Three weeks later

Across the Atlantic

Arthur hated the beach. He hated the weak breezes, the humid winds and the bitter gales; the irritating sand, the piercing shingles and the wet mud; the clear skies that allowed the sun to fully burn, the promise of gloomy rain which made the sand even worse and the distinct chill of winter which made him wonder who would even go to a beach in winter. The Briton could keep a good count of how many times he'd been to a beach, and that so far was five times, not one of which he enjoyed in the slightest. His least favourite was Brighton beach, because it just had so many people. He preferred his own space, not being thrown about in the midst of strangers stripped down to bikinis and trunks. He didn't like the stones near the end of the beach either. Who in their right mind would enjoy walking on rocks and sharp shells?

The frown settled on his face threatened to turn into a full-on grimace. Not only was he situated a beach, which was bad enough, but he was also beginning to feel the effects of the Blackpool sun. Arthur thought it nice that the English weather could give up the rain for a day, but he wasn't at all pleased that it had to be today. His usually pale alabaster skin was sporting an obscene tell-tale burnt colour.

It was all that damn Frog's fault.

Arthur looked beside him to the Frog in question, glaring at his cool demeanour and skin that hadn't even caught a tan yet. He had been dragged out here by Francis, after he insisted on going somewhere other than deeper into London for a holiday and instead choosing Blackpool of all places. He looked content enough, Arthur decided, leaning against the steps with a relaxed expression, still typically dressed up fashionably but nevertheless looking a lot less cooked than Arthur himself was. Arthur would much rather have been in his apartment, curled up on the sofa with a good, long book and cup of tea, listening to the rain patter on the window. Yes, that seemed like the perfect concept of a good day.

"If I happen to catch cancer after this, I hope you know that I'm making you pay for my medication and needs." Arthur muttered.

Francis' lazy stupor broke as an amused smile spread across his annoyingly French face. "Arthur, you never cease to find an error in all things. Can't you just lay back and enjoy?"

"I find that difficult to do, seeing as I'm catching a rather unfair tan."

"Stop complaining, mon cheri."

"No."

Arthur rose to his feet, uncomfortably shifting about in his clothes, sweat and sand clinging in a way that made him want to jump in an ice cold bath. He reached down and swiped Francis' sunglasses from his face, placing them on his own and walking back up the steps the way they came down. Francis, muttering a complaint in French, got up and quickly scurried after him.

For a few minutes they stood bickering at the top of the steps about going back to their hotel or not, to which Arthur soon ignored and opted on walking down the shorter pier, past the little funfair and leaning over the wooden rails. Francis had paced back down to the beach, now wading out in the water to his knees. Arthur watched him with a fixed scowl, wondering if he could throw the sunglasses and hit him square in the face, before the man in question of being hit in the face abruptly turned towards Arthur, waving something about in his hands. He called out to him inaudibly, so Arthur shook his head and motioned him to come back.

When he came back, legs dripping wet, he'd gave Arthur an empty bottle.

Arthur inwardly groaned as he peeled off a tiny strand of seaweed from the Cola bottle, shaking droplets of water from it and unscrewing the lid, muttering when the stickiness of the drying salt water settled on his hands. He retrieved a rolled up piece of paper from inside, which he opened and gave a once over.

'My brother used to say when we were kids that if you ever threw a bottle out to sea, then whoever picked it up and read it would be your soul mate. Kinda silly, right? And yet here I am trying it.'

The Englishman glanced at the bottom of the paper at a number. He was stunned to silence for a few moments until Francis waved a hand in front of his face.

"Arthur, êtes-vous d'accord?" he asked, eyeing the paper.

Arthur's eyes snapped up to his. "Of course, Frog."

Francis smirked. "You never told me to speak English."

"Speak English."

"Too late!"

"At least I can understand your goddamned language because I've been forced to listen to it for so long!"

"That means you're admitting you know French."

"No-"

"Come on, we should go back now. Dépêchez-vous!"

"Don't tell me to hurry up!"

"You did it again!"

"Shut up!"All the way back to their hotel, Arthur and Francis never halted their arguing and insulting and teasing. Despite himself, Arthur found that he couldn't pull his mind away from the message in the bottle. He had kept it, shoving it into his pocket when Francis was not looking. He did not know if would call the number or not. He would decide when he returned to his room, away from the Frog.

Even so, what would he say? He had never believed in some rubbish about soul mates, though he was borderline superstitious in some situations.

However, a tiny part of him wanted very much to pick up a phone and call to see who was his destined soul mate. But that was childish.