England was too humiliated by his defeat to return as a challenger in the jousts. He instead selected his best knights to represent him. Still, his love for the sport never died down, so he did continue to attend the games (though he wore a hood to hide his face). He told himself over and over that his sole reason for coming was to watch the spectacle, yet a voice inside his head insisted the true purpose was to watch that one French knight.
Although Gilbert had won in the tournament against Arthur, that was the only time. Francis proceeded to win a majority of the following matches, developing a winning streak almost as impressive as Arthur's. The two nations seemed to be pretty close in age, actually, though Arthur was still the one noted for his youth. But while Arthur was mostly admired for his feats despite being so young, Francis's fame revolved around his grace. He seemed to float around the arena, his actions forceful yet somehow gentle at the same time. His style was unmatchable, and even the princess seemed to have her eye on him.
There was no point in denying it: England did, too.
It was routine for knights to toss flowers into the audience between each game. Antonio became known for the flourished carnations he would always throw. England, however, was only interested in Francis's trademark roses. The French nation would kiss each individual blossom before flinging them toward the crowd, and England would always keep his fingers crossed that one would come his way. It did, once, and he managed to slip it in his cloak without being noticed. Another time, after a long and hard day, he plucked one out of a little girl's hands on the way out of the arena. Some nights, when he was under the influence of some beer, he would bring the flower to his lips and giggle over the fact that France's mouth had previously touched it as well.
A fateful day occurred over the summer, about 4 months after England's hesitant affection for France surfaced. Francis was approaching his thirtieth win- a record. England had managed to score front row seating for the event, and the moment the French knight appeared on his mist colored steed, England wasn't the only one standing to cheer.
The tournament was going nearly identical to the most recent ones. Francis's spear hit the target dead center when his horse galloped toward it; his lance went through the suspended ring with ease; at least one person surrendered to him before he even had a chance to grab a weapon. This time, however, there was a new element to add to the mix: a ruthless, skilled new knight representing Hungary (Hungary herself wanted to participate, but obviously was turned down because she was a woman). He perfectly met all of Francis's moves, until he was his final opponent.
It was obvious that this was going to be an interesting fight from the moment Francis went rolling off his horse. Without even changing expression, the Hungarian knight stood on his horse with impeccable balance, jumping to the ground and landing perfectly safely. Not a trace of fear was present on Francis's face; he simply looked impressed.
As usual, England found his eyes glued to Francis's face. It was just so perfect: the baby blue color of his eyes, which danced with countless emotions; the slight stubbles of facial hair sprouting on his chin; his thin eyebrows, furrowed in effort; his ever-present determined smirk; even the set of his jaw was perfect. England knew he shouldn't be having such thoughts about another man, but it couldn't be helped. Besides, it wasn't like he planned to act on these feelings…. Still, he knew it would be best to distract himself, so he instead focused on Francis's opponent for once.
For whatever reason, the longer England watched this man, he was struck with a sense of familiarity. Maybe it was that his lightning-quick, powerful fighting style was similar to one of Francis's previous opponents… Or perhaps Arthur had fought him himself. No, no, that wasn't it… Maybe the way that he eerily never changed expressions reminded him of some other nation…? That could easily be true, yet that still didn't feel right.
Realization dawned on England so abruptly that he literally felt like his heart had stopped. That couldn't be right, his imagination was surely playing tricks on him… Gulping, England ventured to imagine the Hungarian knight with a scowl and a full beard. The results were undeniable: he had seen this man's face on a Wanted poster at his favorite, though unpopular, pub. He was wanted for escaping prison; his charge had been the repeated murders of people that had been quite admired in society….
People like Francis.
Now England's heart was racing. There was no possible way this was the same man… Surely someone would have noticed? Then again, the furious determination blazing in his eyes and strength he put into his lunges did match that of someone with a motivation to kill…
It happened so quickly that it took the crowd a moment to realize what had happened. The Hungarian knight abandoned his sword while ducking beneath Francis's own blade, and rolled out of the way to grab an axe from the array of weapons off to the side. The natural thing for Francis to do was pursue his opponent, which he did… Only to be struck down by the wooden handle of the axe.
"Francis!" England gasped, tightly gripping the railing that kept him from falling into the arena. When the Hungarian exchanged his new weapon for his old sword, however, the railing did little to keep England away.
No thoughts were registering in his brain except that a murderer was holding a sword above Francis Bonnefoy's throat, ready to decapitate his head, and nobody was going to stop him. Common sense forgotten and feeling like time had slowed down, England threw himself into the arena, sprinting in the direction of the two fighters. He grabbed a morning star- it had been his favorite weapon when he didn't have access to a sword- and, with all the accuracy he could muster, wrapped its chain around the blade of the sword seconds before it would have sliced through Francis's neck. With a sharp tug, he disarmed the Hungarian.
Time seemed to progress normally again the moment the sword clattered out of the knight's hands. The crowd was now in an uproar, all of the knights' men rushing onto the field. England's head whipped up… and his hood fell down. The entire audience seemed to gasp in unison, and murmurs of "Arthur Kirkland!" arose from all sides.
England looked around frantically, backing toward the far wall as soldiers flooded into the arena. Were all of these knights really necessary just to get one ex-jouster off the field…?! To England's shock, however, they all filtered around him, and instead surrounded the Hungarian knight. He was vaguely aware of the king shouting from his place in the stands, "The messenger was right! Here is the escaped murderer!" So England hadn't been the only one to see the resemblance…
Everything turned to chaos. People were screaming, women were fainting, families were trying to make their way toward the exit, some were even still trying to get a glimpse at Arthur. Amongst all the bedlam, next to no one noticed a certain red, white, and blue clad Frenchman grab England by the wrist and dash through the alley where the knights entered from.
"Arthur Kirkland, you saved my life," Francis breathed once they were away from everyone, releasing England's hand. A blush rose to his face; was he actually alone with the man he'd fallen further and further in love with, just by watching him joust?
"…England. You can call me England, France," he choked out. France chuckled slightly.
"Désolé, we haven't interacted as countries since we were children. I'm used to the jouster you." What? The two of them had interacted as children? This was not something England had remembered… Then again, a vast majority of his childhood was either blurry or nonexistent in his memory.
"Yes, well…. You did brilliantly today," he murmured, avoiding meeting France's gaze. If he did, he feared he'd do something he'd regret. "You, always do brilliantly."
A slight laugh left France's lips. "I'm glad to hear that I have a fan, but you're the one who put his life and shame in danger just to save me." He tweaked England's chin affectionately, making the shorter nation's face glow scarlet. "Is there anything I can do to repay you?"
It was silent for a moment as England sorted out his priorities. Would he really risk caving to his desires? "…Nothing that wouldn't require being punished."
A mischievous sort of fondness danced across France's eyes. "Nobody will know if we make it quick, cher."
England couldn't take it. He'd watched France for too long, felt too many forbidden things for him, to turn this opportunity down… Pressing his hands against the Frenchman's cheeks, heart beating as wildly as it used to when he faced his final jousting opponent, England closed his eyes and kissed him right on the mouth.
"Lord Bonnefoy, what is this?" Both nations froze at the sound of the king's leading lord, a mere few feet down the hall. England's heart stopped; this man was extremely close to the king, so there was no doubt he would tell him that he stumbled upon these two men being affectionate with each other. That would mean the Pear of Anguish for them both… Images of the brutal torture device flooded through England's mind, and his imagination even provided him with a brief pain where the contraption would be inserted for homosexual men.
Though England couldn't bring himself to look in his direction, France spared him a slight glance. "Follow my lead," France whispered to England so quietly that England wasn't sure he had even said it. France was already rigid, so it looked perfectly natural when he shoved England away. "Mon dieu, how many mugs of gin could you possibly have had?"
It took but a second for England to catch on. "Well, see… Two? T-twelve. Seven, six? Six," he answered in an airy tone, nodding a little too sharply. Francis shook his head, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
"You really let yourself go since you quit jousting…" he muttered in disgust. England's jaw dropped.
"Jousting? When did I do that?" He looked over his shoulder. "Did I do that today? Wow, bloody amazing!" He applauded slowly, beaming at France. France offered him a fake smile, then turned to the leading lord with an expression that clearly read, "Can you believe this man?" Sighing, the lord placed a hand on Francis's shoulder, aimed a sympathetic look at Arthur, and jogged to join the other soldiers in the arena.
Now that was close. "I would love to get to know you more, England," France indicated quietly the moment he was gone, regaining a normal stance. England immediately erased his phony grin, his eyes widening slightly. "How about you and I meet at the pub around the corner from here, this time tomorrow, and if I deem it necessary… We head back to my home."
Could this actually be happening? Surely this was a dream… It would be more logical if Francis said he was giving up jousting forever and wanted Arthur to take his identity and title. Still, he decided it would be best to answer as if this situation was real. "…I would love that."
Flashing his trademark smile, France gave England the same wink he would always aim at the young women squealing his name in the stands before he tossed a rose their way. "Magnifique."
~Author's Note~
I'm sure some of you are wondering what "the Pear of Anguish" is. Well, it was something I learned about in this little gallery at Medieval Times about torture devices… All I can say is, Google it.
And the little bit about throwing flowers? Well, the knights at Medieval Times did throw flowers into the audience (the knight I was in loooove with threw one RIGHT. AT. ME! I still have it~). The only ones I noticed were roses and carnations, too. :3
