9. trojan horse

Francis sat alone in Starbucks, drinking a macchiato and reading.

At his feet sat a black bag with his things in it, and on the table in front of him was an iPod. Earphones ran from its jack into his ears, but he wasn't listening to anything. No music was even playing.

Francis wasn't even reading. He was thinking.

He was thinking about home. The city they were in reminded him vaguely of home, but there weren't as many skyscrapers as there were in New York. It didn't have the same sense of adventure and glamor that New York had. It didn't have the European coziness that Francis always associated with Paris, either.

Chicago was definitely an odd city.

Nowadays, Francis hadn't felt comfortable anywhere. Except for maybe at the Wellington's house. Or was 'mansion' the right word for it? Either way, it didn't really matter—it had good food, good people, and art. Like his apartment with Arthur back in New York. It felt like home.

They'd spent one last day there after the day at the amusement park, and Selena had approached him with a present of a sketchbook and graphite pencils.

"You ought to draw more if you're an art student," she'd said. He'd taken it gratefully; it had been too long since he had anything to draw with. He'd started to feel a little twitchy from the lack of creating he'd gone through.

As they stood in the driveway in front of the SUV, Dylan had pressed a credit card into Arthur's hands. The Brit had refused it, but Dylan insisted.

"Arthur, take it," the Australian had insisted. "Think of it as my thank-you."

"You've already done enough of that," said Arthur.

"I can never thank you enough," Dylan said.

Arthur had hesitated slightly, and then taken the plastic card without any more complaint, a stony look in his green eyes. Francis wondered vaguely what Arthur had done for a thank-you present of a credit card, but the Brit had thrown him into the car so fast that Francis didn't have time to think.

A crackle jolted the Frenchman out of reminiscing, and he checked the iPod display. It showed a normal screen with the strangest names in the title.

Song: Looking Out For Something Outside
Artist: Air Supply
Album: Life Support

Francis didn't know what the hell Air Supply was, but he didn't really want to know. Dylan, apparently, had the oddest taste in music.

And yet it wasn't even a song. It was a listening device.

Arthur had gone off to the "consultation meeting" with the client—whose name was Alexander or something of the other. Francis had wanted to go, but Arthur wouldn't let him. Instead, the Frenchman had stayed behind, listening to the staticky feed that was streaming through the microphone hidden in Arthur's black earring. It was rather boring, Francis thought, absently turning a page of his book. He must have been reallly bored to jump at a single crackle in the flood of white noise.

He put the book down—he wasn't really reading it anyway—and took out his sketchbook, running his hands over the smooth white paper. Dieu, nothing spoke to him more than the lure of blank paper or a blank canvas. It was just teeming with possibilities, waiting to be covered in sketches.

His hand seemed to move on its own, sketching in loose, thin lines. Yup, there was a contour of a cheek; the thin, subtle curves of a cheek; an eye, shrouded with blond lashes… It took a couple minutes for Francis to realize that he was drawing Arthur. It was almost subconciously that Francis had started drawing Arthur's thick catepillars of eyebrows. He blinked down at the sketch. The resemblance was nearly identical to the Brit, it was uncanny—

"Hullo."

Francis jumped at the sudden sound of the Brit's voice in his ear—like, really in his ear—until he realized that he was wearing earphones and listening to an iPod of a listening device.

"Yes, Arthur Kirkland for Alex—" Arthur's voice was cut off by another voice that was muffled in static.

"Arthur!" said a man in an Eastern European accent. Russian, maybe? Francis couldn't tell, his voice was muffled with static.

"Ah," said the Brit. "You must be Mr. Fidatov."

"Call me Alexandur," said the man easily. "And who else would I be?"

Arthur didn't say anything—Francis guessed that he was shrugging.

"Yes, let us get going, yes? Up to my office."

Muffled footsteps followed, along with the click of a door opening and closing. Then clinking. It sounded like glass to Francis.

"Would you like something to drink?" asked Alexander. "Water, tea, vodka…?"

"No thank you," said Arthur, and Francis bit his lip to keep from laughing. The notion was all too hilarious: Arthur! Refusing tea!

"Then let us get down to business," said Alexandur.

Some shuffling papers in the background.

"I simply want you to retrieve this for me," said the man with the Eastern European accent—Francis still thought of him as that—and there was a pause.

"A briefcase," the Brit said with no emotion in his voice.

"Yes," said Alexandur. "It is located in this hotel in this man's room. BA-ID 194881039328. As you can see, he is a trained operative. I believe he has been an activated agent for an extremely short amount of time—or so intel tells me—but I fear he is quite the spy. Very natural tradecraft instincts."

"No problem," Arthur said immediately. "I, too, was like that once."

"Yes, I am glad you have confidence, Arthur," said Alexandur. More paper shuffling. Francis was a little annoyed by all the background noise. He wished that they'd installed a camera instead of a microphone so he could actually see what was going on.

"Now," continued the man with the Eastern European accent, "there will be a perfect oppurtunity tomorrow evening at 1900 hours. It will be just a charity event. Black tie. You will, I think, be able to easily slip away from the crowd and take it and leave.

"I have also prepared a place where you may stay—it's an apartment in the city, although I think you will have to drive quite a bit to reach the hotel where it is taking place."

"That is very kind of you," said Arthur.

"Yes. As is this." Some more shuffling. "The down payment, as requested."

"Thank you," replied the Brit.

"Of course," said Alexander, chuckling. Francis didn't have a very good feeling about that chuckle.

"And," he added, "You are welcome to bring a plus-one to the event, if you wish."

"I'm fine, thank you," said Arthur.

"Very well. Best of luck to you then."

xx

"So what did he look like?" Francis asked in the elevator—or as Arthur called it, the "lift." "Was he Russian? There was definitely an accent—"

"Shut up, Francis," said Arthur duly.

"But seriously," Francis said. "I wasn't the one who was there, I didn't get to see the man—"

"Fine," sighed Arthur. "He was about our height, ginger hair, reddish eyes. And he's Romanian."

"Romanian?" Francis asked.

"Yes. Are you done now?" Arthur stepped out of the elevator and walked towards the apartment.

"Sure," said Francis, as Arthur wrestled with the keys for a brief moment.

"Bloody keys," he muttered, and the door swung open into a beautiful apartment.

It was rather large and spacious for an apartment. Usually apartments were quite a bit smaller, Francis would know because he'd lived in one ever since he was a toddler. But this, this apartment was huge. The furniture was made all of steel and leather and smooth surfaces. The walls were painted a calming green and hung with odd works of art that rather reminded Francis of Jackson Pollock, although he realized that they probably were real Jackson Pollocks. He muttered swears under his breath.

Francis collapsed on the sofa. He was damn tired.

"Well," Arthur remarked, running a hand through his hair. "Looks like this bad boy has some money on him."

"Il est beau, cet apartamente," Francis agreed vaguely.

"Mais oui," said Arthur vaguely. "Alexandur est très riche."

"Je peux—Wait, you can speak French?" Francis looked at him in surprise.

"Francis," Arthur said with an edge of annoyance. "I know a lot of things. Ne pas être un idiot. Grenouille."

The Brit never ceased to amaze. Francis blinked, slightly pleased that Arthur knew the language of love—but for the true language of love, I would imagine him to be quite dense. The thought passed through his head with a slight chuckle. He supposed that he ought to not say flirtatious things in French anymore, especially since the other man knew what they meant now… but he rather did like saying them…

"Francis, you can take the spare room over there," Arthur said suddenly.

"Oh… of course." Francis made to move from the leather couch, but Arthur shook his head.

"You should take some time to relax first," he said, walking away briskly so that his voice floated from the kitchen. "Big day tomorrow. And dinner—do you want to make it?" he asked, poking his blond head from the fridge.

Francis thought of Arthur's disastrous attempt to make soup the night of Gilbert Beilschmidt's death, and immediately headed for the kitchen before he had to call in the Poison Center.

They ended up eating escargots for dinner—score for Francis, since it'd been a long time since he'd eaten any actual French food. They were somehow in the fridge, along with a bunch of other things that Francis hadn't eaten since he was in primary school in France. It was nice, to have a taste of home after being stuck in the car going across the country at seventy miles per hour. It had been too long since he'd had ratatouille just like his mother made it.

Arthur had eaten the snails up with gusto, and downed the thick onion soup that Francis had made to go with it. He was a hungry little bugger, stabbing the bits of tomatoes and bell peppers in the ratatouille like he had a personal vendetta against vegetables. Francis couldn't help but smile.

"What?" Arthur snapped, stuffing his face with bread.

"Nothing," Francis said, trying to suppress a laugh.

Later, upon further exploration, Francis discovered that the liquor cabinet had a bottle of la fée verte—absinthe. Arthur refused it initially, but after Francis poured the green liquid into a glass, he asked for one. Francis didn't mind.

They drank and watched a movie. Francis didn't remember the name of it, but it was in black and white and in a foreign language, neither French or English. Italian, maybe? Arthur seemed to understand it. It had cars and pretty women in haute couture and European streets. It had some plot involving romance and murder and glamor. It also happened to make Arthur drift off to sleep.

It was a little over halfway through the movie, when Francis noticed Arthur's blond head resting on his shoulder. The Brit's chest rose and fell steadily and he shifted slightly to move closer to Francis.

Francis was tired. Too tired to have sex, like he probably would at this point of the day. And it was hard to have sex with a sleeping man.

So he wrapped his arms around Arthur and heaved the Brit up, dragging the blond man to the bedroom. He was pretty heavy—Arthur was—for such a skinny little bugger, but Francis managed to lay him down in his bed. He unbuttoned his shirt so Arthur would be more comfortable.

He stepped back to admire his work, but Arthur frowned in his sleep.

"Francis," he murmured. "Francis, be safe."

It was really quite odd. Francis had never heard Arthur say anything in his sleep before—they'd always slept in the same room and the Brit had always remained quiet. Of course, Francis was always out cold the instant his head hit the pillow, so he wouldn't know.

But Arthur looked so very safe and innocent and young. It was tempting.

"Francis," Arthur whimpered. "Francis…"

Francis didn't know how the Brit was planning to finish that sentence. He didn't care.

Slowly, he sat down on the bed, and leaned back so that he was lying next to Arthur, edging himself closer so that their feet mingled, so that Francis could feel the heat emanating from the Brit, could distinctly see the rise and fall of his bare shoulders.

"Shh…" Francis reached out and patted Arthur on the shoulder. Arthur shifted slightly.

"Francis," he murmured. "I'm sorry…"

"Arthur, shush," said Francis very sleepily. "Laissez-nous dormir."

"Francis," he said again, but Francis closed his eyes, and put a finger to Arthur's lips.

"Bon nuit," said Francis.

xx

It didn't take long for the next day to pass quickly. Before Francis knew it, it was only an half-hour before Arthur had to leave.

Francis had been reading a newspaper—he was really very bored—when Arthur walked in.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "Go change!"

Francis looked up, and had to bite his lip from… well, he didn't know what exactly. But he had to control himself.

The Brit had traded his worn-down wifebeater and hoodie for a smart black jacket and green shirt—olive green like the shadows that hung in his irises. A black tie and trousers finished the look. The jacket was slightly open, and he was slipping something in it. Francis couldn't get a good look at it, because Arthur finished with a glare.

And he wasn't paying attention too much. Here it was, his favorite Englishman wearing a suit. He loved Englishmen. And he loved suits.

Dieu.

"Francis, let's go, change!" Arthur snapped his fingers annoyingly in Francis's face, and the Frenchman jolted out of his reverie.

"What? Why? I'm not going anywhere," Francis said. "You're the one going to a black-tie event."

"And you're coming with me," the Brit said. He checked a silver watch on his wrist that Francis hadn't noticed before. "Come on, we're going to be late."

"What—I—okay. All right. Okay." Francis put his newspaper down and did as Arthur bade him.

Then Francis had been shoved into the back o a dirty, cramped taxi with a suit on, and from the feel of it, it was Ralph Lauren. Arthur was looking out the window intently, apparently very interested in the Chicago skyline. Francis wondered why they would take a taxi, but he supposed Arthur was cheap or something like that. At this point, he didn't really care, except that Arthur was wearing a suit. Francis wasn't sure he could actually process anything else.

They pulled up in front of a hotel—like Alexandur had said—and Arthur seemed to wake up. He got out of the car very quickly, leaving Francis to give the driver their fare before hurrying to follow the Brit.

"Arthur," he muttered as he caught up with the Brit's brisk pace. "Remind me again why I'm here."

"Because I want you to be here," said Arthur with a stingy look at him. "And do not take that the wrong way."

"Toooo late," Francis said teasinly, and was rewarded with a punch to the stomach."

"Stop with the karate, please," he groaned. "It hurts!"

"Krav maga," Arthur snarled, his green eyes staring straight ahead. "And it's supposed to hurt."

The lobby opened up into a large hall, lit with gold chandeliers and decorated with elaborate hangings of red velvet and gold. All of it was very grandiose and palatial and all of the words that Francis couldn't think of at the moment. He felt like he had been transported back to the eighteenth century, the designs on the walls and vaulted ceilings were so meticulate and detailed… it made him feel very insignificant, even in his smart navy suit, which didn't seem to live up to the beauty of the room. It wasn't very often that Francis felt out of place, but he did. Even if everyone else around him wore similar things as he and Arthur were on them it looked so much more dignified.

Arthur strode confidently in, his chin up and head held high. A sudden smile broke out on his face—something that although Francis enjoyed, still shocked him a good deal—and his green eyes shone with a very soft happiness. His usually brisk manner disappeared, and he became very loose and relaxed. Francis, contrarily unsure of himself, stumbled to follow.

They stopped by a table of food, where Arthur helped himself to a cookie. Francis ogled the chocolate fountain for a moment, before turning to the Brit.

"So, what do we do now?" he whispered to Arthur.

"Mingle. Eat. Drink." Arthur helped himself to a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. "Get away from me, you look suspicious following me around."

"But I like being with you," Francis teased, and Arthur turned a reddish color.

"Shut it," Arthur hissed back, hiding his face by drinking some more of the golden wine. Francis couldn't help but laugh.

They were interruppted by a sudden "Arthur?"

They turned around to see a very pale man. He wasn't particularly tall, maye a few inches shy of Francis's own 175 centimeters tall. He had very pale blond hair, lighter than either Francis's or Arthur's was styled in a very modern fashion, with the long strands of blond falling straight across his forehead. The left section was pulled back with a cross-shaped barrette, pushing the rest of the hair back. His suit was colored a deep indigo—one of Francis's favorite colors, to boot—and matched his large eyes that were full of disbelief.

Arthur's cheeks were still a slight pink, and something in his green eyes flickered—emotion? Shock? It was hard to tell; they were guarded like always.

"Eirik," he said in his crisp British accent, his voice not giving away a hint of anything.

"Arthur? What are you doing here?" Eirik asked.

"I would ask you that," said Arthur with a smile—how that still sent shivers down Francis's spine. Oh dear god. Arthur should smile more. Arthur should definitely smile more.

"But blimey, how long has it been?" Arthur was still talking. Francis mentally banged his head on the table so he could try and maintain focus. As usual, it didn't work.

"It's been quite a bit," Eirik said, with a new, relaxed demeanor. He seemed to have relaxed once he saw Arthur's grin. "So long that you've seemed to make new friends," he added, nodding towards Francis.

"Right, Francis, this is Eirik Jensen, an old classmate of mine." Arthur gestured to each person respectively. Francis blinked and shook hands with the Norweigian, totally not alarmed or anything by Eirik's still-chill demeanor. No, of course not. What was he thinking?

"So, Arthur," said Eirik after helping himself to champagne. "What have you done since our days of youth in high school?"

"Oh, this and that," Arthur said vaguely, avoiding drinking his own glass of wine. "It's all been quite a blur. Five years go by quickly."

"I'll drink to that," the pale man said. "I've done so much—moving to Chicago, taking care of the family business… and well, Mathias disappearing and all that…"

"True," Arthur said. "It's been rough on everyone."

A heartbeat of silence. "Well, no time to dwell on depressing things," Eirik said quickly. "I ought to move on, I have more people to talk to. How long are you going to stay here?"

"Not long," the Brit replied. "We leave tomorrow."

"Then let me take you," Eirik insisted. "I'm sure my driver will drive you to where you're staying."

"Yes, of course," Arthur said, after a split-second of thought.

"Good." The pale man nodded in satisfaction, his expression (oddly) faintly relieved, and he disappeared into the crowd.

Arthur's face slid back to its usual slight scowl. "Bloody hell, I thought he was never going to leave."

"Then why did you accept his invitation?" asked Francis.

"Free transportation," said Arthur matter-of-factly. "I think it's about time that we get going, yes?"

xx

Francis stood at the edge of the room, feeling very nervous. Dear God, why was he always stuck in these situations? He was such a pushover. He definitely needed to work on that.

Arthur walked confidently across the hall. Not over-confidently. Enough confident that he didn't look like a wimp, but not so confident that he came off as arrogant. The overall effect was a very calm, cool and collected Arthur Kirkland. Like the Brit always was. Exactly the opposite of what Francis was feeling inside.

The person that Arthur was heading towards, that was the man with the BA-ID 194881039328. The long string of numbers that somehow Francis could remember, even though his short-term memory was horrible. No matter. Francis fixed his eyes on the person who was only called BA-ID 194881039328 and noticed things. He noticed the easy, relaxed stance of that person. He noticed the curly brown hair, tousled and tangled and untamable, the olive skin and the white shirt that set it off, the round green eyes that had once been full of innocence.

A very familiar face.

As if Francis's nervousness wasn't already bad enough. He was dealing with enough merde without having his ghosts chase after him. His hands were shaking horribly , his knees wobbly and unstable, his neck sweating a cover of sweat. He was already having a near-panic attack, without having to deal with his old haunts. Especially a familiar Spanish former friend of his from his high school days.

But dieu how his friend had changed! Antonio looked so incredibly different—the green eyes, once full of sunshine and laughter, had hardened like Arthur's own steely eyes, but it wasn't like Arthur's eyes at all. Arthur's eyes were very sad. Arthur's eyes hid a pain, a great heartwrenching pain that broke him inside. Arthur's eyes were shadowed with a mysterious past and a melancholy that haunted his every step.

Antonio's eyes, on the other hand, were hard and angry. So very angry.

Francis got a sinking feeling that he had somehow caused that anger. Somehow transforming his carefree Spanish friend into a man who was just so full of anger that it vibrated in the guy's limbs, in his eyes, in his hair, in the tense way he carried himself. It was just anger and betryal and a hurting lashing pain.

Arthur scratched his ear with his left hand, a signal that they were to begin, and began to walk across the room. Francis began walking slowly, too, careful to keep both the blond Brit and the curly-haired Spaniard in his vision.

No matter how painful it was.

Arthur proceeded to walk up to Antonio, and with wide green eyes he said very loudly "Blimey!"

Antonio looked at Arthur with very confused eyes and an annoyed mouth. "Dios, I think—"

Arthur threw his arms around him. "Oh dear god, it's been forever! How have you been?"

"I don't—you've got the wrong—"

"Don't act like you don't know me, you little bugger!"

Arthur continued to babble on, and Francis had walked far enough to touch Antonio. Case in point. The little rectangle of a card was barely visible in the Spaniard's back pocket. All Francis had to do, while Arthur was distracting Antonio, was to slip his fingers inside the pocket and grab the card. Precisely and carefully. And that's what he did.

The key card went into Francis's pocket, and he muttered a soft apology as he bumped against Antonio. Just in case.

Then he forced himself to walk slowly to the bar. His heart was beating in his ears.

What a terrifying and thrilling experience. So very terrifying, but so very thrilling. Francis could still feel the adrenaline pumping through his system. And he'd gotten away with it. He could still hear the pumping of blood in his ears as his body calmed down from the sheer rush of it.

Arthur met him at the bar, and they took the elevator up to the eleventh floor. Turned right. Walked down maybe thirty feet or so. And fumbling, fumbling, Francis used his trembling hands to pull the key card out of his pocket and open the door to room 1123.

The room was nice. Rather impersonal, but all hotels were. The walls were a beige color and accents of red and white and black were found everyone. It was stylish and modern and nice. There wasn't really any other word to describe it.

The Brit strode forward and instantly knelt at a safe. It had a number pad on it. He swore under his breath. "You can't be serious."

"Quoi?" Francis asked. "I mean, what?"

"Number pad…" Arthur frowned in concentration. "A four-digit code. I've seen this kind of safe before, but…"

"But what?"

"These things… Francis, do you know how long it takes to crack one of these things? There are thousands and thousands of possiblities for a stupid simple four-digit code!" Arthur curled his fists in his hair and let out a growl of frustration. "Goddammit!"

Francis blinked. He had a sudden recollection of a memory from high school… a scene in a cafeteria. He and Gilbert were sitting in the far table, tucked away in a corner, and they were watching Antonio make a fool of himself. Then there was a small napkin—yes. There were seven numbers printed very neatly on it, a girl's handwriting. He remmbered those numbers very clearly—573…

"One-five-eight-nine," Francis said.

Arthur looked up. "What?"

"One five eight nine. It's the code. It has to be."

"How do you know that?" Arthur asked, suspicion flashing in his eyes.

"This one time in high school," Francis explained, "Antonio used this very elaborate act to get a girls' number. You don't happen to know the classic 'you've had a bad fall from heaven… angel' line?"

A silence and a slight disapproving I-don't-have-time-for-this-bull frown told him no.

"Oh? Well, it worked, and the girl's number was five-seven-three—"

"One-five-eight-nine, I got it." Arthur punched in the digits and a small light on the safe blinked green. The door popped open easily. Arthur sent a half-approving look at Francis (which sent shivers down to the base of the Frenchman's spine) and grabbed the gray briefcase that sat inside.

"Let's go."

xx

They walked across the lobby again, dropping the key card onto the front desk with an excuse that they'd found it on the ground.

Eirik was waiting outside the doors. He had a mobile phone pressed to his ear and snatches of English punctuated his endless stream of some Nordic language.

When he saw Francis, he put the phone away after a hurried good-bye and looked at them with that same relieved look as before. "Ah, there you are," he said, and his eyes slid to the briefcase. "What is that?"

"Nothing you need wory about," Arthur said smoothly. "I'm feeling a bit tired, so shall we go home now?"

But at that very moment, Francis felt a sudden urge. An urge that made him feel a little guilty, but if he didn't do anything about it, it would result in humiliation.

"If I may," Francis said. "I… uh… have to use the restroom."

Arthur groaned. "All right. I'm coming with you."

"Arthur, I'm not a little kid," Francis said in a slightly strangled voice. "I don't need help."

Arthur gave him a don't-question-it look, and handed the briefcase to Eirik.

"Take care of this until we get back," Arthur said briskly, and Eirik was left dumbfounded as they hurried off.

It was only a couple of minutes, really, until they were once more walking through the lobby. Arthur's phone rang.

He flicked it open, and put it to his ear. "Kirkland."

"Hello, Arthur," rumbled a familiar accented voice, scratchy from the signal. It was quite loud, and as Francis was standing next to Arthur, he could hear it quite well. "Do you have it?"

Arthur frowned. "If it is—"

"Do you have the briefcase?" Alexander clarified.

"Well—I—" Francis hadn't seen Arthur look this uneasy before, and it scared him. Not in that way, but Arthur was always so put together that if he was scared then something must have been seriously wrong.

"Do you have the briefcase?"

"Yes."

A heartbeat of silence. "Good-bye, Arthur."

Click.

A sudden realization dawned on the Englishman's face. "It's a trap," he whispered hoarsely. "It's all a trap…"

"What?" Francis didn't follow, but Arthur was already moving.

"Eirik!" And Arthur was running towards the revolving doors of the hotel, through which Francis could still see Eirik holding the briefcase, looking at his watch with a slightly impatient look.

"Eirik!" Arthur screamed again, but it was too late.

Francis didn't even hear the explosion; it all sounded like he was underwater, and all the sounds were muffled and low-pitched and slow. Even then the sound blew his eardrums out, and all that he could see was a huge cloud of bright orange-yellow light. By instinct his knees buckled and his arms flew up to protect his face and his eyes squeezed shut so that he fell to the floor, the hard contact jarring to his bones. A protective hand that Francis knew to be Arthur's rested on his shoulder. Francis looked up to see the Brit's face twisted in pain, and even through that Arthur jerked his head towards the back of the hotel. Francis stumbled to stand and follow the running Brit.

It was quiet when they burst out the back door. Quiet except for the sound of their panting. Francis was exhausted but he'd pretty much been like that ever the whole thing began. The explosions, the gunfire, the fighting, the rush of all of it—it was crazy, he had to admit. It shook him up and it exhausted him, but he got an odd rush out of it that made him want to throw his head back and laugh.

Francis wiped his forehead. Dieu, what a rush.

He slid his blue eyes sideways to look at Arthur, who was leaning on a brick wall, breathing heavily. The look in Arthur's eyes was dark and haunted. He had his fingers curled into his blond hair, and tears were rolling down his face.

"Oh, God," the Brit whispered hoarsely, and every bit of adrenaline coursing through Francis's body whooshed to his brain, causing him to feel slightly dizzy.

"Arthur, what is it?" he forced himself to say.

Arthur laughed very humorlessly, the sounds of his laughter echoing off the metal trash bins and walls and night sky. He wiped his face with a jacket sleeve.

"I'm such a bloody horrible person," he said quietly, so quiet Francis could barely hear him. "So bloody horrible."

Francis stood, stunned and unable to move, as Arthur collapsed onto the concrete ground and muttered three words.

"Mathias, I'm sorry."


Author's Note ~

Alexandur Fidatov = Romania
Eirik Jensen = Norway

I think I nearly died writing this chapter. I'm really sorry about the space between updates. I wonder sometimes if people remember what happened last chapter. Hell, I don't even remember what happened last chapter.

Chapter 10 will be kind of a tossup. So it'll be a while to another update again.

I'm sorry *sob* I love reviews, they keep this story going. *heart*