Arthur didn’t think his life could get any worse.
When his boss formally brought up the idea, he laughed, howled even, enough to bring tears to his eyes, thinking it was some sort of lowbrow joke. When the gravity of the situation finally settled in, it woke him up fully, much more than the cup of tea that got knocked over in his feverish objections would have.
“The decision is final,” his boss repeated, unsympathetic. “If you have any complaints, take it up with your husband.” That got a laugh out of the man, the sick bastard. He lit his cigar, took a deep drag of it, and left Arthur to stew by himself.
He needed to do something about this.
A complaint was one word for it. More accurately, Arthur held Francis up by the scruff of his stupid collar, pushing him higher against the alley wall. Francis looked more offended by the grim getting on his clothes than by the brutish physicality.
“You know,” Francis began, turning up his nose, “I didn’t ask for this, either, you know! I believe that marriage should be for love, unlike some. Why must your people be so unromantic?”
“I know this had to be your idea! You just… wanted to get under my skin, and it’s working, damn it! So enough of this, I’ve been close to a stroke all day! Hahaha! Happy? You’ve got me to laugh!” The hands gripping onto Francis’ clothes shook as his forced laughter wracked his entire body.
Francis’ expression said it all. He stared at Arthur as if he just escaped an asylum, face contorted in half fear, half confusion.
Dear heavens, no.
He let go of the Frenchman, losing both the strength and resolve to keep him in a chokehold. This was really happening, wasn’t it? Arthur took a step back and pressed his cold fingertips against his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on. He needed something, coffee, tea, rum, whatever, he didn’t care.
Francis dusted off his clothes, the pompous prick, as if he actually got dirty.
“There, there. It isn’t all bad, no? There are many worse people you could be married to!” Arthur’s expression immediately darkened, a silent yet very plain disagreement. Francis continued, regardless, “I know this must be difficult for you, but look on the bright side. Give it time, and our bosses will surely realize how big of a mistake this is. We only need to put on an appearance for a short time, then everything will go back to normal. I am sure of it!”
Arthur wasn’t fully convinced, but… Francis did have a point. His boss’ disdain for working with the French rivaled his own feelings towards Francis at times. It was only a matter of time before he got fed up with the whole thing and called it off, right?
“...Ah, well, I must let you know something else, too.” Francis twirled a stray curl around his finger. “I’ll be staying with you for the time being!” And the bastard winked.
Bloody wanker.
Surprisingly, Francis made his presence as discreet as possible. He took an empty bedroom as his own, one that Arthur hadn’t stepped foot in since… well, a certain someone had lived there. It brought strange feelings to the surface when he saw Francis arrange the room to his tastes, and it must have been obvious since Francis commented on “that horrid look” on his face. Arthur simply shook his head, huffing, saying that it might as well be used for something.
Even their schedules aligned in a way to limit their appearances to one another. Francis was a “wandering soul” as he put it, though Arthur thought that was a load of shit. A hippy was more like it, not that he should be complaining about it. It was convenient– he could still get his work done without that crooning voice in his ears. The more he could pretend that he was still living alone, the better.
They couldn’t escape each other in the mornings, though.
Arthur was often woken up by the sound and smell of home cooking. It was alarming at first, fearing that he somehow left the stove on overnight, but now he was more irritated that Francis made no attempt to be quieter about it. For the past few weeks, he’d force himself to sleep through it, but after a long night of maddening paperwork, he’s had enough.
He threw the sheets onto the floor and pushed himself out of bed. He made sure to dress decently, grumbling all the while; he didn’t need another smarmy comment about his “vintage fashion.”
With little grace, he made his way down the stairs, into the kitchen, a complaint ready on his lips, but it died when he saw exactly what Francis was wearing. Or what he wasn’t wearing.
“Have you gone fucking mad?! Why do you have no clothes on?! You’re cooking for God’s sake!” His voice cracked on the last syllable.
“Oh? But I am wearing clothes!” Francis turned around, and Arthur immediately averted his eyes, though he was able to catch a glimpse of a bulge pressing against the taut fabric of the arguably useless apron wrapped around him. He couldn’t tell if the ass he was initially greeted with was better or worse. “You have always been such a prude! Live a little!”
“You won’t be living much longer if you set flame to that chest hair of yours.”
Francis laughed as if he was in on some sort of joke and turned back around, to which Arthur sat himself at the table and held a hand over the side of his face to block the view.
“You don’t normally cook like this, do you?”
“Regardless of my answer, you’ll just believe the opposite, won’t you?”
He had a point, and honestly, neither answer would make him feel better. He simply sighed and listened to Francis whistle. He recognized the tune, could envision the lyrics in his mind. A Tear Fell, was it?
“You’ve been… listening to the radio?”
“Why shouldn’t I? I may think you are… lacking in some areas, Monsieur Angleterre,” he pointedly started dressing the freshly made toasts with ricotta and garnishes, “...but your music is quite beautiful.”
“...Hm.” Arthur didn’t know what else to say, and by the way Francis continued humming, he didn’t expect Arthur to.
Francis was used to the kitchen layout by now, the freeloader, easily finding a pair of plates to equally divide the tartines. He sat one plate in front of Arthur, the other in front of himself, and Arthur would have to remember to wipe that seat down after Francis sat his bare ass on it.
Not one to decline food, Arthur took the bread into his hands, experimentally opening and closing his mouth to find the best way to eat it. When he heard Francis laugh, he huffed and simply bit into it from one of the ends.
It was good. Very good, and before Arthur knew it, he had only a few bites left. Francis laughed again, and this time Arthur gave him a glare in return.
“Don’t look at me so! To think I was nearly glad for your company.”
“Glad?” The word hit him like an oncoming train, and a few crumbs fell from his lips to the plate in surprise.
“Glad!” Francis repeated, tossing some of his hair over his shoulder. He wore a familiar smile, but it looked… different, somehow. Neither vain or condescending, yet he donned it easily, no faint wrinkle around the corner of his lips indicating a forced muscle. Not that he made a habit of staring at the man intently enough to notice its presence.
Perhaps it was the sun lighting a rare, generous angle to Francis’ features, or the fact that he was well stuffed from a decent meal, or, somehow, he found himself lonely, of all things, but…
Arthur could get used to this. The scents, the sounds, and the sights.
The same lyrics from before came to mind.
”...A fool am I, a fool am I, in love, indeed,” he thought, licking olive oil from his thumb.
As expected, their joining didn’t last very long thanks to their leaders, but it didn’t have to. Not much changed since then, but, on occasion, Arthur brought French cuisine, sweets and savories alike, to eat during meeting breaks. Arthur denied any accusations, and Francis simply whistled the same melody whenever anyone pried.