For once, it is not Arthur who wakes up first, but it's someone else rousing him from sleep instead.
He barely has time to register where he's at, nor does he remember at first the events of yesterday, so his sleep-fogged mind flies into a panic when he doesn't recognize the room he's in. Whoever is speaking to him falls silent as he wrenches away from the bed, tumbling down onto the floor below it, and dragging nearly all the blankets off of it with him.
Arthur sways and fights to free himself from fabric that is much too soft to be his own, and succeeds after a few shameful moments of rolling around in it. He pulls the duvet free from his head, hair terribly tousled and sticking up in a hundred odd angles, and glances about the unfamiliar room with panicked eyes.
Eventually, they land on the person responsible for disturbing his sleep, and find that the expression on their face is one of bafflement. Arthur stares for a moment, trying to peg who this man is, with his tied back, neat curls and waves, and striking blue eyes, and then it all comes rushing back to him.
He lowers his head into his hands, rubbing at his face with shame burning at his cheeks for his ungraceful flop. Francis seems to take that as his cue to speak, "I had no idea you were so jumpy. Perhaps I should have one of the servants wake you from here on out."
Arthur groans, tries to smooth down his hair, and finds that it's sticking to his head and refusing to lie flat. "This place is unfamiliar. It's not like I do that on a regular basis. And what do you mean, 'from here on out'?"
"Ah, you see," Francis extends a hand forward, offering to help Arthur to his feet. He can't bring himself to ignore it this time, figuring that there was no need to try and save face, so he takes it begrudgingly. "Well… I think you should take a look for yourself."
Francis leads him out of the room, and it's a short trek before Arthur is glancing out into the garden again. Only this time, the dusting of snow on the bushes has turned into a good foot, and the sky seems intent with building onto that measurement. Arthur presses his fingertips against the glass, feeling the biting chill of the outside permeating it, and has to suppress another groan.
Francis comes to stand beside him, a hand placed on his hip while the other smooths back a stray strand of hair. "Like I said, very unpredictable."
"You've got to be kidding."
"I am afraid not, Arthur. It seems as though you and your boys will be here longer than anticipated. But that shouldn't be a problem for you, no? After all, you do have work lined up here." Francis smiles at him, expectantly, and Arthur suddenly recalls the deal he'd made with him last night.
"I can't actually stay here. I promised my brothers I would be back tonight, and if that means dragging myself and the boys through snow, then I won't hesitate to do it." Despite his bravado, Arthur knows it's a foolish plan of action, but at the same time, he can't help but object.
"That would be suicide! You'd freeze to death, and so would your charges. I think even the guards would be apt to keep you inside the city. Please, don't force yourself out there." Francis levels him with a pleading look, which has Arthur turning his eyes away. "Besides, if you are so desperate to get back to your brothers, you can send a letter. There are couriers equipped to move about in these conditions, unlike yourself."
It's true. Arthur's clothes aren't meant to brave the harsh conditions of this land's magical weather. By the time he made it back to his home - if he even made it back, that is - he'd probably have to say goodbye to some of his fingers and toes, no doubt blackened by frostbite.
Still, he doesn't say anything, though he knows Francis is waiting for his agreement. He's still adamantly opposed to having anything to do with this manor, even if it is only temporary. After all, how long could a blizzard really last? The snow would eventually have to melt.
"Here," Francis places a tentative hand on Arthur's side, to which the other notices that he's lacking the gloves this morning, and urges him down the hallway. "I think your next plan of action can be debated upon once you've cleaned up a bit and had a good breakfast. Besides, Lady Katyusha has informed me that she wants to speak to you and your boys, so you will have to be presentable."
"I'm not speaking to that woman under false guise." Arthur grumbles, though he does have to suppress interest at the possibility of a bath, and a good one at that.
"False guise? Are you really so opposed to wearing my clothing that much, Arthur?" There it is again, that pouting tone of his, and Arthur isn't sure if it actually incites guilt or annoyance. Perhaps a mixture of both. "Besides, wouldn't that be fun? To see yourself in something different? I think it would be."
"Your opinions and mine are obviously different."
"I know, and isn't that fascinating? I've already had so much fun with our conversations."
Arthur makes a discontent noise, and steps away from Francis' leading hand. "I'm not a piece of entertainment for you, Mr. Bonnefoy-"
"Just Francis is fine."
"Francis," Arthur grounds out. "I'm here for one thing and one thing only, and that's Alfred and Matthew. I don't intend on staying longer than three days, or however long it takes this bloody blizzard to pass over. I'll meet with your Lady, and play the part, but don't get so gung-ho on the idea of us being business partners."
"I don't quite understand why you are so opposed…"
"Because I don't need the distraction! There's no sense in sinking time into a job that I won't have in a week. Besides, wouldn't it take you a decent amount of time to sew something? I'll be gone before you even finish a piece!" Arthur notes how the expression on Francis' face seems to turn almost somber, his lips turning down into a frown.
"But you did agree, last night… Are you so eager to go back on your agreement, Arthur?" Francis tugs at the cuffs of his shirt, his eyes looking anywhere but at Arthur.
Arthur draws in a deep breath, and then sighs, letting most of his irritation leave him in a contrite sigh. He let's his voice soften to a certain degree, feeling just a tad bit bad at his coarse behavior. "Fine. Yes, I did agree to it. But what I'm trying to get across is that the agreement will never come to fruition."
They walk right past the spiraling staircase, and pass into an area that feels just the slightest bit warmer. Arthur can feel humidity in the air, like a warm mist trying to hug his face. He decides that they must be near the bathing quarters. If so, then he prays he won't have to share a bathroom with complete strangers.
Francis stops him short of a door, and Arthur notes that a series of pipes littered with valves seem to disappear into the walls around it. Every so often, a gust of steam will hiss out, and he makes certain not to accidentally lay his hand on any of the super-heated pipes. "Again, only time will tell. Allow me to remind you that you've already been wrong once. Not to mention that the severity of these storms might surprise you." Francis motions to the sealed door. "We will talk more of it later, though. Please, help yourself."
"Clothing?" Arthur asks tentatively.
"I will have a set sitting out for you when you're done. Come downstairs when you're ready." Francis steps away, gives Arthur that courteous bow again, and leaves him to his own devices.
Arthur watches him disappear around the bend of the hallway, shaking his head at Francis' stubborn offer. He can't decide if he's being pushy, or overly helpful, but neither explanation erases the fact that it's beginning to get under Arthur's skin… mostly because he's been correct about everything, thus far.
He pushes open the door, and surprisingly finds that the pipes don't open here, but instead lead into several rooms. The one he's standing in now is more of a dressing station, with several shelves lining the walls and boasting bottles of things Arthur has never seen before. He walks around the room, taking in the pieces of furniture and bathing products, and noting that mirrors are definitely in an abundance.
The rooms branching off from his position are bright white, with floors made of smooth, slick stone rather than wood or marble. Pools of steaming water and pipes gushing out a torrent of heated rain can be found in each one. Arthur is grateful to see that there seems to be no one else present, perhaps because he was awoken at a later hour than usual.
He spends a good portion of his time merely opening the bottles, sniffing each of them critically, and reading their fancy labels with just the tiniest bit of resentment, because really, this is all too much. He doesn't understand why a person has to have thirty different scents available to them, but then again, he doesn't come from nobility, so he's not sure he'll ever understand.
Eventually, Arthur does settle into the water, choosing the pool over the faucets, because it's more familiar to him. Though, he finds that the sturdy, smooth seats are much better for sitting than a muddy or rocky bank on the side of a river. The temperature of the water is a vast contrast between the typically freezing temps of a stream, and Arthur can't help but sit there just a little longer than needed, before he sets to actually washing himself.
When he finishes, he emerges cleaner than he's felt in a long, long time, and smelling like a rose fresh out of the garden. It's an awkward feeling, leaving him shambling around the bath house like a stranger in his own body, and feeling his skin with alien hands, because it's never felt so soft before. The only thing that remains is the callouses adorning his fingers, blemishes gained from years of hard fieldwork, and the familiarity of it is comforting.
Arthur steps into the dressing room, and finds a set of dark green clothing sitting on the middle of the bench, placed in plain sight just for him. He's not too sure what to do with his old clothes, and upon picking them up to set them elsewhere, he finds that they smell like a mixture of soil, sweat, and stale water.
His nose actually scrunches up, and there's a moment where he feels nothing but chagrin, knowing just what he smelled like. He suddenly feels like a wet sewer rat, having wormed its way into an upstanding house to leech off of whatever it could find inside.
He unfolds the new clothing forcefully, fanning it out and finding it to be three separate pieces instead of one. A pair of coal-colored trousers parts from the emerald vest, along with brand new underclothes, a white button-up, black dress shoes, and a set of black gloves. Gold accents line the perimeter of the vest, forming swirling accents, like golden ink from a cursive scrawl. The material of the vest isn't silk, but rather something Arthur has never felt before - thin and glossy, with square-like patterns that shine differently from each other in the light.
As he sets to pulling the clothing on, he wonders how Francis was able to guess his size correctly, but it's a short lived thought. Arthur reminds himself that the man is a tailor, and is probably accustomed to sizing others up. Still, the thought of Francis staring at him intently, worse yet, unbeknownst to him, has Arthur feeling quite squeamish.
When he's fully dressed, he turns to observe himself in the mirror, noting that the clothes do fit very nicely. The gloves are unlike Francis', coming up to cover the cuffs of his shirt instead of going underneath. Arthur tugs at the edges, and curls his fingers in, finding the fit to be snug, but not cumbersome. The clothes feel fresh and crisp, like linens undisturbed by the wind on their clothes hangers, and Arthur can't resist smoothing his hands over the legs of his trousers, or poking at the material of his vest.
It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to notice, but the heat of the bathroom isn't quite what it used to be, and Arthur notes with slight confusion that the steam is still pouring out from the bathing rooms. Only… he can't feel it underneath his clothing. He can most certainly still feel the humidity on his face, but the rest of his body remains cool, undisturbed by the heat.
"Ah," He breathes out, realization finally striking him. "Spellthread. Right. Bet he did this on purpose."
Still, he can't deny that the magic he's wearing around his body is intriguing, and damn impressive.
"Oh, there you are." Francis greets him with a smile, his eyes wandering down to Arthur's shoes, and then slowly dragging their way back up to his face. "Ah, good! It looks like it all fits. How does it feel?"
Arthur tugs at the end of the vest, and it doesn't move much, hugging his torso uniformly. "You're either good at guessing, or there's a bit of merit to what you claim to do."
Francis fixes him with a smirk. "Why would I lie?" He takes a step forward, passing right through Arthur's personal space, and sets to toying with the hem of his white-button up. Arthur shoots him a baffled look, his shoulders going taut and stiff under Francis' administrations. "Your collar was sticking up, but I'll let that pass, considering the circumstances. Also, I hope the color is alright. I thought it would match."
"Match what?"
"Your eyes, of course. Have you ever looked in a mirror? Also, this," Francis begins tugging and petting at Arthur's hair, which has the other immediately grabbing at his wrists to still his actions. Francis sighs, and backs off, giving Arthur a good bit of space again. "I suppose there's no fixing that, but it isn't terrible. Not really. We will just call that your trademark."
"Do you put your hands on everyone you meet?" Arthur bites out, his face flooding with heat.
"It is sort of my job. How else am I supposed to take measurements?" Francis turns, and his line of sight stops once he sees the clock hanging on the wall. "Hm, we will be late if we dawdle any longer. The Lady and your two boys should be in the dining hall soon. Shall we be on our way, Arthur?"
He levels Francis with a wary look, before sighing with a nod. "Fine. Take me there."
Where the halls lead from the entrance and to the center of the manor is where the dining hall rests. Arthur is led through a towering set of cobalt doors and into a room that must be two stories high. A long, ivory table spans most of its length, covered in a sky-blue dining cloth sporting flowery and snowflake-like designs.
Arthur doesn't bother to hide his amazement, glancing about himself in a spin. A crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the room, but this one is massive compared to the others he's seen. It's ornaments hang low, twinkling in the colorful lights of the violet sconces. Dinnerware lines the tables, with wine glasses stacked neatly in the middle. Art and portraits alike line the walls, but one in particular catches his attention.
The largest one by far, this one displays a trio of people, with the tallest and largest person standing in the back. Two women stand in front; one full-figured and the other thin and angular. He recognizes the one on the left as Katyusha. Her smile is a large contrast to the woman on the right. Her expression is dull, her eyes flat and devoid of any recognizable emotion. Unlike the other two in the portrait, her hair hangs long down her back, though a bow is tied around the front, like a headband.
The man nearly eclipses the two women, even with Katyusha and her generous body. His face sports wide cheekbones, a large, though not physically unpleasant nose, and piercing, violet eyes. While Katyusha's hair may lie flat against her head, his has a certain waviness to it, as if the wind had somehow permanently ruffled it. Though his eyes appear cold and calculating, his lips sport a gentle smile, perhaps gentler than the one Katyusha is wearing.
Something about it unnerves Arthur. Perhaps it is the duality of nature he sees in the man, but it makes his hair stand on end. 'That must be Ivan, and the thin one is Natalia. Peculiar family…'
"Oh, hey!" Arthur is broken out of his thoughts by a familiar voice, and he turns to see Alfred running into the dining hall, with Matthew following behind and a disgruntled Ludwig trailing them. "Artie beat us here first. How about that?"
"We would have gotten here sooner, had you not insisted on stopping and seeing absolutely everything we passed." Ludwig retorts, coming to a standstill by Matthew's side.
"Okay, in my defense, I'm just trying to get acquainted with the place I'm gonna be working at." Alfred approaches Arthur, who has suddenly remembered to appear very, very disappointed, though it doesn't seem to phase Alfred much. "Wow, and I thought Mattie looked snazzy. It's like looking at a different person, I swear. But these are really neat, right?" Alfred grabs the lapels of his jacket, and fans it out, seeming impressed with himself.
"Don't get used to it." Arthur snaps. "This storm might have us stranded for now, but you can guarantee that as soon as the snow melts, we are leaving."
"Again with that? C'mon…" Alfred drawls out, rolling his eyes. "Can't you just appreciate something for once in your life, Artie? If this is the way that Mattie and I are gonna be living, is that really such a bad thing?"
Arthur opens his mouth to retaliate, but finds that the words die on his tongue. He does manage to glower at Alfred, but can't manage more past that. Ludwig steps forward, clearing his throat, and orders loudly, "You should all take your seats. The Lady will be here soon, and breakfast is well on its way."
Alfred turns away from Arthur, which allows the latter to deflate and appear crestfallen. "Breakfast? Nobody mentioned anything about that!"
Arthur doesn't have much time to wallow. He feels a cool hand land on his shoulder, and glances over it to spot Francis sending him a sympathetic smile. "Shall we take our seats?"
He nods, his voice feeling sluggish and quiet to himself. "Right..."
Alfred doesn't consider where to sit, just takes the first seat available to him. Francis pulls out a seat for Arthur, and while normally he would have made an issue out of being treated like a delicate flower, he can't find it in himself to do so now. Matthew waits for a moment, before deciding to sit next to Arthur. Ludwig fills in the available spot between the brothers.
"Arthur?" Said person turns to spot Matthew shooting him a tentative smile. His voice is quiet, a whisper so that Alfred won't hear him. "I'm really sorry about all of this."
Arthur can't conjure up enough effort to be angry with Matthew. Contradictory or not, he's always found it harder to be angry at him over Alfred. Instead, he covers his mouth to muffle a long-winded sigh. "Don't be. What's done is done."
Matthew hangs his head, almost guiltily. "Still… it feels like we're stuck between a rock and a hard place, and either direction seems like the wrong choice at this point. I wish there was a way for everyone to be happy."
Arthur doesn't answer, deciding to stay silent once more. Matthew spares him a lingering glance, before looking away. Francis watches and listens to the both of them, his chin resting in his hand. It's only when the silence has been drawn out that he speaks, "Perhaps you should consider the current situation from a different viewpoint, Arthur."
"From whose?" Arthur mumbles halfheartedly. "His?" He motions to Alfred, who seems much too excited to be sitting at the dinner table. "Matthew, who can't even decide if he really wants this?"
Francis shakes his head, "From one of gain, I think. What would be better in the end for all of you?"
"I'm not giving you the easy answer." Arthur retorts, and Francis doesn't have the window of time to argue further, because Ludwig is clearing his throat once more. Everyone turns to him, and in turn directs their attention to where his eyes rest.
Making her way through the large doorway is Katyusha, sporting an elegant gown, though still somehow dressed down for the morning. She pauses for a moment, allowing her eyes to drag across all of the newcomers in the room, before stopping on Matthew. Only a moment passes before she's gliding forward, and gracefully taking the seat at the head of the table.
"Good morning, my Lady." Ludwig announces clearly. His striking eyes would glance around the table, almost expectantly, before the rest of the room's inhabitants followed suit.
"Good morning! I hope none of you got too cold last night? That wind was awful to listen to." Katyusha smooths her hands across her lap, her white, lace-trimmed gloves merging beautifully with her skirt.
"Isn't it always?" Francis jests, earning a laugh from Katyusha.
Arthur feels the need to comment that it wasn't that bothersome, but holds his tongue out of wariness. Alfred has no such inclination. "Sounded like some guy was whistling right in my ear. How do you people sleep with that?"
Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, suppressing the urge to groan.
Matthew apparently decides to try and do damage control. "I thought it was kind of nice. Like background noise. I don't like sleeping in dead silence. And the rooms were so nice and cozy."
Katyusha apparently doesn't pay any mind to Alfred's complaint, deciding to devote her attention to Matthew. "Oh, good! I suppose if our talks go well this morning, you will not mind staying in those rooms? They are the closest to the gardens." As she pauses between her sentences, the sound of a bell ringing has Katyusha glancing over her shoulder. "It seems we will have to discuss that over breakfast. I imagine the lot of you must be famished."
A moment later, and servants are flooding into the dining hall, leaving silver dishes covered in lids sitting on the table. Still, Arthur can smell the scents of the food wafting from the platters. He finds his mouth watering, and ends up licking his lips, anticipating what lies underneath.
Alfred isn't in much better condition, already equipped with a fork in one hand, and a spoon in the other, obviously breaking whatever dining code existed in the manor. His eyes reflect his grin, wide and bright with excitement shining in them.
Matthew is more subtle, appearing pleased, but not overly so. His hands remain in his lap, resting over each other, though Arthur does spy his fingers tapping almost impatiently.
The servants remove the lids from the plates, and exit the room in one, large line. Katyusha claps her hands excitedly, and then motions forward. "Feel free to begin."
Arthur has barely reached forward before Alfred has grabbed the nearest serving spoon, and is messily carrying ball-fulls of potatoes onto his plate. He fixes Alfred with a scolding glare, but the other doesn't even manage to look his way for a split second, too intent on stuffing his face. Arthur rolls his eyes, and sets to neatly and slowly placing bits of roast onto his plate.
Matthew eyes the line of food curiously, seeming to debate on what to eat first. He spots a long, thin tray of pastries to his left, and carefully maneuvers it over to his plate. Strawberry filling oozes from the incisions made on the crust.
Katyusha uniformly picks out her food, already decided upon her favorites, and occasionally asks for one of the boys to pass a tray. Ludwig often leaves his seat to help, and his plate remains empty until everyone else is served. Arthur notes that his loyalty is quickly becoming one of his more noticeable qualities.
Breakfast progresses, mostly in shared quietness, save for the occasional abhorrible sound from Alfred. Eventually, it does slow down, and Katyusha takes a moment to wipe her mouth with a napkin before speaking, "You are proficient with garden work, you say?"
"Oh yeah," Alfred doesn't swallow before answering, his voice coming out as a garbled, muffled mess. Arthur sets to rubbing his temples. "I've been doing it all my life. If it's somehow green, you can bet it won't die with me working on it."
"I can understand why. I imagine a bad harvest would spell certain doom for your 'family'." Kayusha's eyes drift over to Matthew, who immediately places his fork back on his napkin as she does. "What about you?"
"I can help, but…"
Arthur, sensing that Alfred was about to open his mouth again, fills in instead, "Matthew's smarts would be better put to use than sticking him out in some garden."
Matthew's head turns, and the look he points towards Arthur is slightly hopeful, "Are you actually advocating for our stay here?"
That has Arthur pausing, his glass lifted halfway to his lips. He eventually scowls, and covers a string of curses with a prolonged drink of water. Francis grins at the both of them, a small, amused laugh escaping him.
"Unfortunately, I cannot think of anything available for him to do at the moment. Most of our finances and documentation is already handled." Katyusha doesn't miss how Matthew's expression falls. "But… I am sure that with time, I can find a use for you. You seem polite and cordial, and our relations with other noble houses could be improved upon."
"Bad relations?" Arthur questions behind the rim of his glass.
Katyusha nods, grimly. "I am afraid our bloodline's magic does not sit well with many of the city's houses. I fear that if it were not for our political influence, we would have been chased out of here long ago."
"They can always try, but they will never succeed Katyusha."
All heads turn to spy where the new voice had come from. Arthur peaks over the heads of the table's inhabitants to spot the man from the portrait standing under the arch of the doorway. A thick, arctic fur-lined coat hangs off of his body, its design a combination of both wealth and practicality. At his side stood the youngest sister, dressed darker than her older counterpart, and boasting a malicious grimace.
Arthur decides that the portrait did not do Ivan justice, because his height is much more staggering than it let on. He's easily six and a half feet tall, and stockier than most men Arthur has ever seen. His lips are spread into a barely there smile, though there's no warmth held in the expression.
He's even more unnerving up close.
Natalia holds the hand of her older brother, almost protectively, like a parent refusing to let their child leave their side. Arthur's eyes flit back to Katyusha, who seems pleasantly surprised to see her brother.
And then Alfred has to ruin everything. Again.
"Who's this guy?"
Immediately, violet eyes turn their cold tide over to Alfred, and while Ivan's face doesn't spell doom or even the slightest hint of annoyance, Arthur still feels a hint of dread run down his spine. "I could ask the same. Are these the new hires you spoke of, sister?"
Katyusha waves Ivan and Natalia over to the table, and the two move in unison to a pair of empty seats. Ivan sits directly across from Alfred, while Natalia mirrors Ludwig. "This would be them. Alfred and Matthew are brothers, of which I am certain you can tell. Arthur is…?"
"Their guardian." He finishes bluntly for her.
"I do believe that I will stick Alfred in the garden for work. Matthew may, in the future, accompany me to meetings. I believe I might get the best use out of him that way." Matthew openly gawks for a moment, before composing himself, and averting his eyes. Katyusha's expression shows clear amusement at his reaction.
"The garden, you say?" Ivan asks, though his eyes never leave Alfred. Apparently, the challenging look in them isn't lost on the latter, as Alfred chooses to abandon his food in favor of shooting a smirk back. "May I just say that if you destroy our garden, I will personally break all of your fingers."
Alfred is unphased by the threat, letting it bounce off as if it were an idle one. "You can dream of it, pal, but it ain't happening on my watch. That garden is gonna be greener than Artie's eyes, even with all this bullshit snow."
"Oh?" Francis leans forward a bit, and fixes Arthur with a curious stare, before continuing on, "That may be a challenge."
Arthur tries not to appear ruffled by the comments.
"If you give my brother any trouble at all, or my sister for that matter, I will beat you within an inch of your life." Natalia's high octave voice has everyone turning to stare at her, some in amusement, and others in unease.
"Sheesh," Alfred shakes his head, disbelief written on his face, "I think I like talking to the other sister more. At least she isn't threatening me."
"Right then," Katyusha laughs through her words, as if Ivan and Natalia's commentary is expected and entertaining. "I do believe we have most matters taken care of. Now comes to your pay. Would saying that you made about five to ten pieces of silver a week be fair?"
"If even that," Alfred comments dryly. "But somewhere along those lines, yeah."
"How does ten gold pieces a week sound?"
Matthew coughs suddenly, sputtering over his drink and trying desperately not to make a scene, but failing spectacularly. Even Arthur allows his spoon to drop from his fingers, and it lands on the table with a loud clinking noise.
Alfred spares Katyusha a wide-eyed look, "You're… kidding, right?"
"No?" Katyusha's reply is full of confusion. "Am I undercutting you? I do admit that most servants make just a bit more, and that is not even taking into account how much Francis makes-"
"That's more than fine!" It's not Alfred, but rather Matthew speaking up. "I mean… that's almost unfathomably good."
"Really?" There's something akin to pity in Katyusha's voice, as if the boys' reactions were almost sad to witness. "Then, I suppose if there are no objections-" She let's her eyes drag over Ivan and Natalia, who make no move to stop her. "Then that settles everything accordingly. As for when you can start," She first turns to Alfred, who already seems eager to begin. "As soon as the snow let's up, you can assume your position as gardener. In the meantime, feel free to become acquainted with the premise. And Matthew," Katyusha pauses for a moment, choosing to simply smile at him as he waits nervously, "We will begin one-on-one sessions to groom you for our dealings with the noble houses. Not that I doubt you will be fast to catch on."
Matthew nods, and his voice comes out steady, and just a bit more confident than before, "I won't disappoint you, my Lady."
"What a charmer," Francis whispers next to Arthur's ear. Arthur nearly jumps at the sudden intrusion of space. "I do believe Katyusha will take a liking to him, if she hasn't already."
"Can you stop doing that?" Arthur grumbles half-heartedly.
"I am just saying…" Francis teases, and then discreetly motions to Alfred. "Though, it might be best to keep an eye on that one, lest he step on a certain someone's toes."
"Let him learn his lesson the hard way."
"How cruel!" Despite it being a whisper, Francis' voice still carries a ridiculous amount of drama to it. "We will see how mean you are when you find him beaten to a pulp."
Arthur scoffs, and rolls his eyes. "Despite his shortcomings, I believe you'll be surprised to learn that Alfred can't be trampled so easy. But hopefully it will scare some sense into him."
A sigh, "Whatever you say, mon ami." And then, a thoughtful pause. "We still have our own agreement to specify upon."
Arthur groans quietly.
"I can send for a courier, and whatever letter you must write to your family can be sent tomorrow morning."
Breakfast has long since passed, and Arthur is grateful to be away from all the empty smiles, atrocious behavior, and spontaneous threats. However, now he is trapped with Francis, stuck in one of the manor's lavish sitting rooms, and subject to the other's insistent poking and prodding in regards to their "deal".
"Arthur?" Francis rounds the loveseat that Arthur is perched upon, and waves his hand in front of his face. "I do hope you're not ignoring me."
"I only wish that I could ignore you."
Francis frowns. "That's hurtful."
"Your skin is too thin." Despite himself, Arthur does choose to acknowledge what he said. "I'll write my bloody letter, but who's to say that I won't be back home before it arrives there?"
"Your boys, for one. I do believe Lady Katyusha would be awfully disappointed if her deals fell through. And if that disappointment reaches Ivan or Natalia, then there will be true hell to pay."
Arthur's lips twist into a grimace, and he remains silent, though thoughtful of Francis' words. Francis refuses to move out of his line of sight, blocking the light from a hearth of crackling flames that rests nearby. Arthur sits in his shadow, reluctant to walk into the deal that he knows there's no way of escaping at this point.
"Please," Francis' voice goes soft, imploring. A part of Arthur finds the tone drop to be almost pleasant. "Ten gold pieces a day compared to what you did have?" He finally moves, takes a seat next to Arthur on the couch, though his body is inclined toward the latter's. "I am even offering to pay you more, personally. And if you truly wanted to, you could even send a portion of it back to your family. Perhaps, after a while, you might even spot them in the city."
"Please don't say that, Lord, no." Definitely the last thing Arthur wanted. He didn't need his brothers haggling him for disappearing as well.
Francis chuckles at his reaction, "So, I will ask you one more time, then. Will you work with me, Arthur?"
There's a moment of tense silence, a battle of determined stares between the two; Francis, with his expectant, blue eyes, and Arthur with his defiant, green ones. Arthur's eyes remain narrowed, with his lips quirked in a way that suggests conflict of desires. Francis seems to sense the impending surrender, and leans in, as if knowing just how to increase the pressure enough to force Arthur's hand.
It works, and Arthur huffs out with a brash cross of his arms, "Fine, yes. There, are you satisfied now? I'm trapped in this gaudy mansion with murderous siblings and an overeager tailor breathing down my neck. Are you happy?"
"Splendid!" Francis doesn't hide his glee, doesn't even attempt to. He seems to forget how close he's hovering around Arthur as well. Then again, Arthur is beginning to doubt the other has any idea of what personal space is. If it weren't for the ice-bound thread in his clothing, he guarantees he could feel the heat from Francis' skin. "Then tomorrow, I can show you where I work. I already have a few pieces that could use adjusting, and a few more that need tested as well."
"You've already had this all planned out, I bet."
There's a coy smile on Francis' behalf. "I may have entertained the thought for a long while."
Thankfully, Francis doesn't push for conversation beyond their agreement, and Arthur is left alone to consider the day's events in solace.
Evening comes dreadfully quick, and much to Arthur's displeasure, the snow seems to sense that it's thinning out, so it begins pouring another heaping layer onto itself. Francis spots him standing out on one of the balconies, gathering a dusting of ice on his shoulders, and leads him to the dining hall, where everyone meets for dinner for the first time.
The food is doubly impressive, and more delicious than anything Arthur can ever remember eating - even the far-off memory of his mother's shepherd's pie.
Thankfully, Ivan doesn't speak to Alfred much, but he does stare for much of the evening, and Arthur can't tell if that's better or worse. Matthew is seated next to Katyusha, upon her own orders, and Arthur watches her direct him on the proper placement of eating utensils and table manners. Matthew memorizes it all quickly, and the pleased look that stays glued to her face suggests that she's quickly becoming impressed with him.
Ludwig does not eat at the dinner table, but Arthur spots him trailing one of the chefs out of the room. He doesn't catch much, just a head of auburn hair with an insistent curl on one side. He's not sure if the following is on purpose, or coincidental. He figures it's none of his business.
Francis asks him which of the foods is his favorite, his least favorite, how the wine is (Arthur has never had high class wine), and what his diet was like before. Arthur, while annoyed with the questions at first, begins to routinely answer them, with not even a moment of consideration between. Favorite, the smoked salmon. Least favorite, it's all good, but he didn't care for the rice. The wine is better than any fermented hogwash he's ever had before. His dinners used to be bread and maybe a few cuts of cured, dried meat.
Francis' face turns glum at the end. Arthur feels a twinge of self-deprecation at the pity being directed his way.
Dinner ends, and the boys say their goodbyes and goodnights to him. Arthur doesn't make mention of his and Francis' agreement, though he probably should. A bitter pool of spite still burns in his stomach, but at least Arthur can recognize that he shouldn't be feeling that way. Especially not towards Alfred and Matthew, who haven't done much wrong besides leaving without an earlier notice.
As he walks down the long, dimly-lit hallway, back to the spiral staircase that leads back to his room, Arthur thinks hard about his behavior, takes a moment to reflect on the past two days, and decides that hindsight has an awful way of making him dislike himself. It's a wonder that Francis is still so adamant about having his help, after having dealt with his more sour moods.
Only time will tell if the other can truly stomach him, Arthur supposes. He believes that, if given the right amount of time, Francis may grow tired of him and send him packing. Or perhaps the tailor's patience runs even deeper than Arthur thought. Or, maybe, Francis is just a pitifully lonely sap who'll take anyone as his company.
That's a strange thought.
Once he arrives back in his room, today's clothes are stripped away from his body, and what little heat that remains in his quarters comes rushing back to him. Arthur crawls into bed, dressed only in his underclothes, and wonders if he should tell Francis that he prefers warmer clothing. The violet sconce casting ominous glows across his room dims as his eyes shut, almost sentient in how it can tell he's ready to call it a day.
The wind is a little calmer that night, but the cold seeps into his room unforgivingly, and he does not sleep through the entire night as he did before.