Seven Days of Rain (3/7?) Part 3
Title: Seven Days of Rain
Author: mslavender
Characters: AU!France, AU!England, mentions of AU!Hungary, AU!Feliciano, AU!Romano
Pairing: FrUK <3
Rating: T
Summary: Seven days of rain, seven days of innocent romance.
"Ugh, did she really have to hit us with that frying pan?" Francis grumbled. He flinched as he softly touched the sore bump on his head where Elizaveta had hit him. "Where did she get that thing anyway?"
"Feli's brother Romano is in the cooking club. They're all pretty close," replied Arthur, grunting as he adjusted his backpack.
(School had already ended. Looking back, Arthur and Francis were late for their class after lunch, but they were glad to have at least escaped from the fuming Hungarian. Who knows what more she could've done if they had stayed longer after saying their apologies?)
Francis took a short glance at the Brit beside him as he winced; a little shake of his head and Francis knew the Englishman could still feel the weight of that frying pan bearing down on him. Not wanting to push his luck, Francis decided to leave the laughs for later despite the smartass comments that were about to slip out of his mouth. Besides, it's not like he was in a different position from the Englishman.
"First my cheek, then my head," Francis grumbled. "And all this rain, too."
Arthur only hummed in reply as they both stopped at the school gates, looking up at the skies that grew darker with gray clouds that hung heavily on them. They had just left the infirmary, and the nurse wasn't all too happy seeing them both with bumps and bruises. She had hurried them out of the door as soon as she was done with them, not at all careful when treating their 'wounds'. She mumbled something about 'late for a date' and 'dinner'.
Francis chuckled to himself. He wanted to be in the same position as that nurse: sharing a dinner; didn't necessarily have to be a date, but nonetheless with someone he had wanted to share his cooking with. Arthur was that one person. He didn't know exactly why, but even after their squabbling, fighting and the frying pan incident, there was just something about the Englishman that Francis wanted to know more about; as if there was something more to Arthur than he let anyone else see. Looking down at his shoes, he started to think about how he was going to do it- to let Arthur open up to him. With how things were going, Francis was beginning to doubt if Arthur was ever going to allow himself to talk. He did say he hated Francis after all, and even if the Frenchman wasn't normally bothered by people saying that to him (Francis did have a lot of enemies: exes, jealous people, etc. He was kind of used to it.), Arthur was an exception- a big exception. It stung, but it wasn't Francis to back down so easily. And so with a smile, he glanced at Arthur's direction and did what he did best: talk.
"I was just thinking," Francis walked out of the school gates and prepared his umbrella.
"Well, that's dangerous," mumbled Arthur. He made no motion to take out an umbrella at all. Francis guessed it was because he wasn't carrying any.
"Very funny," Francis glanced at Arthur with a cocked eyebrow, and continued, "As I was saying, I was thinking, you know, the way this week started for me," a laugh, "it feels like a bad omen."
"Yeah?" Arthur kicked a leaf on the ground- his mood had turned sour all of a sudden. Francis only looked confusingly at the Englishman when he received a glare. "Well, if you don't want me to go to this dinner, then just tell me. I'd be more than happy to stay out of your way."
Then the Frenchman understood. "Oh, non non non, Anglais," he chuckled. "I'm not saying the bad omen is because of you," then mumbled, "although my cheek does still hurt from the other day," Arthur only glared once more before Francis continued, "In fact, you're one of the best things that have happened to me recently." A charming smile.
Francis watched as Arthur's eyes widened in surprise, took a short look at Francis then turned away, ears turning red from his view. He almost laughed out loud at the reaction, but caught himself and feigned a coughing fit.
"Don't you give me that damn smile, frog! I'm not falling for that- that weird ass smile of yours," Arthur regained his composure and held his chin up high, still not looking at the Frenchman. "And such embarrassing words... try to be a man for once, you git."
"Embarrassing? There was nothing embarrassing about that," Francis hid a wide smile behind his hand. He already knew he was going to enjoy his time with the Englishman, fights and what-not. "And isn't it sexier when a man wears his emotions on his sleeves nowadays? It is only a strong man who is not afraid to show his tears, oui?"
"Wow, you are so gay," Arthur smirked.
"I will take that as the meaning for happy," Francis snapped, ready to take the topic elsewhere before they argue once again on the road and underneath the rain. Arthur snorted smugly in reply.
"Anyway, as for the dinner..." a pause. Dinner? Did Arthur just mention the dinner? Francis did a double take. "You agree then?"
"Agree with what?" Arthur frowned.
"The dinner! You're agreeing to go!" Francis' smile widened, hands finding their way onto Arthur's shoulders. He finally had the chance to talk to Arthur. And what better way to begin a friendship than to start with a man's stomach?
Arthur tried to shrug the Frenchman's hands off but was simply unsuccessful. "Yes!" he barked. "Now, would you please-" Before he could continue his sentence, a warm tight hug had engulfed him, and the sweet vanilla scent of the Frenchman's cologne blanketed his senses. He didn't know how many times he had turned a shade of red that day, but if he had tried to count and wanted to beat Francis to a pulp, the number of times would be enough to send him to his death (which he really wanted to do at the moment).
"Would you... stop it...!" Arthur grunted and gasped as he tried to push the tall Frenchman away. "Let go-"
"Oh, I am going to make you the best food you have tasted in years!" Francis grinned, finally releasing the huffing Englishman, grinning brightly as if he had never heard Arthur's protests.
"It's just dinner!" replied an exasperated Arthur, blaming cold wind for the uncomfortable warmth that had seemed to reach his ears once again. He fixed his jacket, snuggling warmly into it as he stared at the drizzle that had begun to pour, adding silently, "And the school newspaper. This is all this dinner is about, alright?"
Francis grew silent. He was honest with himself: he didn't want the dinner to be all about some random school newspaper. Even if they had planned it just for that, Francis was hoping to get to know more about Arthur. However, it seemed like Arthur didn't want the same. Did he? Thinking this, Francis took one glance at the Englishman. He was met with forest green eyes staring questioningly at him.
"Yes, the paper. Of course!" Francis finally replied, giving Arthur his best smile. He opened his umbrella as the rain started to pour harder, and caught Arthur under it, only chuckling when the Englishman kept pushing him away and muttering curses when he realized he did need the umbrella. Deep down inside, however, Francis wished that hopefully Arthur hadn't seen him look desperate.
----------------------------------------------------
The trip home wasn't as annoying as Arthur had thought it to be. In fact, it was worse. Much worse. The frog wouldn't stop forcing the umbrella on him when he had already said he didn't need it. He loved the rain and he liked to stick with his beliefs no matter how impractical it seemed. It wasn't at all because he was sharing an umbrella with the very bastard that made him sick to the bones with girlish blushing and heart thumping and all of those annoying feelings that Arthur did not dare acknowledge, or that their shoulders kept brushing and bumping with every step they struggled to make in the tight space, or even the lingering scent of Francis that made it even harder to concentrate on the ground he was walking on- no, it was none of that at all. Arthur wasn't that shallow, and to prove it, he stood patiently behind Francis' apartment door, listening to the soft but hurried footsteps that were approaching.
"Arthur?" Francis opened the door breathlessly, his low ponytail trailing slightly behind him. Arthur took in Francis' new look for a few seconds, noticing how strong his jaw was without all that hair covering it, and the long neck that stretched as he greeted Arthur, the blue in his eyes that were clearer than any day it had been- it was just new to him, that's all. It didn't mean anything else. He couldn't stop looking, however, when his eyes reached Francis' outfit...
"Well, come in!" Stepping away from the door, Francis showed the way inside with a wave of his hand. Seconds passed but Arthur made no signs of moving forward. He, instead, grimaced at the man before him.
"What?" asked the confused Frenchman. Arthur needed only to glance downwards before Francis chuckled, finally getting it. On top of Francis' casual blue long sleeves and pants was a frilly apron that said Kiss the Cook with a small red heart attached below it.
"If it bothers you," Francis leaned in a tad bit too close for Arthur's comfort. "I could take it off... in one condition, of course."
Before Francis could do any puckering up, Arthur took a step backward, raising a don't-you-dare eyebrow as a warning. The Frenchman only burst out laughing as he opened the door wider and stepped back, hands in front of his chest as a sign of surrender. "You caught me, cheri. I won't do anything. Now come in before the rain catches you out there."
Arthur frowned, handing his coat over to Francis as he stepped inside the house. "Cheri? You never called me that before."
There was an awkward pause as Arthur caught Francis' eyes widen, as if he were a little boy caught in the act of something he wasn't supposed to do. "Well," he started. "take it as a sign of welcome. You are, after all, my guest for the evening," Francis grinned. He hung Arthur's coat on the coat rack and proceeded to show the Englishman to the dining table.
"Uh huh," Arthur only eyed the Frenchman suspiciously, pretending not to see the look of triumph (and was that relief?) the Frenchman gave to himself when he had turned away from the Englishman.
As he was being shoved deeper inside the house by Francis, Arthur couldn't help but notice how normal the Frenchman's home had looked. The walls were a cozy blue with a few paintings hanging here and there. In the middle of the living room sat a comfy beige sofa with matching arm chairs positioned diagonally from it. Vases of lilies and daisies adorned the small oak side tables that stood beside them, adding a slight elegance to the room. A pleasant fire from the fireplace illuminated the area with a warm orange, contrasting the cold dark rainy blue of the outside. The wooden floor creaked slightly as they moved through, and were only muffled when they had stepped on Francis' red carpets; even they were just a simple but soft red. One would at least expect more from such a gaudy Frenchman, but Arthur admitted that this wasn't so bad either.
When they reached the dining room, Arthur couldn't help but raise an eyebrow once again. In front of him, a small dining table was set with fine china plates and what looked to be expensive and authentic silver dining ware. Arthur was impressed, he had to admit, but before he could think of how Francis could own something so luxurious and exquisite (for university students like themselves), he noticed the two small candles that each sat on both ends of the table and a vase of freshly-picked roses standing almost too romantically in the middle. Something that actually smelled heavenly was bubbling from the kitchen on the other side of the room, and that was where Francis had gone before Arthur could express his discomfort.
"Uh, Fran-"
"Hold that thought," Francis skillfully took a large wooden spoon in his hand and stirred whatever it was on the stove, adding ingredients as he went.
"Really, Fra-"
The oven dinged, and with a hurried "Sorry!", Francis took mittens from the counter and pulled out what looked to be roasted chicken. He set it on the counter and added some vegetables and spices that Arthur couldn't even name.
"Francis, you didn't have to-"
It took Francis a moment to turn around as he was busy with whatever soup (Arthur finally figured it out.) he was making, but when he did, he looked and smiled at Arthur like he hadn't been preoccupied at all. "You were saying?"
Arthur sighed heavily. "You didn't have to do all this."
"This?"
"Yes, this, you frog," Arthur gestured with irritation to the overly-decorated table to the enticing-looking food on the counter. "We're just going to talk about-"
"Oui, oui, the paper, I know," Francis rolled his eyes. "But how can we concentrate without eating some good food first, hm?"
"Listen here, you idiot-"
"I say," Francis immediately strode over to where the Englishman was standing then guided him to the chair, pushing it backwards for him and gesturing for Arthur to sit. "that we eat first, then talk later."
Arthur glared unwaveringly at the Frenchman before sighing once again and slapping away the arms that held the chair for him. "Sod off, git, I'm not a girl. I can pull my own chair back, thanks."
"Of course, of course," Francis chuckled, half-surprised but happy that he was able to coax Arthur out of his fit. He almost ruined it, however, with, "if you say so, mademoiselle." He had already strode hurriedly over to his soup, laughing, and avoiding a well-aimed napkin to the face by a raging Englishman.
"Bon appétit!"
Arthur's mouth watered as Francis carefully set the food on the table. They smelled lovely and heck, they looked lovely too, with the mixture of colorful vegetables and artistic presentation, like Francis had painted a masterpiece but with cooking oil and a dash of onions. Arthur wasn't much of a cook (He almost burned his house down trying to make his own breakfast, but no one needs to know that.), but judging from what he'd seen in cook books, this was amazing- more than even. Everything looked so well done that it almost took his mind off of the roses and expensive dining ware and the paper. Well, almost.
Francis sat opposite of Arthur as soon as he was done, and with the way he had looked at the Englishman, all smiles and expectant, he figured that the Frenchman wanted him to go first, wanted to watch him squirm with delight as he took hungry beasty bites off of his work. Arthur wouldn't ever do that, of course, but he glared anyway, his stomach's incessant hunger for good food betraying his pride.
"You really are a sodding frog, you know that?"
"Oui," Francis smiled even wider. "a sodding frog that can cook."
"I'll be the judge of that," Arthur replied haughtily, as if the food wasn't already calling out to him with all its enticing goodness. He picked up his knife and sliced himself a piece of the chicken, awed at how easily it came off. It was tender, juice dripping from the sides he had cut off from, and the smell of freshly cooked heaven grew stronger as he lifted it to his mouth.
Eyes wide and a few seconds of chewing later, Arthur cleared his throat and put down his fork, doing his best to maintain a calm demeanor. "It's good."
Francis laughed and Arthur turned red because he knew the bastard could tell he loved it.
"Well, don't be shy," Francis grinned. "Help yourself."
And so began the feast that Arthur gratefully indulged himself in. He was careful not to show any signs of wanting to wolf down everything, of course, knowing that the frog would not let him live it down... not that he'll be seeing much of the French bastard after all of this. They were neighbors, but that didn't mean Arthur had to talk to him or see him or become his friend. He didn't even want to be his friend, or his neighbor, or anything. Francis was just a school mate, that's all there was to it.
Arthur stabbed at his cabbage, eyeing it distastefully. Friends. He never really had a lot. Well, not that he wanted to. No one needed to tell him that the skinny messy-haired smartass Englishman was also a stuck up, hot headed, unattractive loner that preferred the company of books and music more than people- he knew for himself. He was, after all, the one who allowed himself to be that way. Even he thought that he was everything bad and nothing good. So much for his English pride.
It came as a surprise to him when Alfred, the annoying, loud and obnoxious American that everyone was friends with, went up to him and decided to be his friend. Best friend is what he would say, annoyance is what Arthur preferred. Nonetheless, he was grateful for the company, no matter how conflicting their personalities were-not that he'd ever tell anyone-and wondered quietly if Francis was going to be the same. Of course, he didn't want him to be. No one wants a flamboyant, egocentric, irritating Frenchman bastard for a friend. But something about Francis was different, and as Arthur looked up from his plate and into incandescent blue eyes and a smile that immediately sent Arthur's heart into a silent pounding rage, he knew that the bastard was too different, and he can't possibly ever be his friend.
"What's wrong, Arthur?" Francis suddenly throws him a concerned look that makes the Englishman squirm a bit in his seat.
"Nothing that concerns you, frog," Arthur retorted, hiding the squirm with a mouthful of chicken and French onion soup.
Francis chuckled. Is that all he ever does? "Well, is it my food? Do you dislike it?"
"No," Arthur replied indignantly before he could stop himself. "It's delicious."
Arthur suddenly realized the impulse in his words when Francis laughed. It wasn't the mocking smug laugh that Arthur would expect from him. Instead, it was hearty and sincere, like he actually enjoyed Arthur's sullen company. Still, this didn't stop him from glaring and putting down his spoon in protest.
"Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it," Francis smiled once again, and motioned for him to continue eating.
There was only silence when Arthur decided not to waste good food. Silence wasn't much of a problem because, in fact, he did enjoy silence quite a lot. After all, the library was his best friend and classical music, his right hand man. Awkward silence, however, was a different story. Though maybe it was only Arthur who felt awkward, because, looking at Francis, he'd say the Frenchman was indeed enjoying himself. The same smile still lingered on his face, the dim light from the candles softening his features as he gracefully ate in the silence.
Then Arthur caught himself staring, and he really didn't want to stare, not because staring was rude (Heck, if it was Francis, he'd do anything rude.), but because he was staring at Francis, and Francis, knowing self-centered bastards like him, would be sensitive to these kinds of things, no matter how busy they looked while they picked at their food. So with a glare at nothing in particular, Arthur went back to eating his food, not noticing the wide smile Francis held when he looked up and observed the Englishman quietly.
"So, tell me," Francis started, startling the poor Brit on his seat. "what were you doing under the rain, without an umbrella, and staring at God-knows-what on the bridge the other day?"
"None of your business," came the quick reply of the Englishman. He had forgotten about that day (or tried to), but he does remember promising himself never to talk to anyone about it, especially to a certain Frenchman.
Francis' low laugh was enough to catch Arthur's attention as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Fair enough," he said then got up to clear the table.
That's it? Thought Arthur, eyeing Francis' back suspiciously. He was expecting him to pry, hand ready to pick up his fork just in case he needed something to throw at the Frenchman to shut him up. Unfortunately, the fork had been taken away from him when Francis came back to the table, whistling some odd tune, and took his plate with him to dump into the dishwasher. So much for self defense.
"If you're not going to tell me about that," said Francis, walking away and cleaning the kitchen as he went, "then tell me something about yourself."
Ah, the catch. "I'm not going to play that little ice breaker with you, Bonnefoy," smirked Arthur as he stood up to observe some obscure painting on the wall. "We're not little girls in a slumber party."
"Humor me, cher."
Arthur snorted this time, picking up a little golden statue of a girl holding a bouquet of flowers off of the cabinet underneath the painting and twirled it around his fingers. "Why don't we talk about much more important matters, hmm? Like the school pa-"
"My name is Francis Bonnefoy, born in Paris, France, age eighteen. My mother's name is Antoinette Bonnefoy and my father, Francois Bonnefoy. I am an only child although I wouldn't mind younger siblings since I do love children. I have a passion for cooking and painting during my free time. I'm alright with dogs but prefer cats more. Wine and fine dining captures my heart, and so does-"
"Let me guess," Arthur cut him off, eyebrow twitching in annoyance as he leaned against the cabinet, still twirling the golden statue in his hand. "You love watching sappy old romantic movies and long walks in the beach."
"Not what I had in mind, but," Francis winked. "you're close."
Arthur sighed heavily, rubbing his temples with his free hand. "Look, Francis, I don't know what your crap is with the paper and why you're so hesitant to talk about it, but we really do need to discuss it. It's due this Friday, for God's sakes, and it's already Wednesday evening-"
"Arthur, please," interrupted Francis. His back was still turned towards Arthur but this didn't stop the Englishman from glaring daggers to the immediate direction of his head. "I'll take care of it-all of it. Now," Arthur was just about ready to hurl the small statue at Francis' head when he heard glasses clinking and a muffled thunk on the now-clean dining table. Arthur recognized it to be a bottle of wine and two empty wine glasses. "Let's drink."
Arthur didn't know (more like he couldn't remember) how Francis persuaded him to drink wine of all the alcoholic drinks Francis would have in England, but he did. And soon enough, the Brit found himself slumped on his chair, refilling the glass with the crimson liquid, and chugging all of it down his throat.
"My name," Arthur slurred, "is Arthur Kirkland," a gulp as the Englishman tried to steady himself on the chair that suddenly seemed too small for him, "I was born here, but not really," a short drunk laugh, "of course, I was born in a hospital, you idiot," he glared at the amused and tipsy Frenchman in front of him, even if he knew deep down inside his sober mind that he had not really said a thing, "and-and my mother and father are-" a sip, "well, they're not here." Arthur smiled rather wryly at Francis, not taking notice of how the Frenchman seemed absorbed-too absorbed-with his ranting. "I am seventeen turning eighteen, and-" a hiccup as Arthur struggled to keep his body from drooping on the table, "and I hate your guts, you stupid bastard."
Francis laughed acquiescently, the insult flying over his head as he held the glass carelessly in front of him. "See? Now that wasn't so bad."
"Shut up, frog, I'm not finished!" grumbled Arthur, having a hard time raising his head to look at Francis, but he did it anyway, and glared at him before taking a sip at his wine. "My brothers' names are-"
"Brothers?" Francis raised his eyebrows, bringing the glass to his mouth. "You have brothers?"
"Yes, I have brothers, frog," Arthur snapped, irritated all of a sudden. He didn't really want to talk about his family, much less his brothers. His insides were shouting desperate pleas of no's but the alcohol was betraying him, and he was already numb, so why not? "I'm living on my own without them, y'know-all of them-and I'd rather it stay that way." Arthur took a big sip from his glass before continuing, "They were assholes, the bunch of them, always bullying me and treating me like the black sheep of the family." He laughed scornfully this time, loving how the wine seemed to cheer him up even though he was talking about something that normally twisted his guts with anger. "Even as I grew into an obedient teenager that had nothing but perfect grades in school, they never took me seriously; always beating me up and calling me names I didn't even deserve. And with my parents gone most of the time, always working and working, struggling to pay the bills and keeping us alive, they couldn't really do anything. They didn't even know."
It took more giant gulps of wine before Arthur stopped and noticed the empathetic look Francis was giving him. He hated that look.
"Arthur, I'm so-"
"Don't," Arthur growled, all the anger and he had kept instantly pooling inside his stomach, twisting and churning until they all settled to burn. "Don't tell me you're sorry. The last thing I want from you is pity."
"If I had kn-"
Arthur stood up to leave, but obviously underestimated his current state, for when he tried to take one step towards the door, his knees buckled under his weight and he fell, but was saved by the quick sober reflexes of the Frenchman.
"Really, Arthur," grunted Francis. He struggled to put an arm over the drunk Englishman and heave him upright.
"Y'know," Arthur hiccuped, the smell of alcohol in his breath suddenly made him feel nauseous. "I really do hate you. Your hair, your scent, your stupid little French accent-everything." He looked up at Francis, suddenly meeting two very close and very bright ceruleans that threatened to swallow him whole. "And yet... you bastard..." Was all Arthur managed to say before sleep finally overtook him, his body leaning heavily towards Francis more than he would have wanted it to.
Francis stood there for a few more seconds, holding the drunk Englishman on his bony waist with an arm slung over his shoulders, and smiled softly.
"I know, Arthur. I know."
----------------------------------------------------
Author's Note: Wow, I'm really sorry for the long wait. I just didn't know how to write this chapter. Haha! But I'm finally done with Chapter 3, and hopefully Chapter 4 will come out smoother and faster than this one. :p Thank you so much for your support, guys! As I said, constructive criticism is always appreciated!
Author: mslavender
Characters: AU!France, AU!England, mentions of AU!Hungary, AU!Feliciano, AU!Romano
Pairing: FrUK <3
Rating: T
Summary: Seven days of rain, seven days of innocent romance.
"Ugh, did she really have to hit us with that frying pan?" Francis grumbled. He flinched as he softly touched the sore bump on his head where Elizaveta had hit him. "Where did she get that thing anyway?"
"Feli's brother Romano is in the cooking club. They're all pretty close," replied Arthur, grunting as he adjusted his backpack.
(School had already ended. Looking back, Arthur and Francis were late for their class after lunch, but they were glad to have at least escaped from the fuming Hungarian. Who knows what more she could've done if they had stayed longer after saying their apologies?)
Francis took a short glance at the Brit beside him as he winced; a little shake of his head and Francis knew the Englishman could still feel the weight of that frying pan bearing down on him. Not wanting to push his luck, Francis decided to leave the laughs for later despite the smartass comments that were about to slip out of his mouth. Besides, it's not like he was in a different position from the Englishman.
"First my cheek, then my head," Francis grumbled. "And all this rain, too."
Arthur only hummed in reply as they both stopped at the school gates, looking up at the skies that grew darker with gray clouds that hung heavily on them. They had just left the infirmary, and the nurse wasn't all too happy seeing them both with bumps and bruises. She had hurried them out of the door as soon as she was done with them, not at all careful when treating their 'wounds'. She mumbled something about 'late for a date' and 'dinner'.
Francis chuckled to himself. He wanted to be in the same position as that nurse: sharing a dinner; didn't necessarily have to be a date, but nonetheless with someone he had wanted to share his cooking with. Arthur was that one person. He didn't know exactly why, but even after their squabbling, fighting and the frying pan incident, there was just something about the Englishman that Francis wanted to know more about; as if there was something more to Arthur than he let anyone else see. Looking down at his shoes, he started to think about how he was going to do it- to let Arthur open up to him. With how things were going, Francis was beginning to doubt if Arthur was ever going to allow himself to talk. He did say he hated Francis after all, and even if the Frenchman wasn't normally bothered by people saying that to him (Francis did have a lot of enemies: exes, jealous people, etc. He was kind of used to it.), Arthur was an exception- a big exception. It stung, but it wasn't Francis to back down so easily. And so with a smile, he glanced at Arthur's direction and did what he did best: talk.
"I was just thinking," Francis walked out of the school gates and prepared his umbrella.
"Well, that's dangerous," mumbled Arthur. He made no motion to take out an umbrella at all. Francis guessed it was because he wasn't carrying any.
"Very funny," Francis glanced at Arthur with a cocked eyebrow, and continued, "As I was saying, I was thinking, you know, the way this week started for me," a laugh, "it feels like a bad omen."
"Yeah?" Arthur kicked a leaf on the ground- his mood had turned sour all of a sudden. Francis only looked confusingly at the Englishman when he received a glare. "Well, if you don't want me to go to this dinner, then just tell me. I'd be more than happy to stay out of your way."
Then the Frenchman understood. "Oh, non non non, Anglais," he chuckled. "I'm not saying the bad omen is because of you," then mumbled, "although my cheek does still hurt from the other day," Arthur only glared once more before Francis continued, "In fact, you're one of the best things that have happened to me recently." A charming smile.
Francis watched as Arthur's eyes widened in surprise, took a short look at Francis then turned away, ears turning red from his view. He almost laughed out loud at the reaction, but caught himself and feigned a coughing fit.
"Don't you give me that damn smile, frog! I'm not falling for that- that weird ass smile of yours," Arthur regained his composure and held his chin up high, still not looking at the Frenchman. "And such embarrassing words... try to be a man for once, you git."
"Embarrassing? There was nothing embarrassing about that," Francis hid a wide smile behind his hand. He already knew he was going to enjoy his time with the Englishman, fights and what-not. "And isn't it sexier when a man wears his emotions on his sleeves nowadays? It is only a strong man who is not afraid to show his tears, oui?"
"Wow, you are so gay," Arthur smirked.
"I will take that as the meaning for happy," Francis snapped, ready to take the topic elsewhere before they argue once again on the road and underneath the rain. Arthur snorted smugly in reply.
"Anyway, as for the dinner..." a pause. Dinner? Did Arthur just mention the dinner? Francis did a double take. "You agree then?"
"Agree with what?" Arthur frowned.
"The dinner! You're agreeing to go!" Francis' smile widened, hands finding their way onto Arthur's shoulders. He finally had the chance to talk to Arthur. And what better way to begin a friendship than to start with a man's stomach?
Arthur tried to shrug the Frenchman's hands off but was simply unsuccessful. "Yes!" he barked. "Now, would you please-" Before he could continue his sentence, a warm tight hug had engulfed him, and the sweet vanilla scent of the Frenchman's cologne blanketed his senses. He didn't know how many times he had turned a shade of red that day, but if he had tried to count and wanted to beat Francis to a pulp, the number of times would be enough to send him to his death (which he really wanted to do at the moment).
"Would you... stop it...!" Arthur grunted and gasped as he tried to push the tall Frenchman away. "Let go-"
"Oh, I am going to make you the best food you have tasted in years!" Francis grinned, finally releasing the huffing Englishman, grinning brightly as if he had never heard Arthur's protests.
"It's just dinner!" replied an exasperated Arthur, blaming cold wind for the uncomfortable warmth that had seemed to reach his ears once again. He fixed his jacket, snuggling warmly into it as he stared at the drizzle that had begun to pour, adding silently, "And the school newspaper. This is all this dinner is about, alright?"
Francis grew silent. He was honest with himself: he didn't want the dinner to be all about some random school newspaper. Even if they had planned it just for that, Francis was hoping to get to know more about Arthur. However, it seemed like Arthur didn't want the same. Did he? Thinking this, Francis took one glance at the Englishman. He was met with forest green eyes staring questioningly at him.
"Yes, the paper. Of course!" Francis finally replied, giving Arthur his best smile. He opened his umbrella as the rain started to pour harder, and caught Arthur under it, only chuckling when the Englishman kept pushing him away and muttering curses when he realized he did need the umbrella. Deep down inside, however, Francis wished that hopefully Arthur hadn't seen him look desperate.
----------------------------------------------------
The trip home wasn't as annoying as Arthur had thought it to be. In fact, it was worse. Much worse. The frog wouldn't stop forcing the umbrella on him when he had already said he didn't need it. He loved the rain and he liked to stick with his beliefs no matter how impractical it seemed. It wasn't at all because he was sharing an umbrella with the very bastard that made him sick to the bones with girlish blushing and heart thumping and all of those annoying feelings that Arthur did not dare acknowledge, or that their shoulders kept brushing and bumping with every step they struggled to make in the tight space, or even the lingering scent of Francis that made it even harder to concentrate on the ground he was walking on- no, it was none of that at all. Arthur wasn't that shallow, and to prove it, he stood patiently behind Francis' apartment door, listening to the soft but hurried footsteps that were approaching.
"Arthur?" Francis opened the door breathlessly, his low ponytail trailing slightly behind him. Arthur took in Francis' new look for a few seconds, noticing how strong his jaw was without all that hair covering it, and the long neck that stretched as he greeted Arthur, the blue in his eyes that were clearer than any day it had been- it was just new to him, that's all. It didn't mean anything else. He couldn't stop looking, however, when his eyes reached Francis' outfit...
"Well, come in!" Stepping away from the door, Francis showed the way inside with a wave of his hand. Seconds passed but Arthur made no signs of moving forward. He, instead, grimaced at the man before him.
"What?" asked the confused Frenchman. Arthur needed only to glance downwards before Francis chuckled, finally getting it. On top of Francis' casual blue long sleeves and pants was a frilly apron that said Kiss the Cook with a small red heart attached below it.
"If it bothers you," Francis leaned in a tad bit too close for Arthur's comfort. "I could take it off... in one condition, of course."
Before Francis could do any puckering up, Arthur took a step backward, raising a don't-you-dare eyebrow as a warning. The Frenchman only burst out laughing as he opened the door wider and stepped back, hands in front of his chest as a sign of surrender. "You caught me, cheri. I won't do anything. Now come in before the rain catches you out there."
Arthur frowned, handing his coat over to Francis as he stepped inside the house. "Cheri? You never called me that before."
There was an awkward pause as Arthur caught Francis' eyes widen, as if he were a little boy caught in the act of something he wasn't supposed to do. "Well," he started. "take it as a sign of welcome. You are, after all, my guest for the evening," Francis grinned. He hung Arthur's coat on the coat rack and proceeded to show the Englishman to the dining table.
"Uh huh," Arthur only eyed the Frenchman suspiciously, pretending not to see the look of triumph (and was that relief?) the Frenchman gave to himself when he had turned away from the Englishman.
As he was being shoved deeper inside the house by Francis, Arthur couldn't help but notice how normal the Frenchman's home had looked. The walls were a cozy blue with a few paintings hanging here and there. In the middle of the living room sat a comfy beige sofa with matching arm chairs positioned diagonally from it. Vases of lilies and daisies adorned the small oak side tables that stood beside them, adding a slight elegance to the room. A pleasant fire from the fireplace illuminated the area with a warm orange, contrasting the cold dark rainy blue of the outside. The wooden floor creaked slightly as they moved through, and were only muffled when they had stepped on Francis' red carpets; even they were just a simple but soft red. One would at least expect more from such a gaudy Frenchman, but Arthur admitted that this wasn't so bad either.
When they reached the dining room, Arthur couldn't help but raise an eyebrow once again. In front of him, a small dining table was set with fine china plates and what looked to be expensive and authentic silver dining ware. Arthur was impressed, he had to admit, but before he could think of how Francis could own something so luxurious and exquisite (for university students like themselves), he noticed the two small candles that each sat on both ends of the table and a vase of freshly-picked roses standing almost too romantically in the middle. Something that actually smelled heavenly was bubbling from the kitchen on the other side of the room, and that was where Francis had gone before Arthur could express his discomfort.
"Uh, Fran-"
"Hold that thought," Francis skillfully took a large wooden spoon in his hand and stirred whatever it was on the stove, adding ingredients as he went.
"Really, Fra-"
The oven dinged, and with a hurried "Sorry!", Francis took mittens from the counter and pulled out what looked to be roasted chicken. He set it on the counter and added some vegetables and spices that Arthur couldn't even name.
"Francis, you didn't have to-"
It took Francis a moment to turn around as he was busy with whatever soup (Arthur finally figured it out.) he was making, but when he did, he looked and smiled at Arthur like he hadn't been preoccupied at all. "You were saying?"
Arthur sighed heavily. "You didn't have to do all this."
"This?"
"Yes, this, you frog," Arthur gestured with irritation to the overly-decorated table to the enticing-looking food on the counter. "We're just going to talk about-"
"Oui, oui, the paper, I know," Francis rolled his eyes. "But how can we concentrate without eating some good food first, hm?"
"Listen here, you idiot-"
"I say," Francis immediately strode over to where the Englishman was standing then guided him to the chair, pushing it backwards for him and gesturing for Arthur to sit. "that we eat first, then talk later."
Arthur glared unwaveringly at the Frenchman before sighing once again and slapping away the arms that held the chair for him. "Sod off, git, I'm not a girl. I can pull my own chair back, thanks."
"Of course, of course," Francis chuckled, half-surprised but happy that he was able to coax Arthur out of his fit. He almost ruined it, however, with, "if you say so, mademoiselle." He had already strode hurriedly over to his soup, laughing, and avoiding a well-aimed napkin to the face by a raging Englishman.
"Bon appétit!"
Arthur's mouth watered as Francis carefully set the food on the table. They smelled lovely and heck, they looked lovely too, with the mixture of colorful vegetables and artistic presentation, like Francis had painted a masterpiece but with cooking oil and a dash of onions. Arthur wasn't much of a cook (He almost burned his house down trying to make his own breakfast, but no one needs to know that.), but judging from what he'd seen in cook books, this was amazing- more than even. Everything looked so well done that it almost took his mind off of the roses and expensive dining ware and the paper. Well, almost.
Francis sat opposite of Arthur as soon as he was done, and with the way he had looked at the Englishman, all smiles and expectant, he figured that the Frenchman wanted him to go first, wanted to watch him squirm with delight as he took hungry beasty bites off of his work. Arthur wouldn't ever do that, of course, but he glared anyway, his stomach's incessant hunger for good food betraying his pride.
"You really are a sodding frog, you know that?"
"Oui," Francis smiled even wider. "a sodding frog that can cook."
"I'll be the judge of that," Arthur replied haughtily, as if the food wasn't already calling out to him with all its enticing goodness. He picked up his knife and sliced himself a piece of the chicken, awed at how easily it came off. It was tender, juice dripping from the sides he had cut off from, and the smell of freshly cooked heaven grew stronger as he lifted it to his mouth.
Eyes wide and a few seconds of chewing later, Arthur cleared his throat and put down his fork, doing his best to maintain a calm demeanor. "It's good."
Francis laughed and Arthur turned red because he knew the bastard could tell he loved it.
"Well, don't be shy," Francis grinned. "Help yourself."
And so began the feast that Arthur gratefully indulged himself in. He was careful not to show any signs of wanting to wolf down everything, of course, knowing that the frog would not let him live it down... not that he'll be seeing much of the French bastard after all of this. They were neighbors, but that didn't mean Arthur had to talk to him or see him or become his friend. He didn't even want to be his friend, or his neighbor, or anything. Francis was just a school mate, that's all there was to it.
Arthur stabbed at his cabbage, eyeing it distastefully. Friends. He never really had a lot. Well, not that he wanted to. No one needed to tell him that the skinny messy-haired smartass Englishman was also a stuck up, hot headed, unattractive loner that preferred the company of books and music more than people- he knew for himself. He was, after all, the one who allowed himself to be that way. Even he thought that he was everything bad and nothing good. So much for his English pride.
It came as a surprise to him when Alfred, the annoying, loud and obnoxious American that everyone was friends with, went up to him and decided to be his friend. Best friend is what he would say, annoyance is what Arthur preferred. Nonetheless, he was grateful for the company, no matter how conflicting their personalities were-not that he'd ever tell anyone-and wondered quietly if Francis was going to be the same. Of course, he didn't want him to be. No one wants a flamboyant, egocentric, irritating Frenchman bastard for a friend. But something about Francis was different, and as Arthur looked up from his plate and into incandescent blue eyes and a smile that immediately sent Arthur's heart into a silent pounding rage, he knew that the bastard was too different, and he can't possibly ever be his friend.
"What's wrong, Arthur?" Francis suddenly throws him a concerned look that makes the Englishman squirm a bit in his seat.
"Nothing that concerns you, frog," Arthur retorted, hiding the squirm with a mouthful of chicken and French onion soup.
Francis chuckled. Is that all he ever does? "Well, is it my food? Do you dislike it?"
"No," Arthur replied indignantly before he could stop himself. "It's delicious."
Arthur suddenly realized the impulse in his words when Francis laughed. It wasn't the mocking smug laugh that Arthur would expect from him. Instead, it was hearty and sincere, like he actually enjoyed Arthur's sullen company. Still, this didn't stop him from glaring and putting down his spoon in protest.
"Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it," Francis smiled once again, and motioned for him to continue eating.
There was only silence when Arthur decided not to waste good food. Silence wasn't much of a problem because, in fact, he did enjoy silence quite a lot. After all, the library was his best friend and classical music, his right hand man. Awkward silence, however, was a different story. Though maybe it was only Arthur who felt awkward, because, looking at Francis, he'd say the Frenchman was indeed enjoying himself. The same smile still lingered on his face, the dim light from the candles softening his features as he gracefully ate in the silence.
Then Arthur caught himself staring, and he really didn't want to stare, not because staring was rude (Heck, if it was Francis, he'd do anything rude.), but because he was staring at Francis, and Francis, knowing self-centered bastards like him, would be sensitive to these kinds of things, no matter how busy they looked while they picked at their food. So with a glare at nothing in particular, Arthur went back to eating his food, not noticing the wide smile Francis held when he looked up and observed the Englishman quietly.
"So, tell me," Francis started, startling the poor Brit on his seat. "what were you doing under the rain, without an umbrella, and staring at God-knows-what on the bridge the other day?"
"None of your business," came the quick reply of the Englishman. He had forgotten about that day (or tried to), but he does remember promising himself never to talk to anyone about it, especially to a certain Frenchman.
Francis' low laugh was enough to catch Arthur's attention as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Fair enough," he said then got up to clear the table.
That's it? Thought Arthur, eyeing Francis' back suspiciously. He was expecting him to pry, hand ready to pick up his fork just in case he needed something to throw at the Frenchman to shut him up. Unfortunately, the fork had been taken away from him when Francis came back to the table, whistling some odd tune, and took his plate with him to dump into the dishwasher. So much for self defense.
"If you're not going to tell me about that," said Francis, walking away and cleaning the kitchen as he went, "then tell me something about yourself."
Ah, the catch. "I'm not going to play that little ice breaker with you, Bonnefoy," smirked Arthur as he stood up to observe some obscure painting on the wall. "We're not little girls in a slumber party."
"Humor me, cher."
Arthur snorted this time, picking up a little golden statue of a girl holding a bouquet of flowers off of the cabinet underneath the painting and twirled it around his fingers. "Why don't we talk about much more important matters, hmm? Like the school pa-"
"My name is Francis Bonnefoy, born in Paris, France, age eighteen. My mother's name is Antoinette Bonnefoy and my father, Francois Bonnefoy. I am an only child although I wouldn't mind younger siblings since I do love children. I have a passion for cooking and painting during my free time. I'm alright with dogs but prefer cats more. Wine and fine dining captures my heart, and so does-"
"Let me guess," Arthur cut him off, eyebrow twitching in annoyance as he leaned against the cabinet, still twirling the golden statue in his hand. "You love watching sappy old romantic movies and long walks in the beach."
"Not what I had in mind, but," Francis winked. "you're close."
Arthur sighed heavily, rubbing his temples with his free hand. "Look, Francis, I don't know what your crap is with the paper and why you're so hesitant to talk about it, but we really do need to discuss it. It's due this Friday, for God's sakes, and it's already Wednesday evening-"
"Arthur, please," interrupted Francis. His back was still turned towards Arthur but this didn't stop the Englishman from glaring daggers to the immediate direction of his head. "I'll take care of it-all of it. Now," Arthur was just about ready to hurl the small statue at Francis' head when he heard glasses clinking and a muffled thunk on the now-clean dining table. Arthur recognized it to be a bottle of wine and two empty wine glasses. "Let's drink."
Arthur didn't know (more like he couldn't remember) how Francis persuaded him to drink wine of all the alcoholic drinks Francis would have in England, but he did. And soon enough, the Brit found himself slumped on his chair, refilling the glass with the crimson liquid, and chugging all of it down his throat.
"My name," Arthur slurred, "is Arthur Kirkland," a gulp as the Englishman tried to steady himself on the chair that suddenly seemed too small for him, "I was born here, but not really," a short drunk laugh, "of course, I was born in a hospital, you idiot," he glared at the amused and tipsy Frenchman in front of him, even if he knew deep down inside his sober mind that he had not really said a thing, "and-and my mother and father are-" a sip, "well, they're not here." Arthur smiled rather wryly at Francis, not taking notice of how the Frenchman seemed absorbed-too absorbed-with his ranting. "I am seventeen turning eighteen, and-" a hiccup as Arthur struggled to keep his body from drooping on the table, "and I hate your guts, you stupid bastard."
Francis laughed acquiescently, the insult flying over his head as he held the glass carelessly in front of him. "See? Now that wasn't so bad."
"Shut up, frog, I'm not finished!" grumbled Arthur, having a hard time raising his head to look at Francis, but he did it anyway, and glared at him before taking a sip at his wine. "My brothers' names are-"
"Brothers?" Francis raised his eyebrows, bringing the glass to his mouth. "You have brothers?"
"Yes, I have brothers, frog," Arthur snapped, irritated all of a sudden. He didn't really want to talk about his family, much less his brothers. His insides were shouting desperate pleas of no's but the alcohol was betraying him, and he was already numb, so why not? "I'm living on my own without them, y'know-all of them-and I'd rather it stay that way." Arthur took a big sip from his glass before continuing, "They were assholes, the bunch of them, always bullying me and treating me like the black sheep of the family." He laughed scornfully this time, loving how the wine seemed to cheer him up even though he was talking about something that normally twisted his guts with anger. "Even as I grew into an obedient teenager that had nothing but perfect grades in school, they never took me seriously; always beating me up and calling me names I didn't even deserve. And with my parents gone most of the time, always working and working, struggling to pay the bills and keeping us alive, they couldn't really do anything. They didn't even know."
It took more giant gulps of wine before Arthur stopped and noticed the empathetic look Francis was giving him. He hated that look.
"Arthur, I'm so-"
"Don't," Arthur growled, all the anger and he had kept instantly pooling inside his stomach, twisting and churning until they all settled to burn. "Don't tell me you're sorry. The last thing I want from you is pity."
"If I had kn-"
Arthur stood up to leave, but obviously underestimated his current state, for when he tried to take one step towards the door, his knees buckled under his weight and he fell, but was saved by the quick sober reflexes of the Frenchman.
"Really, Arthur," grunted Francis. He struggled to put an arm over the drunk Englishman and heave him upright.
"Y'know," Arthur hiccuped, the smell of alcohol in his breath suddenly made him feel nauseous. "I really do hate you. Your hair, your scent, your stupid little French accent-everything." He looked up at Francis, suddenly meeting two very close and very bright ceruleans that threatened to swallow him whole. "And yet... you bastard..." Was all Arthur managed to say before sleep finally overtook him, his body leaning heavily towards Francis more than he would have wanted it to.
Francis stood there for a few more seconds, holding the drunk Englishman on his bony waist with an arm slung over his shoulders, and smiled softly.
"I know, Arthur. I know."
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Author's Note: Wow, I'm really sorry for the long wait. I just didn't know how to write this chapter. Haha! But I'm finally done with Chapter 3, and hopefully Chapter 4 will come out smoother and faster than this one. :p Thank you so much for your support, guys! As I said, constructive criticism is always appreciated!