I'm sorry for these excessive notes, but I did notice that different sources changed the order of the stages of grief—I, however, am putting 'anger' before 'bargaining.' Sorry about the inconsistency, and I hope this doesn't confuse anyone too much! If you have no idea what I'm talking about, though, just ignore me.
Alfred's clear blue eyes flickered toward Arthur. "Uh, are you going to—?"
A surge of rage overtook Arthur. He accepted the call, his heart hammering and his eyes narrowed. He leaned his head against the car window, glaring at the raindrops splattering on the glass. "Hello?"
"Ah, Arthur, it's you—"
"Of course it's me, you bloody... brainless wanker," Arthur snapped. He usually called Francis names of the insulting variation, but it was always lovingly or sarcastically. He never truly meant any of the mean words he hurled at Francis, and Francis knew that. This time, though, Arthur meant the words, more than he'd ever meant anything in his life. His tone of voice must have made that obvious, because Francis clearly realized that Arthur was not just upset. He was furious.
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Alfred's eyebrows raise in surprise. "What do you want?" Arthur demanded angrily into the phone.
"To apologize," Francis said simply.
Instead of calming Arthur down, this further enraged him. "What the hell? You think this is the kind of thing you can apologize about over the phone, then?"
"Of c-course not, but I—"
"You're a disgusting, terrible, horrible, lowlife, goddamn, awful..." Arthur inhaled sharply, trying to think of more insults.
"Arthur," Alfred said quietly. "I'm going to keep driving for a bit, okay? So you've got time to say whatever you need."
So Arthur kept talking. He shouted the worst names he could think of into the phone. Francis never snapped back. He just accepted every slur, every offensive comment, with silence. The Frenchman knew he deserved it. Even though he'd cheated, he had a conscience. He did feel terrible. Arthur, on the other hand, felt worse. He'd made excuses for Francis that morning, but now he was just plain mad. He knew that this was Francis' fault. Just as Kiku had said, even if Jeanne did have something to do with it, Francis was most certainly not blameless. After all, it takes two to tango, so they say.
"You know what the absolute worst part of this entire thing is?" Arthur demanded once he'd finally exhausted his large vocabulary of curse words. His voice dropped several volume levels, nearly a whisper.
"What?" Francis asked miserably, fully expecting another tirade. But Arthur's voice was low and broken now. "What is the worst thing, mon cher?"
"I love you."
The line went dead. Francis set his phone down on the counter—he was still at the house—and looked around the kitchen. At the window over the kitchen sink, at the indoor windowsill herb garden Arthur had surprised him with for their second anniversary, at the (broken) cuckoo clock his friend, Gilbert, had given him that hung on the wall more for show than for practicality. All the little everyday things Francis never really thought about anymore. He understood that everything was about to change.
Outside, the rain was coming down so hard it was almost sideways, and the birch tree in the front yard was whipping back and forth.
On and on went the perfect little details. As if in a dream, Francis took a few steps over to the corkboard that was hanging next to the cuckoo clock. A few pictures of Francis and Arthur were pinned to it, along with some pressed flowers (courtesy of Francis), grocery lists, and some nice quotes torn from old books (Arthur's doing). The couple had been talking about adopting a cat or a dog, too, so a few images of animals from shelters were scattered around the board.
Though it was a mundane thing that Francis walked by every day, tears welled up in his eyes.
He'd fucked this up.
He and Arthur would never go to Europe together again, or sit at the table in the morning with coffee, reading the newspaper and commenting on the gorgeous sunrise, or watch late-night television together, or adopt a dog or a cat or a child.
Stupid, Francis told himself. You're so stupid. You threw this away—you had a perfect life, and you threw it away to cheat on someone? For over a year? Stupid...
Francis sat down on the floor a cried. He was going to ask for a second chance. For mercy. No, not for mercy—mercy implied that he deserved leniency. He was going to beg for forgiveness. He'd been an absolute idiot.
Francis stared up at the corkboard, at the picture of him and Arthur in front of the Eiffel Tower. It was from the time they'd gone to France and Britain and decided to spend the trip like stereotypical tourists, faking foreign accents and going to see seeing every major monument worth talking about, even though they'd grown up in those countries. During one of the evenings in the Paris leg of the weeklong vacation, they'd gone to a restaurant and then walked the streets, watching the sun set over the city and joking around in overdramatized American accents. The Parisians had glared at them with obvious disgust, and Francis and Arthur laughed for hours about that.
Remembering such an achingly beautiful memory made Francis feel a thousand times worse.
You could have had everything, Francis told himself. Everything.
"Are you all right?"
"No," Arthur said, drinking some of his coffee to avoid having to speak.
Alfred frowned. "Listen, I know this can't seem like the best situation... but I... I think..."
Some of Arthur's leftover frustration flared up. "What do you think, goddammit?!"
Alfred flinched.
"I'm sorry. I—I didn't mean to get short with you," Arthur mumbled.
"Can I be honest here, dude?"
"Yes, sure." Arthur sullenly reached for a sugar packet, dumping it into his coffee. Alfred's favorite coffee shop certainly wasn't bad, and that helped him way more than some terrible-tasting coffee.
"If I found out Anya was cheating on me, I'd drop her on her ass and never see her again. However, if I cheated on her, I'd expect her to do the same to me. I'd want her to leave me and find someone better. It isn't fair for anyone in a relationship to cheat, all right? I just want you to know that."
"Mm."
"I mean remember Mei?" the American continued. "That Taiwanese girl Kiku dated a few months back? They ended because of a mutual split, but cheating is still kind of like that, I think. If you aren't happy with someone else—if they aren't helping you—well, dude, I think that's the signal to get out."
Arthur sighed. "I know what you're saying, though I'm too angry to act right now."
"Well, of course. I'm not asking you to do anything right now, obviously, but what are you thinking you'd like to do?" Alfred drank from his macchiato and looked at his friend expectantly, blue eyes wide and questioning.
"I want... well..." Arthur sighed again. "I don't know. I love Francis, I really do. I thought I could spend the rest of my life with him and be totally happy. And you know that's a rare thing for me to be saying. But after this incident... I'm just not sure, Alfred. I want this life. But I'm unsure if what he did can be forgiven. What would you do?"
"I already told you, Iggy. Hypothetically, I'd drop him Francis his ass. But at the same time..." Alfred's eyes became distant. "At the same time, I really could understand if you choose to stay with him, too. I could comprehend it. I can't make this decision for you, though."
"I know, Alfred. I know."
Arthur and Francis ran through the Champ de Mars, laughing and yelling loudly.
"Dude, I totally love burgers," Arthur called, trying to think of things Alfred might say.
"Me too," Francis shouted back, all traces of his French accent gone. "I just adore Netflix, also!"
The two laughed so hard that they could barely run, and ducked into a nearby bakery after sprinting across the green, receiving many angry glares and profanity-filled mumbling speeches from locals and other English-speaking Paris tourists.
Arthur smiled, scanning over a row of croissants. "I love you."
"Yes, those croissants do look delicious," Francis joked.
Arthur faked a glare, fixing his emerald eyes on Francis. "Not the bread, dolt. You."
The baker came over and started talking to them in English, but Francis laughed and waved his hand, saying a few things in French. He and the baker engaged in a quick conversation. Arthur was learning French for Francis—he'd been taught English, obviously, and was nearly fluent in both Spanish and German—but he wasn't perfectly understandable just yet. He wandered over to another case of pastries and looked over them.
Francis appeared beside Arthur a moment later, holding a bag. "I bought something. Are you ready to go walk around some more?"
"Yes, sure."
"Je t'aime, Arthur."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, git. You too."
Francis jumped. He had no idea he'd been spacing out so much. He'd been thinking way too much about all the good times he'd had with Arthur. He stood up, shook his head, and glanced out the window. The day was cloudy, but there hadn't been any rain and the clouds were a light gray, almost giving off the illusion of sun.
It had been three days since the incident. It was a Monday.
Francis sat in his office, trying to focus on his work. He'd been calling Arthur a few times a day. No response since the insulting, love-confessing phone call just after Arthur had found out about Francis' cheating. Arthur had not been home, either. He was probably either staying with Alfred, Kiku, or his editor, Alistair. Francis had no desire to try to visit any of those people's homes—they would definitely take Arthur's side, like they should, and probably forbid him to enter their houses.
"Mr. Bonnefoy?" Francis' secretary, Michelle Mancham, entered his office. "Someone's here to talk to you."
"Oh." Francis frowned and turned away from the window. "I wasn't expecting a client before lunch."
"Um, it isn't a client, exactly." Michelle looked down at a paper in her hand. "Arthur Kirkland is here to see you. Isn't he an author? Um, I know I shouldn't request things like this of you, but could you get me his autograph? I own like ten of his novels... ah, I apologize, Mr. Bonnefoy. Ignore me. I'll tell him to come in."
Francis opened his mouth, but his secretary disappeared, and a moment later, Arthur was standing there in the doorway.
"Arthur?"
"We need to talk."