Gardening was Arthur's favorite pastime, because it wasn't really a pastime at all. It was more than that, more than a hobby or a distraction. Some would call it a passion project or a labor of love, while others got so deep into the dirt they deemed it their lifestyle. Still others bemoaned the craft, labeling it nothing more than another chore, a time sink with little yield. These specific kind of people, of course, just didn't understand the art and science of it, proper crop rotation, transplanting, deadheading, ect. and so forth. And that was perfectly fine. Arthur didn't need anyone's approval or validation. Gardening was good for him, it made his heart warm and he enjoyed the challenges of it. He liked seeing a plant go from seed to sprout to flower to fruit. He liked tending to each plot in his garden in different ways. Just like every person is different so too is every plant. Some needed more time, some more maintenance, some he just needed to let be little green divas. Some plants were as hard to please as his husband.
Francis had many loves. He loved to dance, he loved to paint, he loved to live! But more than any of that, he loved to cook. And he was good at it. For many years he had honed his skills in the kitchens of his youth, in the trenches of culinary school, and in many a fast paced restaurant, from the downhome to the high end. Being a cook, being a chef, was like a combination of all his most favorite things. Commanding the kitchen, tending the pots and pans, the grills and ovens, was like an intricate dance. Moving to and fro, stirring and chopping and tossing and tasting as he went until a masterpiece unfolded on the plate, a feast for all the sense. It made him feel alive. People from around the world praised his work, but he did not cook for the admiration, though it certainly didn't hurt. He cooked for his health, his happiness, and his safety. For all the gods in the world know Arthur would kill them both in the kitchen.
With the setting summer sun casting long shadows all about the garden, Arthur stood and stretched, his bones creaking and popping. He wiped sweat from his brow, and in so doing smudges and line of soil across his forehead. The garden had been good to him today, and he housed a laden basket into his arms, overflowing with reds, oranges, greens, smatterings of purple. He marched proudly into the house, a small trail of dirt forming in his wake. This would be a tomorrow problem, or at least and after dinner problem. He deposited his haul into the large kitchen sink and was beginning to wash the vegetables as Francis walked in, glass of wine in hand. He was wearing his lazy day clothes that still had more style than Arthur's nicest suit, and he grinned at his husband a devious little grin that the Frenchman knew immediately.
"Don't you come near me in those muddy dungarees Arthur Kirkland so help me!"
"We both know how this is going to end," Arthur began stepping closer to his husband.
"I like to think I can take fate into my own hands." Francis replied, maneuvering to the other side of the kitchen island. "A handsome bounty today, eh?"
"More tomatoes than I know what to do with." He replied, continuing his slow and exaggerated pursuit. "Have any ideas for them?"
"One or two, a confit would be delicious," He swerve around the island again, setting down his wine, "Perhaps a fresh summer galette," He made a break for the french doors to the patio. "Or a bisque! We should send some to Tony and Lovino, they could make Gazpacho."
Arthur lunged at him but was too late, Francis had dashed out the doors, flinging the curtains in a comic book style distraction. When he made his way out onto the patio Francis stood triumphant, holding sprayer of the garden hose. Arthur froze, his face aghast in horror.
"You wouldn't."
"We both know what is about to happen." Francis said, smirking. "Now I think I'll use that some of those aubergines you brought in for dinner and make quick gratin, what do you say, mon cher?"
Water erupted from the nozzle, Arthur tried to dodge but was too slow. He cried out in mock pain and couldn't help but laugh, and Francis laughed too, wasting no time in turning off the tap and making a break for the door. Arthur was hot on his tail, and he let his husband lead him up the stairs to the shower, rivulets of water and dirt following them as they went. It could wait. Dinner could also wait, and the fresh cut vegetables in the sink weren't going to run away either. Gardens come and go with the seasons, and the kitchen must shut down every evening to be reopened with the rising sun. But the love Arthur and Francis shared for one another, now that was a hobby to last a lifetime.