"A name pronounced is the recognition of the individual to whom it belongs. He who can pronounce my name aright, he can call me, and is entitled to my love and service."

Henry David Thoreau

"So, is everything all right, France?"

His head of state's question shook the blonde nation from his trance, making him jerk in his armchair lined in fine leather.

"What..? Oh, yes, yes, everything's all right." He mumbled, bringing to his lips the coffee grounds left in his cup, around which he had intertwined his fingers, trying to instinctively draw its warmth.

He made a grimace swallowing the now cold coffee, and he answered with a smile to his leader's irked expression, sitting in front of him beyond the elegant table upon which there were two little decorated plates, a silver sugar bowl and a folder with some documents in it.

Their sight made him try to remember which freaky political plan were they talking about, and after coming to realization that it was just the same thing over and over (as in: the reason why they were in London), he added, knowing that agreeing with them was always the best way to make people forget any impoliteness, "You're right, of course."

"My head feels dizzy, I think I'll go out for a walk. We have lots of time before the meeting with the Prime Minister, anyway."

The blond stood up, barely noticing his boss' permission (as if he needed it), and with two steps he got out of that private room the luxurious hotel that hosted them offered.

Without giving himself the time to think, to mull over, he went down the stairs almost running and he crossed the hall at a fast pace, attracting that way the receptionist's attention.

"Mister Bonnefoy, right? Are you going out? Would you like for me to call a taxi?" She offered, proving the hotel's standards by remembering the name of his distinguishable guest.

"No, thank you miss. I think I'll go by foot." He made her blush by giving her one of his shining smiles (one of those he could summon without effort), and he headed towards the busy London streets, when he met Ireland, who was just getting into the building.

"'ello Francis! How are you? Would you like have a drink with me?" The young redhead greeted him, waving his hand.

"I'm sorry but I can't, I'm going out. Maybe another day?" He managed to replay to the other with another hurried (stretched) smile, and he rushed toward the street, just to avoid being stopped again, discovering that it wasn't even all that crowded.

He slowed his pace, breathing deeply that cold, humid, ashes-like air, thinking that it tasted so much like him.

"François!"

The yell made him stay still, overwhelmed by hope – after all, there shouldn't be many French in London – and slowly he turned to his left, discovering to be in front of a small café.

And on the threshold, making wide gesture to draw him, there was Arthur Kirkland.

"Get in, idiot! It's too cold to stay out to skip work!"

And as he took the English's hand and was driven to his table, François smiled.

And, not giving a damn about being in public, he hugged him, kissing those lips who had just gained one more time his eternal faithfulness.