And I'm back with the second post-hiatus chapter!

And for future reference, Guillou = silly endearnment version of Gilbert.

Thank you, and enjoy!


Chapter 8 - Fate's A Strange One

It was early – the sun hadn't even come up.

And it was at this time that sleepy London town woke up.

The poor got up to collect their miserable salaries; the drunks got off the streets and trudged off in a daze; and, the strays got out of their lairs to stretch their wiry limbs. Indeed, it was between these fragile, quiet moments that the city got ready to face another day.

However, on this particular morning, someone was disturbing that habitual peace.

Someone was running.

It was somewhere around 5 AM – people were barely walking, let alone running. But that one set of feet kept on bouncing violently off the ground, the runner's breaths quickening with each push and muscles burning like hellfire.

His eyes, too, were like hellfire, shining fiercely. But their gleam was not from the strain; it was from tears.

The runner looked quite mad like that then, dashing haphazardly through streets and weaving past the staggering Londoners while leaving behind fresh teardrops every few steps.

But the runner had a purpose.

His steps might have been irregular, but they had a specific destination.

To be precise, his feet were going until they had reached that familiar peeling bleached door.

And even then, when the resident grump had opened that door, the eager runner couldn't help but jump around once again, lifting up the English man and spinning him in circles.

"He did it!" Was the first strangled cry that Arthur got from Gilbert.

"Who did what?" Arthur had just gotten out of bed, and was as of yet not ready to receive an overly-excited albino into his home. However, that was what he had gotten when he had answered the door. That and a hug from the sweaty man – he must've been out for his morning run.

"Ludwig! He asked her! They're finally going to do it, Birdie!" Gilbert screamed, grin stretching from ear to ear.

Here the Briton lost his short patience and he grabbed his friend's muscular arm to still him. "What are they going to do, damn it?!"

"Arthur," the German man breathed a bit slower now, "Ludwig asked Felicia to marry him. My little brother's getting married, Arthur!" And once again that short-lived calm was lost as Gilbert took the other's calloused hands in his and started dancing about the narrow room. "Oh god, my little brother's getting married! Little Ludwig! Mein Kleine Scheisse kopf…" Here he fondly wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "I never thought he'd grow the balls to ask her…But he did!"

Now, it must be said that Arthur had never quite liked Ludwig. He hadn't disliked him, per se, but the two men were both too rigid to befriend each other. Also, Arthur thought that Ludwig had a pole up his arse.

But his best friend's enthusiasm was contagious, and he couldn't help but to throw his arms around the latter and roughly rub his back. "Congratulations! He'll be very happy; that little Italian girl is good for his heart. Tell me mate, when can I expect your nephews so that we can all go fishing?"

"Hey, hey, hey! No nephews for now, man! Luddy's only, what, twenty-one?"

"Twenty-two."

"Yeah! He can't have kids yet; he has to study and all that shit, y'know?"

"I suppose so." Here, Arthur took a pause to put on some pants (thing he had been doing before Gilbert had burst in). "But his girlfriend – well, fiancée, is she still in school?"

"I think she's graduating this year, actually…Yeah, she's my age so she should be right out of culinary school." And then moment of thought. "So I guess you're right, they might be cooking up some kiddies soon!"

Arthur cracked a grin before ruffling his friend's short hair affectionately. "Hah, hah, Mister Beilschmidt. Very punny."

The albino did the same to the Briton's hair with a cackle. "Oh, c'mon, man! That one was good, admit it!"

"You're right; I concede. It was at least a four out of five."

"Four-point-five!"

"Haha, fine!"

It was quite odd for Arthur to be in such a good mood at such a miserably early time. But as he stood there with Gilbert amidst laughter and good humour, he felt good. The mood was light and it seemed like all of the trouble that had been burdening him before had lifted away with the sound of their silly giggles.

With a sigh, the two men quieted down, and Gilbert pulled down Arthur beside him on the horrifically coloured futon. They sat there like that for a good minute, enjoying the thumps of their steadying heart-beats and the feeling of the other's ragged breath on their skin. Then, the albino suddenly piped up.

"Hey Birdie, not that I don't love it when you're pressed up against me and all, but do you have work today?"

"Shit."

Like a flash, the Briton jumped out of Gilbert's arms and ran to get his socks and bag, yelling at his guest from his bedroom.

"Gilbert, as much as I appreciate you coming – and I'm very happy for your brother – some of us do indeed have to go out and make money! And you need to get to class!"

While the short man milled around to make sure he had everything, his friend simply got up with a lazy stretch and headed over to the door. "Yeah, well see, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about." As the Briton passed him, he reached out and grabbed the lanky arm to stop him. "Birdie – Arthur. We…We haven't spent a lot of time together, and…I took a day off 'cause I was hoping I could spend today with you, just like in the old days."

"I…" Arthur looked furtively to the spot beside Gilbert's head and then smiled softly. "Yeah. I'd love that."

Satisfied with the answer, the man of German descent let go of his friend and waited until he was ready to leave the apartment.

They walked together to the diner, with the shorter man constantly trying to keep up with Gilbert's long-legged strides. That, unfortunately for Arthur and his trust issues, left ample time to talk.

"So…" Gilbert started to clear a steady silence. "How're things going?"

Arthur raised a thick eyebrow. "Things are usual…" Silence. "How's school?"

"Awesome. I'm acing the shit out of it. And I've got a big project coming up."

"What about?"

"A paper about some historical buildings."

"Historical buildings?"

"Well, not necessarily. But I wanna focus more on historical architectural structures. Cathedrals and shit, y'know?"

The blonde smiled fondly at his friend. "Yeah, you were always such a history nerd."

"And you were a lit nerd." Here Gilbert paused while gazing steadily at the dilapidated buildings around them. "How's the book going?"

The Briton looked the other way and hummed. "Haven't had the time to work on it."

"Ah…"

"Yeah…"

Awkward silence seemed to be bent on ruling their time together as it settled in once more. The two friends could simply play a game of avoiding each other's eyes, and with what seemed like keen interest they looked at the bare and frankly uninteresting scenery around them. But Gilbert was never one to enjoy such silence, and so in another ten minutes, he broke it again.

"Listen, Birdie, we need to talk."

Arthur kept on looking at the concrete buildings to his left, and the albino took that as a sign to keep talking.

"I…I'm sorry about what I did like, two weeks ago or whatever. I don't really know what came over me. I wanted to tell you this the week after, but you had left church before I could, and then Matthew said you were…" Here he swallowed a lump in his throat. "He said you were out on a date. So I couldn't tell you then either."

The Briton shrugged nonchalantly. "It's fine."

"No, really, Birdie, I'm super sorry! It was so un-awesome of me to do it."

Chuckling, Arthur turned to face his friend as he gave him his usual crooked grin. "No, really, it is fine. And you shouldn't even be sorry about two weeks ago. It's not like I resisted. Nor did I find it unenjoyable."

At that, Gilbert smiled to himself again and looked down at the ground, his pale cheeks flaming up a brilliant scarlet.

"Gilbert…"

"Yeah?"

"You're blushing."

Cursing, the taller man brought his scarf up over his quickly reddening skin, grumbling something about 'stupid albinism' and turning away from his friend.

Arthur sniggered at his poor friend's reaction before piping up again. "Wait, did you say Matthew told you about my…err...date?"

Gilbert looked embarrassed for a minute. "Yeah…I kind of went to him because you weren't answering your door…In the end we just ended up going outside for a bit. Did you know the kid's really into photography?"

"Of course I know, tosser! He's practically like my little brother." The Briton snapped before softening his features and placing a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder. "But I think it's great that you went to talk to him. Matthew's a very nice lad and he really looks up to you."

Surprise ran clear through the albino's face as he looked down to the blonde. "He looks up to me?"

"Yeah, I don't get it either."

"Oh shut up, Birdie!" The two men laughed before Gilbert continued. "But man, how old is Matthew anyways?"

"I believe he turned nineteen last summer…"

"Is he…Is he gonna go to school?"

"He wants to; but his mum's will only gives him her money when he's twenty or so, so he's waiting 'til then."

"Cool."

The rest of the walk was done in silence, and it wasn't really much too long before they had reached Arthur's workplace. Gilbert, who had beforehand been well-acquainted with Sadiq's sister Leyla (in the most sexual of manners), chose to simply sit quietly with a small book right beside the window. He and Arthur rarely talked during the next few hours; the Briton was too busy working, and the German was enthralled with his novel. But, there would still be chance moments of eye-contact between the two, and then they would both break out into ephemeral smiles that would quickly disintegrate to looks of mild boredom or tired disinterest when they lost each other's eyes. During that whole morning, the only times they had actually talked to each other was first when Arthur had to redirect a flirtatious Leyla from a growingly uncomfortable Gilbert, and second when Arthur had had to forcibly remove Gilbert from the window because the sun was beating down too strongly on him.

For the Briton's lunch break, the albino had ordered two bowls of haddock soup, one of which he forced his friend to gulp down in front of him. Although it was much less forcing rather than asking nicely.

After all, why would Arthur deny the meal?

Then the morning was repeated almost word for word, including the return of Sadiq's pretty sister (although this time it was her brother that had angrily dragged her away), and of course moving a properly pissed-off Gilbert to an even shadier spot when the setting sun had begun to blaze through the diner.

When Arthur's shift had ended, Gilbert had happily trailed after him to the apartment and then the pub, where he had been a regular for the past couple of years. He faithfully sat at the bar and chattered with his best friend whenever the latter could spare a few moments; when he had ordered three roast beef sandwiches, he had also been careful to occasionally call Arthur over and pop a piece of bread in his mouth.

This of course got them a few taunting cat-calls from Mathias (who had come in later to help his grandfather), and a few dark looks from some of the men sitting around them.

However, pertaining to both Gilbert and Arthur's 'I don't give a shit' philosophies, that hardly bothered them as they kept amusing themselves.

Slowly, the bar filled, and the Briton got the pleasure of observing his friend whose expert skill resided in starting fights…and usually winning them. Frej himself would occasionally come out of the poker room to grin gleefully as Gilbert's fists connected with another jaw and he let out a childish whoop of victory.

Then, all of a sudden, the patrons emptied out at around nine – after all, most of them had work the next day. But a few remained, and among them Arthur and Gilbert.

Here it must be noted that while betting is not necessarily illegal, it isn't so good an idea to keep a bar open for that sole purpose past a certain hour. On the other hand, to do so brings in not only more money, but more fun as well. It was one of the two reasons that had motivated Frej to open his doors to any stragglers that wanted to risk their savings on the probabilities of one horse outrunning the other. It also guaranteed Arthur the extra work hours that he desperately needed and couldn't get in any other business save for prostitution (and from his experience, that was a terrible idea).

So the Briton and the German stayed behind, and while Arthur simply served and drank the ordered ales, Gilbert joined in the fun occasionally – not that bad of an idea, since his luck was decent. He had even won fifty pounds thanks to the strong legs of a pretty palomino mare named Morweena.

Only a good hour after midnight did Frej call to close the place up for the night, and by then, neither Arthur nor Gilbert were particularly sober or awake. They had stumbled to the nearest of their apartments – and here it happened to be Arthur's – coursing through the darkened streets and weaving through people's minimal yards to get there faster.

They had laughed as one of them would occasionally stumble over their own two feet, and especially when Gilbert had run smack into a stop sign.

Even drunks could appreciate the irony.

Once at the apartment, they had folded out the futon together because the bed was much too small for the both of them, and had then lain side by side.

It hadn't been long before hands found themselves roaming lazily across the sides, backs, and fronts of the familiar warm bodies near them. Lips had followed, locking sweetly before beginning to adventure further along to necks, shoulders and chests. Legs intertwined and soon low moans of approval started breaking through the night's thick silence as pleasure grew.

And yet this time, Arthur had carefully noted, was much more different than last time. Two weeks ago, the albino had been clutching onto him with an almost forceful desperation and need. Likewise, the Briton had been wildly biting and pulling at hair while crying out hoarse obscenities.

But now, it wasn't just a rough roll in the hay.

Arthur liked to think of these moments as a kind of dimmed down version of what they had had before. Just like back then, their kisses simply smoothly rolled along, and fingers stroked quite casually, in no particular hurry. All of the comfort from before was here now; there was just one thing missing. And to both of the men's misfortune, that thing happened to be love.

Because although they might have been having sex, at this point, the blonde could barely see it as something beyond friendship – albeit a very fucked up friendship.

He hoped, too, that the other man saw it as that as well. He was pretty sure he didn't, but he still hoped.

However, like with much of Arthur's other hopes, this one was quickly dashed as he heard the familiar "I love you" filter through the sounds of breathing and squeaking springs. As per usual, the Englishman didn't answer and instead focused more on where his hips were going and what his hands were doing.

'This is wrong.' Was the only thing he could think as he yelled out the German's name and as they lay there afterwards, the Briton resting, out of breath, on the slowly rising pale chest.

It was only a short few minutes later that Gilbert had fallen asleep, neatly and rigidly laying like a soldier beside the other man. Arthur took that rare opportunity to look over him for just a little while.

The futon was facing his balcony window, and so the faint moonlight could easily find her way to the room, slithering softly across Gilbert's pale body, drawing shadows there where his firm muscles were, shaped exquisitely from years of gymnastics. The fresh perspiration added a layer of sheen across his whole body, and the Briton chuckled as he remembered all those times Gilbert had complained about sweat and sunscreen making him ''shine like a fucking pussy''. But Arthur had always liked his friend's skin – despite what the German might say about his albinism, the Briton found it beautiful in its own way. And here with the moonlight shining down upon it, he could fully admire its almost translucent quality. He could trace almost every vein that travelled up the inside of the albino's thighs, and he could faintly remember when he had pressed kisses to that very spot of faded skin, back when the hoarse cries from Gilbert's anaemic lips would make him happy, glad.

Now, they just made him feel guilty.

As silently as he could, the Briton rose up to his elbows and pressed a chaste kiss over a sharp cheekbone before turning his back to the man beside him and closing his eyes.


Ring! Ring! Ring!

'What in the name of…?'

It was the mating call of the male Alarmus clockus, one that is made resoundingly shrill and loud to attract the female of the species, which serenaded Arthur out of his deep, lovely sleep. As per his usual morning routine, he threw whatever soft object was under his head directly to his left – as he had always done.

And so, it was a great surprise when not only did the god-damned alarm clock not shut up, but the pillow, traitor that it was, bounced off the futon's armrest to hit him smack in the face.

The shock at least woke the Briton up enough to be able to coordinate his hand to the aggravating alarm and turn it off, at which point he was able to contemplate why exactly he wasn't in his bed. However, the memories of last night were quick to flow in, and were accompanied by a significant soreness in his lower body as he got up from bed.

Yupp, he definitely remembered what had happened last night.

Groaning, Arthur slugged over to his bedroom to get dressed and then to his kitchen, where, were he drinking anything, he'd have spit it out from the surprise. The small blinking numbers on his microwave read 6:15 – he was late. In the midst of his mental panicking, however, he was lucky enough to notice a note taped to his fridge door, which he ripped off and read frantically.

Yo Birdie!

Good morning :)

Didja have nice dreams of me last night? ;3

You'd better have, cuz I had no fucking dreams – like, seriously.

You snore like my fucking grandpa. What the fuck. I didn't sleep or anything. Fuck you.

Oh and I set the alarm for like 6 or some shit cuz man, you must be so tired!

And I called your boss and gave him an excuse, so he knows you'll be late. So don't continue having your shit fit (cuz I know you're having one right now, so stop it)

But that doesn't matter – what does is Saturday. See, the awesome me was having too good of a time yesterday, so good that he kiiiinda forgot to mention that Feli-baby and Luddy are having this engagement party thing ^^" (super short notice, I know. And Luddy is so anal about planning, too…The shit love does) Anyways, I, the awesome big brother is invited (obviously) and! I get to bring a partner!

So, Birdie, wanna come?

LOL why am I even asking? You're coming with me bro! But since you can't come to the party dressed like a bum (no offense yo), we are going shopping, loser! Fuck yeah Mean Girls.

So ask your boss for a day off, huh? Pwease? Just imagine Aster's puppy-dog eyes – I showed you the picture of him, right?

Yeah, cuz nobody can resist that shit!

I'm picking you up Saturday, 10AM! Be there or I will hunt you down and dress you in a pink princess gown with frilly bows and a leather speedo and I will make you walk in public all day with that shit on. Just sayin'.

Oh, and there's a coffee and sammich waiting for you in the microwave – heat it up, kay? :D

Kisses, bitch!

- Gilbert B.

Arthur smiled fondly as he read the letter, and although he feared what the 'excuse' given was, he was still thankful to his friend. But then again, he should've expected it – Gilbert planned ahead for everything. Now walking with a lighter step, he reheated the breakfast bought for him and marched on happily to the diner.

But there, it was to his great surprise that he was accosted by a worried-looking Leyla.

"Arthur, you poor baby! My brother said that you were in an accident! Oh, tell Leyla where it hurts! Is it here? Or here?" She cried and she started patting the Briton down for injuries (although why she assumed he'd have so many injuries on either his arse or cock was suspicious, to say the least).

Not even within a minute into the sexual harassment session did Sadiq finally appear to pull his employee away from the girl and drag him to the back of the diner. There, he threw the blonde a dark look (which Arthur assumed was code for "don't touch my sister – even if she touches you") and began:

"So, your boyfriend called me up."

Arthur was sceptical. "Boyfriend? You must mean Gilbert."

"Look, I don't actually give a rat's arse if he's your boyfriend, or fuck buddy, or your what-the-fuck-ever. Point is, he called me up at five-fucking -AM to announce that you had had – and I quote – mad, wild sex until dawn," The Turk grimaced as he exaggeratedly imitated Gilbert's scratched voice and accent, "and that you'd be late. So, although that's a nasty excuse, I guess it's valid."

At the mention of the 'excuse', Arthur felt himself fume a little bit, but in the end, it had worked. So, he let his co-worker continue.

"Also, he said you probably had something to ask me, so…do you?"

"Ah, yes…" The Briton fiddled with a penny in his pocket. "Might it be possible for me to take Saturday off? Gilbert's – the guy who called you – well, his little brother's getting married, and he wants me to come with him. But that's on Saturday, so would it be alright if I were to, uh, take one of my paid sick days?"

"That's all?" To Arthur's surprise, Sadiq merely shrugged. "It's your sick day, so take it when you like."

"And you're fine with the fact that I won't actually be sick?"

"Hey, I'm not sick on my sick days either."

"Alright…Thanks…"

At this point, Arthur was unsure of what exactly to think of his boss' grandson; he didn't think he'd get his day off without a fight. And to be fully honest, up until right now, he had guessed that Sadiq was an arsehole, inside and out. But maybe he was just an arsehole on the outside.

Which was a surprise. This part – asking Sadiq for the day off – had really been the only thing the Briton had been dreading to do; seeing as the Turk was pretty much the one who ran the damn place, whereas his grandmother simply owned it, he had had to ask him, and not her. And the issue with that was that the Turk was rumoured to be the most demanding slave-driver with zero tolerance for sick days in the district.

But… maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was a generally nice guy who simply had an attitude. Or maybe he was a jerk with a soft spot for weddings. Whichever the case, Arthur chose not to question his good luck, and instead put extra effort in his work day so as to make up for his upcoming break. Later on in the day, he had to ask Mathias' kindly grandfather for the same thing; but that hardly worried him. Hell, he could miss a day without notice, and Frej wouldn't so much as bat an eyelash.

With such unusually pleasant chance, Arthur barely saw his day fly by, and so it caught him slightly by surprise when Gilbert burst in at 10, sharp on the clock, not a minute late or early – and it was Ludwig that was the anally retentive brother? – with his usual loudness and enthusiasm. Arthur had then been led to the god-damned fanciest clothes store he had entered ever since his sister Molly had made him dress up for a date – the shirts' prices were in the triple digits, for God's sake! With coercion and a very full debit card from his friend, the Briton had ended up with plain grey slacks and a creamy blue cotton dress shirt. The former had gotten a new suit too, albeit he opted for something a mite classier – black trousers and a horrifyingly expensive silk shirt whose dark purple made Gilbert look even paler than he usually did.

Then, within a few quick minutes in Gilbert's little platinum Volkswagen Passat, a sturdy machine from 2008, they had arrived back in the German brothers' apartment, only to be blown away by the cacophonic gust of music, chatter, and laughter. At the door, too, their eardrums were further assaulted by the squeals of the small brunette that came to greet them – or, rather, hug them very, very tightly.

"Feli-baby!" Gilbert cried out to his future sister-in-law. "How's the little angel that took my little brother's heart?"

Felicia, who barely looked (or sounded) a day over eighteen, giggled brightly as the albino ruffled her rich curly hair. "I did not take it – he gave it to me!" Here she turned to the other guest, who had been standing stiffly behind. "And hello! You must be Gilbert's…ah…" she struggled for the word. "His man-friend, si?"

"Just friend." The Briton smiled and offered his hand to shake. "Might I extend my congratulations to yourself and your very lucky fiancé?"

"You may!" The Italian girl grinned.

"Err…" The proffered – and rejected – hand was awkwardly retrieved and a cough politely showed the blond gentleman's discomfort. "You're…uh…yes, congratulations."

With a final good-bye hug, the hostess moved on to greet the rest of her guests, and Gilbert promptly burst out laughing.

"Oh man!" He snorted as they progressed through the mass of people "You should've seen your face!"

"I was surprised!"

"But seriously, shaking a chick's hand? You kiss their cheeks, bro! Like, what the hell are you?" A brief pause. "Oh yeah, I remember: you're English!" And the cackles resumed.

Arthur chose to simply answer to the insult with a punch to the muscular arm and a growled out "Shut up, wanker!"

The hit was ignored, and instead the white-haired man gently led his companion to the drinks table by the elbow. However, they hadn't even popped the caps off of their beers when another woman seemed to jump out of nowhere. But she, on the other hand, was much taller (and intimidating – but Arthur would never admit it) than Felicia. To add to her large presence was a massive head of untamed, faded flaxen curls that were only poorly retained by a warm orange headband.

"Guillou!" Mystery-woman called out, taking Gilbert's face in her extravagantly manicured nails. "You are finally here! I have missed you so much, mon chouchou!"

'What an odd accent…' Arthur thought as she cooed over his friend. 'Like a mix of French and…German? Yeah…Super odd.'

"Auntie Soleil! The albino tried to smile through squeezed cheeks. "I didn't know you'd come over!"

"No? But I told Luddy on Friday that…Tch, no matter! What does matter is that I finally get to see my favourite nephew!" Here again she burst into pursed little coos in what the Briton suspected was a certain French dialect. In that light, the latter chose to simply sit back and regale in the ever-darkening blush on his friend's face silently. So silently, in fact, that it was a surprise that this 'Auntie Soleil' noticed him at all:

"Oh, Guillou! Is that your friend here?"

"Uh, yeah…" The German firmly clasped Arthur's cold hand and brought him forward. "Auntie, this is Arthur…Arthur Kirkland. Birdie, this is my aunt—"

"Soleil Baudin, enchantée!" The tall woman interrupted her nephew. "And you, are Arthur. The Arthur that my little Guillou has talked about so much!"

"I haven't talked about him that much!" Gilbert was flushed.

"Tch, menteur. But tell me, my dear, where are you from?"

The Briton smiled obligingly. "I'm just a boy from the English country – South Cambridgeshire. Perhaps you know of it?"

"Non, to be honest, I have worried little about places outside my little Colmar. It is in Alsace."

'So that was the accent!'

"Well, why worry about rainy England when you can worry about the suns of France, eh?" Arthur mocked gently, which only received an enthusiastic nod.

The trio prattled on, and while the two blondes were the two main present in conversation, Gilbert's eyes would occasionally gaze far away and then take on more misery than Arthur thought eyes could hold. Soleil noticed his noticing, and elbowed him discreetly in the arm.

"Look over there – the brown-haired girl with the pretty blue dress." She whispered.

"The one hanging off some pompous-looking chump's arm?" The Briton looked on to see a strikingly beautiful woman with crackling green eyes and the most charming smile. Precisely, the woman his friend was currently staring at (quite creepily, if he might add).

"That chump is very pompous indeed – he is Guillou's cousin, Roderich; my second-least favourite nephew, too. And that girl, the very pretty one, she is his wife, Elizaveta."

"She's a proper good looker, huh?"

"Mhm." Soleil nodded and shifted closer to her conspirator. "Guillou used to be madly in love with her when he was younger – I think that at seventeen, he was ready to propose to her. But then she went and ran off with Roderich over there, and the poor boy never got over it."

The Briton was surprised; he had never heard that story before. "Do they still talk?"

"Sometimes. She feels bad about it, but who can blame her for not loving him? And Guillou, well…Let's say he can barely stand thinking about her without getting depressed, let alone talk to her."

"Poor boy…" Here Arthur felt a slight lump in his throat. 'You're no better, tosser – in fact, I'd go as far as to say you were worse! Shame on you, Arthur Kirkland! Toying with poor Gilbert's heart when it's already been broken once.' What he assumed was his conscience scolded him. Trying to ignore it, however, he looked about and noticed a hardened pair of baby blue eyes also directed at the pretty Elizaveta – except they weren't love-struck, wretched, or curious. No, they were a steely kind of angry. "Say…Is there a backstory to Ludwig and Elizaveta?"

"Luddy and Elizaveta? Non, I think not, but—ah, you noticed his glare. Yes, Luddy hasn't been very happy with how sad Elizaveta made poor Guillou feel. You see, Guillou is like a father to him, and when he lost the girl, he completely let his little brother down. But Luddy doesn't blame him – he loves his big brother too much, it's one of his flaws."

"Do you…" Arthur tried to tactfully ask the question. "Do you blame anyone?"

"Me? Non, not really. Elizaveta isn't at fault for loving Roderich, nor is Guillou at fault for loving her or Luddy at fault for loving his brother. It's just how some families are."

"I see…" The man took a thoughtful sip of his beer. "Are you here with your husband, by the way?"

"Why?" Soleil winked playfully. "Interested? If so, I'll have to disappoint; were you a girl, I'd have accepted, but I'm not much on men."

Arthur's eyebrows rose in surprise before he shrugged and laughed. "Damn, all the pretty ones like girls, huh?"

"Oh, charmer that you are! No wonder Guillou likes you." The woman giggled, and the two then looked affectionately up to Gilbert, who was staring back at them confusedly.

"Can I help you two with something, or are you just gaping at my awesome?"

"Ah, no! We were just thinking you should, ah…" The French woman's thoughts galloped towards a non-suspicious answer. "You should visit your brother! Yes! Go and say bravo to Luddy, and take your handsome little British friend with you!" Here she pushed the two men towards the living room with rushed out commendations and greetings, before winking to Arthur and running off.

The albino looked oddly between the spot where his aunt had been and then back to his friend. "Seriously, man, what were you two talking about?"

Arthur shrugged. "None of your business, now go and congratulate your brother; the poor bloke's probably waiting for you!"

The two walked over to the middle of the living room, where the younger Beilschmidt brother was lounging comfortably on a chair, surrounded by young boys around his age. With great fanfare and teasing, Gilbert cheered his "stuck up little Schatz" on "finding someone to get the ruler out of his butt." Arthur's praises were much more minimalistic and common of polite society, but they earned a shy smile nonetheless. Then, with a hasty nod, the former excused himself and rushed off to the washroom.

When he was finished, though, he came out only to bump into someone and get wine spilled on his hair.

"Oh, oh, oh! Pardonnez-moi, monsieur…euh…euh…Oh."

Through burgundy droplets clinging to his eyelashes, Arthur rose his eyes to see a very familiar pair of surprised electric blue orbs… and a stupid-looking half-beard.

'Oh indeed.'


Francis stared open-mouthed at the slightly shorter man as his drink dripped down the waxy, pallid face, getting caught in straw-coloured hair – and in monstrous eyebrows.

"Monsieur Kirkland…I am truly sorry."

Irritation sparked in those forest green eyes that seemed to absorb all of the light around them. "Watch where you're going, Bonnefoy."

'Oh, so now we're on furiously-spit-out-last-name basis?' The Frenchman chuckled as the bartender/waiter entered the bathroom once more and tried to wash off the alcohol – tried being the operative word. The toilet paper he was using was only tearing and leaving white specks in his hair and on his face. Francis sighed; he was like a child. "Here, monsieur, let me help you."

The Briton was led to the sink, where calloused fingers splashed cold (see: freezing!) water on his face and hair, and then a soft hand towel dried him up down to the last drop. Even the one stray drop that had rolled down a pale chest and that Francis had taken an uncanny pleasure in finding. There had, of course, been objections from the other man whose privacy was being invaded, and that annoyance in the Brit's voice was probably why Francis had even bothered to get that bead of water.

"I mean, really, man! That one drop wasn't going to kill me!" Arthur growled as he smacked the Frenchman with the towel he had snatched.

Calmly, Francis took it back and threw it into what looked like a laundry hamper. "Yes, Monsieur Kirkland, you are fully welcome for the gracious service."

"Oh, shut it!"

"Please, no need to thank me further! I am – how you say? Ah oui! – I am blushing. Stop. Je vous en prie."

"I said close that trap, you git!"

"And they say the English are the epitome of polite society." Francis remarked drily, rolling his eyes amusedly at the growing exasperation of his companion.

"I heard that, wanker! And it's not exactly easy to be polite when in your thoroughly infuriating presence!"

"My presence is only infuriating because you cannot appreciate its value." The Frenchman sniffed, to which he received only a single-syllabled insult.

"Ha!" And then it continued. "Yeah, a value of zero." But soon a resounding laugh boomed out of the Englishman. "Although most other people's conversational values here are in the negatives, so compared to them, I guess you're fun enough to talk to."

"Why, Monsieur Kirkland," Francis purred as the duo started to subconsciously walk about, "is that a compliment? From you?"

"Don't count on it!" Arthur warned, stopping in his tracks as they reached what appeared to be a makeshift dance floor.

Couples twirled and stepped; there were Roderich and Elizaveta again, and also a pretty dark girl – if Arthur remembered correctly, she was Aisha, Felicia's (very attractive) Moroccan friend – dancing with a very familiar brown-haired man. Looking around, he also noticed Gilbert's eccentric aunt Soleil holding a very happy-looking red-haired woman as they swung to the beat.

"Say, Francis…" The Briton started as they both looked absentmindedly at the happy couples, "Why in the bloody blue blazes are you here anyways?"

The taller blonde hummed as he scratched his beard. "You see the man dancing with the brown-skinned girl?"

"Yeah?"

"He's the guy that you joked with at the diner. He's also the bride-to-be's brother, and the husband of my good friend Antonia." Here he motioned to a curvy woman chatting across the room with Felicia and some other girls, but whose eyes often found her husband back on the dance floor. "That's her, there, in the red."

"I remember her…"

"And she remembers you. Not in a good light, either."

Silence.

"But worry not, Monsieur, it would not be impolite to say that the feeling is mutual. For one, I know it is, and for seconds, she can be a bit unpleasant if you get on her bad side."

"Which I suppose I did?"

"Monsieur, you ran naked through her bad side, with 'I hate Spain' painted on your chest in bold letters."

Arthur let out a few chuckles at the ridiculous image, and his companion soon joined him with a good-natured grin. "Quite the poet, aren't we?"

"Well, I'm French, aren't I, Monsieur?"

Another wave of laughter came before the tone switched suddenly. "But hilarious as you may be, could you please stop calling me 'monsieur'? It's unnerving."

"But it's polite to do so…"

"Not in England; we're on first names now. So please, call me Arthur."

"D'accord…Arthur." The name was tested out on a foreign tongue. "But in return, you must do something for me!"

The Briton's eyebrow rose in suspicion. "And what would that be?"

"Dance with me."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Francis took his present companion's hands in his. "Let's dance."

"And what exactly makes you think that I'd want to dance with a bloke?"

"Nothing, really; it was a risk to take."

Arthur quieted down for a minute before rolling his eyes violently and sighing in what seemed to be the greatest exasperation. "Bah, fine! You got me. We can dance."

Francis' clear eyes warmed up, and he calmly led his partner to a smaller corner of the room, where they attempted to dance. It was difficult, though, because while dancing with a woman was easy enough, dancing with another man set one back on the idea of gender roles.

"Okay, so, your arm goes—"

"Non, non, non! Your hands on my shoulders, not the other way around!"

"Alright – no, wait a minute! What makes you think you're leading?"

"I'm taller than you."

"Yeah, by, like, a quarter of an inch! Not even! I'm the man here!"

"We're both men…"

"You know what I mean, you cocky little shit!"

Once that disaster was sorted out (and Francis grudgingly gave in to be the 'lady'), the issue of leading sprung up again…although in a more painful way:

"Ow!"

"Aie!"

"My foot!"

"Careful where you step, Arthur!"

"Why don't you watch where you step, God damn this?"

"Ah – my shin!"

"Sorry! Didn't mean t—bloody hell that smarts! I won't have toes left at this end of this!"

The squabble continued for only a few minutes (much to the amused bystanders' dismay), before the two blondes decided that it was a much safer and worthwhile pursuit to go out to the minuscule balcony with two cold beers – imported, and Gilbert's favourite kind, Arthur had noted – to discuss their favourite subjects: themselves.

Francis had delicately tried to ask about whether Arthur was thinking of entering into a college or whatnot, to which he had only gotten a shrug.

"The future's uncertain." A sip of the beer. "So I can't really say that I'm planning on doing anything. My biggest focus right now is to work so that I can sustain myself. After all, survival is the primary concern, right?"

"I see…" Francis didn't really see. "Any hobbies of yours?"

"Well…I like rugby." The Briton commented, and as he did, his companion took quick looks over the small body. While muscles were invisible under the clothing, Francis still noticed the stocky shoulders, strong jaw, and wide stance which suggested that the Englishman was made for rough sports like it.

"Anything else?"

"Something else…? I guess…writing. Yes. I like writing."

Surprised, Francis peered curiously at Arthur, who was looking hard in the other direction. "Writing? What kind?"

"Fairy tales. Stories. Anything with words. Words are simply beautiful." Here the tired green eyes lit up with a newly kindled flame, and they seemed to invite the world to burn beautifully with them. "To me, words are like sorceresses that, with the right sort of combination and pronunciation, can bewitch all those whose eyes lay upon them!"

The excitement of the last word floated still in the air for a moment, tense, and during that time, Francis couldn't help but stare as all of the passion, all of the will and romance and anger, burnt slowly out, until once again the familiar look of lack of sleep and slight disdain for everything came back.

To break the silence, the Frenchman smiled. "And you said I'm the poet."

Arthur gave back a grin as well before swinging his bottle again. "Never said you were the poet."

"Oui; so I suppose that title would be given to you instead?"

"Me?" The Briton scoffed. "Unlikely. It'd be best sensed to give it to The Bard."

"Who?"

"William Shakespeare, of course!"

A mocking smirk. "Ah, oui, Shakespeare. Si Anglais."

Unamused green eyes met malicious blues, before the pale thin lips of the Briton uttered something that the Frenchman never thought he'd hear. "Oui, au moins c'est Anglais. Parce qu'il faut l'admettre, ça aurait pu être pire. Ça aurait pu être Français."

'Mais alors…'

"Vous parlez Français?" The elder's eyes widened to comic proportions.

"Oui, je le parle, et alors?" Arthur challenged, his gaze hardening once and his shell closing in again.

"Je…"

"What, you didn't expect it?"

"Well…no."

Scoff. "Oh, and for further reference, calling someone a 'con vulgaire' and an 'abruti' is not polite. I realise that French men have a mouth to make their mothers blush, but honestly…" Arthur's playful smirk came back as he jeered at the other.

Francis sneered. "At least we treat our mothers right; you English boys abandon them and make them work."

The next cutting response was expected (Francis fancied it'd be something leaning towards a comment on his mother's promiscuity – it seemed appropriate), but he got none of that. Instead, the stocky blonde looked away and took another swig of ale with a short grunt.

'How very odd. One minute playful – and infuriating – little minx, and the next you ignore me. Who are you, Arthur Kirkland?'

Now, Francis would never admit to a low-to-middle class Anglo-Saxon with choppy bad hair, crooked teeth, and unhealthily sunless skin interesting him; he was much too good for that. However, for the sake of honesty, it had to be said that he quite liked this boy. He couldn't quite call the new arrival a refreshing gust of youth or anything – Arthur looked older and more cynical than even he. He wasn't particularly friendly, either; at the café, all Francis had noticed was how the snappy Englishman never mentioned friends or family – rather, he seemed to be, and preferred to be, alone. So what exactly the basis of his attraction was, he could not tell. Maybe looks. Maybe the odd taste in books. Maybe even the eyebrows.

…Alright, definitely not the eyebrows.

But something was there, and it made Arthur desirable. Even if only for a little while, Francis had to admit that he wanted the Anglo-Saxon – what kind of want was still to be determined by him.

So he gave his snake charmer's smile once again and looked keenly at the Briton, just like he had at the little foreign restaurant. "Mons—I mean, Arthur…"

"Yes?" The voice came out hoarse after the long silence.

"Care to join me again tomorrow for a coffee?"

The blonde thought before shaking his head. "No, we did that last week." Here he squinted as his mind tinkered a bit further. "But tell me, have you ever seen the Crown Jewels?"

"No…"

"Perfect! I'll show you around the historical sites. What do you say?"

Francis smiled warmly. "Parfait."


I can show you London!

Rainy, cold, and deeesolate!

Tell me Francis, now when did you last taste food so baaaad?

You know, with every new chapter I write, I question myself on 2 things:

i. I seem to ship PrUK more than I do FrUK. What?

ii. Breaking Gil's heart repeatedly is now my hobby. Whyyyy?!

Translations:

German:

[1] Mein Kleine Scheisse kopf - my little shit head (which I found was an endearment...so...it's an endearing shit head :D)

[2] Schatz - treasure, darling, etc...

French:

[1] mon chouchou - my darling/sweetie

[2] menteur - liar

[3] Si Anglais - so English (and this should be said in the most snobbish way ever for full effect ;) )

[4] Oui, au moins c'est Anglais. Parce qu'il faut l'admettre, ça aurait pu être pire. Ça aurait pu être Français. - yes, at least it is English. Because we must admit that it could've been worse. It could've been French.

[5] Vous parlez Français? - you speak French?

[6] Oui, je le parle, et alors? - yes, I speak French, so what?

[7] Parfait - perfect

And there we are!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter :) As always, thank you to all those who favourited, reviewed, and alerted!

If there are errors in the German, let me know and I'll fix them, and once again, I hope you liked!

Thanks for reading :)