"Angleterre, you're sick." Francis guided the British man to the sofa and sat him down. "You're pale, and you sound sick, and you look sick, and-"
"I'm not sick." Arthur shoved the concerned Frenchman away, growling. "I'm fine." He pushed himself up and got to his feet, instantly grasping onto the other's shoulder for support. He took a step, found himself to be steady, and took another, moving slowly until he was in the kitchen.
"What do you think you're doing?" Francis crossed his arms and stood in the entranceway, eyeing the Englishman sternly.
"Doing the dishes, of course." They'd just finished breakfast when Arthur had suddenly frozen, made some sort of noise, and grasped onto Francis' shoulder for support. He'd blamed it on having had too much alcohol the night before and carried on normally. Then he'd nearly fallen on his way back to the sink, Francis' arms saving him from a cracked skull. And now he was back in the kitchen, the workaholic.
"No, you're not." Francis strode over and grasped one of Arthur's arms, pulling him into his chest. "You're going to rest. I'm not letting you work yourself to death."
"I'm not going to work myself to death, you paranoid twat," the Briton hissed in response. "Let go, I want to clean up."
"I'll do it." Arthur was suddenly held up in French arms. "You're going to rest in bed for a few hours."
"Don't be absurd," the anglophone protested. "I'm fine. I don't need rest."
"Oh, Arthur..." Francis sighed, a sudden memory worming its way to the surface. "You did the exact same thing as a child. Old habits die hard. You never wanted to sleep if you were ill- you wanted to stick it out and not rest "like a sissy", as you called it."
"Ugh, shut up about that," the Briton groaned. He suddenly stiffened, a hand flying out to grasp onto Francis' shoulder in what seemed to be panic.
"Everything okay, mon cher?"
"Whoa... y-yes, I'm fine." Arthur pressed a palm to his head. "The world just... spun..."
Francis clicked his tongue. "You need to sleep."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do, and you'll get your rest if I have to tie you to the bed."
"Wouldn't be the first time," the Briton grumbled, a pinkish tint coming to his face at the memories.
"And won't be the last." Francis kissed his forehead. "You're warm." He turned on his heel and brought his darling upstairs, placing him gently on the bed. Now, something wasn't right. The Frenchman clicked his tongue and undid Arthur's tie, folding it over the headboard and taking off his sweatervest.
"I thought you wanted me to rest?" Arthur quirked an eyebrow at the other blond, obviously misunderstanding.
"Am I not allowed to strip you out of love?" Francis' voice was teasing as he pouted, undoing the buttons on the Briton's shirt. "I want you to relax, so just let Big Brother take care of everything for you."
"Ugh, fine." Arthur shifted uncomfortably when he felt Francis' hands at his belt, biting his lip. Those hands had been there so many times and his body had come to expect what usually followed. So this time, even though it was different, he still reacted the same way.
"Tsk, tsk." Francis winked and shook his finger at Arthur. "Not until you feel better, mon amour."
The Briton blushed and glared up at Francis. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm sure you don't." Francis placed his palm on Arthur's chest for a moment and trailed his fingers down, then lifted his hand and placed another kiss on his forehead. "Sleep, now, mon petit lapin. I'll have something made for lunch when you wake up, alright?"
"No, you won't." Arms shot out and snagged Francis round the waist. "You're going to stay with me."
The Frenchman wouldn't complain. Arthur hardly ever wanted be around him- rather, he hardly made it known that he did. He'd push him away, complain, struggle. But not, apparently, when he wasn't feeling well.
"If you insist," Francis sighed, purposely doing a poor job of acting put-out. He settled comfortably against the headboard and brushed his fingers through Arthur's hair, his other hand clasping one of the ones around his waist. "Dors bien, mon cher."
Francis watched Arthur grunt in response and settle more comfortably, finding the Frenchman's lap to be much more comfortable than a pillow. He so desperately wanted to take a photo, but he knew he'd be mauled if he had, so he settled with memorizing the scene before him and letting out a contented sigh. Arthur was so cute when he was sleeping- despite his flushed face and aggravated expression this time around. He didn't look as angry, as disapproving as he did when awake. He looked... younger. Like he had looked as a child.
The Brit shifted and mumbled something in his sleep. That was something Francis had come to know about him- that Arthur spoke in his sleep if he was very occupied with something. All those times they'd slept together before they'd gotten together he'd mumble unconsciously, most of the time using the Frenchman's name and various other words that hinted at his affection. Francis never told Arthur about this- he felt the Brit would find a way to stop it if he knew, and was a thing the Frenchman didn't want to stop.
"Mph..." Arthur's mouth opened and he coughed, breathing speeding up in apparent panic.
"Hush, now, chèrie." Francis stroked his shoulder, dusting his cheek with kisses. "It's alright. Big Brother is here."
The Brit's breathing calmed down and he coughed once more, falling into a more relaxed sleep than before. Francis leaned back against the headboard again and pondered what to for lunch. He couldn't very well have it ready when Arthur woke up, because he was sort of trapped here. Not that he minded, of course. He could whip up a pot of soup in no time, but what he really wanted to do... Hm. That might work. Francis hesitated for a moment.
"Arthur..." His voice was quiet, not quite a whisper but a bit softer than a murmur. "I love you. I love you so, so much. Je t'aime. I don't think you know how much I do- I'd endure anything for you." Now was a good time to say all of this, to get it off his chest before he exploded. Technically Arthur couldn't hear him, but he was there... and that counted. "I know you tell me that you hate me and some things I do... but I know you really do love me deep down. It's good that you do, too- I don't know what I'd do if you left me. I'd have to kill myself, only we can't die. We are not capable of such a thing. So I don't know what I'd do." The Frenchman sighed. "I love you, Arthur, mon cher."
He pressed a kiss to a forehead, hot beneath his sensitive lips. Alarmed, Francis straightened up and managed to get free without waking the Brit, leaving and returning with a cloth dampened with cold water.
"Here..." Francis placed the cloth on the back of Arthur's neck, recoiling when the Englishman stirred.
"Uh...?" He blinked his eyes open and stared groggily at Francis for an explanation.
"Go back to sleep," the Frenchman murmured, stroking Arthur's cheek with two fingers. "You're alright."
"Mphmm..." the Brit fell silent.
Francis sighed, leaning over Arthur again and placing a kiss on his forehead. "Sentez-vous mieux, mon chèrie."