Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The space opposite of his office has remained comfortingly empty for the past few weeks. Its former occupant was the chatty type, who more often than not had a phone glued to their ear, and the conversations of which he overheard certainly didn’t allude to any customer calling about an insurance claim. It wouldn’t have been so awful, if not for how much it impeded his ability to think.

No matter how familiar the forms nor the ingrained motor skills it took to navigate a customer’s information, the migraines associated with the constant, loud babble of his workmate’s chatter more often than not ended with Arthur yanking himself free of his desk to fetch a cuppa. Too polite to rain down a wrath of artfully placed curse words, and too short-fused to endure it for extended periods of time led to an annoying stalemate with his options. He chose avoidance, in the end. Best not to jeopardize his job security by pummeling his next door neighbor.

The silence following his former coworker’s release (and really, he wonders what brought that along) came as a soothing balm to nerves that were too frayed and high strung. The weeks succeeding the vacation of the next door office eased the bone-white tendons that often stuck out against Arthur’s hands. The keys of his keyboard must have let out a figurative sigh, no longer the victim of anger he couldn’t bring himself to direct at the perpetrator. His breaks sank back into their regular conformity.

Silently, he prayed that no one would come to fill the empty room next to his. He entertained the thought of them converting it into another utility space, perhaps a convenient spot for another copier or scanner.

The rush to complete the growing pile of documents he’d missed during his outings had Arthur exhausting his workload within a few days. It wasn’t often that he found himself staring around his office with a vacant expression, drumming his fingers impatiently against the cherry oak of his desk, and not a single manilla folder in sight! He should consider himself lucky, he thinks, but mostly, he’s just terribly bored.

There sat, in the far upper corner, a mostly unused television set that seemed to be older than its brethren by at least a decade. A fine layer of dust coated its top and stuck to its screen, tinting the black surface a soft brown if one were to look at it at the right angle. It’d obviously seen more use before Arthur had come to inhabit this office space. He grimaced, noting that he’d have to take a duster to it soon.

Fishing into the right drawer of his desk, he procured the matching remote to it, flicking the television on with a press while its screen crackled to life (and isn’t that static just lovely, he thinks). The picture quality was lacking a few hundred pixels, with a color scheme that suggested some devious person had literally sucked the saturation out of it. Or perhaps it was just age and not another idiom conjured up by his mind.

The channels came in clear enough, though the only one that seemed remotely interesting to him was the news. Tossing the remote on his desk and leaning back with his cup of tea - which had begun to cool more than his liking - Arthur absorbed the ongoings of the world around him.

“-of which there will be meetings to discuss the new regime soon. In other news, blood donations are seen to be on the rise, with more and more donors coming forward in the wake of the many drives taking place around London. Statistics point towards a steadier supply for the vampire populace, and experts say that blood-related crime should be expected to decrease over the next few months. We’ve got analysts standing by to discuss the matter… but after this break.”  

The camera cut away from the anchor, segwaying into a commercial about insurance; of which the irony was not lost on Arthur. Taking a sip of his tea, and then grimacing subsequently because it was much too cool , he let his minder wander. Idly, his thoughts drifted to the local blood drive located just a few blocks away from his home. He entertained the idea of perhaps dropping by later to donate, though a wince followed that thought, because that obviously meant needles. Urgh.

When he was younger, the nurses had written down in his record that he was prone to passing out and becoming sick during bloodwork. He faintly remembers burying his head into the crook of his mother’s shoulder while the nurse slid the needle into his vein, and the violent vertigo and sinking feeling in his stomach that had him calling out for the trashcan just seconds later. When he had come to, at least three of them had been standing over him, with one laughing nervously about how his lips had turned blue and his skin had gone ghastly white.

Of course, that was then, when he was barely old enough to consider himself a teenager. He’d had another set of bloodwork done on him recently, a precautionary step taken since his mother’s side had a history of diabetes. He’d fared just fine then, though the initial poke still had his skin crawling and his stomach nearly flopping.

While his thoughts lingered on needles and blood, the news had apparently resumed its programming. Now the screen was split into three sections, with a person occupying each and debating heatedly about the current ‘feeding’ situation. Quietly, Arthur sipped his tea as he listened to their droning voices, his eyes flitting between the three analysts; an elderly man berating the government for its more humane treatment of the alternate species, a pale-skinned man with striking gold eyes tearing into the former’s accusations, and a middle-aged woman playing auspistice between the two parties.

It was easy to pick out the anomaly among them. Porcelain skin, faintly blue branching veins near his temples and neck, ears that didn’t have the familiar round curve near the cartilage, and the subtle show of canines that were one-too-many sharp. Arthur found himself listening less to the overlapping arguing and moreso studying the peculiarities of the vampire.

As his mind drifted into theories and technicalities, a quick rap of knuckles sounded at his door. His office always remained open, unless he was servicing customers, so the head that peeked around the frame of his door was expected. Meeting his green eyes was a set of blue ones, and a white smile that contrasted against the tan skin of his face.

“Hey, Artie. You hear the news?” Alfred stepped around the corner, a pastel, plastic box held against his hip as he beamed expectantly at Arthur.

“That depends, Alfred,” Arthur murmured quietly, the rim of his cup hiding his mouth as he spoke. “There’s a lot going on right now. Could you perhaps try being less vague?”

“What, and spoil the surprise? Nah. And what else is happening that I don’t know about?” Alfred readjusts the box against his hip, its sleek surface sliding down the smooth leather of his jacket. The fur lining his wear is damp, unsurprisingly, as early winter London had been assaulted with rain lately. Freezing, ice cold rain.

Arthur wondered how Alfred made it as a delivery man in these conditions. “I would ask how often you watch the news, but I’m afraid I already know the answer.”

“Eh, occasionally. Lotta arguing and nonsense, so I try to stay away from it. Brings my mood down.” The answer makes Arthur’s teacup pause in its ascent to his lips, but only briefly. He shakes his head as he finishes the rest of his tea, his nose scrunching up at the last, cold remnants. “But anyway, I figure I’ll go ahead and tell you.” He nods his head towards the empty office across the wall, which has Arthur immediately stilling and fixing him with a wary gaze. “You got yourself a new neighbor!”

“Oh,”  Arthur finds himself uttering, though it quickly follows with a repeat that serves as more of a groan. “Oh. Lovely.”

“Now listen,” Alfred begins, catching the abysmal tone in the Brit’s voice. “I know all about your old neighbor woes, yeah? But I’ve actually talked to his guy.” Arthur raises his head, and Alfred quickly tacks on. “I’m helping bring his stuff up right now, in fact. He’s a big material type, but he’s pretty nice. Charismatic, even. We talked the entire way over.”

“And you’ve deduced all of this in a single meeting?”

“I’m a delivery man, Artie. My whole deal is being able to talk to people. I gotta read them, y’know? ‘Hey, this guy’s an asshole, so be really direct and short with him.’ Or ‘Hey, this lady looks really sad, so try to say something to cheer her up, yeah?’ This new guy’s a charmer. I think even you’ll like him.”

Despite his suspicions, Arthur finds himself smirking at the implications. “Did he try to woo you or something?”

“What? No, no… I mean, maybe? But I didn’t really feel that whole vibe. If he did, I think he backed off after he realized I wasn’t interested. Or maybe that's reading too much into it. Ugh, look at what you’ve done, you old crank.”

“I’m only five years older than you, you sod.”

“Everyone knows that twenty and twenty-five are like… night and day. You’re basically almost middle-aged.”

That prompts Arthur to roll his eyes. “Your views of my life expectancy are dismal, you know.”

At that, Alfred’s smile slides back into place. “Crankiness is a terminal disease, man. It’s stated to repel at least a hundred people a year. Crazy how science works.”

Arthur hums, bemusedly, a small noise of recognition. He slides his hand over to his drawer, seemingly in the process of fishing something out before he retracts his hand, only to reveal his middle finger to be raised. “Ah, yes. I thought I left your invitation around here. And here it is! Your invitation to fuck right off .”

Instead of taking it personally, Alfred just laughs, his figure hunching slightly as his free hand clutches at his stomach. He seems to wipe a tear away before making a finger gun at Arthur. “Alright, alright. You got me good there. I’ll give that one to you. But hey, for real. The guy should be on his way up anytime. Think he’s down on the first floor, taking care of formalities or something. I’ve gotta finish moving his stuff up, so don’t be a stranger, yeah? Make a truce or something.”

“You know I only burn bridges.” Arthur remarks.

“That’s how I know you’re actually British.”

Alfred slinks away, across to the other side of the hall. Arthur gives a roll of his eyes, his fingers coming to play with the rim of his teacup as the room goes silent once more, save for the droning television. As time passes, he catches himself listening to the rest of the insurance building intensely, every creak in the floor or opening door fueling his anticipation. Alfred said his new neighbor would be charming, but then again, his and Alfred’s expectations of charming were seemingly polar opposites.

He sees Alfred’s signature jacket cross the mouth of his door various times. Each trip has him returning with more gaudy boxes, more colorful trinkets that would otherwise seem out of place in an office. It’s not as if he shuns decoration or personalization of the workplace. Arthur has quite a few knick knacks lying around himself; ranging from primitives customized with snarky phrases and sayings, to the spare teaset he keeps in the glass case on the far wall. Even his writing utensils are packed with personality, some mimicking the designs of old fountain pens. He even has customized parchment meant to resemble those of the old Victorian era.

It’s aesthetic , and he respects that.

However, a set of wine glasses? In the workplace? The social implications are enough to have him balking. Was he going to be working with an alcoholic? Not to mention the floral desk covers, or even the silken curtains that he spied moving into the room. How much did one need before their office became less of a workspace and more of a home lounge? Whoever his new coworker was, they were certainly… well, avant garde.

While Arthur is busy formulating reasonable answers to his own questions, he misses the streak of long, tied back blonde hair that flashes across his peripheral. Only the sound of Alfred’s voice calling out has him refocusing on the office next door, though he can only see Alfred from his doorway.

“I think that about does it! I got a lot of the heavier stuff up here, but I didn’t try to situate them anywhere. Didn’t wanna mess with your, uh… feng shui or whatever.”

Arthur finds himself leaning forward, his hands bracing themselves on the lip of his desk as he tries to listen more clearly.

“Oh, non, this is magnifique. Merci. Your work is appreciated!”

“Hey, cool stuff! Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it then. Gonna pop by Artie’s and say goodbye.” There’s a pause, and then very harsh and suspiciously loud whispering from Alfred. “I swear, he doesn’t bite. But the guy’s got this cold shoulder vibe. You just gotta get to know him.”

“Oh? I will take your word, then.”

Arthur is relaxing back into his chair by the time Alfred peaks into his office again, seemingly straightening the lapels of his jacket and eyeing his computer screen with feigned interest. “I’m heading out!” The blonde flashes him a wave of his gloved hand, and promptly disappears before Arthur can get a single word out.

“Don’t crash your bloody lorry!” He calls out, his voice carrying down the hallway. The echo of Alfred’s laugh reaches him faintly. It’s with a sigh that he deflates, resting his arms against the sides of his office chair. He spares his workspace a quick onceover, before reaching for the remote to shut the television off.

There’s audible shuffling and tampering happening from the newly occupied office space next door, but nothing terribly distracting or grating to his nerves. There’s the soft tapping of footsteps, and then, after a short while, the pleasant humming of his new coworker as he (at least Arthur assumes it’s a man, even with a voice so operatic) sets to work on unpacking his things. He imagines that if it were the office’s old inhabitant, the humming would have had drove him absolutely mad, but there’s something undeniably cordial about it, captivating even.

Even as Arthur checks his email to find newer documents to fill out, the humming serves as a quaint background noise, something to help him through the lull of work as the afternoon progresses. By the time his office grew dim with the early winter night, he’d found himself memorizing the loops and chorus of the stranger’s song, tapping his fingers gently against his mouse as he concluded the last bit of today’s work.

As he’d leant over to flick off his lamp while his computer went through the motions of shutting down, he’d momentarily turned his head enough to peak across the hallway. There, greeting him, was his new coworker’s desk, facing the doorway and boasting a fancier and pricier computer than his own. Mindless of his manners at the moment, he’d been content to wait and stare as the task manager prompted him once more about saving his data before shutting the computer off.

A light, lavender blouse covered mostly by a cream colored cardigan came into view as the man across the hallway bent over his desk, straightening its items to perfection as the tone of his song winded down. Shoulder length blonde hair eclipsed the curve of his jawline, though the majority of it seemed to be held in place by a silken tie. Even from here, Arthur could make out a dusting of fine, groomed facial hair. It’s light color would have contrasted against anyone’s face if not for how strikingly pale the man was.

Mouse all but forgotten and left hovering over the ‘shut down anyway’ tab, Arthur rested his cheek against his hand, unashamedly eavesdropping from afar until he could get a better look at the newcomer’s face. It was one of those menial curiosities that didn’t mean much of anything, but he’d feel better knowing he got a good look at the other before heading home tonight. If his items didn’t explain him very clearly, then maybe his physical traits would. Arthur would know what to expect when he came in tomorrow morning.

After long, dragging minutes of anticipation, the man had finally decided to step around his desk, his back facing Arthur for only a moment before he promptly seated himself. Even then, the monitor of his computer served as yet another obstacle, and Arthur actually found himself grimacing over the matter.

Just as he was about to call it a fruitless effort, his new coworker would rise from his seat just a bit, so that his eyes were peeking over the top of his computer. Arthur’s computer gave a last, final hum of power as he finally gave it permission to shut off, but not before he’d caught the other’s gaze with his own.

Their line of sight remained in sync for a few long seconds, with Arthur taking note that the man’s eyes were blue, and ungodly almost. A shade you’d see more on someone photoshopped in a magazine than someone standing face to face with you. If Alfred’s eyes were blue, then there needed to be a new word to describe the shade of this man’s eyes. At least, Arthur thought so.

Seeming to notice his intent staring, the newest occupant of the office would lean slightly over, enough to reveal the rest of his face. It was here that Arthur decided that the pigmentation of his skin was truly pallid, and not just a trick of the overhead light. However, it was far from unhealthy looking. Oh, no. In fact, it was almost… strikingly handsome, if Arthur had to be perfectly honest. Otherwordly in all the right ways. The only blemishes he could make out were the slight shadows lining the bottom of his eyes, but even then, it almost appeared as if someone had purposely airbrushed them on. Angular jawline, thin, pointed nose… they were all qualities that would have anyone sweating after a bit.

This was from a distance, mind you. He paled to think of what the man was like at close proximity. It had him swallowing thickly, finding his throat to be dry despite having not been thirsty just a few minutes ago.

The distant silence must have grown to be uncomfortable between them, because now the man had raised his hand and was sending a small wave towards Arthur’s office. His lips spread into a friendly smile, of which soon became a toothy grin as Arthur awkwardly returned the gesture in the form of a half-hearted nod of recognition.

The man seemed to laugh at that, and it was here that Arthur’s attention was snagged the hardest. The man’s head had tilted back just enough, baring a good portion of not only his throat, but the seemingly perfect, white teeth he had as well. His front teeth were blunt and aligned, but the next two sets of teeth proceeding them grew sharp and glinting. Quad spires of needle sharp utensils designed for breaking flesh apart easily. Arthur had seen these before in the mouths of waiters and cashiers and even some of his clients. He’d seen it on the news today, during the heated discussion of how ethical it was for the government to be feeding their kind .

Breaking his gaze away from the office across the hall, he’d reach down to grab the strap of his messenger bag, hauling it over his shoulder and hastily pushing his seat into his desk. In his haste to vacate his office, his foot would tangle haphazardly with a spare cord running across the room, nearly sending him sprawling into the glass case holding his teaset.

A few hefty swears would leave him as he yanked his foot free, scuffing the rug up and earning a frustrated growl as he used his foot to spread it flat once more. From the other side of the hall, he could hear faint laughing, breathy noises that suggested the perpetrator was trying to muffle it somewhat.

Face flushing and skin prickling with annoyance, Arthur would stomp away from his workspace, shoving his phone into his pocket and clocking out with just a bit too much vigor, earning the concerned stares of his other coworkers as he pushed past the revolving doors of the firm.

What a lovely first impression , he thinks.

Chapter Text

His new neighbor likes to drink coffee.

The cup he sips from is white with gold accents, with a lip that stretches wide in comparison to its base. Its owner likes to add a generous helping of cream, two packets of sugar, and then something darker from an unfamiliar container. Confused at first at what it must be, Arthur’s suspicions are later confirmed when he spies the swirling red liquid bubbling up to the surface of the drink. He tries not to think too hard about it.

Arthur hasn’t spoken to him yet, not really, but he observes from afar. Quietly, subtly. He spies on him during their seldom shared breaks, and the closer proximity reveals that his earlier thoughts were correct: the man is absolutely stunning.

There are details one couldn’t see from across the short stretch of the hallway. Light, branching veins that trail the underside of his jaw and climb alongside his temples like wild vines on a white house, and nails that are more akin to perfect, chiseled porcelain rather than the bitten, rough edges of a human’s own set.

And his eyes… deeper than he originally thought, and not all quite blue, but rather boasting just the slightest tint of violet. There have been times when Arthur had lost himself, all sense of self-preservation gone whilst he studied the peculiar eyes of his workmate, only to be shamefully caught in the act.

The man never says anything though, but he smiles, as if knowing. Arthur flushes, hotly, and pretends to busy himself with an already full cup of tea. There’s a soft noise, a muted chuckle from across the break room, but nothing more. He makes no indication that he notices.

It continues like this for a few days, this delicate game of spying. Arthur finds his work mysteriously piling up, with documents gone unsigned and clients seemingly popping into his office at strange times, before he remembers that he halfheartedly scheduled an appointment with them. By the time the first week is rolling to a close, he admits, with a good amount of chagrin, that this stranger’s unusual allure is affecting his work cycle.

Even when Arthur’s attempts to spy on him because less veiled and more open, the man still refuses to utter the first word to him. It’s as if the attention he’s receiving is commonplace, and he takes to it positively, though quietly. His snow white smiles are a customary reaction to Arthur’s gawking, and it doesn’t take long before the seed of annoyance is planted in the Brit’s stomach.

Because who in their right mind could handle such prying eyes, yet remain stubbornly quiet? It’s as though Arthur feels entitled to the man’s words at this point, and he’s growing tired of being ignored, or at least feeling like it.

And yet, he doesn’t try to speak to him either. Contradictory, but he isn’t of the mind to care.

The week officially comes to a close, and Arthur has yet to hear more of that operatic voice.

Hospital environments always possessed a strange, yet comforting feeling to them. Sterile smells, brightly lit hallways, and warm air permeating the cold chill seeping in from the outside. Many people he often spoke to admitted that hospitals made them uneasy, but not Arthur.

Still, there’s no fighting the nervousness that floats about him as he waits to be serviced by a nurse; more specifically a phlebotomist. He feels the hair on his right arm rising and sticking uncomfortably to the itchy material of his sweater, as if on instinct. Phantom pressure and pain makes him want to curl his arm up and shield his vulnerable veins, but he fights against the invasive feeling.

He’s an adult, after all. He has to keep up appearances.

The sound of a heating unit drones on quietly in the background as he shifts once again on the crinkly paper covering the examination bed. His left hand comes to cup the cleft of his right arm, right where it bends, and the feeling of unease rises to a crescendo as the tell-tale sounds of a woman checking his patient record outside reaches his ears.

At last, mercifully or perhaps not, she enters the room, carrying the offending device in a tray hosting cylindrical, clear tubes. He swallows thickly, finding the collar of his sweater to be digging uncomfortably into his neck. Another chain reaction, he surmises. This happens every time he has his blood drawn.

The thought enters his head that perhaps he was not the best person to be donating this sort of thing. He quashes it immediately when the nurse smiles at him. He returns the gesture with a lopsided version of his own, marred by underlying nervousness, but gentlemanly all the same.

It only falters when he realizes the set of teeth being flashed at him, and then it feels as though the world is silently mocking him.

The nurse must notice too, because then she is quickly asking him, “Does it make you uncomfortable? I could call another nurse, if you’d like that. I’d understand, completely.”

He clears his throat, coughs into his fist as he shakes his head, and then tries to reaffirm her with a steadier, more genuine smile. “Oh no, no that’s fine. You’re fine. I was just…” He ponders for a moment, trying to formulate a sound excuse in his mind. “Thinking of someone.”

“Oh,” She goes quiet for a moment, or perhaps focuses on her work as she clears the tray, setting aside all the necessary tools as she prepares to prep Arthur. “Someone special?” Her tone relaxes, goes softer with amusement as she motions for him to hold his arm out.

“No… Err, not exactly.” He makes it a point to avert his gaze, anywhere other than his arm as she pushes the sleeve of his sweater back, baring his skin to her mercy. His throat bobs with another uneasy swallow, his lips going dry and his tongue poking out to wet them quickly before continuing, “Just a person at work.”

“Someone like me?” He knows exactly what she means, though his answer is delayed as she sets to tying the rubber around his bicep, it’s rough texture making his skin pinch painfully under its vice.

“You could-” His answer his cut short, a wince interrupting his train of thought as she taps her cold fingers against the cleft of his arm, beckoning a vein to show. This, he thinks, is always the worst part, because it generally feeds the anxiety pooling in his stomach. Each tap is like an invasive strike, and the desire to rip his arm out of her hold is almost overwhelming.

“Hm?” She peeks up from her work, her eyes - a bright amber - going wide as she surveys his face. She seems to recognize the issue, as another thoughtful hums leaves her. “This sort of thing makes you uneasy. Don’t like having your blood taken?”

“Never. Though, I fail to see how anyone can enjoy something like this.” He tries to make light of the situation, though he fears his answer comes off as more condescending than anything. She doesn’t seem to take it that way, merely flashing him another smile, albeit a close-lipped one this time around.

“It’s generous of you.” Her cold fingers give a few more taps before she murmurs something in approval, and his arm is left suspended in front of him as she peels away an alcohol pad to rub over his skin. The smell burns his nose, but he doesn’t find it unpleasant. “Donating like this despite your fear of needles. Most folk would tuck tail and run at the thought.”

“Oh, you know,” He can’t help but bite his lip as she tosses the pad away, his hand straining as the tendons goes white and his arm shakes slightly. “From one neighbor to another. I wouldn’t let children go hungry, so it’s of the same mentality.”

That must strike her as amused, because she laughs, and there’s a brief respite from the horror Arthur’s been dreading for the past fifteen minutes. “Well… that’s the first time I’ve heard it been put like that, but I appreciate the sentiment. Are you ready, by the way?”

He wants to shake his head no, but to prolong the experience would be self-deprecating at this point, so he nods instead. “I’ll try my best to stay still.”

“Just keep your arm straight, and relax your fist when you feel the prick.”

He tries his best, though his straining is beginning to border on outright trembling. So he forces himself to relax a bit, keeping a loose fist as he turns his head away, looking for something - anything - to distract him. He settles on watching the nurse’s face as she works.

The prick is unpleasant, as it always is, and the initial feeling has his stomach turning and his senses going light and fuzzy. So he turns to controlling his breathing. In, out. Through the nose, out past his lips. Slow, steady, calm. Focus on something else.

Her lips are red, a garish shade you’d see on a vogue model rather than a nurse. Her skin suggested that she may have been dark at one point, perhaps a daughter of a foreigner, but it lingers more on a pale, ashy kind of dark now. A byproduct of her biology now. Arthur wonders idly if she perhaps contracted vampirism from a lover, or perhaps to battle off an incurable disease.

Or perhaps she was turned against her will. Critics of the new species seem to love throwing up vampire-related assault in the faces of activists. While Arthur believes their numbers to be widely skewed by their bigotry, he can’t deny the fact that it does occur.

And there, a familiar detail. Feint veins running along her neck, around her temples, just barely visible under her skin. For a moment, he wonders if this is something all of them share. Maybe their skin became more translucent, or their veins darker. He can’t ascern the scientific reason, but it interests him regardless.

Quicker than he realized, it’s over. She pulls the needle free of his arm, and he catches the barest glimpse of his blood filling several tubes, before turning away quickly to prevent himself from becoming sick.

She makes quick work of covering his arm with a bandaid about two sizes two big, before smiling at him and patting his shoulder. “There. All done, and you did lovely.”

A noise escapes him, something akin to a scoff, but an amused one. “I didn’t throw up everywhere this time. I’d call that a success.”

“You won’t believe how many times that’s happened before. Lucky for me, I checked your patient record, so I came prepared.” She points to the trashcan that she must have scooted near the bed somewhere during the prep time. Arthur feels as though he’d be blushing at that, if he wasn’t certain that his face was pale white. He feels lightheaded, dizzy, and his stomach has yet to completely settle. “You can rest here for a few minutes, if that makes you feel better. Just leave whenever you’re ready. And thank you for your contribution.”

Arthur thanks her for her professionalism, throwing in another half-hearted apology for nothing in particular, and then she’s gone with his blood. He doesn’t leave for another ten minutes, instead gripping the side of the bed with his hands and letting his head hang as clarity works its way back to him.

He thinks of his new neighbor, and he wonders what made him the way he is.

The weekend passes by quickly, and with its end, it brings unforgiving snow. The road, already wet from London’s constant rain, becomes icy and treacherous, and the walkways follow suit. Arthur bundles up, tying the waist of his winter coat and wrapping a dark green scarf around his neck and the lower half of his face. Add a pair of insulated gloves and a small debate about earmuffs (no), and he’s out the door.

He makes it a few feet before sliding and landing firmly on his bottom.

Vivid curses are thrown about as she struggles to his feet, praying to whatever god that’s out there that no one saw his blunder, unlikely as that is. His coat saves his trousers from becoming soaked by snow, but he can definitely feel the chill now. His mood is officially ruined for the morning, and he let’s it show with a deep grimace that refuses to leave.

As he pushes through the doors to the insurance firm, he’s greeted by a slew of “good morning”s from his coworkers, but he can’t be bothered to return the gesture. He skips tea, opting for plain black coffee instead; a drink to suit his mood. Coat shucked, coffee placed haphazardly upon his desk, and scarf and gloves tossed aside, he leans back in his chair and sighs.

His eyes close, his hands coming to lace together over his stomach as he tries to sit and just unwind . The heat of the building sinks into his limbs, chasing away a chill that had left him feeling numb. The early morning hours promise a period of gentle silence, punctuated only with the occasional hum of a machine or the perusing of a workmate. Arthur soaks it in, willing the rain cloud over his head to dissipate.

“Is everything okay, Arthur?”

His eyes snap open, wide for a moment, before his attention is drawn to his door. He would have pegged the voice unfamiliar at first, but that’s only because what he’d heard of it had never been directed at him. At least, not until now.

Yet, there stands the newcomer, his next door neighbor leaning against his doorframe and peering down upon him with concerned eyes, as if they were lifelong friends. He’s dressed in light colors - always his forte, Arthur has learned - and his hair is pulled back into its usual tie.

Silence passes between them, a pause pregnant with Arthur’s flummoxed expression. Eventually, he finds it in him to give the man a proper response, albeit with a strained and awkward voice. “I’m fine, thank you.” He takes a breath, the drudges of another sentence lingering on his tongue before he realizes that he isn’t sure of what to say.

This is the first time they’ve officially spoken to each other. Arthur is suddenly reminded of his inappropriate gawking and spying, and the chagrin he feels shows in his cheeks. He’d never counted on the other actually speaking to him. At least, not anytime this soon.

“You seemed a little… out of it? This morning, I mean.” The man speaks with a delicate accent, one that Arthur recognized to be French a few days ago, and his words seemed to be meticulously strewn together. It’s as though he’s afraid his English might slip, so he carefully debates the structure of his sentences before speaking. No stutters, no sudden run-offs. But a very articulate way of speaking.

“That’s just me in the mornings.” Arthur waves off his concern, finding it to be misplaced considering their lack of interaction with each other. Or perhaps this man was similar to Alfred, in the sense that he could drop anything to help a complete stranger.

Or perhaps he was finally trying to break the ice after all that staring. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes screwing shut once again.

“I have seen you in the mornings. Today, you look particularly annoyed. I assume the snow is not to your liking?” He smiles at Arthur, a soft, small expression that goes unseen by the other.

By the time Arthur has deigned it alright to look him in the face again, it’s dissolved away. “I’m not too fond of it, no.” He reaches for his coffee, taking a sip of it that has him swallowing quickly, the contents of the cup still too hot to be drank. Arthur waves his hand in front of his face, lips parting momentarily to give some respite to his scalded tongue. He figures his response is too clipped, too curt, so he tacks on quickly, “I don’t like what it does to my heating bills, either.”

“I… would not know that feeling.” It’s here that Arthur notes an awkward lull in the man’s words. He covers his tracks quickly by continuing on, “I enjoy the snow. It’s best at nighttime, when all the lights can reflect off of it. There is something very cozy about it.”

“That’s, er…” He trails off, not sure of how to respond to the sentiment. It’s not quite the response he was expecting. Despite its innocence, Arthur feels that there’s something very personal about it. Two minutes into a conversation with this man, and Arthur gets the impression that he’s very passionate.

“Anyway,” His coworker proceeds despite the pause, and for that, Arthur is silently grateful. “We have not properly spoke with each other. You’ll have to excuse my manners.” Then, he’s stepping further into the office, extending a hand daintily as a warming smile passes over his lips. “I am Francis Bonnefoy. And you are Arthur, correct?”

Arthur stares at his hand, eyes it as if it were a trap. He studies the top of it momentarily, notes the familiar bridging of feint veins lacing up his wrist. Once his sense of manners return to him, he meets him halfway, grasping at Francis’ hand with a loose grip as he shakes it.

His skin is ice cold. Soft, yet firm.

“That would be me. I gather Alfred told you that much?” Francis grasps his hand much more firmly, gives his fingers the faintest squeeze before letting them slip from his grip. Arthur’s hand comes to rest on his desk, where he quickly covers it with his other one. The warmth of his skin chases the otherworldly chill away.

“The delivery boy with the glasses? Yes, he did. You overheard, I presume?” Francis makes no move to back away, instead lingering at the side of Arthur’s desk. His hand rests against the dark wood, a nail coming to trail its surface as he speaks. Arthur’s eyes follow the movement.

“It’s not hard to overhear someone who makes it a point to holler at the top of their lungs, as if that were a perfectly acceptable way of having a conversation.” He sees Francis’ smile turn coy, one side of his lips rising further than the other.

“I found his confidence to be endearing. He reminds me of a close cousin of mine. I am speaking purely in terms of appearance, not behavior, because poor Matthieu refuses to raise his voice above a murmur. But he was certainly entertaining company. Are the two of you good friends?” He leans his hip against Arthur’s desk, and the Brit feels it shift slightly. His brows come to furrow somewhat.

“Unfortunately,” Arthur answers gruffly, hand reaching for his mouse to close away all the petty start-up programs on his computer. “He made a sore effort to wedge himself in my life, and I’ve been stuck with him ever since.”

“Oh,” Francis cants his head a bit, curiously, azure gaze boring into the side of Arthur’s head as he makes an effort not to twitch underneath it. “Are you two… more than friends, or-?”

“Lord, no!” All sense of cool leaves Arthur in a gust, his exclamation making Francis flinch. He catches himself before he can unleash a tirade in his defense, smoothing his sleeves down despite any wrinkles as he clarifies further, “I mean, no. No, no, Alfred is like a younger brother or. Something similar like that.”

“Ah. I see. Forgive me for my earlier assumption. I didn’t mean any offense.” Arthur nods at him, opting to stay silent, though Francis is quickly picking up the slack in conversation again. “So what else have you heard from my office? I catch you staring my way quite often.”

At this, Arthur’s mouth goes dry. He attempts to swallow, feeling his throat bob roughly as his face goes red, shame flooding him from his ears to his crown. Of course Francis noticed the staring. He’d figured that out as soon as he began. “I was just,” He begins, pausing to gather his wits before continuing on quickly, “trying to gather who had moved in across the hallway.”

He glances up, catches the amused expression painted on Francis’ face, and contritely lowers his gaze once more. There’s a laugh, a soft noise unlike the harsh tones he’s used to hearing from the break room. “For nearly a week? My, I must be a hard person to read. I tried to make myself seem as open as possible, but not a single word from you. Is it that you’re just shy? Alfred didn’t mention that.”

His insides become more jumbled, a tangled mess of embarrassment, timid feelings, and something else that Arthur can’t place. His face has gone completely hot, and he hates how easy it must be for Francis to see his predicament. “Not shy, just… polite. I didn’t want to come barging into a stranger’s office. The staring was just-” He struggles for a valid explanation, and when none comes, the words tumble out of his mouth without thought. “You’re not like anyone here, and I was just curious.”

“Do you think so?” Francis’ voice has gone soft again, quieter. It makes Arthur’s blood run cool for a moment, a quick jolt of ice in his veins that isn’t entirely unpleasant. He’s not sure why. He steps around his desk, into Arthur’s view, his back straightened to display his full height. Not much taller than Arthur himself, but towering over his current position.

Francis is lean, pale, finely groomed and presented in all the right ways. His clothing is crisp and fashionable, yet undeniably casual. There’s never a single hair out of alignment with him, not that Arthur has seen. He often wonders if the other is a perfectionist, spending hours in front of a mirror to assure that he’s absolutely flawless in every way. It paints quite the picture of his morning routine.

He wonders if Francis’ house contains all the gaudy, baroque-ese furniture and decorations he’s spotted in the others office. The man probably surrounds himself in extravagance, and yet he works as an insurance agent. The contrast is baffling to Arthur.  

He’s broken out of his reverie by Francis’ voice, “Is it because of what I am? Does that make you uncomfortable?”

And then it’s deju vu, and Arthur is staring down the nurse from the blood drive again, her expression going vulnerable as she waits for a stranger’s answer. He meets Francis’ gaze, jade aligning with blue, before answering sternly, calmly, “No. You’re just interesting.”

“Does this mean we can start having normal conversations? I enjoy our little back and forth, but I find talking to you to be a lot more enjoyable.” The smile has returned, soft and genuine, though he’s not sure he could place a fake smile on Francis’ face. Arthur swears he has a heart palpitation, a sensation that has his breath jumping quickly.

He covers it up with a cough into his fist, his eyes turning elsewhere. “I wasn’t stopping you before.”

“Communication works both ways.”

“I’m a busy man. I don’t know what you do over there in your little make-shift cubby, but I go through a lot of clients.” He opens a random file on his computer, attempts to make himself look busy in hopes that Francis will leave him alone soon. Arthur isn’t sure he can take much more humiliation.

“I am sure you do.” He can’t quite tell if Francis is joking or not, but he makes no comment on it. “I will leave you to it, then. Since you are such a busy man.” He definitely hears a snide tone there, and Arthur feels his cheek twitch, an insult building behind his lips, though he holds it back. Out of politeness, of course.

When Francis sees that there’s no more commentary to be offered, he turns on his heel and exits the office, the wind off his clothing rustling some papers in the tray near Arthur’s computer. He breathes in deep, a breath of relief, though he catches a pleasant scent on tongue. Arthur pauses, eyes flitting to the door momentarily, before shaking his head and cursing quietly.

This isn’t how normal people behave, he thinks.

Chapter Text

Arthur doesn’t snoop. At least, he will affirm to almost anyone that he doesn’t. However, there’s no denying that there’s a desperate sort of thirst he has for information about… well, them .

Them. Right. He considers for a moment that the term makes him sound insensitive, so he rectifies it by thinking very clearly: the vampires.

Right. That doesn’t sound much better, though he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to using that word. Not until recently, they had been myths construed by terrified peasants and written up by people with too much of an imagination and not enough love in their life. Hypocritical of him to think that way, maybe, considering his once passionate obsession with fairy-tales.

Still, the problem stood that his mind lingered on the fellows, and it was compounded by the fact that one of them had made it a habit to pop into his office every so often. Always for small talk, though the atmosphere around them stayed thick with something choking and surreal. Not a day went by that Arthur didn’t feel the hairs on his arms rise at the sound of Francis Bonnefoy’s voice.

It must be something akin to Pavlov, he thinks. A natural reaction to one of his kind, but he thinks back to that nurse at the blood drive, and finds that his memory with her is much different. Although, his ability to react at that current moment in time could have been infringed upon by the fact that he was about to take a needle to the arm.

There are other things to be irrationally scared of, after all.

He reasons that it can't be that, can't. Because he's dealt with plenty of them in public before. He's been serviced by waiters, dealt with clients, offered help by retail workers, all of which bore the same physical condition as Francis Bonnefoy.

It’s not fear that Arthur feels, though it is, strangely, only with a single particular person. It’s not quite excitement, because that sounds ridiculous in his head, but it’s… something. Something addictive and intriguing at being in the same proximity as someone so exceptional. Francis Bonnefoy seems better suited for the sophisticated atmosphere of the late Baroque period rather than a stuffy insurance firm. He’s a fancy puzzle piece trying to wedge its way into something much smaller, bending those around him.

Arthur finds the change unexpected, but not unwelcome. Francis is an anomaly with which he can busy himself with, no matter the social implications of that thought. Arthur has always been told that his largest problem is that he thinks too much, but he can’t imagine living a life without analyzing everything.

Better to know everything than to know nothing. Even if it does leave him with a headache nine times out of ten.

The problem is just that, though; how does one even ask about the things Arthur wants to know? They certainly aren’t ones that you’d mutter to a stranger, especially in the tense political and social environment surrounding their very spot in society.

It’s not something he would ask Francis, because he still considers himself to have enough dignity not to. They’d just met, for God’s sake. That’s not a conversation you drop on your acquaintance. No matter how many small moments of tense camaraderie they’ve shared thus far, Arthur deigns that an impolite gesture and banishes the thought from his mind.

He’s tempted to turn to the internet, but if there’s anything Arthur has learned in his few years of adulthood, it’s that you typically can’t trust any kind of advice or otherwise on the web. Bias will always strike, especially while the iron is hot, and the current social stigma surrounding the afflicted race has left many, many people heated.

So he allows his mind to roam freely. He observes what he knows from his own experiences, little as they may be, but he can trust his own judgement. Arthur has always considered himself to be of rational mentality, though that side of him tends to disappear once his patience has run out. Briefly, he recalls the heated words of the politicians fighting on the screen of his dusty television, the snarling retorts that became more vicious as a middle couldn’t be found.

There is one thing he is able to decide right away; anyone that tries to infringe upon the basic human rights of another is absolute trash. That’s been a constant in society for decades now, ingrained in the minds of most morally good people, and Arthur truly does think he’s good. He’s of sound mind, a respectable English gentlemen, and while not free from corruption by the media or otherwise, he believes himself intelligent enough not to be wrangled into bandwagoning.

No one deserves to be miserable, as long as their heart is good.

Arthur intersperses his thinking with bouts of cyclic work, hands mechanically moving about his keyboard as he types away, though his mind lingers elsewhere. Prone to habitual revision, he’s appalled to find a plethora of mistakes marring his documents. As the evening grows nearer, he chides himself for his lack of attention, and shakes the ever-growing subject from his head.

It isn’t until his evening break that he steps away from his desk. His bones give a groan of resistance, a sharp crack resounding throughout the room as he straightens from his sustained position. He’s not sure if he’s thankful or not that he had no clients scheduled for today.

As he stretches his stiff limbs out, a thought suddenly strikes Arthur, making him pause as he considers something briefly. It takes only a moment, but as he prepares to leave for the break room, he leaves a post-it note secured to his monitor, his small, scratchy scrawl spelling out in red ink: "Donate every eight weeks”.

He’s late as he passes through the hallway, many of his cohorts settling back into their offices for the last dredges of the day. He passes by Francis in the hallway, a moment slowed and shared by the two as Arthur turns his head to keep his gaze locked upon him.

Francis smiles, as he always does, a gentle spread of his lips. He says nothing as Arthur slows his pace, paying no mind to anything in front of him, but rather meeting Francis’ eyes. It’s a mutual silence shared between them, a comfortable one lacking any obligation for words. The curve of Francis’ face is framed by long waves of cornsilk blond hair, a thin wall cutting off his smile somewhat as he waits patiently for Arthur to pass.

It’s here that Arthur really looks at Francis, and he wonders. His mind races through a thousand thoughts, short-lived images of what-ifs and possibilities. Wives, children, employment, a future. He wonders what - if  - Francis Bonnefoy has lost anything along his way. He wonders if the status of the world weighs down upon his shoulders, if every step back cranks down on his frame, or if he merely brushes his worries off, disguising them behind an endearing smile.

Arthur wonders, imagines the daily fears or prejudices Francis may face, and he feels concern pool in his stomach. Francis doesn’t seem to notice anything, and sends him a coy wink before turning on his heel and returning to his office. His gait is graceful, patient, the steps of a dancer carefully trained. He glides seamlessly, much too quietly, a confident shadow passing over the firm’s bright, yellow walls.

As he finally makes it to the break room, Arthur spends much too long mulling over the disquieting feeling in his bones as the water for his tea brews. So much unknown, yet aching for answers to questions he’s much too afraid to ask… it truly is the mind’s purgatory. Undeniably, there is one thing he concludes as he stands there, head lowered and eyes soft, unfocused due to heavy thought.

He wants to know Francis Bonnefoy.

“Do you donate?”

Arthur’s writing comes to a halt, his pen leaving a small puddle of ink as it digs into the parchment. Francis is seated upon his desk, a familiar spot, and he traces the post-it note that is beginning to curl ever so slightly.

Arthur looks to his face, finding the other to appear thoughtful. While not too often, Arthur occasionally spies the expression passing across Francis’s face. Whereas his own becomes scrunched up in intense concentration, Francis appears to be relaxed, his face smooth and eyes half-lidded. His lips gain a certain quirk to them, a small rise to the right that hints at a train of thought.

Arthur clears his throat, making up for the short silence, “I do. When I can.”

“That is… generous.” There's something to Francis’s voice, a softening tone on the last word. He turns to Arthur, his face lighting up in a smile as he continues, “Is it down at St. Mary’s?”

“It's the closest donor spot nearby. Just a few blocks from my home.” Arthur catches sight of Francis peeling away the corners of the post-it pad, a nerve jumping at his temple considering the blatant waste it is. He makes no comment on it.

“When?” The question appears to be vague, but Arthur understands the meaning behind it.

“Almost two weeks ago.”

“Ahh,” Francis hums, and he leans forward, causing Arthur to freeze all movement, the shift in weight on his desk making his ears goes hot. His eyes abandon Francis’s hand, and instead focus on his face, which is poised much too close to his own. “Did I, by any chance, influence that decision?”

He looks much too intently at Arthur, his eyes glittering with a brand of charm and mischief that Arthur has yet to see in them. Francis ducks his head, sending strands of perfectly kempt hair over his face, streaking over a brow as he waits for Arthur to speak.

He knows exactly what he's doing, Arthur grouses. If this is what Francis is like past all the menial introductions, then Arthur has much more suffering ahead of him. Because he was not engineered to deal with this sort of thing.

He licks his lips, finding them to be dry, or chapped due to the biting cold front that had swept in recently. Either way, he diverts his eyes, looking for anything else to focus on, anything besides the silent, skillfully composed expression on Francis’s face.

“I'd been considering it for a long time, so no. I just had to… work up the courage, is all.”

Not the most flattering answer for his pride, but Arthur supposes it works. It's not entirely untrue. A half-truth, more like it.

“You are afraid of needles?” Something about his answer strikes Francis’ funny bone, as the man stifles a laugh behind his hand. Arthur openly glares at that, to which Francis waves dismissively. “Forgive me, that is just… so unexpected. You seem so gruff and hard-nosed at times. I didn't peg you to be the type.”

“Yeah, well,” Arthur considers for a moment, a suitable comeback to soothe his wounded pride, “Your charm is quickly giving way to typical Frenchie rudeness, so I suppose first impressions can be deceiving.”

Contrary to Arthur’s predictions, Francis doesn't grimace or scoff, but rather his smile grows into a revealing grin. There's a part between his teeth, a spot to spy the unnatural length of his canines. Arthur's eyes are temporarily caught by the sight, green staring unabashedly at a mouthful of snow white teeth, and something more animalistic.

“Excuse me, but did you, Arthur Kirkland,” Arthur glares at where he knows the plaque emblazoned with his full name lies on his desk, “refer to me as charming? I am flattered.”

“Oh, piss off you!” There it is, that stowed away snarkiness that Arthur buries underneath a layer of practiced manners. “Putting words in my mouth, hogging my desk, and generally being…”

A dozen descriptors come to his mind, but to his disdain, none of them are negative. Arthur instead allows himself to trail off, crossing his arms almost childishly as he glares a hot hole into Francis’ face.

“Mon cher,” The other man murmurs sweetly, “I only thought you could use the company. Sitting in this room alone all the time, working your mind for hours on end… That is no way to work. And besides, you find me interesting, non ? It's of mutual benefit.” There it is, that gentle persuasion, that honey sweet timbre to his voice. As their conversations grow longer, it seems that Francis grows more confident, and Arthur? Absolutely flustered.

“Yes, work. Work. Things that I need to sorely do, and quite frankly, that means having use of my desk thank you very much.” Arthur rubs at the back of his neck, feels a small layer of sweat gathered there. His eyes fly to the clock hanging on the wall, “Break ended ten minutes ago.”

“I believe you are trying to hint at something, but I am unsure of what.” He catches another scathing look from Arthur, to which Francis raises his hands in a symbol of surrender. “I am kidding, of course. I'll leave you to your precious work, Arthur.”

“You best do that.” He doesn't miss the way that Francis slides of his desk, those violet-tinged blue eyes studying him intently. They move quickly to the post-it note once more, before he turns away completely, exiting Arthur’s office with an air of grace becoming of royalty.

Once Francis is gone, Arthur sighs loudly, roughly. He lays a hand across his eyes, feels stress building in his temples, and whispers quietly his own woes to himself.

He wanted to know more about Bonnefoy, and he's getting it, French charm and all.

“So,” Alfred draws out the word, hugging a clipboard to his side as he balances a cup full of sugary additives in the other, “How's the French dude?”

Arthur sips from his own cup, not the familiar one of his office, but rather a lent out one from the cafe they're sitting in. His messenger bag is resting by the table, with his laptop and various legal documents stuffed under it and beside it.

The heating unit of the building blows hot air into the room, resting just by Arthur's head. He feels his hair rustle as pleasant warmth bathes him, the exotic smells of the shop coalescing into something homey and comfortable.

“Why are you asking?” Arthur spies Alfred over the rim of his cup, catches the expectant smile on his face, and glowers at it.

“Hey, I'm allowed to wonder. I did help the guy move in, after all. Just thought having a new neighbor would be interesting or something. Don't you ever get lonely in that stuffy office?” Alfred taps his fingers against his cup, drumming an upbeat rhythm that Arthur can't place.

“I don't get lonely because I actually  work, you sod. Maybe if you stayed half as busy as me, you'd understand that.” Arthur skillfully dodges the question about Francis, hoping that Alfred won't rebound on him.

“Hey! I'm always busy! I only get a few days off a year!” Alfred frowns at him, almost comically, and to the point where Arthur can't take it seriously. He snorts at him. “Also, roommates? The offer still stands, man. Eating precooked meals can't be that great. And we all know you can't cook to save your life.”

“Ah, yes. Cooking extraordinaire Alfred, come to save the day with his copious amounts of takeout and homebrewed monstrosities. I am so fortunate to have such an offer thrust my way.” He levels his teacup with his chin, not sparing Alfred the full force of his snark.

“So that’s a no?” Arthur nods, and Alfred shrugs before gulping down at least half his drink. He immediately drops his cup on the table, and wheezes cartoonishly as he waves at his tongue.

“The waiter literally just set that down a minute or two ago. Do you ever use your brain, Alfred? Or do you always think with your appetite?”

“Problem here!” His voice is garbled from his scalded tongue, so Arthur waits patiently for Alfred to recover. Alfred fetches a bottle of water from his bag and nearly empties the entire bottle in a single go. Finally, he speaks, voice exasperated, “No? Come on Artie, I'm not as boneheaded as you make me out to be. Anyway, getting back to the interesting stuff,”

Arthur suppresses a groan, knowing exactly where Alfred is steering their conversation back to.

“You and, uh… Frannie? Frank?”

“Francis.”

“Right, French guy. You talk to him yet?”

A sigh, and then finally a straight answer from Arthur, “Yes, I have.”

“And?” Alfred draws out the question, eyebrows waggling expectantly. Arthur rolls his eyes at him.

“He's French. He's gaudy. He's too confident for his own good.” He's too nice and too charming and too interesting. But Arthur doesn't speak past that.

“Oh. You don't like him?”

“I never said that.”

“It sounds an awful lot like it.” Alfred lays his clipboard on the table in favor of crossing his arms. “Did he try to hit on you or something?”

At this, Arthur gives a thoughtful pause. He's not entirely sure, truth be told. He's not yet at the point to discern if Francis’ alluring quirks are purposely done or merely a facet of his personality. So he goes for the safe answer instead. “No. But he's very chatty and likes to talk a whole lot about nothing. But is that anything new?” The smirk he directs at Alfred is sly, knowing.

“...Oh, hey! Stop that!” Alfred glowers at him, and Arthur's expression doesn't waver. “I mean, at least he isn't some creepy recluse or something. Guy seemed nice enough from what I gathered. And at least he's attempting to talk to you. Your brows tend to scare people off, I swear.”

The comment about his eyebrows has Arthur grimacing. He touches upon one of them, feeling it dip with his frown, while Alfred seems victorious in his attempt to get under the Brit’s skin. Instead of dignifying it with a retort, he decides to ignore it completely, “Don't you have a schedule to adhere by?”

Alfred’s face goes blank momentarily, and then he's shoving the sleeve of his jacket back and plastering a hand against his head. “Oh, shoot, right! Man, I'm late. I'm late, I'm late, I'm late. Be seeing you, Artie!”

Alfred drains the rest of his drink, gathers his clipboard messily against his side, and strings his bag up over his shoulder. As he's heading for the exit, Arthur calls out in a familiar tone, “Watch the roads, you nit!”

It becomes absurd when Arthur spares his clock a look, finds the menacing red numbers to be resting on 12AM, and still can’t put his wandering mind to rest.

Early to bed, early to rise - he’s never been one to damage his precious sleep schedule over such menial matters, but his imagination is running absolutely wild. His mind has jumped from social matters to physical ones, and that’s a territory he sorely doesn’t want to chart. Yet, his mind goes there, and it's a mortifying experience the entire way.

He’s lost in vampire biology hell, and there’s no one here to educate him on the matter. Honestly, he could do with rewinding time, back to a period before Francis’ presence within the firm made him question seemingly everyday things that seemed… well, he can’t say normal, but acceptable in his mind. He didn’t make it a habit to try and spy on ladies and gents sipping from their blood baggies, or whatever it is they used for nourishment. See, he isn’t even sure of how they take care of themselves, and that was completely okay.

Before Francis made his mind race.

The only cross-reference material he can use is bloody American flicks that toe the line of supernatural erotica and raunchy gorefests. He doubts they go around tearing the necks out of strangers, or seducing possible lovers with a glamour from their eyes, because that just sounds ludicrous, not to mention highly illegal and prosecutable. He’s sure there’s a tamer way of going about the whole matter, but he doesn’t bloody know, and that lack of knowledge is driving him absolutely crazy.

He wants to know, but he doesn’t want to come off as some perverse voyeur of the matter. He’s sure there’s enough issues regarding that and young women. The world hasn’t done the afflicted population any favors with its less than noble depictions of them through decades of media preexisting them.

“Alright. That’s enough. Sleep. Sleep now, fumble about nonsensical things later.” Arthur speaks to no one but himself, his eyes locked on the darkened ceiling of his flat. The glow of his digital clock’s numbers taunt him silently, warning of a tired, miserable day tomorrow if he doesn’t get to sleep soon.

He doesn’t fall asleep until after 2AM.

“You look dreadful today.”

Indeed he does, especially as he spares the source of the lilting french accent a shadowy-eyed glare. Arthur feels fuzzy and coarse, a product of having his typical sleep cycle ruined. Always a man of routine, he awoke to a late alarm and not nearly enough time to prepare himself for the day, effectively ruining any semblance of order he felt.

Tea has been abandoned for coffee, a weak attempt to cover his exhaustion, but it only serves to make him jittery instead. And oh, his pounding head… his temples cry out weakly, mimicking the aggressive pulse of his blood. Every little thing seems to dig under his skin, adding to a growing list of annoyances.

For once, Francis seems to have half the mind to sit in the chair across from his own. Perhaps it was the permanent glower fixed upon Arthur’s face that gave his bitter mood away. Either way, he’s thankful for Francis’ decision, because there is no carefully placed filter keeping the acid out of Arthur’s voice today.

“I feel dreadful.” Arthur rests his cheek in his hand, staring at the object of his insomnia, or at least a major key figure of it. “I hardly got a wink last night.”

“I can see that.” Francis spares him a sympathetic expression, shoulders hunching slightly as he takes in the ragged sight of Arthur. For a brief moment, the Brit wonders if his current disposition seems pathetic in Francis’ eyes. He can obviously tell that the other man values beauty in almost everything. It didn’t take many conversations (or spying, for that matter) to figure that out.

As quick as the thought enters his mind, it’s banished just as fast. Arthur silently berates himself for such a nonsensical worry.

“I almost thought you were sick, but then you passed by.” Francis busies himself with observing his nails, eyes mercilessly sparing Arthur their deep, blue depths.

“How could you tell?” It’s an offhanded question, nothing serious, but Francis’ answer leaves Arthur gaping.

“I didn’t think I smelled any sickness on you.”

“You…” Arthur’s voice trails off, his head turning minutely as his eyes narrow at Francis. “Can smell that sort of thing?”

“I can smell many things.” An amused look passes over Francis’ face at Arthur’s surprise, though his eyes boast open pride. “You leave a sick person in a room by themselves for long enough, and anyone will be able to pick up the smell of illness. I just happen to find it much, much faster.”

“Is that all?” Arthur asks hesitantly, voice guarded as he regards Francis.

“I didn’t make it my duty to make you uneasy, so I believe that is a question best left unanswered.” It’s here that Francis’ tone denotes unusual seriousness, of which Arthur recognizes immediately. Francis goes from carefree to guarded in a split second, and the change has Arthur reeling.

Arthur spares a sip from his steaming mug, taking his precious time to compose a response before speaking, “I’m afraid my skin is a little thick. You’ll find it hard to make me uneasy.”

“What are you trying to hint at?” For once, it’s Francis who is unsure, and the role reversal actually bravens Arthur quite a bit.

“You’re not going to scare me away, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Blue eyes lower momentarily, and for once, Arthur feels perfectly content staring at Francis’ face. No longer on the receiving end of knowing smiles and winks, he feels fine studying the other. Francis’ gaze bounces about, as if he's the one trying to divert his attention elsewhere now.

“Does your interest in me run deeper than what I presumed at face value?” Finally, Francis meets Arthur's eyes. The serious nature remains, and Arthur can spot Francis’ hand grasping at the arms of his chair. On edge.

Of course, because how easy could it be for Arthur to call him a monster and send him away? Too easy, too predictable. One small slip, one small detail about his condition could ruin Francis Bonnefoy if shared with the wrong person.

“If you're wondering,” Arthur begins, his words carefully weighed, “If you're wondering, your condition doesn't unnerve me. I'm not an idiot, nor am I a bigot.”

“So you are saying that I'm safe with you.”

That brings Arthur to another pause. It's funny, that he’d spent so much time lamenting over the possible woes of Francis without considering his own effect on the man. He'd never stopped to consider whether or not Francis had taken his intense staring for disgust, or whether or not he'd put himself in possible danger by attempting to speak to Arthur.

As if he hadn't already felt bad before about the staring.

“I promise not to ridicule you, unless it's over your gaudy hair, or that ridiculous outfit,” Really, it's not ridiculous. It's very fitting of Francis’ personality, but he needs something to jab playfully at to reduce the tension. “Or your cramped office. Really, how you move about is a bloody mystery to me.”

He laughs at that. Arthur watches as Francis’ hands loosen about the chair's arms, his posture going lax once more. A hand cards back, delving into wavy blonde hair as Francis makes a point to flip it to his other shoulder. Arthur merely rolls his eyes.

“I enjoy familiarity, mon cher. I like to have a piece of home with me whenever possible.” That at least answers Arthur's earlier, unvoiced question about his house. “And my outfit isn't ridiculous. In fact, I believe it would do you good to take note. I am beginning to fear that your closet is filled only with sweater vests.”

Arthur turns his nose up at that, “I at least dress professionally.”

“Professional and fashionable are compatible, I hope you realize. You will have to let me dress you, one day.”

It's innocent, Arthur knows. A small slip of the tongue that could go unchecked by anybody, but it turns his face hot. Unwanted images of Francis measuring his waist, his hands touching upon his hip, the small of his back, the round of his shoulder all fill Arthur's mind. The chill of Francis’ pale hands is easy to imagine, and Arthur has to suppress a shudder at the thought.

“Right. Well. Conversation matter for another time.”

Francis smirks at him, the first, truly devious look he's seen on the other’s face. It does Arthur’s quiet predicament no favors. “I will hold you to that.”

Chapter Text

Time passes by slowly, the past season melting into the next. Arthur spies his neighbors stringing Christmas lights from their houses, notices the frame of heavily decorated trees standing tall at their windows, and muses that he should probably dig his own out of the closet.

He takes a weekend to follow suit, though his season spirit is nowhere near as strong. It's formality, he supposes, more of a tradition than an inherent need to actually decorate.

He gets pricked by his tree a least a hundred times, and assembling it leaves him growling in frustration and slinging curses into the empty house. The garland flakes and leaves shiny slivers of metallic paper strewn everywhere, a mess Arthur dreads cleaning up. Most of the hooks on his ornaments have mysteriously fallen out and disappeared, so he's forced to run to the nearest department store to pick more up.

While he's there, he ends up buying more than he expected. Boxes of fresh lights and bags of oversized decorations make the trip back to his home cumbersome. There's the sound of Christmas jingles carrying on joyfully all around him, and while easy to ignore at first, they slowly begin to eat at him. Their repetitive tempos and jazzy, upbeat tunes lodge themselves into his mind, and he's left bitterly reciting the lyrics to them underneath his breath as he works.

Bah-humbug and all that.

By the time he's done, there’s something at least semi-presentable sitting in the middle of his living room. The carpet is littered with fizzled out bulbs, the remnants of plastic wrapping and containers, and old sets of lights that have lived past their prime and frayed somewhere along the wire. The process of pushing the tree in front of his living room’s window is harder than it has any right being, and several times Arthur has to reach out to keep it from toppling over.

The star at the top doesn’t want to cooperate, so he let’s it fall and slides it back on once the tree is positioned correctly. The skirt is small and quaint, boasting patterns of candy canes and snowmen on it. As Arthur spreads it beneath the bulk of the tree, he spends a moment considering whether or not there’s any purpose other than tradition for assembling this thing. Nothing screams lonely like buying gifts for yourself and wrapping them despite knowing exactly what they are, but he does it anyway. It wasn’t until recently that there were any new additions, and those only came from Alfred.

Arthur sits there, cross-legged in his living room, watching the colorful lights reflect off of his window and the ceiling, and for once in a very long time, allows himself to feel alone. It’s bittersweet, an aching hollow that both comforts and hurts him. No obligations to anyone else but himself, but then again, sometimes he wishes he had those kinds of responsibilities to tend to.

It’s healthy to have minor annoyances. That’s stimulation that everyone needs, something to remind them that the world isn’t entirely about them. Arthur has always been in his own orbit, though. Never one to be selfish, nothing along those lines, but he has a gravitational pull that is very small. So to the ones that do come around…

They never get close enough to stick by.

Well, except Alfred, but Alfred seems to disobey many laws of the world. For example, someone who talks with a mouthful of food shouldn’t be considered endearing, but he makes it work somehow.

He never gets many moments of melancholy like this, because he never allows his mind to wander down that thorn-ridden path. If you don’t think about how empty the house is, then maybe it’s not really that empty. It’s easy to pretend when it’s out of sight, out of mind.

Arthur allows his finger to draw patterns into his carpet, knees drawn up to his chest, and free arm resting across them. His knuckles bump a clear box and he picks it up, feeling a small weight inside of it. Turning it about, he finds a forgotten decoration, one that he’d tossed into his basket at the store without thinking.

He almost snorts at what he sees, feeling amusement bubble in his chest. It’s a typical angel decoration, meant to be hung from the tree, though it’s face has been modified to show an exceptionally sharp grin. It’s hands aren’t folded in prayer, but rather spread wide, as if demanding the attention of anyone looking at it.

Arthur runs his thumb along its cheap, white plastic, his expression softening and his lips spreading into a smile. Steadily, he rises from his seat on the floor, and reaches up high to hang the ornament on his tree. He finds a free branch jutting out in the front and places it there, in its rightful place; drawing the attention of anyone who spares the thing’s direction a glance.

The rest of the evening sees him cleaning his mess and preparing a cold-packaged dinner straight from the refrigerator. It’s only halfway done when Arthur digs in, but he can’t be bothered to reheat it, so he forks through the half frozen mush as he sits in his Emery chair, watching his neighbors pass by through the sliver he can see out the window. Ten minutes of eating turns into an hour of lounging about, and now the television it turned on, but it’s dominated by Christmas movies and specials that shouldn’t be airing this early.

He finds a broadcast of the weather, and settles for that instead. Predictably, another round of snow seems to be moving in, which promises more treacherous trips to work, and perhaps a power outage if it really decides to hit hard. He scowls, thinking of the spike he knows is going to be in his heating bills.

Maybe if he wraps himself up like a burrito before bedtime, he can weather the worst of it and save himself a few pounds. Or, at the very worst, end up with a debilitating cold. Honestly, the risk is beginning to sound reasonable in his mind. It’s times like this when he can’t decide if his ingrained frugality is a curse or a blessing.

‘I… would not know that feeling.' The now familiar tenor of Francis’ voice floats in his mind, and Arthur glares at nothing in particular. Well, good for him. Unfortunately, not everyone can afford to have negative body temperatures.

And of course, leave it to him to find a way to link this to Francis. It seems as though any train of thought outside of work - and especially inside, to be perfectly honest - finds its way to him. Like a roundabout that he can’t figure out how to escape, he’s stuck driving circles, round and round and round and infuriatingly ceaseless with no open in sight.

If there was a line in regards to how much Francis Bonnefoy should be permeating his thoughts, Arthur believes he’s crossed it. Scratch that, he’s done an olympic hurdle over it and has broken every single record in the book, because this man, this stranger in all regards, should not be in Arthur’s mind so much.

Arthur Kirkland has no business thinking about Francis Bonnefoy like this.

“I take it you are interested, non ?”

Arthur nearly jumps out of his damn skin, feeling his hackles rise and nearly slamming his keyboard in the process of detaching his fingers from it. The cup of pens sitting on the corner of his desk tumbles over and sends the contents sprawling everywhere, to which Arthur calmly readjusts it and leaves the pens ignored.

Francis made no sound, no indication that he’d slipped into the room. Arthur hadn’t even caught sight of him moving across his vision. Either he was too absorbed in his reading, or Francis was just that stealthy.

It was probably a decent mixture of both, to he honest.

Speaking of which, Arthur hastily exits out of the condemning webpages he was perusing, face flooding with shame as he coughs into his fist, trying to salvage any sort of decency he could. He peeks at Francis out of the corner of his eye, spots him standing almost behind him, with the most amused expression he’s ever seen on the other’s sharp face.

“Don’t you have the decency to knock?”

Francis sends him a sheepish look, arms coming to cross in front of his chest. “Your door is always open, and I have never knocked before.” He leans forward, seems to balance on his tiptoes as he glances over Arthur’s shoulder, letting out a noise of disappointment when he sees that the webpages are no longer open.

“What on earth are you doing?” Arthur tries to make it sound incriminating of Francis, but he knows he’s been caught red handed.

“You closed them.” Francis points out glumly. He’s still looming halfway over Arthur’s shoulder, the curtain of his long bangs coming a hair’s width apart from touching Arthur’s cheek. Arthur finds himself going stiff, limbs straining to stay perfectly still as Francis meanders about. The skin of his neck grows sensitive to the proximity of the other’s face, and his fingers strain not to form nervous fists as he waits for Francis to move. Unfortunately, he only chooses to turn his head slightly instead of moving away, bright eyes boring into Arthur’s cheek as he continues, “You are blushing.”

“No, I’m not.” Arthur states matter of factly, as if the notion is absurd. “I’m just not immune to whoever keeps playing with the bloody thermostat, unlike some people around here.” He wants to shoot Francis a scathing look, but fear of turning his head to meet the other’s gaze keeps him stationary.

“I can tell when something is warm. You do know that? If I were, to say, stick my hand over a fire, I could still feel the heat, Arthur.” Why, oh why hasn’t Francis moved away yet? Arthur knows he’s not socially inept. Surely, the man must have some indication that the Brit’s almost squirming under his gaze. Surely he has the decency to give Arthur some space.

Or… or perhaps Francis Bonnefoy is perfectly aware of his unnatural charms, and this is just a cruel joke to him. Either way, Arthur is growing restless in his proximity, finding his palms to be slick with sweat as he flattens them against his desk. The urge to pull at his collar is almost overwhelming, but that would mean coming into contact with Francis’ hair, and that’s a commitment that Arthur isn’t sure he’s ready to make.

“It’s just warm, and what business do you have sneaking up on me like that? I could have been working on something sensitive, for all you know.”

“Ah,” Francis tuts, sparing Arthur another of his revealing smiles, and really, having a set of teeth like that so close to his neck shouldn’t make Arthur jolt with adrenaline, but it does. “Would you call the topic of my kind sensitive, Arthur? You know, if you’re that curious, I don’t mind answering some simple questions.”

Francis had seen his browser, and Arthur feels as though he wants to lay his head on his desk out of embarrassment. The can of worms had been opened, and quite frankly, there was no way he could stuff it all back in from whence it came. He can’t even find an adequate excuse for his blatant curiosity, and now Francis knows -  at least, to some extent - how far his curiosity stretches.  

“You’re embarrassed!” Francis points out, glee lining his voice as he finally draws back. A delicate hand comes to cover his mouth, perhaps to stifle a laugh, but Arthur’s indignancy is only fueled by this. He feels the urge to pull at his hair, to shoo Francis away so he can wallow in his mortification. “Oh, Arthur,” Francis’ tone shifts to one of clemency, “Spare yourself the scorn.”

“Easier said than done.” It’s a mumbled sentence, muffled by his hands which have come to cover his face as he contemplates raking his nails across it. “You don’t know how unprofessional I feel at the moment.”

He hears nothing at first, only the steady and quiet breathing from Francis. Then, there are soft footsteps and the sound of a seat being dragged quickly across the carpet. When Arthur finds it in himself to lower his hands, he sees Francis seated beside him at his desk, one of his legs crossed over the other as he looks at Arthur expectantly.

“What are you doing,” It sounds less like a question, and more like a monotonous statement. Arthur levels a weary look at Francis, ears still hot and blood still rushing too quickly in his veins.

“Let’s talk.” Francis clasps his hands together, rests them over his knee as he smiles expectantly at Arthur. “Don't sit there and stare. Go on, ask a question.”

“I don't even know where to start.” Arthur grumbles half-heartedly. This wasn't a conversation he was prepared to have today.

“Tell me what is on your mind.” He peers over at Francis, remains silent with apprehension. Francis waves his hand at him, motioning for Arthur to start. “I see your face scrunched up in concentration all the time, mon ami. I bet you like to run your mind in circles. Why don't you let some of those thoughts loose?”

Arthur continues to hesitate, words balancing precariously on his tongue as Francis bides his time, patiently.

“You can trust me not to ridicule you.” He adds on, gently.

“How do you eat?”

It was the first thing that came to his mind, damn it. Arthur had blurted out the words without any forethought, not wanting to prolong the silence that had already been uncomfortable. It could have been any other question, something much more meaningful to Francis, but no.

How do you eat? Brilliant.

“Really? That?” Francis looks at him as though he's waiting for Arthur to reconsider. When all he gets is an awkward shrug in return, he has to stifle yet another laugh, “Let me ask you instead. What do you think I do?”

He hates how Francis does this, corners him into confronting things he'd much rather play an audience to. He's starting to suspect that the other man does it on purpose. “You get rations. Juice boxes? I couldn't tell you.”

“That is actually not too far off the mark. Still though, for a man who donates...” It’s here that Francis spares the aging post-it note a quick, yet pointed glance.

“We'll, excuse me for not wanting to stick my nose in other folk’s business. I have this thing called modesty, you see.”

Francis ignores the snide comment, obviously not one to let it sour his mood. Arthur's beginning to believe that the man is utterly immune to negativity, which renders his typical form of deflection useless.

There's silence, but only for a few passing moments, and then Francis is continuing again, “It is similar to local food drives. You get what they deem is enough, and anything else extra is done solely on your part. But…”

Arthur senses the hesitation in Francis’ tone, sees him bite his bottom lip thoughtfully. He says nothing, no urging words or pressure to make the other talk. He wouldn't feel comfortable prying for info Francis would rather not share.

Despite this, Francis looks up, catches Arthur's gaze and seems to study him closely, before giving in with a quieter tone, “You have to be so careful. One wrong stranger could send you to prison if they wanted to. All it would take is a false claim, and the odds are already so unfavorable for us. And things get… muddled in the heat of the moment.”

It's here that Arthur realizes exactly what Francis is speaking about.

Romantic partners. Risky endeavors and undocumented feedings and everything Arthur hasn't allowed to come to the forefront of his mind, but has been resting in the deepest, darkest recesses of it. He feels his mouth go dry, the change of topic stealing the direction out of his thoughts.

He doesn't want to think of Francis luring a woman into bed, or sinking his teeth into the delicate curve of her throat or whatever it is that his kind actually does. It paints too many saucy pictures, many of which fill him with a nervous, jittery feeling that has his stomach knotting up in strange ways.

He knows that's not what he should be thinking of, considering the sensitive information Francis just released to him. He should be feeling guilty for him, understanding the plight that makes both nourishment and intimate relationships alike a potential trap.

“Relationships are impossible for you.” It's all Arthur can bring himself to say, and his voice comes out sounding more detached than he wanted.

“Oh no,” Francis shakes his head, and his lips turn up into a coy smile, full of his usual confidence and pomp, “I have had plenty of relationships. The length of them are another topic, but the fact remains that it is not entirely impossible.”

“But they never last.” Arthur finishes for him.

Francis’ smile turns more bittersweet at that, and he gives a small, nonchalant shrug as an answer, “It's a delicate environment we live in. I am confident that I will find a way to make it work, one day.”

Arthur notes the somber tone in his voice, feels a twinge of remorse twist like a knife in his ribcage. He wonders… if, perhaps, Francis spends his holidays alone like he does. Does he have friends or loved ones that leave him gifts under his tree, or does Francis wrap his own boxes and pretend that his house isn't nearly as empty as it actually is?

Does he fear commitment almost as much as Arthur does? Or does he lie in bed at night and crave the presence of a warm body next to his own? It paints a dreary picture, imagining someone so full of mirth and culture lying there alone, empty both inside and out.

It seems like a waste.

“I hope you do.” Arthur murmurs softly, his tone dipping down. A glance to his clock reveals that Francis has been in his office for quite a while now, perhaps the longest yet. Despite his earlier wishes, Arthur is beginning to find the idea of him leaving soon to be disappointing.

When Arthur next looks at Francis, he finds the other staring at him with an almost stunned expression. Arthur is half tempted to snap at him, a customary reaction to being gawked at, but considering the tender moment they just shared…

At last, Francis seems to snap out of it, his head coming to shake as if he'd just had the silliest thought cross his mind. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention anything of it.”

He takes his leave shortly thereafter, and Arthur considers that perhaps Francis is moving more away from acquaintance, and closer to something more.

He isn't sure of what that is.

His bedroom is dim and cold, with the only source of heat being the body heat contained within the outrageous mound of blankets he'd piled on his bed. The wooden floor bit at his feet during an earlier excursion to the bathroom, the cold turning Arthur's toes unforgivingly numb.

He's beginning to think that this isn't the best idea he's ever had, but he's nearly halfway through the night with no heat and his pride refuses to let him tamper with the thermostat.

Arthur glares in the direction where he knows it rests in the hallway, and imagines himself feeding it unnecessary bills.

The holiday season was going to break him as it was, and he'd been damned if he dug himself any deeper into his financial hole than he already has. Some things were just more important than being warm.

Like keeping the Christmas lights turned on overnight. And crochet. Crochet materials eat up a surprising amount of his free budget, and Arthur would be damned if he couldn't finish his next set of table covers. He'd already promised Alfred a Captain America shield to hang from the mirror of his lorry, so there was no going back on that either.

Still, it's impossible to ignore how unproductive it was to be curled up in bed at 1AM, shivering endlessly as he tried to force himself to sleep. Occasionally, he could hear the sharp howl of wind battering his window, doing his mind no favors as he pondered about just how cold it actually was.

Within the next fifteen minutes, Arthur is stomping down the hallway to his thermostat, with his comforter wrapped around his figure, and bitterly cursing at himself as he turns it up to something acceptable. The immediate blow of hot air from the vents nearly has him melting on the spot. When he burrows underneath the covers once again, he can feel his muscles relaxing, his skin tingling with the beginnings of warmth as his bedroom goes from an arctic waste to a heated sanctuary.

His mind goes fuzzy, filled with drowsiness as he lays there, and wanders from one menial thing to the next. Nothing but often forgotten thoughts associated with bedtime, little things to help lure oneself to sleep. Scenarios and pleasant fantasies to ease one into unconsciousness fill his head, ranging from owning his own tea shop to hearing the laughter of familiar friends fill his home.

Arthur reaches out across his bed, hand splaying against white sheets as he conjures up the image of a person lying there, perhaps asleep as well, though cradling his arm in their grasp. The features are nondescript at first, though the longer his mind lingers on the thought, the more details he begins to conjure up.

Maybe a blonde. Fair skinned, delicate. Quiet breaths and the shallow rise and fall of their chest. Hands splayed over his own, well-groomed nails, like porcelain sitting on their skin. Rosey scent, fresh and invigorating, and the taste of rain drops on their breath. Hair, soft and pale, interrupted by the gentlest of waves, pooled around their face and hiding the curve of their lips, their nose.

Skin that is deceivingly cool to the touch, like a balm on a sweltering day. A kiss from the snow, a soft brush of ice against his own skin. Arthur imagines what an embrace from that would feel like, mimics the feel of arms wrapping around his own, and can't keep the pleasant sigh from leaving his lips. His eyes go heavy, drift closed as he lets himself get swept away by his thoughts.

Something deep inside of him tells him that he's seen these features before, but the call of sleep washes away any intuition he has.

He awakes to snow so deep, he can barely push his front door open.

Arthur has no idea how this storm snuck up on his quiet city overnight, but it leaves him flabbergasted. A couple inches of rain would be the norm but fifteen inches of snow? Unreasonable and unreal and definitely not welcome.

Any notion of going to work is immediately tossed out the window. Arthur checks his phone to find a text telling him not to bother coming in, to which he wholeheartedly agrees, because this is just ridiculous.

There’s no sign of the sun peaking out from the cloud-blanketed sky, not that there typically is, but it ensures that the snow is here to stay. At least, for a few days. The idea of staying cooped up in his home leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Always one to spend more time in his office than in his living room, the feeling is a bit alien to him.

It’s Thursday, for goodness sake. He should be working, not sitting on the loveseat in a sweater three times too big and sipping tea. It wouldn’t be so bad if the next day didn’t lead into the weekend, but Arthur supposes it’s a blessing in disguise, so he uses his time to finish up the set of table covers he’d been working on.

He’s nearly finished with the third one when he hears his doorbell ring, making him freeze with his hook still in the process of pulling a piece of yarn through the pattern. Turning his head, he eyes the mosaic glass tile of the door warily, wondering who on earth could possibly be visiting in this weather.

It’s ludicrous to think anyone would be out on the roads today. Much less even walking in these conditions.

Still, someone is standing out there, and now they’re impatiently spamming the doorbell, which draws a growl of frustration out of Arthur. He deposits his project on the end table and stomps over to the entrance, going through the motions of unlocking it with a little too much force before swinging it open none too gently.

Of course, he thinks, bitterly.

“There you are! Man, I was starting to wonder whether or not you were home. Which would be kind of crazy if you weren’t, because have you seen the roads? Stuff’s crazy. Weather didn’t say anything about this.”

“And yet, you are.” Arthur grouses, though he steps back to let Alfred in, eyeing the caked snow on his boots with growing ire. He tracks a good bit of it over his welcome mat, smearing both it and his floor with slush.

Alfred shakes like a dog would, sending wet snow flying off the fur of his jacket as he grins at Arthur, “Good morning to you too, Artie. And are you kidding? I was built to drive in conditions like this. Delivery man, here.”

“You were born in Texas.” Arthur points out lamely. “The only thing you were built for is eating portions three times your size and butchering the English vocabulary.”

“Okay, true. True, but you’ve gotta admit, I’ve got skills.” Alfred hangs his jacket on the coathanger, his hands coming to rub up and down his arms as he comically shivers. “Please tell me you’ve got coffee or something. I’m dying here.”

“Only tea.” He hears Alfred groan, and rolls his eyes at the dramatics of it all. Tea was perfectly fine, thank you very much.

“Well, at least tell me you don’t have any of that Earl Grey stuff. Give me something with some kick in it!”

Fortunately, Arthur does have some chai tea stowed away, so he sets himself to brewing a cup of that while Alfred makes himself at home in his living room. As always, he can hear the other roaming around, poking at his possessions and crafts from the kitchen, and half expects to hear something shatter in the process.

Luckily, everything goes unharmed as he emerges with a drink for his friend, to which Alfred takes a large gulp in thanks.

The two set about talking about anything and everything; from the weather, to Alfred’s current deliveries, and of course, Arthur’s work. Alfred pokes fun at Arthur’s Christmas tree, particularly the fanged angel hanging in the front, to which he flushes and tells him to sod off if he doesn’t like it.

He sets about asking Arthur questions, to which the Brit recognizes as a thinly veiled attempt to cipher information for a Christmas present. He plays along, though, and gives Alfred the hints he needs. In particular, he mentions needing more crochet supplies, to which Alfred’s eyes light up, before abruptly ending the train of thought.

Arthur gives him an ETA on his little project for Alfred, to which he seems to be largely pleased with. It’s their usual back and forth, their friendly banter and quaint ways of checking up on each other in indirect ways.

It feels almost like family, to have another voice echoing throughout his home, but at the same time, something feels undeniably off. It’s as though Alfred is a puzzle piece trying to fill a slot that Arthur’s been boasting for a while, but he just doesn’t fit. A brother, in all sense of the word, but not the piece Arthur needs.

Still, it makes him happy, content to have Alfred’s company on what he thought to be a long and lonely weekend. Alfred’s enthusiasm and optimism is infectious, and even Arthur can’t help but spare a few genuine smiles here and there.

It all comes crashing down as soon as Alfred steers the conversation in another direction. “Say, you’ve been acting kind of weird lately. Like, not sick weird or bad weird, but different. Like, you’ve got all these different interests now, like donating to blood drives and buying stupid ornaments like that.” He points to the angel figurine.

“Forgive me for deciding to take a more active role in the rights of others. A shame that I’m trying to be a decent human being.” Arthur retorts sarcastically, rolling his eyes yet again at Alfred.

“Yeah, okay, that’s great and all. Like, I’m right there with you man, but still. You gotta think that this all boils down to something.” Alfred flashes him a knowing grin, his brows arching comedically as Arthur scoffs.

“What are you getting at? You’re not one to be sly, and I don’t like it one bit.”

“Francis, buddy. Come on. It doesn’t take a genius to see how interested you are in the guy.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, and brings his teacup up to hide the growing frown on his lips. He calmly takes a sip while Alfred looks on, proud and teasing and as though he’d just unearthed something great. Arthur lowers his cup, sets it on a coaster on the end table as he folds his hands across his lap. “I’m interested in his people, not him.”

“Not until him.” Alfred corrects him.

“You’re looking into things too deeply.”

“I think you’re looking over things.”

Arthur huffs a breath out at that, “What exactly are you even trying to get at? Spit it out.”

At this, Alfred shrugs innocently, blue eyes averting elsewhere as to avoid the growing look of frustration on Arthur’s face. “Maybe you got a thing for him? I don’t know. Just a guess.”

“The only thing I have for Francis Bonnefoy is a growing headache from all his unwanted visits.”

Now it’s Alfred’s turn to scoff, to which Arthur levels a critical glare at him. “If you didn’t want him around you, you would have done something by now. You’re a no bullshit type of guy, Artie. We all know you would have eaten his soul by now if you didn’t like him.”

There’s a pause, a lull on Arthur’s part, as Alfred leans forward to rest his arm on his knee, still grinning at Arthur as if expecting some kind of great confession. “I tolerate him.” It’s the only thing Alfred gets as a reply.

“Right. Whatever.” He drags out the last word, and heaves a long sigh afterwards. The easy atmosphere surrounding them has morphed into something more tense, at least, on Arthur’s part.

Alfred’s words dig into him, eat away at his conscious and rationality as the minutes tick by. Not much more is spoken between them, their camaraderie effectively dampened by Alfred’s accusations. It isn’t long after that his company announces his leave, to which Arthur is both grateful and sad to see him go. When the house is empty again, Arthur allows himself to fully dwell on Alfred’s words.

He doesn’t know what to make of them, but he can’t argue against them either.

Chapter Text

Arthur no longer walks to the break room alone.

As a matter of fact, it seems as though Francis has purposely constructed his own breaks around Arthur’s. He insists on the other waiting for him, often emerging from his exotic scented office with a bit too much gusto, and always too eager to place himself closely by Arthur.

It's all innocent gestures; soft brushes to his shoulder, the feel of nimble, cool fingertips pressing into the small of his back, or even an arm linked jovially through his own. Francis is quick to laugh, though, quick to step away in a manner that suggests it's all in good humor.

Arthur can't quite stop his ears from going red, or his pulse from quickening. He often gets swept up in those minor notions, holding his breath while Francis lingers mercilessly too close, because to breath the other in would be a quick indicator to just how royally troubled Arthur has become over him.

His troubles balance less on the fearful side, and more on the side of you are breathtakingly fascinating and for some reason, I can’t erase you from my mind . That, to Arthur, is worse than anything, because at least with all his other troubles, he can grumble aloud about them to others.

To audibly admit the predicament he has with Francis would bring about too many potential truths and scenarios that he's just not ready to face. Arthur hasn't even given any of his problems names, and he'd like to keep them that way if possible.

Out of sight, out of mind. They don't exist if he doesn’t officially recognize them.

(Except they obviously do, in the form of a Frenchman with too much charm and gentle persuasion and gaudy taste and alluring perfume.)

“I see your colleagues decorating their offices with seasonal items, but not the first one in your own. Are you one of those… oh, what is it?  Grinch types?” Francis waits patiently as Arthur prepares his tea, seating himself upon the edge of the breakroom’s table as he watches with just a bit too much interest.

Arthur wonders idly why Francis refuses to sit in actual seats like a normal person. He compares him to a cat in his mind, always wanting the high ground, refusing to put himself underneath others.

He shakes the thought from his mind as he dips the bag of tea into his mug, letting it dye the water with its flavor. Chai tea, today. “There's enough Christmas cheer without me contributing anymore to it.”

“But it's such a lovely time of the year. There's certainly no limit on how much cheer one can spread around. Why you would discount yourself from that baffles me. Have a little enthusiasm, cher .”

Arthur levels a flat look at Francis, his face reflecting the other’s accusations perfectly, but he can't be bothered to realize that. “I decorated my living room and put up a tree. I think I've done my fair share of work for the season.”

At that, he sees Francis’ eyes brighten, his mouth turning up into an excited grin. His hands clasp together underneath his chin as he regards the Brit with thinly veiled adoration. Arthur busies himself with looking away from that expression, feeling his heartbeat quicken for a moment. He takes a test sip of his tea, finding it to be saturated evenly with cinnamon and mint.

'You will have to show me! I would love to see your Christmas handiwork.”

The idea of inviting Francis into his home is too much to contemplate. Arthur gets to the part where he answers his door, to find the other standing outside with that same, misplaced look on his face, more than likely boasting a ridiculous outfit complete with a scarf that dwarfs his form, before he's violently shooing the thought away.

Besides, he could never hide his shame if Francis ever saw that God awful ornament he bought.

And yet, Arthur's answer surprises even himself, “Perhaps I will sometime.”

He spies the date in the corner of his laptop’s screen and is abruptly reminded that his next donation date is nearing again. It seems as though he'll be paying the hospital another visit shortly after New Year’s Eve.

What gets Arthur, however, is how quick the passage of time has been. He can hardly believe how quickly the days have flown by, their only indicators being a massive blur of barely there menial memories stowed away in Arthur's mind. He can't remember the last time his life had thrown itself into such an intense overdrive, cutting through the minutes and hours as if he were purposely fastforwarding them.

Or perhaps it was just age beginning to catch up, and his perception of things was becoming more and more muddled like he'd heard it would from all his other middle-aged colleagues.

Or perhaps it was because he'd found something to preoccupy his free time with, no matter how long the restless nights felt.

It's not worth wasting too much thought on, so he banishes the thought from his mind and instead focuses on the various documents he has opened on his laptop. The generous waiters of the quaint little cafe he loves comes by every so often to refill his cup. One leaves him a small, soft pretzel that he picks at, not a word mentioned, but with a look that says, “It's on us.”

Perhaps he appears to be frustrated or stressed, or perhaps the servers here haven't become acquainted with his normal mannerisms. Either way, Arthur spares them a trying smile, though he's sure it looks more like a broken smirk.

They never question him or try to make small talk, to which he is silently grateful. Arthur works alone, diligently, and burns the hours away until his Saturday afternoon has transitioned into another snowy evening.

He's only truly broken away from his work when he hears the sound of the adjacent seat sliding across the smooth floor. Brows coming to furrow and lips quirking in a manner that suggests he is deeply annoyed, he looks up from his laptop with a practiced glower, but it disappears quickly once he sees who’s disturbed him.

There sits Francis Bonnefoy, wrapped up in a scarf, boasting a long fitting beige cardigan, and with his hair tied back loosely with an awful, pink ribbon. He smiles at Arthur, catches that split second grimace before laughing softly at how fast it disappeared. Arthur averts his eyes, calmly shutting his laptop and pushing it away before crossing his arms. Francis waits for him to speak first.

“Fancy catching you here.”

“I should be the one saying that.” Francis let's his eyes wander, catches the observant state of a waiter before motioning them over. As they approach, he adds on quickly, “I was on my way home from a friend’s house, and lo and behold, I spotted you with that nose of yours buried in work like always.”

“It's called initiative, and you should try investing in it sometime.” Arthur eyes the server as they near the table. Before any words can be spoken, Francis is reaching into a pocket of his, flashing a card that almost resembles an ID, before the server is making a soft “oh”, and dashing away quickly.

Francis allows his eyes to follow them as well, before sliding the card back into its earlier spot and regarding Arthur with a curious look. “I have plenty of initiative. Where I choose to apply it varies, however. That, and I have a healthy amount of respect for my mind and body, so I also know when to give it a rest.”

“Plenty of time for rest when we’re dead.” It's meant to be another flat-toned quip, but then Arthur is backpedaling, face going long with shock as he mentally picks apart what he just said.

Francis follows the transition with an amused expression, his hands coming to fold together underneath his chin as he leans forward. “Contrary to popular belief, we are not undead. I still yet have a heartbeat, Arthur. It just tends to run a little colder than usual.” His tone takes that lilting quality, goes soft and light as if those words are ones he repeats on the daily.

Still, that was something else Arthur hadn't thought too heavily on, and it's another answer he wasn't expecting to get. He chooses his next words carefully, knowing exactly what he wants to say, but finding the topic to be akin to walking on eggshells. “Is it a… err… disorder than? A…”

“Disease?” Francis finishes for him, speaking the word Arthur refused to let fall from his lips, because there was no way on earth he was about to refer to Francis’ condition as a bloody disease . “Perhaps. I am not sure myself, to be perfectly honest.”

It's here that it finally hits Arthur - that perhaps he’s not the only one confused as to what Francis Bonnefoy is. Perhaps the very man in question struggles to find a category to place himself in, feeling just as lost and confused as Arthur is. He oftens forgets just how fresh the phenomena actually is in terms of the given timeframe.

Silence drags between them, punctuated by the occasional nervous sip from Arthur, and Francis who thankfully decides to busy himself with studying the cafe. Soon, the server is returning with a cup that mirrors Arthur’s own, and Francis thanks them with enthusiasm, before dipping his little teaspoon in and stirring.

Arthur spots a familiar shade of crimson bubbling to the top, and promptly turns his gaze away before he sees Francis take a drink.

“So, they do that.”

“Hmm?” Francis lower his cup, lips stained just shade darker than before, though he’s quick to clean them with his tongue. “This?” Arthur gives a curt nod. “Did you not spot the sign out front? They serve us .”

“I thought only hospitals could do that.” Arthur murmurs quietly, trying with all his might not to stare at the contents of Francis’ cup.

“Do you eat your groceries at the grocery store, Arthur?” He feels a nerve twinge in his cheek at the remark, but holds his tongue steady as Francis continues. “Life would be awfully cut and dry if we were fed like cattle, don't you think? I for one greatly appreciate the accommodations that businesses are trying to make for us. It restores a good amount of normality. ”

“I didn't mean any offense, but if you're so willing to take to it, then be my guest.” He can't keep the challenging tone out of his voice, finding Francis’ witty snark to be a bane on his temper.

Instead of glaring or shooting him a sour look, Francis’ lips merely turn up in a smirk - a shockingly stark contrast to his usual soft smiles. “My, you have such an ill temper, Arthur. One could hardly believe it, placed under all those carefully practiced mannerisms of yours.”

“You watch me often enough. I'm a little disappointed it took you this long to find out.” It’s scathing, full of accusation, but it feels wonderful to engage in their little back and forth.

Whereas Alfred is quick to dismiss or deflect Arthur's biting remarks, Francis meets him halfway across the field, wielding an equally smug arsenal of words at his disposal. Yet, there's never a true note of hostility in their tones, just mutually understood appreciation for the art of a carefully pieced together verbal smackdown.

It's something Arthur appreciates, or at least, he's coming to appreciate as Francis becomes bolder with his dialogue. It keeps his mind running on all cylinders, makes his blood go hot with confrontation.

It's not bad. Certainly, no.

“I have always had an inkling.” Francis says almost playfully, and really, that soft voice should be a thing Arthur is well accustomed to by this point, but he quickly finds himself becoming less irritated and more flustered. “After all, I do not think it's the norm for a man to drop every curse word from the book and then some just because he accidentally overturned his teacup.”

“You must not have been here for long, then.” Arthur retorts dryly.

“Ah, yes. Forgive me. Typical Brit demeanor.”

“Are we resorting to country stereotypes now? Because I have a few things I could say on my end.” Arthur watches Francis consider it, the other drawing in a contemplative, buffering breath, but then deflating as he shrugs indifferently. All the insults that had bubbled to the back of Arthur’s throat are swallowed bitterly, and honestly, it might be best that they stay there.

He likes what he and Francis have going, after all. Best not to let an increasingly acidic tongue ruin what they've managed to forge together.

Francis drinks steadily from his cup, says nothing and allows another one of their acceptable silences pass. Arthur finally allows himself to watch, notices the growing color on Francis’ face as the seconds meander by. He wonders if perhaps his face is warm, reflecting the very thing flowing from his cup to his veins, or if it possesses that chill that makes Arthur’s skin crawl with goose flesh.

Does he get tired when hungry, like a machine running low on fuel? Or does he tremble and shake with hunger pangs and let his mind go static with erratic thoughts, like so many of the starving afflicted showcased on News platforms? The monstrous deplorables of the world, waiting for an unsuspecting stranger to extend a hand, only to take it for leverage to rip their throats out…

The image is incompatible with Arthur's mind. He can't see Francis begging in the streets, for something so many people can't fathom giving. But still, the questions lingers; what if instead of meeting him at work, Arthur instead found him huddled on the cold streets of Winter London? Would he have tried to help, or would an unfair bias and fear have him walking right past Francis, casting him off as another unnecessary problem for the first world?

The answer is truthfully grim, and Arthur suddenly feels cold with empathy.

“Do you ever struggle?” The words are out of his mouth in one, rushed sentence. Francis looks up from his drained cup, face rosy with the beginnings of life, and studies Arthur carefully.

His answer comes slow, elaborately, “I used to. But not to the degree you are thinking. But others…” He trails off, choosing to stare out at the lit street through the snow battered window.

Arthur understands immediately. He swallows past a thick throat, and nods, “I wish- I wish things weren't so. For you. For everyone, I mean.”

Francis let's loose a weary sigh, his usual optimism nowhere to be found on a face that hid more than what he could say. “Don't we all?” Arthur can say nothing, can't find the right words to try and comfort him or redirect the conversation without appearing to be conceited. Thankfully, Francis’ face does eventually light up with a small, albeit slightly sad smile, signaling an oncoming change in topic, “Let's talk about something else. 'Tis the season to be cheerful, after all.”

They do move on to lighter conversation, the transition being hurried along quickly by Arthur’s deflection and Francis’ inability to let a moment sour for too long.

Somehow, later, as Arthur is gathering his things to leave and Francis has finally exhausted him of all casual conversation, he finds himself being tasked with answering a question that has his breath stopping short and his mouth going dry.

“May I accompany you to your home, Arthur?”

Arthur balks, mouth falling open, legs going still in the middle of a step. His grip on his carrying case loosens, letting the strap drape down his shoulder until it's hanging on by the cleft of his arm. The door to the cafe is pushed halfway open, letting an unforgiving chill from a small snowdrift seep inside. It's only when he hears an old woman clear her throat pointedly that he takes a moment to compose himself, letting the door fall shut once more and readjusting the strap on his bag.

There Francis stands, looking at him patiently, almost hopefully. If there was ever an awkward bone in Francis’ body, this is where its effects laid. His hands stayed clasped together loosely, his stance wavering from one foot to the other, almost like a child begrudgingly forced to stay in one spot.

“Sure.” Arthur blurts out his answer, thoughtlessly and regretfully fast. He's immediately overcome with a nagging sense of urgency, and a voice sounding too much like his own berating him for such a hasty decision.

All the same though, the more impulsive and less known side of him is repeating itself over and over: why not?

Go home, spend a lonely and quiet evening to himself sipping tea, or spend it by draining the hours away with a man that's penetrated every angle of his mind?

“What a quaint little place.” Francis regards the interior of his house with curious eyes. He doesn't pay much attention to his movements as he shrugs his coat and scarf off, handing them over to Arthur who merely eyes the garments tastelessly.

Arthur ends up rolling his eyes, and deposits them on his coat rack, following suit with his own and shucking off snow clad shoes. The incredibly small set of stairs leading from the entrance to his living room are ascended gracefully by Francis, who studies every detail of his home with bright and curious blue eyes.

Arthur squeezes past Francis, heading straight for his kitchen to brew himself a cup of tea, because this is suddenly too real and frightening, and he needs something to busy himself with.

Quietly, he hears Francis call out from his living room, voice almost tentative as he does, “Arthur?”

“A moment, please,” There's a slight waver to Arthur's voice, a giddy feeling in his bones as he rehearses the words in his mind before speaking. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

What should take no more than a few minutes feels like an hour, and Arthur eventually ends up with a cup of tea held between sweaty palms as he joins Francis in the other room.

His guest is busy turning over the set of table covers that are nearly done, eyeing the work with open admiration. Francis’ delicate fingers juggle one of his knitting needles, balancing and flipping it quickly in his hold. When he spots Arthur approaching, he's quick to set it back on the end table. If he was embarrassed to be caught, Arthur cannot tell.

Arthur sits opposite of him, across from his antiqued coffee table, choosing to take the recliner over smooshing himself against Francis’ side on his tiny loveseat. Francis shoots him a sheepish look, but makes no comment on the matter.

“Your hobbies are very interesting.”

Arthur spares his knitting supplies a cursory glance. “What makes you say that?”

Francis hums thoughtfully, “I had this answer where I was going to say that it's a line of work that requires patience and finesse, something of which I do not think are natural qualities to you. But, ah- well…”

Arthur narrows his eyes, the grip on the fragile handle of his teacup going tight. “Are you trying to insult me?”

“No, no.” Francis holds his hands up peacefully, and shakes his head. “But then, I thought, that it was a perfect hobby for you. Because you tend to throw yourself into things so deeply that you are unaware of everything else. You have much more patience than people give you credit for, I think.”

“Oh,” All semblance of anger in Arthur vanishes in an instant. It's almost like whiplash, going from what he thought was an insensitive insult to one of the most genuine compliments he’s ever received from someone. The corner of his lips twitch briefly, threatening him with a smile, but he smothers it under feigned nonchalance.

“I bet you thought I was going to be mean! I saw that look in your eyes.” Arthur resists the urge to scoff, and instead settles for another eyeroll. “But I am truly impressed. If I were to pay you, could you perhaps knit something for me?”

“You wouldn't have to pay me.”

Francis frowns at that, “Nonsense. This is time consuming work. I would not feel right having you produce something so nice without payment.”

“I enjoy it. So my answer remains the same: no.” Arthur levels Francis with an unwavering stare, to which the other eventually sighs into.

“So stubborn…” Arthur makes an amused sound at Francis’ dramatics. Sensing that the issue was something he could no longer push, Francis decides to shift the topic. “So you live alone, Arthur?”

“I do.” He's not sure where Francis is leading him, but Arthur regards him with wary eyes.

“Does that ever get lonely?”

' It does. ’ Arthur wants to blurt out, but that is just too revealing and too raw for him to be admitting to another person. “I deal with it just fine. In fact, I find it very peaceful.”

“I live alone, too. I don't like it very much. Too quiet, too eerie. I used to live with some very good friends, and to be honest, I miss it terribly.” Francis’ voice is quiet, almost a whisper. It's somber and heartfelt, and Arthur's not sure he can stomach much of that. “It is nice, not having any obligations to others, but it's nicer having the company, I think. I also think people often associate independence with being solitary, but those two things aren’t inherently related.”

“You're getting awfully philosophical.” Arthur hopes Francis will retort with a joke, or something typically light-hearted.

“I don't often talk about this, so forgive me if I'm delving too deep into things. I just thought that you would have acquiesced. But if what you say is true… then more power to you. I am glad you like your independence.”

“We'll, I do, so…” A heavy feeling passes over Arthur, a powerful admittance wavering on the back of his tongue, but he swallows it down dryly. Looking for an easy out, he latches onto something else. “Who are your friends? I recall you saying you’d visited them earlier.”

Francis tells him a story of two lifelong brothers. Well, not quite brothers, but he refers to them as such. All separate men from separate countries, somehow finding the luck to bounce into each other. Never a backstory to their meeting before this, because they were apparently all strangers in the other’s mind. Arthur can't help but crack a smile or even spare a sparse laugh as Francis lauds him with not-quite tales of their impulsive adventures or daring acts, many of which seem too farfetched to be real, but Francis insists it's all true. There's a dreary dip in the tone, as he covers the moment in his life where his sudden condition became a stressful factor in their circle, but Arthur is relieved to see that it didn't change the dynamic of their relationships any.

Francis seemed equally relieved, and the thankfulness that shone in his eyes resonated deep in Arthur’s chest, creating a dull ache that wasn’t entirely bad. Perhaps Arthur was thankful, too.

“Bless their souls. Gil and Antonio were much too supportive of the matter once it all blew over. Constantly asking me if I felt well. 'Do you feel sick? Do you need help?’” Francis chuckles, seeming genuinely tickled with himself. “It was as though they thought I was made of glass! I tried to tell them to think of it as a drastic diet change, to ease their minds.”

Arthur huffs out a small laugh, long done with his tea and more resigned to sink back into his recliner as Francis rambles on. He knows it must be getting ungodly late into the night, but the feeling in his home at the moment is much too wonderful, much too fulfilling to have him sending Francis away just yet. He wants to cling onto that fulfillment just a tad bit longer, so he wills their conversations onward. “How did they respond to that?”

“By trying to become my personal donors!” Francis shakes his head, eyes coming to close as he smiles through his next words. “Back then, when it was all so fresh and new, getting into a donor program took an odd amount of time. At first, the idea seemed so ridiculous, but in hindsight, there were days that I truly would have went hungry without them. I cannot thank their generosity enough.”

That inspires a sudden pause on Arthur's behalf. Francis must notice as well, because he fixes him with a concerned look, face suddenly wiped clean of amusement. It's that same vulnerable look from all those days ago, the one that said, ' I've made him uncomfortable, I've said too much. ’

Arthur can't stand for it, so he amends the situation by seeming to take deep interest in what Francis said, “Personal donors? Like… a hospice for your kind? I hadn't the slightest idea that the sort of thing even existed.”

It takes Francis a few heartbeats longer than normal to respond, but when he does, it's with a shaky sort of enthusiasm. One that suggests he'd been holding his breath the entire time. “Ah, not quite. There is no official program for it. It's a personal sort of affair, one agreed upon solely between two people. The risks are entirely there and present, but I trusted my friends with my life. I knew they would never turn against me.” Francis drops his hands to his lap, takes a moment to smooth them over his pants. “It was an awkward affair, all in all. You get a pair of sharp teeth, and you suddenly have this innate desire and knowledge to sink them into people. I was afraid it would turn out horribly, but I learned, and it worked.”

“They were selfless, then. I can't imagine that could have felt too good.” It's an assumption, one Arthur has turned over and over in his mind for countless nights. But he doesn't want to make a fool out of himself for suggesting anything otherwise.

Francis’ eyes flit up, meet his own with a look Arthur can't quite place. Regardless, it makes his hair stand on end, his shoulders want to hunch from the sudden chill in his veins. “I thought so, too. It was not the case, however. Apparently, my condition isn't as unkind to others as one would think.”

Mouth dry, palms slick with sweat once more, Arthur hesitantly inquires further, “How so?”

“Imagine what anesthesia feels like. Add that fun little feeling you get whenever you're drunk. That is what they've described it to me as. And, ah… some other minor feelings, but those are the two strongest.” Francis purses his lips, like there's something else he wants to say, but can't find it in him to do it. Arthur judges that it can't be too awful, considering the grin he's currently trying to fight down.

Curiosity gets the best of him, despite his earlier reservations. Now he's truly engrossed in the conversation, shamefully running over questions and scenarios in his mind of what that must look like. Because one does not simply pass off the notion of biting folks and drinking from them as a normal everyday occurrence. There has to be some sort of follow through, a chart or a picture or something visual to help Arthur’s mind digest that.

When in doubt, nonchalantly prod for openings, and take them. It’s cowardly, of course, but it gets results.

“That's interesting. I imagined it would be a bit more gruesome than that.” Green eyes drop to Francis’ mouth, catching slivers of snow-white teeth behind delicate lips. Arthur shifts ever so slightly, readjusts himself in his chair. His skin feels prickly, sensitive with what he can only describe as the beginnings of excitement. Or apprehension. He can't be too sure which one it is.

“Nothing like that, goodness no. A few spare napkins can clean up any mess afterwards, but it’s not as though I’m ripping my dear friends to shreds. I’m still…” He pauses there, a crestfallen look passing over his face. “...not quite human, but close enough.”

“Human enough.” Francis spares him a broken smile, almost like a silent thank you. Arthur feels as though he’s inclined to say something more, something else to placate that pit of unease he knows must be a permanent fixture in Francis’ stomach. The words don’t come however, and he silently thinks that it’s probably for the best. Francis doesn’t need some large commotion over a matter that should have a simple answer. One that he just gave him, nonetheless.

“I hope you are not objective to some brutal honesty, Arthur.” He cants his head at Francis, opting to remain quiet in lieu of what he has to say. Because one does not drop a warning like that without dropping something heavier afterwards. “You have been mercifully accepting of everything thus far, and not many people are so… open-minded on these issues. I can only say thank you. For being so kind to me. It really warms my heart.” Francis laughs at that, the irony not lost on him. Arthur let’s loose a held breath, a barely there smile of his own mirroring Francis’.

“Everyone is entitled to happiness. Well, not quite everyone, but you understand what I mean. The good folks. You’re no different.”

“You have been a large source of it in the last few weeks.” That… catches Arthur off guard. The words are unexpected, and it feels as though someone has hit him with a defibrillator, his heart stopping for less than a second, before jumping to life and making his ribs shake violently. His lips part, nothing but air passing between them. His eyes must be wide, because Francis is regarding him with a coy look, obviously smug at his strangled silence.

“I… Well, I…” He can’t keep his cheeks from flushing, because how on earth is one supposed to respond to such a hefty confession? Platonic or not, it feels like an intimate gesture, which sets off a hundred red lights in Arthur’s head, because he just doesn’t know how to handle himself concerning those matters. Yet, there’s Francis, confident in his honesty, genuinely appreciative and leveling him with a look that was seeping adoration.

If it was anything else - a simple smile, a wink, or just something other than that - he would be fine. But one person doesn’t look at the other with such a love-filled expression without a larger meaning lurking behind it.

And that scares Arthur. Because he understands that feeling, has for a while now, and oh lord, this sort of revelation is happening too fast, too quick for him to process, especially with the main perpetrator of it all sitting across from him in his own home.

His mouth closes once, opens again to choke on the beginnings of a word, but then Francis is cutting him off, and throwing him for an entirely new loop with his own question, “Would you like to try it?”

“You mean-” Arthur can’t find it in himself to finish, his heart speeding to a steady gallop in his chest. It feels as though it may leap out of his throat at any second, and the half-lidded look Francis is beginning to direct his way isn’t helping matters any. He can feel a slightl tremble forming in his fingers, and he squeezes the cushions of his seat to still them.

Francis abandons the lone loveseat, circles around Arthur’s table to take a seat at the floor of his recliner. His eyes trail down Arthur’s arm, bright, soft blue coming to rest on one of his clenched hands. Carefully, slowly, he reaches out, wrapping his fingers around Arthur’s wrist, and directs his shaking palm until it’s displayed right in front of him.

Francis’ eyes flit up, and meet Arthur’s own widened green ones. From here, Arthur can see the hesitance in the other man’s eyes, hidden behind a carefully practiced glamour, but there nonetheless. He’s finding more and more that he can catch those moments of tension, lingering in the smallest corners and details of Francis’ body. It’s a testament that the person before him is, in fact, not immune to the fears and troubles that everyone else faces. Francis is prone to shame, to guilt, to sadness. To every other folly faced by man, just like him.

When Arthur nods, it’s with a calm resignation, a sudden acceptance of everything before him, and a trust he finds that he can’t put into too many people. Francis seems momentarily shocked, surprised that his question could yield such an answer, but then it’s smoothed away with a toothy grin, displaying all those sharp teeth that would soon be embedded in Arthur’s skin.

He feels fear, like anyone else would, but there’s an underlying emotion that he can’t place. It feels like exhilaration.

Long, delicate pale fingers stroke the skin of his wrist, run up the length of his arm before stopping just before his bicep. Arthur finds that he can’t keep his eyes on Francis’ target, instead turning his head to focus on something else. He can still feel though, feel clearly how as Francis nears, his cold breath sends ice crawling over his skin. His eyes flutter closed, a shivering breath seeping past his parted lips as he tries not to let trepidation get the best of him.

Just like donating blood, only more direct and straight to the patient, he tells himself.

Only this patient is like no other, and Arthur undeniably feels an attraction to him that he can no longer bury under the guise of simple curiosity. No person should be able to make Arthur’s heart race like Francis does.

When he feels lips descend upon his skin, just above the delicate circumference of his wrist, he visibly flinches, expecting the stinging pierce of too-sharp teeth. All he feels though is those lips pressed against his skin, not even the wet slide of a tongue or the barest hint of teeth. Just Francis laying a kiss upon him, innocently and unrushed. Arthur feels his chest swell, too many emotions and feelings trying to claw their way out of him, to many words and things he suddenly wants to spill to Francis.

And then he does bite down.

It hurts, undeniably so. A sharp gasp leaves Arthur, and he jumps slightly, trying to hold down the urge to yank his arm away, knowing it would only turn matters messy if he were to drag Francis’ teeth any further across his skin. A burning feeling spreads down into his palm, and then up into his arm, like the flowing medicine of a potent shot.

It has Arthur clenching his teeth, willing any noises of discomfort to stay at bay. His free hand grips the arm of his chair mercilessly, nails digging into the leather material and threatening to leave scratch marks if not left alone. He can feel a light suction against his skin, and the notion that Francis is pulling blood through those wounds makes his stomach turn for a moment.

It all seems like too much, too heavy of a burden to bear, and Arthur is only seconds away from retracting the offer. But then, something does hit him, warm and pacifying like an IV slipped into his arm. The burn in his veins fades to a muted numbness, making him release a held breath that sounds more like a shaky whimper.

It spreads up to his shoulder, where the ends of the horrible burning stopped, but chooses not to end its conquest there. That soothing heat radiates to his chest, up his neck and to the crown of his head, and Arthur nearly goes slack jawed at how pleasant that feels. Like being submerged in a large tub of water, he lets himself sink back into his chair, his posture going lax and jelly-limbed as Francis takes his sweet time.

Emerald eyes stare up at a dimly illuminated ceiling, fluttering every once in a while, as if fighting off the dredges of sleep. Everything in the corners of his vision goes soft, frayed at the edges and too bright where the light shines hardest. Even his sense of touch becomes hampered, offering only a small tingling sensation as acknowledgement. It’s overwhelming and smothering, and absolutely wonderful, because Arthur’s sure he’s never felt so relaxed in his life.

Even when Francis does eventually pull away, his teeth sliding free of Arthur’s skin, there’s not the first hint of discomfort or pain to be found. No raw burning of a freshly impacted wound or otherwise. He can’t even tell that he’d been bitten. In fact, Arthur is content not to move at all, to simply sit there, slouched in his chair at a terrible angle, and fall asleep with Francis still in his home.

When he feels a wet kiss press into the top of his hand, he’s inclined to loll his head enough to see what’s happening. Francis retracts away from it, leaving a bloodstained imprint on Arthur’s skin, and an even bigger mess plastered upon his lips and chin. Hesitantly, those bright eyes look up from his handiwork, fixing Arthur with a deeply concerned gaze.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” All at once, his hand is being laid gently at his side, and Francis is looming over him, fingers grazing the bottom of his chin and tapping softly on his shoulder.

Arthur watches him lick away the excess on his lips, like a cat cleaning themselves after a drink of milk. It takes an embarrassing amount of time to remember how to speak, but when he does, it’s as though someone has drugged him heavily, and his words slur into each other. “M’fine. Don’t worry.”

“Should I help you stand? Do you need a drink?” Francis makes no move of jostling Arthur, but he takes his hand in his own nonetheless. Arthur can barely make out the feeling of his thumb rubbing soothing circles onto the top of it.

“No, no, I-” He squeezes his eyes shut, thoughts coming and going in jumbled messes. There’s no conceivable way he can do anything in this state, especially in the company of others, let alone Francis bloody Bonnefoy. So Arthur struggles through a poorly stringed together sentence, hoping that Francis won’t take it wrongly. “S’Getting late. Should probably leave.”

A worried expression crosses over Francis’ face, and he seems absolutely reluctant to move from his current position. “Will you be okay? Can I help you to your room, at least?”

Arthur waves his hand dismissively, or he at least tries to. It probably looks like he’s just flicking it wildly from Francis’ perspective. “M’fine, fine. Just lock the door on the way out. Don’t forget y’coat.”

“Arthur…” Francis breathes out sadly. He feels a cold palm press against his cheek, steadying his head long enough to lock eyes with the other. Francis turns his palm over, smooths his knuckles over his cheekbone and back into Arthur’s hair. The sensation has him closing his eyes briefly, leaning into a touch that is too foreign and too sublime.

“M’not angry. Tired. Bed.”

“Let me help you there, at least.”

Francis does help him stand, and thank goodness for his stubborn plea to assist him, because Arthur suddenly can’t feel much of his legs. They nearly crumble beneath him, but then Francis is there, hoisting an arm under his own and around his shoulders. He nearly falls into the other man, leaning all his weight on Francis as he slowly puppeteers Arthur down the hallway.

He has to mumble out vague directions, but considering the humble size of his home, it takes Francis no time to find his bedroom door. Nothing is processed properly, but once he recognizes the feel of his familiar sheets hugging his body, Arthur turns on his side and curls up, clumsily pulling the duvet over his form as he shifts to try and find a comfortable position.

Francis’ hand lingers on his side, a barely there hint of numb stimulation letting him know that he’s being touched. A soft, hissing sigh can be heard, but Arthur is already halfway asleep to acknowledge the noise.

He’s nearly unconscious when he feels something undeniably cold press against his temple, a soft, content noise escaping his throat at the feeling.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

Chapter Text

The days after that muddled night leave Arthur rubbing the freshly made scar on his arm. His fingers trace the outline of where he knows Francis’ teeth met, and each time it sends his mind racing in circles and shame pumping hotly through his veins, because what the absolute hell was that entire fiasco?

There’s no heat of the moment to blame his actions on, because everything had been perfectly serene, or at least as calm as his furiously beating heart would allow things to be. Still, Arthur thinks that it's a bit ridiculous that he let a man sink his teeth into him, Francis Bonnefoy or not. It makes his wrist itch, his skin crawl with something akin to fear, because such a carnal - at least in hindsight - action should make any sane person react that way.

But he’s also sure he wouldn’t say no to it again. Because feelings, and feelings are the bane of his existence because he can’t properly understand or explain them. Arthur Kirkland is a man of logic, and the heart isn’t the most logical thing, so he’s loathe to admit that his thoughts are twisted and jumbled more than a child’s worn slinky.

He pulls the sleeves of his button-up over his arm, rubbing his wrist through the fabric as he watches himself in the mirror. Cheeks flushed, eyes guilt-ridden, complacent frown; Arthur thinks of himself as a mess. Or, he’s worse off than he was before, because he’s been a mess for weeks now, and it’s all starting to become incredibly tiring.

One man. Not the people - his people. Just one man and his suave charm and skillfully guarded persona.

Just one, love-starved man facing the grim reality of his new world, and the grump who just so happened to fall completely in sync with him. Because Arthur feels that, too.

When he stops by the hospital for his next donation later that day, the returning nurse spots the healing scar on his arm and shoots him a smothered look of amusement, but her painfully pursed lips can’t hide the twinkle of interest in her eyes. Arthur hopes she doesn’t comment on the matter, but it seems his troubles aren’t worth ignoring.

“I know this may seem like a personal question, but, ah… I noticed a mark on your arm-”

He’s grounding out an answer before she can even finish, loathing to prolong the experience by any means, because this is just too tender and embarrassing to be discussing with someone else. Let alone what is basically a stranger! “I had a friend who needed the help.”

“Oh,” She shoots him a sheepish look, one that implies that she may sense the sudden discomfort he must be putting off, because her curiosity quickly turns into a mirror of Arthur’s rushed reply. “Well, that’s very nice of you. Good for you.”

They speak nothing more on the matter, and for that, Arthur is eternally grateful. He lets the heat fade from his cheeks as he lies on a cot and allows the room to settle in his vision, a cotton swab held firmly against the curve of his arm.

Five more weeks, and he returns.

Francis chatters on as if nothing has changed, except something obviously has, because he’s more talkative than ever, and personal space doesn’t seem to matter much to him anymore. He speaks with Arthur about customers, leans over his shoulder while they babble on about semantics and finances, and allows skin to brush skin as if they hadn’t danced around contact like it was the plague just a week earlier.

Instead of feeling drawn up into a corner, Arthur finds himself relishing in it, craving it even, and savoring each glide of fingers or brush of honey silk hair. The coolness of Francis’ skin is a sweet balm, the incentive for a barely there sigh that seeps past Arthur’s lips. He becomes distracted at the feel of Francis’ fingers digging slightly into his shoulder when he places his hand there, feels a giddy sort of rush when he feigns annoyance and pushes his face away, because good lord, he just touched Francis’ face, and that’s unexplored territory right there.

Francis’ laugh is tinkling, and he pushes back, falls into a space against Arthur’s side as if it’s the most casual gesture ever, as though they’re lifelong friends who’ve always done this sort of thing. He wraps an arm about Arthur’s shoulders, squeezes him with reassurement when he feels the other seize up, but only for a moment, and then Arthur is melting into him, deflating with a buzzed calm that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

It’s overtly intimate and benevolent, and everything Arthur realizes he’d been craving, but at the same time… it’s just not enough. There’s something still out of reach, out of frame and unquestionable, and the desire to speak out dies as soon as it crops up. Words stick to Arthur’s tongue like honey, sweet nothings he suddenly wants to blurt out, but no cause for such things to be said. Because he and Francis…

They’re just friends. Just friends.

Arthur can’t judge or tell. He’s not sure if Francis looks at others with a noticeable twinkle in his bright eyes, or if he often dozes off with a content smile leveled at someone else. He can’t be the one to decide, because assumptions are dangerous, and Arthur isn’t sure he’s ready to hurt himself by believing something that isn’t true.

What even is he trying to believe in, though? The answer lingers in the back of his mind, clear as day, though muddled by a wall that Arthur has purposely placed to keep himself from confronting feelings that are starting to become too real, and too intense. Yet, that wall crumbles with every touch, every murmured mon cher , and the holes are quickly chasing away the bricks, leaving nothing behind but the raw truth.

And the truth is that Arthur is smitten with Francis Bonnefoy. He is unbelievably drawn to this man who was naught but a stranger a couple of months ago, just a replacement for a rude neighbor who had no inclination of manners. The man across the hallway with the gaudy decorations and lavish dress code and the thick, french accent that should have set a shadow upon Arthur’s face.

But it didn’t. Instead, Arthur feels the desire to draw his hand up over his heart, to still its wild beating at the sight of Francis Bonnefoy now, and it’s like the final puzzle piece falling onto the board. All Arthur has to do is pick it up, and complete that picture he’s been looking at for so long. Hang it on the wall of his home and feel that wholeness he’s been lacking for years now.

“Arthur?” Francis’ voice is tentative, soft to the point of being a whisper, and Arthur is vividly aware that he must have clocked out at some point, so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he left the other hanging. Francis reaches out, touches his fingertips to the underside of Arthur’s jaw, just at the point where it meets his neck, and Arthur is overwhelmed with the desire to turn his head away, because it’s still too much.

He doesn’t, though, and he’s at a loss of words, because Francis is touching him in such a loving way that it disintegrates any form of thought in his mind. He won’t call it for what it feels like, refuses to allow himself to believe it is what it is, but it feels like a lover’s touch.

And it feels wonderful.

“Just… had a thought, there.” There’s no solidity to his voice, no firm direction or anything to indicate that it’s the truth.

Francis sees right through it, doesn’t bother with even acknowledging what he said. The quiet is so strangling that Arthur doesn’t breathe for what feels like an eternity. His eyes flit about, unable to focus on such a beautiful man who demands his attention. He blinks several times, too many, can’t bring himself to meet those deep blue eyes. He knows that if he does, he won’t be able to stop himself from doing something dangerous or silly.

He has no choice but to focus when Francis frames his face, splays his cold hands across the expanse of his neck and jawline, and his thumbs press gently against his cheeks. Arthur feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, sucks in a breath that nearly has his entire body shuddering.

Francis continues to look at him, head slightly canted to one side, hair looser than normal in its usual tie, and brows furrowed in a way that suggests that he’s thinking. Arthur can feel his heart rising in his throat, the quickening ba-bum ba-bum inciting something akin to panic. His breaths turn fast and shallow, sweat begins to bead at his hairline, and his fingers tremble in their grip against his pants.

He’s so close, so close, so close, too close.

Arthur can’t watch anymore, doesn’t trust himself to move without grabbing Francis and embarrassing himself, so he stiffens every muscle in his body and waits blindly. It feels cowardly, to be hiding in plain sight like he is, but everything is happening so fast and it’s too overwhelming for his already fragile heart.

Seconds pass, and anticipation plays a cruel hostess, but nothing ever really comes. Eventually, he does feel the gentle patting of Francis’ hand against his cheek, which prompts him to open his eyes. Francis has leaned back, given him a good berth of space once again, and there seems to be a forlorn smile on his face, mirrored only by the set of his eyes.

“You should take a break, Arthur. I think work is beginning to get to you.”

Arthur nods dumbly, swallows past a dry tongue as Francis stands and briskly leaves his office. The air around him feels thick and too warm, magnified by the loss of his company, and Arthur - appearing worse for wear - collapses into his chair, clutching at a chest that aches too badly.

“What does love feel like for you?”

Alfred stops mid bite, head turning slowly to cast a shellshocked glance at Arthur, who’s sitting next to him on a snow-covered park bench. The evening draws nearer, with the overcast sky offering little light from the waning sun. Arthur pays no mind to Alfred’s gawking, waiting patiently with his hands stuffed into the warm confines of his coat. His head is tilted down, chin tucked into the expanse of his collar, and thick brows furrowed into what appears to be a frown.

Alfred swallows his food, and takes his sweet time with wrapping up the remainder of his meal, all the while nodding to himself as if he were mentally rehearsing what to say. He stuffs the metallic wrapper into his bag and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together.

Finally, he answers, “It feels like… scary stuff. Like… holy shit, this is happening and I don’t think I’m ready, but at the same time? I want it. I mean, at least the real deal does. That’s what it was like for me the first time it happened.”

“You were scared?” Arthur leans forward as well, mirroring Alfred’s posture as he turns his head to study the other. There’s not many people lingering around them anymore, not with nightfall coming so soon and the temperatures dropping with the hour. The lamps around them are beginning to turn on, casting golden glows across the snow-covered expanse. If Arthur’s nose didn’t hurt from the biting wind, it would have almost been cozy.

“Heck yeah. I was friggin’ terrified. I didn’t know what to do with myself, or if things would even happen. But you just gotta ride it out, you know? Sometimes you gotta say screw it, and just let the pieces fall where they may. If something happens, stick with it. See where it goes. And if not? Well, then whoop-dee-doo.” Alfred peers over at him, lips quirking in a peculiar way. “Why’re you asking?”

“I’m just curious,” Arthur begins, but let’s himself end it there. No need to begin blathering on about his love life, or rather, his lack of one.

In typical Alfred fashion, however, his company refuses to let the subject drop without a fight. “Hey man, you got those fuzzy feelings for someone? Is it who I think it is?”

And Arthur, for some unfathomable, thoughtless reason, gives in almost immediately, which has Alfred’s mouth falling open in surprise, “I think… maybe…”

“Woah,” Alfred does a double take, blinks at Arthur in disbelief. He mimics rubbing his eyes, which has Arthur scowling and turning away, muttering about how childish Alfred can be. “Have you, uh… told him yet? I mean, does he feel the same way?”

“I don’t bloody friggin’ know.” Arthur bites out in a groan, shifting to rest his cheek in his hand. He still refuses to look at Alfred, mostly because his face must be flaming red and he doesn’t want the other’s gratification at his expense. “I can’t tell, but I feel like- It’s sort of like- I- Urghh.”

“That’s harsh.” Alfred does come off as sympathetic, which does soothe Arthur’s bitter mood a bit. Arthur is grateful that he’s at least taking him seriously. “It’s a whole different story when you know you both got it bad for each other, but… Man, sorry. I wish I could tell you what to do, but I don’t wanna come off as one of those ‘Just say how you feel!’ type people. Because that jazz never helps.”

“I’m glad you at least realize that.” A sigh slips past Arthur’s lips, long and weary and steamy in the cold evening air.

“You can always wait, you know. See if he does something. That’s a good way to tell if he’s into you.”

“That’s a spineless thing to do.” Arthur retorts, though there’s no real argument in his tone.

“Yeah, but,” Alfred makes a noise of contemplation, a small, quick hum in the back of his throat. “If you’re too scared to ruin your friendship or whatever, there’s no shame in that. Saving face, I mean. Best to have that than nothing at all.”

No, Arthur thinks to himself, because existing in the same room as Francis Bonnefoy with all the feelings turning his stomach upside down at the moment would be torture. Moreso to know that Francis wouldn’t, couldn’t feel that way about him in return. “I guess.”

There’s not much more past that, and Alfred is the first to announce that he has to go. He casts a glum look over his shoulder at Arthur before he leaves, which does nothing to bolster Arthur’s confidence in himself. If Alfred is concerned about him, then Arthur knows he must be in a grievous position.

He remains in the park for another half hour, stewing in his thoughts and desires and fears, and letting the slurry of it all weigh down on him like the weight of the world. As the sky blackens, the snowfall from earlier picks back up, depositing thick snowflakes in Arthur’s hair and eyelashes. He blinks them away, coming to the realization that he’ll have to leave soon if he doesn’t want to risk pneumonia.

The walk back to his house is slow, pitifully slow, as the desire to pick his feet up and walk wanes with each step. Arthur passes by houses and flats decorated with twinkling Christmas lights, red and green and blue and a dozen other colors flashing merrily against his clothes. The distant noise of Christmas music can be heard, muted slightly and infectious despite his mood, and it’s deja vu from that day just weeks earlier.  Arthur thinks back to it, misses the lonely simplicity of his life back then, and wonders why the heart is such a cruel thing.

His mind wanders over the catalyst of all of this, questions where his feelings went from unnoticeable to full blown painful, and he decides that it must have been that night in his living room, chatting with Francis and letting the other’s lips descend upon his skin and drink the very life out of him. The amount of trust put into him and returned wholeheartedly must have spoken to Arthur’s heart, because now it won’t shut up about Francis Bonnefoy, and Arthur is weak to its whims.

He’s just a man that wants to find love and make it work, and Arthur is a man who craves love like none other, though doesn’t allow himself to fully have it for some reason.

Oh, what a pitifully sappy pair they would make together. Would.

He eventually spots his house, nestled in between two glowing spires of Christmas lights. The tree is visible through the front window, an attempt to blend in with the neighboring homes, but lacking all the cheer that everyone else seems to have. Arthur takes his sweet time walking up the sidewalk, paying no mind to the stray passerby that still lingers in the late hour.

He comes to a stop in front of the steps leading up to his door, eyeing his home like it’s a stranger beckoning him forward. For a moment, Arthur thinks of how quiet it will be inside, how dark the rooms will be when they’re unused, and how wide his bed will be with just him in it. Half-done meals and unpaid attention to Christmas movie specials. Arguments with himself over the thermostat. That gaudy, awful ornament hanging on the front of his tree with its fanged smile.

That loving scar on his wrist.

Arthur sighs, and begins to ascend the short stairs, but stops mid step and wide-eyed when he hears a voice behind him. “Arthur?”

He turns, slowly, almost in disbelief, but lo and behold, there he is. One Francis Bonnefoy, with a scarf much too big wrapped around his neck and draping down his front. The light colors of his wear absorb the flickering bulbs of the lights around them, and his hair is not tied back, but rather hanging loosely around his shoulders, showing off waves and slight curls that Arthur had truly never noticed.

Francis stands just a few steps below Arthur, alone on the sidewalk and staring up at him with eyes so soft, it hurts to look at. So Arthur lowers his eyes, stares at his fancy boots instead, and contemplates what to say.

“Hey there.” His voice is sluggish, tired and quiet, but clear because there’s no one else around to muffle it. He catches the smallest of smiles on Francis’ face when he spares a quick glance, but doesn’t allow his eyes to linger.

“Hi there.” Francis copies him, his voice a whisper as well, though his tone is much more light, and almost playful. “Out late this evening, I see?”

“I was with a friend. At the park.” Arthur comments dryly, noting that Francis has taken a step forward, placing one boot on his steps and a hand against the icy railing. “Were you wandering through?”

“I was shopping, but yes. I thought I might catch you here.” Francis levels his footing out, now only two steps below Arthur, but still looking up at him with that endearing smile. “I’m glad I did.”

“Oh?” It’s a double-edged blade, splitting both pain and happiness down the middle, because it’s a wonderful thing to hear, but makes his heart ache. “Why is that?”

“Well, you see,” Francis’ averts his eyes down, his fingers coming to toy with each other. His mouth becomes covered by that awfully large scarf, and something about the image of that makes Arthur’s heart skip a beat, because he’s so beautiful. Like a walking model unaware of their intense draw. “I happen to enjoy seeing you.”

“I honestly don’t understand why.” He means it as a deprecative joke, but it comes out sounding so bitter, it hurts.

“I just do.” Francis reassures him, hand reaching out to straighten a crooked button on Arthur’s coat. “I like your intuition on things. And your work ethic. And those dry jokes.” Another step up, and one step away now. “And those sweater vests aren’t so bad. And that inherent kindness that often shows. And..” Another step up. Arthur’s lips part on nothing but air. Francis finishes toying with the button on his coat, instead letting his hand trail up to skim the side of Arthur’s face, before pushing back into his hair. “Your eyes, too. I especially like those.”

“I…” Arthur can’t find the words, can’t believe what is unfolding right before his eyes. The circumstances seem too unreal, something out of a storybook rather than real life. Francis lingers closer, scratches lightly at Arthur’s scalp, which nearly has him droning out a noise of delight. Arthur can’t believe how touch-starved he feels at the moment.

“And I’ve always wondered. What would it be like if I…”

No words spoken past that, only the softest press of Francis’ lips against his own. Arthur can’t suppress the shuddering breath that leaves him, and racks his form with a violent tremble, but Francis is quick to catch him, steady him with a hand placed at the small of his back.

Fingers untangle from his hair, drifting down his face to touch gently at his chin, and pushing with just the barest amount of pressure, enough to tilt Arthur’s head, and then Francis is really kissing him. And oh, Arthur feels his heart swell, feels as though his chest may burst, like the world can’t give him enough air to breathe.

Francis draws him close, wraps the entirety of his arm around Arthur’s waist, moves his hand to the back of his head to hold him steady, and Arthur feels like he may collapse into his arms, because it’s so wonderful, too wonderful. All he can feel is the press of Francis’ lips against his own, his chest against his, and Francis’ hands demanding intimacy from him.

The scent of him, sweet and alluring and comforting all in one, everywhere around Arthur. His skin, cold and foreign and strangely pleasing, pressing against his own. Strands of Francis’ hair touching and tickling Arthur’s cheeks, just as soft as always.

Arthur is lost in him.

He doesn’t quite realize it when Francis pulls away, eyes still closed, body still singing with praise about what just happened. Bulbs going off everywhere, nerves tingling with excitement, mind and thought lost in a euphoric mess.

Arthur only opens his eyes when he hears his name be spoken again, “Arthur?” He doesn’t trust his voice, knows it might break if he answers Francis, so he only nods in reply. Francis offers him a lopsided smile at that, pulling him close and tilting their heads so that they rest against each other. If Arthur couldn’t look him in the eye before, he had no choice but to now. “May I spend the evening with you again?”

“Do you have to ask?” It’s breathless and shaky, but he needs to speak, lest he salvage some part of his pride.

Arthur breathes in a deep breath, exhales slowly to calm himself, and takes the opportunity to kiss Francis again. His hands clutch at the scarf about the other’s neck, and his kiss is more aggressive, less measured and not nearly as tame, but Francis apparently enjoys it, because he’s pulling Arthur tight against him, hands carding messily through his hair as they nearly stumble about the steps.

Lips part and teeth clack and the wet slide of a tongue can be felt against his mouth, and Arthur is hungry for it, desperate for more and worried that there’s not enough time, even though there is. He pushes just a bit too hard, and both him and Francis are nearly sent slipping down the steps, but Francis catches the both of them, pulling away with a breathless laugh. “ Mon coeur !”

Arthur can’t be bothered to feel embarrassed over the matter, too high from their kiss and fuzzy from the entirety of it all. His eyes wander over Francis’ amused faced, stopping at his lips, where they linger for a few seconds. Without thinking, he blurts out, “I can’t see your breath.”

Francis goes quiet at that, brows shooting up on his face and lips pursing to hide a smile. Finally, he coughs out a laugh, his hands coming to rest on Arthur’s shoulders. “Of all things to say afterwards, you choose that? Oh, dieu, Arthur. You are so endearing.”  

Arthur’s cheeks do go red at that, and he rolls his eyes at Francis, “What would you rather me say then?”

“How about this,” Francis murmurs, hands coming to cup his face again. He leans forwards, presses a kiss to Arthur’s forehead, and then his cold nose, and finally, a prolonged one to his lips. “I love you?”

That steals the breath right out of Arthur’s lungs, and if his heart hadn’t burst before, then it definitely did now. He balks at Francis, searching his face for any trace of a lie, of hesitation to prove that this wasn’t really happening. All he finds is that serene smile, that utmost confidence and blatant trust that the two had somehow forged between each other.

Arthur slowly begins to shake his head, and that’s when Francis’ smile falters, his lips turning down into an expression full of apprehension, and it’s a ghost of all the other times Francis’ fears had been bared to Arthur; that trepidation of being cast aside and stigmatized and left alone like always. But then Arthur is whispering out, voice nearly hoarse with the words he speaks, “I… I love you.”

“You… do?” Francis’ voice is meek and painfully guarded.

“I do.”

“Oh,” Francis breathes out, stares blankly ahead, as if letting the words finally sink in. And then Arthur is swept into a hug so tight, it makes his ribs hurt. “Oh, Arthur. Mon beau, mon coeur, amour .”

Arthur huffs out a breathless laugh, finally allowing his hands to card through that hair he’s always wanted to touch. He pulls Francis close, lets the other rest their head on the top of his shoulder as they belt out a string of endearments and other things he’s not sure of in French. It’s the first time he’s ever heard Francis babble on in his native language, and something about it makes his smile grow wider.

Eventually, he does pull back, and Francis is forced to do the same. Arthur is shocked to see the shimmering line of tears waiting in Francis’ eyes, but then he remembers the circumstances in which Francis was thrust into, and he fully understands why. This was what he had been looking for, had been fearing that he may never have due to his physiology, had spilled to Arthur in a moment of vulnerability all those weeks ago. And he may have just found it.

No… he did find it.

Arthur traces a finely sculpted brow with his finger, touches upon those permanent blemishes underneath Francis’ eyes, but doesn’t feel any tears there yet. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

Francis chokes out laugh and nods eagerly, “More for your benefit than mine, love.”

Contrary to his earlier thoughts, Arthur does not sleep alone that night.

Many things change, but work stays the same.

Well, not entirely. There’s a few minute changes, like the lack of annoyance at the not-so-new-anymore coworker across the hallway. Exchange annoyance for slightly less annoyed punctuated with sudden bouts of adoration, and you have Arthur Kirkland.

Francis doesn’t smother him, to which Arthur is grateful, but he’s open with his fondness and he’s not afraid to plaster himself to him. Of all the things Francis could have given him, touch is one that Arthur is probably the most grateful for, and he drinks in the affection greedily, like a man wandering the desert.

Often, Arthur will be in the midst of work, only to look up over the top of his monitor to see Francis staring at him from across the hallway. When he’s caught red handed, he merely blows a kiss in Arthur’s direction. The first time, Arthur had caught it, and pretended to stow it away in his drawer, earning an earnest laugh from Francis that could be heard throughout the building.

Alfred was quick to notice, though not by any normal measures. He probably would have went along uninformed, if not for the not-so-inconspicuous marks lining Arthur’s neck. Or the bed of scars that formed and reformed over a single spot, right where his pulse ran hardest and Francis could feel his heartbeat against his lips.

“Hey,” Alfred had dragged out the word, leaning over Arthur’s desk and wagging an accusatory finger at him.

The grin on his face irked Arthur to no end, and he knew exactly what was going to come out of his mouth. “Not a single word.”

“But Artie, come on! You gotta spill the saucy stuff to me. What happened? Also, you ain’t hiding anything with that, y’know? Come on-”

“Not. A. Single. Word.” Arthur had glared at him, shoving his own finger in Alfred’s face, like a parent chastising a child. That hadn’t been the end of it, of course, but had Arthur expected any less from Alfred? Honestly, the other’s exuberance at his pairing with Francis was a bit flattering, even if he hid it underneath a layer of practiced irritation.

However, the best time was when evenings came. When the process of clocking out didn’t mean returning to an empty house, but rather, walking hand-in-hand with Francis Bonnefoy as he excitedly babbled on about what they should do that evening. He seemed to have no qualms with spending nearly every night in Arthur’s bed, innocently or not.

That was an entirely different experience that Arthur hadn’t been one-hundred percent prepared for, given Francis’ certain appetite. It’s also one he’s not too keen on talking about… just yet.

He was sure of one thing. Late at night, when he can’t find sleep or it eludes him, and he’s left staring around his bedroom with tired eyes, it’s nice to let them land on Francis’ sleeping form, to feel his chest rise and fall underneath his hand. He knows he’ll be there in the morning, chatting away at Arthur while he grumpily pleads for extra sleep or hopes the other will quieten his voice.

It’s nice when he gets to spend Christmas Eve with Francis and Alfred, and the two get along swimmingly. It’s worse when Francis starts talking about their love live, and Alfred won’t shut up with his childish jabs. But it’s better when they’ve all exhausted each other of conversation and gifts, and get to see each other home.

It’s better when, instead of sipping New Year’s away in his living room, he’s dragged out of his home by Francis, who demands to be a part of the celebration.

It’s better when Arthur can fall into his bed, and feel arms wrap around his waist just mere seconds later.

It’s better when his home finally has another occupant, and not just anyone, but perhaps the love of his life.

Life is better.