Archive of Our Own ^beta

The ad had been his last resort, way at the bottom of his sinking list of Arthur Kirkland's humiliations. Right along with the time he got so drunk he broke a table and his edgy punk phase. He wrote out to post and even printed a physical flyer to put on the university board:

"Second-year student looking for a quiet, affordable room near campus. Will not be a nuisance."

He had also sent the same thing to every plausible listing in his area, as well as all the implausible ones. There were lots of rejections, or more often silence that he got in place of a reply. His budget was a sinking ship, and his stubborn independence was the big weight dragging it down.

The day his phone finally buzzed with a reply, he nearly dismissed it as a useless text or a nonsensical meme from his younger cousin, but backpedaled when he saw the number was not one he had saved in his contacts. The message was flowery, but sent in one block of text.

Hello Arthur!

I saw your ad on the board and would like to offer you a room! I have been looking for a roommate for a while and it seems we will get along well :)

Here is the address, just tell me beforehand when you're coming by! Apt. 15, it's on the 5th floor. Ask for Francis at the buzzer <3

Without much of a choice, Arthur prayed he wouldn't get murdered and showed up the next day.

The building was old, but not colonial England levels of age. It had wrought-iron balconies spilling over with dormant flower boxes, but that's about the extent of beauty the building had. Francis Bonnefoy's apartment was on the second-to-last floor, and the door was cracked open when he got there. He sincerely hoped it was only left open because they briefly conversed through the apartment buzzer.

"Ah, hello Arthur. You can take your shoes off and come on in." The man who opened the door was exactly who Arthur had been imagining. He was all fluid grace and knowing smiles, with luscious locks of hair down to his shoulders, sparkling blue eyes and so incredibly French it hurt him. Arthur mentally calculated how weird it would be to run down the fire escape.

Francis wore a flowy light pink button-up and black skinny jeans. Before he even stepped into the apartment he could smell espresso and something floral in the air.

Arthur looked over the apartment carefully. The living space was a light palette of white walls and beige linoleum floors full of natural light. Only one of the walls was painted a sleek black and had pretty photographs and a bookshelf along it, though most of the books themselves were on chairs or in rough piles on the floor. There were four barstools surrounding a kitchen island, which Arthur had to assume was in place of a dining table. On it was a fruit basket that, surprisingly, had no rotting fruit, and two dirty wine glasses. Upon seeing them, Francis gracefully picked them up and put them in the sink. No dirty dishes and a dishwasher were a very big plus in his book. There was a beige couch with a coffee table facing a TV screen and a rocking chair which looked rather comfortable.

The bathroom was basic, but had no broken appliances and looked relatively well-stocked. Arthur had no interest in Francis' bedroom, but the empty one he would be occupying seemed pretty nice.

"It's quiet," Francis said when he first opened the door to reveal a small, unlit bare room, save for a simple bed, a desk, and an empty bookshelf. "The window overlooks the courtyard, not the street, so it's less noisy. I hope it is to your liking."

"It's… adequate," Arthur slowly nodded. His mind was already calculating where his books and clothing would go, along with where he would place his computer and other belongings. Yes, this was more than adequate, really. It was perfect.

"May I ask for your major?" Francis asked hesitantly, and Arthur could see him crossing his fingers like a little kid.

"English and literature. You?"

The man let out a heavy breath and smiled widely. "History. This is perfect. The rent is as I stated. It'll be nice to finally half it, it does get rather expensive to live on your own here. I am often out, or in the living room… You would be here often, yes? You do not mind being alone?"

"It's preferable, really."

"Excellent." Francis leaned against the doorframe, as if studying him. In comparison to the man in front of him, Arthur looked rather plain and not very pretty, so the raking eyes made him feel self-conscious. Francis did have good facial structure and was pleasing to look at. "How often do you plan on bringing people home?"

Arthur blinked. "I…" he decided it wasn't very smart to go out and tell this near-stranger that he had no friends, because he did have a plethora of acquaintances. Just not people he would invite back to his room. "Well, I have two cousins. They might visit occasionally. Only one of them is loud though, but I'll be sure to give you a notice if they come over."

Francis shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him. Before Arthur could go on the defensive, he spoke: "No-no, mon cher, I meant partners. Lovers. The amours of the heart. Or… I hope you don't sleep with your cousins, that's not very morally correct."

Arthur's brows drew together. "Oh. I don't… I don't plan on bringing anyone over. You don't have to worry."

Francis frowned slightly, and he tipped his head. "Never?"

"Um… no."

"…I see." Francis clearly did not see, but chose not to dwell on the matter. He just pushed off the doorframe and wandered over to lean against the desk. "Well, I, on the other hand, sometimes do. The walls aren't the thickest, but I have a very good pair of noise-cancelling headphones I could lend to you."

Arthur only shrugged. He was already mentally arranging which order his books would go in. He either went in alphabetical order, by author, genre, or if he felt it, he completely rearranged his books from tallest to shortest. "That won't be necessary. I don't care what you do. Just don't do it directly in front of me."

A delighted grin spread across Francis' face. He seemed rather thrilled with Arthur, like he was this creature he picked up off the streets and settled into his living space.

"Arthur," he said, his accented voice warm with amusement and intrigued. "I believe this is the beginning of a fantastic arrangement."

~~~

It quickly turned out that headphones were, in fact, necessary.

The unspoken rhythm of the flat held for a peaceful fortnight. Arthur had mostly moved in by then, he wanted to get out of his parents' house as quickly as possible and away from his brothers. So far, Francis had proved to be better behaved than his youngest brother Peter (in the sense that he hasn't busted into his room while Arthur was doing homework to show him whatever monstrosity he made with his new lego set), but he did pop by his room at noon saying he'll be going to a club later tonight and might bring someone home. Again, it didn't immediately click in his brain what exactly they were going to be doing until Francis gently told him the noise-cancelling headphones were located in the bottom drawer in the living room.

Arthur was never really a fan of sex, and really had assumed people played it up a lot in porn (it was an interesting discovery of traumatic bonding with his brothers back when he was ten), so he wasn't worried when the door unlocked and he heard the murmur of two voices. Arthur had been known to completely tune out the outside world when reading, and he was deeply engrossed in a critical analysis of Jacobean revenge tragedies for his class the following week. He didn't even look up, but momentarily paused when he heard a deeper voice chuckle at something Francis said. Not that he was disgusted, the Frenchman looked like he swung the other way, but bringing someone home was usually associated with that someone being a woman. Though maybe that was the heteronormative lifestyle in him talking.

Arthur huffed and turned a page, the rustle of paper loud in his focused silence. He really didn't care, though his body was slightly crawling with the thought of what would be happening next door over.

He heard the soft click of Francis' bedroom door closing. He read on: The thematic preoccupation with corrupted bloodlines was evident in Vindice's soliloquy-

A low, muffled laugh seeped through the wall. Arthur's eyes stayed on the page: -wherein the metaphor of social decay is-

The laugh was interrupted by Francis' light giggle, then a shush. There was a thump against the shared wall, followed by a snort and hurried murmuring. Arthur's jaw tightened. He was not a prude. He said he didn't care, and he truly meant it. This was a matter of volume and architectural integrity, not morality.

He tried to refocus. The thematic preoccupation with corrupted bloodlines was evident in Vindice's soliloquy, wherein the metaphor of social decay is-

A louder, distinctly non-verbal sound cut through the text. Then another. There was a creaking on the bed followed by another one of those horrid sounds.

Arthur shut his eyes and growled. Francis really downplayed how thin the walls were. He couldn't even find where he had been reading before a pronounced moan came from the other room.

The Englishman put his bookmark (an old receipt he kept on using) in his book and slammed it shut. Morality was one thing. A live audio performance of his roommate's sex life was quite another. He sat rigid on his bed, a heat of irritation crept down his neck, and he felt his face growing hot in embarrassment. He really did not want to be listening to this. He tried opening his book again, but for once in his life, he could not block out the rustling of sheets and moaning that was getting increasingly more frequent.

It was useless. His brain, traiturously, began constructing images to match the sounds. He imagined Francis' artfully dishevelled hair, him hurriedly shedding clothes as if they were on fire, the artful curly designs on his sheets. He did not want to see those things. He fiercely wished to imagine nothing at all.

Upon hearing a prolonged moan and babbling that was certainly coming from his roommate, Arthur shoved himself off the bed with a grunt of exasperation and stalked to that bottom drawer Francis had pointed to earlier today. They were sleek, black, and looked expensive. Arthur fumbled with the case, his fingers were suddenly clumsy. He wiped his sweaty forehead and pulled them out. Another mewl from the Frenchman's bedroom door made him flinch, nearly dropping the device.

"Oh, for God's sake," he muttered to the empty living room. He went back to his room and sat on the bed. He turned the button on and it flashed green. Green was good, right? That meant it was charged? He hoped it was charged.

After digging around in his Bluetooth settings and spotting a device he hadn't seen before, a tiny, automatic voice announced "power on. Noise cancelling activated."

A blessed, pressurizing silence descended upon his ears, and he quickly pulled up his punk rock playlist, clicking the song he remembered being the loudest. It wasn't perfect. The lower, thudding frequencies still penetrated his ears like a distant, rhythmic pulse. A faulty heartbeat in the walls. The higher-pitched sounds were reduced to ghostly, indistinct echoes. It was like listening to a badly tuned radio broadcast of an earthquake from several streets away. Though, it was vastly preferable to the HD experience.

He also quickly figured out that reading was impossible now. He simply sat on the bed, listening to the thudding of music in his ears and the faraway moans that managed to worm their way into the song. Soon, he just turned off the light and lay on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. The tension slowly drained from his shoulders, replaced by a weary, bone-deep resignation to the absurdity of his situation.

~~~

Sunlight streamed through the window, falling across Arthur's face. He woke with the sun beaming in his eyes and a stiff neck. The heavy headphones were still clamped around his ears, but they weren't turned on. They must've died sometime during the night. He peeled off the headphones and listened to the birdsong outside and the clatter of pans in the kitchen.

Arthur stood, stretched his aching back, and cracked his neck. He sleepily trudged toward the smell of fried eggs and the promise of tea.

Francis was the exact vision of a morning-after aesthetic. He was barefoot with linen trousers and an open shirt that revealed a flourish of chest hair Arthur wasn't aware he had, as he knew Francis shaved his legs. He was gracefully nudging around a sunny-side-up omelet.

"Ah! Bonjour, mon ami!" He chirped the second he noticed Arthur come in. His smile was utterly pleased, and the contrasts in their evenings yesterday pissed him off. "You slept late! Good book, or did you decide to catch up on sleep? I hope we did not disturb you?"

Arthur walked to the kettle, poured the heated water into a large cup, and dumped a tea bag in there. He fixed Francis with a flat, dry stare and spoke with a tone utterly devoid of humor.

"Your headphones," he stated with a gravelly voice, "are complete and utter shit."

He expected an apology, a promise to keep quiet from now on, or to go to the other person's house if he planned to continue with his endeavors. Instead, the Frenchman threw his head back with a loud, joyous laugh that filled the sunlit kitchen. Arthur scowled and burned his tongue on the tea.

"Oh, Arthur! It sounds like you need to get laid as well. Worry not, I'll take you along next time I plan on going to a bar, we can both bring someone home." He slid a perfectly formed omelet onto a plate and pushed it toward Arthur. The Englishman scowled even further.

"I don't want to. I was perfectly fine with my book until you showed up with that man." He also didn't want to admit this was the best omelet he'd ever had.

"Ah, well, my pansexual charm is not so easily resisted!" Francis grinned.

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows and looked up. "Your what charm?"

"Pansexual. You know, interested in men, women, and everything in between."

"Isn't that just bisexuality?"

"No. Bi means two, which would imply I was only interested in men and women."

Arthur let out a heavy sigh and scratched the back of his head. Another sexuality he had to remember.

"Remember, every time you get upset we add ten more!" Francis said cheerfully.

"Well- I'm not homophobic, my brother is bisexual." Arthur pouted. "I just thought there was only straight, gay, and bisexual."

Francis had sat down with his own plate and ripped off a piece of bread to dab at the yolk. "Well if you're straight, there's no need to concern yourself with other sexual orientations. For example, I have a German friend. That doesn't mean I have to know everything about Germany and understand the language just to be in his presence."

Arthur shrugged. He honestly just wanted to get back to his books.

"Oh, Arthur, we can go and get you industrial-grade headphones if you're going to be so pissy about this! I'll even get you the kind used on airport tarmacs!" He grinned, eyes still sparkling. "But you used them! This is progress! We are navigating the practicalities of cohabitation! Isn't it exciting?"

A begrudging, weary snort escaped Arthur. "Just keep the volume down next time, you don't have to announce to the whole apartment complex that you're having sex."

He wanted to throttle Francis for the laugh he let out. What a fucking Frenchie.

~~~

It got worse, because on a Friday evening, Francis physically plucked a book from Arthur's hands. Arthur nearly had enough time to shove that godforsaken receipt-bookmark into the page before the Frenchman snapped it closed.

"You are coming with me to a bar tonight," Francis stated, his tone brooking no argument as he held the book out of reach. "There will be wood panels and quiet corners to sit in. You can quietly judge people over a drink. It's not those rave parties you see in movies."

The establishment Francis chose did, admittedly, have wood panels. It also had a roaring fireplace and was mixed with a cacophonous mix of post-work chatter and indie rock. There was an alarming number of people who seemed to know Francis by name or smile.

Arthur claimed a corner booth almost immediately and asked Francis to get him a beer. He sank into the couch cushion and observed Francis with a detached interest.

He moved through the room like a benevolent, flirtatious monarch. He complimented the bartender's new tattoo, making her blush. He exchanged witty banter with a group of men with suits, his hand resting lightly on someone's shoulder. He charmed an older couple by cooing over their dog. Every interaction was warm, engaged, and laden with a subtle, sparkling promise. Arthur was baffled at how much of a social butterfly Francis really was.

As the man retreated to their booth with two fresh drinks, Francis slid in beside Arthur. His eyes were already scanning the crowd. He nodded toward the man with a sharp jawline and kind eyes, who was laughing with friends at the front bar.

"See him? The one with the grey sweater. He has good hands. A sculptor, perhaps. Or a carpenter. What do you think?"

Arthur glanced over. "I mean… I guess."

Francis sipped from his wine glass, already distracted by someone else. "Or her, by the fire. The redhead. There's a fierce intelligence in her eyes, but a smile that suggests delightful mischief."

"She's reading a book by herself. She probably wants to be left alone."

"Nonsense! Everyone in a pub wants, at some level, to be seen." Francis continued scouting people out with his eyes, until his eyes suddenly lit up. "Ah. Her. Yes. She's the one. You see the woman near the dartboard?"

Arthur looked. She seemed rather elegant and coolly self-possessed. "The one for what?"

"For tonight, mon ami," Francis rolled his eyes.

"…But you haven't even spoken to her. You know nothing about her."

Francis perked up an eyebrow. "I know she carries herself with confidence. Her taste in shoes is impeccable. The way she stands suggests a competitive streak. The conversation will reveal the rest. Be right back."

With that, he was gone, weaving through the crowd with effortless grace. Arthur watched as Francis approached the woman and her friend without leer, just an open, charming smile that made them pause their conversation. Within a minute, she was smiling back. In five, she and her friend were laughing. In ten, Francis was pulling out his phone and offering it to her. She typed in her number, handed it back, and the two women waved at him as he made his way back to Arthur. They watched as he walked back before giggling and returning to their conversation.

Francis slid back in with a ray of satisfaction coming from him. "See? A matter of mutual appreciation and clear intent." He smiled. "She's with a friend tonight, but she said she was free the day after tomorrow."

Arthur took a long drink of his beer. It was staggering how quickly someone could decide to want to sleep with someone, approach them, get their number in less than ten minutes, and come back like a person going to get groceries. He found it vaguely alarming.

"Now," Francis leaned in with a grin. "Your turn. Look around and see if anyone sparks your interest."

Arthur blinked before scanning the room a couple of times. Eventually, he just gave up and shrugged. "No one."

"Come now, there must be someone! What's your type?"

"Um… I guess I like talking with people who are well-educated. Debating on books or literary topics is rather fun."

Francis visibly wilted. "I meant what makes you attracted to someone. Some people like blondes, brunettes, people with curves, or someone who knows how to carry themselves."

The Englishman furrowed his eyebrows and scratched the back of his head. A type? The only types he could list were book genres or blends of tea, but when it came to people… "I don't really know. I haven't met anyone yet."

Francis blinked. The triumph faded from his face, replaced with an intense curiosity. Arthur was used to it by now, him saying something and his roommate blankly staring at him like a puzzle he was stuck solving. As if what Arthur just said had truly fractured his understanding of human nature.

"Arthur…" he shifted in his seat. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." He chugged the rest of his beer down; there was little of it left anyway.

"Have you ever… looked at anyone, anywhere, and felt… a pull? A desire to get to know someone, to be with them no matter the situation?"

Arthur stared at his now-empty glass. He thought of classmates, actors in films, people on the street. He supposed he sometimes noted when people were pleasant to look at, but it was more of a well-composed painting. He thought of well-read people, so he could discuss his ideas with them and they would be able to keep up. But he never felt this "pull" of wanting Francis seemed to be talking about. Whenever he pictured wanting to kiss someone, he felt either nothing or the urge to shudder and back away. But that's just because he didn't properly know them. Maybe if he got to know someone, he would be okay with kissing a girl. Though it wasn't something he was looking for right now.

"No," he said finally. "I don't believe I have. I haven't really been looking." He pushed his empty pint away and stood up. "Alright, you got your number, let's wrap this up. I left a sentence half-finished and it's driving me insane."

He didn't wait for an agreement, he could walk the way home by himself if Francis wanted to stay a bit longer to talk to other people. He really did just want to get back to his book and that god-awful receipt he had instead of a bookmark.

~~~

Time settled into a rhythm. Arthur would sit quietly in his room reading or working on assignments, maybe wander out into the living room to gently swing on the rocking chair.

He hadn't noticed that Francis, who usually lounged around in their shared living space, was holed up in his room working on something from his computer. He was glad not to suffocate on a thick cloud of cologne the Frenchman would spritz himself with or sing under his breath in French while twirling away in the kitchen.

One day, Arthur was brutally ambushed while he was stretched out on the couch, vulnerable with a warm cup of tea.

"Arthur. I must show you something." Francis said, voice uncharacteristically serious. He was fiddling with his phone. "I've been thinking about some stuff you said to me, about your lack of interest in people, and- I've been researching. What you described to me… it has a name. It's an actual thing, an orientation. Look."

Suddenly, a phone was thrust into his face. Arthur had to squint and pull the phone back a bit to actually read the text. It glowed with articles and flags with purples, greys, and blacks.

Asexual, noun: a person who experiences no sexual feelings or desires, or who is not sexually attracted to anyone.

Arthur glanced at it, then at Francis, then back at the screen. "What utter bollocks." He said flatly. "That's not even a thing. Just a trendy label for anyone who is fussy or hasn't met the right person. I'm normal, Francis. I'm just focused on my degree."

"But it is normal!" Francis insisted, apparently undeterred by the rather harsh rejection. "This isn't about being fussy, it's just a lack of attraction. This makes so much sense!"

"No, it makes no sense. If people were to suddenly become asexual, the human race would die out." Arthur retorted, sipping from his cup. It wasn't hot anymore, only slightly warm. "Now let me drink my tea before it becomes completely cold."

"Not everyone is asexual! The orientation makes up less than one percent of the population!"

"Francis. Tea." Arthur glared and pointed at his cup.

"…You don't want to hear about aromanticism?" He asked hesitantly.

"For fucks sake, no I don't!"

The Frenchman sighed, a mix of frustration and fascination. But he left Arthur alone and went back to his room.

~~~

Weeks later, Francis deployed a different tactic. "You are coming with me to a party tonight." He declared. "You have been in this apartment for two months and only leave for groceries or classes. I'm concerned for you as a friend."

"Good that we're not friends, then," Arthur grumbled under his breath, but Francis still squawked in shock and hit Arthur with one of his textbooks. Dodging wasn't successful, and when Francis walked away, Arthur could only relax for a few minutes before a pile of fancy clothes from the back of his closet got dumped on his face.

The party was everything Arthur dreaded. Loud, hot, and pulsating with an energy he could not possibly match. He hovered away from everyone near a bookshelf (his mother had always told him, if someone doesn't have a full bookshelf in their house, to turn around and run) only to discover they were decorative, untouched classics. He just started sorting through the books on the lower shelves when he felt a tap on his shoulder. It's good that he didn't hiss at Francis to fuck off, because the face that appeared in front of him was a familiar one. Yekaterina Braginskaya was a quiet Russian girl from his 19th century foreign literature seminar.

"Arthur!" She smiled sweetly, her voice cutting through the bass. "You're the last person I expected to see here!"

"Likewise," he shouted back, genuinely relieved. He didn't want to stand alone in a corner for several hours.

The two migrated to a marginally quieter corner, and Arthur tried remembering if he knew any Russian literature they could talk about.

"Do you know Dostoyevsky? Or Tolstoy? You must know Tolstoy, he wrote War and Peace!"

"I've heard of it, I haven't tried reading it though."

"It honestly feels like a French book with Russian inserts."

God, French was following him everywhere nowadays, it seemed. Katya assured him that all old Russian literature had French in it.

Eventually, they bonded over Gogol and Katya's life before moving to the UK.

"He was born in Ukraine, but he considered himself to be a Russian writer. He wrote books purely in Russian. Well, I know a little bit of Ukrainian, because my mother is from there, but I grew up in Russia with my brother and sister."

"Older or younger?"

"It goes like: me, my brother, and then my sister. She went off to college in Belarus to study dance as soon as she finished middle school. You can go off to college if you don't want to go to high school."

"Huh, interesting. When did you move to England?"

"I finished high school and I'm here on a visa. I've always wanted to go to school here."

Their conversation was pleasant. Katya turned out to be a clever person, just the kind he loved to talk with.

Their talk was interrupted by a guy who Arthur vaguely recognized as being from the rugby team, all broad shoulders and confidence fueled by beer. He leaned in too close to his companion for tonight. "Hey there, haven't seen you around before!" He spoke a bit too loudly, his smile all teeth.

Katya gave him a tight-lipped smile in return. "I am just talking with my friend."

"Well, he doesn't mind, do you?" The guy clasped a heavy hand on Arthur's shoulder.

Something protective and irritable flared up in him, like when he was trying to read in peace but his French roommate would keep pestering him. "She said she's conversing. You should move along."

"You can't decide things like that for other people, man." He turned to Yekaterina again. "I'm sure we can have a way more interesting conversation back at my place."

Katya leaned closer to the man and spoke over the music: "Have you ever been pepper-sprayed before?"

"No." The man shook his head, clearly not getting the memo.

"Do you want to keep that streak up, or should I break it?" Katya started digging in her purse, and the man finally staggered back. He sneered at Arthur, "I know chicks like her. She's not gonna sleep with you either." He shoved off into the crowd.

The words hung in the air like a startling revelation. Arthur stood frozen. Sleep with her? That concept hadn't even occurred to him, not even as a possibility or a fleeting, rejected thought. They were just discussing Gogol and Katya's life in Russia. He had intervened because the guy was being rude. The assumption in his sneer, that Arthur's defense was a play for sexual favor, made him feel slightly sick.

He turned back to Katya, who was watching him with a curious, though slightly flushed expression. "I apologize for him," Arthur scratched his head. "And for the record, I… I wasn't thinking that. At all. That's not something I'm interested in."

Her expression softened, something like disappointment flickered behind her eyes before getting shielded by pragmatic understanding. "That is… a shame." She offered a small, genuine smile. "But I would still be happy to continue talking as friends."

"Yes," Arthur agreed, a surprising wave of relief washing over him. Although he was slightly panicked at the thought that Katya possibly wanted to sleep with him. "I would like that."

Later, walking home in the cool, quiet dark, Francis buzzed with his own, post-party energy. "So! Yekaterina? She looked nice, no? You talked for quite a while. What happened there?"

"We're in the same literature seminar," Arthur put his hands in his pockets. It was getting colder nowadays; he needed to take a trip to his parents' house to grab some winter clothes. "There's a project coming up in that class, so we planned to meet at the library next Thursday. She's… an enjoyable person to talk to."

Francis stared at him, urging for more info. None came. "That is all? You talked about homework? Mon Dieu."

"It was a perfectly pleasant conversation," Arthur left out the fact that a guy tried hitting on her and the knowledge that Katya was interested in him, though momentarily.

Francis shook his head, a laugh escaping him. "You are a wonder. For your information, this is the first time I have ever left a party like that without taking someone home. Truly a historic night."

Arthur looked at him with a dry, sincere smile touching his lips. "Congratulations. Think of all the things you can do with the extra time now."

Francis just laughed louder, the sound echoing down the empty street. Arthur walked beside him, and the strange, clarifying echo of "she's not gonna sleep with you" settled into a new and quiet space in his mind.

~~~

It was supposed to be a quick visit, just an exchange of winter clothes for Arthur's summer ones. Arthur contacted his mother asking about warmer sweaters and thicker coats, to which she immediately agreed to send over. And she sent them over in the form of Alfred and Matthew who were "in the area". Really, it was an invasion.

Arthur barely had time to warn Francis before the doorbell was being ringed repeatedly. Alfred skipped in first, letting himself in with a shout of "Artie! Delivery service!" He unceremoniously dropped a heavy duffel bag by the door, and something thumped inside. Arthur cringed and prayed his mother hadn't sent anything fragile.

Matthew followed silently and gave Arthur a small smile with a wave.

Francis set aside his history notebook in favor of observing the twins. "Ah, hello, you're Alfred and Matthieu! Come in, come in, I'm Francis, the man responsible for making sure Arthur doesn't wither and die! Welcome to our humble abode, I can make coffee, and there's also wine. I can find something light in the fridge for you to eat."

"Coffee's great, thanks man!" Alfred boomed and collapsed into the sofa. "Nice place, it's way better than Artie's dungeon of a room. He had these dark green walls that were lined with posters and books, and the curtains were almost always drawn and it made me so sleepy to be in there. Can I see your room, Artie?"

"It's that one." Arthur pointed to his room with a sigh. Alfred immediately shot up and ran into his cousin's room.

Arthur turned around to see that Matthew was quietly trying to get out of his shoes, but didn't want to put down the bags he was holding, so he just stood there, trying to pry his foot out of the shoe. Arthur gave a small chuckle and wordlessly took the bags from Mattie.

"Oh, thank you." Matthew looked up in shock, as if he hadn't really realized he could just give his cousin the bags. It was easier to get out of his shoes, and he took in the atmosphere of the room. "It really is nice. Where's the bathroom?"

"Over there."

Arthur had exactly a few seconds of peace before Alfred shouted out: "Hey Artie, where are you hiding all your porn?"

"Alfred-" Arthur pinched his nose. "I'm sorry to disappoint you but I don't have any to hide."

"Aw, man." Alfred walked out and slammed the door shut a bit too loudly. "I thought when you moved out it was customary to buy kinky shit."

"Usually you can hide it under your bed, in the closet, or hide it in a bag in the bottom drawers of a cabinet, if you have one." Francis supplied without thinking about it.

"Ohh… that's actually a good idea." Alfred patted Arthur on the shoulder. "I like your roommate."

"I'm pleased that your standards are so low that you're willing to like French people," Arthur grumbled and walked over to fill the kettle. He needed tea, and badly.

For a while, it was pleasant. Alfred dominated the conversation with stories of his engineering program, mostly about lab partners and their various dramas. Matthew intermittently interrupted him with a dry "that is not what happened" or "I was there, you can't exaggerate a story when someone in the room witnessed the events as well."

Francis took a liking to Matthew, especially after learning that Matthew knew French and went to Montreal for a year as part of an exchange program.

Arthur mostly listened, but was increasingly uncomfortable with how touchy Francis was getting with his younger cousin. Matthew seemed oblivious, and Arthur didn't know when to intervene.

Then, as Francis refilled Alfred's coffee, his narrative pivoted.

"-so then she says: "Oh, I'm not looking for anything serious," and I'm like: "Cool, me neither!" But then she gets mad when I go out with my friends on Friday? Makes no sense, dude." He took a gulp. "Dating's a minefield, I swear."

"It is… an art form," Francis agreed with a shrug. "The reading of signals, the negotiation with intentions… Sometimes, it is simpler to be direct."

"Yeah, but you probably say something in French and women swoon over you."

"Oh no," Francis grinned. "The men and others do as well."

Alfred laughed. "You see Fran, Mattie here," Alfred jabbed a finger at his brother, "has it easy. Met this guy a few years ago in, like, bio 101 or something, and just settled. Boring."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "It's called stability, Alfred. You should try it sometime. You will keel over and die at 35 if you keep living on adrenaline and bad decisions."

"I have a strong heart! It can take it!" Alfred laughed again before turning his attention over to Arthur, who instinctively stiffened. "What about you, Artie? Stepped on any mines lately? I saw you said you went to a party. Meet anyone?"

The room didn't go silent, but Arthur quickly realized all focus narrowed onto him. Francis watched with open curiosity. Matthew looked politely interested. Alfred was grinning and awaiting gossip.

Arthur felt the memory of the rugby player's sneer, the "she's not gonna sleep with you", and the blank space where his own desire should have been. He looked at Alfred, whose entire worldview seemed to be built around this exhilarating and confusing minefield. He looked at Matthew, content in his quiet, settled harbour. And Francis, who could pluck absolutely anyone from a crowd if he so desired.

"No," Arthur shook his head, voice flat. "No mines."

"C'mon, no one at all?" Alfred pressed, leaning into him. Arthur pushed his cousin away.

A familiar, prickly irritation rose in his chest. Beneath it was the same, pressing confusion from the party. He set his teacup down with a precise clink.

He took a breath and spoke with an even tone. "How… Do you know? That you want to… sleep with someone? How does that… start, exactly?"

The question landed with an almost physical thud. Alfred blinked in confusion. Matthew's eyebrow lifted slightly. Francis stopped typing on his phone and looked up.

"How do I… know?" Alfred repeated, scratching his head. "You just… know. You see a person and think "yeah, okay, I'd like to, y'know""

"It's called sex, Alfred." Matthew snorted.

"Yeah, that, so you talk to the person, and you see if they're cool, so you think it even more. It's not like there's a flowchart or anything."

"But what does it feel like?" Arthur insisted. "Is it a thought, or… a physical feeling? Do you have to talk yourself into it?"

"Whoa, deep questions for a Saturday, huh?" Alfred laughed. "I dunno, man! It's just a feeling. Like being hungry, y'know? You don't think about how you know you're hungry, you just are."

Arthur realized with a chilling thought that he'd never been hungry for that. He never had.

Matthew felt his twin's confusion and took over. "It's different for everything, Arthur. For some people, it's a loud feeling. For others, it's quiet. For example, I felt this buzzing urge to talk to my boyfriend when I first met him. Just kept finding myself gravitating towards wherever he was, and it was the same with him, so we were together quite a lot. One day we got tired of beating around the bush and he asked me out. It's more complicated for other people, and that's okay, too."

"Right," Arthur muttered, picking up his teacup. The conversation was over. He had his data point: for other people, it was a feeling, an instinct. One he apparently lacked.

Alfred got tired of the silence and changed the subject back to his latest game he bought. Francis eventually sat down next to Arthur on the sofa (he stopped touching up Matthew the second he found out he had a partner, thank god), his earlier curiosity softened into something more thoughtful, his glances at Arthur were less puzzled, but almost protective.

When his cousins left hours later, with promises to visit again and Matthew's invitations to his hockey game this month, the flat settled back into its usual quiet. But Arthur's mind was loud.

He found himself standing frozen in the middle of the living room, replaying Alfred's bafflement.

"You just know."

He thought of Francis at the bar, scanning the room.

"She's the one."

He thought of the rugby player's assumption.

"She's not gonna sleep with you."

A script everyone else had memorized, for a play he'd never auditioned for.

~~~

Arthur had been sitting with his book, but the words were all blurred. His mind was at that bar Francis had dragged him to so long ago. He tried to remember what his roommate did: Francis scanning the room like a menu, and easily pointing out "the one". Arthur tried to imagine himself doing the same. What would that be like?

Step one: identify an attractive person. He glanced around his empty bedroom, as if expecting one to materialize.

Step two: feel… something. A pull. A spark. He thought of Katya, clever, sharp, aesthetically pleasing, but he only felt a calm appreciation. He saw her like he saw a well-argued thesis.

Step there: decide you want to sleep with them. The thought was so abrupt and foreign that it made him grimace. He shook his head, baffled. Was there a step two-and-a-half that he was missing? Was "the spark" something you faked until it eventually became real? Exhausted, he decided the script was badly written and gave up, marking his page with his receipt.

The quiet of the apartment felt different. It wasn't just the absence of sound, but a new, humming space inside Arthur's own head. With a sigh, he walked to his desk and opened his laptop. He opened a private browser window. After sitting with his fingers poised over the keys, he slowly typed out: "Is it normal to never think about sex?"

He got flooded with results. Medical sites, psychology blogs, forums. But it wasn't what he needed. He begrudgingly typed in "asexuality" and watched the familiar flags pop up.

He read. And read. He clicked on links to personal blogs, websites, and even swallowed his pride and clicked on a Reddit thread. He learned way too much information about terms like sex-repuled, sex-indifferent, sex-favorable (which didn't really make sense to him, so he went down that rabbit hole until he understood and accepted what it meant). He opened a separate tab on aromanticism and got bombarded with even more information on the differences between romantic, sexual, and aesthetic attraction, how to tell a crush from a squish, and queerplatonic relationships. The more he read, the more content he felt despite the increased thumping in his heart. He already knew all of this, despite not even realizing it was an actual thing.

The most startling moment came from a post from someone describing their own experience: "I just figured everyone was exaggerating how much they wanted to date and sleep with people. I seriously thought it was a social performance. I kept waiting for the "real" feelings to start, but they never did."

Arthur sat back and let out a soft breath. This was it. This was exactly it. He hasn't been crazy for thinking it was weird how everyone was flitting around this noisy world of dating and flirtation and drama as he watched from the sidelines. He'd assumed it was a complex, tedious game everyone had learned the rules to, and he'd been content to be a non-player. He hadn't realized that other people weren't just "playing", they ran on this driving force that he simply… didn't have.

He felt a strange mixture of vertigo and profound relief. He wasn't broken. He wasn't a late bloomer. He was living in another genre from everyone else.

Tentatively, he placed his fingers on the keyboard again and navigated to a forum he'd seen linked multiple times. He created an account with a vague username before starting to type up his first post:

Title: Is this it?

Post: I've never really understood what the fuss with dating and sex was all about. I thought I was just focused on my studies (I am), and the rest would come later. My roommate, who is a pretty hypersexual person, suggested I might be asexual, but I just brushed him off. I went to a party around a week ago, and a situation made me realize I don't think about people in that way at all, even though society automatically assumes I must. I just spent the last several hours going over asexuality and aromanticism, and a lot of things have been clicking with me. Does this sound familiar to anyone? Or am I really just a late bloomer?

Arthur clicked submit after rereading it a few times. He didn't get a flood of replies, but over the next couple of hours, notifications dripped into his inbox.

Demi_Girl: Welcome, friend. That sounds incredibly familiar. "Even though society automatically assumes I must" is SO TRUE. Remember, you're not alone :)

No-Regrets: the "waiting for the real feelings to start" is the classic aroace experience. Congrats on figuring yourself out.

ChocolateCakeYaoi: "Or am I really a late bloomer" Step one: Denial lmao. You're definitely ace.

AceOfCakes: Your roommate sounds awesome. And yes, 100% familiar. You are likely aroace (aromantic and asexual), there are some pinned posts going over FAQs to figure out your orientation, you can look over there. You can also make lots of friends on here, I've never had a single negative experience on this website yet.

DontQuoteMeOnThat: Omg I wish I was aroace like you, their flag is so pretty… ace flag is so plain for some reason even tho I like purple T.T

Every single comment was a confirmation. No one told him he was wrong, confused, or picky. They just said: Yes. You're not alone. Welcome.

The next afternoon, Francis was arranging some new tulips in a vase when Arthur emerged from his room. He, for once, didn't have a book in his hand. Just stood in the doorway of the living room, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

"What's on your mind, mon ami?" Francis spoke, not looking away from his flowers.

"Um… Do you remember… that research you did? On the… asexuality thing?"

Francis paused, his full attention immediately on Arthur. "Oui?" His expression wasn't a teasing "I told you so", or else Arthur would've hit him over the head and never talked to him again.

"I… looked into it. Properly." Arthur took a steadying breath. The forum posts gave him a strange, borrowed courage. "And I believe you may have been correct. It… fits. My experiences I felt match up so well with others. So… I think I might be… aroace."

The smile that spread across Francis' face wasn't his usual flirtatious one. It was warm, radiant, and utterly sincere. He didn't whoop or clap him on the back, just walked up to him and pulled him into a hug.

"Arthur," he was rocking them both back and forth, voice thick with genuine warmth. "I am so happy for you. Truly. You've found something that makes sense in your world, and that's such a wonderful thing."

Arthur felt a tension that he hadn't even fully acknowledged was there dissolve in his chest. He hadn't realized he had braced for mockery and gentle teasing. He wrapped his arms around Francis' back.

"I suppose it is." Arthur let a small, real smile touch his lips. He placed his head on his roommate's shoulder and looked at the tulips. "Those are… adequately arranged."

Francis laughed as he pulled away. "I've learned that when you say "adequate" you actually mean "very good". I am becoming an expert at speaking Arthur."

"Yeah, sure, whatever." The Englishman rolled his eyes.

"Now, we must celebrate your self-discovery. We can make tea. Or," his eyes twinkled, "we can just sit quietly. Whichever you prefer."

"Tea." Arthur decided and slipped into his usual chair. "And quiet. That sounds… perfectly fine."

~~~

The air the next day felt different. It wasn't the weather—because that was the same damp grey chill that permeated across all of the UK—but there was a lack of weight on his shoulders. He realized with a start that he felt lighter. It was a subtle, internal shift, like finally inhaling through your nose after it being clogged for weeks.

Of course, there wasn't any fanfare, he didn't suddenly get a rainbow glow around him. He was the same Arthur Kirkland he had always been. But the faint, constant static of wrongness that had buzzed at the edge of his awareness had been simply switched off. The puzzle piece he'd been trying to force into the wrong spot had been removed, and the picture of himself was clearer, more coherent, and held a profound peacefulness around him.

His seminar on Social Politics passed with his usual focused note-taking and was over way too quickly. Later, in the university library's hushed atmosphere, he found Katya already waiting at their designated table with a fortress of Slavic folklore surrounding her.

"Dobryy den', Artur." She spoke without looking up, her pen scratching notes in a thick notebook.

"Yeah, you too." He spoke, though he had no idea what she said. He just slid into the chair opposite her and began unloading his own materials from his satchel.

She glanced up at Arthur and studied him for a moment. "You look… different today."

"Do I?" Arthur feigned indifference as he tried to find an empty page in his notebook.

"Da. You look less like you're mentally arguing with the entire room. You look… content. Or happier."

Arthur paused, his fingers clamped around the edge of his sheet of paper. The denial he was so used to giving died on his tongue. Why did he have to deny it? It was the truth, after all. And Katya could be trusted with something like this. He had a feeling she would understand.

He took a quiet breath. "I… did some thinking. Some time after the party, actually. And some research." He kept his voice low and conversational, though his heart was thumping in his throat and he vibrated with nervousness. "It turns out I'm… asexual. And aromantic. I'm not sexually or romantically attracted to anybody. I've always been like this, but I just realized that it's an actual thing. And it has a name." He looked down at his fingers, which he was fiddling with, so as not look at Katya's reaction. Why was he so worried? If she had a negative reaction, he could just get up and leave. She was hardly a friend, they'd only held one total conversation.

Katya's expression didn't change, she simply thought about it before nodding slowly. "Ah. That makes sense. I thought perhaps you were gay, or just very, very British."

A surprised huff of laughter escaped Arthur. "The two are not mutually exclusive, I'm afraid."

"No," her smile widened. "But it explains our conversation that night. And the look on your face after that idiot spoke to me." Her tone grew sincere, gaze direct and warm. "Congratulations, Arthur. Figuring out a thing like that about yourself isn't always easy. I am happy for you."

The confirmation, coming from her—someone outside his bubble with Francis—washed over him with a final, settling certainty.

"Thank you, Katya." He said with a small smile on his face.

"Of course." She said, before promptly tapping on the stack of books with her pen. "Now that we're all happy and self-actualized, show me what you have written down before I lose my patience. We have two weeks left to complete this."

Arthur handed her his notes. The clarity wasn't just inside him anymore, but actually acknowledged in the room, and politely set aside so the real work could begin.

It was perfectly fine.

More than fine, actually.

It felt right.

~~~

A week later, the new understanding had settled into his shared life with Francis, comfortable and unremarked upon. It was a quiet relief that hummed beneath the surface of Arthur's readings and Francis' comings and goings.

One evening, Francis returned from one of his mysterious errands, but he didn't have a partner under his arm, or a bottle of French wine. He held a small, plain paper bag. He walked over to Arthur, who sat in his usual spot: cuddled up with a blanket in the rocking chair under the lamplight, a book in his lap.

"I saw something today," Francis announced, eyes bright and mischievous. He sat on the arm of the sofa so he could sit close to his roommate. "It made me think of you."

From the bag, Francis withdrew a simple, but beautiful object. It was a bookmark. It had a beautiful ribbon with smooth, heavy silk, attached to which was a polished piece of pale wood, alternating five pretty stripes he'd grown so familiar with: orange, yellow, white, light blue, dark blue.

The aroace flag.

"I saw it in that little queer bookshop off Camden Passage," Francis spoke softly. "The owner said they were made by a local artist. I thought… perhaps it was more fitting than that tattered receipt."

Arthur stared at it. The gesture was so profoundly thoughtful and devoid of Francis' usual theatrics, that it momentarily robbed him of speech.

He reached out, and his fingers closed around the cool, smooth wood. "It's… very well made." He managed to say after a beat of silence.

Francis was smiling, that twinkle in his eyes never leaving him. He watched wordlessly as Arthur turned back to his book.

With deliberate slowness, Arthur reached for his placeholder: the faded, creased receipt from Tesco's, dated over multiple months ago, with the ink smudged and illegible in places. A temporary object he never got around to replacing. He carefully set it aside and slid the new bookmark into place. The orange rested just above the chapter heading, looking like it belonged there. It looked right.

He closed the book again, and the ribbon fell neatly against the cover.

"Thank you, Francis. Truly," he said finally, meeting his roommate's gaze. The words were simple, but they both understood it was a deep and solid declaration.

Francis' smile softened. "De rien, Arthur." He murmured, before rising and giving Arthur's shoulder a brief squeeze before gliding toward the kitchen. "Now, I am going to open a wine that shouldn't even encounter that takeaway container you brought here last night. And don't even think about making tea right now.

Arthur gave a heavy sigh of defeat, just opened the book again, and slid his finger down his new bookmark. He settled deeper into the chair. The story before him felt suddenly clearer, and the reader himself finally, completely, at home.