Arthur wonders if Francis leaves one detail about each of his affairs purposely untidied for him to find as a confession of guilt, or if he really is just that sloppy. Either way, Arthur is none too pleased every time he comes across a trinket or trifle or what have you upon opening the door to Francis' flat which, upon Francis' insistence, Arthur have his own key to, just in case. This is, retrospectively, not very wise of the Frenchman, but truth be told Arthur has never actually caught him in any compromising event on any occasion; all he ever has to go by is souvenirs of unholy acts that cast incredible doubt on Francis' fidelity, and though this is inherent of Francis, it is incredibly infuriating and frustrating to be reminded of on such a frequent basis, even if Arthur does forgive him each and every time.
It started out with a tube of Chap Stick, label half peeled away but with enough of it left to tell it is cherry by the deep fuchsia coloring without removing the cap to identify the flavor by smell. Arthur had nearly stepped on it upon his entrance into Francis' flat sometime in the winter and, in taking off a heavy boot by the door before entering fully into the space, as polite decorum so required, sent it rolling across the floor and under a novelty-topped table nearby. Francis found him here on the parquet, arm jammed under the table and awkwardly fishing the Chap Stick out soon after his arrival. When Arthur asked him about it, kneeling on the floor with the offending product held aloft and eyebrows tightly knit together, Francis did not miss a beat in plucking it out of his fingers.
"It's winter, Arthur," he began to explain, pausing to pop off the cap and apply a liberal amount of it to his lips before pocketing it, "And chapped lips are fun for neither me nor you." He stooped to Arthur's level with a Cheshire grin, made shiny by the Chap Stick, and kissed Arthur square on the mouth, still smiling, before rising back up to his full height and leaving him there on the floor in the entry way, mouth sticky with the taste of cherries, in favor of the kitchen from which Arthur could hear the faint whistle of a kettle.
He forgave him because his argument was logical, and it would be the sensible thing to do.
Not too long after, his finds escalated to such articles as a phone number in the waste basket beside Francis' desk and a lady's pearl earring in one of the pockets of the suit jacket Francis had hung on the back of his desk chair upon returning home from a conference. Arthur had been so very lucky to discover both these bits of evidence on the same evening. Francis, busy acquiring a bottle of wine to make their respective stacks of paperwork more bearable, had requested Arthur go into his jacket for a business card he had slipped into his pocket during a meeting so that they could both double check some information that had been called into question. It was there, stuck in the silk lining of this fine Italian piece, that Arthur plucked the single earring and, enraged, saw a strip of numbers scrawled in a feminine script that he knows is not Francis' jutting out of the trash he was just about to throw it into; he pulls this out as well, and brings both out to Francis. Holding them out in his flattened palm expectantly, Francis only looks up to Arthur from the wine glass he is nursing and a form he was previously filling out to smile and thank his companion with what seemed to be a genuine gratefulness.
"Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you! The attending secretary present at your consulate for the last meeting dropped that in the hall." He takes another sip of wine, licks the red stain from his lips in a way that Arthur cannot discern as either purely natural or sultry, though in Francis' case they are pretty much one in the same. "I couldn't quite catch up with her, but she gave me her contact when I signed in, so I was meaning to call her and let her know I have it, but could you do it for me?" All Arthur can do is agree and get back to work, and accept the vintage kiss that is offered to him over the exchange of the business card that he thankfully remembered to retrieve as well.
When he called the number the next day it was indeed one of the secretaries at his own consulate, just as Francis said it would be, and she did indeed lose an earring, just as Francis had explained to him. Arthur hanged up on the cheery voice on the other side of the line with a little more force than his gentlemanliness would normally allow; he was uncertain of, like the swipe of Francis' tongue, whether he actually was telling the truth like he seemed to be or he showed her six ways to Sunday on her desk and just so happened to dislodge her earring with his tongue. Either way, a secretary in his consulate lost an earring that Francis rightfully desired to return to her, and Arthur had nothing really to condemn him with.
He forgave him because his argument was logical, and it would be the sensible thing to do.
It turns out, after much effort and stealth that he is not quite sure why he is exerting so ardently as of late, since there has been a notable span of time in which Francis has been steadfast in his commitment, that finally catching Francis was not as satisfying as he imagined it to be after all. Instead, it was rather bitter sweet and mildly inopportune on his part. Emerging from Francis' bedroom where he had been doing some investigating under the guise of some intimate time of their own, he meets Francis in the hall with a pen in hand, a scanty pair of women's lace underwear hanging from the tip, and his face twisted in some sick mixture of rage and triumph. Francis, more than excited to spend some time with and bed his companion after what was quite a strenuous week, is met with such a garment being shoved towards his face with the accompaniment of yelling he can't quite make out over his own desperate rationalizing. Arthur almost expects Francis to claim that they are his and put them on, but both he and the Englishman know that all excuses on the matter are entirely lame and will be taken as poor attempts to be swiftly voided as a part of Francis' effort to save himself.
There is no logic to his argument that prompts Arthur to forgive him, and there is no sensibility in doing so.
It is when Francis apologizes, first in French and then quickly and more quietly in English, hands up defensively and eyes lowered in what Arthur takes as some hybrid of shame and respect – does Francis even have the capability of feeling two such things, he wonders, let alone at the same time? – that it is Arthur who begins to feel the weight of guilt fall heavy on his shoulders. It smooths his angry brow, lifts the creases from his scowl; he is most definitely not at fault here, though, he reminds himself, but can Francis really be expected to change, and would he really ever truly appreciate it if he did? He lowers his evidence as he watches the wholly pitiful sight of Francis clapping his hands together and repeating his apology, promising him he can sleep in his bed for the night while he sleeps on the couch because it is too late for him to be traveling home by his lonesome, and because he understands. It is he who goes after Francis when the man retreats with all of his crocodile tears that may not be so reptilian. This time, it is Arthur who is kissing him, willing him to come to bed.
He forgives him because he loves him, even if it is not quite logical or the most sensible thing to do.