La Tristesse

Chapter 8

     Francis couldn't sleep. He'd stayed out with Mattie and Alfred long enough to convince them both he was fine. When Matthew had phoned Russia to smack-talk his hockey team he'd slipped quietly away. Neither of the boys seemed to mind and he was glad to escape before the drunk olympics started.
     Now he was sitting on the balcony in the chair Arthur had been occupying that morning, halfway through a pack of cigarettes and nearing the bottom of a bottle of wine. This was the better part of his dark moods, the end stretch within which he usually filled with alcohol and tobacco. Drunk and hoarse from smoke was better than weak and weepy.
He felt a little bored, actually.
      Reaching for his phone he exited out of all the unread text messages from Gil and Tony and scrolled through his contacts. His finger only hesitated over Arthur's name for a moment before falling gently over the phone icon. It rang four times and then there was a gentle cursing and a drowsy groan that set his insides aflame. 'Angleterre?" He cooed into the receiver. "Dormus tu?"
       "Of course I'm bloody sleeping, twat." The Brit mumbled, "What do you want?"
        "You were going to 'it Alfred today. Why?"
        "I'm hanging up."
        "Ne pas."
        "It's three in the bloody morning. What the hell do you mean 'ne pas?'." Arthur hissed, "If it hadn't been for that damned rabbit I wouldn't have answered in the first place!"
        He smirked into the phone. "What rabbit, Angleterre?"
        "Mm. The... greenish one..."
        "Arthur, are you falling asleep?"
       "Francis..."
        A shudder shot down his spine at the sound of his name spoken in such a soft tone. "Pouvez-vous parler le français dans votre sommeil , mon petit lapin?"
       "Don't...call me bunny...idiot."
       "Why were you fighting with Alfred?"
"Why did you stop me?"
        "You'd 'ave regretted it."
        "So?"
        "That's why."
        "This is absurd. Why are you calling me?"
        "I couldn't sleep."
        "What about your pills?"
        "Iz zat what I should do then? You seemed unhappy about it zhis morning."
      "Since when...did it matter..."
"What?"
       "Mhm... Did it matter...what I thought?"
       "1707, was ze start of it, I believe."
Arthur didn't reply. The soft sound of his breathing told Francis he'd fallen asleep. Smiling sadly, he turned the phone on speaker mode and sat it on the arm of his chair. "Bonne nuit, mon amor." He chuckled bitterly around the butt of his cigarette.

Mon amour. Arthur tried to keep his breathing even. He knew Francis was still listening. It wasn't the first time the Frenchman had called him drunk and rambling, nor the first time he'd not hung up when he should have. In fact, over the years, this had grown into a strange habit, an unspoken pact between them. He couldn't remember where it'd started or why but he could safely assume that the idea had been alcohol-fueled. It seemed that, as long as it was after three a.m., both of them engaged in this sort of odd ceasefire. It staved off the loneliness for a time, and neither of them ever spoke of it outside of the actual happening.
       What was a first, however, was the soft 'my love' whispered like a prayer in the silence between them. In light of last night's sobbed confession, the words should not have effected him the way they had. It wasn't like homosexuality was unheard of amongst countries and honestly after living so long the physical aspect of their bodies hardly mattered at all.  Hell, Hungary had spent most of her childhood thinking she was a man and France had danced about in dresses more times that he could count. China looked damn good in a kimono. That pretty face made it very hard to slap a definite label on him at times. It was their souls that seemed to matter now, if they were even afforded souls...
         Francis coughed softly and brought him out of his thoughts. He wanted to end the call but then the Frenchman would know he'd been awake. All of this was too much for him. He didn't like to feel things. Shifting in his sheets he tried to get comfortable around the bulge in his pajama bottoms. Thinking about feelings- about Francis- always did this to him and it was almost more shame than it was worth to relieve himself of it. Almost.
But this was safe... The only way he could ever act on that disgusting want. Francis was here and yet miles away. He could listen to his breathing while not being forced to look at him. He could allow himself to relax without completely escaping the focus of his lust.
Cowardice at it's dirtiest.
The man on the other end of the line sounded like he was packing a fresh carton of cigarettes. Arthur pretended it was something else entirely. The Frenchman sighed and his mind turned it into a moan. His imagination caught fire and burned as hot as his body. It was almost a game now, keeping his breathing calm and quiet as he slid a hand into his pants.

****
😱 what have I done. I expect it from France but you Iggy?! Good lord. I'm so sorry. I kept this toned down because I'm not sure on what smut level I want this yet. What should happen next? Someone tell me! If I can't think of any interesting plot, it's just gonna turn into porn.

I swear.

I'm not playing.

🖖