On Divergent Shores
Flaming emotions race through the blonde British man as he stands knee-deep in the water like a poor bloke who has taken leave of his bloody senses. As it is, he already looks half-daft with his pale lips upturned in a sad, resigned smile that bespoke the crippling loneliness he felt – a heart-breaking yet complimenting feature to those emerald eyes of his that are trained far, far away, their jadeite surfaces sparkling with a dreamy glint. The feelings burn within him, raging like an inferno that seems inclined on razing its way out of his fragile body through his internally aching chest. The heated amalgam of emotions contains ingredients that are strangely familiar to the sharp-tongued so-called "gentleman". A hint of regret, a pinch of irritation and a dash of confusion are all seasoned by a generous amount of hurt and loss. However, the most dominant feeling – which is also by far the most surprising – is the swell of longing that is simmered in a beyond-sufficient helping of nostalgia.
The playful waves lap at him, thoroughly drenching his trousers and pooling in the crevices between his toes. He clutches his shoes and socks in one hand that hangs limply at his side. The sea breeze toys with his shaggy, golden mane of hair; it tousles and tangles the pliant tendrils together while lathering them in faint sheen of residual salt. The people that populated the beach behind him have long ago abandoned him to his own musings as the traces of sunlight continuously dwindled.
Arthur continues to gaze out into the horizon, knowing with great sadness that the perceived distance between him and that bloody git – that attractive French blue-eyed frog of a man – is a laughably small matter – after all, it is a natural, achievable occurrence to swim right across the English channel – but it is in instances like this when he regrets whatever holds him back and ties him solidly onto the land that is his very life. The invisible restraints enrage him to no end and sometimes, he even snaps out of his trance to find tears dappling his cheeks over his unfulfilled wish to dart right across the 350 miles that separated them. He can't do it. Again.
He returns here, every so often, to test the waters and see if he has gained enough freedom to muster the will to go where his heart yearns to take him. His attempts – and failures – may have well outnumbered the grains of sand upon the beach, but he cannot bring himself to cease in his quest for respite. These visits bring him peace; clearing his mind and making him smile with fleeting sincerity – all at the price of injecting recurring pangs of crippling loneliness through his body that he would have to deal with – aided by his alcohol – for the next few days or so. But it is worth it.
"Someday, Francis Bonnefoy…" he vows in a shaky whisper to the gaping emptiness. The tears choke him once more as he prepares to leave. "Someday, I'll be able to bring myself to see you once more, my bloody pride and reservations be damned. I'll part this filthy, aqueous barrier if that's what it takes… But please…" his breath sticks to his throat as he closes his eyes and pleads to a pair of deaf ears that are miles away.
"Wait for me… J-je t'aime."