#freng

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Well after sunrise, François appeared for breakfast in only his shirt and kissed him. Arthur turned his chin away, intent on drinking his tea.

“The English!” He cried. “You are so cold!”

Lifting his class like a beer bottle, he swung it as if to toast the King's good health. “Hence the lovely tea."

François made his offended noises.

“The English, honestly, you'd leave your mothers to die for a cup of Earl Grey!”

"Oh, do turn down the histrionics,” Arthur sighed. “Sit down, you fool. Let me have my tea and wake up properly before you renew your assaults on the dignity of England,"

François snorted and sat down. "My dear, there's no dignity to assault."

François, never content to sit and eat with anything so lowly as propriety, brought his seat to the same side of the table. He slid his arm around Arthur, his hand pulling along his jacket seam. Mediterranean warmth followed, and Arthur shuddered as François drew his fingers down, trailing the buttons ensuring a snug fit at the back of his waistcoat, and found his way to a sensitive spot along his spine at the small of his back. Arthur put down the tea. He picked it back up, looked left to ensure none of the children or servants were about, and leaned his head in for a quick kiss. A morning peck, that was all. But François' other arm looped around him and kissed his mouth open, gently deepening and pushing.

“For heaven's sake,” Arthur gasped into his jaw. “The children are about to. Have that custard you insist on calling chocolate and keep your hands to yourself.”

“Then let's go somewhere more private,” François whispered, punctuating it with another kiss.

“Not now,” Arthur pulled away. “I’ve things to do.”

“Do it later.”

“I can do you later,”

“You can do me now. And later. The children will still be there tomorrow!"

“Francis,”

“Has Mother England grown soft with her brood?” François teased good-naturedly, reaching down where England was certainly not soft. “You are frumpy now."

“I am quite happy with my—”

“Three year old suit,”

“Its new,” And, ah, there was the indignation, the spike of prideful lust François had been waiting for.

“Perhaps in England,” François sighed.

"It's more than serviceable,”

“For tending to your overly full nursery, mayhap,”

"It's Saville Row, quite bespoke.”

“For playing cricket with toddlers, perhaps.”

"It is so unbecoming, I must–

"For Christ's sake, my best colour is green. If you aren't pleased with this—”

“It is so unbecoming I must take it off you.”

“Ah, well, in that case. I cannot permit myself to offend any further.”

He drew Arthur closer, his fists in his collar. They were then standing, moving, kissing against the wall, back against the panelling, hands scrambling for a grip on the buffet. Arthur gripped his hair; they pushed from the furniture and began the entwined waltz up the stairs back to the privacy of the bedroom. He was practically biting at Arthur’s jaw when he heard footsteps, tiny tapping ones, the click of a small child’s shoes, a gasp, more footsteps, and silence. How had they gotten upstairs? No matter. The bedroom door clicked behind them. They stood in a beam of light. Arthur’s eyes were lit. His finest features always looked elegant in green, especially green wool with warm brown threads woven into it. The smirking English bastard knew it, too, taking him by the jaw and kissing him again.

“What were you saying about my suit?”

“It’s horrendous, and it is entirely your own fault I must rip it from you.”