lies
At the end of the world, Arthur finally realises he does not want to die hating Francis.
It is only once the world has fallen, only once the sky is black and they are crouched in the corner of a car park waiting for the end, that Arthur realises he does not want the last words he ever says to Francis to be I hate you.
Francis is in front of him, tensely keeping watch through the windows of the car they are hiding behind with his empty handgun clenched to his chest like it's the last thing he has left in the world. Arthur can hear his breath rattle against his teeth even though he's metres away - fast and erratic and angry and scared.
If they had any bullets left, Arthur thinks, he's not sure whether Francis would use it to shoot the creatures after them or him.
He realises, as Francis falls silent for one breath-shattering moment while the sound of wet, hollow footsteps echoes across the car park, that he does not want Francis to die hating him. He does not want to die hating Francis.
Francis takes a step back from the car window, glances over to where Arthur is sprawled against the car park wall and opens his mouth as if he has something to say. His hands refuse to shake but Arthur can see it in his eyes - there is nothing they can do, this is the end, it was awful knowing you.
Arthur leans back against the wall and cranes his neck back just enough to catch a glimpse of a pale, skeletal shape steadily making its way towards their hiding place, and he expects the sudden wave of nauseous dread to cloud his mind but all it does is sharpen the realisation.
He looks back at Francis, who has collapsed on the concrete floor and is gripping the handgun even tighter with a hard, regretful, unreadable glint in his eyes, and he looks at Francis' grimy once-blond hair and dirty stubble and bloodied shirt and some part of him remembers a time when the sky was bright with colour and when he could throw hate around like it didn't mean anything.
"Francis," he says. Francis' head snaps towards him, some kind of fear flashing across his features. Maybe because Arthur refuses to be silent as he goes.
"Francis, I don't hate you."
Francis is quiet for a lifetime of sticky hot footsteps before he replies, "I don't hate you either."
The sound of footsteps is louder now, and Arthur watches Francis recoil as he glances through the car window again. "I have never hated you," he says.
He picks himself up off the car park wall, ignoring the cries of protest his body creates, and half walks, half crawls his way over to where Francis is sat. Through the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of ghostly humanoid shapes closing in, circling the car, caging them in, and he looks down and takes the handgun out of Francis' hands and wraps his arms around Francis' shoulders.
"It's sad that it has to come to this," he says into Francis' shirt, "but I don't hate you."
Francis' arms are around him and holding him tighter than he thinks he has ever been held before, warm and nostalgic and comforting and terrifying and alien and numbing, and suddenly Francis' voice is against his ear and it is saying I could never hate you and I'm sorry and I don't hate you, Arthur, I don't I don't I don't-
Arthur does not hate Francis, no matter what he might have said years ago when they still had a future, and for a brief moment he is glad he won't go to his grave living that lie.