AN: We're already at 46 pages written, so I suppose this isn't going to be the 30k word fic that I planned it to be... oh well! I enjoy writing this! Thank you all for the kind reviews! I appreciate it so much!
"Rise and shine! We have a busy day today!"
Arthur's eyes don't open, but he does roll over onto his stomach, and shove his head as far as it'll go into the pillows. He feels one of his feet slip free from the covers, and the biting chill of the morning has him curling into himself, desperate to stay within his cocoon of warmth.
Francis can be heard moving about the room, and the approaching footsteps coming near his bed make him want to disappear, or perhaps play dead in the hopes that Francis will leave him alone. However, no such mercy is offered towards his way, as Francis quite literally yanks the blankets off of him, and sends them sprawling to the bottom of the bed.
Arthur goes stiff, and immediately wraps his arms about himself, his teeth already beginning to chatter, "What in bloody hell are you doing?"
"Waking you up, of course. Come now, Arthur, we can't spend all day in bed. There is much to do, plenty to talk about, and I am starting to get behind on my work."
Arthur tries to reach for the duvet again, but Francis' hand is there, shooing his own away. Although childish, Arthur levels him with a sore glare. "And what if I weren't decent?"
"Then that would have been entertaining, but alas, not everyone can hope for that." Arthur wants to believe that Francis is merely joking, but he's starting to think otherwise, with that coy smile of his.
"My word, do you have any shame at all?"
He laughs, and waves his hand dismissively, "What do I have to be ashamed of?" Francis shifts his arm, and it's here that Arthur notices that he's carrying a set of clothing with him. The clothing is set down upon the bed before him, and the vest covering the trousers and button-up is a strange sort of hazel color this time. Arthur spies something else folded underneath it, but can't tell what he's looking at. "Yesterday was, admittedly, me flaunting a bit of my threadwork, but today's goal is to stay warm. The manor's hallways and rooms will get colder and colder the longer this storm keeps up."
Arthur peels the layers of clothing away from the bottom piece, and unfolds it to find that it's heavier and longer than he previously thought. The material is a deep, dark velvet, with the inside sporting cotton so that it won't catch and snag on his clothing. The neck is sewn together, with a hole big enough for him to slide his head through, and a long hood hanging off of the back.
It reminds him of the woman he saw lighting the braziers.
"I suppose I will leave you to dress. Or I can simply turn my back, if you want. Really, we are going to be having quite the close working relationship, so I don't think there is any reason to-"
"Out, out, out." Arthur rushes him impatiently, and shoos Francis away with his hand.
Francis makes an amused sound in the back of his throat, and throws up his hands, "Alright, fine. I will be waiting outside. Try not to take too long, Arthur. Like I said, we have a busy day today."
The tailor backs away from the bed, and turns on his heel, exiting the room in quick, measured steps. Arthur waits until the door shuts behind him, before sighing and rubbing at his tired eyes. He doesn't quite recall ever feeling so tired in the mornings before, even with how much later he's been sleeping in. He supposes that it must be the bed, or perhaps the fresh clothing he's sleeping in, but something is sapping all of his energy away.
Dressing proves to be quite difficult, mostly because he struggles with how cold the flooring is. Really, how the wooden floorboards could prove to be icier than the dirt flooring of his old home is beyond him. Then again, blizzards weren't quite the norm back at the farm, so there is that. That doesn't change the fact that Arthur bounces from foot to foot, trying to spare his numb toes from the biting chill.
The clothing goes on easy, even the velvet cape, which proves to be heavier than he thought. It sits on his shoulders like a weight, and drapes over his arms, but Arthur has to admit that it is quite cozy. He hugs the cloak around him, and finds that it retains heat quickly, and the soft cotton material on the inside reminds him of lying in a bed. His flesh warms considerably underneath the vest and trousers, a stark contrast to the consistently cool temperatures of yesterday's dress.
He searches for the shoes from the day before, messily strewn off to the side of the bed, but finds a pair of black boots waiting for him instead. Knee-length and sewn together with suede fabric, Arthur finds that they keep his feet nice and toasty, as was probably Francis' intention for them.
There's a mirror hanging over a chest in the room, and Arthur turns to observe himself in it. His hair is once again sticking up in all directions, but it's a definite improvement from its former condition. Appearing dry and fluffy instead of oily and stringy, he muses that he does look quite fetching now, especially with the stylish clothing hugging his body. The cape is his favorite from the ensemble, and not just for its warmth.
When he emerges from his room, Francis is waiting for him, having taken to leaning against the wall by his door. Arthur locks his room behind him, stowing the brass key into his pocket, before turning to face Francis with a bored expression.
Francis steps away from the wall, and cants his head at him, "Oh, don't look so apathetic. You and I are going to have plenty of fun."
"Is that what you call it?" Arthur retorts, which only earns a slight huff from Francis.
"Do you respond to everyone with so much snark in your tone?"
"Not quite, but I fear it's the only way I can talk to you without losing my mind." Arthur smirks at him, finding the slightly offended look on Francis' face to be entertaining.
"We will have to fix that, then." Francis' voice dips down, not to a threatening tone, but to one filled with resolute determination.
When Matthew awakes, it takes him no time to notice that a cart of hanging clothing has been sneakily wheeled into his room.
Already having come to memorize his new quarters, the recent addition stands out like a lone tree in a field, and he finds himself wandering over to it, not minding the chill of the floor, to observe what waits for him on the racks.
His hand flips through the various sets, finding that they all resemble Arthur's from yesterday, though there is something inexplicably more… regal about them. He contemplates that they must be here as a welcoming gift into his tutelage under Katyusha, and as such, she's probably expecting him to be dressed in one of the outfits.
Matthew at first doesn't consider picking out a specific one, but then backtracks, thinking that if he's to be more observant and thoughtful, then perhaps he should begin reflecting that in all the things he does. So he chooses a violet colored ensemble, with swirling, blue patterns, and a set of white-laced gloves.
The color is closer to what he's seen Katyusha donning, and trying to contrast her almost seems like a foolish cry for attention. The last thing Matthew wants is for the Lady to think him immature. He fears that Alfred has already set a poor example for the both of them, but berates himself a moment later for thinking that.
His twin is just eager, and energetic, is all. Not everyone can afford to be so lively as Alfred, and those who can't are often the ones that judge him hardest. Matthew won't allow himself to be wrangled into that category.
He ends up wandering out into the hallway after getting dressed, and notices upon trying the door that Alfred has still not risen out of bed yet. Matthew considers waking him, but what for? A single glance out of any of the windows lining the hall alerts him to the fact that the blizzard continues to rage on. So he closes the door quietly, and continues on his way.
The hour is quite early, reminiscent of his days on the farm - and Matthew allows himself to laugh at that, because those days were only two days ago - and as such, the halls are a little more lively with servants and the like. Early to rise, late to bed, Matthew surmises that their work schedule isn't too far off from his old one, though the work is obviously done in higher comfort.
Katyusha hadn't given him any orders or instructions past last night, and Matthew gets the paranoid idea that perhaps she is testing his intuition or drive. In that case, he decides that he won't disappoint, so he heads to the first place that he deems acceptable; the dining hall.
When he enters, it's unlike the morning or evening before. Servants are bustling around the table, chatting each other up with loud, jovial voices. He spots a few of the kitchen's chefs partaking in the early first breakfast, and upon looking down the line of them, spots Ludwig's familiar face.
He's nestled in between an empty seat, and an animated person, whose hands seem to do most of the talking for him. Matthew cracks a smile at that, noting that the contrast between the two personalities is almost comical. Since Ludwig is the only one he recognizes, Matthew circles around the table, garnering a few surprised looks his way, and takes the seat by the stern guard and his… friend.
Surprisingly, the man next to Ludwig beats the guard to a greeting, and sends an enthusiastic wave in Matthew's direction. "Oh, hi there! You look fancy. Are you new? You look new."
"I'm pretty new." Matthew responds in kind, suppressing a smile.
Ludwig glances between the two, and it's here that Matthew ashamedly notices that he's not quite dressed for his guardly duties yet, but instead sports casual wear for the morning. "Feliciano," He motions to the bubbly chef. "This is Matthew, one of the newest hires. He has a brother but," Ludwig glances around the table.
"He's sleeping in this morning. Alfred has a bad habit of doing that." Matthew eyes the plates of food lining the table, and then his own empty one, contemplating whether or not he's welcome to the servants' meal.
Feliciano must notice, because then he's shoving a basket full of rolls his way. "Go ahead and eat. If you work here, then you're welcome to the food, too! And… I guess even if you didn't, no one would have a problem with you eating. So ignore that first part!"
Matthew laughs softly, and steals a roll from the basket. He pulls it apart into two pieces, and finds that the inside is stuffed with bits of cheese. "I just don't want to intrude, is all. But thank you." He nibbles on a piece of the roll, finds it to be fluffy and still warm from the oven, and closes his eyes at the taste.
"Have you heard back from your big brother yet, Lud?" Feliciano is leaned over the table, his hand reaching out blindly for a platter full of cannolis.
"His inquisition is supposed to end soon, though I'm sure Pol's nobles were hard-pressed for information."
The chef takes a generous bite out of the cannoli, sending ricotti oozing out of the end. "Those guys are always so… I don't know. They like to talk about everything else. But their nobles are funny! The last time we had a ball, I accidentally mistook one of them for a girl."
"I'm afraid I know which one you're talking about." Ludwig grumbles, his eyes narrowing with slight distaste at Feliciano's messy treatment of his food.
Matthew finishes his small roll of bread, though now his curiosity is piqued. "You have a brother, Ludwig?"
He nods, though Matthew notices that his face scrunches up into a conflicted expression. "An older one. You wouldn't know we were brothers unless I told you, however."
"Why's that?"
"Where do I even begin?" Ludwig closes his eyes, and his fingers come to tub at his temples. "Gilbert is… eccentric. Loud and brash. Lacking a few manners here and there. Not really the type for an inquisitor, but he is one nonetheless. I suppose his position is earned by his utter zealotry at times."
"Reminds me of Alfred," Matthew supposes that Gilbert must not be too awful, but then again, Ludwig probably holds him to a higher expectation than he does for his own brother. "I wonder what will happen if those two meet?"
"That would be exciting. Wouldn't it?" Feliciano seems on board with the idea, though Ludwig's expression spells dread.
"I don't even want to contemplate the chaos that would ensue from that."
Matthew laughs, and picks up another roll to nibble at. "I suppose we can only hope that their paths never cross?"
There's a sigh from Ludwig, one that preemptively shows his weariness at the possibility. "I wouldn't hold your breath. I've found that if two things are loud enough, they'll eventually find their way to each other."
An opulent door stands between Arthur and Francis' working quarters, and suddenly, the realization that he'll probably having hands touching and tugging around his body has his face turning warm.
Francis seems almost giddy, clearly excited to start his day with his new assistant. He fishes out a set of fancy looking keys, and signals out the ivory one that boasts a latticework head. Arthur remains quiet, a nervous ball of energy at his side as the tailor unlocks his door.
Then, Francis is stepping through, and the room is already pre-lit with illuminating, gold sconces. The flames that burn in them are bright, blinding to look at almost, and definitely meant for high-detailed work. Francis urges him inside, motions with his hand to come closer, and Arthur obeys with slight reluctance.
"Welcome to my humble abode! Though, I do suppose it isn't entirely humble… nonetheless, this is where I keep most of my work." Francis splays his hands, twirls around his room in a manner only he could pull off, and waits patiently for Arthur's reaction.
Upon observation, Arthur decides that the room truly does reflect its owner, a clear representation of elegance and almost controlled chaos, with fabric and clothing and tailoring supplies strewn everywhere . A loveseat on one side, a stool situated in front of a large table, and various mannequins sporting half-finished designs take up the majority of the space.
Various spools of twinkling thread line a shelf, whilst other, less inconspicuous spools rest on the table, half-unraveled, as if abandoned in the middle of work. Arthur wonders if perhaps one set is the enchanted one, and the other awaits to be infused with magic.
The room does not entirely end here, but instead boasts an open doorway to another, though Arthur can't spy any specific things past the sheer curtain that covers the entrance. Something about it screams intimate, however, so he chooses to ignore it for now.
"Somehow, I'm not disappointed." He admits with open honesty.
"Oh? Is that a good thing?" Francis lingers by, steps closer to Arthur, who has become unobservant of his own space.
"It definitely appears to be busy and- gah!" He turns, only to find Francis right at his side, hovering almost uncomfortably close, and the sight of him makes Arthur jump. "Will you stop doing that!"
Francis only smiles at him, though it seems full of mischievous intent. "If you cannot handle this, then how will you handle me fitting clothes around you?" There's a silent grimace on Arthur's part, an unsure look sent Francis' way. Then, he's startling again at the feel of a tentative touch at his waist. He does not try to move away, however, seeming more determined to stay still. Francis seems to appreciate the effort, though his pleasure in the act stems more from the lack of rejection. "I promise to never touch you inappropriately, but my hands will be on your body. I am a professional, Arthur, and a respectful man at that. Don't think so low of me, okay?"
Then, Francis' hands are sliding off of Arthur's waist, and he's releasing a held breath as silently as he can. "Just… just get on with it, already. What do we have to do today?"
"We will mostly be fitting you with some nearly finished designs. I'm also afraid to say that you will probably spend a good amount of time doing nothing in between fittings. Unless… you would like to help me even more?"
Arthur eyes the supplies lining the table, doesn't recognize what most of them even are, and tries to hide the perplexed look on his face. "I'm certain your job doesn't require two sets of hands. Seems like it would get awfully clumsy at that point."
Francis shakes his head, "I'm not asking you to help me sew anything. Just fetch me a few supplies when I need it. If you do not know what they look like, I'll try my best to explain them to you. If I hadn't any need of constantly standing up and moving around, I could probably get a little further on my work."
"That just sounds lazy." Comes Arthur's sour retort.
"It's smart and efficient." There's no real anger or annoyance in Francis' tone, but it does harden ever so slightly. "You don't have to do it, if you are so opposed."
Arthur sighs and rolls his eyes, "Fine, I'll be your errand boy on top of your living mannequin." Truthfully, he just doesn't want to subject himself to sitting still for lengthy periods of time, but everything with Francis has to be a challenge. Somehow, Arthur has to preserve some of his stubborn pride.
"I love how adamantly opposed you are to everything. Does it give you a good sense of rebellion, or do you truly just hate most things?" Lo and behold, Francis' tone has adopted some snark to it, and Arthur bristles at the jabbing comment.
"Are you comparing me to a troublesome teenager?" He crosses his arms, and pointedly turns his nose up at Francis.
"Perhaps, if I already didn't know about your adopted sons. They have set a very good compliant example, thus far. If only a certain someone could mimic that behavior…" Francis, who's moved over to his working table, glances over his shoulder at Arthur.
Arthur glares back. "If you're going to insult me, then perhaps I should have backed out of this deal after all." Threateningly, Arthur takes a step back, towards the door that lead him here.
Francis seems to freeze at that, and then he's turning around with an apologetic expression. "I was merely joking. Don't leave. Please."
Funny, Arthur thinks, how the man can go from coy to pleading in a matter of seconds. Still, Francis' tone makes his stomach twinge with guilt. The one time that he returns an ounce of Arthur's venom, and then he's trying to back out on him. It makes him feel like a hypocrite.
He sighs, and Francis seems to sense the tone shift. "I'm not leaving… But." Arthur holds up his hand, silencing any words before they can come. "I don't like being belittled. No more sly remarks."
"I apologize. However, I think we should both hold ourselves to that agreement, non? Let's try to be nice, from here on out. I haven't even gotten to know you that well, yet!" He pauses for a moment, turning back to take a seat at his table. When Francis speaks again, his voice is softer, meeker. "You do seem very interesting."
Arthur averts his eyes down, and chooses not to say anything to that.
Eventually, Francis falls back into his usual cycle of work, and Arthur sits in the back, on the loveseat, and watches him with dull interest. It's quiet work for the most part, but then Francis takes up humming songs that Arthur isn't familiar with to pass the time, and his voice is undeniably melodic and soothing.
Arthur finds himself nearly nodding off, until Francis is calling out his name, and asking for an item from one of his shelves. The first few ones trump Arthur, and he lets his eyes wander over the supplies with no direction, until Francis is amusedly describing to him what it is. Most of them are run-of-the-mill; beads and thread, boxes boasting expensive looking, fine jewels, and needles with which to pin Francis' work so that it doesn't get in his way.
Eventually, Arthur is heading over to another cabinet, this one boasting mortars of peculiar looking dust and bottles of fine shards and liquids that Arthur can't even begin to place. He swears he spots an entire bottle of wine, unopened and undisturbed, sitting in the corner of one of the shelves, but makes no comment on it.
As he returns to Francis with full arms, Arthur curiously peers around the other man's shoulders, trying to find some clue of what he could be doing with them. Finally, he breaks down and asks, "What on earth is all this rubbish for?"
"Firstly, it's not rubbish. It's components." Francis' eyes never leave his work, and he mechanically reaches out to take the components from Arthur's arms. "Secondly, they are used for enchanting items. I am not sure if you're aware, Arthur, but producing magic at your fingertips, and then saturating an item with magic are two different things."
"How so?" Arthur leans just a bit closer, bends over the curve of Francis' shoulder to watch him unravel a spool of golden thread.
"How do I explain this? People… human beings, are inherently tied to magic. Some of us will never experience it, however, while others will occasionally get a spark of it, and a few will master their domain. Inanimate objects? Not so much. So we must find a physical medium for which we can imbue these items with magic. That is where components come into play." As if to demonstrate, Francis waves his hand over the plain looking dust in the mortar. As it passes over, the dust changes color, and takes on the appearance of finely shredded ice. It produces a small, barely noticeable blue glow, which has Arthur staring at it with a mixture of confusion and wonderment.
"That's… interesting." Arthur sorely wants to ask how Francis did that, but he also doesn't want to sound silly, either.
"You could probably call it a mixture of enchanting and transmogrification. This is our physical medium, though. Once we seal this into the thread, it will adopt the magic I poured into it. Fascinating, isn't it?" For once in a small while, Francis finally spares Arthur a proud smile.
"It's something," Arthur murmurs quietly. "Guessing by the appearance, I assume this is meant to keep you nice and cool?"
"You would be correct. Would you like to feel it?"
There's a sliver of hesitation in Arthur's voice. "Is… is that safe?"
"It's just a little frost magic, Arthur. Nothing that will kill you. If that were the case, then why would I be sewing it into my clothes? A bit counterproductive, don't you think?"
Arthur hovers a little closer, and Francis leans out of the way so he can run his finger along the perimeter of the mortar. As he does, he notices that a thin sheen of ice cakes off from the edges, and indeed, the clay is cold, but not uncomfortably so. Still, he doesn't feel comfortable with sticking his hands in the shards, and that discomfort shows clearly.
Francis notices, and rectifies it by placing his hand over Arthur's and urging it down into the mortar. He gasps, feeling the icy shavings spread around his fingers, but the chill isn't the only thing he can feel. Something invigorating seeps right through his gloves, and sends goosebumps crawling across his skin. It feels almost like a dull thrumming, and almost as if Arthur's hand refuses to stay still. It only takes a few seconds of exposure, and then he's yanking his hand free of Francis', and rubbing it against his vest.
Francis retracts his hand, almost sadly, "It wasn't that bad, was it?"
"Is it supposed to feel like that?" Arthur asks, almost breathlessly. There's not much understanding in the look Francis gives him. "That… thrumming, or whatever. It felt like it was trying to go beneath my skin."
"Ah," Realization finally dawns on the tailor. "That's right, you have never felt magic before. But yes, that is what that is. I personally enjoy the feel, but then again, magic has also been a large part of my life since I was a child."
"It feels strange and invasive."
Francis shrugs, and returns to his work, sliding the mortar over to his spool of thread, where he will no doubt begin imbuing it with the component. "Perhaps it's because it isn't your magic domain?" Arthur spares a glance at his hands. "It would feel more natural to me, being my domain and all. There are times when I'm working with flame magic that I feel much of the same way you just did. Almost like it doesn't belong, non?"
"You keep mentioning that. Domains."
"Everyone has a domain. Even if a person doesn't come to realize their potential with magic, they will subconsciously represent their domain. And a domain… a domain is the class of magic with which they are born with. There are common domains, their less uncommon offshoots, and then ones that not even I can completely understand. Unfortunately, I do have quite the common one myself."
Arthur arches a brow at him, curiously. "And that would be…?"
Francis head shifts slightly, and his deep, blue eyes meet Arthur's temporarily. "Ice, of course. Why do you think the Braginsky's value my work? Those siblings take to the cold, fittingly enough."
"But you know other types of magic."
"Only a little bit. Enough to throw the simplest enchantments on clothing. But even then, it's not a lot. This is what I am best at." He motions to the glowing mortar, with its finely shred ice.
Arthur nods, makes a small noise of recognition in his throat, but inquires no further. Francis mentions that he'll stay busy for the next hour or so, and that Arthur should probably make himself comfortable again. He points him to a small bookshelf boasting a humble collection of novels, to which Arthur is grateful to have the permission to.
He wastes away time with reading about Rus' history, and though most of it is dreadfully boring, it's a better alternative to sitting in silence.
Eventually, Francis does stand from his stool, and the spool of thread is once again wrapped up, and neatly placed back on the shelf. The mortar that once boasted the ice is empty, with only a few remnants of dust clinging to it. He turns to Arthur, who's taken to propping his feet up on a nearby ottoman, and clasps his hands together. "I do believe it's time we got to fitting."
"About time," Arthur grouses, and dog ears the book to be picked up again later.
"Ooh, is that eagerness?" Francis gracefully walks over to one of the mannequins, and begins unclasping a nearly finished vest from it.
"Not quite, but I'm sure it has to be better than reading about King Yaroslav and his fifth conquest of a poor village."
"Educating yourself, hm?" The vest is splayed open, like a welcoming pair of arms ready to embrace Arthur.
Arthur stares at it as if it were a giant bug he didn't want to touch. He's suddenly reminded that he's wearing a vest already, and his hands navigate unsurely over to the buttons. "Should I-"
"Take that off."
This is suddenly a little more embarrassing than he imagined. Arthur does shrug the vest off, but it feels more like he's stripping for someone than trying a piece of clothing on. Francis beckons him over, and the coquettish smile on his face is doing him no favors. "You seem much too excited for this."
"Your cute reactions make it hard not to be." Arthur sputters at that, stopping dead in his tracks to narrow his eyes menacingly at the tailor. All he gets is a hearty laugh in return. Francis shakes the vest at him. "Come now, we have a few more pieces after this!"
"Call me cute again, and see what happens." Still, Arthur walks over to stand before Francis, and allows the other to turn him around so that the vest can be slipped on. One arm out, and then the other, and the glancing touches only serve to make him feel even more flustered. Francis doesn't seem to notice, or care, because his touches only become more insistent once the vest is actually on. The cool cocoon of fabric hugging his chest is a terrible contrast to the building heat in his face.
Arthur tries his best not to fidget when he feels hands smooth down his side, or even when he feels fingers probing at the inside of the vest and hovering over his ribs. He wants to believe that Francis is honestly just doing his job, but there's a small part of his mind that's trying to convince him that the tailor is purposely messing with him.
"How bloody long does it take to check everything?" He feels Francis' fingers slip away, and his body tenses at an oncoming bout of shivers. Arthur goes stock still for a moment, hoping that Francis won't notice.
"Just checking to see if everything is pieced together correctly. No need to be so impatient, Arthur." He 'tsks' at the self-imposed model. Francis takes a step back, though his hands are held out, as if he were looking through a frame. His eyes travel up and down Arthur's torso, unreadable, though evidently focused. Arthur is at least thankful that he's taking it somewhat serious. It still doesn't help his predicament much, however. He wonders how anyone can stand to have such prying eyes on them for so long. "How does it feel? Tight? Loose?"
He allows his arms to drop, and while the fit is a bit looser than what he was wearing before, it's not terrible. Arthur practices a few moving motions with his arms, and hesitates when he feels the fabric stretch a bit at that, but then quickly decides that this is probably want Francis wants to see. Best to work out all the kinks than send it to a customer with unknown defects.
"It feels alright. Maybe put this on someone a little bigger."
"I noticed that it was a bit loose upon inspection," Francis motions for him to go still again, and Arthur resumes his stationary position once more. "It's of no concern, though. As long as we can discern whether or not it can be worn is the important part. Now, how does the temperature feel? Too cold or not noticeable enough?"
"A bit colder than the one you gave me." Arthur can feel goosebumps forming along his ribs and stomach.
"Uncomfortable?"
"Not quite, but it's not exactly to my liking." The chill around his torso is beginning to feel almost unpleasant, and Arthur is suddenly craving the heated magic from his old vest. "Is this what you make for those siblings?"
"Similar yes, but their clothing tends to run very cold." Francis cants his head, his thumb coming to stroke at the dusting of hair on his chin. "I suppose someone will still want this."
"Is that all, then?"
"Not even close! We have a few more pieces to try on. Don't tell me that you're already growing bored of this…" Francis' hands reach out again, help strip the vest from Arthur while his model looks anywhere else but at him.
This is worse, Arthur thinks, because now it feels like someone else is stripping him for their own entertainment. "I can take this off, you know."
"I only figured I would help." Francis' responds fairly. "You are so peckish towards touching, Arthur. Is there a reason for that, or do you just become easily flustered?"
"That's an awfully personal question to be asking, don't you think?" Arthur goes defensive at that, guarded and a little miffed. Francis walks behind him, and he can hear the other replacing the vest with another. Francis lets the silence drag on, until he's returned and he's face to face with the other again.
"How else will we get to know each other? It feels as though all we've done is bicker. I'm just genuinely curious, is all." They go through the motions of fitting Arthur with the vest again, and Francis works even slower this time, allowing his hands to linger longer than usual. Arthur spies the smile that Francis is trying to fight down.
"Did you ever consider that perhaps you should start from an acceptable point? No one jumps straight into stuff like that." Francis laughs, gently, and Arthur can't decide if he hates or likes the sound. He glances off to the side, choosing to let his eyes focus on a pattern on the wallpaper, and decides to answer nonetheless, "You try having someone you don't know too well getting handsy with you. I'm sure anyone would feel a bit skittish under those circumstances."
"I have to disagree with that," Arthur can sense something in Francis' tone, a sultry sort of edge that makes his heart jump into his throat for a moment. "I don't mind having hands on me, even if it is a stranger. As long as they're not hurting me, non? But I suppose everyone feels differently in regards to that. I shouldn't have assumed you would share the sentiment."
"W-Well… good, then. Because I don't." He huffs out a breath, and it's a little too shaky for his liking. "I would have to know them, first, because otherwise, it's just too strange."
"Oh?" Francis tugs on the front of Arthur's vest, jostles him ever so slightly, and then eyes the buttons with approval. "Then I'm hoping I can get to know you well, Arthur. I'm sure we'll become quite close over time."
If his heart was in his throat, then now it's in his stomach, and Arthur refuses to say anything to that. Mostly because he doesn't trust his voice to stay true to its intentions. Instead, he chooses to remain silent and let Francis work, and only speaks when the other asks him questions about the clothing.
It's a longer evening than he anticipated, and he stays filled with nervous energy all throughout it.
The garden, now that he's taken the time to actually look at it, is pitifully bare. Alfred blows a tuft of bangs out of his eyes and takes in all two flowers with something akin to disappointment.
Although having woken up late (and really, shouldn't have Mattie woken him up?), he did take the time to ask one of the servants to show him the supply closet. All the tools were accounted for, and bags of dark soil sat in the corners, but seemed undisturbed for the most part. As if they were basically useless, which Alfred could see why now.
You couldn't grow anything in this snow, let alone do anything with half of the tools they had. While the snow lilies and white roses were beautiful, and fit the aesthetic of the manor, it did leave a lot to be desired. There wasn't enough color in the garden, and as such, it felt kind of lifeless and dull.
Alfred clears off a heaping of snow from one of the stone borders lining the garden, and takes it as a makeshift seat. He rests his cheek in one hand and looks out at the pitifully plain garden, and the endless pile of snow trying its best to smother everything. Despite the awful odds, he did promise that he would transform this garden into something amazing, but now that he's actually thinking about it, it almost seems damn near impossible.
First of all, he'd have to get seeds for new flowers, and on top of that, carve out new spaces for them to be planted. He thinks back to Katyusha's older brother, and his creepy threat. Alfred spares his fingers a concerned look, and purposely slips his hands inside his pockets. His mood plummets a bit, and all he can bring himself to do is stare out at the intimidating challenge for a good bit, while his mind goes crazy with ideas to get himself out of this mess.
Thirty minutes pass, and the only thing that breaks Alfred out of his sullen reverie is the feeling of water splattering on his cheek. He rubs it away with his hand, and glances up to see if he's sitting under something that's melting. All his eyes meet are the sky, though the clouds have become noticeably darker since he first sat down.
He decides to pay it no mind, figuring it's nothing he should be thinking about. But one droplet turns into a few, and soon, he feels the water pelting his clothing and hair, growing heavier as the minutes tick by. Alfred finally stands, and spins around the garden, looking for someone else, because this has to be some sort of a prank.
No one is there, however, and the drops grow heavier and heavier, and more numerous than before. Finally, he spares one last glance up at the sky, and finds that the snow is slowly being drowned out by a wave of rain. Alfred pauses in his steps, not at all mindful of how the rain nearly strikes his eyes, but instead utterly confused at the drastic weather change.
He holds his hands out, as if to make certain that what he was seeing and feeling was real. But lo and behold, it was rain, and it was hastily turning the snow into piles of mushy ice. The small drizzle quickly transforms into a torrential downpour, and Alfred gets completely soaked in it. He does not move out from underneath the rain however, half mesmerized and half confused at the sudden turn of events.
The snow melts away from the garden's bushes and flowers, letting the tops of blooming plants and vines show through once more. The cobble pathway peaks through the melting snow on the ground, showing the way from the gate to the manor. Alfred watches as the garden seems to dissolve into something more lively, and the snow surrounding the manor and the city seems to dissipate entirely.
His eyes turn every which way, taking it all in, but freeze on one spot. Up, beyond the tops of the trees in the garden and peaking out from the third floor window is Ivan, his features almost unreadable due to the distance. Alfred turns, tries to discern what he's doing, now utterly soaked by the downpour of rain that is beginning to turn strangely warm.
Ivan places his hands against the window, and Alfred can see his head turning, almost wondrously, as if he too can't believe what he's seeing. It takes a short amount of time for the manor's patriarch to find Alfred, and when Ivan does notice him, his stare doesn't waver in the slightest.
Alfred can only the return the look for so long, before a sense of pressure is making him turn away. Still, he can feel those cold, calculating eyes watching him, making his skin prick with something akin to apprehension. He pulls his sleeve up and rubs the goosebumps away from his skin. A few steps are taken backward, allowing him to come under the cover of an awning extending from the manor's entrance. Mostly, though, he's shielded from Ivan's penetrating eyes, and as such, let's a small breath of relief escape him.
The garden turns green once again, with only small puddles of slush remaining, and Alfred can't decide if it's a miracle or a blessing.