The two of them sit there in near total silence as Roderich excuses himself, disappearing quietly out of the door, the soft click of the front door closing behind him echoing gently through the apartment.
"I hope they're okay." Arthur says after a few minutes of nothing but the whir of the DVD player filling the room. "I'd hate to see them split up now."
"I wouldn't." Francis scoffs, noting to himself that Arthur is still holding his hand. The Englishman stares at him, as if in disbelief. "Don't get me wrong, I like the both of them enough, I've just had enough of coping with Vash being as miserable as he is at their hands. Not like they'd realize if it hit them in the face, though."
"Harsh." Arthur stifles a laugh, and Francis looks at him with a blank expression on his features. "What?"
"In what way is it 'harsh'?" Francis glowers at him, tries to pull his hand away and leans down to reach for the bottle of wine on the floor. "I care more about Vash's emotional wellbeing than I do Elizabeta's, purely on the grounds that I've known him for what is essentially his whole life. I remember him being a stumbling two year old who fell into banks of snow on a regular basis. I can't even remember how old she is most days, and I'm expected to wish her relationship well over him? I don't think so."
"I didn't know you felt so strongly about the whole thing." Arthur makes a face at the other blonde and Francis surveys him with curious, hard blue eyes.
"What, did you think I was just 'lying back and thinking of Paris' or something? I could hardly sit back and watch it all unfold without feeling anything, could I?" Francis replies, almost haughtily, calming a little as his hand settles around the neck of the bottle, lifting it to his lips. "He's been the closest thing to a best friend I've had in the last few months. I haven't really had anyone else to turn to besides him and Antonio."
"I'm sorry." Arthur says quietly, eyes downcast as he squeezes Francis' hand lightly. "For everything."
Francis looks at him, head cocked slightly to one side and groomed eyebrows knitting together.
"Excusez-moi?" He says, pressing his lips into a thin line and looking the other man up and down. "A few months late, aren't you?"
"I know, and I-" Arthur stops, looks at Francis with wet eyes and tries to pull his hand away. Francis holds on tighter. "I'll go, if that's what you want. I understand if you don't want to see me –god knows you shouldn't."
"Arthur," Francis replies, tugging at his hand so that their thighs press together, "that is the last thing I want."
"But-" Arthur starts, cutting himself off with a shake of the head before fixing the Frenchman with a long, desperate look. "You should hate me."
"I should." Francis admits, shaking his head softly, and Arthur shrinks back from him, focusing on the floor with guilty eyes. "But I don't."
"But why not?" Arthur asks, whipping around to stare at Francis. There are a few tears slowly sliding over the tops of his cheeks as their eyes lock. Francis stares at him, shakes his head softly and pulls his hand away from Arthur's. He reaches up and gingerly wipes away his tears with the pads of his thumbs.
"Because I love you, stupide." Francis replies, laughing wetly and pressing a light kiss to his forehead.
"I don't understand why you still do, though." Arthur counters. "I wouldn't love me. Not after everything I've done to you, after all the complete crap I must've put you through, god, you must've felt like shite, and you still love me? I don't deserve to even-"
"November fourteenth, 2007." Francis interrupts him, sliding his hands down Arthur's chest to hold his hands. "Do you remember?"
"Remember what?"
"It was the first time we met. You'd come in to the little bakery I was placed in by culinary school –I was making a croquembouche behind the counter so I didn't see you at first, but then you came and gave me your order, and as I ran it through I realized you were beautiful."
Arthur laughs lightly, pale blush dusting his cheeks as he closes his eyes.
"Then I brought your order to you –a piping hot cappuccino and two pecan slices, I still remember– and saw you were reading a Rabelais novel. I told you that I loved that series. You didn't realize I was French, not at first, and you asked what I thought of the accuracy of the translation, and you were surprised when I said I'd never read it. Then I told you that I read it at school in France, and you understood. You left eventually, but not before I'd managed to write my name and number on a slip of paper and hide it in your book. You called the next day and we bickered about meaning and illusion, and we decided we could try and make it work between us, even if I was still in culinary school and you were busy with your precious History degree."
"Hey, that history degree is getting me places!" Arthur huffs indignantly, with a wet laugh. "Just... Slowly."
"You've been at that museum bossing Heracles and Sadik for over a year now, sweetheart." Francis laughs, tugging Arthur into a loose hug. "I've seen snails move up career paths faster than you do."
"I resent that." Arthur grumbles into Francis' chest, absently sliding his free arm around the other's back. Francis laughs at him and leans his head down, pressing a feather light kiss to the top of Arthur's head.
They sit there, entwined in each other and stock still for a minute or two until Arthur coughs weakly, looking up through his hair at the older man.
"Are we doing this?" He asks quietly, and Francis closes his eyes, but stays still where he is.
"If you want to." Francis murmurs, hesitant and quiet against Arthur's hair, subconsciously tightening his grip on the other man's waist. "But I –I just want you to know that once you're back, I probably won't be able to let you go again. Not now, not ever. You'll have to be able to cope with me "
Arthur looks up and shuffles carefully forwards, looking Francis straight in the eyes.
"I think I can live with that." He mumbles, taking in Francis' soft smile of content before leaning in and pressing their lips together. Francis doesn't react for a fraction of second until he realizes with a blissful smile that Arthur wants this and kisses him back. Arthur smiles against his lips and slides his arms up and around Francis' neck, kissing him harder.
"Arthur, wait." Francis pulls away –even though it pains him to do so– and looks at the other blonde firmly. "What about Alfred? You've done this to me before, and I know how horrible it feels. No matter how much I might dislike him, I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone."
"We broke up. Last week, actually. He said I loved someone else much more than I'd ever love him. Said they loved me more than he could ever hope to. I didn't need to ask to know he meant you." Arthur punctuates his sentences with soft kisses, first on the Frenchman's lips, then peppered across his angular, stubbly jaw. Francis relaxes, the tiniest of smiles twitching up the corners of his mouth as he pulls Arthur in closer and kisses him hard.
Neither of them realize what they're doing as Arthur shifts and slides his knees either side of Francis' hips, effectively straddling him, keeping their lips firmly pressed together. Francis smiles absently against Arthur's mouth, shifting his hands to the younger man's waist, fingers pressing distractedly into the soft indent of the Englishman's hipbones.
Arthur's mouth quirks up into the tiniest of smirks as Francis' delicate touch slides across his stomach and starts fiddling with the intricate buttons on his cardigan.
"Come on." Arthur mumbles, stumbling to his feet and tugging Francis up by his wrist. Francis smiles wryly, leans in to kiss him again, and allows himself to be pulled up the stairs to his room and his bed. Their cell phones sit forgotten on the coffee table.
Or at least, they sit forgotten until just past nine thirty the next morning, when Francis ventures downstairs naked on a quest for tea. He's fumbling through the kitchen cupboards in search of the fancy Earl Grey tea leaves Arthur likes when he hears something vibrating furiously in the sitting room. When he investigates, his phone informs him that Vash has attempted to call him three times –he's also received a voicemail and two texts, which he assumes can also be attributed to the angry blonde in question. As he thinks, his phone starts vibrating again.
"Allô?"
"Where the hell have you been?" Vash grumbles down the line, his glower practically audible.
"Sweetheart, it's not even ten in the morning yet."
"It is, you half-wit! It's-" He stops himself, makes a small noise of disgruntlement and sighs before he continues. "Oh. Shit. I forgot, sorry."
"Have you been drinking?"
"A little." Vash admits with a quiet sigh. "They make good vodka here."
"Why am I not surprised." Francis laughs, running his fingers through his hair as he returns to the kitchen when he remembers that he promised Arthur tea. "I must say, I'm surprised you're calling, actually. Given that you haven't properly spoken to me since I left you at the airport."
"I needed to talk to you about something." Vash clarifies in a low tone. "I spoke to Roderich."
"Oh?" Francis barely disguises his shock as his fishes out the box from the cupboard and sets the kettle boiling. "What about? I thought you'd gone away to clear your head of him."
"I have, but that's not what he texted me about." Vash continues. "No, he asked me if I knew what was going on with you and Arthur, actually. He sounded confused. And I must admit I'm not sure I understand, either."
"What is there to understand? We've been talking a lot since you've been away, and things just... well, it just happened. It makes sense, and I'm happy. Why is there a problem?"
"Er, Alfred, maybe?" Vash interjects snappily.
"They broke up. Arthur told me."
"And you don't think he could be lying?" Vash retorts. "Maybe that's what he told Alfred, before they got together. You know, 'oh, I had a boyfriend but we split up, come fuck me so I forget about him'? I wouldn't put it past Arthur, to be honest."
"And what would you know?" Francis snaps.
"He's cheated on you before, what's to say that he's not cheating on Alfred with you? What makes you think that he wouldn't?"
"I know Arthur." Francis argues. "He wouldn't do something like that. And how would you know, anyway? It's not like you've ever been with anyone to know! Love is different when you're in it, and you have no idea."
"Bullshit." Vash spits, rage palpable in his voice. "That's utter bullshit, and you know it. I've been in love with the same person for practically half my life! And he never showed even a hint of interest in me and look where that ended up! He never noticed me, and then he got married!"
"And you expect me to pity you?" Francis huffs, finishing making Arthur's tea and heading upstairs. He smiles fondly at the Brit, who's half asleep curled up in the blankets. He presses a soft kiss to the other man's forehead and Arthur's lips quirk up into a slight smile. Francis sets down his tea, scoops up his boxers from the floor and tugs them on.
"Well, no, but-" Vash says after a long pause.
"Because I don't." Francis interrupts him, shutting his bedroom door and returning downstairs. "You can't rely on someone else to notice your feelings. You could've taken the initiative and asked him out when he was still single. You could've just kissed him."
"And how would I have explained that?" Vash replies incredulously. "It's harder than you realize, when you're in love with your best friend and all you want to do is kiss them and hold them and love them, but you can't, because all it'll do is hurt them and probably fuck up your entire relationship with them. It's just not worth the risk."
"That doesn't mean you shouldn't have tried, Vash. What's the worst that could happen?"
"I could've lost him. For good. No amount of a relationship is worth that. I couldn't have lived with myself." Vash admits quietly, and Francis suddenly realizes how wet his voice sounds.
"Surely that would be better than not knowing?" Francis says softly. "Anything has to be better than never knowing, at least."
"You don't-" Vash starts, then cuts himself off quickly with a heavy, rattling exhale. "You don't understand. Never mind."
The phone line goes dead and Francis pulls the phone away from his ear and frowns at it. He's grumbling under his breath in sputtered French when a quiet cough from the front door startles him. He turns, standing quickly and marching in the direction of the door.
It's only Roderich, though, so he relaxes soon enough and raises an eyebrow at him. The brunette looks sheepish and runs his fingers through his hair.
"Er, I left my jacket last night. Have I missed something?"
sorry anyone who wanted this to culminate in USUK -as much as I ship it I'll always ship FrUK that bit more, especially as a British person and yeah. I'm going to shut up now before I upset/offend/come off like I'm ship bashing which is the last thing I want to do uwu.
also if anyone can guess/knows the what happened in Anglo-French 'history' on November 14th gets cookies or a drabblefic something. Hint: it was fairly recent, but was before 2005, and it involves a body of water.
next update might be up a little later than usual due to two reasons; one, I have a big scary A Level exam in two days that I have to study for, and two -it's sort of not finished yet. ouo