Warning: This story is rated T for slight trauma and shounen-ai/yaoi.
Summary: On May 23rd, 2017, Francis arrives at Arthur's apartment in London. The Manchester attack really took a toll on the nation.
Anchor
"Home is where the anchor drops."
―Unknown
oO_Oo_oO_Oo
Francis doesn't bother knocking on the door, and the key never unlocks the handle the first time, so he's stuck wiggling it for several seconds before the knob finally turns.
Inside, the apartment is only lit by a lamp beside the couch, but that's enough for Francis. He moves to the couch, where Arthur is curled up with his back to the room. He's awake; his eyes are open. His breathing is heavy and his arms are curled around his middle loosely.
"Arthur," Francis murmurs, reaching out to brush his fingertips along Arthur's arm. The other jolts. The bit of movement makes a rush of acidic stench fill Francis's nostrils, and he covers his nose on instinct. There's a dark stain on the couch cushion, large enough that Francis thinks it would be best to just throw out said cushion. But before he can do that, he needs to clean up Arthur, and that has never been particularly fun, mostly because even in a painful, mentally anguished state, Arthur always manages to protest and do everything in his power to not cooperate.
Not that Francis is much better, thinking back on the week after the Paris attacks in November of 2015 and the attack in Nice.
So Francis slips his arms under Arthur's knees and shoulders, lifting him easily. This is the easy part, only because Arthur is still out of it and is more worried about holding onto Francis so that he doesn't fall than griping.
The bathroom is modest, but there's plenty enough room for the two of them. Francis sets Arthur on the toilet, crouching beside him to get his t-shirt off.
"Raise your arms, mon ange," Francis says.
Arthur finally looks at him with an almost imperceptible glare. "I don't need…" He winces, biting his already abused lip.
When Francis brings the shirt up, Arthur lifts his arms for a moment before they return to his abdomen.
The pants are a bit trickier.
"Per…perverted frog," Arthur mutters, holding the waistband of his sweatpants with shaking hands, and Francis sighs.
"You can't get in the bath until you're undressed."
"Just want…me naked…."
"It's nothing I haven't seen before." Francis holds both of Arthur's hands so that he can yank the fabric down Arthur's legs, despite the feeble kicking, before he balls up the lower garments in the t-shirt and tosses them into the hallway. Then he disappears into the room next to the bathroom, pulling clothing from the dresser. Later, he'll let Arthur believe the choices of clothing were accidental, even though the lounge pants have the Marauder's Map on them and the top is a faded Beatles t-shirt, both Arthur's favorites.
When he returns, he closes the door and sets the clothes on the small vanity.
"Pervert," Arthur says again, half-heartedly.
"Always wanting to jump your bones, Arthur," Francis grumbles while he turns on the bath faucet.
"No, you…would never hurt…hurt me…."
There's a moment of silence, and Francis smiles to himself. Then the water is warm enough, so he plugs the drain and waits for the tub to fill up.
"Francis?"
The Frenchman hums and turns to look at the other. Arthur is standing on shaky legs, and Francis immediately moves to steady him, ignoring the weak shoves for him to stay away.
"You smell," Arthur mutters.
"Yes, I'm sure you hate my cologne as much as usual," Francis replies as he lowers the other into the water.
"Not the cologne….you stink."
Francis is taken aback, but then―
"You need a…a bath, too," Arthur continues in that same nonchalant way as when he offers tea to Francis or asks if Francis is warm enough in bed.
And Francis can't help the smile that pulls at his lips. He finds a washcloth in one of the sink drawers and then kneels beside the tub, wetting it in the warm water. "How about we clean you first," Francis says as he grabs the bar of soap on the corner of the tub, "and then I'll take off my clothes before we go to bed, since they smell so bad."
Arthur nods, and amazingly enough, he doesn't protest when Francis starts to run the washcloth over his skin, though he might squirm and glare when some of his lower parts are cleaned.
"You gave me less trouble than usual," Francis comments as he helps Arthur step out of the tub. A fluffy towel is wrapped around his shoulders.
"It just…hurts," Arthur replies, and Francis is quick to dry him before wiggling the underwear and bottoms up onto the other's legs. The shirt is much simpler, and then it's off to the bedroom.
Arthur climbs into bed with little help, and while he's settling in the blankets, Francis strips out of his button-up and slacks. When he slips under the blankets, Arthur snuggles as close as he can because―as has been his excuse for many years―the bed is too small and Francis hogs the blankets if there's no cuddling, the latter of which is completely true.
They lay there for a few minutes. Francis thinks that Arthur has drifted off, but then he feels the other's lips mumble something into his neck, the warm breath sending a shiver down his spine.
"I can't hear you, mon ange," Francis says.
"Thank you," Arthur repeats more loudly, followed by a muttered, "Stupid frog."
Francis smiles and holds him a bit more tightly. "Of course."
Arthur's breathing deepens. After a few minutes, Francis slips out of the bed and finds his robe in the closet. Laundry time.
But as Francis begins washing out the soiled clothes, he can't help but think about what would happen if he wasn't here. Or if Arthur wasn't there when he needed it. They rely on each other so much, and sometimes he thinks that it's too much. If Arthur was gone, his ship wouldn't have an anchor, and he would constantly be lost, swept away into the ocean with no way to stay on shore.
It's an hour or so before Francis goes back to bed, but when he does, Arthur is semi-awake and curls up against him again with a murmured sentence, though Francis only catches "love" and "frog".