Work Text:
Notting Hill, London, England
Arthur scribbles another note on his steno pad, and then pauses. He’s sure he’s forgotten something terribly important. He taps his ink pen on the silver spirals of the notebook and squints at nothing. Perhaps by force of will, he can make himself remember the—
“Oh, the kettle’s gone off. I’ll—” He doesn’t even make it to his feet, however.
Francis, who has spent the chilly evening curled up by Arthur’s feet at the other end of the settee sorting recipe cards, is already unfolding himself from his little nest of pillows and blankets and heading for the kitchen.
Needless to say, it has been a good day for lying about.
“How is your book progressing?” Francis calls from the kitchen over the squealing protests of the kettle. Arthur can hear him mumbling and cooing at the little metal tea pot, sweetly reassuring it that he’s there now and...well, Francis has always been a very silly man, and his talking to kitchen appliances is hardly something new.
Arthur smiles the hidden smile reserved only for himself and scribbles another note onto his steno pad. “It’s going well. I feel particularly inspired tonight.”
Francis doesn’t reply, but Arthur doesn’t mind. It’s a comfortable rhythm. They no longer need to speak just to fill the space between them. (In fact, there is very little space left.)
When he emerges five minutes later, he bestows upon Arthur what must be the perfect cup of tea if the dramatic flourish of the Frenchman’s free hand is to be believed. Arthur grunts his thanks and takes it gingerly, eyes mostly focused on the diagram he’s been poking and scratching at all day.
His last novel had done fairly well, and he’s sure he can bang out a sequel if he just resolves a few of the plot holes he had never intended to revisit.
Francis’s finger plunks down in the center of the diagram Arthur had been working on. “Non, non, non, mon cher. This will never do. These two clearly had more sexual tension.” He draws a line right across Arthur’s paper, connecting the two characters. “You don’t want to let that go to waste, do you?”
Arthur swats his hand away. “Get off.” But he does have a point. He scribbles more notes along the new line.
When he finally pauses to sip his tea, Arthur hums in approval. “You used the new Darjeeling...?”
“But of course,” Francis mumbles, already settled into his corner of the settee, engrossed in some recipe or another. Arthur watches him over the rim of his teacup for a moment longer than absolutely necessary before doing the same. He establishes a rhythm of sipping, jotting down ideas, sipping, re-reading, repeat. He spends the better part of the next twenty minutes in very productive silence. However, he’s caught completely unawares when he reaches blindly for his teacup only to find it missing. “What—Francis...” His tone is meant to promise certain, torturous death if Francis doesn’t return his teacup immediately, but his...well, whatever Francis has become—Francis only smirks and raises a brow.
“You need a break, mon cher. You have not moved for over two hours.” He holds the tea cup just out of Arthur’s reach, dangling it like bait.
And just as he must have known he would, Arthur bites: he reaches for the cup, fingers out stretched, insisting that “no sane person gets between an Englishman and his tea. Give that back!”
Francis takes two steps away.
Arthur rises to his feet, steno pad forgotten, ink pen laid carelessly on the glass side table.
Francis steps back again and the last dregs of tea slosh precariously.
“I mean it, you git, stop that!” He makes a desperate grab for the cup, but he’s held at bay by Francis’s hand against his chest. No matter how he struggles to reach it, Francis keeps himself between the teacup and Arthur.
Infuriated and clearly at an impasse (what has gotten into him?), Arthur is ready to give up when Francis leans a little closer and offers him something he can’t refuse.
“One kiss, and I’ll give it back.” Francis smirks around the words.
“Really?” Arthur is rightly skeptical, but Francis nods in confirmation and Arthur can only capitulate. “Fine, give me the teacup, then.” Desperate times and all that.
“Non. You will take it and I will get nothing.” He leans a bit closer, the space of a breath between them. “So what do I get if you don’t hold up your end of the bargain?”
Arthur releases a much suffering sigh. “I will, on my honor as a gentleman. Come on, I—” He makes a reach for the cup but Francis pulls it away. “If you plan to keep your end of the deal, then you have nothing to be worried about.”
“What will you give me?” Francis is more than insistent, and Arthur rolls his eyes, beyond frustration.
“Anything you want, for god’s sake, just give it to me.” The moment it leaves his lips, he knows where this is going, and he already regrets it (but his heart is starting to thrum with expectation). “If I don’t deliver the kiss, I’ll give you whatever you want as reparation for breaking my promise. Tea, please.”
He holds his hand out and Francis deposits the nearly empty cup in his palm. Arthur places it safely on the side table beside his pen and glares at Francis. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You don’t seem to mind.” Francis holds his arms out and Arthur grudgingly allows himself to be pulled into them. He leans up and presses a kiss to Francis’s scruffy jaw, sure that this won’t suffice insofar as their bargain is concerned, but more than willing to push the envelop. “There.”
“Arthur...”
(The way Francis says his name leaves Arthur’s knees weak, as always.)
Francis is grinning like the cat that got the cream and Arthur’s immediately on alert. “That just won’t do.”
“Well, here then.” He leans in again to kiss Francis properly, but the target lips are turned away at the last moment. “Hey, you!” He tries again, much to the same result. “Play fair!”
He reaches up to grasp Francis’s hair and yanks, trying to turn his face back ‘round, but Francis twists away, and in seconds they’ve gone from adults having a bit of a tease to nothing more than squabbling, rough-housing children. They’re all hands and tangled arms — Arthur trying desperately to plant a proper kiss on Francis; Francis just as desperate to avoid said kiss and force Arthur to go back on his honor-bound promise. Finally, he manages to pin Arthur’s chest against the wall. His pale, bony cheek is pressed roughly into the chipped, matte paint.
“There. You have failed. I get what I want, mon cher. You. Right now.”
“What?” Arthur, who had known this was coming from the moment the deal had been struck, is still dumbfounded upon actually hearing the words. That certainly escalated faster than expected.
In truth, it’s basically par for the course.
“You cheat!” Arthur hisses, intending to slide down the wall and slip away. But Francis is all heat and warmth against his back and it saps the last of Arthur’s conviction. His hips, which have always had a mind of their own in these kinds of situations, press back into Francis’s ever so slightly, and he prays he doesn’t notice.
“Oh, you can’t admit you lost,” Francis murmurs against the soft spot just behind Arthur’s ear. He buries his nose and lips in the nape of Arthur’s hair and inhales. (Arthur knows this because moments later Francis exhales deeply and the heat of his breath seeps into Arthur’s very bones. He shivers involuntarily, and this is how he knows he has lost.)
“Francis...my tea...” It’s a last ditch effort to take back control. “It’s getting cold.”
“It will wait,” Francis whispers, and he wraps his arms around Arthur and hauls him back to the settee. He tosses him down on his back and Arthur squawks indignantly.
“What are you—?”
Oh...
Francis’s lips are on his in a breath, and it’s so full, so passionate — the way that he kisses him, as if it's the last...or perhaps the first, every time—that Arthur lets slip a moan from between their lips. He loses himself in the feeling that is always at once new and familiar, and Francis’s hands work blindly over his body and into his hair, branding his skin with heat.
Until suddenly the heat is withdrawn.
The hands go still, and then pull away.
After a few delayed, stuttering breaths in which his body tries to catch up with the abrupt change in his surroundings and a few moments sitting in silence, trying to take it all in, Arthur opens his hazy eyes. Hovering just in front of his gaze is a fresh cup of tea nestled within his favorite Wedgwood tea cup. Francis’s lips are fixed in that utterly smug, perfectly brilliant smile that he always tends to wear in these situations, and if looks could kill, Arthur is sure his French companion would surely drop dead on the spot. As this doesn't seem to be the case, however, Arthur instead takes the proffered cup a bit dumbly and sips at it.
The fresh tea is excellent, as he’d known it would be, and he doesn’t bother to hide his pleasure. Even the French can be trained to prepare a proper cuppa, it seems.
Francis laughs (of course, he does) and settles back onto his end of the settee. Arthur spends the next half an hour watching him sort his recipe cards and commences to fall more in love with the idiot.
-end.