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History was what kept them together for so long. Or at least that’s what the brit had concluded as he leant across the doorway, watching Francis hum slightly as he prepared breakfast over a kitchen counter, mindlessly cutting up some strawberries. It was the familiarity of their relations which brought comfort – albeit France’s presence in his Arthur’s existence was an often cause of conflict in the past, it was a true honest-to-god fact that they had always seemed to be around each other no matter how fickle they had been. No Matter what.
“Bonjour Arthur! Shame that my l’amour de ma vie had no decency to wake up and help with breakfast.” The green-eyed man snorted, still clad in a ruffled shirt from the night before paired with messy hair sticky out at odd places. Arthur appreciated Francis’ teasing humour more than he likes to admit, even with words drenched and spoken with the Parisian tinged accent. A part of him cringed at the term of endearment his ‘partner’ had teasingly used but yet, even with his bad understanding of the language, Arthur found it oddly tender.
The slight bright tinge of fluster that had appeared on the brit’s face was mismatched with the gruff reply he had almost whispered as he came to stand behind his company to drape over and wrap his arms around his company in welcoming affection, taking an overwhelming faux interest in the simple task of fruit preparation.
“I doubt you would agree to have me anywhere near the stove.” The small chuckle from Francis was infectious and the comfortable grin they shared seemed to brighten the cold winter morning they had found themselves enjoying. It was the typical type of mornings they shared every so often; one of the morning that resulted from sheepish agreements to stay the night before. The couple overall was a strange quirk of history itself– always somehow pegged together. They had known each other for so long- painstakingly long Arthur had claimed once – that they were accustomed to each other’s habits or everyday normalities resulting in easy moments; like how Francis had already left a mug of English breakfast tea, still warm, on the table and how Arthur had complied with the Frenchman’s insistence on storing coffee in the cupboards. As they both sat down (They parted from the silent cuddle sadly), balcony door open, with Arthur sipping his brew to seemingly sobering up from his tiredness (somehow also engrossed in the newspaper) Francis had found himself looking out over the balcony of the brit’s countryside estate. It was one of the quieter homes England owned, and while the views were pleasant enough (though not as pleasant as rural France of course) the cold winter air that had blanketed his cheeks accompanied with the lack of noise of the humdrum of city-life made him sigh in slight unprovoked boredom.
“It’s not that cold, love. Drink more coffee and maybe you won’t find things to be so dull.”
“You are sad about your roses, non?” Arthur’s eyes flicked up and his brows furrowed in a little confusion over the strange statement. It was the middle of winter and while –yes he WAS upset he could not see those pretty flowers bloom or bud, there was nothing he could do to stop mother nature from bringing in the Christmas season…he had resigned any token of peeved annoyance to this natural inconvenience.
“It’s just hauntingly sad to see your work disappear. Its course has been taken and it is gone, it will be back but…just not now.” Suddenly the Englishman had understood that the melancholic words that Francis spoke of, were talking of something much more than just his garden outside.
“I…guess rightly so.” They turned to each other and picked at their breakfast. Idle chatter about their countries current affairs seemed insignificant, especially after Francis’ earlier poignant statement. It wasn’t usual that his boyfriend partner would openly speak of genuine sentiment, and it had put him off to watch France’s obvious deep reminiscing.
“Do you want to talk about it Francis?”
That’s how Arthur had found himself with his French lover in the archive and storage room of the British Museum. More specifically the storage room which was curated mostly from Arthur himself – trinkets and souvenirs he had kept over the centuries and had asked King George II back in 1753 if he could keep, in a private secret storeroom of antiquities for himself somewhere in the museum (The Museum original origins was Sir Hans Sloane’s own collection that he had ‘bequeathed to King George II FOR the nation’ technically meaning the museum was dedicated to England himself but he asked for permission out of politeness of course.).
His national museum was not only a tourist trap, but a legacy of Arthur himself, and while he loved to watch his citizens mull over history he knew he needed to bring Francis to his private collection, something only another nation would understand the importance of. Down in this quiet unknown-to-the-public display room, it seemed to be a different place altogether: an isolated showcase, a room where time seemed unsure of what itself was. There were renaissance paintings awkwardly hung beside majestic tapestries from 1066 to old medallions and shillings piled neatly on a pedestal mingling with the first pound coin from 1983.
The long-haired man had paused. Unsure of what to say as he held onto Arthur’s hand at their side. Before he could open his mouth to mention any word of value Arthur quickly hushed him and without a word lead Francis to another section of the room where a placard marked very simply put:
[ French Collection ]
The two had gone very far back – Lord, God knows they don’t even want to speak of their messy origins…especially the kerfuffle occurred between Normandy and the early Anglo-Saxons.
“I know we can both recall a lot of fights. A-and I don’t know about you but bloody hell you’ve put me through a lot. I suppose the Hundred Years’ War was really one of our worst…it was also a really big one in the beginning.” It was so very long ago, even before he became known as ‘Great Britain’ with his brother Scotland (It really puts into perspective of how short he has actually represented Northern Ireland as well as Scotland and England).
They both remembered clearly of the very cold nights of slammed doors and angry shouting over sovereignty of their early days, Kingdoms which had messy foundations. The royalty that had come and gone throughout the years, the constant babbling about who owned the throne was a past headache. They were both so young back then, But Arthur was more impressionable due to France’s tutelage – regardless that the ‘age’ gap wasn’t so far. So young for an adult’s world.
“Remember I had that stupid idea for my hair after you made fun of me. Then you helped cut it back to my usual style?” He murmured in a shy attempt to breed conversation. Arthur still cherished that memory even though his insecurity over his hair at that time was due to the Frenchman.
“We were so petty at times.”
“‘Were’?” Arthur quipped back humorously, stifling his laughter,
“ahah Allez savoir pourquoi Arthur!” They both smiled longingly towards the various artefacts until a specific one caught the Frenchman’s gaze: A polished Charleville Model 1754 French Musket without a bayonet, too clean looking to have seen a war in its time but upon closer inspection, the scratches on the barrel and the old metal signified its authenticity. Had England taken the time to restore this old thing? When had he even picked this up- surely not during their figh-
“During the Seven years’ war. I know. I picked it up from Matthew, he was adamant about giving it away but he had one of his own anyway. I have a Model 1777 from the time we…”
“Fought over family.” Arthur sported a sad smile at that, he had always believed all of his colonies were family but it was also difficult to forget Canada also belonged to France and with American independence he had watched Francis’ people throw so much away for revolution. Things had always been tough. Things were so intertwined in modern life, you could no longer turn your back on those around you. Besides, doing that to Francis would hurt both of them. Shyly, the shorter man moved closer and placed a hand on France’s shoulder. His eyes search for something he himself was not aware he was looking for, some sort of sign that Francis knew that they click. Within bad times, the good times and surely the bloody times – they just needed to work. More than ever before.
The man clad in green was not sure when he had closed his own seeking eyes, or when he had felt those soft lips upon his. Lulled into a pleasant exchange the two parted to breathe after a few glorious seconds. The fear and regret that France had harboured that morning seemed to be washed away in that very moment, the past had been written down already- the future shortly bringing new troubles that they could push through together. Without hesitation, the two happily sighed and embraced for a few more minutes…besides, what was life without a bit of comfort?