"Now, we shall begin with the simplest step," Francis said as he stood in front of Arthur in the bathroom the next morning. "Your looks."
Arthur went a little pink. Did Francis just pay him a compliment by saying fixing up his looks was going to be the simplest part of the process?
"And before you start to thinking that I am paying you a compliment, I only say it is simple because improving your personality is going to be so much more labor intensive." Arthur growled and rolled his eyes. The ceiling was a pretty shade of off-white today. Good thing it was pleasant, because he had a feeling he would be spending quite a bit of time looking at it in the coming days spent at Francis's house.
"Let's see, now..." Francis stepped back and began to scrutinize the Brit's appearance. Arthur fought back a wave of self-consciousness as the other man's eyes swept over him. They were standing in Francis's lavish bathroom, with all the necessary tools laid out on one of the many shelves. Arthur repressed the urge to snort derisively. Who the hell needed this many shelves in their bathroom?
Oops. As it happened, he was unable to keep himself from letting out that derisive snort. Francis glared at him briefly.
"Well, I suppose I will just start with the good points you already possess. Première, you have very pleasing eyes." Arthur felt himself go slightly pink again. Why did this keep happening to him? Bother. "You ought to wear more clothes that accentuate that shade of green. Though I strongly recommend plucking those abominable-"
"Don't go there," Arthur hissed.
"Moving on. Your figure is a little meager, though some like that mince look. I think a few extra visits to the gym and improved cooking skills would probably help, non?"
"I'm not going to a bloody gym, frog," Arthur asserted, but he was blushing a little more. "Especially not with you."
"Hm." Then, as if to prove Arthur's last point, Francis continued with "However, I should add that your ass is as fine as always- ah!" Arthur slapped him in the face, leaving a bright pink mark. "D'accord, d'accord... I will move on. Now, since it is apparently impossible for you to grow out your hair without looking like a wet dog, we will be forced to settle for the cut you have now. Which is, incidentally, the same cut you have had for something like a thousand years, is it not?" He teased.
"Oh, do shut up. You're the one who said it was suited to me," Arthur muttered.
"In any case I really think you would benefit from a little gel..." Francis grabbed a lime green bottle off of one of those stupid shelves and squeezed a a blob of the clear, sticky substance onto his palm. "Assied-toi, s'il vous plâit," he said, gesturing for Arthur to sit down on a stool in front of the large, seashell-encrusted mirror. Arthur huffed quietly at the use of French, but complied.
"Don't make it too obvious," he grumbled. "I don't want people to start thinking I'm taking advice from a git like you."
"Just sit still," Francis said impatiently, biting back a snippy "though they would right". He then began to comb his hands through Arthur's blond hair, massaging in the gel. Caught off guard, Arthur bit his lip, barely managing to suppress a sigh of pleasure. He wanted to slap himself for it, but he couldn't deny that the feeling of Francis's hands running through his hair was really... it wasn't bad.
Not bad at all.
Still, it wasn't like he was enjoying it or anything. It had just happened to exceed his expectations this one time. (Not that he'd thought about it or expected anything of the sort to occur, anyhow.) If Francis ever did it again he would be sure to puncture Arthur's scalp with one of those ridiculously long fingernails or do something equally twat-ish. Definitely. Maybe he was about to do just that even now-
"All done!" Francis proclaimed. Arthur snapped out of his trance when his stool was whirled around to face the mirror.
He had to admit, his hair did look nicer. It lay flatter now, and though there were still bits and pieces that stood up from the rest, they now appeared tasteful in a whimsical sort of way, instead of haphazard as they had before. Arthur blinked at his reflection, mildly surprised.
"You like it?" Francis asked, the annoyingly proud smile on his face reflecting back at Arthur in the mirror. Arthur shrugged, feigning disinterest. Surely he could do this on his own- without all the silly gel- if he invested in a better comb or something, right?
"It's... fine."
"Of course it is. I am a genius." Francis laughed to himself and began to wash the gel from his hands in the nearby sink. Arthur rolled his eyes. "We will do this again before you go out to find a willing victim. But if you wish to do it on your own time- which I highly recommend- it is not so difficult, even for someone like you. Merely use the gel to flatten down the ungainly bits, and that should be sufficient." He shook the water off his hands and dried them on a nearby towel. "Now we must buy you some new clothes!"
"WHAT?"
It took literally six hours for the two of them to find just three new outfits that they both agreed were acceptable. By the end of the expedition, which involved trudging through countless malls and plazas (French, of course- which made it all even worse) while Francis yammered on incessantly, Arthur was utterly worn out and exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to toss his purchases in the bloody washing machine, hit "start" and then crawl off to bed. (Francis, of course, seemed to have been something like rejuvenated by the bout of shopping and had a spring in his step).
In Arthur's shopping bags were two new pairs of sleek black slacks, a pair of jeans, a dark green long-sleeve, a hooded dark blue sweat shirt and a white button down. There was also a pair of black sneakers.
The jeans had been by far the most inconvenient item to shop for. Arthur himself disliked most denim, but Francis had insisted that he simply must have good jeans, dragging him from store to store until he finally found a decent pair. The worst part was that every time Arthur had to try something on, Francis would motion for him to turn around so he could get a good look at his rear.
"But it is the most important thing for a pair of jeans," he would say whenever Arthur chastised him. Arthur would glare, and grudgingly turn around. Then, after he was done with trying on the jeans and was leaving the changing room, he would making a point of throwing them in Francis's smirking face.
The two of them bickered continuously over what style the jeans ought to be. Francis seemed to think the very definition of jeans was skinny and low riding. Arthur preferred straight jeans that didn't feel like they were about to fall right off of him, thank you very much. Francis liked "artful" rips and tears. Arthur couldn't comprehend why anyone would pay for damaged clothing. (He kind of like the idea of tearing them up after buying them, though.)
The white button down, too, had been the subject of much contention. Arthur had been reluctant to buy one because he already owned plenty, but Francis had insisted that none of the white shirts in Arthur's closet were the right style or fit, much to Arthur's indignation. ("What, you think I don't know my own shirt size, frog?") But finally they had been able to find a shirt that fit Francis's standards and didn't make Arthur want to crawl into a hole and die (maybe just crawl into the hole and not die). It was, predictably; somewhat more form-fitting than Arthur's other shirts, and was made of an airier material.
The only item Arthur had actually felt pretty good about buying was the blue sweatshirt. It was soft and warm, and he liked the color. It reminded him of the blue on the British flag. When he had tried it on, Francis had looked at him pensively for a few moments, then reached over to adjust the sleeves and the neck, his fingers brushing Arthur's cheek when he pulled away; satisfied. Arthur had felt his ears grow inexplicably hot again at the contact.
"That is a nice color pour toi."
Arthur was snapped out of his reverie when Francis's car pulled up outside Arthur's home. Night was falling, and a few stars were beginning to shine through the sea of light above the city.
"Bon soir, mon lapin," Francis said. "I will give you a call in a day or two about our next move. We shall then work on your attitude." Arthur rubbed his forehead.
"Why the hell did I agree to this again?"
"Because if you do not work with me on this, I am going to-"
"Alright, alright!" Arthur yelled in exasperation, before roughly dragging his shopping bags out of the car and storming up the walk to his front door. Francis tsk'd, shaking his head as he watched the increasingly irritable Brit fumble with his keys.
"Qu'est-ce qu'il ferait sans moi?" He asked the universe as he drove away.
AN:
Translation: What would he do without me? (This may be wrong lol)
Well, there you are! Second chapter! I've been trying to get into the habit of making my chapters a bit longer, since it annoys me when I'm reading a fic and the author only updates in these irritating little tidbits, but this seemed like the natural place to end the chapter. And since this chapter is short, I'll try to put up the next one in just a few days.
One thing I'm not entirely sure about... Are ripped jeans a thing in France or is that just something us crazy Americans like? I myself am not a big fan of "destructed" jeans, but I see them *everywhere* so I assume there are probably at least some styles like that in France? If anyone reading this knows the answer, please tell me! XD
And finally, Avi W. Lovegood: Avec does mean with, though I can definitely see why you would confuse it with 'have' since it looks similiar to avez, avons, and avoir, which are various forms of the verb 'have'. Also, the use of 'anglaise' was intentional. Francis is saying 'my dear English(man)' :3 Thanks for reviewing!
On a random note HIGGS BOSON ASDFGHJKL;'''
UPDATED: 8/06/2012
UPDATED AGAIN (to remove an offensive remark): 1/08/2014
