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Chapter Text

In all honesty, Arthur Kirkland didn't know whether to be flattered by the the damn Frog or annoyed. Every single day, the wanker would prance into Arthur's flower shop and buy a rose. One red Hybrid Tea Rose. And then, that self-conceited twat would give that rose to Arthur. Every time, Arthur would tell him to sod off, but the Frog would laugh and give him the rose.

Arthur chose to be annoyed. Today, he was going to bloody tell Francis off. The door to his store opened, the bell chiming. "Bonjour!" Speak of the devil.

Francis Bonnefoy was, truthfully, not bad looking. He had long blond hair that he always tied back with a ribbon that matched his outfit, lilac today. He had blue eyes, like the sky, Arthur's traitorous mind supplied.

"Bugger off Frog." Arthur scowled and continued to arrange the bouquet of English Roses he had started on earlier that morning.

"Ohonhon, is that anyway to treat a customer?" Francis leaned across the counter. Did that tosser not have any bloody concept of personal space? Oh wait, he's French. Duh.

"I'm sorry, but we don't serve Frogs." Arthur stated while cutting the stems of the roses, "And before you even ask, I don't want your damn rose."

"Well, I wasn't going to give you one today, mon lapin." Arthur looked up, surprised, only to find that Francis was much, much too close to his face for his liking. “Wha-”

Francis bloody fucking kissed him. Rather well. Francis had incredibly soft and smooth lips. And they seemed like they were built to be on Arthur’s own lips. Arthur was suddenly very aware of the warm hand, the Frog’s warm hand, drawing small circles on his neck with his thumb.

Then, Francis’s tongue was in his mouth, and the hand was temporarily forgotten. The tosser’s skillful tongue gently mapped out Arthur’s mouth in gliding sweeps. Tsk, French.

Arthur pushed forwards, not willing to be dominated, Francis or not. The passion of the kiss soon elevated. Arthur let out a low breathy moan, and then quickly stopped himself. Goddamn it, he was not aroused by the damn Frog.

After what seemed like eternity and at the same time a second, they parted. Arthur became acutely aware that his hair was tousled and his sweater vest was crooked, and he had just bloody fucking kissed Francis Bonnefoy.

Francis, seeming to know what Arthur was thinking, smirked. He stepped back and took a mock bow. “Au Revoir,” He said, still grinning as he walked out the door. The bell chimed behind him.

For a few seconds, Arthur could only stare. Then, “Frog! Come back here! You can’t just enter my shop and not buy anything!”

Chapter Text

Arthur aggressively flipped the "open" sign on his door to "closed". He had been stewing all day about what that bloody Frog did. How dare him! Arthur flipped the lights off and slammed the poor door of his florist shop shut behind him. It took him a few sodding tries to lock the door as he was literally shaking with anger.

Arthur paused and took a few deep breaths. "Ok, get a hold of yourself Arthur. I know that tosser is a pain in the arse, but get it together," He flicked out a pack of cigarretts, took one out, and lit it with his Union Jack lighter (a gag gift from one of his brothers), "I need a bloody coffee." A tea would be nice, but he really, really needed some soothing caffeine. Arthur pulled out an old pocket watch. 8:00 pm. His favorite coffee shop already closed, goddamn it. Arthur sighed. He would have to go to that Starbucks. At least it was close to home.
When he got to the generic coffee shop, it was empty except for a lone employee cleaning the counter. Arthur pushed open the door, an annoying bell chime announcing his arrival. The employee turned around, "Welcome to Starbucks! How can I-"

"What are you doing here, you fucking wanker!" Arthur stared at the cause of all his tension who was currently wearing a green apron.

"Well, I work here, mon lapit. What would you like to order?"

Arthur stared some more. "A small cup of light roast coffee," He finally ground out.

"Of course, of course," Francis smiled, grabbing a paper cup and turning around to prepare Arthur's drink, "Here you go, one tall blonde."

"What?" Arthur's expression must had been hilarious because Francis giggled. "Oh, mon ange, that's what we call it here. Be sure to come again."

Arthur snatched the cup out of Francis' hand, grumbling, "Not in my lifetime, Frog. Sod off." He walked out sipping at his coffee, black like his damned soul. When he had walked a block and a half, he finally noticed. "You bloody fucking Frog!" A few nearby pigeons scattered in alarm at his sudden outburst, and a homeless guy gave him a weird look.

The sodding twat had written "Artie" on the cup. In looping cursive. And with a little heart dotting the i. How dare him! Arthur mentally swore never to go to that damn Starbucks again.

(MotherTrucking Time-skip)

"Hello! Welcome to Starbucks! How can I help you today, mon lapin?" Francis smirked smugly.

"A tall blonde," Arthur said, internally screaming. He had woken up late and tired. He blamed it entirely on the Frog. He need caffeine and he needed it fast. So here he was. And Arthur was seriously regretting it.

"Here you go!" Francis held out his hand.

"What?" Arthur blinked.

"One tall blonde," Francis said smirking, "Although I know some people who would argue about the tall part."

Arthur gaped at him. "I-I… Fuck off, twat!"

Francis pouted, "Now that's not very polite, mon amor. Here's your coffee." Francis leaned over the counter, and pecked a kiss onto Arthur's seething forehead.
Arthur took the coffee abruptly from Francis and spun around. Just before the door closed behind him, Francis called out, "Have a nice day, mon ange! I'll see you later."

Arthur's face turned red with rage, yes rage, that's what it was, not embarrassment, desire, or godforbid, love! "Piss off you sodding bastard!" He snarled. And it was most definitely disgust that made his stomach do it a flip when Arthur saw a new nickname on the cup. "Iggy" complete with another little heart dotting the i.

Chapter Text

“Has anyone told you that you’re a brat?”

“I love you too, mon lapin.”

Arthur and Francis walked down by the beach, ice cream cones in hands, as the dusk illuminated waves crashed steady on the sand. This was not a date. Definitely not a date. Francis was just buying food for Arthur to make up for all the times he was a pain in the arse. And the beach was so nice right now, so they’re walking. Nothing romantic here at all. No sir.

“Let’s sit, Iggy,” Francis said in a sing song tone, pointing to a row of benches on the beach, facing the blue sea. Arthur reluctantly, very reluctantly, sat down with the frog. He took a bite of vanilla cone.

“Enjoying that?”

“It’s a pretty decent cone of ice cream of being American made,” Arthur said even more reluctantly. He looked up and noticed the leer on the Frenchman’s face.

“Oh bugger off!” Arthur stood up.

“No, no. Sit down. It was just a joke, Angleterre.”

It would be impolite to leave now. I mean, the bastard had bought Arthur ice cream. As the gentleman, he should stay. Not because he wanted to or anything! Because it was polite. So he sat down.

“You have a little something…” The frog leaned, (personal space much?) and gently, oh so gently, and brush his thumb on the corner of Arthur’s lips. His hand was a warm weight that ghosted against his face. As Francis removed his hand, Arthur found himself wishing for his hand back. Only because it was warm though! That was the only reason. There was nothing romantic or sexy or attractive at all about that man. Nothing!

Francis, seemingly oblivious (was he thought? Was he?), leaned back and brought his ice cream smudged thumb up to his own mouth, sucking the entire thing into his mouth, parting his plush, soft looking lips. Arthur found himself fixated on that mouth and what it was doing. His mind started to wander to less innocent topics. How would those beautiful, rosy lips look wrapped around…….

“You're blushing, mon lapin,” Francis leered some more, waggling his eyebrows, “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Fuck off,” Arthur shot back, blushing even more.

“We could do that. Your place or mine?”

At this point, Arthur resembled a strawberry.

Francis smiled, “I kid. It would be very unromantic wouldn't it?”

“Romantic? Tsk. Figure you frogs would be obsessed with these useless-uhf.” Francis’s lips pressed onto Arthur's, just as warm, plush, and soft as last time. Arthur's hands flew to the frog’s face and his hair. God, that hair was just as soft as all the times Arthur's imagined it, like fluffy spun gold. Not that Arthur’s imagined it a bunch of time! Just maybe once. Or twice. Arthur found his eyes fluttering shut as the sensations of just a simple kiss overwhelmed him.

Oh, God. Francis’s tongue gently slide against Arthur’s lips in what should have been a gross move, but instead was sweeping and sensual. Arthur groaned as Francis’s tongue swept in, warm and tasting faintly like his pistachio ice cream. It did things that should have been illegal in 47 states. It was possible the hottest thing that ever happened to Arthur. So, of course, it could be forgotten that Arthur immediately started sucking that tongue like a brazen whore. It was just so damn hot.

It seemed like an eternity and a half but yet too short, that they parted, a thin line of saliva pulled out between them. Arthur panted uncontrollably, pants a little too tight. Francis smiled a very lazy smile like the cat that got the cream. His lips were red and swollen, and his pupils were an ink pool surrounded by the thinnest ring of blue. To put it short, he looked fuckable and oozed sex appeal. Arthur licked his lips and wondered how fucked he was.

The answer? Very.

Francis leaned in, “Perhaps romantic ideals right now would be a little…. Unnecessary. So, your place or mine?”

“Do I look like I fucking care, you bastard?”
~~

Chapter Text

Francis laid, half propped up, next to an asleep Arthur in a darkened bedroom. The room smells like tea, alcohol, old books, and something distinctly Arthur. With gentle, slow strokes, Francis petted his hair. Arthur slept soundly, a peaceful expression on his face. Francis smiled, the slow sort of smile that comes from somewhere aching deep within. “Sleep well, mon lapin,” Francis whispered reverently and leaned down to press a chaste kiss above Arthur’s brow.

A couple hours before

“And you’re paying,” Arthur said, looking back at Francis getting out of the car.

“Of course, cher, the gentleman is suppose to pay for the lady is he not?” Francis waggled his eyebrows.

“Hmph.”

Francis locked the car and looked at the dingy pub they had arrived at. “The English. No class whatsoever,” he muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing dear.”

Arthur looked back at Francis, who was definitely not his date, dressed like the fashionable art student he was, not that Arthur cared or was looking, with his easy smile and his silky hair and his french. Arthur felt a fluttering in his stomach, an ache that came from within. Which was from those leftovers he ate yesterday! Of course. He should have thrown them out.

Francis held the door open. “I hope you can hold your alcohol, mon lapin.”

“Better than you, Frog!”

Time skip

“W-why is the world spinning?” Arthur felt his world lurch as he hung on for dear life onto the Frog.

Francis let out a sigh. “Hello, my name is Arthur and I can drink, I swear,” He said in a mock accent.

“Fuck you,” Arthur panted, leaning into the warmth of that bastard.

The two of them struggled their way to the car. Francis paused and pulled out a bottle of water from the glove compartment.
“Thanks,” Arthur murmured, laying down the back seats.

“You better not ruin my car,” Francis said with no bite and a half smile.

“You,” Arthur slurred out, “You are inf-inferu-in-in.” He gave up and fell back onto the seat with a thump. “You know. You’re you.”

“I’m aware of that, cher.”

“But I don’t hate you.”

“Hm? Could you repeat that?”

“I don’t. You heard me. You’re you, so tall and blond and French.” Arthur hiccuped, “But I don’t hate you.” Arthur hiccuped again.

Francis was silent as he started the car and started driving, a quiet purr in contrast to Arthur’s insistent hiccuping in the otherwise silent night.

“S-say something you Frog.”

“I love you too, Arthur.”

Silence filled the car. Francis twisted back to look at the englishman. Arthur laid passed out, sprawled over the seats. A thin line of drool ran from his lips to the black leather of the seats and his hair was mussed and dark, yet Arthur still looked like an angel. Like he always did. Francis ached to put him down on paper with thick charcoal strokes. Usually Arthur looked like an angel of justice, prepared to smite down evil, brimmed with righteous rage. But now? He looked at peace. Francis found himself smiling as he turned around to drive Arthur back home.

Which leads us to where we began. Dark bedroom. Smokey air. Two lovers. (Though they might not yet realize it). There’s something incredibly soft and vulnerable in Francis’ gaze as he lays next to Arthur thinking. His hands smooth over Arthur’s hair, toying with the ends. As he lies there in an unfamiliar bed and yet feels like he belongs, Francis sighs and thinks that he is falling in love with this cranky, foreign, irrational, worrying, infuriating, beautiful man.

(He’s wrong.)

(He’s already in love.)

Chapter Text

Francis, for all his declarations of romance, has never been in love before.

From a young age, he’s been taught to be charming to the ladies, and he does it brilliantly. But it always struck him as superficial. They all like his manner, his looks, this idealized version of him. But he flirts on. He smiles and gives roses to whoever he’s seeing at the moment, telling them that their eyes are like the silver stars, all while feeling so empty.

He thinks Arthur is the first person he’s ever truly loved.

Francis has liked people before. There was that one girl with green eyes and a quiet smile, and there was that one boy with sun kissed skin and contagious joy, but none of them stir up the ache every time Francis looks at Arthur.

Just the act of thinking about that certain Englishman makes his stomach do flips and his chest tighten.

Which seems so wrong. There are so many things about Arthur that should tick him off. He’s got no taste for food whatsoever. His entire wardrobe makes him seem like an old man. His taste in music sounds like cats screaming. He’s constantly drinking even though he can’t hold it. He’s angry all the time. His eyebrows could strangle someone. All these things that should annoy Francis just make Arthur so much more beautiful. It’s so paradoxical and makes Francis want to scream.

Arthur is so brilliant to him. Every angry word spoken just reminds Francis of Arthur’s passion, of his fire, a light that Francis has never seen ever before. Francis has lived his entire life in a state of repetitive actions, a two dimensional picture of fake beauty and plastic sparkles, while Arthur is alive.

Arthur thinks the first time Francis has ever met him was at his flower shop, but it was really much before that. Francis had been dragged by a friend to a bar. It was a shit bar, but the band that was playing was glorious. And Arthur was there, playing guitar, singing. He should have looked cheap with his faux leather pants and piercings, but instead he looked like a man with a passion, a desire to chase something, anything, and achieve. And, God, wasn’t that different?

So he found out where Arthur worked and started visiting, hoping to figure out what this one man had that he didn’t.

In the end, Francis can only conclude that it’s just something that makes Arthur Arthur.

Arthur has fire in his eyes and a quickness in his step, even when he’s doing something as mundane as sweeping a floor. It’s like he plans on taking on the world, by sweeping one floor at a time. It’s ridiculous.

Francis loves it. He loves everything about Arthur. He loves all his bad habits. He loves his attitude. He loves his skills. He loves his music. He loves his eyes. He loves his hands. He loves his accent. He loves his smile. He loves his frown. He loves the little scar on his leg. He just loves Arthur. After so long of wandering, of entertaining flat ideas of love till everything lost its flavor, he met this infuriating, perfect man.

He’s so fucked.

Chapter Text

Arthur, from a young age, has always thrown himself headfirst into things.

Sometimes, this works out great. His band flourished, his grades went up, and his business prospered. But other times, it wasn’t so great.

Arthur has never been loved back the way he loves.

He has thrown his heart out so many times. To that one blond, blue eyed American. To that Spaniard with a perfect smile. But it was always so wrong.

They never loved him back the way he did. Arthur would thrown everything into the relationship, and all he ever got in return was being accused of being “obsessive” and “jealous.” He hated it.

It wasn’t his fault he chased what he wanted. It wasn’t his fault he seemed to have a fire that didn’t burn within anyone else. It wasn’t his fault that he was different.

It hurt, you know? When you realize that you care more than the other person will ever care about you. Realizing that you’re different.

So Arthur closes himself off. Pretends that he doesn’t care when instead, he cares way too much. He gets angry easily. He’s gruff and hard to talk to. He isolates himself. He makes it so no one can hurt him anymore.

And then comes the bloody Frog. Strolling through the door of his shop, as if without a care in the world. (Like Arthur doesn’t know he was at every one of his performances.) And Arthur can feel himself making the same damn mistake.

He tried to stop himself, of course. Suave people usually don’t give a shit. But he couldn’t help himself. This annoying, over-dramatic, fake, french Frog was just so damn beautiful. (Fuck. It’s always the damn blonds.)

Arthur prepared himself for the inevitable crying, breakdowns, and disappointment. But it hasn’t came.

Francis, that fucking brat, actually seems to care. He legitly does. And for all that Arthur tries to stop himself, he finds himself gaining hope. That, maybe, this will work out.

It’s fucking ridiculous, but he still tries. Everyday he waits for the other shoe to drop. But Francis smiles on, like every jealous little action Arthur does is desirable. Arthur is baffled.

Somewhere in his heart, Arthur hopes that what is happening is true. That maybe, this infuriating man could be the one. But he’s afraid that, any day now, it’s going to come crashing down like a house of cards.

And he’s so damn afraid, because he really, really wants Francis to stay. Because Francis makes him feel complete. Francis makes him feel not alone.

Arthur Kirkland goddamn loves Francis Bonnefoy. There, he said it. It’s true. One hundred percent. And he hates it, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

He’s so fucked.