#storms-art

"I'll have an English Breakfast Tea," Arthur Kirkland tells him. "Hold the phone number." 

That's a low blow, and Francis writes it inside the lid. 

It becomes a game; he no longer wants Arthur to find he number, he wants to hide it. He goes inside the lid, on the bottom, cramped in underneath his name, under the cover that keeps him from burning his hands. He knows he's lost when Arthur orders his tea, "hold the phone number."

He falls in love with Arthur like he's water, plummeting and drifting ever downwards. He draws hearts on the cups of young ladies and they blush but there's not really any feeling behind them. People ask for his it and he polity says "not on the menu." 

Arthur also entertains girls at the coffee shop, he sits them down at tables and tells them this is his favorite place and Francis has the gall to draw hearts on their cups. And then, if Arthur brings them back, he draws round, scowling faces and Arthur can't bring them back. 

He falls in love with Arthur like he's quicksand; strong enough to walk upon but sinking ever downwards. It bothers him, because quicksand is deadly.

"You've started writing them down again," Arthur tells him one day. "I do wish you'd stop. You've taken breaks before."

"Actually," Francis says cheerfully, grabbing a sharpie and writing on the lid. "I haven't stopped since I started. But if it really bothers you, I suppose I could."

He presents him with a cup, number and heart scrawled over the top. Arthur raises an eyebrow and accepts the offering. One day, they're alone in the shop, and Francis writes it all over the cup. They fall in love like they are thirsty and sleep deprived, and the other is a tall latte.

Arthur's shift changes and be starts stopping by the shop at later time. Sometimes he sees Francis leaving through the back door. Sometimes he does not. He goes in and orders his tea and isn't sure how to feel at the blank lid.

He curses himself for not saving those lids and those cups, and for tossing them out to make a point. But the numbers are engraved into his eyelids. After weeks of pointless fidgeting and gnawing at his fingernails, he dials the number and a tired Frenchman answers the phone.

"Salut."

"Hello," Arthur says.

"Who is this? Can I help you?"

"I'd like an English Breakfast," Arthur recites. "And I was wondering if you delivered."

They fall in love like it is endless and will last forever after. They fall in love like it is everything they need at once and they never stop falling.