He was all cigarettes and insomnia and tired eyes with a cup of tea and make believe friends. He was headaches and arguements and malice and scones and messy hair. He was green eyes and pale skin and pretty pretty lips and embroidery. He was green military uniforms and wars and knights and victory. He was poetry and bad cooking with a dash of a drunkard. He was embarrassed and blushing and quick remarks. He was inner romantic and spoiled to death with roses and red wine and French kisses. He was Arthur and he was spoiled by Francis.