Sign A New Agreement With iTunes [1c/4]
anonymous
August 24 2010, 14:57:38 UTC
Francis’ girlfriends (or boyfriends, for that matter, but Francis’ boy-relationships tend to last longer than anything between one night and a week, and are therefore rarer) usually like Arthur. He’s the considerate flatmate who’s always up early on weekends and sensibly lays out tea and toast and jam out for them; reads them their morning horoscope in the newspaper and lets them steal Francis’ shirt (the green one, the one he’s got tens of between he says it makes his waist look slimmer.)
Francis exactly calls one tenth of them again. Arthur has got it down, in diagrams.
“She break up with you again?” Francis asks from the doorway.
“T’rn the fuckin’ lights down,” Arthur blares, and then rolls and promptly falls off the couch, or very nearly. There are three empty bottles of beer on the carpet and one on the couch, on the cushions, one standing upright on the coffee table like a funny soldier and two presumably half-open, on the floor, pooling little puddles of beer on the parquet slats. Francis wrinkles his nose in disgust.
“Tosser,” Arthur says.
“St’p making that face,” Arthur says.
“You’re drunk,” Francis says, “and so very British.” He comes into the room prudently, glass clinking against his shoes (he takes them off, lines them up neatly by the door.)
“Shut up,” Arthur instructs, “am not,” and then: “didn’t br’k’p with me. I br’k’p with her,” he answers, somewhat disconnectedly, to the question of forever ago. He pushes his face into the cushions sullenly. “Was cheatin’ on me.”
“Bitch,” Francis comments laconically.
“Fffuck,” Arthur appears to consider the rest of the sentence for a moment, “you.”
“Anytime,” Francis says absently, slinking into the kitchen for the ready-brewed hangover remedy they keep in the pantry. Arthur is a lightweight, is ridiculously skinny, especially with those frayed denims and soft faded t-shirts he insists on wearing - so he’ll be hangover in the morning anyway, but Francis would be very glad to wash away enough of his bad mood to avoid a fencing match with the kitchen knives tomorrow.
He comes back out to find Arthur muttering a bleary B’tter off with’t her at the telly remote.
“I’m sure,” Francis murmurs, and hauls him up from the couch, dragging him off into a sitting position, one arm around the shoulders, pushing the brim of the glass against his lips. “Drink up - all of it, love, or else I’ll ram it down your throat - you’ll thank me tomorrow, see.”
“Piss off,” Arthur grumbles, but drinks obediently.
There’s a brief scuffle as Francis attempts to wrestle him into his room; gravity makes a heroic win, though, by tumbling them both back down onto the couch in a nice bustle of tangled limbs.
“Y’re heavy,” Arthur giggles, which doesn’t make any sense since he’s the one on top. Francis tries to push him off in the hope of salvaging his nice jacket and shirt, and then gives it up as a lost cause and knocks his knee in Arthur’s abdomen, just out of spite.
“Budge over,” Arthur grunts, settling in. “Sod off, man, go die in a ditch - except even the ditch wouldn’t have you, ah ha,” he says, and falls asleep like a stone.
There is a pause, just there.
“The things I put up with for you,” Francis murmurs, finally, pushing blond hair out of his mouth. Somehow, his fingers get tangled in it.
Arthur drools.
Arthur’s sexuality is a… complicated matter. He considers himself as bisexual with a slight preference for girls - mostly because girls have breasts and thighs and he likes the skirt thing. But then sometimes he falls in love with the sight of furling toes poking out from pooling jeans, so. So there’s that.
He keeps it a secret, well-hidden, British, safe. Alfred knows, but that’s only because he (Alfred) walked in on him (Arthur) and another guy (José) in a concert hall closet eight months ago. Francis doesn’t, because then he’d know everything about Arthur, and that - Arthur isn’t quite sure how he feels about that.
Francis’ girlfriends (or boyfriends, for that matter, but Francis’ boy-relationships tend to last longer than anything between one night and a week, and are therefore rarer) usually like Arthur. He’s the considerate flatmate who’s always up early on weekends and sensibly lays out tea and toast and jam out for them; reads them their morning horoscope in the newspaper and lets them steal Francis’ shirt (the green one, the one he’s got tens of between he says it makes his waist look slimmer.)
Francis exactly calls one tenth of them again. Arthur has got it down, in diagrams.
“She break up with you again?” Francis asks from the doorway.
“T’rn the fuckin’ lights down,” Arthur blares, and then rolls and promptly falls off the couch, or very nearly. There are three empty bottles of beer on the carpet and one on the couch, on the cushions, one standing upright on the coffee table like a funny soldier and two presumably half-open, on the floor, pooling little puddles of beer on the parquet slats. Francis wrinkles his nose in disgust.
“Tosser,” Arthur says.
“St’p making that face,” Arthur says.
“You’re drunk,” Francis says, “and so very British.” He comes into the room prudently, glass clinking against his shoes (he takes them off, lines them up neatly by the door.)
“Shut up,” Arthur instructs, “am not,” and then: “didn’t br’k’p with me. I br’k’p with her,” he answers, somewhat disconnectedly, to the question of forever ago. He pushes his face into the cushions sullenly. “Was cheatin’ on me.”
“Bitch,” Francis comments laconically.
“Fffuck,” Arthur appears to consider the rest of the sentence for a moment, “you.”
“Anytime,” Francis says absently, slinking into the kitchen for the ready-brewed hangover remedy they keep in the pantry. Arthur is a lightweight, is ridiculously skinny, especially with those frayed denims and soft faded t-shirts he insists on wearing - so he’ll be hangover in the morning anyway, but Francis would be very glad to wash away enough of his bad mood to avoid a fencing match with the kitchen knives tomorrow.
He comes back out to find Arthur muttering a bleary B’tter off with’t her at the telly remote.
“I’m sure,” Francis murmurs, and hauls him up from the couch, dragging him off into a sitting position, one arm around the shoulders, pushing the brim of the glass against his lips. “Drink up - all of it, love, or else I’ll ram it down your throat - you’ll thank me tomorrow, see.”
“Piss off,” Arthur grumbles, but drinks obediently.
There’s a brief scuffle as Francis attempts to wrestle him into his room; gravity makes a heroic win, though, by tumbling them both back down onto the couch in a nice bustle of tangled limbs.
“Y’re heavy,” Arthur giggles, which doesn’t make any sense since he’s the one on top. Francis tries to push him off in the hope of salvaging his nice jacket and shirt, and then gives it up as a lost cause and knocks his knee in Arthur’s abdomen, just out of spite.
“Budge over,” Arthur grunts, settling in. “Sod off, man, go die in a ditch - except even the ditch wouldn’t have you, ah ha,” he says, and falls asleep like a stone.
There is a pause, just there.
“The things I put up with for you,” Francis murmurs, finally, pushing blond hair out of his mouth. Somehow, his fingers get tangled in it.
Arthur drools.
Arthur’s sexuality is a… complicated matter. He considers himself as bisexual with a slight preference for girls - mostly because girls have breasts and thighs and he likes the skirt thing. But then sometimes he falls in love with the sight of furling toes poking out from pooling jeans, so. So there’s that.
He keeps it a secret, well-hidden, British, safe. Alfred knows, but that’s only because he (Alfred) walked in on him (Arthur) and another guy (José) in a concert hall closet eight months ago. Francis doesn’t, because then he’d know everything about Arthur, and that - Arthur isn’t quite sure how he feels about that.
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