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Arthur had a pounding headache.
“I have a pounding headache,” he said, rubbing his temples.
“Scrunching your face up like that cannot be ‘elping, mon cher,” Francis put in.
“One of the largest hotels in England and not only do they not have two bloody rooms left, they couldn’t even give us a room with two singles!” Arthur pointed at the king size bed accusingly.
Blasé as ever, Francis deposited his bags in the corner of the room before reclining on the bed (which was quite comfortable, actually) and arching a suggestive eyebrow in Arthur’s direction.
“Perhaps they thought we were a couple.”
Arthur glared. “What kind of daft moron would look at us and think we’re a couple?” He was looking especially frumpy today in his sweater vest and tweed trousers.
“...One who believes in the power of miracles?”
Arthur’s glare, if possible, grew even more withering. He all but kicked his already battered suitcases into the hotel room and slammed the door shut.
“It’s late. I’m going to go take a shower,” he said, and barricaded himself in the adjacent bathroom before Francis even had a chance to make a perverted remark.
Still sanding under the hot spray 10 minutes later, Arthur reluctantly accepted the fact that spending any longer in the bathroom would appear suspicious. He shut off the tap, toweled himself off, and pulled on the unfortunate plaid pajamas he’d brought in with him. Why did he have to pack matching pajamas? Francis was bound to comment on them.
He finally emerged from the bathroom, rubbing at his wet hair with a towel.
And despite how long he had known Francis, he still froze in horror at the sight that greeted him.
Francis was still sprawled out on the bed much in the same fashion as before. The major difference was that now, well, now he was no longer wearing clothes. He cradled a glass of wine his hand and a rose in his teeth, another rose artfully arranged over his privates, though it did little to hide anything.
“What the devil--”
“Arthur, I see you took your time thoroughly cleaning yourself up for me,” said Francis in near-pornographic tones. “Allow me to show you how much I appreciate zat--”
“No! You great bloody tosser!” shouted Arthur, still trying to shield his eyes.”You’ve gone into the mini-bar, haven’t you? You know how outrageously overpriced that stuff is!”
“You’re worth every penny, mon lapin. And no amount of money could buy proper wine in zis country anyway.”
Arthur cracked one eye open. He instantly regretted it, but the urge to glare was too overpowering.
“Just put some clothes on.”
France swished his wine imperiously. “You are asking me to sleep in my work clothes? I think not!”
“You had the foresight to bring roses but not pajamas?!”
“I didn’t exactly bring ze roses.” Francis almost looked sheepish for a second. “I borrowed zem from ze bouquet downstairs.”
“You bor--you stole flowers from the lobby?”
“Well I couldn’t bring my own. They would get crushed in my bag, and fake flowers are unbearably tacky!”
Arthur took a deep breath. “Ok. So what you’re saying is, you intend to sleep...like that? Completely naked?”
Francis smirked around the rose stem--or at least tried to. “I intend to do more than just sleep, mon petit chou.”
“I refuse to share a bed with you while you’re naked!” Arthur exploded. “It’s bad enough we have to share a bed at all!”
“Not bad. In fact, I could make it very good for you....”
Arthur’s expression was positively volcanic. In fact, he looked ready to erupt, which would undoubtedly be very messy and involve molten lava all over the place.
Francis finally took note of this and decided to change tactics.
“Anyway, I always sleep in ze nude.”
“Humph.” Crossing his arms, Arthur tried his best to come to terms with the situation, but the entire set-up was seriously offending his delicate sensibilities. He felt like he had just accidentally walked onto the set of some daytime soap opera; the whole room screamed “scandalous tryst” and Francis’s nakedness and rose petals were not helping. Neither was the dim lighting. Hotel rooms always had such poorly located lamps. Arthur hastily added that point to his near-unmanageable List of Things that Annoy Me (Said list was always dominated by 1. Francis, followed by 2. the fact that Francis is always at the top of the list).
“You’re taking the sheet and I’m taking the quilt.” That was as close to acquiescing as Arthur was going to get.
“Fine,” said Francis easily. Arthur made another small noise of displeasure and busied himself with hanging up his suit for tomorrow’s meeting, so that the wrinkles would fall out overnight.
“You really should blow dry your hair before you go to bed. No wonder it’s always like zat.”
“Blow drying makes me look like a pomeranian.” Arthur was stalling. “Aren’t you going to take a shower? Or did you already bathe this month, frog?”
“I took one zis morning,” said Francis. He sounded slightly affronted, whether from Arthur’s comment regarding his personal hygiene, or from the cheap wine he had just taken a sip of, it wasn’t clear. “Like I do every morning, but I do not spend hours in there like you.”
“Shove it up your ass,” Arthur grumbled.
“What was zat, petit?”
“Nothing.” Arthur snatched up his blackberry and perched on the end of the bed, scrolling through his messages and ignoring Francis as aggressively as possible.
“I cannot ‘elp but notice you’re in an especially bad mood today, Angleterre.”
“And I can’t help but notice you’re especially irritating today, France.”
“Is something wrong?” asked Francis, in his most practiced I-don’t-actually-care, I’m-just-bored tone.
“Just a bit tired and stressed is all,” Arthur said shortly.
“When are you not?”
Arthur huffed out something that was too bitter to be a laugh. There was an moment of silence then, which unnerved them both because it was awkward and because a sense of mutual understanding was beginning to seep in. Francis stared at Arthur’s back, grasping for something flippant to say.
“You look adorable in those pajamas.”
“Ok, I’m going to sleep now,” announced Arthur, a tad louder than he had intended.
“D’accord.”
“I’m turning off the lights,” said Arthur, finger poised over the switch.
“Ok.” Francis finally, finally got under the covers and Arthur almost sighed with relief, but he couldn’t even attempt to relax before he got one very important point across:
“One false move and I'll break your neck. Are we clear?”
Francis tried not to smirk at the empty threat. “Crystal, mon ange.”
The lights went out.
---
“Let me in.”
“No.”
“It’s cold.”
“You wouldn’t be cold if you weren’t naked.”
“It is abnormally cold in zis room.”
“The temperature is perfectly acceptable, Francis.”
“I think ze thermostat is broken-ow!” Arthur kicked him in the shin.
A few minutes later, Francis had stopped whining and fidgeting. He was probably lying in wait, thought Arthur. A part of him was wound tightly inside, anticipating the moment Francis crept too close, to uncoil and lash out and rail on him for being such a bloody pervert all the time and a unrepentant flirt, but his limbs were leaden, and it was late. To be perfectly honest, he was exhausted. The darkness was heavy, bearing down on his eyelids. He sunk into the mattress and began to doze...
---
Blue citylight outlined Arthur's figure in the darkness. He had been holding his breath before, but now he slept, his body stirring minutely with every inhale and exhale in a slow, steady rhythm. Francis inched closer. He cautiously extended his arm over Arthur’s waist, and lay his hand on his stomach, felt the warmth of his skin beneath the rumpled fabric. He ignored the pulsing in his ears--how utterly ridiculous it was that he was actually excited about touching Arthur, that he was afraid of getting caught, that he didn’t even plan to molest him, he just wanted to—
Arthur stirred. Francis’s heart stuttered to a halt for a millisecond. His muscles tensed in preparation to vacate the premises, but then Arthur leaned back, ever so slightly, and covered his hand with his own.
That was all the encouragement Francis needed.
He quickly closed the remaining distance between them and pressed his lips against the back of Arthur’s nape once, twice. Bit him, lightly. Arthur mewled and ground back against Francis, vaguely registering the pleasant chafe of stubble against his neck and the wetness of a mouth.
“You like zat?” Francis drew his hands up and down Arthur’s stomach and chest, pausing when he brushed over the his nipples. Licking his lips, he rubbed them through the soft fabric of Arthur’s pajamas until they were stiff.
“Francis,” Arthur sighed deliriously, craning his neck to nuzzle against Francis’s cheek, rocking minutely back and forth between his strong hands and hard cock. Francis was just relieved that Arthur was awake enough to realize who he was; his sigh was a gust of warm air, making the little hairs on Arthur’s back prickle.
“You’re so sweet like zis Arthur, I could play with you all night,” husked Francis, and Arthur didn’t find himself objecting to the idea.
It felt like a wet dream; he drifted between sleep and waking, trapped by the itching pleasure he was powerless to control. But he somehow felt safe. His craving for release was mounting, but, knowing it was out of his hands, he comfortably waited for it.
The bed creaked and Francis was above him.
Arthur peered up at him muzzily through his eyelashes, his expression smooth and unguarded. Fingertips on his cheeks and lips--automatically, Arthur’s pink tongue flicked out to lick at them, and Francis growled. He hurriedly maneuvered Arthur’s thighs around his hips and found that the other’s body completely yielded to his touch. But Arthur was not content to lie there passively, even half-asleep---his hand crept between them and slowly, gingerly grasped Francis’s length, measured its weight in his palm, swiped his thumb over the head. Began to stroke. The skin on Francis’s stomach jumped as if he’d be electrocuted. He cradled Arthur’s head in his hands and they finally kissed. Arching into Francis’s mouth, Arthur tugged him closer with his legs and began to rock upwards. Their kiss grew sloppier, faster, punctuated by desperate little gasps.
“Why did we--” The words caught in Francis’s throat. “why did we stop doing zis?”
“I get jealous,” came the murmured response--Arthur was not sure from where, because he had made no conscious decision to admit that particular detail.
“Oh, Arthur.”
“Afraid,” he exhaled, the words almost lost in the rush of breath.
Francis whispered endearments at him, kissing his mouth, cheeks, neck, chest, and Arthur, overwhelmed and more than a little disoriented, just closed his eyes. As they slid together, their movements were so perfectly synchronized, it had to be a dream. Arthur gripped Francis’s shoulders, feeling the muscles and bones shift beneath sweaty skin. Don’t let it be over yet.
Arthur’s hips bucked and Francis’s ground down mercilessly in response. A few more strokes and Arthur’s orgasm seized him, shook him and burst from him so strongly it was almost painful, leaving his body drained and totally helpless. He let his head fall back against the pillow with a whimper.
Francis was trying to speak to him, but the words sounded underwater, hardly reaching his ears. He strained to hear them. He wanted to hear them, but he was so sleepy.
---
The first thing Arthur registered was brightness. There was only the tiniest slit in the curtains, but it was strategically placed so that the sunlight shot like a laser-pointer precisely into his eyeball. It was doing it on purpose, Arthur was sure of it. Perhaps he should re-consider his secret dream of becoming a supervillian and blowing up the sun. Then he could keep sleeping and never have to come to terms with the fact that he
just
fuck
FUCK
--had sex with Francis last night.
Arthur’s hand flew to his stomach, but to his infinite relief, there was no dreaded evidence dried and flaking there. However, his pants were a bit sticky. Alright. It had been a wet dream after all. He ignored the feeling of a balloon being popped in his stomach. Just a dream. Ok.
Turning over with a groan, Arthur was met by a blue-eyed stare and started. Francis was sitting in the chair near the bed, dressed in a crisp white shirt and grey dress slacks. He hastily averted his gaze to the stack of papers in his lap, as if he hadn’t just been watching Arthur sleep--which he totally had.
Arthur looked at him quizzically, then caught the time on the clock.
“Bollocks! Were you just going to wait and see how late we could possibly be to this meeting?” snapped Arthur, leaping up.
Francis turned a page calmly. “Ze meeting was postponed, thanks to your lovely students protesting and blocking ze roads.”
“Oh.” Arthur deflated. “Really, again?” He checked his blackberry to find and email that confirmed this story. Wait. “Did you turn off my phone alarm?”
“Oui.”
“Oh, erm...” Arthur wasn’t sure whether he should thank Francis or...wait. “Hey, but it’s supposed to be locked!”
“And?”
“And, how did you get my password?”
Francis laughed that supremely annoying chortle of his that always made Arthur’s fingers twitch with the suppressed urge to punch him in the face. “I ‘ave known you for a very, very long time, remember? I got it on ze second try,” said Francis. Arthur’s cheeks pinkened. “Don’t worry, it’s not like you ‘ave anything private on there. Though, I didn’t know I qualified for speed dial.”
“Y--well--it’s politically convenient,” Arthur stammered.
“My home phone, too?”
Arthur glowered at him. It was actually quite unnerving, with those eyebrows. He opened his mouth to say something defensive, but Francis interrupted him.
“Want to get breakfast? I’ll treat you.”
Arthur stared.
“Well, more like lunch now,” Francis amended.
“Er.” Arthur bit the inside of his cheek, eying Francis suspiciously.
“It is fine if you don’t want to.”
“No,” said Arthur immediately, but then he backpedaled, “I mean, I don’t really care. I have nothing better to do. So. If you’re going to treat me for no reason. Ok. I’ll just--I’ll just get dressed then.” He grabbed his suit from its hanger, paused, and then shut himself in the bathroom to change.
Francis sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. He did not, in fact, have a death wish, so it’s not like he could tell Arthur what had happened last night. No, he was just going to have to deliberately mess with England’s hotel reservations again if they were going to make any progress.
To make things worse, he had a pounding headache.