A/N: Sorry for the wait to update! Since it's summer, I'm going to announce that I'm going to be updating every Saturday starting next week. I hope you all enjoy! Don't like FrUk? Don't read! ~The powerpossessor

The Powerpossessor doesn't own Axis Powers Hetalia, that's Hima papa's job.

Francis walked out of the quaint little coffee shop and into the crisp winter air. He brought the cardboard cup containing his beverage to his lips, letting the hot and flavourful liquid warm up his body. Not that there wasn't already a pink blush dusted on his cheeks.

Despite the fact that the flamboyant Frenchman flirted with many men and women, never before had he been so interested and intrigued. The face of the man he'd just spoke to came to his mind as he waited at a pedestrian crossing.

The cashier's hair was slightly tousled, but not so far as to be described as messy. He'd been around Francis' height, maybe one or two centimeters shorter. His thin, lanky frame matched his bitter and fiery personality, along with his snarky, almost arrogant British accent.

His eyebrows were…thick to say in the least. But what stuck out to Francis was his eyes. Bright and venomous with an exuberant, almost acidic, shade of emerald. The long haired man was roused from his daydream when he received the indication that he could cross the street.

His pace quickened as he crossed the busy street, anxious to get out of the intense cold that surrounded him like a relentless pursuer. His shoes made a light crunching noise as they pounded the ice and salt covered sidewalk.

The frigid air tickled his nose, causing the shivering man to pull up his scarf farther on his face. Francis was more than relieved when he stepped into the elevator of his apartment building, shaking the snow off of his golden strands of hair elegantly.

When the doors silently slid open, he sighed contentedly and began to shed his layers of clothes. Francis' penthouse suite was extravagant, but not gaudy. The 26 year old chef was wealthy to say in the least, despite coming from humble beginnings.

His apartment definitely presented this, but didn't flaunt shrugged off his blue coat and hung it carefully on the coat rack. He did the same with his scarf, unfurling it from his neck. He made his way to the kitchen shortly after, about to throw away his cup when he noticed something written on the side.

Bringing it up to his face, he read was written, a mirthful smirk playing on his lips. "Arthur Kirkland…" He read out loud, satisfied that he finally got the name of the blond haired brit he'd met earlier in the coffee shop. As he placed the cup on the counter, he felt himself get overwhelmed with determination.

He reached for his apron, and tied his hair back into a messy ponytail. Francis knew this feeling. He felt inspired. The excited man stepped into his pantry, briefly taking in the array of colours and ingredients that lined its shelves. He began to grab colours that reminded him of Arthur, greens especially.

From soft pistachio green, to a deep, rich jade. He carried them back to the counter, laying them out in front of him. It was like a pallet of paint, anxiously awaiting to be draped across a blank canvas, breathing life and vibrancy into the white page.

He then opened his spice cabinet, the fragrant aroma of the herbs surrounding him as he inhaled deeply, sensing combinations just begging to be discovered. Just as he was about to get to work, he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.

Francis smiled and pulled down the small box of tea, feeling as if this was the perfect compliment. With a slight turn of the knob and a ferocious roar of the fire coming from the stove top, the motivated artist set to work.


Arthur sighed in relief, happy that his shift was finally over. He took the apron off of his head and hung it on the peg next to his usual work station. He gazed outside, noticing that the sun had set long ago, the city busy with night life. He began to lock up the shop afterwards, eager to get back to his flat.

He grabbed his jacket on the way out, a shiver running up his spine as he stepped outside. The slight warmth the sun had to offer was long gone now, replaced with the chilling darkness. The thick eye browed brit took a deep breath as he crossed the street, the lights of the city casting a slim shadow.

His breath created a cloud of water vapour, vanishing as quickly as it came. Arthur stepped into his flat across the street, hitting the light switch on the space adjacent to the door. Light penetrated the darkness, illuminating the young man's flat.

It was simple, a couple cheap furniture pieces and several posters hanging on the walls, most of them bands of rock music and heavy metal music. It was very neat and orderly spare a small desk in the corner beside the window had papers littered all over the top, several of them containing drafts of his stories.

He might have been only 23, but he wanted more than anything to be a writer. Arthur hung his jacket up in the coat closet, making sure that it wouldn't fall off the hanger. He then plopped down on the couch, taking the tip he'd received earlier out of his pocket and fumbling with it for a few minutes before flattening it on the coffee table.

The man's number from earlier was on the bottom.

What was his name again?

Arthur thought,

Started with an F…

He pondered once again.

Remembering the man's accent, he came to a realization.

Francis. That was his name.

He grinned proudly, able to remember the customer's name. The apprehensive brit looked at the number, torn as to what to do next. Should I..? He thought again. Before he could decide however, the receiver was already in his hand and the number was already dialed.

He heard nothing for the next few seconds, until he heard a click, an indication that the other had picked up the phone. Arthur jumped out of his seat when he heard this. No more than a second later, a slightly irritated voice with a strong French accent reached his ears. "Bonjour?"


Francis had been plating his green tea dessert when he heard the phone chime rhythmically. He hated when people called him in the middle of his cooking, but it could be someone important, so he decided to answer it.

He sighed as he made his way to the phone, trying to put on a cheerful façade but failed horribly. "Bonjour?" He spoke into the phone, putting in between his ear and his shoulder so he could go back to his work. "U-Um, this is Francis right?" He heard a familiar voice ask awkwardly.

"Oui, it is, might I ask who is calling?" Francis asked, curious about who'd called him at this time of night. "It's Arthur- Arthur Kirkland from the coffee shop." The man on the other end of the phone verified. As soon as the surprised Frenchman heard this, he quickly put down what he was doing and waked out of the kitchen.

"Ah! Arthur! Comment ca-va?"