Being 22 was hard.

Between juggling essays and a taxing job and everything in between on God's green earth, Francis didn't have time for relationships, romance, vacations, even summer. Though the thought of such a life might seem awful, Francis was content, quietly resigned to the fact that this was how it would always be. He didn't have time for parties. He didn't drink. He wasn't a hooligan (contrary to popular belief) and he didn't have love interests.

To be perfectly honest, Francis didn't want a love interest. He was busy, and that would distract him. He didn't need anyone.

Or so he thought.

Though the summer was coming to an end, Francis felt that the heat would never cease to beat on his shoulders. As he unlocked the library door, where he worked day and night running his own library, he winced and rolled his shoulder, still nursing a severe burn. Perhaps it wasn't wise to wear tank tops in this weather.

The bell above jingled as he propped the door open and flicked on the light switch. The bleary little library came to life, containing rows and rows of books that Francis (ever the literature snob) had probably all read at least once. Although libraries were noted for their quietness, their lack of "hustle and bustle", Francis's library was different. Being the only library in the small town made it different.

School was starting in three days. Most parents begrudgingly escorted their children into the library, buying them all the books they needed to start out the new year, which meant Francis was exceedingly busy the week before school. In the three years Francis had lived out here, having moved from big-city France to rural America for college, he'd never quite adjusted to these strange people (nor the heat).

But it was ok, because he was making money, making money and surviving, and that was more than what he had done back in France, under the iron grip of his father and the sickly deceptive sweetness of his mother.

Such dreary thoughts surrounded him as he helped a family check out, waving farewell as they exited. Rush hour was over, and the library was once again monotone and quiet, somber. Listlessly Francis idled down the various aisles, fixing misplaced books, shrouded by the useless past that still haunted him-

When Francis felt a body collide into his back, rendering him completely unbalanced, and let out a sharp yelp, gripping the shelf in front of him. He heard books clatter to the floor behind him, and swiftly, he turned.

And everything in the library exploded into colour.

There was spilled tea on the carpet, books with their pages bent scattered everywhere, bulky brown framed glasses bent at an awkward angle, but Francis's wide eyes lingered only on the young man sprawled out on the ground before him.

He glanced up, green eyes locking with Francis's, frantically apologizing, "I am so, so clumsy. I'm sorry-"

"No, no," Francis hushed, smiling. "Let me help." He bent down and gathered the books, noting that this young stranger's accent was definitely not American, and hoisted him up off the ground. "Are you alright?"

"Peachy," the stranger huffed, but his smile took away from his biting sarcasm. "I was just looking for a place to hide away, but I understand if you want me to leave-"

Francis laughed and shook his head. "Of course not." Spreading his arms out, he announced, "Francis's bookstore and café is open to everyone, mon ami!"

"I thought that accent sounded French," the other muttered, rolling his eyes. "Fantastic. I've befriended a frog the first day of living in America."

Clutching his chest, Francis gasped, enrapt in this new, colorful stranger. "Frog? Please. And you must be a stuffy, scone-loving, tea-drinking bastard with that getup." He gestured toward the black sweater vest. "My advice to you is do not wear black in American summer, ...?"

"Arthur," the blonde interjected. "You can call me Arthur."

Smiling, Francis bowed. "And I am Francis. Francis Bonnefoy. I also go by King Francis the Third of-"

"Shut up."

Green eyes haunted Francis for the rest of the day, and suddenly, the library wasn't so monotone anymore.

—

But all too soon, school started. If Francis had been busy during the summer, he certainly was even more busy now- being a senior in college wasn't exactly a walk in the park. Granted, it was nice to see old friends, one of said old friends especially.

"Francis!"

Turning, Francis was instantly glomped by someone with silver dyed hair. Nose curling, Francis reared back, about to tell the person off, but on further inspection, he realized-

"Gilbert?! Your hair!? What did you do?!" He cried out.

Snickering, Gilbert struck a pose. "You like? I dyed it. Screw blondes!"

Rolling his eyes, Francis started his descent down the stairs, Gilbert on his heels. "I dealt with the red. Hell, I even dealt with black. But silver?! Silver, Gilbert? Is that really necessary?"

"Meh."

"Meh?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Meh."

"Merde, I hate meeting you after breaks."

Francis didn't fancy sitting in a classroom for hours, and now was really starting to regret choosing History as his minor, already swamped with essays and reading. He tapped his fingers against his desk, tried to focus in, started to wonder why the English language was so complicated, and wondered if maybe he could pretend to be deaf.

Gilbert walked with him to his dorm after his last class. "So, the incoming freshman are-"

"Cute?" Francis interrupted with a sly look at his friend. "Don't we go through this routine every year?" Gilbert opened his mouth to reply, but Francis stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. His dorm room was open, boxes strewn in the entry way.

"Oh yeah," Gilbert snickered. "They ran out of dorms in the freshman wing. Some are being thrown in with the seniors. Looks like your lucky day!"

He walked off, leaving Francis to his misery. Grimacing, Francis stepped over the boxes, an irritated whine sounding from his mouth as he walked into the room. However, his irritation was abruptly cut short at the sight of Arthur sitting at the small breakfast table, sipping on what was presumably tea.

"Arthur?"

The blonde turned his head, eyes widening. "Francis?"

"I had no idea you were-"

Throwing his head back in despair, Arthur groaned, "Shit! I'm rooming with a disgusting frog!"

Francis gave a sharp laugh. "And you think I'm leaping for joy at your presence? Mind you, I've always been alone, and I don't need you encroaching on my space, bastard."

That was the day Francis found out that Arthur had quite the temper, and was not afraid to throw things at someone he barely knew. As he lay in bed, typing up his essay, he wondered why he was relived to finally have a roommate. He'd always been alone, and he'd never had problems with that fact.

There was something about Arthur, Francis thought. Something strange.

And it would just get better.

Ehehe, not feeling the USUK right now, guys. I'm kinda going into my FrUK stage, and this story has been on my mind for a few days now. So, suffer through some college AU FrUK with me! This story won't be long. It's honestly just a fluff piece on how they met and *spoilers* how they fell in love. And... there may be smut in the last chapter, who knows.

Side note: Anyone disappointed that Finland and Belarus didn't qualify in Eurovision? Anyone?