Francis woke up cranky, which wasn't like him. He also woke up late, which was exactly like him.
He couldn't find the good hair dryer—the one that hadn't made a very real, and very frightening ball of fire once years ago—and really, why had he kept the fire-breathing hair dryer? It was impractical to own more than one hair dryer, even he knew, so long as one had a good hair dryer with plenty of attachments.
He couldn't find the good one, though, so he'd had to go and buy another one, and the cashier at Sally's had a poor attitude, and the barista at Starbucks got his order wrong. He burned his tongue on his wrong order and dropped the egg out of his breakfast sandwich into the seat of his brand-new car.
He would not despair, however. He would find the good in this day if it killed him. He would make this day be good. He was going to bake a cake that would bring Gaston Lenôtre back from the dead. He was going to bake a cake that Dionysus would label too-decadent. Never mind the idiots he was baking it for, who had demanded it be blue—blue—and who had insisted that he use a gaudy, kitschy little cake topper that Alfred had ordered off etsy. This cake was going to be a legend.
He made it to the house around one and tried very hard not to start to panic. Legendary cakes took time, and Francis really needed to get at least some sleep before tomorrow. He was the best man, sure, but babysitter would be a more appropriate title. He had seen Arthur deal with a variety of stressors over their many years of friendship, and rarely had he seen Arthur deal with them very well. He'd once backed over Francis's foot with his car because he'd been so stressed about buying Alfred a birthday present. When he'd come to the Frenchman for advice on his proposal, his shirt had been on backwards.
Francis wondered if he'd rather be responsible for the other half of this troublesome pair. As if on cue, his phone lit up with a text from ~Matthieu~, a message with a photo attached. It was a pink-faced Alfred wearing a plastic fire hat with "groom to be" written and crossed out and "STUD" scrawled beneath. He was trying to hold up an enormous party sub. Quoi!
Francis responded to Matthew's written message, a one-word question: "Jealous?" with a series of unamused emojis. He popped the trunk of his car and began unpacking.
The house was quiet as he let himself in, though only for a moment. Arthur came stomping from the back of the house in full-blown panic, slapping his slippered feet on the hardwood floor rather dramatically.
"It. Is. One twenty- fucking- five. My appointment is in thirty-five minutes, and that's without being considerate enough to get there five to ten minutes early, as the salon so politely requested, and considering the monumental task we are burdening this stylist with, how could we treat her with such disrespect?" He paused to cross his arms and huff expectantly, eyes drifting to the overstuffed bags Francis was attempting to pull into the kitchen. A wayward pan clattered to the floor pathetically. It felt rather poetic.
Francis indulged himself with a dramatic exhalation, sending a golden lock of hair skyward before it fell awkwardly back into this face.
He regarded Arthur for a moment before speaking. His friend was quite disheveled, looking both overdressed and sloppy in his button up and sweater vest combo plus bunny slippers. His hair was a mess and his eyes were puffy. He'd obviously been crying.
Francis couldn't help himself, as usual. This troublesome pair of lovers always pulled at his heartstrings. So helpless. So cute. So in love. Ah, and they were getting—
"Married! You're getting…ah!"
Suddenly, Francis felt light as air. His boys, his darling little idiots were to be wed, this was the most important wedding of his life (so far), this was a tremendous victory, this was the day before the wedding! Burnt tongues and grumpy Brits were just a part of the charm of it all, delightful in their own unpleasant ways. He pulled Arthur into a hug, ignoring his annoyed grunt and totally rigid posture.
"Oui, oui, it is too much to handle. Here you are alone all day while your dear Alfred is away having fun! You should have let Gil and Toni throw you that party, non?"
Arthur ignored his teasing. They both knew it was for the best that Arthur stay far away from those two before his big day, lest he suffer some bizarre injury or…end up in another country. Besides, Gil and Toni were both part of the (rather enormous) wedding party, and the party party, the reception, was bound to be more than enough depravity for one weekend.
"We need to review the itinerary. I'll have to drive myself to my appointment so you can get started on the cake—you'll need to let me know when you can pause that to get my hair done. My—my brothers have sprung a surprise dinner on me tonight, so I suppose I'll have to…" He trailed off, sniffling a bit.
Francis patted his arm sympathetically. "Oh cher, you hate them."
Arthur chuckled, though he still pulled his arm back to avoid the incessant petting. "It isn't that. Well, it is that, but I just wish Alfred were going with me. It's always much easier to deal with them when he's there. They end up teasing him endlessly and leave me be."
Ah, to be so repressed that you can't just openly admit you miss the man with whom you'll spend the rest of your life!
"We can do a rescue mission, if you want." Francis' eyes gleamed dangerously.
To his surprise, Arthur actually seemed to consider it. Ultimately, he shook his head, gesturing toward Francis' supplies.
"There's no time. I'm going to head for my appointment. I trust you have…everything you need there? Is there anything I should get?" He paused. "You haven't conveniently misplaced the cake topper, have you?"
Francis grimaced. "Your cheap little bauble is safe and sound. How I will incorporate such a thing into my masterpiece has yet to be seen, but fret not."
Arthur nodded. He hovered momentarily before attempting to help Francis haul in the last of his goods. The kitchen in the Kirkland-Jones' house was an enviable construction, all gleaming gadgetry and ample counter space. It was Alfred's happy place, largely of his own invention, and had come about when he'd knocked the wall down between a tiny and outdated kitchen and an oversized laundry room. Francis adored it.
As he was making himself at home, Arthur still hovered about, sheepishly standing in the doorway. As Francis looked up, he grumbled something.
"You know, Francis, we ah, really appreciate it. Thank you."
He scampered off.
Francis smiled to himself, setting up shop with a bounce in his step.
He opened a cabinet, still humming happily, and a pot dropped out onto his foot. The foot Arthur had driven over a few years ago.
Francis sat down, breathed deeply, and cried.