He smirks, and his finger twitches against the trigger, ready to blow the man’s brains onto the street in a spray of blood.
A moment passes. Two.
The man watches as he starts to shake, as his smirk turns into a snarl of frustration.
“Why – why won’t my finger –”
The man reaches up and lowers the rifle with one hand, uses his other to pry his fingers from the trigger. “You used that finger,” the man says, the smallest of sad smiles twitching at his lips.
He shakes harder; the man lowers the rifle to the ground and reaches into his breast pocket, pulling something out – something red and delicate and wrong amidst the debris and death.
The man says nothing as he presses the rose into his hand, closes long, slender fingers around its stem. He hisses as he feels several sharp stings in his palm, and the slow, wet, stickiness of blood.
“Do you remember?” the man asks.
“What is there to –”
“It’s there, Francis. Just let it come.”
Francis gasps as something rings through him from the cuts in his palm.
“It is not such a bad thing to bleed sometimes,” Francis says, rubbing one of his thumbs across the back of Arthur’s tiny hand.
“But it hurts and it’s going to scar!”
“It does,” Francis says, and his gaze lifts from the shaggy mop of blond hair to his thumb, wrapped in a piece of Arthur’s cape. “And it will. But that is a good thing. It is a memory I share with you and of the lovely rose you gave me.”
“I-I didn’t give it to you! And you’re stupid, to remember something like that!”
Francis laughs and presses his cheek to Arthur’s head.
“My Arthur, I am the thumb, and you, the thorny rose. You pierce through me and linger through the sweet scars you leave.”
When Francis opens his eyes again, he’s not looking at the vague man, he’s not even looking at England. He’s looking at Arthur, at Arthur, and finally he remembers.
Arthur gazes back at him for a moment, lifts a hand and runs his fingertips over Francis’ cheek. “They’re still there, aren’t they?” Arthur asks. “Those scars.”
“Arthur,” Francis whispers, and then he feels synapses and neurons connect and spark, overloading him with memories of Matthew and Alfred and his friends, his dear friends and who he is –
The memories overload him. Francis’ eyes roll back into his head, and he tumbles forward into Arthur as he blacks out. ___
When Francis comes to again, he is warm and safe, resting in a makeshift bed with a heavy blanket draped over him and a pounding headache. It takes him a few moments to realize the blanket is Arthur.
“Angleterre,” he murmurs, lifts a hand and runs it over the man’s hair. Arthur shifts, tightens his arms around Francis’ neck.
“Three days,” Arthur murmurs, making Francis jerk in surprise. “You…you’ve been asleep for three days, you git. I….”
Francis runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair and doesn’t speak.
“Who are you?” Arthur asks.
“I am Francis Bonnefoy. Also known as France by others.”
Arthur sniffles and presses his face into France’s neck.
“…It hurt,” Arthur murmurs. “You bloody wanker, you just…just cutting off contact like that – making me worry about you –”
Francis feels his lips quirk up in a grin. “Ah, Arthur, am I your thorny rose as well?” he asks, and braces himself for the inevitable smack by squeezing his eyes shut.
Instead, Francis feels trembling fingers curl against his cheek. “I wish you weren’t sometimes,” he whispers. “By God, I wish you weren’t.”
“Do you mean that?”
Francis feels warm breath over his lips.
“No,” Arthur says. “I suppose I don’t.”
And when Arthur presses their lips together, Francis tilts his head back and accepts it, accepts Arthur, accepts his rose and the dew that drops onto his cheeks along with all its thorns. ___
I’m hoping the other!anon will come back with something that sucks slightly less. I might expand on this and out myself someday, but that will be long in coming; I have many other fills I’d like to do in the meantime.
I hope the OP and others enjoyed this somewhat, nonetheless. Thanks to all for reading.
Author!anon, you're officially my hero. I just... simply LOVE this. I really liked how you portrayed Francis' train of thought as he was starting to realize that something was wrong. And that flashback scene and the ending scene were just amazing.
Thanks so much for the lovely fill, anon♥ I'll probably be re-reading this over and over throughout the next week or something just because this is so good!
This... This tore at my heart a little. The amnesia part, the sweet memories at the beginning of the fill, the shared significance of the rose between Arthur and Francis, and of course just about everything else.
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Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [6/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-28 02:55 am (UTC)(link)A moment passes. Two.
The man watches as he starts to shake, as his smirk turns into a snarl of frustration.
“Why – why won’t my finger –”
The man reaches up and lowers the rifle with one hand, uses his other to pry his fingers from the trigger. “You used that finger,” the man says, the smallest of sad smiles twitching at his lips.
He shakes harder; the man lowers the rifle to the ground and reaches into his breast pocket, pulling something out – something red and delicate and wrong amidst the debris and death.
The man says nothing as he presses the rose into his hand, closes long, slender fingers around its stem. He hisses as he feels several sharp stings in his palm, and the slow, wet, stickiness of blood.
“Do you remember?” the man asks.
“What is there to –”
“It’s there, Francis. Just let it come.”
Francis gasps as something rings through him from the cuts in his palm.
“It is not such a bad thing to bleed sometimes,” Francis says, rubbing one of his thumbs across the back of Arthur’s tiny hand.
“But it hurts and it’s going to scar!”
“It does,” Francis says, and his gaze lifts from the shaggy mop of blond hair to his thumb, wrapped in a piece of Arthur’s cape. “And it will. But that is a good thing. It is a memory I share with you and of the lovely rose you gave me.”
“I-I didn’t give it to you! And you’re stupid, to remember something like that!”
Francis laughs and presses his cheek to Arthur’s head.
“My Arthur, I am the thumb, and you, the thorny rose. You pierce through me and linger through the sweet scars you leave.”
When Francis opens his eyes again, he’s not looking at the vague man, he’s not even looking at England. He’s looking at Arthur, at Arthur, and finally he remembers.
Arthur gazes back at him for a moment, lifts a hand and runs his fingertips over Francis’ cheek. “They’re still there, aren’t they?” Arthur asks. “Those scars.”
“Arthur,” Francis whispers, and then he feels synapses and neurons connect and spark, overloading him with memories of Matthew and Alfred and his friends, his dear friends and who he is –
The memories overload him. Francis’ eyes roll back into his head, and he tumbles forward into Arthur as he blacks out.
___
When Francis comes to again, he is warm and safe, resting in a makeshift bed with a heavy blanket draped over him and a pounding headache. It takes him a few moments to realize the blanket is Arthur.
“Angleterre,” he murmurs, lifts a hand and runs it over the man’s hair. Arthur shifts, tightens his arms around Francis’ neck.
“Three days,” Arthur murmurs, making Francis jerk in surprise. “You…you’ve been asleep for three days, you git. I….”
Francis runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair and doesn’t speak.
“Who are you?” Arthur asks.
“I am Francis Bonnefoy. Also known as France by others.”
Arthur sniffles and presses his face into France’s neck.
“…It hurt,” Arthur murmurs. “You bloody wanker, you just…just cutting off contact like that – making me worry about you –”
Francis feels his lips quirk up in a grin. “Ah, Arthur, am I your thorny rose as well?” he asks, and braces himself for the inevitable smack by squeezing his eyes shut.
Instead, Francis feels trembling fingers curl against his cheek. “I wish you weren’t sometimes,” he whispers. “By God, I wish you weren’t.”
“Do you mean that?”
Francis feels warm breath over his lips.
“No,” Arthur says. “I suppose I don’t.”
And when Arthur presses their lips together, Francis tilts his head back and accepts it, accepts Arthur, accepts his rose and the dew that drops onto his cheeks along with all its thorns.
___
I’m hoping the other!anon will come back with something that sucks slightly less. I might expand on this and out myself someday, but that will be long in coming; I have many other fills I’d like to do in the meantime.
I hope the OP and others enjoyed this somewhat, nonetheless. Thanks to all for reading.
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [6/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-28 04:14 am (UTC)(link)Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [6/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-28 06:06 am (UTC)(link)OP
(Anonymous) 2009-05-28 06:13 am (UTC)(link)I just... simply LOVE this. I really liked how you portrayed Francis' train of thought as he was starting to realize that something was wrong. And that flashback scene and the ending scene were just amazing.
Thanks so much for the lovely fill, anon♥
I'll probably be re-reading this over and over throughout the next week or something just because this is so good!
Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [6/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-28 07:09 am (UTC)(link)Re: And You, the Thorny Rose [6/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-06-02 02:20 pm (UTC)(link)Thank you author!anon for this.