Aubade
Noise. Disgusting noise. Arthur groaned as the noise woke him up, staring out the window at Paris, still fast asleep. The sun had just barely started it's ascent over the horizon, coloring the sky dark magenta and bloody orange. He glanced at the clock. It wouldn't be ringing for another four hours. Where the hell was that noise coming from?
Arthur slipped out of bed, the hard wood cold against his bare feet. As quietly as possible, he stole down the hallway, towards the noise, struggling to get into his house robe. He felt like a child again, sneaking through Francis's house for sweets kept in the kitchen. When he paused to listen, the noise became more distinct, music. The sad lonely chords of a guitar.
What the hell was Francis doing playing music this early? He shouldn't even be awake at a time like this. He never got up until noon, the lazy git. Arthur huffed in irritation, storming down the hallway to Francis's room, throwing open the door without bothering to knock.
Francis sat peacefully on the wide window sill, his face lit up by the weak sunlight, body relaxed, a guitar balanced precariously on his knee. His singing didn't falter or pause as he turned to Arthur to give him a wide smile, nodding in greeting. His fingers found their way over the guitar strings, picking out a slow tune to match the deep French love song.
Arthur didn't move from the door. He couldn't move. His fingers gripped the handle, the quickly tied knot of his house robe falling open. He didn't reach down to fix it. His eyes traveled along the length of the leg that hung over the ledge, bare and pale. Up, over the hip bone that he wanted to trace his fingers over. Up, sliding along the lines of the painted red chest.
Francis sent him a secret smile, eyes glinting with mischief and barely repressed lust. Arthur felt the spell over them thicken with each lonely French word that escape that sensual mouth. He greeted the dawn with love ballads, eyes bright to watch the sun. Naked, raw and real. Arthur didn't doubt that the tales he spun were those of princesses and fairytales, of professing eternal love. He didn't care what he was saying, just knew that it was beautiful.
Below them, Paris woke up with the sun, the sky washed in reds and pinks. Francis kept strumming away at his guitar, his voice rich. His tone, sad, like melted chocolate, or velvet. Arthur ventured closer to the window, staring out at the city Francis loved so much, the city at the center of his heart. It was not unlike London.
Slowly, gently so he wouldn't disturb the spell Francis had cast, his fingers trailed across the chilled thigh, watching the shadows, savoring the shivers. He touched the hip bone, skin soft and supple, lit with gold. Beautiful. Francis was always beautiful.
Francis leaned against the wall, his singing little more than breathy sighs, the guitar quiet under his touch. Arthur ran his hand through golden locks, like autumn wheat. It was tangled and natural, lacking the usual perfection. His other hand found the curves of delicate ribs, explored each bump.
With a wistful laugh, Francis set the guitar to the ground, and pulled Arthur in for a kiss, sweet and powerful, lulling them both back under a spell. Arthur was left breathless, finding perfection in Francis when he wasn't perfect. The tangles of his hair. The smooth, scentless expanse of his skin. His taste, comparable to lilies and wind and pomegranates. The way he greeted the dawn with a love song from his heart.
All of it, untamed perfection. When he pulled away, Francis smirked, committing Arthur's flushed face to memory.
"Good morning, Arthur."
Owari