If you had told him that Arthur was hurt by his actions, Francis would have laughed. Would have said it was impossible to hurt the grumpy Brit and that Arthur didn't care for him.
He had tried so many times to draw emotion out of Arthur, and today, he had arranged to go on a date with a girl he knew, telling Arthur in an offhand manner. His boyfriend had raised an eyebrow slightly, but turned his face back to the newspaper.
He had kissed the girl's cheek before she had to leave to take care of her friend, whose oblivious boyfriend had gone off drinking, leaving the poor boy heartbroken. He had let Femke go and wandered back to Arthur's house only to be greeted by Iain's fist, the tall Scottish man with dark eyes. He glared right back at his friend, his hand on his cheek as it throbbed in pain.
"What the hell was zat for?" he asked with indignation. The other in reply reached out and lifted Francis up by his shirt.
"I believe I told ye when ye asked him out that if ye made him cry, I'd kill ye." He fist was readied again and Francis squeezed his eyes shut panicking. He was dropped on the ground instead.
"Ye were meant to be me friend, Francis, and ye were meant ta love him!" Iain shouted, anger written across his face. Francis sucked in a gulp of air and looked up.
"What? He…he cried?"
Iain snarled. "Ye went out with a woman an' told him, ye expected him ta be bloody peachy about it? He loves ye, but all ye want ta do is hurt him!"
Francis was still in shock, before he caught sight of Arthur standing behind Iain with an expression so blank it tore at the Frenchman's heart, eyes rimmed red and downcast.
Iain slammed the door shut.