Valentine's Day: the one day in a year when Francis Bonnefoy turns from an insufferable git to an absolute nightmare, at least if one were to ask Arthur Kirkland's opinion. (Or: France from England's point of view the majority of the time.)

This year, thank the Queen, the cursed day falls on a Sunday; therefore, no meetings are held and no insufferable Frenchmen are anywhere near Arthur and he is finally able to marathon both Downtown Abbey and Doctor Who's earlier seasons. (The Ninth remains Arthur's favourite; bless that actor and his performance.)

Unfortunately his mobile phone rings and buzzes with the onslaught of messages from other nations wishing him happy Valentine's, some more passive-aggressively than others. (Hint: Scotland and the rest of Arthur's shitty company of brothers.)

Arthur chooses to ignore the messages, because a) fuck Valentine's with a long stick produced outside of Britain and b) he should not encourage people to bother him further on a perfectly good Sunday.

At least Alfred wouldn't bother him for several more hours: the boy would sleep long into his own afternoon and Arthur's evening.

But, oh dear, Francis is a completely different thing, and somehow... somehow Arthur fails to not notice that Francis had not been amongst the nations that had wished him happy Valentine's via text message.

A bit past lunch time, Arthur's doorbell rings, and it elicits a long groan from Arthur, who would rather become one with his sofa than stand up and leave the sitting room to open the practically antique (according to Alfred) door. If it's Cameron, Arthur is even more inclined to ignore it.

But whoever is out there shows no signs of giving up, and so Arthur is forced to switch off his telly while muttering a string of the most English curses he could think of before leaving the room for his outdoor, which he glared at a few seconds before unlocking it and opening it.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"France," Arthur says, tone as flat as his face is blank. "Fancy meeting you here."

"England," Francis mimicks Arthur's tone, "fancy a shag?"

"Yes," Arthur says, and Francis' brows rise high on his brow. "But not with you, I'm afraid."

"Now, if only the other half of that sentence did not exist," Francis sighs as his hands fiddles though rather weakly, no. "You got my hopes up for nothing once again, Arthur."

"Good," Arthur replies pleasantly, glancing at his door as he contemplates on slamming it shut on Francis. Passive-aggression is sometimes the best thing to rely on when the world is intent on shitting on one's face. Or, in this case, throwing Valentine's chocolate onto an unwilling victim. "I hear Paris is good for healing a broken heart around this time of year."

"You would know all about that, wouldn't you?" Francis smirks as he flips his hair and rolls his shoulders. "You have done so quite often in the past, mon amour. Though I suppose your love life has got a bit better as of late, oui?"

Arthur's lips curl up in return, toothy and punkish. "Well, I'll have to give you a point for that, love. Do feel free to come in, if you'd like."

"Why, of course." Francis smiles, a lot softer this time, and leans in to kiss Arthur's lips. Then, in a murmur, he says, "I do hope you were kidding about not wanting to have sex with me, however."

"There's only one way to find out, isn't there?"

.

.

As it turns out, Francis really did come with the intention of spending the day with Arthur.

"It's the day dedicated to lovers everywhere! Why would I not want to spend it with mine?" he wonders when Arthur expresses his distaste to the idea. He looks so astounded by the idea to staying away that Arthur has to look away. Otherwise he might feel guilty, and that's a feeling he has had enough and would not rather encounter ever again.

Luckily boiling water for his tea offers Arthur enough distraction to use as an excuse.

"Oh, I don't know," he mutters, "perhaps you should have celebrated it on Friday instead like anyone sensible did."

"But it wouldn't have felt the same." Francis, as always, sounds ridiculously earnest in the matters concerning love, and Arthur bites at his lip as he tries not to melt at the syrupy romantic feelings bubbling past Francis' marvelous lips.

"What happened to your 'romance should be celebrated every day!' exclamations?" Arthur sighs as he turns to his cupboards now, digging out porcelain cups and saucers for him and Francis. "I would have been happy with a phone call, or even a measly text message, Francis."

Francis waits until Arthur has turned back towards him before answering, blue eyes wide and serious as they gauge Arthur's expression. "You still do not like holidays."

"Nice deduction, Sherlock," Arthur grumbles as he sets the saucers and cups down, sitting down across from Francis and trying to ignore the aura of prettiness Francis continues to ooze out.

The love that radiates off Francis is a tad harder to not notice.

Arthur selects the option of glaring at the box of chocolates instead of Francis' face. "I have told you not to do unnecessary things like this before, haven't I?"

"Yes," Francis says at length, "but this year I made the chocolate myself, so..."

"Huh?" Arthur flicks his gaze up, only to wince when he sees Francis stare back at him evenly yet with an intensity only a person in love could possess.

"Japan finally gave me his recipe," Francis elaborates as he pushes the box to Arthur. "I'll admit I got the box from a store, but otherwise..."

"Francis, this is completely unnecessary," Arthur complains, "I don't even like chocolate all that much, save for few exceptions."

"You are throwing away my love?" Francis looks genuinely wounded, lower lip jutting out and quivering. It's fake, of course, but Arthur flinches regardless. Then, the expression changes just as the kettle whistles and breaks the moment.

Arthur stands up, relieved.

"It is not like I am demanding anything special," Francis says. "I don't care you didn't get anything for me; you will be making your hideous scarves anyway as long as winter prevails, but I would like for you to have something from me, mon amour."

Arthur's hands shake as he gets the kettle and goes to pour tea into the cups, face aflush under Francis' scrutiny.

"I am in love with you, Arthur," Francis adds gently as Arthur sets the kettle down and starts adding honey into their teas before sitting down again. "I wish you would accept it more readily."

"I do— I do accept your feelings," Arthur mutters, stirring his tea a little too aggressively. "Have I acted like I don't, idiot?"

"Come over here for a moment—" Francis gestures to his side and the empty space between the kitchen counter and the table. "S'il the plaît, mon cher."

Sighing, Arthur leaves his tea unattended and obeys the request. Stands awkwardly by Francis' side, and doesn't say anything when Francis' hands grasp his. Tender, tender, that's how Francis' hands are these days.

It's not fair how kind Francis' eyes can be, Arthur thinks and shuts his own as his heartbeat quickens.

"I'm unbearably in love with you, Arthur," Francis murmurs, and his lips touch the back of Arthur's hand. "You think it's silly, and unbearably commercial and capitalist, this Valentine's Day. It might be that these days, yes, but some actually celebrate the feeling the day celebrates, mon cher. I'm one of those. And I would like you to accept the feelings I put into my chocolate for you."

"...There's nothing suspicious in it, yes?"

"Arthur, you know me better than to think that." This time Francis really does sound upset, and Arthur opens his eyes to take a loot at the narrowed blue eyes that are glued to Arthur's face.

"...I'm sorry," Arthur says quietly, fingers curling within Francis' hold. "You know how I am. I'm sorry."

"It would also be nice if you were to let me feed you the chocolate piece by piece," Francis comments, eyes glazing as they turn towards the abandoned box on the table.

He's avoiding the topic, Arthur knows.

"Hey," he cuts him off. "I really am sorry, Fran." It's an old nickname from their childhood, one that Arthur rarely uses, and it does get Francis to look at him again with wide eyes.

Arthur inhales, and looks away as his cheeks burn. "I do understand your intentions, I suppose. If it means that much to you, I shall eat your chocolate."

For good measure, he adds, "But I won't promise to enjoy it."

Francis' grin could light up a whole ballroom, and in the past it had done just that. For Arthur, at least. Now, his heart skips a beat as Francis tugs him down by the collar of his shirt and kisses him. The touch is fleeting and light like a feather, and it tickles Arthur's skin just as much.

"Fancy a shag now, Arthur?" Francis just has to breathe against his mouth, thoroughly flustering already flustered Arthur.

"Oh, sod off, will you?" Arthur grumbles, kissing Francis again to kill the smirk off the other's face.

At the end of it, Arthur whispers, "I do, though."

.

.

note: "fancy a shag, mate?" was the working title for this.