There were things that Arthur had adored. Days spent in his study, yellowing pages, dusty shelves. Days spent with the slightest tang of mint in his tea, filled with the sound of a pen scratching paper. The comforting sound of the embers crackling, the soft, rhythmic pitter-patter of rain.
Then there were the things that Arthur would always treasure. The feel of a hand in his own, the smell of vanilla shampoo, the glimmer of long blond hair and expressive blue eyes. The fond quirk of his mouth, the soft press of lips against his, but no. Not just any mouth, not just any lips, not just any hair or eyes or hand.
Arthur loved Francis. Arthur loved the warmth of his embrace, their playful banter, their shared drinks and warm hands cupping his face. He loved the days spent curled up against Francis's side with a book as the Frenchman ran his fingers through Arthur's golden locks.
Arthur loved everything about Francis. He loved the man's soft nips and warm kisses, he loved the passionate love-making by the fireplace, he loved the press of their bodies and the firm touches and the skilled fingers.
There were simple things he loved. The twinkle of Francis's eyes just before he said something naughty, or the soft humming of French love songs in the morning as the smell of crepes floated through their house. Arthur loved the long fingers lovingly caressing his embroidery and tucking flowers into his hair.
Arthur loved every single thing about Francis. Though they weren't the most normal of couples, they belonged with each other. Francis had stolen Arthur's heart, and had given the Englishman his in return.
And that was what Arthur cherished until the end.
I'm sorry. I just love domestic!FrUk, but I took way too many grammatical liberties. My sentences aren't complete and it's supposed to sound poetic but it just sounds pathetic.
Eh. Comment if you liked!
