We always return to our first love
Whom we love best, to them we can say least. -English Proverb
On revient toujours à ses premières amours. -French Proverb
When Francis is on top, he likes to see Arthur. Likes to touch him. Kiss him. Whisper, words of affection, words of love, and he blurs the line between French and English in ways Arthur would never admit to finding beautiful. When Francis is on top he lavishes Arthur, and Arthur can feel how much he loves him as the man moves within him. Not in the act, not in where their bodies are joined, when Francis fills him again and again until Arthur can't wait any longer, until Francis joins him; that's not where he can feel it. Arthur can feel it in the air between them and it frightens him, how much this man he has known for centuries, millennia, can love him. When Francis is on top, it's romantic; they make love.
When Arthur is on top, it's sex. Because he doesn't think he's capable of what Francis does, expressing that sort of real emotion, putting himself out there for someone else. Normally it's a spur of the moment sort of thing, like today, where Arthur jumps him, and they knock over everything in the house or hotel or apartment as they make their way to the bed. Francis likes to remove their clothing slowly, teasingly, but Arthur doesn't need to be teased any more when he is the dominant one, can't wait for Francis any longer today.
He shoves Francis to the bed most ungraciously and that Frenchman smirks up at him, splaying his arms and legs on the bed because he knows, fuck he knows, how much it drives Arthur crazy. Shaking hands make quick work to rip the clothes from the body beneath him, and Francis lazily assists where Arthur's hands are not. Within minutes Francis is naked, unashamed of his want standing at attention before his former enemy. His eyes are cloudy as they stare up at him.
That calm desire Francis possesses drives him crazy; Arthur could search a thousand years and never discover how that man can make him feel like this. He turns his attention to ripping his own clothes from his body, Francis sitting up to trail his lips over the newly revealed flesh. Despite Arthur's speed, Francis always moves slowly, until Arthur joins him in nudity and Francis lays back down once more, taking in the sight before him.
Arthur is the paler one, the skinnier one. His body is lanky where Francis's is all masculine, wide and narrow and muscle. Arthur has muscle too, but it doesn't look nearly as good on him as it does on his lover, despite all Francis's attempts to dissuade him from thinking such thoughts. Even laying on the bed like some lustful woman, that fucking Frenchman looks every bit a man, letting one hand come up to stroke an English cheek. Arthur grabs his hips, grinding against him. Fuck!, he wants him, and Francis's head is thrown back slowly, his Adam's apple bobbing with a silently groan as hair cascades over the sheets.
Francis's back arches up against Arthur's chest as he enters, finally getting that first thrust he's wanted. Francis likes to talk during sex, and it pisses him off; he doesn't need directions on how to prepare his lover's body, on how much lube to use. He's not some teenager anymore, like the first time they did this, the first time Francis let Arthur be on top. Francis's hips move back against Arthur's thrust, and he's so damn tight because only on chance days like this is Francis ever on bottom, ever penetrated in the most sacred and unholy of ways. Time goes by so quickly for nations, but it's even faster when they're together, because they've been glued to each other for so long. This year's the thousandth anniversary of that stupid frog invading him, of some Norman being named king; this year is a constant reminder of how much he hates and loves that talking frog. Arthur thrusts again, more roughly, and now Francis has stopped talking.
His left arm comes forward, propping him up, as he puts too much weight on Francis's back. But the man under him doesn't protest as his right hand comes down to grab the unoccupied erection, stroking it in time with the thrusts that that body is being subjected to. There's a moan of something in French, something Arthur is vaguely aware is about God and a woman that maybe Arthur met, maybe Arthur knew, maybe Arthur killed.
Before him Francis makes to turn his head, and Arthur knows it's for a kiss, to whisper that he loves him in that foreign tongue he'll never admit he loves, has books he uses to perfect his French though Francis will always tease him. His arm on the bed comes up, forcing Francis's head down, because Arthur's not ready. He can't do the things the nation of love can, can't be so open before him. Francis likes to be gentle, to lay him on his back, to scoop his legs up as they slowly make love. But Arthur likes to be rough as he grabs those hips, likes to pull Francis's hair as the nation screams. Francis comes hard on the bed, but he does get credit for continuing to push back against Arthur as the Englishman comes too, screaming the only name he's ever screamed in bed. It's his old name, the name he used to be called centuries ago, and though no one else remembers it, Arthur does. Arthur remembers exactly who Francis was.
No matter who was on top, Arthur always finds himself being pulled into two strong arms, finds his head resting on that chest lightly covered in hair his fingers itch to play with. He feels the body beneath him vibrate as it speaks.
"Why do you still call me that?" His head perks up to see Francis looking down at him with bright eyes, eager for an answer. One delicate hands pushes back hair from his face, and Arthur closes his eyes without meaning to, leaning into the touch. "I do not call you by your old name."
Arthur snorts. "My name has never changed."
"J'used à pronounce it sans the « hache »," and there he goes, blurring that line between English and French again with French words, with the French name for a letter they share. They share the whole alphabet, the letters and the ordering, and though Francis will always call the letters by their French name and Arthur by their English, they somehow still manage to spell things out. Words they both share. History they both helped write.
They share a lot, now that Arthur thinks about it. He doesn't think anyone else shares as much as they do, not the way they do.
"You still pronounce my name without the «h »." His lover laughs.
"Je t'aime," Francis whispers, leaning in to steal a kiss.
"Shut up frog!" Arthur snaps, kissing him again. Because Arthur cannot say the words so easily, so freely, but he has said them. Francis knows how much it means when he says them, knows that no matter happens they will always come back to each other. Will always return to their first love.