Full Summary: Arthur Kirkland settles down with his new partner, though things don't seem to come as easily as he'd imagined. There's still the whole issue of him being emotionally inept and perhaps just a little closed off, but that's not all. Alfred discovers he has a long lost brother, and a scheduled meeting between the two sets in motion a whole slew of events, ones that Arthur isn't sure his patience can handle.
At least Francis seems to be having fun with the entire ordeal.
AN: Hello! It's been 3 years since I published Divulging Peculiarities, and by complete chance, I just so happened to fall back into the Hetalia hole. I wanted so badly to write some more sweet FrUK, and it seemed fitting for me to expand on that story. So here we are, back at it again, only this time, it's going to be a bit spicier and more chaotic. I hope you all enjoy, and as always, I appreciate any feedback I receive on this story!
It was a hostile takeover.
Everything that had once been his little quaint home had been positively transformed into a gaudy recreation of what a modern Baroque period would look like. There was too much pink, Arthur had thought, as he bitterly downed his piping hot tea one evening, but there was no real anger or annoyance there.
He just needed the illusion of being upset to cope with the fact that Francis had put himself everywhere in his home, and it just so happened to clash with Arthur's boring green and brown tones.
It was like their own little palace now, with twinkling brass and faux gold items littering the shelves and topping the tables. A new cookset, one that outclassed the dinky wares Arthur had once called his own, lines the kitchen walls and shelves. Flowers were everywhere, roses of various colors all sitting in their colorful, decorative vases.
Tapestries depicting swirls of golden suns and silver moons, a new welcome mat that boasted some sort of French greeting, seat covers that were equally as comfortable as they were garish, and a slew of novels that now occupied the once half full bookshelf. Most of them were mushy, dramatic romance titles, the kind that made Arthur feel almost sick from the sweetness of them. Flowery words and well put together confessions of love, they were a faint echo of what Francis Bonnefoy was.
The bedroom no longer resembled itself either. Once thin and scratchy covers were replaced with a thick and much too comfortable bed set, and photos of friends and themselves lined the once bare walls. Alfred's smile was persistent in all of them, and the new addition of Antonio and Gilbert was strange, but not unwelcome.
Arthur was unused to having so many people shoved into his life under such short notice, but could he really complain about having more friends? Yes, yes he could, in that crabby fashion of his that was often flaunted as a way to cover his more tender emotions. There were times where he would become so overwhelmed with the amount of support he now boasted that he'd feel his chest swell and his heart become full with something almost borderline painful, but he would swallow all of that down with another cup of tea, willing himself to stay jaded and stoic.
Of course, all it took was a single kiss to undo all of that, and Arthur would melt into Francis' arms, be swept away by his soft murmurs and even softer touches, and then there was no semblance of the bitter and lonely man he'd been just a few months prior.
Nights were no longer cold (except they still were in a way because Francis' skin was chilling) but instead spent curled into the side of the man who'd once annoyed him from across the hallway. And while Francis hardly slept as much as Arthur, he was content to lie with him all night, fingers stroking softly through choppy blonde hair, and voice tender as he spoke sweet whispers in French that eventually lulled Arthur into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Morning would come, and Arthur would awake alone, but then the smell of something wonderful and mouth watering would waft through the house, and faintly he would hear singing and know that Francis was hard at work on breakfast. It was so… domestic, but in those private moments where Arthur would lie in bed, he'd let himself enjoy it.
Today was one of those mornings. It takes a while to will himself out from underneath the covers, but it's not as difficult as it once used to be. Winter is long over, and late Spring brings with it warmer air and muddled days full of nothing but warmer rain, but that's much more preferable to the ice and snow.
Arthur trudges clumsily down the hallway, rubbing at his messy hair and willing himself to wake up. Francis' melodic voice becomes stronger the closer he gets to the kitchen, and he allows himself to focus purely on that, letting the foreign words act as a balm for the sharpness of the morning.
He turns the corner, and stops beneath the arch leading into the kitchen, green eyes blinking wearily. Francis has already set the table, spoons and forks arranged in their proper places on either side of the plate and waiting for the other occupant of the house to take his seat before them. Arthur wordlessly crosses the kitchen and plops down into the seat with little grace, still half asleep though feeling the first pangs of hunger hitting him. He didn't see what Francis was cooking, but he can definitely smell it, and it doesn't fail to make his stomach rumble.
"Bonjour, mon coeur." He hears the other announce pleasantly.
Arthur manages to answer rather gruffly, "Morning."
"Did you sleep well? You barely moved last night." It was routine for Francis to always ask him this, and as such, Arthur always tried to give him an honest answer.
"I slept like the dead." He clears his throat, still scratchy and thick from sleep. "What time did you get up?"
"Six. I was almost afraid I would wake you, but ah… well, you did sleep like the dead."
"Had a lot of clients yesterday. Was exhausting."
"I work there too, love. I saw." Francis teases him gently, and the sound of sizzles rising from the pan he's using flares up. Arthur tries not to think too hard about food, lest he wants his stomach to become a black hole and consume him.
"Great, so you should've known already."
"Forgive me for wanting to hear your voice. You see, I am utterly enamoured with you and I do so love to hear you speak." Arthur swears he can feel a wink being directed his way, and he tries not to scoff at Francis' overly romantic reasoning.
"I am the most tone deaf person this side of the city." He goes to reach for his teacup, but realizes that it's not even been set yet.
Francis seems to sense this, and in a moment, he's leaning over Arthur and setting a gold accented cup full of steaming hot tea beside his plate. Immediately, Arthur's senses are piqued by the sweet smelling cologne wafting off the other, and it becomes embarrassingly hard not to bury his nose in Francis' cardigan. His lover lingers over him, his head turning to press a soft kiss into Arthur's cheek, and the Brit allows this, giving a little hum of appreciation.
Francis' laughter is gentle as he pulls away, his fingers delicately caressing the underside of Arthur's jawline. "Breakfast is done. Wait right here."
"Thanks," Arthur offers sheepishly, feeling his face warm with a subtle blush. He's still getting used to the whole concept of being in a serious relationship, and there are plenty of emotions to parse through. Francis seems to be adept at bringing them all to the surface with a single action.
A thought strikes him, one that he's surprised hasn't crossed his mind yet. As he listens to the clink of plates and cookware, Arthur can't help but wonder how Francis is still so adept at cooking. For a man who couldn't gain much use out of ordinary human food, he was certainly skilled at creating some delectable dishes. He figured the man's skill would wane with disuse over time, but that doesn't seem to be the case.
He sits there, finger curled around the handle of his teacup idly, eyes staring at something far off as his mind wanders around aimlessly, tossing around question after question about his sometimes enigmatic partner. They were all things that Arthur berated himself for never asking, though now that he thinks of it, it might have been his nerves holding him back.
He tried not to pry too much into Francis' condition. It felt wrong to him, as though he was trivializing everything Francis was down into a single trait. He didn't want it to seem like that was all he was interested in. There were plenty of other things about the man that drew Arthur's attention, and he'd rather focus on those.
...But of course, it had been months since they first shared that kiss in the snow, and Arthur's curiosity was beginning to get the best of him.
Francis returns to the table with soft, muted footsteps, and the scent of something savory melts with his own sweet aroma. The combination makes Arthur's mouth water. He looks down to see him place a steaming meal before him, and the sight makes the sharpest of hunger pangs assault his stomach. Arthur has to suppress a grateful moan at the plate sitting in front of him, and his free hand curls around a fork in anticipation.
There were many perks to having Francis Bonnefoy as a partner. This was one of his favorites.
A fluffy omelette topped with an extra helping of sauteed vegetables and melted cheese, spicy sausage links, toast that was just the perfect shade of brown, and a cinnamon roll for a small side of dessert that was just oozing icing. Arthur didn't even know where to start, so he opted for cutting a corner off of the omelette. The flavor was, unsurprisingly, divine.
"You know," he tests the words slowly, once his food is swallowed and he's dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Cooking doesn't seem to benefit you anymore."
"Oh?" Francis's tone is curious, and he sits with his cheek propped against his hand, his lips stretched into an amused smile. "I would say that it still benefits me greatly. After all, I have the pleasure of feeding you now."
"No, I mean-" Arthur pauses, and wonders silently if he should ask about it at all. He'd been careful up until this point not to pry too far back into Francis' history, but… "Can I ask you a question?"
"You can ask me anything, cher."
"How… long have you been like- well. This."
"Like this?" Francis echoes, though he smiles in a way that shows both sharp points of his teeth. Arthur's brows dip slightly. Francis merely laughs, his voice light and tinkling, "Forgive me, but your reactions are always so genuine."
Arthur crosses his arms, food put on standby as he attempts to look irritated. "Fine then. I suppose I don't really care."
"Non, non, let me answer. I was merely teasing you." Francis pleads, and there's a softness to his voice that melts away Arthur's hard exterior. The Brit deflates, sighing quietly. "Let me see. I do believe it has been six years now, give or take."
It's a simple answer, nothing too interesting in terms of detail, though the next question Arthur wants to ask has nervousness bubbling up inside of him. He forces the words out, though a wave of anticipatory anxiety washes over him. "...How did it happen?"
At that, Francis' amused expression seems to fade away, and in its place comes visible discomfort. Already, Arthur can feel the words building up on his tongue; a slew of apologies intermixed with recanting sentences. He goes to speak, to seal the lid on top of that particular container, but Francis merely holds his hand up, beckoning him to remain silent.
Arthur swallows thickly, and sits there in suffocating silence.
Finally, the other's accented voice fills the silence, and it's hushed and quiet and too raw and nothing at all like Francis' usual confident tone. "I was assaulted." He begins, and his eyes avert elsewhere, pointedly away from Arthur. "Outside of a cinema, late at night, on my way home from a movie. I did not know what was happening to me. One moment, I was walking, and the next-"
A feeling of sickness washes over Arthur. His eyes flit down to the once appetizing food sitting before him, and he finds that he suddenly doesn't have much of an appetite anymore. With fingers that threaten to tremble, he brings his teacup to his lips and swallows down a warm mouthful, hoping that it'll settle his stomach somewhat.
Francis remains quiet for a long moment across the table, eyes downcast and seemingly studying the wood grain. Arthur feels his chest constrict, and there's a strange urge to close the distance between them and wrap his arms tightly around the other. That's never been like him, however.
Francis continues, though his voice is full of reluctance and his words are clipped. "It happened quickly, but it felt like forever. The initial illness, the pain. It was so fast, so sudden. I… could not comprehend."
Arthur struggles to find his voice, and when he speaks, it's in a quiet and sympathetic tone. "I… didn't know. I'm sorry. I really am."
"Non," Francis murmurs quietly, and his hand comes up to massage at his opposite arm. It's a nervous tick Arthur has yet to see, and it drives home just how tender the subject is. "Do not worry about me. It happened years ago, and I am fine now, am I not?"
"That doesn't matter," Arthur interjects, offended on Francis' behalf that such a thing could be dismissed, as if it were an everyday occurance. "That's not okay." He laughs an empty, broken laugh. "You have a life changing condition. You can't just… wave that off and pretend that it's alright."
"Arthur," Francis begins, and he suddenly sounds tired, almost exasperated.
"Francis," Arthur mirrors him, though his mood has shifted from horrified to defensive over the other. "You honestly can't justify that. You can't pass that off as just another thing. It's- it's-"
"Arthur," Francis repeats, and somehow, he sounds even more tired than before. "I do not want to talk about it."
It stings in a way that Arthur can't explain, but he can't fault Francis for wanting to cut the conversation short. Still though, it leaves him feeling raw, because honestly, he was just trying to defend the other's wellbeing. It also hurts because now Francis is quiet and reserved, and it's nothing like his typical behavior. It plants a seed of worry within Arthur, and the unease he feels now is almost choking.
The morning had been so nice. Arthur wishes he could rewind time, undo his silly questioning, and go back to hearing the sounds of the Frenchman singing softly, lulling him in and out of sleep. He feels stuck now, like there's no easy way of undoing the tension surrounding them. The knowledge of what happened to Francis sits inside of him, like a thin layer of poison coating his mind.
Arthur wants to crawl back into bed for a while.
He thinks he might do just that; fall back asleep and let unconsciousness wash away all the uneasy feelings spinning inside of him at the moment. It feels like someone has their hand gripped uncomfortably tight around his heart, and he's not sure how much more he can take before the first tears threaten to spill out. It's ridiculous, he thinks, to be so upset over such a small thing, but then he realizes that it's not something small, because it's Francis, and of course it hurts, because he loves him.
He just wishes he could do more to help console the other. He feels so emotionally stunted and useless
Arthur pushes his seat away from the table, and he stands, hands splayed tensely across the wood. He tries to appear calm when he speaks, but his voice is terse and quiet. "I'll eat this later."
He doesn't look for a reaction or response. He has the sudden urge to flee the room, and his feet begin carrying him towards the hallway. It feels as though all the energy has been sucked out of him, and more than anything, he just wants to curl up and silently cry his frustrations out. Not the most elegant or adult thing to do, he thinks, but right now he doesn't really care.
He gets to the archway before he feels fingers curl around his bicep. Arthur stills immediately, though he doesn't speak, too fearful that his voice will tremble and reveal just how vulnerable he feels at the moment.
Francis' voice is gentle, yet reassuring at his ear, and he can feel the cool breath of the other sweeping over his neck. It manages to make the hard line of Arthur's shoulders soften a little. "Forgive me. I have upset you."
Arthur exhales, not realizing that he'd been holding his breath so much. Silence hangs in the air between them for a long moment, but Arthur eventually finds his voice, and it's rough and curt. "You didn't. I'm not upset at you, I'm upset over you."
"I wish you were not." Francis' voice remains a whisper. Arthur can feel the other press against his back, and soon thereafter comes a pair of arms wrapping around his midsection. Cold radiates from the body behind him, but in this moment where Arthur feels almost feverish from concern, it has a nice pacifying effect. "I am here now, and I am okay. I am better than okay, actually. I am with you. You make my world brighter, Arthur."
"Alfred says I always have a rain cloud sitting over my head."
"Perhaps, but not always. You shine brightest whenever it is needed." There's the distinct feeling of lips pressing against the tender skin of his neck, and Arthur tries his best not to shudder from the touch. "How about we forget everything from before and sleep in a little late? I feel like I did not get enough time with you last night."
"You were with me all night long," Arthur counters lightly. His fingers curl around Francis' hands, and he leans back into the slightly taller frame of the other.
"When it comes to you, I can never get enough."
"Your tolerance for me is honestly concerning."
There comes a round of laughter at that, and Arthur is relieved to hear that some of the mirth has found its way back into Francis' voice. "I am madly in love with you. What do you want? A rational answer?"
"I want to go back to bed." Arthur answers smoothly.
Francis steps around him, arms slipping away from his middle. His hands rise, however, and gently cup Arthur's face, forcing him to meet the violet tinged blue irises. Arthur can feel his cheeks warming with a blush. "As long as I get to hold you. Will you let me?"
Arthur rolls his eyes, and tries to appear unphased by the other's dizzying affections. "Yes. Whatever."
The hours tick by, and Arthur gets lost in the feeling of fingers carding lovingly through his hair, dozes in and out of sleep between the French verses of a song, and lets the tension run out of his limbs like water, content to lie there and let Francis chase away all the negativity from the morning with his endless love.
"I'm telling you, I am freaking the hell out. Do you know what this is like, dude? It's like a really bad episode of The Twilight Zone. Straight up expecting the world to turn black and white and grainy."
"Let me get this straight: you have a twin brother that suddenly got into contact with you. He wants to meet you in person, and he's flying over in a few days?" Arthur tries to focus on the words on his computer screen, but Alfred's story is just too compelling. He sighs and leans back in his office chair, giving up for the moment in lieu of hearing his dear friend lose his mind.
"Yeah!" Alfred's voice rises, and Arthur makes a motion with his hand to keep things down.
The delivery driver glances towards the hallway to see if any pointed looks were being directed his way, but only Francis is visible from across the space. However, his hands are steepled beneath his chin and he looks increasingly interested in the conversation happening in Arthur's office.
"How did you not know?" Arthur asks, genuine disbelief bleeding into his voice.
"Dude, do you think they tell you these things? The American foster care system is as wacky as they come. It's normal for kids to be separated and then never hear from each other again. How the heck was I supposed to know that I had a long lost twin brother?" For once, Alfred seems to be completely ruffled and undone by something. Arthur isn't quite sure what to make of it, or what to even say to the younger man.
Curse his lack of comforting skills.
"What's his name? Did he at least tell you that?" Arthur asks, but then spies Francis approaching his door. His partner stops at the entrance, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed as he listens in on their conversation.
"It's Mathieu, but he demands that I call him Matt for short. He's supposed to be living in Montreal, Quebec over in Canada or something." Alfred sighs and his fingers run through his dark blonde hair in exasperation. "This is gonna be awkward, dude, I can feel it. We're gonna be like, trying to talk to each other and one of us is gonna say something weird, and then I'm gonna have to fake being sick or something so I can walk away and then it'll be like in 8-Mile when Eminem is staring into the bathroom mirror, contemplating his life choices-"
"Alfred," Arthur chastises him gently, forcing the other to cut his growing tirade short before it became too nonsensical. "Remember to breathe. Everything will work out fine."
"Oui, I am certain everything will work out, though, if I may ask, where was he from again?" Francis finally makes himself known, and Alfred startles almost violently, knocking a few papers off of Arthur's desk in his panic.
"Woah! Hey, you gotta make some noise or whatever before you sneak up on somebody like that. Artie needs to tie a bell around you or something." Alfred bends down, hands reaching for the discarded papers, though his voice does carry on. "Uh, Quebec. Had a little bit of an accent, but I guess I probably didn't sound much better, being from the south and all."
"Fascinating." A smile lights up Francis' face, and then Arthur can see it; the metaphorical gears turning inside the other's head. His lips part, the words ready to come tumbling out, but Francis' voice rises over his own. "Perhaps things would be easier if you had some friends to help break the ice? Two is lonely, but four sounds much more lively, non?"
"Oh man, do you really mean that? Because that would make things a lot more bearable. At least if I say something stupid, I've got you and Artie to cover my tracks."
Arthur suppresses a groan. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and rubs at his temples, willing the oncoming headache to stay at bay. He should have known that once Francis learned of Alfred's issue that he'd invite himself to try and fix it. The man didn't know when to let sleeping dogs lie.
"Tell him to meet us here," Arthur can see Francis writing down their address on a slip of paper.
The two of them converse together, content to let Arthur sit and deal with his creeping headache. Through the slight throbs of pain, he tries to imagine what this Matthieu looks like, but all he can think of is an Alfred clone with a fake Canadian-French accent, and the imagery is enough to almost make him laugh. Almost.
The more he thinks about it, the more curious he becomes towards the whole matter. Suddenly, the prospect of playing middleman between the two brothers is less dreadful and more intriguing. He wants to see the differences, if any, between the two of them. And maybe it'd pay to see Alfred become tongue-tied and make a fool out of himself. Alfred had sat and watched for weeks while Arthur did just that, so it'd be entertaining to see their spots reversed.
All in good fun, he rationalizes. There was nothing wrong with watching a friend squirm every once in a while, as long as it was harmless.