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In years past, the light patter of rain was enough to lull Arthur into a state of ambivalence. Petrichor alone, earthly and divine in its coppery musk, could quell his inner chaos. In an ideal world, Arthur’s windows invite the low rumblings of a distant storm to sing him to sleep as the front rolls into the countryside. Alas, such a scenario lives best in memory alone. Back then, things were simpler. Tonight’s pathetic drizzle was no match for the storm brewing in his psyche.
Naivety is to believe the world stops turning. Arthur’s body may not age the way it theoretically should, but nobody truly escapes the aches and pains of time; Even nations. As the incoming shower finally intensifies, so do the fires threatening Arthur’s joints. Long gone are those days of reckless abandon; These old bones yearn for the forests, rivers, and cliffs. Sure, he’d never been an athlete, but Arthur could at least hold his own. An unkempt boy one with the wilds.
All that remains is an old, ugly fool.
Francis told him to stop thinking like this.
“Mon grand, when you say such things about yourself, it pains me .”
Something dramatic, something grandiose, something truly saccharine. All of which Arthur doesn’t know how to handle. He’s safe from his lover’s interrogations, at least for now. No secret is safe from Francis, especially concerning matters of the mind. It’s simultaneously endearing, reassuring, and entirely frustrating to be no different from the manuscripts Arthur spends hours piecing together. If he is a book, then his pages are weathered and well loved, annotated and analyzed by none other than the man sleeping beside him.
Likewise, Arthur knows his husband like the back of his hand, but it’s no match for Francis’ natural consideration for others.
God , Francis makes it look so damn easy.
Effortlessly gorgeous, his partner graces every room in which he steps. A natural host and the most captivating conversationalist, Arthur had found him insufferable in their youth. Envy often wears such a cloak. How did Francis have so much energy, anyway? And how is Arthur meant to live up to that? What is he if not the moon eclipsed by Francis’ radiance?
Francis could have chosen anyone on Earth; nation or human. Were they truly worthy to share the same bed, let alone the matching golden bands on their fingers?
Old.
Ugly.
Fool.
And yet, here he lies practically on top of him; Entangled in Francis’ sheets once again and limbs strewn about in the summer heat. Really their sheets, but this was Francis’ home before their lives were permanently intertwined, at least by the law. Thankfully, this pity party could be held in relative comfort. No linens with less than a five hundred thread count were allowed in the Bonnefoy residence.
Gentle snoring accompanies the steady rain, a melodious symphony. Two of his great comforts and yet the hollow pit burrowing into Arthur’s chest refuses to slow.
Is it possible for one to crumble under such pressure? For their own body to cave in, leaving nothing more than the pile of ash from which he arose all those years ago.
Surely, he would find out. If not tonight, then another. Francis couldn’t protect him forever.
Years blend into a homogenous fog. A cacophony of social blunders dwarf the man who once believed himself to be invincible. Which nightmares were tricks of the mind? Which ones a scene in the reel of his failures? He shouldn’t be worrying himself with such trivial things at this age. Sure, his body had matured, but had his mind? It’s almost pathetic. If this early onset madness would one day swallow him whole, he would at least have the solace in knowing Francis had been real.
His husband’s hair waterfalls over the pillow, and of course, his face. If not for Francis’ incessant tossing and turning, he could be a stolen Renaissance Goujon or Bontemps. Arthur’s hand finds its way to Francis’ cheek. Smooth and warm. His lover is very real and in fact not a forbidden marble façade.
At the very least, he can sweep the curled ashy locks from his face. It would be his own fault for not tying his hair back, but Francis didn’t deserve to wake to a tangled mess. It’s not befitting of such a man, even if he could pull off messy hair. Gentle brushes of Arthur’s thumb against pale skin were infinitely more comforting than the numerous methods of self soothing that failed him tonight.
Even in the low light, his husband’s familiar features are divine. Arthur’s spent centuries studying the intricacies of his face. The way his beard grows is patchy, so Francis keeps it no longer than a goatee. Arthur would kiss his nose, his cheekbones, and jaw a hundred times over if the other man were capable of sitting still long enough to do so. And he can imagine his eyes… Sunny skies and tumultuous storms alike swirled in Francis’ blues, rivaling the very channel dividing their origins. Arthur is a sailor long lost at sea, but at least there’s an anchor.
Maybe Arthur hasn’t grown at all. Fawning like a teenager over the man he married. All these years together and Francis remained the brightest light through Arthur’s fog. What in the world did he have to offer?
Complaints, deflections, and melancholic musing.
Age was kinder to Francis. Only the changing hand of fashion trends differed externally, but his character prevailed. Beheadings and the waves of his own neurosis hadn’t stopped Francis from extending generosity and patience to their loved ones. Despite the burning in his wrists, nothing stopped him from making slow progress on his personal projects. Paintings took him longer to complete these days, but “ petit à petit, l'oiseau fait son nid.” Or so he says.
A deep pang progresses the sinkhole in Arthur’s sternum. He needs to cry, but nothing comes as his insides threaten to suffocate him.
He’s old, crotchety, and tired.
Arthur buries his face in the crook of his partner’s neck. Usually it’s Francis who runs cold and seeks to steal heat from Arthur, cuddling closer no matter the season. Francis should wear a shirt to bed, then maybe he’d be warm. But he never does. Arthur hopes he never will. Now it’s his turn to get too close.
His cheek meets Francis’ neck. Slowly, he attempts to match Francis’ soft breaths. In such intimacy, he drinks in the other’s scent; Lavender and roses. It’s intoxicating.
Arthur’s selfish demands for comfort disrupt the rhythm of Francis’ slumber. It’s a miracle he hadn’t woken Francis sooner or that his own restlessness hadn’t pulled him back to the land of the living. Groggy and indiscernible French mumbling precede any cognizant thought. There’s whining and a hand slinks up Arthur’s back.
This wasn’t the first time he’d woken his love, nor would it be the last, but it was never a guiltless occasion. Usually, their roles were reversed. Even on his best days, Francis rested for no more than a handful of hours while Arthur slept like a log.
“Arthur?” Francis’ voice is raspy and low.
“Mm?”
“What is bothering you?”
There’s truly no escaping Francis’ perception, is there?
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Non, you’re tense.” Francis’ hand finds a way beneath Arthur’s shirt, resting on his bare skin. Lazily, he rubs gentle circles between Arthur’s shoulder blades. “What’s wrong?”
“I–” Arthur’s heart jumps into his throat. What was wrong? Nothing, really. Aside from the fact that he was acting like a child. So what if Francis was better than him in every way? Arthur was nothing. He’s been nothing since he surrendered himself to conform to the will of idiots in silly golden hats. It’s reality.
All he can offer Francis is a sigh. His husband, so open and kind, was able to express every emotion so freely. Francis laughs at his unfunny jokes. He cries at weddings. He gets worked up to the point of tears and the occasional ranting. But the difference between them is, Francis doesn’t let his emotions consume him. Francis rides the waves of his feelings to shore while Arthur is ripped along by the current and drowns.
It’s rude to not return the favor, isn’t it? Each time Arthur tries to not be such a brick wall, strangulation is more preferable than to admit his vulnerability. Francis once assured him he would be able to speak just as openly, no coaxing. Today would not be that day.
Arthur grumbles and buries his face into Francis’ neck.
“I’m tired, that’s it.” His lips graze Francis’ skin. “Sorry for waking you.”
“When you’re tired, it’s like a muggy afternoon. Irritable. Right now, you are heavy.”
“Thanks,” Arthur snaps.
“All I am saying is I know how you are when you’re upset. It’s okay to be upset.” Francis pulls himself from Arthur’s weight, resituating himself on his side to face him. A betrayal.
“Right, then.”
Francis pulls Arthur’s hand to his face and bestows a gentle kiss upon his knuckles. He can see the softness on his husband’s face; Light from the hallway seeps into the room through the small crack in the door. Leaving the light on was a ritual developed ages ago when their boys were still small and still needed them. Back then a candle, now the overhead light. Even with electricity, their relationship no longer a secret, and with no children to protect from midnight shadows, the lit hallway is just another piece of their domestic bliss.
In this moment, it serves to show Arthur the subtleties in Francis’ features as he wordlessly interrogates him. Beneath furrowed brows, his gaze furiously searches Arthur as if he’d been told he was dying . But he isn’t. Guilt, confusion, concern… It’s too much. Arthur, never a fan of so much eye contact, would rather Francis forget it all and go back to bed.
An impossible feat, regardless of Arthur’s condition.
“I need to head to the market tomorrow. Come with me?” Francis speaks again, grazing his thumb over Arthur’s fingers.
“I thought you had that meeting.”
“We’ll go afterwards.” He smiles gingerly. “There are some things I need to pick up.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to go right after your meeting?”
“I suppose, but I’d like your company.”
Arthur’s brows knit and he can’t meet Francis’ stare. Even so, Francis tenderly comes to hold the sullen man’s face, unknowingly reciprocating the soft brushes he’d been granted earlier.
“We can stop by the pâtisserie. If we hurry, I’m sure there will be some of the tarts you like. The ones with the blueberries and… and the,” Francis tuts as the English word fails to come to mind. “ Framboises , the-”
“Raspberries?”
“ Oui! The raspberries.”
“What do you need from the shops?” Arthur’s shoulders feel less stiff, whether it be from the lightening of the rain or Francis' clever distraction. It’s what he always does; Before Arthur can fully shut him out, there’s always some sort of nonsense to be discussed. Unfortunately for Arthur, it usually works. The depths grow less murky with Francis’ light.
“Mm, something for supper.”
“Is it some sort of secret?”
“Not necessarily, non.”
“Then what?” Arthur settles closer to Francis. “It’s a bit early to be thinking about supper, is it not?”
“ Chut , it is never too early! Mon Dieu, Arthur, I live and breathe to make sure you are cared for! It is never too early!”
With this, the weight on his chest deals another crushing blow. Is he a burden? Sure, Francis loves to cook for others, it’s one of his greatest joys. What does Arthur contribute other than washing up? He helps in whatever ways Francis asks, but could he be doing more beyond washing the veg and tasting the food? These are not substantial contributions. It’s not enough.
Will he ever be able to pay the enormous debts he owes Francis?
The last thing Arthur Kirkland will be is a leech. But once more, the haunting presence of inadequacy must be snuffed out. If he can’t process it, then best not to think of it at all.
“So your plans?” He chokes.
Francis winces.
“I was thinking toad? I’ve not made it for you in a while.”
What the– Francis hates toad!
For as long as he can remember, his husband has been rather gourmand. There’s comfort in the simplicity of Heinz on toast or cottage pie, but Arthur’s tastes are not mutual. Contrary to Arthur’s acceptance of modern convenience, Francis’ time is lovingly spent laboring at the stove. Complex stews and delicate sauces, all of which Arthur is more than eager to set aside his pride and ask specifically for.
Just the idea of a proper toad in the hole is almost enough to pull Arthur from his fit. Yorkies are easy enough for Arthur to manage, but Francis’ are far superior to his own. Arthur’s bangers always turn up burnt, no matter what adjustments he makes to the temperature or bake time. When Francis cooks, the entire dish is elevated by his simple additions of rosemary and thyme. Not to mention, the spectacularly savory onion gravy.
It’s as if Arthur hadn’t eaten his husband’s cooking mere hours ago. There would never be a day where Francis’ kitchen work isn’t divine.
Francis does too much for him.
Heat flushes through Arthur’s cheeks and ears. The worst feeling is when the back of his neck grows far too hot and he’s aware of every single follicle on his hairline. Arthur’s body processes grief in the same methodical rhythm each and every time, so the need to rip at his skin to quell the burning itch of frustration and self loathing is no surprise.
Francis hates toad.
He’s not fond of English cooking in general. The very idea of a dish drowned in gravy is his husband’s nightmare. He remembers the way Francis opts for a plate primarily of whatever veg he’d prepared, preferring to relish in Francis’ satisfaction instead.
Why can’t Arthur return the selflessness? He’s woken Francis up through all of his moping. He could’ve gone for a smoke instead, but no. Does he really want to spend an eternity with someone like Arthur?
Damnit.
Delicate hands wipe tears from Arthur’s face. Too lost in his own self-punishment, he’d not noticed the hot tears now burning his eyes. Very rarely does he cry. It’s less of an issue of pride and more that the need to cry buries itself in his chest. He’s a solid dam, but when the gate crumbles, the valley floods.
“Oh, mon cœur…” It’s the same soft tone Francis uses when speaking to children or the bonded pair of stray cats who trample their garden. “What can I do to help?”
“That’s the bloody problem!” Arthur hisses. He wants to pull away, but all he can do is cling to Francis in the hope his sorrows will somehow evaporate due to his husband’s body heat alone. Obviously, if this were the case, he wouldn’t be a sniveling fool. “All you do is help. I’m short with you, I’m selfish. Every time I try to do something nice for you, it never feels like enough because my efforts pale in comparison to yours.”
“Arthur, this isn’t true-”
“I wish I could be as thoughtful as you. I wish I could be enough. When you do something nice for me, I always find myself wondering ‘Why hadn’t I thought of that?’ I can’t make sacrifices the way you do. Even right now – God , I’ve woken you up for what?”
“Arthur,” Francis is firm. “You do enough. You are more than enough. You do more than you know. You handle the laundry, the accounting, most of the cleaning. You fix things when they’re broken. I am not your little housewife, we both make the effort.”
“What I do is just the bare minimum.”
“I don’t think so.”
“The things I do are from a place of necessity. You act to make me happy. There’s a difference.”
“You think keeping us fed isn’t a necessity?”
“For God’s sake, Francis. We don’t need to stop by the bakery because they might have something I like. You don’t need to cook something for supper you dislike. The difference is you go out of your way to make sure I have the things I like. I only remember to do that on holidays, or your birthday, or our anniversary. You don’t need a special occasion to remember to do something nice.”
“Well, if this is how you feel, then make an event out of the mundane. What is the point of living if we don’t cherish the little things, anyway?” Francis sighs and brushes back Arthur’s hair. “If spontaneity is the problem, then make it routine. Bring home flowers every weekend or take me out for dinner. We could spend the day in the park. I’ll sketch and you bring your writing. It doesn’t have to be momentous.”
“Won’t you get bored?”
“Bored? Of you?” Francis snickers. “L’absurdité.”
“If you say so.”
Finally, his chest begins to loosen. Whatever chokehold his body had on his heart released. It’s easier to breathe, aside from the awful congestion which comes as a side effect of crying. It’s another reason he hates it; The wetness streaming down his face and neck in combination with the inability to breathe are far too overstimulating.
“You worry too much,” Francis comforts. He plants a kiss on Arthur’s forehead, another on his nose, and again on his cheek. “If I weren’t happy with you, we wouldn’t be here now, would we?”
“I suppose not.”
“Viens ici,” Francis adjusts himself in the bed and motions for Arthur to bring himself closer.
So he does.
Arthur’s head comes to rest on Francis’ chest. An unspoken and shared comfort, either man delighted to listen to the other's heartbeat. Tonight was Arthur’s turn. Francis drags his hand up and down the length of Arthur’s back. The repetition of the act, Francis’ nails gently tickling his skin, even through his shirt, was soothing. Arthur’s more content than a cat being pet while lying in a warm beam of sun.
“You really do more for me than you know,” Francis speaks again.
“Elaborate…”
“Well,” he hums to himself as he thinks. “Do you remember Camp du Drap d'Or?”
“You know I don’t like to think about that man,” Arthur huffs. The Tudor dynasty is a perpetual vexing weight on his shoulders, especially the man who made the Tudor name as infamous as it is. Of course he remembers The Field Of Cloth Of Gold, just not in fine detail.
“Yes, yes, but do you remember the jousts?”
“Not well, but yes.”
“Well, I remember losing horrifically.”
“ You ?” Arthur laughs. “You never lost!”
“Well, I would have won if the other rider didn’t accidentally hit my horse! Le pauvre bébé… It was so scared and one thing led to the next. I was thrown off.” Francis sighs, resting his hand in the small of Arthur’s back. “Bref, you came to make sure I was alright afterwards.”
“I wish I remembered this better, I’m so sorry.”
“C’est bon, Arthur. It was a long time ago. I remember because this was one of the first times I saw something more in you… We were both young, stupid, and proud, but you stopped to help me after the joust.”
Arthur’s eyes threaten to water again, but in an entirely different circumstance than before. He wishes he remembered this, especially with its significance to Francis, but surely there are moments of Francis’ grace his lover doesn’t remember.
Francis continues to run his hand along Arthur’s spine. The comforting sensation makes him feel like they’re on a cloud. No more pain in either of their joints, no more Earthly burdens. Just the two of them. If he could, he would settle further into Francis, but basically being on top of him again, this is the closest he can possibly get.
“I don’t think you realize how often we relive that experience, though.”
“Yeah?” Arthur begins to feel as if he’s sinking into Francis.
“When I need you, you’re there. Let me be here for you. If I were in your shoes tonight, I know you’d stay up with me.”
“I would,” Arthur yawns. “I will always be there… It’s the least I can do.”
Francis kisses the top of Arthur’s head several times over. With his partner’s breathing finally calmed, he sighs.
“Mon rêve , it is more than you know.”