It's funny that Francis always manages to find himself here, on the steadily rocking, swaying floor of Arthur's ship. It makes him seasick, makes his stomach turn with each roll of waves that rocks the mighty thing upward, sending him flattened on the wooden deck.

Of course, it would be weeks later when he found it somehow worth it, back on the safety of his land; and Arthur's hand in his own as walk across the soft prickle of grass is almost like Heaven itself. The wind picks up and toys with their hair and when they break into a playful run, the entire world seems to bow at their feet.

And when they pause for breath, bent over panting, Arthur straightens and looks out at the setting sun across the distant waters and yearns.

Francis has always loved his lands, and always hated the restlessness of ocean, if only for the fact that the look in those green eyes never seems to be for him.