Sour
It was always the small fights.
"And this is why I never wanted to be with you in the first place! Lord, I should have left you long ago if I had known this would have come about." He snarled angrily, green eyes glowering and hands clutched at his sides in tense, shaking fists.
It was always the small fights, the little arguments, the minor issues, their usual bantering. They would always get off topic and go into furious tangents, and he would always go too far, crossing and double crossing and triple crossing the invisible line.
And most of the time, he wouldn't even be aware of what he was saying (he didn't mean it, really, he didn't!). Francis was normally very accepting of that (and he knows he didn't mean it, not at all). Not all of the words that made it past his mouth made sense during their little disputes, after all, and the other would usually brush it off (love, no, please, don't, I didn't –).
But now the sour taste of regret stung on his tongue like no sherbet lemon ever would. He could hear his own ringing voice, loud and clear in the stuffy air of his flat, and the laboured breathing that he couldn't identify to be either his or Francis'. Maybe it was both; his heart was beating too fast and there was the constant sound of blood rushing through his ears. It was an agonizing not-silence, and Arthur bit his lip, looking up.
The gaping mouth on the other's face was incredibly out of place; he wanted so badly to laugh, but there was another expression on Francis' face that drowned out the thought immediately with its own absurdity.
Hurt.
The hurt in his eyes was out of place. The deep blue of it was overpowering the astonishment and shock that the lowered jaw portrayed, and it was, naturally, quite painful to look at. The expression was not contained to only Francis' eyes: there were signs of it all over the other's angled face, from barely-raised eyebrows to the crinkle in the outer corners of his eyes to the strange dip-and-shrink that the nose made.
His words were still echoing in his mind, and Arthur's posture slackened, bodily and mentally weakening under the other's wounded gaze.
"I –"
A soft sigh cut across him, but the warm breath of his companion never reached his face, for Francis had already taken a step back. Thick brows furrowed in a worried confusion as the other closed his eyes and a slender hand was placed against the wall, modifying the Frenchman's balance and tilting his stance. When cerulean eyes opened again, Arthur was hit again with how much hurt there was, before all the details seemed to blur and smooth out.
Like a series of shutters, the hand was taken off the wall, the figure before him was standing straight, and there was a closed mouth with mildly pursed pink lips instead of an open, hanging jaw. Francis' Adam's apple bobbed slowly and his blue eyes were clear and for a moment, Arthur was completely and utterly lost; there was no one beyond the window and he could see no further than the steps he usually took before Francis backed up two more paces, away from him, and then he was gone in a flutter of blue down the stairs.
Arthur could not bring himself to chase the other. There was nothing he could say, after all, even though he had tried to say something (nothing) earlier.
The sky was dark and grey and rumbling, and it had started to rain. Arthur watched as the typical weather of London lashed gently against the glass of the flat window, and lowered his gaze to the empty sloping street. Francis was already out of sight (he was no longer in the flat, if the sound of the door closing had meant anything), and he wondered briefly if the other was still in the city. Probably – he didn't have an umbrella, and waving down a cab could only have been easily done on the busier streets.
He sighed and turned away from the window. There was nothing to do now; every muscle ached, and there was a headache growing behind his eyes with every miserable thought. Had he really-? But Francis shouldn't have- Why did those words-?
He would not be having dinner tonight, if anything. There were only leftovers from yesterday's lunch date in any case, and he really wasn't hungry after that. He fussed and paced about his rooms, propping pillows and fixing picture frames and yet avoiding memories of lounging on the couch and smiling in rare sunshine and bright blue skies. In the end, he decided to turn in for an early evening.
There was nothing left to do.
The bed felt unusually cold that night.
A/N: My first time writing FrUK (and before my OTP, too); believe it or not, I've not read a FrUK main-pairing fic before writing this. (This was written one evening ... March 12th, yes.) I get the feeling I'm really picky about my FrUK, considering.
If it's confusing, tell me. I was purposefully vague in some places and I might have overdone it. If anything, read it over again and implement the "curtains are blue" from your English "teacher's" point of view, and not the usual author's "the curtains are effing blue".
...And I don't know if regret would be sour or bitter. Maybe its like a grapefruit?