Fortune of Our Misfortune

Moment eight

Michelle and Lizzie have proceeded to tying their shoelaces already, yet Arthur still lingers.

The evening at Francis' was a success, and now everyone have scattered, satisfied, to their respective homes. Only Liz and Michelle and Arthur still remain (and Francis, obviously, as it's his place), but the girls are ready to go while Arthur hasn't really even begun getting dressed. Something has always kept him from it, every time he thought he should get going; when Gil, Toni and Lovino left, Arthur was busy beating Liz at Michelle's card game. When Matthew decided it was time to go, Arthur couldn't leave with him because he had to help Michelle collect her cards. Now, when Michelle and Elizaveta are leaving, too, Arthur... Arthur isn't looking for excuses to stay yet a little longer. Because he really hasn't got a reason to stay. The party's over. Everyone has gone home, and he should too.

The girls give him an expectant look and Arthur reluctantly reaches for his winter coat, when Francis' voice drifts from the kitchen. "Wait!" Soon enough he emerges with two plastic boxes in his hands. "We made too many macarons, after all," he explains, handing a box to each girl. "Take some with you, there's no way I could eat all of these myself." His glance sweeps over Arthur. "Arthur, if you'll wait a minute, I'll pack some for you, too."

"Thanks, Francis," Michelle says with a smile. "We've got to go, though, otherwise we'll miss our bus. Arthur, do you mind if we leave already? This is our last bus, and yours won't come for another ten minutes anyway."

"Er, not at all," Arthur mumbles and hangs his coat back on the hook again. He scowls at the girls' sly smiles.

"See you later then. Thanks, Francis!"

"Stay safe," Francis quips and waves his hand as the door closes after the girls. Then he turns to Arthur with a small smile. "You are not in a hurry then?"

Arthur shrugs, pretending not to feel the funny little flip in his stomach. "Not particularly," he answers nonchalantly.

"Good. Come, in that case you can choose your macarons."

Arthur follows Francis to the kitchen and randomly picks a few pastries from the counter, where they rest on a tray. Francis leans against the kitchen table, watching him. "It was a nice evening," he comments.

Arthur gives a non-committed hum in response, but finds himself unable to withhold a smirk. "I especially liked the part where I washed your face with snow."

Francis laughs. "Brute."

"Wanker."

"At least I didn't scream like when you first got snow under your collar."

"I – I was surprised!"

Francis laughs again. "You shouldn't have been, really. Remember when you stuck your disgusting chewing gum in my hair? I did warn you then that your mischief would come back at you one day."

"Well, I'd rather take snow under my collar than chewing gum in my hair," Arthur says haughtily, finishing packing the sweets and turning to face Francis so that the Frenchman wouldn't miss the smug smile on his face.

Francis lifts his eyebrows. "Really now? Don't push your luck, Arthur."

It's nice. It's really nice just to be with Francis, just – easily like that. And when Arthur looks at the Frenchman, who is still leaning against the table and currently saying something, he realises that he doesn't have to search for excuses if he wishes to stay.

Francis tilts his head expectantly and Arthur snaps out of his revelation. "Sorry?"

"I said, we can finish the wine if you want. I'd hate to put an opened bottle in the fridge. You can stay the night here if your buses stop running by the time you'd like to leave."

So Arthur finds himself on Francis' sofa, the Frenchman's feet uncomfortably between his back and the cushion, a wine glass in his hand and a vague sense of deja vu haunting at the edge of his mind. But it's getting late, and the wine is making him drowsy, so the Englishman can't be bothered to berate Francis for not sitting like normal people, and besides, it's the Frenchman's sofa, anyway.

They talk about some nonsense, about a book of ancient Egyptian poetry that Francis has recently read, about an online game that neither of them has played, about their respective plans for summer holidays, although summer is still months and months ahead. It is quite pleasant, Arthur doesn't even attempt denying it, and the more the wine bottle is emptying, the less Arthur feels like leaving.

There is a long pause in their conversation, and Arthur is just about to end it with a lament of the variability of the weather at this time of year, when Francis beats him at it.

"Do you remember the last time when we slept together?" he asks languidly and quite startles Arthur with his question. His eyes jump to the Frenchman with suspicion. "We aren't going to have sex now," he utters after a pause.

Francis looks at him, bewildered. "Hm? Why would you bring that up? I didn't suggest that we should."

Arthur crosses his arms. "No, but that's precisely what happened last time when you dropped that same question, so I'm warning you, it's not going to work now."

Francis smiles at him, a fond smile, and Arthur realises that the Frenchman is a great deal drunker than he appears to be; when with most people alcohol affects the capability to speak, with Francis it first affects his face. "Ah. You do remember."

"Of course I do,"Arthur snaps and immediately regrets the sound of it. "I mean -"

"You smelt of beer," Francis cuts him off, voice quiet and drowsy, eyes staring at the ceiling. "And a little bit of eucalyptus drops."

Arthur sits absolutely still. Francis gives a quiet chuckle to himself and waves his hand at the Englishman. "Ah, don't listen to me, I'm a little bit drunk."

"Wino," Arthur says simply to say something, because, frankly, it's a bit too late to be not listening, couldn't Francis have given his warning a little earlier? And Arthur's mind works too slowly to produce any coherent thoughts, so what on earth is supposed to make of it all now?

Francis turns on his side, half-burying his face in the cushions of his sofa and eyes flickering shut. "I sometimes think of you, Arthur," he mumbles into the pillows.

Arthur opens his mouth, but not a sound comes out. In what sense, he wants to ask, but his tongue has turned into a useless lump of meat, dry and clumsy and altogether worthless.

It makes no difference, though, because Francis, just as worthless, appears to be deep asleep already, if his light snoring is anything to judge by. For a while, Arthur sits and glares at him and listens how the clock hands run on their endless journey, thoughts racing in his mind so rapidly that he can't grasp any of them. Eventually, he gives up, puts his nearly empty wine glass on the table and gets on his feet. Francis doesn't wake, so Arthur does the good thing and removes one of the pillows so that the frog won't suffocate, and leaves.

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