The sight of a sick Francis did various things to Arthur's brain and heart simultaneously.
Up top, his brain kept supplying smart remarks about how it was the French restaurant that Francis wouldn't stop talking about that gave him food poisoning, and it took a significant portion of his will-power not to let those remarks slip out of his mouth.
Slightly lower, his heart tightened in his chest- because world be damned, he caredabout Francis, he wouldn't be living with the idiot, wouldn't be holding and tying his long hair back while he puked, wouldn't even be standing in the same room as the ill and terribly pale fool if he didn't love him. And it was for this precise reason that his heart constricted, because it hurt to see Francis in pain and not be able to stop it or be the one to have caused it.
Worryingly lower than that, Francis drenched in sweat and breathing heavily- well.
Francis suddenly went even paler, a magnificent feat considering he was already as white as a sheet, and Arthur was amazed at his own agility as he dashed to the side of the bed and lifted the bucket placed there for Francis, just in time before he emptied the contents of his abused stomach into it.
A strangled groan of pain was Arthur's only thanks, but one look at Francis's knitted brow and how he clutched at his stomach and he took it. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
"How do you think? you silly man." Francis gagged and Arthur held up the bucket just in case. Francis waved it away, batting against Arthur's arm. "I am fine, just… tired. And in pain. And nauseas. And-"
Arthur held the glass of water that was on the bedside table up to Francis's mouth, effectively cutting off the beginning of his symptom rant. "Drink up, I don't want you to dehydrate. You'll die, or even worse, you'll complain about how little I care about you."
"I hate you." But Francis drank anyway. He took a big gulp, and tried to suppress a gag, before drinking the rest of the water much slower. Once he finished, Arthur set the glass aside and sat next to Francis, brushing away the strands that had fallen out of his ponytail, before untying it completely and starting again.
He tied in silence, a little worried that Francis wasn't even complaining about what he was doing to his beautiful hair. From the corner of his eye, he could see a sliver of Francis's stomach where his shirt had ridden up and the covers had slid down, his muscles tensing in sporadic spasms.
Arthur sighed once he finished, and scooted closer to the head of the bed, chin perched atop Francis's head. He thought of something to say to bring some sort of relief to Francis, because as much fun as it was to rile him up and watch his French charm turn nasty, it didn't change the fact that Francis was ill and in pain. He thought, long and hard, and then; "You know this is your own fault, right?"
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, for some unknown reason. Francis's eyebrows drew even tighter together, and Arthur knew that in a few weeks' time, he'd be on the receiving end of a very loud earful about how he would be the sole reason for any wrinkles Francis ever got. Somehow he couldn't argue with that.
Francis tipped up his head harshly, head-butting Arthur in the chin. Arthur shouted in shock, rubbing his chin and narrowing his eyes at Francis. "The hell was that for? You shouldn't move too much because-"
"My fault? It was your fault for letting me go in the first place!"
"…My fault for letting you go? You're the one who went!"
"Yes, but you did not come with me so you did not complain and we did not go somewhere else instead to appease you!"
"What the fuck does that have to do with anything? How does that make any sense?"
"It makes perfect sense and you know it!"
"Have you puked your brains out?"
"I have not-"
Francis suddenly went pale again and before Arthur had any time to react, Francis had leant over the bed and thrown up, directly on Arthur's pants and socks.
It took all of five seconds for Francis to stop panting and regain enough breath to speak. "Th-That's what you get, for letting me go to that restaurant."
Francis had thrown up mostly just the water he drank earlier, but it took Arthur a moment to register the wetness sticking to his legs and seeping into his socks. Then he exploded like a red helium balloon pushed beyond its capacity. "FRANCIS!" He jumped off the bed, narrowly missing knocking the bucket in his haste to get off his pants, cursing and swearing colourfully in the process.
Francis looked on in distaste. "Really, Arthur, I am ill, please try to keep it in your pants."
More curses and swearing and threatening to tip the half-full bucket all over Francis before he calmed down and accepted that all he could do was to have a shower. He sighed, ignoring Francis's half-hearted apologies and shuffled to the bathroom, trying his best not to touch his sticky pants or step in his soiled socks and failing miserably.
When he reached the bathroom, he tried not to gag while he peeled off his socks and pants, glad at least his underwear was clean. He chanced a glance up at Francis and was immediately and horribly softened by the pitiful look he had on his face.
He trudged back towards the bed, careful of the wet spots now dotting the floor, and held out a hand. Francis eyed him curiously, looking entirely too vulnerable for Arthur's liking. "Come on, a hot shower would probably help you… I don't know, sleep."
Francis gave him a small smile and pushed back the covers. He took Arthur's hand and swung his legs over the side of the bed- and knocked over the bucket all over Arthur's feet.
Arthur very slowly let his chin fall to his chest as he inspected his feet, or at least what he could see of them, and tried his very best not to wiggle his toes and make it worse.
Francis bit his lip sheepishly. "I will only admit that was my fault if you promise I can complain all I want in the shower and you won't say a word."
"…Deal."