Francis Bonnefoy had never lived in a large house. That is not to say that his homes weren't luxurious. It had a little garden in the back and a patio with a wooden swing, just wide enough to fit two snugly together.
But the true charm of the house wasn't the Frenchman's French windows or the tastefully decorated rooms; it was his kitchen. The kitchen was situated on a nice corner of the ground floor. Aged wooden cabinets lined the walls, the array only by a small rectangular window. The curtain Arthur had embroidered still hung over the glass. Francis had his cabinets well-stocked with numerous spices and cooking tools. When he felt like cooking, he'd tie on his old, loved apron, roll up his sleeves to just over his elbows, and pull the ingredients out onto his marble countertop.
Arthur always enjoyed listening to the sounds of Francis cooking; the gentle shuffles and taps of the measuring spoons and the quiet whirr of the hand-mixer and the rapid ta-ta-ta-ta-ta of Francis's knife against the cutting board never failed to calm him. Sometimes Arthur would come into the kitchen and sip tea, listening to Francis cook while typing away at his computer. Then something would go in the oven and he'd pretend not to watch in anticipation while Francis dried his hands on his apron and came down to sit next to him. Then they'd sit together, one straddling the other's lap, and wordlessly share tender kisses.
Arthur always loved the feel of Francis's hands and arms around him, while Francis enjoyed savoring the taste of tea on Arthur's lips. They would link their fingers together, and Arthur would relax into Francis's arms a little more upon hearing the soft clink of the matching bands around their fingers. The two would hold each other some more, murmuring soft nonsense into each other's ears and pressing soft kisses to skin. Francis would silently admire the way the afternoon sunlight shone softly on Arthur's dirty golden locks and think of how blessed he was to have a gorgeous husband like him.
And Arthur, his precious Arthur, would trail a finger down Francis's cheek and jawline as if he was mapping out the dips and hills of his face for the first time. Francis loves times like these, for he finds unmasked love and adoration in the depths of emerald green and it's simply beautiful. He leans up for another kiss and watches the way Arthur's eyes flutter closed. He smiles as their lips meet and merge.
Then the oven timer goes off and Francis is reminded of how precious these moments are, because the spell is broken and Arthur is pushing him away already. Too soon. Francis knows, that after over a decade of cohabitation, Arthur fully understands his sentiments but nudges him away anyway. He leaves one last kiss on Arthur's forehead before his husband untangles their limbs and allows him to get up. A delicious smell wafts from the oven, and Francis shakes his head slightly before pulling on warm oven gloves.
It's enough, just like this.