Chapter Text
Arthur swore under his breath and glared at the bright red shirt in his hands.
“You know,“ he started, clearly addressing the piece of fabric since nobody else was around, “one would think that after several washings, you would grow out of that stupid habit of yours; but no, you just keep spreading your lovely red hue on everything around you.”
He glanced to his right at the pile of ruined white T-shirts, his T-shirts, never some of Francis'.
This was how his husband found him, squatting on their hall floor, surrounded by small heaps of washed and unwashed laundry.
“Having fun, you two?” he asked as he carefully placed the three grocery bags and his briefcase on the floor, fumbling with the deadbolt lock.
Arthur didn't even lift his head as he answered: “Oh shut up, you are the one who prefers designer clothes because they reportedly have better quality, my ass.”
“Well, my dear, unfortunately, I'm not a laundry expert like you.”
“Yes, and unfortunately, I'm the one who has to deal with the results of your OCD shopping sprees.”
A simple rule that avoided most household problems: Francis cooked and took care of the grocery shopping, Arthur cleaned and did the laundry. It had worked when they'd started living together; it worked now.
Francis hung his pea coat into their closet, and, carefully avoiding the laundry piles with all three bags, stepped next to his still-kneeling husband.
“I'm sorry my shirt is misbehaving,” he said and placed a gentle kiss on the crown of Arthur's head, his own hair falling freely over his face.
Arthur threw the damnable object into the empty basket and lifted his head so that he could return the kiss, a quick, upside-down peck on the lips.
“How was your day?” Francis asked, heading for their kitchen.
“The usual.” Arthur followed him and leant against the door-frame. “My editor called, she wants the article about hydrangeas as soon as possible. I'm not even in the first half of it. Hydrangeas are like pest.” He watched Francis' automatic movements as he emptied the grocery bags on the counter. “Yours?”
“We finally managed to sell the little Dutch School landscape, you remember, I told you about it.” — Arthur nodded. — “Really, I'd started to lose hope.”
Francis turned around and handed his husband two shampoo bottles and a pack of toilet paper rolls. Arthur, quite resigned with the silent message that his place was certainly not in the kitchen, left to position the items in their respective places in the bathroom.
Dinner was ready in thirty minutes, as Francis never bothered with too complicated meals on workdays. The pasta sauce was divided in two smaller pots, one garlic-free. Arthur hated garlic.
They'd abandoned the dining table long ago and used it only in those rare cases when they received guests in a more formal way; it was too much work to set it properly. So they sat side by side, hip by hip on the living room couch, Arthur covered with a blanket because he was always cold, plates full of pasta on their laps. They called it “watching the evening news”, but in reality they mostly talked about work and ignored the poor announcer with his Middle East crisis.
Arthur wrote articles for several garden magazines; his ability to distinguish between more than two hundred various rose species, especially, was highly valued. He loved the work and hated the deadlines, because they always summoned the procrastination monster within him. You can't have everything, as he liked to say.
Francis worked for a small auction house that sold paintings and other art pieces. It was a nice career — he got to meet a lot of new people and see pieces that his former university classmates could only dream of. It was a stressful life, yes, but a lively and inspiring one, just what he had always wished for.
Three weeks ago, they have celebrated their fourth anniversary.
-
Arthur, as a matter of fact, could not sit straight with his feet on the ground while typing. Right at the moment, he somehow managed to sit cross-legged in his chair, hunched forward until his nose practically touched the screen, as he furiously typed with seven fingers (he has never really managed to coerce his two pinkies and left ring-finger into cooperation).
Also, Arthur cannot work without music; as Francis watched him from behind, he could see the red headphones poking from between his constantly disheveled hair. He was humming lowly, the first tones of we don't need no education barely recognizable. How such a deep sound could come out of such a bony ribcage was still a mystery.
For a moment Francis considered sneaking behind the huddled form of his husband, and letting the water trickle from his freshly showered hair onto his exposed neck. However, he knew Arthur had a bad habit of shouting a little too loudly when surprised, especially with headphones on, and he decided he loved his eardrums a bit more than the teasing.
So he simply walked into the other man's field of vision and waited until Arthur noticed him and pulled the headphones down from his ears.
“Going to bed?” he asked, seeing Francis in his usual sleeping attire – that is, naked. He blamed it on the temperature in their bedroom, which was, thanks to Arthur's thermoregulation, quite a bit over the standard, but they both knew it was the last fortress of his former bohemian-like bachelor lifestyle that he still wasn't willing to give up.
Francis nodded and peered at the screen over Arthur's head.
“I guess you still have a lot to work on, right?”
“I told you, hydrangeas are the pest. I don't understand why anybody would plant them willingly in their garden.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair at a fairly dangerous angle.
“But you look tired, go to sleep. This will take another four hours unless sudden inspiration decides to end my suffering.”
Francis reached for his shoulders, and in a swift movement pulled him back into an upright position.
“Well than, have a productive night.” He leaned down for a kiss; soft, languid, they melted against each other in perfect unison. Arthur found Francis' fingers on his shoulder and entwined them with his own, and when they parted lips, their hands stayed connected.
“See you in the morning?”
Francis shook his head, an apology on his smiling face.
“No, darling, I'm sorry, I have to be in the office before eight. Unless, of course, you would like to be the early bird.”
Arthur smirked. They both knew that the idea that he could wake up before eleven after one of his all-night sessions with botanic is nothing more than surreal.
“Good night.” After a light squeeze, their hands finally parted, and Francis disappeared in their bedroom. Arthur stared at the closed door for a moment, a yet unknown, unsettling feeling remaining like an after-taste in his mind.
Shaking his head a bit, he turned back to the computer screen and reached for the headphones that hung around his neck.
Francis stared at the celling above the half-empty bed for the next forty-five minutes before he finally fell asleep.