Title: UNN
Author/Artist: Jamaica-tan
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Francis/Arthur as main, and various others
Rating: R to be safe.
Genre: Comedy/Romance/Drama
Warnings: Swearing, buckets of bad language, Francis.

Note: Near Christmas I put on one of my favourite DVDs, Shakespeare ReTold's Much Ado about Nothing. As I watched I began to realise what a great idea it was for a FrUk story. It's pretty much ballooned out of control, and I've made a lot of changes, but I hope to deliver an entertaining AU story that keeps everyone in character.

Introduction – 2006 has been the worst year in the history of ever.

Casting an always critical eye upon his image in the mirror, Arthur Kirkland had to conclude that he looked pretty damn good this evening. Crisply ironed shirt, handsome tie, a dark blazer, and matching slacks. The only problem was that the dress code of the restaurant was very similar to the type of clothing he wore at work, where his date also worked, and saw him nearly every day in these type of clothes. Pondering on what to do for a few moments, he decided to switch and wear instead a painfully casual (by his standards anyway) blazer with his outfit. His polished shoes were by the door, and he had everything he needed in his pockets, and, satisfied with his appearance, he turned to leave his bedroom. However, the bottle of his favourite cologne atop his chest of draws caught his eye, and he thought he may as well dab a little on, he so rarely went on dates that a little scent wouldn't hurt, even if the date was with him. Arthur also decided to neaten his bed sheets for the fourth, fifth, or maybe even twelfth time. It was not like he was hoping or even wanting…well you know. He just liked having a neat bed.

The restaurant was decadently, horribly overpriced, but since his date had asked him out and made the booking, he could damn well pay for the evening. But Arthur had to admit grudgingly that it was a very nice place, with intimate seating areas with a sophisticated atmosphere, only it was so dark he was struggling to read the sodding wine list by the candle light. Despite his dateless life, Arthur knew there were only two reasons why such a place would be so dark with a slightly pretentious piano player in the corner. The first is shitty food, the second, a nice place to grope your date, and unfortunately, he knew his date well enough to know what was most likely. Arthur went back to studying his menu with gusto, in revenge he decided to order as many expensive items as possible, and if that pervert thought he could be so smooth as to put the moves on him while he was eating, he'd ram that bastard's fork somewhere very uncomfortable.

'Jesus, £40 for the cheapest wine! Hmmm…best get the £100 bottle. Well, bottles.

…What was taking that wanker so long?'

Nearly 40 years, okay minutes, later, Arthur had memorized the wine list, subtly smashed the breadsticks into a fine dust, glared away any approaching waiter, checked his phone for messages at least several dozen times, and in the process had never begun to feel so big a fool in his entire life.

Just when he was on the brink of storming out and maybe setting the poncy place on fire on the way out in revenge, he saw two more fucking waiters making a beeline for his table, this time one was holding a champagne bucket with a large freshly opened bottle inside, the other with one sparkling glass of champagne. Instead of screaming at them to go forth and multiply, he could only look at them in slightly pathetic disbelief as they lay the items on his table.

One of the immaculately dressed young men looked uncomfortable as he spoke:

"The gentleman says he is sorry and that he hopes there are no hard feelings. He has paid for your dinner."

Oh.

Well…oh.

Oh.

After a few moments of feeling his heart sinking shamefully further into his shoes, he looked up to the uncomfortable waiters.

"Right," He said, "Call me a cab sharpish, bring me another bottle of your most expensive champagne to go, and you might as well take the glass away because I won't be needing it."

Halfway home, Arthur ordered the driver to pull over to a greasy high street kebab shop. The car had barely paused at the kerb when he staggered out, clutching one of the nearly empty bottles like it was his baby.

"I won' be long," He slurred to the cabbie, "You wan' anyfin, 's on me mate."

"Erm…chips? And a bottle of coke?"

"GOOD MAN!" He roared as he managed to zigzag to the shop, scaring several yobs away in the process. "Everybody should luv' chips, they are spiffing. But no' wiv' cheese…"

Really, he reflected in the cab a few minutes later, slumped against the cab door and juggling the titan task of drinking from the bottle and trying to eat an overflowing kebab with one hand, champagne and kebabs were fandabbydoozy, there should be more high class kebab restaurants. Kebabs were ace, not pretentious fucking French bastards that chased you for a year than ditched you without so much as a fucking grovelling text message.

Nope, he wasn't upset.

He wasn't even crying, he must have misaimed his kebab and smeared chilli sauce on his face.

But as he tried to wipe his face free of chilli sauce, (definitely not tears, not at all), he silently decided he'd never let that Francis Bonnefoy near him ever again.

The next morning, after reading the well overdue text message, Arthur threw his phone at the wall.

A/N: When I went to university up in the Midlands, I was amazed to find that my Northern friends loved cheesy chips. I tell you, melty cheese on chips! Weirdos.