That one day was the day Francis felt had to be the one to clear everything up. He got up late, knowing Arthur would sleep in too, the day being Saturday. It was raining outside as if a premonition for bad things to come, but he decided to shrug it off as his imagination. He wanted to talk to Arthur, wanted to know what was going on in that little sweet head of his; he wanted his love to smile a real smile again. It was past noon when he appeared behind his neighbor's door and to his joy, the Brit answered it. "Hey, sorry about that night, I just had a horrible day," he said once the Frenchman was inside. "It's alright. You're looking... slightly better," he said, observing Arthur. "Yeah?" he chuckled. There was no more blood, only his eye was still blue - luckily not swollen - and there were a few cuts along his lips and cheeks. "I'm prohibited from visiting the Hellhound for a few months now... Anyway, I had a look at those notes you sent me," he said after Francis had opened one of the bottles of wine he had brought along with him. "We can try it if you like." Francis smiled and nodded.

The next hours were spent on the small bench at Arthur's piano. Francis noted they sat very close, thighs pressed against one another. Occasionally their hands would brush together, since they both were playing: Francis was in charge of the lower keys while Arthur took care of the higher notes. The Brit couldn't help but to admire the tenderness his friend used while singing; he enjoyed listening to him, sometimes even forgetting his own queue. The singing made him blush occasionally, since he felt Francis was as if singing to him. The Frenchman on the other hand couldn't keep smiling from hearing Arthur put so much heart into the song; he wanted to hear his voice beside his for many years to come.

It was getting dark outside and after a few too many bottles of wine the two found themselves on Arthur's couch, sitting side by side, laughing, after a delicious dinner Francis had prepared. Encouraged by the alcohol, he threw his arms around the Brit and quietly said, eyes half-closed: "You're so cute. I mean... like just not your looks are cute, but your personality too. The things you say are cute. Your voice is cute. Your smile is cute. How you talk to me is just adorable. I like talking to you. I really, really like it. I like how I can call you in the middle of the night and talk till one of us falls asleep. Even though you can be really weird sometimes, I still like that. I like you and just you." Arthur was quickly sobered by this sudden outburst. "So, it has finally happened," he thought in terror, assuming Francis was trying to get a move on him now, of all the times. "What are you saying?" he demanded, slowly nudging away from his friend, who only chuckled and grabbed his hand. "Don't you get it?" he asked. "I just want you, that's it. All your flaws, mistakes, smiles, giggles, jokes, sarcasm. Everything. I just want you." "What do you mean, want me? In a sexual way or something?" Arthur asked, his voice heightened, and stood up, getting nervous and panicking. "Sexual... I have thought about it, it would be lovely, non?" Francis trailed off and also stood. "But... A kiss is just a kiss until you find the one you love. A hug is just a hug till you find the one you're always thinking of. A dream is just a dream until it comes true... and love is just a word until someone is able to prove it to you." Arthur took a few steps back, devastated to see Francis cross the borders of friendship. He hadn't wanted to believe his father's words and now that he himself had given up on the idea of them being together for more than just friends, they rang even clearer in his head. "He's just saying everything to get me in bed," he thought to himself, biting his lip. „Father was right all along."

"Get away from me, get yourself together!" he yelled at Francis, who was suddenly sober from the Brit's screaming. "I can't believe you would do something like that to me! All this time, after all these talks, you wanted me to pour my heart out, just so you could use it to have your way with me!" he screamed, all his darkest thoughts coming to daylight. "You never told me any of those things similar to which I have told you!" "Just because some people's hearts are hard to reach doesn't mean it's not there," Francis said, hurt that Arthur could think this way of him. "Don't speak as if you know everything, you don't! After all you know I've been through, how dare you treat me as if another one of those women you and your friends pick up so easily from the street! Using me to your advantage"" the Brit yelled, clenching his fists. "You're just confused," the Frenchman tried to calm him. "You're probably overheated from your father's words and all your assumptions... How I wish I could take away all your pain just like all those nights when you're staying up too late. Because you deserve so much better than there could ever be," he cooed, taking a few steps towards his nerve-wrecked friend. "Don't!" Arthur yelled. "Why do you still keep trying to woo me with your words? I don't care for you that way!" he shrieked, tears ready to burst. He didn't know why he was getting so upset. Maybe because it all had mattered to him so much and it hurt saying things like that, even though he knew some of them might not have been true. "Don't act so hurt!" he protested to Francis, who was visibly broken. "It hurts, because it matters! That is a huge thing for me to realize - there are things in life that hurt and they hurt, because they are important. It's a real loss, the way you're behaving, and one that needs to be grieved. What happened to you, Arthùr, why are you being like this?" Francis said, his voice becoming louder. "Stop it!" Arthur yelled, grabbing his own head between his arms, hurting himself by tearing at his hair. "Get out, I never want to see you again!"

Francis was shocked. He was at loss for words, he had never expected it all to go that far. He watched Arthur be in shambles before him, broken, inside and out. "If that is what you wish," he muttered, and went for the door, but stopped to look back at the Brit. "Promise me. Promise me you won't forget our laughs and our jokes; our smiles. Our conversations and plans. Even the tears. Our memories, our experience. Our friendship," he said quietly and tried to hold back his tears, seeing Arthur cry. He knew he had meant much to him and he still couldn't understand how all that had happened. "In a sea of people, my eyes will always search for you," he bid farewell before slamming the door after him, hearing one last „shut up" and "get out" from Arthur. After hearing the door bang, the Brit fell to the floor, weary and crying. He cursed himself for many things; for being so weak and wailing so much, but most importantly - for following his father's advice of getting rid of Francis, and knowing that there was no way he could just go and apologize after all that. For late hours he couldn't get himself together, seeing the Frenchman everywhere he looked, until he wore himself out and fell asleep on the couch, Francis' cardigan under his head, eyes cried dry.

Francis sat behind the kitchen table in his flat, resting his head on his arms. He felt completely numb and empty, still going over what had just happened. After a lot of thought his mind was set up and with a heavy heart he opened his laptop to buy himself a one-way ticket back to France. After he had finished the procedure, he got furious at himself and at Arthur, and stood up, kicking the chair to the ground. He yelled and teared at his hair, not believing any of this was real. He went to the balcony, a bottle of wine and a few cartons of smokes with him and spent hours there, trying to regain his composure and to calm his mind. He felt horrible and couldn't help staring at the Brit's windows. Feeling sleep come over him, he went to his bed, slamming, kicking and punching everything that got in his way. "I hope you know how much you mean to me," was his last thought before drifting off.