I HAD TO START RL U GAIZ LIEK WHAT IS WITH THAT. D:

However, that's not the reason why this chapter is so short (though I am sorry about that); don't worry, I already have a reservoir of writing stored up. Never fear, the other chapters will be nearly, longer or just as long as their counterparts, and I promise we won't be slowing down anytime soon.

This chapter is actually unusual in more than one way. First, the length (I apologize again), and second, I use a slightly different format, primarily because it takes place over a week. This style shouldn't appear in any other chapters…I don't think. Also, Alfred and Arthur never exchange a word. WHAT. WHAT IS THIS, I DON'T EVEN…

Well anyways.

In Brief: A tour of the le cité de amour, Elizaveta lays the foundations of her plot, and Arthur gets a surprise.

Um…

Uh…

WHAT, IT SEEMS THIS IS ALL I HAVE TO SAY. D:

HOW CAN THIS BE?

Enjoy. xD

Saturday

They barely arrived at the terminal on time, and Alfred smiled when he imagined how furious Arthur would have been, admittedly with all of them but most especially with him, for forgetting important things like packing underwear and setting alarms and for absolutely having to stop for a sausage McMuffin and a coffee before being able to really function, and then for lining up to board the plane, just in the nick of time, and then promptly remembering that he had indeed drunk the entire aforementioned coffee and hadn't yet seen the men's room.

But alas, there was nobody standing at his side railing at him in a thick British accent that only got thicker with anger, nobody furrowing his brows disapprovingly or sneering, nobody challenging him or ignoring him in favor of running their hands distractedly through their already haphazard hair as a method of expressing their frustration.

Despite this noticeable absence, they somehow successfully boarded the plane, sitting three to a row, Elizaveta between Francis and Alfred. Francis immediately began flipping through the in-flight entertainment options, Elizaveta immersed herself in a tabloid, and Alfred opened his chocolate bar and tried to concentrate on his French phrasebook. A few people in the seats around them had noticed his and Elizaveta's presence and in response to their poorly-concealed whispering Alfred flashed them a brief grin, though it faded slightly when he thought of how Arthur would have rolled his lovely cynic's eyes at foolish antics of all the silly people in the world.

They took off and Francis soon struck up a conversation with the stewardess, in French of course, and had her blushing and giggling in a matter of minutes. Elizaveta, rolling her eyes at his behavior, eventually tucked her tabloid away and transitioned to a romance novel written in Hungarian. A quick glance at the cover revealed two strapping, shirtless young men beaming at each other, but Alfred figured that his first thoughts must be mistaken - surely it was a novel dealing with a love triangle, or something or other, and that explained the two boys on the cover. He shrugged to himself, tried to ignore the attention he was drawing from the other passengers, and made a genuine effort at memorizing a few snippets of general French conversation before he laid the book down resignedly and put his seat back. He sorely missed the distraction he usually made of Arthur and thought that the flight was going to seem very long; he might as well sleep most of it away.

Sunday

Elizaveta knew things when she saw them.

It was early morning on the other side of the Atlantic, and dawn was just trickling in through the gaps in the shades of the airplane windows, though it penetrated neither the murk of the unlit cabin nor the occasional glow of the overhead reading lamps. At her right, Francis was still fast asleep, breathing deeply and evenly, but Alfred had his cheek rested on the flat of his fist and was flipping absentmindedly through his French phrasebook, no doubt absorbing nothing of the language.

Oh, but he was a handsome boy; Elizaveta was thoroughly away of this, and the soft artificial yellow of the reading lamp above certainly him did him justice, accentuating the strong bones of his cheek and jaw while preserving the air of gentleness, almost child-like, that there was to his face. He had only woken a few minutes before her and his eyes were deeper blue and lidded with tiredness, so much that his lashes almost brushed his cheek and cast long shadows below the frames of his glasses. His full mouth was open slightly, perhaps whispering the words to himself, and there was the faintest suggestion of stubble at his chin.

He was devastating. Elizaveta knew that she wasn't the only one to have noticed this. The tabloids had. The newspapers had. Hollywood had. America itself had, of course - nobody could ignore what they all knew in their hearts to be their final glimpse of the gleaming golden glory they had lost.

And, Elizaveta had realized as of late, somebody else, somebody infinitely harder to convince than any magazine or city or nation, and infinitely more deserving of such a treasure, had noticed, too.

Indeed, it seemed that Alfred F. Jones was truly irresistible.

Something had to be done.

Fortunately, Elizaveta knew exactly what.

She sat up completely in her seat, pushing her hair to one side of her neck before leaning over and tapping Alfred on the shoulder. He shut his book and met her gaze with a smile.

Oh, this was going to be perfect.

"Alfred," she smirked, laying a hand on his arm. "Have I ever got a proposition for you…"

Monday

For all the tales of her beauty, Alfred might have thought that Paris would be cleaner. When he remarked on this to Francis, however, he was met with enormous offense and a rant that shifted furiously between French and English, embellished here and there with excessive gestures of the hands that expanded far too widely for the breadth of their taxi. It took reassurances from both Alfred and Elizaveta that the filthy banks of the Seine were the most lovely they had ever seen to return Francis to a brooding silence.

Admittedly, their hotel was rather fantastic, a veritable palace of lofty ceilings and arching doorways and glittering golden ornaments reflecting off gleaming floors. Flowers filled elegant vases and bright bowls of fruit adorned every table; heavy curtains hung from the windows, pooling on the floors in puddles of lace and tulle.

"I feel like Marie Antoinette," Elizaveta had remarked as her baggage was whisked away by a pair of dapper busboys.

"My dear girl," Francis had drawled in reply. "Bite your tongue."

After being warned away from the temptingly overstocked mini-bar, Alfred entertained himself by flipping mournfully through and eventually, victimized by jet lag, falling asleep in front of the extensive room service menu.

He woke to Francis' calling him to dinner and blindly followed him and Elizaveta out onto the Paris streets and towards an intimate little bistro, where they discovered that the paparazzi had already overtaken their footsteps. Their dinner conversation was synchronized with camera flashes.

After the meal, Elizaveta positively gloated over her café au lait.

The first phase of her plan was in motion.

Tuesday

Although Alfred would definitely maintain his previous statement regarding the surprising filthiness of Paris in the daytime, in the evening he would readily admit that the city transformed to the extent where she became almost unrecognizable, the brittle off-white structure of her streets and buildings thrumming with a sudden pulse, abruptly blooming to life with people and culture and light in a way that reminded Alfred vaguely of the Los Angeles he had known as a boy. Her plazas and restaurants sparkled with conversation and laughter, the Seine turned golden with the reflections of the lights from the streetlamps, her parks and byways filled with the whispers of hands and clothing and sweet nothings and the cinemas, well…they positively glowed with a culture and an enthusiasm that Alfred had never before seen and now willed to flood his mind, to fill him with the knowledge that elsewhere the passion that he and Francis and Elizaveta and, most of all, Arthur, pursued went unsullied and unforgotten.

He had sorely missed Arthur then as he watched the people dart in and out of the cinema, listening to their voices lilting thrillingly in a language he now wished he could understand, and imagined how happy he would have been, even though he may not have shown it, to see that his love was still shared by so many.

But of course, Alfred had chided himself, Arthur was probably already fully aware of this. It was only America, after all, who had allowed this industry to fall so far, only America who had watched as her grand cinematic empire crumpled beneath its own extravagance. People still went to the movies, of course, but not for the sake of art or character or even mere physical beauty; instead they sought cheap thrills from behind pairs of disposable 3D glasses. America's age of culture was over, her age of economic prowess was ending, and this could possibly, Alfred thought, explain his own popularity.

When he had expressed a few of these considerations to Francis, he had received a slight nod and a questioning glance, accompanied by an arch of the eyebrows.

"Well, Alfred, mon cher, Paris has been around for many years and has seen many things – beauty, decadence, fame and infamy, blood - especially regarding the arrival of the notorious woman known as La Guillotine. All these are embedded, never to be forgotten, in her streets, her river, her people, the very foundations on which she stands," he sighed and put a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "This is true of every city in Europe. Tell me, Alfred, what has Los Angeles seen that compares?"

"Well…I suppose, to be honest…in comparison, nothing."

"And there, your explanation. Power comes and goes," murmured Francis. "But little can shake what is ancient. Europe may not always know such passing things as wealth or strength, but she will always know culture and people; those are the two foundations on which she is built, and the two foundations which will never crumble, come what may. You Americans have long since forgotten your European heritage, indeed, you are your own selves now…but still you exist without definition. Perhaps, Alfred, when this fault is remedied, your country will find peace."

"Peace," Alfred had murmured as a reply, watching a young couple emerge, laughing, from the cinema. "I can imagine that would be nice."

Wednesday

Together Alfred and Elizaveta waltzed across the Seine, her costume calling for a crimson silk scarf that trailed behind them in the wind, and they were so ensnared in the thrill of the city and their dialogue that they delivered their lines as though they truly were the characters Arthur had so carefully crafted. They grinned with true laughter as they scampered through the Le Jardin des Tuileries, expressed unaffected awe as they darted around La Louvre with the film crew in hot pursuit,were chased for a while through the winding cobblestone alleyways of the old city, and chattered their lines away in front of the fruit venders and the patisseries, concluding with a kiss transformed into a kaleidoscope by the stained glass of Notre Dame.

Once the cameras were stilled, Francis sprung clapping from his director's chair and they broke apart, grinning with the exhilaration of a performance that they both knew to have been one of the finest of their careers.

"Magnifique, magnifique, mes chers," crowed Francis, accepting Elizaveta's embrace. "I hadn't known you two were capable of such raw, natural emotion! You simply must make sure that you can manage this again; Arthur will be positively beside himself with pride."

Francis caught sight of Alfred's slightly faded smile and smirked.

"Not to worry, my dear boy, you have done him justice enough with your performance today." He clapped Alfred on the shoulder. "Au bout, with work, this film will prove to be worth more than any travel agency could ever dream to offer him. It is merely up to us to realize this work, to bring it to its full potential as he had planned it, and we will have paid him back tenfold."

Elizaveta smiled reassuringly. "Arthur's stubborn and exacting, but he honestly believes in us, and he'll let us know when we've finally done right by him, of that you can be sure."

"You guys make it sound like he's the director or something," murmured Alfred, but he smiled tentatively nevertheless, a strange sense of pride blooming in his chest.

"Ah, but Alfred," Francis winked at him. "You said so yourself, in Antonio's office - Arthur may not be the director, but he is the man who is truly important. It is Arthur who truly loves the work, and therefore it is Arthur who, in the very beginning when there is nothing more than the whisper of an idea, structures that idea so that we may love it as he does, and so that we may bring it to life as he would do," Francis paused, squeezing Alfred's shoulder gently. "And in that sense, mon cher, it is Arthur who is the true director of us all."

Thursday

Nearly a week had passed and Arthur had since come to three conclusions.

Firstly, he had chosen to deduce that unuttered syllable, that one little word that Gilbert had stolen away from him by dragging Alfred back into the throes of the party, as being what the context would imply.

From there, he had examined some of Alfred's previous statements in their conversation, and had since decided not to think about those anymore because even mere half-formed inklings as to what they could possibly entail regarding himself and Alfred left his heart beating too quickly and his mind filled with hopes too dangerous to possibly dream of sustaining.

Whence his third dilemma emerged: could one really call the feeling that those ideas left thrumming fitfully in his chest hope? Arthur wasn't sure, in truth he wasn't sure of anything much; not if he was hoping at all, not of what exactly he was hoping for even if that was the case, in fact, he was fairly doubtful that there was reason to hope in the first place. All that he was really sure of was that he was immensely grateful that Alfred was still in Paris, because really, these three conclusions that he was ever so very proud of didn't resemble conclusions terribly much at all.

Friday

Arthur was still very confused and desperately needed a drink.

Francis called his final sous-titre on the streets of Paris.

Alfred allowed himself to drink himself silly; he would sleep the hangover away on the plane tomorrow.

Elizaveta helped him and Francis back to the hotel. The alcohol in their breath alone was enough to leave her faintly tipsy, but nonetheless she stayed up far into the small hours of the night, enthroned in her hotel room, gazing down at their faces laminated across the pages of the latest French tabloid and positively glowing with the thrill of conquest.

She had executed her plan to perfection. It was a good thing that boy was so easy to convince; now all she had to do was relax and enjoy the spectacle of the explosion that would undoubtedly occur when the bomb she had so carefully planted was detonated, though she had to admit to herself, feeling faintly guilty regarding this one particular fetish of hers, that she would enjoy what would most definitely emerge from the resulting wreckage infinitely more.

Saturday

Arthur grudgingly went in to work upon Gilbert's request despite the fact that he hadn't been to World Series Entertainment all week and that it was Saturday, which he generally took off anyways. He took the elevator up to the top floor and knocked tentatively on the door of the office; when he was met with neither a shouted conversation in something garbled between Spanish and Italian, nor the thud of heavy metal music, he gently turned the knob; the door opened and he found Gilbert asleep on the office couch, several of his chicks nestled in the various nooks and crannies of his body, snoozing or chirping quietly.

With a faint sigh, Arthur went over and shook Gilbert by the shoulder, though it was not this that woke him but rather the complaints of the chick who had been previously asleep in the crook of his neck. In any case, he sprung awake and had to catch the thing in his hands to avoid crushing it.

"Jesus, Arthur!" he cried after returning the chick to the rug. "Be more careful, I could have seriously hurt him!"

Arthur raised his eyebrows as Gilbert began delicately extracting chicks from their assorted locations across his body.

"You wanted to see me, Gilbert?"

"Dude, this isn't even funny, what if I had sat on him or something? He'd be like, totally dead, and that would not be awesome, man," he shook his head to emphasis his point. "Not awesome at all."

"Really, Gilbert," said Arthur tiredly. "It's Saturday, what do you need?"

Having returned all the chicks to their communal cage and drawn the curtain, Gilbert returned to his couch and crossed one leg over the other, tapping his knee.

"What, Arthur, I can't ask you to work just to hang out?"

Arthur blinked.

"Just to…Gilbert, you're my boss."

"I'm aware."

"Then what..?"

"So, um, dude…how close are you and Elizaveta exactly?"

Arthur suppressed a sigh. Ah.

"Very; she's one of my dearest friends and I love her as such, of course," he quirked a brow at Gilbert's expression. "But if you're worried about our being too close, so to speak, don't. I promise, that's about as likely to happen as - "

"Dude, chill. I saw you with that other guy at that party Antonio and I had a couple months ago, so trust me, that's not what I'm talking about." Arthur turned faintly pink. He hadn't been aware that anyone had remembered that particular occasion; in fact at the time he had been so drunk that his own recollections were a little vague. Gilbert smirked at his expression. "I was actually wondering if you perhaps had any…information, so to speak."

"Information."

"Yes."

"Say, Gilbert, did you notice when we took a time machine back to grade school? It all just happened so fast that I'm afraid my memory fails me."

Gilbert looked genuinely perplexed.

"…what, dude?"

Arthur sighed exasperatedly. "We are not in kindergarten and I am absolutely not ferrying gossip between you two! You are both adults, Gilbert, so if you have some sort of infatuation with her then tell her so yourself and get your answer that way, because while you may have sunk to this level of immaturity I will most certainly not permit you to pull me down as well!"

"But Roderich -"

"Acts like the adult he is and approaches her on his own, without, you'll notice, needing somebody to hold his sodding hand!"

"You gotta understand, man, I've never had any competition before!"

"Well, you could have had her then but you never spoke up!"

"Well that's kind of hard, isn't it?" Gilbert ran his hair through his hair in frustration. "Especially with a girl as strong as Elizaveta! She's not about to fall for any cheap tricks."

"Are you saying that's all you have to offer her?"

"Of course not! I'm fucking awesome! But he's so…so…I dunno, smart." Realizing that he was hardly strengthening his case, Gilbert immediately launched into a stream of synonyms and explanations. "I mean, he's refined and intellectual and reads big books and knows every single damn composer there is to know, not to mention he has every single one of their works memorized, and he's also pretty handsome, though admittedly not as smokin' as I am but Elizaveta's not all about the looks anyways, and he also speaks German, which by the way is so the sexiest language ever, so I don't really have any leverage there, and he's like a fucking brilliant composer, you said so yourself, and has won lots of awards and shit while all I have to my name are my notorious parties and all those suspicions that Antonio and I are fuck buddies or something which is so not true! because he has Romano to stick it in and I'm straight anyways so yeah! You gotta help me, dude. I mean, come on. I am like, your boss."

Arthur weighed his options for a moment, tapping his foot sharply against the floor.

"I'm not a girl, you know," he said eventually. "It's not as if she and I have sleepovers all the time and make bloody cucumber masks while we do each other's hair and tell each other all our secrets."

"But dude, you're gay," Gilbert put his hands together in supplication. "You know how girls are with their gay boy toys, you must know something!"

"First of all, I hope you have at least some idea of how offensive you're being, especially considering that you are far closer to being rendered a boy toy by Elizavetathan I, and besides, Francis, as we all know, is gay as well; what makes you think she tells these things to me instead of him?"

"Even I know not to tell Francis anything that has to do with amour, as he would say."

Arthur had to chuckle at this.

"Touché." He sighed resignedly, and Gilbert's expression brightened. "Alright, alright, it's possible that I might tell you something, but only under the correct circumstances."

"Would the circumstance of over drinks suffice?"

Arthur smirked; some people knew him too well.

"I suppose that will have to do."

Strangely enough, by the time Gilbert was slurring over the counter, Arthur was not terribly drunk; in fact, he had scarcely reached the bottom of his first glass of gin by the time Gilbert had already drained away half of his third Long Island iced tea and had an arm slung around his shoulders, at times leaning over to clink the rims of their glasses together for no apparent reason at all.

"Dude, y'like…y'gotta understand it" he was drawling. "…she's so fucking hot…I mean, have you seen her rack? It's like…astronomical!"

Arthur sighed and selected a peanut from the bowl on the counter. The taste reminded him that this was the same bar to which he had come with Alfred after his altercation with Antonio, and he felt a little blood seep into his cheeks despite himself. Unhappy to be reminded of his current confusion, he stood up from the bar and excused himself to the restroom, promptly going to the sink and turning on the faucet to splash cold water on his face.

The stream was lukewarm and coppery and stung his eyes where he was clumsy, but Arthur felt refreshed nonetheless and braced his arms against the rim of the sink to examine himself in the blotched surface of the mirror.

The dark circles beneath his eyes and his overall paleness, which persisted despite the flush in his cheeks, brought on both by his washing and the feeling that he hadn't yet defined as hope that thudded in his stomach, were both relatively constant presences, but there was a fresh line between his brows that no amount of relaxation seemed to be able to remove. When Arthur even went so far as to attempt to smooth the crease with his fingers his eyebrows drew back together again the moment he released the pressure. This caused the corners of his mouth to pull down further than usual and he tried to neutralize his expression with little success. His eyes were heavy with the tiredness generated by his restless nights spent writing or reading and by what little alcohol he had drunk, but still there was a certain change, a not very pronounced but steady brightness, in their depths that Arthur found to be somewhat unfamiliar. He blinked, lifted his hand to his face, and watched the already high color in his cheeks turn darker as he considered what could have possibly brought this on.

Arthur was still extremely confused but now at least one thing was certain. His impression of Alfred F. Jones could no longer be described with words and phrases such as annoyed or exasperated or grudgingly fond, indeed now it could not even be described as platonic. Arthur frowned but admitted to himself that this was oddly fitting; Alfred was always torturing him with word games, after all, from original constructions involving the idiom bro to his little shenanigans regarding the interpretation of Arthur's script and finally to that elusive little syllable, the loss of which, admittedly, could not be faulted to Alfred but rather to the man whom Arthur had left at the bar, and to whom, he thought with a sigh, he should probably be returning.

After he had washed and dried his face one last time in the hopes of banishing some of the flush in his cheeks then promptly making this attempt obsolete by patting his face once or twice in an effort to compose himself, he left the restroom, turned back towards the bar, and halted very suddenly.

Gilbert was no longer alone at the bar. He seemed to be conversing very intently with another man, one hand resting on his shoulder as they both bent over their foolishly proportioned drinks. These facts in themselves were not particularly alarming, but rather it was when Gilbert leant back with a peal of drunken laughter and revealed the face of his companion that Arthur had to stop and steady himself on the nearest table.

They didn't seem to be on the verge of a brawl despite the subject of their conversation. Perhaps this could be explained by that Roderich really was too refined for such things, but Arthur doubted it – more likely the alcohol was the greatest contributor to their roaring laughter and slurred banter. It was amazing that Roderich was already so drunk; he must have come in either the moment after Arthur had left for the bathroom or been lurking in some corner of the bar for quite some time in order to reach such a pinnacle of intoxication.

"N-no Gilbert," he was saying as Arthur cautiously approached. "There's no reason for you to be insecure, that's r-ridiculous…you say so yourself, you're awesome, on top of being young, and cool and crazy, and not to mention rather," a burp. "Rather affluent. What could she find to fault in you?"

"Duuuude," groaned Gilbert. "You know she's not that into money, man, 'Liza's no gold-digger! A-an' besides, you've like…you've like…got class, y'know what I mean, dude? Chicks dig fucking class, you know what I'm saying, man?"

Roderich nodded almost mournfully and Gilbert took this as encouragement.

"You're like…all fucking learned an' stuff and you can play music and chicks dig music man, but not heavy metal, no they don' dig that, lemme tell you…but the piano, oh man. Just like…a scale makes them cream, basically…" He tried to take another sip of his drink and seemed confused to find the glass empty. "H-hey, s'all gone…tell me, wuzzat about man, 'cause it's not awesome, not awesome at all," he glanced up, presumably in search of a refill, but his eyes found Arthur instead. "Arthur!" he shouted joyfully. "Back from jackin' yourself off thinkin' about our little golden boy 'n ready to join the fiesta again, eh?"

"See," explained Roderich while Arthur stuttered at Gilbert to keep his voice down, his cheeks flaming a magnificent shade of red. "It's when you use Spanish words like fiesta or whatever that people think you let Antonio stick it in you! You gotta stop doin' that, Gil, you really gotta! After that," he drained his glass. "I can assure you all your problems will be solved."

Ignoring Roderich, Gilbert slapped Arthur on the back and gave him a lopsided grin that left him coughing with the reek of sugared alcohol.

"C'mon, Artie, don't worry, there's no need to hide what you've been doin'! Everybody here's cool," he was still shouting. "N'besides, you're like, transparent, dude…we all…" A hiccup. "We all know 'bout your lil' thing for…for..." Thankfully, Gilbert then proceeded to slip into German, tapping his index finger against Arthur's chest with a drunken smirk while Roderich listened attentively.

Arthur received a questioning glance from the bartender as their conversation began to escalate, flitting between long streams of German, occasional incoherent bursts of English, and once an explosion of Spanish from Gilbert, and decided that it would be best that they flee the scene. Hooking Gilbert's arm across his shoulders and hoping that Roderich could cope with walking on his own, Arthur managed to herd them from the bar and into the alleyway, where Gilbert promptly vomited in a trashcan while Roderich pawed at his hair in some form of effort at holding it back.

"I love you, man," said Gilbert when he was recovered. "And no matter whom she chooses, that…" He grinned ridiculously as Roderich bent to add his offering to the trashcan but otherwise continued undeterred. "…that will never change. We're brothers, man…brothers."

When he had wiped his mouth on his sleeve and straightened up again, Roderich nodded and extended his hand to Gilbert.

"For the love of Elizaveta."

Gilbert nodded, still rather unsteady on his feet, and accepted the hand offered.

"Mm, yeah, for the love of 'Lizaveta."

Arthur sighed and thought that he was still insufficiently drunk.

Despite his best efforts at returning Roderich and Gilbert to their homes as quickly as possible, the latter insisted that they stop by a pet store to purchase more chicken feed, because they were nearly out and it was Feliciano's day off. Arthur might have liked to remind them that it also happened to be Arthur's day off, but refrained on the grounds that otherwise Gilbert may attempt to navigate the local Petco without assistance, with likely catastrophic consequences. Roderich, full of understanding for Gilbert's duties as a father, was all behind this decision, and so Arthur was left with no other option but to do his best to disguise the miserable state of his companions as they browsed the aisles in search of the very specific formula Gilbert's children, as he insisted they be called, required.

Finally, after a seemingly endless search and a handful of drunken arguments, often in German, between Roderich and Gilbert, they uncovered the brand which was apparently so necessary and headed towards the checkout. Thrilled by their conquest, Gilbert and Roderich charged ahead into the line of customers, wielding their wallets like children who just receiving their allowance. Arthur reacted quickly and deftly snatched Gilbert's wallet from his hand, stealing his credit card and banishing the two to browsing the tabloid racks while he dealt with their purchase.

He was just thanking the cashier when Gilbert barreled straight into him, his breathing ragged, clutching a magazine in his fist. Roderich came from not far behind, and it took a good deal of effort to calm them both down to the point where they could form coherent sentences.

"Y-you've really gotta see this, Arthur!" panted Gilbert, brandishing the tabloid in front of Arthur's face while Roderich moaned something about someone having clearly already made their choice. After having apologized to the other customers and drawn the two over to the side, Arthur frowned heavily and pushed Gilbert's hand back a little so that he could focus on the headline.

Arthur blinked.

America's Newest Golden Couple Gets Acquainted with the Streets of Paris

This had been printed in chubby yellow letters, below which was an enlarged snapshot featuring two very familiar faces, or their jawbones and the backs of their heads, at least; in fact very little of their actual expressions could be seen, something which could probably be attributed to the fact that Alfred had turned his head to the side in order to deepen the kiss and Elizaveta had her hands cupped about his face.

Arthur blinked again. To the side of the primary photograph were a few other snapshots, featuring the glittering couple parading down the Parisian avenues hand in hand, lounging on park benches and laughing together, leaning towards each other across tables at intimate bistros, even feeding each other, all without a camera or a crew member in sight. Arthur never caught a glimpse of the crimson scarf he had specified for Elizaveta's character to wear during the Paris sequence. This was clearly neither forged nor filmed.

There was nothing to be misheard or misconstrued, no syllables lacking from this sentence. It was complete, it was undeniable, indisputable, it stood before Arthur's eyes and if he could be sure of nothing else he could at least be sure that this was exceptionally real.

What's that you say? Where is this bar that allows people to get so raving drunk at such hours of the day? Don't ask me; all I know is what the plot calls for, the plot will receive, haha. xD

SPEAKING OF PLOT, I KNOW I'M BEING CRUEL RIGHT HERE. First I give you guys a short chapter, and now this cliffhanger…I am terribly sorry, you must forgive me. Perhaps with the next chapter, in which Alfred arrives back in LA to find that he has some 'splainin to do (to put it lightly), I will make it up to you.

Let's see…

If anyone doesn't know already, when Elizaveta comments that she feels like Marie Antoinette, Francis tells her to bite her tongue because dear little Queen Marie was something of the villainess of the French Revolution, at least in the eyes of the common people (who were forced to watch her wallow in decadence while they starved in the fields, so this is perhaps understandable). I love the French Revolution, you guys. It's so interesting. Speaking of interesting, the most famous line ever attributed to Marie, "Let them eat cake," referring to all that bothersome ruckus those peasants were making outside her palace, was never actually spoken by her, if at all. Honestly, she didn't care enough about the common people to even mention them in passing, and the thought of noticing their antics would have never crossed her mind. This was likely one of the greatest contributors to her eventual death at the hands of La Guillotine, the notorious instrument of the Reign of Terror, to which I refer as a woman in direct tribute to Charles Dickens and his classic novel A Tale of Two Cities, which I originally read for the FrUk (the two cities mentioned in the title are London and Paris) and enjoyed so much that I'm going to write a crossover eventually, you know, take a moment to make old Charles roll around in his grave a bit in disgust. It'll give him something to do.

Yes. I love you, Charles. *blows kiss*

Reviewers should review because I'm back in school and trying to take five classes (because I'm a super-nerd and actually want to take two levels of Spanish at once) when I should really only be taking four and that just frankly sucks.

NEXT CHAPTER NEXT WEEK! It's be super long and super full of super stuff that I can't tell you about yet because that would just ruin the SUPER suspense, wouldn't it?

Until then!