After a few more days of solitude, Arthur came by his lover's door and paid a visit. There was a slight guilt at either crime committed. He had not seen his supposed darling Frenchman in what most would consider a long while, and he had kissed another man without uttering a word about it.

At least Arthur told someone the truth.

Francis certainly would not know.

So there was nothing to be upset about.

The porthole opened and the actor regarded his poet with a sad gaze.

"Hello, Francis."

"Oh, Arthur…I missed you. Where have you been?"

"I'm sorry, darling. I was off getting settled. You know how these things take time." A kiss to that cheek, overrun with blond whiskers. "How have you been? You look somewhat tired."

"I haven't been able to sleep with you gone. It's odd having such an empty bed. I can still see the space your body left." A kiss in return. "Would you like to come upstairs? I feel quite cold."

"Don't tell me you're sick, Francis."

"I'm not sick; I'm merely cold. Perhaps you'll take a nice warm bath with me."

"That sounds lovely." Their hands joined, at Francis' need. "It has been a little strange sleeping alone. But I think I have some very good news."

"What is it, Arthur?"

Oh, how exhausted that beauty was! Francis appeared to be an insomniac that had not slept for numerous days and spent all his time digging ditches. There was not a piece of him that did not look worn and beaten. An old piece of leather that hadn't gotten a decent break for five entire years.

"Well, I haven't seen anything out of the ordinary what so ever. It's almost as though everything is back to normal. I faced my fears and now they no longer exist. Isn't that wonderful?"

There was a shock that came over the man's tired blue sights. They were drooping, but something within them was extremely alive, and it was not happy. But that brief tinge of sudden hatred was covered up by a forced sweetness.

"Truly? That's wonderful, Arthur."

"What's wrong?" It was unfortunate that the Englishman caught it.

"Nothing, my darling." Kiss. "I simply wish our relationship wasn't about you all the time."

"What? That's hardly fair, Francis. I had lost my mind. I thought you would be happy because it really isn't about me any longer." They stared, letting go of palms.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I simply-I haven't slept in a very long time. Not well, anyway. I've only been getting a few hours sleep every night, and sometimes it becomes unbearable and I have to drink myself to sleep. But I wake up in an even more exhausted state…"

"Oh, Francis. That's horrible. Don't tell me it's actually true."

"Why would I waste my time lying?" There was a snap in his voice; irritation took him over. "Listen, why don't you just come back? It's so lonely here without you." And then it was back to the sugar, to make up for that sudden bitterness. "Can't you see that I'm unwell?"

Arthur was not certain of what to say.

"Why won't you come back? Are you cheating on me?"

"Of course I'm not cheating on you! I love you; je t'aime. I don't know how else to spell it out for you. Listen, I'll think about moving back in, but it would be better for the both of us if we spent just a little time apart. We've been over this."

"Better? Do I honestly look better to you?"

"Fran-"

The Frenchman sighed. "I'm sorry…I'm just-I'm irritable. I haven't had a decent rest in at least a week, since you've left. I can't sleep; I can't act. I can't even draw any longer. You should see how awful my last few paintings have been." A grand breath. "I'm not certain what I'm to do now that my muse has left me. It's like you took the sun and the moon with you and I'm left with absolutely nothing. The whole damn sky is dark."

"It surely can't be that bad…"

"How would you know? You haven't been here at all. But then again, if you were, I wouldn't be in this horrid state."

"Well, why don't we go upstairs and take a nice bath together and then I'll sleep at your side, for tonight."

"Only for tonight?" The man looked as though he was ready to plead- so long as Arthur Kirkland did not leave his home.

"Yes, Francis."

"Pourquoi?"

"Because, I have to get back and write. I hate to tell you, dear, my efficiency is just awful with you around. You're such a wonderful little distraction of mine." A little smooch to the other's nose. "Everything will be fine. I promise you. It might be best for you to learn to get along without me, because I can't be here forever."

And nothing was said in return. Just disappointment sinking into already sunken-in eyes. The man was tired. That much was certain. And Francis' beauty was marred with such a hackneyed expression. Every movement of those limbs was wrong and mangled. A bird with a broken wing launching itself from a window.

It was both sad and hideous to watch.

But Arthur still took Francis upstairs, and they filled the tub up to its rim. Then Francis sank in. And Arthur sank in. And they relaxed against one another, the beaten actor falling to sleep within a matter of moments. And the poet regarded him, with a gaze wrought with a mix of both sympathy and disgust.

Goodness, he has gotten so ugly- an adjective that did not belong in the same sentence with the name Francis Bonfeuille. But goddamn, if it wasn't true. His lips were dry. His skin was ruined. His eyes lashes were tangled up into knots. The bags gathering beneath those once happy jewels seemed to go on forever. Every last wrinkle having another three to follow it. On top of that, his blond hair looked fried-even worse than his own, which was simply impossible.

The worst part of it was that Arthur did not want to stay. He was rather enjoying his time alone-not being held to the hairy chest of his overly kind lover. The freedom tasted even better than the wondrous scent drifting from Francis' flesh, which was also ruined.

But there was feeling that his boot had indeed crushed this delicate flower.

Arthur had nearly murdered the rose.

But those petals still held a bit of color-what sections of them were not drenched in syrup-like blood.

So, they removed themselves from the tub and placed themselves beneath the covers.

And for the first time in a week the Frenchman slept. And for the first time in a week, Arthur did not.