Hello! I'm back! I'm sorry that this chapter is really short! But I had to stop it at a good place. There should only be one more chapter and it should be out quite early next week! I hope you'll read and enjoy this chapter and look forward for the next!

Please note the bump in rating!

I don't own anything! If I did there would be Germancest everywhere! *shipshipship* :3 Special regards to Julia Bentley and Andrew Gunadie, for use of their song "Canadian Please". (It really is fabulous, you should go and youtube it!) Thanks for reading! Please review! :3 Enjoy!

"Arthur?" Francis called out. "What are doing?"

"What does it bloody look like I'm doing?" Arthur answered, rummaging through the drawer where he usually kept his keys. With each swipe of his hand, moving aside various receipts, to-do lists full of things he'd already done, and writing utensils of every color. Arthur grew quickly more frustrated and soon he was mumbling curses at the miscellaneous items under his breath.

"Arthur, what are you looking for?" Francis asked. His brow creased in confusion as he watched his friend paw through one of his drawers. Arthur was one of those particular, predictable people, and Francis knew what he wanted to do, but he thought Arthur would have at least taken the time to pack.

"My bloody fucking keys!" Arthur exclaimed as he slammed the drawer shut with all his might.

"Umm… Mon ami, they're on counter on your wallet…" Francis informed cautiously.

Arthur scanned the counter, and sure enough, not two feet away from him, his keys sat innocently right on top of his wallet. "Of course they are." Arthur sighed, disappointed that he'd been beaten by a mere drawer, and scooped up both items, shoving his wallet in the pocket of his jeans and keeping the keys in his hand. If nothing else got in his way, he'd be taking off towards the airport in a matter of minutes.

"Mon cher, I don't think you want to leave like that!" Francis rushed to catch up with Arthur.

"And why the bloody hell not?" Arthur snapped.

Francis clamped a hand down on Arthur's shoulder, "Because you're wearing your apron." He whispered in his ear with a chuckle.

Arthur looked down and cursed, realizing that Francis was indeed right; he was still wearing his apron. He struggled to undo the bow positioned at the nape of his neck as quickly as he could, which, admittedly, wasn't very fast at all. He'd tied one hell of a knot when he'd put it on that morning, and was having a hell of a time getting it undone now. Francis' steady stream of question wasn't aiding him in the process either.

"Aren't you going to pack something, Arthur?"

"No. I'll just borrow some cloths from Alfred if I need to."

"Isn't Alfred several sizes bigger than you?"

"Last time I checked, that was true."

"Than shouldn't you pack, mon ami?"

At that question Arthur snapped for the umpteenth time that day.

"For the love of God's green Earth, I don't fucking care, you damn Frog! Just help me get this bloody fucking thing off!" He shouted, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"Oui." Francis answered automatically as he began to tug at the strings around Arthur's neck. And in mere seconds, the top half of his apron flopped away from Arthur's body and hung limply, folded over itself at his waist, where it was cinched. Francis immediately went to work on the second knot, making Arthur jump as his hand brushed teasingly over his arse.

The knot around his waist was undone as quickly as the first as Francis pulled the soft cloth away. "Well... You made quick work of that..." Arthur commented, mildly impressed.

"I try my hardest, mon cher." Francis smiled sincerely. He couldn't help but be just a smidge proud of Arthur for his single minded determination and rash judgment. He was proud of himself for ignoring the part of him that told him to let Arthur go out in his apron, and instead doing what was right.

Arthur flashed a small smile back at Francis as he tugged on the faded leather jacket he kept folded neatly over the back of the chair he never used. Francis wished him luck on his 'epic journey in the sake of l'amor' as he whisked out the relative comfort and safety of his home and into the brisk autumn air.

Francis stood in the open doorway as his friend hopped into the one thing he own that was even the tiniest bit less then sensible, his black Mercedes, sped up the driveway and flew down the road, quickly disappearing from Francis' sight. A warm smile lit up Francis' face as he leaned his weight against the doorframe, watching as Arthur raced to make things right with Alfred, devoid of fear and hesitation for the first time in very, very many years.

What do you know? Francis chuckled to himself as he retreated back into Arthur's home. Alfred is good for something other than being the village idiot after all.

Francis paced around Arthur's home for nearly two hours after his departure, doing little things like finishing the dishes he'd forced Arthur to abandon quite a while ago, even though the water had long since gone cold. But he'd do anything to keep from 'spilling the beans' or some other quaint saying of Alfred's, and ruining the surprise that was to arrive on his doorstep in less than a day from that moment.

Finally, Francis gave in the will to tell someone (or more like everyone) and picked up Arthur's cordless phone, resting on its charger, right where it was suppose to be (Francis sighed at Arthur's predictability), and dialed one of the few numbers he bothered to memorize.

Matthew stood just outside his brother's New York home, his hand high above his head as he waved goodbye. His brother was just backing out his gravel driveway in his huge Ford F-250, just leaving out for his flight to England, which would take off less than two hours if all went well at the airport (which Matthew knew it rarely ever did). He hopped back into Alfred's home as soon as his brother's outrageously big truck disappeared behind the cluster of trees beside his house, glad to get his bare feet off the freezing brick patio.

No sooner than when he'd gotten the door shut, the ringtone Matthew had set for his phone (Canadian Please by Julia Bentley and Andrew Gunadie) rang through the house, interrupting the silence that had filled it for the better part of the day. He ran over to the end table where he'd left it last and answered whoever was calling him as he threw himself onto Alfred's couch.

"Hello?"

"Ah! Bonjour, mon amor [Hello, my love]!" A familiar voice rang through the small speaker of Matthew's cell phone.

"Bonjour Papa." Matthew smiled as he greeted Francis.

"Oh, Mathieu! I have some tres, tres excitant [very, very exciting] news!"

"Vraiment [Really]?" Matthew's ears perked up in anticipation of whatever this 'very, very exciting news' could be. "I have something interesting to tell you as well, Papa."

"Ah! This is amazing indeed, but I think your brother would like my news, as well! But you must promise not to tell him!"

"Alright," Matthew chuckled at the childish excitement in Francis' voice. "Je le promets [I promise]! Now, what is this exciting news?"

"Arthur is on his way to the airport right now to catch a plane to America!" Francis shouted happily.

Matthew's jaw dropped at what Francis had just told him. It couldn't be that Arthur was on his way to America! Not when Alfred had just left for the airport not ten minutes ago!

"W-What?" He stammered pushing the little speaker of the phone into his ear, so he could be sure he heard Francis' answer correctly.

"Did you not hear me!" Francis exclaimed, not grasping the gravity weighing down Matthew's voice. "Arthur is on his way to America!"

"No!" Matthew protested, as if his saying that Arthur was not on his way would make it so.

"…What?" Francis asked, taken aback by Matthew's very sudden and very loud (at least for Matthew standards) outburst.

"Arthur can't be coming to America!"

"And why not, mon ami?" Francis asked, growing worried.

"Because Alfred is on his way to England!" Matthew shouted.