Author Notes: This was interesting piece to write because I don't drink. I have seen and smelt a few liquors but I've never drunk alcohol. That said, I did some research on social drinking, types of liquors and what have you, but I don't think I'm spot on with all of this. So I apologise if I slipped up on some details here.

Also, this was a difficult chapter to write because…I don't know. I think it's because I've been particularly occupied with uni so I haven't been in the mood to write as creatively as I can. So I apologise if it's a little wonky or something.

Again, many thanks to my proof reader, rollofthepenguins.

Pairings in this chapter: Mostly FRUK, slight USUK.

Disclaimer: I do not own APH nor I do possess the brilliance behind BJD.

The Brit Luck

a USUK story

By suikalopolis

"You know for a fact that I am well aware of the fact that this is annoyingly repetitive but…it really isn't necessary. I could have taken care of that stain quite easily by myself."

"Oh, but you are also very well aware of the fact that red wine is difficult to remove once it has long set in, no? Quickly removing it will only save you time and money."

Yes but why here?

Arthur gave a noncommittal grunt and he leaned against the marble counter, crossing his arms as he watched Francis disappear out of the kitchen with his shirt. To be honest, in spite of feeling a little embarrassed back at the Savoy, Arthur wasn't that worked up over the stain. It was an old shirt after all and he could just throw it out but his boss had insisted that the stain needed to be tended to as soon as possible and with Arthur living in Shepherd's Bush, the nearest place was Notting Hill. Where Francis lived.

Arthur tugged at the hem of his thermal undershirt. With the winters becoming increasingly and ridiculously cold over the last few years, Arthur had seen it practical to wear a thermal shirt and a singlet underneath his clothes no matter how unflattering and boring they looked. Why, it was no use being all fashionable when you're going to end up frozen stiff by the end of the day. He was glad to be wearing two layers then because after stripping his dress shirt off to have it cleaned, it was chilly standing around in nothing but his undershirt, chinos and snow-sodden boots.

Letting out a sigh, he took his time inspecting the sleek modern open-plan kitchen/dining room. With the dramatic downlights giving the room a warm sensual glow, Arthur couldn't help but feel a stab of envy at the luxuriousness of his boss's home. Sure, he had thought that this house seemed a little too large for one man but with Francis's supposedly extensive list of lovers, it wouldn't be a surprise if one of them was shacking up with him over the weekends. Or even two for that matter.

Arthur frowned at that thought and he pushed himself off the counter, making his way into the adjoining room. He found himself in the living room. It was painted white and was minimalistic in design yet this suited Francis. A contemporary fireplace was stretched across one side of the room, the ember glow of the flames complimenting the nude-toned sofas and bean bags which sat near it. There were a lot of fashion magazines and documents scattered across the coffee table but Arthur wasn't interested in that at the moment. What really caught his interest was the home bar that was tucked in the corner of the room.

"Well fuck me," he murmured, walking over to inspect it. Fascinated, he ran his fingers across a line of liquor bottles on one shelf, reading the labels. It was all the good stuff apparently. He licked his lips. After such an evening, a drink would be fantastic.

"Do you like it?"

Arthur jumped, startled by how loud Francis's voice was in the quietness of the room. He whirled around and frowned at him. "Will you please stop coming out of the blue like that? You scared the shit out of me."

"My apologies, Arthur," Francis gave a light-hearted chuckle as he moved deeper into room and plopped onto one of the sofas, his long legs stretched out. He had removed his pullover and was now only wearing his long-sleeved polo shirt with the sleeves rolled back an inch. For Arthur, it was a strange sight really – almost ethereal – to see Francis Bonnefoy sprawled out ever so comfortably like this with the fire glowing on him and all. It was sort of like walking into a photoshoot which he had no place to be in and it made him feel somewhat insignificant standing there, like an unattractive lamp stand.

"You've got a house bar," Arthur observed, doing his best to keep the bitterness out of his tone as he pulled his gaze away from Francis. "It's well stocked too. I take it that you entertain your guests a lot with these?"

"C'est ça. Well, it is quite often that I hold informal meetings here so it is only best after all for the host to look after his guests well, do you not agree?"

"Huh." Arthur tried to not read into 'informal meetings' too much. "And you've actually got the paraphernalia and all. I don't suppose you could do the honour of fixing us a drink now, would you?" said Arthur before pausing. "No, actually, you know what? I think I should fix us something. I mean, I suppose it's the least I could do to repay you for laundering my shirt even though I kept telling you not to."

Francis laughed. It was the second time Arthur heard him that night and the sound, though still surprising, was pleasant to his ears.

"Oh? You can mix?"

Arthur snorted as he pulled out two tulip glasses from beneath the bar. "Don't bite your arm off on this one but yes. I used to work part-time as a barman back in uni. So, what will it be then? I reckon you'd fancy a Kir or something with Cognac perhaps," he said as he checked the small fridge for crushed ice. There was. Good.

"You are well read," Francis hummed, pleased. "But for tonight, I would like a drink on its own. Do you see on the bottle on the top shelf? It is Armagnac. Please, come join me for this wonderful drink. We must share this by the fireplace." As he stated this, Francis rose to his feet with a ridiculous ounce of grace (really, it should be illegal for a man to move as smoothly as that) before he settled on the carpet by the fireplace. With a wave of his hand, he beckoned Arthur over with an alluring smile.

In silent acquiescence, Arthur carefully plucked the bottle from its place and he brought it down to study the label. "Le digestif?"

"Oui oui."

"Huh. Didn't think an after-dinner drink would apply this late," he muttered, bringing the drink and glasses over to where his boss was currently splayed out. Out of politeness, Arthur silently agreed to join him on the floor but he purposely left a gap between them. "So tell me, did it cost you a bomb?" he asked, handing the bottle to the other man.

"A bomb?"

"You know, like an arm? Was it expensive?"

"Ah, yes, quite a bit. Especially so with this brand. Castarede is exquisite for its aged Armagnacs. This one is around twenty years of age," Francis crooned as he opened the bottle. A muffled, satisfying hiss filled the quiet air between them.

Arthur let out a low whistle at this. He held their glasses up and watched the brown-amber liquid slowly fill. A pleasant whiff of candied fruit and earthy spice rose up between them. Handing Francis his glass, he swirled his drink under his nose to appreciate the aroma of the liquor. "Cheers," he murmured, lifting his glass.

"À la tienne, mon ange."

Their glasses clinked.

"You know. You dress like Zara."

"Zara?"

Arthur nodded. He lifted his hand and gave a paltry wave towards Francis's clothes. "Layers and codes and…" he paused. It was noticeable that his words were beginning to slur. "The designs are, you know…real nice and all and…ah, shite. Know what? I think I'm a little tipsy."

A chuckle was drawn out of Francis as he stretched his legs out and shifted his body slightly so he could look at Arthur better. "Well it is no surprise. You drink like the Americans," he commented.

Arthur scowled at him. "Piss off, I don't drink like a yank."

"Mais je te jure que c'est vrai! Oh la la, you drink it too quickly, mon chou! To appreciate the Armagnac, you must to appraise its aged character. Come, like this," Francis's hand was suddenly on his cheek and it was directing his face towards him. Arthur shifted his hand across the carpet and his fingers came in contact with his boss's.

Arthur blinked. "Mr. Bonnefoy, what are you-"

He was silenced by the glass that was pressed to his lip.

Francis smiled at him. "Sip. Allow the drink to fill your mouth with its aroma. The flavour must sink into your taste buds before it slowly slides down your throat and warms you from the inside," he said softly. His breath was fogging up his side of the glass and there were speckles of gold in his eyes.

Suddenly, the image of Alfred appeared in Arthur's mind – of how his blue, blue eyes had also reflected gold a week back.

"Have you met Alfred Jones?" Arthur found himself asking, a little out of the blue, and Francis blinked in surprise at this as he lowered his glass to the carpet.

"Pardon?"

"Alfred 'wanker' Jones. The American solicitor. We met the vile bastard earlier this evening."

"Ah, yes. Alfred Jones. Yes, we have met in the past. He is a friend of yours?"

"Friend? God no. Absolutely not. What? Were you dating him?"

There was a brief pause in their conversation and Arthur wondered if he had hit a sore spot. That would have explained Alfred's strange behaviour that evening. He did sound somewhat hostile when they were talking in the toilets. Perhaps it had ended badly? Well, who would've thought. While mulling over this, Arthur had absentmindedly entertained the notion of leaning in to scrutinise Francis's eyes, as if doing so would unlock all of the man's well-buried secrets.

Francis seemed rather cool about this, intrigued even, and he too leaned in close, only stopping when the tips of their noses almost touched. "Hm, are you jealous if this is the case?" he asked in a low voice that was laced with amusement. His warm breath was ghosting across Arthur's lips.

"What makes you think I'd become jealous? I couldn't care less if you shagged him with a garden gnome," Arthur murmured, his eyes dropping to Francis's lips for a few seconds. "I think you've forgotten the fact that we aren't even seeing each other."

"We can change that."

"You're mad," Arthur wetted his lips. He didn't like how his heart was beating faster than usual or how his fingers were curling into the carpet. He couldn't tell if he was excited or afraid or just fucking drunk. "There's no way anything like that could happen."

"Oh? You are certain that I cannot change your mind?"

"Very."

Francis cupped his cheek and without an ounce of hesitance, he brought his face close and kissed him. It wasn't anything fancy. It was a simple kiss. A sensual slide and interlocking of lips that was spiced up by the scratchiness of Francis's stubble across his skin. And yet…

Arthur's hand flew up and he grasped Francis's hair. He tugged it roughly and dragged the man closer, his lips parting to accommodate the other in a deeper kiss. He could taste the brandy in Francis's mouth, feel the way his hot breath intermingled with his own in their mouths as he dragged his tongue across his teeth and fuck, it was sexy. Arthur couldn't hold back the groan which was lost between them. It wasn't to say that Arthur was usually horny whenever he was under the influence of alcohol (because he certainly was not) but being the sexually active man he is, he will admit that it hasbeen a while since he last had sex. Why, it was a real shame that he had puked on that girl's shoes the other night. If Gilbert hadn't made him so drunk, he would have scored last night. He wouldn't have stumbled to work with a terrible hangover. He wouldn't have been dragged to that awkward dinner and he certainly wouldn't be sitting here with his boss's tongue down his-

Arthur moaned.

And then just as abruptly as when the kiss had first started, it ended. Arthur pulled his head back and he found himself heaving for air, his lips were hot and throbbing.

"What about now?" Francis crowed as his fingers played with the hair at the nape of Arthur's neck.

"That was just one kiss. One drunken kiss. And a poorly executed one at tha'."

Francis chuckled at this and he leaned in to press a trail of staccato kisses across Arthur's mouth and jaw. "Was it? But you kiss beautifully, mon chou," he murmured.

"I've been with lots of girls," Arthur replied in between the kisses Francis was planting him with. He shifted his arm which was supporting his weight and it knocked Francis's glass over, spilling brandy across the carpet. Neither of them paid any attention to it.

"And what about now?"

"What about now? Does it really matter? I mean-" Arthur's breath hitched when Francis brushed his lips across his collarbone. Arthur's fingers were still buried Francis's hair and he clutched onto the luscious locks, torn between pulling or pushing the man away. He swallowed. "Mr. Bonnefoy, you do know that I don't succumb to self-abandonment."

"But of course."

"God, I must be really drunk if I'm actually allowing you to snog me."

"Oh, non non, mon chou. You are not drunk because of alcohol. You are intoxicated because of the passion which has ignited inside you."

"Bullshit."

Another kiss was stolen and Arthur was now lying on his back with Francis on top of him. The other man was looking directly at him, his eyes burning with lust. Arthur gazed at him, a little stunned because in all honesty, he had never witnessed the ferocity of an emotion before. None of his previous girlfriends had ever stared at him like that and it caused something to stir inside him.

"You are craving for something new, Arthur. I can see it in your eyes."

Arthur tilted his head.

"I'm not gay."

Francis leaned in.

"Neither am I."

The first thing Arthur realised when he woke up was that he felt very satiated. Extremely satiated. It was a feeling that most peculiar and nostalgic to him – sort of like that feeling of satisfaction he had gotten from submitting his dissertation back in university or waking up to the sight of a beautiful girl wearing his underwear. Yes, it was a feeling of completion, almost.

The second thing he realised was that he had a headache, a dull throbbing in the back of his head. He was disorientated and a little parched but was fairly certain that he wasn't as drunk as he had been the previous night. Why, for the first time since New Year, he found himself waking up in his bed rather than sprawled out in a rather awkward position on the bathroom floor. It was a pleasant change. It was much more comfortable curled up on a soft mattress instead of cold hard tiles, after all.

Arthur allowed a few seconds to pass before he finally sat up. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the tangles in irritation. "I should get a haircut soon," he said through a yawn. His unkempt mop was starting to look like a scraggly dog that was permanently glued to his head.

"I agree. A spiky crop would be beautiful on you."

Arthur's eyes shot open and he turned his head to look towards the other side of the bed. There, tangled in a pool of crumpled bed sheets was Francis Bonnefoy, lying on his stomach. He was wearing nothing but a smile.

Holy fuck.

An unflattering gurgle left Arthur's mouth.

What the fuck.

What in fucking fuck.

Noting the absent look on his face, Francis chuckled and he raised himself from his comfortable position. "Bon matin, mon chou."

"No, wait, don't do that-"

Without really meaning to, Arthur's eyes dropped to Francis's penis the moment the bed sheets slipped off his body and as absurd as it sounded, he really couldn't stop himself from openly staring at his boss's knob right then.

"Arthur?"

Really, he can't look away. Fucking shite was impressive.

"Oh, do you want to have sex?"

Arthur flailed his arms at this and he gracelessly threw himself out of bed in the wild hope that he would suddenly wake up from this alcohol-induced dream. Unfortunately, he didn't. The sharp pain he received from hitting the floor had only made him even more awake and aware of the fact that he too was naked.

Double shit.

Francis was cursing softly in French and Arthur looked up in time to see him peering over the edge of the bed with a concerned look.

"-Arthur, mon chou, are you…oh my."

Slowly, Arthur brought his knees up to his chest and he slipped on a look of indifference on his face. He could feel a blush betray him but that didn't really matter because nothing could amend the fact that Francis had just seen his morning wood.

Triple shit.

What a cracking morning indeed.

"Guten morgen Mr. Bonnefoy," Arthur began with a nod to which Francis humoured him by returning it with one of his own. He had no idea why he greeted a Frenchman in German but he ploughed on nevertheless. "Um, look, I don't want to sound like ignorant coc- person, I mean, but what exactly happened last night?"

"We made love," answered Francis simply.

"Please tell me you're joking. We couldn't have."

"Oh, but it is true. And you are just as I imagined, mon chou. Beautiful. Passionate. Possessive and kinky too. I like that."

"Kinky?" echoed Arthur, ears reddening.

"Oui oui. Shall we use handcuffs instead of ties next time?"

It took him a moment to collect himself and once he did, Arthur exhaled heavily before fastening Francis a look of disbelief. "Don't be ridiculous. What makes you think there is a next time? Office romances are strictly off my list."

"Oh? Well that is a shame," said Francis. He reached out and touched Arthur's face, brushing back a few flyaway hairs. "I really do like you very much."

Arthur arched his brow but he made no move to get lean away from the touch. "We've only been acquainted not too long ago. I don't understand what it is that you like about me. I was all sorts of stupid the first time we met."

"The flaws of a person is what makes them beautiful, no? It is a paradox that imperfection is true perfection."

Arthur frowned at this. Huh. Says the man who looked like he just walked out of the cover of a Vogue magazine, clothed or unclothed. His gaze ran over the golden hairs on the man's arm before settling on the man's well-formed pecs. Really, never in his life had Arthur felt so jealous of chest hair. As ludicrous as that sounded, it really was making him feel less of a man, sitting on the floor watching Francis's broad physique as the man ran his fingers through his hair.

"I ought to go," Arthur finally said after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "Yao is likely to require some help with the articles that are coming in. We've got those spring dresses to sort out and all."

Francis hummed in acknowledgement but his fingers continued sifting through Arthur's hair.

Arthur shifted his legs and he was reminded of the stiffness of his wang. His blush deepened. "Um, you should go and get ready since I'll be heading back now so…" he suggested and this earned him a look of amusement from Francis.

"Oh? And leave you running off with that?" he said through a small chuckle. "Oh no, mon chou. I simply could not. Come back to bed. It is still early, yes? Come, I will look after you."

Arthur cleared his throat in discomfort and he tried to scoot away from Francis's fingers. "No, it's running late. You should know that peak times in London are atrocious, particularly since it's treacherous with the snow and all."

Grasping him by the crook of his neck, Francis tugged him close and he kissed him slowly, deeply. Arthur could taste the traces of brandy on his tongue. "I can drive you to work, yes?" he offered the moment they pulled back for air.

Arthur licked his lips. He was aware with how much they tingled with yearning. "There's snow. We'd be stuck in traffic all morning."

"I don't see that as a problem for us."

"Well, it is a problem for me because the last thing I want is walking in with you at a late hour. People will – no, Yao will talk and we're not an item."

Francis gave him a small wistful smile and it wasn't long before Arthur found himself being drawn back into another spine-tingling kiss. One which prompted him to climb back into warm sheets and the welcoming arms of one delightful Francis Bonnefoy.

"Shit, shit, shit-!"

Arthur leapt across the gap and he had managed to slip through the doors that were sliding close. Although his action had attracted the attention of the passengers in the carriage, he released a sigh of relief and straightened his shirt, paying them no heed.

Well no, not his shirt. Definitely not his shirt. A long-sleeved polo was definitely not an item which belonged in his wardrobe.

In his haste of gathering his belongings and catch the tube on time, he had accidentally swept up his boss's polo shirt and ran out of the house without looking back. So now he was stuck with wearing the man's shirt for the entire journey. Not that it would take very long. Shepherd's Bush was only two stops away after all. And no, he was not sniffing the collar of his boss's shirt in an attempt to try and figure out what eau de parfum he wore.

Lifting his chin, Arthur checked the route map.

"What?"

He stared at the map in confusion. That was odd. Why wasn't Shepherd's Bush listed on? He searched the station names one more time and when he still couldn't find it, realisation sank in.

"Bollocks."

He smacked his forehead.

He had boarded the wrong line again. Great. That was twice in one week. Arthur groaned and he held on to the handrail to steady himself as the train pulled to a stop at the next station. As people moved to file out of the train, Arthur shuffled over to an available seat and plopped onto it. He heaved a sigh.

"Rough morning?" a man who sat beside him asked without looking up from his newspaper.

Arthur ran his fingers through his hair, smiling wryly. "Crappiest, mate. I mean, it's not every day that you find yourself absolutely shitfaced and in be…" he trailed off the moment he glanced up and found himself looking into the blue, blue eyes of Alfred Jones. The very Alfred Jones whom he had last seen smearing fucking toothpaste all over his shirt not too long ago (yes, last night did mean not so long ago, shut it). Yes, apparently it was that Alfred Jones who was now sitting right next to him it seemed.

Arthur's mouth dropped open in shock.

You've got to be fucking joking.

Alfred's eyes brightened with recognition. "Dude!" he exclaimed, looking rather delighted.

Arthur dropped his bag and it landed with a dull thud on the floor.

No, you cannot be serious.

"Aw man, this is so cool. Who would've thought I'd run in to you here. So, what's up mate?"

Oh god no. Please tell me my stupidity did not just lead me here.

"No, this wasn't supposed to happen," Arthur grumbled, picking up his bag and adjusting it on his lap. "Shit, I got on the wrong line."

Alfred burst into laughter. "Dude, are you for real? Who would've thought you're not attentive type. But y'know, then again I sorta expected that since you seem to have a habit of wearing socks that don't match, like last time you were wearing red and brown or something. Anyway, what line did you say you usually take on the subway?"

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, as if doing so would filter the grating pitch of Alfred's overly happy voice. "Central. And it's called the tube, mind you," he answered with an exasperated sigh.

"Oh right! Heh, my bad. Tube, yeah. Gotta remember that from now on, huh? Right, so it's Central, eh? Which one is that?"

"The one in red. Red line, I meant."

Alfred was checking the route map for a few moments before he smiled. "Right, I see it. Yeah. Cool. That's cool."

"And you?" Arthur couldn't help but ask in order to fill in the awkward pause between them.

Alfred folded his broadsheet on his lap (The Guardian, huh. No surprise there) before he pursed his lips thought, staring at the map. "The yellow one. Or was it green? Wait, am I even…yep, yeah, it's that yellow one right there. Hey, know what? I don't know about you but I think it's fate."

The train swerved around the corner and Arthur found himself pressed against Alfred's side. "Sorry," he mumbled before righting himself. "What is?"

"Us meeting here," Alfred continued, his hand waving out in front of him. "I think your stupidity actually led us to right to each other."

Arthur blinked. "…Pardon?"

"Where are you going anyway?" Alfred suddenly asked and Arthur looked on in astonishment.

"Home," he found himself answering truthfully.

"Home?"

"Yes. It's what I call a place I live in."

"Well duh, Captain Obvious," Alfred rolled his eyes at this and Arthur couldn't help but smirk a little. "But seriously, why are you going home? Your office on fire or something?"

"Huh. Now that's a thought." Arthur shook his head. "Unfortunately no. Personal reasons."

"Oh. Your cat died?"

"You honestly think I keep a cat?"

Alfred gave him a wink and a light shrug. "Well why not? Fancied you'd have a cute little thing that's just as grumpy as you. You know what they say, 'Pets reflect what is you' so I gather that your cute little kitty is gonna look just like you."

Arthur scowled. "Bog off. What sort of things have you been reading?"

Alfred chuckled and for the first time since making acquaintance with the man, Arthur felt a little mellowed by the sound. He wasn't sure if it was because the train screeches had drowned out the unpleasant twang which usually entailed Alfred's laughter but the sound was all right for now. "Hey, I'm just pulling your leg, man. Lighten up, Arts."

"Arthur."

"That's what I said."

"No, you said 'Arts'. That isn't even a name to start. Arthur is an English name and it isn't that difficult to pronounce in the first place so I'd appreciate it if you didn't butcher it."

"Heh, sure thing. But hey, y'know, ya gotta give me credit for getting it right, man."

"Oh, right, absolutely astonishing that. Why, you truly do deserve a fucking gold star for your efforts. Congratulations," Arthur said dryly as he reclined back in his seat and glanced up at the map above them.

Three more stops.

"So. When am I getting my reward?"

What?

Arthur slowly turned his head to stare at Alfred blankly. "What makes you think there is one?" he asked slowly and it was right there and then that, for some unfathomable reason, Alfred pouted at him. Arthur blinked once, twice and – oh god, he was still fucking pouting.

"Aww dude."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

Two more stops.

"Pretty please? Hey, come on, I'm saying please here. With a big fat cherry on top and all. How about it, eh?" Alfred was poking his arm and none too gently at that.

Arthur shrugged him off. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Duuuude."

Again, Alfred was pouting. Honestly, how old was this man again? An exasperated sigh escaped from Arthur's lips as he raked his fingers through his hair. He continued to ignore the pokes on his arm.

"Duuuuuude." Alfred had given up poking. He was now bumping his leg against his own.

"Please stop that, Jones."

"Wha'?"

South Kensington. Last stop.

Arthur rose to his feet, steadying himself as the train screeched to a halt. He was about to make his way to the door when Alfred grabbed his sleeve and stopped him. Arthur glanced down and met the man's eyes, which were gazing back at him in surprising intensity. "I need to get off here, Jones," he explained.

"Stop calling me Jones and it's last night that I wanna talk about," Alfred said suddenly and Arthur felt his cheeks flush in colour. He jerked his sleeve out of the man's grasp.

"Look, if you're asking about my boss, I can very well tell you that nothing fucking happened, all righ'? Goodbye," he hissed.

And with that, Arthur jostled his way out of the train and through the crowded platform. Just as he heard the doors slide close, he glanced back to see if Alfred had followed after him for lying through his teeth.

He did not.

"Oi! Méi mao! What time do you call this?"

Arthur stopped in his tracks, his clandestine efforts of sneaking into the office now gone to waste. He straightened his back and turned to face Yao. The man was carrying a new set of folders in his arms, his brow arched as he was munching on some new treat from the looks of it. Arthur's stomach rumbled loudly and he scowled, feeling a little embarrassed when Yao's brow arched higher. Well it wasn't his fault that his stomach was growling. He hadn't eaten anything since last night's dinner after all.

"It's noon," he replied coolly as he made his way behind his desk to settle in and get straight to working.

Yao was not pleased. "Noon? Noon? It is not just noon. It is already quarter to one. You come in when we are about to go out for lunch. Honestly, I cannot understand your work ethic. You know, if I was running this establishment, I will definitely fire you for being so lazy."

"Oh, you wish," Arthur muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes as he relieved himself of his jacket and plopped onto his chair. Spotting the mountain of folders Yao had thoughtfully left for him to tend to, he held back an exasperated sigh. "I trust these are all for the spring dresses?" he asked.

"Are you stupid, mei mao? My goodness, use your eyes. That one is the winter collection. You still remember, yes? Orange for accessories and makeup. Blue for clothes. But anyway, since you are not so busy, you go through the spring ones also," Yao unceremoniously drops the folders he had been cradling onto Arthur's desk and apparently also had the balls to dust his hands off in front of him. "They need to be sent to Francis by tomorrow."

"What, all of this?" Arthur cried incredulously. "I can't finish all of this on my own and by this evening no less! It's impossible!"

"See! That's why you should wake up early! Honestly, you English are always late for everything, aren't you? It's no wonder you don't go so far. And eating nothing for breakfast isn't helping you at all. But I guess I can understand why you would skip because your food is so bland after all," Yao comments with a flick of his ponytail. "Eh, don't just sit there and look at me. If you want to finish early, you better start now. What? You can't do it?"

It was amazing how this man was able to get away with so many things.

"I didn't say that. And yes, I am quite capable of helping you go through these files since you're obviously well busy with more important matters," Arthur replied dryly, watching his senior seat himself behind his desk and already picking up the phone to make his daily call to whoever it was he always bothered during office hours.

Yao puffs his chest out at this and there is a proud smile on his face. "Of course I'm busy. You know why? Why, it's because my little brother is getting engaged to a good girl from a good and very rich family. Ah I'm so proud of him. You know what? We are going to hold the engagement reception at-"

"Oh, wicked, brilliant to hear. I suppose I should send my heartiest congratulations to the groom-to-be then. Congratulations," Arthur interjected, clearly disinterested as he began to flip through the folders he had been entrusted with. He didn't mean to come off as an absolute prat to Yao but the last thing he wanted to hear was someone else's successful relationship tale so early in the day. Especially if it was Yao's kin.

Yao made a shrill sound of disapproval. "Very rude. No wonder you don't have a nice woman at your old age. You see, my cute little brother is so obedient, so good and so young that he can easily find someone to marry. Not just someone but a good, beautiful, very sexy girl from one of the elite-"

Arthur buried his face in the folder he currently handled and groaned, trying to zone out Yao's voice.

Really, could this day get any worse?

A small beep came from his computer, signalling the arrival of an email. He glanced at the notification bubble at the bottom corner of his screen and – of course.

Arthur thumped his head against his desk.

Of course.

Reluctantly, his hand slowly moved the cursor of his mouse towards the bubble and clicked the 'open message' button.

Message to: Kirkland

Oh mon dieu…I must say that you looked very irresistible wearing my shirt this morning. Why, if I was to wake up to such a beautiful sight every morning, I would die of happiness, mon petit chou. Oh la la la, tu es merveilleux, Arthur. It was such a pity that our time together was painfully short. Why, I can only imagine the beautiful expressions which would have graced your face if I was able to lick your

Arthur promptly closed his email window and for good measure, also shut down his computer. "Fucking Europeans," he grumbled.

"Oh? What of Europeans?"

Shit.

Glancing up, he found Francis looking down at him with an amused little smile. His hair was loose today and Arthur swallowed back the uncomfortable lump which had formed in his throat when he was briefly reminded of what had happened between them a few hours ago. He cleared his throat and forced a smile. "It's nothing of great concern, Mr. Bonnefoy. I was just…it's nothing."

"Oh, but this does not say that it is nothing."

Without warning, Francis suddenly reached out and the tips of his fingers were smoothing across the skin between his brows. Arthur jerked his head back.

"Mr. Bonnefoy, wha-"

"Your shirt is still at my house, mon ange," Francis said, suddenly leaning in. There was a small, cryptic smile on his lips as his hand reached outwards, the tips of his fingers subtly brushing across Arthur's knuckles. "I'm afraid the washing machine had done a little damage to it but I cannot be sure. Would you like to come over and look at it, my darling?"

What?

Arthur slowly blinked and he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Pray tell, was Francis Bonnefoy using an excuse to see him? No, no. The question here was why was Francis Bonnefoy needing an excuse to see him?

Wait. What?

There was an awkward pause before Arthur moistened his lips and spoke. "When?" he asked croakily.

"This evening. If you do not want your shirt, I have a new one to replace it with."

"Huh?"

"Well?" Francis egged him, eyes gleaming with mirth.

Well what?

Arthur lowered his gaze to their hands.

All right. For one thing, he wasn't daft. He knew there were two fucking options laid out before him and that Francis was expecting him to choose right there and then.

Right.

So the first choice, apparently, was to accept the bad and corny excuse of checking out possibly destroyed shirt before (most likely) tumbling unto his boss's fancy expensive bed and pick up that morning's bedroom escapades. The second choice was to reject Francis's offer and just walk away. Pretend that last night had never happened, that none of whatever this is had ever happened between them - that there had never been anything between them. Not that there had ever been anything, but it was better to stop that anything from becoming a something.

From the corner of his eye, Arthur noticed how Yao was actually (and rather blatantly) watching them from his desk, his phone call hushed for once. At another time, Arthur would have probably gathered to balls to call Yao out for eavesdropping on their private conversation. However, with this…

Francis's hand moved and it was now firmly settled upon his own. The touch was warm, familiar, inviting. He was murmuring something but the words flew right over Arthur's head the moment he began rubbing small, soothing circles into his clammy skin.

"About that replacement, Mr. Bonnefoy," he began.

"Yes, mon chou?"

Arthur raised his chin to meet Francis's gaze.

"It'd better be worth it."

A/N: Here marks the beginning of a wonderful relationship. And then all sorts of things happen. Until the next chapter, lovelies.