Hello, my dear readers! It's been a while but here is the next chapter containing a very thoughtful Francois and a very grumpy Arthur. :) Thank you so,so,so,so,so much for all your nice reviews, they made me just ridiculously happy, thanks a lot!
And now, enjoy!

Chapter 6

"This is your fault," Arthur groans and puts his head in his hands. "It is always your fault. Fucking hell, my head explodes."

"It is certainly not my fault that you drank too much- again- and stumbled into my flat like a wild boar- again- just to complain about Scott," Francois says a little sharper than intended, but then, he hasn't had his second cup of coffee and his second cigarette on this day yet and so he adds with all the sharpness he can muster, "Again."

"Oh, just bloody shut up, will ye?" Arthur snaps and looks through his fingers with one angry, green eye. "I won't ever drink again," He moans the next moment and buries his face into Francois's newest scarf, which has lain on the table since yesterday.

Francois sighs because they both know it's not true and says moodily, "No, you will and we both know you will and now stop whining and face the consequences, you're not a little boy anymore, you cannot come running and hide underneath my skirt whenever you're in trouble anymore, Poisson!"

"There are no consequences to face," Arthur grumbles out of the depths of Francois's scarf.

"Yes, there are." He folds his arms and stares out of the window. Paris seems to be a little less bright than usual today, its colors dimmed, almost as if they were hiding away from daylight. Alfred has not come today or at least he is one hour overdue. He wonders if this is really Arthur's fault and then decides that yes, it is, because it is always Arthur's fault. "You shied away my model!" He exclaims and turns around in a dramatic movement; Arthur rolls his eyes.

"You'll find another one, stop being such a sissy."

"But I want this one," Francois says more fiercely than originally intended and pauses for a moment because as much as he hates to admit it, theoretically Arthur is right. He knows he is talented, painfully so, and he allows himself to take pride in it because he deserves it. It is fact that he is one of the most famous artists in Paris and people would murder to pose for him; it wouldn't be difficult to find someone else if he wanted someone else. It probably wouldn't even be difficult to find someone who looks similar to Alfred, with broad shoulders and blonde hair that glistens golden in the sunlight falling through the windows of his atelier. Paris gives those who look at the right place without any difficulties. However, he doesn't want anybody else; he wants Alfred, Alfred with his too-wide smile, Alfred with his clear blue eyes in which he can always, always recognize the dark swirls of a rough past. It fascinates him.

There are not many people that fascinate him nowadays.

Arthur, who has known him for years and years and years- and seriously, when has he stopped being a cute little boy looking like an angry caterpillar and hiding underneath Francois' wide clothes?-, watches him with intent eyes. He is not stupid (even though he is British); he sees more than Francois wants him to see, sees even more than there ever was, ghosts and fairies and lost what-could-be-s. Francois wonders what Arthur could have become if he didn't drop out of school, screwing college and getting pierced instead, wandering around on the streets with his guitar in his hand and a cigarette dangling between his lips, not giving a fuck about a world that doesn't care for him.

"I see," Arthur says slowly, green eyes glinting and his six earrings jingling when he turns his head aside lightly. He looks like a demon and Francois wonders how people can bury their beloved ones with the help of the Kirkland family business when one of the Kirkland brothers looks like a delinquent, one has absolutely no talent in consoling people, the third looks like an illegal minor and the two other members are hardly ever there. "You love him?"

"I do not," Francois says, but the words stick strangely to his throat and he needs to almost force them out and even then they linger on his tongue and make him afraid because oh, he loved once, loved in the real way, the painful way. It was the kind of burning love that weakened better men than him and when it was over, when he was called that dull, grey morning, ages ago, when they told him what had happened to her, the only things that remained were unspeakable grief and ashes.

(He has pulled himself together because he always has pulled himself together and the world didn't stop moving just because he suffered from an incredible loss. He has pulled himself together with Monique's help and his own strength but he thinks that there are certain things he will never do or see like he did or saw them….before.)

There are times Francois just feels incredibly exhausted. He sits down beside Arthur and stares at his fingernails for a moment. The surprise he feels is high when Arthur slowly, hesitantly places a hand on his elbow, just the barest of touches but way gentler than Arthur usually is, especially towards Francois. Being nice to each other has never been their strongest skill; they bite at each other like cat and dog, they know where it hurts and most of the time, both of them don't mind pressing greedy fingers into bleeding wounds. However, there are certain things that are never used as insults, come what may, and Arthur knows, probably better than most of the other people Francois knows, what it means to suffer from love and loss. Arthur is irritated and uncomprehending and angry towards other people; he snaps and barks and lashes out whenever he can. He doesn't believe in friendliness and in the depth of his heart he also doesn't believe he deserves it; he doesn't expect consolation and pity and he is so very bad at expressing those things to others even though he is a sensible person deep in his soul.

"Just stop moping," Arthur says and Francois appreciates the way he has with words, how careful and sensually he wields them and how much he goes into the feelings of those around him. Not. "Moping won't bring ye anywhere. Just get up your lazy French arse and tell him I….apologize for the way I behaved last night. It is not nice to call somebody a whore."

"Oh, but he is," Francois says and grins a little because he by all means can enjoy the biting irony and Arthur's humiliation. "At least he is a prostitute. We met in a club and well, I liked how he looked and we ended up in a hotel and then I asked him if he let me draw him."

"Oh bloody hell," Arthur mutters and for a moment there is a look of unusual horror on his face. It disappears only seconds later and gets replaced by a distinct scowl. "Whatever. Since when do you have to sleep with professionals anyways? Did the other people finally realize that they're sleeping with a stinky, smelly, bearded frog?"

"Don't be childish, Poisson, there is no need to be so jealous of my popularity," Francois replies smoothly and already feels better. "It was not nice of you to insult Alfred. And I can sleep with whomever I want. Alfred may work as a prostitute, but that doesn't make him less of a human than you are, Arthur I-hate-everybody-cannot-cook-and-have-absolutely-no-taste-of-fashion Kirkland."

"At least my bones don't creak like those of an old man whenever I move," Arthur grumbles and gets up, pulling out a silver cigarette case and a lighter from his right boot when he does so. He still wears the pirate costume in which he stumbled into Francois's flat the night before and it is crinkled and dishevelled now. He looks thoroughly amusing and Francois's mood improves considerably when he realizes that Arthur will have to walk through the town like this. It seems as if Arthur realized the same thing because the Brit only groans and lights a cigarette with what is left of his dignity.

"Where are you going?" Francois asks him because he honestly is interested. He never has not been interested in Arthur's life; he has felt a lot of different things about Arthur and not all of them have been positive, not at all, but disinterest has never been part of it.

Arthur just shrugs his shoulders. "Back," He says with a thin smile. "Scott's an idiot, but he is my idiot. There is something…off when—" He interrupts himself and coughs lightly before taking a long drag of his cigarette; he has never learnt to talk about feelings properly when he is sober. Maybe this is the reason why he gets drunk so often, maybe he is only fleeing from something Francois cannot understand; Francois will never know because he will never ask and it is just alright this way. There are many unsaid, unshared things between them and it is alright. "Anyways. Go find yourself one of those long-legged models made of plastic and have a nice shag, maybe that'll light up your mood. You're ugly when you're moping."
"I'm beautiful when I suffer because I am always beautiful," Francois replies with a dramatic sigh and an elegant flip of his hair. Arthur only scoffs and mutters something Francois can't understand before leaving the flat, shutting the door with a loud bang.

Francois stares at his wall for a long time after Arthur is gone. He smokes. He thinks of what he is willing to do and he thinks of an unfinished drawing in the drawer of his night table and of how fleeting luck is and how eternal and differently shaped love can be. He thinks of what things make heroes to heroes and cowards to cowards and decides that no French man should behave like a coward.

It doesn't take him long to get dressed and leave the flat with a very distinct aim in mind after that thought.