#one-sided-ish

this began as snark but somehow i tripped and fell ass-over-head into feelings and shit. so uh…have this snippet:

“The pope’s fucking balls! This level of incompetence is simply unbelievable—I’m out of goddamned English words for today. You go yell at them for me, Jones!” 

Much to Francis’ amusement, Gilbert’s German-accented French carries through the military encampment loud and clear, proceeded by Alfred’s stammering, but audible Oui. 

Gilbert wasn’t exactly fluent at English—though he of course, had excellent command of its vulgarities. Alfred, far more accustomed to the gender-neutrality of English grammar, was still muddling up the three different German grammatical genders and had absolutely no handle on the difference between accusative and dative case. The results were hilarious, but unworkable.

So, French had become their bridge language. Arthur, for all that he professed to avoid anything and everything associated with Francis, was fluent in French. He’d forced his son to study it diligently: according to Alfred, on the basis that one had to know thy enemy deeply and intimately, besides the annoying fact that it was the European diplomatic lingua franca.

(Francis had felt rather flattered. Perfidious rosbif held him in such regard.)

For this reason, a great deal of the talking and shouting between Gilbert and Alfred occurred in French. Consequently, Alfred’s crush on the older man was blindingly obvious to Francis. Gilbert, fortunately or unfortunately, remained oblivious to the fact that he was giving Alfred heart palpitations.

From his tent, Francis has a good view of the way Alfred shifts nervously as Gilbert manipulates his hands into a better firing stance. Goodness, how could he not notice? Sure, unlike the fish-belly pale that his father was, a blush was far, far less visible on Alfred’s warm complexion. But still! The fidgeting, that specific, tongue-tied stammer that came out only when he was responding to Gilbert. To Francis, it may as well be a blazing bonfire. 

Later, when Alfred is composing a letter requesting funds from his King, Francis ambushes him.

“So, what do you think of Gilbert’s training?”

The honest, unadulterated admiration that flows from Alfred’s voice would have made Francis blush, were he not well, Francis. “Oh—he’s really good. He knows so much about military tactics and logistics—his drills are even more advanced than the blasted old man’s—I’ve learned so much. I wish I could be as great as he is at—”

Francis goes for the kill. “You have a crush on him.”

Alfred jumps. A dark blot of ink splatters onto a blank sheet of paper. Does his best to recover. Trips over his French. “O-of course not! I don’t—”

Francis raises a well-groomed brow, but smiles magnanimously. “It’s perfectly normal, Alfred. I mean, not the whole crushing-on-Gilbert part because honestly, I don’t quite see his allure personally, well to each his own—but feeling your heart race and your—”

“—I don’t need a talk about relationships and shit, I know how that works,” Alfred is by now, thoroughly embarrassed. The poor boy looks as though he wishes the wooden crates of spare muskets stacked up behind would collapse onto and bury him from Francis’ judgemental sight. 

“Not that I wish to dismiss the sincerity of your heartfelt sentiments, but to tell the truth—well! Quite a feat you’ve managed there, Alfred. I didn’t think any person on this earth could have a crush on their drill sergeant.” He’s teasing now, admittedly.

Alfred has evidently given up on denials. “You’re right. It’s dumb, I guess. He’s yelling at me all the time to do my laps and upbraiding my men about their lack of hygiene. And how they keep misusing the bayonets as barbeque skewers. Not exactly the stuff of Romeo and Juliet.”

His blue-grey eyes are so uncertain and vulnerable that Francis actually starts to feel bad.

“I don’t know what the rosbif has been telling you, but Romeo and Juliet is not a romance to be emulated.” Francis sniffs authoritatively. He himself was well-read on the literary classics. “Nor is Layla and Majnun. Or Achilles and Patroclus.”

That gets a chuckle out of Alfred. “Too tragic, huh? All of them.”

“Mesmerising and beautiful prose—but yes, altogether too tragic.” Despite how rapidly Alfred has shot up in height, the youth in his eyes is unmistakable. It makes Francis feel old. “And of course, for our…kind, love is more…complicated. Especially when that sentiment is for another who is one of us.”

“I…I’m not in love. It’s just a crush,” Alfred’s voice is quiet. He’s fidgeting with a sheet of paper. “I know it’s in part because he showed up…just when I felt like giving up. And he doesn’t talk down to me, unlike Father. He yells about how insufferable we are…but he actually thinks we can do it.”

How had this attempt to satisfy his curiosity morphed into this bizarre but honest, vaguely paternal heart-to-heart? Well, unlike Arthur’s incredible emotional constipation, Francis had no such reservations about dispensing sentimental advice. 

“Whatever it is—be careful. All those tragic characters in the great classics always never have enough time. For us…I would say that the problem is the opposite.” He smiles ruefully. 

Alfred is still confused, so he elaborates further.