They hadn't slept together in ages. Not properly. It wasn't the first time that Arthur found himself wondering if Francis had lost interest in the idea of fucking him over, now he had made it clear he was no longer willing to fight him. Last night had turned out no different - he'd come in, did a few 'favours' and then wound up in bed, the Frenchman's arms wrapped tightly around him until he'd fallen asleep. He felt more like a sex-toy-come-water bottle than anything else lately. An expensive one at that.

Six am. Iggy listened to his companions breathing, in, out, monotonous like a clock. Knowing he was asleep and couldn't ask him to do anything relaxed him. As usual, he hadn't slept a wink. How could he when lay next to that animal? His dark circles had dark circles.

As quietly as possible, Arthur slipped out of bed and started picking up his clothes that had been strewn over the floor, each article of clothing dropped like breadcrumbs trailing out of the bedroom all the way out into the hallway. He grimaced as he picked up his shirt - it was covered in hand-scrunched creases. Sighing, he pulled it on. No one would see it once he put on his coat. No one could whisper behind his back and 'wonder loudly' where he'd been, what he'd been doing. He could be just visiting a friend and just so happened to stay the night... a couple of times a week. Don't be an idiot, numbskull. It was obvious. It felt as if his very being glowed in big neon lights that he belonged to Francis. Did him favours. A dog on a leash. I'm just as disgusting as he is.

Like a zombie, Arthur switched on the coffee maker and sat at the breakfast bar, pouring himself a bowl of cereal or whatever flouncy muesli-type-material that Francis liked to make. It didn't matter. He probably wouldn't eat it anyway.

The early morning light poured in through the lace curtains of the joint living and dining area, casting a faint golden tinge across the pastel yellow walls. He sipped his too-hot coffee, enjoying the stinging sensation on the tip on his tongue, as he gazed at the shadows cast by the furniture, grey on gold. God, it had taken him forever to paint these walls – how long ago was it? It felt like a lifetime had passed. Back when he was a regular gofer and not, well, whatever he was now.

"How the bloody hell am I meant to paint all of this in two bloody hours?!"

"I believe that is your problem to solve, mon ami." Francis shrugged nonchalantly as he continued primping in one of the many mirrors that lived on the walls of his home. "Right. What do you think?" He turned round and beamed at the smaller man. Arthur continued to frown at him. If he wanted some sort of reaction – applause, knowing him – to him getting all scrubbed up for one of his 'work' meetings, he was barking up the wrong tree. He still looked like an idiot.

Arthur rolled his eyes and started unbuttoning the stiff cuffs of his shirt, rolling the sleeves up in preparation of the mess that would undoubtedly soon ensue. If he had known that he was to be painting today he wouldn't have dressed so smartly. Or worn his new white shirt.

"Now, now. I've told you before, yes? That frown can be so unbecoming," Francis smiled, clapping his hands either side of Arthur's face and squeezing lightly. Arthur's frown deepened. Francis was too touchy-feely. It sickened him and the bastard knew it. Smile never once leaving his face, Francis threw him a wink that Arthur could only describe as creepy and turned to check himself in the mirror one last time. "Remember, I don't want to see any of that hideous blue by the time I get back."

"I'll… I'll see what I can do." He didn't really have a choice.

"That a boy."

Giving Arthur a small smack on his arse for good measure, Francis headed towards the front door and left the poor man alone at last. Arthur stifled his grumbling and continued rolling up his sleeves. It was going to be a long afternoon, especially if he didn't get it finished. Why the hell did I agree to this?

How or why the Frenchman so desperately strived to keep 'in vogue', utterly baffled him. Although, almost anything Francis did seemed to utterly baffle him. The whole concept of changing the walls just to be fashionable was not only a needless expense but pointless. Not once had any of his guests – and there had been a fair few – commented on the colour of them. Arthur was certain that if he were in Francis' shoes he'd forever be exhausted. But Francis? Annoyingly, he carried himself in a continuous kind of calm no matter what was happening. Very rarely did he become unfixed.

He stared at the dark colour of his coffee, the steam twisting like fingers grasping out for a lifeline. That's when everything changed. That bastard swaggered in and turned my world upside down… Once it had been established that Arthur wasn't kidding when he offered to run errands and complete odd jobs for payment, Francis was one of the first to jump on the 'let's troll England' bandwagon, shortly followed by Alfred and Wang Yao who were, thankfully, nowhere near as humiliating. Letting go of his pretty maid and hiring Iggy as replacement marked the beginning of their turbulent master-servant relationship. The range of odd jobs varied from weird to outright traumatising, including delivering something 'very personal' to Austria… luckily, Roderich was quick to catch on and took pity on him, halting him before he could really embarrass himself and his crimson blush could reach his toes. Arthur laughed to himself. And I thought that moment was going to be the height of France's cruelty. Actually looking back the whole Austrian fiasco was hilarious. Like a practical joke. And then things went rapidly downhill. He sighed. Why couldn't I see it? The stupidity of agreeing to work for that man?! The only compliment he could pay was that at least Francis was consistently traumatising. And he paid him well. Christ. Now I feel worse.

It had been clear from the beginning that this whole situation had been a mistake to embark on. His superiors hard-pressured him for money, offered no sympathy and, as it turned out, they were not the only ones Arthur was not brave enough to say 'no' to. But it had seemed an easy route, a quick way out. And the hardest part? The only person he could honestly and completely blame, infuriatingly, was himself.

Thinking on my superiors... In three hours time he was scheduled to attend another budget meeting. Or, to be more accurate, the heated blame/guilt games with Iggy at the center of it. As usual it would not go well and Arthur would likely leave feeling marginally worse than when he arrived. With a yawn, he downed the rest of his coffee and dragged himself away from the breakfast bar. Time to leave and get ready for work. My other work... someone save me...

xXx

Francis watched the bedroom door close as the blonde slipped out of his room. He propped himself up on his elbows, listening to Arthur's footsteps retreating down the hallway, before he let himself fall back onto his pillows with a sigh. What am I even doing anymore?

Long ago Francis realised that he'd fallen from the 'general dick' category to being an outright twisted monster. He'd seen the look of hurt that crossed Arthur's face every time he looked at him. Hell, he even saw the frustrated-depressive tussle he had with himself every time he approached Francis' place that Arthur had no idea he knew about. It cut him deeply.

The most horrible part in all this was that he couldn't stop himself. At first he'd thought he was merely keeping up appearances, dominating the Englishman's world simply because he could. But it was more than that. He knew the truth behind his actions. Come to terms with it. His close friends knew about it, even if they didn't know the half of what went on once Arthur crossed into the threshold of his inner-city flat. Actually, they knew his intentions before he himself knew. And the first major sign? Moving in on English territory – at the time he saw this as nothing more than getting a place he could live in comfortably when he attended meetings abroad. Also it annoyed Arthur immensely which was always a source of pleasure… So what was he doing? He could kid himself that this was his penance, this torture of watching the man he cared more for than anyone else, the man he loved to hate, get hurt by him over and over, sometimes just by being around him, but he knew it wasn't true. On some twisted level, he wondered if he enjoyed it. I've hated myself over my impulsiveness before, but this… this is too much.

Francis looked at the ceiling, following the swirls in the design. "I don't want you to hate me…" he whispered aloud, wishing more than anything that he could take it all back, every single thing. "I want you to stay." Why is it so much harder to say these kind of things to people's faces?

But 'staying' was never going to happen. Not unless Arthur continued in his mock-zombie manner, drifting between his job at his government's headquarters and Francis' flat. Nobody wanted that. It wasn't right. Hell, none of this was 'right'. God. If he found out… He rubbed his face, biting down on his bottom lip nervously. Merde. What would I do then?

xXx

Author's Note: And so it begins... Unfortunately things are going to go further downhill for Iggy and Francis. Also, more flashbacks are to come. Hope this chapter made up for my weak first chapter and that you're enjoying the ride still :)