I woke up this morning, opened my files, found this one, read through and lightly edited, then posted it. So yeah, this may be quite impromptu and rougher around the edges than usual. I'll *probably* do a more thorough beta of this later on, but for now…

It had been a week since Francis Bonnefoy had asked him, and he never stopped asking each day since, over tea or just beside him in class while they painted. His life with Alfred may have doomed his hopes at a happy life of love, but he found his feelings for Francis growing beyond innocent admiration. Still, he avoided acknowledging what those feelings may actually mean and all the impossible desires that came with it. He knew nothing would become of entertaining it. He was happy with the way things were between them as it was. Sadly, even that happiness was weighed down by guilt and unimaginable heartache.

Such a cruel joke of the universe, seemingly tormenting him with the perfect someone in a most inopportune time of his life—and with it, a seemingly perfect opportunity to end all that was miserable and wrong in his life… And he would have probably done so in a heartbeat, had the circumstances been any different, for he used to be a man who did not fear risks or the unknown. He was the kind of soul that used to believe with a passion in the goodness of man and the reality of true love. But whatever part of him that believed that was gone now, and Arthur simply pronounced it dead, to be as least melodramatic about it as possible. He avoided drama as much as possible because he already had a surplus of it, and yet, he could not help feel overly dramatic as he stood shivering and hungry in the middle of nowhere. It probably wasn't the most unexpected thing but it still surprised Arthur how dramatic situations augmented by an overly dramatic frame of mind can cause one to have an equally dramatic shift in perspective and priorities. The prospect of impending death had a way of providing instant clarity to one's mind, like a last ditch effort in self-preservation.

Oddly, as Arthur Kirkland stood defenceless against the elements and a heartbeat away from meeting the Grim Reaper, he didn't know why the regret in his heart had Francis' face. Of all the things in his life worth regretting… He didn't know why then of all times—in what could possibly be his precious last moments, he didn't remember to regret being doomed to a life of rejection, neglect, and abuse; he didn't even regret that he was technically going to die a virgin, no. But if he could change just one thing in his life at that moment, it was that he wished he hadn't turned down Francis' request to paint him. He was stupid then; he was stupider still.

Arthur sighed heavily, his feet still plodding forward mechanically, the reopened blisters on his toes and hind feet stung with every step, but he didn't feel it. Everything was numb now, except the persistent aching in his heart. He couldn't forget how sad Francis looked yesterday when he told him that his decision was final. It was obvious by then that the French boy wanted more than to just paint him for a school project, and God—if He did indeed exist—knew that Arthur wanted it too but as much as he wanted to give in and be selfish for once in his life, he knew that it would be wrong. He was married to Alfred. It wouldn't be fair to Francis to lead him on further; no, he cared about him too much…

It was for Francis. Yes. That's right. That's why he made that decision – not for Alfred's sake, not even for his sake, but for no one else but Francis'. And with that, he thought it best if he stayed away for good, and so, with great pains, he did his best to avoid the French boy. It broke his heart how Francis almost desperately begged him to reconsider, tried to still sit beside him in class, and still asked him out for tea, but he pretended he didn't care. He needed to. He needed to… He didn't imagine it could be possible, but how could he have accumulated so much more regret in so little time? Why did Francis' feelings even matter so much?

Arthur's tired feet came to a sudden halt. His eyes automatically sought the shrouded skies once again, as if there would be answers there.

"I'm in love with him…" he whispered to the heavens, a tear rolling down his cheek. It was the only thing warm all over and all around him. But even his teardrop turned to ice too soon. "What am I going to do…?"

The guilt only intensified. The memory of those blue eyes looking so lost and helpless burned him. Was it really the right thing to do to push away the only person in the whole world who seemed to like him? Care about him?

Perhaps I was a tad too hasty… He blinked and more warm trails ran down his cheeks. He didn't bother wiping them, they would be frosty trails on his frostbitten cheeks in a matter of seconds anyway. "He just wanted to paint you, you idiot. Why did you have to make such a big deal out of it?"

His shaking hands dug deeper into the pockets of his completely soaked trench coat, and his fingers come up again with the scrap of paper containing Francis' contact information. He blinked at the paper. A flash of lightning illuminated the scribbling on it, as if to stress the omen, and without any conscious thought, his feet slowly began to take him down the road. It only took him a few paces before found himself by a set of stone steps with the metal plate by the entrance that matched the address on the paper. He had found Francis' apartment. Or, rather– Francis' apartment found him.

He shook his head, wondering if he was dreaming or perhaps already dead. That one voice inside him that had been telling him that it was a sign—that this was the answer to his dilemma and that he should go up and knock on the French boy's door right now– it was a full choir now. His palms were cold and clammy, and he was still dripping wet, but in his chest, his heart was racing and a nervous warmth crept up his spine. It was late, but there was a soft light from one of the second-floor windows in the old-fashioned structure. He found himself wishing that that was Francis' unit. As discreetly as possible, he leaned back and observed, expecting to catch a silhouette of whoever the occupant was that was still awake, when suddenly a low "meow" at his feet nearly made him jump.

His heart melted at the sight of a kitten, affectionately bunting his ankles. He puffed out the cold breath he had taken in and squatted to pet the creature.

"Hey there lil' fella, are you cold too?"

The kitten bleats up at him plaintively. At that exact moment, the main doors to the apartment fly open and a tall overshadowed figure emerges, Arthur barely had time to look up before the man was in front of him speaking in an all-too-familiar and very French accent.

"Ohh! Merci beaucoup, monsieur! You found my petite poupée! I was so wor—"

Their gazes met and surely enough, it was the person he most wanted to see and yet most dreaded to be seen by at that moment, given his present disheveled condition.

"Ah… Arthur…?"

Having your heart dislodged and stuck somewhere halfway up your throat with all the words you wanted to say was not something anyone could get used to. And that feeling was something that the boy standing before him made him feel almost all the time. His mouth opened to say something, anything, like how he didn't really find the kitten, more like the kitten found him, nor did he intentionally walk to his apartment for refuge, or that most importantly, he was not dying from the freezing wind of the storm in nothing but a skimpy and rather tasteless set of kinky undergarments meant for a woman, barely doing much to hide or protect his most private parts underneath the coat he donned… But deciding that it didn't matter. Whatever he said would most likely embarrass him more, so he just closed his mouth again, and looked down at the kitten instead, scooping her up and shakily handing the bundle to Francis.

"You're freezing!" exclaimed Francis, shocked at how Arthur's hands felt like ice as it brushed his. The kitten mewled once again, as if in agreement, and Arthur chuckled softly, but couldn't help the quiver in his lips as he did so that caused the taller boy's forehead to crease further in worry. Without another word, he grabbed the British boy's arm and dragged him inside.

Minutes later, after a halfhearted argument wherein Arthur stubbornly refused to relinquish his drenched coat, much to Francis' bafflement, he realized that was cornered and didn't have much of a choice.

"Sorry." He hung his head and chose to tell halfway the truth and the least conspicuous lie. If he was going to lose face, he could at least exercise some damage control; and perhaps it was the delirium brought about by his deathly temperature or the exhaustion from the long and stressful evening, but he found that simple and straight to point was best. "I can't give you my coat because I have nothing else underneath."

Maybe it would have been less humiliating to freeze to death in peace out in the streets far away from the boy he secretly loved. But despite Francis' unmasked shock and confusion over the revelation, Arthur was infinitely grateful that he politely refrained from prodding any further, and instead, promptly presented him with a pair of pyjamas and some blankets for Arthur to wear and wrap himself in after a hot shower. Only when he is inside the shower and safe from his host's scrutiny does he hurriedly discard the kinky undergarments, wrap it in toilet paper, and stuff it into the garbage bin, making sure that it looked like nothing more than bunched up toilet paper. He wanted to burn it—throw it somewhere Francis was sure to never find it… But of course, he couldn't so he had to settle for this for now. He decided he could secretly dispose of the sordid evidence later when Francis was already asleep. He wished to avoid the subject of his perverted business with his secret husband as much as he could.

Much later he is seated comfortably in Francis' bed, snugly clothed and wrapped in blankets.

"You are still cold. Let me get you some more blankets."

"S-Sorry to trouble you so late…" Arthur muttered, his lips still trembling faintly, when Francis returned to carefully wrap another covering around him, making sure he is covered up to his ears.

"Itiss no problem," Francis says with a gentle smile, making Arthur's stomach erupt in butterflies. He managed a weak smile back, feeling his cheeks already warming up considerably. "Here, I made you some hot cocoa." Francis fetches the drink and blows on the steamy liquid for him.

Arthur willed himself against it, but his will wasn't strong enough when it came to Francis; he still found himself staring, helplessly, as the French boy intently worked on cooling his drink. Those deep rosy pink lips, that strong nose and those fathomless blues beneath long dipping eyelashes. He missed the entirety of Francis so much.

As a few stray pale tangerine blond waves fell down his forehead overshadowing his eyes, he had to muster all his self-control to keep from pushing them aside from his face. It helped that his arms and hands were buried under piles of covering, so he just took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists, wanting so badly to touch Francis. He bit his lip as the guilt he had been running from caught up to him again.

After testing the temperature of the liquid with a brief sip, Francis looked up at Arthur finally, and smiled sweetly as he eased the cup onto Arthur's trembling lips gently. Arthur wanted very much to protest at the treatment, but again, being left with no way to resist, he obediently sipped the drink. It was delicious and warm, and ubelievably comforting. "Thank you," he muttered when he's had nearly all of it.

"Tres bien. So much better." Francis looked pleased at the colour returning to Arthur's face.

Although much of the flushing was really due to the pampering he was receiving; Arthur reckoned that Francis didn't have to know that…

"Now, you must rest."

"Oh no!" Arthur panicked as Francis began easing him down the pillows. He was not about to let Francis give him his bed. "I couldn't! Let me take the couch…"

Francis chuckled, "Don't be silly. There's enough space for both of us."

Arthur glanced back at the bed. It was doubtful.

"…If we cuddle... really close," Francis added with a playful chuckle.

Arthur only managed to blush. Madly.

"I'm just teasing, you are so cute when you get worked up!" Francis laughed as Arthur scowled. "But zhere is nuzzing wrong widz it. You will not make a fuss about such a petty zhing, will you? Besides, you need warmth! So, come on…" The French boy tugged at the big lump of sheets that was Arthur, and gently coaxed him to rest his head on the pillows as he followed suit. "See? It feels nice, doesn't it?"

"Yes." Arthur had to admit, it was all very comfortable. But he couldn't help tensing up even more as Francis cosied right next to him, so close that their breaths mingled. His heart was thundering in his chest. But as much as he wanted to look the other way, he was immobilized by the cocoon he was in.

"Relax my princess, I won't rob you of your virginity!" And with a playful tug, he pulls Arthur even closer to him, planting a kiss on his forehead, causing the British boy's face to burn up even more. "Unless you want me to of course," added Francis in a seductive whisper.

"Wh- you idiot. I'm not…" Arthur sputtered, unable to look anywhere else but into those blue eyes.

Francis looked like an angel with his hair pooling underneath him in the pillows. And the bed smelled of him: a mixture of fresh laundry, Francis' cologne and roses. It was really quite cozy if he could only stop the coiling anticipation in his gut… The bed, those blue eyes, and Francis… Everything was so different from the life he knew. The house he was forced to call home, the king-sized bed that only gave him nightmares, and the stranger he was forced to call husband… He looked down, saddened.

"Not what…?" urged Francis, breath tickling Arthur's lips. "Not a virgin anymore? All ze better, it means I can do what I wantz widz you wizzout 'olding back."

Arthur's knuckles instinctively reached forward to jab at Francis but he hissed in frustration instead remembering that the sheets prevented that. "I was going to say, I'm not some helpless weakling you can rob of virginity, you daft sod!"

Francis laughed, pressing closer to him. "Is zat an invitation then?"

Arthur instinctively held his breath, fists clinging fiercer into the sheets as Francis closed the distance between their lips and brushed lightly over his. Arthur's eyes fluttered shut and he gasped, inadvertently parting his lips, losing himself in the sensual moment, already utterly dazed. But when no kiss followed, he forced his eyes open again and caught Francis' amused expression as he watched him closely. The English boy narrowed his eyes in defiance even as his cheeks burned.

"You're lips are cold." Francis said after some moments, his expression softening.

Arthur had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from sighing as Francis' fingers caressed his lips. His eyes were half-masts by the time he was released.

"You are not at all helpless or weak. You are like a rose, both fragile and fierce, vulnerable and defiant; so wildly beautiful – red blossoming petals and thorns and all… I feel helpless around you… You draw me in and make me want to bleed for you…"

For once that evening, Arthur felt truly speechless, not even his brain remembered to protest. The poetic confession and the close proximity, it was too much for his frantic heart which was now trying to burst free from his ribcage. And the very next moment, time stopped as Francis cupped his cheeks and slowly claimed his lips in a desperate kiss.

Arthur sunk into the blankets as his whole body lost all fight in it. He moaned as he felt Francis' tongue fill his mouth, and suddenly the world is spinning wildly out of control and the covers around him felt much too hot. Without even realizing it, he clawed at the fabric to free himself, Francis doing exactly the same from the outside. Before long, their bodies are crashing into one another, arms and legs tangled as the kiss intensified. Francis' arms tugged his body even closer until their chests and groins are pressed flush against each other's.

"F-Francis…!" Arthur sobbed breathless, his own hands and legs acting of their own volition. Fingers weaving and pulling at silky blond locks and palms finding its way up Francis' shirt, greedily feeling the chiseled abs and pecs, enjoying the feel of soft hairs and taut nipples along the way.

"Ar'zzurr…" Francis purred against his lips, low and guttural.

And Arthur knew it was all wrong but he was nearly in tears from how good it felt. The passionate kiss, the hungry touches, and his name on Francis' lips, like it was the air he breathed and everything he needed to live… Francis wanted him. Not anyone else. Because Francis looked at him and saw him, and no one else. Francis was the only one who saw his soul, his longing and his dreams. In Francis' eyes he felt loved, and in those sensual touches, he felt wanted, and desirable. In those sweet, addicting kisses, he felt what it was like to be loved back by the one he loved; and though it was true that his body was no longer a virgin to a man's touch, it was also true that he had never been kissed or touched before in this way, with so much love and desire…

Maybe it was wrong, and he shouldn't be here now—shouldn't be touching the man he really loved. But nothing of it mattered because he had never felt so right. He did not want to remember anything before this. How he had been miserable and lonely all his life, and how he had been thrown out into the streets and dying, and he didn't even care if he found out that this was all just one bittersweet dying dream he was having in the cold, damp streets of London, he would not trade it for anything else… If this was death, it was beautiful. And he wanted it with all his being; he has never wanted anything so badly…

He wanted nothing more than to be Francis' rose.

To be continued…