I usually place my author's note at the bottom, but I just want to say that the lack of capitalization here is intentional. With that said, I hope you enjoy.


the wine isn't rich tonight.

it lack a certain je ne sais quoi, a certain...whatever the fuck is to his ever-changing fancy. he doesn't really care; it is just a mere distraction for him. for a distraction, it sucks. it fucking sucks because there is nothing else to keep him preoccupied at two in the morning and he just really needs something to whisk him away.

of all nights, francis chooses this one to think, to feel, to do something because he either needs to confront it or lock it away.

either way, he still withers.

arthur remains in his thoughts. he is etched into memory. he is a part of francis, even though he is long gone. perhaps he never was there and francis just wished he was, just wished he was with him instead of alfred. perhaps all the signs that led to happiness were just figments of francis's imagination. perhaps francis was just searching for something that, deep down inside, he knew wasn't there.

he wanted everything without realizing that it just wasn't possible. he and arthur weren't possible. there was never a glimmer of hope to begin with.

he presses the glass to his lips and takes a sip of crimson. it burns his throat; it's not smooth at all. there's no change in taste and there's no one to complain about it to.

he was there, alone, just quietly existing for the time being. he was alone, just like it was meant to be.