It was the right thing to do, Arthur told himself. He needed to escape, to get away from the life he believed was suffocating him. With the remaining fragments of his old life stuffed in his old leather suitcase, he boarded the plane with a heavy heart. Arthur was leaving it all behind, every joyous memory and remaining scar. The only simple things he brought with him was a tattered, worn notebook, his most treasured possession, and a few pieces of clothing that he couldn't bear to leave. Among them, a suit jacket, almost bright and gaudy enough to be considered tacky, but not quite. It was fashionable to say the least, and not at all something he would ever dare to wear in public. But no matter how much he tried, he couldn't leave it behind, because it still smelled like /Him/. The old, almost stale scent of cigarette smoke, intertwined with the clean fragrance of a freshly blossomed Lilly, the favorite flower of his favorite Frenchman. It was an intoxicatingly perfect combination that would leave his head spinning and his knees weak at even the slightest hint of it. Francis may be the only thing he's leaving that would be missed.

The longer he sat on the plane, the higher it climbed into the clouds, Arthur drowned in the memories of his lost love. He imagined the Frenchman coming home from his art studio, his home away from home, wearing his ridiculous beret and that charming smile he never left home without, his eyes shining with the love reserved for only him. He envisioned how the spark in his eyes would dull, smile dropping instantly as he noticed the foreign emptiness of their small apartment, and the lone note Arthur had taped to the granite counter. His normally intricate, elegant writing wouldn't reveal the dark news held in the few, simple words until it was too late. Arthur could feel his heart clench as he pictured the exact moment when the thought hit Francis; his love wasn't coming back. His hand would fly to his mouth, dramatic as he always was, this time to stifle a sob. He would be alone, so there was no reason for the blonde to hinder the tears, if he even had that much strength, that were now streaming down his cheeks, warm with his pain as they dripped on the piece of faded parchment that marked the loss of Love.

As all of these thoughts swarmed the Brit, his head began to throb, breath picking up as his heart began to race. And 1500 feet in the air, intent on escaping the routine, monotonous life he lived, Arthur had a revelation; he didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave behind all he'd ever known, all the familiar and the comfortable that he held close. Tears began to build, and even as he willed them away, the lone thought of living without Francis to hold him upright was slowly tearing him apart. He was there when the Brit was at his very worse, not once did he flee. And here Arthur was, in all his selfishness and pride, fleeing from something his very heart and soul was longing for. He held his face in his hands as a small sob fell from his lips, coming to the realization that there was no going back now. All he had was a tacky jacket to cling to for sanity on this forsaken plane, and the bitter thought that Francis would not be there, greeting him with always open arms, as he got off. And suddenly, everything was suffocating again.