Chapter 11

Snowdrops

The forests of England. Cold, damp, but remarkably not as disappointing as they sounded from an outline. The biting breezes of winter played dominant throughout the air, dyeing the tips of their ears a dark pink. Were they utterly freezing? Yes. Did their toes feel like they had dropped off a while ago down the path? Yes. The remarkable thing? Francis was too occupied with staring toward the back of Arthur's cropped hair to particularly mind.

He was lucky to have been able to drag Arthur outside, he knew that much. The Briton never went outside, especially not on Boxing Day (he'd found that out during the great struggle of departure).

"What on earth possessed me to leave?" He piped up, huffing a small billow of smoke from a cigarette (Francis had persuaded him to cut back considerably, so this was probably to spite him). "If I'd wanted to wade through dog waste I would have taken up Jones' offer to inhabit McDonald's."

In spite of himself, Francis sniggered lightly. "It was either now or never, cher, and I know you would have gone for the second unless I dragged you out of your dingy sulking corner."

"I was not sulking, frog, I was revising. I'm aware the concept must be somewhat alien to you."

"Perhaps… Although, it's nice you would be so concerned about that; maybe you want me in your room after all?"

Arthur barked out a mocking laugh. "Unless you intend to leap out of its window post-haste, I'll have to decline."

"It was worth a try, oui?"

"Hm."

And he just had to make it awkward again. The worst thing about having his lines swatted down was having them completely diminished, along with whatever fantasies he formerly held. Luckily, things actually seemed to take a turn for the best around the same time Francis had offered that they go to somewhere warm this time. It was quite frankly remarkable what wonders indoor heating did for the Briton's attitude, perhaps Francis ought to parade about as a generator to win his affection.

But, then again, he started suspecting things. He always did, but five minutes had to be a brand new record. "My sincerest gratitude for the watery tea, but are you going to tell me why on earth you've been behaving so freakishly normal or not? Well, as normal as someone of your status can be." Not even attempting to shoot a generic glare, he instead returned to the cup, which he was sipping from with a surprising amount of vigour for a man who presumably hated everything to do with it.

"Have you ever heard yourself complain? I would rather this than to be out in the cold, so you don't have to act as though I have poisoned that hideous flavoured water."

He spared a wary glance to the liquid. Just in case. "As if I would ever be so dense as to trust you for a second." A half-hearted murmur. There was something that seemed…off. So, without a moment's hesitation, Francis moved his hand across the table to lightly brush Arthur's own, an attempt at reassurance.

"Cher?" He tilted his head to the side. Arthur still refused to meet his gaze.

"It's nothing." Again, that absent murmuring, like he wasn't quite there. "It's merely a cold coming on from the weather. Which I blame you for entirely." Francis could have gone without that addition, but wasn't willing to let it show.

"Naturellement!" He felt a broad grin surface, though he couldn't quite sense his features enough to tell (to his utter shock, it was reciprocated in part).

"You'd best hurry up and finish, if we're supposed to make it back in time for your silly love drama." Why had he remembered that? Hadn't he previously protested over how 'god-awful' it was? Not that Francis was about to complain…

"Ah, oui!" After much rummaging around in his ridiculously puffy coat (one of Arthur's that he had 'borrowed' for a joke; however he hadn't counted on the Briton's fashion sense being that terrible), he produced a cheque book. Yes, for a simple pair of beverages. The amount of money he ended up spending before payday on his friends was getting ridiculous, judging by the roll of Arthur's eyes.

"Spare me." He grumbled, a familiar, irritated gleam in his eyes before he practically slammed a five pound note upon the table, much to the chagrin of the waitress. The Frenchman wasn't sure if he should be grateful for this restoration of normalcy. "Consider this a lesson on keeping it in your trousers. Perhaps one day you'll be capable of paying by yourself."

He was about to provide an argument that it hadn't left those confines in the first place since he had moved in (surely a coincidence), then move onto a biting sexual remark, but, as usual, he was interrupted by a sudden action. This time: the legs of Arthur's chair screeching horribly against the floor.

So, instead, he made a different approach. He padded close behind Arthur once they had exited, scraped the thin film of frost from the café's windowsill, then, with the utmost of care, shoved the small newly-formed lump down the Englishman's back.

"Bloody—! You complete and utter sod!" Arthur was whacking his back in vain, as though it would help to get the snow out somehow, but only succeeded in spreading it. There was no way he was going to allow the Frenchman to get away with that. "Have a taste of your own damned medicine!" With that, he scraped up a portion of frost himself, much larger than the one he had actually been assaulted with, and launched it straight toward the Frenchman's face.

"My gorgeous hair!" Came a shocked cry; Francis was now trying to separate slush from his locks, and failing miserably. It didn't stop there. After each second, yet another ball would be thrown, putting his hair in an even worse state. Arthur, however, seemed to find this hilarious. Francis had now made it his life goal to return the mistreatment.

Artillery was simple enough to gather, it took no time at all for them to be evenly matched. Odd, the duo had actually seemed to forget that they were in the middle of a street full of onlookers; the majority being housewives who were giggling at the odd sight. To them, it was a hilarious titbit to gossip about with their neighbours, to the two rather immature gentlemen, however, it was war.

So, with a surprising air of seriousness (parted only by the occasional roaring burst of laughter), they continued the squabble, the bitter cold sinking its claws into their flesh with each flurry of snow sent toward the other. If it weren't for Arthur hiding a multitude of stones (and lord knows what else) inside the balls, perhaps Francis wouldn't have required an arm around him for support when all was said and done. The former was perfectly sure he hadn't thrown them all that hard, though wasn't about to pipe up, save to say: "I knew the French were spineless failures, but this is quite frankly on a whole new level. How is it possible for one to be this crippled after a meagre dose of fortified slush?"

"Your words cut into me, cher… Mon dieu, my beautiful face is going to get bruises all over…" Francis whined in mock-exasperation, positively clutching onto the Briton's side. One would have to be blind to say that this went unnoticed.

"Don't be so dramatic. You shouldn't have started it in the first place if you're too incompetent to follow through." Arthur had always quite fancied the cold. In this case, it helped to obscure whatever blush was on his face with the excuse that it was absolutely bloody freezing.

"The sympathy of the English… How would I live without it?" He quirked a half smile.

"I see you've managed to pick up sarcasm. Perhaps in a few decades you'll gain the ability to behave like a respectable human being as an alternate to a playboy reject."

Luckily, before the argument could get any farther, a pair of boots thudded into the snow behind before a well-placed 'glomp' was issued upon the two, who were almost knocked off their feet altogether.

"Sup, yah ho-ho-homos?" An energetic cry came from behind. Well, there went all chance of thanking this 'mysterious stranger' for causing Arthur to increase his hold (and spluttering like nobody's business in that cute way that only he could).

"You what? As if you're in any place to talk!"

"Dude, you guys were freakin' cuddling! I mean, I've heard a crap-ton of rumours, but there's no way I thought they were right!" That was a sure-fire way to aggravate the Briton: mention the many strands of gossip circulating around him and Francis.

"We most certainly were not! I simply wished to arrive back at the dormitory before anyone such as yourself arrived, if you must pry."

"Sure, whatever. You may as well've been givin' the guy a piggyback!" Now that actually sounded quite fun. Francis turned back expectantly to Arthur, and was appointed the next victim of his death glare.

"Forget it; this is precisely why I refuse to leave my accommodation. Have fun dragging poor Kiku around every burger joint in Britain." Despite himself (and all their expectations), he all but dragged himself, and Francis as a given, off and onward down the path (ignoring Alfred's cries of Hold up! all the while).

It really had been a while since Francis had last seen him this angry, lips taut and eyes burning ferociously. But lord, had he missed it (at least, when it wasn't him who was on the receiving end). There was something about the facial expression that just seemed so…compassionate. Not in the loving sense, of course, but as of late any emotion aside from indifference coupled with biting sarcasm had become rare. Even that had seemed forced. It was only a matter of time before they were forced back to generic lectures again, so why was he so distant? He would have to ask about that later, when he had regained what little warmth he lost to the snowball fight. Speaking of that, he still wasn't quite sure that all the snow had melted from its place down his clothes. He rummaged around with his free hand.

Instead of what he had expected (slush, slush and even more slush), his digits curled around something leafy. Grass, perhaps? He withdrew his hand. There, cupped between his index and middle finger, lay a small flower bud. A snowdrop. Had this been on purpose? Even if not, it was a sweet gesture all the same, too sweet to miss.

Perhaps if things had remained the same way, he would have ignored it, simply dismissed it as something to bring up in arguments where the Englishman would insist that he truly hated Francis' guts. However, what he saw next eliminated all possibility of that. In the hand that was clasped around Francis' forearm, almost unnoticeable, stuck out a small, viridescent stem, identical to the one he had found on his own person. Francis nudged Arthur lightly, holding up the flower with an inflated sense of pride. He had won. There was no way to get out of this one, and judging by Arthur's expression, he had reached the same conclusion.

But, as always, his victory was short-lived; if there was one thing Arthur knew how to do, it was to cover his tracks. It was funny, really, how well Francis knew him in the space of four months or so.

"Congratulations on locating a flower. Perhaps now your intellect has upgraded from an American's to a toddler's." He grumbled, increasing his pace monumentally. Now one was speed walking, and the other was taking ridiculously separated strides in a vain attempt to catch up.

"Cher, wait!" Miracle of all miracles, the Briton paused.

"What? If you think it holds any significance, then I take back my earlier statement." The remark had been biting, that much was correct, though he had not been enquiring about that. Instead, without another word, he gestured to the trees above them. There, upon the highest canopy of branches, lay a small bundle of mistletoe, intruding on the skyline as though it had been crassly slapped there by whatever god saw Francis' fantasies as some sort of divine blueprint to be exacted.

"No. I can tell what you're going to say, frog, and there's your response. It's long past Christmas."

"One for the new year, s'il vous plait?" His tone was hopeful, though not expecting much. Even so, despite the odds, he could at least put up a good fight.

"You're lucky enough to be graced with my company in the first place, wanker. Now tone the perversion down a notch and go." 'Graced with his company'? Hadn't Francis said something along those lines earlier? At least he wasn't the only one who had been infected with a trait or two from the other. Although, unfortunately, there was also another one he exhibited. Despite being utterly perfect at masking his emotions upon their first meeting, that hard exterior had been practically ripped from his very being. What Francis saw now was what Arthur had been hiding since as early as their first glance, in actuality. He did want it. He did want him. It was as if all of those words he had ready earlier, each adorably uncertain phrase, completely comprised his visage. What had seemed to be a fool's desire earlier to him, a simple false hope, was now very close to reality. But now, after countless dreams of what he would say, all those hours spent pondering how to say it, he managed to convey it all simply through that outrageously adorable expression of unease, uncertainty, and unknowingness as to whether or not the Frenchman would make a move. Which was just as well, really, as in place of all the words he had prepared, every by-the-book method of breaking it, only static remained. His mind was an utter mess, thoughts buzzing around, fleeting ideas that disappeared at the very touch before he had a chance to analyse them in depth. He was a wreck who was barely restraining himself, who needed to be let free. So that was what Francis did.

Taking his hands and planting a delicate kiss to those ripe lips, he set Arthur's yearnings free. With very gentle nip to the Englishman's bottom lip, every mingling breath they shared, Arthur came one step closer to feeling as though he may just melt away in the Frenchman's arms, if left to his own devices. Time seemed to have come to a stop altogether, as if there was no world outside of this moment, these feelings, and the one thought that kept circulating throughout the Briton's mind: that he was no longer alone. As ridiculous as it sounded, and there was some part of his mind that was screaming at him for thinking this way, it just felt so natural. What had previously seemed alien now felt roughly…normal. Not at all to undermine the experience, lord knows it was more than he was expecting and then some, but to realise that, at some level, he had come to the realisation that it was inevitable. No matter how he played it, whether he fought against it or was game from the get-go, this moment of overwhelming passion would remain. It was almost a shame on the Frenchman's part when they finally had to part, but more than worth it to see Arthur's face, flushed a deep scarlet. He looked so childlike, somehow, a more than welcome change from his usually uptight self.

"Should we go, cher?" He gazed into those deep, lush pools of olive, sweeping a few stray hairs that were obscuring his view.

"In theory, yes… That is, if you're still dead set on catching that ridiculous show." Any reciprocal gestures? None at all. Arthur tore the look apart by shooting a glance to the side instead. Well, what had Francis expected? Arthur was still Arthur, and he wouldn't change that for the world. Nodding, the Frenchman held a single one of Arthur's hands down the path, neither shied away. During their retreat inside, they spoke, they shared anecdotes, and so much more about themselves. The cold had suddenly become a lot easier to tolerate.

WE MADE IT GUYS. In case you missed it, this chapter comes with free cheese. Pretty much enough to solve world hunger. I apologise for that. X'D