Paris at sunset isn't as dazzling as Paris at night. Eiffel's tower hides somewhere in the city's eighth neighborhood, out of sight from the balcony. Francis loves his city and all its beauty, but a balcony view of the universal Parisian symbol is a little too cliché for his tastes.
Paris at sunset is beautiful. It has a subtle kind of beauty, like the pain of letting a lover go. The day slipping away, ending, with a crimson glow. Depressed blues bleeding into aching oranges and reds matching the blood of angry men. The clouds look to him like broken bones. He smiles and closes his eyes with a sigh, turning his head down towards his hands. Night air combs through his hair. Francis looks back out over the rooftops.
It is crippling, really, this feeling. He thinks of the wine glass on a white table to his right. He doesn't want to move. He fears the beauty might leave him if he turns his back on it.
Night will fall, of course. It will bring the rich navies and indigos that so perfectly contrast the city's lights. It's a bit bizarre, he sometimes thinks. People chase away the beauty with mere imitations of the day's light. As if the loneliness of the night sky were something to shun. He supposes that for one beauty to flourish, another must be suppressed, but it's a poor excuse that he doesn't actually believe.
Humans are terrified of the unknown, and often times they will avoid pain at all costs. They're missing the point of it. Some say pain builds character. It strengthens. He doesn't think this is wrong, but he's seen pain force the strongest men to their knees. He thinks again of the wine at his side.
Pain only comes as a result of beauty. Deaths hurt more when the lives are precious. Hearts only break after love. And pain paves the way for new beauty. It's the purging fire, and yes, it burns.
He doesn't invite the pain. He invites its aftermath. He braces himself for the weight and the aches, but now he is a man with a wooden shield facing an army of tanks, and he is tired.
The wine tempts him. But there is a beauty lain out before him in the sky, and if he doesn't pay his respects, who will? Cars echo from deeper in the city. The wind blows stronger. The fresh blood on the horizon has dried to a russet, and the soothing, aching cobalts are settling in.
Humans are equally terrified of change. He is not exempt, no matter how often he looks to the future to bring better days. The wind is cold and the sky is colder. The wine calls his name.
The cry within his apartment calls as well. Francis stands for an endless minute by the balcony, choosing. The lonely sky promises to wait. The wine concedes that it, too, will be there when he returns. The baby in his living room cannot wait.
He aches. His bones ache. His heart aches. His soul aches.
Francis lifts the child from his crib and cradles him close. His diaper is clean, but his stomach is empty again. Francis fetches the last bottle from the bare fridge. Matthew has stopped crying before the formula is even finished heating.
The balcony welcomes him back. He stands with his child and watches the lonely world spin on as best as it can. It reminds him of the nameplate beside his door. The promise he's yet to break. The world is broken and cruel. It is a spinning rock of war and disease, yes, but its cruelty goes beyond that. Matthew closes a fist around Francis's shirt. Francis pulls him close.
For all that he's been accused of, he's never lied about love. Love is something every organism deserves, and it is poorly distributed. That is the cruelty of this world. It is an injustice he works to amend. He offers love to anyone who needs it. He tells them he loves them, and he does. Everyone deserves to be loved. The infant in his arms is proof enough of his honesty.
His heart aches for the boy, knowing his mother left him here because he was unexpected. Matthew is not unwanted. Francis loves him. He will love him enough for two parents. But Matthew is not the only one his heart aches for tonight.
There was just one visitor tonight. He should take joy in knowing that only one man was without love, that he gave that man the love he deserves. He does take joy in that. But it aches and it cripples him all the same.
He has never lied about love. He truly loves those who come to him in need. He loves them for that night, and for any other night they need him. There are those who love him in return. But his love is temporary. It is a love to help them get through until they find their other halves. He is proud enough to help them on their way. Today was not different. His visitor, one Arthur Kirkland, needed love. He provided it with honesty. There are those who love him in return, but Arthur is not one of them.
Francis has seen pain bring the strongest men to their knees, and he has seen it many times. Tonight he has helped Arthur back to his feet, and the Brit walked off into the dieing sunset all on his own.
Francis aches. He stares at the lonely sky and holds his child close. His heart aches, and his bones ache, and his soul aches. The sky expands forever, a gaping wound that will be healed by the coming day.
Francis remembers a line from somewhere. The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return. He takes the glass of wine.
Everyone loves, and yet too few are ever loved in return.