I'm BAAAACK! Merry Christmas, my pretties! Here I bring to you a brand new shiny fic with lots of fun and happiness and stuff. And angst, but we'll get to that later.

This is sort of a companion to Oblivious, although it isn't necessary for you to have read that before this. And, all you lovely people, this one will be FrUK. As in Arthur and Francis, and their whole relationship before the events of the aforementioned Russia x America story started. I had some people who were a little perturbed by how I didn't really delve into or finish the auxiliary relationships in Oblivious so that's what I'm going to start doing now :D Fun!

This will be filled with slash. Which, as I'm sure you're aware, means it will be gay. Very gay. If this does not tickle your fancy I suggest you go read something more straight. Like Twilight.

Enjoy!

The first time I ever kissed that idiot was when we were both twelve.

It was, coincidentally, the same day I heard the word "fairy" used in any context other than that of magical flying creatures. Now, I know what you're thinking, but it really was a coincidence. You see, it happened on a train.

Francis was the son of a friend my father had met through work, a stuck-up boy with absolutely no regard for the fact that he wasn't the only person in the room. He was more pompous than I was, more elegant than I was and he cared more than I did. He cared about things, deeply, and he would work for them until he dropped. Or got mud on something. I was more the "stay-away-from-me" variety. I entered the world of teenagerdom a bit early. And yet, somehow, we became friends.

It was a bit of trip to go see him, what with the fact that he lived in Paris and I in London. He had sometimes made jokes that if we were to ever get friends from other countries they'd have to be from only capital cities. I thought it was a bit of lame joke but I didn't say anything.

Fine, that's a lie. I told him he was an idiot.

Anyway, we had just left the station, the sleek train just beginning to pick up speed. My family was wealthy enough so father always had us ride in the business class. It was always really quiet, and though I'd made this trip countless times since I was little it was still a bit unnerving. All those people in suits and dresses just sitting there, some reading, some just looking out the window at the scenery that would soon vanish, some typing away on laptop computers, they were all silent. I'd always automatically assumed that it was my place to be quiet as well, sitting like the good little son of a businessman, my button-down shirt itchy and black pants too restricting.

I had a piece of paper in my pocket, a letter Francis had sent me about a week before. It was kind of funny; we'd made this decision after first becoming friends, that all of our correspondence would be through traditional means. Letters. Telephone. Sending things through the post took forever and was far much more work than the internet or texting but that was what we'd found so attractive about it. It had, in all honesty, been Francis' idea. He said that when it took so much work and time to send a letter one would be much more eager to truly think through what they were saying. I had agreed.

His writing was always so articulate, though a bit abstract, and often he'd go off on endless tangents revolving around one metaphor. I always thought he should become a poet, if only so he wouldn't spew his fantasy idealist crap into our letters. He said if he ever wrote poetry it would be about me. I'm not really sure why, but I said the same.

That was when we were both eleven, though his birthday was before mine. I sent him a card and a box of chocolates, with a disclaimer about the fact that the only box I could find was red and heart-shaped. He didn't comment besides a thank you and a promise that he would reciprocate for my birthday.

In retrospect, it was really the little things that started it off.

Father cleared his throat, turning the page of the newspaper he'd brought along to read. I peered over from my seat by the window that he'd told me to close. I always sat on the inside, so he could get up easily if the need arose. His eyes ran over the page, and then he made a small noise of derision.

"Damn fairies," he muttered, eyes scanning over an article near the top. I leaned over, instantly interested. I'd always loved the mystical, magic and whatnot, so as the word left his lips my ears perked.

"Huh?" I prompted, hoping he'd explain. I didn't see anything that would lead him to say something like that.

He immediately hopped on the teaching opportunity, jabbing a large finger into the paper toward the top. My eyes followed, reading the headline. It said something about Civil Unions and I didn't know what those were. Italicized toward the beginning of the article were the words Civil Partnership Act. I looked up to my father for clarification.

"Now this," he started, furrowing the thick eyebrows I had inherited, "is why the government is falling apart. Letting all this get through and up to the high boys and then they pass it. Take a good look, 'cause this is what you'll be dealing with in the future."

His words flew over my head and away. I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. "What do you mean?" I asked, honestly curious.

"Queers," he said again, stressing the word. "Homos." And I understood, my mouth forming a small "o."

Gay people.

They were, honestly, something I never thought about. I never had reason to. I didn't think about straight people either, not really. I didn't think much about anything except school and if Francis had sent a letter and writing that movie my friends and I were going to make. What was for breakfast. Whether I'd be allowed to go into town, or whether I'd be going with my father on another business trip like this one. Those were the things I thought about, and I had no idea why my father was getting so worked up over something so inconsequential to me.

"What about them?" I asked.

My father's face became very serious. "It's not right," he intoned quietly. "They're going to hell and trying to drag us all with 'em."

Now, we weren't very religious. I couldn't remember ever going to church except on things like Easter or other holidays like that, and my parents didn't talk much about any kind of family faith. So when my father told me something was a sin, that's what it was. He didn't throw around words like that.

I sat back in my seat, sneaking a bit of the window open so I could look out as my father turned the page. I hadn't brought a book or game to entertain myself; it was a bit short-sighted of me. I could still see some sunlight, telling me we hadn't even left England yet. It would be a long ride, and all I had to do was turn my father's words around in my head. I mean, it was no problem to me. I didn't particularly plan on being gay; a fairy, as my father had said.

The entire future for me was a bit of a blur. I'd always had those vague notions that I would get married and have children. I'd get some job (though I had no clue what) and then retire and sometime in the way distant future I'd die and have a nice funeral. My life in a nutshell. Maybe Francis and I would still be friends...no, that was something I counted on. No ambiguity there.

The tiny line of light from my window suddenly darkened, a bit yellowish orange now. We were heading into the tunnel. I tapped my father's wrist a little and he didn't even look up, twisting it just a little so I could see his watch if I turned my head. It hadn't even been an hour yet.

So I took out the only thing I had to entertain myself, Francis' latest letter. I'd read it about ten times, but I found some kind of calm when my eyes ran over the small, sharp script. Whether or not I actually focused on the words or just how they were formed I could read these over and over. Fleetingly I wondered if Francis did the same with mine.

Dear Arthur,

I hope you are well. It is dreadfully boring here, and I cannot wait until we see each other again. I have heard from my father that you will be coming back soon, so I'm very excited. I have many things to show you.

The letter went on, detailing all of Francis' exploits over the past few weeks. It had been maybe a month and a half, perhaps two, since we'd last seen each other. It was almost funny how trivial all my life at home was when given the prospect of seeing Francis. It felt like I was going back to my real friend…not that he and I were particularly friendly, of course.

Oh, whatever. I suppose it's too late for that. So yes, Francis was my best friend. That didn't change the fact that he was an idiot, though.

He had signed the letter at the bottom, in the same place he always did. His writing changed abruptly, from the quick words he scrawled tightly (but somehow they were so neat) to his signature. It was loopy and swirled around like he'd practiced calligraphy. François Bonnefoy.

I leaned back a bit awkwardly as I reached into my pocket. I carried a ballpoint pen with me most of the time, a habit taken from my father. Then I clicked it out, setting the tip down just above the paper underneath my friend's swirly signature. As slowly as possible I began to write my own signature, hoping to make it as much like his as possible. It turned out shaky and a little uneven, and nothing like the smooth, twirling letters. I supposed that I was overthinking this. That revelation, however, did not stop me from trying again, to no avail.

I peered out the sliver of window, watching the burst and instant retreat of the orange lights. My father made a choked noise, and my head jerked to the side. He was asleep, the newspaper folded over and still half open on his lap. I carefully snuck it away, glancing around at the silent and motionless passengers.

I looked over the open page for a moment before turning back. My father's earlier explanation had not been sufficient, and I wanted to know more. So I propped the page open in my lap and scanned, searching first for an article I could tell my father I was reading lest he wake up and ask.

And then I read. It was a fairly light article, easy to follow and short. And at the end I had to wonder why my father cared so much about this. A little picture caption in the middle of the article showed a couple, two women, smiling into the camera and embracing each other. One had her hair up in a ponytail, the other wore a knit hat.

I glanced over at my father, who was still sound asleep. Then my eyes ran over the picture once more. Bad, I thought, This is bad. But somehow I couldn't believe it.

But, of course, this was that moment in my life during which my father was the highest royalty. At the tender age of just-turned-twelve I was smaller than usual and always locked inside my head. My father was belligerent and hard-nosed, like some of those kids at school, and for some reason that's what I really wanted to be. Maybe I'd talk to Francis about it later.

Eventually I put down the newspaper and opened the window all the way, so I could see into the tunnel. The small, soft-cornered rectangle of glass showed nothing but orangish light and dark walls. And thus the train ride went.

I found that as we approached the large hotel my smile grew and grew, and from the windows of the car I could see the people walking down the street and stopping in restaurants and whatever they did during the day. I quizzed myself, trying to read all the signs that passed. We studied some French in school but hardly anybody learned.

I'd been feeling kind of bad about the fact that Francis spoke such perfect English and I only knew a little French. So I had been trying, though this guilt was fairly recent and I hadn't had much time to work on it. I knew a few stock phrases here and there, and from my father I'd learned some simple sentences. I couldn't play with words or go off on wild tangents, and I definitely couldn't converse.

But I was trying, and I was sure that Francis would appreciate that. Because, like I said before, he cared about those things.

"Bonjour," I murmured to myself, my excitement building as I began to recognize some of the restaurants and street names. I always felt like this when going to see Francis. Like I would burst with anticipation if I didn't see him soon. I supposed it was a sign of our friendship. "Ça va?"

"Ça va bien," my father answered and I jumped, not expecting his voice. He winked at me. "We're almost there," he continued, "Look out your window."

And there it was. A fairly nondescript stone building, the hotel that stretched up four or five stories. Meetings here usually lasted a day or two, and I knew from the pack my father had told me to make up that we'd be here for a while. I didn't mind, not as long as Francis was there to keep me company. In fact, it'd be better than if I were at home.

The car finally stopped and just as the key turned in the ignition I was up and out. My father started to say something to me but I inadvertently slammed the door on him. I'd probably have to apologize to him, or find Francis quickly. I'd prefer to do the latter.

I opened the large doors, head darting around as I looked for any glimpse of that long blond hair. The lobby was most empty, the clerk smiling passively. That's what the French did, I'd found. They smiled passively and thanked you and then they raised an eyebrow as you walked away. Unless the French person was Francis, because in that case they smirked at you and told you how exactly you had been so sadly mistaken. In his pompous accent and his pompous hair and his pompous little boots.

Speaking of which, I needed to find him.

My stomach was twisting in anticipation, eyebrows knitting as I started down the hallway that led to the ballroom where they held the meetings. It didn't take me long to find him, though. Or maybe it was more that he found me.

"Wrong way, Anglais."

I stopped in my tracks, whirling around. And there he was, smirking at me in that pompous way, hands in his perfectly ironed pockets and hair pulled into a ponytail. It seemed like every time I saw him he got taller, and now he was probably an inch or so taller than I was.

"That rhymed," I commented, raising a single eyebrow. He did the same.

"If you move that too much it will crawl off your face," he said in return, gesturing to the brow.

For a moment I didn't say anything, and then I strode forward. He did the same and we met in the middle in a tight hug. He may have been tall but his body was so slight and it felt like I could crack him in half. When we pulled back he quickly used the opportunity and my lowered guard to smack me on the side of the head.

"Hey," I warned, batting his hand away. He shrugged.

"It's been too long since I last abused you," he explained nonchalantly. I rolled my eyes but smiled.

"It's good to see you," I said after a moment and the fiery look in Francis's eyes waned.

"Likewise," he responded.

"So where are you staying?" I asked, referring to the room in the hotel in which he and his father would be sleeping. Francis waved his hand about vaguely.

"I do not know. Nor do I care," he said loftily. "My life is but a petal on the wind, flying through space with not a worry."

"Lovely," I said, clapping slowly. "Excellent performance. Now what's the room number?"

"You are so stiff," he reprimanded. "I am going to be an acteur."

"If you mean by playing upper-crust holier-than-thou frogs then I don't think that counts for acting."

Francis wrinkled his nose but it was all playful. "Come with me. There is nobody in the courtyard, and if you read my letter I have things to show you."

"And I have things to talk with you about," I agreed. Then my father's head appeared from around the corner and a look of relief crossed his face.

"Arthur," he acknowledged happily. "I see you boys are catching up. I'll be in the conference room."

"We'll be around," I answered. Francis then grasped my wrist and started to lead me away.

The walls and floor were all different shades of white and red, making them seem even smaller and narrower than they really were. Francis seemed to think that I wouldn't be able to find my own way into the back courtyard, the small tiled area with the big tree in the only patch of real ground for who-knew-how-long. I'd been there plenty of times during my exploration of this hotel, so it was really more amusing than anything how quickly Francis seemed to want to get there.

"Your father is being very nice," Francis commented passively, a sharp contrast to how hurriedly he was rushing me through the halls.

"Yeah. He's been doing that lately," I said, shrugging. It was true. My father had been especially friendly with me the past few weeks. It seemed as though before he'd taken more to ignoring me but as I grew older his interest in me peaked. He'd been asking me more about how school was or if I'd been making good grades in science or if I wanted to go help him do something because I was "becoming an adult."

"I still swim in sweet obscurity with my father," Francis said as we opened the large wooden doors.

"Poetic."

"I try."

And then they were in the stone-laid courtyard, with the big tree. A bench sat by one of the tall walls, and Francis held up a finger.

"I have something for you," he said, "For your birthday."

Oh, that was right. We'd been apart for my twelfth birthday, and while I'd sent him his present through the post he had not. My smile grew as he crouched behind the tree, extracting a decent-sized box wrapped in tissue paper. He then brought it over to me, blue eyes sparkling.

"Bon anniversaire," he said with a smile. "Belated," he added.

"Merci," I mumbled almost inaudibly.

"Hm?" he asked lightly, raising his eyebrows inquisitively. I chickened out.

"M—thank you," I said, hurriedly taking the box.

We sat down on the bench, I with the present in my lap, and Francis watched me carefully. It looked fairly nonchalant but I knew him well enough to see he was really fairly anxious.

So I carefully pulled off the string and laid it in a neat pile next to me. Then I looked at him, trying to hide my smirk. My fingers reached the tape ever-so-slowly, making sure not to rip the delicate paper. He huffed impatiently, realizing what I was doing.

"I can just take it back," he warned, eyes trained on my hands as they undid the wrapping paper as slowly as I could.

"You can, but would you?" I challenged, finally starting to open up the paper to reveal the box inside. It was the kind of box one got at clothing stores, and judging by its flatness and squishiness that's what it was. I decided to forego the slow motion unwrapping.

I pulled out the cloth bundle, letting it fall open as I held it in front of me. It was a shirt, and I swear to all that is holy the eye roll was an instinct that I could not control.

Vive la France! It proclaimed in swirly letters, color patterned on the flag. Francis burst into snickers, covering his mouth with one hand. I sighed sharply, folding the shirt on my lap and setting it back in the box.

"Why thank you," I drawled. "I was in desperate need of kindling."

"Aw," Francis pouted. "I think it would be cute."

"As that is my one goal," I responded dryly.

"If you put it on I'll give you your real present," he said, picking the shirt back up and putting it to my chest. I wrinkled my nose.

"I think I'll be okay," I said as I took the shirt from him with just my finger and thumb.

"Please?" he asked with those puppy-dog eyes, big and an irritating shade of blue.

"Oh dear God," I muttered, snapping the shirt out flat in the air in front of me. "If it'll get you to shut up." Then, still storming, I started to undress, unbuttoning the itchy shirt and worming my way out of it. Francis held a hand to his eyes.

"It's not like you haven't seen this before," I said sarcastically. Honestly, sometimes he acted just like a girl. Either way he took down his hand and placed it in his lap.

I pulled on the t-shirt, feeling as it mussed up my hair. It wasn't like I didn't look like a mess anyway, though. I felt disgusting already, wearing the cheesy souvenir shirt. Francis collapsed into laughter again.

"You still look just as English," he added with pleasure.

"I probably look like twice the tourist now," I conceded, glowering at him. Francis glanced down at the shirt again, giggling some more. Then, from somewhere behind him, he produced a tiny box. It had a light velvet coating, a jewelry box. He offered it to me and his smile was lighter now. Sincere. I tried to look skeptical but took the box anyway.

"As promised," he said, a tiny hint of mirth still coloring his voice. I flicked open the box, not expecting much past some other France-themed merchandise.

Instead there sat a shiny silver necklace. It was a cross, a finely decorated one with an axis of rose. I just stared at it for a moment, mouth parted slightly. It had to have been wildly expensive and I wasn't sure I liked the idea of Francis spending so much on a present for me.

I pulled it from the card in which it was set, still in a little bit of disbelief as Francis began speaking. "Well, I had no idea what to get you, and I decided that the normal presents would not apply," he said, crossing his arms and leaning back daintily on the bench. He really was a girl. "Then I found this, and figured it would have to do."

"This must have cost…" I didn't knew what kind of price would be correct and simply trailed off. He didn't fill in a number for me. I was still very surprised.

"So you like it?" he asked lightly. I turned the necklace over in my hand, nodding. My eyes caught the back, and I had to lean in close to see. A tiny engraving of a fairy was carved into the back, a detailed pattern of tiny dots in the metal.

Fairies.

Right.

I grasped the necklace in my fist, not sure how to approach the subject. "So…erm…yes, I like it. A lot. But I was just wondering if I could ask you something." I spoke slowly, calculatedly. Francis looked at me in question.

"But of course."

"Right." I took a breath. "So we were on the train here and my father was reading the paper…and there was this thing about…erm…" I searched for the proper word. "…gay people." Francis' interest was piqued at the words, and he leaned in a bit closer to listen. I shifted a little in my seat before continuing. "And he was talking about how bad it was…like, morally. Going to hell and stuff like that." I shrugged. "And I was just wondering what you thought about…about that."

There was a moment before Francis started to chuckle. "Ah, Arthur. You cannot believe every word your father says. All respect intended, but he is not always right."

"So you don't think it's…erm…you know?"

"Non," he hummed, and it almost seemed as though he leaned closer. "Why on Earth would it be wrong?"

"I don't know," I said, shrugging. I wasn't surprised by Francis' answer; if anything it had been the most anticipated one. "I just…never mind."

"Do you think you are gay?"

I choked on my own spit, coughing for a moment. Francis laughed lightly, patting me on the back. I blinked up at him, not sure how to respond to that. "It was just…I don't know. It's not something I ponder."

"There are ways to tell, you know," Francis said.

"I know," I defended. "But…erm…that's a ways off."

"Easier ways," he corrected. "Have you ever kissed a girl?"

I furrowed my eyebrows. "I don't think so," I said, searching through my memory. Granted, there were only twelve years to go through, but it was still a bit of work when I could remember the first four or so of them. "No." A beat. "Have you?"

Francis shrugged noncommittally. "You could always compare. Kiss a boy and kiss a girl," he said, "Your father does not have to know."

I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that. "If he does I'd be in trouble."

"And?"

I didn't have an answer to that. What would come of it? And how would he find out? "But I don't have anything to compare with."

"We can find you a girl. It would be easy."

"A boy would be harder to find," I said, trying to worm my way out of this increasingly uncomfortable situation. It sounded like some sitcom plot and I wasn't too eager to see how it would end up.

Francis cocked a single eyebrow. He was very good at that. "I am a boy."

Immediately my eyes widened and I leaned away unconsciously. "That's just strange."

"It would not be a big deal if you do not make it one," he said smoothly. "How will you ever know?"

"I…I guess I just will. And I don't even think I will be." I looked away, twirling the necklace in my fingers. "I don't know anyone who likes men like that."

"You do not have to if you do not want to," Francis said, leaning back himself. "It was just a suggestion."

"This isn't particularly normal," I said, scratching my arm. Then I opened my mouth as if to speak again but didn't have anything to say. "Do…?" but then I stopped. This was all so awkward and I knew for a fact that this wasn't what other boys talked about with their friends. But now I couldn't help the growing curiosity in the back of my mind. I hadn't kissed anyone, let alone a girl, and now it was just being offered to me. From a friend I trusted, no less. If I didn't do this now, my pre-adolescent brain reasoned, who knew when I ever would?

But it was Francis, the other half of my mind argued. And he was…well, he was Francis. With his snooty comments and superiority and long hair and sparkly eyes and delicate features.

Hell, he was enough of a girl.

"Do…?" he repeated, prompting me to continue. I took a breath.

"Do you…want to?" I asked, trying to imagine it from his point of view. Why in the world would he want to do something like this with me of all people? I wasn't exactly Mr. Swimsuit and I certainly wasn't interested in the wide world of dating and relationships. Sure, I'd had a crush. Once. Maybe. But it was really more of an admiration than a romantic desire. I just couldn't see where he was coming from.

He examined me for a moment before answering, and his answer took me so off guard I didn't even know what to do. "Yes. Yes, I would."

I glanced away, thinking to myself again that this wasn't what the average boy my age was doing with his time. And maybe that meant something. "Okay," I said, letting out a breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding. His eyes lit up and I shifted again, a little awkwardly.

"Really?"

"Erm…" I cleared my throat. "Yes. Really."

And then Francis put his hand on my knee and started to lean in and I guess I did too and I suppose I really wasn't ready for this because my heart started pounding and I realized what was going to happen but I couldn't stop it and I guess I didn't really want to stop it anyway and all I could think was how he was getting closer and closer and there he was and my eyes were starting to flutter closed because I guess that's what you did and my face felt hot and I knew I was blushing and then suddenly I felt his lips touch mine.

It was a peculiar feeling, completely foreign but not exactly unpleasant. We stayed that way for a moment, just testing and waiting and trying to figure out whether or not we actually enjoyed it. I was still all disorganized inside, shocked that we had actually gone through with this and deciding that it wasn't really that bad. His lips were soft and somehow I realized that the pressure between us had increased just ever-so-slightly.

His hand started to worm its way into mine and for a moment I thought he was going to try and hold it but instead it was gone a moment later. I cracked an eye open and felt fingers by my jaw. There was a moment that they stopped just past the nape of my neck and suddenly he pulled back. My hand flew up and I felt the necklace, safely latched in place.

"Happy birthday," he said, watching me. I swallowed, searching for the proper words for the situation. "Did that help?"

I shrugged. "I dunno." My head was still swimming in thought after thought, of how this wasn't normal and how normal would have been us playing catch or some game thing or anything but…anything but what we'd just done. But, you know, it wasn't all bad, I guessed. I didn't particularly enjoy doing those things and this was just…I didn't know. It just was. I had no idea what I was thinking anymore. "It helped a little, I guess," I said without certainty, hand still playing with the cross on my necklace.

I suppose that was the point at which I started my teenage rebellion. It would be the first time I really lied to my father, though it would certainly not be the last. This one fleeting moment became a turning point; it was a moment I knew would change things.

I was twelve years old when I first kissed that idiot Francis.

Or, maybe, it was more that he kissed me.

…twit.

Ba-da-bing!

Review? And if you can point out any typos I'll make you the Chancellor of Asia when I take over the world.