DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

FORTUNE'S FAVOUR

THREE

BONNEFOI

It's been a long time, hasn't it?" Francis asked.

Arthur was sitting at his desk, scribbling in a log-book. He looked stressed, gnawing at the end of the pen in thought. "What has?" he asked absently.

Francis pushed himself off the window-ledge and sauntered toward the concentrated Englishman, trying not to let his nerves (or desire) show. When he was close enough—but still out of arm's reach—he cocked his curly blonde head and eyed Arthur suggestively. He's either going to let me or kill me, but at this point it's worth the risk. Feigning confidence, he said: "Since you've had sex."

The pen snapped, splattering ink. "What?"

Francis smirked at Arthur's bashful reaction. Despite the risk, he liked toying with him. He liked seeing the confident, straight-laced naval captain flustered and taken off-guard. It was adorable—in a sexy way. It made Arthur seem so much less intimidating and prompted Francis to inch closer.

"It's been a long time since you've had any... relief, hasn't it? That's why you can't relax. You're stressed and frustrated and short-tempered, because you're tense. How long has it been since you last, you know—?" He made a jerking motion with his hand.

"Oi! Keep your voice down!" Arthur snapped, going scarlet. He glanced anxiously at the sleeping boys in his bed and back at Francis. "And that's none of your fucking business, you bloody frog-eater! Now go away!" He gestured toward the cell in abrupt dismissal and turned back to the log-book, refusing to face Francis. "Get away from me."

Francis sighed sympathetically. "That long, huh?" He leant down and cocked his head, secretly pleased. It confirmed his suspicions and encouraged his ploy. Ignoring the Englishman's denial, he grabbed the chair and swung it suddenly around. Arthur gasped. "I know how uncomfortable it is," Francis said before he could speak. "I know how desperate you feel. And I know how to fix it." As he spoke, he knelt down between Arthur's legs, spreading them with little resistance. "I can help you get some relief. We can help each other," he admitted. Suggestively, he slid his hand up Arthur's slender thigh.

Arthur slapped him (—his hand, not his face; Francis had been expecting to get slapped in the face). "Get off of me," he warned, but the fight had left his voice. It was strained.

Francis didn't move.

Arthur clenched the chair arms, white-knuckled; the rest of him was flushed red. He glared uncertainly at the Frenchman, distrusting his own voice. He swallowed. "Buggery is illegal. And immoral," he recited quietly, green eyes aglow. He looked visibly conflicted.

Francis pushed him further. He's on the verge of breaking, of surrendering to what I know he really wants; what he knows he really wants. Come on, Arthur, just a little bit more...

"Arthur," he said seductively, placing his hand on the Englishman's thigh. This time, Arthur didn't speak. He stared at Francis, too weak-willed to refuse him; too afraid to encourage him. Francis could feel Arthur's body waking to his touch. Gently, he squeezed his inner-thigh, conveying a shared secret desire.

"I could have you flogged," Arthur whispered.

"But you won't," Francis gambled, "because you're just as desperate as I am. It's been too long," he repeated. He held Arthur's vibrant green gaze as he reached for his belt, unfastening it and unbuttoning his trousers. He looked fearful, but he didn't fight. He let Francis slip his hand beneath the waist and caress his stiff cock. "This doesn't mean anything," Francis promised. "It's just one desperate man helping out another, right?" He wrapped his hand around the Englishman's girth and squeezed. Arthur whined through clenched teeth.

"If we're c-caught—"

"We won't be. Just relax, Capitaine."

"Nn-no," Arthur pleaded, even as Francis hand began to slide back-and-forth. "N-no, please—st-sto—Ah!"

Francis used his free hand to pull down Arthur's trousers, liberating his slick cock.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut in agony. "Ah, please—don't, stop it, stop it, please—don't—don't—don't stop."

He threw his head back in surrender, body tense and trembling. His back arched against the chair and he bit his lip in an effort to be quiet, but it was futile. He was panting and gasping and whining as Francis pumped his cock, drawing out the salty, milky substance inside. It was so arousing, Francis could feel himself getting hard just watching him. But it was over quickly—as expected. Arthur's narrow hips bucked in release, filling Francis' hand. He exhaled a shuddering breath and sunk back in the chair, open-mouthed, and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell fast as he panted, cheeks red in relief and embarrassment.

Francis swallowed, growing impatient as he waited for the Englishman to recover. He waited, feeling hot and bothered and uncomfortably aroused, until he couldn't wait anymore. Deliberately, he said:

"It's my turn, now."

Arthur glanced skeptically at him.

Francis felt frustrated. "Come on, Capitaine, that wasn't charity." Again, he swallowed. "Please—?"

He could feel his erection pushing against his trousers, aching. If Arthur refused to return the favour now, he might actually scream.

Slowly Arthur stood, relinquishing his seat to Francis. He placed his hands on Francis' shoulders and pushed roughly down.

"Sit," he said.

Francis watched Arthur through heavily-lidded blue eyes as the Englishman re-buttoned his trousers in a rush, afraid of being caught in a compromising position. Francis, on the other hand, didn't care. If someone had burst in just then and saw him sitting slumped back with his cock out, sticky and flaccid, he wouldn't have had the energy—or frame of mind—to seek cover. He would have merely shrugged. He had never been afraid of his own body (or bodily functions). Unlike Arthur, evidently. He watched Arthur fuss about cleanliness, wiping himself, changing clothes, and scrubbing his hands raw, as if the washing could somehow wash his soul clean. Frankly, it made Francis dizzy. He had accepted his sexual appetites—and preferences—long ago and was no more ashamed of them than he was of desiring Arthur Kirkland. When the blushing Englishman caught Francis staring at him, he glanced down sheepishly.

"I've... never done that before," he admitted softly, "to someone else, I mean."

"Really, never?" Francis cocked an eyebrow in mock-surprise. Then he grinned, and said: "You're good at it."

"S-sod-off!" Arthur snapped. "This was a one-time thing, okay? Let's not make a routine of it."

"Fine." Francis sighed dramatically. With effort, he straightened his clothes and hauled himself up. Cheekily, he asked: "Can I sleep in your bed tonight, Capitaine?"

"No."

That said, Arthur dried his hands and intentionally turned his back on Francis. He crossed the cabin to check on the sleeping boys, who fortunately—thank God—remained sound-asleep. As a precaution, he touched Mathieu's forehead, brushing back pale curls to feel for fever, and then tucked the blankets in around he and Alfred. The twins were small and snuggled close together, but Arthur still had to shift them to make room for himself as he climbed in. Mathieu was hugging a pillow like a stuffed-toy and Alfred was drooling on another, which left Arthur with nothing, but he didn't complain. In fact, Francis spotted the ghost of a smile on his lips. As he manoeuvred, his too-large shirt slipped down, revealing a generous amount of freckled skin and delicious lean muscle...

"What are you staring at?" Arthur growled at Francis, short-tempered in embarrassment. He tugged his shirt up self-consciously. "Go to bed, frog-eater."

Francis rolled his blue eyes. "Yes, yes, I'm going," he complained, traipsing back to the cell. "You're the least tactful person on earth, you know that?"

Arthur ignored him. He settled down—an arm reflexively outstretched over both boys—and finally relaxed. "Just go to sleep."

KIRKLAND

It was early-morning when a crash startled Arthur out of a deep sleep. He jolted awake and threw his arm across the boys in reflex to protect them from a phantom threat. Matthew was awake, staring teary-eyed at the window; Alfred was snoring soundly. (He would sleep through cannon-fire, Arthur thought.) Outside, a fierce rain lashed the glass and The Rose rocked violently like a pendulum as it cut through the howling wind and waves. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled across the sky. Matthew whimpered and pulled the blanket up to his chin, clutching it tightly in fear.

"It's okay," said Arthur, patting the boy's head. He started to rise, but Matthew grabbed his trouser-leg and a small noise escaped him. Distracted, Arthur unclenched the tiny, fragile fingers, and repeated: "It's okay, just a storm. Go back to sleep, wee lamb, I'll be right back."

In the cell, Francis was dead-asleep. One of his arms was flung out sideways, the other was resting beneath his head. The front of his shirt was undone, revealing an elegant collarbone and beautiful sun-kissed skin. His angular face was well-sculpted, like an artist's model. He was a fit man and looked just as peaceful as Alfred as he lay there sleeping, unbothered by the weather. Arthur stared openly at him, his gaze fixated on the handsome Frenchman as he tugged on a hooded coat. Francis slept with his lips slightly parted; Arthur absently licked his own.

He stepped out into a torrential rain and headed quickly to the navigator's cabin, which was located across the treacherous deck. It was important that The Rose remain on-course, bad weather or not. She was on a very tight schedule and it was his responsibility as captain to manage her progress. However, when he reached his destination (fighting the violently swaying ship), the navigator, doctor, and first-mate were already there, all standing beneath a swinging light fixture, studying a map, and barely paused to acknowledge Arthur's presence.

Are they having a meeting without me? he wondered. The thought provoked a stab of unease in the young captain. He disliked that his crew ignored his position and had meetings and made plans without him. Undoubtedly, the three seasoned sailors disliked taking orders from a skinny twenty-two-year-old, which is why Arthur didn't trust them, though none of them openly disobeyed him. The disinterested glance they cast him put thoughts of mutiny into his active imagination. It made him angry. In an authoritative tone, he said:

"Something I should know about, gentlemen?"

The first-mate and navigator exchanged an annoyed glance, and the gaunt-faced doctor eyed Arthur warily. Arthur avoided direct eye-contact with him. He was the only one of the trio who knew about the boys, and the captain didn't want to risk him telling his fellows.

The first-mate said: "It's this weather, Captain. It'll blow us off-course if it continues like this—or sink us," he added darkly. We're in agreement that we should head toward the African coast and anchor her. If this storm gets any fiercer, we'll capsize."

"The Rose is a retired ship-of-the-line, she can stand a bit of wind and rain. She won't capsize," said Arthur sternly. The first-mate lifted a doubtful eyebrow, so he added: "We have a strict schedule to keep. We'll lose too much time sailing off-course to Africa and back."

He didn't want to admit that he was afraid to make port in Africa for three glaring reasons. Firstly, he needed to get Alfred and Matthew to England as soon as possible; every day they spent aboard The Rose put them in danger. Secondly, the longer the voyage took the more likely he was to repeat that embarrassing episode involving Francis and his tension relieving skills; he was secretly terrified of wanting more. And thirdly—and most relevant—he didn't trust his crew not to mutiny and maroon him on the continent. The sooner they reached England, the better for everyone.

"Captain, if I may—"

"No, you may not," Arthur interrupted the first-mate. "Keep us on-course," he ordered, then left to avoid an argument.

He returned to the captain's cabin, feeling conflicted. As he pulled down his hood, shivering, he looked at the bed. Alfred was stretched-out across it like a starfish, his shirt riding-up to expose his belly, his mouth open, snoring softly. Arthur smiled and thought that if he could immortalize Alfred in a portrait miniature, it would be this image of the boy sleeping. It was too adorable. It would occupy one half of a locket, and the other half would be of—

Matthew?

Matthew was not in the bed beside Alfred, where Arthur had left him.

"Matthew?" Arthur called, worrying. He scanned the small cabin, but didn't see the boy. "Matthew," he said again, glancing into Francis' cell, but the Frenchman hadn't moved. "Matthew, where are you, poppet?" He lifted the tablecloth, looked inside the wardrobe, searched the floor on his hands-and-knees. He even looked under the sagging bed. "Matthew!" he repeated, staring to panic.

Oh God, where is he? Where could he have gone?

Arthur tried to think logically, even as his gaze whipped back-and-forth. If he was a frightened four-year-old, where would he go? He tried to remember himself as a child, but struggled. Arthur hadn't had much of a childhood; he had grown-up fast by necessity. Still, if he thought hard about it, he vaguely remembered being petrified of storms, too, and how he had always sought out his older brother for comfort. Matthew had been near tears when I left him, he thought guiltily. Then he froze.

When I left him. Oh, no. Matthew was terrified and I left him. He wouldn't have followed me out, would he?

Feeling cold with panic, heart pounding, Arthur banged on Francis' cell. "Frog-eater, wake up! Please tell me Matthew is in there with you."

Francis blinked and rubbed sleep from his eyes. He frowned when he saw the storm, but was unperturbed by it. "Hmm, Mathieu? No. Why? What's wrong, Capitaine?" he added, waking up when he saw Arthur's panic-stricken face. Quickly, his eyes flicked to the bed and back. "Where is Mathieu?"

"Oh, bollocks! I don't know!"

"What? What do you mean you don't know?" Francis jumped to his feet and clambered half-naked to the cell door, which had swung closed sometime in the night. "Capitaine!" he yelled over a thunderclap. "Is Mathieu on-deck? Mon Dieu! Let me out, I'll help look for him!"

"No, I can't—"

"Let me out!" Francis yelled.

He looked terrified, but determined. Grudgingly, Arthur complied. The clamour was finally enough to wake Alfred, who murmured groggily. "Where's Mattie?" he asked innocently. A thunderclap crashed and he flinched, his blue eyes growing wide in realization. "Uh, oh. Mattie's scawed of stowms." In fairness, Alfred didn't seem too fond of them either, but he pulled the bed-sheet over his head like a cloak and jumped bravely off the bed. "He'll be weally scawed. I have to find him," he said, stumbling across the floor. He tripped, and Arthur lunged forward and grabbed him around the belly.

"No," he refused sternly, "you'll stay right here with—Francis?"

The cabin door clacked against the wall, hanging ajar. Francis was nowhere to be seen.

"Bugger!" Arthur growled. That idiot! If he's caught on-deck they'll flog him! Frantically, he released Alfred and ordered him to return to bed and wait. "Just stay here—Oi, Alfred!" he shouted as the boy ran for the door. He tried to grab the back of the bed-sheet, but he missed and Alfred dashed out the door. Quickly—cursing profusely—Arthur followed.

The rainfall was cold and dense, but Arthur spotted the bed-sheet flailing like a sail in the wind. "Alfred!" he yelled, angry and frightened. The ship rocked violently, throwing Arthur off-balance. He leapt and snagged the sheet, but Alfred was no longer attached to it. "Fuck!" He let the wind take it. "Alfred! Matthew, where are you?" he called, whipping his head from left-to-right. Christ, the King, and the Queen's bloody bloomers, where are you? A raced over the slippery deck, speed keeping his balance. A strike of white lightning lit the frothing ocean, accompanied by a crack of deafening thunder. It was pandemonium on-deck. The crew was yelling and pulling and pushing, rushing to secure the lines; tying ropes; locking doors; and trying not to fall overboard while they tried to keep the ship upright. In the confusion, Arthur collided with one of his crew. He grabbed the man's shoulders and shouted: "Have you seen two lads?" The crewman growled obscenely and shook his head, focused on other things. Arthur let him go and grabbed another. "Have you seen two lads?" he demanded. In example, he gestured with his hand to indicate the twins' height. The man barely responded before pulling away. Arthur's heart was pounding madly as he scanned the dark, crowded, rain-lashed deck, as if a fist of fear was physically squeezing it. He started to feel helpless. He looked up and spotted the first-mate barking orders from the forecastle-deck, looking self-important. Briefly, he made eye-contact with the panicked captain before deliberately ignoring him. Arthur started toward him, but a sudden high-pitched shriek cut through the din. He whipped around:

"Matthew—!"

He saw Francis first. The Frenchman was standing on the gun-deck dangerously near the bulkhead, hunched over Matthew, clutching the petrified little boy with his right hand as his left hand reached for Alfred. Alfred, too, had spotted them and was running toward Francis on wobbly legs. He was so close. He reached out with a pudgy hand—Then the ship struck a massive wave and swung sideways. Arthur pitched forward. Francis lost his balance and hit the bulkhead hard, protecting Matthew in the circle of his arms. Alfred flew across the wet deck and landed a few feet from Francis, but he didn't stop. His body was too lightweight. He hit the bulkhead and flipped over it. Francis leapt forward, grabbing for him, but missed by mere inches. Matthew shrieked again as Alfred flew overboard.

"Alfred!" Francis cried in terror.

Without thinking, Arthur flew past him, leapt onto the bulkhead, and dove into the frothing water below.

BONNEFOI

Arthur!" Francis screamed.

For a moment, he just stood there clutching Mathieu in shock. Arthur and Alfred fell overboard. Then he leapt into action.

"Don't let go!" he told Mathieu.

Freeing his hands—Mathieu wrapped himself around Francis' leg—Francis grabbed a length of rope, secured to the mast, deftly tied a thick knot, and fired it overhand into the water. He could just barely see Arthur's small figure floundering below, his head bobbing above the water, submerging as waves rolled over him. He had shrugged out of his coat, letting it sink, and was treading the surface in his shirt-sleeves. Francis couldn't see if he was holding Alfred or not; it was too dark. "Arthur!" he yelled. Whether Arthur heard him or not (likely not), he managed to grasp the rope one-handed and twisted it clumsily around his arm. "You," Francis grabbed the nearest crewman, "help me!" He indicated the rope and the man joined him, as did the cabin-boy, and together they pulled. Francis didn't know where his strength came from, but he barely felt the strain in his muscles as he tugged the rope hand-over-fist, burning his palms on the cords. At the bulkhead, he let go the rope and simply grabbed Arthur around the torso instead, pulling he and—thank God!—Alfred up and over. The momentum and added weight knocked him backwards. Mathieu leapt out of the way.

"Oh, Alfred!" Francis gasped. The moment he regained his breath, he leant forward and peppered Alfred in relieved kisses, hugging the boy close. Scared, Alfred coughed-up saltwater, hiccupped once, and proceeded to wail. "Oh, mon bébé." Francis rubbed Alfred's back as he studied his white face, looking for signs of injury. Fortunately—miraculously—Alfred seemed to be physically unhurt. Francis had expected broken bones or water in his lungs, but it seemed a few bruises is all the boy had suffered. And fear, of course. Alfred clenched Francis' shirt in his fists, seeking comfort as he sobbed. Francis held him one-handed as he examined Arthur with the other. "Capitaine—?" he asked hopefully.

Arthur's drenched body was lying limply atop Francis, his cheek pressed to Francis' clavicle. He was gasping; Francis could feel his chest rising-and-falling, his heartbeat palpitating. Slowly he looked up—wide-eyed, white-faced, and shivering—and smiled.

Overwhelmed with relief, Francis smiled back. "Arthur—"

Several pairs of strong, callused hands grabbed Francis and dragged him roughly to his feet. Arthur stepped shakily back in surprise, and Alfred was ripped from both of their hands. (Alfred screamed.) The first-mate's cloudy eyes glared at Francis, then Arthur, illuminated by a flash of lightning. Pointing, he ordered everyone into the nearby navigator's cabin. There, he said:

"Captain, what's going on? Why is the prisoner free? And who the fuck are they?" he demanded, pointing to the boys hiding behind Arthur's legs.

"Oh, uh..." Arthur exchanged a desperate look with Francis, who had been forced to his knees. "They, uh..."

"They're his sons," said the cabin-boy helpfully. "That's, uh... what you told me, Captain. Sir," he said, feeling self-conscious when everyone looked at him. Bowing his head, he stepped back.

The first-mate narrowed his eyes skeptically at Arthur. "Is that true? These are your sons?"

Again Arthur looked at Francis, who nodded. "Uh, yes," Arthur replied, placing a protective hand on each of the boys' heads. All three of them were shivering violently. Alfred slumped against Arthur, hugging his leg for physical support; though, Arthur looked as if he might faint. Both were pale and exhausted from near-drowning, and Mathieu looked positively petrified by fear. It angered Francis that the first-mate thought an interrogation was more important than the health and wellbeing of his captain and two vulnerable children.

"Someone fetch them a blanket—" he started, but got punched in the stomach. The breath went out of him.

"In a minute," said the first-mate. His tone was sharp and authoritative; his gaze hadn't moved from Arthur, nor softened. "How long have you had children here, Captain? Why didn't you tell us?"

"It's, uh... it's a rather recent development," said Arthur vaguely. "They were born in the colonies"—which was the truth—"and now I'm taking them back to England."

The first-mate was rather displeased by the simplicity of Arthur's explanation, but he didn't argue it. Instead, he jerked his head at Francis.

"And him?" he asked. "What reason have you got for not keeping the bloody prisoner locked-up, Captain?"

His tone was suspicious, accusing Arthur of—

What exactly? Francis worried.

He watched Arthur's Lincoln-green eyes brighten dangerously in challenge. He was weak and exhausted, but the Englishman was proud. Defensively, having had enough of the first-mate's disrespect, he lifted his chin, and said:

"That is absolutely none of your concern, sir. Your job and only priority is the management and maintenance of this ship, not the transport of high-profile criminals, or the personal lives of me and my family. I am the captain of this vessel, not you. You will not question my authority. I believe you have more important things to attend to than interrogating me, so I suggest you start doing them. Someone bring the doctor to my cabin," he ordered loudly, "and—for fuck's sake—get me a bloody blanket. And release him," he snapped at the men restraining Francis. "He might be a bloody pirate, but he rescued me and my boy. I think that's earned him a drink."

That said, Arthur hefted both boys into his arms and led the small party back to the captain's cabin.

Francis braced a hand against the wind. It howled, but the rain had started to abate and the sea had calmed. Subtly, he held Arthur around the waist as they stumbled into the cabin, Arthur leaning against Francis for support. His legs shook, but he refused to look weak in front of his crew. It wasn't until Francis had shut the door behind them that Arthur finally, privately collapsed. Francis half-carried he and the boys to the bed, where they sat. Arthur's breath was laboured, his strength spent. I guess you're not afraid to look weak in front of me, Francis thought, watching the Englishman in his peripheral vision. In secret, he smiled. Do you trust me, Captain? Maybe it was his exhaustion, but Arthur didn't protest as Francis ran his hands gently over his body, checking the Englishman for injury, and measured the beat of his pulse. He talked continuously as he helped the boys out of their wet clothes (Arthur undressed himself) and wrapped them all in blankets, even the one from Francis' cot. The doctor came and left, stony-faced. Francis took an instant disliking to him. He was much kinder to the cabin-boy, who brought hot water, food, and a large drink for Francis. He smiled and thanked the youth and, despite his position as captive, the cabin-boy bowed his head to him respectfully in return.

"Are you sure you're alright, mes chéris?" he asked later, fussing.

Alfred nodded speechlessly, traumatised by the fall. Francis held him for a long time, rocking him soothingly into a sense of security before tucking him into bed.

"That was a very stupid thing to do, boys," he said, chastising them. "We've both told you how dangerous it is on-deck. It was reckless t0 run out there—"

"Don't teach them that," said Arthur darkly.

Francis blinked. "What?"

"Hypocrisy. You were just as reckless as they were running out on-deck. You're lucky you weren't flogged."

Francis stared at him in surprise. Arthur was huddled beneath a blanket, green eyes downcast and glaring at the floorboards. He was holding Mathieu against his chest like a shield, absently rubbing the boy's back; his soft head was resting on Arthur's shoulder. The Englishman's eyelids were red and heavy, but the green was vibrant.

"Yes," Francis agreed softly, "I suppose I am a hypocrite. But I couldn't help it. Alfred and Mathieu were—"

"I know, I just..." Arthur bit his bottom lip. He looked troubled. After a minute, he said: "You should change your clothes before you get sick. You're soaking wet."

"No more than you." Francis folded his arms. "Besides, since when do you care if I get flogged or catch sick?"

"You must think me very cold, Francis," Arthur said quietly. He had never used Francis' given-name before. Deliberately, he lifted his eyes. "I was worried for the wee lads out there, of course, but when I couldn't find you either I... I got scared," he admitted.

Francis stared at him, dumbfounded by Arthur's confession. His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment he felt—impossibly, irrationally—happy. Then Arthur turned away.

"Sleep well, wee lambs," he whispered, tucking Mathieu into bed beside Alfred. Tenderly, he touched each of their soft cheeks and smiled down at them, revealing a curious blend of fear and relief. It made Francis want to touch him. He wanted to draw the Englishman into his arms and squeeze him to prove that he was alive and well; to feel the flood of relief, knowing that Arthur was safe.

When Arthur turned back around, he was surprised to find Francis so close. He started to speak: "What are you—" but Francis grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss. It was feather-soft and chaste. Francis was unsure of Arthur's reaction—his feelings—but the Frenchman risked it anyway. He couldn't help the need that flooded him: the need to wordlessly express how felt. He pressed his lips against Arthurs for as long as he dared, so afraid that the Englishman would reject him. However, as the initial shock ebbed, he felt Arthur respond in kind. Maybe it was the near-death experience, but Arthur leant into Francis' touch and pressed his lips more firmly, more deliberately, against his. Francis moved his free hand to Arthur's waist and pulled, drawing their chests together, and Arthur didn't resist. His body was cold and covered in goose-bumps, but Francis loved the feel of it against his own. A part of him wanted to warm Arthur up for his health; another part wanted to throw him down and make him sweat, harass him until he cried-out in pleasure. Then a soft, sad moan escaped Arthur and it was over.

Arthur pulled back and stepped out of Francis' arms. They stared at each other for a moment in disbelief, the pirate and the naval captain. Then, as if to remind himself (to stop himself), Arthur said:

"I'm sorry you have to die."

Reality crashed down, destroying the fantasy. Francis felt his heart ache. He said:

"Me, too."

It was early-morning and Arthur was shivering violently. He lay in the bed, bundled beneath several blankets with the boys, holding Alfred against his chest to protect him from the cold. Mathieu slept on Alfred's opposite side, cocooning his brother in a nest of body-heat, so Alfred slept peacefully, but Arthur's back was exposed. Francis leant down and gently touched Arthur's freckled skin, which was cold; his eyelids fluttered restlessly. Francis considered his options, then pulled his shirt off overhead and carefully crawled into the bed behind Arthur. He pressed his body against the Englishman's back and wrapped his arms around his torso, hugging he and Alfred close. He waited a minute, nervous. Then another. When Arthur didn't wake and demand he get away, Francis relaxed and closed his eyes, finally settling down enough to sleep. That's when Arthur turned his head, looking blearily over-the-shoulder at Francis in confusion.

Francis pulled back. "Pardon, I just—"

"Don't go." Arthur leant back, chasing Francis retreat. His shoulders arched, curling into the inviting heat of the Frenchman's healthy body. "Stay," he whispered as he fell back to sleep.

Francis settled down and held Arthur's body skin-to-skin with one arm. The other he stretched across Alfred and rested on Mathieu's back, enveloping all three of them in a one-armed embrace. Then he closed his eyes, feeling peaceful. Never had they slept together like this before, like a family. Not since leaving Italy had Francis slept beside anyone he considered family, and he realized how much he missed it. He had been so alone for so long, running away from everything. It was good to feel needed and wanted again, now. Even if the church and the state called it immoral and blasphemous, Francis didn't care. Lying there with Arthur and the boys felt more right than anything ever had, as if this was where he was truly meant to be.

He smiled as he drifted off to sleep. And he whispered: "Bonne nuit, mon chéris. Je t'aime..."