Arthur does not belong on the swings.

He is a grown man, who works as an editor at the local newspaper and drinks tea with only a dash of milk and spends more of his budget on books than he should. Even if he is also a grown man who believes in magic and fairies and has the emotional maturity of a thirteen year old, he does not belong on the swings.

Yet he has been sitting there for well over two hours, drawing in the sand with one worn sneaker and rubbing his knuckles raw against the cold metal of the chains.

Normally when he was upset he worked. He would edit some poor reporter's article, taking great pleasure in every single red marking. Sometimes he cleaned their- his- the apartment from top to bottom, leaving no blatantly patriotic knick knack undusted. The third option for clearing his mind was cooking, mainly because it created a new mess for him to busy himself cleaning.

But the fight had been worse than usual this time. And that was saying something.

He and Francis fought all the time. That was the understatement of the millenium. They bickered for bickering's sake, over everyday, mundane things that most people couldn't find the time or energy to bother about. Ever since they were little and Francis was just the annoying, girly neighbor who liked to tease his "petit lapin" and pretend to swordfight, that had been their way of communicating.

Lord, they were terrible at communicating. But they were excellent at fighting.

This one had started off the usual way, something small that didn't deserve all of the attention in the first place. But Arthur was just a bit too tired from dealing with idiots (he thought, since they thought their work was superior and then came back to him bitching about getting reprimanded), Francis a bit too sarcastic (how many flowers did one woman need for her wedding, and was it really that difficult to pick them out yourself instead of tossing the job on an already overworked florist?) and a petty disagreement soon degenerated into a screaming match and slammed doors.

Arthur sighed and wiped at his nose, ignoring the French voice in his head reprimanding him for being so barbaric. His toes, fingers, nose, and all other extremities were freezing, and all he wanted was to go home and have a strong mug of tea, or maybe even cinnamon-laced hot chocolate. But home wasn't really an option at the moment.

So, with lethargy and cold setting in, he remained on the swing, staring at his phone. Still no missed calls, texts, voicemails. Just a bright screen that worsened his headache and burnt 12:08 into the backs of his eyes.

He sighed again.

And jumped at the crunch of a shoe on gravel.

It was Francis. Of course it was Francis. Arthur glared at him out of habit and almost- almost made to get up, but he stopped himself. The Frenchman had come to find him. The least he could do was be civil.

Francis stared at him a moment, blue eyes unsmiling and mouth quirked down. No crocodile tears, no half-hidden smirks, just sadness. His clothes were rumpled and his hair messy, something that would never be tolerated under normal circumstances. After waiting two minutes, or maybe three (time was passing at a strange rate that night), he sat down on the adjacent swing, staring at the ground solemnly.

Arthur's stomach twisted.

They sat in silence for what seemed like ages, cold and unspoken words pricking their skin as neither swallowed their pride.

Francis (naturally) spoke first.

"Rose for your thoughts."

The florist leaned forward, paused, and then continued to gingerly place a single long-stemmed rose in Arthur's lap. The Englishman flinched, but did not meet the his gaze, keeping his eyes turned down.

He took a deep breath. "What do you think?"

Francis didn't turn to look at him, just rested his elbows on his knees and threaded his long fingers together. "We need to talk."

"Because that's done so much for us in the past."

The Frenchman turned to him and raised an eyebrow, clearly not amused, and Arthur slouched in his seat, suddenly feeling like he was now the bad guy.

"I-I mean-"

"I mean," Francis interrupted, shooting him a tired look, "a talk without insults, or mockery, or, God forbid, sarcastic remarks. A real conversation."

Arthur grunted, ran a hand through his windblown hair, and mumbled a few incoherent words under his breath before meeting Francis' eyes.

"I didn't mean what I said. About Antonio, and your cousin, and...well, you in general. You're not...you know."

"A whore?"

"Yes."

"A cheat?"

"Yes."

"A liar?"

"...Yes." Arthur dropped his head, ashamed of his earlier accusations and feeling far too vulnerable under the other's gaze.

"Now...now it's your turn! Don't act like you're not to blame for this!"

Francis let out a pained sigh (but it's not fake, it's real and weighted with emotion), and when Arthur turned to look at him, his head was in his hands.

"I didn't mean what I said about your family. Or you. Or anything else. I wasn't thinking straight."

"Damn right." Arthur's voice was strained, his thoughts wandering to his disjointed family for a moment before returning to the present situation. "Francis."

The Frenchman raised his head and shook the hair out of his eyes. "Hm?"

"Do you..." Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat, mind and stomach churning. "Do you really think we should be together?"

Silence.

Then Francis lunged out of the swing (for half a second Arthur thought he is going to kiss him and he leans forward - to smack him, of course, not to meet him halfway) and grabbed him by the shoulders, eyes wide and just the tiniest bit frightened.

"Quoi?"

Arthur's mouth was dry and his tongue heavy. "You heard me."

Shocked, Francis did not relinquish his grip; if anything, he tightened it, and Arthur winced. The slightly taller man noticed and stepped back, sitting back on his swing without breaking eye contact.

"Because we fight so much? Arthur, it's what we do."

"Yes, but..." Arthur fumbled with his words. "But it's not healthy! It can't be! What if we're just making this worse for ourselves?"

Francis stared at him before chuckling bitterly. "If I wanted-"

"Everyone says that we'll never last, and God, Francis, what if they're right and this is just the first step in falling apar-"

"Arthur!"

The Brit jumped and whipped his head back to the other, living up to the fond nickname of "little rabbit."

"I am being honest and serious with you right now, shut up for once and listen to me!" Francis rubbed his temples and sighed again, taking a moment to calm his breathing. "Our relationship...Look, for one thing, the others aren't deciding this relationship. I could name off more couples than you are probably aware of that don't seem like they should work, and yet they do. They work through it, like we are now."

Arthur started to open his mouth, but closed it quickly and simply listened, his green eyes bright and sharp.

"Our entire relationship has been full of kissing and punching from the start, and I admit, there have been times when I can't stand to be in the same room as you." A small smile flitted across the Frenchman's face as he spoke. "But despite all the fights and bruises and scratch marks, I find myself- we find ourselves drawn back together. Why do you think that is?"

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur had a feeling that this was partially a question meant to exhibit the "romantic prowess" of the other man, but he still answered truthfully.

"Because we're..." He shuffled his feet, embarrassed blush aimed at his feet. "Dammit, Francis, I know what you want me to say!"

There was a light chuckle. "Please?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Because we're-" Sigh. "-made for each other?"

Francis laughed for real this time, the corners of his eyes crinkling with laugh lines that he flatly denied having, and Arthur felt something warm and light float up into his chest at the sound.

"You sound so disappointed at that, most people would be elated to have found their soulmate!"

"Oh, shut it, frog," Arthur grunted, his face still red but a grin threatening to spill across his face. "Finish whatever bloody romantic nonsense you're going on about so we can go home."

"As I was saying, then." Francis snaked one foot over to curl around Arthur's, and locked their ankles together snugly. "Even if we have our ups and downs, we're meant to keep each other in balance. Think of a seesaw, if you will."

"Really, Francis? A playground analogy?"

"A seesaw can dip either way, sometimes almost so high that you think you might fall off. But the other person is still there to bring you down again."

"I can't believe you compared our relationship to a seesaw."

"The seesaw of love, dear, the seesaw of love." Francis smirked (and it is lovely and familiar and even if Arthur scowled he is relieved to see it again) and stood, holding out a hand to his boyfriend. "Shall we?"

Arthur snorted and stood without the help of the offered hand. "I suppose I can stand being walked home by the likes of you."

"Always the charmer."

And they did go home, to the meager apartment they shared, stealing kisses and holding hands and being ridiculous in general, because peaceful moments were sometimes rare between them and things to be treasured.

If anyone had been watching, they wouldn't have been surprised, not really. Because Arthur was Arthur, and Francis was Francis, and they would always be together. Besides, Francis wore hideous (his words) argyle socks under his boots, and Arthur's gloves were designer ones that cost at least two month's pay, and the apartment got lonely without one person brewing tea and the other whispering French in his ear.

Wow, I never thought my first real FrUk fic would be this sad (at least in the beginning) or fluffy. It's probably because I broke my witty banter bone, and have yet to get a cast for it. Ah, well, overused rambling is okay, too. I promise it will be more original next time.

The title of this originated from a lovely cosplay photo by MattTheMelodious on deviantart, while the preview image can be found at Pixiv ID: 4713321