Fortune of Our Misfortune
Moment four
And then there are moments like this.
His phone rings. Arthur looks at the name on the screen and frowns. Francis.
He lets the phone ring for seven seconds before answering it; he would rather die than appear eager to answer Francis' calls. "What?"
"Hello to you too," Francis greets him dryly and Arthur can practically sense the roll of his eyes.
"Yes, do you actually have something to say?" Arthur politely inquires, but keeps edginess out of his voice; it is a good day, and he must admit that Francis' call doesn't entirely ruin it. It's actually quite nice – they haven't seen each other since they last visited their home town three weeks ago. Arthur curls into his blanket even more comfortably, lets his book rest on his chest, and listens.
"What happened to small-talk? I thought you Brits were supposed to be good at it." Francis' voice is good-natured as well. Arthur hears his steps in the background – sounds like he's walking on little pebbles – and snorts into the phone. "You're just not worth the effort."
Francis heaves a dramatic sigh. "I still remember when you were small and cute and admired me unconditionally."
"Yeah, well I've become wiser over the years."
"Have you now." There is a laughter, light and low, and it warms Arthur's chest inside. The sound of pebbles ceases, but now Francis has entered somewhere windy.
"Where are you?" he asks, absently playing with the pages of his book.
"Coming from work. Speaking of which – what are you doing tonight?"
"Why?" Arthur asks.
"Well," Francis says. "I thought that we could go eat something. Since I'm already around your neighbourhood. Besides, I haven't got anything prepared at home and I doubt that you have, either, and even if you had, it's probably better left uneaten anyway."
"Git," Arthur retorts out of habit, but thinks about it. "I'm too comfortable right now," he then decides aloud.
"Oh, come off it. We needn't go anywhere far, I quite like that one place at the end of your street -"
Arthur actually laughs a little. "Well if you're that desperate..."
"I am not!" Francis gasps, appalled. "But. It's been a while."
Arthur's stomach flutters at this, a little. "Yeah," he admits. "Fine. Give me five minutes."
"Make sure to wear something presentable this time, will you," Francis kindly reminds him. "I'd hate to be ashamed on your behalf once again. At the very least have the decency to leave that horrid jumper where no one can ever find it."
"Piss off," Arthur snorts and immediately decides to wear the jumper in question just to spite Francis. (He also decides to wear the tight jeans that he has heard Francis once complementing to his friend when he thought that Arthur was out of earshot.)
"Oh, and please tell me that you've got a haircut since our last encounter! Your hair was terribly overgrown already then."
At this Arthur actually blushes a little, because his hair is indeed in a desperate need of a haircut and looks anything but good, not even tolerable. But he has just paid his rent, and having food is higher on his priority list than having haircuts.
Francis interprets his silence correctly. "Dieu," he groans. "Do I need to do everything myself?"
"As it happens, it's my hair, not yours, so -" Arthur starts, but Francis interrupts him.
"I could, though," he says. "Cut your hair, I mean. If you'd like to avoid the expenses of a hairdresser."
"I- well, I. Well." Arthur remembers the first time when Francis cut his hair – they were kids then, and it was embarrassing as hell. Besides, boast as he may, Francis was not an expert of giving haircuts at the humble age of nine, and Arthur's parents were forced to take their sulking son to an actual hairdresser after that. Francis, however, got better at it over time and, when they both lived in London already, he got into a habit of doing Arthur a favour and tidying his messy mop every now and then. In return, Arthur sometimes gives him free lunch tickets that he gets from work.
"Anyway, I'm at your building already," Francis changes the subject, and true enough, Arthur hears how the corridor door opens and closes. Soon after that his doorbell rings.
"Let me in," Francis says into the phone.
"Idiot," Arthur utters. "Why did you keep blabbering on the phone if you were so close?" But a smile sneaks on his face anyway, and he doesn't wipe it off, just because, and unlocks the door.
"Maybe I just like talking to you," Francis chuckles into his phone and flashes Arthur a playful grin.
Arthur hates these moments. He hates them, because it's for them that he can't let go.
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