He was attractive, and polite, and, well, really attractive. He was good at sports, academic... Arthur could feel himself staring at his boyfriend. Perfect. Really, Alfred was perfect. The blue-eyed blonde had even taken out Arthur's friends to bond with them, a football game if Arthur wasn't mistaken. Alfred held the door for him, pulled out his chair. Sure he was a tad bit loud sometimes but he was wonderful.
Many of Arthur's friends had admitted to being jealous.
Arthur remembered their first date perfectly. Alfred held his door, took his hand and led him to the car, he had flattered and complimented the Brit.
Yet...
Arthur still had an ache deep in his heart.
He would deny it for all of eternity but he missed it, he missed him.
The screaming, and crying, coming completely undone.
Francis.
The Frenchman that had been able to seemingly control the Brit's emotions. They had argued so often, but it always ended... good. Arthur remembered their first date just as clearly.
They had met at the theatre, spent a good ten minutes arguing over what movie to see, what to eat, where to sit, couldn't agree on a damn thing. Arthur had gone into the bathroom before they left and when he exited it was to the sight of a female throwing herself at his date. He had stormed out into the rain.
Francis had chased after him, completely ignoring Arthur's insistence that he just needed a bit of space Francis had kissed him.
...
Arthur couldn't ask for anything better than Alfred, so why did he wake up at two in the morning wanting only to be able to reach over and hold Francis? He missed the rush, the fireworks behind his eyes that only the Frenchman could show him, he missed the arguments, the fights, the kissing.
It was as if Francis had amplified his emotions, and as much as he loved Alfred (he swore he loved Alfred) he felt a bit empty.
Alfred would respect his space. The American never made him wait. Arthur's parents had been quick to give their seal of approval. The American talked business, he had crazy theories but they loved his enthusiasm. He's charming, and endearing, and Arthur was always comfortable with him. He knew the American loved him, Alfred never pushed him, he was always careful.
But if Alfred had one flaw...
it was simply that he wasn't Francis.
Since that day Arthur's smiles were faked, his laughs forced.
Alfred had complimented his cooking.
But all Arthur wanted was for him to swear at the burnt food in French. Arthur wanted bilingual arguments. Arthur wanted fights, he wanted someone to piss him off so much that he'd rather hit them than kiss them yet he'd end up doing both. Arthur wanted stormy nights curled up in front of a stupid French movie simply because he couldn't admit that he just wanted to be near the Frenchman. Arthur wanted horrible red wine, no sense of boundries, burnt scones...
Arthur wanted Francis.
"Hey, Iggy!" Alfred called out, running into the room with a grin, "The neighbors just moved in, you want to go say hi?"
Arthur didn't want to. But all the same he grinned nodded and followed Alfred to the flat beside their own. Through the door he could hear the occupant mutter and knock things over as they rushed to answer the door. Suddenly the door was flung open and-
"Francis?"
