submitted by carbonpressure
((Hey so, you drew this! Frankly, I love the way you chose to “abuse” the nations’ immortality. Actually, I might have loved that particular drawing so much that I was inspired to write a little something to go along with it. I just wanted to share it with you, since it is your art after all, and you deserve to know who it finds and how it touches them. I dearly hope you like it, and I apologise for not speaking your native tongue - I know it’s not quite the same reading in one’s second language as it is in one’s first.))
"I hear someone got beheaded last week…"
"Oh shut your filthy mouth, Francis."
Arthur can’t turn his head to see behind him for fear of displacing it, but he can feel Francis’ pout - annoyingly well played-out, but of course fake - as his lips still brush gingerly against Arthur’s heavily bandaged neck. But, like an unforgiving winter sun reemerging from behind a cloud, his teasing smile immediately returns. Francis’ hand deliberately brushes over Arthur’s hip, but it is swiftly and angrily swatted away.
"This is your fault, you know." Arthur accuses, his voice as cutting as ever despite being somewhat raspy for the time being. Francis ceases his playful nuzzling of Arthur’s injury and draws himself up defensively. Arthur is relieved, though secretly just a little disappointed as well, to feel the Frenchman’s warm breath no longer caressing his severed neck.
“My fault?” Francis asks, his voice still soft but now carrying the slightest edge to it. “I was hardly the one who went on a looting binge and got himself caught.”
The air of haughty moral superiority in his comment sets Arthur’s teeth on edge. As best he can, he tilts his head to the side and back slightly. The searing pain is worth the opportunity to shoot Francis a glare.
"It’s your fault," he says in the tone, albeit cracked, of someone on their last nerve trying to explain something simple to a petulant child, "Because you invented the bloody guillotine that delivered my punishment.”
There is a moment of silence as Francis finally shifts himself around to face Arthur. His expression is surprisingly sombre and, if possible, Arthur finds it even more off-putting than his usual revoltingly confident grin. Francis raises a soft hand to stroke the bandages wound tightly around Arthur’s neck, but before he can so much as lay a finger on them, his hand is snatched out of the air.
"Don’t you dare touch that." Arthur growls, "Don’t even think about touching that."
"If this is how you treat someone who cares about your well-being then-"
"Which you don’t, so don’t try to talk your way out of this with that damned silver tongue of yours. You know I won’t have it.” The increased volume of Arthur’s voice causes it to scratch and break even more, and he winces both in embarrassment and pain.
"Does it hurt?" Francis asks, a small flicker of a smile that looks equal parts sad and smug dashing briefly over one corner of his mouth.
"Of course it hurts, you idiot!" Arthur replies, finally letting go of the death grip he had held on Francis’ wrist in one harsh downward sweep of his arm, "You couldn’t possibly imagine-"
His would-be rant is cut short when Francis takes hold of Arthur’s hands. His long fingers curl around the backs while his thumbs press almost lovingly into the palms. Arthur finds himself unable to do much more than watch, with a look of frustration and impatience, as Francis tilts his own chin upwards and brings Arthur’s hands up to his exposed neck, guiding him to lay his fingertips gently against the skin. He keeps one hand around Arthur’s, fumbling for the thing he seeks with the other’s fingers, and places his free hand on his shoulder to pull the two of them closer together. Arthur suddenly sees what he was meant to be looking for at the same moment his fingers find it.
"Of course I can imagine it." Francis scolds, his derision undisguised. "As you so delicately put it, I 'invented the bloody thing'.”
A ring of scar tissue, obvious now that Arthur knew it was there, perfectly circumscribed Francis’ neck. Before he can even begin to think of something derisive or sardonic to say in response, however, Francis grips both his shoulders and leans in to press a kiss to Arthur’s tightly-layered bandages.
"So stop whining." Francis continues with a grin as he retreats, the playful glance of his blue eyes met by Arthur’s stone-cold glare, "You’ll be fine."
I’M SCREEEEAAAMING!! Dear lord this was perfect, this was exactly what i thought of when i was drawing it and you’ve written it so well!! I can’t!! Breathe!! Thank you so so so much holy christ i want to hug you and kiss you and give you money and baked goods I’ll never forget this