Arthur was surprised by how little he had moved the next day. He spent most of it bickering with Francis about what his house would be like whilst he slouched on the couch, a book hanging between his hands.

Unfortunately, the majority of Francis's warnings went unheeded. It was already blatantly obvious to Arthur that whatever he was expecting his house to be like was far from what it had been like in the past.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner all came and went (and Arthur didn't go out once!). He was almost disappointed at how dull today felt, resigning himself to the couch early after dinner had been eaten (the dish had been amazingly good, which might have accounted for his lack of complaint that evening as he waited for Francis's hour of preparation for work to end).

"I have to go to work now, Arthur," Francis called as he returned, flourishing his hair over his shoulder.

Trailing a hand against his neck, Arthur nodded to him, practically tossing his book onto the coffee table. "Okay," he said through a lazy sigh.

Something was... off... but he couldn't explain why or how. He just felt very strange as a chilling feeling suddenly crept over him.

Now, this was entirely ludicrous, and there was no reason for it- seriously, Francis would be fine- but Arthur didn't want him to go. He wanted Francis to stay and sleep in the bed or couch—it didn't matter as long as he didn't go to bloody work.

If Francis went to work, then he would be grumpy and would need sleep for the trip to London later that day (it wouldn't help that a grumpy Francis was more likely to be argumentative). They had already packed two days' worth of clothing for tomorrow, but there would still be more packing to do before they left. There wouldn't be enough time to nap and pack clothing if they wanted to get to London in the same day—or so Arthur wanted to think. Everything would be easier if Francis just stayed home.

"What Arthur? Don't want me to go?" Francis inquired with a smirk. He was standing at the door, waiting for Arthur to send him off in a cheerful tone (even though that would never happen).

What would Francis think if Arthur told him about his strong sensation of unease? The Frog would think that he was crazy, obviously. He couldn't let Francis think that.

"...Mmm, I certainly don't want to stop you from going. After all, you'd only succeed at bothering me if you stayed."

Francis had stopped at the threshold to stare at Arthur with a curious shine in his eyes. Drat the dolt for reading through him so easily!

"If you really think so then I would love to stay and bother you for a while," he mused with a grin.

This frustrated Arthur more than he had anticipated. "Just go to work already!" He grumbled, reaching to raise his book towards Francis.

"Okay! Mon dieu, Arthur! I would have expected you to be a little more forgiving," Francis mumbled pitifully, then slipped through the door.


Francis entered the back of the building and immediately cringed at the light that assaulted his eyes. By now he should have gotten used to it, but there was still something about the atmosphere that made it impossible to relax. At least he wasn't in the throng of the mess yet but was instead in the back, where he could only hear the throb of music playing on the floor beyond.

Why had he ever considered bringing Arthur here? Dylan and the other co-workers were nice, yes, but there was no telling how Arthur would react to the atmosphere of the place nor the people. No doubt at least one argument with a stranger would be inevitable.

"Francis, perfect timing," Ethan, Francis's boss, stated as he grabbed at his arm and dragged him through another door farther towards the back. For a man about the same age as Francis, it was strange how authoritative he could be.

"You need to cover James's shift; he's not coming today," he informed, handing Francis a silver tray full of pink martinis.

Immediately Francis was thrown into his work, dropping off and picking up drinks from tables. On some days, customers would complain that he was working too slowlywhen all he could say in response was, "I am sorry, I will try to tend to your order quicker next time." It was their fault for being indecisive and, instead of ordering something, blatantly staring at him (on some occasions anyways—he was very handsome, after all).

Today was one of those days. Francis tried his best to forge patience out of this experience but sometimes a trickle of a bad mood still managed to enter his work environment.

He went through the first half of his shift impatiently, eager for the break he would get soon. Francis's eyes were always on his watch (although very discreetly—if Ethan caught him checking it he would get scolded), waiting until it was time for his break.

When it was, he quickly cast his trays aside and sighed, threading a hand through his hair. There was just the other half to worry about now.

He started five-minute break, (which was not even a break,) leaning against one of the walls in the break room as he started up a conversation with Dylan. The talks were always endearing, Francis usually being the one who checked the clock to ensure that they didn't talk for too long lest Ethan catch them and give them a goof scolding.

"So you're going to London to check out a house? Jeez Francis, either both of you are good liars or your relationship is more messed up than I thought," Dylan joked.

"Like I said, we aren't going to buy the house; we are just looking at it. Arthur desperately wants to see it but he doesn't have the transportation to go alone," he defended.

"If you say so," Dylan conceded, although he still looked doubtful, sneaking an arched eyebrow at him.

Francis was preparing to open his mouth for a retort when Ethan approached him, the smile he had been building immediately falling. Ethan didn't socialize—the only reason he ever came into the break room was to tell employees to get off their arses and to go back to work.

"Francis, more chairs need to be moved onto the floor. Get to it," he ordered, Francis tempted to just fling his head back and whine like when he was a child. The threat of being fired was the unspoken threat that kept his mouth shut.

After fetching the chairs from the back, he brought them with him onto the floor, nudging strangers out of his way as he found a place to set them. Music blared from the speakers and scattered bodies- some painted in glitter- were everywhere.

Francis tried to ignore it all as he began to put the chairs down, but a shout- where it came from he wasn't sure- caught his attention.

"Fire!" Someone shouted out front, forcing Francis to look up from the stack of chairs. Before he could react, there was a horrific crash and screams echoed through the huge building. Since the facility where Francis worked was actually a large warehouse, it was difficult to see across the mass of strangers to the stage at the front. All he knew was that there was a fire and that it was somewhere in the building.

A cacophony of noise followed the shout, consolidating that there was a fire. There were, no doubt, people hurt, and there were employees in the back that would need help.

Francis dropped what he was doing. He had to get out of here, but the closest exits were all being crowded by fearful strangers desperate to flee from this place. He sped past shelves of electronic things he hadn't a name for and found Ethan shutting off the main power to the building, the doors opening to the back of the warehouse right behind sprinklers and alarms weren't working.

Ethan's eyes rose and saw Francis; immediately he gestured for Francis to go. Francis, however, shook his head. "You go, I'll get them and go out the back," he called to him. Ethan nodded and continued flipping switches, the lights inside turning off.

Unfortunately, a place that served literally every kind of alcohol was a time bomb. Most of it was back here. Ethan was smart; he would close the heavy metal doors behind Francis before escaping.

Past those metal doors would be Dylan and Riley, but also the alcohol that he hoped the fire wouldn't reach. Once Francis went through them, he would have to hope that there was a way to escape.

Francis left Ethan to the power and ran through the doors, literally running directly into Dylan through his frenzied attempts to reach the other employees in the back.

"Can't find Riley," He told Francis. "Anyone else back here?"

Not that he knew of. It had only been them back here only minutes ago. Francis shook his head. "Ethan is going out the side door. He'll probably shut the fire doors. I didn't see anyone else," he informed, joining Dylan in the search for the other male.

Within the next three minutes if felt like hours had gone by. The had two found Riley shivering in the corner after searching every crevice they could find. He was intact, grâce à Dieu, although the freckled intern looked scared out of his wits.

It was getting hotter; smoke began filling the back room, creeping ominously towards the trio. Riley, in shock, wasn't capable of lifting himself off the floor. They had no time. Francis hauled the kid to his feet, practically dragging him through aisles and towards the doors. Smoke reached them and they drew up their shirts over the lower part of their faces as they continued down the halls. It was becoming more difficult to navigate them, their eyes near watering and the heat intensifying. Riley was actually crying, shuttering uncontrollably. Silent, he hadn't spoken a word yet.

Francis and Dylan each stood on a side of him, shielding him from the worst of the fire. Dylan pointed behind them; a glow had entered the room—the fire was upon them.

And then it happened.

Francis could hear a roaring, a shattering. The sprinklers had come on but it wasn't helping, drenching the crew in water but not putting out the fire. It had reacted to one of the boxes of spirits, though how the fire got into it was a mystery—Ethan had closed the doors behind Francis, hadn't he?

Smoke began to blind the group, and the heat began to intensify. Francis continued to follow Dylan best he could through the confusion, but his state only got worse as they continued. Why was Dylan taking them towards the blaze?

Riley began to panic as Dylan shouted, trying to be heard over Francis's swimming thoughts. He strengthened his hold on Riley's arm as he tried to make sense of Dylan's voice.

"-dow! –indow!" Dylan continued to shout, until Francis understood that he was screaming "Window!" over the roaring blaze.

Suddenly, during this short moment of clarity, Riley broke free of Francis and slammed him into the side of a metal shelf. The surface was hot and, in the two seconds he made contact with it, it burned through his clothing, scorching his shirt. Francis pulled himself away from it, grabbing Riley's arm as Dylan stubbornly dragged him over to the office. It was locked. Dylan was doing... something... but Francis's mind was centered on the crawling blaze as he tried to keep Riley demure.

This was it. They couldn't open the office to get to the window. He and his coworkers were done, and pity took his heart at the thought of them both. At least he had no one to leave behind, and Arthur seemed to think that heaven was...

Oh, Dieu. Francis snapped out of his daze at the realization that he did have someone who not only wanted him back but also needed him. Francis had to get home. Still gripping Riley, he suddenly realized that Dylan had broken one of the sides of the door, enough to dislodge it on one side so that they could break through. Dylan went first, pulling Riley with him. Francis followed, the splintered wood scratching at his hair and face, although he never felt it. He was numb, going into shock.

But Arthur. The single word bounced through his mind, as if searching for a way out. Arthur would wait for him. He would be waiting forever if Francis never returned and, even worse, no one would know that he existed. If Francis died here then Arthur would have to be told that his friend had died at work on a day that he had almost skipped. He couldn't let mon chou hear those words. He had to live.

He helped Dylan shoulder a fallen pillar of wood out of the way and then followed him again until they hit wall. Glass glinted sharply at them, a reflection of the fire staring at them. They tossed whatever they could get their hands on to break the glass, and then Dylan, the first to climb out, extended a hand to pull Riley away from the maws of death.

Francis followed, not daring to spare even a glance at the inferno that had almost eaten them alive.

The sounds of furiously swirling heat were replaced by blaring sirens and the fading sound of women sobbing and men shouting. Cool air attacked his face and Francis almost wanted to collapse in relief. His adrenaline was fading fast, however and, before he knew it, he could feel his suppressed wounds burning and stinging against his skin.

Dylan pointed a wound out to him. "Francis... your back..." he spoke between pants as he rested Riley against a tree, emergency personnel already coming to survey their wounds.

Gloved hands grabbed at Francis and hauled him to his feet. His mind felt like a blur of static where there should have been coherency. He struggled to stand and even more to breathe as the smoke he had inhaled swirled in his lungs, making him cough.

"Arthur," he managed to mumble in a raspy throat, Dylan's stricken face the last thing he saw before he allowed the paramedics to take him away for treatment.

He was taken to lie down in an ambulance, the sirens a sound of never-ending terror in his ears. His back burned at the simplest movement, and the instant he had been moved onto a bed he screamed, the pain unbearable. It felt as though the fire had followed him, tearing at his back once he was told to lie down.

A paramedic's voice shouted over him, calling for assistance as Francis's vision began to darken. He struggled feebly against the medical staff until he was finally forced to rest.


For some inexplicable reason, Arthur had woken up at five in the morning.

Out of nowhere, his eyes had opened, almost like he had woken up from a bad dream, but as far as he knew he hadn't been dreaming. It was a very odd sensation, and Arthur found himself unable to properly fall asleep afterwards. It was just like this at dinner too!

He sat up and sighed exhaustedly, running his fingers through his disheveled hair.

Was Francis home yet? A glance at the digital clock beside the bed confirmed that he had to be. It was two hours past his returning time of three, so he was here.

Arthur rose and carefully stepped through the dark room to the living room. Everything was bathed in whimsical shadows cast by the lights outside and Arthur could hear the traffic: it felt like the noise never died.

He knew that Francis would probably whine if he turned the lights on, but he wanted to see him and didn't mind if Francis complained a bit. At least he was here.

He entered the living room and turned the lights on, only to immediately discover that the couch was empty.

"Francis?" Arthur inquired, receiving no response.

This was beyond odd. Where was he? He wasn't in the apartment—that was certain. Everything had been dark before Arthur turned the lights on. He stopped in the middle of Francis's apartment and glanced around once more to be certain that Francis wasn't here.

Should he be worried? No, no... Nothing would ever happen to Francis. He was just late... very, very late.

Arthur made a triple check to ensure that Francis wasn't in the apartment, even checking the bathtub before he returned to the bedroom to change out of his pajamas and made the decisive choice of going down to the lobby to ask the clerk if she knew anything about Francis's absence. Francis had told him before that if he was ever late or if something came up he would call the lobby, since he only had one phone (albeit one Arthur had ever seen him use) and he always took it with him to work.

What had actually possessed Arthur to go down there? What had stopped him from just staying in Francis's apartment and waiting for him?

He wouldn't admit it but he was worried. Francis had never been this late before and something had been nagging at him ever since the moment Francis had left for work.

Arthur took the stairs, his feet thumping down the steps as he thought. Anxiety was practically swallowing him by the time he had actually reached the clerk's counter.

She was typing on her computer and, for a minute, Arthur was questioning who would bother to stay up this late. It was certainly more convenient to have 24-hour service, but if Arthur had been the one working at the desk that late he would have fallen asleep already.

Arthur was turned around, leaning against the counter when he heard the woman's voice. "Can I help you?" She finally asked.

"Yes," Arthur replied, back towards her. "Have you heard anything from a Mr. Francis Bonnefoy?"

She looked at Arthur for a long time like he was crazy, but Francis had done the same so many times that he was used to it. Afterwards, she typed on her computer, where apparently she could find the answer to Arthur's question.

"He said he would call," Arthur clarified. Francis had taught him enough to know that a bloody computer wasn't a phone.

"Then I'm sorry sir, but no one by that name has called," she informed.

Dejected, Arthur cast another glance around. No matter where he looked, he couldn't find the answer.

"E-excuse me then," he muttered, and went back up the same stairs he had just tread.

He felt at a loss. He didn't know enough to search any further for Francis, but maybe there was the hope that he would come back on his own.

Arthur returned to the apartment and closed the door behind him, tossing himself onto the couch. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He could wait for Francis to come back, but who knows how long that would take if he had been made to stay at work for a few more hours.

Arthur turned the TV on and idly glanced at the screen, hoping that it might bore him to sleep. He should probably just go back to bed. There was no need to worry.

The screen flickered on and a well-dressed woman appeared holding a microphone, a building blocking most of the background. "...The fire had apparently been started by faulty wiring in the lighting system," the news anchor was saying, the footage panning over to the building behind her. The fire had long died out, but flashing lights indicated that there were still emergency personnel on the scene. The burned building looked desolate, smoke simmering from the top of the roof. "None have been counted dead, but there are over five people with serious burns," she continued.

Just glancing at the scene sent a chill of ice down Arthur's spine. He definitely didn't want to believe that Francis was a part of this, but with everything else he was suspecting, anything was a possibility.

He immediately turned the TV back off and turned over in the couch, refusing to rise and take the bed. He would wait until Francis came back, and then he'd- he'd...

He didn't know. The only thing Arthur did know was that he was frustrated—with himself and Francis and everything else, and only because he couldn't shake the feeling of total devastation that haunted him.


Arthur didn't know how he had managed to do it, but he had eventually fallen asleep. He knew this because, when he heard his name being called, he woke up.

"Arthur?" Francis's voice (thank goodness) called for him.

Maybe last night had just been a dream. Arthur opened his eyes as he stretched, sighing with relief.

Francis's condition, however, almost left him choking on air.

Francis's eyes shadowed with exhaustion, his hair was messier than usual and his clothes were bathed in soot. He was standing so close that Arthur could reach out and touch him if he wanted to (and maybe he would, just to confirm that this was bloody real). He had a bag in his hand full of boxes that he placed on the coffee table for later.

Arthur quickly rose to a sitting position as Francis began to defend himself (and rightly so—even if Arthur didn't say so, it was obvious that he had been worried).

"Before you get angry, I did call the front desk around four." He muttered weakly, trying to defend himself. "I promise. I called first chance they would let me. One of the lights on the battens overheated by the open dance floor and the whole thing crashed and caused a fire."

Arthur paused and eyed Francis studiously as he collected his thoughts. There was no doubt now that Arthur's intuition had been right, and that the news Arthur had been watching was about Francis.

Now the question became was he angry that Francis hadn't come back on time? Well...

Francis's absence had been unintentional, and no matter how upset Arthur might have gotten over not knowing where he was Arthur couldn't blame this on him.

"I was in the back with two others and we got trapped. We were the last out but none of us were badly hurt. The only injuries were those on the dance floor when the lights collapsed. No one is dead, but a few came close." He took a shuddering breath, Arthur reaching to lower him into a seat beside him. "I and my two co-workers were treated for shock and possible smoke inhalation at the hospital. That's when I asked them to call you. I'm sorry. I knew you were waiting, but they wouldn't let me go."

Through all of Arthur's knotted anxiety and frustration, he could find some sort of peace in at least knowing that Francis was still breathing. He just didn't want to hear any more about his narrow escape with death (for obvious reasons). "I saw it on the news, Francis. That's close enough to me living it without your generous insight," he grumbled.

He couldn't find it in himself to fully accept Francis's apology. He had been so worried, and since it wasn't Francis's fault that he had been late in the first place, Arthur couldn't understand why he was apologizing at all.

He centered on Francis's stricken face and sighed, reaching to massage his temples. Why was he so nervous? Between the both of them, he had hoped that at least one of them would be calm enough to face this sort of problem when it arose.

"Oh, is it too vivid for you?" Francis retorted. "I'm sorry if I thought that you deserved an explanation for my absence, or were you not worried at all?"

Oh, drat. "No, it isn't like that! Don't say those things Francis, of course I was worried!" Arthur shouted back, reeling back to supply more room to glare at him with.

Francis scoffed, running a hand through his weathered hair. "Then why are you glaring daggers at me?"

Because he was tired and frustrated and he had nothing else to complain and yell at. He didn't want to blame Francis or punish him for something out of his control, but this was death and it stressed him to no end.

"Let's not talk now. It's... it's not right of me to stress you like this. You need a bath." He was silently proud of himself for dropping his ego enough to get those words past his mouth.

He averted eye contact as Francis stared at him, and then eagerly rose and left his presence, so angry that he hadn't even supplied Arthur with a snarky comment before he left.

Suddenly, Arthur felt very old and sad and almost dead. Had Francis really just come through that door? Had they really just diffused an argument that quickly? What was Arthur doing burdening the weight that Francis was supposed to be carrying? He shouldn't be worrying about death but comforting the one that had almost died, knowing that it must be devastating to be so close to the afterlife because he had lived it. This was no time for thinking things like that especially during what was supposed to be a happy time in his life! He was supposed to see his house tomorrow!

While Francis bathed, Arthur staved off the temptation of falling asleep, instead spending his time trying to concoct a reasonable way of apologizing for his harsh words without sounding too weak or selfish or... blimey, all those other things he didn't want to be.

An hour and a half passed by (the sun was well up by then, to Arthur's surprise) without any signs of Francis, so Arthur decided that he'd check just to make sure that Francis hadn't gone to bed yet. He knocked on the bedroom door and bode himself entrance when he didn't hear Francis's voice. No clothing was lied out: not even a sign was left that he had been searching for any.

Maybe Francis's wounds hurt so much that he hadn't bothered to choose any clothing? Even so, if he had forgotten them, maybe Arthur could help by asking Francis if he needed any and, through that, he could apologize to Francis for being so coarse.

Arthur approached the bathroom door and knocked three times. He waited at least half a minute and, when there was no answer, knocked again. Call Arthur superstitious, but it wasn't right to leave Francis by himself so shortly after his near-death experience (who knew just what he could get himself into when he was alone!).

With this in mind, Arthur slowly opened the bathroom door, cracking it just widely enough to peek through. He saw the bath and spotted Francis in it, immediately thanking God that the Frog was safe and that only his face was visible. His head was tossed to the side as he snoozed quietly and, given the circumstances, this made him look almost... cute.

"Francis," Arthur called, his head retreating slightly behind the door as he spoke.

There was still no response. Francis was deep asleep, his breaths deep and even.

"Francis!" Arthur called again, this time more loudly just to make sure that Francis heard.

Water was tossed on the floor as Francis flinched awake, the look of surprise on his face undeniable as his dangling hand flung upwards. Arthur managed to sate his grin before it spread too quickly across his face.

"Arthur?" He inquired confusedly, casting his eyes towards the door.

"Ah, um... yes, well now that you're awake don't fall asleep again, hm?" Arthur stated, averting eye contact as he felt the blood rising to his face. Certainly Francis wouldn't bother to notice.

He was preparing to close the door again when Francis called his voice. "Arthur, wait. Is everything all right? Are you still upset?" He queried.

Of all the things to ask! "Don't worry about me, Francis, I'm fine. Just a little stressed."

He shut the door afterwards, deciding that he didn't want to talk about how rude he had been, especially when Francis was in the tub.

While on his way back to the couch, Arthur had even forgotten to ask Francis about his clothes.

PAGE BREAK

Francis watched as Arthur turned his face fully away and closed the door, leaving him to his bath again. Eyebrows could be so ridiculous sometimes! He had even blushed even though he hadn't seen anything, and even if he had...

Francis ducked his head underwater and scrubbed the ash out of it, managing to ignore the urge to yell at Arthur to return. He tried not to move much in consideration of his burns, some spots more scorched than others. At least it wasn't as bad as when he had first gotten into the tub when it had burned so, so badly.

He assiduously cleaned what parts of his body wouldn't burn if he touched them and then exited the bath, not yet eager enough to swathe his burns in clothing but sensible enough to wrap a towel around his waist (he didn't want to scar Arthur that badly). He then entered the living room, where Arthur turned and immediately resumed blushing at him.

"Where are your clothes?" He half-exclaimed, and then turned his eyes to the light(er) burns trailing along Francis's arm. His mouth decisively closed after that, his eyes instead boring through Francis for an answer.

"Obviously the burns hurt, Arthur. I need them to be wrapped before I even try to put a shirt on," Francis replied with a scoff.

"Oh. Ah... so you need help with that, don't you?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow. His whole body emanated unease, from his stiff posture to the hands clasped together on his lap.

"It would be appreciated, yes," Francis replied as he searched through the bag he had brought with him when he first returned to his apartment. He pulled the bandages out and placed them on the table, searching for the lotion afterwards.

Arthur remained eerily silent as Francis took the supplies out. Once he had everything he needed, he caught Arthur's eyes again. "Arthur, do you want to talk about the fire? You look extremely uncomfortable and, frankly, even for you it's a little odd."

Arthur shook his head, rejecting the question. "No, I don't want to talk about it. For the time being, just let me help you with your burns, okay? It's the least I could do."

What followed was an awkward encounter as Francis sat quietly and allowed Arthur to slather his burns with lotion (the exceptions being the edges of the burns, where the bookshelf had pierced deeper into the skin). Arthur also wrapped them for Francis, which had been even more awkward because Arthur was tactless with the human body (luckily, Francis was able to look past that: he was too tired to be grumpy about it).

After they were done, Francis was very content with the work. The bandages were snug around his figure and he admired them as Arthur practically glared at him to cover them.

"Why are you still looking at me like that?" Francis asked as he began to rise, fixing the towel around his waist.

"I'm not looking at you like anything," Arthur defended.

"Yes you are. You're looking at me like I've just killed someone," Francis noted honestly, resisting the urge to vocalize all of his wonderful, intricate examples (like, oh, the way Arthur's eyebrows sat just above his painfully scrunched-up eyes).

"It doesn't concern you," Arthur snapped back that time, forcing Francis to gasp.

"Of course it does!" He huffed, trailing a hand through his soft hair. "It's about the fire, isn't it? I want to talk about it with you, even if it makes you uncomfortable. It isn't right to keep your feelings from me like that. Let's admit it, I almost died. Don't avoid it."

Francis had an innate sense that this was what this was about: it was about death, Arthur's death, and the fright that they both had (Arthur couldn't deny it) over losing one another. Whatever this was- call it a friendship or a... a... je ne sais quoi, it didn't matter. Francis wanted to talk about it—he had come to trust Arthur enough.

Arthur looked to be fighting an internal war with himself (probably over whether to fess up or argue like he always did). His face flashed with obvious bewilderment- there was a lapse of knitted brows- and then he sighed with frustration.

"Fine, you did almost die. Are you happy yet? Is that enough for you?" He grumbled.

"...Not really, mon cheri. That doesn't explain your feelings about it at all."

"So you actually expect me to talk about death with you? How I feel about it? We're both too tired for this Francis and frankly, I don't want to talk about it with you. You don't know enough- or maybe it's too much- ugh! Can't you just let it be?"

Arthur looked more frustrated now, His thick eyebrows drawn over his eyes in that manner that Francis enjoyed so much, only this time they weren't just bickering. Arthur looked intensely agitated and more upset than Francis had hoped him to be.

Some part of Francis- somewhere deep within himself- genuinely wanted to allow Arthur to get away with making another excuse about his unease, but his curiosity was too much to let Arthur manage this time.

"What is it? Is it the worry that's upsetting you or something else?" Francis inquired.

"Are you really that blind?" Arthur stated sharply, this time without any thought. "You can't seriously be this lighthearted about it, can you? I'm upset because I know that if you had died—you must have known that I would think this-you thought it too, yes?—that it would ruin me. The Lord has no right to play with you—us— like that."

Francis hadn't been expecting that. He looked back at Arthur almost as if he had just realized that he was there. Arthur was scarcely straightforward and Francis could tell that it meant a lot to Arthur that he not treat this lightly.

So that was how Arthur really felt. In a strange way, Francis was touched. Francis's existence was so important to Arthur that he would be ruined without him. Why did this make Francis so happy, even if they were talking about dying (and even worse the afterlife)?

"I haven't been treating it lightly at all. I just thought that it would be better if I didn't dwell on it too much," Francis explained.

"Well that's a stupid thing to do, Francis. Don't treat this like nothing because it's not nothing," Arthur retorted to him, turning his eyes away. "I had been so worried..."

He looked so isolated when he glanced off like that, his curved emerald irises impregnable. Arthur's despair almost brought Francis back to thinking about his own death as well, but he didn't want to think about that because he knew that Arthur was right and that, beyond that, there were other, more important, things to think and talk about.

"I know that you had been worried Arthur, and that's why I had tried to apologize when I got back but it didn't sound like you had heard me."

"Of course I heard you, you dolt! But this was none of your fault; how could I have possibly found it in myself to accept an apology that wasn't supposed to be given?" Arthur queried, sneaking a glance at him.

Ah, well that actually made sense. "Okay, okay, but next time you get upset you don't have to yell at me for explaining myself to you," Francis further defended.

"I'm just on-edge, Francis. You... you'll forgive me, right?"

"Of course I'll forgive you, mon cher," Francis lightly replied, half-tempted to sit back down and spend the whole evening wasting his time with rhetorical talk with Arthur (no doubt Arthur wouldn't mind if he did).

Unfortunately, a yawn interrupted them before they could go any further. Francis tiredly wiped his eyes, catching Arthur through the half-closed lids as he watched.

"We can prolong the rest of our conversation for later. You need rest," Arthur noted.

"That would help a lot, yes," Francis agreed, nodding his head as he turned to return to his bedroom.

"Oh, but before you go," Arthur stated, Francis feeling a tentative touch against his arm and turning to see that Arthur had risen to stand before him, "we should wait to go into London. You need time to rest," he stated.

The only problem Francis had with that was that he didn't want to wait any longer to return Arthur to the only thing that still existed from his past life. "My burns won't immobilize me, Arthur. Just give me a few hours and then I'll be fine to go," he replied.

Arthur looked incredulous but removed his hand nonetheless. "...Fine. Take all the time you need."


Francis grinned with relief as his back finally hit the pillows (trying to ignore the pang sent through his burns at the contact,) and he closed his eyes, feeling that he was more content than he could have hoped to be when Arthur had learned of his scrape with death.

As his thoughts drifted to sleep, Francis thought of how splendid it felt to know that Arthur had confided in him about his unease and that, to spite the fire, it had only consolidated what Francis already felt for Eyebrows.