his tongue competing against the other's as he unfastened the buttons on Arthur's jeans, promptly kneeling before him and taking Arthur's cock in his mouth. Having known him for several hundred lifetimes, Francis liked to believe he alone knew all the secrets to making Arthur's mind reel in pleasure, and he wasn't far off the mark. A few subtle swipes of his tongue and slow rhythem of his sucking sent Arthur into a fervor of small moans, a minor blow to his dwindling pride.
"More," he panted when he could catch his breath, "Please Francis..."
It was a game that they'd play – a battle of personal wins and losses and all of the wonderful things that made each of them unique. A game in which they both found themselves with a such heavy desire that it didn't matter who won or lost - only that they could feel each other's closeness; a feeling that they both so desperately yearned for, if only for a moment. Arthur let his eyes fall full lidded, grabbing a handful of the Frenchman's hair and quietly moaned his lover's name. He could feel himself become weaker and more entranced with every movement Francis made in his favor, and he struggled to keep on his feet. Soon, perhaps too soon, Arthur's many strings of thought entwined in a beautiful tangle of pleasure as he released himself into his lover's mouth. Francis milked him through his orgasm, feeling rather satisfied with his work. Everything to Francis was a work of art and required a balance of perfection and creativity, all of which was reflected on Arthur's face, a lovely sight with his eyes half lidded and his knees weak with fulfilled desire. His fists clenched as the view of the ceiling of books faded in and out of view, his vision turning white. Content, Arthur slid down the old wall which groaned behind his back; he was an absolute mess, but a beautiful one nonetheless.
"Amour," Arthur whispered in his companion's language, "What did I do to deserve you?"
Francis chuckled, pressing a kiss to his parted lips that still panted softly from his pleasure, "Nothing. I stole you."
"Yes yes," Arthur dismissed, leaning his head on the Frenchman's shoulder, "I knew there was a reason I kept inviting you here."