Time moves slow
Waiting for this to evolve
When hearts have nothing to hold
They let go
— Lovers Or Liars, Lauren Aquilina
He shoves him down so hard that he fears that his jaw has become dislocated. He knew it would happen – it didn't stop him from running. He feels the pain palpitating under his skin, like the breath of an injured animal unable to run away. The weight of the man lies on his back, one knee between his thighs to spread them apart. He trembles, his lips quiver, his teeth chatter. He knows what's coming.
"Let go of me, connard," he says, struggling with all his strength against the mountain of muscles above him. "He can't get out of it. They hit him with a rifle butt, hard enough to make him see stars. His face crashes against the tile floor, his already burst lip rubbing against the dust and dirt. "Seigneur, get off, leave me alone, putain !"
He sneers above himself. It's cute, he says. It's cute how you struggle. His voice mixes with a dozen others that resonate with her. He hears himself shouting at a thousand different times, from the piercing howl of a child, the cries of an adolescent to the swear words that animate him. "No," he repeats again, a thousand years later, his eyes no longer even recognizing the play.
He's no longer there. He sees the hull of a boat on the shore, another voice laughing behind him. He feels the pain of broken ribs, of a musket wound in his belly, but the worst remains a burn behind him that he knows too well. He feels the sand rubbing against his cheek, his breathing blocked, escaping from him like a tiny high-pitched rattle.
"Little whore," No... "Little whore, " No... "Wake up!" No! "Francis!"
He almost hears himself screaming before he wakes up. Groggy, Francis looks around, panicking, clinging to the blankets, covering himself as if with shame to turn around.
"Francis?" This is the voice of his dream. He freezes, not daring to turn around. The room is blurred around him, he feels feverish, his back sticky with sweat.
"Oh, Francis…" The voice is soft... He feels hands on him, carefully placed on the blanket. "It's alright. It's just me... it's Arthur."
He moans, ready to turn around, either to attack him or to run for cover. What was he doing with Arthur? Why are they together in the same bed? Arthur speaks to him with tenderness and affection... He turns around slowly, expecting to find a sardonic face behind him, all shiny golden teeth in sight. Arthur looks so worried... this isn't normal.
Arthur is not supposed to be worried. Arthur was supposed to smash his face, make him spit out teeth, give him black eyes... not look at him like he's fragile.
"Would you like some hot tea?" he asks, very gently, raising another sheet to cover him up to his chin, taking good care of him, just like a parent with a sick child.
"I... no..." He looks at Arthur as if he's going to attack him again. At least, he expects him to get angry. At worst, that he will strangle him. But the Briton reacts quite differently, looking at him with a gentle and patient look... Francis doesn't even know if he's dreaming or not.
"Francis, do you know what day it is? It's alright, it's alright. Everything has changed... don't you remember?"
More worried than curious, Francis shakes his head. What? The date? What is he talking about?
"You don't remember?" Arthur asks again, sitting patiently beside him. "After that war... it's been years. It's been so long." He looks wounded. Francis feels his heart pinch bitterly: even though his enemy claims it was so long ago, he too seems to remember it as if it were yesterday. For him, it's blurred. The sand in his mouth, burning his knees, the cries of the seagulls in the distance, the thunder of the cannons and the deafening sound of the waves. The crowd above the waves, far, far away. His eyes burning and his inability to scream, the taste of the leather of the gloved fingers in his mouth.
"I've changed... we've both changed. I don't think I've redeemed myself... or that you've forgiven me for everything, but it's behind us. I won't hurt you anymore. I won't let anyone hurt you. I won't let anyone hurt you again. Never again."
Francis remembers then the beginning of his dream. Of a completely different kind of jostling, of having been chased for a long time, of having slept in the forest, of being dirty, of stinking... Of the trenches before, of Arthur holding his hand, teeth clenched. He remembers Ludwig, taller, more muscular, stronger than before, the silhouette wrapped in a black uniform so tight that it revealed his muscles rolling under the cloth, making him move with a clumsy gait. The cracking sound of it when the sleeves tore with effort, from the sound of his own clothes being torn off.
The pain comes back to him in an instant, he holds his face and looks at Arthur before bursting into tears, clinging to his arm. "You said you'd come back," he says, unable to breathe, only now finding himself in the present.
Arthur was gone. They were on the run, the Englishman refusing to abandon him even with orders to return to England under cover of night. France was falling, Francis should have gone south with his citizens. He thought it would put them in terrible danger, more than they already were. He remembers with terror the bombing of the families in exodus, the children in the gutters, their little corpses rotting away...
He vomits without any warning, realizing it just a second later, feeling the wetness on his chest, a soft burning sensation.
"Oh, merde."
"That's all right," Arthur announces, hastily pulling him to a chair. "You couldn't... I know what that's like. A little bit." Francis knows he's not the only one with nightmares. He remembers pulling Arthur out of terrible dreams in which he had lost him, having been delayed by dozens of soldiers in the streets. Arthur dreams that he finds him dead in the rubbles of Paris, too broken to be brought back. It's silly, they can't die, but Arthur is afraid of losing him, terrorized by the idea as much as men are. They have spent their entire existence together... who could blame him?
Holiday fireworks often send him into intense panic. Especially the unannounced ones. They remind him of the Blitz, V1s and V2s. Arthur is a proud man, but Francis always knows when he's getting fragile, when his shell is weakening under his skin.
Slowly, Francis calms down... The feeling of an imminent danger about to engulf him slips gently into a vague, unpleasant sensation. He breathes, for a long time, closes his eyes, hoping to calm his still trembling hands. Arthur takes them into his own a minute later – perhaps ten minutes later – caressing the back of his hands with his thumbs. Part of the left thumb is missing, lost, and couldn't be found after a musket shot. Francis kisses it gently, eyes closed, finally noticing that Arthur's hands are wet.
"I, I washed the sheets," Arthur explains, as if he thinks he's going to panic again, his fragile memory, too fragile for the moment. Francis doesn't know if he could have. Perhaps... he knows himself now. It hurts to confess, but some days the merely hearing Arthur enter the kitchen behind him or an unexpected guest when he is cooking can cause terrible panic.
Arthur has eventually lost the habit of always knocking before entering, of always being gentle with the doors, of not slamming them... Their stressful work never stopped him from forgetting, especially during times of crisis which, of course, always remind him more and more of those days. Stress makes him susceptible to nightmares, which in turn make him nervous, less sure of himself.
Arthur guides him back to bed, cleans him with the patience of an angel, gently rubbing the hairs on his chin to chase away the sweat and dirt. Rarely is Arthur so patient, so gentle and tender, but Francis knows, although he doesn't really remember, that Arthur is always like this when he has a nightmare.
There are holes and chasms in his armour, but he knows... Arthur is always there to cover them up. Many wounds may never heal, but they can still stand together. There is no harm in leaning on each other to stand, he thinks, serene as soon as he presses into his Arthur's warm embrace.
.
.
.
He doesn't often drink with Ludwig. In fact, their shared drinking has all the makings of an accident: everyone else already left for their hotel room, including Francis. He left with a last kiss on Arthur's forehead, hands still shaking from last night's nightmare. If he seemed fine during the day, in the evening, seeing Ludwig and talking with him, Francis seems to have rekindled old wounds.
He apologized. Ludwig apologized. Arthur said it would pass. Ludwig ordered some Jägermeister, paid for the bottle, and helped himself to a shot which he drank bottoms up. It's been years, fit's been so long, Arthur has been surprised to see the guilt in his eyes, as if Ludwig still regrets what he's done, as soon as he saw that Francis' scars had not all gone away yet.
Arthur says nothing, ordering several beers, feeling just like them, terrible and pathetic. He didn't come back for Francis that night, he should have. He was stuck under shrapnel, wounded, impaled by a beam shattered by a shell, obsessed with the idea of Francis being home alone, vulnerable, carefree. The Krauts were coming towards him, he'd heard Ludwig himself reveal their hiding place to his men, the most important officer of the Reich deigning to show himself in a secret mission of just a dozen men.
Ludwig, for his part, obviously remembers every day the horrors he committed when he was so arrogant, hypnotized by the Führer's speeches and doctrines. Arthur watches him drink, slowly becoming dishevelled, a few well-brushed locks falling on his forehead. He looks at him and Arthur returns the favour, his mouth partly open, slowly becoming drunk.
He will surely regret it the next day, but Ludwig opens his mouth, knowing that Arthur knows what he is thinking, "He has fought long and hard. Real long, real hard." Ludwig has the same calculated rhythm, broken down by the minute, like a machine. It doesn't take away any articulation from his voice, but it looks like he's been thinking over these words long before he said them, "He ran. In the garden. In the woods, I... I followed him, like one follows a prey."
The Jager seems strangely appropriate now...
Like a prey. Arthur bubbles and sits there without having why, whistling between his teeth, "Shut your mouth, German. Or I swear I'll break your teeth."
Ludwig continues, as if he thinks he deserves it, "I stalked him into the house. It was a beautiful house... we destroyed it – set it on fire when we were done. I was the only one there, the others were waiting. It was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission, but... Francis was there." Ludwig's tone changes, his voice gives a more genuine emotion. Perhaps he is reciting what he said at a war trial, a private trial... or practised confessing. Arthur swallows his saliva, he doesn't know why he listens to him, but he remains stuck there, swallowing his beer in one gulp. "I threw him to the ground and my uniform ripped in the back. I broke his arm during the chase."
"I swear if you carry on, I'll break your nose on the counter."
But Ludwig no longer listens to him and Arthur forgets his anger for a muffled indignation that nails him down.
"I... I don't know what came over me. Suddenly... in a moment, I was on top of him and tore off his clothes. I wanted to humiliate him, to take revenge for my defeat. I told him I liked how he was struggling. It wasn't even pleasant, but I wanted to... I wanted to enjoy it." Ludwig swallows again, takes some more Jager and looks at him with a desolate expression, hiccupping as he adds, "So I beat him. With the butt of my handgun. With my fists. I had bruises for at least three weeks... three weeks. Him... I don't know. Weeks? I don't... I don't remember the time."
Arthur rises up to throw a punch. Ludwig almost falls off his bench, bracing himself on the counter. A bruise forms on his cheek; Arthur has missed his nose by a hair.
He wipes his eyes vigorously, as if he feels it is unfair to be hurt by the situation himself, to have tears in his eyes when he deserves the blows. Arthur takes pity on him and that's the only thing that keeps him from spitting on him.
He doesn't deserve any comfort, but Arthur lets him continue with a growl, "You want me to cry for your hand, you bitch?"
Ludwig, hurt although he knows he deserves the words and worse, continues, "He struggled so much. Beak and nails, as if he could have run away. He spat blood in my face, hit me... He was calling for you. When I," he stops, as if overwhelmed by his own story for a moment, "when I penetrated him... he called for you. I laughed... I told him to continue. That's how I took him. Eventually he stopped fighting.
"I ... I couldn't come. I laughed as if it was amusing, as if I liked seeing him there. He didn't even move." Ludwig cries this time, sobbing like a child, his fist pressed against his forehead. Arthur grabs the front of his jacket, fists clenched, and hits him again. No sign of the barman to stop him or call security. Ludwig takes it without flinching.
"Keep going," he orders. "You want to get it off your chest, you bastard? Then say it. Say it and cry like it's your place to cry, you miserable fuck." Ludwig isn't allowed to cry. Arthur understands that he regrets it, yet seeing him cry sincerely makes him even angrier.
Ludwig takes a few minutes to stop crying, wiping his eyes, continues his monologue with a broken look on his face, "I couldn't stay… erect... I was acting tough, but... deep down, I couldn't hate him that much. Not that much. I kept trying... I pushed into his mouth to get him to clean me up."
"Did he bite you?" Arthur asks, strangely calm when he hears all this. He should hit Ludwig, smash his face in just hearing him talk about Francis, about how he abused him. But Arthur's already done all that. And he liked seeing Francis underneath him, submissive, defenceless. He liked it, unlike Ludwig. He could have done it again, even a few years ago.
"No, he didn't. I think... I'd feel better today if he'd bitten me. His face was completely swollen, bruised, red and purple... He scared me more than I scared him." Ludwig laughs, humourless, lifeless. "I'm sure he knew. I was sure he knew... so I hit him again. And again. I wanted him to cry and beg, to beg, to have no dignity left..."
Ludwig remains silent for a while, taking more alcohol again, as if to give himself courage to speak. "Then I cut his hair. And then... then he screamed. I was holding his hair and I had the scissors in my hands, and he screamed as if he couldn't see me. I... I didn't understand, but... I was exhilarated to see him like that. I knocked him down against the marble counter. He was stunned.
"When I cut his hair, he was crying softly. He just sat there and didn't say anything while I... it hurt him more. So... during the whole war, we sent someone to cut his hair, to punish him... to break him."
Arthur feels weak. Francis had told him without conviction that he'd had lice, with a trembling, nervous look. Arthur had told himself that it was true, that there was no reason to worry about his lover's short hair, although he was hiding, ashamed. Arthur understands now. He boils, gets up and slaps Ludwig.
"Do you know what you've done?"
Ludwig takes the slap without recoiling, eyes closed, nods his head gently. "The Franks would shear their illegitimate sons to prevent them from acceding to the throne. I didn't believe that—"
"No!" Arthur jumps off his seat, staggering around the room, shaking his head. "You don't get it! Ludwig, Francis... when Francis was little... the Franks... the Austrasians, they cut his hair. An executioner cut it off... He was just a child, and that bastard," Arthur has to calm down to speak, his tongue thick from being drunk and the numbness of the alcohol almost make him panic, just from how hard it becomes to breathe. "That bastard raped him."
The word is dirty. Even more so when he thinks of Francis as a child, imagining him smaller, unable to understand... " And they cut it in front of the nobles, as if it were a show, as if it was amusing to torture a child..."
He imagines the scene. Francis, so young, so frail, so sweet. He feels the bile in his mouth.
Ludwig closes his eyes slowly. He looks at him as he continues, seemingly carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"I tried to... after Agincourt to do the same thing." It was different, he says to himself. He was just a child at the time, thinking like a stupid kid. "I had his hair in one hand, the sword in the other and he was screaming so loudly... he couldn't speak afterwards. He curled up into a ball on the floor and cried for a long time. I let go." Arthur laughs a little, moistens his lips. "He looked so... vulnerable. So, I... I knew the king wanted to do the same. I'd offered him his hair. Like a treasure. The hair of a messenger of God..."
It seems so stupid now.
"So I killed him. I disfigured his body and threw him out of our camp at night." Francis had come to his senses a few hours later, probably with his throat too sensitive to speak and his face swollen, bloody, his hair dirty and soaked in his own blood, but still intact. "The things we do for love," he adds, trying to laugh bitterly when his throat is so tight, biting his lower lip. He already loved Francis madly at the time, like a poor fool, only wanting him even more as soon as he started sleeping with his brother.
"The things I've done for my nation... " Ludwig sighs. "I couldn't atone for that in a lifetime..."
"You have eternity ahead of you." Arthur hates himself for being so magnanimous with Ludwig, but if he should treat him harshly, he should do the same with himself. He knows that Francis is trying to put all this behind him, yet he's not as determined as he is merciful. He plays the untouchable. Arthur knows that behind his smiles lies something that is always very fragile.
Clearing his throat, Arthur picks up his coat, puts it on his shoulders, smiles without conviction. "My idiot must be waiting for me to sleep. See you later, Ludwig."
The German says nothing, turning to his half-empty bottle. Arthur walks against the wall, dazed to have heard such a story, dazed to have revealed something so heavy and personal about Francis. The fool hasn't yet told him everything and probably never will tell him everything, will keep his secrets until Judgement Day.
He slips behind him, throwing his shoes out of the bed, huddling against his beloved's back. Francis turns towards him, disoriented, but smiles and kisses him. Francis grimaces immediately, looking at him with a little pout that makes him giggle. "You're drunk," he remarks, pulling on his vest to free him from it.
"You ain't sober," Arthur contradicts him, pulling him towards him, kissing him awkwardly.
Francis smiles, gently pushing him away. "You're drunk. You're going to throw up on me, like last time."
"Didn't like that, Princess?" He looks at him with a carnivorous smile.
This time, Francis laughs, "You're dumb. Come on, shut up and let me undress you."
His tie falls from his neck, Arthur brings Francis closer to him to kiss him again. He feels Francis' smile against his lips, hears a small sigh. He gets a taste for it and so does he. There's an aroma of wine on his lips, red wine, as always. His tongue enters his mouth to savour it better, to kiss his husband tenderly and languidly. Arthur finds himself above Francis, his face in his hands. He steps back, just to look at him, his lips red and his eyes dark.
"Fuck, I love you. I love you so much." How could he have ever hurt him? How could he have loved such a vile act? Arthur holds back a sob, abandoning himself against his soft lips. Francis spreads his legs, welcomes him as instinctively as he breathes, Arthur pressing his erection against his buttocks. Francis' underwear falls, Arthur struggles with his trousers and belt. Francis laughs and unzips it for him, looking at him mockingly. He might yell at him, but Arthur's afraid he might go soft. The lubricant is modestly hidden under the pillow, as always. He smears it on, then gets inside him, Francis having to guide him with how terribly drunk he is.
"I love you," he grunts again, silencing Francis with another kiss.
Francis moans softly, squeezes him, his fingers closing his shirt. He decides to make love to him, drinking his sounds against his mouth like a spring healing all his misfortunes. Arthur is so drunk that he becomes clumsy, but Francis compensates without flinching, moving his hips against him. He hugs him as hard as he can, kissing his face all over, feeling invisible scars under his lips, a tiny one, as pink as the skin under his left eye, caused by shards of glass from a shell falling on their shelter.
His hands run all over Francis' body. Scars of jousting. The mark of chains. Things he will never know, all traced on Francis' cops, enigmatic, honest, but whose mouth remained sealed. Is he afraid that he would think differently if he knew more? Arthur imagines that he already knows too much. He knows about the Austrasian nobles, he knows about Ludwig, the Roman senator... And yet Francis forgives him and welcomes him with confidence and even, with abandon, with his head thrown back, enjoying himself with his mouth just slightly open.
Arthur kisses him again impatiently. "I love you," he says again. "And even... even if I don't show it... I love you... really... so much... "
Francis places his index finger on his lips. "Shh... stop talking. I love you..." But shut up. He understands, it's fine for him... it's not him to speak so much, to proclaim his love so much. He understands that it makes him uncomfortable.
There are tears all around his eyes, caught in his long, blond eyelashes. Arthur kisses his eyes, taking his face in his hands to cover it with a kiss. Francis holds his wrists, smiling, joining their lips again and again.
For a moment, the world seems perfect. Francis is beneath him, happy, blaming him for his jackal breath. And they are together, united. He almost doesn't believe it, in Francis, who still loves in spite of everything, who still loves him in spite of everything.
This time, he kisses him as slowly as possible, as if to make the moment last.
.
.
.
A sparkling clean room at the Ritz Hotel. A smiling barber, losing his smile as soon as he comes into the room at the sight of an broken man, propped up on a chair, not saying a word. He is paid handsomely. Then he says nothing, takes out his razors and works, swallowing his saliva knowing that he is humiliating a prisoner who cries without a sound, without a word, without a move.
It's only hair, he says to himself as he leaves. It's only hair.
.
.
.
"Your hair..." Arthur runs his hand through it, as if surprised when he no longer feels their softness. Francis hasn't had time to deal with them with the war, they are rough, short and without shine, barely managing to cover his eyebrows with the lack of volume and curls.
His expression hardens as he feels his hand in his hair. Francis' eyes show a powerful emotion, as if he was being humiliated by feeling Arthur's hand on what was once one of his greatest prides. It's only hair. It is only hair. He grabs his hand and smiles. It doesn't look sincere at all, but Arthur decides to believe it, or at least, to try.
"Lice... I had lice." Francis' voice is hoarse — Arthur wonders if it's because of the painful treatment he was given shortly before, or if he was like that when they found him.
Lice? "Ah... I see." They're both uncomfortable, as if they were looking at something rotten and intimate at the same time. Francis is still smiling, but he seems vulnerable, hoping Arthur doesn't ask for more, that he doesn't scratch until he finds the infection under the thin scab. He can ask later, Arthur thinks to himself, slipping his hand into Francis'. "That's too bad."
He doesn't say he loved his hair. To run his fingers through it, soothing and calming at the same time. More intimate than a fuck and still something they could do in public. Arthur hugs him, feeling the Frenchman's ribs under his white shirt. The military hospital is swarming around them, but they look at each other without even sparing a thought about it.
"Stay for a while," Francis asks.
Arthur knows that there is only a thin layer between his skin and his feelings, even more so now. So fragile. He runs his fingers over Francis' hand, passing his thumb over his cut, burned, broken joints, as careful and slow as he'd have cradled a bird with broken wings.
He sits down, slowly closing his eyes. He should leave. The army is waiting for him, he has to get back into a Spitfire and keep on bombing, like the hundreds of good little soldiers, scattered in the air or on the ground.
And he will go back.
But for now, he can stay for a while and watch Francis sleep, bent over him as if to protect, ignoring the pain of the burns on his back – the Blitz hasn't done him any favours, war never does, of course.
Because after all, he wouldn't have believed he'd get to ever sit next to Francis again, sleeping soundly, so peaceful... almost as if everything was normal.
He can pretend for a moment that everything is normal. That the war isn't raging around them. But when Francis is right there before his eyes, alive, breathing softly in his sleep... then, he can believe it.