Rain pelted the window as Arthur gazed out and sighed. He wondered why he had even bothered getting out of bed.

The kettle began to whistle, and he turned away from the window to get his tea. Cup, kettle, bag... The process was mindless. He sat down at the table and brought the cup to his lips, staring absentmindedly out at the dull drizzle that overtook the streets of London.

Hearing footsteps, Arthur turned to see Francis coming down the stairs; hair unkempt, eyes half-closed, still in his underwear.

"Good morning, dear," Arthur said unenthusiastically.

Without saying a word, Francis approached the Englishman, took the tea from him, set it on the table, and grabbed him by the arm. Arthur hardly resisted as Francis dragged him back upstairs to the bedroom, pointed to the bed, and crawled in himself.

"Fatigué," Francis murmured, patting the bed beside him as he settled beneath the covers, "come cuddle me."

Arthur stared at the Frenchman for a moment, then shrugged and began to remove the clothes he had just put on a few minutes ago. "It's not like I have anything better to do..."

He slid into the bed and scooted up to Francis, who immediately wrapped his arms around the Englishman and fell asleep.

Arthur smiled, returned the embrace, and allowed the warmth and sensation of Francis breathing to lull him to sleep himself.