[fic] jaywalking [france/england] - ii
it's sad (so sad)
it's a sad, sad situation
and it's getting more and more absurd
- sorry seems to be the hardest word
(deux.)
(2002. The London tube. It was very nearly one-thirty in the morning, and Arthur was sinking, drowning, shutting his eyes against the fast streaks of dirty yellow light, those that trickled by, seeped past the windows, bleeding out into darkness. The car's neons were harsh, unforgiving; they slapped against Francis' skin stupidly, painfully, casting dark shadows under the ridges of his knuckles and elbows. Arthur's fingers slipped on them, slick with sweat, as he grappled to catch a better grip, drove his nails sharply into the skin.
Francis' mouth was electric against his throat, aching with bliss and lipstick. Teeth rasped against the tendons of Arthur's neck, against the soft tenderness behind his ear, until he was shouting up against the seat, bucking back against the railing that bore between his shoulderblades. He felt. Floating, with every hard twist of Francis' hand between their bodies. Every merciless slant of his wrist, and he felt each brushing against his stomach, where pleasure was slowly churching, in long, rising circles.
Nobody ever came in. Maybe they did; maybe they saw, and went away with their legs trembling underneath them. The flick and hiss of the doors could have belonged to any other car, and the loud grating of the train against the rails, sparkling, shining, was almost enough to cover Francis' loud sobs, those he muffled into Arthur's damp skin.
Hips arching, Arthur didn't remember a thing: they folded themselves into corners for hours, or minutes, and if his hands hadn't been buried into Francis' hair - pulling - only seconds before - well then they were now, and Francis' cock was hot and full against his, wet heads rubbing together until the roar in his head overcame the roar of the world.
He came messily up across his t-shirt, and heard rather than felt Francis come too: they were entangled and warm, too hot for comfort, breathing too hard. And this is where it came down: the stations flashed by in bright randy colours, only to wash out back into black, the dirty yellow of neons. Francis was breathing, very soft. This is what made the hour very gorgeous and very true until morning.
"You taste beautiful," Francis told him, which made no sense at all.)
Shall we make silence for ze best-known song of ze most fabulous English band of all time - as per ze request of James from London, who plans on proposing to his boyfriend tonight - remember zat you can message us encouragement for James and Tony until ze end of zis broadcast…
Antonio brings in all the boys to the yard. He smiles at them when they pass them by, until they scamper brilliantly, and Francis can ogle their arses from behind, which is - very good teamwork, this. He crooks his hand in Antonio's elbow and rests his cheek on his shoulder. Gilbert snores from the other side of the bench, with his head on Francis' lap, with his hand in Francis' own: it's very early in the morning, and they're waiting outside the studio, sharing smokes and horrid coffee from the street corner. Antonio's fingers brush over his back in wide, mechanical circles.
"You still on that fling with Eyebrows Guy?" Gilbert asks, eyes shut, and Francis starts and nearly knees his face up into his stomach. "'Cause if you are, then that party with the Scandinavian girls at Saturday's -"
"He's still on that fling with Eyebrows Guy," Antonio murmurs.
"I am still on that fling with Eyebrows Guy," Francis agrees.
Gilbert shifts, frowning. "Still no clue what you're seeing in him, mate."
"To be quite fair, I don't either," Francis whispers - Antonio's hand pulls up over his shoulderblades, reassuring, warm, until something breaks loose and quiet in Francis' stomach. "He is coarse and foul-mouthed and so very good in bed. It ought to be a crime, how very good he is in bed," he groans, nuzzling into Antonio's shirt.
"'s he better than us?" Antonio asks, grinning in Francis' hair. It's a pointless question, as he is currently in a very happy relationship with his former university trainee. But it does bring up happy memories - long nights spent half-naked in front of the television, watching terrible porn together. These have been past for a long time, but Francis considers the question carefully, gives it a moment's thought.
"I am better," he shrugs, finally. "But he is worth both of you."
Elizaveta arrives, very neat and very smart and far more awake than the hour warrants. She grins cheekily at them from up on her high green heels, and jerks her head towards the door of the studios; behind her, her people are crowding close, yawning and moaning, huddling for warmth.
"To you," Antonio murmurs, close in his ear as they help one another up, as they curl both arms around Gilbert to hoist him forwards. "He's that to you."
Francis shivers with the stale warmth of the studios when they step inside.
Spring-cleaning, in Arthur Kirkland's life, is in essentials an idea of chaos. They are three days with the windows shut, Chinese takeaway bought in and music sheets strewn all over the carpeting, the flat growing wings. He's got every composer he's ever loved in black and white on his floor, on his tables, all over the shelves, the furniture. His old guitar on the bed, and the trumpet he bought on a whim one rather drunk evening, and then fell in love with - partitions scattered across the parquet, Vivaldi and Bowie and Puccini and Dylan and Chopin, Hendrixs mingled with Offenbach, Queen and the Kinks and the Beatles, pieces of Mozart everywhere.
When they are all out of their folders and drawers he lets them breathe for an hour or two, makes himself a cuppa and sits on the couch, blasting the Stones through the speakers. This is how Francis finds him, late in the afternoon. He takes one look - just one - and Arthur finds himself stumbling backwards into the couch, bare feet scrunching partitions and lyrics as he goes. Francis' hands are on his face, on his back; they are slipping under the hem of his shirt, and the green fabric rakes up Arthur's spine like flaring electricity.
"Bonsoir," Francis says, his smile brilliant and splicing against Arthur's cheek.
"Hello," says Arthur, and then, "hold on, you can't just -"
"Can," Francis counters, as his questing fingers curl wonderingly across the small of Arthur's back. And linger. "Am." Arthur moans under the logic, the pointed touches, one hand starkly cupping over his arse, bugger all the drama. But kissing is heady and good and warm. Francis is very, very talented. Studies conducted in the good name of science, and Arthur's feet skitter on slick music paper, one calf hooked behind Francis' knee, pelvises brought fast together. He's breathing, soft and hot, against Francis' mouth.
"Hang on," he says again, but quietly.
"Hang on, yourself," Francis laughs, then breaks off - "how can anyone see you like this and fail to jump your bones, heavens -" and slams him into the couch, shrugging out of his jacket as they kiss. It is a very warm thing, Francis' mouth, in the evening, and the couch is deep. So Arthur sinks.
"They don't," he mumbles. "They -"
"Thank everyone that they are all fools," Francis says roughly, against Arthur's jaw. His hands are between Arthur's legs, thumbs caressing at his inner thighs, the fabric of his jeans rough and startling against the skin. They're sprawled all over the couch like this, music sheets fanning around them, crackling like fire with every haul of Arthur's shoulders, and he breaks free of Francis' slow kisses with a sharp-taken breath.
"Hold on - we can't have sex right there between Vivaldi and Hendrixs, man, that's just not on -"
"Fine then," Francis snaps, and goes to his knees, in the sort of smooth, graceful movement that makes Arthur see infuriating stars. The moon and the planets in foreign conjunctions. Supernovas.
And blow-jobs have always been fascinating to Arthur. It's weird, and new every single time, Francis' mouth and Francis' teeth, and the tricks of his tongue like rapid fire. Arthur is shuddering hard within minutes, shuddering at Francis' shoulders underneath his legs and his left hand hiking up Arthur's shirt, at every smile he presses around Arthur's cock. It's very very wet and very very glorious. Counting planets. Oh, shuddering. He barely registers Francis hauling himself up on his elbows, the swollen mouth pressed to his own.
"No fuck after that," he gasps, against the corner of Francis' lips. "It's a handjob or nothing at all, you ridiculous -"
"Can do," Francis smiles, crowding close. "Now -" Arthur's arms are around his neck, bent at the elbows and palms pressed to his nape, but he grasps this one hand, pulls it down his chest. Arthur snuggles it down to his belt, feels heat and hardness underneath, and Francis shivers.
They tangle up on the sofa, Arthur's hand working slowly between them, until Francis is grinning drunkenly against his neck, murmuring nonsensical words Arthur takes great care not to hear. It's all French, and Arthur's old high school notions of the language haven't much grasp upon what he's actually saying, beyond yes and there and oh, yes.
"Proper English gentleman," Francis laughs breathlessly, in the few seconds of clarity before Arthur sees his face crumple, his eyes flinch shut. "If they could see you -"
Arthur pushes his head back against the cushions, kisses the words into bruises.
Once, he finds Francis sitting on the first floor of Twins', lonely at a table, typing. His laptop murmurs with French music, and when Arthur sits himself opposite him, lemon tea and paprika cake, he thinks he recognizes the voice. Francis glances up at him over his iced coffee, smiles vaguely; his ankle brushes Arthur's, under the table.
"Who's this, then?"
"Edith."
"Piaf?"
"Yes."
Arthur crosses his legs and doesn't miss the way Francis follows the movement out of the corner of his eyes - mirrors it with his hands for a moment before returning his attention to his iTunes library, shifting through playlists with ease, with a frown of concentration. "Milord."
"Pardon?"
"Milord. The song."
"Oh." Arthur nibbles. He doesn't miss the smile flitting across Francis' lips, quirking, fast, and then gone. "Is she. Talking to an Englishman?"
"How astute of you, Arthur."
"Right. Right. And what is she saying, then."
Francis presses two knuckles to his temple, grins briefly; there's a hint of teeth. "She's telling him not to look so sad," he says, and drags his foot slow and careful up the length of Arthur's leg, the leather boot tugging up his trouser fabric, rasping against his naked ankle. "They're in Paris, and it's a beautiful night."
Ze problem about Axelle Red is zat nearly no one in zis sorry excuse for a rainy country knows anything about her at all. She sings in French, English and Spanish, is ze most talented singer of her generation, and none of you barbarians have ever heard her name. And here I must be to rectify this dreadful mistake -
This is the scene that will forever endear Arthur to Francis. They're in a music store, a coincidence brought on by mutual habit and common musical preferences. It startles him, jolts him out of his confidence, and he stares: there are few things more worth looking at in this world than Arthur's backside, and this is the first time he's realized, the first time it staggers him, the intensity. There will be others, in the upcoming weeks - times to look and stare and like what you see - but this, the first instance: he steps close against Arthur's back, splays one hand all over this magnificent behind. Arthur's yelp is a thing of beauty.
Francis thinks of Serge Gainsbourg, which may not be so much of a coincidence. Jane Birkin's languid English tones on the radio. Arthur blushes like a firelight, and Francis remembers teenage years of shivering on his bed with pleasure, listening to love put to song. Thinks of Arthur's strange little admission back in university, one night in a bar, that he had loved it - that same song - oh, just as much, with his cheeks darkened in a flush and his mouth curved.
"We are in a music store," Arthur says, in a low, dark voice - furious, but for one deep inflection that makes its ways into Francis' veins. "Get your hands off my arse, Bonnefoy, what are you doing here -"
And this is where they contrast, too: Arthur loves music like something blessed, and Francis does like a lover. And they've had contests over it back in the day; nobody ever won, but at least it meant good sex. Eight years ago. Francis covers Arthur's hand with his own, presses his face into his hair. People are staring. Let them stare.
Beautiful boy, he thinks, putting his lips to the dark space behind Arthur's ear. Listen.
"Think about it," he says, hips pressed close. He feels Arthur still under his hands, a delicate combination of flushed cheeks and gritted teeth, and a world of British frustration under the skin. Warming to the touch. Francis thinks Perfect and then never stops.
(They do buy the CD in the end, or rather Francis does and Arthur pretends to look the other way. They end the evening on the couch that day. Arthur straddles him with his hands in his hair; Francis has both his hands on his arse again, which is a fairly satisfying state of affairs, and Gainsbourg is singing.
Kissing is rather like making love. Jane Birkin has the most delightful little English accent. Arthur's hips are heavy across his own. These are all the facts of the day. Francis smiles into Arthur's mouth, and thinks he would like to hear these in a song.)
They never have sex on Saturdays. Sundays Francis doesn't speak on air, and sleeps in in the morning, as cat-like and lazy as he was in university. Arthur has stopped thinking this over; the logical conclusion is never one he might like. The fact remains that Francis never comes in on Saturday nights, never comes in on Saturdays at all, and because Arthur doesn't work on weekends beyond song-writing on his laptop, he spends his Saturday mornings curled up in bed, listening on and off as he dozes.
They do have sex on every other day. - Francis meets him at the café three times a week, bundles them both back to Arthur's flat. They fuck and eat dinner and then fuck again, when Francis is staying over; they never wake up at the same time. This's been going on for two years and they've christened every single piece of furniture and inch of parquet in Arthur's flat. The whole of London to go. It'll never get to see what's coming to it.
University sex was handjobs in the shower and blowjobs under tables and the occasional hard fuck on a bed when their roommates were out for the night. One rather momentous occasion in the tube, and one of Arthur's ankles hooked over Francis' shoulder as drunken giggles were mouthed between them; these were the times when late evening and booze were yet excuses for all and any encounters between them. Eight years later and they have longer evenings, and blankets to toss onto the floor, and curtains to open, wide.
They're never established in bed, never quite limited by their own preferences - but sometimes Francis rather needs to bottom, be fucked six ways to Sunday until he's a trembling mangle of gibberish French and sweat-soaked skin; it doesn't happen often, perhaps twice in a month out of twenty encounters, but when it does Arthur spreads him open on his bed, takes it slow and warm and good, fast into him, holds him down until Francis is snarling and bucking, grasping the bedsheets into knots around their legs.
March has three such evenings, which is one more than the average, which is one more than Arthur was given to expect; he is slightly stunned tonight, brushing both hands down the backs of Francis' spread thighs, against the crooks of his knees. Francis lies on his stomach, head pillowed on his folded arms. He hasn't spoken more than ten words since he came in, kissing Arthur into a heady mess against the corridor wall and then flouncing into the bedroom, a live huff of disheveled hair and tossed clothes.
"Breathe," Arthur says, and Francis groans back like a curse.
"I am. Shut up. Move."
"Breathe," Arthur says again, "you ridiculous - you're going to hyperventilate yourself to death and I won't be sorry, look at you."
"Yes you will," Francis gasps, grinning, "ta gueule, shut up, just -" he bucks like a wounded deer and bites hard into the pillow, moaning, as Arthur slips two fingers down the crease of his arse. Arthur rides it out, prepares him so slowly that Francis is sobbing into his pillow by the time he tears a condom open, rolls it on. Arthur takes a moment to see this, the situation, as he strokes himself carefully with one hand, brushes soothing circles over Francis' hip: Francis' legs are long and lean on each side of him, the line of his waist slim and sweet enough to make him cry, if he cared to. They've retreated into the bedroom, made barricades of the doors, and the blankets rise on either side of them like a warm fortress.
"I'm going in," he says against Francis' ear, angling his hips just right, and Francis says,
"Mmmm." His feet curl into the bedsheets when Arthur pushes in.
It's times like these when Francis rather adores it hard and fast enough for him to break apart as he comes; and so Arthur makes it so: there's nothing quite so compelling as Francis' long, pale back like this, burnished golden by the lamplight, the slight work of fine muscles under the skin. He's blathering in French, all remains of English wiped out of his lungs, and Arthur hardly recognizes his words as pale mixtures of curses and endearments, breathily escaping between his folded arms.
He's keening by the time Arthur begins quite frankly to pound him into the mattress, his prick burned red and raw against the bedsheets, and every muscle in his body is shaking. When he comes it's with a soft sound and a full-bodied ripple, shivering so hard he might break into halves. Arthur carries him into it, rocking slightly into him, and watches the body beneath his bow and moan, fascinated: there is something to Francis losing control entirely, giving away his usual experience - a warmth that melts into the corners of his eyes, of his mouth. His face is sweaty and blurred against the pillow, fine hair strands stuck to his cheeks and nose. His breath cracks out of him, jagged and torn.
"Like that," Arthur murmurs, hands heavy upon the small of Francis' back, weighing him down. "Shh. Breathe."
Francis hums, grins at him; but the grin is sore and bitten, and softens away at the edges.
His body moves more purposefully now, pushing back, and Arthur pitches forward into it, makes each stroke long and sweet: there are few things more pleasurable during those nights than fucking Francis after he has already come, when he's pliant and purring under his hands, one hand woven into his hair. Orgasm sneaks up on him like a surprise, cresting empty waves up into his chest, until he's the one trembling all across Francis' back, breathing hotly into his damp hair.
There is an interlude, some few minutes just then, usually, until Arthur picks up his pieces and removes himself, sighing, ties the condom up and disposes of it. Francis sprawls like a cat, feet childishly brought up into the air, balancing - he's not bringing an ounce of work into this, lazy sod that he is, and his eyes are closed by the time Arthur returns to the bed with a warm towel, his lips slightly quirked, still.
"You 'ave broken me," he says drowsily, face squashed into the pillow, and Arthur presses aspirin in his hand. Gives him a glass of water. Turns the light down.
Francis takes his hand in the street. It's early march then, and they are wearing scarves. For a moment Arthur thinks Francis may have gotten tangled, meant to grasp the end of Arthur's own red muffler, but then their fingers are brushing together, thumbs haphazardly caressing, and it is rather difficult not to follow. For a full half minute his heart is beating into his throat and he can't breathe, let alone look at the ridiculous man who's just taken his hand in the middle of the street; Francis is tugging him towards the nearest bakery, laughing at something nonsensical and French, and their palms are warm in the late winter air, pressed flush together.
"What is this?" Arthur asks, when he can. He hasn't been eighteen in very nearly ten years. He hasn't been adolescent in longer yet; and nevertheless Francis can set his heart to staggering heights, thrumming, here, full in the middle of the street. He might be a teenager all over again.
"Hmm?" (That's a warm, happy beat, all the way up into his chest.)
"This. What." He swallows, nods at their hands into his scarf. "What is that."
Francis tilts his head at him. "Do you mind?" Their hands are balancing between their sides, like children at a playground; everything is so warm. Francis tightens his fingers. They're full in the middle of a merchant street, and people are jostling Arthur's shoulders as they pass; they're standing so closely their breaths are coming together, hot and damp in the cool air. They have never kissed outside.
Arthur goes as far as saying, I, and then Francis pushes their mouths together, a warm surprising flick of tongue against Arthur's lips, and the slighter brush of nose against nose.
"I don't," Arthur breathes, wide-eyed. "I don't. Mind. Much."
"Good," Francis says. "Don't stop." Kisses him again, just as brief. "Now. Croissants, yes."
They have been snogging for hours.
Arthur's mouth feels red and sore against Francis' own. Terribly warm. When Francis swipes his tongue delicately further in, nips at his lips, he rears like a wild horse. His spine arches into Francis' fingertips, where Francis rubs them, soft and careful, against the thin cotton of his shirt. Sprawled all over the couch like they are, they are touching everywhere: Arthur's legs are a pleasant weight across his own, Arthur's hands long and bony where they cradle his head. And it's like being sixteen again, the making-out.
Francis cannot recall a time within the last ten years when he has enjoyed kissing purely for kissing's sake; there is no follow-up, no future undressing, and no particular expectations of sex at all. It's necking for the pleasure of it, the long broad swipes of his thumbs over Arthur's shoulderblades, the push and pull of their bare feet slipping under the cushions. Here, he thinks, just there, when one of Arthur's knees push up between his own, and he traces his - slightly - sharp teeth over with his tongue. He rests his hand into a fist in the hollow of Arthur's back, where the skin is softest, tender.
There's little else they will do tonight. When Arthur sits up he doesn't back away, his hips settling heavily across Francis', but his hands rove over his chest, fingers splaying. They have come home, and had dinner, and sat down to watch some terrible telly, and Francis does treasure that, the chronology. Terrible telly dissolving into heated kissing after four and a half minutes of EastEnders reruns. It's all very domestic.
"You taste of garlic," Arthur mutters, nose twisting. Francis would, actually, rather enjoy licking them, the sweet creases. As it is, he shifts his shoulderblades like wings against the cushions, wrinkles his hands down the thighs of his trousers, thick linen. Arthur perches atop him like a bird, all shirt and legs and tousled hair. Irresistible. The hair.
"You love garlic."
"I do," Arthur assents. "I don't like your mouth."
"And you're a primary schooler," Francis murmurs, shifting hips. Arthur goes along with it, a slow rocking motion that steals up his spine under Francis' fingers. Beautiful, he thinks, swiping one hand down his thigh, spreading it over his knee - they are both half hard by now, less out of actual desire than out of pure physical habit; but it's warmth between them, thick heat against Francis' hip, very snug. Very soft. So when they push together, building up familiar rhythm, it's without any real intention - just a tease, something sly and tender in the quirk of Arthur's mouth. Francis wants to taste it.
But he does; he surges up, catches Arthur's arse with both hands as they lurch together. Both of his legs clamp about Francis' waist, which is fairly welcome, as is the fast heave of Arthur's chest against his own. The linen is very warm against his palms, and Arthur's outraged expression is something to cherish for the ages. Something to tell him when they're older, to see his cheeks darken and his eyes flash with anger.
Francis presses their mouths together, once, briefly. Arthur smiles, which is an unexpected one-off: they are fairly rare, these. Presses back, just as briefly and just a hint of tongue, with both his arms slung around Francis' neck.
To popular request from the children of London, we have invited ze crew of the Lion King musical that is currently produced in -
Once, Francis finds him. Francis is very smart. Francis carries a caramel macchiato that is not only hot but also will find itself upended on his blond, lovingly gorgeous head if he won't step away. Arthur's grip is a public menace; and Francis, being prudent and also French, which means practical when danger looms, back off.
"Piss off," Arthur grouses.
"Brainstorm?" Francis murmurs, looking out the window. His elbow is bent at an angle, and the light catches - he looks like a model at a photoshoot, and very purposeful. He gives Arthur headaches.
"Brain tornado. Shut up, shut up, I'm trying to think."
"A very taxing exercise, I am sure."
"Francis, bloody hell, shut the fuck up." He winces his eyes shut, presses two fingers to his temple; the gesture is very clear and very precise and looks a lot like a gun. Lines are dancing onscreen in green and mauve patterns. The guitar tune quirks in his ear. And this is horrible, this is going nowhere - Francis looking demure and patient on the next chair when he's nothing but, and half a song in his laptop, looking happy, utterly unfinished. It plays in his head like a mangled version of Body Language, everything he'd never wanted it to be, and getting worse by the second.
"Sex has been known to enable grandiose thinking," Francis informs him, legs slightly crossed. His ankle angles over his knee, sharp-looking.
"Shove your grandiose thinking where the sun don't shine," Arthur tells him, kindly.
"I would like very much to kiss you," Francis murmurs. The girl who skirts her way between them does not hear this, but she does catch the smile he tosses her way - takes it and puts it in her pocket, by the look of it - and then sits down with her back to Arthur, subtly turned towards the window. Francis flirts, in the way he does best - with his smiles, his eyes, his hands also, splaying fingers in the air.
"Do shut up, dear," Arthur mutters, when she stands up to catch some sugar from the centre counter. "Do you have to do this?"
"You will not pay any attention to me!"
"Tacky, Bonnefoy. Very."
There will not be much to remember this day by, two weeks from now.
Pickpocketing is a skill Francis practices since university. He's stolen everyone's watches and keys and wallets, and sets them down quietly on his counter, where they barge in and find them the next day, sitting tight. Everyone is Arthur three times out of four, Gil and 'Tonio every other time, although they never count, and never care. They pickpocket him back, really. They could set up a gang and rob banks vaults, but they are so lazy.
Arthur lost his spare key out a purely coincidental open window, last October, and Francis breaks in ever since. A few times per month he comes home to find him in his kitchen, or bathroom, or bedroom, or bed, which is now: he curls up under the duvet, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and yawning his jaw off.
"You're doing it again," Arthur tells him, tired, the corners of his eyes soft and crinkling. "The breaking in thing. Isn't your bed damn comfortable enough -"
"My bed is very cold, thank you," Francis murmurs, coiling the duvet around himself like a - well, a caterpillar. With his forehead pressed to his knees, he looks a little like a child, lanky-limbed and lethargic. Arthur takes off his jacket, watching this: the lines of his face, deeply etched in his face when he's nearly asleep.
"You don't have to warm it up with me," Arthur reminds him. He's half naked, undoing his belt - the clink of metal makes Francis shut his eyes, his mouth tighten briefly. He smiles against the pillow, and his eyelashes look very pale and thin against his cheek.
"Mm. Get in bed, Arthur."
"Your dirty talk," Arthur grouses, hopping into peeling off his trousers without toppling over and making a right mess of himself and the carpet, "needs some serious rethinking - oh fuck that shit, damnit - budge over, I want in."
Francis scoots to the side reluctantly, shooting one hand out to land haphazardly on Arthur's chest, Arthur's shoulder. Curls around his bicep and pulls him in. His fingers are very warm, his fingers too tight around Arthurs's arm; he's a little out of reality tonight, half conscious of his and Arthur's body heat, and half oblivious with somnolence.
"Mmn," Arthur groans, his mouth against Francis', pushing. His hand lands lightly on his throat, where it curves, pressing into his pulse. He feels it where Francis swallows, where the tendons flutter with his accelerated heartbeat. "You're too hot - move."
"I know I'm very hot," Francis agrees drowsily, half aware. His nose strays against Arthur's, a slightly cold brush, makes him draw in a sharp breath.
"Not what I meant," Arthur mutters. "Damnit. Leggo, Bonnefoy, that's too tight -"
"So sorry. Come here. Kiss me again."
Arthur lies down on top of him, with his head on his arms and his arms on his chest - he shaves in the morning, oh sweet revenge, when Francis shivers from the stubble burn.
"Long day again," Francis murmurs, slow and careful in the lamplight. They nestle under the duvet, both his thighs on either side of Arthur's, hips pressed close and hot together. "Yours, not mine. I liked mine. Mine was good."
"Feliks had a lot to say about makeup and frilly skirts. Made stuff complicated for everyone."
"Feliks is a very smart, very wise young man," he murmurs, with his eyes shut. "You give the musical over to him and he'll have the audience rate go up by seventy-five percent in two weeks."
"How can you make complete sentences," Arthur drones. "By the way, not my musical to give, and also do keep your hands off my bloody job. You keep it with the poncy radio show and the Elton John." The smack he delivers upon Francis' arm dwindles into the ghost of a caress, fingers curling in appreciatively.
Francis' heart is quiet but swift under his hands, and for about three minutes Arthur thinks about this: about the statistics of elevated heart rates, and the warm red heat that flushes up his throat. He thinks about it until he's dozing off on Francis' chest, Francis' fingers running across his hair, rubbing at the temples - until it becomes complex to think twice the same thought. Silly, sleepy thoughts - with the duvet warm around his legs and torso, and his face snugly tucked into Francis' neck.
(That night, Francis doesn't wake up. He sleeps fitfully, the way he does when he's stressed and a little frightened, scowling. Arthur peers at him from time to time, over his reading glasses - the blue light from the laptop makes his face look tired and long, and his eyelashes are thick and black across his cheeks. When he's fast asleep his mouth is furled, dark, pressed against the edge of the duvet.
He's writing a song about pianos and violins, which quite conveniently comprise piano and violin tracks, and a little bit of saxophone, too. That's nice. Arthur rather likes the saxo, played some of it when he was eighteen.
Francis shuffles closer, his thighs pressing his back. He'll doze on till five-thirty, by which time Arthur will have lain the laptop down and crawled back under the comforter, where the world closes in hot and heavy.)
And four hours later, Arthur is fast asleep, curled within himself, arms resting against his stomach, hands furled in, head on the pillow and breathing. And Francis, at four in the morning, watches. Pulls on his shirt, with the quick, efficient movements of a habit, despite the early hour, the near-darkness. Arthur's blinds are drawn, but the orange light down the street catches on every slat, slants forwards, draws long streaks on the walls and ceiling, on Arthur's sleeping silhouette, a caterpillar in his nest, all curled in. From here, Francis can see the bare tip of his nose, flushed with bed heat and streetlight. His mouth is buried in the duvet, and his hair's everywhere, dusty blond even in the dark, catching on to his eyebrows.
It's strange. Arthur is quieter when he's asleep, drawn in, smooth, utterly different from the one Francis sees during the day; all the fight and the bitterness Francis likes so well bleed gently out of him, and he sprawls, with something tender in the lines of his face. He snuffles a little as he dreams, like a bull pup, and it's - oh. It's ridiculous.
Francis takes pictures, some nights. For blackmail material, and also a reminder. Commit this to memory. This is the boy who loves you.
Jacques Brel had but one flaw, which was zat of not being French. (Sorry, Belgium.) But Ne Me Quitte Pas is one of the most sorrowful love songs of all time -
2011. The London tube. Arthur drowses, his head banging slightly against the glass door with every sharp bend of the tunnel; Paul McCartney is purring into his ear - in French, but he's too damn lazy to reach down and change the frequency. The train is crowded at six in the evening, but no one is looking. Time drags on, station per station - and then on the quay there's a blond head, and a long scarf, and a very very vintage leather jacket.
His heart bumps so fast he thinks the train's breaking. All the doors swish open.
Francis gets in within the minute - squeezes in between a violet-wearing grandma and her gorgeous grandson, and presses up close to Arthur's chest, grinning. His hands flatten over the front of his trenchcoat, catch on the loops of his headphones.
"Hello. What's this?"
"Headphones."
"The music," Francis whispers, as the train lurches on. He takes it as an excuse to cradle Arthur's hips between his palms - so much people, so little space, and their noses, grazing. Sneaky bugger steals one to screw it into his own ear, and then promptly croons, "Ooh. Why, now -"
"Shut the fuck up," Arthur snarls, up into his face. "Goddamnit, gimme that back -"
There it is, an epiphany. They're close and hot and on the tube again, but now people are surrounding them, and there's music loud in their ears. Michelle. Ma belle. Francis is laughing, in that silent way of his that means he's genuinely quite amused - all the drama bleeding out of him at the end of a long day - and their fingers are tangled in each other's pockets. With every sharp roll of the train between stations they reel together and then apart, grappling to keep their footing, their faces mashed up and uncomfortable into each other. No one ever looks or notices. No one listens either.
It's too hot, too crowded; the air is heavy with sweat and exhaustion. It's entirely like sex, except fully clothed. It is one of the most unpleasant and one of the most erotic experiences of Arthur's life.
Oh. Oh, hello, he thinks, looking up over Francis' shoulder. Well. This is a surprise.
un | deux | trois | coda