Thick and thin

[gwenchan]

Personaggi: APH Inghilterra, APH Francia
Rating: General
Prompt: Hurt/Comfort
Additional tags: Alternate Universe_Humans; Alternate Universe_Athletics; Established Relationships; Rival; Injury; Angst and fluff

 

Arthur and Francis' friends, when they want to joke, say they divorce at the start of each competitive season and remarry at the end, not even they were Hades and Persephone dividing their lives between summer and winter. 

 

This is what happens when they both compete on in the same sport, on the same distance on the running track, and neither of them wants to give the other an easy victory. 

 

Truth be told, they could try to run on two different distances and it’s not like they haven’t attempted it yet. However, Arthur is too slow for anything under the 400 metres and lacks the stamina for anything longer. 

 

Francis, on his side, is actually pretty decent on the 800 metres too, but the single loop is where he’s truly at.  

 

Besides, watching them run one against the other is quite the show, each giving all they have and more in that single loop that asks their very soul. 

 

One reason why their fans are always hoping to see them run elbow to elbow in the same final.

 

Too bad there’s a whole ordeal of qualifications before arriving there, two entire days of running the same distance over and over in this World Championship. 

 

The track is warmth in the August sun, as Arthur takes position for this first semi-final. There’s just a bit of wind in the air, overall the perfect climate, and he can se Francis’s back a couple places ahead, sixth lane. It’s something that gives Arthur sort of an happy, smug feeling in his stomach, knowing this time he managed to reach the semi-finals with a better time than his spouse and rival.

 

Timing alone won't do this round, however. Only the first two pass the turn and he's not risking leaving the qualification to timing and possible second chances.

 

The crowd must be cheering, on the bleaches, but Arthur can hardly hear anything beside his own heartbeat, all body tensed in wait for the starting pistol. He puts extra care to how he positions his hands just on the starting lane, attentive that his fingers won't cross it. His feet are glued to the blocks. It’s important, when the least of movement could be interpreted as a false-start and cost him the final. It would be a total bummer after two whole years of preparation for this moment only.

 

The starting gun hardly makes him jump anymore, the little explosion by now a familiar sound to Arthur's ears. In seconds he's sprinting down the first curve of the running track in a race that some people considers the hardest to run. 

 

The track is a red blur under his sneakers, as he dares to look around to check on the other trackers, though he's interested in one and one only. Arthur found him in seconds, that familiar low ponytail bouncing with movement and the dark blue of the French athletic team suit.

As expected, Francis is already ahead of him at the first straightway, his back even more an invitation to Arthur to give all he's got. Yes, he could pass even with just a second place, but that would mean endless teasing at home, more than what they already have.

 

Right now, running before him with a bunch of seconds of advantage, before him is not his husband who he loves deeply despite everything, but an adversary to crush. 

 

Arthur smirks inside as he passes Francis, heart pounding in his chest feet and muscles aching for the first lactic acid. 

 

 

Second turn and Francis along with another runner both dash before Arthur, whose answer is to push further, the only possible and acceptable answer really. To be fair, he hardly register anymore there are seven other competitors on the track, all is attention focused on his husband and rival. They’ve been running one against the other for almost ten years now, since the first and shaky attempts at juniors championships, and truly nobody at the time could have ever imagine they’d eventually start dating.

 

 

No matter. Last straighway, Arthur’s in the lead again and it feels like having a spear planted in his right calf with his shoes filled with concrete. This is no good.

 

But risking to not pass to the final is worst. To give up now on the last and most important straightway would be only foolish. 

This is what Arthur tells himself. Even more, he knows his body and is perfectly aware of what it can and cannot take. Then, no one ever won by going soft on themselves. 

 

After all it's just some more meters more. Of course, no one dare to slow down now, not after having seen countless of time who was leading a moment before being surpassed by everyone at the very last meters. That whammy would be too much to bear. 

 

 

The blue in the corner of his eye is almost an offense and also an invitation

 

To hell with it!

 

Hell is what he curses seconds later when pure, utter pain cut through his leg, both surprise and the momentum sending him tumbling down hard on the track, the force enough to hit the ground nose first. 

 

The incoherent scream is so strange and unexpected it takes Arthur a moment to realize he's the one who's be yelling bloody hell, new sweat breaking through his whole body with the effort. He brings his hands fumbling down to his leg, as if that could help in dulling the pain. 

 

Fuck it. Fuck it all. He would curse if the utter agony hadn't suddenly reduced his brain to a mush. Closing his eyes shut provide, as expected, near to zero relief. 

 

He would also tell the first-aid to be a little more careful with him, damn it all. 

 

Somewhere, in the distance, voices are celebrating. Right, the semi-final. Years of work, all his sacrifices, all destroyed in a single moment. He forcefully turns his head to the side, as first-aid helps him on the stretcher and Francis enters in his line of vision

To see him tired but also radiant to have qualified with a first place would be too much.

 

 

Correction. Watching Francis secures another victory a day later is. There it is, another proof of Arthur's inclination toward self-harm. In his defence – in case somebody ever asks for an explanation – he watched the final only in the hope to see his husband slogging in last place. That would have brought him an immense joy. Instead he had to assist to the horrible show that was Francis doing his victory lap with the French flag slung over his shoulders.

 

Never like today Arthur blessed the existence of all the other specialties for the commentators to switch onto the high jump.

 

Then it's back to the running track and really Arthur could switch the telly off or change channel but the painkillers have made his head so dizzy the thought doesn't even cross his mind for hours.

 

Even if that means watching a podium on which he should've been and a gold that he should have won. 

 

"How long are you going to gloat about it?" he groans as soon as the room door clicks open. Francis is still dressed in the same tracksuit he wore on the podium, the blue a nice contrast with the gold of his medal.

 

“It depends. Can I enter or do you plan to throw at me another bed-lamp? You’re paying the hotel the damages, by the way.”

 

He stands on the threshold, arms crossed in impatient wait. They had a terrible fight yesterday night, until Francis decided it was better to just grab a change of clothing and ask the hotel for another accommodation for the time being.

 

Arthur eyes the surviving bed-lamp. To be honest, there’s the temptation to use it as well as an improper weapon, had it not been it’s too far for him to reach now. 

 

“Whatever” he groans to the ceiling. “"Besides gold is not even your colour" he goes on. It's a lie and he’s not fooling anyone, Francis the least. There something in the golden halo that spouses perfectly with his hair and undertone and it's infuriating how he can still make Arthur sappy even in moments like this.

 

“Why are you here? I thought you would spend all night getting drunk on champagne and what not!”

 

The mattress creaks slightly when Francis sits on the edge, bending over to unfasten his sneakers. 

 

"And leave you alone and hurt? What husband do you think I am?" he asks, hand placed at heart level. Arthur looks aside. "A very bothersome one."

It's not really about the person; it’s more the idea and what he represents now to be the problem. Seeing Francis walking freely around when he's stuck in bed with a calf that has doubled in size is not the best for his already horrible mood.

 

"And I would say a very caring one." 

 

Arthur doesn’t answer, stubborn in watching the tapestry on the wall but it’s not really a nice show

When he finally turns around, Francis has made himself comfortable on his side of the bed and he's flipping through the menu of the room-service.

 “I know something to make you fell better,” he chirps, waving the menu before Arthur’s face, on the dessert page.

 

“Unless it's a time-machine or a new leg, I highly doubt it” Arthur pouts, eyes now glued to the ceiling as a statement. Next to him Francis just sighs patiently and keeps turning pages, muttering under his breath. 

Once, Arthur’s a bit childish behaviour would have been enough to break another fight, leaving him alone to dwell in his own gloom and self-deprecation. However that belongs to the past. Francis has come to know him and that Arthur doesn’t really mean half of the mean things he says at the height of his anger. He knows that Arthur will eventually stop pouting.

"In any case I'm ordering a pudding for me."

"What? Do you hate your country so much that you decided to sabotage the relay?"

 

Because of course Francis will also run in the 4 x 400, another race in which Arthur should’ve taken part. Damn it. 

 

"Please, no one's going to die for a tiny chocolate pudding" Francis says, stretching an arm to grab the phone. He doesn’t dial any number immediately though, his fingers ghosting over the phone keyboard. 

Arthur groans. If the choice is to be miserable and on diet and be miserable and eating something nice, he doesn’t see why he should torture himself. 

“Oh, fine. Do they have trifle?”

“Nope” Francis answers, popping the “p”, “But I’m sure the hotel can arrange.”

“Well, you’re the one paying for it.”

They don’t really talk as they wait for their desserts to be delivered, Arthur being still too bitter to be a nice conversationalist. The cream trifle is tasty. though. when he puts the first lazy spoon in his mouth, the flavour rich and sweet on his tongue. It melts a bit the knot of regret that has been stuck in Arthur’s chest since last night. His lower lip quiver against the spoon. 

“I know” Francis murmurs, carefully wrapping an arm around Arthur’s shoulder in instant. “Come here” he whispers, just in time for the first and messy sobs to shake Arthur’s body. 

 

 “It’s just so unfair” he bawls his eyes out. “Months of work and … this!”

He leans against Francis’ shoulder, not caring a bit that he must be smearing snot all over his jumper. Well, Francis isn’t complaining. 

“I know,” he repeats. Arthur sniffs a bit more. “No, you don’t.”

“2011,” Francis provides “A meeting soon after Worlds. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

 

In reality, Arthur had completely forgotten about it, but now that Francis is making him thinking about it, it’s true he was out of the scenes for half the next competitive season. The time Arthur realised how boring and dull running without his direct rival actual was. “Now I remember. And then when you came back you were different.”

“Yes, I admit I had quite the lesson in humility.”

 

Call it a lesson in humility. It had been like assisting to a late changeling phenomenon, watching a new, more pleasant version of Francis Bonnefoy substituting the old and cocky one. The arrogance had come back in some months, but that July of the Olympics Francis was still enough manageable Arthur actually thought he might give him a chance. Francis insisted, every time somebody would ask the story, that he had charmed Arthur away and he was free to believe that. Arthur knew how things really went.

 

Blinking away the last tears, Arthur snuggles a bit more against his husband. “Do you think I’ll thank this” – he gestures vaguely toward his leg bound in melting ice packets “one day?”

Francis takes some time to answer, his teeth clattering against his metal spoon. He has barely touched his chocolate pudding, and it’s one of the things about him that Arthur has always found fascinating, how he indulges fully in what he likes, no matter how big or small they were. 

“Maybe. No, actually I’m sure of this” he says, taking another bit of his dessert and waving the spoon under Arthur’s nose. 

“Don’t be so sappy” Arthur chastises, but the painkillers are making is tongue heavy and the words come out all slurry. He yawns, which prompts Francis to stick the spoon right into his mouth.

Arthur sputters a bit. “Do you want to kill me?”

“I’d never” Francis feigns offense and when Arthur looks at him, he’s beaming like the idiot he is, grinning like a child. Arthur swallows, take some more of his trifle and goes back to look at the ceiling.

“It’s a nice medal,” he mutters, low and almost hoping Francis wont’ hear it. He doesn’t have any luck. 

“It is, isn’t it?” 

Francis toys with it, softly, and Arthur doesn’t have to turn his head to know his eyes must be glimmering the same of when he won his first gold. “Will you watch the relay?”

“Of course I do,” Arthur scoffs “But don’t get ahead of yourself. I have to cheer for my country.”

Francis has a cute pout, Arthur considers, that sort of exaggerated way of pushing out his bottom lip and puffing his cheeks. 

“You’re not funny,” he murmurs into another spoon of pudding. Arthur stretches his arms, crossing them behind his nape. “Too bad. You must admit there’s a conflict of interest.”

“Which wouldn’t be if you just decide to join the French team.”

“Yeah, right.”

 

They’ve been discussing around this for years, so much now it’s more about the discussion in itself than to win. Francis will never compete for England, just as much as Arthur’d sooner retire than wearing the French colour. He blinks to the ceiling.

 

“I can’t cheer for the French team. But I hope you beats your personal best” he yawns, having the readiness to set aside the now empty little plate full of crumbles. To keep his eyes closed is becoming harder by the minute and honestly sleep seem overall a very good plan to help his body recover. 

“I could even try and beat your record,” Francis whispers, snuggling a bit more. Arthur smiles against his shoulder. Francis has been trying it for years now, managing only once, by pure chance, in a normal day and thus non-official. With records to beat and medal counts to keep up, their friends also joke that Francis and Arthur probably will leave it to an invalidating injury to end their career. Problem is, it isn’t that far from the truth.

There are a plethora of words on the tip of Arthur’s tongue, but so confused and mixed that he can’t order them, let alone say aloud. 

“Can try,” he slurs and whatever Francis’ answer, he’ll have to wait the new day to find out.