Warning - This chapter contains drug usage, bodily harm and mild gore.
Translations below.
Locking up the side entrance of the building on his way out, since he was the last one to leave, Gilbert shoved his hands into his pockets and burrowed his face down into his coat as he strode to where he had parked his car. He complained quietly to himself for not having gotten to work earlier that morning as his regular parking space had been taken and he was forced to go half way down the road.
As he made his way briskly down the vacant sidewalk, the buzzing of his phone near frightened the life out of him. Jumping, startled, he pulled it from his pocket to see yet another message from Francis. The poor guy had been texting him all afternoon, becoming progressively more frantic over the whereabouts of his missing boyfriend. Again, he responded saying he was sure Arthur was fine, that he had probably just gone to pub with his friends from work and had forgotten to say, but Francis seemed convinced of something awful. Shaking his head, he typed out something else generically comforting and tucked his phone away.
Rounding the corner, he caught a cold peck to the cheekbone as the rain picked up for the thousandth time that day. Puddles still pooled around the overflowing gutters as there was no sunlight to evaporate them, yet a dankness emanated from the pavement as much as it fell from the sky. It was times like this that he thought of moving back home to Germany, if only for the white Christmas'. Through the bleakness, however, his eyes were drawn to a flash of light, a smouldering cigarette that briefly illuminated a distinctive crop of blond locks. He questioned the sight momentarily but was sure of what his senses told him.
"Arthur?" he squinted at the man he addressed as his pace slowed to a halt.
The yellow head sprung up, wide eyes blinking at him like two green moons. He said nothing, just continued to look at the man that stood confused by his random appearance.
Frowning one platinum eyebrow, the older man glanced around himself, as though he suspected he was being set up, then stepped in closer to his friend. "What are you doing out here?" he questioned, "Where you waiting for me or something?"
There was an odd glint to the smaller man's gaze, as though there was nothing behind it. "No, I just stopped here," his reply was stranger still.
Further furrowing his brow, Gilbert began to see why Francis had been so worried, rather concerned with his friend's behaviour himself.
"You okay, pal?" he enquired gently.
"I'm fine," the other murmured, raising the cigarette to his lips again to bite the skin of the fingers that held it, glassy eyes diverting to the ground.
"You sure?" Gilbert pushed cautiously, a little unnerved, "You know, Francis has been calling you all night. He doesn't know where you are, he's worried sick about you."
"Oh," Arthur breathed, glazed over eyes meeting the other's, "I'm not…far away."
At a loss of what to say to the man that had seemingly lost his mind, Gilbert closed his gaping mouth and nodded. "I see that, buddy," he humoured, placing a hand lightly on the smaller man's shoulder to coax him along, "Come on, it's starting to rain again, I'll give you a ride home."
Without argument, Arthur bobbed his head and tossed his cigarette to the floor beside at least ten others, allowing himself to be guided. They didn't have to go far to reach the vehicle, Gilbert opening the passenger side door for Arthur to climb in before heading round to the driver's side, sending Francis a quick text to say his partner had been located then got in.
Neither spoke as they drove, the older man too confused to know what to say, the younger in a daze as he watched the windscreen wipers swish left to right. Glancing from the road to his passenger, Gilbert noticed he was shivering,lips appearing a crimson red against his pallid face, and he cranked up the heating.
Pulling up outside Arthur's place, Gilbert caught the living room curtains falling like someone had pulled them back then the front door opened before they had even come down the driveway. He walked his friend to the door, watching Francis' tensed frame relax a little when within reach of his partner. Arthur only half acknowledged him though, sort of gliding past to disappear inside.
Both men watched him turn into the other room, Francis exhaling as he looked to his friend, folding his arms.
"Gilbert, thank you. Thank you so much, I cannot tell you how relieved I am," he spoke as though the words exhausted him.
"Sure, no problem," Gilbert continued to frown as he had the whole journey over, gaze flicking from Francis to where Arthur had vanished off to as he awkwardly fumbled, "Hey, is he okay? He seems sort of…not all there. Like, is he on something?"
Again, Francis sighed. "He has been dealing with some things," he offered vaguely by way of explanation.
Simply nodding along with the bizarre turn his night had taken, the older of the pair wasn't one to pry and added a quick, "Well, take care," then returned to his vehicle.
"Thank you," Francis called after him, shutting the door and leaning against it a moment before he followed his partner's steps.
Pacing in the doorway he glanced over at the man sat doubled over on the sofa. He may have overreacted but even though Arthur was home safe and unscathed the anxiety still bubbled inside him.
"What the hell were you doing?" he demanded, concern coming over as frustration, "I called you one thousand times, do you have any idea what the time is?"
Detached, the smaller man focused on the carpet. "I felt like being out," he mumbled.
Eyebrows shooting up incredulously, Francis interrogated him semi rhetorically, "Did you not think to tell me? I had no clue where you were!"
"I didn't want you to know." Arthur was aware of his selfishness, he hadn't thought about how much trouble his actions would cause but at the time he had just wanted to be alone. Completely alone.
"It is not like I would not let you go out, you can do as you like, putain d'enfer Arthur, there was no need to give me a heart attack over it!" the older man's voice came out harsher than intended from the suddenness of such fervour. Taking a breath to calm himself, he placed a finger to his temple, not wanting his emotions to get the better of him. "No, I am sorry. I do not mean to shout, I am not angry at you," he took back his outburst, realising that the stress of the past few hours was making him erratic.
"I'm sorry," the other automatically recited but the words had lost their touch.
Shaking his head, Francis rejected his apology. "Non, Arthur, do not tell me that. To be sorry means you will not do it again, but you keep repeating the same behaviour. It is self-destructive, do you not see that?"
The way those viridescent eyes dropped showed Arthur already knew what he was being told and Francis' demeanour softened. Another tremendous breath left him as he paced a few steps, stopping to run a hand through his hair and face his body towards his partner.
"When will you get it through your head that I am not against you. I want to help because I want to see you happy, not because you are some sort of burden when you are sad. You must stop hiding how you feel from me, ask for help when you need it," he implored, despair straining his words.
"Okay," Arthur quietly relented, gaze fixed on his hands in his lap.
"No, not just okay, cherie, speak to me, give me more than that," Francis groaned.
"Okay, I…I give up," Arthur crumbled under the weight of his lover's desperation and his own exhaustion, meeting the other's eyes with melancholic lucidity as he surrendered. "Please, help me, if you can. Fix me. I'm so tired."
Head falling into his hands, body hunched over as he sat, the picture of defeat, Francis' chest near split in two at the sight.
"Oh amour," he tenderly bemoaned, coming to sit beside him, "You find new ways to break my heart every day."
Reaching an arm around him, Francis pressed a kiss to the side of his damp head, closing his eyes to breath in the smaller man's scent. For a second, it seemed Arthur wished to resist the compassion, remaining still, but then proved quite the opposite, leaning into his partner's hold to seek warmth in the crook of his neck.
"You are wet and you smell like a chimney," Francis broke the silence after a while.
Without a word in his own defence, Arthur rummaged through one of his pockets and pulled out a half empty pack of twenty, holding it up. Taking it from him, as it was not the time for a scolding, Francis simply set it aside and looked down at the pale face.
"Come, you must take off those clothes before you catch pneumonia," he clucked, standing and offering a hand.
Taking the help to pull himself up although he didn't really need it, he let the thick material of his coat slide from his body under its own weight, tossing it into the vague direction of a hook out in the hall then heading upstairs. On his way he caught a glimpse of the time and felt guilt graze his chest.
Legs quivering after the unjust lengths they had been pushed to that day, Arthur clung to the banister to propel himself forward, feeling lightheaded as he reached the top. His throat dry, the deep breath he took in an attempt to clear his fuzzy vision caused a round of coughing, violent enough to crack his ribs.
Sniffing back the stuffy gunk thrown up by his respiratory system, he straightened himself out and saw a set of scrutinizing blond eyebrows held up at him.
"You are not thinking of going to work tomorrow, are you?" Francis not so subtly hinted.
"I'll decide in the morning," he left the choice to the Arthur of tomorrow, however, as he crawled between the sheets to forget his troubles for the night, he was fairly certain of what conclusion he would come to.
Waking the next morning, Arthur experienced what he thought being dragged through a marsh must feel like, head the weight of lead on his shoulders, sinuses so blocked he could hardly breath, vision blurred and stinging. Above the sound of his lover's peaceful breathing he could hear his own whistling through his constricted airways. Taste buds obscured by his inability to smell, all they managed to pick up the mucusy flavour that comes with a cold lining his mouth.
His alarm had yet to go off, but he had already written the day off. Although he would usually have still gone to work whilst feeling like death incarnate, the previous day had sapped the remainder of his dwindling motivation and he could justify taking a day or two to allow it to rebuild a little. Perhaps he should have been more worried about his current work record, however, even the dread of unemployment had lost its effect by that point.
Lying flat on his back, a tickling sensation scaled the walls of his throat, his lungs begging him to let it out, but he rolled over, swallowing it down as he didn't want to wake his partner with the sounds of his coughing. He watched the unconscious face of the man he tried not to disturb, half covered by his wavy locks. Arthur didn't know how he could sleep like that, the way the flimsy strands jumped about with his soft breaths made him want to pull them out at the root.
Closing his eyes to try and get back to sleep, the niggling itch in his oesophagus proved its persistence, starting to burn. He tried to force it back, but the Saharan condition of his mouth meant he swallowed nothing but air, making the situation worse, and he wasn't able to hold it in any longer. Quickly flipping over so that he didn't spew disease directly into his partner's face, a scathing cough tore the vulnerable flesh of his windpipe as it tried to rid him of the burdensome internal discomfort.
Exhaling a silent groan into his pillow, he sniffed and pulled the covers closer to himself, cold on the inside as well as out. As he, again, let his eyes slip shut and tried to ignore the rattling in his chest he felt the sheets around him shift and an arm find its way around his waist, pulling him closer to the heat of the body behind him.
"Shh, si bruyant," the rumbling murmur brushed his ear as he was enveloped fully, melding into the curvature of the larger form.
Unwinding into the embrace, the touch of another bringing much needed warmth, the smaller man relaxed, senselessness numbing him.
The relief was short lived, though, as the constant need to try and expel his organs from his body kept him from falling fully asleep. Trapped in a midway state where the real world was out of reach but so was blissful release, all Arthur could do was let the waves of woolly haziness lap at his mind and try to ignore the thumping in his head.
As unrestful as his morning was, he must have fallen between the cracks of consciousness at some point as he woke to an empty bed. Although the temptation to drift back to sleep was insurmountable, he knew that if he gave in to it once that would be how he ended up spending his day and so pried his eyelids apart. Swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, a hiss passed his clenched teeth as shooting pain snapped his overworked tendons and he paused to let them stretch a little before unfurling out his whole body.
He shuffled to where he could hear movement below, finding his partner there, bleary eyed and wearing the clothes he had gone to bed in still, pottering about the kitchen.
"Bonjour, mon ange," he lilted, glancing over his shoulder to react with mild surprise at the other's appearance, "You look like shit."
"I feel like shit," Arthur agreed, voice a hoarse rasp.
The corners of the older man's lips curled sympathetically upward, blue eyes softening. "Pauvre lapin," he consoled with a pitying pout that heated the smaller man's cheeks with self-consciousness, "That is what you get for wandering about in the rain in the winter."
"I'm fine," Arthur croaked in the same manner, attempting to clear his throat so he might prove his point but only succeeded in agitating it, a coughing fit erupting from him.
Francis' soft chuckle was drowned out by the racket as he came closer to lay a hand on his lover's back, giving it a gentle pat. Pressing a kiss to his forehead he pulled back with a frown.
"Sacré blue, you are burning," he fretted, placing a palm just above his eyebrows.
Ducking away from his touch, Arthur scowled. "Stop it, I said I'm fine," he claimed once more.
Lips pressed into a tight, resigned line, Francis retracted his hand and turned to one of the cabinets in search of mugs. Taking down the only two out of their collection that they used, and looked back to question, "Tea?"
"Sure," the other smiled his thanks and slid into one of the chairs around the dining table where Francis soon joined him, both flicking through their phones in comfortable silence.
Several tagged pictures of Alfred, seemingly at a friend's party, popped up, the comments under them sending their 'bon voyage' messages and wishing him well on his upcoming journey. Reminding Arthur that he hadn't texted either of his brothers in several days, he made a mental note to call them later but knew he would, half willingly, forget to do so as he could predict what the conversation would be about. Aside from that, it was only office related messages, the sheer number prompting him to switch the device off. What he couldn't see couldn't hurt him, or his career, he told himself.
Through the patches of condensation on the window, the sky wasn't as dark as the day before, but the English native knew the deceptive nature of his countries weather and bet on rain later in the day. He continued to watch the drab scenery nonetheless, reaching out to take a sip from his steaming mug only to dribble the liquid back out as soon as he took a mouthful, grimacing as his brow creased in utter offence.
"Are you trying to poison me?" he looked at the man who had known how he liked his tea for eight years with betrayal in his eyes.
"Do not be so dramatic, I made it with three sugars, not thirty," Francis tsked, "Sweet things make you happy, I thought it might help."
"You're right, I'm thrilled," the other drawled.
"It is a fact," Francis insisted, "I read it on a blog, sugar does something to your brain that makes it happy."
While his explanation wasn't as scientifically sound as he may have believed it, Arthur couldn't be annoyed at something done with good intentions and dropped his sour expression.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't ruin a perfectly good cup of tea to prove your hypothesis, though," he griped in order to stop such an incident from happening again.
"Apologies," Francis breathed, glancing up from his phone with slight disappointment in the contrite tilt of his lips, "I thought I was helping."
Inwardly flinching, Arthur looked away and turned his attention back to his phone, as did his other half. With nothing to interest him behind the fragmented screen in his hands he instead observed the rising steam dancing from inside his mug. With no breeze to sway it, the vapour climbed straight up, twirling and fluctuating as it went, the way it moved reminding him of a ballerina. His mother had taken him to the ballet once, a very, very long time ago, and he could never forget the how those dancers were able to contort their bodies in such an unnatural yet fluid way. They made it look so effortless, like gravity didn't apply to them, just as it seemed not to for the ghostly dampness that trickled inexplicably upwards.
"What would you like for dinner tonight?" the man across the table queried, his words tearing through the foggy stream.
"It's not even midday, I haven't really thought about it," he replied half mindedly.
"Well, I am going to run some errands later and I need to know what to get," Francis returned.
As usual, Arthur didn't care, the joy of eating having worn off long ago.
"It's up to you," he uttered but found his regular answer was apparently unsatisfactory.
"Non, I want to know what you want to eat," the older man stood his ground, making eye contact from across the table with an intensity that said he would receive his answer one way or another, "Tell me what you want."
"I don't know, I can't think of anything in particular," Arthur's heavy brow gathered in the middle, gaze wavering under the scrutiny, "Why do I have to decide?"
"Because if I make something that you want to eat you may actually eat it," Francis countered with a level stare, "You are skin and bones, I know when you have not been eating, Arthur."
Eyes dropping, Arthur bit at his inner lip. "I always eat what you make," he argued weakly, "I don't mind what we have, get what you want to eat."
Receiving no immediate reply, Arthur glanced up to be met with a stern expression as Francis watched him, arms folded and thoroughly unimpressed.
"Have you already forgotten what you said to me last night?" he accused, face straight. Waiting for his partner to open his mouth before continuing to lecture, he leaned over the wooden surface. "You agreed to let me help, did you not? And I will not let you go back on that again. Clearly the gentle approach is not working therefore I am prepared to be forceful if I must be, so tell me," he inched forward in his chair, laying his hands down on the table, tone flat, "What do you want to eat?"
Struck by the impact of the simple question, Arthur's mouth remained hanging open, but no words came out. Heart thudding harder against his ribs as a hint of anxiety stirred in the pit of his stomach, he forced his jaw closed and swallowed.
"Shepard's pie?" he ventured the first food that came to mind.
"Is that what you want?" the other reiterated, "Or are you just saying it?"
Falling mute once more, Arthur was unable to withstand the demanding, cyan stand off any longer, letting his head drop as his gaze latched onto his hands.
Unseen by him, the elder of the two showed a similar reaction, realising he had been too harsh in his tough love tactic.
A regretful smile graced his lips as he relented. "D'accord, that was a little too forceful," he retracted, worried he had pressured his lover too far, "that is what I will make."
Flicking his fringe from his eyes as he lifted his head, Arthur mirrored the same repentant simper. Appreciative of the unceasing dedication his partner showed, he was well aware of how difficult he was being, hating himself for that as he longed to show some improvement, more for the sake of the man he loved than himself.
Attention drifting from the other, however, he looked to the mug, still radiating visible heat, before him. Wrapping a clammy hand around the warm china, he brought the sweetened drink to his lips and took a sickly gulp, sending a reassuring smile across the wooden divider as he let the liquid drizzle down.
The gesture was subtle but didn't go unnoticed, Francis' features softening as he understood what the less verbally abled of them meant by it. Standing and leaning over the table, he tenderly pressed his lips against the tea sweetened ones of his partner, lingering as long as he was allowed to.
"Mm, stop, you'll get sick," Arthur protested, leaning away after a moments enjoyment.
"I thought you said you were fine," Francis teased softly.
Rolling his eyes at the other's cheeky grin, Arthur turned his face as Francis attempted to sneak another kiss, gently pushing him away with a smile curling his lips. A hushed laugh blew from the older man's nose as he straightened his back and pulled the hairband from the messy bun that held his unbrushed locks.
"Would you like me to stop at the pharmacy while I am out?" he volunteered.
The memories of the day before playing in his head, Arthur felt the muscles in his jaw tense, a lump lodging in his throat at the suggestion.
"That's alright," he declined, "I…don't think I'll be taking anything at all for a while."
Understanding what he was alluding to, Francis nodded, accepting his choice without question.
After much assurance he would be just fine by himself for a few hours, as though he were a child that hadn't been home alone before, Francis headed out and left Arthur to his own devices.
As drained as he was, he resisted the lure of his warm, spacious bed, instead going upstairs only to retrieve his newly started book. Huddling up in the corner of the sofa, he angled his body to the perfect degree, book held in both hands, legs semi stretched along the cushions.
Making it through several chapters before his eyelids began to grow heavy, he continually forced them back open, stubbornly turning the pages one after another. The fading daylight didn't help his concentration, darkness blurring the words, and the natural melody of rain against the pavement outside was irritatingly soothing.
He fought until the end but by the time Francis made it home, Arthur was dead to the world, nestled into a tight ball at one end of the sofa, book still gripped loosely in his hand. Biting his lip as he smiled down at the tranquil face, Francis slid the paperback from his limp fingers, placing it to the side, and settled beside the sleeping man, fondling his feathery hair.
Another day of precious life spent ignoring the real world, Arthur couldn't feel too guilty over it as, with the heavens opening outside and the compassion of human warmth within reach, it felt the right thing to do. Keeping his eyes open long enough to eat, under the careful examination of his newly appointed life coach, he quickly resumed his activities, blank, dark dreams welcoming him back.
Having already decided he wouldn't be going to work the next day before it even arrived, Arthur didn't wake properly until late morning, drifting downstairs to find himself falling into the same situation of bored unwillingness to do anything. The lack of inspiration was frustrating but not in a way that he could channel into actions, more mind numbing. He huffed as he lamented his position. Not miserable, per say, but unfeeling in a way that gnawed at his insides, the dysfunction preying on him, fuelled by worst insecurities. Thoughts that tried to unsettle him screamed to be realised but his head was so thickly clouded that he couldn't have heard them if he wanted to.
With even his ability to think robbed from him, Arthur reconciled himself to the lowest form of entertainment; daytime television. Whatever came on, however, was of little consequence as he only used it as an excuse. Arguing to the part of him that knew better that there was nothing else to do, he knew full well it was only background noise to sleep to and was proven right when his eyelids descended not ten minutes later, the last dregs of the previous night's sleep dragging him back without resistance.
A repeated banging at the door startled him from his narcoleptic state and Arthur jerked upright, narrowing his eyes in confusion at the clock across the hall. It was only mid-afternoon, too early for Francis to be home yet so he assumed it to be some salesman or one of those religious zealots pedalling their chosen faith with leaflets, they were always around this time of year. Readying his polite but firm decline as he made his way to the door, he opened it to a sight he was not expecting.
On the front step stood a hopeful looking German, a plastic bag of mossy, green balls that he really should not have been presenting in broad daylight in one hand and a six pack in the other.
"Okay, look, you can call me a loser and tell me to piss off if you want, I'd understand completely, but you seemed pretty down the other day and, well, this always used to cheer you up so what do you say?" Gilbert arched a brow in persuasion and waited for his reply.
The man in the doorway glanced from the drugs to his friend's expectant smile.
"Get in," he ordered, standing aside.
Grin splitting his mouth, Gilbert bounded into the hall, offering an approving pat on the back as he passed the smaller man.
"I knew you wouldn't resist," he snickered as Arthur poked his head out the door to survey the street.
"No one saw you, right?" he worried over getting caught, as though he were still sixteen and trying it for the first time.
Eyes rolling in their sockets, the terrible influence of a man cracked open one of the cans and held it out. "Would you stop being so paranoid," he downplayed, "Do I look like the suspicious sort to you?"
Quirking an incredulous brow at the most conspicuous person he knew, Arthur closed the door and accepted the outheld gift.
"This is a nice neighbourhood, I don't want to get a reputation," he groused, taking a sip.
"Jeez, relax. We're not going go crazy, it's just a bit of fun," the other rationalised as he peeled apart the seal of the bag and held it up for Arthur to smell, "Here, is that good shit or what."
He leaned in to inhale and recoiled, nose wrinkling as the familiar scent was far more pungent than expected. "Bloody hell," he exclaimed, "Where did you get that from?"
"I still have Ned's number," Gilbert replied.
"He still deals?" Arthur furrowed a lightly dubious brow.
An unconcerned shrug was thrown back at him as the older man snapped himself off a beer.
"He said he just smokes every now and again, but he didn't mind selling me some of his," he said.
"Because that doesn't sound like something a drug dealer would say," Arthur deadpanned in return, prompting an amused snort from the other.
"You got a point," he chuckled then referred to the remainder of the six pack, "You mind if I put these in the fridge?"
Arthur gestured for him to go ahead and went to go back to the living room.
"Fuck, did a bomb go off in here?" Gilbert joked at the state that the room was in, halting the other in his tracks.
"Sorry about the mess, I was meaning to clean up before Francis got home," Arthur apologised, only mildly embarrassed.
"How can you just leave stuff like this, it would drive me crazy," the notorious neat freak stressed.
"Well, if it bothers you that much feel free to help," Arthur sarcastically suggested.
Glancing at the pile of dishes left to rest in the sink, Gilbert shrugged again. "Okay," he complied and rolled up his sleeves.
"Stop it, Gil, I didn't mean it," the guilty host tried to dissuade but the other waved him off.
"I want to," he insisted, rummaging through his pockets to pull out a pack of papers and a grinder, tossing them to Arthur, "Here, go roll for me, you were always better at it."
Arms plunged elbow deep into the soapy bowl, there was no room for argument, leaving Arthur to do as he was told.
He went across the hall and knelt on the floor by the coffee table, his bruised knees aching, and by the time he had two neatly rolled joints ready and waiting Gilbert was laying out the last clean plate to dry on the rack.
"Hey, Francy Pants won't mind, will he?" Gilbert remembered that someone else lived in the house besides Arthur.
"I doubt it," Arthur dispelled his worries, "What about Liz? She'll smell it on you when you get home."
"She would if she was there. She found a new apartment a week ago," the older man told him as he came through, the slightest hint of disappointment present in his tone despite his forceful attempt to smother it.
"Oh, I'm sorry," the Englishman sympathised.
Gilbert only scoffed, however. "What for? I finally have my bathroom back," he masked his evident abandonment with levity and denial, "No more hairballs the size of rats in the shower drain."
Raising a sceptical brow, Arthur gave a breathy laugh as he shook his head, allowing him to believe whatever made him happy.
"You know, I never thought that Ludwig would be the more romantically adept of you two," he muttered sardonically.
Sending him a side glance, Gilbert grumbled, "Just pass me a lighter."
Smirking in return, Arthur slid a lighter over the table into his hand for him to grab eagerly along with one of the rollups.
"I'm so happy you were up for this," Gilbert excitedly beamed, unable to contain his delight.
"It's been a while," Arthur agreed, watching as the older man placed the paper between his lips, lit the end and inhaled deeply, immediately coughing up smoke as it proved far more potent than anticipated.
Derisive laughter emitted the smaller man while his friend struggled for breath, eyes watering, eventually regaining the ability to function. "Shut up, it's fucking strong," he wheezed as he passed the lighter over.
Going about the same process a lot more tentatively than his counterpart, Arthur still felt a scratching in his windpipe and frowned as he breathed out a juddering trail of cotton wool.
"Shit," he stifled a cough and wafted the white plume from his face.
"What the fuck did I tell you," the other chastised.
"Piss off," Arthur swore in retaliation, the air of the living room painted thoroughly blue with the pair's language as they cackled together.
Taking a second hit, a reminiscent bleariness began to warm the back of Arthur's head, as though he were resting back on a pillow someone else had just been lying on, and he was instantly overtaken. A wistfulness brought him back to secret house parties and the late nights in the park sat huddled in a tight circle with the friends he had thought he would never be apart from, passing around the measly gram they could afford.
While it had not been something they would indulge in too frequently, mostly due to funds, he would often find himself and Gilbert to be the only ones taking part at all. Francis had no problem with other people smoking but found he didn't enjoy how it made him feel, Antonio simply chose not to and Elizabeta had always been one of the school's prized athletes, and so refused to touch the stuff. Therefore, the last two had been left to themselves and, out of not wishing to be excluded, would rarely partake. When it was just the two of them, however, that was a different story.
As he thought about it, Arthur realised just how bad a role model Gilbert could be. He may have been the oldest of the group, but he was far from the most mature. Perhaps that was why he liked hanging out with people in the year below him at school. Although, Arthur couldn't claim to be blameless as they tended to bring out one another's inner hedonists in equal measure. But occasionally such gratification was in order, the younger man considered.
"Hey, daydreamer, I was talking to you," the devil on his shoulder spoke, clouds whiter than the ones outside billowing from his lips.
"What was that?" Arthur shook himself from his stupor, finding the effects of his questionable recreations already setting in.
Snorting melodramatically, Gilbert repeated what he had just said. "I said sorry I didn't see a whole lot of you guys at the shower, I got caught up in babysitting."
"Don't worry about it, it was a nice night," Arthur paused to shake his head lightly, lips tilted upward. "I can't believe they're getting married," he pondered, "In my head, Ludwig is still twelve."
"You're telling me," Gilbert lamented, "Feels like yesterday I was taking him to school with me for the first time, now he's off to Italy with his fiancée. I didn't even get an invite."
"You can't third wheel off them forever," Arthur pointed out.
"Why not? He's my brother, I claim rightful ownership," the older man sulked petulantly.
Chuckling at the display, Arthur empathised as he could see his own situation mirrored in his friend. "Do you miss him?" he asked.
A drawn-out exhale flowed from the German as he fiddled with the joint between his fingers. "Not really," he considered, his mouth slanted, "I'm too happy for him."
"Huh," Arthur went quiet as he chewed at the flesh of his mouth, reminded of the looming date that drew ever closer of when he would be forced to say goodbye to his own brother.
"Al's heading off soon, isn't he?" Gilbert seemed to read his mind as he looked over with a solicitous quirk to his mouth, "How's that going for you?"
Considering his words before he spoke, Arthur took in a breath like a reverse sigh as he voiced his concerns. "I worry about him but, it's not about me. I want him to find success," he stated simply but truthfully.
Nodding along, Gilbert glanced over, expression unreadable. "Give him my best," was all he said.
Paper turning to ash in his hand, Arthur found it increasingly difficult to sit upright, slouching against the sofa as he tapped off the excess from his joint into an empty beer can while the pair chatted, their exchanges becoming hard to follow. This wasn't an issue though, as they were happy to shoot the shit and simply enjoy the airy mood. Both sniggering along to something the other had said despite it not being particularly amusing, time meandered by at a pleasantly slowed pace.
At some point the conversation turned to Freide, as Gilbert often caused it to, and Arthur found himself being shown a slide show of pictures of the dog.
"Look how cute she was on the beach," the pet's owner cooed, holding the phone screen closer to his companion's face so that he wouldn't miss the objective adorability.
The perked ears and soft, brown eyes were indisputably sweet, however, and Arthur felt himself internally squee just a little.
"I want a dog," the animal lover pined.
"Get one," Gilbert encouraged as though it were a reasonable impulse buy, "They're not as expensive as you think and they're great company."
It was tempting, he had always wanted a pet but the most his mother had ever allowed him to keep was a goldfish.
"I can't," he bemoaned, "I don't have time to take care of a dog and I don't think Francis really wants one."
"Who said you had to get him involved?" the older man jested, "Just go out, get a dog, come home like 'hey honey, how was your day? By the way, this is our dog now.'"
Scoffing a laugh at his plan, Arthur rejected it. "I'm not sure he'd be too pleased about that," he predicted.
"You sure?" Gilbert satirised. "What about a cat or a hamster or something?"
"Hm," wincing in thought, Arthur liked the idea. Although he loved dogs, he had secretly always been more of a cat person as they seemed to match his personality better. "I suppose I could get a cat. They're less work, after all, and it would be easier to talk Francis round to," he deliberated.
In a way it didn't really matter what animal he chose, he just needed something to make the house seem less vacant.
"Go for it, buddy," the exacerbator cheered him on, cracking open two more beers as a wicked grin carved his face, "It's about time you got some pussy."
Almost choking on his foamy beverage, Arthur narrowed his eyes at the other who had immediately burst into hysterics at his own crass remark, howling into his friend's shoulder.
"Fuck you," he attempted to glower while he could feel his lips being tugged upward.
Both dissolving into laughter that left their cheeks damp with tears, it took them a while to recover, Arthur shoving the larger man off of him as he wiped his face on his sleeve.
Sitting back with an arm thrown over the seat of the sofa behind him, Gilbert's chortling petered away leaving and engrained smile as he looked to his friend. They sat in a congenial silence a few moments, one that the older of them dreaded to break but was about to.
"Hey, I don't mean to put a downer on things but is everything uh…okay?" he carefully put forward.
"What do you mean?" Arthur shot back out of habit, not catching the concerned, crimson gaze.
Raising a hand to scratch the back of his head, Gilbert let out a sound of strenuous thought as he tried again, a little out of his element. "I just meant about the other night…" he trailed off, frowning.
"Oh, right," Arthur had hoped that encounter wouldn't be brought up, but he could hardly act as though it never happened, "I'm sorry about that, and thank you as well, you didn't have to drive me home," he avoided the question.
"Sure, any time man but like…what was going on? Just asking, don't mean to pry but…" the other clumsily faltered.
Perhaps it was the fact that he was talking to someone just as uncomfortable with that sort of thing as he was or perhaps the drugs had managed to loosen him up, but Arthur's resistance crumbled near immediately as he breathed in the last dregs of his joint and dropped it into the makeshift ashtray.
"It's just…life," he brooded, tone wearied, face haggard, "It can get to you sometimes."
Eyebrows subtly lifting, the Germanic man's expression was softer than Arthur had thought it capable of being.
"You okay?" he reiterated, with more weight behind the question this time.
"I will be," he said, even managing to toss a hint of optimism into his words.
With a tight smile back, Gilbert bobbed his head to show he knew what the other was getting at.
"You think you should talk about it with someone?" he suggested, "Someone more qualified than me, I mean."
Expelling a singular laugh through his nose, Arthur mumbled into a sip of beer, "You sound like Matthew." He looked down into his can as he swilled the liquid inside around, frothy bubbles rising to the top. "There's not really any point. It's good for some people, I'm sure, but I doubt it would work for me," he rebuffed, failing to give his advice a chance.
"Don't knock it till you try, you'd be surprised how effective it can be. I know I was," the older man casually mentioned.
Pricking up at the comment, Arthur couldn't hold down the sizable brow that hitched up a notch of its own accord. "You've tried it?" he questioned, not meaning to sound as surprised as he did but too intrigued to let the revelation slip by.
Gilbert wasn't offended by his reaction though and glanced over to affirm with a thoughtful nod.
"Ja, a little while after Grandpa died," he elaborated, "Lud and I went to grief counselling for a couple of weeks."
"Sorry, I had no idea…" Arthur stumbled over the subject as, although well acquainted with the reaper himself, he still found speaking about other people's deceased relatives horrifically awkward.
"Stop apologising," the other tutted, "It's not like you killed him."
Lips twitching at the morbid joke, the younger man was curious but refused to probe into such a personal topic. Gilbert, however, didn't seem to mind sharing as he continued without prompting.
"It was my idea, not for myself though, for West. I mean, neither of us dealt with it great but Grandpa was kind of his idol, so he was pretty devastated," he rambled comfortably as he picked at the dirt under his nails, "and I didn't see any harm in trying it out, so I gave it a chance."
"And how was it?" Arthur urged, feeling himself being the slightest bit swayed.
An odd smile slanted Gilbert's face as he tried to come up with the words to describe what he was thinking, forehead wrinkling at the same time as a puff of air blew past his lips.
"It's weird," he came out with at last, "You go in thinking there's no way talking to a total stranger can help you through something so personal but when you're in there it's…it's more like you're talking to yourself. You get to look at yourself from the outside and it helps you realise what you really need to do." His expression, that had become increasingly tense with every word, broke as he chuckled. "That probably doesn't make much sense, but it was really good for both of us. Now when I look back I can focus on the good times we had, and it brought Ludwig and I closer as family and all that sentimental shit. I recommend it."
Humming to himself as he took in the information as best he could in his impaired faculties, Arthur couldn't deny that his argument was convincing. If all of that had come out of just giving it a go for a few weeks, then perhaps there was hope for him. Then again, he had no one to go with and he wasn't fond of being the centre of attention, left alone with someone he didn't know psychoanalysing him to oblivion.
He jumped as the packet, containing half of what it had when his guest had first arrived, was tossed into his lap.
"Hey, roll the rest of that while I go find snacks, I'm fucking starving," Gilbert delegated, getting up to go and forage through his host's cupboards.
He didn't reply, grinding up the fluffy little balls and sprinkling the green flecks he was left with into the papers as his mind was preoccupied with absorbing what had just been shared. Gilbert wasn't one to spill his guts for no reason and to tell Arthur something like that, he must have been coming from a place of real concern. He could appreciate that.
Returning from over the hall with the last two beers and his arms full of whatever he could carry, the older man dropped his bounty onto the coffee table, snorting a supressed giggle to himself, ready to resume. They both lit up as Gilbert began eating his way through Arthur's kitchen, Arthur happy to let him do so.
Hoisting himself up onto the sofa, the younger man laid back along the length of it, staring at the ceiling as he felt a new mood shift in, a pensive one that he knew better than to try and fight. His gaze flitting over to the other briefly, he watched as the older man stuffed his face and could sense a question, one he didn't mean to ask, boiling in the back of his throat.
"Gil," he addressed to gain his companion's attention, said companion pausing his feast to look over with bloodshot eyes, "Are we…still friends?"
It sounded so pathetic when said out loud that he almost cringed, pinpricks of heat tingling across his neck as he stared the older man dead in the eye, waiting for an answer.
Unprepared for such a question, Gilbert's forehead creased as he blinked back with drooping lids.
"You think I'd share the quality stuff with just anyone?" he quipped back, "Course we are, buddy. Why would you even ask that?"
Deeply embarrassed by his obvious insecurity, Arthur shrugged, gaze falling. "I don't know, it's just that nowadays we only see each other when there's a specific reason to," he admitted, "I know that sort of thing is bound to happen as you get older, but we never used to need an excuse to hang out."
"Didn't have a reason to come and see you now but here I am," the older man sent him a pointed look that made him feel even more ridiculous for having brought it up.
"I suppose," he acknowledged.
Diverting his eyes as he swept the hair from his face, Arthur missed the look of placid nostalgia that rested upon his friend's features.
"Don't worry, I'd never deprive you of my greatness," the egotist assured him, his care-free demeanour lightening the atmosphere so that the quiet that came afterwards was a pleasant one.
The room cast in elongated shadows from the angle of the setting sun, both men were satisfied to remain there together, seeing by the glow of their lighters as they got increasingly stoned.
"So, what is going on with you and Liz?" Arthur piped up after some time, "Friends with benefits? Something on the side?"
"I have no idea what you could be talking about," the other unconvincingly feigned ignorance, receiving a harsh laugh when Arthur refused to accept his answer.
"Come on, you know I can keep a secret," he coerced, knowing he would get the other to break one way or another.
"She would cut off my fucking balls if she found out I told you," Gilbert aggrandised out of much justified fear.
"I swear on my grave I shall not breath a word," Arthur promised, his hand over his chest for emphasis.
Smirking in triumph as he watched the German's face contort under the peer pressure, he beamed as the other cracked.
"Fine, but if she finds out you owe me your balls as compensation," he griped, leaning in with the same exhilarated smirk.
From the end of the street, Francis could smell that distinctive scent and, unless Mrs Kingsly across the road was more liberal than she came across, he had a pretty good idea where it was coming from. Through the open living room window, wispy tendrils carried the sound of lagging conversation and all he could do was heave a resigned sigh as he twisted his key in the lock.
The fumes knocking him back like he'd walked into a wall, he waved a hand in front of his face to try and clear a path of breathable air as he came through the hall. Stopping to look in on the front room, Francis instantly homed in on the culprits, expressions static, eyes unblinking as they stared at the TV that played some colourful children's cartoon with comical focus.
"Ah, Gilbert, so good of you to come and keep Arthur company while I was out," he drawled, slightly put out.
Both human statues turning their heads at the presence they hadn't yet noticed, the instigator of what he had walked in on bared his teeth in a devil may care grin.
"No problem, just keeping him out of trouble," he asserted, seemingly sincere and unironic.
Holding back a snort, Francis only rolled his eyes as he knew his friend meant well. "This is why we do not let you two spend time together unchaperoned," he countered, shaking his head as he looked over the disarray, eyes stopping at the disordered but obliviously contented face of his lover.
"I'm glad you're back," he greeted, smiling with such blind sweetness that Francis couldn't stop his heart from melting just a little.
"You two had fun today then," he raised a brow and glanced at both in turn.
Looking up from the armrest his head leant upon with misty eyes, Arthur felt the slightest twinge of guilt. "You don't mind, do you? I'll clean it up tomorrow," he pledged.
"It is alright," Francis didn't mind the pair's antics, admittedly happy his partner had been able to let off some steam, even if his method of doing so was somewhat illegal, "I do wish you had warned me though."
"But then we'd have to invite you and there'd be less for us," Gilbert teased as he struggled his way up with the help of the coffee table.
"You are leaving?" Francis deduced as the other began to haphazardly lumber towards the hall.
"My job here is done, I must move on," the older man proclaimed.
"You are not about to drive, are you? Do you want me to call you a ride?" the most rational member of the group followed him as he let himself out.
"I'm walking, I'll be fine," Gilbert called back, already half way down the drive, "Later losers."
Shaking his head once more as he let his friend wander off, Francis swung the door closed and returned to his partner, disregarding the mess to come and sit beside him on the sofa with a peck on the cheek. He relaxed back into the cushions, tipping to the side as he half leaned against the limp form next to him.
"I want a cat."
One brow twitching upward at the demand, Francis glanced sideways at the semi-conscious face.
"A cat?" he echoed, the smaller man nodding in return. "Perhaps we should discuss that in the morning," he persuaded gently.
Again, the other agreed with a gesture of his head, mumbling something as he buried his face further into the little pillow nest he had created.
A twisting smile morphed the face of the older man and he reached over to rouse his lover; smoking had always had a sort of sedative effect on him. Guiding him up to bed, the destruction was left for their future selves to worry about.
Regretting this decision as soon as he woke, Arthur expelled a loathsome sigh, staring at the wall with empty eyes. As he had worried it would, one bad habit had brought out the need for another that he sorely missed as he craved tobacco. He dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, finding them crusted and itchy, but couldn't dislodge the residual fatigue that lingered behind them.
Wishing the day was over already, he dragged himself from the depths of his duvet and procrastinated dealing with the aftermath with a long shower before finally venturing down. Glancing around the door into the living room though, he found a majority of the mess had already been cleared, the coffee table and floor free of any evidence.
He turned the other way at the sound of clattering dishes, standing just inside the kitchen where Francis was at work, scrubbing the charred remains of whatever he and Gilbert had thought to be a good idea to make.
"You don't have to do that, let me take care of it," he offered, swaying over to the sink where his partner stood.
Casting an easy smile back over his shoulder, the older man shrugged him off.
"I woke up early and could not get back to sleep so I thought I would do something useful with the time," he chirped.
Unable to understand how someone could be such a morning person, Arthur still felt guilty over allowing someone else to clean up his mess and grabbed a dishcloth to wipe down the counters.
Opening his mouth to apologise a yawn trailed out instead, catching him off guard. He hid the display of exhaustion behind his forearm, a ringing in both ears overpowering the sound of his partner's voice.
"Pardon?" he vocalised through the tail end of the yawn, coming out slurred.
Chuckling lightly, Francis repeated himself. "I said, take a look at what we got in the post," he nodded at the table where several letters were stacked, one of particular interest left at the top of the pile.
The picture of a sunny Melbourne beach was a giveaway as to who it was from, but Arthur turned the postcard over to read the short message anyhow. Skimming over his cousins' yearly Christmas catch-up, a miniscule smile ghosted his lips as he noted how similar the Australian was to Alfred and, likewise, how the younger of his two cousins reminded him of Matthew. They were all close in age, so he supposed it wasn't surprising, but it amused him nonetheless. However, it had been years since he'd last seen them, so he had a hard time picturing them as adults.
"I am sure Christmas comes faster each year," Francis sighed as he did every year, "I really do not feel festive at all."
"I know," Arthur seconded the thought, not that he ever got especially into the seasonal spirit. While he had used to enjoy the holiday, he thought Christmas was more for kids or people with kids. It had still been fun when Alfred and Matthew were young, but they weren't anymore and his fears of what would happen when they were both old enough to stop spending the holidays at home had come true.
Placing the card back down, he took a breath to quell the anxiety that had begun to brew in him.
"And we have not even started to decorate, we must look like such grinches," Francis continued to worry to himself, making exaggerated gestures with his scouring pad in hand so that soap flew across the room.
"I doubt anyone has noticed," Arthur dismissed as he went about wiping the polished surfaces clean, indifferent towards the holiday that he now considered more a nuisance than something to actually celebrate.
"Well, we must get the decorations up soon or we will have no time to enjoy them," the other wittled, "Did we get rid of the tree when we moved?"
A drained exhale escaping the younger man's nose, he struggled to take in what was being said to him. "I don't know," he droned tiredly.
"No matter," Francis was unperturbed and failed to pick up on the lack of enthusiasm from his significant other, "I wanted to get a real one this year if that is alright with you. I adore the smell of pine needles."
"Sure," Arthur grunted as he tackled with a particularly stubborn spot of grease, hair continually flopping into his eyes.
"We can go and pick one out with the boys, before Alfred leaves," the older man suggested, "Can you believe how soon that is? It has crept up on us."
Bristling at the comment, Arthur brushed the irritating strands from his face for the tenth time.
"I can't," he replied, tone taught.
"We did not even have the chance to throw him a goodbye party," Francis rued, shaking his head, "He asked if we would help him pack at the weekend, you have the time, oui?"
That simmering apprehension flared up again at the mention of his brother. "Probably," was all he said, though, hoping his curt replies would kill the conversation, however, Francis seemed determined to say the worst possible thing.
"Do you think we should send Paul and Linda a card?" he wondered aloud, "I know you do not like them so much, but I feel a gesture of goodwill would not be a bad idea. They are letting Alfred stay with them, after all."
A disdainful scowl creasing his face, Arthur glanced over at the suggestion. "I'd rather not," he voiced his contempt for the idea.
Shrugging, Francis hummed. "It was just a thought."
The subject finally dropped, Arthur focused on the same stain he had been trying to get out before, but the mention of the two Americans had left a bad taste in his mouth. He knew he was unfairly harsh on them, but he just wasn't able to see them as reliable people after what they had done. Perhaps he was projecting his own experiences with estranged family members onto them, but he couldn't help that. He felt he knew best and the instinct to protect his brothers just took over.
What's more, he worried about Alfred being around them alone. It hadn't been so unsettling for him to let both the twins go off on their own before as, although he still had his concerns, he knew that Matthew had enough common sense for the both of them, whereas Alfred by himself was a potential disaster. He was capable of looking after himself and not as absent minded as people would often believe but for every admirable trait the boy had, there was a downside. He was sociable and outgoing but too eager to please, open minded but easily persuaded, positive but naïve. When his more rational counterpart wasn't around, things could get out of hand and Arthur feared what could happen when he was left with others that had already proven themselves irresponsible.
"So, I know you said you did not like blue for the living room, but I picked up some colour charts yesterday," Francis cut through his inner processing, sliding some tabs of paper along the counter towards him.
Giving his attention to the sample strips briefly, his complete antipathy towards the colour scheme of their home in that moment caused them to all appear the same shade to him.
"They're nice," he answered disinterestedly, arm beginning to ache from scouring.
"I like this one, 'Campbell's Bay'," Francis made his case, pointing at one on the charts, "But you were right, it does seem a little cold. We could try something darker, but that would be harder to paint over if we changed our minds."
"Sure," Arthur attempted to make his single word responses sound as invested as he could whilst his preoccupied mind nagged at him, trying to get him to relent to the restive stress inside.
"I am thinking, perhaps, between these three?" the other narrowed down their options, pointing to his shortlist.
Teeth clenched, Arthur looked over through his dangling fringe. "I don't know, they all look rather similar," he confessed, agitation crawling below the surface.
Turning the charts to study them, Francis squinted in thought, holding them up to compare with the light. "I like the one that is more grey but then again, that could be a little drab. Anything too bright would be overbearing, though. What do you think, understated or bold?"
"I don't know. I don't know. I don't know, Francis, I don't know what I prefer," Arthur snapped, his short tether reaching its end from the unintentional provocation, hair falling all over his face yet again as he shook his head, "Right now I don't really care and good fucking God this hair is pissing me off."
Eyes frantically wide as he stared at the man he undeservedly flared at, said man recoiled slightly, looking back with his brows held aloft in worried confusion. Parting his lips to try and help whatever the situation had just turned into, Arthur spoke first, instant regret forming and joining the abundance of other unchecked emotions that currently controlled him.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that I just…I don't know, I woke up in a bad mood today," his excuse was pathetic, but he didn't want to get into his entire thought process.
"I understand, amore, please, calm down," Francis eased, reaching a hand out to lay upon Arthur's forearm.
Instinctively stepping back from the contact, the increasingly tense man looked from the outstretched arm to the patient face of his lover and caught himself about to repeat his regular pattern of behaviour.
"I mean I care about what colour you want it-I want to care but, I just, I was thinking about something else, I," he made an effort to shed some light on his feelings, to stop the cycle, but found none of his thoughts connected, what he meant and what he said sounding completely disjointed.
"Arthur, slow down, you are making this harder for yourself," the more composed of the two levelled his gaze, trying to tame the other's wildly darting eyes.
Shifting his weight between legs as though they wanted him to walk away, Arthur raised a hand to run his roughly through his tousled mane, gripping a clump of hair tight in his fist.
"I don't know why it's not making sense," he sounded almost insulted, as though his voice refused to cooperate just to antagonise him.
"Relax and the words will come to you," Francis assured him, again extending an arm, fingers brushing his partner's skin.
But again, Arthur flinched from the lightest touch, so many jumbled sentences trying to fight their way from his mouth that they collided, none making it past his lips.
"But they won't," he barked, anger with himself frothing over, "Even when I try to…"
Able to feel his frustration, Francis held him in his softest gaze. "We will choose a colour another time," he mitigated with a smile in appreciative recognition of the effort the more closed off man had made.
Arthur hid his vexation behind an expressionless visage as Francis leant in to peck him on the cheek, prising a smile in return when he pulled away and holding it until his back was turned, his frenzied temper still writhing within him.
Another spontaneous outburst remaining a threat, Arthur looked to seclude himself so as to spare his lover his unhinged wrath. He headed into the hallway, almost colliding with the doorframe as he became inexplicably unsteady on his feet, to the call of, "Where are you going?"
"I just need some air," his voice spasmed as he halted abruptly in the hallway.
He had wanted to go out for a smoke but with that option taken from him his legs led him upstairs, for some reason carrying him into the bathroom. Perhaps because it was the coldest room in the house, the tiled walls and floor giving it a perpetually icy air.
Closing the door behind him, more violently than was necessary, he paced the few steps of space between the door and the bath, running both hands through his hair. Heart fluttering unevenly, he attempted to placate it with deep breaths that came too shallow and rapid to help.
Both hands balling into fists, entwined in clumps of unruly hair, Arthur ceased his two and froing, gritting his teeth as fevered energy overwhelmed him. Sitting heavily on the edge of the bath, he doubled over, pulling at the strands between his fingers. Over the static stress of his thoughts came his pounding heartbeat, the pulse echoing in his ears, and he squeezed his eyelids together as though hoping to shut out all sensory stimulation and maybe find some quiet.
The fuzzing thrum only became louder however, the pressure building to the point he feared he may deafen himself. Eyes snapping open, he released his grip and stood, vision blurring out completely for a moment so that he wavered. Catching a hold of the sink to steady himself, he leaned dependently upon the bathroom counter, waiting for the faintness to subside.
This was why he refused to open up, to let things out, because when he did he lost control of them. Whenever he opened his mouth, the words seemed to snowball into a fucking avalanche, taking on a dangerous force of their own that he couldn't shield people from. He just wanted to be normal again, to function like anyone else, and he didn't understand why he was being so consistently punished for his attempts. Any time he tried to express himself to someone who may want to help, all it would result in was hurt feelings or total despair and one day, soon probably, his promises to do better, to be better, would fall on ears too sceptical to offer him the benefit of the doubt.
Raising his head, he stared directly into the darkened eyes of his reflected image. They bore into him, hatred behind their emerald sheen, tumultuous to their innermost depths like riptides out at sea. He glared through the golden strands that tickled the bridge of his nose at his replica, the snarl that curled his lip thrown back at him mockingly, one obscured eye twitching.
A grunt emitted his throat as he pushed himself away from the sink, as though trying to escape the man that mimicked him but, of course, he did the same. Striding side to side again, the doppelganger kept pace, sneering back whenever Arthur glanced up to meet his joyless eyes, always there, taunting him. Of course, he could never escape.
Pursing his lips together, he looked over, the same expression being shown back to him, a half strangled, gasping breath parting the man's lips. He clasped a hand to his forehead to pull the fringe from his face, scraping at the individual hairs that were plastered to his skin with his nails. Gaze darting back to the madman in the mirror, frazzled hair a knotted mess, cheeks flushed, and teeth bared like an animal, he felt the sting of angered tears, saw the redness of them in the other's eyes, but gulped them back.
Dropping to his knees, still clutching his hair, he flung open the cabinets under the sink, knocking out the products that lined the shelf onto the floor until he found what he was looking for. He took the scissors from the very back, caution thrown to the wind, wound his fringe into one thick strand and readied the scissors to make the decisive cut.
The blades slid every which way as he sawed through his thick mane, locks of it falling before his eyes and onto the tiles in chunks. Handles digging into his fingers with the force it took to slice through, he eventually severed the last strings, pulling away a handful that he dropped at his side, most of it clinging to his clammy palms. Wiping his hands down his trousers, he stood back up, trying to knock the dead hair from his clothes with little success, threads of gold covering him and the room.
It had been a mistake to allow such impulsive behaviour to take over him, the energy that whirred inside him, born of frustration, intensifying, even more chaotic than before, looking for progressively more extreme outlets. Running his fingers through the bristly leftovers of his fringe he took a swaying step backwards and stumbled over the containers that littered the floor, falling shoulder first into the wall. He blasphemed, righted himself and kicked the items from under his feet.
Breath coming and going in sharp pants, he became light headed, leaning back against the wall for support, scissors slipping from his grip with a metallic clatter as his appendages lost all feeling. Pulse racing like he was on speed, chills ran over his body, yet his neck was on fire. Flexing his fingers to try and induce some blood flow, the desensitisation ran further up his arm.
He staggered back to the counter, arms like dead weight. Looking down at his right hand he clenched it into the tightest fist he could make, watched his fingers curl, knuckles turn white but felt nothing, even when jagged nails dug into his palm. He grasped harder still, a growl tearing from him as rage enveloped his judgement and he drew back his fist to punch the wall.
The crack with which his knuckles connected with the solid tiles did nothing to satisfy, unable to feel the pain he should have done, and so he pulled back to slam his hand against them again, putting the full weight of his body into it. Another horribly dense crunch, then another and so on as he willed the pain to make him feel normal again.
Any form of rational thought barred from his mind, he retracted his fist once more, propelling it straight towards the wall with as much force as he could project but realised, too late, that he was off his mark. Unable to stop it, Arthur had a split second to make eye contact with the man behind the glass before his face was shattered into a dozen fragments, the mirror splitting and falling to the ground, blood spattering the wall.
Razor shards cascaded to the floor with and almighty smash, splintering further as they struck the ground, glittering like puddles of glass. Body tensing, time seemed to almost stop completely, silence falling as the consequences of his actions dawned on him and he cast his eyes to the destruction around him as he stood panting.
He looked down at the mess he had made of his knuckles. Bright crimson seeped from the slashes across them, already forming rivulets that ran down his fingers. Hand shaking, he lifted his arm, staring at it, lips hanging apart as he remained frozen.
"Arthur!"
Time jolted back into motion with the cry of his partner followed by the beating of accelerated footsteps, forcing Arthur to react.
"It's nothing, I'm fine!" he shouted back as he lunged across the room to snap the door lock into place.
Keeping his hand aloft, he gripped his wrist to try and cut off the blood flow, however, the viscous fluid continued to flow over his other hand and down his forearm.
The doorknob rattled, and a pounding came from the other side as Francis demanded to be let in.
"I said I'm fine, don't come in!" Arthur yelled, panic searing his tone.
He knew Francis would get in eventually, the lock was old and wouldn't hold if he kept battering it and he would surely have the worst possible reaction if he walked in on the scene as it currently was, leaving Arthur to cast his gaze hopelessly about the room. He looked to the towel rack for something to wrap around his injuries but saw it empty. Grabbing some toilet roll as a substitute, the flimsy paper was soaked through in seconds, the same happening when he tried to use his shirt. Remembering they kept a roll of bandages under the sink, he fell to the floor to search through the carnage, drops of scarlet smearing over whatever he touched.
Rattling bolts gradually wriggling themselves free with the help of the increasingly distraught man out in the hallway, Arthur crouched amongst the carpet of broken glass and hair, eyes darting over as the lock gave way. The door flew open, revealing the panic-stricken face of his partner, his eyes widening as the colour drained from his skin.
"Mon Dieu, Arthur what did you do?!" he shrieked, staring in horror.
Before Arthur could attempt to ease his fraught assumptions, Francis had hurled himself to the floor beside him, taking his bloodied wrists and turning them over, scanning his forearms. Terror creasing his face, he attempted to wipe the syrupy liquid away in vain, as though trying to uncover something.
"What have you done, Arthur? What did you do?" he beseeched, voice cracking, spiralling into hysterics.
Frowning down, a sickening pang of guilt twisted Arthur's guts as he saw his lover's hands slick with his blood and his gaze desperately scouring his veins, trying to find where he thought it flowed from.
"Oh, Francis, no. Oh God, no," he hurried, turning his hand over to show Francis who stared back, eyes glassy, "Look, it's just my hand, I'm fine, I'm fine."
He held the petrified gaze as the older man looked at his battered knuckles, expression easing to one of overwhelming relief.
"Why do you fucking scare me like that?" he stammered in a whisper, breaths slowing and juddering, "Merde, Arthur…"
Trying to hold back the tears that had already formed was no use as they spilled over, rolling down his cheeks, lips turning to an inverted smile.
"Come on now, Francis, there's no need for that," Arthur shushed, reaching out to embrace him tightly.
Letting out a sputtered sob as he was pulled to his lover's chest, Francis clung onto the smaller body, burying his face into the skeletal shoulder. The violent shifts of emotion too much to process, the intensity of it all flooded from him through quietly rasping cries.
"Vous êtes un putain de trou du cul," he swore through wet hiccups.
"I am, aren't I," the other tenderly lulled, stroking his lover's back with one hand, "I'm sorry I scared you, my darling, I would never do that to you. You know I couldn't."
A stuttering gasp was his only reply as he felt a hand grip the back of his neck and another bunch into the fabric of his shirt. Planting a kiss on the side of the flaxen head, Arthur allowed himself to be used as a tissue, his soft consolations interspersed with heartfelt apologies.
Tears eventually ceasing, sporadic chokes calming to more controlled breaths, Francis loosened his hold, no longer afraid the man he clutched would go anywhere if he let go. Sniffing several times before he moved away, he pulled his blotchy face from the crease of his partner's neck, scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeves to dry the salty sheen that still covered them.
Remorse tugging at his throat, Arthur reached over to stop the other from gouging his eyeballs out. "Stop it, you'll make it worse," he gently chided, taking his own sleeve to dab at the few drops that threatened to trickle down.
Francis said nothing, however, lip quivering slightly. Obviously still fragile after the shock, he simply looked back at Arthur with sad, round eyes.
"Are you okay?" the younger man asked, raising an eyebrow.
The other nodded, glancing away.
Sighing, Arthur did the same, biting the inside of his lip, but then looked back, offering a sheepish grin.
"So, like what I did with it?" he tenuously joked, combing his fingers through his utterly butchered hair, "You were right, it was getting too long."
Gaze flitting over to see the mess his partner had made, Francis' lips twitched upward slightly. He attempted to supress a chuckle but found it tumbling from him nonetheless as he shook his head.
"You had better book an appointment at the hairdressers because there is no way I can save that disaster," he croaked good naturedly in return, wiping his persistently runny nose on his wrist, leaving a thin smudge of blood there.
Exhaling through a repentant smile, Arthur didn't dare look at the room around him.
"I know my apologies probably don't mean much anymore but I really don't mean for things like this to happen," he fully accepted the results of his careless actions, expecting no sympathy in return, "I'll get this cleaned up and buy a new mirror and I'll do the downstairs too."
"Ne sois pas stupide, I will take care of it later. Let us deal with you first," Francis prioritised, casting a concerned glance at his partner's injured hand.
With the adrenaline wearing off, the pain had started to set in, his knuckles swollen and pulsating as he instinctually held the appendage against his body.
"It's not as bad as it looks," he argued.
"Well, it looks like you might need stitches," Francis retorted, gesturing to see the damage.
"That's a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?" the other trivialised, rousing an unimpressed expression from his counterpart. Stiffly moving his hand, Arthur flexed his fingers as best he could, barely able to move them at all. "See, it's not so bad," he grimaced.
Rolling his eyes, the older man stood and carefully knocked the particles of glass and hair from his clothes. "Allons, we will clean you up," he muttered, leading them down to the kitchen where the emergency first aid kit was stored.
Arthur gingerly rinsed the tacky substance off in the sink, watching how it swirled down the drain like red wine, whilst Francis found what he needed. Unfortunately, they had somewhat of a routine when it came to such incidents as the short-tempered Englishman could be a rowdy drunk and many a night out had ended similarly. Although, had Francis been asked he wouldn't have admitted that he enjoyed it just the tiniest bit.
Gently patching up the lacerated skin, hearing only the occasional stifled hiss of pain, Francis agreed that a trip to A and E wasn't necessary and simply wrapped the already forming bruise in a layer of gauze.
"There," he finished off, taping the bandage into place, "I would say good as new, but I am surprised that the bones in your hand are not dust at this point."
Laughing easily at the gruesome imagery, Arthur leaned over the table and placed a chaste yet prolonged kiss upon his lover's velveteen lips.
"Thank you for keeping me in one piece, dear," he murmured sweetly, and could tell all was forgiven by the whisper of a smile that tickled the other's cheeks.
He pressed their mouths together once more before standing to pull his phone from his pocket, flicking through it with some difficulty as he was forced to use his left hand. Reluctantly raising the device to his ear, he began to wander out of the room as the other end of the line rang.
"What are you doing?" Francis raised a brow at the disinclined expression his partner held.
A worn-down sigh flowed freely from his lungs as Arthur glanced back over his shoulder.
"I'm calling the fucking therapist's office," he said as the receiver picked up with a click.
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Translations
Putain d'enfer – Fucking hell
Si bruyant – So noisy
Pauvre lapin – Poor bunny rabbit
Vous êtes un putain de trou du cul – You're a fucking asshole
Ne sois pas stupide – Don't be stupid
So, I love PrUK as a friend ship and I don't think the dynamic gets enough attention. They're pretty similar personality wise when you think about it and I think everyone needs that friend that encourages them to do bad stuff every now and then. Sorry if this chapter got a bit emo at the end, I didn't mean it to, but I hope you still liked it. Follow, favourite and review.
Edit: I'm not going on hiatus but in the next three months there will probably only be one chapter because nothing ever goes right for me. Sorry.