Of Books and Crime
Author's Note: Hope you like the chapter, it's on the longer side and it offers a lot of context for the other characters and adds some world building to the story as a whole.
Bonus Level of Enjoyment: Listen to the song "I'm Only Human", a beautiful and meaningful piece of music.
Chapter 20: We're Only Human
"Tell me everything," Alin demands, the second the class is over and him and Francis are alone in the halls.
The French hesitates only for a second too long before a sigh flies past his lips and he begins, going back to the very start,
xxx
Francis has liked Arthur since…well ever. He can't remember the first time he realized he had feelings for the boy next door, it's almost as if those emotions were always there.
He still remembers when the Brit moved in the "haunted" house next door and they were both four years old, mere months apart. (Naturally Francis would always rub it in his face that he was 3 months older and a few centimetres taller.)
xxx
Kindergarten and then preschool and junior high – all of that is full of Arthur, full of little moments between them.
Hiding in the bushes while they listen to their parents talk about "grown up stuff", learning to read, write and everything in between – all of that they do together. And it's a competition, each of them struggling to one up the other, prove who is who.
When it comes to Francis, it has always been about proving himself to Arthur, not against him.
The Brit has always been one to radiate confidence like the sun, his tongue as bitter as the beer his dad drinks. Even as a small kid he's always one to pose as better than others, smarter than adults and more sure about himself than anyone Francis has ever met.
At first he wants to be the English boy and it's only so much later he realizes he wants to be with him.
But he can't tell him either, as he knows that will be the end of the competition – Arthur will win once and forever and worse – leave.
So Francis hides it all between the jabs and insults they throw at each other. He hides his admiration in berating the Brit for the few things he isn't good at. Things like cooking and making friends – perhaps the only two things he is able to take a victory from.
He is terrified of the other finding out how much he likes him, how much he marvels at all the things he does. And so he participates in their rivalry, in the fights, the endless battles about who is better, even if he never means any of it.
For Francis the real battle begins the moment he finds out just how much he has always liked him.
xxx
It's Francis that has his first "real" kiss on the lips and he classifies that as his greatest victory till date at the age of ten. It's something he sticks in Arthur's face every chance he gets, lest he forgets it.
He tells him all about how nice the Belgian girl is, how cool everyone else thinks he now is – being all grown up and acting like a real man,
Every time he says it Arthur frowns, his impossible black eyebrows furrowed together. At first Francis loves it, he lives to tease the other and relishes in getting a reaction from him…because after all hatred is the only reaction he can evoke from him.
But after a week or so Arthur starts avoiding him and Francis' little victory goes down the drain, so does his mood.
xxx
Three days without his unannounced best friend and he's ready to all but cry for the other's forgiveness, his pride be damned for once. He finds him in the backyard, by the small pool. It's June, summer vacation is almost upon them which means Arthur will be leaving in a few days for Norwich where he can spend the days with his grandparents.
At the thought of summer without him Francis' hearts constricts painfully, all the more reasons for him to apologize.
He debates on what to say, all the while spying at the other from the bushes.
"You should come out, you look bloody stupid hiding there," he hears the voice he's come to know anywhere.
Of course Arthur must have heard him, he's never been able to surprise him with anything, the other is always ten steps ahead in every game they play.
He can't think of anything witty to say, so he comes out of the bushes, a little flushed, walking up awkwardly to him.
"If you're here to tease me about your stupid kiss again," Arthur begins, his tone one of threat, sounding as if he has rehearsed the words, "I'm going to call the police and ask the nice lads there to take you to prison! Without the chance of parole!"
Francis rolls his eyes, leave it to Arthur to use words for grown-ups. He's probably spent half the afternoon reading on parole. The small thought makes him smile, it's just one of the things he's come to like about the other.
"What are you smiling at, you bloody frog?"
(Arthur calls him that because his first pet was a frog they found by the river and he's never, ever letting that go).
"At you, mon ami," Francis replies theatrically and now it's the other's turn to rolls his pretty green eyes.
He sits down next to him, on the little sun chairs by the pool. It's a nice summer evening, the ones he loves all too much as they speak of some long forgotten romance his mum used to read him about from old French books.
God, he misses her.
"I'm here to say sorry," he blurts out before he loses the will to apologize, before his pride takes a grip of him again, "Teasing you…wasn't nice. Mum wouldn't have approved that."
Arthur meets his eyes and for a brief second there the arrogance is gone. There is no cold in them, no challenge, no competition. For once the Brit isn't his rival, but rather the kid next door, the one he sees like a brother and the one who is his best friend.
The one who stood by him at his mother's grave and that was one of those only moments when they actually hugged.
"Apology accepted," Arthur concedes, not without a melodramatic sigh and sticking his nose up high, for good measure, "I knew you wouldn't last a week without me anyway."
Francis snickers at his words but they're true. He has always marveled at how grown up he acts, how he can make the simplest gestures almost magic.
They stay like that for a few moments, the soft summer breeze playing with their hair. He looks at the other, his hair is now longer and it looks nice, naturally blonde locks falling over his pale face and messy brows which add a good measure of mischief.
"You know, now that it's pretty dark, you're not that ugly," Francis tries to joke, making his tone light hearted.
(That's actually code for how pretty he finds him but he's never, ever saying it loud. Not because he doesn't want to but because the other is never going to speak to him again if he does say it.)
"You trying to kiss me too?" Arthur criticizes, squinting his eyes into a scowl.
Francis can feel his heart going a hundred kilometres an hour, he licks his lips, tries to look cool and casual.
"Would you like that?"
The Brit turns away, but he can still see the faint red over his pale face. It makes something in his chest melt, he looks adorable.
Francis feels a new found courage wash over him and he steps up, acting on impulse, not thinking it through. With one quick step he's over to the other, putting his hands over his shoulders.
To his surprise Arthur doesn't push him away, he looks up and meets his eyes, green falling over blue. He searches for the familiar arrogance or the flashes of animosity but they're gone. He reads something else, something new and mismatched…embarrassment. It feels strange, unnatural even that the other might be embarrassed.
In Francis' eyes Arthur has always been the strong one, the one with all the answers, the one with the quick mouth and a good pair of fists. Now though he seems like the younger kid next door who doesn't have any friends at school and hates the fact he's no longer back in England.
"I've never kissed a girl…"Arthur begins, tone uncharacteristically small.
It evokes something in the French, some need to protect him, to pull him close and never let go. For once he feels like the stronger one and it's invigorating, it makes him do things he never thought possible.
"I know that," he tries to joke but the other shakes his head,
"I…I don't think I want to kiss any girls."
Francis is so caught up by surprise he feels the breath knocked out of him,
"If-If you tell anyone I swear I will kill you!" Arthur threatens, taking his shirt into his fists and bringing them closer in doing so.
"I won't, I promise," the taller kid counters, shaking his head frantically, trying to offer reassurance. And not because he's afraid of him – he knows an empty threat when he hears one, but because he wants, no needs, the other to see the friend in him.
"Good," Arthur grumbles, looking away.
They stay in silence for a few more minutes as Francis searches for some magical words but finds none.
"Do you think you want to kiss boys?" he asks in the end, voice a little sheepish and his cheeks flushed.
The Brit doesn't answer at first, he gulps and looks away.
"That's okay…I mean you know the Browns family – they're really nice and the whole neighbourhood likes them. So…" Francis tries to sound as gentle as possible…"I mean if you want to kiss boys only…I don't think that's a bad thing."
Arthur doesn't respond, doesn't even look at him but he can almost hear the wheels turn in that brilliant mind of his. Francis struggles with what to do next, what to say, to pull back or not. But he doesn't want to step away, he feels the other's fingers at his chest, still clinging onto the fabric of his shirt.
A frantic idea, a revolutionary thought torpedoes through his mind, now or never,
"I've thought about it too…you know, kissing boys."
He says it so quickly, anyone could miss it but Arthur doesn't. For once he seems to listen,
"I figured," he barks back, as if on cue, "You want to kiss everyone,"
Francis is about to argue, that no thank you – there are plenty of ones that he deems un-kissable but then-
Arthur's kissing him.
xxx
It happens so fast, so shockingly that Francis almost falls into the pool and loses any cool he might have had when he was kissing the Belgian girl.
This is different, this means something more than proving himself before the other kids, making it look cool. This actually changes things and he knows it's not just one of those silly childish kisses he is bound to forget in a few years.
It's sloppy and weird and Francis thinks how Arthur is doing it the way he does everything else – taking control, forcing things to work.
But…it feels good. Not perfect, not skilled, just good, like when you jump into the sea the first day on your vacation and the promise of a whole new experience lingers just underneath the surface of the water.
xxx
In that short, sweet moment in early June it's just the two of them and their friendship feels like the end of Francis's world.
But it's not just friendship – oh, God he wants it to be so much more than friendship.
xxx
The next day Arthur flies back to England where he gets to spend the entire summer. They spend it in between the pouring rain and the meadows and the hot boredom of the small American town.
Francis thinks about him all the time, every thought of his having a bit of Arthur coiled around it.
But they never talk about the kiss, almost as if it was something that didn't happen and sometimes he ever wonders if it was real or a midnight summer dream.
xxx
When Arthur comes back they pick up right where they left off – with the quarrels and arguments and Feliciano throwing them cute looks and telling them,
"Guys you fight like a married couple!" as he giggles and pokes Ludwig in the ribs, "Don't they!?"
Francis meets Arthur's eyes and they're still as stony green as ever, as if he's taken a small piece of the damp meadows in his motherland and brought them to sunny America.
But the Brit is changing, getting taller, his hair now stylized a bit better, clothes only a little less absurd. And Francis finds out the more he stares, the more he likes the view.
xxx
The next few years fly by on autopilot as life often does when you're a preteen. Soon enough they're in high school but they're still the same neighbouring kids who bicker to no end and still have sleepovers after watching Doctor Who episodes for the umpteenth time, on Arthur's request.
But those sleepovers never turn into anything more and the Brit always slaps away the bottle of wine he has at hand.
Francis dates a lot, both guys and girls alike, a whole plethora of people, all in the name of forgetting the one person he actually wants. Not that there is anything wrong with sex – to him it is something beautiful and sensual, something no one should be depraved of by morals or otherwise. But it's just that he craves more from one person only.
xxx
"You ever feel stuck in these bloody suburbs?" it's Arthur that asks one, when they're both a little drowsy on one of those countless sleepovers when they're supposed to study.
They have a geometry test tomorrow, on a Friday nonetheless. Francis mentally swears at it – it should be considered a crime to hand out tests on the last day of the school week, when you can almost taste the weekend.
Of course Arthur is the only one actually studying, while he relies he'll either cheat from Ludwig, alongside Feliciano or maybe charm the teacher away until she lets him pass. Both are likely.
"You feeling all existential crisis now, mon ami?" he tries to joke, raising a perfect blonde eyebrow.
Arthur scoffs and Francis can't help but smile at the way he shakes his head, dark blonde locks over unruly black eyebrows. It's an amusing sight which has become so ingrained in his life at this point he accepts it as a part of the décor.
"It's just that nothing ever happens here," the Brit rants on, casting a glance outside the window, as if longing for something far away, "We're stuck here and it feels like the end of the world. Each boring day a mirror of the other,"
Francis chuckles,
"And they you claim I'm the overdramatic one,"
"Oh, screw you, bloody frog!" Arthur snaps, throwing him the kind of glare that could murder a guy, "I was sharing."
"We friends now?" the French smirks, trying to ignore how fast his heart beats, how much he depends on the simple answer.
He sneaks up on him, wraps his hands around him and pushes them both over the bed. Arthur pouts and glares but doesn't fight. There's something oddly insecure in his green eyes, almost like he for once doesn't know what to say.
It reminds him of that day – so long ago it's like part of another life – when they were just kids and kissed by the pool.
"You wanna do something that's not boring, mon ami?"
The Brit's eyes widen a bit, almost as if for once he doesn't have control over the script. It gives Francis the needed push and so he leans over, taking his lips. This time the kiss is different, better, more mature and skilled. Arthur still isn't the best of kissers and he strongly doubts he has all that experience.
But it doesn't matter because it still makes his heart slam against his chest, pure adrenaline pulsing through his veins. When they break apart they're a little breathless and Francis gleefully finds out Arthur is staring at him, mouth agape, like a little child in a candy store.
He looks as though he wants more of it, more of him and that look in his eyes is like a drug to the French.
Without thinking he goes on autopilot, going lower, tugging at his jeans and unzipping them,
"What are you bloody doing, frog?" Arthur demands but there's a hitch in his voice.
"You said you were bored right?" Francis asks, raising a blond eyebrow and sending him a wink, "So, I say – give you something to remember me with,"
The Brit nods after what feels like the longest seconds of his boring teenage like and he kneels down and takes him in. Arthur moans, adrenaline shooting up straight to his brain, making him almost blank out from the sudden pleasure.
Francis knows how to give a blowjob, knows how to make him almost go mad and then stop, make him plead for more.
It's then that for the first time in their relationship Arthur actually begs him for anything, green eyes wide with lust.
He finishes so fast Francis almost debates on making fun of him but saves it for another time.
"You might as just be good at something, frog," Arthur says as they lie in bed that night.
xxx
The French sighs because that's the most he's ever getting out of him – a sloppy, backhanded compliment after blowing him. Not that the shorter teen even considers returning the favour.
And the worst part of it – Francis is ready to all but beg for more, the other's affection having become a drug he cannot live without.
xxx
From then on it's more of the same.
Occasional blowjobs and handjobs when they're supposed to study for the next test or even when they're under the bleachers and Francis shuts him up, long fingers pressing against Arthur's mouth so no one hears them. The Brit both hates and adores it – the thrill of doing something he's not supposed to, all the while claiming this is not what he wants.
But he never returns his affection, never once even touches Francis.
"Just so we're clear, we're not in a relationship," the Brit tells him each time, when he lies in his bed, boxers pooling around his ankles, his dick soft after he's pleasured him.
The French winces at the words but doesn't say anything, he merely jokes,
"Oh, why would I ever want to date an ugly guy like you?" he asks, flashing him a pearly false smile, "I have my standards."
And his standard is one – Arthur – but he never says it out loud, never gives him the pleasure of seeing how vulnerable he truly is.
It's okay, Francis tries to tell himself, as long as he has the teen to himself, he can be content and on the rare occasion when he throws him a sliver of affection – remotely happy.
Plus, it's not like he doesn't find pleasure elsewhere, his sex life has always been one worthy of its own blog.
(It's only because of the Brit's warnings he doesn't start said blog. But, for the record, Gilbert thinks it's an awesome idea.)
xxx
Francis sometimes feels like things will never change and they'll always be the two teens next door for such is the effect of high school – you think nothing changes until it all does.
In the French's case the thing that changes it all has a name, is tall, blue eyed and having that million dollar smile that Old Hollywood used to gush about.
And his name is Alfred.
From the moment Arthur sets his eyes on him, Francis knows he's lost the game even before it has begun.
xxx
Time flies by and soon enough they're in the eleventh grade with Alin now in class, doing the impossible and dating the one guy Francis would never think of Bi – the Bulgarian delinquent.
He feels nothing short of admiration for the Romanian, since after all Nikolai looks like the kind of guy for whom difficult is all but a soft word.
He gets closer to Alin, the two share secrets and he enjoys seeing the foreigner flush when he talks of his boyfriend. Francis treasures it, he relishes in the feeling of finding a friend – for it is such a rarity for him to have a relationship with anyone these days.
Arthur and Alfred are now happily dating, the golden couple of the school no doubt. The quarter back and the smartest guy in school – ah, it seems like a match made in Heaven, even if it's Francis' personal Hell.
His phone rings and he cocks an eyebrow – after all the Brit never calls these days and he can't even remember the last time they had a chat that was something more than him throwing insults.
"Oui?" he answers,
xxx
"Wait…so you're asking me to teach you how to cook?" Francis asks, bemused.
The shorter teen is already as red as a tomato in the face but he struggles to nod nonetheless,
"You don't have to rub it in my face, frog,"
"Careful with the insults or you're not getting any advice for free," he counters, still amused by the sight of the other actually asking for something.
Arthur sighs in his typical – I'm so much better than this – type of way,
"Look, I'm only doing this for Alfred," he grunts, burying his gaze somewhere over the Persian carpet, "The idiot loves food and well…Valentines is coming."
Francis feels as though someone's dealt him a kick in the teeth. There's one long moment when he can't say a thing, afraid if he that his voice might break in two.
It's stupid – he already knows Arthur has chosen Alfred over him but it still hurts each time he's reminded. Not to mention there's something especially sad and pathetic in the fact that he's helping his hopeless crush to make his boyfriend happy.
Not that he can say, no, never.
"Look, bloody forget I asked," Arthur grumbles, mistaking his silence for a refusal.
He catches his hand as he's about to leave, makes him turn around,
"I didn't say no did I?"
(When does he ever?)
The Brit's lips stretch into a calculative smile,
"Thank you,"
Francis nods, taking in the bitter sweetness – it's the first time the other thanks him and it's not supposed to feel this way.
xxx
He doesn't know how it happens and he hasn't planned or even dreamed of this.
But they're both drunk on the cooking wines and soon enough Arthur's kissing him, pale hands rummaging all over him, plump lips sucking at his neck,
And he cannot pull away.
"A-Arthur," he moans, in between the kisses, "We cannot do this?"
It's not a statement, it's a question, one that he doesn't have an answer to himself and hopes the other tells him the right one.
The Brit scoffs at him, his entire being oozing so much confidence it should be illegal,
"Francis, quit shitting me, I know you've been in love with me or whatever for the last… ten years or so."
The French can feel his sides burn but the other quickly erases any thoughts away as he tugs at his pants, already unbuttoning them,
"You've probably jerked off to me every night so, I'd say you better appreciate this,"
Francis gulps, a sudden bout of guilt and insecurity washing over me, almost drowning the lust. Almost.
"What about Alfred?"
"He'll never find out," the Brit shoots back, green eyes now wide with lust as he pushes him against the wall.
Xxx
Francis has never thought he'd have Arthur on top of himself, pale skin now flushed and glistening with sweat. Grunts escaping his parted lips as he thrusts into him.
It feels amazing, better than he's ever thought it would.
But even then, even when they have sex, which is what he's lusted over for years, even then he knows it's wrong.
Each movement, each sound they make is soaked in guilt.
xxx
"Arthur told me everything," Alfred says a few days after, face emotionless for the first time in well…ever.
Francis feels light headed as he hears the words, wishing that he could hide or maybe run or…something. Something that would erase the horrible look on the American's face…that helpless, joyless look which contrasts so starkly against his larger than life personality.
"He-he told it was the gentleman thing to do," Alfred snickers, shaking his head, "I'd say staying faithful and not fucking others behind my back is what a gentleman would do,"
There's one long, tense moment of silence between them,
"Alfred, I am so, so, so sorry," he says in the end, voice small and colourless, a shadow of itself.
"I…I know why you did it," the taller boy sighs, "I know you've been lusting over him since well…ever. I guess he was another conquest to your list,"
"He's so much more than that," Francis thinks bitterly, the thought burning his mind but he never says it out loud.
"I just…I don't get how he could have done it!" the American screams, fury now flashing through light blue eyes, "I mean I get it – you're a whore, sleeping with another man's boyfriend is not beneath you but he…"
The sentence hangs in the air and Francis doesn't even have the strength to get insulted by the harsh words,
"I thought he was better," Alfred whispers in the end and now he looks like a small child, one that has lost his balloon and doesn't get why it flew away up to the sky.
"It's all my fault," the French begins because even now, even after everything Arthur has done to them both, he needs to protect him.
"Don't." the taller boy snaps, voice now so strong it could destroy empires, "Just fucking don't."
He leaves him at that and Francis has never hated himself so much.
xxx
Alin gapes at him, unable to believe what he has just heard. His mind flies to Arthur and then the image he has about him plunges into the depths of hell. How could he? And Francis too…
"You screwed up," he hisses at him to which Francis only sighs, taking his head in his hands.
"I'm such a horrible person," he whispers, voice breaking in two.
The Romanian doesn't have to look at him to know there are tears in his eyes.
"I'm starting to think we all are," he mumbles in the end, realizing that even the supposedly perfect guys at school are far from it.
It feels stupid now – the way he admired them, the way he thought they were something more than him. In reality though they're all humans, they're kids still, they make mistakes, hurt others and get hurt themselves.
Suddenly the things Niko has done don't appear so bad, they don't contrast so harshly against the rest of the world and now that the pink illusion that's it perfect is tainted with black as well.
"Francis…I-" he begins, words dying on his lips, "I honestly don't know what to tell you. I can't excuse your actions but at least you love Arthur. What he did on the other hand…that has no excuse in my eyes."
The French opens his mouth to protect the Brit but then he closes it, looking away.
"Arthur says I provoked him," he whispers to which Alin feels anger ignite in his chest,
"He was the one that screwed up the most. He knows how you feel about him, I'm sure about it. He even told you that!"
The French is unable to respond, he can't even look at him.
The bell rings in the end and the taller teen bids goodbye, darting off away from him. Alin bites his lip, he's worried about Francis, no matter how angry and disappointed he is at him.
xxx
Nikolai feels weird as hell about spending the days with Alin's mum. Not that he doesn't like her – she seems like an amazing woman and just about the best mother one could ask for.
But it's still weird to hang out with your boyfriend's mum of all people.
He tries to keep himself buys by helping out, as much as she allows him, having in mind he's still injured.
He even helps her cook,
"Your meals are delicious," Mrs. Popescu gushes, the exact same way Alin does when he gives him a treat,
The Bulgarian feels his lips stretch into a grin, what he loves the most about cooking is the satisfaction in people's eyes as they try his meals.
"You should pursue this," the woman adds, voice now gentle but firm, "You have a talent. And neither now or Alin will let you waste it."
Nikolai looks away, unable to come up with what to say,
"I-I'm not sure I can…having in mind my…well the way I am. The way my family is,"
The older Romanian looks up from the dish, easily catching her eyes. He muses how they are the exact same colour as Alin's – a peculiar dark shade of brown, with the tiniest bid of a red tint.
"Nikolai, I can tell you from experience you can and you will."
He can feel warmth spread in his chest, the simple words giving him more belief in himself than any "helpful" educational video ever can.
"I mean I ran away from an abusive husband and came all the way to the US alone with two children," she adds, voice now light but still the implications behind it strong, "So, I'd say anyone can do whatever they set their heart to. You just have to be brave enough to face your demons."
xxx
Alin and Niko lie in bed that night as the Romanian can't help himself but tell him everything about Francis and Arthur.
The Bulgarian doesn't seem too surprised but then again he's never been a fan of the Brit.
"You know," he begins, changing the topic in the least smooth way imaginable, "I think it's time I finger you. Or maybe you blow me, whatever floats your boat."
Alin can feel his jaw drop at the words, taking aback yet again at how incredibly straight forward the other is.
"Or-or maybe not, if you're not ready. I was just messing with you, to see your reaction."
"I-I am," the Romanian is quick to assure, he's thought about them together more times than he can imagine.
Plus, as his mind reasons, a blowjob is the smaller step.
"I don't want to push you into it," Nikolai says, eyes now soft as the moonlight illuminates them.
Alin marvels at their colour yet again, mesmerized by the light shade, the way it looks different under each lightning.
Now the green is subdued, a gray tint to it.
He pulls the other close, seals their lips together.
"I am ready," he repeats, "Just…maybe you should work on being a little less straightforward?"
The Bulgarian chuckles at him,
"Mmm, oh you bet we'll have tons of foreplay," he says, wriggling his eyebrows.
"Not what I meant," Alin rolls his eyes but he's still amused.
It's then that the doorbell rings and he stares at the clock, it's ten thirty already.
"I guess that's not the boy scouts," Nikolai jokes but then his phone pings and the Romanian knows already that has to be Ivan.
He sighs heavily – he'd just mentally celebrated "a few days without a terrifying Russian."
Before he can even speak out, Ivanov pales before him, he gets up and darts towards the door.
Alin can't do anything but blindly follow, worry already clouding the edges of his mind. To make things worse, his mother is out of town, she's with his sister, going on another ballet tournament.
Did Radko telltale about him and Niko? What if Ivan wants to beat them up or…worse?
The Romanian stares in horror as he sees Ivan at the door, leaning in heavily against the frame, almost as if he needs the extra support.
"Ivan, what the hell happened?" Nikolai all but screams and Alin realizes why – the Russian looks like crap.
Braginski is pale, his skin almost translucent, clashing horribly against dark circles under his eyes. His hair is a mess that sticks in all directions, light strands now dull and lifeless.
And most shockingly of all – there are tears in his eyes. Popescu cannot believe the sight, rubbing his eyes as he thinks this must be a scene from a dream.
"I-I can't believe-…" Ivan begins, voice snapping in two, "Radko…he's dead."
Author's Note: (Drops the mic.)
So…how was that for an end? Just kidding, what did you think of the chapter? Were you surprised of Francis and Arthur sleeping together? Or in other words – do you want to punch our beloved Brit in the teeth?
How is Alin's mum for a motivation speaker?
And isn't Nikolai just horrible when it comes to being subtle?
Last but least…Did you expect those final words of narration? (Or do I just suck at foreshadowing xD) Anyway – thoughts on how Radko must have died? Please share if you have any because I absolutely adore hearing your interpretations!
Shoutouts to: maryranstadler1, , Elizaveta Hedervary – Hungary, Guest, Canada Cowboy
GarGoyl – First of all huge thanks for sticking with the story! There are a few inconsistencies with real life that I kind of ignored because of plot (hides in the corner). I'm sorry if it was kind of annoying. And I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter overall! ^^
Kattie - Hey! You have no idea how happy it makes me when readers appreciate the research I put into the stories ^^! And trust me I know aaall about Croatia's dislike for Serbia and in my humble opinion it's completely justified after everything that happened. But yeah...things on the Balkans are very messed up, that's why I don't ship Srb with anyone and I don't understand when others do. The only way I could see it happening is if it were an abusive relationship.
Don't ever apologize about long comments, they're my favourite ! I love reading about others' perspective not only on the story but about things in general!