Author's Note: This quick fic was written for abnosome1 on tumblr. :D Everyone wish her a happy birthday because she's awesome!
Rated T for some mildly suggestive themes and because Arthur is petty.
P.S.
Football is possibly coming home? Haha. :)
"I cannot believe you, Arthur."
"Oh, don't give me that tone. You're actually going to blame this on me?"
"Yes, yes I am."
"How is any of this my fault? It was an accident."
Francis releases a long-suffering sigh and crosses his arms—he should have seen this coming. He can't do anything remotely serene and pleasant with his husband anymore. Perhaps it's forces of nature that are plotting against them, or maybe it's just Arthur's constant sour attitude that always manages to spoil everything. Regardless, Francis has frankly had enough.
He thought inviting Arthur to a yoga class would be cathartic for them both. It had the potential to be something new and different that could help strengthen their relationship. So, he gave Gilbert a whole hundred dollars to babysit the boys and dragged Arthur and two matching blue yoga mats out for a day of relaxation.
But then Arthur had to ruin everything—as usual. For starters, he griped and grumbled the whole way here, but Francis endured it because he was certain Arthur would stop being a stick in the mud after five minutes into the lesson. And well, while Arthur did finally stop talking under his breath about how silly yoga is and how he doesn't need to meditate or stretch with an instructor because he can do it himself in the comfort of their home, he didn't end up taking to the positions as well as Francis hoped.
A few stretches in and Arthur was already getting a bit red in the face and out of breath—huffing and puffing because of his lack of flexibility. Of course, Francis is well aware that Arthur can't lift his leg over his head or touch his toes—something they've had to discover the hard way in the bedroom, but he thought the man would at least put in an honest effort.
That said, everything was going as smoothly as it could have until the young woman serving as their instructor asked them to get in the shirshasana position—essentially a headstand. And what's so complicated about a headstand aside from having to keep one's balance? Francis assumed Arthur's balance would at least be somewhat better than his flexibility, but he was wrong in his assumptions.
No more than three seconds into the position, Arthur began to fall, but instead of landing squarely on his back or chest like a normal person would, he floundered about, bent his right leg back, and directed his full body weight onto his foot, which Francis still doesn't completely understand. If he didn't know any better, he'd think Arthur intended to injure himself.
Arthur claims he was trying to stop his fall by putting a foot on the ground but was obviously unsuccessful.
And so, he hit the ground with a frighteningly loud thump.
This elicited a big scene and a great deal of commotion. To his credit, Arthur tried to brush it off and urged the instructor to continue with the class, thoroughly humiliated and seemingly aggravated. However, it quickly became clear to Francis that Arthur was not in any condition to keep going, given the look of pain on his face and how he was massaging his foot. Arthur never reveals when he's worse for wear, so any perceivable signs of distress from him are causes for concern.
It was enough to prompt Francis to gather their things, whisper an apology to the instructor (which his husband didn't seem to appreciate), and then help Arthur limp out of the room and into an empty area of the gym beside the water cooler and vending machines.
That's how they ended up here.
Francis knows Arthur didn't mean to get hurt, and really, he shouldn't be blaming him for anything. He supposes he's merely frustrated with the situation because he had envisaged this class as being something special between them. He thought it might become a weekly event for them and that they'd be able to turn it into something they could look forward to doing together, but it's clear now that Arthur likely has no intention of ever doing yoga again.
Francis wishes he could say this was all the result of Arthur being obstinate and incorrigible, but it really was just an unfortunate accident. And now it's going to take a lot of convincing to get Arthur to do anything remotely athletic or physical with him in the future.
He watches Arthur fish around in his gym bag for some ibuprofen and his water bottle.
He swallows two pills, rubs his face with a little groan, and shoots a dark glare at his ankle, which has visibly swelled up.
"I'll find you some ice," Francis sighs again, losing his ire.
"I'm sorry," Arthur says once his back is turned. "I didn't want to spoil our day."
"I know, mon amour." Francis murmurs. "I'm the one who owes you an apology. I shouldn't have pushed you to do this."
"I did it for you."
"I know. Will you forgive me?"
"Already forgiven," Arthur says with a tiny smile, and something bats its wings in Francis's heart. It's not like Arthur to be so easily forgiving. Perhaps he fell harder than Francis initially thought, which is worrying.
"Don't move. I'll take care of you, mon cher. And I'll make it up to you—you'll see," he assures, pressing a quick kiss to Arthur's forehead before he can have the chance to pull away. "Let's take you home."
"I don't like what you're insinuating."
"Who said I was insinuating anything? Mon Dieu, get your head out of the gutter."
"Why you—!"
Francis chuckles and hurries away before he can have any swears spat at him. He knows he shouldn't be poking fun of the man when he's already down, but Arthur just makes it too easy and tempting.
Perhaps their relationship is a tad unusual, but that's what makes it fun, and Francis realizes he was wrong to think they needed something as unoriginal as yoga to spice things up. They're fine just the way they are.
Besides, there's always Zumba instead.
Damned frog.
The things he does for that man—honestly.
Arthur's sitting on the couch with a bag of frozen carrots resting on his throbbing ankle, and the longer he looks at the damage, the more convinced he is that he's done the right thing. That yoga instructor was getting horrendously flirtatious with Francis. Didn't he notice the constant suggestive looks she was giving him?
Even the way she was extending her arms and legs appeared oddly sensual. She was
preening herself—rolling her shoulders back and trying to draw attention to the curves of her body. Thinking about it makes Arthur's blood boil all over again. How dare she? Did she not see the ring on his finger?
She chose the wrong person to make advances toward.
This wasn't Francis's first yoga class, and at the rate things were going, he had a sneaking suspicion this wouldn't be the last if he didn't nip this in the bud. Francis, the silly git, has a thing for blonds, and while Arthur wants to be able to trust the man not to ogle anyone, taking some preventative measures every now and then is probably for the best.
And therefore, his ankle was a necessary sacrifice. Having earned Francis's pity should be enough to keep him from going back to those classes any time soon, as he will likely feel too guilty to go alone.
Good. His work wasn't in vain, in that case.
What Francis doesn't know won't hurt him, and honestly, Arthur doesn't feel as bad as he thought he would after being so manipulative. He doesn't plan on making this a habit, mind you, but steering Francis in the other direction was necessary in this case. That instructor was bound to be trouble, and he has read too many romance novels written by middle-aged divorcees to fall for the oldest trick in the book. It's always the yoga instructor, isn't it?
Arthur carefully gets up and hobbles into the kitchen to make himself a well-earned cup of tea, allowing himself an occasional wince in between steps. The pain is bearable, but the more pathetic he looks, the less likely Francis will be to even think about attending yoga lessons again. He needs to milk this for all it's worth.
He purposefully makes a bit of a racket while in the kitchen so Francis will hear that he's up and about. Sure enough, his husband comes to investigate a minute later, and Arthur puts on his best scowl.
"What are you doing? You should be resting your ankle," Francis immediately fusses, grabbing him by the arm and directing him into a chair at the kitchen table. "If you wanted tea, you should have called me."
"The day I'm incapable of making myself a cup of tea is the day I'll die," Arthur grumbles, pretending to be peevish.
"You should take it slow for the next day or so."
"I'm fine."
"You always say that."
Yes, he does, and if he stops saying it, Francis will grow skeptical, so he needs to make sure he continues sounding annoyed and on edge.
"Papa? Dad?"
They look over their shoulders and find Matthew standing in the doorway. He's chewing on his bottom lip and wringing his hands—something has upset him.
"Yes, mon lapin? What is it?" Francis asks, leaving Arthur's side for a moment to lift Matthew into his arms.
Matthew blinks two big blue eyes at them and murmurs, "Is Dad feeling better?"
Damn. He's made the child worry, hasn't he? Okay, now he's starting to feel some regret.
"Yes, Matthew, I'm quite all right. You don't have to concern yourself," Arthur tells him with a strained smile.
"Oui, your father will be all better in a few days, but I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about how clumsy he is."
Arthur scowls a genuine scowl this time. "It's nearly time for bed, Matthew. Have you and Alfred brushed your teeth?"
The boy shakes his head.
"Then, go on, love."
Francis sets Matthew down and the boy goes running off, looking far less troubled, fortunately.
Since he's already made it this far, Arthur figures he has nothing to lose and can afford to be a little sly for the rest of the night—he just has to play his cards right.
He pushes his chair back and stands, except he makes sure to let his right leg buckle under his weight so Francis can be tasked with sweeping forward to catch him.
"You're impossible! Do you know that?" Francis asks him rhetorically as he wraps an arm around his waist. "Let me help you. Where are you trying to go?"
If he softens up now, it will be believable because Francis will interpret it as exhaustion, so he lets out a little sigh and gives him a one-worded reply. "Bed."
"Okay, mon cher. Put your arm around my shoulders and we will walk there slowly, okay?"
Arthur looks at him woefully but gives him a languid nod and a very quiet "thank you," which is bound to make Francis fret over him even more.
They trek into their bedroom together, and Francis helps him lie down as gently as he possibly can, murmuring something about how he's going to get some more pillows and ibuprofen.
This is nice. Arthur could get used to it. Normally, he hates being smothered, but after feeling threatened by a potential romantic interest, he's surprisingly happy to accept as much affection as Francis is willing to dish out.
"Is that better, mon amour?" Francis asks after elevating Arthur's ankle with a small stack of pillows.
"Yes, thank you."
"Good…Oh, my poor rosbif. I'm sorry things didn't end up as planned today."
"It's not your fault."
"For our next date, I'll treat you to some champagne and a good dinner, all right?"
"That sounds lovely."
A smile stretches across Francis's face, and his warm lips connect with Arthur's, leaving him feeling tingly all over. Who says jealousy is a sin?
He would gladly stay like this forever.
"Good night, mon amour."
"Mmm…You're not coming to bed?"
"In a little while. I need to make sure the boys are tucked in…Don't wait for me."
He will. He always waits.
"Okay. Goodnight."
Francis leaves him with one last kiss and strokes his head, and Arthur lets his eyes slip shut with a contented sigh.
Definitely worth it.