"Arthur, it's time to wake up now." Elizabeta knocked politely on the door, before opening it regardless. He was already awake either way, looking at her carefully from under his covers, in the sort of way that she could tell meant he had been awake for hours and had simply chosen not to move. As usual, his room was clean and orderly, but the longer he came to inhabit it, the more evidence of his presence began to appear. His sketchbook sat on the dresser, his few clothes hung in the closet, a book sat on the bedside table, drawings were stuck around the mirror, and the window was decorated with flowers picked from the garden, along with a little bundle of sage hanging down from the sill by a piece of stringto keep the bad spirits away. The room was his.

Elizabeta smiled as he sat up, and they looked at each other. Arthur smiled back at her, and she could tell that he was pleased; about what was unclear, but that didn't exactly matter. The fact was that Arthur Kirkland, in all his misery, was happy about something and there was something inherently good about that.

She waltzed in; swinging skirts, flower in her hair, eyes sparkling. "Good morning, sweetie, how are you feeling?"

She could already tell how he felt, but she would have liked to hear it come from him anyway. Arthur smiled at her again, holding onto his covers, hair going in all different directions, hardly clothed.

"Good. I am feeling good."

"Well, that's just wonderful," she said, setting out the day's garments onto the foot of the bed for him to change into, laying out the ones that he liked to wear in public, collecting the comb from the dresser and his one and only jacket from where it draped the chair near the desk. It was funny, Arthur having his own desk, and on it were papers and knickknacks, but other than that he hardly used it, far more favouring the desk in the down stairs study, the one that Francis had used to use, but now allowed Arthur to sit at while they sat together. On one hand, Arthur liked the books there. But on the other hand, it was entirely possible that it was because the study was where Francis liked to sit.

"Where's Francis?"

She smiled into her palm as she ran it across her face.

"I'm letting him sleep in for the time being. I'll wake him up when breakfast is ready."

"Oh," he said, looking away from her, "okay."

…

Arthur took a bite of his toast and watched Elizabeta competently whisk the eggs for Francis's breakfast. They didn't talk, somehow knowing it would make the silence between all the things they had to say far worse. The silence was comfortable anyways, and it didn't demand anything like speaking did.

They were going out today, Francis and him, to go shopping and get things for their trip. Apparently the man had pockets like pits and they could hold literally any amount of money; he loved it. And they were going to the market and the shops down in the middle of the city and he was so pleased because he was going to see his family, and more so he was going to do it in nice clothes. He was covered in scars, simply covered, and he was traumatized, could hardly trust anyone or anything, but this… This was… This was good.

It had been so long since he'd been able to use that word to describe his life and it felt so nice, so wholesome and clean. And yes, in the pit of his stomach there was the horrible sense that something bad was going to happen, something horrible. That he would be betrayed, or hurt, or that Francis wouldn't be the person the he seemed to be, but, but for now, he would bask in this idea, this possibility, and this theory. Because this was good, and he had to hold on to that.

He wasn't going to pretend he wasn't excited. He wanted his family back, he wanted to see them and be held by them and tell them that he was okay. He wasn't naïve; he knew he couldn't stay, but hell, he had thought that he'd be dead within a year. This was more than he'd ever expected.

"Sweetie?"

He looked up from the table.

"We're out of matches," she said pointedly, gesturing towards the stove, "If you don't mind..."

Arthur nodded amicably and stood. He lit the stove with an easy movement that stayed with him not matter how long he went without doing it. Elizabeta smiled at him and he smiled back, slipping into his chair to rest his chin on his hands.

"Good morning darlings."

Francis.

Arthur could tell because Francis was the only member of the household not currently present. But also because the iconic scent of vanilla wafted into the room. Arthur could smell it immediately, before he could see him even. Francis came up from behind him, where he sat with his back to the door, and absentmindedly he put his hand on Arthur shoulder. Arthur didn't flinch, which was nice, and safe, and comforting.

"G'morning," Arthur answered, turning to look up at him. He was dressed in one of his usual, fashionable suits, the one that he usually wore with a nice satin grey tie, but tonight it was the light blue one, the one that brought out his eyes. Arthur liked that one and he liked the fact that he was wearing it.

Francis smiled broadly at him as Elizabeta set his breakfast down on the table and looked at him fondly, but didn't say anything. Francis sat down next to him and asked him how he had slept.

"Fine. I like your pillows."

Francis smiled again. He looked happy and Arthur liked that because when the man was happy his food got better, and considering his food was already the best Arthur had ever had, he was very pleased.

...

Arthur walked like someone who knew where they were going, like somebody with purpose; an idea, an aim, and that was nice because it made Arthur feel like he knew where he was going as well, even though he didn't. They strutted along together, him and Francis, down the cobblestone streets with their noses in the air. This wasn't the area of the city that he preferred; this was the type of city that was filled with respectable shops and very large hats on the heads of very thin women. This had none of the culture he had been raised in, none of the most identifiable features.

He missed, by instinct, the ratty kids of street corners, he missed the cracked and battered sidewalks and the skulking figures smoking cigarettes in allies and the inescapable smell of alcohol and smog and lies. And he missed knowing things, knowing to keep his hands in his pockets with his hand wrapped around his money so he wouldn't get pickpocketed, knowing to hunch his shoulders and not to take smokes from strangers, knowing where to get food if he didn't have any work. He missed knowing where all the threats lay and knowing them by instinct alone. His city, the city that he knew, was dangerous, but this place had methods more subtle than death.

And Francis fitted in exactly like Arthur had expected him to. He was sure that if Francis hadn't been their then there would be an obvious Francis-shaped hole to accommodate his absence; this was the party to which he belonged and at least that was undeniable.

It was in the way that his eyes scraped over every shop window display with pinpoint scrutiny, looking for specific things and not allowing anything else to get in the way. It was in the way that he occasionally brushed his hair behind his shoulders, or slipped his hands in and out of his pockets from when he stood still to when he walked, the way that his sunglasses sat on his hair instead of in front of his eyes. He looked like he belonged, and he made Arthur look like he belonged as well, just by association.

"What about this one?"

Arthur refocused and Francis was looking at him expectantly. Arthur frowned.

"Comment suis-je voulais savoir? Je veux juste le déjeuner." How am I meant to know? I just want lunch. They'd already brought most of what they needed, a traveling cloak, a pair of nice shoes, a bag, and several other things he hardly knew how to use, as well as a leather bound notebook and an inkwell and quill. He didn't know why he needed those things, but apparently he did. And that was fine, but his feet hurt and people kept looking at him like they were going to eat him alive, and that was disturbing. He was hungry and tired of this, and Francis kept gesturing to shops and asking if they were very good and he had none of the patience necessary for that.

"Tu as faim?" You're hungry? Francis raised his eyebrows and looked at him in surprise.

That wasn't the point, and more specifically, Francis knew it wasn't the point. He knew that Francis wanted to tell him something, wanted to get something off his chest and this, whatever this was, was getting repetitive. All this floundering, all these half formed sentences, and moments where Francis would open him mouth to say something and then close it again.

And Arthur could tell it was something bad, something that Francis didn't want to tell him, some change in the scenario and somebody just needed to tell him because Francis smelt like anxiety, and worry, and it was making him very nervous, because if he was anxious and worried, then that probably meant that there was something for Arthur to feel anxious and worried about as well and as he stood standing on that sidewalk, all he wanted to know was what it was.

Arthur narrowed his eyes dangerously, arms folded over his chest.

"Bien sûr, je suis affamé" Of course I'm hungry, he said severely. "We've been walking around for hours even though we've got everything we need, and you keep dodging everything I say even though most of them aren't even questions and this is getting dull, Francis. Whatever it is you need to say, whatever is bothering you, I suggest you just get it over with."

They were in public, he knew, and more so they were in the sort of public that took careful note of public arguments to gossip about later, but, heck, if Arthur waited until they got home he was going to punch somebody and it was probably going to have to be Francis. He didn't want to punch Francis; he liked Francis the majority of the time, and this was stupid. More importantly, Francis was being stupid and he was over it.

Francis looked at him in surprise, maybe even a little hurt, and Arthur felt bad about that, but he would just have to apologize when this was done. If it did get done. He watched Francis's expression twist, flipping through emotions like one might flip through a picture book, going quickly from hurt, to agitation, to confusion, to distress, and Arthur pushed his eyebrows together and looked at him pleadingly because he'd smelt like anxiety for days now and this needed to end. This really, really needed to end.

Francis stared at him, folded his arms, hunched his shoulders, and looked him dead in the eye, his internal turmoil nearly bursting out of his head with its clarity, and Arthur didn't back down because of course he didn't. He would fight until someone told him the truth, internal turmoil or otherwise.

Francis opened his mouth to speak, and Arthur waited impenitently as he closed it again, as if he had found some mistake it what he had been trying to say and needed to rephrase it. Arthur didn't look at him desperately, didn't push his eyebrows together and look up at him, pleading, he looked at him like stone. Like it wasn't possible for him to be argued with.

Francis looked at him imploring and Arthur narrowed his eyes.

"Regardez, nous ne pouvons pas simplement attendre jusqu'à ce que nous arrivons à la maison ?" Look, can't we just wait until we get home?

"Non." No. Arthur answered immediately, unyielding as he was, because he had to be unyielding, if he yielded he'd never get anything done. Whatever it was, Francis didn't want to say it in public, and that was fine, but if they waited until they were back home, Francis would make an excuse, because he always made excuses, always jumped around topics no mater how important they were.

Francis looked at him with his face all screwed up, a thousand expressions at once all fighting for his face.

"While we're young, Francis," Arthur suggested firmly.

"I…" he stared, but then he stoped, and Arthur wondered if they were going to have to do all of this again. But then he drew himself closer to Arthur, taking a hold of Arthur's elbow and speaking as silently as he could as to not be heard by an of the other pedestrians. "I… I favour men. Romantically." He looked down and avoided Arthur's searching eyes.

There was a long pause and Arthur looked at him, his eyebrows pulled together, smelling a spike in Francis' fear as he said the words. Arthur blinked softly, and somewhere in the back of his head it registered and the relief set in.

"That's it? I thought you were going to say that you're dying? Whoa, okay," he ran his hand through his hair. "Never mind."

Francis blinked at him.

"It doesn't bother you?"

Arthur smirked casually at him, feeling a lot better now that Francis was actually talking to him.

"Francis, I come from one of the most accepting cultures known to man. You don't need to worry about me."

And he smiled at Francis, and Francis looked at him for a moment, before he grinned back.