So many stories tell of the moment a person falls in love, the tumultuous moment that they begin to adore someone. But that sort of instantaneous love, however idyllic, isn't something very common or explainable.
A person could love without knowing it, which was why Francis never believed a word a person had to say when they wanted to tell the story of when they fell in love. It wasn't the love that made Francis skeptical, however, he'd loved too deeply and too often in his life to question anyone else's love's believability, no that wasn't it. It was the notion of a singular second, a heartbeat passing, being when love starts.
Francis believed that love was something like filling a cup with water. The droplets of feelings for a person keep adding up until at last one final drop makes the cup run over, the water spilling over the sides, and it's only then that you realize that the cup had been filling all along. It's then that you realize you're in love.
That's what Francis saw those supposed "I fell in love in that moment" stories as. As moments of realization that one's heart was filled and overflowing with love.
And it was a cool December morning, his hand curled at the bare hip of his still snoozing boyfriend, that he had one of these realizations. It wasn't the first time in his life, of course. He'd lived so long and loved so much, but it was surprising nonetheless.
The room was cold and he'd pressed closer to the American who's bed he was in, arm tightening around him, and a small noise of contentedness escaped his boyfriends unconscious mouth. That little sound did something to Francis that had his throat dry, his eyes stinging, and his cheeks hot. That tiny noise was the last drop. Francis realized he was in love. Once again, deeply, achingly, stupidly in love. And with Alfred, no less. What a complete mess.
A mess, but one he'd handle with grace.