You groggily became aware of the sheets beneath you, and the suffocating heat around you. After a failed attempt to struggle, you realized your limbs felt heavy. You tried to cry out, only discovery your throat was too dry to be of much use. Something cool was quite suddenly pressed against your lips, and something wet trickled down your burning cheek.
Water.
You opened your mouth and drank greedily; the liquid alleviating the nausea of which you had become aware. Prying your eyes open, you glance up at the source of water…
… and choke.
"F-Francis, what-" A coughing fit overtook your body and caused you to shake, spilling more of the water before it was quickly taken away. Attempting to sit up, you couldn't help but grimace as a migraine settled itself in your cerebellum.
Francis stood before you with what was left of the water. Concern tinted his features; an odd look for the light hearted pervert. Even the other day, you remember a softer expression than was his usual. The sight made you giggle, and then laughter erupted from your parched and burning throat as he frowned.
"I don't understand what's so funny, ma amie. Tu as soif. You are dehydrated, drink."
He offered you the glass, and you complied; taking it from his hand and downing it quickly. While you did so, you sneaked glanced back at him and realize that, somehow, you are completely relaxed. Even pleased by his presence. It seemed ridiculous to have avoided him, in retrospect.
"Why'd you come over? Wasn't there a meeting?" You ask, wiping your mouth with your arm and setting the empty glass on the bedside table. The water was a greater help than you could have imagined, and you were beginning to feel much better.
He grinned devilishly, "Not one they'll miss me at."
You frown. "Francis, you're one of the major deciding powers… Ludwig's going to be furious!" The Frenchman shrugged, and his smile faded. "Gilbert told me you collapsed. He claimed it was some sort of 'awesome' overdose. Ludwig will understand, he's not unreasonable."
You blush slightly. Having collapsed was embarrassing, and even more so when the only witness claims it was due to his own imaginary charisma.
"Anyway," Francis began again, taking the glass from the table. "Do you have any wine? I've had a stressful day, you know."
Rolling your eyes, you nod (despite the subsiding headache). "I have some in the refrigerator. Have at it, and get me some too."
He was already out the door, but he called back, "Non, you're dehydrated, so you aren't allowed to have alcohol. This isn't the wine I got for you last week, is it?"
"Maybe!" You answer back; slightly amused by the audible and overdramatic sigh he gave.
Perhaps a relationship wouldn't be so bad with him. You had, had these thoughts before, but you always refused to dwell on them for long. The flirtatious and flighty Frenchie would hardly be reliable, and it would be difficult not to doubt his fidelity. You refused to pine away for such a womanizer.
Francis's strode into the room again, a fresh glass of water in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other and wineglass in the other. He handed you your cup and filled his own halfway as one does with wine before lifting it up in a toast.
"I would drink to your health, but you have none right now," he teased while you stuck out your tongue. An odd, thoughtful expression crossed his face. "Instead, why don't I drink to the fact you've finally stopped running away from me."
He was serious, you realized, and your cheeks became red. There was the earnest glance, the sincere voice. Looking away, you take a sip of your water.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you mutter. You heard rustling, and realized he was leaning closer to you.
"Je t'aime vraiment. Que faut-il pour tu de comprendre?"
Glancing up, you opened your mouth to remind him that you don't understand French. However, before you could utter a word, he crushed his lips against yours and your breath hitched in your throat.
You certainly understood that.