Celebration
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Arthur thinks the beach is too noisy.
It makes no sense, of course, the place is completely empty, and the only sound he can hear comes from the sea itself.
Still. There are sounds inside his head, and those are enough to make him feel almost dizzy.
Bomb.
Screams.
And a voice too soft to be real, words that sound a little like music, speaking in French before the bombs, before the wars, before everything. Pretty words that now blend with the sound of waves.
Arthur walks on the sand, and he hears this like an echo, thinking, feeling his feet sinking in the sand, the waves hitting the leather of his boots.
A few decades ago he came here, right here, willing to shed his last drop of blood, and this empty beach was the ultimate prize. If they lost it they would have lost everything and if they won they would have won everything.
It wasn't even true. Probably. If they had lost it, now that he thinks about it, if everything had gone wrong, if Ludwig had won the battle, well, then they would have to try again. And again. Just like that. Still, back on that day, this lonely french beach had been the center of his universe.
But that was then. Today, Arthur thinks about how lonely this place is. Rocks, and sand and gray water – could be because it's winter, everything looks gray today – and nothing else. Only memories.
And him.
Arthur feels just a little cross.
He thought – had thought, anyway – that those memories would be important to Francis too. He had thought the frog would, maybe, feel a little gratitude, because what he had done had been pretty damm impressive, hadn't it? Honestly, now he was wondering how he could have been so naive. Francis didn't do gratitude. Not that stupid arrogant frog, with his proud raised chin and his slow sensual smile and his deep blue eyes that had grated on Arthur's nerves since he was a child, his oldest enemy, his-
Arthur took a deep breath. And tried to focus on something else. Here he was, on the French coast, under a French sky, watching the French ocean with its dumb French waves, but that didn't mean he had to think about France. That victory had been his, and with or without him, he was going to celebrate it.
He found a rock on the sand that looked marginally comfortable, and sat down. He could feel the wind on his hair, so cold it almost burned, and he shuddered. The night was falling, and then it would be too cold to stay outside. Especially on this blasted cursed place. And to think he could be on his hotel now, drinking a warm cup of tea and minding his own business...
He was so focused on his own misery, so lost inside his own thoughts, that the soft voice behind him almost made him jump.
Francis was enjoying his party.
Or, to be more precise, he was trying to convince himself he was enjoying his party. It was a good party, as his were wont to be, a celebration of elegance and class and beautiful dresses in gold and white and blue, silk and velvet, and red roses and sparkles of light and crystal and music that permeated every conversation. He held a glass of champagne between his fingers and smiled, walking around the room, charming his guests, delighting in their awe, but...
There was a different tune playing underneath the songs and soft voices and laughter. Something only he could hear. Bombs. Gunshots. Screams. A gruff voice saying 'are you okay', and he could remember smiling, his face was wounded and there was blood on his mouth but he had smiled, and said 'of course, my love', and he had winked, and Arthur had flushed to the roots of his hair, furious, and...
Well.
Arthur wasn't here, now. And he shouldn't, Francis had joined him for some reminiscences and even for celebrations on other years, other days, and this one wasn't meant for him. This was between he and Alfred, who was walking around wide eyed, trying and failing to hide his awe of the European (French, please) pomp and circumstance.
So. Arthur wasn't here. And Francis hadn't invited him, had no reason to do so. Even if the British had made one hell of a fuss when he had found out, Francis was sure that it was more because of Alfred than the fact he had been slighted. And he was bound to be burning in resentment now, that moody, abrasive little thing. And Francis had never cared and wasn't about to start now.
He shouldn't, anyway.
He looked at the glass, turning it between his fingers, watching the wine swirling inside the glass. Such a rich red. Like blood. He could remember blood. Could remember Arthur's hands, rough and callused, on his face, and Arthur's bright green eyes shining wet. It had been the first time he had seen Arthur cry when sober.
He bit his lower lip, deep in thought.
Then he sighed, a little disappointed with himself. Clearly, he would have no peace of mind if he didn't went to him and, honestly. Trust Arthur to ruin his party without even being present.
It was easy to leave the room, leave the light and brightness behind. The hall was dark, but that didn't bother him. He knew it would be cold outside, so he got the coat and the gloves and the scarf.
Then he stopped.
He went back to the kitchen, ignoring the waiters' curious eyes -they wouldn't dare to question him, for sure -and got one last thing.
Then he went to the beach.
Arthur was there, just as he thought he would be. A lonely little nation sitting on a rock, sulking, and Francis could guess the frowned eyebrows, the bad mood.
Still. He was there.
Francis smiled.
Arthur turned around to face him, and Francis took one step back, that familiar leer on his lips:
"Easy, now," he said."Did I scare you?"
"Do you have to be so bloody sneaky?" Arthur could feel his face burning, "And just what are you doing here?"
"It's my house, chérie. Maybe I should ask what you are doing here..."
"I'll do whatever I please, you stupid frog. Just- go back to your party."
A party to which I haven't been invited, I might add – but he didn't. That part he kept to himself. Or Francis would think he cared, and couldn't have that.
Francis paused, and by the way he arched one of his blond eyebrows, Arthur thought he knew exactly what he was thinking. This made him blush even more, so he turned to the sea, ready to pretend Francis wasn't there.
Francis came just a little closer, and stood by his side.
That was annoying. Now Arthur was too aware of his presence, of the heat he could guess from his body, the dark coat, the gloves on his hands and how unfair was that, that Francis could look so posh when all Arthur could do was to look like... well, like Arthur. Nothing much. He tried to think of something else. About the wind. The water. That distant sound of the war inside his head.
Francis sighed.
Then he said:
"You could have asked me for an invitation. I would have given it to you."
Arthur didn't want to answer, but this was just too much. The words spilled out:
"I don't care about your party! I was just- shocked, I was appalled at your rudeness, that's all! And I certainly don't plan to ask you anything, you dumb frog-"
"No, you'd rather come here and mope."
Arthur turned away, then. He wasn't going to just stay here and take this- this abuse, that's what it was, he wasn't going to stand for it. Not here. And not today.
And then, when he was just about to leave, Francis took his hand. Arthur stared at him, he should just pull his hand off his grasp and leave, and shower Francis with all the British sarcasm he was famous for, but the words didn't come, and he pressed his lips in a tight line and just stood there as Francis held his hand.
Francis looked almost as surprised as he was. He looked down at their finger intertwined like that, Arthur's fair skin and his own dark glove as if the contrast was the more interesting thing in the world, and Arthur swallowed hard, it was the only thing he could do, and narrowed his eyes and tried to pretend this was normal. That it was nothing much, to stand there holding hands with his oldest enemy.
Francis gave him a weak smile. And then raised his hand, brought it to his lips. It was such a soft kiss, and Arthur blushed again. But this time he could muster enough indignation to stutter:
"And just what the hell do you think you're doing, frog?"
"I know what you want, mon cher-"
"You bloody well don't-"
Francis touched his face. Arthur's eyes widened, and he held France's wrists to pull him away, twist it and break his hand, but he did nothing, nothing at all, just stood there with France's open palm on his cheek and and his wrist locked in his hand, and Francis chuckled, then, slow and almost sensual and so very french, and said:
"Really. Well, in that case, why don't you enlighten me?"
… oh, right. That's what they were talking about. The touch had somehow messed up his thoughts. Arthur raised his chin. The party, the war, everything, he tried to find his memories that now seemed to be vanishing, melting under the warm touch of Francis' hand.
"Well, a little gratitude, for starters."
"Gratitude," Francis smiled, "What for?"
"What for-" Arthur stopped, too angry to go on, all the words trying to come out at once, 'I don't- I can't believe it- you- you utter prick-"
Francis chuckled again:
"Do you want me to say you were my hero, chér? I thought this was more like Alfred's style..."
"That's it, I'm leaving," Arthur said, "And you can go to hell, see if I care about you and your cursed party-"
"Come on, now, you wouldn't have come even if I had invited you.".
Arthur snorted. He wasn't going to waste another minute of his precious time with this clown. He had a hot cup of tea waiting for him at the hotel. Much more important than the slimy frog.
Francis' sigh was low, just a small sound almost lost in the wind, and it made Arthur stop again.
"What, now?" he snapped.
"... do you still hear it?"
Arthur didn't answer. Francis gave him an almost-smile that looked a little more honest, now. A little less aggravating, almost wistful:
"I mean, the sounds of this beach. Everything. Everytime I'm here, I...".
"Ah. Well. That," Arthur said. But he wasn't about to tell him that yes, he could hear it, he could almost see the armies, the dying men, the blood in the water. Hear the gunshots. And screams.
He looked down. His anger was vanishing again, leaving him empty. He looked at his boots, the sand against the dark leather. The blue gray water.
"That day," Francis said. Then he stopped.
He took off his gloves, thin fingers, soft hand, and Arthur swallowed hard again. Francis raised his chin slowly, and Arthur narrowed his eyes, he should give him a piece of his mind now, he really should, but no- the words didn't come, and that touch on his skin was too warm, too soft, and then Francis took one step closer, and said:
"You did something, on that day. Do you remember?"
"No," Arthur said, and he wanted to say something rude, something Francis would never forget, but. His eyes were so, so blue, and such a stark contrast with everything else on this colorless place, with the sounds still echoing in the water, on the naked rocks and reefs behind them, and all that left his mouth was, "But you can enlighten me."
Francis raised one eyebrow, then, and his eyes shined. Fair enough, he said, and then- then-
-the kiss was slow and warm, and Arthur moaned, and grabbed his clothes, and he could feel Francis' smile. He didn't even care. Now. He would, later, would punch him for it, for making him make such a fool of himself. But not now. Now he just kissed Francis' lips, feeling how soft they were, how warm his mouth was, and how it tasted like caramel and alcohol and-oh.
"You taste just like your party," he said, and, well. Maybe he did sound a bit mopey. Not that he minded . Francis' lips looked puffy and kissed and this pleased him, warmed him all the way to his core.
"... oh. Oui," Francis said, "About that. I- well. Since you didn't get to see the party, I brought the party to you."
And then he got a small bottle of wine from his coat, and Arthur knew his own flush was coming up again, painting his face with red. He tried to come up with something to say as France opened the bottle:
"What, not fine crystal glasses, frog? I'm surprised."
"More than good enough for you, mon amour, I wouldn't want to waste my fine glasses on such an uncouth person-"
"That's nowhere nearly enough for me and you know it."
"Oh please. You're not supposed to get drunk. Just to enjoy it."
He was sure his face was burning. And maybe he was just a little touched. Well, he said. Well. Francis smiled. And he didn't say anything, not about the party and the lack of invitation and he didn't apologize, but then, when had he ever?
When had they ever?
"I'll take this as a thank you," Arthur said, and he drank straight from the bottle in the crudest way he could, ignoring France's shocked gasp. Francis grabbed the bottle from his hand, shaking his head, and said that's just what I expected from such a rude British!, and then he raised the bottle, and added:
"... take it as whatever you want, chér."
And Arthur wasn't touched, really, he wasn't, but- that was almost like he was admitting it, and- and his eyes weren't burning, it was just from the wind. And the way his heart was beating fast was just from the way Francis' lips were full and red against the bottle's dark glass, that was all. Francis drank delicately, savoring every drop, and when he finished it he smiled at Arthur, and touched his face again.
Arthur closed his eyes.
In the brief fraction of a second before Francis' warm, soft lips touched his, before his arms surrounded him, bringing him closer, it occurred to Arthur that the beach was silent now – no bombs or guns or screams – nothing but the sea, and the wind, and soft French words whispered against his ear.