All right, guys! Seventh stage. However, there is a large chance that I will be writing an epilogue. So stay tuned for that!
The winter night was cool and starry, and it looked like it might snow. The downtown area of the city was covered in white Christmas lights. They were everywhere—tangled in leafless trees, hung on top of shops, wrapped around streetlights—and it was beautiful, but Francis couldn't help remembering with a pang of sadness the time he and Arthur had gone to see Christmas lights the previous year.
He ducked into a cozy-looking coffeehouse. Hmm. One of Arthur's friends—Alfred?—loved this particular coffee shop, Francis remembered. He'd been dragged to it on several occasions. He ordered a latte and found a seat in the corner of the room near the door.
Agh, maybe Michelle was right when she was talking about depression a few months ago, Francis thought, resting his chin on his palm. He sipped his coffee. It was good, at least. He was contemplating going to a bar when he heard laughter. Very familiar laughter.
Francis' head whipped around automatically, resting on a customer at another table. The customer's back was to Francis and he was talking to another man, but his scruffy golden hair looked very familiar. And the British accent definitely rang a bell in Francis' mind. Arthur. It had to be Arthur. The other guy at the table had reddish hair. If he looked up, he'd see Francis, but he was fully focused on talking to Arthur.
Isn't that Arthur's editor? Oh my God... Francis strained to hear their conversation.
"You've no idea, Artie. People go missing all the time! All I'm saying is, there's no way that lady—"
"Oh, please," Arthur interrupted. "That woman was not eaten by Nessie. She probably drowned. Nessie doesn't exist!"
"Whatever," Alistair grumbled, taking a drink of coffee. "Read your manuscript, by the way."
"Really? How was it?"
"Not bad."
"That's it, wanker? 'Not bad'?"
Alistair rolled his eyes. "Well, what were you expecting? Not every novel you write is going to be good enough to make me leave my girlfriend."
"You obnoxious—"
The Scot leaned forward and kissed Arthur's forehead. "Kidding, Artie. Calm down. I've got to go now. Thanks for today."
Oh, Francis thought, his heart aching. He's gone and found someone else. He's moved on...
As Alistair was walking out of the coffeehouse, he made eye contact with Francis. Luckily, Arthur was reading something on his phone and didn't notice.
Alistair tipped his head ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing like he was looking at a puzzle. They stared at each other for just a moment, then Alistair smiled—not in a mean way, but in the distant, polite way one would smile at any stranger they happened to look at—and left. Francis wasn't sure whether Alistair recognized him or knew who he was. The Frenchman gulped down more coffee, wondering how he was going to exit without Arthur seeing him.
Just as Francis was contemplating this, Arthur stood up and walked out, too. As he stopped by the front door to throw away his coffee cup, he turned and looked directly at Francis, his emerald eyes calm.
Arthur waved. Not a big wave—just a quick gesture—but it was a wave of acknowledgement nonetheless.
Francis opened his mouth to say something, but Arthur turned back around and left.
Now Francis wasn't sure what to do. Chasing after Arthur would get him nowhere, he knew, and it would probably irritate the Brit more than anything. Francis definitely didn't want that, not after seeing how peaceful his former lover had looked. He knew he was brooding, but he was completely confused. It wasn't like he still wanted to be with Arthur—he'd managed to sort out his feelings a bit better as months had passed—but then what was the feeling in his chest?
Oh.
Oh.
Loneliness.
"Um... excuse me?"
"Yes?" Francis exclaimed, startling when he realized someone was talking to him. An employee who'd been sweeping the floor was looking at him. "Um, can I help you?"
The worker leaned his broom against the table, retying his black coffeehouse apron. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I couldn't help noticing that you look familiar. Did we perhaps go to high school together?"
Francis examined the employee. He had a soft voice with a hint of an accent, wavy blond-ish hair, and glasses. He was pretty tall, too, and extremely attractive. "Matthew?"
"Ah, yes!" Matthew exclaimed. "That's right! Francis!" He continued to sweep, but stayed near Francis' table. "How have you been?"
"Oh, good," Francis said listlessly. "How about yourself?"
"Matthew!" another employee called from the counter. "Quit chatting around! Finish sweeping and come take some orders!"
Matthew jumped. "I'm sorry! I'll be right over, Ivan!" He turned to Francis. "I'm sorry, but I've really got to go."
Francis hesitated. "You know, if you want... I can wait for your shift to be over. We could go get something to eat or drink when you've finished."
"Ah, but... but that'll be an hour! I can't make you wait—" Matthew protested.
"No, it's fine." Francis paused. "As long as you don't have anything better to do."
Matthew grinned, pink dusting his cheeks. "Well, thank you. I'd love to."
Francis smiled back.
The pain of loneliness he had been feeling so strongly a moment ago eased.
"Right! So I've been working at this coffeehouse for a while. I actually have an apartment really close by... you know those buildings above the old pizza parlor?" Matthew tipped his head. "Just a few blocks away."
"Yes," Francis replied. "That's nice! Are you living alone?"
"I have a dog named Kumajiro. That's about it." Matthew laughed. "I'm used to it, though."
Matthew's shift was over, and he and Francis were venturing around the city, chatting and catching up. As they continued walking down the bustling sidewalks, glancing at lit shop fronts to find a place to grab a light meal or something to drink, Francis saw Arthur emerging from a building up ahead. The blond was exiting a 24/7 convenience store, holding a grocery bag in one hand. He saw Francis immediately.
The distance between them was closing. Francis wondered how to handle the situation, especially with Matthew by his side.
There was no time left.
And then Francis and Arthur passed each other.
The Frenchman did not stop to try to talk to Arthur. Unlike earlier, he no longer felt the need to. He didn't even say anything in passing. He gave a quick wave—equivalent of the one Arthur had given him in the coffeehouse a mere hour ago—and Arthur nodded back, acknowledging his greeting, but again, he didn't attempt to speak.
Goodbye, Francis said in his head.
Arthur kept walking in his own direction.
And Francis continued along with his.
THE END