Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

London, September 10th 1994

Arthur was tired. It was a Saturday and Arthur was really fucking tired. More so than should be allowed for a twenty-two year old by all rights—this was the bone deep exhaustion typically reserved for middle age and combat veterans. Unfortunately neither of those applied to him, so he shouldered his exhaustion as he had always done and got on with it. 

Outside of the Beilschmidt home, Arthur ran through his mental checklist. It was a never ending tirade revolving around the boys—who, as he reminded himself, were at Antonio’s daycare. He had dropped them off at nine this morning, making sure Alfred’s lunchbox was still secured to his little knapsack, and Matthew had his favorite plushie. Daycare was new for them, being in Antonio’s care not, but he must admit it breaks his heart a little every time he leaves them. Alfred had cried for hours the first day, Matthew holding his brother and sniffling. Arthur swallows it down and smooths his hair, fixing his tie and suit. It’s secondhand, too broad in the shoulders but it will have to do. He takes another deep breath, patting over his chest. Beneath, a myriad of compression bandages hold his chest in place, flattening it into the masculine shape he preferred. 

He checks his watch. Having returned to his flat for about two hours for lunch and the eternal task of cleaning, he hopped on the nearest bus, and it was now half past noon. Just as— Gilbert, he believes his name is—had instructed, Arthur walks up the carefully pruned pathway and knocks on the door. 

It swings open near instantly and his gaze, momentarily enchanted by the large chandelier hanging in the foyer and the enormous staircase behind, migrates down to a small blond boy frowning up at him. 

‘Um…hello.’ he tries. He’s not smiling, he realizes, just staring at the boy and clutching at his leather shoulder bag. He smiles. The boy’s frown deepens and he shuffles, revealing his strange little outfit. It’s comically severe on his small frame–he must be around five, so just two years older than the boys. His stark blond hair is slicked back, knobby knees peeking out of pale shorts and an embroidered green sweater vest over a collared shirt. There’s a clatter from somewhere in the townhouse and a yelp. The boy continues to stare. 

‘Hallo?’ Arthur tries, remembering why he was here. On Fridays he tutored a delightful seven year old named Kiku, introduced to him by his boss at the museum he was a tour guide for, Yao. He’s not exactly sure of the connection, Yao was the something or other trader-investor-stock provider for Kiku’s father, or perhaps it was the other way around. Most of their lessons comprised of English vocabulary and writing—and now he was here. Yesterday he had been at the Honda’s, helping Kiku with his alphabet when Yao had come in, arguing with a silver haired man. 

Behind the blond boy comes the very same, Gilbert Beilschmidt as he had introduced himself after peering curiously at Arthur’s lessons. Upon learning they were for English he laughed in delight, requesting Arthur come to a hastily scribbled address at 12:30 sharp for lessons. So here he was. Gilbert dashes down the stairs in a rich red robe, coming behind the small boy and saying something to him in German, Arthur believes. It’s clipped and the little boy scowls back, opening the door to let Arthur in. 

‘Ah yes, yes,’ Gilbert claps him on the shoulder, pulling him in, ‘what was it… Antony? Alfred, Alexander?’ 

‘Arthur,’ he says stiffly as Gilbert closes the door behind him. 

‘Arthur!’ Gilbert grins at him, the little blond boy halfway up the stairs, hand on the banister and watching them. ‘This is my little brother, Ludwig,’ he says, motioning for the boy to come over. Ludwig doesn't move. Gilbert glares at him, hissing something biting and sharp in German to the boy, who does not acquiesce. ‘Ach, never mind him.’ he waves a hand, ‘so, Arthur. You are here to teach Ludwig English, yes?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Arthur says, shifting uncomfortably, ‘You hired me to do so?’ 

‘Yes, well, you know how Yao is.’ He’s not sure what is meant by that, but he lets Gilbert go on. 

‘You will come each Saturday from twelve thirty to four thirty yes? Teach Ludwig all the ins and outs of the English language.’ He waves a hand, glancing around the room and back at his brother. ‘I will often not be here, so if he is hungry…you can make him something?’ He squints, ‘Can you cook?’ 

‘Yes,’ Arthur says, though it doesn’t seem as if Gilbert really wants to know. He hesitates, gnawing on his inner lip, tasting the swollen blood. ‘What about…?’

Gilbert blinks at him. 

‘The pay?’ Arthur mutters. It’s pathetic. Gilbert blinks again, thinking it over for a moment before smiling. 

‘I’ll leave an envelope on the counter. That works?’ he says, and Arthur nods. 

‘Wonderful!’ he claps his hands together and smacks Arthur's shoulder. ‘We will get along fabulous! How is your Deutsch?’ 

‘Limited.’ Gilbert frowns but shrugs. 

‘I suppose Ludwig will adapt. You will, ja?’ he says to his brother. Stony faced little Ludwig turns and goes upstairs. 

‘Ach, so temperamental. Children.’ Gilbert shrugs. ‘His room is first on the left. Go, go.’ He shoos Arthur, who toes off his ratty loafers as fast as possible before scurrying up the stairs. Gilbert disappears in the hallway to the left, deeper into the bowels of the house. 

Upstairs is dark, the landing broad and expansive. It’s bigger than his flat, Arthur realizes, walls of deep oak and rich carpet. There’s four doors, two on each side and as Gilbert had said, light peeks from the first on the left. Across appears to be a small marbled bathroom, step stool in front of the sink. Arthur straightens his tie again and knocks on the door. 

‘Eingeben.’ a little voice says through the wood. Arthur hesitates—enter, he recalls. Somehow, through his limited education he’s learned enough of a passable cocktail of languages. He can carry a simple conversation in Japanese thanks to Kiku, understand common Mandarin phrases— he refuses to credit Yao for this, who simply orders him around in the language, and instead Yao’s sister, Yinghua who sits with him during his breaks to tutor him. German is a bit harder, he had taken it in school by insistence of his father, and hasn’t kept up with it since. It’s an unpleasant memory, bile on the back of his tongue at the thought of his father’s towering figure, but he needed the money, so here he was. 

He opens the door. The room is drenched in pastel baby blues, frilly curtains and soft, white sheets. It’s near immaculate, a thick rug draped over the floor containing the only evidence of a child in scattered train toys. Bookshelves line the walls, decorated with photographs and maps, as well as some terrifyingly thick textbooks. To the right is a bed with a sheep patterned bedspread, lit by the enormous windows across from the door. Ludwig is sitting at a desk facing them, back to Arthur. He steps in, careful not to disturb any of the toys. 

‘Hello, Ludwig?’ Arthur says stiltedly. ‘Did…ah…did your brother tell you I was coming?’ 

‘Ja.’ Ludwig responds, still facing his desk. ‘You are für Englisch.’ 

‘Yes,’ Arthur says, relieved to be communicating with the child, ‘would you like to get started?’ 

Ludwig finally turns to face Arthur, small features mildly confused. Or determined perhaps. Arthur’s not really sure. His hand rests on his desk as the small chair swivels and Ludwig gives Arthur a once over. 

‘You know brother?’ 

‘I don’t, actually,’ Arthur laughs, ‘He knows my boss.’ 

‘Hm.’ Ludwig frowns. ‘My brother… how…viele freunde?’ Arthur catches on. 

‘Lots of friends?’ 

‘Ja.’ Ludwig says, seemingly relieved to be understood. Arthur sighs in relief, the knot in his head loosening. 

‘This room is beautiful,’ he comments, glancing around, ‘you like sheep?’ 

‘Sheep?’ Ludwig parrots, confused again. 

‘Schaf,’ Arthur says, pointing at the bedspread. 

‘Yes.’ Ludwig replies, pinkening. ‘You–sitzen?’ Arthur feels something blossom in his chest. Now, he was getting somewhere. There’s a tall brown chair next to Ludwig’s bed, so he moves it next to the boy where he can see the desk. Ludwig had been drawing evidently, himself and a little girl next to him in a green dress with curly brown hair. Once Arthur seats himself, he moves it away, staying silent. He decides not to pry.

‘You know,’ Arthur starts, gazing out the window at the roofs of the myriad of townhouses in this neighborhood. This row of houses runs parallel to a small park, and he can see families pushing babes in buggies, fathers playing catch with their sons. Outside is bustling in stark contrast to the silent room. ‘I have two little boys myself.’ That sparks Ludwig’s interest and he turns to look up at Arthur. 

‘They’re smaller than you, can you imagine?’ Ludwig’s eyes have grown wider, ‘I can hardly believe it myself. Such lively things too–always so much energy.’ He chuckles, hand unconsciously coming up to rest on his lap. 

‘Wenig?’ Ludwig says quietly. 

‘Three—drei.’ The boy shifts in his seat. 

‘Ich möchte sehen,’ he leans in and Arthur leans down to dig through his bag for his wallet. He opens it, pulling out the well worn photo of his boys. They must have been about five months old, still wrinkly and pink. Arthur turns it to Ludwig, who reaches out a stubby finger. 

‘There—zwei?’

‘Ja,’ Arthur says amusedly, ‘Twins. Zwei. Pair. Paar.' Ludwig doesn’t say anything, gazing at the chubby forms of his boys clutching one another, swaddled in a pink blanket. 

‘I have more,’ Arthur says, ‘mehr, in my bag.’

‘Lassen sie mich sehen!’ Ludwig insists and Arthur can’t help but feel fond. 

‘Sehen, see. Try it?’ Arthur coaches gently. 

‘See.’ Ludwig repeats. ‘Ich…’ he falters under Arthur's patient gaze, ‘I want to see.’ 

‘There you go,’ Arthur says, resisting the urge to pat his head. He leans down to rummage in the front compartment of his bag where a small travel sized photo album of the boys comes with him everyday. It’s almost a complete timeline. Arthur opens it and—fuck. He’s never shown this to anyone else, so the first two photos of him during his pregnancy didn’t really matter but oh god, how would he explain this to Ludwig? Worse, what if he told his brother, and Yao fired him and god, he would be right back at square one. He goes to turn the page but surprising them both, Ludwig’s chubby arm shoots out and holds it open. 

‘Du?’ he says, eyes wide and pointing to the first image of Arthur. He’s about four or five months along, showing enough to be memorable. Nineteen and a moron, Arthur nearly scoffs at the sight of himself, sitting on a brilliantly ragged red couch. He’s got those old crust pants on, patched to high hell and a loose tanktop under the shaggy black hoodie he wore everywhere back then. Thick layers of jewelry line his throat and travel up his ears, a hoop through his nose, studs in his eyebrow and lips. He grins at the camera, a sharp toothed thing Arthur can hardly recognize. 

‘Yes, that’s me.’ He swallows. The next image is less pleasant,  a self portrait in his ex-boyfriend’s flat in front of a large mirror. Arthur looks exhausted, hair stringy and back bowed with the weight from his stomach as he’s turned to the side. He’s maybe six months pregnant. Not soon after this photo was taken, he would be alone. The room is a mess, empty beer cans strewn about and graffiti on the crumbling walls. He turns the page. Ludwig, in his pristine bedroom and lovely house shouldn’t be exposed to such debauchery. 

Now they’re back to the twins, mere hours after their birth. They’ve got little hats on, darling pyjamas and are holding hands. Alfred’s got a lick of hair, just more than little bald Matthew. Arthur feels a pang at the sight, but he knows they’re safe. He tries not to linger on the memory of their birth. Across is a little record of their birth information, Alfred, frighteningly small at 2.4 kg and Matthew faring better at a solid 3 kg. 

‘You…’ Ludwig starts, brow furrowed, ‘hold? In deiem bauch?’ 

‘Bauch?’ Arthur tries, slightly lost. ‘Belly?’ 

Ludwig points at Arthur’s stomach. ‘Ja, bauch.’ 

‘Oh. Yes. I carried them.’ Arthur prays this is the end of the line of questioning. Explaining his gender to a five year old who can hardly understand English… Arthur can’t even begin to imagine the German words. 

‘Mehr,’ Ludwig says, turning the page. The next photo is of Alfred and Matthew in their cribs in Arthur's current flat. It’s sparsely decorated– in the background you can just see the mattress Arthur slept on for the first seven months of living there before he bought a frame. Stacks of diapers and formula line the walls and Arthur furrows his brow. He’ll owe Antonio for the rest of his mortal life, he knows. It’s the only reason he and the boys are still alive. 

They spend a little more time like that, Arthur showing Ludwig the last few years of his son’s lives. Photos of them at the park, their first birthday, playing in their flat. Then there’s his favorite— Antonio must have taken it, but Arthur is dead asleep on the couch, Matthew sleeping on his lap, smushed into his stomach and Alfred tucked up against his breastbone. They look peaceful, cherubic in their sleep and Arthur— he looks almost like himself again. That is until, somewhere in the house, a clock strikes one. 

Arthur jumps, and Ludwig mirrors him. They stare at each other for a moment before Arthur laughs. Ludwig giggles, covering his face. 

‘Right, well that’s probably enough of that.’ Arthur says, tucking away the photo album and instead pulling out the few slim English workbooks he had. He bought them to help the boys, but this is just as good. 

‘Would you like to start? Jetzt anfangen?’ He tries, and Ludwig nods shyly. 

They spend the next three hours mostly on pronunciation of different letters. Ludwig manages to adapt rather fast, and Arthur mixes it up by showing him different objects and saying their names. 

Though every half hour or so, the boy will pause for a moment before looking at him hopefully. Ludwig will chew on a finger and ask, ‘See babies?’ And who is Arthur to refuse? 

He’s just coming up on the twins' second birthday when there’s a perfunctory knock at the door. Just as he’s closing the album, Gilbert comes in, narrowing his eyes at the pair. 

‘Ludwig.’ He starts, ignoring Arthur. ‘Ist es gut gelaufen?’

‘Ja,’ the boy looks over at Arthur, large blue eyes tremulous. ‘Wird er zurückkommen?’ 

‘I suppose.’ Gilbert responds in English, shrugging. ‘I’m taking Ludwig to piano now.’ He addresses Arthur, shifting with a hand on his hip. No longer in a robe, he’s now stiff in a tight turtleneck under a long black blazer with cuffs. ‘The payment is on the table. You will see yourself out?’ Gilbert finishes, fiddling with the fastenings on his jacket. Arthur stumbles to his feet— so is that it? Did he pass? Pass the Beilschmidt’s odd test and stranger little proctor? He hopes, for the first time in a long time, that he does. Ludwig glances at him, worrying at his lip. 

‘Kommt er nächste Woche?’ he says, pleading. 

‘Ja, ja.’ Gilbert responds, waving a hand, ‘Mach dich bereit zu gehen’. Arthur stands, making for the door. He has picked up on some of it but— well, it did no good for him to misinterpret, get it wrong like he always does. Gilbert shifts out of his way, watching him all the while. He waits until Arthur is at the top of the stairs to speak. 

‘See you next week. Same time.’ Arthur nearly stumbles in shock. 

‘Oh—yes, yes. Have a good week—‘ he forces out clippedly, tumbling down the stairs. Stopping at the base, he turns down the corridor, searching for the table Gilbert meant. There—a rosewood corner table with a number of flower pots and photographs of a younger Ludwig and Gilbert. Ludwig looks around two, grabbing onto his brother's tanned shoulders. Arthur snatches it up, flicking through it. Counting it up, his face hurts. 160 pounds—god. He shoves his shoes on, dashing out into the street. Pure elation fills his heart and he laughs. He could take the boys, Antonio out, get a head start on his rent, and this was just the first of several. 

Checking his watch, just after five, Arthur heads around the corner to the bus stop. Inside is warm and quiet, a welcome respite against the frigid mid-autumn air. At the fourth stop, Arthur gets off. This London suburb is less well off than the Beilschmidt’s, more of the typical row housing. He takes a few turns, stuffing his hands into his worn thin suede jacket. There, just up ahead he sees the daycare. Scratching at his hands, Arthur enters the small pastel building. 

There’s a waiting room he skirts past, instead walking through to the main play area. The secretary—one of Antonio’s many cousins, a young man with tanned skin and a low ponytail doesn’t even glance, used to Arthur. Antonio is in the back kitchen area, the only non carpeted section. The rest of the room has thick rugs, small chairs and tables scattered around. One corner has a wood block castle, another lined with art created by the children. At this time, past four-thirty on a Saturday, there aren’t many children. Perhaps about three others aside from Matthew and Alfred, who are at a table by the bookshelf in the back left of the room. He smiles, opening the gate to let himself in. 

‘Arthur!’ Antonio cries upon turning. Alfred’s head snaps up and he squirms out of his small chair to toddle over. Arthur waits patiently in the middle of the room, watching his ever determined son plant his face into his leg. Matthew watches, mouth slightly agape and laughs. Arthur drops his bookbag and leans down to lift Alfred up, cooing at him. 

‘Papa!’ Alfred cries, touching Arthur’s face. 

‘Hello my darling,’ he says, kissing Alfred’s cheeks. The boy shrieks in laughter and giggles, clutching at Arthur’s tie. Matthew stumbles over, looking gleefully up at Arthur. He leans down to scoop him up as well. 

‘Have you a good time poppet?’ Matthew nods, tucking his head under Arthur’s chin and stroking over his lapels with a sticky hand. His ribs are beginning to ache, but Arthur ignores it. Antonio dries his hands and walks over, ruffling some children's hair as he passes. He grins at Arthur, ever positive.

‘So,’ he tilts his head, shaggy brown hair framing his handsome face. ‘How did it go? The new child, right?’ 

‘Yes,’ Arthur keeps his voice down, mindful of how Matthew has stilled against his breastbone. Alfred still squirms, playing with Arthur’s hair and some plastic toy he’s clutched in his fists. ‘He is an odd little thing, but we got along. I’m going back next week.’ 

‘Arthur!’ Antonio says, ‘That’s wonderful!’ 

‘Yes, I’m glad it went well.’ he says, watching Matthew drool on his tie. The new job was good, but only took more time from his boys. It would be worth it, he reassured himself. 

‘Well,’ Antonio says, shifting to peer over Arthur’s shoulder. ‘Should we celebrate? Have a nice meal, yeah?’ 

‘You want to?’ 

‘Yeah, why not. I’m watching them anyway , so it saves me the chore of cooking.’ He sighs, glancing back at the few children. One small girl has been picked up by a tall woman at the front. Antonio waves at her and she grins back, leaving with her mother. 

‘Are you sure?’ Arthur shifted, rocking the two in his arms slowly. Another meal from Antonio—after he gave him the flat, let his children attend his family owned day care almost free of charge—tonight, taking them off his hands so Arthur could go out for the first time in how long? The last time he had a night out, free of responsibility…must have been before the boys. Christ. 

‘Ah, Arthur, don’t worry about it. I want you to have fun. Just be careful, yeah?’ Antonio chuckles. ‘Don’t want anymore little Alfred’s running around, do we?’ Arthur flushes, rolling his eyes. He chooses not to inform Antonio of the impossibilities of that statement. 

‘A meal would be lovely then.’ Antonio laughs at that, turning away to continue tidying up. 

‘Well, I finish up here around five.’ he says,  ‘Then we will get dinner okay? Keep yourself busy until then.’ 

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult.’ Arthur responds, shuffling over to a soft orange couch towards the front of the room. He sits, maneuvering so Alfred can slip out of his hold a bit and curl into his side. Matthew in his right arm is fast asleep on Arthur’s collar, and Alfred rubs his face onto his fathers jacket, sighing. 

‘You alright?’ he says softly, running a hand through Alfred’s downy hair. His boy nods. 

‘Can you sing?’ Alfred mumbles around the hand stuffed in his mouth. He looks drowsy, in the little sailor shirt Arthur dressed him in this morning. 

‘What would you like, pet?’ Arthur says, pinching his cheek slightly. He can hardly resist. 

‘My favorite?’ Alfred mumbles. 

‘Ah, of course.’ He clears his throat softly, glancing around the room before he begins to sing. Antonio is occupied with some mess in the corner, so he starts. 

“I left my darling lying here, a lying here, a lying here, I left my darling lying here, To go and gather blaeberries.”

Arthur sings softly, cheek pressed against Matthew’s hair. Perhaps it was all worth it for these boys to grow up, comfortable and unailed by the long melancholy of Arthur’s youth. Swaddled from the dark roads, the people and systems that allowed for Arthur to slip through the cracks.

“I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track, the otter’s track, the otter’s track, I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track—But ne’er a trace o’ my baby, O!”

He wanted to make a home, a real home for them. Somewhere they could run back to, someone to wipe their tears and bandage their wounds at any age. The home he wanted, scared out of his damn mind, bruised wrists and exhaustion lining his frame. 

“I found the track of the swan on the lake, the swan on the lack, the swan on the lack, I found the track of the swan on the lake, But not the track of baby, O!”

Arthur swallowed, watching Alfred slip into unconsciousness. His thin eyelashes fluttered over baby soft cheeks, though not as round as they should have been. Arthur touched the rim of his ear, delighting how small the translucent shell was. Alfred was a sickly baby, Arthur was under no delusion of the fact. Every time the boy coughed, something seized in his chest. 

“I found the track of the yellow fawn, the yellow fawn, I found the track of the yellow dawn, But could not trace my baby, O!”

After his birth, in the awful months following, Arthur had often agonized over how this might have happened. What had he done, how had he failed as the runt again, tainted this should be pure thing. Who was he to think he could have this? To bring suffering onto an innocent being, struggling to breathe with his underdeveloped lungs. Arthur’s body had betrayed him before. Why would he have thought this would have been any different? 

“I found the trail of the mountain mist, the mountain mist, the mountain mist, I found the trail of the mountain mist, But ne’er a trace of baby, O!”

Matthew has been healthy, blessedly. Suffering from the long hours in the hospital at his brother’s bedside, being held back from clambering over him. It can’t be good for the boy to see his brother in such a state. To have a ruined father, a facsimile of a man. He stops himself from following that train of thought. Arthur had shaped himself into the man sitting in Antonio’s daycare, and his insecurity would not have it today. 

“O! Hovan, Hovan, Gorry og O, Gorry og, O, Gorry og, O, Hovan, Hovan Gorry og O—I’ve lost my darling baby, O!”

He finishes, letting the end trail off. A sad little song, but Alfred seemed to adore its haunting lyrics. It was old, that is as much as he knows. His mother used to sing it to him on long nights, his head pillowed in her lap as she stroked his hair, the back of his neck, always tense, always on alert for the stumbling footsteps of his drunkard father. It would do no good to linger, he reminds himself. He tucks that thought away in favor of watching his boys sleep, chests rising peacefully. In the building, gentle music plays, and the heater must be running overtime, for it’s so warm. He worms further into the couch, taking a deep breath. 

He must have drifted off himself, for the next time Arthur blinks, it’s to Antonio waving a hand in front of his face. 

‘There you are! Good morning sleepyhead’s,’ Antonio laughs, ruffling Matthew’s hair. Arthur blinks, shaking his head slightly. The daycare has cleared out, Antonio no longer wearing the pink apron he does around the children. 

‘It’s time?’ Arthur mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Matthew has begun to stir against his chest, sniffling and nudging his brother, who is still fast asleep. Arthur sighs and sits up, holding the boys close to his chest. Antonio is holding his bag, and Matthew slides off the couch to let Arthur stand up, Alfred curled against his chest. They have a small double buggy folded at the front, which Antonio sets up for Arthur to buckle a swaddled Alfred in. Matthew stands off to the side, clutching his stuffed animal, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

‘Darling? Would you like to sit by your brother?’ Matthew shakes his head and points at Arthur’s head. 

‘Alright,’ he chuckles, ‘put Kumajiro in your seat then. We can’t leave Alfred alone. Come along pumpkin,’ Matthew does as told, stretching his chubby fists up. Arthur helps him into his blue puffer coat and tugs a knit hat over Matthew’s curls. Antonio, blessed Antonio is standing by the door with Alfred fast asleep in the buggy. He watches, amused, as Arthur hoists Matthew above his head. 

‘Papa,’ Matthew says once seated on Arthur's narrow shoulders and grappling with his hair. ‘Where are we going?’ 

‘Antonio’s taking us out for dinner, poppet.’ Arthur says, squeezing Matthew's leg. ‘It’s a surprise.’ For him too, considering he slept through any potential discussion of the matter. He follows Antonio out of the daycare, waiting as the man locks up and then they’re off. Down the street they go, Antonio in front pushing Alfred, Arthur behind with Matthew on his shoulders. 

‘Mister Antonio,’ Matthew calls quite seriously, ‘how much longer?’ 

‘Ah, just around the corner, little príncipe. Do not fret!’’ Antonio quips back. They’ve turned off the main street, accompanied by the evening sun. Soon it will nestle among the trees, but for now it streams through the brick jungle, lighting half the street. Shop windows are beginning to glow, faded paint around the edges contrast to the rough cobble below their feet, the uneven pavement. The streets in this part are slightly dank, pot holes and puddles near every streetlamp. Arthur tries his best to watch his step. 

It’s not terribly crowded, but certainly busy. Several restaurants line the street leading up to the familiar square Antonio is leading them too. A gaggle of toddling men pour out of a pub, dressed in some football team's colors and heading down the road. 

‘I’m hungry,’ Matthew whines. 

‘Almost there darling,’ Arthur says, shushing him. The men have drawn closer now, and Arthur keeps his gaze fixed forward. One of them slows. He looks them—Antonio and Arthur over, with the two children and scoffs. 

‘Christ,’ he says to his friend, who turns to gawk at them. As if they are spectacle, he spits at them. It doesn’t land but Matthew cries out, a childish thing. The men burst out into laughter. Arthur continues, sliding Matthew off his shoulder to clutch in his arms as they reach the end of the street. They round the corner and Antonio glances over his shoulder at them. 

‘He ok?’

‘Yes,’ Arthur adjusts his hold on Matthew. ‘You are, right my darling? I know that was scary,’ He brushes Matthews' hair out of his face. Thumbs at his trembling lip, says, ‘what’s this doing here?’ and Matthew giggles, though it’s a half wet thing. 

‘Ah,’ says Antonio, ‘Bastards doing as bastards do.’ he shrugs, ‘we’ve seen it before.’ 

‘We have.’ Arthur says, frowning at Antonio. ‘I could tell within a minute of chatting with you.’ He turns his nose up in mock disgust. Antonio cackles, turning to look at him as they continue down this new street. 

‘As if you are much better. What, with all your,’ he gestures at his face loosely, ‘and pomp, I would be surprised if not!’ 

‘Oh piss off,’ Arthur says goodnaturedly, coming to a stop at the place Antonio has picked for tonight. He knows the district, the place— Antonio lives a scant few minutes away down a back road. It’s a simple Italian place, unassuming but delicious. They may have frequented it, but the waiters are lovely, the food good, so what was the crime? 

Arthur snatches a table for the four of them in the corner while Antonio chats with one of the workers and works on waking Alfred up. Arthur watches as Alfred blinks wearily, cracking his sky blue eyes open to smile at Antonio. They come over in a few minutes. 

Antonio orders for them in Italian, pumpkin ravioli for Arthur, crab tagliarini for Antonio and lasagna for the boys. While waiting for their food, Arthur takes the opportunity to pry into Antonio’s affairs. 

‘What?’ he says, leaning back, ‘you mean you haven’t asked for his number?’ 

‘It’s too soon!’ Antonio says, rubbing at his temple, ‘besides, what if he is married?’ Arthur scoffs, refilling Alfred’s water as the boy colors a pasta dish. 

‘If he’s married it’s a damn shame, considering he should be divorced.’ 

‘Ah, but Arthur, it is tricky.’ Arthur arches a heavy brow. He’s been hearing Antonio wax poetic about some thin black haired man who came to teach music lessons at the daycare. Apparently, he has ‘amethyst eyes’ and a ‘dangerous face’’, whatever that means. 

‘I mean to say, I hired him! How could I hit on him? That’s inappropriate, no?’ Arthur shrugs, leaning over the table to wipe Matthew’s mouth. 

‘Ask him after he’s done? Catch him before he leaves, try that.’

‘Oh, but what if he’s not like us? Then I lose my special guest, ah, what a mess.’ Antonio frowns, slumping in his chair. 

‘What did he say to you again? Something…your arms?’

‘My wrists,’ Antonio groans, ‘he said I have beautiful wrists.’ Arthur stares at him, dumbfounded. 

‘Well,’ he leans back, ‘certainly that means nothing.’ 

‘Arthur!’

‘What?’ he retorts, watching as a young lady brings out their food. She smiles at Alfred, who waves at her as she sets his food down. 

‘You are not being helpful!’

‘I told you what I think,’ Arthur says, picking up his knife and fork to begin slicing up the lasagna into portions for Alfred and Matthew. 

‘Yes, but you are not definitive. Useless,’ Antonio scoffs, sipping at his lemonade. 

‘That’s so you can’t blame me when you mess it up,’ Arthur says pointedly. Antonio laughs, watching as Alfred begins to shovel the lasagna into his mouth. 

‘Alfred…’ Arthur sighs, ‘take your time. It’s not going anywhere.’ He holds the boy’s wrist, as if to show him how to physically stop himself. 

‘Do you have the boys next week?’ Arthur asks Antonio. The other man looks—almost guilty for a moment before the expression changes. 

‘Yes.’ he sets his glass down, ‘actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ Fuck, that wasn’t a good sign. Maybe he was buttering Arthur up to tell him he was being evicted. Arthur feels lightheaded. 

‘So, you see,’ Antonio fidgets before swallowing and making eye contact with Arthur, ‘they’re moving in with me. For a while at least.’ 

‘What?’ Arthur blinks. Antonio shared custody of his cousins, two lively boys a few years older than the twins with his enigmatic, ultra wealthy grandfather, who happened to own Arthur's flat. 

‘My grandfather has died. I am the next in line, so…’ he trails off, waving a hand. 

‘Oh,’ Arthur fumbles, ‘I’m terribly sorry—are you..?’ He offers. Antonio shrugs, staring at his food. 

‘He was very old. It is no big loss, except for the little ones.’ 

‘So…’ Arthur starts, ‘what are you trying to say?’ 

‘Good news or bad news?’ 

‘Bad.’ Arthur says, watching Matthew gnaw at his lasagna out of the corner of his eye. Alfred is covered in tomato sauce and Arthur mourns the sailor shirt. 

‘I don’t know if I can take care of your twins as easily, you know? Time, that is.’ Of course. Arthur closes his eyes for a moment. Antonio continues, softening his voice as if that will help lessen the blow. ‘At the daycare, it’s no problem, but I don’t know about something like tonight again, yeah? Unless they all had a little playdate, but four…’ Arthur can’t even be mad, having met Antonio’s cousins, albeit briefly. Having had two rambunctious boys himself, without the advantages that come with being five. Combining the two groups with poor Antonio to mediate…he wouldn’t wish Feliciano and Lovino upon anyone, let alone with his twins in the mix. 

He opens his eyes and stares fixedly at his food. It looks dry, unappealing. 

‘I can still try of course Arthur, but I do not know how things will change.’ No, no it was too much. Antonio stretched himself thin to accommodate Arthur's failings. He would have to man up again and do this on his own. Antonio has been a life saver—the daycare, accompanying Arthur on several stressful hospital visits, babysitting the boys if Arthur got off work late, but he supposes it’s on him for being weak and over reliant on others.

‘No, it’s alright.’ The words leave his mouth without much strength behind them. 

‘Ah, but I haven’t told you the good news!’ Arthur looks at Antonio, who watches him worriedly. ‘Since Grandpa Livius is dead, your flat, remember?’ Arthur doesn’t follow and he tries to communicate this through the stare he levels at Antonio. 

‘Well, he technically owned it, gave it to me and I let you stay for half yes? But now that he is dead, it is all mine. And I don’t need it, so I’m transferring ownership to you!’ Antonio says delightedly. 

Arthur blinks at him. Matthew shrieks and begins to wail, wet pasta hitting him in the face from his brother’s attack. He releases a long suffering sigh, reaching over to peel the pasta off of Matthew’s ruddy cheeks, wiping the sauce off with a napkin. 

‘Alfred,’ he says. Alfred stares at him wide-eyed as Matthew cries, ‘look at what you’ve done—you’ve made your brother cry. Don’t play with your food.’ he finishes sternly. Alfred stares at him. He’s not sure if he got any of that, but Arthur has to hope. Turning back to Antonio, Arthur tries to focus on the information presented. 

‘To me? The ownership of it?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Antonio shrugs, ‘I mean,’ he says through a mouthful of tagliarini, ‘I don’t need it. I have my own place, and you like it, yes?’ Arthur nods, dumbfounded. ‘Makes payments cheaper too. I can help you the first month, we can do the paperwork.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Arthur nods, patting the side of his mouth with his napkin. His chest feels tight. ‘God, Antonio, where do I even start? I don’t—’ he cuts himself off, watching the boys babble to each other in a mix of English and toddler-speak. ‘I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you. For this. For anything.’ Antonio blinks. 

‘Well the meal’s on me.’ 

‘No,’ Arthur laughs, ‘you know what I mean.’ 

‘It’s no big deal.’ Antonio cricks his neck, ‘I helped a friend out. Saves me the trouble of dealing with the place as well, it is a win win, you see?’ 

‘I suppose, yes,’ Arthur stared at his food, heat welling up in his throat. Antonio was too good to him, for someone like him. Since they had met the man had put his all into helping Arthur getting back onto his feet. If it had been anyone else, Arthur would say it was some sort of hero complex, that he and the twins were just a charity case. But Antonio was a friend, above all that. Arthur’s only friend really, and god, wasn’t that pathetic. At least he had the comfort of knowing he held a similar position in Antonio’s life, the pair they made.

Antonio continues to eat across from him, teasing the boys. 

‘Is it good Matthew? Yes? Si?’ Matthew nods sagely. 

‘Si, Mister Antonio.’ He says. Alfred giggles. 

‘Mister Antonio,’ Alfred pipes up, leaning forth in his toddler chair. ‘I wanna watch a movie’ His grubby fists grip at the table cloth, smearing grease and sauce all over it. Arthur hasn’t been religious in years, but he prays for forgiveness on his child’s behalf at that moment. 

‘Depends on what your papa says, pollito,’ Antonio glances at Arthur, who shrugs. 

‘Antonio, again, I truly don’t know how to thank you.’ he says, prodding at his dinner. 

‘Don’t worry about it, Arthur, man seriously.’ A hand claps Arthur’s shoulder and he startles, meeting Antonio’s cheerful face. ‘Just have a good time tonight, yeah?’ Arthur nods, at a loss for words and continues to eat. He scarfs down half of the meal, boxing up the rest for later. Sure, he’s still hungry, but that was nothing new. The boys needed it more anyway. 

They get ready to leave, Antonio calling for the bill. Arthur stands and wrestles Alfred out of his highchair, mindful of his kicking legs and snatches baby wipes from his bag. He drags the boy to the bathroom, telling Matthew to behave in his absence. 

‘Papa…’ Alfred whines, smearing tomato sauce on Arthur’s face. He’s holding him at a length away from his body to avoid any damage to his suit, but Alfred is stretching out, whining at not being snuggled up as per usual. They make it to the single stalled bathroom and Arthur sets him down, locking the door. 

‘Stay there Alfred.’ He can hear him moving around as he pulls out the pack of baby wipes and takes one out. Behind him Alfred has begun smearing sauce on the walls. 

‘Alfred!’ Arthur almost lunges for him, tugging the boy back by his wrist. Alfred stands, belly sticking out in his toddling stance. He lets out a breathy chuckle, patting Alfred’s blond locks, the pale yellow color so much like his own, but much more unruly. 

‘Stay still now, okay?’ he begins to wipe at Alfred’s face, cutting through the thin layer of tomato sauce and toddler spit. Alfred giggles at the touch, squirming in Arthur’s hold as he moves to wipe at the crevices of Alfred’s palms. Once clean, he wiggles a finger in the center and Alfred shrieks, laughter bubbling out of his chest. His laughs are infectious, boisterous and Arthur bites down on his lip, grinning. Now, the shirt. Focusing on the large clumps of sauce, he wipes them off, dumping it in the small wastebin. 

‘Now Alfred,’ he starts softly, ‘you’ll be good at Uncle Antonio’s tonight, okay?’ Alfred babbles something, sucking on his fingers and it’s good enough for Arthur. 

‘Papa’s going to come there with you and Mattie, and I’ll tuck you in,’ he rubs at one of the worst stains, but to no avail. Alfred has spare clothes in his knapsack, though it was a shame—he was so cute in this one. ‘Until you sleep. I’ll be there in the morning too. What would you like to do tomorrow, poppet?’ 

‘Park? Please?’ Alfred tries. One of the first words he learned aside from “more” was park— Alfred loves it, pretending to fly around, chasing birds and petting dogs. Arthur gets tired just watching him. 

‘The park? Okay,’ Arthur says, turning Alfred around to check for any more tomato sauce. ‘What else? What about the fountain at the park?’ 

‘Yes!’ Alfred crows, trying to turn to look at Arthur in his excitement. He nearly falls over instead, but Arthur catches him, lifting him up to his chest. Well, he tried, checking over Alfred. He’s mostly clean, but there isn’t much else to do, the carnage evident in the stained wipes they’re leaving in the bin. 

‘Alright, alright. So we’ll go to the fountain and the park, okay?’ 

‘Yay!’ Alfred says, wrapping his little arms around Arthur's neck and burrowing his face into his clavicle. He babbles to himself, humming as they leave the bathroom and meet back with Antonio by the front door. Matthew’s waiting in the buggy already, chatting with Antonio. 

‘There they are!’ Antonio announces, ‘ready to go?’ Arthur sets Alfred down, letting him clamber in next to his brother and fumble with the buckles. He was a nimble child—but all three year olds have their limitations. Arthur bends down to strap him in, ignoring the twinge in his chest and lower back from the strain. He pushes them as they leave the restaurant, Antonio holding the door open and leading the way to his flat. 

It’s significantly nicer than Arthur’s. Antonio’s grandfather was some old timey real estate mogul apparently, owning large swathes of property all across London. Most of it he rented out or lent to his extensive family. He thinks aside from the younger two, Antonio must have about twenty or thirty cousins, if not more. What a nightmare. 

The twins babble to each other as they stroll down the street. The nightlife is beginning to stir—he checks his watch, just around six-thirty. It’s brisk, their walk and the temperature but it doesn’t bother any of them. The night air was pleasant, calming, the faint scent of autumn leaves and sparse evergreens a thick perfume in tango with the city smog. In the air, he could almost feel a tension, an energy coiled to burst through the cobble and brick. They come up on Antonio’s street. Thankfully, he lives on the second floor, so folding the buggy up and helping the boys up is no gargantuan task. 

Antonio unlocks the door, holding it open for Alfred and Matthew to toddle in. Alfred immediately heads down the hall for the couch, where a toybox rests to the side and dives in. Antonio’s flat is lovely, creamy colors and soft curtains nestled among dark wood bookshelves. It opens into a hallway, two bedrooms in front, the kitchen and living room down the hall. Unusually, there’s several folded up boxes piled around and tucked into corners. 

‘Ah, watch those,’ Antonio says from behind him as Arthur toes his shoes off, ‘I’m converting my office into a room for the boys—’ he squeezes behind Arthur to open the door, gesturing inside. He peeks in—two little desks and beds on either side of the room, yellow striped wallpaper and little flower lights. ‘Matthew and Alfred can stay here tonight. Isn’t it cute?’ 

‘Adorable,’ Arthur says, moving to the living room to check on the boys. Alfred’s found a few toy soldiers, hitting them against one another while Matthew presses the buttons of a musical toy, various out of tune piano notes ringing through the air. He leans against Antonio’s kitchen counter and watches them play for a moment. Antonio is doing something in the children’s room, banging around in the back. He moves to sit on the couch, sinking into the plush leather and taking a deep breath. 

Antonio emerges from the hallway after a few minutes, flicking on a lamp and rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. Turning back to Arthur, he holds up a bottle of red wine and two glasses. 

‘Maybe before you go?’ He grins. 

‘Yeah, why not.’ Arthur pinches between his eyes. After a moment, Antonio sits next to him on the couch, passing him a glass. He murmurs his thanks and takes a sip. It’s pleasant, cool and tart on his tongue. 

‘What will you wear?’ Antonio asks after a moment as they savor the wine. The boys have now begun playing with each other, setting up for a great battle. 

‘Don’t know,’ Arthur shrugs, ‘haven’t thought much about it.’ 

‘Do you want to borrow anything?’ Antonio gestures towards his room. 

‘Ah, no. I should still have some old things I can scrounge together…’ Arthur trails off. There’s a box of clothes in his closet he hasn’t looked at in about two years. Partially as he’s not sure some of them would fit him anymore, rounded out as he has since the twins. He’s not exactly keen to do his whole…get up again, but the clear tunnels in his ears are certainly an option. He rolls the ball of his tongue piercing along the roof of his mouth, gnawing on his inner cheek. 

‘You’ll look great.’ Antonio waves a hand. ‘Such a handsome rulebreaker, you were.’ Arthur scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

‘You’ve only seen the pictures.’ Antonio hadn’t known him back then, a permanent chip on his shoulder. Honestly, Arthur only remembers bits and pieces. His late teens were a whirlwind of excessive drinking, smoking, parties and godawful punk shows. Late nights and dirty alleyways, apartments and boyfriends who liked to grab a little too hard. No wonder he ended up here—with the boys as the only good thing to show for it. Countless sleepless nights and more tears Arthur had shed in his entire life compressed into the postpartum span of depression so intense he was worried he would never wake up. If not for Matthew’s wails, Alfred’s sniffles, he might not have. 

But, with the boys playing in front of him, Antonio on the couch next to him and a wine glass in hand, first free night in three years, Arthur feels almost normal again. He finishes his drink, sliding off the couch to pet Matthew’s back. Matthew perks up at the attention, turning to give his father a hug. 

Arthur checks his watch—quarter past seven. He moves to the kitchen to put his glass away, then to the boy’s bags, pulling out their pyjamas. 

‘Alfred,’ he calls, at the mouth of the hallway. Alfred perks up and sees his father holding his clothes, hurrying over. He takes Alfred into the bathroom, wiping at the drool and snot on his face, tugging his dirty shirt off and helping him out of his pants. Helping the boy use the bathroom, he sits Alfred on the sink and brushes his teeth. He can hardly resist poking Alfred’s belly, reveling in how small his bellybutton was, the childlike slope of his legs and little toes. How had something so perfect come from him? Alfred giggles when he pokes his stomach. 

‘Papa?’ Alfred mumbles after spitting out his cotton candy toothpaste, turning to press a palm against the mirror. Arthur is momentarily distracted by the lock of blond curling around his small ear.

‘Yes poppet?’ 

‘What happened when Mattie and I were in your tummy?’ Alfred asks as Arthur moves him off the counter to start helping him into his onesie. It’s a favorite question of his. He likes how Arthur spins the tale. 

‘Well,’ he says, tugging the onesie over Alfred’s legs to start helping his arms into the soft fabric, ‘I kept you and your brother warm and safe in there until you were big enough to pop—’ he punctuates this with a gentle poke to Alfred’s nose, ‘out on your own.’ Zipping up the onesie, Arthur strokes over the little brown bear paws on Alfred’s feet. ‘You weren’t in there for long enough though,’ 

‘Why?’ Alfred interrupts. 

‘You were too excited, wiggling around.’ he tickles Alfred’s side, who giggles, hiding his face in Arthur’s neck. ‘Mattie was so cosy, but he missed you, so he came after. You kept each other company in there.’ Alfred fiddles with Arthur’s hair, eyes unfocused. He nods and hums. 

‘Ready?’ Arthur asks. Alfred nods and he scoops him up, along with the dirty clothes and exits the bathroom. ‘But I was so happy when you two came out of my tummy.’ He says to Alfred, heading back to the living room, ‘my two perfect boys.’ Arthur presses a kiss to Alfred’s head. 

He sets him down, letting Alfred run off back to his toys and packs away the dirty clothes. Next is Matthew, so he does the same and takes the boy back to the bathroom. Matthew has always been quiet, sometimes worryingly so compared to Alfred, but he’s so curious. 

‘Papa, where are you going?’ he says as Arthur helps him out of his red hoodie and jeans.

‘I’m going to see some old friends,’ Arthur says, the lie coming surprisingly easy. He doesn’t want to see anyone he used to know. Not now, not ever. Matthew mumbles. 

‘Can I come?’ he blinks at Arthur, watery periwinkle puppy dog eyes. Arthur ruffles his curls. 

‘No darling, maybe next time. Papa needs a night alone, okay?’ 

‘Why?’ Matthew whines, lip trembling. Arthur kisses his cheek. 

‘Don’t worry. I’ll come get you two in the morning. I’ll be here when you wake up, okay?’ That seems to calm Matthew, and he plays with Arthur's tie as he brushes his teeth. Back on the floor, Arthur helps him into his polar bear onesie. 

‘Will you tuck me in?’ he implores. 

‘Of course pumpkin.’ 

‘Caterpillar?’ Matthew says hopefully. Arthur arranges his curls, zipping up the onesie. 

‘If that’s what you’d like.’ 

‘Please?’ 

‘What will I do if you wake up as a butterfly, hm?’ Arthur says, tickling Matthew’s sides, ‘you’ll fly away from me! I won’t be able to get you back!’ he tickles up Matthew’s leg, ‘all the way to Antarctica.’ 

‘No!’ Matthew gasps, ‘I’ll fly home. Promise.’ He says seriously, and Arthur laughs, opening the door to return to Alfred and Antonio. 

‘I’ll hold you to it.’ he tells Matthew. ‘Antonio?’ 

‘Yeah?’ Antonio calls back. 

‘Can you bring Alfred here? I’m going to put them to bed now.’ Moments later Alfred toddles down the hall, grabbing at Matthew’s hand. They enter the room. Alfred dashes towards one of the beds, dragging Matthew behind him. 

‘I want this one!’ he shouts. 

‘Okay, okay,’ Arthur follows exasperatedly. ‘Matthew, say goodnight to your brother.’ 

‘Night night Alfie,’ Matthew says, leaning in to hug Alfred and give a clumsy kiss to his cheek. ‘Goodnight,’ Alfred says, kissing him back. Arthur feels lightheaded at the darling display. Matthew toddles over to the other bed and Arthur trails him. He helps him in and under the covers, letting Matthew settle in as he reaches up to flick off the light. Once Matthew is comfortable, cherubic face peeking out over the strawberry patterned sheets, Arthur begins to tuck him in. 

‘Caterpillar?’ he checks and Matthew nods. ‘Roll over,’ Arthur tucks the blankets under Matthew’s side, and does the same to the other until Matthew is completely swaddled, arms pinned to his side. Matthew smiles up at him and Arthur leans down to kiss him on the forehead, smoothing over his hair. 

‘Goodnight darling,’ he says. 

‘My turn! My turn!’ Alfred shouts from the other side of the room. Arthur moves over there, where Alfred is sitting up in bed, blankets pooled around his stubby legs. 

‘You have to lay down first,’ Arthur chuckles, watching patiently as Alfred does so. Alfred wiggles under the blankets, blinking expectantly up at him. Arthur leans over, rolling the boy onto his side and mirroring his movements with Matthew. Alfred giggles and Arthur tickles his stomach slightly before giving him a kiss. 

‘Goodnight poppet,’ 

‘Papa?’ Matthew says shyly as Arthur stands up. 

‘Yes?’ he says, making towards the door and flicking off the lights. Arthur stands in the doorway, watching his boys wiggle. 

‘You’ll be here when we wake up?’ 

‘Yes, of course. Sleep well, treasure, I’ll be here.’ Arthur lingers for a moment, before stepping out and shutting the door. He exhales. Thank god that went smoothly. 

Antonio’s lingering in the kitchen when Arthur emerges from the hallway, putting dishes away. Arthur collects his boy’s bags to take home. He’ll repack them there before he goes out, put them by the door so they’re ready for tomorrow. 

‘Ah!’ he turns, ‘sleeping already?’ 

‘They should be,’ Arthur says, now moving to tidy up the remnants of Alfred and Matthew’s mess. ‘I’ll get out of your hair in a moment.’ 

‘No rush.’ Antonio says, leaning over the counter to watch Arthur clean up. ‘So what are you looking for tonight?’ 

‘What?’ Arthur laughs incredulously, ‘nothing. I just want to get a drink.’ 

‘Not looking for it then, but what if something happens ah? What then?’ 

‘Nothing,’ Arthur repeats, ‘I doubt—well anyways, I’m just going to get a drink or something. Maybe chat with people my own age for once—aside from you of course.’ Antonio shrugs. 

‘You think nothing will happen but Arthur, you haven’t seen yourself!’

‘What?’ he laughs. ‘You flatter me, but no, nothing juicy will happen.’ Arthur narrows his eyes at Antonio as he makes for the door. ‘Even if it did, you’re not hearing about it until you ask that man for his phone number.’ 

‘What!’ Antonio flails, ‘Arthur, my friend, you would starve me so cruelly?’ 

‘Yes,’ Arthur says plainly, hiding his smile. He wiggles back into his coat, slipping into his shoes and holding the boy’s bags. ‘That’s my cue then. Goodnight Antonio,’ 

‘Night Arthur,’ he says as Arthur steps out, ‘be safe!’ 

Arthur lets the door shut behind him, making his way down the stairs and to the nearest bus stop at the end of Antonio’s street. It’s about ten minutes to his flat from here, and he runs through a mental catalogue of his closet, what to do with his mess of hair. He snorts at his conversation with Antonio, always the hopeless romantic. Arthur wants to drink, chat and dance maybe, no thank you. 

Hopping off the bus, Arthur makes his way to his third floor flat—which really is his, now he supposes, unlocking the door. He came back to clean this morning, but it’s still a bit of a mess as usual. To the right of the entrance is the kitchen, clean dishes lined up on the counter he has yet to put away, and the living room to the left is still strewn with Matthew and Alfred’s toys. Most of his tidying this morning had been the dishes and laundry, of which the latter is waiting patiently in a hamper to be folded and put away. He sighs, walking into the bedroom he shares with the boys. Arthur sets the bags down on his bed, emptying them and tossing them into the pile of dirty clothes growing on his cheap desk chair. 

There's a dresser in between the boys beds and his, a small divider to give him some privacy. Rifling through it, he picks out some cute outfits for the boys tomorrow—overalls and a mustard yellow shirt for Matthew, a ruffly white shirt and red pants for Alfred. Folding them, he sets them on the twin beds and moves to the closet. Tossing his white button up onto the pile, he begins to unwrap the bandages constricting his chest, inhaling a sigh of relief at the tension loosening. Stepping out of his trousers, Arthur stretches in his boxers before tugging an oversized band shirt over his head. His breasts ache from being compressed all day, but he ignores it and heads to the bathroom, sticking his head under the sink for the box of his jewelry. 

Arthur spends the next few moments in front of the sink, taking out the clear jewelry he used to preserve the piercings and changing them out for silver barbells and spikes. His double lobes, industrial and eyebrow find their way back into his skin and he’s screwing the ball on his lip piercing in when he leans back, examining himself. 

It’s an odd combination. He looks wearier, the space under his eyes sagging and more purple from exhaustion. Arthur turns to the side, tugging up his shirt before peeling it off. Across his lower stomach ripples an old scar, pink with age. He rubs at it, the stretchmarks lining his hips and thighs and turns to look at his rear, where it’s much of the same story. Just above the line of his boxers lies his first tattoo, a sideways guitar surrounded by a myriad of music notes. 

Sighing, he turns back around and traces over his arms, the thorny tattoo winding around his wrist, his breasts, sagging from being unbound. He still has his bellybutton piercing in, and it winks up at him as he shifts, pulling his shirt back on. It’s a strange sight, Arthur with his old adornments and new exhaustion. 

He turns away and heads back to his bedroom, digging into the back of his closet for the box of old clothing. Some of it he had hung up a few months ago, such as a less flashy leather jacket he pulled out to lay on the bed. More leather in the box, of course, Arthur tugs out a past favorite pair of pants that hug him well. Finally, he scrounges together a few accessories and a raggedy band shirt he had shorn the collar off of and gets dressed. 

Wiggling into the leather pants is a bit of a challenge, but he manages and finds they still fit him, perhaps even better than they did in the past. He fills them out more now, turning in the bathroom mirror to inspect himself. On his throat, he layers a square locket below a chain and thin collared choker. Not bad, if he says so. After that it’s practically muscle memory, spiking up his hair slightly and lining around his eyes in black eyeliner at the last minute. 

Arthur looks at his reflection again. He does a 360 in the mirror and he doesn’t hate what he sees. He looks good, chest is flattened again, sore but he’ll manage, and he has his keys and wallet. What is he waiting for? Arthur swallows his nerves and turns off the lights, heading out. He locks the door behind him and shuffles down the stairs, hands in his pockets and down the street. 

There's a good pub about three blocks over. It’s down a narrow alley, hidden from the main crowds, but it's safe for someone like Arthur, for the patrons. There’s no line outside, so he heads right in. 

Inside is dark, pink and purple lights swiveling around the small space. Immediately he’s struck by how much warmer it is inside—humid almost, the smell of sweat and cologne wafting above the crowd, cigarettes. There’s a bar he makes a beeline for, slipping past those at the tables, mostly men or those somewhere in the middle. The dancing area is crowded, sweaty bodies moving against one another to the bass pumping through the building. Arthur snags a seat at the bar and orders himself a glass of whiskey. Sliding a few pounds across the sticky bar, Arthur sips at his drink and gazes at the people out tonight. 

A short blond man dances with a taller brown haired man, grabbing at the brunette's hips as he spins in his arms. They kiss at the end of the song, quickly escalating and the blond shoves a hand down the back of the brunette's pants. Arthur flushes, looking away. At the tables sit nobody who catches his eye in particular, a handsome dark haired man stares at him for a moment but Arthur keeps his gaze moving. He finishes his drink, the alcohol pleasantly swimming in his head and chest, warming his ribcage from inside. Arthur motions to the bartender, a tall severe looking man to refill it. He does so and Arthur has hardly a sip before he hears someone sliding into the seat next to him. Ignoring it, Arthur traces the woodgrains on the bar top with a fingernail until the man next to him speaks.

‘Excusez-moi,’ he starts. Arthur wrinkles his nose. ‘I was just coming out of the lavatory when I couldn’t help but notice you.’ He has a nice voice, Arthur will give him that, smooth and rich like the whisky tainting his tongue. Arthur finally turns to look at him. 

Unfortunately, he is handsome. Unfortunately, he is exactly Arthur’s type. Not French, never, but slender, almost feminine and a brunette. He’s in a rich blue silken shirt, with a severe v-neck so low Arthur can see the faint, elusive line of hair trailing down his navel into his pants. Around his narrow face curls sandy brown hair, a slight fuzz on his chin as he smiles at Arthur. He has several rings decorating his slender fingers, a few necklaces. High waisted black pants, he almost looks like an aristocrat, if not a bit of a scandalous one. Arthur sips at his drink to clear his mouth. 

‘I wonder how many people you’ve used that on tonight.’ he says, instead of something stupid like “Are you gay? Do you like men who didn’t always used to be men but are now? Would you want to have a quickie in the bathroom?” or anything that would endear Arthur to this beautiful man. Maybe he’s just desperate.

The man laughs, calling over the bartender. He orders something so fast Arthur cannot make out what he’s saying in the din of the pub, but the bartender seems to understand and whips up a fruity cocktail and passes it over. Thin pink lips wrap around the straw as he takes a sip and Arthur looks away. 

‘You are funny,’ the man says, mouth glistening in the lights, ‘my name is Francis.’ He sticks out a fine boned hand and Arthur turns, taking it. ‘So, mon ami, tell me about yourself.’ 

‘Me?’ Arthur scoffs, ‘you approached me, didn’t you? Why don’t you start?’ Francis laughs again. He really doesn’t understand what’s so funny. 

‘Tu es mignon,’ he takes another sip of his red drink, ‘I am a chef who likes art and beautiful men, such as yourself.’ His eyes rake over Arthur’s figure but it doesn’t feel lecherous. 

‘A chef?’ Arthur parrots, gulping down his whiskey and letting it burn his throat. 

‘Oui,’ Francis shrugs, ‘well, at least in training. I am here for culinary school.’ Arthur blinks. 

‘You came to England for culinary school?’ he blurts out. Francis watches him, amused. 

‘Why not?’ 

‘I dunno,’ Arthur smiles, ‘I guess we usually get a lot of shit for our food. I can’t imagine coming from France to learn to cook here.’ 

‘Yes, yes you are correct.’ Francis says, and doesn’t elaborate. Right. He supposes it’s his turn then, though his head feels a bit muddled. 

‘What are you drinking?’ 

‘A negroni,’ Francis tilts it towards Arthur. ‘Would you like to try?’ 

‘Uhm,’ Arthur says intelligently. Francis is drenched in pink lights that almost reflect off of his chest. Arthur feels as if he’s sticking his head into a lion's mouth when he leans forth and wraps his lips around the straw. 

‘C'était bon ?’ Francis asks, openly staring at his mouth. ‘Good?’ he says at Arthur's furrowed brow. 

‘Yes,’ he says, tasting the bittersweet citrus on his lips. He doesn’t think about how Francis must taste. ‘I don’t speak French.’ Arthur states. Francis giggles. 

‘Ah, a true Englishman. C'est bon,’ he grins, ‘on peut quand même s'amuser.’ Francis leans in until their knees are touching below the bar. ‘What do you do?’ Arthur blinks. 

‘My name is Arthur,’ he blurts out, realizing he hasn’t told the other man his name. ‘Arthur Kirkland. I work at a museum and as a language tutor.’ Francis’ eyes sparkle with genuine interest. 

‘A museum?’ 

‘Well,’ Arthur shifts, embarrassed, ‘a tour guide. Nothing fancy like a curator.’ 

‘My friend,’ Francis says, smiling, ‘a tour guide must know the artifacts just as well. No need to undersell yourself, ah, the museum, and what was that?’ he leans in, close enough that Arthur can smell his perfume. It’s flowery, distinctly unmasculine but mixed with what he can only assume is Francis’ usual smell, a headier, salty musk. 

‘A language tutor.’ Arthur murmurs, eyes fixed on the dip of Francis’ collarbone. 

‘How brilliant,’ Francis says, ‘in what? Anglais?’ Arthur knows that at least, and he nods. 

‘Yes, for children.’ 

‘And what do the children speak?’ Arthur swallows the rest of his drink, the ice near burning against his flushed lips. 

‘Japanese and German.’ Francis smiles again. He picks the maraschino cherry out, sticking it in his mouth and suckling at the fruit. Arthur watches shamelessly. 

‘I must admit,’ Francis starts, ‘as wonderful as it is to sit and chat, je me sens agité.’

He stands, long and lean, surely a good couple centimeters taller and broader than Arthur. Something about that thought makes his stomach curl. Christ, he needs to get out more. Francis continues above him. ‘Shall we?’ Arthur's not exactly sure what he’s agreeing to, but there’s something about Francis, his long eyelashes and enigmatic smile that makes Arthur want to follow him anywhere. Or maybe he’s just pent up. Francis extends a delicate hand. 

‘Yeah, sure,’ he says, digging in his pants to pay for his second drink. Damn this leather, but Francis beats him to it, sliding a note across the counter. ‘Thank you,’ Arthur says.

‘Of course.’ Francis smiles as Arthur takes the proffered hand and stands. His rings, brass, Arthur thinks, press into his palms. Francis has wide hands, calloused but soft. Arthur thinks he can feel his pulse through his fingertips. 

Francis pulls him towards the dance floor, weaving through the pulsating throng of bodies through the flashing lights. He turns, somewhere in the middle, facing Arthur and begins to sway his head along to the tune of the music. It’s a graceful thing, sweat shining on Francis’ clavicle as he moves. He smiles at Arthur, spinning. 

‘Come on,’ he crows, running a thin hand along Arthur’s sleeve. Gingerly, Arthur falls into some sort of dance. It feels unusual, rekindling an old pastime. Francis stumbles into his space, looping a slender limb around Arthur’s hip, grasping him through the leather and pulling him in. Suddenly they’re right in each other's spaces, hot breath mingling under the lights. Arthur feels lightheaded, the alcohol making the room sway pleasantly. 

They swing to the left, bumping into another couple. Arthur swallows, feeling the kick of the drum in his chest. His hand moves from clutching at the air to Francis’ arm, which has crept up to circle his neck. Mirroring Francis, he grasps at the other's hip. Nose a mere inch away, Francis smiles at him again as he sways, reaching back to guide Arthur’s hand to his ass. Through the silken fabric, Francis feels hot to the touch, bony hip digging into Arthur’s arm. Arthur allows his other hand to slide from Francis’ arm to just over his heart. He feels for the beat, wondering if it’s invaded Francis’ chest too. 

‘Go on,’ Francis leans in, lips warm against Arthur’s ear, ‘go ahead,’ he purrs, sliding a long, thin fingernail across Arthur’s chest and down to the hand on his, guiding his fingertips to graze his chest. He clutches at Arthur’s hip, hand sliding up and down as the music changes into something slower, with a thicker guitar that sends shivers up Arthur’s spine. It’s almost like how he used to play, harsh jagged downward strokes, a little violent. 

Arthur runs a trembling hand over the soft planes of Francis’ pec. His thumb grazes Francis’ nipple and he huffs in response, stuffing his face into Arthur’s shoulder. Worried, he hesitates, but Francis only pulls him closer and starts mouthing at his neck. 

He squeaks in shock but tilts his head to the side, opening up his clavicle. Francis tugs his shirt down and licks into the dip of his collarbone. Arthur gasps as they rotate, shoving his leg between Francis’. Teeth nip at his jugular in response and Arthur's hand skitters up Francis’ back to fist in the root of his hair. When was the last time Arthur had been touched, grabbed at so thoroughly? Francis digs his fingertips into Arthur like he wants to eat him, pawing for anything he can get. Before the boys, but was it his ex? No, it was never like that, always perfunctory, more as an obligation before the main event. Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever been touched so reverently before this stranger in a pub. Looked at the way Francis does, open eyed and thoughtful. Perhaps it’s the drink. 

Arthur grips and pulls Francis’ face out of his shoulder by the base of his neck. Francis looks at him, gaze flickering between his eyes and mouth with wide pupils, mouth wet and gaping under the lights. 

They kiss. A somewhat apt description of what their mouths are doing, but attempted cannibalism might be better. Arthur shoves their mouths together desperately, and Francis crumples into him, legs faltering as Arthur licks at the back of his teeth, tasting oranges and gin. He feels teeth on his lower lip, breaking the fragile skin he always picks at and the kiss turns raw. There’s whiskey on his breath when he rears back and Francis grabs his face, lunging for another. 

Front teeth clack together and Arthur’s back hits the wall. He twists the handful of Francis’ hair and the man groans into his mouth, pressing the bulge in his pants to Arthur’s thigh. Arthur’s face is so hot he thinks he might pass out, somehow finding the clarity to swing his foot around Francis’ leg and contract the hand on Francis’ rear. 

Francis moans, dropping his head to bite at Arthur’s neck and laving over the spot with his tongue, grinding his hips forward. Taking a shuddering moment to glance around, Arthur realizes they’ve somehow stumbled to the side of the bar, one of his legs looped around Francis’ as the other ruts into his inner thigh. 

He loosens his hold, pushing back at Francis’ shoulder. 

‘Um,’ Arthur starts, tonguing at his sore lip. Francis watches rapturously. His hands spasm on Francis’ arms and Arthur glances away, embarrassed. The brunette takes the opportunity to fill the silence. 

‘Arthur,’ Francis says, his name strangely curled around the vowels in his thick accent, ‘would you like to accompany me outside?’ He flutters his eyelashes, chipped tooth winking at Arthur in his swollen mouth. Voice dropping, he leans in, ‘Honestly j'ai une envie folle d'une cigarette.’ He says, more to himself. Arthur gets the sentiment. Though he hasn’t smoked since finding out he was pregnant, he follows as Francis peels himself away.

‘Outside will be nice,’ he fans his face, ‘cooler, et c'est moins bruyant.’ Francis says over his shoulder and Arthur nods, face still hot.

He’s right. It’s blessedly cold out as they shove through the door. Arthur sighs, letting the fresh air wash over his face and begin to work at the sheen of sweat over every bit of skin. He’d almost forgotten how good it feels to sweat, to dance with someone. Francis is behind him, feet shuffling on the gravel. Arthur hears the flick of a lighter and turns. 

Exhaling the first drag of his cigarette—a pale long thing balanced between Francis’ intricate hands, he rakes his eyes over the back of Arthur. He winks when Arthur catches him staring. It’s so cheesy he could gag. He does, wrinkling his face and moving to stand next to the taller man. Francis takes another puff before offering it to Arthur. 

‘Oh.’ he murmurs. Why not? Arthur plucks it out of his hands, cradling the flame as he inhales. It’s devastatingly easy, muscle memory coaxing the smoke into his lungs. He coughs slightly on the exhale. 

‘You okay?’ Francis checks in, ‘besoin d'aide ?’ Arthur waves a hand, leaning his hands on his knees to take the pressure off his chest as he coughs. 

‘I’m alright.’ he takes a deep breath, taking another puff before handing it back to Francis. Francis doesn’t say anything, smoking above him. He peeks back at him. Mistake. He’s backlit by the dim streetlight outside of the pub, hair haloed. It’s almost glowing. Arthur flushes. Watching Francis for a moment longer, his eyes flicker back down to his eye level, where he’s met with the bulge Francis was pressing into his lower half. 

He stands back up, head swimming. Francis bends down to stub his cigarette out, narrow waist tapering gently into his pants. Arthur swallows. Francis flicks the butt towards the bin, turning to face Arthur. A hand comes up to stroke at the side of his face, his gaze half-lidded and reverent. 

‘T'as des beaux yeux, tu sais?,’ he murmurs, ‘so handsome.’ Arthur’s mouth is dry. Slowly, carefully, he tilts his head, leaning in to capture Francis’ lips in a sweet kiss outside the pub. He tastes like nicotine, like gin and headaches. Like warmth and delight, perhaps something more. Arthur doesn’t want to stop kissing him. He can feel Francis smiling into the embrace, running a hand up his neck to grab at his jaw and sliding their mouths together. Arthur parts his lips shyly, slack hand twitching. Tentatively, he stretches a finger out, running it along the back of Francis’, who turns his palm open to interlace their hands together. He holds Arthur as they kiss for—he doesn’t know how long, but enough for the pit in his stomach to start up, squirming at the shift of Francis’ hands against his skin, the spaces where fabric reveals a sliver of flesh. 

He squeezes Francis’ hand, and Francis squeezes back. Shifting, Francis guides them back as they momentarily separate. Down the alley next to the pub, he realizes as he lets Francis move them, tucked away behind an outcropping. He stumbles and Arthur takes the opportunity to push Francis against the brick. Slowly, his hands come up to Francis’ hips again, feeling him with roiling squeezes and pinches. He rubs Francis’ thigh, trailing a hand up the inner seam of his pants. Francis pants into his ear. 

‘Kiss me,’ he pants, ‘kiss me Arthur,’ Francis squeezes his eyes shut, blinking them open blearily. Arthur wants to see it again, his overwhelmed shudder. 

‘Okay,’ Arthur murmurs, leaning in. He gives it to him soft but purposeful, reveling in the stutter of Francis’ leg against his fingertips as he trails closer to his groin. Before contact, he pulls back to check with the Frenchman. 

‘Is this—I mean is it okay, if, well,’ 

‘Yes,’ Francis exhales, ‘yes, please.’ 

Arthur slides his hand up the seam and to the several buttons holding Francis’ pants together. Slowly, he pops them open, eyes fixed on the task. Shadow rather artfully drapes over Francis’ lower half. It's alright though, he wants to watch the other man's face. 

Running his fingers through the hair on Francis’navel, he follows it down until his fingers make contact with the other man’s arousal, soft skin near feverish to the touch. Carefully, Arthur shifts his wrist to get more of a grip around Francis’ cock and gently squeezes it. 

Francis’ knees buckle and he groans, head dropping against the brick, mussing up his pretty hair. Arthur draws his hand up in a swift upward pull, thumbing at the slippery tip and smearing the liquid there down the shaft. Tucking his face into Francis’ neck, he starts running his left hand up Francis’ chest, latching his teeth into the juncture of Francis’ shoulder. Tightening his grip, Arthur repeats the movement as he bites down, fingers catching the influx of precum at the action. 

‘Ah—’ the other man moans, hand coming up to bat at Arthur’s elbow. ‘Stop, stop,’ Arthur freezes, hand retracting immediately. He pulls back to take in Francis’ features. 

‘What is it?’

‘It’s,’ for the first time this evening, Francis seems at a loss for words, face flushed, ‘too much.’ 

‘Is it bad?’ Arthur asks, hand off to the side, drenched as it is. 

‘No mon ange, I don’t…’ he trails off and suddenly it clicks. 

‘Oh.’ he says. He’s so turned on he thinks he’s going to die—pass out from the blood rush and crack his head open. Instead he says, blurts, chokes out, ‘Can I suck you off then?’ Francis blinks and against Arthur’s leg his cock twitches. 

‘You want to?’ Francis furrows his brow, wetting his lips. He does, Arthur realizes, not offering as a perfunctory thing, but truly something he wants to do, to make the other man feel good. 

‘Yes,’ Arthur admits quietly, ‘if that’s okay.’ 

‘Of course,’ Francis says quickly, ‘will your knees be alright?’ Arthur shrugs. It’s not the worst place he’s done this, but honestly, it’s the last thing on his mind. He makes to get on the ground but Francis grabs his elbow before he can make contact with the concrete. 

‘Wait—’ he says, chewing on his lip, a determined glint to his wet eyes ‘kiss me before.’ 

‘Yeah?’ Arthur teases, standing back up. He has to lean up slightly to meet Francis’ lips which makes him feel hot in a way he tries not to think about as the other man sighs into the kiss. They press together for a long moment, slowly as Francis pets through Arthur’s hair, running a hand over the curve of his rear. Arthur pulls back first, antsy. Francis chases him for one last peck before Arthur’s getting on his knees and reaching inside of Francis’ thin, wet boxers to pull out his cock. 

It’s a slender thing, proportionate to Francis’ height and bobs a little in the evening air, base firm in Arthur’s grasp. Somehow it’s almost…cute. But Arthur chalks that up to Francis’ incessant murmuring and little noises rather than the physical appearance. He whines when Arthur exhales over the tip, more fluid dribbling out and running down the side. 

‘You know,’ he says conversationally, ‘earlier, when we were dancing, this was all I could think about.’ Francis’ hips jerk slightly. Arthur leans in and encloses the pink-beige tip in his mouth. He hears a curse from above and closes his eyes. 

Francis tastes deliciously musky, slightly salty but clean. He has to consciously relax his jaw, sliding down and trying to hollow his cheeks. A hand worms into his hair, scraping across the back of his skull in a shivery movement and he moans. Arthur rolls his tongue alongside the bottom of Francis, sucking as he takes more of him into his mouth. Halfway down his throat, Francis’ twitches and Arthur nearly chokes, hands involuntarily clutching at the base of the cock in his mouth. In response, Francis moans and curses, hips bucking and stuffing his length further into Arthur’s throat. He pulls back in surprise, running his tongue along the side and smearing precum along the shaft. His piercing is almost cold against the stifling heat of Francis’ velvet length, and he pulls back to dip the ball along the groove of the tip. It dribbles over his knuckles, wetting his palm. 

Arthur alternates kisses and licks along the side as Francis’ hips jerk, the hand in his hair spasming in pleasure. He pulls back, looking up at Francis. Flushed and teary-eyed, Francis blinks at him as Arthur moves back to swallow his cock. 

‘Oh,’ Francis pants, voice stuttering ‘...tellement bien, Arthur, you’re doing so well,’ Francis babbles as Arthur reaches down to stroke at the base, just above his balls. His eyes are watering, but Arthur chases the feeling as he swallows down the precum bubbling up, throat tight. Drool and slick is everywhere, disgusting but Arthur can’t bring himself to stop, head fuzzy with delight. 

‘Arthur please,’ Francis starts again, ‘it’s too much mon cher, have mercy on me—’ voice wet and husky from his moans. Arthur hums in response, face hot. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. His mother would slap him for taking the lords name in vain, but Jesus fucking Christ Arthur is so lightheaded he might pass out. Inside his boxers is a mess. He’s hard, clit pressed up against the front gape, just touching the rough interior of his pants. 

Francis yanks at his hair, the pain pleasant across the back of his skull as he bobs his head clumsily. It certainly can’t be that good—Francis is long, thick and he’s out of practice. But the other man doesn’t seem to mind as Arthur speeds up slightly, moving his hand in tandem. He’s sniffling, hand futilely muffling his moans into the night. Arthur goes too fast and chokes, throat spasming and Francis cries out, yanking his head back, pulling out of his mouth at the last minute to come on his face. 

Arthur blinks at the first spurt of cum on his temple before he regains his senses and grabs at his cock, stroking Francis through his orgasm. Should he open his mouth or something? Swallow it? No, definitely not that. Almost as if in a haze, Arthur watches Francis come, mouth slightly agape and features tense. Most of it coats his cheek, the last few spurts on Arthur’s upper lip and tongue. He gives it a final stroke before leaning back on his heels, head spinning. 

Hands shoot down to grab at his face, pulling him onto his feet. Arthur stumbles and almost falls as Francis pulls him in for a messy kiss, hand wrenching at his hair. He moans and Francis licks into his mouth, chasing his come and Arthur’s spit. Francis is bitter on his tongue but the man simply grabs Arthur’s waist and kisses the breath out of him. 

Arthur pushes back, weak in the knees. 

‘I’m so sorry, mon cher,’ Francis babbles, procuring a handkerchief out of nowhere and wiping at Arthur’s face. ‘I should have asked, was that okay? Are you okay?’ Arthur blinks as Francis pats his cheek. He frowns—’Ah, missed a spot,’ and uses his thumb to wipe the last clump of his come off, holding it in front of Arthur’s face as if to say, see, I got it all! Arthur wants to suck it off his thumb. Instead, he allows Francis to wipe it on the handkerchief and watches him tuck himself away. 

‘Arthur?’ Francis says, eyes worried. 

‘Oh, yes I’m okay. It’s okay you,’ he gestures loosely at his face, ‘I didn’t…I didn’t mind.’ Francis blinks at him before grinning, looping his arms around Arthur's waist. 

‘Thank you,’ he says, pecking at the corner of the blond’s mouth. He smells like sweat and lilac. Arthur giggles—giggles! 

‘You’re welcome,’ Arthur laughs, kissing him back. ‘Um,’ he starts, pulling away. Francis watches attentively, stroking softly over Arthur’s back. ‘Would you want to continue this elsewhere?’ 

‘Certainly,’ Francis says, ‘I must repay the favor,’ he leans in to kiss Arthur again, but he pulls back, hand between them. His stomach twists as Francis’ arms loosen, but he should be honest because if not—he doesn’t want to think about if not. 

‘You should know,’ he states, ‘I wasn’t born a man.’ It lingers in the air for a moment and Arthur watches Francis take in this information. He just does a little scrunch of his features before blinking it away. 

‘Okay,’ 

‘Okay?’ Arthur repeats, bewildered. ‘What does that mean?’ 

‘It means, okay. Thank you for telling me,’ Francis reaches for Arthur’s hand, ‘I am not bothered, if that’s what you worried.’ 

‘Oh,’ Arthur says, struggling to categorize this reaction as Francis kisses his knuckles. 

‘It means I still want to go somewhere else with you.’ He mouths over Arthur’s hand, breath hot ‘fuck you, if that’s what you want. Make love, if that’s what you want.’ 

‘That’s the same thing,’ Arthur protests, face hot. 

‘Most definitely not.’ Francis says, ’s'il vous plaît, laissez-moi vous montrer.’ 

‘Really?’ Arthur cannot help saying, feeling rather small. ‘You don’t—’ he cuts himself off, gesturing at his body. 

‘I don’t know what that means,’ Francis laughs, ‘but I want you anyway you’ll have me.’ Arthur is silent for a moment as Francis gently scratches at his hand. Surely, he didn’t mean that. It would be some part of Arthur’s body that would turn him away—Arthur’s surprised he got this far. But, if he said it didn’t bother him and Arthur sure as hell didn’t want to go home alone, well. He wants this, a possessive part of him says, and he listens to it, thinking about how Francis had treated him so far. Maybe he should allow himself a bit of selfishness. 

‘How far is your place from here?’ Arthur says, turning to look back at Francis. His lips quirk up slightly. 

‘I took the bus here. Maybe twenty minutes if you walk?’ 

‘My place— my place is just around the corner.’ Arthur says quickly. Francis gestures out of their alleyway. 

‘Lead the way.’ 

Arthur adjusts his pants discreetly, stepping in front of Francis. Almost instinctively, he reaches a hand back, low, but to his surprise Francis grabs it, trailing behind him. They just turn out of the pub’s alleyway when Francis starts to speak. 

‘The one thing I miss about France is the weather,’ he sighs, wrapping an arm around himself. 

‘Didn’t think it was that different from here. Maybe less rainy.’ Arthur rubs at his throat, sore. 

‘South is a whole different story.’ 

‘Is…is that where you’re from?’ Francis laughs. 

‘Does that surprise you?’ 

‘A little,’ Arthur admits, passing a Co-op and slowing, ‘you just seem like a Parisian.’ 

‘English stereotypes,’ Francis waves a hand, looking at the convenience store. ‘You need something?’ 

‘Well,’ Arthur feels ridiculous. ‘That is, if you still wanted to do what you said earlier, do you have…?’ 

Francis laughs, squeezing his hand and tugging him into the fluorescent hellscape of  the convenience store. He leads them down the aisles, pausing to snatch a pack of condoms and lingers at the alcohol section. Arthur’s head hurts, a dizzying sensation he almost revels in. Outside, the world appears as a void, time zeroing in on the warm hand in his. 

‘What do you prefer?’ Francis mutters, running a thin finger over the various labels. 

‘I’ll leave it up to you,’ Arthur watches as Francis hesitates, ‘but I like reds.’ He snatches some brand Arthur’s unfamiliar with, leading them to the register. Arthur moves to slip his hand out of Francis’ grasp but the other man holds fast, greeting the worker at the till. 

Boredly, she scans the items as Arthur fidgets off to the side. Anticipation worms its way into his chest and he wants Francis to kiss him again in that all consuming way. 

Francis pays, tucking away the condoms and grabbing the wine as they scurry out of the store. Arthur can’t help but admire him, cast in the soft blue lighting of the neon sign above. 

‘Ready to go?’ Francis asks and Arthur tightens his grip on his hand, pulling him towards his flat. 

They stumble up the several flights of stairs, an unspoken energy lighting the air as Arthur shows Francis to his front door. He moves to unlock it before hesitating—it’s a mess, and though he normally wouldn’t care with a hook up, something compels him to press a palm to Francis’ heaving chest. 

‘Could you wait out here for a moment?’ he implores, looking up at Francis. 

‘Need to clean up?’ Francis teases, thumbing at Arthur’s lip. ‘Or,’ his gaze slides down Arthur’s body, ‘change into something looser?’ Arthur rolls his eyes, pushing him back and turning to unlock the door. Turning the doorknob, Arthur hesitates before turning back to give Francis a soft kiss, grabbing him by the jaw. 

‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he says lowly, delighting in the way Francis chases after the kiss. It feels so good to be wanted, to be looked at as if he’s the most interesting thing in the room. Arthur wants to keep chasing the feeling. Slipping inside, he toes off his shoes before scurrying into the living room, scooping up the twin’s toys and trying to stuff them in the little basket he tucks them away in. There's several spilling out, but he moves to hide the hamper behind the couch, then to the kitchen, where he decides the dishes can stay. His bedroom is a warzone, clothing strewn everywhere along with more toys. Grappling for as much clothing as physically possible, Arthur stuffs it into his closet. The doors can’t close all the way, but he ignores it and turns on the cosy orange light on his bedside table. That should be it, yes?

Walking back through the main space, Arthur scans to make sure it’s presentable. It’s good enough, and the darkness of the flat aids him, scant moonlight streaming through the window. 

Francis is smoking outside his door, leaned up against the banister and looking off to the side. It’s almost ethereal, the bright orange end of the cigarette among the white billowing smoke all against the soft blues of the night Francis is painted in, features sharp. He grins when he sees Arthur, ashing his cigarette and offering it. Arthur grabs his hand and pulls him into a kiss instead. Francis drops the cigarette and surges against Arthur like a tsunami, pressing him into the door frame and clutching at his waist. 

‘Come in, come in,’ Arthur urges, breaking their kiss to pull Francis in. Francis stumbles over the frame, slipping his shoes off as Arthur locks the door. His lips are shiny with spit and Arthur, dizzingly, wants. 

‘Wine?’ Francis holds the bottle up. Arthur takes it and places it on the counter, turning back to stare at him. He must like what he sees, for he follows to kiss Arthur again, pressing him against the counter with a firm thigh between his legs. Arthur pants into his mouth as Francis grabs his hips, pulling him down to grind against his leg. The pressure sends electric sparks up his spine and Arthur reaches around to grab a fistful of Francis’ hair as the other man ruts into his thigh. In return, Francis nearly shoves him onto the counter from the force of his movements. 

‘Wait,’ Arthur breathes, one leg propped up, the other encircling Francis. He reaches between them, palming at Francis’ groin and squeezing. Francis jerks against him and practically falls into Arthur. 

‘Please mon cher,’ he groans, ‘don't tease.’ 

‘You want it?’ Arthur mumbles, squeezing him through his pants again, ‘say it.’ 

‘I want it,’ Francis pleads, hips stuttering. 

‘Use your words,’ Arthur chides, enraptured at the sight of Francis in his arms, flushed and near incoherent, drunk on lust. 

‘I want it, Arthur,’ Francis gasps, ‘please.’ 

‘Okay,’ Arthur whispers, leaning down to kiss him. Francis seems torn between trying to suck Arthur’s tongue down his throat or humping his hand, twitching in half-aborted movements. Arthur makes it easier for him, moving his hand to caress Francis’ face. Francis whines into their next kiss and Arthur is pushing him back, sliding off the counter to drag him towards the bedroom. 

He shuts the door for some reason. Even though they’re alone, it feels almost too exposed, the emptiness of his usually lively flat watching him. Francis hovers by the door, eyes flickering curiously over the small twin beds and children’s drawings on the wall. 

‘You have children?’ he says incredulously. 

‘Yes,’ Arthur shifts awkwardly. Should he start getting undressed? He settles for sliding off his leather jacket, tossing it onto his desk chair. Francis looks at the beds for another long moment.

‘The other parent’s not in the picture.’ Arthur states, sensing some trepidation in his silence. ‘You’re not homewrecking or anything—it’s just me.’ Francis remains quiet for a moment, looking back at Arthur and coming to sit on his blue bedspread, gazing up at him. 

‘How old are they?’ he says. 

‘Three.’ Francis’ lips part. 

‘Twins?’ Arthur nods, running his palms over his upper arms in a soothing motion. He still feels antsy, arousal making itself known as he shifts over Francis. 

‘Hm,’ Francis hums, reaching out to grasp at Arthur’s wrist, pulling him to stand in front of him. ‘You can tell me more later,’ he offers, mouthing at his pulse point, ‘allons-nous?’ Arthur groans as Francis nips at the inside of his elbow, trembling. ‘Come here,’ Francis purrs, ‘I want, sentir son corps,’ His other hand wraps around the back of Arthur’s thigh, finger tips clutching at the inside. Arthur lets himself be pulled in, Francis settling more on the bed so Arthur can move to straddle him. He groans as Arthur sits on his lap, beginning a slow roll of their hips together. Arthur leans into the hand around his waist to stabilize himself as he begins to finger at the fastenings of Francis’ shirt. 

‘Can I?’ he asks. Francis moans in assent, gnawing at his forearm and leaving behind several slick red welts. The shirt is closed at the upper back, but falls to either side as he unclasps it, revealing all of Francis’ lovely chest, the hair dusting his chest, his dark nipples. 

‘Where can I—’ 

‘Everywhere. Anywhere.’ Francis pulls back to say, cloudy eyes looking reverently at him. Arthur runs a hand over his shoulders, skittering across his clavicle and down to cup his pec, squeezing the muscle there. Francis watches, lips red and inviting. The hand around Arthur’s waist has moved to the front of his pants, just above where he wants it. 

‘Francis,’ Arthur hisses, pinching the other man's nipple lightly. He wiggles his other hand to start unbuttoning his pants, fumbling futilely. ‘Fuck,’ he curses under his breath, leaning back with two hands to start working them down. Unfortunately, they’re too tight and the buttons hardly make a dent in how stuck they are to Arthur’s lower half. Pushing himself off Francis, Arthur stands, yanking his trousers down and peeling them off. In the meantime, Francis has begun to undo his pants, leaning back to tug them off and discard them on the ground. Before he can forget, tangled up in Francis, Arthur reaches under his shirt and unwinds the bandages from his chest, sighing at the relief. 

‘Arthur,’ Francis says helplessly, eyes wide as he takes in Arthur’s half dressed state, simply in his boxers and a loose shirt. He still has his socks on, Arthur laughs, clambering onto his bed hands first to capture Francis in a soft kiss. 

Moving back on his haunches, Arthur pulls Francis against him, further up the bed until he’s laying back against the pillows, Francis between his spread legs. 

‘Arthur,’ Francis says again as Arthur tugs at his hair, ‘please let me touch you,’

‘Yeah,’ Arthur sighs, pulling one of the hands Francis is holding himself up with to his inner thigh, at the edge of his boxers. 

‘May I?’ Francis kisses at the corners of his mouth, sincere and imploring as his nails tease at the waistband.

‘You first.’ Arthur groans. He watches appreciatively as Francis sits back, swinging his legs out to yank off his boxers, still in the remnants of his shirt. ‘That too,’ he sits up, tugging off the fabric, ‘I want to see all of you.’ Francis moans and strips it off until he’s completely bare in Arthur’s bed, completely awash in soft reds and oranges. He’s terribly lovely, lean with a slight paunch to his belly, all long limbs and moles. Francis’ legs are folded underneath him, and he leans back on his hands, cock lying hard and flushed against his stomach. Arthur is overwhelmed by the mere sight of him. Each movement is smeared, hazy as his head spins. 

Francis crawls back up the bed, looming over him as he leans down to kiss Arthur into the mattress, pressing him down with hunger, lacing their hands together. His other hand works its way down Arthur’s body, below his ribs and tracing over his exposed stomach as Francis moves to smear kisses along Arthur’s neck. Arthur breathes, exhilarated at the turn of events. He hasn’t had sex in over three years at this point—the last time must have been around when the boys were conceived and the thought kicks at his gut as he rolls his hips upwards. Francis has moved down to mouth at his stomach, tongue flicking inside of his bellybutton. 

Arthur rolls his head back in the sheets, watching as Francis begins to slip his fingers beneath his waistband and finally, finally tugs his boxers down, revealing where he’s wet and wanting. His underwear ends up in some corner, but he can hardly worry about that as Francis gazes at his genitals for a moment. Anxiety kicks in his stomach. He knows he doesn’t look great, remnants of pregnancy weight, stretchmarks and his enlarged clitoris from the testosterone painting an odd picture, but desperately, he hopes Francis stays, at least for a little. 

Francis lets out a long, shuddering breath, shifting against the bed until he’s laying between Arthur’s legs. His hands run up and down his thighs, squeezing the soft bits. 

‘Francis,’ Arthur says, almost pleading. He can—he can feel how wet he is, arousal likely dripping onto the bed. Francis takes mercy on him and licks, a hot, wet swipe with the flat of his tongue through Arthur’s folds.

Arthur jolts, clenching down on nothing as Francis does it again, moves to wrap his lips around his clit and sucks. 

‘Christ—’ Arthur chokes, leg spasming. Nobody’s ever done this for him before and the sensation is overwhelming, his ears burning at the slick sounds. Francis works his jaw faster, alternating between swipes of his tongue and suckling at his cock. ‘Francis,’ Arthur’s hips buck up as Francis licks into him and he, embarrassingly, nearly comes. Francis winds a hand around his thigh to hold him still. ‘Finger me,’ he blurts out, as Francis’ nose joins the mix, prodding against the base of his clit in shuddering nudges of pleasure, ‘please, please,’ 

Francis pulls back to begin peeling his rings off, making eye contact with Arthur all the while. 

‘You taste good,’ he says, a shy smile. 

‘Oh, shut up you liar—‘ Arthur frowns, ‘you’ve already got me in bed.’ Francis laughs, a rich sound. 

‘Non, it is true.’ He runs a teasing hand up Arthur’s calf.

The lower half of his face is drenched, thick sheens of Arthur’s arousal clumped on his cheeks, nose. He piles his rings on Arthur’s night stand and reaches for him again, but Arthur, despite the ache in his stomach, points towards the bathroom.  

‘So smart, mon cher,’ Francis chuckles, almost leaning in for a kiss. He pulls back but Arthur stumbles after him. 

‘Wait,’ Francis turns, and Arthur slides a hand around his jugular to press their lips together. He can taste himself, musky and thick, almost sweet on Francis’ mouth and the thought only makes him hungrier. Parting, he pats Francis’ chest and watches him walk to the bathroom. 

The faucet turns off as Arthur sits back on the bed. He’s throbbing, he can feel it in the tips of his fingers and back of his throat. Sitting on the edge, Arthur watches Francis return, half resting on the bed and leaning in to begin biting at the tendons in his neck. One of his hands runs along Arthur’s back, the other creeping down, tickling through the thick, curly blonde hair decorating his navel to cup his cunt. 

Francis thumbs at his clit and swallows Arthur’s resounding moan, fingers slipping through the slick to prod at his entrance. He slips a finger in, crooking it upwards and Arthur jerks, nails digging into Francis’ back.

Arthur tucks his face into Francis’ clavicle as the other man starts to work his fingers, sliding through the slippery mess to plunge into him, curling upwards, in and out. It’s a maddening combination of sensation, delicate fingers searching while Francis kisses the breath out of him, biting at his neck, mouth. 

Francis moans into his mouth when Arthur jerks, gasping as Francis finds the spot he’s been looking for, curling his finger and slipping in another to press up. He can’t think of the sounds they’re making, obscene groans and slick squelches. 

‘More, more,’ Arthur murmurs as Francis leans back, propped over him. He’s watching Arthur with this unreadable expression as he does some maddening thing inside of him. It’s almost soft, fond. Too fond for who they are to each other, for what they’re doing. Arthur closes his eyes. 

He feels Francis’ head bump against his ribs as the man slows his hand for a moment, working back down to be level with Arthur’s cunt. He leans in and runs his tongue around the base of his fingers, still curling inside Arthur. It feels like he presses his entire face into the space between Arthur’s legs as he starts to lick and suck and press up against Arthur’s sensitive spots in a coordinated effort he can’t begin to imagine. 

Frankly, he can’t focus on anything beyond his bed and Francis’ hands. Twisting and grasping at the sheets, Arthur squirms at the pressure in his gut, chasing the sensation against Francis’ face. 

‘Christ,’ Arthur slurs, hand scrambling for purchase and finding it in Francis’ mussed hair. He pulls, not unkindly, to test the waters, clenching at the fingers inside of him. The other man groans into him, a delightfully mind melting vibration of half slurred syllables, drunk on their shared pleasure and Arthur yanks again. Francis rewards him with a particularly hard suck to his cock, Arthur makes an awful noise, half groan-half cry and comes. 

The ceiling comes back into focus after a few moments of shuddering bliss and Arthur takes it in, limbs loosening. For the first time in a while, he feels almost relaxed. Hazy pleasure loosens his muscles and he involuntarily clenches as Francis slides his fingers out. His leg falls off Francis’ shoulder and he glances down at the man, who leans against his hipbone, tracing circles into the skin and catching his breath. He—Arthur must have nearly suffocated him between his legs, flailing as he had. How mortifying. Perhaps even more so—he wants to keep going. 

Francis notices him staring and smiles up at him, lower half of his face and nose glistening. For Christ’s sake— he still looks unfairly handsome. Arthur reaches for him. 

‘Was it good?’ Francis kisses his hip bone, crawling up his body, mouthing at the bare skin. He’s directly above Arthur, arm on either side of his body. Leaning to one side, Francis strokes at his hip, stomach, fingers teasing the bottom of the shirt Arthur wears despite Francis’ bare form. He tilts his head, an unspoken question in the movement.

Arthur reaches up, pulling Francis down into a kiss, tasting himself with every breath between their lips. ‘Yeah, yes,’ he says into Francis’ mouth, ‘please,’ he mutters and Francis bucks against him. Thin fingers travel up his shirt, roaming over the soft skin, the tender underside of his breast. 

One hand intertwines with Arthur’s, pressing him down into the sheets while the other cups at his chest, squeezing at the flesh and thumbing at his nipple. Arthur can’t help it— his hips buck up, brushing against where Francis’ cock hovers. Francis bites his lip and shifts down to roll his cock through Arthur’s folds, nudging against his clit. 

Clutching at his hand, Arthur pulls back to look between their bodies as Francis grinds their cocks together. Francis’ tip is dribbling over him, the slide smoother with every movement. Arthur watches, enraptured. Francis has buried his head in his shoulder, hand loosening to slide under Arthur’s neck. He’s almost completely smothered by Francis’ body— can hardly move, just in little twitches of his hips. Arthur’s burning up, wedged between the two and the thought is almost enough to make him come again. 

Francis pants into his ear and his hips quicken before he draws himself to a halt. He’s still hard. 

‘What—‘ Arthur breathes, dizzy from pleasure. ‘Why’d you stop?’ he bites his lip, realizing how whiny he sounds. 

Francis kisses him, out of breath. 

‘I want to come while inside you.’ He says nervously. 

Oh. 

‘Oh,’ Arthur says. ‘Yeah. Yes, yeah, okay,’ Arthur fumbles, searching for the condoms. 

‘Just let me—‘ Francis almost falls off the bed in his haste, scrambling for his pants. Tearing a condom off the strip he slows to open it, clambering back on the bed. Francis hovers on his knees, rolling it over where his cock bobs against his stomach, flushed and weeping. It looks almost painful, Arthur thinks, sitting up to watch. 

Once on, Francis crawls over to him, grabs his face and kisses him again. It’s a lot— the desperation, the heat. Francis kisses like he’s drowning. Like he’s never going to be able to kiss someone again. Like he, as Arthur is, deep down, very lonely. Arthur’s never been kissed like this before. 

They move up on the bed together, a synchronized dance to resume their previous positions. Arthur hesitates before laying down and pushing his shirt up, exposing his soft stomach, the brush of cold air along the underside of his breasts. 

Francis watches and mutters something in the vein of a curse. He leans over to press their lips together, hooking his broad hands under Arthur’s thighs and tugging them over his lap. The position is embarrassing— Arthur’s hips slightly propped up, his everything spread and almost on display. Francis releases a shuddering breath, tracing over his stretch marks. 

‘Tu es époustouflant.’ He murmurs, ‘stunning.’ 

‘Compliment me in a way I understand,’ Arthur grumbles, turning his head into the pillows. Francis smiles at him and leans down to nibble at his neck, reaching between them to grab his length and position it at Arthur’s entrance. 

Arthur wraps an arm around Francis’ broad shoulders, clutching at his neck. Francis starts to nudge in but misses, slipping against Arthur’s stomach. 

‘Damn,’ he mutters, pulling back to peer between them. He reaches down, a hot hand nudging Arthur’s inner thigh to try again. This time, he gets it right and presses in, a long, slick slide. 

 There’s a pause as they both adjust. Arthur exhales slowly, clenching down on the intrusion. Francis jerks and Arthur feels it both in his embrace and inside of him as the other pulls back, a slight giggle escaping.

‘Mon cher,’ Francis stutters, ‘have mercy on me.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘It is okay?’ Francis says instead, glancing down to where they’re joined. Surely an obscene sight, where he’s stretched around Francis. He can’t really see, but he feels every slight shift. 

‘Yes,’ Arthur squeezes the hand pressing his into the mattress, ‘Move, please,’ he says—whines into Francis’ mouth, leaning up to kiss him softly, hooking his leg around Francis’ hips. ‘Please,’ Arthur nips at his ear. 

Francis doesn’t respond, seemingly too focused on the first careful pull of his cock out of Arthur’s body and back in, a rhythmic movement that sends a flurry of sparks across Arthur’s skin. 

‘Mon cœur,’ Francis groans into his ear, pausing. Arthur’s—he’s not desperate per say, but it’s been a while and he wants to come, which is how he justifies the next few moments. Francis rocks into him tentatively, as if Arthur might snap under the least bit of force he puts behind each thrusts 

Arthur hooks his other leg around, pulling Francis further on top of him. Hip to hip, hands clutching at each other, sweat sticking to sweat sticking to skin. He can feel Francis breathe, the edge of his ribs under the delicate flesh poking into Arthur’s, just above his heart. 

‘Come on,’ he whines, ‘come on, please.’ nosing and and mouthing around the edge of Francis’ narrow jaw. He rolls his hips upwards, jostling where Francis’ cock sits inside of him, unmoving. His legs shake, curled around Francis as they are and Francis bucks into him, pulling out and back in with little, desperate, half-aborted thrusts. It’s good—yes, but it’s not enough. Arthur didn’t bring Francis back to have the other man slowly press him into the mattress with half-hearted thrusts and a clumsy hand when he had proved himself so competent a few moments ago, no, Arthur wants to be fucked. He wants to feel it tomorrow he thinks deliriously, to go about his day and feel the bruises on his hips, his ribs, to know that someone found him desirable if not only for a few moments. 

So when he grabs the back of Francis’ neck and does something that others might call begging, well. Francis spasms, hips jerking again and Arthur groans, though less out of pleasure. 

‘What is it?’ Francis furrows his brow, ‘tell me.’ His expression is clouded, soft hair sticking to his forehead. 

‘Fuck me,’ Arthur presses into his mouth, half slurred between their lips, ‘please Francis.’ 

‘You—’ Francis stutters. 

‘Yes,’ Arthur closes his eyes, ‘I want you to fuck me,’ he gasps as Francis presses their chests together, shifts forward, pulling Arthur’s hips higher, and finally, earnestly, begins to fuck him into the mattress. Arthur shakes, overwhelmed, tips his head into the pillows and moans. Smothered as he is by Francis’ body, there’s not much else he can do but lay there and take it, a ridiculously arousing thought that has him tensing up. 

He feels hot all over, like he’s burning up from an incessant fever that has no end. There’s pressure building in his stomach, a persistent itch at the base of his spine. Between Arthur’s thighs is a slick mess, trickling down the crack of his ass and onto the bedsheets. He’s sweaty, overwhelmed, dizzy with pleasure with the inklings of soreness around some of Francis’ bites, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

Below them, the bed frame is shaking, knocking against the wall as Francis picks up the pace, panting, groaning into Arthur’s ear. It takes Arthur a few moments to realize he’s mumbling, babbling a mixture of praise, curses, and half-garbled things that don’t really count as words amidst his moans. 

‘—you feel so good mon cher,’ he smears a kiss into Arthur’s shoulder, hips jackrabbiting into him, ‘so good, so well, lovely, enchanteur,’ Using the hand still lodged in the base of Francis’ hair, Arthur pulls him into something resembling a kiss. It’s more Francis panting into his mouth as Arthur tries to stick his tongue down his throat, which he quickly gives up on, settling for the brush of their lips. Francis is still talking, eyes half shut. ‘Dès l'instant où je t'ai vu—‘ he whimpers, voice pitching as Arthur’s thighs squeeze around his waist, ‘je t'ai désiré plus que l'eau, plus que l'air.’ 

Somehow Francis has the energy to pull more than halfway out, hands grasping at Arthur’s thighs and back in with twice the force. A hot coil flashes up his belly and Arthur’s back bows off the bed before Francis is bearing down on him again. Tears gather in Arthur’s lash line at the pressure, the overwhelming sensations. 

‘Je veux te voir jouir et te défaire,’ Francis sits up slightly, watching Arthur’s face. He’s flushed, lashes fluttering and still pretty despite the exertion. ‘aussi magnifiquement que tu le fais,’ Francis says, leaning down to kiss Arthur’s brow, his temple. 

Arthur can’t find the words to respond. He nudges Francis’ nose with his own, coaxing him into a slick kiss. 

‘Francis,’ he pants, clenching with each thrust, trying to keep Francis inside, preventing them from separating even if momentarily. As if keeping them joined, preventing movement will prolong their pleasure. Selfishly, ridiculously, Arthur wants it, wants him to not have to pull out and just lose themselves in a cyclical exchange. He bites Francis’ lower lip, cupping his jaw. 

Francis moans, a broken thing and shoves up into Arthur in an all consuming, deep movement, and comes. He can—he can feel the kick of Francis’ cock inside as he releases into the condom and almost collapses on top of Arthur. 

After a long, heaving moment where he tries to catch his breath, Francis reaches down to pull out without having to dislodge himself from Arthur’s front but he grabs Francis’ wrist. 

‘Leave it—‘ Arthur blurts, tensing around the soft length, ‘I want to,’ he says, unable to finish. He didn’t come, a desperate broiling in his fingers, his chest still prickling at every inch of skin. Francis lets out an exasperated chuckle. 

‘Of course,’ he says, kissing Arthur’s neck and stroking at his hair. Arthur waits for his heart rate to resume a more regular rhythm, squirming at the lingering arousal. But Francis doesn’t listen anyway, sitting up and pulling out only to start grabbing at Arthur’s hips, tugging him to sit. He strips himself of the condom and ties it off, tossing it into the bin beneath Arthur’s desk. 

‘What—‘ Arthur groans but Francis tuts, pulling Arthur up to straddle him. He goes willingly but watches confused as Francis lays flat. 

‘I have not made you come yet,’ Francis explains, seeing the confusion on his face, ‘easy solution, non?’ 

‘You want me to…?’ Arthur trails off, looking down at where Francis is still soft. 

‘No,’ Francis squeezes his thighs, ‘up,’ he beckons Arthur, patting at his rear into an awkward knee shuffle over Francis’ body until he’s almost over his chest. ‘Up, up,’ he pulls but Arthur stays firm, appalled. 

‘What do you want me to do?’ Arthur asks cautiously. 

‘I want to make you come again,’ Francis blinks at him. 

‘On your—‘ he can’t even say it, the mortification nearly swallowing him, stomach twisting. 

‘My face? You liked it earlier, did you not?’ Francis asks, confused. 

‘Well, yes,’ Arthur admits, glancing anywhere but Francis, whose hands are still on his hips, ‘but isn’t it—‘

He cuts himself off at Francis’ patient expression. Squeezing his hips, Francis runs a heavy hand over his thigh, soothing. 

‘It’s just—’ Arthur twists a hand in the bedsheets, ‘I mean, isn’t it a little…much?’ he trails off. 

Francis laughs, propping himself up slightly. 

‘Much? Certainly not,’ he runs a finger up the inside of Arthur’s thigh, teasing. ‘Allow me the honor.’ 

‘I’m too heavy,’ Arthur protests, much to Francis’ chagrin. 

‘Nonsense.’ he pushes the back of Arthur’s thighs again, encouraging him up. ‘If you don’t like it, we can stop,’ he continues as Arthur crawls up until he’s hovering over Francis’ collarbone. Francis leans up to lay a thick smear of kisses across his inner thigh, just beyond his cunt. 

‘Okay,’ Arthur mutters, making the last careful shuffle and well. There he is. Francis gropes the meat of his thighs, and tugs him downwards, though Arthur resists slightly, hovering. 

Francis mutters something, hot breath over the convex of Arthur’s thighs and pulls him down until Arthur is seated. He hasn’t fully sat, he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t know, smother Francis or something. Francis gets to work immediately. Broad laps of his tongue turn concentrated, prodding at Arthur’s hole and back up, through his folds.

Arthur gasps, knees weakening as he settles more firmly on Francis. The sensation is a lot—Francis does something with his tongue and the electricity slicing up Arthur’s spine makes him shudder. It encourages him, Francis sucking at his folds, nose buried in the slick mess Arthur can feel smearing over Francis’ face. 

It’s overwhelming, every movement against where Arthur was most sensitive, perhaps overly so in the aftermath of their entanglement, but he couldn’t get enough. Winding a hand into Francis’ hair, Arthur begins to roll his hips downwards to meet every upwards lick, suck or prod of Francis’ tongue, mouth. Francis grabs the backs of his thighs and coaxes him to move until Arthur’s knees are encompassing Francis’ head, leaning over the other man. 

‘Francis,’ Arthur moans, a low thing. He’s shuddering, one hand periodically twisting in Francis’ longer hair and reaching out the other to clutch at his headboard for something to hold onto. In response, Francis moans into him. Arthur yelps at the sensation, a sound almost like a sob following. The tension in his gut jumps several degrees higher and every muscle in his body tenses, quickening the pace. It has a different feel—less gradual and all consuming, more so a sharp, intense, concentrated desire and sensation of flush. 

Francis gives his clit a long, hard suck and groans again and that’s it—Arthur comes all over his face in a shuddering, trembling release of warm fluid. And Francis doesn’t stop—rocking Arthur’s body against him, carrying him through his orgasm. Arthur mindlessly chases it until it’s too much and he collapses, sliding off Francis and to the side, leg still slung over Francis’ broad chest.

Arthur takes a few deep breaths, watching Francis’ chest fall and rise, hand brushing his hair back when he notices something. There’s a slight shine to his face, stomach and—there’s ropes of cum streaking Francis’ abdomen, cock soft and nestled into the crook of his hip. Arthur swings his leg off of Francis until they’re lying next to each other and when Francis opens his arm, it feels nice to tuck himself into the space there. 

They slot together well, Arthur resting his head on Francis’ clavicle. He can hear his heart like this, a strangely intimate thing. 

‘You came.’ he states quietly. Francis chuckles, stroking through Arthur’s short hair. He’s always amused, Arthur’s come to realize. It’s odd, he doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone seeming so consistently in good spirits besides maybe Antonio. 

‘As did you. No complaints?’ Francis asks. 

‘No,’ Arthur mutters into his sternum. ‘But—when did you—’ Francis waves a hand. 

‘A few moments ago.’ 

‘Without—?’ The question hangs in the air and Francis finally does seem slightly embarrassed, cheeks flushing. Arthur changes the subject. ‘We should clean up,’ he sighs, sitting up, tossing his legs over the side of the bed. Fingers grasp at his wrist before he can stand, and he turns to see Francis kissing the jut of his wrist bone before releasing him. 

He goes to the bathroom, avoiding his reflection and grabs a small towel, running it under hot water and squeezing out the excess. Arthur wipes between his legs gently, careful of how sensitive he still feels and chucks it in the laundry bin. Wetting another towel, he glances at himself. His makeup is a disaster, wet smudges around his eyes and his hair sticks up in every which way. His lips are swollen, red welts dotting his neck, clavicle. 

Francis takes the wet towel with a tilt of his lips and goes into the bathroom as Arthur rifles through his drawer for a clean pair of boxers and slips them on.

Arthur tosses the top blanket off his bed, trying not to think about the large wet spot around its center. He crawls under the thick duvet, flicking off the light. Francis comes back, tentatively crawling onto the bed. God, he’s exhausted. He’s sore in places he doesn’t really want to think about and would love to hibernate for a year. 

‘Arthur?’ Francis whispers. 

‘Yeah?’ 

‘Could you let me under the blankets mon cher?’ Arthur doesn't respond, flinging the duvet open in response. He can feel more than see in the pitch black room as Francis slides into bed next to him. It’s weird. To have someone not less than half his size next to him in bed. He doesn’t really know what to do—so he supposes it’s a good thing that Francis does. 

Francis scoots closer to him, hand blindly searching and landing on Arthur’s jaw. 

‘Te voilà.’ he murmurs, pulling at Arthur. He goes, and they kiss softly. Arthur feels something thick and hot well up in the back of his throat, but swallows it. Trailing a hand up the back of Francis’, he intertwines their fingers, laying back down into the downy pillows. Francis pulls back, but leaves his hand and somewhere between all of that, Arthur must fall asleep.