Author's Note + apology at the bottom

Five or six wine samplers later, Arthur was still sitting with Francis, and, much to the Frenchman's surprise, wasn't insanely drunk yet.

Arthur set down the empty fiberglass cup on the blue table cover. He gave a soft sigh, and surveyed the crowd that had stuffed themselves into the convention hall. It was almost amazing how many people you could cram into a room, lined up like sardines, walking around trying to get a sip of alcohol here and there. Even with the tables, the room was packed. It seemed the sponsors had not expected so many people.

Arthur pondered somewhere in the back of his mind whether this was because of the critics. He noticed some people were chatting with the critics more than they were taste testing; in fact, the man that was standing before Francis was doing just that. The Frenchman was trying to be agreeable, but the pompous fellow was giving him a hard time. A woman standing next to him, presumably his friend, looked over at Arthur and gave a little wave, looking apologetic.

"Vhat are you saying? Zhat zhis is a vine suited for nobility?"

"Monsieur, I assure you, I only stated zhat zhe wine was of regal flavor and zhat it 'ad a smooth finish."

Before the man could shoot back a retort, the girl from behind him pulled on his sleeve. He turned, "Vhat is it?"

"We are holding up se line, come on, let's go."

He watched her for a second, then gave a huff, and surrendered. He turned, starting to work his way through the crowd, and his companion grabbed his hand quickly. Before they were gone, she turned and apologized about her husband being such a 'douchenozzle'.

Arthur and Francis watched her leave. 'Douchenozzle'. Who even said that?

Other than the occasional unsatisfied customer, the wine convention was rather uneventful. Most of the time, Arthur sat there, people-watching and sipping wine. Francis spoke to the people that came up to him, advising wine or chatting. Of course, there was the occasional flirting too. It was Francis after all.

Nearer to the end of the convention, a woman came up to the stand, smirking down at Francis.

Francis seemed to pause for a moment, then, "Jeanne!" He broke out into a smile, standing up so he could give each of her cheeks a light peck on either side; she returned the gesture. Arthur watched from his seat, slightly curious who this girl was. He had never seen her before, nor had he ever heard Francis utter that name.

Jeanne noticed Arthur's face, and glanced over at him, looking him up and down, her eyes almost turned hungry for a fraction of a second before Francis broke her out of her trance with a dark chuckle. "Jeanne, you are zhinking of stealing my 'usband away from me, are you not?"

She turned, smirking right back, "And if I was?"

"I would 'ate to ruin zhat pretty face,"

Jeanne gave a laugh, similar to Francis', but higher. "Oh, stop darling. I know you wouldn't destroy somezhing prettier zhan youself."

"Ohohon, you zhink so?" The rivalry between the two was almost tangible, and before Francis could finish his probably-snarky-response, the woman cut over him, "So, aren't you going to introduce me?" She shot a quick glance over in Arthur's direction, and met Francis' eyes, that seemed to light up a little bit.

"Zhis is Arzhur Kirkland, Arzhur, this is Jeanne Benoit. I 'ave known her since I was un petite enfant!"

Arthur nodded, standing up and reaching out a hand to shake on a greeting. If he was going to be introduced, he was going to do it properly. Jeanne's lips twitched in a smile, and she reached forward, grabbing the Englishman's hand in a firm shake. He was quite surprised how strong the shake was, not expecting such a solid grip.

"It's good to meet you, darling," Jeanne purred before she retracted her manicured hand, "'opefully zhis… degenerate… 'asn't treated you too badly."

"Oh, uh, no," Arthur said stiffly, still standing up awkwardly. Degenerate was a bit of a harsh word, even if it was Francis, but she had said it in such a way that it seemed more good-humored than malicious. Hesitantly, the Englishman took his seat again, watching her as she averted her attention back to a pouting Francis.

"Anyway darling, I just wanted to pop in," then in an instant, she slipped into her native language, and the two were off in a high-speed conversation, words tumbling out of their mouths at 90mph, not giving any indication that Arthur was even there. The Englishman, only knowing a couple words, felt a little left out. He wasn't going to show it though. His pride protected him from that, and leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of a wine sample that he hadn't cared to finish.

After a few more minutes of this incessant chatter, Jeanne glanced at her wristwatch, the face lying on the inside of her wrist. She frowned slightly, then her face brightened, "Well, I 'ave to go or I'll be late. Au revoir, darling."

Jeanne and Francis exchanged goodbye kisses, then Jeanne turned to Arthur, and gave him kisses on the cheek too. She then swept away, quick and graceful, almost similar to Francis to some extent. Flushed and a bit annoyed at her familiarity, Arthur turned to Francis, "So who exactly was she?" he asked crossly. Francis smiled lightly at him, "She is an old friend of mine; we grew up togezher." The Frenchman rarely talked about his childhood, so Arthur perked up, listening intently now. "She lived in the town 'ouse next to mine; I used to hide over at 'er 'ouse when my parents became unbearable."

Arthur nodded a little, understanding the problems with family.

"So," Francis sighed, "Zhat is zhat." He glanced up at the clock on the wall. "We should probably leave in a couple 'ours, maybe figure out what to 'ave for dinner." the Frenchman leaned back in his chair a bit before glancing over at his husband, awaiting a response. Arthur nodded slightly, "Yes, that sounds like a splendid idea."

Two hours later, the hype had died down, and most of the remaining people were either quietly drunk or had built up a tolerance and could take such alcohol in large amounts. Most of the other critics had left already, but Francis decided to stay a bit longer, introducing Arthur to a couple people who had dared to ask who he was. Arthur did look quite out of place at the critics table; there were no papers in front of him, no people talking to him, just a pile of empty sampler cups and a bored look. People-watching was something Arthur enjoyed, yes, but not for long hours in an uncomfortable chair. When he stood up to leave, he swayed a little, and grabbed Francis' arm to steady himself. How much wine did he drink? It couldn't have been that much!

"You alright zhere?" Smirk. "'ad a bit too much to drink?"

"I bloody have not! I am perfectly stable!"

Francis snorted, "Like 'ell you are, mon cher," and he took Arthur's other hand, helping him to steady himself further.

Once Arthur was on his feet and did not appear to be in any danger of toppling over, Francis released him, and gathered up his stuff, which wasn't much all things considered. It was merely a coat and some other small belonging that had found themselves unattached to his body through the course of the evening.

"I'm a bit hungry," Arthur murmured, straightening himself up as he fixed his jacket. "D' ya fancy a dinner out? It doesn't have to be anything extravagant, mind you, just a dinner."

"Oui, zhat would be nice, especially since we cannot use our stove anymore, hm?" Francis shot him a look out of the corner of his eye, accompanied by a smirk.

"Sod off, tosser," Arthur hissed lowly, not really wanting to draw attention to himself in this nearly-empty hall now.

"What was zhat? I could not 'ear you, mon petite lapin. Soin de répéter?"

Francis was just playing with him now, and the Englishman was not going to stand for it.

"You know bleeding well what I said," Arthur muttered crossly.

Francis pouted a little, realizing he was going to get no fun out of Arthur, and he wasn't drunk enough to fall for petty tricks today.

"Where would you like to go? Any place in mind?" The Frenchman asked, pushing in his chair and beginning to scud around the judge table, Arthur following after him in a brisk-but-slightly-out-of-it manner.

"Naaah, I wasn't thinking a' any place in particular," Arthur mused, "What about that pub, The Acorn?"

Francis gave it a thought, "I suppose so. Zhey won't 'ave anyzhing fit for my superior palate but I will give it a try. At least it would be better zhan zhe alternative."

Arthur shot his husband a glare, "If yooou are implyin' 'the alternative' is my cooking–" he started, but Francis interrupted him.

"I said nozhing of zhe sort."

Arthur silently fumed, shooting daggers at the Frenchman's back as they walked down the long ballroom to the exit door.

It wasn't long before they were outside and slipping into the car again, off to somewhere else. By now, Arthur was a bit sick of this car, but it was better than being in that hard judges' chair. Anything was better than that.

They drove in a comfortable silence, Arthur's mind swimming with all the recent events. The alcohol didn't help much either, making his emotions feel just a tad more extreme.

Francis, on the other hand, was half paying attention to where he was and where he was going, and half thinking about all the particulars of his job, like where the critique would go and when it would be published, etc.

Thankfully for Arthur, the ride wasn't a very long one. They were quite a ways out from their apartment, but still close enough to the convention hall for it to be a convenient place to stop and grab some chow before taking the lengthy drive home.

The pub was a nice one. It wasn't some dirty hole-in-the-wall, nor was it a huge, unfriendly franchise. It was just a medium-sized, two-story brick building with a green sign hanging over the door with the words "THE ACORN" written on it in white. The inside was always warm and comfortably full, with simple yet relaxing wooden chairs and tables.

Subsequent to parking the car, the two wandered inside the building, finding themselves a seat amongst the filled tables.

As soon as their bottoms hit the seats, there was a waitress standing over their table, placing two laminated menus before them. "Um, velcome to the Acorn," she greeted shyly but in a very polite manner. "Vhat can I get for you today?" With the hand that held her pen, she pushed back her hair out of her face along with a ribbon tied firmly in her short blonde hair.

"Water, s'il vous plaît." Francis responded immediately, giving a smile, "And coffee for my friend 'ere,"

"I do not want bloody coffee! You will not order fer me!" Arthur fumed, turning to the girl who had slightly recoiled at his outburst, "Do you serve lager here?"

"Non, no more alcohol for you mon chéri, you are drunk as it is!"

"Bollocks! I'm not drunk; you're tha one that's drunk! I, ugh," a wave of nausea came over Arthur, and he leaned back in his chair, putting a finger over his mouth for a moment. He was not to be sick in here.

This moment of silence was all Francis needed, "Get 'im a coffee, zhe strong kind."

"Yes, right avay sir!" she murmured hastily, turning around and scampering away.

The Brit seemed to calm down a little, "Bloody hell, you coulda at least gotten tea instead, coffee is atrocious!"

France ignored his husband, nodding after the girl, "Now look at zhat. You frightened 'er."

"If something frightened her, it was you, with your unruly hair an' ugly goatee!" the Brit hissed, seeming to get his second wind.

"Zhis is NOT," Francis said, deeply offended, "A goatee. Zhis is a perfectly carved beard, not zhat a frump like you would know!"

"A, A frump?!" Arthur huffed, "I'll have ya know I am perfectly fashionable!"

Francis gave a dry laugh, "Only after I zhrew 'alf of your clozhes out."

Arthur puffed out, gritted his teeth, "Come ta think of it, you did, didn't you! What the fuck is wrong with you; those were some a' my best clothes!"

"If by 'best' you mean passé, zhen oui, zhey were your best clozhes," Francis replied flatly, glancing over the menu without a single look toward his husband.

"Oi, oi, what if I was to throw out aaall of your bloody 'passé'," he practically spat out the word, "clothes! You wouldn't be happy, wouldn't you!"

"I would be perfectly fine."

"What?! Liar! You are so concerned about your appearance you spend a whole hour sometimes trying to decide what you'll bloody wear that day! And when I try ta help you, you just fucking brush me off! You tell me you've got it figured out an' that you don't need any help but then you take more time and I just think that's total bollocks! Don't try to fool me; I know you care 'bout your clothes! You'd probably blub up a fucking storm if I threw your clothes out!"

"Mon chéri, you forget, none of my clozhes are drab like yours. Zhere wouldn't be anyzhing to zhrow out."

Arthur scowled, jabbing his pointer finger and middle finger in an upward direction, in an 'up yours' hand gesture.

There was a clunk of a glass on the table, which snapped both of them out of their quarrel. The girl was back with their drinks, and looking just a little rattled. She was probably new; it wasn't like this pub didn't have rowdy customers now and again.

"Are you ready to order?" she asked sheepishly as soon as the drinks were placed in front of the right people.

"Well?" Francis asked, casting his gaze over to Arthur. The Englishman sat up a bit straighter, glaring at his husband before saying to the waitress in a sloppy manner, "If you have steak and kidney pie," he paused and didn't finish.

"Um, ja, yes, I mean, yes ve do," she sputtered, then turned to Francis.

"I will 'ave the open cauliflower cheese pie s'il vous plait," he said with a dashing smile in her direction.

She scribbled something down on her notepad before politely excusing herself, informing them their food would be out soon.

The food came at an average pace. Definitely not the 'soon' they were promised, but it mattered not. The food was respectable; nothing to write home about, but tasty enough that the couple would probably return in the future.

By the time they were finished and paying the bill, Arthur was slightly quieter, but no less drunk that he had been. It was enough for Francis that they weren't the center of attention anymore.

Francis stood; made sure he had everything, then extended a hand to his husband, who was starting to slow down and get tired. The Frenchman at least wanted to get Arthur in the car before he passed out. It would be so troublesome to drag him out to the car from the restaurant, not to mention how it would require Francis to do physical labor.

Arthur slapped his hand away, pushing himself out of the chair hastily. "I dun need any bloody help," he tried to hiss, but it just came out tired and slurred.

As they proceeded outside, Francis kept an eye on his husband. Who knows when the Englishman would decide to take a topple, and once he hit the ground, he'd probably refuse to get up, or be seriously pissed off, or both for that matter.

To Francis' relief, they got to the car without a hitch, and Arthur let himself into the passenger's seat with a slam. His husband slipped into the driver's seat, and started the car. He pulled out and began driving. There wasn't much traffic out, but Arthur was already letting out a stream of mumbled curses. After about five minutes however, he stopped, and his breathing was leveled out to a soft and shallow rhythm.

Parking their cramped car in a slot, Francis opened his door to meet the cool night air. A part of him wanted to ditch Arthur in the car, make up some excuse, but another part told him he should bring his husband in, so he didn't catch a cold. Arthur was always the worst when he had a cold. Additionally, it was the polite thing to do.

Francis moved around to the passenger's side, opening the door carefully, just in case Arthur was leaning on the door. He wasn't. The Frenchman shook him, seeing if he could wake him up; perhaps he'd be able to walk so Francis wouldn't have to carry him. But, no luck. Arthur was out like a light.

Francis stooped down, taking his husband around the waist and trying to hoist him up. Wow, he was heavy. Really heavy. Francis could not get him three inches off the seat. He let out a little curse in French, before placing his husband back on his spot. Letting out a sigh, he realized he was in need of assistance.

The Frenchman closed the doors, deciding he didn't need to lock them, and continued up to his favorite neighbor's apartment. Antonio didn't work out excessively, but he did a lot more manual labor and, Francis figured, between the two of them, one little Brit wasn't going to be a problem.

He rapped on the Spaniard's door. Antonio opened his door, only in a grey t-shirt and tomato boxers.

"What is it, mi amigo?" he asked in his usual cheerful way.

"I was curious if you could 'elp me get Arzhur into zhe apartment. 'e is too 'eavy for me."

"Claro!" The Spaniard slid out of his room, following his French friend down to the parking lot, not bothering to change into anything different. It didn't matter to him.

Together, the two of them lifted the Brit out of the car, and up the stairs toward the apartment. When the two finally got the door open, and Arthur inside, they didn't bother to put him to bed, and instead placed him onto the couch.

"Oy," the Spaniard complained, stretching his arms upward,

"He is heavy."

Francis let out the breath he had been holding in, like a steam-powered train sighing to a halt. He muttered something in French, but it either was disregarded, or it was deemed unimportant, because the next moment Antonio was at the door.

"Amigo, I am out. I am going to sleep. Buenas noches."

"Bonne nuit."

And he was gone.

Sorry it took me forever to update. I've actually had this chapter pretty much done for a while, so it's inexcusable. I'm going to try to get back on the ball with this fanfiction here, because I really do want to continue it and get to some later parts. Thank you for bearing with me on this, and thank you for reading.