Chapter Text
“You know how Alfred is without you!” Francis exclaimed, tears welling up in his eyes as he stared Arthur down.
The brit lit a cigarette and turned towards the window, a torrential rain plagued the city beyond the glass. He furrowed his brows and let the silence mellow, Francis’ sniffles and stifled sobs invading what was to be a peaceful silence.
“Alfred…” Arthur breathed out, smoke curling upwards lazily. “He’ll get used to it.”
Francis’ eyes widened and he took several steps upwards, forcing Arthur to turn around with an aggressive shove.
“Why are you like this!?” He demanded, meeting his partner’s cold gaze. “Don’t you care for us!? You were so romantic— well, as romantic as you could manage!” Francis searched his green eyes frantically.
Arthur’s jaw tensed and he whirled around, shoving Francis’ hand off his shoulder. The cigarette crushed beneath Arthur’s sudden clenched fist, the butt falling to the kitchen tiles. He glared at his partner, a flush rising to his cheeks.
”You’re too compliant and that’s not my fault!” He snapped. “A man on the street would ask you to bend over and you would do it free of charge!” Francis took a step back, startled. “Learn to fend for yourself, whore, I don’t want Alfred picking up your mannerisms,” He crushed the discarded cigarette with the toe of his boot, flattening it against the tiles.
Francis’ eyes welled with new tears all over again and he sniffled, one hand braced against the kitchen table.
”Arthur—!” He gasped, watching the man walk past him without another word. He bit his lower lip and fought back inevitable tears. “You’re unreasonable!” Francis yelled after him. The front door closed in response and he found himself unable to form a coherent sentence.
Francis lowered himself into a chair by the kitchen table, replaying the argument over and over again despite it being so recent. The nightgown, frilly and flowy, spiralled around his legs and lay defeated on the tiles. Its silky blue curved around his swollen stomach, accentuating how far along he was. The heel of his hand wiped away tears that a tender thumb should have and he found himself tearing up all over again.
It was well into the night, past the stormy clouds Francis could barely make out the moon’s rounded face. Rain pattered against the glass of the kitchen window and left fresh tear marks trailing down the length of the pane. There could only be one place where Arthur had disappeared to now: the pub.
Francis had solely blamed himself for it. There was a stressful element to keeping a husband, child, and house as well as managing a job. The pub was likely more of a home to Arthur than this house had ever been, it stung to think of it, it always did. He brought the sleeve of his sleeping gown to his eye and dabbed at unshed tears.
”Papa?” A young voice called out hesitantly from the safety of the kitchen doorway. Francis looked over his shoulder, golden curls obstructing his view. He pushed them aside with a clumsy hand and smiled softly at Alfred; the boy had a sleepy quality softening his features and his hair stuck up at varying angles.
”Oui, Alfred?” He responded, turning in his chair to allow Alfred to approach. “What is wrong?” Francis queried, resting a hand on his belly.
The boy approached timidly, hugging his father and hiding his face in the folds of his gown. “Are you and daddy fighting again?” He peered up at the tired man with wet lashes, wearing a pitying look that made Francis regret about everything he yelled about.
A brief silence interrupted their conversation before Francis exhaled softly.
”…Non.” He murmured, reaching down and running his slender fingers through the boys hair. “It was a disagreement, don’t worry,” He reassured Alfred with a tired undertone to his words. The younger boy hummed in disagreement but didn’t push it, hiding his face deeper into the silky cotton.
It was a difficult start to life, especially for such a boy like Alfred; he would bounce off walls, chat his ear off every day after school, drag Francis to places even when his ankles swelled to an uncomfortable size. He was an admirable soul placed in a situation he could barely understand, but it was out of containment, especially with the problems discussed behind closed doors he would never hear of.
“Alfred, mon ange, you need to go to sleep,” He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “You have school tomorrow,” Francis reminded, peering down at Alfred through thick lashes. “Come, don’t stress it,” He stood up carefully, leading Alfred past the crushed cigarette and to his room.
Glowing stars plastered across every inch of the ceiling illuminated a toy crowded floor. Alfred’s bed was left in mild chaos, a stuffy teetered on the very edge of the bed and his sheets were splayed across the entire length. Alfred stumbled over a toy and jumped onto his bed, the bed boards creaked in protest and the headboard hit the wall with a loud slam. Francis smiled, comforted by the boy’s display of energy even in such a dark time, as he carefully walked past scattered toys.
“Is daddy gonna be back soon?” Alfred quipped innocently, allowing Francis to tuck him in with another quick kiss to his forehead.
Francis hesitated with his immediate response, pulling away to look at Alfred through the darkness that flocked his vision. He breathed out and nodded.
“Oui, soon.” He whispered, though the uncertainty lingered as usual. “Bonne nuit.” He murmured, leaving the room with practiced steps.
”Papa?”
”Hm?”
”I don’t like when you’re sad.”
Francis’ hand held the doorway loosely, he looked over his shoulder at Alfred. Alfred stared back, noticing the corridor light made Francis’ silhouette stand out like an angel.
“…Mm.” He hummed in acknowledgment.
The door clicked shut and Alfred was left to count sheep on his own, marinating beneath his covers in darkness.
Francis walked through the house. It was empty. Empty and unusually quiet where laughter or arguments should have been present. Maternity and family pictures were displayed across each wall, though taken years ago, Francis couldn’t help but linger and look at them all. It was such a bittersweet filling that invaded his broken heart, but the French were dramatic, so it was expected. He placed a gentle hand atop his belly and continued walking, unable to bear the sight of such pleasant memories any longer.
He resided in the living room with a drawn out exhale, the argument seemed to have physically drained the energy out of him. A throw pillow toppled to the floor as he collapsed across the cushions, a floral detergent wafting towards his nose from the throw blanket pinned beneath his body.
Now it was a waiting game. He wondered whether Arthur was going to come back with the lingering smell of another man’s cologne or beer, or if it was going to be both like last time.
Francis ran a hand through his hair and fumbled for the remote, turning on the television and flipping to a channel that could occupy him for the next extended period of time until Arthur’s arrival.
Yet, despite the dramatic finger pointing and crocodile tears on his television, Francis’ eyelids drooped down.
He was getting sleepier, and sleepier, until he couldn’t control it.
A dreamless sleep.