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Sigh.
Arthur rubbed his cold palms over his face, his face feeling hot and stretched from exhaustion. It was past midnight, yet his brain refused to shut down, and instead spinning in useless, frantic circles that would lead to nowhere. He felt entirely detached, floating in the miserable and heavy space where you're too tired to sleep and too exhausted to function.
He blinked up at the kitchen ceiling, his eyelids threatening to fully close, feeling as heavy as lead weights. The silence in the house was almost deafening.. Desperate for any kind of anchoring sound to pull him back to reality - he reached for the old brass dial of the old radio. The radio hissed, a sharp crackle of static slicing through the silence in the dark room like a physical blow. Arthur winced, quickly turning down the volume until the white noise softened into something gentle. A low hum that matched the quiet ache in his head.
» There Is A Light That Never Goes Out «
0:14 ─〇───── 4:05
⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻
Meanwhile . . . . .
The floorboards in the doorway gave a soft yet familiar creak. Arthur didn't even have the energy to be startled, and instead merely tilted his head back against the upper cabinets as a peek of warm light from the hallway spilled across into the kitchen.
And there was the French man.
Francis stood there, looking thoroughly sleep-softened in his loose-silk pyjamas. His usually perfect-wavy blonde hair now a wild, tumbled mess. He didn't look annoyed for being woken up; his gaze was soft, his eyes drifting over the heavy shadows under his husband's eyes with immediate and quiet concern.
". . You are going to ruin your eyes idling in the dark like a ghost, mon cher," Francis murmured, his voice a low, gentle voice that cut through the radio's low hiss. He crossed the kitchen with fluid, silent steps, completely unbothered by the coldness of the floor, and stopped just inches away.
Before Arthur could mutter out a defensive reply; Francis reached out and gently caught his wrists. His hands were harm, which was a stark and grounding contrast to Arthur's chilled skin. With a quiet, patient firmness, the French man guided Arthur's hands away from the counter and placed them against his own chest, right over the steady, calming rhythm of his heart beat.
Trough the radio static, the soft, melancholy guitar strings of The Smiths began to fill up in the room.
"No words tonight, Artie," Francis whispered, sliding his right hand down to interlace their fingers together, his golden-wedding band pressing comfortably against Arthur's as they both glinted under the soft light coming from the hallways. He gave a gentle yet irresistible tug, bringing Arthur flushed against his chest. "Just let go for once, and let me carry the weight."
He began to sway, guiding them both into a slow, effortless rhythm right there on the cool kitchen floor.
The dance was brief, lasting for only a single verse of the song; but it was exactly what Arthur needed. He let his eyes slip shut, resting his forehead against the soft fabric of Francis' collarbone. The frantic, spinning thoughts had began to slow down and were now perfectly matching the gentle, heavy rhythm of their bare feet moving against the kitchen floor. For a few precious moments, the rest of the world had completely ceased to exist. There was only the low hiss of the radio, the expensive-like smell of lavender on Francis' skin, and the steady rise and fall of his husband's chest.
As the final chords of the guitar began to fade back into the quiet white noise, Francis stopped swaying elegantly. He kept his arms wrapped loosely around the British man's waist, looking down at him with a sleepy yet tender smile. "Better, mon ange?" he whispered softly.
Arthur didn't answer with words. But instead, he let out a small, faint sigh, sliding his hands up to grasp Francis' shoulders, and pushed himself up on his tippy toes to close the small distance between them.
The kiss was slow, deep and tasted faintly of the chamomile tea they'd shared hours before. It was a familiar, comforting routine of a marriage long established.
When Arthur finally pulled back, resting his heels back on the floor, the tension had completely drained from his shoulders. Francis kissed the crown of his husband's hair, then reached over to click the radio dial, plunging the kitchen back into peaceful silence.
"Come," Francis murmured, taking Arthur's hand and guided them both towards the stairs. "The bed is cold without you." For once, Arthur didn't argue. He let Francis click off the radio and lead him upstairs, now feeling more content and loved than tired and tensed.
A good night's rest. ♡