[FIC] Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship, 5/6
Arthur lets Francis into the house, gives him an appraising look, and curtly states, “I have to return something to you.” Without further explanation, he turns and goes up the stairs. Francis blinks at his back, too stunned to give a proper reply.
Matthew pokes his head out of the kitchen, nibbling on something burnt. Francis winces; what does Arthur feed the children? “Is it time to go, Papa?”
“Almost,” Francis replies, staring at the-scone? “Don’t worry about it, and finish eating, uh, whatever that is.”
Matthew nods, and returns to the kitchen. Francis considers the staircase in front of him, shrugs, and then decides to take the plunge. Pretends he’s the prince, and every step he ascends brings him closer to his princess. Although, he thinks, Arthur would be a terrible princess, grouchy and grumpy and not at all attractive. He’d probably kill the dragon before the prince ever rescued him. Or, wait, no, he’d probably become friends with the creature. Francis laughs at the silliness of his thoughts and takes a step into Arthur’s room.
It smells-stuffy. Arthur hasn’t noticed him yet, so he takes the opportunity to look around. The bed is unmade, a navy blue comforter tossed haphazardly over the foot of the bed. The blinds haven’t been opened, bathing the room in a cool darkness.
He tiptoes silently across the room and peers over Arthur’s shoulder. He first notices the two tweed jackets hanging squarely in the center, then the argyle sweater vests that seem to clump around them as the planets orbit the sun. Next, his gaze lands on a pile of underwear-boxers. “So you wear boxers,” he muses, studying the assortment of stripes, plaid, and solids. “How terribly boring and respectable your choices are. No questionable prints or colors. How am I supposed to tease you now?”
Arthur whirls around, cheeks flushed red. Francis smiles cheekily at him.
“Damn it, what are you-”
Francis ignores his flustered stammers, choosing instead to scrutinize the contents of Arthur’s closet further. He turns to the shirts-dress shirts on the hangers, next to neatly pressed slacks and blazers, while the more casual T-shirts are folded next to the socks. He imagines Arthur going to the department store, selecting each shirt for whatever reason, trying them on in the dressing room, and frowning at his reflection in the floor-length mirrors.
He’s struck by a sudden thought, an unexpected desire to be there for every shirt he buys thereafter-wants to be there to nitpick at his choices, are you sure you want to buy that, dear Arthur, really, can’t we at least pretend you have a little fashion sense, wants-wants so much more-
“Take it,” Arthur says abruptly, and thrusts a small scrap of fabric at him. Francis instinctively takes it in his hands. It’s his handkerchief, folded into a pale pink square. He unfolds it. It smells faintly of soap.
“Oh.” His eyes flicker back and forth from Arthur to the handkerchief. “You-well, you didn’t really need to give it back.”
Arthur gives him an odd look. “What would I do with it?”
“You should keep it,” Francis finds himself insisting. “I don’t need it.” He brushes past Arthur and places the handkerchief on top of a pile of T-shirts. Like this, it almost feels like he’s leaving a little bit of himself behind, a spare shirt or an extra toothbrush in the bathroom.
Arthur sighs in capitulation. “Well. Fine, I suppose.” He turns back towards the closet, and Francis stares intently at the back of his head, at the stray hairs that drape across his neck. The memory of the night of the boys’ play comes to mind, carrying with it Arthur’s furious expression and piercing words.
“I don’t bring anyone home anymore, you know.” His tone is gentle and earnest, and it surprises even himself. “No women. Or men.” He meets Arthur’s eyes at the latter statement, and then laughs at himself. “I just. I don’t know, I thought you should know.”
Arthur’s lips quirk up into a funny little half-smile, as though his lips can’t quite figure out what to do. “I know. I do, really. I-” He breaks off into silence. “You’re a lot of things, but. You’re not a bad father.”
And here it is-a moment, charged with something inexplicable and indescribable. It would be easy, ridiculously so, to start something, something beautiful and unexpected and strange and dangerous, but-but-
Arthur moves all too soon, moves past Francis and lingers just slightly at the doorway. “You should go. You don’t want to keep Matthew up too late.”
The moment is gone. “Right,” Francis says, hastening from the room.
There’s a Tuesday afternoon where Francis calls rather than texts before he picks Matthew up from Arthur’s house. The sound of Arthur’s voice is muted and tinny through the speaker. Francis doesn’t like it; he’d much rather hear him in person.
“Ah-just calling to let you know I’m running a bit late.” He unlocks his car and slides into the driver’s seat. “But I’ll be there soon.”
“Buy milk,” Arthur tells him absentmindedly.
That certainly gives Francis pause. “Milk,” he repeats, uncertainly.
“Chocolate,” Arthur adds, as though that magically clears everything up.
“Right,” Francis says, turning the key in the ignition. “Well, then, I’ll see you in a half hour.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t, I won’t.” Francis rolls his eyes. “What are you, my wife?”
The words spill out, carelessly and clumsily, and as soon as they’re out Francis freezes, wishes he could force them back into mouth and choke them down into his stomach.
By the time he recovers his senses, Arthur’s already hung up.
“I hear you were on the rowing team in university.”
Arthur spares him a carefully expressionless glance. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Hm.” Francis crosses his legs at the ankles, a maddening smirk on his face. “Does the name Antonio Fernandez Carriedo ring any bells?”
Arthur opens the fridge and places the carton of chocolate milk inside. “I have never-” he begins to say, until he suddenly does remember the owner of that name, and, more importantly, a certain cousin of his, along with entangled legs and bare skin and being young and foolish and utterly drunk. He abruptly ducks back into the fridge, face burning as he stares at leftover bowls of stew.
“So you do remember.” Francis’ voice is louder, and Arthur feels him standing behind him. He goes stock-still, running through a dozen different excuses in his mind.
He grasps at the first one clumsily. “I remember competing against him, yes. My team won, as I recall.”
“You won more than just a trophy,” Francis says teasingly, and Arthur spins around, completely flustered.
“It was uni,” he hisses, making eye contact and instantly regretting the action; Francis’ leer takes up the entirety of his face.
“Oh, I’m not blaming you,” Francis assures him, “but really, Arthur, to do it on Toni’s bed?”
“It was closest,” Arthur mumbles, slamming the fridge shut behind him. He tries to block out the memory of the raucous party, of his slow but steady descent into inebriation, and the tanned, muscled arms that’d pulled him into a dark room. He elbows his way past Francis towards the sink and drenches his hands in cold water just for something to do. Then, louder: “How do you know about that, anyway?”
“It was my room, as well,” replies Francis nonchalantly, and Arthur spins around, sending splashes of water onto the tiled floor. Francis smiles at him, smug. “I had the top bunk.”
Arthur gapes at him-and suddenly remembers snippets of that night, suddenly recalls designer clothing draped over the top bed, expensive cologne and floral-scented lotion on the desk by the window.
“It’s too bad we didn’t run into each other,” muses Francis.
And Arthur wonders what if it had been Francis he’d slept with that night, drunk and dizzy and delirious. Wonders what the morning-after would have been like. Wonders if he would have woken up alone, or if he would have left first.
“Better that we didn’t.” He turns the tap off, wiping at his hands with a rag, trying-and failing-to get rid of those thoughts.
Francis gives him a slow, calculating look, the sort of look he gives Arthur when he thinks Arthur’s not looking. But, see-Arthur’s almost always looking, and he catches nearly every glance.
“I suppose you’re right,” Francis concedes. “It would have made things terribly awkward.”
“Very,” Arthur agrees, still drying his hands.
“I think your hands are dry now.”
Arthur flushes, glancing down at his hands. “Just-just being thorough.”
“Of course,” and Francis sends him that irritatingly familiar smirk. Arthur throws the rag on the counter with excessive force.
“I’m going to check on the boys,” he says, leaving the kitchen without waiting for an answer. As he does so, Francis’ voice drifts into his ears without permission, as it always does, soft and almost regretful:
“Too bad I didn’t meet you first.”
But Arthur barely pauses before moving forward-he’s probably just hearing things.
Later that night, in the precipice between wakefulness and sleep, Arthur thinks: I wish I’d met you first, too.
He doesn’t remember any of it in the morning.
“They’ve both fallen asleep,” Francis informs him as he opens the door. Arthur nods curtly and steps inside, and is immediately assaulted with the scent of something sweet and warm.
“Are you baking something?” he inquires.
“Macarons,” Francis pronounces, and it is so decidedly French that Arthur can’t help but roll his eyes. “Here, try one.”
Francis leads him into the kitchen, and Arthur follows, spying a large bowl on the counter filled with what looks like little cookie sandwiches. Francis offers him one, and Arthur accepts, making sure not to touch his hand. It’s almost like a game, this, and he remembers one of Alfred’s silly rhymes: step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
He bites into one of Francis’ creations-and oh god, it is like sex in his mouth, and he literally has to force himself not to moan out loud. Francis eyes him with a knowing smile on his lips.
“So? How are they?”
Arthur swallows and pastes an indifferent look on his face. “They’re okay,” he says offhandedly. He adds, “I’ve had better.”
But damn the fact that he can read him so well. Francis’ eyes reflect only amusement. “Sure you have. Would you like to take some home?”
“Well. If you insist,” Arthur says primly, licking at the crumbs at the corners of his mouth. He ponders having a second one, but decides against it, opting instead to wake Alfred up. “I’m going to go and get Al,” he calls over his shoulder. He finds both Alfred and Matthew curled up on opposite ends of the couch. Matthew’s face is pressed awkwardly into the armrest, and Arthur takes the time to gently shift him into a more comfortable position before shaking Alfred’s shoulder lightly.
“Wake up, Al,” he entreats him, “or you won’t be able to fall asleep tonight.”
Alfred begins to stir, flailing as he mutters a multitude of frightened things under his breath. “Ghosts-no, Daddy, don’t let them get me-”
“Shh,” Arthur soothes, patting him on the back. Francis comes out of the kitchen, a baggie of macarons in hand. He eyes Alfred curiously, and Arthur mouths a silent “nightmare” in his general direction.
And Francis-Francis doesn’t hesitate as he moves closer and leans in to whisper sweet, honeyed words of comfort. Arthur observes silently, flipping through every memory he’s tucked into his mind of Francis since he came into their lives, trying to figure out when he became more than just Alfred’s friend’s dad and became, simply, Francis.
He doesn’t. Figure it out, that is, but he hadn’t really expected to anyway.
In the end, it is Arthur who makes the first move, bumbling, clumsy, and endearing.
Not for the first time, Francis spies Arthur jogging slowly on the sidewalk, wearing navy blue track pants and a gray shirt soaked with sweat. And just like before, he brakes over to the side of the road and rolls the window down.
“I’m not getting into your car,” Arthur states flatly before Francis can even get a word out.
“What if I tell you I have sweets?” Francis asks with a beatific grin, offering him a butterscotch candy. The gold wrapper gleams in the sunlight.
“Especially not then,” Arthur scowls, fiddling with his iPod in his hands, turning it over and over. The motion strikes Francis with an indescribable urge to find out what he listens to-is it only jazz, or does he harbor a secret punk collection as well?
“Do you really hate me that much?” he ponders out loud. There’s no drama about the question, no pleading in his gaze. It’s a purely scientific inquiry.
Arthur opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it soundlessly. He stares at a crack in the sidewalk, seemingly weighing his options.
Francis lets out a breath of relief as Arthur opens the door and plops heavily on the leather seats. He smells of sweat and deodorant, and Francis finds himself fascinated by the short strands of hair clinging to his forehead, damp with perspiration.
“I’m not doing this because I like you,” Arthur hastens to explain. “It just looks like rain. That’s all.”
Francis’ gaze flickers to the sky, clear blue and cloudless, the sun beating heavily down on the earth. Arthur determinedly avoids his questioning stare.
“Sure it does,” is all he says, maneuvering the car back onto the main road.
The drive back to Arthur’s house is punctuated with silence. Beside him, Arthur seems strangely jittery, his left thigh shaking incessantly for a good five minutes. Francis reaches over and places his palm on his knee.
“Stop shaking,” he says good-naturedly. “I feel like I’m in a rollercoaster.”
Arthur’s leg comes to an abrupt halt. Francis’ hand moves slowly away. He shoots Arthur puzzled glances every so often, but can’t quite figure out what’s on his mind.
Finally, Arthur’s house comes into view, and Francis comes slowly to a halt in his driveway. “Your stop, I believe.”
Arthur unbuckles his seatbelt without a reply. His hand hovers over the door handle, shaking slightly. Francis frowns.
“Ar-”
“This doesn’t mean a thing,” Arthur suddenly says, and before Francis can get even a single syllable out, Arthur turns to face him and leans in.
Years later, Francis will still remember the feel of his side pressed against warm leather seats and the seatbelt slicing painfully into his neck. He will remember the way the sun slanted its beams precisely on his closed eyelids at that moment, forcing him to wince into the kiss. Most of all, he will remember Arthur’s lips, dry, chapped, and incredibly warm, crammed forcefully against his.
For that’s all it is, really: two pairs of closed lips shoved together, no tongue, no seductive touches, nothing.
And yet it feels somehow more intimate than the sensual slide of bare skin and rumpled sheets and breathy moans uttered in the dark of night.
Arthur pulls away first. Francis misses him immediately.
“I suppose that wasn’t because you like me, either?” he asks, taking in the sight of Arthur’s ruddy, flushed cheeks.
“Of course not,” Arthur agrees, finally getting out of the car. He gives him that same small smile, a slight twitch in the corner of his lips that Francis has learned to maybe, possibly, love. “I don’t like you at all.”
He closes the door. Francis drives off with a smile.
|| Six ||