The house was dark, devoid of any life when Arthur opened the door. In a daze, he drifted through the rooms and halls until he reached their room. His shirts and socks were still strewn across the floor, as though the Brit hadn't received the worst news of his life. And it wasn't even from that god forsaken frog, but his own brother. Over a phone call.
Tears pricked his eyes but Arthur trudged over to their shared closet and slammed the door open. He rifled through the storage boxes lining the top shelf and the floor until he pulled out a weathered, somewhat dusty hat box that was still taped shut from their last move to London from Paris.
Arthur sat heavily on the edge of the bed, nearly sickened from doing so, before peeling the tape back and opening the box. Dozens upon dozens of papers were stacked neatly, each holding just the faintest hint of a cologne that now twisted his insides uncomfortably. Each letter was addressed "To Artie" and always ended with "With Love, Your Francis". He nearly laughed at the irony in those simple words.
They had met young, when Francis was traveling through Britain for potential colleges and universities and Arthur was preparing to leave home and be the first of his family to get his degree. They met at a pub and bickered and flirted the night away until Arthur offered to give him a tour of his hometown. Those first days were amazing, even if they mostly argued. But his mind was so fascinating, Arthur couldn't help how his heart fluttered or cheeks reddened.
"Be careful with that one, Arthur," Allistor had warned him once when Francis returned to his country and the first of many letters arrived in the post. "He's the kind who will do what it takes to survive."
Arthur didn't get along with his brothers, especially Allistor, but rarely did he speak so seriously. But like the young imbecile he was, Arthur ignored his brother and fell deeper in love with his Frenchman with every letter. Though Arthur didn't want to perpetuate stereotypes of any kind (even if he might be one himself), Francis was smooth and his elegant scrawl painted him pictures he couldn't bear to throw away. He talked of the life he envisioned for the both of them. Never specifically in England or France, but happy and old, still bickering over Arthur's cooking abilities, and maybe with a couple of children. God, did Alfred and Matthew know?
The blonde man sniffed and stood up, carrying the thick stack of letters in a white knuckle grip. His footsteps echoed through the house as he walked towards the sitting room. Sitting on the mantle above the fireplace was a box of matches, begging to be used.
They had their ups and downs, even the Englishman could understand that. Arthur could be distant at times and Francis flirted with others throughout their years together. But he thought they were okay. Those may have been the main sources of their big fights but they always talked and met each other halfway. Sure, Arthur caved first most times, but that was only after they were given Matthew and Alfred, their adopted sons. No child deserved to have parents who constantly argued and Arthur tried his best despite the part of him that refused to bend that screamed to stand up, let Francis apologize first. Now, Arthur wished he didn't cave so quickly sometimes. He shouldn't have forgiven him so easily for all those times he flirted and overly affectionate with others . . .
Was Francis ever his?
He kneeled on the floor in front of the fireplace with the matches and letters. Did he send her letters too? Did she even know Francis was married to a devoted husband with two adoring sons?
When Allistor called not long ago, Arthur expected it to be their weekly catch up. He expected to tell his elder brother how Matthew and Alfred were doing at their universities overseas. He expected to tell him how he and Francis planned to go away for three months not only to visit the boys, but tour North America.
"What did I fucking tell you! He was never enough for you!" Allistor raved angrily the second Arthur answered his phone. "Listen to your gut-always listen to your gut, Arthur! I'm coming to get you. If you see the whore of a husband, just slam the door in his face and wait until I'm there!"
"Allistor, just what are you talking about?" Arthur asked dryly and drank the last remnants of his lunch tea before dumping the cup in the nearest bin.
"Do-" he could hear Allistor sigh heavily on the other end. "Please tell me that fucking bampot had the courage to at least call you."
"Allistor," Arthur pressed, walking out of the office and towards his car.
"He's being sleeping with a woman, Arthur. For two years. Apparently, the only way to clear himself of charges of embezzling money from the company he works for is to show all the proof of his affair and where exactly all that money went."
If Arthur was being frank, he couldn't remember the drive home. His body went on autopilot while his mind went a thousand miles an hour. After all their years together, was he not enough? Arthur loved Francis so deeply, it honestly frightened him and now it was for good reason. His heart burned and cracked inside his chest, weeping an ocean that demanded "Why? Wasn't I enough? Don't you love me? Why wasn't I enough?"
Arthur furrowed his brows and gritted his teeth, not bothering to wipe away the torrent of tears running down his face as he shoved the letters in the hearth and threw in more than enough lit matches.
His love wasn't enough, the family they built together wasn't enough, their future wasn't enough. If all Arthur had wasn't enough for Francis Fucking Bonnefoy, then fuck him! He didn't deserve Arthur, he didn't deserve anything the man had to offer. He didn't deserve their family, and he most certainly didn't deserve those fucking letters with the painted pictures and the beautiful lies! Francis wasn't the tender, loving husband he pretended to be and no one would know about those cursed letters. Because they were the only things that would redeem him and Arthur would fall for him all over.
"Fuck!" Arthur cried, burying his face in one hand as his body wracked with sobs.
For a second, he stared at his hand, then his fingers, and finally the golden band wrapped around his ring finger. He fumbled pulling it off before throwing it with everything he had into the fire.
"Arthur . . . L'amour de ma vie-"
"No! No! You don't get to call me that!" Arthur roared, standing and spinning around to face the cheating bastard. "You have no right to call me that! You forfeit all rights to my heart when you slept with her! Two fucking years, you bastard!"
Arthur wasn't the only one crying, but fuck him. He doesn't get to cry. His heart wasn't burning. His spouse didn't have an affair. He doesn't have the right to feel like his world was burning around him!
"She and her husband were blackmailing me, Arthur, please! Please listen to me!" Francis begged, stepping closer.
Arthur stepped back, his back against the mantle and his legs far too warm for comfort. "No, bloody hell, don't you understand? I loved you and it meant absolute shit to you!"
"The blackmail-"
"What was there to blackmail, Francis? You were a good man, a fantastic man I was ready to spend eternity with! There was nothing for them to blackmail you with unless it you already slept with her! So tell me, am I right?"
Francis fell silent, his dull purple gaze falling to the floor. Arthur closed his eyes and choked back a vicious sob. Those damn eyes glanced towards the fire and it only took his seconds to realize Arthur wasn't burning wood. His eyes widened and Francis rushed to the fire, kneeling beside and without a second thought, grabbed the burning papers with his bare hands.
"No, please, not these, Arthur," the Frenchman pleaded quietly, the tears running down his cheeks like a waterfall.
"You idiot! Let them go!" Arthur barked, kneeling beside him and knocking the letters from his hands. To his annoyance, Francis still tried to grab them even though more than half turned to ash and the rest were breaking apart. "You're only hurting yourself! Just-Stop!"
Arthur had to physically grab his wrists and yank him away from the dying fire. His hands were pink from the fire and black from the ashes. Francis just hunched over, his shoulders shaking as he silently cried. Once it was clear to him he wasn't going to try and snatch up the letters again, Arthur dropped his hands and stood up. He turned and walked away from his husband. He packed his things in silence, throwing everything he could in the biggest suitcase he could find. When he left the bedroom with his things, Francis was still crouched by the fireplace.
As Arthur was about to opened the front door and wait for Allistor outside, because like hell was he going to spend another second in the same building as him, Francis spoke up.
"What now, Arthur? What do we do now?" his voice was barely a hoarse whisper, but Arthur heard it as clear as if he were yelling.
His hand tightened around the handle and he swallowed a lump in his throat. "I'm going to stay with Allistor. You're going to call Alfred and Matthew and tell them why we are getting a divorce." his husband flinched violently at the word but Arthur held no more compassion for him. "Francis . . . I love you more than my morning cup of tea, the sun above our heads, and the stars in the night sky. But this is past forgiving. I honestly hope that you burn."
Arthur could feel the tears again because of course he still loves him. It wasn't a switch he could suddenly turn off, and that's what made it hurt that most. To love someone so wholly even when they cut you too deep, it made you feel so helpless.
"Goodbye, Francis."
The door shut and Arthur's world turned into an inferno.