A lullaby of thunders

[gwenchan]

Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: HWS France/Francis Bonnefoy; HWS England/Arthur Kirkland
Rating: General
Additional Tag: Countries using human names; Fluff; Domesticity; Established Relationship
Prompt: chrysalism

A storm is picking up. Standing before the half-opened window in the living room, Arthur can list all the little signs telling him that. It's in the sky turning into a deep lead, the first drops hitting the glass and the high whistle of the wind. Cracking a sliver is enough to smell the ozone in the air, bitter, subtle and familiar. It pops with electricity as the first thunderbolt light up the sky. He loves it.

"Do you plan to stay there forever? And could at least you close the window?"

Bundled and looking cosy on the couch like he was at home, Francis doesn't share the sentiment.

Little droplets of rain sprinkling in his face, Arthur turns. He does not close the window. It would be a pity given how this moment before the real storm is his favourite.

It hasn't always been like that. There has been a time, he remembers clearly despite all the centuries when a brewing storm was a terrifying sight; usually, the sign gods were pissed at him. He would search for shelter in the forest and hope to not be struck down by lightning. That type of death, surely, wasn't pleasant and he talked from experience.

He feared a storm in the middle of the sea, with waves as big as palaces, only a bunch of men under his command and no land in sight. But now he doesn't sail the oceans anymore and with a solid roof above his head, watching the storm is a rare delight. One that, apparently, he is not allowed to enjoy.

"You're going to get sick standing there," Francis whines, with a tone that really means, "I am going to get sick."

Even though neither of them can get sick from a little rain. Arthur doesn't move. If anything, he exposes his face a bit more to the chilling air. Paying a little attention, he can smell the salt in the rain, the subtle, brackish scent of the sea carried by the wind for miles and miles.

"You can watch the storm from here. We can move the couch," Francis calls again. The proposal is tempting, but Arthur is not going to admit that out-loud and give the other the satisfaction. It's a matter of tradition, after all.

Besides, the minutes before a storm are not made to laze around, especially in the countryside. It always requires some precautions, some preparations, and certainly, he's not going to do all that alone.

"Get up your ass and help me," he orders, blunt. "Don't stay there like an idiot, you know where I keep the towels."

There would be a lot to think about that sentence, about how he can trust Francis to move around the house, his house, and knowing exactly where to find everything, but with the rain already turning into a downpour, there's no time.

The checklist is always the same. They go round to close every blind and window and seal the frames with rolled-up towels, lest they want the rain to trickle inside. Arthur takes care of the first floor and Francis of the second. The skylight in one bathroom doesn't close well anymore and Arthur hasn't yet brought himself to have it fixed. For now, he kicks a couple of buckets and places some towels underneath.

The power will cut, Arthur can bet his hat on that. He unplugs most of his appliances to reduce the damage while Francis retrieves a couple of flashlights for emergencies. He also finds some candles and, ever the sappy and old fashioned, he lights them in the living room and kitchen.

There, without Arthur asking him, he puts a kettle on the stove and searches the pantry for the half-used package of coffee he left here last time he visited. Arthur wonders since when Francis has begun to leave things in his kitchen for when he passes by. Especially, when he started leaving things in Arthur's second and third houses. 

But thinking about it would only open a well Arthur's not yet ready to face. He gets to revive the fire in the heather as a distraction and decides to take a couple more covers. An autumn storm promises to bring with it quite the cold.

Finally, he does give in and move the couch, tilting it a little toward the window. Though they closed the blinds for safety reason, he can still enjoy watching the sky through the cracks. It's practically impossible to properly watch the telly from this angle, but Arthur has a feeling the tv won't be viable for much longer

Satisfied he let himself plop down onto the couch, curling by habit on the left side. He carefully arranges a patchwork duvet over his knees like the old man he is and neatly tucks it under his feet. Francis joins him soon after.

"Here. No sugar, a little milk after the tea," he passes him a cup, before sitting too next to him with a cup for himself.

The ceramic is warm against Arthur's skin, but not so hot it's impossible to hold. Vapours of apple and cinnamon raise slowly in Arthur's face. He blew a little before taking the first sip.

"You used too much milk," he says, but it's out of habit and inside he knows he's not fooling anyone.

The blinds, though closed, rattle in the wind. In the sky layered with clouds, another lighting turns the night into day. Arthur counts to three. Precise like old Big Ben, the walls shake with the force of thunder. Somewhere down the village, dogs bark in fear and displeasure. It's distant, though, and quickly cancelled by the noise of rain now showering outside.

It takes a record of a whole five minutes for the power to cut off. The tiny flames of the candles flicker in the draughts but most of them resist. They glitter in the penumbra, only their warmish light left to illuminate the room. From time to time, everything gets showered in the pale coldness of new lighting.

Arthur blinks and waits for his eyes to get used to the darkness, watching the profile of all the furniture slowly appear, one by one. It's comfortable and familiar, bringing him back to a time when sunset or days without sun really meant be in the darkness.

The candlelight is too soft to read. Once Arthur could see with little more than a flame, but he too got lazy since the advent of electricity. Since then, he has been less and less inclined to ruin his eyes labouring over the pages; less and less content to follow the natural succession of night and day. He'd never do anything done that way, the work always piling, always adding up.

He could light more candles. He has a whole stock thought precisely for these occasions, if that wouldn't mean getting up from his cocoon. With the storm roaring outside, the temperature inside has dropped, even with the flames cracking in the heater.

He ponders about sending Francis and discards it almost immediately. By habit, their bodies have framed together and Francis getting up would mean losing a very comfortable position. For now, he can go without reading, content to snug a little more against Francis.

Of course, It's only practical, no other reason. Just like he searches for Francis's hand under the cover and squeezed it when he finds it.

"It's warm," he anticipates any possible - and surely inappropriate - comment. Their not middle schoolers who blush simply for holding hands. 

"So. What do we do now?" Francis asks, a little lazily and a little entitled.

Arthur shrugs. To be honest, he's not that down doing something, except listening to the lullaby of the rain outside. He has his phone in his pocket, but taking it - with some contortion - only confirms he doesn't have any signal and the battery is running low. He has some gaming apps, stuff Alfred downloaded without his permission. Arthur protests they only take memory space in his phone, except ending up using them when he's too bored and tired for anything else.

He discards Trivia Pursuit immediately, lest they want to fight after the first round of questions.

"Wanna play Scrabble?" he proposes, after a brief reflection.

"It depends. In what language are we playing?"

Right, he forgot about that detail. "English, obviously."

He doesn't even know what other language options the app has, he never checked. Even so, he's certainly not going to play in frog-speaking

"I'm not playing in English," Francis protests. Normally it would make a discussion blossom, but it's too late for that.

"Battleship?" Arthur offers. Francis thinks about it, humming.

"Alright," he says in the end.

Arthur opens the app and sets the half-empty cup onto the floor. Francis does the same. Then, they arrange a little more, till Francis is lying on his back on the couch and Arthur's snuggled against his chest. He tilts the phone so that Francis can see too and chooses a low-difficulty mode. They play against the phone, a move each. Normally Arthur would call Francis out for his strategy, but he's too sleepy for that. He's content with chucking when Francis's hits fail.

He yawns, open-mouthed and unbridled. 

"Wow. That was quite the sight," Francis jokes. "Tired?"

Arthur scoffs, doesn't answer. "Your move?" He wiggles the phone under Francis' nose, impatient. He wants to be done with the match quickly and Francis is definitely taking too long. 

He lets his eyes fall close, arms going immediately heavy. Francis chuckles against his nape. Arthur ignores him. 

"In a second," he says and doesn't open his eyes. Instead, he turns his head to the side to better adjust against Francis' chest. Only because it's broad enough to provide a decent pillow, nice and familiar. 

Francis nudges him a little. Arthur scoffs, turns to the side to snuggle better. Again, it's only practical. He's only exploiting the situation. Changing position now would mean too much work. 

Distant, he hears Francis chuckling above him. Arthur feels him taking the phone from his hands before he makes it drop. For a moment he lets him. It lasts a whole sixty seconds before old habits kick in and he remembers he's not a fan of the idea of Francis going through his phone. He doesn't trust the other won't find material to mock or blackmail him for ages. 

"Give that back," he orders, squinting his eyes open in what he hopes to be a glare.

"I was just putting it away, dear," Francis smiles at his paranoia. One more reason to not trust him. Only when his phone is safe in his pocket, Arthur can relax and return to his previous plan. Outside, the storm turned into a familiar downpour, with only some random flashes of lighting left. It's the best noise to lull someone to sleep. 

It would be even better without Francis snoring in the background; because the man snores, no matter how much he denies it and normally Arthur would slap him awake or nudge him to make him stop. 

Not now. Now everything is quiet, peaceful, an incantation so fragile it could break at the slightest movement. So Arthur doesn't move, accepting Francis wrapping his arms around him in his sleep and hugging him closer. He just wiggles a little to free his arm from under his chest enough it won't get numb.

He slips into dreams quickly after that, in this precious haven where he can even trust to be held by an old enemy. But tonight that's long in the past and all the storms,  real and metaphorical, are left outside. 

He's safe