Chapter 2

Breakfast was wonderful. Well, it was much better once the Brit had stopped thinking about the poltergeist; Arthur didn't exactly believe that the ghost from yesterday actually existed. Even though his fairy friends told him otherwise, he chose not to believe them. Ghosts. Do. Not. Exist. Right? Finishing his tea, he sighed and rubbed at his own eyes, small little scenes of him and the French filled his brain. The man flushed in embarrassment and he shook his head, trying to push the pictures out. Goddamnit.

He took the dirty dishes and placed them in the sink of the kitchen, looking around, almost expecting something to just… no. Impossible. Sighing (almost in disappointment), Arthur started washing the dishes, and after a few minutes of washing, he started humming—but then felt something touching his wrist.

He turned around.

Francis stood there.

The Brit almost hurled out his breakfast, thinking of how the other had rubbed his waist—"W-What the—" Arthur's eyes scanned the French's body, his pupils growing smaller at the sight. No way. "W-Why are you alive?"

Yesterday the French ghost had been only shades of white and black, almost like a moving photograph, and had mist for where his legs should be; and now he had colour, had legs, and most of all, he was warm. The touch had made Arthur actually warm. What the bloody hell was going on? "I'm still dead," Francis smiled sadly and rubbed his hands together, trying to gain some of his own warmth, "I turn back 'human' every other day, just to find out how I can move on. Heaven," he shrugged, "Harder than it seems."

The shorter European stood there, trying to digest everything in a calm manner. His finger flicked out to poke at the others clothed stomach, and then he gasped and pulled away. Solid. Okay. The Brit walked around the French, staring and poking at places, "… Zombie?"

Rolling his eyes, Francis sighed and ran a hand through his, now blond, hair, "Non. I am a ghost. Just a special one. I'm trying to leave this house for once. I can't even step out of the door—I need to move on," he sighed again and his eyes scanned the confused looking Brit, "It means I have something I regret doing on earth—so now I need to do it to make me legible to go to heaven. I told you a while ago. All of this is just annoying and tedious," the taller blond huffed.

Wait. Arthur stood there, silent. So. If Francis—if the git found out what he had regretted in his life, he could go to heaven? And leave me forever? And then I'llbe in heaven? "… Oi, wanker," the Brit gritted his teeth and poked his chest, wanting to look like he was higher authority. Cause he was living and all, "… I'll help. Not because I'm a nice person—but because I want you out of this house as quick as possible!"

The ghost rolled his eyes again, but then held out his hand, "Deal?"

Arthur reluctantly shook the other's hand, holding onto it, "… Deal, you git."

The French smirked and squeezed his hand gently, already addicted to the warmth that the other had radiated. He really hated how this certain human could melt the coldness out of him. Francis blamed it on the fact that Arthur was the only human he had touched in years. Fifteen years, to be exact. Then the warmth faded.

"Stop holding my hand, arsehole," Arthur pulled his hand back and rubbed it against his pants, a look of disgust on his face as he huffed and grumbled under his breath (something that sounded faintly like: burn these pants or something).

The French felt slightly hurt. He wasn't dirty. Okay, maybe his mindwas dirty, but his body couldn't be dirty at all. Was being dead a bad thing? Of course it's a bad thing, Sacre bleu, you're dead for god's sake. But he wasn't dirty. Looking down at his body, he found that he looked pretty damn good in his clothes; they were a little different from what the style was now—but Arthur didn't look like he gave a rats arse. Kirkland was wearing a (very good looking, to be honest) vest, and brown dress pants that hugged his legs, which looked very… well, fit. Not bad, Francis guessed, and his eyes scanned up to the other's tie—green. Not a bad colour. Apparently, staring wasn't very good and Arthur smacked him hard on the head, making him swear in French ("Merde!") as Arthur huffed again, a grin on his face this time, "Serves you right for checking me out—I already havea boyfriend."

"…" Francis tried so, sohard not to laugh. Oh god. Was he serious? The ghost settled for a loud (unattractive) snort instead of a laugh, "I was not checking you out, I was only checking your clothes out, Arthur—and I'm sure you and your boyfriend have a very good relationship," he smiled, although it was a complete fake one; the fact that the Brit was taken somehow made him frown. Maybe it was because he pitied the other person in the relationship.

"His name is Alfred Jones," Arthur completely ignored everything the French had said and sat on the couch with a giddy smile on his face, "And he is so perfect, but just a little chubby, I tease him all the time about it," he laughed to himself, making Francis snort again, "But he still loves me—don't you dare tell him though!" he pointed an accusing finger at the ghost, who almost flinched at the suddenness, "If he finds out that I actually enjoy his company, who knows, he'll embarrass me to no end! Even though he does that already…" he mumbled as Francis glided next to him and gave him 'the look'.

"… Arthur, cher, you have to understand that your partner would love to know that you enjoy spending time with them!" the blond rolled his eyes and took his hand, pushing him to the door and grinning, actually having some fun, "Now go and ask him out on a sweet dinner date and then you can both make some sweet love, now go, vite vite!"

The Englishman was blushing. Well, more like his face looked like he had been in the radiating sun for eighteen hours. "M-Make sweet love? You're such a pervert!" he pushed the other away and fixed his vest, stuck his nose up in the air snobbishly, and grumbled, "I can show myself to the door, thank you very much—and I'm going to ask him on a date, just because I want to and not because I'm actually listening to your rubbish!" he twirled to the door and opened it, giving one last glare at the ghost, then left with his bag and phone, dialling for his lover, still crimson.

Once the door was closed, Francis sighed and looked up to the ceiling, frowning now. That was strange. Didn't he just help someone and make them actually listen? Then why did he feel so bad. It was almost even… felt like regret. Something was wrong with him. Francis shrugged it off and looked at the closed door, smiling to himself sadly. He wished he had someone to hold. Mm, he was probably just jealous of the Brit, for having a lover. Francis nodded to himself, then mumbled under his breath, "Mm, just jealous, nothing else."

Lying to yourself wasn't very hard to do.