Fluff of Your Pillow
Francis always left early in the morning, before Arthur woke. He slept with him in the night, breathing hard as they both came down from their sex high, curling together. He kissed his forehead as he drifted to sleep, mumbled sweet nothings in french. He went through all the motions of an actual couple, made the same gestures as a man in love. But he always left in the morning.
Arthur hated it. He hated the insincerity. Hated it because what he felt wasn't a lie. Francis didn't understand, and Arthur didn't blame him. After so long, what constituted as love was blurred to him. So he left in the mornings.
He would leave notes on the pillow, simple things that were just more attempts at true emotion, worthless and half hearted. He knew what it was that Arthur wanted, tried to give it to him because he couldn't let his reputation be marred. Wasn't it funny that the country of love didn't understand love at all? The notes said things like 'you're so cute when you're sleeping, ps, stop hogging the blankets' or, 'have fun last night, petit lapin?' in scrawling writing.
Arthur crumpled the most recent one in a vicious fist, tossing it off the bed with a huff. He had asked Francis to stay this time god dammit.
He did what he always did in the early mornings, when he was craving Francis's warmth and touch. He hugged the pillow he slept on. It smelt like him, the tang of sweat, the faint remnants of cologne like spices in summer. The smell of pomegranates and lilies, just a breath of his shampoo. Arthur held the pillow close, fingers clenching on the down inside.
Why was it so hard? Was he asking for a lot? He knew there were certain lines they couldn't cross, not with each other, not like this. There were barriers between them that they couldn't even begin to figure out. Beneath decades of light hearted banter, there were centuries of hate, and blood and distrust. How could they begin to build anything on top of such a foundation?
But all he wanted.... All he wanted was for Francis to spend the night, be there when he woke up. Maybe even greet him with a kiss and whisper a fond good morning. If they could just do that, maybe, maybe this seed they had planted could begin to grow. Dates and actually spitting out 'I love you' could come later.
He wasn't asking for much.
Arthur held the pillow tightly, sniffing it. The scent would fade soon, and he had to enjoy it while he could. His forehead creased in a frown.
Was Francis afraid perhaps? Afraid that if he woke up and saw Arthur in that way, he would have to face the fact that, yes. Yes there was something between them. They were growing something together, no matter what it turned into. Was he afraid that he would realize that he didn't know what he was doing, he was diving in blind? Was he afraid that diving in blind was exactly how love was supposed to go?
Arthur snorted. None of it was unlikely.
"Francis, you idiot..." He mumbled, hugging the pillow. "We have to go in together...." He curled around the pillow, snuggling under the cocoon of blankets to go back to sleep.
It seemed that he would have to be happy with his pillow for a while longer, until he could convince Francis to hold his hand and just jump in head first. Maybe later that night, Francis would understand.
Owari