If someone were to watch them fight, when they truly fight instead of squabble, they would probably be scared out of their wits. No one is allowed to see these fights; some people think that their public spats are the extent of their arguments, but they could not be more wrong. These fights happen behind closed doors, their voices scrambling to try to match the other's in volume and in ferocity; each word trying to draw blood, to hurt, to injure, to maim; they want to leave each other broken and bloody with words alone. They're quite good at it too. They know exactly what to say to cripple the other. They know the other's weak spots and they are not hesitant to abuse them. When they fight, it's as if they forget that they love each other. They forget every single reason that they are still together and they become solely focused on injuring the other beyond repair.
Then it will just stop. Their voices stop mid-sentence and the settling silence will feel so foreign. It always feels as if the world has stopped with them. The entire universe waits with bated breath as they experience the eye of their storm. They'll stare at each other in terrified silence; their pain palpable. And then, like a scratched record, it will start again.
Arthur screams something intelligible as he slams out the door; his jacket is forgotten but he won't realize until he's out of their building and half-way down the street. Francis will yell back something sarcastic, and he'll smile gloatingly when he sees what Arthur forgot. Each is left with their silence once again.
They have their own ways of recovering. Arthur runs. He will haltingly walk to the nearest park, but as soon as his foot goes from the pavement and onto the dirt path, he will start sprinting. He'll run until his legs collapse and he's gasping for air. Then he'll lay there in the grass; his head will be spinning and legs will feel as if they're on fire, but he always feels better. He'll lie in the grass for a while, but soon enough, he'll pick himself up and walk home.
While Arthur runs, Francis will make soufflés. You have to be quiet and precise when making soufflés, and he is so familiar with the recipe that it's second nature for him. The silence will turn comforting now, and his shaking hands will still as he prepares the dish he's made a million times before.
Francis is always finished by the time Arthur comes home. They'll clean up the mess together and then curl up on the couch, watching an old movie. As Francis presses kisses into Arthur's shoulder and Arthur reaches for Francis' hand, they know that they will be alright. They are both too proud to have proper apologies; even though the words still echo through their heads, they know they will fade soon enough. And maybe that's okay.
