This Is War and I Won't Surrender
The weekend with the awaited party arrived quickly, and Arthur was feeling very positive about it. He was confident that the party would do good for his plan to win Alfred back; if the American thought that he was boring, he would remind him just how wild he could be, and Alfred would fall for him head over heels again. Arthur had dressed accordingly, too. Instead of his usual shirts and vests and trousers he was now wearing the jeans that showed his lower half in the best of light, and over his T-shirt he wore a black leather jacket. He knew he looked good – he had seen the approving look that Alfred had given him before leaving their apartment. The evening was his chance, and he was not going to blow it. Not even when confusion, funny twists in his insides, and one bloody frog seemed to have permanently possessed him as much as winning Alfred back had.
The car ride wasn't long – Alfred was driving – and soon they had found the correct house – it hadn't been hard, really, with loud music bombing the whole street. For a fleeting moment Arthur pitied the neighbours, but then he realised that he didn't actually care what the neighbours thought; they weren't his neighbours, anyway.
"The guy throwing the party is named Gilbert," Alfred told him when they got out of the car. "I don't know who else is gonna be there, besides Ivan of course, so don't eat my head if you don't like it. You've been warned."
Arthur snorted. "Are we going to go in, or are you that much afraid of me eating your head?"
Naturally Alfred had to prove that he wasn't, and Arthur chuckled when the American strode to the house and nearly bashed in the unlocked door.
"Al, cool, you made it here!" a man with silver-white hair and disturbingly red eyes immediately yelled over the music on them entering the building. He had two drinks in his hands, but he stopped to greet the two blonds. The red eyes turned to Arthur. "You must be... Arthur, was it? I'm Gilbert, so welcome and all that." He grinned. "Check the house and the people. The booze is on the table over there – make sure there won't be any left in the morning – I gotta go now, see you around!" Then somebody dragged him off, and Alfred and Arthur were left alone.
"Well, he was peculiar," Arthur said, casting a look around. He spotted no familiar faces.
Alfred gave a boyish, excited grin to Arthur. "Cool, it's been a while since we were at a party like this," he laughed. Then his laughter changed into a groan. "And there's him."
"Who?" Heart suddenly in his throat, Arthur turned around, immediately expecting the worst – that Francis would be there. But his fear was irrational – what would Francis have to do with a booze party like that? – and he saw that Alfred was pointing at some very tall man with ashen hair. The man wore a stylish scarf despite it being quite hot inside, and Arthur recognised him as the infamous Russian. "Oh, you mean Ivan."
Alfred bristled beside him. "Look at him, I bet he's here just to spy on us."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course, Alfred. His government just needs to know how drunken people make fools of themselves in this part of the world."
"Don't worry, Arty! I'll keep an eye on him." Alfred boasted. He looked like he was drunk already, even without a drop of alcohol. "The hero on the mission!" Arthur couldn't help but give a small smile at that. That was Alfred he knew, the obnoxious so-called hero, and his 'heroism' was both irritating and amusing, always depending on the situation. At the present, Arthur was amused.
"One day you'll get back to earth," he said. He couldn't decide whether or not that would be fun to witness; it would be a pleasure to see Alfred snap out of his super hero mode, but on the other hand, Arthur was sure that the American would make such a pathetic sight of a kicked puppy that he would be only pitiful to look at. He couldn't resist patting Alfred brotherly on the head at such a thought; after all, it was the American's silly delusions that made him Alfred.
"I'll go get us something to drink," he said.
Arthur soon discovered that when it came to alcohol, Gilbert hadn't held back. The table was filled with almost any kind of alcohol he could imagine, from beer to vodka, from wine to whiskey. That was excellent. Now he should only decide how quickly he wanted to have Alfred tipsy, so that he could be swept off his feet. Thinking that a slow beginning was better to put them in the mood, he simply picked two beers and turned to return to the American.
As he got closer, however, he noticed that Alfred was talking with someone. The person was standing with his back to Arthur, but the Englishman could not mistake that wavy, blond hair, or the stylish way the man wore his crimson shirt and tight jeans.
Arthur stopped in his tracks.Oh, fuck. No way, no fucking way. What was Francis goddamn Bonnefoy doing there? His presence changed Arthur's plans completely! Though why, the Englishman couldn't quite tell. All he knew was that he didn't want to get too close with Alfred when Francis was there to see it. And... and he didn't want Alfred to be there, stealing all of the Frenchman's attention to himself.
Alfred was standing with his face to Arthur's direction, and the Englishman noticed easily how uneasy the American's face had fallen. It went all pale, and there were sweat drops forming on his forehead. Suddenly very hateful toward the American, Arthur wished he would suffer. He briskly walked up to the talking couple.
"Here," he passed the beer to Alfred, who took it mechanically. "Uh, wow, cool, thanks Arty," he stuttered, while Arthur turned to the Frenchman, who looked at him, brows furrowing. "Arthur," he greeted, visibly somewhat baffled.
"Francis," Arthur answered, perfectly calm on the surface.
"Didn't know that you know Gilbert," the Frenchman said.
"I don't," Arthur said with a shrug and nodded towards the American. "He does, more or less."
"Hey, uh, wait," Alfred joined in. "So, you, you guys know each other?"
"Yes, we've met before," Francis said, and Arthur sensed some uneasiness in the nonchalant way he spoke... or then he just imagined it. "I had no idea that you two were acquainted, too."
Arthur cast a glance at Alfred, feeling oddly thrilled and scared and numb and whatnot, all at the same time. Maybe it hadn't been that good an idea to interrupt the two. Perhaps he should have let them finish talking, to avoid awkward situations like the one at hand. But at the same time, something heavy that had long ago nestled in the pit of his stomach was beginning to unfold, although not in a necessarily pleasant way. Arthur had an inkling that something would be resolved that night, and suddenly he was eager to let it, no matter of the outcome. Let Alfred explain himself out of this, he thought sadistically, though he almost pitied the American.
"Well, ha ha, we are, anyway." Alfred's voice was at least one pitch higher than usually. "You see, Arthur here, he's, you know, he's – he's my boyfriend."
The way Francis' eyes widened in complete and utter shock gave Arthur some sort of twisted pleasure. "Arthur?" Francis finally managed, staring at Alfred, still wide-eyed. "You mean, it was- is- Arthur? That he's your boyfriend?"
"Yeah, ha ha," Alfred laughed weakly. "He's the one!"
The blue eyes bored deep into Arthur's green ones, then back at Alfred. "Alfred," Francis said, tone deep and grave and cold with anger. "So you still haven't..?"
"Ha ha, nope, I guess I... forgot." Alfred looked around for a quick salvation, but no such thing appeared. So much for all the hero-talk, Arthur thought.
Francis threw his hands in the air. "For heaven's sake, Alfred!" Then he directed his fury at the Englishman. "And you!" He seemed like he wanted to say more, but didn't. Instead he muttered an excuse to leave them and disappeared among dancing people. Alfred and Arthur were left alone again, and for a while they just stood there, both drinking their beer and each occupied with his own thoughts. Well, at least Arthur was thinking. He wondered whether Alfred had realised that Arthur knew, or if he clung to the hope that Francis had never told anything about him to the Englishman. The answer, however, came soon.
"So, have you known him long?" Alfred asked, now considerably calmer when Francis was out of sight.
Arthur shrugged. "Not really. Met him a couple of times."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Arthur barked a laughed. "Are you jealous?" he mocked, though the target of the mockery was more he himself rather than Alfred. "You knew him too, and a great deal better than I, as it seems, and you told nothing to me either."
"Yeah, well. Yeah."
They resumed to silence; it was easier than talking. Arthur wanted nothing more than to get away from Alfred, and no doubt Alfred felt the same, but neither of them felt it acceptable to just flee without a good excuse.
Luckily, the excuse came, and none too early.
"Hello," someone said behind them, and they turned to see Ivan.
"Hi," Arthur answered, but Alfred chose another greeting. "So you're here too," he scoffed haughtily, as if it was his party and not Gilbert's.
"Of course I'm here. I told you about this party, remember?"
"I know Gilbert, too!"
"Yes, through me."
Arthur decided that to be the perfect moment to go. "I'll leave you two to socialise," he said hastily and turned away, eager to be somewhere where none of these people would see him. He needed to think, to figure out what exactly had happened and what would happen, now that Francis knew that he, Arthur, was the boyfriend who had been cheated on.
But what could happen? What would change? How would Francis knowing change anything? Arthur halted abruptly. Fool, he berated himself. Francis and Alfred were going out, dating, being together in a relationship, and for that whole time Francis had apparently been aware of that he was someone else, that Alfred was taken. It hadn't stopped him then, so why would it stop him now? The simple fact that the Frenchman now knew Arthur's pathetic role in the whole affair meant nothing.
"Why am I even bothering?" Arthur muttered to himself, and something hot stung behind his eyes. That made him aware of the fact that he was standing in the middle of the room, people going around him laughing, drinking, and dancing, and that he sure must look weird. Tears were still prickling threateningly behind his eyes, and one thing was sure: Arthur Kirkland would not cry in public. He needed to get out of sight, and be quick about it... but where? Sure, he could always leave, but Gilbert's house was too far from his and Alfred's to walk there. He could take a taxi though, but he didn't want to go home and mope alone in his misery just yet, now when he felt that the whole mess was on the verge of clearing.
Then he spotted the solution – namely, a balcony door. Without a second thought Arthur bolted for the door, as if his life depended on it (at least his dignity did, and that was even more important). As soon as he was out of the door, he noticed that it wasn't a balcony, but a small garden instead (well, of course – the house had only one floor). Even better. Three girls were leaning against a wall with their drinks, caught up in whatever conversation, but otherwise, the garden was empty. There was a tumbledown tool shed in the farthest corner of the garden, and to play it safe, Arthur headed for it, intending to hide behind it. There he wouldn't be disturbed.
Fortunately the ground around the shed was pebbled, so Arthur didn't have to sit on cold, wet grass. He sat down, sighed, and let his tears fall – but none came. Oh, just as well. Crying would do no good, anyway. If Alfred and Francis' relationship had gone serious enough for them to agree about breaking it to Arthur, was there any chance of Alfred coming back to him?
But, more importantly... Did Arthur even want him back? Or was it actually someone entirely else whom he wanted, someone, say, less American and more... French?
This thought was not elaborated further, because precisely at the same time with its occurrence someone plopped down on the pebbles beside Arthur.
The Englishman had been so occupied with his thoughts that the appearance of another person took him completely by surprise and he jumped, breathing out a curse or two. He turned to his left to see the intruder, and really, he shouldn't have been surprised to find that it was Francis.
And a very drunk Francis, at that.
The Frenchman leant his back against the tool shed and hummed contentedly, not even seeming to realise that he was not alone. Then Arthur saw what made the frog so happy: he was nursing two unopened bottles of wine in his arms, and as soon as he was comfortably settled on pebbles, he had eyes only for them. As a matter of fact, so did Arthur. Alcohol. Now that was precisely what he needed.
Francis froze in the middle of his attempt to open one of the bottles, as if sensing that there was a third party lusting for his precious wine. Slowly he looked to his right, which was when he spotted Arthur. "You," he mumbled darkly, hugging the bottle to himself in a protective manner. "What are you doing here? This is my place." Arthur could hear from the Frenchman's voice that he had consumed more than one glass of wine already.
"The fuck it is," the Englishman growled in response. Did Francis think that he could first steal Arthur's boyfriend, then march to his hiding place and steal that too? "I was here first, so go away."
"As it happens, I don't want to." To make his point clear, Francis tapped the ground between himself and Arthur. "I'm already here."
"Fucking bastard."
"Be quiet, rosbif. I have something important to attend to." And the Frenchman resumed to opening his bottle, which, however, appeared to be quite a challenge in his drunken state.
Arthur contemplated leaving, but there was nothing for him inside the house. On the other hand, if he remained where was, he would get some wine and not feel quite as pathetic as he truly was. He'd rid himself of the Frenchman somehow, but keep the wine, at least one bottle. Satisfied with his plan, he sneakily reached for the neglected bottle by the Frenchman's side.
Francis, however, was not yet too drunk to react quickly. He protected the bottles with his torso, not letting Arthur grasp any of them. "Don't even think of it!"
"That's not fair! I was here first and now you deny me even the wine, which isn't even yours!"
"I didn't bring these to you!"
"To whom, then?" Arthur asked sulkily and crossed his arms. "Did you expect to share your wine with someone else here?" Like Alfred?
"Non! These are for me."
"Two bottles?"
"Good, you can count."
"You are drunk already, you don't need two! I'm still sober."
That seemed to give the Frenchman a pause. Apparently he understood the logic and, reluctantly, passed one of the bottles to Arthur. "Here."
"Thanks."
For a moment both of them focused on opening their respective bottles – luckily, they didn't need a screw for it – and with success, took long, healthy gulps. With that, the situation became considerably more bearable. For a while they sat in silence, listening to people's cheery chatter and loud music carried to the garden, but they both knew that they had something to discuss. Eventually, Francis was the one to speak up first.
"You knew." His voice was slurring a bit.
"Yeah." By then, Arthur's wasn't any better.
"Since I mentioned his name that evening at my place?"
"Since you to went to the new art gallery."
Francis took a while to digest the information and gulped more wine to help the process. "You knew before we first met," he then mumbled, frowning. "At the café terrace."
"Yeah."
"And you didn't say anything."
"No."
"You pretended you knew nothing this whole time."
"What, you going to state every fact in this damned world?"
Francis shook his head. "I just can't understand why on earth you would do that."
To be honest, at that particular moment Arthur had troubles understanding his own reasoning, too. He swung the bottle to mask that fact and pointed a finger at Francis, miscalculating his distance and accidentally poking the Frenchman in his ear. "Yuck," he said and snickered. Then he coughed politely and asked, "How long did you know?"
Francis snorted, rubbing his ear. "I don't know, this past hour or so. I thought you were present to see me finding out."
"No, idiot. How long did you know that Alfred was taken?"
"Oh, that. Why didn't you say so earlier? He told me after a month or so after we started dating. Or rather," Francis wrinkled his nose. "I noticed that something was amiss and confronted him about it, so he had no choice but telling the truth."
"Ha," said Arthur, because he noticed that his bottle was emptying at an alarming speed, and he didn't know what else he could say to anything, anyway.
"Didn't know it was you, though."
"And you carried on with him even though you knew you were breaking somebody's relationship? You are a sodding bastard."
Francis had some nerve to look somewhat offended at that. "For one," he said, "Alfred promised long ago that he would be honest with you and see where it would lead. Not my fault he didn't. Besides, your relationship was long since dead before I even saw Alfred, from all I can gather."
Now that was pretty insolent. Arthur hit Francis on the head with an open hand. "As soon as my bottle is empty, I will hit you with it," he promised, because he fully intended to hit hard enough for the bottle to break, and he didn't want to waste any wine on Francis.
"You wouldn't."
"I would."
"Wouldn't."
"Would."
"Wouldn't."
Naturally such unbelief convinced Arthur not to wait until he had drained the bottle, but instead hit Francis with it right away. He didn't hit the man very hard, though. He didn't want to get jailed for murder.
"Ow!"
"I did," the Englishman said smugly, watching Francis rubbing his head. The blue eyes looked at him, hurt. "I was going to offer you the rest of my wine, but I changed my mind," Francis said sulkily.
"What? No! You owe me your bottle!"
"I don't!"
"You do! You stole my boyfriend, so leave me at least the wine!"
"Non. Keep Alfred, but the wine is mine."
"I don't want Alfred, I want the wine!"
"Then don't whine about me stealing him!" Francis pushed his bottle to Arthur rather forcibly, and the Englishman took it eagerly, now merrily hugging two nearly empty wine bottles.
They fell into silence once again while Arthur lovingly emptied his own bottle, then tossed it aside and took a gulp of Francis', too. Then he focused on watching with interest how the world started swimming in the night sky, and how Francis went around in circles. Somewhere there a smallest bit of Arthur's mind could still comprehend and reminded the Englishman that this wasn't exactly the best way to deal with the conversation that he should go through with Francis, but hell, who cared?
Francis chuckled. "I don't usually drink to get drunk. I am ashamed of myself." His drunkenness was practically seeping through his voice, and Arthur couldn't help laughing at him.
"You should be," he then slurred and took one more sip for courage, because he was about to voice a very important question, and hearing the answer would probably hurt. "Are you in love?" he shot his question.
Francis answered immediately, in one breath. "Not with Alfred."
"Good," Arthur said, relief washing through his drunken system. Then he realised that the answer implied a love for someone else, and frowned. "With whom, then?"
The dark blue eyes nailed Arthur to the wall of the tool shed and studied him intently, as if undressing the Englishman of every layer of pretence and lies and appearances... and clothing, yes, of clothing too, like in Arthur's dream the other night.
And then, without a warning, Francis was everywhere, not only because of alcohol messing with Arthur's sight, but also because the Frenchman filled the Englishman's entire vision, and then he was kissing Arthur, or maybe Arthur was kissing him, or perhaps they did it together, at the same time.
Francis was drunk, and Arthur was drunk, and their kiss really wasn't the sort of supposedly earth-shattering kiss that always followed the final battle in the action films, but in spite of that Arthur felt something that he hadn't experienced for a long, long time: he felt electricity sparkle between Francis and himself when their lips touched, and hands entwined in each other's hair, and bodies pressed flush against one another. It was a dazzling sensation, and he loved it.
But then it ended, because Francis withdrew from Arthur's personal space, eyes wide and full of guilt. "Merde, I'm sorry. We shouldn't have."
No, Arthur thought. We shouldn't have. Because Alfred was cheating on Arthur with Francis, so it wasn't like Arthur could go around kissing Francis! And what the hell, did that make Arthur sort of a cheater as well, because he kissed Francis behind Alfred's back? But was it really cheating, since Alfred was already cheating, and hell, it was the same person, Francis, who was in the middle of it, and... Just what the actual fuck was going on?
But there was a part, and not a small one, in Arthur's mind, determinedly insisting that everything considered, Francis and Arthur not only should have kissed, but should even continue kissing. Not because the kiss had been amazing, which it hadn't due to all the alcohol, but because of the electricity between Francis and Arthur. It had been that one kind of electricity that occurred only when Things Could Go Serious. The kind that hadn't sparked between Alfred and Arthur for a long time.
"Shit," Arthur muttered, looking at Francis and trying to get his eyes off his exposed throat. "We kissed."
"Well observed," Francis managed to sound cheeky, rolling his eyes.
"You fucking wino, you are with Alf-" Wait, no. "I'm with Alf-" Oh, for fuck's sake. "We are both with Alfred, and we kissed!"
Francis frowned at the offensive manner of reference to his persona. "Precisely. And that, my dear friend Arthur, is why I am drunk in the first place."
Now Arthur was offended. "What, because we kissed? You were drunk already before that!"
"No, you imbecile! Because we are both with Alfred!" Francis crossed his arms. "Or rather, you are with Alfred."
"You are not one to talk," Arthur muttered sullenly. Miraculously, the kiss seemed to have sobered him up a bit, and he was beginning to feel that perhaps it was time to take some distance between the Frenchman and himself. "I think," he said, slowly collecting himself off the pebbles and standing up, "I think I should go."
Francis gave him a look, then nodded and reached for the wine bottle that had been cast aside before the kiss. "I think so too." He threw the cork away and lifted the bottle to his lips to consume the remains of the enchanting liquid. "You should go."
Arthur left. Unsteadily, and not quite in a straight line, he headed back for the house, managed to guide himself right through it, stumbled past Alfred who was wholly immersed in a drinking battle with Ivan, and successfully walked out of the front door to the street. "Taxi," he shouted, even though the street was empty of any kind of vehicles. "Taxi!" Fortunately, two metres and several minutes later, a vacant taxi happened to drive past the drunk Englishman, who seized the opportunity.
When he got home, Arthur crawled straight to bed, only kicking his boots off his feet before climbing into the safe, soft, warm heaven. He would do the thinking the next day. Until then, he would be content to drown himself in the memory of the unexpected kiss.
Or at least he thought he would, before passing out on his bed.
xXx
