Oh, those eyes, those green eyes.
Francis could stare at them forever, he truly could. He had drawn and painted them over and over again, almost to the point of not going to change or go drinking with his friends until he deemed the art good enough.
Never perfect though. Never perfect, because perfection would be the real thing, the real eyes, staring into his, brushed by the messy blonde hair that hung over them, and the eyes reflecting his. That would be a kind of heaven, for him.
But the real thing seemed to hate him, seemed to run away when he neared, and called him when drunk, the alcohol dulling the bright green of those eyes when Francis picked him up from the pub. When had the Frenchman fallen so far into this never ending trap as to put up with the grumpiest person he knew? He wasn't sure. It was like he had never known anything else than this, had never loved anyone other than Arthur. He'd be lying if he said that he had never been attracted to any other, but he definitely never felt like this around anyone else than Arthur.
Perfection would indeed be Arthur, but an outsider might consider Arthur far from perfect. He swore, he got drunk easily, he was prickly to an extreme, he had huge eyebrows and a bad temper.
But Francis simply saw adorable embarrassment, a beautiful person, complete and utter Arthur-ness as far as his own eyes could see.