Chapter 12

Arthur awoke as the engine of the van died away. Warm breath was on his ear, slow and steady and when he tried to sit up, he found he couldn't move his fingers as they were knitted tightly with Francis'. He yawned, cheek brushing against the Frenchman's scruff. "We're holding hands," He muttered, smacking his lips.

"Yes," Francis said, rising from his seat into a crouch and gently tugging him out of the van, "You said we had to hold hands or I'd have to walk the plank."

Giggling lightly, Arthur leaned heavily on his companion, his feet not quite his own, although his head seemed oddly clear. "That sounds about right. We should become pirates," He said, pulling an imaginary sword from his hip and stabbing a drowsy-looking Berwald with his finger, earning a small grunt of annoyance from the Swed, "and sail all over the world, plundering ships and collecting booty."

The streetlight outside the hostel flickered slightly as Lovino fumbled with the keys for a moment, swearing in Italian before managing to jiggle the door open. Flicking on the lights, he wandered over to the desk and picked up the phone, his half-lidded eyes opening. "There's five messages…" Lovino said, "Who would possibly be-" He stopped as the phone began to ring. There was silence as everyone stared at it. Feliciano clung to Ludwig. "The number's 44 20…"

Antonio gasped. "It's coming from inside the house." Even Berwald seemed a little scared now, and when Arthur started laughing everyone jumped, Feliciano yelping loudly and buried his face into the mechanic's back. "That's a London number. Must but Alfred calling again to make sure I haven't died in the street." Arthur said, taking the phone from Lovino, "Go on, I can hang it up myself." He said, watching everyone slowly climb the stairs. Francis hung back, but Arthur waved a hand dismissively, "Hello?" "A-Arthur? I-is that you?" There was a dry sob and Arthur almost dropped the phone. "Alfred? Is that you?" Another choked and stuttered breath. "Are you… crying?

This was monumental. Arthur only had the pleasure of seeing Alfred cry twice. Once when his team lost in the Super Cup or whatever they called it (fake-football, in Arthur's opinion) in which Alfred had clung to Arthur, sobbing while he patted him on the back, reading a novel and drinking tea. The other time had been while watching Titanic -which Arthur had been appalled to hear that the American had never seen. It had taken an hour for Alfred to calm down, and even then he was still susceptible to breaking-down at any moment.

"N-no!" Alfred sniffed, his voice worn and "I-I'm not!"

"What's wrong?"

"Iv… Ivan's left me!" Immediately Arthur felt surprised, ecstatic and then guilty for even feeling slightly happy at Alfred's current state. And he was supposed to be the pushed aside one everyone was supposed to feel guilty for. "He didn't even say goodbye, he just got up and left!" Alfred said.

"Alfred, I-I'm sorry," Arthur said, quickly taking a seat in the armchair before his knees gave out from under him. He knew this was stupid, and that he shouldn't be talking to the American, but the small voice that he had worked so hard to shut up was starting to be heard again. "Just try and breateh okay?

The American's tone was suddenly dark. "He was a mistake Arthur!" He said, pleadingly, "I wish I'd never met him."

Knowing that the situation was only going to end badly, Arthur was just about to tell Alfred that he was sorry, but being in Rome and all he couldn't do much. "Alfr-"

Alfred cut him off. "I miss you Arthur."

For the second time that night, the Englishman almost dropped the phone. His jaw opened and closed numerous times, trying to string a cohesive sentence together. The little voice in his head was cheering loudly, telling him to confess the feelings of longing he'd suppressed since he left London. Frowning, he glared at his shoes, trying to ignore the clamour in his mind. "W-what?"

"I just… I mean… Ivan was…" Alfred took in a shuddering breath, his words becoming more assured, "a phase, but I don't, I don't think I want to spend my life with him."

Arthur let out a slow breath. "Alfred…" He said with a wary tone in his voice. The voice in his head was slowly being drowned out and the alcohol wasn't helping much either. Next time he was going to talk to his ex-fiancé, he made a mental note to not be lagered up on Cojones.

"Look, I know it's lame, but I want to start over Art." His heart skipped a beat, "And I get that you probably hate me, I mean, I'd hate me, but you know what I mean. Just… come back Arthur.

"Alfred…" He said, wondering if he was imagining the note of longing in the way he said the name.

There was a watery chuckle from the other side of the line. "It's so good to hear you again, your accent was something I missed." Alfred said.

"You're still in London…" The Englishman remarked, the voice suddenly much quieter. "You couldn't miss my accen-"

"That's not the point." Alfred said quickly, and apologetically, making Arthur feel guilty once again. "I'll… I'll be at our place for a while Art… waiting." He trailed off.

Arthur was sure Alfred wasn't aware of how sweet he could be. Either that, or his powers of manipulation were something to be in awe of. He shook his head from side to side, trying to clear his mind of the two conflicting voices. "I'll have to call you back Alfred. I just… I don't know. Goodbye." His finger twitched towards the 'end' button.

"Love ya, Art" Alfred said, "You know that, right?"

Arthur hung up the phone is response. His mind now filled with so noise it seemed no better than downtown London, he placed the phone back on the desk and slowly climbing the stairs barely noticing the wincing fourth step. Alfred wanted him to come back. Alfred wanted him to come back. Alfred F. Jones, the loveable, air-headed idiot, wanted him to come back. Sagging against the wall, he ran his hands over his face, growling and clutching his hair. No matter how many times he said it over in his head, it sounded too good to be true.

Opening the door to his room, he blinked up at the tall figure of Francis, almost surprised to find him there. Leaning forward, Arthur let his head sit against the white shirt. "Hello…" He said to the floor.

Outside, the rain had begun again, pounding against the glass, hard and fast, as if trying to make up for the rest of the day. Warm hands gripped his shoulders, guiding him into a standing position. "Arthur?" He said, giving the Englishman's arms a small squeeze, "What's wrong?"

Arthur reached out and grabbed Francis, pulling him into him close. Carefully, the Frenchman wrapped his arms around the younger man. Rubbing his head into the white shirt, Arthur wanted nothing more than to stay like this forever, just held, nothing asked of him, nothing needed of him. "Alfred called." He muttered, not quite sure why he was telling Francis this.

The hands fell from his back. "Oh." Francis said coldly, taking a step towards his bed, turning away from Arthur, leaving him to stare at the inky night. In a daze, he began to stumble towards the French doors, opening them and leaning against the balcony. Rain washed over him, clearing his muffled mind.

"And what did he say?" Francis asked.

Arthur didn't look at him. "He wants me back." He said, squinting through the sheets of rain. "Ivan left him."

When Francis next spoke, his voice seemed closer. "I see. That's… that's good news then, oui?"

Arthur gripped the railing, watching the water slide down his white knuckles. He shook slightly, breathing ragged, "That's the problem Francis…" He said, trying to keep his voice steady, "I don't know if I want to go back."

The voice was right behind him now. "Do you love him?"

Arthur closed his eyes. "W-what?"

"Do you love him?" Arthur turned and saw Francis standing right behind him, closing the French doors. Rain splattered against the glass, and Arthur tried to squeeze past the Frenchman, but froze as a hand slammed into one of the glass panels. "Do you love him Arthur?"

He was soaking now and he wasn't sure if the warm water sliding down his cheeks was the rain or something else. Francis' eyes bored into him and his mind seemed to have turned off. He held his fists tight against his chest. "I'm not sure-"

A hand crept onto his shoulder and pulled him into a strong kiss. It took Arthur a moment to realize exactly what was going on. Francis parted his lips, coaxing Arthur to do the same. He gripped Francis' shirt, eyes squeezing shut as he attempted to push him away. "Mnnwait…" Arthur tried to say but the minute his lips opened, Francis' tongue slipped between them. Thin hands slid around him, holding him close, sneaking in a quick grope, making Arthur gasp slightly. Just as he was relaxing into the kiss, Francis pulled back, staring him straight in the eye. Arthur blinked at him, trembling fingers still clutching at the thin fabric of his shirt, his mouth fumbling for words. "I-I…"

Francis placed his finger on Arthur's lips, smiling at him. "Désolé Sourcils," He whispered, "But I couldn't hold back any longer."

The rain battered them as Arthur continued to clutch at the shirt, at a complete loss for words. Francis said nothing, now looking a little worried at the lack of response from the Englishman. "Good." Arthur said, suddenly, his fingers tightening around the fabric. This was it. "Because I'm to drunk to care." He leaned forward and kissed Francis.

Before he knew it, Arthur was on his bed and Francis was on top of him, hands tugging at the bottom of his shirt. He gasped, grabbing Francis' back as the Frenchman forced their mouths together. Every part of him yearned this but that damned voice in his head was preventing him from enjoying it.

Too fast. Too fast. Alfred wants you back. His head spun and his squeezed his eyes shut, bucking his hips lightly. Stop! Alfred is waiting for you. All he could feel was Francis on top of him, fingers sliding below his waistband. You'll regret it in the morning Arthur. He's just a rebound.

"Wait!" He said sharply, pulling away from Francis, his hands scrabbling at his back, "Just… wait. Please…" Opening his eyes, he stared up at the Frenchman. The cheeks were flushed and the blond hair was out of its ponytail - probably Arthur's doing - hanging around the long face.

"I don't… I don't want this to be one of those things I regret the next day." He said truthfully, "I want to do this when I'm not wasted out of my mind…" Sitting up, Arthur slid his hands off Francis' back and grabbed hold of his chin and kissed him. Francis sat back, letting Arthur control the kiss. Reluctantly, the Englishman pulled back, still touching Francis' cheek. "And I don't want to make our neighbours suspicious. God knows they'd come in here just to check on us."

There. That wasn't too hard, now was it? Francis smiled at him, sliding off his bed and clambering into his own, propping himself on an elbow. "Je t'aime." He whispered before turning away and letting his head fall to the pillow. You could smother him with a pillow and no one would even know the mistake you made with him.

Arthur let out a long, quiet breath, sitting on the edge of his bed and staring out the French doors. The storm had lessened and he could see the halo of the moon glowing behind the tumbles of clouds. He waited, listening to Francis breathing eventually slow and turn into a low rumble. When he was sure he was asleep, he got to his feet and crept across their room, easing the door open. Sneaking down the stairs, he was relieved to find the registration desk unmanned. He grabbed the phone and with trembling fingers dialled the number to his brother's phone.

"Please pick up…" He whispered, "Please Matt…"

There was a click from the other side of the line followed by a slightly groggy, "Hello?"

"Oh thank god…"

Matthew's worried tone immediately woke up from the drowsy one. "Arthur? What's wrong?!" He asked, already upset, "Are you alright? You sound terrible."

Backing up, Arthur sank into the armchair. "I kissed him today Matt." He confessed, whispering it as if he was in a confessional.

"Who?" his brother asked, "What? Arthur what are you talking about?!" In the background, Arthur could make out two more bickering voices and the Canadian's attempts to make them quiet down.

Arthur took a deep breath, not caring if Matthew was listening or not. "I kissed him… right after Alfred called and said he wanted me back, I went and kissed Francis." The voices in the background stopped. "I didn't even think about it."

"You're drunk." Matthew said in his stern "parent" voice, which made Arthur feel even guiltier.

Did he really regret that now? A mistake. Nothing more. "No I'm not!" The Englishman said, whining slightly, "Matt, please… I'm so confused Matt…" He choked out, drawing his knees to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible. "What am I going to do?"

"I think all of this might've been a sign." Matthew said finally. "Remember what dad used to tell us? Everything happens for a reason." Arthur thought for a moment. Alfred's call. His documents being ready. Tino and Berwald leaving for the airport the next day. It couldn't all be coincidence, fate had a hand in everyone's lives and here she was, waving a bright, red flag. It was all a sign.

Arthur was going home.

Author's Note

Okay, so obviously Alfred wasn't done