He loved him, of course.

They had met at the party of an aristocrat, heaven knows which one. Once formally introduced, they had spent much of the night chatting. Discussing the state of the empire and debating over the social status of their countries.

It was exhilarating.

Gradually, they began to meet more and more often for amounts of time that were ever increasing. And naturally, as fate would have it, their courtship began.

It would never matter how often they bickered and bantered. The adoration that shone in their eyes for one another was as clear as the stars on a cloudless night, and the arguments of the past fell to the power of forgiveness over time.

It didn't matter about the rumors people gossiped about how their families secretly had pushed them together, or that they were only doing it for status. The lies of the public did not matter, only the truth.

And the truth was that they loved each other. On some moonlit evenings, they strode through the park and talked until the wee hours of the night when many assumed that only vagabonds were out. On some evenings, while visiting one another's homes, they simply sat in the parlor, and each enjoyed the company of the other.

"Arthur," he had said to him on one such night. It was quiet, except for the sound of Autumn rain against the cobblestone streets outside. Kerosene lamps and thin candles illuminated the room just enough to see, the flames flickering against the darkness surrounding them. Over all, despite the darkness, the parlor was intimate and cosy.

The Englishman looked up from the thick novel he had been reading by the light of the lamp.

"Yes, Francis? What is it?"

"Do you love me?"

He chuckled at the joke they shared. "Yes, I do."

The Frenchman smiled to him, getting to his feet and striding over to his beau. "Then why don't we make it official?" he asked, his accent coating his words like sweet honey.

Arthur froze, his heart nearly missing a beat. Make it official? "Surely you don't mean- are you asking me to marry you?" A nod and a smile confirmed his suspicions as the Frenchman took Arthur's hand in his own, gently kissing his pale, slender knuckles.

Surprised at the sudden offer being made, the Englishman bit his lip. "And you're sure about it?" He inquired. "You want to marry someone like me?"

"I wouldn't ask if I wasn't sure, mon cher," Francis promised before reverting back to his native tongue. "Je t'aime, et je ne veux pas être loin de toi. Je veux te montrer ce que nous resterons ensemble dans l'examen du temps. Jusqu'à nos morts, nous serons ensemble. Alors, je te demande, épousera tu moi?"

"Bloody shit," Arthur said under his breath, being proficient in the other language. "This is real, isn't it?" He took a moment to gather his wits about him before adding, "You really want this for us, don't you?"

Another nod answered him as his beau continued to gaze wistfully at him.

Rising to his feet and causing the candle to flicker, the Englishman put had his free hand over Francis', struggling to hide his joy. "If it's my heart you want, you already have it," he had said, choosing his words carefully. If it's my hand you want, then you shall have it. Yes, Francis Bonnefoy, I will marry you."