England picked up his cellphone, hoping he didn't answer too late, "Hello?" Dialtone. "Damn it," He checked his caller ID, swore again, then redialed the number. It wasn't answered, so he rang again. This time it was picked up, but there was just silence on the other end. "Hello?" Silence. "Hello?"
"I'm bothering you, aren't I? If you have something else you need to do, I can call back,"
"No! No, no, It's fine."
"...You didn't answer…"
"I was outside, I couldn't get to the phone in time." he heard fabric rustling on the other end of the line, "Are you in bed?" It was almost two in the afternoon.
"...Yes…"
"When was the last time you got up?"
"This morning."
"Did you eat anything?"
"Mhm, I showered too."
"Do you need me to come over?"
"You're busy."
"Nothing that can't wait a day or two." he grabbed his keys and went out to his car.
"You don't have to-"
"Nonsense, I'm already on my way." Silence. "Still there?"
"Yes," the other voice only came out in a whisper.
"Okay. I'm going to hang up now. Will you be alright until I get there?"
"...I think so."
The house was completely silent when Arthur let himself in. He left his shoes by the door and continued upstairs.
He opened the door of the master bedroom to find a lone figure curled up and completely covered by the blankets. Arthur sighed before lifting a corner and crawling in. He slid his arms around the bed's original occupant, who rolled over and curled into him instead, burying his face in his shoulder. Arthur could feel the other one shaking as he gently ran his fingers through their long hair.
"It's alright," Arthur whispered, "It's going to be alright."
Francis hated feeling this vulnerable. He hated pretending that nothing was wrong. He hated that no one understood. No one except Arthur.
He hadn't planned on Arthur finding out, but he had made the mistake of not holding his tears until he got home. So when Arthur found him crying in his car after a meeting and demanded to know why, Francis had ended up telling him everything.
No one liked him. Actually it was worse than that: everybody hated him. They called him a pervert or a rapist when they thought he couldn't hear them. Even his two best friends were distancing themselves from him, maybe not intentionally, but they were. He was alone.
Arthur was the only one who understood his loneliness and depression. The only one who saw it. The only one who made sure he got out of bed and ate and bathed, because Arthur said doing that would help him feel better.
Francis hated it. He hated that he had sunk this low. He hated that it was the only reason Arthur cared. He hated that as soon as he was better, Arthur would leave.
He didn't want that. He wanted Arthur to stay. He wanted Arthur to hold him, not because he needed comfort, but because he loved him.
He wanted Arthur to love him as much as he loved Arthur.
Because he did. He loved Arthur. He had loved him ever since they were much younger: before the wars, before the colonies came and left, back when they were children, Francis had fallen in love with him.
And he didn't want Arthur to ever find out, because then he would leave, and Francis didn't think he could handle that. Not now.
He knew anything Arthur felt now would just be pity, and he didn't want that. He wanted Arthur's feelings to be genuine. As it was, he really wasn't sure that Arthur really cared enough to be there, or if he just felt obligated. He didn't want to know.
So instead he chose to tell himself that Arthur cared, at least a little, and hope that someday he would believe that.
And in the meantime, he just hugged Arthur's waist and cried into his shoulder and prayed that the other man would still be there when he woke up.