This one's for the lonely, the ones that seek and find
Only to be let down time after time
This one's for the torn down, the experts at the fall
Come on friends get up now, you're not alone at all
This one's for the faithless, the ones that are surprised
They're only where they are now, regardless of their fight
This one's for believing, if only for its sake
Come on friends get up now, love is to be made
This is for the ones who stand
For the ones who try again
For the ones who need a hand
For the ones who think they can
And this part was for her
And this part was for her
This part was for her
Does she remember?
It comes and goes in waves, I
Am only led to wonder why
It comes in goes in waves, I
Am only led to wonder why
Why I, why I try
- Comes and Goes (In Waves), Greg Laswell
The stairs leading up to the 17th floor were carpeted in a surprisingly clean robin's egg blue, for such a heavily trafficked building. Arthur felt slightly guilty about not wiping his feet on the doormat in the lobby, but it had looked just as clean as the stairs he was presently climbing. His hand slid absentmindedly along the frigid railing, fingertips gracing the polished mahogany riding atop the ornate metalwork. The iron twisted and spiraled gracefully, weaving in and out of itself and forming a pattern which, at a closer glance, was much simpler than it first appeared. Stone peeked out from underneath the carpeting, and he was reminded how much warmth France was usually accustomed to. This building was not designed for cold winter snow but for warm rays of sunlight. Arthur sighed at the idea of home and gray storm clouds filling the sky. Before he knew it he had arrived at 17B. He tugged off a hand-knit glove and rapped on the door twice, then stood awkwardly, hands held behind his back and weight shifting rapidly between his 2 legs. Bored, he examined the miniscule curlicues on the corners of the brass nameplate. Francis had invited him over for dinner, "a little Saturday affair" as he put it. He was spending more time alone than his therapist would have liked, and it kept him out of the bars, which was always a good thing. Impulsively, he held his wrist up to his nose and examined the hands. 18:30 on the dot.
He knocked one more time.
On the other side of the white, wooden door, he could hear a little clattering and soft footsteps approaching the entrance. The door swung open quietly, and on the other side of the threshold stood Francis, his hand on the doorknob. His blonde locks were tied back with a violet ribbon, but to no avail—a few strands had escaped to frame his elegant face, which at present was graced with a joyful grin.
"Angleterre! Bonjour!" he greeted, pearly whites gleaming in the ambient lighting of the entrance hall.
"Evening, Francypants," Arthur replied, stepping inside and pulling off his broken-in leather shoes. He leaned down and placed them on the wire shoe rack, while Francis took his trench coat and hat and hung them up in the closet, shutting the folding wooden door with a soft and steady hand.
"Make yourself at home, lapin," Francis said, heading back toward the open kitchen. Arthur stood back up, stretched, and headed for the pristine white couch. A smug-looking Persian, which blended into the sofa, was already situated quite comfortably. The cat gave him a little death stare with piercing blue eyes as he settled down on the couch and disturbed the weight distribution among the cushions. It rose slowly, and, with a haughty air, leapt off to find a new spot to nap. Arthur watched it go with interest; he himself had no house pets. He would probably have forgotten to feed it. Of course, that wasn't including his magical friends, but they didn't eat human food. Flying mint bunny had begged to come along, but Arthur was worried she might feel bored or neglected. Besides, Francis could be…well, let's just say there were some things he just didn't want her to know, the naïve little rabbit.
"Red or white?" Francis called from the kitchen, his head obscured by the ceiling-mounted cabinets.
"Mmm…red," Arthur mumbled, inspecting the flower vase that was sat on the glass coffee table. He crossed his legs, creasing his (already pretty wrinkled) khakis. A bouquet of perky irises currently occupied the vase, their intense purple complementing the jewel-toned theme of the room. Some newspapers lay next to them; Arthur skimmed the headlines, but his French wasn't as good as it used to be. He picked up a few words here and there, but stopped after he read "terrorist threats". Looking for a distraction, his eyes wandered to the ornate fireplace. It had a white marble mantel, and a portrait of Joan of Arc hung above it, a decadent golden frame encasing it. Candlesticks sat on the mantel along with doodads like a miniature Eiffel tower and a little red London bus. The ghost of a smile snuck its way onto his face.
"Enjoying the décor?" a French accent said, and Arthur felt the sofa cushions shifting again as Francis settled down next to him. He held out a delicate wine glass, and Arthur pinched the stem between his fingers, careful not to slosh any onto the couch. He brought the rim up to his mouth and took a small sip.
"Hmm. Not bad," he admitted.
"Ha! Finally you admit to my superior tastes," Francis said playfully, taking a dainty sip himself. "I have a cheese plate prepared as well, I'll bring it out."
"Alright." Arthur stifled a yawn. "You need any help?" he added as an afterthought.
"I'll be fine, but thank you," Francis replied, setting down his glass on a coaster and getting up again. Arthur took another sip of wine, swishing it around in his mouth. Pinot Noir, or maybe Burgundy. Definitely better than the cheap gin he would be drinking right now if he were alone back home.
Francis came back, balancing a board of yummy-looking cheeses on one arm and two ceramic plates and a knife on the other. Arthur's gaze lingered on the blade of the knife: it looked very sharp. He noticed where his thoughts were going and averted his eyes to look at the cheese platter instead.
"I've put the quiche in the oven, and there's velouté de châtaignes simmering on the stove for the soup course. It should be a good half an hour 'till I need to remove it and dice the garnish, so we can talk." The Frenchman smiled.
"Sounds lovely," England replied, trying to make eye contact; but alas, he was an introvert through and through, and he couldn't bring himself to look at the cerulean orbs. He fixated his line of sight on the wall corner behind Francis' shoulder.
Francis cocked his head, swishing his glass a little and taking another sip before placing it back down. "You haven't tossed a single insult my way in the entire 5 minutes you've been here. Is everything alright with you?"
He sighed and stretched his arms above his head. "Hmmm…I suppose I'm a bit drowsy."
"Ah." He didn't seem satisfied with the answer.
Finally Arthur brought himself to look him in the eyes. "My doctor's put me on Zoloft…it's not to work for another 2 weeks or so, but I've really not been well lately, or at least I haven't felt up to much of anything."
Francis peered at the scruffy man sitting next to him, taking note of his slightly bedraggled hair and the unusually purple bags hanging from under his dull green eyes. "So…you do not feel yourself?" he tried, not fully understanding. He knew what Zoloft was; he knew about Arthur's struggles with depression. How could he not, when he was the one hugging and consoling him after picking him up from the shady bars he seemed to gravitate to on many a regretful Friday night?
"No. I don't." His eyes drifted downward again.
In a few seconds Francis' weight was pushing into him, his arms placed around his waist, his stubbly beard scratching against his cleanly shaven chin. Arthur sat a bit rigidly as Francis hugged him, feeling lost and almost unworthy of this affection. After all the terrible things he'd said and done, and that had been said in return. Love-hate relationships were fine, as long as you could understand that the hate part was more for show than anything. But the insults were taxing on his self-esteem, and he tried not to let it show—he was the British Empire, he was a strong man, and men were not supposed to take offense so easily. They weren't supposed to cry, either, but that was what he found himself doing, salty tears making dark spots on Francis' cashmere sweater and the striped button-up that lay underneath. Francis pulled him closer, wishing he could show how much more this man was worthy of, wishing he could tell him not to be sad, wishing the world was that easy.
He tried anyway. "I never meant it," he said softly, for all it was worth. "I never meant what I said, never meant for it to really hurt. Please understand. You are much too special to me, okay? Vous êtes trop bon pour tout cela. Vous méritez bien plus encore, mon amour. Se il vous plaît savoir que."** Slowly Arthur's sobs lessened, and the tears slowed, but he felt lifeless. He couldn't bear this, and he didn't want to deal with all the pain and death and trials and tribulations. Even Francis' presence couldn't drown this sorrow, and he hated himself for being such a burden to such a good person. Arthur brought his hand to his eyes to wipe away the tears. His sleeve slid down, and he noticed—with a start, he noticed, but he was too far gone to care, and all he really wanted was for someone to know, to help.
Francis noticed too, and he cared. Good god, did he care.
"Mon dieu…" he gasped, grabbing Arthur's forearm.
Red lines. Angry red lines, up and down, marring his nearly translucent skin. They were everywhere, some fresher than others, the physical proof of just how far gone he was. They glared at Francis, each one screaming for help and attention that it wouldn't get, hidden under countless shirtsleeves. They crisscrossed, burning into Francis' vision, something he would never forget. Scars, there for good, forever embedded in the delicate skin of an Englishman. But not just any Englishman. His Englishman.
Francis' voice shook. "Arthur…h—" He choked on the words. "How many…are there?"
Arthur looked at their reflection in the window, the ceiling lamp washing out their faces. "46," he finally responded, after a moment's pause.
Francis looked back down, though it was painful, and stood up. "Wait here," he said, running off down the hallway. Arthur didn't even look to see where he was going, just stared at his pitiful reflection in the window. Feeling as pitch black as the night on the other side. He sat, and barely noticed when a certain Persian cat leapt up onto the sofa and nuzzled his hand. The cat, upon receiving no reaction, curled up and fell asleep in his lap. Its chest expanded and contracted with each breath, and Arthur could hear its heartbeat reverberate through his abdomen. He felt almost at peace with himself. If he were to die here, it wouldn't be a bad place to go. Maybe there were cats in heaven…
In less than a minute Francis was back, rushing over to him and taking his arm as gently as he could. He inspected the cuts, and quickly dabbed an astringent on with a cotton ball. Arthur eventually looked at him, with the same vapid stare.
It killed him, seeing his beloved like that. He felt bad for feeling this much pain, because it wasn't even he who was afflicted with this chronic sadness. He would have switched their places in a heartbeat, anything to save Arthur from such horrible agony.
But he couldn't, because the world didn't work that way. All he could do was show that he cared, and with every wrap of the bandage around his forearm, Francis hoped it was enough. When he was done, he tucked the end neatly underneath and secured the wrappings with a safety pin. His trembling hands had just barely slid the sleeve back up before he enveloped Arthur in another embrace.
"Please," he begged, "please know how much you matter. You are so important, to me, and to Alfred, and Kiku, and—and—you deserve so much more than this, and I swear, I will do everything in my power to help you feel better, please just promise me you'll stop. I can't bear to see you feel this pain."
Arthur watched all this, wishing he could make that promise. God, how he wished he could.
"It's not that easy," he whispered without thinking.
Francis watched him with eyes on the verge of tears.
"Francis…no one likes me. No one wakes up and thinks, 'Oh, I wish Arthur were here right now.' No one wants me around, because I'm a burden and they feel sorry for my bloody ass. Poor little Arthur, pity him because he's so old and yet still can't keep it together, he can never do anything right. All I ever do is yell and insult people and I hate that, and I hate myself for it, but what can I do? It all happens without me thinking. It's just who I am. I'm just a sorry little idiot, and I don't know why I even try and waste everyone's time with…with my stupid ideas…and my stupid self…" He started to break down into tears again, shaking with every burst. He gave up on trying to keep himself under control. He had given up a long time ago, he realized.
"Shh. Shh. Angleterre, it's okay. Shhh, mon chou. You mean so much more to me than I could ever express. I invite you over for dinner because I enjoy your company, and I enjoy your arguments and your personality. I enjoy you and your presence. Je te aime, mon lapin. I love you so, so much, more than you could ever know. You are absolutely not worthless, you are intelligent and diligent, and you do what must be done. And I love you for your flaws and imperfections, and for your blond hair, and your gorgeous eyes, and your odd taste in music, and your magic and your magical friends. Do you not see how diverse and unique you truly are? If you are blinded, then let me be your light, mon petit lapin. You are worth more than the moon and the stars combined. You are beautiful, inside and out."
"But…my scars…" he said, trying to make the words come. It was barely a whisper when he said, "You hid them."
"Arthur…scars are not beautiful. They mark a time of pain and sorrow and misery, one so tormented that they took it out on themselves in the most violent way possible. But they do not detract from your beauty, and I love you, scars or not. The bandage is there to help them heal, but maybe, if you let it, it can help you heal from this too."
Arthur contemplated this for a while, watching the hands of the grandfather clock, and then the hands of Francis. And after a good long while of staring at his own, knowing full well what they had done to him and others, he resolved to stop using them for pain.
Francis felt a pair of thin but strong arms around his shoulders, and he smiled.
With the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times and more, Francis diced the garnish for the soup. He was about to sprinkle it on the creamy creation, when a pair of arms snaked around his waist and clasped their hands at his front. There was hot breath on his ear, and he heard the words "Thank you" whispered with the utmost care and purpose.
And, after a little deliberation, "I love you too."
* A creamy chestnut soup.
**You are too good for all this. You deserve so much more, my love. Please know that.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I would love to receive reviews for this story, as it was conceived and completed all within the space of a few hours, so if you have anything to say, feel free! (Also, please correct my French if it needs correcting, I used Google Translate and God knows how well Google Translate works.)(And don't worry about sounding rude or awkward in reviews. As a fellow introvert and socially awkward being, I won't judge.)