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It was hard to pinpoint when exactly their first kisses of the day occurred as they usually were still half-asleep when they kissed good morning. Arthur usually woke first, sometime around 6 or 7 a.m. because for centuries that had been a suitable time for him to get up. These days it wasn’t, though, and so he would lie back and shove his face into a pillow as Francis’s arms tightened around him. If he was feeling particularly affectionate, he would shift until he was able to press his lips over Francis’s, sinking into the light kiss and falling into sleep just as easily.
The next time Arthur would wake up was to gentle pecks from Francis, who was terribly sleepy despite the clock being around 9 a.m. by then. Sometimes it led to something more, but most often it only led to drowsy kisses reeking of morning breath as well as petty arguments neither had any energy to really get into.
That day was not much different.
“Mm, Arthur,” Francis’s voice lilted, annoyingly musical from the get-go, as the man’s nose nuzzled at Arthur’s neck. “Good morning, mon cher.”
Arthur hadn’t shifted in Francis’s arms this time at any point, so Francis was still spooning him from behind, hairy arms secure around Arthur’s waist and plump lips brushing against Arthur’s neck in a hair-raising and gooseflesh-inducing manner — in other words, incredibly delicately and tenderly and completely deserving of the shivers that cascaded down Arthur’s spine in response.
“You stop that,” Arthur mumbled as Francis smiled against his neck, but he sounded unconvincing to his own ears as well as he leaned further into Francis’s embrace, shifting a bit to take extra weight off from the arm squashed beneath his side. It couldn’t be comfortable, Arthur thought, but Francis hadn’t done as much as let out a single whine yet.
“Why?” Francis hummed, resting his cheek against Arthur’s. The warmth of his skin against Arthur’s made Arthur’s toes curl pleasantly under the covers. “Ah, could it be you’re feeling shy, mon amour? Adorable, c’est mignon.”
“You’re oddly talkative this morning, Francis,” Arthur grumbled, face scrunching up as Francis shifted, his hair tickling Arthur’s face in the process. Arms released Arthur’s waist but not before pushing Arthur onto his back, back of the head meeting pillow and green eyes meeting sea blue of Francis’s. Arthur’s heart skipped a beat, a flood of colour rushing to his cheeks as he regarded the gentle intensity of Francis’s expression.
“Je t’adore,” Francis said, somewhat coyly, as Arthur’s hands reached to cradle that handsome face. Or, rather, to squish that annoying smile off Francis’s face. It was still too early for this amount of unguarded affection. But was there ever a right time for it in their lives? Possibly not, considering the beings they were and considering the nations they embodied. And these shared mornings were rare in the first place, as neither could afford to spend too much time away from home, not even for the sake of love. There was always a political crisis waiting to unfold and load its nasty paperwork onto them, not to mention handling rather frustrating politicians on nearly daily basis.
“Romance doesn’t work in the mornings, git,” Arthur said, but his lips had curved into a slight smile and a pleasant feeling rolled in his veins. And his hands relaxed around Francis’s face, fingertips gingerly caressing tender skin. It was amazing what skincare products could do these days, but Francis had always taken good care of his body whereas Arthur had slowly given up on taming various aspects of himself, including but not limited to his hair and eyebrows.
Francis lowered his face, lips hovering just above Arthur’s, and their breaths mingled. Arthur wrinkled his nose, but despite his complaints he was not going to do anything to push Francis away. The smug smile on Francis’s still sleepy face showed that he knew that, too. “So you say, mon ange, and yet there you are.”
Francis’s smile made dips of dimples on his skin, and Arthur’s thumbs dove to feel them as the green eyes marvelled at the beauty of Francis’s cascading hair. It was silky in looks and touch both, this Arthur knew from centuries that preceded this moment.
Arthur sighed at his thoughts, at the aesthetic beauty that he saw in Francis even after everything.
“I have never left, have I?” Arthur murmured reluctantly, leaning up just enough to peck at Francis’s lips for the first time that day. Every day was a story of its own, some more dull than others but, if possible, many of them had to begin with a kiss, imaginary or not.
Eyes closed, Arthur felt Francis’s giddy smile pressing against his mouth and hands trail down Arthur’s ribs before settling on Arthur’s hip. It was these times that Arthur felt less like a millennium-old nation and more like the twentysomething his outward appearance suggested. What a dangerous notion it was to forget something as all-encompassing as the weight of history on his shoulders.
Francis’s kiss was insistent enough to remove whatever guilt that had started to form in the pit of Arthur’s stomach — do I deserve this, I really shouldn’t, and the rest of the nonsensical thoughts that were toxic to his mental well-being — and Arthur sighed in content as he wrapped a leg around Francis’s in attempt to get even closer, hands moving into the stream of hair woven with gold.
Sleep was forgotten, had been the moment Francis had shifted their positions, but Arthur didn’t mind as the kiss lingered, lips nibbling at each other slowly, tantalizingly so. Things could escalate from there, if they allowed it.
Francis’s weight pressed Arthur down into the mattress, but Arthur could flip their positions if he so wanted. Easily. But he would rather stay in this moment for a bit longer, and so he tilted his head to accommodate a deeper kiss, though his lungs were already a little disagreeing towards the idea.
And the separation was inevitable; air was welcomed to his lungs with a few harsh pants as eyes opened to half-lidded stare.
“Good morning,” Arthur finally said, swallowing and licking at his lower lip as he pretended he didn’t feel warmth cling to every cell of his being. The warmth known as love, as Francis would put it and he wouldn’t be wrong.
“Good morning,” Francis returned, eyes crinkling with laughter. The dark bags beneath the sky blue eyes showcased just how tired he still was, but he didn’t seem to want to make a fuss about it. For once, Arthur thought. “Did you sleep well, amour?”
“Could have slept better, I suppose,” Arthur said, hiding a yawn behind the hand he pulled down from Francis’s hair. “I kept having this dream.”
“I hope I was in it,” Francis hummed, eyes twinkling but eyebrows cocked in question. One of the bad ones? was the implicit inquiry behind that expression, and Arthur sighed, still unsure whether having someone that knew him so thoroughly in his life was good or bad.
“You were in it, all right,” Arthur said dryly, leaning up to press a kiss to Francis’s cheek. “It was, ah. From the time we were children.”
Franci’s face relaxed as he grinned. Smug bastard. “Oh? The recurring hair-related dream, was it?”
“Sod off,” Arthur huffed, pushing a hand against Francis’s shoulder and shoving. From his position, though, he couldn’t produce enough force to push Francis off. Nor did he seriously want to, even despite the teasing remark. “It wasn’t about that time.”
“Which time, then?” Francis blinked, his forehead coming to meet Arthur’s. “You’ve piqued my curiosity now, mon ange. Do tell.”
“What does it matter to you?” Arthur retorted, stiffening when Francis’s fingers moved up his side, ticklishly light as they reached the rib cage. “I’m not ticklish, you daft moron.”
The sunlight that filtered into the room hadn’t bothered him when he first opened his eyes, but now it was starting to feel uncomfortably warm on his skin. The heat was doubled with Francis pressing against him like a leech. A lovable one, but a leech regardless.
“You used to be,” Francis said, with a snicker. “As a child, at least — ah, I remember your screams so well, Arthur.”
“Don’t remind me,” Arthur muttered, a scowl marring his face as he twitched from the memory. “If you must know, it was about our first kiss, though I’m sure it didn’t go as my dream did.”
Recalling such ancient things was hard for a being as old as himself, although he was a bit younger than Francis. But the dream had been vivid, in both colour and scenes that played out within it.
Francis’s expression softened, but it was still incredibly smug. Perhaps he didn't remember it the same way Arthur did. “Oh? How did that go in your dream, then? Did I sweep you off your feet like I did in reality?”
Arthur pinched Francis’s cheeks hard enough to earn a muffled yelp from the man. “You most certainly did not, fool. In either dream or reality. Also it’s about time for breakfast.”
“Arthur,” Francis pouted.
“Francis,” Arthur deadpanned, and his stomach growled.
Francis sighed, but relented as he withdrew himself from Arthur. Good thing, too, as Arthur was starting to lose sense of feeling in his abdomen from Francis’s weight. “I shall make us a fantastique breakfast, mon cher; but don’t get up, hm? Breakfast in bed is amazing, non?”
“I can’t—”
“You have no work today, cher. You have no excuse this time.” Francis climbed up from bed with visible effort, untangling bed sheets from their bodies and nearly tripping. Well, at least he wasn’t as graceful as Arthur used to think, back when everything had been much more innocent and Arthur much more ignorant. Francis, too.
“Put some clothes on!” Arthur called after Francis, whose bare arse his eyes followed.
“I shall not!” was the flippant response, and Arthur groaned before burying his face into one of the now unoccupied pillows. Hidden into the fabric was a smile that bloomed on Arthur’s lips, one that was rather silly and too giddy to show Francis, even though there was nothing the man hadn’t seen Arthur do before.
The dream had been one of those high definition lucid dreams, where everything had felt painfully real: the grass between his bare toes and the thick capes he had wrapped himself in as well as the sweet floral scents of the English meadow. It had definitely been an English meadow, because even though landscapes had changed in the past millennium, Arthur could never mistake anything of himself to be someone else’s.
Flower crowns. In the dream, Francis had taught him how to make them, whereas in reality Arthur had learnt that art from the fairy folk. Arthur may have made some for Francis in the past, though with far clumsier fingers than what Arthur had now.
The kiss in the dream had been amid beautiful flowers, violets and daisies, and the day had been sunny and kind to them. The reality though, if Arthur remembered correctly (and there was a possibility that he didn’t), was completely different: the day had been black as the charred failures of Arthur’s cooking and the prominent colour had been the crimson of soldiers’ blood on the battle field.
The one thing Arthur remembered with distinct clarity (because it wasn’t a particularly novel sensation) was the weight of his sword in his hand, the pattern of its hilt pressing into his sweaty palm. He had been a teenager, then, and the battle might have been one of the several that took place in the hundred years of war, of which only one name remained glorious — Jeanne d’Arc.
Francis had been a bloody mess, too, but which one had had it worse? Arthur couldn’t remember that over the feeling of Francis’s fabrics between his fingers and the taste of bitter tears from Francis’s mouth. Weak, Arthur had called him then. I must be if I want this, Francis had replied like a man abandoned by God.
All in all, it had been a bad time for a first kiss, a heart-wrenching time to cling to first loves.
Thinking about it now, in the (relative) safety of the 21st century, was like watching a documentary. Surrealistic at best, since neither had held a sword for warfare purposes in a long time.
Back then they wouldn’t have been able to enjoy such cozy beginnings to a day.
Arthur sighed at the thought.
Really, the flower crowns and shy embraces would have been a much better start at romance, but instead they simply got the Titanic-level of drama stretched over decades and even centuries.
Arthur closed his eyes and settled down to wait for Francis to return with breakfast, unable to fall back to sleep when he had a reality worth staying awake for. (Also because he was getting rather hungry and Francis was taking his sweet time. Arthur would tell him off, for sure.)