It was so silly, the way Arthur would drown himself in drink and then call him, crying about something or other that had upset him. Francis didn't mind collecting him from the pub, happy to remove him from the presence of alcohol and set up a bed on the sofa, set out painkillers for the morning and tucking the other man in like a child, kissing him on the forehead or hand before going to his own room.
Why? To answer that, you just had to listen to him, to the way his voice curled when Arthur was there, the way he would watch him softly when he was sure the Brit wasn't looking, to hear his whisper as he kissed Arthur goodnight of 'je t'aime, cher,' or see the way flowers mysteriously turned up in the Englishman's home with a note that simply had a heart drawn on it. Arthur never noticed the notes, which was endearing to Francis.
He loved Arthur, loved the way he would frown, or watch flowers grow, or concentrate on embroidery, how he would dote on his cat Iggy or how he would go red at any attempt to hit on him. He hated how the Brit didn't notice that the Frenchman loved him, and how other people attempted to hit on him. It was surprising how much jealousy he could feel when it came to Arthur, and how he felt like picking Arthur up and running off to somewhere that no one could flirt with him.
That reason, that one reason….
Je t'aime.