#so I cut. and I keep stewing in my self hatred. and I keep shouldering what my parents tell me. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

adowbaldwin · 4 years ago

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Oasis

requested by @madwriterscorner :) The title made me giggle, so i hope the reference is not missed on anyone!!!

Ps. i kind of suck at time frames, so it’s ‘roughly’ ahahaha

510…ish…

Lucius and Hugh sat tall and proud atop their stallion’s, and the small thing blocking their road had to crane his neck to reach their full heights. He thought them to be out of this world, Gods he could not quiet reach.

“Boy move before you are trampled” the dark haired one barked, he knew him to be Sieur only and could not find the words for his response. He was almost starstruck

“Are you deaf” the other copper one growled, slightly huffing "or stupid”. He eyed the thing with disgust ridden on his face, and encouraged his horse to step closer to the boy with a small kick “Perhaps you wish to be trampled on” he growled

“LUCIUS!” Hugh berated his temperamental brother “do not dare, you are not in Rome any longer” his voice had shot out half as a command, and half in jest.

Lucius smirked over his shoulder “You are right brother, if we were in Rome he would have no head” the boy skated back on his heels, hoping to avoid certain death

“I was here first” his brows furrowed as he looked down kicking a stone out of the path

Lucius had been circling the boy on his horse as if to torment him, though this comment stopped him in his tracks and he shot down from his horse grabbing the child by the shoulders “what did you say” his jaw was clenched, teeth rattling under the pressure and he knelt down to the boys level

“i-“ he stuttered, then regained his composure looking him square in the face “I was here first. You interrupted my path. I was getting wood an-“

His story had been cut off when he felt leather connect to his rear, and he yelped in shock “you best learn manners boy or ill beat them into you” Lucius rose from his couched position, and when the boy looked up he fell back onto his now saw bottom

“Lucius, stop toying with the child and get a move on” Hugh knew better then to interrupt his little brother when he had prey in his sights and wished that he would just hurry up and either kill it or leave it. He wanted to drink the day away, not spend it in the forest.

“what is your name boy” the last word came out as almost a threat, though it was not usually formed in that way

The boys self-preservation had been launched out of the window some years ago and he did not take kindly to men whom used their influence to belittle others. He had not yet been a mature age, but he would not be pushed around by them “what is your name, Sieur” he tried with might to spit the last word out as venomous as the devil in front of him had, and in a decades to come he would manage. Not today, though.

Hugh sucked in the air around him, bracing himself for the impact he would not feel himself. He winced when he saw Lucius draw his hand back and deliver a harsh slap to the boys bum, and had closed his eyes by the time Lucius reached 10.

He was sniffling, though not crying. Not even his own father had punished him so hard, and he had caused far greater mischief at home then he had thar day.

Lucius grabbed his skinny arm and threw him on his horse, and the boy lay on his stomach over the saddle “Next time boy tell me your name” he growled, and aimed back towards the village to return it to which way it came from.

520…ish…

Lucius’ sword scraped along the ground and the stone bit out an ear piercing screech at the contact “Matthaeus, keep slipping the wood from your shoulders and I will tan your rear” he smirked “no matter how you’ve aged”

Matthews shoulder ached from the constant, unrelenting work he had been subjected to for the past three months. The De Clermonts had demanded requested another part to their stone tower, and his craftsmanship had been sought after. He welcomed the work, and begrudged the barbarian whom had been overseeing the build.

Matthew huffed, disgruntled at the sheer lack of decency by this muck-spouted, quisby fopdoodle. Matthew used every derogatory word in his capability to describe Lucius, and he chuckled thinking of the wonderous foul language

“You jest, please share” Lucius growled, becoming impatient with the runt

“You wish to distract me from my important work, Sieur” He smirked back, using his free hand to wipe a stray bead of sweat “your father will not be pleased”

“speak less of my father and more of what thoughts ensued such joyous laughter” his arms stretched out to emphasize his speech as his voice became mocking

Hugh looked over nervously and had secured his blade within it’s sheath knowing within all of three minutes be would referee his brother and the human. They had yet to come to physical blows, and Hugh knew it would occur soon and hoped his home would be built before his brother murdered the towns best stonemason.

“I cannot speak such thoughts as they bare ill towards my Sieur, and I fear he may redden my ass” he quipped back, tipping his chin higher “perhaps though he looks for an excuse to darken my rear” he chuckled, and the men around let a small laughter escape

Lucius face fell at the insinuation and Hughs eye’s popped out of his skull. His brother was known in every city for being a woman loving, bed hopping whore and this suggestiveness would anger him.

Lucius took slow, purposeful steps toward in the impotent swine and the light of day shuddered in response “What did you say” he growled

Matthew, having been one of two men who dared challenge Lucius (the other only being Sieur Philippe) dropped the wood he was holding and met the man in the middle of the stoned courtyard “I said, perhaps you endeavour to redden my ass as an excuse to see it in all its glory” he bit out. He had grown to an impossible human height, and now matched the vampire in length. Where he did lack though, was the brawn the Roman possessed.

Lucius thought better of satisfying the runt with a reply, and simply patted him on the shoulder. He leant in to whisper to him “you will learn to regret that, boy”

Everyone had been shocked at the calm, collectiveness of Sieur Lucius that day and thought he may have changed.

He had not.

Three weeks later

It had been a difficult few weeks, and his work never seemed to end. The days had gotten longer and the work excruciating. One solace had been his unrelenting ruler Lucius had not made much comment since the day some weeks ago. He had kept out of Matthews way, and managed to be as polite as he could. That was unsettling.

Matthew made the short walk to his home, dreaming of his awaiting cot and he could practically smell the stew wafting through the streets awaiting for him to return home.

His ears picked up an odd sound coming through his stone walls, and tentatively stepped inside his home. He had almost vomited at the unsightly thing he had been subjected to; his loving, wonderful mother whom he doted on had been ontop of their dining table being entertained by the devil.

He had seen enough; the copper haired bastard had sarded with his mother.

His slammed the door with an ominous thunk, and sank down on the stone wall out of earshot. He would have stern words with his mother, and a sharp knife for him.

The door creaked open and Lucius had looked proud of himself. He thought he had done a good deed, the woman was widowed and short of this months tax payments. Her sons efforts to keep a roof over their heads had been noticed but he felt entitled to ensure she made up the rest of the payments. The added bonus being her impertinent son had seen, and he could not doubt his intentions again.

He made good measure to ensure Matthew had seen him jostling his trousers and tucking in his unruly clothing before approaching him on the stone wall. Matthew rose from his seat, his face riddled with hatred “You utter bastard” his sent a dissatisfying week shove to him, and this ensued hysterics from the blood sucker

He grinned “I was collecting your taxes” he could not manage any anger, he had released his frustrations on the boys mother (and she had accepted them happily and satisfied) “Do not fear boy, you will not have to call me father” he tipped his head back roaring with laughter as he retreated.

As he had gotten further away, Matthew had hoped staring a hole through his head would result in him dying.

It did not.

530…ish?...

Ysabaeu had almost looked sad at the sorrowful state lying crumpled on the floor. Matthew, the bright boy from the village laid broken on the cobbles. She had sensed his bones were no longer in tact and knew if she did not act quick, the world would lose a bright spark.

Lucius grumbled loudly looking at his stepmother whom had a doe-eyed expression. She was about to make it her child. “Perhaps he will be fine” he tried to reason, and gave his leg a quick tap for good measure “see, hardly broken”

Ysabaeu growled, stepping over the broken body to his side “if you do not wish to be in the same sorrowful state, I suggest you leave”

“Now, there is no such need for dramatics” Philippes voice boomed unnecessarily loud and the world almost stood still everytime he spoke “Come Lucius, leave Ysabaeu to her own devices”

He looked to the pitiful sight on the floor and shrugged “all over a woman” he spat “pathetic”. Lucius could not fathom a love so deep a man would fling himself from a bell tower and thought him week to do so. Perhaps he could sympathise the loss of a child, but he could not care for it. He sneered, and left awaiting the arrival of his pitiful new brother.

Matthews transformation had been far from easy, and with his sickened blood Lucius had found new reason to hate him. He had known Ysabeaus was tainted, but he had to feign a care for her since she was mated to his father. This thing he did not care to like.

He saw an opportunity now Matthew had turned and took great satisfaction in knowing the next time they shared words he could beat him in every way he had dreamed of. No longer a frail human, he would choke him till his heart exploded with joy.

He had been known for a shortened temper, but it was something about this oozing sack of self-pitying puss that truly angered him. As a boy he was self-entitled, in puberty he was utterly impudent and in adulthood he has acted like a degenerate. If it were not for his skills in building, his head would be nicely mounted to a stick in Lucius room.

As the days drew to a close, Ysabaeu proudly presented her son to her family. The celebratory dinner saw him welcomed, though it truly was just an opportunity for Philippe to be centre of everyone’s attention.

Matthew had not liked the crowded feel and had been grateful for his now ‘step-father’ taking up the role of entertainer, host and joker. His mind still burned from the memory of his wife and child and his heart bled in pain thinking of his loss. How he could go on, why he had agreed to go on wounded his thoughts as he betrayed his love and his God.

His eyes met Lucius across the dining table, his own dark orbs to his golden, fiery ones. He could feel the hate burn his veins, and did not once avert his gaze as he would have done as a human.

“Lucius” Philippes melodic voice broke the trance “Come, lets walk our grounds” His arm swung over the shoulder of his favourite son and goaded him into leaving the table

The sweltering, humid air had reflected the conversation at hand hot and stifling. Atleast, that is how Lucius felt “Come now Son, I trust no other with this” Philippe tried to reason. His most trusted, favoured son had a wicked temper but he could not place this into the hands of another.

“I do not understand, why of everyone you burden me with such a task” he growled, though it were more of a petulant child grumble then of a genuine challenging nature

“Ysabaeu’s sickened bloodline cannot be uncovered, nor Matthews affliction. I need you to be his guardian. To ensure he is kept in check” Phillipe tightened the grip on his shoulder and sighed deeply “Please”

He was not one for begging, but his relationship with this boy had been different. In some respects, despite the age gap he saw Lucius as his equal, someone he could admire for his sharp mind. He thought paces ahead of anyone around and even sometimes himself.

Lucius regarded this request, and thought of no other way to make this tolerable “if you expect I take Matthew as my charge, expect I shall not refrain from relentlessly making his life a misery, and beating him” he folded his arms across his broad chest and stood in front of his father holding the upper ground “and so help me God, if he ever does something to jeopardise the family, I will put him down”

Philippe nodded, knowing better to argue once he had set his mind “do try to atleast be friendly with him”

“I attempted so once, I allowed his mother to slip on taxes” he tipped his chin upward patronisingly “he was ungrateful”

Philippe gave his boy a stern look “Sarding his mother is not attempting to be friendly. It is antagonising”

“How does the corpse of his dead wife fair?” He smirked maliciously as his father’s face fell

“You are a very sick boy, Lucius” he shook his head in disbelief. He had known this was said in jest, but the depths of his bleak imagination had been one of the few thigs still to surprise the ancient being.

“No father, Matthew is the sick one. I am perfectly well, perhaps you are losing your mind”.

The clip around the earlobe Lucius received from that comment could still be felt almost 2000 years later.

#fic #adow #a discovery of witches #matthew clairmont #baldwin montclair #philipe de clairmont #hugh #ysabeau de clermont

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fangirlshrewt97 · 4 years ago

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Geralt Whump Week Submission Day 6

TITLE: I Hurt You (You Saved Me)

SHIPS: Geralt of Rivia / Jaskier|Dandelion

PROMPT: Monster

MEDIUM (Netflix, Books, Games, Hexer): Netflix

WARNINGS: NA

SUMMARY: Excerpt:

The only thing he could actually blame Jaskier for was his stupid decision to befriend Geralt, for trusting the Witcher to keep him safe. Because now Jaskier was hurt and the thing truly responsible for it was chopped into several pieces and flung across the clearing. So, the only one Geralt could actually blame was himself.

Basically, Jaskier gets hurt, Geralt blames himself, and along the way to getting Jaskier help remembers some key memories with him.

WORD COUNT: 5424 words

AUTHOR’S NOTES: Additional Tags include Geralt Whump Week, Prompt: Monster, Geralt Whump, Jaskier Whump, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Protective Geralt of Rivia, Self-Hatred, Non-linear storytelling, Pining, Geralt of Rivia has Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Falling in Love, Canon-typical violence, Soft Jaskier, Soft Geralt of Rivia, Idiots in Love, Friends to Lovers

AUTHOR: Fangirlshrewt97

CHARACTERS: Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier

LINK TO AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25109782

///

He wanted to blame Jaskier. Blame him for being reckless, for not paying attention, for thinking he would be fine tagging along on one of Geralt’s hunts because he wanted more inspiration for one of his diddies.

But the only thing he could actually blame Jaskier for was his stupid decision to befriend Geralt, for trusting the Witcher to keep him safe. Because now Jaskier was hurt and the thing truly responsible for it was chopped into several pieces and flung across the clearing. So, the only one Geralt could actually blame was himself.

///

It had been almost two weeks since Geralt’s last contract, his coin was running too low, and the villages he had to cross had not been all that welcoming. Jaskier hissing and rearing to fight everyone who looked twice at Geralt did not help the situation. He was touched by how fiercely Jaskier protected him, but sometimes he wished he would learn to pick his fights.

“I am choosing my fights Geralt. I am choosing to fight for you.”

Geralt shook his head. “You don’t need to do that.”

Jaskier scoffed. He propped himself on his side from where he had been lying on Geralt’s chest. “Geralt, last time we were at court, you almost tore off the arm of the nobleman who insulted me.”

“He called you a whore.” Geralt growled.

Jaskier shrugged. “I’ve been called worse. But you did not need to defend me that day, I didn’t ask you to.”

“I wasn’t going out stand by and let him call you names.”

Jaskier smiled fondly. “Precisely my love, how is it fair you ask me to stand by while all these strangers beg you to help them with a monster and then call you names in the same breath.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Oh? Do you think I don’t care for you as much as you care for me?”

“Jaskier it’s-” Geralt bit off, growling when he was unable to say what he wanted. Jaskier merely ran a hand across the length of his chest, accustomed to giving him time to sort out his thoughts. “I don’t need to be protected.”

Jaskier laughs, the bastard.

“Oh darling, of course you don’t need to be protected.” He leans down and kisses him, slow and heavy, pouring his seemingly endless affection into Geralt until the Witcher wonders if one can drown in it. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel nice when someone does it anyways though. You protect me from all the monsters of silver, and I’ll protect you from the ones of steel.”

I’ll be your shield against humans, I won’t let you get hurt again. Not on my watch.

Fuck, Geralt’s chest is a pandemonium of emotions, so he does the only thing he does understand. He rolls the bard back onto his back and shows him his love.

///

A conversation from long ago echoes through Geralt’s mind as he ties the makeshift bandages he created out of his tunic across Jaskier’s chest. He wills his hands to stop trembling, his heart to not beat so loud, his breath not to be so ragged and painful. He doesn’t particularly believe in any God, but right then he prays to every one he knows to allow Jaskier to be alright.

Because the world needed this miracle of a man to be alive.

Because Geralt needed this miracle of a man to stay alive.

///

They were camping next to a lake, the summer night making the air heavy and humid. The soak in the river had been delightful, the cold water washing away the stickiness on their skins, allowing them to feel clean for the first time in days. They were on their way out of Novigrad, Jaskier having requested Geralt to meet him there after he finished his latest hunt. The bardic festival hosted by Lord Whittenmore had sent a personal invitation to Jaskier who had been honored, and determined to win once he learned Valdo Marx would also be there.

Jaskier had worked tireless on perfecting new compositions for the festival, staying awake late into the night, having to be hauled to sleep by Geralt when the Witcher finally had enough of the racket.

“Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

“Do you know the constellations?”

Geralt slowly peeled his eyes open, sleep had been scarce during the hunt, and though he would not admit it out loud, Geralt found he slept best when the bard was next to him.

The sky above them was a twinkling canvas, the moon half full but still bright enough they hadn’t even needed to keep the fire going for light. The lake was surrounded by a flat ground, allowing them to see the sky unobstructed. And stars crowded each other so much it was difficult to make them apart.

“A few.”

“I had a book about constellations when I was a child. My mother, she would read to me every night from that book. Told me the story behind each one.”

Geralt rolled his head to the side, taking in the view of his lover from the side. Jaskier was staring steadfast at the stars, their light reflected in his own eyes. Geralt’s breath got caught in his throat when Jaskier turned to meet his gaze. Jaskier did not need the reflection of stars in his eyes to imitate their twinkle, not when his out shined them all.

“Tell me one?” The question left Geralt before he could stop it.

Jaskier seemed to light up even more somehow, and launched into the tale.

Geralt fell asleep to the sound of his voice, his eyelids too heavy for him to keep them open.

When he woke the next morning, he swore he could feel the imprint of a kiss laid on top of his eyelids as he had drifted off to sleep.

///

Geralt heaved Jaskier up on his arms, ignoring the searing pain running up the entire left side of his own body. Fucking kikimoras. Trusting the potions he had taken beforehand to heal him, he secured Jaskier in his arms. Clenching his jaw so tight, he was sure he was chipping his teeth, Geralt tightened his hold on the bard and started to run. He needed to get a potion in Jaskier, get him stable, and then take him to a healer. One who could do magic.

Jaskier’s head lolled against his shoulder, the bard having succumbed to the pain a long while ago. Geralt picked up his pace the more he heard Jaskier’s heartbeat slowing down. The drum the dictated the beat of his life more and more.

His own chest started to feel icy, fear gripping his heart with claws that made it bleed.

///

It had been the bard who kissed him first. They were camping just outside of the Cedarian capital, the town had been having a nasty basilisk problem that took Geralt the better part of two days to take care of. Jaskier had conceded to being left behind in town on the condition of being allowed to fuss over Geralt as much as he wanted once he returned. And hadn’t that been a warm thought to mull over on the hunt. There was now someone who was waiting for Geralt on the other side of the hunt. Someone who had no obligation to do so, but chose to. Chose to spend time with him, someone who cared, someone who washed and tended to his wounds and soothed his nightmares. Jaskier chose him.

The basilisk had been a pain but Geralt had killed it and collected the reward soon enough. They rode out of town after Geralt got his coin, the villages reeking of equal measures of fear and disgust. They set up camp in the woods, Jaskier not complaining about the lack of a soft bed or the plain stew.

Geralt did not know much about the bard, for all that he rambled and babbled throughout the day, Geralt noticed that Jaskier rarely spoke about anything regarding his past. But there were some things he could not hide, the easy comfort in the silks and colors of his doublets, his intimate knowledge of nobility, his casual spouting of political relations and hierarchies in every country. Jaskier came from money. He came from a family that educated him. Possibly a family that loved him. So what was a man such as himself doing as a wandering minstrel? One who walked with Geralt even?

Every night, these thoughts occupied Geralt’s thoughts, though he’d never voice them out loud. He fell to a restless sleep, and was up with the dawn. Jaskier did not protest too much when Geralt roused him so early, just getting up and packing. They were barely on the road when the hair on Geralt’s neck stood up, and he called Jaskier to halt. He had barely pulled the bard close when an arrow landed right where the bard had been standing. Snarling, Geralt pulled Jaskier onto Roach, and kicked the horse into a gallop. A couple more arrows whizzed by, but none hit their target. Unfortunately the path they were on narrowed, and they ended up in a bottleneck. Geralt dismounted, pulling out his steel sword and taking a fighting stance as he patted Roach to hide with Jaskier. Soon enough the bandits descended, and they must have thought their numbers would help against a single Witcher, only to find themselves quickly outmatched. Geralt received a few nicks, and one slash to the side of his chest that could had pierced him if not for his armor. By the time Geralt disposed of the last bandit, he was panting and the pain from a cut to the leg had him limping.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried out when he emerged from the hiding spot. The bard rushed to him, entering his personal space and started to prod him, finding all the wounds. Geralt growled and batted at Jaskier but the bard was not deterred. The bard had him sitting on a nearby rock and pulling out Geralt’s supply of salves and bandages, quickly bandaged the two deep cuts, the nicks already starting to close on their own.

“Well, nothing like a bandit encounter to get the old blood pumping, right Geralt?” Jaskier tried to joke, laugh dimming at the sour look on Geralt’s face. He sighed. “Look, let’s just go alright?”

Geralt grunted and stood up, beckoning Roach to him. He mounted, and to Jaskier’s surprise offered him a hand too. Accepting the offer, Jaskier mounted Roach, slinging his arms loosely around Geralt’s waist. But to his surprise, rather than going out of the bottleneck, Geralt rode the opposite direction, back to where they had come from.

“Um, Geralt, I think we are going in the wrong direction. We need to be going the other way.” Jaskier explained. Geralt just grunted. Jaskier fell silent, but Geralt could scent his confusion.

They arrived at the place where the first arrow had been shot, and seeing it there made Jaskier gulp. It made Geralt’s blood boil. How dare these humans try to take his bard away?

When they got to the arrow, Geralt dismounted, making Jaskier yelp and follow. “What are you doing Geralt? I’m sure the bandits hiding here saw the fate of their friends and fled.”

Geralt was looking for something though, and moved with a purpose, pulling back a bush to see his prize. Crouching to get it, he brushed off the dirt that clung to it, noticing the dents and splinters to the wood.

He brought the lute back to Jaskier, who was standing next to Roach with wide eyes and an open mouth.

“Here. You dropped this.” Geralt said as he passed the lute back to Jaskier.

Jaskier took the lute from Geralt, cradling it for a moment before staring back at Geralt. His scent took on a pleasant smell of pine wood and flowers on top of his default scent of chamomile and vanilla, one Geralt had smelled before but had not yet deciphered the meaning of.

“You… we came back for this?” Jaskier asked, wonder filling his voice. Geralt shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the emotions he was reading off of Jaskier.

He grunted. Jaskier’s lips twitched before morphing into a genuine smile, small but beautiful. It made Geralt’s heart speed up and a bubbling feeling develop in his stomach.

And then. And then, Jaskier switched the lute to one hand, using the other to pull Geralt close to press a kiss to Geralt’s lips. The Witcher stood frozen, the heat of the bard’s body feeling as though it was burning him. Jaskier had closed his eyes, but Geralt couldn’t find himself able to do the same, mesmerized by the shape of Jaskier’s eyelashes lightly brushing against his cheek. His lips tingled when Jaskier broke the kiss. “Thank you Geralt.”

Jaskier turned around and started walking back towards the pass. When he didn’t hear Roach following, he twisted his head to beckon him. “Are you coming Witcher?” His voice was warm.

Geralt unfroze and climbed on Roach, following the bard for once.

What had just happened?

///

When he neared the road, he whistled a short tune, Roach galloping to meet him. Swinging Jaskier onto her saddle, Geralt climbed behind him, shifting to have him sitting side-saddle, secure between the Witcher’s arms. Then, he snapped Roach’s reins, begging her to be swift as they thundered towards the nearest village.

He hated how much this reminded him of the Djinn and the meeting that had happened. How many times was he doomed to hurt this man?

///

The first time Geralt kissed him, Geralt wished he had done it differently. They had been in Murivel, and just by sheer bad luck Jaskier had encountered a nobleman who vividly recalled his face as it had tumbled out of the window of his wife’s chambers. Needless to say, he had been holding a grudge and Jaskier had been sent running through the streets of the town while half a dozen guards with swords chased him. Jaskier had ended up crashing straight onto Geralt, nearly sending them both tumbling to the ground.

“Geralt! My darling Witcher, help me please!” Jaskier had cried.

Geralt heard the sounds of the soldiers, and was able to connect the important dots even if he didn’t have the full story. Unfortunately, he had left his swords in the inn and had only a small dagger. And this was their town. And Jaskier was wearing one of his obnoxiously bright doublets that made sure he always caught everyone’s eye. Good for a performance, bad for hiding from soldiers who want to castrate you.

Already regretting the action he was going to do, he hauled Jaskier against the wall of the nearest alley, pressing close to the bard, touching from shoulder to knees. Jaskier squawked before his breath hitched. It was not helping Geralt concentrate.

“Geralt?” the word was whispered against his ear, and instinctively Geralt squeezed Jaskier’s hip. He heard the soldiers round the corner on their street and turned to Jaskier, pressing his lips onto his, swallowing the moan Jaskier let out. Jaskier was frozen for a moment before he threw his arms over Geralt, one burying itself in his hair and the other encircling his torso. Geralt brought his hands around Jaskier’s waist, pressing them against his lower back, making the bard arch into him.

The heat from the bard was intoxicating, and left Geralt wanting to continue doing this. This miracle of a human who touched him with no fear, who wanted him.

He heard a group of footsteps stop at the mouth of the alley but moved on quickly enough. It was only when he heard them turn another corner that Geralt stepped back. Not too far though, leaving just a couple inches of space between them.

Jaskier was a sight, lips red and plump, eyes slightly glazed and hair mussed. “Geralt…” Fuck, even his voice was hoarse.

The Witcher could feel his arousal racing through his veins and when his hips brushed the bard’s they elicited a moan letting him know the bard’s reaction was more visceral than a simple kiss warranted.

Geralt could still recall the first kiss Jaskier gave him, he had spent nights replaying it in his head. He had also, in the nights when he travelled alone, allowed himself to imagine how he would return the kiss. This had not been it.

He had wanted to earn it, wanted to treat the bard, make him smile, make him laugh, make his scent be filled with happiness.

Still, he couldn’t say he entirely hated what had just happened either.

///

Roach brought him to the healer’s hut quickly, sensing the panic from her rider. Geralt dismounted, carrying Jaskier in his arms. He shifted him enough to knock on the door, anxiety and panic coloring every second before the door finally creaked open to reveal a tiny woman who barely reached his chest.

“Please, respected healer, my friend has been injured and he needs immediate assistance.”

“Hmmm,” the woman contemplated before thankfully opening the door further to let him in. “There is a bed in that room, deposit him there. Divest him of his clothes too.” She ordered.

Geralt quickly followed her instructions, willing away the trembling in his arms as his fingers unbuttoned Jaskier’s doublet.

He couldn’t pull the bard to sit to remove his chemise, so he used the dagger from his boot to cut it, promising in his head to replace it for him. He was just finishing with lowering Jaskier onto the bed when the old lady waddled back into the room. In the light of the fire, the slash of the kikimora had cut a wide line from just below Jaskier’s armpit to his opposite hip in the back, the line curving jagged and dangerous.

“Now Witcher, let me do my job, go sit outside.”

“But-”

“I cannot concentrate if I have you hovering over me. I may not be able to scent your anxiety but I am sure you reek of it. Begone with you!” She ordered, pointing back to the main room.

Biting back an argument, Geralt sighed and bowed his head. “Yes madam.”

He glanced backwards at Jaskier, still laying on the bed, pale and haunting with the moonlight that was shining down on him.

He closed the door, the main room being dark and cold compared to the space he had just occupied. Knowing he couldn’t stay still, not when he was useless to help Jaskier, not when it had been his fault the bard had been hurt in the first place, Geralt fled.

///

“That’s it. You are teaching me how to make your damn potions Geralt!” Jaskier huffed as he tried to staunch the bleeding by wrapping the bandages faster. But Geralt’s torso was slippery and bandages ended up bunching up rather than laying flat on him.

Geralt, helpfully verbose as always, growled at him.

Jaskier growled back and pulled at the bandages viciously.

Geralt tried to swipe at him. Jaskier pulled the bandages again.

“I am the only reason you are not dead you idiot. Stop resisting me!”

Geralt snarled, securing Jaskier’s wrist in a tight enough hold strong enough to hurt but not fracture.

“Get your hands off of me, or I will do it for you.”

Jaskier bared his teeth in a half feral smile. “I’ve travelled by your side for 10 years now you bastard, you think you scare me? I’m not afraid of you Geralt.”

The two men wrestled some more, although it was less wresting and more Geralt using his bulk to keep Jaskier away from him without hurting the bard while the bard clawed and threatened to bite him.

In the end, Roach got annoyed by the racket then were making and headbutted Geralt’s back, making him lose his balance for a second. Unable to balance both of them when Jaskier decided to swing at him again at that instance, both went crashing to the ground, Geralt gasping as lines of pain radiated from his cut shoulder to the ends of his toes, further exacerbated by Jaskier falling half on top of him.

“Shit! Are you alright, I am so sorry!” Jaskier exclaimed as he scrambled to get off the Witcher and stand upright, accidentally kneeing him in his, thankfully, uninjured side.

Gritting his teeth so hard he almost heard them crack, Geralt braced himself on his hands and pushed himself up against the rock he had been sitting in.

Jaskier dropped to his knees beside him, far more careful of his movements.

“Geralt?” the concern was overwhelming in its sincerity and its scent.

For all the flaws the bard had that drove Geralt out of his mind on a daily basis, the one consistent thought in his head was the perplexity he felt as he studied the enigma of Jaskier. The bard was loud, colourful, had a tendency to go feral and pick stupid fights, got into stupider beds he ended up having to run from with his trousers only half done. But he was also kind to Geralt, a kindness that was genuine. He feared for Geralt, not because of him. Geralt did not know what to make of this human. And now he claimed he wanted to know how to make potions to help Geralt out? The idea was absurd.

But as Jaskier took his silence as permission to continue his fussing, he sat back and let the bard do as he wished, thankfully quiet this time. Jaskier’s touch was gentle but firm, and the fear Geralt kept waiting for, even after all this time never came.

Somewhere along the way, Jaskier had learned how to heal him, how to care for him, anticipate his needs. And Geralt felt a curl of shame in his stomach that he could not say the reverse was true.

///

Geralt was back at the swamp. The scents were overpowering, the rot of death and blood, kikimora and Witcher and human, all combining to form the most noxious smell Geralt had ever smelled.

He felled the head off the monster, harvested the useful bits, and then burned the corpse. He burned the whole clearing too, just to be safe.

He rode back in a fugue state, his mind was blank because the only thought was ‘Jaskier will be alright, Jaskier needs to be alive, Jaskier needs to know, Jaskier will be alright, Jaskier needs to be alive, Jaskier needs to know …’

The sun had set long ago, only his Witcher vision allowing him to guide Roach back to the hut of the old healer. Leaving Roach to munch on the nearby patch of grass, Geralt reentered the cottage. The smell of blood in the air had been replaced with incense, and Geralt could hear a faint chanting from the old lady.

Lost without direction, Geralt sagged against the wall next to the door leading to Jaskier. He curled his arms around himself and rested his head against his knees.

All that was left to do was wait. How had this all happened?

///

It had even been a simple hunt, the alderman had put out a commission for a Witcher to take care of the spider monster in his lake, and when Geralt had met him, had even been helpful in giving details. He described how four of the men of his village had been lost when they had left through the path north to do business and then failed to return. But when a couple others returned, they realized the men who disappeared must have done so near the water. So the remaining citizens had armed themselves and gone to the search the riverbanks to find their bodies to bring home, only to lose another citizen to the monster.

The alderman shuddered as he recollected the sight.

He had said, “Master Witcher, I know that in most places your kind is not treated kindly, but we are a small village, dependent on each other. Loss of even four men is a heavy loss, and we cannot afford to lose any others lest all of us die. We do not have much coin, but we can provide you lodging and food for free to compensate.”

Geralt had accepted the offer, not least because he had seen the hunger pang faces of the children when he and Jaskier had arrived, death and misery hanging like a cloud over the village. Jaskier had quietly offered to play at the tavern and the alderman had smiled at him weakly. He had travelled wide and seen the rarity of people in power who cared for their people, and the man before him all but bled his grief at the death of his people.

“Music and happiness have long been gone from here Master Bard. If you would kindly welcome them back for even a night to this town, I will be grateful beyond words to you.”

Jaskier had offered a nod and made arrangements for his performance. That night, after singing and dancing and finally seeing those children laugh, both men retired to their room.

“What monster do you think it is?” Jaskier had asked, laying on his side, head pillowed on his arm, looking at him.

Geralt had been on his back, on arm tucked beneath his head as Jaskier took the one on his stomach to play with.

“Based on the description, it is probably a kikimora. They are difficult but if you go in with a plan the job can be done quickly enough.”

“Let me come.”

“No.”

“Geralt.”

“You could get hurt.”

“That’s what you tell me before every hunt!”

“It’s true of every hunt.”

“Geralt…” Jaskier whined. Geralt had relented. In hindsight, he wanted to hit himself over the head for such a stupid decision.

The next morning had dawned early, and the two went in the direction of the swamp. Jaskier had conceeded to staying away from the fight itself, and found that there was a place where the path forked to the swamp, one heading to the river, and another to higher ground. Making sure the bard was safe up high, Geralt ventured to the river, pulling out his silver sword.

He leaned down and picked up a few pebbles, enchanting them with a sign, and once at the river’s edge tossed them in. Barely a couple of seconds passed before the still waters rippled and splashed as the monster emerged from the riverbed. It roared, Geralt barely able to make out a small darkened spot on it’s head before it launched itself at him. Geralt dodged and threw an Aard, which stunned the kikimora enough for Geralt to hack off one of it’s legs.

Enraged, the monsters had screamed again before slashing out rapidly, catching Geralt in the arm. Geralt grunted as the claw pierced the skin below the armor, but used the proximity to chop off another limb. He threw another Aard, throwing the kikimora out of the water and into the cliff by the river’s edge. The soil of the cliff must have been weaker than it looked, because Geralt could only watch as the ground beneath Jaskier’s feet crumbled and the bard let out a scream as he fell, landing on the monster’s back. Jaskier was stunned for a second before he scrambled away from the monster, limping to cover. Geralt unfroze and launched himself at the monster, giving Jaskier enough time to get to safety. Unfortunately, the kikimora was fueled by anger at that point and viciously slashed out it’s leg throwing Geralt into the river. Geralt spluttered when he breached the surface, and could only watch in horror as Jaskier let out a blood curdling scream before falling silent as the monster seemed to cut him in half.

Geralt couldn’t recall what had happened next, only knew his vision had gone red and he had fought against the monster, going so fast and hard the kikimora could not even prepare a defence for itself.

///

Geralt had been engaged in intense self-flagellation for over an hour before the door next to him crack open, spilling bright light into a dim room that had Geralt squinting. The old woman stepped out, closing the door behind her. Geralt rose to his feet, feeling his heart in his throat.

“Madam, my friend-”

“Quit your nervousness, it is unbecoming. Your friend shall be alright. A little bruised but he will be healed by the morrow.”

Geralt felt the immediate urge to sink to his knees in relief.

“Now go on ahead, he is asking for you.”

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat before starting to pound. “Asking- He’s awake?”

“Yes, boy, generally sleeping people cannot make requests. Go on in now.” The lady said as she practically pushed Geralt into the neighboring room.

The sight in there was enough to make his eyes tear up. There on the bed, looking exhausted with a new scar, but otherwise healthy and breathing, and whole, was Jaskier. With his bright blue eyes, and warm smile, and kind hands. There was his miracle of a man he had done nothing to deserve.

Geralt nearly sobbed in relief. Good things did not happen often to him, destiny had a tendency to fuck him over at every turn.

Jaskier called him forth, extending a hand towards him. “Geralt.”

The steps he took felt mechanical, as though it wasn’t him who was walking, not him placing his hand in Jaskier’s, not him being blessed with that radiant smile. But that smile dimmed a little, and Geralt wanted to bring it back.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Geralt managed to croak out after several prolonged moments.

“Like you can’t believe your eyes?”

“I-” Geralt said, before being overwhelmed, and he surged, enveloping Jaskier in a firm but gentle hug, burying his face in Jaskier’s scent. A tear made its escape and landed on Jaskier’s bare shoulder.

“Geralt wh-”

“I heard your heart stop.”

“Oh Geralt. I am alright, I am here.”

Geralt just clung to Jaskier tighter. The bard brought one hand up to run through Geralt’s hair as the other rubbed soothing circles into the small of his back.

The pair stayed like that until Jaskier’s muscles protested, and Geralt forced the bard to lie down, pampering and fussing over the bard.

His bard. His friend. His Jaskier.

The old lady allowed them to stay the night, saying the stitches would burst open if the bard had to ride by horseback or walk the next day.

“Thank you for taking care of me, my lady.” Jaskier had said.

“Little boy, I just did my job. If the big one hadn’t brought you to me as quickly as he did, no one could have helped you. You should be thanking him.”

“I plan to, my lady, I plan to.” Jaskier had said, voice so fond, Geralt wanted to run, especially when those blue eyes filled with love were aimed at him.

“Very well, you both interrupted my supper, I am going to eat. I trust you to take care of yourselves.” She had bid before walking out, nodding at their bows.

Once she was gone, Jaskier had cupped Geralt’s face ad brought him in for a kiss.

“This is not your fault.”

Geralt’s fist clenched in the sheets.

“Of course it is.”

“Geralt-”

“I should have been more careful.”

“And I should have actually listened to you.” Jaskier said exasperated. He sighed, shifting his hand from Geralt’s cheek to the back of his neck. “Dear heart, you warned me so many times, you gave me so many chances to stay behind and I rejected all of them. Neither of us are to blame, or both of us are. But please, please don’t put this on yourself.”

When Geralt looked like was going to protest, Jaskier shut him up with a kiss.

“Promise me.”

In front of those eyes, Geralt had always been helpless. “I promise.”

Jaskier smiled brightly again. “Good.”

And then because he was a ridiculous fool in love, he pressed a kiss to the Witcher’s nose.

And because the Witcher was an even bigger fool in love, he blushed.

///

In his heart Geralt did not know if he could ever truly forgive himself for letting Jaskier get hurt, but he had promised the bard, so he would try.

He would also make sure to do his best to ensure harm never came to his bard again, directly or indirectly.

Jaskier was far too precious to hurt.

#the witcher #my fic #my wriring #geralt whump week #geralt whump week 2020 #geralt whump week day 6 #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #geraskier fic #soft geralt/jaskier #let me know what you think!

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umbralreignsims · 6 years ago

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The darkest hour, is.

As the General walked into the room she demanded Allostad’s assistance, as he took off the meeting room filled with rapid discussion and souring rage.

The room was divided in anger as Albalene stood up and was abruptly cut off from approaching Novero by Fanz.

“Did you know anything about this?” He asked.

“I don’t know, it seems like from what the magic box said it was you and your grody litter.” She spat as Daiyon had already approached Novero.

“So Novero, I take it you are leaving for some thing pertaining to this little show?”

“I don’t know what you and your little spies were hoping for, but if provoking us into combative action was your plan you can consider it a failure.”

“Oh I would assume not, especially if little cubby gets lynched, wouldn’t that be atrocious? I think it would.” He snarled. “Imagine little Parda’s tears rolling down into the sea. Starting a war against me, how would the public view such a thing? spoiled spy gets hung for murders, angry god and group of similar murderers go out on temper tantrum?”

“I haven’t the time for this Daiyon, I’d be worried for your little girlfriend over there than what I’m going to do.” She said taking her leave to quickly rally and contact her people.

As she walked to the door her heels clacked louder as she sternly sped herself up to reach the nearest communication device. She wanted to believe this was his planning, all of this, but she knew better than to take things from a Daiyon at face value. Meanwhile Sinai was worried at the state of the council meeting, the chieftain attempting to reassure him.

“You know for a man you certainly talk like a tent-hopping girl.” The snarling Albalene had pushed Franz way over the line.

“WHAT.” He shouted as he unleashed his Umbral form. Horns protruded, his outfit changed as his shoulders widened. thick red eyes stared at the viking witch.

“Oh, so you’re an it then?” She laughed as Franz roared and grappled her to the wall, the ensuring fight was lightning fast, powerful roars and sounds echoed the chambers. The Chieftain grabbed his Axe attached to his side.

Statues fell over and dust and smoke came from the battered old walls.

“Hit her where it hurts! that will teach her!” He cheered on looking at the Daiyon with a toothy grin. A loud gunshot broke the sounds.

“I want everyone to break it up RIGHT NOW.” The general stormed in, lowering her firearm. “The next person to throw a punch or even a glare is being detained by Civic Defense, This emergency meeting of the Tribunal council is OVER” She yelled with diction and clarity.

as the clouds dissipated there was a clear winner, as Albalene coughed and hacked she punched the ground in frustration as Franz walked away without a word. The chieftain took his hand and placed it on Sinai’s shoulder, comforting him as they would be the ones to let the lesser tribes not present of this occurrence. Bu as of now, there were more pressing matters.

In east Union City, the streets were alive with rage, pent up anger and frustration, the Spy moved Mathias along the rooftops, eventually reaching the Civil Defense safety zone they had for the two to leave, the citizens ripped and tore the area, knocking down the old singing stones and pillars to break into the little area.

The two officers could barely keep the people at bay. “RETURN TO YOUR HOMES!” An officer shouted, holding her gun steady.

Mathias was truly scared, never had he seen such a group of angry and belligerent people. The helicopter landed, it was a different one than before, the spy attempting to move Mathias onto the helicopter.

“We must go now.” He yelled. One Tribal wielding a sword as he approached and broke through the crowd.

“There is the murderer who is that? Another victim? Or his master?” He shouted. The spy took deep those words and without hesitation looked Mathias in the eyes.

“Forgive me, I must defame you in this way” He said pushing with a thrust, Mathias falling into the copter as the Pilot saw the Spy wave his wand, motioning the pilot to leave. And with the rotors hot, the craft left as he approached the crowd, Mathias scared and worried watching from the vehicle.

“You have been lied to, I am not the killer, That was but a smaller leopard I had to save from your mob’s most violent.” He said as clutter and garbage was tossed at him. “I did nothing to this individual and you have to understand we are not the culprits, you have been lied to by fear and mongering.” The Tribal continued to wave his sword. The officer attempting to scare them back with their electric staff.

“You heard it people! You are acting out of control, no better than humans of old and Tribals who stew in the muck, we had to evacuate that poor leopard, and this one is staying to try to talk sense into you.” She shouted, the crowd looking around, somehwat coming to the realization when a voice spat out once more.

“LIES! That was merely his side bitch, everyone knows how the Order works, you cut up and helped drain those people and they gave you a helicopter and your own slave!”

“That does not even begin to make sense! I implore you, we have done nothing! Please come to your senses, Lami lied to you all-”

“HE BROKE THE LINE!” An officer screamed as the Tribal dashed.

“Enough of your lies Soul drinker!” The tribal screamed with such vindication and self-justification he felt like a damn hero as the blade cut deep into the leopard’s flesh.

The entire time he didn’t fight back, he did not raise his sword as the tribal kicked and stomped and stabbed him until his body moved no more, several officers and armed vehicles showed up, but the air was cold, chilling in the lack of thought, the tribal tried to rally the crowd. “THE BEAST IS DEAD!” He yelled, but people who were cheering quickly began to run away as the officers arrived. They attempted to rescue the poor Leopard who chose not to give in to their calls for violence, but he bled out into the grass. The MoonClipse medical officers could only make sure he was stable before succumbing to death.

When the castle doors flew open, Parda has appeared in the foyer as she felt turbulance, though things had settled a while ago in the city, the helicopter had just landed. Bursting through the doors and falling to his knees Mathias broke down in tears. “Mathias!” He yelled running along the foyer to the sobbing leopard.

He was but a cub again in his arms, the motherly instincts inside took over as he held the crying leopard. “I know, I know, cry it all out my child” Parda assured, tears slipping down his cheeks as he resonated with Mathias, nearly seeing what he experienced through his eyes.

Though there was many things the Order educated Mathias in, things like these only so much knowledge could help, it was a horrifying experience, the running, the hatred and anger, all those putrid auras choking him.

The morning sun was only a few hours away, but the damage was done.

#UCUL #Sims 4 #Simblr #simblr story #sims 4 magic #Sims 4 supernatural #Simlit #So emotional ; . ;

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mostlyfrukheadcannons · 7 years ago

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Posting my late submission for frukweek2017 this time on Tumblr! It’s for the Day 5 prompt: “It’s really hard to say I love you”. Beware, its 9,228 words long, and there are slight spoilers for Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo! Or you could read it nicely sectioned out on A03. Enjoy!

@frukweek

Title: It’s Hard for Me to Say “I Love You” (But I do!)

At half-past three in the morning, Arthur wraps his mitten-insulated hands around a hot baking tray.

He pulls out of his oven a batch of souffles — standing proud and puffed up in several flavours — orange blossom, French vanilla, pistachio, lemon and so on. With a critical eye, he carefully puts them down.

So they dot his already crowded mahogany breakfast table. Swim amidst bowls filled with stuffed figs, pastries piled upon lavish porcelain plates, and a hearty mille crepe cake that brings this all together in a picture of domestic felicity.

It’s enough food to comfortably feed an army. But in the zero-dark hours of the morning, there’s only Arthur sitting down in his apartment to not-really-appreciate it. He listens to the droning of the London traffic outside of his apartment. Listlessly pokes at his empty plate with a fork. It’s just him, and his tired eyes, and his shoulders sore from cooking all night — aching to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Mirthlessly, he entertains the scenario of what would happen if a few nations happened to stumble through his doorstep. Spot the burgeoning breakfast spread he’s set up all on his own. Have their minds blown, because surprise-surprise obviously England can cook...it’s been centuries and he’s not stupid.

Then England snaps out of it. Executes this notion with absolute swiftness. With a cool flame slicking across his skin, he thinks: “nonononono — the world must never know — never find out — he must never be known to cook competently.

Why?

Because he is England. English. Horrible-foodland. God Save the Queen, tally-ho and whatnot. It’s who he is, of course.

Arthur gags at how quickly this self-deluding lie comes to his mind. “Bullshit.” He’s perfectly aware of the truth. England looks tiredly over his shoulder, at the kitchen counter behind him, where he knows what he’ll see.

He sees the phantom of an old memory: A slender and handsome figure. Whose blue-ribboned ponytail is swept elegantly over his right shoulder. His nimble hands flying over the stove, adjusting all the buttons, as his lively eyes keep track of all the things bubbling and stewing. He’s got an apron tied around his hips, and he speaks with a gentle voice, teasing, “Oh Angleterre, what would you do without me cooking for you in the morning? Why, die of food poisoning of course.”

Then, there are even more distant memories, of a delicately beautiful youth calling across the fields to a stubborn bushy-browed barbarian— to come feast on the fish that he’s caught and cooked with a delicious mix of wild herbs — before it grows cold.

Gaul. France. Francis.

He doesn’t visit anymore. Not since The Quarrel . The lock of his apartment hasn’t been broken for ages. A pretty face hasn’t poked his head through the door — to remark upon incorrigible Angleterre and his damp little island — for the longest time.

Even though England has kept everything else the same — his stuffy attitude — his stuffier sweater vests — his horrible taste — everything that France would want to taunt England over, and more.

So shouldn’t France be here by now to insult everything with his poncey accent.

Shouldn’t that be the way things are?

If, there is light, there is shadow. If there are heights, there are abysses.

If there is English artlessness, then there is French finesse.

So where is Francis now?

It’s an absurd instinct, carried to the finest degree of stupidity. But Arthur is despondent and desperate. He will stubbornly cling to his faults and foibles, because they are the scraps of what he has left of their light-and-shadow, point-and-counterpoint, intertwined past relationship. And maybe, maybe if he waits long enough he’ll come back...the dead will rise from their graves...and frozen lakes will burst ablaze...The bright days will return...

Sitting at the breakfast table alone, staring at all the dishes, Arthur knows he is waiting for a moment that will never come. He had thought that maybe making a breakfast spread of his own could bring back the comforting nostalgia of the past. Instead, too many vivid little memories of better breakfasts crowd around the plates and bowls, gibbering and yammering, and just making Arthur feel queasy, and unbearably sick.

He ends up bringing all the breakfast foodstuffs to this homeless shelter. The lady in charge“Are you sure you want to give this all away? Again?”

“Sure,” Arthur replies.

After all, it’s not as if I have anyone I to share this breakfast with.

England walks home alone.

Really, if anything, England had thought that his relationship with France would end in a cataclysmic catharsis of centuries of hatred. The fallout would have been stupendous, the impression made on the world indelible.

Never in his wildest imaginings would he have expected for it to end in a gradual slide into total obsolescence. Not when for centuries Europe and the world seemed to revolve around Anglo-Franco powerplay and rivalry. These days France and England seem less politically relevant, especially in relation to each other.

The final nail in the coffin was Brexit.

Now England just sits at the back of meetings, watching France and Germany run the EU like an old married couple. Their dynamic is so powerful, they have become the de-facto runners of world meetings. Germany is relentless focus and brutal efficiency, forcing discussions to stay on track. Whereas France is silver-tongued, and quick-witted. He soothes the ruffled feathers of nations whose squabbles are halted by Germany, holds the attention of the world with clever quips, and generally maintains an amiable balance in the atmosphere, that facilitates the smooth running of meetings.

The two are undeniably a power couple. What place does England have in this new world?

In this, Italy is sympathetic. Sure, he appears bubbly as always on the outside. But Arthur knows that in truth, Feliciano is a complete wreck. He’s guilty about how his economy just isn't holding up, compared to the other EU economies. Hence, his disastrous breakup with Germany a few years back. Shortly after that, England had stumbled upon Italy in Prague, hysterically hitting on anything that walked on two legs, before collapsing from a pub-run induced alcohol poisoning. Since then, they’ve shared something of a silent understanding. Arthur checking in on Feliciano, to make sure his self-medicating doesn’t go out of control, and the sweetheart giving him gifts of limoncello and chocolates in to ease his pain in turn.

“Dude, you okay?” Alfred asks, concerned, poking his arm with a pen, and rousing him from his reminiscences. Like this, America only manages to remind England that while only a tiny strip of water separates England from France, but a whole Atlantic ocean separates him from the American, it is Alfred who is seated by his side in his meeting. While Francis (and Arthur knows he’s in charge of the seating arrangements), has found it fit to fling him as far away from his royal Frenchiness as possible.

Something inside him snaps. Deep down, England is still a spoilt and selfish brat — that wants attention — and will throw violent tempers if that is what it takes to get some.

When he and Francis happen to be in the same room alone (the latter innocently turning to the coffee machine for a drink), Arthur convolutes some topic raised during the meeting, angles it at France, and rips into him.

Let it never be said that the English are not gifted at bloodsport. In a matter of minutes, Arthur conjures up saints set on fire during the Hundred Years War. Sobbing surrendering French foot soldiers slaughtered on the battlefields of Agincourt. William the Conqueror’s Harrying of the North. The British military conquest of Canada. French-funded American Wars of Independence...and so on.

The effect is instantaneous. Francis changes from a graceful sylph, to an Angel of Death. His blue eyes become burning sapphire that can raze and maim. His creamy complexioned countenance becomes becomes cold ivory. His features are angular and cutting, far from the wide fond smiles the Nation of Love is so famed for melting into.

There is even blood spilt.

"You know what ," Arthur thinks, " maybe this is what we’ve been reduced to, this is as good as we’re going to get along…..."

And he resigns himself to it.

warning The Count of Monte Cristo spoilers here

Fate though, occasionally gets bored of melodrama. Sometimes other strings are pulled, other forces, set in motion. Situations transform into things startlingly foreign......and completely alien.

It happens one afternoon, on another world meeting. After a particularly productive session, when all the centuries-old minds of the nations were surprisingly engaged in heated intellectual debate, Germany calls for a four hour recess, just to positively reinforce that behaviour.

England sees no need to leave the building then. He settles down in some inconspicuous corner with an armchair, and pulls out a massive novel to read. The words thrum gently through his mind. The weight of it in his lap is comforting.

Unfortunately, he is soon interrupted. France shows up, with sleek glasses, an attache, and a few papers in hand. He says something about his boss needing England to sign the papers. England pointedly ignores him. France can just leave the paperwork on the table and sod off. What’s the point. It’s not as if they have anything meaningful to say to each other.

Besides, Arthur’s getting to one of his favourite parts of the novel. The skies could come crashing down, and the Brit couldn’t care less, especially if it had no plot significance.

And then, abruptly, the book is snatched from his hands. England is jarred from his meditative reading state. He looks up to hiss at France with fire, fury, and shock.

France is scrutinising the cover of the novel with piercing eyes, before he jeers out “Angleterre — you’re reading The Count of Monte Cristo?”

Arthur blinks, just as surprised as France is. He had just let his hands grab a book from his bookshelf in his apartment, guided by the whim of his heart, before he’d started reading, and didn't stop. He hadn’t, for a moment, considered the nationality of the book, or noticed the unfamiliarity of its language, when he had perused the pages. Now Arthur expects taunts about the undeniable superiority of the French language, along with rounds and rounds of humiliation utilizing this as ammunition.

Instead, France is furious, snarling out: “You finally pick up one of my works, at long last after so many years. You could have stories of fairies, of paradise, of kinship, just about anything beautiful. But you choose — you choose Angleterre — to bloat yourself on a story of REVENGE? ”

For a terrifying split-second, England finds himself buckling under the weight of France’s gaze, which is creaking with the baggage of thousands of years, seizing with mangled corpses trying to tear away from the silence that holds them back...stinking with gangrene and rotting blood...

But old habits die hard. Under fire, Arthur whips out his intellectual halberd and charges Francis.

“What are you buggering on about you gormless berk. Did you even read the Sparknotes for The Count of Monte Cristo? Fine, this is a book about the Count’s vicious revenge against those who have so grievously wronged him. But you would have to be blind not to see that there is more. ”

Arthur snatches the book back from Francis’ grip. Speeds the pages of the book through his fingers, until he reaches the page that he was on, before he was so rudely interrupted. He then shoves the book in Francis’ face, and says, with the irritation of a disrespected schoolteacher, “Read the section I’ve highlighted in turquoise.” Then he begins to lecture.

“O.K., there’s a revenge plot swirling around with the Count and his machinations. But other things are unfolding at the same time. Look at Chapter Ninety-Five. You may recall here the subplot where the nobleman M. Danglars (one of the count’s future victims) wants his daughter — Eugenie Danglars to marry this aristocrat she has no love for — to uphold their family’s noble image.”

“He reminds her of how she is tied down by her family’s legacy, their history. She must be dragged down with disappointment, if that is what the arranged marriage holds for her. Her history necessitates it.”

“In the novel, so far, we’ve only seen the example of the Count twisting his deeds to match the evil done to him in his past.

“See how Lady Danglars responds instead to her father’s insistence that she be tied down to her obligations and her history as a member of the Danglars history.”

Francis reads out the section:

“in the shipwreck of life—for life is an eternal shipwreck of our hopes—I cast into the sea my useless encumbrance, that is all, and I remain with my own will, disposed to live perfectly alone, and consequently perfectly free.”

Arthur can’t help but grin: “Clever girl gives the middle finger to the illusion that she must live a life pervaded with a sense of waste — as a slave to her family, her past and her history. She rejects the marriage that is foisted upon her, and makes her own decisions unfettered by others.”

And then with more vigour and energy he adds: “Later, she even elopes with her true love, her singing teacher Louise d’Armilly, to the shock and scandal of everyone else. They create their own little love story, away from the brutal machinations of the Count’s revenge plot, and the novel.”

“Is that not beautiful?”

Arthur can’t quite read the expression on Francis’ face — the room’s lighting means that he can only be sure that his lips are wryly arching across his countenance. That usually signifies the sharpening of a verbal blade, and Arthur braces for impact.

“You know, Arthur, some would say that Louise and Eugenie were just friends that ran away from Eugenie’s troubled family situation. And that you are reading far too much into their relationship.”

There it is. Arthur bristles in absolute indignation. Takes up his pen, and jabs Francis hard in his chest. “And you call yourself the Nation of Love! For chrissake, Louise and Eugenie are said to sleep together in the same bed. Everyone comments on how intimate their so called ‘friendship’ is. Dumas even uses the phrase ‘the breast of Sappho’ to refer to Eugenie’s nature. He literally refers to the poetess that lived on the island that lesbians are named after. How much queer subtext do you bloody need?”

With an unassailable conviction, Arthur declares: “Screw you Francis. This is love that escapes from the entanglements and trappings of vendettas and grievances. Eugenie and Louise figure out how stupid it is to be tied down by the past, ages before the Count even has an inkling. They learn to, as Dumas writes, Live and be happy...wait and hope .”

Arthur stands upright, chin raised and defiant, challenging Francis to even try rebut his argument. His emerald eyes pierce deeply into azure ones. Until, he realises that his glower is completely lost on Francis — because Francis is laughing, mirthful and amused.

“I know, I know,” Francis’s eyes are twinkling, and he raises his hands in mock surrender. “I just wanted to rile you up. It’s so rare that I get to prod you into stripping off all those prudish pretenses, to expose you bare as the die-hard romantic that you truly are!”

Arthur squawks, and rather fails to pass it off as a refined sniff, before he responds “I’m just interpreting the text as it was intended to be understood.”

“Sure, mon cher, revert back to your priggish facade. With you, it’s always one step forward, two steps back — into splendid emotional suppression” Francis teases. Arthur is surprised to find himself letting out a shaky breath of relief, so he can’t quite respond to Francis’ words.

“Although come now, Angleterre, perhaps after Dumas, you could read a nicer book. A Tale of Two Cities, perhaps? A story intertwining both our hearts, our capitals...”

Arthur rolls his eyes in irritation. “The title is misleading. You mean a Tale briefly of London, but mostly of Paris. Chiefly about how sure, England and its justice system is corrupt — we’re going to talk about that for a while. But by jove, the Frenchies are so bonkers — we’ll spend chapter after chapter talking about how barmy they’ve become.” Arthur adds with a smirk, “I believe I don’t even need to read the book to know how problematic you are.”

Arthur is mentally shaking his own hands, congratulating himself for one-upping Francis in the literary arena TWICE in a row .

But Francis, for some reason, is grinning like a cat that’s got the cream. This unsettles Arthur deeply.

“Well of course, Angleterre, comfort yourself with a long story of the glory days when all the angry populism and demagoguery was on the other side of la Manche , and not in England. You would really need that now, wouldn’t you .”

Arthur gives Francis a warning look: This Taunt comes Too Soon, Too Contemporaneous, Too Fresh, don’t you bloody raise that up as a point...

“Because Brexit.”

Over 1,000 pages of The Count of Monte Cristo nearly smash into Francis’ obnoxious countenance. Arthur’s suitcase is next in line for his use as a makeshift projectile. Francis has the nerve to cheer, when it misses. So Arthur doesn’t hesitate to try knock Francis’ head off his shoulders, with the metal chair that he swings at the bloody git. Francis manages to parry, by raising the entire desk over him as a defensive shield.

It’s stupid, it’s dangerous, but it’s them .

Somehow, this is the best that Arthur’s felt in ages.

There was their relationship, rotting and shrivelling away in this coffin, with England staring at it morosely, reading it it’s last rites. Until out of the blue, it had sprung up, thrown open the coffin lid and screamed “SURPRISE MOTHARFUCKAARR. YOU THOUGHT I WAS DEAD?”. It had swiftly proceeded to upend everything all over again in Arthur’s life.

Maybe that’s the TLDR; of Anglo-Franco relations.

They exchange volleys of insults over text messages. Engage in snark-to-snark combat over phone calls (because real life face time is not enough to get it out of their system). There are long emails, that really belong to the long, winding speeches before epic set-piece battles in dramatised historical enactments.

It’s breathtaking. The alacrity with which everything had snapped back together. Arthur can’t help but feel giddy at the thought of how quickly they’ve fallen back in step with each other, because of how deeply their quarrelsome ways are coded into their being.

Things get so good, Arthur finds himself taking the chunnel to Paris more often. And when he does, Francis is always waiting for him outside the train station, with a smile, and some teasing variation of how ‘he’d gladly offer asylum to another sodden Englishman clawing for an escape from their damp, grey, island’. Earning him a glare from Arthur. Just like that, he would motion for Arthur to come walk with him along the glittering streets of Paris. And Arthur, would respond with some half-hearted slur like “You watch out, you cheese-eating surrender monkey. I’ll might take over your country by accident.”

Of course, there are still slip-ups. One time, after Arthur pops out of Gare du Nord Station, the first thing he says to Francis is “Ugh, why does your metro reek so thoroughly of piss.”

Immediately, he knows that it’s the wrong thing to say. Francis’ expression darkens. The wistful, romantic air about him dissipates into a horrifying nothingness. He grits out “Really, Angleterre? You have all the sights and smells of my beautiful Paris to behold, but this is what you notice.”

A knee-jerk reaction: Arthur scoffs and digs his heels in: “It’s true! You can't deny that there's the stench of piss. It’s what so many tourists comment on when they first arrive in your city. What use is there denying it, when the smell is wafting about everywhere...You might as well go around telling people that gravity doesn’t exist.”

Francis’s gaze hardens. Some tiny voice at the back of Arthur’s mind is screaming at him to stop, but centuries of habit continue to stubbornly push him along, over the cliff edge, to the point of no return: “It's hardly my fault — why should I be reproached —” Arthur can’t slam the brakes — “for telling you what is clearly the truth. You,” he points at Francis, “and your people — you talk of prettiness, and elegance. You say that everything must be perfection ...anything less has no place here. And yet —”

“— yet, when push comes to shove, your City of Love doesn’t smell only of pastries and springtime flowers. Your Metro stinks of piss. Because after all that, in truth, you will pick the messiness of the common people, over your abstract renaissance elegance. You let the homeless and the destitute hide away in your Metro, especially during the cold and bitter winters, because liberté, égalité, fraternité, and some things are more important than looking pretty.”

“Your hypocrisy — it makes me sick — do you get what I mean?” Arthur finishes furiously, his heartbeat pounding madly in his ears.

“Oui, crystal clear, Angleterre,” Francis purrs, his face now relaxed into an annoying cheshire grin. He readily puts his arm in Arthur’s, before sweeping him across Paris. Arthur is simultaneously infuriated and relieved. He’s not sure how long he’s going to be able to last like this — to be able to keep his trap shut and all the poisonous insults in — especially when Paris is such that every time he visits, he finds more reasons to hate the city.

For instance, Arthur can't help but tell Francis that You French are too poncey . Bloody hell, they just need to grab a bite at a cafe. But no, the cafe has to toast the bread, like the bread itself is a five star dish. And the fillings, what kind of schmancy-bourgeois stuff do they even put in there? And the system is also completely rigged, because how is Arthur supposed to make his incredulity known to Francis, when whatever drugs the French put in their food makes Arthur gag himself, by stuffing as much of it in his mouth as quickly as possible, effectively making him shut himself up.

And France is a den of temptation and debauchery. For god's sake, they have entire shops dedicated to just selling cheese (‘fromageries’), which is obviously just an excuse so they can pair it with wine and get drunk. And oh, Francis keeps plying him with too many wines, until his head spins from all the flavours, and the bevy of wine appreciation tips that Francis serenades him with in a lilting tone; and then the blasted frog has to nerve to laugh when his stiff-upper lip isn't so stiff anymore, and he can’t argue back properly.

And finally, French are just plain rude .

Arthur, completely drunk, just wants to stumble along the River Seine looking thoroughly put out by every French civilian. But this blasted bereted mine has the AUDACITY to mock his uptight mannerisms. This is nothing short of CASUS BELLI. He will respond by mocking the mime’s mimicry in furious retaliation! God save the Queen! So the First Anglo-Franco Pantomime war begins! Bollocks to the bystanders asphyxiating with laughter. Along with the French philosophical types standing around, watching he and the friggin bereted frog mime their way into satirical infinite regression, with all the seriousness they would pay some Derridian poststructuralist commentary on ‘sign’, ‘signifier’ and ‘symbol’.

(Eventually, Francis has to drag him away, while he's still hollerin“you got nuthin on Rowan Atkinson, ya hear me? NUTHIN.” “Oh Angleterre, there's no doubt you would have won. If not eventually because you would be arguing with an enfeebled old man” )

Francis, surprisingly, decides to return the visit — grace the poor sodden mess that is British Isles with his lovely presence — because what else would the poor English folk live for? Arthur meets him at Waterloo station, and greets him with a smack of a rolled up copy of The Sunday Times .

Together, they stroll through Trafalgar Square. Point at the columns, the arches and the statued impressions of people they used to know so well…...

Francis makes a disappointed crooning-noise in his throat, when he sees that there are no more vendors selling pigeon feed to eager tourists. “Really”, he sighs dramatically, “Somehow I find myself missing your crazen devil-hordes of pigeons. Your people and tourists eagerly offering up their foodstuffs to the winged harbingers of poor sanitation — and the inevitable ‘shitzkrieg’ they would unleash on your dear Nelson’s monument. The ultimate essentialization of the Anglo-Saxon spirit!”

Arthur scowls, but kind of agrees. Then, infected with French cooties (i.e.civil disobedience), he screeches at this security guard that’s forbids these parents from putting their little kids between the paws of the large iconic lion statues. Francis, backs him up with a shout of “Viva la Revolution.” Then the security team arrives. The Anglo-Franco duo chuck them into the fountain. And make what both have always preferred to diplomatically word as a tactical retreat .

On another day, Arthur meets Francis along his coastline at Dover. As Francis skips off the ferry boat to join him near the docks, Arthur tries to memorise every detail of the experience: golden sunlight glimmering off Francis’ hair, the salty scent of the ocean breeze mingling with those silky locks, and the way fresh air fills up their lungs, adding colour to their faces.

And then suddenly, Francis’ arm is wrapped and pressed tightly against his, his face smiling startlingly close to Arthur’s. It takes Arthur everything to try regain enough presence of his mind, to pull Francis along to this spot he’d spread a picnic mat across, near a lighthouse at the White Cliffs of Dover. From a large knapsack, he pulls out what he proudly thinks are ten particularly handsome kites. “Handmade — I designed them myself,” he tells Francis, with a hint of pride.

“Kite-flying? Surely there’s something more stylish and sophisticated we can do today, rather than this childish sport.” Francis sniffs, his designer coat and scarf now very evident.

“...Trust me, by the end of today you’ll be begging to take those words back, you frog...”

Despite this early vote against his plans, Arthur stubbornly hands a kite over to Francis.

As soon as Francis takes the kite, Arthur notes smugly, that the promising seeds of repentance are shimmering in his cerulean eyes. Francis lets out a hum of delight, as said kite immediately comes alive between his fingers — shivering and crackling at the lightest touch of the breeze. Of course, as one would expect of his nature, Francis quickly lets go of the kite, so it soars eagerly out of his hands, carried by the wind to a place amongst the sun’s rays.

After that, it’s a scramble — to get more and more kites in the air: ones that puff up like linen-clouds...ones that swirl about in a whirlpool of colours...ones that trail excessively long iridescent tails across the horizon...

Then, they’re laughing and trying to do kite tricks: loop-the-loops, cartwheels and downward swoops. There’s a little good natured competition, where they snidely give each other tips, and try to one up each other's kite tricks with something more extravagant each time.

After a while, Francis takes a kite down, and starts to tie something to it with nimble fingers. Arthur braces himself, and watches cautiously, because he suspects that Francis is about to do something mean — like tie a key to the kitestring, so when he lets the kite fly back into the air, he can maneuver it, such that the jagged edge of the key cuts off the string of one of Arthur’s kites, causing it to be lost to the sky’s void forever...

But when Arthur looks closer, he realises that contrary to his fears, Francis is not tying anything sharp to the kite to weaponise it. Instead, he’s fiddling with a dainty fairy-like trinket, that Arthur guesses he’d cleverly fashioned out his blue hair ribbon, and a few tiny seashells he’d picked up earlier — from the beaches of Calais before getting on the ferry. “For you, mon petit Angleterre,” Francis calls out, giving Arthur a cheeky wink, before releasing the kite. It shoots up into the air, and the fairy strung along to it flies higher and higher — with beautifully, fluttering blue-ribboned wings…...

Instantly, Arthur is hit by another vision from another time: when a young, and irritated Britannia spent hours and hours running across fields, chasing after yet another one of those pesky silk ribbons that Gaul liked to tie in his hair, which the blasted wind always managed to work free and carry away like a prize...

Of the summer breezes that would sweep over the tall grasses in the fields of Normandy where the two of them had first met, carrying the scent of earth, and grass and flowers.

Of the zephyrs, that billowed the pretty, voluminous tunic of a rosy-cheeked youth, and the dusty green cloak of an irritated boy that just wanted it to stop blowing leaf-bits into his eyebrows.

Of the wind, that tousled silky golden locks of hair until they melted into the air like spun-sunlight…...that cranked the windmills of two strange lands in the Middle Ages until their personifications started quarreling over whose windmill design was superior…...that puffed up the sails of English and French boats that took off on long journeys in search of the New World….or directed this ridiculous contraption fuelled by hot air that Arthur insisted was ludicrous but Francis maintained was romantic because it would carry a rooster, a duck, and a sheep for the first time in flight over the heads of the French court in Versailles….

And then, memory swings back again to the earliest days, when the colours of the world were too vivid and bright to actually be real. When a grumpy little boy would angrily insist that his self-proclaimed ‘grand frère’ hoist him up onto his ‘strong’ shoulders, so he could look at very top of the tallest shrubs, where the fairies would lovingly put their little babies in cradles, so the wind could gently rock them to sleep…...

Arthur shoots an equally formidable grin back at Francis. Because today, there is the two of them, running along the White Cliffs of Dover, with kites soaring in the air, like wishes trying to fill up the sky……

In the evening, just before he leaves to take a ferry back to Calais, Francis nearly makes Arthur’s eyes pop out, and his heart burst in his chest, when he admits that he actually did enjoy what they had for lunch: cod, cooked crisp in lard and batter, drizzled over in balsamic vinegar, and lightly dusted in sea salt. British, but snackable.

(Touch wood...Snap a wishbone...Find a four leaf clover...Hang horse shoes all around...will this luck last?)

Although, as Arthur quickly learns, some things certainly have changed, compared to the past.

The first sign is a cordial invitation that Arthur receives — to what Francis cheekily calls a workdate but what Ludwig calls an emergency EU prep session.

He arrives in Berlin at six in the morning, German time, to meet Francis and Ludwig at the station.

At first it is puzzling, and painfully awkward. Arthur finds himself uneasily trying to skirt around the powerhouse that is Francis’ and Ludwig’s dynamic collaboration. After finishing a modest pile of relatively trivial paperwork, and eying how the duo’s working styles complement each other so perfectly , Arthur is frustrated, and wants nothing more than to leave. But Francis pins him down to his seat, with this open, honest, anxious look that he probably doesn’t know he’s shooting Arthur — every now and then when he looks up from his work to glance at the stuffy Englishman...as though he were worried that Arthur might disappear...

And then, in a swift moment, with an intangible build-up, all the pieces fall together. Arthur starts sniggering at the sight of Ludwig and Francis scrambling about like headless chickens: Ludwig wildly gesticulating at Francis from across the room, and Francis indignantly shushing him whilst charismatically cooing at whatever vital personage is on the telephone.

It’s all too easy to join forces with Ludwig, to bully technophobic Francis into accepting that "there's an app for this!" (“The trick, you see, is to threaten to steal his carry-on chapstick and moisturiser.” “...NON, LUDWIG!!! DON’T LISTEN TO HIS SAVAGERY!!!” “Or you keep speaking with a terrible French accent until he agrees to use the apps—” “— ROSBIF DON’T YOU DARE —” “—For instance ‘zees eez le baguette ohonhonhon’—” “— Merde — ”)

The three of them fall in step with each other, when they escape from Ludwig’s office building, into the crisp wintery air of noontime Berlin, humming with the catchy tunes of streetside buskers. Francis chatters on and on about all the pretty things he notices about Berlin, Ludwig nods his head intently, and Arthur throws in his more utilitarian observations into the mix.

As they pass under the broad-brimmed shade of a tree, Arthur fancies that time slows down a little — just enough for him to observe how dappled sunlight falls on Francis and Ludwig, how jovially the former links his arm with the latter, and how he's looking at the dusting of little snowflakes on Ludwig’s nose. He feels something like the sensation of a key warming in his hand...the need to let out something from a certain door

“The two of you will be good for each other. I wish the both of you all the happiness in the world,” Arthur finds himself saying, quite sincerely, despite how each word constricts his chest agonisingly.

Francis and Ludwig are startled — clearly the ongoing conversation was nowhere near this territory. Almost too quickly, Francis responds: “Non, non, non, Arthur — the two of us are just friends —” he laughs — “with some benefits I’ll admit — but nothing more!”

“Riiight,” Arthur responds skeptically, not entirely convinced. Francis is not done speaking though, and Arthur reads depth in his eyes when he continues, “I however, along with Ludwig, wish you and Alfred all the luck in love.” There is even the slightest tremble to Francis’ lilting voice as he says this.

It’s Arthur’s turn to be utterly baffled.

“Please don’t say that in front of Ivan — he will definitely assassinate me in my sleep, even I was the one that gave him tips on how to proposition Alfred in the first place...”

“Besides,” Arthur adds haughtily, “I will have you know that I wrote a fifty page theory on personality trait compatibility, based on our American and Russian — complete with diagrams, flowcharts, and excel sheets. Cambridge is publishing it, by the way.”

Ludwig perks up, “You mentioned diagrams, flowcharts, and excel sheets.”

Arthur’s countenance twists into a deranged grin, and he whips something out of his suitcase.

Francis and Ludwig quickly learn why Hungary, Japan, and Korea rejected Arthur’s application to the Yaoi fanclub, citing ‘intensity’ as their primary reason.

The sensation of a key warming in his hand intensifies. In fact, it spreads out, permeating his entire being — as though the universe were wrapping him up in a swaddling cloth, and babying his every whim. And he sees in his mind a wondrous vision: a building full of doors, so many possibilities, so many futures he could walk into if only he were willing to use that key.

Now, that he’s certain that Francis is single and available on the market again — he can freely indulge in — and yes he can outright call it that now — his massive crush on the Frenchman. (he’d read far too much Austen, and Bridget Jones to not be able to recognise infatuation, especially if it had been going on for centuries.)

So he gives himself full licence to read too much into Francis’ every word an action:

Go giddy with glee when Francis casually comments that Earl Grey cream might make good choux filling.

Soak up and savour every lilt and syllable of Francis’ voice, over the telephone or over his shoulder, when they’re physically apart or together.

Or wake up with his insides completely messed up, when someone breaks into his apartment at 3am, wielding a bag of groceries, and an umbrella for fencing, because “ surely the second Great Fire of London will happen if incorrigible Angleterre tries cooking his own breakfast ”)

(All along his apartment, Arthur hangs: rabbit foots and sprigs of lilies of the valley. He cheers far too much when a ladybug lands on his balcony rail. If Francis notices this latest eccentricity in his behaviour, he does not comment.

Lady fortune has smiled upon him, and Arthur swears that this time, he’ll take the chance. )

Unfortunately, for all the best laid plans of mice and men, Arthur’s completely fucks up those he made for Valentine's Day.

The World meeting that precedes each year’s Valentine’s Day celebrations starts at one.

It is four , when Arthur’s motorbike screeches to a halt, at the base of the neo-classical building that the meeting is being held in.

Self-consciously, Arthur checks himself in his motorbike’s side mirrors. And screams internally. Oh God, his hair is such a tangle, not even birds will nest there, not even if the rest of the world were spikes.

And he probably reeks. He’d been sweat-soaked in sweltering heat, and then drenched sopping wet by torrential rains, before arriving. Only his waterproofed trench coat lends to his appearance some semblance of order.

“Dammit,” — he spots the nations slowly filing out of the building — the meeting obviously over. Cursing his own poor timing, Arthur dashes up the building’s stone steps, trying to make up for lost timing. His eyes dart to and fro, searching for a specific suave and smiling countenance, amidst the swirling sea of nation’s faces. But this quest is not too hard, for like how Ariadne’s thread guided Theseus out of the Labyrinth of the Minataur, there are clues to lead Arthur to the one he is seeking out.

You see, every Valentine's Day, just after this particular meeting ends, the self-proclaimed country of love will present each and every national personification with a single rose. Hence, the ocean of roses that are bobbing about in the air, held aloft by nations, as they make their way down the balustrade stairs. All Arthur has to do is barrel through these nations upstream, to the epicentre of where the roses are radiating from…

Arthur’s heart is pounding furiously in his chest, and into his ears. Trying to distract from the stress, Arthur keeps track of and counts the number of roses, because it’s like counting sheep right? Instead the stars dancing about his vision burn brighter — when a sonorous voice tangles with his thoughts, and whispers into his ear a lesson about roses, their numbers, and what they mean when they are gathered together in a bouquet...

One rose (love at first sight)

Two roses (your love is returned)

Arthur spots Tino and Berwald. Tino is tickling Berwald on the nose with the rose, as Berwald sneezes...Arthur can’t help but wonder if this is what they could be, as he leaves the marble steps of the building behind, and enters the building’s ornate entrance…...

Ten roses (you are perfection)

Twenty roses (believe in our love)

Thirty six roses (I cherish our moments, keep them in my heart...)

Abruptly, a hand reaches out from the crowd, and slams him against a pillar.

It's Antonio — brandishing his rose like a customised weapon of torture, his green eyes gleaming like the shattered end of a beer bottle. “You’re late, mi amigo. Bad move. You’ll want to watch out, if you keep making such stupid blunders.”

Behind him, is the ridiculous Prussian — Gilbert — crudely sliding the stem of his rose across his throat, and making gurgling and slitting noises for sound effect.

Arthur scowls, and pushes them off. Romano and Matthew are more much more helpful to his cause. The former angrily hauls two-thirds of the Bad Touch Trio away, screaming into their ears about micromanaging other people’s lives. Matthew the sweetheart, uses his rose, to point down one of the branching hallways.

Arthur firmly nods his head, and continues on his journey.

Forty-four roses (till death do us part)

Fifty roses (unconditional love)

Seventy-seven roses (it was fate that we’ve met)

Arthur just groans, when Ludwig brushes past his shoulder so hard, that he’s nearly knocked off his feet. He almost doesn’t bother to register the threat growled into his ear, “Just remember, I can snap you like a twig.”

How many shovel talks is he going to have to sit through? How painfully obvious were his plans for today? And does he appear so unreliable that nearly everyone needs to warn him off……

(Of course he does. To them all it seems like he’s just horrendously late, and for one of the few occasions this year that actually matters — Valentines Day. And yet here he still is, still wandering through these hallways, with the gall to hope that Francis is such a loser that he’s still stuck sitting around waiting for him, rather than the freaking pinnacle of gorgeousness and charm that has places to go, who deserves to be waited on hand and foot, rather than treated like this shitshow Arthur’s……)

His salvation arrives in the unexpected form of Feliciano. To Arthur’s infinite shock he silences Ludwig by pulling him into a deep kiss, his softness and reverence in touch melting into the rigid ardence of Ludwig’s figure. When they part for air, Feliciano gives Arthur a cheeky wink, that says “Buona fortuna”, and also “there’s still some time to mend things”. And then he takes off, whisking off a blushing Ludwig who’s still stuttering as he hangs off the Italian’s arm.

Well...that’s probably counts as a good sign….

99 roses.....

Finally, passing a corridor, Arthur drinks in a sight that brings him relief. France, still sitting by a window.

Even standing by the doorframe, Arthur catches a whiff of Francis’ perfume — lilies and lavender — that sings of softness and elegance. The sophisticated cut of Francis’ suit: a tight-fitting jet-black vest and a fuchsia undershirt wrapping especially tightly about his waist bring out the slightness and strength of his figure.

And of course, there is Francis’ hair, swept down his right shoulder in glorious cascading curls, it's spun-sunlight ethereality brought out by the solid shine of its rose-gold clasp by the crook of his neck. Their striking beauty is only paralleled by the intense vividness of Francis’ azure eyes, set off beautifully by the sapphire earrings hanging by each ear.

This is a siren’s song, each note hit upon so perfectly, that any sailor would gladly throw themselves to their watery deaths just to drown in that enchanting melody. And any bright-eyed youth after reckless Paris, would still hand the golden apple to Aphrodite over Hera and Athena, in vain hope. Even they knew the tragedy of the Iliad by heart...

(...Arthur wants nothing more than to to brush his chapped lips against the softness of Francis’ neck……

But the thought also makes him feel nauseous…..

Because isn’t that what the rest of the world thought, when they’d passed Francis?

Isn’t he permanently…’on call’ during Valentine's Days?

...For all the lonely nations, that can’t bear to sit alone with their frustrations, their hands, and a box of tissues… Just shoot him a text, and Big Brother France will be there...)

But Arthur pushes these thoughts down.

Instead, he’s preoccupied another more pressing observation: there is a heaviness about Francis in this moment.

His gaze is downcast, fixed on his hands. Slender fingers curl about thin air. Not a single rose rests between them... Not one rose for Francis…...This…...was surprising. Arthur wonders why he’d never noticed before, that hardly anyone ever thought of giving roses to the nation of love, when he gave them out so freely and so abundantly.

And so, the nation of love was now staring at the angry red scratches criss-crossing his palms — Francis never did believe in shorning roses of their thorns — looking oddly pensive.

And as the afternoon light streaming from the window by him fades, eerie things are done to the depths of his face. Shadows pool in the callouses on his palms, and in the shallows under his eyes that Francis always pretends isn’t there….

“You reek, you know. Like someone who got dumped in a ditch full of roses. No wonder they warn — that the fragrance of roses lingers around the the hand that gives them out. Really, frog. You should have listened —”

Francis looks up.

Arthur tries to (casually) slide himself to the seat beside Francis. For a moment, he sees Francis’ expression melt into appreciative relief, before a thought flits across his mind — that crashes indignance and hurt across his face like a rogue wave.

“Well if it isn't the Black Sheep of Europe — I don't suppose he has any reason for why he’s so unfashionably late, on the day of l’amour. ”

Arthur blinks, the glinting edge of the rapier in Francis’ voice cutting deep into him.

“I’m sorry...I’m truly sorry...I got…...held up,” Arthur fumbles for words. In a blind panic, he sticks his hand on the inside of his trench coat and sparks some magic there. “Here’s a peace offering though?” he manages to say out nervously,

With trepidation, he pulls out of his coat flaps a steaming cup of tea that he’d just conjured up then and there.

He slides it anxiously, across the table to Francis, watching closely for his reaction.

For a moment, it seems like he’s forgiven.

Francis gives him a funny look — one elegant eyebrow raised, and one corner of his lips quirked slightly downward. His hands catch and cradle the steaming cup, so the porcelain warms the cuts on his palms. The spark starting in Francis’ eye suggests that he is mildly impressed with how the silvery bud that slowly blooms in the cup as it absorbs the heat of the water swirling about it. And after he lifts the cup to his lips to take a first sip, the cerulean depths of his pupils are alight with all the wondrous velocity of thought that an experienced chef greets a flavourful drink.

‘Of course he likes it’, Arthur thinks giddily, ‘I just stole it from Queen Titania, Ruler of all the Fae folk, with a shoddy spell’. One day, he’ll wake up cursed to be a crumpet, his eyebrows mounted above the Fairy Queens throne. But for now, he thinks that it's all worth it…...

Then abruptly, Francis’ expression crumples, as though stricken by a thought so terrible, the tea’s tastes more abhorrent than bile. He sets the cup down with a sigh so heavy, it threatens to crumble all of Arthur’s being.

Silence looms over them, like the blade of a guillotine.

When Francis finally speaks, his voice is soft — but in the way physics states that the light flutter of a butterfly’s wing might sets off a tornado elsewhere. “Thank you Arthur, I appreciate the tea. But it still doesn’t change one very important fact…” Here, Francis pauses briefly...

“Arthur, you were busy preparing something special for someone else during today , which is why you were late — I know.”

Immediately, Arthur starts protesting, but the intense quality of Francis’ gaze crushes all his words.

“No — I have to say this, let me finish Angleterre.”

So Arthur stares at him, like his whole existence boils down to Francis’ every breath, and word, and expression.

“Listen, Arthur — you certainly won’t believe your ears when you hear it.”

There’s a laugh, silvery and lovely in the way beautiful and tragic things are.

“It’s hard for me to say I love you…...but please believe me when I say… that I truly do.”

“Oh,” Arthur thinks, completely dazed.

“Mon coeur, mon beau Angleterre. I have wasted all my poetry and art on whirlwind romances. I have lavished my most passionate kisses and most skillful moves in bed on the most trivial one-night stands. So now…...I have nothing truly special to give you, no matter how much I want to...So it is no wonder…” — here Francis chokes a little — “it no wonder you don't return my feelings. You are wise, you keep your loveliest turns of phrase, and your most ardent declarations of love to yourself — until that special person that manages to capture your heart comes along. I am clearly not that person…”

“I know — I can see it from how you smile, amused, whenever you see me flirt with others — like you’re watching the silly antics of some wool-brained eccentric. When it already drives me crazy just seeing you chatter with Alfred, even though I know now that you’re only brothers.”

“We shouldn’t talk to each other for a while after this, just give me enough time to get over — ”

Sharply, Francis stops. Arthur stares at him blankly in return. Their eyes shift slowly to their hands. Arthur’s hands have caught Francis’ midair, just a heartbeat before they could fly to Francis’ silken locks, to tug at them like he does when he’s distressed.

Arthur gently sets Francis’ hands on his lap, his emerald eyes never wavering from cerulean. Then he tries to find words, not even the best ones, just anything to fill the silence between them before the moment slips away. Eventually he settles on this as an opening line: “Francis, you’re completely wrong.” Because isn't that what he’d always loved to tell him, since long ago?

“You...make too much of my hesitance to express affection. I am just as afraid as you are, of baring my heart, and making myself vulnerable. In fact it’s also lack of practice, that makes me unwilling to try put my...fondness for you into words.”

“And your flirting...you’re kind of right — I’m always entranced when I watch you do it — the way with a few words and fashion tips, you bring out the charm in anyone. Until the world stops spinning, and we all realise that oh god, the person you were hitting on, they were beautiful all along. I’ve seen you make the days of so many strangers like that. You’re also partly wrong, however, because it strains all of my acting skills to stop my jealousy from showing…especially whenever you find the need to preface anything nice you do for me with “Big Brother France”......”

“But back to my reluctance to voice my deepest the feelings of my heart. You know I don’t have practice, so it’s hard for me to say I love you — even though by God, I do! But fortunately, for clumsy idiots for me there are…”

Arthur sparks some more magic under the table, hoping desperately with all his heart that this magic spells works.

It does. After a dazzling flash of light, Francis gasps — because bouquets of roses start falling all around them in a neat circle. Ten bouquets in total. Ten roses in them each. Arthur catches one, and holds it out to Francis.

“Fortunately for idiots like me, who are clumsy with words...there are roses.”

Arthur is breathless, so the words come out raspily, not at all suave. And with the loud ringing in his ears from how bloody petrified he is, he can’t quite hear whatever words Francis is whispering.

The roses in the bouquet — they come in a disorganised riot of colours, and varieties, shapes and sizes. There’s only one common thing that these roses share, that unifies them into a bouquet…...

“They’re nothing much,” Arthur chokes out with a dry mouth. “Florists find them all the time, in their supplies of roses that are delivered to them. But they throw them away, because these roses are deformed, and ugly.”

Which is, again, a half-truth.

Because what Arthur wants to ask Francis is this: Doesn’t he also think, that in a most peculiar way, these ‘defective’ roses are beautiful?

That although these blossoms are no doubt nature’s ‘mistakes’, don’t they look so tender? Coming from all over the world, and despite being such garden varieties, haven’t they all still found something special? Appearing like petaled-lovers that had pressed against each other so ardently, that the faeries granted their wish and allowed them to join together as one.

Aren’t these roses, freaks of nature, just as freakish as like the two of them -- personifications of their nations but also just human? And can Arthur and Francis be like these roses...drawing close together…...?

But all these meanings are scattered everywhere in his mind — he can't gather them up together and present them nicely to Francis like a gift. Not like how he could call in favours from all the faerie folk in the world, to gather all these peculiar roses together into a bouquet for Francis. Or madly teleport about florist shops in England using his nation-shifting abilities, to scrounge up these roses, until he was almost too late for the meeting today. It’s just him and his emotional stuntedness now. And argh, he knows he’s doing that sullen, brooding thing right now, where he just sulks at Francis like a child. All while expecting the Frenchman to know exactly what he wants to say, even if Arthur himself can’t make sense of the awful mishmash of his own feelings that slosh about him.

Francis pulls through. His right hand lightly carcasses one of Arthur's cheeks, and thumbs the rims of his ear so fondly, it sends shivers ricocheting down Arthur’s spine.

Slowly, Francis guides Arthur closer, while himself leaning slightly forward. Until their lips meet. Arthur can’t help but let out a contented sigh when that happens. Francis’ lips are softer than he could ever have imagined, and there’s the sweet taste of whatever vanilla chapstick he’s using. Embarrassingly enough, when Francis’ tongue flicks out to lick his lips and he can't help but laugh and draw away slightly. To look into cerulean eyes, glistening slightly with tears, because if Francis is feeling anything close to what he’s feeling, then of course he’s crying, his heart is close to bursting with happiness.

They both laugh.

“Well, mon amour, I’m glad we haven’t missed out on any of the typical drama that happens during a love confession scene in literature — !” Arthur and he snigger.

“But,” Francis swiftly adds, “Perhaps it is now time for us to move to more...intimate forms to express our mutual admiration .” His hands now suggestively tug at the collar of Arthur’s trenchcoat, as his being takes on a despicably debonair mien.

Arthur rolls his eyes, “You’re incorrigible, you know that? Are you sure you don’t want me to freshen up first? I think I need a shower.”

“Trust me, with your hair ruffled like that, and your crisp scent of guy and petrichor -- you’re the delectable embodiment of boyishness begging to be defiled.” — and that voice immediately sends all of Arthur’s blood running up his face, but also down south.

So Arthur smirks, and leans back, and lets Francis take him just like that.

THE END!

Hope you enjoyed it!

#day 5: “It’s really hard to say ‘I love you’.”/Peach #frukweek2017 #fanfiction #late submission

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