A/N: So much for my hiatus. So I was sitting in the train, revising stuff for my world history exam, and this idea struck me. I'd wanted to write the FrUK side to this fic anyway, but now I knew just what to say.

If you're not into FrUK and don't want to read a full chapter on it, that's perfectly fine. This doesn't have any impact on the Spamano plot, except for tying in with it here and there. But if you choose not to read it, you won't be missing out on anything, Spamano-wise. I'm writing this more to satisfy my own FrUK needs anyway xD But if you do want to stick with this, then yay! *Hugs*

Here are some little notes-

This is just an additional FrUK chapter. It takes place immediately after Antonio and Lovino separate. So the timeline is still Three Years Ago, and it will bridge the narrative gap between Francis and Arthur's ambiguous and complicated relationship in chapter two, to the epilogue when Francis finally agrees to go on a date with Arthur.

All characters are French by nationality unless otherwise stated.

There will be some OCs, but they are unimportant.

Also, I guess this is sort of irrelevant, but I'd always had it in my head that for this fic, Gilbert works in finance, although I could never just pick an actual career for him.

Alfred and Madeline are not related to each other in this fic. Remember, guys, Madeline is French by nationality for the sake of this story.

Marie – a human name for Monaco

Finally, I've used Google Translate. I'm not French, and Google Translate is evil, so there might be mistakes.

The scene is like one of those old romance novels sitting on Francis's nightstand. He's always felt that. He's never told this to Arthur, though. Francis would just get a funny look and a dry remark if he did. But he's always really liked the feel of it. Standing in a dark, deserted little rain-swept alley behind the restaurant, one hand tightening the straps on his coat, the other patting the pockets for a cigarette.

Then there's the tell-tale sound. The shhhk and the whrr of a small flame, as Arthur lights up beside him. Francis likes the man's silhouette in the lamplight. He looks like one of those private detectives in the old movies, sans the hat. Arthur's hands are still cupped around his cigarette, a little yellow glow to his palms. He finally lowers them, pocketing the lighter as he does.

"Cold night."

"Long winter ahead," Francis agrees, finally taking out his own cigarette. "That's what I was telling Antonio yesterday."

"He left for Spain this morning, you said?"

Neither of them is looking at each other, but that's normal. It's very, very late at night. The restaurant is closed. But they usually stand here and smoke and chat, sometimes kissing and touching. There's such a thrill to it, touching in a public place. Arthur's ever so prudish but on nights like these, something comes over him and his motions are aggressive and dominant and confident.

Francis sighs. "Light me up?" The cigarette in between his teeth makes the words seem muffled, but Arthur whips out the lighter, approaches Francis and ignites the tobacco-rolled end. He truly loves it when Arthur lights his cigarettes for him. There's just something about the moment. About seeing Arthur's green eyes and the flame dancing between them.

"What's with him and this Lovino guy?" Arthur asks, openly curious as he stands beside Francis, their shoulders not touching.

"Love, that's what. It's a very good story, almost reads like fiction. Lovers separated by their inhibitions. The promise of return. Staying strong, being brave, all that prettiness."

"Wow."

"Yeah…So Antonio's gone back to Spain to get over his…travel addiction…thing."

"Wow."

"Hmm."

"What? Don't leave the story half-finished. And Lovino?"

"Oh, that's another thing altogether. Lovino Vargas? Grandson of the wine mogul?"

"Shut up, you're joking."

"Am not."

"We're such gossips," Arthur laughs, the sound making an amused little smile play on Francis's lips.

"Indeed. Anyway, little Lovino…well, he's actually a bit of a chef, you know? He wants to start his own restaurant. He's gone back to Italy to leave the suffocating job he's stuck in."

"Oh, I can imagine. Million euro bank account. I can barely breathe."

Francis laughs openly now. "Come now, Arthur. It's all very romantic, no?"

Arthur just shrugs, completely non-committal. "I guess. But they've only known each other two weeks. That's not a long time, Francis. What if they go their separate ways and then realise they don't love each other after all?"

"Haven't you ever heard of love at first sight?"

"I have. But all those stories end in happily ever afters and I've only ever seen them in fairytales."

"Not a romantic bone in your body, I see," Francis teases, nudging the other man gently.

"Oh god, no. I'm just a boring old realist." Arthur sounds exhausted. "So anyway, they're in different countries and they're…getting over their inhibitions?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

"And then they'll reunite one year from now to the day in Normandy. On the beach."

"And they all lived happily ever after," Arthur quips, although Francis can't shake off the feeling that there's something Arthur isn't saying. That's always the case with them, isn't it? There's always something somebody's keeping to themselves. Francis doesn't pry. He's too much of a coward.

"It's so romantic," Francis murmurs, more to himself than to Arthur. "Antonio deserves to be happy. I'm glad for him."

"Mm," Arthur says, and then falls silent.

There is so much to be said. There's always so much to be said. The silences between them can fill empty conversations, because everything they don't say has so much goddamn substance.

"Stay with me tonight?" Francis asks after an extended pause.

Arthur holds the cigarette between two fingers and blows out a long gust of smoke. Francis tries to read his face but the lighting is too poor. Arthur drops the still perfectly usable cigarette on the pavement and crushes it underfoot.

"Why did you do that?" Francis asks mildly.

"I'll stay with you tonight," Arthur replies. All at once, they've had two different conversations and spoken about absolutely nothing.

Francis especially loves how sunlight fills up his apartment every morning. It's beautiful. The windows are angled just right, so the sun's never blinding, but the rays are always warm and golden, the sort of thing they write songs about. Francis hums to himself as he breaks eggs into a bowl, fully dressed, with his hair a little damp from the shower.

Arthur emerges right about then, still in only his boxers.

No, he's wearing a pair of Francis's boxers, actually. The ones that had been kicked halfway across the room last night. Arthur's always so possessive and hungry, almost as though if he doesn't bed Francis now and like this and touch him there, he'll never have another chance to. It's almost as though Arthur thinks that each time they sleep together will be their last, and he's trying to hold Francis like Francis might just disappear in his entirety.

"Morning," Francis chirps lightly, whisking together the eggs and the flour and the sugar. "Did you sleep well?"

"What sleep?" Arthur mumbles gruffly before rubbing his eyes and stumbling to the bathroom. He's never been very good at dealing with mornings. It's so endearing.

When he returns a few minutes later, he's stolen one of Francis's t-shirts, too. Francis has very few actual t-shirts, ones he usually uses to sleep in, and this one is sky blue and has the words Kiss the Cook printed on it. It's funny because Arthur's not a chef, and when he attempts to make something, it's not called 'cooking' but 'burning'.

"Morning," Francis tries again, a small smile on his face as he backs Arthur.

"Morning," Arthur responds automatically, and Francis can hear him pottering around at the other counter, trying to fix himself his cup of tea. Francis always keeps Arthur's special tea bags in a jar in the overhead cabinet, and Arthur knows that. On the few times when Francis had forgotten to restock it, Arthur had complained bitterly. I mean, I basically live here. It's the least you can bloody do. Mon cher, a cup of coffee instead won't kill you. Shut up, Francis. The only drink one ought to have the mornings is tea.

"I'm making crepes," Francis tells him. "Do you want yours with cream or honey or chocolate?"

Arthur just shrugs. "Chocolate, I guess. You can never go wrong with that, can you?"

"All right. I'll make some chocolate sauce, too."

"Don't you believe in store-bought chocolate sauce? It's much easier."

"It's a crime against humanity," Francis responds simply. "There's some cooking chocolate in the fridge. Could you hand it to me?"

These domestic situations are the worst part. The sex is easy. They both know each other's bodies so beautifully that it requires almost no thought. Dinner rush is actually fun, because Arthur always sits at the table outside, where Francis had carved the word Arthur. He'll help out when he wants to and that sometimes leads to chaotic little misadventures that make everyone laugh. Chatting at the back of the restaurant as they smoke is easier still, because it's so painfully inane.

But the domesticities.

They're terrifying.

The morning after holds some sort of obligation, and that's what Francis has a problem with. Arthur never demands anything, but one day, he will. What's Francis going to do then?

Arthur hands him the chocolate wordlessly, but when their hands brush, he takes Francis's palm in his, before slowly pulling Francis closer, holding him by the shirt and bringing him down to Arthur's level. There's such a heavy look in those green eyes when he kisses Francis. It feels slow and soft and tired. His kiss is like a teardrop. Or maybe it's a substitute for one.

When Arthur pulls away, the look is still there. Francis turns his head. He can't meet Arthur's gaze. "What was that for?"

"I felt like it," Arthur replies simply.

"Well, try not to."

"Hmm?"

Francis stares into the pale yellow crepe batter. "Don't kiss me like that. Please. I – I don't like it."

"You say that every time I kiss you, but you always kiss back." Francis doesn't like the tone Arthur's using. As though he's trying not to feel anything, but is failing desperately. Arthur sounds exhausted. He always does.

"Why do you keep kissing me?" Francis wonders softly. "Why do you always kiss me?"

Arthur sighs. "Truthfully?"

No.

"L'amour," he says without waiting for Francis to reply. Arthur is looking at him so plainly, like a lamb lying bare for execution. His face is grey but open, not a trace of deceit in his eyes.

Francis sets the whisk down, physically taking a step away from Arthur. "Cher…You…you don't mean that."

"I do. L'amour. Tu es ma raison de vivre."

Francis hates it when Arthur speaks French. It makes everything worse. Arthur was born in France and grew up here. It's not like he doesn't know the language. He's just so much more comfortable in English, because that's what his parents taught him to speak. So when Arthur puts in the effort and makes his tongue wrap around French words, Francis wants to hold him and never let go.

"You don't mean that," Francis reiterates. He takes a shaking breath. I am not your reason to live. You don't mean that. I – I won't let you mean that.

"Je t'aime."

"Arthur, stop it. Stop it." Francis has whipped around to look him in the eye. "I'm serious."

Arthur doesn't look the slightest bit perturbed, although his face is now more drawn, his skin seems unhealthy and discoloured. "Sorry," he replies simply. "I don't know what came over me."

Francis huffs quietly, mostly to bring down his heartbeat and pretend that what just happened meant absolutely nothing. Between them, most things mean absolutely nothing. (Don't they?)

"Actually," Arthur says, the usual snap back in his voice, "Don't make any crepes for me. I can't really stay."

No.

"What do you mean?" Francis asks, his tone filled with fake lightness.

Don't make this into a big deal.

"I have work." Arthur is in Francis's room now, rummaging around for his clothes from last night.

"But it's a Sunday!" Francis calls as Arthur shuts the bedroom door.

Two minutes later, the door opens and Arthur is haphazardly dressed. There's no way he can go to the office looking like that, in last night's crumpled clothes. "True, it's a Sunday, but you know how crazy the publishing business is. Editing never stops!" Arthur's laugh is short, high and unnatural.

Francis turns to stare at him as Arthur dashes about the living room, grabbing one shoe from underneath the couch and a sock from the rug. "Arthur," Francis declares quietly, heart pumping, "Don't be like that. Come on, stay for breakfast."

"I'd love to, Francis, you know that," Arthur responds without looking at him. He's tying his shoelaces. "But I just had the fifth draft of a manuscript come in last night and the writer's someone famous, so I don't want to keep her waiting."

"She can wait until you're done with breakfast," Francis simply defends.

"Don't worry, old chap. I'll pick up something on the way." And Arthur has grabbed his wallet and house keys from the dining table. "See you later!"

Before even Francis can move to stop him, Arthur has already bolted out of the apartment and slammed the door shut.

Francis doesn't move. Not for a whole minute. But then he slowly makes for the dining table, pulls a chair back and sits down. They won't speak of this tonight when Arthur comes to the restaurant. They never speak about things like this. Francis's forehead falls against the table and he closes his eyes.

Arthur doesn't love him. Arthur wouldn't do something that selfish. They've known each other since they were children, so Arthur knows…he knows. He knows perfectly well that Francis can't love him. That Francis isn't even going to try.

Arthur wouldn't let Francis carry the guilt of breaking his heart. Arthur's not that selfish.

…So, no. They won't speak of this tonight.

They'll simply pretend it never happened.

Francis's eyes are stinging. He lifts his head and wipes the small tears away. He's not going to cry about love. He's never going to cry about love again.

Francis honestly hates it when someone sits at Arthur's table. It seems so wrong. But obviously, when Arthur isn't around, the table is free for other customers. This afternoon, it's a couple of businessmen. They're sitting outside because it's warm. The weather seems schizophrenic these days, either bitterly cold and rainy, or warm, almost like spring. The leaves still fall, though. It is, after all, autumn.

Autumn has an emotion attached to it. Francis has always thought that. A sort of nagging melancholy.

He's always a little bit melancholy, though. He's become used to it.

It's a slow day at the restaurant. Arthur usually spends his Sunday lunches here. Everything Arthur orders is on the house, no matter how expensive it actually is. All of Francis's employees have firm orders to not charge him, to give him whatever he fancies, even if it may not be on the menu. Arthur, however, never makes life difficult. He orders relatively cheap things and never asks for anything that the restaurant doesn't offer.

And whenever Francis is bored, he can always saunter up to his (best friend) (soulmate), snatch his book away from under his nose, and strike up a conversation. One full of wit and sarcasm, dry humour, insults and eventually, laughter. Francis loves bantering with Arthur. It's so much fun. It's so easy.

But Arthur isn't here today.

Not that Francis is surprised.

S-O-U-L-M-A-T-E.

Soulmate.

Not just a lover. But someone whose soul is one with yours. Someone whose very being craves you. Not just a lover. That's physical, emotional. The word 'soulmate' implies a bond that is almost holy. Things get complicated when the word 'soul' is used.

Arthur is Francis's soulmate. He knows that. They both do. But Francis cannot be the man's lover. That's out of the question. Arthur understands that, right?

"Excuse me?"

Francis blinks and turns to the waiter who just approached him. "Yes, Rémy?"

Rémy is nervously playing with the cuffs of his white shirt. "There's a customer who wants to have a word with the manager. He…he's sitting at Mr. Kirkland's table. And I believe it's actually about Mr. Kirkland's table."

Francis frowns. "What?"

Under his level stare, Rémy just shrugs. "They seemed upset."

It takes a few swift steps and Francis steps out of the indoors section. Damp grass crunches underfoot as he walks up to Arthur's table. The two businessmen have mild looks of irritation and are discussing something in hushed tones. When Francis walks up to them, plasters his best May I Help You smile and gracefully says, "Good afternoon, my name is Francis Bonnefoy. I'm the owner and manager. What can I do for you?"

One of the businessmen directs his grimace on Francis and coolly lifts one corner of the placemat. "What is this?"

On the polished wood under the placemat is the haphazardly scratched-out name.

A-R-T-H-U-R

"It appears to be a carving in the wood," Francis replies simply.

"This is a Michelin Star restaurant. Why on earth are people defacing property?"

For a moment, Francis isn't sure how to reply. Francis, what the bloody hell are you doing? This is a Michelin Star restaurant, you can't just carve my name out on a table! Mon cher, you always sit here, so this is YOUR table. I just want everyone to know that. Dammit, Francis, you're such an idiot.

"I – I'm sorry, I don't understand the problem."

The customer rolls his eyes like Francis is a bit slow. "I don't want to eat at a restaurant that doesn't care about what its tables look like. I mean, if the tables are such a mess, I shudder to think what the kitchen would be like."

"Would you like another table?" Francis just asks, because he's not in the mood for an argument or an impossible customer. It's not even like Arthur's name is causing the man great personal harm. Hell, the carving had been covered with a placemat up until the very moment the customer lifted it.

"Yes, yes please." He says the word 'please' as though it's an obscenity.

"All right. Not a problem, sir." Francis signals for Rémy, who comes rushing up to them. "Rémy, would you please show these gentlemen to another table of their choice?"

"Thank you," the customer says darkly. "Although you would do well to have this table replaced. It's clearly damaged."

"We'll look into it," Francis says brightly, plastering on a smile that would rival Antonio's. "My deepest apologies for any inconvenience caused."

The two businessmen simply grumble away before standing up and letting Rémy direct them to another table.

Francis just watches them go.

Then he looks at the carving on the table, running his thumb over the letters. He'd used a fork with a bent tine to write Arthur's name into the wood.

Francis is fond of this table. So is Arthur.

He can't just replace it.

He won't.

"You have a problem, that's all I can say."

Alfred is sprawled out on Arthur's couch, gluping down a can of Coke between bites of hamburger and fries. Arthur's just sitting quietly beside him, freshly showered and cold. He's wrapped up in layers. Two sweaters and a shawl. Winter clothes are a very good substitute for a warm hug.

"I know, I know."

"I mean," Alfred goes on as though Arthur hasn't said anything, "You love the guy."

"Mmh."

"You sleep with the guy – a lot. You kiss him – also a lot. He doesn't charge you at all for eating at his restaurant – one of the finest restaurants in this city, might I add –"

"I get the picture, Alfred."

"– But he still treats you like dirt. And you're…strangely okay with this?"

"You haven't got to the best part yet."

Arthur's apartment is dreary. All white and green and grey. It's not half as pretty or as sunny as Francis's place, but it's all he's really got. The one thing in his life that doesn't seem entirely pointless. The job pays the bills. He likes it, but it's okay. Francis is…well, Francis. And Alfred is a lie.

"The best part?" Alfred asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I keep telling him I sleep with you. That we're dating."

There's a silence that follows that statement, and suddenly Alfred explodes into laughter, physically buckling as he places the Coke on the coffee table. "You told him what?" he manages through his snickers. "Why the hell would you do that?"

Arthur's face turns pink for a moment and he looks away. Alfred is still laughing. "To make him jealous."

"You're trying to make a Frenchman jealous? Good luck, dude. They invented the concept of making people jealous. I mean, look at their food. All chocolate and cheese and wine and yet, have you ever seen a fat French person? And the whole country always looks like it's dressed up for a big social event. And they're all so nice-looking, too. I mean, seriously. Then there's the whole crap about French lovers being the best. Which is rubbish, okay? Total bull. I've slept with French people, and let me tell you –"

"Let me stop you from completing what seems to be a clearly racist tirade," Arthur interrupts, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Francis sleeps with a lot of people. He actually sleeps with them. He doesn't just lie about it, like yours truly."

"Well, he's French," Alfred says as though this explains everything.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Look, just…forget it. Forget I even brought it up."

This seems to trigger a certain seriousness in Alfred, because he leans forward, all traces of humour leaving his face. His gaze his fixed and firm, his blue eyes never allowing Arthur to look away. "No, I want you to see sense. You've been obsessed with Francis since the time I met you. Since we were twenty-one. And it's been eight years. Eight years, Arthur. And hell, you've known him much, much longer than you've known me."

"Yes," Arthur says tiredly. "We were neighbours. And best friends. And worst enemies." He waves his hand around. "You get the picture."

"Yeah, I'm seeing a really bad image," Alfred mutters, picking up his Coke can and taking another sip. "Francis uses you for sex. The second you get a little bit emotional or whatever, he backs off. I mean, I'd understand if he was shy. It took me a long time to get Kiku to go on even one date with me. Almost a year. But you've known him your whole life, and he keeps shunning all your advances. All your romantic advances. But he's not shy, is he? No, you said it yourself. He sleeps around."

"I mean…emotionally, you know?" Arthur defends, although he knows how pathetic he sounds. "It's all meaningless sex."

"Exactly!" Alfred almost shouts in frustration. "That's what it fucking is! Meaningless! You're wasting your time!"

"But –"

"Look, I just –" Alfred stops, puts the Coke down, takes out his glasses and rubs his eyes. "This is a really amazing job opportunity, dude. I mean, it could be huge for you. If Francis loved you back, then I wouldn't say another word. I really wouldn't. You're my buddy. I want you to be happy. But what I'm seeing here is a lonely man in a stuffy apartment, waiting for something that's probably never going to happen. The boss wants you. The salary is incredible. It's an offer anyone would jump at without a second's hesitation. I – I don't…" Alfred sighs, falling back into the couch cushions. "I don't want you to let it go for something that might not work out. Because then you'll have missed out on an amazing opportunity, and you'll just be upset because you waited for Francis and he never let you in. See my point?"

Arthur does. He honestly does. Every word coming out of Alfred's mouth right now makes perfect sense, a rarity in itself.

"But it's in London…"

"But it's a very big deal!" Alfred looks like he's going to either hit him or tear his own hair out. Or both. "You'll be the editor-in-chief of the entire UK department of the publishing house! You cannot let this go! Over here, you're just some assistant-editor-whatever-the-fuck. A nowhere job and a nowhere love-life. You're getting the chance to improve at least one of those things. You cannot decline!"

Arthur makes a face. If he didn't, he'll have burst into tears. And he can't cry in front of Alfred, it would be too embarrassing.

"Arthur," Alfred says, placing a hand on his thigh. "Arthur, look, listen to me. If Francis loved you back, I wouldn't even be discussing this with you. Then it wouldn't even matter. Then I'd probably yell at you if you were thinking of accepting. I mean, I could never accept a job in London, not when Kiku's here in Paris and we have a wonderful life together. But…but Francis clearly doesn't seem to want you. But these guys at London…they do."

"But Francis is just frightened," Arthur argues. A traitorous tear slips down his face, but he wipes it away.

"Francis has been frightened about loving you back since you first started sleeping with him. How many years ago was that?"

"…I don't know. Six?"

"Six. Six years, Arthur. You can't put your life on hold for someone else's fear. Especially when they're doing absolutely nothing to get over it. I mean, you have the right to be happy too. Don't you forget that."

But I'll only really be happy with Francis.

Alfred seems to read his mind. "Who's to say you won't fall in love in London, hmm? You're telling me that the entire city – full of sharp-tongued, tea-drinking English dudes such as yourself – you won't find one man you'll hit it off with?"

"I…I don't…I don't know," Arthur finally says. Alfred sighs, stretches out his arms and holds Arthur against him.

"Cry if you want to. I won't laugh. But Artie…listen, promise me you'll think about it? I really hate seeing you like this, stuck in a rut and getting nowhere. You don't have to accept just yet, you still have a week to tell them your final decision. But just…just give this some serious thought. Promise me."

Arthur mumbles something into Alfred's shoulder.

"What's that, buddy?"

"I promise I'll think about it," Arthur whispers, lifting his head. His voice is thick and wet, his nose red.

"Good. That's all I want to hear."

Something's wrong.

Francis knows that the second he sees Arthur at the restaurant that night.

Something's really wrong. Arthur looks like he's been crying. His eyes are red and his face is pale. He seems spacey and distracted, not looking the waiter in the eye. Arthur knows all of Francis's employees and always chats with them. Why, just last month, he was invited to Pierre's bachelor party.

"What's the matter with him?" Pierre asks as he walks away from Arthur's usual table, placing his boss under a firm stare. "He forgot his own order – twice." Pierre waves the notepad in Francis's face. "I doubt he'll even remember what he asked for."

Francis doesn't frown, but he feels his lips twitch downwards. From here, he can watch Arthur forlornly trace lines on a tissue with a butter knife. "The last time he was like this, England got kicked out of FIFA."

"That's a good one, boss," Pierre says with a grin.

"No, really. He was inconsolable. And if this is anything like the last time, I'm concerned." Francis waves distractedly to Pierre. "Listen, get some tea. Earl Grey, if we have any. Let me go talk to him." Does this have anything to do with today morning's…incident? Because Arthur's got to understand the boundaries.

(Francis hates hurting him, though. Oh, Francis just hates hurting him.)

"Cher?" Francis asks gently, approaching the table. Arthur looks up, his eyes dazed and elsewhere.

"Oh, hi."

"Hi," Francis says, his voice quiet, soothing. "May I sit down?"

Arthur just gestures. He looks like he might just fall asleep at the table.

When Francis pulls up a chair and seats himself, he slowly reaches out to take Arthur's hand. Arthur doesn't even look at him. He doesn't even react. Francis gives the man's palm a little squeeze. "What's wrong? Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nothing's wrong," Arthur says quickly. But then he just gives Francis this awful defeated look. "Well, okay, I…well…"

"Yes?"

"It's not important."

"You look terrible, Arthur. Are you sure this isn't something you want to talk about?" He tilts his head to the side. "You know, Pierre is getting us some tea. The kind you like."

"Earl Grey with two sugars?" Arthur asks hopefully, his face lifting just for a moment with the slight hint of a smile.

"You know it."

"Heh. Thank you, I guess."

"Now come, what's on your mind?"

"Nothing – I – it's just –" and Arthur halts, sighing before lowering his head to the table. He seems to physically shrink in the chair. "Work pressures."

Francis allows himself a small smile. "That's why I'm my own boss. No-one yelling at me to get any work done." A pause, a small laugh, and then, "You should be a boss too. Don't they promote anyone around there?"

Arthur's head jerks up so suddenly that it had to have caused some sort of muscle pull. His eyes are very wide. His face is, if possible, paler. "You –"

"What?" Francis asks, his jaw slackening as Arthur stands. His movements are so disjointed and sudden that it shakes the table and actually topples the chair over.

"I need to go, I just remembered something."

"Arthur!"

"Sorry." But Arthur has already bolted off, passing Pierre carrying a tray with a teapot without even a glance. Francis just gapes.

"Merde." He jumps to his feet and chases after the man.

But he reaches Arthur in time to watch him speed off in a taxi.

"Merde," Francis says again, taking his frustration out by kicking the pavement. It's always like this. Whenever Francis is upset, Arthur will baby him about it, putting aside their usual jibing and jeering to make Francis feel better. But whenever there's something wrong with Arthur, the man's walls come shooting up.

Francis: What.

Francis: Was.

Francis. That.

Arthur: Like I said, work pressures. I remembered something I had to finish.

Francis: And I'm the Queen of England.

Arthur: Well, I distinctly remember the time you wore a tiara.

Arthur: Although, to be fair, you were going for Disney Princess Cinderella.

Arthur: You were an ugly Cinderella.

Francis: Don't change the subject. What happened to you? What's wrong?

Francis: You know you can talk to me, right?

Francis: Hello?

Francis: HELLO?

Francis: Why are you so difficult!? -.-

Francis: Does it have something to do with what happened between us this morning?

Francis: Arthur?

Arthur: It never means anything, does it? This banter between us?

Francis: The banter and the insults mean nothing. I cherish you. You know that.

Arthur: Yes.

Arthur: Of course.

Francis: Was that sarcasm?

Francis: Mon dieu, I can't even tell anymore. I used to be able to read your sarcastic texts so easily.

Arthur: Never you mind.

Arthur: It means nothing, anyway.

Arthur: Everything always means nothing.

Francis: What is that supposed to mean?

Francis: Hello?

Arthur: I'm going to bed.

Francis: You said you had work.

Francis: Tell me what's wrong…

Francis: …Are you there?

Francis: Sleep well.

When Arthur opens the door next morning, Francis is there with a couple of cream cakes and a six pack of beer. Arthur knows Francis detests beer. The fact that he would drink it anyway, just to keep Arthur company, should have made him feel better. But it just makes him feel guilty instead. It confuses him.

It always has, this strange cat and mouse. Arthur never quite knows where he stands. Because one minute they're kissing and making out and having sex and the next minute, Francis is shunning any kind of physical contact with him. Francis then goes ahead and finds random people to bed, but insists on saying things like, "We're sworn to each other, are we not, mon cher?" Even that bloody endearment. Francis uses it with everyone, but when he says it to Arthur, it's like the words are softer and warmer, spoken like they mean something sacred. And of course, Francis hates it when Arthur says sweet things to him, but then Francis also calls him cold and unemotional when Arthur goes on one of his rants or makes a particularly mean remark.

It's so confusing.

What is Arthur supposed to glean from this? Does Francis want him?

No…

No, he doesn't.

"How are things with your boyfriend?" the Frenchman waggles his eyes. "Alfred?"

Doesn't that bother him at all?

"Still cheating on him with me, eh?"

Doesn't it make him the slightest bit jealous? Not even a little? Never mind that Arthur hasn't so much as kissed Alfred. In fact, he sees Alfred as some sort of annoying younger brother. But Francis doesn't know that.

(Or does he? Francis is so bloody perceptive about things like this…)

"Things are fine."

Francis has these incredible blue eyes. They're ethereal. They really are. The way they look at him, like they're dissecting his soul and devouring him like Arthur is the finest French wine ever made. They're soft now, full of concern and worry and typical Francis-like affection. "And how about you? How are you, mon cher?"

"Everything's bloody perfect, okay?" Arthur mutters before putting some cake into his mouth. He chews and swallows, before saying, "I was just really stressed out yesterday. And exhausted. I haven't been sleeping properly."

"Did you eat dinner at all last night?" the expression in Francis's eyes hasn't left at all.

"Yes."

"Did you?"

"…No. But I ate a good breakfast, so don't worry."

Why bother worrying about me?

You don't care.

You really don't.

I love you.

I've loved you for a long time.

But I don't think I'm strong enough to love you anymore.

"You really should take better care of yourself." Francis clicks his tongue and shakes his head, finishing the last of his cake. "I had to throw away a perfectly good pot of Earl Grey last night."

"You don't give a damn about tea."

"No, and neither should you," Francis retorts before his face breaks into a small smirk. "Coffee is the way to go, you know."

"Tea is healthier. You live longer."

"Perhaps, but why would you want to live longer if all you're drinking is tea and no coffee, hmm?"

Bantering is easy. It means nothing.

Between them, nothing ever has any goddamn meaning.

And yet, everything does.

It makes Arthur's head spin.

"Artie! Sup, dude? What can the hero do for ya? You shouldn't have called in sick today, man. There's so much woooork. Well, I guess there is for me. Lucky you, you're not in design. They're killing us up here."

"I think I'm going to accept."

"You – you're going to accept the London job?!"

"…Yes. I think I will. I'm calling up the boss in a few minutes to tell him."

"Oh! Oh! Arthur, that's wonderful. I'm so proud of you. I really, really am. Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm feeling the same as I always feel."

"What's that?"

"…Lonely."

"Aw. Hey, come on. Don't be like that. This is a good thing. You're making the right decision."

"I know…"

"Tell you what. I'll come over tonight and we'll play video games. How about it?"

"Sure. Whatever. I don't feel like going to Francis's restaurant tonight, anyway."

"Then we'll order pizza or something."

"Okay."

"Have you told Francis yet?"

"…No. Not yet."

"When will you tell him?"

"Eventually."

"Sounds like a good plan."

"Hah."

Arthur hasn't shown his face at the restaurant for days. Francis has called and texted and tried to physically drag him there, but Arthur's always saying he's busy with 'work' and 'edits' and 'clients', until Francis is sick of hearing those three little words.

It bothers him, not seeing Arthur around. It bothers him more than he'd like to admit. He's been losing his sleep. Like in the old days. He's never told Arthur, but he suspects Arthur knows.

About the nightmares.

Their faces are still fresh, although he can never focus on them because they become fuzzy. But when he's at this safe distance, he can see them. He can hear them. Shouting. Oh god, he could always hear them shouting. Even when he locked himself in his room and put the pillow over his head, he could still hear them. On and on and on and on.

YOU AND THAT DAMN SLUT! YOU'RE THE REASON WE'RE IN THIS DEBT! FORGET ME, WHO CARES ABOUT YOUR WIFE, SHE'S JUST SOME SLAVE. FORGET ME. WHAT ABOUT YOUR SON? WHAT ABOUT THE BOY WHO LOOKS UP TO YOU? THE BOY WHO WANTS TO BE YOU ONE DAY? WHAT SORT OF EXAMPLE ARE YOU TO FRANCIS?

STUPID BITCH, I TOLD YOU NOT TO ANSWER MY PHONE CALLS.

THAT MONEY YOU'RE DRINKING AWAY IS FROM HIS SCHOOL FUND, BERNARD!

THIS BEEF IS FUCKING OVERCOOKED! YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING RIGHT, CAN YOU, COLETTE?

Arthur, Arthur, they're fighting again. Why are they always fighting, Arthur?

Arthur?! Where are you? Why won't you answer me?

It's like they hate each other…But I remember when they used to love each other…

Does that happen, Arthur? Does love turn into hate?

Arthur? Why won't you answer me?

You always used to.

…

I'm so sorry, Francis, but I don't think I see this working out.

But I love you, Marie.

Yes, but…we're too young. This is moving too fast for me.

We can slow down. We can. We'll go at your pace.

No, I – I don't think I can do this. I'm so sorry.

…

I'm so sorry, Francis, but I don't think I see this working out.

But I love you, Roderich.

No, you don't. You love the idea of me.

What does that even mean?

It means you're more in love with the fact that we're both up and coming in our respective arts. You're more in love with the music and the food and the feeling of creating something other people love. It means we need to focus on ourselves.

But…but you're amazing. You're smart. You're kind. You're everything I've ever wanted in a person. Why shouldn't I want to focus on you?

Because then you'll stop focusing on yourself. And I want you to. I want you to become a great chef. I want you to keep creating. I don't want to take that away from you. And similarly, I want to create art myself.

But can't we be in love and still create art?

For me, it's either love or music. And the fact is, Francis, my first love will always be music.

…

I'm so sorry, Francis, but I don't think I see this working out.

No! Jeanne! No! Not you, too! Why?

Francis –

Why? No! I love you, I love you! Don't do this to me. Not you, too.

Francis –

Whatever I've done wrong, I'm sorry, I'll try harder. I'll do better. I'll –

Francis! Listen to me! It has nothing to do with you. It's me. You see us getting married, and I just…don't.

…W-why not?

Because I'm a free spirit. I've always been. Gosh, I – I'm so cruel. I can't believe I'm doing this. Francis, I'm so sorry. Francis, no, please don't cry, darling. Please.

So, this is it?

…Yes. I'm so sorry.

You should go.

Francis…

You should go now, Jeanne.

…

Arthur. Arthur, they're fighting again. Why are they always fighting?

Arthur, what's the meaning of the word 'whore'?

I asked my teacher and she shouted at me.

Now mommy's calling him a dick.

What's that?

OOOH – wow, I didn't know that's what adults called it. Funny, huh? Grown-ups have their own language.

Arthur…he just walked out.

I don't think he's coming back.

It's been two months. I don't think daddy's coming back.

Mommy hates him. She used to love him, but she hates him.

Does all love turn to hate?

Answer me, Arthur. Why are you so quiet?

…

I don't think I have it in me to love anyone anymore, Arthur.

It's too painful.

It's too painful to watch love fall apart.

Arthur? Are you listening?

Hello?

The date on the calendar reminds Francis that it's the middle of November, and he hasn't had a proper conversation with Arthur in two weeks. Work. Edits. Clients. Whatever.

It's raining on a Wednesday afternoon when Francis sees a cloaked figure with a soaking black umbrella run up the path leading to the restaurant and enter it. He's shivering and shaking. Francis watches carefully as Arthur closes the umbrella, putting it into a bucket by the door. He hugs himself as his eyes trail around the indoor seating area.

There are only four or five tables occupied. Arthur picks one by the wall. Francis notices how he looks visibly perturbed. This is not his outdoor table. He wants his outdoor table.

Pierre is going for the menu, but Francis stops him. He'll be Arthur's waiter today. Enough is enough. So he saunters over there, plasters on a salesman smile and says, "Good afternoon, sir. Frightful weather outside, isn't it? Are you cold? Should I get you something warm to drink?" He places the menu on the table, ignoring Arthur's wide, startled eyes. "Shall I list the specials?"

"Francis, what the bloody hell are you doing now?"

"I'm your waiter," he says simply. But then the pretence leaves him and he sighs, rolling his eyes before pushing the other chair back. He signals for Pierre to handle the orders instead. And Arthur's giving him this catlike smirk. Like he's saying, I know you're full of garbage.

The first thing Arthur asks for is tea. Francis says nothing. He's making origami boats out of tissue paper.

"I had to talk to you about something," Arthur says after a moment, and he looks deeply uncomfortable. Not just awkward, but…guilty.

Francis looks up, crumpling the tissue. "What's wrong?"

Arthur takes a deep breath. "A while ago, we briefly spoke about how I ought to get a promotion?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, I got one."

"Oh! Arthur, that's magnificent! Congratulations!" But before Francis can get up and give him a hug, Arthur's humourless face makes his smile drop. Arthur's arm is clamped down on Francis's wrist.

"I'm not finished," Arthur says simply.

"Oh. Sorry, go on."

"The job. It's…it's incredible, Francis. They pay is through the roof. The position is very respectable, and the work is exciting."

"That's…lovely," Francis says. He feels like he should be saying something encouraging and positive, but the look in Arthur's eyes is scaring him.

"I think I'll be very happy."

"…So…what's the matter?" Francis asks. His voice has dropped to a hush, like they're talking about the fatal illness of a mutual friend.

Arthur takes a deep breath. He's visibly fighting the urge to break eye-contact. There's a kind of defiance and bravery in the way in which he stares at Francis now. "It's in London."

"What?"

"The job. It's in London."

Francis blinks. "You're going to London?" The words haven't quite sunk in yet. It's like Arthur's trying to communicate in an alien language.

Arthur breaks and lowers his eyes. "Yes. I'll be there for six months. But if I'm happy there, they're saying it'll be a permanent position. So…so I'm guessing I'll be moving there."

"You're going to London?" Francis repeats, and this time his jaw drops. "You're leaving?"

No. No. No.

"Yes."

There are so many things Francis wants to say, but the only coherent word his brain can come up with is no, no, no, no, no! There are so many questions. When are you leaving? When did you find out? Where will you stay?

But the only one Francis can actually muster is a broken, "…Why?"

"Why am I leaving?" Arthur repeats, looking at him with actual caution, as though he expects Francis to catch fire and burn the whole restaurant down.

Francis swallows. His eyes are stinging.

"Yes. Why are you leaving?"

Arthur looks away. "There's nothing for me here."

"I'm here."

To his absolute horror, Arthur scoffs. It is the darkest, most bitter sound Francis has ever heard. It's enough to shatter any semblance of composure Francis was trying to maintain. "You're here?" Arthur spits, and his green eyes are like poison darts. "When? When are you ever here? When are we ever –" but Arthur stops, his features becoming just a little bit softer as he looks at Francis's face. "They offered the job to me two months ago," he muttered instead. "I kept throwing them off. I couldn't make up my mind. And now I finally have. I…I'm flying out on Monday. All the arrangements and everything, they've all been made. I…I just couldn't tell you sooner. I just couldn't. I tried, but I didn't know how. But I guess I decided I ought to just bite the bullet, as they say."

"Wh-what do you mean?" Francis stammers. "What do you mean 'when are you ever here'? Where would I go? I've always been here!"

"It doesn't matter," Arthur says quickly.

"No!" Francis shouts, and so what if all his customers stop and glance at him. He lowers his voice, though. "Please, Arthur, if you're keeping any more secrets, now's the time." His voice is acerbic. He's never been this mad before.

Arthur looks like he's about to physically recoil. But then his expression darkens and he straightens up. "I'm leaving because I'm sick and tired of whatever the bloody hell we pretend to not have between us. I'm leaving because it's an excellent job, and because I actually have some hope of a future there. I'm leaving because I'm tired, Francis, I'm so fucking tired of waiting. Of pretending not to care as we make love and kiss and hold hands and behave as though we're everything a normal couple ought to be. I'm tired of this. Of feeling so much. Of feeling all the time. And of knowing that no matter how long I wait, you'll never be brave enough to love me back."

"That's not true! That's not –"

"Really?" Arthur snaps. "What are we, Francis? What do you want us to be?"

I want us to be best friends! To be able to hold each other and comfort each other when we need it. To be able to laugh and cry together. To be able to touch each other without either one of us getting so badly hurt every time we do. I want us to be like that! I want us to – I want us to be –

"What do you want us to be?" Arthur repeats.

I…I don't – I –

Arthur's laugh is cold and cruel and angry. "You don't even know, do you?"

And Arthur is gone. Gone into the rain. Pierre arrives with a pot full of Earl Grey, but all he finds is Francis sitting there blankly with tears running down his face.

Arthur's right.

Francis doesn't know what they are to each other, doesn't know what he wants them to be.

All he's aware of right now is the familiar cold numbness he feels when yet another person walks out of his life.

Francis has a job most people would envy. He makes very good money, has a stellar reputation and barely has to do any work. He can wake up late and potter about the house until lunch rush, which is really when he bothers to go to the restaurant. Even there, all he's doing is overseeing stuff, just making sure that the restaurant is running smoothly. By the time he goes home, it's late afternoon. More time to spend just reading or experimenting with new recipes. He goes back to the restaurant in time for the dinner rush crowd, and to make sure the performers have arrived and are doing their thing. He stays there until after closing time, after which he and Arthur have a smoke. That's his day.

For being known as a great Parisian chef, Francis does very little cooking. He used to, back when he was younger and didn't own his own restaurant. Back when he and Arthur were younger.

But Francis spends the rest of the week working. He doesn't go home, not even once. Arthur hasn't shown his face since that disastrous afternoon. And he's constantly in the kitchen, trying to cook his sorrows away, spends his afternoons trying to distract himself by conversing with the employees, and after the restaurant shuts for the night, Francis swiftly makes a phone call to one of those businesses with questionable service to request a woman – or man, he's not picky – to keep him company. They usually just go to a hotel. Francis doesn't like going home these days.

But he hasn't cried since the day Arthur walked out on him.

Which is good.

He's not going to cry over a broken heart anymore. He's done. He's done with that.

Ring

Ring

Ring

Ring

"Hello! This is Francis Bonnefoy. I'm unable to answer the phone at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep. Thank you!"

Arthur takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He lets the electronic beep on the other end of the line wash over him. He's always been good with words, but now they just completely fail him. Instead, he just presses the 'end call' button and lowers his mobile, blinking as the harsh white airport lights burn into the back of his skull. He's never liked airports much.

Ring

Ring

Ring

Ring

"Hello! This is Francis Bonnefoy. I'm unable to answer the phone at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep. Thank you!"

"Francis, I –" Arthur begins. And then he panics, cuts the call, and bends over, burying his head in his knees. It would be a lot easier if they'd just announce his flight. Then he'd have the freedom to leave and not make this call.

Ring

Ring

Ring

Ring

"Hello! This is Francis Bonnefoy. I'm unable to answer the phone at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep. Thank you!"

"Francis, I…I'm leaving. I'm at the airport and I just…well, I hated the way we left things, so…well…I guess it's too late now. Um…yeah…t-take care, okay?"

Arthur shakily puts the phone down, his eyes stinging. He's been crying a lot lately. A hell of a lot. It would have been embarrassing if Arthur hadn't stopped giving a damn.

He looks longingly at the departure gate. How on earth can Antonio get addicted to this feeling? This feeling of walking away from everything? How on earth is it possible? How is he going to survive? All his life, it's always been the two of them – Arthur and Francis, Arthur and Francis. No matter what happened. No matter who came and went. Marie, Roderich, Jeanne, it had never mattered. Because they'd always been together. In a way, Francis had been right when he'd said they were sworn to each other.

But what does it matter now?

Arthur leans back against the airport seat and closes his eyes. He's trying to drown out the white noise of his surroundings, but he doesn't know how.

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

-Dust of Snow by Robert Frost

There's something to be said about smoking a cigarette in the snow. Warmth and tobacco coating his tongue, while the rest of his body is freezing cold. It's night time. Francis ignores the pathetic layer of sleet on the pavement, leaning against the dirty wall behind the restaurant and sending little puffs of smoke into the air.

Gilbert's not smoking, though. Madeline would kill him. Secretly, Francis is glad. This late night ritual is his and Arthur's alone. Though he adores Gilbert, it is not something he can stand doing with him.

"I thought he'd be back by now," Gilbert mutters, hugging himself. "It's so weird. He just left? How many months has it even been?"

"He left in late November. It's only January now. You've been in Germany for work for a long time, Gilbert. A lot has happened."

"What can I say? I'm sorry. But they wouldn't let me be. The work load's been crazy."

"That's fine."

"Are you doing okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Francis? Look, I know I'm not sensitive or whatever, but I…I worry, you know? You know you can talk to me, right?"

"You want me to talk about my feelings?" Francis actually smiles, raising an eyebrow.

Gilbert's red eyes sparkle in the lamplight. "You never do it yourself," he says simply, shrugging and looking away. "But you're always there for everyone else when they need a shoulder to cry on. So…you know, I'd like to return the favour. Or whatever, if you don't want to, that's fine."

Francis laughs. He's not quite sure why. It's short and empty but definitely amused.

"What?" Gilbert whines.

"Nothing, nothing," Francis waves off, still grinning. He chucks the last of the cigarette into the sleet and watches its small orange light burn out. Francis's smile disappears in quite a similar way. "I'm tired. I think I'll go home now."

"Are you sure?" Gilbert asks, his eyes flashing immediately with concern.

Francis nods, forcing another small smile. "I'm sure. Do you want me to drive you home?"

"Thanks, but I have my car."

"All right. Well, see you."

"Good night."

London is not like Paris. He's been to London plenty of times, but that's the only worthwhile observation he ever has. It's not like Paris. He's not sure how they're different. It's not something he can just pinpoint. And it's not as simple as language or architecture or anything.

It's the way those two cities feel.

Or rather, the way he feels about them.

Paris will always be home.

Arthur steps out into the balcony. It has finally stopped snowing, although the forecasts say they ought to expect a bit more powder later tonight. He leans against the railing and stares down at the city. It's bitterly, bitterly cold. It always seems to be. Cold and wet. Even the sun seems cooler here.

Arthur blows out smoke and watches as the ash from the end of the cigarette slowly crumbles, little flakes falling to the road like burnt snow.

It's true.

London is not like Paris at all.

From you have I been absent in the spring,

When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,

Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,

That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.

Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

Of different flowers in odour and in hue

Could make me any summer's story tell,

Or from their proud lap pluck them from where they grew.

Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;

They were but sweet, but figures of delight

Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,

As with your shadow I with these did play.

-Sonnet 98: From You Have I Been Absent in the Spring by William Shakespeare

They're all mass-ordered tables, it'll be so difficult to get one exactly like this. Francis had gone through so much trouble to get the ones he'd liked. It's going to be difficult to get a similar table. Yesterday there was a bit of drama. Someone had an argument with their wife and in some mad rage, took the steak knife and jammed it into the wood.

Francis had to call the cops to get the man to calm down, but the damage was done.

He studies the deep engraving now. It's a stab wound, all right. The poor table. This is soft wood, It's not like the antique furniture, it's not made to be manhandled. There's no option. He'll have to get it replaced.

The weather is lovely outside as his eyes trail over to where so many people are seated. Sunny and smelling of flowers, the breeze just enough to make the large umbrellas flap slightly but not ruin anyone's hair, the weather warm enough to be pleasant but not uncomfortable. From where he's standing, indoors, he can watch his many customers laugh to themselves and eat and live.

Arthur's table is unoccupied today.

Francis turns back to the one he's inspecting, running his fingers through the deep dent.

Then he looks back to Arthur's table. Where he knows he'd carved the letters A-R-T-H-U-R into the wood on a spring afternoon quite similar to this one.

Maybe he'll get that table replaced too.

"Hey, Francis. You wanna know something awesome?"

April is tourist season, so Francis barely hears what Gilbert has to say before he's called to another table. The customers want to speak to the owner himself about the intricacies of French cuisine. They're American and they're looking and doing a food trail across France. They want to know what to keep an eye out for.

It's another fifteen minutes before Francis rushes back to the table outside in the grass. The stars are very bright tonight, the weather is pleasant and the live band is wonderful. Gilbert and Madeline are still on the first glasses of wine.

"Sorry, it's a busy night," Francis hurriedly says, to which Madeline laughs lightly and Gilbert just waves his hand.

"Forget it, it's all right. But we want to tell you the good news!"

"Oh? Good news?" He raises an eyebrow and plasters on an expectant grin, already working through all the sleazy comments he can make to show his approval of whatever announcement Gilbert and Madeline have. She's looking at Gilbert so lovingly. It's adorable. And Gilbert has this huge smile, practically radiating rainbows.

"We've decided where we want to get married," Madeline says with a small grin, putting her lips to the wine glass and motioning with her eyes towards Gilbert. Francis looks between the two.

"We were thinking," Gilbert said slowly, pausing for effect.

"Yes?" Francis presses.

"About getting married here."

Francis gapes at the two of them openly. "You – you want to get married in my restaurant?"

"Yes!" Madeline chimes. "It's such a special place, Francis. It's like magic over here. And everyone is so friendly, the food is amazing, and you're amazing. It just seemed right to us! What do you think? Is this okay with you?"

"What do I think?" Francis repeats, blinking stupidly at Madeline and then Gilbert. "Oh my god, you two. Oh my god. Yes! I'm absolutely honoured! I don't know how I – oh! Come here!" and he's launched himself on Gilbert, pulling one of his closest friends into a very tight hug. "Thank you, thank you. I'm so happy for you both. Congratulations. I'm so happy!"

So then why is he crying tears of such sadness?

"What about a hug for me?" Madeline calls with a laugh, stretching out her hands and motioning for him. Francis doesn't have the time to wipe his eyes so he just smiles and embraces her.

"You two deserve it. I'm so glad, you don't know how glad I am!"

And Francis really is happy, he really is. They're such good friends of his, they deserve every happiness in the world. But the tears running down his face betray him. Somewhere inside of him, he's screaming with loneliness.

Madeline clues in.

"Francis?" she asks gently when he doesn't let her go or even raise his head. She has such a tender way about her. "Hey, Francis? Are you all right?" One small hand runs through his hair. "Shh, hey, what's the matter?"

"I'm just happy," he responds pathetically, although his voice is muffled and nasally.

Suddenly, there are stronger arms pulling at his shoulders. Gilbert. He almost physically drags him off Madeline, swivels him to look Francis in the eye, and just stares. Gilbert has the ability to stare at people with enormous intensity. Few know this side of him. But Gilbert's red eyes pierce right into Francis like he's got x-ray vision, and Francis can only make out the smallest hint of concern before Gilbert looks away, towards Madeline, and says, "We'll be right back."

"Where are we going?" Francis whimpers as Gilbert drags him off, out of the restaurant and behind it, to the quiet alley where Francis and Arthur often used to smoke.

"You," Gilbert declares like he's answering the question. "You just – goddammit."

He pushes Francis against the brick wall. Gilbert has the firmest grip and Francis doesn't even bother resisting. What's Gilbert going to do? Punch him for touching his fiancé? He didn't mean to hold onto Madeline for such an inappropriately long time…he really didn't mean to…

"You," Gilbert says again, and this time he's inelegantly struggling for words.

"Me," Francis mumbles. His nose is still clogged.

"Why do you do this? Why do you always fucking do this to yourself?"

"Do what?"

Gilbert finally lets him go, only to run one hand through his white hair in sheer frustration. "Isolate yourself! God, Francis, I don't know how to get through to you sometimes! You're such a tightly wrapped up bundle of issues but you don't fucking have to be! There are people around you who care about you. They care about you so much, but you never fucking let them in! Why is that?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" Francis genuinely doesn't have a clue.

"What happened back there?" And Gilbert's question is like an accusation. "You were crying. This is about Arthur, isn't it? It always is."

"What's Arthur got to do with –"

"Don't insult my intelligence, okay."

Well, Gilbert probably has more IQ points than Francis and Antonio put together. Nobody's ever denied that.

"Gil –"

"And don't use that irritatingly pacifying tone with me. Gil, it's nothing, really, you're overreacting – as though I'm the idiot." Gilbert looks practically deranged. Francis gets the feeling that he knows exactly what he wants to say, but he doesn't quite understand how to say it. "What the fuck is with you? And Antonio? The two of you wear so many masks you'd think we're fucking Venetians."

"What on earth does Venice have to do with anything?"

"You know!" Gilbert cries, throwing his hands up in the air. "Those really nice Venetian masks that Madeline wanted to buy when we went to Italy. God, whatever, it's irrelevant. Why can't you ever just be honest for once? Huh? Antonio's always laughing when he wants to cry and you're always…well, you're a hell of a lot more complicated, and frankly, Francis, I don't understand. I just don't. I'm sorry. I'm not as perceptive as you and Toni are, I'm as thick as a brick, okay? But I'm not blind. These last few months, you've been moping around a lot more than you usually do –"

"I don't usually mope around!"

"You do," and this is the first time Gilbert sounds sure of himself. "You do. When you think nobody's looking. And I know it has something to do with Arthur. It's always Arthur, one way or another. And now the bastard's just packed up and left without so much as a by-your-leave. I know you're in pain, okay? So just knock off the theatrics because I don't deal well with that. I want to help you, Francis, I do. You're like a brother to me. But I don't understand this psychology shit and I don't understand these complicated emotional fuck-ups you and Antonio go through. I'm a one-dimensional, thick-like-a-brick guy and I deal with my emotions directly. So please can you do the same? Just this once? Because if you don't, if you just lock it all up inside like you usually do, I'm going to hate myself for not understanding what you're feeling right now and I'm going to hate myself when you're crying in your room all alone feeling like nobody gives a shit."

Tears slide down the curve of Francis's cheek. He doesn't wipe them away. "I don't know what to say."

Gilbert sighs very loudly. "Just be as direct as possible. Break it down for me. I'm no good with understatement."

"All right." Francis bites the inside of his cheek and then lets his eyes wander down the deserted alley. "Arthur basically left because he's tired of waiting for me. As in, he's tired of waiting for me to love him back."

Gilbert blinks. "But you do love him, don't you?"

"No! I don't! I don't, okay!"

"What the fuck!? All right! Calm down! Jesus!"

"I don't love him," Francis almost snarls. "That would ruin everything, Gilbert! I can't love him."

Gilbert rubs his face. "What? Go slow, Francis." His voice is softer, gentler. "I'm a total idiot with these things. Go slow for me."

Francis takes a deep, long breath. "I can't love Arthur back, don't you see? Because if I did, we'd fall apart." From the blank look Gilbert gives him, Francis knows he has to be even more articulate. "Because love always falls apart."

This gains a reaction. Gilbert's eyes go very wide, and his jaw falls. "That is not true. I've loved Madeline since we were college kids, and we're still in love. Antonio and Lovino are changing their ways to be worthy of each other. I mean, I'm not saying a relationship is perfect. It's not, it never is. But to just arbitrarily dismiss it as something doomed to fail –"

"No." Francis closes his eyes and leans against the wall. "It's different with you and Maddie. It's different with Toni and Lovino. Things don't work out so perfectly for me. They never have."

"Francis…" Gilbert is looking at him with so much sadness. "Francis, we've all been hurt. I've had plenty of relationships fail, some rather terribly. So has Maddie. Antonio could never keep a relationship going for more than couple of months, you know that. And I don't know about this Lovino guy, but he's all over the news with some scandal or the other, so I'm sure he's not had it easy either. Love's a bitch, okay? It hurts everybody. Badly. But that doesn't mean you just give up."

Francis knows this. He knows this because everything Gilbert is saying is exactly what Francis would tell Antonio when another man walked out on him because of his constant travelling. He knows this because it's something he always tells Arthur when Arthur gets flustered and shy and defensive just before they kiss. Francis knows all of this.

He's just a hypocrite. And a coward.

"You know how many times I've had relationships fail?"

"You've had three serious relationships."

"Tens of others fell apart before they could get anywhere near serious. But each time, Gilbert, each time, I'd feel too much, too quickly. It's not…healthy." Francis hugs himself because he's starting to feel really, really vulnerable. "My problem is that every time I start having feelings for a person, they take over me. So when they leave – and they always leave, Gilbert – I'm shattered and lost. I…I can't do it anymore. I thought I was going to die when Jeanne left, but I really will if one day Arthur and I don't work out. I'll lose the will to live. Not Arthur." He chokes and lowers his head. "Anyone but Arthur."

"Francis…"

"I'm not strong enough to fall in love again, Gilbert. I won't allow myself to love Arthur. I can't. I won't survive another heartbreak. Especially not one with him."

Gilbert sighs and slumps against the wall too. "But it's not like you don't already love him. Once again, Franny, don't insult my intelligence. Or eyesight. Thank you."

"Shut up," Francis says weakly.

"I mean," Gilbert goes on, ignoring Francis's comment, "You two are so…so…" he flails his hands about, looking for the right words, "You two are a couple. Maybe not officially, but it's so fucking obvious. You even kiss and have sex and hold hands and everything. You just need to own up to the fact and accept it. You love him."

"But I can't accept it! That's what I'm saying!"

"Why not?" and there's steel in Gilbert's eyes.

"I just told you –"

"Because you're a coward?"

"Yes."

"I can't accept that."

"It's none of your damn business, Gilbert. I don't care whether or not you accept it."

"Heh. Fair enough. But god, Francis, you can't accept that. You can't possibly hate yourself that much."

Francis picks at his sleeves and doesn't look at the other man. "I've never really liked myself very much."

"I know. But this is just plain stupidity. It's like when you're hungry, there's a plate of really good food in front of you, but you're still saying, no, I can't eat because the food might give me food poisoning. You don't even know if the food's going to give you food poisoning! It's probably just going to satisfy your hunger. That's what food is supposed to do, for fuck's sake."

"That is actually a very interesting analogy."

"Don't change the subject."

"Gil…"

"Francis, look, I know you don't like yourself, so forget it. Who cares about your happiness? Fuck that. Think about Arthur. He went to another country because you hurt him that badly. He's probably curled up in some lame little apartment in London, crying into a body pillow that's shaped like you. This is Arthur we're talking about. It's highly unlikely that he's found another boyfriend already."

"He already has one named Alfred. So he says, anyway," Francis mumbles. "I've never believed it."

Gilbert chuckles softly but says nothing.

"I think I'd be rather annoyed if he actually had a boyfriend," Francis adds, his voice barely audible.

"That's sort of selfish, isn't it?" Gilbert sounds like he's trying to make a point. "You sleep with anyone."

"It never means anything. But being in a relationship is different. I'd hate for Arthur to have a boyfriend and still sleep with me."

"Because you're already the boyfriend," Gilbert mutters. "You've always been."

Francis is crying again. "I really, really can't accept that."

Gilbert lets out another hollow chuckle. "The funniest part of this situation? You've already accepted it. You've accepted it a very long time ago. But the idea still scares you."

"I don't think I'll ever stop being scared."

"You never know until you try."

"Your fiancé has been sitting alone at that table for over twenty minutes."

"Shit. I'm going in. You coming?"

"Yes. Yes, I just need a moment to collect myself."

"All right. Well, I'll see you in a few minutes, then."

"Gilbert, wait."

"What?"

"You're not a 'thick-as-a-brick' person. You're actually rather sensitive, you know?"

"Oh please. You don't have to say that. It's not like I want to be sensitive or whatever. You're sensitive. So is Toni. Look how fucked up the two of you are."

A laugh. "Touché."

"Alice, I've just sent you the email – you know, the one with the most recent edits – the Johnson manuscript."

"Ah, yes. Just received it, Mr. Kirkland."

"Good. Just keep a copy of that with you. Has George called yet?"

"He just did. He's got some ideas for the cover he wanted you to look at."

"Right. Tell him to email those to me and send over a copy to Mr. Johnson."

"Of course, sir."

"I'm stepping out to get a sandwich. Would you like something?"

"Oh no, thank you. I'm fine."

"Very well. I'll see you in ten minutes."

It's not raining today. But the sky is overcast. It's always overcast. That's just how London is to him. Arthur crosses the road. He feels no happier, really. In fact, these days, he feels even worse. At least in Paris, there was Francis.

There's a café across the office Arthur frequently haunts. He picks up a roll wrapped in cling foil, and doesn't quite taste it as he chews. His eyes turn to the clouds again, and to no-one in particular, mutters, "I hope I haven't forgotten my umbrella at home."

The rain in London dampens his spirit.

The rain in Paris always reminds him of Francis's laugh.

See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!
Descending Gods have found Elysium here.
In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd,
And chaste Diana haunts the forest shade.
Come lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours,
When swains from shearing seek their nightly bow'rs;
When weary reapers quit the sultry field,
And crown'd with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breast the serpent Love abides.
Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew,
But your Alexis knows no sweets but you.

-Summer by Alexander Pope (an excerpt)

Francis loves summer. Perhaps more than spring. He loves how the sun gets warmer and fiercer. Spring often reminds him of teenage romance. The sort of thing that is pleasant and fleeting. The sort of thing that people write novels about and then eventually grow out of. Necessary? Perhaps. But not resilient.

But summer is different. Summer holds. Summer drinks in and fastens him. It gives him stability, lights him up from inside and dries each tear from his cheeks. He loves how the colours seem sharper. Spring is mild in comparison. But the summer sun makes nature want to show off everything she's got. It's amazing how plush and healthy the trees look. It's amazing, the colour of the sky.

It's just amazing.

The newspapers are as depressing as ever. That's never going to change. He reads them anyway, just for something to do. There aren't too many diners here today. It's odd. The tourists haven't all left yet, have they?

But maybe a bit of silence is nice, now and then. He's sitting at one of the unoccupied tables indoors, a cup of coffee steaming away near his hands. But Francis is too engrossed in an article about crop failure to register the slight footsteps. If it's another customer, well, Francis has employees to handle it. That's why he pays them.

This crop failure sounds bad, though. The price of tomatoes is going to skyrocket (poor Toni will suffer, whenever he comes to visit). Perhaps he'll have to adjust the prices of the foods that include tomatoes, just for a short while. Well, he'll have to wait first, he'll have to study how bad the inflation is. Hopefully it's manageable, because he hates increasing the rates in his restaurant. He charges exorbitantly anyway. Any higher and he'll start losing customers.

Someone clears their throat.

Francis looks up. And blinks.

"You look well."

"You're a hallucination," is the first thing Francis blurts. Arthur stares blankly back at Francis and then his face contorts to a frown.

"I'm not a bloody halluci – Francis," he stops himself, the smallest smile reaching his face. "I'm back. How have you been?"

Francis slowly lowers the newspaper. There is something inside him telling him that he should react wildly. Either jumping up and embracing Arthur, or punching him in the nose. But he just…can't. He feels strangely numb. He hasn't quite registered what the hell is going on.

Arthur takes the initiative, then, pulling up a chair and sitting in front of Francis. Absently, Francis notes that this was the same table they sat at before Arthur had stormed out and disappeared to another country.

"Arthur," Francis manages after an extended silence. He still can't believe it.

"I literally just stepped out of the airport. All my luggage is still in the taxi. It's waiting outside with the meter still running, but…I…I guess I just felt like coming here first."

"What are you doing here?" Why is he reacting so slowly?

Arthur smiles sadly and looks away. "I didn't like London as much as I like Paris. So I worked for six months, just like contract had asked me to, and I returned." He dares looking at Francis now. "Are you mad?"

What on earth would Francis be mad about? The fact is, so much keeps happening between them that if he were to pick a fight about one thing, it would inevitably lead to World War Three.

But still. Francis feels like this isn't something he can just ignore anymore. It honestly never was. But summer gives him perspective. Time away from Arthur has helped. Besides…Francis is as tired as Arthur looks.

They're both exhausted, but the game is still on.

Someone's got to put their foot down. And if it started with Francis, he might as well try and end it.

"Why don't you pay the taxi?" Francis suggests gently. "I'll drop you home in my car."

Arthur's house is threadbare. It always was, but now it looks barren and awful. The people he'd rented the place out to had left last week, taking all their belongings with them. It's empty. He's going to have to fill it up with his stuff soon. Houses without the homely feeling are just terrifying.

But for now, Francis and Arthur sit on the couch, surrounded with six months worth of luggage and a long, tired, pleasant silence.

At least it feels pleasant to Arthur. It's all he can do to stop himself from wrapping his arms around the man. He's missed Francis. He's missed Francis so much.

"Why did you really come back?" Francis asks finally, leaning against the back of the couch and staring at the ceiling.

"You know why."

"Tell me again."

"Because je t'aime. And that's never going to change."

Francis sighs.

"You don't love me back. I know. So really, coming back to Paris was a bad idea. But I figured that if I'm going to be miserable and lonely anyway, I might as well be miserable and lonely in the city of love. I like the irony of that."

"Yes, Arthur, one ought to make important decisions based on the poetic irony of a situation. And you're supposed to be the rational one."

Arthur laughs. Once more, it sounds empty. Can't he ever laugh with Francis and have that sound filled with actual joy? Just once?

Francis laughs too.

And then pulls Arthur into a hug.

They stay like that for a while.

"I threw out your table," Francis confesses after he's helped Arthur unpack.

"What?"

"Your table? I threw it out. I thought you were never coming back."

Arthur turns away. "Oh."

Francis smiles softly. "It's all right. I'll carve your name out on another one. On the same table location as before. I know you like that spot."

They're in Francis's apartment now, curled up on his couch, just holding each other. Just holding each other and stealing kisses because the two of them need this.

That night, they talk. It's a conversation long overdue.

"Did going to London give you some perspective?"

"Some perspective on what, pray tell?"

"I don't know." Francis just waves his hand around sleepily. "It always happens in the movies, doesn't it? Separation makes people see sense?"

"I was never confused anyway. I've loved you for a long time. I got over my confusion years ago."

They stare at the ceiling fan in Francis's bedroom. The sex tonight was something…more. More significant, somehow.

"You're not recoiling," Arthur says softly.

"Hmm?"

"Before. When I told you I loved you, you'd always recoil and brush me off. You're not doing that any more, are you?"

"I suppose I'm not," Francis replies simply, letting that sentence hang.

"Does that mean…do you love me?" Arthur's never one for understatement. Francis knows that. Francis also knows that he owes Arthur. He owes him too much.

Francis doesn't reply. He's just sort of…numb. For how many months had he been formulating a response to that statement? How many ways has he tried to deny it? Francis is sucked dry of creative excuses.

"I guess on some level, I always have loved you."

"Huh."

Francis snorts. Trust Arthur to have the most atypical response.

"What's so funny?"

"You. You're always so funny."

"Be quiet, Francis. We're having a moment here."

Francis chuckles some more. "All right, all right. Sorry."

There's another extended silence. "Are we going to do anything about this?" Arthur asks simply. And then he sighs. He sounds sad and exhausted again. "Francis, I don't mind waiting. I've done it for so long anyway. I used to do all sorts of odd things to get you to feel for me, including making up a fake boyfriend – yes, I'm talking about Alfred – to get you jealous."

"I knew it," Francis mutters. "I knew he was fake!"

"Whatever," Arthur retorts, closing his eyes. "You have a hard time trusting people, don't you?"

"You know I do."

"So I can wait. I can wait until you trust me enough to let me love you the way I want to. But Francis, please, please tell me how long I'll be waiting. Because I don't have the strength to hold on anymore. I don't have that much hope or optimism left in me. I need you, now. I need you to comfort me and to tell me that it'll be okay, because at this point, I'm not sure anymore. I've got nothing left. Not even my job. I need you to comfort my fears. I need you, Francis. Because I can't do this alone anymore."

"Oh, Arthur…" Francis turns on his side, looking at him in the pale light from the streetlamp outside. He reaches out and wipes a tear slipping down the man's face. "How do you still want me? After all I've put you through? Hmm?"

"I don't know," Arthur answers honestly.

Francis sighs and motions for Arthur to come even closer. Until they're in each other's arms and Arthur is softly sniffling into Francis's chest. "I owe you such a huge apology. For everything."

"It doesn't matter," Arthur mumbles.

"Your feelings matter, cher."

"They don't. I'm fine. I can handle it."

"No, you can't. You shouldn't have to."

"Just tell me how much longer I'll be waiting."

Francis just 'hmm's.

"What does that mean?"

"I need time."

"I know." Arthur pulls away to look Francis in the eye. "I just need to know how long."

"A few months. Maybe a year." Francis isn't sure anymore, either. How can anyone just put a date on these things?

"I can live with that," Arthur says simply.

"I love you. I know I've never behaved as though I have, Arthur, but I do. But you can't hurt me. Please don't hurt me. I won't pull through, this time."

"I won't hurt you," Arthur promises quietly.

I know you won't.

There's just something about autumn that Arthur's always enjoyed. He's all for poetry, and there has to be something verbose and graceful in every leaf that flutters to the ground. For Arthur, it's also the most difficult time of the year. Because if he's going to be poetic about it, then autumn is the season when the decay sets in. That's the worst. Winter is still bearable, because after the cold comes the sun and life. But there's seldom anything to look forward to with the fall.

He hugs himself tighter as he briskly walks down the street, keeping his head down to avoid the wind from going into his eyes. Francis is waiting for him at the end of the road, two shopping bags in his hands.

"Whatever took you so long?" he chides as Arthur approaches.

"I couldn't find any parking. It was a nightmare. I had to park the car two streets away."

Francis rolls his eyes, but he smiles. "I have all the groceries. Are you going to help me lay the table? Antonio's flight is tomorrow, but Gilbert and Maddie are coming over for dinner tonight."

"Yeah, I'll help." They walk in comfortable silence. These silences are different, lighter, more relaxing. And they come more often these days. Arthur really likes them. "Antonio must be really excited about seeing Lovino again, huh?"

"I couldn't get him to shut up about it on the phone the other day," Francis laughs. "He's so cute. Of course, you're cuter, mon cher."

"And my friends have the added advantage that I would never gush about you on the phone to them."

"Really, now? Shall we call up Alfred and ask him?"

"Do what you want."

But perhaps autumn has a sense of continuity to it. Some circle-of-life kind of thing. Arthur can philosophise about this all day.

"Do you want to go on a date with me sometime?" Arthur asks mildly, as he does at least once in three weeks.

Francis laughs quietly. "Wait just a little longer. Just a little bit longer."

He's used to hearing that, but it really doesn't bother him. Whatever Francis says, the two of them are together. It might not be official to everyone else, but it is to them.

"Let's just get out of the cold. At this rate, I'm going to get the flu."

"I'll make you chicken soup if that happens," Francis promises with another laugh.

"With tea?"

"Earl Grey, two sugars."

"Then I don't half mind."

It's been a long year, from autumn to autumn. Arthur's just glad that everyone made it through to the other side, all their broken pieces differently put together. He can't ask for perfect relationships. But he doesn't mind the cold little cracks and dents. Not when there is that warm promise of tomorrow.

A/N: Isn't it funny that the extra, unnecessary chapter is longer than the actual chapters of the fic? xD But I just HAD to write this, you don't understand.

F.Y.I, I am still on hiatus. Although it seems like I don't know how to not write. Which would be really great and something I would brag about, except that life has piled up seven years worth of homework on my desk and I've somehow got to finish all of it before February ends.

On that note, I better go. I have three exams tomorrow and I'm probably going to fail all of them :'D

Keep your eyes out for the first chapter of a Spamano fic I'm working on (the title is still tentative, so I won't reveal it). But hopefully, it'll be out soon. Because I don't know how to shut up and my priorities are a mess. :D