Um, I did rate it T for teens, and most teens know many varieties of curse words, but, uh, just in case?

WARNING for language, which is most coming out of England's mouth.

With an almost equal amount of precision and grace to a swan landing on a lake, a small blue car promptly pulled into the apartment complex's parking lot. It wasn't a very nice car, not something you'd expect Francis to drive at the very least. The front bumper was beginning to sag, and there was a dent in the roof from who-knows-what, but what could you expect from a couple hundred dollar vehicle? It was small and dinky; there's not much more to say.

Francis exited the car with his usual poise, brushing off his shirt and slamming the car door. It wasn't an angry slam though; it was a habit he had picked up, since the doors didn't always close properly. Francis had to admit, he didn't much like the car; it wasn't classy enough for him. In fact, the only thing that would make it at least a little sexy was if he himself was sitting on the roof of the car, wearing nothing but his rose petal Speedo.

Maybe later. He was sure if he did it now, it would force Arthur to leave the country without him. Francis didn't feel much like losing his job to something like that, either.

Earlier that day he had seen a young boy, maybe about seventeen or so, full of piss and vigor, and it made him remember the early days. As Francis locked the car doors, he reminisced on his adolescence. Before he had figured out what he wanted to do in life, (and this was all way before he had met Arthur) Francis was a sort of rebel child. His father was an alcoholic, and his mother worked herself to the bone to pay the bills. He grew up in what was basically a slum, and normally tried to stay out of the house as much as possible.

His childhood was not a happy one.

When Francis turned fifteen, he joined a cause; it's funny, he can't even recall what it was for. But, he had joined it, and protested regularly about something-or-other. Once he even streaked across the Prime Minister's lawn.

Francis chuckled, remembering the scene. He had been locked up for a while for that; mostly because he couldn't pay the fine.

Thankfully he had cleaned himself up for the most part when he had met Arthur. By then he had figured out that he actually wanted to do something with his life, and all the shenanigans he had gotten tangled up in just slowed him down.

Francis climbed the stairs to the apartment, noticing Antonio open his door just as he reached the top step on their floor.

"Hola," the Spaniard greeted casually, leaning against his doorframe, "If you happen to see el Britanico pequeno, tell him to return my car keys, por favor."

Giving a little grin at the nickname Antonio always used for Arthur, Francis nodded, "Oui, I will try."

Francis turned back to his door, opened it, and walked in. The first thing that he noticed was Arthur, lying on the couch, out like a light. A book laid face-down on his husband's chest, and his arms were draped limply over his stomach.

Francis just stared at his lover for a moment, taking in just everything about Arthur. Thank god they had met. It was true that he probably could've made it out of the situation he was in without Arthur, but he was irreplaceable, even if he was insanely vulgar. He had given the Frenchman so many fond memories. Honestly, Arthur made life fun.

Francis exhaled, looking away from his husband, placing his bag on the chair next to the door, which already had said man's bag on it from the previous day.

The Frenchman slipped over toward his spouse, picking up the book, and examining it before closing it and placing it on the coffee table. Some of the pages were crinkled, but it looked fine. Arthur shifted slightly in his sleep, eyebrows twitching downwards.

Francis watched the eyebrows for a moment, and was unable to resist the chance to mess with Arthur. Also, he wanted to touch those eyebrows at least once. He couldn't help himself; those things were huge, almost as wide as the width of his thumb.

Crouching down, Francis smirked, and ran a finger along one of the caterpillars on the Briton's face. Again, Arthur's face twitched, a small frown forming on his face. On the other hand, Francis' grin grew wider and more sinister. He was quite enjoying this. Francis repeated the action once more, getting a similar reaction from Arthur. The light sleeper opened an eye, confused frown on his face at what had been touching his face. When Francis' guilty but overall amused face came into view, the Englishman nearly punched him.

A blush swept across his face like wildfire, and Arthur slapped a hand over his eyebrows. "What, what were you doing?" he demanded. Francis flashed his husband a sly smirk, "Just admiring zhese furry zhings on your face, mon cher~" Arthur shot him a glare, "Are you suggesting that there is something wrong with my eyebrows?"

"Non, but you should try waxing zhem," Francis teased, his eyes flickering with mischievous humor. "I will not wax my eyebrows, you frog, so you can just buzz off about it!" Francis smirked, and they went on bickering for a couple more minutes.

Finally, when Francis decided he had had his fill of messing with the Brit, he stood up, retracting and moving over to the kitchen. Maybe he could sneak a peek at what thing he would have to brace himself for. Francis swung around the corner, only to be met with a chilling scene. Flickering yellow and orange lights danced on the interior of the stove, the fire licking up all the oxygen and almost pleaded to be let out for more. Francis rushed over to it, foolishly pulling open the stove door. Red hot flames spat out at Francis and the Frenchman threw up an arm to shield his face. He was almost too late. The fire lapped at his shirt and arm, scorching his skin and clothes.

Francis stumbled backward with a loud curse, shaking his arm furiously. The fire burning his formerly marvelous pink dress shirt went out after much flailing.

Arthur ran in a moment later in a cold sweat, the fire alarm screeching overhead. "Bloody hell!" he yelled, and dashed to a cabinet near the fridge, yanking it open.

Jerking out the fire extinguisher, the Englishman pulled the pin, spun around toward the fire, aimed, and wrenched the lever down.

Foamy sodium bicarbonate blasted out of the nozzle at the flaming stove, putting out the small fire quickly. However, with Arthur's poor and panicked aim, the whole countertop was quickly covered in the white, fluffy substance.

After all trace of fire had been smothered out, the Englishman let out a shaky sigh, collapsing beside Francis, and dropping the empty fire extinguisher with shaky hands. Both of them were lost for words for a moment, the experience knocking the breath out of their lungs.

As Arthur began to get his breath back again, relief flooded through him. Bloody fucking bollocks, that was stupid. What a cock-up that had been. With a dry smile, Arthur reflected; at least they were alive, that was a plus, and…

"Are you okay?" Arthur asked quickly, remembering his husband had caught fire earlier. The Englishman's eyes darted to Francis' damaged shirt, then to his face into his blue eyes. Francis gave a weary sigh, examining the hole in his shirt. "Oui, I zhink I am… zhough, my shirt is ruined…" Smiling slyly over at Arthur, he inched closer, and simply leaned shoulder to shoulder with the Brit.

Arthur exhaled, still shaking slightly. Thank goodness. The Englishman mimicked his husband, and fell into the lean; his heart hammering like he had just ran a marathon.

"You were very 'eroic back zhere," he hummed teasingly, closing his eyes.

Arthur's lips twitched in a smile, but he still felt a little sick from all the excitement, and just let it fade.

"Sorry."

Francis said nothing for a moment, before sighing again, "It is alright."

"It's… not. I was incredibly inattentive."

"Shush now," Francis said, frowning. "We are all fine, are we not?"

"Yes, but…"

"Non," Francis replied, as if completely dismissing the conversation into oblivion. "Now, let's clean all zhis up." Francis leaned forward, pushing himself off the ground, and turned, holding out a hand to Arthur.

"I didn't know you 'ad so much in you mon cher~" Francis gave a smirk, eyes glittering with a mischievous air as he gestured at the mounds of white with his other hand.

"Wha—Oh," a little blush spread across Arthurs face as he scowled at the stupid perverted joke that was so predictable of Francis. "Surely you can do better than that," Arthur growled, and the Frenchman only gave a grin. The Englishman snatched at his husband's hand, and pulled himself back onto his feet.

"Alright," Arthur sighed, looking around the kitchen, "Oh…"

"Oui?"

"What about dinner?"

"We will do somezhing about zhat later."

Arthur gave a little nod, and they turned back to the mess. The two glanced over the countertops, the open oven, the fridge, the stovetop, the floor; all coated in a fluffy, white, snow-like scene. The air hung thin with smoke, but the two didn't seem to notice, and if they did, they didn't care in the slightest. It wasn't like they could open a window anyway; they didn't even have one.

Arthur was the first to move over to a kitchen drawer, pulling it open and taking a couple rags out. He tossed one to Francis. Then, he pushed himself up, and took his own washcloth, wetted it under some running water, and began to scrub the counter and sink. Francis joined him not a moment later.

About an hour later, the two men had finished cleaning up most of the mess, except for the oven. They had decided to work on that last.

Arthur pulled the utterly ruined Yorkshire Pudding out of the oven, mourning what would've been a good dinner. Francis, however, was secretly relieved that he wouldn't have to eat the monstrosity Arthur had probably made. English food was an acquired taste already, but when Arthur made it; God help you.

Of course, Francis didn't say any of this. It was a bit of a sore subject for the Brit.

Placing the long-dead meal on the counter, Arthur glanced into the oven. Even though most of it was covered in a white film, which was starting to harden after so long, the Englishman could tell the poor appliance had suffered some damage. Arthur saturated his towel for what seemed the hundredth time, and got to work.

Parts of the inside were slightly melted, but nothing as serious as to prevent them from using it again. Arthur kind of hoped they could just not tell the landlord. He was… nice, but his face was just so intimidating. Francis usually tried to avoid him as much as possible, the coward. Of course, this wasn't quite an option. They'd have to explain the stove damage one day anyway, it was best to do it now.

The oven was dazzling clean now, besides the slightly blackened parts Arthur couldn't seem to clean with just a wet cloth.

Francis sat at the dining room table, watching Arthur work from behind, not allowed to clean anymore. He had been banished from the kitchen after trying to grab Arthur from behind and bite his ears.

The Yorkshire Pudding was now living in the trash, and it wasn't going anywhere until the next trash day.

"Well, it looks like we're done," Arthur said, coming out to join Francis. The Frenchman had changed into a maroon dress shirt while his husband was cleaning. "If only you were in a maid outfit…" Francis sighed, shaking his head dramatically, "Such a shame."

Arthur decided to ignore that comment, and set himself down at the table. "So, you're okay?"

"Oui, oui… I am fin—" Francis began, but stopped, flinched, and quickly grabbed his injured arm. Arthur bolted up, alarmed, and ran over to Francis. "Give me your arm, quickly, let me see," said the Briton urgently. "Non, I am fine, m—"

"Just give me your arm, damn it!"

Francis was a bit surprised at Arthur's extremely agitated tone, and obediently offered his arm. Arthur unbuttoned the cuffs of Francis' shirt, and rolled up the sleeve. The Brit expected to see some sort of bad burn, or blood, or any kind of abrasion to the skin, but there was nothing. He was thoroughly confused.

Francis had meant to tease Arthur a bit more, but when the Frenchman had seen the seriousness in his husbands face, and the sincerity in his worry, Francis had lost all his motivation.

Francis leaned forward and grabbed Arthur in a hug, pulling the Englishman in tight. "Wha—?" Arthur said, blush spreading across his face. "Désolé, désolé…" Francis murmured with a heartfelt smile, "I am perfectly fine."

"Then…!" Arthur began crossly, but then stopped, and let himself relax a bit. Giving a little sigh, Arthur wrapped his arms around Francis. "I'm glad you're okay," the Englishman said softly.

"Merci, ma belle," Francis hummed in reply. "It is fortunate none of us were 'armed."

For the next few moments, they just held themselves in each other's arms, until Arthur finally pulled away, "A-anyway," he muttered, looking down at the ground so he didn't have to meet Francis eye-to-eye, "Let's get something to eat. I'm ravished."

"Oui, let's see what we 'ave in the fridge," Francis said with a little smile, giving Arthur a peck on the forehead before withdrawing completely and moving into the kitchen to open the fridge.

"We 'ave left over soup…"

"Alright, that sounds good," Arthur said, plopping down into a kitchen chair, and letting himself unwind. This day had been a lot more exciting than he was used to. "Oh, wait, hold on,"

Francis paused before pulling the leftovers out of the refrigerator, "Oui?"

"We need to call the landlord first…"

"Zhe… Zhe landlord… but…" Francis said a little dismayed.

"We have to. We rent this apartment, so we have to report any, uh, problems."

"…Zhen you talk to 'im."

"You pansy."

"I… I am not a pansy."

Arthur and Francis just stared at each other for a moment, before Arthur just silently got up, and walked over to the phone. With just a few numbers, the phone began to ring.

After the second ring, someone finally picked up.

"Yes?"

"This is Arthur Kirkland from Room 29, we've had a… small house fire but we extinguished it, and we just would appreciate it if you could tell us how much we have to pay you in reimbursement."

"Ah house f're?" A small pause, where there was a little background chatter, then "I'll be up 'n ah m'ment."

"Oh, you don't have to co—" Arthur started, but the landlord had already hung up. Arthur paused, then sighed, and replaced the receiver. "He'll be here soon," the Brit informed his husband.

Francis scratched his head uneasily, sighing, "Oui… alright."

Not five minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door. Arthur answered it quickly, and let a tall, slightly flushed man inside. He seemed a little out of breath as he pushed up his glasses. "That was… fast. Did… you run…? You really didn't have to…" Arthur mumbled as the landlord entered the house, his blue-green eyes sweeping over the room quickly. Francis was standing in the archway between the dining room and the living room, but swiftly moved out of the way as the landlord walked up to him.

The landlord made his way to the kitchen, crouched down, and examined the inside of the stove. "How much do you think this'll cost us?" Arthur asked, joining Francis as they moved to stand just inside the doorway to the kitchen.

After a short-but-seemingly-long patch of silence, the landlord said curtly in his thick accent, "M'ybe ab't f've hundr'd doll'rs…"

Francis clicked his tongue; there goes buying a new shirt to replace his burnt one. He only bought the best; to appear fabulous, one must spend fabulously.

Arthur ignored him and continued, "Do you want us to buy it, or would you like the money for it?"

"If ya' could, I would r'ther ya' buy it ya'selves."

The Brit nodded, and thanked the landlord for his time, apologizing for the oven.

And with that, the landlord was gone. He seemed to slip out of the apartment so swiftly that Francis could've sworn he was late for something. A date, perhaps?

But that didn't matter now. Francis turned back to Arthur, and they both let out a breath that they hadn't known they had been holding in. The tension in the room appeared to have followed the landlord out, because the next second, Francis had drifted over to Arthur, giving him a little peck.

"Soup now, oui?"

"Yes," Arthur said, a little disgruntled, but they both knew he was inwardly happy.

Francis moved back into the kitchen with grace. Arthur made his way over to the table, and not a moment after he had sat down, he stood up again. He should probably try to help somehow, to repent for today.

The Briton followed his feet into the kitchen, where Francis was standing over the stove, swirling the leftover soup in a pot as it heated up.

"Uh, can I help with anything?" Arthur said timidly; it didn't look like there was much to do.

Francis glanced over at him before taking a quick look around the kitchen, "Non, zhere isn't really anyzhing." He smirked, and said with a cheerfulness that could only mean he planned on doing something Arthur wouldn't like, "Alzhough… Come over 'ere."

There was something about Francis' smirk that made Arthur uneasy. "No, why?" was all he could get out, giving his husband a look of distrust.

"Oh, but mon cher~" Francis purred, shooting back a completely different look at Arthur.

Arthur frowned and ignored him, and continued on a little more irritated than before, "So, there isn't anything for me to do?"

Francis gave a pouting look, "Well, non,"

"Okay, fine." Arthur cut him off before he could continue his sentence and walked out of the kitchen before Francis could start any more shenanigans.

Not a moment later, though, Arthur was back in the kitchen, getting out silverware and bowls. "I might as well set the table," he offered the explanation in self defense, as not to be mocked. He quickly left the kitchen, leaving Francis all by himself in the small room.

After dinner, Arthur and Francis cleaned up, and eventually joined each other in the bedroom. "We should probably get to bed early," Arthur said, indicating that Francis should try and keep his frisky nature to himself tonight. "We have to get up in the morning, early mind you, for the appointment with Kiku."

Francis gave a little frown of discontent, "Oui, oui…" he sighed dramatically, but the effect was lost, due to the fact that he was buttoning up his pajamas.

Arthur slipped into his usual night outfit too, and climbed into bed. Soon after, Francis joined him. As always, Arthur found himself in the grip of Francis' long arms, although today seemed a little different. Instead of any usual teasing or hugging or fighting, Francis was completely silent. Arthur turned in the Frenchman's grasp, and looked over at him.

"…What's wrong?" Arthur asked.

Francis didn't reply, just watched Arthur for a while.

Finally, Arthur broke the silence, asking a slightly different question, "…Are you nervous?"

Francis gave a little grin, "A little," he admitted.

Arthur was surprised, but then, he wasn't. This was kind of a big thing for Francis. And although this was perfect information to poke fun at Francis, now wasn't really the time.

"More like, I zhink, strangely curious as to 'ow zhis is suppose to work…" Francis murmured, breaking Arthur's train of thought.

"Oh, yes. Yes, I was wondering that too. But I'm sure Kiku will give us the details when we arrive there tomorrow. So, not to worry."

Francis' smile broadened slightly and he gave Arthur a little peck.

"Alright zhen, bonne nuit, mon chéri."

Ahh... I'm sorry it's so late! I've been busy with work and vacation and worse of all, my computer catching a virus. Gotta go get that fixed. In the meantime though, I have all the chapters on a pendrive, and I will be working on the next one diligently. Hopefully I'll get it together sooner.

Thank you, all the readers who have stuck with me for so long (it hasn't really been that long, but thank you for putting up with my delay) and thank you to the new readers, who leave favorites and reviews that keep me going!