A/N: Happy FrUK day, everyone! *confetti bomb goes off* I've spent today squealing over their 109th anniversary, and just had to write something to share with you all. So I wrote this... thing. It's just so fluffy and asdfghjkl.

Mentions of the Revolutionary War managed to work their way in, somehow (*slams face on desk* Why can't I write something WITHOUT the Revolutionary War for ONCE?) and otherwise it's reminiscing 109th anniversary fluff. Enjoy a bit of plotless cavity-inducing FrUK!

Cold rain patters against the roof. The sky is a mass of roiling gray clouds, the green of the grass intensified by the April stickiness in the air, and people hurrying on the sidewalk, huddling beneath their umbrellas. Outside, sluggish breezes flow lazily around and above and beneath each other, until they are nothing but a tangle of wind, playfully rippling clothes and hair.

Inside, the warm glow of lamplight stains the room golden, soft laughter hangs in the air, and the twinkling music of chimes plays from a tiny heart-shaped box on the coffee table.

Arthur doesn't know how he ended up dancing with Francis, but he does know, as he looks into those deep blue eyes, that this man must be the most beautiful creature in all the world. Beneath the warm glow of the lamp by the end of the couch, Francis's smooth skin is radiant, his shining golden hair falling from the loose ponytail at the base of his neck, tied with that same blue satin ribbon that doesn't even compare to the blue of his eyes. A smile plays around his lips, his soft laughter filling Arthur's ears—his heart—until he feels as though he will burst from joy. Francis's loose blue button-down shirt is undone at the collar, his shoes abandoned on the rug by the door, and his tie hanging loosely around his neck. He is the very essence of radiance—so incredibly beautiful, so carefree. It's all Arthur can do to stay on his feet, and not melt into Francis, move closer to feel his heartbeat, slide his arms around his neck and pull out that ribbon, just so he can run his fingers through the impossible silk of that hair.

He wonders, distantly, how he could ever have ended up with such a wonderful, perfect man to fall asleep next to every night for far too many years than he cares to remember, but as Francis's arms around his waist bring him closer, the thought is quickly swept from his mind.

"Aah, je adore, mon beau rose," Francis breathes lovingly in his ear, holding him close, and Arthur feels weak. He slides his arms close around Francis's neck, holding the Frenchman tight.

Francis kisses his cheek gently. Arthur smiles.

The music is slowing now, and the two of them slow their dance, until the they stand still, listening as the tinkling music of the chimes comes to a halt with a soft click. Arthur leans in to let his head come to rest on Francis's shoulder, reveling in the strength and warmth of the Frenchman's touch—and yet, he is so gentle. As his hands run softly over Arthur's back, he shivers slightly, smiling into his shoulder and feeling Francis's quiet chuckle.

Moments like these are so incredibly rare. Moments without snarky remarks or defensive walls or awkwardness—moments for the two of them to let down their barriers, to see each other and let themselves go, let the emotions sweep them away. It's these silly little ordinary things that make life so worthwhile; dancing with Francis on their anniversary, he wonders how he managed to become so incredibly lost for Francis. Arthur lives for these gentle hands and the soft laughter and kisses to the tip of his nose that wake him every morning.

Francis will never know how much this tiny music box brings back to him, or how sometimes it forces such a surge of emotion, all crashing down on him at once, that he wants to cry. He never does, unless it's one of the worse days, when he knows Francis already knows and will be there in a heartbeat to save him. Then he curls up in Francis's warmth and cries until he's exhausted and Francis kisses him softly. It's their unspoken code; I'm still here, and I'm never, ever leaving. I love you.

And still, there are times Arthur wonders whether he will ever be good enough for Francis. He can still feel the frigid downpour pelting his skin, as he lay bloodied and broken at America's feet. He still remembers Francis's look of agony, watching him with sad blue eyes, even as he turned to walk away.

He still remembers the glittering tones of a music box, growing stronger as Francis knelt beside him in the mud, pulling him close and kissing him. Tears were running down his face, and Arthur cursed himself for not having the strength to brush them away. Instead they mixed with the pureness of the rain, and Francis lifted him like a bride, chest shaking with contained tears as he carried Arthur to a nearby loyalist home.

When he'd woken up in pain and cantankerous and nearly in hysterics over failing Alfred, too, Francis had been there with him, looking just as bad for wear, and that had been the moment Arthur had known he was a lost cause.

And all these many years later, far more than he cares to contemplate, he is still lost hopelessly in Francis. He's lost to roses and golden hair and too much love for any man to be capable of. Too much tenderness. He buries his smile deeper in Francis's shoulder.

Their treaty had been a hard one—both had sat too high, too wrapped in their own pride and desperately, secretly afraid to let it show how hard they'd fallen. But when it was finally threatened that they would be ripped apart, they'd both been forced to decide what was most important. Arthur's face still grew hot at the memory of himself stammering and forcing himself to be angry, and Francis's biting remarks followed by soft chuckles to himself—looking back, Arthur realized he'd seen through the anger all along. And though he'd been fuming by the time the ink was drying on his signature and their respective bosses and politicians had left them to their own devices, the second Francis had scooped him up in his arms, just as he had that night in the rain so many years before, Arthur was falling all over again. He smelled just as sweet, just as warm and gentle, arms strong. He'd found himself blushing and tentatively allowing Francis to hug him. The memories of rain had returned at his touch, but not as horribly as they did some sleepless nights.

And now, the soft pouring of rain outside is peaceful, even in the absence of the music box's tinkling waltz. Francis's heartbeat is slow and strong and steady beneath his palm, the Frenchman's hair brushing his face with a feather-light touch, warm arms holding him close. Keeping him safe. Arthur sighs, feeling every bit of tension he'd built up in the memories flowing out of him, leaving him blissfully aware.

When Francis presses a gentle, lingering kiss to his neck and murmurs against his ear, Arthur's smile never fades. He can hear Francis's happiness, his lazy tenderness, the way his eyes are closed as he speaks and the way he's drinking it all in.

"Another dance, belle?" Francis breathes gently, and Arthur hears his smile. But he hesitates a moment, head never leaving Francis's shoulder, reveling in the sound of the rain and the warmth and love and golden light here in Francis's arms. The silence isn't stifling. It's calm and enfolding and deep, but never stifling.

Finally, he finds himself slowly shaking his head. It astounds him, and maybe Francis as well, but if he's surprised he doesn't show it. He's always hated the silence of a rainy day, but here, close in Francis's arms, his heartbeat pulsing beneath his palm, somehow it's not so terrible anymore.

He doesn't feel the horrible, aching emptiness anymore. He doesn't feel quite so alone.

After a few minutes of the silence, Arthur breaks it, snuggling closer to Francis, feeling a single tear slip down his cheek as Francis holds him tight. Even after all they've been through, Francis still holds him so, so tightly.

"I love you," he whispers, almost frightened to breathe it aloud. He hates himself, for never saying it sooner. Not in over a century—not even before then. The words feel so alien on his tongue, but so right. By now he knows Francis has heard the quaver in his breaths, and he doesn't care. "I love you so much."

Francis's warm hands rub his back softly, the Frenchman pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. His next words bring warmth flooding into Arthur, a smile to his face and more tears down his cheeks.

"I know," Francis reassures him softly, in return.

With the wonderful, searing burn in his chest, Arthur buries his face in Francis's neck and kisses his skin tenderly—something he's never felt worthy of doing, somehow. Francis smiles. The air around them warms slightly, as Arthur melts completely into his embrace, the weight of the world finally beginning to lift from his shoulders.

They stand, holding each other close, until the rain begins to let up, and dreary afternoon has faded to soft dusk.

Rain, without the music box. It's a tiny step, but it's something.

The silence doesn't kill him inside anymore. Arthur smiles, and clings to Francis's sunshine.

Because Francis will still be here, even when it rains like it did that night, when Arthur's a wreck and everything's falling apart. Francis loves him anyway, even when he does snap at him for the silliest little things. Francis will always be here—his sunshine to burst through the clouds.

The hope that he needs, to pick himself up again.

Francis's lips brushing his ear bring him back to reality, warm, long fingers lacing with his own and Francis's thumb rubbing gentle circles into the back of his hand. Arthur is almost not breathing, but then he lets out a breath, nuzzling Francis's cheek with a slow sigh. Francis chuckles and gives his hand a squeeze and ear a kiss.

"I've loved you for a thousand years," he whispers, and the words send a tiny, pleasant shiver down Arthur's spine. "And I'll love you for a thousand more."

Arthur can't help his smile. Golden hair tickles his face gently, Francis's warm scent filling his lungs.

And just like that, he's falling even harder, all over again.