The delicate questions, the little breakable heart that had become so strongly attached to his. It was hard not to test that bond, to test the levels of forgiveness. But seeing him cry was dreadful for Francis, the way he didn't seem to notice liquid sorrow trailing down his cheeks. He was left cracked and broken by so many people who professed themselves to be close to him, and Francis wanted to fix his heart before it shattered irreparably. But the way that trust shone in Arthur's eyes almost invited hurt into his life.
So Francis had to be careful, not letting Arthur feel alone. Constantly he wanted to hold him closer, but Arthur would panic if this happened. He instead held him as gently as you might a child, trying to keep him by his side.
He was an English rose alright, easily bruised but still prickly if approached, but all thorns were gone if he was really hurt. Then Francis would pick up the pieces, hold him lighter than he wanted to, make him endless cups of tea, sit with him as Arthur explained what had happened, let the other man approach him and shyly hug him before running off in embarrassment, so that Francis had to go find him huddling under his desk. At least he always hid in the same place for the other man to find him. It would have been easy anyway – Arthur always went so red he practically glowed.
He was so fragile it was hard to restrain from breaking him. Francis always locked away the side of him that would have done that without thinking for Arthur. For his little breakable lapin.