A study of frogs.
And what disgusting creatures they are.
He's always had that grotesque kinship with that smug prat, that constant and prominent thorn in his side. It's hard for Arthur to remember a time before the flamboyant bastard of a man has acted as both his default adversary and ally, sometimes at the very same moment.
Over the years, over the almost boundless stretch of time Arthur none-too-fondly regarded as his lifespan, Francis Bonnefoy has been many things to him. His first and foggiest recollection of him, and one of the first and foggiest recollections of anything really, was when Arthur was a pale-skinned, weak-kneed recluse of a child just beginning to represent a primitive fledgling-nation, if it could be called that.
The wavy-haired, garishly dressed beanpole boy had bent down before him, coming at eye-level to Arthur, making him spit an ungracious curse in warning and making the fae on his shoulder giggle amusedly. Blue eyes, sort of like the sky if the sky had qualities like arrogance and glee swirling around like clouds, peered into Arthur's face with something like curiosity and vague condescension; and in a soft and lilting voice he had introduced himself as Gaul (And what a stupid name that is, England would think. And say out loud, as well.)
In present day, if Francis were to bring it up like he tried to bring up almost every little thing that England most certainly did not want to bring up (Tactless, unsubtle bastard.), or refer to him as mon petit frere in that innocently indulgent way that he should've outgrown, Arthur would most certainly deny it, I was young and stupid and why would I ever seriously think about being brother to a slimy smug-faced frog such as yourself?; but truth be always fucking told, he held something between reluctant admiration and an even more reluctant sentiment of companionship for the grinning boy that called him caterpillar and fuzzy-brows and reminded him what an unruly mess his hair was and put flowers in his cloak for the hell of it. Just like he couldn't deny that after centuries of conflict and heartbreak, France and his loving antagonism was the closest, most stable thing in the unwavering clusterfuck that was his existence.
Those centuries of fighting and stealing and spitting vile words were glorious, both of them being reckless and often merciless, with the world and with each other. Starting war after bloody war and reaping sorrow after sorrow, they had gone "too far" time and time again. As allies as often as they were belligerents, sometimes the only thing that kept them going was the thought of antagonizing one another in some sick dance that would never be called romance. Arthur stealing away Francis's Jeanne, Francis stealing away Arthur's Alfred, they wounded one another again and again, and they expected each other to do so, it was often the only stable thing in their selfish, garish lives as empires and as starkly fragile bastard men.
It's the twenty-first century and they're tired now; both of their titles as world powers and both of their condemnations to tyranny stripped away and given to other, younger nations. (And what pity they both had for those poor fools who had no idea what they were getting into.) They share snarky banter, as per always, but without the physical conflict and the verbal intent to maim until dead that had plagued their glory years. When was the last time Arthur had injured the frog with something other than an irritated, pitiful blow to the face? And when was the last time there was any bite to the way Francis called him a furry-browed little beast, a petty little shrew, and it actually had any bite to it? (Saying those words in that croaking, gurgling tongue of his, of sodding course. As if England wasn't bloody sophisticated enough to know his damned language, as if England hadn't painstakingly learned that staunch dribble just for him.)
The malicious feelings that had boiled and burned between them had always been potently mixed with a stumbling sexuality, as well as this stark, painful affection of allies and brothers and something else. Now that the malicious feelings had simmered down to a pathetic, wispy steam; they had absolutely no idea what to do with themselves. Both in regards to one another, and in regards to their countries that were no longer as proud and as revered as they were so seemingly recently.
In the end, they simply decide to look upon the cities they've come to know as their hearts and be grateful that they don't see the impedingly foreboding silhouettes of gallows or guillotines; and look upon their streets and be grateful that they don't see rotting heads on sticks.
In the end, they decide to toss over-recycled verbal barbs at each other like always, and not bother to fight the tired smiles at the entire ridiculousness of it all. In the end, they decide to be Arthur Kirkland, the embodiment of fallen empire and forgotten triumph, and Francis Bonnefoy, the embodiment of stricken pride and constant defeat. Perhaps they can also be the weak-kneed little boy with a scowl on his face and a faerie on his shoulder, and the boy who called himself Gaul who had eyes like some vastly condescending sky.
