Arthur was awakened that morning by the sound of a pan hitting the stove top. The Brit woke with a start, shooting strait up and looking around startled by the unfamiliar surroundings. Slowly, the memories of the prior day's events resurfaced and Arthur recognized where he was.
Another clack came from outside the room. That damn frog, the Brit grumbled to himself. I'm going to tear him a new one. He picked up his crumpled jeans from the floor and slid them onto his thin frame. He examined the shirt, but it was now wrinkled and so he didn't bother with it. He was too eager to yell at the Frenchman who had awoken him from his peaceful unconsciousness. He pulled open the bedroom door, a look of anger on his face.
"Fran-" He started to shout the man's name but stopped short. Francis stood in the kitchen before him. An olive green apron hugged Francis's body and his long, flowing, golden blonde hair was pulled back into a low ponytail with a Prussian blue ribbon.
He delicately lifted an egg from the open carton on the counter. In one swift movement and with one hand, Francis cracked the egg and emptied the contents into a bowl, then repeated the process. He lifted the bowl and whisked the ingredients while checking on a pan of strips of frying bacon. A look of satisfaction crossed his face and his concentration went back to the bowl of egg. He added a dash of this and a pinch of that and then set about cooking the contents.
Arthur's previous will to shout at the man in front of him abruptly vanished. Each movement of Francis's was blended with finesse and grace. The smells of frying bacon and toasting bread wafting into the Brit's nose would be enough to make anyone's mouth water tantalizingly. But Arthur barely noticed. The only thing he noticed was how beautiful Francis looked while cooking. On the Frenchman's face was a look that told Arthur that Francis was in an entirely different universe. His eyes shined brightly with fervor and each movement held an air of loving passion. He had surrendered his body to the ingredients. Ordinary breakfast components were being turned into delicious master pieces by the Frenchman's skilled hands. Francis knew how to make something plain into something exquisite with only a few deft alternations.
Arthur leaned against the door frame and let out a small, happy sigh. He was more than content to just stand there and watch the beautiful sight before him. It filled him with a sense of pride and admiration and- was that love he felt? Maybe, but the Brit didn't care. He liked whatever it was he was feeling. So there he stood until Francis looked up from his work. The man blinked in surprise, but a smile quickly spread across his face. "Bon matin, mon cher1," Francis stood up from his work. "Did I wake you?"
The Brit contemplated the idea of yelling at him once again, but decided on only shaking his head softly and allowing a gentle smile to find its way onto his face.
Francis was taken back a little by the other man's uncharacteristically placid attitude towards him. He held out a plate of food towards Arthur. "Would you like some breakfast?"
Leaving the door frame, Arthur made his way across the room to the kitchen table. He stopped in front of Francis and smiled even bigger, letting all his emotions out through that one facial expression. "I would love some breakfast."
1- Bon matin, mon cher- Good morning, my dear