Francis loved his boyfriend for a number of reasons. He was adorable, loyal, and perhaps one of the most honest people he had ever met. It didn't hurt that he was never shy to engage Francis in bickering, which was a favorite past time even as it dwindled as the years passed. However, if there was one complaint Francis had, it was that Arthur was the most sexually awkward person he had ever been in a relationship with. Arthur may had gotten more used to confessing his love, but expressing it was a different story.
When the two had first started dating, Arthur was as stiff as a rock: he barely let Francis breathe on him, let alone hold hands or, Francis be dammed, give him a kiss on the cheek. Looking back, Francis knew that it was because of that hard-to-get demeanor and argumentative tendencies that Francis had been enraptured enough to ask the Brit on a second date. At the time, he had considered himself fortunate, grinning at the mere thought of being the one to break that hard-to-get man's abstinence. If only he had known how wrong he was, because it was actually due to Arthur's complete lack of affectionate skills, not some noncommittal decision to remain untouched that was to blame.
Over a year later, Francis was admittedly surprised to find that he hadn't made more sexual progress with Arthur (although his old desire to "break" Arthur had long died away; instead, it developed into a strong adoration for Arthur that would forever be more valuable to Francis than any of the commitments he had made in the past). Francis hugged, kissed, and cuddled Arthur all he wanted and Arthur usually returned the favor, but it frustrated Francis that he rarely initiated anything beyond handholding. At some point, Francis had resigned himself to the decision that he would force Arthur out of his shell eventually, whether he liked it or not.
Only... Francis's plans didn't come out the way he had anticipated.
"Bloody Hell Francis, stop touching my hair like that!" Arthur exclaimed, shooing Francis's hand away as he reached up to dust off imaginary flour.
They were currently in the kitchen, Arthur rolling the dough for a pie whilst Francis cut up the apples. He loved to cook, especially when Arthur participated (as long as he didn't stand near the oven). He had been minding his own business, slicing the apples into perfectly lump, delicious chunks when he turned to see that Arthur's hair was dusted with dough. He couldn't help himself and had reached over to pat it away, returning to muss with Arthur's hair when he began to complain.
"Could you stop doing that?" Arthur grouched when Francis's hand reached back up to thread through his perfectly soft tresses. Francis had brushed Arthur's hair only once, but had since learned that the Brit's hair was amazingly soft, even when disheveled (like it was wont to be).
"It's not fair," Francis pouted, "that you never brush your hair yet it remains so perfectly soft!"
He trailed a hand against Arthur's scalp, even as he shuttered and warned Francis one last time that you'd better not do that git, or you'll be sorry.
Francis chortled as he dauntlessly reached back for Arthur's hair and roughly ruffled the strands into further disarray.
"Francis!" Arthur growled, turning for Francis to see the soft tint of pink on his cheeks. He loved to see Arthur blush; each time he did, it brought a grin to his face. Francis reached around Arthur's waist as he gazed lovingly at the tinted cheeks, a poorly concealed smile warming his face.
"I know what you're thinking Francis," Arthur stated forebodingly, "and don't you dare-" But Francis had already joined their lips, Arthur's complaint traded for silent compliance.
Arthur broke away first, breathing more heavily than usual, his cheeks a now beautiful rosy shade. "Why do you always do that to me?" He queried, the tone of betrayal striking a bolt of confusion through Francis's train of thought.
"Excuse me?" Francis replied tentatively, casting Arthur a suspicious sideways glance.
"You always kiss me like that when I'm trying to talk. Are you just hard of hearing or do you like to deliberately cut me off when I'm having a conversation with you about something?"
Francis's lips relaxed from their strained, cautionary smile and he crossed his arms as he felt another grin creeping up on him. "What, is it too much for you? Do you have trouble handling yourself when I kiss you like that?"
"That's not what this is about!" Arthur bellowed. "What I'm trying to say is that I don't like it when you kiss me in the middle of an argument. Why can't you kiss me when I actually want to be kissed, not when I'm trying to be serious with you?"
"Well, that's easy: because I don't know when you want to be kissed. You never tell me or begin to kiss me first, so how should I know when you want mylove?"
Arthur's cheeks pinked again from anger or embarrassment—or both. "Well- you should- Don't you just... know?"
A chuckle bubbled through Francis when he heard the awkward tilt of Arthur's voice. He seldom spoke in that befuddled tone. "I am flattered that you think me so omniscient that I can read your mind, but unfortunately I cannot. But, if you will let me, I'd like to suggest that you try initiating a kiss for once if you want one. That is the quickest way to get one, after all."
He could see from Arthur's avoided gaze and disgusted scowl that he didn't like Francis's proposition. Too bad; Francis had been dearly hoping that Arthur would have responded more lightly to the suggestion.
"You break my heart, mon amour. Here I am hoping that you will at least consider the idea, but then I see that your face twists like that... what is so wrong with love that it makes you not want to kiss me?"
"I never said that there was anything wrong with love—"
"Oh, so it's me? Am I unkissable? Do I really disgust you that much?" Francis interrupted. He felt heavy with relief when Arthur's face twisted into the one of horror and disgust that Francis had hoped his "joking" comment would elicit.
"Francis, you know it's not like that. Don't make me say it..."
"Fine, then I'll say it for you," Francis rebuked with a spiteful (yet very well intentioned) smile, the hand curled around Arthur's waist lifting to rest against the counter as Francis turned fully towards Arthur, placing his knife on the table. "You have a very sad, shriveled up self-esteem that can't meet the call when it comes to things like this. You haven't had enough experience to think that you'll be good at it, kissing or handholding or... otherwise..." he cast Arthur a smirk that he swore made the whole Brit's face red as he continued, "and that is why you don't even dabble in it. You don't want to try kissing or handholding only for your very glum expectations to become a reality. I assume it goes something like this: you never top because you think you'll be bad at it, and the same goes for kissing."
Francis could only wonder what was swimming through Arthur's mind at that moment. Was he impressed, ashamed, frustrated? Or maybe there wasn't a word to describe the emotion Arthur was feeling; that seemed the most plausible.
"Look, I know that you feel sure that you're right, but against your better judgement, I do not have a 'shriveled up' self-esteem. In fact, you of all people should know that I'm very confident and comfortable in my body and that I can kiss splendidly."
The denial was almost completely exempt from Arthur's words; Francis was very impressed, since he knew that it was still there. He didn't yet want to tear Arthur away from the perfectly constructed wall of lies he had built around himself. After all, Arthur had been dwelling behind it far before Francis had even met him and it felt cruel to tear it off so suddenly, like a Band-Aid being torn from Arthur's poor, crippled arm. Maybe it was better to ease Arthur out of his denial, or at least make it easier for him to accept it, preferably by not blatantly telling him that he was wrong; Francis knew that being blunt with Arthur never worked.
"If you're so sure, then I want to issue a challenge: if you can beat me, then I won't push the subject, but if I win then I want to hear you admit to me that I was right, that your self-esteem is nothing but what I described it as being and that you are as pathetic with your body as I claim you to be."
He could see Arthur contemplating the proposition and Francis almost thought that he wasn't going to do it. However, Arthur's denial held out in the end. "Go ahead, I'm listening," he stated flippantly.
Immediately, Francis's lips broke into a devilish grin. "Here is my challenge: You have one month to present me with a kiss that is so extraordinary that it will make me moan. That couldn't possibly be hard to accomplish, now could it? Not when I have a partner as self-assured as you are."
Arthur's face looked to be burning, but his expression seemed to be unaware of the heat. "Y-you're only asking to lose, you know," he grumbled weakly. "But either way, I'll regale you for a while and accept the challenge. Prepare to lose, Frog." With that, Arthur huffed and turned away, once again crushing the dough beneath his roller with brisk twists of his wrists.
Even before half the month was through, Francis knew that he was going to win.
At the beginning of the month, Arthur had tried methods of surprise, then became more patient as the game went on, choosing more precise moments to drop a kiss. Francis enjoyed the refined, more unpredictable process Arthur adjusted to using when it came to choosing a moment to kiss, but always became disappointed when Arthur's kisses lacked the je ne sais quoi he had been hoping.
In summary, this is how Arthur's attempts usually played out: Francis would say or do something that would trigger Arthur to kiss him, the majority of the time his off-handed remarks the blame for the other's kisses. Sometimes Francis would catch the smirk on his face before he leaned over, other times it would take him a second to catch on before Arthur's lips were pressed against his own. He would feel Arthur's hands either lightly drifting somewhere-like his wrist-or not at all, somewhere else but on his darling body.
Francis disliked saying that Arthur's kisses had no variety. They did, but very little. Francis had yet to coax a passionate kiss from him, and the kisses Arthur gave him were usually of a tentative, thoughtful nature. Francis would maybe glance at Arthur with his violet eyes or close them as he kissed back, putting everything he could into not outright laughing when Arthur began to choke or moan or pull away-all of that just because Francis might have flicked his tongue, bit Arthur's lip, wrapped an arm around his waist, or even reached to tangle his slim fingers into the other's hair. Francis knew that he could kiss ten times better than Arthur ever could. And that was why he was winning.
He felt surprisingly relaxed due to all the kissing, while Arthur... Francis shuttered to think of his thinning patience. Arthur cast him spiteful and, more frequently, longing glances now, and it was becoming more customary for Arthur to initiate a kiss at least once a day (but usually more than that). Every time Francis kissed back, he could feel sexual tension lifting from him, even though their kisses never lasted long due to Arthur's short temper. Just as Francis did something worthy of a real, affectionate kiss, Arthur would usually pull away with a flush on his cheeks. He never looked disgusted per se, but Francis could feel deep down that his lover was upset.
What must it have felt like to know that your kisses were inferior in every way to your partner's, to know that each time you made an attempt to meet his skill you would be pushed back again?
It was approximately the middle of the month when Francis decided that it was time to confront Arthur about this useless contest and so asked the Brit whether he ever thought he would win this ridiculous game (especially since he was competing with a very capable winner).
"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur questioned apprehensively.
Francis combed a hand through his hair as he replied. "I'm simply asking whether you ever plan on making this more difficult for me or if you intend to crush all my hopes and expectations before the rest of the month is over."
He caught a glimpse of Arthur's chagrin, mainly through the slump in his shoulders and the frown on his lips. "I don't get it, Francis. I've tried how many times and I still haven't broken you!"
Francis heard the dismay strained in Arthur's voice and pouted, reaching for Arthur's hand. He coaxed Arthur into the seat beside him as he replied. "Twenty times you've tried. I've been counting." He grinned at the scowl that grew on Arthur's lips. "Je suis desoleé, mon amour. I know that this is difficult for you. I don't want you to think that I dislike your kisses, I really am grateful you're trying, but none of them feel sincere. All you're thinking about when you kiss me is winning." He stopped to observe Arthur's face, smiling at the disheartened expression. "Am I wrong?" Francis hummed, intertwining a hand with Arthur's.
"No." Arthur sighed and leaned back in his seat, eyes turning onto Francis. "Do you remember what you first said to me when we started this? You told me that I wouldn't top because I thought I was bad at it and that the same applied to kissing. Well... I... have a feeling that you were right. Honestly, sometimes I think it's unfair that you can kiss as lovingly as you do whereas I..." He sighed, "I don't feel like a good kisser at all."
Oh, precious man. Francis clicked his tongue and rested a hand against Arthur's cheek. Arthur's emerald eyes rose to meet his gaze. "You don't have to be a bad kisser, mon amour. It's all in the mind. Once you overcome that, you can do anything."
Arthur huffed. "Easy for you to say. You aren't trying to make a Frenchman moan." He sounded so rancorous and disgusted, as though being French was Francis's fault. (although it obviously wasn't!)
"My, my, you make it sound so difficult," Francis stated with a chiding chuckle.
"You're bloody French! Do you even know how to blush? I swear, you Frogs are nearly invincible—"
Francis scoffed loudly, cutting directly into Arthur's complaining. "Each man has a sexual weakness Arthur, and if you try enough you will certainly find mine. Yours was just easier to find on account of your supreme absence of self-control." And his inexperience, perhaps.
Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again and soundlessly rested his head against Francis's shoulder, probably already thinking of Francis's weakness and how to expose it.
The following day, Arthur greeted Francis at the door after work; that was uncommon for two reasons: one, Arthur usually didn't get home until after him and two, Arthur often spent time working in his office or reading on the couch if he arrived home early.
"Bonjour, mon amour. What's wrong? Why are you greeting me at the door?"
"What, I can't greet my love when he comes home?"
Francis squinted at Arthur but went about his business, going to the kitchen to don an apron and prepare dinner. Arthur followed him and seated himself at the table, curling his hands underneath his chin as he watched Francis take ingredients from the refrigerator and deposit them on the counter.
Eventually, Francis grew tired of Arthur's watching and asked, "Is my sexiness really so enrapturing that you have to stare at me for it?"
Arthur smiled pleasantly and replied, "That would be affirmative."
Francis didn't know what to think of that. He paused and stared at Arthur, squinting his eyes slightly as though he were trying to make sense of a strange text he was sure he recognized but couldn't remember.
He managed to shrug it off, even though Arthur didn't cease his odd behavior.
The next day wasn't much different, despite Francis's several attempts to frustrate Arthur into an argument with him. Arthur remained steadfast, even creepily unperturbed when Francis referenced his eyebrows as being "the ugliest caterpillars" he'd ever seen.
Francis became wearier as the day progressed. He didn't want to talk or be flamboyant and he felt on-edge, as though he were waiting for something to blow up in his face (although he did not yet know that this analogy was more accurate than he could have expected it to be).
That evening, the two went out to dinner (it was Arthur's suggestion to go and Francis's eager hoping to unveil why he was acting so strangely that made him agree). That was how, at seven that night, Francis found himself seated across his handsome British boyfriend as they shared an actual, decent conversation about a variety of things that Francis never had the chance to talk with Arthur about, because he knew that, on normal occasions, Arthur would neither bother or want to traverse through the subjects Francis was passing by him then.
Surprisingly, Francis had a good time. He felt as though there had been no reason to be suspicious when Arthur was in a good mood, and that was why he allowed Arthur to drink all the wine he wanted and spoke with an open mouth. Eventually, Francis even felt the tense hold of his shoulders melting away.
Francis wasn't even angry when, by the end of the night, he had to drive Arthur home because he had drunken the equivalent of over two bottles of wine (that was impressive, considering Arthur very rarely splurged when drinking wine).
Arthur stumbled himself out of the passenger seat of the car once it was parked, and Francis walked around to support him as they walked to the front door.
Francis sighed as he unlocked the door, mumbling to himself how ridiculous it was that this had happened. But really, what else was he expecting? Of course there would be some altercation from the expected—he couldn't just have dinner then drive home and go to bed. Arthur couldn't even provide one snappy comeback to his teasing comments that might give him the complete ease he had been hoping this dinner would bring, but he could at least be grateful that he had had fun.
"You look disgusted, Francis," Arthur grumbled, his warm breath skimming across Francis's chest as he rested his head above his heart.
Francis sighed, lowering the keys as he unlocked the door. "I don't understand something."
"What?"
"You haven't been yourself these last two days, mon amour. Tell me what's wrong. Are you hurt? Is it the kissing game that's bothering you?" His voice betrayed him, the syllables more strained and curious than he had hoping they would come out to be. He almost wanted to cringe at the desperate curiosity he had to know why it was Arthur wasn't arguing with him.
Arthur chuckled, following Francis into the house and dropping himself onto the couch when Francis sat down. "Why is that something to worry about? Bloody git, you shouldn't have any problem seeing through me."
Francis scoffed as he glanced down at Arthur, who lied his head in his lap and kept his eyes closed. He looked so happy, so unlike his standoffish self.
"Then this is just another ploy to get a kiss from me. I can't say that I'm impressed," he stated, casting a small glance back at his lap when he didn't get a reply, only to find that Arthur's smile had faded and that he was asleep.
The next morning, Francis brought a cup of brewed tea to Arthur's bed and shook him awake, trying to be gentle (although not overly so, considering he was slightly miffed that last night had turned out the way it did and, moreover, because he no longer wanted Arthur to act strangely towards him).
Arthur turned away and buried his head against the pillows, ruffled hair brushing against the pillows and sticking up due to the static the movement created. Francis wearily brushed the strands back down, only to see them stick valiantly up again. This was precisely why Arthur needed a haircut.
"Mon amour, wake up. It's morning," Francis stated edgily, practically fighting with Arthur to turn him around, Arthur clinging to the pillow but eventually relenting when Francis yanked it away.
"Bloody Hell, Francis! Can't you let a man sleep?" Arthur hissed, his arm reaching to cover his eyes. They were probably burning from the light, but it served him right.
"The sun's up already, so you should be too," Francis replied flippantly, offering Arthur his saucer of morning tea.
Arthur rejected it with a wave of his hand and then began to rub at his tired eyes, yawning. When he opened them again, a look of concern clouded his face.
"Why do you look so grumpy? What's... wrong?"
Arthur never said that and hearing it from him made Francis feel a number of emotions, including embarrassment, regret, and frustration. How did mon amour know that he was upset? Was it really that obvious? ...No, it couldn't be. Francis was very good at concealing his emotions—at least, he liked to tell himself that he was, and up till then his words had rung true.
"What do you mean? I feel fine, Arthur. Just a little tired."
Arthur sighed as he rose into a sitting position. "Tired of what?"
"Hm?" Francis inquired, taken aback by the two-handed meaning of Arthur's words.
Begrudgingly, Arthur took his tea from Francis and took a sip of it. "Did I cause you any trouble last night?" He queried.
"Non, not... really..." Francis reached and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, a nervous gesture he rarely made.
Eyebrows sighed then, lowering his teacup back onto its saucer. "Look, you're obviously uncomfortable about something. Is it this kissing mess that has you so unhappy? Should I stop?"
Francis's violet eyes turned back onto Arthur and he shook his head. "Non Arthur, as I have said, last night didn't bother me."
He watched Arthur, with his white undershirt slipping from his shoulders and disheveled hair, as he silently shrugged his shoulders and rose from bed.
"You don't have to lie to me, you know," he grumbled, shuffling through their dresser for something to wear. "I remember seeing how upset you were last night. You can't just write that off and say that you were fine, you git," he stated, pulling an ugly green sweater from the depths of the drawer.
Francis felt his body strain as he inhaled and then exhaled again. "Oh, can't I? You don't know what I was thinking, Arthur. I wasn't upset that you were having a good time."
Arthur turned as he pulled the sweatshirt over his head, his hair rushing upwards with static. "Then what was it that upset you?"
"What upset me was..." Francis sighed again, trailing his fingers through his hair as he replied. "I am upset with myself because I'm becoming certain that you weren't having a fun time because you wanted to. I'm beginning to feel that you were faking it so you could win this silly game I challenged you to."
Arthur stopped mid-pulling to stare at Francis. Then, he pulled his second arm through his wretched sweater and made his way to Francis's side. "I did what I chose to do upon my own volition. You didn't force me to do anything, Frog," he seated himself beside Francis, reaching to rest a hand on his shoulder.
Francis was beginning to suspect that Arthur was right, although he still had a hunch that last night was just a failed attempt at winning the kissing game. In that way, Francis still felt (at least a little) responsible for Arthur's actions the night prior.
"Are you certain?" He asked hesitantly. "Look mon amour, I don't want to challenge you to this kissing thing any longer. Is there any way you could swallow your pride and give in now?"
Something in Arthur's face shifted at that and his hand lowered. Francis could not begin to ponder what Arthur was thinking-was he surprised? Upset? Hesitant?-before he reached for Francis's chin and gave him a real French kiss.
At that moment, Francis felt as though a bolt of love had tingled its way up his spine—and it felt amazing.
Francis never told Arthur that his chin was extremely sensitive. He had never bothered to because it didn't seem like something appropriate to tell him, either because it revealed a weakness or because Arthur would look at him strangely for confiding in him about such a strange subject. Yet Francis was suddenly very regretful that he hadn't because Arthur had such soft, loving hands and he enjoyed the sensation of them cupping his face.
In the second that Arthur began to trail his hands into Francis's hair, however, Francis had a moment of weakness and Arthur had a moment-only one-of strength.
Francis moaned against Arthur's lips and clung to the Brit's waist, pulling him closer. He wanted more and was suddenly not afraid to demand it, through whatever means necessary, and was fortunate enough to have his wishes granted when Arthur did deliver—and passionately.
Arthur did things with his tongue that Francis never thought he had the bravado to do. He moved his hands in a way that felt unnaturally natural for someone so awkwardly unaffectionate, even though such a description made no sense, and Arthur also watched Francis with a gaze he was unaccustomed to seeing.
Francis was unsure how long they had spent actually kissing, but when Arthur broke the kiss he had a strange feeling that it had not lasted nearly as long as he felt it had. His bones didn't ache from sitting in the same position for too long and Arthur didn't complain that his tea was cold when he reached for it again, trying to play off his victory with a poorly concealed smirk.
Despite Arthur's boasting gaze, Francis saw the pink tinting his cheeks and began to wonder how embarrassed he must look, being caught off-guard as he had been.
So, he reached to feel his cheeks, slightly speechless when he felt the heat radiating from them. He looked back at Arthur, who was gazing back at him.
"...I didn't know you could kiss like that," he muttered.
"And I didn't think that it would actually make you moan," Arthur retorted.
Finishing his tea, Arthur placed it back on his saucer as Francis spoke. "What, exactly, was that? What just happened?" He asked aloud, perplexed.
"You asked for the game to stop, so I ended it for you," Arthur stated, as though it were a known fact that Francis was stupid for not knowing.
"Have you been holding out on me?" Francis replied. "I thought you were a terrible kisser, so how were you able to take me over so easily?"
This couldn't be happening. Was Francis hallucinating? Was he missing something important? He thought it was just a week ago that Arthur was failing at kissing him and being his argumentative self, yet here he was with just a light blush on his cheeks, so unlike Francis's scrambled, embarrassed, truculent boyfriend.
"No Francis, you're right," Arthur responded. So now he could admit defeat, too? "I am usually not a very good kisser, now am I? But I decided last night that I would give it another go."
It couldn't possibly be so easy. "And you just happened to know where my weak spot was?" Francis inquired with a huff.
"No," Arthur replied sweetly. "You told me yourself that if I tried hard enough, I would find it. And thus I have." He yawned and stretched his arms over his head then looked back at Francis again, as though attempting to gauge his reaction.
Francis felt his heart swelling with admiration, impressed and relieved because Arthur had broken his expectations. He was so happy that Arthur had finally managed to give him a heartfelt kiss, even if it came at the price of some of his grumpiness (not that Francis would miss it much).
Francis reached for Arthur's hand and held it lovingly in his, smiling at Arthur's ruffled morning hair and his mismatched outfit.
"I could really get used to your kisses mon amour," he hummed, grinning at Arthur's blushing when the words left his mouth, "especially if I must withstand your terrible fashion sense any longer than a day."
For that, Francis earned a smack on the hand and some well-placed complaints; however, he felt strangely content to hear Arthur's complaining and his beautiful voice raised an octave too loud. For once, Arthur's grumpiness was welcome with open arms and Francis was delighted to accept the challenge of an argument, as long as Arthur promised to kiss him amazingly in the future, to which he (eventually) agreed to doing.