Upon the monarch's arrival, the attendants were allowed to find their seats. Francis did leave Arthur, for good this time, his seat right next to the queen herself.

Arthur tried not to stare. Apparently the man he had been trying to piss off was personal friends with royalty. He watched the queen put her hands up to her powdered white hair, large curls forming a tall peak on her head. Francis put a hand over his mouth, but Arthur could tell that both him and her were laughing. Perhaps she made a small quip. Either way, they were close.

Unfortunately for him, he was seated next to a fellow diplomat: Gilbert. Antonio was at the far end of the table, not nearly as important as the statesmen and... Francis, for some reason.

At least the Prussian had table manners. Arthur had thought they were all barbarians, but the only way he could pick out this man from the crowd was his skin, absent of any pigment. There was rapid-fire conversation between him and the other French nobles, talking far too fast for Arthur to translate. He could pick out few words, such as "the first estate" and "inefficient taxes." Gilbert seemed fond of French domestic policy, happily chatting and answering their questions.

"How are affairs in England, sir Arthur?" Gilbert turned to ask him suddenly.

Arthur was listing off things in his head, most notably the debt and humiliation they were suffering. But that went unsaid, the diplomat stating with a certain tact, "We are recovering from the recent war, and I would daresay—"

"Your personal affairs," Gilbert interrupted, "I know too well of England, all right?" Arthur was stricken with silence though, unsure of how exactly he should reply. His personal life could be summarized in a sentence. There was none. The Prussian looked towards him and tilted his hand, "Have you a family back home?"

Arthur nodded. "I have a few brothers," he said, "We get on fine, I suppose."

"I have a brother as well," Gilbert said, clutching his wine glass, "He's a field marshal... I believe as of right now, he is training his men in Poznan."

Arthur, for a moment, thought that was the end of their brief conversation. But Gilbert continued to speak, tapping the ground with a simple yet polished wooden cane. It looked as if it had seen better days. "You have never been in the army, correct?" he asked with a gentle tone.

"I enlisted in the Royal Navy as soon as I could," Arthur noted, some pride seeping into his tone. Truth be told, he had not seen the action he had expected. Daring raids did not come in the last year of the seven year conflict with France, only patrols and blockades.

When he was younger, he naively hoped for those battles. Now he knew the more interesting ones happened in palaces and meeting rooms.

Silver plates were put on the table on by one. A roast chicken sat in between Gilbert and Arthur, surrounded by various vegetable soups and servings of potatoes.

"This would be the first course," Gilbert explained as if Arthur didn't know, then adding, "Out of four."

Arthur looked at what was in front of them. This wasn't a course to him. It was a meal and a half. Gilbert served himself several cutlets, one after the other going straight into his mouth. There went the table manners. Arthur sighed. You had to love something about France, and for this man, it must have been the cuisine. He brought to himself a bowl filled with a thick soup. He could pick out onions from sight alone, and the first taste... wasn't so bad. It was slightly sweet, and only left a warm feeling down his throat.

The sole person stuffing himself though was Gilbert. And it made little sense considering he might have been the skinniest one at the table. Other nobles filled themselves with conversation instead of the course, but Gilbert killed two birds with one stone by using a handkerchief to cover his mouth while he spoke.

Arthur felt as if he were witnessing a war crime.

He idly turned his spoon in the liquid, pushing the vegetables and broth back and forth. Though he was eating, it was a slow process coupled with how he was eyeing up everyone else in the room. Rapid-fire conversation shot between aristocrats, the dull scraping of silver against silver, and the sound of a chair pulling away from the table.

Francis was leaving the room, sending a wink to the other men at the table. It looked like the monarch hadn't acknowledged his departure, but his wife was laughing to herself and attempting to influence Louis into a more cheerful disposition.

The second course was brought in when the room quieted down, this time individual servings of beef ragout, or as Arthur understood it, some sort of stew. It was something familiar, as he often ate the dish in winter when it grew cold. Gilbert was, albeit less now, still shoveling back servings of food. He turned to Arthur, having the care to wipe his mouth and swallow before asking, "Have anyone else at home?"

"Hm?" Arthur asked, his eyebrows raised before shaking his head, "Oh, no. I'm quite the loner."

Gilbert nodded to him, "I've only got myself a brother to write to. You won't consider yourself a loner for long here."

"So I've heard," Arthur murmured, looking off to the side.

"Maybe you'll find something that entertains your tastes here, monsieur," Gilbert said, looking at his plate again before pushing it away with soft laughter. Arthur knew what he was teasing about. Many considered him stuck up, prickly, and worst of all, a bore. Perhaps because his voice wasn't boisterous or that he stressed his etiquette. Either way, he knew that he was not a chore to talk to. Arthur found himself just as charming as other gentlemen. It was only that it wasn't surface level.

They ran out of conversation, and the food kept coming. Next course would come lighter, a salad and bread, meant to tide everyone over for dessert. Gilbert and Arthur stopped eating without much thought. Both weren't too fond of bread, the main part of a soldier's diet. As for Arthur, it was merely because it hurt his stomach.

"How old are you?" Gilbert asked suddenly.

Arthur was caught off guard again. For some reason, this stranger thought himself privy to his personal life so soon. "I turn thirty-eight come fall," he answered vaguely.

"I suspected I was older than you," Gilbert chuckled. And that was the conversation, leaving the other man confused beyond words.

With that awkward conversation came the dessert, which was a delight for Arthur. Lemon custard, served in a white china bowl alongside a sampling of citrus fruits. Back home, he would from time to time have this dish, alongside tarts and puddings. He watched as men and women picked up pushed aside plates and glasses, bringing him a cup of a different type of wine, to refill his for what must've been the fourth time.

Arthur's eyes widened. He hadn't noticed how fast he was drinking. He only hoped that others hadn't caught on.

He soon finished his custard though, a sweet and tart taste resting on his tongue alongside the dull aftertaste of red wine. Arthur was almost proud of finishing the large meal, but then started mentally making plans for a hunting trip to burn those hard-won calories.

Arthur wondered what the party would bring now. Because it wasn't too terrible.

But then the nobles started to stand. Right. Arthur sighed. You couldn't have a party with only food, there had to be the entertainment. He wondered what the king would bring in. Prostitutes? What else passed for entertainment in France?

Something remarkably normal happened instead. A quartet came in with their string instruments and began to play. It was a light and cheerful tune, encouraging dance. Arthur looked around. Nobody was dancing. Rather, they were waiting.

The door at the front of the dining room opened, and strings of laughter came about when Arthur saw something... too ordinary. A line of well-dressed ladies, all dressed too nicely to be picked off of the streets. A few of the gentlemen approached them, brightly smiling and taking the women into the center of the room to dance.

Arthur seemed to freeze up when one of the girls approached him. She had a powdered wig, a face full of makeup, and certain other assets a woman of her status might've owned. She didn't speak, offering her hand. Of course, Arthur took it out of politeness. He wasn't a marvelous dancer, and she wasn't either. That was made clear when she tried to take the lead.

Up close, Arthur could see her features better. Despite the thick white plastered on her face, it wasn't covering up any past disease or scars. It was a common practice in his country as well, even most men partaking in it. Arthur found no reason to dress himself up to his status. It showed better in how he acted.

The music was brought to a swell, finally overtaking most of the annoying conversation and cheeriness. Arthur looked around, seeing more... women had entered the room.

He noticed one unmistakeable man in a pearl-adorned dress, both Gilbert and him letting out roaring laughter as they tripped over each other's feet. Arthur stared back at his dance partner, picking up on more details he must've skipped over.

It didn't matter once he heard Francis ask, "Are you finding the party enjoyable?"

Arthur let go of the woman's hand, realizing that Francis' voice had come out of her. Him. "What in God's name is this?" Arthur asked.

"You do not keep up with court trends, do you?" Francis asked with no hint of sarcasm. Arthur felt the tips of his ears warm as a blush spread. There was no way that this was normal.

"Ah," Francis said, "I see where I have gone wrong... I was not supposed to look this convincing."

"That is not the issue with this display," Arthur muttered, his fist balling up.

"Would you have preferred if I was less convincing?" Francis asked, reaching out to continue the dance and only allowed to do so because Arthur did not want to cause a scene.

Arthur scoffed, murmuring, "I would prefer the men to be out of those bloody dresses."

"How forward, at least give them a dance first," Francis chuckled.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, hoping that the poison in his glare would affect the other at some point. "I would like to go back to my room," he said.

"You do not..."

Arthur separated from him. "I'm taking my leave," he muttered, "I've had quite enough of this."

There was no hesitation. Arthur was out the door, even with several pairs of eyes staring on.

"Perhaps the corset was too much for him," Antonio put a hand on Francis' shoulder.

Francis kept his eyes on the ground. The room was cold even under multiple layers of skirts and indeed, a corset.

"Perhaps."