It is a Wednesday night in June, late enough into the month that children were free from their yearly responsibilities as students. The air smells heavily of dirt and moisture, and the earth itself is damp, but the crickets and the cicadas still sing their songs. The night is alive with the life the comes with the peace and quiet when humanity sleeps. The clouds have been brushed aside to reveal a crescent moon and shining stars.
Arthur Kirkland sits on the roof of his home, taking it all in. He still as his round baby face and his green, green eyes are still open wide. He is not alone, another fair-haired boy sits to his right. His sometimes friend and sometimes enemy; the neighbor boy from across the street that is mistaken for a girl more often than he should be. The two exchange no words, and sit in a comfortable sort of silence.
Arthur has years ahead to talk with and to argue with Francis Bonnefoy, and he does not yet know of all the heartache his companion will bring to him in the years to come.
Young Arthur doesn't know of the strange, sometimes uncomfortable, feelings that will bubble up in his chest when he turns thirteen, nor does he know of the unexplainable disappointment and anger that will come when he sees Francis hand in hand with his first girlfriend. He doesn't know how much he would like to be the reason his older friend smiles like that, laughs like that.
Arthur doesn't understand what a falling out is yet. He doesn't know that he will find a new life-long friend when he's fourteen in the loud boy known as Alfred Jones. Alfred is in love with America and too easily impressed, but Arthur thinks it's a bit endearing when it isn't annoying. Alfred is not Francis, and Arthur will appreciate that the most. He will not miss the feelings that he's just starting to figure out about Francis. But he will miss Francis, and will kick himself every time they pass ways and he never says a simple greeting.
Arthur doesn't know about the Bad Touch Trio yet, and he doesn't feel the sense of dread that he will feel when they are mentioned when he's in high school. He hasn't seen the mischievous, nearly dangerous glint in Gilbert Beilschmidt's eyes, and he hasn't yet felt the sense of betrayal that will come when Francis sits back and does nothing.
Arthur hasn't gone to his junior prom yet, and hasn't left the auditorium for a cigarette or two in the parking lot. He hasn't run into a Francis who seeks the same sweet release of nicotine. He hasn't had the sweaty palms and shaky knees of the dork who blurts out to the prom king, "I like you, a lot. If I were a bit less sober, I'd even say I love you,"
Arthur doesn't know that Francis will steal his first kiss.
Arthur doesn't know about the fights that will come with the new, fleeting relationship. He doesn't know of all the nights he will sneak out just to see his boyfriend, and he doesn't know about the scarlet blush that will rise whenever he refers to Francis as such.
Arthur doesn't know Francis will ban him from even entering the kitchen only a week after they move in together, and he doesn't know about all the shattered plates he'll have to replace because he tried to throw them at his partner. He doesn't know about all the night's he will be spending on the couch, or all alone in their bed, and he doesn't know about all the times he will be so afraid that everything is falling apart, even when everything is perfectly fine. He doesn't know that, sometimes, everything does turn out alright in the end.
Francis takes his blue gaze off of the sky and places it on his friend. He speaks in a voice quiet enough to not disturb the peace, and Arthur has to listen extra hard to understand his fractured English. "Have you heard about the new family that just moved in?"
Arthur nods slowly, "Krauts," He says, lacking the sort of contempt his grandmother used when describing them.
"There is a boy around my age," Francis says, ignoring Arthur's input due to a lack of comprehension, "'Tonio and I are going to greet him in the morning. You should come too."
Arthur mumbles, not wanting to admit his dislike of that Antonio boy, strangers, and having to share Francis with others, "I don't know."
All Arthur knows is this Wednesday night in June, and the steady rhythm of his own breathing.