I own nothing but my psycho perverted mind and the wish to entertain you all.

Français-English:

"Francis , il y a le téléphone qui sonne et jamais personne qu'il répond-" : Francis, the phone is ringing but there's no-one ever answering it

«Allô ? Qui est à l'appareil ? » : Hello, who's speaking?

...en travaillant : while working

Ouais, sureme-.. Attend! Quoi?" : Yeah, sure... Wait! What?

Joyous spring

The sun was shining happily outside the window, warming with his bright rays the green leaves of the flourished trees and the colourful wings of the cheerful birds. Spring was bathing the world with its delicious happiness, when a serious call made Francis' phone ring.

"Francis , il y a le téléphone qui sonne et jamais personne qu'il répond-"

«Allô ? Qui est à l'appareil ? » He answered jauntily, not giving the slightest glance to the display. He would never refuse a nice talk while working.

"Make a guess, git." Was the blunt answer. Francis' smile grew wider at the sound of the familiar voice. They hadn't been talking for quite a while and now, suddenly, this fortunate call. He sighted lightly before replying contently.

"A proper Englishman wouldn't use such vocabulary, Arthur."

"A proper Englishman would send roses up your-"

"It's not nice to call someone with the precise intention to insult them, mon ami. And I'm actually working, so would you go to Hell, s'il te plait?" He started swirling his blue pen in his hand nonchalantly, taking off the top and putting it back in place, his gaze roaming through the bright well-decorated room. A picture of him and his cousin Feliciano was hanging on the peach-coloured wall in front of him. Time has gone by, he thought as a low sigh escaped his already parted lips.

"Are you working? Seriously?"

"No, jokingly. Arthur, you never waste time on useless phone calls, so,... What's up? Is there anything wrong?"

"Why, do you really think I would call you to cry on your shoulder? Who the Hell do you think you are, my saviour? It's just... Well..." Silence.

"Well?" He frowned, already standing up, ready to leave and slam his door open to catch the firs train to his place. After what happened in the past, he was always afraid Arthur would attempt something stupid.

"Francis, are you doing anything special tonight? Because, you know, there's the match on and watching it all alone sounds kind of depressive... So... if you're fine with that, what about coming over for dinner?" They both could hear the difficulty he had in making such a proposal and yet, they both agreed silently in saying nothing at all.

"Pourquoi pas? I'll be leaving for... Attends... Ow, dépêche-toi, stupid ordi! Alors-" He kept on insulting his computer, adding come other nice compliments referred to the slow cable line, which refused to open the travel agent's web-page.

"Listen, just let me know if you're getting here before dinner-time, okay?" He asked annoyed from the other side of the phone.

Francis punched the computer in answering. "D'accord, just give me the time to catch a train and I'll text you once in London." In spite of his mild rage, his eyes were shining with glee as he imagined himself stepping out the door, leaving all his problems behind.

"M-mh, take your time. Dunno, have some breakfast, doddle, organise your marriage... or work. It'd be nice if you worked sometimes." He was joking, Francis could tell by the tone of his voice. Yet, he felt slightly insulted.

"Why, saving the best for later?" He chuckled before shutting the phone closed. He could hear him swearing on the other side, his face reddened both by anger and embarrassment. It was so easy to make Arthur crossed. Humming a popular song he roamed through his flat, opened the window and smiled at the sun.

It was almost lunch-time, when Arthur's phone rang cheerfully."London calling to the faraway towns, now war is declared and battle comes down-"

He glanced at the display. "Francis..." He muttered. "London calling to the underworld, come out of the cupboard, you boys and-" he turned it off and smiled dauntingly, before throwing the phone on the other side of the black couch. "I said evening, git."

With his lunch in his hands, he walked outside on te balcon. The sun was blessing England with his joy and Arthur couldn't, but smile at it thankfully.

It was an hour past tea-time when a shiny black cab parked in front of the Englishman's house. There was still a pleasant red-rose light wrapping the world in its sweet embrace, a last motherly kiss before the coldness of the night could swallow reality to keep it safe in its bosom.

Fortunately, Francis always had some Pounds with him, as he had forgotten to change his Euros before travelling to the green island. He handed the driver the money and got off with a relieved smile on his face. It had been a short yet tiring journey.

Walking to the door, he rested his eyes on the few flowers around the steps. Lilies, violets, eyes-of-angels,... They all smiled at him with their light-coloured eyes. He knocked slightly before pushing the handle. That warm house welcomed him as an old friend.

He stepped in, his eyes shifting from side to side to catch a glimpse of Arthur's figure in that silent, lightly dark world. A noise from the kitchen told him which way to follow. He walked through the living room illuminated only by small red candles placed here and there on the shelves, creating a soft magical atmosphere. Arthur had this thing for candles that he couldn't understand. Misticism, occultism... He loved this mysterious non-exact Sciences for some weird reason. And candles... There was always a sweet, melliflous smell of wax in his house, which penetrated inside the nose swiftly and nestled there for days to form his best, blurry memory.

He smiled and stared sweetly at one of the candles. Its flame danced like a ballerina on the stage, paining but enjoying herself at the same time. His eyes roamed around hungrily. He remembered every detail of that room. The couch, the table, the scent of incens... the sufferance hidden in that house. He could feel it. He could smell it. He was part of it, too.

"Francis!" Arthur left the kitchen to dash to the Frenchman with a bright smile on his face. "Why didn't you tell me you would come this early? Didn't I tell you to text me?"

"Where's your mobile, Arthur?" Francis replied in a mocking tone, taking his hand and dragging him nearer.

"Uh... Somewhere?" Arthur's face showed clear ignorance, but also a certain unsureness. Francis was too serious, even if Arthur was now letting him kiss his cheeks twice, debating with himself if replying sarcastically on how disgusting it felt to have his lips on his skin or not.

"Do you have to kiss me twice every single time?" Arthur stated in wiping his face. He wiped it much more than necessary, Francis noticed, but kept silent. Some things were better not to be said. Not after what had happened.

"Hey, it's my culture! Two kisses mean good friendship!" He winked and went to the kitchen, but suddenly he stopped after a few steps. His eyes fell on a photo of them taken some years ago, it was already after University. He remembered that day very well, when they decided to meet in Paris to celebrate their future entrance in the world of the working grown-ups. Pointing at it, he turned to the other blond.

"What?" Arthur asked glancing at the picture. "Well, it's one of our best moments. I'm even sober in this one!" He remarked quite proudly. Drinking wasn't a problem back then, he thought with a light bitterness.

"You should be sober in every picture. Which you're not." He glanced at his friend, who made a sorry face so as to ask for pardon. "We've been friends for, what? Twenty years?" He asked sadly, not really paying attention to the question. Time flew so rapidly, that he had lost count of the days they had spent together.

"More or less." He patted his shoulder friendly on walking up to him. "We're old, frog."

"Our friendship makes me old." He turned abruptly to walk into the modern, bright kitchen.

"What did you expect, to live forever?" He leant to the door frame folding his arms as the Frenchman stopped, sighing.

"Non, but..." his head rolled to the side to let their eyes met. Time has really gone by, he thought. And yet, they were still the same two young men. Still the same, still alone. "Arthur, wouldn't you like to have someone... someone to share the rest of your life with?" His eyes were full of sadness as the words left the bottom of his heart. Always the sme question. Arthur was afraid Francis would never get through that loss, but what could he do? It wasn't so easy to find someone to share the rest of your life with. Not for the two of them, at least. He kept silent, lowering his eyes. They stayed like silent sad statues with their mouth closed and their breath calm for some tragic, endless moments, until Francis let out a small sigh. As he opened his arms, Arthur walked in the sweet embrace and wrapped his own arms around his waist, holding him tightly like he was afraid he would leave. He brushed his cheek on his shoulder and closed his eyes, but his hands were grasping at the fabric of the other's shirt. A small tear ran down his red face as the Frenchman breathed on his neck.

"Desolé..."

Arthur shook his head, sobbing uncontrollably. "It's not your fault, git." And with this he hugged even more tightly his blond friend. No matter how much he tried not to think about it, the past was still chasing them with his black laugh. Memories, strong memories hunting them and never letting go... Two friends, two girlfriends, two brides, two houses, two cars, an accident, a funeral, a divorce and then two friends, still, but alone. And all he could remember was a flash of her smile and a wave of her black dress. It was raining, that day.

Arthur pushed away as soon as he felt the coldness of the rain soak his brain and silently walked to the wooden table without looking up. He let himself drop on the chair before slowly turning his head with a faint smile on his red face. "Let's make some dinner, shall we?" Francis replied with a similar smile and reached for an apron before opening the fridge. Much to his surprise, he found it somewhat full.

"What about some.. Pastaaaa!" He said cheerfully, imitating one of their best acquaitances. He wanted to wash away the sad look o Arthur's face for that evening, at least. He wanted it to disappear, to disappear forever. When they were together, he couldn't but wish happiness for the two of them.

"Don't be ridiculous, you can't cook it." He shot back harshly. He loved teasing people, their angry faces made his sadistic side laugh really hard. And Francis', well, his expression was just unique.

The Frenchman started opening all the drawers to find some ingredients with a challenging smirk on his face. Cooking was what he did best and he would never let an Englishman tell him he couldn't boil some damned refined grain. "Where are the pots?"

" Pots? Here, but... What for?"

"Let's boil hot water."

A Frenchman and an Englishman cooking... pasta? MADNESS!

So, here you are the first Chapter. I do hope you enjoyed it and there's no need to say review are appreciated! For the ones who wonder: there's a reason why this fanfiction is rated M. Yes. THAT reason. ^^

I'm about to rewrite some of the parts in the first chapters. Why? Because it's fun. And educational. Or maybe I just want this to be a nice read. Pick the one you prefer^^ Thank you for reading and... Keep on!