It had been little things that ticked Francis off to the fact that something was not right. He would just forget to turn off the stove, think he was hearing Arthur call his name when he was not, have small bouts of depression: little things. But they greatly bothered the Frenchman. He thought and thought, wondering if it was really something… However, he was sure it was.

Though he was not about to tell Arthur about his suspicions.

Oh no, these little things were not enough to get the Brit's attention, but they were just large enough for Francis to want to see a doctor. So, as soon as his husband had left on an errand, Francis went to see a doctor.

The note he'd scrawled out was short, just five words.

Beginning stages of progressive dementia.

The doctor had prescribed him a medicine: pills. Since it was so early and weak, he had expected Francis' sickness could be treated. Though the moment Francis got home, he tossed the pills into the fireplace and wrapped the empty pill bottle in a paper towel before tossing it away. He would not tell Arthur. He would figure this out on his own… his ego was too big to admit that his mind was fading away.

"Francis," Arthur's voice was soft, "you seem distracted lately." He sat down beside him, his green eyes looking the Frenchman over slowly, concernedly.

"Hm? Maybe I am," he returned nonchalantly, raising his eyes brows slightly at Arthur.

"About what?"

"Mm…" Francis stretched his arms out, laying down on the couch, his head on the Brit's lap. He stared up at his husband carefully. "Lots of things," he said cryptically.

"Francis…" a slight smile touched Arthur's lips; it was the type of grin you would give a small child after they'd done something that was somewhat annoying. Francis knew that smile well. "Like what?"

"Just… wondering what would happen if someone got sick, I suppose. Like… you know, mon cher…. Just needless worrying. You do it quite a bit." His eyes sparkled almost sadly as he felt Arthur playing mindlessly with his blonde curls.

"I do not," he retorted. "Of all the bloody…"

Francis chuckled gently. "You know I love you, right? Je t'aime."

"Yes, yes, in your bloody stupid language too," he said jokingly. "And I love you too."

The smile on his face grew a little. "Good. Just making sure you knew."

A wondering glint crossed Arthur's eyes. "Some reason why? You leaving or something?"

"Oh, no, no… non… I just… Sometimes you just have to put this kind of thing out there! Love is important, you know." Francis' smile turned teasing before it faltered slightly, "I don't want to forget…"

"What—?"

But Arthur did not have much time to be confused, for at that moment, the phone rang. He jumped a bit, surprised. Francis sat up, allowing for Arthur to go answer to phone. He watched as the emerald-eyed man's expression went from happy to troubled to practically afraid. Francis was concerned as Arthur's fingers began to shake as he grasped the phone. He immediately stood up, walking over to the Brit. Stepping up behind him, Francis wrapped his hands around Arthur's shaking ones. He seemed to relax at the other's touch, if only a bit. Francis could not hear what was being said on the phone, but it sounded like a man.

Finally, Arthur said, "Right. Bye, Dad. I'll be there as soon as I possibly can."

He hung up, immediately falling back a bit against Francis' chest. The Frenchman pressed his lips to Arthur's neck, murmuring, "What's wrong, cher?"

"My mum. She's very sick… You know she has been for awhile, but now it's… worse," he breathed. "And… you know she lives out in the middle of bloody nowhere with no connections and… and… Dad's not in the best shape either… Oh god, Francis, I need to look out for her… She simply won't be around much longer." He gave him a sidelong glance. "I really need to go…"

"Yes, yes, you do…" His voice trailed off, thinking of his own dilemma. It would be selfish to bring it up now. Besides… Francis had told himself he'd handle it on his own. This was the perfect opportunity, no?

Arthur did not seem to want to move from Francis' embrace. He finally moved gingerly, giving him a meaningful look. As Arthur turned slowly to walk to the bedroom, Francis followed silently.

His mind was heavy, distracted… he didn't want Arthur to go, but yet… He took a deep breath as he entered the room to find Arthur already busily packing away.

Francis watched as Arthur quickly packed his bags. His usual neatness was lost in the worry for his mother. Francis was sad he was leaving him, for he was sick too…

But he had not told Arthur, and he could not now. That would be selfish. Arthur could say he was not a gentleman all he liked, but Francis could not be so selfish as to tell him about his condition now…

"How long will you be away?" Francis found himself asking softly.

The Englishman looked up from his suitcase, green eyes wide. He sighed despondently, glancing away from Francis. "I… I don't know…"

"Go as long as you need," he assured, "I-I'll still be here when you come back, amour." The Frenchman gave a feeble smile.

Arthur didn't want to look back to Francis. He knew he didn't want to say that, and yet…

"Thank you," he took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry… so sorry… I wish I could at least tell you how long… or… or even be able to contact you once I am there…" He then pulled the suitcase zipped with a heavy sigh, shaking his head sorrowfully. Arthur stared down at the plain, black suitcase forlornly; he'd hoped it would take longer to pack.

As the two made their was to the door, they were both feeling the same way. But yet at the same time, Arthur could never understand the things Francis was worrying about… at least he could not at that moment.

They just stared at each other for a drawn-out moment before Francis kissed Arthur gently, briefly, and whispered, "Hurry back."

"Of course, love. I-I'll miss you, a-and I love y-you…" the Brit turned, batting back tears. He rarely actually told Francis things like that. Times like these made him regret that.

"Moi aussi," Francis breathed. "Je t'aime… et… et…" His words caught in his throat. "À bientot," was all he could choke out after that. He was upset Arthur was leaving, of course, but moreover, he was afraid. It's not too late to tell him… He could not though.

For once, Arthur did not seem frustrated by his use of French. He simply raised his hand slightly with a whispered goodbye.

Francis shut the door slowly. When it clicked shut, he leaned his back against it and slid to the floor. He weaved his fingers through his hair frustratedly. At that moment, he nearly flinched as Arthur's words rang in his ears.

Not now… Oh god, not now… He did not want to feel insane, not ever… especially not now. Francis' fingers twitched slightly. He closed his eyes tightly, willing the noises, the images, the feelings to leave.

But they were all in his mind, and Francis knew they would not be leaving any time soon.

;xxx

"Francis, I'm going out to—" He slammed his hands over his ears. He's not there, he's not there, he's not there… "—buy some groceries!" That British accent could not be shut out by his hands over his ears, Francis knew. It didn't stop him from trying though. He just wanted to sleep in that morning… He didn't want to be woken by the voices in his head…

Arthur had been gone for one month now, though not from Francis' mind. He could not make his voice leave. It would have been comforting had he not known the source. He knew that voice should not have been there, he knew he was slowly going mad, he knew Arthur did not know, he knew all of it… But yet Francis refused to admit there was a problem. He wouldn't say that he needed help… because he didn't.

"Arthur… I miss you," he whispered. "But I am glad… you do not have to see me going mad…" Francis grimaced, clutching the blanket to himself frustratedly. He whimpered slightly, letting his eyes fall shut.

He just listened. He could hear the grandfather clock in the living room ticking loudly. He could hear the drizzle outside hitting the window pane. He could hear the silence where Arthur's nagging and chatting should have been.

He gasped lightly, his eyes snapping open. His hand twitched slightly. The blonde cursed loudly, rolling over to press his face to his pillow. Silence fell once more.

Well, it was silent until the noises of before came back… especially the clock ticking. With every strike of the second hand, he was reminded of Arthur's absence.

He could not take this. He had to get out of the house. Francis jumped out of bed, the pulsing of the clock still beating behind his ears. He quickly pulled on the first clothes his fingers touched. He pulled his hair back with a hair tie as he walked out the door. Francis knew he looked awful, but for once, he just did not care. There was no one to look good for, anyway…

His footsteps echoed in his ears as he walked down the sidewalk to the park. It made him cringe. But more disturbing still was the noise he heard above his footsteps. The clock ticked stridently in his mind. It wasn't leaving.

That meant it was not just the clock.

That meant it was his mind.

He held in a scream and broke into a shaky run.

About a minute later he found himself standing in front of the grand, white fountain at the centre of the local park. Francis stared at the coursing water through a few loose strands of hair. His blue eyes were wide, afraid. The ticking had subsided in his run, but now it was back. Every time it pulsed in his ears, his fingers twitched ever so slightly. He wanted to fall to the ground: scream, convulse, cry… something.

But he could not. Non, non, he could not.

"Je n'ai p… pas… J-je… ne suis…" He shuddered and wrapped his arms slackly around himself. "J'ai besoin… Arthur…" His voice broke as he fell to his knees. He rested his head in his hands. He could feel small splashes of water hitting him, seeping into his shirt. Francis just cringed. He could not find it in him to move: the ticking of the clock seemed to restrain him there.

Francis felt like he was sitting there for hours. Nobody checked to see if he was okay. Perhaps the clock was scaring them away… He would not blame them.

"Francis, you frog."

The blonde jumped, jerking around to scan the park. It was dark, and he was there alone.

Right. It was just my mind. That voice was too… broken to be mon Arthur… Francis groaned loudly as the tick of the clock once again filled and rang through Arthur's absence.

As he walked back home, he stepped in sync with the clock. Francis would make the tick stop. It was his mind after all.

;xxx

But the clock's pulse did not stop when he got home. It did not stop that night or the next. A week later it was still there… and the week after that and the week after that. It dragged out into the next month and the next and the next.

The real pain, though, was not the ticking. The real pain, the real problem was that the tick seemed to be counting, counting every second Arthur was away. Francis could practically feel his sanity fading away. No, it was not fading… it was being torn out from under him.

A scream rang through the Bonnefoy-Kirkland house.

The room seemed to spin haphazardly around Francis. He wasn't sure where in the bedroom he was standing—if he was standing at all—or what time it was or what was going on. All he could feel was the coldness of metal pressed in one hand. Francis could feel himself stumbling around the room, just the motion of himself moving. Every so often he would feel something jabbing or slicing at his skin.

Finally, he grabbed the edge of the window sill. He gasped loudly as the world righted itself. Francis glared out the window, pressing his palms against the sill.

Tick, tock… tick, tock…

"Arthur… four months… why?"

Then he grimaced suddenly, his arms falling out from under him. He fell to the ground, a strangled cry escaping his lips. He stared up at the ceiling dejectedly. He was perfectly content to just sit there until the Englishman returned.

And then he saw his arms and gasped. They were cut and bruised, limply hanging at his sides.

When did this happen?

His mind weakly made the connection of stumbling around the room, hitting things, and the metal object he'd felt in his hand.

Why was I holding a knife?

Somewhere in his mind hissed, Because you're insane.

No, no… I cannot be… I am… not…

Francis' inner dialogue faded, and he nearly jumped when a loud toll of a clock sounded in his head. He groaned. This hadn't been a tick. It had been a toll, just a single, bell-like ring. Francis, unthinking, dragged a finger across a bloody gash in his wrist. He did not feel it as the deep red liquid coated his fingertips. Francis then touched the soft yellow wall, proceeding to drag them to form blood-written letters. His usual calligraphic handwriting was lost, taken by weak, sloppy writing. When he finished, he dropped his fingers to his sides once more.

1 Toll: Where are you?

Francis' blue eyes slid shut then, and he fell into a restless sleep. His dreams were haunted by the sounds of bells and chimes and tickings and numbers… The clock sounded out the lack of Arthur…

If Francis ever got out of this, he knew, he would never look at a clock the same way.

;xxx

For the next eleven days, the clock tolled in the Frenchman's mind. Everyday it increased its number by one. Every day he cut a slit in his wrist. Everyday he wrote something new on the wall. Everyday, he felt like he was losing more of himself.

But on the eleventh day, something else happened. Francis did not know what it was or what happened. But something had. He had felt the grip of foreign hands, heard screams and cries, tasted salt and metal.

He'd been too far gone to register it completely though.

Francis allowed himself to be pulled away by these strangers in white, feeling like there was someone else who should have been there all the way…

;xxx

Tired feet made their way up the walk. There was fumbling with the key, tired hands too shaky to get the key in. At last, the door gave way, opening into the neat living room. A few things were displaced, but that was to be expected with Francis…

"Francis, I'm home," Arthur called tiredly.

There was no response.

"Francis?" his voice raised a bit. "Francis, are you home?" Arthur poked his head into the kitchen. It was Sunday afternoon; Francis should have been home. Fear began to rise in the Brit's chest. Desperate, he called, "Où es-tu?"

Thoughts raced through his mind. Is he hurt? Did he leave me? Is he angry? Arthur raced up to their bedroom door, but he hesitated before it. He took a deep breath before throwing open the door.

He gasped, stumbling backwards.

"Bloody hell…"

Arthur stared, for a moment too afraid to enter. He at last gathered himself and stepped inside.

The walls were painted with bloody messages. They were written in sloppy but undeniably French handwriting.

"Dear god…"

His eyes immediately went for the first message.

1 Toll: Where are you?

Then he spotted the next nearby.

2 Tolls: I miss you.

And next to that was, 3 Tolls: I need you.

4 Tolls: When will you be home, Arthur?

5 Tolls: Will you ever be home?

6 Tolls: Are you hurt?

7 Tolls: I keep hearing you in my head, amour…

8 Tolls: The clock is haunting me, Arthur, please…

9 Tolls: Please help me…

10 Tolls: I should have told you then

11 Tolls: I don't know if I can keep going…

As soon as Arthur read the last message, the city clock struck twelve and twelve ominous tolls rang through the entire town. The Brit stepped backwards in fear, and paper crunched under his foot. He looked down at five words glaring up at him, and somehow he knew Francis had been drown out by the clock, choked by the pendulum.