Title: The Genius Next Door
Number of chapters: 15 + epilogue
Word count: 70k + total, 3700 for this part
Cover image by: Eric Rougier
Summary: How it all began.
Warnings: Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.
Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!
"Where have you been?"
Francis jumped in the spot, wincing as the sudden movement sent a jolt of stifling pain down his back. Rubbing the sore area with some resignation, he looked up at the Brit, who was leaning against the kitchen wall with his arms crossed. The green eyes of his partner glittered strangely in the dark.
"I thought you were sleeping," responded the Frenchman in a low voice — it was all he could think of to say. He spared the clock across the room a passing glance. 3:13 AM and too early in the morning for him to have to deal with something like this, but he prepared himself mentally nonetheless with a curious sort of enthusiasm.
"I was. But I woke up a little while ago. I needed a cup of tea, and then I realized that you still hadn't come back yet. So I camped out here waiting. Where have you been?"
Ah. How could one appropriately answer this question?
Francis let out a sigh and removed his jacket, hanging it up on one of the hooks near the door. He took his sweet time loosening his (already loose) tie and then stepped past Arthur into the living room, where he heard the other shift to move from his post near the kitchen to follow him.
"Only you could wake up in the middle of the night just for a cup of tea," muttered Francis, almost ruefully. He attempted to quench the small smile that was tugging on the corners of his lips and thanked the stars that his back was to Arthur.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing, chou. I was out with cher Antoine. It shouldn't come as much of a surprise to you."
Francis turned around, about to say more, but was stopped short by the look on the Brit's face. It didn't hold the expression of anger or feebly concealed vexation that would have usually manifested itself into apparency by now as Francis had expected; rather, it was one of overwhelming weariness.
Arthur wasn't even looking at Francis — he was entirely too concentrated on the television next to himself, holding his left elbow with his right hand in a cautious manner, lips pinched together in the vulnerable way that let Francis know that he felt entirely lost.
Francis followed Arthur's gaze, where he saw, past a coat of dust on the TV screen, two foolish old men reflected. They stood there awkwardly with a distance that hung between them like their silence, near enough to be considered acquaintances but too far to be considered anything more so.
He turned to fiddle with one of the only lamps in the room. It flickered once, twice, before reluctantly turning on.
The lamp's dreary orange hue didn't provide much of a difference in the still-dark room. It did, however, prove effective in casting elongated shadows across the wall behind them and in deepening the prominences around Arthur's eyes from an obvious lack of sleep (and the hollows in his cheeks from an obvious lack of adequate nourishment). The images in the television vanished as quickly as they had come, and with nothing left to look at Arthur finally turned his eyes to Francis.
Francis returned the solemn stare, not really seeing. He remembered that he had once fallen in love with those eyes, though.
"I called Antonio and he said that you weren't with him," said Arthur.
"Ah, so it wasn't just the cup of tea," Francis said, relishing the way the Brit flinched.
They'd been married now for two years, six months, and fourteen days. Francis remembered grass greens and kind-of-endearing bushy eyebrows for only two years, four months, and eight days.
The remaining had been spent like this, sneaking around and lying and avoiding phone calls.
He didn't know why he had continued the once 'one-night-stand', or why he was planning to continue it still. It was entirely too obvious by this point that there was something incredibly wrong with him as he basked in the glow of his partner's obvious confusion, watching as the lamp light flickered, as the shadows on his cheeks danced.
This was his moment — this was why his nights of adultery were committed —
If Arthur wasn't able to figure out what had been going on behind his back by now, he was as stupid as the Frenchman had always called him out to be.
(And perhaps it was better this way, for Francis' secret to be spread out in front of them where neither could manipulate it any longer. Perhaps it would be better for them both.)
He prepared himself mentally for the incoming argument, but instead what came next surprised both himself and the speaker.
"I'm going to bed."
Francis blinked.
And only then, like a quick douse of cold water, did he realize suddenly that he may have made a dire mistake.
"Wait, Arthur —" he implored.
Arthur had always been chou or cher or lapin. Or sourcils.
The Brit spun on the spot with a turn of his heels, the back of his hand covering the lower half of his face, his heartbreakingly beautiful eyes betraying to the Frenchman a fleeting look of unconditional pain just before squeezing shut.
He took to the master bedroom, shoulders shaking, and disappeared behind the door right as Francis found the resolve to move his legs — but by then it was too late.
The door shut in his face with a bang.
Once, long ago, on the banks of the Seine River, a Frenchman had fallen in love with an Englishman and vice versa. Or something like that.
They'd been college students, both of them, freshmen with a high school diploma in one hand and a bunch of disorganized dreams in another, one from Marseille and one from London.
And then they had met each other, had clumsily wooed, and had laid themselves out underneath the aether and had stretched themselves out underneath the vigilant eyes of the stars. They'd gone on extended walks along the river and had met often upon a certain bridge and Francis had whispered Le Pont Mirabeau in Arthur's ear and Arthur had swatted him away telling him stop that, you git, you know how much I hate your bloody language with a smile on his face.
He'd probably thought that it was some romantic poem of serenation or sorts (because he couldn't speak French all that well) when really it was just the only poem Francis knew that had to do appropriately with the Seine.
It was about the pain of remaining fastened, by love, to a singular location despite the inevitability of passing time.
(Sometimes, Francis thinks that maybe he had somehow jinxed their relationship by reciting it.)
They hadn't even meant to get together. Francis was an exotic Parisian who came from a decent home, who liked spending his time bantering with gorgeous women. He was vain and selfish but he loved and loved freely and that was all that could be said about him, really. Arthur was a British immigrant who had an atrocious French accent and liked tea and embroidery and couldn't hold his liquor. Oh, and he was a diligent student, with not a lot of friends, but polite and gentlemanly to all.
They weren't all that much alike, so of course it came as a bit of a surprise to the others (by the others meaning the rest of the school who had come to know the name of the hardworking Englishman and flirtatious not-so-hardworking Frenchman) when they started to date and an even bigger surprise when the two stayed together, especially considering Francis' very promiscuous reputation.
It will never last, they said.
That was okay. What others said, that is. Because neither of the two students really gave a rat's ass about what others said.
Three years came and passed and they were married happily in the Netherlands since neither France nor England allowed for gay marriage but whatever because screw the system, they were going to do it anyway even if returning to France meant that their marriage wouldn't be legally recognized (nor would they have access to any of the benefits being married brought) because it was the principal of the thing.
And so.
It was a first for both of them. Not the marriage (well, yes, that too), but —
It was a first for Arthur because Francis was the first boy (or human being) that he had ever dated, kissed, or fell in love with.
It was a first for Francis because Arthur was the first boy (or human being) that he had ever loved so much that he could go for weeks at a time without sparing another human being a single glance.
It was especially a first for Francis because, as mentioned, he had probably gone out with six hundred different ladies in his lifetime and three hundred different men and he had been fine with that because he liked it that way, thank you very much.
And he had thought that that was the way it was going to be forever — but somehow, somehow, he had found himself being drawn towards that single, angry little Brit.
He could have had anyone. But he chose the Brit.
And he wouldn't regret it, not for a long time.
One beautiful day in the Netherlands, two college boys with some scattered dreams promised themselves to each other. I'll never leave you. I'll love you forever. Sickness, health, wealth, poverty, yeah, yeah, yeah! I do. I do, I do, I do.
Or something like that.
Francis doesn't remember how the affair started or why he had decided to go through with it, but he remembers why. Why had always been there like a little light at the back of his head; it first festered from a single stray thought and then it had mutated and multiplied thereon.
He remembered drinking, too. He supposed it had started more or less with Gilbert Beilschmidt, six months ago at L'Éther Rouge. It was one of the few times he had gone to a bar simply because he was bored and not because he was looking for any enjoyment or attention with his best friends from women.
"I feel like I should be reciting poetry," Francis had groaned, voice fuzzy and tired-sounding. "Verlaine's Il pleure dans mon coeur. I bet it's because Arthur and I have been arguing more lately. I do not even know what I am doing wrong, but one of these days Les Sourcils is going to snap at me and I am going to snap right back because I will have had enough. And then I will walk straight out of the house, never to return, and he will be sorry."
"Isn't that exactly what you did?" slurred Gilbert, because he too has had just as much to drink as Francis and he was starting to see doubles of his blond friend. He hiccuped. "Man, Franny, I bet it's because you're not getting it on as much."
Francis bristled at the pet name but decided to let it go this once. "What do you mean?"
"You're not getting any action from Arthur."
The Frenchman looked outraged and somewhat offended. "We do it quite often, thank you very much," he protested. "This has nothing to do with our sex life."
"Sure it doesn't," Gilbert grinned. "Well — ah — (hiccup) — I mean, sure it does. Maybe you're finally cracking because you're just so used to being with several people at once and now that you're stuck with Arthur you've finally realized after some two years of suffering that you are literally stuck with Arthur, forever. I mean, think about it. Even when you were dating the guy, you snuck around behind his back a couple times just to get away from it all, remember? I don't blame you — the eyebrows, man! — but now, it's like, you can't anymore."
"That had been back when we weren't having sex," sniffed Francis. "That's a completely different issue. I'm not upset because of that, cher. I just — I don't know, Dieu. Ce deuil est sans raison."
Gilbert just grinned and stumbled off his seat, swinging his beer-wielding arm quite unintentionally so that the contents within the glass spilled all over Francis' new shirt.
It would be later, whilst wringing out said shirt in the comforts of the one-bedroom flat he shared with Arthur, that Francis recalled this conversation. No matter what he had said against Gilbert's words, he couldn't get the taunting out of his head. Later, Francis would even start to believe those words (spouted from inebriation) to the point where he thought them wise.
Was his and Arthur's relationship losing its touch?
Whether from a lack of sex or not, nobody could deny that yes, yes it was. The hype from being newly-weds had long ago died down and the two had settled into a comfortable routine of domesticity (familiar, yes, but –) that included going to work and returning home late and paying the bills and spending maybe an hour together watching the news (all the while bickering) and then heading straight for bed. Rinse, lather, repeat —
Mundane, tedious, lackluster. He had married Arthur, not any other household spouse that could be easily picked off the streets or in the woods.
And, ah, who was Francis kidding – of course there was still sex, and it was fabulous, but sometimes more than one night would pass without him getting any, mostly due to the two of them being so worn-down by everything else that was going on in their lives at the time. Moments in which the other partner was not a part of.
Gilbert was indisputably, incontrovertibly, and indubitably correct.
Dieu, he had to do something.
A week went by (since the night Arthur caught Francis out) without incidence, which in itself brought the image of something very, very wrong.
Neither Francis nor Arthur saw the other all that often, and this frustrated the Frenchman to no end because even before the affair they could sparsely find free time for each other. The Brit woke early every morning to leave for work (a horrible little place, in Francis' opinion — a rundown newspaper company, one of the only English ones between here and the Channel) and then would claim himself too tired after returning home to make conversation. Sometimes he would just sit in the kitchen with his hands folded in his lap, a listless look in his eyes. Sometimes he would kick off his shoes, tug off his shoulder bag, and head straight for bed.
For each of the seven days that had passed Francis would urge himself to sit down beside his husband and make him listen, let him explain, but he would always chicken out at the last possible moment. The voice inside him was saying, If you let this silence continue on for much longer, your relationship will dissipate, and he knew it was right, shit, but he wouldn't know what to say even if he tried.
These were the thoughts that plagued Francis' mind:
He and Arthur bickered. That was their thing — they argued like an elderly couple.
Sometimes, one of them would take it too far and their bickering would escalate into a real argument. It wasn't uncommon — they hurt each other and they did it often — and sometimes their windows would rattle from the force of their voices, escalating in sound and bitterness as the comebacks became more hurt-filled and hurtful.
So Francis wondered when Arthur would finally snap, because he hadn't yet, but he normally would have by now and this was strange behaviour on his part, because —
Arthur knew about the affair.
He must know about the affair by now.
Why hadn't he said anything yet?
Were they just to continue this sidestepping forever, were they to pretend that what Francis had done hadn't been at all?
The unusual quietness disturbed the Frenchman much more than any hoarse shouting ever could, because maybe this was how his husband was like when he was truly upset. Francis had never meant to do that, not at all, because —
He knew that he had gone too far.
He regretted the time he had spent with Chel so badly that it hurt like crazy, and he wanted desperately to make it up to the man that was slowly slipping away from him.
But they weren't communicating with each other (even though Arthur knew the importance of proper communication because he was a damn journalist so why wasn't he yelling at Francis the way he deserved?) except through some unspoken accords, such as the one that let Francis know that he was no longer welcome in the bedroom.
He instead started to sleep on the couch. It was a second-hand piece of crap because they were not the wealthiest of couples so the springs creaked every time he moved. He was a light sleeper, he'd hardly get three or four good hours a night, so he took instead to thinking during his wake about —
How this had all started.
Here was how it had all started:
They had something of an abusive relationship.
Francis couldn't remember the last time he felt insecure about somebody leaving him or dumping him because it was always him doing the leaving, yet he must be insecure and this insecurity must have grown from a lack of marital excitement, because what else could justify his unjustifiable actions?
Why else would he have feigned terrible migraines for almost half a year, why else would he have flirted with all those girls at the bar even when his husband was there with him?
He had somehow, somewhere along the way after his and Gilbert's talk, made a startling discovery — that these negative actions attracted attention, and that he enjoyed the attention so much more than he could ever enjoy the standard regulars of married life.
If he pretended he was sick, Arthur would stay home from work to make sure he was alright — if he flirted more, Arthur would become jealous and cling to Francis tighter than necessary.
If he acted bored with his and Arthur's sex life, Arthur would be sure to catch on and heat things up a little bit. If he started to hang out more at local pubs with Gilbert and Antoine, Arthur would be sure to try harder to guarantee that Francis still loved him more than the thighs of scantily-clad women. If he pushed himself away, the Brit would pull him back.
If he started to act sketchy, avoid calls, have an affair — well, he would have all the attention he'd ever need, ever care for, and even if it wasn't the positive kind it wouldn't matter because at least he'd have it.
It was a fool-proof plan. Or at least, it was supposed to be.
Because everything he had done up till now was for Arthur. Arthur, in all his hairy-browed glory and his homely/ugly (debatable) hand-knitted sweater vests and his adorable British accent (that made him sound like a hopeless tourist, because he insisted on speaking English with Francis and everyone else even though they lived in France).
He craved his attention the way beggars on the streets craved for spare change; he starved for it the way mutts on the streets starved for scraps of leftover food. It was Arthur. It had always been Arthur.
But now he had ruined everything.
On the third day of the second week, Francis was crying himself to sleep alone on the couch.
He made sure to stifle any noises he made with a press of the blankets to the lips. He couldn't do for Arthur to find out, because the worst case scenario which Francis feared more than anything else now was that Arthur would take one look at him and simply walk away.
He also avoided Chel like the plague, all her incessant texts and calls, and at one point when Arthur was at work sometime at night he so violently hated her that he dropped his cell phone from their balcony on the top floor, heart rising in giddy triumph as he watched it fall.
Dropped, not threw, because he could not let his anger get the better of him.
And just as he saw the electronic shatter into a million pieces – just as he had the sudden vision of him and his husband being a real couple again and reassembling the remains of their marriage as though that phone had been the only thing standing between them both – he felt a sudden wave of hot nausea course through his veins.
He straightened his back quickly and sprinted to the bathroom.
Francis was throwing up in the toilet before he knew it, trembling white hands gripping the edge of the porcelain seat – again and again and again, first to picturing Arthur's face and then to his brother Mattieu's and how disappointed he will be when Francis tells him that he's gotten a divorce.
As he peered into the bowl, brushing away his slick hair from his clammy face, he realized that most of the content that he had thrown up was not last night's dinner.
"Oh —" he started, before he staggered forwards to retch again, as if his weak system felt the relentless need to empty itself completely of both the food in his stomach and the blood in his lungs.
When he finished, he leaned back, panting.
Arthur was going to leave him, he despaired.
(Perhaps pretending to be sick had become a habitual response to him, psychologically, because for some reason or other Francis soon found himself leaning over the toilet bowl every other night. He began to use up all his sick days so that he could stay home and nurse himself from his rapidly climbing fever, and he attributed said sickness to his depression. Francis would never otherwise miss a single day of his work, which he adored — working as a model for a French clothing store. That, of course, must be it.)