It was another one of those days when Alfred had come for a visit. Another edition of the paper was held within his hand and thoughts weighed down significantly upon his brow. Of course, he was concerned for his friend, as he always was when coning to see him. Perhaps he wouldn't have had this frustration about him, but Arthur was not getting better. So, as the poet's state became worse, the American's state became worse.

The door was knocked upon and Francis opened it, regarding the child as though he was surprised at his visit. It was the same mask he wore every single time the arrival was made. Every Saturday.

"Hello, Alfred."

"Hello, Francis. Is Arthur well?"

"He's about the same that he always is-the poor thing. But he's glad you're here."

"Wonderful." The sarcasm dripped like venom from the cobra's fangs. "I assume he's in your room, then?"

"You're quite correct."

And that was all the two said to one another. Alfred made his way upstairs and did not bother with knocking. He found Arthur at his place within that chair, back facing the windows, which were covered by heavy drapes. The newspaper was set upon the bed spread and the guest sat down.

"Hello, Arthur."

"Hello, Alfred."

"It's awfully dark in here."

There was not a reply. Only a pair of sad English eyes and an empty mouth.

"How have you been, sir? Have you been writing lately?"

"I've been trying to." Florence sat on the floor near his foot, her once happy orange exterior something far duller. The entirety of her had become miserable. There were no smiles written against her pages, merely the prattling of a lunatic. At least, that's what Alfred imagined. It was difficult to think that the man could still write well in the condition he was in. "But I haven't been able to come up with much of anything. At least-nothing good. How have you been doing, Alfred?"

"I'm…" The boy could not even speak.

It seemed so ridiculous that they were trying to create small talk while a whirlwind of insanity was blowing around them. Drinking tea and eating cake in the center of a hurricane.

It was stupid.

"Is something upsetting you?"

"What do you think is upsetting me, Mr. Kirkland? Just look at you." Alfred was physically uncomfortable within that room, the entire thing wallowing in disease. But no one wanted to get better. No one wanted a cure. "You used to be so bright. Now you might as well be an old woman, crippled by dementia and too backward to go outside! What are you going to do with the rest of your life? You can't spend it all in this room. It's just ridiculous to even think such a thing! Is that what you expect?"

The wilting rose did not even make an answer.

"Arthur, are you happy like this? You can't wish to live this way. I refuse to believe this was your decision."

"It wasn't-"

"Then why don't you try to get help? Why don't you let me take to see a doctor, or maybe just let me take you outside? Maybe-" A breath; a thought. "Maybe you just need to see that there's nothing to be afraid of. I go out there all the damn time, and look at me! I'm entirely unharmed. These visions of yours aren't real. Terrifying as they may be; they don't exist."

"You don't understand."

"No, Arthur! You don't understand!"

"What, then? Did you just come here to yell at me? Of course I didn't want this! I hate being locked away all day. But if you saw this god awful creature staring you down every single time you went out, you wouldn't bother with leaving your home either!" Arthur stood up. "You make it sound like I'm doing this on purpose! I'm not. I want to go outside more than anything, but god damn it, I just can't! I've tried." Tears began to sink into Arthur's cheeks. "I've tried so hard, and every time it just gets worse…"

"Arthur-"

"Why did you even bring it up? You can't just leave me in peace? Don't you think I know this is unhealthy? I want to be normal! I'd give anything to be normal! But it's not that bloody simple, no matter how badly I want it to be!"

Then, the man turned away from his pushy guest and sobbed into his palms. Entire form wrought with a kind of agony that shook him entirely. "Why couldn't you just come to say hello? That's all I wanted."

"Arthur, I'm sorry." Alfred came nearer to the distraught one, wrapping him up in a hug. "I'm simply…I can't watch you live your life this way. I've been worried sick so long."

The only response Mr. Jones received was a pair of strong English arms grasping at his form greedily and wails attaching to his neck. Every bit of anguish was felt by that poor intruder, who wanted so badly to kelp his companion, he would go as far as damaging him, if it meant that he would recover in the long run.

The sorrow came into every last vein the American had. It possessed him heavily, as a grand passion that tears an artist from society and puts him to the canvas. This feeling-it was awful. And so very helpless.

Then the door opened.

"Just what the hell is going on here?" Francis was holding a paintbrush and wore a mask of thick anger. "Mr. Jones, you've been here five minutes and already, you've managed to cause Arthur to break down sobbing! What did you say to him?"

"Oh, so now you care? Your poor friend has been in dire need of help and it's only when he's miserable enough to break down that you finally give a damn. I have no idea what he sees in you."

"Take that back! I care about Arthur more than you could care about anything. You come here once every week and manage to upset him, in one way or another! And this isn't even your home! Non, you have to come into my peaceful little sanctuary and begin breaking everything in sight! Why don't you just go down stairs and start tearing my paintings from the wall while you're at it? At least then poor Arthur would be left alone!"

"You don't even want him to be better! You're perfectly content to have him broken! That way you can use him up and he won't even realize it!"

"Get out! Get out of my home and let go of him! I've had enough of you! I had had enough of you from the very start, Jones!" The grip around that paintbrush was so strong; Francis' knuckles were turning white. "Go before I destroy you! Je vais casser la figure!"

"Oh, you're going to break my face then, are you? I've beaten up Frenchmen stronger than you and far less pretty."

"Stop!" Arthur pulled himself away from the American and stood between either of them. "Stop, please…" A heave. "You're both my friends. I couldn't bear to watch either of you fight."

Francis and Alfred stared at one another.

"I'm sorry to upset you, Arthur. I'm going to leave." A brief embrace in farewell, and the American was descending the stairs before anymore words could be thrown. Of course, no time was wasted for that Bonfeuille to come to the rescue of his upset lover.

"I'm sorry, mon chère." Those lips pressed sweetly to the author's forehead. "Listen, let's go downstairs and you can sit with me while I paint. That will be nice, non?"

Nothing.

"Come on. Let's go. You can tell me all about it, or you can say nothing at all. Whatever you like, my love."

So Arthur and Francis went downstairs and the foreigner listened while the native spoke. That already fragile mind was breaking with all the considerations that had been shoved inside it, and the entire world turned blacker. Not a sentence was spoken in that British English; lips only hung stupid about that mouth, while gazes filled with every last sentiment welling inside that head.

Francis did not pay any heed to it.

He went on painting as though the writer's friend had not been there at all. Alfred, after all, could not be banished if he had never arrived.

To even suggest such a notion was purely preposterous.

The entire day was spent in an awkward discomfort that neither wished to address.

Oh, look what you've done Mr. Jones.