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Chapter Text

The Virtues Of Literature

Arthur drags himself and his many suitcases up yet another flight of stairs, one step, two step, three step, until after what feels like a lifetime later he shoves through the landing door, labelled floor 6. He pants and wipes his brow, fatigued and breathless from carrying about a tonne of his possessions. Clothes, folders, miscellaneous appliances, and a huge range of books he could probably fill a library with.

Arthur wheezes. “God, of course the damn lift has to be broken at the beginning of term. How damn convenient.” he grumbles, irritable already with being left to settle in on his own without any help after his brothers practically abandoned him on campus.

He fumbles with the door for a moment and then finally reaches his destination. His flat. Except it wouldn't be his flat for long - Arthur had chosen to share an apartment to save on rent costs but he had recently been starting to regret that decision, realising the university will have probably put him sharing with some unknown creep. He figured it would be unlikely to be anyone he knew from his first year in college, there were far too many people. Plus, a few of his friends had dropped out after one year anyway.

Arthur dumps his stuff in one of the two bedrooms and clarifies his roommate hasn't arrived yet, and begins to settle in to the flat after taking a quick rest. The flat is decent sized with some basic furniture; a slightly garish red sofa; an aged gas stove oven and microwave; a television; a desk in each bedroom; an attractive bay window. It's comfortable enough for Arthur and he sets to work arranging all of his literature on the shelves in the living room while the kettle he brought from home boils water for tea.

Arthur places himself down on the sofa with his brew, most of his belongings having found their new homes, and finds himself absorbed in a copy of Jane Eyre.

~o0O0o~

The front door is flung open and Arthur looks up in alarm from his novel, not having noticed time passing, to see a flamboyant looking man in stylish clothing and dashing shoulder-length blonde hair. His luggage sits neatly behind him and he doesn’t look like he is about to keel over like Arthur was when he arrived, so he must have had some help getting to their apartment. The man’s face is slightly stubbly but his eyes are a striking bright cerulean blue.

“Ah hello, Monsieur! A pleasure to meet you, my name is Francis Bonnefoy.”

“Oh Jesus, I have a French pansy as a roommate.”

Francis immediately irritates Arthur, his look is too pristine, his voice too optimistic. “Gosh, I have a rude Englishman as a roommate. What a shame.”

Arthur scowls, and tries to return to his book. “Whatever. I've taken that bedroom over there. Try not to disturb me too much.”

And so Francis sets to work moving into their flat, working around Arthur who occasionally looks up to glare at Francis whenever he touches anything that is his.

“It's not difficult to guess you're an English Literature student with the number of books you have cluttering the shelves of this apartment.”

“Of course.” Arthur replies, “And I'm sure you wouldn't be able to appreciate proper literature given that that it looks like you took art.”

Francis smiles and fingers the various paintbrushes and canvases he is removing from a box. “Yes. Isn't it just so beautiful though? The way we can express all sorts of thoughts and feelings through art. Anything can be the canvas and all we need is a brush or pencil. I've always thought this planet would be completely drab and lifeless without an expression such as art or music, and I constantly find myself considering myself lucky I can actually see and hear these things, because many people cannot.”

Arthur gags. “That has got to be one of the sappiest things I have heard in my entire life. It's almost hilarious, you're certainly very philosophical.”

“No, it's called being able to identify and appreciate beauty. I'm sure you've never tried. Anyway, would you might helping me get this box into my room? I'm sure if I attempted to do it alone I would end up smashing and whole apartment and ruining all of your books. I'm sure you wouldn't want that.”

Arthur glares at the other man, but puts down his book to help nonetheless.

~o0O0o~

The sun shines through the curtains like a beacon and effectively wakes up Arthur from his night-long slumber. He grumbles and puts his arm over his face to block the light before looking at his alarm clock and scrambling out of bed, growling, “I'm late, goddamnit,” through gritted teeth.

He throws on some clothes and discovers one of Francis’ breakfasts left on the dining table. It is one of his usual masterpieces, somehow managing to make a dish of already delicious tasting food into a work of art easily putting anything an amatuer could produce on a canvas to shame. There were perfect slices of golden fried toast and various mini pastries filling up the plate, complete with garnishes and even precise lettering spelling out ‘Bon appetit’ in sauce.

Arthur always felt guilty eating these meals provided by his roommate, they were beautiful and he felt they should deserve to be presented in an art museum rather than digested by him, the perfection ruined. Arthur ate them anyway though. He felt like not doing so would be proof of his appreciation for the art, and he didn't want Francis to feel like he had the upper hand. Plus, Arthur probably wouldn't give himself time to have anything else to eat for breakfast.

“The frog could have at least woken me up before leaving.” Arthur grabs his bag and rushes out to his first class which had started about 10 minutes beforehand.

Francis and Arthur had developed a sort of routine. It was already in the second half of their first term, and they had managed to settle in and develop a system that meant they weren't trying to kill each other too often. They bickered and argued, both of them scorning each other's interests but reaching a decent level of coexistence. Francis would cook meals for Arthur, who would in turn do the washing and cleaning, and they would both shop.

Francis’ class starts earliest so he is usually gone by the time Arthur is awake. Arthur is thankful for this - he doesn't want the Frenchman seeing him run around the house like a mad man most mornings.

He picks up a tea on the way to class, and begins taking notes on the author they’re currently studying.

~o0O0o~

In the afternoon Arthur finds himself stuck in a studio with his insane band, attempting to practice over the shouts and inappropriate comments.

“Matthias you dipshit stop touching me.”

“Ooh Lukas, you're getting all the action.” snickers Gilbert.

The light haired Norwegian sneers. “Well it's more than you'll ever get, deranged German sh-”

“Shut up would you all, you do realise we'll look bloody ridiculous performing if we waste the little time we have for rehearsal being idiots.”

The other three men look at Arthur, shrugging. Lukas snatches up his polished fiddle and abruptly starts playing a violent tune, the bow sliding across the strings like he is trying to cut them with a knife. The others somehow manage to join in with their respective instruments, before they migrate into a song they are actually meant to be practising.

Their band is small, and more of a hobby than any form of profession with a strange genre of music. It is traditional and lively with Lukas’ fiddle and Matthias’ flute while Gilbert on the drums and Arthur covering bass and vocals brings a more modern, punk touch to the music. Their band was formed after a drunken night at the pub, and an unknown decision dubbed them ‘Obliquitous’.

The band performs live in pubs and in college events, but nothing big. Arthur finds music as a form of escapism, and their weekly rehearsals give all four members time for a break from their other work.

Arthur hums a tune on the way home from band practice, enjoying his solitude and thinking time until it is abruptly disturbed by an overly enthusiastic American jumping on him.

“Agh Alfred what the hell do you think you're doing? I'm carrying my guitar too, you idiot!”

“Hey, hey, Igs! How're you doing bro? I see you're keeping up with band, but don't you neglect school work.”

“Hah, I feel like I should be the one telling you that.” Arthur replies. “And I'd probably be doing better if I didn't just have you leap on my back like that. You really ought to start thinking about cutting down on that rubbish food you eat all the time, it's not doing you any favours.”

Alfred pouts, “Hey that's not fair. I can eat what I want and I can break your back if I want. It's a free country, you know.”

“If you insist.” Arthur snorts.

“Anyway, Arthur. How's life rooming with that French guy? Is it really worth it just to save a bit of cash, or are you enjoying not having to worry about anyone walking in on the two of you?”

Arthur's lips curl, “Tsk, you mean Francis.” Then he sees Alfred’s smirk and wiggling eyebrows. “Hey, you dipshit, why are you implying that?” Arthur splutters, blushing profusely. “He's just an annoying idiot who probably wanks off in his room every night and does nothing but paint crap paintings, make fun of me, and cook delicious food all of the time.”

“Woah dude, he cooks for you? I'm sorry bro but that's so domestic and couple-y. Has he seen one of your shows yet?” Alfred asks enthusiastically.

“Obviously not, it's not as if he's my friend and I don't think he even knows about Obliquitous to be honest. But I'm not going to ask him. That would just be stupid and embarrassing.”

“You're so strange. You really should get him to come to a show one day; you shine on the stage Igs.”

“Hah, you wish. Go spend your time playing video games and reading physics textbooks instead of patronising me.” Arthur said, but Alfred had disappeared off somewhere before he could finish his sentence.

He continues walking down the street past several grand university buildings. It is quiet, as it's a weekend and most students are using that time to either sleep off hangovers or study. Arthur’s guitar case swings alongside him, and he resumes humming his tune.

Arthur arrives home at the flat, throwing down his bags, and ignores Francis despite secretly taking full notice of the usual cheeky comments he throws around, relaxing on the couch with a cup of tea and a good book.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks so much for reading this first chapter, any likes or comments or anything would be lovely but of course, you can do what you'd like. ;). I hope to update this however much I can! Thank you!!

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Francis loves the beauty of art. But not just what he creates on the canvas, or sketchbook. He considers anything in the world that is beautiful art, and vice versa. So whenever Francis looks at Arthur's godforsaken eyebrows, he knows that they'll never find themselves in any of his artwork. Those eyebrows are hideous, and it really makes Francis consider how little people can understand each other, because he sure as hell couldn't understand why on earth his roommate had let the caterpillars on his brow grow to such a size. Arthur's eyebrows are a good source of insult material, however, so Francis doesn't mind too much.

“Hey frog, when's dinner?”

Francis hears the said man’s voice drift over from the other room. He moves his eyes from the sautéing vegetables to glare at the seated figure through the doorway, Arthur's messy blonde hair poking out from above the chair.

“Dinner is ready when dinner is ready, mon cher.” Francs replies with a growl to the ungrateful Brit.

Francis isn't too bothered about Arthur, however. Making food for the both of them really isn't a problem for him; he would always be wanting to cook full meals. Francis loves cooking - being able to experiment with new favours, use his favourite ingredients, and most of all, the presentation. There are so many different aspects to a dish that can be altered and made to look really good, and wiping down the plate and sprinkling some garnish just gives Francis that satisfaction of a perfect plate of food. It is proof to him that he can express himself and produce masterpieces wherever he is and in any way.

Francis never knew his mother, and his father died when he was 13 but not before teaching him how to cook and paint, as well as combining them. His papa always told him it was natural for a Frenchman to be surrounded by beautiful things, so when Francis moved to the drab country of England for university with its unenthusiastic people and grey weather, he felt like it was a slight betrayal of his father and he put it upon himself to produce his own beauty wherever he went. This made Francis more than ever want to take a pair of tweezers to Arthur’s eyebrows.

The two of them settle down on their sofa in front of the telly with their meals on trays on their laps, watching the newest Doctor Who episode. Francis can't help watching Arthur with interest, the Briton is staring at the screen with intense fascination and he can't understand why Arthur is so engaged in the programme. That is until Arthur turns his head and catches Francis’ watching eyes and narrows his own.

“What're you looking at?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.”

“Suspicious bastard.” Arthur grumbles, collecting dishes for clearing up.

Francis wanders over to his seat and easel placed in the bay window - he had won rights to set up his art stuff there after beating Arthur in an intense 5 hour game of Monopoly - and sits down in front of a blank canvas. Francis contemplates said canvas for a while, before beginning to place hesitant pencil strokes on the textured material, hoping for the beginnings of a masterpiece. His speciality is still-life paintings, as well as sketches. He feels it is special to be able to capture the essence of a setting and the people and items in it.

He hears the kettle being switched on in the kitchen.

~o0O0o~

Francis chooses a stylish lavender shirt to go with smart trousers and a pair of polished black shoes, and gives himself a once-over in the mirror before stepping out of the flat with his set of keys and heading over to the stairs. Arthur is still out - he has a private English Literature class at the moment - but Francis is meeting up with friends.

He boards the correct train, and rides in silence. He has always detested some of the quirks of the UK. No one talks to each other, and they just look at the ground while rushing to their destinations. But he prefers trains to buses, which are just full of old people, and he is always wary of them taking him the wrong route.

Francis leaves the train station to enter a relatively busy casual restaurant for a late lunch. He sees his two targets, and slides into the table with them with a genuine smile.

“Francis, mi amigo! How've you been?” the tan Spaniard exclaims.

“Antonio. Gilbert.” Francis beams, “I’m great, thank you.”

“Heyy, Franny! It's been so long, bro. How’s your art course doing for you?”

“It’s really amazing Gil, I get to spend so much time doing what I love and creating new artwork, though it is a lot of work. But enough about me, how’re you two?”

Antonio grins, “College is fine, but I’ve finally convinced Lovino to go away with me over summer, that stubborn tomato.”

“You've got to be the only person who can even remotely control Lovi, I swear. Hey Franny, you should totally come to my next band concert on the weekend. I can't believe you haven't seen Obliquitous yet especially since you're supposed to be the supportive friend.”

“Oh, well of course I'll come Gil. Plus, I'm sure my magnificent presence would improve the atmosphere greatly.” Francis says with a smirk, flicking his lengthy hair behind his shoulder.?

Their meals come and the three men eat cheerfully, grateful to be able to have some time for catching up. Francis tucks into some nicely cooked savoury crepes and behind all of the talking, thinks about how Arthur would have enjoyed the company.

~o0O0o~

It is a Saturday night, and Francis finds himself pushing open the door of a local pubs, a poster with the lettering of ‘Obliquitous’ stuck to the front. He’s anticipating seeing Gilbert play with his band, especially since it had been way too long since Francis had treated himself to any sort of night out like this.

The bar is bustling and Francis finds himself a seat in front of the small stage with a glass of shandy after turning up his nose at the pub’s wine collection. He spends some time casually charming some swooning ladies, and it is not long before stage lights are turned on and four young men walk onto the stage holding various instruments and adjusting microphones.

Despite what Francis was expecting upcoming to the event, his eyes are not on Gilbert. They are on his grumpy British roommate who appears on stage.

Francis gapes slightly, shocked from seeing the man who told him he was simply ‘going out’ and was in the same band as one of his best friends. And he has never seen Arthur look the way he does in the entire few months of knowing him.

Arthur’s - what Francis calls - old man jumpers and boring slacks are replaced with tight black denim jeans accompanied by large rips showing some of the pale skin of his legs, an embellished leather jacket with embroidered patches sewn on, and a multitude of studs and rings in piercings Francis didn't even know Arthur had. His hair is ruffled but shining and there is a Union Jack bandana around his neck.

After the initial shock of seeing his flatmate, Francis begins to concentrate on the actual music and performance. The music is enjoyable with a good beat, and has him tapping his toe on the floor, the slight clacking produced completely drowned out by the booming music from the speakers. Gilbert looks like he is having a blast, smashing a perfect beat on the drum kit while occasionally throwing and twirling his drumsticks around in his hands which are decorated with German and Prussian flags. The other two men - also blonde - create attractive melodies and tunes within the songs, the violinist looking reserved but cool and the other man with ridiculous looking spiky hair grinning ecstatically between breaths on his glistening flute.

However, the one who really shines on the stage is Arthur. He plays his bass guitar with ease and precision, both the pick and his fingers flying across the strings to create deep, subtle sounds that bring the songs together. Not only that, but he leans into the microphone to sing lyrical notes that give the songs meaning past the expression of music. Arthur looks completely at home on stage; smiling and even occasionally winking at the audience; swaying his hips to the beat; singing with a solid but melodic voice that blends perfectly with the other instruments. He is stunning, and Francis can hardly believe he is the same stuffy Brit who can't cook for his life and seems to do nothing but read books. Even his eyebrows look natural up on the stage somehow.

Almost a dozen songs later, the band gives their thanks to the audience and start packing up, disappearing off stage and into a side room. A loud American voice catches Francis’ attention.

“Hey bro, you really looked like you enjoyed that. I can understand why, though, they're pretty awesome.”

Francis pulls out of his trance of staring at the stage where the band were previously performing, and turns to see the one who spoke. There is a well-built man with wheat-blonde hair, and another person who looks almost identical standing next to him.

“Oh, uh, yes they are rather extraordinary.”

“Woah dude you're French? You wouldn't happen to be Artie’s roomie would you?”

“Oui, I am Francis. You know Arthur?”

“Yeah, we go way back… So I guess he finally got around to inviting you to a performance, huh! I'm Alfred by the way, and this is Mattie.”

The timid twin gives a small smile, tucking some slightly wavy hair behind his ear.

“It's nice to meet you, though Arthur didn't exactly-”

“Hey, they're out!” The American says suddenly, striding toward the men who have just come out from the back room, cased instruments in hand and tipsy laughter coming from their mouths.

Francis joins the cluster of musicians and friends all chatting about the show, weaving past the people crowding the establishment. For the first time that night, Arthur lays his emerald eyes on him. Francis winks.

“Francis? What are you doing here?”

“Hey Art, you know Franny? I never would have guessed, it really is a small world.” Gilbert laughs.

Francis chuckles, “Yes, we're roommates. Good evening Arthur. Congrats on such a marvellous performance. You really should have invited me sooner.”

“You invited him Gilbert? How bloody embarrassing.”

Arthur’s already flushed face turns another shade of red. Francis feels a sight twinge of hurt that Arthur didn't seem to think to invite him to a performance, let alone even mention he was in a proper band. But he knows that Arthur doesn't exactly consider him a friend as such, he is more someone he has to put up with and so Francis doesn't take it to heart. They have no reason to be friends; they are polar opposites and all they do is share a flat.

People eventually start to disperse and the rooms gets slightly quieter. Francis sees the flautist and violinist of the band snogging through pints of beer, Gilbert attempting to flirt with Alfred’s brother, Matthew, who he knows is Canadian due to the maple flag on his bag, and he is left talking about something to do with healthcare with Alfred and Arthur who are ranting at each other.

Unknown by the two, a drunk couple, violently making out, stagger into a large stage light still left from the show and Francis sees it begin to topple straight down.

Straight towards Arthur.

“Arthur!” Francis yells, before realising the Brit wouldn't be able to react in time and leaping forward to push him out of the course of the falling object. They collapse onto the floor, the heavy object smashing down and narrowly missing both them and Alfred, who gives a startled squeal. Everyone in the spacious room turns to see the damage worriedly, though some are too drunk to notice.

Meanwhile, Francis finds himself lying on top of Arthur with their lips smashed together.

Francis’ hair falls down and perfectly covers their faces like a curtain; they look into each other's widened eyes and their hearts pump. After a few seconds of shock Francis pulls away and they slump onto the floor, dumbfounded. A few people gather round with words of concern and sympathy and apology, but Francis doesn't pay much attention. All of his attention is towards the man he faces; Arthur’s glistening lips and panting breaths drawing him in. His heart races and stomach flutters.

Francis is left wondering as to why he wanted to lean in again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for reading again! I hope you liked this chapter ;D I should be uploading again next week hopefully!

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

“Where the fuck is Wuthering Heights, fettuccine face?!”

A loud yell resonates back from the living room, “Fettucine is Italian, you uncultured slug! And I haven't seen your stupid book; you probably can't find it because it's hidden behind your overwhelming unpleasantness.”

Arthur gives the biggest, most heartfelt scowl he can towards the door, even though he knows Francis can't see it, and continues searching for the missing book.

“Bloody hell, I need to get an entire essay done on this by tomorrow and I can't even find the blasted book.”

Pressure is beginning to built up with the prospects of exams, and no one is difficult to piss off. All of the students are gradually getting less sociable, and arguments between Francis and Arthur are commonplace. Arthur looks up a copy of Wuthering Heights on a random illegal website, not caring in the slightest, and begins to scrawl down analyses onto cheap paper with a cheap biro, his posture ruined slouched over the cheap desk. No one has the time for fancy stationery, other than a select few with strange priorities, and a crappy ballpoint found on the floor will suffice for most things.

Eventually Francis calls Arthur to dinner, who trudges over to the table. He collapses into a chair with a defeated sigh at the same moment he spots the cheeky book he is studying made use as a coaster on the table, an almost empty glass of red wine perched on top. Arthur sighs, glaring at Francis who is serving out food but not being bothered to waste the effort of a fight at that moment.

Francis presents dishes of duck leg served with fried potato cubes, a drizzle of plum sauce and a selection of roasted vegetables. As per usual it looks like something served on Masterchef, and the taste is exquisite which helps to cheer Arthur up slightly.

“Taste good, mon amour?”

Arthur looks up to Francis smiling at him over the table, and automatically responds with, “‘t’s ‘licious.”

That is before realising he has a mouth full of food, and registering the nickname with his small knowledge of French, as well as remembering he is supposed to dislike everything to do with Francis. But despite how much the man pisses him off to no end, it is becoming more and more difficult to deny to quality of his cooking. So Arthur resigns to glowering over his plate, probably a bit more embarrassed and flushed than he should be. He feels defeated, but at the same time unkeen to badmouth something that is so clearly perfect. And by that he means the food, definitely not Francis.

Arthur’s mind drifts back to the events of his concert in the pub and attempts to contain his feelings of embarrassment, but similarly his curious feelings of heat and a pumping heart. It was just a stupid accident and he probably would have been fine without the frog’s intervention, and so he wonders why he keeps on thinking back to it. It's not as if it meant anything at all.

Francis excuses himself to go and finish off some evaluations in his art portfolio, but before long Arthur sees him back in the bay window continuing on that one canvas he has been working on for a while. It is for his final project, so of course it would take a while, but Arthur was somewhat unimpressed at seeing from the initial sketches that the piece is simply a boring still-life of a living room or a library or something. And so he doesn't bother to take a look at the progress. Arthur prefers the styles of surrealism and sometimes landscapes because at least they're actually interesting. The ones that just look like sketchy photos put Arthur off; he thinks they are nothing more than what you can see with your own eyes and they just present how boring the real world is.

After clearing up, Arthur is back at his desk. His professor is harsh, so he gets his assignment done quickly to avoid any scolding and begins the tedious process of rereading the classic book while curled up in his reading armchair in the living room, cosy and comfortable but getting bored. He must be familiar with the works they are studying in order to write about them comfortably and do well in the exams. Arthur loves literature and gets lost in reading but he finds in-depth studies to ruin books slightly, though he still loves the subject.

The words on the pages gradually begin to blend together, and Arthur finds it difficult to keep his drooping eyes open. It gets to the point of him scanning over the words but not actually reading them before he feels himself fall into the depths of sleep, many late nights making it easy to submit to the darkness. Arthur barely bothers to give a thought to the notion that he should probably be in bed, and that he shouldn't really be falling asleep like this while Francis is still around. Trivial things like that aren't worth his worry compared to the importance of sleep and work.

The last thing Arthur sees before unconsciousness is Francis’ sapphire eyes poking out from behind his canvas.

~o0O0o~

Arthur jumps out of bed to switch off his stupid blaring alarm, groaning with exhaustion. He pauses for a moment… Bed?

Arthur strains his memory to think of what had happened the previous night. He is sure he had fallen asleep snuggled in his reading chair in pyjamas. But there he is, having just jumped out of his bed in his bedroom - definitely not from the chair in the living room. The slippers he had been wearing are placed neatly by the door and Wuthering Heights is perched on his bedside table.

Very curious.

The only other person in the flat was Francis, and Arthur definitely doesn't remember getting into bed himself. That means the only solution is…

Sleepwalking. Of course.

Arthur gets ready for lectures, although he has plenty of time because he actually woke up from his alarm which is unusual.

Arthur cringes seeing his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His forest green eyes are bagged, and his blonde hair quite prominently resembles a bird's nest, clumps all going in different directions. He tries and fails using a comb to tame it, giving up.

There is a plate of scrambled eggs waiting in the kitchen that Francis had somehow managed to make look pretty.

“How the hell does even scrambled eggs succumb to aesthetics? I thought it was impossible to make it look nice…” Admittedly, the only times Arthur had cooked eggs they had turned out black and charred, so it's not as if he has much experience with them.

He slips his ring binder into his rucksack, full to the brim with notes and sheets of paper, the seams straining against the immense weight of practically all the notes Arthur has taken so far in the year as well as several books. He doesn't imagine the poor bag will last much longer, but it serves him faithfully for the time. He hurries off to class, locking the door behind him.

The day is tedious and tiring, though Arthur gets in a pleasant conversation with Matthew after lectures that unsurprisingly gets cut short by the appearance of a hungry Alfred.

“Yo yo dudes let's go do McDonald's pleeease!”

“Good god Alfred don't just appear like that.”

They're stood in the Student’s Union, and the American’s persistent nagging to go to the greasy fast-food restaurant gets on Arthur's nerves. Alfred is wearing his usual bomber jacket, but he is wearing a pair of tacky cowboy boots that make him look even more childish than he acts.

“I'd prefer not to get any heart diseases, thanks. I'm going to get sandwiches for lunch.”

“Jeez, you're so boring Iggy.”

Arthur eye twitches, and he prepares to throttle the man if he uses that nickname one more time.

“Don't worry, I'll go with you Al.” the Canadian smiles sweetly.

“You're a life-saver Matthew, I don't know how you keep that idiot from running rampage.”

The three depart and Arthur returns home to a texting Francis lying over the sofa, slightly tousled blonde locks tied back in a charming low ponytail.

“Ah, hello Arthur. I’m staying over Antonio’s and Gilbert’s tonight. Will you be okay on your own?”

Arthur feels a slight drop in his mood. He doesn't really like sleeping in a house on his own and he prefers the reassurance that there is someone else nearby. But he can deal with it.

“Of course, I'll be fine.”

~o0O0o~

Arthur successfully manages to cook a ready meal in the oven with only minimal burning, and eats it on his lap in front of the television. He needs the sound of the programme to fill up the silence of the apartment without Francis; Arthur hates having to listen to random creaks of the building and noises that are always nothing but put up his guard nonetheless.

He reads until he gets tired enough for bed with some classical music playing in the background. He is absorbed in the book and forgets any worries until his yawns drive him out of his peace.

Arthur glances at a clock; 10:30pm; and decides on going to sleep earlier that night. His bed is welcoming, covered in snugly blankets and pillows, and Arthur doesn't struggle to sleep despite the unnerving stillness and the knowledge of seclusion.

Arthur thinks about how lonely it is without Francis to yell at and insult, and he is suddenly grateful that he had decided to share a flat. Renting one for himself or living in the student accommodation would have been so lonely; the company of another person is comforting especially when they're going through the similar stress of college themselves. Although, Arthur finds he can't imagine rooming with anyone other than Francis. Anything else would seem wrong and unnatural and despite how much Arthur supposedly hates the man, he wishes he could hear him watching the telly or brushing his teeth in the mundane way they live their lives. Suddenly, Arthur is thinking about the night in which they kissed again. Of course it wasn't an actual real kiss, that would be stupid and would never happen, but he thinks about how that moment really wasn't as detestable as Arthur would have thought especially considering who it was with. But as soon as that thought appears, it is banished back into the depths of his mind to be replaced with some random notions to do with exams and studying. Arthur falls asleep soon after.

~o0O0o~

Arthur sits up abruptly in the darkness, still in bed and still in the middle of the night. His heart rate is rapid and he is breathing heavily, a slight feeling of dread consuming him.

A nightmare? Most likely.

That is until he hears a noise, presumably similar to one that must have woken him up. There is a bang from the front of the flat, where the front door is. He hears the door rattle and shake before a terrifying click, and it creaks open. Arthur feels himself freeze up completely, absolute terror seizing him.

Arthur’s mind runs wild, thoughts jumping over each other in a mad frenzy to produce a solution or reason for this situation. His heart rate is through the roof, he imagines it is akin to a mouse or some other small mammal; beating so fast it’s like it's humming. Arthur eventually finds use of his muscles, sliding out of bed and quietly padding over to the entrance of his room.

Meanwhile, there are more noises. Clunks, bangs, scuffs. Arthur pokes his head out of his room. It is too dark to see anything more than hazy shapes and shadows with the only light being produced from distant street lamps behind thick curtains.

Arthur refuses to believe the situation he is in. Such events had happened countless times before and all had turned out to be nothing, simply family members coming home or pets or some other silly disturbances.

But this seems so real and engaging, and Arthur feels intense fright throughout his entire being. All sorts of possibilities are running through his head. Who is it? What if, what if? All sense of rationality is out of the window; Arthur doesn't think to locate a weapon or a light or phone the police. All he can think of is confirming that one of his worst nightmares isn't coming true, but he is getting less and less confident he will succeed. Arthur’s brain is summoning all of the worst case scenarios and as he takes a few stiff but shaky steps out into the central living room.

Arthur doesn't notice the stranger behind him until a blow to his head knocks him out cold.

~~~~~~~~~~

Heheh hopefully you enjoyed this chapter! I should be back next week xxxx.

Ps. Happy Birthday for Friday (two days ago) Francis!!!! I love youuu

Pps. Talking of France, its the summer holidays for us in a few day and I'm gonna be visiting France for two weeks on Friday or Saturday or something, but driving and taking the ferry so it might take a while, but that means there's a slight chance I won't have Internet for a while (even though I should) so just a heads up in case a disappear for a while. I'll try not to though!!

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Francis snatches up his overnight bag from under the train seat and hurries onto the platform. He rubs his eyes, blinking through his exhaustion from little sleep and a slight hangover, having opting to leave early to get back to Arthur even though Antonio and Gilbert were still asleep.

Francis hurries towards his flat through the rain, and walks towards the door when he notices something strange.

The front door is slightly ajar and the lock looks forced open. Francis despairs over the situation for a moment - break-ins are horrible to deal with and are stressful - before quickly remembering Arthur should have been home the entire time Francis was out. Why wouldn't Arthur call him if something like this happened? Is he okay? A sudden rush of panic and worry lead Francis to shove open the door.

His bags drop to the floor.

The living room is trashed, objects pushed off tables and drawers emptied. There are many things missing - a radio, computer, the television, some expensive art supplies, and there are even some gaps on the previously full bookshelf. Thankfully, however, the one most important thing is not missing, rather curled up on the floor shivering. He is looking to the floor with wide eyes and there are a couple of tiny splatters of blood on the floor next to him.

Francis rushes over to Arthur who looks strangely small and vulnerable, and the Briton flinches away before looking up to Francis’ face. He accepts a relieved hug from the latter man, giving a slight sob.

“It's okay, Arthur, don't worry. I'm here now, I'm sorry.”

Francis sees a big lump on the back of Arthur’s head while mid-embrace, accompanied by a little blood matting the hair and dyeing it an unsightly red. Francis feels something tugging inside him, something saying ‘you could have helped’, ‘it's all your fault’, ‘why did you leave him?’.

Arthur pulls him in tighter, burying his face in Francis’ shirt. “Are… are you okay Arthur?” Francis ventures, slightly afraid of what the answer may be. There are a few seconds of hesitation before he feels the slight nodding of a head against his chest. Francis allows himself to feel some relief - Arthur shouldn't end up completely traumatised by this incident. Though he knows that Arthur isn't really ‘okay’, or at least at this moment. The poor man who would usually slap anyone who touched him was not letting go of Francis, clinging onto him like a lifeline.

They sit there for a while, not giving a second thought about missing class, just holding each other.

~o0O0o~

Francis lies on the sofa sketching roughly onto a notebook while keeping an eye on Arthur in his reading chair across the room. He has a book open but it doesn't look like he's really reading it, his eyes are distant and unmoving.

They had hurried off to the local doctor’s first with Francis was worrying over Arthur’s head injury, after Arthur had started blushing and realising who he was hugging, breaking the embrace hesitantly. Arthur was quiet but vaguely responsive, not seeming overly panicked about his head although flinching in pain once in awhile. They saw a doctor quite quickly, who bandaged up Arthur’s head and declared it was nothing too serious; a mild concussion and a little external bleeding.

Francis fussed over him, but Arthur was more concerned over the state of the flat. They called their landlord, insurance company and the police, and it was a whole day of faffing and missing classes before the two men could finally relax a bit again.

There are some missing belonging but they aren't too bothered about them at the present. They had cleaned up most of the flat and fixed another lock onto the front door, and Francis had cooked the nicest meal he could. Arthur ate it hungrily with a slight flush on his face, but was still quite quiet.

Francis notices Arthur looking towards the door subtly once in the while, and he knows the Briton is paranoid. Francis wants nothing more than to go to Arthur and comfort him; he can feel overwhelming guilt from the situation, he could have helped him if only he had stayed at home.

Francis feels bad for admitting it to himself, but the loss of some of his most expensive art equipment is quite a problem for him. They can live without the luxuries of a radio and television, but he really needs some of those supplies for his college course and they'll be difficult to replace on a student budget. Insurance companies don't provide anything like enough money back.

Francis ponders over the situation for a while, barely paying attention to what he is drawing, before reaching a conclusion. He should get a job.

His crappy family barely supports him - plus he moved to the UK to try and get away from them in the first place so he doesn't want to run back to them desperately like a child - therefore he figures he may as well try to make some money himself. He makes a mental note to ask around various shops when he next gets the chance.

Family had managed to come up in conversation at one point between Francis and Arthur. Francis had mentioned about his broken up, disloyal family. He had never known his mother - and had no desire to do so - and his father had jumped between numerous girlfriends. Francis had learned to hate that lifestyle, there is no real love or loyalty, only lust with another person you can fuck for a few nights before moving on. Francis had left his father as soon as he was old enough, moving to England for university. And that had lead him to find out briefly about Arthur's three brothers, and about how their father had passed away years ago.

Francis hears movement from Arthur, who gets up and brews a large mug of tea.

“I'm going to bed.” he says, bringing his tea and book to his bedroom with him.

“Oh, okay Arthur. Are you sure you'll be alright?” Francis considers offering for Arthur to sleep in his room for comfort but figures it would probably only embarrass him. He knows that Arthur would most likely say no anyway even if he really wants to say yes. Francis found that about Arthur and lots of other British people - they deny their feelings for no obvious reason and he can never understand why; it's not going to help them.

“Yeah, I'll be fine Francis.” His voice doesn't seem one hundred percent confident but he probably wouldn't accept any objections. “Sorry for all the hassle today, I hope you can catch up in class okay and everything.”

“Don't worry about it at all, cher, nothing is your fault. If anything, it's mine. Goodnight.”

Arthur gives Francis a slightly strange look, possibly of concern, before disappearing into his bedroom.

Francis resigns to bed not long after Arthur, double checking the lock on the front door and leaving on a light.

~o0O0o~

Francis naturally wakes up early as per usual. He finds he has no need for an alarm clock on a normal night as his body clock doesn't generally let him sleep past seven o’clock. He pulls on a casual shirt and some trousers after getting out of a steamy shower, towelling his hair to mere dampness and combing it through.

Francis pokes his head into Arthur’s room for a moment to check he is still alive. Arthur is tangled in his quilt and the book he was reading the previous night is discarded on the floor; he most likely fell asleep reading it. Francis notices the lamp is still on and sighs, walking across the room to turn it off. Francis can't help but to squat down to take a closer look at the sleeping man - he can spot bags under Arthur's eyes and his enormous brows are slightly pinched in a frown. There is a small trickle of drool coming from his mouth and his breathing emits a very quiet snore.

“Huh… cute.”

Francis mentally excuses himself and leaves silently in hopes of not waking up the other man.

It is a Sunday, the only day of the week they're both free from lectures, so Francis plans a breakfast he can store in the fridge before Arthur wakes which will probably be an eternity later. He suddenly has an urge to make yogurt with fruit and honey even though it doesn't actually involve many culinary skills, but finding out they don't have either yogurt or fresh fruit in, Francis figures he may as well go to the shops.

He leaves a note for Arthur just in case he wakes up while he is still out, and walks out into a surprisingly clear day.

The shops aren't busy, and Francis gathers what he needs quickly. He walks down the tea aisle, and his mind instinctively goes to Arthur. He finds the same thing in amongst the English pastries, and jams, and biscuits, and when he sees some children’s books about fairies and unicorns that Arthur so often claims are real.

‘Damn, he's everywhere.’ Francis accidentally lets out a quiet but audible growl that he quickly suppresses, looking around to check no one had heard him.

Francis can't help but to think about when he kissed Arthur, even though it was only accidental. He wonders why he still remembers it, it should have been a completely inapplicable and forgettable incident but no, the memory finds its way into a relevant part of Francis mind anyway.

He returns home and makes two portions of fruity yogurt with intricately placed berries and drizzles of honey, placing one bowl in the fridge for the still snoozing Arthur. He places himself down in front of his canvas. The piece is coming along nicely and he admires the atmosphere building up with the layers of paint. Francis muses on the possibility of finding a career in art. Everyone had always shunned his option choices, saying how he should have chosen to pursue a subject with good career prospects but he deliberately ignored them. Francis hates people who try to influence him in ways to change him.

Arthur eventually emerges from his bedroom looking tired and grumpy. He searches the counters and table for a moment before looking in the fridge to find the yogurt, retrieving and eating it without a word.

Francis quietly tuts at the lack of thanks from him, but doesn't follow up on it for respect of Arthur mood and recent traumatic experience. He's not quite that cruel.

He hears Arthur enter the shower after eating, and it is a long while before the water stops running.

~~~~~~~~~~

Wow, hello everyone. Terribly sorry about missing last week’s upload, heh whoops. I would say it's because I had no wifi, but that would be lying because I did have wifi, except I was quite busy and lacking much inspiration and motivation. But unfortunately now I have exceptionally crap wifi which is kinda karma so I will upload today because I am in a restaurant with free wifi. Yes, I am desperate lol ripperoni. I'll try to get more on schedule for future weeks, and sorry I realised I left you on quite a cliffhanger so I hope that this chapter fixed that. Byebye! X

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Arthur sits in the local library with a novel open on the desk in front of him. The book is supposed to be a distraction, but it rather ends up serving the purpose of giving Arthur something to be distracted from. His eyes would scan over the words - not actually reading them - and without even noticing he would find himself staring blankly at the bookshelves with his mind in the flat from the previous night.

Another ten minutes of staring into space pass, before the scraping of a chair brings him back to reality, accompanied by the throbbing of his head. Arthur growls and slams the useless book shut, walking out of the library while ignoring a couple of irritated shushes sent in his direction.

He walks down along the pavement, quietly observing the fast flowing river, the water level high from recent bad weather. It is moving into winter and Arthur can begin to feel the chill. A light drizzle coats his face in the gloom and the droplets sprinkling his hair twinkle under car headlights. The atmosphere is peaceful but Arthur is acutely aware of all other actions on the street, not being able to relax. He hates to admit it, but the break-in had really scared him. To be physically attacked in such a way was something he had believed would never happen to him, it was too rare and out of the question. But now, something bad has happened and there's nothing stopping Arthur from believing it might happen again. He doesn't loiter around on the way home.

Arthur lets himself into their flat, hanging up his coat and putting his damp shoes on the rack to be replaced by a pair of comfy slippers.

“Welcome home, eyebrows.”

A scowl.

“Hello, pansy.”

Arthur trudges to window, where Francis is painting onto a canvas with soft strokes of a brush. He can see the beginnings of details of the piece; shelves of books and some furniture. Francis looks up to him, with traces of a sly smile.

“Interested, cher?”

Arthur averts his eyes, “Hah, of course not. Wouldn't be surprised if it turned out like crap to be honest.” The words don't come out as harshly as he had intended, and he strides into the kitchen to avoid any stupid taunts about his inexplicably reddening face. Francis had been treating Arthur especially kindly since previous night for obvious reasons, though it slightly irritated him. He doesn't need Francis’ sympathy. But he had also been keeping up his silly suggestive looks and words that further pissed him off. At the same time, however, these actions are comforting. Not necessarily because of Francis, but because Francis is normal. Him being around and teasing is an ordinary, comforting thing and so Arthur almost finds it difficult to reject his actions. Almost.

~o0O0o~

Arthur leaves his lectures while finishing up conversations with his friend from class, Ludwig (who he had recently found out was Gilbert’s brother to his surprise), and begins pottering off with the intentions of buying a sausage roll for lunch on the way home.

On his way out, he sees a smiley brunette jump on Ludwig with a cry of, “Luddyyy!”

They both look ecstatic to see each other embracing and exchanging kisses. Arthur feels some warmth blossom inside of him. They look so beautiful together and their
happiness seems to spread to Arthur. Perhaps it is because of the knowledge of there being people who are just like him around; not really going for women; as well as him being happy for them. But he also feels a twinge of jealousy, of embarrassment, that Arthur has no relationship to think of. He envies all of the perfect couples he sees, but is always too awkward and grumpy to find himself in a relationship. Arthur muses with a despairing but amused chuckle, he wouldn't date himself so he doesn't have a whole lot of chance with others.

He shrugs it off, and walks towards the town centre. He rubs his eyes with a weary yawn, and locates a Greggs in town to get himself that sausage roll. The bakery is relatively quiet and Arthur walks straight up to pay.

Until he stops.

Because there, standing behind the counter, is no other than the Frog.

They stand there for a few moments just looking at each other, like they are both rabbits caught in the same set of headlights. Francis soon recovers himself and equips an amused smile.

“Hello there, how can I help you sir?”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, simply working of course.”

“I mean, why do you have a job? How the hell are you supposed to manage both a job and college?”

“Oh don't be silly Angleterre, I can handle more than you think, you know. I'll be fine, plus I kind of need the money. Anyway, I'm working at the moment so what would you like, sir?”

Arthur reddens slightly at the embarrassing and, frankly, ridiculous nickname before grudgingly ordering his sausage roll.

He feels himself get slightly annoyed; the Frenchman had gone and got himself a job without even telling him, plus now Arthur will be spending more time without Francis. As in, he doesn't want to be home alone too much. He'd prefer anyone else to him.

To his horror, Francis blows him a kiss on the way out and Arthur swears he’ll kill him when he gets home.

~o0O0o~

Arthur strums a tune on his bass guitar which had thankfully been hidden away during the robbery. He would have been distraught if that was lost.

His mind doesn't seem to be in the mood for composing, so Arthur settles down on the sofa under a blanket with his computer on his lap. He opens up a Word document with scatterings of plans and ideas already typed up.

Arthur’s fingers start moving hesitantly across the keys, increasing in speed as his mind conjures the right words but pausing occasionally while he thinks. He had decided to start dabbling in writing; it is useful as an English student for the practice but Arthur finds the freedom and beauty of writing completely captivating. It is almost thrilling to him to search for new ideas and find burst of inspiration, and the right words can form perfect, practically artistic sentences. There are all sorts of literary devices that can never be conveyed in any way in film or theatre.

Arthur is brought back to earth by Francis calling him to dinner. He had barely heard the Frenchman come home and realises while saving his document that he had written almost ten full pages in the afternoon.

Arthur comes to the table and starts eating the meal. He looks up at Francis who's smiling eyes are already on him.

“You've been quiet this afternoon Arthur.”

He scowls, “I was, um… writing. Anyway, why the hell do you have a job now? That's pretty irresponsible considering the size of the workload of uni. Don't you have coursework and exams and everything?”

“Of course I do, amour, but I am just so amazing that I can do everything. Don't you want a new television?”

Arthur snorts. “Whatever. Just… don't let yourself get too stressed or anything, and- and don't slack off your cooking duties, frog.” It's not like he's worried about Francis; it's only fair that they share equal amounts of stress as flatmates so there are no unfair rights to sympathy or extra help. Plus, Arthur doesn't really want to have to cook if Francis is too busy as he would probably make fun of his failures.

Francis suddenly gives a dazzling smile and Arthur’s breath hitches. His expression is so warm and genuine that Arthur finds he wants nothing more than to see that smile all of the time, especially when it is directed toward him.

“Your concern makes me so happy, cher. Thank you.”

Out of nowhere, Arthur feels Francis’ hand under the table grasp his own and give a slight squeeze. He flinches but doesn't have the heart to pull away when Francis is being so kind and affectionate towards him. Arthur’s heart rate is accelerating rapidly with the unexpected contact, and feels himself heat up as the Frenchman pulls his hand closer to him, along with the rest of his body. Francis’ face is not far from Arthur's own as they lean over the small dining table, remnants of their dinner forgotten. Arthur can just about feel the tinkling of Francis’ breath over his face and finds it strange seeing Francis from so close up. It leads him to notice many things about the man he had never noticed before - the paleness of his eyelashes, the hidden flecks of violet in his irises in amongst the vast pool of blue, the occasional old chicken pox scar subtly scattering his seemingly perfect complexion.

Francis is still smiling warmly to Arthur but seems conflicted over whether to continue talking, pull away, pull closer, or just continue holding him. The couple of moments shared in each other's proximity are awkward and feel more like minutes. Arthur finds himself frozen, at loss of what to do. Despite the confusing urge to lean further forwards into Francis, he pulls away, not really understanding his feelings or the situation he is in. Arthur finds things he can't understand almost scary and he rejects them in hopes he won't fall trap to them. He has no protection against things he his has no knowledge on, therefore his solution is to stay with what is familiar so that he can deal with it in his own way.

Francis didn't seem to care that the impromptu embrace was rather strange and awkward, but Arthur saw a slight flicker of sadness behind his smiling eyes as he pulled away. Arthur finds himself feeling a similar feeling, and almost wants to apologise to Francis for being so difficult. Emotions had always been a weakpoint for Arthur, they're confusing and scary and leave you vulnerable, so they're easiest for him to suppress.

Arthur gives a hesitant cough. “I'll, um, clear up now.” He stands from his chair a little too quickly; it scrapes loudly across the floor and the table jerks with a clatter of plates. He cringes. Arthur clears the table and washes his hands in cold water hoping it will help to cool him down, his sweat doing an ineffective job of it.

Francis looks slightly apologetic as he moves to sitting in the chair behind the easel and simply stares out of the window in contemplative manner.

While washing up, Arthur desperately tries to empty his head of any thoughts of Francis, the irritating man corrupting him with strange feelings. He recites song lyrics, quotes books, does anything to fill his head.

Arthur goes to his desk and immerses himself in some work. College work can be a drag but sometimes it is a welcome distraction that boosts his productivity. He recalls back in school where no one would be caught dead saying they enjoyed any academic work, while Arthur finds the maturity of being in university as an adult with other adults a welcome lifestyle. Sure, it is harder and there are more responsibilities, but Arthur had always been an independent person and so the freedom of adulthood is appreciated.

Moving out from home was possibly the greatest moment of Arthur's life. It wasn't like he was unwelcome with his family, but his brothers were the absolute worst people to have to live with. They aren't bad people, they're just difficult to cope with as siblings. As the youngest, Arthur had been through some difficult shit; subject to pranks, blackmail, bullying, teasing. It had, however, hardened him against big brother-like treatments and he isn't afraid to say his wrestling skills aren't half bad.

Alistair, (the oldest of the four at twenty-six, a hefty six years on top of Arthur) is big, rowdy, strong, and not afraid to use his size advantages against his brothers. He and Arthur don't get on most of the time though he can show some affection if the mood is right. But he could never get over the time Alistair locked him in a public toilet for four hours in Pembrokeshire when he was nine. It sort of left Arthur with an unconditional hatred for his brother.

Arthur was never particularly close to Sean, he is four years younger and he spends a lot of his childhood either closed up in his room or up to no good out with friends. Arthur knows his little brother doesn’t have anything major against him, but he finds he usually makes attempts to act cool and insensitive around him.

Dylan is closest in age above Arthur who is only two years his junior, and so they did usually get on the best. That, and because Dylan is generally quite a caring person towards Arthur. He helped him out a lot especially since he was often on the receiving end of Alistair’s teasing. Dylan had always been strange person behind the friendliness, having actually adopted a real sheep and spending way too much of his money collecting hats.

Arthur remembers he's going to have to return home for Christmas and mentally cringes. His family pretend to be all grown up but in reality they all act like children. But unlike dreading the holiday like last year, Arthur realises he's looking forward to getting away from the stresses of living with Francis, especially with his recent annoying behaviour. It is new to Arthur, and Arthur doesn't like new things.

Arthur sighs, finishing writing up a quote bank before going to bed, falling asleep while listening to classical music he set to play louder than his thoughts.

~~~~~~~~~~

Heya, I hope this chapter was okay! I'm trying to keep the standard as high as I can manage; I don't find writing super easy despite how I enjoy it (*^o^*). But ja, I shall be back ( ^ω^ ) <3

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Francis’ day is not going very well. Not at all.

He curses his life, annoyed at having to deal with numerous mood-ruining and stress-inducing problems. He had overslept in the morning somehow, most likely because he’d had to stay up stupidly late the previous night trying to get an assignment finished, and wound up missing breakfast and his morning coffee which really made him grumpy. It didn't help that Arthur was awake while Francis was rushing around the apartment, snickering at the lack of his usual composure before realising with annoyance that he wouldn't be getting any of Francis’ breakfast that morning. Francis had been kept behind lectures by his professor and ended up late for work, earning him a warning from his boss that made another addition to the crappiness of his day.

Francis leaves work and walks home in rain, the weather suitably fitting his mood, and finally makes it back to his warm apartment. He shuts the front door behind him and shudders at the chilliness of his damp clothes. Arthur is lying on the sofa on his laptop and looks up lazily as Francis comes in.

“You look pissy.”

Francis glares at him. “Wow, what a lovely way to welcome someone home. Thanks for stating the obvious, Mister Sarcastic.” he says bitterly. By this point, he can't find the effort within himself to keep up his charming personality or flirt with the irksome Brit.

“Hah, I hardly think I'm the sarcastic one at the moment.”

Francis scowls, dumping his bag and art folder in his room and he slumps down on his bed with a heavy sigh. After several hours of working in the afternoon, it is already rather late and Francis realises with a groan that he'll have to make dinner. Despite being tired and in need of a rest, he doesn't feel like ordering in some expensive takeaway and definitely doesn't want to have to go back outside, so he hauls himself back off the bed and makes his way into the kitchen.

Francis prepares a pasta bake quickly, just hoping to eat something warm and then relax. He places the meal in the oven and leaves it to cook while he reads the newspaper.

A while later after Francis gets himself absorbed in the tragedy that is British politics and various strange news articles, Arthur walks into the room.

“Hey frog, isn't that burning?”

Francis immediately snaps his head, instantly noticing the strong odour of burning after it is pointed out to him.

“Shit!”

He runs to the smoky kitchen, reaching to pull the charred pasta bake out of the oven and remembering oven gloves just too late. He hisses with pain at the searing pan, whipping his hand back and grabbing the oven gloves to retrieve the ruined dish. All of the pasta and cheese on the top is thoroughly burnt; inedible.

“Merde, I forgot to set the timer!” Francis wails, exasperated at everything. “Why does life hate me, it's like I'm destined for misfortune.”

“My god, there's no need to be so melodramatic.”

Francis narrows his eyes at Arthur while sucking on his burnt finger.

“Anyway, what the hell are we supposed to do now you've messed up our dinner? I thought you were actually supposed to be a good cook or something.”

“For god’s sake, do you really feel the need to turn everything against me instead of actually helping? You're so overly critical and condescending, it would be nice if for once you were actually kind and sympathetic like normal people try to be! And you're being so utterly hypocritical; it's not like anything you attempt to cook comes out any different!”

Francis finds himself getting more and more angry with everything. He knows it isn't like him to act so cruel but he can't stop himself when so much stress has built up over both the day and the year. Francis isn't a hot-headed person (he usually leaves that to Arthur), but occasionally he can get so frustrated that he just can't keep things in. At this point he can feel himself becoming almost blind to his actions. A small part of his mind is telling him to stop but his thoughts are too clouded.

Arthur expression is one of slight shock from Francis’ hurtful outburst. But, just like usual, Arthur keeps a brave face and refuses to let Francis get the better of him.

“What the fuck was that for, huh? I'm not acting any different to usual, you usually have no problem. This is just who I am, you know I can't just change that. So that was so uncalled for!”

“If that's just ‘who you are’, maybe you should try to change. You only make things unpleasant for other people!”

They are practically yelling at each other by now, any previous piece of the flat forgotten. The conflict had gone from zero to one hundred so quickly and Francis realises that the fault is entirely down to him and his bad mood.

Arthur is seething. “I thought we were something like friends! But I'm pretty sure straight up insulting me is a clear sign that I'm not liked despite what you've said in the past, which makes you a liar. You're a real wanker!”

“You're the real wanker; I doubt anyone else would ever do it for you since you're so insufferable!”

Arthur's face contorts into one of disgust.

Francis is regretting every uttered word but finds himself too late to stop.

“I'm not surprised your family just dumped you here, I don't know how they survived almost twenty years having to cope with your shit!”

Francis can see Arthur getting angrier and angrier, his face a glowing red and his bushy eyebrows scrunched together while he fumes. He reaches his limit in temper, stepping towards Francis, grabbing his collar in his white-knuckled fist and shaking him slightly

“At least I'm not a part of a family of filthy whores who enjoys nothing but casual fucks!”

Francis registers what Arthur had just said slowly, and doesn't quite believe it. Francis had never really cared much about insults directly about him, but Arthur had gone way too personal and Francis cannot control his actions in his new red-clouded rage.

Francis pushes Arthur against the wall, pinning down his arms and body with his own. Arthur grunts from the impact, his head having hit the wall and he looks up to Francis’ face. Francis feels disgusted with himself at how his expression makes Arthur's eyes widen almost in fear and his brain properly process what he had just said.

“Oh. God. Francis, I'm so sorry I didn't mean it.” His voice is wavering and laden with remorse.

Francis changes suddenly, then. The deep regret in Arthur’s now apologetic eyes and the position Francis realises he had put him in dispels his anger. He can see how much of a mistake they had both made in their actions, and how Arthur is becoming consumed with guilt and shame because of what he had done to Francis. These genuine emotions displayed by him are so powerful to Francis, are such proof that he really does care for him, that Francis can't stop himself from leaning forward to push his mouth onto Arthur's.

Arthur squeaks and tenses up with wide eyes, completely bewildered at Francis’ unpredictable behaviour. The kiss is clumsy and ungainly to begin with; Arthur is squashed up between the wall and Francis, and it is so completely unexpected for the both of them. Francis vaguely wonders what has become of him, why he is acting in such a way, but his strengthened feelings block these thoughts off.

Arthur is starting to squirm as he realises what is happening, but Francis can feel his resistance is fruitless due to the strong weight of his body pinning him down. Arthur eventually stops attempting to escape, freezing for a while before - to Francis’ surprise - he actually begins to melt into the kiss, closing his eyes and softening the gesture.

Their lips are connected for a good couple of seconds, until Francis finally finds some sense. He pulls away quickly, widening his eyes and gaping slightly. What had he done?

He had just forcefully kissed Arthur. Without consent. He had practically just proved Arthur's comment correct; he is no more than a filthy excuse for a human being. Love is one of the few beautiful, pure things in the world, and so to force it upon someone else is inexcusable, it goes against everything Francis had claimed to believe.

He staggers backwards with Arthur looking up at him, puzzled.

“H-hey Francis, I'm so sorry… are you okay?”

Francis is bewildered at the Brit. Why is he not furious? Why is he not repulsed?

“What do you mean? How can you say that when I should be the one apologising, don't you realise what I've just done? I'm disgusting, you were right.”

“Wait no Francis, it's fine, please don't worry about it! I, uh… I didn't mind it. And I wasn't right in any way, it was a stupid and ignorant thing to say.”

Francis doesn't want to hear it. It doesn't matter what he thinks, he still did what he did. He flees to his bedroom; he doesn't want Arthur to have to look at him.

Arthur.

Why Arthur? Why had Francis just kissed Arthur? Francis decides to try and tell the truth to himself, he knows there is no use in lying.

He loves Arthur?

That's something new, and it's rather confusing. Francis had just pointed out everything he hates about Arthur, but he knows he can't deny his inexplicable feelings.

Francis lies face down on his bed, and lets out a few sobs of frustration. If Arthur didn't hate him before, he sure as hell does now. It seems Life is out to get him at the moment.

He lies collapsed on his bed for about an hour, just thinking. There is a quiet knock on his door, and a hand holding a dish slips through and places it on the floor before disappearing behind the closing door.

Francis hauls himself up and goes to examine the mysterious delivery. Squatting down to the floor, he discovers his favourite dish from their local Chinese takeaway, and smiles.

Maybe things could be worse.

Whoo, I'm on schedule. I hope you enjoyed everyone being pissed off, although sorry this is rather angsty whoops. I hope this fic isn't descending too deep into shit, but hopefully it'll fulfill your FrUK fangirl/boy/other needs. Or maybe you don't like FrUK, and then I don't know why you're here (other than Haz or Mez or perhaps Famz) ;)

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

A bowl of fried rice lays half eaten on the kitchen counter. Arthur sits in an armchair, his head resting in his propped up arm. He had gone past the point of having his mind full of all that confuses him, rather he couldn't really find the effort to attempt to decipher all that had just happened.

He must have caught Francis in a rare bad mood, and Arthur has since discovered that Francis is not one to mess with at these times. Even though Arthur was being provoked, he wishes he is able to travel back in time and take back what he had said. He knows he had really upset Francis, although it was probably more what his words had lead them to do that was upsetting.

Arthur doesn't know why Francis had kissed him. And while fighting of all times. Arthur isn't completely ignorant to social behaviour; he knows at least that kissing someone usually means that you love them. But that doesn't make sense; Francis had just told him he hates him. Then again, Arthur tells him he hates him most of the time and truthfully, he is realising that something about Francis makes him feel warm inside and makes his stomach flutter, making him want to experience just more of Francis in general.

The extent of the silence enveloping their flat isn't truly appreciated until the shrill call of the doorbell awakens Arthur from his staring into space and startles him into standing up abruptly. He glances at the clock - quarter to ten - and vaguely wonders who would be calling around at that hour. Arthur hurries to the door so as to not keep anyone waiting, and unlocks it only to find two unexpected guests.

Alfred and Matthew stand on the doorstep looking sheepish and tired. They're carrying large bags on their backs and are wearing creased but cosy clothing. Alfred puts up his hand in a hesitant wave.

“Hey, Art. Sorry to pop in so unexpectedly and cause a nuisance but we've, uh... kinda just been kicked out of our apartment.”

Arthur looks between the two of them and grimaces. “Oh. Great. Good job. I suppose I can only guess that you two are now currently homeless and are hoping to lodge at our place.” He groans. “Yeah you're right, this is going to be a bloody nuisance.”

~o0O0o~

The two first-years perch on the sofa with cups of coffee while attempting to explain their situation to Arthur. They had already brought in their bags and so Arthur already guessing as to how everything will end up playing out.

Matthew starts, twirling lock of wheat-blonde wavy hair around his fingertips, a nervous habit. “So… basically our landlord decided that he wants to sell all of the apartments in our complex instead of renting them out, and evicted the lot of us.”

“Piece of shit.” Alfred growls under his breath.

“I'm not even sure if he's allowed to do that to be honest, but it doesn't exactly change the fact we kinda have nowhere to stay for the moment - our family is all in North America and it's the middle of semester. So… I'm so sorry Arthur but would it be at all possible to stay with you for a while; we'll keep out of your way and help with cleaning and everything!”

Arthur sighs. Things have been strange enough lately without these idiots begging for his help, but it's not like he can say no to some friends in need. “It'll be packed in here but I'm too soft to say no. You better pay your rent by washing up and not causing havoc though, bear in mind we're going to want to be studying for finals.”

“Yeah sure, Artie, it'll be like we're not even here. Thanks a bunch, you really saved our necks! We owe you big time.”

“Whatever, just behave. And I'll have to check with Fra-” His voice cracks at his name slightly. “Francis.” He realises checking with Francis with involve them interacting, and he averts his eyes as he finds himself getting stupidly nervous.

Arthur catches a slight questioning look from Alfred, who only goes on to ask where Francis is.

“Oh, he's just in his room, I'll get him now.” Arthur lifts himself up from his chair, not really wanting to get Francis, but walking over to his room anyway.

He knocks on the door, and after receiving no response he goes in. Expecting to see Francis sulking on his computer and listening to music, Arthur is surprised to see him asleep on his bed. His eyes are suspiciously red and blotchy, but Arthur supposes it could just be allergies. The dish of Chinese Arthur had brought in earlier is on the desk and is mostly eaten; he feels pleased that Francis had seemingly appreciated the meal. The man himself is curled on top on his quilt and is still wearing all of his clothes from the day, so Arthur figures it is only sensible that he at least takes of his shoes and pulls some blankets over him. Arthur takes one last look at Francis’ peaceful sleeping face and tousled hair fanned over the pillow before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

He returns to Alfred and Matthew, who are lighting chatting between each other, to tell them that Francis is asleep. “Don't worry, he probably won't mind you staying here. Make yourself at home. Anyway, we should find you two somewhere to sleep.”

They spend some time looking for spare pillows and duvets as well as camping mats since there is only one sofa big enough to sleep a person. This causes a heated battle of a coin flip between Matthew and Alfred to decide on who would get ownership of the sofa. Alfred wails in defeat as the coin lands on tails, while a smug Matthew claims the sofa as his own.

“Unfair.” Alfred pouts, collapsing onto the camping mats.

“Completely fair. It's only unfair when you don't win, isn't it.”

Arthur has known Alfred for a very long time, they were friends throughout most of school and before, and happen to now be attending the same university. Of course, Matthew had been with Alfred almost everywhere he went, usually enjoying his solitude in his shadow as the quiet twin, so he and Arthur are well acquainted. Arthur never usually has a problem with their company and sees no real reason not to help them out in their crisis, especially after knowing them for so long.

Arthur sticks around the living room as the two men (though technically still teens) attempt to get comfortable in the not-so-massive space. He does hope that Francis will actually be okay with them being there; they've only met briefly before and Arthur now knows that Francis isn't always accepting of everything. He is a lot more complex than Arthur had originally anticipated, he can no longer really predict what Francis might do, exactly.

It'll be fine, he assures himself. I’ll be fine and Francis will be fine and everything will be fine. But somehow Arthur finds himself worrying about Francis more than anything else. He hadn’t intended on getting so close to him but it's probably too late now, unless Francis really had decided that he hates him.

Arthur had been entertaining himself by reading a book, To Kill A Mockingbird to be exact, while in the company of his two guests when the click of a door made him look up. Francis is standing in the entrance to his bedroom, looking sleepy, miserable, and understandably confused. He looks to Arthur with an unreadable expression, down to Alfred and Matthew who are just beginning to nod off in their makeshift beds, and back up to Arthur. Francis looks as though he is about to question why there are two extra people suddenly sleeping in their flat but then seems to give up, not really caring enough to bother. He shuffles off to the bathroom, and then disappears back into his bedroom a few minutes later.

The silent encounter with Francis was odd but Arthur doesn't ponder on it. He is glad the Frenchman seemed okay enough but still feels regretful for not talking to or apologising to him during his brief appearance.

Arthur puts down his book and tidies up any remaining mugs and plates scattered around the flat. It is coming on midnight when he switches off the main lights while heading into his room, and a quiet voice calls out, “Arthur?”

Arthur looks back to beneath the sofa, able to make out a dark blob of a figure that moves to stand.

“What is it, Alfred?”

They look to the gently snoring form of Matthew on the sofa for a moment. Alfred moves around to furniture to get closer to Arthur. They speak in a quiet tone so as to not wake anyone up.

“Thank you Arthur, for letting us stay I mean. We’ll try to find somewhere to rent as quickly as we can but it might take a bit of time.”

“Don't worry about it Al, it's not like it's your fault. I'm happy to help.”

“So, uhh. I was also wondering how you and Francis are. Like, I don't really know but weren't you two really chummy? It seems kinda tense around here; he didn't even ask about Mattie and I when he went to the bathroom. Is everything okay?”

Arthur is startled. Since when has Alfred been so observant? And he didn't even realise he was awake when Francis came in.

He chuckles. “Don't worry Alfred. We're fine, it's just… I don't even know.”

“Have you got into a lover’s fight?”

“What? No, we’re not like that! Well…” Arthur hesitates, “at least that’s what I thought. I don't really know, everything is rather confusing at the moment.”

“Seriously, bro? This sounds like some proper romantic tension going on here. You probably wouldn't know since you're so inexperienced in love and everything but I've actually been known as the ‘Matchmaker’ in the past,” Alfred exclaims proudly (though quietly still), “I'm a professional in observing these situations.”

Arthur snorts. “Possibly the only thing you’re not oblivious about.” he mutters under his breath. “But anyway, we don't need any help; it's not like I actually like him in that way.”

“Whatever you say. Just remember to be honest with feelings and don't be afraid of other people, usually they're thinking the same thing as you.”

Arthur was going to respond but Alfred had already slid back into his bed with a quick,

“Night night.”

He sighs, and replies, “Goodnight Alfred, Matthew... Francis.”

Arthur pulls his door closed behind him, hearing the click of the latch. He begins getting changed and wonders why Alfred is so convinced that something is going on between him and Francis. Does it really look like that to everyone else? Yes, they have adopted a rather domestic lifestyle together but that is only for convenience. Well, he thinks, it doesn't matter what other people think. Our relationship won't be any different unless something were to actually happen between us.

Alfred’s ‘advice’ comes to mind - to be honest with yourself. Arthur is perfectly honest with himself, the damn Yank, he's just not really familiar with the phenomenon of love. But with all the fuss about it, Arthur can't seem to identify exactly whether love is something he feels or not.

He clambers into bed, sighing with happiness at remembering there's no class tomorrow. It'll at least give them time for Matthew and Alfred to sort out their situation a little and settle into their temporary home. At least they'll give he and Francis some extra company, Arthur doesn't even want to think about having to keep up awkward conversation with Francis with no one to fill in the silence. Despite how irritating Alfred can be, his loudness can be nice.

Arthur turns out the lights and does his best to forget about his confrontation with Francis, singing songs in his head until tiredness takes over.

Yoo, hopefully this chapter was okay. I actually feel alright about this one, but idk. Yes, Eagle 1 and Mattress are now on the scene whoo! I think this fic will be getting a good few more chapters, though it won't go on forever cri. I'm too unimaginative for that. I've been putting a fair bit of research and thought into ideas for my next fic and wow am I excited. But it'll be COMPLETELY different to this and probably not as organised in my uploading whoops, but whatever. It won't come for a while though I'm afraid. (*´ω`*). Anyway, I'm babbling. Byebye!!

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Francis opens his eyes to the lightening of his bedroom, the natural induction of the new day. At this time of year the days are short and he would usually be awake when it is still dark, but unlike usual Francis seems to have overslept slightly and it is already approaching nine o’clock. It was probably due to the stress of the previous day; it had completely exhausted him.

He gets out of bed and pulls a dressing gown around the pyjamas he is wearing. He recalls late last night having woken up after falling asleep by accident. Francis was still in his day clothes but blankets were covering him and his shoes had been taken off. He has no recollection of doing either of these things, and wonders if it was just his imagination, or whether Arthur, perhaps, had come to visit him. The thought isn't uncomfortable for Francis, and he recognises the closeness of the bond he and the Englishman have somehow developed. Yes, they bicker and don't get along from the outside but something about being in each other's company noticeably relax them both. Well, before anyway. Arthur might not be so relaxed about Francis after what he did yesterday.

Francis had changed into pyjamas and gone to the toilet the night before, but he remembers about the two figures who were curiously sleeping in their living room. Arthur was there with them, so Francis wasn't alarmed and was too tired to bother to question it - he really couldn't find it in him to care and actually have to question Arthur on it at the time.

Francis walks out of his room to go and cook breakfast,and sees a mess of temporary bedding on and below the sofa. The camping mats below house a sleeping person sprawled out in the space around it, splayed limbs tangled amongst blankets. His wheat-blonde hair is messy, with one cowlick in particular standing tall above the rest, and his relaxed face is decorated with drool. Francis chuckles at the boy and recognises him as Alfred, remembering having met him at Arthur's concert. He seemed like a nice guy and Francis doesn't see why him staying would pose much of problem.

The sofa is quite obviously slept on, though there is no one currently occupying it. Francis heads to the kitchen, and immediately upon entry he sees and hears someone cooking inside.

A man stands in the kitchen mixing a bowl of some sort of batter, very quietly humming to himself. His hair is nearer the length of Francis’ than Alfred’s or Arthur’s, but subtly darker, and Francis can tell his frame is as muscular and tall as Alfred’s though hidden under baggy pyjamas. Francis smiles at his efforts to help and make breakfast, and strains his mind to remember his name from hearing it briefly at the concert with Alfred. M something…? After a moment of thought Francis mentally celebrates as Matthew pops into his head.

“Matthew? Is that your name?” Francis asks calmly so as to not scare the other man. It doesn't work too well however, as he whips his head around, slightly startled.

“Oh! Uh, hello! Sorry! Good morning! Sorry I appeared out of nowhere and invaded your kitchen and apartment, Arthur was happy to invite us in temporarily since we have been evicted from our residence, I really hope you don't mind too much, we'll try to be helpful. A-and yes, it's Matthew.” He chuckles and scratches the back of his head awkwardly.

Francis smiles, amused at how flustered Matthew is. “Don't worry about it at all Matthieu, it'll be my pleasure to have you here for a little while. I'm Francis by the way, I think we met briefly at one of Arthur’s concerts.”

“Ah, yeah I remember. Et merci beaucoup, Francis.”

Francis’ smiles widens. “Tu parle français?”

“Oui, mais le français canadien.”

Francis joins Matthew at the kitchen counter. “That must be why you're making pancakes, then,” he jokes. “A little tip if you'd like: adding a dash of strong maple syrup to the batter makes the pancake taste even more delicious, as well as an extra bit of milk.”

Matthew stares that him in awe for a moment, before going to search for maple syrup in his cooking supplies. Francis just catches him mutter under his breath, “That's the best damn idea I've ever heard, utter genius.”

They finish making the batter, with Matthew’s experienced pancake-making skills and Francis’ master cooking input, and chat while the batter airs. Matthew explains his and Alfred’s situation and rants slightly about their ex-landlord while Francis sympathies. Once the batter finds its way onto the sizzling frying pan, the smell immediately attracts the remaining residents like moths to a flame.

Alfred leaps into the kitchen, rather too enthusiastically consider how the room isn't massive.

“Omgg Mattie that smells so good!”

The recently awoken American notices Francis assisting and immediately addresses him. “Oh, howdy! You must be Francis, sorry about barging into your home out of nowhere, but we're, uh, pretty desperate. I'm Alfred by the way, if you remember me.”

“Don't worry about it,” Francis assures, “Matthieu has filled me in and I'm happy to help. It's nice to meet you again Alfred, and breakfast will be in just a few minutes.”

Alfred grins excitedly and turns to leave the kitchen, but a groggy, half-asleep Arthur staggers in before he can do so.

Arthur rubs his eyes and squints around the suddenly crowded kitchen. “Oh. Huh. Forgot about you two. Make sure to tell me if the frog tries to grope you or something, I'll give him the smacking he deserves.”

Francis had braced himself for either an awkward Arthur or a mad Arthur, due to last night, but it seems it wasn't only the twins he had forgotten about. His casual threatening comments are far too normal, and Francis is even more confused when Arthur walks up to and stands right next to him cooking, their sides touching and in such close proximity that Francis can feel the slight warmth of his body heat. Arthur leans over the pan.

“These pancakes look kind of different.”

Francis, subtly staring at the Brit, responds hesitantly. “Um. Well, they're a mixture of mine and Matthew’s recipes so it might be slightly different to usual…”

At Francis’ voice, it is quite clear to see that Arthur finally remembers their argument and everything that had happened. He inhales slightly too sharply and immediately steps away from Francis’ side, flustered, looking awkward and embarrassed. Francis isn't surprised at his actions, albeit disappointed. He wishes he and Arthur could be good friends again, even more than friends if he thinks that Arthur would actually accept him. For some reason, all the little things about Arthur he feels like he is supposed to hate such as the insulting comments and his overly-sarcastic personality, Francis somehow finds dear to him and are things he loves about Arthur. Because without them, Arthur would simply not be Arthur.

Francis can just see Alfred raising an eyebrow in his peripheral vision and exchanging a look with Matthew. It's not exactly very normal behaviour for Arthur and Francis considering them being roommates, and he wonders what they think is going on. Admittedly, Francis himself doesn't really know what is going on, but perhaps that'll change sometime soon.

Arthur walks off, perhaps a little too quickly, and mutters, “I'll clear the table.”

Alfred moves closers to Francis and questions, “Bro, seriously what is going on between you two? I'm good at giving advice, you know, so are you in a relationship or something? You should definitely spend some time working things out.”

Francis doesn't quite believe Alfred's declaration at this point, but still complies with him. He may as well tell someone.

“...I don't know, we had a bad argument last night and, well… he obviously doesn't think so. I don't exactly think so either but it's not like I’m opposed to the idea.” He keeps his voice low so that Arthur doesn't hear from the other room, but wonders why he is telling such personal information to two people he hardly knows. Then again, Francis had always been a little more open with his feelings than most.

He flips the last few pancakes in the pan as they start to bubble, and deposit them in a plate of others staying warm in the oven once they reach the perfect cooking time. He divides them onto plates, drizzling maple syrup over artistically but pooling some at the base of the pancakes because he knows how much they, Matthew especially, loves it. He creates a bouquet-looking pile of raspberries and blueberries that they had kept in the fridge on top of each pile, his hands still and confident as every berry is placed down with precision. Matthew watches the dishing of the food closely, admiring how perfect the dishes come out. They’ve come out a lot better than Francis’ disastrous lasagna yesterday evening, and he is glad his cooking skills haven't deteriorated.

They bring the plates to the dining table, in the same room as the living area due to the open plan of the apartment, but there is still plenty of room for the four of them to eat comfortably. Arthur is reading the newspaper with his usual frown, every-so-slightly hiding behind the large pages, and Alfred is on his phone which immediately goes away when he sees the food coming.

“Woah they look so goood, I'm ravenous!” He says, drawing out the adjective.

Francis and Matthew sit down at the table and they all start eating. It would be unusual that they're all able to sit together to eat breakfast due to their busy and differing schedules as student, but it is enjoyable to appreciate the meal together. They chat casually, Francis asking Matthew and Alfred about themselves who are happy to have his friendly company. Arthur eats quietly while continuing to read his newspaper, obviously not forgetting their drama. Francis wishes they can start again in some aspects - he still regrets what he did to Arthur in his blind rage but he recalls what had been said afterwards. ’I didn't mind it’. How could he not mind Francis kissing him? Was he really telling the truth? He wonders why Arthur seems so contradictory, why does he lie? No one can help you in life if you don't tell them the truth and what they need to help. Suddenly, Francis feels a sensation of determination flood him; determination to find out what Arthur really thinks. And then he can show him that if other people help, then things can be easier and he can have real support.

Francis is brought back to earth as they finish breakfast, making satisfied noises about their meal. Matthew checks his phone and says, slightly more directed towards Alfred, “I have to go out, sorry. Gil says he's having a crisis and ‘needs’ me.”

Arthur turns to attention and utters possibly his first words while sitting at the table this morning. “Gil? Don't tell me you mean the crazy albino Gilbert?”

Matthew looks surprised,”You know Gilbert?”

“Yes, I have now discovered that it seems literally everyone knows Gilbert somehow. Is he your friend?”

A blush rapidly spreads across Matthew's cheeks and ears, and he stammers in embarrassment. “A-ah, well he's actually kinda my b-boyfriend.” He chuckles awkwardly.

Arthur similarly flushes having accidently prying into something Matthew finds embarrassing. “Oh! Sorry, right, of course. Don't worry, if you need to go then go ahead. Gilbert must be a handful, huh?”

Matthew blush reaches an even deeper pink. “Heh, yeah he can be.” He moves to stand up, but Alfred suddenly makes the decision to do the same.

“Mattie, I'm coming.”

“What? Why? I'm only meeting Gilbert.”

Alfred narrow his eyes, though not in a particularly serious manner. “I still don't trust this Gilbert; I need to make sure my defenceless little brother is okay.”

“Bro, we’re literally the same age. Plus, Gilbert is fine and I can handle myself just as well as you, Al.”

“Nope. Won't allow it. I'm going and you can't change my mind.” Alfred insists.

Matthew sighs but seems to accept that he's not going to get around his brother’s stubbornness. Francis catches a subtly suggestive look from Alfred to him and Arthur before they give their goodbyes and depart, leaving them sitting alone at the table.

The front door shuts, and only after silence finds its way back into the flat do the two men still sitting at the table comprehend the achingly awkward situation the twins have left them in. Francis and Arthur are, yet again, stuck together in an atmosphere transformed into awkwardness in moments. Arthur coughs a couple of times and rustles his newspaper in a vain attempt to fight off the quiet flooding the apartment.

Francis abruptly decides he's had enough of this unpleasant mood, and he breaks the silence confidently.

“Arthur. Come to the cinema with me. There's a film I'd like to see with you.”

Francis realises after speaking he had basically just asked him out, but finds himself cheerful at the thought.

Arthur looks straight up from his newspaper to stare at Francis with shocked eyes. As usual, when he is put in situations that are uncomfortable for him, he turns bright red while his mouth opens and closes a few times as he tries to work out how to respond. Eventually, after what feels like a lifetime of stunned silence, Arthur hesitantly says, “W-whatever, frog. I guess if you really want me to.”

Francis smiles. Got him.

Et merci beaucoup, Francis = And thank you very much, Francis

Tu parle français? = You speak French?

Oui, mais le français canadien = Yes, but Canadian French

Thanks for reading again, I quite enjoyed writing this chapter myself. Sorry I'm a tiny bit late - it is technically Monday where I am now instead of Sunday whoops, but whatever. See ya next week! <3

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

Arthur had gone to ‘get ready’ in his room, but is spending that time wondering what the hell just happened. For some odd reason, Francis had decided to ask him out. As a date? Arthur isn't entirely sure. But he had agreed (his mouth moved by himself, he doesn't really want to have to go) and so he has no choice now.

He sits on his bed contemplating for a while, and then realises he really ought to get himself ready. He pushes his unruly hair around a bit, it not actually helping with the untidiness much at all, and he changes his shirt. Arthur picks up his things and wanders out of his room tentatively.

Francis is poised in wait near the front door, leaning against the wall and looking stunningly perfect compared to Arthur's sloppy appearance. He must have got changed while Arthur was in his bedroom, because he is now wearing a pale blue shirt with pearlescent accents, actual gleaming cufflinks, and a charming pair of designer leather shoes. He looks over and gives a cheeky wink, standing up straight and picking up his wallet. Arthur is instantly embarrassed, suddenly becoming all the more conscious of his more casual, slightly creased outfit, and the difference between his choppy hair and Francis’ groomed curls. Damn French.

“Shall we go? There's a showing at the cinema in half an hour, not including all of the adverts.”

Arthur begrudgingly follows Francis out of the flat and they catch a train to their nearest cinema. Francis chats to him casually as they ride the train, and Arthur realises he had banished all of their previous tension. He is thankful for that; he doesn't like having to deal with so much awkwardness.

“I thought of you as soon as I saw the advert for this film, Arthur. It's a murder-mystery thriller and looking at what takes up the majority of your book collection, you like those. It's really well rated and looks interesting.”

The frog is surprisingly observant. Arthur allows himself a small smile as he enthuses. “Yeah, I guess you got that one right. There's nothing better than a mystery that is revealed slowly over the course of a book or film, or even just quickly at end, that gives you that rush of realisation of how the entire plot works and how everything was done. Especially when it reveals intricate works of genius that come together bit by bit. Some of my favourite works, of course, would have to be of Sherlock Holmes; the plots and characters are simply incredible to me.”

Arthur stops to take to breath, and sees Francis watching and listening to him with intrigue and amusement.

“Ah-h, uh, whoops I was rambling, I don't mean to bore you.”

“No, not at all cher. It is very interesting.”

They manage to keep up conversations until they reach their stop and head off out of the train station. Once they reach the cinema, Francis insists on paying for the tickets since it was his idea, so Arthur makes sure to buy some of the hideously expensive popcorn and bags of chocolate for them, mostly in order to feel less in-debt to Francis. They take their seats in front of the big screen, waiting for the adverts and trailers to finish before watching the film.

At moments in which Arthur isn't completely absorbed by the movie, he is privately cursing Francis for how good he is at picking out films that he would like the best. Francis is like Mr. Perfect, Mr. I-can-do-everything-better-than-you, and it really irritates Arthur. Another part of his mind butts in that at least Francis is nice with him, it's not like he's deliberately trying to put him down.

Arthur doesn’t notice his attention is fully devoted to the screen again until, out of the blue, he feels a hand lay on top of his, resting on the arm rest. He tenses up and looks to his side. He can't actually see who is there since it is so dark, but there is no doubt it is still Francis sitting there. To be fair, Arthur had practically been asked out on a date so and he shouldn't be surprised that Francis would make some sort of move. That doesn't stop Arthur from feeling uncomfortable with his touch, though, but he doesn't feel like pulling away in fear of hurting Francis’ feelings. Arthur may be grumpy and awkward, but he can still be sensitive to others.

Francis moves his hand to clasp Arthur’s and he squeezes lightly in a reassuring gesture. Arthur imagines his expression would be one rather at loss of what to do if the theatre were light enough. He instinctively twitches his hand back in response to Francis’ squeeze. He only realises afterwards that he had accepted Francis’ displays of affection; exactly the opposite of what he would have previously expected to do.

Arthur notices he is distracted, and brings his attention back to the film reaching its climax. But he is still acutely aware of the hand in his own.

Once the credits start rolling down the screen, Arthur turns his attention fully to Francis, and wonders what he’ll do. Dim lights switch on, the end of the movie as their cue, and Arthur turns to look at Francis whose face is gently lit but shadowed, highlighting his smile. Arthur feels his stomach clench with butterflies at that smile, and his heartbeat accelerates when Francis untangles his hand and instead decides to use it to cup Arthur’s cheek. He feels his eyes widen, and he sees nothing but Francis’ sweet face moving closer to his own. Much too close.

Next thing Arthur knows, his eyes are closed and they are kissing. A proper kiss; sweet and deep but not too lustful, not even comparable to the heat of the moment exchange when they were fighting.

Arthur wonders why he is here, why he is kissing someone he thought he hated. He decides he can't be bothered anymore. He's enjoying it so he should pursue it, shouldn't he? He doesn't want to get hurt, but…

He deepens the kiss, happy to feel the scratchiness of Francis’ stubble assuring that it is him, and Arthur doesn't care that they're the only ones left in the theatre.

~o0O0o~

Their journey home was quiet, but they were comfortable simply in each other’s presence. They didn't feel like they had to talk about anything, their body language and actions said it all.

Arthur and Francis walk into their apartment building; it is already getting dark in the late afternoon after the film, picking up lunch afterwards, and travelling. As they approach their front door, they see the twins leaning on the wall nearby, on their phones.

“Alfred, Matthew, sorry I completely forgot you don't have a key. Have you been waiting for long?”

They look up to Arthur. “Nah don't worry bro, we only got here, like, twenty minutes ago.” Alfred says cheerfully. “You two look pretty happy, have a nice time out wherever you were?”

Arthur hides his light blush by busying himself with opening the door.

“We went to see a film, it really was fantastique.”

“Yeah,” Arthur begrudgingly agrees with Francis, “I have to say it was rather brilliant. Nice choice Francis, I guess.”

Francis chuckles, and they enter the flat.

Arthur flips on the kettle for a tea and three coffees, and goes to find their spare key. He hands it to Matthew and says, “I trust you with it more than with Alfred.” They hear a huff from the said man who had just slumped into a chair across the room. They giggle, and Arthur returns to the kitchen to brew their beverages.

As Arthur re-enters the lounge, Matthew and Alfred are behind Francis easel looking at the painting. They look to him and give sly smiles. Arthur sighs and dismisses them due to the three piping hot coffees he is juggling being his main objects of attention at that moment. He successfully manages to get them to the table with minimal spillage, and calls Francis who had gone into his room to do something-or-other. The four of them sit down together with their hot drinks and biscuits in front of the end of the news and some sports on the television. They had recently managed to buy themselves a replacement for the stolen one with their combined money, helped by Francis’ job.

Arthur realises he had sat himself down right next to Francis on the sofa, and is earning a slight smirk from Alfred. He gives a half-hearted scowl and takes a sip from his tea. Francis speaks up,

“So, everything okay with Gilbert?”

“Yes,” Matthew replies, “Just some havoc about his bird going missing. We found it after a while and then went to get lunch.”

Alfred snickers, “Not surprised he lost it considering he lets it just fly around outside of its cage pretty much all of the time.”

Arthur remembers the time Gilbert had brought his bird to band practice, the little yellow thing, ‘Gilbird’ flying all over the place and trying to nest in Matthias' hair. They sent him and Gilbert home and made sure he'd never bring it again, not wanting a repeat of the traumatic experience.

Francis leaves Arthur’s side to take their used mugs into the kitchen and start making dinner. Arthur decides to follow him. “Can I help you with the cooking, Francis?”

Francis turns to look at him with vague horror evident in his expression. “Aren't you terribly awful at it?”

He scoffs. Wow. Not blunt at all.

“I'm not that bad, and if you just tell me exactly what to do I'm sure it'll be fine.

Francis, obviously rather reluctantly, accepts and immediately sets Arthur the task of emptying the dishwasher. Only when Francis runs out of menial tasks to give him does he finally entrust him to dicing some garlic while he chops the onions.

Arthur picks out a knife, holding it about a metre away from himself with exaggerated care and attempts to cut the tiny cloves. He thinks he is doing alright, considering he's possibly never cut a vegetable before, until Francis who keeps giving concerned glances can't take it any more.

“You're going to cut off your damn finger, it's like you've never held a knife in your life.”

Arthur was about to come up with some witty response about him never having held a razor or something, but the next thing he knew Francis’ arms are around him, and he freezes up.

Francis had come up behind him and now has his arms next to his own, his hands holding Arthur’s inexperienced knife-wielding ones, and Francis’ chin leaning on his shoulder to give him a view of the chopping board. Francis guides his hands to performing the correct cutting movements, but Arthur is more focused on the breath on his neck and the torso pressed lightly against his back.

Damn frog, he's doing this deliberately.

They finish chopping the garlic, and as Francis pulls away Arthur lets out the breath he didn't realise he had been keeping.

“Umm,” he says, unsure. “I should probably leave the rest to you, I guess.”

He walks out of the room possibly a little too quickly, and tries to ignore Alfred’s smirk at his presumably red face. Damn these blushes.

Yay, iggybrows and frogface are finally embracing their true feelings hehe. Hopefully this chapter was enjoyable. See you next week! ･:*+.\(( °ω° ))/.:+

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

“I'm going to band practice, I'll be back in a few hours!” Arthur calls as he walks out of the front door, pulling it shut behind him.

Francis replies with a vague, “Goodbye.” and continues to contemplate the mess of their apartment. It has been a few days since Alfred and Matthew moved in, though still temporarily, and unsurprisingly their living area has become a complete mess. Most students are already studying for their fast approaching exams and so there are books, canvases, folders, textbooks, all manner of things strewn around their flat and it is becoming less and less liveable. Francis himself has six separate paintings on the go, one of which being his huge A1 canvas he's has been working on for weeks, as well as write-ups, evaluations and other drawing to complete. Not to mention studying for a theory exam. He finds himself stressing out just at the thought of the workload, but it does help to know that everyone else is going through similar ordeals.

Alfred is asleep on the floor in his makeshift bed, apparently tired from morning lectures and having stayed up too late doing work, and Francis rolls his eyes lightheartedly at his ability to sleep at any given opportunity. Matthew had gone out to the library so they'd all have more space, but Francis decides suddenly that he can't deal with all of the mess that still remains.

He figures it's worth a little time cleaning in order to get a better work environment, and so gets to work. Francis sorts everything into piles, all of his own art supplies in his little corner by the window and in his bedroom, Arthur's books and folders in the bookshelf but easily accessible, and Alfred's physics work into a hefty pile next to Matthew’s far more organised maths.

Francis is just about to start some work in the now satisfyingly tidy living room when his phone starts ringing. He answers the call to hear a slightly distressed Arthur on the other side.

“Hey Francis. Um, we're not really sure what to do but I thought I would ring to tell you what's happening since we've already called the fire brigade so-”

“Fire brigade?” Francis interrupts, his voice rising slightly in mild panic.

“We're in our practice room but there's a fire somewhere downstairs and the we've been told to stay put for some-”

Francis hears a shouting but muffled voice in the background say something about “dumb rules” and “bullshit”, but ignores it in favour of continuing to listen to Arthur.

“-but we don't think that's a good idea and so we're debating whether to try and jump out of the window, because the corridors are all completely filled with smoke and we don't know a safe way out especially since the fire is probably spreading closer.”

“My god, Arthur. Please don't do anything reckless, you should wait until help comes! Just hold on, and don't get yourself killed.”

Francis hangs up, leaps from his chair to grab a few possessions and runs out of the door, while Alfred is still sleeping on the floor. He literally bumps into Matthew who is coming home on the way in, and pulls the confused teen along with him. They hail a taxi, and the fifteen minute journey feels like hours to Francis. Matthew reaches his hand to Francis’ knee and holds it still, and he only then realises he had been nervously jiggling his leg.

“They'll be fine, Francis. The firefighters are probably already helping, and it's not like Arthur is on his own.”

Francis smiles at the reassuring gestures of the Canadian, but finds it is rather more of a grimace. He can't help himself from worrying about Arthur; why is it always him who gets into these dangerous situations? All this worrying Arthur causes him are going to give him forehead creases; he's probably doing to deliberately to steal Francis’ youth.

They finally arrive at the old student’s union - it had been opened for students to book the rooms for this and that, after a new union was built - and Francis looks up at the building gaping slightly.

Despite how the fire seems to have started near the middle of the ground floor, he can see flickers of orange and yellow through a couple of the windows and smoke billowing out of openings. Francis looks around the area, wondering why there is no one putting out the fire, and sees in horror a single fire engine with firefighters struggling with tangled hoses and failing machinery, and yelling urgently at each other about the problems.

How organised. What a great time for their equipment to be broken.

There's no way anyone could find their way out of that building safely through all of the smoke, especially from upstairs… but perhaps he would be able to find his way coming in from the entrance.

Before he can stop himself, or even think, Francis is running into the smoky building, ignoring Matthew’s distant cries and his own common sense telling him to stop. He had been to the room where Arthur's band practices a few times and he knows his way around the building, so Francis knows where he is going. He heads towards a staircase that looks relatively free of danger, and sprints up one flight of stairs to search for the room on the first floor. He staggers around in the smoke, hacking and wheezing into his arm. After a couple of minutes, getting more and more worried about his hopes of actually finding his way out of the smoke, he staggers into the room he recognises as the right one and shuts and door straight behind him.

Francis slumps to the floor and coughs and coughs, his lungs blaring and throat stinging.

“Francis?” an incredulous voice says, the accent informing him that it is Arthur.

He looks up through watering eyes and sees four people, recognising Arthur as one of them by his posture and figure.

“Ahah, found you.”

His vision clears enough to see, and he recognises Gilbert, Matthias and Lukas standing near the window. They're looking out, most likely wondering if they'll need to try and climb out. They all gather around Francis however when they notice his appearance.

“Mein Gott, Franny, what're you doing here?”

He croaks out, “I pretty much know a way out from here, and I don't think anyone else is coming to save you anytime soon. It's not like I can let you all die.”

He keeps it to himself, but admittedly Francis had mostly been thinking about Arthur with the whole rescuing thing. He feels rather guilty about Gilbert as well, realising that his best friend’s life could be in danger too but he barely considered it.

Arthur gets over his surprise, and immediately confronts Francis.

“You idiot, what the bloody hell are you thinking? You could have got yourself killed! You shouldn't have got yourself in danger too, now there's just one more person stuck in this situation. You didn't even bring a wet cloth or anything to cover you mouth, listen to how you're coughing! You've probably really fucked up your lungs with all that smoke!”

“Relax, relax, Arthur. I knew what I was getting myself into,” A lie. “And I'm fine!” Another lie, his lung are on fire and he feels he needs to cough constantly. But they can worry about that later. “What's important at the moment is getting you all out of this burning building, you'll die if you just wait around.”

“We could jump out of the window though…” Matthias puts in.

Arthur sighs, “That would kill us too if we land wrong, we'd at least get broken bones.”

“We can deal with broken bones though,” Lukas says in a monotonous tone, looking completely done with everything, “at least we'd probably survive if we jumped. I doubt we would if we just ran blindly out into the smoke.” His eyes turn to Francis. “...Unless Frenchy over here knows a safe route out.”

“I do. But it won't be safe for long if we carry on dawdling around here.”

They decide to form a line holding each other's hands or shoulders, with Francis at the front leading them out of the building. They would make sure that the person in front and behind them is always present and okay. With slight regret, the musicians make the decision to throw their instruments out the window and hope they're recoverable afterwards - which they wouldn't be if they were left to burn.

Gilbert looks depressed as he chucks one of his drums out and it smashes on impact of the slabbed paving six metres below. He gives up hope of his drum kit surviving and says goodbye to it mournfully in the corner, but pockets his drumsticks. Matthias’ flute isn't heavy and the cased instrument doesn't seem to take much damage in the fall. Arthur's guitar and Lukas’ violin, however, hit the ground with loud thumps and rattles, despite the supposedly protective cases. They wear pained expressions while looking down at their precious instruments, but repress them as they concentrate on getting themselves out.

The men line up one behind the other, tying damp fabric around their faces in hopes of protection against the smoke. Francis is leading and is followed by Arthur, Gilbert, Matthias and Lukas last, who claims he doesn't want to be near the crazy Prussian. Francis allows himself to feel a little happy that Arthur is adamant to go behind him. The group prepares themselves, and Francis opens the hot, though not burning, door.

There is a whoosh of thick smoke and heat that startles them, but they follow Francis out nonetheless. He is completely blind in the smoke; everything is thick grey, and he can feel his eyes watering again and the urge to cough. He stumbles in the direction he thinks he came in from and really hopes to locate the stairs. He can't let them down after saying he would be able to get them out, but Arthur's hand clutching his own reassures him.

After minutes of staggering around, Francis finds the stairwell with relief. Just as he goes to step down the first stair, he hears a muffled shout from behind.

“Lukas? Lukas is gone!”

“Matthias don't let go of my hand, we'll find him toge- Matthias! Dammit, come back!”

Francis has no idea what's going on, all he can hear are panicked shouts, and he tightens his grip on Arthur.

“I've found him, his foot went through the floor!”

Francis catches Lukas’ voice, and he's relieved that he is still there.

“Agh, my ankle Matt, help, get it out.” There is a scuffle, and Francis listens carefully to try and work out what is happening. He hears a scream, followed by a stream of cursing from both Nordics.

“You three go ahead, we'll follow by listening to your voices! Lukas has done something bad to his ankle, I have to help him.”

Arthur swears behind Francis, but urges him forward. Francis carefully makes his way down the stairs, while Arthur and Gilbert make sure to call out to the Matthias and Lukas lagging behind to direct them and inform them of any obstacles.

Once Francis finds his way to the ground floor, he heads straight to where he knows the door is with the others following, but as he turns a corner a wave of scorching heat almost puts him on the ground and he becomes abruptly aware of the roaring of the fire blocking their planned exit. He cries out, the overwhelming heat agonising at his fingertips and feeling as if it is searing his skin like he is being cooked in an oven. Francis backs up as quickly as possible considering here are four people standing right behind him. He hears a hiss near his ear; Arthur feels the burning too.

The group manage to stagger away from the burning area enough to recover themselves for a moment, though the still can't see a thing through the smoke other than some light. Francis sees orange, and is terrified that the fire has spread to them somehow. But when Arthur yelps, “Francis, you're on fire!” and starts batting at his chest, he realises his shirt had set alight in their previous close call with the fire. He can feel the heat of the flame unusually close to his skin, undoubtedly burning him. He strangely doesn't feel a huge amount of pain resulting from it, and when they finally batt the fire out, he realises he must be running entirely on adrenaline.

Francis coughs violently, his chest excruciating and his head swimming. All he can hear are the sounds of people shouting from the other side of the room, Arthur’s terrified voice in his ear, and the roar of the blaze. He chokes on the smoke. His ears start ringing. Even his brain feels too clogged with smoke to think as the vague lights and shapes he could see fade into black and he slumps onto the floor.

Wow, this is getting dramatic again. xD Yeah, I know no one would really be this unlucky to have so much happen to them but whatever. Makes it more fun *\(^o^)/*. Btw, I don't know a whole lot about how burning buildings and smoke inhalation works so please don't quote me on any of this stuff heheh. See ya! ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

“Francis! Francis!’

Arthur feels the body in his hands go limp, and Francis is can’t see where Matthias, Lukas or Gilbert are, all he can think is that Arthur needs to get Francis out of there.

He grits his teeth and pulls Francis up and over his shoulder into an ironic fireman’s lift, and stumbles down a corridor, begging nothing in particular for this to be the right way out. Arthur feels a little lightheaded, the smoke inescapable and heat producing a sheen of sweat proving inefficient in cooling him down.

His eyes are streaming, so when he sees a white light shining towards him all of a sudden, he wonders for a moment if this is what death feels like. Is that the light at the end of the tunnel, or God, or-

A hand grabs his arm and Arthur jumps. People are shouting at him, pulling at him. He doesn’t have the energy to resist and he stumbles after them, confused but relieved at the contact.

After being in the darkness of the smoke for so long, the bright burst of daylight attacking him once he steps out of the building is almost blinding. Arthur feels the soft, springy texture of grass under his feet and collapses to the ground in exhaustion. Francis falls safely onto the ground in front of him, and Arthur spends several minutes simply crouching on the floor, coughing.

A face appears in his field of view.

“Sir? Sir? Are you okay?”

A firefighter presents an oxygen mask and Arthur takes it gratefully, holding it over his face and sighing with relief between gulps of breath. He looks around, seeing where he deposited Francis with two medics tending to him. Near another entrance half way down the building, Arthur sees Matthias and Lukas in a pile on the floor. There are some paramedics trying to separate them from the Dane’s protective hug; he still seems convinced Lukas is in some sort of danger. Lukas is unconscious and ragged-looking but looks mostly okay apart from his broken ankle which is skewed at an odd angle. Matthias’ hair is a little blackened and half of his jacket is burnt off but he too seems in a safe condition. A gagging noise brings Arthur’s attention to Gilbert being sick in some shrubs. He probably didn't do well in avoiding the smoke, and his eyes are wide, obviously still in shock at the experience.

Arthur lets himself feel some relief at seeing him friends made it out alive and relatively intact. But looking back to Francis, his stomach clenches in worry, thinking about the vast quantities of smoke his roommate had inhaled and the burns he saw form on his skin. He panics, realising that people do die from these sort of things.

And all of it would be his fault.

He never should have phoned Francis, it has only caused the Frenchman trouble he never should have got into. They should have just jumped out of the window and they probably would have been fine. Because of Arthur’s random desire to keep Francis informed and be reassured by him, Francis has got himself hurt.

He calls out to to firefighter, “Will he be okay?” His voice comes out hoarse and sounds audibly distressed. One of the doctors tending to Francis turns to him.

“He’ll live, kid. But he's had some severe smoke inhalation and a few pretty nasty burns, so he’s going to have to be hospitalised for a while.”

“And the same for you too, I'm sure.” Another medic appears before Arthur and starts attending to him. “He may be a little worse but you've both just escaped a burning building.”

He answers her questions and she makes sure he is stable enough, and he is then escorted to an ambulance along with Francis carried on a stretcher.

Arthur jumps as an extremely concerned looking Matthew rushes to him. He reaches to hold Arthur's shoulder but stops and whips his arm back, obviously remembering he doesn't want to hurt him.

“Arthur, oh my God, are you okay? I'm so sorry this happened but I'm so relieved you got out and you seem alright enough, I tried to call Alfred but I couldn't get through and I was really scared for you, I thought you're all going to die or something.”

“Oh, Matthew it's so nice to see you. Try not to worry, I suppose. I'll be fine and I'm sure Francis,” his voice cracks, “will be okay too.”

Matthew looks down at the unconscious Francis and cringes at the state he's in. “Well done for getting him out, Art. He just ran in when he saw the building; he didn't even hesitate. I did try to stop him but I guess he was doing what he wanted.”

Arthur keeps on looking to Francis, his beautiful face clenched and seared slightly in parts, and the hair he looks after so lovingly singed at the ends. Arthur's eyes water slightly at the sight, but he blinks away any potential tears. He shouldn't be the one crying.

The ambulance starts up and they start the journey to the hospital. Matthew is instructed to stay behind but told he can visit later on. He says goodbye but his anxious expression doesn't change. Despite the situation, Arthur can't help but feel novelty from the ride - seeing the inside of an ambulance properly for the first time in his life brings out the child in him slightly. He looks around the vehicle until his view is blocked by the same doctor who attended to him earlier. She makes sure he's calm and begins some treatment on him.

Arthur doesn't even realise a patch of skin on his forehead is reddened and burnt until the doctor starts patching it up. He notices his feeling returning as the adrenaline wears off, and pain blossoms in several areas of his body that he had never even realise were injured. He feels a vague throbbing in his hands that develops into a harsh stinging. He looks down and sees a multitude of wooden splinters and scattered glass shards piercing his palms and fingers.

He frowns at his hands. Arthur feels like he should be more repulsed but he just feels passive. The remainder of the ambulance journey passes uneventfully and it is only when Arthur loses sight of Francis being wheeled around a corner and into a separate room that he is active again. He requests, or rather demands the hospital staff to take him back to Francis and he chews his already bloodied nail in worry. Anything could happen to Francis while he isn't there and there would be nothing he could do about it; he wouldn't even know!

The nurses and doctor urge him into calmness but Arthur can't help but to be fidgety and impatient in his hospital room. The treatment they give him is just irritating, though he knows he should be thanking them really. His injuries aren't severe, but they aren't mild either.

“Mr Kirkland, sir, I'm afraid we'll have to be keeping you here for tonight.” One of the nurses politely informs Arthur. “You've inhaled a lot of smoke and your injuries have decent chances of infection. You should be able to visit your friend tomorrow after you're discharged but for the moment you both must be treated separately.”

Arthur sighs, but accidentally starts a coughing fit that leaves his throat singing and painful. He lays back in his hospital bed as the nurses leave, and tries to sleep. He tries to move his mind from worrying about Francis, but it only leads him to fret about his other problems. He’s going to be missing lectures and behind where he needs to be, especially with upcoming exams. His house keys are in his guitar case which is currently lying battered up under some window of the student’s union, god knows where Francis’ are, and so he just hopes that Matthew has his pair. Alfred will probably be worrying out of his mind, knowing him, and depreciated that he couldn't be the one to play hero.

Arthur is kept wide away for a long while, until he eventually succumbs to his exhaustion.

~o0O0o~

Arthur squints his eyes open slightly, detecting the natural morning light even from his position with his face buried in the bed covers. He grunts and squeezes his eyes closed again, repelled by the brightness. He must have slept for a long time.

“Bro, is it normal to be frowning and groaning in his sleep? Is he gonna die?”

Arthur's eyes snap open this time. He can't even believe that obnoxious voice. He sits straight up and looks to the annoying American who had somehow found his way into his room.

“Alfred! What are you doi-” Arthur lets out a yelp, off-guard and feeling the pain from forgetting his injuries. He had sat up far too quickly.

“Arthur! What're you doing bro? Oh my god are you okay?”

“Ugh Alfred I'm fine. It's nothing major, just some stings and aches I had forgot about. More importantly, how did you-” he sees the occupied chair on the other side of the room, “-and Matthew find my room? Isn't this a little bit of an invasion of privacy?”

“The receptionists literally just told us. This is a hospital, we're allowed. And that's not more important; we were really worried about you, bro.”

“He's right, this could've been really serious, you know. You looked like death after you made it out of that building, not to mention Francis.”

Francis. Oh yeah.

“Ah! Francis, is he okay? You must have seen him, right?”

“Don't worry Artie, he's alright. The smoke and flames messed him up a bit but he'll be fine once he heals up.” Alfred reassures. “I think the doctors said he has to stay another night or two, but then he'll be all good to go home.”

Arthur breathes out a quiet sigh of relief, but still feels a twinge of guilt.

He showers and gets himself dressed, already eager to get out of the bleak hospital room. He collects his few possessions and heads out with the twins who are waiting for him. They're eager to get Arthur home, but he absolutely insists on visiting Francis beforehand. Alfred and Matthew are forced to almost jog behind Arthur, who is speeding down the corridor despite his minor injuries that have now be bandaged up.

They find the correct door, and knock briefly before walking in. The room holds no staff, and is peaceful, calm. Francis is lying in the bed, his eyes closed and sleeping silently, looking content. His hair is singed, dirty, messy, but is still the same familiar buttercup blonde. Arthur walks straight over and sits down next to the bed.

“Francis…”

He is surprised as he actually opens his eyes in response to him, and Francis smiles upon seeking Arthur.

“Arthur. I am so glad you are okay.”

His voice is weak and his accent is more noticeable. Arthur finds himself almost tearing up but pushes it away. Francis is so unlike his normal, perfect looks and charm, but it is still him. He is alive and okay and here with him. Arthur can’t help but to lean close to Francis to give a desperate but gentle embrace, needing to feel his the comforting warmth of his body.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur whispers into his shoulder. Francis plants a kiss on his head, burying his face into Arthur damp hair.

He says something, something muffled. Three words. The first one was “I”. The third one was “you”. The second one may or may not have began with an L.

Hello, I’m back!!!! I’m so so sorry I didn’t upload last weeek. I’m back I’m school and a whooole bunch of work caught up with me last week especially, and so I physically didn’t have time to upload and I was freaking out slightly about everything a tiny bit but it’s perfectly fine now, I’ve got work under control mostly. But I’m still gonna have a load of work and controlled assessments and exams and stuff over this entire year so I really apologise for times I may be unable to upload. But don’t worry, I’ll never leave this fic without finishing it. Sorry for leaving you on a bit of a cliffhanger, I hope this chapter made up for it okay. ヽ(；▽；)ノ ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

Francis stares out of the taxi window, staring into space as countless nondescript vehicles drive past and buildings whizz by. They pass by the student’s union and the building catches his eye. It is severely charred in many patches, some walls caved in and some floors collapsed. The firefighters had managed to put out the blaze before it had been reduced to complete rubble, but not before some serious damage had been done. He hopes there weren’t many other people in there at the time.

Francis takes his view from outside the window to look at himself in the car mirror.

He looks dead.

Not literally dead. Just kind of a bit dead. He had showered before he had left the hospital, thank god, so he is a bit cleaner, but large patches of his hair ends are singed white and crispy, some patches blackened. He has a couple of dressings on his face, and he can feel the numerous bandages wrapping other parts of his body. Tired eyes stare back to him, and he looks back out of the window while maintaining his impassive expression. He’s too tired to waste energy on face muscles at this moment.

Francis had spent two nights in the hospital in the end, not too long really which was lucky for him, and by now he wants the familiarity of home back, not to mention wanting to see Arthur. He had left as soon as he was dismissed earlier this morning, and only phoned Arthur and the twins when he was already on the way back so that they wouldn’t insist on any unnecessary journeys to go and pick him up. The taxi pulls up outside his apartment building and Francis fishes some cash out of his wallet, handing it over to the driver. He hauls himself out of the car, gritting his teeth at pain from his injuries.

He isn’t hurt too badly, really. Just a pretty nasty burn on his abdomen and his fingertips have turned a mixture of red and black, which ache and sting really badly. But other than that, the remainder of his pains are numerous but minor. Simply mild aches and pains from this and that.

But then there’s his lungs.

Two journeys up and down the building to through billowing smoke probably wasn’t the best idea, and he really had accidentally forgotten about being careful with the smoke during the climax of their escape. The doctors had described the possibility of long term damage, but Francis isn’t as bothered as he could be. He doesn’t regret what he did, and no one should criticise him for it because it was his conscious decision.

But now there’s a constant feeling at the back of his throat, starting as an itchy tingle that catches his voice, that grows into an uncomfortable stinging and then a unignorable pain. Francis is constantly coughing, temporarily easing the pain in his throat but making the ache of his lungs far more striking.

He walks stiffly up to a, thankfully, working lift and rides it up to his floor. Francis only realises just as he gets to the front door that he has no idea where his keys are. They must have been lost somewhere in the havoc.

He smiles vaguely knowing Arthur should be behind this door, and lifts up to hand to knock after clearing his ragged throat.

Arthur is the one to open it, perhaps unfortunately, and Francis braces himself for the desperately relieved hug that predictably comes. It is a little painful, but compared to being able to hold Arthur it is negligible. Arthur was only able to visit him once, and Francis still needs the assurance that he is okay.

They go inside, and Francis leaves Arthur to pop into his bedroom to do something or other, intending for it to be only a moment, but he finds Arthur wandering in after him. He shuts the door to the twins still stationed in the living room, and sits with Francis on his bed.

“I’m sorry Francis. You shouldn’t have been hurt. You shouldn’t have had anything to do with it. I don’t know why I phoned you.”

Francis feels mild anger blossom, that he had made Arthur feel this way, like he was responsible.

“Arthur. Don’t ever think that it is your fault. I went into that building on my own accord, knowing the risks, because I wanted to.” He has to break for a moment to cough harshly, frowning in annoyance that it had interrupted him. He continues, ignoring Arthur’s blatantly worried expression even though he has a cough almost as bad. “You didn’t force me to, it was my decision. And I do not regret that decision at all.”

Arthur’s expression contorts as he starts practically choking back tears, almost, Francis’ words obviously breaking a hole into his emotional shell. He hugs Francis again.

“You idiot Francis. How do you get me so worried and emotional; you’re an annoying, narcissistic shithead but I still lov-,”

Arthur’s voice stutters around the words, and Francis feels that sensation again, the one he feels around Arthur. A feeling in his stomach like dozens of angry butterflies trying to escape but only succeeding in creating a sensation that makes him feel warm and happy, albeit a little nauseous.

It takes a few moments for Arthur to gather both his courage and words to say what he is trying to say.

“Francis, I love you.”

There must have been a part of Francis that didn’t believe that this is real, and this sudden, proper confession is a big shock to him somehow. He had realised quite a while ago that he had some kind of feelings towards Arthur, and these feelings had just grown and grown into something too much for him to understand. Francis inhales deeply, his chest feeling as though it is filling with raw happiness as he is unable to breathe back out, his lips turning up automatically in a hysterical grin.

Arthur is observing his expression with a blush, and he can’t help a relieved smile of joy at Francis’ reaction.

Francis finds himself suddenly needing Arthur. He needs to be touching him, or holding him, or connected to him somehow. Francis lifts his arm up to Arthur flushed face, holding his cheek briefly before moving his hand up to entangle it in his silky soft hair, the characteristic messiness forgotten at its touch. Francis uses his grip to smoothly pull Arthur’s face to his own.

They look into each other’s eyes for a few seconds, Francis mesmerised by the dazzling emeralds looking into his own eyes. It is a wonderful experience seeing Arthur’s eyes from so close. He can see the vast range of different shades and tones between every fleck of green, all as brilliant as each other.

But then blonde eyelashes swipe down, blocking the view, and Francis notices they’re getting closer to each other again, and he knows what he needs to do.

Francis closes his own eyes, and his lips meet Arthur’s. They push lovingly into the kiss, the chaste action deepening with passion. Francis’ hand that isn’t still clutching Arthur’s hair is exploring the Brit, but ends up sitting on his slight hip. Francis feels Arthur’s own hands pressed against his chest, gliding over the area but still making sure to stay well away from his burns, although Francis hardly feels any pain in the moment. His concentration is focused entirely on Arthur.

They pause for a breath, but immediately push back together with open mouths. They pull each other close; chests pressed together and body heat mingling into one big indistinguishable mass. Francis cherishes the smell he experiences from being so close to Arthur, mildly surprised at how much the scent of tea has infused itself into everything Arthur.

They get to become familiar with each other in this context, Francis intrigued at discovering this new side of Arthur that he had never the chance to experience before. They pull away again for breath but Francis returns to Arthur’s neck in opposed to his mouth, planting paths of sweet kisses. He gets to the jugular area, but Arthur’s chin stabs down into his cheek before he can continue. They both pull back reflexively and stare at each other for a moment. Arthur splutters out a breathless explanation.

“I- I’m sorry! I’m, uh, ticklish.”

Ticklish.

The awkwardness that had appeared out of nowhere disappears just as quickly with Francis’ giggles. Arthur joins in the laughter quickly with the hilarity the situation is to them, and god is his laugh just perfect. It makes Francis almost sad since he hardly hears a giggle from Arthur much of the time - he insists on keeping up the grumpy Englishman façade. But perhaps that might start to change.

They recover enough from their laughing to come back together, Francis going for Arthur’s head and nuzzling into the cute mop. They’re still giggling lightly, the smile looking adorable on Arthur’s beautiful face, but they’re silenced as they clash their mouths together again. Some variety of movements and fighting for dominance leads them to fall back onto Francis’ bed in a precarious position, him laying on top of Arthur, pinning him down slightly with their lips still connected.

Arthur suddenly stops pushing into the kiss and it takes Francis a few moments to realise he is trying to pull away. He pulls back himself, and looks down at the panting Arthur, terrified of rejection all of a sudden.

“Francis,-“

Please no.

“-I do want this.’

Thank the lord.

‘But I’ve remembered we do need to consider our situation. We’re both injured and this really wouldn’t be healthy at the moment to go any further. But Francis, promise you’ll believe me when I say I do want this and I really do love you.”

Francis smiles possibly the most genuine smile he has ever given.

“I love you too, Arthur.”

He flops to the side of Arthur, and they lie in Francis’ bed for a while next to each other, simply holding hands tightly. Francis feels happier than he has in a long time, wondering curiously why this Englishman in particular affects him so greatly.

“I sure as hell never thought we’d end up in this situation.”

Francis turns to look at Arthur who is wearing mildly amused expression. “Me neither, cher. It’s rather surprising; we’re not an obvious match.”

“Not to most people. Alfred predicted it though, somehow. I actually think him and Matthew might have deliberately been trying to get us together, or something. Scheming bastards.”

Francis grins. “Well I’m glad they did. I love you.”

Arthur pouts in embarrassment, his mood changed from before. He mumbles, “I love you too.” awkwardly, and Francis feels his heart warm at the Briton’s hidden cuteness.

He cuddles him closer, wondering if he could possibly get any happier.

Agh wow okay, I’m glad I managed to get this up today, busy weekend as always, heheh rip. Anyways, I’m sorry for this chapter, it’s kinda criiinge. Sorry if you don’t like makeout scenes because that literally found its way into about half this chapter. And if you do like them, lucky you!!! :D Although still cringe. Cya soon everyone!!! (*☻-☻*) ٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

Arthur puts down his pen with an aching hand and waits for the papers to be collected in. He sighs with relief quietly and leans back in his seat, letting a small smile come to his face.

That’s it. Exams over.

All of the students are given the heads up to leave, and he marches out of the exam hall in satisfaction. His tests went quite well, and he hopes his cramped hands and the dozens of pens he has been through are worth it. Arthur walks through town back home, and lets himself into the flat.

Francis is sitting behind his canvas by the window yet again, the late morning sunlight coating his almost angelic face, dazzling Arthur in more ways than one. The Frenchman turns to face Arthur and smiles a beautiful smile that takes his breath away. He blushes, and grumbles about nothing in particular as he puts down his bag.

“How did your last exam go Arthur?”

Arthur forgets about Francis’ seemingly manipulative powers against him and grins at his question.

“Well enough, so I don’t even want to have to worry about them any more. God, am I so relieved exams are over, why did I ever think that continuing my education into university was a good idea.”

“Well I think it was un idée magnifique, because it meant that you met moi.”

Damn cheesy French.

“Shut up with your frog language, frog.”

Francis chuckles, “Says you who actually knows how to speak it.”

Arthur frowns in confusion. “Wait what? How the hell do you know that, I've never told you.”

“Ahah, well you obviously didn't remember one of the evenings down the pub a while ago when you were pissed drunk. I said something en français, and then you started babbling it back. I'm glad you don't remember how shocked I looked.”

Arthur gapes, and reminds himself to re-evaluate his drinking habits as he sets about making a cup of tea.

Francis sighs and gives a tired smile after pointedly dropping a paintbrush onto his art table. “Finally finished! Ahh, I've been working on this canvas for so long and I can finally hand it in - it's my last piece of work for this year.”

“Congratulations. And I don't have to be relaxing in my own now.”

Francis sighs in happiness yet again, and potters over to the bathroom to wash some of his brushes and palettes before they dry.

Arthur heads to the sofa with his mug of tea but just as he is about to set himself down, curiously gets the better of him. For some reason he had never actually got around to having a proper look at Francis’ main painting, and he wanders over to the bay window. He peeks around the easel harbouring the huge canvas, and then brings himself to stand in front of it. His eyes widen.

Illustrated there on the canvas, in delicate acrylics, is a still life of a library. Every book on every shelf has its own unique cover, some modern, some aged, some bland, some intricate. Dark hardwood furniture sits on faded but characteristic Persian rugs, suiting the room’s musky but cosy atmosphere. And there, sitting neatly on one of the old warped chairs, is him.

He frowns and looks closer, the figure neither particularly large or detailed and the head looking down at a book on the table. But he can clearly see his distinctive mop of blonde hair, a jumper resembling one of his own, and one little spot of paint that really convinces him.

His dangling fringe obscures a majority of his face, and through a small gap he sees a single speck of emerald green for one his barely visible eyes.

Arthur steps back to get a full view of the vast painting, and takes in the amount of detail put into every single aspect. Nothing looks out of place; Arthur feels like he could be sitting at that table himself, the atmosphere is so palpable.

Francis walks back in and stands next to Arthur looking at the canvas. He is so complacent it is practically radiating off him, and Arthur turns to his subtle smug smile and frowns.

“Francis, why the hell did you paint me on there? You’ve been working on this for months haven’t you?”

“Yep.”

Arthur feels himself blush and avoids eye contact. “Silly frog.” he mutters, but a significant part of him feels especially loved, appreciated, more than ever before.

The front door opens and Alfred and Matthew walk in, looking cheerful.

“Hey, good news! We've finally managed to find ourselves a new flat.”

Francis and Arthur look to Matthew, his glasses lightly speckled with drizzle from outside. “Ah that's great, Matthieu. That'll be lovely for you two to finally have your own space again.”

Alfred grins as he pulls off his damp shoes, “Not to mention you guys. We literally barged in on you for ages and we still owe you a bunch for saving our necks.”

Matthew agrees enthusiastically, giving a long string of thanks and apologies.

“It was no problem at all, don't worry about it.” Arthur says quickly. “We're happy to help and you provided good, albeit sometimes irritating company.” He deliberately coughs a few times, muttering “Alfred” in the middle.

“We'll probably leave in a day or two, though we're actually flying back to Canada and the US to see family for Christmas.”

“That'll be nice, enjoy yourselves.”

Arthur walks off to the kitchen to put on the kettle as the twins settle down in front of the television, but before he can do so Francis calls out.

“Hey Arthur, I heard there is a new tea room in town, want to visit as a little exam celebration?”

Hmm. A tea room does sounds nice.

“Sure, I am sort of craving some proper cream tea.”

“With scones that are actually edible, unlike the radioactive rocks that I've seen you create.”

Arthur gives a sardonic scoff, but chooses not to retort. Obviously because he doesn't want to start an argument, not because it's true.

They wrap up in warm winter coats; it is well into winter and the air is icy; and head off to town. It isn’t too busy, it seems many people want to avoid the chill. Francis walks closely to Arthur, hooking their arms together, and Arthur feels vaguely uncomfortable with the public display of attention but likes the warmth it provides. They pass a familiar shop, and Arthur frowns in thought.

“Francis, do you still work there? I never actually noticed you stopping.”

“Non, I left as we went into exam season since it was too much work, plus it was only part time. But we could afford that new television so I imagine it paid off.”

“Ah.” Arthur says distantly, thinking back to the tedious argument they had about which TV they should buy, remembering winning and choosing the slightly smaller but less expensive one.

They reach the tea rooms after about ten minutes of walking through town, and sigh at the wave of heat that washes over them as they step inside. It is a pleasant little place, light pastel colours decorating the wallpaper and framed paintings, and elegant furniture topped with ornate crockery. The windows are big so the room is bright, though still cosy, and a bell tinkles as they walk through the door.

Francis picks a table for two near the window and they sit themselves down, reading through the menu. A little thought leads Arthur to the decision of a cream tea with raspberry jam and clotted cream. He had always preferred the extra bite of the raspberry flavour and the thicker, sourer taste of clotted cream over whipped cream, or at least with scones.

A smiley waitress approaches their table, her long chestnut hair up in a cute messy bun and an pale blue apron embellished with the cafe name wrapped around her middle.

“What can I get you two young gentlemen today?” She whips a glass of roses out of nowhere and places them on their table with a quiet little giggle. Her grin is suspiciously suggestive and Arthur mentally face palms, struggling to resist glaring at the woman despite her polite manners and good intentions. He sees Francis across the table struggling similarly, except he seems to be trying to hold back laughter.

They order their food and drink, Francis opting for an ice cream crêpe and a hot chocolate. As the waitress walks back to the kitchen to give their orders, Arthur relieves himself with an actual face palm and a whine.

“Why does she seem to think we’re a couple? Why does she have to be so embarrassing?”

Francis chuckles, “We are pretty obvious, cher.”

Arthur groans, but stops abruptly as he feels a hand take his own. Francis looks into his eyes, the Frenchman’s own twinkling.

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. All that matters is that I love you.”

Arthur can’t help it - the feeling embarrassment and awkwardness fills him immediately and he knows he has turned bright red. He hears a squeak from the other side of the room and turns around just in time to catch the waitress fleeing into the kitchen from the till area.

Arthur lets out a mock sob and whines again. “Why me?” He turns back to Francis who is wearing an expression of amusement, and tries to find his words. “It’s not like I don’t feel the same way, I’m just too awkward a person, I’m sorry.”

Francis looks a little sympathetic but smiles nonetheless. “Don’t worry amour, I know.”

The waitress approaches with their orders, not quite successfully hiding her simper. She wishes them a good meal and bounces off back to the till.

Arthur begins the construction of his scones as his tea brews, halving the little bready cakes and slathering on the clotted cream first - he had always been firm believer of the Devonian technique over the Cornish; jam on top of the cream.

“Francis, I was wondering… What are you doing for Christmas this year?”

Said man looks up from his crȇpe thoughtfully. He hums contemplatively at the question. “I’m not too sure really. I don’t think I will be going back to France, or at least I’m not going to be visiting any family. I guess I was just sort of planning on staying here.”

Arthur frowns. “That sounds lonely. I’m going to be with my family for Christmas… but I think you could come along if you wanted. They certainly wouldn’t mind, I suppose it depends on whether you’d be willing to try and put up with the lot of them; the Kirkland family can be rather a lot of havoc.”

Francis looks surprised at the invite and Arthur wonders if he is a little more lonely that he appears, despite his flamboyant and confident personality.

He seems to think it over for a moment before replying. “That is lovely for you offer, Arthur. I think it might be interesting to meet your family, to see if they are as insufferable and insane as you are.”

Wow. Loves him so much.

“But if I’m intruding then don’t worry at all, I’m sure I would find something else to do.’

“Not at all, you’re completely welcome. Our mother is always welcoming guests like no one’s business anyway, it’s like she wants them to be her children instead or something.”

He processes what he had just said for a moment, coming to a quick revelation.

“Oh wait. Maybe she does.”

Francis laughs, “You must be awful.”

“My siblings are worse than I am.”

They exchange grins.

“Now I'm excited.”

Whoo I am alive again. Apologies for not uploading last week, it was almost physically impossible for me since I was on a school trip to Iceland and I had very minimal internet, and I decided to wait until this Sunday again because I was recovering from lack of sleep for several days after and was really ded but still had to go to school, RIP me. Now, I’m kind of afraid to say it, but this fic will be coming to its conclusion soon, just to warn you. I have thought about and planned pretty much where this end will be and I feel like any more will just be dragging it out. Don’t worry, there will still be a good few more chapters but this isn’t going to be a 100,000 word fic or anything, it has to finish sometime. But I am excited to finish this and especially excited to start proper planning and even writing my new fic, I will miss TVOL but I have to move on from it sometime. It will be planned in great detail and I hope to draft it a bit before uploading, so I’m afraid it won’t come immediately after the end of this fic, but keep a look out. It will be waaayy more serious and angsty than this fic though, a completely different genre, so I hope you like that. Sorry this A/N is so long, and I’ll see you all sooon. <3 <3 <3 ;D

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

The trundling of suitcases seems far too loud for the peaceful neighbourhood of Arthur’s home, feeling to Francis like a disturbance to the singing birds and whispering trees swaying in the icy wind. He looks around with a smile on his face and feels happy in the calming environment, despite the grey skies. He had been raised in the middle of a city, and he tries to imagine what a childhood like this would have been like, whether he would have become any different of a person.

A scowl is apparent on Arthur's face as they walk from the bus stop and Francis questions his grumpy expression, thinking that he would be happy to see his family.

“I’m just remembering what a pain it is in this house, sorry for inviting you here. Just try to avoid anyone who gets mad, it doesn’t usually end too well.”

Francis wonders if he should have possibly received a little more prior warning, feeling a lot more nervous than before. Arthur points out the house as it comes into view, and Francis is pleasantly surprised it isn’t the dark haunted shack he had been starting to imagine. A large cottage sits under some old oaks and willows, made of faded red brick with a steep roof and a substantial dark wood door.

“You grew up in such a lovely environment Arthur, I’m jealous.”

“It may look pretty, but I don’t know if being stuck in a house with my family counts as a lovely environment. And I was rather naïve to city life at first after I moved out; living in a small community was completely different.”

They approach the front door and Arthur sighs before giving a knock. Francis hears some voices and footsteps from within the house, until the door is flung open.

A smiley, albeit slightly manic looking women stands in the doorway, undoubtedly Arthur’s mother. She has bright grass green eyes, fierce but twinkling. Her thick, ash-blonde hair is up in a bun and she is wearing a Christmas jumper on top of a long skirt with large fluffy slippers. She reaches forwards to grab Francis’ hands and greets him with fervent enthusiasm.

“Hello there, it’s so lovely to meet you, you’ve got to be Francis. I’m Arthur’s mother, you can call me Harriet. I’m so happy to have you, now come on in out of the cold.”

She immediately stands out of Francis as being the reassuring and motherly type; someone who could be both delightfully kind but also utterly terrifying if she gets angry. As Francis is ushered in, he hears Arthur sigh.

“Hello to you too, Mother.”

“Come on Art, you’re my son. Do we need such formalities?” Harriet laughs heartily as they follow her in.

What a wonderfully strange lady.

They walk through a small tiled hall, past a twisting staircase, and into an open plan kitchen and living area. The ceiling still has old wooden beams showing and Francis is curious to the age of the house. These old English buildings are quite unfamiliar to him; he is not very well versed with the old French country, let alone any of Britain. The kitchen looks to have been redone a while ago, and the area houses a relatively modern but lived-in set of furniture.

Three men come into view, one of which is standing at a counter making tea and wearing a Christmas jumper, and the other two lazing on one of the sofas. One of them looks up with their entrance, and his lips curl up in a sly grin. He is lying along the length of the sofa, feet resting on the other occupant who looks none too happy about it. His hair is a bright, fiery red, contrasting with his distinctive but recognisable green eyes. He looks to be one of the oldest of the (assumed) brothers. He is big and vaguely scary looking, and Francis reckons he must be a hell of a big brother to put up with.

“Arthur, laddie. You’ve finally dragged your arse over here, how’s life doin’ for ya?”

The brother facing away from them in the kitchen with the Christmas jumper on turns in surprise at hearing the greeting, a smiles widely.

“Artie, you’re home!”

He puts down the kettle and approaches to give Arthur a hug. He notices Francis and says hello.

“I’m Dylan, Arthur’s brother. Lovely to meet you. And that was Alistair with the red hair.”

“Thank you, Dylan.” Francis returns the smile politely, and introduces himself. Dylan’s first impressions are good, and Francis likes him. His hair is a dark cinnamon brown, a little longer than Arthur’s though similarly unruly, complimented by bright jade eyes. He is friendly looking and again comparable to Arthur in body shape - slim, but taller and with slightly wider shoulders.

Francis and Arthur sit on another sofa, and Francis notices the person trapped under Alistair’s feet staring at him.

“Bonjour? I am Francis, Arthur’s friend. Who are you?”

The boy pouts slightly. He looks to still be in high school, presumably the youngest of the brothers, and is clutching his phone like his life depends on it. With earphones plugged into his ears, Francis can only guess he is still going through his grumpy, antisocial teenager phase.

“Sean.”

Francis is expecting a little more from him, but in the continuing silence afterwards he realises that’s all he’s going to get. Sean is looking away again, eyes glued to his phone. They’re a little lighter but still the Kirkland green, shielded by a thick layer of eyelashes. His hair is more of a light auburn with a casual side fringe, covering some of his lightly freckled face. He is lanky, well fit in skinny jeans and an relaxed shirt.

Arthur rolls his eyes, tutting quietly. “Sorry about Sean, he’s been acting aloof for a while now. Thinks he special or something.”

Harriet walks in at that moment and she frowns at Arthur. “Hey, it’s hormones, he’s still young. Give him his space. You were the same in your mid-teens.”

Both brothers give a whine of “Mum!”, and she chuckles at her embarrassed children.

Dylan brings a tray with tea and biscuits to the coffee table and sits down next to Arthur, proceeding to dunk biscuits into his hot drink while Francis gratefully accepts a cup. They chat for a while as Harriet prepares dinner.

“You mean to tell me you actually have a pet sheep?” Francis questions incredulously.

Dylan nods eagerly. “He’s really sweet and friendly and his name is Dewi. He’s out in the garden at the moment, but I can introduce him at some point.”

Francis is starting to understand what Arthur meant when he was warning him of his family. They aren’t exactly normal. Though it makes it easier to understand how Arthur himself came to be such a strange one. Lost in thought for a moment, Francis jumps when two cats both jump onto his lap at the same time. They walk over him and Arthur, lightly purring and sniffing the unknown Francis.

“Oh, hello.” He stokes the felines, smiling as at their softness. “Who are these?”

Arthur pets one of them, scratching its white and beige fur behind the ears and under the chin. “This is Crumpets. He’s more my cat really, especially since I named him.”

Francis laughs internally, of course Arthur would name it that.

“He’s a Scottish fold, and he’s very loving.”

“To you maybe,” Sean says, glaring at the cat. “I swear he wants to kill me.”

“Well I’m not surprised, I would probably do the same.”

“Why you little..”

“I’m older than you, you brat.”

“Not taller though.”

Arthur splutters, getting more and more frustrated.

“Boys, shut up.” Harriet tells them sternly. “Arthur I know you’re an adult, but you’re in my house and you’re my son.”

Arthur pouts and crosses his arms in a sulk. He somehow looks rather cute acting so childish, and Francis has to actively drag his eyes away.

“This one is Meredith.” Dylan says, cuddling the other struggling cat. “She’s precious and adorable and she’s mine.”

“She’s everyone’s, ya soft idiot.”

Dylan narrows his eyes at Alistair.

“Mine.”

Meredith the cat does indeed look cuddly and adorable, though Francis can’t ignore her pudginess. In fact, she’s closer to obese rather than just pudgy, though it adds to her cuteness in a way. She looks be a British Shorthair, mostly a bluey grey with patches of cream.

The sound of footsteps is suddenly acute to Francis, and he has a moment to wonder who on earth else could be in this house before a woman prances into the kitchen.

“Mmm, I smell food. Oh Mum that smells so good.”

Francis, completely baffled by the appearance of a brand new sibling, pokes Arthur and asks in a whisper who this new person is.

Arthur replies out loud, forgetting his sulking state quickly. “Oh crap, yeah I forgot about her. That’s Aoife*, our sister. She’s the oldest of all of us.”

Aoife, who had just been crouching down to peer into the oven, stood up with vigour.

“Arthur! You mean to tell me that you forgot about me? Jesus Christ, I’m offended. What would’ve happened if your friend had encountered me on our own and he thought I was an intruder or something, you remember what happened when Ali brought a girl home without telling any of us and Sean walked in on her - a complete stranger - doing her hair in the bathroom. Jeez, that was havoc. Anyway,” she turns to Francis and introduces herself, Francis politely doing the same. She seems nice enough, maybe a little loud, but she they are around family so it is probably natural. Her attention returns to Arthur. “I’m your bloody big sister so you should at least respect me a little more.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, “I get it, I get it. I have a bad memory.”

Aoife gives a disbelieving snort.

“Enough of this.” Harriet butts in, while reading the newspaper, though not really angry. “Arthur, you ought to take Francis to your room. I made your beds so you should be grateful.”

Arthur hauls himself up from the sofa and heads to the stairs, Francis following behind, and calls out “Cheers, Ma.” as they leave.

They haul their bags up the stairs and enter through one of the doors. They path a few doors decorated with various old ‘Keep out, danger of death!’ signs.

Arthur’s room is moderately sized, large windows providing both plenty of natural light and a lovely view out onto the quiet main road, pretty front garden and mixture of evergreen pines and bare deciduous trees. The bedroom is rather mature, containing very few childish adornments but still having a personality and looking lived in. Some large maps scatter the light walls, as well as a small Sherlock poster and a couple of awards. A bookshelf lines an entire wall, dozens - or probably hundreds - of books are neatly organised alphabetically by author on the many wooden shelves.

A small double bed sits near the window, and a large wood desk is scattered lightly with abandoned stationery and books. There are two clocks on the walls, one on each side of the room, ticking away quietly. A blow-up bed accompanied with a pillow, duvet, and multiple woollen blankets, is sitting in the middle of the floor space, obviously for Francis, and Arthur steps over it to collapse onto his own bed.

“Ah, I’ve missed this bed. And all of my books.”

Francis can’t resist a smile he looks around the room, seeing subtle things that are just so Arthur, leaving him with no doubt that he grew up here. An old guitar in the corner, a poem from primary school plastered with a big 1st sticker, a large collection of likely unused notebooks, a sewing kit and knitting bag. Francis puts his bag on the floor, there is still space despite the mattress, and sits next to Arthur on his bed.

“Your bedroom is so lovely, I can imagine you growing up here.”

“Eh, well I like to keep things tidy and get rid of things I grow out of, so I guess that’s kept it quite nice. I’d always wanted the loft bedroom but Aoife got it since she’s oldest, but I do like this room.”

“I’d never got to accumulate memories very easily since I was always moving house as a kid; my dad has probably already left the place I was last in.”

Francis can sense Arthur’s mild discomfort, and feels a little guilty for bringing such a thing up.

“Well, you can accumulate memories wherever you live in when you’re older, and in our flat, and with me.”

Francis laughs; he got over that well. “Yeah, merci.”

“At least you were an only child. I can understand it might have been a little lonely, but four annoying as hell siblings? My mum is pretty cruel, heh. Seriously though, with me, Alistair is a complete arse a lot of the time, Sean is an annoying brat, Aoife is bossy and thinks she’s better than us because she’s the oldest, and just in general Dylan is really fucking weird.”

“I guess that’s the beauty of families. Maybe.”

They chat and giggle for a while, Francis feeling more and more at home in the pleasant environment, until they’re called down for a hearty dinner.

*Aoife, pronounced EE-fa. Irish (or Gaelic or whatever xD) pronunciation is strange, or maybe I’m just bad.

Just to clarify (in age order):
Harriet=Britannia
Aoife=Republic Of Ireland
Alistair=Scotland
Dylan=Wales
Arthur=England
Sean (pronounced Shawn if you didn’t know)=Northern Ireland
Crumpets=Iggycat
Meredith=Literally my cat (sorry not sorry)

I hope that wasn’t too much of an info shock with all of these new people, and I’m afraid they are basically OCs, especially Harriet and Meredith (hellooo) hehe. But they’re fun and new so whoo. Also, I edited a couple of things in chapter 5 but you probably don’t need to worry about that. So yay, a new, pretty long chapter. Tbh there’s going to be a fair bit more of this fic so it’s not finishing just yet. Btw, I’ve found it actually really difficult to write Francis so I’m sorry if he seems a little OC or boring. But I’ll see you soon, sorry if I can’t get in an upload next week but I’ll try. Ciao!!!

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

The first thing Arthur notices as he wakes up is a tingling of excitement and anticipation that had stayed with him throughout the night, left over from yesterday evening. Christmas Eve. He can’t help his lips spreading into a wide smile as remembers the date, and feels suitably festive. He feels like a child still, like his child self who had stayed up late to try and see Santa but had fallen asleep from exhaustion before his mother could tiptoe in to fill up his stocking.

He moves his eyes from the ceiling to the man in his bed next to him.

A moment of panic is enough to wake him up, to get his heart beating. But relief follows as quickly as his memories just had, and he recalls the previous night.

They had clambered upstairs after their long evening of light drinking and Christmas television, Francis quickly changing into pyjamas in the bathroom while Arthur did the same in his bedroom. They reconvened and settled down in their beds. Arthur remembers feeling bad for Francis, having to sleep on the floor (even with the blow-up mattress and extensive collection of blankets), and invited him up to his bed for a while as they talked. They didn’t talk about anything much in particular, mostly just Christmas and food and TV and anything that popped into their minds. They had been comfy, sharing warmth under the covers like a couple of children sharing a bed at a sleepover, and Arthur does not recall Francis returning to his makeshift bedding on the floor.

He sees him now, sleeping peacefully with his hair messy and spread over the pillow. Arthur’s bed isn’t massive and he can feel Francis’ foot resting against his own leg. Arthur moves to the side slightly, enough to retreat from the unnecessary contact. He lies there for another couple of minutes, contemplating. The time reads 8:50am, and Arthur slides out of bed before poking Francis awake.

He groans and stretches, rolling over to his other side and not responding. Arthur sighs, and walks across the landing to the bathroom.

Some idiot had decided that they needed to decorate the bloody bathroom, and Arthur tries to ignore the red glittery tinsel draped along the mirror as he examines his weary reflection. He tries to neaten himself up a little, rinsing his face and pushing around his hair, though the darkness under his eyes stubbornly remains.

Francis is standing and looking out of the window at the recently risen sun when Arthur returns, the sky lightening from deep navy to the blue and yellow indication of day.

“Merry Christmas.”

Francis turns and looks confused for a moment, and Arthur can see his eyes light up and his face brighten as he remembers the holiday. He smiles that lovely smile as usual, though he looks more excited, similarly more like a child again.

“Merry Christmas, Arthur.”

They head downstairs, warm dressing gowns and thick walls keeping them from the sharp wintry air. They come down into the living room, their recently assembled Christmas tree standing in its proud majesty, twinkling with fairy lights. Harriet is in the kitchen frying bacon and brewing a very large cafetiere of coffee. Francis has been staying with Arthur and his family for a couple of days already, and Arthur knows he has seen the wrath of the household if they aren’t presented with either coffee or tea or both first thing in the morning.

Aoife is sitting cross-legged on the floor, reading the newspaper with a mug of already brewed coffee in one hand, and Dylan is on the sofa with a steaming cup of tea, reading something on his phone. Sean and Alistair are nowhere to be seen.

They all wish each other Merry Christmas, exchanging a couple of hugs, Arthur attempting to pull away from the sloppy kiss his mother threatens to give. They comment on the lack of snow outside with grim acceptance, not too surprised since this area of the UK hasn’t been blessed with a white Christmas in years and years.

“It’s bloody global warming, you know. We’ll probably be underwater in another fifty years.” Aoife complains, and no one disagrees.

Arthur is eyeing the rather huge pile of presents clustered under the tree, and he sees the others doing it too, but of course they know with frustration the unbreakable rule - everyone must be present for presents.

Dylan puts down his tea and hops off the sofa. “I’ll go and wake up the others. Can’t be arsed to wait for those lazy idiots any longer.”

The stairs creak as he skips up, and Arthur doesn’t struggle to hear the shouts and groans going on upstairs as he makes his own tea. After a couple of minutes of attempting to visualise what is happening by the stomps and yells and creaks, Sean crawls downstairs with a I’m-so-done, please-don’t-fuck-with-me expression, and heads in a beeline for the coffee pot without a word of welcome or celebration. Dylan comes down a minute later, smiling one of his scary pissed off smiles, and resumes his position on the sofa, while Alistair appears looking tired and ruffled, albeit vaguely amused.

They all have a couple of bites of bacon and toast, relaxing into a less tense mood as they’re all together, and the colourfully wrapped gifts draw them in. Since most of the Kirklands aren’t even teenagers any more, their mother had a couple of times introduced the idea of perhaps not bothering with the whole Christmas thing, given the faff and expense. But the siblings had been in uproar to the extent that Harriet had almost completely abandoned the possibility, other than deciding to compromise with not bothering with stockings any longer.

A couple of hours are spent ripping open wrapping paper, giving hugs and thanks, laughing over bad presents and good jokes. By the end of the present-opening pandemonium, Arthur is pleasantly surprised by his gifts for the year especially having received far worse in the past. His mother bought him some pans and kitchen utensils; not the most thrilling presents but he respects her liking for practically; as well as a surprisingly good looking coat, another less good looking Christmas jumper, and an IOU for driving lessons next summer. Sean got him the same Yankee candle that he got Arthur and everyone else last year, the years before then, this year, and will probably get next year, while Aoife gave him chocolate, Dylan got him a Waterstone’s gift voucher, and Alistair didn’t bother with getting anyone anything.

Arthur had thought for a while beforehand about what to get Francis for Christmas, wanting to get something that shows that he can actually care sometimes. It felt a little unoriginal, although it was the best he could come up with, but Arthur bought his a really nice fancy art set, with paints and pencils and charcoal and ‘Francis’ inscribed on the case. The Frenchman had gasped and delicately examined the gift, showing very little of the fake gratitude and wow-I’m-so-happy expression that is so common. Arthur braced himself for the enthusiastic bear hug that quickly followed.

Arthur doesn’t know why he was surprised when Francis pulled out a sparkly gift bag with a grin. It contained a special signed copy of one of his favourite books with an attractive hard cover, and one of those proper designer pens you get from special pen shops. He had expressed his thanks the best he could, though felt a little outdone.

They all gather at the table for Christmas lunch, all of the dishes spread out atop the tablecloth; a huge turkey, piles of steaming vegetables and roast potatoes, jugs of meat gravy, pigs in blankets and a tray of stuffing with both crispy bits and soft bits. The smells and the appearance of such an impressive compilation of food is enough to require Arthur to physically restrain himself from the feast, feeling fidgety and impatient until everyone’s plates are suitably stacked.

They all wish each other a “Merry Christmas!” and thank Harriet for the food, before digging in like the pack of ravenous carnivores that the Kirkland’s are. Arthur checks Francis seems to be doing well (he feels responsible for him as Francis is his guest), and he looks to be enjoying the food plenty. Meri appears with the prospects of getting a couple of scraps or plates to lick, stalking not very sneakily between chairs and under the table, tickling feet with her tail. Arthur narrows his eyes at Sean sneaking her pieces of turkey under the table - she’s supposed to be on a diet but this is probably why it isn’t working. He can just about see Crumpets sleeping in a cat bed in the other room, and feels a little pride that his cat is being good and polite and a healthy weight.

Someone points out the Christmas crackers lain on the table, and they pick one up to pull with a partner. His mother to his right offers Arthur her cracker, and they pull it apart with a bang, the small traces of gunpowder inside the colourful cardboard tube emitting a loud crack of ignition. He is left with the short end of the tube, Harriet holding the remainder and digging inside to find the contents, all the while cackling gleefully at her win. Arthur scowls, he hates losing, and turns to use his own cracker with Francis. They pull it apart and Arthur only needs to look at Francis’ smug face to know that he has lost again. Francis laughs and gives him the remainder of the tube since he hasn’t won yet. Arthur grumpily pulls out the paper crown, setting it on top of his head, as well as a plastic leapfrog and a crappy Christmas joke. Dylan tells his joke enthusiastically, which is guessed almost instantly, and their meals continues over conversation on what makes comedy good or bad.

By late afternoon Arthur is starting to feel tired already as he tries not to fall asleep in front of the Doctor Who Christmas special, the day having soared like always. He jumps as sudden pressure blossoms on his shoulder. Arthur is obviously not the only tired one; he sees and feels Francis leaning against him, obviously having nodded off. He feels a little uncomfortable at first but soon relaxes into the position while only vaguely worrying about how he might fall asleep too, like this, but deciding he doesn’t really care.

Later in evening they get up to have some leftover turkey sandwiches and sausages for supper, though Arthur imagines that like him, no one is really actually hungry. After the huge lunch, masses of chocolate and the Christmas pudding that had been heavily consumed earlier in the day, no one could be actively hungry.

Sean and Aoife head up to bed first at around eleven o’clock, and everyone else follows not too long after. It takes a minute for Arthur and Francis to make it up the stairs; they had both had their fair share of wine, sherry and a little beer throughout the day, and Arthur feels rather out of it. He comes very close to booting Meri (looking even fatter than usual, if that’s possible) who is sleeping on the landing. Already dressed in Christmas pyjamas, they collapse straight into bed and quickly fall asleep side by side. The temporary bed is yet again forgotten on the floor, and this time Francis hadn’t even needed an invite.

Okay eeee, I’m sorry I didn’t upload again last week, I’ve just found it difficult to write much faster than I am at the moment without it sounding crap (or at least to me), so I’m afraid that it’ll probably be on a two week basis or something most of the time now. Although, I say that, unfortunately there’s only going to be one or two (or a slight possibility of three) more chapters I’m afraid, SORRYYY :;(∩´﹏`∩);:. But thanks so much for sticking with me xxx Btw there’s also the fact that my proper, real, important maths exams literally start tomorrow and take place over like, more than a week, I might be a little busy, hehe *cries*. Seriously though, we have FOUR exams on just maths (c" ತ,_ತ). Anyway, sorry, I’ll see you soon!! Love youuu xxx

(Disclaimer if you’re Meri: Hey Meri you’re finally reading this lmao! Just making sure you know Scooter is fat, and you are most definitely not lololl. Xxxx)

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

“Hmmm…”

A tattered letter had been poking out of their post box, and Arthur examines the front with a frown before scanning through the rest.

‘THE MOST AWESOME NEW YEAR’S PARTY EVER FROM THE SUPREME AWESOME GOD!!!!!!!!!’

“Hey Francis, Gilbert’s having a big New Year’s Eve party tonight. Reckon we should go?”

Francis pulls his bag into his bedroom, not dissimilar to how he did when he first moved in, and Arthur hears his beginnings of unpacking from Christmas. He calls back from the other room.

”Sure. Pourqoui pas? We don’t have any other plans, unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Nah, I’m not doing anything else.”

Arthur discards the invite on the side table and continues with his own unpacking. They had returned from his family’s house recently, and it is already December 31st. Luckily for them term doesn’t start for another couple of weeks, so they have downtime for a while.

They go out grocery shopping and pick up lunch while they’re there, restocking the kitchen from being away. Arthur looks for snacks, fruit and lunch foods while Francis runs around picking up specific obscure ingredients for real meals. They reconvene and Arthur pokes his debit card into the machine while Francis chats graciously (or perhaps flirts) with the lady at the till - they take turns paying for food.

They spend the rest of the afternoon lounging around, not doing very much, until Francis gets up to make dinner. Arthur is very thankful for such great meals although he doesn’t exactly show it. He hears anguished stories from friends about having to live off beans on toast for every meal, and only ever shopping from the reduced section in hopes of saving money. He and Francis don’t bother with that.

They eat quite early and spend the remainder of the early evening getting ready to go out. Or at least Francis does. Arthur just throws on a slightly smarter shirt and a pair of black jeans, and types up some of his novel while Francis painstakingly decides on an outfit to wear and fancies up his hair with various complicated looking instruments and products.

They leave a little after eight forty, and after some walking and a short train journey in the already dark evening, they make it to Gilbert’s rented house by ten past nine. Just standing outside, Arthur can already hear music booming like rhythmic thunder from the windows and walls. He feels a noticeable twinge of anxiety, being more of an introvert himself, but it’s not enough to put him off a huge amount. Arthur did make attempts to get into grips with university life, and so he is not so unused to the whole party thing really. It just doesn’t come as naturally as it does to others. But he knows he can just stick with Francis and anyone else he is familiar with, staying away from most of the strangers.

They ring the doorbell twice before getting an answer from a loud, drunken German (or Prussian?). Gilbert ushers them in, the music amplifying exponentially the closer they get to the raging speakers. The house is quite full, possibly around forty people chatting and dancing and drinking, although not struggling for space too much since the house is big (shared between Gilbert, his brother, and a couple of others). Arthur recognises about half of the people there, spotting Ludwig and Feliciano cuddling in a corner while another man looking incredibly similar to the Italian seems to be sulking angrily nearby. Francis’ friend Antonio is talking with Gilbert, Francis and Matthew, who Arthur didn’t realise would be there. Just too late, he starts his frantic scanning of faces for the American oaf, but he growls in defeat and pain as said idiot jump attacks him from behind.

“Get off me you absolute tosser!”

Alfred giggles, but complies.

“Happy New Year Arthusiastic Igloo bro!”

He screws up his face in disgust. “Oh bloody Jesus Christ I think I just died inside. That’s the worst thing that I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth, which is really saying something.”

Alfred cackles this time. “How was Christmas?”

“Oh, fine. Nothing too special really. I guess you’re back from America already, how was all that?”

They chat for a while, or rather shout at each other over the music, until Alfred wanders off to look for food. Arthur picks himself up a cup of some mystery punch, not too concerned about what is actually in it since it’s going to be alcoholic and that’s all that really matters. He spots Gilbert and Matthew, and while beginning to make his way over to talk to them he realises they’re making out right in the middle of the room.

Jesus, Arthur thinks with mild disgust, we do not need to be seeing this. He isn’t surprised by Gilbert, but seeing such public displays of affection from Matthew is something to look twice at. He shoulders through a particularly packed crowd of people who look to be trying to play amateur drinking games. Arthur reaches the other side, growling as a light splash of beer makes it onto his clothes, and joins Francis, Lukas and Antonio in a slightly quieter area.

He greets them briefly, only really planning on quietly listening to their conversations and maybe inputting a few things every once in a while. Francis, however, has different ideas.

“Arthur! Here you are,”

Francis hooks his arm around his neck and ruffles his hair.

“We were just talking about you-“

“God help me.”

“-about how lucky I am to sharing with the cutest little Artie around.”

“You’re drunk already.” Arthur struggles out of Francis’ grip and glares. “Plus, I’m basically the only-” he sticks up his fingers in bunny ears to exaggerate his point, “‘little Artie’ around.”

“Ah yes I see, mi amigo, he is very funny! I don’t believe we’ve properly met yet little Artie, I am Antonio, yes?”

The smiley Spaniard offers Arthur a tan hand to shake, and Arthur pouts slightly but takes it.

“I’m liking this whole little Artie thing,” Lukas says with a devilish grin. “It really picks up on your greatest features.”

They all laugh, then, and Arthur is about to ditch the wankers, but before he can do so a tall woman appears before them with a nasty smirk on her face.

“Well I’ll be damned. It’s Francis. Been awhile since you fucked out of my life.”

Okay so this is only a half length chapter because I’ve decided to upload it in two parts, simply because with this and the last chapter that will come out soon (an epilogue), the total number would be 17 chapters and I just can’t have that xD. 18 is a better number. But I’ll upload the other half chapter soon, probably tomorrow so you don’t have to wait long, and then there’ll just be one chapter left, aghhh so close to the end, hopefully it turns out well. Thank you so much for the support, sorry for the wait! <3

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

Arthur was just about ready to leave Francis and the woman alone, not going to bother trying to get acquainted with this new person, but the way she spoke to Francis made him stay. He can practically smell trouble.

“Rebecca? What’re you doing here?”

“Same as you probably. Don’t talk like I decided to come back and find you, because that totally wasn’t my intentions. Although… it’s not I wouldn't have been happy staying”

Lukas promptly leaves, shuffling away from confrontation he obviously doesn’t want to be involved in. Arthur and Antonio step back a little, but don’t quite yet leave Francis. They feel like they should stick around.

Arthur hates to admit it to himself, but this woman, Rebecca, is beautiful. The set of her face is just right; soft where it should be soft, sharp where it should be sharp; she’s one of those people you just want to be able to stare at for a long while so as to appreciate their beauty.

But Arthur doesn’t like her. The way she speaks to Francis, the way she holds her slim frame. The way she looks at them with that judgemental, selfish, almost predatory gaze makes him distrustful. He hopes she leaves soon.

Francis looks around consciously, seeing only Antonio and Arthur attentive in the nearby crowd. He turns back to her.

“Look, Becky, it’s nice to see you and everything, but we said we were over a long time ago now. So... just enjoy yourself.”

Francis moves to turn back to Arthur and Antonio, but Becky grabs at his arm.

“Francis! You obviously have different ideas but there are some unresolved things I’d like to work out. We can’t just pretend nothing happened.”

“Becky, please, not here, not now. Is it that important? I told you, we’re done.”

Arthur feels his substantial brows pinch together. Francis looked flustered, embarrassed, uncomfortable, and all the while Arthur is wondering who exactly this woman is. Well, it’s quite obvious really, and Arthur questions why she pisses him off so much. Of course Francis would have had other partners before him. He’s handsome, charming, stylish, flirty, Arthur doesn’t even know why he assumed he was special. But he isn’t angry at Francis, of course not. He’s pissed off at this Becky; she just comes across as so unkind and controlling, and she’s upsetting Francis.

“You don’t want to do this here? Fine. We’ll do it somewhere else.”

With her hand still clutching Francis’ arm, Becky drags him away into an unused room, shutting out the noise of the forgotten party behind them with the slam of a door.

Arthur exchanges a bewildered look with Antonio.

“Do you know who she is?”

Antonio nods, “Sí, a little. I know she and Francis were dating for a while last year, I guess before you met him. I’d never liked her and I only met her a couple of times, I don’t know what he saw in her. But they broke up after not too long. It wasn’t working between them and I think Francis started to realise that some people only want one thing. I doubt he wants to have to confront these old things again, I could tell he wasn’t very happy at the time.”

“Hmm…” Arthur frowns. He feels a little better about Francis now, but worse about her. She’s probably interrogating and brainwashing him or something right now, and he’s too nice to really get out of it. Arthur needs to save him.

He leaves Antonio as he stalks towards the door, who wanders off to pester the grumpy Italian, and quietly pries open the entrance to the room where Francis and Becky went. Arthur peers in, and sees the two of them on their feet and arguing in what looks like a study.

“Becky, I told you! We moved on! I have new relationships now, and so should you. We didn’t work, so we shouldn’t make the same mistakes again.”

“But we could work! I’ve changed, anyway.”

Francis raises a sceptical eyebrow. “Really? In less than a year?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not even the point. I keep on telling you, none of this matters because I can’t! I have new commitments.”

“Drop them.” Becky snarls, and Arthur is so astonished at her words he forgets that they’re ignorant to his presence. He leans forward on the door and it squeaks open further. Becky finally notices him.

“Hey! Who the fuck are you?”

Francis turns to look at him, and Arthur sees from his face that he is similarly aghast; his lips are curled back in anger and his usually happy eyes are narrowed. But this expression softens at the sight of Arthur. He is paused for a moment, but then abruptly walks towards Arthur. He feels almost frozen in his position half-in the room until Francis pulls him all the way in.

“Rebecca. This is Arthur. He is my boyfriend. Fuck you.”

Before Arthur can process what the hell is happening, Francis has pulled them together chest-to-chest, and their lips are pressing together all of sudden in an impromptu but passionate kiss. Arthur is stiff with shock for a moment, but the familiarity of Francis’ lips lets him embrace the moment, closing his eyes and relaxing in his hold. He feels butterflies in his stomach again, and the passion and lovingness coming from Francis reassures him with happiness, tells him far more clearly than words would that Francis truly does love him. He isn’t just using him to drive away his ex, it’s far more than that. The word ‘boyfriend’ flutters numbly around his head, and amongst his distant thoughts Arthur finds he loves the term. It feels just right.

When Francis begins to pull away, he is reluctant but lets him go anyway. Arthur suddenly remembers what was happening beforehand, and as he opens his eyes he finds the room empty other than him and his boyfriend. The bitch is gone.

“Arthur, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Arthur finds himself simply overpowered by the other man suddenly, so completely in love. He steps close to the Frenchman again and grabs his collar, pulling him down a little a planting another kiss on his softened lips.

“I love you Francis.”

He hears Francis’ breath hitch, and a couple of moments later he whispers back, “Je t’aime, fleur.”

They come together again, two surprisingly lonely men fully discovering their unlikely but strong mutual love.

Yay, a (half) chapter on a Monday! I hope this wasn’t too bad lol. One more left! <3

Chapter Text

Chapter 18 - Epilogue

“Oh my god Francis how can you be so incapable at carrying things?”

Francis winces as the bookcase smacks into yet another wall, the tall, extremely heavy piece of furniture swaying erratically in their hold.

“I’m not much worse than you. I’m just a little delicate, that’s all.”

“Hah!” Arthur pokes his head around the side of the bookcase and looks at Francis with possibly the cheekiest expression he had ever seen. “You weren’t delicate last night, were you?”

Francis chuckles and responds with a grin of his own. “Ah but with you, mon amour, it is different.”

It takes them another fifteen whole minutes to get the bookcase into the empty living room and a further half hour of bickering over where it should be placed. They’re both as stubborn as each other, but want everything to be perfect. They’re buying their first house together after all.

Arthur had landed himself a good job - an academic in the English Literature department of a Russell Group university. He has already had several promotions and is doing very well for them. He had been commuting halfway across the country for over a year, and they’ve finally got around to moving from their small old rented flat to a larger, pleasant (or will be after some doing up) house closer by with a hefty mortgage. Arthur seems to enjoy his job a lot, which makes Francis very happy. He’s looking forward to teaching people like he was being taught in university a mere four years beforehand. Francis, meanwhile, is working casually as a freelance artist and photographer. He doesn’t bring in as much money but it gives him more free time to do things like cooking and sorting out their house.

Francis hauls a couple of white paint cans into their soon-to-be study and uses the end of a brush to lever one open with a satisfying pop. He carefully pours the viscous liquid into a tray and lathers a paint roller in it, stepping up to the wall to start the tedious but strangely fulfilling painting process.

“Francis.”

Francis turns to Arthur before he can begin, who is standing nearby with a roller of his own. He is about to reply but Arthur beats him to it.

“Sorry, one second. I just think we ought to…”

Arthur reaches to Francis’ left hand and pulls it up into his own. His fingers go to Francis’ ring finger and carefully twists off the golden band of metal, ornate engravings and the little diamond embedded on top twinkling in the light. Arthur pulls off his own engagement ring - a slightly simpler design but with three emerald studs that practically reflect his own eyes. He gives a cute little smile and places them delicately on the table next to them.

“Better keep these safe.”

Francis can’t help a wide, glowing smile of his own. Sometimes he still feels like a teenager, so overwhelmed by love and emotion it makes them difficult to control. But he doesn’t need to control himself anymore, because he has all he’s ever wanted.

“Of course. Wouldn’t do to get paint all over them.”

He leans in and they kiss, a warm, soft kiss with a certain someone’s mouth he is so completely used to, but could never get bored of. Francis feels a pressure from the paint roller he is still holding, and pulls back. He looks down and sees the roller smudging against Arthur’s side, and moves it back and away from contact.

“Merde, sorry Artie I got paint all over your shirt.”

“It’s fine, love, I expected this shirt to get messy. I’m wearing my painting clothes, remember? Anyway, knowing you, you probably know every possible way to get paint out of clothing.”

They start painting the walls, filling in a half each and then meeting in the middle after about twenty minutes. They step back and examine their work. Francis tries to spot even the tiniest criticism in Arthur’s work to try and take the upper ground, and he sees with slight amusement his fiancé is doing the same. But it’s all just plain whiteness, all the same. It’s almost frustrating since Arthur can’t paint for shit; if they were using that paint for actual art he would be so at Francis’ mercy it would almost be pitiful. He smirks, but then an idea pops into his head, the same kind of pop paint cans make when they’re cracked open for the first time.

“Arthur..?”

“Hm?”

“I know it sounds a little crazy but do you think I could potentially paint on the walls on one of the rooms. Not paint like we just did, paint like my paintings, my art.”

Arthur looks a little surprised at first but considers the idea. “Hey, that would actually be really cool. Like sort of murals? Because that would probably look so amazing, knowing your work.”

Francis beams, beginning to imagine all sorts of different artworks he could make, inspiration flooding him with the impact of a tsunami.

“But not in here, though. I’ll be working here, it’d be too distracting if I’m being honest.”

“Living room? Bedroom? Spare bedroom?”

“I reckon in the spare bedroom would be interesting - pretty novel for guests. Go for it.”

They spend the rest of the morning painting over more walls and moving around furniture, and take a break to eat some lunch. Francis finishes his (admittedly rather bland) sandwiches, and heads into the spare bedroom to assess his canvas. The ceilings in the house are relatively tall and give plenty of space, and this room is no exception. Other than the one side of the room that is taken up by some large windows (they’ll give him some great lighting), the walls are spacious and bland and simply begging for attention. Francis reaches for one of the pencils he always keeps in a pocket and sketches straight onto the middle of wall. He didn’t have anything in mind, but somehow his skills have reached a level in which almost perfect masterpieces come instinctively, like the ability to ride a bike after you learnt how years ago when you were barely a child. The coarse texture of the wall and the layers of paint already dried on top is fascinating, completely different to any canvas or paper he uses for his usual work.

He doesn’t notice when Arthur comes in for a few moments, from when his acute concentration breaks.

“Francis!”

He turns to Arthur.

“Jesus, finally. I know you love painting but you were practically in a trance then. I just wanted to say we ought to get back to the important work now, this house won’t do itself up.” Arthur tries to peer around Francis a little. “What are you drawing anyway?”

Francis steps to the side to allow him to see, while looking at his work-in-progress to review it for himself. He bursts out laughing.

“Look at that Arthur! It’s us!”

He hadn’t exactly intended on the result, but that’s how it turned out. A sketch of two beautifully poised cats, sitting back-to-back with their tails curled up under them. One of them has very long, wavy hair, like one of those majestic Peruvian guinea pigs, and is doused in sparkles and twinkles. The other one looks a little pouty (if a cat can pout), and seems to be in a permanent frown with the particularly bushy patches of fur above his eyes. Its short fur is patterned with patches of darker colour, and its ears are folded over.

“They’re beautiful. They’ll be amazing once you’ve painted them.”

Francis winks at Arthur. “I’m glad you like it.”

Arthur adopts his narrow eyed, thoughtful expression for a few seconds, and suddenly, “Francis, I want a cat! We should get ourselves a cat when the house is done and we’re all moved in.”

“I thought you were allergic to cats.”

“Only a tiny bit; I don’t really care about a little sneezing if it means we can have a cat.”

Francis shrugs. “Sure. Why not? We’d get some extra company.” He smiles dreamily. “They’d be like our children.” Arthur laughs but he knows he is thinking the same thing.

Francis returns to the wall and begins to neaten up and darken some of the long, messy graphite lines, while Arthur reiterates from the doorway that despite how great Francis’ art is, they really do have to get back to real work.

Francis spends another ten minutes polishing up his early sketches, and then goes to find Arthur who is struggling to carry a mattress up the stairs by himself; a mattress that is, of course, multiple times bigger than him.

“You silly, you should have called for my help.”

Francis goes to help the stubborn man and grabs the other end, initially struggling to find a sufficient grip. A precarious trip up the stairs brings them to their bedroom, which is probably one of the most complete rooms of the house so far. Any painting needed is done, a carpet is fitted, boxes and suitcases are piled in the corner, and they had even got around to installing curtains so they can sleep in the house while in the process of moving in. A large bay window takes up one of the walls and makes Francis nostalgic remembering the one similar in their first apartment together. Arthur and Francis maneuver the queen-sized mattress onto the already built bed frame and take a minute to catch their breath. They help each other in making the bed, Francis feeling relaxed at the smell of refreshing clean bedsheets compared to the chemical paint and dusty new house smells.

~o0O0o~

Francis walks out of the warm, bustling pub with Arthur close behind him as they head back home. They had come for a cheap dinner out, and Francis feels satisfied with his hearty meal. He remembers when he came to the UK at first; all of the food seemed atrocious and bland, especially compared to the French delicacies he was used to. But he had been here for years now and has really developed a taste for many of the common dishes. Francis mentally snickers at how a mere six or seven years ago he would had been repulsed by the cottage pie and prawn cocktail he had just eaten.

Conversing casually, the pair walk for only a few minutes along the road to get back home - one of the reasons they had opted for this house in particular is how close it is to shops and places to eat. Francis sighs as they enter into the warmth of their new, unfamiliar home. Arthur makes himself a cup of tea and goes straight up to their bedroom, and Francis is in agreement that bed should come soon since they’d had such a long, tiring day.

Francis joins Arthur who is sitting and looking thoughtful on their freshly made bed, and slides his arm around his waist.

“Are you okay, cher?”

Arthur looks up so their faces are a mere couple of inches apart. “We’re going to have to install a cat flap so it can go outside when it wants. The cat, I mean. If you still want one.”

Francis laughs and nuzzles the tips of their noses together. “Of course. Whatever you want, I want.”

Arthur closes the distance between their lips and Francis graciously accepts the sweet kiss. His other hand goes to Arthur’s face while the arm around his waist pulls the smaller man closer.

Arthur breaks the kiss only to whisper, “I love you.”

“And I’m slightly worried I might get forgotten for a cat.”

Arthur punches his arm lightly. “Eejit.”

Francis chuckles contentedly, happy to be in his fiancé’s arms, and softens his voice. “I love you, Arthur.”

They come together again, teeth clashing in a passionate kiss and Francis opens his mouth as he feels Arthur nipping at his lips lightly to gain access. He feels a hand pressed against his chest push him down onto the bed, and Arthur’s presence bearing down on top of him excites fuzzing, hot sensations throughout his body. Francis’ hand sneaks up Arthur’s shirt, feeling the soft, familiar skin of his partner, and he moves his lips from Arthur’s own to his neck. Francis kisses and sucks deeply in different patches, marking him as his own.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Not as much as you, baby.”

It doesn’t take long for the last item of clothing to be thrown disgracefully onto the floor; no remnants of calmness or exhaustion remaining. All Francis can think about is how lucky he is, how thankful he is that he was able to meet and have this - admittedly sometimes awful, but incredible - man, how scared he is about losing him, how easily it could have been for them to have never met, simply if they weren’t put in that flat together in their second year of university.

These are the thoughts hurtling through Francis head as he makes love to his fiancé; true, raging, unmitigated love that nothing can rival.

By simply looking into the captivating green depths of Arthur’s eyes, Francis knows his thoughts are the same.

They sleep well that night, cuddled tightly and sharing body heat, because they’re together. They need nothing more.

Wow. It’s done. I’ve been writing this for 5 months now (sorry I’m not there fastest of writers xD), and so this really has been quite a journey for me. I’m hoping this epilogue or whatever it is is a good end to this fic, hoping it didn’t seem too random or anything. And ooh, yes finally a little vanilla (barely) smut scene because I’m a bit too innocent for much more but I still kinda wanted to do it. Yes, this ending is extremely cheesy but ahhh well, cheesy can be cute and I really didn’t know what else to do heheh lmao.
I really want to give the greatest thanks possible to everyone who supported me throughout this, in particular:
YinYangHeart, LinzieHayes, taki_hatake, and most of all Fruk-de-Lys, who really has supported me all the way through this fic. If it wasn’t for the amazing, encouraging feedback from all of you, I’m really not sure I would have finished this. It’s crazy how finding just one lovely, supportive comment in the morning can practically make me the happiest person ever. So thank you. So much. And thank you to every single person who is even reading this.
Okay sorry this is pretty sappy lmao. I’m hoping to get out a Christmas oneshot so look out for that, and I’ll probably start planning for my next big fic. Thank you again for the support, and until next time.

Ps. And thank you avacadoxippi for such amazing supportive comments ;D. I’ll see if I can keep up with your newest fics friendo x. Thank you friendo xAribox for reading this even though it isn’t your fandom <3 xD
And thank you dear friendo Meredith for reading this fi-... oh wait, nevermind.
:D <3