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Chapter Two:

The temperamental Briton soon trudged out of his room, where Francis was waiting.

The taller blonde was scrutinizingly peering out of the sitting room window.

"Oh my...What a dreadfully dreary day it is." he pouted, adverted his attention to Arthur.

The englishman was clad in a Doctor Who t-shirt, and a pair of grey sweatpants, which were far to large for him.

Francis chuckled, clearly amused to seeing the normally dapper nation dressed so casually.

"Well?" Arthur questioned impatiently. "You've dragged me out of my bedroom so you can torture me all day...When, prey tell, is your "day of fun" supposed to begin?"

"Hmm...How does right now sound?" Francis smiled warmly, stepping closer to the frustrated Briton.

"It sounds rubbish."

"You're so harsh, mon cher! Luckily, I have something to lift you out of your horrid mood." He grabbed a small bag that was situated on the nearby couch, and took something blue from it. "Close your eyes, amour!" He grinned.

Grumbling was audible from Arthur, although he eventually complied.

The frenchman meandered over to him, and unfolded a jersey, letting it hang in front of Arthur.

"You can look now." Francis beamed.

"What the bloody hell is that?" He inquired.

"It's an honorary jersey for my footbal team! I bought one for you because they're playing their big game today." He stated curtly.

"It says Bonnefoy on the back." Arthur deadpanned.

"It does." Francis smiled gently.

Without another word, the Brit took the shirt, and slipped it on.

It was a bit too big on the short nation, but he kept it anyways.

He promptly plopped down on the sofa, glaring at his standing visitor.

"Are you going to leave?"

"Non."

"Listen...All I want to do is to lay down with a nice cup of tea, watch reruns of Doctor Who, and ignore what day today is." Arthur growled. "So will you please leave?"

With this, Francis carefully walked into the flat's adjourning kitchen.

A few minutes later, he took back his position in front of the scowling Brit. In about ten more, a whistle could be heard coming from the room.

Francis strode back, only this time carrying a steaming cup. He sat next to England, pushed a stray strand of hair behind the Brit's ear, and handed him his tea.

"I promise I won't be a bother to you, mon petit." The older male brushed his lips across Arthur's cheek. "It's not good for you to sulk here alone all day. You won't even know I'm here. I'll let you mope, and lay down, and watch all the reruns you want."

"Fine." grumbled the englishman discontentedly.

A smile graced Francis' features after hearing this. He wasted no time in pulling his petit into his lap, and laying him down. He carded his fingers gently through Arthur's hair.

"Now about those Doctor Who reruns..." Francis chuckled. "I'd very much prefer if we watched Ten." The frenchman grinned.

And for the first time all day, a smile tugged at the corners of Arthur's lips.

Maybe today won't be that bad.

He thought to himself.