"Good day, Francis. Wish I could say it were good to see you."

Francis smirked, "Oh, but it is good to see you, mon cher."

Arthur-a stoic Londoner particularly blessed in the eyebrow department, and with an upper lip so stiff it would put the soldiers outside Buckingham Palace to shame-was Francis's manager and publicist. Francis was always thankful to see the man whom he owed his career to, however chill he may be. Besides, Francis had an eye for reading people, and knew deep down Arthur indeed felt the same way, and thankful for him as well.

Arthur turned sharply, and Francis took in his surroundings. People bustled about, taking down garlands and greenery, lights and glistening stars. He paused, bewildered. It couldn't be.

"Arthur, what is today?"

"Why, it's New Year's Eve, you git."

Francis cleared his throat. He knew that, yes, it was nearing the winter solstice, but when on Earth did he let Christmas pass without a hint of recognition? He never knew it was possible to let the thought of Christmas out of your head, even if you weren't going to be celebrating it with anyone. But obviously it was. He hardly even seemed to recognize the change of season. Had he lost his artist's eye for detail?

Francis looked up at the lights and exhaled slowly. "Réveillez-vous appel..."

Arthur turned back at him with a nasty glare, emerald eyes burning like acid. "What in blazes are you dawdling at? You act as though you've never seen Christmas decorations before! What are you, some awful American redneck who leaves his Christmas lights on all year round?"

Francis shook his head, and had to smile a bit at the analogy. "I just...was wondering where we are to get breakfast. If it is a holiday, what restaurants are open?

Arthur then smiled and looked at innocent as an angel. "Why, my place of course."

Francis blinked. "Mon dieu..." He whispered softly as he followed the other man into a cab.

-x-

"No no, Arthur, please!" Francis pushed the blond out of the way of the toaster. The Brit was such a horrendous cook he had somehow began to burn toast.

Of course, Arthur pushed Francis back. "You bag of bullocks! I am perfectly capable of making toast!"

Francis then easily picked up the small blond (who pouted like a child) and placed him beside the fridge. "Obviously not, mon ami. Set about some drinks. You can at least make tea...oui?"

Arthur dusted himself off, embarrassed of being thrown and picked up like a rag doll. "You will not speak that god-forsaken language in my house." He muttered before taking a fine teapot out of a china cabinet.

Francis snickered. He was truly enjoying the awful company.

He stood aside as he let Arthur once again take over the kitchen, watching his teapot carefully before it whistled with the screech of steam. Francis preferred a nice red wine at this time of morning, but was too kind to say so. Plus, he assumed Arthur knew this, as long as they'd worked together. He just respected him enough to let him make his beloved tea.

Arthur took the pot off of the range, and Francis got out two teacups from his fine china. He wasn't sure why he was using this kind of tableware for a breakfast. Was it simply because it was a holiday? Francis thought. What if he was trying to fire him in the most polite way possible? Had everything really gotten away from him that much?

"Hey, twit, sit those blasted cups down. This pot is still hot through these mits you know." Francis set the cups down and sighed. He normally would've made a comment about the Englishman's rather feminine taste in oven mits, (along with his matching apron, of course) but was too worried about his own sanity to do so.

With a simple breakfast of toast and a few strips of bacon set in contradiction with such fine china, Francis took a seat. "This is very kind of you, Arthur. Merci."

Arthur nodded wordlessly.

Francis twirled the bacon in his fingers nervously. He figured that if he were to be fired, he wanted it done quickly and painlessly. "Though it's a bit out of character for you to invite me to breakfast without a previous engagement."

Arthur thoughtfully sipped his tea in response.

Francis looked up at the blond, blue eyes all business and his voice to the point. "Why am I here, Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur sat his teacup down and blinked at the Frenchman. Whenever he had first hired the artist fresh out of college, he had made it a point to always refer to him as Mr. Kirkland, or boss, but never were they friends, never would there be a first name basis. But eventually, after Francis had learned his name and various nicknames, Arthur got tired of telling him the same thing repeatedly.

And, really, he had grown quite fond of the lad.

Arthur cleared his throat, and began. "There is indeed a matter that I felt we needed to chat about."

Francis listened, blue eyes wide and nervous. "Well..?"

Arthur sighed. "I've gotten many questions as to when you will be productive again. I can't continue selling prints of the same artwork forever, Francis."

The artist closed his eyes and sighed. "I know, my apologies..." He was truly a bit happy to hear that his older work was still selling in prints, but he knew that his manager was right, and what was about to be said.

"Francis...this is serious. Your last major accomplishment was years ago. And since then you've only given me paintings and sketches of such repetitive things. It's as if you have lost your creativity. I never thought that could happen." The Brit sighed, then swallowed his pride and added. "You showed so much promise."

Francis watched him. "I...I haven't had much inspiration lately. Art takes a lot of time, but then it lasts forever." He tried to smile reassuringly.

Arthur pierced him with his acidic eyes again. "I don't have much time, Francis. I'm beginning to look at other universities and establishments for new artists to grant funding to. Do you know how many art majors dream of being funded by Arthur Kirkland? Published and managed by such prestige?"

Francis nodded once more. He couldn't believe it himself when he got Arthur's call a decade ago.

Arthur picked up his teacup again. "I've found a young artist with almost as much promise as you held."

Francis looked up at the Brit, now in curiosity. "Who?"

Arthur drummed his fingertips against the table. "That's the thing. I can only recognize his or her work. It's as if they want to be kept anonymous, or simply are so unknown their name can't be researched."

Francis took a bite of the burnt toast, hid his disgusted face, and took a quick drink of Earl Grey. "Th-Then how are you aware the work is of the same artist?" He sputtered.

Arthur didn't catch his discomfort, and pulled out a folder. He took out some photographs of a mural, then two of other paintings. He pointed to a spot of red on the mural. "No matter what, the artist adds a red maple leaf, whether it makes sense in the setting of the work or not." He then pulled out a magnifying glass and held it up to the other paintings, finding the leaf once again.

Francis leaned over the table to get a closer look. "The maple artist?" He had to chuckle at the nickname he just came up with. But then examined the photographs once more. He cocked his head to the side. Even in the small photograph, he could see the blends of color and detail. He felt as though he needed to find the original artwork and observe it himself.

Arthur glanced up at Francis. "You seem interested."

Francis touched the photograph. "Arthur...what if I could find the artist?"

Arthur shook his head. "You don't need to be chasing after some other artist if you have work to do yourself, git. You're about to lose your job as it is."

The Frenchman gritted his teeth, then looked up at Arthur with the most solemn, sincere expression he could muster. "Arthur, s'il vous plait...I feel as if I need to. Keep me until I can at least find you the artist you mean to presume to replace me with."

Arthur glared at him, think eyebrows making him look even more annoyed with the man's incessant pleading.

Francis cleared his throat, and took Arthur's hands. He gazed into the Brit's eyes through long eyelashes and tucked a stray hair behind Arthur's ear. "You know...I owe my career to you, mon cher. You're the reason I am here. You could say you're my life. I can't see you throw that away without at least repaying you first." Francis smiled, hoping he still could find the charm he had in college.

Arthur still glared, but a light blush dusted his cheeks. He shoved the Frenchman away.

"F-Fine. You have a week, you pathetic sod. Now cheerio. Get out of here before I change my mind."

Francis beamed and jumped across the table again, kissing the Englishman on both cheeks in pure bliss, something he hadn't truly felt in a while.

He scrambled toward the door. "Merci, mon cher! I will not let you down~" He winked, and strode merrily out the door.

His employer, manager, and publicist rubbed his temples. "Bloody hell, what in Queen Elizabeth's name have I done..?"