Author's Note: I am so incredibly sorry. Everything kind of crashed all at once, and the updating really suffered |||OTL I ended up getting a bad case of strep throat, and then Anime Banzai… I'm really sorry. I should be in the clear for quite a while, so I'm really hoping this doesn't happen again. I apologize for making you guys wait so long.

Also, I noticed I mistakenly skipped an entire month. I went back and fixed it all, so be aware that it is actually May, and not June. Sorry for any confusion.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and/or added this to their story alerts, and thank you for your patience ^_^

Disclaimer: Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya

~X~

The second time Arthur woke up, he let go of the artist's hand like it was on fire; his cheeks flaming. The implications of what that could mean had rushed into his mind as his eyes flicked over to Francis, praying that he wasn't awake yet. Arthur would probably never hear the end of it if Francis knew what the he had done. He could hear the arrogant teasing, and see the smirk that would surely grace Francis' lips.

Of course, Arthur thought it would be worth it just to feel the warm pressure against his palm for even a few moments more. All the torment Francis could inflict on him would be worth it.

When his gaze found the other, however, he relaxed. The artist was asleep; his face peaceful and lacking any hint of even the slightest worry. He looked… shockingly younger when he was like this. Arthur never realized how the blonde's face was carefully guarded with easy-looking smiles and dangerous smirks. There was something inexplicably raw about the tranquility that graced his aristocratic features at this moment.

In that moment, he could almost see why Francis drew portraits. Arthur very nearly wanted to look at that exact expression for hours. Not in the harsh reality of a photograph, but the delicate lines, and quality of a roughly shaded pencil.

He could watch that face for hours, he thought. With a faint smile, Arthur silently slipped away from the bedroom. By the looks of it, Francis would likely be sleeping for quite a while longer. Still, he didn't want to risk being caught staring just in case he was wrong.

Sunlight struggled through the blinds of what may have been the only window in the apartment. It provided just enough light for Arthur to easily see all of the things he had overlooked last night in his state of shock.

There wasn't much, he noticed. A handful of photographs, a couple of drawings, and some furniture that looked terribly out of place. It was almost as if these things were all second-hand. The few things that looked like they definitively belonged to Francis were just a few portraits he may have drawn.

He was fighting the constant sense of being an unwelcome guest in a strange home. Arthur couldn't help but feel like he was invading Francis' privacy when he examined his artwork, or looked at the people in his photographs.

With a sigh, he ended up settling himself on the countertop of the artist's kitchenette. Doubtful Francis would be awake for a while. He seemed the type to cherish every moment of sleep he could get.

So Arthur was surprised when he heard footsteps across the hardwood floors, and an accented voice carrying through the small apartment.

"I have two months to make you say 'yes'," Francis stated as he practically waltzed into the kitchenette, looking far more energetic than he should have.

Arthur looked over from his perch; one brow quirked in a silent question. If he didn't know any better, Arthur would never think that he just woke up. His blue eyes were bright, his clothes were close to pristine, and even his hair seemed to flow perfectly without a trace of bed-head. "What are you babbling about at this obscenely early hour?"

"It's nearly noon, my dear," he contradicted lightly. His hips swayed slightly as he continued to walk over towards Arthur. "And I am, as you say, 'babbling' about your agreement to l'amour."

Arthur stared at him as if he were an idiot. "I was beginning to think you were actually intelligent," he muttered as he slid off the countertop. "You're making even less sense now."

"I want to make sure my poor Arthur knows what it's like to be in love before I leave you," he teased. "Trust me; there is no better person for this job than myself."

He sighed, and screwed his eyes shut. Francis playing matchmaker? This couldn't get much worse.

"Besides, it's not like it will be difficult," he continued in an offhanded tone. "I know exactly who to pair you with. Because I know what you did this morning."

At this, his eyes snapped open. There was no way… Francis had been asleep; there was now way he could know anything. "Excuse me?" he choked out. "I didn't do anything."

A lazy smirk curved his lips. "You have soft hands, mon lapin," he said. "So contrary to your weapon, I might add."

Blood rushed to Arthur's cheeks. He really needed to stop tempting Murphy's Law. "I… I have no idea what you're talking about," he lied automatically.

"Oh, cher…" He finally closed in on Arthur, placing his hands on either side of the teen and effectively trapping him between Francis and the counter.

Arthur's breath caught in his throat, and he could feel his pulse accelerate. This was escalating quickly. Far too quickly for the Assassin to even try and keep up. If this kept up, he worried he might be swept away by everything.

"Don't play ignorant with me," Francis murmured, snapping Arthur from his reverie. "We both know that you held my hand of your own volition. And I know you were awake when you did so." Slender hands moved slid to the teen's sides, barely brushing the oversized t-shirt he wore. "Don't lie when we both know the truth," he insisted softly.

The melodic rise and fall of his accented voice was hypnotizing. It took nearly everything Arthur had to not fall victim. "You instigated it," he rebutted weakly.

"You certainly didn't fight it," Francis said. "In fact, you don't really fight anything I do. With your body, that is."

His eyes narrowed. "Shut up."

Disregarding Arthur's half-hearted attempts to retaliate, Francis reached up to cup the punk's jaw. "Not unless you really want me to. And trust me, mon amour, you don't want me to be quiet. You don't want me to move away, or let go."

Arthur grasped Francis' wrist with the intention of pulling his hand away. However, he ended up just holding on and averting his eyes. "How would you know that?" he asked. "You can't possibly know what I want."

A soft smile graced his lips. "You're actions speak so much louder than your words. Arthur, your face is an open book; it's one I can read very well."

The teen scowled, still hating Francis for being right. "That makes you sound ridiculously pretentious."

"That would only be a problem if I was wrong," Francis replied before pressing his lips to Arthur's temple. He allowed the kiss to linger just a touch longer than strictly necessary. "And I know I'm right."

That finally provoked him to shove the artist away; a tad too gently to actually be considered retaliatory. "I have never met a man so arrogant in my entire life."

"Then you have never met my friend Gilbert."