Arthur awoke to the sun glaring through his blinds, casting jagged shadows on the wall opposite the window. Of all the days, it just had to be sunny today, what luck. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his head made it impossible for him to move. What happened last night? Arthur decided to go back to sleep. He didn't have anywhere to be now that he no longer had a job. Before he got the chance to close his eyes, he noticed something small and white on his bedside table. He tried to pick it up without moving too much, which was still excruciating. He looked down at the small piece of paper, and instantly the memories started to flow back into his mind. Written on the note, in small, slanted cursive was a name and phone number, along with something else.

Francis Bonnefoy

135-2468

Call me any time, mon ami

XOXOXO

Arthur could barely remember this man. Francis. That name did bring a face to mind. The bartender, that's who it was. I hope I didn't do anything too embarrassing. He couldn't remember much, but his recollected feelings for that blond Frenchman made him jolt. He thought of how drunk he would've had to have been to actually find another man attractive.

Whoever he was, Francis better not actually be expecting that phone call. He agreed that he would never step foot in that bar again. He decided to go back to sleep until standing was at least bearable.

After a few hours of trying to sleep, tossing and turning in his bed, Arthur finally decided to get up at 12:14 in the afternoon. While he walked to the bathroom he noticed that his headache was a tiny bit more tolerable than before. When he looked in the mirror, he didn't recognize the man he saw. He had dark circles under his eyes that were worse than they had ever been before. Arthur had been through a lot, but not once did he wake up looking this unkempt. He forced himself to take a cold shower and choke down a bagel before putting on his coat and heading out to the supermarket.

The cold air was something that Arthur was used to, living in London. Even on sunny days, the temperature was still colder than Arthur's lonely heart. All he wanted to do was curl up on his bed and die, but what kind of person would that make him? Arthur Kirkland was not a quitter.

As Arthur made his way to the supermarket, he passed many young couples and he felt a pang of something, almost pain, but mostly jealousy, in his chest. That could be him. Surely he could be happy, but there was always something that held him back from whatever it was that he wanted. He wasn't quite sure why, but he could never get anyone to like him, no matter how hard he tried. Maybe he should get a cat.

Arthur rounded the last corner and walked through the shop's doors. The familiar smell of freshly baked goods that he was so used to washed over him and he was immediately relaxed. He walked over to the bakery and bought a couple scones, which were his favorite pastry. He often attempted to make them himself, but he always failed, and they tasted, as his brother said, "Like petrified couch stuffing."

"Oh hello, mon ami." Arthur recognized that voice. Oh no. He spun around, and as he had expected, Francis was standing there as arrogant as he was last night. At least that's how Arthur remembered him, before the alcohol started warping his view of the world.

"Hello, frog." Arthur did not want to be here. He wanted nothing to do with this French twat.

"What a miraculous turn of events. I was starting to think I'd never get to see you again, mon ami. I couldn't stand the very idea."

"I don't think 'miraculous' is the word I would use. Don't you have a bar to run or something?"

"No, chérie, it is my day off."

"Don't call me that. And why don't you go bother someone else for a change?"

"My, my, don't be such an old grump."

"I'm probably younger than you."

"Fine, don't be such a grump. Having a hangover is no excuse."

"You seemed so kind last night, I almost liked you. What happened? Did the arsehole fairy pay you a visit overnight and sprinkle wanker dust on your face?"

"I believe that is the single most British thing I have ever heard come out of a British person's mouth."

"You shut your mouth."

"No, you shut your mouth."

"What are you, twelve?"

"You're the one who started it."

"Okay, so you are just a twelve year old parading around in an adult suit. A twelve year old child has hit on me. Jesus Christ." Arthur walked away from Francis, and over to the produce section, where he grabbed a bag and started shoving apples into it.

"At least let me cook you dinner. Anything I make will most definitely be better that what you British people call food."

"No. I'm just fine with my 'food' thank you very much." Arthur made sure to make air quotes when he said food.

"Please, French cuisine is much better than... whatever these are," Francis said as he pulled the scones out of Arthur's cart.

"They're called scones, and I don't appreciate you taking my stuff." Arthur yanked the pastries out of Francis's hands and threw them back in his cart. "Now would you kindly leave me alone? I need to get back to my shopping."

"Only because you asked nicely," Francis said. He turned and walked away while shouting, "Adieu chérie!"

"I told you not to call me that!" Arthur yelled before he went back to looking at the items on the shelf. "Bloody frog," he whispered to himself. Why did Francis bother him like that? He didn't even know him. Maybe Arthur was blinded by his own self-hatred, and he couldn't see that people could actually like him. He shrugged off the thought and went back to shopping.

When Arthur had arrived at home it was already 2:00 in the afternoon. He couldn't believe he had been gone for two hours. When he started unpacking his groceries, carelessly tossing items on the shelves and in the fridge, he noticed he had forgotten to buy raw beef. Well now dinner is ruined. I can't make beef stew without the beef. Arthur didn't want to walk all the way back to the store, but he had no idea what else he could make for dinner. His fridge and cupboards were nearly empty, and he could not cook anything other than stew and scones.

The piece of paper with Francis's number on it seemed to call Arthur's name. He could possibly call Francis and have him cook him dinner, just so he didn't have to. No, Arthur thought, I never want to see that stupid frog again, no matter how good he says his food is. Arthur settled on having cold cereal for lunch and dinner again, for the fourth day in a row.

As he sat at his kitchen table, eating stale cornflakes, Arthur noticed a strange ad in the newspaper. It was for a job, which was what Arthur was coincidentally in need of, but Arthur gasped when he noticed it was for the bar he was at the other night. He read it over and over, still not quite sure if it was real or just a dream. He would have been just fine if the ad didn't say:

Bartender Wanted

Must have experience working in a bar beforehand, unless

You have six-centimeter-thick eyebrows and your name

Is Arthur. Then you, my friend, are welcome to come by any

Time.

Arthur read the ad one more time to make sure he was reading it right. How could Francis already have an ad like that published when he only met him the night before? When he confirmed that this was, in fact, reality and not a dream he grabbed the paper and sprinted out the door. Going as fast as he could he crashed down the stairs, out to the sidewalk, and turned the corner, almost slipping as he did so.

He walked for what seemed like twenty minutes, trying to find that stupid bar and that stupid man. Why was he getting so worked up over an ad in a newspaper that nearly nobody read? He had no idea. All he knew was that he was going to go punch that stupid bloody wanker in his stupid frog face. He was pretty sure he was so angry that heat was radiating off of his body, melting the all the freshly fallen snow around him.

He turned the next corner just in time to see Francis walk out of the bar; Arthur assumed it was his lunch break. Before Francis could see him, he hid behind the corner of the building that neighbored the bar. Trying not to be seen while at the same time acting as casual as he could, Arthur crossed the street and ducked behind a small newspaper stand. He watched as Francis turned around and started walking toward across the street, right towards Arthur. Oh no he thought. He quickly straightened out and pretended to browse through the variety of magazines on the shelf. Arthur prepared himself for the worst, but when Francis didn't acknowledge him Arthur turned just in time to see him walk into a small café.

Oh good, he didn't see me. Arthur walked over to the cafe and looked in the window. Luckily Francis's back was turned so he wouldn't be seen. He was standing at the counter, ordering something and probably flirting with the waitress.

Arthur suddenly remembered what he was here for. He looked down at the newspaper in his hand and with another burst of anger, pushed the cafe door open and walked up to Francis.

"Oi, frog! What the bloody hell is this?"

"Huh?" Francis turned around and looked at the newspaper. "Oh, hello mon chérie. Enjoying your thirty seconds of fame, no?"

"I don't know who you think you are, but I don't appreciate you publishing advertisements that make fun of my eyebrows! And how did you even manage to get an ad in the paper when you had only met me the night before?"

"It was quite simple mon ami. My friend works at the printing press and he owed me."

"But why would you do it? Do you not have any manners? Most people don't like their names plastered everywhere along with the size of their eyebrows!" Arthur was very sensitive about his eyebrows.

"Well, there seems to be nothing I can do about it. How can I make it up to you?" Francis grabbed his drink from the waitress and went to sit down, Arthur followed. "I can give you anything you want, chérie." He winked suggestively.

"Oh stuff it, frog," this was the only way Arthur knew how to respond. "Not everyone you meet is going to instantly fall in love with you, you know."

"It has worked so far."

"Well it won't work on me."

"Give it time."

"I cannot believe you. I'm leaving. I never want to see you or my name in your stupid wanted ads again."

"Adieu, mon ami," Francis shouted as Arthur stomped out of the building and walked home.

Stupid frog Arthur thought to himself. Why does he always have to ruin my day? Arthur decided it was probably a good idea to stop by the grocery store so he didn't have to have cereal for dinner. He walked in, the familiar and calming scent of pastries and freshly brewed tea washing over him. He had finally managed to go somewhere without hearing Francis's annoying voice or seeing his stupid face.

Arthur paid for his groceries and started to make his way home. Thanks to that stupid frog, I can't go anywhere without worrying about being seen by him. When he got home, he made his favorite tea and grabbed his favorite book off the shelf so he could finally relax.

About an hour later Arthur heard a crash outside, followed by an ear-splitting shriek, and then someone pounding on the door. What is it now? He got up and walked to the door, still holding his tea. He threw it open, saw what was outside, and nearly dropped his teacup.

"Bonjour, Arthur. I seem to be in quite a predicament." Francis was in what Arthur would call more than a predicament. His forehead had a huge gash through it, and his face was covered in blood.

"My god, what happened? Come in, I'll clean that up and you can tell me." Arthur may have hated Francis, but he wasn't going to ignore a man with a huge forehead wound.

"Ok but you're not going to like what you hear." Francis followed Arthur into his living room.

"What could possibly be worse than a bloody frog on my doorstep?"

"Oh you have no idea, mon ami."