Hola! In this occasion I'm playing around with this story. Dunno if it works. Well, I am rambling. But anyway, I'm trying my hardest to make this readable. For those who recognise the plot (though I'm not sure if it's still recognisable), I've got some cookies for you. ;) Right. Ignore this. Just go on and (hopefully) enjoy.

Warning: Didn't manage to catch someone who has enough free time to waste beta-ing this. Hence the possibility of grammatical failures.

I don't own Francis. Sadly, nor Arthur. So shut it already.

Waiting for the Kite

Just like yesterday, and the day before, and God knows how many yesterdays that have passed, at 6.45 his alarm clock rings. "Rings" not "Beeps". For him, the stabbing noise of classic alarm clock has better ability to penetrate into his subconscious. Not 6.30 nor 7.00, but exactly six-forty-five. The moment the sun's in a very mysterious state. When the morning holds both a little, last piece of night and a promise for an oncoming day.

A smartphone's display shines, playing a playlist personally titled "Good Morning Songs". Has been through years of experiments and trials, he's come to conclude the best seventeen songs to listen when the sun is in its mysterious state.

He doesn't go straight to shower. First he gulps a glass of water on the bedside, then prepares a cup of hot, classic English breakfast tea. His power source to last until lunch comes from four slices of whole wheat breads; thinly sliced cheese tucked into the first pair, and a fried egg — cooked in the microwave for one and a half minute — for the second pair.

Breakfast done, he showers with cold water faucet turned exactly 80 degrees to the left, whilst 45 degrees for the hot one. Marked by two pieces of red tape — result of a long experiment of various water temperatures and faucets positions.

Showering done, he gets ready to wear his office suit and all of its equipment. Not long after, he's rushing through the street accompanied by another song compilation of up-spirited songs in order to get him arrived at his office, smiling brightly and greet everyone, from securities at the front gate to a cleaning service who comes to his room with a glass of water.

Upon the arrival of 700 millilitres of water, his phone rings.

"Bonjour." Francis typical voice sings to him. Melodious, yet disturbing. Good to the ears, but always tailed by a not-so-good ending. Based on his statistics, this man mostly calls for a favour. Just some information about Francis: he and Francis met when they were both new officers. Arthur was an architect and Francis was an interior designer, and for a few years they worked together in a consultant office of buildings designer. Now they work separately. Francis is a freelancer, while the other has his own consultant office. Francis likes to call them as best friends. Arthur doesn't even want to think there's anything to do between them that's worth called relationship. They keep being in touch can be categorised as a miracle itself.

"I've seen your new hospital. It was simply… you," is his first greeting. "Try MRI. It's possible your brain has finally turned square now," he continues.

The corner of Arthur's lips unintentionally quirks upward. For him, it's a compliment. It has been his expertise to design massive buildings such as hospitals, office buildings, or malls. Completely the opposite of Francis, he feels challenged to work for gigantic designs which the Frenchman thinks are utterly boring.

"Likewise. Yours must look far from a brain, most likely like an abstract painting. Then you can frame it and hang it in a living room of one of your modern tropical houses."

Francis heartily laughs. "The only thing keeping you alive is your sense of humour, chéri."

The Brit sighs. "Francis. Don't let me try looking for the reason of why you're still alive. Because only God knows why."

There's another laugh jingling from across the line.

That's how they are. Their relationship is like a ritual of drinking bitter medicine followed by a tablespoon of thick honey. The immense incompatibility leads to an inseparable friendship instead, even though the English half is reluctant in admitting it. Knowing so well just how extreme the difference of their respective personalities and preferences, they never bother to question them anymore; just laugh it off. Francis admits, the one he calls most often is Arthur. At least once in a week they make a phone call. Wasting up their times, piling up their phone bills, listening to Francis's fantastic stories, and Arthur's monotonous ones.

"Your song compilation… umm… what did you name it again? The beach thing one…."

Francis never remembers.

"For what occasion? Noon, evening?" Arthur cuts impatiently.

"Evening."

"Under the Moonlight."

"Yes, that's it. Can I borrow it? I need it for this weekend. I'll fetch it later."

"Okay, bye!"

"Why are all your playlists' names so strange? It's lucky you still have good taste of music."

"To make them easy to remember. Though apparently someone in particular still stubbornly fails to do so. Goodbye, Francis!"

"We'll have lunch together, lapin."

"Would you ever stop calling me that?"

"Don't know, lapin. I have no plan to anyway. Bye!"

The line cuts at the other end. How come he gets to hang up first? Bugger.

Francis glances at the fidgeting waitress, making sure she's ready to take his order precisely. He clears his throat and begins. "One dory steak, light oil, separated lemon sauce. One salad with vinaigrette. Baked potato, no topping. A bottle of Perrier, still, room temperature."

The waitress immediately scribbles away busily and repeats the order to Francis. When it comes to food, Francis is apparently quite a perfectionist.

The waitress turns to Arthur.

"I want…" he glances to Today's Special menu on the table — when it comes to food, Arthur is apparently not much of a picky eater. "This."

Francis excuses himself to the restroom. When he stands up, Arthur's vision automatically sweeps around the room. It never changes. Everybody's eyes glued to his direction. There are many handsome men in this city, yet it seems that none is this strongly effective in attracting people's attention. Don't imagine him parading around wearing shiny costume or revealing outfits. Okay, maybe the bastard has wavy, golden, shoulder-length hair which shines he definitely doesn't envy. And the sparkling pair of sapphire-like irises that often glint too damn seductively. But still, those aside, nothing really special with his attires. Then why? Arthur's hypothesis: his freaking French-ness. Arthur always suspects something's wrong with the French and with all their romantic shit. He swears it's contagious, making people around them stunned, that's why. Probably.

Francis returns to the table, so does Arthur's attention. Plus a classic question: "So, who's the unlucky one this time?"

Francis smiles. "He's a model. I'm working on his new house."

"Wow. A model. Not only gorgeous, also sounds rich. Good job, Francis." The Englishman doesn't look up from his plate, his tone impassive as usual.

Francis raises one of his eyebrows, proceeding to sip his drink.

Arthur takes a brief glance. "Why? You look less excited than usual."

He shrugs. "I have a bad feeling he'd turn out to be like the others."

"Then stop seeing him."

"He keeps following me."

"Don't worry. You'll know what to do. You have the SOP."

Francis shakes his head. "Despite of the similar endings, they show different responses. There were respectable ones. There was also a cry-baby and a very emotional girl who destroyed my room. I can't be sure, sourcils. There's no SOP to face this thing."

"Like I said, stop playing around! You can't even decide which way you really swing."

The Frenchman straightens. "We are both grown-up men who can take responsibility for our own decisions, okay? What's wrong with falling in love? I'm trying to find the one who can match me best. We all go through the same process whether you're searching for a good car, picking out today's outfits, or looking for a lover. And also, for me, a beauty is a beauty, genders don't matter. I thought we've been over this argument long time ago."

"You never know what you actually want, that is wrong! If you do, why wasting time with trying?"

Francis looks ready to retaliate, but holding back quickly. They both know this will never come to a good end. And whatever they have right now is more important than a mere confrontation about two opinions which are clearly, obviously different. Hence the silence and they start eating.

"If you need something, you know better not to call me."

Francis simply snorts.

They know, nothing will happen, Francis will not call and he will return undamaged, without a single scratch.

I hope to see you soon, guys. If real life's kind enough, I'll return in... a week. Hopefully.