Warning - Mature(ish) content ahead and translations at the bottom.
Gilbert's house looked like some kind of laser show, visible from half way down the street, with red and blue lights strobing from every crack. As Arthur approached, he could hear the low thumping of some overly produced club mix and raised voices shouting over the top of it from the back garden. It appeared the party was in full swing already, despite the hour hand not yet having reached the eight, as he noted the bins outside tipped over and some rather crushed looking potted flowers under the windowsill.
He didn't expect to be heard over the racket as he stepped up to ring the doorbell, however, almost instantly, the door swung open onto the madness within.
"Willcommen to party central, mein-" the enthusiastic host greeted but stopped short in shock at what he saw, "I'm sorry, I did not realise my front door was a time portal," he joked, a silver eyebrow raised as a smile spread across his face.
"You're truly hilarious," the barely recognisable man drawled sarcastically, folding his arms with a deadpan stare, "I didn't have a costume, so I thought I'd be creative."
The older man stood staring amusedly at, what appeared to be, a seventeen-year-old Arthur. Dressed in dark jeans, an oversized, tattered old band t-shirt, his beloved leather boots and, to complete the outdated ensemble, familiar, hand me down, biker jacket, it was as though a ghost of the past had arrived to haunt him.
"Wait," he looked his guest up and down, his expression becoming one of understandable concern, "this isn't some kind of mid life crisis, is it?"
"What? No," Arthur furrowed his pierced brows at the question.
"Then I approve!" the other went back to grinning, stepping aside with a sweeping gesture of his arm to welcome his friend through.
Ushering him into the hall, it became evident to Arthur that he had taken the season's theme rather seriously as fake cobwebs adorned the walls and plastic bats and spiders were scattered about the place in gimmicky decoration. As he stopped and looked back at the other, he noticed the black jumper he wore was ornamented with two red horns sticking from the hood and a forked tail hanging from the back. The German came through behind him, smiling to reveal a pair of fake fangs that, oddly, suited him quite well.
"Care for some spooky syrup?" he ladled Arthur a cup of neon liquid, presumably alcohol, from a punch bowl and held it out to him, "I made it myself."
Peering into the cup, the younger man wrinkled his studded nose. "What the hell is in this?" he studied the drink with revulsion.
"Slugs and snails and puppy dog tails, eye of newt and-" Gilbert smirked with glee as he jestingly riddled.
"Fuck it," Arthur griped, downing the cup without so much as a blink.
"Woah there, Artie, it's not going to evaporate," the crimson eyed devil awkwardly chuckled.
Shoulders rising and falling in a heavy sigh, Arthur gazed down into the empty receptacle. "I have had an awful day," he admitted as he looked to his friend with a slightly crazed smile, "I'm assuming you never drank that whiskey I got you for Christmas last year?"
The older man took a moment to asses the situation before a wicked leer stretched across his face. "Tonight just got so much better!" he enthused and brought Arthur through to the almost deserted kitchen where a familiar face welcomed them.
"Arturo! You made it!" beamed the Spaniard dressed rather flamboyantly, if stereotypically, in a red matador costume, "Good to see you again."
"Give me a minute," Arthur headed directly for hosts liquor cabinet and retrieved the, still sealed, bottle of bourbon from the back.
Snapping the plastic from the cap as he twisted it off, he poured himself a glass, the pungent stench of the amber liquid saturating the air, and, in one, long drink, knocked it back and treated himself to another, generous glassful, turning to his friend with a strained smile.
"You too," he croaked.
The priceless look of bafflement on Antonio's face said what words could not as he seemed utterly appalled.
"Jesus Christ, Arthur, bad day?" he deduced from the telling display.
"You could say that," the other dryly remarked.
"I love drunk Arthur," Gilbert exacerbated from over the Englishman's shoulder like the instigator he was.
"Hey, I'm all up for a good time but we are not as young as we used to be," Antonio attempted to dissuade the anarchy he could foresee.
An unconcerned snort emitted the shorter man. "All the more reason for it," he retorted, taking a gulp of his liquor like it was lemonade.
The brunette winced, never one for the hard stuff, but knew better than to get between Arthur and his vices.
"Where's Francis?" Arthur noted his partner's absence, looking around as he leaned on the countertop.
At that moment, the man he spoke in reference to flounced through, sweeping the cape he wore around himself for a dramatic flair, with Alfred just behind him.
"Do not fret, mon lapin, your love is-" he paused, as Gilbert had earlier, at his lover's appearance, the side of his mouth left uncovered by his mask hanging agape.
Saying aloud what they were both thinking, the teen barked a laugh, his eyes wide in surprise. "I didn't know Black Sabbath were in town," he commented satirically.
Arthur narrowed his eyes at his brother who was clearly quite proud of his quip. "If it's that big a deal, I'll go home and change," he rolled his eyes, hiding the self-consciousness that had started to creep in behind his snarky manner.
"Calm down, I'm only messing with you, dude," the American conceded, smiling wide as he shook his head, "Shit, I thought you would have thrown that stuff out long ago."
"I guess I never got around to it," the other shrugged, looking down at himself.
It had taken some rummaging to find the old clothes and the multiple piercings that covered his face probably could have used a wash before he put them in, but, despite the reactions he had received, he was glad he had kept the things. Nostalgia, and perhaps the booze, had taken hold and, through his rose-tinted glasses, the world seemed somewhat warmer.
"Well, I think it is rather appealing, mon amour," the Frenchman purred, sidling up to him with a hooded gaze.
Lip curling in disgust, Arthur shot a contemptable glare at the other and moved away from the arm that had snaked around his waist.
"Now I'm definitely changing," he bit to the entertainment of those around them, "And who are you supposed to be?"
Standing back with a flourish of his arms, Francis flaunted himself, drawing several pairs of uncomfortable eyes to his unnecessarily tight, black, spandex trousers. "I am the phantom of the opera. It suits me, non?"
Both eyebrows held aloft, the Englishman ran his teeth over the metal ball through his tongue, the sensation pleasantly reminiscent. "You mean the whiney, drama queen that lives in the sewers perving over a younger girl? I think it's perfect for you, dear."
His response garnered a chorus of whooping and snorted laughter from the small group and Arthur hid his self-satisfied expression behind his drink.
"Here," Gilbert got a fresh beer from the fridge and held it out to Francis, "for the burn."
"You all get mean when you drink," Francis moped, slinking away to refill his wine glass while his friends continued to joke at his expense.
"I love drunk Arthur," Alfred remarked.
Looking to the younger boy, his brother noticed something, or, rather, a lack of something.
"Alfred, I thought you said you had a costume," he observed the issue with the boy's statement of several days ago as he seemed to be dressed as he usually would be.
"I do," the other confirmed with no further explanation.
About to reply, Arthur stopped himself, squinting as a horribly uneasy feeling came over him. He couldn't put his finger on what but, something was off.
"Is something…different about you?" he tried to figure out what was making him so uncomfortable but couldn't see any obvious changes.
"I told you, I'm wearing a costume," Alfred grinned smugly at his brother's confusion, unable to hide the fact that he was dying to tell him what he was up to but enjoying his utterly flummoxed look too much to spoil it just yet.
Casting his eyes about the room, Arthur saw the others holding back snickers, already in on the secret, leaving him stumped.
"But…" he continued to frown, perplexed, eyes flitting over the younger boy to find nothing out of the ordinary.
"Maybe you should tell him before his head explodes," Gilbert suggested out of worry for the pulsing blood vessel in the shorter man's eyeball.
"Alright, alright," the American relented, "Man, I thought at least you would get it," jokingly, he lamented, however, it was quite clear he was taking great pride in his scheme. "I'm Matty!" he revealed, "We traded glasses and borrowed each other's shirts, how smart is that?"
Knowing didn't make it any less jarring as Arthur noted how the slightly rounder frames objectively did not suit Alfred's face, even though the difference was barely detectable.
"I don't like it," he stated, deeply disturbed, "Can you even see?"
"Not really," the perpetually unperturbed man smiled, "But what does that matter when you're getting blackout drunk?"
He punctuated his sentence with a swig of beer and, although Arthur would have liked to give him the disapproving older sibling look, he felt its affect may be lost in his current get up, not to mention that he was beginning to feel the effects of his own drinking.
"Atta boy," the oldest of the group threw an arm around the youngest member, clinking their bottles together a little too enthusiastically, causing bubbles to froth over the rim.
Shaking his head, Arthur made sure his cup was filled, as he was sure he would need it, and rolled his eyes. "Where's your brother?" he addressed the present twin.
"Hanging out with the dog in a quiet corner somewhere, is my best guess. I lost track of him when we arrived," the more social of the two brothers told him.
"Poor boy," Arthur grabbed a beer for his misplaced sibling before leaving the solitude of the relatively peaceful room for the crowded hallway.
Forcing his way past the ridiculous number of guests, half of which, he was sure, weren't invited, he made it to the darkened front room. It was almost impossible to see through the mesh of people but, at the other end of the room, a secluded corner caught the Englishman's attention, as he was sure it would have done the more antisocial teen's and, therefore, he pushed in that direction.
Sure enough, sat on a sofa with Friede, Gilbert's German Shepard, at his feet, Matthew sat alone and a little out of place. Yet, this didn't seem to bother him, as he happily petted the soppy dog who, on Arthur's arrival, gave a subdued bark in greeting and trotted over. He had always had a way with animals.
"Hello to you too, miss lady," he gave her a scratch behind the ear and held the beverage out to his brother, "Enjoying yourself?"
Eagerly taking the drink, Matthew cracked a tight smile, not able to hide the hint of awkwardness in his eyes. "It's a good party, I guess," his soft voice was almost undetectable over the thumping music, "A little busy though."
"Just a bit," Arthur sarcastically muttered, sitting in the space beside the quiet boy, "What are you doing out here by yourself?"
A gentle laugh blew past the other's lips, "Alfred went to go say hi to someone, I told him to meet me in here," glancing at the time on his phone, he gave a light sigh, "I guess he wasn't listening." While most people would have been offended at being forgotten, Matthew was used to it by this point and it barely fazed him anymore.
Tutting at Alfred's continued carelessness, Arthur kept his thoughts to himself and stood. "He's in the kitchen with everyone else," he informed so they could go together.
Before they could fight their way back through the human blockade, however, they were prevented by the sad whining of an attention starved pet.
Looking down at her, Arthur spoke as though talking with a human, "What could you possibly be crying about, you're the most spoilt animal I know."
In response, the behemoth of a dog lay on it's front and rolled over, legs in the air and tongue lolling from the side of its mouth, waiting patiently for a belly rub. Shaking his head at the endearing creature, Arthur bent to one knee and obliged, chuckling as a heavy tail began to thump against the floorboards.
"Four years it took me to get that dog to stop barking the house down whenever I was near and for you she is a kitten."
A good humouredly, exasperated voice spoke from behind. One that Arthur recognised instantly and could hardly believe his ears in hearing as he turned, in stunned joy, to have his disbelief proven wrong.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he beamed, practically jumping up to embrace his seldom seen friend.
Hugging back, Elizabeta laughed effeminately at both the younger man's appearance and his warm welcome.
"When I used to say how I wished things never had to change, I didn't mean it quite so literally," she drew back to take in what she was seeing, her slender eyebrows arched.
Arthur ignored her subtle, verbal jabs, grinning madly as he seemed in awe of the woman's presence.
"W-well how come you're here? Last I heard you were in Prague."
Waving her hand in a dismissive manner, she shrugged. "I had some issues at the Russian boarder and I thought 'screw it, six months is long enough. I want to go home,'" her simpering expression was sentimental as she reached out her arms to smoosh her friends cheeks in a maternal fashion, "Besides, I missed you all."
Playfully batting her hands away, Arthur found himself unable to wipe the smile from his face and questions tumbled from his mouth without censorship, "How long have you been back? Why didn't you tell us you were coming?"
"I arrived last night, I'm staying here, with Gil," she answered, "he wanted to keep me a surprise for you guys, I suppose," holding her hands to the sides, she displayed herself like some grand reveal, "Surprise!"
"It's so good to see you," the usually reserved man, again, flung both arms around her, spilling some of his drink on the floor as he did so, and squeezed her tight, like he was afraid she may disappear as suddenly as she had materialised.
Both Matthew and Elizabeta exchanged amused looks at the action.
"I think he may have had a few drinks already," Matthew piped up, a little redundantly.
"I love drunk Arthur," the Hungarian woman simply chuckled, patting her friend on the back.
Their private gathering was interrupted as, from the doorway, they were beckoned to the kitchen by the cheery Spaniard with the offer of tequila shots.
Half an hour, several shots each and almost a full litre of tequila between them later, the seven of them stood scattered about the kitchen, chatting about nothing in particular, happy to be reunited as a complete unit for the first time in, what seemed to be, forever.
"Jeez, when was the last time we were all together like this?" Gilbert mused, tone slightly morose as he realised just how long it had been.
"Must be about two years, at least," Antonio recollected.
A melodramatic groan came from the German man, his shoulders sagging as he mourned for years gone by. "I'm not ready to be old! My best days aren't behind me yet, I've got so much more awesoming left to do!" he sighed dejectedly, letting his platinum head fall onto Francis' shoulder with an immature pout. "When did we all become adults?"
"I don't think all of us did," Eliza's witticism was as sharp as ever and the oldest of the group shot her a sneer with a sardonically exaggerated laugh.
"It's alright, Gil," it was Arthur who lent a comforting word, "Clearly you're not the only one who isn't ready to let go of the past just yet," he gestured to his vintage get up in reference.
"I forgot how many piercings you had," Matthew marvelled at the amount of metal protruding from his brother's face.
"Yeah, I'm surprised you're not sticking to the fridge," Alfred concurred.
Chuckling lightly, Arthur raised a hand to brush his fingers over the multitude of earrings that stapled the cartilage of his right ear. "I may have gotten a bit carried away," he understated, "but I blame Liz."
"What?" the accused woman put a hand to her chest in shock, open mouthed at the prosecution, "It wasn't my idea! You said you wanted it done!"
"Well you had the safety pin!" the younger man countered. Despite the fact they must have looked like school children squabbling over nothing, Arthur didn't care. He was having fun.
"Woah, woah, woah, hang on," Alfred interrupted, nose screwed up in disgust, "You pierced his ear?"
Elizabeta nodded, not seeing the big deal, causing the American to shudder.
"Ew! Dude, that's so gross!" he exclaimed.
A sweet giggle emitted the older woman. "I can do yours for you, if you like, Alfie," she offered with a devilish tilt of her lips.
Immediately clasping both hands over his ears, Alfred backed away a few steps. "Stay away from me, you sadist," he aggrandized, never having liked the thought of punctured flesh.
"It's not as bad as the time that somebody tried to give himself a tattoo with a sewing needle and paint," Antonio attempted to rationalise, sending a look to the man in question.
"And they haven't allowed me in the craft store since," Gilbert reminisced with a misplaced, nostalgic twinkle in his eye.
"You guys are twisted," Alfred sent an appalled look at the, supposed, adults who only laughed at the fond memories.
"You must remember this stuff, Al, you were there too," Arthur pointed out, recalling the twins at twelve years old, Alfred sulking in the hallway as he was left behind, deemed to young to be going out at night with the rowdy group, and rightfully so.
At this the twins exchanged looks, sharing an internal joke that wouldn't make sense to anyone else, and the older of them raised his eyebrows with a snorted chuckle. "All I ever heard was you trying and failing to sneak in through the window at three in the morning and mom giving you the lecture."
"Oh Lord, the lecture," Arthur grimaced, guilt registering on his face at the mere thought of the incriminating words he had heard every weekend of his teenage years, "I know you were only having fun," he echoed the opening line of the well-practiced speech.
"But think about the consequences," all three Kirkland's impersonated in unison as they were all painfully familiar with how it went.
"I think she even used that on me a couple of times," Francis laughed along with them.
"Same here," Gilbert chimed in and the other two present nodded in assent, not one of them having been spared the sainted woman's parental scorn.
"It just meant she cared about you," Arthur justified, a small, and slightly melancholic, smile settling on his face as he sighed. "I really could give her hell sometimes, couldn't I," he murmured under his breath in reflection.
"I wouldn't feel bad about it, Arthur," Matthew's reassurance drifted from behind, "You know she never really minded."
"I know," the older man wiped the hint of sadness from his expression with ease, clearing his throat as he located his newly purchased pack of twenty, "I'm going out for a smoke," he announced and made for the back door.
The crisp air sent Arthur's head reeling the second it hit him, the alcohol and lack of food a dangerous combination, and he leaned his elbows on the patio wall as he waited for the spinning to subside. Like the rest of the house, the garden was full of bodies, hot breath and smoke in the air as people stood off to the side with their roll ups which, from what Arthur could smell, were not tobacco.
Sliding the thin sheet of plastic off the cardboard was something that never failed to be oddly satisfying, the way it glided so perfectly and kept its shape was one of those things that just always felt good. He lit a cigarette and let it hang from his lips, the cold not as cold as it should have been. Groups of drunken guests blundered around with hoots of laughter, not a face there that the Brit recognised and exhaling a deep held, polluted breath, Arthur relished in the feeling of lowered inhibitions. It wasn't that he particularly enjoyed being drunk, more the blissful ignorance that came with it, the need to put more focus on what was currently going on obscuring the stress of tomorrow so that it was, for a while, forgotten about.
Above the background clamour came the scuttering of claws on wood as, from the back door, Freide bounded out into the garden and, not far behind her, a disgruntled Elizabeta emerged. The much faster animal escaping to the lawn, its pursuer stopped in the doorway with a resigned huff.
"I swear she disobeys me on purpose," she made a gesture of irritation, "She's doing it to get on my nerves, I tell you."
Shaking her head in defeat, the Hungarian came to stand beside Arthur, who sent her an amused side glance and offered her the opened carton.
"She's just trying to show you who's boss," he ventured, "You know how possessive she gets over her dad."
Scoffing as she rolled her emerald eyes, she plucked a cigarette from the box and held it out to be lit. "Such a diva, not that she's got anything to worry about."
"That's what you said last time and look what happened," the younger of the pair clucked like a mother hen.
"Well, this time I mean it," the other vowed, prompting a sceptical look from her companion. "What? I mean it. It's over with us," she felt the need to assure, only causing the furry caterpillars raised at her to crawl further upwards. "You are the worst," she groused into her cigarette, giving up on the argument she knew she couldn't win.
The look of jovial reservations that rested on Arthur's face turned to a smirk which quickly placated to blankness as both of them looked out over the carnage that consumed their friend's garden. Cups and accessories of various costumes littered the grass, as did a plethora of human 'substances', not that this bothered the dog, who still roamed between intoxicated groups, happily taking in the questionable smells on offer.
Eliza surveyed the scene with mild distaste for a while then turned back to her present company, laying her chestnut head on her folded arms that laid on the banister top to gaze up at him.
"You're not about to make some pathetic excuse so you can go home, are you?" she asked with a look that was eerily similar to the one Alfred had used to get him there in the first place.
A light frown tugged at Arthur's forehead as he replied honestly, "Of course not. This is the most fun I've had at a party in years."
"And you still look like someone shit in your top hat," came the aptly vulgar, reply.
Her sense of humour was something that Arthur had always admired, and he couldn't hold back a snorted laugh. "I'm just tired," he went for his go to excuse.
"Because you haven't been taking care of yourself," Elizabeta stood upright to reprimand him, "You look awful."
Again, Arthur choked at her bluntness. "Has anyone ever told you how charming you are?" he drawled derisively.
"Hey, I'm not going to bullshit you," the outspoken woman held up her hands with an earnest expression, "I'll bet you haven't even eaten today."
The silence she received gave her the answer and the validated grin that formed on her lips as a result was near unbearable.
"I didn't have time, I just-" Arthur began to ramble but Eliza would have none of it.
"You really haven't changed, have you?" she tsked, "Still determined to burn yourself out completely."
Feeling his neck heat up at the comment, Arthur couldn't deny it, nor could he think of what to say next, sipping his drink as a sudden awkwardness began to consume him.
"You should come travelling with me," the worldlier of them suggested in a heat of the moment way.
Assuming the outrageous idea was a joke, the younger man chuckled but, on looking at his friend's serious expression, he shook his head. "I'd love to, but I have work and I can't just up and leave Francis and the boys for who knows how long you'll want to go for," he rejected the offer.
"Why not? The twins aren't babies anymore, they don't even live with you, and Francis can come too if he wants," she paused long enough for the other to open his mouth, about to rebuttal but she wouldn't allow him to, mind set on convincing him. "Plus, finances can't be a problem for you anymore, not since you moved," realising she may have taken it too far with her last point, she added a thoughtful, "I'm sorry about that, by the way."
Shrugging to show no offense was taken, Arthur didn't speak but the look in his meadow green eyes showed he was considering what was being said as he chewed his lower lip in deliberation.
"Come on, Arthur, you've worked in that office for four years without so much as a long weekend off, just take a break," she pleaded, genuine concern for his health evident.
Knowing all too well the pit falls of making drunken plans, the Englishman wouldn't allow himself to agree to anything, although, he was near inescapably tempted. He had always wanted to travel but hadn't made it further than a half week trip to Calais with Francis for their fifth anniversary. The thought of it saddened him, so many beautiful things out there that were fading fast and, if he kept procrastinating, he may never get to experience them.
Still, he refused to commit to anything without further discussion. "I'll think about it," he compromised, meaning it fully.
Pleased by this, the fairer of the couple smiled and let her head rest on the other's shoulder, having to bend slightly as they were practically the same height. "Good enough," she settled.
"I hope I have not stumbled upon something I was not meant to see," came the lilting French accent of the man who floated from the house.
"Is that what you think of me?" the older woman was quick with her retort, mock offense in her voice, "Not to say I couldn't have him if I wanted him."
Running a perfectly manicured finger along the nape of the smaller blonde's neck in a teasingly flirtatious manner that caused him to shudder in spite of himself, she shot Francis a smug grin and a flutter of her lengthy eyelashes to prove her point.
"As irresistible as he is you must contain yourself," sauntering closer, the Frenchman wrapped an arm around his lover's waist, "for I will fight you for him."
Quirking a brow at her pretend romantic rival, Elizabeta was unfazed by the threat. "And you think you'd win?"
Both participants of the two and fro very much enjoying the rich shade of red the silent third party's face had turned over the exchange, Francis, predictably, was the one to take things over the edge with his lude behaviour, as he tightly grasped his partner's backside and growled, "I fight dirty, mon petite."
With a squealed gasp, the assaulted man lurched forward to escape the attack, instinctually glaring back at his assailant, who cackled along with his accomplice.
"Even if you somehow, miraculously, won, I would make you wish you hadn't," Arthur added his most menacing look, however, it appeared that alcohol had dampened its bite as the older man was not in the least bit intimidated.
"Kinky," he purred with a perverted leer.
Biting his tongue, Arthur didn't need to express his contempt as Elizabeta did so for him.
"Please, save it for the bedroom," she beseeched, offering the last of her cigarette to Francis who held a hand up to decline.
"I could not quit twice," he told her, to which she shrugged and flicked the end over the patio railing.
"I'm going inside then. It's fucking freezing out here," she blasphemed, the others following suit as Arthur whistled into the night for Freide to follow them inside, which she gladly did.
The group entered the house, forcing their way past the endless sea of guests and chatting as they went, reaching the hallway where a snow-white head popped out of the kitchen and caught their attention.
"There you guys are, we've been waiting for you," Gilbert complained, "We're about to play never have I ever and you're not escaping."
Pre-emptively worried yet excited looks were shared by the trio at the notion, knowing how it would end but in far too good a spirits not to take part. Following their host into the kitchen where a daunting amount of shot glasses were set out, filled with something clear and, no doubt, strong, they found the rest of their group was still scattered around the kitchen, waiting expectantly for the incriminating game to begin.
"Who's ready to be humiliated?" questioned the boisterous American from his seat on the countertop as they came through.
"I wouldn't start that, amigo," Antonio chastised, "we were there for your Power Rangers phase, remember."
"Pft, that show was awesome, you've got nothing on me," the younger man nonchalantly brushed off.
"And your cowboy obsession," Francis tried to elicit a response from his surrogate brother, to no avail.
"Cowboys are cool, man. I almost came as one tonight," he easily deflected, folding his arms cockily.
"I've got the link to your old blog," Matthew chimed in with the damning fact.
At this, the colour drained from the older twin's face, his eyes widening behind their mismatched frames as he squawked in horror. "What?! You said you never read it! Delete it right now, dude, that's crossing a line!"
The quieter, and secretly more malicious, of them only smiled with a mischievous quirk to his lips as his brother begged.
"Let's just start the game," Alfred scowled.
Time seemed to go by its own rate of passing as the night juddered along, stopping and starting like a faulty reel of film, as excessive intoxicants is wont to make it seem. Remaining isolated from the rest of the party, the old friends enjoyed each other's company in private, as they had all subconsciously hoped they would from the moment they arrived.
Things had started off innocently enough, the standard themes coming up first; plenty of past crushes and escapades to drink over. However, it didn't take long for things to be derailed, devolving into a more risqué line of interrogation, purposefully designed to mortify, not that any of them could feel anything past the point of complete inebriation. Together, they gasped and delighted in admitions they had most likely heard before but never tired in hearing.
"Okay, never have I ever," Antonio narrowed his eyes in thought as he leaned so far down against the fridge in his seated position that he may as well have been lying down, "gone to work commando."
Four out of the seven drunken heaps that littered the kitchen floor lifted their receptacles to take their punishment.
"Now that's just unprofessional," Arthur criticised, although he was not surprised at all.
"Well, I can't have panty lines showing through a cute dress, can I?" Elizabeta stated as though the very idea were unreasonable.
"Dirty girl," Gilbert, one of the culprits, leaned in with a filthy grin.
"At least I have an excuse, pervert, what's yours?" she cut down, firmly moving the pale hand that had been placed on her thigh, yet letting her fingers linger over it.
Shrugging, the German showed no remorse for his actions. "Hadn't done my laundry, what's the big deal?"
"Preach," slurred Alfred from across the room, raising a hand for a disastrous high five.
"I simply enjoy the freedom," Francis shared his own reasoning with a blissful smile, "it is wonderfully liberating."
"This is why no one asks for your opinion, dear," the Frenchman's partner, who had somehow acquired some rather sloppily applied eyeliner, spoke the feelings of the room as they were all forced to mentally picture the image against their will.
"Moving on," Eliza's expression morphed from one of quiet disgust to a vindictive smirk, "Never have I ever seen my brother's porn."
The statement was, not so subtly, aimed at a certain Prussian native, who seemed to experience some form of stress induced flashback at the memory. "Why did you have to bring that up again," he griped, drinking to forget, while both Arthur and Matthew did the same, casting their uncomfortable attention to the relative they had in common.
Face burning up immediately, the American sputtered to his defence, "Well, maybe you shouldn't be going through your brother's stuff," he attempted to scold.
"I'll stop seeing it when you stop leaving tabs open," the older Kirkland rebuked with a nod of agreement from the bespectacled boy beside him, causing the shade of their brother's face to deepen, nearly matching Antonio's costume.
"Never have I ever," Alfred raised his voice slightly, changing the subject with some desperation, "been caught doing the dirty in public."
A few moments silence, in which dubious looks were exchanged, then everyone over the age of twenty took a generous swig of their beverages, the most easily overlooked of the group skilfully waiting until the others were too focused on supressing their gag reflexes to notice him taking his own penalty.
"And you were all so eager to judge me," the only person not partaking directed at no one in particular, somehow even brasher and louder than usual in his current state, those around him only laughing gently at the lightweight.
"There is no judgement here, mon cheri, only open minds," Francis maundered, his well-meant words of inspiration not as coherent as he believed them to be as he struggled up from where he lay, draped across Matthew's lap, ruffling the younger man's honey coloured hair before swaying out of the room.
The game continued between them, but Arthur found his attentions drawn elsewhere, eyes focused on where his lover had just exited. Notoriously an unpredictable drunk, the feelings kicked up by the night surprised even himself as he was struck by a sudden urge, an itch of sorts, for the man he had just watched leave. One that was carnal, driven by hunger. It made him sad, in a way. He missed when that feeling had been brought on through nothing other than physical desire, rather than a despairing need for human contact that he felt he couldn't initiate without severely lowered inhibitions. However, he wasn't about to waste this feeling, that became rarer by the day, by reflecting over what it may mean, instead grasping the moment with lusting ambition.
As discretely as he could, which was not very discrete, he followed in the direction of his other half, unaware of the knowing looks he garnered. Stumbling down the hall, Arthur headed for the bathroom, assuming that was where the other had planned on going. On managing to ascend the stairs to reach the darkened landing, he rapped gently on the wood and waited for an answer to make sure he wasn't about to assault a complete stranger.
Sure enough, it was a slightly impaired French accent that called out, "One moment, s'il vous plait."
Hazily smirking to himself, Arthur glanced over his shoulder, checking the coast was clear of onlookers, then, swiftly, pushed down on the handle to open the door just a crack and slipped through, closing it again behind him.
Inside, a mildly confused Francis regarded the intrusion with the same, unaware smile as he did most things when he'd been drinking. "Bonjour, mon amour," he addressed, "Is there something I can help you with?"
Lips curved upward, a little coyly but with no hint of self-doubt, the drunken brit slinked forward to lean against the sink. He shrugged a shoulder, looking his partner over with predatory eyes.
"I'm not sure," he admitted, out of practice at being the one to provoke this sort of encounter.
"There must be a reason for you to follow me into the bathroom," Francis hummed, knowing full well what was being led up to as he caught the way he was being observed, gazing back with heat, "but what might that be?"
Happy to play along, Arthur bit at the metal through his lip, a slight tilt to his mouth as he smiled lopsidedly.
"I suppose I've just been thinking about when we were younger," he mused in a round about kind of way, letting his head rest at an angle as his eyeline flicked up to meet the other's, "When I used to dress like this unironically," he let out a sighing chuckle, leading on to what he was really thinking about, "and we did stupid shit like snog in bathrooms at parties."
"How strange," Francis spoke in much the same manner as he prowled closer to lay a hand on the smaller man's waist, "I was thinking much the same thing."
Both grinning, amused by their own attempts to be suave, they moved in as one, lips pressing together with rash, liquid passion. The shorter man craned his neck to deepen the kiss, hands reaching up to tangle in golden strands of hair while the taller of them held his lover by the midriff, embrace resting where it felt natural.
Acid green flames danced behind hooded lids as Arthur urged them to grind together in a way that made Francis' breath hitch. Furthering the lecherous affair with the expert use of teeth and tongue, a hand strayed from the silken locks to press against the front of increasingly unwelcomed spandex leggings. Palming the area, Arthur had to supress the smug grin that tickled the edges of his mouth at how the other's eyelids fluttered in a way that was reserved only for him.
The sensation of something cold and solid exploring the inside of his mouth was one that Francis had never quite been at ease with, however, the familiarity of it seemed to transport him almost, as, with his eyes closed, he could have been back in the days when such a feeling wasn't just a relived memory. It was a feeling he wanted, needed to savour.
Staggering backwards quite inelegantly, dragging his compliant lover with him, the backs of his thighs connected with a towel rail, which he used to rest his weight on, allowing said lover a better position to slip a hand under his waistband. A moan escaped him, unable to contain himself, and he moved into the contact, Arthur responding by caressing him in ways he knew would elicit the right reactions. Breaking away from their slovenly entanglement, the, usually, demurer of the two diverted his attention to exposed neck, teeth scraping at the tender skin, to the elation of the man on the receiving end of this treatment.
"I do not know what has gotten into you, mon ange," Francis allowed his head to roll back against the wall while the smaller man's agile fingers wandered, "mais j'aime ça," he finished the thought in his native tongue as he often did when his train of thought was impeded.
"Tu n'es pas le seul à savoir être passionné," the other replied, to his shock and exhilaration, in the same foreign language.
"Your accent is still terrible," he criticised jovially, restraining himself from taking the lead as he was wary of being disappointed again.
"Good," Arthur mumbled against the creamy flesh of his collarbone, "I can't think of anything worse than being mistaken for French."
Their back and forth was promptly interrupted by a knock on the door and both men met eyes with guilty delight, sniggering as they skulked from the bathroom together, paying no attention to the unimpressed glare they received.
Alone on the landing, their kiss resumed briefly before Francis pulled back, glancing to one of the two bedroom doors and raising an eyebrow by way of questioning. Nibbling at his inner cheek, the smile that curled across Arthur's cheeks was answer enough and, pulling him by the wrist into a fast embrace, the taller man swung the door open and propelled them both inside to find the room already occupied.
On the bed, the more dainty of the two atop the other's lap, were the familiar Germanic couple, faces locked together in quite the compromising position, too preoccupied to notice the not at all surprised intruders, who simply exchanged amused looks in the archway and closed the door once more.
Backing out, the pair tried the next room, with caution this time, finding it vacated. They tripped together towards the bed in the centre, Arthur practically collapsing onto his back on reaching it, pulling the larger man down on top of him. He struggled to strip the leather jacket from his torso, but Francis was eager to help with the situation, working together to fling the offending clothing onto the floor with fervent abandon. Sliding both arms below the lithe body under him, the Frenchman relished in the enthusiasm of his partner, the desire, not for sex but, for his adoration to be returned overwhelming.
For the most beautiful few moments it was, the man that lay at his mercy wrapping both arms around his shoulders and arching up into his hold, a leg hooking around his hips so that they melded together with heavy breaths. Shuffling further up the bed, they were too focused on the sounds of their own whispered anticipations to hear the muffled voices outside, along with clumsy footsteps berating the staircase.
"Artie!" came the overzealous screaming of an excitable teenager, followed by softer words of discouragement that went unheeded, "Artie! It's that girl, she texted me! The one from the- Oh sweet Jesus my eyes!"
Their solitude was broken when Alfred barged in, immediately regretting his decision, turning away to shield his sight from the horror, Matthew pulling a face as he muttered, "I told you they were probably…busy."
"Bloody fucking hell, did you never learn to knock!" Arthur scrambled out of his lover's hold, becoming flustered and irate out of embarrassment.
"I have now!" the younger man cried, seemingly scarred by what he had been forced to witness.
"What is all this screaming about?" the other bedroom door was opened and Elizabeta peered out worriedly with Gilbert looking, confusedly, from his seat on the bed, "What girl?"
"Oh God, not you guys too," Alfred groaned.
"You're just jealous," the albino man crowed with a shit eating grin, "Don't worry, buddy, uncle awesome will teach you the way into a fräulein's heart," placing a hand to one side of his mouth, jokingly trying to shield his words, he added, "and other places."
"Please, do not," Arthur was quick to cut in, righting himself and standing, leaving Francis alone on the bed.
"I need another drink," the American lamented, turning back where he had just come from.
"Great idea," Gilbert jumped from the mattress, easily distracted in his high spirits, "and I shall impart onto you my bountiful wisdom in the art of getting some."
The other guilty couple followed the twins downstairs, just Arthur and Francis left alone and, with a sorry smile from the smaller of the two, it became evident that the moment had gone.
With the moon gradually lowering, and after polishing off the rest of the alcohol in the immediate vicinity, the night had reached its natural conclusion. The youngest of the group were the first to leave, the full effort of both Matthew and Arthur being needed to force a barely conscious Alfred into the back of a cab, then Antonio, who wandered off into the darkness of the night before anyone had time to stop him. He had always had a habit of being the one to get lost on nights out. Shortly after, the remaining couple said their goodbyes and Francis dragged Arthur away from the corner he and Freide had been cuddling in.
Still decidedly dark outside, the two of them ambled down the road, their laughter ringing throughout the empty air, arms around one another for support. The first bird calls of morning began to sound from the chimney tops, but none left the safety of their roosts just yet, still too early for them to begin their days.
Turning the final corner of their rout, they made it the final few metres to their humble abode, the lightest harmony of rain picking up around them as they came down the driveway. They spilled into the hallway, Arthur taking great pains to close the door as silently as he could, as though afraid of waking his parents, with hushed giggles. Leaning against the wall for support he attempted to untie the laces of his boots in the most inefficient way imaginable, to the infinite amusement of his other half.
"Amour, you are a state," he chuckled, in no position to judge.
"Says the one pissed off wine," Arthur scoffed.
The other made a vaguely dismissive hand gesture and stumbled into the living room, slumping down into the armchair closest to the door. His ears ringing, the Frenchman let his eyes slip closed to stop the room from dancing around him and could have drifted off right there had two arms not been draped over his shoulders, hands resting on his chest.
"Don't go falling asleep down here, pet. You'll regret it."
While such affection would have seemed out of place to Francis had he been sober, he allowed himself a tender smile, laying his own hands over Arthur's. They were cold and wet.
"Your concern is touching," it may have sounded sarcastic, but he meant it.
After letting his hands be warmed for a moment, Arthur pulled away. "Don't be too charmed, I'm just warning you because you'll get no sympathy from me."
Francis heard the shuffle of footsteps move around him then a warm body was pressed against his leg, prompting him to open his eyes to look down as Arthur laid his head in his lap. His heart aching at the gesture he instinctively raised a hand to gently comb his fingers through the wheat field coloured strands, separating them out and letting them fall back in line again. He had forgotten how soft Arthur's hair was.
"Arthur," he spoke, a knot in his throat as a sense of longing, not the same burning need as earlier but one that started as a dull, pained sensation low in his stomach that clawed its way up and made itself known.
The man in question hummed to show he was listening despite his eyes being closed.
Francis watched him, lips hanging apart, as though a shadow lay across his legs. His fingers threaded themselves through phantom locks that crumbled away like dust, the body that they grew from translucent, frail. He lived with a ghost that didn't know they were dead, the memories attached to them the only thing keeping them human. Now and then they may have come close, so agonizingly close, to how things were meant to be, but Francis couldn't live on a flimsy promise.
He knew he had to say something, he should have done weeks ago, but it was the hope of moments like this, a saccharine semblance of their relationship, that made it impossible. Brief gestures that were just frequent enough to keep him addicted, waiting for the next one, and able to fool himself into thinking that, perhaps, there was nothing wrong after all.
"We should go to bed."
The shoulders that used his leg for support rose and fell in a deep sigh, then pulled away, the sandy mop lifting from his lap.
"Yeah," Arthur stared through him with a farced upturn of his lips, stretching his limbs as he stood.
Staring back, Francis didn't move, sickened by his thoughts.
The other turned his skeletal frame and drifted into the darkness of the hall, stairs barely noticing his weight as he ascended.
With a deeply shaken exhale, the older man followed when all sounds of movement had stopped. Reaching the bedroom, already dark, the form under the covers didn't shift as he came in and he assumed Arthur had fallen asleep. A little relieved by this, he tripped to the bed, stripping as he went.
Sat with his legs overhanging the edge of the mattress, he left his clothes where they fell, along with Arthur's and the suit he had seen him leave for work in that morning. An unexpected breeze blew over his shoulder blades and he turned to notice the opened window, left ajar by his partner so that he could listen to the rain that had already stopped.
Easing himself down, Francis let the chill numb him as his lover lay empty at his side.
It wasn't until the sun had reached its highest point in the sky that Arthur woke the next day, forcing his eyelids apart the tiniest sliver, face smothered into his pillow which was covered in makeup that he didn't remember putting on. The anticipated repercussions of the night before were unmerciful as pain seared down the centre of his skull and a sickness weighed his insides down, making him afraid to move.
Writing the day off completely, he began to feel himself fade back into unconsciousness just as the muffled scrape of socks on carpet entered the room. Something hard was placed on his bedside table and hand swept his cheek.
"Are you awake, cheri?" the owner of the footsteps whispered, too quietly to wake someone who was sleeping.
A grunt of recognition came from the mass in the bed, brow twitching slightly.
Receiving more of a response than he had expected, Francis kept his tone low as he knelt beside his partner. "Tony and Gilbert are at the restaurant, I am going to meet them," he informed, "I assume you are staying here."
Another unintelligible moan made evident that the smaller man wouldn't be accompanying him, as though his appearance wasn't enough to tell him this.
"I made you tea," the Frenchman left a sweet peck on the other's pallid cheek and left him to his private misery.
The scent of rich, strong coffee was engrained into every crevice of the lifeless restaurant, a heavenly aroma to Francis' hangover induced, blocked sinuses. Dragging his feet over to the tapas bar where the other two victims of the night before loitered, looking quite worse for ware, he pulled out a stool, wincing at the screeching sound it made on the tiled floor.
"Coffee?" the owner of the establishment offered.
Nodding wordlessly in return, a cup was filled with the scalding liquid and nudged towards him, steam caressing his stubbled cheeks.
"Anything else?" Antonio went into service mode, "I asked Lovi to come in to clean up a bit, I could get him to make us some Huevos Rotos, if you're hungry."
"Like fuck, I will," came the loud protests of an angry Italian from the kitchen.
"Would you keep it down, you little scheisse," Gilbert raised his head from his folded arm pillow to weakly snap.
"It's not my problem that you idiots can't handle your drink," the foul tempered brunette appeared at the window, "And why wasn't I invited, asshole."
"You were," the German deadpanned.
"Whatever, it was probably sad with all of you old people around anyway," Lovino insulted with a shrug, disappearing into the back again.
Head flopping back onto the counter surface with an antagonised groan, Gilbert proceeded to grumble in his native language, pulling his hood down over his bloodshot eyes.
"I am not hungry, thank you," Francis answered the earlier question, eyes fixed on the cup he held in both hands.
Tilting his head to the side, Antonio took note of the sombre mood of his companion. "You okay there, amigo?"
A limp smile twisted the Frenchman's mouth and he glanced up briefly. "I am alright," he sighed, clearly lying.
"You sure? You look pretty down," the Spaniard observed the other's unwashed hair and darkened eye bags, "I mean, not as bad as Gil, but still not so great."
His attempt to lighten his friend's spirits worked only mildly as a small exhale, meant to be a laugh, came from his hunched body.
"Hey, fuck you, man. I would have been fine if you hadn't brought that Mexican devil's water," was Gilbert's muffled retaliation.
"I am alright, just tired. I did not get the best sleep last night," Francis couldn't find it in himself to force a smile at the attempts to cheer him up, still transfixed by the blackness in his cup.
A lude chuckle came from the oldest of the trio as he lifted his head once more to smirk at the others. "I'll bet," his tone held a suggestive inflection and he reached to his side to produce his evidence, "Arthur left this in the spare bedroom, by the way."
Placing the leather jacket on the counter, his crude implications were met with an unnaturally subdued reaction from the man they were directed at.
"Alright, you've either got to tell us what's up with the attitude or stop it right now because you're depressing us both," Gilbert light heartedly addressed the usually positive man's gloomy disposition, "You're turning into eyebrows."
At the last comment the Frenchman's lips twitched, just slightly, in a way that his companions had only witnessed a handful of times, his head bowing slightly as he tried his best to conceal his expression.
"Francis," Antonio frowned, his voice becoming abnormally low and serious as he sensed something deeply wrong, "What's the matter?"
Remaining quiet as his friend's looks became increasingly worried, Francis seemed to find it difficult translating his thoughts into words, considering how best to say what he was thinking before eventually looking up to make eye contact with the other men, distress in his face.
"I think something is wrong with Arthur," he stated reluctantly, gaze dropping again, to stare with wide anxious eyes, into his coffee.
Unsure of what exactly he meant by this, the others exchanged looks with one another before focusing on their friend.
"How do you mean?" Gilbert prompted him to clarify.
An unfathomable sigh flowed from the despairing man, as he ran a delicate finger around the rim of his cup.
"I do not know, he is…he has been acting strangely and…I am worried," his disjointed elaboration wasn't much help, but Francis found he was unable to explain what he, himself, didn't understand.
"Like…he is doing weird stuff?" Antonio tried to understand but still held a blank expression.
Shaking his head, the Frenchman swallowed back a frustrated sadness, blinking hard. "He is just not himself," he paused, opening and closing his mouth several times, at a loss, "I do not know what to do about it."
"Can't you ask him?" the older man felt slightly bad for pointing out the obvious but had no other advice to offer.
His suggestion was met with a joyless laugh. "Have you met Arthur?" Francis abjectly questioned.
"Well, if there's one thing I know about that stubborn old teabag, it's that you have to be direct," Gilbert reasoned with a pitying look, adding a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, "Sorry bud, but I don't think there's any other way."
"I know," the other accepted longanimously.
"It can't be that hard, Francis. I mean, you've been together eight years now, right? It's not like you've got any boundaries left," Antonio weighed in to encourage.
"Right," was all Francis said, smiling sadly for the sake of those around him, feeling more hopeless about the situation with each second that passed.
The group stayed an hour or so, discussing the night at length, Gilbert refusing to acknowledge what had happened with a certain woman, claiming it was 'complicated', to the other's disappointment, and helping one another to recall the lost details. With promises of not to leave it so long to the next time they all saw each other, the two men that didn't work at the establishment left Antonio to finish cleaning the kitchen with the short-tempered Italian and left in opposite directions. It was already getting dark outside, as the sun set earlier with each passing day, and, by the time Francis got home, the sky was a solid, inky slab.
Pausing outside the front door, for the first time in his life, he truly dreaded the sight of the man he loved. He came into the hallway, finding Arthur in the living room, a glazed over look to his eyes as he turned to give a tight smile of acknowledgement. There was a sadness to the atmosphere that only Francis noticed, and he didn't try to sound cheerful when he spoke.
"I am going to make something to eat," he mentioned.
"I'm not hungry," the other declined, as was expected, and so the older man cooked for himself, eating alone at the counter.
By the time he had finished, he found the front room void of life, the only other person in the house having retreated upstairs, back to bed.
Left in the solitude of his thoughts, Francis had nothing left to grieve. The thing he feared losing the most was slipping away, whether his fault or not, and all he could do was attempt to prevent the damage from worsening. Resisting the urge to scare himself by overthinking the hypothetical, he resolved to do what was necessary.
Having woken that morning still with the lingering sluggishness of a hangover, Arthur had been even more disinclined to go into work than usual but still had done, remaining mostly undisturbed for the entirety of the day, while Francis had stayed home to do some editing. Despite this, however, the Englishman strangely received no greeting on his arrival.
A wedge of light spilling from the kitchen flooded the hall and, a little off set by the complete silence of the house, Arthur poked his head around the doorway to find his significant other sat at the dinner table, posture sterile, eyes filled with apprehension. Meeting his gaze instantly, a languid nausea settled over both men at what was going to come next.
"We need to talk."
The older man spoke in his gentlest tone yet, the sentence still aroused trepidation on the face of the other.
"Is everything alright?" Arthur ventured slowly, taking a seat opposite his boyfriend.
Pressing his lips against his clasped hands for a few seconds as he planned his next thoughts carefully, the Frenchman breathed in deep through his nostrils, closing his eyes, before opening them again to latch onto the troubled green ones that watched him, expectantly, with as much composure as he could find.
"We need to talk about you," he continued, ignoring the query, "and your…current behaviour."
Silence, tenser for Francis than for the man he questioned, as Arthur processed what was being said.
"My behaviour? What…do you mean?"
Taking his ques from the younger man's reactions, Francis placed both hands flat on the table, his voice taking on a soft bluntness.
"You are scaring me, Arthur. I am very concerned."
Recognition of what the other spoke about immediately registered on Arthur's face, a flicker of something akin to panic passing behind his eyes as he parted his lips to speak.
"Please, do not try to tell me you do not know what I am talking about," Francis asked that his intelligence not be insulted, keeping their eyes loosely locked.
A taut expulsion of air escaped Arthur's lungs in a horrendously faked laugh. "Well, there's no need for an interrogation. You know if there was something wrong you'd be the first person I'd come to."
They both knew he was lying.
"You would not come to anyone, cherie," Francis calmly contended.
Expression becoming visibly guarded, the Englishman's voice took on a defensive edge as he found himself backed into an argumental corner. "What's so wrong with my current behaviour then? No one else seems to have a problem with it," he almost challenged, hostility in his stare, but Francis wouldn't be discouraged.
"This is exactly what I mean, Arthur. You are being so aggressive, so easily provoked," he watched as his partner became increasingly rigid at his accusations, "At least part of the time I see you this way but more often you seem…sad," Francis sighed and reached across the table to place an empathetic hand atop his lover's, "You go to work, you come home and you barely say a word about any of it. You show no joy in anything you do. It is sad to see, mon cher, it hurts me, and I only want you to be happy. Please, I want to help."
Blue eyes pleaded across the wooden divider, every word meant with sincerity, and were met with a face that remained unchanged.
Looking down at their joined hands, Arthur narrowed his gaze and pulled his own away. "That would be because I am behaving like an adult, Francis," he spoke sharply with venom in his words, "I go to work, and I come home and, no, I don't particularly enjoy it but there's no one else to pay the bills for us, is there?"
The bite of malice was palpable, and Francis almost recoiled from the sting of it. He had hoped that the conversation wouldn't have to end in an argument, but the chances of that had always been slim.
"But I enjoy my work," he attempted to explain his perspective, "I do it with pride and happiness. You, you are just-"
"I'm just what!"
Arthur had snapped. Like a hare in the field, he could only stand still and hope to be overlooked for so long before he was forced to react, fear causing him to lash out.
"What am I just, Francis! Just another productive member of society?" he stood, forcing his hands down on the table, glare unyielding.
"Arthur-"
"No!" Arthur raised his voice as though he hoped the volume may drown out his own raging insecurities, "There is nothing wrong with me! This is life, and this is how we live it! I may see things differently to you but that doesn't make me wrong!"
With this, he turned and left the room, slamming the front door as he escaped the house completely.
Admittedly shaken by the brutality of events, it took a minute for the man left behind to react, quickly rising to follow the other, unsure of what he was planning on doing alone in such a volatile state. Flinging open the front door, Francis hurried into the dark, prepared to search every inch of the empty night, but found he didn't need to as he was halted by the sound of uninhibited weeping coming from the man that sat huddled against the wall. Bony shoulders heaving with heart wrenching cries, Arthur stared blankly ahead, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Francis, I'm s-so sorry," he choked, words filled with such remorse and shame he could have been apologising for all of humanity, "I can't do t-this anymore."
Chest aching, weighed down with the sight of such sorrow, Francis knelt beside him, taking the stained face in his hands to look between its glassy eyes.
"Why are you sorry, my love? Speak to me," he implored softly, anxiety rising in him at what the answer may be.
"I don't know," the smaller man's breath came in sharp gasps as he whispered the truth, finding no relief in it.
Studying the pitiful face a moment longer, Francis pulled the shaking body into his warm embrace, rubbing calming circles on the other's back as he murmured sweet, bilingual comforts.
"C'est bon, Arthur, mon lapin, you have nothing to be sorry for."
Trembling fingers clutched at the material of his, now dampened, shirt, flaxen head pressed into the crook of his neck.
"I miss mum, I miss h-her so much."
"I know, amour," Francis gently hushed, feeling the prick of moisture in his own eyes as he held onto the man in his arms, so fragile, lost. Defeated by a world that insisted on being so unkind.
Months, perhaps years, of feeling poured from the broken from, like his body contained a thousand times its worth in raw pain, stored for longer than Arthur cared to reflect on, and, no matter how hard he forced it from his ragged throat, there was still more. Clinging to his human shield, he found himself unable to stop. Head too clouded to know the specifics of what he was crying for, it was as though something had shifted. The cracks were repairable, but what had been set free could never be crammed back in, meaning it would have to be dealt with and the thought of this terrified him.
Too consumed by his own worries, Arthur didn't notice he had been coerced inside onto the sofa, Francis' protective arms still enveloping him.
"Je vous ai maintenant," the Frenchman crooned, leaning back, the delicate body that rested upon him clasped safely in his hold, legs entangled, frenzied heartbeat slowing against him, "Whatever it may be, we will fix it. You must not worry, anymore."
As stuttering breaths became, gradually, less erratic and wet sobs petered away, Francis refused to part even slightly, hugging him close as much for his own solace as Arthur's, burying his face in the sweet scent of his frowzy hair. Neither moved, sadly tranquil in that frozen moment, melting into one another.
"Je t'aime," Francis barely uttered, lips dusting the head that lay tenderly beside his own.
"I love you too," Arthur's cracked voice completed the sentiment.
The feeling of catharsis was to be short lived as Arthur knew, come the morning, he would be forced to face what he had rejected for far too long. However, with the inability to go back, he surrendered himself to the fact, finding a minimal sense of reassurance in this.
Translations
Mais j'aime ça – But I love it
Tu n'es pas le seul à savoir être passionné – You are not the only one that knows how to be passionate (yes Arthur said that line)
C'est bon – It's alright
Je vous ai maintenant – I have you now
Disclaimer - The glasses thing wasn't an original idea, I saw it on a Tumblr post a long time ago (you've probably seen it too) so credit to that person whoever they are, sorry I don't have the name.
Please Read
Just a note but, I do care about this story a great deal, that's why I've tried to make it more serious, and it wasn't doing so well on views until recently which was kind of disappointing. However, some very kind people have left some lovely reviews as of late and it really does make me feel good about my writing so thank you to all of you who have favourited, reviewed, followed or even just read because I do try very hard. Updates will be monthly from now on so that I can keep to a reasonable schedule and your patience is much appreciated. Thanks again.