Work Text:
They said jealousy was poison to any healthy relationship, because it implied distrust and, in some cases, unhealthy need for control over the other. England knew this well enough, having destroyed many (platonic and romantic) relationships with that unreasonable yet all-consuming feeling. And back then he had reacted to the feeling violently, which was what eventually left him with nothing but trust issues and insecurities that no one had the patience to deal with.
No one but the fairies and other magical folk, that was, but there was only so much they could do to ease the issues Arthur had with himself and England’s bloody history.
It was strange, Arthur mused to himself, how much readier he was to hide his feelings from Francis now that they were together. He had never been shy to let Francis know whenever something displeased him, and the Frenchman had done the same numerous times in the course of centuries that found them soaked in each other’s blood.
(Now they were soaked in other kind of bodily fluid, but that… that was not a thought any decent person needed to be burdened with.)
A world meeting wasn’t the right time or place for these kinds of thoughts, but Arthur needed to remind himself that he was being unreasonable as he all but sulked at the sight of France and Spain chattering and smiling like buffoons on the other side of the table. Honestly, Germany ought to have known better than to seat those two together, but nooooo there they were, quietly chatting and completely ignoring America’s presentation. Although, to be fair, so were the rest of the nation representatives. England, Arthur, very much included. So Arthur discreetly stared at France and Spain while sipping on his cup of tea, his stomach twisting at the amiable atmosphere that surrounded both Francis and Antonio. They were friends, Arthur reminded himself. Don’t be a fool.
Hiding his face behind the cup as much as he could, Arthur closed his eyes and tried to relocate his attention back to America’s exuberant speech. If there was anything that lad could do, it was passionate and incredibly fast-paced rambling. Who would have thought Arthur would be grateful for it now?
It wasn’t as though Francis was flirting with Antonio, or that Arthur assumed him to be. He knew better than to think that Francis was anything but faithful to the relationship they had both decided to commit themselves to, but the rash, emotional side of him felt ill watching the show go on.
If Arthur had to put the feeling into words, he supposed it would be inadequacy. It was a perturbing thing, considering how it hadn’t been all that long ago when England had paraded around the world like he owned it. Although, that too had been nothing but the fake it till you make it method at work: pretending and playing the role of an invulnerable being, he had thought nothing could drag him down.
It had been easier to pretend when there was enough reasons to back that lie up with facts, such as his naval strength and expanded territories all around the world.
Arthur smiled bitterly against the edge of the porcelain cup just as the meeting came to an end. Arthur didn’t pay much attention to the ending rituals — nations arguing all over the room, Francis’s voice growing high as he judged America and England’s performances with a cynical, typical French look in his eyes — and instead packed his notes and official papers back into the suitcase, a little more hurriedly than usual as he was sure Francis would head his way once free from the obligatory goodbye cheek-kisses with Antonio.
He would rather not wait for that, so Arthur dashed after someone that looked unmistakably like America — but wasn’t, because Alfred didn’t have quite so curly hair, did he?
Canada, that was the name of the nation he had run after, and Arthur cursed himself for forgetting something so important as that. To be fair, though, he was awful with names, and it had taken at least two hundred years of him to be able to pronounce Francis’s name correctly. The human name, that was, because hell if Arthur knew what France was in French. He knew quite a bit of grammar, but some of the simpler words just went beyond his head.
Canada, or rather Matthew, looked at him with some amount of sympathy when Arthur joined him, and that look on Matthew’s young face identical to Alfred’s raised Arthur’s hair in the most uncomfortable way ever.
Arthur bit at his lower lip to keep himself from retorting anything undignified as he settled to match his steps with Matthew’s while glancing over his shoulder at the long hallway behind them. A door to the conference room opened, and Arthur heard the distinct sound of Francis’s laughter as well as caught a glimpse of blond hair.
“Did something happen between you two?”
Matthew was soft-spoken, and his voice was gentle on the ears, but Arthur was startled regardless and so he turned to look at Matthew’s concerned face, worry apparent in every aspect of Matthew’s expression.
Matthew had always been the sharper lad — or more willing to hear about other’s problems rather than draw his own conclusions.
Arthur sighed, running his free hand through choppily cut blond hair that could never quite compare to Francis’s silky locks. Dastardly haircare… “Nothing worth your concern, lad.”
Matthew’s delicate eyebrows scrunched together, and his following words were almost lost beneath the other nations’ chatter around them. “If it bothers you, then it is important, isn’t it?”
Arthur scowled. Matthew didn’t falter. Surprisingly stubborn, that boy. Arthur looked away, in the end, just as he heard Francis call his name.
“Angleterre, wait up— wait up, mon cher,” came the horrifically thick-accented request, uttered in such a casually contented tone that Arthur felt queasy with himself. Bloody hell, he thought he was over this disgusting insecurity.
Arthur threw a glance over his shoulder. “It’s hardly my fault you’ve become much slower with age, Francis.”
“Oh, please, I can outrun you any day,” Francis retorted back as usual, but the casual manner with which he wrapped his arm around Arthur’s shoulder betrayed the disguise of irritation.
“Yes, I agree,” Arthur said, “you certainly have enough practice of running away.”
“Your attitude is your least attractive quality,” Francis sniffed, fingers squeezing at Arthur’s shoulder gently. Arthur reluctantly — not really — relaxed against Francis, his focus already far away from Matthew. (Poor lad.) “…asides from your eyebrows, of course.”
“Piss off,” Arthur grumbled, fingers curling tighter around the handle of his briefcase. The nauseating feeling wasn’t gone yet; rather, it was choking Arthur by the windpipe. “Your attitude is just as ugly.”
“And that makes us perfect for each other, non?” Francis winked, and Arthur looked away, cheeks hot from self-loathing embarrassment. Francis’s hand squeezed at his shoulder, calming as ever in the presence of others.
Arthur exhaled, some of his anxiety dripping out with that, and smiled. “You have a strange idea of perfection, Francis.”
Sometimes it was really difficult to convince himself that Francis wasn’t, in fact, trying to flirt everyone in vicinity when they were together. Arthur knew better. Arthur knew Francis better than to think the other partook in any unfaithful actions or intentions. Still, Arthur couldn’t help but frown as Francis chatted up their waitress, blue eyes twinkling quite like the stars that had come out to the sky outside and which they could see from the window if they craned their necks enough.
Arthur tried to keep his attention on the window and the said stars. He could see some of them just fine from his stiff sitting posture, but not enough to actually find the Northern Star or the Big Dipper. Or any of the other constellations visible at this time. But it was difficult to focus on even trying, when Francis was so— Francis. Captivating was one word to describe him, perhaps, and everyone could see that dazzling radiance. Including the waitress with long legs and gentle face and smooth hair.
Arthur pursed his lips tight, hands forcibly relaxed on his lap as he waited for Francis to finish ordering their food between the unnecessary conversing. He had been looking forward to having dinner with just Francis — the last two times, Alfred had intervened and forcibly joined them as Francis and Arthur gazed at each other in despair comparable to Jack and Rose in Titanic, the movie, although with a bit less ice was involved. Arthur quietly adjusted his tie, hiding his irritation with Francis’s chatty behaviour by nearly choking himself with the piece of clothing.
“Amour, what are you doing?” Arthur nearly choked himself again at the sound of Francis’s amused yet confused voice.
“Have you gone blind?” Arthur retorted mildly, shoving his hands back to his lap now that the waitress was strutting away from their table, a flustered look plastered on her general being. Arthur’s brow twitched from the effort to not frown at the sight. “My tie was crooked.”
“Non, non, not that,” Francis laughed. “Your face, Arthur. It was rather funny just now — I suppose I worded it strangely, but — are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Arthur said dismissively. “You didn’t mix up our orders, did you?”
“If you’d listened, you’d know, wouldn’t you?” Francis peered at him with badly veiled curiosity.
“I don’t understand French.” Arthur scowled, his mood turning sourer. “Which was very rude of you to use, mind you, I’m sure she was fully capable of interacting using English…”
“But she’s more comfortable with the language of love,” Francis hummed, and Arthur bit at his lower lip. Sometimes Francis was irritatingly thoughtful to others, offering words of comfort or distraction when they needed it most.
But also… that choice of words.
Arthur cocked his eyebrow at Francis. “You were telling her about lovey-dovey stuff, then?”
He was ruining it, wasn’t he? The candle-lit dinner in a fancy restaurant with the person he fancied. Arthur knew he should have let the matter go with a shrug or a dismissive one-word reply, but things just never quite went like that when it came to him.
Francis frowned in return, expression turning into bemusement. “Nothing more than advice at most, mon cher. I have you with me, oui?”
Arthur tried not to look directly into Francis’s eyes over the flickering flames of the lit candles. Answering was almost impossible, and the words came out strangled and sounding insincere. “Yes, you’re right.”
Heaving out a sigh, Arthur added, “I’ll head to the washroom for a bit. I’ll be right back.”
The legs of the chair let out an abrasive sound as Arthur stood up, but Francis seemed to be much more concerned with Arthur’s face as the blue eyes never left Arthur as Francis reached out a hand towards his, a smile blooming on his face when Arthur allowed the touch. The frustrating Frenchman grinned even more when he planted a chaste kiss over Arthur’s knuckles, obviously noticing the resulting twitch of Arthur’s fingers.
“Come back to me soon, mon ange,” Francis nearly purred, lips curled up in a tiny but suggestive smile that made Arthur’s heartbeat race. It was enough to settle Arthur’s gnawing self-doubts for the time being, and he rolled his eyes but smiled back at Francis.
“Of course, Francis.”
Smacking himself on both his cheeks, Arthur sighed and glared at his reflection on the mirror. The too-bright lights of the washroom made his skin look even paler than usual to his eyes, and that made him grimace inwardly. Or would have, if he wasn’t busy chastising himself for letting himself get too caught up in thoughts of Francis deliberately flirting with others before his eyes.
Insecurity only brought forward irritation and jealousy where none was wanted. Arthur knew that, and yet…
Maybe he wasn’t as adult a nation as he ought to have been by now.
Arthur sighed and washed his face again, ignoring the other men that went about their own business around him. A couple held a quiet chat in French, far too complicated for Arthur to grasp full meanings behind sentences. It did give him some peace of mind, however, as the language was quite soothing when one didn’t attempt to study it. Francis’s French, in particular, if that made any sense.
The thought brought a much more pleasant feeling to Arthur’s stomach as he went to dry his hands and face, all the while ignoring some whispered comments about sourcils. Mean remarks about his eyebrows didn’t hurt much after spending a millennium or so listening to them whenever France came to visit England, for gloating or for war.
Arthur went back to Francis, feeling quite lighter than a few moments before, going as far as to brush his fingers against Francis’s shoulder in a fleeting show of affection. With a quiet enough voice to not disturb the other occupants of the restaurant, Arthur asked almost playfully, “Didn’t miss me too much, did you, love?”
“A minute spent away from you fills me with endless longing, amour,” Francis returned, leaning to Arthur’s touch just as the fingers left Francis’s shoulder, which almost resulted in Francis falling from his chair. Graceful as he was, Francis managed to stop that from happening, but Arthur couldn’t help but snigger as sat down on the other side again. Their orders had arrived by the time Arthur came from the washroom, as well, and Arthur noted that Francis had indeed not played any pranks on him and ordered escargot or frog legs to fuck with him. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened… perhaps the first time since the beginning of their at times unstable romantic relationship.
“I’m serious,” Francis huffed at Arthur’s mirth all the while picking up the cutlery before him and starting on his meal — very French, from the looks of it Blanquette de Veau or something of the sort. Arthur was, despite his hidden interest, quite knowledgeable enough about French cuisine to pinpoint what that mess was. Arthur’s meal had a fancy name, probably, but it would be aptly summed up as blood sausage and some mush beneath that.
Talk about romantic dinner, indeed… Straight to the main course.
“No, you’re not,” Arthur said. “You’re not that clingy as a person.”
“It’s the sentiment that counts, Arthur,” Francis said, eyes crinkling. The blue of his eyes looked darker thanks to the shadows the candle light cast around them. “And a minute to us might be a little different to others, so I was not joking.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. Sentimental fool, he’d say if he wasn’t the exact same way — although he showed it very differently than Francis.
Bringing some of the blood sausage mush to his mouth, Arthur could finally relax fully as his and Francis’s interactions steered back to the usual waters — the usual being light-hearted teasing and bickering that was not really bickering as much as flirting.
In the end the evening was a success, even though Arthur couldn’t entirely remove the insistent worry that he had ruined the beginning. As usual, though, he excelled at playing his own emotions and pretending the unease was nothing but a mild inconvenience. Pushing forward through whatever obstacles used to be so much easier. Age and experience didn’t help much in the long run, Arthur supposed, when the most experience with interpersonal relationships he had had came from conquests and wars.
Indeed, those weren’t the best teachers in healthy relationships, and so Arthur struggled perhaps unnaturally much with this kind of thing.
By the time they left the restaurant, even the moon had come fully out as the remaining clouds dissipated. Paris at night was rather charming with glittering lights and street lamps… and the crazily driving French people… Truly, breathtaking in so many ways, but thank the heavens Francis wasn’t driving them to Francis’s apartment. Arthur much preferred not getting into accidents this late at night.
And, well, he supposed he quite liked the feeling of Francis’s gloved hand holding his as they walked through the now nearly empty Parisian streets, crossing through the local park for romance’s sake.
“By the way, Arthur,” Francis began as he eyed the bench they were about to pass, obviously hoping for some romantic late-night conversation on it, “why were you upset before? You seemed quite mad with me before your convenient washroom break.”
“I wasn’t mad,” Arthur denied, clutching Francis’s hand harder. “It’s your imagination, frog.”
“Oh, I see now,” Francis’s tone took a dangerously amused tone, and Arthur cringed inwardly as he knew what was coming. “You had to relieve some… tensions, did you not? Mon cher, you should have just told me and we’d have done something about that before—”
“Speak another word, and I will repeat the events of 1848 on your hand this instant,” Arthur interrupted, voice low and eyes narrow as he regarded his boyfriend for a long while. “It was quite an eventful year, if I remember right. I have a permanent marker in my pocket, so don’t think I won’t do it.”
“Anything but a permanent marker!” Francis yelped, pulling his hand free and clutching it to his chest as if mortally wounded. “You brute! And then you call yourself peaceful, you delinquent—”
“Don’t call me that, you piece of French toast—”
“Excuse you, French toast is delicious—”
“—that’s exactly what I meant!”
Francis paused.
Arthur flinched and whispered, “Fuck.”
“You think I’m delicious, do you?” Francis’s nose pressed against Arthur’s cheek, the affection more genuine than the teasing tone. “Someone really hasn’t been, ah, how did Amerique put it… jerking off lately, hm?”
Arthur punched Francis’s shoulder before pretending to stomp off into the distance.
Much later, when Francis had already fallen asleep at his side, Arthur heaved out a sigh of relief as he extinguished a cigarette into the ashtray on the nightstand by Arthur’s side of the glorious king-sized bed. Francis did like glamour.
Francis was an unattractive sleeper, surprisingly, what with his body splayed all over the bed and hands continuously and subconsciously reaching out for Arthur. The silky hair was a tangled mess, too, and Arthur had a few photos of that in the depths of his phone’s memory card. No one but him, and possibly Francis’s ex-lovers, had those types of photos of Francis Bonnefoy, and that thought was enough to bring a deeper sense of calm into Arthur’s battle-worn heart.
Maybe one day he’d be able to have an honest heart-to-heart with Francis about it. Maybe Francis already knew — Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case. But for the time being Arthur would wrestle this insecurity on his own.
Maybe, maybe it would all end up all right.
Watching Francis’s sleeping face and feeling those hairy arms around him certainly made it easier to believe in that.