LIFE AND STYLE

Chapter 7

Francis did not often find himself floundering for a way to respond. He was capable in situations involving romance – that was his specialty, after all. The fact that he was shocked into a confused silence left a sour taste in his mouth. Arthur had, somehow, gained the upper-hand; he'd grabbed Francis by the proverbial horns and flipped him onto his back and left him in the dust. The art of flirting and, regrettably in hindsight, leading others on for his own gains was his mastered craft. Arthur was supposed to be fun and easy prey. He was supposed to be an innocent flirt to pass the time. Francis enjoyed watching the blush bloom in his cheeks and his eyes flash with a plethora of emotions. Pushing his buttons was the most fun he'd had since, well, he couldn't remember how long it had been since he had fun pursuing somebody, with or without the intent of it going anywhere.

If Francis was being brutally honest with himself, which was something he tried to avoid, he had to admit he had developed some asinine attraction to the prickly Brit; which melted into a cruel crush, and now, it had manifested into a whole different sort of monster. He was dealing with something so much bigger than a mere crush... he dared not to think what the feeling twisting in his chest was.

And then Arthur had gone and kissed him – right after Francis had planned on doing the same thing – throwing him off his axis. He did not get kissed. He initiated kisses. He was the one that kissed a startled pair of lips and left chuckling over his shoulder, the other blushing and confused and no longer able to get him from their minds. It was usually in his ploy to lure someone into his romantic traps... so what was Arthur doing? He didn't seem the sort to be playing any kind of game.

'I couldn't let you have the upper-hand' he had said. The longer he turned these words over in his head, the icier the blood in his veins ran. Was Arthur aware of Francis' habits? The thought frightened him and this was an emotion he was not used to experiencing. He was never ashamed of his actions; he was usually proud of his abilities to woo anyone he set his sights on, another notch in the bed post, so to speak. Not that sex was what motivated him – far from it. He reveled in the sensation of falling in love. He drank it in and lived off of it. Those fleeting moments of the thrill before the passion, the blood pumping hot through your entire body, the anticipation of just one more kiss. To him, this was love.

That was not what he felt with Arthur. Something was very different about this situation, something very wrong. It was making Francis question his definition of love, and that frightened him more than anything else.

When had things changed? He wondered if it was when Arthur had become a sort of second-hand parent, or had things changed before then? Or, perhaps, it was more recent than all that – perhaps it had happened when they had shared dinner and wine at Arthur's house? No, it had to have happened before that. Francis did not go over to the homes of his targets with the intent, the desire, to be domestic without anything in return.

But oh, how he longed for domestic normalcy with Arthur. His dreams had changed from erotic to simple. He often caught himself daydreaming about waking up late on a lazy weekend arms wrapped around his love, simply content to be tangled up in each other, giving each other slow kisses as they woke. Then making breakfast, still in pajamas, and shared light touches in passing. Breakfast in bed, tickle fights rolling into stolen kisses that last longer and longer until the love is too much to hold in, and there's only one way to show and release it.

He clutched at his head. His thoughts were taking a very dangerous turn. Love was not a word he shied away from, but his interpretation had nothing to do with his most recent daydreams.

He needed to refocus.

No, scratch that, he needed to see Arthur again and see if he could figure out his angle. He needed to soothe his storm of thoughts and calm his frazzled mind. Also, he was curious if he could flip this, turn it back around and regain his safe position as the leader of this dance. He would likely have to kiss Arthur first.

He could handle that. He wouldn't mind feeling those coquettish lips against his own again. Perhaps he would pick an argument with him then silence him with his mouth – that always gave way to the passion he craved to course through him, his definition of love.

Then there was the whole 'boyfriend' debacle. Had he really called Arthur his boyfriend? He hadn't actually noticed. It was an old slip of the tongue, Francis didn't do relationships in the traditional sense of the word. The only explanation he could come up with was the domestic feeling of the whole prior evening... he was making dinner, calling the kids to come eat, pouring the wine... Looking across the table, eyes connecting, a small smile and an entire conversation in a silent, split second. One that spoke of thanks, contentment, appreciation, affection... love?

Oh dear Lord, Francis needed an entire bottle of wine just to himself. This was clearly not going to go away any time soon. Perhaps he should set his sights on someone else for the time being – a distraction of sorts. That might help nudge his world back onto its proper axis.

.

Francis tried going to his favourite bar. He'd always had luck finding love in here in the past, and there were several delectable options prowling the dance floor. He leaned his back against the bar and sipped his vodka and soda, scoping out the activity going throughout the room.

"Francis, mi amigo, I am telling you, you had a home run with the lovely brunette you were flirting with earlier. She was damn fine."

"Non," Francis turned to smile at his friend, Antonio, "she didn't want-"

"Friend," Antonio cut him off and placed a hand gently on his elbow, "she literally asked you to go home with her."

"Nonsense, she's drunk. You know I don't operate like that." Francis scoffed, waving his hand in the air in dismissal.

"She had just arrived. Francis, does this have something to do with Arthur?"

"What on earth gave you that idea?" Francis slammed the remainder of his drink back and wheeled around to face his friend.

"You would have been in the pants of half this club normally, and you would have gone home with that brunette. She has your flavour of love written all over her face." Francis screwed up his face, he couldn't decide if it was because of anger, disgust, or the alcohol. He slid onto the stool beside Antonio. "Besides," he continued, "we have not been drinking together in ages, and any time we do hang out you speak of nothing else, man."

"Oh, that cannot be true." Antonio shrugged and smiled at him. His smile was less happy and more made of sad sympathy, which made Francis angry. He stared into the bottom of his empty glass and felt an odd question build up, whetting his lips with a bitter taste.

"What is love to you, Antonio?" is friend looked shocked for the briefest of moments before he relaxed his face back into his sympathetic smile.

"Is this really the place you are wanting to discuss matters of the heart, friend? Come." He pulled the empty glass from Francis' grip and fished cash out of his pocket. He paid for both of their drinks before grabbing Francis by the hand and hauling him to his feet, leading him from the bar. Francis weakly tried to object, to which his response was a firm, "amigo, even I know you are not going home with a stranger tonight."

Antonio continued to hold Francis by the hand as he led him down the street before stopping at a bus bench. He sat Francis down and plopped next to him. They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the traffic go by on the street in front of them. Francis tried to decide if he really wanted to have a serious conversation with his cheery Antonio. They had been, he would say, good friends for several years, having met in their freshman years at the same university. However, their relationship did not often go deeper than surface fun, not unless copious amounts of alcohol had been consumed. That's how Antonio had come out to him and revealed his undying devotion for his childhood friend, some Italian boy, that he believed was to be forever unrequited.

"I don't know if I'm drunk enough for this," Francis said at last, glancing sideways through his hair. Antonio laughed and patted his knee.

"Nonsense. You do not need liquid courage to talk to me. Besides, you've already asked your question, it's me that has to do the talking now. I just need a minute to find the right words."

Francis sighed and they fell into silence once more.

What would Antonio have to say about it? For as long as Francis had known him, he had never been romantically involved with anyone, he was abnormally chaste. He always seemed to live vicariously through Francis and his antics. Even knowing all of this, he could not help but feel he was the best person to ask.

"Love," Antonio suddenly cut through the silence, his voice quiet, almost shy, "as they say, love is wanting to do everything and anything for a person and expecting nothing in return. To me, love is realizing that throughout your whole life you were walking around as only half a person. Even though you felt whole, you didn't understand how broken apart you were until you met your other half, the one that completes you. Love is feeling that brokenness after you've met your missing pieces, but you cannot be together. Love is knowing everything there is to know about a person and craving to know more. Love is seeing someone at their absolute worst, at their lowest, and still your heart will beat only for them. Love is the willingness to endure the worst pain for your other half without a word of complaint, because for them, you would give anything, even your life, for they are your whole world." Antonio laughed, his eyes shining and he paused to wipe their corners, brushing away the beginnings of a more serious emotion. "Love is having your whole world flipped upside down. At first it's scary and confusing, then you stat to realize that it's the only thing that makes sense."

Francis heaved a great sigh and slouched back into the bench, running a hand through his hair.

"I have always defined love as that rush you get in your veins, shaking hands, a cool sweat on your palms. I thought love was a quickened heartbeat and the desire to be with someone in the flesh and have nothing else matter until that thirst is quenched – and may it never be satisfied for as long as you love someone."

"Well," Antonio chuckled, "there's that too. But, amigo, I'd call that lust." Francis smiled weakly. "Come," Antonio stood and offered his hand, "the bus is coming, let's keep walking." Francis let himself be once again hauled to his feet and looped his arm through Antonio's while they started down the sidewalk.

"Francis, I think you are falling in love with Arthur." Francis froze, his arm slid away from Antonio's as his friend continued walking a few more steps before turning around. The blood was rushing so loud in his ears that he hardly heard his own voice over the roar.

"I think you are probably right, mon ami, but I have not come to accept that reality just yet."

"So long as you're thinking about it." Antonio reached to loop their arms together again and tugged him along. He would have to speak to Arthur at some point soon...

They walked in comfortable silence.

.

"Uncle Art, when are we going to go to church again?" The small, innocent question caused Arthur's blood to run cold.

"I beg your pardon?" Maybe he had misheard Alfred. He looked down and Alfred was staring up at him with those big blue eyes, one hand tugging at Arthur's pants, the other balled in to a little fist against his chest.

"Mommy always made us go to Sunday School. At first, I liked not having to go, but now I miss it. Don't you go to church?" Arthur blinked. Church? He vaguely recalled going to church on holidays with his sister and mother, but as he got older, even that tradition fell by the wayside.

"I..." how does he answer? His little nephew was looking up at him with such concern in his eyes, and Matthew stopped colouring at the kitchen table in order to listen in to the conversation. He tried again, "I wasn't sure what kind of church you wanted to go to." That was a good excuse not to go, right? What sort of church did his nephews even attend? Catholic? Protestant? Did they even know the difference?

"Can we go on Sunday?" Matthew piped up, sliding from his chair and skipping over to stand next to his brother, his white teddy bear clasped tight in one of his hands. "I miss it, too."

"I'll think about it." Arthur was not sure how to respond. He did not have a desire to attend any kind of church service. He was pretty confident no amount of preaching could help him now – not with the dreams he kept having of a certain Frenchman. Would he have to confess that? Did the kind of church his nephews wanted to attend even practice confession? Alfred was scowling up at him and Matthew looked upset.

"Uncle Art, you only ever say that when you mean no." Alfred stomped one of his feet, "and that's telling a lie, and lying is bad, and I'm not sure Jesus would like that." Arthur blinked. He was getting scolded by a five year old.

Thankfully, Arthur was rescued by a soft knock at the door and Arthur excused himself from the shame-filled looks his nephews were giving him in order to answer it.

"Francis, thank God, you have to help me," he didn't even give a second thought as to why the Frenchman was standing on his stoop on a Saturday afternoon; he grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him inside. "They want to go to church."

"Pardon?" Francis allowed himself to be pulled in, stumbling at the sheer force of Arthur's yank. He recovered gracefully, adjusting his collar as he turned to raise an eyebrow at Arthur.

"Church," Arthur hissed again, clutching at Francis' arm. He dared not return to the kitchen where his nephews were waiting for him without a plan. Would he take them to church? He really felt like he wasn't the right person, but then he'd have to face their disappointed faces. He could hear it now, 'don't you care about your eternal soul, uncle?' (because these were things three and five year old's often suggested to their uncles). "They are asking me to take them on Sunday and I haven't the foggiest idea on how to deal with it."

"I could take them," Francis suggested and Arthur wheeled on him, clutching his shoulders, his eyes wide in a frenzied panic.

"You'd do that?" Francis looked mildly frighted, his mouth dropping open. Arthur had the sudden desire to take his face and kiss him fiercely, to shove him into the wall and – perhaps he should attend some sort of religious service with his nephews.

"I-I mean, I suppose... cher, are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, quite alright." He kept clutching Francis and warily eyed the doorway to the kitchen across his house; he chewed on his bottom lip.

It wasn't until they crept from the entryway, back into the kitchen, and Francis was settled at the table colouring with his nephews that Arthur began to wonder what Francis was doing there. He felt a wave of comfort with Francis there, which unsettled him. He had tried not to think of their last meeting, but he had been unable to shake the Frenchman from his thoughts since their kiss. He was dreaming of him more frequently. Francis looked up from his colouring and their eyes met, Arthur's heart drummed up into his throat. He suddenly felt quite dizzy. He scowled at Francis and spun on his heel, retreating from the kitchen and busying himself with a book in his sitting room.

Francis did not stay long, he excused himself with the explanation that he had forgotten his original intent on visiting in the first place and the promise to pick them all up for church the next morning. Arthur nodded and tried to calm the butterflies warring in his gut.

Both boys jumped on Arthur to wake him from his fitful sleep the next morning, excited to put on the suits buried in the bottom of their little suitcases and for Arthur to "get up already!" He dragged himself from one morning task to the next, moving slow and wishing he were still in bed and sleeping.

The church was pleasant enough, Francis was a little too excited to share in the experience with Arthur's nephews. He was, surprisingly, well known among the other attendees as they filed in through the double doors and found seats within the sanctuary. Arthur only felt the desire to explain to a handful of strangers, "these are my nephews. I'm not their father," and, "we aren't a couple. He's a... coworker." He felt mildly uncomfortable during worship, shocked that Francis seemed to know all the words, and entertained watching his nephews dance in their seats and sing along loudly to the songs they knew. The sermon itself only made him feel uncomfortably convicted a handful of times, the rest of the time he tried to look like he belonged in the pew, sitting next to Francis who was giving the pastor his undivided attention; Matthew and Alfred had been ushered to Sunday School elsewhere in the building.

Afterwards, Alfred and Matthew found Francis and Arthur in the surge of people milling about in the foyer, chatting. They showed Arthur stickers they received for reciting verses and colouring pages they filled in of animals filing two-by-two into a large boat. They told Arthur and Francis all about what they learned that morning, eyes bright and shining.

"Francis," he flinched and jerked his attention to a young woman approaching their small group, "you never told me you had such a beautiful family!" Francis laughed easily and reached for the woman, kissing her on both of her cheeks. Arthur did not catch her name, the blood ringing in his ears too loudly for him to focus.

"This is Arthur and his nephews, Matthieu and Alfred!"

"We aren't a couple!" Arthur heard himself blurt out, the woman and Francis turning to face him. Francis looked annoyingly pleased and the woman looked shocked, then guilty.

"Oh, I apologize! You make such a lovely couple."

"Don't we, though?" Francis mused, rubbing his chin in mock-consideration, ignoring Arthur's embarrassed spluttering. "I've tried winning him over with my cooking, but he continues to evade my charms!" The woman chuckled at that, turning her attention back to Francis.

"Have you tried flowers?" she asked, and Francis gasped, holding a hand dramatically to his chest.

"Non," he cried, "I had forgotten about flowers! Arthur!" he turned back to the Brit who had broken out in a nervous sweat; Matthew was paying far too much attention to this exchange. "Tell me, mon petit rosbif, what is your favourite flower?"

"I-I don't-"

"I like lilies!" Matthew supplied helpfully, "the smelly ones!"

"Roses!" chimed in Alfred.

Everyone turned to look at Arthur expectantly, who could think of nothing, too shocked by the direction of the conversation, and in a church of all places. He decided to say the first thing that popped into his head:

"Cactus."

AN: Whoops this chapter is super late! Gah! Sorry!

I have a headcanon that Francis is quite religious. I read something similar in another fanfiction once, and it stuck with me!

Thank you to the reviewer who corrected my French in my previous chapter! (I'll be changing it on my next edit!)