Secrets [Arthur and Francis]

Nearly an hour passes as Arthur stands outside of his father's private study, fists clenching and unclenching, cool with a nervous sweat. His stomach quakes with anxiety, curling in on itself. It's a good thing he didn't eat breakfast. It takes more than one effort to swallow and the castle feels colder than normal.

He's scared shitless.

Eventually, he musters up all the courage he has to enter the study, clasping his hands behind his back so his father won't see them trembling. He can't turn back now, his pride won't allow it. He pads silently across the room, keeping his expression stoic. How best to approach the subject? With subtly? With-

"Arthur. I was wondering when you'd step in," his father interrupts his thoughts, voice flat and chilly, like the room. Inwardly, Arthur's sent into a spiral of panic.

He bows respectfully. "Father, I've come to discuss something of mild importance."

The king nearly looks amused and gestures for his son to proceed, standing.

He decides to fuck it all and just blurt it out, better than beating around the bush.

"Father... Dad-Your highness. Dad, I'm- I like men. Fancy them, I mean."

[/color]He can't make contact or breath. He keeps his gaze locked on the floor and flinches as loud, humorless laughter fills the room.

"Pardon, Arthur. For a moment I thought you had said y-"

"I did," he all but spits, cutting the king off. "I fancy men-"

This time, he's cut off, not by words, but a slap that he hears before feeling. He blanches, stumbling back, eyes wide. Never before had his parents laid a hand on him, be it affectionately or otherwise. He can't process a proper thought for a good minute, simply staring like a moron.

"Get out. Get out! No future ruler of THIS Kingdom will be a bloody homo! Your mother and I will discuss this, boy. You're to marry a fine, upstanding woman, whether you like it or not. Now get out of my sight," the last words are whispered dangerously and Arthur all but trips out of the room, scrambling through the corridors of the castle. Perhaps if he runs far enough away and can turn back time.

He winds up in the center of the gardens, eyes pricking like a foolish schoolgirl prepared to cry. Wiping furiously at still-dry eyes, Arthur hoists himself up into a tree. Perhaps sitting in the open air will clear his thoughts and let him forget about the shame.

Francis is dreading his time in England, wishing to go home once more. But unfortunately, he has business to do. There's nothing on his busy agenda today, so the nobleman decides that it's a lovely day to visit the palace, and more importantly, the Prince inside of the palace.

He takes off from the small, but quaint and lovely, house that he is currently residing in, and demands for the servants to get his carriage set up. It's unnecessary, really, because he's only a couple of minutes away from the palace, however Francis strongly feels the need to boss people around today. Especially his lower-than-life servants. They need to be told what to do, or they will not get anything right.

After much yelling and rolling of his eyes, Francis arrives at the castle. He's almost forgotten how beautiful it is, when it's the daylight and the rays from the sun catch the towering spires in a beautiful way, reflecting the light back off, almost creating a glittering effect.

He steps from the carriage, and takes out his walking stick. He most certainly doesn't need it, but even just the appearance of the castle makes him feel more elegant than he already is. He sets off, through the vast front garden, towards the castle. Perhaps he shall request to be in company of Arthur, and then take him to the rose garden. Or slip a note under his chambers, telling him of a romantic rendez-vous in the evening.

Whatever his plan is, it is sure to work. Francis is confident in himself, and most definitely confident in Arthur. The Prince is unlike anybody Francis has ever had before.

Once he is about half-way through the gorgeous flowers, he hears a strange noise in the trees. Perhaps it's just a squirrel, but Francis has an idea that it is something much more than that. He struts over to the tree, stopping just before the trunk. He looks up and spots his favourite Briton, staring into the sky. The Frenchman crosses his arms and smirks, leaning against the trunk.

"What are you doing up there, mon cher? Do you not 'ave duties that you must do?"