[fanfiction] Divine Intervention 3/9
This chapter was not supposed to be so… dark.
Chapter 3
There was a sharp blare from outside Francis’ window and he shot up, looking around. His clock read 6:59 and he blinked at it and it started beeping, flicking to 7:00. Scowling, that extra minute of sleep was vital to his good mood that day and here it was ruined because some idiot outside probably bumped his car, activating the alarm.
Sliding out of bed, he stretched lazily, shuffling towards the bathroom and beginning his daily routine. Once he was showered and dressed in his casual business wear, he stomped down the stairs into his kitchen and almost danced when he found Arthur nowhere to be seen. The one minute of sleep made up by the fact that the Brit was missing, Francis’ day went about as normal and just as he was about to leave for work, he snatched up his small messenger bag and hurried out the front door.
The day was sunny again and Francis shielded his eyes from the sun, turning around and locking the door. As he stepped down his front walkway, eyes squinted against the sun; he hoped that his car had gas in it. He hasn’t been paying attention to it’s fuel for the past few days.
“I said eight o’clock you lazy bastard.”
He stopped dead. There, parked right outside his house in a very old-style black convertible, green eyes peaking over a pair of aviators, was Arthur. A small black and red tartan scarf was tucked under his neck, slightly hidden by the high collared grey jacket. And there, in all its glory, was the smirk.
“A-Arthur?!” Francis managed to say, stepping towards the car but not touching it.
Leaning over, the Brit grabbed the door handle of the passenger’s side, opening it. “Get in.” He said, pulling back and turning the keys. The car purred into life, puttering quietly. Francis could hear the radio singing to itself but didn’t really care, “We’re going to the countryside.”
Francis shook his head. He was not about to abducted by some crazy British man. “But I have to go to work.” Gesturing down the road, he started walking away from Arthur, intent on getting to his car as quickly as possible.
“I called ahead and informed them that you’re indisposed until further notice.” Arthur was standing in the car, hanging on the windshield and waving a small napkin at him, still grinning at the Frenchman, "You have some previous business you had to deal with."
“I need that money!”
Laughing, Arthur slid back down into the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry, they’re paying you anyway.” He patted the passenger’s side, “Now move you great arse, I want to get there before World War III starts.”
A cautious step towards the car, but the Frenchman was still keen on keeping his distance. “H-how!?” He demanded, nervously playing with the strap of his bag, one couldn’t really blame him for his hesitation, it wasn’t every day they met someone not only claiming to be an angel but proving in small ways that he was one.
“I’m an angel,” Arthur’s uncanny ability to read minds once again catching Francis off-guard, “We can do these things. Now get in the bloody car, we haven’t got all day.” The engine revved for effect and a pale finger pushed the sunglasses down so that the green eyes could watch Francis.
Resigning himself, Francis climbed into the passenger’s seat, throwing his bag into the back. As Arthur pulls out onto the road, the Frenchman swallows, the Brit’s speed and otherworldly handling of the vehicle making him uneasy. “What’s in the basket?” He asked, noticing the small wicker hamper.
Arthur made a sharp turn right, shouting a few choice words at pedestrians would dared to even consider walking in front of his collector’s MG. “Paints and lunch.” He said simply, brows furrowed. “And I’m staying at your house tonight. God forbid I have to seduce another lonely woman so I can sleep with a roof over my head.” Francis had a hard time believing that the Englishman had the ability to even flirt, no less seduce.
“I’m surprised you even have morals.” He muttered quietly, holding onto the side of the car for dear life, his nails picking up small flakes of the black paint.
“I’m surprised you are mocking the person who’s driving you to the countryside so that you can paint a picture, taking time out of his afterlife to deal with your stupid problems.”
Francis found that he had no rebuttal and instead huffed slightly, looking out the passing window. Streets and high-rises soon gave way to rolling hills and blue sky that stretched into the horizon, dipping out of site. It took Francis a moment realize which road they were driving and he felt his heart drop as they sped by two small white crosses stuck in a ditch.
The music on the radio suddenly hit Francis full-on, wrapping around him in a warm blanket of strong piano chords and a melody that anyone can comprehend. They were already deep into the song and Francis watches his reflection mouth the words, as he remembered why he never drove this road.
-
and when the broken hearted people living in the world agree
It had been dark that night. Francis remembers only the sound of Antonio’s laughter, the shrill voice of Gilbert crowing happily and his own smile drunk and calm. That and the grind of metal on metal when he takes his eyes off the road to look at his two friends and the sigh of contentment he utters before there is a shout, the lack of tires gritting against the road and the silence that follows.
there will be an answer, let it be.
The hospital room is white and when Francis opens his eyes he feels as though he has gone to heaven. When he finds that his head is pounding he realizes that he is far from the clouds. The doctors tell him it’s a miracle that he survived and when he emerges from the drug-induced haze for a short while he asks after his two friends. No doctor tells him, no nurse and no psychologist. Instead, Gilbert’s brother and Antonio’s fiancé tell him. It does not ease the pain.
They don’t let him leave the hospital, but Ludwig and Lovino visit him almost every other day. For two weeks, there are no words exchanged between them. Neither can think of what to say and Francis does not think his words could ever offer the comfort of their lost ones. When Gilbert’s brother’s speaks for the first time, it is only to tell Francis that the funeral is in two days. That night the hospital is the farthest thing from heaven.
for though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see,
And though Francis has always loved the sun, it seems to mock him, spilling warm and bright rays onto the dark cemetery. When he is told to take the podium, he wants to talk forever, to name everything Gilbert and Antonio have done, but the priest stops him, shaking his head. He steps down from the platform and can’t help but glance at the oak coffin holding a sleeping Gilbert and the golden urn that protects a whisper of Antonio.
Francis stands alone, merely a lost part of a broken whole and people mutter their condolences. He doesn’t hear them, only the blame and anger in their kind and reassuring tones. Francis is forced to let some of the memories he cherished so closely disappear as he rips up his speech and tosses it into the gaping maw of the earth. As he takes the first handful of dirt, tossing gently onto the coffin, onto the written and torn memories, he cries for the first time.
He realizes that no one is left to comfort him.
there will be an answer. let it be.
Perhaps the worst moment comes when he hears the others crying. When he sees Lovino clinging to his younger brother, swearing at Francis, at Antonio and at the sky -in a vague hope that someone may be listening to his prayers. The desperation that his voice carries is shown in the blue eyes of Gilbert’s brother as silent tears stream down his stoic face. Ludwig says nothing but that almost hurts as much as Lovino’s cries.
With his two better halves missing, Francis realizes that he cannot go on alone.
let it be, let it be.
-
Francis breathed in deeply, lifting up his hand and driving the heel into his eye. When he finally mustered the courage to look at Arthur, the Brit is focused on the road - perhaps a little too focused and Francis wondered if angels can understand human emotion, Arthur certainly has shown no signs of understanding or compassion. He heard a quiet sigh from beside him but does not comment on it.
The car puttered to a stop and Francis steps out of it quickly, stretching and hoping that Arthur won’t see the way his eyes are a little red around the edges. The angel followed his lead, turning his head to the sides, listening to the cracks with a pleased smirk. “This is where you wanted to go, right?”
In his haste to hide his face, the Frenchman hadn’t looked around, and does so. It is midday and the fields are alive with life and colour. He spotted a small enclosure in the distance where two horses idly grazed, tails flicking and he couldn’t help but remember the days he spent with Antonio and Gilbert trying to tame a wild mustang. There was a reason his mother hated horses. “Yes.” Sighing, he turned on his heel, knowing what lay on the other side of the road, “Dieu…”
The lilies are in full bloom. White petals flickering in the sunlight as a light breeze floated through the field. Only once Arthur’s finger poked into his back did Francis turn away from the flowers, quickly wiping his cheek. “This should be everything you need.” He said, passing over a small bag of paints and gesturing towards the canvas set up a few feet behind him. “Have fun okay?”
“How did you know?” Francis said, looking at Arthur curiously, “This… almost no one knows about this field.”
Toying with his sunglasses, Arthur turned away. “You know, they have lilies at funeral to represent that the dead have found innocence in their passing on.” Picking up the basket, Arthur strode away from the Frenchman, giving his a two-finger salute, his scarf flailing in the wind.
Taking his place at the small stool beside the canvas, he rummaged in the bag, pulling out paints, brushes and a palette. It had been ages since he had painted and he had forgotten how beautiful the brush’s fine hairs looked splayed across the blank canvas, dragging colours behind it. Francis had forgotten how calming it was and as he worked he found himself slightly dazed in happiness.
A small voice inside his head told him that Antonio and Gilbert would be pleased that he was getting on with his life. The painting may have taken long than it should have due to the fact that he had to keep wiping his eyes on his sleeves. When he finished, the last stroke seemed to come out of nowhere and he almost drops the brush in surprise.
Sighing, Francis wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, leaving a streak of green. It wasn’t a bad painting - he had always possessed a gift for art, certainly no Da Vinci, but a talent. His joints popping and cracking from being stationary for such a long time, the Frenchman got to his feet, rubbing his aching right hand. He glanced around, trying to find Arthur.
Spotting him stretched under a beech tree, a novel over his eyes, his head propped up on his arm, Francis carefully made his way over. Arthur was utterly dead to the world. Even his chest and stopped rising and falling and it was very tempting to poke him with a stick. Slowly lowering himself onto the small blanket, Francis stared out at the rolling hills, his moment of peace ending abruptly as his stomach growled and he realized that he hadn’t eaten all day.
His raid of the picnic basket proved mildly successful. There was a small sandwich and a bottle of wine. Opening the wine, he took a long, grateful drink before he started to tug at the sandwich’s wrappings. As Arthur snuffled in his sleep, Francis took a cautious bite of the sandwich. “Merde,” He started cough, forcing the food down taking a swallow of wine, trying to get right of the terrible taste, “That was terrible.”
“Oy, if you’re going to rip on my cooking, at least don’t steal it first.” Francis looked down to see Arthur glaring up at him, scowling, “Give that back.”
The Frenchman passed the sandwich over. “Gladly.” He took another sip of wine, wondering if he was ever going to taste something more horrible.
Beside him, Arthur sat up, taking a contemplative bite of the sandwich, laying one arm on his bent knee, other arm keeping him propped up. He sighed again, putting the food down and looking at Francis. “You were bringing them here when you crashed, right?”
The wine bottle stopped halfway to Francis mouth. “What?” He voice was shaking already. Arthur couldn’t know, that was impossible, no one could know.
“Those two guys…” Arthur said, snatched the wine out of Francis’ loose hand, putting it to his lips, talking into the bottle, “You were bringing them here to show them the fields, weren’t you?” A long drink of wine and a quirked brow.
Francis glared out at the lilies. Bluffing. Arthur was bluffing. “I don’t think you should ask.” He said coldly, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs.
“Look, I was watching when it happened so you can either tell me the truth or let me draw my own conclusions.”
Resentment in every word, Francis spoke, staring intently at anything but the Englishman. “I was. We grew up here together. I wanted to do something special for them.” He sighed, unwilling tears coming to his eyes.
Arthur reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a cigarette. As Francis crinkled in his nose in disgust, closing his eyes, he opened them to find the smoke lit. Figuring that Arthur was just fast with a lighter, he watched the embers glow and die in time with the Brit's breathing.
“Why?” Flicking his eyes, he noticed that Arthur was staring right at him, his eyes glinting in the harkening sunset. It took Francis a moment to remember that they were green and not gold.
“Antonio had just asked Lovino to marry him,” Francis explained, doing his best to control his memories, to not let them win, “and Gilbert has just been accepted into the Berlin Philharmonic. This was the last time we were going to be together and I…” He trailed off, trying not to remember the silver-haired man holding his violin - the only thing he loved more than himself.
Arthur got to his feet suddenly. Taking one last long drag of the smoke, he flicked it to the ground, crushing it underneath his boot. “I get it, don’t worry,” He started packing up the picnic, rummaging for the keys in his pocket, “It’s getting dark, let’s go.”
The ride trip was silent. Not out of awkwardness, or a lack of something to say, but a silent agreement that nothing needed to be said. Francis kept the painting on his lap, making sure not to spill any wine on it as he finished the bottle. The same parking spot Arthur had in the morning was still empty and he pulled into it with practiced ease, yawning widely as he cut the car’s engine. They stumbled up the front walkway, Francis keying in the code to his door, pushing it open and sighing tiredly. He wanted nothing more than to sleep.
“Hey, where am I going to sleep?” Arthur asked, walking in after Francis, closing the door and glancing around.
Walking down the hallway, Francis waved a weary hand in the direction of the living room, beginning to climb the stairs to his bedroom. “The couch is right over there.” He called down, “Goodnight.” He reached his room, kicked off his shoes and fell onto his bed, completely exhausted. As he drifted off to sleep, he was almost sure that he heard the quiet voice of a violin.
1. Paint picture of countryside.
2. Ave Maria live.
3. Horseback riding.
4. Ask waitress out.
5. Love.
Chapter 4>>
Author's Note
It was only while writing this chapter that I figured out why Francis wanted to kill himself. I had planned on leave it ambiguous but his backstory somehow wormed its way into the story and I couldn’t let it pass. I’ve also never cried while writing before, but today…
Arthur's car is this sexy beast of a machine.
Chapter 3
There was a sharp blare from outside Francis’ window and he shot up, looking around. His clock read 6:59 and he blinked at it and it started beeping, flicking to 7:00. Scowling, that extra minute of sleep was vital to his good mood that day and here it was ruined because some idiot outside probably bumped his car, activating the alarm.
Sliding out of bed, he stretched lazily, shuffling towards the bathroom and beginning his daily routine. Once he was showered and dressed in his casual business wear, he stomped down the stairs into his kitchen and almost danced when he found Arthur nowhere to be seen. The one minute of sleep made up by the fact that the Brit was missing, Francis’ day went about as normal and just as he was about to leave for work, he snatched up his small messenger bag and hurried out the front door.
The day was sunny again and Francis shielded his eyes from the sun, turning around and locking the door. As he stepped down his front walkway, eyes squinted against the sun; he hoped that his car had gas in it. He hasn’t been paying attention to it’s fuel for the past few days.
“I said eight o’clock you lazy bastard.”
He stopped dead. There, parked right outside his house in a very old-style black convertible, green eyes peaking over a pair of aviators, was Arthur. A small black and red tartan scarf was tucked under his neck, slightly hidden by the high collared grey jacket. And there, in all its glory, was the smirk.
“A-Arthur?!” Francis managed to say, stepping towards the car but not touching it.
Leaning over, the Brit grabbed the door handle of the passenger’s side, opening it. “Get in.” He said, pulling back and turning the keys. The car purred into life, puttering quietly. Francis could hear the radio singing to itself but didn’t really care, “We’re going to the countryside.”
Francis shook his head. He was not about to abducted by some crazy British man. “But I have to go to work.” Gesturing down the road, he started walking away from Arthur, intent on getting to his car as quickly as possible.
“I called ahead and informed them that you’re indisposed until further notice.” Arthur was standing in the car, hanging on the windshield and waving a small napkin at him, still grinning at the Frenchman, "You have some previous business you had to deal with."
“I need that money!”
Laughing, Arthur slid back down into the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry, they’re paying you anyway.” He patted the passenger’s side, “Now move you great arse, I want to get there before World War III starts.”
A cautious step towards the car, but the Frenchman was still keen on keeping his distance. “H-how!?” He demanded, nervously playing with the strap of his bag, one couldn’t really blame him for his hesitation, it wasn’t every day they met someone not only claiming to be an angel but proving in small ways that he was one.
“I’m an angel,” Arthur’s uncanny ability to read minds once again catching Francis off-guard, “We can do these things. Now get in the bloody car, we haven’t got all day.” The engine revved for effect and a pale finger pushed the sunglasses down so that the green eyes could watch Francis.
Resigning himself, Francis climbed into the passenger’s seat, throwing his bag into the back. As Arthur pulls out onto the road, the Frenchman swallows, the Brit’s speed and otherworldly handling of the vehicle making him uneasy. “What’s in the basket?” He asked, noticing the small wicker hamper.
Arthur made a sharp turn right, shouting a few choice words at pedestrians would dared to even consider walking in front of his collector’s MG. “Paints and lunch.” He said simply, brows furrowed. “And I’m staying at your house tonight. God forbid I have to seduce another lonely woman so I can sleep with a roof over my head.” Francis had a hard time believing that the Englishman had the ability to even flirt, no less seduce.
“I’m surprised you even have morals.” He muttered quietly, holding onto the side of the car for dear life, his nails picking up small flakes of the black paint.
“I’m surprised you are mocking the person who’s driving you to the countryside so that you can paint a picture, taking time out of his afterlife to deal with your stupid problems.”
Francis found that he had no rebuttal and instead huffed slightly, looking out the passing window. Streets and high-rises soon gave way to rolling hills and blue sky that stretched into the horizon, dipping out of site. It took Francis a moment realize which road they were driving and he felt his heart drop as they sped by two small white crosses stuck in a ditch.
The music on the radio suddenly hit Francis full-on, wrapping around him in a warm blanket of strong piano chords and a melody that anyone can comprehend. They were already deep into the song and Francis watches his reflection mouth the words, as he remembered why he never drove this road.
-
and when the broken hearted people living in the world agree
It had been dark that night. Francis remembers only the sound of Antonio’s laughter, the shrill voice of Gilbert crowing happily and his own smile drunk and calm. That and the grind of metal on metal when he takes his eyes off the road to look at his two friends and the sigh of contentment he utters before there is a shout, the lack of tires gritting against the road and the silence that follows.
there will be an answer, let it be.
The hospital room is white and when Francis opens his eyes he feels as though he has gone to heaven. When he finds that his head is pounding he realizes that he is far from the clouds. The doctors tell him it’s a miracle that he survived and when he emerges from the drug-induced haze for a short while he asks after his two friends. No doctor tells him, no nurse and no psychologist. Instead, Gilbert’s brother and Antonio’s fiancé tell him. It does not ease the pain.
They don’t let him leave the hospital, but Ludwig and Lovino visit him almost every other day. For two weeks, there are no words exchanged between them. Neither can think of what to say and Francis does not think his words could ever offer the comfort of their lost ones. When Gilbert’s brother’s speaks for the first time, it is only to tell Francis that the funeral is in two days. That night the hospital is the farthest thing from heaven.
for though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see,
And though Francis has always loved the sun, it seems to mock him, spilling warm and bright rays onto the dark cemetery. When he is told to take the podium, he wants to talk forever, to name everything Gilbert and Antonio have done, but the priest stops him, shaking his head. He steps down from the platform and can’t help but glance at the oak coffin holding a sleeping Gilbert and the golden urn that protects a whisper of Antonio.
Francis stands alone, merely a lost part of a broken whole and people mutter their condolences. He doesn’t hear them, only the blame and anger in their kind and reassuring tones. Francis is forced to let some of the memories he cherished so closely disappear as he rips up his speech and tosses it into the gaping maw of the earth. As he takes the first handful of dirt, tossing gently onto the coffin, onto the written and torn memories, he cries for the first time.
He realizes that no one is left to comfort him.
there will be an answer. let it be.
Perhaps the worst moment comes when he hears the others crying. When he sees Lovino clinging to his younger brother, swearing at Francis, at Antonio and at the sky -in a vague hope that someone may be listening to his prayers. The desperation that his voice carries is shown in the blue eyes of Gilbert’s brother as silent tears stream down his stoic face. Ludwig says nothing but that almost hurts as much as Lovino’s cries.
With his two better halves missing, Francis realizes that he cannot go on alone.
let it be, let it be.
-
Francis breathed in deeply, lifting up his hand and driving the heel into his eye. When he finally mustered the courage to look at Arthur, the Brit is focused on the road - perhaps a little too focused and Francis wondered if angels can understand human emotion, Arthur certainly has shown no signs of understanding or compassion. He heard a quiet sigh from beside him but does not comment on it.
The car puttered to a stop and Francis steps out of it quickly, stretching and hoping that Arthur won’t see the way his eyes are a little red around the edges. The angel followed his lead, turning his head to the sides, listening to the cracks with a pleased smirk. “This is where you wanted to go, right?”
In his haste to hide his face, the Frenchman hadn’t looked around, and does so. It is midday and the fields are alive with life and colour. He spotted a small enclosure in the distance where two horses idly grazed, tails flicking and he couldn’t help but remember the days he spent with Antonio and Gilbert trying to tame a wild mustang. There was a reason his mother hated horses. “Yes.” Sighing, he turned on his heel, knowing what lay on the other side of the road, “Dieu…”
The lilies are in full bloom. White petals flickering in the sunlight as a light breeze floated through the field. Only once Arthur’s finger poked into his back did Francis turn away from the flowers, quickly wiping his cheek. “This should be everything you need.” He said, passing over a small bag of paints and gesturing towards the canvas set up a few feet behind him. “Have fun okay?”
“How did you know?” Francis said, looking at Arthur curiously, “This… almost no one knows about this field.”
Toying with his sunglasses, Arthur turned away. “You know, they have lilies at funeral to represent that the dead have found innocence in their passing on.” Picking up the basket, Arthur strode away from the Frenchman, giving his a two-finger salute, his scarf flailing in the wind.
Taking his place at the small stool beside the canvas, he rummaged in the bag, pulling out paints, brushes and a palette. It had been ages since he had painted and he had forgotten how beautiful the brush’s fine hairs looked splayed across the blank canvas, dragging colours behind it. Francis had forgotten how calming it was and as he worked he found himself slightly dazed in happiness.
A small voice inside his head told him that Antonio and Gilbert would be pleased that he was getting on with his life. The painting may have taken long than it should have due to the fact that he had to keep wiping his eyes on his sleeves. When he finished, the last stroke seemed to come out of nowhere and he almost drops the brush in surprise.
Sighing, Francis wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, leaving a streak of green. It wasn’t a bad painting - he had always possessed a gift for art, certainly no Da Vinci, but a talent. His joints popping and cracking from being stationary for such a long time, the Frenchman got to his feet, rubbing his aching right hand. He glanced around, trying to find Arthur.
Spotting him stretched under a beech tree, a novel over his eyes, his head propped up on his arm, Francis carefully made his way over. Arthur was utterly dead to the world. Even his chest and stopped rising and falling and it was very tempting to poke him with a stick. Slowly lowering himself onto the small blanket, Francis stared out at the rolling hills, his moment of peace ending abruptly as his stomach growled and he realized that he hadn’t eaten all day.
His raid of the picnic basket proved mildly successful. There was a small sandwich and a bottle of wine. Opening the wine, he took a long, grateful drink before he started to tug at the sandwich’s wrappings. As Arthur snuffled in his sleep, Francis took a cautious bite of the sandwich. “Merde,” He started cough, forcing the food down taking a swallow of wine, trying to get right of the terrible taste, “That was terrible.”
“Oy, if you’re going to rip on my cooking, at least don’t steal it first.” Francis looked down to see Arthur glaring up at him, scowling, “Give that back.”
The Frenchman passed the sandwich over. “Gladly.” He took another sip of wine, wondering if he was ever going to taste something more horrible.
Beside him, Arthur sat up, taking a contemplative bite of the sandwich, laying one arm on his bent knee, other arm keeping him propped up. He sighed again, putting the food down and looking at Francis. “You were bringing them here when you crashed, right?”
The wine bottle stopped halfway to Francis mouth. “What?” He voice was shaking already. Arthur couldn’t know, that was impossible, no one could know.
“Those two guys…” Arthur said, snatched the wine out of Francis’ loose hand, putting it to his lips, talking into the bottle, “You were bringing them here to show them the fields, weren’t you?” A long drink of wine and a quirked brow.
Francis glared out at the lilies. Bluffing. Arthur was bluffing. “I don’t think you should ask.” He said coldly, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs.
“Look, I was watching when it happened so you can either tell me the truth or let me draw my own conclusions.”
Resentment in every word, Francis spoke, staring intently at anything but the Englishman. “I was. We grew up here together. I wanted to do something special for them.” He sighed, unwilling tears coming to his eyes.
Arthur reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a cigarette. As Francis crinkled in his nose in disgust, closing his eyes, he opened them to find the smoke lit. Figuring that Arthur was just fast with a lighter, he watched the embers glow and die in time with the Brit's breathing.
“Why?” Flicking his eyes, he noticed that Arthur was staring right at him, his eyes glinting in the harkening sunset. It took Francis a moment to remember that they were green and not gold.
“Antonio had just asked Lovino to marry him,” Francis explained, doing his best to control his memories, to not let them win, “and Gilbert has just been accepted into the Berlin Philharmonic. This was the last time we were going to be together and I…” He trailed off, trying not to remember the silver-haired man holding his violin - the only thing he loved more than himself.
Arthur got to his feet suddenly. Taking one last long drag of the smoke, he flicked it to the ground, crushing it underneath his boot. “I get it, don’t worry,” He started packing up the picnic, rummaging for the keys in his pocket, “It’s getting dark, let’s go.”
The ride trip was silent. Not out of awkwardness, or a lack of something to say, but a silent agreement that nothing needed to be said. Francis kept the painting on his lap, making sure not to spill any wine on it as he finished the bottle. The same parking spot Arthur had in the morning was still empty and he pulled into it with practiced ease, yawning widely as he cut the car’s engine. They stumbled up the front walkway, Francis keying in the code to his door, pushing it open and sighing tiredly. He wanted nothing more than to sleep.
“Hey, where am I going to sleep?” Arthur asked, walking in after Francis, closing the door and glancing around.
Walking down the hallway, Francis waved a weary hand in the direction of the living room, beginning to climb the stairs to his bedroom. “The couch is right over there.” He called down, “Goodnight.” He reached his room, kicked off his shoes and fell onto his bed, completely exhausted. As he drifted off to sleep, he was almost sure that he heard the quiet voice of a violin.
1. Paint picture of countryside.
2. Ave Maria live.
3. Horseback riding.
4. Ask waitress out.
5. Love.
Chapter 4>>
Author's Note
It was only while writing this chapter that I figured out why Francis wanted to kill himself. I had planned on leave it ambiguous but his backstory somehow wormed its way into the story and I couldn’t let it pass. I’ve also never cried while writing before, but today…
Arthur's car is this sexy beast of a machine.