Arthur sat near the window, looking out at the rain, the flickering of the candle reflecting in his emerald green eyes. Francis watched him from where he sat, behind the cash register of the old bookstore, his arms folded behind his head. It was a Friday evening, with rain pouring outside, and he was positive that they would be getting no customers whatsoever. So he just sighed and sat back.

"Hey, Arthur."

The Brit looked up at him, raising a bushy eyebrow. "What is it, Frog?" he snapped.

Francis rolled his eyes. "You're so cruel, lapin," he muttered, leaning back and balancing the old wooden chair on it's back legs. "Have you ever considered-"

No, I most certainly have not considered anything you have to say," Arthur quickly interrupted, narrowing his eyes at the quizzical position of Francis' chair. "You're going to fall."

Francis laughed. "Don't worry about it," he replied, leaning back further, the soles of his shoes pressed against the side of the table that held the cash register. "I've got this under contro-"

But, of course, he didn't, because the chairs in the bookstore were God-knows-how-old, and the two legs being balanced on snapped unde t.v. the pressure, sending the rest of the chair and Francis tumbling onto the floor.

"Merde!" Francis shouted as Arthur hurried over, struggling to contain his laughter.

"What did I tell you, Frog?" he said between giggles, holding out a hand to help him up. "Idiot."

Francis huffed and pulled himself up. "The boss is going to kill me," he muttered, eyeing the mess on the floor and wincing at the pain in his finger. He held it up and examined the piece of wood that had become lodged in it. Arthur smiled softly and took his finger, carefully pulling out the splinter, receiving a small whimper from Francis. He laughed at the sound.

"Oh, you're such a girl, Franny," he teased, pulling an olive green handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbing at the blood that was welling up on the Frenchman's finger. Francis huffed.

"I am not and you know it!" he retorted. "It just hurts..."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "What am I supposed to do about that? Kiss it better?" Francis blinked at him expectantly, and the Brit scoffed in disbelief. "Absolutely not! I am not your mothe-"

Francis pulled him closer by his waist, sending their lips crashing together. Arthur's eyes widened with shock, his face turning bright red, and Francis pulled away, averting his gaze to try and cover up the light blush dusting his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, shoving his hands into kiss pockets. "I don't know what-"

Arthur leaned forward and silenced him with a kiss.

"Shut up," he replied. "Just shut up, you stupid, beautiful frog."

Francis smiled, wrapping his arms around him. "You're beautiful, you know that?" he whispered. "Even if you refuse to admit it."

Arthur's blush only worsened as he looked away, slipping his arms around Francis' neck. "Not like you are..."

Francis only smiled, leaning his forehead against his. "No, it's even better," he replied softly. "I try to be beautiful. You... you don't have to. Your beauty is something raw. Something rare." He paused, gazing into Arthur's eyes, sky blue becoming lost in emerald green. "You're something beautiful."
Arthur huffed and looked away. "You've been reading on the job far too much," he muttered. "You got that from A Million Roads..."

Francis laughed. "I suppose I did," he replied. "It's perfect for right now though, oui?"

Arthur shrugged, resting his head in the curve of Francis' neck. "You're dreadful..."

Francis chuckled. "I love you too."

Arthur pulled away, his hands finding Francis' as he lead him towards the large, ancient armchair that sat across from the window, surrounded by shelves and shelves of books. He sat down, letting Francis curl up besides him, entwining their fingers and leaning his head against his shoulder, closing his eyes as they slowly drifted off together. For once, rain seemed like a gift in London, as it pattered against the windows and left the two to become lost in their own little world...

The rain being their protective blanket, hiding them from anything else that may try and interrupt their "reading."

Their books being each other.

And, as Francis had predicted, there were no customers that day.