Spare Keys

Upon hearing his screaming alarm, Arthur rolled out of bed, taking the sheets with him and faceplanting on the hard floor of his room with a dissipated thud. Laying his throbbing head back on the wood, the hungover Brit groaned. "I drank last night?" he wondered aloud to himself, closing his eyes and groping for the snooze button, knocking off everything on his nightstand in the process. He knew that he must have, for he could barely see and his head felt like it was being split in two with a chainsaw.

Arthur heard a familiar chuckle and peeled his eyelids from his emerald green irises. The silhouette of a Frenchman was leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in pockets. "Oui, mon amour," he cooed, watching Arthur helplessly stumble back to his four-poster. "You were drinking quite a lot last night. Perhaps something has been bothering you?"

"Nothing was bothering me until you showed up," the shorter man shot back lazily, burying his head in a fortress of pillows. "How did you even get in here? Did you pick the lock? Break down my door? You're paying for whatever you damaged."

Francis threw his head back and gave another haughty laugh, causing fumes to nearly seep out of Arthur's ears in anger. "Don't you remember, Arthur? You gave me your spare keys at the bar after our meeting last night." He held up the key with two fingers as proof. "You just begged me to come over, mon cher,. And though I can very much see why you would, I knew that you were drunk and took the liberty upon myself to take you home. Now I'm just returning your key to you, but I can see you won't be leaving anytime soon…"

He raised an eyebrow as Arthur moaned, clutching his stomach. "I- I'm sure that never happened," the Brit tried to convince himself. "The only thing I would ever beg you to do is go the hell away."

"Your spare key says otherwise."

"Go away." Suddenly, Arthur felt terribly sick, and he stumbled towards the small bathroom and proceeded to vomit forcefully into the toilet. Francis followed him and held his hair out of his face while he coughed and groaned. The Englishman sank down to the linoleum, clutching the toilet seat, and Francis sat down beside him, wiping his mouth clean with a wet towel. Leaning against the taller man's shoulder, Arthur muttered, "Water, please."

Francis got up and got the man a glass of water, which he gulped down ravenously. "Now, aren't you glad I came over, Angleterre?" He ran his hands through Arthur's hair, knotting his fingers in all the tangles. In reply, Arthur coughed and closed his eyes. Getting the message, Francis swept the skinnier man off the ground and carried him back into his bedroom. "Well, goodnight. I'll leave the keys on the counter."

Beginning to leave, Francis looked back at Arthur one more time. He had reopened his red eyes and was gazing back at him. "Don't leave," he croaked.

"I wouldn't like to bother you any more than I already have," Francis replied. He placed his hand on the doorknob, but something drew him to look back. His friend was nearly in tears, and his hand was outstretched as if he could grab Francis and pull him back. "Don't leave," he repeated with all the persistence that someone with such a violent hangover could manage.

Smiling, Francis returned to Arthur's bed and daintily sat beside him. "I won't go anywhere," he said softly, intertwining their fingers. "Is there anything else you need, ma cheri?"

Arthur whacked Francis in the arm for referring to Arthur as feminine. "Shut up, wanker." He rested his head back on the pillow, and his cheeks were flushed. "I just need to feel better."

"Does this help?" the blue-eyed man said, leaning in to touch his lips to Arthur's. Trembling, they wrapped their arms around each other as Arthur pulled Francis into him, laughing quietly.

"Yes," Arthur replied, breathless. "Or like you French say or whatever, oui."