It had taken some work, but the Russian finally managed to learn enough French to interact with the other sailors. Not that he ever wanted to; his French wasn't that good and he did not appreciate the mockery accompanied by his attempts to make the language smooth despite his thick native accent.

But he didn't need them. The American boy had become more than enough company. He was so full of life and energy while he followed the Russian chatting endlessly about whatever was caught in the web of his thoughts, the whole time a small hand was clasped onto the tail of the Russian's scarf.

Most of the crew say through the young man's claim that the American was his brother, but no one opposed it, or dared to for that matter, due to the Russian's startling introverted nature and intimidating presence. And he did put the smaller boy to work on smaller tasks (such as cleaning), and the Russian himself was a hard, diligent worker. That said, no one saw reason to question the two or make a fuss.

The Russian became more and more accustomed to life on the sea, as did the boy. The little American would rise with the sun along with the Russian to begin the days chores.

Indeed... the boy was wonderful company. Especially when he sang.

He had the voice of an angel and his voice was no where close to breaking. Though, strangely enough for the boy who was not shy when it came to talking, he would only sing for his "брат" (brother). The little boy would always find a way out of singing for anyone else; usually running away and hiding behind his Russian брат.

The Russian found it amusing as well as flattering that the boy would only sing for him... His big Russian брат.


Arthur sat at his desk and tried to focus on his paperwork. There were bills to be paid and scripts to read over. Work. That was his escape from his hetic, disorganized life; the mind numbing task of sorting through "important business matters".

The card from the previous day though, kept his mind from cooperating. Occasionally he'd catch himself looking over it, trying to see the value or signifigance of it. But once he reminded himself of what he was doing and what he should be doing, he would set the card down and return to his dull work. Funny... he'd never found his work dull before the previous day...

"Bonjour, Arthur," Came a thick, obnoxious accent from the doorway.

Arthur looked up from his work to stare at the Frenchman. He was dress in a white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the shirt was missing the top buttons revealing the toned chest and his pants where considerably tight, hugging the musclular legs that clued Arthur to his history in the ballet.

"That is Mr. Kirkland to you, frog. And haven't you ever heard of knocking?" Arthur scowled, turing his eyes away from the Frenchman.

"Ohonhonhon~!" Francis chuckled, stepping closer to Arthur's desk, "Do not be so abrasive, Mon petit Anglais! (my little Englishman)"

Arthur felt heat pool in his cheeks as Francis moved around to the back of his chair.

How did he move so bloody fast? Arthur thought.

Just as he was about to whirl around and tell the frog off, he felt warm hands situate themselves on his shoulders and gently begin to knead the muscles. Arthur felt himself relax as those masterful hands eased out all of the knots and kinks that stress had woven into his shoulders. Then Francis' breath was right in Arthur's ear,

"You work to much, Monsieur" He breathed.

Arthur shuddered when the hot words touched his ear. He could feel Francis' lips upturn into a smile causing the rough feel of his stuble to prickle his cheek. All the while, those hands worked effortlessly on the Brit's shoulders. Arthur bit his lip to suppress a slight moan when he felt a pain he wasn't even aware he'd had ebb out of his upper back. Ever observant Francis saw this and applied more pressure to the spot with the blunt of his palm, eliciting a small moan from the other.

"Ahem. As much as I assume I am interrupting something, I will continue anyways."

Arthur nearly fell out of his seat when the voice reached his ears and he realized that Francis, a bloody frog, had been giving him a should rub and oh God he had been moaning!

"Ohononon~!" Francis laughed that irritable laugh again, "Oh Roderich! Do not be so rude!"

The Austrian conductor snorted and strode into the room, "Well I have more important business here than trying to seduce the new manager, Francis." His hard gaze then landed on a red-faced and dazed Arthur, "He is trouble, just a fair warning, unless you like trouble."

He then plopped a thick stack of paper onto Arthur's desk.

"This is the most recent score I have written for the operetta I am writing. I am going to assume you have looked over the other scores?" He stated impatiently.

"Erm, yes. It is absolutely top-notch, I cannot wait to get into this one. " Arthur replied nervously, his cheeks still red.

"Good. Good day then to you. Oh, and Francis, you are needed on the stage." Roderich said as he left the room, Francis in tow, winking and blowing kisses as he left.

Arthur's head hit the desk in shame.


Arthur had just finnished reviewing over Roderich's score when there came a soft knock on the door to his office. He sighed, and hoped that if he was quiet, they'd leave...

Another knock. Damn.

"Come in." He sighed.

"привет, Mr. Kirkland. (hello)" Ivan politely greeted, taking a seat infront of Arthur's desk, a welcome change from the usual barging in that most of the employees that entered Arthur's office did.

"Oh, hello Ivan. What brings you here?" Arthur responded.

"Two things."

"And they would be?"

"The first is, I have come to give you the stage report."

Arthur's eyes widened, was it that late already? Everyday, Ivan came in and sat down to discuss needed repairs and possible costs, prop designs, and so on and so forth. This was no routine that the two flawlessly conducted. By the end of their business disscussion, Arthur had become curious as to what the other topic Ivan had to converse with him about was.

"And what else did you wish to tell me?" Arthur asked.

"Ah, yes. It is about Him." Ivan stated with a smile.

"Oh... " Arthur subconsious trained his eyes on the Ace of Spades playing card on his desk, "go on." he urged less eagerly.

"He does not like how Francis was so easily allowed to rub your shoulders." Ivan continued matter-of-factly.

Arthur's cheeks darkened into a deep crimson at the mention of the day's earlier events. He had just pushed it out of his mind too...

"Well it is none of his business!" Arthur snapped, hand tightly clenching his pen.

"He thinks it is," Ivan said calmly, small smile still in place, "That is all the reason he needs."

Arthur was fuming. Ivan noticed and stood. Arthur watched him with scrutinizing, emerald eyes. Ivan's smile widened.

"I understand why you intrest him." He chuckled quietly, "And I asked me to give you this." the Russian said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a black envelope. He then set it on Arthur's desk and headed towards the door, leaving and politely shutting the door behind him without a second word.

Arthur scowled at the envelope for a good few minutes, hoping that maybe if he conjured up enough hate the letter would spontaniously combust... He snatched it from its spot when logic settled the fact in his mind that the envelope wasn't going to burst into flames anytime soon.

Carefully, he took his letter opener and slit open the paper, and pulled out a folded peice of paper. On the paper was a long, yet suprisingly legible scrawl. Arthur began to read it carefully:

Dear Arthur Kirkland,

It displeases me how you seemed to enjoy the presence of Francis Bonnefoy. Though he is one of our company's finest dancers, getting involved with him would be a mistake. I hade to be the bearer of bad news, but the man will break your heart once he gets what he wants... which is not your love and affection if you catch my drift.

Anywho, I would be most honored if you would come to the stage tonight, alone, at exactly eleven o' clock. I have something I must show you~!

Yours Truely,
The Phantom

Arthur stared at the letter dumbfounded. Come to the stage... at night... alone? Arthur knitted eyebrows together and looked at his watch and saw it read half past nine. He had time to think... Wait... why was he even considering going? It was possible suicide! He would be alone with a maniac! And only God knows what he'd have to show him... Arthur shuddered, his mind conjuring up deranged scenarios. That was it. He wouldn't go. No sir. No how... He looked back down at the letter and sighed. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew he'd talk himself into going...


Author's Notes

I have no excuses. (Ok, is writer's block an excuse? No? Merg...) I truely am sorry it took so long for this to be updated. It truely is unfair to you guys who follow this story. But this story is totally writing itself. I had no idea where it was going when I sat down to type this up at... *looks at time* 12:44 a.m. Not to mention it took THREE DAYS to write... BUT LOOK! LONG CHAPTER, EH? EH?

Baha. I suck.

Also, I suck at writing mystery so it's pretty obvious who the boy and his "brother" are... but if you haven't figured that little detail out then you should be beaten with the logic stick. Seriously.

Bahaha. I still suck.

Thank you so much for reading and putting up with my crap. I will try my hardest to update semi-regularly (but don't get your hopes up; I suck, remember?). FEEDBACK IS LOVED!

One last thing... Erm... I'm not very good at writing yoai and stuff... so yeah... sorry for lack of hotnessness between Francis and Arthur...