“Dad’s in the shower, but he said you could come in.” Arthur didn’t bother with a hello, just pushed the door open so Francis could come in. He stood aside and glared as Francis came in, holding a tray with some sort of treat on it. The Frenchman had dressed far nicer than he needed to, in slacks and a button up shirt, with his long hair tied back. It made Arthur, in his jean and tshirt, smirk a little.
“Bonjour, Arthur,” Francis smiled as he came in. “Where can I put this?” He’d stopped with the patronizing voice, but the sing-songey quality was worse. Arthur ground his teeth and pointed to the kitchen counter before closing the door and locking it. Then he made his way to the couch and sat down, grabbing his book.
Francis sat down with him a little way away, and Arthur could see over the edge of his book that the Frenchman was looking around. There wasn’t a whole lot to see. On the walls were pictures of Alfred and Arthur on various trips, and occasionally a picture of Alice, though Alfred had taken a lot of those down, since they still made him sad. They had a fairly nice TV and entertainment system, along with game consoles that were covered in dust (they hadn’t seen much use in the last five years, other than from Arthur’s baby sitter, a Japanese boy named Kiku, who would play after Arthur had gone to bed).
But it seemed Francis liked what he saw. Arthur sniffed and turned his attention back to the book.
“What are you reading?” Francis asked, and Arthur sighed, but he realized that leaving Francis to sit there is silence was rather rude.
“’The Hobbit’.” Arthur told him. “I’m re-reading it.”
Francis looked impressed, “’Re-reading’ it?”
He smiled a bit sheepishly, “Well, reading it for the first time for myself. When Mum was in hospital, Dad would read to her, and I would listen to it. I’ve already read the Harry Potter books, so, I’ve started in on Lord of the Rings.” Arthur flushed, having not meant to say that much. Before Francis could say anything, he got up and stomped to the kitchen to read.
Luckily for him, Alfred came out of the shower, fully dressed, so Francis didn’t follow him. But he could feel his gaze on him, and he just knew that Francis had a smile on his lips.
It was tough on Arthur to be polite when it felt like his home was being invaded. And Alfred wouldn’t let Arthur retreat to his room, even after they’d eaten, and the adults were just talking (Arthur really didn’t have that much to say). So he sat petulantly in an armchair, pretending to read, but really sending death glares Francis’ way every so often.
The frog was really too flirty for Arthur’s liking; it was so obvious that even he could understand it. A brush of a hand here, rubbing Alfred’s leg with his foot here. And his father didn’t get upset, rather, he blushed and seemed to encourage it. It seemed… wrong to Arthur for some reason.
It hit him when Alfred asked if Francis wanted to watch a movie with them before bed. The way that Alfred offered his hand to Francis, and smiled like that… That was how he remembered him helping Alice out of her seat; one of Arthur’s few memories of her. And when Francis took his hand with an easy laugh and nodded yes, Arthur snapped.
He stood up, and yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?!”
“Arthur, what-?” his father started to say, looking at him utterly confused. Arthur cut him off
“Don’t touch him like that!” He shouted. “Honestly, I can’t believe you!” Nor could he really articulate how he was feeling. “I hate you!” That wasn’t right, and judging from the baffled and slightly hurt look on Alfred’s face, it was actually a really bad thing to say. So Arthur ran to his room, slammed the door, and locked it.
From the other room, he heard Alfred saying, “I’m really sorry Franny… I dunno what’s gotten into him.”
“Perhaps I should go,” Francis agreed softly. “Merci for dinner.”
“No problem. I’ll call you later.” Footsteps, a pause, and the front door was closed.
Arthur didn’t even realize that he was crying until he flung himself on his bed, and felt the covers press up against his wet face.
Re: France/America Alfred single DAD (4b/?)
“Bonjour, Arthur,” Francis smiled as he came in. “Where can I put this?” He’d stopped with the patronizing voice, but the sing-songey quality was worse. Arthur ground his teeth and pointed to the kitchen counter before closing the door and locking it. Then he made his way to the couch and sat down, grabbing his book.
Francis sat down with him a little way away, and Arthur could see over the edge of his book that the Frenchman was looking around. There wasn’t a whole lot to see. On the walls were pictures of Alfred and Arthur on various trips, and occasionally a picture of Alice, though Alfred had taken a lot of those down, since they still made him sad. They had a fairly nice TV and entertainment system, along with game consoles that were covered in dust (they hadn’t seen much use in the last five years, other than from Arthur’s baby sitter, a Japanese boy named Kiku, who would play after Arthur had gone to bed).
But it seemed Francis liked what he saw. Arthur sniffed and turned his attention back to the
book.
“What are you reading?” Francis asked, and Arthur sighed, but he realized that leaving Francis to sit there is silence was rather rude.
“’The Hobbit’.” Arthur told him. “I’m re-reading it.”
Francis looked impressed, “’Re-reading’ it?”
He smiled a bit sheepishly, “Well, reading it for the first time for myself. When Mum was in hospital, Dad would read to her, and I would listen to it. I’ve already read the Harry Potter books, so, I’ve started in on Lord of the Rings.” Arthur flushed, having not meant to say that much. Before Francis could say anything, he got up and stomped to the kitchen to read.
Luckily for him, Alfred came out of the shower, fully dressed, so Francis didn’t follow him. But he could feel his gaze on him, and he just knew that Francis had a smile on his lips.
It was tough on Arthur to be polite when it felt like his home was being invaded. And Alfred wouldn’t let Arthur retreat to his room, even after they’d eaten, and the adults were just talking (Arthur really didn’t have that much to say). So he sat petulantly in an armchair, pretending to read, but really sending death glares Francis’ way every so often.
The frog was really too flirty for Arthur’s liking; it was so obvious that even he could understand it. A brush of a hand here, rubbing Alfred’s leg with his foot here. And his father didn’t get upset, rather, he blushed and seemed to encourage it. It seemed… wrong to Arthur for some reason.
It hit him when Alfred asked if Francis wanted to watch a movie with them before bed. The way that Alfred offered his hand to Francis, and smiled like that… That was how he remembered him helping Alice out of her seat; one of Arthur’s few memories of her. And when Francis took his hand with an easy laugh and nodded yes, Arthur snapped.
He stood up, and yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?!”
“Arthur, what-?” his father started to say, looking at him utterly confused. Arthur cut him off
“Don’t touch him like that!” He shouted. “Honestly, I can’t believe you!” Nor could he really articulate how he was feeling. “I hate you!” That wasn’t right, and judging from the baffled and slightly hurt look on Alfred’s face, it was actually a really bad thing to say. So Arthur ran to his room, slammed the door, and locked it.
From the other room, he heard Alfred saying, “I’m really sorry Franny… I dunno what’s gotten into him.”
“Perhaps I should go,” Francis agreed softly. “Merci for dinner.”
“No problem. I’ll call you later.” Footsteps, a pause, and the front door was closed.
Arthur didn’t even realize that he was crying until he flung himself on his bed, and felt the covers press up against his wet face.