#wthf

But when Arthur would Lie his eye would twitch and his voice would grow heavy and Francis knows to begin to watch, watch closely for tears or tremors which would allow him to step in and break Arthur away from wherever his mind is wandering back to. Francis always tries to read between the lines, to find the overlap between what Arthur is saying and what he is not but Arthur hides this particular puzzle far too well and he can never gain any real understanding, though he tries hard.

Francis knows that Arthur is Lying now.

They are visiting a park near the Cotswolds, where they'd taken a small weekend holiday away in a small cottage in an even smaller village, and Arthur had led him through the old wooden gate which kept the cows in and held his hand comfortably in his own, fingers relaxed and slightly cold (they were always slightly cold, no matter the weather and no matter the heat).

'But you did see her didn't you? Surely you must know-'

'Yes, yes, I saw her, but I still think you're being over dramatic about this.'

'I am not- I cannot believe you think that, I am being just the right level of serious here.' Francis stares pointedly at the crooked collar of Arthur's coat, but does not wish to disentangle their interwoven hands to fix it so it stays, upturned underneath his left ear They walk at an amble along the path acting as a boarder between woods and fields before they veer off slightly to tread through the trees.

He catches Arthur's grin before he smooths it into an expression of false seriousness.

'Ah yes, of course you are, she must of course have something against you.'

Francis narrows his eyes. 'Now you're just mocking me.'

Arthur turns to face him and raises an eyebrow. 'Who, me? No, of course not, I do truly believe that she marked you down on your tarts because you cut them the same shape as the bloke from the table over.'

'She fancies him,' Francis insists, 'she marked me down on purpose. You'll see, we'll be able to hear when she goes next door tonight to award him by-'

Arthur smacks his arm with his free hand and Francis yelps in surprise.

'Don't', Arthur starts, 'don't you go putting images in my head please, not about her.'

Francis waggles his eyebrows and grins, Cheshire-cat like, when Arthur realises the hole he's dug for himself and this realisation spreads across his face quickly. 'Oh? Do you like the images or her?'

'Francis, she's eighty.'

'Well I admit, it's a kink I would also be ashamed to admit and I am ashamed to admit very little.'

'Francis!' Arthur swats him but Francis just laughs and takes the feather-light blow to his chest, watching happily as Arthur turns his red face away, as he knew he would.

Francis is so busy looking at Arthur, content with the happy warm feeling that curls with familiar ease in his belly, that he almost walks past him and breaks their hands apart when Arthur just stops dead mid-stride, face suddenly stricken.

Instantly, he is filled with concern. 'Arthur? Dear, what's wrong?'

He squeezes the hand still held in his own, though now the grip is slack and Francis is the one keeping their fingers interlaced. Arthur does not answer so Francis turns his head to try and and see what Arthur is seeing, to catch what has caught his husband's attention so because that look on his face is the look that he gets when he experiences a place Francis cannot get to, cannot understand, cannot see.

They have walked quite far away from the fields and deep into the woods; slightly away from any walkers' paths they are now alone amongst the trees and their leaves litter the earthen floor but there is nothing that he can see that explains Arthur's pained expression.

Suddenly Arthur breaks apart their fingers and steps forward, slow and unsure, and walks further to the right, to what Francis originally saw as a pile of moss covered rocks but what he now can see to actually be something like a very, very old run down remains of a horses' stable. The brickwork walls are dark and broken, roof taken over by a creeping vine that has burst its way through the old cement.

Francis has not ever visited this area before, but fancies for a second with oddly confident guesses that there must be a man-made lake nearby, attached to long stretches of grass which used to hold a small house, lost to time long ago. He thinks of maybe a fire, caused by gunpowder or some other such cause and then the idea slips from where it had loosely taken root in his mind. Thundering horse hooves echo distantly in his mind and he treads over forlorn and and melancholy islands of stone, attention caught again by Arthur, who has stepped up to the old ruin and is stroking a wall gently, fingers running over the brickwork and brushing off the last remnants of rotten wooden doors from the moss covered frame.

Francis joins him by the bricks and watches as his husband schools his expression into one of curious interest, far away from the spellbound look, filled with nostalgic yearning, that he wore seconds earlier. He wears it before he Lies as he always has.

He Lies because of it, Francis knows.

'My parents took me here, when I was younger.' His voice, soft but cheery, holds a fragile edge that matches the look ghosting behind his eyes and he swallows quickly after he speaks. His eyes are averted, looking down at the stone underneath his hand and Francis can see the twitch under his left one all too easily. 'It was such a long time ago that I...that I don't even remember how long ago it was, actually. We saw this, though, I remember.'

'Ah.' Francis doesn't know what else to say because Arthur is watching him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for Francis to give him the next line of the play they're suddenly acting in. He wants to be believed and he doesn't want to discuss whatever it was that has just happened, like he never does, and Francis wonders if Arthur is aware that Francis can read him so easily.

Despite what impressions he gives, despite how many Lies he does not question and pretends to not notice, Francis notices them all.

Realising that there is a silence growing, Arthur sighs in faux satisfaction and gives a crooked smile, patting the wall fondly. 'Right then, shall we go?' He takes Francis' hand in his own and gives a small squeeze as he steps away from the stable and away, back to the path.

For a second, Francis contemplates questioning Arthur, demanding to know what he saw or remembered that caused him to act that way and why, but then he remembers the pained, haunted look in his eyes and decides, as he always does, that the hurt he saw there is not worth investigating.

Whatever he sees, he sees a lot less now than he ever did and it means Arthur's fine, he's okay, he's getting better. That's the main thing, Francis thinks, and allows himself to be led back the way they came through the trees and back onto the path. He falls easily into Arthur's stride and listens to him speak about this and that, about how Alfred is doing and about how he hopes Matthew is okay at the moment because the first year of university has been something their son had worried for months before he left to give it a try. He talks more than he usually does and Francis knows that this is to help him distance himself from whatever he just saw and so he listens. He listens and waits for a crack in his voice or for that edge to come back and that's when he'll take over the conversation, when he'll step in to help pull Arthur back to their now and away from his lonely before.

They arrive back at the small holiday cottage they're renting and Arthur heads straight to the kitchen to re-emerge with two glasses and the expensive bottle of wine Francis had got them both for the holiday, but that Arthur had said was a waste of money.

Francis smiles and accepts the glass and unspoken apology and pulls Arthur close to kiss him sweetly, spare hand coming to curl around his waist and pull him close. He feels Arthur go tense before hugging him back, arms strong and weight heavy. Warm.

Then Arthur pulls away again and grins. 'Well, I can't hear any love-making pensioners. I suppose your tarts weren't really all that great after all.'

Francis jabs him in the chest and mutters angrily about a set-up whilst Arthur laughs at his expense and goes to sit boneless on the sofa. Francis will join him and they'll probably end up in the bedroom or remain there for the night, depending on how much of the wine gets drunk and how long Arthur can hold out against the toothless nips and dry kisses Francis will start to pepper along his jawline and neck.

They're okay, Francis knows. The odd Lie is fine, because they are a part of Arthur and this is something that Francis accepted years ago. There was a life before Arthur met him that Francis will never understand and he knew that, knows that. Arthur met him with the Look and a Lie, back in that café with his desperately sad and tired raccoon eyes and Francis has been steadily, unknowingly at first, working towards making sure that Arthur never looks that lonely again.

Arthur grins at him, lazily, tipsily, and Francis knows that he wouldn't change anything at all, not even the Lies because Arthur is so much more that they pale in significance.

He kisses the grin into the cushions underneath them and hopes they're both still young enough to survive sleeping on the sofa.

(They are, just.)

…...............

Arthur awakes with a gasp. He lays for a few seconds, breath held, as he tries to figure out why his neck hurts and why the ceiling he's looking at isn't the one he usually sees. Then, like pressing play on a programme, everything starts up again and he remembers where he is, and when.

Francis is awkwardly pressed to his side and has a heavy arm curled over his stomach which is probably the only thing preventing Arthur from tumbling to the floor; the sofa really isn't big enough for the two of them to lay comfortably at all and Arthur knows that come morning Francis will regret his current sleeping position.

Extracting himself slowly, limb by limb, Arthur gets up and stretches out his back before shuddering with a sudden chill. The house is old and the night is a cool one. He gets out some spare blankets from the cupboard in the room upstairs and, after draping one on his husband, pulls one about his shoulders as he wanders into the kitchen to sit at the table.

Not wanting to wake Francis, he leaves the lights off and sits in the moonlight, memories too active to allow him to go back to sleep anytime soon. He had completely forgotten that he as England had owned a house near here, many centuries ago. A small hunting retreat, tiny really compared to his other houses but well suited for its purpose, he had enjoyed many summers and autumns there until it had been gutted during the English civil war. He'd not thought about it in so long that even as England he couldn't remember a time he'd last spared it a second of his thought. He'd taken France there many times, or rather, France had been invited and politics came into play enough to keep them both there, together and semi-civil, for long enough that Arthur could picture him easily, dining at the long wooden table in the small dining hall.

He'd had the second stable built further off into the grounds and quite a way away from the house itself to allow hunters to dismount and go catch their quarry by foot, if needed. Those parts in particular were better for walking as the trees used to be thicker and had been in old bear country; it must have been the act of walking through the old forest that caused his mind to slip away and allow complacent memories that shouldn't belong to him lead them. He'd followed his feet to paths once well trodden and had unknowingly walked them back to a physical reminder of another life, another time.

Arthur sighs. It is still painful, after all these years and despite the new life he's built for himself. The unexpected reminder of what he's lost momentarily overrides all that he has gained and Arthur forces himself to break out of it.

He is dead, he thinks, France is dead, that life is gone, it is better this way. You hurt no one now, only yourself when you do this. That life cannot be brought back.

He brings up a hand to knead at his forehead. It's the shock of seeing something of England's, he knows, but probably the state that it is in is what is the most startling. He gives a dry laugh to himself. England's life, old and crumbling, alone and forgotten in the woods. Where it should be.

He hears a groan from the other room and makes sure that his eyes are dry with a corner of the blanket before Francis can see. He'd only worry, and that is something Arthur makes him do far too much.

Socked feet against wooden floor and then Francis is there, next to him; sleepy but there, warm and alive.

Arthur looks up at him and gives a smile. 'Sorry, did I wake you up?'

Francis looks at him before cupping a hand on his cheek.

'It was colder without you.' He pauses and thumbs underneath Arthur's eye. 'Are you alright?'

Arthur gently pulls back. 'I'm fine; a bit of a headache.'

Francis searches him for something and Arthur has to fight not to look away under his concern.

'You look a bit pale,' his slender, unscarred hand goes to rest on Arthur's forehead, 'maybe you're coming down with something.'

'Maybe.' Arthur concedes, trying to stop his mind from wondering if France had ever been this gentle, if England would ever have let him. The darkness of the room and the softness of the moonlight help to wash away the age from Francis' face; he looks young and weightless, unburdened by ages of existence and Arthur both mourns and rejoices anew.

Francis fetches him a glass of water and an aspirin before leading him to bed, upstairs this time because really they would only suffer in the morning if they willingly went back to the sofa and they had planned to go on another walk tomorrow.

Arthur allows himself to be pulled close, allows himself to be soft and pliant as he never used to be and thinks that despite what he's lost he has gained this, this second chance and that is enough. It is more than enough, more than he deserves but he'll be damned if he's going to let this go without a fight.

He turns,  presses a kiss to Francis' cheek and allows himself the grace of trying to forget.

---

AN

Thank you for reading!