The rain in London was, as always, a relentless, grey drizzle. It painted the city in shades of charcoal and slate, and turned the usually bustling streets of Arthur’s neighborhood into a quiet, slick-surfaced maze. Arthur Kirkland, better known to the world as England, stood at his kitchen window, a chipped teacup warming his hands, and scowled at the offending weather.
“Bloody miserable,” he muttered, taking a sip of his Earl Grey. It was a good brew, strong and comforting, but it couldn’t quite chase away the feeling of dampness that seemed to seep into his very bones.
A sharp, insistent knock at his front door made him jump, sloshing a little tea onto his saucer. He set the cup down with a clatter, frowning. He wasn’t expecting anyone. His first, paranoid thought was that one of his former colonies had come to bother him. Or, worse, that it was him.
He opened the door with a sigh, ready to deliver a scathing remark. The words died in his throat.
Standing on his doorstep, looking utterly ridiculous and completely out of place, was Francis Bonnefoy. France. He was holding a large, red umbrella, but it was clearly no match for the wind, which had whipped his long blonde hair into a wild, dripping mess around his face. His expensive-looking coat was beaded with water, and his usual effortless charm was replaced by a look of theatrical misery.
“Arthur!” Francis exclaimed, his voice a mixture of relief and complaint. “You must let me in! I am being assaulted by your dreadful weather!”
Arthur blinked. “What on earth are you doing here, you absolute twat?”
“Is that any way to greet a guest?” Francis pouted, pushing past him into the warm, dry hallway. “I was in the neighborhood. I thought I would grace you with my presence.” He shook his umbrella, spattering water droplets across Arthur’s polished floor.
Arthur glared. “You’ve just dripped all over my floor. And you’re not a guest, you’re an intruder. Get out.”
“Ah, but it is raining so hard, mon cher,” Francis said, batting his wet eyelashes. “Would you really send a poor, beautiful man back out into that storm? My hair will be ruined.”
“Your hair is already a disaster,” Arthur retorted, but he found himself stepping aside. He could feel a traitorous warmth blooming in his chest despite his annoyance. It was a familiar, aggravating feeling that only Francis could provoke. “Fine. But only until the rain lets up. And you’re not getting anything to eat.”
“You are too kind,” Francis beamed, sweeping into the living room and immediately making himself at home on Arthur’s sofa. He stretched out, looking like a bedraggled, wet cat claiming a sunbeam. “It smells delicious in here. What have you been baking?”
“Nothing. It’s the smell of my own magnificent presence,” Arthur said dryly, going to fetch a towel. He tossed it at Francis, who caught it with surprising grace.
Francis dabbed at his hair, sighing dramatically. “That’s better. Now, do I smell scones? Don’t lie to me, Arthur. I can always tell when you’ve been in the kitchen. You leave a trail of butter and crumbs like a very grumpy, stout little mouse.”
“It’s a crumble,” Arthur snapped, walking towards the kitchen. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
This was a lie, of course. He had, in fact, made a small, simple apple crumble. It was a quiet, solitary comfort food. He’d spent the afternoon peeling apples, the rhythmic, repetitive action soothing his frayed nerves. He hadn't made it for anyone, least of all for the insufferable Frenchman who was now dripping on his cushions.
He heard Francis pad into the kitchen behind him. “A crumble? Oh, Arthur, you are a sentimental old thing, aren’t you?” He peered over Arthur’s shoulder as he took the crumble out of the oven. The golden, crumbly topping was dotted with butter and glistening with caramelized fruit.
Arthur shoved him away. “Get off! You’ll drool in it.”
“I will do no such thing. I am a connoisseur, not a barbarian,” Francis sniffed. He leaned against the counter, watching Arthur with an unreadable expression. “I was getting lonely,” he admitted, his voice softer now, stripped of its usual theatrical flair. “In my hotel. Everything here is so… grey.” He gestured vaguely at the window.
Arthur paused, a spoonful of golden syrup in his hand. He looked at Francis, really looked at him. He saw the slight tiredness around his eyes, the way his usual radiant confidence was dimmed. The rain was just an excuse. He was here because he wanted to be. And that thought, for all his bluster, made Arthur’s heart do a ridiculous little flip.
“Well, this is grey, too,” Arthur said gruffly, his back to Francis as he scooped the steaming crumble into two bowls. “But it’s warm. And it’s not raining on it.”
He set the bowls on the small kitchen table. The room was quiet, the only sound the relentless drumming of rain on the window and the gentle hiss of the radiator. Francis sat across from him, his hair still damp, his eyes soft.
He took a bite of the crumble. For a moment, he was silent. He closed his eyes, a look of genuine pleasure crossing his face. “Arthur…” he breathed. “It’s perfect. The apples are soft, the topping is… divin. You’ve used cinnamon, haven’t you?”
“A little,” Arthur mumbled, hiding his pleased smile behind his own spoon. He took a bite. It was good. Warm and sweet and tart, the perfect antidote to a damp day.
“Who knew you could actually make something that doesn’t taste like a bio hazard!And you”Francis continued, his voice low and warm noticing authurs eye twitch at his backhanded compliment but choosing not to tease him about it, “you’re warm. And you’re not grey at all.” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against Arthur’s hand. “You are the absolute worst at making tea, but you are the best at making crumble. And you are the best at putting up with me.”
Arthur stared at their hands. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through him. He looked up, meeting Francis’s gaze. The rain continued to fall, washing the world clean outside, while inside, his little kitchen felt like the only warm, safe place left in the world.
“You’re an idiot,” Arthur said, his voice barely a whisper. But he didn’t pull his hand away. He turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with Francis’s.
“I know mon Cher, Francis smiled, a real smile, warm and genuine. He squeezed Arthur’s hand. “But I’m your idiot.”
And for once, Arthur found he didn’t have a retort. He simply sat there, holding Francis’s hand, the taste of warm crumble and cinnamon on his tongue, and listened to the rain. It was the best cup of tea he’d never had.
(I made England able to cook cause wtv ITS MY FIC also sorry if this is ass I just wanted to write cause I felt bad I hadn’t for so long)
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