None of Us Were Angels (kink meme fill)
Title: None of Us Were Angels
Author/Artist: me
Character(s) or Pairing(s): FrUk
Rating: T/R-ish
Warnings: Some language, brief sexual scene, angst.
Summary: Kink-meme de-anon. Prompt was, "I love you too much to hate you, but not enough to forgive you."
--o0o--
Francis thinks that he truly should have seen this coming. Relationships did not last, were not meant to last, especially with him, and all of the new alliances and globalization could not make up for centuries of fighting, tears, and regret. So perhaps it is just the moment that catches him off guard, he thinks, when he opens to the door to Arthur’s flat, bouquet in hand.
It was inexplicably unlocked, but he didn’t pay it any mind, because he was supposed to be surprising the other for their upcoming anniversary (later on, the irony hits Francis of him actually being monogamous like an embittered punch to the stomach). So he opens the door and there Arthur is, on the couch, eyes closed, mouth agape as he let his former colony pound him into oblivion.
There is strewn clothing on the floor, but for the most part, both of them have most of their clothing on as though it were a rushed act and yet, none of this matters to Francis. He feels too sick to care.
He drops the bouquet in shock and feels a distinct burning of betrayal and hurt in his throat. Part of him doesn’t believe this is happening-after all, Francis does not get cheated on-and part of him refuses to believe it’s happening. He simply does not get cheated on and-oh god, the room smells like sex and he feels humiliated.
The worst part, though, is how quickly Arthur detangles himself from Alfred, stuttering excuses, once he realizes that Francis is there. Francis doesn’t want to acknowledge the absolutely torn look in Arthur’s eyes; it would be so much easier if Arthur didn’t care.
Francis puts on a brave face-which he finds terribly difficult to do over the sound of his heart breaking-before snidely remarking, “So sorry to interrupt, Angleterre,” (he hasn’t called Arthur that since before they decided to be serious) and exiting with a door slam.
He waits outside the door, though. Part of him doesn’t want it to be over like that, not so soon. Part of him desperately wants-needs-Arthur to fight for him (“Chase after me, you bastard!” he thinks when it becomes horribly apparent that Arthur isn’t following). But life isn’t filled with bullshit fairytale endings, so Francis leaves after a few minutes, wanting very much to shoot something.
What perhaps is worst about the whole ordeal is that Arthur doesn’t try to contact him for a few days after. It is pretty much a certain that the relationship is over-Francis made a mistake letting someone into his life like that and it certainly won’t happen again-but he would at least like an apology. A, “Sorry for wasting your time,” or “Sorry for ripping your heart out.”
It is a full week later when Arthur finally calls. Francis certainly wasn’t waiting by the phone or anything, but the thoughts of how that conversation would go had wormed through his mind all week and, at the end of it all, Francis simply can’t bring himself to answer the phone. His stomach still feels too sick from picturing Arthur being fucked.
Beep.
“Um, hello, Francis. Sorry about waiting to call and all that but, I, uh, wanted to get all of my thoughts together before I talked to you and…and, you know what? This doesn’t feel right. Can I talk to you in person? So, um, thanks for listening…call me back?”
Beep.
Francis isn’t sure what to make of that-seeing Arthur in person right now seems like that last thing he could want to do, but he waits a day and calls Arthur back (It’s funny, he thinks, how he and Arthur used to try to kill each other on every occasion and now, he’s wary of even calling the him).
When he does call, he makes up some bull about not being home because he was busy now that he was free, but they both agree to meet the next morning for coffee in a shop they used to visit outside of Paris.
Francis is somewhat sick of himself for being so wary of going. It is only Arthur, he thinks, there will be nothing shocking about the encounter, only a polite conversation between two people who simply were not meant to be.
Still, he thinks it’s pathetic. He has a glass of wine to settle his stomach before he leaves (which doesn’t help; he still felt like there was a cement block in his gut) and arrives at the café early. The pastry he eats doesn’t help either.
When Arthur arrives, exactly on time, Francis tries to ignore the ache in his chest at seeing the other. He doesn’t want to think about how many times he has kissed Arthur’s closed eyelids because it will only bring the image of him with his eyes closed on the couch.
Francis swallows, putting that thought away, and stands, greeting the other before telling him to please sit down. Arthur looks worse for wear, but does so with a strained smile.
“So, uh, how are you, Francis?”
Francis props his arm on the table and leans his face onto his palm. “I can say I have been better,” he answers honestly. “You?”
“Oh, about the same.”
They fade into a strange bridge between pointless small talk and silence while Arthur orders his drink. Once he gets it, Francis suddenly notices that he’s been pouring sugar mindlessly, nervously, into his own coffee.
“Francis, I’m so sorry,” Arthur eventually blurts long after his cup had been set down. “It was incredibly stupid of me; I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Francis looks up and quietly asks, “Are you sorry you did it or are you sorry you got caught?”
Arthur winces, “Quite a bit of both, actually.”
When Francis doesn’t respond, Arthur looks down at the napkin he had been refolding and says, “Look, I’m not going to pretend I’m not, that I haven’t been, attracted to Alfred, but I swear to God that that was never supposed to happen. Alfred arrived out of the blue and when he started kissing me, I panicked.”
Francis’s lips quirk into a smile that might have been pleasant had he not been so angry. “So you let him fuck you?”
“No! I mean, well, yes, but, you don’t understand Francis,” Arthur buries his face into his hands, frustrated. “I wanted him for so long. I had long given up on any notion of being together with him because I love you. But when he came to me, all those emotions came back and, it was stupid, I know it was, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t say no.”
“You are perfectly capable of saying, ‘no,’ Angleterre. That is no excuse.” Francis’ eyes are blazing, torn between anger and realizing Arthur said he loves him.
“I know it isn’t!” Arthur snaps, before realizing what he’s doing and calming back down with a sigh. “I just wanted you to know that Alfred and I haven’t been sleeping behind your back. That was just spur of the moment stupidity.”
“Have you two been together since then?”
“No…but we’ve talked about it.”
Francis thinks his coffee must surely taste like candy by now.
“And I suppose you love him too?”
Arthur’s expression is pained. “Francis, don’t do that. You know that isn’t fair.”
“Do what, Angleterre? I am simply asking a question that I expect an honest answer to,” he says, but truly he doesn’t want the answer because he already knows what it is.
“Fine, yes,” Arthur snaps again after a brief quiet. “I do love him.”
“That settles it then.”
Arthur sighs with reluctant agreement. “I guess so.”
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Arthur stands and throws a few bills on the table. When he looks back at Francis, his green eyes are brimming with regret.
“I’m really sorry, Francis.”
“I know.”
Arthur’s hands roam over the edge of his chair, nervously. “I...I don’t want you to hate me.”
Francis almost snorts, taking sudden interest in his coffee again and says, “I could never hate you, Arthur.”
“Really? I-”
Francis cuts him off, “But make no mistake Arthur that, yes, I love you too much to hate you,” he stirs his coffee some more before looking up, seriously.
“But not enough to forgive you.”
Arthur bites his lip and nods.
“Yes, well. I suppose that’s to be expected.” There’s something unraveling in him, in both of them, and Arthur seems at a loss as to what to do with his hands. Eventually, he just moves around the table and plants an unexpected, shaky kiss on Francis’s cheek.
“I hope you will. In time, though.”
After that, Arthur pardons himself after telling Francis to have a good day and leaves the other, who tries desperately to keep his face level in the presence of the rest of the public. Francis feels the anguish and anger sliding down his throat like hot oil and thinks he was expecting too much of Arthur to try to fight for him again.
Francis, blinking away tears, picks up his coffee, which is now syrupy and cold, and absently takes a sip. It’s practically filled to the brim with sugar and yet, he wonders why it tastes so bitter.
Author/Artist: me
Character(s) or Pairing(s): FrUk
Rating: T/R-ish
Warnings: Some language, brief sexual scene, angst.
Summary: Kink-meme de-anon. Prompt was, "I love you too much to hate you, but not enough to forgive you."
--o0o--
Francis thinks that he truly should have seen this coming. Relationships did not last, were not meant to last, especially with him, and all of the new alliances and globalization could not make up for centuries of fighting, tears, and regret. So perhaps it is just the moment that catches him off guard, he thinks, when he opens to the door to Arthur’s flat, bouquet in hand.
It was inexplicably unlocked, but he didn’t pay it any mind, because he was supposed to be surprising the other for their upcoming anniversary (later on, the irony hits Francis of him actually being monogamous like an embittered punch to the stomach). So he opens the door and there Arthur is, on the couch, eyes closed, mouth agape as he let his former colony pound him into oblivion.
There is strewn clothing on the floor, but for the most part, both of them have most of their clothing on as though it were a rushed act and yet, none of this matters to Francis. He feels too sick to care.
He drops the bouquet in shock and feels a distinct burning of betrayal and hurt in his throat. Part of him doesn’t believe this is happening-after all, Francis does not get cheated on-and part of him refuses to believe it’s happening. He simply does not get cheated on and-oh god, the room smells like sex and he feels humiliated.
The worst part, though, is how quickly Arthur detangles himself from Alfred, stuttering excuses, once he realizes that Francis is there. Francis doesn’t want to acknowledge the absolutely torn look in Arthur’s eyes; it would be so much easier if Arthur didn’t care.
Francis puts on a brave face-which he finds terribly difficult to do over the sound of his heart breaking-before snidely remarking, “So sorry to interrupt, Angleterre,” (he hasn’t called Arthur that since before they decided to be serious) and exiting with a door slam.
He waits outside the door, though. Part of him doesn’t want it to be over like that, not so soon. Part of him desperately wants-needs-Arthur to fight for him (“Chase after me, you bastard!” he thinks when it becomes horribly apparent that Arthur isn’t following). But life isn’t filled with bullshit fairytale endings, so Francis leaves after a few minutes, wanting very much to shoot something.
What perhaps is worst about the whole ordeal is that Arthur doesn’t try to contact him for a few days after. It is pretty much a certain that the relationship is over-Francis made a mistake letting someone into his life like that and it certainly won’t happen again-but he would at least like an apology. A, “Sorry for wasting your time,” or “Sorry for ripping your heart out.”
It is a full week later when Arthur finally calls. Francis certainly wasn’t waiting by the phone or anything, but the thoughts of how that conversation would go had wormed through his mind all week and, at the end of it all, Francis simply can’t bring himself to answer the phone. His stomach still feels too sick from picturing Arthur being fucked.
Beep.
“Um, hello, Francis. Sorry about waiting to call and all that but, I, uh, wanted to get all of my thoughts together before I talked to you and…and, you know what? This doesn’t feel right. Can I talk to you in person? So, um, thanks for listening…call me back?”
Beep.
Francis isn’t sure what to make of that-seeing Arthur in person right now seems like that last thing he could want to do, but he waits a day and calls Arthur back (It’s funny, he thinks, how he and Arthur used to try to kill each other on every occasion and now, he’s wary of even calling the him).
When he does call, he makes up some bull about not being home because he was busy now that he was free, but they both agree to meet the next morning for coffee in a shop they used to visit outside of Paris.
Francis is somewhat sick of himself for being so wary of going. It is only Arthur, he thinks, there will be nothing shocking about the encounter, only a polite conversation between two people who simply were not meant to be.
Still, he thinks it’s pathetic. He has a glass of wine to settle his stomach before he leaves (which doesn’t help; he still felt like there was a cement block in his gut) and arrives at the café early. The pastry he eats doesn’t help either.
When Arthur arrives, exactly on time, Francis tries to ignore the ache in his chest at seeing the other. He doesn’t want to think about how many times he has kissed Arthur’s closed eyelids because it will only bring the image of him with his eyes closed on the couch.
Francis swallows, putting that thought away, and stands, greeting the other before telling him to please sit down. Arthur looks worse for wear, but does so with a strained smile.
“So, uh, how are you, Francis?”
Francis props his arm on the table and leans his face onto his palm. “I can say I have been better,” he answers honestly. “You?”
“Oh, about the same.”
They fade into a strange bridge between pointless small talk and silence while Arthur orders his drink. Once he gets it, Francis suddenly notices that he’s been pouring sugar mindlessly, nervously, into his own coffee.
“Francis, I’m so sorry,” Arthur eventually blurts long after his cup had been set down. “It was incredibly stupid of me; I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Francis looks up and quietly asks, “Are you sorry you did it or are you sorry you got caught?”
Arthur winces, “Quite a bit of both, actually.”
When Francis doesn’t respond, Arthur looks down at the napkin he had been refolding and says, “Look, I’m not going to pretend I’m not, that I haven’t been, attracted to Alfred, but I swear to God that that was never supposed to happen. Alfred arrived out of the blue and when he started kissing me, I panicked.”
Francis’s lips quirk into a smile that might have been pleasant had he not been so angry. “So you let him fuck you?”
“No! I mean, well, yes, but, you don’t understand Francis,” Arthur buries his face into his hands, frustrated. “I wanted him for so long. I had long given up on any notion of being together with him because I love you. But when he came to me, all those emotions came back and, it was stupid, I know it was, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t say no.”
“You are perfectly capable of saying, ‘no,’ Angleterre. That is no excuse.” Francis’ eyes are blazing, torn between anger and realizing Arthur said he loves him.
“I know it isn’t!” Arthur snaps, before realizing what he’s doing and calming back down with a sigh. “I just wanted you to know that Alfred and I haven’t been sleeping behind your back. That was just spur of the moment stupidity.”
“Have you two been together since then?”
“No…but we’ve talked about it.”
Francis thinks his coffee must surely taste like candy by now.
“And I suppose you love him too?”
Arthur’s expression is pained. “Francis, don’t do that. You know that isn’t fair.”
“Do what, Angleterre? I am simply asking a question that I expect an honest answer to,” he says, but truly he doesn’t want the answer because he already knows what it is.
“Fine, yes,” Arthur snaps again after a brief quiet. “I do love him.”
“That settles it then.”
Arthur sighs with reluctant agreement. “I guess so.”
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Arthur stands and throws a few bills on the table. When he looks back at Francis, his green eyes are brimming with regret.
“I’m really sorry, Francis.”
“I know.”
Arthur’s hands roam over the edge of his chair, nervously. “I...I don’t want you to hate me.”
Francis almost snorts, taking sudden interest in his coffee again and says, “I could never hate you, Arthur.”
“Really? I-”
Francis cuts him off, “But make no mistake Arthur that, yes, I love you too much to hate you,” he stirs his coffee some more before looking up, seriously.
“But not enough to forgive you.”
Arthur bites his lip and nods.
“Yes, well. I suppose that’s to be expected.” There’s something unraveling in him, in both of them, and Arthur seems at a loss as to what to do with his hands. Eventually, he just moves around the table and plants an unexpected, shaky kiss on Francis’s cheek.
“I hope you will. In time, though.”
After that, Arthur pardons himself after telling Francis to have a good day and leaves the other, who tries desperately to keep his face level in the presence of the rest of the public. Francis feels the anguish and anger sliding down his throat like hot oil and thinks he was expecting too much of Arthur to try to fight for him again.
Francis, blinking away tears, picks up his coffee, which is now syrupy and cold, and absently takes a sip. It’s practically filled to the brim with sugar and yet, he wonders why it tastes so bitter.