Archive of Our Own

The first time Francis ever cooked for him, Arthur Kirkland thought it was a bit much. Perfectly seared scallops, golden at the edges, rested on a bed of purée so green it looked like something from an oil painting. Arthur poked it around with his fork.

“I’m just not very hungry.” He said eventually. It was what he always said.

Francis Bonnefoy, who was sitting across the table with a glass of wine, waved a dismissive hand in his direction. “Mon chou, you haven’t even tasted it yet. One bite. If you don’t like it, I’ll make you something else. Toast? English people like toast, non?”

Arthur took a bite. It was good. Objectively, he could recognize that it was good. The scallop was buttery, the purée was the perfect amount of sweet. He chewed, swallowed, and put his fork down.

“And?” Francis leaned forward, eyes bright.

“It’s fine.”

Francis’ face fell for a moment before he laughed, shaking his head. “A tough crowd. My Matthew would’ve asked for seconds already. But then he would’ve also smothered it over his cheeks, so maybe I do prefer this.” He reached across the table and patted Arthur’s hand, covering it with his own. “You’ll come around. I am a patient man.”

Arthur didn’t pull away, but he didn't quite know what to do with the warmth, either.

~~~

The thing is, Arthur never really skipped meals. 

Growing up with three older brothers and more siblings on the way meant dinner was chaos. You grabbed what you could, when you could, or you went hungry. Arthur learned early on that books were more reliable than people, more consistent than food. A library would be there tomorrow. Same page, same story. Dinner, on the other hand, would be gone.

By the time he was ten, he’d stopped noticing the hunger pangs. They were just another background noise, like his brothers shouting or his mother singing in the kitchen while washing the dishes.

His mother tried, once. She’d caught him in the living room at midnight, reading curled up on the couch next to the brightest lamp in the house.

“Arthur, when did you last eat?”

He had to think about it. “Breakfast?”

“That was over fifteen hours ago.”

“Oh.” He thought about it, then shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry.”

She’d made him a sandwich and stood over him until he finished it. The next day, she was back to managing his younger brothers. Peter was whining because he didn’t like carrots all of a sudden, baby Alfred had slapped his hand into his bowl of cereal, splashing milk everywhere, and Arthur had gone back to forgetting.

He was skinny. He knew that. His ribs showed when he stretched, and his wrists were bird-bone thin. But he was also one of the many middle children. The quiet one, the one who got good grades and never caused trouble. No one worried about the kid who caused no trouble.

At school, they’d done those height and weight checks in gym class. Arthur always stepped on the scale, watched the nurse’s pen hover over her clipboard, and waited for her to say something, as she would do with the other kids. She never did. Just wrote down the number and moved on to the next student.

He assumed that meant he was fine. 

By the time he was sixteen, he adapted enough to feel comfortable in his body. He ate enough to function. A bite there, a nibble there. Sure, he was skinny, anyone could see that, but he’d always been thin. Lanky. “Arthur’s a late bloomer.” His mother always shrugged whenever someone commented. “He’ll fill out.”

Arthur never filled out.

He went to university, where he comfortably lived on tea, instant noodles, and the occasional meal from the cafeteria if he remembered. His grades were excellent. His social life was nonexistent. He preferred it that way. People were loud, expecting things like dinner, sitting in pubs, eating.

He dated every once in a while. He’s always preferred men over women, and finding someone who swung the same way as him was relatively easy if you knew where to look. But no one lasted long enough to notice the way he pushed around food on his plate when he got full, the way he always had an excuse ready. No one stayed long enough to see him in the morning, when the light caught the sharp angles of his collarbones, and how his sternum and ribs were pronounced against his chest.

No one ever stayed.

He told himself he preferred it that way.

~~~

Francis was different from the start.

They met at a wine bar: Arthur had a work thing, and Francis was the sommelier. He was tall and golden, with beautiful hair, laughed too loudly, gestured too broadly, took up space in a way that should’ve been overwhelming, but somehow wasn’t. He spoke to Arthur like the two had known each other for years, like Arthur was someone worth knowing.

Arthur waited for him to leave.

Francis never did.

He asked for Arthur’s number when most of Arthur’s coworkers had left. Arthur gave it, and still expected nothing. Francis texted him the next day. And the next. And the next.

He told Arthur about Matthew on their third date.

“I have a son,” he said suddenly over a coffee. “He’s four. Well, nearly five, soon. His name is Matthew.”

Arthur blinked. “Oh.”

“He is very important to me. And if… this relationship between us is going to be something serious, I want you to know that he will always be my number one priority. This is not something that will change any time soon.”

“…Yes, obviously. Kids are important. I helped raise my younger siblings, so I think I understand how that feels… somewhat.” Arthur saw how Francis was still a bit on edge, clearly nervous. He wondered how many times he had this conversation with other people he was interested in that just walked away. “Can you… tell me something about him?”

“Oh! Yes. Well, I was eighteen when he was born.” Francis sighed deeply, like it was something painful to remember. “His mother, she… we were young. Slept only once, really. But that was enough. She got pregnant, and she didn’t want-” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “She didn't want an abortion. But she also didn’t want to put her life on hold. She had dreams she had to fulfill. Plans. She’s a violinist. A very talented one. She travels across Europe now, playing with an orchestra. I forget which one. We’re not in contact.”

“And Matthew?”

“Matthew stayed with me.” Francis’ face softened. “I was terrified. I was seventeen when I found out she was pregnant. I was still in school, liked to party, smoked like a chimney, and did chaotic things with friends. No money, no idea what I was doing. When I told my parents, my mom yelled at me before saying if I didn’t take responsibility for my kid, she would bash my head with a frying pan for the rest of my miserable life. They helped, obviously, along with my grandparents and other family members that could afford it. And I figured it out.” He looked at Arthur, almost defiant. “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Hardest thing, too. But the best. And I’d go through that hell of raising him a thousand times over if it means I get to see him grow up with me.”

Arthur looked at this man—this beautiful, chaotic, loving man—and felt something crack open in his chest.

“That’s…” he didn’t even know what to say. “That’s good. That you kept him.”

Francis let a tiny smile perk up at the corners of his mouth. “You think so?”

“I think…” Arthur looked down at his empty cup of coffee. “I think a lot of people wouldn’t have. They would have made a different choice. I know I wouldn’t be able to do something like that. He’s lucky.”

Francis reached across the table and took Arthur’s hand. “Trust me, I’m the lucky one.”

Arthur stared at their hands, but didn't pull away.

~~~

When Francis formally invited him over for dinner for the first time, Arthur brought a bottle of wine and a book, just in case.

Matthew was there: a small blond child with enormous purple eyes who hid behind Francis or other pieces of furniture for the first twenty minutes, before deciding Arthur was acceptable and showed him his entire collection of stuffed animals. Arthur found himself on the floor, being introduced to a polar bear named Kuma, and it was… nice. Strange, but nice.

“Matthew, leave Arthur alone. He needs space to breathe.” Francis spoke with a warm and amused voice.

“But he likes Kuma!” Matthew held the bear up and nodded at Arthur. “See? He’s smiling.”

Arthur was not smiling, but something in his face must’ve softened, because Francis made a small sound and pressed a hand to his chest.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Francis shook his head, but was still smiling. “You’re just… not what I expected.”

“What did you expect from me?”

“Someone colder, maybe. Your people have that reputation. The grumpy Englishmen at wine tastings who never have anything nice to say.” Francis crouched down next to Matthew, ruffling his hair. “But you’re on the floor with my son, meeting his stuffed animals. You’re not cold.”

Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed. “He’s a child. I’m not a monster.”

“No,” Francis agreed softly. “You’re not.”

Dinner was coq au vin. Francis had clearly gone all out. The flat smelled like herbs and wine and something rich and slow-cooked.

Arthur ate maybe half of what was on his plate. Which, for him, was a lot.

Francis watched him the entire time. Not in an obvious way. Of course he was talking, telling stories about his work as a sommelier, Matthew’s latest daycare adventures, which Matthew kept interrupting to add onto. But his eyes always drifted back to Arthur’s plate, tracking each bite.

“You don’t like it,” Francis said finally when he noticed Arthur’s fork had been still for several minutes.

“No! It’s-” Arthur looked down at his half-finished plate. “It’s wonderful, I liked it a lot. I’m just… full.”

“You’ve eaten maybe ten bites.”

Arthur felt his face heat at the attention. Growing up in such a big family, no one ever tracked how many bites Arthur took, or how he liked his meal. The attention was a bit overwhelming.

“I’m not a big eater.”

Francis studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay. More for us, then.” He reached over and took Arthur’s plate, scraping the remains into his own. “Maybe dessert? I made tarte tarin.”

“I really couldn’t.”

“Coffee, then. You have enough room in your stomach for coffee.”

He hated coffee.

Yet Arthur stayed for coffee.

~~~

They fell into a rhythm. Arthur came over two, maybe three times a week. He read to Matthew while Francis cooked. He learned that the Frenchman generally expressed his love through food—rich sauces and soft baked bread, elaborate breakfasts on Saturday mornings and snacks when Matthew couldn’t sleep.

Arthur read to Matthew while Francis cooked—picture books about bears and trains and encyclopedias of animals. Matthew sat in his lap, small and warm, sometimes taking his thumb into his mouth and pointing to a picture to say something about it, and Arthur learned the weight of a child trusting him was the most precious thing in the world.

He learned other things, too. Like how Francis woke up at six every morning to make Matthew breakfast before school, and worked in the evenings so he could be home with Matthew after he was done learning. Their flat was filled with Matthew’s drawings, stuck to the fridge with magnets, taped to walls, scattered across every flat surface was a testament to how loved the kid was.

Arthur also learned what it looked like when a twenty-two year old man, who raised a baby alone, finally had someone to share the weight with. He could see Francis’ shoulders relax when Arthur offered to watch Matthew so he could shower. The way his eyes went soft when Arthur showed up with a new book for Matthew, picked up from the library on a whim. The way he looked at Arthur sometimes, like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.

Arthur didn’t understand that; he’d never been someone worth looking at like that.

But he stayed anyway.

He still forgot to eat when he was alone, subsisting on tea and the occasional biscuit, or whatever he could grab between work and home. His body was like a machine he fueled only when the warning lights came on. Francis didn’t know about this, and Arthur was too uncomfortable with his staring to tell him about it. He had a feeling it wouldn’t go over well if Arthur admitted to the way he ate. So he complimented his food, let Francis feed him bites while they cooked together, let him press food into his hands for his rides home.

~~~

Over time, the food thing became a battle. Francis never said anything directly. Not at first, but he noticed. Arthur could see him noticing: the way his eyes tracked Arthur’s plate, the way he served Arthur smaller portions, or that he always had snacks ready whenever Arthur arrived, feeding fruit and cheese and little pieces of baguette to him in a romantic manner.

“Eat,” he said, casual, like it was nothing. “I made too much. Matthew can’t finish it all.”

Arthur ate. Sometimes. When he remembered. When the food didn’t feel like too much. But old habits died hard, and Arthur had been forgetting to eat for twenty years. They couldn’t change overnight.

He still subsisted on tea at work. Still forgot lunch entirely, too lost in reports and emails. Still tumbled into his flat that he visited less and less as time went on, exhausted and empty, and realized he hadn’t eaten since the dinner Francis made him and Matthew nearly twenty four hours ago.

He could hide it when he was by himself, but it was getting more difficult when Arthur started staying with Francis more often, sleeping in his bed on the nights when he was too tired to make the journey home. Francis always knew, somehow, and it was no use hiding it from him.

“You forgot again,” he’d say.

“I’m sorry. I’ll eat now.”

“That’s not-” Francis stopped himself and took a breath. “Okay. Sit. I’ll make you something.”

And he did. Every time. He made Arthur food and sat with him while he ate it, and he didn’t say anything about how Arthur had to remind himself to take each bite, how eating felt like a chore, a job, something other people do without thinking.

It was hard, but he stayed for Francis.

~~~

The first time Francis’ hand slipped under his shirt, they were on Francis’ couch. Matthew was asleep in his bedroom, and the flat was quiet. Francis kissed him slowly, tenderly, like they had all the time in the world. Arthur reveled in the feeling of the kiss, like he was something to savor, not someone to rush through.

Francis’ hand drifted up his side, warm and gentle, and Arthur shivered, wordlessly asking for closer contact. Fingers skated over his ribs.

And stopped.

Francis pulled back with a furrowed brow. His hand stayed where it was, pressed against Arthur’s side. He could feel his fingers still against the bone.

“Arthur.”

“What?” The Englishman was slightly breathless, too caught up in the moment to understand what was happening.

Francis moved his hand. Traced each rib. Slid to his hip, where the bone jutted against sharp skin. The hand slipped back and ran over Arthur’s pointy spine. The Frenchman’s face went still.

“When did you last eat?”

Arthur opened his mouth to say his usual this morning, but something in his boyfriend’s expression stopped him. Francis looked… scared. Actually terrified.

“I don’t know,” Arthur admitted quietly. “Yesterday? I had tea.”

Francis closed his eyes and took a breath. When he opened them, his voice was carefully level. “Stand up.”

“Francis-”

“Stand up, mon cœur, please.”

And just because of that please, the way Francis called him my heart in his native tongue, Arthur slowly stood up. Francis stood with him, took his hand, and led him to the bathroom. On the floor next to the sink was a digital scale. Francis nudged it with his foot.

“Take your clothes off and get on.”

“What? Francis, I don’t-”

“Please.”

The word cracked, and Arthur’s heart beat so wildly at the thought of Francis being hurt that he surrendered.

“Can you turn around, then?”

Francis obediently turned away, and Arthur suspiciously eyed him as he removed his clothing. When he was just in his boxers, he took a breath and got on the scale.

The number blinked back at him, and Arthur didn’t really know what to say about it. Francis sensed how lost Arthur was and turned around to look at it (he was pointedly not looking in Arthur’s direction, which he appreciated) his face went white and he let out a quiet swear in French. Arthur looked back at the scale and saw the same number again. He knew it was low. He’d always been thin. But the look on Francis’ face…

“What?” Arthur asked carefully. “Is that bad?”

Francis stared at him. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“How much you should weigh. For your height.” Francis’ voice is strange. Strained. “Arthur, how tall are you?”

“One hundred seventy-three. Seventy-five? Something like that.”

“And you’re…” Francis looked down at the number on the scale. “This isn’t- Arthur, I’m one hundred seventy-five and I weigh sixty-eight kilograms. Merde, when was the last time you went to a doctor?”

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t get sick.”

“That’s not-” Francis ran a hand through his hair and tugged at the ends. He started pacing around the bathroom. “That’s not the point. This is… Arthur, this is dangerously low. Do you understand that?”

Arthur looked at the number again, like it was going to tell him something if he looked enough times, but the display had already dimmed. “I’ve always been thin. I don’t know what I’m supposed to weigh.”

“No.” Francis pointed a finger at Arthur. “No, this isn’t thin. You’re malnourished. Your body is consuming itself because you’re not feeding it.” He reached out, cupping Arthur’s face with both hands. His thumbs traced over his cheekbones, standing sharp beneath his skin. “Have you looked at yourself, mon chou? Really looked?”

Arthur had unintentionally avoided mirrors for years. He doesn’t mention this.

Francis took a breath, let it out. Then he pulled Arthur close, wrapping his arms around him tight. Arthur could feel him shaking.

“I’ll help you,” Francis said into his neck. “Tomorrow, you're coming with me to see someone. A doctor. A specialist. And we’re going to figure this out. Together. Okay?”

Arthur wanted to argue. To say he was fine, he was always fine, that was just how he was. But Francis was holding him like he was something precious, like he was something worth keeping, and Arthur didn’t know how to be the thing that broke Francis’ heart.

“Okay,” he whispered.

~~~

Francis pulled some strings—a friend of a friend type situation—and Arthur was sitting with a doctor the very next day. The therapist’s name was Dr. Hédreváry. She had kind eyes, but asked a lot of questions.

“When did you first start skipping meals?”

“I don’t know. I was young.”

“What do you feel when you eat?”

“Nothing. It’s just fuel to keep me going.”

“Do you ever feel hungry?”

“Yes, occasionally.”

“Do you understand that your body needs food to survive?”

“Obviously I do. I’m not stupid.”

Dr. Hédreváry wrote something down. “Arthur, have you ever heard of anorexia nervosa?”

“Of course. It’s an eating disorder. People starve themselves to be thin.”

“Well, yes. But it’s more complicated than that. For some people, it starts with restriction. They skip meals, lose touch with hunger cues. The body adapts, and then the mind adapts, and before you know it, you’ve forgotten what enough even feels like. Sometimes an eating disorder is more than not wanting to be thin. Some people just forget. Or never learn in the first place.”

Arthur blankly stared at her. “I’m not trying to be thin, I don’t… I don’t care about that.”

“I believe you.” She nodded, but Arthur could tell she didn’t. “But that doesn’t change what’s happening to your body. Your heart is a muscle. It needs fuel to survive. Your brain needs fuel. Right now, you’re running on empty, and eventually, that engine will stop working. But the human body isn’t a car. If it fails, there’s little we can do to get you back up and running. Do you understand that?”

Francis, who had been quietly sitting in the chair next to him, reached over and took Arthur’s hand. Arthur glanced down at it, but didn’t move.

“There are people who can help.” Dr. Hédreváry continued. “You can visit a nutritionist. I’m a therapist who specializes in things like this. It won’t be easy. You’ve spent your whole life learning not to listen to your body. Teaching you to hear it again will be difficult. But you’re still young. It’s not impossible.

Arthur stared down at his lap. At his hand, thin and pale, veins visible beneath the skin.

“How do I do that?”

“One meal at a time.”

~~~

The nutritionist gave him a meal plan. Three meals a day. Snacks in between. Specific portions, specific food groups. A schedule, because his body no longer knew how to tell him when it needed fuel. He had a journal to write in, log his meals and photograph them, write down his blood pressure in the morning and at night, whether he had bowel movements today. Arthur looked at all of it and felt a heaviness in his chest. No hunger, no interest, no desire. Just a long list of tasks.

He tried. He really did.

Eating breakfast was hard. He’d never been hungry in the mornings. Tea was always enough. But Francis made oatmeal with two boiled eggs and a glass of orange juice next to it. He sat across from Arthur until he finished.

The food was good. It was always good. That wasn’t part of the problem. Arthur didn’t dislike eating, he simply forgot. Food had never been a source of pleasure or comfort or even particular notice to him. It was something that happened, sometimes, when other things weren’t happening.

“I have to go to work.” Arthur said, pushing the oatmeal around. He was considering just standing up and leaving. Francis wouldn’t pick him up and sit him back down as he did with Matthew, could he?

“You have time.” Francis’ voice was calm, but firm. “Eat.”

“I really can’t eat anymore. I’m full.”

“Drink some juice, sit for a bit, and continue.”

Arthur begrudgingly ate.

Francis kissed him afterward, soft and sweet, and said, “Thank you, I know that must have been hard.”

And Arthur thought maybe he could do this.

~~~

Lunch was harder. He would be at work, alone. The journal was in his bag, but the stack of reports he needed to review was beside him on his desk. He would surely eat after he finished this one. But this one was easy, he’d just finish this as well and then eat. And the next one after that. Then-

His phone buzzed.

“Did you eat?”

Arthur looked up from Francis’ text at the clock. It was just after two-thirty. He’d forgotten.

“Just about to,” he texted back.

“Send me a photo.”

Arthur stared at the message. Then, absurdly, he laughed. He took out his lunch, snapped a photo of his sad desk salad and sent it.

“More protein tomorrow,” Francis texted back. “But this is good. I’m proud of you <3”

Arthur ate the salad. It was just lettuce, tomatoes, and a drizzle of dressing. But he ate it.

~~~

Dinner was at Francis’ more often than not, now. Matthew was chattering about his day, showing Arthur a drawing he made of a cat with six legs. Francis made salmon and roasted vegetables and some kind of quinoa thing that Arthur didn’t recognize.

“You have to try it,” Francis said. “Just a bite.”

Arthur tried it. It was good. He ate half the plate. Francis beamed.

Later, after Matthew had been tucked in and sleeping, they curled up in Francis’ bed. The Frenchman had found his way under Arthur’s shirt again, tracing his side.

“You feel different,” Francis murmured.

“I ate dinner…”

“I know.” Francis pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I can feel it. You feel more solid. More… here.”

Arthur didn’t know what to say to that. He had always been here. Hadn’t he?

~~~

Arthur never really thought about it, but as more clothes ventured from one place to another, he realized he truly was living with Francis now. He’d slept over before, when he stayed so late after dinner that there was no point in going home, but he and Francis were always so tired that they passed out on his bed without the chance for intimacy.

Was it really because of his “eating disorder” that he was here all the time now? He should feel bad, really. Francis had a lot on his plate: a son in primary school, a draining job, and now cooking and caring for his boyfriend as well like he was his second child? But Arthur deeply craved climbing into bed and curling up next to Francis, because Francis loved hugging him, gently stroking his body in a not-so-subtle way to check how much mass he’d gained.

Arthur rubbed his eyes tiredly one morning and glanced at the clock. It was nine in the morning, and his heart skipped a beat before he remembered it was Saturday. Matthew didn’t need to be taken to school, so Francis was asleep, with his arm placed on Arthur’s waist like a dead weight. Arthur wiggled out from under it, and threw on one of Francis’ shirts before walking over to check on Matthew. His boyfriend’s son was nowhere to be seen, there was just an unmade bed.

He made his way to the kitchen and paused upon hearing quiet voices, one of which belonged to Matthew, and another that he didn’t recognize. Arthur cautiously edged over to see a woman standing over the stove cooking something, and Matthew sitting in his usual seat as the two of them babbled off in French. 

This wasn’t an intruder, was it? What kind of robber cooks breakfast and makes small talk with a child in a language the younger coincidentally understands?

He quietly cursed when the floorboards underneath him loudly creaked. The woman turned around, and the two made eye contact. She had brown hair with grey streaks pulled up in a bun, and she was wearing Francis’ apron.

“Who are you?” She asked in accented English.

“Who are you?” He parroted in turn.

“Arthur!” Matthew shot up from his seat and ran over to hug the man around his middle. Arthur gently put his arms around Matthew, but didn’t take his eyes off the woman. “Arthur, this is grand mère Mari! Grand mère, this is Arthur! He’s papa’s friend! He brings me books and helps me read them, and we also play zoo together!”

The kid began pulling Arthur into the kitchen, ignoring the tension in the room. Arthur saw the woman assess Arthur’s attire: a shirt that belonged to her son, paired with sweatpants, that also belonged to her son.

“Papa’s friend? I see.” She spoke, and Arthur felt his face going red.

“Um… hello. Apologies for meeting you like this, I just woke up.” He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t… aware you were coming over.”

“You didn’t?” she sighed. “I’m Marianne, Francis’ mother. Though maybe he forgot he has one, since he didn’t inform you I was coming over today.”

Arthur tried to recall if Francis had said anything about his mother coming over, but no, surely Arthur would remember such a thing. Francis only made it home in the late hours of the night, inevitably waking Arthur up and pressing a kiss to his neck as an apology.

“He got home late, maybe he forgot to tell me.”

Marianne had already turned back to her cooking, not entertaining Arthur’s weak excuse with a response.

“Arthur, look, grand mère made French toast with strawberries and blueberries! Do you want some?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Arthur shook his head.

“But Papa always says you need to eat! And the doctor said so, too!”

Arthur really was not about to let a child rattle off about his supposed eating disorder to his boyfriend’s mom, since this wasn’t the first impression he intended to make. His hair wasn’t even brushed, nor did he wash his face before coming down.

“Okay, I’ll eat.” He grumbled and pulled a yogurt cup out of the fridge. He barely managed to get through half of his cup before a plate was placed in front of him.

“That is not a good breakfast.” Marianne took one look at his sad excuse for a meal, and Arthur felt like a kid again with his mom standing over him while he ate his sandwich at night.

Arthur thanked her anyway.

Francis finally came out of their bedroom when it was nearly noon. He had on a loose shirt and sweatpants that hung low on his hips, and he was clearly still half-asleep. Matthew was quietly coloring at the table, and Arthur and Marianne were talking amongst themselves.

Marianne, who was facing towards the entrance of the kitchen, noticed him first and arched an eyebrow. “Ah, the man of the house finally woke up.”

“Maman!” Francis blinked owlishly at her, flicking his eyes from her, to Arthur and Matthew. “What are you doing here? Weren’t you supposed to come-” He looked over at the calendar and buried his face in his hands when he noticed the date. “Ah, je suis désolé, je pensais…”

“Clearly you weren’t thinking. Your breakfast is on the stove, you can heat it yourself.”

Francis went off to get his food, and Matthew followed him to say good morning, clinging to his father even as he moved around. They joined the other two shortly, and Francis pressed a kiss to Arthur’s hair.

“Bonjour, mon cœur.” He said softly.

“More like good afternoon.” Arthur scoffed. “Did you sleep well?”

Francis nodded and quickly began scarfing down his food like a starved man.

“I really did forget,” he said after a while. “I just have… a lot going on, I really wanted to be there to introduce you to Arthur.”

“It was certainly a surprise to see a random man come out wearing my son’s clothes and ask me who I was.” 

“Yes, that must’ve been quite… alarming.” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck.

“Did you eat?” Francis asked quietly when Marianne excused herself to the bathroom.

Arthur nodded. “French toast with berries and yogurt.” 

“Write it down and measure your blood pressure.”

“Already two steps ahead of you.”

Francis smiled and pulled him into a hug. “That’s my Arthur.” He planted a kiss on his temple.

The four of them ended up walking in a park, stopping for long periods of time when Matthew saw a playground. Kuma also came along, but even though Francis told him Matthew had to carry the polar bear with him, Francis was the one who held Kuma under his arm the majority of the trip.

Arthur learned more about Francis’ family, and about Francis himself from Marianne. They had lived in Calais for Francis’ entire childhood, but Francis inexplicably moved to Brighton when Matthew was three years old to send him to a good, affordable school. Like all children, Matthew absorbed the English language like a sponge, and within two years he spoke like any other five year old English child.

“Why England, though?” Arthur asked.

“English is a rather universal language in this world, when he grows up, I want him to have the opportunity to go anywhere he wants and accomplish his dreams. It’s the least I can do for him, really.” Francis sighed. “But now I’m glad I moved here. Because I met you.” 

Arthur felt his face heating up and he turned away. “Yes, well… that’s certainly a plus.”

Marianne softly chuckled at the interaction, though she was watching her grandson go down the slide for probably the fifteenth time.

She left after Francis put Matthew to bed, and while it was just Arthur and Marianne, she unexpectedly gave him a solid smile.

“You’re good to him. Francis is a very hardworking man, he deserves to rest and have someone to come home to. Well, someone who won’t nag him to play children’s games and asks to tell stories at night.” She chuckled to herself. “And I believe he’s good to you. You seem like you need someone to share your burdens with.”

“Francis is a good person. I believe he pours his heart out to people even if he knows he won’t get the same amount in return.” Arthur said, then realized it’s the most sincere thing he’s spoken about Francis in their entire relationship.

When Marianne left, Arthur and Francis curled up on the couch to watch some detective drama. Francis had his chin resting on Arthur’s head, and Arthur had his body in a position that would surely be aching tomorrow, but he enjoyed being able to feel the warmth all around him.

“Arthur?” Francis spoke hesitantly.

The Englishman hummed.

“…Is it too early to say that I love you?” 

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat, then beat twice the speed it was at before.

“Um-”

“You don’t have to say it back.” Francis kissed his hair. “I just want you to know.”

They didn’t talk until the movie ended, and even then they didn’t move from their positions. Arthur relaxed in Francis’ hold and felt him caress his hair. When they got into bed, too exhausted to do anything other than share a few kisses, Arthur buried his face into Francis’ chest.

“I… I love you too.” He said, and sincerely hoped Francis hadn’t heard him. He felt the Frenchman smile and nuzzle Arthur’s hair sweetly.

“I know, mon cœur, I know…”

~~~

The phone call from his eldest brother came on Friday, when Arthur was alone in his flat.

Their parents. Car accident. Both gone.

He stood in the kitchen, holding his phone, listening to his brother’s voice crack and break. Arthur didn’t cry, he didn’t feel anything,

“I need you to come home,” Alistair said. “The funeral. And Alfred, God, someone has to take Alfred.”

Alfred. His youngest brother. Eight years old. Loud and bright and so full of life he practically vibrated with it. Arthur hadn’t seen him in two years since moving away.

“Of course,” Arthur spoke quietly. “I’ll be there.”

He hung up, looked around the kitchen. There was a plate on the counter with half a sandwich on it. He made it this morning and meant to eat it for lunch.

Arthur put it in the fridge. He’d eat it later, after he packed. After he booked the train. After he figured out how to tell Francis that his whole world had turned upside down.

He forgot to eat for two days.

~~~

Francis found Arthur at his flat the evening before he had to leave. Pale and hollow-eyed, with a single bag at the front door.

“You didn’t call me back.” Francis’ voice was tight. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

“Sorry. I was-”

“You didn’t eat.” Francis’ eyes were scanning him, taking in the new sharpness of his cheekbones, the way his clothes hung looser than they did a week ago. “Arthur.”

“I know.” Arthur’s voice came out slightly irritated. “I know. I just- I couldn’t-”

Francis pulled him into a hug and held him tight. Arthur stood there, stiff and unresponsive, but Francis just held him tighter.

“You can’t just text me that your parents died and not respond. I’m going to worry.”

“I’m sorry.” Arthur said again, but the words almost held no meaning anymore from how much he said them already. 

“I’m coming with you.” Francis said into his hair. “I’ll send Matthew to my parent’s house. I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I know I don’t.” Francis pulled back and cupped his face. “I want to. Let me help you. Please.”

Arthur looked at him. This man spent months trying to feed him, trying to keep him alive, and he didn’t have it in him to deny the Frenchman.

“Okay,” he whispered.

~~~

The funeral was a blur.

Arthur’s brothers were there, all of them, for the first time in years. They shook hands, exchanged awkward hugs, talked about arrangements and lawyers and what to do with the house. No one mentioned how thin Arthur was. No one asked if he was okay.

Alfred stood apart from all of them. He was small for an eight year old, with big blue eyes and messy hair and a face that hadn’t quite learned what to hide what he was feeling. He had been crying. His eyes were red, his cheeks and nose blotchy. But he wasn’t crying now, just staring at nothing, and his gaze occasionally flickered to Arthur.

At the end of the service, Arthur approached him.

“Alfred.”

“Are you taking me?” Alfred’s voice was rough from crying. “They said you’re taking me.”

Arthur nodded. “If you want to come, yes.”

Alfred’s face crumpled. For one terrible moment, Arthur thought he was going to cry again. But he just rubbed his eyes with his fists and straightened up, squaring his shoulders and said, “Okay. When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Alfred looked around at the dispersing crowd, at the graves, at the sky. “I don’t… I don’t want to stay here.”

“Me neither.” Arthur rubbed his back. “Let’s go.”

~~~

On the train home, Alfred sat pressed against Arthur’s side, small and warm and desperately trying not to cry. Francis sat across from them, giving them space, but occasionally flitting worried eyes toward them.

“Are you going to tell me who that is?” Alfred whispered, nodding toward Francis.

“My… my boyfriend. His name is Francis.”

Alfred bit the inside of his cheek. “He came with you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Arthur thought about it. “Because he wanted to help.”

Alfred was quiet for a long time. Then: “Is he going to be there? At the place where we're going?”

“Yes. We… sort of live together. Well, I live with him, mostly.” Arthur paused. “He has a son, Matthew. He’s five.”

Alfred’s eyes widened slightly. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he like?”

Arthur thought about Matthew, with those big purple eyes, quiet voice, and a fierce attachment to his polar bear. How he watched, so perceptive and aware for someone his age, and missed nothing.

“He’s… shy, at first. But when he opens up to you, he’s certainly a brilliant and amazing friend. You’ll surely like him.”

~~~

Four people in a two-bedroom flat was… certainly an adjustment to what they were used to.

Alfred needed a bed of his own. He would need to sleep on the couch for a night or two until he and Francis could find another bedframe and mattress, which greatly troubled Arthur. Alfred needed to transfer schools once he was adjusted enough and the peak of his grief had been processed. 

Matthew, on the other hand, was delighted. He had a new friend, a big brother who would play zoo with his stuffed animals together, let him climb on his back, make explosion noises while playing with cars. Alfred was… trying. He was loud and messy and constantly hungry, asked for seconds during meals and left crumbs everywhere.

The first night, Alfred stood in front of the refrigerator for a full minute, just staring.

“Are you going to take something out or just let all the cold air out?” Arthur asked from the doorway.

Alfred jumped. “Sorry. I was just-” He looked back at the fridge. “There’s so much food.”

Francis stood up from the living room table and walked into the kitchen, peering over his shoulder. “There’s food because I like to cook. And because growing boys need to eat.” He ruffled Alfred’s hair as he passed, and pulled out a few containers. “Are you hungry? There’s pasta.”

Alfred’s eyes went wide. “Can I have some?”

“You can have as much as you want, mon petit chou. That’s what food is for.”

Alfred looked over at Arthur, wordlessly asking if he could truly have it. Arthur slowly nodded, causing his little brother to vibrate with excitement. He jumped around Francis as the Frenchman heated a plate for him.

Later, after Alfred ate two helpings and fell asleep on the couch, Francis found Arthur in the kitchen, leaning up against the counter, staring at nothing. 

“He looked at me.” Arthur spoke quietly. “When you offered him food. He looked at me like he needed permission from me. I just… god, I really am his guardian now.”

Francis wrapped his arms around Arthur. “He’s scared. He just lost his parents, the very people who guided him all his life. You’re all he has now. Of course he’s going to look to you for everything.”

“I don’t know how to be that for him.”

“Neither did I when I got Matthew.” Francis rested his chin on Arthur’s shoulder. “But you learn. One day at a time.”

~~~

The hard part was the habits.

Old, comfortable habits. Skipping breakfast because he was too tired to face food. Forgetting lunch because Alfred had a thing at his new school, and Matthew needed picking up, and there was a meeting with the social worker for finalizing the adoption. Then, he was home at nine o’clock, exhausted, before realizing he hadn’t eaten all day.

Francis was always there, and Arthur couldn’t tell if it annoyed him, or if it was a blessing he had such a person to care for him.

“You forgot again.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll eat now.”

“It’s nine-thirty. You need to eat in the morning, during the day, and again in the evening, Arthur. Not just when I’m here to remind you at night.”

Arthur wanted to explain. To say food didn’t occur to him that way, that hunger didn’t register, to remind him that his body stopped sending those signals during childhood and he doesn’t know how to make them start again. But Francis was already aware of everything he could ever say, and Arthur’s repeated explanations always sounded like an excuse, so he just said: “I’ll try harder.”

Francis’ face softened. He pulled Arthur into a hug. “I know you’re trying, mon cœur. Trust me, I know. But you have two boys now. You have to stay alive for them. For me.”

Arthur nodded into Francis’ shoulder. “I know.”

~~~

Alfred noticed things. 

He was observant in a way that Arthur didn’t expect. He noticed that Arthur pushed food around on his plate, and how Francis watched Arthur eat like a hawk watching its prey. He saw how Arthur’s wrists were thin as sticks and his collarbones stuck out sharply above his shirt. 

One morning, Alfred came down for breakfast, putting food onto his plate and joined Arthur, who was already at the table, staring at a plate of eggs while his mind was clearly somewhere else.

“Hey. You okay?” Alfred got into the chair next to him.

Arthur was startled, like he forgot anyone else existed for a few minutes. “Yes. I’m fine.”

“You haven’t eaten your eggs.”

Arthur looked down at his plate. “I’m working up to it.”

Alfred thought about that for a moment. He didn’t understand what there was to work up to while eating, the action consisted of pulling a fork up to your mouth and chewing. But he picked up his own fork without comment, took a big bite of his own eggs and said, “Mom used to make eggs on Sundays. With bacon. Dad would burn the toast and she’d get mad, but she was always smiling and helped him make another batch for all of us.”

Arthur went still. “Do you want to talk about them?”

“Alfred shrugged, but his eyes were glassy. “Not really. Just… remembered.”

Arthur didn’t know what to say. He’d never been good at this, at comfort, being what someone needs. But Alfred was looking at him with those too-bright eyes, and Arthur thought of the way Francis would always hold him when it seemed that words weren’t enough. 

He reached out and put his hand over Alfred’s.

Alfred stared at their hands for a moment. Then he sniffed, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and said “You should eat your eggs. Francis will be sad if you don’t.”

Arthur looked at the eggs. Looked at Alfred. Picked up his fork.

He took a bite.

~~~

The first time Arthur’s heart did something wrong, he was alone. 

Alfred and Matthew were at school. Francis was at work. Arthur had the day off, and was sorting through boxes of his parent’s things that one of his brothers dumped on him without asking, when all of a sudden his chest felt… wrong.

Not painful, but wrong all the same. Like his heart was skipping beats, fluttering, struggling.

He sat down and waited for it to pass. It doesn’t.

He hesitantly called Francis.

“I think something’s wrong with my heart.” He said without much preamble. 

Francis was at the flat in twenty minutes. He drove Arthur to the hospital without saying a word, and definitely broke a few traffic laws on the way there, but Arthur didn’t say a word about it as he looked at his boyfriend’s white knuckles on the steering wheel.

~~~

The doctor was young and tired-looking, but efficient. She ran tests, asked questions, looked at Arthur’s chart, then at Arthur, then at Francis.

“How long has he been malnourished?”

Francis’ jaw tightened. “Years. Probably most of his life. But he didn’t know.”

The doctor nodded, then wrote something down. “His heart is struggling. The muscles are weak from lack of fuel. I’m seeing arrhythmia, electrolyte imbalances. His BMI is-” She paused, then looked at Arthur. “Do you know what your BMI is, Mr. Kirkland?”

Arthur shook his head.

“It’s 15.3. For reference, a healthy BMI for men your age and height is between 19.1 and 27. A BMI of 18 is considered moderately underweight. Anything below that is…” she stopped, choosing her words carefully. “It’s concerning. If you don’t gain weight and stabilize your intake, you’re looking at long-term damage. Possibly heart failure.”

Arthur heard the words, but they didn’t register all the way. They didn’t feel real, as if the doctor was talking about someone else. 

Francis was holding Arthur’s hand so tight it hurt. “He’ll do it. We’ll do whatever it takes.” 

“As much as I appreciate the enthusiasm, the only person who can get out of this is Mr. Kirkland himself. We can help him as much as we want, but it’s ultimately up to him to gain back a healthy weight.”

Francis looked over at Arthur with so much fear and love in his eyes that the Englishman felt his mouth drying out. He hesitantly stared at the clipboard, then looked down at his bony hands. 

“I’ll do it.”

The doctor nodded. “I’m going to recommend inpatient treatment. It’s a program where professionals can monitor, feed, and teach you how to eat again. It’s not optional at this point. Your body needs constant support to recover.”

She left, and the room was quiet.

Arthur stared at the wall. “I didn’t know.”

“I understand.”

“I thought I was fine. I’ve… always been like this. I thought-” His voice cracked. “I didn’t know it was this bad.”

Francis was crying, silent tears running down his face. “I know, mon cœur. I know.”

“The boys-”

“We’ll figure it out. Maman can watch them. I’ll visit you every day. We’ll make it work.” Francis squeezed his hand. “You just focus on getting better. Okay?” 

Arthur turned to look at him. At this man, who had spent months trying to feed him, trying to keep him alive, trying to love him. Who took in an eight year old orphan without hesitation and treated Alfred like his own son. Francis was the person who somehow had room in his heart for all of them.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur whispered. “Sorry I didn’t take care of myself.”

“Don’t.” Francis’ voice broke, and he cupped Arthur’s face with his hands. “Don’t apologize. Just… Just let us help you. We love you Arthur, do you understand that? We need you to stay.”

“Okay.” He said quietly. “I’ll try.”

~~~

Inpatient treatment lasted four weeks.

A month of scheduled meals, nutritionists, therapists, group sessions with other people who starved themselves. He was told he needed to learn to recognize hunger, actually taste his food while eating, and want to eat it.

Francis visited every day. They figured Matthew was too young to understand, so they told him Arthur was feeling sick, and he was going to come back better, but for now he had to stay at a hospital. Alfred was unsure if he wanted to come.

Arthur looked at the drawing from the boys Francis brought from home. He listened to the stories Francis told about their day, and updated him on chaos at home. Francis sat with Arthur during meals if he came during lunch, and he always held Arthur’s hand. It gave him the extra push to finish a plate, to hear the words “I’m proud of you, mon cœur.”

Alfred visited for the first time when Arthur had been in the hospital for two weeks. He was awkward, uncomfortable and didn’t know where to look. He sat next to his older brother, finally seeming to notice that the frail look he had wasn’t normal, and how he could’ve missed such a big and obvious thing.

“Are you okay?” He asked finally.

Arthur thought about it for a moment. “I feel better.” 

“That’s good.” Alfred shuffled in his seat. “Is this why Francis always watched you eat?”

The older brother took a steady breath. “Yes. Francis has taken me to doctors before, and I was trying to do everything myself. But sometimes doing everything yourself isn't enough, and you need a bit of outside help.”

“So you’re getting your help here?”

“Exactly.”

Alfred fell quiet again. “Matthew misses you.” He said. “He keeps asking when you’re coming home, and we tell him you’ll be home in two weeks, but he doesn’t really get it.”

“You’re right. I’m halfway done.”

“Okay.” Alfred’s eyes lingered over his brother, and Arthur let him look. “You really do look better. Francis said you’re eating more.”

“That’s right.”

“He’s… um…” Alfred scooted closer and lowered his voice. “Francis is really worried about you. Like, all the time. He’s really sad when he thinks no one is looking, and I think I heard him crying at night once.”

Arthur’s chest tightens painfully, and this time, it’s not because of his heart. “He’s just dramatic and… and French.” The joke doesn’t land.

“…You are getting better, right? You won’t come back here after?”

Arthur looked over at Alfred. He saw the terrified child in front of him, someone who already lost everyone in his life, and was desperately trying not to lose him, too.

“Yes, I’m getting better.” Arthur says. “We’re gonna be okay.”

~~~

Being home was overwhelming.

Matthew crashed into him before he even came through the door, wrapping his arms and legs around him like a little octopus. “Dad! Dad, you're home! I drew you a picture, it’s me and Kuma, but in the drawing Kuma is big, because polar bears are big-”

Alfred was hovering in the background, trying to look casual. He hugged Arthur tight when Matthew had run off to get his drawing.

Francis was crying, but this time he was laughing and pulling Arthur into a hug that included Alfred, and Matthew seconds later, when he came with a sheet of paper.

Dinner that night was a whole feast. Francis had outdone himself. Roast chicken, potatoes, vegetables, gravy, cherry pie for dessert. Arthur’s plate was full to the brim.

“You don’t need to eat it all,” Francis said quietly. “Just eat as much as you can, you can have the rest tomorrow.”

And Arthur tried. He ate more than he had in months. Years, maybe. It was exhausting, his mouth hurt from chewing, his stomach felt bloated, but when he looked around the table, then saw Francis looking back with soft eyes, Matthew’s mouth covered in gravy, Alfred shoveling potatoes into his mouth and biting into the chicken like a caveman, and he had the thought, that maybe he could really do this.

~~~

The hard days don’t stop.

Arthur felt there would always be mornings where he woke up with food being the last thing he wanted. Days when stress and exhaustion crept in, where he would forget for a few hours. Just long enough to make Francis worry.

But Francis is always there. He’ll make him buttered toast with tea, and sit with him while he eats, holding his hand tight and not letting go.

Alfred began to catch on, too. He learned from Francis that he sometimes needed to push the plate of pancakes towards Arthur in the morning, or leave a granola bar on his desk and leave before Arthur could say anything.

Matthew doesn’t understand, not really. But he started saving Arthur the best parts of his snacks, handing over slightly squashed sugar cookies with fierce determination. “For you, Dad. Eat.”

Arthur ate.

He ate because Francis loved him. Because Alfred was learning to channel his grief into caring for someone other than himself. And because Matthew always offered him snacks with such a look in his eyes that Arthur could never say no.

He ate because he wanted to stay.

One night, months later, Arthur woke up hungry.

Not a distant, intellectual hunger he was taught to recognize, but the kind that meant he should eat something soon. His stomach was growling, and he felt a physical hunger, a craving.

He lay in bed for a moment, just feeling it. The thing that came to most people like second nature, but something he hadn’t felt since he was a child.

Francis eventually stirred beside him. “Arthur? Why are you awake?”

“I’m hungry.”

Francis paused for a moment, then rubbed his eyes. “Quoi?”

“I’m hungry.” Arthur spoke the foreign words that he never quite applied to himself. “I want food.”

Francis darted up and kissed him. It was a kiss that was hard, desperate, and full of joy. Then he was dashing out of bed, pulling Arthur with him to the kitchen so violently that Arthur nearly tripped.

“I’ll make you something,” Francis said breathlessly. “Anything. What do you want?”

Arthur thought about it. “…Toast?”

Francis laughed. “Toast. Of course. English toast for my English gentleman.”

They stood together, and Arthur watched Francis prepare toast. The flat was quiet, the boys were asleep in their room. The world felt small and warm with the humming Frenchman in front of him.

Francis handed him two pieces of toast on a plate. Arthur took a bite.

It was good.