There was a dot on the ceiling in Arthur's room. Francis had noticed it before and he liked to stare at it, trying to figure out how it got there. Just a small black dot, blurry and undefined, marring the otherwise perfect ceiling.
Arthur lay beside him, his breathing calm and even. Francis watched his chest rise and fall and he knew he had to leave: Arthur wasn't expecting to see him in the morning. This had gone on for years. Their dance was a regretful one of missed chances and broken promises. Both of them still looked for meaning behind dull, lust-filled eyes, rough touches, and forgotten endearments. It was a once a week event where Francis stumbled into Arthur's house, almost always drunk to the point of incoherency. They would kiss once and head off toward Arthur's bedroom, and Francis would leave his heart at the threshold. Once the final word was said and the hands retreated, they would lie together in silence until Arthur fell asleep, always with one eye open. And Francis would stare at the ceiling, wondering just how that dot came to be, staying a bit longer than he knew he should.
Tonight was no different and Francis lie there all the same: fingers itching to touch, eyes refusing to look. And he waited, dreading leaving and wanting to stay. He clutched the side of the bed and pulled himself up to sit on the edge of it, not yet motivated enough to get dressed. Before he knew it, he'd spent an hour staring out Arthur's bay window. The sheets rustled beside him and he stiffened, ready to jump up at any moment and pretend he was already leaving.
"Francis?" Arthur's voice was deep and groggy from sleep. Francis froze, hoping Arthur was still somewhat asleep and would just roll back over.
"Francis?" Well, there went that hope. Francis sat and waited to be scolded, hit, or whatever Arthur decided would be the best way to get him out of his house the quickest. He waited, and the punch never came. He waited, and he felt something grab his arm. But it was gentle, it was soft, and it pulled him back into the bed.
"Arthur?" There was no answer, "Arthur?" The Briton's eyes were closed and he was currently clinging tightly to Francis' arm. He looked so peaceful and calm, and Francis wanted to touch his face. He wanted to run his fingers along his cheeks and kiss his eyelids. He wanted to grab his face and hold it against his chest and he wanted to be the thing that made him calm. He wanted to know that he was the person Arthur would come to, call, think about, when he was upset. But he pulled away, deciding to leave it to another day. He wasn't a coward, no, not a coward, he was smart. He would think about it and do something later, on another day, and that was that. There was always another day.
He pushed himself up again, and he was pulled back down again.
"Francis." Arthur cuddled up into him, his head resting against Francis' chest. Either Arthur had been replaced with someone else or Francis was dreaming. Dreams have to end at some point.
"Arthur," He shook the younger man, waking him up. Arthur's eyes cracked open, closed again, and he sighed.
"Why are you still here, frog?" His voice was clearer than before, trying to free itself of sleep, and he pulled away.
"You wouldn't let me go." Francis lopped an arm around him, preventing him from leaving.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm not letting you go." His other hand came up to touch Arthur's face, running his thumb over his cheek.
"What makes you think I'll let that happen?" Arthur leaned in to the touch, eyes locking with Francis'.
"You'll let it happen because it's what you want to happen."
"Oh, is that right?"
"Yes."
"And you'll let it happen because?"
"Because it's what I want to happen." He leaned up and kissed Arthur's forehead.
"You're sappy."
"I'm romantic."
"Same thing." Arthur smiled, moving closer to Francis and kissing his shoulder.
"May I take this as acceptance, rosbif?"
"You may." They lied there until they fell asleep, smiling like the idiots they were. The dot would go unsolved another night, for a different reason.