Might kick the rating on this up a notch. We'll see.

Chapter 4

Arthur moaned. Alfred's hands knew him too well, running over his chest and squeezing the pert skin as his tongue slide into his mouth. He allowed himself to be pushed against the wall, the warm hands now moving southwards, fumbling with his belt buckle. A knee squeezed between his legs, pushing lightly against his crotch as the fingers dipped past his waistline. But they were hesitating, something Alfred never did.

New hands were touching him now. Long fingers that danced down his neck and warm lips gently kissed him. He breathed in heavily, the smell of lilies overpowering the familiar coffee. Rough and calloused skin gave way to a smooth touch. Butterfly-light stokes that left him wanting more. "Al-lfred…?" He breathed, opening his eyes and trying to identify the owner of the velvety hands.

Navy eyes stared at him and the wavy blond hair was tangled. "Oh Arthur…" He said, gently kissing him while his hands began to rub below his belt, "Don't be silly… he's not here. It's just you and me."

Arthur sat up, pulling the covers up to his chest, panting heavily. Drizzled sunlight crept into the room from the French doors as his breathing slowly returned to normal. After ferociously rubbing his face in his hands, trying to erase the dream from his mind, there was a rustling noise to his left. From behind long hair, all-too familiar blue eyes stared at him as a yawn played at lips that had been kissing him not five minutes ago. "Bonjour," Francis said, sliding the covers off his mercifully clothed legs, "Have a good sleep?"

Not trusting his voice, Arthur just shook his head. Shrugging, Francis got to his feet and tromped over to his bag, rummaging inside and pulling out clothes, holding them up and inspecting them. Arthur watched for a moment until, in a flash of realization, he remembered the contents of his own suitcase. He had wine. Scrumptious, expensive and dry wine.

Glad for the distraction, he leapt out of his bed and clambered over to his luggage, flicking it open. Shattered pieces of glasses littered his puce-stained clothes. In a stunned silence, he picked through his clothes, locating the bottom end of the wine bottle. He turned it over, watching the last few drops drip onto the floor.

"Fuuuuuuuccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkk…" Arthur moaned, slumping to his knees. "I hate my life…" he said casting the bottle aside. No wine last night. No wine today. This was turning into a terrible tour of the vineyards of France, not that this couldn't be attributed to the fact that the nearest French domaine was at least a hundred miles away.

Francis appeared at his shoulder, blue eyes travelling over the sad remains of Arthur's clothes. "I saw a laundromat down the road." He said, picking up the remains of the bottle and stepping carefully, disposing of the pieces in the wastepaper basket, "We can clean your clothes there."

"But what will I wear?" Arthur moaned, folding his arms and pouting, "I can't be seen in this shirt! It's disgusting!"

Something hit his head, falling to the floor in a crumpled heap. He looked around to see Francis' turtle neck lying on the ground. Cautiously, he picked it up, smelling it to make sure it wasn't dirty. It smelt like Francis but besides that it seemed perfectly wearable. "What are you going to wear?" He asked, getting to his feet and pulling off his shirt. The turtleneck was incredibly soft and he couldn't help but clutch his arms close to his chest, snuggling there for a moment.

"I brought other clothes." Francis said, gesturing towards his dufflebag, "and I was smart enough not to pack a bottle of wine so I'm fine." Once they were dressed, Arthur feeling slightly awkward in the turtleneck and Francis looking casual as always in a dark crimson dress shirt, they went downstairs, grabbed their coats, greeted a sleep-deprived Feliciano and stepped out into the street.

The laundromat was nothing more than three or four - the last could possibly be a portal to Vulcan - washing machines pushed against a wall, rattling loudly as the laundry tumbled around inside. A woman with long brown hair was the only other patron and gave Arthur and Francis a friendly smile as they entered. Arthur took note of the stain remover she had, knowing regular detergent wasn't going to do the trick. As Francis paid the crotchety old owner of the store, who was clearly not happy at having her The Price Is Right interrupted, Arthur approached the young brunet. "Scuzi." He said, realizing a moment to late that his knowledge of the Italian language was close to non-existent.

Her bright green eyes look at him inquiringly as she continued to fold her pile of towels. "Sì?"

Arthur paused, racking his brain while trying to appear as though he was just preoccupied with his fingernail, "Uh…" He pointed at himself, "Can I use your," he gestured towards her, wondering why she was looking so amused instead of confused, "spray?" he mimed squeezing the bottle.

She laughed, making her face light up. "You'd like to use my spray?" She asked in almost-flawless English, "Or would you like me to play a game charades with you?"

His cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry, I just wasn't sure if you spoke English or not."

She was still giggling quietly as she passed over the bottle. "It's alright. I had troubles when I first moved here."

"Oh yeah?" Arthur said, laying his shirts out on the table and absently applying liberal amount of spray, the stains suddenly the farthest thing from his mind.

She nodded, placing a folded apron on top of her teetering basket of towels. A traditional girl, and probably not a bad cook either. Arthur shuffled closer under the pretence of straightening the arm of his shirt. "My home country is very different from Italy," she sighed, slightly wistfully, "Not to say Rome has been bad, everyone here is very friendly." Their arms brushed and Arthur was sure he had a slightly dopey smile on his face. Her heart-shaped face was very pretty and she smelt of fresh baking that reminded him of his childhood. Just as he was about to ask for her name and perhaps if she'd want to get a coffee with him (Hey, if Alfred had already moved on…) An arm wrapped over his shoulder, cutting him off.

"And who is this mignon chou-fleur?" Francis asked, gripping Arthur closely in a much-too protective manner.

The young lady smiled at the tall Frenchman, while Arthur glared at him. "I'm Elizaveta." She said and lifted up her hamper, tucking it under her arm with some difficulty, "It was nice to meet you both. Maybe we'll see each other around." And with one more honeyed smile, she left, hurrying into the street, trying to keep her washings dry.

"What the hell were you doing?" The Brit demanded, shoving Francis' arm off his shoulder, "I was talking to her!"

Holding up his hands in his defense, Francis shook his head, his lip twitching. "Désolé Sourcils, I did not realize that I cannot talk to you while you attempt to flirt." He said, making Arthur's cheeks burn. He tightened his fist, intending to hit the other man when he realized that he was still holding the spraybottle. With a start, he ran out of the laundromat just in time to see Elizaveta's deep violet car turn the corner. Squinting he managed to make out the golden words tattooed on the window. "Edelweiss Law Firm" and the street address.

Clutching the spray, a tiny bubble of hope expanding in his chest, Arthur stepped back inside. Giving Francis a haughty look, he made his way to his shirts, placing them inside the machine and feeding it a few coins. Satisfied that the appliance wasn't going to send his wash to Narnia, Arthur looked around for a place to sit. As fate would have it, there was only one available seat and that was right beside Francis, who was resolutely pretending as though the Brit didn't exist, hiding behind a newspaper.

Wondering what exactly he had done that had condemned him to such a terrible week, Arthur plopped down beside Francis. His fingers played with the bottle as he stared blankly at his washing swirl round and round. The dull tumbling of the machine coupled with he drone of the TV and the periodical shuffling of paper was making him incredibly drowsy. Despite his continued anger at the man, he shifted closer to Francis, sinking lower in his seat. When their shoulders touched, Francis said nothing, only giving him a raised eyebrow before returning to his paper. Yawning, Arthur rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted. It was stuffy, but pleasantly warm in the laundromat and the black turtleneck was so cosy…

By the time his head came to rest on Francis' arm, he was dead asleep.

It was a quieter setting now, maybe a chalet or something, why else would he be sitting beside a roaring fireplace and drinking hot cocoa? Someone shifted beside him and he looked around to see Francis and he realized that he was practically sitting in the man's lap.

"Something wrong? You aren't feeling sick again are you?" He asked, reached out and placing the back of his hand against Arthur's forehead. Shaking his head, the Brit tried to weasel his way off of Francis' when the hand gripped his chin, stopping him. "That's good…" Smiling, the Frenchman kissed him. Arthur carefully placed his mug down, wrapping his arms around Francis' neck, ignoring the part of his mind that was telling him to slap the bastard frog.

Arthur sat up as the kiss dragged away. The imaginary lips disappeared as he opened his eyes, staring around. He was lying on thee seats, a white coat spread over his chest. He saw the familiar form of Francis standing at the table, his arms moving as he folded clothes. Arthur could hear him humming absently under his breath. Getting to his feet, he stumbled over to Francis, nudging him as he yawned again. "How long have I been out?" He asked, smacking his lips.

Placing the last shirt delicately on the neat pile, Francis heaved them into his arms. "About two hours. You must've been tired, did you not sleep well last night?"

There was an odd gleam in the Frenchman's eye, as though he knew exactly what Arthur had been dreaming about. His cheeks flushing, Arthur suddenly felt much more awake. "No. I had a fine sleep. I think I'm just a bit stressed is all." and, eager for a change of subject, he said, "You folded my shirts…. Thank you." Stretching out his hands, he took the top half of the pile, glad for the chance to cover his burning face.

"De rien." Francis said.

They left, making sure to be quiet so as not to wake the old woman who had fallen asleep in front of the television. It was raining, so they didn't dally in the street, glad for the refuge of the hostel. The older Vargas brother was manning the desk, playing a game of solitaire while Antonio was at his shoulder, happily adding in suggestions much to growing annoying of Lovino. They muttered hellos, not keen on dealing with a clearly irate Italian and slipped up the stairs into their room. Arthur dumped his clean shirts onto the dresser, glad that hen now had something presentable to wear. He turned to Francis, who was sitting on his bed, giving an Arthur a "so what now?" look.

"I need to get my papers in order," Arthur said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the small bureau "Then we can figure what we're going to do in the meantime." Okay, so it was a blatant scheme to see Elizaveta again, indeed he only remembered that he needed to get home after seeing her car window. But Francis didn't need to know that.

The Frenchman leaned back on his bed, tucking his arms behind his head. "The nearest law form is in the city's centre and I have no money in my budget for a taxi there and back."

Green eyes narrowed. Figured the Frenchman would be unhelpful at such a pivotal time. "Doesn't matter," He said, "I saw an advertisement for a one nearby, it's called-"

"Edelweiss, if I'm not mistaken." Francis said, grinning knowingly at him, "You want to return the spray bottle, do you not?"

Obviously too blatant.

They both looked at the stain remover balanced on the pile of clean shirts. "S-so what if I do," Arthur said bitingly.

The tall blond only laughed, sitting up, "As long as you admit you had other reasons to go, Sourcils." He left the room, Arthur following after him, making sure to snatch up the bottle.

Once back in the lobby, they found Antonio sitting in the armchair, nursing a growing lump on his head while Lovino was still at the desk, slamming the cards down as though each had caused him great personal offence. Arthur was surprised the desk hadn't shattered. They had reached the door before a voice called them back.

"Take an umbrella, it's really starting to pour," Antonio said, getting to his feet. He approached the desk, making sure to keep a good arms length away, "Can I have an umbrella, Lovi?" The Spaniard asked, giving him a toothy grin.

Muttering obscenities under his breath, the Italian rummaged for a moment, pulling out a green umbrella and tossing it to Arthur, who barely caught it before it hit his face. "This isn't near big enough for two!" Arthur said, looking at the small rod.

"Don't be a fucking girl about it, you'll both fit" Lovino barked, effectively ending the conversation.

Francis and Arthur stepped out of the lobby, the door closing behind them just in time to muffle Lovino's cries of rage as Antonio pulled him into a noogie for no apparent sane reason. "I hope he knows what he's doing," Arthur said, looking back in through the small window, "Lovino really doesn't like him." He opened the umbrella as Francis gave a snort of disbelief, "What?"

"You really think Lovino hates Antonio?" Francis said. Arthur nodded, huddling close to the handle of the umbrella, "Ah, well, je dit rien." He stepped beside Arthur, gripping the umbrella right above Arthur's hand.

Lovino had been right. If they leaned close, they were both spared from the downpour. Arthur didn't mind the cold, with Francis beside him, there was enough heat for him to still think clearly and not fear losing his fingers. Not know exactly where they were going, they spent several minutes wandering the street, Arthur leading Francis as they squinted through the deluge, trying to read the numbers on buildings. Finally he spotted the plum automobile and they trod down the road, the house - a giant of a home - bright against the dark buildings. Arthur closed the umbrella, shaking it lightly, glad for the safety of a small overhang. The mansion seemed entirely out of place in the rundown street, the paint a spotless white and elegantly craved Grecian pillars that held up a small deck decorated the outside.

A pit of worry had formed in Arthur's chest, squeezing the bubble of hope tightly. Elizaveta may have looked as though she belonged in this Victorian-esque home, but he wasn't completely sold on her being able to afford it all on her own. Hoping desperately that she was living with her parents, he reached forward, intending to press the doorbell. Thin fingers seized his wrist, "Look." Francis whispered before Arthur could speak. He pointed at a small sign, in the door's window.

Please do not ring doorbell. If here regarding legal business, let yourself in.

SILENTLY.

Arthur lowered his hand, but Francis didn't let go, tugging at the too-long sleeve. "You didn't change," He remarked, letting his fingers trace along Arthur's wrist, "Don't think of stealing it Sourcils, it was a gift from my uncle in Turkey." He added with a small wink.

Drawing his hand into the sleeves of the coat Arthur said nothing, letting the Frenchman open the door. It was warm inside the entrance way and they shirked off their coats and shoes, placing them neatly in a corner. They didn't speak as soft music was emanating from a door to their right.

They peaked around the corner into the room. It was large with a bay window that overlooked the sea. The creamy walls were coloured with dark oak bookshelves laden with heavy tomes. In a corner was a beige couch that had crimson pillows and a chenille throw, which provided the otherwise mute room with accents of colour. In the very centre was a glossy black piano, who's player had his back to the doorway, his arms moving up and down the pale keys.

Waves of low notes accompanied the delicate melody. Arthur swallowed, his throat constricting as he remembered the concert he dragged Alfred to. He had complained the entire time, saying that if no one was singing, he didn't want to listen. Arthur pointed out, in a very harsh whisper as their argument was attracting many glares - that "Duelling Banjos" was one of his favourite pieces of music and there was no singing in that. The American had found his revenge by dragging the Brit into the bathroom and leaving angry red marks along his neck that would be impossible to hide. Arthur was lucky that a custodian had walked in on them or else Alfred probably would've shagged him right then and there in the washroom.

He chuckled sadly, shaking his head. Here is he was listening to symphony-grade music and all he could think about how much Alfred hated it.

"I'd appreciate silence while I'm playing." A sharp voice snapped. The pianist had turned round, dark eyes glinting as he lowered the cover of the piano.. His chocolate hair was smoothed back, professional and smart looking save for the single piece standing on end.

Suppressing the urge to jump forward and smooth the piece back (Couldn't he go two seconds without being reminded of Alfred?) Arthur stepped into the room, bowing his head. "I am sorry. I wanted to return this," He held up the bottle of stain remover, "I believe it belongs to your sister."

The man stood, pushing his glasses up his slightly pointed nose, "I don't have a sister." Arthur's heart fell, coming to rest somewhere near his stomach, "You must mean Elizaveta." As her name left his lips, she appeared, a frying pan held in her hand. "You know these two?" He asked, waving at Arthur and Francis.

She nodded. "I met them at the laundromat." Arthur thought he detected a slightly apologetic tone to her voice and the bubble of hope suddenly swelled. This man must be her abusive step-father or maybe just a a man who hired her as a maid, but now wouldn't let her leave because she owes him money that was used to pay for her sick mother's heart transplant. Arthur was a successful business man, he could help pay off her debts, offer her a place in his home and eventually woe her into marriage with candlelit dinners and long walks through the beautiful streets of London. As this scenarios ran through his head, they all shattered as Elizaveta crept towards the pianist and placed a kiss on his cheek, "I'll be sure to show them out dear."

Mind freezing, Arthur dropped the bottle. Francis quickly picked it up. "We actually came here on other business as well," He said, keeping an eye on his Arthur, making sure he wasn't going to collapse. "My friend requires new papers so that me way return to Angleterre. Isn't that right?"

An elbow dug into Arthur's ribs, more painful than the growing ache in his chest. "What? Oh, yes, it's a very long story."

The lawyer gave the two men a searching stare before sighing in resignation. "We better sit down then," He held out an elegant hand, "Roderich Edelstein."

Francis took the hand, casually sneaking Elizaveta the spray with a sly wink. "I am Francis Bonnefoy."

Dark eyebrows contracted. "Bonnefoy? You don't mean-"

"The very same," Francis said with a dazzling smile, "Lead singer of the pop sensation La Mauvais Touch." He laughed, releasing Roderich's hand.

Apparently Francis' star studded past did not impress the man in the slightest. With a quiet sniff, Roderichturned to Arthur, taking his hand. "And you?"

"Arthur Kirkland," He said, only keeping the pianist's gaze for a moment before unconsciously looking at the young woman again.

Roderich led them up a staircase, Elizaveta trailing behind them, frying pan and spray still clutched in her hands. Arthur couldn't help but pay more attention to her than the huge house, while Francis couldn't seem to get enough of it, commenting and constantly asking questions as they made their way along a second-floor hallway. At the end, a door opened up to an office that, while almost the same size as the music room, was entirely different.

Instead of simple, open and light, it was busy, cluttered and dark. Arthur had a sneaking suspicion that Elizaveta had a little more to do with the interior decorating than her husband/lover/whatever the hell he was.

Sitting down at his desk, Roderich shuffled papers and folders, clearing a space while Arthur and Francis sat down across from him. "Drink?" He asked, opening drawers and shoving papers into them in a haphazard fashion. Both nodded, "Tea alright?" This suggestion received even more enthusiastic nodding from the Englishman and a frown from the Frenchman. Thin lips twitched at the hint of a smile. "Two teas then and coffee for Mr. Bonnefoy please." He said and Elizaveta left the room.

"So," Roderich prompted, leaning forward and folding his arms on his desk, "What exactly is this interruption of my practice about?"

Francis and Arthur exchanged a look. "I guess it all started when I dropped my wallet in the Seine and stopped traffic as I yelled profanities until Francis picked me up." As Arthur recounted the story - making sure to skip some of the more sensitive moments he had encountered on his trip with Francis- Roderich listened intensely, occasionally taking his fingers and rubbing his temple in a drained manner, as though he had heard the story of a Frenchman and Englishman teaming up every day.

Just as Arthur breezed over the misunderstanding over the one bed, indeed he was really only using it so that Roderich wouldn't draw any wrong conclusions, Elizaveta walked in, balancing a tray in her hands.

Thanking her, Arthur picked up his tea, inhaling the earthly smell. "I mean," he said, sipping at the tea to testing the temperature, "You couldn't expect us to sleep together." There was a squeak and the three men looked around to see Elizaveta smiling at them. It wasn't her usual friendly, warm smile, but something much more predatory and there was a sharp gleam in her eye. As soon as she realized that they were all staring at her, she froze, cheeks turning a bright pink. She fled the room, taking Arthur's short-crush with her. Pretty or not creepy girls were too much.

"So," Roderich said, clearing his throat and tugging at the collar of his shirt, "You lost your papers and need new ones so you can return to England?"

"Can you do that?" Arthur said, drinking his tea.

Leaning back in his chair, the pianist's eyes looked out the window, staring at the grey sky. "I think I can. Let me call your embassy," He picked up the receiver of an old-style phone, dialling the number, "British Embassy please. Yes. No, a client of mine lost his passport and his stranded in Rome. Yes… no it's true, dropped in it the water. Right... how long? Really? Do you have to go the Amazon and cut the trees for the paper yourself?"

Feeling it would be better to delay the imminent disappointment, Arthur got to his feet and with his tea in hand; he began to peruse the cluttered office. One wooden cabinet had pictures on top and he bent over, examining them. The first was a photo of Roderich and Elizaveta standing in front o the mansion, holding up a 'sold' sign. In a bright red frame was a baby and, judging from the mole and unimpressed look, it was Roderich.

It was the last picture that caught Arthur's attention. Three young men were in dark robes with mortarboards tilted at angles on their heads. The man in the middle had white-blond hair and his arms were slung over the other two. The one of the left was clearly Roderich, whose expression was no different from the photo of his as a baby. Arthur picked up the picture, staring intently at the last member with a growing sense of glee. While the face was less stern and not as well defined, the blue eyes were unmistakable. But that wasn't the thing that was making giggles bubble up from Arthur. Trying to muffle his mirth, he waved a hand at Francis, motioning him to come over.

"What?" Francis hissed. Arthur shoved the picture into his hands, his fingers clamped over his mouth and cheeks bulging with suppressed giggles.

Looking down, the blue eyes widened as he saw the man on the right. "Is that… Ludwig?"

"Yes!" Arthur gasped, voice pitched unnaturally high.

The German's blond hair was not it's usual severe style, but shoulder length and rather curly and luscious. Realization dawned on Francis's face and a wicked smile spread across his lips as he joined the Brit in laughter.

Ludwig had a perm. Here was documented proof that the most serious man Arthur had ever met, and they had barely spoken to each other, had golden locks of hair when he was young. This proved that there was at least some justice in the world. Placing the picture back, Francis and Arthur collapsed into a silent fit of sniggering, both trying to stay quiet as Roderich continued to argue on the phone. Only once he had hung up did the two allow their mirth to boil over, falling over each other they wheezed for breath.

"What's so funny?" Roderich asked, folding his arms, anything but amused.

Sinking even further into their laughter, it took Francis and Arthur a full two-minutes before they could speak without bursting into giggles again. "Ludwig," Arthur panted, clutching the back of his chair for support, "I mean… his hair!" He let out a sharp bark of laughter.

Francis had sat down, taking a large swig of coffee while wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. "We are sorry Roderich," He said, his smile utterly unapologetic, "But it was just to funny to be ignored."

"I'm not hopeful Arthur." Roderich said coldly, "The embassy is not impressed with your story." Arthur shook his head, his joy at finding the picture efficiently squashed by the reality that he may be stuck in Rome for a very long time. At least he had a lovely French consort to make sure he didn't get too lonely. Wait…lovely French consort?

Arthur sighed. He really needed to get out of this city.

Author's Note

"De rien." - It's nothing. A French equivalent to "you're welcome"

"Je dit rien." - I say nothing.

Dream sequences; for shitty endings to stories and good excuses to write pseudo-porn.