The doorbell rang as Francis was reading by the fire. He barely heard it due to the downpour that had followed the dreary day and had thought it the clock, which showed the time to be midnight. But the bell had continued to ring, so he went to investigate. Wondering aloud who could be at his door at this hour, he was surprised to see Arthur Kirkland at his doorstep, soaked to the bone. His face was flushed and his large green eyes were bloodshot. He reeked of alcohol.
"Arthur, why are you here?" Francis asked as he shuffled the shivering man into the den. The last time they had spoken personally, things had ended badly and neither of them had apologized yet.
Arthur was silent and his expression blank as Francis found a blanket and started making tea. When he finished, he set the tea in front of Arthur. The Brit, however, made no move to touch it. He simply stared into the liquid, as if it were a portal to his soul.
"Arthur, what's wrong?" Francis said finally, "Are you drunk? Ill?"
He shuffled around the room, adding a log to the fireplace or wiping an imaginary speck of dust from the mantel. Anything to avoid the subject of the last conversation.
"I'm fine, you wanker." He mumbled as he hid his face. "I-I just had nowhere else to go and I was in the neighborhood."
Francis, even in the low light, saw how red Arthur's face was. Tears fell from his eyes with an orange hue that made him seem to cry fire.
"Did you have a fight with Alfred?" The thought hit Francis because, a few weeks earlier, Alfred had called complaining about how inattentive Arthur had been due to work. Actually, Alfred had been talking about leaving him for someone younger and more relaxed. Several names had arisen, but Francis had doubted that Alfred would carry out his plan.
"Don't worry, you two will fix your issues." He added absentmindedly.
"No, we won't." The Britain pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. I actually hear that Gilbert's place is nice this time of year." Arthur had stood quickly and was trying to make his way out of the room when Francis grabbed his arm.
The look on Arthur's face made his heart break. This man, a man whom he had both loved and hated for years, was falling apart. His entire world had been turned upside-down and twisted, so twisted that he had to run to his - what was their relationship?- for comfort.
Francis held the man in his arms as they sat on the couch.
"Arthur, I understand heartbreak and I will listen to whatever you must say."
"Francis," Arthur breathed as he grabbed Francis's shirt and clung to him. "Alfred broke it off. He said I was being too possessive. I love him so much, yet he says that he hates me. Is it the age gap? Our personalities? Francis, what do I do? He was my world."
The words came in between fits of sobbing and coughing. Francis held tight to the Brit as he tried in vain to keep the man's heart from falling into pieces. Gradually, the fit subsided and Arthur fell asleep in his arms.
"You are absolutely perfect, Arthur. There is nothing wrong with you. Alfred does not know what he lost." whispered the Frenchman as he kissed Arthur's forehead. Francis draped another blanket around the two of them and turned off the lamp.
He stroked the man's face until he too felt the pull of sleep on his body.
"Arthur, even though we fight and hurt each other more often than not, I cannot help but love you. When you are with him, tu me manques. Goodnight, my dearest Arthur. Je t'adore." He whispered as his eyes closed and, with the last of his waning strength, he pulled the Britain close to his chest and was quickly consumed by dreams of days where he could freely embrace him.