A/N: Well, I realize this could be longer, but Arthur's predicament as of the next two paragraphs happens to be mine as well. At least it's up in a shorter time than the last one was! I love this FrUK fluff; it's all FrUKy and fluffy!
Well, enough of me. Enjoy, my wonderful readers! Virtual maple syrup to all who review!
Chapter Eleven: Blatant Affection
For Arthur, the end of the term could not come fast enough. November was dragging by in a haze of the freezing rain that lashed the windows and piles upon piles of assignments. Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures were both canceled on account of the horrendous weather, but despite that the sixth years were being loaded down with an absolutely impossible amount of homework. Arthur was grumpy and stressed, Francis was in detention every other night for his increasingly stubborn procrastination, Patrick was going crazy with organization and panicking if he got five minutes behind his homework schedule, and Gilbert was being forced to struggle through a severe sexual dry spell for want of time to do all of his outrageously long detention essays.
In short? TOO MUCH HOMEWORK.
"What's the goddamn fucking difference between Inferi and someone who's possessed?" Arthur burst out angrily, earning himself a death glare from the librarian as he threw his quill down on his books and got up to start pacing feverishly. His green eyes flashed dangerously, arms folded over his chest as he glared down at the floor, taking four furious strides one way, four strides the other...
Francis sighed, looking up and shutting his book resignedly. It was impossible to read when there were only four more days left before the end of term, not counting the rest of today; it had been a long and torturous Monday. "One's dead and one isn't," he said in a monotone, blinking to clear the spots from his vision. He'd been doing so much reading lately that if so much as two more words squeezed their way into his brain, he'd probably have dyslexia for the rest of his life—not to mention a monstrous headache.
Arthur flopped down again, across from him, head in his shaking hands. "Fucking hell, I'm losing it. I'm really losing it this time."
Francis was just about ready to roll his eyes and come up with some snappy reply, but when he looked up, Arthur looked like he was about to cry. Suddenly his annoyance melted, replaced by concern. He reached out to put a hand on the other boy's quivering shoulder. Dieu, was his whole body shaking like this?
"I can't remember anything from yesterday morning! It's like time just skipped straight from breakfast to Potions, and missed all the classes in between!" Arthur slammed his forehead down on his book in frustration. "How am I supposed to do my homework if I can't even remember the bloody lessons?"
Francis sighed, gently pulling the book out from under Arthur's forehead and placing it in the Brit's bag, and then taking his Transfiguration book to put it in his own. He shouldered both of them, stepped around the table, and helped Arthur to his feet. He seemed a little dizzy.
"You need to sleep, mon petit lapin," Francis said, as Arthur gratefully stood up and took his hand. Francis couldn't help but notice that the Brit's fingers were like ice, turning to him incredulously as they left the library hand in hand. It was almost enough to distract him from the blond girl who practically fainted as they passed.
"Are your hands always cold like this?" Francis asked, covering Arthur's palm with both of his own in an attempt to warm it up. Arthur just shrugged.
"It's what happens when I'm writing a lot. So they should warm up again once the term is over." He gave Francis a grin. "You seem to have a strange attraction to my hands, frog. Do explain."
Francis froze for a second, but then shook his head and smiled, turning Arthur's hand over in his own and tracing the lines in his cool skin.
"They are just very elegant. And your fingers are very long and slender—that's why I wondered if you played piano. You have perfect hands for it. Prettier than most girls have, actually."
Arthur pulled away and smacked him on the shoulder, blushing profusely. "What is it with you and making me feel like a bloody female?"
Francis grinned evilly. "Aah, but cher, it's so much fun, and you go such a pretty shade of red when you're embarrassed."
Arthur blushed more, glowering at him, but Francis just laughed, slinging an arm around his shoulders. The blond girl from the library, who had apparently been tailing them, did faint this time.
Both Francis and Arthur stopped dead to watch her fall flat on her face, then resumed walking as though nothing had happened. "I'm just teasing, mon ami," Francis smirked. "But it's true; you do go such a lovely shade of red—"
"Bloody hell!" Arthur burst out, this time smacking Francis across the face. "Shut up, you stupid frog!"
Said frog looked a little offended, but smirked all the same.
Arthur groaned, facepalming. This was going to be a long week.
Francis and Arthur sat across from each other in Transfiguration as McGonagall lectured them on the proper wrist movement to be used for turning a King Cobra into a cactus. Why anyone would want to do that, Arthur did not know. Both seemed equally prickly and undesirable—as was the headache he'd had since two days ago. Another one of the memory blackouts had happened, but this one was small, and at least nothing odd or creepy or downright terrifying had turned up yet. Not counting the fact that the blood at the top of the spiral stairs couldn't seem to be removed—even by magic—and gleamed as brightly as shiny red paint on the stone. This had pushed the school into a state of edginess, but none except the few conspiracy theorists thought this was anything of meaning. To everyone else it was just a clever prank set up to scare the students and staff.
The desks had been arranged in pairs, front-to-front with the partner you would be working with on this lesson, and Gil and Patrick had been paired together, as well as—just Arthur's luck—Arthur and the frog. Somehow, though, he didn't mind as much as he probably should have. None of the girls had even fainted yet; a major accomplishment. Lately it seemed to have become routine for one, two, or all of the girls in any given class that Francis and Arthur had together to start giggling profusely and then keel over onto the floor a second later. The one with the blond hair and camera did that most often. It annoyed the teachers to no end.
Arthur felt something nudge his foot under the desk, looking up to see Francis smirking at him purposefully, head propped up on one hand. Arthur kicked out at the foot that had just invaded his personal space, successfully knocking it away, but the Frenchman's gaze didn't waver. Francis pushed a scrap of parchment over to him. Arthur opened the folds and read it.
Want to see how many girls we can take out in one class?
He considered the situation for a moment, even though the choice was obvious; spend an hour listening to some boring lecture, or gang up with Francis to make this class a whole lot more interesting. He nodded so discreetly that only Francis could possibly catch it, and the frog's mischievous grin widened as he took his head off his hand.
"Do what I do," he mouthed silently, and Arthur smirked as well. He felt that same foot nudge his, and this time instead of kicking it away, he ever-so-gently pushed against it. Francis bit his tongue, trying desperately not to laugh as he saw the blond girl go red in the face, suppressing one of the signature high, piercing squeals she always seemed to give off. Arthur smiled a soft, convincingly affectionate smile, which was really a grin in disguise as their eyes locked, sharing silent laughter.
Arthur slid his foot behind Francis's, entwining their legs under the desk. They both cast sideways glances at the girl, who was now looking like she was about to explode. She tapped her friend on the shoulder, and they both started giggling hysterically. McGonagall halted her speech, glaring at them.
"Is there something you'd like to add to this lesson, girls?" she asked coldly. Francis and Arthur exchanged evil grins.
The girls couldn't even speak—they just pointed to Francis and Arthur across the classroom, now having the equivalent of what seemed to be an epileptic seizure. Professor McGonagall followed their accusing finger, her harsh gaze falling on them, and then on their legs, nestled together under the desks.
Arthur could swear she had to suppress a grin pulling at her mouth before she spoke.
"Mr. Kirkland, Mr. Bonnefoy, please refrain from blatant displays of affection in this classroom from now on. Detention, both of you. You will spend the rest of my hour in the library—now get the hell out so I can teach."
"Merci, Professor," Francis told her graciously, exchanging evil looks with Arthur as they gathered their books and left the room in triumph. The entire room was staring at them—girls with unchecked awe, boys with a mixture of jealousy and something similar to what all the females now had shamelessly embedded on their faces. Gilbert and Tonio were collapsed on their desks and dying of laughter.
"Did you see the look on McGonagall's face?" Francis demanded as soon as they were out in the hall with the door firmly shut, restraining an extremely unmanly giggle. Arthur nodded, grinning.
"She's just as much a fangirl as everyone else!" He shook his head, slinging his books over his shoulder and falling into step next to Francis as they set off at a leisurely stroll for the library. "Nice job, frog. You just got us out of the most boring Transfiguration lesson in history."
Francis smirked, shrugging lightly. "I aim to please, mon petit Anglais."
"Oh, stop," Arthur laughed, smacking him lightly on the arm. "You know I can't—"
From the depths, I will return
To take what's mine, from all you've earned...
Arthur froze on the spot. The voice was disappearing, and fast. He had to catch it. His eyes were wide like a deer caught in headlights, but as suddenly as he'd frozen, he dropped his bag and sprinted off down the corridor.
"Arthur—what?" Francis called, but the Brit only turned for a split second.
"Come on!" he yelled, before disappearing around the corner and leaving Francis to try and catch up.
Down a staircase, around another corner, and one long corridor later, Arthur skidded to a halt in front of a pool of water. It glistened with scarlet. His stomach plummeted in dread.
"Oh no," Francis whispered, rounding the last corner and stopping dead in front of the scene.
The blood in the water had trickled down from another poem, painted and dripping on the wall.
From the depths, I will return
To take what's mine, from all you've earned...
Arthur stood stock-still again, paralyzed in sudden terror. He dared not move, he dared not make a sound. He felt as though he was being watched, the gaze of someone very evil cutting straight down to his soul. It knew who he was, where he was, and that he sensed its presence—and it didn't like him one bit.
"Arthur?" Francis whispered. A tiny whimper tore itself from Arthur's throat as he stood like a statue, eyes shut tight. He didn't want to cry in front of Francis. Not again.
"Talk to me, cher!" Francis was starting to sound panicked. "S'il vous plait!"
Slowly the feeling of being stared straight through began to lessen, enough that Arthur could force himself to move. He ran to Francis, giving up his pride and burying his face in the taller boy's shoulder. His entire body was quivering. Francis hugged him tight, slowly rocking back and forth.
"My head hurts," Arthur muttered, before his voice cracked and he broke into quiet sobs.
"Shhh... Vous êtes en sûreté, mon ami..." Francis whispered words of comfort in his ear, though his blue eyes were darting around for someone, anyone, to get Madam Pomfrey. This had gone far enough. He didn't want his Arthur to have to live with this anymore.
Wait—his Arthur?
But before he'd had a chance to wonder where that had come from, the fourth year Matthew Williams came walking around the corner. He stopped dead when he saw Arthur and Francis, and made to turn around, but Francis stopped him.
"Could you get Madam Pomfrey?" he asked, blue eyes wide with worry. Matthew nodded, glancing briefly at Arthur and then dropping his bag, dashing off for the hospital wing.
A/N: Why do I love McGonagall so much in this chapter? Anyway, remember the virtual maple syrup! Review pweaz? I can only keep so much syrup in my room before Dad and Papa start getting suspicious!