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The sky is grey and the clouds are heavy, threatening to fill and burst out icy rain which turns flakey and white before falling down to the barren earth. Arthur’s horse’s hooves clop heavily on the frozen ground, snapping brittle twigs and crunching shriveled leaves which cover the path, unattended for months. The horse’s gear and reins clink in sharp little bursts with each step of the animal. A steady rhythm.
His dark brown, woolen coat is pulled right around his cravat to keep out the chill and his dark, bloodstained tricorne hat is pulled down over his reddened ears. They are just as cold and windburnt his face from hours of travel in the chill.
He knows he will be arriving soon, he’s traveled this path many, many times—alrhough it’s been quite a few years since his last visit to the location. The fences that border once lush and well-kept fields now slump with rot. The color has drained from everything, though perhaps it will be better when the sun is out tomorrow.
He slows his horse to a slow trot on the dirt road which leads up to the house. He has less than half a mile to go now. He examines the dust on the ground, perhaps expecting to see small footprints in it like he used to. Good lord, he thinks I’m becoming a sentimental old sap. Chin up, Arthur. Chin up.
He lifts his head and instead focuses on the old stone house coming into view. The window boxes which used to hold such extravagant flowers now only house sad, yellow-black sticks. The rose bush by the door has withered in the cold, no blooms in sight. It has become a tangle of brown crumpled foliage and thorns.
Arthur pulls his horse to a stop in front of the house. In the winter, the darkness comes quickly and already he can feel relief setting in that he’s arrived before the light has a chance to slip out from under him. It will be dark in just an hour or two.
There is no sliver of light from underneath the closed shutters, no familiar plume of smoke from the chimney. There is no faint scent of warm, inviting food wafting through the freezing air, there is not even a creak or a scuffle telling him someone was inside.
Is he asleep? He wonders, carefully throwing his leg over his horse and grabbing her reins, approaching the door slowly. Is he even home? Did he move? He shakes that thought out of his head. Francis wouldn’t move without gloating about a grand new house, without hosting a party to show it off. If he wasn’t at the palace, he wouldn’t have anywhere to go but here, Arthur reasons. He refuses to acknowledge the chance that Francis is, perhaps, dead.
He swallows thickly, ties his horse’s reins loosely to a nearby tree. The thing is skinny and twiggy and may just break in two if the horse decides to bolt, but she seems content to simply put her mighty head down and nibble on the dried foliage.
Arthur approaches the door, smoothed by time and hands like caramel with a similar color to it. He raps on the door three times, sharply, militaristically. He clears his dry throat a bit before saying, “Anyone home?”
There’s no answer. He pauses with his fist poised to knock again, then tries the handle. The door was unlocked. He let it squeak and shudder open and he peers into the dark house. A shiver runs up his spine.
The place is tidy. It wasn’t always tidy. There used to be trinkets and toys and small clothes all over the furniture, smudges of mud on the walls and floor, little grains and grasses tracked into the house from a long day of work, a trap set for a mouse, charcoal drawings on paper. Schoolbooks.
The smell is of dust and neglect, and Arthur wonders how it can possibly be even colder inside than it is outside. He almost doesn’t want to go in, perhaps something is haunting the place. In fact, he is sure of it. This house is haunted.
The wooden floor squeaks under his boots. He bites his chapped lip in determination. One look over the house, a quick grab of supplies, and then he’ll make camp in the barn with his horse. If Francis isn’t here, then there’s no need to stay inside.
He peers his head to the kitchen on his right, so dark in some corners that he can’t even make it out. He can’t see into the pantry but he imagines there may not be much there. That’s fine, he expected that. The French revolution is hitting its peak right now, there’s nothing for anyone to eat, really. He’s brought his own rations.
As quietly as he can, he walks towards the doors leading to the bedrooms and washrooms, passing through the living room. There sits only two wooden chairs and a coffee table. The green, spectacular settee is gone, perhaps sold, or more likely stolen, if Francis is going around leaving his house unlocked like this. Arthur shakes his head. He doesn’t miss the thing. Gaudy and impractical, is what it was. But so soft. His brain remembers sinking his tired body into the upholstery, drunken and warm and dizzy with Francis.
It’s not the settee itself, he thinks, trying to be logical, I don’t care about that. I just miss when things were simpler. When no one was revolting or trying to become independent or anything…
The thought of independence gives him a jolt of nausea. Long live the king.
He walks right over the spot where the couch used to sit, and notices the scuffs in the wooden floor where each leg would have been. He turns towards the door of the children’s bedroom.
No, the guest bedroom, he corrects himself. No children in this cold place, not anymore.
He will likely never admit that he enjoyed his visits to this house, never admit how he remembers the downy smell of the boy’s bedroom at night, when the window would be opened to let the cool, dewy air flow in and breathe soothing winds over young, sun freckled skin and soft blonde hair. He could recall the sound of crickets softly chirping outside, singing the boys to sleep, the’ quiet hum of an old lullaby from Francis’ throat that Arthur now can’t quite place. It’s very hazy and very warm.
He passes the guest bedroom door without a peek inside. He tells himself he is not curious. He knows it is empty, he does not have to see it.
He does, however, peek into the washroom, the basic washbasin, buckets, lumps of dusty soap. There are cobwebs in the corners. It seems even colder in the washroom than it is outside, and he shuts the door quickly.
Finally he pushes open the door to Francis’s room, and ( if you asked Arthur) the noise he let out was a “manly show of genuine surprise.” He stood by the door with his hand over his mouth, fingers twitching.
A corpse, lying perfectly still and grey in bed. Just a body, he tries to tell himself—Nothing he hadn’t seen before. He just hadn’t been expecting it. He wouldn’t react this way if this had been a battlefield, it’s just that this isn’t the place that the dead are supposed to be in. This place is supposed to stay happy, relaxed, a relic of times long gone. It’s not supposed to be tainted by death–the shock that it has been is what drew the yelp from his throat. That’s all.
He feels his knees shaking just slightly, unable to force himself forward for a few seconds as he breathes as quietly as he possibly can through his nose, inhaling the stale, cold scent of copper and death. The kind of smell that clings to a sick person who knows their time will come soon, not the smell of an already rotting body.
The figure is on his back in bed, covers pulled up past his neck, pillow cradling his pale, ashen face. He is positioned as if he were in a coffin. His blood-caked blonde curls splay out around his head in sad, stuck-together clumps. Scraps of fabric lay around the room, soaked in blood, old and dried and black.
Disgusting. Is all Arthur can think. I’ve got to get a priest in here to bless the place! Absolutely—
Oh god, that’s him, isn’t it? Arthur forces himself to relax, swallows thickly.
“F-Francis?” he attempts, sweat clammy on his skin despite his heavy coat, despite the cold. “Francis, is that you?”
There is barely a stir before the corpse’s eyes flick open, pale blue and cold as the sky outside. They are heavy with sleep and pain and travel around the room lazily before finding Arthur standing in the doorway. Francis’s head doesn’t move position, rooted to the pillow as he stares at Arthur. His throat begins to pulse, his jaw cracking when he opens it. He’s starting to speak. It’s low and gravely and strained.
“Wh..at.Ar.e…you d..oing..here.”
“Well, heard they lopped your head off, came to check on you. You look like shit!” Arthur still doesn’t find his fear completely snuffed. He knows it’s alright, Francis is simply recovering from a death, but so many years living with humans has made the sight of regeneration seem strange and uncanny to him. He is not off put by the sight in front of him for any other reason, he tells himself.
Francis clears his throat, it sounds dry and painful. “Even…with… my head lopped off…still I look better than you,-” a thin smile tugs at his cracked lips. He has dried blood on his chin. He hasn’t moved his head, still faced towards the ceiling, his irises the only thing letting Arthur know that he still has his focus.
“You’re not in any bloody position to talk about…oh, whatever. Do you need water?”
“Yes.” Francis says simply, flicking his eyes back up to the ceiling.
“Alright, I’ll go get my canteen. And don’t sleep like that, you look like a dead man.”
“Only half dead.” Francis argues hoarsely as Arthur turns to bustle out to his horse, who holds all his supplies. He finds her in the same spot, and pulls his heavy bag off her rump. He hauls it inside and sets it by the door, grabbing his canteen from where it’s hooked to the side of the leather.
It’s half empty and likely colder than death, but he bustles back to Francis’s room with it nonetheless. Francis’s eyes are closed again when he enters.
“Oi, wake up.” he says gruffly, approaching the bedside. Francis’s eyes flutter open once more. His arm shifts under his blanket and is pulled out to take the canteen from Arthur’s hands. Their fingertips touch, and Arthur shivers at how cold Francis’s nearly white fingers are. He is reminded of how when a man courts a woman, he will press their white, delicate fingers to his warm lips. Arthur lets go of the water and lets Francis hold onto it, the man taking a good long while to finally lift his other arm out from under the bedspread to uncap it. When the sheets fall away and bunch under his arms, Arthur is graced with the sight of his neck and nearly throws up in his mouth.
The wound is wrapped in a strip of once pale fabric, pulsing, oozing dark blood, so thick and in a constant flow it has soaked through the fabric to the point it is near transparent against the gash. Blood soaks through Francis’ white shirt, covering the mattress under him, his arms, everywhere. Thick, hasty, black stitches can almost be seen through the fabric tied around Francis’ neck, dark like bugs under a layer of thin skin or a catfish in murky waters. The smell of blood and half-dead flesh fills up the space and Arthur looks away.
“Rude.” Francis comments.
“That is disgusting.” Arthur responds, gritting his teeth and looking back, his eyes immediately finding the wound again. “you got your bloody HEAD chopped off!”
Francis’s hands shake as he waterfalls the contents of the canteen between his parted lips. His throat once again pulses, alien and awkward, trying to swallow down the first thing it’s been given in a long time, relearning how to function.
Francis caps the canteen and gives it back to Arthur. “I know. I was there.” he says dryly, his voice still strained but his familiar sound coming back.
“No, I mean, obviously. But that’s—-you ought to clean up.”
“I can barely….I can barely move right now, Arthur. The–” he swallowed, “the pipes and everything are all fine, but my jugular isn’t exactly fixed yet, I can’t move, maybe not for another day… at least not for a few hours…It’ll leak everywhere. I’ve got to—stay still... I imagine without bloodflow I look quite pale, no?” he asked.
“You look like shit! Seriously, like shit. I’ve never seen—” Francis raps Arthur’s thigh with seemingly as much strength as he can, although the touch is barely felt. Shut up, is the message he sends.
“So,” Arthur shifts awkwardly, almost wanting to sit on the bed next to Francis but refusing to look like he’s in some sort of ‘worried state’. He’ll stand at attention like a man. “So what do I do, then?”
“I don’t care.” Francis whispers, his eyes closed again. “I’m cold. Give me time…”
This is the last thing he says before he falls asleep once more. England is sure it’s because he’s recovering from such a terrible death, but finds himself offended at the rudeness of falling asleep mid conversation.
‘I’m cold?’ How cold is he? Arthur reaches out a careful hand and rests it on Francis’s scruffy cheek. You need a shave, is the first thing he thinks, and then Christ, you ARE cold! He pulls his hand away quickly, scared he may wake Francis and need to explain himself. He bites his lip in thought before turning on his heel to rush outside, checking around the side of the house for logs. There’s still a good bit of firewood cut, and he gathers up three logs in his arms, heading to the stove. Afterward he makes a second trip outside, collects dry grass and sticks for kindling.
In his bag of supplies he finds his flint and steel, then crouches by the stove to make furious sparks until the kindling lights in the ashen chamber. He gently blows on the baby flame, nurses it until it can catch a bigger stick, and it’s smooth sailing from there. In less than ten minutes he has a log caught on fire, crackling and lighting the kitchen in a warm orange hue.
Arthur then heads out to the well. He pumps it a few times into the bucket, and frozen chunks slide from the faucet. Thank god it’s not completely frozen, he thinks, carrying the bucket inside to set by the fire. Getting hot, he drapes his coat over a chair in the living room.
Making me do all his housework. I hope he’s happy. He thinks bitterly, glancing over at Francis' room.
He goes out, leads his horse to the barn, where thankfully there are still ample amounts of hay. He makes trips back and forth from the well with a spare bucket to fill the trough, until he’s sure his horse will have enough water for the night. Then he places the filled bucket by the stove, just in case the well freezes and he needs more water.
His horse is covered with a warm blanket and shut in the barn safely before he returns to the house. He finds it still chilly but substantially warmer than it was when he first entered. The sun is starting to get low behind the clouds, shadows creeping deeply into every corner of the house. He finds the oil lamp completely dry and sighs, going around with a small flaming stick, lighting dusty candles around the house to keep the darkness away.
His stomach growls, reminding him that he has to make dinner. He rummages through Francis’ pantry for anything but finds only crumpled paper and a likely century old sausage end, which he doesn’t need because he has his own sausages tucked away in his bag.
Arthur carefully pulls out his supplies; cornmeal powder, a small pan, dried salted pork. Rations have been going back up in quality since the end of his country’s war with America. He is NOT upset about the outcome of that war, thank you very much. If Alfred wants to be alone he can. Arthur has decided he won’t even be mean about it when Alfred comes crying back to him.
He brings his rations over to the stove and pulls a wooden spoon from where they hang on the wall. He spoons some water into the pan and mixes the cornmeal powder in until a small yellow-brown cake forms. Attempting not to burn it, he flips it over before he can smell the smoke.
One cake is finished, golden and warm. Familiar with the layout of everything in the kitchen, he finds the china plates still where they belong, covered in a layer of dust that he wipes off with his shirt. They’re nice plates, if not chipped a tad, painted with a single blue ring around the edge. He takes out one, sets his cornmeal cake on it. Reluctantly, he pulls out a second and begins to stir up another cake in the pan.
Two cakes takes more rations than he’d like, but he knows he’ll still have plenty of food to make it back to England even if all the cornmeal is used up, and if worst comes to worst, he doesn’t even really need to eat, anyway, body running purely off of a strange, supernatural magic. Not that that would feel good at all, he’d still feel hungry and tired, but he could do it if he needed to.
Arthur cuts two chunks of salt pork off and sets them on the plates, leaning back and nodding proudly at the dinner he’s made. Francis ought to thank him, grovel even, for this one.
He struts over through the now candlelit house to Francis’ bedroom, which has grown darker without the natural light coming in from the shutters. Francis lies in the same position Arthur left him in, face up, pale and ghostly against the shadows.
“Francis.” Arthur speaks.
A low groan sounds from the bed. “Ughh, must you wake me?”
“Dinner.” Arthur says, almost shy, waiting in the doorway.
“You cooked without burning the place down?” Francis rasps playfully.
“If you’re going to be ungrateful you’re uninvited from joining me.” Arthur crosses his arms.
“Why can’t you just bring the food to me? I told you, my neck will leak everywhere!”
“It’s good to get up and move, you know, you can’t just laze around forever. It’s fifteen times warmer out there, the heat will do you good.”
“If you insist, you’ll have to help me up.” Francis reaches out a pale hand, fingers stretched out.
“You smell like death,” Arthur groans, but approaches anyway.
“Probably because I died, you idiot.” Francis says, but manages to lift himself up on shaky hands, sitting up in bed. “hold on, ‘old on,” he breathes, reaching up to cradle his neck. A sick oozing sound can be heard, even from where Arthur stands at the bedside. “Ohh, I don’t feel well…” Francis whispers. “Hand me a cloth to tie around—”
“You’ve already got one—” Arthur says.
“I need a second. If my head falls off now…goodness, you’ll have to stitch it back on yourself!” Francis says, his voice breathy and tired.
A shiver travels up Arthur’s spine at the thought, and he grabs a bloodstained strip of fabric from the floor between his thumb and forefinger, holding it out to Francis meekly. Francis takes it, wraps it around the first strip and over the stitches twice and then ties it on the side of his neck, the knot over where his jugular should be healing.
He reaches a bloody hand out to Arthur again, who gingerly takes his arm in support, and god he is cold to the touch. So deathly cold. The sick smell of his bloodstained skin reminds Arthur of an embalmed corpse—something strong, chemical and fake behind the copper and rot. Perhaps the smell of the magic which stitched Francis’ tissues back together even now, perhaps the pungence of expensive perfume that still clung to him after the beheading.
Francis leaned heavily on Arthur as they made their way out to the warm kitchen, his bloodstained shirt rubbing up against Arthur’s pristine white one as their shoulders and sides brushed, too close for comfort, but too comfortable to ever bring up once the night ends. The hand not gripping onto Arthur is reached up to support his fragile neck again.
Arthur leans Francis against the wall as he rushes to drag a chair close to the stove. Francis doesn’t make a comment, lets Arthur help him into the seat, facing the stove. His eyes and face and bloodstained skin and clothes all light up in the warm glow. He’s not as close to death as he seemed before. Arthur resists the urge to reach up and swipe away the trickle of blood that creeps down his neck from below the fabric. Francis lets out a sigh, as if the tension and pain in his body have melted like butter in the heat of the stove.
Arthur hands him a plate, refuses to meet his eyes. He will not look, a red hot sort of fear keeps his face turned away from Francis, towards the blazing fire.
Their hands brush once more. It is like a knife blade kissing his fingers. He quickly pulls away.
“So skittish,” Francis comments. “Embarrased of your cooking? I won’t judge.”
“This is fine dining compared to anything you’d make,” Arthur shoves the corn dodger into his mouth, takes a big crumbling bite. He drops himself down on the floor next to Francis with a scowl, his plate on top of his folded knees.
“There is a second chair,” Francis comments.
“Shut up and eat.”
His head is about Francis’ hip in height where he sits beside him, and if he were to lean over, he could easily rest his head on Francis’s lap. Just to describe the position, he wasn’t planning on doing anything so repulsive. The thought barely crosses his mind, in fact.
“Water?” Francis asks between bites, Arthur hands him the canteen.
“Was it…was it that bad? The guillotine?” Arthur asks him when he hands it back.
“It was over in a flash. It didn't even hurt.” Francis responded. “Not until I could get my head back on—then the nerves began to grow back, and you know how that is,”
“No.” Arthur says bluntly. “I don’t.”
“You’d like to give it a go, huh? Go to Paris dressed in jewels or royal blues and your pretty head will be kissing the lunette in no time.”
“I’d never be so pompous to begin with.” Arthur scoffs, letting the salt pork dissolve on his tongue, burning with salt and tasting of blood and animal fat. Pretty. Pretty. Pretty. The word circles in his head a moment. Insulting, really, that he ought to refer to me in such a feminine way. Calling me pretty, who does he think he is?
They are quiet for a good long while. Francis is usually so quick to complain, but he doesn’t say a word about the less than delicious food. The fire crackles and Arthur gets up to add another log to the stove.
“I’ll have to cut more wood tomorrow.” he irritatedly comments, almost under his breath.
“How long do you plan on staying?” Francis’s voice is equally as quiet, almost hopeful.
“I’m not making a plan. Just get yourself together, frog.” Arthur says, noncommittal. This isn’t the same as it was 100 some years ago. He has no reason to stick around longer with the excuse to let the boys see each other another week, no explanation for why he wants to stay and help Francis without the responsibility of children. Perhaps he wants to see Francis get better so they could feel like equals again, so he didn’t feel like a cheater for attacking a man while he was down. Maybe things just seem off balance with Francis out of commission like this.
“You could at least call me froggy, that’d be cuter.” Francis teases, and when Arthur looks at him, there is a new light returning to his stormy blue eyes. The second cloth around his neck is almost soaked through again and the skin of his face is still grey and dull but he isn’t looking quite as bad as before. Something’s different. Perhaps the company has made him feel better.
“It’s not a pet name, it’s an insult. You’re daft, seriously daft.” Arthur shakes his head, taking Francis’ empty plate and putting it with his on the counter after brushing off the crumbs with his shirt. “You should get back into bed.” He commands, without looking at Francis. “The sooner you heal, the sooner I can leave.”
“It’s cold in bed. I’d rather stay out here…” Francis responds.
Arthur sighs. “Do you have a warming pan?”
“Only back in the palace.” Francis says, his voice wistful. “I didn't have time to come here with anything but my head…couldn’t even grab my silks, my linens…”
“You are such an arrogant man. You’re lucky you were able to find your head.” Arthur turns around and kicks him lightly in the calf. “And how did you arrive? Surely not by foot!”
“I had a servant bring me on Horseback. He was supposed to stay here, but he began to grow hungry without food, so I let him head back to Paris. He was a good man, you don’t find servants quite so good in these modern times.” Francis sighs heavily. “I’m lucky for you.”
“Never insinuate again that I’m your servant.” Arthur looks down at the man in the chair in front of him, who tilts his head up to meet Arthur’s eyes. Large, dark pupils stare up at him through silvery blonde lashes, clumped together with blood. Arthur blocks the light of the stove behind them, casting a shadow over Francis’s figure. Francis doesn’t respond, just lifts his thin hand and places it, ever so gently, on Arthur’s hip. His touch is featherlight and cold, his fingertips neither tremble nor falter as he strokes his nails down to the middle of Arthur’s thigh, where he rests his hand. He doesn’t break eye contact. The words are not spoken, but they lay thick in the air. You’re as good as a servant; you would do anything I asked you to.
Goosebumps travel down Arthur’s skin under his breeches. His back grows warmer and warmer from the fire behind him, the heat travels down the back of his thighs, his calves, his neck. He can not break eye contact, can not admit defeat.
Would I? Is the question he attempts to ask with his gaze; defiant, pressing. Not a breath escapes from his lungs. Although he is in a position of perceived authority, higher up, physically able, he begins to question if he’s ever truly had power here. That scares him a bit. His hands ache to throttle Francis, to dig into the wound still bubbling on his neck and rip through the stitches until that dull, pale, gorgeous head detached once more. His face warms with anger—that’s what it is. Anger, fluttering in his stomach, making him ill, anger. The need to show this Frenchman HE is the one in power here. The self righteousness claws at him, makes it impossible for him to break the gaze, the tension. Turning away means admitting defeat.
Have five seconds passed since Francis' hand went to his thigh? Ten? He needs to prove he’s in charge. He needs to prove his superiority. He has to. Has to claw, bite, struggle his way out of the impending submission. But what he has to do is irrelevant, because deep down Arthur knows he is not such a beast, he is not the kind of mouse who bites into the cat’s exposed paw pads over and over again until it is freed from cruel claws, no matter how his government wants him to be.
Time and time again he finds his belly exposed, his tail between his legs, his armies fighting desperately against an oppressing force but his own weapon sheathed. He felt this way every time he found Alfred at the end of his bayonet. He had been unwilling to push forward, feet planted, body rigid, not able to fight to keep what he wanted.
What had he even wanted?
There was a short time– Arthur couldn’t quite put a finger on when, and if he could, he wouldn’t-– where he felt that things were as he wanted them to be. Tea in the morning, deer grazing out in the distant fog, the children’s quiet snoring. Getting respect, giving respect, going to bed at a reasonable hour, except on weekends. Desert wine, thick and delicious down his throat, tipsy chess games and limbs draped over a moss green settee, too close for comfort, but too comfortable to ever bring up when the morning light streams through the shutters. Cutting apple slices with a knife. Bickering with relaxed shoulders. The wheels of a carriage headed for London. Excited giggles. A body sleeping comfortably in his arms. I missed you while you were away! Look at my cursive, my tutor says I’m getting better every day!
Is that what he was fighting for? Had he been desperately clinging on to that time?
He reaches a hand down and smacks Francis’ hand from his thigh, breaks the tension, and rolls over to show his belly once again, all bark and no bite. His eyes flick to the floor, his head turned.
You’re right. This tells Francis. I would do anything for you.
It sickens him.
He begins to walk away, not even sure where he’s going. His body feels too warm, shame at his perceived defeat is heavy in his stomach.
“Arthur.” Francis says, grabs his hand.
A thought flashes through his head; Lace your fingers together. And then a second one; grab his hand back, pull him off the chair, force him to the ground.
He rips his hand away before he can do either.
“What.” he huffs.
“Where are you going to sleep?”
He pauses. He hadn’t thought about that.
“How many extra blankets do you have?” he asks.
“Not many, not enough to make things all too comfortable on the floor.” Francis answers sheepishly. Arthur can see what he’s getting at, not having any of these flirty games.
“I’ve slept in trenches, I’ll be fine.” he bites back. Don’t flirt with me. Don’t insinuate anything. Don’t act all sweet when you know what you’ve done, how you’ve forced me into submission.
“You will. You will be fine.” Francis says, tries to nod, then winces, his hand traveling to his neck again. It almost shocks Arthur, how he’s not teasing harder, pushing until Arthur snaps.
“Your bed is disgusting.” Arthur says, aiming to hurt, poking the bear. Fight me.
“I’ve–uh,” Francis swallows, “I’ve been bleeding for quite some time. You’re right. It may be time to clean up.”
“It’s long past the time for you to clean up.” Arthur rolls his eyes.
“I can do it tomorrow if the bleeding has stopped.” Francis offers, the quiet part adds if you’ll help me.
“You ought to.” I’ll help you.
They are quiet for a moment, avoiding each other’s eyes.
“You’ll find the extra blankets in the b–”
“I’ve lived here too, you know.” Arthur snaps at him, grabbing a candle holder off the wall and stalking past him towards the bedroom.
It is instantly much colder than the rest of the house. In the light of his candle, the blood everywhere makes it much more spine-chilling. There are drops and splotches of the stuff all over the floorboards, bloodsoaked rags tossed about hurriedly, and the spot where Francis’s head was laying on the bedspread is so dark it’s almost black. Arthur looks away and heads towards the wardrobe. He finds two thin folded blankets on the bottom of it, some hanging shirts, and a quilt. One of the shirts hanging is child sized, it likely used to be Matthews. Arthur grabs the quilts and blankets under one arm and reluctantly a clean shirt and travels back out to where Francis waits with his eyes closed, sitting in his chair, facing the furnace.
His body is tired, slumped, dried blood all the way down the back of his shirt, blonde hair stuck together in greasy clumps. Arthur wakes him when he drops the blankets on the floor.
“Get up,” he says.
“Let me rest.” Francis mumbles.
“Take off your shirt,” Arthur responds. Francis’s eyes widen and he snaps upward. “Quoi? What for?”
“You’re disgusting. Come on,” Arthur claps his hands twice. “We can’t keep the linens clean until you’re clean too.”
“R-right,” Francis says, beginning to unlace his shirt. Arthur travels to the washroom and grabs a lump of soap and a few rags.
Francis is shirtless when he returns, as requested, his entire torso dark with bloodstains. The cloths are still tied around his neck though, blood smeared around them. Arthur sits on the floor, pulls his spare bucket of water close, thankful he set it inside to warm up. He motions for Francis to join him. “back facing me.” he instructs, and Francis obliges, slipping from his chair and sitting with his legs to the side, broad shoulderblades and defined ribs to Arthur. He’s deathly thin, and pale underneath the blood.
Please don’t make this weirder than it has to be, Arthur silently prays, dipping his hands into water, covering them with soap that smells like lavender, running his hands over Francis’s back, lathering the soap into the bloody skin. There is no comment. He dips a rag into the water, wets it, begins singlemindedly scrubbing the blood off of Francis’s back, brows furrowed.
He takes Francis’ hair and brushes it out of the way to reach his shoulders better and feels Francis shiver slightly, but nothing is said. He almost wishes to do it again. Cool water drips down the curve of Francis’s spine and soaks into his loose, dark trousers. Arthur dips the wet rag into the water and squeezes it out with a quiet trickle, the only sound besides the crackle of the stove. He brings it back up to continue.
“When’s the last time you ate, before today?” he asks quietly, running the rag over Francis’ protruding ribs, revealing the white flesh beneath the blood.
“Je ne sais pas.” Francis responds. “I spent perhaps a month sleeping before you awoke me today.”
That’s why he looked so dead when I arrived. He was in a hibernative state. Arthur thinks. Alfred does that during the wintertime. He feels a pang of guilt that he hadn’t arrived sooner.
“You’re skin and bones.” Arthur says, wringing out the rag again. Francis’s back is looking much better now, skin visible and clean, softly lathered. Arthur swipes the soap off with a damp rag one last time. “If you will, turn around,” he asks.
Francis wordlessly does.
Although he knows he could simply ask Francis to clean himself off, now that he can reach the area that needs cleaning, Arthur simply continues with his task, rubs the soap between his hands until it lathers, soft and foaming. He brushes his wet hands over Francis’ shoulders, down to his chest, decides that’s far enough, thank you very much. He uses the rag next, wetting, scrubbing, swiping, wringing, and repeating. A rhythm. No comments. No animosity. Not until later, not until dawn, at least.
He ignores Francis’ face, the eyes that he can feel trying to meet his own. He won’t let himself be caught in another standoff, he won’t let this become emotional. Scrub, wring, repeat. Over Francis’ sides, over his pectorals, over his arms. Like cleaning a floor, refusing to stop until everywhere is clean and as it should be.
Francis’s skin is no longer so cold, it has been warmed by the fire which paints his pale body in golden, flickering light. Arthur wipes sweat from his brow with his wrist, hoists up his own sleeves with dripping hands. “Flip around again,” he instructs.
“As you wish,” Francis says, baring his back for Arthur again.
Arthur cups water in his hands, brings it to Francis’s head and lets it splash down from his palms onto Francis’ scalp. Francis yelps with the cold.
If it were his own hair, Arthur would simply cut it. But that wouldn’t be right for Francis. His hair had always been long, soft, something Arthur envied. He remembered as a child trying to grow out his own hair to match, but his had only been a thin, raggedy mop of long strands that stuck out at all angles and made him look disheveled. He remembered the brush of the locks falling against his legs when Francis had trimmed it for him, the melodic hum of the cicadas, the heat of the day, and the gentle precision of Francis’ cool fingers on his scalp.
Once he thoroughly wet Francis' hair, he began to lather the soap through it, separating the clumps with his fingers, trying to comb out the blood. When a drip of bloody water starts traveling down Francis’ back, he’s quick to wipe it away with a rag. He massages the grease and blood and dirt from Francis’ scalp, trying to be gentle but wanting to just dunk the man’s head in the bucket, be quick and efficient, get it over with.
“Feels good, cher.” Francis murmurs, so quietly Arthur could have dreamt it. Lavender fills his senses. His face feels hot. He refuses to respond, cupping his hands with water, rinsing Francis’s hair again, quickly drying his back with a rag as it begins to drip.
He combs his hands through Francis’ hair one final time before deciding it’s good enough. “I need to tie your hair back,” he comments.
“I have a black ribbon by my bedside." Francis responds.
Said ribbon is easy to find, and Arthur returns to tie Francis’ wet hair up. He isn’t very good at it, unable to tie a fancy bow or anything, but it gets the hair off of his neck so it does the job.
“Okay, now let's see your wound,” he says, turning Francis around once more so they face each other. He begins to untie the knot in the first cloth. It’s tied tightly, and slick with water and blood. It comes loose after a minute of attempts and falls away. Arthur places it on the floor. Francis swallows, the sound audible and thick. “It’s not good,” he warns.
Arthur unties the second knot, this one even dirtier, soaked and crusted. When the cloth falls away, dark liquid drips down Francis’ neck and newly clean body. A dark ring of crusted, dried blood and fresher carnage surrounds the wound, which is stitched together hastily, messily with thick black thread. Each needle puncture oozes its own blood, and when Francis breathes the wound breathes too, opening slightly, showing clean edges of sickly white skin and dark, pulsing insides. It smells strongly of copper and bile. Arthur lets out his breath.
“I know, I know,” Francis cries, cheeks looking pink, “it’s ugly. It’s going to scar so terribly, mon dieu,” he blinks twice, quickly, as if pushing back tears.
Arthur doesn’t respond, wets his rag once more, and, gentler than he has ever been, begins to clean the weeks worth of dried blood away. Francis jolts with every swipe of his cloth, biting his lip. The wound is just as serious underneath all the blood, even when the skin around the stitches is clean and white again, the gash still pulses and slowly bleeds from one side of Francis’ neck. Arthur begins to feel drops of wetness on his arm as he works, and assumes it's Francis’ wet hair dripping onto him. It's only when Francis lets out a little sniff that he looks up to see tears running down his scruffy face.
“What’s going on, chap.” Arthur asks, deadpan, suddenly feeling awkward. He's never known how to deal with emotions. Not his own, not his children’s, and certainly not Francis’. He recalls Alfred’s tears as he ran into Arthur’s study, into Arthur’s unmoving arms. What’s going on, chap? Is the same thing he’d asked, and I had a dreadful nightmare was the answer. Not knowing what to do with the crying boy, unsure what he even wanted Arthur for, he patted his trembling shoulder and told him, I’m sure you know nightmares are ridiculous things our brain makes up. They’re not real. Now head back to bed. From then on he heard stories from the nanny of Alfred going to her for comfort after nightmares. And when they were with Francis, Alfred instead went to him.
“Don’t say that to me,” Francis sniffles.
“Don’t be weak about this, Francis. I’ve seen men have their legs blown off in battle and take it with less of a pout.” Arthur shakes his head disapprovingly at Francis’ tears.
“You know I can’t help it.” Francis responds sadly, his voice breaking with phlegm.
Arthur takes the two rags previously tied around Francis’s neck and begins to wash them in the bucket while letting Francis cry. Some strange part of him thinks that must feel good, to cry. I don’t think I’ve done that in decades. Perhaps centuries.
He drapes the newly clean pieces of cloth over the back of a chair to dry them, heads over to his bag for his medical supplies. He finds a roll of bandages and sits back down in front of Francis, who still looks downtrodden.
“Chin up, chin up.” he tries, tapping a curled forefinger on Francis’ stubbled chin. “Don’t, eh, let it get you down.”
“You don’t even know why I’m crying.”
Arthur starts wrapping Francis’ neck in bandages, “You’re right, mate. And let’s keep it that way.” he nods briskly.
“You’re heartless. Women will never like you if you act like this.” Francis says indignantly, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
“That’s just dandy, because I don’t like women either.” Arthur rolls his eyes.
“You don't fancy women?” Francis teases, “you know there’s a special condemnation in the bible for people like you. A sodomite.”
“Look who’s talking. I know what they get up to in your palace.” Arthur feels much more comfortable in this realm, the realm of banter, of bickering, of mocking. It’s a role he slips into easily, a little bit of normalcy in this strange situation.
“Spoken like a man who can’t get into bed with either sex,” Francis says, “you’re jealous of me, of my good looks.”
“Don’t speak of your good looks until you shave.” Arthur reaches up a hand, tugs on the hair of Francis’s cheek, then finishes wrapping up Francis’ neck. He looks much better now—in fact, Arthur may admit he isn’t bad looking at all. His face is even less grey and more of a pale peach. He’s cleaned up, smells like old lavender, his wet hair curls around his stubbled chin, his eyes twinkle in the auric light that he bathes in. He is ambrosia.
Arthur is suddenly filled with such a longing he can barely breathe. He is filled with the memory of Francis.
1323, the haze of childhood. Carefree. Chasing a dog through a field of crops, Francis’s hair shone in the morning sunlight, the light blue of his dress dazzling and mesmerizing, painting him like a free bluebird with outstretched wings. He had a red ribbon in his hair. Arthur struggled to keep up behind him. “He likes to run, it’s his favourite game. If you can catch him before I can, I’ll make my country do anything your country wants to.” Francis had said, holding his favourite hunting dog gently by the collar as it wagged its tail. He hadn’t the status nor the authority to make that happen, but Arthur was too young to know that at the time. “And what if you catch it?” Arthur had asked, suspicious. Francis shrugged. “Nothing happens. I just want you to play with me.”
1453, sword fighting with blades sharply clashing like lightning, bodies highlighted in the red light of a setting sun, a trickle of blood down Arthur’s arm from a hearty slash and a steady gush down Francis’ right thigh where a stab wound was soaking him through his clothing. Pain and adrenaline. Sweat beading on their brows, chests heaving, smiles playing at their lips. Limbs long and bodies not yet filled out in adulthood, energy and recklessness and spirit.
1585, laughing in the orchard, walking side by side. The children were yet to be born. An apple plucked from a low hanging branch, offered to Arthur in Francis’s slender fingers. Arthur reached for it. “You can only have it if you’re catholic,” Francis had pulled it away, laughing. That’s no joking matter! Arthur had thought indignantly. He plucked an apple for himself and tossed it at Francis with a new sense of boyish epistemicness. It hit Francis’ shoulder and fell to the sweet grass on the ground. “Wasting precious food! You brute!” Francis said dramatically. He threw his own apple in retaliation.
1626, tangled on the settee, Francis’ face in his neck, wine so sweet and so good it could have put him in a coma. The distant howl of a wolf in the countryside, the oil lamp bright and a moth hovering just above them. Drunkenly following it with his eyes. Francis smelling like lilacs and sweat and horses. The children talking in their bedroom, in a tone Arthur knew they thought he couldn’t hear. Francis, so close, closer than he should be, so warm and so safe.
And now, 1790. Francis, hair wet, clothed in honey gold light. Annoying, clingy, pompous, a gift straight from the gods. Arthur is filled with such want it hurts. He wants to know how their lips might feel, pressed together, cold against warm, chapped and raw and hungry. He wants to become more vulnerable than he has ever been, more vulnerable than he is now, so vulnerable that a single word could shatter him from the inside out.
He doesn’t move, he wants Francis to do something. To make the first move. To read Arthur’s mind, lean forward and take everything that Arthur has to give him. He finds them in another standstill, their eyes heavily lidded and locked. Pale, lichen green irises on irises the color of a storming sea. Arthur won’t break the tension this time, won’t roll over, won’t admit defeat again. If you’re not scared, come here and kiss me, he challenges. You want to be the bigger man? Do it. Take the risk.
One second. Three. Ten. Fifteen.
Francis’s eyes turn away, then his head. Arthur has won, and Francis has surrendered, and it makes Arthur so disgusted with them both.
You’re supposed to match me. You’re not supposed to give up. We’re not supposed to be done. You’re not supposed to surrender. Arthur’s brain is running a mile a minute, shocked and upset that he’s finally won and he can’t even enjoy it.
The worst part is that Arthur can’t blame the man. He knows that he can’t lean forward and kiss Francis either. Taking that risk of believing that Francis could be in love with him and being wrong is the worst attack that he could ever receive. If he leaned forward, only to have misread the past five centuries, it would be a wound so deep, stabbed in such a vulnerable place, that he may never recover. He’d look like the biggest damn fool in the world. He can’t blame Francis for not wanting to take that risk either. They will continue with this dance forever. Checkmate.
Arthur stands up, stretches his back, tries to act unbothered. He lays the blankets out on the floor.
“I’m going to turn in. I think I’ll be sleeping here.” he comments quietly.
“Then I will, too.” Francis responds. “It’s too cold to sleep alone, so far from the oven.”
“Alright.” Arthur says, “put that on.” he points to the clean shirt on the floor.
He takes off his boots, sets them by the stove, then his socks. Francis gets up, leaves. In his absence Arthur imagines what they’d be doing if Francis hadn’t given up. Perhaps they’d still be kissing, bodies so close they melt together in the golden light. He travels around the house, blows out each candle in succession to conserve the wax.
They could be touching each other, warm in the dark, if they weren’t such cowards, he thinks, his face red at the thought, at the irritation. They could be taking care of each other. Admitting things they’ve never admitted.
He hates himself for wanting it.
Francis must be in his bedroom. Arthur travels back to his makeshift palette.
He lifts up two of the blankets, lies down on top of the third one, the chill of the floor underneath it sinking into his aching bones.
He hears footsteps, then the soft plop of a pillow dropped beside his head.
“Use that.” Francis says.
“It smells like death.” Arthur comments, but he puts it under his head anyway. Francis lifts up two of the blankets and slips his body under them beside Arthur’s.
He sets his head on the pillow next to Arthur, so close that Arthur can smell the lavender on his skin. The bucket and soap still sit nearby, cold puddles of bloody water on parts of the floor, soaking into the dust on the floorboards. The used rags drip with audible little splashes.
Arthur turns his head, finds Francis’ face so close their noses almost touch. He positions his body to match, lying on his side across from the man.
Francis matches his gaze for only a minute, and if Arthur is being logical, it is delusion that brings him to think that perhaps he can see his own feelings reflected in those blue eyes. But he only catches it for a short time before Francis’ eyelids droop and he falls asleep again, tired beyond belief, body heavy with the effort of regeneration. Arthur keeps his eyes open for longer, five minutes or ten, he doesn’t know. His hands shake and his knees feel weak and scared as he leans forward and presses his lips to the side of Francis’ mouth almost at his cheek, gently, curiously.
It’s just as cold as he thought it would be.
He lays back down, turns his body once more to face the ceiling. What was he even thinking? If he remembered how to cry, perhaps now would be the time to do so. He feels the blankets shift slightly.
Francis’s hand sneaks slowly underneath the covers, out of sight, grabs Arthur’s own, and his palm is warm.
They will likely not speak of this when the morning comes, when a mistle thrush crackles an unanswered song across foggy, barren fields. But for now, Arthur allows himself to curl their fingers together and drink the ambrosia down like warm spirits into his stomach.