Laundry day was always Arthur's least favourite day of the week. It wasn't the laundry itself he disliked, it was the hunt throughout the house for his husband's discarded clothes. It didn't matter how many times Arthur showed him the laundry bin, Arthur would still find discarded socks (always in the living room), underwear(always in the bathroom) and pants(always under the bed) strewn throughout their home. Never his shirts… Somehow, his shirts always made it to the dirty clothes bin.

Being married to Francis Bonnefoy wasn't easy, but Arthur was happy nonetheless. He was happy to cook and clean and please his husband. Except on laundry day. Laundry day was the root of many of their fights, Arthur could never understand what was so difficult about putting dirty clothes in the bin and Francis always seemed to simply not care where his clothes went, so long as they got washed.

Arthur heaved out a sigh as he began his weekly search through their home, knew all the likely spots that Francis' dirty laundry had been stuffed throughout the week. He began in the living room. He always found the bulk of it in the living room. Under the couch was the most likely of places, so that's where he searched first. Surprise, there were four dirty socks just waiting for him to find. Arthur felt a surge of annoyance as he fished his arm under the couch, reached for the offending garments to pull them out. Why was it so hard to just put them in the bin?

Another two pairs of socks were stuffed between the cushions of the couch, the other three pairs under the entertainment center. Laundry would be so much easier if he didn't have to play this game every week. It was hard keeping a home clean when Francis lived in it. It wasn't that he was a slob, per-se, more that he was extremely forgetful and a bit lazy.

Arthur thought back to when he had first moved in to Francis' home, how messy it had been. Discarded cigarette butts had littered the floor and laundry heaped in a large pile on the bedroom floor, the dishes stacked in the sink, waiting to be washed. Arthur had set in immediately with rules and a rigourous cleaning schedule.

In the years since their wedding, Francis had learned to follow all of Arthur's rules… most of the time, except for this one. This one rule he seemed to refuse to obey under any circumstance. Arthur had given up even talking about it anymore, just accepted it as something that always would be a part of living with Francis, even if it was annoying. Even if it was frustratingly annoying…

Francis wasn't a bad husband. Arthur considered himself extremely lucky to be married to someone so handsome and sweet. Even if most people didn't see it, Francis really could be sweet. His poetry always made Arthur's heart flutter, every single one. He had them all tucked away safely in his pink diary. Francis showed his love with the little things he did for Arthur, the things most other couples would see as meaningless, trivial things. Simple little things, brushing a hair out of Arthur's face or setting down a book he'd been reading when Arthur said something to him. It was small things like that that showed Arthur every day that he was loved.

It was time to collect the rest of Francis' dirty laundry. The pants were kicked beneath the bed and the underwear shoved into a corner in the bathroom. He went for the underwear first, it was easier. Arthur knew that he'd have to crawl under their king sized bed to reach Francis' pants. He always had to scoot on his belly, his arm outstretched to reach for at least one pair. He didn't understand why Francis couldn't just nudge them under the bed. Why did he have to kick them so far back?

Francis was far from perfect, Arthur knew. He came to expect Francis to forget their anniversary. At first it had hurt, but as the years went by, Arthur knew that he didn't do it on purpose. Francis tried to remember, even wrote it in his calendar. Francis simply forgot to look at his calendar… Arthur forgave him every year, even if it hurt a little. Every year it hurt a little less.

Arthur knew that Francis tried to follow the rules. Not because they were good rules, but because in his own way, Francis was trying to make him happy. Arthur rewarded him with coins to the 'good husband' jar, which, once full, was Francis' to spend as he pleased. Arthur smiled as he remembered Francis using his 'good husband' money to buy him a new bowtie after he'd forgotten his birthday.

Playing housewife for Francis was still frustrating, even though he loved it. He picked up the same messes every day, followed the same routine every morning. Francis would wake him up to make breakfast, and he would on most days, then he'd crawl back up to bed to sleep for another few hours while Francis did whatever he did while Arthur slept. Arthur never asked him about it. It was Francis' private time that Arthur knew he needed.

Francis never disturbed Arthur as he took his naps throughout the day, and even carried him up to bed if he fell asleep on the couch. Francis always remembered to take his smoking outside, only because the smoke irritated Arthur's nose and made him get headaches. The only time exceptions were made was after sex, in which Arthur never complained. When Francis lit up after a tumble in the sheets he knew he'd been especially good, and that always made him happy.

All the dirty laundry had been collected, tossed into the bin and was now being carried to the laundry room for sorting. It was an easy enough task, and Arthur's frustration with Francis began to dwindle.

Arthur lived to please Francis in every way he could. It made him happy to take care of his husband. He loved the role of housewife, loved putting his apron on when he got up doing his chores. He loved the accomplished feeling he got when he took it off in the afternoon, everything finished and clean and ready for a new day.

Arthur loved Francis, even if he was frustratingly messy and his humor was dry and his words of affection often lacking. It just made every "I love you." Spoken to him from Francis' lips that much more special. He knew Francis wouldn't say it at all if he didn't mean it. Francis wouldn't hold him close after he'd woken him up after a nightmare in the middle of the night if he didn't love him.

Francis definitely wasn't Prince Charming, but Arthur couldn't picture himself being touched by anyone else. He loved the thick hairs on Francis' body, loved how they felt against his skin while they had their fits of passion. He loved how Francis moved inside him and how his hands gripped him like he might disappear. He loved how the stubble tickled his neck as Francis left his marks on his skin. He loved how Francis could make him lose control of himself and cry out his pleasures at the top of his lungs.

Arthur was happy in his marriage. Even on laundry days. When it was all said and done, and the clothes folded and all put away, Arthur couldn't help but feel accomplished that he'd gone through another frustrating morning of find-the-socks. The only chore left for the day was dinner. He decided on something nice for tonight, something to show Francis how much he loved him, a nice dessert. Maybe even a bottle of wine.

Arthur padded through the house to find his husband seated on the couch, a book in his hands. He couldn't help but smile. Yes, he was happy. He didn't want anyone else. He couldn't help himself from resting a hand on Francis' shoulder, and once Francis set his book aside, he crawled into his lap, arms around his husband's neck, and kissed him.