Francis Bonnefoy barely flinched when he heard the slam of the front door, the force of it sending subtle vibrations reverberating throughout the house. He paused, the stirring of the soup he was currently making slowing to a stop, and listened closely, waiting.
"Stupid... imcompetent... why should I... bloody hell!"
Ah, there it was. The Frenchman grinned as he heard his lover's all-too familiar grumbling and turned back to attend to the broth. Francis did not expect for him to come into the kitchen and talk of his frustrations so easily. He knew that Arthur Kirkland was too stubborn and proud for such actions, very much resembling a child, and he knew it well. He supposed it couldn't be helped. Giving the warm liquid one last stir, he turned the heat of the stove down lower and strolled into the den. "Arthur, mon cher, welcome home!" he greeted, arms open wide. The messy-haired blonde, however, did not return his warm welcome.
The English man was struggling to take his shoes off, stumbling around due to both fatigue and anger. Francis chuckled at the sight. "Long day at work, hm?" he questioned as he gently unwrapped the grey scarf from around Arthur's neck and shrugged off his coat.
"You've no idea!" The reply came out as an annoyed growl. Finally succeeding in ridding himself of his troublesome shoes, Arthur trudged over to the couch and plopped down rather unceremoniously, his long limbs sprawled out in all directions. Hanging up the coat and scarf, Francis let out another low chuckle before going to comfort the man splayed across the furniture. He leaned over the couch and poked the other blonde's cheek, earning a swat from Arthur's hand and the words, "Don't touch me, frog!" in return.
"So who got to my dear black sheep today?" Francis' fingers moved towards Arthur's soft hair, itching to run his fingers through it, but pulled back after a harsh glare from said owner, expression saying 'don't even fucking think about it'. His hands opted instead to fold under his chin, and he tilted his head. "I'm waiting."
"Why the hell should I tell you?"
"Because I care." Arthur's green eyes widened slightly at the simple, straightforward response, obviously not what he'd been expecting, before his thick brows furrowed, and he looked away in embarrassment. Francis did not move and continued to survey the irritable man with a fond smile on his face.
"Alfred..." mumbled Arthur after a few silent minutes.
"But of course! You and Alfred always argue, non?"
"He's just so bloody rude! 'I think you should do all of the paperwork; you're good at that kind of stuff!'" Francis had to hold back a laugh at Arthur's horrid attempt at the American's accent so as not to evoke his wrath.
"As expected from young Alfred. Mon cher, you are indeed good at those types of things though." The Frenchman rushed to reassure Arthur upon seeing the man glowering menacingly at him. "However it is unfair that he would dump all of the work on you. You should talk to him and split the work evenly." These words earned a satisfied 'harumph' of agreement, and Francis mentally exhaled and applauded himself at his nice save and evasion of what he liked to call a British explosion. Green eyes closed shut as the longer-haired blonde snuck a kiss to Arthur's forehead and slipped out of the room back into the kitchen.
"Dinner is ready, Arthur." Recieving no answer, Francis went back into the den. There he found his English lover, asleep. Moving closer, he brushed some of the golden locks away and out of Arthur's face, reveling in its soft texture. He took a moment to marvel at how much more relaxed and calm the Brit looked while he was sleeping; his face was completely smoothed out, and there were no angry lines etched in his features. Francis caressed his cheek and draped a blanket over the slumbering body with a smile.
"Idiot, you did not even have your dinner."