Bentley: British car. Because in my wild imagination, Arthur either owns a Bentley, a Mini or a Volkswagen.

Quotes: I love you, Monthy Piton, Animaniacs, the Troll, The Killers, Oasis. I do love you.

Français – English:

Maintenant, où est la batterie? :Now, where's the battery?

Trouvée : found it!

Qu'est-ce que je vais dire maintenant? : What am I going to say now?

Touché: touched. When fencing, if you touch someone, you win one of the matches you're playing. To be touched therefore means: to lose against someone, to be cornered. To be f*cked up, in a more vulgar way.

Rien. Il n'a fait rien et tu as quand meme le courage de l'accuser si violemment? : Nothing. He did nothing to you and you still have the courage to accuse him so violently?

Ne te preoccupe pas, Arthur. Au moins, j'ai toutes les autres accrochées sur le mur de ma chambre! Je les regarde chaque soir avant de me coucher... : Don't worry, Arthur. At least, my wall is covered with the others. I look at them every night before sleeping.

Caisse-toi: Fuck you.

Tiny Butterflies

Maintenant, où est la batterie?. Francis thought on giving quick glances all around. In his hands he held the reassembled mobile, which one would've taken for just bought if it wasn't for the small scratches on its sides and black back. And the missing battery, of course. A sparkling label under the bed caught his attention. Trouvée! The thought hit his head as soon as his hand grabbed the missing item. Holding it like a precious treasure, he fast returned to his knees, staring at it challengingly.

"Sorry, but what do you think you're doing?" A slightly altered voice reached his ears. Merde!

"Er... Dusting?" He answered with an unsure smile on rocking his head slowly. From behind, Arthur could only see his golden-grain hair wave like the sea at sunshine. He wasn't angry, just curious. Bloody curious.

"With my mobile?" He cursed in his mind the light hint of annoyance enveloping his voice tone. He wasn't mad, just curious! Yet, what the Hell was he doing with his mobile?

Qu'est-ce que je vais dire, maintenant? "Hé bien, the screen was almost illegible, thanks to your stupid fingerprints."He shot back timidly, without the intention of being offensive. Yet, the other's voice sounded kind of bothered.

"Was it? I didn't notice..." He softly spoke before adding. "But why were you looking at the screen?"

Touché. His mouth opened to say something, then closed, then opened again. No reply came to his mind. Pourquoi étais-je-

"Anyway." Arthur slowly sighed, before collapsing back onto the mattress. "What time is it?" He couldn't care less, yet seeing how Francis glanced at his own watch instead of lighting up the screen made him sure his mobile hadn't been violated. He had a password for everything in there, which made it quite impossible to enter and wander around his private virtual space.

Hearing his much calmer tone and the low thud of his body curling into the sheets, Francis gained enough courage to eventually turn and gift him with his lucid slightly pink eyes. Mumbling something about being late, late for what?, Francis thought, but didn't dare asking, Arthur stood up and walked to the few things they had brought along.

"Shall we go? We have to leave before noon." Oh, right. Leave the rooms before 12 AM or you will have to pay for another day. Stupid hotel rules.

Francis unwillingly raised himself from the floor and reached for his jacket. And the pillow. Mon Dieu, how much he loved that pillow! All soft and comfy and brave! Hugging it close to his chest, he carried it outside the room under Arthur's mocking stare.

"How old are you, again?" His eyes enjoying the childish behaviour of his long-haired friend.

"Still too young for you!" Was the witty reply as Francis dashed to the lift. A small smile had his way on Arthur's face. Such a child...

In no time, they were out of the hotel and heading to the car. Francis' front was all crippled by small wrinkles of annoyance, but Arthur couldn't say a thing, not until they were into the vehicle. Francis' hand couldn't reach the handle, that an amused voice spoke behind him."The other way, darling."

He huffed on stomping towards the other side of Arthur's green Bentley. "You Brits and your stupid reversed cars."

"Our cars aren't reversed, we just drive to the left!" Arthur replied slightly crossed. How many times, how many did they argue about that?

"Which isn't right!" The Frenchman said in a slightly high-pitched tone of annoyance. His brows were still furrowed when he slammed the door closed.

Arthur snarled, glaring. "Would you please stop acting like a spoiled brat?" He shot almost angrily.

Francis looked at him incredulously, before pointing to the hotel entrance. "Did you realise in what way they were looking at us? Just look at me! I'm around with this stained over-fitting tee-shirt, this cigarette jeans, no shoes on my feet and I don't even dare imagining what my hair looks like! That was so embarassing!" He pathetically explained, before jumping to the side to watch outside the window. "And all thanks to you." He hissed coldly.

Those words. There was no hate in them, he knew it, only annoyance, but they hurt him anyway. Why did he have to be so mean, so careless? Why couldn't he just stop attaching so much importance to the others' twisted opinion? He snarled before concentrating on driving. Drama queen.

Rien. Il n'a rien fait et tu as quand même le courage de l'accuser si violemment? He chewed on his lips while watching the grey world outside. The noise of guilt buzzed in his ears like a bothersome bug. No matter how hard he tried to make it go away, it kept on flying near his ears with the same ceaseless monotonous buzz. The engine sang pretty much the same, trapped into the pitch darkness of the British car and the water still running out the manholes, the lampposts still glowing with yellowish light and the sky still covered with dark muddy clouds increased the heavy burden he already felt in his chest.

"Hein..." Francis called softly on slightly turning. "I'm sorry..." Like always. He added in his mind. Arthur sighed and glanced at him briefly. When the hold on the steering wheel became less tight, Francis understood he had been forgiven.

"By the way, I approve of your tee-shirt." The Englishman stated calmly, like they had been chatting friendly till that moment. It was always like that between them. Fortunately, they only had small quarrels, sometimes an argument, but never something so serious that would make them break apart.

Always... Let's say since they've been knowing each other better. At first, they just sent letters to each other, trying to keep in touch even if the Channel separated them like a water barrier. Fortunately, there was always someone who would translate the other's handwriting into a better-known language. An English speaking cousin for Francis, the owner of the restaurant, the cleaning lady at the hotel, the aunt of a friend for Arthur. They had promised each other to write their own replies without the help of no-one, yet that made them unreadable for the other. It wasn't school that taught them French and English, well, not only, but their wish of understanding the other's words and the need to create a much closer and intimate relationship, which got them to read and study harder than anyone else.

Yet, the time went by and so did their childhood. Their letters became increasingly serious and detailed, complicated and passionate, till they started adding photos to them. Actually, it was Francis who started. They had exchanged pictures, sometimes even taken some during summer, when they met either on the English coast or in the French countryside, but never too many. Yet, for some mysterious reason, one day Francis sent him one. He was sitting, or better, slouching, on a modern white sofa, the kind Arthur had always seen only in posters and advertisements, dressed with a sparkling light-violet suit and dark ebanon-coloured shoes. A Swiss metal watch on his wrist, a crimson red tie around his neck, a silken bow tying down his hair. His half-lidded blue globes glimmering for his imaginary awing audience, staring at him in wonder. A dream.

Arthur couldn't describe what he felt at first, just a strange electrical sensation running along his spine, making him shudder not so pleasurably. Arthur, are you okay? Alfred had innocently asked as he had seen his beloved brother slightly shaking. He had tried answering, but his dry and pasty mouth didn't manage to move. When he succeded in catching is breath again, he was shocked at the strange request of the other. He wanted a picture of him himself. Damn, stupid Frenchie and his stupid demands! Arthur thoght at first, remembering he had no photos of his current self. Knowing he had to take one, but having no idea how to take a photo of himself, he asked Alfred for advice. He might be little, he always said, but he is brilliant.

"Wait here." He said, before sneaking out of the room to disappear in the darkness of the corridor. Two hours later, he reappeared with a camera in his hands. "Ain't I awesome?" He kept on asking as Arthur stared at him in amazement and worry.

"Is it stolen? Alfred, if you stole it, I swear-"

"No, no!" The small boy reassured, kind of scared by the threatening note in his brother's voice. "A friend of mine will have his pictures developed in two days... He didn't manage to finish the whole spool and his mum would be mad if he wasted the last ones, so... I just asked him if we could use them."

Arthur eyed him seriously. "Did you give him money?" He inquired.

"What? No! No, no, I didn't!" Alfred was quick to move his hands in front of his chest and give excuses. Too quick.

"You're lying, aren't you?" Arthur then asked, sighing annoyed.

Alfred stopped and watched carefully, ready to run at every false movement. "...Maybe?" He replied in a rather unsure tone.

Arthur looked at the camera in his hands pensively. There is no other way, he thought. "How much?" He asked eventually.

"Well, five pounds. More or less." Alfred replied with the same quivering voice.

Five pounds for a couple of pictures? Arthur turned the black plastic object into his hands, then he reached for his wallet in his trousers and took the money out before handing it to the little blonde. "I guess there's no other solution."

Alfred smiled softly and took the camera in his hands along with the money, but as soon as he held it in front of his eye, a slight complain came. "I won't take a picture of you dressed like that!"

The English boy looked at himself in the reflection of the window. He was right. He didn't care if his yellowish shirt and his blue trousers weren't too fashionable, but the idea of giving a picture of him so cheap-looking bothered him. Of course, maybe he couldn't be as elegant and dreamy as his French friend, but at least he could try to be nicely simple and, well, clean.

"Go to the bathroom!" Alfred ordered like a true general. Arthur fast obeyed, as the voice coming from the shower cube sang the first lines of "Live Forever" by Oasis. With a few small steps, Alfred reached the envelope and read the letter. Without success. French was still a foreign language to him, even though he had spent every summer with the golden-haired boy's family, which had made him somewhat able to speak it, but reading it... Gosh, what were all those strange words? Yet, the picture behind to the side caught his attention.

His eyes sucked in every detail, even if an odd inner feeling crept into his body as well. It was a sort of violent admiration and light jealousy, but his mind couldn't decode it. I that was the guy who made his big brother happy, he needed to know nothing more. Yet, a strange bitterness invaded his mouth, as soon as he remembered the times Arthur had left him to go and write a new letter. He just swallowed and put the photo down.

"Alfred..." Arthur started timidly, as he reappeared from the bathroom.

"He's... nice." Alfred replied casually, before turning with a fake brilliant smile on his face. "I'll get you some clothes!" And dashed to the wardrobe.

Arthur followed him with his gaze on walking towards his bed. "Yeah...Nice." Was his soft murmur on giving the picture a second look. He was a lot calmer now, yet the weird sensation wouldn't leave him. And it didn't. Francis sent him other pictures, understanding Arthur's impossibility to gift him with the same kindness once he had found the humility to explain his poor condition to the other. Ne te préoccupe pas, Arthur. Au moins, j'ai toutes les autres accrochées sur le mur de ma chambre! Je les regarde chaque soir avant de me coucher...He had replied sweetly. I look at them every night before sleeping... Did he really do? Arthur couldn't say. Yet, the pictures he had been given were well-hidden under his mattress and kept like precious treasures.

That weird sensation of butterflies flying in his stomach never left, it just slowly turned into annoyance and bother every time Francis would write something about his love affairs. He couldn't understand why he suddenly felt the need to read those pink lines that made him sick, when he perfectly knew he could just skip them. An insane curiosity that craved to know more about the far-away boy's life munched his insides. It wasn't jealousy of him, just... he didn't like the idea of sharing Francis with someone other. He was somewhat afraid that if he had found his Special Someone, then he would have turned his back to him, leaving him behind in the dark dust of his non-existent life. After reading those letters, he often found himself in the bathroom, staring at the giant oval mirror, asking his own reflection angry questions. Why ain't I like him? His messy hair, his bushy eyebrows, his white scrawny body. He hated everything about it and about himself, but, above all, he hated that feeling of impotence on hearing the other's perfect life.

He didn't hide it. His sarcastic remarks and subtle replies described pretty well his offended feelings. Yet, Francis didn't care. Actually, he cared, but Arthur's possessiveness amused him. He found that he strangely enjoyed teasing him, adding more details than necessary to their conversations. It was true that he flirted with lots of girls, but it did so only for the sake of Romanticism. He would never date them for more than a month, as he felt there was something missing in all of them, something essential, something he strangely found only in that weird English boy. It was true that he used to have his pictures hanging on the walls and that he stared at them every evening, sometimes even pretending to be talking to the real Arthur, imagining him by his side. Having him there always calmed him when he felt troubled and filled him up with glee when he woke up tired. He never told him he had to take them off. He was just honouring a friend, he repeated his parents, but the way they whispered worriedly to each other, looking at him with disapproving eyes made him decide otherwise. Their opinion, their suspects and the sense of mistrust towards him forced him to hang his pictures on the inside of his wardrobe's door, so he could say hello to Arthur first in the morning. This cherished him to no end and filled him with joy, almost as much as he could feel in his heart when he received another envelope.

Their strange correspondence kept on for years, even after Alfred's departure, till Francis announced his wedding. Arthur was the first to know and the first to cry. That small French girl he had found wasn't too bad. A neat blonde with big blue eyes and a warrior attitude. Strong-willed, single-minded, a perfect housewife. Arthur couldn't bring himself to like her. Or to like the idea Francis would belong forever to another one, either. But he had to pretend he was, faking a smile anytime he was invied to their house, as she made Francis happy. Yes, she made him happy.

"Of course I am French! Why do you zink I have zis OUTRAGEOUS accent?" Francis snarled after reading the print on his tee-shirt. "Caisse-toi, Arthur." He said rather offended, turning again to the window. "At any rate, yours isn't better." He replied after a few seconds. The offended tone in his voice had turned to a much more amused one and also his expression was now calmer and more childish.

"Drink Tea – Be Splendid." Arthur responded without even glancing at it. "I will surely follow the advice once at home!" He added with a challenging smirk.

Francis' small smile reappeared. No matter what, he always knew how to make him fell better. "Music?" He asked, already moving to turn on the radio.

"Let the anvils ring!" Arthur replied, not stopping the other. The voice of the DJ soon entered the car, announcing the next hit. "... And now, for the pleasure of your ears, The Killers!"

"Oh! Don't change, don't change! This song is amazing!" The Englishman said expectantly, not noticing the wider smile on the other's face. The guitar had already started playing, when Francis rethorically asked "And who's going to change?" His singing voice invited Arthur to join the choir. "I'm coming out of my cage~"

"And I've been doing JUST FINE~" Arthur answered melodiously, adding a certain strength to the last two words, as to emphasize them. "Gotta gotta be down, because I want it all!" They both sang along perfectly.

"It started out with a kiss~" Francis continued with glee, the bright smile now not leaving his face.

"How did it end up like this?" Arthur kept on never losing the thread, his pads tapping the steering weel like an added instrument, now that the atmosphere had turned cosier and warmer. Whispering, they both softly intoned.

"It was only a kiss... It was only a kiss."

End Ch.9

Thank you for wishing ^^. Your desires will be granted as soon as possible. Now, this chapter needed revising, as it used to suck hard. It still does, but less. The next wishes will be available once Life stops being a sly bitch.

Some people asked for explications. If you're interested, keep on reading.

So, how old are they? Well, let's put it this way. 1) They've been knowing for 20 years, more or less. Then, they must be older than 20. 2)They met before seriously studying French and English and, since I'm 18, my personal experience says once you started learning foreign languages at 8/9 (21 years ago, you would start learning one of them at 14, if you were lucky.) That means that when they met, they were more or less 8/9. That means that at the time of the story, they are 28/29. 3) They finished University, then they are older than 25; Francis is older, but he finished the same year. Either he failed a year, had a gap year or He-knows-what. You'll know. Maybe. 4)They got married, widowed and divorced. So, they probably married once school was over (or in the meanwhile, during Summer. Love is blind and doesn't care about calendars and school.). Engagement: 5 years? Marriage: 2-3 years. Divorce: Consensual: more or less 2-3 years separation then divorce. Depression: Being still recovering, she died more or less 3-4 years before. 29-3= 26. 26-2= 24. 24-5= 19. He met her when he was 18, got engaged when he was 19, married her when he was 24, lost her when he was 26. Arthur's life is still to discover, yet I imagine him 1 year younger, while Alfred is 3 years younger than Arthur anf 4 years younger than Francis. That means that at the time they met he was more or less 6.

That means the characters are currently: Francis: 29 y.o. ; Arthur: 28 y.o. ; Alfred (not appearing, but still): 25 y.o.

Time setting: Guys, I got my first PC when I was 10 and till 13 Internet was an unknown place for me. Do you really think they wrote e-mails when they were young? I prefer thinking they did like children (like this old one) once did to keep in touch with their far-way friends: they wrote each other letters.

I do hope this satisfied your curiosity. ^^