This has been sitting in my documents for a while, and I've decided it's time for it to see the light. I hope you enjoy it!

Note: Human names are used, as well as some French that I believe is basic enough that I do not need to provide translation. If you feel like I should have provided translation, let me know and I'll add it in.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The man looked at the note one last time, making sure it said what he wanted it to say, and that he'd written it correctly. Satisfied, he slipped it up on top of the fridge to use at a later time, placing a bottle over it so it wouldn't blow away in the breeze from the open window. Then, he turned to the task at hand.

He opened the apartment door and walked in to a strange situation.

"Two cups of flour…sugar, baking powder, salt…"

"Arthur?"

"A cup of milk…where did I leave the…? Oh, there it is…"

"Arthur, what are you—"

"Now I mix this together, and—"

"Arthur, what on earth are you doing?"

"Eh?"

Arthur finally turned around, looking out of the small apartment kitchen into the sitting room. He watched Francis walk in and lie down on the red sofa, and proceed to gaze at him upside down, genuinely concerned as to why the Englishman was holding a mixing bowl with a smudge of white flour on his nose and talking like a recipe book.

"What are you doing?" the Frenchman asked again, sweeping a strand of blond hair out of his eyes.

Arthur pulled himself up tall and replied, "I'm baking tea biscuits, and before you question me this time I'm going to get them so everyone'll like them!"

Francis grinned. "Of course you are, cher."

Arthur frowned. He fancied he could smell wine for a moment. Dismissing the thought and turning back to the kitchen, he began to drop dough onto the baking sheet. Francis twirled his thumbs thoughtfully, watching the sun sink in the sky out the window.

Kneeling down to slide the baking sheet into the oven, Arthur looked over to the sofa, wondering. He slowly stood up, hand on the oven door handle. "Francis," he began, "you've been awfully quiet. Is something wrong?"

"Hm?" Francis came out of his reverie. "Oh, nothing. Everything is fine."

"I'm not stupid, you know." Arthur went and sat in a plush beige armchair across from the sofa. "I've known you for too long, I can tell when you're lying. Tell me what happened."

Francis was quiet a while longer, but then he said, "I met a woman today."

Arthur raised a questioning eyebrow. "Did you?"

Francis nodded.

"…well, how did it go?"

The man on the sofa sighed. "She caused a big scene, and…" He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I was only trying to impress her, you know. She was so beautiful, and smelled like a rose..." He sighed. "I offered to buy her a drink, and as we were walking I…well, I did something I probably shouldn't have."

Oh no… Arthur spoke very quietly, as if he was afraid of what Francis might confirm: "She called rape."

"…Yes." Not like this is anything new. Oh, why do I always…

When Arthur didn't respond, Francis cautiously opened one eye. Then the other. He looked over at the Englishman. His head was in his hands.

"…Arthur?"

Arthur mumbled something unintelligible.

"It's not a big deal," Francis said quickly, trying to belittle the situation, "it's not like—"

"Not a big deal? Not a big— of course it's a big deal!" Arthur exploded, flying to his feet. "Every time, every time you go out something like this always happens!"

"Arthur, I—"

"When will you learn that not everyone sees what you do as acts of love, straight from your bloody big heart? One day you're going to go out there and something bad'll happen and I'll—"

"Please, Arthur, stop overrea—"

"Stop…" Arthur panted. "Stop overre…I AM NOT OVERREACTING! You have been lying there on that sofa ever since you got home when usually you breathe over my shoulder in the kitchen and tell me everything I'm doing wrong! And don't try to tell me you're not taking this hard because I know you are, you take it the same way, every time." He sat heavily back in the chair. Francis stared at his best friend: he had no idea Arthur could read his mind so well. The Englishman sighed. "I just wish…"

"Wish?" repeated Francis. "Wish what?"

"Never mind," Arthur sighed. He placed his hands on his knees, stood, and went into the kitchen. He removed the biscuits from the oven, ignoring the fact that he usually left them in ten minutes longer, and with a spatula began to transfer them onto a wire rack to cool.

"How are they?" Francis asked quietly.

Arthur replied, setting down the spatula and poking one with a fork, "Softer than usual. Want to try one?"

"Oui, s'il vous plait."

Arthur brought one over on a small plate before turning around back into the kitchen. Francis bit into the pastry: the outside was a little hard, but the inner part was soft and warm; steam filled the air in front of his face, condensing on the end of his nose.

"Mon Dieu," he whispered, "these are the best you've ever made. Maybe even the best I've ever tasted."

Arthur blushed profusely with pride, thankful for the fact that Francis currently couldn't see his face.

Francis got up off the sofa and went into the kitchen. Pouring himself a glass of whiskey from the half-full bottle on top of the fridge and stacking two more biscuits onto his plate, he went and sat back on the sofa, placing the bottle back up as he walked. A slip of paper floated to the floor. Arthur placed his foot over it.

Leaning on the wall, the Englishman stared out the window as Francis enjoyed his snack. Finally, sipping the remnants of his whiskey, Francis spoke.

"You're my best friend, you know."

"I know."

Sip. "No one understands me."

Oh great, thought Arthur, now it's the alcohol talking. How much did he really have to drink before he even came home? "That's not at all true."

Francis slumped down the sofa. "Don't lie to me," he mumbled, "to try to make me feel better."

Arthur was appalled. "I'm not lying!"

Francis looked up. "Then say it again."

"There are people in this world who understand you."

"Hm." Francis swirled the last remnants of his drink around the bottom of the glass. At length he said, "I still don't quite believe you."

"Oh, you stupid bloody git."

Arthur bent down and, removing his foot, picked up the slip of paper. Walking past, he dropped it in Francis's lap and strolled into the bedroom, partially closing the door behind him.

Francis watched him walk by and, once he'd disappeared into the bedroom, picked up the slip of paper and unfolded it. Handwritten French words, not quite as neat as his own, hopped off the page. He smiled tenderly.

"On ne voit bien…qu'avec le cœur…"

A warm feeling unlike any he had ever felt spread throughout his body. He stood; leaving the note on the coffee table beside his glass, he walked into the bedroom, closing the door completely behind him.

I initially was not going to reveal what the note said and leave it up to the imagination of everyone else, but Le Petit Prince inspired me otherwise :) This line I'm going to translate though: On ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur translates (literally) to we see well only with the heart. Interpret that as you will.

P.S.- the ENTIRE line (for those interested) is: on ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur; l'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.