Fortune of Our Misfortune

Moment nine

It is an exceedingly normal day, and so far Francis has used it for some undeniably productive procrastination, namely, for counting the books on his shelf, and he's still at it when sometime around five o'clock someone rings his doorbell.

Naturally Francis goes and answers the door, and when he does, he finds a very familiar Englishman behind it with a defiant look in his eyes. "Arthur," he says, pleasantly surprised.

"Frog."

Francis doesn't even notice the insult; it's been almost a week since he's heard of Arthur, so he's happy to see the Englishman now, especially as the last time they spent time together Francis fell asleep on him and Arthur had left. "What brings me this pleasure?" he asks, stepping aside to let the Englishman in.

Arthur kicks off his shoes and hangs his coat. "I came to read."

Francis lifts his eyebrows. "To read?"

And true enough, as Francis watches, Arthur heads straight for the Frenchman's sofa, plops down on it, pulls a book out of his backpack, brings his knees to his chest, and – indeed – begins to read.

Francis stares at the scene displayed before him for a while, then shakes his head and returns to procrastinating. He finishes counting the books – he's got one hundred and sixteen of them – and moves on to dusting the shelf. This task does not take long, so a while later Francis takes on organising a pile of handouts – the same handouts that he really should be reading if he wants to get a reasonable grade in the upcoming exam.

And Arthur – Arthur sits through this all, only moving a little when he turns the pages of his book once in a while. Francis keeps sending glances in his direction every now and then, and, after pretending focusing on the handouts for fifteen minutes, he decides that enough is enough. Dropping the pile of paper on his desk, Francis struts to the sofa and sits down on the unoccupied side of it. Arthur doesn't even blink, let alone look at him.

"Arthur," Francis begins, "I was just wondering – and don't misunderstand me, feel free to use my sofa whenever you have an urge to read – but I was just wondering if your own sofa does not satisfy your needs as a reader."

Arthur shrugs, eyes still on the book. "I was just passing by."

"Let me get this straight. You happened to be passing by in my neighbourhood, with a book, and suddenly were struck by an urge to read, so you came to my door that was fortunately nearby?"

"Precisely."

Francis arcs his eyebrow. "All right. Understood."

Silence follows his words, and Francis begins to wonder what's actually going on and if he has missed something essential.

"You said that you've been thinking of me last time I was here," Arthur suddenly shoots, eyes still on his book.

Francis stiffens. "I did?"

"Yes, you did, and then you bloody passed out on me," Arthur snaps and briefly raises his eyes to give Francis a glare. "So I thought I'd ask – why. I mean, why you said that."

Francis stares at the Englishman, silent, because he's quite shocked at what he just heard. Had he really said such a thing? Aloud? That should explain a thing or two.

His silence lasts for only a few seconds, but those seconds are enough for Arthur.

"Forget I ask," he hastens to say.

But Francis sees what he's doing – he's going to close the drawbridge to his fortress once more. Oh no, I wont allow it. Now is Francis' chance. Now is the only chance he will ever get. If he doesn't stick his foot between the door now, it will close from him forever, and he won't allow that, not again, not until he's spoken his mind clear.

"No," he says, firmly. "There's been too much forgetting in recent years, don't you think?"

Arthur's eyes flicker to him and back to the book. Francis gets an urge to kick the book away so that Arthur would look at him instead.

"I'll be honest with you, but remember, you asked for it," he warns. "Well. Truth be told, I don't remember telling that to you, so technically I said what I said because I was drunk."

It doesn't escape him how Arthur rigid body just... shrinks, as if the sofa swallowed half of him. "And so it probably seemed like a good idea at the time to confess to you that I actually have been thinking of you," Francis continues, tilting his head. "Was it a bad idea?"

"Yes!" Arthur snaps, finally – finally – slamming his book shut and directing his vivid eyes at Francis.

"Oh. Well, a lot of drunken ideas are, I suppose."

"No, I mean -" Arthur stammers and trips over his own words, "Fuck, but what was I to make of it? You can't just say something like that and then pass out and forget all about it!"

"You are right," Francis admits and pauses. "I apologise. But, I've said it again, sober, so what do you make of it now?"

Arthur glares at him. "I'd say, just about time."

Francis can't help himself, he bursts into laughter, not having even realised how tense he himself has been for the entire conversation. "I agree completely," he stammers after a while, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "So, I take it you return the sentiment?"

Arthur gives him a small, strained smile, and Francis knows that he's fighting not to break into a wide grin. Oh, what can he say? He has learnt to read Arthur quite well over the years, hasn't he?

"I do," the Englishman utters, and his whole posture relaxes, even the smile he so hard tried to restrain takes over his entire face. "Frog."

"Come here," Francis says, and Arthur complies without a moment of hesitation, tossing his book on the floor. Francis sends a smug smile at the discarded tome; it's 1-0 in his favour after all.

xXx

"Do you remember when you first rescued Horatio?" Arthur asks suddenly.

Francis gives up counting raindrops and turns his attention from the train window to the Englishman. "Of course I do. Why?"

Arthur grins at him. "No reason."

Francis believes him, because with Arthur, there doesn't always have to be a reason – sometimes things can just be.

(The train slows down to a halt, and Francis stands up. "I believe this is our stop," he says with a smile, and the abyss is avoided.)

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