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Arthur grimaced as he scrolled social media. No matter how many times he refreshed, there were only photos from Francis' big birthday party. Every year, his screen was filled with selfies, pictures of food, or videos of people’s drunken dancing. It's not like the Brit wasn't invited. He was just…caught up with something. That’s all.
Eyes shifted to the covered present on an old easel against the wall of his craft studio. There was no way he was getting that all the way to a party in another country. It certainly wouldn't fit in the car, and he doubted he could get a cheap overnight flight. He didn't feel like travelling by boat, either. He'd just make the French bastard work for it by visiting him instead. Switching to his contacts, he clicked the profile named "Frog" and pressed "call". The image of the bastard's cocky grin taunted him.
“–Oh, stop! You’re too much even for me!” Laughing at a joke, Francis makes his way into the kitchen for a bit of silence and a glass of wine. Sillage drifts from the living room to the hallway before being cut off by a door. Right as her hand grabs a bottle by its base, her phone rings.
“Hein? Well, look who it is!”
‘Petit Lapin🖕’ displays itself on the screen with a picture of Arthur hungover as the icon. What could he want? Outside of wishing Francis a marvelous birthday while he sits at home with a cat and whiskey bottle, of course.
“Bonjour, Arthur. Calling to say you’re stuck in traffic? There’s a strike blocking most of the roads in Paris right now.”
Arthur sighed down the line. There was no sound in the background for Francis to guess as to his location. Not the hum of an engine or the constant beeping of uppity Frenchies.
“No, you twit. And of course your place has to be full of strikes again… Honestly, I haven't even left the house. The gift I prepared for you is a bit too large to carry. So I'm calling to let you know that you'll have to come pick it up when you're able. No rush, of course.” His eyes met the cover again, internally cursing himself. He'd been working on this gift for a really long time. He'd even skipped out on druid meetings for this, making excuses as to why he can't make it to every single new moon ritual for the past eight months. And now he was too chicken to even present it to the receiver? Some gentleman he was…
“I don't want it getting ruined on the way, is all. I'm not having it break before it gets to you.” Arthur can only imagine the horror. A downpour destroys the canvas, and Francis finds the paint smudged beyond recognition. His work reduced to a modern Dadist painting that piques little interest.
“Oh? It almost sounds like a sculpture! Or maybe a ball gown? I’m excited!” Giggling, Francis pours a glass and takes a sip. A smooth red, his favorite.
“Alright, when my party dies down, I’ll come over. Would it be alright for me to stay the night? If this amazing present is so troublesome, as you say, I must be prepared!”
“The least I can do for you coming over is letting you stay the night. I won't spoil the surprise for you, but you're way off with those guesses.” Arthur left his studio and walked into the spare bedroom Francis often used. He'd have to make sure it was properly made up for his ally's arrival. If even one speck of dust rests on the dresser—
“I'll see you later then. If at all. I remember your parties being quite lively for hours on end. Do try to make it here in one piece. If you're drunk, then you'll have no sense in judging the effort I put into this.”
“If I’m drunk, I’ll crash in la Manche and flood the place.” Francis sits on her counter. He cradles the phone, trying to think of other guesses as Arthur talks.
“We're not having another Atlantis situation, mate. Keep your spontaneous flooding to a minimum.” Arthur recounts far too many flooding incidents. Overflowing rivers, broken dams, nature reminding him that no man is safe from the endeavors of water nymphs.
“Mon dieu, don’t remind me.” Glass finished, Francis lingers on the phone. “If not those, then it must be something that speaks to me, non? I’ll try to send everyone home before midnight. You’re an hour behind me, so I’ll fly…Is it bigger than a breadbox?” No, smaller! No, wait, it has to be bigger. Unless it weighs a ridiculous amount.
Arthur put Francis on speaker as he made himself busy, placing his phone on the bedside cabinet as he got to changing the sheets. He stripped the old ones off and placed them in the laundry hamper. Getting out a new set, he shook his head.
“If it were the size of a bread box or smaller, I would've brought it to you. No, it's larger than that.” He paused. Maybe they didn't want something so grand as his present. He cleared his throat as he smoothed over the quilt and tidied the pillows.
“Would you prefer something more practical? I can always get you one instead and throw my gift in a skip. There's always one on the street somewhere…”
Francis moves about the kitchen, trying to clean up the mess. Trash is thrown and plates of food are combined to lessen the dishes in the fridge. The next week's meals would all be leftovers, it seemed.
“Non, what you have is more than perfect I’m sure. You know how much I love grandiose things. I’ll see you soon, oui? Alfred is trying to teach Pierre American terms.” Cue the sound of a wasted man child sounding out words. Pierre tweets and squawks, on the verge of repeating some trending phrase for Alfred’s latest video.
The Englishman smiled at the thought. It was definitely something that idiot would do.
“The kid sure knows how to keep himself entertained. Stop him before the thing starts getting an accent. I'll see you tonight.”
“Pierre is not a thing! Ah, I must go. Adieu, Arthur. Until tonight.”
Arthur's phone beeped to signify the call had ended leaving him to finish tidying the guest room in silence. He opened the window to let some air in, taking a moment to observe the scenery. The afternoon breeze tickled his cheeks as he looked over the garden and extending fields behind his house. It was strangely silent. There should be birds singing at least.
After a moment in this serenity, he grew agitated. The lack of stimulation allowed his mind to wander and fully register the situation. Was he really doing all of this? Preparing a room like a homemaker would their spouse? The man was just collecting a present and happened to be staying the night. It was France. They weren't supposed to be friendly! That was against their whole dynamic!
“To hell with this! Bloody British hospitality always gets the better of me.” He sighed, shutting the window with a hard pull. Leaving the room, he made his way downstairs to his kitchen. He needed a drink.
As the kettle boiled, he glanced at the clock and decided he'd take up the waiting time with a good book. With practiced ease, he made his tea as usual. Once it was brewed, milk and a teaspoon of sugar were added.
It would be best to wait downstairs, so he takes his drink to the living room. Once inside, Arthur browsed the bookshelf. There were a whole manner of different books on spells, history, folk tales and just generic fiction. The nation picked out his favorite and began reading, sitting on his plush sofa.
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The party goes on with many guests taking to the streets for more celebrations. As they trickle out of his home, Francis tidies just enough to leave it for the night. With an overnight bag in her lap, the flight is only an hour. The taxi ride is even less.
Familiar stones form the stairway to Arthur’s home. Only three steps with a black railing on each side, but he loved them so. So much history lies in every twist of metal and groove carved into the stone by centuries of footwear. They aren’t original, though. Far from it. The old ones were bombed and turned to pebbles nearly 100 years ago.
A rush of lightheadedness fills his skull. Francis holds the railing for support. Was that war really almost 100 years ago? It felt like days to her.
She knocks on the door, anticipating just about anything. A greeting, a hex, a swarm of British men dragging her inside while chanting. It wasn't the first time someone had walked in on the middle of a spell that the Kirklands had been casting or preparing for.
And I'd make quite the beauty to be sacrificed. She thought to herself as she waited by the door. Intricate patterns were carved around the edges. A protective charm, perhaps? She knew Arthur was superstitious but this seemed a bit much…
Arthur jolts slightly at the knock as if he'd almost forgotten he was expecting someone. Just when he'd gotten to the good part too. Marking the page in his fantasy novel, he stood to open the door. With a grumble, he ‘greeted’ the other nation.
“About time. Now get inside before you let all the heat out, the house takes forever to warm up again. Old pipes and all.” Not that he would ever get an AC unit. Too much pride, and the vents are a death trap for pixies.
“Oui, oui. Hello to you too! You act like an old lady sometimes.”
“Just hang your coat and get your shoes off.”
Francis giggles as she's ushered in. Arthur’s house always has an air of nostalgia to it. From the 20 year old carpet to the literal gramophone sitting in the living room. How the hell does that thing still work? As she's sorting herself out, the Brit crosses his arms with an air of nonchalance that the both of them knew was a front for his poorly hidden nerves.
“So. What do you want to do first? We can get you settled in and unpacked?”
“Settling sounds nice right now. Are your brothers asleep? I won’t be too loud if so.” His voice remains soft as he places his shoes on a shelf by the door. She fears rousing he anger of a sleepless Scot or a spell casting Welshman, and whatever the lesser Ireland does, if anything. Arthur shook his head as he led Francis down the hall and to the stairs up to where the guest bedroom was.
“My brothers aren't home as of right now. They all have their own affairs in their territories. Ah, mind the first step. It's housing some friends at the moment.”
He pointed to a mousehole as he skipped the step and politely held out his hand to help his guest. The poor dear moved in not even a fortnight ago. With a child at her side, she carved her home and hoped Arthur to be a merciful host.
“You'll have to jump the step if you need to come back down for something from the kitchen.” And of course, Arthur is nothing if not a most gracious landlord.
“Did you learn nothing from the first three plagues?”
“It wasn't their fault they carried plague, and you know it! Come on then, we haven't got all night.”
Arthur’s eyes roll as Francis gives up her hand. Of course he wouldn't blame the rodents. His best friend was a magical rabbit that only him and other nations with similar histories in magic and superstition could see. Francis as well, but only due to her proximity to Arthur.
With the mice undisturbed, they continue on to the guest room. Eyes scan the familiar stairwell and its timeless decor. They reach an open door where Arthur stops.
“Anyway, this is where you'll be sleeping. Not that I have to really introduce you to it. Make yourself at home.”
Finally, her room. Now, where could the present be? Hiding in the closet? Francis peeked around all the places she could think of having a huge present hidden. Under the bed maybe? They spoke as they searched. Arthur habitually crossed his arms as he watched them look around, leaning on the doorframe.
“I suppose you’re not happy to have the house to yourself? Things start to echo when it’s empty. I bet that's really why you called me here, Angleterre!” Francis flips her head sideways after peering under the bed. Blond hair flutters over his shoulder, now all on one side of his face.
She stands, grunting from the sudden ache in his lower back. Mon dieu, he needs to be more careful.
“You know I've always enjoyed being alone...But I guess you're right. The house is usually full of noises. You know how loud my brothers can be, of course, but they'll be back soon. Just as soon as their duties have relaxed.” Arthur's tone sounded more hopeful than matter-of-fact. Like he doubted his brothers returning every time they left the house and went on trips without him.
“Let’s hope they come back sober. I don’t want Alasdair crashing into my room.”
The Brit tilted his head with a laugh. Oh, his brothers are the drunkest of skunks. Truly, the whole Kirkland household is a bunch of alcoholics. Ever since they found that forgotten jug of honey that sat for too long. A true bonding experience for the brothers.
“He’s worse than I am sometimes, the bloody bugger! When you're done being nosy, I can show you what I got for your birthday.” Bag set down, Francis turns to Arthur with a smile.
“I’ve seen this room so many times already, so unless you’ve added more secrets, I’m ready for my gift!” Arthur nods and leads Francis down the hall to his crafts studio. Flicking on the light, he pointed to a large rectangle covered in a sheet on an easel. His face was suddenly nervous.
“It's this here. If you don't like it, I can get you something else. Something more appropriate.” Sweat beads at the forehead, and Arthur looks four shades paler. His tone suggested "something better" is what he really meant. He stepped back and fiddled with a knitting needle that rested on his desk by a sewing machine. It was as if he couldn't bear to see Francis’ reaction.
Paint tubes were in a bucket on the floor next to the easel, uncleaned brushes beside them. A dirty cup of water sits next to a messy palette. Hours of labor written in the evidence that sits by the present.
“Hm? Whatever could it be? You’re so hard on yourself, Angleterre. Gifts from the heart could never be terrible. Even from one as icy as yours!” Approaching the easel, Francis takes a corner of the fabric between two fingers. A historical painting? A terrible joke from 300 years ago that no one but them could possibly understand?
With one last grin towards the man, she pulls back. He takes a second to register the image before gasping. No, did he really…?
“Oh! Arthur...” Tears well in the eyes as a hand covers his mouth. Arthur watched Francis react, assuming the worst. Just scanning it himself, he could already pick out all the tiny mistakes. A wrong shade. A too shaky line. God, so much wrong!
He'd spent over half the year on a portrait of Francis surrounded by purple irises. Day after day, he practised and perfected his craft just for their birthday. Clearly, it wasn’t enough. No amount of detail in the careful curve of Francis’s cheek was enough.
“I'm not a master at painting since I tend to do things like sewing or crochet. I guess you could say that's my practical side you always tease me about showing through again. You can't do much with a painting, after all…Do you like it?”
“It-It’s beautiful!” The words come right out. Francis doesn’t filter them with a tease or comment on how Arthur must have been eyeing her closely to get every little detail down. No, this is too perfect for that!
“Arthur, I…” He turns to the blond and drags him into an embrace. Her head tucks into his shoulder, eyes shut to pretend that a blush isn’t spreading. Their hands grip Arthur tight.
“J'adore. Merci, mon petit lapin.” The Brit’s eyes widened in surprise at the hug. He gently wrapped his arms around her and patted the man on the back. He didn't expect such an emotional response, but then again, this was Francis. Thank god his effort wasn't wasted. If he didn't want it, Arthur would never have picked up a brush again. He did his best to respond but it came out a bit cockier than he wanted.
“Oh. Well, of course you love it. I didn't expect anything less! Clearly, I managed to make the best present of the lot!”
He cleared his throat to humble himself.
“Ah, right…You're welcome, Francis. Now you can see why I didn't want to risk it getting mucked up on the way to your party. I've never painted a portrait, so I hardly know how to transport one. Can't say I'm the most graceful nation there ever was.” Getting out the door seemed impossible on its own. Dylan could cast a spell to transport it directly to Francis, but that would be a pricey request. Alasdair and Sean could lift it, but short tempers would leave the portrait at risk of a fist flying through it.
“I’ll have to arrange for it to be delivered via la Manche. I can’t risk it being ruined on a plane. You’re too sweet, cher. I wish I had a way to thank you appropriately.”
Always a sweetheart. Even when they’re at their worst, Arthur maintains his gentlemanly demeanor. Tilting his head, Francis cups Arthur’s face. She has one thing in mind, but would he accept it?
Arthur was surprisingly compliant and casually rested between Francis' hands. It was her birthday, and he'd let the man get away with a few things. It was little trouble in comparison to the effort of flying overseas for your own gift to accommodate a scaredy cat.
“Thank me appropriately? Well, I'm happy enough just knowing it's accepted!” He chuckled softly. A huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Shrugging, he decided to entertain the idea. Whatever had possessed him to be so easygoing tonight? He really didn't know.
“But if you really feel that way, what kind of man would I be to refuse?”
“Alright, but no teasing me. This is how we say thank you in France. Hold still.” She’s such a liar but that’s okay. Francis is allowed to fib on his birthday. Hands cradle Arthur’s face, tilting it ever so slightly. With lips embracing, Francis shuts his eyes. The Brit briefly stiffened at the kiss. He knew it was common practice to kiss one another's cheeks as thanks or greetings, but lips? He wasn't too sure.
When Francis broke away, Arthur's face was lightly flushed. He cleared his throat, his eyes darting between the Frenchman and literally anywhere else. It took a lot of effort to not run away and isolate himself for another century. For the Frenchman, however, this was the best day of his impossibly long life. He did it! He actually gave Arthur a kiss! She hoped that the man wouldn't throw her off and call her a slimy frog like he usually did. Then again, he was uncharacteristically agreeable today.
“Ah. Well. Yes. Quite. Not many show their thanks in this way. I was unprepared, but now I understand how important this gift is to you, Francis. I think.”
“Well, you know, isn’t there a tradition? One kiss for every year? If we go by my current republic, that’s 67 years. My entire existence, however, would be about 1,180. Quite a sum, oui? I know you’re a traditional man, too. Hehe.” It’s actually a punch, but who cares? Francis tries to catch Arthur’s darting eyes. The fact that he hasn’t tossed him off of a balcony is saying a lot right now. The Brit blushes further and steps back slightly in disbelief.
“Once per year! At our ages? You sure are pushing it, dropping one of your strange traditions on me...Then again, it couldn't be any different to counting years with ‘Hip Hip Hooray’ here in England.”
The nation looked sceptical. He'd let his guard down since it was his birthday, but he was growing suspicious again. Francis could almost see Arthur rebuild his walls in real time.
“This isn't just an excuse to kiss me, is it? You used to smother me in kisses back when we were kids. Every time you saw me, you'd scoop me up and peck me all over so my face got covered in your spit.” Francis laughs. Arthur was so cute back then! With his shaggy hair and huffy attitude, Francis wanted to treat him like a doll.
Of course, the boy would rebel against everything she tried. A dress, a bow, a little sailor’s outfit with the cutest hat! Arthur stood firm despite determined little hands.
“Could you blame me? You made such a cute face! All squished up because you thought I was trying to give you cooties.” Arthur shrugs and shakes his head, stepping close once again.
“Fine, you win. Let's see if we can at least survive 67 before we attempt a whole bloody thousand and whatever.”
“Alright, 67. Proper ones at that. No flattening your mouth.” For some reason, he’s fixing his hair. Francis makes sure that his curls are set, twisting them into position. Why? She can’t figure it out. It just seems… necessary.
Arthur flushed in surprise, his brows furrowing as he watched Francis fix her hair. Why did such meaningless movement capture his eyes? He subconsciously mirrored the man opposite, fixing his own fringe. Proper kisses. Right.
“Well, I can try. But I can't promise that it'll be any good. Not that it needs to be five stars. This is just for tradition's sake. So, are we counting between each kiss? Who's in charge of keeping count? We can flip a coin or take turns...”
While Arthur rambles, Francis tries to maintain her cool. Why is her heart racing? It’s a kiss! He’s given millions in his life! To friends, family, and lovers across the ages. Why does this one feel special all of the sudden?
“Between each. I’ll say them aloud so that there’s no cheating.”
Francis leans forward and places the first upon Arthur’s lips. It lasted no more than two seconds, but something sparked in her heart. One. Arthur hummed in acknowledgement before leaning forward to make the second kiss. It was awkwardly placed and a little shorter than the first from Francis. He pulled back, bumping their noses in the process.
“Ah, sorry. It's been a while since I've done this.”
“Oh! Uh, that’s okay. It’s charming. That makes two, oui?” Red dyes his cheeks and down his neck. She never blushes this badly. He had many partners over the years, but few got her like this. Why now? Determined, Francis brings Arthur into a third kiss. Then comes the fourth, fifth, and so on until she pauses.
“Ten. Are you still holding up?” Arthur's face was a matching shade of red as he adjusted his collar. To think they had another fifty-seven to get through. But he wouldn't let Francis think of him as a wuss.
“Of course I am. What kind of man do you take me for? This is nothing. I bet I'll outlast this little tradition of yours longer than you can.”
The Brit then grabbed Francis' face and completed the next ten kisses on his own, making sure to count between them so she didn't accuse him of cheating. With an exhale and a smirk, he nodded. Too easy!
“And that's up to twenty. Your turn, Frenchie. Let's make a competition of it. What do you say?” A competition? Say less, Arthur! He never turns down a bet against this man.
Francis gets out chapstick, deciding that she needs to be fully prepared for what’s to come.
“Oh? You’ve piqued my interest yet again, Angleterre! You’ll give up before we even hit 40!” Kiss, kiss, kiss! They’re endless! Another set is finished. Francis announces each number as he bends Arthur backwards into a dip.
“In your dreams, frog.”
Arthur's brows pinched together as he kissed back his fellow nation. Set after set was complete, as the two competed. In fact, they had been so set on winning their little game that it took an extra few exchanges before they realised 67 was already met. Arthur wiped his lip with a sigh. Francis was once again just as stubborn as him. But the two had made it so a break was necessary. Standing straight again they discussed the game plan.
“That makes seventy. Over the goal by just a tad. Are you satisfied enough yet? Or did you really want to try over a thousand like a looney?”
“Arthur, mon cher, when have I ever been anything but looney? Let’s keep going! I want 200 before midnight! Only 15 minutes to go.” Francis grabs the man by the hands and spins him around. She laughs, soon finding herself in his arms. Her turn to be dipped. Being an hour behind is starting to have its perks.
Arthur found himself laughing at the man in his arms, twisting with him and dipping as if they were in a ballroom. He didn't expect the night to go this way at all, but he didn't hate it. It had become almost fun. He'd worry about that later, though. When he wasn't feeling strangely fuzzy while in the company of his sworn rival. He reckoned he could get to 200 in that time. Francis pulled Arthur in, kissing him relentlessly. He still keeps count, not wanting to break the rules already.
…197, 198, 199, 200!
11:47pm. Francis eyes the clock with a raised brow. 13 minutes left! Francis keeps her lips puckered, hoping that the chapstick lasts for the rest of their kisses.
“Arthur, I have a proposition. 980 kisses in 13 minutes. Can we do it? This would be a truce of sorts. Rather than fighting to see who gives up, why not work together to reach the goal?”
Arthur quirked his brow, pulling Francis up again from the dip. He put his hands on his hips as he regarded the clock. He had to admit his lips were starting to get sore. Perhaps he should've been a bit less aggressive. Even if he hadn't genuinely kissed someone he was interested in in the last 600 years, he shouldn't have been this rusty. He needed a fix every so often, too.
“Do you really think we can make that, mate? Of course, I'm no chicken. I just want to be sure you know how to set realistic goals. It may be your birthday, but I'm no miracle worker.”
“Of course we can! We’ve done more in less time. Remember when you brought that catapult to my castle? There were so many flaming balls of tar and destruction in such a short time! Let’s get moving. We’re down to 12 minutes now!” Francis continues their kisses before Arthur can even reply, counting off each one that he delivers. He has no doubt that they can make it if Arthur tries.
The house was silent apart from the quiet chuckles and counting between the two men. Each kiss became more relaxed and almost natural, as if the two hadn't been considered enemies for centuries. Soon enough, they were on the home stretch. On the last kiss, a grandfather clock down the hall chimed twelve. Francis broke away from Arthur's lips with a shaky breath of pride and excitement.
“1,180! I can’t believe we actually made it. Mon dieu, I’m usually asleep by now. Especially after so much kissing.”Francis laughs. Her hands hold Arthur’s face as the 12th chime rings throughout the house. Stifling a yawn, the Brit nods.
“Yes, we should probably get to bed. We can leave the painting here for now. Is there anything else you need? Tea? A snack?” He spoke as he took Francis' hand, leading him back down the hall. Well if that didn't mean anything, then nothing did. This felt like progress in their relationship. They stop by the door to the spare bedroom and Arthur lingers, though he releases her hand. Even at this hour, he's still as attentive a host as ever.
“I assume I don't need to tell you where my room is if you need me for anything. You've stayed here many times. At least once every few years, thanks to political visits. Though I'd kick you out if you tried to stay past your welcome, ey?”
“Haha, you would. I’d rather be on one of my sunny beaches anyways. Still…”
Francis trails one hand up Arthur’s arm, grazing his elbow before planting itself onto his shoulder. She looks into his eyes with a feigned expression of worry, their free hand moving to rest a knuckle on their chin.
“Wouldn’t you know it? I suddenly find myself unable to sleep alone when I travel. I forgot about it until now, so, if it’s not too much trouble…” Francis digs a heel into the carpet. Eyes avert to the side as he blushes. Arthur bites his cheek and internally sighs. A grown nation not able to sleep alone?
She sounded like when Alfred and Matthew used to cry at the wind shaking the trees at night. They’d cling to Arthur in his bed like their lives depended on him. Well, they did. He was their guardian then. When he wasn't busy at home, he did his best to accommodate the young ones. He felt terrible leaving every time but what else could he do? He had to listen to his own boss.
“I suppose I have room in my bed for you. It might be a slight squeeze since we're roughly the same build. But I reckon it'll be comfortable enough. You're lucky I'm feeling so generous. I don't understand what's making you so convincing tonight...Let's wash up and then get settled.” Maybe Francis made a birthday wish and a fairy godmother answered. Maybe someone sent a curse to Arthur, and he’s going to wake up screaming the next day.
“That sounds wonderful! Merci, Arthur. You’re an excellent host as always.” Francis runs into her room and shuts the door. She has to hurry before it’s too late! Not enough sleep is dreadful for the eyes and skin. His shower is brief but thorough. Normal ones would take half an hour or more but this must be no more than 10 minutes.
Francis still performs his nightly routine of a face scrub, hair cream, and moisturizer. Every last detail must be perfect, including a removal of a pesky hair above her brow.
“I can’t believe he’s letting me share a bed. We haven’t done that since we were little.” Back when the world was cold and empty. Caught in a storm with no way back to France, she stayed by Arthur’s side throughout the thundering winds. The smaller nation had shivered in fright but was determined to show he was braver than Francis was. And she let him believe it by pretending to jump with every flash of lightning. They were so cute back then…
“Arthur? I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
Francis removes his bathrobe as he enters his host's room, revealing a silk tank top and matching shorts. Baby blue with a navy bow on the front and the cutest white lace. Unlike Francis, Arthur didn't have much of a bedtime routine. He'd showered and brushed his teeth earlier that night before Francis had arrived, so all he had to do was change into his pyjamas. He stood over his bed in a set of shorts and an old band t-shirt. It was clothes to sleep in, nothing to show off about. He was busy adding an extra pillow and smoothening out the quilt. He looked up and shook his head.
“No, no. I actually was…looking for something, so you took just as long as I needed. Now, tell me. Do you want the left side or right side?”
“I get to pick even though my birthday is over? Don’t spoil me too much now!” Keep spoiling me please! Her thoughts screamed in her head. Francis looks over the bed and notices a teddy bear on the right. Likely Arthur’s cuddle buddy. Francis may have pushed to get that spot, but even he knew when to stop.
“The left. That’s where I usually sleep anyway.”
Her phone is set to charge, and Francis climbs into the cozy bed. She sinks into the mattress with a sigh. Arthur climbs in beside them, glancing at the phone as he puts the teddy bear on his bedside's cabinet to make room for himself.
“I see you're making the most of your visit. I'll send you an invoice for what you owe if you're really that against me being a little nicer tonight.” Arthur pokes her cheek, hinting at his half promise to charge his companion for her stay. A standard bed and breakfast nightly rate with a cleaning fee. Just for the Hell of it, he should tack on an auto gratuity.
“Eep! Non, I’m fine! No sudden charges!” Francis lays on his side, hoping to hide her face in the mound of sheets. She’s the birthday girl after all! Everything should be given to him for free! Presents, food, affection, and a warm bed to snuggle into with a cute man centimeters away. While getting comfortable, he looks up at Arthur. What god did she please to get such a sight of the man?
“Your bed is comfortable, cher.” Arthur shrugs as he settles, yawning. He dozes slightly as he talks.
“It's something I've had for a while…Should probably get it replaced, but I can't seem to get rid of it. Does the job and does it comfortably, as you say…I could try finding the manufacturers for you…” Which company was it again? Sansburns, right? Were they even still in business? He remembers when the brothers first set up shop in York. That had to have been almost 300 years ago. His last mattress purchase was…
Goodness, he fails to recall. So much happened in the last 300 or so years. Maybe he needs to look on the telly for a mattress ad and just order it that way.
“Non, that’s okay. My mattress is fine. This one feels… comforting in a way. Like a quilt made from your old clothes.” A quilt that was quite literally made from old clothes. Despite their endless bickering, the pair equally hated waste. Wool and chiffon chucked over the river to make proper outfits for the right occasion. Francis would rather die than wear cotton at the peak of summer, and Arthur likewise with linen in winter.
The Brit looks serene like this. Half asleep, eyebrows freed from their furrow for once. Dare Francis even say cute? It was rare to see him this way. He tended to be on high alert at all times, especially when a nosy Frenchie was around. To think his walls had crumbled so easily tonight, or perhaps they had already been built on a shaky foundation that just took a few hundred years to finally crack for good.
“Thanks for making my birthday special. I like when we get along.”
Arthur nods as he looks at Francis bury herself into the sheets. It'd been a while since he'd been so close to her while not in a fight or getting wasted trying to out-drink each other. It felt nice to be relaxed for once.
He leans over to the lamp and switches it off. Instead of going pitch black, a dim light came from a plug socket on the other side of the room. It was a nightlight shaped like a rabbit. Had Arthur put it there for Francis to help with his “home sickness” or was the man simply scared of the dark? She knew his country's old houses had ghosts, but he didn't seem like the type to be scared of spirits at all…
“Ah, well. What's one nice day in a millenia of bad ones? It's really a drop in the ocean, so don't mention it. I'm sure we'll be back to normal soon enough.” Right back to poking and prodding each other’s buttons. Bucks with locked antlers and stomping hooves over the most minuscule of details.
“You think so?” Normal meant bickering as if nothing happened. As if they didn't just spend a good chunk of time kissing for a "tradition”. That kind of thing was hard to forget.
Eyes lower to the sheets as Francis looks at every woven thread, lingering on faded stripes from a set that was all the rage in the 2000s. Arthur always loved to cling onto the past, even if time pushed him to the future. Is that what Francis is? An eternal tie to what once was and never will be again? Hamlets scattered across lands with wars waged over a rock no one cared about two weeks ago. Toxic beauty trends that leave the skin riddled with rashes for the sake of alabaster fairness. Maybe it’s time that she brings Arthur to the 21st century.
“We can change. What is your saying? Turning new leafs? Maybe we don’t have to be brats. We can be something more.”
He never cared for English, so Francis ends up butchering the expression. Still, she feels its sentiment. Arthur shifted to get more comfortable. Maybe they didn't have to be so argumentative all the time. It was an age long grudge. He was sure a lot of the hating of the French from his people was purely for tradition, mostly a joke carried on for the sake of it. They weren't like him where the sourness was very real. Then again, was he really all that sour anymore? He had to admit that being so hateful did take up a lot of energy.
Besides, their countries were allies now. They didn't have the excuse of fighting Anglo-French wars just to get their punches in. Francis was Arthur's closest neighbour so they saw each other so often it was stranger to see them apart. It was hardly appropriate of them to continue this silly behaviour. The brit sighed and rubbed his face. The silence was dragging on as he internally negotiated everything. Had it really been so easy to stop this whole time? Arthur's response was hesitant.
“I suppose we could work something out…”
“Do forgive me if I speak out of line, cher, but in view of the circumstances…Perhaps we could be more than ‘good friends’ as historians would call us.” Her laughter is light, filling the dim room of past memories. The wars, the camaraderie. The shared cigarette in a cold trench full of rainwater and death. How many times have they called off their own fight to take on a mutual threat? The enemy of your enemy is your ally, after all.
“Only if it pleases Milord.” A tease at Arthur’s preference to titles from centuries ago. Anyone who wanted anything had to have a title. In response, he rolled his eyes in the darkness.
“It's been a long time since anyone called me that. They usually tend to call me Sir nowadays. Sir or Mr. England.” Arthur hums. “More than good friends, ey? Well, we have been through hell and back more times than I can count. And I think you know how high that is.”
“Those historian buggers don't know the half of it. They only have what's managed to survive to rely on. But us nations..we might not remember everything, but we certainly lived it. Sure, what harm could it be? Let's turn over a new leaf and call for more than just a temporary truce. Permanent allies with civil debates only and mutual support. This could be a new era for us, chap!”
“Agreed! To diplomacy…” Setting her eyes on the Brit's lips, Francis captures Arthur in one last kiss. It lingers much longer than the others, lasting until his breath runs out. Arthur takes a moment to register what happened; the final kiss takes him by complete surprise.
“Bonne nuit, Arthur. I hope you get what I mean now that I say more than friends…”
Of course. That's what he meant. The man was so used to joking around the subject that he hadn't thought to consider it to be serious. He could already feel himself clamming up. What an embarrassment he was being.
“Oh, right. Well, that's fine. I suppose I have nothing against it. Even a bugger like you has some good qualities, I'll give you that.” Shit. He was reacting really badly. He chuckled nervously and tried to turn over to hide his blushing face despite the already low light levels.
“Let's get some shuteye. You'll end up with those eye bags you've always hated. Can't ruin your beauty sleep! Goodnight–”
“Oh? Shuttering yourself away like a scared turtle? How typical!” Francis scoots closer, arms stretched out only to drag Arthur back around into a hug. Lips pepper across his ear and jaw as she traps the man against her chest.
“Kyaa, you’re just as cute as you were 800 years ago! I used to dream about being friends when I took naps by our favorite apple orchard!”
“Oi! You're gonna suffocate me! All because I agreed to calling off our fighting? Unbelievable…” He complains but doesn't really struggle too much. He rests against Francis's chest in a strop, closing his eyes after a huff. The Frenchman tilted his head. That tone meant Arthur was planning something.
“If I remember correctly, the orchard still exists. Not as a public orchard, but the area is still accessible if you know how to get there.”
A pause.
“We should check in on it and…perhaps pick apples for baking…? But only if you want. I won't force you to spend time with me just because of whatever we've just become. It'd be ungentlemanly if I did.” Always one to fret over manners and properness. An apple picking date…has anyone done those since the start of the 20th century?
Francis rests his head atop Arthur’s to keep him tucked close. Not too close though. The poor man still had to breathe.
“I’d love nothing more than to do that. Maybe this time, you can help without setting the apples on fire.
We’ll have apple pie and enjoy the afternoon…as a couple.”
It’s almost too good to be true. Maybe Francis will wake up soon. If not, then this is all she ever wanted for her birthday. Did she finally conquer Arthur once and for all?
“Hm…as a couple...” Arthur parrots awkwardly before frowning as he registers the dig. He wiggles in the Frenchman's grip, poking him in retaliation.
“You act as if I somehow spontaneously set things on fire all the time! I'm not that hopeless. I've been improving lately!”
Laughing, she returns the poke. Francis tries to control her giggling while settling into bed. It feels so nice to laugh like their biggest worry is an apple pie.
“I’m sure you have. With my help, you’ll be making desserts second to mine!”
“Yeah, whatever...Let's just get some sleep. It’s probably God knows what time. We can organise it in the morning before you take your present home…” Arthur settles down again just as quickly as his temper had risen. He yawns and begins to doze off once more.
“Mhm. Sounds nice….” Francis soon falls asleep, hoping that this really isn’t just a dream. Maybe, once more, he can have a birthday wish come true before his eyes.