Francis was awoken by cursing and a loud crash. Opening his eyes, he realized first that Arthur was no longer in his arms and second that the Brit was now on the floor, soaked in tea from the previous night.
The Brit clutched his head. "What the bloody hell happened?" He cursed as he tried to stand. Miserably failing due to his crippling pain, he found comfort in the plush chair by the fireplace. Still, he occasionally whimpered from the light entering the room from the tall windows.
Francis gathered the teacup and set a towel on the rug to dry the liquid. Putting the tea kettle on the stove, he started closing the curtains in the den. Finally, he sat beside Arthur and draped a blanket over him.
"How's the hangover, mon ami?" He whispered.
"Where the hell am I? Frog, if you did anything, I'll..." The Brit's raised voice seemed to hurt his own ears, so he quieted and tried to focus himself by examining an imaginary piece of lint on his rumpled black shirt.
"I did nothing to you, Arthur. You were drunk and upset - you are such a terrible drunk- and I gave you a place to sleep." Francis was accustomed to the sober abuses, but they still hurt whenever Arthur was in one of his moods. He would fire his words at anyone who tried to get close to him, to understand him.
Francis heard the tea kettle whistle and he excused himself to go prepare the tea. He removed the pot from the stove and poured the scalding water into a waiting mug. He added milk and a lump of sugar: Arthur's tea. He added some honey to help with the headache and let the mug cool.
Putting away everything, he accidentally brushed his hand against the scorching kettle. He ran his other hand through his blond hair and muttered French curses.
Tears formed in his eyes, but he remained silent. If he made any noise, Arthur would come to investigate and if Arthur saw him crying and cursing, if Arthur made any move of caring, after last night, Francis would lose any remaining control to stay away from Arthur, whether his feelings were returned or not.
Yes, he thought to himself, I would much rather silently take the pain and have him be happy. As long as I can remain by his side, whether as a lover or a friend, I am content, just as long as Arthur is happy.
He sighed as he slipped a glove over his blistering hand - he didn't want Arthur to see his wound - and carried the tea into the other room, just as the front doorbell started ringing.