Original: "Foxglove and Heartache." Slash.
Summary: Francis already has one broken heart. He doesn't want another.
Warnings: Bit long, and honestly, not funny. Hurt/Comfort like woah. (But still puns.)
note: Had my reservations about posting this, but this was actually a prequel of sorts to test the characters, so safe to say that Francis is just a drama queen and everything is OK in the end.
....and in case you hadn't noticed, my cut tags are all based on songs because I am a hipster like that.
Foxglove: a genus of about 20 species of herbaceous biennials native to the Old World, certain of which are prized for their showy flowers. The drug digitalis or digoxin was first isolated from the plant.
---
Realising that it is Sam at the door is like having a small bomb detonate in his chest. Francis crouches down around the other side of the breakfast island, pressing a palm hard to his sternum, waiting for the feeling of bubbles popping backwards to disperse. He wasn’t ready. He hadn’t expected to see Sam on the other side of the peep hole, looking like ginger thunder.
Francis had tripped over a chair in his fumbling hurry to collapse as far away as possible. He’s irrationally worried that Sam can sense him through the door, like the transcendent anger infecting his haywire hair comes with super powers. Sam can’t sense him, but he could hear the chair fall, taking a standing lamp with it. Stupid. Francis only made it to the kitchen before collapsing, the room fading away behind angry, beetling spots.
Through the ringing in his ears and the metal of the flat door he can hear Sam shouting something. A warning, maybe. Then there’s the unmistakable crunch of keys in the lock and Francis remembers that Sam never gave his spare back. Shit shit shit shit. Francis pulls himself up by the rungs of the stool, blinking furiously to squash the spots. He refuses to be found swooning on the linoleum like a silent movie starlet. He’s not pretty enough to get away with shit like that.
“Fran, what--” Sam stops sharply, keys poised in one hand like a Celtic warrior wrapped in tidy office clothes, when he sees Francis on the other side of the kitchen, gripping the edge of a stool. Then suddenly he’s across the flat--probably does have super powers, it’s exactly the sort of dick thing he’d do--running water from the tap into the nearest glass, like a fucking pro.
Francis fumbles resentfully in his jacket pocket and is ready with a pill when Sam turns back to him. “Bit warm, sorry,” Sam warns, his face still tight and his eyes sad, but Francis just takes the glass and knocks it back as quick as he can. Anything to get Sam to shut up and go away.
“You startled me,” he accuses, retreating to the other side of the breakfast island.
“I startled you?” Sam sputters. “You disappeared for three bloody weeks.”
“I broke up with you,” Francis deadpans slowly, as if Sam were very stupid. He isn’t. It only makes him angrier.
“Did you break up with your phone, too? I was worried sick.” He does look sick. Francis reckons he probably looks worse, though.
“Yeah, well.” Francis picks at some unidentifiable grit at the edge of the counter. “Did you leave something here?”
“Did I...?” Francis tries to meet Sam’s eyes, maintains a serene face against the pleading set of Sam’s jaw. “God damn it!” he yells suddenly, and Francis startles backwards, heart knocking against his chest like a heavy bell, and then he’s down again. He can hear Sam stumbling round to him. This is everything he’d wished for and it’s awful.
“Fran?” Sam runs a shaking hand up and down his back, burning hot through his t-shirt. “Fran, I’m sorry, this isn’t how I meant it to go.”
“Me either,” Fran tells his knees, and then, irrationally, starts giggling. “At least I keep my floor clean.”
“Ha ha,” Sam drawls, and then his hands are pushing at Francis’ shoulders, forcing him to look up. “Fran,” he says, his voice tight again, “your sister called me. She didn’t know we’d broken up.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, shit. She wanted to know if I’d notified the movers that we’d need them a month early. She didn’t know you’d cancelled them.” Francis refuses to allow his eyes to be caught. He’d never noticed there were blue flecks in the cornflowers of the linoleum before. “What’s happening next week that I need to be here, Fran?”
“Obviously she told you,” Francis mutters. “Leave off it. Just go away.”
“Fran.” Sam’s hands are trembling in his hair. “How could you? How could you not tell me?” He waits out the silence, and when Francis still doesn’t answer, he adds, “Your sister’s got a family. She can’t look after you you 24 hours a day.”
“Oh, how bloody romantic.” Francis bats his hands away. “Yeah, why don’t you join the fun. I always wanted to be catheterised in front of my boyfriend.”
Sam watches him for a long moment, then snorts. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? No. I love you, but this is not how it works, Fran.”
For a moment Francis thinks he is talking about life and romance. Because in the stories beautiful lovers are perfect and whole, and Fran is a lie. But Sam’s face is tense with impatience, not disappointment, and Francis stammers out a, “What?”
“You’re so good at Yoda face that it took me months to find out you were in pain all the time. And this past year you didn’t even tell it’d gotten worse. You face down that kind of fear, that kind of heartache, and you want me to believe you’re afraid of a relationship? Yeah, right, Fran. You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Fine,” Francis snaps, but to his own horror, he’s crying. “Why don’t you move in. Since we’re not married, at least you’d get to keep everything, that way, if I don’t come back! My bloody gift to you.” The front of Sam’s coat smells of rain, and now it will smell of Francis’ snot, where his face is pressed to it.
“You’re not going to die,” Sam sighs, although Francis can hear his fast, even heartbeat. “Stop being dramatic.”
“Yeah, it’s only heart surgery,” Francis gurgles into his coat. “What was I thinking, trying to spare you that.” He tries to resist being gathered up against Sam, into his warm, rain-damp arms, but he’s too tired. “You’re just going to end it eventually, anyway. You’re too young to be saddled with some invalid. The whole Sweet November thing really loses its shine, trust me. ”
“They’re not cutting your spinal cord, Franny. They’re replacing a heart valve. You’ll be up and annoying people in no time flat.”
“I broke up with you, Sam,” Francis insists when Sam kisses his brow, his eyes.
“You can break up with me after you’re done convalescing. Although you should know it’ll be harder to get rid of me after I’ve moved in, so you’re probably stuck with me forever.”
“You wish.” The irrational giggles are back. “God, you’re so difficult. Sam--”
Dimly, Francis knows that no matter how clean his floor is, it can’t possibly be sanitary to be kissing on it, especially not when he’s a week away from open heart surgery, and he thinks of telling Sam so. He’d feel so guilty he’d finally break down and cry, and the part of Francis that’s humiliated and scared sort of wants that. Instead he says, “‘Heartache’? Puns, now, really? You think you’re such a laugh,” and tumbles Sam roughly into the horizontal under him.
“Oof! Watch my head!” Sam gasps, cringing a bit, and looking too relieved and happy for someone in pain. Something twists in Francis’ stomach.
“Ninny. What’s a little skull fracture?” Francis snickers, burrowing under his coat. “Maybe we can talk my surgeon into a twofer.” He can feel Sam’s heart racing beneath him, and at least that’s a reassurance that this time his own wild, stumbling pulse is just hope and relief and love, not incipient heart failure.
And, well, this definitely isn’t sanitary, but Francis reckons he can’t make things any worse than they already are. He reckons they can only get better.
Warnings: Bit long, and honestly, not funny. Hurt/Comfort like woah. (But still puns.)
note: Had my reservations about posting this, but this was actually a prequel of sorts to test the characters, so safe to say that Francis is just a drama queen and everything is OK in the end.
....and in case you hadn't noticed, my cut tags are all based on songs because I am a hipster like that.
Foxglove: a genus of about 20 species of herbaceous biennials native to the Old World, certain of which are prized for their showy flowers. The drug digitalis or digoxin was first isolated from the plant.
---
Realising that it is Sam at the door is like having a small bomb detonate in his chest. Francis crouches down around the other side of the breakfast island, pressing a palm hard to his sternum, waiting for the feeling of bubbles popping backwards to disperse. He wasn’t ready. He hadn’t expected to see Sam on the other side of the peep hole, looking like ginger thunder.
Francis had tripped over a chair in his fumbling hurry to collapse as far away as possible. He’s irrationally worried that Sam can sense him through the door, like the transcendent anger infecting his haywire hair comes with super powers. Sam can’t sense him, but he could hear the chair fall, taking a standing lamp with it. Stupid. Francis only made it to the kitchen before collapsing, the room fading away behind angry, beetling spots.
Through the ringing in his ears and the metal of the flat door he can hear Sam shouting something. A warning, maybe. Then there’s the unmistakable crunch of keys in the lock and Francis remembers that Sam never gave his spare back. Shit shit shit shit. Francis pulls himself up by the rungs of the stool, blinking furiously to squash the spots. He refuses to be found swooning on the linoleum like a silent movie starlet. He’s not pretty enough to get away with shit like that.
“Fran, what--” Sam stops sharply, keys poised in one hand like a Celtic warrior wrapped in tidy office clothes, when he sees Francis on the other side of the kitchen, gripping the edge of a stool. Then suddenly he’s across the flat--probably does have super powers, it’s exactly the sort of dick thing he’d do--running water from the tap into the nearest glass, like a fucking pro.
Francis fumbles resentfully in his jacket pocket and is ready with a pill when Sam turns back to him. “Bit warm, sorry,” Sam warns, his face still tight and his eyes sad, but Francis just takes the glass and knocks it back as quick as he can. Anything to get Sam to shut up and go away.
“You startled me,” he accuses, retreating to the other side of the breakfast island.
“I startled you?” Sam sputters. “You disappeared for three bloody weeks.”
“I broke up with you,” Francis deadpans slowly, as if Sam were very stupid. He isn’t. It only makes him angrier.
“Did you break up with your phone, too? I was worried sick.” He does look sick. Francis reckons he probably looks worse, though.
“Yeah, well.” Francis picks at some unidentifiable grit at the edge of the counter. “Did you leave something here?”
“Did I...?” Francis tries to meet Sam’s eyes, maintains a serene face against the pleading set of Sam’s jaw. “God damn it!” he yells suddenly, and Francis startles backwards, heart knocking against his chest like a heavy bell, and then he’s down again. He can hear Sam stumbling round to him. This is everything he’d wished for and it’s awful.
“Fran?” Sam runs a shaking hand up and down his back, burning hot through his t-shirt. “Fran, I’m sorry, this isn’t how I meant it to go.”
“Me either,” Fran tells his knees, and then, irrationally, starts giggling. “At least I keep my floor clean.”
“Ha ha,” Sam drawls, and then his hands are pushing at Francis’ shoulders, forcing him to look up. “Fran,” he says, his voice tight again, “your sister called me. She didn’t know we’d broken up.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, shit. She wanted to know if I’d notified the movers that we’d need them a month early. She didn’t know you’d cancelled them.” Francis refuses to allow his eyes to be caught. He’d never noticed there were blue flecks in the cornflowers of the linoleum before. “What’s happening next week that I need to be here, Fran?”
“Obviously she told you,” Francis mutters. “Leave off it. Just go away.”
“Fran.” Sam’s hands are trembling in his hair. “How could you? How could you not tell me?” He waits out the silence, and when Francis still doesn’t answer, he adds, “Your sister’s got a family. She can’t look after you you 24 hours a day.”
“Oh, how bloody romantic.” Francis bats his hands away. “Yeah, why don’t you join the fun. I always wanted to be catheterised in front of my boyfriend.”
Sam watches him for a long moment, then snorts. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? No. I love you, but this is not how it works, Fran.”
For a moment Francis thinks he is talking about life and romance. Because in the stories beautiful lovers are perfect and whole, and Fran is a lie. But Sam’s face is tense with impatience, not disappointment, and Francis stammers out a, “What?”
“You’re so good at Yoda face that it took me months to find out you were in pain all the time. And this past year you didn’t even tell it’d gotten worse. You face down that kind of fear, that kind of heartache, and you want me to believe you’re afraid of a relationship? Yeah, right, Fran. You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Fine,” Francis snaps, but to his own horror, he’s crying. “Why don’t you move in. Since we’re not married, at least you’d get to keep everything, that way, if I don’t come back! My bloody gift to you.” The front of Sam’s coat smells of rain, and now it will smell of Francis’ snot, where his face is pressed to it.
“You’re not going to die,” Sam sighs, although Francis can hear his fast, even heartbeat. “Stop being dramatic.”
“Yeah, it’s only heart surgery,” Francis gurgles into his coat. “What was I thinking, trying to spare you that.” He tries to resist being gathered up against Sam, into his warm, rain-damp arms, but he’s too tired. “You’re just going to end it eventually, anyway. You’re too young to be saddled with some invalid. The whole Sweet November thing really loses its shine, trust me. ”
“They’re not cutting your spinal cord, Franny. They’re replacing a heart valve. You’ll be up and annoying people in no time flat.”
“I broke up with you, Sam,” Francis insists when Sam kisses his brow, his eyes.
“You can break up with me after you’re done convalescing. Although you should know it’ll be harder to get rid of me after I’ve moved in, so you’re probably stuck with me forever.”
“You wish.” The irrational giggles are back. “God, you’re so difficult. Sam--”
Dimly, Francis knows that no matter how clean his floor is, it can’t possibly be sanitary to be kissing on it, especially not when he’s a week away from open heart surgery, and he thinks of telling Sam so. He’d feel so guilty he’d finally break down and cry, and the part of Francis that’s humiliated and scared sort of wants that. Instead he says, “‘Heartache’? Puns, now, really? You think you’re such a laugh,” and tumbles Sam roughly into the horizontal under him.
“Oof! Watch my head!” Sam gasps, cringing a bit, and looking too relieved and happy for someone in pain. Something twists in Francis’ stomach.
“Ninny. What’s a little skull fracture?” Francis snickers, burrowing under his coat. “Maybe we can talk my surgeon into a twofer.” He can feel Sam’s heart racing beneath him, and at least that’s a reassurance that this time his own wild, stumbling pulse is just hope and relief and love, not incipient heart failure.
And, well, this definitely isn’t sanitary, but Francis reckons he can’t make things any worse than they already are. He reckons they can only get better.