[Axis Powers Hetalia] What the Heart Forgets (France/England)
Title: What the Heart Forgets
Author/Artist: halflight007/lenarix_klinde Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/England
Rating: R, to be safe
Genre: Flangst, Romance
Warnings: unbeta’d, baaawww, OOC just to be safe
Summary: What Arthur lost when he sacrificed himself to save the people beneath the Nations, and what he gained in return.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back. The quote, “Though the heart forgets, the body remembers,” the major theme here, is from Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle, by CLAMP.
Author’s Notes: Outing myself for a kink meme fill. The original one was a crossover between xxxHolic and APH - I decided to make some substantial changes to that and removed the references. You can read the original on the meme here if you like crossovers, as I do, but this 2.0 version is free of such, except for the quote. Um, right, enjoy?
___
He finds the book in a fit of desperation and images of his dying, bone-thin lover, lost under years of decay and dust. It does not matter. He fingers the satin strip of bookmark, uses careful fingers to open the yellow, cracked pages to the spell he’s looking for, the one he wrote so long ago.
This is a spell, it says, that can change the course of the future. This is a spell that can save a life teetering on the thread-thin edge of death - that can remove the curse of immortality and bless one with a mortal life.
This spell, of course, requires that you be willing to pay the price.
The first time Francis Bonnefoy sees Arthur Kirkland is in a coffee shop somewhere in London, in spring of the year 2013.
Even if the food is inedible, the coffee tastes tolerable, and the caffeine boost is just what he needs to travel around London on foot for an entire day and still manage to write his travel piece at night. Not a bad tradeoff, Francis thinks, and takes a sip of his latte.
The bell tinkles. On instinct, Francis finds his eyes drawn to the door of the shop.
The man who walks in looks tired, back bent and eyes sunk into the shadows surrounding them. A raccoon, he thinks, snickering when he sees the overgrown eyebrows (caterpillars). He looks down on his journal; the pencil skitters over the page.
He watches the funny man order a latte, eyes trained on that hand as he pulls a wallet out of his pocket and roots around for spare change.
He sees that perpetual frown deepen in confusion as he continues to sort through bills, muttering and frowning. He thinks he hears the man say, “…’s got to be enough, I know I counted….”
Francis stands and makes his way over to the counter, smiling as he leans behind him. “How much does he owe you?”
“I can pay for my own, thank you very -” the man starts, turning towards him with an irate glare. Francis doesn’t look as the man freezes, instead looking at the coffee girl holding the man’s iced chai latte hostage.
“How much more?”
“J - just a fivepence, sir.”
Francis allows his smile to gentle a little as he pulls a pound note out of his pocket and slaps it down on the counter. “Merci, darling, keep the change” he says, taking the cup out of her hand and dragging the man off towards his table without another word.
“I have an extra seat - you can sit there.” Francis pushes the man into the seat across from him and then takes his own again.
The look on the man’s eyes - so open and pained and surprised - makes his smile melt off his face. “I…what’s wrong?”
“What are you doing here?” the man asks Francis, his voice low and disturbed.
“I’m a journalist. I’m doing an article on London. See?” Francis holds up his notepad filled with scribbles and notes. The man’s face relaxes a little - and then he frowns.
“Is that my face on your notes?”
“I was bored, and you were so cute. Like a little raccoon.” He baits the man, his blood heating for some reason at the thought of him lashing out, blustering and blushing, saying no I do not look like a bloody animal -
Instead the man just smiles, so jagged and broken that it hurts to look at it for too long. “I suppose I do, don’t I?” he murmurs. “That’s to be expected.”
Francis feels shame glow on his cheekbones, and he closes his notes “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“Don’t be.”
They sit in silence for a few moments.
“How long will you be here?”
“Another week. Perhaps longer.”
“Would you like a guide to help show you around?” Francis looks up and into green eyes that are smooth and happy again, so different from the mere seconds that have passed. “I live here. I’m sure I can find places for you to look at that will entertain you.”
Francis just looks at this stranger for a moment more, this stranger that makes him feel so warm and strange.
And then he smiles.
“Francis Bonnefoy.”
“Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.”
(Francis cannot know of the maelstrom Arthur’s heart is trying to weather; sadness, joy, something tender and sweet, but above and beyond all that a vast loneliness that he’s not quite adjusted to. Francis doesn’t know of the screams and the tears that Arthur’s holding inside of himself.)
First, you must draw a magic circle as shown here, he reads. Anything will do - chalk, blood, a stick in the dirt. Weave into it with runes and ancient tongues the names of those you would save - the names of the futures you wish to change. Know that you cannot control what they will become - only that they will be saved by your actions.
The magic circle takes five exhausting months and over twenty buckets of chalk to complete. Written into it are 203 names in his Gaelic tongues.
The second time they meet that year is the first time they kiss.
“It’s beautiful up here,” Arthur says, his fingers curling into the Eiffel Tower's railing. “Thank you so much for inviting me out here.”
“Yes.” Francis leans forward on his elbows and smiles over the scenery. “I am glad that the World Federation decided not to tear this monument down, because this is my second favorite view of France.”
“Second favorite?” Arthur asks, turning to look at him. That mouth quirks up in a little smirk, and oh, how Francis loves the words and the way they sound from that mouth.
“As beautiful as it is up here - and I must admit, I think it is unmatchable in the world - it’s slightly beat out by my favorite place. One that’s a bit more personal.”
“Your rooftop,” Arthur murmurs. “Sitting on the edge of your chimney.”
Francis feels his smile fade, and he looks up into Arthur’s eyes. And ah, that look, he knows it well; the faraway, distant eyes of someone remembering something so very painful.
“How did you know?” Francis whispers, pushing himself up and off the railing.
Arthur blinks twice, comes back to himself. “I - ah - just a lucky guess. Nothing more than that.”
Arthur tries to look away. Francis takes Arthur’s chin, forces their gazes to stay joined. Arthur’s eyes are so close, so green, and the intensity of this nameless feeling almost makes him weep.
He cannot help himself. He leans in and captures Arthur’s lips.
Their first kiss is dry and warm, and brief. Francis tries to pull away, but his body won’t let him; and this time Arthur leans in as they kiss, sighs a little as Francis flicks the tip of his tongue against those lips.
When they manage to part again, Francis’ eyes flutter open, and he looks down into Arthur’s unreadable, raw face. He wonders if he’s done something wrong.
He jumps a little when Arthur hugs him tight enough to crush his ribs and buries his face in his chest. He blubbers something into Francis’ shirt; and if it’s wet with spittle, well, Francis doesn’t say a word as he lets his arms come up around Arthur’s shoulders.
(And Arthur’s tears are a lot more restrained than what he feels. “It’s just the same,” he mutters into the silk of Francis’ shirt, “dear fucking Lord, it feels like the same sodding kiss.” And he gives Francis the privilege, in this moment, of watching his spirit crumble, if only for a little bit; and when Francis asks him later what was wrong, he just smiles, kisses him again, and says nothing else.)
Know first, it says, that you will have to sacrifice your identity as an immortal. Immortality is for those who transcend, who must have lives apart from humans. Your life force - that vitality, that energy - will circle through and serve as the energy that will sever the immortal ties of everyone else. It will mean death for them, yes; but it shall also mean rebirth.
That’s easy enough, he thinks, and reads on.
And that alone, the words tell him, is not enough.
The third time Francis comes to visit Arthur is the first time they make love.
It’s Christmas of the year 2013, and Arthur insists on letting Francis stay at his house for the holidays. “Because you have to be here for your job, anyway,” he says, and then what will you do when your Christmas break starts?”
Francis can’t quite think of a good rebuttal for that, nor does he really want to. He enjoys the time he spends with Arthur, can’t wait for breaks when they text, e-mail one another, or even exchange a rare phone call.
Yes, he thinks, sitting here with Arthur, watching old Christmas classics and sipping wine, is infinitely preferable to the alternative of spending Christmas alone.
At some point, Arthur’s neck becomes more appealing than It’s a Wonderful Life. Kissing it, licking it, and planting little nips along it becomes more important than the sound from the television.
The moments melt into one another, indistinct and slippery, until Arthur’s naked and sighing under Francis’ hands and tongue and deep, blue eyes.
Francis feels something in the air between them, something soft and velvety and reverent. He keeps his thrusts slow and steady, tries to keep that something intact and beautiful.
He touches Arthur and jerks him off, watches every little flicker and twitch of pleasure on that face. He brings his free hand up to cup Arthur’s cheek and kisses him on the head with a light brush of lips. “Arthur,” he whispers.
Arthur freezes under his fingers, and then shakes, throws his arms over Francis’ shoulders and sobs what sounds like a name into his ear. And it’s so sad, and the wetness on the shoulder burns just so, that Francis can’t even bring himself to be annoyed as they gasp and jerk and come.
(“You had a lover before me, didn’t you?” Francis asks him afterwards, as Arthur traces circles around one of the hickeys on Francis’ collarbone. The question makes him freeze. “Did you love him as well?” And Arthur gives Francis a sad smile, kisses his lips, and says no, I did not have a lover, but long, long ago, I did have somebody I loved. I never told him, and I’m not going to repeat with you the same mistake I made with him.)
In addition to your immortality, the book says, you must also bear the burden. As the caster, as the catalyst, it is your will, and not theirs, that they be free from the chains of immortality. They will not remember; they will have that luxury.
You, however, must be mortal; must bear the knowledge and memories of immortality upon your own two, now mortal shoulders. It will wear you out. It will make you feel old beyond your time. And you will be alone.
Think hard on this, spellcaster, and do not make this decision lightly. You will save the lives of those you love, but you will also be the only one to bear that cost.
Francis discovers the store room on his thirtieth birthday, four years since he moved to London to live with Arthur.
He comes home early, pausing for a moment to look in the mirror. He doesn’t think he looks that different. Arthur told him he does, and Francis asked him how. “It’s your eyes,” he remembers Arthur saying, touches his cheek with the memory of Arthur’s fingertips. “They’re a bit wiser than last year.” Pause. “That, and you have a few new wrinkles.”
Francis snorts and hangs his purse up. Well, he may be older, but that doesn’t mean he’s more mature. He’ll take this extra time to look for whatever present Arthur got him. He’ll find it this year, he knows.
Francis sets about searching, under bed, couch, and table, in cupboards and drawers, even underneath Arthur’s boxers. Nothing. No such luck. He has no idea where Arthur could be hiding his gift, and for a brief second he’s stumped.
…And then he remembers the store room.
“Don’t go in there,” Arthur told him when he moved in. “There’s nothing interesting - just dust and a lot of old memories.”
And my gift, Francis thinks with a smirk. What a perfect hiding place.
Francis walks down the hall and turns the knob. The door creaks and reveals a stairwell peppered with spiderwebs and dust.
Francis climbs the stairs and turns on the flickering lightbulb. His eyes grow wide at what he sees.
Surrounding him are cardboard boxes, yes, but also things Francis never imagined Arthur having - guns, old WWII uniforms, books that look ancient and crumbling. He lifts one with ginger fingers and feels his eyes widen when he sees writing on the parchment. They really are as old as they look, then.
Francis lifts fingertips to his temple and rubs, bracing himself for an oncoming headache. Present. Right.
Francis moves on, stumbles and curses as he almost trips over something. Frowning, he reaches down to pick it up. It looks like a rag, a little - but no, it’s too nice to be a rag.
Francis unfolds it to discover a green shirt with yellow embroidery.
“Oh, you don’t want this? I guess I’ll just wear it on my head, then~”
“Y-you bastard, give it back!”
Francis shakes his head. The whispers in his head do not help his headache. He puts the shirt down and moves on, just looking now. Present. He’s looking for his birthday gift, and -
His eyes land on a frame. He pauses. He reaches up and lifts it off the wall.
His fingers trace over the glass, and the daisy chain the frame holds.
God.
Oh, God.
He is granted a single, clear moment of comprehension, of memories of warm evenings in a field - with a little boy, who looked just like Arthur, but that’s ridiculous, because Arthur’s just a human name, he’s England, and -
“I’m…Gaul. I’m France,” he whispers.
Oh God. The kiss. The name Arthur’s cried a few times they’ve had sex with a voice so heart-wrenching that Francis forgives him, always forgives him.
It makes sense.
He remembers, oh, God, he remembers little Italy, remembers taunting England and chasing after Spain and the occupation of his lands and fighting back and oh dear God it hurts so much
“Francis? Francis, where - oh, you are up here. Bloody hell, you never grow up, do you? And what did I tell you about -”
France turns around with wide eyes and parted lips, and there’s England, looking more tired and older than he ever did as a Nation, but still England. “Angleterre,” he whispers.
A look of horror and surprise crosses Arthur’s face. “France,” he whispers. “God, France, no.”
France runs over and grabs Arthur’s shoulders with shaking hands. It’s slipping, this revelation; his mind, his damned mortal mind, can’t hold onto those memories for some reason, and no, no. Not now. Please.
“Angleterre,” he says, feeling these memories slip fast from him. “I lo - I -”
And no, he’s not going to get it out, so he smashes his lips against England’s and hopes in his last moments of understanding that Arthur hears the words his mouth can’t form.
When they part, Francis blinks down at a shellshocked Arthur, a bit dazed himself. “Arthur?” he asks, frowning in concern. “Arthur, are you all right?”
“I - oh, y-yes, Francis, I’m all right.” He gives the other a shaky grin and kisses the corner of his mouth, taking the frame from his hands. “You?”
Francis blinks. “I…feel a little dizzy. My head hurts.”
“Always such a whiner,” Arthur teases with a smirk, thumping Francis on the shoulder. “Go down and take a nap, then.”
“I think…I think that is a good idea.” Francis walks past Arthur, down the stairs, leaving the storeroom behind. Bits and pieces of vivid, sharp memory stab through his mind, never quite enough to hold onto - and right now, he just wants to go to sleep. By the time he lays his head down on the pillow he’s floating on the disappointment that he never found his gift.
He only meant to rest his eyes, but when he opens them again, sunset is filtering through the curtains and Arthur is lying down beside him, watching him nap. Francis frowns and blinks away sleep, notices how red and swollen Arthur’s eyes look, how utterly miserable he seems.
Francis feels tenderness unfurl in his belly, and hugs Arthur’s head to his chest. His hand smoothes over his back and his cheek presses to the other’s temple.
His body moves on his own; he’s not even aware of what he’s done until Arthur pushes back and grins up at him. “Have a nice nap?” Arthur asks.
“An excellent one. My headache is entirely gone.”
“That’s good.” Arthur stretches, yawns, and swings his legs off their bed. “C’mon, then, you need to get fancied up for dinner.”
“Erm, Arthur, I appreciate that you want to make me a homemade meal, but -”
“If you don’t hurry up, I will home cook for you instead of taking you out to this nice restaurant I got reservations for five months ago.”
Francis laughs as he gets off the bed and moves towards his closet.
(Arthur never tells Francis how he took the daisy chain out from its frame, the petals breaking under his fingers. He crushed it in his fist, into something finer than dust, and took the ashes of his old life down to their bedroom. Francis was fast asleep, and he never saw how Arthur pressed one tear-stained cheek to the pile before opening the window and casting it out on the wind, scattering it, reminding himself that he loved France, but France died. And he loves Francis, so he just focuses on the jewelry box in his pocket and makes a note to himself to run by the hardware store, have a lock installed on the door, and then throw away the key in the nearest storm drain.)
He hesitates on the edge, takes a deep breath, and imagines his lover’s papery skin, his thin, wan smile. He thinks of his boys, brothers, sons - how one died by growing so big he fell to his death, while the other disappeared with no more than a sigh.
He grits his teeth and walks to the center of the circle.
There is no incantation, no chanting; when both his feet rest on the middle, his own power thrums through the sigils and up and around, through the world. And he screams and claws at the sudden weakness in his bone, and oh, it hurts -
When it’s done, when the Old World ends at last, he collapses to his knees on the now-useless circle. He lets the tears stream down his cheeks and whimpers, whimpers, not quite knowing when he’ll stop.
On their fifth anniversary, Francis catches Arthur nearly walking in on him rocking Mathieu to sleep, humming a lullaby under his breath. Arthur leans against the doorframe and waits.
Once those little eyelids flutter closed, Francis kisses Mathieu’s delicate temple and carries him back to the crib, laying him next to his brother, Alfred. Francis takes a moment to run fingertips through their wispy hair; it was an uphill fight to adopt these two, their precious sons, but Francis regrets none of it.
“Working overtime again?” Francis asks as he turns on the monitor and turns off the light.
“You have no bloody idea,” Arthur mutters. “You’re lucky your job lets you work from home, Francis.”
“True, but I can’t wait until I’m traveling again. Local news can only be so interesting.”
Arthur snorts as they turn into the bedroom, as he eases off his suit and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Francis chuckles and leans back on the bed, watching through lidded eyes.
“Are you expecting a show, you horny bastard?” Arthur mutters.
“Am I not allowed to look at my husband?”
“I keep forgetting you have that excuse,” Arthur mutters. He tosses his pants aside, and in nothing but his boxers he crawls into bed beside Francis. They don’t kiss, not yet; they just lay there and watch one another. Francis frowns in thought.
“What?”
“I was just thinking.”
“You look like you’re taking a dump.”
Francis rolls his eyes and tries not to whap Arthur upside the head. “You always know just how to set the mood, my dear.”
“Why thank you. What were you thinking about?” Arthur asks.
Francis pauses a moment and gathers his thoughts.
“Do you ever wonder if we…rushed through this?”
Arthur blinks. “Eh?”
“I feel we moved too fast with this relationship, sometimes. Do you think…do you think we’ll ever come to regret it?”
Arthur is quiet for a moment. Francis is about to tell him to forget it, it’s stupid, anyway, when Arthur answers.
“What do you feel? What did you feel - when you saw me those nine years ago?”
Now it is Francis who is quiet as he reaches forward to touch Arthur’s cheek, thinking, letting the words form behind his lips.
“…I thought you were adorable,” he murmured. “I also thought you were very sad, and tired.”
Arthur turns his lips into Francis’ palm. “What else?”
Francis digs deep for the answer. “I felt as though I knew you,” he murmurs. “I felt as though we’d been separated, and that we could make up for lost time.” A pause. “I wondered why I felt like I already loved you.” His eyes flick up to Arthur’s. “That sounds completely ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
Arthur leans forward and kisses him through a blinding smile. That’s all the answer Francis needs as he falls into the kiss that feels too familiar and sweet to be coincidence, but it’s Arthur, so that’s okay.
(That’s all the answer Arthur needs, too.)
He shuts the book, blinking through his tears when a piece of paper flutters out from between the sheets. He picks it up with shaking hands and unfolds it. My handwriting, he thinks, dazed.
I hope I never have to use this, the note says. But if I do, only this one, small hope, this truth someone told me long ago, shall save me from despair:
What the heart forgets, the body remembers.
___
Endnotes: Also, figure I might as well throw this request post out there, if y’all want to ask for something.
Comments/concrit appreciated, though I probably already know I failed on it if I listed it in the warnings. Thanks for reading!
Author/Artist: halflight007/lenarix_klinde Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/England
Rating: R, to be safe
Genre: Flangst, Romance
Warnings: unbeta’d, baaawww, OOC just to be safe
Summary: What Arthur lost when he sacrificed himself to save the people beneath the Nations, and what he gained in return.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back. The quote, “Though the heart forgets, the body remembers,” the major theme here, is from Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle, by CLAMP.
Author’s Notes: Outing myself for a kink meme fill. The original one was a crossover between xxxHolic and APH - I decided to make some substantial changes to that and removed the references. You can read the original on the meme here if you like crossovers, as I do, but this 2.0 version is free of such, except for the quote. Um, right, enjoy?
___
He finds the book in a fit of desperation and images of his dying, bone-thin lover, lost under years of decay and dust. It does not matter. He fingers the satin strip of bookmark, uses careful fingers to open the yellow, cracked pages to the spell he’s looking for, the one he wrote so long ago.
This is a spell, it says, that can change the course of the future. This is a spell that can save a life teetering on the thread-thin edge of death - that can remove the curse of immortality and bless one with a mortal life.
This spell, of course, requires that you be willing to pay the price.
The first time Francis Bonnefoy sees Arthur Kirkland is in a coffee shop somewhere in London, in spring of the year 2013.
Even if the food is inedible, the coffee tastes tolerable, and the caffeine boost is just what he needs to travel around London on foot for an entire day and still manage to write his travel piece at night. Not a bad tradeoff, Francis thinks, and takes a sip of his latte.
The bell tinkles. On instinct, Francis finds his eyes drawn to the door of the shop.
The man who walks in looks tired, back bent and eyes sunk into the shadows surrounding them. A raccoon, he thinks, snickering when he sees the overgrown eyebrows (caterpillars). He looks down on his journal; the pencil skitters over the page.
He watches the funny man order a latte, eyes trained on that hand as he pulls a wallet out of his pocket and roots around for spare change.
He sees that perpetual frown deepen in confusion as he continues to sort through bills, muttering and frowning. He thinks he hears the man say, “…’s got to be enough, I know I counted….”
Francis stands and makes his way over to the counter, smiling as he leans behind him. “How much does he owe you?”
“I can pay for my own, thank you very -” the man starts, turning towards him with an irate glare. Francis doesn’t look as the man freezes, instead looking at the coffee girl holding the man’s iced chai latte hostage.
“How much more?”
“J - just a fivepence, sir.”
Francis allows his smile to gentle a little as he pulls a pound note out of his pocket and slaps it down on the counter. “Merci, darling, keep the change” he says, taking the cup out of her hand and dragging the man off towards his table without another word.
“I have an extra seat - you can sit there.” Francis pushes the man into the seat across from him and then takes his own again.
The look on the man’s eyes - so open and pained and surprised - makes his smile melt off his face. “I…what’s wrong?”
“What are you doing here?” the man asks Francis, his voice low and disturbed.
“I’m a journalist. I’m doing an article on London. See?” Francis holds up his notepad filled with scribbles and notes. The man’s face relaxes a little - and then he frowns.
“Is that my face on your notes?”
“I was bored, and you were so cute. Like a little raccoon.” He baits the man, his blood heating for some reason at the thought of him lashing out, blustering and blushing, saying no I do not look like a bloody animal -
Instead the man just smiles, so jagged and broken that it hurts to look at it for too long. “I suppose I do, don’t I?” he murmurs. “That’s to be expected.”
Francis feels shame glow on his cheekbones, and he closes his notes “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“Don’t be.”
They sit in silence for a few moments.
“How long will you be here?”
“Another week. Perhaps longer.”
“Would you like a guide to help show you around?” Francis looks up and into green eyes that are smooth and happy again, so different from the mere seconds that have passed. “I live here. I’m sure I can find places for you to look at that will entertain you.”
Francis just looks at this stranger for a moment more, this stranger that makes him feel so warm and strange.
And then he smiles.
“Francis Bonnefoy.”
“Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.”
(Francis cannot know of the maelstrom Arthur’s heart is trying to weather; sadness, joy, something tender and sweet, but above and beyond all that a vast loneliness that he’s not quite adjusted to. Francis doesn’t know of the screams and the tears that Arthur’s holding inside of himself.)
First, you must draw a magic circle as shown here, he reads. Anything will do - chalk, blood, a stick in the dirt. Weave into it with runes and ancient tongues the names of those you would save - the names of the futures you wish to change. Know that you cannot control what they will become - only that they will be saved by your actions.
The magic circle takes five exhausting months and over twenty buckets of chalk to complete. Written into it are 203 names in his Gaelic tongues.
The second time they meet that year is the first time they kiss.
“It’s beautiful up here,” Arthur says, his fingers curling into the Eiffel Tower's railing. “Thank you so much for inviting me out here.”
“Yes.” Francis leans forward on his elbows and smiles over the scenery. “I am glad that the World Federation decided not to tear this monument down, because this is my second favorite view of France.”
“Second favorite?” Arthur asks, turning to look at him. That mouth quirks up in a little smirk, and oh, how Francis loves the words and the way they sound from that mouth.
“As beautiful as it is up here - and I must admit, I think it is unmatchable in the world - it’s slightly beat out by my favorite place. One that’s a bit more personal.”
“Your rooftop,” Arthur murmurs. “Sitting on the edge of your chimney.”
Francis feels his smile fade, and he looks up into Arthur’s eyes. And ah, that look, he knows it well; the faraway, distant eyes of someone remembering something so very painful.
“How did you know?” Francis whispers, pushing himself up and off the railing.
Arthur blinks twice, comes back to himself. “I - ah - just a lucky guess. Nothing more than that.”
Arthur tries to look away. Francis takes Arthur’s chin, forces their gazes to stay joined. Arthur’s eyes are so close, so green, and the intensity of this nameless feeling almost makes him weep.
He cannot help himself. He leans in and captures Arthur’s lips.
Their first kiss is dry and warm, and brief. Francis tries to pull away, but his body won’t let him; and this time Arthur leans in as they kiss, sighs a little as Francis flicks the tip of his tongue against those lips.
When they manage to part again, Francis’ eyes flutter open, and he looks down into Arthur’s unreadable, raw face. He wonders if he’s done something wrong.
He jumps a little when Arthur hugs him tight enough to crush his ribs and buries his face in his chest. He blubbers something into Francis’ shirt; and if it’s wet with spittle, well, Francis doesn’t say a word as he lets his arms come up around Arthur’s shoulders.
(And Arthur’s tears are a lot more restrained than what he feels. “It’s just the same,” he mutters into the silk of Francis’ shirt, “dear fucking Lord, it feels like the same sodding kiss.” And he gives Francis the privilege, in this moment, of watching his spirit crumble, if only for a little bit; and when Francis asks him later what was wrong, he just smiles, kisses him again, and says nothing else.)
Know first, it says, that you will have to sacrifice your identity as an immortal. Immortality is for those who transcend, who must have lives apart from humans. Your life force - that vitality, that energy - will circle through and serve as the energy that will sever the immortal ties of everyone else. It will mean death for them, yes; but it shall also mean rebirth.
That’s easy enough, he thinks, and reads on.
And that alone, the words tell him, is not enough.
The third time Francis comes to visit Arthur is the first time they make love.
It’s Christmas of the year 2013, and Arthur insists on letting Francis stay at his house for the holidays. “Because you have to be here for your job, anyway,” he says, and then what will you do when your Christmas break starts?”
Francis can’t quite think of a good rebuttal for that, nor does he really want to. He enjoys the time he spends with Arthur, can’t wait for breaks when they text, e-mail one another, or even exchange a rare phone call.
Yes, he thinks, sitting here with Arthur, watching old Christmas classics and sipping wine, is infinitely preferable to the alternative of spending Christmas alone.
At some point, Arthur’s neck becomes more appealing than It’s a Wonderful Life. Kissing it, licking it, and planting little nips along it becomes more important than the sound from the television.
The moments melt into one another, indistinct and slippery, until Arthur’s naked and sighing under Francis’ hands and tongue and deep, blue eyes.
Francis feels something in the air between them, something soft and velvety and reverent. He keeps his thrusts slow and steady, tries to keep that something intact and beautiful.
He touches Arthur and jerks him off, watches every little flicker and twitch of pleasure on that face. He brings his free hand up to cup Arthur’s cheek and kisses him on the head with a light brush of lips. “Arthur,” he whispers.
Arthur freezes under his fingers, and then shakes, throws his arms over Francis’ shoulders and sobs what sounds like a name into his ear. And it’s so sad, and the wetness on the shoulder burns just so, that Francis can’t even bring himself to be annoyed as they gasp and jerk and come.
(“You had a lover before me, didn’t you?” Francis asks him afterwards, as Arthur traces circles around one of the hickeys on Francis’ collarbone. The question makes him freeze. “Did you love him as well?” And Arthur gives Francis a sad smile, kisses his lips, and says no, I did not have a lover, but long, long ago, I did have somebody I loved. I never told him, and I’m not going to repeat with you the same mistake I made with him.)
In addition to your immortality, the book says, you must also bear the burden. As the caster, as the catalyst, it is your will, and not theirs, that they be free from the chains of immortality. They will not remember; they will have that luxury.
You, however, must be mortal; must bear the knowledge and memories of immortality upon your own two, now mortal shoulders. It will wear you out. It will make you feel old beyond your time. And you will be alone.
Think hard on this, spellcaster, and do not make this decision lightly. You will save the lives of those you love, but you will also be the only one to bear that cost.
Francis discovers the store room on his thirtieth birthday, four years since he moved to London to live with Arthur.
He comes home early, pausing for a moment to look in the mirror. He doesn’t think he looks that different. Arthur told him he does, and Francis asked him how. “It’s your eyes,” he remembers Arthur saying, touches his cheek with the memory of Arthur’s fingertips. “They’re a bit wiser than last year.” Pause. “That, and you have a few new wrinkles.”
Francis snorts and hangs his purse up. Well, he may be older, but that doesn’t mean he’s more mature. He’ll take this extra time to look for whatever present Arthur got him. He’ll find it this year, he knows.
Francis sets about searching, under bed, couch, and table, in cupboards and drawers, even underneath Arthur’s boxers. Nothing. No such luck. He has no idea where Arthur could be hiding his gift, and for a brief second he’s stumped.
…And then he remembers the store room.
“Don’t go in there,” Arthur told him when he moved in. “There’s nothing interesting - just dust and a lot of old memories.”
And my gift, Francis thinks with a smirk. What a perfect hiding place.
Francis walks down the hall and turns the knob. The door creaks and reveals a stairwell peppered with spiderwebs and dust.
Francis climbs the stairs and turns on the flickering lightbulb. His eyes grow wide at what he sees.
Surrounding him are cardboard boxes, yes, but also things Francis never imagined Arthur having - guns, old WWII uniforms, books that look ancient and crumbling. He lifts one with ginger fingers and feels his eyes widen when he sees writing on the parchment. They really are as old as they look, then.
Francis lifts fingertips to his temple and rubs, bracing himself for an oncoming headache. Present. Right.
Francis moves on, stumbles and curses as he almost trips over something. Frowning, he reaches down to pick it up. It looks like a rag, a little - but no, it’s too nice to be a rag.
Francis unfolds it to discover a green shirt with yellow embroidery.
“Oh, you don’t want this? I guess I’ll just wear it on my head, then~”
“Y-you bastard, give it back!”
Francis shakes his head. The whispers in his head do not help his headache. He puts the shirt down and moves on, just looking now. Present. He’s looking for his birthday gift, and -
His eyes land on a frame. He pauses. He reaches up and lifts it off the wall.
His fingers trace over the glass, and the daisy chain the frame holds.
God.
Oh, God.
He is granted a single, clear moment of comprehension, of memories of warm evenings in a field - with a little boy, who looked just like Arthur, but that’s ridiculous, because Arthur’s just a human name, he’s England, and -
“I’m…Gaul. I’m France,” he whispers.
Oh God. The kiss. The name Arthur’s cried a few times they’ve had sex with a voice so heart-wrenching that Francis forgives him, always forgives him.
It makes sense.
He remembers, oh, God, he remembers little Italy, remembers taunting England and chasing after Spain and the occupation of his lands and fighting back and oh dear God it hurts so much
“Francis? Francis, where - oh, you are up here. Bloody hell, you never grow up, do you? And what did I tell you about -”
France turns around with wide eyes and parted lips, and there’s England, looking more tired and older than he ever did as a Nation, but still England. “Angleterre,” he whispers.
A look of horror and surprise crosses Arthur’s face. “France,” he whispers. “God, France, no.”
France runs over and grabs Arthur’s shoulders with shaking hands. It’s slipping, this revelation; his mind, his damned mortal mind, can’t hold onto those memories for some reason, and no, no. Not now. Please.
“Angleterre,” he says, feeling these memories slip fast from him. “I lo - I -”
And no, he’s not going to get it out, so he smashes his lips against England’s and hopes in his last moments of understanding that Arthur hears the words his mouth can’t form.
When they part, Francis blinks down at a shellshocked Arthur, a bit dazed himself. “Arthur?” he asks, frowning in concern. “Arthur, are you all right?”
“I - oh, y-yes, Francis, I’m all right.” He gives the other a shaky grin and kisses the corner of his mouth, taking the frame from his hands. “You?”
Francis blinks. “I…feel a little dizzy. My head hurts.”
“Always such a whiner,” Arthur teases with a smirk, thumping Francis on the shoulder. “Go down and take a nap, then.”
“I think…I think that is a good idea.” Francis walks past Arthur, down the stairs, leaving the storeroom behind. Bits and pieces of vivid, sharp memory stab through his mind, never quite enough to hold onto - and right now, he just wants to go to sleep. By the time he lays his head down on the pillow he’s floating on the disappointment that he never found his gift.
He only meant to rest his eyes, but when he opens them again, sunset is filtering through the curtains and Arthur is lying down beside him, watching him nap. Francis frowns and blinks away sleep, notices how red and swollen Arthur’s eyes look, how utterly miserable he seems.
Francis feels tenderness unfurl in his belly, and hugs Arthur’s head to his chest. His hand smoothes over his back and his cheek presses to the other’s temple.
His body moves on his own; he’s not even aware of what he’s done until Arthur pushes back and grins up at him. “Have a nice nap?” Arthur asks.
“An excellent one. My headache is entirely gone.”
“That’s good.” Arthur stretches, yawns, and swings his legs off their bed. “C’mon, then, you need to get fancied up for dinner.”
“Erm, Arthur, I appreciate that you want to make me a homemade meal, but -”
“If you don’t hurry up, I will home cook for you instead of taking you out to this nice restaurant I got reservations for five months ago.”
Francis laughs as he gets off the bed and moves towards his closet.
(Arthur never tells Francis how he took the daisy chain out from its frame, the petals breaking under his fingers. He crushed it in his fist, into something finer than dust, and took the ashes of his old life down to their bedroom. Francis was fast asleep, and he never saw how Arthur pressed one tear-stained cheek to the pile before opening the window and casting it out on the wind, scattering it, reminding himself that he loved France, but France died. And he loves Francis, so he just focuses on the jewelry box in his pocket and makes a note to himself to run by the hardware store, have a lock installed on the door, and then throw away the key in the nearest storm drain.)
He hesitates on the edge, takes a deep breath, and imagines his lover’s papery skin, his thin, wan smile. He thinks of his boys, brothers, sons - how one died by growing so big he fell to his death, while the other disappeared with no more than a sigh.
He grits his teeth and walks to the center of the circle.
There is no incantation, no chanting; when both his feet rest on the middle, his own power thrums through the sigils and up and around, through the world. And he screams and claws at the sudden weakness in his bone, and oh, it hurts -
When it’s done, when the Old World ends at last, he collapses to his knees on the now-useless circle. He lets the tears stream down his cheeks and whimpers, whimpers, not quite knowing when he’ll stop.
On their fifth anniversary, Francis catches Arthur nearly walking in on him rocking Mathieu to sleep, humming a lullaby under his breath. Arthur leans against the doorframe and waits.
Once those little eyelids flutter closed, Francis kisses Mathieu’s delicate temple and carries him back to the crib, laying him next to his brother, Alfred. Francis takes a moment to run fingertips through their wispy hair; it was an uphill fight to adopt these two, their precious sons, but Francis regrets none of it.
“Working overtime again?” Francis asks as he turns on the monitor and turns off the light.
“You have no bloody idea,” Arthur mutters. “You’re lucky your job lets you work from home, Francis.”
“True, but I can’t wait until I’m traveling again. Local news can only be so interesting.”
Arthur snorts as they turn into the bedroom, as he eases off his suit and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Francis chuckles and leans back on the bed, watching through lidded eyes.
“Are you expecting a show, you horny bastard?” Arthur mutters.
“Am I not allowed to look at my husband?”
“I keep forgetting you have that excuse,” Arthur mutters. He tosses his pants aside, and in nothing but his boxers he crawls into bed beside Francis. They don’t kiss, not yet; they just lay there and watch one another. Francis frowns in thought.
“What?”
“I was just thinking.”
“You look like you’re taking a dump.”
Francis rolls his eyes and tries not to whap Arthur upside the head. “You always know just how to set the mood, my dear.”
“Why thank you. What were you thinking about?” Arthur asks.
Francis pauses a moment and gathers his thoughts.
“Do you ever wonder if we…rushed through this?”
Arthur blinks. “Eh?”
“I feel we moved too fast with this relationship, sometimes. Do you think…do you think we’ll ever come to regret it?”
Arthur is quiet for a moment. Francis is about to tell him to forget it, it’s stupid, anyway, when Arthur answers.
“What do you feel? What did you feel - when you saw me those nine years ago?”
Now it is Francis who is quiet as he reaches forward to touch Arthur’s cheek, thinking, letting the words form behind his lips.
“…I thought you were adorable,” he murmured. “I also thought you were very sad, and tired.”
Arthur turns his lips into Francis’ palm. “What else?”
Francis digs deep for the answer. “I felt as though I knew you,” he murmurs. “I felt as though we’d been separated, and that we could make up for lost time.” A pause. “I wondered why I felt like I already loved you.” His eyes flick up to Arthur’s. “That sounds completely ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
Arthur leans forward and kisses him through a blinding smile. That’s all the answer Francis needs as he falls into the kiss that feels too familiar and sweet to be coincidence, but it’s Arthur, so that’s okay.
(That’s all the answer Arthur needs, too.)
He shuts the book, blinking through his tears when a piece of paper flutters out from between the sheets. He picks it up with shaking hands and unfolds it. My handwriting, he thinks, dazed.
I hope I never have to use this, the note says. But if I do, only this one, small hope, this truth someone told me long ago, shall save me from despair:
What the heart forgets, the body remembers.
___
Endnotes: Also, figure I might as well throw this request post out there, if y’all want to ask for something.
Comments/concrit appreciated, though I probably already know I failed on it if I listed it in the warnings. Thanks for reading!