Unbeknownst to him, in another part of the city, in another empty bed was someone very similar with equally familiar ideas floating around in his half-sober mind. Under the influence of three glasses of Spanish wine, Francis found his thoughts raging out of control in a manner and down paths that were dangerous. They were dangerous because they threatened the careful appearance he'd arranged for himself over the course of a very long time. He, like Arthur, had a far deeper underside, and Francis chose to cover that with fancy clothes, charming smiles, and expensive frivolities.
Now though, it was impossible to disguise the facade from himself but being drunk he could hardly care. Francis was amused that his brain was thinking not of the lovely ladies he'd met on the way home, but back to the man sitting next to him during the meeting. The Frenchman had been so distracted by Arthur; how he sat bent over his notes with shoulder's hunched, the way his brow furrowed when he thought. All of it was so watchable and loveable and that damn Englishman was ruing him in so many wonderful ways.
Unlike Arthur, Francis was fantastic at hiding the way he felt. It was a practiced second notion, but Francis was getting jaded. For one day he longed to walk around and not have to monitor every word that came out of his mouth, every action. Of all the things he would do though, the most important would be the proclamation he'd planned out the very first week he'd laid eyes on that Britannia angel. More than anything he wanted to swoop Arthur off his feet and take him home. But the Frenchman found toying with him was far more amusing, and it would make the satisfaction of capturing that first kiss much sweeter.
However, the toying had grown on them, and for a time, it was nicer and easier just to bicker. Francis could feel that time had passed and he wanted to mark his claim. But in that long time, things had happened. Life had happened, and the two became polar opposites with places to fill. Francis gained many friends (some with benefits, some without), and became "popular", if that was the word. Arthur remained as he was, stingy and uptight; and he he was hardly up to Francis's knee in terms of social standing. This is when the bantering became expected and it was impossible to branch out without causing panic among their peers. Consider it a social dike made of the need to uphold appearances and individual pride.
Like other, less figurative dams, it had begun to crack. It started small enough. Arthur was breaking up inside, Francis was trying to let his hair down more. It was a tedious process that had started many years ago, and despite the time, almost no outward progress had been made. But they knew. Somewhere they were both aware the other knew exactly what was happening. This similar mindset and consciousness was pushing against the dam, straining it and forcing it to the breaking point. Francis was bracing from one side, Arthur from the other, and that opposing push was bound to cave inwards. When that happened, Arthur would crash into Francis, and they'd be soaked in the things they'd tried to hide. It was not a question of "if", it was of "would". Would they be ready?
The answer was, of course not. They could never be ready. But that metaphorical dam would come falling down, would hit them hard, and it held the potential to kill them both. At least mentally, if nothing else. Arthur was aware of this, which closed the loop of worry and turned it into a fill circle of paranoia. Yet despite this, he still kept himself up with Francis, all night until weak morning hours when drowsiness took over. But even his dreams and subconscious were on that same track. Arthur Kirkland spent all night dreaming of Francis.
–
And they were so lovely, that in the morning when Arthur awoke, he had a difficult time separating the dreams from his current reality. He sat up in bed, body hot and twisted around in the sheets, blinking and rubbing his eyes. After he woke fully, he just sat there for a while. There was no motivation for his limbs to move just yet. But when he did find it, it was in the form of Saturday. Saturdays were spent at his favorite place of all time, and for a split instant the idea of Francis was forgotten. Until he realized who he normally saw there, even for a moment or so. Arthur remembered Francis passed by that quiet bookshop when he was about half-way out of bed. In the moment of distraction, his foot hooked on the sheet and he went flying face-first into the carpet.
"Bloody frog..." he muttered out loud, rubbing his bumped head and prying all the tangled covers from his body. A faint bruise was beginning to appear on one of his knees, he noticed, as he stood at the bathroom counter in his boxers. He looked down at himself, then back to up his tired face in the mirror. His eyes were dark and his hair was a complete mess he knew he would never get to stay down. Arthur popped his toothbrush into his mouth anyways. It's not like it mattered. Francis never looked his way so it would be pointless to dress up for someone who never noticed him.
After brushing his teeth, he proceeded to open his small closet and stare aimlessly into the mass of grays and greens and browns, trying to decide what to wear. Or rather what combination of colors would look best, because all his outfits were built the same way. After five minutes or so of jumping back and forth between two sets of slacks, he decided on the black ones, with a wrinkly navy button-up and gray hoodie zipped halfway. Even if it was a little ill-fitted, it would do fine for the casual purpose of the day's outing.
His boots were waiting in an unlaced heap by the door under his jacket and scarf, which he hadn't been expecting to need. But one look out the small kitchen window, and he deemed them necessary. Once outside, he was rather glad for it. The air was thick with fog, so much so it was impossible to tell where the ground stopped and the horizon broke into undefined and hazy sky. With the fog came a damp chill that shuddered though Arthur's thin body and wracked his teeth with chatters. He wrapped his arms around himself and locked the door to his flat behind him before heading off thought the streets.
They were quiet this time of day. Everything usually was. People were inside sleeping, out at work already, so it was just Arthur. With the fog, not even the trees rustled and the birds hardly let out a note. The world was encapsulated in a kind of stillness that the Englishman loved. This was his favorite time; where things stopped breathing and just watched everything else. For a moment he did as well, stopping at an intersection and watching his green light go red. As he waited, he peered and squinted his eyes into the thick atmosphere. Not a soul around. Just how he liked it. His light went green again, he walked across the road and down a hill towards a quainter section of asphalt. At some point in those seconds, he wondered if he could ever get the chance to share this time with Francis.
That thought sent him driving again. His breath picked up speed and his heart fluttered after a beat and make him hiccup. Urgency was suddenly present in his veins. He hadn't a clue why, but Arthur's legs seemed to move faster. The promise of disaster was tempting, and he walked right up to it when it called for him. It coaxed him past his usual corner shop, all the way down the hill to the river-side streets. It drove him to one in particular, wrapped in soft orange from the light of streetlamps refracting through the partials in the air. The illuminated street sign was completely unfamiliar to Arthur. He'd never been down this stretch before.
But he was unfazed by this and walked down the very small Dover Avenue, slower now than before. It was a crowded sort of place, the buildings on all sides seemed to tower over it and diminish everything on the street. The windows of the shops were dark, and of those there were few. Just a small fancy looking dress boutique, a dusty old antique store, the back door to a restaurant and an apartment building. The only thing lit was a cafe about half-way down the avenue, and it looked warm and friendly. There were many overflowing planters about it, vines with rose buds crawling up the red brick wall and spilling onto the wide front veranda which housed chairs and tables, all without inhabitants. Arthur wove his way about these, right up to the glass front doors. The old-ish looking sign above the door was too faded, and the light was too poor to read by, but it clearly wasn't English. He peered through that and a few of the other frosted windows, hand hovering above the latch.
"Arthur?" The Englishman about lost his sanity right there, whipping around and trying to strike the thing that startled him. Thankfully he was a poor hit and his depth perception was lacking accuracy, or he would have smacked a very surprised-looking Francis right across the face. As soon as he realized though, who was standing right behind him, Arthur seized up and instantly an annoyed look flavored his face. It was a natural reaction to seeing Francis. However this time, upon recalling last night's epiphanies, he toned it down and casually let his eyes wander up and down Francis.
"W-What are you doing here, Frog?" he asked, placing a hand on his hip. It was getting increasingly difficult to stay frustrated, because he was liking what he saw. He probably looked like crap compared to Francis, in his nice straight-leg jeans and pressed shirt under a leather jacket. Damn, he looked good in leather. And he had with him... What? "Why the bloody hell do you have an umbrella?" Francis smiled and brought it down by his side to close up, squinting up into the fog as if he was expecting to see something.
"It is supposed to rain today." Arthur's face ripped red. He did remember hearing that on the radio last night and completely ignored it. He'd be drying laundry when he got home.
"That still doesn't answer my first question," he snapped back. "What are you doing here?"
"I zought I would 'ave my morning coffee 'ere. I 'ave never 'ad anyzing from zis place before. In fact I did not notice it until zis morning and I walk by zis road most every day."
"O-Oh..." Arthur immediately shied away, casting his glance at the stone upon which they stood. He couldn't help but feel strangely about the fact they both chanced upon the same place on Dover on the same day.
"Would you like to join me?" Francis asked, and Arthur's head snapped up, eyes wide and cheeks red up to the ears.
"Would I like to what?" The Frenchman smiled and grabbed for the door handle, failing to notice Arthur's hand was already there. The shock of such an innocent touch was monumental. Arthur actually made an audible noise from somewhere in his throat and flushed hot, and Francis almost ripped his hand back in surprise. Instead he closed his fingers around Arthur's, which where already wrapped around the handle and popped the door open.
"Come on," he removed his hand and motioned with his arm, "my treat. It 'as been a while since we sat down togezer."
"A-And for good reason..." Arthur muttered, but his voice was weak and did not hold his usual insulting flare. But the look from those baby blue eyes was so enticing, he let out a sigh and allowed Francis to lead him in. He removed his hand from its perch on brass and walked inside, staying close to the golden-haired male a step ahead of him. The walls were a warm orange color, and comfy looking furniture in browns and reds and golds surrounded tables and a fireplace against the far wall crackled loudly. The air was warm and alive, despite there being only two other people there. One stood behind the counter, a woman with long brown hair and bright green eyes, washing a cup in the sink; the other a very distinguished looking man reading over a folder that looked to contain sheet music in treble clef.
"Over zere," and the Englishman felt a hand reach slyly back and grab his wrist. He mumbled something about not liking to sit in the corner, but he permitted Francis to take him to the far side of the room, where sat a large chocolate-colored couch and a low coffee table. Franc released Arthur's wrist and plopped onto one side, propping his feet up to leave Arthur standing awkwardly. He twisted his hands together and stared. It was a couch, more specifically a love-seat, which was meant for two and that put him too comfortably close to Francis so that it was uncomfortable.
"I, uh-" he started to make up an excuse to go, but the other stopped him.
"You're not going to bail, are you? Come sit, I want to talk to you!" It was said in such a way, in such a cheerful and sincere way that Arthur walked around the small table and sat himself as far away from Francis as he could manage. He was practically stuffed into the corner of the sofa. The Frenchman had started taking off his jacket, then noticed Arthur when one arm was halfway through the sleeve. He paused. "Relax, Angleterre." But even after saying that and resuming his task, he noticed that the male next to him refused to do so. It came as a relief to the Englishman, as Francis could clearly see, when the waitress came over. Arthur found it leaps and bounds easier to relax when it wasn't just him and Francis.