Arthur Kirkland was faced with a dilemma.

A tanned, six-footed, half-naked dilemma.

The time is 3:02, and he's sat on a creaky bench three-or-so blocks away from his apartment, in which a team of exasperated fire fighters were currently disposing of an apparent "science project gone wrong" that managed to devour the entire building in smoke and enough heat to set off a fire alarm somewhere along the way. However, the zombified corpse of a body he's going to be piloting to work tomorrow is - surprisingly - the least of his worries at the moment.

If Francis was here, and god forbid he ends up doing just that because the damn amphibian seemed to show up exactly when Arthur doesn't want him to, he'd get a good laugh at the sight of his petit cheri staring intently at the checkered boxes of his pajama pants and twiddling his thumbs as his half-awake American neighbor attempts to not drift off beside him.

How utterly shameless! Arthur screams in his head, sneaking a quick glance at the man next to him who was very much naked despite the pair of star-spangled boxers that managed to retain some semblance of his decency. Honestly, was it really that hard to at least slip on a pair of pants before escaping a "burning" building?

Vrrr! Vrrr!

A sudden barrage of vibrations in his pants pocket tells Arthur that he's forgotten once again to plug his phone in by his nightstand. He digs the infernal contraption - since Francis seemed so adamant on getting him to use the thing in place of his perfectly fine flip phone - out and isn't surprised when he finds the sender of the texts.

[Francis | 3:04] I've been informed that there's been a fire in your area. Should I be right in assuming that you've used it to your advantage and singed off those disgusting eyebrows of yours?

[Arthur | 3:05] Shut your mouth, Frog. My eyebrows are perfectly normal.

[Francis | 3:05] How disappointing.

[Francis | 3:06] And here I thought you knew how to seize an opportunity.

He rolls his eyes.

[Arthur | 3:07] Go to bed. Princesses need their beauty sleep, don't they?

[Francis | 3:08] How nice of you to appreciate my looks, but I'll have to decline.

[Francis | 3:08] I wouldn't want to miss your show, mon ami 3

Arthur, suddenly feeling very conscious about the bare visibility of his surroundings, takes a quick scan of the lamplit street around him. He couldn't be nearby, right?

[Francis | 3:10] You won't be finding me any time soon, Arthur.

[Arthur | 3:10] Piss off, you wanker.

[Francis | 3:10] So, I see you've found yourself beside that dashing neighbor of yours, oui?

[Arthur | 3:11] I said piss off.

[Francis | 3:11] Ohoho~ not denying it, I see? Finally accepted it after all these months, non?

Arthur flushes. He's been . . . aware of the blond's presence ever since he moved in last spring from some godforsaken house in the countryside. Their first meeting had been cut short due to a couple of problems (really, who in their right mind answers the door to their new apartment with only a towel wrapped around their hips!?) and their interactions afterward were sporadic and short.

Sure, he may have lingered around the mailboxes that little bit longer in hope that they'd run into each other, lounged around his balcony around 7:10 sharp to watch the man jog out below him in a pair of earphones and tight-fitting shorts, and frequented a table at their local coffee shop where his neighbor worked part-time. But he was subtle about it, was he not?

Had it really been that obvious?

He sneaks a glance at the American beside him - relieved to find him still struggling to keep awake - and returns to fumbling somewhat clumsily with the keypad of his phone, unsure of what to say.

[Francis | 3:13] Do not worry, mon ami. I am not here to tease.

[Francis | 3:13] Your actions these past few months have been embarrassing enough for you.

[Arthur | 3:14] What in the world are you talking about, Frog?

[Francis | 3:15] Tsk. Tsk. Do you not remember our last drink night, Arthur?

[Francis | 3:15] Your normally unbearable whining to a very . . . interesting turn.

Arthur stares at the screen, mind blank. He remembered having a drink with Francis almost a month ago in celebration of his recent promotion - a tradition they maintained through the years, despite how often they tore at each other's guts. The frenchman poured him an awfully suspicious amount of drinks that night - not that Arthur's complaining, alcohol's hard money to come by these days.

The night had gone on as usual, a few drinks, a couple more, and they began to talk abou—

Oh.

Oh.

Fuck.

[Francis | 3:16] I see you remember, non?

[Arthur | 3:17] Francis Bonnefoy, I swear if you do anything stupid I will chop off your prick and shove it up your arsehole first thing tomorrow morning.

[Francis | 3:18] Ah but your visualizations about your "bloody gorgeous american neighbor" were simply magnifique, Arthur ;)

[Francis | 3:18] What was it you said around your sixth glass?

[Arthur | 3:18] FRANCIS DON'T YOU DARE

[Francis | 3:18] "I want him to bend me over and fuck me into a desk" was it not?

[Francis | 3:19] My, I would've at least taken him to dinner first.

[Arthur | 3:19] SHUT YOUR MOUTH, FROG

[Francis | 3:19] Did you not also mention something about IKEA furniture?

[Francis | 3:20] How cultured of you.

"Uh, dude?"

"What is it!?"

Arthur snaps up to meet the blue eyes staring at him.

And all the blood drains from his face.

"When d-did you—"

"Something about a drink night?" he replies, eyes widening a bit at the deathly look of shock that flashed onto Arthur's face. "Your jolt moved the bench a bit and woke me up, a-and your phone was pretty bright so it caught my attention and—"

"Oh gods," Arthur moans, exasperated and desperately wishing that he was anywhere but the very spot he's in at this very moment. Francis must've finally gotten the message, because his phone hasn't vibrated for a while now. He buries his face in his palms, having intended to keep it that way for a good seven decades or so until hearing the American clear his throat a few seconds later.

"So uh . . . " Alfred begins, averting his gaze somewhere off to the side. "I guess you like me too?"

Before Arthur can sputter out a reply, the phone vibrates in his hands, coming back to life from its idle state with a pale white glow that read:

[Francis | 3:22] He thinks you are - how you say - really fucking hot.

Wherever the amphibious monstrosity is, Arthur hoped he saw the promise of brutal murder in his eyes being suffocated under fifty shades of utter, undeniable, humiliation.

"Hey," Alfred coos, the laced concern in his voice making Arthur want to melt into a pile of goop as a hand pats comfortably on his shoulder, "don't look so embarrassed. I think you're pretty hot too." The hand on his shoulder flinches and Arthur blinks at him. "I-I mean you're pretty cute too - ah, fuck - like you seem k-kinda nice."

This time it's the brit's turn to stare at him. "T-Thank you … I suppose."

A pause.

"Uh . . . " Alfred withdraws his hand, rubbing the palm against the skin of his neck. "So d'you wanna get some coffee sometime after this is all cleared up?"

Arthur ignores the barrage of vibrations from the phone in his hand as he bows his head and chokes out a soft, barely audible "Sure." And doesn't get to see Alfred's reaction beyond the soft chuckle soon after his reply, too busy trying to fight the giddy smile welling its way up to his skin.

For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence, and Arthur's phone finally, finally stopped vibrating.

"So . . . IKEA furniture, huh?"

A/N: another one from tumblr - just assume everything that's not multi-chaptered that I post here was originally on tumblr o3o