Characters/Pairings: England, France
Summary: It is a night of reflection and of unmarred truths.
Notes: Shit, I knew I was forgetting to post something. Un-beta'd, obviously influenced too much by magnificent writers of this pairing.
Arthur wakes up at midnight the the feeling of fingers trailing down his exposed back and whispers of endearment in a foreign language. He listens and tries to determine their origin, before giving up and turning around to curl against the chest of the being beside him. He feels stubble, rough and perfectly placed, scratch against his hair and suddenly, he's not tired enough to not do something about it.
“Francis,” he murmurs, takes the name into his mouth and lets it out with a small sigh. “Francis.”
Francis presses his palm of his hand to the small of Arthur's back, draws circles and paints words against the skin that Arthur can't quite discern, and he gives up and just lets it go. He watches the shadows on Francis' face dip in and out of light, watches them frame and emboldened the traits he has both loved and hated over the years, and kisses the lips that have twisted knives into his heart and left him speechless and without breath. He shifts his position, untangling his legs from Francis' waist and stretches them between his thighs instead, ignoring the purposed grunt of Francis beside him. He listens, and he closes his eyes against the steady heartbeat thrumming under his fingertips.
“You're beautiful. Do you know that?” It slips out as easy as anything else he's ever said. He can feel Francis move enough to sit up and he can feel the tired, blue eyes staring through him, as if searching for hidden barbs. Arthur continues,
“I think you're beautiful, and I've always thought that, and if you say a word of this to me in the morning there will be vehement denial, so be quiet and stop snickering behind that foul hand of yours.”
Francis removes his hand from his face (Arthur only knows this because he can feel it join its counterpart underneath the sheets) and rubs circles at the edge of the golden mess, matted with sex-laid sweat and upturned by green eyes that regard him curiously. Arthur watches him, relaxes into the touch, and hides this image of Francis in the deepest parts of his mind: smiling, smoky eyes dropped and observing without heated jaunts, and half-silhouetted by the faintest light in the room only discernible when eyes have grown used to darkness.