I know it’s been a rough year, but, at least, let’s have one last drawing for 2020!
Arthur and Francis are still the best at embarrassing their children :)
Also, this is a redraw from previous years (and it took 9 hours to finish, help)! I’ll post the comparison later, I don’t feel like doing it today ajsjajshshsh
Unfortunately I couldn’t make the redraw of this for this year, I’ve been caught up on other projects or completely having an art block ahshsjshsjsh
So have last year’s for now! Happy Holidays, I hope you guys are doing fine!
Fruk. Arthur doesn’t want to go. Francis can’t let him stay. Complete. 1.2k words. Angst. Rated T for wartime implications. I was feeling dramatic and wanted to rewrite an old fic so, enjoy!
“I’m not leaving you!” And here? Here something breaks in Arthur’s eyes, the rum bottle glass green shattering. Maybe they’re both brittle with old age, flesh turned to living stone with the centuries. Maybe its tears. Francis has never seen it before. But Arthur’s hands are shaking. “I have never left you. I’ve been with you and against you. I’ve sunk your navy, I’ve taken your pride and your child but I have never left you.”
“Arthur,” Francis said.
“I won’t now!” And his shoulders set like stone, sure now. He wouldn’t leave.
“Arthur!” He’s never said the man’s name so many times. It’s always Angleterre when he’s pleased. Rosbif when he wasn’t. Brittunculi when they were children. Wretched little Britons it meant in Latin and Arthur has always been a wretched bastard, small and sharp. Like one of Goya’s monsters when he’s angry. Arthur has loved precious few others in their long lives. Francis, perhaps. Portugal. The odd queen. His children. His first child especially. It’s been the key to him for the better part of four hundred years.
“If you don’t go now. They’ll have you. And then the Atlantic. And then Alfred.” He chokes over skipping his own child but Arthur has one North American weakness and it is not the second son. Arthur’s second son, Francis’ first, his only. Matthieu, stupidly loyal, singularly determined laid grey-faced on the beach.
Arthur was staring. Fixed not on anything even as they were aimed at Francis. He was thinking, his mind whirling. Cunning, or perhaps care for his children ground against the stubbornness and self-preservation, grinding away at each until a choice was made.
“He can’t have the Atlantic,” Francis pushed for cunning, for the care of his children. His only child, Matthieu never did win, but Alfred won. He always won any battle in Arthur’s head or heart. The stone line of Arthur’s shoulders drew up like the collapsing bellows of a smith’s forge and he was suddenly pitifully small, the wind gone from his sails.
“Come with us.” Arthur said, and when his hands, still marked by archer’s scars even for as long as he’s been all sailor, fold over Francis’s own, Francis knows he’s won. Arthur should be screaming at him, calling him every foul word he can conjure after two millienia of making butchery of both their languages, beating Francis about the head until he listens to reason. But even Arthur now knows Francis won’t leave France. There’s no abandoning what makes them in times like these, even if they’re not sure there’s ever been times like this. Borders fences made their bodies of flesh and Francis can no more leave his now than he can leave his body.
Arthur nodded and and took Francis’ silence as an answer. His fingers laced through Francis’ own and Francis wished he could paint them. His fingers own long and elegant and Arthurs, thin and made for diligence, both filthy with sand under the nails. He wished he could paint Arthur’s face. There’s blood from a cut at his hairline, his flaxen bangs are filthy and pushed back and he has fought for Francis harder than he’s ever fought against Francis and that, Francis knows, is Arthur’s love.
“You can still come with us,” Arthur said. “Come with me you fucking fool, don’t die here,”
Summary: Based off the story ‘The Prince and the Pauper.’ Alfred is a prince who must sacrifice his freedom for the sake of his people, and along the way meets Matthew, a man who looks strikingly similar to the young prince. Will this single meeting change the future of the kingdom or will it become a small trifle of the prince’s life?
Characters: England, France, America, Canada, Scotland, Japan, Netherlands
Arthur paced the upstairs corridors endlessly, hands held in a firm grip behind his back. He’d been offered a seat at least a dozen times, a cup of tea nearly twice that. He politely declined each time with a wave of his hand. He hadn’t a clue how collected he looked to the servants, clearly not as much as he hoped if they all still hovered a little too closely. He brushed his fringe from his eyes for the umpteenth time. It was nearing sundown as he made his way onto the balcony that overlooked the sea. Taking in a deep breath of the salt air, he tried to relax his shoulders and put his mind at ease. He closed his eyes and listened to the waves crashing upon the rocks, the steady ebb and flow clearing his mind of worry. He only reopened his eyes when he heard a faint tapping on the glass paned door.
“Your Majesty.”
Francis, in all his frills, gave a flourished bow to which Arthur met with a nod of simple acknowledgment.
“Please, tell me the news is good.”
The man stood upright and pressed his forefinger to his bottom lip. Arthur waited impatiently for an answer, the slight hesitation was enough for him to know that all was not well. Something had gone amiss and Francis was mulling over the prettiest words he could use to describe whatever tragedy was likely upon them.
“I begin with the Queen is well. Her health is good, you needn’t worry about her a moment longer,” Francis’s voice was smooth as it always was. It was the kind of voice that sounded as if a portrait could speak. It set Arthur’s mind partially at ease.
