And Arthur must have caught that little smile that tugged on the tips of Francis’ lips as well, for he leaned down and pressed two soft, gentle kisses to each side. And Francis could forget about everything that had happened to him. His smoking, his alcoholism, his depression, his hallucinations, his ulcers and infections and loss of beauty and weight and his throwing up blood and near suicidal attempt — and maybe, maybe even the affair, for a moment. Because they were going to work through this, together. And that, that was all that mattered for now.
It was good to be back. The apartment was the same as it always was — maybe a little dirtier, a little mustier, but as familiar as ever. And it was home. Francis’ inner voice hummed.
Arthur stood to his right, carrying the bag they had ferried from the old run-down apartment where Francis had been staying. He placed it down gently, removed his tie, kicked off his shoes, and flicked on the living room lights before gingerly taking a step in. Every one of his movements was controlled and careful, as though he didn’t know how to act around his reclaimed husband. Francis couldn’t blame him; he felt the same way. They still had a long way to go.
“Hungry?” asked Arthur, and Francis wondered whether or not he should take the bait, deny the offer, and make fun of Arthur’s cooking.
He didn’t. “No,” he said instead. “I’m alright.”
“I’ll put your stuff away,” said Arthur, grabbing the duffel and disappearing into the bedroom. Francis wondered what it would feel like to wake up next to Arthur again, washed in morning sunlight. He followed Arthur into the room and leaned against the door frame with his hands shoved in his pockets, looking out of place. He watched Arthur for a little while, before turning his eyes to the bedside table that was wiped clean of the photographs they used to keep. He’d expected that Arthur would throw away the photos of them together — it wouldn’t have been the first time — but Arthur had always kept the ones of Matthieu, and Francis felt a little indignant that those ones were gone too. What has Matthieu ever done to deserve Arthur’s anger? Was his only crime that of being Francis’ younger brother?
“You’ll take care of Matthieu, right?” Francis asked suddenly, and Arthur jerked, not having known that he was being watched. “If…if something happens to me? You’ll make sure he’s alright?”
Arthur straightened, the bag slack in his hands. “What do you mean, if something happens to you? Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well, don’t.”
“But I’m only just saying.”
“Well, stop. I don’t want to hear it.”
Francis’ lips turned into a tight line. He wanted to argue, but he almost felt like he shouldn’t because Arthur held the upper ground. Here, he was almost inferior to the Brit, because it was he who had had the affair, he who was sick, he who suffered from clinical depression and almost just killed himself, not the other way around.
Arthur seemed to notice this and dropped the bag. He sat down on the edge of the bed, inviting Francis to join by patting the space beside him. Francis did, though he remained as tight-lipped and straight-backed as possible.
“Look at me,” Arthur ordered, and Francis did. Both of them shifted around a little so that their knees were touching and they were completely facing each other, one hand keeping them balanced on the bed. Arthur didn’t touch Francis otherwise — only ran his eyes critically over Francis’ thin body. Francis almost flinched when he did so. He didn’t want anybody — not even Arthur — to look at him in that way, ever. “We, uh,” said Arthur. “We have a lot to do.”
Francis nodded.
“Maybe we should make a list.”
“A list?” Francis shook his head. He didn’t want Arthur to objectify their problems by categorizing them on paper. And he didn’t want to admit that some of those problems existed — because even though he knew they did in his own mind, writing them down would make them seem more concrete, would affirm their existence. That denial in itself was one of the quintessential problems that made up his being, and it made Francis feel a bit hopeless. It was as though every choice he made was because of one of the many problems he had, and that every choice he made was in some way wrong.
Arthur looked like he was biting down hard on his tongue. “Okay. Okay, that’s fine too.” He gave the other a small smile, reaching his hand over to place it on Francis’ thigh. The smile was intended for comfort, and it accomplished its goal; Francis visibly loosened up. He returned it, grateful.
“We should, uh,” Arthur cleared his throat. “We should talk, then.”
Francis chewed his bottom lip. “I don’t want to do that, either.” There was just too much to talk about, and Francis didn’t want to take any risks.
Arthur threw up his hands. “What do you want to do, then?”
“You don’t have to get angry,” protested Francis. “That’s only two things you suggested we do that I denied. It’s not like I don’t want to do anything.”
“Alright. Jolly good. Do you want to call your brother, tell him what happened?”
“Well…no.” Matthieu can’t know, not yet. There were too many things Francis had hidden from him and to tell him one would be to tell him all, and Matthieu would not be able to handle all that information. Neither could Francis handle having to deal with Matthieu trying to handle.
Arthur’s face reddened. “Do you want to go out for a movie?”
“I don’t think now’s a good time for that, Arthur.”
“Okay, fine,” said Arthur, tightening his grip on Francis’ leg. “Whatever. Water?”
Francis moved Arthur’s hand off his leg because it was starting to grow numb. “No, thank you. Really.”
He wondered if it would be appropriate if he was to suddenly laugh at Arthur’s growing expression of frustration. “How about I just leave you be, and you can get some rest, then,” grit out the Brit, moving to get off the bed. “You must be tired.” He tried to give another smile, a more sympathetic one, but it turned out to look more like a grimace.
Francis grabbed Arthur’s hand. “I was thinking, maybe we could go for a walk.”
“A walk.”
“Yes. Yes, a walk. I think that would be nice.”
Francis could tell that now it was Arthur who didn’t want to go for a walk, probably because walking would require more energy than Arthur could afford to give at the moment. And probably because Arthur wouldn’t have the liberty to blow up at Francis whenever he wanted to out in public.
“Okay,” agreed Arthur finally. “Let’s go grab our coats.”
Francis let out a breath, thankful. Although his own fingers slackened, Arthur never let go of his hand for the entire eight-second trip back to the front door. Francis would call that progress.
-
Before they left the apartment, Arthur made a cup of tea and poured it into his thermos; probably to calm his nerves, Francis suspected. The Brit offered some to him, which he took gingerly before he remembered his he probably shouldn’t. The tea burned in his stomach, causing him to almost throw it back up, and Francis had a sudden longing to just crawl back into bed and do nothing for the rest of the week. He just felt so ill; how he had managed to feel completely fine a week ago was an enigma to him. Fortunately, he managed to simply pass off the pain with a quick grimace before Arthur could ask him what the matter was, and he handed the tea back and just replied that it’s been a while since he tried the stuff, being careful not to insult the other’s favourite beverage.
Things were different now, Francis knew, different in the way they were going to interact and different in their dynamic. For a while, at least, Francis had to do his utmost best to avoid a fight with his husband, to avoid teasing him or insulting him or calling him any degrading names. He knew it would be hard; after all, bickering for bickering’s sake was what they did, and it was one of the things Francis actually loved about their relationship. There were going to be sacrifices both of them would have to be willing to make, if both were fully supportive of the idea of living together once again. Francis was determined, this time, not to screw things up.
They didn’t chat for a while after they left the building. Arthur had brought with him a small tub of Nutella which Francis held and they were taking turns eating the stuff right off their fingers. After a while of this, just walking through the wet streets of Paris, Arthur seemed to come across a realization and pulled the container away from Francis and asked, “Is there anything you can’t eat?”
Francis just shrugged, for he honestly did not know. He was just glad to have good food back in his system, after having survived for so long on stale sandwiches and water. His new mantra had become eat it first and if you feel sick later, don’t eat it again. “I don’t think so.” Honestly, if it doesn’t give me acid reflux or heartburn, I’m good.
Arthur gently picked up Francis’ wrist and shook it limply. “Well, you are rather skinny,” he said. “Do you want to go out for dinner? It’ll be good for us. It’ll be like, a date…of sorts.”
Francis smiled shyly and picked at his scarf. He twisted his hand around the one Arthur had on his wrist and fit his slim fingers between the other’s. “Could we just grab some take out? I’m not really up for eating in a public restaurant. I can’t — can’t deal with being around too many people at the moment.”
“Is it because,” Arthur hesitated. “Because of how you look?”
He shrugged again, not wanting to appear a martyr or for Arthur to worry about him. “I always look gorgeous, Arthur, and you know it,” he said, but his voice cracked at the end and he just sounded pathetic. He coughed and turned his head to the side and tried letting go of Arthur’s hand.
“You’re ridiculous,” Arthur snorted, pulling him closer. A very serious look flitted across his face, and Francis’ heart plummeted as he wondered if Arthur was going to say something cruel to him. He tried jerking away again and tucking his arm against his chest, but Arthur only leaned forwards and whispered fiercely in his ear, “Don’t you try to fool me. You’re as vain as you always were; nothing’s changed about that, and I love you for it. You’ve lost some weight, sure, but don’t you ever try to tell yourself that you’re any less of a person for it. You hear me?”
Francis nodded furiously, his face red in alarm and embarrassment. “Arthur, you don’t have to whisper your affections to me. Be a little more confident in yourself.” He smiled shakily, trying to look confident himself, when inside his heart was thumping like a trip hammer. He said ‘I love you’ to me. He just told me he loves me. After all this time.
Arthur slapped him on the shoulder and rolled his eyes. “Can’t ever take what you got,” he muttered.
Francis, seized by a wild, instinctual impulse, took a leap of faith and put the Nutella right on the ground and quickly leaned over and with his other hand ran finger down one of Arthur’s hairy eyebrows. It twitched in response, and Francis was pulling away so quickly you could hardly have even told that he was there, and then he was pulling up the scarf so that it hid the tip of his nose and feeling like he was twelve years old again, all gangly with adolescence and giddy with the idea of love. “I must have missed you more than I thought,” said Francis aloud, though he didn’t mean to.
Now it was Arthur’s turn to blush, which was always an adorable sight to behold. The redness would travel all the way up his neck to his ears, deepening the colour of his freckles and making his eyes go all big and scared looking. There, in the middle of the sidewalk they stopped and shared a quick kiss as Parisians and tourists alike milled about them, their feet making wet splashing noises as they hurried through the puddles of rain.
Arthur was the first to break away, pulling Francis along as they, too, began to run, laughing and fumbling for more kisses, their hands clenched together between them, their tongues thick with the taste of Nutella and Earl Grey and each other. In that moment they felt more like the young adults they were in college than the mid-20s men they were now and it was exhilarating, to feel so wild and young again with the one person you adored most. They ignored the looks they got from those they passed, the ones that probably read Teenagers, with a bemused smile — because they did indeed look like teenagers when their laugh lines covered the wrinkles of adulthood. They didn’t know where they were going — and it didn’t matter, anyway. They were simply running away, placing distance between them and their old flat and all the painful memories held within it. Twice Arthur stopped and fumbled through his pockets for spare change (with all the while Francis panting alongside him or attacking his cheeks with his lips) — once to buy his husband a flower, which he gave with not a trace of hesitation and the other received with flying enthusiasm, the other time for a euro to toss in the fountain located in the center of their neighbourhood park.
“Force of habit,” Arthur said then, and they both laughed like idiots, watching the coin sink to the bottom — Francis because he was the one who introduced this habit to Arthur in the first place, and Arthur because he remembered.
It was for good luck — a long, happy, prosperous life. And sometimes a wish, which would be a little too cliche for Arthur, but it was the kind of thing Francis lived for — cliche, cheesy, romantic moments.
“If you had a wish —” he started, but Arthur beat him to it.
“I’d wish for you to get better,” Arthur said, and they turned to look at each other at exactly the same time. Arthur’s eyes were wide and serious, his lips set to a grim line, and he was breathing hard through his nose. They were still holding hands, but no longer laughing, no longer clutching at each other for breath; they were calmer, stiller, and Francis only then realized how late it had gotten. The stars had already come out.
“Arthur —”
“Francis, I.” Arthur let go of Francis for a moment to press the back of his fist to his mouth, and Francis was vividly reminded of the moment Arthur had found him out again at three AM in the morning, the last time they had had a proper conversation before everything started to go wrong. “You don’t know how horrible I feel for all of this.”
Francis reached for the hand again, struggled to pull it away from Arthur’s face. “Arthur, it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.”
“How do you know that?” Arthur shot back.
“Because it always is,” Francis said helplessly, though he didn’t.
“Look at you,” Arthur said, gesturing to all of Francis, and Francis looked at himself, at the body Arthur had almost called beautiful just a few hours ago. “No, don’t. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not you, it’s —”
“The sickness.”
“The sickness,” Arthur repeated flatly, and Francis nodded.
“You’re making me feel like I’m on death row,” Francis said, trying to force a little humour in. “So don’t talk like that. I’ll be fine. I was fine on my own for a long time, wasn’t I?”
“That’s the thing!” Arthur shouted, twisting his arm away from Francis and taking two steps back. “That’s the thing! I wasn’t there for you, I should have been there for you — Antonio called me and told me you were sick and I believed him but I didn’t and I didn’t even bother to check — and then you had to go and try to kill yourself, you imbecile —”
“There’s something fucked up with your brain!” Arthur was screaming now, and the park was dead quiet. On their right, just a couple dozen meters away, the Seine flowed gently by; it seemed like in Paris, no matter where you turned, the Seine was always there, haunting you. “You’re not supposed to be so calm about this. You have HIV — a terminal disease, and you’re just withering away right now, and you threw yourself off a bridge — there’s something so fucked up with you!”
Francis knows this, but it hurts even more when it’s coming from Arthur, and he wonders why it was that they were always doing this to each other. He was sniffling silently into his own hands now, the ones that cupped the lower half of his face, not willing to face his husband. The rose had fallen to the ground when Francis covered his face, somewhat crumpled by all this stepping around.
“You’re going to die. You’re going to die and you’re going to leave me here, all alone. If the HIV doesn’t kill you, I swear to God I will — I swear to God, Francis, I thought I could die for you and I would, I would if we could switch places, but I can’t live for you. I can’t do it. I can’t.”
Francis is nodding, always nodding, accepting the words that were throwing themselves at his chest, the tears just streaming down his face with no sign of cease. “I know,” he managed to choke. “I know I’m ugly and wasted and dying. Please, Arthur — please stop. You’re making me feel — I, just. You don’t have to say it out loud, you know?” Because the question of his death from HIV had never been something Francis had pondered before. He’d always known that the HIV brought him certain failure in life, abject misery, but he had never considered the fact that it may never go away and it may just keep on eating at him until he is decomposing beneath the ground, to die for the second and last time.
“How could you be so selfish?” whispered Arthur. “To have tried to end your life before it was your time — how?” And Arthur was not making any sense, he was contradicting himself and just saying all the things that were on his mind and Francis knew this, but he couldn’t help think about how it was unfair of the Brit to ask him of all these things.
“I don’t know,” Francis cried, his cold breath escaping his hands and making misty formations in the night air. “I don’t know.”
“You won’t even deny it,” snarled Arthur, and suddenly he had a fist clenched and he punched Francis right on the middle of his face, right where Gilbert’s blow had also landed. Francis fell back, surprised, his hands falling away from his face, and when he regained his footing he looked on at his husband with betrayal in his eyes and blood pouring from his nose onto his palms. And that was ridiculous, really, for the blow hadn’t even hurt that much — the words hurt so much more. And it wasn’t the first time they traded blows, it really wasn’t — but for Arthur to have lashed out at him in this manner, for him to have beat at him and broken him down and then kicked out for good measure — for him to have lowered his guard and for Arthur to have punched him anyway — that was what intensified the pain all that much more.
“Oh, God,” said Arthur. “Oh, God, I hadn’t meant to do that. Here — sorry. Here — here, let me —” but it was too late, and Francis was spinning on his heels and running away.
He was faintly aware of the fact that Arthur was following him as he tore his way through the park, past the trees and bushes and all that, and it didn’t really matter anyway because soon he was out of breath and had to stop. He just didn’t want to be around Arthur. He just wanted to be as far as possible from the Brit — on the other side of the solar system, preferably, or in another life or time or whatever. Some self-hating traitorous part of him even wanted Arthur dead a little bit, because he was boiling with rage and anger and betrayal and some things didn’t matter anymore.
Then there were arms around him as he crouched down, his strength completely leaving him without energy to hold himself up straight. He wondered if Arthur thought him even the more pathetic because of this, and found that he didn’t care what Arthur thought at all. Or maybe he did. He couldn’t tell anymore; all he could feel was the searing pain from his abdomen and the hacking sobs from his chest and the dizziness in his head from lack of breath and the wetness that he kept trying to wipe away from his cheeks and chin and most of all the tenderness of his nose — broken?
“Get away from me, you brute,” he said, trying to preserve the last pieces of his self-respect as he struggled to push Arthur away, but the Brit has got him firmly clenched by his upper arms. And so badly did Francis want to punch him back now that the other was in such close proximity and his hands were free, but no — he turned his head instead, letting the blood drip, and bit down hard on his bottom lip and wondered if he could ever stop crying, just for a day or two.
Arthur didn’t say a word. He was wiping at Francis’ face with the sleeve of his jacket, which was disgusting, but Francis could no longer spare the energy to resist. He collapsed against the nearest tree and let Arthur tend to him, sniffling every once in a while. He couldn’t see a thing, not in this kind of darkness, except for maybe the stars up ahead; they twinkled as though to mock him.
“Can you not,” Francis struggled to say, as both grew calmer. “Could you, next time, not lie to me?”
“What do you mean?” Arthur’s voice was hoarse and broken sounding.
“Don’t tell me you love me, and then say all those other things,” Francis said.
“I didn’t mean any of that other stuff,” Arthur protested. His own face was dry and tear-less — whether it was because he was attempting to remain the stronger of the two or because he really didn’t give a damn. Francis sort of hated him for both.
“There you go again, lying.”
Arthur stopped, and Francis braced himself for the impact. He wondered what Arthur would say — Well, you lied first, you bastard. You were the one who got us into this mess in the first place. You screwed us both over. Can you really blame me? You cheated on me. You broke my heart. This is the least I can do in retaliation. But he didn’t say any of those things; he leaned over and gave Francis a kiss on the forehead, and then on the nose, and when he pulled away there was a bit of blood on his lips. And Francis was reminded of why he fell in love with this man in the first place, and it helped calm him down a little. He already knew, in a way, that he had forgiven him.
“Sorry,” Arthur murmured, brushing Francis’ hair away from his eyes. “I lost control for a moment.”
“That’s what physically abusive husbands always say,” Francis muttered, a little resentfully.
“Do shut up,” Arthur said. “And don’t be so dramatic.”
“You’ve ruined my face forever,” mumbled Francis.
“Not forever, love,” Arthur sighed. “You’ll be back in shape in no time. Your nose isn’t even broken, you big crybaby, look —” and then he poked it, and Francis yelped.
“That’s the second time I’ve been punched in two days,” Francis said accusingly.
“Who else hit you?” scowled Arthur.
“Gilbert.”
“Gilbert hit you?! I’m going to rip his eyes out!”
Francis laughed at the irony of it, before growing silent for a moment.
“If you ever hit me again, I’m leaving,” he finally said firmly, though he didn’t mean it. Even if Arthur beat him down to the ground every single night, he would probably still stay so long as he was wanted. Fucked up, just like Arthur said. Everything was fucked up.
Arthur helped Francis off the ground and dusted the snow off the other’s jeans and shoulders. Most of the blood was gone from Francis’ face now, although what had remained had spread and dried everywhere and made him look as though he’d just gotten back from a gang attack. They hugged fiercely, and Francis hiccuped, and they laughed, although some things still throbbed on the inside.
“Hey,” Arthur said. “You’re not ugly, and,” he choked. “You’re not useless. And you’re not going to die. I’ll make sure of that. I swear. We’ll be old together one day, you and I.”
Francis nodded mutely. Arthur went on, “I’ll make it up to you, somehow.”
“I know you will.” A smile of trust.
Arthur returned it. “Let’s go find some food. You must be starving.” They fumbled for each other’s hands again and they held each other tight; this time, they wouldn’t let go.
Francis knew there were many things that were wrong with their relationship — the way they fought so often and were violent towards each other and hurt each other more often than not. And how they were utterly and hopelessly dependent on each other. This was unhealthy, this was unsafe, this would drive both of them to their graves. But as long as they went together.
The most important thing was that as long as they had each other, there was hope; hope that one day they’d be able to move past their troubles and see a therapist and become a real, working couple. To Francis, that was all that mattered. Their relationship may be one of the most dysfunctional in the world — to the point where any other in their place would have already ended up on some TV show (‘Didn’t you see the signs?’ someone would ask him, and Francis would have to reply, ‘Yes, yes I did. But I didn’t care’) — but it was all Francis had, and he knew that that tiny sliver of hope to see a future where both he and Arthur were happy together would keep them going for as long as need be until they both dropped dead where they stood.
They ended up finding some quiet restaurant to stay where there were not a lot of people eating in. Both went to get washed up in the bathroom, Francis spending a careful amount of time on making sure his hair was in order. Since it was so short, there was not much to do, and he ended up fiddling with his shirt buttons while waiting for Arthur to finish using the urinal.
Arthur noticed him at it as he was walking towards the sink and pointed out, for the first time, Francis’ hair. “Why did you get it cut?”
This was the question Francis had been dreading most of all — for to answer honestly would be to tell Arthur about the visit Chel had paid him. He couldn’t have that, not now. “I, uh,” he cleared his throat. “I thought it was time for a change.”
Arthur went quiet, and Francis wondered if that had been the wrong thing to say. A hair cut could potentially be a sign of moving on, of changing one’s perspective in life — of Francis insinuating that he’d been trying to get over his husband after their ‘break-up’. Francis, too, remained silent — he didn’t know what to add to his words to make Arthur think otherwise.
Arthur dried off his hands and the two left the men’s room and found their seats at the table. Arthur spent most of the time ignoring Francis in favour of reading the menu upside down while Francis’ eyes wandered around the restaurant, for once not out of any particular desire to find some beautiful young waitress to hit on but out of curiosity. He’d never come here before, and he knew practically every single good French restaurant within a ten mile radius. This was probably not a good French restaurant. Arthur looked up at him from two very thick brows. “I hope you aren’t —” he started dangerously, and Francis quickly waved his hands.
“No, no,” he smiled. “I’m — I’m done. With that, I mean.”
Arthur put the menu down and reached his hands across the table; Francis took them both. It felt like the longest night of his life; just this morning he’d still been in the hospital before Arthur had managed to convince the nurses to forgo the tests they wanted to take because Francis was fine, thank you very much. And just yesterday he had had that dream and Gilbert had punched him in the face and that seemed like it’d been years ago.
“We should probably talk,” said Arthur. “About us.”
Francis agreed, and watched with some amusement as Arthur began to turn red. The Brit had never been good at talking about his feelings; hell, neither was he. They were both terribly bad with communication between each other — Arthur was slightly better at it with the written word but still generally very bad nonetheless. He obviously did not know how or where to start, so Francis summoned what courage he had left and decided to go first.
“These past few months, I…” he started, struggling to remember any of it. What had he done? The time had passed in a daze of booze and smoke and heavy depression; he knew that the days had seemed to drag by forever, but now that they were over he could hardly recall a single thing that had happened. “I was lost,” he said instead, fumbling over his words and deciding to rely on his body language instead. He looked Arthur right in the eye, and Arthur held his gaze right back, and he tried to communicate his sincerity through that look alone. “I was lost without you, you know. It, well. This…this one time, about a year ago, me and Gilbert met up at L'Éther Rouge , and Gilbert suggested that, well. That we were losing our touch. As a couple.”
Arthur’s eyebrows shot straight up but he said nothing. In fact, he looked all the more serious for it. Francis gulped and continued. “I felt it, too. That maybe we were becoming too domestic. And you have to understand, Arthur, I was scared . I’d never done commitment before, and we’d been married for almost a couple years then and I was doing fine , but then I realized that maybe the rest of our lives would be exactly like that, forever — and I don’t know what came over me, because I loveyou and you have to realize that I could never grow bored of you, or anything silly like that, but. But I wasn’t thinking.”
Arthur nodded slowly, his fingers squeezing Francis’. Francis nodded to himself, trying to summon the courage to go on. “And…and you always did seem to pay more attention to me when we fought, because fighting is just what we do. And I was so stupid, I thought — I thought, if I had an affair —” at this Arthur tore his eyes away and was looking down, and Francis ruthlessly trudged on, “— if, if I had an affair, that maybe you would pay even more attention to me.”
A waitress had come to take their order, and Arthur spoke in ragged French to place it while Francis said nothing. He kept searching Arthur’s face, for any sign that he was truly forgiven, for any sign that suggested that Arthur couldn’t continue this conversation and that perhaps they should stop. But Arthur, the brave man he always was, a knight at heart, managed to appear strong as ever and the Frenchman sighed with relief and gratitude.
“I’m here, Francis,” Arthur smiled encouragingly. “I won’t interrupt you. Take your time.”
“Don’t say those things to me,” Francis said. “I don’t deserve that.”
Arthur inhaled through his nose. “We’ve both made mistakes we regret,” was all he said. We’ll get through this together, was what he mouthed.
Francis nodded again to reassure himself, shifted in his seat, and clenched Arthur’s hands so tightly he thought he would bruise them. “I don’t love Chel,” he swore. “It was all only a ploy to get your attention. It was you, you know. You. You.”
“I know, Francis,” Arthur was saying, over and over again, trembling in his seat. “I know.”
“And,” gulped Francis. “And I started throwing up blood when you were at work. I — I didn’t know why. I thought it was just because, of how repulsed I felt, because of what I did — to you. Of how guilty I felt. And — and I started staying over at Antoine’s, just for a night, you know, because I needed some air — but then one night turned to two and then three and then I was switching between him and Gilbert and then they were kicking me out because I was staying over so often. And then Gilbert made me see Kiku —” Arthur’s eyes widened, and Francis said through dry lips, “Do you remember him?”
“I dated him in college,” said Arthur, and Francis felt as though a great weight had just been lifted off his shoulders. He’d thought that Arthur wanted to keep the fact that he’d dated Kiku before away from him for some reason — maybe because some part of him still loved the Japanese man or something ridiculous like that — but the way the admission slipped so easily from Arthur’s lips made it seem as though Kiku hadn’t really mattered in the end, that Arthur had only not told Francis because he had forgotten about it, because it was so unimportant to him compared to Francis. And so Francis found the energy to continue:
“Kiku suspected that I had it. The disease, I mean. I’d been carrying a fever, you see — and feeling sick and tired all the time. I didn’t know. I think he managed to diagnose me correctly mainly because I told him I’d been spending less time in front of the mirror,” and Arthur chuckled slightly, worry clear in his eyes. “He also said I had a respiratory tract infection, but that wasn’t true at all. And that’s when I went to see you again. And when I left — I, I wrote you a letter,” he said sheepishly.
“That I loved you and couldn’t live without you,” Francis laughed, although he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d written. “I ripped it in two and left it on the ground. Someone may have found it by now, it couldn’t have gone far.” Francis pondered this thoughtfully, wondering if perhaps someone had found it.
“And?”
“And,” said Francis. “And shortly afterward I found out, in Antoine’s bathroom.”
Arthur smiled, a bit sadly. “We’re two halves of a whole moron,” he said, and Francis shook his head.
“Just me, there.”
It was another while more before their food arrived, and when it did, Francis told him the rest of the story — without holding anything back. He ended up pushing away most of his food, being for the most part still not very hungry, and went into the whole detail of it all (or at least the major events he could remember) — Yao and the tea and his daughter and speaking with Arthur over the phone and being diagnosed with a gastric ulcer and having abdominal pains and nausea and losing weight and quitting his job. He went on to tell of the apartment of the old couple whom he stayed with and feeling as though Arthur had quit him forever. He didn’t talk much about that, of course — and skipped most of the events of the bar, leaving out whatever he felt he didn’t have to — but as it was, he ended up arriving at the part where Chel came back, and all of a sudden he had to make the decision to whether or not to tell Arthur the truth.
All this time, Arthur had sat there like the perfect listener, flinching half the time, eyes growing twice as large as he was told about the ulcer, asking Francis all the right questions and worrying about him and fussing over him. And Francis liked that. That was what he had striven to achieve since the very beginning — Arthur’s attention. He couldn’t lose it, not now, not when he was so close.
And so he decided to lie.
He told Arthur of a girl whose face he did not see, who took him back to her apartment to stay the night although they did not do anything. He did not tell him about the haircut. He did not tell him about forgiving Chel.
He did not tell him about his talk with Matthieu or about hallucinating his mother, either.
He knew these lies — these omissions of the truth — would one day come back and bite him in the rear but for now he did not care, could not care. Everything else was revealed to Arthur — and shouldn’t that be enough?
By the time he had finished it was almost eleven in the night and the two had to leave. Francis felt that what he had revealed that night had dented their relationship even more than before. He wanted to take it back, all of it, to hide his griefs from the world and take care of it himself and to not have Arthur worry — but then Arthur drew him close and whispered, “I’m glad you told me,” and kissed him.
Francis was glad, too, in a way. Because it was him and Arthur now; there was no more ‘I’.
And God, how it felt good to get all that off his chest. And to hear Arthur say it back — “I was on the verge of depression. I was lonely. I needed you back ” — was more than he could have ever hoped for.
-
“Do you believe in reincarnation?” Arthur asked Francis, and Francis blinked at him, tired.
“Not particularly,” said Francis. “I like to think that there is an eternal paradise in the afterlife, even if I don’t believe in God.”
Arthur smiled; Francis could not see him, but he could still tell by the way he spoke next. “How about in soul mates?” he asked, and Francis froze for a second.
“Well, I believe in you,” said Francis, in all seriousness, but Arthur only laughed. “Maybe,” Francis continued. “But I think it kind of ruins the validity of a relationship, if two soul mates get together, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
“To know that someone was destined for you by a higher power — it’s comforting, in a way, but it ruins the relationship you’ve built with the person you are with now. The trials we’ve been through, Arthur, everything we’ve done — was that intended, too? Or was that done by our own means — for us to learn from? I like to think the latter, and that if there is a God he would not be that cruel and capricious.”
“God is a writer,” Arthur said calmly, turning his head so that he was facing Francis. Francis glanced at him, before turning back to the stars. “It’s what he does, putting his characters in difficult situations so that they can one day emerge and be victorious and better people. Otherwise, the characters would never grow.”
“You’re only saying that because you’rea writer, and you like to romanticize yourself.”
“Maybe,” said Arthur, grinning cockily.
Francis hummed. “So you admit soul mates don’t exist.”
“I never said that.”
“You just did. You admitted God gives us trials —”
“To find our soul mates. Yes.”
Francis rolled his eyes. “If soul mates did exist, what are the chances they’d find each other? Slim to none. If I found my soul mate, I’d tell her off, very politely. She wasn’t there for me for the majority of my life. You were. I’d rather have you.”
“How do you know I’m not your soul mate?”
Francis turned once again so that he could look at Arthur’s face. The Brit kept it neutrally blank; then he propped himself up with one elbow on the hard rooftop and they looked at each other for a long time.
“You?” Francis asked, thinking about Matthieu’s words. I’d rather think of it that we weren’t meant to be together but found each other anyway. That’s how I’d like to imagine it. I don’t want to believe that soul mates exist — because what if my soul mate isn’t you?
Arthur grinned again. “Unlikely, huh?”
“Unlikely,” Francis agreed, and both fell onto their backs once more.
“If you think soul mates exist, but that I am not yours, then we must be an accident, you and I,” murmured Arthur, and Francis wondered where he was trying to go with this. “A random coincidence. In another life — if reincarnation is real — in another life, you’d be with someone else you also met accidentally, and me the same.”
“In another life I’d still choose you,” argued Francis. His head was beginning to hurt and he was scared that this was some kind of test Arthur set up for him, something he would not pass. They had never discussed these kind of thigs before. They had never talked about soul mates or heaven because it just wasn’t them.
“You’ve just contradicted yourself, you daft frog,” snorted Arnthur. “You can’t choose me. I’m random. I’m a shot in the dark. You reached out and grabbed me by chance.”
“That’s not true. You grabbed me back.”
Arthur was silent, and Francis wondered if he was angry that Francis didn’t believe and that Francis thought that they had gotten married simply because it was convenient for them both. It wasn’t true. That wasn’t true. Every choice he had made in his life had built up to the moments that led to him choosing Arthur over anyone else in the world — and if he had made any other choice than the ones he had then he would not be Francis anymore.
“I think it’d be easier if we both agreed that reincarnation isn’t real,” Francis said reasonably. “And that soul mates don’texist. That we only get one shot in life and then we head straight up, or down. So there’s only one me for you, and one you for me.”
Arthur was still silent, so Francis took back to watching the night sky. He wondered of Matthieu’s words, and he remembered all of the events he had gone through that had taken him here.
“ I believe in soul mates,” said Arthur bitterly from beside him.
“Why don’t you go and find yours, then,” Francis answered.
“That’s the thing,” Arthur snapped, sitting upright. “I think you’re it.”
Francis rose slowly after him, looking at him with incredulous eyes. “You can’t possibly be serious,” he said.
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re not!”
“Don’t tell me how not to feel!” said Arthur, kicking out and hitting Francis on the shin. Francis for once did not flinch but stood his ground. They were both breathing fast and it was cold.
“You think even after all this,” Francis said, waving his hand around to gesture at nothing, “After all this, you still think I’m it?”
“That’s why I’m still here, isn’t it?”
Francis didn’t know how to feel — inspired? Relieved? Touched? Thankful? Should he argue some more? There were just some things he couldn’t agree with with the other man, but he had to hand it to Arthur for trying to pull off a romantic moment. There were some things you don’t say to your partner after they tell you ‘I think you’re my soul mate’, and ‘Rubbish, I don’t’ is one of them.
Arthur sneezed.
“Bless you,” said Francis angrily.
Another silence, and no return thank-you. Some English gentleman he was. Francis almost started to wait for a sign, like a shooting star of sorts, but that was not the way of life. The sky was glittered with stars, but even then it was not the most beautiful of views — the populated city with its tall buildings made sure of that. If anything, Paris with her lights was much more beautiful than the sky with her stars. Francis did not know why he’d bothered suggesting that they come lie up here in the first place.
“It took everything to get me here, you know,” he whispered.
“Yeah?” came a whisper back.
“I like to think that you and I, we made each other. We made ourselves into what we are now — this, this marriage of sorts we have going on. That there was no interference from someone above. And that even if soul mates exist — even if we’re not it — all the same I chose you anyway and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. If I had that choice, if reincarnation existed. That’s no accident.”
“And if you had the choice, but you were not born in the right circumstances, and in another life you and I never meet?”
Francis shrugged. “Maybe I’ll just wait for you upstairs.”
“Your ‘soul mate’ will be there. So there will be me, your soul mate, and the hundreds of other men and women you’ve fallen in love with in all your other lives because you couldn’t find me in any of them.”
“Why are you interrogating me?” asked Francis. “I don’t know what I’d do. Probably tell them to pair off, I guess. And then go find you.”
“Who says you’ll head straight for me? You’ll have loved all those other people just the same amount.”
“I just will,” Francis said. “Don’t tell me how to feel. What we have right now — that’s real. It’s the here and the now, so don’t you dare tell me I’d go for someone else. I could never love any of my other lovers in my other lives more than you. Damn it, this is why we shouldn’t believe in reincarnation.”
Arthur shifted around a little and Francis realized that Arthur was searching for his hand, so he groped around in the darkness as well and finds it. The roof underneath him is bumpy and uncomfortable and he is freezing his arse off, but the view from here is beautiful and he’s got the only person he could ever want to be with right next to him.
“Does it make you that uncomfortable?” asked Francis. “Fine, I believe in soul mates. I think you’re mine. Are you happy?”
“Not really,” Arthur shrugged, and the two fell silent as they wondered the wonders of their world.
Haha... I don't know whether to laugh or cry at these two! But it's very well written, especially the last conversation. It feels real, just like people in real life disagree vehemently about such things and just can't understand other perspectives. It's no wonder Arthur and Francis would have a lot of those things. And it makes me glad to see that you didn't just go straight to "everything is totally okay now" after all the drama. But it still manages to be hopeful because they are trying. AND I think both of their thoughts are very romantic. Both Arthur's idea of soulmates and Fracis' idea of being together because they want it themselves. They are horribly dysfunctional and I can see so much trouble ahead, but they are so much in love.
But yeah, they suuuuuuuck at this. Luckily they know it themselves too. But man, do they suck. They just keep hurting each other so much. I kinda blame Francis more, though, to be honest... Because really, starting an affair to get more attention is just the stupidest idea ever. Flirting is okay, I think, but an affair? What the hell was he thinking? (Well, obviously he wasn't. *sigh*)
I still absolutely love this fill, btw. I'm sorry I haven't commented on all the chapters... orz I'm lazy.
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The Genius Next Door [5i/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-08 09:19 pm (UTC)(link)Re: The Genius Next Door [5i/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-09 04:54 pm (UTC)(link)Yes yes yes. This was too damn beautiful and I hope that things will keep working out like that ; A ;
Re: The Genius Next Door [5i/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-12 01:50 am (UTC)(link)The Genius Next Door [5j/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-15 01:01 am (UTC)(link)It was good to be back. The apartment was the same as it always was — maybe a little dirtier, a little mustier, but as familiar as ever. And it was home. Francis’ inner voice hummed.
Arthur stood to his right, carrying the bag they had ferried from the old run-down apartment where Francis had been staying. He placed it down gently, removed his tie, kicked off his shoes, and flicked on the living room lights before gingerly taking a step in. Every one of his movements was controlled and careful, as though he didn’t know how to act around his reclaimed husband. Francis couldn’t blame him; he felt the same way. They still had a long way to go.
“Hungry?” asked Arthur, and Francis wondered whether or not he should take the bait, deny the offer, and make fun of Arthur’s cooking.
He didn’t. “No,” he said instead. “I’m alright.”
“I’ll put your stuff away,” said Arthur, grabbing the duffel and disappearing into the bedroom. Francis wondered what it would feel like to wake up next to Arthur again, washed in morning sunlight. He followed Arthur into the room and leaned against the door frame with his hands shoved in his pockets, looking out of place. He watched Arthur for a little while, before turning his eyes to the bedside table that was wiped clean of the photographs they used to keep. He’d expected that Arthur would throw away the photos of them together — it wouldn’t have been the first time — but Arthur had always kept the ones of Matthieu, and Francis felt a little indignant that those ones were gone too. What has Matthieu ever done to deserve Arthur’s anger? Was his only crime that of being Francis’ younger brother?
“You’ll take care of Matthieu, right?” Francis asked suddenly, and Arthur jerked, not having known that he was being watched. “If…if something happens to me? You’ll make sure he’s alright?”
Arthur straightened, the bag slack in his hands. “What do you mean, if something happens to you? Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well, don’t.”
“But I’m only just saying.”
“Well, stop. I don’t want to hear it.”
Francis’ lips turned into a tight line. He wanted to argue, but he almost felt like he shouldn’t because Arthur held the upper ground. Here, he was almost inferior to the Brit, because it was he who had had the affair, he who was sick, he who suffered from clinical depression and almost just killed himself, not the other way around.
Arthur seemed to notice this and dropped the bag. He sat down on the edge of the bed, inviting Francis to join by patting the space beside him. Francis did, though he remained as tight-lipped and straight-backed as possible.
“Look at me,” Arthur ordered, and Francis did. Both of them shifted around a little so that their knees were touching and they were completely facing each other, one hand keeping them balanced on the bed. Arthur didn’t touch Francis otherwise — only ran his eyes critically over Francis’ thin body. Francis almost flinched when he did so. He didn’t want anybody — not even Arthur — to look at him in that way, ever. “We, uh,” said Arthur. “We have a lot to do.”
Francis nodded.
“Maybe we should make a list.”
“A list?” Francis shook his head. He didn’t want Arthur to objectify their problems by categorizing them on paper. And he didn’t want to admit that some of those problems existed — because even though he knew they did in his own mind, writing them down would make them seem more concrete, would affirm their existence. That denial in itself was one of the quintessential problems that made up his being, and it made Francis feel a bit hopeless. It was as though every choice he made was because of one of the many problems he had, and that every choice he made was in some way wrong.
“Why not?” asked Arthur, not unkindly.
“I just don’t want to,” said Francis.
The Genius Next Door [5k/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-15 01:02 am (UTC)(link)“We should, uh,” Arthur cleared his throat. “We should talk, then.”
Francis chewed his bottom lip. “I don’t want to do that, either.” There was just too much to talk about, and Francis didn’t want to take any risks.
Arthur threw up his hands. “What do you want to do, then?”
“You don’t have to get angry,” protested Francis. “That’s only two things you suggested we do that I denied. It’s not like I don’t want to do anything.”
“Alright. Jolly good. Do you want to call your brother, tell him what happened?”
“Well…no.” Matthieu can’t know, not yet. There were too many things Francis had hidden from him and to tell him one would be to tell him all, and Matthieu would not be able to handle all that information. Neither could Francis handle having to deal with Matthieu trying to handle.
Arthur’s face reddened. “Do you want to go out for a movie?”
“I don’t think now’s a good time for that, Arthur.”
“Okay, fine,” said Arthur, tightening his grip on Francis’ leg. “Whatever. Water?”
Francis moved Arthur’s hand off his leg because it was starting to grow numb. “No, thank you. Really.”
He wondered if it would be appropriate if he was to suddenly laugh at Arthur’s growing expression of frustration. “How about I just leave you be, and you can get some rest, then,” grit out the Brit, moving to get off the bed. “You must be tired.” He tried to give another smile, a more sympathetic one, but it turned out to look more like a grimace.
Francis grabbed Arthur’s hand. “I was thinking, maybe we could go for a walk.”
“A walk.”
“Yes. Yes, a walk. I think that would be nice.”
Francis could tell that now it was Arthur who didn’t want to go for a walk, probably because walking would require more energy than Arthur could afford to give at the moment. And probably because Arthur wouldn’t have the liberty to blow up at Francis whenever he wanted to out in public.
“Okay,” agreed Arthur finally. “Let’s go grab our coats.”
Francis let out a breath, thankful. Although his own fingers slackened, Arthur never let go of his hand for the entire eight-second trip back to the front door. Francis would call that progress.
-
Before they left the apartment, Arthur made a cup of tea and poured it into his thermos; probably to calm his nerves, Francis suspected. The Brit offered some to him, which he took gingerly before he remembered his he probably shouldn’t. The tea burned in his stomach, causing him to almost throw it back up, and Francis had a sudden longing to just crawl back into bed and do nothing for the rest of the week. He just felt so ill; how he had managed to feel completely fine a week ago was an enigma to him. Fortunately, he managed to simply pass off the pain with a quick grimace before Arthur could ask him what the matter was, and he handed the tea back and just replied that it’s been a while since he tried the stuff, being careful not to insult the other’s favourite beverage.
Things were different now, Francis knew, different in the way they were going to interact and different in their dynamic. For a while, at least, Francis had to do his utmost best to avoid a fight with his husband, to avoid teasing him or insulting him or calling him any degrading names. He knew it would be hard; after all, bickering for bickering’s sake was what they did, and it was one of the things Francis actually loved about their relationship. There were going to be sacrifices both of them would have to be willing to make, if both were fully supportive of the idea of living together once again. Francis was determined, this time, not to screw things up.
The Genius Next Door [5l/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-15 01:04 am (UTC)(link)Francis just shrugged, for he honestly did not know. He was just glad to have good food back in his system, after having survived for so long on stale sandwiches and water. His new mantra had become eat it first and if you feel sick later, don’t eat it again. “I don’t think so.” Honestly, if it doesn’t give me acid reflux or heartburn, I’m good.
Arthur gently picked up Francis’ wrist and shook it limply. “Well, you are rather skinny,” he said. “Do you want to go out for dinner? It’ll be good for us. It’ll be like, a date…of sorts.”
Francis smiled shyly and picked at his scarf. He twisted his hand around the one Arthur had on his wrist and fit his slim fingers between the other’s. “Could we just grab some take out? I’m not really up for eating in a public restaurant. I can’t — can’t deal with being around too many people at the moment.”
“Is it because,” Arthur hesitated. “Because of how you look?”
He shrugged again, not wanting to appear a martyr or for Arthur to worry about him. “I always look gorgeous, Arthur, and you know it,” he said, but his voice cracked at the end and he just sounded pathetic. He coughed and turned his head to the side and tried letting go of Arthur’s hand.
“You’re ridiculous,” Arthur snorted, pulling him closer. A very serious look flitted across his face, and Francis’ heart plummeted as he wondered if Arthur was going to say something cruel to him. He tried jerking away again and tucking his arm against his chest, but Arthur only leaned forwards and whispered fiercely in his ear, “Don’t you try to fool me. You’re as vain as you always were; nothing’s changed about that, and I love you for it. You’ve lost some weight, sure, but don’t you ever try to tell yourself that you’re any less of a person for it. You hear me?”
Francis nodded furiously, his face red in alarm and embarrassment. “Arthur, you don’t have to whisper your affections to me. Be a little more confident in yourself.” He smiled shakily, trying to look confident himself, when inside his heart was thumping like a trip hammer. He said ‘I love you’ to me. He just told me he loves me. After all this time.
Arthur slapped him on the shoulder and rolled his eyes. “Can’t ever take what you got,” he muttered.
Francis, seized by a wild, instinctual impulse, took a leap of faith and put the Nutella right on the ground and quickly leaned over and with his other hand ran finger down one of Arthur’s hairy eyebrows. It twitched in response, and Francis was pulling away so quickly you could hardly have even told that he was there, and then he was pulling up the scarf so that it hid the tip of his nose and feeling like he was twelve years old again, all gangly with adolescence and giddy with the idea of love. “I must have missed you more than I thought,” said Francis aloud, though he didn’t mean to.
Now it was Arthur’s turn to blush, which was always an adorable sight to behold. The redness would travel all the way up his neck to his ears, deepening the colour of his freckles and making his eyes go all big and scared looking. There, in the middle of the sidewalk they stopped and shared a quick kiss as Parisians and tourists alike milled about them, their feet making wet splashing noises as they hurried through the puddles of rain.
The Genius Next Door [5m/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-15 01:06 am (UTC)(link)“Force of habit,” Arthur said then, and they both laughed like idiots, watching the coin sink to the bottom — Francis because he was the one who introduced this habit to Arthur in the first place, and Arthur because he remembered.
It was for good luck — a long, happy, prosperous life. And sometimes a wish, which would be a little too cliche for Arthur, but it was the kind of thing Francis lived for — cliche, cheesy, romantic moments.
“If you had a wish —” he started, but Arthur beat him to it.
“I’d wish for you to get better,” Arthur said, and they turned to look at each other at exactly the same time. Arthur’s eyes were wide and serious, his lips set to a grim line, and he was breathing hard through his nose. They were still holding hands, but no longer laughing, no longer clutching at each other for breath; they were calmer, stiller, and Francis only then realized how late it had gotten. The stars had already come out.
“Arthur —”
“Francis, I.” Arthur let go of Francis for a moment to press the back of his fist to his mouth, and Francis was vividly reminded of the moment Arthur had found him out again at three AM in the morning, the last time they had had a proper conversation before everything started to go wrong. “You don’t know how horrible I feel for all of this.”
Francis reached for the hand again, struggled to pull it away from Arthur’s face. “Arthur, it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.”
“How do you know that?” Arthur shot back.
“Because it always is,” Francis said helplessly, though he didn’t.
“Look at you,” Arthur said, gesturing to all of Francis, and Francis looked at himself, at the body Arthur had almost called beautiful just a few hours ago. “No, don’t. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not you, it’s —”
“The sickness.”
“The sickness,” Arthur repeated flatly, and Francis nodded.
“You’re making me feel like I’m on death row,” Francis said, trying to force a little humour in. “So don’t talk like that. I’ll be fine. I was fine on my own for a long time, wasn’t I?”
“That’s the thing!” Arthur shouted, twisting his arm away from Francis and taking two steps back. “That’s the thing! I wasn’t there for you, I should have been there for you — Antonio called me and told me you were sick and I believed him but I didn’t and I didn’t even bother to check — and then you had to go and try to kill yourself, you imbecile —”
“Arthur —”
The Genius Next Door [5n/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-15 01:07 am (UTC)(link)“There’s something fucked up with your brain!” Arthur was screaming now, and the park was dead quiet. On their right, just a couple dozen meters away, the Seine flowed gently by; it seemed like in Paris, no matter where you turned, the Seine was always there, haunting you. “You’re not supposed to be so calm about this. You have HIV — a terminal disease, and you’re just withering away right now, and you threw yourself off a bridge — there’s something so fucked up with you!”
Francis knows this, but it hurts even more when it’s coming from Arthur, and he wonders why it was that they were always doing this to each other. He was sniffling silently into his own hands now, the ones that cupped the lower half of his face, not willing to face his husband. The rose had fallen to the ground when Francis covered his face, somewhat crumpled by all this stepping around.
“You’re going to die. You’re going to die and you’re going to leave me here, all alone. If the HIV doesn’t kill you, I swear to God I will — I swear to God, Francis, I thought I could die for you and I would, I would if we could switch places, but I can’t live for you. I can’t do it. I can’t.”
Francis is nodding, always nodding, accepting the words that were throwing themselves at his chest, the tears just streaming down his face with no sign of cease. “I know,” he managed to choke. “I know I’m ugly and wasted and dying. Please, Arthur — please stop. You’re making me feel — I, just. You don’t have to say it out loud, you know?” Because the question of his death from HIV had never been something Francis had pondered before. He’d always known that the HIV brought him certain failure in life, abject misery, but he had never considered the fact that it may never go away and it may just keep on eating at him until he is decomposing beneath the ground, to die for the second and last time.
“How could you be so selfish?” whispered Arthur. “To have tried to end your life before it was your time — how?” And Arthur was not making any sense, he was contradicting himself and just saying all the things that were on his mind and Francis knew this, but he couldn’t help think about how it was unfair of the Brit to ask him of all these things.
“I don’t know,” Francis cried, his cold breath escaping his hands and making misty formations in the night air. “I don’t know.”
“You won’t even deny it,” snarled Arthur, and suddenly he had a fist clenched and he punched Francis right on the middle of his face, right where Gilbert’s blow had also landed. Francis fell back, surprised, his hands falling away from his face, and when he regained his footing he looked on at his husband with betrayal in his eyes and blood pouring from his nose onto his palms. And that was ridiculous, really, for the blow hadn’t even hurt that much — the words hurt so much more. And it wasn’t the first time they traded blows, it really wasn’t — but for Arthur to have lashed out at him in this manner, for him to have beat at him and broken him down and then kicked out for good measure — for him to have lowered his guard and for Arthur to have punched him anyway — that was what intensified the pain all that much more.
“Oh, God,” said Arthur. “Oh, God, I hadn’t meant to do that. Here — sorry. Here — here, let me —” but it was too late, and Francis was spinning on his heels and running away.
He was faintly aware of the fact that Arthur was following him as he tore his way through the park, past the trees and bushes and all that, and it didn’t really matter anyway because soon he was out of breath and had to stop. He just didn’t want to be around Arthur. He just wanted to be as far as possible from the Brit — on the other side of the solar system, preferably, or in another life or time or whatever. Some self-hating traitorous part of him even wanted Arthur dead a little bit, because he was boiling with rage and anger and betrayal and some things didn’t matter anymore.
The Genius Next Door [5o/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-15 01:08 am (UTC)(link)Then there were arms around him as he crouched down, his strength completely leaving him without energy to hold himself up straight. He wondered if Arthur thought him even the more pathetic because of this, and found that he didn’t care what Arthur thought at all. Or maybe he did. He couldn’t tell anymore; all he could feel was the searing pain from his abdomen and the hacking sobs from his chest and the dizziness in his head from lack of breath and the wetness that he kept trying to wipe away from his cheeks and chin and most of all the tenderness of his nose — broken?
“Get away from me, you brute,” he said, trying to preserve the last pieces of his self-respect as he struggled to push Arthur away, but the Brit has got him firmly clenched by his upper arms. And so badly did Francis want to punch him back now that the other was in such close proximity and his hands were free, but no — he turned his head instead, letting the blood drip, and bit down hard on his bottom lip and wondered if he could ever stop crying, just for a day or two.
Arthur didn’t say a word. He was wiping at Francis’ face with the sleeve of his jacket, which was disgusting, but Francis could no longer spare the energy to resist. He collapsed against the nearest tree and let Arthur tend to him, sniffling every once in a while. He couldn’t see a thing, not in this kind of darkness, except for maybe the stars up ahead; they twinkled as though to mock him.
“Can you not,” Francis struggled to say, as both grew calmer. “Could you, next time, not lie to me?”
“What do you mean?” Arthur’s voice was hoarse and broken sounding.
“Don’t tell me you love me, and then say all those other things,” Francis said.
“I didn’t mean any of that other stuff,” Arthur protested. His own face was dry and tear-less — whether it was because he was attempting to remain the stronger of the two or because he really didn’t give a damn. Francis sort of hated him for both.
“There you go again, lying.”
Arthur stopped, and Francis braced himself for the impact. He wondered what Arthur would say — Well, you lied first, you bastard. You were the one who got us into this mess in the first place. You screwed us both over. Can you really blame me? You cheated on me. You broke my heart. This is the least I can do in retaliation. But he didn’t say any of those things; he leaned over and gave Francis a kiss on the forehead, and then on the nose, and when he pulled away there was a bit of blood on his lips. And Francis was reminded of why he fell in love with this man in the first place, and it helped calm him down a little. He already knew, in a way, that he had forgiven him.
“Sorry,” Arthur murmured, brushing Francis’ hair away from his eyes. “I lost control for a moment.”
“That’s what physically abusive husbands always say,” Francis muttered, a little resentfully.
“Do shut up,” Arthur said. “And don’t be so dramatic.”
“You’ve ruined my face forever,” mumbled Francis.
“Not forever, love,” Arthur sighed. “You’ll be back in shape in no time. Your nose isn’t even broken, you big crybaby, look —” and then he poked it, and Francis yelped.
“That’s the second time I’ve been punched in two days,” Francis said accusingly.
“Who else hit you?” scowled Arthur.
“Gilbert.”
“Gilbert hit you?! I’m going to rip his eyes out!”
Francis laughed at the irony of it, before growing silent for a moment.
“If you ever hit me again, I’m leaving,” he finally said firmly, though he didn’t mean it. Even if Arthur beat him down to the ground every single night, he would probably still stay so long as he was wanted. Fucked up, just like Arthur said. Everything was fucked up.
Arthur swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”
“Or say any of those things.”
“Fair enough.”
The Genius Next Door [5p/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-15 01:12 am (UTC)(link)“Hey,” Arthur said. “You’re not ugly, and,” he choked. “You’re not useless. And you’re not going to die. I’ll make sure of that. I swear. We’ll be old together one day, you and I.”
Francis nodded mutely. Arthur went on, “I’ll make it up to you, somehow.”
“I know you will.” A smile of trust.
Arthur returned it. “Let’s go find some food. You must be starving.” They fumbled for each other’s hands again and they held each other tight; this time, they wouldn’t let go.
Francis knew there were many things that were wrong with their relationship — the way they fought so often and were violent towards each other and hurt each other more often than not. And how they were utterly and hopelessly dependent on each other. This was unhealthy, this was unsafe, this would drive both of them to their graves. But as long as they went together.
The most important thing was that as long as they had each other, there was hope; hope that one day they’d be able to move past their troubles and see a therapist and become a real, working couple. To Francis, that was all that mattered. Their relationship may be one of the most dysfunctional in the world — to the point where any other in their place would have already ended up on some TV show (‘Didn’t you see the signs?’ someone would ask him, and Francis would have to reply, ‘Yes, yes I did. But I didn’t care’) — but it was all Francis had, and he knew that that tiny sliver of hope to see a future where both he and Arthur were happy together would keep them going for as long as need be until they both dropped dead where they stood.
But as long as they went together.
The Genius Next Door [5q/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-23 12:06 am (UTC)(link)Arthur noticed him at it as he was walking towards the sink and pointed out, for the first time, Francis’ hair. “Why did you get it cut?”
This was the question Francis had been dreading most of all — for to answer honestly would be to tell Arthur about the visit Chel had paid him. He couldn’t have that, not now. “I, uh,” he cleared his throat. “I thought it was time for a change.”
Arthur went quiet, and Francis wondered if that had been the wrong thing to say. A hair cut could potentially be a sign of moving on, of changing one’s perspective in life — of Francis insinuating that he’d been trying to get over his husband after their ‘break-up’. Francis, too, remained silent — he didn’t know what to add to his words to make Arthur think otherwise.
Arthur dried off his hands and the two left the men’s room and found their seats at the table. Arthur spent most of the time ignoring Francis in favour of reading the menu upside down while Francis’ eyes wandered around the restaurant, for once not out of any particular desire to find some beautiful young waitress to hit on but out of curiosity. He’d never come here before, and he knew practically every single good French restaurant within a ten mile radius. This was probably not a good French restaurant. Arthur looked up at him from two very thick brows. “I hope you aren’t —” he started dangerously, and Francis quickly waved his hands.
“No, no,” he smiled. “I’m — I’m done. With that, I mean.”
Arthur put the menu down and reached his hands across the table; Francis took them both. It felt like the longest night of his life; just this morning he’d still been in the hospital before Arthur had managed to convince the nurses to forgo the tests they wanted to take because Francis was fine, thank you very much. And just yesterday he had had that dream and Gilbert had punched him in the face and that seemed like it’d been years ago.
“We should probably talk,” said Arthur. “About us.”
Francis agreed, and watched with some amusement as Arthur began to turn red. The Brit had never been good at talking about his feelings; hell, neither was he. They were both terribly bad with communication between each other — Arthur was slightly better at it with the written word but still generally very bad nonetheless. He obviously did not know how or where to start, so Francis summoned what courage he had left and decided to go first.
“These past few months, I…” he started, struggling to remember any of it. What had he done? The time had passed in a daze of booze and smoke and heavy depression; he knew that the days had seemed to drag by forever, but now that they were over he could hardly recall a single thing that had happened. “I was lost,” he said instead, fumbling over his words and deciding to rely on his body language instead. He looked Arthur right in the eye, and Arthur held his gaze right back, and he tried to communicate his sincerity through that look alone. “I was lost without you, you know. It, well. This…this one time, about a year ago, me and Gilbert met up at L'Éther Rouge , and Gilbert suggested that, well. That we were losing our touch. As a couple.”
The Genius Next Door [5r/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-23 12:07 am (UTC)(link)Arthur nodded slowly, his fingers squeezing Francis’. Francis nodded to himself, trying to summon the courage to go on. “And…and you always did seem to pay more attention to me when we fought, because fighting is just what we do. And I was so stupid, I thought — I thought, if I had an affair —” at this Arthur tore his eyes away and was looking down, and Francis ruthlessly trudged on, “— if, if I had an affair, that maybe you would pay even more attention to me.”
A waitress had come to take their order, and Arthur spoke in ragged French to place it while Francis said nothing. He kept searching Arthur’s face, for any sign that he was truly forgiven, for any sign that suggested that Arthur couldn’t continue this conversation and that perhaps they should stop. But Arthur, the brave man he always was, a knight at heart, managed to appear strong as ever and the Frenchman sighed with relief and gratitude.
“I’m here, Francis,” Arthur smiled encouragingly. “I won’t interrupt you. Take your time.”
“Don’t say those things to me,” Francis said. “I don’t deserve that.”
Arthur inhaled through his nose. “We’ve both made mistakes we regret,” was all he said. We’ll get through this together, was what he mouthed.
Francis nodded again to reassure himself, shifted in his seat, and clenched Arthur’s hands so tightly he thought he would bruise them. “I don’t love Chel,” he swore. “It was all only a ploy to get your attention. It was you, you know. You. You.”
“I know, Francis,” Arthur was saying, over and over again, trembling in his seat. “I know.”
“And,” gulped Francis. “And I started throwing up blood when you were at work. I — I didn’t know why. I thought it was just because, of how repulsed I felt, because of what I did — to you. Of how guilty I felt. And — and I started staying over at Antoine’s, just for a night, you know, because I needed some air — but then one night turned to two and then three and then I was switching between him and Gilbert and then they were kicking me out because I was staying over so often. And then Gilbert made me see Kiku —” Arthur’s eyes widened, and Francis said through dry lips, “Do you remember him?”
“I dated him in college,” said Arthur, and Francis felt as though a great weight had just been lifted off his shoulders. He’d thought that Arthur wanted to keep the fact that he’d dated Kiku before away from him for some reason — maybe because some part of him still loved the Japanese man or something ridiculous like that — but the way the admission slipped so easily from Arthur’s lips made it seem as though Kiku hadn’t really mattered in the end, that Arthur had only not told Francis because he had forgotten about it, because it was so unimportant to him compared to Francis. And so Francis found the energy to continue:
“Kiku suspected that I had it. The disease, I mean. I’d been carrying a fever, you see — and feeling sick and tired all the time. I didn’t know. I think he managed to diagnose me correctly mainly because I told him I’d been spending less time in front of the mirror,” and Arthur chuckled slightly, worry clear in his eyes. “He also said I had a respiratory tract infection, but that wasn’t true at all. And that’s when I went to see you again. And when I left — I, I wrote you a letter,” he said sheepishly.
“A letter?”
The Genius Next Door [5s/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-23 12:08 am (UTC)(link)“I never received a letter.”
“I never sent it.” Francis bit his tongue.
“Oh.” A pause.“What did it say?”
“That I loved you and couldn’t live without you,” Francis laughed, although he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d written. “I ripped it in two and left it on the ground. Someone may have found it by now, it couldn’t have gone far.” Francis pondered this thoughtfully, wondering if perhaps someone had found it.
“And?”
“And,” said Francis. “And shortly afterward I found out, in Antoine’s bathroom.”
Arthur smiled, a bit sadly. “We’re two halves of a whole moron,” he said, and Francis shook his head.
“Just me, there.”
It was another while more before their food arrived, and when it did, Francis told him the rest of the story — without holding anything back. He ended up pushing away most of his food, being for the most part still not very hungry, and went into the whole detail of it all (or at least the major events he could remember) — Yao and the tea and his daughter and speaking with Arthur over the phone and being diagnosed with a gastric ulcer and having abdominal pains and nausea and losing weight and quitting his job. He went on to tell of the apartment of the old couple whom he stayed with and feeling as though Arthur had quit him forever. He didn’t talk much about that, of course — and skipped most of the events of the bar, leaving out whatever he felt he didn’t have to — but as it was, he ended up arriving at the part where Chel came back, and all of a sudden he had to make the decision to whether or not to tell Arthur the truth.
All this time, Arthur had sat there like the perfect listener, flinching half the time, eyes growing twice as large as he was told about the ulcer, asking Francis all the right questions and worrying about him and fussing over him. And Francis liked that. That was what he had striven to achieve since the very beginning — Arthur’s attention. He couldn’t lose it, not now, not when he was so close.
And so he decided to lie.
He told Arthur of a girl whose face he did not see, who took him back to her apartment to stay the night although they did not do anything. He did not tell him about the haircut. He did not tell him about forgiving Chel.
He did not tell him about his talk with Matthieu or about hallucinating his mother, either.
He knew these lies — these omissions of the truth — would one day come back and bite him in the rear but for now he did not care, could not care. Everything else was revealed to Arthur — and shouldn’t that be enough?
By the time he had finished it was almost eleven in the night and the two had to leave. Francis felt that what he had revealed that night had dented their relationship even more than before. He wanted to take it back, all of it, to hide his griefs from the world and take care of it himself and to not have Arthur worry — but then Arthur drew him close and whispered, “I’m glad you told me,” and kissed him.
Francis was glad, too, in a way. Because it was him and Arthur now; there was no more ‘I’.
And God, how it felt good to get all that off his chest. And to hear Arthur say it back — “I was on the verge of depression. I was lonely. I needed you back ” — was more than he could have ever hoped for.
-
“Do you believe in reincarnation?” Arthur asked Francis, and Francis blinked at him, tired.
“Not particularly,” said Francis. “I like to think that there is an eternal paradise in the afterlife, even if I don’t believe in God.”
Arthur smiled; Francis could not see him, but he could still tell by the way he spoke next. “How about in soul mates?” he asked, and Francis froze for a second.
The Genius Next Door [5t/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-23 12:10 am (UTC)(link)“How so?”
“To know that someone was destined for you by a higher power — it’s comforting, in a way, but it ruins the relationship you’ve built with the person you are with now. The trials we’ve been through, Arthur, everything we’ve done — was that intended, too? Or was that done by our own means — for us to learn from? I like to think the latter, and that if there is a God he would not be that cruel and capricious.”
“God is a writer,” Arthur said calmly, turning his head so that he was facing Francis. Francis glanced at him, before turning back to the stars. “It’s what he does, putting his characters in difficult situations so that they can one day emerge and be victorious and better people. Otherwise, the characters would never grow.”
“You’re only saying that because you’rea writer, and you like to romanticize yourself.”
“Maybe,” said Arthur, grinning cockily.
Francis hummed. “So you admit soul mates don’t exist.”
“I never said that.”
“You just did. You admitted God gives us trials —”
“To find our soul mates. Yes.”
Francis rolled his eyes. “If soul mates did exist, what are the chances they’d find each other? Slim to none. If I found my soul mate, I’d tell her off, very politely. She wasn’t there for me for the majority of my life. You were. I’d rather have you.”
“How do you know I’m not your soul mate?”
Francis turned once again so that he could look at Arthur’s face. The Brit kept it neutrally blank; then he propped himself up with one elbow on the hard rooftop and they looked at each other for a long time.
“You?” Francis asked, thinking about Matthieu’s words. I’d rather think of it that we weren’t meant to be together but found each other anyway. That’s how I’d like to imagine it. I don’t want to believe that soul mates exist — because what if my soul mate isn’t you?
Arthur grinned again. “Unlikely, huh?”
“Unlikely,” Francis agreed, and both fell onto their backs once more.
“If you think soul mates exist, but that I am not yours, then we must be an accident, you and I,” murmured Arthur, and Francis wondered where he was trying to go with this. “A random coincidence. In another life — if reincarnation is real — in another life, you’d be with someone else you also met accidentally, and me the same.”
“In another life I’d still choose you,” argued Francis. His head was beginning to hurt and he was scared that this was some kind of test Arthur set up for him, something he would not pass. They had never discussed these kind of thigs before. They had never talked about soul mates or heaven because it just wasn’t them.
“You’ve just contradicted yourself, you daft frog,” snorted Arnthur. “You can’t choose me. I’m random. I’m a shot in the dark. You reached out and grabbed me by chance.”
“That’s not true. You grabbed me back.”
Arthur was silent, and Francis wondered if he was angry that Francis didn’t believe and that Francis thought that they had gotten married simply because it was convenient for them both. It wasn’t true. That wasn’t true. Every choice he had made in his life had built up to the moments that led to him choosing Arthur over anyone else in the world — and if he had made any other choice than the ones he had then he would not be Francis anymore.
“I think it’d be easier if we both agreed that reincarnation isn’t real,” Francis said reasonably. “And that soul mates don’texist. That we only get one shot in life and then we head straight up, or down. So there’s only one me for you, and one you for me.”
The Genius Next Door [5u/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-23 12:11 am (UTC)(link)“ I believe in soul mates,” said Arthur bitterly from beside him.
“Why don’t you go and find yours, then,” Francis answered.
“That’s the thing,” Arthur snapped, sitting upright. “I think you’re it.”
Francis rose slowly after him, looking at him with incredulous eyes. “You can’t possibly be serious,” he said.
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re not!”
“Don’t tell me how not to feel!” said Arthur, kicking out and hitting Francis on the shin. Francis for once did not flinch but stood his ground. They were both breathing fast and it was cold.
“You think even after all this,” Francis said, waving his hand around to gesture at nothing, “After all this, you still think I’m it?”
“That’s why I’m still here, isn’t it?”
Francis didn’t know how to feel — inspired? Relieved? Touched? Thankful? Should he argue some more? There were just some things he couldn’t agree with with the other man, but he had to hand it to Arthur for trying to pull off a romantic moment. There were some things you don’t say to your partner after they tell you ‘I think you’re my soul mate’, and ‘Rubbish, I don’t’ is one of them.
Arthur sneezed.
“Bless you,” said Francis angrily.
Another silence, and no return thank-you. Some English gentleman he was. Francis almost started to wait for a sign, like a shooting star of sorts, but that was not the way of life. The sky was glittered with stars, but even then it was not the most beautiful of views — the populated city with its tall buildings made sure of that. If anything, Paris with her lights was much more beautiful than the sky with her stars. Francis did not know why he’d bothered suggesting that they come lie up here in the first place.
“It took everything to get me here, you know,” he whispered.
“Yeah?” came a whisper back.
“I like to think that you and I, we made each other. We made ourselves into what we are now — this, this marriage of sorts we have going on. That there was no interference from someone above. And that even if soul mates exist — even if we’re not it — all the same I chose you anyway and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. If I had that choice, if reincarnation existed. That’s no accident.”
“And if you had the choice, but you were not born in the right circumstances, and in another life you and I never meet?”
Francis shrugged. “Maybe I’ll just wait for you upstairs.”
“Your ‘soul mate’ will be there. So there will be me, your soul mate, and the hundreds of other men and women you’ve fallen in love with in all your other lives because you couldn’t find me in any of them.”
“Why are you interrogating me?” asked Francis. “I don’t know what I’d do. Probably tell them to pair off, I guess. And then go find you.”
“Who says you’ll head straight for me? You’ll have loved all those other people just the same amount.”
“I just will,” Francis said. “Don’t tell me how to feel. What we have right now — that’s real. It’s the here and the now, so don’t you dare tell me I’d go for someone else. I could never love any of my other lovers in my other lives more than you. Damn it, this is why we shouldn’t believe in reincarnation.”
Arthur shifted around a little and Francis realized that Arthur was searching for his hand, so he groped around in the darkness as well and finds it. The roof underneath him is bumpy and uncomfortable and he is freezing his arse off, but the view from here is beautiful and he’s got the only person he could ever want to be with right next to him.
“Does it make you that uncomfortable?” asked Francis. “Fine, I believe in soul mates. I think you’re mine. Are you happy?”
“Not really,” Arthur shrugged, and the two fell silent as they wondered the wonders of their world.
Re: The Genius Next Door [5u/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-23 03:40 pm (UTC)(link)But yeah, they suuuuuuuck at this. Luckily they know it themselves too. But man, do they suck. They just keep hurting each other so much. I kinda blame Francis more, though, to be honest... Because really, starting an affair to get more attention is just the stupidest idea ever. Flirting is okay, I think, but an affair? What the hell was he thinking? (Well, obviously he wasn't. *sigh*)
I still absolutely love this fill, btw. I'm sorry I haven't commented on all the chapters... orz I'm lazy.
Re: The Genius Next Door [5u/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-05-04 11:57 am (UTC)(link)