What a great day he'd had.
He had been fired from his job, in favour of that stupidly charismatic American who in no way deserved the promotion of being the top news reader, he had crashed his car avoiding a cat in the road, and had come home to find that the boiler had stopped working in the middle of December.
Just brilliant, wasn't it?

Arthur stormed in, throwing his briefcase and box of belongings onto the living room floor and stomping to the window, glaring out. He hated this. He hated living in the centre of London, with the smog surrounding them and tourists jostling you everywhere you went. He hated the ridiculous amount of money they paid just to live in this tiny one bedroom flat. He had only moved there for his job; Francis could work anywhere. The perks of being a hairdresser, he said.

Speaking of Francis, where was he? It was already 7:00pm, and he got off work an hour ago. Slowly pulling his phone out of his pocket, he checked for any explanation of Francis' lateness. None. No texts, no calls, nothing. Great. Now he'd have to wait God knows how long for dinner and someone to rant to. He could feel himself growing more irritated by the minute.

Half an hour and a cup of tea later, Francis walks in the door, cheeks and nose tinted pink from the cold. He smiled, running a hand through his messy, wind tangled hair and closed the door. "How was your day?"

"Bloody awful."
"Oh? What happened?"
"I'll tell you what happened." He stood, carrying his empty mug to the kitchen sink and preparing for his tirade. "Alfred F Jones happened. Tell me, Francis, how does he become anchorman? He's 19 years old. He should be an intern, if anything! Only since his daddy's a high up man does he get the job. It's unjust, I tell you. He does hardly anything! He swans in late, talks too much and acts like it's all a but of fun. It's not! News reading is very important! How else do people find out what's going on in the world?" His gaze followed Francis as he spoke, who was nodding occasionally, gathering the required things for dinner. "I do so much work, so much extra research and volunteer for every job, and I get fired. Yes, I got fired today. Why? Because I was late to a meeting, for the second time. Jones never even turns up! I've got a good mind to complain."

He huffed, folding his arms. Francis shrugged. "Well, does he have anything you... Don't?"
Arthur narrowed his eyes, frowning at him. "What are you saying?"
"I don't know. News readers nowadays, they're more... Fun, less uptight. Maybe that's what they're looking for. Someone to deliver the news in a different way. Times change, Arthur, and formalities and seriousness aren't what people want anymore.
"So you're saying they didn't want me because I'm boring?"
"No. I'm saying maybe they want a different take. They may want to appeal to a new... How do you call it? Target audience, yeah. Maybe they want more teenagers watching. How do you attract teenagers? With teenagers. You always say that not enough youngsters watch the news, mon cher."
"They're not getting rid of anyone else! Some guys are older than me there! I'm only 23, Francis! It's not like I'm an old man!"
"Ah, but you have the mindset of an old man." Francis waved a hand at him, placing finely chopped carrots into a pot.
"If you're using this as a chance to get at me, save your breath. I'm already in a foul mood."
"Oh, Arthur, stop being such a drama queen. You can get a new job, easy peasy!"

That was it. Face flushing red from anger, Arthur threw his hands into the air. "I do t want another job! I wanted that one! You know fine well I don't want to be anything else!" He strode to the window as he spoke, hands pulling at his sandy hair. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Francis bristle, almost preparing. "I'm tired of my hard work being for nothing! I'm tired of having a mediocre job! I'm tired of having a mediocre apartment in the middle of a city I hardly even like! I'm tired of this bloody mediocre life!"

Tense silence filled the air, with Arthur's angry pants being the only sound. Slowly, Francis placed down the spoon he was holding, keeping his back to the Englishman. "So that's what you think we have, a mediocre life?" His voice was thick, and Arthur could almost tell that he was close to tears already.

"We'll, no, but-"
"Yes you did. You mean it. I'm not good enough for you and nothing we have is." And with that, the Frenchman left the room, covering his face as he quickly walked to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Great. Just, great.

A key slid into the lock, a metallic click slicing through the silence as Arthur opened the door, stepping into the darkness. Head bowed, he closed the door, taking off his shoes and coat, not wanting to wake Francis. He walked through the apartment, heading for the bedroom. The door was ajar, moonlight shining through the curtains. The dim light fell on Francis, illuminating his sleeping face. His hair, silvery in the low light, was spread across the pillow, messy and scrunched as if he had been holding onto it tightly. As Arthur came closer, he noticed tear stains on Francis' face, his eyes slightly puffy. There was a tissue on his hand, held loosely, and a box open on the bedside table. Picking it up silently, Arthur sighed. It was the box full of photos they had collected over the four years they had been dating, organised in chronological order. Some had specks of water damage on them, probably from Francis' tears.

Placing the box down, Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. God, he felt awful. He changed for bed, movements hardly making a noise, and slid under the covers beside the Frenchman. He curled onto his side, away from him, letting his eyes slide shut. He froze, feeling Francis shift. A soft weight was draped over his waist, and Arthur glanced down, realising it was Francis' arm. Cautiously, he patted his hand, gently holding it as he laid his head down, sleep taking him. He would apologise in the morning. Somehow.

Arthur rose early that morning, hurriedly washing and dressing, rushing out quickly, before Francis even stirred. Acknowledging that making him breakfast would just irritate the Frenchman more, he went for the next best option: flowers and wine. Luckily for Arthur, their local supermarket had beautiful roses and Francis' favourite wine. The only challenging part was actually apologising.

When he got back, Francis was awake, clad in his underpants and an oversized jumper as he cooked breakfast, hair tied in a high ponytail. He half turned as the door opened, before scowling and glaring at the crêpes as they fried.

"... Francis?" Arthur's voice was timid, ringing through the small apartment. He received a grunt in response. Sighing, he walked over to Francis, wine and flowers behind his back. "I'm sorry." Watching the Frenchman's shoulders freeze, body tensing in surprise, he waited.

Slowly, not quite believing it, Francis turned to face his boyfriend, disbelief on his face. "... What?" Arthur hardly ever apologised, almost always believing he was right - which he was, but Francis was far too stubborn to admit it. It was one of the few traits they shared, unfortunately. Blinking in shock, he gasped slightly at the bouquet produced along with the alcohol, and he looked from the gifts of apology to Arthur's face, genuine remorse in his eyes.

Holding them out to him, Arthur gave a gently smile, corners of his mouth turning up slightly. Stepping forward, Francis took them, looking at them for a moment or two. He bit his lip, placing the, on the kitchen counter. "Arthur-" He all but threw himself into the Englishman's arms, hugging him tightly, arms around his neck. Huffing slightly at the force, Arthur patted his back, one arm around his waist.

The hug lasted for a minute or two, and Francis broke it, wiping at his eyes. He pressed a chaste kiss to the other's lips - one that said all was forgiven, as long as it didn't happen again - and turned to finish breakfast, aware of Arthur's smug grin behind him, pale hands resting gently on his waist. It seemed to Francis that the argument was one of hundreds; angry for a moment; meaningless the next day.