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Francis kept his hands in his pockets as he strolled behind De Gaulle, attention split between the man in front of him and the tranquil waves of the Gironde estuary opening into the Atlantic.
The general was panicked, that much was obvious. Hair askew by the wind and narrowed eyes scanning the sky for his escape route, he was the perfect image of a man on the run. Francis, if he had felt more beyond the rattled hollow void he felt currently, may have used some more poetic imagery but right now, he was too wrung with grief and trepidation to do much more than stand and stare.
His own coat, a bitter remainder of the Great War, whipped around him. Its muted grey-green mixed in with the soft grass of the airfield they were stood in, blurring into one in the corners of his vision. He could almost smell the wet mud of Passchendaele and feel the slide of it under his feet.
The weight of everything was almost too much for him; the memories, the new war and the thin hope of peace that had dwindled quickly into nothing. Memories of the Somme and the shaky lighting of a cigarette shared between him and Arthur and the polished feeling of a gun under his hands lingered over his shoulders like an invisible weight that felt like it was pulling him down to his near-grave.
Another ghost loomed before him.
Its presence was heavy, invisible to De Gaulle and anyone else who would be standing with them but clear as day to Francis. He could imagine the chalk cliffs of Dover, even from here, in Bordeaux, gleaming white under the weak sun and laying sweet and still across the Manche.
A lapping wave of grief washed over him, nauseating and sickly sweet.
“Notre avion.” De Gaulle cut through his musing and he supressed a cringe at the word ‘our’. A sharp nod to the sky, where a plane in a colour not dissimilar to his overcoat, came gliding gently down to the ground, some distance down the airfield. An Arvo Anson, he noted idly, biting his inner cheek.
The general immediately started toward the plane and Francis followed in the same sedated, detached pace which had followed him since the breach at the Maginot line.
The pilot jumped out of the cockpit to look around and suddenly, any air in his lungs ceased to exist.
The unfocused, nonchalance was swept away in the winds and the everything returned into almost dizzying clarity. The world that had been blurred in the edges sharpened into focus. His sight narrowed onto the figure clad in green, Arthur fucking Kirkland in the flesh and he pushed past De Gaulle to dart to him, ignoring any shouts of shock the general produced.
“What are you doing here?” He hissed. Francis looked Arthur up and down, cataloguing any changes that may have occurred during their separation.
Arthur’s cheeks were red from the flying and his hair, even under the aviator hat, looked windswept. He looked tired, but so did the rest of them. In fact, he was probably faring better than some of the others. Emma’s quietly determined face, undereyes marred with the smudges of sleepless nights and her shaky, shaky hands, flashed in his mind.
“What do you think I’m here for? Sightseeing?” Arthur’s incredulous tone snapped back. “I volunteered because I am the last person who is going to rat you and this general out and God only knows how many spies Germany has and where they all are.”
Francis didn’t really have much to say to that. All he could really do was turn to his general and tell him to place his items in the plane and be ready to leave soon.
Arthur watched the proceedings with quiet interest before turning to face him fully when De Gaulle disappeared into the plane.
“So,” He started, gesturing slightly to Francis’ feet, and the lack of luggage surrounding them. “Where is all your stuff?”
“Nowhere,” he shrugged simply. “I’m not going.”
“What?”
“I said, I’m not going with De Gaulle. Do you need to get your hearing checked?”
“Fuck off. Why the hell not?”
Francis let out a harsh breath, looking out at the rolling fields of green where the small beginnings of a coastal town were visible. He didn’t know what expression Arthur was pulling nor did he want to know. “I have a duty to my people, Arthur. I cannot just leave whenever I want. Not when I can help them.”
“Paris is gone, Francis.” A sharp pain struck his chest, but he did not move his eyes from the Gironde estuary and willed the waves to sooth his aching heart. “Germany has it. I doubt it would be long before more land taken. What use is there waiting and hiding when you can be more use in London?”
Be more use with me.
It hung unsaid between the two, sharp and heavy, but neither of them had time for frivolous sentimentalities right now. Not during a war. France was here to make sure De Gaulle made it and then leave and join his people.
“I can’t.” He muttered, turning to look back at him. “I can’t leave.”
“You can leave. That’s the whole fucking point I’m here.” Arthur hissed.
“And if I told you to do the same? If the roles were reversed, would you?”
That made Arthur pause.
They were at an impasse, neither willing to move on their opinion. Francis knew, however, that Arthur would cave. Not because it was Francis and not because he had some sort of deep love for the French people but because Arthur knew what it was like to care for their citizens. Tragedy would strike them again and again and every part of them will long to help their people, to soothe their pains and ease the struggles any way they can. So, when Arthur’s face softened ever so slightly, Francis knew he had won.
“Fine. Fuck it, whatever.” Arthur shrugged, jerking awkwardly in some aborted motion, half turning to the plane and half leaning closer to Francis.
He swallowed a lump in his throat at the action and tried not to dwell too much on it.
The countdown was beginning.
Their time was quickly running out.
Soon, Arthur would depart for London, De Gaulle in tow. Francis would be left on the fields of windy, beloved Bordeaux; knee deep in uncertainty and resignation. Clueless and with no plan, he could only bask the drawn-out silence that hung heavy between them. He could almost imagine it to be comforting. Permanent, not ephemeral.
He studied Arthur for a minute and watched Arthur study him right back.
Sometimes, despite their bloody fights and endless wars, Francis was thankful that it had all been with Arthur. Fighting on the same side of a war was novel, hesitant and faltering like a fawn taking its first steps, but he found that he did not mind it at all.
As if pulled in by some invisible string, he leaned in slight and revelled in the fact that Arthur mirrored the action.
The salty air breezed in between them and Francis thought once more of white Dover and sandy Calais. Tentatively, he hoped that Arthur was thinking of it too.
Arthur was close; close enough for Francis to reach out and touch. Maybe he could extend his hand and push up the flaps of the aviator hats to cup his face. Maybe Arthur would draw in even closer to him.
Arthur and Francis. Far off Calais and a distant Dover. Close but never touching, always stuck in an endless orbit around each other. In this brief moment of stillness, though, they were just close enough to-
Arthur moved back and Francis snapped back to reality.
He scanned his face, but Arthur wasn't looking at him anymore. He was looking up at De Gaulle who was just leaving the plane, presumably to tell Arthur he was finished and Francis supressed an irritated sigh.
He watched Arthur and the man share a couple words, in broken English and then fluent French. The man then nodded and ducked back in to strap himself in and prepare for the flight to Jersey, then onwards to London.
“Keep him safe, will you?” Francis eventually sighed. “For me.”
“Of course.”
Francis savoured the sight of Arthur one last time; absorbing the windswept, ruddy cheeks and the warm green eyes he wouldn’t see for another couple years now, if fortune fell in their favour.
A cold disc was pressed into his hands and his hand immediately closed around it, gripping it tight. He didn’t need to open his hand to see what it was.
They exchanged short, polite goodbyes while Francis tried to not feel like his chest was collapsing in on itself.
Francis stood to the side and watched as the plane started moving, quicker and quicker until it was airborne, off his land and en route to England.
A long, sad sigh finally escaped him as he finally opened his hand and looked down at the dog-tag Arthur had pressed into his hand, worn and muddy from all those years ago. He rubbed a delicate thumb over the embossed lettering.
A. Kirkland.
They would meet again soon; he was sure of that like he was sure that the sky was blue. They always found their way back into each other's orbit in the end.
This, Francis decided quietly as he turned to walk back to the city, would work in the meantime.