Arthur fell into the second category. He had been one of the many to leave to defend his homeland some three years ago, a proud member of Royal Air Force, though a bullet to the knee at the hands of a Nazi soldier after a devastating crash had put an end to his promising career as a soldier before he had even managed to leave his mark. As if that hadn t been disappointing enough, he had returned home to find his family dead, his parents and his three older brothers and their wives and children all victims of one of the many air raids that had occurred in the years that he had been gone. All that he had left of them was the large flat they that had all lived in together before a series of marriages had broken them up, the caf his father has opened in 1924 and the fuzzy memories of the relatively peaceful life he had had with them before this God-forsaken war had started. At the rate the city was being destroyed, though, those old, fading memories would be all he had left of his family within the week. The Nazis were stepping up their efforts, it seemed, and there was really no way for the people of London to defend themselves.
And so they fled.
The thought of fleeing his homeland did not sit well with Arthur's stomach, nor with his pride, but what choice did he have? He was no longer a soldier; he was a civilian, and a disabled one at that. The gunshot wound had shattered his kneecap, and he had an exceedingly difficult time getting around, even with the cane he now carried. Hell, it took a good five minutes for him to get down the stairs and out to the complex's bomb shelter, a trip that, for most others, took less than half a minute.
It was with that trip in mind that Arthur decided to sleep in the shelter for the night; Dawn was already approaching by the time those blasted sirens had ceased their infernal shrieking, and the shelter was dark and quiet. He and the other tenants even had sets of spare clothes and toiletries in her. Why bother trekking back inside when he would be forced back outside within a few hours?
Of course, sleeping there had negative consequences: There was no alarm clock in the shelter, and Arthur had slept in by quite a bit, and he was thus late for work. Working was more of a cure for his boredom than a way to make money, really, as there were rarely customers. The entire week, only three people had stepped into the caf , excluding himself, and one of them was his neighbors' little girl, who only came by to drop off a lunch her mother had prepared for him, and he had served her for free. It had been a bit of a disappointment, though: He was hoping to at least make a quick buck. The Kirkland Caf was going under fast, and there was nothing that Arthur could do about it.
He shivered in his ragged overcoat as he walked to the coffee shop that day, regretting the decision to even bother with showing up. He was the only employee who hadn't fled the city, and he wasn't even needed there. The likelihood of a customer choosing today of all days to step into the worn-out little caf was next to zero, if not zero itself. But it did get him out of the house and give him something to do, even if it was just cleaning whatever mess was left from the last air raid and making sure that he hadn't been robbed in the night.
The caf was the first along the road, he was currently turning onto, and when he saw the front of the old coffee shop was the last thing he had expected: The windows had been blown out of the front of the building completely, along with most of the other buildings along the road, save those whose windows had already been boarded up. That was not the only surprise. There was a man sitting on the curb on front of the caf , smoking a cigarette and looking quite relaxed. As he approached this strange man, the scent of soap and expensive cologne hit him hard, in the best possible way. What on Earth could a man who looked and smelled so clean be doing in a place like this? he wondered as he limped up to the door. "Morning," he grumbled, unsure of how else to initiate a conversation. Being the youngest of four mischievous brothers had instilled in him a certain distrust for people, but this man seemed... Interesting in a way. He was certainly out of place. "Can I help you with something?"
"Oh, oui, good morning." The man - French, apparently - stood, dusting off his fashionable-looking coat before he offered his hand to Arthur. "Are you the owner of this establishment?"
Hesitating, Arthur shook his hand and answered tensely, "I am."
The Frenchman smiled at that. "Then I'm your customer."
"You know, the front window is completely gone," Arthur said, at quite the loss for words as he unlocked the front door of the caf . "You could have just gone in..."
"And made an even bigger mess?" The Frenchman seemed to have taken the suggestion as an insult. "Non, absolutely not. I've spent most of my working life ruining people' lives; I don't want to do it while I'm on leave as well."
"You ruin peoples' live for a living?" Arthur smirked as the lock clicked, and he opened the door, gesturing the other man inside, to the small bar at the back of the caf . "What, are you a lawyer?"
"I was." The Frenchman sighed as he took a seat, watching as Arthur poured a jug of water into a pot sitting on the single burner of the little stove behind the counter. "I was quite good at it, too. But, in times like this, no one really has the time, money or energy to sue anyone, so it seems I'm temporarily unemployed." He glanced up to see Arthur cleaning two mugs with a clean white cloth produced from somewhere beneath the counter. "And what about you, mon ami?" he asked. "Is this what you do for a living?"
"I suppose you could say that," Arthur answered, setting the first mug on the counter in favor of the other. "When my father was killed, I inherited this place and the little flat where he and my mother and brothers lived." He gave a sorrowful sigh as he glanced around at the debris-ridden remains of what had once been his father's legacy. The place that had provided quite amply for a family of six was in ruins now. It really was a shame. "I worked here growing up, too," Arthur added, a nostalgic smile crossing his face. "My brothers and I did most of the cleaning. It saved quite a bit of money, and it kept us out of trouble for the most part. It was a good system."
"It sounds that way."
The smile on Arthur's face faded a bit. "Then the War started..."
"You were a soldier." It was less a question than a statement.
"Yes."
"And that's what happened to your leg?" the Frenchman asked, leaning forward onto his elbows so that he could look over the counter to where Arthur was sitting. The Englishman had pulled a stool from beneath the counter the moment he arrived back there, his cane resting against the counter itself. "It was a war wound?"
"Shot in the knee by a Nazi soldier," Arthur answered, placing the second mug on the counter and turning to fetch the water boiling on the single-burner stove behind him. "Tea will have to do, he added as he poured the water into what appeared to be a stainless steel kettle. We've no coffee left."
"Tea will be fine," the Frenchman said, making a dismissive gesture with his hand.
"Earl Grey?"
"Please."
When Arthur turned away once more, this time in search of tea leaves and an infuser, the Frenchman asked, "Do you remember how or when or where it happened?"
"That's the funny thing about it," Arthur said, not even the faintest trace of humor in his voice. "I don't remember any of the fighting itself." Finally retrieving the items he was looking for, he scooped a few teaspoons of dried leaves into the infuser and dropped it into the still steaming kettle. "The crash I was in right before it happened caused quite a lot of damage, and I have a hard time remembering the war at all, though it s probably better that way. My mother always thought it was due to the stress. I would tell her about it in letters - That's the only way I know most of what I know about what happened - and she would send me back ways I could relax... Tea, mediation, card games, things like that..."
"She sounds like a smart woman."
She was.
A frown overtook the Frenchman s face at that. You don t speak to her anymore? he asked, brows furrowed.
"She's dead."
"Oh..." The Frenchman cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'm sorry," he said next, sounding genuine.
"Don't worry about it," Arthur said, shrugging his shoulders and leaning over the back counter to watch the tea steeping. "They all died together, at least."
"What happened?" The Frenchman cleared his throat again. "If you don't mind my asking, of course."
"I don't mind." Arthur lifted the kettle, carefully pouring the tea into the two mugs he had set out earlier. He fetched the sugar and creamer from beneath the counter before he spoke again. "They were on an outing of some sort when there was an air raid, or at least that's what I was told. I suppose they just didn't make it to a shelter in time."
"That's terrible."
"Yes."
A heavy, morose silence fell over the two as they sipped at their tea.
"So..." The Frenchman stared down into the mug of steaming liquid placed before him, his expression thoughtful. "There were four sons, but only you were the only one serving?"
"Yes." Arthur placed his cup down on the counter, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. "My brothers had their reasons not to fight. They all had either careers or wives or fianc es or children." A wry smile twisted the corner of Arthur's mouth. "I was always the black sheep of the family, you see. My parents didn't treat me any differently than they did my brothers, but my brothers themselves... I can't really say they bullied me, but I was always getting picked on, called a Mama's boy, having tricks played on me. Typical older brother behavior, I suppose." Arthur glanced down at his tea. "I could always tell they didn't exactly think highly of me. We got along fairly well, though, most of the time."
"You're lucky," the Frenchman said, smiling a bit. "I always thought it would be nice to have older brothers. Or brothers at all, for that matter. The closest family member I have is a cousin in New York City."
"Is that where you're headed?" Arthur asked, glancing up from his cup once more.
"Oui. I plan on staying with him for as long as it takes for me to get back on my feet," the Frenchman informed his companion. He sighed. "It is going to take some time, though, given the system is quite different in America..."
"What if being a lawyer doesn't work out?" Arthur was a bit surprised at his own question, but he pressed on nonetheless. "What do you plan to do then?"
"Well, being a chef could be fun," the Frenchman chuckled, a dreamy look in his eyes.
His beautiful, brilliant blue eyes...
Arthur shook his head. No. He had gotten rid of those thoughts when he had joined the military and by God, he was not about to start having them again.
"And I am French, after all," his companion continued, apparently completely unaware of the intoxicating effect he was having on the smaller blonde. "I could get a job with nothing but my charm, accent and good looks!"
"I can see it now," Arthur agreed, surprising himself once again. "Chef-" He trailed off. "I never caught your name..."
The Frenchman chuckles again. "It's about time you asked!"
"I'm sorry," came Arthur's reply, soft and a little flustered, "it's rude to speak to someone before you know their name, isn t it?"
"A bit." The Frenchman held out his hand once more, and, luckily, he didn't seem to be offended at all by Arthur's lack of manners. "I'm Francis Bonnefoy. And you are...?"
"Arthur Kirkland," the Brit replied, reaching out to shake the other's hand, hesitating even more so than before, black leather meeting undoubtedly soft skin. Arthur regretted wearing gloves. Normally, he would have taken them off the minute he entered the caf , but the window being broken was clearly letting in the winter chill enveloping the city. It was acceptable to still be wearing a coat and scarf and gloves inside under these conditions, wasn t it?
That smile was certainly warming him up, though. The smile the French- Francis. The smile Francis was giving him was just gorgeous. And that was enough to set Arthur on edge again. He wasn't that sort of person. He was a military official, and he certainly was not the sort to fantasize over another man, even if this man was gorgeous, with his long, silky blonde hair and lovely blue eyes and that scruffy chin that would probably feel incredible against-
No.
Arthur sighed, rolling his eyes. This was bad.
This man was too... Too what? Too gorgeous? Too charming? Too perfect?
"Is something wrong?"
The sound of Francis's voice snapped Arthur out of his trance. "What?"
"I asked if something was wrong," Francis restated, his well-groomed brows furrowing in concern. "You didn't seem... All there."
Shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it, Arthur managed to force out a weak, "I'm fine."
That was anything but true. This man was awakening feelings in him that he hadn't experienced in years. He hadn't had any of those sorts of thoughts in years, before his mother had found out what was going on in his head. She hadn't tried to repress him out of spite or hate or ignorance or anything of the sort, but she had repressed him nonetheless. It had been for his own good, he knew that; she only did it out of concern for his general wellbeing. But instead of removing the homosexual urges alone, he had ended up more asexual than anything else. He had wooed and dated girls of all sorts, but none of them really struck his fancy. He simply wasn't interested in girls. He had managed to hide it fairly well, though. Girls certainly seemed interested in him. And why shouldn t they have been? He was attractive enough, he knew that, though he knew his personality was rather lacking. It didn't matter, though. Not really. He had no interest. Femininity had little value in Arthur's mind. Masculinity - Tall, strong men, a bit muscular, with a deep voice - was his primary weakness. That had made his military training difficult, but he had somehow managed to repress himself completely. He may as well have been a eunuch.
But Francis...
Francis was going to complicate that prefect situation.
"You're doing it again."
Another sigh slipped past Arthur's lips, and he pressed his hand to his forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice soft. "I'm just... Feeling a little out of sorts."
The next breath he took was a sharp inhale as he felt Francis's bare hand lifting his hair away from his forehead, a pair of warm, soft lips soon being pressed to his forehead.
"You don't feel warm..."
"There was an air raid last night." Good boy, Artie! Thank God he felt himself relaxing. "I ended up sleeping in the bomb shelter. It was too much work to walk all the way back upstairs just to sleep for a few more hours."
"Do you have that much of a problem getting around?" Francis asked as he pulled away.
"I have to use a cane, don't I?" Arthur offered, shrugging his shoulders, a slight scowl on his face.
"Yes, I suppose you do."
His expression stormy, Arthur grabbed onto his right thigh, pulling his leg up to rest his foot highest rung of the stool. He pulled up the leg of trousers up next, revealing the mess of scars and swollen, distended tissue that make up what was left of his right knee. All of the carnage was centered around a single, small wound at the lower left, the scars seeming to spider web out, surrounded by a halo of shrapnel marks.
Francis gave a visible shudder at the sight. "That must have hurt," he whispered, though he knew that that was a massive understatement. "Honestly, I'm surprised you can walk at all."
"So were the doctors," Arthur replied, staring down at the ruined flesh. "But here I am."
"You must be quite a strong person." Francis sounded oddly impressed by that. "You've been through so much..." He paused for a moment before those pretty blue eyes met Arthur's again. "How old are you, Arthur?"
"Twenty-three," the Brit replied. "You?"
"Twenty-eight," Francis said, almost sounding as though he was admitting to some dark, terrible secret. "I'm older than you, and I've never done anything like that."
"Anything like...?"
"Defending my country." Francis dropped his eyes to his lap, looking a bit shamed. "I've always been a bit of a coward, I suppose."
"You are French," Arthur allowed, though all that got him was an exceptionally dirty look from the other. "I can't recall meeting any French soldiers."
"Can you recall any of the soldiers at all?" Francis asked, letting the "French" comment slide. "If you can't remember the fighting, can you at least remember your comrades?"
"Not many of them," Arthur admitted, finally rolling the leg of his slacks back down and gently lowering his foot onto the floor. "I remember my commanding officer, and two or three of the other soldiers of my own rank. The rest of them are just... Blurs, really. I occasionally see their faces, especially those of the ones who died." He gave a humorless laugh at that. "All the ones I remember wound up dying."
Francis said nothing, though that thoughtful look stayed on his face all the while.
"I do remember one American soldier, though."
"And why is that?" Francis asked, one eyebrow lifting in curiosity.
"He saved my life." The look of utter gratitude in those pretty green eyes was more than enough to convince Francis that Arthur truly felt he owed his life to whoever this unnamed American was. "The one who shot me was a member of the S.S.," Arthur explained, looking down into his tea once more, his eyes glazing over, as if he could see this Nazi in his mind's eye. "A high-ranker, too, though his name was all I remember..."
"And what was his name?" Francis asked, his voice quiet, a bit nervous to ask the man who had so kindly served him to remember something so awful simply to satisfy his own curiosity.
"Beillschmidt," Arthur said, that glassy look fading into a dark, hateful scowl. "Ludwig Beillschmidt. I managed to shoot him down myself, but he had a brother. Gilbert was his name, I think. He had apparently seen what had happened, and he was about to essentially execute me when Alfred came along."
"And Alfred is the American," Francis guessed.
"Yes. He put himself into the line of fire to protect me, took a bullet to the shoulder defending someone he had never met, someone who wasn t even from the same country. He could have died, but he managed to pull the trigger first." A wry chuckle passed Arthurs lips. "I still have no idea if it was skill or just dumb luck."
"He sounds like quite the hero."
"I truly believe he is," was Arthur's response, his voice taking on a tone of awe. "Would you sacrifice yourself for someone you had never met?"
Though he said nothing in response, Francis did shake his head.
"I don't imagine most people would."
"And is this Alfred of yours still alive?" Francis asked, his eyes meeting Arthur's, though the other seemed unaware of that.
"I believe so," Arthur replied. "I get letters from him from time to time, and the last one came a few weeks ago. His platoon was headed toward Berlin. He seemed quite excited about it, too. He wants more than anything to fight the Nazis at their headquarters."
"Brave man."
"Yes."
"Is admiration all you feel for him?" Francis asked a few seconds later, breaking the silence that had fallen between the two of them.
Arthur took in a shaky breath before he managed to force out, "What do you mean?"
"I'm not stupid, cher." Francis leaned in to steal a single soft kiss before he whispered to the other, "I've seen how you're looking at me."