A/N: Hello, lovelies! I'm alive. Apologies for my lack of updates on The Seven Days' War, but lately I just haven't been the greatest mood and have so much to work on it's absurd. However, I plan on spending my Thanksgiving break working my ass off, so hopefully we'll be seeing some more frequent updates/uploadings for the next five days or so. Thank you all who read; I heart you!
Just to let people know, by the way, I will most likely also be reposting this as my Christmas oneshot. Happy early Christmas, fellow FrUKers!
This was inspired by a Victorian festival I recently went to, and I swear, the descriptions in the beginning are not even exaggerated. The entire thing was absolutely magical; there are no words to properly describe it!
The narrow alleyway is shadowy and close as Francis climbs the stairs at its end, rotting leaves and half-melted snow slippery beneath his feet and the scent of English food, so rich it is nearly stifling, flooding his lungs. His hands are freezing; one clutches his traveling bag, and the other his notepad. He grits his teeth to keep from shivering, tucking the collar of his overcoat up to shield his neck from the bitter cold. He finds himself wishing distantly for gloves.
As he climbs the last stair, the noise of the street is no longer muffled. He stops for a moment, looking around, taking it all in. Shop windows are lit, glowing golden against the bleak remains of a sunset in the distance, the loud clop-clop of horses' hooves on the street mingling with the disjointed, tinkling music of sleigh bells, the ringing of laughter and bustle of people. London is disgusting—smoke-blackened, tarnished, rotting. But it is also beautiful, exhilarating, full of life. Candles flicker in every window, snow-dusted evergreen wreaths hanging on every door, poinsettias and roses lining the street. Francis breathes in deeply, and beneath the thick smell of food and the pungent tang of horse manure, there is the chill nip of snow and spice of pine and flame.
He closes his eyes. Church bells toll their mellow carols in the distance; carolers sing much nearer to him. He can smell the smoke of tobacco and pine in the air. Near him, there is a barrel with a fire burning inside of it, and people warm their hands there, talking and laughing. He can hear the joy in their voices; it brings a tiny smile to his own lips as well. London is intoxicating.
When he opens his eyes, Francis looks around for a moment more, before suddenly his gaze falls on one certain man. And in that moment, as the man turns toward him, Francis knows that he must be the most beautiful creature he has ever seen.
Pale skin shines beneath the light of the shop windows and the warm glow of the barrel, the tiniest bit of accidentally-missed stubble shining gold near the back of his jaw and his cheeks flushed with cold. His lips are full and pink, black coat immaculate, tall top hat tilted just ever-so-slightly atop messy golden hair. His scarf is green plaid, exactly matching the eyes that take Francis's breath away with their piercing, vivid colour. Francis would think his eyebrows were hideous, were it not for the absolute beauty of the rest of his face. He watches him, entranced, as the man pulls his cloak more tightly around him and glances around, heading back toward a carriage parked near the curb. The man walks smoothly, hips swaying ever-so-slightly as he moves between people, before nimbly climbing into the drivers' seat at the front. His horse is restless—its shiny, dark coat matches the man's top hat perfectly. Its sleigh bells jingle with sweet music as it paws at the ground and whinnies.
The man sighs, eyes darting in search of a customer in need of a ride home on Christmas Eve.
His eyes fall on Francis.
For a moment, both of them stop, looking at one another.
Francis wonders what he looks like to the impossibly beautiful man, as he stands here on the street in London, alone, with his bag in one hand and notepad in the other.
Little does he know that the man is entranced by him.
As Arthur Kirkland sits in wait for a stranger in need of a ride, he drinks in every detail of the man standing aside from the crowd, looking around in a sort of quiet awe. Arthur is captivated by him. Never before has he seen hair so golden, shining under the warm light of the shop windows, or such a perfectly sculpted face. The blue of the satin ribbon tying back the man's hair is gray compared that of his beautiful eyes, framed by long golden lashes. Arthur cannot tear his gaze away.
Finally, he sighs, shaking his head. "Ah, blast it all," he mutters under his breath, before flicking the reigns and pulling up beside the curb where the mysterious beauty stands, shaking his hair from his face. A tiny smirk quirks Arthur's lips.
"Do you need a ride?"
Francis saw him coming, and gives a small smile. His British accent is perfect. "Oui, that would be lovely—it is just that I do not know where I am going."
Arthur's tiny smirk fades a bit, and he looks at Francis intently, for a moment. "You don't have a place to stay?"
Francis smiles and shakes his head. "I am a writer; I go where beauty calls me."
Arthur watches the man closely—the golden sparkling of the city lights in those brilliantly blue eyes, the gracefulness of his shimmering blond hair falling to frame his face, the way his smile seems so incredibly genuine. And that accent—that incredible, musical French accent—is just as intoxicating as the rest of him. Arthur would've told him how beautiful he was, but the man was already climbing gracefully into the carriage, setting his bag and notepad in the seat across from him.
The Frenchman smiles. "I'm Francis Bonnefoy."
Arthur smiles back. "Good to meet you," he says softly. He can't get over those beautiful blue eyes.
"Would you know of any inns near here?" Francis asks.
Arthur thinks for a moment. "There's a nice one about three quarters of an hour across the city," he says, looking at Francis questioningly. "None of the inns around here are places I can see you staying at."
He does not tell the beautiful Frenchman of the twelve other inns that are much closer, and just as nice. Maybe it is selfish of him to want to speak to this man as much as he can—to hear that smooth accent, and simply drink him in.
Something behind Francis's eyes lights up when he hears the time it will take. He smiles softly, nodding. "Merci, cher. That sounds wonderful."
As soon as Arthur flicks the reigns again, they're off, and Francis smiles to hear the horse nickering in gratitude. Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. Francis laughs.
"Were you waiting a long time for someone?" he asks. Arthur nods, somewhat crossly.
"It's Christmas Eve—most everyone is already home to spend the night with their family."
Francis is puzzled. "What of you? Do you have no family?"
Arthur shrugs, but even from the back, Francis can tell that he's hit a bad subject. It is a moment before the Brit replies, forced casualness straining his voice. "Not that I'm on good terms with, no," he murmurs. Francis looks down.
"I... I am sorry, belle," he says quietly. "I did not mean to be rude."
Arthur shrugs again. "No need to apologize," he says, and this time he really is casual. "There was no way for you to know."
For a few moments, they sit in silence, listening to the bells and the clopping of hooves. Finally, Arthur speaks again.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
Francis blinks. "Pourquoi?" he replies, one eyebrow raised.
Arthur laughs, turning to look at him. "What is a man like you doing in London on Christmas Eve?" he asks, smiling. "Surely you must have someone to spend tomorrow with."
Francis smiles back, and shakes his head. "Non, I have no one," he says. "My fiancé left me almost a year ago, and I have not spoken with my parents in years." He sighed. "They send me letters in the post when they can find me, and I write back when I can, but we have not seen each other for a very long time."
Arthur sighs. "It seems a shame for someone like you to spend Christmas alone," he says quietly. For a beauty like you to spend Christmas without being loved.
Francis nods. "As it does, for you." For such a wonderful man to be alone on Christmas day.
Gazes meet.
Each is sure the other does not notice him falling in love.
As the ride wears on, Arthur is sure that Francis grows more and more beautiful.
The Frenchman's golden hair, still tied with that blue satin ribbon, tumbles over one shoulder in a shining wave. His eyes sparkle in the darkness falling all around them with warm, mischievous charm. His laughter, ringing through the air, is softer and more rich than any singing bell. He's closer to Arthur now—as evening fades to night, and the air slowly grows colder, Arthur can feel just a tiny ghost of his warmth. He's intoxicated. As the two of them talk, Arthur realizes that this man knows more about him than absolutely anyone else in all of the world; he can't ever remember talking this much, or this enjoyably, about himself before. He's giving most of his secrets away—ones he'd long ago sworn to himself never to tell a living soul. Somehow, he can't bring himself to mind all that much.
Francis wishes that his mysterious belle didn't have to sit so far away. He also wishes that he didn't have to watch the road; he's desperate for another glimpse of those shining green eyes.
As he listens to that thick, perfect British accent, Francis slips a hand up to rest at the small of Arthur's back. He's warm, and as Francis gently rubs his thumb in a lazy circle, he feels him shiver. He smiles. Arthur doesn't tell him to move his hand away.
The two of them, by the time the beautiful jingling of sleigh bells comes to a halt, know nearly everything about each other. For a few moments, once Arthur has climbed down from the driver's perch and instead come to help Francis down, they simply stand together in silence, each with a pure look in his eyes, and a tiny smile on his lips. Their breaths cast clouds in the air between them, puffs mingling in their closeness.
Arthur has never believed in love at first sight before; he smiles at his own naivete.
As they walk toward the door of the inn, warmly-lit and cozy, he notices them slowing down. Their conversation is drawing to a close, and he can see the dread in Francis's eyes. He brushes the Frenchman's cold fingers softly with his own gloved ones.
"Allow me," he murmurs, lifting the bag from Francis's shoulder. The Frenchman tries to protest, but Arthur smiles and waves it off, pushing open the door. The warmth of the main room spills out into the night, and Francis slowly steps inside, not wanting this to end—not wanting to lose this beautiful man he's only just met, but feels as though he's known for a lifetime.
But as Arthur sets his bag on the polished wooden floor, smiling softly, a little sadly, and turning to go, something above his head catches Francis's eye. His heart soars, and he catches the man's arm. Arthur turns questioningly back to the beautiful Frenchman, only in time to feel warm arms and freezing hands sliding around his waist. Francis pulls him close, hands gentle as they rub over his back, faces barely apart, breath warm and soft on his face. Arthur can't breathe. His heart feels as though it will pound out of his chest, as his hands move up to rest at Francis's neck, thumb running softly along his jaw. The Frenchman is so, so warm.
Francis's eyes are sparkling as he lets his lips rest against Arthur's cheek.
"Mistletoe," he breathes, and Arthur understands.
Francis pulls him in for a kiss.
Arthur's breath disappears at the feeling of soft, warm lips gently kissing his, soft air ghosting over his face, a hot tongue just barely nudging him before slipping away again. He's warm all over, reveling in the heat of the kiss; nothing has ever felt so right. When Francis begins to pull away, Arthur leans forward and kisses him this time, locking their mouths together, breathing hard, hands clenched in the Frenchman's collar, pulling him down for more. Francis's mouth is wonderful. He's never been more in love. He's known this man for barely an evening, and he's never felt so consumed—completely and utterly infatuated. Everything about Francis is intoxicating—his hair, his laugh, his eyes. Arthur kisses him harder.
When they break apart, both are smiling softly, panting lightly. Arthur slowly withdraws his arms from around Francis's neck, letting them smooth down his chest, as Francis runs his fingers over his lips, his jaw, and the side of his neck. They are still cold as ice.
Arthur smiles softly and carefully pulls off his gloves, placing them gently in the Frenchman's chill hand.
"Here, take these," he murmurs, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. Francis looks at him for a moment, shaking his head.
"Non, I could not," he says quietly, trying to hand them back. "You have a long drive home, mon cœur."
Arthur's gentle kiss to his cheek moves downward until he's nipping a trail down Francis's neck, and the Frenchman moans softly, turning his head away and baring his neck to him. Arthur pulls away.
"Keep them, love," he whispers, leaning up to press one last kiss to his cheek. "I trust we'll soon meet again."
Francis opens his eyes, watching as the beautiful Briton, his lover, turns to leave, but a sudden realization strikes him.
"Wait," he says quickly, and the man turns, a tiny smile on his lips, green eyes sparkling, hair as messy as ever. Francis sucks in a breath. He's so beautiful. "It has just occurred to me that I do not know your name," he murmurs. The man's smile widens.
"Arthur," he says. "Arthur Kirkland." He steps closer once, again, his soft fingers tracing Francis's face. Blue eyes slip closed, and a soft smile quirks his lips.
"Arthur," he purrs softly, feeling the way his accent wraps around it so wonderfully.
Arthur smiles. "Sleep well, love," he murmurs. With one last chaste kiss to Francis's lips, he turns once more to leave.
Even as he steps out the door, Francis smiles.
He knows, for certain, that they will indeed be seeing each other again.