Life and Style

Chapter 10

AN: This chapter is terribly domestic. That is all. -Apple

Arthur allowed Francis to shove him towards the bathroom when the tub was full of steaming water; he didn't complain when he noticed the Frenchman had filled it with some of the boys' bubble-bath. Arthur refused to let Francis spoon-feed him soup (how did he make soup? Arthur was certain he was in dire need of groceries, and yet there was a pot simmering on the stove when Arthur came back downstairs from his bath), but he allowed Francis to hover nearby in case he suddenly 'needed help.' Arthur kept his grumbling to a minimum when Francis insisted he put his pajamas through he dryer for a few minutes before putting them on, he tolerated when Francis grabbed his hand and pulled him to his bedroom, and he only rolled his eyes twice as Francis pushed him into his bed and tucked the blankets in snug around him.

He had words when Francis suddenly crawled onto the bed next to him and snuggled down like he would be staying there for the night.

"What are you doing?"

"Going to sleep, shh, mon ami. It is late."

"Yes, it is late; therefore, you should probably go home to sleep in your own bed before you are too tired to drive."

"Non," Francis only nestled further into the bed and shushed Arthur when he tried to protest any further.

He glared up at his darkened ceiling, Francis' arm snaking across his chest and hugging him tightly, his long blonde hair was tickling the side of Arthur's face. He stayed quiet as he lay inside his burrito of blankets and tried to still his reeling thoughts. When Francis' breathing started to even out he finally spoke again: "Frog," he said and Francis flinched, "if you are going to be spending the night, you may as well get under the covers."

"Mm, non, I have to make sure you stay cozy," he heard mumbled from his side. Arthur tried to object, but was 'hushed', and finally made silent when Francis' fingers pressed against his lips. Arthur allowed himself the luxury of falling into a comfortable, quiet sleep after several minutes of exasperated sighs.

When Arthur awoke the next morning Francis was shivering on top of the blankets, his face burrowed into Arthur's shoulder and arms wrapped around him, clutching at the sheets and holding him close. Arthur blinked up at his ceiling for several minutes, listening to the even breathing next to him; he was too warm. He tried to move without waking the Frenchman next to him, but as soon as he started to untangle himself from his bed and the body on top of it, Francis' even breathing ceased and he startled awake.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm getting up," Arthur sat up and pushed Francis' hands off him. Francis weakly protested, still half asleep, his fingers barely able to grasp Arthur's shirt as he wiggled out of the blankets and out of bed.

"Nooooon, stay," he murmured several more phrases feebly in French that Arthur couldn't be bothered to figure out as he covered Francis in the blankets that were still warm from his own body heat.

It was noon before Arthur saw Francis finally emerge from upstairs, his hair mussed from sleep, rubbing his eyes. He was writing in his study, fingers flying across the keyboard after he was struck by a wave of inspiration while making his morning tea; he had been writing steadily since.

"Welcome to the land of the living," Arthur said, saving his document and leaning back in his chair. Francis scoffed. "Lukas called a little while ago. He will be bringing the boys home after dinner this evening. He says they are behaving well and Matthew seems to be feeling much better and they both slept through the night." Francis nodded and leaned against the doorway, wrapping his arms around himself.

"How are you feeling?"

"Much better, thank you. I'm sorry I caused you any sort of trouble last night," Arthur was mildly embarrassed by the previous evening's events. He had not intended to let himself fall ill so suddenly – he hadn't even realized that he had been neglecting himself. He thought had been eating and drinking and getting enough sleep – but, as he reflected, he realized perhaps he had been too focused on making sure the boys were eating, drinking, and getting to bed on time (and then staying there). He didn't particularly enjoy feeling so weak, and then having to be rescued by his... what was Francis to him, now? He was more than a coworker and more than a simple friend... He liked him, Francis said he returned the feelings... so now what? He was a little embarrassed to admit that the sound of Francis calling himself his husband so freely while in the hospital sent a shiver up and down his spine, stirring up butterflies as it went. And all of this playing house was rather enjoyable – he was a little afraid that it would likely be coming to an end shortly.

"Dieu, this is a lot of cacti, isn't it?" While Arthur had been lost in his thoughts, Francis had wandered further into the office and was admiring the many, many cactus plants that were shoved onto every available surface – there was only a space large enough for Arthur's laptop on his desk. Arthur didn't respond, but did give Francis a halfhearted glare. While they were certainly troublesome, it was the most romantic gesture anyone had ever paid him. Being a first as it was, he felt inclined to keep all of the cacti; although, what he was going to do with them he wasn't sure. He couldn't very well continue to survive in an office cluttered with desert plants.

He snorted when Francis pricked his finger and hissed, finally leaving the room while muttering French under his breath.

Arthur waited exactly one minute and 45 seconds before he left his office, trailing after Francis. He found him in the downstairs powder-room affixing a bright blue bandage to his finger.

"Did it really get you that badly?"

"Oui."

"What would make it better?" Arthur squeezed into the room with him and, in a fit of courage, took Francis' hands into his own and finished placing the bandage around his finger. Francis looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes – who knew he could adopt such an expression?

"Un baiser," Francis whispered the words, then hurriedly cleared his throat and tried to cover up the blush heating his cheeks with a charming laugh, "kiss it better for me, rosbif!"

Arthur's heart started to pound in his chest as he very slowly raised Francis' hand to his lips, never once looking away from his eyes. He pressed the bandaged finger to his mouth and kissed it. Then he kissed Francis' knuckles, then the top of his hand, he turned it and kissed his palm and his wrist next. He pulled Francis closer half a step and continued to pepper light kisses up his arm until he reached the inside of his elbow. Francis was breathing heavily, gnawing on his bottom lip and watching Arthur through half-lidded eyes.

What was he doing? He wasn't sure, all he knew was that, dammit, he wanted Francis. Arthur pulled him closer still and let his other hand float up into his hair, marvelling at the softness, despite the knots from sleeping. He tangled his fingers in it and gently tilted his head as he leaned in, hovering with their lips barely touching.

This was it. This was the moment that would tip the scales on their relationship. If he leaned in and kissed Francis now, he could no longer pretend they were just coworkers. If he kissed him now, he would have to admit aloud that he was falling for him and his damn antics. He enjoyed waking up with him nearby, it was comforting coming down to the kitchen in the morning and seeing him there, he liked watching him interact with his nephews. He wanted to hold his hand and kiss him and-

Francis was done waiting for him to make up his mind, and his tilted his chin, closing the remaining distance between them and joining their lips. Arthur sucked in air through his nose, stiffening for a moment before allowing himself to melt into the kiss. He was warm and he felt like velvet and the way he was kissing Arthur made him truly believe that he was the only one in the world he ever wanted to kiss for the rest of his life. Francis moaned and the sound shot through Arthur and he backed him up against the small vanity, finally releasing Francis' arm and trailing his hand down his side, his fingertips digging into his hip as he pulled at him, wanting them to be closer than they already were.

"Arthur, wait," Francis pushed him away and Arthur blinked, "I don't want this to be another episode of you kissing me then insisting it meant nothing and pulling me along in some sort of...?" he made a noise in the back of his throat and Arthur shook his head, the word 'game' hung heavy in the air between them and Arthur's chest clenched painfully that the 'game' was associated with him. "I need to hear that this isn't just... I need you to say that.. merde, Arthur, surely you know what I mean. Please, put me out of my misery. I'm falling in love with you and I need to hear your actual thoughts on that so I can either kiss you more or go home and drink a bottle of wine."

"I..." his tongue felt too thick for his mouth and like it weighed more than his entire self. It stuck to the roof of his mouth and no matter how many times he swallowed, he couldn't convince it to work and say the words that he was mentally screaming. He was trapped in his head and all he could do was gape at Francis and blink stupidly while he watched the happiness drain out of those blue eyes and the thought that Arthur didn't care dawn on his features.

Francis started to turn away and Arthur panicked, reaching for him and kissing him again, hard, hoping to convey what his words suddenly could not. If he could just write down what he was thinking, perhaps he could organize his thoughts into something that made sense, something that Francis could read and understand; in the meantime, his actions would have to do. Francis, thankfully, seemed to understand and wrapped himself around Arthur, moving their mouths together like a rehearsed dance.

It was perfect.

.

It wasn't until 3 months later that Arthur very suddenly realized that his life had fallen back into one of routine and a strange sense of normalcy. What surprised him even more was that this included Francis. What bothered him especially is that he could pinpoint exactly when his world once again started to flip upside down; however, upon closer examination, he couldn't quite understand how things had changed so dramatically without his noticing.

Without fail, every Monday morning, he would awaken alone in his bed to the smell of coffee brewing and some sort of breakfast pastry being pulled out of his oven. He would wander down in his pajamas to find Francis puttering around the kitchen, Alfred and Matthew following him around and 'helping' as he made breakfast. He would turn and smile, give Arthur a peck on his cheek and set him down at his little table that looked out onto his back garden. Francis would drop of a plate of food and a cup of tea in front of him, Matthew and Alfred would take turns bringing him the morning paper, and he would read the news, eat his breakfast, drink his tea, and watch the birds in the feeder out back – just like he always used to. After breakfast Francis would instruct Arthur about the leftovers in the fridge and freezer, he'd give both boys a tight squeeze, another kiss for Arthur and he would bid adieu.

Tuesday through Thursday Arthur was alone with the boys, but Francis always left enough food and pre-made meals in the fridge so that none of them ever went hungry or had to 'suffer the consequence of British food.'

Friday evening would roll around and Francis would appear again, sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up and ready to make dinner. He would bathe the boys and tuck them into bed with a goodnight story, then return to the sitting room for a glass of brandy (or wine, in Francis' case), and discuss the goings-on at the office with Arthur. They would go to bed together – Francis never slept anywhere except next to Arthur.

Saturday morning everyone would sleep in, much to Arthur's delight. He would awaken happy and cozy, arms wrapped around him and Francis' face nuzzled into his neck. Once everyone was awake and after breakfast, Francis would don his bright yellow rubber gloves and begin handing out chores to the rest of the household. He would help Arthur teach Alfred and Matthew the proper way to clean a bathroom or to sweep the kitchen floor, leaving them simpler chores to do alone like picking up their toys, washing windows, or wiping down the banister. In the afternoon, once all chores were complete, the boys got to put up stickers on a chart that had suddenly appeared on Arthur's fridge next to their completed tasks; stickers translated into into points that could be exchanged for prizes from a little treasure chest that found its home inside Arthur's china cabinet.

Sunday morning the four of them piled into the car and went to church. Afterwards they always went out for breakfast, sometimes another family would join them, sometimes they would go alone. In the afternoons they would go to a park for a picnic, or to the cinema, or Alfred and Matthew would visit Uncle Lukas and Matthias while Francis and Arthur went off and did their own thing – like visit the sea and walk along the boardwalk or drive into the mountains and simply enjoy the scenery. "Boring adult stuff," as Alfred sadly described it.

Then the whole week repeated.

It was Saturday morning and Arthur was enjoying his tea before chores needed to be done when this settled in his mind. He slammed his cup down with a clatter and a shout, "wait just a bloody second!" Francis whirled around, wiping his hands on a pink apron he must have brought from his own apartment at some point. "How the hell did you do that?" He demanded to know and Francis blinked at him before settling in the chair opposite at the table, dropping his elbows to the surface and cupping his face in his hands. His hands were soapy from washing dishes, but he hardly seemed to notice as he smiled at Arthur.

"Cher, it's half a grapefruit and a piece of toast, even you could manage that."

"Not the breakfast, you cheese-brain. How the hell did-" he waved his hands around the kitchen, indicating to everything "did you do this?"

"I am not certain I follow..."

"Francis Bonnefoy, you have insinuated yourself into every aspect of my life and lulled me into a false sense of routine. How did you do that?" Francis threw back his head and laughed while Arthur scowled. "There is a chore chart on my refrigerator! I'm pretty sure I saw a little neon green step-stool appear in my bathroom the other day. Also, now that I think about it, half the clothes in my own wardrobe don't belong to me. And when did my bed sheets get changed to – what are they now, they are-" Arthur sputtered, trying to find the word he was looking for.

"Silk?" Francis offered, reaching across the table and taking Arthur's toast. He bit into it, eyes shining as he watched Arthur work himself into a fit.

"Yes! Bloody silk bed sheets! I've never bought anything silken in my goddamn life! And another thing!" he roared, half-rising to his feet, "since when do I eat half a grapefruit for breakfast and – give me that, frog," he snatched the toast from Francis' hands and stuffed it into his mouth.

"You've had half a grapefruit every other morning for breakfast for the last three months, mon sourcils," Francis passed Arthur a napkin and motioned for him to sit back down in his chair. Arthur did, accepting the napkin and dabbing at his face. "You bought the stool when we went grocery shopping last Saturday – Matthew kept getting water all over the counter when he washed his hands. And I brought the bed sheets from my own home because yours are so terribly scratchy," Arthur made a noise to interject, but Francis held up one of his fingers to silence him. "J'taime, Arthur, but you can be so thick sometimes."

"I – you – what?!" Francis seemed to realize what just slipped past his lips at that moment; his eyes widened and it looked as if all the blood in his body was rising up into his face. He stared at Arthur long and hard for a moment, blinking rapidly. Meanwhile, Arthur felt very much like all of the blood in his body was draining out of him through the bottoms of his feet.

Love. He had been so distracted by enjoying the routine his life had adopted he hadn't even realized how much change had happened. And now that it was finally sinking in he was starting to realize that, perhaps, one reason why he felt so comfortable was because...

"J'taime," he heard himself whisper back. All the blood very suddenly reversed its course and started to run up to colour him from the roots of his hair all the way down his neck.

A scream and a crash from the front hall broke the tension in the room and both Francis and Arthur jumped to their feet.

"Uncle Art!" Alfred cried at the top of his lungs followed by a quieter, but no less distressed, "Papa Francis!" from little Matthew.

They were found by the front door, Alfred in nothing but his underwear and Matthew in his footie Pooh Bear pajamas, jumping up and down with a pink letter held between them. The rest of the mail was still on the floor under the door-slot, forgotten and deemed unimportant.

"This is from mummy, isn't it?" Alfred cried, ripping the half of the letter Matt was holding from his hands and thrusting it towards Arthur as he approached. Francis quickly scooped up Matthew who had begun to cry.

"This..." Arthur took the letter and turned it over, inspecting the curly writing on the front. He tore into it and unfolded the floral letter:

'Dearest Art,

How are you doing? How are the boys?

You would not believe the adventures I am having (Arthur scoffed, "that's because you never email or call me.")! I never imagined I could be so successful – moving here really was the best decision of my life!

Give the boys a great big hug and a kiss for me, Artie! I have good news.

I found a lovely little apartment to call my own and my work is earning me quite a bit of money! I can't thank you enough for taking care of my boys – I know how much of an inconvenience it must have been for you.

So! Are you ready? Inside the envelope you will find-'

Arthur didn't bother reading the rest of the letter. No. This couldn't be happening. Not now, not that he was finally used to everything, not now that everything had routine and was comfortable. He had come to realize just how much he loved his nephews and how much they completed his life – even though they annoyed him more frequently than not and drove him to exhaustion. But, they were little beams of sunshine and he was thankful that his world had been turned on its axis. He had no idea he could be a parenting type. Not to mention, they were settled here with him and Francis (did Francis live here now? He shook that thought from his head and refocused). They had been looking at primary schools for Alfred to start attending in the autumn, they had play dates with their "cousin" Peter, they were both making friends at church in their Sunday school.

He turned the envelope over in his hand and shook out two plane tickets.

He turned to Francis and held them up, his eyes wide and a surprisingly painful lump welling up in his throat.

"She wants them to go to her," was all he managed to get out.

Alfred cheered, Matthew continued to cry, Arthur sat down on the floor and held his head in his hands.

To be continued...

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