Deliverance
Chapter Ten: Absurdity (or Chapter 9, Part 2)
There are no texts, or calls, or emails. Of course there isn't. He doesn't have any friends. His family don't care much, either. He continues staring at the device.
Francis is cooking. He stands in the corner of the kitchen, hiding in the shadows and smells, pretending to be doing something important with his phone. Francis is singing, something French and tuneless under his breath. The food is itching his eyes and scratching at his throat. He's not hungry. He just isn't it, that shallow, empty feeling in his stomach isn't hunger, it's longing, and it's making his head spin. He clatters against the refrigerator, dropping the shiny new phone to floor. His fingers are shaking and just one bluish-white shade away from corpse. Francis's head turns, in slow motion, and his lips move but there's no sound.
When Arthur blinks, time has a chance to catch up with him and Francis is stood by him, his warm hand pressed into the small of Arthur's back.
"I'm fine," Arthur says.
"You do not look it." Francis says. He drags Arthur to a chair and sits him down. "You look terrible."
"What a kind thing to say." Arthur said.
"Kind things don't seem to be helping you. Maybe the truth will wake you up." Francis said.
"I'm not asleep." Arthur said. Francis shoves a glass of water to his lips, and he drinks. His head stops swelling, the room stops spinning.
"I don't know why you're so bloody concerned. There's nothing wrong with me."
88/
It's a process, Francis says to himself in bed that night. Morning? Recovery is a process. That's what the doctor said. But the process requires a willing participant, and that's certainly not Arthur. He's clingy, tonight, his arms wrapped around Francis when it's usually the other way around. There's something wrong. He knows it. His fingers fall through Arthur's hair again and again as he tries to figure it out. When he thinks about the situation: it's absurd, but love always is. Given a choice, a second option, Francis would be happy to carry on with a string of short, romantic, lust-fuelled relationships - at least until his looks faded (which would be never, he'd die at ninety and still leave a beautiful corpse). Alas, fate had other ideas for him. He loved Arthur.
Francis is a great believer in sleep, it rejuvenates his body and soul. He rarely suffers from insomnia, but now, looking at the clock, he saw he would have to get up in forty-five minutes.
He gets out of bed now, because he might as well, peeling himself away from between Arthur and the hot and sticky sheets. He goes straight into the bathroom for an extra-long, extra-warm shower. His muscles relax as he stands under the steady stream of water, and he almost let go of his worries. When he climbed out of the shower, he caught himself in the mirror - usually a happy mistake, but today he was frowning so deeply he was sure he'd get a permanent wrinkle between his eyebrows.
When he gets out, he finds Arthur awake, sitting in the middle of the bed.
"How are you feeling?" Francis said.
"I'm okay." Arthur said. "And you?"
"I'd be better if you were."
Arthur scowls up at him. Francis smiles.
"Have you really been taking your medication?" Francis said.
"For God's sake Francis, yes. I bloody well have. Do you really think I enjoy being miserable? Because I don't, I don't get off on it, I'm not some kind of a masochist even if you think I am. I'm trying. I can't help it."
Francis missed a beat. And the another.
Arthur got out of bed and walked past him.
"Where are you going?"
"To fly a bloody kite." Arthur said. "To get a glass of water, is that alright? Or are you afraid I'm going to try and drown myself in it?"
"Don't be so..." Francis said, but he stopped himself.
"What?" Arthur said.
"Nothing."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"There's nothing worse than when -"
"Well, cher, was going to say 'don't be so argumentative' but then I realised how much more you it is." Francis said.
"Me?"
"Yes."
"Go and put some clothes on. Or at least a towel." Arthur said, putting his half-full glass on the kitchen counter.
"It's warm enough."
"That's debatable." Arthur said, his eyes flickering, an almost-smile on his lips. Well, it was more of a smirk in Francis's opinion, but he had to take what he could get. Besides, he'd be lying if he said he didn't like it.
"You know I'm running early." Francis said. "We have at least an hour."
"You're the one that got out of bed." Arthur said, turning his back to Francis. But he walked towards the bedroom.
Arthur had agreed to meet Francis straight from work. He was finishing early. Arthur chewed on his lip as he walked down the streets, feeling lost even though he knew exactly where he was going. The air did seem clearer and more breathable today than it had been. And it wasn't that cold, not really, not for winter. He'd had an almost good morning. He'd managed to actually write something, which was an enormous accomplishment. But now...why did he feel so stupidly anxious? He almost wanted to turn around and go back to the apartment or England and lock the door and never ever leave. He knew he wasn't going to. The only way was forward, and that was where he was going to go.
A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed/read/favourited or followed, here's a smiley face :) Again this feels so short but I was confused whether this and the previous chapter were one or two, and I chose two.
This is drawing to a close, which is sad, but happy, because that would mean that I actually finish something I started. Gold star for me.
Again: thank you for reading!