"This shall be your room while you reside at the estate," Francis said, showing off the room with a practiced sweep of his hand.

Arthur didn't scrutinize the noble's flamboyancy, for once in awe of what the palace had for him. Though he was pragmatic, he thought not of insulation when he felt the cool marble wall behind him. He looked towards the bed, childishly wanting to jump into the sheets because it looked especially warm and inviting after a night's carriage ride. Arthur was not won over by the gardens, but by the simple pleasure of having a bed fit for his status to sleep in.

Francis could see Arthur's contented expression, a genuine smile on his features as he reached into his coat. Arthur didn't see what he grabbed until Francis had taken hold of his hand, pressing cold metal into his palm. A key. No, two. Arthur raised an eyebrow. "This one," Francis had Arthur feel over his indented initials on the metal, from AK to FB, "will be to your room. The other key is for the room three doors down from yours, if you ever find that you need my assistance."

With that, Francis took his leave. As the man exited, Arthur felt relief at finally being able to sit down and rest his feet. Then the relief turned into realization.

It was entirely inappropriate for him to have a key to a fellow man's room, wasn't it? As if Arthur was a common mistress to the courtier! Arthur found himself cursing Francis' imprudence again before then wondering what he would do to hide the key. He would not destroy it or lob it out the window into the bushes outside. Francis was the kind of bastard to check up on it. He would not hide it under his pillow. That definitely implied he was having relations with Francis. No, somewhere in plain sight. He opened the nightstand's drawer to put the key inside. It was rude to rifle through a man's drawers after all.

Arthur felt some accomplishment at the sight, that took both wit and great effort to carry out. Clearly. It brought him to another matter—sleep. He deserved some, without a doubt. To refresh his mind of blond aristocrats and to begin his work with the correct attitude. Diplomacy didn't come easy when a man was frustrated, and especially not when he was tired. He stripped himself of his shoes and shrugged off his coat but stopped beyond that as the room's temperature was adequate.

He lied down, but he couldn't sleep for long. Hours later, a tired and possibly even more grumpy Arthur was roused from bed.

"Supper time, limace."

Arthur rubbed his eyes and saw a grossly familiar face to him. The man was now dressed in a long silk blue coat, embroidered in what must have been pure gold. However, it was somehow modest compared to what Arthur had heard of other figures in the French court. Francis sported a staff-like cane at his side—the French didn't quite believe in bringing swords to court anymore—and Arthur felt a nagging obligation to compliment him. In spite of his urge, he remained quiet, because the man's head already seemed too big for his shoulders.

"Tell me you will change," Francis said, attitude starkly different when speaking in an enclosed space, but the tone of voice the same sickly sweet, "It is a lovely outfit, but do tell me how long you have been in it."

"I would not be so rude as to stop the driver only to change outfits," Arthur said. He crossed his arms, knowing the true answer to get out of his words was around two days.

Francis smiled politely, not giving him the expected disgusted response. Arthur could see it brewing past Francis' lips though, and when Francis began to speak, he almost blushed then and there, "How gentleman-like of you. I will arrange for a warm bath tonight."

"Then would you be so kind as to fetch me an outfit appropriate for court?" Arthur asked, "This would be my traveling outfit." It was not. The outfit was worn near daily, but Arthur would not be outdone by the sparkles of Versailles fashion. No, he would fit in, no matter how uncomfortable it was.

Francis hummed, "I will see what I can do upon such short notice."

That same sense of pride flared when Francis left the room. Arthur considered this conversation a win, or rather, a point for his side. There was no wondering of why he had locked him and Francis into such a competition. Perhaps for national pride, perhaps Arthur was only a petty man. But the diplomat always did hate others who didn't know their place.

He waited, legs crossed and one impatiently swaying side to side. Now that his mind was on supper, what Francis had woken him up for in the first place, his stomach was growing fond of the idea of having some food in it. He hadn't ate much since leaving England—he remembered he got seasick, which was out of character for him. He decided to blame it on his mind's fixation on France. The entire country seemed to make him sick.

Francis at least knocked before he barged back into Arthur's room, holding up the outfit for only a split second. Arthur saw a flash of crimson red before he felt hands upon him, untying the cravat he wore around his neck.

"I can change myself, sir!" Arthur turned his body away and blocked his chest from the other's apparently excitable hands.

Francis covered his mouth, Arthur not sure if he heard an exhale or a breathy chuckle. "Apologies," he said, "I had an idea that you would need assistance with putting on this outfit."

Arthur sighed. It was either a cultural difference, or Arthur was the strange one among them. Not even his servants helped him to change. But he wasn't a prudish or even shameful person, because he idly threw off the scarf and turned to Francis for his clothes.

"Should I take my leave?" Francis asked.

"No," Arthur shook his head. He did want to be alone, but the process of getting into his clothes would be so quick there would be no point. Plus, he didn't want Francis to wander and leave him lost in the palace to go hungry.

Francis quietly handed him his new coat, Arthur slipping it over his shoulders. He looked across from him into the mirror. Normally, he wore brown or dark greens, but the pumpkin orange and gold fringe were suitable colors on him. He wondered if Francis had an eye for this sort of thing. Then his eyes came back to Francis' arms, holding a pair of red...

"Why tights?" Arthur asked.

"It's quite a trend in the palace," Francis said, humming, "You will want your own cane too. Every gentleman needs a cane, oui?" Francis left Arthur alone to pull the red tights up and over his stockings, turning away from Francis as he did so. It wasn't so effective considering the giant mirror in front of them. "I know of an excellent place in town. As household minister, it is my duty to arrange for you to have appropriate wear, hm?"

Arthur realized Francis wanted him to respond, and to that he only nodded. "Will you require any money?" Arthur murmured.

"None from you," Francis said, pulling a second coat—this one was the striking crimson red—over Arthur's shoulders. "Frankly, it should not be your responsibility to acquire new clothing when you come from a court with lower standards."

"I do what I have to in order to do my best work," Arthur stated, glaring into the mirror at Francis' words, sounding full of faux pity.

They went silent, neither of them having any retorts with any ounce of politeness left. Arthur buttoned up the orange coat, up to where a sliver of his undershirt could still be seen. He sighed and looked directly at Francis, "Orange and red?"

And when he was expecting a long tirade from Francis about beauty and complimentary colors, Francis only shrugged and murmured, "It was a court outfit I bought a while back, but it did not fit exactly how I liked."

"Perhaps a sign from God," Arthur said, "The blue suits you better."

Francis looked surprised at the compliment, but did not hold the expression for too long as he led Arthur down to the dining room. It was all fair in the diplomat's book, he could insult you just as well with his kindness.

While he was expecting more of a public setting, the dining room was set up in what appeared to be the king's private rooms. Only twenty or so courtiers had arrived, gathered around the table instead of sitting. Arthur always scanned the room he was in. For social cues, mostly. Francis left his side to wait at the door, not towards a group of friends like Arthur supposed he had.

Arthur looked around again, this time for a different reason. The wine was set out and being poured for others, Arthur relieved that he could drink at least. He came over to grab a glass when someone hit his shoulder.

"This is the ambassador, right Francis?" this man asked, looking like he had already found much stronger drinks before walking in.

Francis laughed with some hesitation, "Yes, that is Arthur. Careful with the affection."

Arthur glanced to the man behind him, undoubtedly handsome with tan skin and wind-swept but still regal brown hair. Even though the stranger was warned against touch, a hand was offered for him to shake. Arthur obliged him though, for introduction's sake. "My name is Antonio," he said, "I come from the great kingdom of Spain."

Arthur almost chuckled. Great kingdom. The one whose armada was beat into the dirt by Englishmen a century ago? Couldn't be. Francis was singing his praises though, remarking, "Antonio is a lovely man. Many courts wish to house a marvelous painter such as he, but Versailles is his home, isn't it?"

"Because of a generous patron," Antonio put an arm around Francis, "Who calls for me every time he trims his hair."

Francis let out a more hearty laugh, pushing up his natural blond hair and murmuring, "Wigs are a temporary fashion, mon cher, and history is timeless."

"You have an utter fascination with becoming history," Antonio said, shaking his head, "You are just too romantic for common sense."

"You're a footnote at best," another voice jeered.

Francis mock-gasped before embracing this man, "Oh, Gilbert, what a way to show yourself. Arthur, this is the Prussian diplomat Gilbert, as you can see, his diplomacy's quite rough around the edges."

"You Frenchmen adore me," Gilbert said, in a mocking tone asking, "Shall I get you gentlemen some wine?" He wiggled his way out of Francis' arms, not so subtly as the others could tell.

Francis nodded despite the sarcasm and waved him off, putting a hand to his chin. "What was I doing earlier exactly?" he asked, "Oh, introducing Antonio, that's what. Arthur, are you familiar with his work? He's done many portraits of Queen Antoinette."

"The Austrian?" Arthur asked to make sure.

"Oh, our rivalry with the Habsburg house was so silly, our queen is the loveliest woman you'll care to meet," Francis brushed off Arthur's concerns, because even he knew the stories surrounding the woman. Arthur then figured that must have been why he sent Gilbert away. Patriotic Prussians and Austrians didn't mix, and Arthur was finally seeing that one of Francis' duties must have been keeping the peace with all the nationalities that resided in Versailles.

Francis sighed, "All rivalries are silly if I must broach this topic. England must know this if they send diplomats to her historical enemy."

Not at all. Arthur was dangerously close to laughing this time. It was a game, a balance of powers. France would gladly join a coalition of enemies if the target was England. But at the same time, if the target was France, they would ally with Great Britain with the same haste. Though Arthur would never admit it, England would do the same thing. He kept all of it unspoken though, letting Francis live in his romanticized world.

Except when Francis added, "So soon after losing a colony too."

If Arthur was a tad more nationalist, he'd sock Francis right there. And he was. It was only that he was too self-conscious to carry out rightful revenge.

"I am not upset about America," Arthur said, resisting any sort of twitch that could appear in his eyes, "If Great Britain wished, America would be ours. It is not in our best interest to house and pay for troublesome colonies in our empire."

Francis mused over the glass of wine Gilbert handed him, "I believe your people have set off a powder keg. Now all sorts of people are looking for this self-determination."

Arthur took a second look at Francis as he said that. To a monarchist, the word self-determination meant revolt. In this day and age, revolution. And Francis' entertained smile told him he might find just that in the court if he looked hard enough.

But Francis smiled wider, for the Austrian queen of France had arrived, with her husband by her side.