A flower grows in the middle of the field, its stem strong until a thin and elegant hand closes around it and snaps neatly, twirling the object around like a child as their gaze lands on the blond man standing not too far away.
Should he? He doesn't know, he has never known with Francis. The twirling speeds up as his hands suddenly seem to contain so much nervous energy. Francis will always wrong-foot him, laughing at his attempts when he tries to be serious. He always then brushes off what Francis does, and always will wonder what to do, always what to do about the indecision that used to slumber in his heart and has now been awoken.
But no other has this effect on him.
He wanders close and pretends to straighten Francis' tie before the flower is plucked from his grasp and stuck through the buttonhole of Francis' undone collar, a twinkle sparkling momentarily in the other man's eye as his gaze runs over the slightly bruised stem and the bright petals
"Merci, Angleterre!" he says, cupping Arthur's cheek and smiling genuinely, causing the English man to blush bright red and run for it, Francis' laughter echoing in his ears like the loudest wall of sound and the sweetest, softest lullaby at the same time, and he knows even as his legs carry him away that he will always return to try and sort out the tangled mess of feelings that strikes through his whole body.