The next morning was supposed to be a typical one weren't for Francis' disappointment upon finding the Brit's door locked. He knocked for a few times only to hear no answer, and was about to go back to his flat when he noticed a small note under the door. He pulled it out and read:

"Francis,

had to go to run early. Sorry, no breakfast together today.

Arthur."

He crumpled and shoved it into the pocket of his cardigan. Thinking something was really off and having a bad mood from the start of the day, he decided to dress and go out for some breakfast.

It was a warm day outside and Francis had made a smart move deciding to wear the straw hat Arthur had given him for Christmas, since the Sun was really strong. Aimlessly he wondered through the streets of London, not paying attention to the smiling faces and fluttering eyelashes the women showed him while he passed them. He resided to a small Italian just away from the main street and after having given his order, he kicked back and watched people rush to the metro. It was just a little past 10 o'clock and Francis didn't feel well being out that early; not only that, he had stayed up the previous night, hoping Arthur would call and tell him what has been troubling him lately. "Maybe I could get him to talk during dinner today?" he thought to himself when he thankfully sipped the coffee the waiter had brought him. "Anything else, sir?" the man asked. Francis thought of the breakfast he and the Brit usually shared. It wasn't much, but it was lovely: eating a few sandwiches to a plate of slightly too salty scrambled eggs - of course, Francis never said anything -, drinking a side of sweet tea while sleepily talking about meaningless things. "No, that'll be all," the Frenchman answered and bowing his head, the waiter left.

For a moment he thought he saw Arthur rush by the window, but it was already too late when Francis wanted to get a better look; if it had been him, he was already lost between the crowd. He knew there was no point in going after him, since the Brit was going to work after that anyway. Francis finished his coffee and having paid the bill, he left for the market to get some fresh ingredients for the supper he was planning.

On his way there he passed a flea market, selling all kinds of things from rugs to old record players. He shuffled through some old books when he noticed a pack of music sheets. ""A picture of Dover"?" he read, and continued to glimpse through the pages. It was a duet and the score was made for the piano, and Francis thought it would be a great past-time for him and Arthur. He bought it for a few cents, and continued to the market.

"Francis! Over here!" an old woman called from one of the stalls that sold fresh vegetables and with a smile, the young handsome man went to her. "Good morning, Samantha, looking as good as ever," he greeted her nicely and gave her wrinkled cheek a peck. "Oh, stop it you charmer! Here," the woman said, and pulled out a basket from under the counter. "The freshest leeks, carrots and potatoes, as usual! Oh, and the first of strawberries! Grown in my own garden, sweet as a mid-summer's eve!" she cheered and gave them to Francis. "Oh, you are too much, mon cher," he smiled and started to get out his wallet when Samantha stopped him. "No-no-no, I won't accept money from unhappy customers," she barked, and folded her arms. "What are you talking about? There's no way you have unhappy buyers with all those nice products," Francis cocked his eyebrow. "True, I have the best goods around!" she said loudly enough to receive jealous looks from the nearest stalls. "But something isn't right about you at the moment and besides - ill-minded money will bring ill-minded luck. Just pay me some other day. ... See, that's what I mean!" she frowned when the Frenchman gave her a sad look. "You're impossible, Samantha," he chuckled, and hugged her before moving on. He stopped by the fish market before heading home.

Once home, he stuffed the produce to the fridge and the pantry, and went to sit on the small balcony he had made more homely with the help of Arthur. He would too, usually, do something until the Brit got back from work, but this day, however, he didn't feel like much. He sighed as he looked at Arthur's balcony, the little plants growing in pots on the edge of it. Earlier he had slid the notes through the mail opening in the door to his friend's flat and was hoping he would get to see him before dinner.

Hours later Francis decided to prepare for supper since it was nearing 5 o'clock - the time Arthur would get off from work. He had already cleaned the fish and was chopping the vegetables when he felt his phone buzz in his back pocket. Rushing, he took it out and his heart jumped when he saw the Brit's name on the message board, but his smile faded when he read his short text:

"Can't make it for dinner. Sorry."

"What's going on?" he yelled at the phone and grinding his teeth, he ripped the apron off and threw it to the sink. He was desperate, knowing something was bothering his friend, no, his love, and the fact that he didn't want to talk to Francis was tearing him apart; if something like that would happen, he would at least call and explain. Gnawing his index finger - he usually did that when something was testing his nerves -, he was about to call the Brit when he stopped. "Why is everything so hard now?" Francis thought to himself, and turned his phone off, shoving it back to his pocket, and cursing Joseph for possibly having a say in that matter.

Some time past midnight he couldn't stand sitting in one place anymore and decided to go for a stroll around the city. Seeing the elevator was already in use, he decided to wait for it, since it could have been Arthur. The lift stopped a few floors below, and his mind darkened, the Frenchman entered the elevator when it had made its way to him. When he reached the first floor, however, he was shocked to see Arthur, bloodied and his left eye purple, waiting for the elevator. "Oh, hey, frog," he said, swaying, and held his right shoulder, häving hurt it. "What happened?" Francis demanded, having stepped off the elevator. "Nothing special, just a bar fight," the Brit brushed it off and hid his eyes from the Frenchman's devastated ones. "You were at a bar? Why did you get into a fight?" he asked, feeling hurt to hear Arthur's sorry excuse, happy too see him, but angry at his condition. "None of your business!" the Brit yelled, drunk, which is why Francis didn't pay much mind to the heightened voice. "Listen, just... I want to go to bed, leave me alone. Go where you were supposed to go, I know you want to..." Arthur mumbled with a broken voice, and rushed by him to the elevator. With a sorrowful look, Francis followed the elevator's numbers until it stopped on their floor. Even though desolate, he knew he should just leave him be. "At least for tonight," he said to himself and feeling mad, he marched through the streets until early morning.