It was a bright and beautiful morning. Francis awoke to birdsong and warm scents wafting from the kitchen. The night before, the little frog had been laid to rest in a bedside drawer, on a tiny satin pillow miniaturized for his use by Arthur's magic. And now he was to be served breakfast as well, how wonderful! For Francis so esteemed a gracious host, he set all the Englishman's faults aside and swore to begin anew.

Arthur was, Francis imagined, a lovely fellow. So what if he was a horrid drunk? Now that he was sober, he would bustle in with apologies, pert bottom sashaying and green eyes glinting with mirth. That clever mouth most foul would turn coquettish, and they would flirt over tea and crumpets.

It was then that Arthur entered, and Francis turned to greet his host with glorious "Good~ Mor—"

"—tar! Have you seen my mortar? No? Never mind." Arthur rummaged through the closets for all of five seconds before seeming to come to an epiphany, whereupon he scurried away again.

Meanwhile, the warm scent that had been upon the air turned sour, then fetid. Francis' curiosity - his very morbid curiosity - got the best of him, and he hopped out into the living room. The scent was emanating from somewhere across the room and through another doorway, as were clinking and clanging sounds presumably caused by Arthur's search for a mortar.

Francis had not known Arthur for long. As such, he really had no idea what he was jumping into as he poked his little green head into what was decidedly not a kitchen. Oh, no, it was not a kitchen at all! It was a mad laboratory. A cauldron bubbled merrily in the center, potions hissed and spurted, and eyeballs floated in jars on the shelves lining the walls.

Said eyeballs turned their disembodied gaze to Francis just as Arthur did.

"Oh, good. You're here."

"Good morning, Arthur," Francis said. He was secretly proud that the waver in his voice was barely noticeable.

"Yes, yes, good morning. Now dip your legs into this vial."

"It's... Arthur, that slime looks like it has a face."

"It doesn't."

"No, no, that is clearly a mouth," Francis insisted. He warily eyed the tube that Arthur was holding, and confirmed once more that the oozy creature within was either trying to speak to him or was overly eager to dine on frog legs.

If Francis could have one dying wish (and if the oozy creature had good taste), he would like to be lightly sauteed with garlic butter and herbs. Cuisses de grenouille aux fines herbes. Mmm... A wonderful dish that, having experienced life as a frog, Francis would never be able to eat again. He could, however, become it.

"Come on, we don't have all day." Arthur impatiently motioned toward the bubbling death-trap.

"And you're sure this won't kill me?"

"You'll be fine, now get in!" Having grown tired of Francis' dawdling, Arthur took it upon himself to dunk the frog into the vile substance.

"Hey! Ouch! Be gentle on me during my first time, would you?" Francis would have screamed, but it felt... surprisingly nice. Tingly.

He was also enjoying the annoyed look on Arthur's face at his choice of words. That look was even better when he started pretending to moan.

-oOo-

Many days passed in this manner.

"Are we there yet?"

"Shut up."

"Now are we there yet?"

"Look, these rituals take weeks to prepare, all right?"

"All right, all right..." Francis lifted his webbed hands in defeat.

Weeks. Weeks trapped in this rotting house with Bushy-Brows. Would he make it out alive? Would Arthur's eyebrows meet the same cauldron-fate as that poor newt? Why was a sacrificial newt even a necessary ingredient to turn a frog back into a man? Newts were cousins to frogs. Francis had grown attached to that newt and was sad to see it go. They'd breakfasted together, and the newt, whom Francis had taken to calling Newton, had even shared his fizzing potion-bath.

Alas, Newton had left this world. How cold and callous Arthur was! The wizard hadn't even spared poor Newton a look before tossing the little creature into his latest brew...

Living with Arthur wasn't bad, per se. It just didn't sit well with Francis to be indebted to someone he barely knew. What would Arthur want, he wondered, when the spell was broken? What would he demand in return for this favor? (He was, also, slightly wary of the types of magical punishments Arthur could mete out if Francis were to annoy him overly much. This, however, was not enough to keep the frog from testing the boundaries.)

Although Francis sometimes liked to pretend to be a flippant and empty-headed, this act had become a shield of sorts. His kingdom was quite peaceful, but no court could ever be entirely free from the scheming of the power-hungry. He'd learned fencing in order to discourage those who tried to kidnap him and hold him for ransom; he'd studied others' reactions in order to manipulate them with his charm before they could do the same to him. This was how he'd been taught a prince should behave.

From a very young age, Francis had learned to watch his back. It was just that sometimes he didn't succeed, like now. He was currently watching Arthur's back, because the man was really very sexy when he bent down to pick more books from the pile littered at his feet.

Ah, yes. The erudite ones were always the hottest.

-oOo-

Many more days passed in this manner, until one day there was a knock at the door.

Francis, sitting in his daily bath of tingly potions, shifted to get a better look. This was a rare occasion, for Arthur was not normally the type to receive guests. The house was out of the way, and it had been twelve days since Francis had seen Arthur interact with anyone besides himself. Prince Francis couldn't fathom a life where no one came to speak with him! A life where his only friends were 1) an egotistical drunkard who was a few clucks short of a cuckoo, and 2) a talking frog. (That is, if Arthur did indeed consider Francis a friend in the way that Francis had come to consider Arthur.) And yet that was the life that Arthur lived.

Arthur opened the door to reveal a comely young woman. She smiled pleasantly and said, "Hello, Arthur. Gilbert has been bothering Roderich again. I'm sure you understand how unpleasant it is when there is a giant albino leech attached to your husband."

"So? What is it you want from me?"

"A leech, please."

Arthur, his lips quirked up in faint amusement, waved his guest inside while he went to fetch the leech. The lovely lady took a seat next to Francis' cauldron, which had been moved to the living room. She primly crossed her legs at the ankles and proceeded to fail at not sneaking glances at the frog-swimming-in-a-cauldron-on-the-coffee-table.

To make things slightly less awkward, Francis struck up a conversation. "Bonjour, fair maiden," he began.

The lady gasped, but recovered admirably, and she introduced herself as Elizaveta. They got to talking, and Elizaveta voiced her concerns when she heard his tale.

"How strange," she said, "that Arthur would try to cure you, for I have heard of this curse, or perhaps a similar one, and it is said that only true love's kiss may break it."

Before she could say more, Arthur returned with her monstrous leech squirming in a glass bowl. The lady Elizaveta smiled sweetly, by which I mean deviously, and curtseyed before she left. Her words, however, simmered within Francis until he could no longer ignore them; could no longer make excuses for Arthur under the guise of friendship.

"Arthur, why have you not told me of true love's kiss?"

"Where did you hear that from?" Arthur sneered at the mention. He had forgotten his previous drunken dismissal of the subject.

"The lovely Elizaveta has told me the cure for my condition is but a simple kiss. Has this any truth?"

"Legends only, I assure you. There's no such thing as— as true love. Hmph. What rubbish."

Francis, being a hopeless romantic, was loathe to brush off any sort of love as merely rubbish, and the more contemptuously Arthur waved off the subject, the more adamant the prince grew in his belief that love would conquer all in the end. "Legends, yes," he conceded, "but surely there must be some truth to them!"

"What is true is that certain... kisses... have been documented as the cure for various transformative curses, but they're nothing more than fairy tales. What should I have told you, then? To go out into the wild to seek your fortune? To quest for this supposed true love of yours that mightn't even exist? You've come to me for help," he said, pointing an accusing finger the frog's way, "and I cannot in good conscience send a patient to his demise, especially not in such a weakened state! Or do you think I have no morals at all! Or do you think your slimy froggy self is in any condition to go a-questing! Bollocks! Rubbish! Utter madness! You seek the Lady Death as your mistress, to- Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Arthur, who had begun gesturing wildly in the latter part of his tirade against love, bitterness dripping from his every word, didn't notice that Francis had slipped out of the cauldron until the frog was halfway to the door. Francis, upon hearing Arthur's footsteps coming nearer, bravely raised his tiny fist.

"To find a princess!" he said. "She will kiss me better."

"You're bloody insane! Haven't you've heard a word I've said? It's dangerous out there; what if you get eaten or stomped on or skewered by another unicorn?"

"Mais oui, that is a risk a man must take for love!"

"You— Fro— Francis, come back here! I'll reverse the magic, all right? We're already halfway through; we might as well stick it out to the end."

"The end of what? My life? I'm not you, Arthur. I can't stay locked up here forever."

Francis continued hopping for the still-open door. His goal in sight, the days of endless cauldron-baths behind him, fresh air and adventure, and... a powerful gust of wind shutting the door in his face.

"Oh. What an... unforseen setback. Would you mind opening the door for me, most gracious Sir Kirkland?"

Arthur shot the frog a dirty look. He strode over to the door, but made no move to open it. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and continued sizing up his ungrateful amphibious guest.

"You're a pain," Arthur finally said. He deftly plucked Francis off the ground and plopped him back into the cauldron.


-[extra]-

"Your guest earlier..."

"Elizaveta? She's Gilbert's ex-girlfriend."

"Really. I thought she implied that this Gilbert had an infatuation with her husband."

"Roderich? He's Gilbert's ex-boyfriend."

"...Both of them?"

Arthur nodded his assent. "Yes, both of them."

And that, children, is why you should be kind to Uncle Gilbert even if he is an egotistical drunkard, for he has been horribly abused in the arena of love and is really just a lonely man deep inside.