Thank you for reading! Right now, I am spending a lot of time at home, so I can keep updating this story :')

Chapter 2

"Where are you, bastard?"

Francis did not reply immediately. Arthur suspected that a call from him was unthinkable, especially after the way he asked him to leave his house. Also, Francis's visit was in the morning. Maybe he decided later to go back to his own territory or wander by himself around London like a miserable man. Thinking about Francis drowning his sorrows in the chaotic and gray London's ambiance provoked an empty feeling in his stomach, and Arthur did not know—he did not want to know— to identify its origin.

He was wasting his time having those thoughts. Probably, after being rejected, Francis kept living like nothing had happened between the two of them, planning the next way to disturb his old enemy. Francis did not ask to marry him because he was dying to be Arthur's spouse. That bastard that talked about love every time he opened his mouth handled marriage like a monetary transaction.

"How?" Francis said, finally, like he did not understand Arthur's simple question.

It was an insult that other countries thought about them as rivals, among other things.

"I said: Where are you? I am looking for you," Arthur sighed, irritated due to his initiative. "I am pondering your stupid offer, but first, I need to see you. We have to discuss it."

He refused to be explicit about what they needed to talk about each other. The reasons were in the air. Besides, his words would not come out from his throat. He liked to lie to himself from time to time—or always when he needed it to face difficult subjects—, but Arthur could guess his behavior under certain circumstances.

"But you..." Francis went silent like his eloquence decided to take some vacation. Arthur heard him sighing over the phone and then gave him his address with a quiet voice tone. Francis added he would send it by text message too. "It would take you forty-five minutes, maybe. I will wait for you in the cafe. See you"

Arthur ended the call without saying goodbye. He felt a tingling sensation in his fingers. His lips dried like an arid land under the sun. A part of him asked if he really wanted to continue his vengeance's act if it was absolutely necessary to waste his time. "But it is too late," he said to himself. "I called him. And he began everything."

Everything would be better if Francis had not arrived at Arthur's door that morning. If Arthur had not welcomed him, letting him in and allowing him to sit in his office. Even more, that morning was the perfect occasion to just lay in bed.

Arthur took his coat, his apartment's key, and his phone before leaving his home.

The new instrument was against the wall. Its color was an opaque yellow, less striking than the popular shades from the last years. The fingerboard was larger and thinner than the ones Arthur had seen before, and the rest of the body was full of curves that gave it a modern look, almost futuristic.

Although it was the same guitar as always.

Arthur never was a big enthusiast of them. Usually, Antonio was the one who use them to entertain his visits. Arthur had been in Antonio's performances and had decided the instrument was not made for him.

This guitar was different from anything else.

It belonged to Alfred first. Arthur saw it in one of his diplomatic travels around the United States. Previously, they agreed Arthur could stay in Alfred's house to save money during his stay, and even when it was not perfect, Arthur remembered the times living together like a family, so different from the rotten relationship Arthur had with his siblings.

"Ah, do you like this? You can take it," Alfred said. "I don't do anything with it."

He sat in a chair in the middle of his living room and accommodated the guitar between his hands. He had attended rock concerts before, so he saw artists playing like it was part of their arms. At first look, it seems easy and natural, but Arthur knew the years of practice required to reach that mastery level.

He played the first chord. The sound crossed the room like a beast's roar, but Arthur understood he was not creating music. Not yet. His rhythm was slow, sloppy, and inharmonious. He bit his lips, and he repeated the same melody, again and again, remembering the artists he saw before and their hands traveling across the guitar with talent.

He did not know the exact moment the noises became music, but his heart, his skin, and all his body started to vibrate from the beats his fingers produced. Sweat made his face shine, and a satisfied smile on his lips appeared unexpectedly. He did not remember when was the last time he felt so alive.

Arthur left the guitar reposing on the wall again. He cleaned his face with a towel, and only then, he discovered the room's door had opened at some moment of the practice. He did not care. In his house, there were events difficult to explain to regular people. Maybe a fairy, a pixie, or a ghost was at fault.

"It was Francis." One of the magical beings appeared close to him, small like a dragonfly. "He came and then went home."

"That's weird," Arthur said. "Are you sure? Maybe it was a creature adopting Francis' shape."

"I am sure," the fairy said. "Francis opened the door, but you did not listen. And he said nothing. Now that you say it, he didn't look like Francis, not like the old one, but he was.

"And what did he do all this time? Did he steal anything?"

"Nothing," the fairy said. "Francis only saw you and went away."

"That's weird," Arthur repeated.

He decided he would ask Francis next time they met, but he never got the opportunity. Every time, meeting after meeting, other more important topics eclipsed his doubts, and with time, the unannounced visit looked so irrelevant that Arthur preferred to let it go. Only on a few occasions, when Arthur played the guitar and discovered Francis looking at him subtly, curiosity threatened him to take over his head.

During his way, the idea of going home and telling Francis that he had not been serious crossed Arthur's mind frequently. He still could not believe he was serious. He repeated to himself he would take advantage of Francis' situation. Arthur would enjoy having won this competition between them. The thought gave him the strength to continue. He managed to park his car on a busy road and then walked to the coffee shop Francis talked about.

The place was not huge, so he gave a quick look. Besides the employees, there were a couple of clients and anyone else. Francis was not there. His indignation feeling increased, and the desire to push Francis again into a mud puddle too.

Francis had lied to him just for having the privilege of ghosting him. Francis always did whatever he wanted without thinking about other people, considering their time had less value than a cent.

When Arthur exited the coffee shop, he found Francis walking in the crowd. His eyes were looking for him inadvertently, like an accident impossible to avoid. Francis crossed the street, moving at speed faster than average. Francis never stressed about arriving on time to places; other people often had to wait for him, and he had said more than one time that all the good stuff is worth waiting for. Still, Francis managed to go ahead carefully into the street, avoiding fall over busy Londoners.

Arthur crossed his arms while Francis shortened the distance between them. When Francis was finally at his side, he gave him a surprised look.

"You're early."

"And you're late, even when you chose the place of the meeting."

"I was here before," Francis explained. Arthur raised an eyebrow, asking for more answers. "But then, I thought of a better way to use our time. Look, I didn't only come for the marriage business. I planned to do more things. And well, he is an amazing artist. Probably you know him because I am sure you find time to appreciate art."

Arthur was regretting his craving for revenge. Francis ruined everything, even when Arthur was on the winning side. He thought an average person would plan the marriage proposal with extreme detail, not like a number more in a to-do list. Before Arthur could look for a way to ask the question without seeming concerned, Francis gave him a ticket to the art gallery.

"Come on. I don't want to stay outside when it closes."

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, anything mean, but his head was blank. He followed Francis, although he already knew where the building was. Of course, he had met the artist before. Without realizing it, both of them walked together, side by side. This did not happen frequently. Arthur usually was in a hurry, and his steps were rushed, while Francis took his time with everything, like a turtle in a race.

Arthur did not want to recognize his disappointment. He had prepared for a serious conversation. He had gathered courage and patience and even decided which words to say. Francis disarmed him without realizing it, taking him to a territory where Arthur had not analyzed the probabilities.

The silence among them during the walk helped him to collect his ideas. During the art gallery, the silence among them, observing pictures and pictures, only worked to scatter his previous thinking. Arthur was losing himself between the art and Francis, who talked about every image they looked at. Arthur acted like the cat got his tongue, and he realized with horror that Francis knew what was happening with him.

Maybe, Francis even was enjoying it.

They sat on a bench at the end of the gallery, and they stayed shoulder to shoulder. The last picture, full of intense blue and red, was in front of them. The image was powerful, and like the rest of the art, it clouded his head. He only could think about he was next to his old enemy, orbiting around a marriage of convenience's proposal. He wondered in which corner his revenge had hidden. He only wanted to run away now. If Arthur had the opportunity, he really would have run away.

"Did you think about us?" Francis asked.

"I am here for a reason," Arthur said. None of them dared to look at each other's faces.

"Is that your way to say yes? Do you accept?" Francis asked, more incredulous than Arthur expected.

"No," Arthur exclaimed, harsher than he intended. "I am not going to marry you. There is no benefit for me. Nations like me—"And you once," he thought— are better if alone. What do I gain from you?

"Marriage is not a profit."

"It is for us. And marrying you right now is like buying clearance products about to expire. Tell me, bastard, do you think I would do it? I had rather seen you disappear.

"And even though," Francis said, and Arthur knew those inquisitive blue eyes were on him. "Here you are. Did you decide to meet me just to play a little game? Do you want to joke about my proposal? Or do you want to tell me I should try another day again?"

Arthur knew he must not choose the last one. He must not.

"And how will you try another day again?"

"I don't know. I have to think about it. And even if I know, I wouldn't tell you."

"I am not a man of surprises."

"Not, you don't," Francis said, meaning that he would have to accept the outcome.

Arthur ventured to look at his blue eyes. Francis kept observing him like he was enjoying the conflicting emotions inside Arthur. For a short moment, the panic conquered his feelings while imaging the other man touching his lips, kissing him like they were on a mere date, and then disappearing with a stolen heart. If Francis did any suspicious movement, Arthur would hit him.

Arthur almost jumped when Francis finally decided what to do next. Francis got up from the bench and walked away a couple of steps. Without words, he seemed to have read his thoughts.

"Perfect, Arthur Kirkland. I'll keep trying," Francis said, but he did not come back to him. There were no kisses, hugs, or love confessions.

Arthur felt horrified and disappointed at the same time. He wanted to yell that Francis could go to hell, and then, he wished to retreat himself from the trap he had fallen unwillingly. Francis was the one to leave first, saying goodbye with a hand gesture. Arthur heard Francis's steps going away, as rushed as before on the street like he could not wait to abandon London that night.

"What have I gotten myself into?" Arthur thought, feeling too alone in the last aisle of the gallery.

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