L'été éternel: The Eternal Summer

Author's note: A FrUK fic from me? Whaat? :) They're my second favorite pairing. This is me trying kind of trying to figure out what I think defines their relationship on (virtual) paper. I love the sense of nostalgia I get from the two of them. (No worries – I'm still working away on my USUK fics!)

Over their long lives, it was inevitable that countries would learn things about one another that they had no reason to know. For example, Arthur knew that Francis loved doing laundry. Not the way that Arthur loved doing laundry, with the warmth of the cloth and the ironing and folding of the clothes that followed. No, Francis loved the feel of the fabric, the look of it as he straightened it on the line, the feeling of peace and surety that everything was the way it should be.

(Francis's clothes always smelled of lavender, and they always felt like warm summer days.)

Once, Arthur visited Francis in the south of France. Arthur wasn't really sure why he was there, or how he had gotten there; maybe he had forgotten on purpose. He did remember, though, walking up the stone path behind Francis's house and seeing him on his back patio, standing in the bright sunlight. He was hanging clothes on the line. A white sheet billowed out from under his arm as he tried to pin it just so, perfectly parallel to the ground. He was wearing a fine, white linen shirt and slacks. His hair was tied back casually at the nape of his neck. He was smiling softly.

Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. Francis turned, and just for a moment, he had that look of pleasantness and warmth on his face. Then he chuckled and greeted Arthur in French.

Arthur pretended he didn't understand him. It wasn't the first time, and it certainly wasn't the last.

The years slipped by, backwards usually, but forwards sometimes, so that Arthur forgot what had happened when. There had been their fist kiss, hidden under some pretense or another; there had been the first time Francis had mockingly said, "Je t'adore, Angleterre," and the first time that Arthur had spit in his face. Their first fight was too long ago for even Arthur to recall clearly. But the summers – somehow the summers always found him, and they always smelled like Francis.

"What do you taste?"

". . . Rosemary."

A chuckle. "Yes."

"Chicken, obviously. Garlic, I think."

"What else?"

Arthur ran his tongue around his mouth thoughtfully. "I already said pepper."

Francis gently looped a finger through the blindfold and pulled it down from Arthur's eyes. Arthur blinked at the sudden increase in light. It took him only an instant to focus on the wine glass Francis was holding in one hand. "White wine," Francis said. He was smiling.

"Oh," Arthur said. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Are we done, then?"

"Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it. I am, after, la France. There can be no better cook than me." He laughed, softly and harmoniously.

Arthur untied the blindfold from around his neck and let it drop onto the little restaurant table. A slight smile quirked the corner of his mouth upwards. "You use too much butter. Was there anything I tasted that didn't have some sort of cream sauce on it?"

Francis feigned hurt. "The cream sauce is my specialty. It is very difficult to make."

"If you say so." Arthur rested his chin on his hands, still smiling, and turned his head to look out the window of the empty restaurant onto the darkened street. It was an automatic, flirtatious gesture - playing hard to get. Arthur's smile instantly faded and he felt a slight tightness in his chest. What was he doing here, anyway? His flight had been delayed and Francis had offered to show him around the city. But in Francis's own restaurant (which was a very well-kept secret, apparently, since he had never heard of it before), eating food he had cooked, in the middle of the night? Arthur had let his guard down, and they both knew it. Arthur rubbed his forehead with one hand.

"Are you tired?" Francis looked concerned. He glanced at the clock above the door. "It's late, it's true."

"It's been a long day."

"I see." Francis rose and removed the dish from in front of Arthur. "Allow me a few minutes to clean up and I will escort you back to your hotel."

Arthur nodded and leaned back in his chair. He tried to gaze disinterestedly at a painting on a nearby wall, but Francis kept distracting him. The door to the kitchen was open and he could see him moving around in the corner of his eye. Finally he gave up and watched Francis, though subtly. Francis had rolled up his shirtsleeves to his elbows and was washing the dishes in the sink. He had tied his hair back and was smiling.

Arthur averted his eyes just as Francis turned off the water. He heard him dry his hands, turn off the light, and then the gentle click of his footsteps. "Shall we go?"

Arthur stood in answer. He pulled his coat off the back of his chair and lay it over his arm. It was warm out. Francis opened the door for him, turned off the lights, and locked the door behind them.

"A pleasant evening, n'est pas?"

"Yes," Arthur answered.

Francis waved a hand at the picturesque street they were walking along, with its wrought-iron street lamps and delicate balconies. "Surely now you must admit that not all of France is so distasteful?" He smiled at Arthur knowingly, inviting him to make a jab.

Arthur merely smiled in return. It was practically a private joke; in the open like this, they only ever complimented each other implicitly. (In a private room, it was another matter – but they pretended those moments never happened.) Arthur changed the subject easily. "Why have you never mentioned your restaurant before? I would have thought you'd be bragging about it during every world meeting."

Francis smiled. "Ah, Angleterre . . . We all require our little secrets."

Their romances were always short and bittersweet. They knew that it would end soon. Arthur could feel it in the pressure of Francis's chest against his arm, could sense it in the set of his jaw. They took what they could, and then they gave everything back – but they never admitted it, because that would be admitting defeat. In half-darkened rooms, they ran their hands across each other's chests and down their backs. They trailed their fingers across scars without pausing. The long, thin scar across Francis's abdomen, the rough one on Arthur's shoulder – there was no need to draw attention to each other's wounds, for they knew them too well. Sometimes memories of their own scars became hazy, but they never forgot the scars they inflicted on each other.

Francis always closed his eyes when he kissed Arthur, but sometimes Arthur would watch him through half-lidded eyes. He could see Francis's eyelashes flutter, knew just how Francis would bend his head towards Arthur's lips, chasing him. Sometimes, Arthur let him catch him, mouth open and inviting. As soon as Francis's tongue touched Arthur's, Arthur would push back. He loved digging his fingers deep into Francis's hair until Francis gasped – I win, Arthur would think, and grin against his lips, but it was always a fleeting thought. When they parted, Francis would have a kind of murder in his eyes that Arthur would kill for. He pushed Arthur onto the bed, or sometimes Arthur pulled him down after him as he fell. Arthur would twist underneath him, trying to change their positions. Sometimes he would manage it, but then Francis would distract him (what he was always best at) and Arthur would be under him again, and they would both be smiling wolf-smiles and sweating and hot. This was their life – fighting, always fighting.

They fought, of course. It had been bloody in the past, but now the only blood they drew was on the insides of their cheeks, when they bit down in anger at some word the other had said. They threw things, they yelled, but sometimes all it took was a glare. Afterwards, they pretended that the reason didn't matter. It seemed too small, too insignificant. But all the little reasons built up, and they never went away.

They had a fight that had been going on for days, though Arthur no longer knew what it was about. It had started with something small, but now it seemed to encompass everything. It was hot and humid, which made everything worse. Arthur had to go to a meeting in the middle of it, so he left, and spent a week sulking on a foreign continent. When he finally landed on English soil, his soil, Francis met him at the gate.

When Arthur saw him, Arthur stopped walking. Francis smiled and waved. His hair was loose, but as elegantly imperfect as always. He was wearing nice but casual clothes. He walked toward Arthur through the crowd and took one of the bags from Arthur's unresisting hand. "I thought I'd help you carry these tacky cases of yours. You always bring too much."

And Arthur noticed. He noticed how Francis's smile wasn't forced, noticed how he put just a little more weight on his right leg. He noticed how his own heart had stopped obeying him the moment he had realized it was Francis.

"I thought we weren't speaking."

Francis laughed. "Tell me, what were we arguing about to begin with?" He knew Arthur couldn't answer him, so he didn't bother to wait for an answer. He turned and began to walk out of the terminal.

"Wait," Arthur said sharply. His heart was still pounding in chest. He could feel it. It was painful. "I . . . need to use the loo."

Francis turned and looked at him, surprised. "Okay. I'll wait here."

Arthur dropped his other case and walked quickly towards the sign for the public toilet. He was angry – angry that Francis was right, that Arthur had forgotten what they were arguing about; angry at Francis for making him feel this way; angry at himself for not realizing sooner. He closed the door too hard behind him and someone at the sink gave him an odd look. He really didn't care.

Francis came and found him after fifteen minutes. Arthur had locked himself in a stall and was staring at the ugly tiled wall. "Arthur?" Francis asked. Arthur grimaced at the wall but didn't answer. He heard Francis pacing, and he must have seen Arthur's shoes, because he stopped right outside his stall. The toilet was empty. "England," Francis said in a low voice, and that was how Arthur knew he was really worried. Francis only ever called him Angleterre if he could help it (remember, our languages are connected; remember, I once conquered you). "Arthur, are you alright?"

"Go away," Arthur growled, though it was half-hearted. He glared at the grey plastic of the door. He could see Francis's shoe through the crack in the frame. He was wearing a pair of his best shoes.

"Arthur." There was a sigh in Francis's voice. "Please, come out. Are you still angry?"

"No."

Francis stepped closer. "Then what is it?" His voice was coaxing and gentle. At that moment, Arthur wanted to hate him. He wanted to, and he couldn't.

"When did I stop hating you?" Arthur whispered to the ugly, grey plastic door. He heard the slight intake of Francis's breath, and the pause that lasted for just too long – no witty comeback, no dismissive comment, nothing to turn it into a joke.

The outer door swing open and someone walked in. Francis quickly took a step back and murmured a "Pardon me" as he left. Arthur waited a moment, then unlocked the stall and left the public toilet. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he left. He was pale and his hair was a mess. His eyes were too large and dark in his face. He looked like death.

The ride back to his house was tense and silent. Gone were Francis's smiles. It was just them, them and all their history, stretched out behind them, all stuck in a rented car. Francis walked Arthur into his house and set his bag down in the entrance way. Arthur closed the door behind them as if Francis wasn't even there. Arthur wandered into his living room and sat down on the old red velvet couch, the one Francis had been trying to get him to get rid of for years (and years and years; centuries, even). Francis sat down beside him.

When Francis pulled Arthur into a gentle kiss, he didn't close his eyes. He watched Arthur's eyes and took in every detail he had ever missed. Arthur looked back. Arthur could smell the lavender, and he breathed it in deep (English lavender, endless fields of purple in Provence; too much in common to ignore, too much difference to forget). When they parted, Francis carded trembling fingers through Arthur's hair. "Perhaps we could try staying together for a little longer?" he whispered.

Arthur nodded. Maybe this time would last, maybe it wouldn't. The fighting would always be there, past and present – but the summers stretched on ahead of them, seemingly never-ending. They had time to fight and time to make mistakes, and they had time to mend all of them.

(The summers always felt like Arthur, like rolling green hills and embroidered fabric and his hair, soft and fine in his hand.)