Arthur actually loved poetry, he really did. Shakespeare was, of course, a god of the written word, of whose works Arthur had each hardcover, gold-edged editions. He hated Lord Byron with a burning passion, tolerated Emily Dickinson, and had a strange fascination with e. e. cummings.

But when he found himself thinking poetically about not nature, not abstract concepts, not even the simple complexities of a fresh cup of tea, but a single person in particular (and not thinking in an annoyed, let's-see-how-many-words-rhyme-with-arsehole kind of way, more of a comparing-their-eyes-to-the-stars one), he cursed the day he first read the words, "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun."

It wasn't on purpose, naturally. He hadn't even noticed he was doing it at first. In fact, he was positive there was some kind of process that started the whole thing, a process he could have and should have stopped had he been aware of just how deeply it was sucking him in.

Hindsight's a bitch.

Francis was a painter. An artiste. He painted animals, nature, architecture, inanimate objects...but humans were his favorite subject matter, and there was always at least one in each of his works. Arthur was one of his favorite subjects, though the Englishman hadn't realized this until he found a stack of small canvases filled with himself - cradling his teacup sleepily in the morning, curled up in his favorite chair with a book, studying with an extremely prominent crease between his eyebrows. Needless to say, it took a great deal of convincing and promises of yet another Bob Dylan vinyl to pacify Arthur's indignant and embarrassed rage.

Arthur, on the other hand, was a writer. It came as naturally as breathing to him (except that sometimes now he can't breathe, feels like he's choking, drowning, because it's just too much), and he'd been doing it as long as he could remember. Fiction, and specifically, fantasy, had waved its wand over him at the tender age of seven, and has had him under its spell ever since. Luckily, he's improved greatly since his first great epic, which involved a bunny protagonist, a whole host of woodland critters, and a malevolent fairy to boot.

Poetry was different, though. He kept it close, tucked inside his ribcage to shield a fragile and secretly romantic heart. The mere fact that he was now applying it to Francis (bloody Francis!) now was unbearable in more ways than one. He was positive the paint stains had started it. Francis left them everywhere, on everything he touched. Arthur didn't mind the art supplies cluttering up their dorm; his books and the accompanying army of sticky notes accounted for their fair share of mess. But Francis simply seemed incapable of keeping his paint-stained fingers off Arthur's things!

"Oh, Arthur, you forgot your notes," he said, smirking, because Arthur always heckled him for forgetting his art history notes and now he could return the favor. Arthur pretends that it isn't significant, that no more than a few months ago, they would have purposefully hidden each others notes just to start a fight. No, instead, he focuses on the smears of grey over his name, and pretends that he isn't as confused as his stomach seems to think.

There was orange somehow speckled around the dorm at one point, over which Arthur very nearly threw a fit because he knew Francis would someone coerce him into cleaning up. He always did.

"But Arthur," Francis protested, his eyes laughing, "Orange represents creativity, confidence, energy! Why would you want to stifle those? How barbaric!"

He was met with a glare as the Englishman scrubbed at the spots.

"Don't think I won't squeeze all of your paints down the sink. Every. single. one."

Francis was a bit more careful after that. There were no more drips on the floor, streaks in the sink, pools in the corner. Arthur thought it a bit strange after a while, even if he wouldn't admit it. Discovering those little nuisances, while annoying, had been almost like a little game. "Find the Paint," or, "Find the Reminder of Francis," as Arthur sometimes thought of it (which was just stupid and sentimental and he really ought to stop).

But it's true. Francis is like Arthur in this sense - he puts his everything into what he does, pours his soul into it like he can't take the pressure of a body anymore. It was one of the characteristics they found in common, that helped them stop fighting their first year together and eventually become friends. Allies.

Arthur thought it would get better once Francis stopped leaving paint around the dorm. There wouldn't be glaring reminders that gave him a twist in the stomach (except there's still the ridiculously expensive designer shoes on the carpet), no awkward pauses (those don't need paint to happen), or sudden explosions of a tingling something that leave Arthur gasping for breath (that didn't even start with the paint, it started the night they were both tired and tipsy and ended up sleeping in the same bed, tangled like so many heartstrings).

It didn't.

Francis started leaving paint in different places. A smudge of white on his neck will leave Arthur swallowing hard, even though 'purity' and 'innocence' have no business within fifty miles of the Frenchman. A green fingerprint was discovered on his paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice, and while the Arthur of two months ago would have forced Francis to buy him a new copy, the current Arthur couldn't help a quick intake of breath. Peace, then. And understanding, and unconditional...but he shook his head to clear the cobwebs and visions of spring. Francis wasn't intentionally leaving these marks, no matter how sharply they seemed to sear into Arthur's skin. It never did well to get his hopes up.

Except.

Except that every once in a while, he lost control of himself.

He found the paint on his guitar case. Two dashes of pink, on the underside of the handle. Arthur couldn't bring himself to care about details like why would Francis have any reason to touch his precious? and what was he painting that needed that shade of pink? because he is too busy wondering about the what ifs and the maybes and the fuck its of just grabbing the lapels of Francis' coat and leaving some marks of his own.

But Francis beat him to it when he walked in the door, went straight to Arthur's chair, slotted their knees together, and told him, in the most serious tone Arthur had heard him use in a long time, that it was about time they took some leaps of faith and stopped beating around the bushes.

Arthur told him to stop using cliches.

Francis grinned and leaned down anyway.

There were red fingerprints of passion all over Arthur by the time they came up for air.

"Arthur? What are you thinking about?"

Arthur blinked rapidly as Francis came back into focus.

"Huh?"

"You were staring at my face." The Frenchman smirked and tossed his head to bring attention to his absolutely immaculate hair. "Not that I blame you, of course, but I imagine there's also something on your mind."

Blue. Francis' eyes were blue. He certainly wasn't going to compare them to the sea or the sky, he would leave that to Romeo-wannabes, which he was not. Even so, he couldn't help the small smile that flitted across his face when he knocked their ankles together and those blue eyes danced for him.

Tranquility.

You know when you get this tiny little idea and you start writing it about it and suddenly it's taken over your brain and fingers and you don't remember where the last three hours have gone? Yeah, me too. (I promise that epilogue of Overdue is coming up, I just had to get the FrUk out of my system.)

As far as all the color symbolism I tried to incorporate...most of it is at least vaguely explained, but if you're curious, just google them. It's pretty interesting, and something that Arthur, Francis, and myself are apparently interested in for both art and writing purposes.

Reviews bring a burst of yellow into my day!