A/N: Chers lecteurs, you have no idea how sorry I am. I don't know what happened, I just drifted to other projects and weeks just rolled on by. But here you have it, chapter 3. It's really FrUK'd up fluff.
The name, "Fate", is because perhaps our little French protagonist starts to fathom... well, let's just say it cryptically: something.
I would like to thank you for your follows, favourites and above all comments. It is nice to know if my little fanfic makes other FrUKers (and people in general) smile :3

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Chapter 3:

Fate: And imaginary veil of purple and stars, which does not exist in actual, mundane life. An early version of coincidence – which also does not exist.

Francis was a little less certain about his love of adventures concerning other actual human beings as he walked out with a simple cup of tea on a white saucer.
He knew the café by heart of course, after all this time, and so he walked straight to the back of the café with determination.

And there he was. At table 12 sat no one else but Arthur Kirkland. Francis could feel a blush creeping up his cheeks and he hated it.

It didn't help that Arthur finally looked up and said: "Blimey, I do have good luck, you were at work after all." Francis looked confused and asked: "How did you know I worked here?" He was met with one of the huffs he was getting used to weirdly quickly: "Oh come on, it's not exactly a secret. All the birds at the university were so heartbroken when the charming French waiter gave up waiting. Can't blame them though… Can you take that outfit home with you?" he asked flashing a quirked smile.
Francis had to blink a few times before working himself up to the next question: "Why are you here again?" Arthur's smile grew even wider: "Why, I'm being the good fellow, getting you back into that costume and redeeming those hearts. And also asking you out."
Oui, absolument: nothing made sense, every sentence less than the one before. Francis stuttered for a while, finally got himself to set the cup of tea down on the table, fidget with his bangs and finally say: "Why?"
Arthur, looking rather unimpressed, simply answered: "Oh, I don't know… The weather's fine, you look fanciful and you should get to let your hair down. Literally", then he smiled again and all Francis managed to think was: "Please, please, please, s'il vous plait, stop blushing, now", and possibly that a grey sky and foggy air didn't count as "fine weather" in his book.
Arthur quirked an eyebrow: "Why are you blushing so much? I mean, you don't hit me as the blushing type." Francis looked away and answered: "Oh, I don't know. My circulatory system seems to have a mind of its own" with a sarcastic tone. Arthur shrugged and Francis really, really wanted to leave because he really, really wanted to say yes to the date but he was absolutely positive that he was unable to pronounce that word right now and that it really would be a mistake. His thoughts were running and trying to connect logical behaviour patterns and maybe they would have, but when he lifted his eyes to meet the emerald ones, he immediately blanched.
No, too green, too beautiful, too much like a picture – Francis was not good with pictures, especially sudden ones – and he had stiffed completely and for some unknown reason, all he could do was shake his head and turn away.
Oh, let the gods of all moments have their head shoved in a locker. That was what Francis thought as he walked behind the counter untying his apron. There was Mrs Teapot who had apparently been following the whole scene as she was now giving him a disapproving frown.
"That right there, young man, is a fine catch here", she said holding her index finger up. Francis merely looked at her half embarrassed and half disappointed and said: "I know. That, I know."
Ms Mahogany looked at Francis's back until he disappeared to the kitchen. She shook her head lightly and sighed. As she turned around she saw Arthur approaching the counter and when he got there to pay, she said:
"Do let yourself be discouraged quite yet, dear. Francis is quite the catch, you know?" Arthur quirked his eyebrows and smiled a little: "That, I know", reaching into his pocket and giving the elderly woman a folded paper note. "Give him this, will you, please?"
Of course she did. On the note there stood a brief and cryptic message – cryptic had you not been there – with uneven, hasty letters.
"If this is about the socks, don't worry, they're safe. In fact I'm wearing them (they're nice)", accompanied by a phone number. Which presumably was Arthur's. Or then it was a prank. Either way, the note kept on bothering Francis. He physically could not rip it apart or throw it away, but if he kept it in his pocket, he could think of nothing else, if he left it at home, it would wait with patience. And so it stayed.
A few more sketched lines, that's all.

After one especially awkward literature class, Francis tried to dash out as usual, but this time, his escape didn't succeed. He dropped his notebook – oh the pain of the cliché – and someone else picked it up for him.
Who else but Arthur Kirkland? After a few awkward moments of shuffling with notes and stuttering something incomprehensible, Arthur said:
"You know, when I gave you that number, I honestly thought you'd call", smirking nonetheless. Francis didn't know how to answer, so he blushed: "Well…"
"Just answer me this: is it because you don't want to?" the Brit asked, making Francis fluster even further. "Why, why does he do this to me?" he wondered silently in his mind.
There was a prolonged silence and risen eyebrows, but finally Francis answered: "Non… Not exactly… I mean I would…" and it was enough.
"Good, let's get going then!" Arthur chimed and started walking towards the doors in nonchalance. "Where?" Francis asked confused.
"Well, I'm not exactly walking you home", was the answer he got.

…

Not exactly walking Francis home was exactly what the Brit did. He took every possible detour, walked through every possible park, and really, Francis hadn't realized how little of London he had actually seen.
At times he'd stop and wonder why on earth he was following that mad man's paths, but then that exact man would say something which would either make him blush or really annoyed, and he'd just brush his doubts away and come up with a comeback.
Eventually they passed something unbearably charming: A teacart. It was a small cart, painted white and either made look old or just actually old wood, with kitsch style roses painted on its sides and the words "Warm English Tea" scripted among them in a highly detailed Elizabethan manner.
Francis couldn't pretend as if he hated the Brits, not even to honour his French heritage: they were much too enchanting with their civilized temper and anger hidden in clinks of silver against porcelain cups.
Unfortunately the tea Arthur bought for them from the cart was served in brown paper cups with plastic spoons. Francis didn't mind – he preferred coffee in any case – but Arthur scowled lightly and made the Frenchman laugh a bit.

For a while they simply walked side by side, sipping at their teas, but then Francis spotted a flock of blackbirds against a violet-tinted sky and let out a small sigh.
"Oh how I wish I had a camera, look how beautiful they are", he said pointing to the birds, taking the Brit off-guard, since up until now it had been ridiculously hard to get the Frenchman talking, let alone having him start a conversation. Of course Arthur responded as quickly as possible: "A-ah, yes, they really are. But why don't you just get a camera? They certainly don't have to be all that expensive."
Francis frowned slightly at that and said: "Well… I wouldn't be any good at that, certainly not… I mean I could never be a photographer."
"You do not need to be a photographer to take photos. Besides, you should do what you like", Arthur said, mildly shrugging.
"Ah, well, I'm a painter in any case, not a good one, really, but I do enjoy it. It's just that much harder capturing a beautiful moment with canvas and paint. And slower too, so they pile up."
Arthur hadn't known the other man painted, but come to think about it, he wasn't even surprised: "You can't possibly want to paint every single beautiful thing you see, that's insane."
"Why? I like beautiful things and in the end I'd have at least a room filled with exactly those, never mind if they were made by me. That would be nice", Francis answered jokingly, although Arthur got a funny feeling, which told him that the other had thought about this a bit more than just a joke.
"Woah, you are insane. It's easier if you just live a little and get a camera. Or just start walking around with a mirror in your pocket", he added with a flirtatious smirk. Francis blushed furiously at that and rolled his eyes.
They'd finally arrived in front of Francis's apartment – with some instructions from himself obviously – and stopped there. The Frenchman was still blushing but now it was rather because he felt rather embarrassed about talking about himself like that. And yes, because Arthur had once again insinuated something about him looking good, so. "Well", Arthur started, "this was nice."
"It was", Francis mumbled back, "Um, I, uh… Okay, well", and that was his queue to leave, so he simply turned around and hurried to the door, but not before practically shoving something into Arthur's hand.
"Hey, Francis", the Brit shouted after him, so he turned around and saw him smiling, "I'll see you in class. Good night". Francis tried to smile back and say something like: "Same to you", but what came out was rather: "Bonne nuit", after which turned to his apartment.

It was funny; he hadn't been able to talk French to anyone not French in… Well, ever, in fact. He'd always wanted to, to be honest, because he thought that it was a language filled with meaning even if you didn't speak it. (With Arthur it certainly did.)
Ah bien, bon, maybe this meant that one day he'd be able to finish that sentence he'd started outside.

While walking home, Arthur opened the crumbled up ball of paper and read it; there was the name Francis written in teeny tiny letters, even and perfectly scripted, and under them a phone number.

He smiled. There was so much about that guy.

Oui, absolument: Yes, absolutely
s'il vous plait: please
Ah, bien, bon: Ah well
Bonne nuit: Good night

Merci, thank you for reading, still a few chapters to go :)