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Arthur was used to living alone, so Francis often found his lover singing to himself.
To lead a better life I need my love to be here, he heard from the garden. Arthur had always sung his most tender when he was taking care of the roses, he knew; he'd wax poetic over any flower, of course, but he could go on for hours and hours about the one he loved most.
He could see Arthur through the windows, meticulously inspecting each and every bloom for the slightest hints of tear. He was wearing one of those ridiculously huge gardening hats that, at this angle, was covering most of his face. Together with horrible posture and his frumpy sweater, he cut quite the awkward figure. Yet still, Francis could picture his piercing green eyes, the slight flush of his face, that odd little upturn of his too-long mouth during those rare times that he felt relaxed and at peace.
They've had more than a millennia to get acquainted with each other, more than long enough for them to recognize the things that stayed constant: bright eyes, sorrow, and the empty promises of immortality; England and France fighting with each other, and Arthur and Francis simply having to live through it. There was a loneliness there that he couldn't put into words, not on his own.
Each one believing that love never dies, Arthur sang. Each note hung in the air a little too long.
Expecting him to come in soon, Francis quickly boiled a kettle for the Englishman's morning tea before leaving the kitchen. He could spend the whole morning looking through the windows, but the ambience demanded he partake a more active role than just sitting around. He was the country of love, after all. And today, he was so full of that confusing, exhilarating emotion that he simply had to do something about it.
He scarcely used it these days, but he certainly hadn't lost any of his skill with the piano. Playing some scales for warm-up, he let himself get re-acquainted with an old friend. It was not too long ago that his musicians were praised worldwide, not too long ago that those same legendary maestros had been invited into his own home and asked to play. Those memories shine golden to him, lazy afternoons of nothing but song and delight and knowing with all the instinct of a nation that these men were going to be remembered one day. He carried them, and their music, with him always.
Francis was lost in the melodious trills of one of their century-old songs when Arthur entered, with his tea and a small plate of the biscuits they had made the night before. He settled into a nice sofa chair beside him with a contented sigh.
"No need to stop on my account," said Arthur, when the piece ended and Francis didn't immediately transition to another one. "Are you taking requests? You know I don't know shit about the classics."
"Yes, you're very artful like that," Francis teased. "Truth be told, you're distracting me."
Arthur huffed, and it was the exact reaction Francis wanted to see from him. He looked adorable with cheeks puffed like that. "Well, if you're going to be like that, I could stop paying for my half of this house and leave. Maybe invest in something actually worthwhile."
"Invest in some sense then, would you? You're being ridiculous and dramatic."
"This, coming from you?"
"I have a certain style of doing such that makes me charming and irresistible, but when you do it, you are like a pitiful donkey."
He thought he really had a good one there, but Arthur only looked faintly amused. "You're losing your touch, if that's all you could think of."
Francis smiled back. "If I lack any bite today, it's not any fault of mine. You are a distraction, like I said."
The other man rolled his eyes. "Oh, of course it's my fault, is it?"
And it was.
He loved seeing Arthur anywhere, but he especially loved seeing Arthur here, in this house that they had quietly bought together without the interference of their respective governments. He loved seeing Arthur now, in this time of peace and normalcy that they had never been given in their youth. He loved seeing Arthur like this, warm and content and alive and close enough to hold without fear, without anger, without hate. It was always a game of play-pretend when they stayed here, and Francis was enamored with domestic bliss every single time. The intimacy, the privacy, the romance — how could he possibly pay attention to anything else but Arthur in this moment? They were not nations here, in their sleepy, cozy abode in Calais. They were only Arthur and Francis, and they were in love.
"You will be less of a distraction if you sit with me," Francis said, instead of I am so much happier now that you are here.
He patted the space beside him, watching Arthur set his cup and biscuits down as he took his seat. Francis turned back to the piano to take position, while Arthur shifted closer so he could lean his head on his shoulder. It made movement a bit more difficult, and he knew that Arthur knew this. The both of them also knew that Francis wouldn't tell Arthur to move away for the world.
"You're always making things so hard for me, aren't you?" he said, affectionately.
"The course of true love never did run smooth, as they say," quipped Arthur. "And you knew I was a handful when you met me. It's not my fault you have bad judgment."
"You must think so lowly of the both of us to say that. My judgment, along with everything else about me, is impeccable." Francis started playing a light ditty, just to give his hands something to do. "And you are the light of my life, fire of my loins—"
"Your sin, your soul?" Arthur finished, dryly. He looked up at him in vague annoyance. "Francis, please. You can do better than that."
"Aussi longtemps que tu voudras, nous dormirons ensemble," he recited, then he laughed when Arthur lightly slapped his arm. "No, you cannot be angry at me for it! It's a line from one of my respected poets, it's not my fault that he phrased it like that—lapin, it was an easy shot to take. I do not know what you expected of me."
"Certainly not bad, perverted poetry," grumbled Arthur. He stared at the ivory keys, his eyebrows furrowed in frustration. "You know, if you wanted me to play with you, I should've brought my guitar. I can never remember where my fingers are supposed to be on this thing."
"You and your guitars!" The piano made a dissonant noise as Francis slammed his hands on it in surprise, barely holding back his helplessly, helplessly besotted grin. "No, my love. You would've had to go upstairs, discover it has been misplaced, and then spend hours searching for it. You would've surely placed a curse on the entire house for hiding your beloved instrument before you remembered that it was still back in London. By that point, I would've retired to our bedroom, long past the mood for musicmaking."
Arthur's ears were flushed red.
Recognizing his lover's embarrassment, Francis reached out, held his face by the cheek, and gently guided Arthur into looking at him. "But I am still here, yes? Stay with me, Arthur. Sing with me."
He would never tell him this, of course, but he had grown strangely fond of the Englishman's nasal, sardonic voice over the years. Harsh as though it sounded when it was used for his constant, indignant screaming, in the quieter moments it was rhythmic, melodic — as though he never grew out of Shakespeare's characteristic rhyming scheme. It was one out of the many proofs Francis had collected to support his theory of Arthur being a closet romantic at heart, and it was by far his favorite.
Who could dare think of his little England, savage little bunny that he was, the feisty, imperious island nation who grew up shooting arrows and sailing the seas and conquering the world's hegemony in the palm of his hand, doing something as humanly mundane as song? Certainly not France, who had spent centuries at war with his neighbor and still sniped at him countlessly at every single meeting they attended together.
But he wasn't France right now, not in the soft morning light of Calais. Far from the bustling city life of Paris and his obligations as a nation, he was only a young man in love.
Arthur's eyes were so wide, and so green. It felt like eternity before he covered Francis' hand with his own.
Then, softly: "Play me a nice song then, would you, dear?"
Francis only smiled, and set his hands to the keys.