Work Text:
So, story time: I was scrolling through Tumblr (That blue pit of death, y’know?) and discovered a head canon.
Some head canons are nice. They’re sweet, they make you cry, you like them.
But some of them just demand to be more. And this is one of those.
Based off of This
I hope I can do it justice. :)
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The first time Arthur draws him, it’s out of boredom. Rain is pouring down the stucco in grey waves, making a quiet tinkling sound that reminds him of a song-the words of which he doesn’t know. Francis is gardening outside, delighted by the downpour and perfectly content to let it soak his clothes, his hair, his skin.
Arthur had chosen the much more sensible option of staying inside, and spent his morning cleaning out his shoe boxes.
None of them actually had shoes in them anymore-now they held something much more precious. Memories. So many things from so many different times, none more precious than the other but all equally wonderful.
His sketchbook had been in a Pierre Hardy suede Oxfords box, the simple brown colour belying the fact that they had been well over a hundred thousand pounds. Francis had been ridiculously pleased with his choice of the gift two years ago, announcing that he would spoil his husband if he so chose. Arthur had grumbled and maybe called him a few names less savoury than Francis would have chosen to hear, but it distracted him nicely from the fact that his face was quickly turning as red as Lovino Vargas’ did in the presence of Antonio Carriedo.
He’d worn the shoes so often that the soles developed holes and had to be sent in for repairs. Arthur refused to throw them away, even when the cheerful Frenchman offered to buy him a fresh pair.
The drawings inside varied from rudimentary to somewhat skilful, some of them portraits, others of landscapes. They all had an identical signature in a barely-legible scrawl at the bottom right corner of his page.
Arthur had walked into the (not so sunny) sunroom completely unaware of what he wanted to draw. Or even if he wanted to draw anything rather than simply look at old memories. But the sight of his Frenchman working in the garden below gave him more than one idea, and there was no harm in a little practice, right?
His pencil moves in small, almost abortive movements as he works, brow furrowed in concentration. Every line creates another piece, another limb, another strand of soft hair he loves to touch.
It feels like he is writing a story. Not with words, but with lines, with colours, with soft shading. His hero is being created below slightly sweaty hands; his slowly dulling pencil has become a sword.
It takes twenty minutes.
It doesn’t even begin to do justice.
But, for whatever reason…he is proud.
His Frenchman lies on a sheet of paper, adopting the pose of the one below, (the real one below, the one he can actually touch). He’s stooped over slightly, a moment frozen, one hand pulling up a rampant weed and the other reaching for a trowel. His long, blonde hair is tied back with a slender purple ribbon, accenting the colour of his shirt.
The bloody idiot went to garden in a purple silk shirt.
Thank God Arthur hadn’t married him for his common sense, at least.
No. He married him because he does things like garden in the rain; do things Arthur never would. Because he is beautiful and Arthur does not have the words to tell him, because just looking at a sketch of the man he married fills his chest with a sense of wonderment.
He is more than a sketch in my notebook. He is more than a fictional hero. He is everything.
He is my everything.
He sets his sketchbook down in favour of opening the window, fat drops of rain immediately hitting his face.
“Oi, frog!” He calls, wondering if the hitch in his voice is as apparent as he feels it to be.
Francis looks up, a bright smile immediately gracing his handsome face at hearing his voice. “Arthur, mon cher, you simply must come down! The rain is so refreshing!”
Arthur grimaces, wondering how he’d react to know how very much he suddenly wants to do just that.
“I’ll stay in, thanks,” he says instead. “Come and get some tea before you catch a cold.”
“You know,” Francis sighs, eyes twinkling, “Colds actually aren’t transferred by something so insignificant as a little fall of rain. They come by germs, and bacteria, and-“
“Frog!”
“Alright, alright.” The Frenchman sheds his gloves, looking regretfully down at his plants. “I will return shortly.”
“Like hell you will,” Arthur mutters, striding down the stairs towards the hall before Francis can track mud and water all over their beautiful floor.
The door flies open with a crack like a boom of thunder, and Arthur hardly has time to worry about the flooring before he’s being scooped up, a pair of warm, (if wet) arms pulling him into an embrace.
“I missed you like these plants miss the sun, my darling,” his husband states extravagantly, holding the squirming Englishman unrelentingly.
“Ugh, you’re soaked,” Arthur squawks, feeling ridiculously pleased.
“Soaked in the rain of your love,” Francis agrees, kissing him.
“Shut up,” Arthur mutters gruffly, sliding to the floor upon release and straightening his jacket. “You need to go bathe.”
“Have you had any lunch yet?” His husband inquires, hanging his purple shirt over one arm.
Arthur shakes his head, face growing redder.
“Then that must be done as soon as possible!” Francis sounds outraged. “I will be out before you can stifle that pretty blush.”
He’s disappeared upstairs before Arthur can offer a decent retort, and he’s long gone when the small smile comes over his kiss-swollen mouth.
Sometimes I still can’t believe that he’s real.
-=-=-=-
The next time Arthur draws him, it’s messy. It’s messy because his hands are shaking, because his eyes are blurred with tears, because he’s so impossibly angry with himself.
This has been their worst fight yet.
It started out the way it often did; with a simple problem that somehow had been blown up into something of devastating proportion.
He’d accidentally let the bread burn. Again.
Normally Francis wouldn’t be much bothered; they both knew that their little household had only one good cook, and it sure as hell wasn’t Arthur. Normally when he made mistakes like that, he’d smile good-naturedly, press a kiss to his husband’s cheek and make another loaf.
But Francis had been especially tired this week; Matthew’s sick again and refuses to let the Frenchman come near for fear of getting him ill, too. They’ve sent letters and phone calls and everything that could be done, but regardless, stress had been building.
The bread just been the final straw.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Arthur yells, his face red, fists clenched. “You know I can’t bake to save my bloody soul!”
“All I asked you to do was watch it! Was that so hard?” Francis is holding the blackened lump of dough in his hands, and Arthur is suddenly terribly afraid that in his haste he might burn himself.
“I’m sorry I can’t do everything perfectly like you need me to,” Arthur spits out, aware that the statement isn’t fair.
“I didn’t marry you because you were perfect,” Francis scoffs, tone scornful. “Sometimes I wonder why I married you at all. Mon Dieu; perhaps I am the fool here.”
“I said I was sorry; why is that not good enough for you?!” Arthur is on the verge of tears.
“It doesn’t fix anything!”
“Then fix it yourself,” Arthur shouts, turning to storm up the stairs, biting his fist to avoid sobbing in the middle of the house.
He slams the door and locks it, the smell of burnt bread on his clothes, in his hair, it feels imbedded in his skin.
He’s crying before he reaches the bed, angry tears and regretful tears and tears he doesn’t have a name for. They hurt his chest and tear at his throat and make his face itch.
Francis does not come upstairs.
So now he draws, as his sobs slowly subside and his entire brain stops screaming at him every reason for why Francis should leave him. Every reason why he’s not upstairs comforting him, and every reason why he doesn’t deserve it.
His pencil moves across the paper languidly, one hand brushing away a tear or two every few moments. He doesn’t even know what he’s drawing it for; the last thing he wants is for Francis to see anything he’s done in his sketchbook.
The figure drawn in graphite is bending down to pull something out of the oven. His torso obscures whatever the baked good is, but the oven mitts protecting his hands are plain to see. This Francis is safe as he works, the small smile barely visible on his face giving Arthur the tiniest sense of comfort.
He draws until his hand aches, until he’s sleepy and nearly ruins his drawing with one line that goes too long.
He falls asleep in their large bed, sketchbook cradled under one arm, the scent of Francis’ soap slowly relaxing him.
A few hours later.
He’s warm when he awakens, the scent of soap practically wafting around him. He’s impossibly comfortable, and he soon realises that it’s because he’s not alone. Francis is holding him in what can be described as little else than a death grip, sniffling dismally.
“Mmph,” the Englishman mumbles, twisting slightly to look up at him. “’Hell’re you crying for?”
And, of course, there was the relevant question of how Francis had managed to get in when the door was securely locked and Arthur kept the spare keys. Ghastly images of doors being broken down and walls being drilled through entered his subconscious, and he shivered.
Francis mistook this as a sign of disgust. “Pardonnez-moi d'être tellement en colère...je ne aurais pas crié, je sais que je ai été stressé...”* he babbles, forgetting momentarily that not everyone in the room has been speaking French since the day they were born.
Arthur already knows what he’s saying, however. “It’s alright,” he opts for, voice gruff from sleep. “Calm down, it’s alright.”
“Forgive me,” Francis says again, obnoxious sniffling quieting somewhat. “I was angry with myself, not with you.”
“It’s alright,” Arthur says again, because he doesn’t have the words to tell him it was never you it was always me I don’t understand please show me please don’t cry like that.
Francis is quiet, but his grip doesn’t lessen.
“How’d you get in?”
“I found the key.”
“…How?”
Francis is suspiciously quiet again, and Arthur groans. “Tell me you didn’t ransack our room again.”
“…Sorry.”
Arthur sighs, allowing his eyes to slide closed.
“This is beautiful.” They fly open again and he looks up to see Francis looking at his drawing.
“Don’t-“
“I mean it!” Francis turns it upside down, staring at himself as he seemingly hangs from white space.
Arthur’s face is turning red; he can feel the sensation somewhere. He always can. “Don’t look at them,” he mutters.
He feels a kiss pressed to his temple in response. “I never knew you could draw so beautifully.” Francis’ voice is a reverent murmur. “You must do more.”
“You weren’t supposed to see them!” Arthur complains, shifting in his arms. “No one was, actually.”
“Please, darling. Please draw more?” The Frenchman’s tone is wheedling.
“I drew that because I was upset,” Arthur replies, picking at a loose stich on the coverlet.
“What about this one?” Francis holds up the page with the sketch of himself in the garden.
“That…that was…” Arthur huffs.
“Were you missing me?” Francis teases, tone delighted.
“No! Who’d miss a stupid arrogant frog like you?”
“So sweet.” Francis pulls him into a kiss. “Why are you always much more cuddly after we quarrel?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur hid his face in Francis’ shirt. “Please don’t be angry with me.”
“I’m not, darling, I’m not at all.” Francis’ voice is subdued. “I love you. Forgive me.”
“Okay.”
They fall back asleep tangled in each others’ arms.
I know you love me. Help me show you I love you in return.
-=-=-=-=-
*Forgive me for being so angry...I shouldn't have yelled, I know I've been stressed...
-=-=-=-
The third, and the fourth, and yes, the fifth times that Arthur draws are all on request. Francis sitting in his chair. Francis taking a bath. (The drawing was almost ruined when he was unexpectedly dragged in.)
Francis smiling.
Francis with his flowers.
Francis Francis Francis.
Arthur doesn’t have the words to tell him what he feels all the time, so he shows him in pictures. Pictures of an apology. Portraits of them both together, drawn from his memory.
His husband was so ridiculously pleased by all of them. He put them in expensive frames and showed them off when guests came, he boasted about them in shops and in libraries and even the bloody urinal. Arthur is continually stunned by how genuinely delighted Francis is by everything he does.
Instead of being asked to watch over bread, he sits at their kitchen table and sketches it.
“You should make a book,” Francis suggests one evening, as they sit on the steps of their porch eating Martin’s Muffins.
Arthur scoffs. “You’d buy every copy.”
“Ah, oui.” His Frenchman beams. “But I’d give a few away, surely.”
“To make people jealous?”
“Non. To show them how lucky I am.” Francis kisses his temple. “Not all men have such a talented husband, you know.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Ridiculous frog.”
“Talented husband,” Francis grins.
“Stop.”
“I couldn’t if I tried.”
“I’ll leave you and go live with Alfred.”
“You’d drive one another mad.”
“Like we don’t,” Arthur points out.
His husband laughs. “I can’t deny that. It would be an honour to be killed by you.”
“Don’t say that.” Arthur’s tone grows sharp for a moment. Then his face softens. “Don’t die. Please.”
He lets Francis hold him, allows him to take the comfort he needs in his own way; in this touchy way that Arthur still does not understand.
He does not understand, but he is grateful. He is happy. He is loved.
I do not understand how it is that you love me.
But please do not ever stop.
-=-=-=-=-