I Hope I Didn't Wake You
Arthur fiddled nervously with the guitar strings, careful not to strum them lest they made noise and disturbed the man sleeping next to him. A long pale arm was slung haphazardly over his legs, the covers riding lower down prominent hips with each subtle shift as Francis turned to snuggle into his lap, making cute little noises as he slept.
'Falling in love' was a concept that was fairly new to him. And it didn't matter how old he was or how many other feelings he'd had for people before. With Francis it was all new. It opened his eyes and planted an odd emotion in his chest. And he hated to admit that the feeling had always been there, growing, taking roots in his soul.
It just took Francis and his increasingly extravagant ways to show him.
Absently, his fingers ran through fine blonde locks, letting the curled strands wrap around his fingers. In his sleep, Francis mumbled something before rolling away from Arthur, spread out on the king sized bed. He considered the length of his broad back, the golden hue it took in the dull lamplight, hair spread on his pillow like an expensively shampooed shaky.
The guitar was still dead weight in his lap.
He'd written a love song. For Francis. He felt liked he'd turned into a hopeless romantic like his lover. But he'd written it. Or else the swelling pain that came with love would have split his heart in pieces. He wrote it to ease the thudding whenever Francis gave him that smile, the one that brought out every line around his mouth and eyes, perfect sky blue twinkling.
He wrote it so he could remember the shiver Francis gave him when they touched, the way those perfect deep blue eyes darkened with lust, the touch of his lips, warm and wet and smooth, trailing along his body. He wrote it because the need to sing it was overwhelming. Not to the world.
Just to the man sprawled beside him.
Experimentally, Arthur played a few notes on the guitar, freezing when Francis shifted, turning his head to the side. He felt stupid. Not only had he been enough of a sap to write the Frenchman a love song, but he wasn't even able to sing it to his face.
He took a shaky breath, steadying himself. "I know it's sort of late. I hope I didn't wake you. But I want to show you something." Feeling more confident, he played the next few chords of the song, his fingers stiff over the notes.
At first, the starting few lines came out raspy and breathless, getting stronger until he was singing like he never had before. A flood of emotion crashed over him, anxiety and affection, anger and irritation. He closed his eyes against the waves and kept singing, stumbling over his notes, pausing to correct a note. He didn't care if he sounded horrible.
Finally, that feeling called love was being released.
His fingers picked out the last few notes, his voice fading into nothing, only the sound of Francis's breathing could be heard. He let out a relieved sigh, placing the guitar back under the bed.
Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders. Arthur flushed. "Sorry, did I wake you?" He mumbled. Francis shook his head, laying kisses over his neck, arms tight and possessive, and for a moment he thought he felt wetness on his back, and heard a small sniffle.
"That was beautiful. Arthur. Thank you." Elegant hands found his face, turning him around so that they could stare at each other intently. "Thank you." He repeated it because he meant it.
"You're welcome." He muttered finally, face flushed because he hated it when Francis gave him that look. The flood of emotions hadn't yet subsided. And love was causing his heart to thud painfully fast.
They said nothing but that afterwards, laying down. Arthur accepted his place his Francis's arms, his own around the Frenchman's hips. He didn't know why he hadn't expected Francis to like the love song.
The man was such a hopeless romantic.