Title: we are the riddle no one guesses
Author's note: domestic meme.
Matthew tangles the tie as he attempts to prepare himself in the mirror. Francis has his trademark pre-party flute of champagne in one hand. He watches Matthew from his seat, his legs crossed.
His shoes are shined glossy black and his suit is immaculate and just as dark. He is elegant as ever, but then, Francis could make a barrel look fashionable.
"And to think, I've seen you fixing Alfred's tie before," Francis muses. He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a sip.
"It's a lot easier on another person," Matthew sighs. He undoes the tie again and begins over.
Without a word, Francis sets aside his drink and gets up. He taps Matthew on the shoulder. Matthew turns to him, to find Francis smiling. Never a good sign.
"Haven't I told you a thousand times?" Francis murmurs. "When in need, you come to papa."
Francis' moves the tie into place. A few twists and it's just right. He fixes Matthew's collar, and lets his fingers rest there, skimming Matthew's neck. Matthew can tell that he's already thinking of undoing that tie all over again and wondering how much of a quickie they can fit in before Arthur tracks them down. He knows because that's how Francis' mind works. Every time Francis admires the scenery, he's not just judging makes of furniture and style, but possible places to have a tryst at any and all times of the day.
Arthur doesn't know – he doesn't even guess that Francis is capable of relationships other than the casual, purely physical variety. And for the time being, to prevent World War III, Matthew intends to keep it that way. He places his hand over Francis' to keep him from undoing the work he'd just finished. Like every time, he's struck by the feel of Francis' hands, and the soft brush of the hair at the back of his palms.
"Arthur could come in at any minute," he says, a pleading tone entering his voice. "And besides, you'll have to fix it all over again..."
"I know," Francis purrs. Francis knows a lot of things. Over the period of their relationship, he's found that he can get Matthew to come in his pants if he talks in French to him in a certain tone of voice. They've not even hit the sixth month anniversary yet, and Francis has already pulled him into closets, spare rooms and behind couches.
He smiles, traces his fingers up Matthew's neck. There's a faint air of amusement to him, and Matthew feels his resolve crumble. He's always putty in Francis' hands. Francis knows this, he knows this. If he pulls back now, Francis will torment him all night by simply doing things as sexily as possible. He'll lick his lips, chew at them, speak in the huskiest way in French all night long and because England is there, he'll have to flirt with everyone else and not pay Matthew any mind. (Not that he wouldn't flirt with them anyways, of course. But this is smokescreen to keep Arthur's attention away.)
Matthew undoes the tie himself and pulls Francis to him.
He can only pray that this won't be the time Arthur walks in on them.