Weather was like a religion in Seattle. It was, for the most part, completely routine, and in a nice order by season.

Spring: Rain all the time.

Summer: Rain, with a few sunny days.

Fall: The sky is leaking every other minute.

Winter: Pouring and cold every single day.

Convenient, because one always knew what to wear, and they never forgot an umbrella, but some people hated the rain. Arthur Kirkland was one such man, who found this seasonal down pour too close to the weather of that of his homeland, England, to be completely comfortable. He was not a man that felt comfortable many places to begin with, especially around people. Arthur was not a people person, and did not look the part, which further established this. His sharp green eyes, large eyebrows, hunched and small frame, and his instinctual reaction to scowl when anyone went near seemed to drive most others away, and he was frankly glad for this most of the time. Although he was not uncaring, people and conversations were just not his forte and found everything was better if they were avoided.

Most of the time, this was a simple mundane lifestyle to pull off. There were the few instances when he did have to work with other people though, and those were not enjoyable times for Arthur. Going to the store was hard enough on a crowded day, yet somehow he managed to drag himself through society without being trampled. There were a few people he did feel comfortable around, of course. Peter, his "son", if that was the word, and his parents lived in a small seaside town two hours away, and it was easy enough to go and see them if Arthur so desired. Friends, though there were a very small few, were dear to him and it was always nice to see them. So there were times and places for things; some more likable than others.

World Meetings were perfectly fine in Arthur's book, to an extent. It was a good opportunity to meet with those he worked with, it kept them all informed, and cleared up confusion. It was simply a good way to keep organized, and although it took up a good majority of his Friday, it was certainly a productive way to spend his time. Some times they played at his already frayed nerves for various reasons, sometimes things turned to yelling, other days there was not much to be said, but the irregularity of the schedule hardly bothered Arthur. As long as something was going on, everything was fine. The extent of this enjoyment of said meetings stopped at two certain people whom Arthur could not stand, above all others.

The first was Alfred Jones, more specifically the way he talked, and in the large quantity he talked, whatever he had to say was the most annoying noise Arthur had ever heard. It was like the droning noise of a washer at two in the morning whose cycle seemed like it could go on and on forever and never be done. They were in this middle of this right now. There was Alfred, standing at the head of the table, talking and gesticulating wildly like his life depended on it. Arthur had no idea what was coming out of his mouth, just that it was yet another ridiculous plan of his, that would undoubtedly put himself center stage, yet again.

Arthur tapped his pen against the table, rolling one ankle under the table impatiently. It would be ages before the thought of shutting up even crossed Alfred's mind, and until then everyone was stuck listening to his nothings. It was in this time that he was pleased to note that the other person whom made these meetings almost unbearable was absent from his usual spot aside the Englishman. They key phrase was pleased; not entirely happy, just glad that at that precise moment, there was no stupid Frenchman to whisper comments that were hardly appropriate for the time or place.

To Arthur, Francis Bonnefoy was an interesting person, in the sense Arthur had no idea what to do with him. He had a pretty logical idea of the things he wouldn't do with the man, but sometimes even that got foggy. For the most part, he was a prick. Almost as intolerable as Alfred, only ten times more perverted and loud. Anything he did or said, at the moment it was done or spoken, was like grinding nails down a chalk-board and it caused Arthur a fierce migraine on more than one occasion. However, it was the aftershock that struck him most. It was when Francis wasn't around that Arthur found himself wishing he had that prattling voice to listen to, that pretty face to look at.

So along with blatantly ignoring whatever Alfred had to say, he found his eyes, more often than not, drifting over to the empty space next to him, wishing it was full of a warm, lovely-smelling Francis. He found himself lazing off unintentionally, and Alfred's voice simply became white noise for he didn't know how long. But that brief time was spent on pondering the situation of Francis, more importantly, how nice it would be to take him home and–

"Arthur!" The barked name, his name, jolted him right up, and he noticed that everyone was watching him. God dammit. Yet another demonstration of why Francis was confusing. He wanted to ignore him so badly when he was around, but sometimes the very idea of the man made Arthur drool. "It's your turn," a tall blonde man said, kind enough, but a little irritated.

"Yes, of course, of course." Finally, a worthy distraction, and possibly the only one that could drag his mind away from that frog. Work was extremely important to him, so when he stood before the board, he made sure to sweep everything from his mind that was not directly related to his notes. And for a good ten minutes, that worked. Arthur went right along with his speech he had planned, and his voice was clear. He was sure everyone looked impressed, and he was feeling fantastic. Until the boardroom door opened, and in strolled Francis Bonnefoy, all dolled up in one of his expensive suits and gracefully tardy. As soon as Arthur saw that stupid French face, his mental table again became crowded with annoyance.

"Sorry I'm late..." the Frenchman apologized, giving a small elegant bow to the entirety of the room. Upon hearing that voice of his, Arthur's face turned red. Of course, the frog had to come in at the time most inopportune for Arthur. He couldn't have gotten there five minutes earlier?

"Just sit down, Git," he growled through gritted teeth. Francis winked at him and moved around the table to the empty chair near Arthur's. When he resumed his speech though, he found it a little harder to get words from his mouth. Sometimes they got stuck, and he had to cough as to dislodge them, others they came out too fast and he tripped on his vocal cords. This strange phenomenon always happened, whenever Francis was around. Francis, looking so casual, leaning back in his seat, drawing on paper with a pen. Every time Arthur's eyes even went near the man, his heart took a pause, which messed up the rest of his body systematically and he had to take the next second to reset himself. Francis had no idea.

This awkward, jumpy cycle continued until what was on the paper had reached the ears of those in the room. He folded his notes back up and tucked them into the pocket of his trousers, walking back around the oblong table as a tall chestnut haired man with sparkling green eyes made his way up to the front. As he approached his seat, his legs pumped a little faster, and the tapping of his shoes alerted the man aside the empty chair. Francis looked up and gave him a warm smile.

"Bonjour, Arthur. Lovely speech, as always." The Englishman blushed and grumbled his way through the flattery, reaching his seat and sitting quickly.

"Where were you?" he hissed, scooting his chair back in. The back legs scraped loudly against the floor.

"Out, 'aving sex with a woman on ze beach," Francis joked, looking up at Arthur from around blonde bangs. He winked. The Englishman felt his face grow increasingly red, and he scowled before turning his head away quickly.

"Bloody Frog..."

–

One day, wouldn't it be nice to hold him?

Oh god yes. To hold him and never let go. We could spend all day tangled in bed, naked, and sleep and joke away the day until it got dark out again. I could kiss him all I wanted, everywhere, and I wouldn't have to stop if I didn't want to. We could go at it all night, and even in the morning. We could both skip work once a month to spend the day in town; go shopping even though I hate it, go out for dinner to a fancy place, come home to our flat (Mm, "our" hasn't sounded better in a sentence) and keep each other up all night.

He could be all mine. I wouldn't have to watch him wink at those stupid women after meetings in the elevators anymore. We could take the stairs, and no one would have to ask why it took us so long to reach the lobby. Flirty girls could stop shooting him looks that I hate so much because he wouldn't encourage it. We could flirt instead of them.

I think I'd like that.

These were only the ghosts of thoughts that passed through Arthur's brain late in the night in an empty bed, the pillow next to him cooling. They still existed though, ones of a certain Frenchman with golden hair, the way he smiled, the way he talked. In the daylight, Arthur would have scowled and pushed those thoughts away before anyone noticed his red face or day-dreaming eyes. But here in the dark he was safe to let his mind go where-ever it wanted; down rose-bitten streets, at a cafe almost right next door to Arthur's favorite bookstore. Anywhere where Francis was, Arthur longed to be too, even it he was only watching from around a corner.

Admitting this was out of the question. The Englishman's pride could be measured against the ocean and still be seen as large. So he had to bide his time over with stolen smiles that were meant for whomever was behind him, glances that were met on accident. Frankly, this routine was killing Arthur and even he knew, in the back of his mind, that something had to be said, and soon too. Part of Arthur was dreading that day, because the whole of him was terrified about what Francis would say. Rejection was ever-looming and Arthur knew it would destroy him. He was known for putting all his eggs in one basket, so to speak, and had certainly done so with the alluring Frenchman. This brought him to the obvious fact he was falling in love. But no, there was no way he could let himself do that. He had to be in control of this issue. He couldn't afford to seem weak. It was too costly a mistake.

However, when compared to his disposition, the pride was an insignificant speck. His heart was as boundless as space and all is stars, and deeper than all the black holes stacked atop one another. So, for the most part, he was in control, but as far as Francis was concerned... Dear God Francis. Francis he craved for, Francis he needed. The ache ran through every fiber in his being and so many times it threatened to overcome him in a flood of stupid actions he would surely regret.

The problem with Francis was that he was everywhere, even when he wasn't. After the meetings when Arthur was driving home, the cologne of the Frenchman wore stuck to his clothes and inside the songs on the radio was hidden that bird-like voice. It made it hard to forget about him, to fix the issue like he always had: Destroy them before they ever bloomed. But this Frenchman was a fucking daisy and he had long since opened his petals to suck up all the sun Arthur possessed. It was a dangerously symbiotic relationship that had been formed, even without the knowledge of one party.

It was Francis that benefited though, compared to the way Arthur was suffering. For the good majority, his inside hurt because of his outside. Next to Francis, Arthur was a cold stone that was rough and hard. So in the natural order of things, technically Francis should end up with someone just as beautiful as himself, no one like Arthur. Yet another form of rejection the Englishman found himself dreading. He knew he wasn't very attractive, with his bushy eyebrows and deep scowl, but the worst thing would be having to hear that from Francis, who'd always insulted him out of jest. If there was truth in his teasings though, there would be a considerable lack of words on Arthur's part, simply because even after all their centuries of battle, there was still some unspoken softness upon which the Englishman thrived. It was a kind of security blanket for a self-conscious little boy.