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Arthur has noticed something odd lately.
That is, Francis has been eating considerably less than usual. He stares at his food at home and in restaurants with a distant look in his eyes and often pokes at it and cuts his portions into smaller bits before reluctantly swallowing.
At first, Arthur thought it was the quality of the food. That was usually because the world and the heavens above knew that Francis only ate what he deemed as ‘high quality food’ which meant everything but English food.
So when Arthur ordered takeaway from Francis’ favourite restaurant and the man still ate so little, he became a bit more worried.
It had gotten worse when Francis started to frantically brush his hair in the early hours of the morning, shining his bright vanity lights all the way to their bed.
He would frown when walking in public, pinch at his skin, and come home with a million makeup products.
Only then did Arthur realise what was happening.
When Francis came home that Friday evening all worn out from work and barely able to walk to their bedroom because of exhaustion and the fact that he’s barely eating enough to sustain himself, Arthur surprised him with a dinner in bed.
Francis raised an eyebrow at the tray of food on his lap — terrine, a plate of coq au vin, various fruits, and even desserts like madeleines and crème brûlée. These were certainly above Arthur’s skill level in cooking.
“I didn’t cook it,” Arthur admits when Francis gives him a look, “They’re from your favourite shops and restaurants.”
He doesn’t say to Francis that he noticed that he hasn’t been eating much. Some things are better off acknowledged through actions.
Francis hesitates, hungry eyes glaze over the tray of all his favourite dishes.
“I can’t,” Francis turns his head away stubbornly, “I’m trying to get to this ideal weight— my coworkers have noticed that I’ve…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence but Arthur knows what he meant to say.
“Don’t be daft. You’ve been alive longer than some of their families,” Arthur snorts, “Don’t beat yourself up. Just eat this once.”
Francis’ tired blue eyes curve in gratitude. Another gesture that does not need words.
Slowly, he picks up his fork and reaches for the terrine.
Arthur sighs.
He wonders if he should say more, some sweet comforting words to lessen the anxiety, but bringing it up could make Francis self-aware again.
Careful to not disturb the man silently and tiredly eating the complex tray of meals in bed, Arthur watches his steps as he makes his way to their bathroom.
Francis doesn't usually allow Arthur to go through his products - which Arthur doesn't understand why that needed to be a rule because Francis had one million different and unusual products and Arthur had only a handful. He doesn't know which of Francis' products were for what anyhow.
He is aware though, that Francis keeps his makeup wipes just below the mirror.
He learned that Francis wore a face full of makeup whenever he needed to leave the house, and thus Arthur had observed him meticulously wipe it down despite the heaviness of his limbs after a long day.
Arthur thinks that he's watched enough to know what to do with these wipes.
Heading back into the bedroom, he sits beside Francis on the bed, who is still eating down the chicken hungrily. Francis really hasn't eaten enough, it's painstakingly obvious by how low his energy has been lately. Not enough energy to banter, not enough to cook.
"Francis," Arthur calls for his attention softly with a tissue in his hand.
Francis turns to face him and almost jumps out of the bed when Arthur reaches for his face.
"Calm down! I'm not going to kill you with makeup remover tissues," Arthur snorts, and Francis complains through a roll of his eyes.
Still, he leans in to Arthur's hand and allows the layers of makeup to be removed a bit too carefully.
Francis can feel Arthur struggling with each swipe on his face. He's holding back laughter as he eats and it's terribly obvious.
"Oww! You're pressing on my cheek!" Francis manages to choke out a few words after swallowing, eyes closed and a smile on his lips. He's starting to look better.
Unfortunately, it also makes Arthur's heart lighter.
"Then stop moving, idiot," Arthur mumbles, actually trying to focus on clearing all the makeup on Francis' face. He's almost finished the right side of his face.
Francis stills, but only for a second before the chewing continues. Thankfully Arthur was able to clear up the spot just above his eyebrow.
He wasn't aware removing makeup would be this hard. No wonder women seem to get even more tired after removing it.
Arthur stands from the bed and makes his way to the other side, standing patiently by Francis' left and taking another tissue to wipe down the left side of his face.
"Are you not going to clean the front of my face?" Francis asks, feeling the cold tissue press against his cheek, but this time he doesn't fidget around.
"I'll do it when you're finished eating," Arthur explains, focusing again to do all of this correctly.
Francis hums in delight, "You're so kind to me today, Arthur."
Arthur scoffs, "It's not amusing to watch you beat yourself up. Save the curses and hits for me instead."
He had meant to say that it was him who was meant to hit Francis - fighting like usual for a thousand years and more, but Francis may have taken it a different way with the way the man giggles.
In silence, they continue.
Francis eats, Arthur washes his face.
It's oddly affectionate.
Oh well, they've been living together so often that Arthur feels like a house cat.
"You know," Arthur begins with a mumble, reaching over to wipe makeup off Francis' head, "Some of my old queens quite liked you. They thought you were handsome, charming, and would not stop wanting me to invite you over during ball seasons."
Francis doesn't reply. Arthur doesn't mind.
"And Alfred said that 1960s Hollywood has never gotten over everything you've done for them," Arthur adds. It's the truth.
Francis doesn't say anything but Arthur watches the corner of his lips curve upwards gently.
Soon, the tray is finished, and Francis sets it to their bedside table while Arthur takes its place on Francis' lap.
He has to lean in close to Francis' face to wipe the makeup off his nose and in between eyebrows but Arthur doesn't mind.
Despite the lack of food, Francis' lips were still soft and red, and Arthur would be lying if he said he wasn't staring at them the whole time.
He'll commit to that desire after.
"Thank you," Francis manages to say in the silence.
"Don't thank me," Arthur grunts, "You're always taking care of me... it's only proper if I do the same."
After a few more minutes, Arthur finally finishes the whole face or at least he tried his best.
Francis seems satisfied, so it was fine.
Arthur gets off the bed to the bring the finished tray of food to the kitchen sink where tomorrow, it will be washed.
Tonight, as he gets back into bed with Francis already changed into pyjamas and huddled underneath the covers, Arthur only thinks of Francis.
Francis is asleep almost immediately. With the government collapsing and rebuilding almost every other day, Arthur somewhat pities him.
He stares at the sleeping man in front of him, face now healthier from the food and natural from the strenuous cleanse that Arthur did.
Francis has always been beautiful. Anyone who thinks otherwise must be bloody blind. Arthur very well believed it, he just doesn't say it.
He doesn't need to, he supposes, because it seems that Francis knows how truly, madly, and deeply Arthur had fallen for him, and that Arthur adores him like no other man or woman can.