[FIC] Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship, 6/6
Arthur isn’t what most people would call beautiful, Francis thinks idly to himself.
The eyebrows are too prominent, too dark against pale, fair skin, which is, in turn, marred by too many freckles to be considered flawless. His clothes are dull and ill-fitting, far too much tweed and argyle, too baggy, too unflattering. No, Arthur isn’t the sort of person who’d turn heads at first sight-but, Francis grudgingly admits, he does possess that strange sort of beauty that grows on you, sneaks up on you when you least expect it, burrows into your brain past all your defenses, until one day you turn to look at him and realize, oh god, he is beautiful, after all.
And once the thought is there, well. It never really leaves.
“Papa?” Matthew waves a small hand in front of him. “Someone’s at the door.”
“Oh-” Francis shakes off his distractions and rises from his seat.
Alfred greets him with an exuberant grin, an impressive feat this early in the morning. “Hi! Is Mattie awake yet? Daddy said I’m not supposed to wake him up if he’s still sleeping.”
“He’s having breakfast,” returns Francis, bending down to his level. “Chocolate chip pancakes, in fact.”
Alfred lights up. “My favorite!” he declares, and scampers towards the kitchen.
“You just ate-” Arthur starts, exasperated, and shakes his head. He turns his gaze to Francis. “I know this is extremely short notice, so…”
Francis recognizes his unspoken gratitude. “If I didn’t want to watch him, I would have made up an excuse,” he says offhandedly, unashamed of the fact.
Arthur, try as he might, can’t quite hide a grin. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?”
And there it is, Arthur’s amused countenance, that small smile that creeps up every now and then, always unexpected. Francis realizes, to his immense pleasure, that he’s getting better at coaxing those little half-smiles from their hiding place behind scowling lips.
After a brief silence, he suggests, “You could make it up to me.”
Arthur narrows his eyes, ever wary. “How so?”
Francis pauses, genuinely pauses. This-this relationship, of sorts, is unlike anything he’s ever done before. He’s on new territory, here, reeling from this strange sensation of liking and loving beyond one or two nights in bed. Because somehow, without ever realizing it, this man with his eyebrows and terrible cooking and hyperactive chatterbox of a son has made himself all nice and cozy and comfortable in his home, in his life (in his heart), and things are just so much brighter.
“We could go out,” he ventures, scrutinizing his face for any hint of a reaction.
Arthur stiffens, biting down on his lower lip in thought. Francis watches the motion, remembering a not-rainy afternoon not too long ago in his car. “I don’t-I don’t want to go out,” Arthur answers, unusually hesitant.
“We could stay in,” Francis immediately says.
Arthur nods, slowly. “I could cook,” he offers.
“You really don’t have to do that,” is Francis’ quick retort, and Arthur glowers at him without any real malice.
Francis smiles at him in return, and after a while, Arthur huffs, impatient, with the slightest flush on his cheeks. “I have to get going. Work, you know.”
“Yes, of course.” Francis holds the door open as Arthur brushes past him, catching the faintest whiff of cologne. Instead of directly making his way to the car, however, Arthur hovers on the front steps.
Without turning back, he asks, “This, uh, this-what we just planned. Is it for the whole family? I mean, with Al and Matt? Or-or is it just-uh-the two of us?”
Francis wishes he would turn around. He doesn’t. “Well. I was thinking, just the two of us. If you want.”
Arthur’s shoulders relax, tension draining and dissipating into the air. “Yes. Sure. Fine.” He glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Friday?”
“Friday,” Francis affirms, and closes the door as Arthur gets into his car. He doesn’t need to look at a mirror to know that he’s grinning like an absolute idiot as he enters the kitchen.
Alfred beams at him, chocolate chips smeared all over his cheeks. “You look happy!”
Matthew, noticeably cleaner, nods in agreement. “Really happy.”
Francis laughs. “That, my boys, is the understatement of the century.”
“Ooh, what happened?” Alfred asks, swinging his legs beneath the table as he shoves another forkful of pancakes into his mouth. Matthew douses his plate with maple syrup and looks up at him inquisitively.
Francis takes in the sight of these two boys in his kitchen, eating his chocolate chip pancakes, grinning expectantly at him, and he can’t help but think: why has this taken so long?
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” he replies mysteriously, laughing off both boys’ disappointed groans.
“Now, Matthew,” Francis says, sternly. “This is a crucial, crucial decision.”
Matthew bites his lip worriedly as he perches on the edge of Francis’ bed. “Okay, Papa,” he says, very solemnly.
Francis holds up two different shirts by their respective hangers. One is an old favorite, a cerulean blue affair that’s always served him well in the past; the second is a brand new purchase, a sharp shade of green. “Which one?”
Matthew-adorable, sweet, wonderful Matthew-scrunches up his nose in concentration as he stares intently at both shirts. “The green one,” he says with finality.
“I thought so, too,” Francis agrees, smoothing down Matthew’s hair, save for that errant curl. “You’ve inherited my impeccable taste.”
Matthew smiles widely, teeth and all. “It’s the same color as Alfred’s dad’s eyes, isn’t it?”
Francis doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, is it? I didn’t notice.” He strips off his current top, a plain white T-shirt, and slips his arms through the sleeves of the green garment. He buttons it up and eyes his reflection in the mirror carefully.
Matthew’s smaller form pops up behind him in the mirror as he shifts on the bed for a better position. He draws his knees up to his chest, encircling his calves with his arms. “Papa, you really like him, don’t you?”
Matthew’s uncanny observation skills never quite cease to surprise him. Francis wonders if all kids are like this, or if it’s just Matthew. He plops down heavily beside him on the bed.
“You know, I do.” He laughs, an inane little exhale of relief and giddiness at saying the words out loud. “I don’t know why, but-I really, really do.”
That’s somewhat of a lie-Francis knows Arthur’s unpleasantness, has faced his wrath and poisonous words, has seen his stubbornness at work, but he also knows there’s a softer side to him, has seen it in the way he smiles at Alfred, has witnessed it in the way he protects Matthew with the ferocity of a mother bear.
No, he thinks, Arthur’s not the sort who gives his affections freely; he reserves those for a sparse, select group, and Francis just hopes-hopes that he may somehow be one of those precious few.
“I think he likes you, too,” Matthew tells him, glancing at him with honest, heartfelt eyes. Francis swallows.
“Of course he does!” He puffs out his chest proudly. “Who wouldn’t like me?” Matthew giggles at his antics, and Francis proceeds to strut around the room, every inch the exhibitionist, betraying none of the vulnerability he’s grappling with inside.
“Daddy, I’m bored.” Alfred pronounces the final word with an emphasis borne from years of practice. Arthur buttons up a casual white dress shirt and looks at him imploringly.
“We’re almost done,” he reassures him. “Just-here, look. Help me choose one of these.” He holds out two ties, one dark gray and the other, a powder blue.
Alfred groans.
“Al, come on.”
Alfred pulls a face. “Don’t like either of ‘em,” he proclaims. “Ties are lame, Dad.”
Arthur is properly scandalized, ever the English gentleman, and turns on his son, mouth gaping in horror. “They are-they are not,” he insists, defensively. “Ties are-ties are cool.”
“Are not,” Alfred retorts. “They’re lame and boring and stuffy.”
Arthur looks utterly crestfallen. “Should I skip the tie? Really?”
Alfred nods. “Ties are for fancy places, anyway. Like. For princes and, uh, old people and stuff.” He narrows his eyes at his father. “Are you goin’ somewhere fancy, Dad?”
“What? No. No, just his house.” As he hears the words out loud, Arthur realizes that a tie really isn’t necessary, is it? He hangs both ties back in the closet, fidgety and nervous.
“What’re you two gonna do, anyhow?” Alfred asks, staring up at him with wide and curious eyes. “What do people do on dates?”
Arthur flushes. “It’s-it’s not a-” He begins to say, but abruptly switches topics, turning accusing eyes on his son. “How do you even know what a date is?”
Alfred shrugs. “TV,” he answers, easily, and Arthur makes a mental note to start monitoring Alfred’s television choices more vigilantly in the future.
They sit in silence for a while, Alfred sticking his bottom lip out thoughtfully, Arthur staring anxiously at his cell phone on the dresser. Even now, he half-expects Francis to send him a text saying he can’t make it, that he’s decided to go off with someone else instead.
Then Alfred says, “Well, I like Mattie’s papa, so you can marry him.”
Arthur’s eyes widen. “Who said-who said anything about marrying-?”
Alfred shakes his head at him, fixing him with a pitying gaze. “Daddy,” he says, with all the logic of a child, “that’s how it works. People date. And then they get married and live in a house and live happily ever after. It’s in all the Disney movies.”
Arthur gapes at him, blinking in silence. “Not all of them do,” he says, eventually.
“Yeah,” Alfred says dismissively, “but, I dunno. I mean, don’t you want to?”
“I don’t-” he begins, ill at ease, “well. Do you want me to?”
“Yeah, why not?” is the immediate response, out as soon as Arthur finishes posing the question. Alfred falls back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Then we could live in one big house and I’ll have a brother and I’ll never be lonely ever again.”
Arthur’s mouth goes bone-dry, and he sits down next to him, meeting his gaze squarely. “Al, have you been lonely?”
“Huh?” Alfred smiles at him, sweet and charming, as he pushes himself to a sitting position. “Naw, not really. Sometimes, I guess. But wouldn’t it be nice to live together, like a big happy family? Like on TV.”
Arthur fleetingly considers lecturing him on the difference between real life and television, but can’t bring himself to shatter Al’s fantasies. He’s still a child, after all; instead he leans in and draws Alfred into a hug, resting his chin on his head. He smells of baby shampoo.
“It would be nice,” Arthur finally admits after a lengthy silence.
“Told you so,” Alfred says knowingly.
Gilbert stands at Francis’ front door, baring his teeth in a nasty grin. “Well, well, well.”
The infamous Uncle Gilbert, Arthur recalls with an inward sigh.
“Who’re you?” Alfred asks, staring up at him with fascinated eyes.
“So you’re the little munchkin.” Gilbert crosses his arms over his chest and gives Alfred a quick once-over. “Hm. Okay then. I’m Gilbert, and I’m awesome.”
Alfred tilts his chin up defiantly and looks him straight in the eye. “I’m Alfred, and I’m more awesome.”
Arthur watches amusedly as Alfred doggedly refuses to blink in what’s become an impromptu staring contest. After a while, Gilbert has to scrunch his eyelids shut to alleviate the burning, and he reaches out to clap Alfred heavily on the shoulder while shouting, “Hey, Francis, this one’s got balls!”
“Which one?” Francis asks lightly as he descends the stairs, Matthew in tow.
“The munchkin,” Gilbert declares, leaning down to ruffle Matthew’s hair in greeting. “As for the other one, well, you can fill me in tomorrow morning.” The innuendo hangs awkwardly in the air as Arthur raises horrified eyes to Francis.
“Gil, I told you to bring them back by ten,” Francis says hastily, and Arthur lets out a long, slow exhale, outwardly relieved. Gilbert snorts.
“Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes and turning to his charges for the evening. “Okay. Are you two ready to have a totally awesome time?”
“Yeah!” Alfred cheers, pumping his fist in the air. Matthew, to his credit, is unwavering in his stance, an expression of sheer determination pasted on his face.
Before they leave, Arthur whispers to him, “Be strong.” Matthew nods grimly in response and follows Gilbert and Alfred out of the house.
The air becomes fraught with tension and awkwardness as Francis shuts the door, leaving just the two of them in the suddenly quiet house. Arthur becomes hyper-aware of his surroundings, the smell of dinner wafting in from the kitchen, the pale yellow of the walls, the hardwood and carpeted floors, the man standing in front of him.
Francis clears his throat. “Dinner?”
Arthur looks at him. There’s a strange air of insecurity and hesitance about him, subtle but not lost on Arthur. It’s in the way he tugs insistently on the cuffs of his shirt as he waits for Arthur’s answer, the way he seems to stand with an unusual rigidness and tension. Like this, Arthur’s suddenly reminded of Matthew, timid and shy and desperate for approval, and he thinks that maybe father and son aren’t so different after all.
He’s terrified, absolutely terrified, but he can’t help it: he’s drawn to him, to the possibilities of them, so he nods without a word and follows him into the kitchen.
Afterwards, Francis says, “I’ll do the dishes; you can go put on a movie,” and watches covertly as Arthur nods and pads into the living room. When he’s alone, he turns on the tap and runs his hands under the scalding water, washing off remnants of chicken and broccoli and sauce.
What is he even doing?
He has never felt so dizzyingly lost before, and he blames it entirely on the man in the other room. This sort of thing has always come easily to him, conversation and flirting and loving, but tonight there’s a palpable sense of unease in the room, and for once he’s got no ideas on how to fix it.
Because Arthur isn’t the type to be wooed by fluttering lashes and saccharine tones, isn’t the type to fall for his usual tricks. Francis lets out a derisive laugh as he shuts off the water. Now, during the one time it actually matters, he’s got-nothing.
The living room is dark, illuminated only by the flickers of the television screen. In the faint light, Arthur’s face is an odd, pale gray. Francis sits down beside him without a word, keeping a respectable distance away.
Francis barely registers the movie, something with lots of bombs and explosions, too focused on waiting for some heaven-sent signal to tell him that it’ll be okay to lean over and drape his arm casually over his shoulders, or rest his head in the junction of his neck and collarbone, or-or something. Francis craves affection, isn’t used to going without it, and not being able to feel Arthur’s warmth pressed against his side is driving him insane.
So he inches closer, close enough that their knees bump together. Arthur draws in a breath, but doesn’t say anything, doesn’t turn his head to look at him. Francis freezes at the sound and wonders if he’s just been given permission to close the remaining gap between them.
Arthur does it for him, shifting without warning so that their sides are pressed seamlessly together. Francis exhales instinctively, the stress and tautness in every line of his body evaporating into the air.
Arthur’s hands sit loosely in his lap, fingers drumming impatiently on his thighs. Without thinking, Francis reaches over and rests his palm on top of the back of Arthur’s hand. He feels Arthur stiffen beneath his touch, and waits-
Slowly, ever so slowly, Arthur turns his hand over and laces their fingers together, curling fingertips in the spaces between knuckles. Francis grips his hand fiercely in return.
“Ouch-damn it, let up a little, will you?” Arthur elbows him harshly, annoyance coloring his words.
Francis rolls his eyes at that. “Look what you’ve done.” He does, at least, loosen his grip slightly. “You’ve gone and ruined the moment.”
“You were cutting off circulation to my hand, idiot.” Still, Arthur doesn’t move away, keeping their sides and hands perfectly linked. And Francis feels a burst of relief at the sight, so he laughs out loud, earning himself a curious look from the man beside him.
“You-you make me so nervous.” Francis shakes his head, the motion wrought with self-deprecation. “I was just thinking, if you were anybody else, this would be so much easier.”
Evidently, this is the wrong thing to say. Arthur yanks his hand away and turns to face him in the dim light, angry. “So you want someone else, is that what you’re saying? Someone easier?”
Oh, god. “No-I didn’t mean that. I just-”
“What did you mean?” he demands.
Frustrated, Francis snaps back. “This! This is exactly what I mean! You’re sour and unpleasant and you-” He recognizes the stiffness in Arthur’s shoulders, the wary defiance in his eyes, the almost imperceptible trembling of his fists. “And you want this as much as I do,” he finishes, softly. “So why are you fighting it?”
Arthur seems to wage a war with himself, blinking rapidly and pressing his lips together into a firm, thin line. He looks away, gazing blankly at the floor.
“I don’t know how to-how to react… to all of this. I don’t-” He breaks off, lips twisting into a frown. “It’s always been just Alfred and me, and it was small and quiet, but we were happy. We were fine. And you-just, you, with your stupid shiny leather shoes and fucking macarons-and with Matthew, and-”
Francis reaches out, lining his fingers against the curve of Arthur’s jaw. Arthur stops talking, just looks at him with wide, anxious eyes.
“Shh,” Francis says, drawing closer to him. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to Arthur’s cheek. Arthur’s eyes flutter shut, and Francis commits the sensation of Arthur’s lashes brushing his cheek to memory, tucks it away someplace safe so he can take it out and savor it on rainy days. He leaves another kiss at the angle of his jaw, brief but sweet, before moving on to the corner of his mouth, where he smiles against the skin that greets him there.
He pauses, just for a second, breathing in the moment, and then-
He shifts, hooking a leg over so that he’s situated precisely on Arthur’s lap. One of Arthur’s hands moves to clutch at the fabric of Francis’ sleeve, just at his elbow, pulling him closer; the other reaches around to trace the curve of his shoulder blade, impossibly warm against Francis’ back.
Francis leans down as Arthur lifts his chin up, and as their lips touch, tongue and teeth and indistinct utterances against each other’s skin, fingertips skimming uncharted territory, he thinks, ah, here, here is good, let’s just stay here forever, shall we?
Francis’ weight is heavy but comfortable as he sprawls on top of Arthur’s body, head resting on his ribs. Arthur absentmindedly tugs at the nonexistent knots in his hair, visualizing endless bottles of hair products and gels in his bathroom, wondering if his two-in-one shampoo and conditioner will ever be granted a corner in his bathtub.
He sighs into the air and says, “I bet you were obnoxious in uni.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Francis hums in agreement, the vibration thrumming through Arthur’s chest. It tickles, in an odd sort of way. “High on life, thought I was invincible, slept around just to see if I could.”
Arthur snorts. “In this case, you couldn’t,” he points out.
“I don’t mind so much, if it’s you.” Francis kisses the bare skin of his chest, causing Arthur to inhale sharply and tug jerkily at Francis’ hair. “But I think it’d be wonderful. Earth-shattering, that sort of thing.”
Arthur frowns. “What are you talking about?”
Francis glances up, mischief in every line of his face. “The sex, of course. Whenever we decide to do it, it’ll be the best sex in the history of sex.”
Arthur flushes and looks away. His gaze lands on their shirts, coiling around each other in a heap on the floor, and he-he agrees, damn it, he does, already envisioning hungry kisses and deliberate touches in just the right spots, tangled in the bed sheets, slow and thorough.
Instead, he says, “This-if we do-this, keep this going, keep seeing each other like this-” He fumbles for words. “It has to be serious. Because, because I have Al, and you have Matt, and it’s not just about the two of us. I mean. You do understand, don’t you?”
Francis draws himself up into a sitting position, still half in Arthur’s lap. He gives Arthur that godforsaken smile, unrushed and steady, filled with a tenderness Arthur hasn’t received in years. “You are a slow one, aren’t you?” Arthur scowls at him, but Francis merely shakes his head at him, and continues with, “I have fought past your eyebrows and won. Does that mean nothing to you? What else do I have to do? Write a sonnet? Is that what you want, Arthur? A sonnet?”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Forget I even asked.”
“I could probably come up with one,” Francis ponders out loud. “Or perform a dramatic reading; I’m told I’m quite good at those-‘my mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun…’”
Arthur punches him in the shoulder. “Get off, get off,” he commands, sitting up and reaching for his discarded shirt. “It’s almost ten. They’ll be home any minute.”
“Gilbert’s not exactly punctual,” Francis tells him, but slips on his shirt as well, fastens his buttons, and does his best to smooth out the wrinkles. Arthur rather likes the wrinkles; they’re proof that he was there, on Francis and all over him.
“So you’ve left our children in the hands of an irresponsible babysitter,” Arthur intones dryly. “That’s reassuring.”
Francis gives him a peculiar stare. “Our children,” he says, slowly, and Arthur draws in a quick breath, “are fine.”
Arthur fists his hands in his lap. “Right. Of course they are.”
Francis looks like he’s about to say something, but whatever it is, it’s cut off by the insistent clamor of the doorbell, accompanied by Gilbert’s voice, “You two’ve got one minute to get all your clothes back on before we storm the house!”
Then, loudly, Alfred asks, “Why’ve they got no clothes on?”
“Weeeeeell,” Gilbert begins, and Arthur sends Francis an appalled look before they both leap towards the door. As Francis’ hand hovers on the knob, though, they stop, just for a second. They take a moment there, simply looking, simply breathing. Arthur wants to memorize everything, wants to keep everything about Francis for himself, as selfish as it may be.
Francis turns the knob. The spell is broken, and it’s no longer just the two of them in their own separate space away from the rest of the world. Arthur already misses it.
Francis foregoes the so-called three days rule and sends him a text just past midnight.
I’m not just looking for a one-night stand.
Less than a minute later, his phone buzzes in his hand.
I know.
Here is one of Arthur’s best-kept secrets: he loves to clean.
The vacuum is his weapon of choice; if possible, he wields it with expert precision once a week, attacking dust bunnies beneath the bed and behind the sofa. With rock music blasting from his earphones, he cleans every corner of the house thoroughly, singing The Who and Queen and everything in between. There’s a strange sort of liberation in being able to belt out questionable songs at the top of his lungs in the privacy of his house, and he does it whenever he can.
The vacuum cord extends to its maximum length just as Arthur reaches the tail end of the living room, coming to an abrupt halt against the carpet. He turns the switch off, swinging his hips to the beat of his music as he turns the corner to unplug the cord from the wall outlet.
“Ah-hello.”
Arthur freezes as he registers the sight of Francis in his doorway, a soft and hesitant smile hovering on his lips. He suddenly realizes how pathetic he must look, vacuum cord and plug in his hand, wearing ratty clothes stained with sweat, and oh god, the singing, the dancing. He drops the cord to the floor and gives his earphones a fierce tug; they fall limply around his neck, Freddie Mercury’s voice echoing faintly in the room.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, summoning every drop of patience and poise in his body.
“I let myself in,” Francis explains, rather belatedly. “I, well, I was in the neighborhood.” Arthur continues to stare at him in disbelief. “I did text, but you obviously didn’t get that, so.”
“Oh,” is his ever so eloquent response.
Arthur doesn’t know how long he stands there, awkward and aching with longing. He’s uncomfortably aware of the beads of sweat that trickle down the side of his face, his chin, and his neck, staining the collar of his shirt. He watches Francis’ eyes follow their trail and instinctively swallows as they rest on his throat.
Francis raises his gaze to meet his.
Unwaveringly, Arthur stares back.
And then-and then, Francis moves, and the next thing he knows, everything, just, everything is Francis, expensive cologne and designer clothing, warm breath and warmer hands, twisting and twining until there’s no room to breathe.
It’s a study in contradictions, somehow slow and rushed and frantic and still all at the same time. When Arthur leads Francis into his room, that-that’s clumsy, hindered by their tangled feet. When Francis kisses him, that’s, he’s-unhurried, savoring him like fine wine. Arthur wants to drink him in the same way, soak him into his veins, keep him flowing steadily to his heart.
Francis presses him against the door, threads his fingers through Arthur’s short hair, and kisses him even more thoroughly. Arthur gives as good as he gets, kissing harder, pushing against him, angling his hips in just the right way.
They pull apart out of desperation for oxygen, breathing rapidly, gazes locked. Then, slowly, Arthur’s fingers curl around the hem of his plain cotton shirt, an old shirt he’d thrown on that morning, exposing that first inch of skin-
Francis’ hands are immediately on his, stilling him. Arthur’s face is awash with disappointment, but Francis leans in, and exhales raggedly in his ear: “Let me.”
Francis lifts Arthur’s shirt over his head; the friction of the cotton against his bare skin tickles, but Francis’ fingertips leave goose-bumps in their wake. The shirt hits the floor, and Francis casts him a look of undisguised adoration, unadulterated yearning. Arthur is unused to such attention, doesn’t know what to do with it, and can only release a surprised gasp when Francis ducks his head and leaves a painfully gentle kiss to the left of his sternum, somewhere near the vicinity of Arthur’s heart.
Arthur’s hands move on their own, unbuttoning Francis’ shirt, trailing over newly revealed skin. He pushes the shirt past Francis’ shoulders, running fingers over his shoulders and his chest, the fine hairs tickling his palms. That night at Francis’ house had been dark, dimly lit by the light of the television, but here, today, in the light of the early afternoon, Arthur sees him, everything about him, and he wants him so much more. It’s a dangerous feeling, this; he’s never let himself want anything so much.
Arthur takes Francis’ hand and leads him to the bed, sits down at the edge and stares up at him, half-naked and vulnerable. For the longest time, the only sound in the room is that of their breathing, fast and uneven.
Then Arthur reaches for Francis’ belt, draws it through his belt loops until it comes free. Tosses it aside. Unzips his slacks and tugs the fabric down to his ankles. Watches as Francis steps out of them and moves ever closer. Lets Francis coax him to a standing position, lets him slip his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, lets him strip the clothing away.
Arthur falls back into his previous spot, sitting down, looking up. Clarity settles in at last. Francis watches him intently, waiting for him to make the first move.
Arthur wants to say: I’m a little broken, I know, and I don’t know what this is, exactly, but I think it could be something beautiful and I want you so, so much. Do you want me, too?
But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he holds out a hand. It doesn’t shake.
Francis threads their fingers together, breathes him in, and that’s all the answer Arthur needs.
“I was right,” Francis says smugly.
“What?” Arthur asks sleepily, turning his neck to face him. The clock on his dresser tells him they’ve got time before they have to pick the boys up from school, time which he thinks would be well-spent taking a quick nap, but Francis seems to be uninterested.
“About the sex,” Francis clarifies. “The best. Ever. And I have had a lot of experience.”
Arthur snorts and whaps him solidly on the shoulder. “You’re rubbish at pillow-talk.”
Francis catches his hand before it moves away. “And you’re rubbish at cuddling. Really, who makes their partner change the sheets right after?”
Arthur is too tired to force a proper scowl, but he does have enough energy to muster an indignant tone. “I told you, Alfred sleeps in here sometimes-and you made just as much of a mess as I did, you arse.”
“So romantic,” Francis croons, and it’s at this point that Arthur rolls over and flings an arm across Francis’ face, the inner curve of his elbow landing precisely on his mouth.
“Augh,” says Francis intelligibly. He nudges Arthur’s arm away. “I’ve just gotten myself into a terribly abusive relationship, haven’t I?”
Arthur buries his head beneath a pillow, curling his arms under his chest. “S’not too late to get out,” he mutters, eyes shut.
The pillow is lifted away from his head, and Arthur squints at the sudden intrusion. Francis is bright, leaning his head into the palm of his hand, elbow bent, staring down with a soft smile.
“Why would I want to do that?” he wonders, teasingly. “I rather like pain. I have certain masochistic tendencies, or so I’m told.”
“Or you could just be very stupid,” Arthur points out ruthlessly, arching an eyebrow.
“That, too,” Francis agrees. “Either way, though, I think you’re quite stuck with me.”
Arthur lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose I could learn to live with that,” he concedes.
“It’ll be great fun,” Francis promises, and leans in to kiss his seemingly permanent frown away.
The funny thing is, nothing really, truly changes: Arthur and Francis still take turns picking the boys up from school, and Francis still dresses impeccably while Arthur refuses to let go of his sweater vests and jumpers.
However-Francis’ smiles are just a little bit softer, now, charm and allure replaced with more of a genuine warmth. At the same time, Arthur’s more open with his affections, easily leaning into Francis’ side if the occasion permits, brushing their fingers together when Francis least expects it.
Today, Francis extracts the spare key out of Arthur’s flower pot and sticks it in the lock, humming in satisfaction as the door swings open. He tosses the key back into the fake soil before entering the house, inhaling the familiar scent of tea and burnt food.
“They’re ruined!” Alfred whines from the kitchen. Francis smirks in amusement and follows his voice. He pauses at the doorway, just watching.
“It’s not so bad,” Matthew says immediately, loyal to a fault. “I mean. If we just put some maple syrup on it…”
“I’ll make a fresh batch,” Arthur mutters, scowling down at the charred mounds that line his baking pan. Francis’ eyes flicker from the open oven, the scattered piles of graham crackers, chocolate bars, and jumbo-sized marshmallows on the table…
He bursts out laughing, the sound spilling out of him until his sides hurt. Arthur turns beet-red at the sight of him.
“Arthur. Arthur.” Francis bites his tongue to keep from laughing. “You-you ruined s’mores?”
Arthur sends him a glare so piercing Francis has no doubt it’s caused lesser men to run away. Francis only finds it endearing. “It was an accident,” he bites out. “And-look, we’ve still got enough left for a second attempt.”
“Which I will gladly take charge of,” Francis interrupts smoothly, smirking as Arthur opens his mouth to retort angrily. “I’m sure the boys have inhaled their fair share of smoke for the day.”
Alfred and Matthew blink innocently at their fathers. Arthur makes a muffled sound of annoyance in his throat. “Fine,” he says, irritated, “more work for you, in any case.”
“Yes, yes,” Francis says, opening drawers until he finds a clean baking sheet. “You can tell me all about your day while I do this. We’ll be charmingly, disgustingly domestic. Wouldn’t you like that?”
The latter half of that statement goes largely ignored by the boys, and Alfred offers up a lovely tidbit of information: “We tried teaching Daddy how to dance today.”
Francis turns his head slowly to face Arthur, who is very determinedly avoiding eye contact. “Is that right?”
“Mm-hmm,” Matthew chimes in. “The moonwalk.”
Francis’ grin takes up the entirety of his face; Arthur still refuses to look his way. “And how’d he do?”
Alfred shakes his head sadly. “Not so good. It was pretty sad.”
Francis pictures flailing limbs and stifles his laughter. No, Arthur’s better suited to impromptu dances, conducted when no one’s looking, the easy swing of hips and thighs to the beat of his own music flowing from his earphones.
“Traitors,” Arthur mutters, but the boys only smile up at him, dimples and all.
Francis lines the baking sheet with aluminum foil and arranges the graham crackers into neat, even rows before setting it down on the kitchenette. “Two marshmallows on each,” he instructs, and Alfred and Matthew immediately start on their task.
Arthur watches them fondly, taking a seat at the table. “They wanted something sweet,” he murmurs in explanation to Francis, who’s crossed the room to stand behind him, fingers dancing lightly across his shoulders.
“I wish I’d come home earlier,” replies Francis, fingers teasing at the back of Arthur’s neck. “Could’ve prevented you from wasting a perfectly good batch of graham cookies and marshmallows… and gotten a free show.”
Arthur scoffs, reaching up to pinch at the skin of Francis’ wrist. Francis laughs and entangles their fingers together ever so briefly before moving away to help the boys.
Later, after the s’mores have been eaten and it’s just the two of them, Francis will kiss Arthur properly, slow and thorough; later, Francis will kick Arthur out of the kitchen and prepare a decent dinner; later, the four of them will sit down together and eat, carrying on easy conversation as though they’ve been doing it for years.
(And later, much, much, later, Francis will find the courage to unearth a certain velvet jewelry box from the back of his underwear drawer, and he won’t have to fish for the spare key in Arthur’s flower pots anymore.)
For now, though, there is this, just this: burnt marshmallows and graham cracker crumbs, the sound of their children’s laughter mingling in the air, and Arthur-simply, Arthur. Here, surrounded by all of this, Francis thinks, I’m home.
And this time, the thought isn’t frightening at all.
|| the end ||
Notes:
1. There have been several cover versions of “I Won’t Dance”, but the particular version Arthur’s got in his iPod is the one by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong.
2. Gilbert’s “Lawyered” line is taken directly from How I Met Your Mother.
3. Mary Poppins is, of course, the famous Julie Andrews film about the perfect nanny. Arthur’s line about piecrust promises is also taken from the movie.
4. Arthur and Antonio's rowing rivalry was largely inspired by a Colin Firth interview with Craig Ferguson, in which they discuss the upcoming 2012 London Olympics and Colin quips that the English only win at sports that involve a lot of sitting-such as cycling and rowing. Needless to say, I took the idea and ran with it. The interview's a two-parter, and it is hilarious. They discuss moisturizing, getting in shape, the baritone euphonium, and English catering. Seriously, watch it!
5. Arthur’s “Ties are cool” line was me attempting to be hip and cool by referencing Doctor Who (although the original was, of course, “Bowties are cool!”)
6. “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun…” was me attempting to be literate by referencing Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130.
7. The macarons were put in especially for falling-voices, who is all kinds of awesome. You can’t say I never kept my end of the bargain! (although I don’t recall them being part of the original deal. Very sneaky, you.)
Well, it only took me forever to de-anon ;D It is done! I’m still a bit blown away by all of this, to be honest. When I started writing, I thought it’d be a one-shot or a two-shot at the most, short and sweet, and now…well.
Thanks so, so much to everyone who read and commented on the kink meme! I wanted to respond to each of your comments, but was afraid of taking up comment space. This was my first fill on there (and, currently, my only fill) and everyone was just so incredibly gracious and kind and supportive. Again, thank you. ♥
ETA: This fic is currently being translated by j_dignus into Russian.
This fic is also being translated by 0namira0 into Polish (also: here)