Late February was one of the worst months in France. Cold, grey, and the earth seemed to continue its deep winter slumber, forgetting that its people longed for the warm days of spring and gentle rains that would waken the world into bright vibrant colours.
But, within the far reaches of Versailles, tucked into luscious duvets and silk sheets, Francis wasn't minding the dreary chill that seemed to creep into the corners of the ancient house. The dark curtains around the four poster bed kept some of the cool morning light at bay save for a crevasse in the curtain that let a stream of light in.
Francis narrowed tired eyes at it, almost as if it had insulted him, intruding on his moment where it was just him and Arthur, no other disturbances. Yet the cold light seemed to try to forgive, highlighting a strip of usually straw coloured hair. It brought a brilliance to Arthur's normally pale hair, highlighting within it pale reds and golds, even the odd shade of a light brown. A soft smile came to the Frenchman's face as long fingers gently played with the softly lit strands.
It was Sunday mornings that Francis loved best. Even though it was Sunday, with Monday lurking around the corner, the simple fact that it was the only day that Arthur let himself sleep in were enough to brighten the morning. It was rare for Francis to be the first of the two awake, but with the recent pressures from the economy and many of the meetings with foreign diplomats over trade policies and borrowing money to keep him going, Francis knew Arthur was exhausted.
Which was why he didn't wake the man, and simply brushed fingers gently through the Briton's shaggy hair. Arthur made no movement to stir, fast asleep in the thick blankets with his back pressed snugly against Francis' chest. It brought him such joy at the simple contact and unsaid trust between them. He'd waited centuries, just longing for Arthur to realize it.
Gentle hands brushed choppy bangs from the Briton's forehead, revealing long golden lashes that rested on his cheeks as he slept. The usual frown and crease between Arthur's proud eyebrows was relaxed, making him look years younger and softer, almost fragile.
To Francis, these moments he cherished, loved, more than anyone could ever begin to imagine.
Those same graceful fingers caressed over smooth skin of Arthur's cheekbone and along the rough bit of stubble that had grown through the night. The colour was so blond it was barely visible but Francis enjoyed the differences in textures of his lover's face, the simple rugged carelessness that morning brought when people were just waking up.
Soft lips replaced gentle fingers, pressing lovingly to warm skin that smelled faintly of tea, ink, old novels and something that was just so distinctly Arthur it made the Frenchman's mouth curve into a smile.
Those golden eyelashes shifted against high and proud cheekbones before a sliver of the most regal emerald eyes glanced at the Frenchman. Soft cerulean met sleepy green before a small warm smile tugged at the Briton's lips.
"Morning already?" his normally brash voice was soft and husky from sleep. His vibrant eyes closed while Arthur shifted, rolling closer to his lover's warm embrace as if to fight off the dreary chill of the February morning.
"Oui. " The reply was just as soft as the kiss placed gently between proud eyebrows and the happy sigh it elected. Graceful hands tangled in the hay coloured locks, enjoying how soft and feather-light the strands of hair felt against his hands. The french man was rewarded with a soft press of warm lips against his neck.
For Arthur, this was his favourite way to wake; cocooned in warmth and the loving caresses that he knew Francis gave no one else, all focused on him. Their attention only on each other, no other matters that were pressing or needed to be solved. Just the softness of silk, the warmth of his lover, and the gentle, tender touches and kisses that Francis gave him so willingly.
A smile crossed the Briton's face, making normally hard emerald eyes soften into warm pools of vivid green that reminded Francis of the lush grasslands of Ireland; the supposedly creature-filled forests Arthur was so fond of.
Sunday mornings, a time they both loved. Wrapped together in the tranquil quiet with whispered conversations that were no more important than their immediate needs. It might have been selfish to some, negligent to others, but in those warm covers of loving kisses and caresses the two lovers were in their own world. A small world that only consisted of them, smiling and happy.
February was the coldest, greyest month in France. But inside the Bonnefoy residence, the month was forgotten, the cold and harshness of winter. There was only each other, and that was all that mattered.