Lover Undercover
What surprised Arthur the most about Francis was his inability to accept love when it was offered to him. For how much he claimed to be the master romancer, for how much he would flirt and find his way in to the beds of others, it was all meaningless.
Arthur observed Francis to be very careful about being truly emotional with anyone, always just skating on the surface, and quick to end things when they got too serious.
"There was no real chemistry", he'd say sadly. "We just lost our spark," he's shrug with a guilty smile playing on his lips. "We just weren't right for each other," he would wistfully sigh.
Arthur would watch Francis flit from one hollow relationship to the next, his natural scowl evolving in to a worried frown. He found himself wondering if Francis was real with anyone, romantic or platonic.
"You need to take care of yourself, you bloody idiot," he said to Francis during one of their moments of civility.
Francis laughed, his voice carefully manipulated to remind others of chiming bells – ever the charmer. Arthur knew his enemy (friend?) well enough to know it was not genuine. This annoyed him.
Francis flicked his golden hair over his shoulders and offered a smirk.
"Sourcils," the charming laugh again, "whatever do you mean?"
"Never mind, frog." In hindsight, perhaps Arthur had given up too easily.
Still, the more time that passed, the more Francis seemed to slip in to an emotionally distant madness.
.
It was the end of May the first time Francis showed up at Arthur's house. In typical English fashion, rain was pouring heavily in sheets, relentlessly pounding on the window's of Arthur's house.
Arthur had almost ignored the chiming of his doorbell – who on earth would call so late in the night? – but, something made him crawl out of his nice, warm bed, slip on his housecoat, and pad down the stairs barefoot and grumbling profanities.
"Bloody hell, do you even know what-" he threw open the door to reveal a man that looked uncannily like Francis Bonnefoy. This could not be Francis, he thought, this man had none of his distinguishable, bewitching features. "-time it is?"
His hair was loose, hanging limp and plastered to his face. He was pale, skin drawn and dark circles heavy under his red-rimmed eyes. His shoulders were slouched, hands stuffed inside the pockets of an oversized, soaking sweater. There was no dazzling smile on his face, instead his mouth was thin and trembling.
He looked small.
"You look rough, mate." Arthur deadpanned, unsure of how exactly to handle finding a Frenchman on his doorstep in the middle of the night.
Francis said nothing, but choked back a sob, bringing shaking hands out of his pockets and hiding his face behind them.
Arthur watched Francis open-mouthed in shock for a moment, his shoulders were shaking, his crying progressed to uncontrollable sobs. Arthur reached out, hesitant at first, and pulled Francis out of the rain and in to the entryway of his house. He kicked the door shut and wrapped his arms around the Frenchman.
Francis immediately responded to the contact, burying his face in the crook of Arthur's neck, cold fingers clutching at the front of Arthur's bathrobe. He made no effort to mask his crying and simply clung to to the Englishman. Arthur held him, arms tightening after a few minutes. He brought one hand to lightly rest on Francis' soaking hair.
"There, there, old chap. What's all this about?" Francis shook his head against Arthur's neck in response and continued to cry. He didn't press him and stayed silent, waiting until Francis had no more tears left to shed.
They stood, wrapped up in each other, with only the sound of Francis' shuddering breaths, the rain, and Arthur's grandfather clock ticking in the drawing room nearby.
Time passed as normal, as though nothing had happened between the two. It was a full year before, again in the end of May in the dead of night, Arthur was awoken by the ringing of his doorbell.
There Francis stood like a lost child, barely controlling the grief bubbling up from whatever well he hid his emotions in.
Without words exchanged, Arthur reached for Francis and pulled him in to a tight embrace until the French nation calmed, breathing even.
Arthur lost count of how many years went by, a now unspoken tradition between the two of them. Arthur stopped going to bed at the end of May and would wait for Francis to appear when he was ready, a pot of tea brewing in the kitchen.
.
It was a chilly afternoon in the beginning of Autumn when Francis did something unexpected.
The weather was unusually sunny and Arthur sat in his drawing room, nursing a hot cuppa and reading when there was a soft tap at his door.
With a heavy sigh, he untangled himself from his wing-backed armchair and afghan and opened his front door a crack.
"Francis? What on earth-"
Francis loosened the woolen scarf that was wrapped tightly about him, revealed his nose, pink with cold, and a frown.
"Will you invite me in and out of this miserable, frozen air?" Arthur didn't think it was that cold, but he fully opened the door and stepped aside to let the French nation shuffle in.
"Are you alright?" Arthur queried, helping Francis out of his heavy coat.
"Does something need to be wrong for me to visit?" he snapped back.
"Well, you usually only..." Arthur trailed off, unable to bring himself to finish the sentence, his eyes locking on to Francis'. They stared at each other a moment, Arthur's eyebrows drawn together in concern, Francis pursing his lips. The Brit motioned towards the drawing room, and Francis went straight for Arthur's chair, tossing the book on to a nearby end table, and wrapping himself up in the blanket left there. He stared out of the window, eyes not seeing the fluttering golden leaves of the silver birch tree just outside.
Arthur, shooting a glare at the Frenchman in his special chair, slumped to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea and plate of scones.
When he returned, Francis had not moved. Arthur shoved a cup of tea in to his hands (which Francis wordlessly accepted) and curled himself up on his (less comfortable) love seat opposite (his) chair after retrieving his book.
Francis would speak if he so desired. Arthur was much too tired for a petty argument this late in the afternoon, and in his own house no less. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked away softly, the only sound aside from the turning of pages as Arthur read.
Nearly half an hour passed when Francis heaved a great sigh.
"It just makes me so mad." Arthur lowered his book and arched an eyebrow. Francis continued, "It's maddening... furieux. It makes me so... frustré... and there's nothing I can do about it."
Arthur only assumed he was referring to the most recent world meeting. Tensions were high between the the nations recently and made for less-than-pleasant gatherings.
"You appeared to blow off quite a bit of steam."
Francis waved his hand in response, "heat of the moment passion." He sighed again and fell silent.
Arthur was about to return to his book when Francis spoke again, "it's when I'm alone with my thoughts that the real anger and frustration sinks in." Arthur nodded in agreement. He stared openly at the Frenchman, book forgotten in his lap, and watched an array of emotions flit across his face as he stared out the window of Arthur's drawing room. His blue eyes glinted, lips pressed, his eyebrows furrowed. And then, within a split second, all the emotion melted away in to Francis' standard, smiling face.
"Mon dieu, I need a cigarette," he laughed.
After that, Arthur was always ready for Francis to stop by after difficult world meetings or wherever he heard something particularly nasty in French politics. He would lend Francis a sympathetic ear as he freely released the real anger that he kept bottled up inside around anyone else. He would storm around Arthur's house, sometimes complaining loudly, sometimes simply content to slam cupboard doors as he helped himself to whatever he found in Arthur's kitchen.
.
It was a blistering July day, the air so thick with the promise of rain it felt hard to breathe.
Arthur was sitting in his study, fanning himself with documents when he noticed Francis slowly strolling up the drive, the light of the setting sun creating a halo of light around his golden hair. Summer weather agreed with Francis. Arthur was taken aback for a moment by how striking the Frenchman could be amidst such humid, evening heat.
He opened the door before Francis could ring the bell. He had an entirely new expression on his face, one Arthur could not quite place.
"What is now, frog?" he spat. He hated hot weather.
"Did you miss me, rosbif?" he pushed his way past Arthur without waiting to be invited inside. "Dieu, you need to install air conditioning! No wonder your mood is so foul in the summer!"
Arthur grumbled about expenses and. 'it's not that bad and I'm not that grumpy' in response. Francis did not appear to be listening. He stared at Arthur, playful smirk fading from his face. Arthur felt the sweat from the day sliding down his temples. He could not wait to shower.
"Hold me, Arthur."
"W-what?!" He was flustered by the sudden, unusual request. He did not look to be near tears, he did not seem angry or overly distressed. Before Arthur could fully process, "what are you..." Francis closed the distance between them and slid his arms around Arthur's waist. He nuzzled his face against Arthur's collarbone "...doing?" His heart was hammering. He slowly, hesitantly, encircled his arms around the French nation's narrow shoulders.
"I'm lonely." Francis said simply against Arthur's throat. Arthur grunted in repl. He was sure that Francis could feel that his heart seemed to have jumped in to his throat, drumming against the face pressed under his chin. He smelled nice.
Arthur was sweating from more than just the summer heat as he untangled himself and gently pushed Francis away, his blue eyes looking up at him through his lashes, pouting. With shaking hands he cupped Francis' face and leaned in, brushing their lips together. Francis' breath hitched. Arthur pulled back, eyes only half open to appreciate the blush heating up the Frenchman's face and the shock in his breathtakingly blue eyes.
Then, Francis crashed his lips to Arthur's in a bruising, feverish kiss, his hands gripping tightly at the back of Arthur's shirt, arms still wrapped around him. Arthur moved to tangle his hands Francis' hair. They both fought for dominance with teeth and tongue. Francis moaned into Arthur's mouth, causing a jolt of pleasure to pulse through him so powerful his head started to buzz. He pushed Francis against the still open front door until it closed with a snap, never parting their hungry lips.
Francis was suddenly plucking open the buttons down Arthur's shirt with deft fingers and he found himself readily shrugging out of it, the clothing dropping to the floor around their feet. Arthur only broke the kiss to help Francis undress, briefly admiring him before attacking the pale flesh of his neck, biting, sucking, lapping up at the trail of purple marks he was leaving on his Frenchman. Francis tilted his head up, exposing more skin, swollen lips parting in a small 'oh'. His ran his hands over Arthur's shoulders, down his chest, up his back, his skin sticky with sweat. Francis' cool fingers and light touches causing Arthur to shiver and involuntarily rock his hips against Francis in response.
Arthur moved down Francis' neck to trail kisses along his collarbone. When he reached his throat, Francis called his name softly. Arthur pulled back, breathing heavy. Francis looked up at him with lust-filled eyes, beautiful with the trail of marks Arthur had given him. He liked seeing that, claimed territory.
Francis said nothing more, but captured Arthur's lips in a slow kiss, pouring real emotion in to it. It took Arthur's breath away.
That night they became lovers undercover. By morning Francis was gone.
.
They never spoke of their love affair.
Francis would turn up much more frequently, sometimes unannounced, sometimes when Arthur called. "Francis," was all he had to croak in to his receiver and a delicate, "I'll be right over," would be the reply followed by the click of the phone disconnecting. Within an hour they'd be a tangled mess of limbs and bed sheets, covering each other in wet kisses. They'd cling to one another in the aftermath, breathing heavy.
Arthur would wrap himself around his Frenchman, burying his nose in his hair and breathing deep of the scent he was steadily growing to love. He'd resist sleep for as long as he could, enjoying the feeling of the warm body in his arms. He knew when he woke he'd be alone again.
It became painful for Arthur to see Francis outside of his house or world meetings. He still seemed to be the same old Francis, like they weren't secret lovers. He found himself idly wondering how many beds Francis could nonchalantly find himself in. He would flirt with girls until they'd look away, pink-cheeked and giggling and he'd flirt with men, who seemed unable to form a coherent response to the forward Frenchman; but, Arthur knew it was to him, and him alone, that Francis would run to for any real emotional connection.
World meetings still consisted of their play-fighting, but their banter was rooted in something more, now. The fact that none of the other nations seemed to suspect the two of them to be romantically involved both thrilled and irritated Arthur. To anyone else other than Francis, his sour expression was simply normal.
.
It was the middle of winter when Arthur woke up before dawn, Francis' head still snuggled on his chest under his chin. In the gloom, he could make out his shoulders moving in a peaceful rise and fall of even breathing. The stubble from Francis' chin scratched at Arthur with every breath, but he didn't mind.
Dawn was breaking when Francis' eyes fluttered open, looking up to lock on to Arthur's, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Bonjour," he whispered.
"Don't go," Arthur responded.
Francis' eyes widened a fraction before he pushed himself up off Arthur's chest, sitting up with a yawn and a stretch. He was silent and he shivered as he threw his legs over the side of the bed, turning his back to Arthur. Arthur admired the way the early morning light played on his bare back.
Finally, "je ne peux pas." He looked back at Arthur for a moment before standing and gathering his clothes from the floor, previously tossed there in a lust-filled hurry.
.
"Don't go," became Arthur's mantra every morning he woke before Francis. "It would be so easy to stay." He would keep Francis wrapped up in his arms well in to the morning and spend the whole day showering him in soft kisses.
"I can't," was always the French nation's reply
"Why not?" Arthur finally asked one morning. Francis froze, half-risen from the bed, Arthur hanging on to his wrist and preventing his inevitable escape.
"Because this must be a dream." His voice sounded strained, his eyes flashed with an emotion that Arthur recognized from the end of May. Heartbreak.
Francis was pulling away now, and Arthur panicked.
"You idiot," he blurted, "I love you."
Francis froze in his departure. Arthur felt the pulse in Francis' wrist quicken against his fingertips, colour rising in his cheeks.
"You can't."
Arthur's grip tightened, issuing a cry of protest from the Frenchman. Desperate frustration bubbled in his chest. He didn't know when he or how he had fallen in love, but he knew it to be true now that the words hung in the air between them.
"I can and I do."
"How?" Francis' voice was so soft Arthur wondered if he said anything at all.
"I have held you while you've cried your hardest. I've listened calmly to your most angry words. I've given you company while you were most lonely. I've-" he choked, a blush flaming in his own cheeks and he vaguely gestured to the clothes haphazardly strewn on the floor and the tangle of bed sheets between them. Francis turned to face him fully, giving Arthur his full attention.
"I know everything about you, Francis," Arthur continued, his voice pleading, now. "I know what gives you the greatest joy and what terrifies you the most."
"You can't know that. I've never told you."
"You don't have to." They locked eyes, Arthur staring evenly while Francis squirmed.
"Then what are these things?" he challenged eventually, pouting, scrambling for an upper hand in the conversation.
Arthur thought for a moment.
"Love," he stated simply.
"For which?" Francis asked, blinking and arching an eyebrow.
"For both."
Perhaps Arthur should have approached the subject with a little more tact, but he could not face another cold morning, his bed feeling just a little too large for him alone.
His house, which he had previously enjoyed occupying alone, now felt too quiet while Francis was not there. He longed for the days he'd come home to the Frenchman cooking in his small kitchen, having let himself in with the spare key hidden under a rock in the back garden (eventually, Arthur had one cut especially for Francis, who received it with an enthusiastic "Oh, mon dieu! Merci beaucoup, sourcils!" much to the grumbling annoyance of Arthur. He replied, "just so you stop breaking in to my house, frog"). Arthur found himself unable to sleep when he reached out next to him and found only emptiness. Francis plagued his thoughts while they were apart, and left him breathless and tingling when they were together.
Arthur told all of these things to Francis, long having released his captive's wrist, now twiddling his thumbs in his lap nervously.
"In short," he sighed, "you're an idiot to leave because I love you." Every emotion Arthur could think of seemed to dance its way across Francis' face. "So, don't go." he finished lamely.
Francis silently reached to hold Arthur's hands in his own, ceasing his fiddling.
"In fact," Arthur continued, finding new courage, "you should probably never go back to your own house, or wherever it is you disappear to. And change your mailing address." Francis suddenly erupted into a bubbly fit of laughter, tossing his head back. Arthur frowned, this wasn't funny to him.
He waited with seething patience for Francis to control his mirth.
His giggles slowly died, he let go of one of Arthur's hands to wipe away the tears that were pooling in the corners of his eyes. Only, he did not seem to be able to brush them away. His laughter dissolved into babbling tears. Alarmed, Arthur gripped Francis' hand between his two.
"Francis-" he wasn't sure what to do, Francis waved at the air between them and shook his head, trying to catch his breath.
"D-désolé, Arthur," he laughed again through his tears, "I-I-"
Arthur leaned forward and placed a light kiss on the top of Francis' head, his forehead, each of his eyes, the tip of his nose, both of his cheeks, his chin, and finally his lips. He was relieved when he felt Francis kiss him back.
"I love you," Arthur repeated. He pulled back so he could study his Frenchman's face. His cheeks were wet from tears, but his mouth was smiling.
"Qu'est-ce que je ferais sans toi? What would I do without you, Arthur?" He chuckled, "moi aussi, je t'aime."
"So you'll stay?" Arthur blinked, his heart pounding heavy, threatening to break right out of his rib cage.
"Oui." Arthur knew enough French to understand what that meant. He pulled Francis against him and kissed him, hands gently holding the back of his head, fingers entwining themselves in his long hair. Francis hummed happily against Arthur's lips, muttering, sliding in and out of French, "Je suis amoureux, I can hardly believe it, je vois la vie en rose, finally!"
"Shut up," Arthur said angrily in to Francis' mouth before kissing him harder, hoping that would cease his incessant ramblings. He pulled Francis down and pressed him into the bed, rolling on top of him, enjoying the feeling of his Frenchman's heart beating heavily through his chest against his own.
.
They lay tangled in each other, foreheads pressed together, smiling. Arthur was playing with Francis' hair. The sun was high in the sky.
"You were wrong about one thing," Francis said happily, eyes fluttering open and smiling widely at Arthur. His hands froze in his hair for a moment before continuing their dance.
"Mm?"
"What I fear the most," Francis continued, barely containing his glee, "I fear your cooking more, rosbif."
Arthur rolled his eyes, letting loose a long, exasperated sigh. Then, Arthur kissed Francis while he was his happiest.
Lover Undercover
[I don't need anything more than I got
I'll make it simple when others may not
Whenever you need some company
Some love of a different kind
Come to your lover, undercover
And let me ease your mind
Whenever your heart beats heavy
And worry has got you down
Come to your lover, undercover
And I will turn your mood around
Why you wanna leave when it's so easy just to stay?
Lying wrapped up in my arms, until the break of day
Undercover
Why you wanna leave when it's so easy just to stay?
Lying wrapped up in my arms, until the break of day
So...
Whenever you need a soft touch
Know my demands are small
Make me a lover, undercover
Or don't ever love me at all]
Lover Undercover, Melody Gardot
A/N: Please excuse my French.
Feel free to take a listen to the song Lover Undercover by Melody Gardot that inspired this little one-shot if you enjoy bluesy-jazz.
The end of May signifies the death of Joan of Arc (May 30, 1431). No other times of year mentioned are significant.
Feel free to drop a review - they encourage me to write more!