Arthur Kirkland doesn't consider himself to be a very needy person.
He doesn't need many things from many people. He refuses to accept money from his brothers, convinced they'll use it as blackmail or something of the sort. He doesn't have many friends, nor does he find the need to make any new ones. He doesn't strive to find a bigger home, or a better job, or a pet to take care of.
Arthur simply doesn't feel like he needs many things in his life.
But, there is one thing that he needs desperately every Saturday night.
One thing he looks forward to every week.
One thing he would die without.
The Brit paced in front of his front door all afternoon. He checked his watch: 10:27. Shaking his head, his pacing increased. He's late. He's three hours late. Over three hours, actually. Three hours and twenty-seven minutes, to be precise. He glanced at his watch again. Twenty-eight.
Arthur had everything prepared hours before. The candles he lit where nearly half burned by now. And the soft smell of tea had disappeared from the air long ago. The Brit's hair, once in place and smooth looking, is now tangled and tossed in different directions in his anticipation and worry.
Every Saturday night for two years and this is the first time he's ever been late. Arthur's mind raced, thinking of different scenarios where the other man got in some kind of trouble. Trying to come up with some kind of excuse as to why the other man wasn't here, he began to mutter to himself.
Maybe his car broke down. No. Maybe he got in a fight. He'd lose. Maybe he got thrown in jail because of that fight. I won't bail him out. Okay, yes I will. Maybe he simply forgot. He wouldn't. Would he forget? No! After two years, would it just slip his mind? Well… Maybe he doesn't care anymore. No… Did he even care to begin with?
"I don't know…"
Arthur's mind went blank as he heard the doorbell ring.
The Englishman pulls his door open before the man on his porch can even move his hand away from the doorbell. He's here. He didn't forget. He's not in jail. He's here!
Ignoring the relief that flooded into his heart, Arthur crossed his arms and hissed with as much frustration and fury he could muster, "Mr. Bonnefoy."
Before Arthur could start his well-planned lecture, soft lips pressed themselves against his neck, sucking the skin softly. Warm hands suddenly caressed his hips. The Frenchman's cologne filled the air. All words were lost in the British man's throat at the sudden attack on his senses. He vaguely felt himself being pushed back against the wall, and halfheartedly recognized that his door was now closed.
"Y-you're late." The Brit breathed, half-lidded eyes flicking down to glance over the Frenchman's face. His skin was shiny with the starting drips of sweat. Was he panicking as much as Arthur? Or was it just the summer heat?
The lips left his skin slowly, and the husky voice spoke, "I had another customer. It was sudden." Francis gently pecked Arthur's nose, cupping his face in his hands. His blue eyes searched through green ones. What he was searching for, Arthur couldn't tell.
"Two years." Arthur mumbled, glancing away from the other man, a small blush rising to his cheeks. "Two years every Saturday and you've never been late."
Francis purrs with delight, "Aw, did you get worried about moi?" His hands slide up Arthur's shirt. "You know I'd never forget about my favorite regular." Lips whispered against the Brit's ear as their bodies were pressed against each other in needed closeness.
Regular.
Arthur hates that word. It defines him. It refrains him. But most of all, it explains to him how pathetic he is. Every time it's mentioned, Arthur remembers just how much money he spends to have Francis hold him like this. And how he knows this pretend romance will never be real. It's all just a paycheck for the Frenchman. He's nothing but a glorified prostitute. And Arthur loves every moment of it. It sickens him. Sickens him that he's nothing but a regular to the other man. Someone addicted to his love. Pathetic.
Arthur doesn't know exactly when his clothes were removed, or how loud he's been moaning. His body reacting excitedly to Francis's long-awaited arrival. He knows he never wants Francis to let him go. And he knows that the Frenchman eventually will, once morning comes. He knows he'll wake up to find the bed empty next to him.
One of them sighs in pleasure as they get into a rhythm.
Yes, there's one thing he needs every week.
One thing he couldn't live without.
Arthur Kirkland needed Francis Bonnefoy every Saturday night.