Chapter 7

Red string of fate

"So, like, there's this old Japanese—"

"Chinese, ya dummy."

"Yeah, whatever, anyway, there's this old legend thing that an invisible red string connects two people who're totally fated to date." An alarmingly florescent teen spoke, playing with a piece of red yarn from her sleeve. "Y'think it's true?"

"Legends are but legends to begin with for a reason, ma chérie…" Francis replied evenly, to which, as usual, the crowd swooned.

A lot had changed in the past few months, well, aside from the variation of seasons and all of that. The morning routine of barely making it in time, not to mention the countless visits to that moron's office remained the same, something that the day could not begin without. Another thing was, miraculously, he had finally cleared out the spare room for Arthur (he would be lying if he said he didn't miss the times when he could easily watch the blond snooze, especially since he was pretty sure that it was the only time when the reserved man would smile), but the most prominent development out of these months? That the fangirls had begun to follow Francis home. That meant a lot less time to spend pestering Arthur.

"You okay, hun? You look a little pale… Has that fogey Arthur given you his cold?" At that point, if they hadn't been swarming over him before, they were now. He could barely hear himself think over the cries of oh my god and I'll make you some soup, 'kay?

"Non, not at all! There is no reason to fuss over this gorgeousness!" That was his and Arthur's excuse. The latter had grown sick of the seemingly omnipotent crowds that bothered him on a daily basis about backing off from 'their man', so, to prevent him from exploding into a temper, he would shut himself away in his room and do something mind-numbingly boring, such as reading gothic literature (or studying, of all things). "Now, excusez-moi, madames, but I must use the restroom…"

"Aww… That's like the third time this hour!" Came a collective groan.

"I can escort you, if you'd like…" A brunette spoke up, one of the girls who imagined that fluttering your eyelashes after saying anything at all instantly made it seductive.

"Je serai bien! Merci for the offer, though." Honestly, who found that sort of thing acceptable for a pickup line? He had been deploying them long enough to know that there was a science to it. Escorting someone to the loo was the sort of job a mother of a toddler might have to do, not somebody trying to sweep the target off their feet. What was she implying she'd do, anyway? Prop the toilet seat up?

At a pace that was more like running than strolling nonchalantly (unfortunately, he had picked that up from Arthur), he entered the small yard-long excuse for a corridor, turned past the bathroom (not that the girls would assume anything, he had kept them from exploring the place for a reason), and hurriedly filed into Arthur's room, earning, unsurprisingly, a disgusted stare. He had probably interrupted another hideously large reading session, judging by the book that looked as thick (and probably as heavy), as a brick sitting on his knees.

"Back so soon? I would have thought you'd be busy, what with your army of spray-tanned cultural vultures." There was another thing that had not changed – the witticisms.

"Oui…" He flopped down onto the bed in exhaustion. Arthur shuffled as far to the other side as possible. "One of them even offered to escort me to the restroom this time. I know I am magnificent, but they really are difficult to get away…"

"Hold on a tick, so you actually assume they believe you? I think you're giving them too little credit."

"Ah?" He raised a manicured eyebrow.

"Well, since they seem to have pledged their undying support to fuelling your narcissism, who's to say they aren't going to take a gander?" Arthur spat matter-of-factly, as though it were the most obvious fact in the world.

"…Mon dieu," he sighed before performing a grand slump, "I hate to say it, cher, but you're right. Does this room have a keyhole?" Blond waves flew askew, the scent of expensive shampoo entwining with the air. The Frenchman was looking around for said part of the door.

"If it had, don't you think I would be currently using it in order to lock you outside to rot? As I'm sure you're aware, that tends to be a requirement for the majority of bathrooms."

"I am not an idiot, you know…"

"No, you're right. An idiot would know to lower his voice in this situation; your intelligence is on par with an American's."

"There is such a thing as, how you say, too far, and you just went there!"

"Quiet, you bloody—"

The door then creaked open. It must have looked rather suggestive, with Francis sprawled across the bed and Arthur looking positively livid. Not that it was all that bad for the former, who seemed to be enjoying every second of the Briton's stupor, but more so for the flock of teenage girls that had swarmed almost instantaneously. The majority looked utterly heartbroken, a few appeared ready to punch either one of them (though it would most likely be Arthur, due to how much they would complain about him behind his back), and one extremely odd individual shoved toward the back of the mass who was positively beaming at them. Even Francis had his limits. There was no way he could comfort each and every one of them. So, he simply gave a winning smile, albeit more awkwardly than usual.

Which of course was completely overlooked in favour (or lack of, thereof) of a ferocious glare – Arthur's. "Are you quite finished?" The younger blond scowled, though anyone could see that throughout the entirety of the encounter, he hadn't exactly been on the brink of anger, as he supposed he was conveying. "Some of us, unlike you illiterate Barbie-doll rehashes, have better things to do than barge into the property of others."

"It's not like we're uninvited, ass!" The leader-figure of the pack, a lanky blonde, crowed. "Francis gave us permission, like, years before you! You just got lucky, weirdo!"

Just as Arthur scowled like he was going to instigate a verbal massacre upon the pack, Francis, finally, found his voice. "Calmez-vous, oui…? I was checking up on him, is all; it wouldn't be too good if he died before paying the rent—!" He scratched the back of his neck cheerily. This, despite being met with a disapproving snort from Arthur, actually seemed to lighten the spirits of the crowd.

"That's so adorbs! You're like his handsome big brother!" An ecstasy of squealing spread through the crowd like a disease. Truth be told, Francis wasn't about to object to the title. It was rather quaint, if anything, but obviously, despite the age gap providing more than enough ground evidence for Francis' content with it, the Englishman still wasn't happy. Then again, would he ever be?

A standalone component remained concordant: he loved Arthur Kirkland in spite of it.

So that was a time skip. I think it'd be about a month or two? Kinda early, I know, but I could go on for years just incorporating fluffy moments into the same schedule each and every day with no plot progression.