A/N: The idea of this fanfic was inspired by Tumblr user's killer—ink text post.

Enjoy!

It wasn't like Arthur Kirkland hated his customers… he simply hated their fucking indecisive minds. Like, seriously, who changes their mind just a minute before they're about to get a tattoo – a tattoo that'll be etched into your skin permanently – only just to leave it up to the tattoo artist to decide for them in the end? It was annoying as hell. Again, it wasn't like Arthur Kirkland hated his customers… or his job – he loved his job, in fact, and his store – he just hated the cons. He was stressed out too much as it was.

"Well, I mean… I want it to look pretty badass, you know?" the customer said, having Arthur nod for the 50th time already this morning. "But I don't know… how…"

"How about this: let me just free draw on your arm, and if you like it, I'll ink it," Arthur suggested, the stranger looking at him with a gentle gaze, "Yeah?"

"Yeah, sure, okay," with that, the two moved over to Arthur's workplace – where he created living art on people's bodies. Punk bodies, usually. Only once in a blue moon an extremely high-class, snobby person came in asking for a tattoo. Even if they did, it was always some Chinese letters, the names of their children, or a flower. Flowers annoyed the shit out of him.

"So, tell me: what made you want to get this sort of tattoo?" Arthur asked, trying to make conversation. He liked silence – loved it, in fact – but he had to be courteous to his customer and to keep his reputation up. That's how he survived. "Got a thing for dragons?"

"Mm… yeah, I guess you can say that," the stranger replied, the Englishman noticing goose bumps beginning to litter his somewhat tanned skin – as if he was not used to the cold of Arthur's markers drawing upon his flesh. That or it could have been the air-conditioning. "My dad and I loved dragons, but he passed away when I hit high school. I know it sounds cliché, but I wanted something that I could remember him by – not something like… a will, or anything, something that'd be with me forever."

"Something that won't break," Arthur added on, finally finishing his rough sketch upon the other's arm before moving his seat back to look upon his creation. "I get it. A lot of people get tattoos for those reasons. It's… it's a sweet thing."

"So what'd you get that for?" the man asked, pointing at a small and terribly done tattoo upon Arthur's right wrist, it just poking out from the black, fingerless gloves he wore at work. "What… is it, exactly?"

"A pint," the blond replied, shaking his head before standing up and bringing the hand mirror around to show the reflection of the customer's arm. "I was drunk, I had my tools and my stupid brothers thought it'd be funny to convince me to tattoo a pint on my wrist," he continued, before shrugging and changing the subject, "Well, what do you think?"

"I like it—" the customer was cut off when a loud scream erupted from outside, followed by the sound of a few crashing items, just at the front of the shop. Placing the hand mirror down, Arthur ordered for the customer to stay at his spot whilst he checked what all the commotion was about in such a quiet suburb of this city.

"What are you doing?!" a heavy accent of some sort yelled, and through the window of his shop Arthur could see a blond man wearing a white dress shirt that was almost soaked through – with what, exactly? – whilst he yelled at another man that was helping him move some things. The Englishman looked up. It wasn't raining. Okay. So he wasn't wet with rain water. Was it sweat? "Honestly! I'm not one to get angry so easily but when you are spilling things on me and making everything much harder than it needs to be, it pisses me off!"

"Is everything alright out here?" Arthur asked as he finally opened the front door of his shop and stepped outside. The two strangers turned to look at him, as a third jumped out of a… moving truck, it seemed. Was he a new neighbour?

"Just fine, merci," the now-obvious-Frenchman said, turning away to most likely yell a few things at the two movers. However, he stopped, and slowly turned back around to look at Arthur again. "You… you are quite beautiful."

"Don't mistaken me for some kind of lady," Arthur replied, offended with that 'compliment'. What man would be flattered with being called beautiful? "…because, if you hadn't realised, I'm not."

"You know, one is supposed to thank another for the compliment," the other blond said, almost equally as rude as Arthur. He seemed more… delicate, though. "Is this your shop? You look you'd own something like that."

Arthur smirked. Fuck yeah. His tattoo parlour was his pride and joy.

"Yep, why? Want to get inked?"

The Frenchman stepped back as if he was appalled with that question, before replying, "Of course not! Why would someone want to do that to themselves? Tattoos are ugly."

"They're not ugly, they're works of art," Arthur rebutted, his hands clenching into fists. Just who did this guy think he was? "They take time and effort and a lot of trust."

"And a lot of money," the other blond said bluntly. It was true. But it was worth it. "Paintings and photographs and nature are true art."

"Tch, what's it to you? Honestly, why'd I even come the fuck out?"

"Ask yourself that question, monsieur, I was simply minding my own business."

"Yeah, well, you were being way too fucking loud. I heard you from inside."

"And that is your problem, not mine."

Arthur shook his head. He felt like punching the dick. Or punch him in the dick. Either way worked in this case, really.

"Wait, so, are these two working for you?"

"They are helping me move in, if that's what you're asking, then yes," the Frenchman said, and suddenly Arthur's world slowed down. What did that mean? He was simply just going to live in the room of the apartment building, right? He wasn't taking over the old shop that was there, is he? Oh God, what sort of shop would he run? An adult shop?

Actually, that didn't sound too bad.

"What… what are you…? Are you taking over the shop?" Arthur asked as the other began to bark orders at the others. He did it with a softer tone of his voice this time, though, and suddenly he didn't seem as dick-ish when he was yelling at them. The blond still didn't like him, though. First impressions go a looong way. But it seemed that he'd be living beside the other for a long time, too.

"Désolé," the other said, turning around to face Arthur once more. What's this? Manners? "Oui, I am. I'll be opening a florist shop."

Suddenly, Arthur felt as if the other was toying with him. A florist shop… beside his tattoo parlour? Wouldn't he have chosen a more, he didn't know, family-friendly place? This wasn't exactly where kids ran around playing kick the can.

"Wait, what? Are you being serious?"

"Does it bother you?"

"W-Well, no…," he started, but then decided that in fact, yes, it did bother him, "…yes. Why couldn't you have chosen someplace else?"

"There was no place else."

"Ugh, just don't be annoying like the last person that owned that building."

"It depends, really, about how easily annoyed you can get," the other said, obviously teasing him with a smirk upon his lips. So, Arthur simply glared, before replying, "I can get very annoyed very easily."

The two stared at each other for a moment, as if the first one to look away lost. But, both their attentions were torn away when Arthur's customer stepped outside and the Frenchman's helpers approached him once more, calling for them.

"I said to just place it in the foyer, nowhere fancy," the other blond told his people. "I can do the rest myself."

"Sorry about that, I'll be with you soon," Arthur said to his.

And so, after that, they both turned to look back at each other.

"Frog," Arthur cursed, causing laughter from the Frenchman as he turned on his heels and began making his way back to his parlour. As he stalked to his store, the other man erupted with, "What is that supposed to mean? Is that some sort of French joke!? What shall I call you? Sherlock Holmes?"

"Arthur Kirkland!" the blond yelled back, stopping at the front door before turning around momentarily. "You shall call me Arthur Kirkland."

"Then, you won't call me frog, Arthur Kirkland. You'll call me Francis Bonnefoy."

"Not happening," he said, before finally entering his store once more to attend to his customer. However, just as he entered, he yelled loud enough so Francis would hear him, "Welcome to England, frog."

All that he heard in response was laughter from Francis Bonnefoy.

Fucker.

A/N: I'll try get the next chapter published ASAP. ^^

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