Francis [Kiss with a Fist]
title: Francis
pairing: Kiss with a Fist
age: 17
rating:T
summary: Arthur is in love with someone; that someone, Francis knows, is not him.
Arthur is in love.
Francis knows that the feelings aren't for him. It's a girl, a rather ordinary girl, that has captured the attentions of his closest friend. She writes music for the orchestra Arthur plays in, wears thick glasses, and speaks about fifty different languages in twenty different dialects. In a perfect world, they would be perfect matches.
Francis has to thank God that nothing in this world is perfect. He also has to be cunning. very cunning. He watches them, watches her, and notes what she dislikes about Arthur, waht she can't agree with him over, what she loves about him. He spends more time at Arthur's flat, especially when he knows that she's coming over.
Three weeks into Arthur's relationship, Francis lounges about on Arthur's comfortable leather couch, shirtless and tousled, having slept there the night before. He knows that he looks irresistable; after all, he better be, since she's knocking on the door.
Ten days later, he's laughing and leading her up to his apartment, slightly drunk and slightly sick as she stands on tiptoe to kiss him. He tries not to shudder as he opens his door, pulling her inside with him.
A week later, Arthur is curled up on his couch, wondering what he ever did wrong to the gorgeous girl that left him without saying anything.
Two days later, Francis lets himself into Arthur's flat- breaks in, really, but he doesn't sweat the details- and gathers the tear-stained Brit into his arms, crooning meaningless sympathies and quiet assurances in a language that Arthur only half understands.
Outside, a crying girl wonders what she ever did wrong to the gorgeous Frenchman that swept her off her feet.
"I don't understand, Francis, I just don't. She just left me, didn't say anything, and I don't know why, did I do something wrong? I loved her so much-"
"Shh, shh, Arthur, you did nothing wrong."
"She left me."
"She used you, she didn't love you, she wanted someone else, and you were merely a stepping stone."
Arthur hiccups, snot dripping rather unattractively from his nose. He's curled up on his couch, staring at the ceiling, clutching the mug of tea that Francis had prepared for him.
Francis is standing behind the couch, leaning against it, dark blue eyes locked on the thin form scant centimeters away. He wants to touch him, rake his hands through his short blond hair, crush him into his chest and never let go-
"Francis, I, I don't-"
Thin fingers pluck the mug from his hands, and Francis is crouching in front of him, eyes unsettlingly close and painfully gentle as the mug is set on the floor, a small sympathetic look furrowing his thin blond brows. His hands drift up to move the bangs from Arthur's red-rimmed eyes, and the Brit flinches.
"Francis, what-"
"Shh, Everything will be fine, Arthur; the world is not simply going to end just because some girl dumped you. Understand?"
Arthur frowns, green eyes foggy. He had loved her. She was everything that he had wanted- soft, funny, gentle, talented- why couldn't Francis understand? Wasn't that what friends were for? Friends didn't tell friends to forget about the one girl that they wanted, no one did that-
Fingers tilt his head up, gentle pressure under his chin, and Arthur's brows furrow more. What- what is Francis doing, looking at him like he's some sort of food, he's much too close, bordering on uncomfortable. The Hell is he thinking? Chapped warm lips are only millimeters from his own, and Arthur opens his mouth to protest, ask what the Hell Francis thinks he's doing-
Francis surges forward as Arthur chokes out something that vaguely sounds like a curse, hands strong on the thin shoulders beneath him as he forces his mouth on Arthur's damnably soft one. Shock renders the Brit motionless for half a second, then he's snarling and shoving and so, so confused. Francis responds by pushing him back into the couch so hard that the furniture tips, spilling them onto the cold wood floor.
Arthur scrabbles away, only to be caught again as Francis manages to claw his way on top of him, ignorant to the shocked curses and half-hearted blows aimed his way as he wrestles the Brit into the floor, lips searching and warm and swollen-
He's unsure how the situation changed so vastly and so quickly, but Arthur can barely fight back, Francis is so much taller and heavier and not mentally exhausted. All he manages to do is bite the Frenchman's lips until they bleed, struggle and roll and kick out until all the furniture is overturned and fallen.
Glass shatters, and everything goes abruptly black as Francis pulls back, swearing in French.
Francis cleans up the mess, having tucked Arthur into his bed, and leaves. He's fucked everything up, he knows it, and he knows that he's ruined everything.
But, as he walks out, he can still taste Arthur's lips under his own.
pairing: Kiss with a Fist
age: 17
rating:T
summary: Arthur is in love with someone; that someone, Francis knows, is not him.
Arthur is in love.
Francis knows that the feelings aren't for him. It's a girl, a rather ordinary girl, that has captured the attentions of his closest friend. She writes music for the orchestra Arthur plays in, wears thick glasses, and speaks about fifty different languages in twenty different dialects. In a perfect world, they would be perfect matches.
Francis has to thank God that nothing in this world is perfect. He also has to be cunning. very cunning. He watches them, watches her, and notes what she dislikes about Arthur, waht she can't agree with him over, what she loves about him. He spends more time at Arthur's flat, especially when he knows that she's coming over.
Three weeks into Arthur's relationship, Francis lounges about on Arthur's comfortable leather couch, shirtless and tousled, having slept there the night before. He knows that he looks irresistable; after all, he better be, since she's knocking on the door.
Ten days later, he's laughing and leading her up to his apartment, slightly drunk and slightly sick as she stands on tiptoe to kiss him. He tries not to shudder as he opens his door, pulling her inside with him.
A week later, Arthur is curled up on his couch, wondering what he ever did wrong to the gorgeous girl that left him without saying anything.
Two days later, Francis lets himself into Arthur's flat- breaks in, really, but he doesn't sweat the details- and gathers the tear-stained Brit into his arms, crooning meaningless sympathies and quiet assurances in a language that Arthur only half understands.
Outside, a crying girl wonders what she ever did wrong to the gorgeous Frenchman that swept her off her feet.
"I don't understand, Francis, I just don't. She just left me, didn't say anything, and I don't know why, did I do something wrong? I loved her so much-"
"Shh, shh, Arthur, you did nothing wrong."
"She left me."
"She used you, she didn't love you, she wanted someone else, and you were merely a stepping stone."
Arthur hiccups, snot dripping rather unattractively from his nose. He's curled up on his couch, staring at the ceiling, clutching the mug of tea that Francis had prepared for him.
Francis is standing behind the couch, leaning against it, dark blue eyes locked on the thin form scant centimeters away. He wants to touch him, rake his hands through his short blond hair, crush him into his chest and never let go-
"Francis, I, I don't-"
Thin fingers pluck the mug from his hands, and Francis is crouching in front of him, eyes unsettlingly close and painfully gentle as the mug is set on the floor, a small sympathetic look furrowing his thin blond brows. His hands drift up to move the bangs from Arthur's red-rimmed eyes, and the Brit flinches.
"Francis, what-"
"Shh, Everything will be fine, Arthur; the world is not simply going to end just because some girl dumped you. Understand?"
Arthur frowns, green eyes foggy. He had loved her. She was everything that he had wanted- soft, funny, gentle, talented- why couldn't Francis understand? Wasn't that what friends were for? Friends didn't tell friends to forget about the one girl that they wanted, no one did that-
Fingers tilt his head up, gentle pressure under his chin, and Arthur's brows furrow more. What- what is Francis doing, looking at him like he's some sort of food, he's much too close, bordering on uncomfortable. The Hell is he thinking? Chapped warm lips are only millimeters from his own, and Arthur opens his mouth to protest, ask what the Hell Francis thinks he's doing-
Francis surges forward as Arthur chokes out something that vaguely sounds like a curse, hands strong on the thin shoulders beneath him as he forces his mouth on Arthur's damnably soft one. Shock renders the Brit motionless for half a second, then he's snarling and shoving and so, so confused. Francis responds by pushing him back into the couch so hard that the furniture tips, spilling them onto the cold wood floor.
Arthur scrabbles away, only to be caught again as Francis manages to claw his way on top of him, ignorant to the shocked curses and half-hearted blows aimed his way as he wrestles the Brit into the floor, lips searching and warm and swollen-
He's unsure how the situation changed so vastly and so quickly, but Arthur can barely fight back, Francis is so much taller and heavier and not mentally exhausted. All he manages to do is bite the Frenchman's lips until they bleed, struggle and roll and kick out until all the furniture is overturned and fallen.
Glass shatters, and everything goes abruptly black as Francis pulls back, swearing in French.
Francis cleans up the mess, having tucked Arthur into his bed, and leaves. He's fucked everything up, he knows it, and he knows that he's ruined everything.
But, as he walks out, he can still taste Arthur's lips under his own.