Borrowed Time
Francis comes home from work to find Arthur curled up on the sofa in the living room, a mug of tea in his hands and the telly on.
"You're late." He announces this casually, pointedly, but there is a question in there waiting to be answered.
"I am. I'm sorry, my dear; there was quite a bit of traffic." Traffic, Francis laughs inwardly. There was some indeed.
Arthur looks up at him, giving him a look over. "How was work?"
Francis shrugs off his coat onto the coat hanger by the door and sighs. "Stressful as ever, mon lapin. But it is to be expected with work, non?"
Arthur looks away, huffing a small, 'don't call me that arsehole,' under his breath. Francis comes over to him behind the sofa and slides his arms around his lover's shoulders, nuzzling his face into the fold of his neck. Arthur makes a small noise at the feeling of cold skin appearing suddenly on his throat but does not pull away, instead he turns his head around to peck the Frenchman swiftly on the cheek.
"How was your day?" The question to the Englishman is sweet and innocent, yet it's not.
Arthur replies by tugging the material on the arm of Francis' jacket to get him to join him on the furniture, an invitation Francis happily accepts.
"Boring, I guess. I managed to get some more of the book done though. About a few more chapters and it'll be finished."
Francis nods. "That's great. Anything else?"
"No, not really. Spent most of it either writing or editing." Arthur's laptop now sits on the side table next to the sofa, shut down and resting precariously on the base of their old lamp.
There is a small pause.
"Any more headaches?"
"None today."
Francis smiles, but it looks half strained and half sad. He ruffles Arthur's hair, an arm looping around his back has fingers tugging gently at the base of his scalp in a moment of feeling before Francis detaches himself from the comfortable clump he and Arthur have built cuddled on the sofa.
Them getting this relaxed and unguarded around each other has taken awhile, nearly five or six years, but to them now, in the place they are in, it is worth it completely.
"I shall make dinner then." As Francis flounces to the kitchen, he notices Arthur get up and follow him.
"I could have made something, you know, I'm not incapable of cooking."
Francis laughed and waved a fork at his husband. Husband. How nice to use such a word.
"On that matter, Arthur, I will have to completely disagree with you."
The other scowls and flicked the offending fork away from his face, leaning against the counter and watching as Francis rummages around for ingredients and utensils.
They talk as Francis cooks, about nothing important or serious, in which they tease and joke just as they always have. They eat with conversation too, never in silence as that is not like them. At one point Francis flicks a sauce-covered pea at Arthur which then unfortunately lands on one of his eyebrows and thus becomes tonight's reason why a certain Frenchman is subjected to strangulation after he laughs until he cries. They wash up with the Englishman in a stony silence until he dumps a handful of suds on a certain someone's nice shiny blond hair, after another passing remark about far too dark and large eyebrows.
The rest of their evening goes the same way as it usually does; they watch T.V curled up together on the sofa covered in the quilt which Arthur stitched one year when he'd tried to be better at arts and crafts and watching anything that was interesting on their TV. Arthur has his head pressed on Francis' shoulder and Francis is gently trailing swooping swirls down Arthur's side, arm pinned behind his back.
They go to bed well after 10 and then their new type of normal takes hold. Arthur tries to be quiet as gets up in the middle of the night to be sick, he walks softly and shuts their bedroom door with a barely audible click behind him but the Frenchman is too well versed in their current night time routine and wakes anyway. Francis, rocked awake by the movements of the bed and the loss of warmth from his partner, swims into consciousness and sighs. This is why he always tries to get Arthur to go to bed earlier but he always refuses, wanting to carry on as normal. The 'for as long as I can' is never mentioned but is there, always there, solidly apparent though never explicitly said.
He gets up and stifles a yawn as he plods to the bathroom to sit with his partner, husband of 3 years now. Where did that time go? Has his life always flown by this fast? He sits with him through it all, rubbing his back soothingly and whispering sweet nothings into his ear.
What scares Francis most though was how 'normal' this all feels, being awoken to the sound of retching and a half empty bed nearly every other night. He used to think he'd never get used to it, yet the panic that took hold the first few times has faded to an almost apathetic detachment. This is normal. This is expected. This is fine.
He sits there with Arthur until he feels better, which was just about the time when he starts grumbling at Francis for getting up out of bed when he didn't have to, you stupid frog, he doesn't need him there. They both know he's lying.
Arthur sleeps in late the next morning, and is drowsy and slightly confused when Francis tries to talk to him; words aren't quite stringing together properly but he doesn't seem to notice and tries to talk anyway before Francis nudges him back down into the bed and back to sleep. Francis calls work to let them know that he can't make it. They understand, this has happened before.
It takes a few hours but eventually the fogginess in his head clears and Arthur feels like himself again. He gets up and moans at Francis when he finds him still in the house, paint brush in hand and contentedly dabbing away at the still unfinished canvas that resides in their patio.
"You didn't have to stay, I'll be fine on my own." Francis smiles at him warmly and rises to kiss him, now that he's clear headed, good morning. His stubble grazes Arthur's cheek and his fingers leave a dash of red paint by his jaw. Francis doesn't argue and Arthur doesn't press the issue, they both know that Francis worries. And for good reason, although Arthur refuses to agree out loud; despite knowing how serious everything is he trying to carry on as if nothing has happened.
Arthur was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour about five months ago. It isn't cancerous, just a large growth in the depths of his brain which is slowly growing and killing him, but it is one that cannot be reached by any surgeon in the world, although Francis has done all he could to find one. Nights just after the diagnosis were spent on long and thorough internet searches with Arthur sat in a mute and listless daze on the sofa behind him, eyes on nothing and his mind on too much. His life had an end, an end that was touchable and planable and Arthur didn't (and still doesn't) quite know how to cope with it all.
Who would.
Francis still remembers coming home late from work to discover Arthur having a seizure on the living room floor, laying there still and unresponsive afterwards as the Frenchman frantically phoned for an ambulance.
Francis thinks that his world stopped that day.
Arthur has had headaches for as long as Francis had known him, which was a very long time indeed. Just over 2 years into their marriage however, they had started to get worse; some days they would leave Arthur clutching his head in agony and Francis worriedly massaging his forehead to try anything to relieve his pain. Their doctor had prescribed migraine medicine but Francis had a feeling something was more seriously wrong and had urged Arthur to have some more tests done, just in case. He had refused, of course; he didn't like doctors or hospitals and getting him to go to their GP was bad enough. After his second seizure though, Arthur had given in and had told Francis with forced nonchalance that seeing another specialist might actually be a good idea.
"It's worth a talk," he had said over dinner one night as he picked at his food, "then at least you'll stop worrying."
Francis smiled weakly and reached across the table to capture Arthur's right hand, intertwining their fingers together and gripping tightly. Arthur didn't pull away.
"Of course, then we can look at those adoption papers again, hm? At least we can confirm what's happening."
Arthur met his gaze and gave him a small, quick smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He squeezed Francis' hand back, and dinner continued as normal.
The doctor at the hospital was gentle but firm, not negative but giving no false hope either. She had told Francis, pressing leaflets into his trembling hands, that there was little that could have been changed even if they had come in sooner; it had been there for years and there was nothing they could do for him then or now. It was now, for reasons they couldn't be sure of, growing and she was truly sorry to say that it probably wasn't going to stop.
She gave them her apologises, but that's all she could give. She was so very sorry.
They both hated that word.
Francis remembers driving home in a terse silence that night. Arthur was discharged, they had been given some phone numbers and some pain relief, a pitying look, and an expiry date, but they couldn't do anything more so they let him go. Keep him rested, keep him healthy. Come back if anything changes.
Arthur has had many more seizures since then, but none as scary or as earth shattering as the first, when they both still had a future to break.
On the night Arthur was discharged and not long after the diagnosis, they lay together awake in bed, clutching each other tight under the sheets and crying until they couldn't anymore. Their night was spent just laying there, staring at each other and talking of everything and anything they could think of, saying words they had always wanted to say and say more of. Just to stay awake longer, to have more time with each other. Why hadn't they taken that holiday when they had that money saved? Why did they spend so much time dancing around each other before getting together, why didn't they have the balls to just ask the other out? Francis hates these questions; Arthur prefers not to talk about them. Both however feel cheated, of a life they could have had together but which now has a definite ending to. Unknown exactly, but sometime soon.
They were supposed to grow old together.
After more tests, it was determined that at the tumour's current size and pattern of growth he had about eight months, they said, give or take because everyone is different. It could be years yet; they should make the most of each other and enjoy the time they had. And they do, Arthur resigned from work and started to peruse writing a novel of his own, trying to fulfil a long put off childhood dream. They are lucky too that Francis' work is very accommodating; they understand their situation and give him time off and distance when needed. They have so little time, yet potentially so much of it. It isn't fair. Arthur looks so healthy, apart from the odd drowsy spell, the ever painful headaches and the nausea he is just as he always has been. But now they know, they know how little they could have left, how much they may have.
As if to remind them that their skills of denial can only cover so much, Arthur's left arm has recently begun to grow weaker and starts to shake sometimes; today the fingers are refusing to move where he wants them too and slacking his grip. The tumour presses against his motor skills, blunting his precision.
"It doesn't matter," he says, contemplatively a few hours after he gets out of bed later on that day. He is acting as if his earlier confusion hadn't happened, Francis knows, his voice is clear and strong and Arthur talks far more than he usually would as if to prove it. He makes himself at home at the kitchen table, placing his laptop next to where Francis is chopping vegetables for dinner, "it's high time I learnt to be ambidextrous, anyhow. I don't need only my left hand to type after all."
Francis hums in agreement. He knows any answer that he gives won't help and Arthur is mostly talking to himself anyway, trying to minimise the problem.
Despite the troublesome start to the day, sure enough Arthur's tapping at his keyboard begins to pick up speed as he eventually works his way around the new problem and starts to lose himself in his work. Francis, not for the first time, finds himself filled with pride for his stubborn English idiot. His stolen heart flutters against his chest, but he ignores it in favour of watching Arthur smile softly as he writes.
The adoption papers sit on his desk, untouched. To fill them in would be lying to themselves, taunting themselves with something that they know can never happen. But to throw them away would be to admit that they've lost their chance. They leave them there.
When Francis was on his way home from work last night, he was on the way home to Arthur, to see him and to love him as he does every day. The oncoming vehicle which swerved onto his side of the road put a sudden and unexpected stop to that. Lights suddenly blinded him, his vision turned white then black and his body felt weightless.
He wasn't ready to die.
He couldn't die.
He had things to do, he had places to go and things to take care of, Arthur to take care of, Arthur to love. Oh god, Arthur. He didn't need his death; he didn't need to be alone now, not with that thing in his head crushing his life. Francis couldn't die, he wouldn't die. No matter what.
He was too needed.
So he fought against the strange tug that pulled at his very soul, clawed himself back into the realm of the living, to his life, to Arthur and thought of nothing else. Voices in his head, resounding all around told him he needed to go, it was his time, you see. You couldn't fight against your time.
He begged with them. Pleaded with the nothingness that was around him, wherever he was and told them he couldn't go, no matter what they said, there had to be some way. They struck a deal then, just for him, just because he was so needed by another and he made an offer so selflessly, so quickly and without regret for consequences. He would do anything to stay.
But something cannot be given for nothing.
Not for things like this.
You have nothing to give, they whisper, you can only take.
"I don't care, I'll take anything!" Still nothing, the blackness is heavy and filled with something unnamable.
Your life is over. If you wish to stay you must use a life that is not yours.
Francis thinks that he understands the weight of what he is doing but he can only think of Arthur; he quells the voice of his conscience and agrees.
He gives a gasp; eyes snapping open, he reacts on instinct to avoid the lorry barrelling towards him in the wrong lane. The car behind him is not so lucky and Francis hears, over the sound of his panicked heartbeat, the sickening impact of metal against metal, of large force colliding with something smaller, as he slams on his breaks and skids to a stop.
When Francis returned to Arthur that night, there had been traffic on the roads caused by a horrible traffic accident. News stations had started to report on the damage that was caused by a lorry which had hit an young mother driving back home from a trip to the cinema with her 7 year old daughter after swerving out of its lane. No one knew the cause of the accident; there were so many factors that could have been its cause, drink, that large patch of ice, the strong winds, or tiredness from the driver. The driver of the lorry suffered only minor injuries, bruising and whiplash, but the riders of the other car had not been as lucky. The mother, a young woman of only 28, had sadly died upon impact and her child is in critical condition at the local hospital. It had caused a lot of traffic and Arthur was worried, the road was one which his partner usually frequented on his drive home from work. He was so relieved when Francis walked through the door, safe and healthy.
Except he wasn't.
Francis bargained himself that night, his soul to return to Arthur until he is no longer needed. That, and the life of another to keep him here, tied to the earth he is not supposed to be a part of. He lives on borrowed time, using days that he was not originally given. His life is now a lie, a mirage cast by things Francis doesn't understand. He no longer needs to breathe, although he can, and his hair will never again grow. A small part of him will be glad that he hasn't shaved in a few days, he now at least has his beard to keep. He can walk and talk, his heart pumps blood through his veins but he doesn't get hungry; his heart rate won't quicken for anyone or anything other than Arthur for it is only he that is keeping Francis alive. His heart now beats for no other.
Without Arthur, Francis is nothing. When Arthur dies, Francis will die; before it was metaphorical but now it is literal. Personally, Francis would have it no other way but he knows Arthur would be furious with him if he knew. He doesn't care.
He doesn't know what will happen to him when Arthur finally goes, where will his soul go if he has already given it away? What will happen to his body, it is already dead after all. He is scared of these questions and the answers they will eventually reveal, but he can still see no other alternative, he could not, would not leave Arthur to deal with this, his own end, alone. This sacrifice, this insignificant little sacrifice, was the least he could do.
With every second Francis' heart beats with the life of another; of a mother and of a partner, of another family broken and a different future stolen before its time. The guilt will come to him in dreams, silky arms to wrap around his chest and a voice of ice to scream and cry in his ear.
Arthur takes Francis out for a romantic dinner the next evening.
He regrets nothing.
AN:
This is a fic I wrote a long time ago and posted on another account and under a different title. I really liked the concept but at the time I had tried to write in a different tense than my usual style (I usually write very happily in the simple past) and the original story was so full of conflicting tense changes from where I obviously struggled to conform to the new style that it hurt me very much to read. So, as well as trying to keep all my stories in one place and on one account, I decided to reupload a 'fixed' version which, aside from typo and grammar changes, is a lot more fleshed out and hopefully reads a lot better with nicer pacing. (I say 'fixed' as this is still a tense I'm not used to writing in, and thus I'm sure there will still be some errors that I've missed). The original story had an extra chapter which I'm debating fixing, but we'll see. I kinda like it as a one shot, my stories often tend to get really long so something short and sweet is a nice change.
Anywho, thanks for reading!