Arthur awoke to sun beams and an agonizing headache. He internally cursed himself for being such a light weight and vowed never to drink again (a vow he knew he'd never keep). He reluctantly looked at the clock which read that it was well past lunch time and he had wasted most of the day by sleeping.

Arthur begrudgingly kicked the covers off of himself and looked down to see that he was in his pajamas. He didn't remember changing in them last and he most certainly wasn't sure why his clothes were neatly folded on top of the dresser. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure he remembered how he got home; the entire night had been a blur. He racked his brain for possible answers, but the harder he thought the more the memories of the previous night fled to far recesses of his mind, and consequently, worsened his headache.

After a quick shower, Arthur moved into the kitchen looking for something that he could fashion into a nice warm breakfast. As he searched, he made sure to set his kettle over the stove so that by the time he found something his water would already be boiling and he could sip at piping hot tea while he cooked breakfast. By the time the steam whistling out of the pot however, there was nothing to be found. Arthur grumbled as he wrote down on a list that he would need groceries for the week.

So much for spending the day trying to recover from this bloody hangover… Arthur thought to himself as he pulled a plain dark grey v-necked shirt over his head. He had to look for his wallet, keys, and cell phones because they weren't where he usually left them. He eventually found his wallet on his dresser under the folded clubbing clothes (Why in hell had he folded them…?) and his keys were in one of the pockets of his coat from the previous night. What consistently evaded him though was his phone. He had searched every possible nook and cranny in every inch of the apartment and still couldn't find it.

"Blast it all…" The cranky Englishman muttered to himself before storming out the door towards the bus stop.

Arthur was grateful that the local grocery store was never busy; he would always prefer a quaint little store as opposed to an overwhelming supermarket. He nonchalantly perused the aisles as the ibuprofen kicked in and the side effects of his nasty hangover began to subside. He strolled through the store plucking an item from the shelf every once in a while. It was a mundane task, but it was relaxing enough for Arthur; he decided that he would rather be on autopilot and bored than suffer another blackout night.

The British man was inspecting some crisp-looking apples when he heard a familiar chuckle.

"Quelle chance! I would 'ave never thought I would run into you today~"

Arthur's eyes widened as he realized who had been speaking to him.

Bloody fucking hell that's just my luck that he would be here of all places… Arthur thought trying to keep his composer together.

"Oh… Mr. Bonnefoy. What a pleasant surprise." Arthur said. He took care to make sure his voice sounded less shocked and more polite, cordial, and businesslike.

Arthur knew his monotonous tone voice wasn't enough to convince the man that he was not completely composed; the Frenchman's eyes glittered with amusement and his slips curled into a knowing smirk. He left his cart to saunter over the Briton who had amusingly returned to his tense and rigid self. Francis took Arthur's hand and placed his other hand delicately on Arthur's upper arm. Arthur stiffened from the unpredicted contact and fought the urge to flinch away and jerk his hand back.

"Arthur," Francis began, his face resembled that of a parent about to gently scold a child with his eyebrows slight drawn up and his mouth a thin line, "What have I told you about addressing me so formally?"

Arthur, unsure how to respond, simply nodded. Francis' lips curled up into a playful smirk and he pulled away.

"You are so shy, mon cher," Francis chuckled, "It is adorable."

At this, Arthur's face immediately flushed and he turned away in an attempt to salvage a bit of dignity. Hurriedly, he readjusted the grocery basket on his arm as he scrambled to regain himself. The task felt impossible to do with those piercing blue eyes watching his every little move.

"Of course. My apologies, Francis." Arthur ground out with a strained smile.

"Much better; that wasn't so hard was it?" Francis said coyly.

Arthur wasn't sure what it was about this man, but something about the Frenchman caused Arthur to want nothing more than to wrap his thin hands around the other's neck and strangle him. Maybe it was the smug little smirk that was always playing on his lips or the way his scrutinizing eyes were always lingering on Arthur. It could have been the way Francis always looked down his nose at the shorter man. Perhaps it was the fact the fact that this man had no earthly idea what "personal space" meant and the significance it possessed to Arthur. Whatever it was, it caused Arthur's skin to tighten and crawl each and every time Arthur bumped into him outside of the workplace (Arthur could stand him at the office if only it was because this man signed his paychecks).

The most unfathomable part of it all was that Arthur knew that Francis wasn't even that bad. Sure the man was arrogant touchy and flamboyant, but he had never given Arthur any reason to hate him.

Arthur began subconsciously rub his thumbs against his index fingers. Oh yes. That was another thing that made Arthur weary of Francis; each time Arthur came into contact with Francis his thumbs would begin to prick like tiny needles. It happened every time without fail.

That had to account for something right?

Arthur pulled himself away from this thoughts long enough to mutter a noncommittal "no" to Francis's previous question. Francis simply chuckled; another thing Arthur was bothered by. It wasn't even because the laugh was annoying or unpleasant. It was quite the opposite; Arthur found Francis' chuckle a pleasing sound indeed. Something about it made his spine tingle and it unnerved the young man.

"I hate to run, but I really should be going…" Arthur stated, desperately seeking an escape.

Francis hiked a finely shaped eyebrow at the Briton and his lips quirked into a smirk before he spoke.

"Oh I understand, but before you go, I must ask you something." Francis said. His voice held a playful undertone.

"And that would be?" Arthur asked with a piqued interest despite the young man's attempt to smother the curiously aroused by the older man's tone.

"Have you been missing your phone?" Francis asked.

Arthur's eyes widened and his mouth formed a small "o" shape as Francis reached into his pocket and revealed a small, old, scratched, and hopelessly outdated flip phone. Seeing the smirk on Francis's face and the phone in his hand caused a surge of foggy memories to gain a sudden clarity.

Francis had been at the club. Francis had bought him drinks. He had danced on Francis. Francis had taken him home and now he had his phone.

He had danced on Francis.

He had gotten utterly shit-faced and danced on Francis.

He had gotten utterly shit-faced and danced on his boss.

Arthur felt the bile churn in his gut at he stared at Francis in barely subdued horror. Francis smiled back innocently while he held the phone in front of the younger man's face. The Frenchman watched as the haze lifted from Arthur's mind and he amused himself with the radically shifting expressions on the Briton's face. First there was confusion, then shock, then a flash of denial, followed by realization, then pure horror.

"You are a marvelous dancer, Arthur Kirkland." Francis said with a wink, confirming Arthur's worst fears.

Arthur's heart was racing and he felt the grip of a panic attack tightening around his throat. A ruddy red color had spread from the tips of his ears, across his cheeks and nose, and down his slender neck. He was only snapped back into reality when he felt a gentle touch on his hand. Francis held Arthur's hand steady. With the other hand, he placed the phone into Arthur's palm, but kept his hand there. He kept his gaze steady and held Arthur's uneasy gaze steady. Arthur wanted to break away and run from the store, hide in his flat and never crawl out of bed for the rest of his life, but he couldn't. He was frozen by those blue eyes.

"I'm going to give you your phone, but only on one condition." Francis said.

"Y-yes?" Arthur responded with a trembling voice.

"You must let cook you dinner tonight. I simply wouldn't be able to live with myself knowing I let you try to feed yourself; those leftover were terrifying."

Arthur stopped shaking. He stared. What…? What?

"Excuse me…?" Arthur asked incredulously.

Francis's eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a challenging smirk. With one swift motion, he yanked his hand back taking the phone with it.

"Let me cook for you. You clearly can't feed yourself. Frozen dinners, Arthur? I mean, really?" Francis chuckled.

Arthur just stared. Normally he would be infuriated, but it was as if that near-panic attack had sapped all of his energy and all Arthur was left with was dull surprise.

"I…" Arthur began before he could shake all of shock from his system, "I'm not so sure that is a good idea…"

"Porquoi no?" Francis asked with a small smile.

"My landlord says that if I try to cook one more time he'll kick me out. I keep telling him the bloody stove is faulty…" Arthur muttered quietly.

"Oh but it won't be you who is cooking but me." Francis countered, "Besides, you want your phone back, no?" he teased.

Arthur bit his lip in uncertainty. This wasn't right. This was so, so wrong. His boss wanted to cook for him and had insulted his cooking and the worst part was he wasn't mad (Arthur decided that it must be another side effect of the hangover). Yet he knew he needed his phone back, and it would be nice to have a home cooked meal…

"Alright… Just this once." Arthur said, succumbing to the Frenchman's will.

Francis's eyes lit up excited and he grabbed Arthur hand and began to drag him towards the checkout counters.

"Excellent! I know just the dish!" He said.

Arthur felt a blush creep across his cheeks as he was dragged across the grocery store by his rambling boss who was apparently going to make him dinner. He knew this was wrong. So, so wrong , yet he found a pleasant knotting feeling in his stomach overpowering his pricking thumbs…

Author's Note

Short chapter is short.

I'm sorry I've been gone so long. I've just been really focused on school and writing has been sort of hard for me lately.

I also fell out of the Hetalia fandom for a few months because I rediscovered Transformers (Damn you Hasbro and Transformers Prime!) Anyways, here is an update. I'm on Spring break and afterwards I'll only have a month left of school, so I'll try to pump out some chapters.

Thank you for your patience,

Germerica.