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England had marked April on his calendar, near his sewing kit, with a discreet circle, as if the simple act of writing the month down could shorten the wait. It hadn’t. The three months apart had stretched intolerably, measured in lonely cups of tea, in early mornings when he half expected to hear France humming in the kitchen, in evenings when he found himself staring at his phone, waiting for it to light up. Their work had kept them apart. They spoke, of course, across glowing screens and hurried phone calls stolen between meetings, but it was not the same as being near, as hearing Francis laugh in the same room, as catching the faint trace of his cologne when he leaned too close. Nothing had dulled the ache of absence.
So, when he finally opened the hotel door, he barely had time to register the familiar long hair and that infuriatingly radiant smile before Francis closed the distance and pulled him in a tight embrace. Arthur melted into the warmth he had craved for weeks, hands sliding up France’s back, clutching at the fabric of his coat.
Resting a palm on his cheek, France kissed him as though to erase the distance altogether, unhurried, the other hand cradling the back of his head, coaxing him closer. When they parted, England’s face stayed pressed against him, his forehead resting on his shoulder.
“…You smell like lavender,” England muttered, his voice catching slightly, as if that explained why his chest felt suddenly too tight.
Francis’s laugh was soft, vibrating through him. “And you smell like home, mon amour. But still are terrible at greetings. After three months, I expected something more poetic than that.”
England pushed him playfully. “…Three months,” he muttered then, voice low, his words muffled by the fabric beneath his cheek.
“Far too long,” Francis answered, pressing a kiss into his hair, as if to seal the promise that it would not happen again so soon. “But now, we have days ahead of us. Entirely ours.”
They lingered in that embrace until France finally drew back, his eyes alight with mischief. “Come. For today I’ve prepared something special.” No explanation, no itinerary, just his warm hand curling around Arthur’s.
England arched a brow, curious. “Special, hm?”
France only squeezed his hand and tugged him gently out of the room. “Oui oui. You’ll see. Trust me.”
The morning had already slipped toward noon when France, with his sense of drama, declared they would have their rendez-vous very soon. “We’ll leave in no time—once we are dressed for the occasion, of course.” He smirked, already at the wardrobe. “I believe one dresses properly for romance, don’t you?”
Arthur gave an unconvinced huff but did not argue.
Predictably, the younger country was ready in no time. He had chosen a soft green sweater that matched his emerald eyes, layered over a light shirt, sleeves rolled neatly at the elbows, and now he sat with his arms crossed, one leg bouncing, waiting as France lingered in the bathroom.
It was never a short process. England checked his watch twice, tapping his foot as he sat on the edge of the bed, listening to Francis move about the bathroom with maddening deliberation, as though preparing for an opera rather than a simple date. He pretended to sigh, but the truth was that he found himself waiting with a strange tightness in his chest, straining for every sound, for the faint drift of lavender cologne already creeping through the open door.
When France finally emerged, England looked up despite himself—and forgot to look away. Francis selected his clothes with the precision of a painter choosing pigments: tailored trousers that fell elegantly, a pale shirt that caught the light, shoes polished to a discreet shine. And then, of course, the flourish—an airy blue foulard looped carelessly at his neck, its colour striking against the blond fall of his hair.
Arthur’s breathing got slightly uneven. “You’ve taken your time, as always,” he uttered, though the words lacked bite. “I was about to take a book.”
France adjusted the knot of his foulard in the mirror, smiling slyly at the reflection. “Perfection, mon cher, requires time. Besides—” he turned, tilting his head as though to catch England in the act of staring, “—it gives you the chance to admire me. Do you approve?”
England tried, and failed, not to flush. “…You’ll do,” he muttered, though his ears betrayed him by turning pink. Francis’s laugh was warm, indulgent. He crossed the room in two strides and leaned down, brushing a kiss against his cheek, and England’s pretence of impatience dissolved in an instant.
They left immediately after, Francis’s hand finding Arthur’s as naturally as breathing. During the drive, he refused to answer England’s curious questions, offering only a maddening smile and the occasional squeeze of his fingers when he pressed too hard for hints. Outside, the French countryside shifted: hedgerows thick with spring green, meadows sprinkled with buttercups, and corn fields. The April sun had risen high enough to gild the streets with light, scattering petals from the early blossoms across their path.
It wasn’t until they turned into a quiet lane, with familiar fields and cottages on both sides, that England’s heart had begun to race in suspicion. The gates came into view, green wrought iron gleaming under the noon sun, and his breath caught. Recognition struck like a jolt—surely not. He leaned forward, staring as France brought the car to a stop.
“…You didn’t,” he whispered. His mouth slightly parted, overcome for a moment. It was not just a date—it was Giverny.
Francis turned to him, eyes warm, lips curling with quiet pride. “For you, of course I did. Giverny is ours for the day. The gardens and the house too. Just you, me, and the flowers, mon coeur—no one else.”
England’s throat went dry. He blinked rapidly, trying to disguise the sharp sting of emotion. Beyond lay the promise of water lilies, hydrangeas, narcissus, and the painted riot of a garden that had never failed to enchant him. Definitely one of his favourite places in France’s country.
“France…” he said softly, but he was already leaning over, capturing France’s mouth in a kiss that was half gratitude, half unrestrained love. When he pulled back, his fingers stayed twined with Francis’s, refusing to let go.
The air was heavy with a sweet April fragrance that seemed to bloom in his very lungs. England tilted his face upward instinctively, letting the light bathe his fair skin, his eyes bright with childlike joy he made no attempt to hide. He was already moving towards the gate, shoulders uncharacteristically loose, his step almost eager.
“It feels like June,” he observed, glancing around as though the whole village had been reborn in colour. The sun caught on his pale face, tracing light across the bridge of his nose, the faint rose rising on his cheeks.
France, watching him with quiet delight, raised a brow, amused. “Non, Angleterre. This is what spring is supposed to look like. Not that dreary island of yours, always sulking beneath the clouds.”
England shot him a sidelong glance, his lips twitching. “Careful, I might start agreeing with you.” He smirked, then. “Anyway, at least my country doesn’t blind people with overexposure.”
“Ah, but the sun flatters you, mon cher” Francis murmured, softer now, his gaze fixed. The light caught Arthur in a way that struck him like a revelation—his pale skin gilded, his long, light lashes bright against his cheeks, the wind tugging faint strands of fair hair free. Something in Francis’s chest stirred, a new idea forming even as he drank in the sight.
Before England could press toward the gardens, France caught his hand. “Before that, come with me a moment.”
England blinked. “What now?” He frowned in mild confusion but let himself be guided into the cobbled heart of the little village, where a scattering of stalls stood open in the square. France walked with purpose, glancing only once at England’s face, still warmed by the sun as if it had been painted there.
At last, he slowed before a small stall set up on the corner. Hats of every sort hung in neat rows: straw boaters, wide-brimmed sunhats with ribbons, soft linen caps meant for the season. The air was rich with the mingled scents of fabric and wicker, warmed by the sunlight.
France turned to England, his eyes alight with both mischief and tenderness. “If we are to wander in the gardens,” he said, “we cannot allow the sun to steal you from me.”
England narrowed his eyes. “You’re not seriously—”
“Oh, but I am.” France reached closer to the stall, brushing his fingers over the woven brim. “Besides, we must find something that lets me look at you without fearing you will turn the colour of a boiled lobster, Lapin.”
The other man huffed, though the corner of his mouth was already twitching. “You dragged me away from Monet’s gardens for this?”
“Mais oui,” France replied, utterly unrepentant. “Some things are worth a detour.”
England shook his head, but his smile betrayed him.
The stall was shaded by a striped awning; its counter crowded with rows of straw hats. A middle-aged woman stood behind, arranging the brim of a straw hat with practiced hands. When she looked up, her eyes lit with recognition.
“Francis!” she exclaimed, her face brightening. “Mon Dieu, ça fait trop longtemps! J’ai presque cru que tu nous avais oubliés ici!”
England, hanging back a half-step, watched as France leaned forward with the ease of an old acquaintance. His voice was warm, familiar, as though he belonged entirely in this little square.
“Jamais, chère amie,” Francis replied, his smile luminous. “La vie me tient bien trop occupé. Mais ça fait plaisir de te revoir, et par une si belle journée.”
England inclined his head politely, standing just a pace behind, content to let France have his reunion. But the woman’s sharp gaze slid to him with curiosity, and her brows lifted in open interest.
“Et qui est,” she asked kindly, “ce jeune homme charmant que tu as amené avec toi?”
England’s ears heated before Francis even opened his mouth.
“This,” Francis said proudly, gesturing with a graceful sweep of his hand and stepping aside so the woman could see him properly, “is Arthur—my fiancé. He comes from England.”
England’s face went pink, his lips parting in a half-hearted protest, but under the woman’s kind smile there was no use in fighting it. He cleared his throat and managed, in careful French, “Bonjour, madame,” his accent touched with a crispness that made Francis’s grin broaden. “Vous avez de très beaux chapeaux.”
The woman’s expression softened. “Oh, merci. What lovely manners!”
England ducked his head in thanks, though his blush deepened. Behind him, Francis practically glowed and slipped an arm around his shoulders, giving him a little squeeze, unable to resist gloating.
The stall woman chuckled, amused at the pair of them. “Alors, shall we find a hat for him, Francis?”
France began picking up hats, holding them against Arthur’s head, tilting them, turning them. A wide-brimmed, floppy straw one fell onto Arthur’s shoulders, making him grimace. “Well,” he muttered, “I look like a farmer in this.”
“Charming,” Francis said, pretending to consider it seriously. “Very… rustic. But perhaps not you.”
Next came a taller, ornate straw hat with an extravagant lavender ribbon. England raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking.”
“Only slightly,” Francis said, stifling a laugh. “Though the ribbon does match your eyes…”
Before France could even try to put on him a larger hat, full of laces and ribbons, it was England who reached for another one— simple, unadorned, a classic straw with a modest brim. He rolled it over in his hands. “… I like this one,” he said, showing it to France.
The woman nodded approvingly. “Ah, yes! Very elegant, timeless. A wise choice.”
France gave England a squeeze of his shoulder, grinning as he whispered, “Parfait, merci!” He paid for the hat and immediately placed it on top of the younger man’s head.
However, France’s expression shifted almost instantly. His eyes widened, a sparkle lighting them up, and he kneeled down, arms open.
“Buton!” he exclaimed, voice full of delight.
England blinked, momentarily confused. “What—?”
From beneath the stall awning, a tiny white French dog appeared, its fur gleaming in the soft sunlight. It trotted toward Francis with surprising confidence, tail wagging. France ran his fingers through the dog’s fluffy coat.
England’s confusion melted into amusement as he stepped closer. The dog’s little paws brushed against his legs, and he instinctively reached out, stroking behind its delicate ears. “Good boy,” he murmured, his voice gentle.
The dog let out a tiny, happy bark, pressing its head into England’s hand before circling back to France, only to return again to Arthur, seeking affection from both. The woman behind the stall chuckled warmly. “Ah, you remember him well, Francis,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice. “And he senses you both like pets.”
After greeting the woman and leaving the stall, France slid an arm around England’s waist, leaning down to murmur just for him, “You make me fall in love with you all over again when you speak French.”
England scoffed playfully. “Don’t make a habit of it.” But he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips; he felt the warmth of France beside him, and a lightness in his chest he hadn’t realized he’d missed so much.
The moment they left the little village behind, hand in hand, the path leading to the gardens of Giverny opened before them like a promise. Arthur’s eyes immediately brightened, sparkling as he breathed in the floral scent with visible delight.
“My God… it’s even more beautiful than I remembered,” he murmured, letting go of France’s hand for a brief moment to run his fingers lightly over the wrought iron gate as they passed. “Look at those tulips—so vivid! And the daffodils… they’re at the perfect stage of bloom.”
France followed, quietly amused and utterly captivated by the intensity in England’s gaze. He had always known how much he loved flowers and plants, but seeing him here, brought a slow smile to his lips.
The sunlight caught the willows, dusting them in a golden warmth that seemed to make the moment almost fragile in its perfection.
“I can tell the difference between the varieties you have in your garden back home,” England continued matter-of-factly, almost in a rush, stopping near a cluster of deep purple irises. He knelt slightly, examining them with reverent attention. “Mine… they rarely bloom like this. Too much rain for them. Always too much.” His tone held a faint wistfulness, and France, feeling a protective warmth, reached out, brushing his thumb over Arthur’s knuckles.
“You can always come back here,” France said gently, voice low, as if sharing a secret. “Whenever you want.”
England looked up, eyes softening, and allowed France to take his hand again. “I think I might have to,” he said, chuckling.
But it was soon after that Arthur knelt by a patch of violets, murmuring their names, brushing a delicate finger over the tiny petals. Francis watched with a mix of amusement and mild exasperation.
“Angleterre,” he called, voice clipped but warm, “we’ve only just arrived. You’ve already stopped at half a dozen flower beds.”
England looked up, green eyes sparkling. “I… I just can’t help it! Look at these! They’re so lovely! And—oh! —these leaves, do you see the pattern? Exquisite.”
France pinched the bridge of his nose, suppressing a laugh. “Yes, I see. And I’m sure the flowers are thrilled to have your undivided attention, but perhaps—just perhaps—we could… move on?”
England’s gaze flitted toward him, a mischievous tilt in his smile. “Move on? Yes, so I’ll be able to observe those red ones over there.” He dashed toward a bloom before the other man could reply.
They wandered further into the gardens, Arthur pointing out each flower with the intimacy of someone who knew every nuance: the delicate shading of a camellia, the subtle fragrance of the hyacinths, the intricate curling of a bud yet to bloom. He recounted stories of plants in his own garden—ones that had survived the winter, ones that had struggled but grown with the relentless rain, ones he had coaxed from tiny seeds only to have them stubbornly refuse to thrive. France listened, content to follow him, quietly revelling in every word, every gesture, every small smile that played across the other nation’s lips.
“Your roses,” England said, stopping to kneel by a particularly elegant row, “they remind me of the ones I always grow in Cornwall.”
France’s hand found his again, fingers entwining naturally with Arthur’s. “I’m sure yours in Cornwall are magnifique as well.”
“I like to think my faeries sometimes help my garden along, sprinkling a bit of magic when I can’t get the weather right or when I’m away,” England added, pensive.
Francis smiled, marvelling at how completely absorbed Arthur could become, how the smallest details—like a curled leaf or a hidden bud—could ignite joy in him. When the younger spoke, it was with quiet passion, his hands gesturing toward petals and leaves as if describing treasured things. And Francis, walking silently beside him, felt a swell of tenderness that left him speechless.
England had stopped again. This time it was at a hibiscus. “Ah, these… these actually do really well back home,” he chuckled, a little triumphant, “My so-called dull weather suits them better, it seems.”
Huffing amused, France lingered a few steps behind, arms folded, watching with a helpless smile. For the fifth time in ten minutes, Arthur had forgotten entirely that he was supposed to be walking. He hovered over the flowers as though they were old friends he had just rediscovered.
“Mon Dieu…” France finally muttered, his voice caught between mock exasperation and laughter. “At this rate, we shall still be at the entrance by sunset.”
England straightened, shooting him a glare that was far too softened by the faint flush of delight in his cheeks. “You brought me here. You knew what would happen.”
“Oui, mon coeur, I knew,” France admitted, stepping closer, hands slipping into his pockets. “But I had hoped I might receive at least some attention.”
Arthur rolled his eyes, brushing a fingertip lightly against a rose petal. “You’re competing with roses, Francis. They’re difficult rivals.”
Francis feigned a dramatic sigh, pressing a hand to his heart. “I am jealous of flowers. Do you know how that wounds my pride?”
England chuckled under his breath and moved on to the next cluster of blooms. Francis followed, watching him crouch low to examine tiny violets that had crept along the path, his sweater pulled slightly across his shoulders.
France bent down suddenly, his voice low and teasing in his ear. “Perhaps I should lie down among the flowers and see if you would gaze at me so tenderly, lapin.”
England gave a startled laugh, but then leaned in and caught him in an intimate, unguarded kiss to his lips. France froze in surprise, eyes melting almost instantly, his heart soaring. When they drew back, his smile was radiant and, unable to resist, he reached up and carefully tucked a stray lock of Arthur’s hair back beneath the hat. Still not satisfied, he leaned forward and left a quick, warm kiss to the side of his neck. He hadn’t seen England this alive and purely light-hearted in months, if not years—his eyes bright, his voice softened with wonder, his whole body leaning into the life of the garden. Exasperating as it was to be neglected for roses and violets, France would not have traded this moment for the world.
Time seemed to pass in quiet wonder. They walked on, sometimes hand in hand, sometimes with Arthur trailing just slightly behind to study a particularly unusual bloom, always returning to France with an excited breath, a sparkling smile.
Of course, England lingered at every unusual bloom, every perfectly arranged patch, sometimes crouching to inspect a delicate sprig of lavender or trailing his fingers over the leaves of a creeping vine. France followed, a gentle, indulgent presence.
“See this?” Arthur exclaimed, pointing to a cluster of peonies. “I had one just like this last year. It refused to open fully until late June.” He looked up at France, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with happiness. “I’ve never… I’ve never seen them so vibrant.”
France’s gaze softened, tracing the pale line of England’s jaw, the way his hands moved so delicately, reverently. He closed his eyes, sighing in satisfaction. “You were meant to come here and see them like this, then.”
Eventually their wandering slowed, the path curving toward the famous pond. The air grew stiller here, softened by the rustle of willow branches trailing like loose hair into the water. The lilies were not yet awake—only the broad green pads beginning to stir beneath the surface, hinting at what would come in the warmer months.
England stood at the edge, his reflection rippling faintly beside the bowed curtain of branches. His hands rested on the wooden rail, eyes travelling across the water. “It feels… quieter here,” he murmured. “I’m very glad you brought me here, France.” He glanced at him, who was watching him with a sort of quiet triumph. Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t look so smug, Frog. You’ll only ruin it.”
Francis chuckled, linking their fingers together with unhurried ease. “I am allowed to be smug when I have planned well.”
France let him linger at the pond a little longer, until, with a gentle squeeze of his hand, he drew him back toward the path. “There is still something else I must show you,” he said, his tone carrying that deliberate lightness England knew too well—half tease, half mystery. England raised an eyebrow, but allowed himself to be led by the hand. The winding path opened onto Monet’s pink house, but Arthur had no time to take it all in before Francis opened a door to the dining room.
A small table for two had been set near the window overlooking the gardens, dressed with linen and set with delicate porcelain cups. In the centre stood a tiered tray stacked with confections: pastel-coloured macarons, glossy fruit tarts, slices of mille-feuille layered with cream, dainty finger sandwiches so carefully arranged. A silver teapot steamed gently beside them, releasing a fragrant curl of vanilla.
England blinked, his throat tight. “You—prepared all this?” His voice carried that rare, unguarded softness he tried so hard to hide.
“Mais oui. An afternoon tea—à la française.”
England turned his head slightly. “You actually thought of everything.”
“Of course,” France murmured, “After three months without you…”
“You—this is…” England broke off, shaking his head in disbelief, and let out a breathless laugh. “Bloody perfect.”
Francis stood behind him, arms folding lightly around his slim waist, chin brushing against Arthur’s shoulder. “I thought you might enjoy a taste of both our worlds,” he murmured, brushing his lips against his warm skin in a kiss. “Tea for you, pâtisserie for me. An afternoon for us alone.” Then he moved in front of him, closing the space between them, and kissed him deeply. It was slow and unhurried, lips moving with a tenderness that stole England’s breath. When they finally parted, it was only by the tiniest fraction, their foreheads still brushing, breaths mingling. England’s chest rose and fell with awe and longing, and France’s eyes sparkled with quiet delight, savouring the moment like a painter admiring his finest work.
Once settled at the table, Arthur eagerly reached for the teapot that France had just heated. The tray was examined with the scrutiny of a general surveying troops. He lifted a cucumber sandwich and bit into it with an air of great seriousness. Francis rested his chin on his hand, openly amused, waiting for his response.
After a long pause, England sniffed. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” France echoed, affronted. “Mon amour, these are divine. I had them prepared especially.”
England allowed the smallest smirk. “They’d be better with scones.”
France let out a scandalized gasp, as though the very foundations of French cuisine had been insulted. “Scones? At Monet’s table?”
“Yes,” England said primly, taking another bite. “Scones, jam, cream. But—” he sipped his tea, eyes slipping closed for a moment in appreciation— “I suppose I’ll forgive you. The tea is done quite well… all considered.”
France’s blue eyes glinted. “All considered? If I were not already your fiancé, I would have to seduce you all over again with these pastries.” He plucked a macaron from the tray and held it out with exaggerated flourish. “Here. Open your mouth and taste perfection.”
England rolled his eyes but leaned forward, tasting the macaron from Francis’s fingers with a bite. The sweetness melted on his tongue, and despite himself, his lips curved.
“Indeed, not bad,” he repeated, softer this time.
France leaned across the table, stealing a quick kiss that still managed to taste faintly of sugar. “Better than scones,” he murmured against Arthur’s mouth.
England sulked. “Never.”
The other man laughed. “Well, tea for my Englishman, pastries for me. A perfect union, non, mon cher?” he said, watching him with another macaroon in his hand.
Smirking, England lifted his cup. “I’ll drink to that.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the ticking of the clock and the faint rustle of the garden through the open window. Arthur glanced down at his cup, then back at Francis in front of him.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For all of this. It’s… it’s been the perfect day.”
Francis reached across the table, threading his fingers through Arthur’s as they rested against the porcelain. “And it is only the beginning, mon cœur.”
By the time they returned to France’s house, the last threads of sunlight were slipping behind the hills. Arthur spotted the baggage he had abandoned by the door that morning and dropped it in the hallway with a muttered sigh. The national work of the previous days, the too early flight and the long hours of walking in the gardens had caught up with him. His shoulders sagged as he set the baggage aside, and though Francis still smiled, he felt the weight of the day pressing on him as well. And when England stifled yet another yawn, blinking heavily against the pull of his eyelids, Francis let out a soft chuckle. “You look exactly like a sleepy lapin,” he teased with fondness, then tilted his head with a mischievous smile. “Or perhaps a puppy—tired, but far too endearing for me to resist.”
The younger man shot him a glare that didn’t carry much heat, and France laughed, drawing closer. “Come,” he murmured more sweetly, fingers brushing Arthur’s elbow as he steered him toward the bathroom. “Let’s have a bath first, hm? Then we can rest.”
Arthur rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, a half-hearted attempt to reply that he wasn’t that tired, but eventually he didn’t argue.
Within minutes, steam had begun to curl upward from the wide tub, the faint scent of lavender oils mingling with the clean brightness of warm water. England tugged off his sweater and the rest with unceremonious movements, France slower, folding his clothes. Their eyes caught once or twice, the soft familiarity between them filled the silence more than words could.
They sank into the large bath together, England settled against the porcelain back, sighing as the heat seeped into his tired limbs. Francis slid in front of him, nestling between Arthur’s legs, his naked back resting comfortably against Arthur’s chest. Letting out a contented breath, he tilted his head slightly back.
Then, England reached for the small porcelain dish beside the bath, dipping his fingers into the fragrant lather. It was almost natural for his hands to move instinctively to the other man’s shoulders, kneading lightly, before slipping upward into the familiar silk of his hair. He had always envied France’s long hair, when they were kids. His touch was precise yet delicate, as though afraid to pull too harshly.
France hummed, low and pleased, eyes fluttering closed. “Mm, Angleterre… I could get used to this.” His voice was a drowsy murmur, softened by pleasure.
England’s fingertips moved gently, massaging, coaxing the shampoo through. When he reached a small knot, his hand hesitated. He worked it slowly apart with his fingers, frowning in concentration frowning slightly as he worked it loose. France chuckled under his breath. “Even you are not immune to my tangles, hm?”
“Hold still,” England muttered, though his lips quirked despite himself. With patience, he teased the locks apart until they fell smooth once more. Satisfied, he rinsed the hair, water running clear, and smoothed it back from Francis’s face with lingering care, who let out a sigh. “Perfect,” England whispered. Nuzzling a little closer, his fingers traced idle patterns over the curve of Francis’s neck. The soft, contented hum that rose from the Frenchman made him smile against the skin, the sound of happiness and ease wrapping around him like a blanket.
When France lifted one wet hand and caught England’s wrist, pressing a kiss into the skin just above his pulse, England stilled. After a beat, he shifted slightly, resting his head against France’s shoulder with a quieter breath.
“Is something wrong?” Francis asked gently.
Arthur shook his head. “I love you,” he said—simple, sincere, carrying months of longing and the relief of being together at last.
France went quiet for a moment, his heart giving a small thump at the warmth in the words. He leaned back just a little more, letting himself rest fully against the younger man’s chest, and allowed the quiet to enfold them both. Then, he shifted, tilting his head back just enough to meet Arthur’s gaze—that emerald shade he had adored since the eighth century—and captured his lips in a kiss.