A/N: Ah, I need to write something more than a oneshot about these guys, don't I? Someday, someday. Not sure if this is embarrassing to admit or not, but this story was slightly influenced by Lady Gaga's song Speechless. Please please PLEASE give me some constructive criticism, or, if you don't have any, just something nice.
It has started in a bar in Paris. Francis had little idea as to why Arthur was there and even less of a clue as to why they started talking. Hell, he didn't even know what they had talked about, but it had lead to… something. A walk through the rainy streets of the city Francis loved so. It lead to the turning of a key – into an apartment.
Then, it turned into something else – a kiss, a tumble, a whispered confession:
"Arthur, I love you."
It lead to a disappointment – Francis had never said that to anyone. Sure, he'd been through a lot of boys and girls, but he'd never told anyone THAT. But, Arthur was asleep. Which, lead to a study – he was so beautiful when he slept. Sure, others might not call him handsome, but Francis loved that part too.
And then it lead to sleep. Francis, being a romantic, would say that it was the best sleep he ever had.
But, night lead to morning and love into waking up. And seeing Arthur sitting on the edge of the bed. And the uncomfortable expression on his face.
"Well," Letters turned into words. Words that sounded cold, "well, thank you? I suppose…" Arthur fidgeted, "do you mind never telling anyone about this?"
Francis wasn't sure what he did to get to this point – he wasn't sure what he said in reply, either. He was only sure how he felt – a dark feeling of nothing.
Arthur walked towards the door. For a second he paused. Francis hoped beyond hope that he saw… something, in Arthur's demeanor change. But it didn't. Or, it probably didn't, but then he walked out the door and there was no way of ever knowing.
With him left words, emotions, feelings… there they went! Out the door, down the elevator, into a cab… all gone. Love – or whatever it was - turning into nothingness.
Francis, ever the romantic, had nothing left to do but pour wine and go out onto his balcony. Paris was usually pretty in the morning, but today it looked too old, too run down, too too... the city would be pretty in the future and always had been pretty in the past, but today it was not and nothing would change that.
He raised his glass to the streets, but did not toast - what was there to say when one was speechless? When one had already said it all? And… for what? For nothing. A one-night-stand was worse than nothing. It was worse than a kiss. Than a look.
Slowly, he brought the glass down and drank. Francis sighed: he loved this city, but that was all he had... now he'd never love again.