Woof. But I am a female, and I must say that as such, I am more feline than canine as a boy would be. But just as you are unique beings, I am also such, dear readers.
Now I must say that, with all due respect, I will not make promises on updating. I haven't finished any other stories before besides Gust, and I am very focused on my education and my grades, for I expect the best out of myself at all times. High School, although where I live it does not prepare one for college as they say, is a very important part of my life, therefore it must be conquered *coughlikeFrancis'svitalregionscough*. This is the first multichapter that is considered genuine by my golden rule, so I am new to this. Please respect that.
Constructive criticism is very much appreciated, as it will help me better construct for you. Flames will be used for the fuel I have for burning down those damned bowling pins, which I do when I'm upset. Now, if you will, excuse my ranting and enjoy... or dislike and do not return, if you wish to do so, for you are entitled to your opinion and I respect that. There will be sexual content in later chapters; nothing explicit, for I am not a big fan of wild, crazy monkey sex *vomits*. And it most definitely won't be hate-sex or overly sappy, for both are sickening. I believe that Francis and Arthur deserve to be treated much better, as guests in my imagination, which I always expect outstanding results from.

The Frenchman knew the difference between moody and genuinely troubled. How could he not? He'd only had years to decipher the two very similar emotions when they radiated from Arthur.

Moody from Arthur was like today's weather. Moody were the dark, pregnant-with-countless-kiloliters-of-rain, low clouds that hung over the botanical gardens of the city. Moody was nature when it grumbled at the humans below it, "Get into your houses before I drench you and unleash my silvery ribbons of anger upon you, blast it all." Moody was how the wind blew, rude and impatient under people's clothing, sending chills down arms and up spines.

Troubled from Arthur was the way the flowers trembled, unable to escape the oncoming storm. Just in the way the Briton's voice cracked from the effort of yelling, and by the way he tried to avert his evergreen gaze, Francis knew that something was troubling his beloved Artuer.

"No, Frog! I will not go out with you, ever!"

The words split the silence of the cool, autumnal air like lightning. They were fueled by an angry internal heat that had burned Arthur's soul for many years on end. He clenched his eyes shut, and his fingers curled against his damp palms till they formed fists. He was so tired of all of the jokes, so done with letting himself become vulnerable only to be torn later.

And Francis could see this very clearly. After many years of tinkering with the Briton's buttons to see how he worked, Arthur had become very readable to the Frenchman. Blue eyes watched for the things they usually saw with Arthur's anger: the toxic, almost nuclear glint in his cold, green eyes. The clenched teeth and their nearly inaudible grinding. The flaring of his nostrils when he began to breathe faster and harder. But with all of this, Francis also saw a well-hidden sadness. Almost well-hidden.

He could see the way Arthur was trying to hold his intensity, but how it was beginning to fail on him. His body began to tremble, especially around his knees.

Trois.

His lips began to fall from a tightly-held snarl into a frown.

Deux.

The way he gave a frustrated groan as he reopened his clover eyes, and the way they had moistened and reddened.

Un.

"Damn it all, frog! Are you just going to sit and stare? Bugger off!" he yelled, this time flailing his arms as if it would scare off the Frenchman.

Of course, Francis was more persistent with these kinds of matters; the ones that were better left alone till things began to simmer down. But what should Arthur expect from someone who liked to take advantage of others? Someone who would attack the minute his opponent crumbled under the pressure, making them succumb to his power, defenseless? The sneaky, apathetic bastard!

He let out a sound of disapproval when Francis coiled his arms around his waists, trying to wriggle free of the grip. "Unhand me this instant!"

"Mon petit chou, qu'est-ce qu'il y a?"

It was something about that damned frog-speak that pissed him off more. The smooth way it flowed, the way it secretly soothed him. The way it made him hate Francis even more. But there was a fine line between hate and love, and Arthur knew that he wasn't on the side he had convinced himself he was on.

He loved Francis, was in love with the Frenchman. And the anger he felt was nothing but frustration for refusing to believe so.

Finally, he gave up and stilled himself in the Frenchman's grip, not quite relaxing to be cautious. Francis was well-known for trying things.

"…Shouldn't you be off, hopping around in the rosebushes at the other side of this place, Frog? I'm sure that's what you paid to see," Arthur said, taking deep breaths as an attempt to re-disguise his already-discovered anger.

Francis let out a soft ohohohon. "There is… a specific rose that I needed to stop and smell before I continued walking through life without a care, mon cher."

Arthur's cheeks turned a tired shade of dawn at his sweet words. At this point, he didn't care to hide it, wanting to release his bottled-up emotions so as to relieve his stress. Just like the sky, how it grumbled again, I'm tired of holding it in, before letting large, frigid droplets fall to the Earth. It was going to be a terrible storm.

"Why do you care about me, Frog? Even when I do not openly return the same feelings to you?"

Arthur crossed his arms and walked out of Francis's hold, then turned to face him. He became uneasy when he saw that the blue-eyed man was smiling, his back nearly against the swan-gorgeous honeysuckle that shook in the chilly gusts.

More of his signature mischievous laughter. "You say openly as if you wish to do so, mon lapin."

Arthur silently cursed himself, not only realizing that he'd let himself slip, but also that he had forgotten his jacket. But he sighed, wanting this internal coldness to be replaced by warmth. Hesitantly he spoke. "I do, stupid, slimy frog. As twisted as it is."

Careful, Arthur. You are treading on dangerous, unpredictable turf now. Thoughts of running from it all always invaded his mind at time like these, when he felt open. He felt he was just asking to be picked and pulled apart again, a defenseless carcass under a vulture's gaze. He shook the metaphor away, however. Francis was not a vulture, and he knew that he, Arthur, was definitely not defenseless by any means. No. He could tear one to shreds and push them away instantly, being the proud, strong, cold person he was.

It was all fear speaking to him. And he refused to be controlled by it. Its deadly claws would turn him into a tragedy if he submitted to it, able to make a cowardly mess of him. He shivered, the combination of the thought, the rain, and the wind making him cold. Goosebumps had erupted on his arms and his teeth wanted to chatter.

The Briton felt Francis's arm slither its way around his shoulders. With the grip came a tug, pulling him along the stony path.

"Let us find shelter and speak more of this, Artuer… or remain silent, if you so desire."

They continued on the trail quietly, not stopping to observe the Kangaroo Paws or Daffodils or Hydrangeas that grew along the path's edges. In a few minutes, they crossed a small, rickety bridge and found themselves in an ivy-covered gazebo. The gazebo was surrounded by water, lily pads and cattails interrupting the smooth flow of the current. Silence didn't exist, even if Francis and Arthur did not speak. The rain had begun to pour, bullets of… was that hail? skipping below, then back up to the water's surface.

"We will be stuck here for quite a while," Arthur's voice came. A hefty sigh escaped his lungs. He was weary, as he always had been for the past three years.

"Not that I mind. Slimy frogs such as myself enjoy this soaking weather. It keeps us smooth," Francis said, a giggle following his words. He was trying to make the best of the situation, as both of them had become drenched even after such a short walk through the rain.

He could see that Arthur's grain-colored locks were plastered to his face, and Francis knew that he probably appeared no better. With a shaky hand, he reached down in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a black ponytail to tie his hair back, smiling when he heard the Briton's soft chuckle from the other side of the gazebo. And then, as soon as it began, it ended. Arthur was frowning again, frustration etching its way back into his features.

"If you don't mind me asking again, mon lapin, qu'est-ce qu'il y a? I only wish to help you feel better, Artuer," Francis tried again, moving closer to the clover-eyed man, cautiously.

Arthur inhaled deep, and then exhaled slowly, resting his elbow on the edge of the gazebo's wooden railing, brushing off some chipping paint. He rested his chin in his palm. "I am exhausted, Francis. I need a vacation from myself and my stressors." He let his other arm dangle over the railing, toying with a cattail that stuck out, mighty and strong above the rest. So unlike himself, he thought, no matter how much it seemed contrary with the way he acted. But it was just that; all an act, a mask to cover up his troubles. He didn't like his troubles, but who did?

"…From… yourself?" Francis repeated. He knew that he was blinded by his love for the shorter man when his thoughts strayed to 'But there are so many things to enjoy about yourself! I can list so many wonderful things about you, mon cher!'

"Yes. I'm over-working myself, trying to reach my unrealistic goals, trying to bottle up all feeling in the process. It doesn't work, when you aren't true to yourself. I don't like business work. Stacks of paper every day are not fun, and for things I don't want to be involved in. But that's irrelevant," Arthur looked Francis dead in the eyes, solemn and no-nonsense, "Was earlier a joke, Pepe le Pew? Because if, gods forbid, I am that woebegone cat in your eyes, I want you to leave immediately."

"Vous mean Penelope, mon ange? Non, Artuer; this is not a game to me at all, or a cartoon intended for my entertainment. I am serious," Francis said, smiling as he leaned against the railing with the Briton. He thumbed the shorter's cheek, brushing rain-plastered locks from his green eyes, "I know that it is very hard to believe, but… I am not… all that people believe me to be. I mean, a rapist, Arthur. I am manipulative and definitely amorous, but… I have not forced myself upon anybody in that way. If anything, I am the type who wants to touch and be touched."

Arthur rolled his eyes at the last sentence. "Obviously."

"Well, desole, when I make you feel uncomfortable. But I really mean it, Artuer," He pulled a pink rose from his pocket, still keeping his hand rubbing Arthur's face. It was made of transparent glass with dulled thorns of dark green, "I want to date vous, mon cher."

"Aren't you a fan of red roses, fool?" Arthur questioned.

"There is no need to rush, mon cher. Red is not appropriate so early in a relationship, oui?"

There was no longer hail, only hard rain and thunder with an occasional glow of lightning in the clouds. The wind had calmed down as well, but the temperature had dropped a good amount to make up for it. Arthur closed his eyes, thoughtful, leaning into Francis's touch for warmth.

He loved Francis, from his locks of sunlight to his always working feet, and almost everywhere in between. Almost. And there, in that stall, came his decision.

"I still have myself to work out, Francis," he answered sincerely, sadness crossing his mind at thoughts of how to gently reject the Frenchman he so longed for. "One cannot love another if they do not love themselves first. My heart has become… a very thorny weed over time. I've neglected it by not listening to it. I have seen it as illogical, as it has only gotten me into trouble lately… and very much in the past. So… I am truly, truly sorry… I want to, but… my self-values need to be satisfied first, I don't…"

Arthur swiped at his eyes, now stinging with tears, pulling his face from the warm touch. He hated this, but he knew it was better for them both. He looked back at Francis, trying his absolute best to keep his composure.

"I do not want, at all, to give you a weed in return for that gorgeous rose you have there, and the rose you are by heart," Arthur said. He averted his gaze, knowing that he was going to release more salty droplets from the corners of his eyes. It hurt to say those words, but he also knew that they were very true-to-his-soul words.

Francis looked genuinely hurt, but he also understood. He pulled the Briton into a tight hug, knowing it wouldn't be the end.

"It is alright, mon ange," he soothed, wiping away Arthur's tears, "You have to do what you feel is right, through it all. But…"

He gave Arthur some space to breathe, a smirk tugging at his lips when Arthur ended up with hiccups. The Briton sneezed, looking up at the sky and how it still looked as though the rain would not stop for a few more hours. A bright flash of lightning, followed by a moderate rumble of thunder reassured that thought.

"I should be getting somewhere warm and enclosed or I am going to catch a terrible cold," Arthur murmured. With all of the piled-on stress, he knew that he was very prone to becoming ill, and at a swift rate.

"Do you have a place to stay, Artuer?" Francis asked.

"I'm sure I can find one, Francis," Arthur replied, pulling a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiping his face with it. It didn't work very well, considering that the rain had drenched him pretty thoroughly during their walk to this place.

"Non. I offer you my hospitality, Artuer. It's the least I can do. I have a very cozy couch that you can sleep on, and a balcony that you can read on, and I can cook very well," Francis said, "I want to help you, mon ange… with everything. Sil vous plait?"

Arthur considered this carefully. Wouldn't he want to just be alone for now? All thought said yes, but… He didn't want to be walking around in this dreadful weather, going hotel to hotel and then having to calculate which would be cheapest or which would give him more for his money. And he didn't know how to get around this place very well, so finding a hotel would be a challenge in and of itself. He also did not want to not have the best for himself considering that he already felt sick.

"Very well, then. I will stay at your dwellings," Arthur said, taking Francis's outstretched hand in his.

Francis smiled at this and nodded. "Merci, Artuer."

With that, the Frenchman dragged Arthur through the garden quickly as he could, the multicolored flowers, trimmed bushes and short trees that accented the path passing them by in a near blur. They came to its exit, their breathing short and rushed, a disagreement with the sudden exercise. Ahead of the black gates, there was a souvenir shop, and when the two men walked in, the clerk seemed to know that they weren't there for any trinkets.

"You are looking for the umbrellas, yes?" she said, friendly green eyes flickering to them. She stood up from her place behind the checkout desk, frilly coral dress succumbing to gravity and falling about her knees.

"Oui, Elizaveta," Francis replied with a nod.

Her shoulder-length brown hair bounced with her footsteps as she waved them over to follow her, and the two men obeyed.

"It got wild out there pretty quickly, didn't it?" she asked.

They were now at the back corner of the shop, a woven basket of multicolored umbrellas before them. The woman picked up a royal blue one, smiling at the color, pink tinting her cheeks. She hands it to Francis, who looked back at her with understanding sapphire eyes, and then looked down to stare at Arthur, who was shivering violently in the chill of the air conditioner, but he still managed a small smile.

"You look like a sick puppy, Arthur," she said, giggling when shock widened the Briton's emerald eyes and slackened his jaw.

"Just wait here for a minute. And the umbrella is on me," she continued, walking away to her desk. She bent over to reach into one of the oak wood drawers, and pulled out a small, white towel adorned with sewn cornflowers that danced about its perimeter. She then walked back to Arthur and handed him the towel, which the green eyed man took gratefully.

"I have heard much about you, Mister Kirkland," she told him as he wiped his face and wrung out his hair into the cloth.

She winked at Francis when she knew Arthur couldn't see, earning a smirk and a faint blush from the Frenchman. Considering what had happened, though, Francis changed the subject, silently promising that he would tell the Hungarian woman later so as not to be rude.

"How is Roderich?" he asked, and saw Arthur shoot him a thankful look.

Elizaveta looked down shyly, much love in her eyes. "He's going to be a father in six months. He is very happy and proud, albeit nervous."

"Felicitations!" Francis exclaimed, nearly jumping up and down at the news. He always loved to see happy couples.

"Thank you," she said, clasping her hands together and letting them fall to her abdomen.

The soft pitter patter of rain against the windows filled the air, chuckles emanating from the Hungarian and the Frenchman when Arthur groaned. Somehow, the Briton had tangled his hair with a loose thread from the cloth. He'd given up trying to tug himself free, and now the cloth dangled from his bangs and in front of his face.

"You two should be on your way home, dears. We're in for another, worse round or thunderstorms tonight," Elizaveta said softly, pulling apart the tight knot that had formed between Arthur and her towel with careful, agile fingers.

She apologized quickly when Arthur let out a pained noise as the thread came free. She then led the two men to the door, which bid them farewell with a merry jingle from its bell. She waved as they left, the indigo umbrella over their heads, shielding them from the now-calming rain, the eye of the storm.

"You two be careful, then. Thank you for visiting the gardens and come back anytime you wish," she called out behind them before disappearing behind the stained-glass door.

They walked one final stony path until it met the sidewalk by the street. The city was still hustling and bustling as it always did, paying little caution to the slippery weather. Ambulance sirens sounded off somewhere in the distance, its echoes nearly muffled by the thick network of tall buildings that scraped the raging sky before the Briton and the Frenchman. They reached an intersection, Arthur eagerly smashing his fist into the button with a clang, letting out a grumble when a stubborn red hand kept lighting up the sign at the opposite side of the crosswalk.

"It is only doing its job to keep you safe, mon cher," Francis said, a smirk lighting up his features.

Arthur scowled at him. "When it is bloody cold and my shirt has soaked through, I expect that glowing white twit of a stick figure to pop up on the other side of the street immediately."

Francis laughed at Arthur's remark, pushing him ahead when said stick figure lit up the screen. They continued the remainder of their walk in silence, with the exception of the rumbling sky and its downpour that bulleted the streets.

Finally, they came to Francis's apartment complex, which was an elegant eight-story building, so bright and happy and red against the surrounding neutral-colored buildings. He opened the door to the lobby, breaking down the umbrella and shaking it off before he walked into the lobby. He caught Arthur just as the green eyed man lost his balance on the polished white tile. God forbid the stairs were made of the same material, as the place was dimly lighted and Arthur could barely see, having expected chandeliers and bright lights to make up for the darkness outside. It just seemed so… Francis to be fancy.

But this building was simple in its beauty. Fake plants sat in corners of the lobby, very green and calm against the darkness of the brown walls. Black sofas sat against the walls, worn from their being used multiple times. The miserable furniture pieces; it must suck to be sat on your whole life by strangers.

"It's like they want to bloody scare everyone off. Where is the golden, sunlight furniture and where are the thoughtful green walls and the real plants?" Arthur asked. He hated cheap, distasteful places.

"It will get better, mon cher. My room takes on a much more welcoming atmosphere, of course," Francis said, guiding Arthur to the elevator. Another grateful glance from the Briton's tired eyes, and a relieved sigh when their shoes met carpet. Friction.

Francis pressed the glowing button that would take them to the fourth floor and ultimately to his room. He looked down at Arthur, who had sunk to the floor, his eyes closed and his breathing soft. A cough broke from the shorter man's lungs, and he groaned at the sudden burning in his throat.

"I don't like plagues, whether it be the people of my home country or the cells of my insides. It makes me feel weaker than I already am," Arthur murmured, bringing his knees to his chest and resting his chin upon them.

Francis helped Arthur up as the fourth chime of the bell sounded, patting the Briton's damp wheat locks.

'You are strong, mon cher. You just need to be nurtured, from this weed you call yourself into a rose."