The morning was a bird at the break of day, stretching its wings. Soft sunlight spilled through the blinds and across the rumpled sheets, illuminating the tangled limbs and messy hair barely covered by them.

If the morning was a bird, Arthur was a worm. An early worm.

At the first hint of sunshine on his eyelids, Arthur stirred, not liking the sudden light, and turned over. Unfortunately, the light continued to plague him on his left side, on his right, and even with his face buried in Francis' stupid hair. He even went so far as to cover his face with a pillow, but then the greater problem of needing to breath confronted him, and he chucked the pillow across the room in a fit of utter frustration.

Moaning in annoyance, he rolled over, half on top of Francis - the other man grunted in his sleep, but Arthur certainly didn't care - and tried to at least prolong waking up, as it seemed inevitable at this point. He ran a hand through his tousled hair and rubbed at his eyes, squinting at the clock.

10:23 AM.

Hm. Well, they had been up late celebrating Francis' birthday, in...more ways than one.

Finally feeling more awake, Arthur rolled off his lover and sat up on his side of the bed, staring blankly at the small poetry anthology and his reading glasses sitting on the bedside table. When was the last time he had just sat up to read that?

He twisted around and poked Francis' shoulder.

The Frenchman mumbled something in his native language (it sounded like "Arrêtes-toi, je dois préparer les légumes" but Arthur couldn't be bothered to translate at this inconceivable hour) and turned onto his side in an effort to escape, but Arthur was merciless.

"Francis."

A second poke, this time to the cheek.

"Francis."

"Mm."

"Francis!"

There was a snuffling sound, and a groan, and finally Francis turned back around and latched his arms around Arthur's thigh, eyes shut tightly. "What."

"It's morning."

The eyes opened then, and Francis' grip on Arthur's leg tightened.

"You...woke me up...to tell me it was morning."

Arthur stood and began rooting through the chest of drawers for a change of clothes, ignoring the retaliatory pinch to the back of his leg. "Yes. Respectable people get up when it's morning, in case you didn't know."

"...Do you not remember what we did last night?"

"Of course I-"

"And how exhausting it was?"

"It's not as if I-"

"I mean, I'd love to reenact it later, but right now I need my beauty sleep."

Arthur shrugged, turning only (to his credit) slightly pink and pulling out a pair of jeans and a polo. "If I'm getting up now, you don't get to lounge around in bed until two."

"You're a cruel man."

"So I'm told."

There was a rustling on the bed, and Arthur turned around, only to see the bathroom door slam. Cursing, he immediately ran for it, tripping halfway there on a pair of his own brown slacks wadded on the floor.

"I'll wake up faster with a shower~"

"Dammit, Francis!"

The door opened a crack. "What, you want to join me?"

"No! I was up first, I get the bathroom first! We've discussed this!"

"Yes, but Arthur, dear, I think it's only fair that I shower first since you insisted on waking me up yourself."

"You take bloody forever in the bathroom!" Arthur pounded against the door. "I can't get dressed before I shower, I'll feel gross!"

"That's perfectly fine with me. And the offer to join me still stands."

The sound of water running just infuriated Arthur more. "I'll cook breakfast. I swear I will."

Francis didn't miss a beat. "I used the last of the cookable groceries for last night's dinner, I'm afraid you'll have to go buy more naked if you want to do that. Take pictures, will you?"

Muttering obscenities and physical torture methods under his breath, Arthur kicked the door for good measure and limped away, sitting on the bed and glaring at the sunlight that had stared the whole mess. The bedside table caught his eye.

Maybe he could finally read some more poems.

"Do we need toothpaste?"

"No."

"...I think we need toothpaste."

Arthur glared at his husband and pointedly began to push the cart again. "No, we don't. I checked before we left."

Francis stared at the different brands thoughtfully. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure!"

"Okay, okay, no need to get so uptight! You didn't sleep well last night, did you?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, continuing to the next aisle. "I slept fine, you idiot."

"I make a good pillow, don't I?"

"...I suppose."

"I do make a good pillow." Francis spotted the dairy section and skipped over, narrowing avoiding getting his foot run over. "We do need mozzarella, though, I know that. And bread. Would you be a dear and grab two loaves of wheat?"

"Okay."

Francis strolled through the refrigerated section slowly, picking out their favorite types of yogurt (plum for Arthur, black raspberry for him) and another two sticks of butter. Remembering the rant last time Arthur's morning tea was incomplete, he made sure to grab another container of half and half.

Sharp footsteps announced Arthur's presence as he plopped the paper bag down, two loaves sticking out.

"Arthur."

"Yes?"

"These are white bread."

"Of course they're white bread!"

"White bread gives you a stomachache. I asked you to get wheat."

The Englishman threw his arms into the air. "What's the fucking difference?"

Francis sighed and turned the cart around. "Never mind. I'll get the rest of the food we need."

Francis had never quite understood Arthur's hobbies. The man liked to read mysteries, sketch the mystical creatures he saw, knit gifts for his family (it was undetermined if this was out of actual caring or desire to humiliate), and garden.

Just because he didn't understand them didn't mean Francis hadn't gotten used to them. It was common to find Arthur curled up in his favorite armchair with Doyle or Christie, sometimes near the point of dozing off. He didn't draw as much anymore, as he was never pleased with the results and often crumpled them up anyway, but there was once a time when Francis would come to visit and find him bent over a piece of paper covered with fairies and centaurs. Knitting had been one of Arthur's personal traditions for years, so it was never any surprise, and the gardening had been as well.

Francis could appreciate gardening. He had great faith in homegrown food, and had several small fruit trees and vegetables cultivating in the backyard. And Arthur's flowers were absolutely beautiful, the envy of many of their neighbors. What he didn't understand was how much Arthur seemed to enjoy getting dirty, smudged with mud and smelling like fertilizer and covered with Band Aids from the pricks of thorns and thistles.

That was why, like many other things, he could never resist teasing his husband about it.

"Rosbif, if you get any more dirt on your person, we won't just have a garden outside anymore."

Arthur didn't look up from ripping out a dandelion by the root. "That's why I'm wearing my old clothes, frog. They're meant to get dirty."

"I suppose the benefit is that you won't wear them in public."

"The Arctic Monkeys were and still are a great band, and those who fail to appreciate musicians outside their own countries are suffering their own loss."

"So harsh~"

Arthur kept his eyes on the ground, but a hint of a smile could be seen on his lips. "We gardeners aren't the wishy-washy type."

"So I've noticed." Francis moved from his spot on the porch steps to the small table with four chairs that they had set outside last time Alfred and Matthew had visited and wanted to barbeque outside. "You gardeners aren't the most polite either, are you? I would think being around flowers all day would make you far more amiable."

"It's because we get annoying commoners pestering us while we're trying to work," Arthur explained calmly, moving on to the large bush of hydrangeas. "See Exhibit A: the French frog and English nobleman."

"Ah, I do see. Though that French frog does cut a dashing figure next to the cute little Englishman." Scooting off his chair, Francis snuck even closer, kneeling on the grass next to Arthur. "You know, I really think your garden could use more roses."

"The key words being 'my garden,' " Arthur snorted. "You already have your red roses in the pot on the porch, that should be plenty."

Francis rested his chin on Arthur's shoulder, watching how his choppy hair stuck to the back of his neck. "And the white lilies?"

"On the side of the house, as you very well know." Arthur pushed his lover's head off his shoulder and leaned back on his heels, looking at Francis suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

Francis leaned forward again, not bothering to hide his smirk. "Appreciating your work."

"No, you're appreciating my neee- No, stop it, get off, dammit, Francis..."

Arthur fell backwards, not even bothering to try and hide his chuckling as the Frenchman attacked his neck with surprisingly chaste kisses and nuzzles. He was actually surprised by how tame Francis was being.

"You and your bloody appreciation can let me up now."

Undeterred, Francis simply leaned his weight on his arms, looking down at Arthur - at the streak of dirt on his nose, at the beginnings of a sunburn on his cheeks, and, most importantly, the soft smile on his lips.

"Hm, no. I don't think so."

"I'm serious, I want to finish weeding this box today."

Francis leaned down and mumbled his words against the other's lips. "Fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen...for what?"

"Snogging you senseless, of course."

"What? No, I- mmhhh!"

The blinds of the house next store moved as the elderly woman inside clicked her tongue and shook her head in mock disappointment. Those two never could keep their hands to themselves. She left the window to watch some daytime television as Francis did, in fact, proceed to snog Arthur senseless.

Francis was lounging on the couch, taking up the entire length with his too long legs and broad shoulders, hair loose and brushing his shoulders. He was cradling a glass of wine and had a folded magazine in his hand, bored of the (in his opinion) childish fashion designs and now concentrated on finishing the month's crossword.

"Five letter word for 'rainbow creator.' "

"Mm..." Arthur was knitting a sweater, a nice embroidered one that Francis could wear to work instead of the measly coat and scarf he complained about now. It was getting colder fast, and Arthur was determined to put the finishing touches on tonight. "Prism."

Francis scribbled in the word. "Seven letters, 'learned or scholarly.' "

"Ah, 'bookish.' "

"The first letter is an e."

Arthur frowned and carefully pulled the last stitch through. "Try 'erudite.' "

"How do you spell that?"

"E-r-u-d-i-t-e."

"Merci."

It was quiet for a few moments as Francis filled in more blanks, and Arthur tied the final knot on the embroidered design on the front of the sweater. He held it up in front of him for a moment, congratulating himself for a job well done, and then held it to the side to see Francis' face. Yes, he had chosen good colors. His husband would love it.

"Francis, come over here."

"But I've just gotten comfortable," the Frenchman whined, wiggling his hips to show just how comfortable the old sofa was.

"You've been there for near an hour, you can get up. Come on."

Francis grudgingly stood, setting his magazine down and stretching his arms above his head. "You finished your sweater?"

"I finished your sweater."

Instantly, there was a pause.

"My sweater?"

"Yes, yours, you big baby, I've been slaving over this thing for you. Now try it on." Arthur lifted the sweater and motioned for Francis to put his arms through.

Francis smiled weakly. "Ah, as much as I appreciate the gesture, I really don't need another winter coat, my old one is perfectly-"

"Oh, come off it, you've been griping about that thing since last Christmas."

"W-well, I was planning to go out and buy another just tomorro-"

"So we'll be saving the fortune you spend on clothing," Arthur said impatiently. "Really, just try it on."

"But-"

"Put the sweater on, Bonnefoy."

Francis reluctantly slide his arms through and pulled the sweater over his head, wincing at the scratchy material and the shocks that almost surely meant his hair was full of static electricity now. "It...fits well."

"It fits perfectly!" Pleased with himself, Arthur circled his husband, surveying his handiwork. "I was worried it might be a bit small around the shoulders, but I sized it just right! How does it feel?"

"A bit, er, itchy."

Arthur scoffed. "It's a sweater, it's not as if you'll be bare chested underneath."

"And the, uh, cat...on the front. Why did you put a cat on the front?"

There most definitely was a cat on the front, a Persian with long, white fur and a haughty face. It took up most of the chest area, with ears reaching the shoulders and tail curling around the hip.

"Because you like cats. Did you used to have one like this?"

"Yes..." Francis' thoughts were racing, desperately trying to come up with a valid reason why he could not, under any circumstances, wear this sweater to Feliciano's dinner party next week (Arthur was sure to ask about it). "But Ludwig doesn't! I mean, he detests cats! Remember those three dogs that nearly bit through your ankle last time?"

Arthur grunted. "So? You certainly don't dress to please him."

"But you wouldn't want to offend him, would you?"

"I don't see what the big deal is! I worked hard on this sweater for you, and you need some cold weather clothes."

"Yes, and I really do appreciate the time and hard work you put into this sweater. But..." Francis' hands were shaking as he ran the fabric of the cat through his fingers and discovered it was fuzzy.

"But what?"

"...I thought you were giving this sweater to Alfred..."

Arthur spluttered, his eyes narrowing. "So that's it. You don't want it? And you were okay giving it to Alfred if you didn't like it? What on Earth's wrong with it?"

Francis gulped. "Nothing, really! It's just...not my style. Thank you, though. Really! Merci beaucoup!"

"Forget it." Arthur motioned for him to take the sweater off. "No use keeping it if you won't wear it. I'll cut it up and use it for dust rags or something."

Francis caught the hurt look on his husband's face and shook his head, swallowing his pride. "No, we won't let it be torn apart like that. I'll wear it out, I promise. I'll even..." He steeled himself with the renewed hope in Arthur's face. "...wear it to the dinner party."

"You will?"

The Frenchman nodded slowly, inwardly praying that Arthur would forget by that time. The bright smile on Arthur's face didn't reassure that prayer, but it did make something in his chest loosen and fill with warmth.

"Thank you."

Francis smiled and opened his arms, and Arthur, after hesitating a moment, stepped forward to give him a hug.

"Huh." Arthur drew his head back and ran a finger along the shoulder seam. "It is scratchy, isn't it?"

"It is." Francis leaned in and blew on his husband's ear, a smile growing on his face. "Why don't you help me out of it?"

Arthur smirked and hooked his finger under the collar.

"With pleasure."

Just a few fics for Bastille Day and to (hopefully) fulfill my own FrUk feelings. I've got a second installment of Overdue in the works, but I just couldn't focus on it with these two flitting around my head. They're just too fun to write.

Let's hope my head cold clears up enough for me to write some more this week.

A review a day keeps writer's block away c:

Preview image belongs to Pixiv ID: 19572756.