A shooting star streaked across the sky, landing unseen somewhere beyond the horizon.

I wish it was summer.

Francis Bonnefoy was standing out on the balcony of his high rise apartment, staring out at the twinkling lights of Paris. He exhaled steam and smoke, a cigarette firmly held between the index and middle fingers of his right hand.

The thought of warm summer breezes and dancing fireflies made him heave a wistful sigh. His own city was so different from his breezy imagination, every flat surface nor touched by human hands glittering with a perfect layer of snow. The weather forecast called for another little blizzard, yet the endless expanse of stars set in a black velvet sky was perfectly visible. Well, perhaps not perfect; most of the stars were dimmed by the shining city…

Francis found himself wishing everyone would just turn out the lights.

He took another drag of his cigarette, lighting tapping it against the frozen railing to rid it of the ashes. The people hurrying by on the maze of streets below looked like ants from where he was standing… His eyes followed the trail of smoke drifting from his mouth, watching it turn and twist in the frigid air until it dissolved into nothingness. Non, they weren't far enough to be ants. Maybe like doll… Oui, that was it. The citizens of his nation looks to him like perfect little porcelain dolls, all controlled by some unseen puppet master.

Despite all of the people walking below, Francis felt lonely.

Although he supposed he should be proud of his city, world renowned for art, fine cuisine, and beautiful people, but tonight he just couldn't work up the feeling. The night seemed to kill any sense of happiness or contentment within him, as frost beheads flowers in its path of unstoppable winter/ Honestly, Francis had no idea what exactly he had to be proud of, to brag about. Sure, having a carefree, luxurious culture was nice, but what about his past?

All throughout history he had shown himself to be a bloody coward over and over again. The only thing he had that he really should be proud of 100 Years War, where he had regained control of the top half of his country. But at what cost? Joan of Arc, the only women he had ever loved, was burned at stake before his very eyes. After her death, everything seemed to get worse and worse… He had surrendered countless times, had more revolutions than he really cared to name, and he didn't even want to mention the Napoleonic era…

One failure after another, throughout all of history.

Francis shook his head, trying to rid himself of such dark thoughts.

Non, I'm strong! he reassured himself, just like he always did when the thoughts returned. But the words seemed hollow, meaningless to his ears. The painful memories stayed, continuing to taint his mind with poison.

Francis pulled the jacket tighter around him, as if heat would kill the diseased thoughts.

The city continued to shine like an array of perfect diamonds beneath him, mocking his dour mood. Sometimes, the Parisian considered launching himself over the ledge, to feel the air rush past him, lovingly brushing his skin as he rushed to crash to the-

"Francis, get the hell back inside. Are you trying to freeze yourself to death?"

The Frenchman suddenly smiled, turning to see Arthur standing in the doorway being him, dressed in blue silk pajamas and crossing his arms with fake irritation. His eyes caressed the emerald eyes, the gently tanned skin, the lithe form until the Englishman blushed.

"And is that a cigarette you're holding?"

"Non."

"Didn't I tell you to get rid of them? It's a filthy habit."

"And I said I would get rid of them tomorrow. This is the last night, I promise."

But Francis obligingly dropped the cigarette, grounding it into nothingness with the heel of his boot. (It was mostly ash by now, anyway.) Arthur nodded in approval, reaching out to the Frenchman.

"Good. Now come inside. I just made some hot chocolate."

"Did you burn it again?"

"No, I most certainly did not! And for the record, that only happened once!"

"Twice, if I remember correctly. "

"Either you drink it or I'll pour it on your damned froggy throat.

"So I'll die of food poisoning either way, oui?"

Francis smiled, taking Arthur's hand and allowing him to lead the way back inside, to the warmth and light.

"Je t'aime, Arthur."

"Yeah yeah, back at you, Frog."

His dark thoughts could rest for another day.

Right now, all he wanted to do was bask in the glow of his lover.