Colorful Love

Cold

Fracis was sick. Not with a cold. Or of anything. He was sick of doing nothing. Arthur was adorable, funny, sarcastic, independent, and, most importantly, an equal. When ever he was with Arthur, Francis felt like he was on cloud 9. Hell, cloud 10. He could do anything, say anything. Anything. At the time, he didn't know if Arthur felt the same way, but he felt as if they had clicked. Now, even Francis was questioning himself.

Though he was sure he loved Arthur, Francis knew he didn't have the slightest chance with Arthur since Arthur seemed to hate him. Just the other day, Fancis was littered with bruises after his sister visited him and Matthew. Arthur's response? Laughing at how pathetic he was that he couldn't hold his own against a girl. Even worse, Little m=Michelle was visiting again in a week.

As often as bruises were from his sister, Francis found Arthur's word to be ten times as hurtful. It didn't help that Arthur, as an Englishman, found poking fun at Francis's history, as a Frenchman, fun. For instance the classic, "Decapitation level shitty" or "Burned-at-the-stake level shitty?"

Francis never poked at Arthur's history. He wouldn't dare. Arthur would curse him with that weird magic-y stuff. Purple magic was it?

While their parents were having their meeting, the Bonnefoy children and the Kirkland children minded their business with each other. On the upper level, Arthur tended to Francis's bruises he received from his sister ten minutes ago.

"More from your sister?" Arthur sighed. 4th time in an hour.

"Not my fault she kicks my shins instead of the ball," Francis grumbled.

His sister was NOT intentionally abusive. Francis's little sister, five-year-old Michelle Bonnefoy, loved football, and she was the one person in Francis's family that continuously watched the World Cup.

"Geez," Arthur rubbed ointment on rancis's cheek.

Francis shifted his spot on the chair. It was humiliating to have someone tend to his bruises, but it did have a perk or two. For instance, Arthur's hands were skilled. They weren't too rough nor too quick. Either he was a natural, or. . .he had experience.

"Ow~" Francis complained at the pressure.

"Git!" Arthur muttered and continued slathering the creamy paste to Francis's red shins and arms, "If you keep moving, it'll hurt more."

"But sitting on a woden chair is uncomfortable~" Francis whined.

"Give me another minute or so you toddler," Arthur replied, "I'll make this quick so you can make yourself all comfy your highness."

Francis obliged. One minute and twenty-seven seconds later, Arthur finally capped the cream and hopped off Francis's bed. The pair walked downstairs as Arthur presented his friend.

"Here's the healed-and-ready-to-get-his-arse-kicked-again Francis Bonnefoy!" Arthur cheered.

A little girl with red ribbons in her dark hair gigled and skipped up to Francis and dragged him to the backdoor. Francis turned and mouthed "help" to Arthur who stiffled a laugh. In turn, Alfred dragged Arthur outside to play with th Bonnefoy siblings.

"Hey!" Arthur protested, "Where are you taking me?"

"Let's go play bro!" Alfred laughed, "There're too many people in here anyways!"

Arthur stalled his iminent demise by dragging his feet, "But now Michelle is going to kick my arse!"

"You and Francis'll be twinsies like me and Mattie!" Alfred cheerfully replied.

Arthur sighed and followed Alfred outside to where Matthew and Francis were trying not to get kicked in the shin by little Michelle.

"You see," Francis tried to explain while he was dodging kicks, "The trick is- to keep moving- your feet."