"Do you like it?" Francis asked, blinking soft cerulean eyes at his boyfriend from across the dinner table. Alfred had been been pushing his Soupe à L'oignon back and forth across the pristine plate provided by the restaurant for the past half hour. It was obvious something was bugging the man, but it was equally obvious Alfred didn't want to talk about it.
"Huh?" The bespectacled blond looked up and then nodded. "Yeah, it's good." He replied, swallowing the lump in his throat.
"You've hardly touched it," argued the Frenchman, brows furrowed. "Mon amour, what is bothering you? You have barely said a word to me all night."
"Nothing's wrong." Alfred retorted quickly. "I'm fine. The Soup Log thing is great."
Francis winced at the terrible pronunciation of the word, but let it slide in favor of leaning over the table a bit more. Of course, not so much that his elbows touched the table. That would exhibit bad manners, and he had been trying to break Alfred of this habit.
"Alfred, please."
Francis bit his bottom lip as he gazed at his lover. Alfred had been acting so strange since the last world meeting, and Francis was at his wits end. The American was nothing like his usual bubbly self. Whenever the two talked, whether it be via text, videochat, or in real life, Alfred seemed so distant.
The American was no longer enthusiastic about going on dates, and didn't invite Francis on them. In fact, he hadn't made any attempts at contacting Francis at all. If it wasn't for Francis calling and texting him everyday, the two wouldn't have talked once in the months they were apart.
"I said it was nothing." Alfred insisted, dropping his fork. It clattered against the plate as Alfred turned a sad gaze upon Francis. "I'm not not feeling well, that's all."
Francis sighed. Perhaps choosing to go to a restaurant like this had been a bad choice... After all, the place was rather fancy, and a bit old... Alfred was young, he wanted to go to more modern places. Francis thought himself to be incredibly foolish for even picking such a sophisticated place. Surely Alfred was acting this way simply because he was bored of this atmosphere.
Although... Francis himself was old, much older than Alfred. Could it be that Alfred was bored with Francis himself? The Frenchman had never been that exciting; he didn't know how to sweep Alfred off his feet any other way than typical romancing, and it was clear that Alfred did not want such things. Otherwise, why would he act so uninterested? It was becoming increasingly clear to Francis that Alfred was bored of their relationship.
Francis hadn't the slightest clue how to spice it up, without pursuing something in his second area of expertise; sex. This was another thing Alfred seemed entirely uninterested in, and Francis wasn't surprised. He had been very promiscuous in the past, so it wasn't entirely irrational to assume that Alfred found it unappealing and simply did not want to be where so many others had been.
Just then, Alfred made a small noise, almost like a tiny scream, before falling from his chair and landing face-first against the polished wood floors of the extravagant restaurant.
"Alfred!" Francis cried worriedly, sliding from his chair onto the floor. "What happened?!"
Alfred groaned, slowly sitting up. As he did so, he hastily pushed something behind his back, unbeknownst to Francis, who was worriedly inspecting his head.
"I was leaning back in my chair." Alfred lied, pushing Francis' hands off of him.
The Frenchman stood up, unsure how to feel about the fact that his beloved had shoved his hands away. "Of course. Let's go, oui?"
"Sure," Alfred said, and sadness was overwhelmingly evident in his tone.
Francis nodded, his blond curls bouncing as he did so. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Meanwhile, Alfred looked dejectedly down at the crushed rose that he had fallen on and sighed as he kicked it underneath the table and out of Francis' sight.