(Francis, age 8)

Joan flicked Francis in the ear and hissed at him, so he folded his arms across his little chest and, under his breath, hissed back. He hissed in the quiet of his breath because hissing at a lady was a very ungentlemanly thing to do, and, while he could argue that Joan hardly counted as a lady, Papa begged to differ and that was enough for Francis to do it under his breath.

"What?"

He let his eyes slide to her, more out of curiosity than malice. She was grinning at him, eyes wide; the corners of her mouth seemed to rip through her cheeks. There were leaves in her hair again, and mud smeared on her cheekbone and tears in her dress. He looked at her disapprovingly and then down at his own pristine attire. Her hands were out to him, cupped over something; probably another moth from the attic.

They stood outside the door to the garden, standing just off the path, waiting for Mama to come out to play with them before lunchtime. It was a nice day, with the sun shining beams of gold through puffy clouds, and the flowers had just begun to bloom for spring. Soon, the garden would be filled with colours worthy of Mama to recreate when she got her new paints.

Francis tried to pretend that he didn't care, but when Joan opened her hands to reveal whatever it was she had caught, he had to stop himself from gaping at it.

A rabbit?

His sister had caught herself a baby rabbit, and it blinked rapidly at him, tiny ears and nose twitching, nearly slipping from her palm with its quivering.

"You can't hold him like that," he found himself saying, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that that was not the appropriate response, but not having the will to care. Instead of chiding her about whether it had fleas or diseases, he pulled the terrified thing from her palm and towards his chest, holding it closely in his arms, feeling the shaking slowly cease as the bunny began to paw at his cheek with the sweet relief of some sort of safety.

"Sir," someone called. "Sir, wake up. We've reached yer' destinati'n."

His cab driver was a portly man, ragged bowler hat and decaying tweed suit and all, and he patted Francis on the shoulder, asking him to awaken. It was nearly midday now, not the time to be asleep, but he was exhausted, having hardly slept with worry.

Francis was anxious; he didn't like leaving Arthur with anyone. He knew that he could trust Roderich, and Vash only resorted to violence upon provocation, and Elizabeta was there to smooth things over, but still. He knew Arthur hadn't liked it and that meant that Francis didn't like it. It was a chain reaction, and all Francis wanted was to pick him up and go home with the certainty that he was safe. Then Francis could sleep into the new millennium.

He groaned and picked himself out of the cab, not taking his things, and the cab driver sat back in the front.

"Please wait here," Francis requested, struggling to push his mind towards clarity. "I'm just picking someone up."

"Yes'ir"

He hoped to God that Arthur hadn't panicked and run off. It had been three days now, more than he had intended to be away, and it wasn't like he had left him with people he knew. It wasn't irrational to think that he might have had run off, might have acted rashly, or panicked. He held his breath all the way to the door and when he knocked, Elizabeta opened it instantly, probably having seen him emerge from his cab. Her expression changed from one of pleasure to one of concern once she got a good look at him.

"You look horrible," she said by way of greeting. He nodded indifferently.

"Arthur?" He had some priorities and they currently went:

1) Arthur

2) Sleep

3) Elizabeta's opinions on his appearance

And that was about it. Small talk wasn't even on the list. She smiled that knowing smile of hers and stepped out of the way for him to come in before answering.

"He's fine, just wants to go back to which ever home is readily available." Francis wasn't entirely sure whether he understood that sentence, but he was too tired to look into it. Instead, he simply allowed her to steer him into the house, and presumably towards his boy. "He's in the music room with Roderich and Lilli. He likes the piano."

Francis nodded a little uncaringly and yawned, covering his hand with his mouth. While he expected to just go on, she paused before she opened the door and he looked at her with some mild surprise.

She looked at him for a moment, her lips pressed together into a straight firm line, as if she were considering something. He looked at her hopefully, trying to prod her along to whatever destination she leaned towards. Her eyes bored determinedly into his, her expression doubting, and careful, as if she had some sort of delicate information and didn't know whether to tell him.

Something niggled at the back of his mind as the pause drew longer, that something had gone wrong, that someone had overstepped some boundary or that something was broken, and he knew that she had said Arthur was fine, but Elizabeta was as capable of lying as the rest of them. All his weary muscles tensed in agitated anticipation.

But then, all of a sudden, that expression she held cleared and she smiled softly at him as if she had found some sad resolve.

"You've done good by him, Francis. You really have."

She nodded once, still smiling at him, and pushed open the doors, turning away from him, leaving him with just that little piece of careful congratulations. He didn't know how to respond, so he didn't, just followed her in, confused and tired, and hopeful.

The music room as always was very clean with a scattering of Roderich's various musical talents. The floor was made of wooden panels, and the curtains on the windows had been changed from the heavy winter ones to the light, white ones for the summer, to let the breeze in. Roderich sat on the piano stool with his daughter and a pen, and they looked up at the sound of the door opening. So did Arthur, who sat curled up in a large armchair in the corner of the spacious room, book open on his lap, one of the two that Francis had let him take. He had no doubt already read the other one.

He watched from behind Elizabeta as Arthur's expression morphed into one he couldn't quite trace, but looked to be something akin to relief. The emotion disappeared too quickly for Francis to be sure, hidden safely under the mask of his skin. He was already beginning to gather his things, obviously ready to suspend this little holiday.

And he didn't smile at Francis because he never smiled at Francis, but he still went and stood beside him as soon as he could and that was enough.

…

Arthur fell asleep nearly immediately as they got into the carriage, just tucked himself under Francis's arm, got comfortable, shifting peacefully in his seat as if Francis were more a piece of furniture than a person, and fell asleep, just like that, as if on command. Francis let him, because in that moment he was enormously flattered and if nothing else proud because here was this broken thing, this human that trusted nobody and nothing, but, nonetheless, might have just started to trust him.

Francis spent the ride home quietly, not sleeping as he had done before, but leaning his head on the windowpane and smiling, because for the first time in three days he felt safe. And he knew that wasn't the way it should be. This had never been about Francis relying on Arthur, this was never about Francis being saved, but… somehow… somewhere… it had turned itself in both directions in a way he had never intended it to.

…

When they reached the house, Francis paid the cabbie and carried Arthur on his back, arms wrapped loosely around his neck, in to his dark house. He remembered when he bought it, all by himself, no Joan, or his mother, just his own decision. He remembered standing in front of it with the agent and knowing, in his bones, that this was where he wanted to live. He placed an offer then and there, on that Tuesday morning in mid-November, wearing his nice sunglasses and a casual suit, having no idea what would come of the house or who it would come to shelter.

Inside the house, it was cold, and empty. All the lights were off and it smelt clean, but cold; you could tell that nobody had resided there for at least a few days. He didn't even close the door before laying Arthur gently down on the sofa, still asleep. Francis covered the boy in the blanket he kept in one of the linin cupboards under the stairs, all his movements dazed and tired and vague. Because the house was cold, and Arthur wasn't, and for some reason, Francis wanted him to remain that way, because it was important.

Francis turned on the lights in the corridor and the kitchen and made tea, even though the tea that he made tasted like weak leaf water, and the tea that Arthur made tasted like the finely steeped drinks you purchased from high-end teashops. But he made it nonetheless, and took a few of the good biscuits from the cabinet beside the stove that Arthur hadn't investigated yet and another blanket from the linin cupboards. He sat down in the chair beside the sofa, not wanting to leave the resting blond, not having the energy to slog up the stairs to his room.

The armchair he sunk into was a big, ugly thing, but god it was comfortable. It had belonged to his mother, before she had died, and when his father had tried to throw it out when she passed, Joan had swooped in and taken it for her own. And then when Joan had died his father had tried to throw it out all over again, and, well, he couldn't let that happen. Even blind with mourning, Francis had needed to keep it with him. Needed to keep it safe.

He sat with the book that Arthur had told him to read while he was away. He was just getting to the good bit now, but his eyes kept slipping past the words, focusing in and out, like he faded into vagueness every time he read more than four words. He didn't know when he fell asleep, but he did, one hand resting on Arthur's soft hair, and the other holding the book loosely in his lap. The tea that he had made grew cold as he slipped into a warm, dreamless sleep.

…

When Francis awoke again, Arthur was gone, and so was the book and the tea, his hands empty and his legs and torso covered in the blanket that he had only left folded on the arm of his mother's chair for when he got cold.

The house was still dark; as it was outside, still gloomy and unlived in, but it was dark and he was tired, so instead of feeling depressed about it, he gathered the blanket around his shoulders to shield himself from the chilled air and trudged around the house to find Arthur, because that was always his first priority. Before he ate, or slept, or washed, he found Arthur. Francis made sure that he was safe, and cared for, and that he was okay.

That thought tortured him while he was gone, the fact that he didn't know if Arthur was okay. He knew, logically, that the boy was among friends, but being unable to confirm it for himself left him feeling blind, stabbing wildly into the darkness of his own head, hoping to god almighty that he was safe even though Francis wasn't there to keep him that way.

He found Arthur asleep in his room, covered in blankets, his clothes uncharacteristically strewn about the floor, a tuft of hair poking out of covers, and toes sticking out the end. He crept in and pulled the covers over them, tucking it under his ankles before creeping back out again, towards his own room, and collapsing onto the bed with the intention of not getting back up until Arthur demanded food.

…

The next day, they lived quietly, sliding back into the routine that they had once shared. Francis got up first, made breakfast, and woke up Arthur. Arthur put up his hair with a substituted ribbon because he left the red one on the train, and then they ate breakfast together, at the dining table, across from each other, not talking. They had no need, nothing to talk about, nothing that needed to be said or would be appropriate to say.

So they sat, ate their breakfast, and relished the peace.

Throughout the day Arthur would pop his head around the door to see where Francis was, check that he was still in the house, still safe, still where he should be. It was always for a moment. When Arthur got up to make tea, or do something else, he would first go and find Francis, check up on him.

And Francis would watch him back, watch him look around the doorway, confirm that he was where he had said he would be, and dart away again, and Francis would smile, because this was good, this companionship.

…

Francis was cooking.

Again.

Arthur sits at the kitchen table, watching him, his chin resting on his hands, staring at him, watching him swing around the kitchen, like a dancer, making dinner, talking to him about something aimless. Something about the market, something about how France had been, the auction. About how he had somehow managed to purchase both the painting that he had been sent to buy, and a separate, second painting, all with the money he had been sent with to buy only the first painting. Needless to say, his employers were very pleased.

Arthur half listened, mostly he just stared; tired eyes following him around the room, watching him cook, chopping up the carrots he had gone out that morning to buy. Arthur wasn't allowed in the kitchen when Francis cooked because he tended to both break and burn things, sometimes at the same time. He was very talented. Francis was very confused.

Arthur liked the way that he slipped graciously around the obstacles of the kitchen, like to watch his hands move with out Francis even needing to look where they were going, liked the way that it was clear that he and the kitchen operated on the same frequency. It was like they were so in sync, like a piece of music being played in perfect time. He smiled a little, letting his guard down.

Because Francis wasn't paying attention, he could tell, even though he was talking, and he thought that if Francis' guard was allowed down, then so was his. So that they matched. He hid the smile gently in his arms, and staring down at the table exhausted, but not willing to leave Francis alone. In case he went away again.

"Arthur? Arthur, are you listening?"

Someone clicked their fingers in front of his eyes, and he sat up, meeting questioning, blue eyes. He blinked hazily.

"Huh?"

Francis frowned at him cautiously, and continued to mix whatever it was that he was mixing.

"I asked how Roderich's was," he said pointedly, pushing his eyebrows together and raising his jaw as if to look at him over his own eyelashes. And he had really nice eyelashes, long and curved, and they matched the rest of his face, which was also nice. And he was beautiful, really just beautiful. The way that his nose sloped, and how his ears were near elfish, and the way his eyes always looked like they weren't trying to invade your privacy, but if you really wanted to, he would be there to hear anything that you had to say. And there was something beautiful about that. Something about the way that his hair always fell behind his ears, and was curly in just the nicest way. And the way that his cheekbones weren't sharp, and his face always looked like he expected something good to happen.

"His husband scares me," Arthur answered, as if that cleared everything up, laying his head back on his arms. "But the girl was nice." He could feel Francis look at him, smell his spiked anxiety in the air. There was always something vaguely anxious about Francis, but not in a worried way, in the sort of way that told you that he wanted what was for the best, that he wanted it to be good and was anxious when it could go the other way. Which was always.

"Oh? Lilli, you liked her?"

Arthur could tell that whether he had liked the girl wasn't what he really wanted to talk about it, but he let it go. If he wanted to interrogate the man who owned him he would do it when he was feeling less tired and at least a little more enthusiastic about it.

"Yeah, she was nice, friendly. Her brothers are cute too."

He didn't want to talk extensively about it, didn't have the energy, but for short, curt, cut off sentences. Francis eyed him cautiously; Arthur eyed him back.

"Ce qui est erroné avec vous?" What's wrong with you? Arthur asked plainly, eyes half open but pinpointed, stern, like he knew exactly what he was doing. He liked talking to Francis in French, because it made it feel special, made him feel like they were discussing secrets that only they knew

"Rien ne va pas avec moi. Je veux juste savoir comment votre visite est allé." Nothing is wrong with me. I just want to know what how you're visit went.

Arthur ran his tongue over his top front teeth and looked at him with his round, all-seeing green eyes. He didn't believe him, of course he didn't. Francis was a bad liar, obviously he was mulling over something, something that obviously concerned Arthur, but he wasn't gonna dig at it. If Francis wanted to keep something from him, then that was fine. But all this floundering was annoying.

"La visite était très bien, merci. Tout le monde était parfaitement civilisé et je l'ai apprécié autant que je peux être réputé avoir apprécié." The visit was fine, thank you. Everyone was perfectly civilized and I enjoyed it as much as I can be expected to have enjoyed it.

And then he lay his head back down on the table, and as he did he saw Francis smile as him fondly, and as his eyes closed with a certain firmness, he felt Francis lean over and rub a hand through his hair, and it was such a nice feeling that he didn't even tense, or growl. Just smiled into his arms.

…

Francis knocked politely on the door, trying to pretend that he had something casual to say.

In truth, this wasn't a casual topic.

"Mon lapin, I need to speak with you." By 'speak with' Francis meant 'tell you something'. But he didn't say that, because he didn't want Arthur getting spooked, not when he'd just spent three days with people he didn't understand, without any knowledge of when Francis would come back to him. He had been spooked enough this week.

"Come in," he heard the muffled call through the door and with his hand already on the doorknob.

Arthur sat in his bed, legs crossed under the covers as he sketched, fingertips blotched black with charcoal. Previously, he would have gotten up and come to the door, made sure it was him, and hardly allowed him to enter, but now, as long as he knocked, Francis was free to enter as he so wished. Arthur looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to say whatever it was he had come to say. Instead, Francis sat down on his bed, not too close, not too far.

He could tell that Arthur was looking at him with that 'I'm not sure what you're doing, but I'm quite sure that I'm not going to like it,' expression, which unnerved him deeply, but he wasn't going to back away, because for once, he had something good to say, and he could tell that Arthur would be pleased. And that made Francis pleased.

"So you know that auction that I went to?"

Arthur sent him a look.

"I did somehow manage to notice."

Francis smiled while Arthur still gave him that look.

"Well, an associate there informed me of another auction, up in the Northland," He felt Arthur's interest spike and Francis knitted his hands together, bending over his knees. A small smile tweaked at his lips. "And I was thinking that maybe we could go. Together. Elizabeta told me about your mother owning an inn up there, and it's pretty close to the auction; I checked it out."

Arthur's eyes widened. His grip on his sketchbook tightened, and his knuckles were painted white. The look in his eye was nearly desperate.

"And I was thinking that we could make a little holiday out of it. And… you could go see your family."

He smiled at him, waiting for Arthur to smile back at him, waiting to be congratulated, waiting for Arthur to finally, finally, smile at him the way that he wanted him to smile at him, to show at least a little bit of affection, to shed a little light through all that hostility.

But Arthur just stared at him, mouth slightly open, eyes widened in shock, and Francis faltered for a moment. Maybe he was upset? God, he hoped not. Francis couldn't think of a reason why he would upset, but paranoia at this point was a near permanent feature in his inherent personality.

And he watched as Arthur stared at him, his eyes narrowing, less like he was suspicious, though he was surely suspicious, but more that, like he was fading in and out of consideration, one expression hoping, the other bitter. Looking at him like someone might look at a great treasure at the end of a long hallway. Knowing that they would give anything to just walk down and grasp it in their hands, but also knowing that they probably couldn't.

"I'm serious," he offered, covering Arthur's small hands with his own without even thinking. "I'm not just playing with you." And Arthur looked at him so desperately, with something near hunger in his eyes, desperate, desperate for it to be true, for Francis to be good, for something, something, just this one thing, to go right the way that he wanted it to.

And then something wonderful happened.

Arthur hugged him. Literally launched himself across the bed, tossing aside the sketch book to wrap his arms tightly around Francis's shoulders and cling to him, whispering 'thank you' over and over again into his ear, like all the insurance he needed for his life was that Francis knew how thankful he was.

Francis didn't falter. He wrapped his arms around that thin frame, and held him tightly, resting his cheek firmly against Arthur's soft hair, because Arthur deserved something good in his life, because there was so little, and there was something in him that wanted to be the person who gave it.