Lace And Whalebone (Hetalia, France/England)
Warning: borderline PWP that likely has historyfail all over the place, but apparently people liked it.
"A what now," said Francis without it really being a question, and Arthur didn't look up as he answered,
"A ball. Music. Dancing. Drink. The hostess likes you."
Francis was not any less predictable than he had been the last few decades.
"Who would that be?"
"The Duchess of Cleveland."
Francis' eager face collapsed into a disgruntled grimace, and Arthur was obliged to ask.
"What's wrong with her? She's popular at court."
"Of course, she's very charming," Francis agreed, "and she does like me, and she's the King's woman. I'm afraid I have been strictly instructed not to cause any incidents with him."
Arthur stared at Francis for a minute before the meaning of the sentence sunk in.
"Is that really your only purpose for attending parties?" he asked in mild disgust, "couldn't you go to this ball and keep your hands off the ladies?"
"Yes, but where is the fun in that?" said Francis in a tone that made it clear that he still thought of Arthur as hopelessly stunted just because he wasn't as, as, experienced as him. He seemed to think that Arthur would envy him his expertise, too, as if Arthur couldn't respect a lady's virtue just because Francis himself was unable to let anyone deemed worthy pass without at least a suggestive wink. Francis' interest in women was a somewhat recent development as far as nations went, and Arthur had found it to be the keenest source of agitation in Francis' yet. This said something, he thought, as Francis had been for his entire life - ever since Arthur first had met him centuries ago - nothing if not annoyance distilled to its purest form. It was made all the worse by how Francis also was everything that Arthur had ever wanted to be, handsome and witty and always in the know, always following the latest trends. Arthur was distinctly aware that for all the time he spent measuring himself against Francis and falling short, time spent with the other nation would normally rouse his anger within five minutes passing.
He was ambivalent, to say the least, about the order to bring M. Bonnefoy to the Lady's ball, but Francis' clear distaste made the task of persuasion almost alarmingly bearable.
"Will you come?" he asked again, crossing his arms and pulling his most annoyed face, "I was asked specifically to invite you."
"Do you think they will send an invitation to the ambassador if I decline yours?"
"Of course," Arthur lied, and Francis did not look happy as he pulled his shoulders into a shrug.
"As long as I get to pick my dress," he agreed with an expression that, on anyone else, would have been petulance.
-
"It was a masquerade, I thought?" said Francis, and Arthur had known Francis for six hundred years, and knew that he was lying.
"Stop trying to take me for a fool!" he yelled as he stared, very intently, at the wall to his left side. The anger did not carry the weight it could have, but stuttered and fell short of Francis and his quiet chuckles and the whispering of petticoats around his ankles.
"Then I am afraid I will have to go as such anyway. None of my present attires would do for the occasion of a lady of such regard."
"Stop lying! And what kind of aberration wears women's clothing to a masquerade?"
"It's all the fashion in Venice, I hear."
"Get dressed!" Arthur shrieked and squeezed his eyes shut the second before he had the mind to think it over and regret it. Francis came over to pat him on the head, and Arthur couldn't open his eyes to see where to run lest he got an eyeful of women's underwear.
"Ah, but in what I wonder? There's nothing else, Arthur, unless you want me to stay away from the party entirely."
"You lie," Arthur spat and blindly batted after the offending hand only to come in contact with a fabric much too thin and fine to belong on a man's flat chest. He yelped and took a step backwards, and Francis laughed and caught one of his arms and steered him a few steps in the opposite direction.
"Sit down and open your eyes. It isn't the clothing that takes offence by being seen, and you and I have bathed together enough times to make this unnecessary."
Arthur demonstratively stared at his shoes. "Why in the world would you shame yourself in this manner?"
"But it's not shame if they never know," said Francis as he walked over to the polished mirror. Arthur honestly didn't know how in the world he could counter that, but the room was not silent for that; the sound of Francis humming a cheerful tune under his breath as he tugged on rustling fabric filled the space between them for the next few minutes as Arthur despaired.
He was calming down from the infliction of feminine garments, if not getting closer to any answer as to how he was supposed to deal with Francis at his most contrary, when the man in question spoke up for the first time.
"I don't suppose you would help me with the corset?"
Arthur choked on air, and Francis sighed in annoyance. "It's either you, or I call in the good manservant they insist I keep with me."
"You have lost your good mind. If you ever had one. You're depraved and perverse and without even a drop of shame in your veins. Good God," Arthur moaned, but left his chair to walk over to where Francis was standing with his back to him and found the lacing with little effort.
"But I get more women than you do," was Francis' airy answer, and Arthur yanked so hard that he lost his footing and took and involuntary step backwards.
"As if that is something to take pride in," he sneered as he continued tugging on the laces and keeping his attention on Francis' unwilling sounds of discomfort to keep his mind of the well of white fabric so indecently close to him.
"Why, Arthur, you're talking like a man who has not known the delight of a woman in his arms," Francis ground out between curses as Arthur did his best not to think about what he was doing, "get it even. It should accentuate my hips."
It wasn't only the hips. Francis had acquired a dress from the Lord only knew where - the way the blue dye of the fabric played against his hair and his eyes made Arthur suspect that it had been tailored. There was jewellery of the kind that unquestionably only was gifted to women, there was cheeks pinched red, and as he combed out his indecently long hair, Arthur was uncomfortably remembered about how Francis once had revelled in long, floating robes.
"Isn't this wondrous?" Francis asked with a smile that looked almost childishly delighted when he finally turned around. Arthur, who had sat in the same chair and watched Francis arrange his hair in order to hide its insufficient length, could only give him a weary glance, and admit to the truth of it.
"You look like a woman."
"Yes, that would be the purpose of this," said Francis, and his voice had melted into a soft drawl that could pass for feminine, and probably would because Francis possessed that kind of unnervingly androgynous beauty that almost had fooled England a few times back in the fourteenth century. Arthur could look at him now when he was proper, if not in anything even vaguely resembling 'decent'. He came to stand before Arthur's chair, and cocked his head with a challenging smirk. "And now, Mister Kirkland, I hope you will do me the honour of taking me to the ball you so graciously bullied me into attending."
The servant made a face that surpassed description as they strode out of Francis' chamber, and Arthur felt certain that no number of bloody wars, no tally of Antonio's ships looted, could ever quite match the courage required to step into the brightly coloured halls of Barbara Palmer in the knowledge that his partner for the evening was Francis Bonnefoy in women's wear.
-
"Where did you learn the women's part?" he asked through teeth clenched as Francis rested a gloved hand in his and lifted his skirts with an elegance that Arthur knew was meticulously instructed to daughters of men of certain Names. He had watched Francis play the part of the well-bred young woman for a good three hours, but every little feminine flick of his wrist, every hand that rose to cover a laugh, every giggle in that dusky, barely recognizable but recognizable still voice, would still catch his attention in a way real women never managed.
"Keen observation," said Francis without meeting his eyes, following the steps without effort, "why, did you think I would have come if I didn't know the dances?"
"You are an idiot. I saw no reason why you wouldn't," he blushed as he realized that his eyes had been following Francis' footwork again.
"The company is good as well. You do get to see a different side of people in situations like these." Francis curtseyed as Arthur bowed, and offered his arm as the song ended.
"Why, by batting your eyelids and having them fawning at the hem of your skirt? What do you get out of that?"
Francis smiled at the oldest son of some nobleman in Wales, and pressed closer to Arthur's side to whisper into his ear, "I like knowing that they want me."
Arthur nearly stumbled over his own feet at the full stop he came to as he yanked his arm out of Francis' grip, stepping away and whirling over to give him a properly scandalized stare. Francis, to his credit, looked honestly surprised. It only lasted for a few seconds, as Arthur suddenly became aware that there was staring, and Francis stepped up to take his arm once again with a small frown.
"Let's not join the next one. It is getting humid here."
Arthur saw no reason to protest. His nerves were frayed from having spent the evening waiting for someone to recognize Francis and call him on this utter degradation. But Francis had apparently known what he was doing, for no man present had questioned the identity of the sweet Miss Bonnefoy after she smiled coyly at them and held their eyes far longer than what was proper. It was an unnerving act that was taking place between the two of them and the rest of the party, and Arthur thought that the evening couldn't end soon enough so that he could leave and kill Francis to his heart's content in private.
Francis, opposite, did not appear to have any problems about playing his part. He wasn't flirting as outrageously as he normally would have, but Arthur did not need any hands on experience with intimate matters to know that there were promises that would go unfulfilled in the looks Francis gave some of the young men. He declined their offers to dance and remained by Arthur's side, making his usual snide commentary to the other guests in between answering insipid compliments and effortlessly avoiding the talk about her family and previous history at court.
"Can you tell how they envy you?" he muttered to Arthur after a widowed Earl left them with a polite, empty smile.
"I don't see why they should," he answered tersely, but the expected laughter at his expense didn't come. He didn't bother turning to ask for it instead, but continued his focus on keeping up a neutral expression as he watched the crowd and hoped no-one would see him there.
He only barely kept from screaming when he felt a finger touch the skin beneath his ear, for then to slowly trail down his neck before it disappeared.
Francis' smile was bland verging on friendly, and Arthur, to his horror, found that he didn't want to punch him.
"Because you can have that."
"No I can't. You're a man."
Francis merely smiled, and let his hand rest against Arthur's in a manner that was distressingly hard to ignore.
He spent the ride home pressing kiss after kiss to Arthur's hand in the darkness of the couch, and Arthur wondered how he could let himself be romanced by a man wearing a dress, and how Francis could be so good at this when he was also so good at giving men demure looks and smiles that could twist into just that edge of mischievous.
-
"What the hell do you want from me?" Arthur demanded while contemplating how the cut of the dress made him want to touch Francis' exposed shoulders with a fervour that never had bothered him when they bathed together as children. The call boy had been better composed upon their return, and the privacy to insult Francis was a greater relief than he had expected it to be.
"Reparations due for an evening when I could have enjoyed the company of a beautiful woman," Francis answered absently as he removed his shoes. Arthur hadn't put his gloves back on, and he was ludicrously hesitant to touch anything.
"I'm serious. What could you possibly get from going to a ball as a woman and then accost me on the way home?"
Francis' only reply was an annoyed exhalation from where he was removing his jewellery. It was decidedly easier to talk to him now that he had the freedom of treating him like a man again, and the evening had made him capable of seeing past the dress and the artfully laid hair.
"You like it, don't you?" Francis finally asked as he walked over to where Arthur was leaning against the wall, and started fingering with his waistcoat.
"I like what?" he didn't bother brushing Francis' hands away even as they slipped the buttons open to touch the fabric beneath it.
Francis looked distinctly annoyed, but didn't say anything. He pressed his mouth to Arthur's instead, and it was nothing like any girl he had ever tried it with when Francis pushed his tongue into his mouth and pulled Arthur's hands down to his corseted waist.
"The dress," he said and pulled Arthur away from the wall, "You were staring."
"I was not," said Arthur weakly, mind preoccupied with Francis planting wet kisses along his neck before he pushed him onto his bed and climbed after himself, skirt and petticoats pooling over Arthur as he sat down across his stomach.
"You've never had a woman, have you?" Francis asked, and even if Arthur wanted to deny it, he didn't get the chance when Francis took his hand again and kissed it, before he leaned down to kiss him on the mouth one more time. "It would be about time then," he murmured as he sat back to shift his weight down until he was resting, warm and heavy, on Arthur's hips. Then he moved to press down just so, and when Arthur felt himself making a sound that most undignified, that was the moment he realized that he wouldn't be getting out of this with his honor intact no matter what he tried.
He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, and Francis was thankfully quiet as his hands touched and stroked and made Arthur aware of his body in a ways that he never had quite grasped before he had felt Francis' bare finger against his face.
It was almost reassuring when the steady rolling of Francis' hips on his caused the unbuttoned dress to slip down his shoulders to reveal the flat chest beneath the corset.