An After School Lesson on Kicking Arse

by mistakeandcheese

Summary:

After a few years as a university student in France, Francis returns to England to finish his education. Some things about the situation are familiar to him...like attending the same school as his past boyfriend, Arthur Kirkland. Other things are completely changed...Like that funny streak of hair dye Arthur wears now...the leather jacket...the martial arts...

Meanwhile, Arthur has his own suspicions as to why Francis came back.

 

This story is a sequel to my previous UkFr fanfic, "An After School Lesson on British Dirty Words". If anyone visiting hasn't read that one yet, I will provide a link at the bottom of this; however, this one should still be relatively coherent for those who would rather start off here.

Chapter 1

Francis Bonnefoy took a moment to forget about the annoyingly silent cell phone in his pocket, and instead enjoy the glassy water beneath him, and the gentle sway of the willow tree overhanging the stony, arched bridge he was crossing as he made his way through Stanley Park in Liverpool, England.

It was nothing close to the metropolitan glamour of Paris, but he supposed it would have to do. This was where he was going to be spending the next year of his education, if all went to plan. Resting his forearms against the cool rock, he watched a pair of swans gliding gracefully at the mossy edge of the river.

Things hadn’t been horrible at his university in France. After spending his junior and senior years of high school in the UK, he had found himself to be thoroughly sick of England, and aching to return home. Not that things had been particularly bad in the UK. Well, some things weren’t.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward as he watched the two swans both snatch at the same patch of water weeds, and then begin ruffling their feathers and squawking at eachother, like a pair of squabbling lovers.

During his senior year of high school, He had applied to several schools back home in France, and eagerly accepted the first one to offer him a reasonable portion of financial aid. But after two years of balancing his homework load with his job waiting tables at a busy local restaurant (not to mention worrying over whether or not he would be able to maintain the grades required to keep his financial award while still keeping up on the rent required to live near the city) he had decided that it was time for a change. He had been accepted as a transfer student to a quality university in England that was comparable to his old one in France. With his dual citizenship, he didn’t have to pay extra for tuition, and living expenses in Liverpool were much better than those in Paris. The more manageable price wasn’t the only thing that had drawn him to this place though.

Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he huffed impatiently at the lack of notifications on the screen. “If that fils de pute stands me up I swear I will arracher tous les cheveux de sa tête jusqu'à ce qu'il devienne chauve!” He muttered to himself, imagining with satisfaction the image of the man  in question running around with a shiny bald scalp glinting in the sun.

Connections. He had them here, at this little university in Liverpool. It wasn’t far from the town his family had moved him to during his last years of high school, and, as a result, it was a popular choice of many of his graduating class.

Bzzzt. Francis’s stomach jolted when he nearly dropped his mobile into the water. Turning quickly away from the edge, he hunched over to dull the glare on his screen.

Text message from: Le Imbecile

It read:

“Sure, tomorrow is fine. See you at two o’clock.”

Pocketing his phone again, Francis tilted his face up to the sun and let out a quiet laugh. Only Arthur Kirkland  would take the time to type out “two o’clock” in a text message.

 

                                                                                *

“Oi, Francis! Francis Bonnefoy! I’m over here.”

“Arthur...Kirkland?”

As Arthur slid from his seat at a table on the other side of a little, bustling cafe which Francis entered at two o’clock of the following day, Francis found himself to be overwhelmed with the feeling that he was looking at someone he knew very well, but from an entirely different dimension.

Arthur’s style had completely changed. Gone were the khaki trousers and sweater vests that Francis remembered from high school. Arthur’s legs were covered by slim, dark jeans. His first layer was a maroon shirt, and his second a loosely zipped, jet-black jacket with a sharp collar. Around his neck was a blue and red bandanna (was that a British flag? How very...patriotic.), and in his messy blonde hair there was a dyed streak of acid green.

“Close your mouth, you look like a wanker.”

Francis immediately felt a sense of relief. Yep, this was still Arthur. Putting his hands on his waist, he transformed his initial expression of surprise into teasing smile. “Not as much as you do, Monsieur Green Bean.”

Arthur rolled his eyes as he motioned for Francis to follow him back to the table, speaking into the clatter of the busy restaurant as he went. “Are you really going to start with that? Two years apart and all you can think about is a little bit of coloring on a little bit of hair. Talk about superficial, I mean if blah blah   blah    blah….”

Drowning out Arthur’s words, Francis took the opportunity of following the brit through the cafe to
analyze and compare, as was his tendency, every possible piece of Arthur’s body which he could to his own.

Francis had perhaps been an inch or so taller than Arthur in high school, but now their heights seemed to be exactly the same. They had nearly identical shoulder widths, too,  and yet, Francis’s eyes caught viciously on the observation that Arthur was slightly more built in the shoulders and a tad broader in the chest than he was. With some relief, his eyes skated downward to affirm that he was still in possession of a rounder ass.

“Are you just going to keep ogling my arse or will you take a seat already?”

Dragging out the chair across from the brit, Francis responded with “I’m so sorry Rosbif, but you do not have an arse to ogle. It’s still flat as a board down there. Forgive me for checking.”

“Am I going to regret bringing you out to public, Frog?”

“Moi?” Francis put on an innocent tone as he picked up the silverware and rearranged it to be in the correct placement. “I am the most civil person I know.”

“You must only be friends with barbarians.”

Francis’s lip quirked upward as he eyed Arthur over the top of the menu. “Precisely.”

Despite the playful (and, at times, sharp) banter being just what Francis remembered from highschool, the following hour proved necessary for the two men to become reoriented to each other after their time apart. Though they had kept in contact for nearly a year after Francis had moved away, over time, the emails, text messages, and phone calls had run dry. Neither of them had meant to do it; it had just happened. It was only after Francis had decided that he wanted to transfer back to the UK that he had contacted Arthur to let him know of his plans. They had a lot to catch up on.

Francis told Arthur about what it had been like working as a waiter at a chaotic restaurant in the Marais, and of the misadventures he and his rowdy friend group had gotten into in South Pigalle. In exchange, he learned about Arthur’s brief spell in a local punk rock band, and his reasonably paid employment at the university’s tutoring center.

“Do you aspire to become an English teacher?” Francis asked.

Arthur swallowed some of his tea and replied with a noncommittal tone. “Perhaps. I like the idea of writing a novel or being a book reviewer. That’s not exactly a solid career though. Teaching, maybe. Why, do you think I would be any good at it?”

“I think you would be terrifying at it.”

“What do you mean to say, Frog?”

The corners of Francis’s eyes crinkled mirthfully as he puffed out his cheeks and hummed an ominous tune.“All the school children run as Professor Kirkland stomps into the classroom, eyebrows furrowed and ruler in hand, ready to smack the first poor soul to admit that he skipped reading the final chapter of Pride and Prejudice. As the students blubber in defense, flames arise in his eyes and he shouts ‘watch the run on sentence, you sodding fools!’”

“Oh, come off it. I get along fine with kids. And I’m not that scary a teacher.”

“Says the cat to the mouse.”

“Hey, I did a good job on you. When we first met, you could barely ask for directions to the toilet.”

“Yes I could!” Francis responded, miffed. “What, are you going to take credit for every fluent sentence that comes out of my mouth?”

“That’s the idea, yeah.”

As the conversation got nearer to school, Francis talked about how he had switched from a degree in Art History to one in Political Science. He learned that Arthur was still studying English, as he had planned to do upon graduation, but that he had changed to a joint-honors track that involved Criminal Justice as well.

Taking a sip of his café au lait, Francis posed a casual question. “Oh really? What inspired you to do that?”

A pair of green eyes regarded him soberly for a moment, before carefully changing direction. “Thought it was interesting” Arthur said evasively. Suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm, Francis crossed his legs under the table and tried insistently to push away the memory that the two of them were letting remain unspoken.

Three boys stood before the head of discipline, an old, waspish professor in a dark grey suit.

“How do I know what you’re telling me is true?” The man said.

“It’s not.” The one with brown hair insisted. “I’m telling you, these blokes have been out to get me since the day we fought. Sure, we got in a little scrap. But it wasn’t anything more than that. They just want to get me expelled.”

“Scrap my arse!” The one in the sweater vest snarled. “I had to tear you off him while he was half naked on the bathroom floor. You deserve to rot in prison, ye’ filthy--”

“Mr. Kirkland, calm yourself” The professor ordered sharply. “You’re not doing yourself any favors by behaving belligerently. Based on Mr. Fowler’s lingering injuries, your behavior might require disciplinary action as well.”

“Professor, ‘Mr.’ Fowler has committed a crime. Go on, Francis, show him the clothes.”

With trembling hands, the long haired boy reached into his bag and pulled out a tattered pair of trousers and a crimson-stained shirt. The professor took them.

“Whose blood is this?”

Before anyone else, Arthur spoke up again. “Francis’s, probably. His lip was bleeding.” He shoved his head toward the brunette.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was this wanker’s though. He fought like a jessie.”

Ignoring Arthur, the professor’s steely eyes came to rest upon Francis,  whose lungs nearly flattened in anxiety. “Mr. Bonnefoy, you could have these sent in to a lab to be examined, if you believe that there are any traces of--” the grey eyes slid over to Fowler, before returning to Francis “--evidence. If you had come forward sooner, you might have wanted to--ah--go in for an examination yourself. But from what I know, even if anything had happened, that most likely would be futile at this point.”

“An--an examination?”

Clearing his throat, the professor turned away from them and took a seat at his desk. “I’m not going to pretend that I’m good with cases like these. In all my time here, reports of sexual assault have been minimal. And I’ve never dealt with a case in which the victim was” --His eyes went between Francis’s long hair and facial skin, which had been hurriedly blended with makeup-- “male. Though I don’t want to make you feel as though the school doesn’t care about cases such as these, I will caution you, Mr. Bonnefoy, that very few people will want to put a young lad such as Mr. Fowler through significant charges based solely upon the word of two students who obviously have personal issues with him.”

“Of course we have ‘personal issues’ with him!” Arthur burst out angrily “This bloke went and ra--”

“Mr Kirkland, please go wait outside in the hallway.”

“Not a chance.”

“Mr. Kirkland--”

“He needs me. Look at him, he’s shaking!”

“Then take a seat, and be quiet. Let me do my job and resolve this.”

Francis felt a brief, warm pressure on his hand as Arthur squeezed it, and then took a seat in the corner of the room, still glaring at the teacher.

“My advice to you would be to resolve this amongst yourselves. If you want, I can oversee and you can do it right here, right now.”

Francis’s heart began racing as he sensed the form of the larger boy turning to face him. “What do you say, ‘Mr. Bonnefoy’? The boy said, voice clearly passing through grinning teeth. “No hard feelings?”

“What!? Francis, no, you don’t have to--”

“Mr. Kirkland, sit back down!”

“Well? What do you say, Frog?”

Francis could feel his breathing starting to rush and stumble as he stared at the floor between his feet and tried to think. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t...he extended his hand, and felt the other grab it, crushing his fingers invisibly.

“Excellent” The teacher nodded, satisfied. “That’s how to resolve things like men, boys.”

And so, Francis Bonnefoy shook the hand of the man who had raped him.

“Francis? Do you want to get out of here?” Francis looked up quickly from the final swill of milky coffee left in his cup. Arthur was watching him with an unusual softness in his eyes. “I can pay the bill.”

“Oh, non, you mustn’t. We can split it.” Francis said, quickly dressing his face up in a nice smile. “I wouldn’t mind some fresh air though. We can leave now.”

The bell jingled airily as they spilled out of the door and onto the chalky sidewalk. Walking with his hands in his pockets, Arthur nudged himself a spot next to Francis on the pavement. “Want to take Rice Street? It’s probably the quickest way back to your flat.”

Francis gave a flirty, suggestive laugh “Oho, aren’t you eager to come home with me, mon Lapin.”

“Oi, I was only going to offer you help unpacking your things and setting up your room. On account of I’m a sodding gentleman.”

“Well, you’re sodding.”

“You’re obviously the one who has it on your mind, you little pervert” Arthur said, weaving around a bin before rejoining Francis on the sidewalk. “You’d think after two years you’d buy a guy a drink first.”

“We could stop in there” Francis said, pointing across the street to a little convenience store that had scratched itself a spot in the chunk of tall brick buildings lining the road.

“Alright” Arthur agreed, hopping off the sidewalk again. “I’ll need it if I’m going to be putting up with you.”

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as they entered the rundown little shop. Francis headed straight for the ale in the cool section. “This is what you like, oui?”

“That’s the ticket” Arthur said. As Francis went to the counter, Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t like that stuff, I thought. Aren’t you getting anything for yourself?”

“I have wine at my apartment.”

“You travel with wine?”

“But of course!” Francis scoffed, setting the bottles heavily on the cluttered, and somewhat grungy counter. “You expect me to buy my wine from a place like this?”

The store owner gave him a dirty look as he wrung him up.

From there, it was only a three minute walk to the apartment, shortened to two by a clever little shortcut Arthur showed him through one of the back alleys.  

“Seventeen Pilgrim Street” Francis announced, as he lead Arthur to one of the slim, oily-black doors framed by the brick face of the building.

Arthur eyed a nearby sprawl of graffiti and the only somewhat cagey windows on the surrounding apartments. “Not bad. Not a ‘linger by the front door with your back turned in the dead of night’ sort of place, but not bad. You can see the cathedral from here.”

Throwing a glance to the distant silhouette of towering spikes that overshadowed the district, Francis withdrew his key from the door and stood aside to let his guest in first. “Oui, it is nice.”

“You don’t sound too enthused” Arthur observed as they made their way up the narrow stairs to get to the upper section. “Are you already thinking about running away to France again?”

“Running away?” Francis echoed. The words felt like a guitar string twanged out of tune inside his chest. Did Arthur see him as a runner?

Arthur seemed to have picked up on his tone, and bounced on the balls of his feet outside the door at the top of the stairs as he continued, “Oh yeah, plenty of people feel like running away from the stink of Liverpool. That’s why we Brits always go on holiday in France. But then we start realizing it reeks of cheese and we scoot right on back. I suppose that’s why you’re here--you must’ve got sick of your own stink and decided to have some of ours.”

“I can assure you, I base my decisions on more than simply air quality,” Francis replied as he opened the door to his flat. “I already told you, it had to do with money.”

“Right” Arthur said, following Francis through the doorway. “Isn’t there a lot of funding for public education in France, though?”

“Maybe, but living expenses in the city are high. And so now I am here.” Francis flicked on the light to reveal a 10 by 20 mashup between a bedroom and kitchen, with a little offshoot to a bathroom about the size of a Rubik's cube visible on the opposite wall.

“Look at you! You’ve got your own toilet, y’lucky bugger!”

Francis laughed. “I will be needing it once the British food passes through my system.”

“Oh, shut it" Arthur said, dismissing the jab and carrying on enthusiastically. "And look at this! You’ve already got all your things out of boxes. And... you’ve left everything scattered about except your clothes, because that’s apparently the only thing you care about on this blue planet. Typical. Alright, stash the drinks in the mini fridge and let’s get to work.”

Notes:

link to original story:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/25701781/chapters/62405284

translations:

fils de pute : son of a bitch
arracher tous les cheveux de sa tête jusqu'à ce qu'il devienne chauve : pluck out each of his hairs until he goes bald
Rosbif : Roast Beef (used here as term of endearment)
Mon Lapin : my rabbit/bunny (term of endearment)
café au lait: coffee with hot milk

Author's notes:

Back when I was first writing this story, I got really into the research for it. If anyone is interested in seeing the area of the city where Francis lives, you can follow this link to an add for an apartment that was for rent in the area I based the setting off of:

http://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-to-rent/property-70085072.html

Chapter 2

Other than perhaps bringing a few more pieces of clothing than necessary, a few more cooking supplies than necessary, and of course, the wine, Francis prided himself on having traveled relatively lightly. Once he and Arthur decided to get to work, it only took around forty minutes to put everything into order, and by the end of it the room was feeling quite nice and habitable.

Taping the final photograph of Paris up on the wall, Francis stepped back proudly to soak in the view of his new cell.

“Alright, that will do,” he remarked, nodding. The bed was symmetrically layered by a nice array of pillows. The school supplies were tucked away neatly as possible into the little desk in the corner, the ‘kitchen’ was set up, and the few rogue socks he had found roaming freely had been folded into the chest at the foot of his bed. “Despite your inability to correctly store tupperware, your assistance was appreciated, Rosbif. Merci beaucoup.”

“Yeah, yeah” Arthur waved away the thanks as he took a seat on the odd little bench they had discovered unfolded from the desk . “Like I said, I’m a goddamn gentleman. Crack me an ale, won’t you?”

After handing a bottle to his guest, Francis went to the counter to fix himself a glass of bubbly, blood red wine. Searching for a glass in his newly organized cabinet, he listened as Arthur carried the conversation from the other end of the room.

“You know, for a spoiled Frenchman, you did a pretty good job setting up a little room like this.” Arthur was saying approvingly.

“Would you believe that my flat in Paris was even smaller than this? And I had roommates.”

“Shite. And you still had to work every day?”

“Most days.” Francis said, weaving his way around the empty suitcases and taking a seat across from Arthur on the bed. “I managed to accumulate some savings, the remainder of which should get me through a few months here. That cafe we went to--I think I will apply there. They could use an authentic French person to fix their crêpes.”

“Don’t overwork yourself,” Arthur warned. “Isn’t that what lowered your grades last time?”

“Aw” Francis cooed. “Isn’t that cute? He’s worried about me.”

Coughing on a mouthful of his drink, Arthur shook his head at Francis and responded, “As your former tutor, it is simply my duty to ensure that you don’t make stupid decisions.”

“Is that why you recommended I find a flat in this don’t ‘linger by the front door with your back turned in the dead of night’ sort of neighborhood?”

“Yes” Arthur said, jutting his chin defiantly. “Believe me, you can’t get a scrap of work done in those dorms. The blokes there are animals, and the cost isn’t any better than this. And didn’t you mention wanting to stay here during the summer? The school shoos everybody away during break.”

“Mm” Francis swirled his wine around thoughtfully. “I could simply go back to my family during break.”

Arthur’s eyes went a little out of focus as he no doubt recalled the high school memory of hopping abruptly away from his boyfriend and awkwardly shaking hands with a man with a gaudy business suit and a very cold, distant manner. “Do your parents still live in Windle?” he asked, referring to the suburb he and Francis had spent their teenage years in.

“Non. They moved back to the French countryside” Francis sighed. He couldn’t help but keep the wistful note out of his voice as he imagined the gently rolling hills, twisting vineyards, and temperate sea breeze. “It is quite beautiful there.”

Arthur took another draught of his ale, and stared at Francis as if he were trying to figure out some complex puzzle. “I still don’t understand why you moved. You seem to really prefer it there. I’m sure you could’ve found a school in a cheaper French city, or commuted in from somewhere. And you had already made it through the first two years.”

Francis touched his face unconsciously. Arthur’s remarks did indeed make him feel like a mouse dodging further down its hole to avoid a curious cat’s fishing paw. Hiding his lip behind the edge of his glass, he took a somewhat sloppy gulp of wine. “I had my reasons.”

Arthur chuckled, the alcohol already working wonders on his social filter. “Where you lonely, y’old toad? Did you come back because you missed me?”

“Moving to another country because of you?” Francis scoffed. “That’s what I was doing when I went back to France.”

He laughed as he watched Arthur react loudly: “Codswallop! You must’ve been sad as a horny lizard in a tankful of tucked up turtles.”

“Oh no.” Francis replied, taking this as a perfect transition to talk about his love life. “I was not lonely in France. I had plenty of amoureux.” Watching Arthur from the corner of his eye, he continued, “I even had a girlfriend”. He felt a twinge of annoyance when he saw Arthur’s face twitch into a smirk.

“Really? You? A girlfriend?” Arthur scoffed.

“Yes” Francis responded, tossing some hair over his shoulder. It was hard not to sound too miffed at Arthur’s reaction. “I told you I was pansexual.”

“Right, right.” Arthur said, tracing a finger over his lips as he leaned back against the desk and attempted to zip away his lingering smile. “I’m guessing it didn’t work out, though. What happened?”

Francis spent a wavering second in indecision over whether or not he really wanted to tell the truth. He felt his knuckles float nervously to his chin, before he saw Arthur’s eyes following the motion and he knew that lying wouldn’t work. Blast that brit for knowing all of his habits.

“I told her that I was bisexual, and she asked me which gender I preferred. I said men, and she was offended. She said she didn’t trust me to stay with her, and so she put me in the dumpster.”

“You mean, she dumped you?”

Francis felt a minor recoil of self consciousness for getting the phrase wrong. And then he dismissed it. Arthur was his former English tutor, after all; it was his job to correct mistakes like this.

“Oui.” He waited for Arthur to make some jab at him about it, but it didn’t come. The Englishman had a far off look in his eyes, which fascinated Francis immediately.  “I get the feeling that you have a similar story” Francis said, tilting forward in interest. It was a shot in the dark, but he knew that getting his hostage to talk required the power of a lucky suggestion. He had also developed a rather sharp nose for gossip, and could almost taste the tension that had arisen at the telling of his own.

Arthur’s eyes flicked quickly to Francis’s, before he stretched back in his seat and put his arms behind his head in a motion Francis recognized to be a tactic of men trying to inflate their appearance of confidence in situations that clearly put them out of ease.

“Yeah, I had a girlfriend,” Arthur said shortly. “Didn’t work out.”

“May I ask why?”

“No you may not.”

“Ooh!” Francis squealed, clapping his hands and knowing happily that he had made Arthur jolt.

“That must mean it is embarrassing.”

“No,” Arthur growled, hunching over and pointing a stern finger at him. “That just means that it’s personal.”

“Let me guess” Francis cooed, taking Arthur’s finger and bending it delicately down into a curled, flaccid position. “You couldn’t get excited for her.”

Arthur’s forehead turned bright red.

Setting his empty glass down on the clothes chest, Francis cut through the angry spits of denial that had begun firing from Arthur’s mouth. Taking the rest of Arthur’s hand, he squeezed it gently and said, “It’s not your fault, mon ami. It’s just as I’ve always suspected--you are even gayer than I am.”

“Oh, shut it!” Arthur said, ripping his hand away and kicking Francis in the leg. “You’re the pooftiest nancy boy I’ve ever met.”

“Come on Arthur," Francis laughed, kicking him back. "I know you’re not straight. We were together for more than a year!”

Arthur settled back down in his seat, and regarded Francis with a slight smirk. Francis felt taken aback at this. He had thought he had thoroughly succeeded in ruffling him.

“Oh no, Francis. You don’t understand. I’ve come fully to terms with the fact that I prefer blokes. But you could be the straightest man alive, and I still wouldn’t consider myself to be gayer than you.”

Francis blinked a few times, trying to process what he had just heard. Then he slapped Arthur on the wrist. “I feel as though I have just been insulted.”

Arthur began laughing and reached forward to yank a piece of Francis’s hair. “It’s only offensive because it’s true.”

Before Arthur got away with it, Francis caught his hands and began pushing. It was though they had stepped back in time to the days of squabbling and rough housing in high school. Arthur wrestled back, a big grin on his face as he listened to Francis concoct a slurry of: “It’s only offensive because it doesn’t make sense because if you are trying to say that being effeminate is the same as being gay then by calling yourself gay you are saying that you are also effeminate even though--”

“--aaand silencio!” Arthur said; Francis felt the pressure fighting against his arms suddenly fold, and forward he tumbled into Arthur’s clutches, where he promptly found himself to be wrapped in a headlock that he couldn’t for the life of him get out of.

Staring at the opposite wall, he could feel Arthur’s chest against his back, Arthur’s lap against his thighs, and Arthur’s triumphant grin against his shoulder. Squirming, he pulled at Arthur’s forearms, to no avail. The muscle there was hard as rock. Like a bat swooshing down in the night, the warm, quivery feeling of being quite impressed attacked Francis, and he swatted it away vigorously.

“Do you cry uncle?” Arthur’s too-amused voice seemed to brush against his neck.

“Jamais!” he shouted definitely, curling his hands threateningly around Arthur’s forearm. Half of him was still numb with surprise. They had used to be much more evenly matched when their bickering turned physical. Not that he hated this, this right here, this way Arthur was holding him. But there was no chance he was going to surrender. “Fear me, for I have the power of pinching!”

“You know, I could easily switch this to an arm hold” Arthur responded boredly.

“--And the power of licking!”

Arthur’s light, but confident giggle sent goosebumps popping up all along his back. “Well, shiver me timbers. Guess I better let you go then.” Suddenly the pressure was released, and he felt his body slink onto the spot beside.

He took a moment to catch his breath. Dieu, when had Arthur gotten so in shape?! The curiosity overwhelmed him.

“Where did you learn to do those holds?” Francis asked. He didn’t want Arthur to feel too smug, so he added, “If you say from watching the wrestlers on T.V, then I will know for sure that you are gayer than I am.”

Arthur was leaning easily against his end of the bench. “I’ve been doing Taekwondo. Well, technically a mix of martial arts, because the class this school offers teaches a little bit of everything. But the instructor is from South Korea, so most of it is Taekwondo.”

“Oh,” Francis responded. “Well.” After being so easily dominated, he felt he had to respond with some sort of snappy retort to this, but could think of none, so he put on an air of superiority and said, “J'aime me saouler avec du vin, grossir avec du fromage et sortir de temps en temps pour une belle promenade.”

“What the bloody hell does that mean?”

Merveilleux. Arthur still didn’t have a full grasp on French. Francis put his nose in the air, and arranged himself to be sitting more gracefully upon his seat. “It is quite waspish and mocking, but there is no good translation of it to English. It was unfair of me to use it, so we should just move on.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, mate.”

That was the kickoff to Francis’s second day in his new home.

Notes:

Translations:
Merci beaucoup: thank you very much
Mon ami : my friend
Silencio!: it can mean "silence" in Spanish, although here it's meant to be more of a Harry Potter reference because "silencio" is the incantation for the silencing charm
Dieu : God
Jamais! : Never!
J'aime me saouler avec du vin, grossir avec du fromage et sortir de temps en temps pour une belle promenade.
: I like getting drunk on wine, getting fat on cheese, and occasionally going out for a nice walk
Merveilleux: marvelous

As always, if anyone sees a mistake in my French, please don't feel shy to call it out! It's really helpful!

For all the martial arts nerds out there--please accept my acknowledgement that Taekwondo isn't as much about wrestly holds and joint locks--those things are more from Hapkido, Judo, Jiu-Jitzu--(this is why I had Arthur admit the class is actually a mix of martial arts ;)

And!--for all the sex-ed nerds out there--please accept my acknowledgement that pan and bi have different definitions--but I don't think it's crazy for Francis to interchange them, especially when coming out to someone new.

Chapter 3

As the first semester went into session, Francis found that he didn’t mind going to university in Liverpool. Compared to high school, it was a great improvement:  there was no strict dress code, the social groups were more fluid, and the people were too distracted with their own problems to really go about bothering other people about theirs. Despite having the social disadvantage of having spent his first two years in a different country and not living directly on campus, within the first few weeks, he had made several friendly acquaintances within each of his classes.  He was enjoying (most of) is Political Science courses, and his English was good enough now that he understood almost every word his professors uttered.  His schedule was in his ideal arrangement: classes focused in the morning, so that he could get them out of the way and do what he wanted in the evening, be it studying, going out, or working.

In mid September, after he had settled into his routine, he created a resume in English and had Arthur check it for errors. He was proud of it; what food-joint wouldn’t want to hire a person who had served tables at a five star restaurant in Paris? The Cafe he had met Arthur in on his second day back in the country had accepted the resume, and hired him towards the end of October. Luckily, hours were manageable and the work reasonably paced. There was always at least one other person on shift with him, so he had made a few friends outside of school, and when business was slow, he sometimes had time to study in the back.

He liked his job; it wasn’t all waiting tables, like his last one. The cafe made its own pastries, and Francis, who already enjoyed cooking up his own meals at home, found that working in the kitchen, away from the clamor of the cash register, was relaxing and fun. Just a few weeks into his employment, one of his coworkers, a middle-aged Lebanese man, with forearms burly from years of rolling out dough, glanced over at the macaroons Francis was creating and said, “You could be a chef, Bonnefoy” which had made Francis feel quite proud for the rest of the day.

The afternoon after Francis had completed a morning midterm exam, he had gone into work and found the cafe to be pleasantly quiet (though usually boring, a slow pace was nice for unwinding after a lengthy test). The woman he was working with today was resting in the kitchen, so Francis had the entire warm and sunlit front to himself. It was sometime in the mid afternoon when things picked up.

The telltale tinkle of the bell rung across the restaurant and Francis looked up from the credit card slips he’d been organizing to see a young couple loaded with a set of diaper bags and, not one, but two mewling one-year-olds, as they elbowed their way awkwardly through the doorway.

“Bonjour,” he said, setting down the receipts and putting on his most charming smile. “How are you today?” With already stressed out customers, it was always good to start out particularly amiably.

The couple seemed to be a good-natured family, however. The man gave Francis a broad, chubby-faced smile “Chipper, thanks! And you?”

Before Francis got to answer, the baby the man was holding squealed and did an energetic flop off of the man’s shoulder, luckily to be caught by a pair of quick, fatherly hands. “Wup, that’s a girl, Molly, let’s stay off the floor now.”

“Want to switch?” The woman asked, cradling the sleepy looking brother.

“Nah, you’ve got him nice and calm. Tell you what, Love, you make the order, I’ll go find a couple of high chairs to get these two squared away.”

“Alright Love.” As her (presumably) husband carried off the rowdy half of the offspring, the woman turned back to Francis with a smile, and apologized. “Sorry ‘bout that, it’s always one or the other. Could we have two pistachio muffins and two blueberry?”

“Anything to drink?” Francis asked.

“An Earl Grey, an Irish, and...how much would it be to just get two little paper cups of milk?”

Francis waved away the question about the milk. “Do not worry over it--it is on the house.”

“Oh, thank you!”

“Of course.” As he waited for the woman to take out her card, he eyed the little boy curiously, and asked, “Are they twins?”

The woman smiled. “Yes. A lot of work, but you gotta love them.”

“They are beautiful” Francis said, handing her the receipt. As the mother went to rejoin the rest of her family, Francis went about preparing their things. Normally, people waited by the counter and then took their order back with them to their table, but since it wasn’t busy, and since the couple would probably appreciate it, Francis balanced the order across his arms, and delivered it right to them. “Oh, non, non, it is my pleasure; bon appetit” He assured them, before heading back to the counter.

As he set about cleaning his work area, Francis occasionally would look up to the family to entertain himself. There was always something going on with the kids. Francis knew that despite the parents’ efforts to clean up as they went along, he’d probably have some sweeping to do once they left. It didn’t bother him though. It was quite charming, to see a family that appeared so lively and happy.

The thing about kids was that they could be a burden. Responsible parents didn’t go out to nightclubs and sleep around and drink wine all the time. They settled down. The couple here didn’t look to be much older than Francis, which made him marvel at their relative maturity.

The babies were very cute, though. Francis took a moment to lean against the broom he was holding and watch as the little girl gave her dad a kiss on the cheek, and he transferred it to the woman who transferred it to the son. A kiss circle. Despite the chaotic cloud that no doubtedly surrounded them at all times, the young couple still looked at each other with love and fondness, and their family exuded an inexplicable aura of peace.

As the young couple left, Francis waved them out and they thanked him as graciously as they could with two blueberry-muffin-fueled toddlers hanging off their arms.

Just as Francis was about to start cleaning off their area, he felt the phone in his back pocket buzz, and he paused in his work to take it out.

Text message from: Le imbecile
“My last class got canceled. Want me to drop by at the end of your shift?”

Francis felt the edges of his cheeks bunch up as he smiled. After texting back in the affirmative, his eyes caught on the empty little circle next to Arthur’s caller ID and he realized he didn’t have a picture chosen for him. Scanning the cafe to be certain that it was dead, he leaned his hip against the table he was supposed to be cleaning and began scrolling though his gallery for one that was suitable.

Laughing to himself, he settled for one he had taken a few weeks ago: Arthur, after one of his horrible cooking attempts (during which he had somehow succeeded in getting ash in his hair and flour on his face), mid-yell and coming at the camera with a hand up in an obvious demand to put away the bloody camera.

A little before five, Francis went to the back to prod awake his sleepy coworker (an old woman with chickeny hands and grey hair dyed a ghastly shade of red) and let her know his shift was waning and he’d be leaving soon.

Just as he was untying his apron, he heard the bell get jostled.

“Oh yes, Mable, that is quite awful” he said hurriedly, cutting across the old woman’s grumbles about having to wake up in the middle of the day to close shop. “I must be going now though, so adieu.”

Mable leaned past the hurried form of her coworker and glimpsed through the porthole in the metal door, through which Arthur was visible leaning against the counter, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his sharp black jacket. Making a pleased purring sound, she raised an eyebrow to Francis. “Oh, now I see why you’re in a rush. That fit lad out there waiting for you? We could switch, you and I; you could close the shop and I can steal your friend; sound fun Franny?”

“Tellement amusant” Francis said, giving her a look as he unhooked his bag and stuffed his apron into it. “Unfortunately for you, however, he has a very selective type.”

“Wot, is he your date or something?” The woman teased. As he left, Francis winked at her, smirking as he turned away from her suddenly dumbfounded face.

As the metal door to the kitchen swung shut behind him, Arthur gave him a disapproving look. “You know, if I was a customer I’d be getting pretty annoyed at this point.”

“Are you trying to say you were looking forward to seeing me? How sweet.” Before Arthur got a chance to snap back at him, Francis swooped in for a kiss on the lips because yes, they were dating again.

“Oi, banter isn’t fair if you try drowning me in spit every time I go to say something, Frog.”

“You thought that was spitty? My, my, Rosbif, if that is the case, you must surely be a virgin.”

“You wish,” Arthur quipped, turning slightly red in the face.

It was comforting to know it was still easy to make Arthur struggle to keep his composure. It was only for a second, however, and next thing the brit was suggesting the best places for them to go take a walk. “We could stroll along the Merseyside” he said, referring to the waterfront by the river that cut through the west side of town.

Francis agreed, and let him lead the way as they exited the shop and began journeying through the now lamplit city.

“How was it that your class got cancelled?” Francis asked, copying Arthur and tucking his own hands into his pockets for warmth.

“Professor was giving birth” Arthur responded casually “Apparently she went into labor in the class before ours, so they didn’t have time to find a substitute.”

Francis gave him an astounded look “Wait, go back; she was giving birth? How exciting! Do you know if it is a boy or a girl? Or twins? Today this couple came in and--”

“Francis, calm down--I have no idea, alright? It’s really none of my business other than the fact that my class got cancelled.”

Francis clicked his tongue judgmentally. “You can be such a sour little lime sometimes. When she comes back in, make sure to congratulate her; it is the least you can do to show her you have basic human decency.”

“I have plenty of human decency! At least I’m not like all my roommates using it as an excuse to go out and get plastered; they told me they wouldn’t be done bar hopping till two in the morning.”

“Perhaps they simply wish to celebrate the miracle of life.”

Arthur snorted “They’re just celebrating that they didn’t have to take an exam. Believe me, they’d go out and do the same thing just as easily if she’d dropped dead on the floor.”

“Your inherent faith in the human race is utterly charming.” Francis remarked flatly.

At the end of the street they walked, an inky expanse striped with slices of reflected light was visible, indicating that they had almost reached the river. A gust of cool air swelled through the street and Francis shivered, his crisp, white-sleeved shirt and thin black vest doing nothing to shield him from the cold. Work uniforms were always useless this way.

“You cold, Frog? Should’ve brought a jacket, dumb twit.” Arthur said uselessly.

“My, what a gentleman” Francis responded, reaching into the bag hanging near his waste. “Thankfully, I foresaw your lack of générosité and thought to bring my own.”

“Hey, I was about to offer but first I had to--to--” mid sentence, Arthur’s tone changed. “--oh, Francis, you still have that?”

Popping his head out of the top of the blue sweater, Francis smoothed it down the front and replied, “Of course. You know I never throw away good clothing.”

Despite Arthur’s usual tendency to shelter his softer emotions, Francis could tell that he was touched. A little smile sailed across his lips as his eyes focused upon the small red rose stitched into the chest. “It fits you better now.”

It did. Francis remembered how the first time he had worn the gift, its purpose had been to cover up the harsh rips and bloodstains on his clothing. The oversized-ness had served this purpose well. The sweater had saved him from having to walk through the school feeling exposed and embarrassed, and since then, it had always been one of his favorite pieces of clothing.

All that needn’t be said aloud, though. As they began walking along the wide cement quay that lined the murky water, Francis pretended to be offended. “Are you implying that I have gained weight, you chien?”

“No, I’m trying to imply that you’ve grown; we both have, you twat. Learn to take a compliment, will yeh?”

Francis’s gaze raked across Arthur’s covered arms and lingered where the thin swell of muscle was visible pushing against his coat at the base of his shoulders. “I feel as though you have grown more than I.”

Arthur did a good job hiding any smugness that might have arisen with the admission. “You could get yourself toned up if you wanted.  You could even do the same thing I’m doing--the martial arts class is free for students.”

Francis pushed some hair which had blown across his face back behind his ear. “That sounds sweaty and disgusting.” He had seen Arthur come just out from one of his Taekwondo classes once; he had been slick with sweat, ruddy, and wearing a plain, shapeless excuse for a uniform. He had been barefoot too, since apparently shoes were not allowed when running around kicking things and people. As Arthur had pulled the top over his head (ruffling his hair to be somehow messier than usual) and stuffed the stinking thing into his gym bag, Francis had decided right then and there that the “just got in a fight” look was not for him.

Arthur shrugged “Suit yourself.”

Francis was still somewhat curious about the effects the lessons had had on his companion.
“Do you think these classes have worked, Arthur? If some mauvais coquin came along and tried to mug us, right now, would you be able to beat him to a pulp?”

Arthur “hmm”ed in thought. “Maybe. The Taegeuk Poomsaes and basic motions probably wouldn’t be much help in a street fight, but the Hapkido techniques, kickboxing, and overall increase in physicality would definitely give me some sort of edge.”

Francis stared at Arthur, the old feeling of not having understood half the words that had come from the Englishman’s mouth revisiting him in a gratingly nostalgic moment. “Excusez moi? Do I have to learn Korean now, if I want to converse with you?”

“It was your question.” Arthur replied. “But I guess the short answer is yeah, they’ve helped.”

“Good” Francis said “If they come for us, you shall be my human shield.”

Arthur gave him a slanted glance as they paused in their walk to to look out across the River Mersey. “Is that your way of asking me to protect you? How sweet” He said, using the same format of taunting Francis had chosen earlier.

Francis felt a little swoop in his gut, as if he had missed a step going down the stairs. He wasn’t sure if was a positive or negative reaction to what Arthur had just said; a part of him despised the idea of being seen as a thing in need of protection, especially by someone he had such a competitive relationship with. But another part of him melted at the words because despite their teasing context, he could tell that they also functioned as a pledge of loyalty.

“How sweet” He mumbled back. His voice had gotten lost in the wind, however, and Arthur gave no retort. Leaning his elbows against the chipped paint of the metal railing, the brit seemed swimming in thought as he watched the night float across the face of the river.

Francis was just about to prod him into walking again when Arthur straightened up.

“Hey Francis.”

“Yes, Rosb--” Francis’s words got cut off when Arthur suddenly put an arm around his waist, pulled him close, and kissed him. In response, Francis closed his eyes, rested his arms on Arthur’s shoulders, and made a soft “Mm” sound into Arthur’s mouth. There was nothing he liked better than being kissed by someone he was fond of.

When Arthur withdrew he gave a satisfied nod. “That’s retribution for earlier,” he announced. “No one kisses me by surprise and gets away with it.”

Francis smiled, the small amount of wetness left on his lips chilling quickly in the breezy night air. “Is this biological warfare, mon lapin?”

Arthur grinned back. “Perhaps it is.”

Francis stepped closer so that he could run his hands along Arthur’s sides and lay a kiss at his ear. “Then perhaps we should find somewhere warmer to wage it.”

Arthur, for once, seemed to be in the right mood at the right time. His grin turned into an alluring smirk, and Francis got goosebumps as his breath ghosted across his neck and he murmured “Perhaps we should.”

“Your dormitory is only a few minutes walk from here isn’t it?”

Suddenly, Francis felt Arthur’s hands slip away from him as the brit distractedly ruffled the back of his rough, sandy hair. “Really? You want to go there? Wouldn’t you prefer going to your flat?”

Ugh. Leave it to that cancre to ruin the mood. Francis cocked his head. “My flat is nearly four times farther away” Francis knew this because he walked to campus most days and often glimpsed the dormitories located adjacent to it. “Aren’t you getting cold Arthur? It would be nice to stop inside somewhere closer.” He hadn’t actually been inside Arthur’s dormitory yet; there always seemed to be some reason or another why it was better for them to meet up on campus, or at some place in the city, or at Francis’s flat.

Today, Arthur’s excuse jumped out quickly. “But I have three room mates. It won’t be nearly as private.”

Had Arthur forgotten? “I thought you said your room mates went out drinking for the night.” Francis reminded him.

“Right, well,” Arthur's tone remained steady “They always leave a mess behind them. It’s embarrassing to bring you to see it.”

“Oh, I do not care about that” Francis said, beginning to pull Arthur by the hand “It will only give me something else to tease you about later. And if you were truly embarrassed you wouldn’t have admitted it so easily.”

Hesitantly, Arthur began to follow along behind him. “Are you sure? Keep in mind, the walls are thin and...oh, and the beds are bunks, so it won’t be nearly as comfortable, and--and the other day I’m sure I saw a cockroach scuttling around behind the vents. It’s really quite disgusting.”

“The more excuses you give, mon amour, the more curious I become to see it.” Honestly, the amount of jabbering Arthur was getting on, the more it seemed he had a dead body stashed somewhere.

“Fine, fine” Arthur relented “but if I hear one snobby quip about it, I’ll bludgeon you with a mace.”

“Is that the state I am about to find of your dozen hidden skeletons, Cher?”

The walk to the protrusion of dormitories at the edge of the university’s campus turned out to be  hardly five minutes from where they were. It wasn’t long before the angular design of the chunky, cement building was jabbing at the horizon.

“The architecture of these buildings is quite ugly” Francis stated as they entered. The corners of the building were harsh, the walls were of cement blocks, and the floor was layered with grubby yellow linoleum.

After nodding hello to the first floor RA, Arthur rolled his eyes and responded “Yeah? Then why don’t you switch your major to architecture and do it better, Frog?”

“I think of myself as less of a maker and more of a critic” Francis replied as they entered the stairway, and headed for the second floor.

“Figures” Arthur said. Sliding ahead of Francis, he opened the door at the top of the landing a crack, and hesitated, before stepping out and holding it open for him.

“Is the gentleman trying to redeem his reputation?” Francis teased. Arthur flicked him in the arm, before beckoning him down the hall and speeding up to a brisk power walk.

Francis hurried to catch up. When they finally reached the door with a label reading Donovan, Patel, Campbell, Kirkland, Francis observed the rushed way Arthur fumbled with his keys, and wondered if Arthur was embarrassed to be seen going into his dorm with a guy. That, or he was just very eager to finally have an opportunity to finally hook up together.

After the incident in the high school bathroom, Francis had gone through a jarringly uncharacteristic phase of anxiety about anything too close to the act of fucking; Arthur had reacted to the change by behaving more gently and cleanly towards him. Even after the fear had worn off, Francis had noticed that during intimate interactions, Arthur still touched him somewhat gingerly, as if he were afraid of hurting him. Of course, wrestling and pinching and smacking were a different story: something the both of them had somehow settled to assign as a pure action. Nevertheless, the end result was that despite the many times they had gotten just to the brink of doing it, the two of them had never actually gotten around to having full-on sex.

Francis agreed that it was past due.

As the crack of hallway disappeared behind them, Francis immediately kicked off his shoes and started peeling away his pants. Doing a somewhat clumsy one-footed hop as he freed his ankle from the cuff, he laughed at the look Arthur gave him when he turned around to see his half dressed partner.

“A wee bit eager are we?” Arthur asked, tossing his jacket on a chair and beginning to loosen his collar. “What happened to the slow and romantic buildup, Francis?”

“What, you mean prudish teasing? Let us fuck, Arthur.”

“Oh, are we talking dirty? Is that a thing again?”

Francis, sufficiently naked, closed in on Arthur and grabbed his face with both hands. “Whatever we want” he breathed, just before catching the brit by the mouth.  He felt Arthur’s palm run once across his chest, before Arthur began putting his hands to the use of unbuttoning his own clothes. As Arthur’s shirt slipped off his shoulders, Francis withdrew so that he could watch the big reveal. He was not disappointed.

Arthur’s chest was sculpted as if by an expert artist. His belly showed the faint lift-dip-lift imprint of abdominal muscles, and he had a perfect V leading down to his hips. Lean, just built enough to avoid the label of scrawniness, he was by no means the biggest and brawniest of men, but there was certainly no denying that he was strong and attractive.

Then Francis’s gaze was disrupted, as he felt Arthur’s lips mesh against his own and the two of them gravitated over to one of the bunkbeds.

“Watch your head” Arthur said, breaking from the snog as he ducked underneath the top level. Francis followed him, and soon they were making out underneath a thin blanket.

Arthur was on his back and Francis was strewn across his torso, shivering at the pleasure of having someone else’s warm skin moulded against his own. Francis had his forearm resting near Arthur’s head and his hair tumbling down around his face as he kissed him. His other hand had wandered to the organ between Arthur’s legs and he could feel the brit starting to moan into his mouth as his thumb started moving first.  Separating their lips for a moment, he began asking, “Do you have--?”

Arthur’s hand shot out to the narrow shelf at the head of the bed and came back with a little tube of lube clutched in the fist.

“Do you want to do it or shall I?” Francis asked.

Arthur’s eyes flashed with a tiny amount of confusion. “I figured you would” he said, passing off the bottle to Francis.

Francis was pleasantly surprised. “Really? Alright then.” Putting a dab on his finger, he reached underneath the blankets and slipped back between Arthur’s legs, only to have Arthur suddenly jerk away from him. There was a pressure against his shoulders, and instantly the world flipped over and he found himself to be on his back. Face framed by Arthur’s forearms, he gazed up at a pair of forest green eyes that were only just losing the glaze of momentary fight-or-flight.  

“Sorry Love,” Arthur murmured, somehow regaining a smooth, deep, and unhurried voice, “I don’t bottom.”

Francis felt his chin get pulled up in a powerfully magnetic kiss, as his shoulders, tailbone and pelvis were all pushed deeper into the mattress by Arthur’s body. Wedging his arms as best he could between his and Arthur’s chests, he let slip an embarrassingly high sound as he tried to pry some distance. Hearing it, Arthur immediately eased up on him.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” Arthur asked quickly.

Mon Dieu, it was back: the concerned expression, the ginger touch, and the delicate treatment. Eyes wide, Francis immediately shook his head. “Non, non--I just--never? You never bottom?”

Arthur sighed, and rolled off of Francis so that he could lay on his side, facing him. Francis tilted onto his side as well. Arthur reached forward, Francis allowed their arms to get tangled together, and the blue and the green watched each other closely.

“I just don’t--” Arthur paused “--don’t want to do it. The idea doesn’t seem appealing to me. Ever since I saw--” Francis could tell Arthur wanted to look away from him, but appreciated that he didn’t “--you getting raped, the thought of it just makes me uncomfortable.”

Pushing the memory of being found bleating on the floor, smothered and exposed, out of his mind, Francis instead decided to think back to the occasional hookups he had enjoyed during his time in Paris. “It’s really not as bad as you think Arthur. When someone you want is doing it--and you both want to be doing it--it can be very good.”

“So you still are into bottoming.” Arthur confirmed. Francis could sense the hint of relief in his voice.

“Yes” Francis began slowly “If it is the right person I am with.”

“Am I the right person?”

“Of course” Francis asserted. Running a hand along Arthur’s cheek he said “You make a wonderful top. But if I decide I like you as such, does that mean I will be on the bottom forever?” Francis tried his hardest to keep the strain of whininess and desperation out of his voice. He tried.

Arthur swallowed visibly “No. I might change my mind someday. But as of yet, and as of right now, my balloon knot does not want to be popped. That’s how I feel about it, so that’s final.”

Rolling again onto his back, Francis sighed “I suppose I cannot force you.” He knew better than anybody that that would be wrong. Besides, even if he’d wanted to, he physically couldn’t. Arthur was stronger than he was. He was the weaker half.

At the sight of Francis laying limply on his back, Arthur frowned. “I’m not saying that you have to do it either. We could just use our mouths or our hands or whatever.”

Francis was filled with an invigorating dread. No way was he letting the hesitation which had haunted his highschool years leak into and pollute his last year of university.

“Non” He said fiercely, energetically going to Arthur and centering his butt at the base of the brit’s belly. “I need it, you randy arse-bandit.”

A slight grin came to Arthur’s mouth, and his eyes took on that sharp, shaded angle that made Francis’s bones feel like liquid. “As you wish, y’smarmy cock jockey.”

Francis felt himself get pulled down so that he was splayed across Arthur’s front. His throat brushed lightly against Arthur’s tongue when he swallowed, before his mouth was evacuated and a warm pair of lips was at his neck. His breath caught at the pinch of Arthur’s teeth, and soon he felt himself melting over Arthur’s chest as the Arthur began massaging between his thighs, finally getting around to giving him a hand job. As it happened, Arthur’s arms began to hold him more securely. More smoothly than before, Arthur began rotating him so that he was once again looking up from below.

Francis felt as though he were being enveloped in a warm, muscular current as Arthur’s body ground against him and the two of them became so close that they were practically neck to neck. He could feel the pressure of something long, hard, and hot pressed against his inner hip; he felt Arthur’s knuckles graze against his hand as something small, plastic, and cold was pressed into his palm, and he felt the air tickle across his jaw as a voice murmured, “whenever you’re ready, Monkey.”

Francis was long past the phase of crisp words and coherent thought. “T-Tu le fais” he murmured, forcing the bottle back into Arthur’s hand. The man needed practice, after all.

Francis’s breath hitched as the bottle left his hand, and he heard the cap get popped off. He wondered if Arthur had ever done this to anybody before. Probably not, though the way Arthur’s attentions had so far left him gasping, he was not the stumbling type of novice.  

And yet, as he felt his lover's oiled hand trail back underneath the blanket, his eyes flew open. Before the fingers had a chance to get up inside him, he cried “Wait!” much more loudly than he intended.

Arthur paused in his actions, and rose himself to see Francis more clearly. “Yes?”

Francis was embarrassed. With him not normally being sheepish about things having to do with sex, the pink blush now searing across the surface of his face was undoubtedly noticeable.

Avoiding the spotlight of Arthur’s gaze, he tilted his head to a less direct angle, feeling his hair trail slightly along the mattress. “I have to use the bathroom.”

“Now?” Arthur asked incredulously.

Francis could feel his face burning as he threw Arthur a glare and his voice rose to a higher pitch. “Yes! Seeing as you know which hole you are about to enter, it should be obvious why!”

Arthur opened his mouth, and then closed it. And then he lifted his weight from Francis, and chuckled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, sorry.”

Francis breathed in deeply, and sat upright on the bed. He could tell Arthur was still eyeing the lingering tint on his cheeks, so he decided to make up for it by acting as suave as possible. “I will be back soon” he said, rising gracefully and bending to pick up his underwear from the floor.

“Wait, Francis--” Arthur straightened and went silent, as if he had remembered something quite urgent, and then forgotten what to say.

“Yes, Arthur?” Francis prompted him.

“Ah--” the usually eloquent Englishman stumbled over his words “--do you really need to go? I mean--” His eyes snapped to the half hardened bulge under Francis’s underwear, and his brain seemed to latch onto it quickly. “I mean, do you really want to go walking around with that? The bathroom’s all the way down the next hall, and it’s not very private. Kind of embarrassing, don’t you think?”

Was he serious? Did he actually not understand the necessity of using the toilet? “What else am I supposed to do?” Francis demanded. “Wear a puffy dress and walk to the nearest gas station? No--” Francis pulled his blue sweater from off the floor; it might have fit him better, but it was still long enough to cover his crotch.  “--I will wear this.”

“Okay” Arthur said. He still sounded like he wanted to say something, and Francis waited for a moment, before turning away and putting a hand to the door. Then Arthur’s voice called out sharply again.

“Francis--”

Francis turned yet again, to see Arthur on the edge of the bed, blanket draped across his waste and looking like a deer in the headlights. “Do you--” he cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck, “--uh--want me to come with you?”

Francis gave him a look. “You are a very strange man, Arthur Kirkland.” Arthur continued to stare at him expectantly. Turning back to the door, Francis said, “I assure you, I am not going to be doing anything sexy. I will return. À bientôt.” The door clicked behind him.

Shaking his head and wondering what all that had been about, Francis began treading to the end of the hallway.

Without anything warm on his legs, he shivered slightly. The narrow, empty walls and humming yellow lights of the hall he was traveling gave the building the feeling of a prison. Turning the corner, he observed that, like some sort of twisting trap, the hallways were long and there were only two directions: forward and back.

It was with some relief that he finally reached the door at the end of the second hallway.

He opened it.

Notes:

translations:

bonjour: hello
bon appetit: enjoy your meal
adieu: farewell
Tellement amusant: so much fun
générosité: generosity
chien: dog
mauvais coquin: bad rogue/ruffian
cancre: dunce
mon amour: my love
cher:dear
T-Tu le fais: Y-you do it
À bientôt: see you soon

Chapter 4

Luckily, the bathroom was empty. Glancing once to the chipped mirror over the counter, Francis wrinkled his nose at the unrinsed globs of shaving cream and hair left in the nearest sink, before locating the stall with the most gently-used looking toilet (which, unfortunately, also happened to be the stall with the biggest gap). Draping some clean toilet paper along the seat, he sat down and thought about how much more an enjoyable experience it would be if he were sitting in the bathroom of some private, five-star hotel in the richest district of Paris.

He was just finishing up (having used nearly half the role of the disastrously thin toilet paper in the process), and had pulled his underwear back to his waist when he heard the door creak open, and the room immediately got filled with the tinny echo of somebody talking obnoxiously loud on their cell phone.

“Right. Right. No, yeah, she’s coming over next Friday. Yeah mate.” There was a laugh “Yeah, she loves it. Maddy? No, not her, the other one.”

Freezing, Francis listened. There was something familiar about that voice.

“Yeah. The American? Mate, she can’t get enough, thirstiest whore I’ve met yet. Alright--okay, tell your dog I say hallo. Right--I’ve gotta go, ‘bout to bleed the lizard--haha, gotcha--bye.”

Silence. As his breathing started to come out in high shivers, Francis raised his hand to muffle his mouth. When the sound of the man peeing replaced the sound of his chatter, Francis used the moment to slowly put down the toilet seat. Lifting one foot, and then the other, he crouched, and stared straight ahead of him, hand still slapped over his mouth, a few long strands of hair quivering in front of his face as he waited.

The voice was deeper, now, but there was no mistaking it--no, not at all--not when the way it said “whore” sent a fearful spasm to Francis’s lungs like that. As the visitor to the bathroom began washing his hands, Francis leaned slightly so that he could gaze through the crack in the stall. He snatched a glimpse of giant, shining wet hands and brown hair, before the toilet seat squeaked slightly and he recoiled in horror. There was a pause. Had the man heard him? He could easily look back through the crack if he thought something was up.

He was so close; so close that Francis could map the stitching of the zipper on his red and white windbreaker. Shutting his eyes tightly, Francis buried his face in the neck of his sweater, willing the familiar scent to wash across his lungs and brain and combat the flood of ugly memories and panic that were threatening to spill over.

He didn’t uncurl from his compact little ball, not until he heard the bathroom door open and close, and the sound of fading footsteps had long since rung silent.

Tripping over to the sink, he stared at his white, wild-eyed reflection and nearly burnt his hands under the water. Realizing he was covered in a cold sweat, he switched the temperature to red-hot freezing and hurriedly splashed his face, before going to the door and shouldering it open. The hallway being dead once again, he began walking, no doubt looking drunk as he bent his path to zigzag past each end every door in the hall. As he went, the names on the doors flew through his vision like a hailstorm.

Michelson
White
Smith
Noble

Zhang
Brown
Taylor
Ferguson

Cheswick
Singer
Bianchi
Fowler

Fowler.

There it was, sprawled across a note on the third door down hallway 2B of this building at the edge of his university’s campus in Liverpool.

His knuckles were yellow in the sickly light as he learned against the doorframe, staring at this little note. I’ve found him.

And then he heard a muffled noise from within, and he his heart pounded as he whipped around the corner back into Arthur’s hall.

Donovan, Patel, Campbell, Kirkland…The door was locked of course, and his hands scrabbled frantically against the wood as he heard some door down the next hallway open and his mind immediately jumped to the conclusion it had to be the one.

Instantly, the door was unlocked and he spilled inside.

Arthur was half dressed. “About time! I was about to come check on you. You weren’t lying about British food making y--Francis? My God, Francis you look so pale--” Suddenly Arthur was holding him at arms length, examining his clammy skin and scraggly, sink-splashed hair. His voice became urgent.  “What happened? What did you see?”

Francis exhaled a rattly breath. “You knew he was here, didn’t you? Fowler.”

“He didn’t see you did he?” Arthur asked immediately.

“No. I hid.”

Arthur’s grip slackened, and he sighed. He pulled Francis into a hug. “Good. I was worried.”

It felt strange to be held by Arthur in something that wasn’t combative and wasn’t romantic. Hugs like these where rare. Francis exhaled into Arthur’s shoulder, feeling the cloth of Arthur’s shirt turn hot underneath his nose as he closed his eyes.

Arthur’s scent steadied him, somehow. “I am fine” he said eventually, disentangling himself. “But I think I want to go back to my flat for the night.”

Arthur nodded understandingly, and reached for his jacket. “I’ll walk you.”

Watching Arthur pull on his socks and shoes, Francis felt a sting of guilt. The two of them had finally been ready to go and have sex, and he’d ruined it. Sighing, he pulled on the rest of his own clothes, grabbed his bag, and joined Arthur at the door.

As they exited the university’s campus and began their walk back across the darkened city streets, Francis could tell Arthur was trying to be funny to cheer him up.

“While I was waiting for you I kept thinking about if he showed up. Good thing, too, or else I wouldn’t have been able to button up these pants again; imagining his ugly face really is a cracking technique to kill a boner, I must admit.”

Francis's smile was grim. “I could not agree more.” He observed Arthur, and the way his acid green steak blended in with the rest of his hair underneath the dim lamplight. “How long ago did you find out that he was here?” He asked. He wasn’t angry at Arthur for keeping this from him. Had things been reversed, he would have done the exact same thing.

Nevertheless, Arthur’s eyes flicked to him apprehensively. “Second semester of the first year. He was in one of my classes.”

“What did you say to him?”

A crease came between Arthur’s eyebrows, and his voice dropped to a moody growl. “Didn’t say shit. Wouldn’t want to get thrown out of school, would I? Being thirty rows behind him in a lecture hall took all strength I had to not jump the seats and go turn his face into a checkerboard.”

Francis stared at the sidewalk passing underneath his feet for a moment. “You know, Rosbif, for a gentleman, you can be quite the punk sometimes.”

“Is it--?”

“Endearing? Yes.”

Turning up the collar of his jacket to the cold, Arthur laughed slightly. “I was going to say ‘frightening’, but that sounds loads better.”

Francis noticed the tinge of relief in his voice. He decided to put on a haughty air. “The only thing about you which I could ever be truly frightened about is your cooking.” Perhaps it wasn’t entirely true, but it had the desired effect. As Arthur began quipping back about snails and smelly cheese and such, Francis knew that he had put the Englishman at ease.

When they reached the front door, Francis turned to Arthur gratefully. “Merci, Arthur. We should...we should try this again sometime.”

Arthur ruffled the back of his already rebellious hair, mussing it up completely. “Right, yeah. I mean yes. Right. Just say the word.”

Francis giggled. When Arthur wasn’t being snappy and frumpy, or irate and domineering, he really was quite cute.

“Do you want to come in and sleep with me?” Francis asked. At the look Arthur gave him, he hurriedly corrected himself. “Not to have sex, I mean, but to save you the walk. I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t want those mauvais coquins out there to go after you while you are all by yourself.”

Arthur donned a cocky half smile. “Don’t worry about me, Frog. The movie cocoons are the ones who should be scared.”

“Mon Dieu, don’t ever try to pronounce that word again.”

“Oi, look who’s talking!” Arthur made an exasperated sound, before returning to the topic. “Anyways, I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, but...” Francis lowered his gaze, feeling the color rise in his face for the second damn time that night. “--Do you want to? It's...cold to be walking tonight.” There was no way he was going to admit the invitation was for his own benefit. There was no way he was going to say out loud that his heart was still racing from hearing that voice, and that having Arthur’s scent to bury his face into was the only way he was going to get any sleep tonight.

Luckily, he didn’t need to. Arthur’s gaze softened. “Alright, if you insist. I might as well thaw myself out now.”

They got ready for bed together.  Francis decided to sleep in his blue sweater and underwear that night, and Arthur stripped down to his undershirt and boxers. Then they slipped underneath the covers on the narrow bed and waited for sleep to come.

With his head tucked against Arthur’s shoulder, and safe in his nice warm flat, Francis figured that sleep would come to him quickly. “Désolé d'avance if I kick you in my sleep” he said to Arthur.

Arthur’s voice was drowsy already. “Sorry in advance if I steal the blanket and push you to the floor, in my sleep.”

“Pardonné”. Except for the distant hum of the motorway, and the bark of some tennant’s dog,  there was silence.

Francis listened to Arthur's heartbeat slow as the Englishman’s chest gradually took on the motion of a boat, rising and falling gently in a mild tide.

He thought about what had happened earlier in the day, and listened to his own heartbeat flutter like a caged bird. Fowler was there. Right there in Arthur’s building.

Was he worried about Arthur? No. Arthur may have been smaller than the beast, but he had already proved he could beat him in a fight once before. Was he worried about himself? No. Of course not. Perhaps a little. Maybe a lot. He didn’t believe that Fowler was going to go seeking him out, but the idea of him being so close still dug up a turmoil of murky emotions.

Francis laid with his cheek presses against Arthur’s chest for a while, eyes glistening with the reflection of the alarm clock as he stared at the little blue numbers that glared back through the darkness. 1:03. 1:03. 1:03. 1:04. Finally.

His head began to ache, so he closed his eyes...

Sitting at his desk in english class, Francis put his hand to his cheek and picked distastefully at the plaid skirt he had to wear as part of his school uniform. If Windle High was going to go the dress route, they should’ve at least had the taste to assign something fashionable.

He looked up to the teacher, a man with dull silver eyes and a dark grey suit. He wasn’t speaking English anymore, nor French, but instead was beginning to squawk and jabber like some sort of unintelligible parrot, as he clacked his ruler sharply on the chalkboard, pointing out scribbles that the rest of the class seemed to understand.

This was normal. Sighing, Francis raised his hand to go to the toilet, and suddenly he was sitting in a grimy cubic stall, listening to drip of the sink and staring glumly at the profanity scratched onto the inside of the door.

Then a boy’s malicious voice slapped against the bathroom walls. “Hey, Rent Boy, I’m here to collect.” The door to the stall burst open, and Fowler charged forward, his big, shiny, wet hands latching around Francis’s waist and shoving him against the side of the stall, causing his head to crack back and his butt to slide to the grimy, tiled floor.

Francis’s scalp burned as his hair was yanked and he realized was staring into the swirling depths of the stained porcelain bowl. “Go on” Fowler laughed “lap it all up, like the thirsty little bitch you are.”

The pressure on the back of Francis’s skull increased and he was plunged into the icy slime face first. He came up gasping, and trembling with the effort it took to breath as the water dripped and bled past the corner of his lips, touching his tongue.

“What’s wrong?” Fowler asked  “Frogs like the water, don’t they?”

As he was forced under again, his scream gargled through the toilet water; he knew he was going to drown, he knew it; but then there there was a yell from above the surface, and the hand on his head vanished. He resurfaced to see Arthur charging at Fowler, fists raised and leg whipping sharply through though the air, hooking the larger man in the face, and using the ensuing moment of disorientation to put him in a head lock and smash him against the stall until the man was bleeding and unconscious.

Letting Fowler’s body splat mercilessly into a puddle of toilet water, Arthur faced Francis and tapped his watch urgently. “Time is of the essence, Frog. You need an examination.”

Francis’s heart plummeted “An-an examination?”

Arthur rolled his eyes impatiently “Yes, now drop your skirt so we can get on with it.”

Shaking his head in horror, Francis took a step back from him, and heard his own voice echo the eerily familiar phrase “No, you are insane...I do not want to do this.”

“Come on, Frog, don’t be a Jessie” Arthur growled, taking a step closer.

“Non! Ne me regarde pas!” Francis cried. He turned to escape, only to feel a hand close roughly around his wrist. His voice cracked into a pitifully high-pitched shriek as Arthur yanked him to his chest, and caught his other arm in his fist.

“Come on Frog, you know you can’t win” Arthur’s breath was hot in Francis’s face, and he was grinning. Francis felt his chest constrict in panic and he pulled desperately, feeling his shoulders pop as he whipped around, only to have his arms crossed over his own chest and Arthur’s hard body pressed against his back.

He let out a sharp cry as Arthur bowed, causing him to fold forward as well. He felt Arthur’s hand on his thigh, pulling at the skirt, and he tried jerking away, beginning to dissolve into tears as he managed to get a hand around Arthur’s wrist but possessed no ability to pull it away.

And then the clock on Arthur’s wrist changed from 1:03 to 1:04, and Francis was flipped around to see Arthur’s face twisted into an expression of rage. Francis’s wet hair slapped across his face as the brit wove his hands roughly into the neck of his shirt and began shaking him, shouting, “If you hadn’t waited we could’ve got him, you stupid coward!”

At these words, the bathroom vanished, and so did Arthur. Francis was laying on his back on some sort of table, everything around him smudged out by darkness, except for the single yellow light humming above his head.

Francis shivered. The air smelled fowl. He was naked. He lifted his head slightly, and as his traveled downward, his soul froze.

His belly was sliced open, the skin and fatty tissue peeled back to reveal a sprawl of bleeding, filth-coated intestines.

His head dropped back, face green in the light as he stared wildly up at a grey-eyed surgeon with a pair of bloody blue gloves. “The results of this examination have confirmed our previous suspicions,” the man’s voice said icily from behind his paper face mask.  “Mr. Bonnefoy’s intestines do not offer any incriminating evidence against Mr. Fowler. Our findings only confirm that he is full of shit.”

Francis’s eyes snapped open.  The only thing he saw was more darkness, except for a little blue light that read 4:36. Head spinning, he lifted Arthur’s unconscious arm off of his belly, and sat up in bed. Getting up, he crossed the room to his pathetic little excuse for a kitchen, and pulled down a bottle of wine.

Pouring it into a large paper cup, Francis leaned against the counter and brought the alcohol to his mouth. He drained most of the liquid in a single swig. Giirating the cup slowly, he stared moodily at the remaining swill of dark red liquid, and thought about France, and England, and Arthur, and Fowler, and himself, and his simmering disgust at his own weakness.

He finished his drink and returned to bed, where Arthur was laying with his arms sprawled out as if he were trying to claim the entire mattress for his own. Francis moved one of the arms, and nudged himself a spot again.

“Hey Arthur?”

Arthur didn’t respond, so Francis picked up one of the arms, and began slapping Arthur lightly in the face with his own hand.

“Nggrr--fuck off, Captain Hook…” There was a loud groan, and then Arthur seemed to resurface as he blinked a few times and slurred out something that sounded like, “Oh, issyou...Fackoff Francis, can’t yeh bloody see I’m tryinta git soom damn shuteye here?”

Francis decided to get right to the point. “Arthur, when is your Taekwondo class?”

The brit rolled over to the opposite wall, grumbling, “Every Tuesday Thursday at seven ten.”

“I think I want to do it.” Francis’s heart bounced as he waited for Arthur’s response.

There was a loud yawn. Then, a low growl of: “Good. I can teach you how to beat the fucking tar out of you for waking me up at this sodding hour of the goddamn morning.”

Notes:

Translations:
mauvais coquins: bad rogues/ ruffians
Désolé d'avance: sorry in advance
Pardonné: forgiven
Non! Ne me regarde pas: No! Do not look at me

Chapter 5

Francis was nervous for this upcoming Tuesday. Excited too, but more nervous.

He had never done anything like a martial art before. Outside of being coerced into the occasional game of football with his friends, or enjoying the relaxing rhythm of a smooth bicycle ride through his old city, athletics were very much out of his spectrum of interest. He had never been attracted to the idea of militant training regiments or bossy coaches, and it seemed that this was exactly what he was getting himself into.

“Just remember to do as you’re told,” Arthur had told him, when he had asked for pointers the Monday before. “The correct answer is always ‘Yes, Sir.’” He eyed Francis with an ominous half-grin. “Think you’ll be able to manage it without going into protest?”

Tracing Arthur’s gaze defiantly, Francis crossed his arms and replied, “I have served food in the snobbiest district of Paris, mon ami.” Really, he was probably the best person in the world when it came to self discipline and-slash-or humility. Except when it came to his cooking. Or his clothes. Or his looks, or his libido. Okay, perhaps he wasn’t the best. But he could manage.

He decided to change the topic to clothes. “What do I wear? You have a uniform, non? Does everybody have one of those?”

“Not everybody, just some of the higher belt students. We didn’t have them at all until last year, when we started fundraising for ourselves.”

“Oh, You got them through fundraising? That explains it.”

“Shut it. These are the standard design, I’ll have you know. If you’re going to be mouthing off about them, I’d suggest you get sparring pads, because Master Soo will kick the stick right out of your arse and beat you over the head with it.”

Francis found himself to be unconsciously fiddling with the edge of his shirt. He had not met nor seen this infamous “Master Soo” character yet. His only interaction so far had been sending an email expressing his desire to join the class; Arthur had told him that this was important because 1)it would allow the man to adjust his lesson plans accordingly, 2)it served as an introduction, and 3)it would help put Francis on Master Soo’s good side. It was always better to start on Master Soo’s good side. “Is Master Soo mean?” Francis asked.

A flash of amusement flitted across Arthur’s face. “Master Soo is...well, Master Soo is Master Soo.” Obviously relishing the look of dread that splashed across Francis’s visage, Arthur slapped him on the shoulder and smothered his laughter poorly. “He’s--what would you call it? Oh yeah, endearing. You’ll see.”

The next day, at 6:00, Francis dressed himself in a plain white T shirt and the pair of sweatpants he owned but never once in his life considered wearing out into public, and went out into public. At 6:30, he met Arthur in the lobby of the university’s Athletic center.

“Look at you!” Arthur said as they both showed their ID’s at the desk, and then went for the door to the left. “For once wearing a crusty old pair of sweatpants, like a normal bloke. Uniform’s not looking so bad now, eh?”

Francis’s tense voice echoed as they began crossing through through an empty gymnasium. “Are you still upset that I insulted your clothes, Arthur? I’m sorry, I did not realize you were so sensitive about them. I suppose some men just have fragile confidence.”

They got to the end of the gymnasium, and Arthur motioned to a door on the right, giving Francis an ominous look. “Are you sure you want to be saying all that to me right before we enter a martial arts class?”

The room that they entered was a padded offshoot of the gymnasium. The floor along the edge was a strip of cement crowded with shoes, water bottles, and gym bags, and after that began an expanse of electric-orange mat where a few students already were, warming up and stretching before the class started. The loud, rattly thunks of one student practicing on a punching bag in the corner forced Francis to raise his voice as he replied to Arthur with a misleadingly confident sneer of, “Do your worst.” A stupid command, really. But Francis felt that he had, by agreeing to participate in a sport with Arthur, already locked himself into the behavioural pattern of brash competitiveness. That was how sports went, wasn’t it?

Arthur simply raised an eyebrow at him. Then he bowed, just before stepping onto the mat.

Francis watched carefully as Arthur did it. “Is that necessary?” He asked, forever suspicious of Arthur conniving him into doing something to make him look foolish. “To make it look like I have dropped the soap in public shower, I mean?”

“Careful Francis. I’m on the mat now, so I can officially smash the cheese filling out of you.”

Before Francis responded, a middle aged student with a long dark ponytail and bright green belt crossed over the threshold of the mat, bowing as he did so.

Francis gave the mat a delicate bow, and entered. “Well, now that I have the example of a trustworthy stranger, this 'cheese beating' will no longer be necessary. Although you know I would be happy for you to do it later tonight, if you feel so inclined.”

Arthur unlinked his arm from where he had it bent in a stretch above his head, and was looking at Francis with a very ominous expression indeed, when suddenly, a sharp voice bit into the room. Master Soo had entered the mat. The word he had yelled was something that sounded to Francis like the English word “Chariot”. At this word, every member of the class snapped to attention and darted into line at the front of the room. Francis had a confused moment of hesitation, when he realized that he couldn’t follow Arthur to the beginning of the line, because that was evidently where the higher level belts went. To the end of the line he went, left of a dirty-blonde girl with a white belt knotted around her waist.

Francis took the opportunity of standing in line to finally analyze the appearance of this Master Soo. Arthur had mentioned that the Korean man was in his early forties, but looking at his exceptionally healthy appearance, Francis wouldn’t have guessed it. His hair, though short,  was thick, black, and somewhat spiky, in a windswept sort of way. His face was square, with rather delicate, handsome features, and he wore a jet black uniform with a long V down the front, which revealed a smooth, hairless chest and the upper edge of a belly bursting with abdominal muscles. His black belt was worn to grey at the edges, and loaded with several gold-colored stripes.

He faced the class (which was pushing ten as far as attendance went) and gazed upon them all with the the air of an eagle-eyed father surveying his clan before battle.

“Tell me, what does Chariyut mean?” Master Soo asked in a crisp voice.

Francis startled a bit as the class shouted, “Feet together, hands by your sides, look straight ahead, don’t move any part of your body, Sir!”

The Korean man’s voice seemed to slap them all across the face. “I cannot hear you! I said what does Chariyut mean?”

Francis could feel their voices vibrating up through the soles of his feet as the class dialed up the volume and screamed, “FEET TOGETHER, HANDS BY YOUR SIDES, LOOK STRAIGHT AHEAD, DON’T MOVE ANY PART OF YOUR BODY, SIR!”

“Good. Answer loud.” Master Soo said, lowering his voice to an appeased growl. He motioned to Francis, and Francis’s back stiffened. “Today is we have new student” Master Soo told the class, in a somewhat broken format of English. “His name is Francis. For his purposes, we will be doing the more basic motions. Set good examples, or I will come and kick you.”

“Yes, Sir” the class responded.

Master Soo gave Francis a respectful nod. “Just follow along for today's. I will save kicking you for next class.”

Then Master Soo turned sleekly away from them, to face the opposite wall, which had a South Korean flag and a British flag hanging upon it. Facing the two flags, the master called out “Kukki ye kyung yet”, and everyone bowed. Then he turned to the class, everyone bowed to him, and he bowed to everyone, using a greeting that the class echoed back and Francis copied phonetically, to the best of his ability, by saying, “Onion hash amiga”. Luckily for him, his voice blended in with everybody else, so it was hard to pick out his mistake from the surrounding chorus of “ahnyong hasimnika”.

When everyone had straightened up, the master puffed out his chest and bellowed, “cha young jah!” Out of the corner of his eye, Francis saw everybody else turn gracefully, all at once, and all in the same direction, so that they were facing the back of the room.

Intimidated by the sheer in-sinc-ness of it, Francis bumbled in his spot, turning to the left, then realizing it was wrong because everybody else had turned to the right and so he turned and…merde.  Finally facing the correct direction, he realized that there was a mirror on the opposite wall and he could see his own slightly red face, as well as the eyes of the rest of his classmates. Luckily, they were all staring straight ahead, not paying any heed to anything outside of their own direct line of sight. Apparently, new people looking like idiots was a dull and unsurprising affair for the other people in this class. He could breathe easy. And then--

“Assistant Instructor Kirkland leads the warm ups.”

“Yes, Sir” Arthur answered. Francis felt a contraction of horror. Arthur was the ‘assistant instructor’? As in, he was partially in charge of things? Francis could hardly think of a greater opportunity for abuse of power; as his blue eyes flashed up to watch his worst friend, best enemy, and beloved, despicable boyfriend moving to the front of the class, he saw a streak of the cockiest shade of green he had ever encountered in his life, and he knew Arthur had withheld this information from him just so that he could savor the moment when he could gaze upon the comprehension of doom that had dropped across Francis’s face at the words ‘Assistant instructor’.

When Arthur faced the class, however, he looked professional and collected. “Alright everybody, hands on your knees and rotate. Ready? Hana, Dul, Set, Net…”

As Arthur began doing what Francis could only assume was counting in Korean numbers, Francis copied the class and bent his knees slightly, putting his hands on them and rotating in small circles.

Arthur lead them through a few more stretches, as well as a few jumping jacks and push ups. It wasn’t horrible, in Francis’s opinion. Perhaps the pushups weren’t quite his forte, but he managed to get through a set of ten without much trouble. He was just beginning to feel like a bonafide badass. Here he was in a martial arts class, getting stronger and working his muscles like all the other manly men (and the three or so girls) in the room.

Then Arthur’s voice rang out for the final stretch. “Everybody on the floor. Good. Now open your legs into a split--” Spreading his feet far apart, Arthur gave Francis a chiding glance as he undoubtedly saw the Frenchman’s eyes fall to his crotch like an apple dropping to the center of the earth. Francis responded to Arthur with a little smirk of his own as he opened his legs, just a bit further than Arthur’s.

“Good” Arthur said, supposedly to the class in general. “Now, if you can, flip over.” Arthur flipped himself so that his forearms were resting on the mat, and the entire force of the earth’s gravity was helping him to rip himself in half at the pelvis.  

Of course Francis had to outdo him. It was obviously a challenge, at this point. Francis flipped himself over, the searing tension in his thighs only causing him to feel superior as he looked over and saw that his split was deeper than Arthur’s. If there was any athletic attribute he could pride himself on, it was his flexibility. During his time in Paris, he had utilized and refined this hidden talent for the purpose of pleasing his various lovers. Outside of that, he found it was useful for weazling his way into difficult clothing, and for the purpose of striking complicated poses in front of the bathroom mirror, once said clothing was on.

And now, he had beaten Arthur in his own Taekwondo class. Ha.

Out of the corner of his eye, Francis saw Master Soo (who, having been closest to the flags, was now in the back of the class) rising up from his own split. There was a squeak of a foot sliding slightly on the mat, and one of the student’s grunt of “Thank you Sir.”
Then again. Squeak… “Thank you Sir.”

Squeak… “Thank you Sir.”

Oh Dieu, he was getting closer. Francis watched, only slightly slack jawed, as the man went over to Arthur and said, “You want help, Assistant Instructor?”

Arthur’s voice was muffled because he was facing the floor, but still rather loud and clear as he responded, “Yes Sir.”

The Korean man smiled, and hooked a foot around Arthur’s ankle, drawing it out so that his hips were even farther apart and his teeth were gritted. And then Arthur said, “Thank you, Sir” as if it were the most pleasant gift he had ever received.

Master Soo’s eyes caught onto Francis, and from his spot on the floor, Francis saw them widen. “Francis! You are more flexible as the girls!” Grinning like a cow farmer who had discovered a prize heffer, the master rushed over to Francis and announced, “I will help you” before hooking Francis by the ankle. Francis bowed his head and sucked in a painful amount of air as his ankle was coaxed out, and his split widened. The floor was so much closer to his face now: this had to be his limit, he thought. And then the maniac crossed to the other side and began pulling out Francis’s other ankle, saying, “I think we can get you to horizontals! Excellent!”

Francis’s balls were literally touching the floor. He could feel them. Touching. Turning the side of his face against the mat (because he was effectively prostrated, at this point), Francis could sense the delight radiating from the Korean man, and he could tell that it was directly proportional to the amount of pain that he himself was feeling in his body at this very moment. Eyes watering, he managed to look over at Arthur, and he saw the brit, through his own pain, purse his lips in an expression that conveyed the clear message of: “Whelp. I no longer feel bad for myself. Cheers.”

Francis then looked up to Master Soo and winced out the words, “Thank you, Sir” just like everybody else.

After the warm ups, Master Soo called them all to attention again. Standing stiffly at the end of the line, Francis felt as if he were part of a unit being counseled by their general as the Master began pacing slowly before them. “The first things that the Taekwondo student learns is the basic Ten Motions” the man told the class sternly. “For beginners they will be learning it new. For the rest of you…” A grin crept across his face “...this is a test to see what you remember. Make a mistakes and twenty push ups.”

“Yes, Sir!”

“First I will demonstrate.” As the master faced the class, Francis could see a glaze of internal focus fall across his eyes. As if an electric current had run through his spine, he stood straight, still, and silent. And then he lifted his left foot, and brought it down forcefully about a shoulder width length away from his other foot. “One Sir!” He yelled. Raising his forams and he created two fists in front of his face, accompanied by a holler of “Two Sir!” Lowering his arms and pushing his fists out in front him,  he shouted “Three Sir!” “Four Sir!” was him unfurling his fists into blades, and crossing them over his head in an X, before snapping them down to his sides in the form of fists again. At the same time, he moved his foot out further, into something that looked like the a wider and even less graceful version of a squat.  There was a very plain, basic punch forward with the left. “Five Sir!” The same with the right. “Six Sir!” The fists went in front of his face again. “Seven Sir!” He got out of that God awful squat thing. “Eight Sir!” He pushed his fists out in front again “Nine Sir!” He stepped so that his feet were together, and he slapped his hands back to his sides, so he was back to how he had been in the beginning. “Ten Sir!” Then he bowed and said, “Thank you, Sir.”

All in all, it was quite underwhelming.

When the time came for the entire class to demonstrate back, Francis was able to follow along (sloppily, but not horribly since being at the back of the line meant he could watch everybody else) and it didn’t seem like anybody else had any particular trouble with it either. And yet, when they finished, the Master shook his head. “How ugly!” He said, sounding, in Francis’s opinion, uncomfortably similar to himself. “Show me your powers!”

The class began again. “One Sir, Two Sir, Three--” The Korean man cupped and hand to his ear and called out, “I cannot hear you!”

“--Four Sir, Five Sir, Six Sir--”

“Why do I not hear the air snapping in your sleeves? More powers!”

“--SEVEN SIR, EIGHT SIR, NINE SIR, TEN SIR! THANK YOU SIR!”

“Better” Master Soo growled. His eyes slid from one student to the other. “The reasons we are doing this is that it is never easy. When you are beginners, it is completely new to you. When you become the more advanced, you forget what makes ten motions ten motions. Respect for the beginners. Learning the confidence.” His eyes slid to Francis, and instantly Francis felt like a Catholic schoolboy about to be whacked by a nun. “More confidence, Francis. Next time, show me the yell louder. This is your motions. You will be performing the motions for your first testing, if you wish to get to white belt.”

Testing? There were tests in this sport? The Ten Motions might have been clunky, basic, and short, but Francis could already feel himself forgetting them. The only reason he had been able to do it was because he had been able to watch the others. He had to perform it? Himself? In front of people? Had Francis not been talking to a muscle-bound, blackbelt-wearing scream-machine, he might have expressed his displeasure, but it seemed that the wiser response in this case would be a nice and healthy, “Yes, Sir.”

His voice cracked a little when he said it. His throat was sore from all the yelling and dry from the anxiety of being spoken to in front of the whole class.

“Again. More confidence!” Master Soo bellowed.

“Yes Sir.” Francis said a bit more loudly. The Master nodded, probably as praise for the improvement rather than the product. If the it was anything close to a reflection of how Francis felt, his voice couldn’t have sounded very confident.

After about twenty more minutes of practicing, Master Soo interrupted the class with a single, sharp command. “Chariyut! Time for self defense techniques. Two lines. Dimitri with Emily. Charles with Murray. Rain with Ali. Simon with Penny. Arthur with Francis. Go. Then I'll show you."

For the demonstration, Master Soo called over the student who had been practicing on the punching bag earlier; the guy was a muscle bound hunk with a scar under his eye and a red and black belt tied around his waist. He was about twice the Korean man’s size.

“Dimitri, grab my collar. Hold tight.” The master stood taught as the larger man curled a fist into the collar of his uniform. “Ready? Watch.” Slapping a hand over Dimitri’s, the master swiftly pulled away, pressed his arm into a locked position, and had him twisted upon the floor within seconds. Releasing, he beckoned Dimitri up and demonstrated again, but more slowly. “This hand goes here. These fingers up, these down, then grab. Stepping sides and taking other arms. Got it?”

Francis didn’t get it. The whole thing had seemed like something out of a Ninja movie. Even slowed down, the nuances of the motions were completely lost to him. The master must have caught his expression, because a shadow of humor passed across his face and he raised his voice to a drill sergeant’s roar and asked, “CAN YOU UNDERSTAND MY ENGLISH, FRANCIS?”

“Yes Sir!” Francis squeaked immediately, terror of offending the man flooding his senses.

“GOOD. IT IS VERY BAD.” Master Soo started laughing, earning a chuckle from the rest of the class, who, through their amusement, shot Francis some empathetic smiles. Francis, getting the overwhelming hunch that he had just experienced some sort of right of passage, began to feel a sense of relief, which was soon followed by the sense of humor that was circulating fast throughout the rest of the class. And then Master Soo silenced them. “Joyonghi hae! Too much fun!” He yelled at them, in what Francis was beginning to realize was a facade of outrage. “Everybody practice with partners. Begin.”

It was then that Francis remembered who he was working with, and how painful that arm twist had looked when Master Soo had demonstrated on Dimitri. Francis and Arthur faced each other, each eyeing the other with a shrewdly distrustful familiarly. “Alright” Arthur said grimly. “You’re the inexperienced one, so I suppose I have to let you try it out on me first.” The green of his eyes seemed to emit a wave of intensity as he took a step closer. Extending his hand, and grabbed a fistful of the neck of Francis’s shirt. “Try it slowly.”

Francis stalled. “Um…” what had Master Soo done with his hands? Francis decided to grab Arthur by the wrist.

“No, that’s wrong.” Arthur said immediately. Francis experienced a flashback to high school, and the blatantly critical manner Arthur had tutored him with then. “Put your hand on mine.”

Francis blinked, and watched Arthur’s serious expression as he moved his hand so that it covered Arthur’s; it looked as though they were both feeling for Francis’s heartbeat.

“Okay, now grip it.”

Francis gripped it.

“No, y’dunce, grip it so that you can feel my palm too. It’s not a cold fish! Keep your fist straight. Right. Make sure you have leverage against my wrist.”

Francis followed Arthur’s suggestion, and watched as Arthur was maneuvered a little bit closer to him, and put at a slightly awkward arm angle, but nothing like the hold Master Soo had demonstrated. “This is not working.” Francis announced.

“That’s because you didn’t step out with your foot.”

“Like this?”

“No, to the side.”

“Here?”

“No, the other side.”

“Here?”

“Sort of.”

“It still isn’t working.”

“Of course not. You’re doing it wrong.”

“But how?” Francis asked,  a dash of frustration beginning to season his tone. “What am I doing differently?”

“You didn’t apply any pressure to the inside of my arm” Arthur told him, looking awkward in his strange but incorrect position of entanglement in Francis’s arms. “Do you want me to just show you?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, it’s my time to practice, so you’re getting it anyways.” Shaking off Francis’s grasp, Arthur took a step back and squared his shoulders. “Grab my collar like you’re about to mug me.”

Francis took a fistful of the neck of Arthur’s shirt, feeling the warmth of the other’s skin settle underneath his knuckles.

“Ready? Watch.” Arthur slapped a hand over Francis’s, and Francis felt a set of fingers slide deftly into place around his palm. At the same time, Arthur’s free hand went to the captured arm's inner elbow, he stepped out to the side, and he used a single finger to apply a pressure which caused Francis to lurch forward, his arm threatening to bend into a fracture if he didn’t move as the pressure from Arthur’s finger dictated.

“See, look” Arthur said; he moved backwards, and Francis felt himself led like a dog on a leash after him. “When I step out, I can drag you. When I cock up my hand, your forearm is locked and I can make you...yes, kneel.”

From his place on the floor, Francis fixed the Brit with a critical gaze.“Are you enjoying this, Arthur?”

Arthur’s mouth curled into a half grin, and he let go of Francis’s arm. “Perhaps a bit. But only because I know you’ll do just the same to me, once you figure out how to do it.”

They re-positioned themselves across from each other. Arthur reached out and took Francis by the collar. “Think you can shake me off, Frog?”

Francis gripped his hand and stepped to the side. Remembering what Arthur had shown him about the pressure point, he used his free arm to push on Arthur’s inner elbow, and instantly, Arthur became his puppet.

Francis felt a grin spread across his face as he cocked his wrist up, and watched Arthur wince and drop to one knee. Stepping back, he forced Arthur to crawl along on the floor after him, and he laughed when Arthur looked up at him and said “Blimey, you’re quite the sadist, aren’t you?”

Master Soo chose that moment to come over and inspect their progress. “Excellent, Francis!” he shouted, slapping Francis on the shoulder. He smiled down to the image of his star student pretzeled upon the floor. “Assistant Instructor Arthur is a good teacher. Very good, Arthur. Reward is thirty pushups!”

Arthur winced as his arm was release and responded with a hearty, “Thank you, Sir!”

As Arthur began his set, Francis began to smirk; Master Soo continued, “Francis is quick student. Good learner. Reward is deep squatting until Assistant Instructor Arthur finishes his pushups!”

Francis pursed his lips as he began his squat and Master Soo gave them both an affirmative nod. “Push ups slowly, Assistant Instructor. Betters for both of you.”

As the burn began to circle up his thighs, and Arthur’s voice emitted a strained call of “nine sir, ten sir, eleven sir…” Francis realized that really, there were no winners in this sport.

Just as Arthur was finishing his pushups, and Francis’s thighs were trembling with the effort of keeping up his own “reward," the sound of Master Soo’s voice pounded throughout the room. “Chariyut!”

Tired, sweaty, and sore, Francis followed along as everybody snapped to attention for receiving the final instructions. “Everybody on the floors.” Master Soo demanded. “One hundred crunches. Sijak.”

Immediately the mat was covered with the furious motions of every student curling their torsos inches from the floor, then releasing--up, down, up--like an army of scuttling beetles that had all been turned on their backs. With his remaining energy, Francis glanced to Arthur and adjusted himself to look the same, with his hands crossed over his chest and his ankles crossed in the air.

As the burn began to snake around the muscles at the base of his ribcage, Francis noticed the master meander over to the start of the line, and begin walking in a strange, up down sort of way. And then Francis nearly fainted when he realized that the man was taking turns walking across people’s stomachs, as they did crunches.

“Good, Charles, make the tighter”--an appeased, but advisory comment as he tread over the man with the ponytail.

“Demitri--” the tone was chiding and almost sing-song as he tread over the burly body of muscle “--you are feeling softers. No good.”

He walked over the dirty blonde girl. And then gave her a proud, approving nod of enthusiasm and shouted, “Emily is a strong girl!” Backpedaling, he walked over her again and shouted, “Strong girl! Very good!” Before stepping on Arthur and growling, “Assistant Instructor Arthur, good, good. Two hundred crunches next time.”

Francis felt a minor contraction of horror as the smiling face of the Master came to float over his line of sight. A foot settled on top of his aching abdominal muscles, gave him a poke, and then retreated. “Good. Francis. Next time I will walk on you too.”

And despite the pain seeping into his muscles, the sweat beading into his eyes, and the breath catching in his lungs as he crunched, for some insane and completely irrational reason, Francis found himself to be oddly looking forward to it.

At the end of class, Master Soo called them all to line up in front of the flags, like they had at the start.

“Kukki ye kyung yet!” Everybody bowed to flags. “Kamsahamnida” The master turned to them, and bowed, as the class returned the motion. His eyes flicked to Francis. “That means ‘thank you’.” Then he straightened and said, “Alright; the circles!” and the class clustered around him in a crescent shape, to receive the closing pep talk.

“You are all improved a lot from the times I first saw you” The Korean man began, eyes flicking to each of his students’ faces in turn. “But no matter how good you get, always remembering what it is like to be beginners. Always you have a new motions to learn, if you are going to keep improving. Because of that, you are all beginners.” His dark, tree-trunk colored eyes lingered on Francis. “Today we have our newest beginner. He did a good job. Give him a claps.”

Francis could feel his face starting to turn slightly warm as the class began applauding him. It felt like he were a child at a birthday party, being applauded for simply showing up. He checked to see if Arthur had on a mocking smile. He didn’t though. His face was straight, his clapping earnest. Did he look...proud? No, impossible.

The clapping simmered down. Master Soo’s eyes did another round about the circle. “Martial Arts class is not the same as other sports. We are not competing against each others. Am I competing against you, whitebelt Emily?”

“No Sir.”

“Am I competing against you, Bodan Dimitri?”

“No Sir.”

“Right. In Martial Arts class, we have young, old, white belt, black belt, womans, mans, large, and small. All different. Competing against ourselves, and then we get better. Best self.” He gave everybody a stern and almost parental look. “Respect each others. Help each others.” His eyes darted one more time to Francis, before settling on Arthur. “Support each others.”

“Yes Sir.” The class responded. Master Soo put his hand out in the center, and everybody crowded around to place theirs in the pile along with him.

“Excellent. One, two, three--choegogadoeda! Dismissed.”

Notes:

Translations(Oh God so many)

Korean
Chariyut:attention
Kukki ye kyung yet:command to bow to flags
ahnyong hasimnika: how are you Sir?
cha young jah: turn around(to face mirrors)
Hana, Dul, Set, Net...: One, Two, Three, Four...
Joyonghi hae!: Be quiet!
Sijak: Begin
Kamsahamnida: thank you
Bodan: belt level below blackbelt. It is half red and half black. Sometimes a person's belt color can be used as a title in class
choegogadoeda!: be the best!

 

Note: Korean Translations to English can have many variations in spelling because they are determined phonetically(as Korean does not use the same alphabet as English

 

French
mon ami: my friend
merde:shit
Oh Dieu: oh God

And here I present to you, Master Soo, my interpretation of the Hetalia character of South Korea. He is also based on my martial arts master, who I'm close to and have known for...oh God...almost a decade now...? For roughly a half of my life. I just did the math. Holy shit.

I have mixed feeling about writing in his accent. I know it can be challenging, frustrating, and mentally exhausting for a person to have to constantly converse in a language that isn't their first. Not to mention displaying the amount of energy that it takes to successfully run a Taekwondo class this way. (Everything Master Soo is doing in this chapter is so f*cking energy intensive--think about it, it's not just teaching exercise, it's creating yourself a personality that's strong enough to lift up everybody around you. It's just so much.) But anyways, yeah. I've considered taking the writing of the accent out before, but it almost feels like more of a disrespect to pretend it shouldn't be there. The things Master Soo says about air snapping the sleeves and the making fun of his own accent to scare the students are things my Master has said on multiple occasions. To me they feel unique and familiar.

If you feel any sort of way about my explanation, feel free to let me know. I say all this first so you know that I have put a heavy amount of thought into this, because I feel it's better not mask differences, but to present people the way they are and convey that their qualities should all be respected.

Chapter 6

“What on God’s Earth is taking you so long?”

 

“J'ai presque fini.”

 

“Finished with what? Arranging the train on your bloody wedding gown?”

 

“Rasage.”

 

“Really? You do that? Incredible. If you don’t hurry up I’m going to piss myself, y’hear? And then we’ll arrive late and get our buttocks handed to us by Master Soo.”

 

There was a loud, exasperated sigh on the other side of the bathroom door. “Arrête de pleurnicher! Voilà.” The handle clicked upward and the door was kicked open, revealing a very annoyed Frenchman with half his face coated in a white foam, and holding a razor with a scraping of lather along the edge. “Empty yourself, mon chameau, and then get the hell out of my bathroom.”

 

Squeezing past him, Arthur unzipped his fly and sighed as the sound of pee draining from his body and drizzling into the toilet met his ears.

“You better be done by the time I finish urinating.” Arthur warned.

 

Due to the smallness of the bathroom, they were standing back to back, and the vibration of Francis speaking gave Arthur the odd feeling that a cat was laying vertically across his deltoids as the Frenchman retorted. “Careful, mon amour. I am the one with the razor, and you are the one with your dick out.”

 

“Oh please” Arthur said, raising his voice over the flush of the toilet. “You know you’d miss it.”

 

In a blaze of bickering and sprinting, they managed not to be tardy to Taekwondo. Francis was relieved. It was only his second week as Master Soo's student, and he had almost been late for the last lesson he had attended. However, when they got there, they were actually a bit early. In fact,compared to their still-warming-up classmates, their perfect combination of drenched in seat and choking on air seemed to put them ahead of the game.

 

Emily, the white belt with the messy, dirty blonde hair, dropped a conversation she’d been having with Bo Dan Demitri so that she could make fun of Arthur. “Ew, Assistant Instructor Arthur is all gross and sweaty.” She announced, sticking out her tongue in a childish, but somehow not unseemly manner.

 

Arthur straightened up from where he had been panting, hands on his knees, and gave her a pained look of ruddy-faced injustice “Oi, he’s just as sweaty as I am!” He gasped, gesturing to Francis, who lay sprawled on the floor, pretending to do some sort of leg stretch as he indeed was slowly dying.

 

“Yeah, but he’s not as totally gross.” The girl teased. Francis realized that she must have been a foreign student as well, judging by her shrilly American accent.

 

“See…mon ami?” He choked through his exhaustion “it’s because...I wear...cologne.”
As Francis regained his breath and groaned out of his fake stretch, Arthur bristled at him “Don’t make me Ax Kick you in the face, My Dear.”

Francis batted his eyes. “But wouldn’t that be cruel mon amour? For an experienced--what would you call yourself again?” Francis’s eyes flitted haughtily to the half-black-half red, three striped belt that circled around Arthur’s waist.

“Level three Bo Dan” Arthur snipped “One test away from Il Dan”

“Ah yes. Il Dan. That word has so much meaning to me.”

“Black Belt, y’wanker! Do we need to go back to learning with flashcards?”

Francis shot a sly grin in Emily’s direction before responding.“If it means you getting caught grinding me into a chair in a public location, then by all means let us return to it.” Besides from wine and sex, there really was no higher delight than amusing an audience at Arthur's expense.

Arthur, evidently taking advantage of the fact that they were on the mat, pounced on Francis and circled his arms so that he had a particular leverage around Francis’s waist; Francis made sure to cling to Arthur’s back as the flip was administered, causing Arthur to come down with him. From the ground there was an “Uph” from Arthur, as Francis kneed him in the stomach, and a shriek from Francis, as Arthur twisted his elbow.

As the American began chanting  “Fight fight fight!”, the two rolled and scrabbled around on the floor, until--

“A bit more physical than in highschool” Francis panted, grinning up at Arthur despite being underneath him, pinned on the mat. Though apparently losing, his foot had found a convenient location just above Arthur’s groin, and the more he pressed, the redder he could see Arthur’s face turning. He smirked. “But the same idea, nonetheless.”

“Just as perverted as always, y’little cheese monkey” Arthur winced. “When will you learn to show some bloody--” Twisting quickly, Arthur moved himself from the position; Francis scrambled a few feet, shouting “Vive la France!”

And Arthur hollered “No yeh don’t yeh cheeky bastard!”, lunged forward, and tackled from behind.  Like a pair of whales flopping un-gracefully into the water, they crashed resolutely back to the floor.

 

“Abuse!” Shrieked Francis, determined to make a glaring scene, as a last attempt to have a little fun and put a bee up Arthur’s bonnet. “Big blackbelt Arthur is assaulting the poor little no-belt!”

Emily puffed out her chest. “Don’t worry, no-belt Francis, I’ll be the hero!”

Her foot came flying forward and Arthur’s arm reacted instinctively, snapping up and baring his forearm to block it. Francis saw the opportunity to escape, and bounced upward to liberte.

“Ah” Arthur grumbled, getting up and dusting himself off. “He deserves it, mark my words.”

The American shrugged, grinning in a young, scrunchy-nosed way. “What can I say? I’ll always find the opportunity to put a bug up your butt, ya big bad brit.”

“My” Francis said, coming gracefully to Arthur’s side, and dropping a hand nonchalantly to his ass “I like her already.”

As Arthur shouted (“Oi!”) and clocked Francis in the ribs for the pass, and Francis responded by giving Arthur a surprise lick on the cheek, Emily’s eyes pinched into a meaningful squint, and her teeth glinted in a standoffish grin. “So you two are together, I’m guessing?”

“Unfortunately” Arthur said, rubbing some spit from the side of his face. “Is it that obvious?”
The girl snorted. “You flirt like a pair of teenagers and fight like an old married couple...on steroids.”

Arthur rolled his eyes at the American’s latest quip. “Wot, are y’ jealous, lass? Going to give him a thrashing when I’m not looking? Go for it, I won’t get mad.” Francis sensed something of a familiarity in the way Arthur and the girl interacted. She knew how to push his buttons, and he, hers.

The girl turned red, scraggly blonde hair seeming to bristle with electricity as she let out a loud burst of laughter. “Ha! Jealous? I don’t need your gay ass. There are plenty of other fish in the sea!”

Francis blinked. It seemed he had discovered Arthur’s ex-girlfriend.

“This gay arse could kick your arse, Whitebelt Emily.”

“That would make you a villain, Assistant Instructor Arthur. Only villains kick ladies like me!”

“‘Lady’? The number of times I’ve seen you spit your gum out like you were aiming for a canteen across a saloon, I’d bet my bollocks you were some barmy old bloke in another lifetime.”

“Uhk, you are so old-fashioned, Arthur. Bad manners are a sign of personality in a girl!”

“Congratulations. You've got the most heaping plate of personality in this room.”

“Damn straight” she grinned, and, reaching her hand down the front of her shirt, she produced a smushed stick of gum, unwrapped it, and popped it into her mouth, smiling as Arthur shook his head and watched her stuff the wrapper back into her bra for storage.

Francis, ever the devil’s advocate, decided to take the opportunity to make fun of both of them. Leaning over Arthur’s shoulder he said  “I'm sorry for teasing you about it earlier, mon lapin...she does seem rather difficult to please.”

As Emily bucked immediately into a rant about the repercussions of talking shit about her, jabbing the british man with her finger as she spoke, Arthur groaned loudly, and Francis decided that he didn’t mind the dynamic between the two. Arthur began lecturing the American back on her decorum, she blew a raspberry in his direction, and it became obvious that their relationship was something of the big-brother-little-sister category.

Arthur still looked frumpy and miffed. “Oh, go and get stuffed, the lot of yeh” he grumbled. Arthur flipped them both the bird, just as Master Soo walked in the room.

 

“This pinger!?” The Korean man’s accent caused the“f” sound to slip into a “P” as he held up his own middle finger in mock horror. “You show this pinger to young nice girls? To little innocent white belts?” He jabbed his finger in the air, effectively flipping off the entire class at once. “No good. Bad examples. Seventy pushups, Assistant Instructor Arthur!”

 

And so the class began. By the end of the warm ups (during which they had had to do another twenty push ups, twenty jumping jacks, one hundred crunches and the usual stretches) Arthur’s arms felt as though bees were tunneling through his tendons and stinging his muscles from the inside out.

 

God, he couldn’t wait for the call to practice forms. Then he’d get paired up with some lower belt, and would get the pleasure of barking orders at them until they got their form right. Ah yes, that would do him good. Perhaps he would get Francis. Or better yet, Emily. Yes, those two were both well suited for a good yelling at.

 

“Chariyut.”

 

Ah yes. The time had arrived. Tiger-like, Master Soo weaved deliberately through the forest of students standing straight in attention.

 

“Your class. You are lucky. Today I was feeling nice. Plans for today are a lot of fun.”

 

Francis, stationed at the end of the line of belted students, glanced quickly to their faces, to see if “fun” coming from Master Soo sounded as ominous to them as it did to him.

 

“Next we will play a game. In this game, I set a timer for ten minutes. The action you do is this…” Energetically, the Master sprang into a demonstration. “10 jumping jacks. 9 touch your knees--” Throwing himself to all fours on the floor, he did some push-ups and then finished with something that looked like something between a pushup, a body roll, and a jump. “--and then 8 push up and 1 burpee. Then start again.”

 

Nothing about this looked to Francis like the makings of a good game. And then-- “The number of sets you must do is you start at the number of days ago you last called your mother and talk on the phone. You know she likes that. Yes she does, Bo Dan Demitri! More days far away since your call, the harder this is for you. By the end of ten minutes, person closest to zero wins.”

 

Wait. Wait. Wait. No, Francis hadn’t done a burpee in his entire life. But it was too late. Master Soo had already started the timer. Francis began his jumping jacks, trying to tabulate in his head how many years it had been since he had last called his parents up to chat.

 

He looked over to Arthur, to watch for another example of the burpee. It seemed, however, that Arthur was in a rather different situation than himself.

 

“Finished Sir!” The brit announced heartily, bowing as his classmates straggled through their first set of jumping jacks.

 

“So soon?” Master Soo yelled, getting right up in Arthur’s face like a drill sergeant.

 

Arthur stared straight past him and shouted, “I called my mother at tea time today, Sir!”

 

“Excellents, good son!” Screamed Master Soo. “Helping Francis then!”

 

Francis felt his face promptly prickle with pink. He hadn’t realized Master Soo had been noticing his struggle with trying to figure out the exercise.

 

He was conscious of Arthur walking briskly over, green eyes glittering like scales chipped off some tropical lizard, just as he wobbled out of his first poor impression of a burpee.

 

“Let me show you.” Arthur said. He plunged to the floor and grazed it with his lower belly before popping back up to standing. “Try again. Slowly, this time.” Francis could just tell that Arthur was keeping his voice un-smug so that he could feel smug about being “Professional”. He decided that for now he would ignore it and just focus on trying to do the burpee. He did need the help. He dropped and tried to mimic what Arthur had done.

He thought he had done it better this time, but as soon as he resurfaced, Arthur shook his head. “You’re doing it wrong” he said quickly. “Get back down on your hands.”

 

Francis, perplexed about what exactly he might have gotten wrong, got back on the floor and placed his palms on the mat, awaiting instruction.

 

“Spread your legs a bit.”

 

“Spread them?”

 

“Yes. You’ve got your feet together like you’re about to do a push up. This is different.”

 

Francis walked his legs out a bit, but apparently not enough, as Arthur’s foot nudged the side of his ankle and slid him out further, causing him to feel like a dog scrabbling tipsily across a polished floor. “There you go. Now try it again, but don’t bend your elbows. That’s wrong too. Dip your hips down to the floor, and then pop them back up again. As you pop up, bring your feet with you to get back to standing.”

 

Francis lifted his gaze from the floor and squinted up at Arthur with the most amount of effrontery he could get away with. “Are you telling me to hump the floor, mon lapin?”

 

There was a snort from Emily on his left, and Arthur’s lip curled up, slightly. Then he shrugged. “I suppose you could call it that, yeah. Shouldn’t be too much of a challenge for you.” His grin widened. “Unless you have problems with that muscle group, of course. If that’s the case I can certainly think up a replacement exercise for you--Something to strengthen the lower back.”

 

Now the guy to his right (who Francis believed was named Simon) was biting in a smile. Francis clicked his tongue in irritation. That bastard Kirkland. For such a prude, Arthur sure wasn’t above using his position of power to suggest compromising situations at Francis’s expense. Baring his teeth, Francis grinned up at Arthur and said “Yes, Sir, Assistant Instructor Kirkland Sir; if you take me to dinner we can do that later, Sir!” Grinding against the floor, Francis popped out of his first successful burpee, and smiled wickedly back at Arthur, having attained eye level again.

 

As the giggles of the class circulated, a smirk flashed across Arthur’s mouth, before he raised his voice to a crisp, authoritative tone, and shouted “Sloppy, Bonnefoy! Don’t bend your knees, and next time, answer louder!”

 

“Yes, Sir!”

 

As the ten minutes waned, and the final minute whittled into seconds, Francis found himself--and White Belt Emily, to be the only ones still moving. Just as Francis’s arms were about to quiver into a gooey pile of fromage, Master Soo’s cell phone cut through the exercise-heavy air with something that sounded suspiciously like K-Pop:
“Ayo ladies and gentlemeeeen….junbiga dwaettdamyeon bureulge... yeah!”

 

“Time’s up!” Master Soo shouted, picking up his phone and swiping “dismiss”.

 

Francis collapsed face forward onto the floor. Oh, the glorious, glorious floor. He turned his face onto his side cheek and made eye contact with a sweaty, red-faced American who was in a similar sprawled position across the way.

 

“Man” She gasped, in between breaths. “Am I--gonna--get ripped. Guess I have--my two dads--to thank for that.”

 

“Good attitudes, Whitebelt Emily!” the voice of the Master roared above them. “Good student, good daughter! They raised you well!”

 

“Thank you--Sir!”

 

“Now no more lazy floor. Everybody up. Charyut!”

 

The class snapped to attention. “Yes, Sir!”

 

Despite his supposed to be standing at attention, Francis found his thoughts wandering to the American.  Her blue eyes sparkled vivaciously as she stared determinedly forward, chest and cheeks puffed out in a little display of pride as she stood with her arms clamped to her sides. She had two dads. The thought made Francis feel oddly elated.

 

The glow was short lived, however. “Now” Master Soo announced, “We are going to get physical.”

As if we haven’t already?! Francis’s still trembling biceps seemed to scream through his skin.

 

“Whitebelt Emily!”

 

“Sir!”

 

“You are in a dark alley and some guy all in the shadows comes up to you. What is the best defense?”

 

The girl’s blue irises pulsed with a buzz of thought as she watched the Master’s weathered gaze, deciding on the fly what answer he might be looking for.

 

“A good offense, Sir.”

 

“Wrong. Bo dan Demitri. The alley guy is walking past, bumps your shoulder. Saying, ‘What the hell?’ and is shaking the fist at you. What is best defense?”

 

“A strong block, and correct fighting stance, Sir.”

 

“Wrong again! No-belt Francis--”

 

Francis tensed.

“--The alley man is yelling at you now! Sleeves rolled up, teeth all--” (Master Soo gnashed his teeth to illustrate the point) “--eyes all angry, face red. What is the best defense?”

 

There was a tick of silence. Francis contemplated his toes for a moment, before looking back up to the Korean man and saying, “To surrender, Sir.”

 

“Right.”

 

There was a noticeable wave of brows furrowing and lips jutting as the class glanced to the teacher to see if he was kidding.

 

Nope. Dead serious.

 

“What, you think it’s not true?” Master Soo said, raising a sharp, dark eyebrow to the class. He began pretending like he was some burly biker strutting, hunch-shouldered, down the alleyway. “‘Hey you think you can push me around you shrimpy Chinaman?’” Switching personas, he soothed his voice to a lower, calmer tone, which was obviously supposed to signify himself. “‘Excuse me. Sorry about that.’ All is fine. He calms his down. Leaves.” He fixed the class with a stern gaze. “I could have beaten this guys up. Or he could have beaten me up. In the real fighting time, winner, loser, everybody gets hurt. Respect is the best defense. You back down. Surrender. Then there is no fight in the first place.”

 

The class was silent as they absorbed this information. Arthur, standing near the front of the line, glanced to Francis. The Frenchman was staring at his toes. His face had a tint of pink to it.

 

“Assistant Instructor Arthur!”

 

“Yes, Sir.” Arthur quickly snapped back into focus.

 

“What is best defense if surrender not working?”

 

Arthur could nearly feel the tickle of Francis’s eyes flicking up to watch him answer. A scummy tiled floor, ruddy with blood, a foot with a torn pair of trousers, dangling, flashed across Arthur’s memory. He cleared his throat. “Kick him in the bollocks and scarper. Sir!”

 

Master Soo laughed heartily and slapped his pupil on the shoulder as he passed. “That’s right, good man. Peoples who attack peoples in the streets for no reason don’t need to make the children.”

 

The class chuckled a bit at that, and Master Soo let them enjoy the moment before zipping into hush. “But today, I show you all the best martial arts defense. Or some good ones, anyways. Ready?”

 

As Master Soo called up Bo Dan Demitri to play the role of the attacker during the demonstration, Arthur glanced observantly to Francis. The moves demonstrated were quite physical: As Demitri, pretending to be the attacker, hurtled up behind Master Soo and captured both his wrists, Master Soo swiftly and fluidly curled his hand around one of Demitri’s wrists, and stepped back at an angle that forced Demitri’s arm to conform to the round of Soo’s back, before landing a  jab in Demitri’s belly and giving the capturer’s arm a twist to land the man on the floor.

 

It was sort of like what he and Francis had been doing before. A strange part of Arthur--a part that was egotistical, but at the same time, protective--wondered if Francis would be as willing to do it with somebody else.

 

Francis, long since down from the high of getting a question right in front of the class, could feel a bubble of excitement edged by rim of anxiety. This was the first time he’d be learning an actual fighting technique. And it didn’t look easy. Master Soo had a way of doing things quickly and fluidly, but it made catching the steps and imposing them upon his own limbs nearly impossible.

 

He heard Master Soo start pairing people up. Half of him hoped he would get somebody experienced, so that he could be taught with more detail how to work the move. The other half of him hoped that he’s be paired with another timid novice: the type of student who grips a partner gingerly, afraid to do something wrong.

 

“And Francis with...Bo Dan Demitri.”

 

Francis turned to the jacked-up, lumbering, scar-faced man to whom he had been assigned.

 

Well then.

 

The pairs dispersed themselves throughout the room, and soon enough people were hurtling and grabbing and twisting and falling. Francis and Demitri found a spot near the mirror, bowed to each other, and straightened.

 

Francis coughed, feeling quite small in comparison to the other man. “So...shall I go first or you?” He asked.

 

Demitri’s dark, mahogany colored eyes pulled unwillingly away from something across the room. “You should go first. You have the most to learn.” The man’s voice was low, scratchy, and metallic.

 

“Right” Francis agreed, stomach sinking down a few vertebrae. “So...what do I do?” He asked, uncharacteristically shyly.

 

“Turn around.”

 

“Around?”
“Yes, back to me. More. That’s it.”

 

Francis hesitated before turning his back on the giant. It wasn’t that he was afraid of roughhousing. He and Arthur--well, they had been wrestling just at the beginning of class. But it as different when there was a specific motion to be carried out, and he had no idea how to do it. And then there was the fact that this was a complete stranger. Turned around, Francis caught his own reflection in the mirror. His shaven face looked extra pale in this light. Almost sickly so.

 

He heard the slap of feet against the foam mat. The sound rushed closer but echoed all around as his partner ran in for the tackle; the image popped into his head of a great ocean wave, iron, murky, towering over a small child standing at the edge, back to the monster, pudgy toes buried in the sand for the last time. Then the weight of the man slammed into his back, his wrists were grabbed from behind, and he reacted by--he reacted by--

 

His back tensed up, arms frozen at his sides, and he felt his face contort into an expression of immense and obvious discomfort.

 

He had failed. He felt a shiver pass through the marrow of his spine as Demitri withdrew and sighed a breath that smelled faintly of cheap cigarettes. “Alright. Let’s try again.”

 

He saw his partner glance to the scraggly-haired American, who was laughing buoyantly as she charged in to tackle Arthur from behind. Francis got the feeling that he wasn’t Demitri’s first choice of battle buddy. He wondered if it would be better if he sat out for a while. Then Demitri could find a better partner, and he could pretend to go to the bathroom--

 

--the image of a grungy pair of sneakers, standing vigil just behind the thin metal of a bathroom stall, tiled floor caked with scum--it slipped to the forefront of Francis’s mind like the side of an oily serpent blipping through the waves of a rippling ocean. Something must have shown on his face.

“You alright?” Abruptly, the steel wool of Demitri’s voice had transformed into cotton.

 

“Huh? Oh--” Francis blinks, then gave a brief smile. “Yes, it is nothing.” It seemed Demitri was more attentive than he realized. He tossed some golden hair out of his face, beating the serpent back and determining that giving up now would be just too faible. “But describe to me what to do with my arms again, please.”

 

Demitri gave a respectful nod. “Right. When I grab your wrists, you grab onto my hand. Clench onto it as you change to the deeper stance, like this. Want to do it once slow?”

 

“Yes, yes I would.”

 

Doing it slow was horribly choppy and ungraceful looking. The fuzz of panic that had swept over Francis earlier hadn’t left--but rather transformed into an icy frost that sat inside his bones and caused a filmy fog to form over his thoughts like some sort of numbing cream.

 

By the third or fourth time, however, the repetition had given him a shaky hang of it. When the time came to bow to their partners, he inclined his back more than before, and he and Demitri shook hands.

 

“Good job, Sir.” Demitri said.

 

“Thank you Sir.” Francis responded.

As they lined up for the end of class, Francis found his eyes tracing a path between each of his stiff-backed classmates, and finally to Master Soo. “Chariyut! Kukki ye kyung yet....Kamsahamnida.”

“Kamsahamnida.” The room echoed.

Thank you.

Francis decided that this room of sweaty, rowdy, smelly individuals was a very fine collection.

Notes:

translations
J'ai presque fini.: I'm almost finished
Rasage.: shaving
Arrête de pleurnicher! Voilà. : Stop whining! There.
mon chameau: my camel
mon amour: my love/my dear
mon ami: my friend
Vive la France! : Long live France!
liberte. : freedom
mon lapin: my rabbit
Charyut: Attention
fromage: cheese
faible: lame
Chariyut! Kukki ye kyung yet....Kamsahamnida.: Attention! Salute the flags...thank you.

 

Note:
In real Taewondo class, you dO NoT ChEW GUm oN ThE mAT. (Let's just assume Emily put it back in its wrapper and back in her bra before class started. Or swallowed it. Whichever floats your boat.
Also. Note on sexual banter in this chapter: If Arthur and Francis weren't so close, Arthur would have been the bad guy here. I mean, banter in class is okay. But masters and instructors who seriously abuse their rank (or forget about it, when they talk to certain people) have no sympathy in my heart. As a rule of thumb, suggestive stuff should be avoided in a tkd class, Even if the two bantering know eachother well. If it's an open class, other members might get uncomfortable hearing it.

And okay, here's a difference between my master and Master Soo:
Master Soo likes kpop.

Chapter 7

Francis’s eyes began to glaze over as as the pale sheet of dairy product began to wilt across the bread. He was at his apartment, grilling up a hot croque monsieur, since his hungry boyfriend had threatened to cook if he didn’t get something in his stomach soon. Francis didn’t feel like smelling singed hair today, so Arthur was seated at the kitchen counter, studying a heavily marked up copy of The Tempest as he waited to be fed.

Francis yawned loudly as he glanced over at his studious companion; not because he intended to interrupt his focus (as often was the case), but due rather to the solemnic effects of watching grilled cheese lull itself into a melty, crisped delicacy.  His peering did no harm, as Arthur was well trained in ignoring him when it came to games such as these.

““You taught me language, and my profit on't/Is, I know how to curse”Arthur pulled out a pen and underscored the line. Despite having read this play on his own time twice before, he had no doubt in his mind that he would miss something important if he didn’t pay attention. But it was hard to, when a loud, plaintive rumble gurgled up his stomach. He hadn’t gotten the chance to eat that day, having had to go right from the tutoring center to his afternoon classes. He and Francis had made plans, originating from all the way back to last week, to find a time to go to the park and practice taekwondo together.

Francis had been attending the class for a total of three weeks now. Testing for color belts (as in, anything below a black belt) was approaching quickly. Arthur didn’t have as much to worry about. Testing into the first level black belt (as he was currently training for) was a very official business, and held on a separate and much later date than the bimonthly color belt testing. He would be doing, at most, a display board breaking or rehearsal of his black belt form. Francis, on the other hand, had his very first belt to earn. Arthur could tell that he was anxious about it. Because he had started midway through the term, he had less time than the other color belts to learn his routine, which included three things: the ten motions, a round of  ap-chagi kicks with neck level punches, and a me joomuk board break. It was the easiest, and yet most difficult of tests, for the very reason that it was the first.

It was like being an infant, Arthur mused, as he watched Francis remove the grilled cheese carefully from the stovetop. The first steps may be small, wobbly, and unimpressive, but they were still the parents’ cause for squeals of excitement and camera flailing nonsense.

Not that Francis was some baby to be doted over. Arthur watched with a glazed sense of disapproval as Francis scratched absently at the graze of stubble that peppered the edge of his jaw, before placing the food in front of them both. Arthur didn’t say anything though. He had developed a theory--mind you, a theory only-- that Francis tended to allow his stubble to grow when he needed a boost in his confidence. Perhaps the beard helped to put a damper on the feminine aspects of his appearance.  Or perhaps sporting a fashionable air of aloofness in his looks assisted in synthesising an attitude of confident detachedness to deal with anxiety in other areas of his life.

Or maybe the bloke was just tired.  He was seated on the adjacent chair, sloped over the countertop and completely ignoring his half of the sandwich. Francis yawned again and Arthur watched as the frenchman’s cheek began sliding slowly down the palm of his hand, until his head was resting on his forearm, and some of his hair had slithered out of the loose tie he had around it.

Arthur would admit that Francis had been working hard the past few weeks. When he wasn’t in class, he was either studying or serving at the cafe. When he wasn’t doing either of those things, he was practicing Taekwondo. Arthur knew, because Francis had asked--or rather, demanded like a spoiled little prince--and then taken it back and begged in an absolutely inappropriate manner--for Arthur to take the time out of each week to go with him to the park and practice together.  That was the content of their plans for today--and yet, Francis looked so near sleep, Arthur wondered if they would even make it past lunch.

Francis’s ponytail was almost completely decomposed; as the featherly lines of blonde began splaying out across the countertop, one of them touched the edge of Arthur’s plate.

“Frog. Would you be so kind as to get your scraggly wad of DNA-laced keratin away from my food?”

Francis’s only response was a slight puff of air out the nose, a twitch of his closed eyelids. That wouldn’t do. Francis would have to wake up if he wanted to get anything done today.

Arthur raised his voice. “Oi! Get your head off the bloody table!”

It worked better than Arthur had been expecting. Francis jolted up, knuckles white on the counter as out of his mouth tumbled a loud and hearty, “Yes, Sir!”

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh. On this day in recorded history, Francis Bonnefoy had done as he had been told. “What a display of discipline obedience! I could get used to that, no-belt Bonnefoy.”

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Francis gave him an understandably dirty look and rebuttled, “Maybe you’ll get used to my spit in your food, mon cher.”

“I’ -ust lookin’ ow f’yu” Arthur mouthed through a cheekful of chewed up cheese bread. Not in a way that was slovenly. Or rude. Or childish. No, certainly not--he was a gentleman, after all.

After swallowing, he dabbed at the corner on his mouth with a napkin.

“Eat your food, y’twit. I hate to admit, but it actually came out good.”

“Oh. Did I not eat?” Francis asked, blinking down at the wedge of bread still on his plate. “I suppose it must have been a dream.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow and fixed him with a ‘should I be concerned about you, y’dim ninny?’ sort of look. “I refuse to follow you to the park until you’ve eaten your grilled cheese.”

“I refuse to eat my ‘grilled cheese’ until you call it by its correct name.” Francis sniffed, apparently choosing this moment to be difficult over Arthur’s anglification.

Arthur sighed. “What was it called?”

“Croque monsieur.”

“Right, got it. Eat your cock monster so we can hurry up and leave.”

Francis’s hand flew out to land Arthur’s head a well-aimed sahnkal deung smack, and Arthur leapt up from his seat just in time with a swift (though somewhat sloppy) oyleo makgi.

“Tsk tsk” Arthur chided. They were both standing now. Arthur stood across from a pair of blue eyes that gazed at him with a haughtiness he couldn’t help but want to smack down from its pillar.

“No fighting till we get to the park.” He continued. In truth, he was impressed by Francis’s quick action. He had almost failed to block it. At the same time, however, he knew he could still kick that Frenchman’s arse if he wanted to. To illustrate this as a point, he latched onto Francis’s outstretched hand, and swung his arm down and around in in outward arc. Like a nimble lynx slinking around the limbs of a giraffe, he ducked under Francis’s arm, wove behind his back, and bent Francis’s elbow into a stiff lock. He felt Francis’s breath catch as he gave his a arm a good little upward push, causing the shoulder socket, undoubtedly, to smart painfully. Soft hair bunched against his face as Francis adjusted to the pain by raising his toes and arching his back around Arthur’s hold.

Francis turned his head, and Arthur could feel the sandy jaw brush against his cheek. “No fighting eh? Then what is this?” The Frenchman panted, in a tone conveying a tense sense of forced calm. It was the sort of calm that betrays a person by a quiver in the voice: a little echo of an old, buried fear.

Arthur decided that he didn’t like that tone in his boyfriend’s voice.  After thinking about the best way to amend the situation, he said  “Well, perhaps we’re waltzing.” Letting Francis’s arm unravel from the lock, he slipped his grip from his wrist to his hand, and raised their joint arm so that Francis would turn around and face him. Laying a gentle palm on Francis’s shoulder, he began humming his best victorian melody. Maintaining a prim and proper expression, he felt an internal glow of relief as the Frenchman grasped his shoulder in return, and his face slowly ebbed into a smile.

Francis had always been a sucker for this sort of stuff, Arthur knew.

As they waltzed within the four walls of Francis’s tiny apartment, Arthur asked him “Are you very stressed about testing for your white belt?”

In other circumstances, Arthur would have been sure to receive a defensive “Non, of course not!”. But the soothing, circular path their feet traced around the room seemed to have lulled Francis off of his usual pattern of guarded scorn. He answered the question honestly.

“Perhaps a bit. I do not want to--what is it you say?--oh yes, ‘cock up’ in front of my peers. I am always afraid that my mind will become empty of what to do when the moment is important.”

“But you’ve been practicing.” Arthur reminded him.

“I have been practicing.” Francis agreed. He lifted his arm.

“I’d say that overthinking is what hurts more when you’re performing” Arthur continued, as he accepted the invitation to twirl underneath Francis’s arm. “When your mind goes blank, muscle memory takes over, and you’re free from second guessing. And you’ve been practicing so much, I’d bet your muscles could recall your routine better than I can recite Sonnet 130.”

“Sonnet 130?”

Arthur cleared his throat. “Ahem. 'My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips’ red; If snow be white, why then, her breasts are dun--”

 

Francis stopped in their dance and opened his mouth in a comically affronted expression. “What is this, you rude weasel?!”

 

Arthur laughed as he danced away from Francis’s premeditated smack, in what was no doubt an infuriatingly impish manner. “It’s Shakespeare, is what it is! Don’t you know anything about the classics? ‘If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks--’”

He didn’t know what Francis was saying to him as began chasing after him, babbling irately in French; but he did get an awful lot of enjoyment from watching the Frenchman blunder after him, as he shouted over his shoulder, “‘And in some perfumes is there more delight than in the breath that from my mistress reeks!’”

Despite his sure ability to flip Francis like a crepe over a hot plate should the Frenchman decide to throw another blow his way, he sprinted around the room like a rabbit being stalked by a haughty vixen. He could see Francis beginning to get an amused flush and determined glint in his eye, and he fancied the idea that this game of tag could function as a source of empowerment for the long haired blonde.

Skidding against the corner of the cubical they called an apartment, he felt Francis collide with his side, and the two of them landed on the mattress, a big knot of wrestling and writhing until Arthur was looking up at a pink, unshaven face that tickled him with the long tendrils of hair that clung to the temples and twisted in slightly curled locks of gold, downward, until they hit Arthur’s face.

Arthur was still grinning, and speeding up the recital by about twenty syllables a second: “‘I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress when she walks treads on the ground--’ Don’t kill me!-- ‘And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare--as any she belied with false compare!”

“Was that meant to be romantic?” Francis asked him, a little bit of exercise spit flecking from the corner of his mouth as he panted.

Arthur lay in his shadow and continued to gaze up with a cheeky smile on his face. “Of course. It’s the most romantic poem that I know.”

Francis’s eyebrows formed a flat line as he rolled his eyes. “Of course it is, mon anglais.”

“Alright. Give me a kiss and then get the fuck off.” Arthur said. He saw Francis’s face flash with amusement.

“Just one?” The Frenchman asked. “Does it matter where?”

“Preferably on the doormat outside your apartment. But I suppose on me will do.”

He scrunched up his eyes as Francis’s hair began feathering out across his face, and he felt a pair of lips press against his forehead. Then Francis’s weight shifted off of him and he sat up and stretched. “I hope that got the blood flowing, y’sleepy toad. Let’s go to the park, shall we?”

Notes:

Translations/explainations
croque monsieur: a french sandwich of ham and melted cheese
The Tempest : play by William Shakespeare
““You taught me language, and my profit on't/Is, I know how to curse”: a quote from Caliban, a character in The Tempest who was a monster(deformed son of a witch) and was living alone on an island before becoming enslaved by a magical human.
ap-chagi : front kick
me joomuk: hammer fist
mon cher: my dear
“I’ -ust lookin’ ow f’yu”: I was just looking out for you
sahnkal deung: reverse knife hand
oyleo makgi:high block
mon anglais: my englishman
Sonnet 130: a satirical love poem by William Shakespeare that makes fun of the genre by admitting that beauty is usually exaggerated in poetry (but still has a sweet ending). Francis's offense to it was because Arthur's recital of it implied that he was the ugly mistress. I thought it was fitting not because anyone is ugly but because France and England have one of those relationships (ship or not) where they have seen each other at their best and worst.

Chapter 8

Francis stood in his underwear and sighed at the carefully laid out t shirt and smoothly folded sweatpants on his bed. One of these days, he was going to find a way to make them look fashionable. Perhaps he’d do something with the sleeves or neck. Maybe he could get Arthur to embroider them. He was surprisingly good at that.

But that day was not this one. Pulling them both on, he began bustling around his apartment, searching for a hair tie, flipping through his sock options--all at a very well to do pace.

And then he walked into the bathroom, where his eye was trapped by the mirror. His reflection stared at him curiously, with its head cocked to the side. Abruptly, he peeled the shirt off.

Cupping his shoulder with his hand, he watched his reflection with the focus of a physician as his hand travel down the length of his arm, squeezing, judging.

Hm. Briefly making eye contact with himself, he determined that his arm definitely felt less soft than before. He pinched some of the flesh on his chest, trying to determine if it was muscle or fat.

Ouch. Turned out to be mostly skin.

He wanted to see his belly, but the mirror only showed down to his nipples, and the bathroom was too small to back up.

Opening the door, he took a few steps back, and eyed himself as he turned to the side. Was, he wondered, the faint bumpy texture on his belly abs? Or simply from the folds of the meagre layer of adipose tissue that formed when he bent over?

Deciding to hell with it all, he kicked off his pants and underwear to get a better view of his butt. His wonderful, glorious butt. Turning around, he gave each cheek a squeeze so as to test their resistance to external pressure.

The front door banged open.

“Francis I’m here to collect y--wot the bloody hell are you doing?”

Francis clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Excusez moi, but what the bloody hell are you doing, mon anglais? Exploding into my home without so much as a knock--honteux. It’s almost as if you want to see me naked.”

“Yeah?”  Leaving your door ajar like that, it’s almost as if you want the whole world to see you naked. Pray tell--should I be worried about your fidelity?”

Smirking, Francis swayed his hips exaggeratedly as he approached Arthur, draping a hand across his Englishman’s chest. “Not to worry, my darling. For the human form is but a work of art, and the world it blesses merely a bustling museum. Though anyone may pass through the gallery, and many may see and admire the miracle of its beauty, only the curator--” His fingers touched lightly upon Arthur’s cheek “May know the texture of the paint.”

“Put. On. Some. Sodding. Pants.”

“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. Anything you desire, Sir.”

A pair of pants hit him floppily in the face.

“Of all the days to be completely unprepared when I arrive, you choose this one. You better hurry up, or you’re going to be late to your first testing.”

Francis rolled his eyes as he began pulling on his sweats. “It’s always ‘late late late’ with you, Arthur. And we’re never late. I’m beginning to think you set your watch ahead.”

Crossing his arms, Arthur watched Francis disapprovingly as the frenchman picked his shirt from the bathroom door knob and began fixing his hair in the mirror. “I do. By exactly twenty one minutes. How else do you think we arrive on time to things?”

“Pure magic.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth pulled up. “Or dark magic.”

“You know, I wouldn't put that above you.”

“Good. Y’Shouldn't.”

As predicted, they were not late to Taekwondo. However, Arthur’s nagging about it during the entire walk over was sufficient to put Francis on the edge of his nerves before arriving.

“Have you ever considered, mon lapin, that perhaps I behave in an unhurried fashion because I am straining to keep the anxiety I already have over this from growing out of proportion?”

Arthur’s lips paused mid-retort. “Oh, don’t be nervous. You’ll do fine.” Giving Francis a nudge in the ribs, he put on a jesting tone. “If you fail, I’ll rip off your dick, rub it hard, and bludgeon you over the head with it.”

Francis’s face froze.

“See? Now that you’ve got that image in your head you’re bound to do well.”

“If I don’t fail, will you rub my dick hard and leave out the ripping and bludgeoning?”

Arthur grinned slyly down at his own knuckles. “Perhaps.”

For obvious reasons, they dropped that sort of talk before entering the training room.
When they entered, Francis saw that there had been some redecorating. A table resided in the front of the room, partially blocking the mirror. It had a decorative cloth on it, that seemed to be embroidered with little south korean flags in the corners. There was nothing on it but a thin stack of papers and a pen--yet somehow it still looked as formidable as a tall altar at the end of a cathedral.

“What is that for?” Francis asked, for some reason lowering his voice to a hush.

Arthur raised one of his ghastly eyebrows and replied with a normal volume of voice. “For the grading, of course.”

Francis felt his bare toes curl slightly into the matt, as if trying to burrow away from this place.
Arthur gave him a look. “Come on, don’t be anxious. Is it really that bad? I thought you loved being the center of attention.”

Francis shot him a glare. “Not when I am stripped down to agrimy pair of sweatpants and made to perform a task in front of a room of people who I know could all do it better than I can.” In truth, there were a lot of things about Francis’s anxiety that Arthur might never understand. But he wasn’t going into that now.

Arthur tapped his chin thoughtfully. Francis expected a harsh rebuttal. But then--

“I suppose you’re right. It’s hard to be new. Just--realize that we’ve all been in the same position, so we empathize with you.” He gave a light laugh.  “And to be honest, half these spackers forget their old forms right when after they get the belt. Of everyone in the room, I’m certain that you know Ten Motions the best.”

Francis felt close to stunned at the fact that Arthur had actually given him a positive pep talk. He caught a brief glimpse of a rare species of smile--a small, gentle glimmer of encouragement--just before Arthur turned away and Master Soo’s voice cracked across the room.

“Chariyut!”

They did the normal opening procedure, and then Master Soo got right into his own pre‒testing speech.

“Today is not the normal class times.” Master Soo began, pacing in front of the table and coming to a militant halt. “Today is the day of testing. Day for you to show off what you have learned. We watch each other--one sir, two sir--we look good, look our best. Then you all go out for drinks together saying ‘oh look good excuse for having hangover tomorrow’.”

The class laughed, and eyes flicked abashedly from the master to the mat and back. Soo waved his hand. “Oh, don’t pretend! I know you all go to the pub after.” He put on a fake air of moroseness. “Never inviting poor Master Soo, though. Almost as though you don’t want him to see you drunk.”

There was another round of giggles.

"Sir! If you want to come you'd be more than--"

"No, whitebelt Emily! I don't want to see you people drunk either! Especially you, scary girl. Probably throwing tables. Too strong!"

Even Francis couldn't help but crack a laugh at that one. As the glass laughed together, some of his nervousness became a little lighter.

“Joyonghi hae! Enough fun. Serious now!” Despite his command, the corner of his mouth pulled up when another giggle crept up from the students. “You think I didn’t hear that, Blue Belt Simon? Thirty push up!” He roared, watching with satisfaction as one of his students dropped to the floor and briskly gave him thirty.

When order had actually been accomplished, he began pacing in front of them again. “Today, testing. For some, you have done this before. Easy.” His eyes flicked between the bodans, starting with Arthur at the front of the line. “For some, it is among first time. Second time. Third. Still very scary.”

Francis shuffled slightly, knowing that the master had looked at him.

“No belt Francis!” He shouted, suddenly.

“Sir!” Francis snapped his arms stiffly to his sides, knowing that he shouldn’t have fidgited when at attention.

“Am I scary?”

Francis wildly tried to figure out what was the least offensive answer. “N‒no Sir!”

The Korean man pretended to deflate a bit, and mimicked a tone of put‒out‒ness. “No? Not even a little? But I try so hard Francis!”

“I meant yes Sir, very scary, Sir. Terrifying”

Master Soo quickly changed his pesona to an angry, vein‒popping viper‒human hybrid.

“ANSWER ALWAYS CHANGE NO GOOD FRANCIS! TWENTY PUSH UP!”

As Francis quickly threw himself to the floor, he vaguely heard Master Soo continue his speech.

“I think I’m scary. Whether you do, yes no, today, nobody scared. Remembering: I already know that you know everything you should. I have watched you, taught you. Testing is not a real test. Just showing off. Having fun. That is why you have to try so hard, look so good in class time. Constantly scared in class time.” As Francis stumbled up from his set, he saw Master Soo’s face pull into another tricky smile. “Today only scared a little bit, ja?”

With that, the testing began.

All the students were made to sit cross legged, on the floor opposite of the table, where the Master sat with his stack of papers. Left between was a blank space: a gaping chasm of empty, ochre foam, where each victim was to stand before all and prove their ability.

Francis, being the lowest of rank, was called up first.

“Chariyut.”

Francis’s throat felt dry as he stood at attention. Master Soo addressed him. “What does ‘Chariyut’ mean, Francis?”

An oral test? It wasn’t anything Francis wasn’t prepared for, though. Arthur had told him that this might happen.

“Feet together,” he answered, letting his voice pick up momentum and volume as he continued. “Look straight ahead. Don’t move any part of your body, Sir.”

“Very good. You know basics. Now continue. Joombee.”

Francis stepped out with his left foot and pushed his fists in front of him. Ready stance.

“Kick series Joombee.” Just as he had been practicing and training for, Francis swiftly raised his hands above his head, slid his right foot back, fast, and brought his fists down to his sides, as if he were drawing out two invisible swords. “What is your kick series?”

Francis felt a buzz of adrenaline tingle to the end of his imaginary swords. “Series one Sir.”

“Shijak.”

Two kicks forward, punch, turn, two kicks back, punch turn, two kicks right, punch turn, two kicks left, punch turn. Glide the heel out—gracefully—back to starting position. Swords down.

Easy.

“Joombee. Return.” Master Soo gave a nod, and then a critique. “You make it look like dancing, Francis. Very graceful. Just don’t forget powers.”

“Yes, Sir.”

But that was only the start. Now for the part he was actually nervous for.

“What is your motions?”

“Ten--” Francis cleared his throat quickly “--Ten Motions, Sir.”

Master Soo’s eyes stayed trained on him as he nodded. “Shijak.”

“One Sir. Two Sir...”

As Francis began, the memory of the motions flowed easily into his muscles. It was as if the ghost of someone who had done the motion for centuries was inhabiting his bones as he continued: “Three Sir. Four Sir...”

And then Master Soo shouted, “MORE POWERS!”

“Five Sir--” Feeling a leap of nervousness from being yelled at, Francis’s eyes drifted from Master Soo and blipped to the mirror behind him and he saw himself, in horse riding stance, fist outstretched, looking not at all like his normal elegant self in that pose. “Six Sir--” He saw too Arthur’s face--pale, with soft cheekbones...that tiny point in his chin, his eyes green like two flecks of jade that had been stolen from a royal’s jewelry box. Those eyes were watching him, along with everybody else's.

“Eight Sir, nine Sir, ten Sir. Thank you Sir.”

Silence.

“Francis! What happen to ‘Seven Sir’?”

Francis blinked, feeling the coppery flavor of panic flood his mouth.

“Seven, Sir?”

Master Soo gave a little laugh. “Trying to cheat me out of my ten motions, only give me nine? I need all ten, Francis! Back to number five.”

“Uh…” Which was number five? Remembering all of the motions was easier to remember when they were in chronological order. Francis knew he was done for. There was no way he’d pass now.

Master Soo spoke calmly. “To horse riding stance.”

“Yes Sir” Francis quickly moved his feet apart and bent at the knee.

“And punch left for Five Sir.”

“Five Sir.” Francis punched left, then right...and instantly it all flooded back to him. “Seven Sir, eight Sir, nine Sir, ten Sir, thank you Sir.”

Hesitantly, he straightened his back, afraid to look the master in the face. Instead he listened.

“Good job, give him a claps.” Master Soo announced, bringing his hands together in a loud, momentum-gaining series of strikes.

Everybody else began to applaud too.

Francis blinked, and bowed again hurriedly as Master Soo dismissed him to go sit down. He passed Emily, on her way up to get tested, and received a hearty slap on the shoulder. As he found his spot on the mat, Demitri gave him a nod of approval, accompanied by a rare little half smile. As he lowered himself to sit, cross legged, among his classmates, Arthur leaned over to whisper something in his ear:

“Boo, you stink.”

Francis jammed his elbow behind him, and felt it connect with Arthur’s chest. There was an “oof” followed by light chuckle. Then he settled down to watch as the rest of the color belts, in ascending order, were tested on their motions.

After that was the board breaking, which was exciting because the students would get to vent their frustrations with life on slabs of innocent wood. Students where supposed to do two practice taps, and scream loudly during the real hit. “To show the powers” as Master Soo put it. It didn’t really matter what they yelled, as long as it was loud.

Being an assistant instructor, Arthur was called up to do the holding.

“Hit my finger, and you’re mincemeat, Bonnefoy,” he growled and grinned at Francis, standing across from him and pushing a thick slab of wood out into the space between them.

Francis curled his hand into a fist, and felt the corner of his mouth twitch up. First tap. “Of” Second tap “Course” Final hit. “Darling!”

There was a loud snap, and Arthur quickly dropped to one knee, to signify that the wood had been broken.

The room applauded, and Francis smiled down at Arthur, rather liking the image of the man knelt sturdily down before him, like a knight ready to serve his lord.

Arthur stood up, catching suspiciously onto the glitter in Francis’s eye. The two of them bowed, shook hands. “Good job, Sir.” Arthur recited formally, passing the broken board off to Francis.

Francis tried to resist the urge to drop his voice to something throaty and sensual. “Thank you Sir.” He must have failed, on some level, judging by the way Arthur’s foot kicked his rear, causing him to stumble a bit as he was graciously accepted back into the ranks of giggling onlookers.

It didn’t seem as though his lack of professionalism was particularly grievous however. As the other color belts then went in turn, the crowd become increasingly excitable and interactive. The most memorable hype increase had to have been at Emily, who’s foot (accompanied by a battle cry of ‘’Merica!’)came crashing down on two boards, causing chunks of them to arc across the room, prompting Arthur to swear (“Bloody hell Lass!”) as he ducked out of the way of the shrapnel, and causing the crowd to holler with satisfaction as they attempted to catch it.

In fact, the rambunctiousness of the crowd only escalated—that is, until a certain point.

“Assistant Instructor Arthur.”

“Yes Sir.”

Arthur’s turn. The entire testing, he hadn’t yet had to do any display of his own—the result of being on the cusp of his first black belt testing, which was apparently a much more formal affair than color belt testing, and held on a separate date. As the level three bodan took the center of the mat, the chatter of the class died down into a low murmur. The emotion of the crowd leeched into Francis, and a strange prickle of anticipation began to well up inside him.

Arthur and Soo were regarding each other with the blank fascination of two leopards on either side of a glass mirror.

“Bodan Demitri. Redbelt Rain. Bluebelt Simon. Holding.” Francis noticed how Master Soo called up the highest ranking and strongest looking students from the class to hold boards. Some held more than one. Then the Master himself picked one up, and dragged his chair out from behind his table. As Rain and the Simon took up boards and flanked Arthur, Demitri moved the center, and Master Soo to the rear, where he set down the chair, and climbed nimbly onto it.

“Charyut.” Arthur stood straight as a pillar. Emotionless, bloodless. And then, from his chair, Master Soo called, “kicking joombee."

Arthur's voice took the shape of a battle cry that unfurled like some sort of unearthly reptile spreading its wings across the room. It was the loudest Francis had ever heard him yell. Well apart from the time that he was--

Goosebumps rose along Francis's neck. Arthur was holding his fists up and had his right leg back, his left forward. His ligaments relaxed but his muscles tightened. If his eyes had been visible as anything more than a slash of green reflected in the mirror, the entire room of his classmates would have surely turned to stone. It was the second time Francis could remember thinking that this gentleman of his had to be something more feral than human.

“Shijak.”

Arthur calmly took a step forward.

And then he took a gallop, which turned into a leap, which turned into a flash of nimble feet and a loud snap as the wood broke and Rain fell to one knee.

His short, messy hair flew back wildly as he fixed his attention the other way and began turning. The beautifully delicate tendon of his neck gleamed white as he turned his head to maintain the same direction each time he rotated; his feet left the ground, a second break cracked across the room, and Demitri fell to one knee.

Picking up momentum, he crossed to Simon, turned backwards, and hit one board with the bottom of his foot. The other he split with the blade of his hand, before leaving Simon kneeling on the ground as he twisted through the air above Demitri, barely brushing the Bodan’s back with his hand as he gave himself a delicate pump of leverage. He landed on his feet, but only stayed on them long enough to bound over to Master Soo and the chair, before his legs were spinning through the air like a windmill, snapping the board the master held to splinters. His right leg came down to earth first, followed by his left; it was with such force that he landed that his knees nearly folded to the ground, just before he touched his forearm to the floor and rolled into a kneel: one knee up, one down, a fist to the mat, and head bowed.

There was applause; Arthur stood up, and helped the holders to collect the shattered pieces of wood left in his wake. It had all looked so elegant, so easy; and yet, Francis realized as he applauded, Arthur’s chest was expanding and contracting, his lips were parted with panting. He was shaking hands, accepting a broken piece of wood from Simon, when his emerald eyes slid over to Francis. Francis saw his lips immediately close, his shoulders straighten. Then the eyes snapped back to Simon, who said something with a laugh, causing Arthur to pull a short, sardonic grin, before smacking him on the shoulder and turning away.

The class was called to line up in order. They bowed to the master, each other, and the flags.

“You’ve done well.” Master Soo told the class. “Everybody did perfect. Except Assistant Instructor Arthur, of course. Losing balance on last kick? Not what we practiced, Bo Dan!”

The class chuckled as Master Soo slapped Arthur on the arm, pretending to tut in disappointment at what was obviously his most advanced pupil.

“Of course Sir. Sorry Sir. Completely my fault, Sir.”

“Good man! Take responsibility!” Master Soo shouted. His eyes raised to the rest of the class, and he took on a suspicious squint. “Speaking of which, everybody being responsible tonight. Go have fun, get drunk. Then calling Uber.None of my students dying in a car accident tonight, understand? DIE IN CAR ACCIDENT DO FORTY PUSHUP!”

“YES, SIR.”

“Very good. Dismissed.”

That was it. Testing was over.

Notes:

Dad mode Master Soo has joined the chat.

chapter translations:
mon anglais: my englishman
honteux: disgraceful
joombee: order to go to ready stance
charyut: order to go to attention
joyonghi hae: be quiet
shijak: begin

Notes:

About Arthur's breaking routine! A bit more complicated than necessary for Il Dan (first black belt) testing. But... training to be an instructor can get you into more advanced stuff...AND often the routine is designed by the person who is going to be doing it, so...maybe he's showing off a little? ;)

(Just to clarify, he was not actually being tested, but Master Soo wanted to use the color belt testing time for an extra display/practice run.)

Chapter 9

As soon as dismissal was called, the class seemed to collectively exhale, and the ordered line dissolved into a jumble as people of all different ranks shuffled to the sidelines to find their shoes, their bags, and their friends.

Francis was sitting on the floor, pulling on his socks when Arthur showed up at his side. “I hope you’re ready for the afterparty, Frog. It’s something of a tradition.”

“To think that the frumpy, antisocial bookworm is asking if I want to go out. Quelle est cette folie?"

Emily lunged out of nowhere, striking some sort of cheesy mantis pose taken straight out of a Jackie Chan movie. “You fine dudes ready to have a good time?” She said, letting out one of her loud, almost maniacal sounding streams of laughter.

“No. That entrance simply zapped the energy right out of me, lass. In fact I think it made me rather ill.”

“Boo-hoo. Everybody’s halfway out the door already, slow pokes. Most people are going to uh...which is the pub across from Gale street?”

“O’Reily’s.”

“Yeah, that one. The one with like, four cubic inches of space per forty people. Hurry up so we can sit together! I convinced Demitri to join us and he’s like, totally not a party guy.”

“You know I’m right here.”

“Geez!” The girl jumped, and then laughed as she playfully nudged the stoic, scar–faced man on the shoulder. “See what I mean? Super silent stealth mode, right here. Did I ever tell you that you remind me of my brother? He’s wicked quiet. It’s almost scary!”

As Francis stood up and their little foursome began shuffling toward the exit, he thought it was funny the way Demitri put a brawny, tattooed arm sheepishly behind his neck. “You think your brother’s scary?”

“Oh no, he’s a complete teddy bear.” The American answered matter of factly. She put a finger up to her lip thoughtfully. “In fact, I think sometimes he’s more scared of me. Especially when I use power tools, for some reason.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “He sounds like a reasonable fellow with astute survival skills. I’m sure Darwin would be proud.”

“Proud of what?”

The American lurched a little to the left as another individual bumped rambunctiously into their group, turning their foursome into a fivesome.

“If you’re talking about Kirkland’s Di Chaggi I won’t argue.” Simon commented airly. “Nearly knocked my arm off, that did. Kind of sloppy on the finish though, wouldn’t y’say mate?”

As Arthur began to roll his eyes, Francis found himself flaring into a state of combativeness. Despite having teased the brit himself over countless smaller items in the past, he now grabbed onto his Englishman’s arm defensively. “I thought it was absolument magnifique. He took my breath away.”

Arthur’s eyes made a startled skip over to Francis, latched determinedly onto his side, before his cheeks and forehead reddened, and he glanced away quickly. Francis felt the arm twitch, but it didn’t pull away.

Simon gave a little laugh, accompanied by a suggestive leer. “Does he interfere with your breathing often, Bonnefoy?”

Francis felt his boyfriend’s arm tense, as if he too were reacting to the jarring realization that an outsider was questioning them about their sex life. Normally Francis would indulge eagerly in such conversation--but not when someone he hardly knew seemed to be making fun of him. Experience had taught him to be wary of such taunting.

The scratchy metal sound of them passing through the gym doors into the cool drippy night mingled with Emily’s voice cutting in loudly.

“Shut up, Simon. We were talking about my brother, anyways.” Francis got the feeling that not all of the American’s  animosity was  due to her being interrupted about her brother; it charmed him that she seemed annoyed on his and Arthur’s behalf.

“Oh” Simon said, nodding as they began trekking across the campus grass, a few meters behind some other classmates who had decided to cut across the lawn. “The canadian bloke who visited you that one time? He’s more timid than a mouse, I reckon. Forgot he was even there half the time.”

Despite having ranted about her brother’s timidity a minute ago, the American crossed her arms and jutted her lip defiantly. “Just because he doesn’t go bragging about it doesn’t mean he’s not tough. He’s psycho at hockey. And plus we’ve got that special mind link where we can beam each other our thoughts because we’re twins. If I told him right now that you were bothering me, he would fly over like that” (She snapped her fingers under his nose) “to come and kick your ass. Not that I couldn’t beat you up myself.” She added hastily.

“I’m quaking, lassie, quaking.”

Her hair seemed to prickle with voltage. “You should be!”

Demitri’s deep, scratchy voice finally joined. “I’d agree with her, Simon.” The eye which interrupted the pale, raised scar on his face nudged the bluebelt’s notice not only over to the huffy American,  but also to Arthur and Francis (who were linked by the arm, radiating a sort of teamed up sense of distaste, for once being united by a common source of irritation). Getting the hint, Simon chuckled amiably, and stood down. “Alright, alright. Didn’t mean to put everybody’s panties in a twist. I suppose I’m just a good catalyst for getting people to show who they care about.”

By now, the sidewalk had become an uneven walkway of brick, wetted by the damp breath of the ocean. The light of the streetlamps scattered across the cobbly texture in slick, milky patches. The bar they were headed to was a warm and noisy place that faced sea spray boldly. It was right on the edge of the little portion of humanity that existed along the wharf; so close to the water that the sea seemed to press up against it, observing with a detached sort of interest the spunk and hustle of the shops, taverns, and apartments that dared to exist there and spit back at the ocean's face. Francis hadn't been there yet himself, but he could tell by the easy pace and distracted chatting that his companions knew the way to the bar by heart.

As soon as they turned the corner onto the wharf, Francis could hear the squeaking of the a weathered sign which which was hung from rusty metal links. The sign seemed to be made of nothing more than an old piece of oar. On it, there was the pressed and painted image of a blonde haired mermaid, whose serpentine tail coiled craftily around a green and somewhat gaelic looking font spelling out the name of the bar.

The crowd inside was a complete amagdalate of persons and ages. Though there did seem to be the fair share of college age students leaning against the counter, phones in hand, a good chunk of the population consisted of scruffy old men with ruddy faces and sea shanties on their lips.

As Francis, Arthur, Demitri, Emily, and Simon began weaving their way to the end of the bar in search of empty seats, Francis’s attention twitched to the task of trying to distinguish the drunken lyrics of a song which was dribbling out from some old bearded men in the corner.

There was a man who lived
for himself and the sea
A barmy smarmy sailor
Was the life for he

The tune (from what he could distinguish out of the hacking, jeering style of the performers) was something he supposed was meant to be performed in a quick, minor key; perhaps played on the high strings of a fiddle or huffed out of an accordion. It had a distinctly briny feel to it. His thoughts wandered as he pulled up a studded stool between Emily and Arthur.

“Anybody want a smoke?” Simon offered, cigarette already quivering at the end of his mouth. Francis’s focus idled back to his company.

Emily’s eyes were sparkling with the excitement of a child discovering their first swear word. “Sure I’ll try--”

“No” Arthur said frumpily, swatting Simon’s hand away from her like a cat to a bothersome moth.

As Emily pouted and Simon took out his lighter, Demitri made a gruff expression of gratitude. “Thanks. But I quit.”

“Sounds like hell, mate.”

Demitri just shrugged.

Francis realized Emily had been right earlier; had they gotten there a second later than they did, they certainly wouldn't have been able to sit together. Within minutes it seemed the pub had become completely full;  the loud swell of human voices, laughter, and swearing seemed to expand and ride along the waves of cigarette smoke rolling across the top of the ceiling, making it nearly impossible to hear each other without raising their voices.

Francis’s ear was caught by to the overly friendly greetings of bubbly drunks, who’s heads turned as the bartender made her way down the counter toward them.

“Oi! Junior! I’m due for another pint!”

“Aye, be wit’ yeh in a minute, Bertie.”

“Junior! Love, flash me a smile now and I’ll leave ‘fore midnight.”

“How ‘bout a grimace for eleven, boyo?”

The bartender had a strong jaw and a healthy tangle of shamelessly red hair swept across her shoulder. Her eyes were a shade of green that reminded Francis of Arthur’s, but with a touch of brown that gave them an earthier, woodier feel. “What’ll it be lads?” The listing Irish tone was powerfully loud. There was a pitch of girlishness in it, that, rather than weakening it, seemed to help it to climb above the hoarse baritone of the majority of the crowd. She inclined her head to the American. “And lass. I’m ‘suming you lot are back from t’at punchy kicky t’ing y’do? ”

Simon put on an air of exaggerated smugness “Worried we’ll frighten off your customers, Seamus?”

“More t’at they’ll hear yeh spoutin’ t’at nonsense and take yeh for a buncha geebags ripe for a thrashing. It’d be a right hassle for me t’ pull’em off yeh.”

“Right right, wouldn’t want to distract you from your job, hen.” He said with a wink.

The woman, whom Francis supposed must have been named Seamus (which he was rather confused about, since he had always thought that was a male’s name), laughed robustly, before slipping a tiny, three-pronged olive fork out from her sleeve and stabbing it into the wooden counter, right between Simon’s pinkie and ring finger. The twang of the metal vibrating stiffly mingled with the bluebelt’s yelp as he quickly pulled his hand away.

“Oi, what was that for?! Punishing me for my desperately good looks?”

“Just testin’ y’reflexes boyo. But I suppose it’s not fair if yer not a blackbelt yet.”

“You aiming to come on to Kirkland, instead? Is that it miss?”

“Only if he wants to get stabbed t’rough the hand, Sir.”

As Simon continued the game of flirting shamelessly with the prickly Irish woman, a string of lyrics nudged its way through the bluster.

One stormy night his net got a hold
Of a girl with a tail and a head of gold

A gusty sea breeze snaked through the room as someone entering held the door open for someone exiting. A slight chill ran along Francis’s back. Perhaps he did want one of Simon’s cigarettes.

Said she if you free me one time this
The next time we meet
I’ll greet you with a kiss

Ignoring a sour look from Arthur, he lit it and closed his eyes as the musty puff from his mouth warmed his fingers and spiraled up, like a tiny dragon, dissipating into the air, off to join its fellows.

“You’re new. What’s yer name, blondie?”

Francis realized he was being addressed and quickly put a charming (but not overly flirtatious, since it seemed Simon hadn’t gotten far with that) smile to his lips. “Francis. And you are…?”

“Seamus. But plenty call me Junior, since I was named after m’dad. Old bastard gave t’is place to me, seein’ how my brother’d drink us outta stock if he owned it. Say, you French?”

“Oui, Mademoiselle.”

“Aye, could hear it in yer voice. Not that hearin’ t’ings is much of a regular happening in here. I’ll warn yeh now I’m low on good wine t’night. I’m ‘suming t’at’s what yeh wanted, since it seems to be what most French people like. Next best t’ing’s the hard cherry cider, if yer lookin’ fer recommendations.”

“Alright. I cannot think of anything better.”

Moving on to Demitri, she said, “Prince Zuko’s getting a glass of water and a side of wings, as always. And t’is fine lady to his left’s lookin’ for something mixed wit’ Coke. What’ll it be tonight, m’girl?”

“Whiskey.”

“Great.” She nodded to Simon. “And now’s time for t’is stook t’ruin my streak and order something completely different from every ot’er time he’s stuck his nose in my bar.”

“Pet, you know me better than my own dear mother does. What’d’you got on tap?”

“Tonight’s special’s Griffin Piss.”

“Gimme a pint.”

“Sure lad, sure. And try not to feel too bad about yer mum. If she knew yeh half as well as I do, I’m sure she’d beat yeh bloody and feed the pulp t’the dogs.”

“Love you too, miss.”

Her green eyes flitted to Arthur like a pair of larks sailing below a forest canopy. “And what about you Kirkland? Ale I’m ‘suming?”

“Actually, grab me a lager. Whatever’s second to cheapest is fine.”

“Oho. Somebody’s not feelin’ himself tonight. Alright, Arty?”

“Peachy.”

“Of course yeh are. Right, these’ll be out in a few. Try not to get in any fistfights with m’customers whilst yer waitin’.”

“We’ll try miss!” Simon yelled, cupping his hand to his mouth as he called to her retreating back. "But if anyone dares bother you much as I do I might have'ta sock 'im!"

“Oh, come on Simon, give it up already.” Emily said, fixing her classmate with a harsh stare. “Every time you flirt with her I can just feel you inching one step closer to being stabbed.”

Simon chortled. “That’s what makes it fun, lass. The fiestier they are, the better. Right, Francis?”

Francis glanced to Arthur, feeling a smile grace the corner of his mouth. “Well, I would not say it is untrue, considering my predicament.”

Arthur clicked his tongue derisively. “Is that what I am Frog? A ‘predicament’? I ought to tie your hair to the bedpost, y’rude tart.”

“I love it when you get like this, mon cher. What else do you want to do to me?”

“Push y’off a cliff.”

“As long as you let me hold your hand the entire way down, amour.”

“See?” Simon said, knowingly. “Feisty.”

As Arthur and Emily began to argue the point, Francis’s focus again diminished and he caught a few more lines of the song emanating from the corner of the room.

Many long and lonely nights a’passed
Till three years later he netted up the lass

The heavy thunk of something glass scraped across the table. “Alright, we got the cherry, a Coke, lager, Piss, and water. Wings right here, Sir, there y’go. Anything else I can get yeh?”

“How ‘bout a peck on the cheek, Junior?”

“Only if yer up for the fork in the eye t’at comes complimentary, m’boy.”

“If y’weren’t so nice to look at, it’d be almost worth it, dove.”

Francis took a sip of his drink, and was hit by a strong flame of tart alcohol that burned up the hollow of his sinuses. It was followed by a flavor that was pleasantly sweet, like the sleek wash of foam that follows the crash of an iron wave upon the beach. The shanty of the sailors coaxed itself back into his sphere of attention.

He yanked her aboard
and began to cop a feel

Emily was arguing about something completely different now. She was waving her hands around ardently. Gathering his senses, Francis listened in.

“But what people don’t realize is that--oh stop rolling your eyes Arthur--is that if everything was roboticized, like, beyond the realm of oil and gears and your basic mechanical stuff, like if you had an entire city that was so high tech it functioned as one hyper-efficient organism--”

But she cried
so he tried
to remind her of the deal

“--a Smart City. Emissions and waste could be reduced without sacrificing a highly developed lifestyle.”

Francis took another small sip of his drink, marveling at how something so fruity could pack such a cloudy wallop to his frontal lobe.  He cleared his throat. “Sounds like an unrealistic and economically… economically...Arthur what word--?”

“Unfeasible”

“Yes, thank you.” He said, stifling a slight hiccup. “An economically un-feastable plan to cut corners.”

Demitri chewed an ice cube thoughtfully, before swallowing. “Sounds like it would lead to issues about privacy rights.”

“Sounds like the American is ripe to get chucked in the nuttery.” Simon laughed.

“Thank you Demitri, for your thoughtful and constructive commentary. Do excuse me and Simon; I’ll just be taking him out back so as to properly introduce his face to my baseball bat.”

Just like that all her tears cleared away
She said well Sir then I guess I gotta pay

The tempo of the music was gaining speed. Faster. Faster. A fleck of ash crumbled from Francis’s cigarette and circled down to the floor, where its white-black ember died upon impact.

Simon roared with laughter, swatting away Emily’s half serious, half jesting yank on his arm. “Would you listen to that? ’Do excuse me’‒She takes after you, Arthur!”

Arthur crossed his legs and closed his eyes in a manner of utter imperiousness. “I don’t believe I have any idea what you’re talking about‒”

“Yeah! What the hell, Simon? You’re such a weirdo.”

“‒If she took after a gentleman such as myself I doubt she would be half the uncultured ruffian she is today.”

Demitri cut in quickly. “That’s harsh Arthur. A proper gentleman wouldn’t talk to a lady that way.”

“Yeah, Arthur" the American sang, blowing a raspberry in the Briton’s direction. “I’m a lady.”

She said it with a smile that right then revealed

Heavy boots and gnarled hands were beginning to clap along to the rhythm, making it even harder to hear as Arthur quipped back.

“If you were a proper lady you would fix your posture, and switch that bomber jacket and torn jeans you always wear for out for a nice, elegant dress.”

The American wrinkled her nose in disgust. “If you like dresses so much then why don’t you put one on, Sir Ruler of All That is Pompous and Impractical?” As Demitri and Simon gave heavy guffaws, Francis swirled his drink around and smiled to himself. Emily elbowed Francis playfully. “Wouldn’t Arthur look good in a dress?” She prompted.

Francis threw a sly glance to Arthur, who, truth be told, was looking quite sexy enough  in his leather jacket.

lips of fire and fangs of bloody steal

Francis twirled his hair teasingly. “Non, he does not have the hips for it. I, on the other hand, do. In fact, I used to wear dresses quite a lot when I was younger.”

Arthur, mid sip of his drink, immediately made a choking sound as he no doubt inhaled alcohol up his nose.

‘fore the poor bloke had a chance to choke

Simon was laughing. “Oh man, I didn’t need that image in my head, mate.”

She went for his neck and dragged him off the deck.

Loud cheers erupted with the last line of the song. Arthur, quite red in the face, responded to Simon by punching him in the arm. “Oi, you’re not allowed to have it in your head, y’fuckin’ tosser. Gruesome as it may be, that’s my job, and mine alone.”

Francis and Emily both made ‘aww’ sounds, causing Arthur to lash out at them.“Put a sock in it, gits. I’m not saying I enjoy the burdon; I’m just saying that he can shut the bloody hell up about it.” Putting out his smoke, Francis cooed and leaned against Arthur’s arm, causing the Brit to roll his eyes. “And you, Francis. If I didn’t know you already, I would ask what the devil kind of lad enjoys going round wearing dresses.”

Demitri swirled his ice water bemusedly. “I just wonder how you convinced your parents to let you. They must have been quite lenient towards you.”

There was a man who lived
For himself and the sea…

It seemed the song indeed had finished, as the men in the corner began singing the same thing over again. Francis uncurled himself from Arthur’s arm. “I would call it stingy. Our family wasn’t poor, but they refused to buy clothes for me. I had to make my own purchases.” Shrugging, he took a sip of his drink. “I had to work quite hard. But I suppose it wasn’t all bad, since I could always go around in the clothes I liked.”

Across his mind swam the memory of his father’s face staring haughty down at him as he twirled around in a robin’s egg blue dress. “What do you think, Papa, should I wear it to school?”

“I do not care where you wear it. But if you do not like the reaction, I am not going to drive all the way over to wipe your nose for you.”

A few hours later, his child self had returned home, dirty, dry tear tracks sticking to his cheeks, and a dark red pavement burn across his chin. “Papa, another boy pushed me.”

“What did you expect to happen, garçon sans espoir?” His regal eyes disappeared behind his newspaper as he ruffled it out. “It is your own fault.”

A jab of something ugly ran through Francis’s chest, and he took a larger, more sloppy gulp of his drink.

***********************************************************************************

Arthur took a swig of his beer and held it in his mouth, listening to the bubbles hitting his teeth like pop rocks as he eyed Francis’s third empty glass.

It was funny, he thought, through his brain’s softened, inebriated state. Francis used to be the much slower drinker than he was. Being around the same height and body weight, they both processed alcohol at similar rates. But in the past, Francis lasted longer before becoming plastered because he was good at pacing himself. And now--

“Arsur, do you realize zat your green ‘air looks exactly like grass? If I were a cow I would just gobble it right up--yes” Francis shouted, jabbing his finger in the air “right down into my four estomacs.” He fixed Arthur with a serious gaze, before blinking in this very funny, delayed way where the right one started before the left. “Did you know zat cows have four estomacs Arthur? It is very important because they make so much gas and it is part of--hic--greenhouse effect. Very serious. But some countries don’t take it seriously.”

He shot a very chiding glare in Emily’s direction. Emily gave a squawk of outrage, and Arthur buried his face in his hand, laughing like this was the funniest thing in the world.

A while later, the American declared she was off to meet a friend, and left. Demitri hadn’t stayed much later after that. It was alright though, Arthur thought to himself as he finished off a beer. Tipsy Francis was entertainment enough.

“Seamus? Seamus!” Arthur observed with a mild surprise that his Frenchman was beckoning loudly to the bartender.

“Aye, what is it deary?”

“I just--hic--wanted to ask you what this is.”

“It’s the Cherry cider, dear. Same t’ing you’ve had all night.”

“No not that, this.” He waved his hand vaguely around the hazy din of the air around them. “The thing they have been singing all the night.”

Arthur lent a quick ear to the song which he had skillfully been drowning out for the majority of the evening.

One stormy night his net got a hold
Of a girl with a tail and a head of gold
Said she if you free me one time this
The next time we meet I’ll greet you with a kiss

He rested his cheek on one hand, letting his gaze glaze over as he began to play lazily with a curl of long golden hair resting upon Francis’s shoulder. It was so shiny.

Many stormy long and lonely nights a’passed
Till three years later he netted up the lass

He yanked her aboard
and began to cop a feel

“Oh. T’is?” Seamus was resting her forearms across the counter. For once her voice seemed to be lowered to a normal conversational volume. “It’s a shanty m’dad used t’fiddle every friday, when the sailors came back for the weekend. I always had t’sing it along. Right little performing monkey I was.”

But she cried
so he tried
to remind her of the deal

Just like that all her tears cleared away
She said well sir then I guess I gotta pay

She gave a low scoff of a laugh. Glancing to the surrounding bar, which was substantially less full than earlier, she lowered her voice to a secretive murmur. “It used t’be different,” She said. “I changed it by replacin’ a word each time I sang. T’ese drunk, senile old coots don’t even realize t’ey’re singin’ a completely different story.”

She said it with a smile that right then revealed
lips of fire and fangs of bloody steal

Francis looked spellbound. “What did you change?” He asked, voice almost comically hushed.

Her jaw tightened. “The ending.” Her eyes darkened to the color of the forest at night. “On account of a friend I used t’have.”

‘fore the poor bloke had a chance to choke
She went for his neck and dragged him off the deck.

Straightening, her voice resumed its usual volume, and she grabbed a glass and began wiping it down. “Shush now. I don’t normally tell people t’at.” A wily grin came to her mouth. “But I’m bettin’ yer too drunk to remember the first two letters of yer own name, Froggy. Make sure yeh find someone t’walk yeh home t’night.”

Arthur wondered if that was their cue to leave. It was rather late, and only about a quarter of the customers were still there. The group he had come in with had all but dissipated. Well, Simon was still there, but right now he seemed to be busy making a fool of himself for the benefit of some dressed-up girls chortling at the other end of the counter.

Arthur tapped Francis on the shoulder. “Y’ready to leave, monkey?”

“Whenever--hic--you’re ready, haricot vert.”

With a groan, Arthur unloaded himself from the counter, taking a second to make sure he had his balance. He had had quite a lot of alcohol himself. He could tell he was a bit better off than Francis though. When the Frenchman got up, he stumbled and Arthur had to grab onto his shoulders to steady him.

“Unhand me ton chien!”

Arthur felt as deep chord of exaggerated offense was struck. “I was only tryin’ t’help, y’bladdered wanker blanket!”

“I” Francis proclaimed, puffing himself up regally, “Am an independent, able-bodied and straight--hic--ly walking citizen of le République Française.”

Arthur laughed, not really paying attention to the amused eyes that followed them as they began to wend their way across the pub. Despite the draft of damp, briney air just at the exit,  a warm, fuzzy sort of heat seemed to be inhabiting the inside of his skull .“I do declare, Sir, that nothing in all of the Lord’s holy kingdom could convince me that anything about you is straight.” He held the door ajar. “After you.”

“Non, after you.”

“Good Sir” Arthur’s stated,  more loudly, and therefore, by logic, more clearly and intelligently, “As an honorable gentleman of the university of Her Majesty the Queen’s most unappetizing--hic--appetizingly named city, I do insist that I go after you.”

“Monsieur” Francis began, swaying on the spot “As a citizen of the honored and esteemable République Française, I do insist zat--zat--” He giggled, letting his old accent slip accidentally into his voice “--I do insist zat I ‘ave forgotten what I was going to say, but will graciously accept your invitation to pass through zis doorway.”

As the door swung shut behind, Arthur vaguely heard Seamus’s voice carry across the pub.

“Oi! Somebody by the door pop t’eir head out and make sure t’ose boys don’t fall in the water.”

“Wankers.” Arthur said, shaking his head deeply as they began strolling down the lamplit wharf.

“Branleurs.” Francis repeated in French.

“Yes, yes indeed. We’re not that drunk.”

“No, no indeed we are not, Monsieur.”

And with that they linked arms and let out sniffs of derision, one in English and one in French.

A clammy breeze ruffled Arthur’s hair and he cast his gaze out across the Mersey. The brackish junction of river and ocean looked like a black forever. The endless sea seemed to rival the infinite expanse of star speckled ceiling with its own white-gray caps, which diminished in visibility with each league the water took closer to the sky. The sound of the ocean lapping against the salt stained supports of one of the piers danced with the sound of the breeze blowing off of the Irish sea. It was a tough toss up between eerie and peaceful.

Francis seemed to have been noticing it too. “Have I ever confessed to you--hic--Arthur, how very beautiful I think England is? Sometimes I just want to...to just fuck the entire country at once.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed as a childish twist of resentment krept its way into his tone, in the form of a disgruntled, slurred whine. “Francis, you're not allowed t’fuck all the English people at once, you’re only allowed t’fuck this English person. We already agreed tha’ tha’s how it works, remember?”

“Yes, yes" Francis dismissed, waving his hand vaguely. “But I mean the entire country in the --hic--metaphorical sense. Like the trees, and the buildings, and the grass and the ocean.”

“You want to fuck--hic-- a building? And a --hic-- tree? Tha’ sounds like it would hurt you awfully Francis. Please don’t do it.”

“I could do it if I--hic--had enough lube. But if you feel so--hic--strongly about it I will of course refrain. I love you better than zat tree.” His pointer finger sank down from the oddly specific tree he had distinguished from the few that grew along the edge of the university lawn, which their duo was slowly but steadily approaching.

“Tha’s good frog. Because I love you--hic-- better than that tree too.”

“Do you love me enough to take me--hic--back to your dorm tonight? If we are not going to be fucking trees I feel zat we must be finding something else to fuck.”

“Tha’s a fucking--hic--brilliant idea Francis, now tha’ you mention it. In fact, now that I’m thinking hard about it I think I really, really would rather fuck you than fuck a tree.”

Francis sighed genuinely, and kissed Arthur on the cheek. “Zat is--hic--such a lovely thing to say, Arthur. Sometimes I think the thing I’m most attracted by is your--hic--linguistic capabilities.”

“Nuh uh.” Arthur said sternly, jabbing Francis a little with his finger. “You’re the one who’s bloody--hic--bilingual. I don’t know if I ever said it but I’m--hic--still so sodding proud of you for learning like you did. You used to be so rubbish at it. And now look at yeh…hic--walking and talking at the same time.”

At that moment Francis stumbled into him. Arthur steadied the both of them just in time, but not without his own fair share of disorientation. The next sensations he felt were a warm exhale on his neck and a tickle of long hair on his cheek. Under his nose, a gentle waft of cherries mated with the melancholy musk of a long-dead cigarette . Francis was smiling into the crook of Arthur’s neck. There was a weak French chuckle, and then a mumble of “il m'attrape encore…”

Arthur wasn’t sure exactly what his frenchman had said, but he did know he needed to hold the door open if he intended  politely and properly get this man up to his dorm to have sex with him.  

Disentangling  himself, he griped, “Allright y’horny toad, git off so I can be a fackin’ gentleman. After you.”

“Non, after you.”

“No, I do insist that you go first.”

“I couldn’t possibly, do go ahead, Monsieur.”

“Good Sir, if you do not get your pretty round bum over the threshold this instant I’ll sock you right in your cheese mouth so you bend forward crippled and I can shove my aching john thomas up your sloppy ring piece right here in this doorway.”

“Wouldn’t you have to punch me in the estomac for that to work, mon cher?”

With a healthy amount of teamwork, they managed to get up the stairs to the correct floor.

Arthur fumbled with his key before jamming it harshly into the doorknob. Then he stumbled across the threshold, leading Francis by the elbow and using his other hand to slap on the lights.

“Ah, mate what for?” One of his roomates groaned, edging up from his bunk and shielding his eyes from the sudden light. The other awoke with a startled snort.

“Oh, mon lapin, are–hic–you sure we should–?”

Arthur silenced Francis by grabbing him by the face, pushing him against the bedpost, and leveraging a knee in between his legs. Francis let out a loud, very sensual, throaty moan that sounded like something then straight out of a porno.

His roomates’ voices immediately rose to indignant shouts

“Oi, oi, what’s going on?”

“I didn’t set my alarm for seven in the morning just to watch you bang a bloke all night‒Jesus!”

“Oh shite, is that what they’re doing? Leave us out of your bugger bash, Kirkland!”

Arthur unlocked his mouth from Francis’s. “Everybody out!” He roared in his best Taekwondo instructor voice. “We are going to be having a gay shag, and anybody who doesn’t want to watch can take themselves for a bloody moonlit walk!”

The grumbled arguments were of little importance as his sour but compliant roomates dragged themselves from their bunks.

The room was empty, and Francis was staring at him with hazy eyes and flushed, parted lips.

Arthur felt a grin tug at the edge of his mouth. He had known Francis for a long time–seen him in a lot of different ways. He knew, not only from his own experience, but from what Francis had told him about his sexual splurges in France (which he seemed to enjoy talking about no matter how unwilling and deeply disturbed his audience of one may be), that Francis was a very adaptable partner.  His most common sexual persona was the smooth, calm, elegant lover. Based on his stories, it was the one he tended to use on most people.

Francis caved forward, hooking his arms desperately around Arthur’s neck, and giving him a sloppy, uncoordinated, supplicating kiss.

A wave rolled through Arthur’s core. His hips followed it in a slow, deliberate grind that joined with Francis’s pelvis, causing it to roll backwards in the equally slow reciprocating motion, all the way until the Frenchman’s tailbone was pressed into the wooden surface behind him.

Keeping Francis pinned up by the hips, Arthur narrowed his eyes in concentration as he began the task of undoing his own clothes. It was hard to concentrate; there was an intense heat radiating off from the center of the Francis’s hips, almost as if the he were in the middle of a bad fever.

Arthur had only just managed to get off his jacket and the top of his uniform when he heard a muffled plea of “Aidez moi, Arthur…” And he looked up to see Francis Bonnefoy, the skilled and casual nudist of the era, tangled hopelessly in his own white exercise T-shirt. Only his upper arms and lower belly were visible in the mess; his usually innate ability to fling his clothes smoothly and swiftly aside seemed to have been lost somewhere between his belly button and shoulders.

Arthur unceremoniously yanked the shirt off him.

Then their mouths were connected again. Arthur could feel Francis’s hands, trailing warm pathways up his torso; he could feel his own hands doing the same to Francis’s back, his butt. There was breath against his cheek, the oddly exhilarant scent of cherries and cheap smokes under his nose,  a pair of thumbs over his nipples–crikey did that tickle…no, he didn’t like it...

Arthur moved his hands to the front of his chest and grabbed Francis’s hands like a bird catching a pair of spiders. He felt the tendons in the Frenchman’s hands tense, move, and then slacken. Using everything between his torso and legs, he pushed Francis harder against the bedpost. He tightened his grip to circle around the wrists, and pinned one up against the upper bedframe, trapped the other in a suspended limbo.

He heard Francis make a pitchy whine. Something stirred in the back of Arthur’s mind.

Short, muffled, and high. Like a bleating animal. Something trapped in a locker? No.

No, Arthur didn’t like that noise in Francis’s voice. He couldn’t put a finger in it, but something about it just rubbed him the wrong way.

As a joke, Arthur crept his hands up from Francis’s wrists, and wrapped them around the shallow dish of his palms. Francis took a shuddering gasp and opened his eyes. Grinning at the other’s confused expression, Arthur peeled them away from the bedpost,  began swinging their arms to a rhythm, and started humming something from the Beatles.

Francis blinked. “Qu'est-ce que c'est, you silly man?”

“It’s a classic, you dolt!” Arthur began twisting back and forth so that their shoulders shimmied together in a ballroom goofy fashion. “And look, now we’re dancing. ‘We all live in a yellow Submarine, A yellow submarine, a yellow submarine…’”

“Oh mon Dieu, do you know how to ruin a mood, Arthur Kirkland!”

Arthur made a face. “What’s wrong with this mood? ‘A sky of blue... and sea of green...In our yellow submarine…(submarine!)’”

Francis shook his head and muttered “homme sans espoir…” before meeting eyes with Arthur and giggling profusely. Not in his suggestive, sly giggle either; but one entirely of pure amusement. Arthur supposed he must’ve looked pretty silly: his usually mature and gentlemanly (of course that’s how he usually was, right?) self singing and dancing around to a song he remembered learning when he was around five. But Francis‒oh! Francis‒who Arthur was sure had trained himself to live every moment as though he were posing for a camera, looked hilarious with his hairy, gangly arms swinging like noodles underneath Arthur’s grasp.

Arthur felt Francis’s arm lift so he twirled underneath it. Picking up the pace, he unreeled tango style from Francis, before pulling them back together, and attempting to dip Francis. Francis, still a goodly amount intoxicated, began falling however; despite Arthur’s most earnest clawing, his attempt to catch them both only made the two of them collapse into a pile of ambiguously clean laundry strewn across the floor.

“Uncoordinated–hic–imbécile.”

“Clumsy–hic–twat.”

They looked at each other, and then broke into a fit of laughter.

Francis had his hands around his stomach and his knees up in an almost fetal position. He rolled onto his side, and Arthur could see that his bearded face was beet red, and contorted in such a display of humor that it almost looked painful. His chin was inches away from Patel’s dirty knickers, which Arthur thought was almost equally funny.

Arthur looked up at the ceiling, and began chortling as another thought came to mind.

“Imagine...no Frog really, imagine” He gasped, staring at the ceiling in utter awe “Imagine what my roommates think we’re doing right now.” He flopped his head to the side, and grinned,  breath  heaving past his air dried teeth. Francis’s eyes, blue, and touched by clear, fresh tears, opened to looked at him, before an eyebrow dipped down, and mouth curled up, and he let out a single amused  “Ptah!” followed by a stream of giggles.

Francis, half dressed in his baggy Taekwondo sweatpants, rolling around in a dirty pile of laundry and laughing his head off--it was the sort of utter relinquishment of elegance and self control that Arthur, sober, would have paid good money to see. The sort of scene that, had he got it on camera, would be a home video that he would deeply consider utilizing for blackmail. Deeply, would he consider it, before clicking his phone off and deciding that he’d rather the joy of keeping it all for himself, and knowing that he, and only he, had witnessed the moment in history that Francis Bonnefoy was just some drunk bloke thrashing around in a crusty pile of other people’s knickers in a University dorm room in Liverpool.

He was much too drunk to think so far ahead into the future, however. So, for the moment, he just decided to enjoy his company in the present, and roll around laughing too.

Eventually, he clawed his way over to Francis, and watched as the man hiccoughed himself into silence, body becoming limp from the effort of laughing for so long. His chest was rising and falling heavily. His limbs were sprawled wanly amongst the clothes, and his eyelids fluttered as Arthur’s shadow fell over his face.

Notes:

An American, an Englishman, a Frenchman, a quiet OC of unknown nationality, and disaster straight OC of some sort of British nationality
...walk into a bar...

I think this was my favorite chapter of the series, back when I was in first draft mode! Enter my version of fem!Ireland :)

The sailors' song is my own creation. "Yellow Submarine" is a song by the Beatles.

Here are the *takes a deep breath* translations

Quelle est cette folie?: what is this madness?
Di Chaggi: back kick
absolument magnifique: absolutely magnificent
Oui, Mademoiselle: yes madam
mon cher: my dear
amour: love
garçon sans espoir: hopeless boy
estomac: stomach
haricot vert: green bean
ton chien: you dog
le République française: the French Republic
Her Majesty the Queen’s most unappetizingly named city: Liverpool
il m'attrape encore…: he catches me again...
mon lapin: my rabbit
Aidez moi, Arthur…: Help me, Arthur...
Qu'est-ce que c'est?: what is this?
homme sans espoir: hopeless man
imbécile: imbecil

Sorry I'm tired and can't organie my notes but--
It was funny reading back on this--when I originally drafted this I didn't think about how patronizing Arthur can be to Emily(like I think I had it in the back of my head when I wrote him in this chapter, but I wasn't focusing on it?) but now I'm looking at it like...big bro mode can be caring but also controlling/patronizing, like thinking she can't make her own choice/have right to "wrong" choice?...
Social survey! Big Bro mode--nice or annoying?

Chapter 10

Notes:

**Warning! Sexual content, drunkeness, potentially triggering content

Thump. Ba dump. Thump.

Francis could feel his pulse against the inside of skin, swelling and thinning as if a giant, sickly slug were trapped underneath his skull.

His throat was still raw from laughter. What had he been laughing about? He didn’t quite remember. Everything under his eyelids was maroon. A deep, calming color. The maroon darkened. His eyes fluttered open.

Arthur’s face was shadowed in the front, blurred with light at the edges. The green eyes seemed to glow above him, as if a kitten were gazing curiously down upon a grounded sparrow.

“Y’ready ferran actual go, Frog?” Arthur asked, words slurring slightly into each other.

Francis made an “mm” sound. “J'ai mal à la tête…” He murmured.

Arthur’s eyebrows contracted. “What?”

What funny eyebrows that man had. Arthur was funny when he didn't understand what Francis said in French. how did the words sound in English again? He wondered if he could remember...

Francis closed his eyes again and felt a strange, uncalled for giggle escape his lips.
“Je mal a la tete" he repeated, wincing as another round of drunken sniggers bubbled up from his mouth.

He saw a confused but fond smile spread across Arthur’s face. “Yourra funny frog, Frog. Y’always dress like a fashiony sleazeball tryin’ to look all egalant-ele-gant all the blasted time and here I gotcheh in sweats laying here in a mess and I thinkyeh look actually kindeh nice this way.”

It seemed both of them had rattled what little brain cells were left after that fit of laughter.

“Ah” Francis mumbled, in response. what had Arthur just said? Arthur's tone had sounded pleased, so it couldn’t have been anything good. “Vous êtes full…de...crap, Monsieur.” The words felt like boulders, rolling heavy and slow off his tongue.

He heard a laugh. He wasn’t sure exactly what was funny, but his own diaphragm began contracting with slight weezes of amusement to match. Then he heard his own voice “Ahahonh-nm..nmmh…” get cut off by a thin pair of lips that tasted vaguely of lager.

His own mouth seemed to respond automatically, opening and re latching, scraping slightly against Arthur’s chin. He pushed his tongue up--into the mouth that had come in from above-- and he felt it meet its rival inside. Since he was the one facing up, all the saliva generated between the two of them drained into his mouth. His chest shivered and strained, before he remembered that he had to swallow so that he could breathe again. Diue, how could he forget something like that? Not enough practice? When he did it, his little mouth soldier forfeited its spot alongside Arthur's and he felt the other push its way into his own mouth.

He felt fluid slide through his throat. He suppressed the sound as he made a little cough around Arthur’s tongue. Arthur must have sensed it. Francis felt his mouth get evacuated, before a warm breath ghosted across his cheek. “Alri..enuffa tha’...”

Francis’s lips were left parted, his eyes closed as he took the opportunity to swallow and breath. There was a familiar warmth building in his lower belly. He was half hard. How long had he been like… wait...what was the question? There was heat and there was pressure. His brain understood nothing more. his body squirmed.

He heard Arthur’s voice again, hauling him halfway back  to his senses. “Francis do’y want me t’do th’thing thayou usually do?”

“Quelle…? What...is that?”

“You know” Arthur gave him a prompting look. “Take it.”

Francis blinked, a confused, dubious sense of surprise in his mind. “Le arse?”

“Of course the arse, y’drunk dimwit!” The Englishman’s brief blip of embarrassment seemed to give way to pensiveness. “I figured y’haven’t gotten a chance t’top in awhile and I dunno maybe it’s not so bad as I think to bottom, so maybe I’ll try it, yeah? Try, mind you; if it doesn’t suit me I’m getting right the hell off.”

The words began to fall into place as Francis observed Arthur shaking off the rest of his clothes, and clamoring on top of him. Ah. So Arthur intended to ride.

Francis’s head sat still in the cradle of laundry as as he watched the motions of Arthur reaching for a bottle of lube. Of him spilling some across his hand. Of him reaching behind himself and biting his lip in discomfort. A groggy, suppressed bemusement had settled across Francis’s mind. Was it really going to happen this way? What a strange night. What a strange image, to see Arthur Kirkland–his annoying boyfriend, his beloved nemesis, his former tutor, his nearly blackbelted martial arts instructor–with knees splayed to either side of Francis’s abdomen, betraying an adorably nervous flicker as his eyes met  Francis’s in a link of threat–of–death trust.

Arthur lowered himself, slightly, and winced.

“No. I don’t like it.” He said, quickly getting off. Francis squirmed as the tip of his dick went from warm and sheathed to cold and bare. A dim flit of disappointment may have existed in the Frenchman’s gut, but he didn’t react harshly. “C'est bon” He sighed. “Je suis... trop fatigué pour ...être au top ce soir.”

“What?”

“Je..cannot top...too...tired.”

Arthur’s voice sounded strangely magnified, but still far away, as if he were on the other side of a loud tunnel. his tone was an odd mix of brisk and slurred.

“Alright, back’t’yarregularly scheduled programthen.”

“Quoi….?” Francis didn’t understand what he meant. the brits words were blending into each other like colors in a kaleidoscope, and he couldn’t tell if it was because he himself was too drunk to listen, Arthur was too drunk to talk, or both.

Francis gasped as a warm, oily, lubricated hand suddenly gripped his dick. Yes, that felt good. Whatever was happening was good. Francis's shivery breath competed with the squelchy, squiddy sound of lube smashing between a palm and penis. His hips became compliant to the rhythm and his thighs trembled, falling open across the soft surface he was laying upon. Blood was dancing against his skin in a flare that ran all the way from his belly to his shins to his toes. His mind went blank. What was going on? This must have been sex that was going on. Oh, he loved sex. He was supposed to be good at sex. Wait. If that was so, why wasn’t he doing anything for the other human? His eyes had been screwed shut all this time. He opened them, and the light above him was blinding.

Je mal a la tete...je mal a la head...je hurt to the head...my head hurts...my head hurts...

No. Now was not the time for complaints. He had to work for Arthur; he couldn't be a selfish lover. His lips trembled as opened his mouth and placed it softly on the collar bone above him.

Was this good enough? No, not nearly good enough. Arthur was carrying on as if nothing were happening. Francis was stuck underneath though...his arms, where were they? Sprawled across the laundry, motionless, weak. Francis’s tongue began lapping desperately at Arthur’s skin, trying to get a reaction, proof that he could cause some sort of effect, even though he couldn't...he couldn't…

He jerked his leg up but it barely moved an inch before his inner thigh was blocked by Arthur’s hip. He jerked his other leg up and discovered the same. He was like a beetle stuck on its back, legs waving fruitlessly in the air. He braced his feet against the floor and lifted himself up slightly. A hard body part touched against the tender part between his ass cheeks. His heels slipped and his pelvis fell feebly back to the floor.

He had to try to do something…he was the experienced one…he couldn’t be the only one reduced to gasping and shuddering…

“Thassit, goodFrrog…”

His eyes were opened to crystal blue slivers. He saw that man he loved, his face, above. Green eyes. Like sunlight filtering through tree leaves on a dappled summer’s day. The image was jarred by his thoughts.

Good frog? What could he possibly be doing that was good? The question left his lips as nothing more than a keening mewl.

“Thassit, good boy"

Boy? I am older than you.

What was this? Desire? Competitiveness? A fundamental belief that meaningful sex required a shared level of intensity and pleasure?

“Y’look nice thissway.” Arthur said. “All onyback like this.”

Or was it fear of being the only one out of control? Arthur had on only a small, slight smirk. Meanwhile, he himself was...he was…

Whatever it was, it was telling him that he needed to get Arthur to gasp, or to yell, or to close his eyes and sigh...

His tongue, becoming sloppy and canine with saliva, trailed down Arthur’s chest.  It hit a small little bead. Finally, a sensitive spot.

Arthur made a hard “Rm” sound. The hand between Francis’s legs let go and migrated clumsily to his mouth; oily fingers pawed against his lips, pushed his head away, weighing his chin down causing his head to fall amongst the laundry. Je mal a la tete…

A different hand gripped around his waist. A thumb was pressed along his hip bone.

His hips were pulled forward. His thighs were pressed flat.

“Ar..” Francis could feel his breathing moving to his belly. He twitched as something hard and hot slid up inside him. He squirmed, accomplishing nothing with his immobilized thighs and boxed in abdomen. “sur..”

Thump. Ba dum. Thump. Was that his heart? Or the sound of his body being mounted by another?

“Ar…” he couldnt breath. his throat was tightening.

What was going on? Sex was what was going on. But...but...he was supposed to be good at...he was supposed to like…

“A-ar...sur...Arsur...Ar--Ah--AH--" Suddenly his voice crackled through in loud, raspy cry. his chest heaved and collapsed, heaved and collapsed. The noises didn't stop. They were breathless, panicked noises, coming from him.

His arms flung up wildly and he heard a british shout as the squishiness of a face slid underneath his fingernails.

The person pressing into him quickly pulled out, clumsily lifted off.

“Ow! Fucking ‘ell?” Arthur’s voice was pained, annoyed; before he took his hand away from his eye, and immediately his tone changed. “What....oh shitwhasswrong…? Oh, no...oh, dear...Francis, dear…”

There was water pooling between Francis’s eyelashes. It blurred his pounding vision, and threatened to spill down his face. He took one look at the reddened claw mark on Arthur’s face, before he closed his eyes and curled in on himself. The screaming bird trapped in his ribcage was still smashing furiously against the bars, but he knew he had messed up. He had ruined it, again.

There was a gentle flop. Francis peeked a sliver and saw that Arthur had dropped down into the dirty laundry, laying on his side so that they were facing each other.

“Frog...don’ cry... like tha’... don’choo cry like that...please?”

He was begging, and it sounded so wrong. Francis sniffed, feeling the hot moisture under his nose snort back up. Quickly, he passed a hand under one eye, then the other.

Before Arthur had time to react, Francis flopped around and rolled onto his stomach. He tipped Arthur onto his back, and closed his mouth over Arthur’s unfinished erection. Arthur's teeth gritted and he let out a strained “tch” sound. Francis sucked in his cheeks and bobbed his head, trying to make his face the equivalent of a vagina. Despite being shit faced drunk and runny with tearful snot, Francis was still quite able;  it was only four pumps before Arthur had arched his back and Francis was swallowing the result.

Arthur was panting, and trying to find Francis’s face, no doubt to figure out what the bloody hell was going on. Francis glanced up from between Arthur’s legs, and then looked away, knowing that the skin around his eyes was still pink, and his cheeks were moist with concealed tears. He was breathing heavily, letting a slight trickle of cummy drool roll down his chin.

Keeping his head bowed, Francis crawled swiftly back to Arthur’s side and collapsed into a clingy cuddle, using the pretext of postcoital affection as an excuse to hide his face against Arthur’s shoulder. Everything was fine now. Everything was fine.

“Francis?” Arthur’s voice sounded exhausted, delirious. Francis felt a tap against his upper arm, where Arthur’s palm lay. “Francis, are you still…?”

Francis gave an “mm” sound, of the kind that sounds peaceful: a lover drifting contentedly off to sleep. “Ev..sings fine, Ar...sur.”

Everything was fine. Francis had nearly ruined the night, with his stupidity, weakness, and unjustified fear. But then he had saved it. He had done his job. His job? Yes, his job.

Yes, everything was fine. That’s what Francis told himself as he felt his lover relax, and begin drifting off to sleep.  Everything is fine. He told himself  this as he shut his eyes, and buried his forehead against Arthur’s armpit. Everything is fine.  It cycled through his head again like a tired, dead fish carcass caught in a riptide.  His mind filled with flashes of a grimy bathroom floor, a dirty pair of sneakers, and a pair of colorless, shifty eyes.

A fiery swell of red hot hatred breathed itself out of hibernation in Francis’s chest. None of this was what he wanted. None of this was his fault. And none of this was fine.

Notes:

Vous êtes: you are

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of After School Lesson (UKFr/FrUK)