He was scribbling furiously, his nose inches from the paper that had been perfectly aligned with the edge of his desk, and just reaching for his calculator to finish off the equation when his phone buzzed.

He tried to ignore it, wanted to ignore it, but his self-control all but vanished into thin air when the screen lit up with Francis' name. He let his pencil drop as an arm shot out to snatch his cellphone, the pencil rolling off the side of the cheap wooden desk and falling soundlessly on the dull green carpeting.

F: and? how is your lovely cubicle?

A: Quite comfy, thank you very much. And air-conditioned.

F: pffft, air conditioning. you accountants are weak

A: I'd like to see YOU take a whack at some of the mathematical problems I solve on a daily basis.

F: no, thank you, much too boring for my taste. i don't understand how you deal with such mind-numbing work on a daily basis

He would never even try and explain it to Francis - a hopeless romantic with a flair for the dramatic, he wouldn't even pretend to understand - but Arthur kind of liked his dull, run-of-the-mill 9-to-5 work as an accountant. The thing about math was that it was consistent. There were set rules, and those rules were not broken no matter the circumstances. No exceptions, at least not with the sorts of figures he was working with. Math was a universal language, something that was discovered and explored in nearly every culture in existence. The consistency provided him with a sense of security, and he could sink into pages full of equations and calculations for hours, content as he solved one logical puzzle after the other. It was a relief, a respite from the unpredictability of the life that buzzed by at a breakneck pace outside his cubicle. It brought him serenity and a dependable system, something he had never been able to find in people.

A: I don't find it mind-numbing.

F: that is just PROOF of how boring you are

A: Look, I have to get back to work. Was this about anything important?

F: no, just bugging you. enjoy your mathematics, matthieu and alfred and i are all walking to the park

It was over that fast? Something sunk in the pit of his stomach. But he shouldn't feel like that…His hand trembled. The phone screen shook, making it hard to type out a response.

A: Have fun. Keep an eye on Alfred

Francis didn't respond. Arthur slid the phone across the surface of the desk, away from him, until it smashed against the wall violently and knocked over a small cup of mechanical pencils. Arthur was completely snapped out of his groove now. He picked up the mechanical pencils scattered across the floor one-by-one, wanting to tear his hair out in frustration.

He knew what was happening. But admitting what was happening would only make it true. He wasn't supposed to feel like this. He wasn't supposed to feel like the sun was emerging for the first time in months whenever he saw Francis' name in his notifications. He wasn't supposed to notice how his shirts fit his shoulders so nicely, or how he sometimes forget to trim his five-o-clock shadow. He wasn't supposed to boil with anger when he found out about Francis' latest romantic interest. Francis was a man, no matter how long and silky his damn hair was.

Arthur dumped the pencils into their cup and collapsed into his chair. What would his mother say? Well, he knew the answer to that. It's not like it would have been the first time. What about God, then? What would God think? He let his head hang over the back of his chair and stared at the ceiling, lolling his arms over the armrests. Did God even care about him anymore? He shut his eyes. He was probably completely forsaken at this point. The church preached forgiveness, until you kissed a boy behind your catholic school's gym.

Who did he have left, really? Who could he depend on? He had a son. But Alfred was depending on him.

You have Francis, his thoughts whispered.

Yeah, but I shouldn't, he thought back.


It was a really hot day to be at the park, but Alfred had been insistent. Eventually, Matthew went along with it, and then Francis had been outvoted. So they packed up a few sandwiches, a little brie, and some carrot sticks, and set off for the nearby park. Within a few minutes, Alfred was complaining that his feet were sore. But Mattie pointed out a toy store window, and he completely forgot about his feet. They stared at the display for a good 5 minutes, and once Francis had finally convinced them to keep moving, wouldn't stop talking about it for the remaining 15 blocks.

As soon as they arrived, Mattie and Alfred made a beeline for the playground. Francis found a bench and sat down with his notebook, pulling a pen out of his bag. But he felt reluctant to get started. The logical part of his brain groaned as he pulled out his cellphone to text Gilbert, but that didn't stop him.

F: salut, mon ami :0

G: oh, hey francis, whats up?

F: w/ matthieu and alfred at the park. should be writing but i'm too lazy, haha

G: cool

G: listen, i'm kinda busy right now, dont really have time 2 text

F: oh? qu'est-ce que c'est?

F: is it elizabeta ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

G: No. i gtg, talk to you later

F: alright then, i'll just sit here and suffer

Francis frowned. He wasn't used to getting brushed off like that.

Whatever. He'd text Antonio instead.

F: toooonniiiiiiiiiii

T: Yes, francis?

F: gil won't talk to me

F: what's up with him lately, anyway? it's like he's always busy

T: Maybe elizabeta?

F: no, i asked

T: Well, i don't think he would hide anything from us if it was important.

F: true

T: What are u doing right now anyway?

F: i'm with matthieu and alfred the park

F: i mean, technically i should be writing, but i'm just not in the mood

T: Ohhh, that's tough

T: What's ur story even about?

F: it's romance

T: of course

F: ta gueule

F: basically this one woman works in a tattoo parlor and there's this man across the street who works in a flower shop, and he's quite aggravating and annoys the hell out of her but in the end she falls in love with his stupid hair and stupid clothes and stupid tea addiction

T: ….

T: Interesting?

F: what do you mean, interesting?

T: I mean, the flower shop guy kind of reminds me of arthur, but i thought you hated him…

F: i DO hate him

F: would you like me to LIST all the things i hate about him?

T: that's ok, i've heard it already

T: Just kinda weird that you would write a guy you hate into your romance novel, of all things

F: it's complicated. it's probably a coincidence anyway

T: Sure it is.

F: you can talk to me about romance when you finally get it together with lovino

T: FRANICS

T: FOR TEH LAST F UC KING TIMME

F: ;)

F: on that note, i DO have a deadline to meet.

T: i'm so glad i motivated you to actually do your work

F: don't give yourself so much credit. Ttyl

T: i'll try and find out where gil went

F: GOOD. fill me in when you know

T: sure. ttyl

F: adieu

Francis shut off his phone, exasperated. Well that got him nowhere. He picked up his pen again, bit the end, trying to think of what to write next. Let's see…there was a list of questions he had to answer in the next few chapters, and certain plot holes to fix, and he still needed to tie up some loose ends in the endings for the background characters…

He flipped through his notebook pages, scanning the scribbling on each one. He reread his notes on the main character, searching for inspiration. (He didn't find it.) So Francis moved on to the next character, and the next…

He has dirty blond hair, usually messy. Very obstinate, annoying but in a charming way. He stole his closet from a 60 year old. Not hyper-masculine. Has a probably unhealthy chain-drinking habit when it comes to tea…

Francis groaned. That goddamned love interest. This character would be the death of him. He ran his fingers through his hair, taking the pen out of his mouth and bringing it to the paper, but pulling back again. Just write. Anything. Like those blurbs they made you do back in high school.

Come on. Anything in your mind. Just scribble it down.

His hand stayed still. The ink began to bleed into a larger and larger dot on the page.

You can change the character! It's not that difficult. Give him brown hair instead of dirty blonde, or something. Make him fashionable. He could drink coffee instead of tea. Tea is stupid anyway.

It was no use! The love interest was set in stone. Every aspect of his personality and dress and appearance was Arthur Kirkland, all over, everywhere. He couldn't change it, no matter how hard he tried. If he was that desperate to do away with that snippy, obstinate, opinionated, plain, intelligent, clever, weirdly-good looking…forget it, there was no way to get rid of him! He'd have to scrap the entire story; start over from scratch. It was the only way to erase Arthur from his writing for good.

Francis thought about it. He could rewrite a completely different novel. One where the man running the flower shop was kind and warm. One where he was muscular and toned and with a jaw sharp enough to cut glass. One where he smiled and gave the main character a flattering compliment and a grin every time she entered the shop.

But he didn't want to.

It wasn't the same. Any other story would be bland. The flower shop owner could be sexy and charismatic and friendly and flirty and personable and everything a woman could ask for, and it would be boring. Francis had poured out his heart and soul into this one. That was how Arthur must have ended up on the notebook pages in the first place. The matter was settled: Francis' readers were doomed to fall in love with Arthur, page-by-page, day-by-day. Just like him.

Wait, what?


In the end, Arthur had managed to just barely fulfill his client's file in time. He was tired, and still angry at himself and at the world in general, and all he wanted to do was go home. Arthur gathered up his things, checking his phone for any new messages. When he saw his home screen blank, he squeezed the off button so hard the phone shut down.

The London traffic didn't exactly help his mood. Stuck at yet another red light, he slouched in his driver's seat, looking bored out the window. Two teens leaned against a dull beige building, handing a cigarette back and forth between each other. Their hair was dyed and shaved in swirls and stripes, their clothes fake leather and black or sporting the union jack. Heavy boots on their feet, leggings and shirts with holes and tears. Piercings on just about every surface you could see, and probably ones you couldn't. One of them had snake bites, two rings encircling their bottom lip on either side.

Arthur flipped down the sun visor and slid open the mirror. He poked around a little until…yup. Still there. Two perfect holes, one on each side.

Did he even have his snake bites anymore? It's possible he could have thrown them out by now, and forgotten about it. Or maybe they were still hiding in his jewelry box somewhere. Not that he would know where it was. Dammit. He drummed on the steering wheel, more impatient than ever for the light to turn green.

As soon as he arrived home, he hurried up the stairs, unlocked his apartment, and raced to his bedroom, poking through the various boxes and bottles scattered atop his dresser, but to no avail. So he moved on to the closet. 10 minutes later, there were clothes all over the floor, and a small, lilac cardboard box was sat in his lap. He shook off the lid and placed it next to him on the bed, sifting his fingers through the mess of metal. Heh. A small smile snuck onto Arthur's face.

He got up, walked over to the dresser, above which hung a mirror. Arthur picked out a piercing, examined it, and decided it was one of his snake bites. Tentatively, he poked around the hole a little, until he finally got up the guts to insert it.

A small stab of pain made him drop the piercing, where it clattered onto the dresser. He cursed, picked it up, and looked at his reflection in the mirror. A pretty boring, 26-year-old in a collared shirt looked back. Not someone you would give a second glance on the street. Someone 16-year-old Arthur would have despised.

Once again, he tried to slide the metal bit in. It hurt, the hole having grown smaller over the years, but settled in a few seconds. He fastened it into place, took a good long look at himself -

And went for the other one.

With the snake bites in place, he moved on to his ears. One, two, three, four, and a cuff on the left, one, two, three on the right. A small bit in his right eyebrow. Hmmm.

Where was his old Union Jack tank?

Arthur rifled through his closet, adding to the mess on the floor. A pair of ripped black jeans were the first to appear, and after a good while of hopping around and struggling to close the clasp at the front, they replaced his khakis. Next came a belt, with shiny silver grommets. After 15 minutes his Union Jack tank was unearthed, and the stiff collared shirt tossed to the floor. He found cuffs and chokers and worn black boots and all sorts of things he'd forgotten he owned. When he finally looked himself over in the mirror again, he looked almost like a different person. But something was missing.

All Arthur usually needed from the bathroom cabinet was toothpaste or shaving cream. But crammed in the very, very back, lay makeup.

He examined the case of eyeliner. This stuff was at least 4 years old, if not more. Was it really safe to apply to his face?

Arthur shrugged. Whatever. Punks probably didn't care about makeup expiration dates. With that settled, he picked up the pencil and made two not-too-shabby outlines of his eyes. He spiked his hair up with a little gel that he found by the eyeliner. When he stepped back to give himself another look over, he was finally satisfied.

The person who stood in front of him wouldn't be seen dead in a stuffy cubicle in downtown London. He'd be in the mosh pit at a rock concert. Or vandalizing a train. Or something equally hardcore. Yeah.

He felt like maybe he should be embarrassed, but for once, Arthur actually felt a little self-confident. It was a nice feeling. Although, he thought, glancing at the clock, even punks have to eat dinner.

Arthur walked down the hall to the kitchen and surveyed the contents of the fridge. There wasn't a whole lot; he'd have to go shopping for food again soon. But for now, frozen pizza would do. Alfred would love that.

Speaking of Alfred, where was he? Francis should have been back to drop them off and hang out for a bit over an hour ago. He set out the pizzas on the counter to defrost and started a search of the house for his phone, which was still lying on a table in the entryway. It booted up eventually, and within a few seconds a text from Francis appeared.

F: lost track of time with the boys at the park. be back in 30 or so minutes :o

The text read as being sent 15 minutes ago.

A: Alright, got it.

He set the phone back down and sighed, deciding to leave it in the entryway again instead of clinging to it, checking every 2 minutes for a reply. Talk about being desperate. He resolved to go make dinner instead, and without even setting off the smoke alarm. Ha! He'd show that stuck-up Frenchman how to cook.

It was 20 minutes later, when the pizzas were barely charred and sitting in the oven on low heat to stay warm, when the doorbell rang. Arthur forgot all about the food and hustled over to the door (until one of the floorboards squeaked underfoot, and he slowed down so Francis wouldn't think he was that eager to see him). Arthur checked the peephole, saw his sons and a tall, handsome blonde guy, and unlocked the door.

"Daddy!" Alfred yelled, wrapping himself around his father's leg. Mattie followed suit, albeit more quietly.

"Hey, little man, how was the park?" Arthur asked, smiling.

"…You look different," Mattie pointed out, staring up at his face.

Alfred peered at Arthur's face. "Yeah, he's right! You look cool! What happened?"

Arthur looked between the two, and then up at Francis, who wore a stunned expression. Slowly it dawned on him. Shit, shit, shit, he'd gotten carried away, he should have changed, goddamnit.

"I, um," he tried.

"You - " Francis began, but Arthur cut him off.

"I'm so sorry I look so ridiculous, or that you had to see me like this, I…I'll just go change," he stammered, backtracking towards his room.

"No! Um, no, you don't have to do that," Francis burst out. Arthur watched him with an odd expression, not sure what he was thinking. "Really. It's not…" He straightened up, tried to pull himself together. Rubbing the back of his neck, he spoke more casually. "You don't have to change, it looks fine."

"I…" Arthur looked at him one more time, unsure if he was being made fun of. But either way, he stopped heading for the hall, and slowly walked back towards his sons.

"C'mon, Dad, why're you dressed so cool?" Alfred pushed.

Mattie nodded. "Kuma wants to know."

"Kuma wants to know!" Alfred repeated, smiling.

"Ah, I just saw some kids on the street while I was driving home, and remembered I had this stuff lying around. Not a big deal, really. But it's a nice change." He smiled back.

"I think it's awesome! You should keep it," Alfred said. "So what's for dinner? We're hungry!"

"Why thank you. Dinner's going to be pizza, which as it turns out is already done."

"Awesome! Come on, Mattie!" The three of them headed into the kitchen. Francis stayed standing at the door, watching Arthur and thinking.

"Can I have five slices?" Alfred asked, holding out his plate.

"Now that seems like a bit much. How about 1 for starters? You can have more once you've finished that," Arthur suggested, sliding a slice onto Alfred's plate.

"But I know I can eat five slices!" Alfred insisted.

"Not until you finish that one. Now scoot over, it's Mattie's turn."

"Hmmph."

Francis stared at the homey scene, the cogs and gears whirring in his head. Something warm bloomed in his chest. Something different from seeing a pretty woman on the street, or a handsome man in a magazine. A smile crept onto his face without him noticing as he watched Arthur bustle about and around, serving pizza and arguing with Alfred over serving sizes. He kind of wanted to hug him, a little bit, maybe. Run his fingers through that messy blonde hair. He wondered what it would be like to wake up and see that face every day.

Oh. OH. Oh wow. Okay. Was he really?...Francis felt his face turning redder and redder the longer he looked.

"Um, Matthieu? Would you like to sleep over tonight?"

Mattie's face lit up. "Really?" He turned to Arthur. "Can I? Please?"

"Yeah, let him stay over!" Alfred added his two cents.

"Of course you can," Arthur told Mattie, but threw Francis a look. He grinned sheepishly in response, but he needed to get out of that apartment and away from Arthur for a few minutes.

"Let me just run back to our apartment and get your things, okay, Matthieu?"

"Okay, Papa! Salut!"

"Salut, mon ours," Francis said quickly, then backed out of the entryway.

"Ah, Francis, wait," Arthur called, walking over to him.

Francis poked his head back in. "What is it?"

"Are you eating now, or when you get back?" he asked, still holding the pizza cutter.

"Oh, it's fine, I'll get something from home while I'm there," Francis said, not about to do any such thing.

Arthur frowned. "I made too much. You're eating some. Now or later?"

"Really, it's fine. Don't worry about my eating." Francis waved it off with his hand.

"Now or later?" Arthur pushed. Francis faltered.

"G-goodness, no need to be so insistent!"

Arthur looked over his shoulder at the boys, who were already situated at the table. His gaze returned to Francis' face, and he lowered his voice. "…Please eat with us. Francis. A slice of pizza won't kill you."

Francis was irritated, and confused. He'd felt so passionate towards this man two minutes ago, and now he was pissing him off. It wasn't his business what he ate.

"Please. For Matthew," Arthur tried again.

Francis stared Arthur once more in the eyes, but lost. "Fine. I'll stay and eat," he conceded. "But after I fetch Matthieu's things first."

Arthur nodded, and Francis made to leave. But before he made it out into the hall, Arthur spoke up again.

"You…you look nice today." His face was red, and he spun around and walked back over to the table as soon as the words escaped his mouth. But he'd said it.

He'd said he looked nice. Francis stood stunned in the doorway, before finally backing up and closing the door behind him. He looked at his face in a window. Yup. He was blushing like hell. Francis shook his head and started down the stairs, thoughts racing all the while. He'd called him nice, and he'd lit something in Francis that wasn't there before. Was he seriously in love? With Arthur Kirkland, of all people? That was impossi…well, maybe not as impossible as he thought.

It was a little cooler outdoors, now that the sun had almost set. He shoved his hands in his pockets. This was so weird. He claimed to be this expert on love, the resident hopeless romantic, when…when he'd never really felt something like this before. It was a little alien, to see a person and feel like wherever they were was home. Arthur was not especially good-looking, by Hollywood standards, nor was he hot in any sense of the word. And yet Francis felt the overwhelming desire to be close to him. That just didn't make sense. What was love, anyway? And how did he know this was it?

Because he knew. He knew it was love. He didn't know how or why he knew, but it struck him that there was nothing on Earth that could compare to this feeling. He had no words to describe the tug on his heartstrings when he looked at Arthur, the joy that exploded inside his chest when he saw his name light up his phone screen, the want to protect him and tell him he was beautiful when he put himself down. He yearned for their fights and their quarrels, because arguing with him was half the fun. He was so intelligent and clever and strong of mind. So Francis decided it could be nothing but love, the word he'd tossed around for so long without knowing what it meant.

He, Francis M. Bonnefoy, was in love with Arthur Kirkland.

And the very thought of that made him smile.


IT'S FINALLY DONE.

Oh my god, I thought this chapter would never get finished. But I'm so glad it did, because I can't wait to see everyone's reviews and talk to you all again.

I felt really sappy writing the romantic bits. But I guess that's what I get for writing fanfiction. Oh well.

It's so good to be back! I'm going to reply to reviews that I didn't get to answer before, too. No worries.

As for updates - I'm still shooting for once a week. I'm in high school now, with all Honors level courses, so I don't know about time, but my mood has definitely improved with the cooler weather. (And I'm slowly replacing my closet with mens' clothes, which has helped a lot.) But this time I have no time limit to work around, so while I can't upload from my student laptop (effing web censors) I will be able to write whenever and wherever.

In other news, I'm starting a new story! It's Ameliet, called The Housekeeper. I have really high hopes for this one, so I would encourage everyone to check it out.

That's all! Don't forget to review, and thank you for reading!