Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who read, favorited, started following, and/or reviewed ^.^ You guys make the motivation for this story so much easier

Disclaimer: Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. All books mentioned are property of their respective authors/

~X~

Arthur packed up his backpack at nine in the morning. He had two books to pick up, and one to deliver. Secretly, he hoped that this would take all day so he had an excuse to not see Francis today.

At the same time, he was well aware that he was starting his rounds almost six hours ahead of his usual schedule. Likely, he would be home before noon.

He had been up all night, alternatively typing away furiously and trying to bring a bit of order to this old house. However, once the sun rose over the horizon, Arthur realized that only one of those had been successful, and gave up on the institution of cleaning. It wasn't like he cared what Francis thought of the place anyways. He didn't even want the Frenchman to be there.

Yet, he still found himself setting out at that obscenely early hour to pick up a collection of Edgar Allen Poe, and one of those old history books Arthur valued so much. He had his doubts on whether Ludwig would home, but he knew at least Dmitri would have set his borrowed volume out for Arthur.

All in all, it was an irritatingly quick day. All the work was close enough to home that he barely ventured three miles away before turning back. It was barely noon by the time he returned.

With a sigh, he returned to the seat in front of his computer, staring at a the blinking cursor. Almost six hours of frenzied writing had resulted in over fifty pages of… complete shit.

Within seconds, he deleted every single word of it. There was no way Annette would have taken a flight to the States and become a stripper when modeling failed her. It was so outside her character that the fact that Arthur had written it was blasphemy.

Yet… He needed to get her out of Belgium. The plot couldn't move forward if she stayed there. Novels don't happen if the main character never moves on.

His eyes didn't leave the bright screen until the chimes of the doorbell echoed through the house. Suddenly, his gaze flashed to the corner of his computer screen to see that it was almost three in the afternoon.

For a moment, he just stared at it, wondering how he wasted almost three hours staring at a blank screen, and not doing anything. And then the doorbell rang again, and he remembered that he had company. Very unwanted company, at that.

Still, he shoved himself away from the desk, slowly walking to the front door. He ruffled a hand through his already unruly hair as before he opened it.

Francis stood there, a faintly amused smile on his lips with his book in one hand, and…

"What the hell did you bring cake for?" Arthur asked, completely bewildered. He opened the door wide enough for Francis to come through, but didn't formally invite him in.

"Not even a 'hello'?" Francis teased. The Frenchman looked down at it, and shrugged. "We had an extra red velvet cake, and my friend Antonio forced it into my hands before I came here," he explained. "May I come in?"

Arthur scoffed. "Do you need to be actually asked in or something? I'm pretty sure you're not Dracula. The open door is invitation enough."

Francis flashed a quick grin. "I'm polite," he countered. "Unlike you, apparently."

"I'm perfectly polite," he retorted. "Fine, if you're so insistent on doing it this way, come in," Arthur said, taking a step back.

He nodded his thanks as he took a step through the doorway, but didn't advance any further. Instead, his eyes flickered about the front room, oblivious to Arthur as he closed the door and walked down the hall.

"Are you coming, or not?" Arthur called back as soon as he realized that the Frenchman wasn't following behind him. "You look sort of like a moron just standing there."

That seemed to bring Francis back to reality as he hurried to catch up, being careful of the stacks of books that littered the floor.

"Just be careful not to step on anything," he advised. "Some of these are very rare."

"If they're so rare, why do you keep them on the floor of all places?" Francis asked, keeping a bit too close to Arthur as he followed him through the small maze.

A slight grin curved the Brit's lips. "Once you see my collection, you'll understand," he assured his visitor. "Let me take that," he added, easing the box with the cake from Francis' left hand. "Shall I just set it in the dining room for now? Or would you like to taste it before venturing off to the library?"

"I don't want any of it," Francis said. "I'm sure I've had more of this red velvet than should be healthy. But, what sort of baker doesn't taste his own craft? It would be a travesty."

Arthur eyed him skeptically. "So you make pastries," he said. It wasn't a question; the Frenchman had essentially admitted it already.

"I run a little cafe with my cousin, and friend," Francis explained, somehow managing to sound completely dismissive of it. It was almost as if his own profession didn't matter to him.

That wasn't satisfactory. "Somehow, I don't see Matthew working at a cafe," Arthur said, hoping to get more information.

That got Francis to smile. "Not Mathieu," he said. "I've pretty much banned him from working until he graduates. Bella, one of my other cousins."

After the long discussion, they finally reached the dining room. Frankly, Arthur hated living in this house, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Carefully, he slid the box to the center of the table and turned to face Francis.

"Large family then?" he asked, attempting to sound disinterested. Arthur had been caught prying information from people enough times that he had gotten somewhat good at it. Judging by that grin, family seemed to be an ok topic for Francis.

He nodded once, tucking his long hair back. "Most of them are still back in France, but I suppose there's quite a few of us. My mother remarried, as did her brother so Christmas is always a bit of a mess."

Arthur smiled wistfully. He wished that he could have something like that. Back in England, he had his brothers to rely on, but… Not so much anymore. "Well, it sounds lovely all the same," he admitted.

"It was better before we all grew up," Francis replied. "Now, may I see your collection, or do you wish to continue dissecting my life?"

Arthur blushed faintly, pushing past Francis. "Come along, then," he muttered. He hated when he was called on it, but what else was he to do? One can't write convincing families without asking people about theirs.

Francis chuckled, trailing behind. "Why on earth do you live in such a large place?" he wondered. "I'm assuming you have quite the extensive family as well?"

That brought Arthur to a complete stop for a moment. That question brought up so many painful memories that it was difficult to keep going and answer. "This house belonged to my grandfather before he went back to Scotland. I just stay here because it's been paid for," he replied.

"And your family?" he probed, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder.

He kept his gaze firmly away from the Frenchman, worried that he may be able to actually read his expression. "It's just me now." Even to his own ears, Arthur's voice sounded hollow.