Fortune of Our Misfortune
Moment six
Arthur is met with a mildly exasperated frown when Francis deigns to open the door of his flat to him. "About time," the Frenchman greets him nonchalantly and turns around, leaving it up to Arthur to invite himself in. Arthur does, and closes the door behind himself. He's not quite sure what triggered their current hostility or when it happened (well, a certain moment does come to mind), but he has a strong feeling that this time, it was him who started it, and, Arthur notes, it looks like it's only him who'd like to move past it already; Francis' eyes are coloured with a mixture of nonchalantness and disdain.
"Your parents send their greetings," Francis informs him over his shoulder, walking to his desk.
"Thanks," Arthur replies and instinctively follows him. Francis visited their home town two weeks earlier, and, as Arthur himself has been too busy with studies to visit his parents for quite a while, his mother asked Francis to deliver a package to Arthur. Arthur has no idea of what she sent him, but it had better be worth enduring this unfriendly silence that radiates from Francis and does its best to little by little suffocate Arthur.
The package, apparently, is not where Francis thought it was, and with a small frown the Frenchman moves to his shelf. He doesn't say a word to Arthur, his eyes don't even brush the Englishman when he walks past him. It's like he's not even there.
Arthur's hand moves on its own accord.
He will never be able to explain what possesses him then, what makes his good sense too slow to catch up with the movement of his hand. He acts on impulse, and all in all, the whole situation is more an accident than anything else, let alone an intentional act of ill will. In all honesty, Arthur has never, ever even thought of taking the chewing gum out of his mouth and sticking it in Francis' hair, but nevertheless, that is precisely what happens when the Frenchman walks past Arthur and turns his rejective back on him again.
Arthur doesn't even comprehend what he has done, not until Francis turns to him with a questioning expression, and then it finally downs on him, turning blood into cold water in his veins because he knows, knows, how painstakingly Francis takes care of his hair, and oh my God, am I laughing?
Then it downs on Francis, as well.
It was an accident, it really was, but Francis, strangely, does not believe him.
He is not amused, either.
"Arthur, stop laughing or I swear– merde, you little shit -!"
But Arthur can't help himself. He tries, he honestly does, but he can't control the fit of hysterical laughter that has swallowed him. He laughs so that his stomach hurts and tears gather in his eyes. It's just so comical, Francis' face when he realised what Arthur had done, it was hilarious, and Lord, why can't he stop laughing?
He vaguely realises that Francis is staring at him, his furious, ice-cold glare turning into a mere stern look, then melting even further and ending up in a poorly suppressed smile. And then Francis gives in and laughs, too, his mask breaking into a million tiny shreds and scattering around the room because no one can resist pure and never-ending laughter for long. A deep rumble erupts from his chest so that he has to clutch at his stomach and gasp for breath.
"You little punk," he manages to wheeze out, sliding down on the floor to lean against his grandmother's old sofa. "What got into you, you just, just, why?"
Arthur plops down beside him, still laughing but seriously trying to win control over himself again, desperate for air. He looks at Francis, at the sticky lump of gum and hair at the nape of his neck, and breaks into chuckles again just when he nearly managed to stop. "Oh, you should have seen your face... Priceless!"
Francis makes to touch the gum, but decides against it at the last minute and withdraws his hand, shuddering. "This is disgusting. Arthur, stop, I swear I'll make you eat it if you don't stop at once!"
Arthur shakes his head, drawing in shaky breaths, belly nearly cramping. "Oh, don't be so gross, Francis."
"Me? Seriously though, Arthur, why?" Francis wrinkles his nose in disgust and Arthur knows he's not faking it; Francis has always taken particular care of his hair.
"I, well, I really don't know," he admits, dragging his fingers through his hair. "The chance just presented itself, and I..." And he couldn't stand Francis' rejective back any longer, that's why. He doesn't know what he meant to achieve, but at least the cold silence is now gone, isn't it?
Francis rolls his eyes. "You don't know. Right." He threateningly wiggles his forefinger at Arthur. "This will come right back at you, mark my words."
Arthur merely snorts in response, but that's all that Francis needs. He hurls himself at Arthur and goes straight for his weak spot – his sides. Arthur yelps but doesn't react quickly enough to dodge the attack, and Francis' hands are all over him, fingers digging into his ticklish sides with no mercy.
"I'll torture you to death!" Francis cries victoriously, eyes shining in determination to fulfil his threat.
"Bloody fucker!" Arthur howls, trying to simultaneously punch Francis and wiggle away from his nimble hands. "Fuck! No, stop! Frog! Stop!"
And so they roll on Francis' floor like children, each fighting to gain the upper hand in their battle. Francis has an advantage – he's ticklish only in the soles of his feet – but Arthur tries to pinch at the hairs of his beard, in response to which Francis, in turn, pinches Arthur's eyebrows. Mortified by such humiliating action, Arthur finds new strength in himself and manages to capture Francis' nose between his fingers and kick enough distance between the two of them.
For a few seconds they both remain alert, staring at one another, muscles tense and ready to react should either one attack again, but then Francis relaxes and rolls on his back and laughs. Arthur looks at him trying to catch his breath. It's been a while since he's seen Francis laugh like that, heartily and mirthfully and so completely at ease... or rather, it's been a while since he, Arthur, has been the cause of such laughter. And a rather long while at that, too. He looks at Francis' chest rising and falling and is suddenly struck with a feeling that an invisible wall between them has collapsed.
Francis turns his vivid blue eyes at Arthur, and the Englishman can't help returning his silly grin.
"That was fun," Francis says.
Arthur's grin widens into a smirk. "You know what's even more fun?"
"What?"
"The chewing gum is sticking to even more hair now."
Arthur watches in delight how Francis' eyes widen in horror. "Merde! I forgot that! Disgusting!"
Francis shudders again and attempts to locate the sticky lump in the back of his head, and a certain memory comes to Arthur's mind. "Remember the first haircut you ever gave me?" He grins. "Looks like it's time for me to return the favour."
"Oh no, no no no. You are not bringing scissors anywhere near my hair."
Arthur shrugs, the taste of a satisfying victory sweet on his tongue. This round is his. "Well, if you want to prance around with gum in your hair..."
Francis glares at him. "I'll go to a hairdresser."
"Good luck with getting a time earlier than in the next week."
"You are enjoying this," Francis accuses him, realising his defeat.
Arthur just can't bother hiding his grin. "Why, yes, I'm afraid I am."
Francis glares at him, then, but finally smiles a little. "I can see that," he says and chuckles again. "How could I say no to those eyes of yours? If only you know how much you look like your little self right now."
Arthur rolls his eyes. "Why do you keep comparing me to my little self all the time? Move on, frog, time does too."
"Because everything used to be so simple when we were little," Francis says, his voice suddenly free of playfulness. He looks at Arthur with thoughtful, dreamy eyes. "We used to be so simple. You know, when we spent practically all our time together and nothing was complicated."
Arthur fidgets a little on hearing that, suddenly realising how close he is sitting to Francis. He isn't quite sure he likes the direction that Francis has taken in their conversation. He feels as if they are stepping over familiar boundaries, and it isn't safe there on the other side. But at the same time, this new (old?) territory appeals to him like nothing ever has. "Mh," he says, letting Francis take the lead; he doesn't want to misinterpret the atmosphere and blurt out anything that he'll have to regret later.
Francis gives him a sideways glance, noting Arthur shifting sightly further. "Just now we were just like then," he says, contemplatively, and Arthur's stomach flutters a little when Francis smiles at him. "I like it."
"How come you got so sappy and nostalgic out of the blue?" he asks, making sure to sound at least a little bit sarcastic to make up for his own smile.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that I've got gum in my hair," Francis says, very pointedly. "Fine. You may cut it off. But only the gum, you hear me? I swear, if you as much as think of doing anything wicked to my hair, your eyebrows shall burn."
The temptation is there, but Arthur decides to refrain from messing with the Frenchman's hair any further, partly because he actually believes Francis to carry out his threat, and partly because...
Because he finally gets to touch Francis' perfect, wavy, soft hair again.
He used to play with Francis' hair when they were kids, Francis and him. Back then, Francis laughingly allowed Arthur to wrap his hair around his fingers, attempting braiding it (he never learnt, though), or just play with it when they were napping together. Arthur's little kitten Horatio had always done the same to Francis' cat Napoléon's fur, and soon discovered the joys of playing with Francis' hair, too. Francis never liked that, Arthur knows, but he also knows that the French boy allowed the kitten to play with his golden strands just to see Arthur tumble to the ground in giggles. "You should appreciate this," Francis would tell him, then. "Only the few chosen ones that I particularly like are allowed to touch my hair."
Now, taking scissors and slipping his fingers through Francis' locks to feel the sof- to find the sticky lump, Arthur wonders if those faraway words from the past still apply.
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