A nightmare woke Francis late at night, reminiscent of his recent scrape with death.
At first, he wasn't sure whether he should try to fall back asleep or remain awake. The nightmare, with glimpses of fading ash and bright streaks of red in his vision, convinced him that the best thing to do would be to tell Arthur (because surely Arthur would be understanding at three in the morning and not embarrassed because he was wearing pajamas instead of normal clothing-but then there was no telling with him).
He traversed through the apartment in the dark, swift but quiet as he entered the master bedroom, his shadow bending around the corner and into the intimate space of his room.
He saw Arthur's half-blanketed shape and, once he reached the nightstand, was close enough to reach out and touch Arthur's strikingly angelic face (if he wanted to, that was, and he surely didn't). The brit was curled up like a baby, an open palm resting beside his head and the other arm bent behind it to cover his forehead. His knees were brought halfway against his chest and a blanket, twisted between Arthur's legs, covered his lower body. Arthur's lashes brushed against his soft skin, his disheveled hair a halo of gentle, faded yellow in the dark.
He looked adorable and it was almost painful to wake him.
Almost.
However, Francis managed to find it in himself to wake Arthur and clicked on the bedside lamp, watching as Arthur turned away, an arm reaching to cover his eyes with his blanket.
Francis whispered a gentle apology to Arthur, explaining that he couldn't sleep because he had had a nightmare. They spoke in hushed tones, Arthur muttering in a grumpy mood what is it? and Francis, spouting off a gentle and hurried explanation, insisting that this is better than just sitting in the dark sleepless, isn't it?
At some point, Arthur reached for his blanket and yanked it back, conceding. He squirmed onto his half of the bed, giving Francis his own half to sleep on, already turning away in disinterest.
Francis, genuinely flattered by the offer, lied himself down and shuffled to make himself comfortable.
The yellow pool of light suspended over the bed vanished and, once again, shadows bathed the room in darkness. Arthur said nothing, only his soft breaths a sign that he was there.
"Goodnight Arthur," Francis whispered softly as he turned on his side.
"Goodnight," Arthur mumbled back just as delicately, not an iota of malice ingrained in his beautiful voice.
Francis could hear Arthur making soft huffs and grunts underneath his breath as they waited for Margaret to answer the door. Apparently, he was still too exhausted to have a proper lighthearted mood (and it probably hadn't helped that Francis had woken him up several times in the middle of the night due to his burns). At least Arthur had been complacent towards Francis's request to room with him, much to his surprise. In fact, the Brit hadn't mentioned it once since the occurrence.
"Lapin grincheux," Francis managed to whisper directly before Margaret opened the door to greet them.
Arthur promptly amputated the sentence he was forming in response to Francis's (what he probably thought to be) snide comment, instead transforming it into a greeting.
"Don't you think it's a splendid morning?" He greeted, doing impressive work to conceal the crack in his voice that was due to the changing pitch (the higher pitch he had intended to use for Francis had collided slightly with the bright one he greeted Margaret with).
"Yes I do. I only hope it doesn't rain," Margaret tenderly replied. "Please, come in," she supplied, stepping back so they could enter.
Trying his hardest not to grin ear-to-ear, Francis passed through the threshold first, casting a satisfactory glance at Arthur who, at that exact moment, looked ready to return to bed.
The two seated themselves on the couch, Arthur distancing himself. Francis wasn't too disappointed—Eyebrows did have trouble sleeping last night and, given that it was partially Francis's fault, he ought to make things a little easier on Arthur (although actually doing so proved to be quite the challenge).
Margaret seated herself in the armchair across from them. Considering that the chair commanded half the space, she looked small and delicate in it, like an old toy (both in literal and figurative sense) out of place.
"I've the money for the transaction," Francis informed, shuffling through the soft cotton of his coat so he could find the wad of cash he had procured early that morning. Arthur had been intent on not going to the bank to fetch the money with Francis, so he had gone alone, Francis more than gleeful when he hadn't been robbed in the process.
"I have the paperwork ready for you to sign," Margaret stated, bestowing the papers upon Francis, who was more than eager to take and read over them. He extended the paper so Arthur could take a glance as well, but just like yesterday he was out of it. It surprised him that the majority of the information listed on it wouldn't take long at all to fill out but it would still take a lot of reading to understand what payments he would be accountable for as the buyer, what he would be responsible for and what the seller would be, the form of payment, etc. Francis wasn't sure whether he was happy he was buying the house or very overwhelmed—hell, why not both?
Only partially understanding what the contract in front of him entailed, Francis filled it out and then signed it, returning it to Margaret when he was finished.
"Is that all then?" Francis inquired as he watched Margaret return the papers to her bag.
"I will get a copy of the papers for you and send them to this address," she stated.
"Perhaps we should go to the bank together so that I will be there if my signature is required," Francis suggested with a small smile.
Margaret nodded her head in agreement, stating to Francis that he should hold onto his money so they could take care of it at the bank. As she spoke, Francis cast a curious glance towards Arthur, attempting to gauge how he felt about their predicament. However, Francis perceived that Arthur wasn't even listening, his head cocked to the side as he cast a glance towards a nearby window.
Really, if Arthur wasn't going to pay attention he could at least do so discreetly.
"What do you think, Arthur? Feel like tagging along?" Francis inquired to him as soon as Margaret was finished speaking.
Arthur's eyes landed on Francis and he nodded his head, apparently focused enough to hear what they were saying. "Of course," he stated.
Arthur heard Francis's grumblings as he walked around to seat himself in the passenger seat, peering at the Frog only to find that he was watching him in return.
"What is it?" Arthur asked guardedly, taken aback by Francis's almost glaring eyes.
"I should be asking you the same thing, Arthur!" He exclaimed. "You were completely out of it, cheri. I thought you were excited about this, but instead I find you staring out the window like you wanted no business with it. Is everything all right?"
Arthur appreciated the frankness in Francis's voice and the way he looked at him with such imploring eyes; the two paired together almost pushed Arthur to defeat. He almost relented and admitted to Francis that he had been thinking about Alfred, but managed to stop himself. It wasn't that Arthur thought Francis would be upset or jealous, but because he was trying his hardest not to allow his thoughts about Heaven to resurface. If he told Francis what he was thinking, Francis would probably get that perturbed look on his face that he assumed every time Arthur tried to bring up the subject of his death. On the other hand, if Francis were actually open to discussing Arthur's past in Heaven, it would only sadden him.
"It's nothing, really... Just thinking about the past," Arthur mumbled, unable to bring himself to full deceit.
Francis arched an eyebrow but his voice remained sealed as he focused on driving. Francis had told Arthur before that he was not very familiar with London, something he had told Margaret before they set out, thus Margaret was leading them to the bank with Francis's car tailing behind. Arthur only hoped that they didn't get lost.
He placed a hand against his cheek and stared out the window. He was too lost in thinking about Francis's near-death experience and his own death to focus on anything that was happening in the present. He remembered last night, when Francis explained to him that he was having nightmares. He remembered his fever and the way he had panicked in the water fountain, then grimaced slightly when he realized that he still hadn't found out what had caused him to act that way. Then Arthur remembered that he wasn't meant to be thinking about those things and turned his eyes away from the window, focusing them on Francis instead.
"I-I think we should talk," Arthur told him as he drove, earning him a strangely considerate glance from Francis.
"Okay, then talk," he responded.
"I don't mean right now, you git!" Arthur exclaimed.
Francis sighed as the car came to a stop. "Then we can talk about whatever you want to later. Right now we have to square out this house purchasing business."
Arthur followed him into the bank, stirred by the strange atmosphere he entered. He had never seen such a strange place before and couldn't wrap his mind around it. Francis, ever the perceptive git he was, spent his time quietly explaining to Arthur the different elements of a bank, including bank tellers, checks, and vaults to protect the money from being stolen. Arthur couldn't say that he was impressed or even had an interest in such things, although the concept of it was still fascinating (and he did enjoy the professional setting).
He sat beside Francis and Margaret when they were taken to an office of sorts to discuss purchasing the house. Francis muttered to him to pay the most attention Arthur could and he was surprised by how capably he followed the discussion, even though he knew he couldn't understand half the things they said.
Eventually, Francis signed his name on a document agreeing to take over ownership of the house. Arthur put down his signature as well, stating that he would be responsible for payment of the house if Francis did not have the funds to manage paying for the house himself. (To Arthur, it didn't bother him that he might be responsible for paying for the house if Francis failed to, especially since he couldn't imagine caring whether he amassed debt or not).
"Congratulations," the banker stated as she handed over their papers, "you now own a house."
Arthur released a smile as he accepted the papers, glancing at Francis to find that his shoulders had relaxed from a tense hold and that his smile was also of glee and relief. They left the bank together, both waving good-bye to Margaret as she walked towards her car.
"How does it feel to have your house back, mon ami?" Francis queried, lightly squeezing Arthur's hand as they treaded down the bank's stairs and towards his car. The winter air stirred the papers in Arthur's hand but he didn't let the wind take them. He'd never let the wind have them.
"It feels wonderful. Thank you so much Francis. Even if we can't build the house back up right away, I still feel that I've reclaimed a part of myself by having my house back," he replied, releasing Francis's frosty fingers from his hold as they approached his car. He had been waiting for this chance to reconnect with his past and, finally, he had gotten what he wanted. Even if the step was small, buying the house opened all sorts of doors for him.
"I'm just so glad that that's over with! Too bad it will no longer be a question whether I will be in debt the rest of my life or not," Francis joked as he walked around to the driver's side of the car and got in.
"Don't say such things, Francis!" Arthur scolded as he seated himself, closing his door and feeling the cold blow away due to the gesture.
"What? It's true," Francis replied with a huff. He turned the keys on in his car, the engine drumming back to life and with it the heater. Arthur immediately stretched his fingers out to thaw them from their cold.
"Arthur," Francis began as Arthur leaned back in his seat, catching his attention. "I believe you were going to tell me something before we got out of the car?" He inquired.
Oh, blast it. Was this a good time to tell him, or should he wait? Arthur lowered his thawing fingers as he deliberated. He wanted to tell Francis, but not if it meant the git would either be unhappy and turn the topic away or become too engrossed that he might drag Arthur back into memories that he didn't want to remember. What Arthur needed was time to decide just what he was going to tell Francis and how much. With that, the decision came easily to him, and he stared Francis directly in the eyes when he said, "I will tell you tonight."
Francis, who was perhaps accustomed to the way Arthur kept his secrets and told them, nodded his head in understanding. "Then how'd you like to spend the rest of the day, mon amour?"
"Cleaning the house, of course. How else?" Arthur retorted with a smile.
The rest of the day breezed past after Francis drove them back to their house. They had started cleaning, beginning with the basement (since Arthur very boldly told Francis that he ought to decide what to clean first). Arthur occupied himself mostly with cleaning out the dusty boxes whilst Francis gingerly unstacked them, attempting to refrain from peering at the contents. Arthur had wanted to complain that he wasn't helping enough but couldn't bring himself to force Francis to look into the boxes with him (after all, there were many strange things stored away in the basement, including old dolls and strange clothing that Arthur didn't think Francis would be happy seeing).
They were still there even after the sun had long drifted from their sight. Arthur insisted on staying. He wanted to clean out the basement quickly and the rest of the house too because he knew the quicker he did that the sooner he would have the chance to move back in—and oh how he wanted that.
He allowed Francis to tear him away when dinner time came around. He ought not to keep Francis chained here like he was some poor prisoner, after all.
"Ah. I feel a terrible case of the allergies creeping up on me," Arthur commented from his seat at the kitchen table, watching as Francis prepared a very modest dinner: spaghetti. He had never had it before.
"Of course you would get allergies!" Francis reprimanded. "You can't sit on the floor of a basement for five straight hours, rifling through a bunch of old boxes and expect to come out of that without encountering a fair number of dust bunnies. Although sometimes I couldn't tell you apart from them." Arthur crinkled his nose when Francis peered behind his shoulder to gauge his reaction to his joking.
"Not to disappoint, but I am sentient whereas they are not. Also, there is a difference between size and color, Francis. Perhaps you were going blind?" He sneered at the haunted look in Francis's eyes.
"Pfft, whatever. Anyways, le spaghetti is almost done~" He hummed, turning his back towards Arthur again.
Arthur placed his hand against his cheek, watching Francis's back with an almost bored glance. His house... could he still remember what it was like? Surely... he remembered some of it, being that he knew that there had been bookshelves and a fireplace, and somewhere a stove as well, although he barely touched it. It had been so long ago that trying to conjure memories from such a long time ago almost made Arthur shutter.
That life was behind him now and each time he tried to look back at it, Arthur could only catch the faintest and most random of glimpses into that old life. When he did search through his memories, he could only think of a few things: the striking flash of his brother's red hair, the demanding presence of his bookshelves way back when they were present in his house, and the faint sound of paper drumming through his ears were some of the few memories he could still look on with complete remembrance. How much was he missing, he wondered?
"...Right, Arthur?" Francis queried.
"What?" Arthur asked, focusing his eyes and realizing that Francis was no longer turned away from him but offering him a plate of spaghetti. "I'm sorry, I was thinking. What were you saying?" He took the plate from Francis's hands as he spoke, feeling a soft heat come to his cheeks.
"Really now, going spacey on me again?" Francis huffed, dropping into the chair across from Arthur with a creak.
"It's not my fault that I get caught up sometimes," he defended, raising his fork and taking a stab at his meal. "It's just that I sometimes start thinking about the past and get caught up. Why wouldn't I though, right? With me getting my documents back so recently and then the purchasing of my house... they're just stirring up my mind a tad," he grumbled, his voice trailing to a murmur when he saw the look in Francis's eyes; it was "the curious look," the one where he peered at Arthur with a slightly cocked head and an imploring gaze. Arthur wasn't entirely sure why he was wearing it.
"...Riiight." Francis lowered the hand that had been propped beneath his chin and began to eat dinner.
Arthur sighed softly, mostly with relief than anything else. Had he said too much? Was Francis going to tell him not to think such things? He was betting that the Frog would, given how privy he was to Arthur's thoughts. He was probably already pondering what he was going to say to make Arthur stop rambling about the past (not that he was really rambling).
Arthur finished eating first. He lowered his empty fork and peeked a glimpse at Francis's plate to see if he had finished yet. Since he didn't, Arthur rose from his seat and washed his dish himself, the faucet hissing with water as he twisted it on and began to pour it over the dishes.
"If you wait, I could wash the dishes, mon ami. It is my turn, after all," Francis stated from his seat, Arthur catching another sidelong glance from him. What was his problem?
"Er... Are we leaving tomorrow?" He asked suddenly, rolling up his sleeves and then dunking his hands in the sink full of warm water.
"Oui," Francis replied between a bite of spaghetti. "Why, did you want to stay another day? I wouldn't blame you."
"No, I'm not especially set on staying. Just making sure that I had my priorities straight."
Again Arthur's words faded silently and the sound of rushing water replaced small talk. Arthur turned away and focused on scrubbing his plate clean, as well as the silverware he had used. When the Frog finished, Arthur took his dishes too and let them soak in the sink with his, then went to the couch to sit down and have a rest.
Francis joined him, propping his sock-laden feet on the coffee table in front of them. He calmly stretched his arms out on the back of the couch yet regarded Arthur with a decidedly serious look on his face. "What's on your mind?" He asked in an even tone.
Arthur fidgeted in his seat. "Why are you looking at me like that, git? You're acting strange," he stated firmly, his lips twisting into a small, half-grimace.
"Moi? You're the one who's been acting strange!" Francis refuted with a loud, obnoxious huff.
Arthur turned in his seat to watch Francis directly, so tempted to argue back. He really wanted to, but he had promised Francis that he would tell him what was bothering him and he said he would do so tonight. He couldn't spoil the night so early if he truly wanted to keep his promise (and he really wanted to because this was a rare moment where he could not-by any means-put aside his promise).
Arthur slumped his shoulders and crossed his arms (very much like a child, although he hoped Francis wouldn't mention the striking resemblance). "...Fine, you're right. But what if you are? So what if I've been a little preoccupied with my thoughts lately?" Was it bad of him to be preoccupied with his thoughts? That was just one of the several other unspoken questions that floated through Arthur's mind. There were some questions that ought to be left unsaid.
"In normal circumstances, I don't think it would be a bad thing. However, your thoughts have been 'preoccupying' you all day," Francis responded, air quotes and all.
His chest rose then fell with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Francis. Today was very important to me and I regret not thanking you properly for helping me reach it, but I was too busy thinking about the past. As I've said before, the papers and the house-everything-they've been heavy on my mind recently. I've been so engulfed in living in the present that it's taken me until now to realize how many things I have gone through to get me here. It has made me nostalgic."
Arthur's eyes lowered to his hands, which were resting on his lap, the emerald irises only rising once he was done speaking. Judging by the look on Francis's face, he had been rambling too long, his hand propped against his chin and his face nearly unresponsive. He had a gut feeling that Francis would have reacted something like this. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Francis's brow creased with worry and he lowered his hand again.
In all honesty, Arthur wasn't sure what talking about it would accomplish. He had already gone through the paces earlier that day and told himself that it would only make him more nostalgic, so what was the use? However, this was Francis. He deserved to know more than anyone what Arthur was thinking—Actually, he was the only one Arthur could talk to about it.
"...I might have told you before, but there's this man-his name is Alfred-and he works as the Recorder in Heaven. He writes down each person's life history as they enter Heaven. He also happens to have the same last name as Margaret. Ever since I've learned of her last name, I haven't been able to shake the memory of being in Heaven again. It's been throwing me off." He peered at Francis as he spoke then lowered his eyes again, coyly attempting to avoid his gaze.
Talking to Francis about this sort of sentimental stuff felt alien to Arthur. He almost felt like he had better chance talking to a rock, although perhaps that was because he wasn't very open himself.
"I'm sorry that I can't sympathize with you amour, but I am still grateful that you bothered to tell me. I'm sure that there are a lot of things that you miss but at least you are making new memories too, hm?" Francis noted. "If there's more you want to tell me I have open ears," he offered.
What a surprise—he wasn't joking. Arthur scoffed at the git as a response, grumbling to him that he probably didn't want to hear the ugly, sentimental things he had to tell him.
"Pfft! Of course I do!" Francis argued, waving Arthur to the seat closer to him. "Tell me; I want to know." So Arthur, being very tentative, leaned against Francis's shoulder and explained to him that the fountain scene was one of the recent things that were fresh in his memory. He told Francis how he couldn't stop wondering how he had died. When he turned to watch Francis for a reaction, he could visibly see the traces of sadness on his face; he had downturned eyes and a frown on his lips. So Arthur hadn't been wrong when he had told himself that this would be a topic Francis didn't want to trespass.
"You don't want to talk about it, do you?" He inquired with a small, stiff shift of his shoulders as he glanced away.
"Of course I wouldn't want to talk about it; it's about you dying," Francis replied with a grimace. "Who wants to think about his boyfriend dying? But it's natural that you would want to know—you deserve to know, and that is why, even if we'll never find the answer, I promise I will help you look for one."
Arthur truly hadn't expected Francis to say something so kind to him. Considering how often they argued, he was expecting a kick in there somewhere, some kind of sting to his words. He felt oddly at ease (although not entirely comfortable, since such a state didn't exist for him) when none came. "What's with me being here anyways? What could I have possibly done bloody wrong to get me put back on this Earth again?" Arthur grumbled, his shoulders slowly locking back into their uncomfortable slumped shape.
Francis scoffed, his warm fingers threading through Arthur's hair. "Whatever the reason, I am tres content that God has blessed me with my own personal troublemaker."
"I am not a troublemaker!" Arthur exclaimed, feeling his face heat from anger when Francis began to play with his mussed tresses. He shifted away and found that the gesture had put Francis in his place and had made him keep his hands to himself. "And who ever said that I was yours?" He added with a huff. "Honestly, you could be such a brat..."
"If I'm a brat then you must be a demon," Francis joked with a challenging smirk.
Against all odds, Arthur slept well that night. He ended the day staring at the gray ceiling of their rented hotel, his arms stretched behind his neck. Francis wasn't always such a terrible person, although on the outside his intentions were (only slightly) questionable. He lowered his arms and then turned in bed, concealing his grateful smile behind a pillow. He may not have gotten any answers to his death nor the reason for his presence on earth, but as long as Francis remained with him it really didn't seem as bad. As long as he had that annoying, disgusting Frog, Arthur could be... happy.