Author's note: So, this is a collection of little FrUK drabbles. I asked people on tumbrl to send me one word in a message, and I would write a drabble based on the word. This is the result. I have fun with these, I hope you enjoy as well! :)

Marianne

Arthur isn't a particularly big fan of Shakespeare. Sure, he appreciates his plays if he happens to see one, and the man's poetry is admittedly good. But Arthur isn't an exceptionally poetic person and prefers thinking in sensible down-to-earth manner. That is why it's strange in every aspect that, whenever he sees Marianne, his mind quits functioning in normal way and begins to think in sonnets.

He hardly ever even speaks to her. Truth be told, he hardy ever even sees her. But there are days when she enters his bookshop, alone, or occasionally with her friends, and languidly walks among the bookshelves, her finger sliding over book covers and eyes skipping over titles and authors and, sometimes, Arthur.

He hates it when it happens, because it means that she catches him staring, that his breath gets stuck in his throat, that he blinks his eyes only to find that her summer-sky eyes have already moved on to something more interesting than the quiet, dull shopkeeper.

Arthur isn't a shakespeare. He hasn't got the talent to charm with words or winks or smiles. And so all that is left to him is watching, dreading and hoping to receive one more glance from her, and thinking in sonnets.

O! Learn to read what silent love hath writ:

To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

X