the sun goes out, the stars come out
.
.
.
"Can you spend a little time/
time is slipping away/
away from us, so stay/
stay with me I can make/
make you glad you came."
-Glad You Came, The Wanted.
.
.
.
Sometimes Arthur came by his house without any grand reason behind the action. He simply showed up, perhaps looking a little worse for wear with sunken eyes and pallid skin, and entered at Francis' suggestion and without giving any reason as to why he was there.
Francis had never asked, not once since this started sometime during the fifties.
His routines changed along with the decades, but Arthur's occasional unofficial visits never did. Just like their childish quarrels at the meetings. Francis could always count on Arthur being an insufferable presence in his life.
He couldn't be happier about it.
Arthur usually knocked on his door when Francis was still in his silky pajamas. Francis always opened the door for him in the said attire, because, really, it was just Arthur.
Arthur, too, was in casual clothes. Some were better-looking than others, like that black shirt with a wide neck that showed off Arthur's collarbones. (Francis might or might not have an occasional dream about it.)
"Have you had breakfast?" Francis always asked after letting Arthur in, watching the once-strongest nation pull feet out of the shoes that varied from fancy designers to cheap sneakers that were possibly gifts from Alfred. Next came off the coat or whatever it was Arthur worse over his shirt, and he always looked the most fragile as his fingers opened the zippers and buttons.
Sometimes they quivered – with weariness, sadness, or something else that Francis could not give a name to in that moment.
Arthur would pull his attention back on his face by uttering a quiet "no".
"I'll make something for us, then," Francis said every time. "Tea for you, cher?"
"Please."
Arthur would never sound more subdued than then, with that single word escaping his mouth as his weary eyes gazed at Francis with a feeling that Francis would spend too much time interpreting.
How laughable; he was the nation of Love, and yet it took him years to understand the painful burning in Arthur's expressive, forest-green eyes.
The breakfast was always a silent affair. Sometimes Francis made some nonsensical small talk, even though he knew Arthur would not respond: he was oddly silent during these informal visits, content to just observe Francis and utter as few words as possible.
He talked in French, unless he wanted Arthur's attention specifically although it was obvious Arthur understood French as though it was his second language.
Once, it had been.
It was peaceful: Francis and Arthur eating, both of them reading their newspapers or occasionally fiddling with a phone. (Arthur was infamously bad with the newer technology, and Francis enjoyed poking fun of Arthur for it.)
The few cups of tea Francis boiled for Arthur were gone by the time Francis finished his breakfast.
"You drink that like it's water – or alcohol, for you," Francis commented with a short laugh quite often, and Arthur's lips always rose into this self-depreciating hint of a smile that tugged at Francis' heartstring. Unguarded expressions on Arthur were rare.
Arthur was always beautiful in mornings like these.
Arthur managed to time his visits so that Francis had one of his rare day-offs, and Francis quietly marveled the coincidence.
"You know, Angleterre," he could never stop teasing the other, "it seems like you have quite the psychic powers when it comes to sensing my timetables."
Arthur usually scowled at the words as he sat up straighter on the couch he occupied, his posture as stiff as the look on his face. That expression would give Francis a semblance of relief; as long as Arthur was able to make that kind of expression, nothing irredeemable had happened. "Maybe you are simply that predictable, frog."
"Me? Predictable?" Francis' lips twitched up into a teasing smirk, reminiscent of the days when they both had felt near invincible. "I'll have to fix that, then."
Arthur almost smiled. "Good luck on that endeavor."
"I'll sweep you off your feet one of these days, mon petit chou," Francis promised, watching as Arthur's face scrunch up with embarrassment or irritation, possibly a mix of both.
"I'll be waiting," Arthur replied, voice soft and subdued with a wavering hope that made Francis' heart ache.
Arthur would spend the entire day with Francis, when these visits occurred- He would trail behind the other, posture slouched and uncharacteristically relaxed, and fiddle with the sleeves of his shirt as Francis talked about nonsensical things: the weather in Paris, the Eiffel Tower, the new art exhibits that Arthur should look into if he wanted to appreciate true art.
Arthur hummed noncommittally to show he was listening while he observed Francis – it was a little uncomfortable, admittedly, but at the same time Francis reveled in the attention of those eyes.
The intensity in those eyes only grew along the decades that had passed: at first, Arthur had not even looked at him, and the whole day would go in silence as Arthur followed Francis around like a ghost.
That had happened in the 50s, and it had been easy to come up with an explanation for Arthur's sullenness: the growing number of colonies demanding and gaining independence. Arthur always mourned the loss of his children, for his own selfish reasons.
Not that Francis should be the one to mock the bitterness of loss.
Arthur liked to watch him do the most mundane things: laundry, cooking, a bit of wine-sipping in the afternoon, and then listening to the jazz music from Amerique.
Arthur always frowned at the last one, the tension around his mouth growing noticeably. Francis made sure he had one recording playing in the late afternoon hours, around the time Arthur would have his tea. Lighthearted cruelty, so to say; it was what they did best these days.
Sometimes Francis would catch Arthur smiling, green eyes wide and warm under the lighting. Arthur's whole face lit up with that simple expression: his eyes crinkles, muscles relaxed, brows eased from their perpetual frown. And he was beautiful, unguarded and magnifique.
He didn't know what to say at those times, which was ridiculous – he was France! He was good with people, good at loving them, even better at seeing their beauty and telling them.
But… it was Arthur. The little rabbit that never took well to being approached first.
Oh, how Francis sometimes wanted to kiss those lips; oh, how he wanted to let himself fall in love with that grumpy man.
(What Francis had not yet noticed was that love was not quite as easy as he had led himself to believe along the centuries.
Country of Love or not, he held himself on a separate plane of existence from the love he loved.)
It was in the 80's, sometime after the worst of Arthur's punk phase had died out, that Francis dared to call the exasperating fondness and attraction by its name.
Arthur had fallen asleep on Francis' couch, dirty blond hair sticking to his mildly feverish forehead and limbs tucked neatly around himself as if to keep himself together in Francis' presence.
"Oh, why do you keep doing this to yourself," Francis murmured as he gentle laid Arthur down on the couch, setting Arthur's head down on a pillow. The question, he realized, could be directed to either one of them.
To Arthur, because the man always seemed to fail to take care of himself.
To Francis, because why did he always fall back in this feeling when it came to Arthur?
Francis stroked Arthur's fever-flushed cheeks, eyes downcast as he wondered why Arthur had been so adamant to see him even though there was nothing for them to fight about, nothing for them to negotiate on. Other than the usual, that is.
"Tu es un idiot," Francis chastised at Arthur's hand that he stared at. "Et je t'aime. Je suis un idiot aussi, non?"
Arthur's fingers twitched, tips of them caressing the palm of France's hand.
Oh, it was love, alright.
It was in the 90's that it became impossible to ignore the whispers of love his heart so desperately wanted to sing out to the man that still sometimes visited without a particular reason. At this point it might have been a habit, one that Francis hoped Arthur wouldn't cut.
Arthur was more lively, but he still maintained a composed serenity around himself during those days he devoted to Francis.
His eyes did most of the talking, when Arthur's lips swore to dishonesty.
It was… fascinating, and reminded Francis of simple times in the past, long time ago, when Arthur had been but a small boy and Francis only a little bigger.
Francis realized that Arthur might have been in love with him for a much longer time than he had been with Arthur.
Perhaps that was why he couldn't bring himself to break the delicate amicability of those days.
Wanting to change nothing, yet wanting everything to change – it was a hypocrisy that Francis had been guilty of in the past, too.
Francis did realize he was being as big a coward as England liked to paint him as.
Arthur's visits grew rarer by the end of the millennium, and Francis found himself longing for his company. The simple quarrels at world meetings were hardly satisfying, when he knew what Arthur's genuine and unapologetic company truly was like.
"Ah, Angleterre," France managed to catch England at the end of the G20 meeting, fingers touching England's back gently to alert him. He felt a little breathless as England's eyes turned towards him, guarded and questioning as they always were when England acted as his business self.
"What?" England was as rude as always, but there was timidity in his eyes, a certain anxiety that England would never want to show to anyone. Francis wanted to kiss him and steal Arthur's worries away.
France smiled, hand reaching out to trail fingers down the side of England's face, which went completely blank at the affectionate touch.
"Celebrate the new millennium with me, mon cher," he said quietly. England's eyes widened, a light of understanding flickering in them before they narrowed again, brows knitting together in a haughty frown.
"Of course I will, you moron," he said, swatting France's hand away from his face. "Who else?"
Francis really had to resist the urge to kiss the other man senseless right then and there.
Wine was involved, this time. Arthur didn't complain about it, not even once as Francis poured two glasses of wine for them.
"Another one of these," Arthur sighed. Francis knew what he meant: another millennium to greet, another millennium to live – if they were lucky.
"Oui," he said softly as he sat beside Arthur on the floor of his balcony. They didn't need chairs; they sat on a couple of towels Francis had fetched from the bathroom, side by side so that they could feel each other's heat. Arthur's hand lay close to Francis'.
Francis wondered how big part of this past millennium he had spent loving the man beside him. Was the proportion between love and hate equal? Most likely not; there had been so much of hate, so much of juvenile vengeance.
Yet there were moments that cleared the haze.
Francis took a sip from the glass, not even bothering to sniff and swirl the wine as he usually would.
"Japan and America must be so terrified," Arthur added without sarcastic bite as he too took a long sip. Francis resisted tutting in disapproval – no use being a hypocrite now.
"Yes," Francis agreed, glancing at Arthur's face that glowed from the fireworks that flared up the sky. "It was amusing, I'll admit, when Japan first brought it up."
"It made me think about the past," Arthur admitted with a short, tense laugh that made Francis raise a delicate brow. "It's been a while I even tried to remember anything so ancient."
"Same here, actually," Francis snorted, fingers dancing over the knuckles of Arthur's still hand beside him. "You and your cute rabbit companions."
Arthur hissed, which made Francis laugh. "Yes, you made those kinds of sounds back then, as well."
He earned a shove from Arthur's elbow for that, but his laughter didn't subside just yet.
"Git," Arthur said, but it sounded like an endearment. Realizing this himself, Arthur slumped and leaned back, eyes flickering towards the sky, where the colours danced and the moon shone.
"You know, I," Arthur continued, face and voice blank, "don't really believe the world is going to end. It didn't back then, either."
"Mm." Francis' fingers curled around Arthur's. There was something more Arthur was going to say, it was obvious, and Francis watched him nervously drink more of the fine wine.
Liquid courage.
"But if it does," Arthur sighed, eyes half-lidded as he turned to look at Francis, "there are things I ought to say."
Ah, Arthur's infamous unwillingness to express his emotions unless there was something on the line. Francis squeezed the hand he held, smiling at the stern face before his. "Go ahead, cher."
"I was hoping you would stop me, you twat," Arthur hissed, but his face betrayed his anxiety. "Fine, since you insist…"
There was still some time before midnight. About fifteen minutes, Francis confirmed this from Arthur's wristwatch that the fireworks show illuminated through the dark.
"Francis," Arthur could no longer bring himself to look at Francis. "I was planning on writing a letter instead of doing it like this, but I couldn't do it that way either… but I suppose I would like to see your reaction face-to-face rather than expect a response via mail or a phone call."
Francis found it difficult to breathe. Arthur downed the rest of the wine in his glass.
Arthur's eyes looked up to the sky, and from the side, Francis could see them glimmer. "Call me a fool, but I am in love with you, Francis."
Francis absolutely did not celebrate this confession by fist-bumping the air inwardly. No. That was more like America.
Arthur wasn't finished. Of course not; his people could write whole sagas about the complications of love and the pain the feeling brought with it.
"I think I have been for a long while now, but it did not sink in fully until after the second war against Germany," Arthur said, sighing the words out like they were a burden on his shoulders. Emotional constipation tended to be harmful like that, Francis mused as he rubbed Arthur's hand.
"There were several instances before that where I thought that I would not… mind," Arthur coughed, sounding embarrassed, "being with you outside our… sexual escapades. Those were merely fleeting thoughts that came from loneliness, I think."
"Oh please," Francis leaned himself against Arthur's shoulder while pushing his own glass to Arthur, who looked like he needed it. "I wouldn't blame you if you fell for me long before that."
"Narcissism is hardly attractive," Arthur snorted, accepting Francis' offer. "But it was around that time when you… proposed to me that I…"
Oh. Francis swallowed. He had almost forgotten the incident with the marriage proposal. "Arthur."
"I was disappointed," Arthur laughed, but it was a weary, sad laugh. "I was disappointed, Francis, and perhaps that was the most upsetting thing about that incident. I was a fool to think I had a chance to start a family with anyone; I had got swept away by emotions."
Arthur's sneer at the last word made Francis wince, and so he brought up Arthur's hand to press a few kisses over the knuckles. "Mon petit lapin… Surely you can find it in yourself to forgive my foolishness."
"I always wanted a family," Arthur continued, ignoring Francis' words but his cheeks flushed at the touch of the other's lips. "You know that, yes?"
Francis nodded against Arthur's shoulder. Arthur never talked about it, but for someone that had spent as much time with him as Francis, it was easy to see the way Arthur looked at children with the longing of a childless parent.
Or rather, Arthur had always desired something resembling a healthy family dynamic, something that was hard for even the most peaceful of nations to accomplish at times.
Francis shifted until he was able to press a kiss against Arthur's neck, against the steady pulse. "Yes, I am aware."
Then, a question: "Is that why you started your frequent visits in the fifties? Because of the children running from your weakening grasp?"
It was a bit mean-spirited, Francis was ready to admit.
"Partially," Arthur said stiffly, leaning his head against Francis'. "But mostly I wanted to see if you were alright and wouldn't die on me. That would have given me more grievances."
"Arthur," Francis gasped, head snapping up so fast it slammed against Arthur's. "Ow, merde! You do care! …or did!"
He was melodramatic on purpose, naturally. It was impossible to not see that Arthur cared so, so painfully much that it wore the Brit down and made him irritable.
"Of course I do, frog," Arthur said, with an affectionate tone to his words as his hands move to cradle Francis' face and his feet shuffle until he's facing Francis head on rather than the fireworks. "I was trying to… assess the situation, so to speak. If you had shown any abnormal signs, I might have gone to convince Elizabeth and the Prime Minister of the usefulness of, er, the union."
Francis recalled all the gazes Arthur had sent his way: the silent stares, the awestruck frowns… the lovely smiles. Unable to stop grinning, Francis cooed as he leaned forward, "I think, mon cher, that you were simply tired of being by yourself for so long."
Arthur spluttered, and that was how Francis knew he was right. "Who are you calling lonely?! Such idiocy!"
"Mon amour, mon petit lapin, mon coeur," Francis crooned as he pressed their foreheads together, Arthur's hands sliding down to Francis' shoulders. "If you intend to kiss me, you had better do so soon. The 21st century is just around the corner."
"Wha—you haven't even given me your reply, you twat!" Arthur huffed, cheeks undeniably red as his fingers dug into Francis' shoulders.
"You will have it soon," Francis reassured, mildly amused that Arthur still needed a verbal confirmation on Francis' feelings despite the obviousness of them. The amusement died when he remembered that it was because Arthur didn't think himself as worthy of unconditional affection.
"Embrasse-moi, Arthur," he murmured, nuzzling at Arthur's nose with his own.
For this one time, Arthur did just awhat Francis had asked of him: draping his arms around Francis' neck, Arthur closed the distance between them and threw himself into a kiss just as Francis caught sight of Arthur's wristwatch.
30 seconds.
Arthur tasted like fine French wine (oh, Francis would tease him about it), but there was also the slightest hint of mint and raspberries, perhaps due to the breath mints Arthur had got himself addicted to recently. Francis hummed, smiling hard against Arthur's soft yet demanding lips.
Arthur's hands moved into Francis' hair, tugging off the band that held the blond curls up before diving into the soft hair and greedily feeling up Francis' scalp. Francis had to resist the urge to push Arthur down, because oh the want that flared up was almost too much.
17 seconds.
Francis licked at Arthur's lower lip gently, not expecting to be invited in, before tugging at it with teeth, intent on hearing Arthur moan against his mouth.
I adore you, how could you not have seen it, Arthur?
Arthur's fingers were gentle in Francis' hair, rubbing and threading and tugging with choked-up affection. Francis hummed, smiling wider and pulling Arthur as close as possible.
6 seconds.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1…
Zero.
Out of breath and heart full of love, Francis pulled back and opened his eyes to meet Arthur's flushed, hesitant face.
Should I accept that as a confession, his expression almost screamed. Francis grinned.
A thousand years behind, a thousand more years before them for Francis to convince Arthur of how deep this emotion truly ran.
But, for now…
"I love you," Francis whispered to Arthur, who was all but pulled into his lap. His accent wavered the slightest bit, as it often did when he was faced with a great deal of emotions. "The days you come over brighten my dulled existence, my love. You look at me like you never tire of me, and those moments, oh, Arthur… They mean so much to me, mon coeur. You have been here with me for so long. With me, for me, against me; it does not matter."
He kissed Arthur's cheeks, which warmed up under his touches. "There is a lot I could and should say, mon cher; but perhaps those are best left for another day, oui? After all, the year 2000 has already come to greet us."
"The world didn't end," Arthur said dryly, trying to hide his blushing face from Francis' sight as he looked up to the sky where the fireworks reigned. Then, he punched Francis' shoulder. "I can't believe you would have allowed me to die thinking you didn't care for me in return!"
"Ow!" Francis winced. Arthur had hit hard. "Dear, you might want to hold back your punches and save your energy for the bedroom…"
Arthur scowled, and it was the most adorable sight Francis had seen that day so far.
"You idiot."
"Yours," Francis smiled, and Arthur's irritation melted away as quick as it had appeared.
And then they kissed again under the fireworks' lights, their hands and bodies entwining as they reached the conclusion together.
Maybe this could work.