That one time that Arthur drunk-vlogged.

"He was the best friend I ever had!" Arthur sobbed into his arms.

Francis patted him on the back sympathetically, if a little exasperated. "Arthur, calm down. Jasper's still alive."

"No! No he's not! You're just telling me pretty lies!" the man slurred. "He's not here! I can't find him anywhere!"

"Arthur . . . he's not here because we're in a bar right now."

". . .wha?" Arthur looked up, scanning the room in confusion as if it was the first time he'd seen it. A couple of nearby patrons returned his stare, having witnessed his random ramblings and writing him off as another guy who drank too much (which he had). Honestly, how much had Arthur consumed by now? Even the bartender was giving Francis a pitying look.

"All right, looks like someone needs to be cut off," Francis said, moving to take his beer.

Arthur clutched at his glass childishly. "No, it's mine. Property of the United bloody Kingdom. You can't have it."

Francis snorted. He watched the drunken blond lazily lift the half-emptied glass of sloshing amber and drink heartily. A trickle of liquid ran down his chin.

Shaking his head, the Frenchman decided, "If you insist, that's yours, but no more after that." He sent the bartender a look that said he'd very well better cut Arthur off like he'd said if he'd like to keep his pub intact. Fortunately for everyone involved, the bartender nodded.

"Don't be . . . don't be like that tosser brat," Arthur murmured grumpily, sitting the glass back on the bar's surface. He stared into the cup as if wondering who drank most of its contents.

Francis sighed, plucking a napkin and wiping at Arthur's face where droplets clung. With his delayed reflexes, Arthur managed to lean away from him only after he had finished the job.

"Who's a tosser brat?" he asked out of duty, not really caring who his drunken friend referred to.

"You," Arthur spat out. Then, for some reason finding that answer hilarious, he began snickering to himself.

Rolling his eyes, Francis continued patiently, "Yes, but you were comparing me to someone. Who's the other tosser brat?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes, sluggishly trying to recall what he'd said not ten seconds ago. He glanced to Francis for an answer and somehow remembered despite his level of intoxication.

"Peter," he growled sulkily. Then he proceeded to slump once more against the bar, this time pulling his nearly empty cup to him so that he could gnaw at the rim. The glass clinked against his teeth.

Francis remembered seeing Arthur's little brother on occasion, but the last he heard the boy had moved with their mother to America recently. He didn't bother trying to make sense of the comparison.

"You are very wasted," he concluded.

"Not near enough."

The way Arthur acted . . . It made Francis wonder if there was something legitimately bothering the man.

"Care to talk about it?" Francis suggested.

Perhaps the question was too vague, because Arthur looked at him, his bushy brows furrowed intensely, and snapped, "Talk about what? I don't want to talk. I want to drink. And I want my damn cat."

"I'm sure your cat is safe at home right now, Arthur, like you should be."

"I don't want to go home," Arthur moaned. Yes, definitely sulking about something. His head thunked against the wood and Francis had to lean in to hear his muffled words. "No one's there. No one's ever there. Just my fucking cat."

"But you love your cat."

"I love my fucking cat."

"Then what's the problem all of a sudden? I thought you enjoyed being alone."

"Shows what you know!" he shouted, actually startling Francis. Arthur glared at him, waving his arms around wildly as he yelled boisterously, "You don't know me! I built an empire! Was a pirate of the seas to be feared!"

"Do you want me to fear you?" Francis asked, eyebrow raised.

"Yes, damn it!"

"No. Now finish your beer so I can take you home." The finality in his tone sent Arthur back into his sulky state again.

"I don't want to," he whined, head connecting rather painfully against the hard counter. As if an afterthought, he added, "Ow..."

Francis began to think that going out for drinks with Arthur was more trouble than it was worth.

"You can't just live in the bar, Arthur," he argued reasonably.

Arthur sniffed, staring at his glass once more in contemplation. "I could. . . Then I wouldn't have to go home."

Sure, the Brit was three sheets to the wind and Francis could probably amount any of what he said to drunken talk; however, Francis couldn't shake the feeling that something, more than just a little something, was wrong here. Now that he thought about it, it was unusual in the first place for Arthur to suddenly invite him out for drinks. Usually it was Francis pestering Arthur until he agreed to spend time with him.

"Arthur, what's happened?" he demanded. When the only answer he received was a puzzled glance, Francis elaborated, "You don't want to go home. That part you've made fairly clear. So why? What are you avoiding?"

Arthur's gaze slid past him, green eyes staring into space sorrowfully while he continued to rest his head on the bar. From interpreting his expression, Francis knew that he'd ventured somewhere near the truth.

"They've all left me," he admitted quietly.

Francis's heart paused for a moment at the tone in his voice. He never knew a voice could sound so sad or so lonely. He could only listen with rapt attention as his companion continued.

"It's all Dad's fault. The bastard . . . What he did to Mum, to us. Alistair decked 'em in the eye, you know? He did that. Wish it had been me. He deserved it, you know . . . And Mum always did her best. Kept a stiff upper lip about it. But we know it got to her . . . Had to move all the way to America. Job opportunity. Right, right. She's just . . . running away. With Peter. Left me behind . . ."

Ah, so that was it. Francis knew Arthur's mother ever since he moved next door to the Kirkland household. Bridget Kirkland had always appeared to be a tough, caring woman, able to rear up five sons and make it look easy. She was divorced by the time Francis moved next door, so he'd neither met nor heard anything about Arthur's father. From how Arthur spoke of him now, he was not a man worth meeting in the first place.

Francis was curious about what happened, of course. All it would take was a nudge from him, and Arthur (in his drunken state) would no doubt rant all about it. But though Arthur's guard was lowered, Francis did not want to take advantage of him like that.

He clapped Arthur on the shoulder. "Ne t'inquiète pas mon ami. I am still here for you."

"What kind of sorry consolation prize . . ." Arthur began only to break off in grumpy mutterings.

Francis laughed and pulled out his wallet to pay their tab. Then he pulled Arthur up and out into the night despite the Brit's protests. After a time, Arthur gave up and let himself be carted all the way home.

"Do not look so glum," Francis told him as he walked Arthur up the short path to Arthur's house. "Your face will become stuck that way."

"I'll stick your face," Arthur retorted.

He swayed as Francis propped him up by the door. Francis tried to reach for his pockets to retrieve his house key, but Arthur swatted him away angrily and did it himself. As Francis waited for Arthur to figure out how the lock mechanism worked, he glanced towards Arthur's other neighbor's house. Was it him or did those curtains just move like someone was peeking out?

"Finally," Arthur breathed out and pushed the door open. Francis followed him in, both to make sure his friend didn't trip and to get away from any peering eyes. Arthur only spared him a momentarily perplexed look before he spotted the Scottish-fold curled up on the couch. "Oh my God, Jasper!"

The cat lifted its head, its ear flicking and eyes narrowed with drowsiness. It meowed softly in confusion as Arthur knelt on the floor beside the couch and proceeded to rub his face in white and orange fur.

"My pretty little kitty," Arthur chuckled. "Did you miss me?"

The cat stared accusingly at Francis for bringing its master back in such a sorry state. Francis had to squash the urge to apologize, such was the intensity in those slit-eyes.

"Arthur, perhaps it is time for bed—"

"Hold on," Arthur cut him off. He struggled with his coat pocket, retrieving a camera. "I've got to—to show the world!"

So much for getting Arthur to go quietly to bed. Francis watched as Arthur fumbled with the camera. Once on, he directed the lens at Jasper.

"This is a cat!" Arthur declared.

"Mon Dieu."

"You can tell because he's got a . . . a what's it called . . . Francis, what're they called?"

Francis sighed and sat down in a chair. Might as well make himself comfortable. "What are you talking about?"

"The thing. The—bloody fuck— what are they? They wag."

"Tails, Arthur."

"Tail!" he shouted at the discovery. Jasper flinched and stared at Arthur with wide, offended eyes. "Jasper, you have a tail. Did you know that?"

"Mew?"

"It's okay, Jaspy. I'm here for you. I love you. Let's shake on it."

Arthur tried to shake Jasper's paw and was bit for his efforts. Instead of snatching his hand back, Arthur just let himself be bit.

"How's it taste?" Arthur slurred.

Jasper stared up at him with large, dilated eyes. Its tail twitched aggressively. A growl sounded.

"Maybe he's allergic," Francis mused.

Arthur either ignored Francis's words or didn't hear them in the first place. He reached over to position the camera on the couch arm, cursed when it tumbled off, then managed to sit it correctly where it could record him and Jasper without him having to hold it.

"Stay," Arthur warned the camera like it was alive and would scurry off as soon as he turned his gaze away. Satisfied that the camera seemed to be behaving, he promptly forgot its existence in favor of his cat. "Are you teething on my fingers? Go ahead, I don't need 'em. I've got like . . . like twenty."

"You only have ten fingers," Francis corrected. His brows furrowed as he second-guessed himself. "As far as I am aware, that is." For all he knew, Arthur was an alien life-form. It would explain a lot actually.

Arthur sounded annoyed. "No I don't, twat. I've got—got more than that. On my feet."

"Those are toes."

"They're feet fingers, stupid cunt."

Francis decided then and there that he would find all the pain medication in Arthur's house and take them before he left that night. What a magnificent hangover Arthur would have in the morning.

"Aww, he's licking me. He's licking me, Francis," Arthur said with a giggle. "He likes me!"

"You do feed him," Francis commented.

"I shall get you a top hat," Arthur declared, petting Jasper with one hand while the cat licked at the other. "An itty, bitty top hat. Because my cat . . . is push."

"Push?"

"I meant posh. A posh, gentleman kitty. With a tiny monologue."

"You mean monocle?"

"Yeah, that," Arthur laughed. He rested his head by his cat and smiled at it like Jasper was the center of his universe (which was a definite possibility). "So cute."

Francis watched as Arthur continued to praise his cat. Jasper rewarded his owner by licking at his cheek, much to Arthur's giggling delight. Francis had to admit that the scene was . . . somewhat adorable. It was a good thing Arthur was recording it all, since he'd not doubt forget most of it by morning.

He let things go on until Arthur was falling asleep. Francis helped him up to the couch where he could lay down properly. He retrieved a blanket for good measure and remembered to turn off Arthur's camera.

"Take care now," Francis told both man and animal. Arthur was already snoring quietly, and from Jasper's position on his owner's stomach, the cat watched Francis sweep out the door, locking it behind him.

With his pockets filled with pills that Arthur would surely miss tomorrow, Francis stood outside of his friend's house for a moment to breathe in the night air.

Sssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Francis blinked at the soft sound of rain hitting the ground and leaves. But it wasn't raining at the moment . . .

He looked to his right where a looming figure stood with a large watering can, tilting it enough to sprinkle water out onto the beds of plants.

"Hey, Francis."

Francis jumped and was about to start begging for his life when he realized that he recognized this man. "B—Berwald, is that you?"

"Mm," was his only reply.

Francis felt very exposed, standing out here with nothing to defend himself. A watering can had never looked more threatening than now, with Berwald holding it while standing in the shadows.

He struggled to swallow and said, "What are . . . what are you doing, may I ask?"

Berwald shrugged his hulking shoulders. "Just waterin' the flowers."

"At midnight?" Francis wanted to say but kept his mouth shut. He knew exactly what was happening here. He had stumbled upon Berwald just as he was hiding a body, and Francis refused to be his next victim.

"Well, have fun! Bonne nuit!" he called and raced back to the safety of his own house.

Berwald watched the Frenchman run off. "Strange neighbors," he told himself and carried on watering his plants.

Now was Berwald being legit or was he just trying to be a nosy neighbor? Who knows.

So according to my poll, Historical and Supernatural AUs are in the lead. Nice. I'm a sucker for 2ps or Omegaverse myself. It's ironic, Youtube AUs would probably be at the bottom of my favorite list, and yet here I am. I'm having fun, at least. :)

Don't expect another quick update like this. I'm going to work on updating my other ongoing USUK story, "Vicarious". It's a serious romance in a college AU setting, and I'm really proud of the writing so far, so if you guys want to check it out and drop a review, I definitely won't complain!