I could totally have uploaded this last night but I was lazy and didn't. Lazy or tired. Whatever.
"Dieu merci! Arthur, oh, Dieu merci!" cried Francis as he rushed into the room. The past day had been horrifying as he waited for Arthur to wake up. Of course, he had to wake when Francis had gone to get some tea. It was a shame that the hospital didn't serve wine.
However, Francis stopped short when he noticed Alfred and Kiku. The American was glaring at him, the anger evident. Meanwhile, Kiku was frowning. Why were they in such a bad mood – and why was it directed at him?
Deciding to ignore it, he turned to stare in relief at Arthur. His beautiful eyes were gazing back tiredly and Francis was relieved he could see them once more. He hurried forward, slipping past the angry American.
"Ah, Dieu merci. You woke up!" breathed Francis as he reached him. Sitting on the bed, he clutched Arthur's hand. For some reason, though, Arthur weakly pulled it from his grip. Francis stared at their hands for a moment, confused.
"Yeah, no thanks to you!" growled Alfred from across the room. When Francis looked over, he could see him trembling, as though he was having trouble containing his anger.
"Quoi?" Francis asked him, confused.
"This is all-!" began Alfred but Kiku tugged at his arm and shook his head. Alfred took a deep breath and glanced towards Arthur, his eyebrows raised.
The sigh from beside him captured Francis's attention. Looking round at Arthur, he noted how pale he was. Although Francis was glad that he had survived, that they had got to him in time, he was worried about how ill he now looked. How long would it be till he could come home? How long would it be until Francis could hold him close in bed once again?
"Francis," said Arthur, sounding a little hoarse. "Listen: Alfred is going to go home and pick up my things."
"I can do that, chéri," Francis assured him. Why would he want Alfred to do that?
"No, I- I can't have you here, Fran," said Arthur, sounding pained. "It's not... I can't do this any more."
Staring, Francis shook his head. "What do you mean? Cannot do what?"
"Look, I- After everything that happened, I thought I could... rely on you. To get me through it." Arthur brought a shaking hand to his eyes and wiped at them. "But, I-I saw you. Yesterday. On our anniversary. With-With that woman."
Frozen in his seat, Francis stared. No, he couldn't have. He had still been at home. There was no way he could have seen. Was he breaking up with him? This couldn't be happening. What had he done? "N-Non. That was-"
"Don't lie to him!" growled Alfred, breaking free of Kiku's grip for a moment and stepping forward. Francis flinched but Kiku caught Alfred's arm again and pulled him back.
"I already know, lo- Francis," said Arthur with a sigh, ignoring Alfred's outburst. "I've known for a while. You run off to find someone to sleep with. I-I know I'm not the most pleasant of people to live with but... It hurts. And it hurts more every time you do it. I can't live, waiting for you to come home, hoping-" Arthur suddenly sobbed, cutting himself off as he wiped furiously at his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, Francis saw Alfred twitch but he tried to ignore it.
"Non, that is in the past, I assure-"
"Enough!" cried Arthur. He slammed his hand into the bed, letting his tears fall. Flinching, he brought a hand to his head and held it for a moment. "Enough, Francis. This isn't working. It never did."
"S'il vous plait, Arthur, do not-"
"I'm going to stay at Al's when I get out of here. Please don't try to contact me." Arthur fixed him with a piercing gaze – it was sad, angry and pained all at once. It broke Francis's heart. Then Arthur looked away and resolutely stared at the wall.
"Please," begged Francis. "Je t'ai-" Arthur gasped slightly as he began to speak and, with the hand closest to Francis, he gripped the bedsheets. Francis only glimpsed these slight movements as he was grabbed from behind and lifted to his feet. When he turned round, shocked, he found icy eyes glaring at him.
"Out," Alfred ordered. "The conversation's over. Out."
Wordlessly, Francis stumbled after Alfred who pulled him towards the door to the room. He wasn't sure he was awake – maybe he had fallen asleep and this was a dream. Or he was hallucinating. Whatever was happening, it couldn't be real.
"Wait," ordered Arthur and everyone obediently froze. Turning back to him, Francis noticed him wincing as he struggled to open the drawer in the bedside cabinet. A desire to hug him tight caused Francis to twitch and Alfred's grip tightened. "Here," said Arthur, finally opening the drawer. Taking something out, he weakly threw a small box at Francis who fumbled to catch it before it hit the floor. Unfortunately, he dropped it and it opened, something flashing in the light as it tumbled out.
"Quoi...?" breathed Francis as he noted the ring. It was a gold band with a small diamond embedded in it. Alfred let go of him and he gathered it up. Was this an engagement ring? Had Arthur been planning on proposing to him?
"I don't want it. I don't ever want to see it again," explained Arthur.
However, when Francis looked back up and their eyes locked, he could see the hidden message in those words. Arthur didn't want to see him again. Francis had lost him.
With tears pricking at his eyes, Francis did the only thing he could: he fled.
As Arthur declared, Alfred came to the house and picked up some clothes, books and Arthur's precious tea set. He left behind anything sentimental that could be tied with Francis and did it while Francis had been out.
With Arthur gone, Francis was hardly able to concentrate on his work. But he forced himself to go. Afterwards, he somehow found himself in pubs, drinking the night away. The only thing that got him through the next couple of weeks was holding onto the hope that Arthur hadn't meant what he had said. If Francis waited for him to cool off and recover, things would go back to normal – without the people he had slept with. That would not happen once he got Arthur back. He had learnt his lesson the hard way.
However, when he called the hospital towards the end of the second week and asked how Arthur was, he was told that he was being discharged. No-one had discussed this with him so, panicked, he hurried to the hospital, determined to find him, determined to take him home despite his words.
When he reached the reception and asked, however, he was told that he had already left with a tall, blonde man with glasses. Alfred. Realising that he couldn't go to Arthur with Alfred pushing him away, he bemoaned his situation to the receptionist.
Pushing her glasses up her nose, the woman sighed. "He still needs to attend appointments with the hospital psychologist."
Francis brightened. "Really? May I speak with him? I want to know-"
"Ah, there he is now," said the woman, pointing behind him and returning to her work.
Turning, Francis saw a man wearing a suit and a lab coat re-entering the building. His hair was white and his eyes seemed red from this distance. A wide grin was on his face as he nodded to a nurse and passed by. He was carrying a plastic bag and Francis suspected he had been on a break.
Hurrying over, Francis called on him. "Doctor!"
The man stopped and blinked at him. "Ja?" he asked.
"Doctor, please, tell me how my- how Arthur Kirkland is! I must know." Francis didn't care that he was pleading in the entranceway. He was getting rather desperate: he missed Arthur's voice, his eyes, his tea, everything about him; he missed him dearly.
Frowning, the doctor shook his head. "He has recovered for the most part and left. But I am his psychologist, not his doctor."
"Oui, oui! I know! No-one will let me speak with-"
"Oh, wait. You're the French guy, right? His... ex, I suppose."
Francis flinched. "Ah, perhaps. I still hold out hope he will come home-"
"Nein," said the doctor, shaking his head, the locks of his hair shifting across his eyes. "For him to recover mentally, I do not think your home is a good place to be. Too many bad memories. I cannot discuss what he says to me but you will not help him by being there. He needs space – from you in particular."
"Eh? But... I-I just want to know if he is well. If he is- At least tell me if he-" Francis broke off and bit his lip, staring at the polished floor. "Will he be... happier... without me?" he whispered.
"I don't have the answer to that." There was a pause before the doctor sighed. "He'll probably kill me for saying this but I made him start a blog – so he can have some way to talk to people about his troubles without actually speaking to them face-to-face. It is supposed to be so I can tell if he's getting depressed again so I can up his- Ah, er, help him. I can give you its address."
Surprised, Francis looked back up, eyes wide. The doctor was looking at him with a kind smile. "You would...? Vraiment? Tu- Thank you," sighed Francis, flashing the man a small smile, a shadow of his normal one.
"Sure thing," said the man, carelessly, as he began to walk to the reception desk. "It looks like you could use some help, too."
So, every evening, Francis would log onto his computer – well, it was Arthur's but he hadn't come to claim it yet – and type in the address to see what Arthur had updated. At first, it was simple sentences, like, I am alive and I cried today. Sometimes, he would even allude to his wounds, saying something like, My wrists are itching.
Then, a month after the incident, Arthur's entry was much more revealing. Francis read it, clutching at a pillow he had brought in from the bedroom for comfort. He cried when he finished it.
Hello. My name is Arthur Kirkland and I tried to commit suicide. I would like to tell you my story so I can put everything behind me and move on with my life.
I realised I was gay when I was in high school but I didn't tell anyone nor acted on my desires. There were too many stories I had heard of bullying and I wasn't always treated with respect, anyway. University in Oxford – my home town – was much more accepting and I was able to have – rather short, relationships. My few friends were very accepting but I still didn't tell my parents. I didn't tell them till after I had moved to London to start my career in publishing. For that was when I met Francis and... I fell in love.
My mother was supportive, still proud of all I had accomplished. My father rejected me and my brothers jeered at me, as usual.
Of course, after the shock of being rejected, I found I could still call mum, despite not being welcomed in the house. She was the one I was closest to. Except for Francis, of course.
But my relationship with Francis seemed to deteriorate. We had a lot of arguments. Francis ran from them a lot. Then I began to notice his "extra hours" at the office that he so hated. I suspected he was cheating on me but... I didn't want to confront him or investigate any further. I couldn't bear to lose him.
After coming to terms with the fact that he would probably continue his flirtatious ways – we got together whilst he already had a boyfriend, unbeknownst to me – I decided it would be best to just ignore it.
Then everything fell apart. My mum died of a heart attack, I lost my job, I couldn't find another one, my friends were too busy to spare me time. I was spiralling downwards and the only thing keeping me afloat was Francis. But I could feel him slipping through my fingers.
And that was when, on our anniversary, I saw him with another woman, in a place I thought he reserved going to with me and only me.
I couldn't bear it. I don't think I can bear it. On that day, feeling so alone, I decided to end my life. I left notes and...
Well, I was saved so I could continue living. But I can't bear the sight of Francis. Yet... Can I live without him?
Alfred and Kiku are my best friends.
But I feel so alone.
What do I do?
…
Francis. I wonder if you blame yourself? I don't. Did you find the note I hid in the bedside cabinet? Did you listen to that voicemail?
I blame myself. That I let myself get so dependent on someone else, that I let myself get so weak.
No more.
I will live.
Even if I have to leave you behind.
After Francis managed to recover, he hurried to the bedroom. He hadn't searched for a note. And, frankly, he had been avoiding that voicemail. It was the last time Arthur had spoken to him before he had tried to kill himself and he couldn't stomach what it said. He was terrified. And, if he was never to hear Arthur's voice again, he didn't want the only thing he could listen to be an apology for trying to take his own life.
But, if Arthur was moving on...
When he found the note, he stared at it. The tears came again but he held them back as he reached for his phone, still staring at the paper in his hands.
Don't blame yourself. I'm sorry. I should probably have done something before now. But, now, it's just too painful. I can't live like this any more. But please do not blame yourself.
I love you and I always will.
Yours,
Arthur
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Francis tapped on his phone until he was calling the voicemail service. Finally, after reciting the date and time, there was a pause – and Arthur's voice came from the speaker, harsh and loud.
"God dammit, Frog! Answer the fucking phone!"
That night, Francis laughed so hard he cried. Then he cried himself to sleep, clutching his phone and the note.
Over the next few months, Francis's lifestyle changed. Instead of going to pubs and clubs and other places where he could pick up women or men, he would go straight home. There, he would cook to lose himself in the smells and tastes. A lot of the time, he found himself making dishes Arthur often asked for: fish and chips, bangers and mash...
Then, having resisted all day, he would go onto the computer and read any of the new entries Arthur had put up. Some days he was left to worry as Arthur felt that he had nothing worth mentioning. Other days he was moved to tears by something he felt the need to share.
As time passed, Francis realised that he was watching Arthur build his life up again, watching him move on. It was painful but he forced himself to read it every day, often refreshing the page in case Arthur made more than one update.
Al bought me more clothes today since I don't feel up to going outside. They're either too big or too small. I really need more so I'm going to have to venture out to the shops. What should I buy? Things I wore as a teenager? Or 'stuffy old-man clothes', as Alfred dubs them? Or something in between?
Al's starting to struggle with money. He says I don't need to worry but I've been applying to jobs again. I got an e-mail back from one of them – I have a job interview. Better find a suit.
I didn't get the job. What's wrong with me? Am I completely hopeless?
Al found out about my job hunting. He says that I shouldn't and I should go stay at Kiku's till he gets himself sorted out. How will I be able to pay him back if I do that?
Al works at a geek shop. His boss gave him more hours today because one of the part-time workers have left to pursue their career. Another employee – a full-time one – is pregnant. They're looking for more people now so Al's encouraging me to apply. I will – but only because... Well. How else will I get a job if I don't try?
Gosh, my interview is today. And, if that wasn't enough good news, I see that I have a thousand followers now. I wonder who you all are and why you're so interested in my life. I wonder if you feel as I did before my attempt. I wonder if you gain strength from reading these words.
I am ready.
I got the job! For the first time since leaving the hospital, I'm going out drinking tonight!
Alcpjal is aaaaaaaaamazzzinnnnnng! But... it made me rememberrg htinf I didnpt want ep. ah. Damn – Alfie is nobtgvckerfbef#JDsnav
I've been working in this mediocre job for a few months now – but I don't think I've ever smiled so much.
Well, that's a lie...
But! Beilschmidt tells me I have to stop dwelling on that. Are you happy, hm? I know you're reading this. Though... I don't think it was a good idea to demand I follow you. You seem to have more problems than me!
Al is reading this over my shoulder and is demanding I put in an 'emoticon'. I'm currently telling him to fuck off without opening my mouth.
:P
Tsk. He managed to get a hold of this laptop and he says he won't leave me alone for the rest of the day if I delete that. He's such a royal pain in the arse. Bastard.
Anyway, I have gone into a happy little tangent because, well... I'm not sure if this is real.
Apparently, a publisher from a well-known publishing house has come across this blog. He messaged me earlier to ask if I would be able to write my entire life into a novel. It would be difficult but... Perhaps it would help.
They want to meet me tomorrow. Al says he's coming 'no matter what' to 'protect' me because 'that's what heroes do!' … I don't think he quite understands that this is very important to me and if he comes he's bound to fuck it up.
If he fucks it up I reserve the right to castrate him and that damned cat he found recently. He's calling him 'Hero'. I tried to dissuade him but... The poor cat is stuck with it. And I'm apparently stuck with him jumping up and trying to type. I've already had to delete a lot of this and start over because he keeps
EDIT: I'm sorry. He kept jumping up so I hit the post button by mistake. (I was trying to save the draft to finish later but...)
I'm probably going to neglect this blog for a while as I've got a deadline for this book. At least I'm getting paid for it.
Still working at Al's shop, though.
Oh! Speaking of Al, he finally got a bit part in some sort of drama. Can't wait until it comes on TV – I'll be able to laugh at him being 'super serious'. He's reciting his lines just now-
In fact, he's shouting them into my ear.
It's too hard to concentrate just now – excuse me while I throw all of Al's games in the bin.
It's finished. Done. Off to get published, printed, sent to the shops. I'm so excited!
Life is great just now.
But... Not quite perfect.
Oh.
Oh, I...
I didn't think it would sell so many. I've just seen it on the TV. Everyone seems to love it. What do I do? I'm not sure what to do. This is amazing.
I am so, so grateful to you all for sticking with me.
Thank you so much.
As Francis dressed himself that morning, he reflected on the past year. A short laugh escaped him as he realised that, while he had watched Arthur get his life back on track, he had completely abandoned his plans and dreams. It was as though he had gotten himself stuck in a rut, unable to pull himself from it, unwilling to move. He found himself unable to care, though, of how much his mood depended on whether Arthur had updated or not.
Shaking himself from his dreary thoughts, he made sure his clothes were straight and would not stand out too much in a bookshop. A suit, he had decided, was not the best of things to wear for someone specifically set to go there. Instead, he wore a simple blue shirt and a pair of smart-casual, black trousers. Once he had checked himself in the mirror, he picked up his copy of Arthur's book and left the house.
Of course, when he had first heard about the release of the book, he was unsure as to whether he should buy it or not. Going by a shop on his way home from work one day, he had found himself ducking in to stare at a display. Somehow the Englishman had become extremely popular and his book glared at Francis from the moment he stepped in. After a few minutes of staring at it, his hand twitching, wanting to lift one, an irritated young woman had asked him to pick one up or get out of the way. The manner in which she spoke to Francis had startled him and he had grabbed a book without thinking. Before he knew what had happened, he was sitting in the living room, wondering if he should open it.
His curiosity had won out. The book detailed – in rather surprising detail which pulled the reader in – Arthur's entire life. Early years contending with his brothers, realising his sexuality, his experimenting with young men at university, landing a job, Francis... It also dealt with Arthur's attempted suicide and Francis was left sobbing at the blank pages, left there deliberately before the story picked up again with Arthur's reawakening.
Francis didn't need to know the statistics to know that it was a hit.
But, apparently, Arthur had not realised how popular it could possibly be until he announced the signing he would be doing in the centre of London. Apparently, his publicist – he seemed surprised that he even had a publicist – had suggested it, considering the large amount of fan mail he was receiving.
After a bit of internal debate, Francis had decided to go. Perhaps if he could see Arthur one last time and apologise he could move on as well. He wasn't entirely sure what he would do but he couldn't keep himself tied down to a relationship which no longer existed.
So that was why Francis found himself in a queue, shifting his wait nervously. What would Arthur do? Would he yell at him? Would he get security to throw him out? Would he cry?
Would he take him back?
Shaking his head, Francis frowned at himself. No. There was no chance for them. He had to accept this. Francis had to let go of these delusions.
Finally, it was Francis's turn. He almost froze up but he gripped his book tightly and stumbled forward. Arthur hadn't seen him yet, turned towards someone beside him, shaking his hand and laughing. The young author was almost glowing, his eyes shining. Francis suddenly felt that he shouldn't be here, he shouldn't have come. With his head lowered, he placed his book on the table.
"Hello, there!" said Arthur, cheerfully, opening the book. He placed his pen in the centre and paused. "Who should I make this out to, then?"
"Jacques. Jacques Dubois, s'il vous plait," Francis answered, using the fake name Arthur had provided for him when he changed their names for the novel. He watched as Arthur froze. Slowly, Arthur raised his head and stared at Francis, his eyes wide. After a couple of seconds, Francis had to look away.
A scribbling sound forced its way through the background chatter and caught Francis's attention. Glancing back, Francis caught sight of Arthur writing on his book. With a sudden movement, Arthur snapped the book close and held it out. "Here," he said, sounding frosty. Francis flinched as he took the book. Before he could turn and leave, though, Arthur spoke up again. "There's an hour left of this. If you want, you can wait for me outside."
Francis stared at Arthur. Was he being serious? Hesitantly, he gave Arthur a nod and turned to get out of the way.
Pacing up and down, Francis kept glancing through the window of the shop, anxious about this meeting. What did Arthur want? Had he left something behind in his move? Did he want to punch him? Shout at him?
Stopping, he took a few deep breaths. It wouldn't do to get so worked up. He deserved anything Arthur threw at him. Perhaps it would help Arthur move on completely – from his blog posts, Francis could tell that the author was still attached to the past. Maybe this would help him, even if it would damn Francis.
"Hey," said a voice behind Francis and he twirled to find Arthur standing behind him. He was wearing his customary simple white shirt and smart, black trousers. His book bag was slung over a shoulder. "Follow me," he ordered before stepping past Francis and walking off.
"What?" asked Francis, frowning as he hurried to catch up. "Where are we going?"
"My place," said Arthur, shortly.
"Why?"
"I'll tell you when we get there."
Confused, Francis could only follow. They went to the nearby Tube station and onto a train. After a few minutes journey, they were soon walking through a residential area, filled with tenements. Silently, Arthur unlocked the front door to one and let Francis inside before making his way to his own flat. Francis felt uneasy – Arthur had hated his old flat when he had met him. That was why they had rented themselves a house instead. It seemed almost as though Arthur had gone backwards instead of forwards.
When they entered, Arthur dumped his bag on a table in the hallway and turned into a small kitchen. "The living room's there," he said, pointing behind him without looking round. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Hm, what do you have, exactly?" asked Francis, hesitantly.
"I could give you the wine I got a while back for a flat-warming gift," Arthur's voice floated back through the door. "That bastard Gil decided it would be hilarious to get some Pinot Noir."
"That would be nice, oui," said Francis, sighing in relief.
"Okay, go sit down," Arthur told him as cupboards were opened.
Daring to peek through the door, Francis asked, "Do you need any help?"
Glancing back at him, Arthur shook his head. "Go sit down," he repeated as he pulled a couple of wine glasses out of a rather bare-looking cupboard.
Nodding, Francis retreated and entered the living room. Beneath a rather large window, squatted an ugly television that Arthur had possibly bought second-hand. The grey curtains had been tied out of the way. A bookcase near the television was filled with DVDs. The rest of the walls were hidden by tall bookcases, full to the brim with books. A laptop sat on the coffee table. The couch was old and appeared musty. Beside it, a more comfortable, red armchair sat, a tall lamp beside it to shed light on Arthur when he was reading.
Reluctant to invade a personal space for Arthur, Francis sat down, gingerly, on the couch. He was still clutching the signed book. Carefully, he placed it on the table and looked round as he heard Arthur approaching. He had an open bottle of wine in his hand, as well as the filled glasses and he set them down on the table before retreating to the sanctuary of his armchair.
There was a moment of silence and Francis used it to pick up a glass. Taking a comforting sip, he glanced up at Arthur. The other man was gazing at him, his face expressionless. What was he thinking? What was he going to say?
"I think we should talk," were the sudden words.
"Quoi?" asked Francis, confused.
"We need to talk, Fran... cis," Arthur explained. "When we were together... Well, let's just say that our communication skills are completely shit."
Francis paused and placed the glass carefully on the table. "What do you want to talk about, exactly?"
"About each other. What we think of each other. I mean-" Arthur sighed as he tried to find the words to convey what he was thinking. "Look. What happened... It mostly happened because I couldn't really talk to you and I didn't- We..." Arthur trailed off and glanced at Francis who nodded encouragingly. "We couldn't move on from our arguments and we were always treading on eggshells because we couldn't say everything we wanted. You know why, don't you?"
"I think so..." said Francis, uncertainly. "Because we could not say what was on our minds for fear of..." Francis trailed off, too, not wanting to bring it up.
"See?" said Arthur, sounding exasperated. "I think- I think it would be good for us to say exactly what we think of the other. Well, I say that I think it but it was really Gil's suggestion, if I was ever to encounter you again."
"Really?" said Francis, amused.
"Yes. Kiku's suggestion was to act as though I couldn't recognise you. I don't think I should repeat Alfred's." An amused smile flitted across his face but was quickly replaced by a serious expression. Francis smiled weakly, too, but quickly lost it as he regarded the Brit carefully. "I will start," Arthur said.
"Oui..." said Francis, tense.
"Right, well, I'll start off with the things I... loved about you," Arthur began, his gaze flickering to Francis before he stared down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "I... Well, I loved your looks of course. Not because I only liked you for your looks but... I loved your smile, the way your eyes lit up and... Your hair, er..." He cleared his throat as his cheeks reddened. Francis felt a soft smile on his lips as he listened intently. "I loved your accent. I loved your food – it was always so amazing and I couldn't wait until you could live out your dream. I loved your singing, especially when I was ill and you sang one of those French lullabies. I loved your kindness and your cleverness. It was always lovely to have an intelligent conversation with you – living with Alfred was such a pain." This caused them both to chuckle and Arthur looked up. Their eyes locked and Francis spotted the love in them before Arthur looked away. "I loved how you made me feel in, er, bed and the way you made me feel about myself. I loved your little habits in the morning, your care with your appearance. I loved feeling your arms around me and that you would leave me alone to read instead of interrupting me to make me do something with you. I loved your acceptance and how you would stick up for me.
"However..." Arthur's tone changed from soft to harsh and Francis flinched instinctively. Something bad was about to happen. "However, I hated that you would constantly berate me for my own appearance and insist I did things I didn't want to so that I would 'look better' or whatever you said. I hated that you would mock my own cooking – I know I'm not the best cook but it hurt that, while I accepted that you wanted to be the one to cook, you would ban me from the kitchen completely. And you would never cook the 'rubbish British food'. It made me feel quite homesick and I wished I could go home to my mother so I could get some of her cooking. I knew I couldn't so it frustrated me more – it was as if someone was twisting a knife in my heart." At this, he raised one of his hands to clutch at his chest. Francis spotted something beneath Arthur's sleeve – it looked like a wristband of some sort. He bit his lip and glanced down at his glass.
After a brief pause and after he had cleared his throat, Arthur continued. "I hated your flirting – even if I wasn't around the people you managed to... seduce-" Francis made a noise of alarm but he was silenced with a look from Arthur. "I was still around at some of your office parties and it... distressed me to see you flirting with your colleagues. I hated that you sometimes spoke in French – you knew I wasn't the best but you still did that and it made me feel rather isolated. Most of all, though, I hated that you would make fun of me or rile me up. That would lead to an argument and then you would run off – it- It scared me and annoyed me but what could I do about it?" He shrugged before looking back at Francis. "The thing I hated the most, though... was that I loved you too much to let you go when I discovered you cheating. And I hated that I loved you so much that I was too blind to work out how to fix it."
He finally stopped speaking and took a deep breath, averting his gaze once more. Francis sat still, taking it all in. A lot of the things that Arthur had disliked about him could have been fixed if Francis had only tried, if he had only known. Biting his lip, he took a deep breath through his nose before releasing it in a sigh. "Désol- Er. I apologise, Arthur. I... I have behaved horribly and-"
Arthur cut him off. "Stop. Just say what you thought of me. What you think of me."
Silence descended – Francis didn't know if he was willing to blurt everything out after all that had happened. Would Arthur sink back into his depression? Yet, he was the one insisting on it. And the psychologist thought it was a good idea... So, after taking a calming sip of his wine, Francis sat back and gazed at Arthur who was watching him closely.
"For me... I hated those eyebrows – why must they be so big? I hated that you would insist on my speaking Anglais. I hated your cooking: how did you manage to burn the spaghetti? I hated your temper: it was always so quick to flare. I hated your scowling. I hated that you would work too much and come home tired. I hated how you would type away on that laptop but refused to share what you were doing with me. It was not that I could not give you space, more that I hated the fact you did not seem to trust me. You always seemed to think I would make fun of you but I have an idea of how wonderful those stories must be. Do you remember the one time I was ill and you tried to put me to sleep with a story of your own? It kept me awake because I was so enthralled. You ended up tiring yourself out and falling asleep before me." Francis chuckled. "I hated the times you would get so drunk that you were a real handful getting home. I hated that you could not tell the truth, that you could not say 'je t'aime' or the English equivalent easily. I hated when you made disparaging comments about the French or called me a Frog with venom in your voice. I preferred it when you used it with a fondness in your voice..."
"You're... saying things that shouldn't be in the 'hate' section," said Arthur, looking rather confused.
Laughing again, Francis leaned towards him. "That is because I also loved some of those things, too. I loved your eyebrows, Sourcils – you look best with them. If you shaved them, it would be too odd. I loved that I was able to cook for you. I loved your scowling because I knew I could always find a way to make you smile – and I love your smile. I loved your sense of duty: it always made the surprises you brought home or the surprise holidays all the better. I loved that, though you were too nervous about your stories to show them to people, you still did what you were passionate about. I loved when you were drunk – you were always so much more honest." Francis grinned at that and Arthur glanced away. His cheeks were starting to go red and Francis wondered whether it was because he was telling him how much he loved him or the comment about his low tolerance of alcohol. "I loved that you never said 'I love you' much. It always meant all the more when you did say it. I loved that you could make insults terms of endearment. I loved the way you would brighten up when Doctor Who or Sherlock came on the television. I loved the way you looked when you were curled up with a book. I loved that I knew how to make you happy in bed – and you knew how to make me tick, aussi. I loved that you stayed with me despite your family's disapproval. I loved that you were kind and sweet and all manner of lovely traits which would take an age to say.
"In short, chéri, I loved you. I love you."
By this point, Arthur was openly gaping at Francis, his face red. He tried to speak but stuttered and had to stop to take a breath. When he had recovered, he said, "That's- Ah, er... You still love me? After..."
"Oui, of course. I..." Francis paused, not entirely sure if he should admit to what he had been doing for the past year. Cautiously, he told Arthur, "I was unable to enjoy myself without you. This past year, I have stayed at home."
"Reading my blog?" asked Arthur, his eyes flickering towards the signed book.
"Ah... Oui."
They sat in silence for a while, unable to look at each other. Francis picked up his glass of wine and began to nurse it, unable to sit still in this uncomfortable atmosphere. Should he leave now? Was that it? All over? What had talking out their true feelings accomplished? Francis had only just realised how much he loved Arthur – it was going to be even more difficult to let him go.
"I love you," mumbled Arthur, suddenly. Francis nearly dropped his glass as he sat up straight, staring in surprise at the Englishman. He wasn't looking at Francis but he cleared his throat and said, louder, "I love you."
"You..."
Arthur looked him in the eyes. "I love you. Which is why the past year has been so painful despite all the good things which have happened. There have been so many times that I... I just wanted to see you again." His cheeks reddened further and he glanced down. "But... I resisted because I thought you would... be with someone else." Sighing sadly, he glanced up, as if he was looking for some kind of confirmation.
"Chéri..." murmured Francis, feeling the urge to gather him in his arms. He resisted – it wouldn't do to startle him. "I have not been with anyone since you left. And I do not think I will ever be with anyone else ever again."
A smile slowly spread across Arthur's face. "I-I see," he said, quietly. "Not sure if I should believe you or not, though. It's not as if you've given me cause to believe what you say."
"Then, shall I show you?" asked Francis. He winced as he realised how suggestive that sounded. No doubt Arthur would be up in arms about that. Quickly, he tried to save face. "I mean, I will show you how much I love you. Will you let me?"
For a few minutes, Arthur chewed on his lip as he thought. Finally, he sighed. "Fine." Francis brightened, a wide smile on his face, but he quickly deflated at the stern look Arthur gave him. "But we're going to have to go slower than the first time." Francis nodded eagerly, listening intently to what Arthur was saying. "You had better avoid Kiku and Alfred as much as possible, as well. I have no doubt they won't like this. Then again, I hardly see Kiku," Arthur added, thoughtfully. "He's rather busy with his job and his girlfriend."
"Girlfriend?" Francis blinked in surprise. In all the years he had known Kiku, he had never known him to be in a relationship.
Grinning, Arthur leaned forward and picked up his glass. "Let me fill you in on what you've been missing."
As they walked amongst the roses, Arthur inhaled deeply, obviously cherishing the scent. They were holding hands, Francis ignoring the horrible wristbands Arthur insisted on wearing when he was out in public. Someone walked past and glanced at the author, clearly wondering if they were seeing things.
"It's hard to believe," began Arthur, "that, all those years ago, you were standing here with- What was her name, again?"
"Michelle," replied Francis, instantly. "I hear that she has moved in with her boyfriend recently. Though, in all honesty, I try not to speak to her too much."
"For my sake?"
"More for my wallet's sake – she always demands free food." Francis sighed as Arthur chuckled. "You do not mind that I took pity on her and gave her a job, oui?"
"You keep asking me that," sighed Arthur. "And I keep telling you that it's fine."
Francis hummed, unsure whether Arthur was telling him the truth or not. If he wasn't, the promise they had made a few years ago to always tell the truth under these roses would be broken. He decided to believe him and nodded. "Still, I think I shall keep up the practice of not speaking with her – I hear her boyfriend has a rather icy demeanour and I would like to keep him from directing that ice towards me."
With a laugh, Arthur said, "You should tell him to 'let it go' if he does."
They both laughed at that and continued on their way in comfortable silence. Soon, they came to their favourite part – the wall of red roses. Here, Francis would always kiss Arthur, not caring if he in the mood for public affection or not. Before Francis could pull Arthur towards him, however, the Englishman had pulled his hand from his grip and turned to face him.
"What is it?" asked Francis, blinking.
"I just wanted to explain something."
"Hm?"
"Well, four years ago, when I asked you to go on that walk and you blew me off to be with Michelle-"
"That was-" Francis tried to protest but he was silenced by a finger at his lips.
"Hush. I asked you to go on a walk so that we could come here."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I wanted to propose to you, right here."
Francis stared, his stomach plummeting. How could he have been so stupid as to ruin such a happy ending? Though, he supposed it explained why Arthur hadn't treated his cheating the same as always and let it pass. "You know, I still have that ring," Francis admitted.
"Sheesh. I told you I didn't want to see it again," sighed Arthur. "Not to worry. You won't need it."
"Quoi-?" began Francis only to cut himself off when he spotted Arthur dropping to one knee. "Arthur?"
"I've been thinking about this for a while and... Well, I figured that, if I ever told you that piece of information I haven't told anyone else..." Arthur looked up at Francis with a smile. "It meant that I had pushed past my depression. You know fine well I've not taken those pills for a while but... I think this is it. Completely cured." He grinned and one of his hands dove into his pocket. Francis stopped breathing as Arthur pulled out a small box. "And I thought that, if I got past it, then... Well, it's only fair to do what I was planning." Opening the box, Arthur revealed a glinting, silver ring. "So, Francis Bonnefoy, will you marry me?"
Without any hesitation, Francis replied, "Yes."
Eh, I know that depression probably can't just disappear just like that. I expect Arthur is lying to both himself and Francis that he's perfectly fine. Or, maybe, he's just too happy to realise that it's not just gone. Or- Look, I just wanted a nice, happy ending so it's probably incorrect. I'm sorry. =/
The Let It Go reference: Arthur spent almost a year in Alfred's flat - do you think he escaped without seeing Frozen? (He quite liked it - Elsa's his favourite and he introduced it to Francis. Who also liked Elsa for some reason.)
The difference in the rings: The first ring, Arthur went all out, was a little desperate to have it work. The second one he was more confident in himself and Francis's response. And he was right to be.
Ah, that reminds me - someone mentioned that this relationship, with Francis cheating, was a horrible one and, basically, they did not condone it. I don't condone it either and would probably have kicked him. Hard. In the general there area. But... At the same time, Francis did love Arthur. I think he was just scared of it failing. Perhaps, in the past, in France, he had a relationship with a lot of arguments which, ultimately, ended. I'm not sure, though.
Why the heck did I write this story, again?
You know, the original idea was basically: Francis leaving the house after Arthur shouting at him, going off to a woman, coming back to Arthur having committed suicide. I kind of had to flesh it out, I suppose, and decided not to have Arthur die.
Ah. This chapter is called "Alone" because I was going to have one of the characters say "I don't want to be alone." But the conversations didn't lend themselves to that.
And now... I want to discuss what happened/happens to the characters. Because I'm not writing any more of this AU.
Francis and Arthur: Marry. Adopt a baby they call Matthew (or Matthieu, if you're gonna be French about it). He learned French from Francis and English from both of them and ended up developing a strange accent which was a mix of them. Growing up, he loved the visits of his "uncles", Al and Kiku. In fact, he was so fond of Al, he kinda copied his style until he grew out of it and tried restyling. Yet he still looked kind of like Al. Luckily, both Francis and Arthur can tell the difference. Unfortunately for Mattie...
Alfred: He was rather overprotective of Artie, huh? That's mainly cause he's a friend. However... I never did decide whether Al was straight or bisexual. I know, once he became a somewhat famous actor, he had a string of girlfriends but, ultimately, he ends up with his five cats: Hero, Crumpet, Escargot, Sushi and Maple. ... Poor thing. Anyways, if he was bisexual, then the real reason he's protective of Artie is cause he has a one-sided crush.
Kiku: He was working with CGI and ended up moving back to Japan with his girlfriend, a blonde named Alice. Because I like the name Alice and then... Fem!England came to mind... So.
Gil and Liz: Totally sorted out their problems and got themselves married.
Michelle: Her boyfriend is Emil. You know - Iceland.
(The receptionist at the hospital was Monaco, by the way.)
Also, there were a few alternate ways this could have worked out: 1) Arthur died. Francis accepted the blame and went through life never married and ending up lonely. 2) Arthur got together with Alfred (but this I deemed too clichéd and just... urgh.) 3) Arthur didn't get together with Alfred but refused to get back together with Francis.
(Which would mean poor Mattie would grow up in an orphanage and... Wow. Those would completely change the future. Huh.)
I think that's it.
