Day One-Evening-The Rose

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Arthur Kirkland hated the fact that the World Meeting was in France, specifically Paris this month. He HATED it. So much romance, roses, he wanted to be sick. After the meeting, Arthur took a bus to his hotel, just a kilometer away from the Eiffel Tower, and ran around behind the granite building, only to find Francis Bonnefoy waiting for him.

"Bloody git, get away from me, you sick French pervert." Arthur Kirkland snapped at his..."friend"(?) Francis Bonnefoy.

"Come on, mon petit lapin (my little bunny), just one kiss. Sil-vous-plaît..? (Please)" Francis whispered into Arthur's ear.

"No, you bloody frog." Arthur pulled away from Francis, regretting walking up to him in the first place. He fled from Francis, running through the field of roses in which Francis had been standing in the middle of. He didn't notice, but a perfect, beautiful red rose had caught on his pantleg. He kept running, not wanting to think of the sick, perverted Frenchman...and his perfect hair. No, no. No prefect hair. Arthur shook the thought of Francis' hair from his head.

He ran to his hotel room, flinging him self on his bed and groaning into his pillow. What was wrong with that gross, bloody perverted frog? Certainly not his hair. GAH!!! He forced the thought from his head once again. Why was he thinking of Francis hair so much? He muttered a few colorful choice words to himself, some of which may or may not have been regarding Francis.

He sighed, looking longingly out his window at the moon. He stared at the moon for a long time. He was deep in his thoughts, then the urge to yawn and the action shook him back to reality. He stretched, then lay down in his bed and pulled his covers over himself. He closed his eyes, and went limp, comfortable in his bed and never wanting to move. He lay there, wide awake, eyes closed, thinking. What was up with that oddball Francis? He was so obsessed with Arthur. Why? Arthur decided to go over everything wrong with Francis. "Lets see..." Arthur thought aloud, eyes still shut. "His...f-face..?" Arthur, even though he hated the perverted Frenchman, couldn't come up with anything bad about Francis. Arthur heaved a sigh, then let himself fall into his thoughts. He felt himself falling asleep. Not just falling asleep, but falling-he felt himself falling through the sky. He imagined himself falling backward, towards the ground, but there was no ground-he was falling into darkness, blackness, into an endless, bottomless abyss. He was falling, yet he was safe and sound, lying in his bed. He let his mind wander, and he felt the blood pulsing through his veins, his heart pump, his muscles expand and contract as he breathed. He inhaled deeply, and the smell of roses filled his head.

Wait, ROSES?!

Arthur bolted up out of bed, instantly wide awake. He was on his feet, fists clenched tight, chin up, inhaling deeply. Arthur felt ridiculous. He probably looked it, too. He let his nose guide him to his laundry basket, then he knelt down and started to rifle through it until he found the slacks he'd worn that day. His hand ran down the pantleg, and met the rose at the bottom. He stared at the rose, his pants dropping back into the laundry basket. He held the perfect, beautiful red rose in his palm, his eyes traveling over all of it's features. The long, green stem, covered in perfect, deadly beautiful thorns. The petals, the perfect shade of blood red, curled into perfection, brought together to make a flower. Arthur lost himself in the rose, then quickly shook himself from his thoughts. "No," he thought, "roses mean Francis. You hate Francis," he reminded himself. He growled at the thought of the sick frog, and clenched his fist, forgetting he was holding the thorny stem of the rose, then yelped and dropped the rose, and watched as it fell to the floor, along with two drops of blood from his thumb. He stared at the rose and the blood, rose, blood, rose, blood. Arthur suddenly picked the rose up, ignoring his bleeding thumb, and cradled the rose in his hands. He walked to a crystal vase on the dresser, filled it halfway up with water then carefully placed the rose in it. He lay back down on his bed, the image of the rose and the blood on the hotel floor fresh in his mind. He wouldn't forget it. Or the rose. Or Francis.

He fell asleep thinking of the mysterious blonde Frenchman.

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