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“Is it salvageable?” His eyes lift to the mirror, but he quickly looks away, shuddering. It’s just - so utterly disgusting and… purple.
“You’re very lucky – a little closer to the scalp and…” Two fingers press beneath his chin, tilting his head back to rest on the padded neck of the chair. Sea blue eyes study him carefully, close enough that Arthur’s breath hitches and his scowl is deepening with every passing second. The irritating turnover of his gut is familiar, and he wants to swat it away it like a fly.
“Funny how I don’t feel fortunate at all.” Everyone in the world will have seen the photos by now, damn the internet.
“Then you should be grateful you’re acquainted with one as skilled as I,” the idiot announces, clapping his hands together and looking entirely too smug. The urge to roll his eyes is strong, but Arthur resists, if only because Francis has turned away to dig through a drawer, and it would be a waste of derision with no one to act as witness.
“Why should I? You look far too happy about this,” Arthur grouses. Though happy is putting it lightly – the Frenchman hasn’t dropped the mirthful smile or the air of amusement since the moment Arthur crossed the threshold.
“Well it’s not often that I have such a powerful man indebted to me.” Long fingers comb through his scalp, and Arthur’s shoulders drop, sinking back into the chair.
Arthur really does roll his eyes this time. “What in the world is that supposed to mean?”
“This counts as life-saving no?” There’s a snick of scissors and a flutter of strands onto Arthur’s shoulder. His eyelids fall shut at the sound, fully relaxing under the combination of fingers and comb teeth dragging over his scalp. The pull of his hair roots never fails to make him sleepy and sluggish.
This corner of Francis’ lounge is warm and comfortable, enhanced by the soft light afforded by the elegant wall sconces and crackling electric fireplace. It’s always been amusing to Arthur that Francis could easily turn his living room into a mini-beauty parlor at his leisure, but he certainly isn’t about to complain about the convenience. He sighs as Francis brushes past him to grab a razor from the dark wooden end table.
“Saving my career, more like,” Arthur grumbles. The Americans won’t let this go for years, at least. Not to mention his own people. They seem to have selective long-term memory for Arthur’s most embarrassing moments.
“For you? Same thing,” Francis says dismissively over the quick buzzes of a razor. Arthur makes an indignant sound at that before slumping down. He’d argue the point, but lately his days and nights have been spent at the office. They’re starting to catch up with him.
Peeking at the floor-length mirror across from him, Arthur watches him cut the strands of short blond hair trapped between his fingers. Finally, Francis gets to the purplish glob squished onto the fringe of his bangs. He hums to himself. “Let’s take care of this, shall we?”
Arthur glares at the disfiguring source of his misery as Francis snips away, keeping as close to the sticky substance as possible. Once it’s free, Francis tosses it into the nearby trash can, Arthur scowling at it all the while. Good riddance.
Francis tsks as he guides Arthur’s head to the left, leaning over him. At least Francis had tied his hair back today, and Arthur doesn’t have to breathe in the dizzying lavender scent of the man’s shampoo.
The cell phone in his pocket vibrates, once, twice. He pulls it out, reading the messages as Francis holds his head at a tilt. “Are you almost done? I’m due for a meeting with the Cabinet.” Truthfully, Arthur thinks the country can wait, at least for a few more minutes.
“Patience,” Francis admonishes, gently turning his head back to the mirror. Francis’ reflection is lightly running some sort of styling gel through the strands of his hair, sweeping his uneven bangs to the side. The style isn’t bad – certainly hides the fact that a portion of his hair is shorter than the rest. He’s relieved that Francis kept it as long as possible – he had never looked good with extremely short hair. Though of course Francis knew that.
It’s perfect: it’s professional, it makes him look younger, and Arthur is pretty sure even he could imitate the simple styling that Francis had just done.
Arthur doesn’t have to say he approves, the telling smirk on Francis’ face says that he already knows he’s done a flawless job. As usual.
He nods as Francis undoes the drape, and there’s a moment of pause, Arthur’s skin going hot and cold in anticipation. Oblivious to how stiffly Arthur is sitting, Francis is a warm weight at his back, gracefully swooping down to press his lips to Arthur’s shoulder before smiling brightly at him in the mirror. His own unique pronouncement that my work is done. Sealed with a kiss.
Warmth is radiating from his shoulder as if Francis had touched bare skin instead of his suit jacket, and he feels more foolish now than he did with the gum plastered to his hair.
Francis swings the chair around, allowing Arthur to stand and straighten his suit, ducking his head to hide his deepening flush and the rapid beat of his heart. His dark, non-descript car is already pulling up onto the street, waiting.
“I’ll get Alistair to send your favourite wine,” he says as thanks, already thumbing it into his phone. Francis doesn’t accept money but the Frenchman’s weakness is wine, and Arthur knows it well.
“I’m sure he’d love that,” Francis says dryly. Arthur huffs, knowing better than to respond.
Francis graciously walks him to the front door, patting Arthur on the back as he leaves.
“Try to avoid the gum-chewing children during your next PR stunt, Monsieur Prime Minister.”
0-0-0
Arthur sighs at the stacks of paperwork that still litters his desk. Each sheet no doubt has more of Alistair’s endless red handwriting instructing him to read this section, sign this document, and on and on.
His brother was relentless, but that’s what made him the perfect choice for his Chief of Staff.
“You’re doing it again.”
Arthur starts, looking up from his desk to discover Alistair watching him from the doorway in pure speak of the devil fashion. Alistair takes up the entire doorframe, the smart-fitting suit he’s wearing doing nothing to diminish his size. The media always kicks up a fuss about his half-brother, being of red-haired Scottish descent and having the intimidating build of a professional log tosser. They feel that it gives the ‘wrong impression.’ It’s ridiculous, really. The man may be stern-faced, but he’s gentle as a kitten.
Or so Francis always claimed.
Arthur slants an annoyed glance at him, before pretending to return to his paperwork, “Hm? Doing what?”
“Fiddling with your hair. You know, it’s alright to call ‘im, it is getting rather long –“
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s only been… three months.”
“Aye, and you’re starting to resemble McCartney,” Alistair says, looking at him pointedly. Arthur almost thinks it’s a compliment but –
“Hold on – you mean when he was young right?” Arthur touches the strands curved over his ear, that wouldn’t be so bad, it might even help with the polls…
Alistair ignores him, nudging a pile of paper aside to replace it with a new stack. “If you don’t want to call him, I can get Sarah or Tommy to fix you up. It is their job to make sure you look somewhat presentable.”
Sarah and Tom are part of his on-call PR team, always ready to pick out suits and touch-up his face for press conferences and public appearances. Apart from some quick styling, they’ve never had to cut or treat his hair. They’re well aware that it’s Francis’ domain.
Arthur coughs, absently tugging at one of the longer strands of his hair. “Fine, I’ll call him,” he concedes grudgingly. “Leave me be, would you? I need to read all this rubbish you’ve put on my desk.”
Chuckling, Alistair points to the new pile of papers, “Alrigh’ then. Call the man. Then focus on the revisions for new G20 proposal.”
Arthur cringes internally, the document is one hundred and twenty pages, and alright, perhaps it is getting more difficult to read with his bangs brushing across his eyes whenever he looks down. He has no idea how Francis can stand having long hair –
- and his hand is quickly swatted away from his head. “Oy!” Arthur yelps, pulling his hand to his chest. It doesn’t hurt, but still. He’s the Prime Minister. It’s the principle of the matter.
“Focus,” Alistair repeats firmly, pointing at Arthur, then the document before turning and exiting the office.
‘Like a kitten’ my arse, Arthur thinks sorely, sliding the newest bundle of paper towards him.
0-0-0
“Mnhhggg.”
“Your coherence is truly inspiring. I understand now what the people see in you,” Francis deadpans. Arthur can’t bring himself to care when hands return to his wet hair, slowly massaging the sweet-scented shampoo into a lather. The running water is soothingly warm, and the comfortable, cushioned chair is tilted back to allow his neck to rest on the edge of the sink. Combined with the gentle fingers running along his scalp, Arthur just can’t seem to keep quiet. His skin tingles, suddenly sensitive to every touch, feeling each pull right down to his nerves.
It’s downright embarrassing.
Stifling another drowsy moan, Arthur sighs, letting a wave of contentment wash over him. Satisfaction winning over mortification, just this once. Francis switches to conditioner, sliding it through the strands and right down to the roots before washing it out.
Arthur sighs again.
He’s halfway to Heaven, listening to Francis hum an old French ballad Arthur remembers from long ago.
Suddenly, wet slippery fingers pinch his nose, startling him out of his pleasant haze. His eyes blink open with irritation – apparently the man had failed to pick up any manners despite all their years at the academy together.
He also seems to have developed an immunity to Arthur’s glares because Francis just winks, guiding him into a seated position so he could adjust the chair. Francis sets to work on combing, letting his hair fall damp and flat against Arthur’s head.
“Alistair said I look like McCartney,” Arthur grumbles.
Francis laughs. “Well, it’s certainly not your worst look to date.”
“I’ve never had any bad looks,” Arthur says, protesting.
“Non? Not even in university?”
“That… was an outlier.”
“You dyed your hair blue.”
“I was drunk! And besides, I do believe you thought it was romantic at the time.”
Francis hums, “I was young. And you were shades off my actual eye colour. You looked like a cerulean crayon.”
Chuckling at the ridiculousness of his youth, Arthur catches sight of the two of them in the mirror. It’s been a long time since they were colleagues, sniping at each other across student council desks. Their rivalry had been infamous, but absolutely no one was surprised when they finally ended up – involved.
“You were quite the sight back then,” Francis adds reminiscently, lips curving into a half-smile. The public has an elephant’s memory for his embarrassing moments, but Francis was the one who had been witness to most of his... lapses in judgement. “You’re lucky the opposition hasn’t gotten hold of photos from your punk phase.”
“Saving it for the election, probably,” Arthur stifles a sleepy yawn, feeling warm and comfortable from the scalp massage. He’s not too worried - there’s far worse those idiots could dig up. He has to admit that some of his supporters may find his previous image to be rather, shocking – though his piercings have all grown back in, and his guitar’s been stowed away for years. Ever indulgent in allowing Arthur to learn from his own mistakes, Francis had been the one to cut and dye his hair that first time.
Of course, he had also been the one to dye it back to blond when Arthur’s father had fallen ill, and it had suddenly fallen to Arthur, eldest of all his brothers, to lead and represent his family. Francis had managed to escape his family’s political legacy, instead making a name for himself as a museum curator for institutions in both France and the UK.
“I see you’ve brought home more of your dust collectors,” Arthur notes, catching sight of the new misshapen statues on the fireplace and the lounge coffee table. They all match each other in colour and size, but honestly, they resemble charred and disfigured garden gnomes more than anything. Occasionally, Francis takes to a new artist’s exhibit and procures pieces for his own displays.
He snickers when Francis cuffs him upside the head, “It’s art you uncultured oaf.”
Outside, the sun is setting, casting deep orange hues across Francis’ dark mahogany panelling. He enjoys being Francis’ only customer, hidden away from the constant spotlight and revelling in the quiet that Francis’ private residence affords. They’ve taken lengths to avoid being discovered – because absolutely no one is going to believe that Arthur visits a home regularly for haircuts. If anyone were to unearth their history – well, it’d be a quick one-two punch to his career.
Guilt flashes through Arthur at that thought. Career first, has been his mantra ever since he took up the family firm, and his relationships had fallen by the wayside. You don’t get to be the youngest Prime Minister in the world without completely giving up the life you had in order to campaign and promise your way to the top office. With Francis, he had expected dramatic tears and yelling and fights, but when the time came - when elections and parliamentary offices became a reality, Francis had simply stepped back and let Arthur go.
The ease in which they both put each other aside left Arthur wondering if their relationship had been anything at all. They ended things in this very room, the empty barber’s chair caught in the gulf between them; the memory starts up an ache in him, one that’s been relegated to the depths of his chest over time, but he recognizes it nonetheless.
The ache burns like loss and regret; he knows - or at least likes to think - that he would have fought for them, if Francis had.
By some miracle they remained friends, and Arthur’s had to endure Francis setting his affections on the occasional other. Arthur’s met a few of them, smitten graduate students trailing Francis around the museums like his words bring new life to the artifacts and art pieces around them. Biting down the jealousy (he has his own, dedicated group of fans after all – according to the polls), he reminds himself that none of those pretty-headed dust collectors had kept Francis’ attentions for long. But Arthur still feels cut loose, the ends of him still reaching out to Francis, searching for something – a hint, a sign - to hold onto.
Francis - always short of telepathic most days - muses above him, “You should settle down soon. Or everyone’s going to worry that you have no family values.”
That startles a laugh out of Arthur. A reflection of amused blue eyes meets his, and he can’t help but smile ruefully.
“Or that I’m gay,” Arthur chuckles, grateful for being pulled out of his head.
“Oh mon cher, I’m afraid they already think that.”
Arthur tilts his head back and laughs. It’s so unlike him, feeling this light and happy. Like the weight of a nation isn’t on his shoulders. He’s given so much for the sake of his career, but he’s in office now – majority government, good standing in the polls – maybe, finally, he can have this: this floating, golden contentedness filling up his chest.
Francis’ face is nearly level with his as he quickly runs styling gel through Arthur’s hair once again. The man’s shoulder-length blond hair is loose this time - in soft and subtle waves that Francis has always favoured, framing the curve of his closely shaven jaw. Francis is effortlessly handsome in the way that belongs on camera, or in the paintings that Francis procures for the museums. Always on the wrong side of the canvas, Arthur had been fond of telling him (young romantic that he was). There’s nothing but comfort here, in those hands that Arthur knows so well, this chair – this man.
Arthur had him once.
Just maybe…
Heart still thumping away, he watches Francis turn to put the jar down, and without thinking gently presses his lips to the warm skin beneath Francis’ ear, where the lavender scent is the strongest.
Francis inhales sharply, hair skimming across Arthur’s cheek as he whips around to stare him with wide, marine-blue eyes. Suddenly alarm bells are sounding off in his head, and Arthur’s throat constricts with panic. In the span of a heartbeat, he’s up and off the chair, tearing off the drape as he practically runs out the front door.
Politicians are hardly known for their bravery.
0-0-0
A blank text screen stares back up at him, as his fingers hover over the small on-screen keyboard. Arthur’s palm is sweaty against the back of his phone - he hasn’t been this nervous since the first time he’d met the Queen.
Francis’ radio silence hasn’t done anything to assure Arthur over the past week, his heart skipping beats every time his phone buzzed or rang. He’s not quite sure how he manages to muck up the important things in his life, but he’s determined to end it now, send Francis a quick text – or call – to explain what an idiot he’d been, and apologize for running out.
Yes. Exactly.
As soon as he can get his fingers to touch the phone screen.
“Your economy must be doing worse than I thought, old man,” someone says nearby, casting a shadow over Arthur’s phone. “You’re going grey.”
The nerve. Startled out of his thoughts, Arthur turns his best glare onto the tall, blond man standing next to him. Of course it’s Alfred – the American is looking quite amused in his dark blue suit and red-striped tie attire while hovering over his shoulder, trying to inconspicuously peek at Arthur’s desk files. With a scowl, Arthur flips the papers over.
The American Ambassador is a distant cousin of his who had done some experiential intern work for his office before returning home to rise through the ranks and emerge as a diplomat. Arthur likes him well enough, but the boy (forever a boy in his head – Arthur had to change his diaper once) likes to push the boundaries of propriety.
“W-what,” Arthur sputters, hand jumping to his scalp. Grey hair? He’s too young for grey hair. He’s the youngest Prime Minister the UK has ever had,for Heaven’s sake. Arthur catches his reflection in the shine of his phone screen and sure enough, there’s a good smattering of grey along his fringe. As if the world wanted to spite him further, Alfred’s sporting a bright, mischievous grin on his youthful (damn him) face.
“Uh-huh, don’t worry though, it looks… distinguished,” Alfred continues blithely, as if Arthur isn’t having an age crisis right in front of him.
“The conference ended this morning, shouldn’t you be on your way home?” Arthur asks through gritted teeth. He doesn’t have time to deal with this – not when Francis is – oh damn it all. He cannot let Francis see his hair like this. He’d laugh Arthur right out the door.
There are probably handsome, spry, young people throwing themselves at Francis every other day. Arthur’s the over-the-hill, career-obsessed ex-boyfriend who has essentially run out on him twice.
Fuck.
“ –and yeah, so I decided to stick around for an extra day for the Rowling book signing. Do you think she’ll tell me about the American version of Hogwarts if I ask nicely? Oh man, maybe you could write me some kind of note? Or decree? She has to listen to you right –“
Apparently Alfred’s been talking the entire time. Feeling a headache coming on, Arthur buries his face in his hand, and blindly reaches for the speaker system on his desk.
“Alistair, could you please escort the Ambassador out of my office?”
0-0-0
Arthur finds himself standing in front of the nearest salon the next day, wincing at the tacky curved script of the business sign, The Royal Treatment. It’s a shiny, glass building with gilded doorways and window frames. He realizes how spoiled he’s been his whole life, getting to avoid visiting public establishments like this.
But. He needs to get his grey dyed and Francis absolutely cannot be the one to do it – not this time. And if by some miracle Francis will take him back and they live the rest of their lives together, Arthur will just have to sneak out to salons to dye his hair regularly (or at least until Francis starts to grey).
Taking a deep breath, Arthur walks through commercial-looking sliding doors, and steps into the brightly lit store. The place is all white counters and tiles, straining Arthur’s eyes - many of the chairs already occupied by customers chatting away with their hairdressers. Skin prickling with awareness of the sudden hush in the room, Arthur walks up to the receptionist as she does a double-take upon seeing him, regretting this idea with every step.
“Hello,” he says, hazarding a smile and trying to look as casual and dignified as possible – not the mortified awkwardness that he feels. He’s not used to dealing with public without Alistair or someone else from his staff buffering the way for him. The shop had caught his eye as they were driving past it on the way back to the office, and he had to make a decision now, before he lost his nerve. It’s such a low-level risk establishment, protection officers had been content to set up post outside, rather than do a full sweep. Thank goodness – Arthur doesn’t need to make this more unbearable than it needs to be.
“Hello sir – I mean… Your Honour?” she adds in a panic, “What – how can we help you today?”
Oh dear Lord.
“Mr. Kirkland is fine,” Arthur says. “And I’d just like my hair dyed - same colour. If that’s possible.”
He cringes when her eyes undoubtedly catch on the visible white hairs on his head.
“Of course, Mr. Kirkland sir!” the receptionist says eagerly, still looking disbelievingly at him. “Let me get Evelyn for you.” She ducks down to hiss something into the phone, and a moment later, Arthur feels a tap on his shoulder.
The whispering starts up as soon as he turns around. Customers are still gaping at him, while the stylists do their best to look professional, returning to their work while stealing distracted glances at him as they go. Arthur winces inwardly – customers may not be so happy with the haircuts they receive today.
“Sir?” the girl who must be Evelyn is smiling widely at him, reaching out to shake his hand. Her long brown hair is tied back into an elegant ponytail, with a dark complexion complimented with kind hazel eyes, looking unaffected by the buzz of the shop around her. “I’ll be your stylist for today. Please follow me.”
She guides him past the staring customers and into a large, comfortable salon chair. It’s black, just like the one Francis has now – though it took Arthur years to convince him to get one. Back in the day, he had to endure bar stools and dining chairs, until Arthur finally put his foot down due to the terrible back aches he’d get after each trim. What he hadn’t expected was for Francis to take that final step and remodel a part of his home into a pseudo-salon.
Just for him.
God, Arthur’s a right idiot.
Francis had been his sole barber – stylist – what have you - ever since they met at the Academy all those years ago. After endless complaints about Arthur’s straw-like nest he called a hairstyle, he sat Arthur down in the Student Council room and claimed the Class President from one of the most affluent schools in the country should at least look like he hadn’t spent the night in a tree. Arthur hadn’t trusted anyone else with his hair since, and Francis took up the role with fond exasperation. He stamps down the twinge of guilt in his gut as he settles into the unfamiliar seat, waiting for Evelyn – this doesn’t count as cheating, it doesn’t.
It’s only for a quick dye job. Just this once. It’s fine. Evelyn seems harmless and professional - but he can’t help comparing; the salon so different than Francis’ home. It smells overwhelmingly of hairspray and product, far from the subtle aroma dinner wafting in from Francis’ kitchen. He misses the comforting warmth of the lounge and the dark toned furniture and walls; he prefers it over the air conditioned shop and its clinical white. He misses the quiet, the peace. He misses Francis’ gentle humming, and his slender hands. He misses Francis.
Evelyn is reaching over to touch his hair when Arthur stands abruptly, apologizing and walking briskly back out through the sliding doors. Grey hairs be damned – he’d be lucky if Francis even talks to him at again at all.
0-0-0
The car comes round as soon as Arthur steps onto the curb, immediately flanked by two of his men. He nods to them as they hold the car door open, climbing right into the back seat.
“Arthur.”
Arthur nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of his brother seated right across from him. The man looks stern as ever. “Alistair – how in the Hell did you –“ know? Arthur hadn’t told anyone from the office he made an extra stop. Then again – Alistair probably had a tracker planted on Arthur the moment he was sworn in.
“Mr. Kirkland we brought an alternate suit for you to wear.” Arthur is startled to find Sarah and Tom sitting to his right as well. Tom is holding up a fine, charcoal grey suit jacket with a jade green tie slung over the shoulder, while Sarah is brandishing a makeup brush.
“Is there some sort of emergency conference I’m meant to attend?” Arthur asks, thoroughly confused now. He had had every intention to head straight to Francis’ but of course duty gets in the way. Alistair must have brought the team for a reason after all.
“Well,” Sarah says hesitantly, curly brown hair bouncing as she exchanges a glance with Tom. “Sort of. Sir.”
“You can’t go to Francis looking like that,” is all Alistair says before the other two pounce on him.
0-0-0
He’s hovering on Francis’ doorstep after being pushed out of the car in a new suit with a large bouquet of roses in his arms. He curses Alistair’s intuition – the man is too good at his job at times. Even if the matchmaking isn’t necessarily part of the official job description.
“Alistair says I should let you say your piece,” Francis says, suddenly in the open doorway causing Arthur to turn around, startled. “And reminds me that shutting the door on the Prime Minister is very likely illegal.”
“Very likely,” Arthur repeats faintly, following him into his house. Francis walks right into the lounge, keeping his distance from Arthur, the salon chair caught in the void between them. Francis’ hair is tied back again, white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar with his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’s attractive as ever, though a little worn from the workday, had probably just started on dinner.
All Arthur wants to do is tuck the stray curl of hair behind Francis’ ear. He sets the roses on the end table, aware of the tense atmosphere between them.
Taking a deep breath, Arthur gathers the pieces of his courage to blurt out, “I went to a salon today.” Oh blast him, that’s not what he meant to say at all.
Francis’ eye arches pointedly before narrowing his eyes at Arthur, looking over his hair. “They seem to have cheated you, mon ami.”
“No I – I ended up leaving because – well, it doesn’t matter. I wanted to,” Arthur stammers. “I needed to say that I’m sorry, about last week. That’s not what I wanted.”
“You needn’t be sorry for regret, Arthur,” Francis says quietly, eyes tired and brought down. He’s gripping the arm of the chair tightly between his hands. “I didn’t expect - I wouldn’t stand between you and your career.”
Pulse roaring in his ears, Arthur reaches out to touch his hand, getting Francis to finally meet his eyes. “My only regret is leaving.”
Leaning over the other arm of the chair, Arthur pulls Francis into a kiss. He moves slowly at first, catching Francis’ face between his hands, and edging around the chair and guiding Francis closer. He traps Francis’ top lip between his, soothing his tongue across the soft skin before dipping into Francis’ mouth. They move tentatively at first, re-learning each other sweetly.
Francis moves back an inch to lean his forehead against Arthur’s, warm breath teasing across his lips. Before he realizes it, Arthur is seated in the chair, facing the mirror. Francis leans down to kiss him with such an intensity that makes Arthur very glad he isn’t relying on his knees to hold him up at the moment.
“So,” Francis says, pulling back once again. Arthur smiles at the sight they make in the mirror – flushed and kiss-swollen and content. Dropping a gentle kiss onto Arthur’s shoulder, Francis presses his lips all along the length of his neck, and jaw before murmuring against his ear. “What will it be today Monsieur Prime Minister?”
0-0-0