No matter what position they went to sleep in, Francis always ended up on his stomach, an arm wrapped around his waist. His face always turned into Arthur's hip, his legs splayed. And he always mumbled soft French words, whining quietly whenever Arthur shifted.
Arthur found the consistency of it slightly endearing.
Francis never woke before 11:35 am. Always pulled himself from bed slowly, gave Arthur a tiny sound of greeting, not quite awake. He could never function without coffee. Always had two sugars and a spoonful of milk in it. Always quietly munched on a croissant before looking up with a small smile, greeting Arthur a second time with a soft kiss.
The routine of their mornings was something Arthur had unintentionally gotten addicted to.
Francis took no less than an hour and a half to get dressed. Most of that time he spent humming over different colored silks of different textures, matching them with ties and always making sure the outfit coordinated with the watch Arthur had given him on their anniversary. The last half hour, he dressed, slowly, the scent of his cologne dangerously enticing as Arthur watched.
Then, he picked out what Arthur would wear, right down to the socks, adjusting Arthur's tie, his fingers delicately brushing his neck. He would step back, look over his work, smile gently and place a kiss on Arthur's fingers. "You look very handsome, petit lapin." Which really meant "I do a damn good job."
The sound of it was something he had gotten used to hearing.
When they returned home, he took a moment to loosen his tie, and pulled Arthur close, smelling of paper and cologne and sometimes pastries. His shoulders were stiff from a long day at work, but he still smiled blissfully. Always kissed Arthur and asked him about his day. Always laughed at his noncommittal grunt. He tossed his jacket on the armchair by the window, his favorite seat, and rolled up his sleeves to make dinner, tying up his hair as he went.
An image burned into his mind with its familiarity.
When they rolled into bed, Francis would grin, depending on how tired he was, and kiss Arthur deeply, passionately, fingers strumming him and nearly make him sing, a pianist's fingers playing an instrument expertly. Fingers that found all his sensitive spots and made him arch. He always made love to him softly and sweetly, nearly made Arthur cry.
He always whispered "I love you." against his ear as he breathed heavily. And that really meant "forever." He would kiss his face when they finished, breath slowly returning, heart still thumping. And they snuggled together, Francis pressed against his back, warm and solid.
Only to fall asleep and turn on his stomach, legs kicked out. Arthur smiled, petting gold waves and sitting up a little further to turn on the lamp light, grabbing a novel from the side table. He looked to the ceiling as the grandfather clock on the main floor ticked away and Francis whispered words that he was too lethargic to translate. Soon the routine would start all over again.
And he wouldn't have it any other way.