Asymptote
"Remember tonight... for it is the beginning of always"
― Dante Alighieri
Lines.
Lines were absolutely gorgeous to Francis. The showed such elegance in just one stroke. Such beauty — they were simply ethereal. Cross-hatching and the Golden Ratio and everything in between stained the sketchbook in front of him. Pencil scratching away on the sheet, he started on another line. Arthur dragged himself in and plopped himself into the couch, laying down. His chest heaved as he rolled his eyes over to Francis."Still drawing those stupid lines?" Francis nodded and Arthur sniggered something about how he should just go and marry a line.
"One day you'll realize just how magnificent lines are, Arthur." Francis walked across the room and slipped his sketchbook into a bag. "Tea?"
Arthur nodded in reply and sat upright, finally realising he'd been laying on his haversack this whole time. He unzipped it and pulled out a stack of paper. He set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch. Cheek in one hand, pen balanced in the other, he stared at the various lines and equations absentmindedly. Francis set the cup next to him, pushing the hot surface against his cheek to snap him out of a daze. Arthur scowled, but not a word was muttered.
Francis took to leaning forward and staring at Arthur's assignment. "Math?" He studied the curves and lines on the page. Arthur nodded, looking up at Francis from behind his teacup. His eyebrows were furrowed in such a way that said 'I swear if you dare go off about lines again I will kill you'. Francis backed off and giggled, spitting out a generic insult directed at his eyebrows before sitting down next to him on the couch. He turned on the television and the sound of the cliché drama flickered on.
Arthur looked at Francis briefly. He set his teacup down and went back to his papers. The Brit clicked his pen rhythmically and between the pen clicks and dramatic script, between them, there is nothing but space. Just space.