The ballet studio was unusually empty. Alfred had thought all of the identically dressed ballerinas from the previous sessions would have been there already, knowing the early starts they seemed to love. However, he found the studio dark, cold, and mysteriously empty. He pounded on the door with the heel of his palm several times, bellowing "Braginksy!" into the glass, but to no avail. The lights stayed off, and the studio silent, despite his efforts.

"It is because it is Thanksgiving, kotyonok," came a voice from behind him.

Alfred let out a very unmanly yelp, which he promptly tried to cover up by clapping his hands over his mouth. Ivan giggled but did not comment on it, which Alfred was glad for, because otherwise he would have had to punch him.

"I've been trying to forget for most of the night," he sighed, his heart rate now firmly under control.

"Ah. Trouble in paradise?"

Alfred did not rise to the bait, however, choosing instead to head into the newly unlocked studio in silence. Resignedly, he headed for the small locker that had been provided for him, reaching for his practice garments, when Ivan stopped him.

"Nyet, that will not be necessary today, Alfred. We have precious little time as it is."

"Huh? Little time for what? We've got literally all day, I don't have to be home until 2:00 at the earliest."

"I should have clarified. You have precious little time until you have to be ready."

"Ready for what? Dinner? How the fuck is this helping me to be ready for dinner?"

"Not dinner, Alfred. Your competition. I heard that one of your competitors has taken your routine."

Alfred froze. "How the fuck did you even hear about that?"

"I will take your response as confirmation that what my spies tell me is true. No, don't turn your head away," he said, grabbing Alfred by the jaw. Alfred immediately lunged for the arm that was holding him captive, but hesitated as he stared into the intensity of Braginsky's eyes. They were burning with something that wasn't quite anger, but certainly wasn't any less strong. Alfred might have dubbed it 'passion,' for lack of a better word. "Right now you are strong. You are powerful and vigorous and popular, and this makes the audience like you. You have the strength and the training-but do you have grace? Do you have finesse? You will, probably for the first time in your life, be skating against people who are your match. People who might even be better than you. Never give them that edge."

He released Alfred's jaw, then, striding to the centre of the room. Alfred watched him, unimpressed by his threats. He'd trained with Ludwig, one of the best in the world. He'd been skating his whole life. He'd made it this far, he wasn't going to be conquered by some random skater with delusions of grandeur. His thoughts went out of the window when Ivan began to dance. He'd seen some of the students dancing both times he'd been here, but it had been nothing like this. Ivan needed no music to keep time, needed no notes to tell a story. Everything was gradual, soft, delicate, like a snowflake wafting gently down to land among its fellow wintry drifts. None of Alfred's explosions of power, of perfect control. Nothing like Ivan when he was playing ice hockey, either, a violent maniac on skates hiding behind the facade of childlike innocence. No, this was something else entirely-it was Ivan at peace.

When Ivan stopped, breathing hard, it was all Alfred could do not to stare at him. Ivan looked, for once in his damn life, non-petrifying.

"Come, now, kotyonok, are you not impressed?"

"I expect more from a member of the Bolshoi ballet," Alfred replied with an impish grin, in the hopes of making Braginsky laugh again. Instead, Ivan's eyebrows creased downwards into a frown. "You were displeased with my performance?" The poor guy actually sounded-dare he say it-hurt.

Alfred rolled his eyes. "No, you great oaf, it was fantastic. That's just what you always say to me. I thought it only fair that I return the favour."

"I regret that, now," Ivan murmured, but it was so low that Alfred was certain that he wasn't meant to have heard. He let it pass unnoticed. "Will you dance for me, Alfred?"

"I thought you'd made it abundantly clear that you didn't think I could dance."

"Not now. Not here. I want to show you how to dance so that you can skate the way that you are meant to."

"I think I skate just fine on my own," Alfred muttered, and yet got to his feet anyway. "What do you have in mind?"

Ivan smiled in the way that let Alfred know that he was in for a world of pain.

This assumption proved to be correct, as he was limping rather badly as he staggered up the porch steps and into his house.

"Rough night, Alfred?" his aunt greeted him with as she descended from the upper floors. Her usual mischief wasn't in it, though, as she appeared to be bearing a load of vomit-stained bedsheets destined for the washing machine.

"You don't look so hot, either," he complained as he followed her down to the laundry room.

"We," she grunted as she shoved the stained linen into the machine and proceeded to douse her entire forearms with enough antibacterial soap to bleach her complexion paler than it already was, "are having an off day."

"You don't say."

"Your father cannot hold his liquor, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Yes. You, every time you visit," Leon deadpanned from the doorway. "Glad to see you're alive, Alfred. Papa was worried that you'd run off and joined the circus rather than live with us anymore."

"Looking better and better the more I consider my options."

"Call me before you leave. I'm sure you can persuade them to take one more."

"You can be the midget for the freak show!" Alfred suggested, which promptly resulted in Leon trying (and failing) to tackle him to the laundry covered ground.

"Are you two going to pitch in any time soon?" Saorise demanded, hands on hips, corner of her mouth twitching as a telltale sign that she wasn't really upset. Ushering both of them back into the main room, she informed them that Francis and Matthew could really use their help in the kitchen, especially as she and all her ilk had been informed that they were banned from anything having to do with-well, anything culinary. As the boys, with much grumbling, left to go deal with their no doubt panicked father and a sibling they didn't particularly want to see, Saorise slipped a crisp bill into Alfred's palm.

"For the after dinner card game," she whispered, and Alfred grinned, pocketing the cash as Leon disappeared upstairs.

Leon fished his cellphone out of his hoodie, heart hammering as he considered beating his boyfriend about the head with his own stupidity. Why, on today of all days, had he decided to come and visit him? He'd been purposefully keeping Emil away from his family-from both of his families-for as long as possible. Storming up into his bedroom, he flung the window open.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed. "You absolute moron!"

"I wanted to spend Thanksgiving with my boyfriend. Is that such a crime?" the white haired teenager asked in reply. The casual tone of his off-the-cuff response was somewhat negated by his awkward position in the tree and the fact that there were several twigs in his hair.

"Oh, just-come inside," was all that Leon managed to splutter out, and promptly started to hustle Emil in through the window, cursing loudly as he did so.

"You know, they made this look a lot easier and significantly more romantic in the movies," Emil replied, rather mildly.

"Gee, I don't know, it couldn't have been because those are the movies, now, could it?"

"Hm. Probably some merit in that," Emil conceded, as with a final heave, he somersaulted in through the window headfirst, bloodied his lip on the corner of the shutter, and tumbled to the floor with a spectacular crash. "Not exactly the dashing entrance I had envisioned."

A voice floated up the stairwell from the kitchen, or perhaps the living room.

"Leon? What was that?"

"Shh!" he snarled at his boyfriend before dashing to the landing. "I'm fine! I just knocked over my desk lamp when I was standing on a chair to reach something!" His excuse is inevitably followed by a burst of laughter from downstairs, but they seem to have bought the excuse. Shutting the door, he let out a long sigh as he leant back against the door frame.

"You'll be the death of me," he mumbled to the all-too-innocent looking Emil, who was sitting cross-legged on his bed.

"Pity. I was thinking of making it up to you," he whispered as Leon came to sit by him on the bed.

"And exactly how were you planning on doing that?"

Their lips met in the middle as they both leant in, neither really interested in hearing or giving an answer. Emil's lips were still half frozen from the cold and slightly chapped, whereas Leon's were somewhat sticky with the stewed wine-fruit compote Francis had forced him to taste before racing upstairs. Messy, but still enough to fill him with warmth. Of course, since nothing in his life could ever work out in his favour, his one moment of peace was interrupted by a loud burst of throat clearing from the doorway, revealing one smirking Frenchman.

"Ahem. Leon, were you going to introduce me?"

Leon and Emil had, by now, flown apart to opposite ends of the bed, and Emil was currently scrambling off of the bed in a desperate attempt to make the situation better. Francis held up his hand in an attempt to put the boys at ease.

"Relax, I was caught doing much worse," he reassured them. "Now, mystery boyfriend of Leon's, would you like to stay for dinner? We've got plenty of food, but I'm sure your family's missing you."

"Scandinavian. Don't celebrate Thanksgiving," Emil managed to mumble out in reply, face still a brilliant pink.

"Stay then, won't you?" Emil, still too scarlet to look Francis in the face, nodded hastily and headed out the door. Leon himself was not faring much better, staring resolutely at the floor, which prompted a chuckle from his part-time guardian.

"Don't worry, Leon, I have no intention of telling your father you have a boyfriend." Leon's head shot up, startled. Francis continued, as though nothing had happened at all. "Emil is a friend from school, nothing more. Believe me, I like all three of our heads where they are," he finished with a wink before leading the two boys down the stairs.

The dining room table was awfully cramped with so many extra guests, which meant an awful lot of difficulty when getting in or out of one's chair and more knocking of elbows than usual. On the upside, it meant that he could sit at the opposite end of the table from Mattie and be far enough away from his twin that avoiding conversation was actually feasible. Instead, he wedged himself between Saorise and Arthur, who sat at the head of the table, which doubled as a preventive measure towards arguments. Miracles happened.

"This is Emil, Leon's friend from school," Francis announced. "He's here to join us for his first Thanksgiving." Everyone murmured the obligatory greetings and well wishes as the chairs were again rearranged to make room for one more. Sure, Alfred might not have had any feeling left in his liver, where his aunt's elbow was currently planted, nor any room to move his right arm for fear of upsetting his father's wine glass, but the more the merrier. As the food was passed around on large silver platters, Francis stood up to give the obligatory grace, tapping on his glass.

"As I have never been very good at speeches or religion, and as the food is getting cold, I will keep this brief." Here he paused to produce a modest bouquet of beautiful red and white roses. "I am very glad to have everyone here; I am blessed to have such a wonderful family. I have three intelligent, kind, talented sons. I have the most warm, welcoming in-laws I could ask for. I have a friend of my son who has decided that we are worthy enough to host his first Thanksgiving, which I am honoured to do. But I think I am most grateful for my husband, Arthur. He is handsome, he is smart, he is a fantastic father, and I love him to the end of the world and back. To Arthur," he concluded as he handed over the flowers to a perfectly scarlet Brit and planted a light kiss on his lips.

"To Arthur," the family echoed, and at last began to eat.

"So romantic, Papa," Matthew commented as Francis took his place at the opposite end of the table. "Just like when you two met for the very first time."

"What are you talking about?" Sean asked, piling potatoes on his plate. "These two nutters didn't meet until after Arthur had already left Yao. No offense, Leon."

"None taken," he mumbled around a mouthful of goose as both Francis and Arthur cringed.

"No, no, that's when they started dating," Matt clarified. "But they met well beforehand. It all started when they met in a cafe shortly after Arthur graduated from college."

'Bonjour, monsieur. Can I help you today?'

'Ah, just a second,' Arthur replied, wrestling with the overlarge black umbrella as he shook rainwater out of his hair and off of his coat. 'Sorry, what did you say?'

'I was just wondering what I could get you. Coffee? Tea? A pastry? They're fresh made, by yours truly,' Francis offered with a wink.

'Tea would be great. Thanks, love,' Arthur replied, exhausted.

'Love so quickly? My, my, you must really have wanted to get out of the rain.'

'Ah-'

'No need, no need, it was all in jest,' Francis continued before the Englishman could get a word in edgewise, setting the cup of tea down in front of him before sliding into the opposite seat. 'It's only you and me here, and it's been dreary for hours. Talk with me.'

Arthur blushed but complied. 'I live here in London, working as a stock investor. I'd love to write someday. I grew up mostly in Birmingham, but I've got siblings in every single country in the UK. I did a semester abroad in Germany and a summer in Russia.'

'Interesting. A well traveled man.'

'And yourself?'

'Well, I grew up in France, near Toulouse. I went to culinary school in Paris, moved here when I got the opportunity, and someday want to open my own restaurant. I like being in charge.'

'I want to run my own newspaper. Maybe I'd write a review of your restaurant.'

'Why don't I pick you up at seven tonight, and we can discuss these plans of ours over dinner?'

"And so Papa picked him up with a big bouquet of roses and took him out to a fancy restaurant. They kept in touch for years, but then Papa got busy with his fashion design career, and Dad met Mr. Wang, and….well, you know the rest."

Matthew was met with blank looks from around the table before it erupted into chaos.

"That's not how they met at all!" Alfred bellowed over the cacophony.

"Yeah, I don't buy it," Sean chipped in. "There's no way that Francis and Arthur have ever been that civil to one another. Hell, they're not that civil to one another now!"

"Alright, Mattie, I'll tell the story right," Alfred continues, chest puffed out. "It all happened when Dad's partnership with Mr. Wang fell apart and he got kicked out of the house, but before the custody case."

Arthur sat at the bar of the very crowded pub, slamming down his empty pint glass and demanding another with a loud, heart-wrenching sob. Yao had kicked him out last week, and with no place else to go, he'd used some of his business miles to come home to England, where alcohol was cheap and there was no chance of him encountering any traces of the lover he'd left behind.

"My son's gone," he wailed loudly to the bartender, who nodded sympathetically and poured him another drink. Feeling bad for the poor man but not really wanting to get mixed up in someone else's business, a middle aged group of football fans had been paying for most of his drinks. "I lost my son," Arthur sobbed again. More sympathetic nods and a fresh mug of beer.

The spiral of beer mugs and tears continued right up until last call, where he finally found himself evicted from the establishment. He'd reached the point of intoxication where he'd even managed to dredge up memories of half-remembered folk songs his mother used to sing, humming them as he stumbled through the streets. More than one fellow patron had offered him a couch to crash on, but Arthur had turned them all down. He knew he could probably rest up at his brother's house for a few days-David was both safest and closest-as long as he could find the train station. It took him another half hour of aimless wandering, but he did indeed manage to find King's Cross and get a late night train ticket. Cradling his duffel bag to his chest, he half-crawled inside a compartment and passed out, using his bag as a pillow, as the train rumbled into the night.

When he woke up the next morning, his head was splitting and sunshine was streaming into his face, blinding him. Eyes watering, he wiped the tears off of his cheeks and collapsed on top of his few belongings again as the train ground to a halt. Seemed awfully bright for so early in the morning. He fumbled in his pocket for his cellphone so he could get ahold of David, and as he searched the train conductor knocked on his compartment.

"I am so sorry, sir," he explained with a heavy French accent, "but I'm afraid Paris is the last stop and we need everyone to exit the train now."

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"This is the last stop, sir. You are in Paris."

"Paris."

"That is right, sir. Several passengers informed me that you were heavily intoxicated last night-you must have a headache. Are you here on business?" the man asked as he steered Arthur out of the compartment and towards the platform door.

"So not Wales."

"No, sir. Not Wales."

A moment's pause before Arthur's dawning realisation and inevitable outrage.

"I'm in fucking France!?"

Giving up on the hungover foreigner, the conductor managed to hustle him off the train. Honestly, English people were such a nuisance.

Half blinded and feeling quite ill, he stumbled his way into metropolitan France, the City of Light. And the City of Light it was indeed, judging by the sheer amount of sunlight. There probably wasn't this much sunshine over the course of a year in the whole of England.

"Someone put that fucking light out," he barked up at the sky, before his nausea finally caught up with him and he leant over a nearby railing and vomited into the rosebushes, groaning. "Oh for fuck's sake," he muttered, and promptly heaved again.

"Ça va?" came a voice from behind him.

"Oh, exactly what I need." He retched. "Bloody French."

To his surprise, the reply came in English, albeit with a heavy accent. "Ah, you are English, monsieur? It explains your drunkeness."

"Oh, fuck off, frog bastard. Can't you see I'm-" another upheaval "-busy here?"

"See, I would ordinarily be happy to leave you to your own miserable business, but those happen to be my rose bushes you are vomiting into."

"It serves you right, growing flowers in the middle of the street instead of in a proper garden! And roses. Typical French," he snorted, scarlet faced.

"I think you will find that roses are your national flower, not mine. Don't put your objections about floral decorations on me or my country."

"Aha! So you admit through your gardening that the English are superior," he groaned, slumping in an undignified manner to the pavement. He'd started off so triumphantly, convinced that he'd won the argument, but the hot sunshine and loud voices were doing nothing for his head. Apparently he couldn't be left to die in peace, however, as he found his elbow taken by the mysterious blonde-haired Frenchman and was led inside the house.

"If you could get over your English stubbornness for one minute," that stupid, arrogant voice continued as he lay him down on the couch in the living room, where it was mercifully cool and dark, "you'd realise that I am trying to help you."

"Oh, really? You could have-ahhhh-fooled me." This was met by a light smack on the arm with a dishtowel. He cracked an eyelid, just enough to witness the wry look he was receiving, courtesy of the Frenchman. But neither of them said anything more that evening. Instead, their days fell into a slight pattern: wake up, bicker, breakfast (prepared by Francis) and tea (prepared by Arthur), and then the two would go about their days. Arthur slept on the couch, and they would usually exchange insults or occasionally civilities before they retired for the evening. Nearly a week passed like this, and even with their near-daily spats and the incessant French language and food, Arthur thought he could have gotten used to it. It was nine days before the email from Yao-or rather, Yao's lawyer-came. Nine days before he came to his senses. It was short and to the point: just telling him when the dates for his begging for partial custody of Leon would begin. He told Francis so, told him that he was fighting for the return of his son. If Francis had been surprised to find out that he had a child-or for that matter, was gay-he hid it well. He just gave him his email and his phone number and told him to keep in touch. And that was the end of it.

"Or so they thought," Alfred continued with a conspiratorial smirk. "They kept in touch via the occasional email, and then reconnected when they met at the adoption agency for waiting children. And the rest, well," he shrugged, "is history."

Sean nodded, as if this version of the story was closer to what he remembered, but now James had an objection.

"Hang on," he said, drumming his fingers on the table. "Although I'll concede that Arthur getting drunk and the two of them trading insults does sound more like the Arthur and Francis I know, I still have some problems with that version of the story. Arthur can't hold his liquor, we all know that, but he's not stupid. His aversion to the French language would have kept him well off that train and well out of the country. Besides, I distinctly remember Arthur talking-or rather complaining-about Francis well before he even met Yao."

"So how do you think they met?" Sean challenged him with a questioning eyebrow.

"As I recall, it happened in an airport when Arthur was coming back from his semester or summer or whatever it was in Germany; I think Francis was visiting a friend of his there or something."

"No, I will not calm down! My luggage has gone missing, and I have a connecting flight!" Arthur shouted, gesticulating wildly at the flickering airport signs. "I don't even know why I have a layover in Switzerland," he sighed irritably as he glared around at all of the peacefully sleeping travellers. This was the last time he was ever taking a late night flight. Or not flying direct. Screw the extra costs, this was so not worth it it wasn't even funny.

He glanced at his watch and very nearly kicked the desk in frustration. "And now I've missed my flight," he continued on his tirade. "Fucking fantastic." Collapsing into one of the plastic black chairs of the airport lounge, he turned his attention to the amusing sight of a man at the gate across from his yelling angrily at the attendant in French. At least someone was having as many travel difficulties as he was. Then again, he was French. Probably deserved it.

"What do you mean my baggage is going to England?" Francis half shrieked at the young Germanic attendant. She gave him a blank stare in response. "Oh, fuck me, I thought you Swiss spoke French. Explain to me where my baggage is," he demanded for a second time. Turning to Antonio, he groaned, "Where is Gilbert when you need him?"

"I believe he is still in Berlin. Where we left him."

Francis, being a man of self control, refrained from hitting one of the few people in the world who could put up with him for more than a few days at a time. Another frazzled looking airline employee came up to the desk and spoke to the attendant in rapid fire German. She nodded and switched to French again, which was then translated to English for Antonio. Thank God for post-WWII education systems, he thought. They followed their less-than-helpful attendant across the airport to the gate where the very irate Englishman Francis had been staring at earlier was standing.

"Ah, monsieur, do either of you speak German?" the aide questioned.

Both shook their heads. She turned to the English man and asked him if he spoke French. He shook his head, but judging by the look in his eyes, the answer was untruthful; he definitely understood some. Muleheaded Englishman. Francis, martyr that he was, offered to be the interpreter for the situation. "We seem to have had a baggage confusion," she continued once the language barrier had been sorted out.

"No shit, Sherlock," the Englishman deadpanned under his breath. Francis couldn't help himself, he laughed. Between the comment and the overlarge, perpetually angry-looking eyebrows, it was a comical scene. The Englishman glared at him, sparking one of Francis's own in return. Antonio hastily stepped between them in the hopes of avoiding another airport fistfight. This, he reminded himself, was why he never brought his friends anywhere.

The aide cleared her throat. "Anyway, it seems that Mr. Bonnefoy's luggage has mistakenly been put on Mr. Kirkland's flight to England, and Mr. Kirkland's luggage has just cleared security for Mr. Bonnefoy's flight to France."

"Well go get it then," the Englishman-Mr. Kirkland, he supposed-demanded. "The frog can figure out his luggage on his own."

"I'm afraid we can't do that sir," she replied, not looking sorry at all. "Once luggage has cleared security, no one is permitted to touch it beyond moving it onto the plane. It's a security risk."

"So then what?"

"Well, we've already contacted Gatwick and requested that Mr. Bonnefoy's luggage be held in the airport. Mr. Bonnefoy will fly with you to England and collect his luggage, and in the meantime, we'll put your luggage on the next flight."

Neither Francis nor Arthur could have thought of a less ideal situation. Alas, it was the only option that the airlines were willing to agree to, and so they were forced to go along with it. After a heartfelt goodbye to Antonio, who was departing for his native Spain, Francis and Arthur boarded the cramped plane together. The first five minutes had passed in resolute, mutual silence, before the anger reached ulcer-inducing levels and bubbled up out of them in an escalating argument of blame.

"God, you should have just stayed in France!" Arthur finally exclaimed, or rather whisper-yelled, as the flight attendant had told them that if she heard one more outburst from either of them, she would toss them out of the plane, so help her God.

"And you should have stayed in England," Francis muttered, unable to think of a proper reply. "Or Germany, I don't really mind." To his surprise, the Englishman flinched and fell silent. Rather than appreciate the quiet he'd been longing for, though, Francis found himself frowning. Oh, you traitorous bleeding heart, he told himself, but tapped the Englishman lightly on the elbow anyway.

"Something wrong?" he asked, and although Arthur did look ready to bite his head off, per usual, he hesitated this time.

"Not on great terms with my brothers," he mumbled. "Don't want to see them before I have to go back to university. Happy now?"

"Not really, no." That made Arthur pick up his head in surprise. Francis smirked. "The only one who gets to pick on you is me."

"Oh, well, that's much better, isn't it?" Arthur muttered, but to his surprise, he actually shot Francis a grin. "You know, if you're half as good at annoying them as you are at annoying me, I might just have a new secret weapon up my sleeve."

"I didn't know until years later that the one who had been writing all of those horribly irritating emails to me was Francis until years later!" James exclaimed. "I didn't know until after they were married!"

An uproar of laughter around the table, interrupted this time by the Welsh brother.

"Hang on," David cut in. "That can't be right. How could you have met post-graduation in London, post-divorce in Paris, and during university in Zurich?"

Arthur and Francis looked intensely uncomfortable. Arthur was twiddling his thumbs back and forth, crossing and uncrossing his legs, and refusing to look anyone in the eye. Francis sprang up from the table.

"I'll just go and get dessert then, shall I?"

"Everyone is going to stay sitting at this table," Saorise said in such a firm tone Francis actually sat back down. "I want to know exactly what my brother and his husband have not been telling everyone in this room for so long, and why exactly they felt the need to tell so many variations of what should be such a simple story."

Both men were very red in the face. "Now, I want to hear which one of these stories is the truth. Very simple question."

"Well, you see, the truth is-"

"Don't tell them, Francis!"

"Arthur, your sister-"

"I don't care what my sister wants! You don't have to listen to her!"

"Arthur, I spent most of last night cleaning up your vomit. I feel like you owe me the story of how you met Francis."

"Arthur just doesn't want it told-hell, I don't want it told-because it's rather, well, embarrassing."

"More embarrassing than getting on the wrong train drunk and throwing up on someone's flowers?" Alfred asked incredulously.

"Yes," Arthur and Francis replied in unison. Alfred let out a long, low whistle. "And for your information, Saorise, I don't have to tell you anything!" Arthur's face was turning an alarming shade of beetroot, and Francis knew they'd reached the critical thirty seconds before he was dealing with a full scale family feud.

"It's all right, Arthur, you did nothing wrong. Saorise, could you help me clear, please?"

"It's fine."

"Arthur?"

"Just tell the damn story," he reiterated, sinking into the chair like a balloon that had lost all of its air. "Otherwise she'll never shut up about it. She still brings up stag party stories."

"What are the stag party stories?" Matthew, Leon, and Alfred asked in perfect synchronization, leaning forward in their chairs.

"Arthur, why don't you finally tell us how you two met?" James and Sean half shouted, while David and Saorise fell about cackling.

"Fine. Francis, you go get the dessert and I'll tell the story. You never tell it right."

Arthur trudged up the road, David's old bag that he hadn't quite grown into yet banging against his leg. His siblings had told him that primary school would be fun, and he supposed it was okay, but they hadn't told him that there would be French kids there. And they hadn't told him that they would all tease him about his eyebrows and his height. He was scuffing his toes at piles of leaves on the sidewalk before being brought out of his musings by a loud bird's whistle from above him.

Turning to look up at the tree, there was a girl sitting in its branches. She looked about one or two years older than he was, and she was easily the prettiest girl that he'd ever seen. She had long blonde hair, and big blue eyes, and she was wearing a pretty blue dress over white pants. She looked like the princess in every fairytale he'd read, and at a loss for what else to do, he dropped to one knee and murmured 'my lady.'

"Lady? Incroyable! The English are as incompetent as Papa says they are!"

Arthur, realising his mistake, hurriedly stood. If there was one thing he knew, it was that one never left an enemy unchallenged. And the French were always enemies.

"If you are so quick to throw words at those who are bigger than you, why don't you come down and back up your words with something stronger? Or are you going to surrender, again?"

That got him moving. The mysterious Frenchman dropped out of the tree, brushing off his tunic as he did so. "And how do you propose to best me, little one? I am nearly twice your height!" This was an exaggeration, but there was more than a kernel of truth to it, Arthur acknowledged.

"A true gentleman is ready for any chance to prove his mettle!" Upon seeing the Frenchman's eyebrows quirk together, unfamiliar with the vocabulary word, Arthur hastily translated. "Worth. Mettle is worth."

"I see! Well, as a gentleman instead of an uncouth English barbarian, I believe that there is only one way to fairly settle this!" Francis picked up a large, fallen branch from the grass that grew beside the footpath. "With a duel!"

Arthur wholeheartedly agreed, taking up his own stick. And the duel began, with the fierce clacking of wood against wood. He watched Francis swing his makeshift sword towards him in a deadly attack, and he brings his own up to meet it, fast as lightning. Both children are dripping with sweat, and Arthur feels his heart race with the thrill of the duel. He looks at his foe with fresh eyes and is surprised to find him startlingly attractive; the long haircut of Francis's silky blonde hair, although feminine, is incredibly elegant. And his eyes are bright and burning like blue sunshine. It is this moment of distraction that nearly loses him the battle; Francis swung his stick in one final arc, and had Arthur not met his weapon with equal force he might have been disarmed. Instead both swords go flying off into some bushes nearby, and Francis topples over on top of Arthur. For a moment they lie like that, beneath the summer sun, pushed flesh against the grass. The seconds pass, and Arthur stands, hands Francis his sword, and excuses himself.

"Do you read all the tales about being knights?" Francis asked before Arthur had managed to escape.

"I read Ivanhoe. The Canterbury Tales."

"For me it was Charlemagne." Arthur turned to look at him in surprise. "I've always thought that the idea of a knight in shining armour was terribly romantic."

Arthur blurted out, "I thought you were a princess. When you were up in the tree."

Francis stood there for a second, not quite sure what to say. He could see Arthur's face starting to turn red, however, and as he always has, he knows what to say to coax him back down to sanity. "I think it was a great compliment, to be honoured by such a lord. Even if you are English." And although Arthur's eyebrows were still set in an irritated 'V,' there was no longer any real anger in the expression.

"I'll send you a copy of Ivanhoe sometime," Arthur promised before he headed home, limping slightly on his skinned knee but fighting the urge to smile.

"And I the Song of Roland." And they parted ways. The two consider themselves no longer enemies, but not quite friends. They are at an official state of stalemate.

They fall in and out of touch throughout the years, often with amusing encounters-including one on a train, one in an airport, and one in a cafe, although not quite the same as the stories they've told-but they'd always agreed that they'd never speak of how they'd met again.

The crowd in the dining room was crying and wiping their eyes with laughter.

"You thought Papa was a girl?"

"You had a sword fight?"

"You were disarmed by a six year old?"

The questions refused to cease.

"That's enough out of you," Arthur muttered as Francis spooned second helpings of dessert onto everyone's plates. But he did grant them a smile as Francis leant in and pressed a kiss to his temple.

"You'll always be my Ivanhoe," he promised, and Arthur's face lit up with a small smile.

"Always?" he asked, just to double check.

"Until every star winks out in the sky, and they extinguish us with them." They kissed once more, and though their other guests passed around catcalls and jokes at their expense, they could not hear them.