Disclaimer: I own nothing, etc etc
Leave For Tomorrow What You Should Do Today
Focus, focus, focus.
Arthur keeps trying to concentrate on the page he's been forcefully staring at for the last thirty minutes, but he can't work.
He is supposed to deliver the comic book he wrote – and was now drawing – in two days.
It isn't the kind of comic books Alfred likes, Heavens no! How could he ever do something like that? His comic books (yes, this wasn't the first one) are about a unicorn named Charlie (full name being Charlus Percival Anderson) and his best friend, Flying Mint Bunny, who travelled over the world on a cursed pirate ship.
He has nine pages inked, five with the line art, three sketched on the final paper and...the rest were still just names – stick figures and such.
Two days. He has two days to finish God knows how many pages it really was, it's well past midnight and he just can't concentrate.
Why, you'd ask?
Well, how can he possibly concentrate when he has his bloody roommate parading himself half naked?
That damned frog has nothing better to do that skip through his office – where Arthur bends over the improvised lightbox (it's really just his glass surfaced secretary with a lamp underneath it), with tired eyes and a red mechanical pencil to improve the sketches.
Every few minutes he has to crack his hands, neck and shoulders, all tensed and slightly painful for being too long in the same position, doing the same thing.
"Everything alright, lapin?" the deep French accented question is whispered in his right ear, making him shiver just slightly – and for a moment he is thankful for still being fixing his sketches, that shaky line wouldn't do on his final work - and a warm feeling fills his guts as he feels Francis' stubble on his jaw.
"Bloody- get off me, you blasted frog!" he pushes his flatmate away, praying for him not to notice his sudden blush "Can't you see I'm a bit too busy for your games?"
Francis smiles – no, not smiles, smirks, notices Arthur with a frown – at him "Mon cher, I am truly worried about you. You have been locked up here for three days."
"I have left the room-"
"To eat, or go to the toilet. It's not healthy, Arthur."
Do you see that? How is Arthur suppose to focus on his work when Francis goes around saying his name, pressing the 'r' in a way that sends chills down Arthur's spine?
It's not as if he likes the frog. They've been...a constant in each other's lives as long as he can remember. They're frenemies, Arthur concedes. Frenemies who happen to get jobs close to each other and need a place to live on the lowest price possible and so somehow they get stuck living together.
"Arthur, I am serious."
Arthur stares in awe at his sketch. Is that...is that actual concern on the frog's voice?
"I'm perfectly fine."
"You need to rest."
"Don't talk to me in that tone. I'll rest when I finish this." Arthur leans even closer to the table, his fringe touching the sheet of paper, which he starts to ink.
"Non." Francis grabs his right hand, stopping him from drawing "You're overworking yourself."
"Francis," growls Arthur, blocking out the part of him that's overreacting at having the frog touch him. "let go of my hand before I chop yours off."
Francis sighs does as he requested "You still have time, you know? You could sleep now and continue this later." This time he put a hand on his shoulder.
"I know what I'm doing." Arthur says it with conviction, but truthfully he just wants to lean against Francis' warm hand and sleep. The hand on his shoulder sends a wave of warmth through him and now Arthur just feels so very tired.
"Fine. Be like that." He removes his hand and steps back "When you do die from exhaustion Alfred better not call me to tell me it's my fault."
Arthur chuckles "We both know that if he called you would be to join the celebration party."
Francis stops walking and Arthur gets the feeling he's staring at his back for a moment "You're probably right."
"As usual. Now go to sleep, frog. Not that I care about you, but I'm sick of your presence."
"Ah, mon amour," Francis purrs in his normal teasing tone "won't you care to join me? I promise I'll treat you very well..."
"Get the hell out and let me do my bloody job!" Inside Arthur is actually relived that Francis is acting like that, a concerned Francis – concerned for the Englishman, that is – is a rare sight, which usually means that Arthur is very ill.
He remains still as he hears Francis steps as he walks out of the room and the British only move when he hears Francis humming in the kitchen.
Arthur relaxes, cracks his neck, rubs his right hand and closes his eyes for a moment...Francis had left the room, but the sleepiness that had come with him remains, and each time Arthur closes his eyes it gets harder to open them again.
He keeps inking the pages, slowly and supporting his head with his left hand, eyes not as open as usual; until he closes the pen and puts it on the table.
He decides to rest his eyes just for a moment, and suddenly he can't open them again, images and sounds running through his mind as if in a dream – and most likely is one as well – and Arthur isn't much aware of the space, but for some reason he feels he's in a tent and Francis comes in and mocks him, his voice echoing and a hand, a French hand goes his cheeks and a thumb caresses it, Arthur protests and out of sudden Francis breath can be felt on his lips and-
Arthur head falls forward as he was almost asleep and he wakes up while instinctively jerking it back, eyes now wide open.
He sighs and gives up continuing the pages now, the Frog is right and he needs to rest, if not he won't be able to work properly. And, as the other is asleep, he can't rub it in his face for secretly agreeing with him.
Arthur walks out of the room and tiptoes his way back to his bedroom, but stops on the hallway, noticing the light coming from the living room.
He stops at the entrance, puts a hand on the wall and looks at the Frog sitting on his couch, with a cup of cocoa on his hands; legs bend up and against his chest.
"Francis?" Arthur calls him and he's remembered of himself when they were both just kids and he had a nightmare, asking then the same thing and going willingly to Francis bed so the French could chase them away.
"Arthur." Francis says sleepily, putting his cocoa on the small table next to the couch. "Come here." He says softly.
Realizing this is one of those few, rare and precious moments they let they guards down, Arthur goes without any protest, sitting too on the couch when Francis grabs his hand and pulls it down. The French motions him to sit with his back turned to him and Arthur looks behind his shoulder to him, silently asking what is he doing.
Francis puts both hands on his shoulders and, looking at where they connect at the back of the Brit, starts to slowly massage them.
"You're too tense, cher." he simply says.
Arthur thinks for a moment that he should pull back and go to bed, but Francis' hands do something that make him rather lean into his touch and sigh, relaxing and closing his eyes.
He was needing a massage, Arthur knows, it pains him how he has to crack his neck every five minutes, and how his shoulders are hunching forward, tense, and he knows he should be able to turn his head to the sides more than actually can. But one thing is needing it. Another is asking.
So Arthur doesn't say so, but lifts his head in bliss as Francis' hands work magically on his shoulder blades, his thumbs digging perfectly on the back of his beck, and his fingertips spreading on his skin.
Arthur lets his eyes close again, and his side fall against the side of the couch, lulled by Francis' touch, his gentle voice murmuring something to him, and Arthur realizes his tongue is too heavy to talk back, and his eyelids as if glued together.
When Arthur wakes up, it takes him a moment to realize he's lying on the couch, with a pillow under his head and a blanket over him, which smells of cigarettes and fresh bread, if such combination is even possible. He just lays there, for a moment, before pulling out his phone from his pocket, to check if he has any new messages – perhaps from his editor, warning him about the deadline – and that's when he truly wakes up, noticing the time.
He jumps off the couch, going as fast as possible to his office, he has so much work to do, and so little time to do it, and damn it, he thinks, as he sits down, his shoulders as if made of cotton candy, this is obviously the damned frog's fault.
When he finishes this book, he decides, Francis will have a lot to answer to.