The cool cotton sheets caressed Francis' face as he collapsed onto his bunk.

A sigh spilt out of Francis' lips, expelling all of the exhaustion that was pent up throughout the course of the day. His numb feet ached and tingled as blood finally circulated through them again. Francis weaved his fingers together joint by joint and, with a grunt, popped his knuckles. His forearms and neck muscles ached, as they had stayed tense the entire day, so Francis groaned and kneaded a palm into each of the muscles like bread dough, slowly easing the tension out of his body.

This had been Francis' life for past week, and would be for at least a week more. He had been diligently practising his Saint-Saens piece on his saxophone, occasionally asking for feedback from Gilbert or causing Antonio to remind him to take a break (that is, if he was even in the apartment). Then Francis would practise again until he was exhausted and fell straight asleep. It had become a ritualistic routine - wake up, practise, ask for feedback, practise, rest as per Antonio's orders, practise and then collapse onto his bunk.

How far had he progressed since he had started practising? Francis fished out his phone and played the latest recording of him playing the Saint-Saens piece. He raised an eyebrow at how well played the first couple of bars were. A light shone inside his chest. They were even completely in-tune and in-beat! But then once the next bar began, the recording started to sound suspiciously uncoordinated and out of time, as if they were scraping against each other at the last minute. Then came a passage involving playing several semiquavers in an arpeggio-like sequence. The idea was to play them lightly yet clearly so that the melody appeared to glide over the notes like melted butter. Instead, what came forth was a jumbled mess of notes that failed to connect with each other, a sensation very much like being forced to chew a handful of glass shards.

Francis rubbed the bridge of his nose. Earlier that day, Gilbert had noted how Francis needed to practise the arpeggio in the key of the piece (even though he had practised every technical elements needed for the piece a few hours before) and that he needed to do some glissandos (even though glissandos were just a chromatic exercise) to properly play the arpeggio that needed to be practised to help the piece flow. Francis did not want to warm up with technical exercises, and so instead of taking the advice, had carried on to the next sequence. Now, while he listened to his recording of that very sequence, Francis knew that he should've listened to Gilbert.

It was just that, though Francis understood he wanted to do his best to help, Gilbert was quite sharp in his critiques, and he never congratulated or praised Francis whenever he successfully overcame an obstacle in the piece, simply focussing on the negatives. But harsh reviews could still be useful reviews, Francis reminded himself. Gilbert was the type of person who was unafraid to say what needed to be said. Besides, he understood perfectly what Gilbert's points were, yet Francis' pride and ego made him turn up his nose at Gilbert's advice. Yes, Francis had trouble staying in tempo. Yes, Francis usually forgot any time-period specific playing techniques. Yes, he had trouble capturing the sense of flow he was so desperately working for. And really, listening to Gilbert was his best option. Francis knew that somehow, he would need to let go of his pride in order to let Gilbert help him so that he could improve.

Antonio… There was something wrong with him, but Francis wasn't sure what it was. Though on the surface Antonio seemed just as sweet and cheerful as always, reminding Francis to eat and take a break from playing (which he was thankful for, although he had wanted to finish off that sequence), he couldn't help but notice that Antonio had been more on edge recently. Whenever Francis asked for Gilbert to look at his music, Francis could tell that that Antonio would keep his eyes trained on them both, and whenever Gilbert objected to whatever musical choice Francis made or vice versa, Antonio would always rush in to seek a compromise, no matter how minor the situation.

A few days ago, Francis realised that when Antonio stepped in should he and Gilbert have a disagreement, he would always shift the blame to Gilbert, even if he was not the one who had started the argument. Something definitely was not right. Francis considered the hushed, careful tone Antonio used whenever he talked with him, as well as the strained smiles and darting eyes. Francis simply assumed that Antonio was tired at first. But day after day, Antonio would talk with Roderich on the phone with hearty laughs and plenty of things to say (no matter how irrelevant it was to the conversation), with no sign of the exhaustion he had thought Antonio was harbouring. And Francis realised that Antonio was afraid. He was afraid of hurting Francis, breaking him, and so he was treating Francis like porcelain, as if one wrong move would make Francis crack. Was that why Antonio had been keeping such a watchful eye on him?

Francis buried his face into his pillow. Here he was presented with two dilemmas that were his two closest friends. Either he could work hard to improve, unafraid to be harsh on himself so that he could get better, or admit that he was putting himself too much under pressure and that he needed to give himself some rest. Some part of him felt that neither choices were choices he wanted to take – he didn't want to give himself too much rest, but he wanted to shy away from harsh judgement. It seemed impossible every way he looked at it.

But it was alright. One week had gone by, and he had made progress. And there was still a week more to prepare for the audition and perfect his piece. As long as Francis kept on practising, he would be making progress. He just needed someone to talk to, that was all. Someone who'd treat Francis like an ordinary friend, someone who would just listen.

Then he realised. Arthur. Francis wanted to call Arthur.

It had been a week since they had last seen each other so they could have some time to cool off. Francis hoped they could push their confusing feelings for one another aside and talk to each other, one on one, as friends, just like how it was before. And so Francis dialled Arthur's number.

His heart jolted once the other end of the telephone clicked. Francis drew a deep breath in. "Good eveni-"

"Francis!" From his excitement, one might've thought that it was Arthur calling Francis rather than vice versa. As Arthur stuttered in embarrassment, Francis' lips perked up into a grin for the first time in a while. Some things would never change.

After Arthur apologised and Francis assured him that it was all fine, they caught each other up on what they had been doing. Francis mentioned how he had been pushing hard to finalise the Saint-Saens piece; ("Oh, yes, I heard you play." "You did?" "Your playing stopped after a few days though." "That's probably the sound-cancelling frames" "The what?"). Arthur admitted that he had been too swamped by work to properly enjoy the past few days. While Arthur ranted about work, Francis considered what would probably happen if he passed the audition and got employed. Once he was an official member of a symphonic band, he would have to rehearse several hours a day, not counting practise. But it would be good exercise, Francis told himself.

Neither of them mentioned the kiss. Good. It was probably for the better.

Francis did not mention Antonio or Gilbert, only how he had been progressing on the Saint-Saens piece. He could almost see Arthur nodding as he listened.

"Uh-huh. I see." Francis could hear Arthur rustle his hair with his hand. "And…" Arthur inhaled in a hiss. "Ugh, I think I forgot what it's for…"

Francis furrowed his eyebrows. "A job? The position at this symphonic band? Oh, I don't think I've told you yet!"

There was a brief pause. "What? You're auditioning for a job! That's, that's fantastic!" A light chuckle lilted the last word. "That's great. As in, great to see that you're doing well. I'm stuck at a dead end job, it seems."

"Until you publish your novel?"

"Ah… well, no. If I want to get out of this job and make a living off my novels, I need to build an audience first. Do all that marketing shit. I don't know, it's… the novel's really messy right now. So, I'm still indefinitely at the mercy of my office job."

Francis furrowed his brows in concentration. "Well, perhaps I can read it. Give some feedback, how's that?"

Arthur gulped. "No!"

"No?"

"It's not ready yet! Erhm," Arthur drummed a surface with his fingertips (his knee), "Tell you what. I'll finish the next few chapters, explain the plot, and then let you read. How's that?"

"Why not right now?"

"I told you, it's still very messy! And I've got to mentally prepare myself for critique. I'm… I'm still not used to criticism, really." Francis frowned as Arthur continued immediately. "Meanwhile you've got a pretty stable future. You're going to audition, and you get paid for what you like doing. And you get to play with a lot of other saxophonists, so no one could hear if you made a mistake." He let out a light chuckle. "I gotta say, I am quite jealous of you, Francis."

A tense silence suspended them as the clock on the wall ticked. Francis rubbed the back of his neck. He would say thank you, but what Arthur has said made him feel strange. Was he lucky? Was this what he wanted? Did he even like performing in an ensemble? Had he really ever thought about it?

Neither of them had been saying anything for at least 30 seconds. Arthur must have thought that he said something wrong, and was too nervous to say something else. Francis drew in a deep breath, trying to find the best alternate smalltalk subject so they could bury this moment quickly and move on.

"How is your nose faring?"

"What?"

"Your nose. After Angus, well…"

"Oh! Oh yes. I can sniff and smell again, so that's great. The pain stopped a week ago. Still needed to deal with my suit though." Francis cringed at the memory of Arthur, bruised in the ruined suit.

"I see."

"I'm trying to fix it. Only the blazer's sleeves were really ripped apart, so I can cut them off and fix the lapels, and then I'd have a vest. Might as well treat my sewing kit to a bigger project, anyway."

"Weren't there a few blood stains?"

There was a pause. "Ah. I erhm, ahem, managed to permanently… fuse the blood's colour with the material, it seems."

Fused? "How? Let me guess. You used hot water."

"It was mildly warm! But... yes." Arthur pouted. "And now it's ruined. I really quite liked it, too. I mean, I'm probably going to dye it a dark purple colour to hide the stain, but it's still such a shame. And... well, you even picked it for - I mean, figured out it matched me well, Francis. It's just a shame."

Francis raised an eyebrow. Their trip to Carroll seemed so far away, like a memory bubble concealed within this foggy life of theirs. He smiled. "Thank you. Though to be fair, I am the more fashionable one."

"Hey!" Arthur grumbled. "Here, let me send you some flat caps and tartan bowties for your birthday. They're very fashionable amongst hipsters."

Francis scrunched up his nose. "Fine, fine, you win." He bit his lower lip. "On the other hand… tell you what. I need to dye a shirt of mine purple too, anyway. We could dye them together."

"Why do you need yours dyed? Did yours stain as well? Oh, was it that night at the bistro and the...?"

"Yes, and the wine."

"Well in that case, yeah, sounds like a good idea." And then Francis swore he heard Arthur mutter, "Granted, as long as the dye's not made of red onion skins."

"What?"

"You could make a sort of violet dye from red onion skins. But it's a pretty bad idea, since dyeing with natural dyes always turns out pretty bad."

"How did you know that?"

"It's a no brainer, really. Onions already smell quite funky, so…"

"No no, about how red onion skins can make dye. Did you permanently stain something from an onion stew?"

"What? No!" Arthur let out a laugh. "Well, actually, it's a long story…"

Francis nodded along as Arthur told his story and chuckled when they cracked a few jokes. They were talking about dye and their suits and shirts, arguably a runner-up to watching paint dry. But this was what Francis wanted. A good chat. Even if it was, at the core, smalltalk, and even if it was full of silly, nonsensical humour, at least it took Francis' thoughts away from the upcoming audition, and it was a good way to mend his friendship with Arthur as well. Maybe that was why it seemed all too soon when the conversation ended.

"See you soon," Arthur whispered. His voice sounded tired.

"You too."

But Francis did not want this conversation to end. And he swore he heard sadness in Arthur's voice. He was sure that Arthur harboured feelings for him. And something in Francis knew that he felt the same way about Arthur. Maybe that was why at the last second, Francis shouted:

"I like you too!"

The world froze for an eternity.

Then a million thoughts and feelings zipped around inside of Francis' head. Surprise, fear, anxiety, confusion, disappointment, vulnerability. They were too much. And slowly, but surely, Francis shrivelled.

He needed to continue anyway. He needed to continue, because Arthur might hang up from feeling overwhelmed at this news. "But… we can't just start one. A… a relationship, I mean. There's a lot of things preventing us-"

"I understand. I understand that. You've - you've still got your ex-fiancée-"

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

Francis clasped his hand over his mouth. He was about to reply, but Arthur gathered a shot of courage and replied first.

"Well, I - I reckon that she wouldn't want you to pine over her like this when she's probably moved on."

"No." Francis shook his head. "No, it's not that simple, Arthur."

"Why? Was she too much of an asshole to you?'

"No. No, no, Arthur, please don't do this."

Arthur let out an exhale. "Francis. Francis, stay with me here, alright? Take a few deep breaths, everything's going to be fine." Francis couldn't do what Arthur asked him to do. "Yes, maybe I phrased that a little too harshly, I apologise. But it's true, you're too kind to ever cast someone off." Francis rubbed his eyes. It couldn't be farther from the truth. "If it was that bad, you can talk to her."

"I, I can't talk with her."

"Okay. Okay. Erhm, talk with Turner."

"Arthur-"

"Write a letter, drop it into the Thames."

"Arthur," Francis hissed through clenched teeth.

"Hire a hitman, I don't know-"

"ARTHUR!"

It was not that simple. Not everything in the world can be solved by a simple compromise, Arthur.

Not everything in the world can be solved by an apology, Arthur.

Not everything in the world can be saved, Arthur.

Not everyone.

Francis bit his tongue.

"She's dead."

The silence that followed suffocated Francis. When Francis realised what he had done, it was as if the whole universe sunk into him like a black hole.

"...I-"

Francis hung up and turned off his phone. What had he done?

No. No. No no no. This was all wrong. Why did Arthur have to mention Lisa over the phone? Why had Francis let it spiral so far out of hand? In fact, why did Francis even confess in the first place? What was the point, if they couldn't even be together? And as much as Francis didn't want to think about it, Lisa was still there. Still holding him back. He had almost been ready to let go, to move on, but then, she had been there. And Francis couldn't let go.

Why did everything seem so distant? Ground himself. Francis needed to ground himself. What was that grounding technique Dr. Turner mentioned? Five things he could see. The dusky indigo of twilight. The sound masts. The top of Antonio's bunk. His own arm. His own phone. Then four things he could touch. The linen duvet, the cold air, his hair plastered onto his forehead… Francis whittled the rest of the exercises until he was finished and he was calm again. He kept doing this he fell asleep.

In the morning, Francis wondered why he was still fully clothed until he remembered what happened last night.

Francis curled up into a tight ball. What had he done? Why had he let it get so out of hand? Was it because he was selfish? Was it because he wanted vindication?

How dare he.

Francis turned on his phone. He tried to write as many apologies as he could, but each seemed too desperate, too professional, too dishonest. In the end, he could only send:

I want to be alone right now. Please give me some time to sort this out.

And so Francis wandered through the next couple of days completely alone.

Thank you to GokuSuperSaiyanTime for editing this chapter!