Work Text:
"M'aimerais-tu si j'étais un ver?"
Arthur refused to look up. That tone, that question said in French just to aggravate him...oh, he knew samn well that that frog was just trying to annoy him. For some reason, whenever he was in the middle of something important, like finishing his knitting, or completing paperwork, or literally anything that he could not afford to be distracted from, Francis Bonnefoy always, always chose that timing to annoy him.
That wasn't to say the frog didn't piss him off all the time. He definitely did, every morning, noon, and night, to the point where he had wished he'd been born deaf.
Alas, the world was truly to cruel to him.
Well, that frog-face was out of luck this time. Arthur already vowed that he would not, could not, and REFUSED to give him any attention. He was going to finish his knitting, and perhaps if he felt nice, would question that stupid frog about his question.
....
Okay, fine, maybe he was a little curious.
"I don't speak French, twat," Arthur remarked, briefly casting a glance at where his (ex) husband sat, lounging on his sofa as if he owned it. (Which, he definitely didn't!! He'd stolen it during their divorce, so ha!)
Francis sighed dramatically. His stupid strawberry blond hair fell over the armrests, and his stupid eyes were staring at Arthur with fake tears in them. Arthur vaguely wondered if he poked at them, if he would cry for real.
He wouldn't do it for real, of course. Arthur Kirkland was a very nice man. He had raised twins, one of which was an insufferable, french-fry eating brat, and the other lacking the guts to remind anyone he existed. He had fought world wars and got shot in the leg more times than he could count.
So, of course, he was a very good man.
Especially to his (ex) husband who didn't deserve his kindness.
"I asked, mon ami, if you would love me if I were a worm," Francis remarked, flailing his hands wildly. "How could you be so cruel to me?"
"You haven't seen me being cruel," Arthur deadpanned.
"You are! Discrimination!"
"How!?"
"You didn't understand what I asked."
"I don't speak French, how is that my fault!?"
"We've lived together for so long, and you can't even understand my native language!"
Arthur’s knitting needles clicked together sharply. “Maybe if you stopped using it exclusively to irritate me, I’d have learned more than the bloody insults.”
Francis gasped like he’d been stabbed. “Arthur! I have never—”
“You call me rosbif every other sentence.”
“It is a term of endearment!”
“It means roast beef.”
“It means beloved roast beef.”
Arthur finally looked up.“…That is not better.”
Francis pouted, slumping further across the sofa like a dying aristocrat in a tragic painting. "You are avoiding the question.”
“I’m ignoring it.”
“That is worse.”
Arthur knit two more stitches.
“…No it isn’t.”
Francis sat up slightly.
“So you wouldn’t love me if I were a worm.”
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Francis.”
“Yes, Arthur?”
“Why in God’s name would you be a worm?”
“It is hypothetical!”
“You’re already halfway there.”
“Rude!”
Arthur sighed, setting the knitting needles down in his lap before they snapped from how hard he was gripping them.
“For the sake of peace,” he muttered, “explain this idiotic scenario.”
Francis brightened immediately.
“So!” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes gleaming. “Imagine I am a small worm. Very small. Perhaps pink.”
“Of course you’d be pink.”
“A beautiful worm.”
“You’d be a nuisance of a worm.”
“A charming nuisance,” Francis corrected. “And I come to you, wriggling across the garden soil—”
“If you wriggled into my garden I’d feed you to the birds.”
Francis clutched his chest.
“You wound me.”
“Get on with it.”
“So,” Francis continued dramatically, “I am this worm, yes? And I look up at you with my tiny worm eyes and ask, Arthur, mon amour, do you still love me?”
Arthur stared at him.
For a long moment.
“…You realize worms don’t have expressive eyes.”
“Use your imagination.”
“I refuse.”
Francis leaned closer across the coffee table.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Your answer.”
Arthur scoffed. “This is the most idiotic question you’ve asked this week.”
“It is Wednesday.”
“That makes it worse.”
Francis rested his chin in his hand, smiling lazily. “You’re thinking about it.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Arthur’s eye twitched.
“Fine,” he snapped. “If you were a worm, I’d put you in a jar.”
Francis blinked.
“A jar?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So you wouldn’t crawl into something important and die.”
Francis stared at him a second longer. “…That sounds suspiciously like concern.”
“It’s practicality.”
“Arthur.”
“What.”
“You’d keep me.”
Arthur picked up his knitting again with unnecessary force.
“Someone has to supervise you.”
Francis’ smile softened slightly.
“Even as a worm?”
Arthur’s needles clicked together again.
“…Especially as a worm,” he muttered.
Francis leaned back against the sofa, looking far too pleased with himself.
“You still love me.”
Arthur’s ears turned pink.
“We’re divorced.”
“Ah,” Francis hummed happily, folding his arms behind his head. “But you didn’t say no.”
Arthur stabbed the needle through his yarn.
“Ask me again and I’ll turn you into a worm myself.”
Francis laughed.