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Arthur was just Netflix and Chillin' with his laptop and a bowl of popcorn (meaning his only “chill” was binging both emotionally traumatic seasons of Tokyo Ghoul and internally screaming- yes, it was stupid Alfred’s recommendation). Bits of popped kernels littered his couch from the time he dropped in despair- well, uh, many times. His face was still kinda, uh, tear stained- don’t you tell anyone though, he’d deny it to his grave. He’d been spamming his twitter for the last half hour, asking if the character'd really died and somehow screaming with virtual letters. Of course, he’d gotten 3 retweets from Ludwig to shut the hell up because it was making his phone explode, and about 20 times that from Alfred and Kiku who were trying to give semi-coherent replies to his burning questions.
He felt like a hobo, it was 2 days before Valentines day, and he loved it.
See, the only problem was, he couldn’t get over this nagging guilt. He had it every Valentines season, because he never did anything much (except for the occasional sick day for Francis, when he whipped up some of his special scones and grabbed takeout). He wasn’t much of a mushy person; stupid Francis didn’t make it very easy, either, because when he did a big thing once long ago Bonnefoy had gotten so uncharacteristically excited and talked about it for weeks and-
Sigh.
The brit briskly picked up his phone, before he talked himself out of it, like he did every year. Quickly opening his contacts, he selected “Noodle Boy” and shot him a quick text.
“So, for, uh-- documentation’s sake, I need to know what you think is the best way to do Valentine’s day. You know, that mushy day that Francis always overdoes.”
Within seconds, he’d already received a reply- as to be expected.
“Well, I usually just do what I feel on my heart! There’s this really nice guy I get flowers from, and sometimes I write letters. Just expressing how I feel about the person! After all, Valentines day IS about what’s from the heart, not premade sayings and commercial sales.”
Within minutes, they had exchanged enough so Arthur knew where to get the flowers and a few other recommendations.
He couldn’t help but smile.
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It was Valentines day- Francis’ favorite Holiday, second to no other. There were happy couples, too much chocolate, the scent of fresh flowers wafting through the air, contented smiles on the face of many. Such a display of love was so rare, the day never ceased to warm his heart. Of course, he loved the way he spent it himself, as well; dinner with his best friend was always a guarantee. Even when one of them may have been sick or something, the other always came over and did something to celebrate. Arthur didn’t credit himself enough, because many times he had grabbed takeout and a movie and just spent time with him (which included forcing down those lumps of coal he called ‘edible’). It meant so much to Francis, having someone like that.
He was snapped out of his little trance to the sound of knocking on the door. Jumping from his seat, he quickly went to something reflective and checked his hair. Yep, it was still blond, and it was still wavy. The knocking began again, this time a bit loud and fast. ‘Probably some salesman,’ he thought. “Okay, okay! I’m coming!” he shouted, and he pulled the door open, ready to turn away the-
Oh, it was just Veneziano. He was holding out a little card. The Italian held it out to him, unable to suppress the overwhelming grin on his face. “From Arthur!” he said, and before the Frenchman could get in a word of thanks, the gift was shoved into his hands and he was gone.
“Hmm..” he said. Yeah, he was acting all chill, but he knew that his dumb smile was obvious. He closed the door and opened the card.
It was in a simple envelope, his name carefully written in the Brit’s usually messy handwriting; this, however, was neatly written, in a sort of calligraphy look. He didn’t know scone boy was into that. Opening the card itself, he began to read.
‘Dear Francis,
You know how I am. Yes, you’re probably wondering what this is, because I always say I’m not fond of mushy stuff. I know I always act like this day isn’t important to me. But, the truth is, I don’t feel that way at all. Every time the 14th of February rolls around and you gift me with many things I’m not always deserving of, treating me like a King, it means more to me than anything else. It’s not just the physical presents you give me, Francis, it’s the fact that no matter what, you’ve never failed to show me love. Every day I spend with you, including the stupid arguments and sorts, is like Valentines Day. I love you.
-Arthur
(PS: Come to the door, would you? I don’t like waiting around.) “
Francis carefully sat down the letter, his face beaming like the sun. He walked to the door, twisted the handle, and pulled.
And there was the Brit. The idiot who stood there, a huge bouquet of roses in his arm and a box of his favorite chocolate from Belgium. He was smiling, even though his face was strawberry red, and he held out the flowers. Dirty blond hair gently swaying in the breeze, and emerald eyes, he spoke. “Uh, happy Valentines D-Day,” he stuttered. The Frenchman, being the overjoyed fool he was, he couldn’t help himself. Leaning over, he lifted the other’s chin to his and kissed him. They both laughed a bit afterwards, and followed with a tight and warm hug.
It was perfect.