"Francis! Eyes on the work, boy!"
It's odd how quickly life comes crashing down on you. How in a matter of moments you can go from looking at the most beautiful creature you've ever laid eyes on, to a dirty old boat dock and a crowd of screaming men.
"My apologies!"
Even once he'd turned back to the task at hand, he couldn't help but steal glances at the man standing on the ship deck not far off from where he stood. There was something about him that made it impossible to tear his eyes away, in fear he would do something amazing whilst he was turned away. It wasn't just in his decoration, the heavily hung metals around his neck and the tall boots holding him high above the other sailors; but in the way he held himself. As if he had secrets. Secrets Francis desperately wanted to learn. But before night had come, the ship had sailed away, taking his pirate away with it.
And if you asked him if he was in love, he would say yes. If you asked who, well, he never quite knew either.
"Arthur Kirkland, you get down from that tree right this moment!"
Francis was only five when he saw him. A mess of scraped knees and some sandy blonde hair and it was as if that empty spot in his chest had been filled. And for a five year old boy, this can be a confusing thing to realize.
"But mum, you can see the ocean from here!"
The little boy—Arthur—sat high up in the tree above him, standing up on his tip toes and pointing a stubby finger out over the water, looking as if at any moment a particularly strong gust of wind could knock him off altogether.
"I don't care, that's dangerous!"
"But mum-!"
"No!"
Francis didn't have time to see the fate of the boy before his mother gave him a sharp tug and pulled him forward, out towards the parking lot to go back home—miles away from his missing piece.
"Mama, did you see the little boy up in that tree?"
"No, now, quiet down; you'll wake Matthieu."
"Sorry, mama…"
Francis wasn't particularly sure what he had hoped to find at the beach. It had been years, the little boy with messy hair and a rusty telescope wasn't just going to be sitting up in that tree waiting for him. Fate wasn't kind enough to allow that to happen. Yet there he was, searching a dark beach for the tree and his lost treasure in the dead of night, some small splinter of hope lodging its way in his anxious chest.
It took hours before he reached the same tree he had wandered past as a child, but the second he got there, he could feel the same fulfillment he had felt so long ago swelling up in his chest like a balloon. Because it wasn't just the tree, no, there was his Arthur; up above him, still pointing that silly telescope out at the sea, singing some old song about the sea under his breath and swinging his bare legs through the chilly air.
He couldn't help but throw off his own shoes and start to climb up, wanting nothing more than to get closer to the mysterious stranger of whom he'd been hung up on for… well, years. Arthur simply stared at him as he clambered up, a small smile making its way onto his face.
"Hello."
Neither questioned it when Francis perched himself on the opposite branch Arthur, nor when Francis seemed to know Arthur's name despite them never having met. Somehow it felt right he knew. No one asked when they spent the night out there, talking about the sea and their dreams and places they'd like to go and see, circling places across the map with excitement written all over their faces.
Maybe Francis was a bit taken aback by Arthur. Maybe he was expecting a hot headed kid with no end to his speeches, or a personality to match his sharp green eyes, or even something that seemed to match with the bandaged legs and bare feet and hair that seemed to be forged from the beach itself, but he got none of that. Maybe it was there, but it was well hidden. Somewhere deep beneath his subdued exterior and restrained grin. But oh he could still tell it was there when he pointed out over the sea and went on about how badly he wanted to travel to England and France and Spain and anywhere a ship could take him. You could just tell.
"A flower shop? Honestly, Arthur, I expected better of you."
They'd grown used to lazy afternoons lying out across Francis's bedroom floor over the years. They'd moved from their tree, to the sand, to the dock, to Arthur's front lawn, and finally Francis's bedroom—next it would be the café, although neither really could say they expected that.
"Oh be quiet, what's so bad about flowers?"
Things had quieted down over the years. Arthur's eyes dimmed and the map got tucked away in the closet with his telescope and the marks all over the map had faded with age. They stopped visiting their tree and Arthur stopped talking about ships and Francis stopped asking.
"Nothing, I just always assumed you'd want a more adventurous job."
Francis never really did stop wondering what had happened to the old Arthur though.
"I think it's about time we settle down, don't you?"
Arthur wondered what happened to him as well, to be perfectly honest.
"Of course…"
It takes years for Francis to ask him out. Years of practicing in mirrors and stumbling through the perfect thing to say, because Francis could ask anyone else out in an instance with no hesitation, but with Arthur… things are different. And it isn't as grand as he plans for it to be, instead taking place in the café Francis has come to work at, with a dirty, crinkled napkin and a scribbled note as Arthur furiously writes in an old notebook. There isn't even a proper "yes", just a nod and a smile, with a second note asking him to meet him as the beach. Their beach, actually.
And sun starts to set and Arthur waits at the base of their tree, feet buried deep in the sand as he waits for Francis, some sort of gloom rising up in his chest as the sky gets darker and the ticking of his watch starts to drown out the sound of the waves crashing up onto the once dry sand. But after half an hour, Francis stumbles down the road, arms heavy with maps and Arthur's old telescope, 'sorry's falling from his lips before Arthur even has a chance to say hello.
They spend the night out there, re-circling destinations on their maps and planning their trips, and it's hard to believe they ever stopped.
Despite the planning, the map gets tucked away again. Crammed in the bottom of dressers that have long since been filled with a mess of Arthur's and Francis's clothes, overflowing since they had decided to move in together. The rest of the house was the same, poetry books stacked on top of counters, paintings and art work covering the walls, carpet covered in burnt crumbs from the few times Arthur's attempted to cook Francis a proper meal all on his own. The bathroom is littered with hair products labeled in unrecognizable languages and razors and wax strips that never quite seem to be able to pull the hair from Arthur's bushy eyebrows. They grow used to it all. The domesticity of it. They can still see the water from their window and hear the waves rolling up on the beach, though. And they wouldn't have it any other way.
The only break from the mundane lifestyle they've come to enjoy, is when Arthur wakes up to find Francis gone. The absence of Francis's usual warms pulling him from his sleep. All that's left in his place is a map—the map, their map; the map that's stood throughout the years, and it now showing its age, edges fraying and the marks of their dreams barely visible.
"Francis, what is this…?"
Of course, it's what he'd never expect to find. Plane tickets. Not a ring, or a proposal… an invitation to the journey they've been waiting to take since the day they first met. And really, that's all Arthur ever wanted.