LIFE AND STYLE

CHAPTER 8

"Routine" and "tradition" were two of Arthur's favourite words. These words meant stability, comfort, and promised that things were expected and normal. Arthur thrived off of routine and tradition and he struggled to cope when things were anything but this way. His comfortable life had been been tilted when Francis Bonnefoy first walked into their shared office, hand extended in a friendly expression of greeting; when he entered the office and made himself comfortable, "unexpected" and "new" marched through the door right behind him. Of course, Arthur had discovered ways to handle these, he came to expect how his day would play out and wrote into his mental schedule that he was likely to have an explosive argument at some point during the day. He made a mental note to anticipate something happening that he hadn't planned on, that something strange would come out of Francis' mouth that would otherwise make him uncomfortable. He grew to expect the unexpected with Francis.

Two nephews being tossed into his life threw his world off its axis. There was no way he could plan for the unexpected, no matter how hard he tried. Every day was wildly different. He could tell himself he was going to have a good day, and everything you could possibly imagine would go wrong. He could brace himself to have a bad day, and everything went smoothly. He told himself that either of these outcomes could be a possibility and he would be one edge, waiting to see what was going to happen in the next hour, minute, second; he couldn't handle not knowing. How was he supposed to plan for Alfred to fall out of the tree in the backyard while chasing a neighbourhood cat and breaking his arm? How was he to anticipate sitting in a hospital emergency room for several hours with two screaming boys, one out of pain and the other out of sympathy? He could not even fathom being woken up every hour in the middle of the night, one boy wanting a glass of water, the other having had a nightmare, 'my arm hurts, uncle Artie,' 'but I'm hungry now,' 'I can't sleep,' 'when can I get up and play?' There was no way he could have guessed the next day the boys would quietly play with each other, no arguments, and Arthur would fall asleep on the couch while some animated movie quietly played in the background. There was no way for him to pencil in his mental day planner that Matthew would come down with a fever a the next night and he would have no idea what to do for it.

"How high is his temperature?" Lukas had come over at Arthur's insistence later in the afternoon. Alfred had knocked on his bedroom door early in the morning, his little face twisted in concern for his brother, "Uncle Artie," he had whispered, "something's wrong with Mattie!" And so there was. His chubby cheeks were darkened with an unhealthy flush, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead, and he was lethargic and uninterested in playing any of the games Alfred suggested in order to cheer him up. He refused to eat breakfast and drifted in and out of sleep throughout the morning. Lukas had arrived with his brother-in-law, the cheery Tino from the Art Department at work, who was carrying a medical kit and wearing an encouraging smile.

"I'm not sure, I don't have a thermometer," Arthur admitted, worrying the hem of his shirt as Tino knelt next to Matthew resting on the couch. He placed the back of his hand on Matthew's forehead, his own brow creasing in thought.

"How long has he been like this?" Tino asked, reaching into his kit and producing a small thermometer and gently placing it in Matthew's ear; he held it there for a moment until it beeped and he frowned at the numbers flashing on the small, digital screen. "He has a fever of over 40 degrees! Have you given him anything?"

"I'm not sure, Alfred came to me this morning at around seven, and no, I wasn't sure what to give him." It had been so long since Arthur himself had been sick, he wasn't even sure any of the medications in his cabinet were still good. Lukas passed Tino a teaspoon and Tino shook a small bottle of purple-looking liquid; Matthew opened his mouth when instructed and swallowed everything Tino gave him without more complaint than a grimace on his face.

"That'll help keep his fever down," Tino said passing the bottle to Arthur, "give it to him every four hours. If he's still not better in the next day or two or gets worse, I'd take him to see a doctor." Arthur thanked him and Tino said he was more than happy to help, he remembered the first night his son had been ill. "The first times are always the worst," he said shaking Arthur's hand at the door, "call me if you need anything else!" And just like that, Arthur was left alone again with his nephews.

All went fairly well, Matthew started to play with Alfred in the living room by the late afternoon and Arthur thought he was home-free. He still had to give poor Matthew medicine to keep his fever down throughout the next day, but he had started to eat small portions of food again. 'That wasn't so bad,' he told himself as he slid into bed, 'I've got this. Kids are no problem.' He felt quite proud of himself as he drifted into a comfortable sleep. Alfred and Matthew had both gone to bed without a fuss and they were asleep before Arthur had finished brushing his own teeth for the night. Aside from the concern of illness, both boys were unusually well behaved while one of them was sick. Alfred hardly complained about his broken arm being itchy, focusing all his attention on lifting his brother's spirits. It was almost like a break in the constant madness two healthy boys brought to his day-to-day.

He should have known it was all too easy when he was awakened first by the loud coughing from the room next to his, then small hands holding his arm and shaking him to complete wakefulness.

"Uncle Artie!" Alfred cried, "Mattie is really sick again!" Arthur groaned and allowed his small nephew pull him towards the guest room - their room - where the small bedside lamp was lit and Matthew was doubled over wheezing and coughing. His small shoulders were shaking and his skin was ashen, aside from bright red in his cheeks from coughing. "He says it hurts to breath, Uncle Artie," Alfred explained jumping up onto the bed and hugging his younger brother.

And to the emergency department they went again for the second time that week.

He wasn't sure why he thought to text Francis. It would have made more sense to text Lukas or even Tino - not that he needed to text anyone. He was in the right place, surrounded by medical professionals that could help him if anything worse happened to his small nephew curled up in his lap and trying to sleep; Alfred was talking to an elderly couple sitting a few chairs away.

'In the ER. Matthew is sick.'

He didn't expect a reply, especially not at 2 am. But sure enough, his phone buzzed in his pocket on a few minutes later, 'What hospital? What do you need?' it read and Arthur blinked. He texted back where he was and that he was fine, just needed to complain. He did not expect, half an hour later, for Francis to burst through the doors, hair pulled into a messy ponytail at the back of his head, wrapped in an over-sized grey cardigan and blue plaid pajama bottoms. His eyes fell to Arthur and he strode purposefully towards them. As soon as he was close, little Matthew's eyes fluttered open and he reached his small, chubby hands for the blonde man, murmuring, 'papa Francis' over and over. Arthur blinked at his nephew, his mouth sliding open, but he said nothing as Francis scooped him up and plopped himself into the empty chair next to Arthur, cradling Matthew against his chest.

"What are you doing here, frog?" Arthur finally asked once he located his voice, it seemed to have fallen right out of his mouth and dropped to the floor. Papa Francis...?

"You are sitting in an ER with a sick nephew, I could not hear of this and do nothing," Francis soothed Matthew's hair as the young boy snuggled into him, coughing weakly. Alfred bounded across the room, grinning.

"Francis!" he cried, bouncing up and down, "I was here the other day with my arm and now it's Mattie's turn!" he held up his cast cheerily, "do you want to sign it?" Francis smiled and said he would later, once they were all home and Matthew was feeling better. Arthur instructed Alfred to sit quietly in one of the chairs and leave the other patients alone; it was the middle of the night, not everyone needed a five year old chatting at them. He also didn't want Alfred to catch anything...

"You look exhausted, Arthur," Francis said quietly, leaning his head against the wall behind his chair and looking at Arthur through the hair that had escaped his ponytail.

"I am bloody exhausted," he admitted. It had been a long week. Matthew had a coughing fit and Francis rubbed his back while making soothing noises, Arthur let Alfred crawl into his lap as he watched his brother with wide, worried eyes.

Arthur meant only to close his eyes for only a moment, letting his exhaustion finally claim him, but when he opened them next Francis was rubbing his shoulder and calling his name softly.

"They are ready to take Matthew in to see the doctor now, cher. Do you want me to go instead and you can go home with Alfred?" Arthur shook his head, in reply and to shake the cotton from his mind and wake himself up. Matthew was standing and rubbing his eyes and Alfred was curled up on an empty chair, asleep.

"No, I'll go, but do you you think you could take Alfred home?" Francis nodded and took Arthur's house keys, the sleeping boy, and dropped a kiss to Matthew's head before turning to leave. "I'll see you at home then," he waved over his shoulder. Arthur watched him go and chewed his bottom lip. Francis, the annoying office mate, was carrying his elder nephew with Arthur's house keys jingling off one of his fingers, going home. To his home. Where he would still be when Arthur eventually returned. Warmth spread through his chest and something fluttered there, something he quickly covered up with a cough and he tore his eyes away from the blonde man slipping through the emergency room doors and to the parking lot beyond.

'Papa Francis.'

.

The sky was a dull grey when Arthur drove home. Matthew was finally released from the hospital after a chest x-ray and given a course of antibiotics and inhalers and strict instructions on how to take both; he was diagnosed with pneumonia and Arthur felt a chill run through his veins as soon as the tired-looking doctors put his x-ray up on the lighted wall and casually announced it. The doctor had said, "nothing to worry about, just keep an eye on him." But Arthur felt like he had broken something precious, something that didn't technically belong to him. How did Matthew catch pneumonia?! "It's going around right now," the doctor mentioned, writing on his prescription pad, "keep giving him medicine to keep his fever down, take this to the pharmacy down the hall and give him his first dose of antibiotics when you get home. Make sure you follow-up with a doctor after ten days so someone can listen to his chest. Come back if he gets worse." Arthur thanked the doctor and collected his sleepy nephew.

The window belonging to the boy's room was lit up by the small bedside lamp, and Arthur could not help but smile knowing he was not returning home to an empty house. He carried Matthew inside and crept up the stairs. Pushing the door to the boy's room open he paused and stared, Francis was laying at the edge of the bed, curling around Alfred who was star-fished and snoring loudly. Francis stirred, looking over his shoulder and smiling sleepily.

"Bonjour," he called softly, untangling himself from the small boy, doing his best not to wake him, and sitting up. "How is little Matthieu?" Arthur sighed and explained what the doctor had said, carefully laying Mattie down in the bed once Francis rose to his feet. He took Francis by his wrist and pulled him from the room.

He wasn't exactly sure what he was doing, he wasn't sure what he was even feeling. He was too tired, only having slept a handful of hours in the last few days. Francis was here and he felt like a friendly, comforting face. It was odd to consider the Frenchman as his shred of normalcy in his current life. Francis was the one thing that seemed familiar right now, constant, and vaguely like routine. He knew how to handle Francis, and that was a comfort. So he pulled Francis to his bedroom and ignored the noise of surprise that the other man made in the back of his throat when he climbed into bed, still holding on to the blonde man, and pulling him down into it as well. Francis lay next to him, eyes wide, but he did not make any sound of protest, so Arthur continued to tell him about what happened at the hospital.

After several minutes of talking, and with his eyes growing heavier, he allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness.

.

Francis was awakened by a small hand tapping his forearm.

The dull sense of unfamiliarity washing over him – the bed was too soft, there was something heavy draped over his waist, and he could feel warm and even breaths on the back of his neck. When he slowly willed his eyes open, the tapping on his arm growing more insistent and accompanied by quiet whines, two giant blue eyes were blinking up at him.

"Francis?"

"Alfred," he mumbled in acknowledgement.

"I'm hungry..." the boy whispered, still prodding on the Frenchman's arms. By the amount of light streaming in from the window at the end of the room, it had to be late in the morning, if not noon by now. He did not want to get out of bed, not when Arthur was wound around him, sleeping deeply, face pressed to the back of his neck. He did not want to untangle himself from the Brit who was, for once, silent and peaceful and finally catching up on the sleep he had lost throughout the week. He wanted to roll over and watch Arthur sleep, to see what his face looked like completely relaxed.

Instead, he sighed heavily and sat up, Arthur's arm sliding off of him and onto the bed somewhere behind him.

"Alright, petit lapin, let us find something to eat." Alfred grinned and grabbed Francis by the hand, dragging him to his feet and out of the room.

In the kitchen, Francis assembled the ingredients for pancakes. Alfred helped stir the batter while France sliced up a couple apples he found in a bowl on the counter. He eventually located a frying pan and was flipping cooked pancakes onto a plate when Matthew wandered into the kitchen rubbing his eyes wearing nothing but his underwear. He did not say anything, only making small whining noises.

"How are you feeling, mon petit chou?" Matthew simply shook his head and sniffled. Francis finished making the pancakes and set them on the little kitchen table with Alfred, already sitting in his chair with a fork and knife gripped tight in each hand. He scooped Matthew into his arms and went on the hunt for the medicine for his fever and the antibiotics Arthur had mentioned before falling asleep. He pushed Arthur from his mind and tried to focus on the boy in his arms, whining under each rattly breath.

He set him up on the couch with a blanket and sippy cup of orange juice (he didn't want to eat anything) and he put on a movie (Mary Poppins, Francis picked) and returned to the kitchen in time to see Alfred sliding off his chair and running for the living room to sit with Mattie.

"Wash your hands first, Alfred! Arthur won't want sticky syrup fingers on the furniture!" he watched to make sure he saw Alfred divert to the hall bathroom.

He slumped into a kitchen chair and dropped his elbows to the table, holding his head in his hands. He spent the night at Arthur's house. He spent the night at Arthur's house and his spending the night had nothing to do with sex. He spent the night sleeping in Arthur's bed and eventually tangled up in Arthur's arms and woke with Arthur's face pressed to the back of his neck. He had done all of these things and now there was a terrible warmth spreading through his chest, an emotion he couldn't quite put his finger on, but it was stirring up butterflies in his stomach and the backs of his knees felt like they were buzzing. He wanted to creep back upstairs and slide back into the too-soft bed with the Englishman, but he wasn't sure what would happen if he were to do that. Arthur was almost drunk with exhaustion when he had pulled Francis into his room with him – had he meant to do it at all? Or was it simply him acting out of tiredness? Was it only some instinct to go to sleep with someone else laying there?

And now he could not get the image of Arthur kissing him back at their office out of his mind. He could hear Antonio's speech on love ringing in his ears. The back of his eyelids were showing the memories of sitting in church with Arthur at his side and the conversation in the foyer that had followed.

"Francis," he nearly jumped out of his chair as he jerked his head up to meet Arthur's gaze. His eyes looked cautious, his mouth was drawn in a line, he was wrapping himself in a housecoat almost protectively. "You made breakfast?" he cleared his throat, "thank you."

"Oui. I apologize, I forgot to put tea on..." Had it always felt this awkward between them?

"That's alright." He watched as Arthur moved about the kitchen, turning on his kettle and filling his plate with pancakes and apple slices. He turned and hesitated before joining Francis at the table. He stared at the food on his plate and Francis stared at him.

"I slept in your bed last night," he said at the same time Arthur said, "you slept in my bed last night." Their eyes met across the table while the kettle whirred, the water began to boil, and it clicked off, tossing the kitchen into a heavy silence, only broken by the faint sounds of Mary Poppins playing in the living room around the corner.

"Arthur, why did you kiss me?" He could no longer take the wondering, he couldn't figure him out. Arthur himself had said it was all part of the game they seemed to be playing, but all of this actions that followed screamed the opposite. How was he supposed to react, to feel, when Arthur seemed to be changing directions every time he saw him? Arthur looked startled and immediately rose from the table to fix himself a cup of tea. He did not ask Francis if he wanted any, but brought a second cup with him when he finally returned to the table. His cheeks were flushed.

"I'm not sure I under-"

"Mon dieu, Arthur, don't give me that crap. What are we doing? What is happening between us?" he did not say aloud the rest of his thought: 'because I'm falling in love with you more and more every moment we are together and I do not know if I can continue with this if I don't know what you plan to do with the heart I am prepared to leave at your feet.' Arthur was annoyingly silent once again, staring into his steaming mug like it held the answers to Francis' questions. He wondered if he should get up and leave, save himself the heartache and distance himself from the Brit. Francis wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, to scream into his face until Arthur understood – until Francis understood. This was not the breed of love he was used to. Yes, he was attracted to Arthur and he wanted nothing more than to tear away the hideous housecoat he was wrapped up in, bend him over the very table they were sitting at and have his way with him; but, Francis also desired to sit at Arthur's feet and stare up at him, to listen to any of the words that tumbled out of those lips, to wrap his arms around him and hold him close. He want to feel their lips together in slow, mutual kiss, not impassioned and angry like in the office. He wanted to take his time and soak up everything that Arthur tasted of, to explore the sensation of their mouths joined together. He wanted to share his secrets with Arthur and sit on the grass in comfortable silence. He wanted to learn about him and be with him and just bask in his presence. Was that normal? Was this the beginnings of love that Antonio had told him about? Was this how it felt? Because, while wonderful on the surface, it hurt.

His original plan had been to turn this around and back into a game, but now that Francis was staring into Arthur's green eyes, he wanted to have nothing to do with the games he used to play. He wanted something honest and real. Sitting with Arthur in the small kitchen made him feel...

He did not have the time to mentally finish his thought before Arthur opened his mouth to respond.

"I don't know what we are, Francis, I haven't figured it out yet. We were once just co‑workers, but we seemed to have skipped over friends and moved on to something else. I..." his cheeks warmed and he began to fidget with his housecoat and Francis searched his eyes for a clue as to what he was going to say next. He wanted to scream, 'yes? You what? What is it?!' But Arthur did not speak again, he cast his eyes down and worried his bottom lip between his teeth. He squirmed in his seat, his fingers drumming on the side of his mug, he cleared his throat.

Francis couldn't take it.

He summoned up whatever calmness he had left in him and rose from his seat, he walked around the table, and knelt in front of Arthur, forcing his green eyes to lock on to his own blue. He reached a hand up and cupped Arthur's cheek, the warmth from his blush spreading into his hand and likely igniting a matching one in his own cheeks. He ran his thumb under Arthur's eye, admiring everything about his face. How his brows furrowed in confusion, his eyes flashed with whatever reeling emotions were likely flying through his head, he admired the bridge of his nose all the way to its tip; he admired the curve of his mouth, his swollen bottom lip from being dragged under his relentless teeth. He leaned up and pressed his lips to Arthur's, sliding his hand into his unruly, dirty-blonde hair.

Time stood still while he waited for a reaction, afraid one would not come, but just before he was going to pull away, embarrassed and ashamed, Arthur's mouth moved against his own, returning the kiss. Francis tilted his head and pressed into the connection, willing for Arthur to feel what he was, hoping he'd feel what Arthur was, to understand what it was he was thinking about, what he had been going to say but didn't have the courage.

'I'm falling in love with you,' he made his lips say, 'I'm falling in love with you and it scares me and it thrills me and, dammit, I hope you feel the same.' Arthur's hands found their wait to Francis' own hair and tangled in it, pulling him closer. It was Arthur's tongue on Francis' lips, sweeping across them and asking for more, unusually bold and Francis was more than happy to comply. He did not give up control easily, he had been the one to initiate, he would not let Arthur take this over. Tongues battled against each other, fighting to take the lead of the kiss which was quickly growing more intense the longer they were connected.

They kissed until their breathing was fast and heavy and Francis pulled away, his knees aching from the cold kitchen floor, but it hardly mattered. He stared up into Arthur's eyes, trying to read what they were saying.

"God, Francis," Arthur breathed, "you're so... I'm just..." he groaned in frustration before leaning down and kissing Francis again hard on the mouth.

AN: Sorry this took so long to post!

*40 degrees Celsius is 104 degrees Fahrenheit. This is a fairly high fever for children.

BTW. Follow me on Tumblr? (username: une-pomm3). You may ALWAYS message me and ask what I'm currently working on or ask when I anticipate to release the next chapter! (I sometimes share snippets with what I'm currently working on, too!)