Granted Wings
Francis finds it while adoring all of Arthur's body. Kissing every place he can find, filing away sensitive places, exploring them further before moving on. He starts on the inside of the thigh, passing over the erection that begs for his touch with an easy smirk. He kisses the pale skin, biting down, feeling surprisingly vindictive.
Arthur gasps, fingers digging into the sheets, head tilting back to look at the ceiling because watching was just so humiliating. He felt Francis continue downwards, hissing softly, the thin fingers over his skin rough but gentle.
He has completely forgotten about it (in fact, he had forgotten a lot of things, laying on those silk sheets as Francis had his way with him), confused by the surprised gasp as Francis reaches his foot? "What?" He grinds out, just wanting to continue, but doesn't want to say so. And then he remembers it, and quickly draws his foot back as though scalded, tucking it under his other leg as though to protect it.
"What was that?" Francis whispers, eyes unexpectedly innocent and curious. Arthur is undone by the look, but doesn't know what he had expected. Sarcastic comments? Laughter? So he glares.
"Nothing. Go back to what you were doing." (Please. If I have to wait any longer, I'll go mad.) But Francis smirks, prying away the other leg to find the foot. Arthur flushes bright red, wondering why that innocent interest appeals to him so much.
"I would, but since I was at the foot..." he leaves off, winking teasingly before moving his thumb.
It's small. Just a tiny little tattoo on the inside of his ankle, a single curly feathered wing, the lines thick black and detailed. He feels embarrassed and doesn't know why.
"You never told me you had a tattoo..." (I never told anyone....) Arthur just huffs as though it's no big deal, looking away because Francis would call him on his lie.
"You never asked." He feels fingers tracing the intricate lines, as though touching some delicate, precious thing, and Arthur has to work to restrain his shivers. He doesn't want this gentleness. Even though it feels good, he doesn't want it. He wants Francis to fuck him and leave it at that, no love, no simulation of true painful emotions. He can't handle that.
"What does it mean?" The question hurts more because it's genuine. Arthur shifts uncomfortably, trying to drag his foot away from Francis' grip. Francis holds tight. "Tell me. I want to know."
"Can we not talk about this right now?" (Can we go back to fucking, so that I can accuse you of being nothing but a good for nothing frog and not human?) Arthur glares. It's only half hearted. And they both know it. Rather than saying anything else, Francis lays a soft kiss on the tattoo and moves on.
It's not until afterwards that Arthur says anything about it. (He hadn't been expecting slow steady lovemaking, perhaps a good strong fuck would have shut him up.) "The tattoo..." he starts lamely, not sure what to say. Francis' responding hum is reassuring. "I don't know... I want to fly, you know what I mean? To be free. To have wings."
Francis smiles at him, a gentle weak thing that makes Francis look as fragile as he feels. "I understand." He murmurs. And Arthur doesn't care if he doesn't, doesn't understand, is just happy for that smile, that assurance.
He was free without having to try.
Owari