The time spent with Alfred earlier that day made Arthur feel even more alone as he sat in his lounge with a cup of tea and a book that lay open on his lap, unread. Nothing kept him occupied as his mind dangerously flitted from one train of thought to the next and his hands picked up and fiddled with everything he could find.
He picked the book up and closed it with a satisfying thud. On a spur of a moment decision he threw the book across the room. It bounced once on the beige carpet and opened to the page where Arthur's bookmark was.
Arthur still felt agitated. His muscles were tense and he wanted to lash out at something, anything. He lifted the mug to throw it after the book. Maybe it would make him feel better but he paused, and the semi-full mug stayed at eye level. A pattern of red roses and pink petunias circled its way around the mug. Arthur had never been a fan of Maxwell Williams mugs, but he couldn't deny their superior ability when it came to keeping tea warm. He hated this mug in particular, most likely because it was Francis' favourite. He couldn't break Francis' favourite mug, now could he?
It landed with a satisfying crack against the wall of the lounge. White shards sprayed everywhere and the tea dribbled down the wall onto the carpet. The destruction of Francis' special mug did nothing to quell his anger.
Fire coursed through his body like electricity and he found himself standing up and lifting a picture frame — the picture showed him and Francis on the night that Francis had proposed to him. Arthur's face flushed red from the alcohol and the excitement while Francis bore an abnormally large grin on his equally as flushed face.
That too was flung against the wall. The glass on it cracked through the middle and spidery lines spread over their smiling faces. It felt symbolic and created a physical manifestation of how Arthur felt, like his heart had been split into with those pieces only being held together by the bare minimum, threatening to split into a million pieces that would never be able to be pieced back together.
He threw another object, his phone this time, and the screen cracked loudly. More books, a decorative vase, and a plate that he had used for breakfast nearly a week ago all joined the list of items damaged by Arthur's maelstrom of emotions.
His chest heaved, his eyes burned, and his fingers felt as if match sticks had been forced into them and they could only be snapped by releasing his anger. The little that he had ruined wasn't enough to burn out his rage. He walked calmly towards their bedroom and he managed to stub his toe on the corner of the couch, leaving him cursing in agony as he held his foot to stave away the pain.
Arthur's shoulders drooped and he looked at the damage he had caused. His eyes followed the trail of tea down the wall and towards the tea-soaked books, broken glass and shattered wood.
The picture looked at him innocently, the people in it didn't know what happened in the future. They did not know of the pain that Arthur had gone through as he knelt by Francis' hospital bed, not even thinking to grab a chair, as he held his deathly still hand and waited.
His feet dragged over the carpeting as he walked to the mess he had made. Shame washed over him. His lapse in control had broken stuff — stuff that he held close to his heart.
Francis' favourite mug, the was the book that Francis had been reading before he had, before he had—
Arthur couldn't bear to use the word in his mind, finding it too final for his liking. He didn't want to think of it like that. He would see Francis at some point, if it was a few years or a few decades from now he did not know.
Thinking of things like the afterlife and one day being united with Francis seemed childish. Yet, Arthur still grasped at those straws.
He knelt and picked up the photo frame. It was one of the few photos that he had of himself, never having been one for them. Much preferring to be the one behind the camera instead of in front of it. Francis made him to appear in more photos than he liked. The man had a way of twisting his arm, and whenever he was convinced he would stand there, a plastic smile on his face and his arms held awkwardly at his sides.
This photo was different. He was smiling truthfully for one, but he also had not been adverse to the taking of the photo at all when it happened. The waiter had happily obliged and received an extra large tip from Francis that evening because of it.
How he wished that he could go back in time to relive that day. It was still vivid in his mind and he could almost taste the tang of the expensive wine that Francis had insisted on and the delicious smells that permeated the room. Arthur could remember being wholly surprised when Francis stood from his seat, went onto one knee, and reached into his pocket.
At first he had been confused and not fully understanding until Francis opened the small box to show a plain ring – he knew that Arthur's tastes did not run on the more flamboyant side of things – and began to talk.
When he finished his speech Arthur stood there for a few moments in a daze before he finally registered the fear that crept onto Francis' face. Arthur's voice cracked as he had said 'I do?' in an unsure tone and he watched as Francis' face split into a grin as he slipped the plain band of gold onto his hand.
They then kissed, and that left Arthur feeling slightly embarrassed. It was one of the first times he kissed someone properly in public and he felt bad about the way he bungled up Francis' proposal. If he had a chance to relive that day again Arthur would want to change it so that he would say 'yes' as soon as Francis finished speaking. Not something that would be more suited to an altar – which was where they had been aiming towards at that point.
Arthur would give anything to relive that day even if he couldn't change anything. Any day with Francis in it would be fine as long as he could hold him one more time, and be able to see the emotions that flitted over the man's face as if he were an open book.
He picked the glass off of the picture frame and set it down on the nearest table. The picture had warped slightly, but it was still alright. Then Arthur set about putting the books in a pile on the floor. He would have to find some way to dry them and press them down to minimize any damage to the paper.
The larger shards of ceramic were collected and put into his hand while the smaller ones were left on the carpet. Spending ages picking them up was futile, when he could just give the area a once over with a vacuum when he next cleaned the house. He dumped the broken pieces in the bin and let the lid drop shut. The sound echoed through the empty house.
His hand stung when he leaned it against the door frame and when he moved it to see why it hurt he saw a v-shaped cut — jabbed when he picked up the broken mug, most likely. A small spot of blood marred the white door frame. He wiped it off with his sleeve. He wore a dark shirt and Arthur felt too lazy to fetch the yellow rag hanging over the tap. It wasn't even that much blood.
There was still enough to warrant him going to the bathroom to wash his hand and find a plaster or something to put over his palm. The light was still on from when he'd left it on last night. Arthur grumbled, he really shouldn't do stuff like that, it was wasteful.
The tap opened easily and cold water rushed out out and straight into the drain. He waited a few moments for it to heat up before putting his hand under it and watching as the water turned pink for a for a moment. Next time he picked up stuff like that he would be more careful, he vowed to himself.
Arthur turned off the tap with his uninjured hand, it felt uncomfortable to be using his left hand for that, but he wasn't willing to feel pain over closing a tap of all things. While the cut wasn't that sore it would be if he squashed it against the tap as he closed it.
He grabbed a towel and dried his hands before he threw it on the counter next to the sink. Tomorrow morning he would fold it up neatly and hang it on the towel rack, next to Francis's towel. In the morning, his mind reiterated. At this rate there would be a lot of stuff that needed to be done come morning. But he didn't have work until Wednesday, his boss had been kind enough to give him a few days off with the words, 'You need them, you're married to your work.' While it was true that Arthur hadn't taken a day off work in years, unless he was too sick to get out of bed. Even then, he tried. He wouldn't consider himself married to his work, he had been saving the title for someone else.
"You really shouldn't let your anger get the better of you."
Like Francis. Arthur could easily hear the smugness in his voice. He grimaced, now he was going insane top of everything. His finger had rested on the light switch when he heard the hallucination and he hesitated for a moment before he flipped the switch and the room was bathed in darkness.
"I was talking to you and you turned the light off. Rude, no?"
Arthur flicked the light on and looked into the semi-dark hallway. He now pandered to a figment of his imagination, wonderful. He saw nothing in any of the open doors, nor in the hall. His head continued to swivel until it reached the mirror.
He whipped around and saw nothing behind him. At least Arthur's mind kept things spicy when it decided to give up on him. He doubted any normal person would think of having their dead lover appear in the mirror as a hallucination.
"I'm going insane now, that's spiffing." He pursed his lip.
A small laugh came from the reflection in the mirror. "Why Arthur, you're just as insane as when I last saw you."
That was Francis alright. His mind had really gone all out. His blond hair curtained his eyes and the sides of his face, and there was thicker stubble than usual on Francis' chin, but that could be forgiven as Francis' eyes remained the same. Immediately, thoughts of the ocean and warm sunny days with nary a cloud in the sky were dredged up from the sandbanks of his memories.
He pulled himself away from Francis' eyes. "I see my mind hasn't slacked on giving you the same humour you have. Damn hallucination," he grumbled.
"But I'm not! I'm just as real as you are."
Arthur made a point of looking around him. "Yet you're stuck in a mirror, that's not very real. I would agree if I could see you in front of me, where I could touch you. Yet you're dead, and I'm not."
The illusion paused to consider this for a moment. "You could say that my body is dead but my soul is just as alive as the moment I first met you." His hand went for Arthur's. It didn't slip into his and hold it firmly like it had done so many times before. Rather, its fingertips grazed Arthur's knuckles. He shivered, even when he felt nothing and only saw it happening.
"I can still feel you — so warm," Francis tenderly whispered into Arthur's ear. "You must smile, a frown has never suited your beautiful face."
Arthur's frown grew as he stared into his own reflection. "And your hands are still as cold as my feelings towards you." Now he was taking his anger out on a figment of his imagination. Arthur knew that Alfred still had the psychologist's number on speed dial. He could always ask him for a favour.
"Then my hands must be very hot." Francis smirked as he continued to caress Arthur's hand. Arthur still didn't feel a thing, not that Francis knew.
He pulled his hand away. "Would you please." His voice was cold and reminiscent of when him and Francis had first gotten to know each other. Arthur had insisted on not letting Francis worm his way into his heart, and upon looking back, he saw that Francis had achieved that within moments of meeting him. Against everything he wished to think, Arthur could say that he'd experienced love at first sight.
"Please what?" Francis asked. He looked straight at Arthur through the mirror.
Not being able to see something that, rightfully, stood next to him, and instead having to refer to a mirror for visuals gave Arthur the creeps. Francis stood close enough for Arthur to have easily picked up his presence instead of just a chill in the air that came from an open window.
"Stop touching me. You've already made me feel claustrophobic just by standing there."
"So you admit I exist?" Francis moved away from Arthur. Still within touching range, but not almost on him like he had been before.
"No, I want you to get away from me." Arthur didn't know why he still conversed with his own mind. Maybe it just showed how lonely he was and he talked to it because it looked like Francis.
"I can't do that." Francis moved from behind Arthur and now stood directly beside him. "I only just got here."
Arthur looked to his right and saw their shower in the corner of the room with dirty clothes piled in it, as they had yet to get a clothes hamper and had nowhere else to put it. He looked back at the mirror and Francis stood next to him. Exactly where he had just looked.
"I would like it you could just leave." Arthur glared at the mirror. If anyone saw him speaking to his own reflection in a mirror they would class him as insane. He wouldn't blame them, since he had categorized himself as that years ago.
He didn't wait for Francis to reply and turned to go to their room. Well, he shouldn't call it their room as the Francis he had just spoken to was nothing more than a figment of his own imagination. Arthur must be more tired than he thought. He yawned, more than four hours of sleep had been his maximum for the past few nights and he needed his beauty sleep more than Francis did.
It wasn't even eight o'clock yet, and Arthur was already in bed. His mind went at a faster speed than he had thought possible, and he knew that sleep would evade him for a while more. He already tried counting sheep and reached two hundred and sixteen before that proved too tedious. Counting backwards in sevens from a thousand and left him mildly confused, and he wasn't going to get started on staring up at his ceiling.
Arthur turned over and pulled the blanket higher. He was so used to having someone else in the bed with him. The comfort of Francis' nasal snores always helped relax him. Even if he kicked Francis with his foot or hit him with an open palm and yelled at him to stop his infernal snoring at times.
There was nothing, no little snores, no quiet breathing, no Francis. Even though the odd encounter had happened nearly an hour ago, Arthur still felt chilled to the bone. A fleece blanket and a duvet covered him and he still shivered, even though that should have been more than enough to keep him warm in the throes of winter.
He sighed. It was the exact same last night and Arthur knew that his situation wouldn't change within the next few nights either. It could be that he tried to get to sleep too early. He was used to going to sleep at ungodly hours in the night due to the 'just one more chapter' pitfall that every avid reader knew very well.
Maybe a cup of tea would calm him down. Though, he felt too lazy to actually get up and ended up rolling over and lying on his back instead.
"Are you having trouble sleeping?" Francis' voice asked. Now his mind had decided to not leave him alone, wonderful.
Arthur responded angrily. "I wouldn't if you would just shut up."
"I haven't said anything in more than an hour and you're still tossing and turning," Francis pointed out.
That was true. Arthur made a noncommittal sound. "How about you shut up then and I continue trying?"
Francis' voice was closer to him now. "There's a small hand mirror in my drawer, why don't you get it?"
"Even in death you're just as vain." Arthur rolled over. At least he had said that word. He had admitted that Francis was dead in a jibe against his own mind. That was one for the record books.
He knew that Francis would be sitting on the edge of their bed if he had been there. "Wouldn't you like to see me again?"
"I'd rather not."
A short pause. "It's at the top so you won't have to dig for it."
Moments passed and Arthur finally gave up. "Fine! I'll get the stupid mirror and then I can talk to my own reflection to make your stupid arse happy." He rolled over to Francis' side of the bed. The sheets were cold and Arthur hurriedly yanked the drawer open. Like Francis told him, the mirror sat at the top above all of the man's personal belongings. He took it and shuffled to his side of the bed. The drawer stayed open.
"Could you have at least closed my drawer. Anyone can see what's in it now." Francis sounded indignant.
Arthur looked towards where he thought Francis could be. "Because Alfred's going to barge into our room just to look at your sex toys." He reached over and turned on the light and still, Francis did not appear in front of him.
"You never know."
After a few moments of looking into the mirror and twisting and turning it he gave up. "Where are you even?" he asked, irritably.
Francis' face moved into the view of the mirror. "I'm right next to you."
"You mean you just stood there and watched me make a fool of myself as I waved your stupid mirror around?"
"And what if I was right next to you the entire time?"
Arthur put the mirror down and pulled himself into a sitting position. He grabbed the mirror so that he could see Francis. There was a soft smirk on his lips and his hair was neater than it had been earlier. He wore a tuxedo, the same one he would have married Arthur in if other things had not gotten in the way.
"You weren't. Your voice was coming from across the room."
"Are you sure your mind isn't playing tricks on you?" Francis asked. He put his hand over Arthur's and when Arthur moved the mirror he saw the blue-tinted skin resting comfortably over his.
"I'm quite sure of it." Arthur wasn't sure of it, but he felt glad that he could talk to Francis, and maybe, he could even manage to convince himself that he was real. His mind shouldn't have been able to recall the small beauty mark that graced Francis' neck. Arthur didn't even know that it was there until he consciously paih attention to every detail on Francis' face. He did want to double check that piece of information against a picture of Francis though.
Seeing himself in an old T-shirt and jeans that he hadn't changed out of yet, and Francis in his wedding suit while they sat on their bed felt odd. It almost seemed suited to their relationship, a sort of mundane absurdity. At first glance it may have been deemed abnormal, but to them it was normal.
"Arthur, are you okay?" Francis asked.
Arthur lifted the mirror and saw Francis' concerned look. "I'm fine. It was just—" He stopped. He couldn't explain what he felt. It could have been acceptance of his situation, but it could also be him giving up.
"Were you falling asleep? I don't mind leaving you to sleep, you look like you need it. The bags under your eyes are more of an abomination than your eyebrows."
He couldn't stop himself from scoffing at Francis. "Do you have to insult me at every turn?"
"Our relationship would become very bland without something to mix it up once in a while," Francis answered. It was something Arthur had heard many times before to answer the question that he'd voiced more times than he cared to remember.
"You could say that," Arthur said.
"And what about your typical English rudeness? You can't explain that if you tried." He looked smug and Arthur could barely stand it.
"I doubt you would be able to handle someone who listened to your every whim. You are the one that longs for the metaphorical spice in our relationship." Arthur felt glad, the superior look had been whacked off of Francis face with a windscreen wiper — and quite brutally at that.
If things had been different Arthur knew that they would be sworn enemies, always at each other's throats as they battled for the last word in an argument. Even now they were the same, but without the hate behind it. Passion stood behind their words, but a completely different kind. New people they met thought that they were bound to break up soon, but they had been together for a grand total of three (somewhat) happy years.
"Wasn't it our anniversary a few days ago?" Arthur asked. They had planned for the wedding to be on their third anniversary, 27th October, just a few days before Halloween much to Alfred's excitement and both Arthur and Francis' dread. They had both flat refused to Alfred's idea of a Halloween-themed wedding.
The slowly lifting mood immediately turned somber. "It was," Francis agreed. He seemed to sink down within the mirror and Arthur moved to mirror to see him, though it didn't work. Only Francis could control where he stood within the mirror it seemed.
"And what a shame it was," Francis continued. "Today we could have been celebrating our marriage in a nice hotel, but no, I'm stuck here in the most appalling tuxedo I have ever laid my hands on, thanks to your missing sense of fashion."
"You chose it," Arthur reminded him.
Francis' eyes widened. "I did? No wonder it's so comfortable and stylish."
Arthur sighed and shook his head. His arm stung from holding the mirror up. He let it drop and turned to face the left side of the bed but found nothing, only air.
"I still haven't canceled all the stuff for the wedding — 'll do it tomorrow." Yet another thing added to the 'tomorrow' list.
"Arthur! You shouldn't let yourself go like this, it's not like you," Francis scolded half-heartedly.
"Forgive me but the man I loved more than myself has died and I'm in a bit of a state at the moment. Your funeral was yesterday for crying out loud." Arthur's voice shook more than he would have liked.
"It wasn't my fault," Francis whispered and Arthur strained to hear him.
"Of course it wasn't! How can someone know that they're going to have a heart attack? I just wish that I could have said a proper goodbye to him."
"Why would you say a 'proper goodbye'? I'm with you right now."
"No you aren't. You're just, you're just a figment of my imagination. I'm going crazy because of you and it's killing me." Arthur balled his hands into fists and held them at his sides. The mirror rested in his lap.
Francis paused for a moment. "You mustn't be stuck on me. You're still young, there are plenty of people that would be more than happy to be with you."
The headboard rattled as Arthur banged his head against it. "I don't want to share a bed with someone else. I was ready to spend the rest of my damn life with you."
Francis looked him straight in the eye from the mirror. "I'm dead now. You can't do a thing about it. What you can do is live your life, it's only been a few days and you're still mourning over me. But I want you to start getting out there, there is so much that you need to experience still."
Arthur sighed. "I don't want to do that. I just want everything to go back to the way it was." A lump was forming at his throat. Did Francis really have to insist on taunting him? All he wanted was to cry his snotty tears and get angry at inanimate objects in peace. Not have to talk to this — this apparition.
"I'm sorry."
"What is there to be sorry about?" Arthur tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling.
"If it were up to me I would still be alive. Instead of my fingers ghosting over your skin I would be able to hold your hand, hug you, and kiss you — not stuck in this hellish limbo."
"Tell me about it," he replied bitterly.
"Well after I lost consciousness I—"
Arthur cut him off. "I was being rhetorical, you dolt."
A short laugh came from Francis. "One never does know with you."
"It's not my fault that you can't decipher whether I'm being sarcastic or not. You're the one that has had more than three years to learn my character thoroughly."
"And it's not my fault that you're such an enigma." Their conversation stagnated before Francis spoke again. "They lied about there being a beautiful white light at the end of the tunnel."
"Come again?"
"They lied about the white light. Instead of angels flying and playing their little harps I got your hairy face peering into the mirror," Francis said matter-of-factly.
"Because the long blond hair that always gets stuck in the shower drain is mine," Arthur growled.
Francis' expressive brows would have lowered slightly at that statement if Arthur was able to see him. "At least you are more interesting than some half-naked children with the word 'angel' tacked on."
"You both flatter me and terrify me at the same time." Arthur yawned.
"It is true. I would much rather be stuck with your stinky body for the rest of eternity than in a box underground."
Arthur snorted. "I'll put that on my resume then, 'more preferable than a coffin' the life of the party say you."
"I was trying to be nice." Francis did not seem pleased with Arthur's comment.
"Because being likened to a coffin is that much of a compliment."
There was a long pause before Francis spoke again. "I should probably get going."
"What do you mean by that?" Arthur tripped over his words.
"What I mean is—" Francis' voice came from further away— "That I shouldn't stay here with you. You need to move on, not be bogged down by my ghost."
"Please don't go," Arthur said hoarsely. He felt embarrassed, to not want to let Francis leave, but he was weak and was not going to lose him, again.
"I'll stay but at some point I'll have to leave." Francis sounded closer and Arthur picked up the mirror in hopes of being able to see him again.
"Promise it won't be anytime soon?"
"Unfortunately, I can only promise a few hours. You see, ah—" Francis sought for the word, "The sol, it chases me away from our world and I'm left to wait for darkness — the sun."
Sometimes Arthur forgot that Francis had started to learn English when he moved to England at the start of high school. Arthur still attended middle school at that point and hadn't even met Francis until they were both well into adulthood, but he had heard many stories about Francis learning to speak English and the hi-jinks that had ensued from Gilbert and Antonio.
"Is it because you're still a part of the spirit world? Spirits are stronger at night which is why I'm able to talk to you. Correct?"
Francis appeared in the mirror and nodded. "I think so. I don't really understand it myself, though I do know that I disappear in the morning. You were the one with interests in those sorts of things."
They continued to speak for a few more hours. With arguing being more prominent than speaking as Arthur finally found someone to let his emotions out on as Francis kept bringing up that he shouldn't be staying with Arthur as it wouldn't be best for him and that he had better move on at some point.
Arthur refused to agree with that and vehemently argued with him at some points and it even degraded into a shouting match at one point. He finally convinced that small part of his mind that insisted that he was just making everything up due to the intense stress he had felt over the past few days, that it really was Francis.
He blinked his eyes a few times and noticed that the curtain showed signs of light. "It's getting light out," Arthur warned.
Francis nodded curtly. "I know, I can feel it."
"What does it feel like?" Now that he paid attention Arthur could see the tension etched onto Francis' face and when he moved within the mirror it was possible to spot Francis' fingers worrying the cuff of his jacket— a tell for whenever he felt nervous.
Francis swallowed and Arthur saw his Adam's apple bob up and down."It's like I'm being pulled and no matter how much I want to fight it I can't resist the urge."
"You're fighting it right now," Arthur stated.
"Not for much longer. I'll have to go within the next few minutes."
Outside birds had already begun to sing and Arthur felt jealous of them. They had a whole day of happiness in front of them and Arthur had nothing.
"Is it painful?"
"Not particularly, but I don't want to find out." Francis shifted until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Francis had a low pain tolerance and would complain at the smallest things. If only Arthur had listened to his complaints the other day.
"Don't be sad Arthur. I came to see your beautiful face again." Francis smiled gently at him.
"Promise me—" He breathed in— "Promise me that you'll come back." Arthur's heart constricted. He didn't want Francis to leave him. Until last night he had lost all hope in the world, and now a spark existed, and it made him want to continue onward.
"I promise. But only if you promise to have a good breakfast. If you don't want to make something I'm sure Matthew would be more than happy to, he learned from the best so you don't have to worry the way you have to when you cook." There was pride in Francis' voice. Of course there was, since he had taught Matthew Williams, Alfred's older brother, everything that he knew about cooking and had insisted that he would to take over his post of head chef at Rosa's when he retired or got promoted to a manager.
"I will." Arthur didn't want to say goodbye. He wished that he could spend forever in their room, and talk to Francis about everything that crossed his mind until his throat hurt and his eyes burned more than they already did.
"And have some sleep, you look positively dreadful with bags under your eyes." Francis' smile broadened and Arthur couldn't help but smirk in reply.
He muffled a yawn, a contender to how tired he really was and pulled up his duvet. He would just sleep for an hour or two and then get up and get started on what he had to do today. It was already quite late in the morning.
"I love you Francis." He whispered sleepily to Francis. The room stayed silent, Francis must have left already.