Arthur decided he ought to go back to London. Paris had brought him enough trouble, and his writer's block had been cured. He had enough of the guilt weighing upon his back for his dead actor, despite Alfred's kindly reassurances, and his French was just fine. All of it had seemed to come back. It must have been sitting at the back of his mind, waiting to be refreshed.

And he told Alfred this, who was now openly and madly in love with him.

"So you're going back to London?" The boy's expression held such a wretched sadness, Arthur could hardly take it.

"Yes, I am. But I wanted to tell you that you're welcome to come with me. I actually have a very nice home over there, if you can believe that. I'll certainly help you get started, if you're willing to come. I truly wouldn't mind allowing you to stay with me. After all, that house is horrendously lonesome with only one person inside it."

"Arthur, that's a big decision."

"Oh, come now. I'll even help you find a job. I think I'm going to have a new book of poems to publish anyway, so that leaves plenty of time open to show you around and get you acquainted with all the old buildings and what-not." There was a grin. "If you can get a job as a writer in France, there should be no problem with getting a job as a writer in England, especially considering the fact that English is your first language. Besides, Americans have become quite fashionable lately. You'd be surprised."

"Well…" Alfred was getting a little tired of Paris himself. Of course, he could always visit if he pleased; England was just next to France. Not to mention, seeing a new place and being with this man he had adored for so very long.

He did not have to think all too hard.

A few days after the proposition, Alfred decided to tag along.

So the men left for London, taking trains and getting on boats and watching as the sea moved around their vessel in an excited froth. They stood next to one another beneath the sky, watching as day turned to night, with stars lacing that pot of dark ink. It was entirely too beautiful.

While no one was looking, Arthur snuck a kiss against his darling's face.

It then occurred to him how strange this entire mess had been. He had gone to France; fell in love with a Frenchman, then fell in love with an American. In France. What a strange place to find an American anyway. Or at least, a strange place to fall in love with an American.

It simply told the man that this was meant to be. He could feel it in the base of his very crux. Arthur did not wish to be too rash, but he could not help but feel certain. After all, sentiments were not something that could be placed upon a leash and commanded to sit. They were far too wild and deaf.

And for a moment, as that darkened sky was taken in, Arthur thought of Francis. No, there was not so much salt to the wound any longer. Yes, a sprinkle, but not an entire pile as there was before hand. Arthur could only feel sorry for the man, because he had killed himself. Part of him wished that it could have been prevented, but Alfred was right. The moment that 'love of his life' left him, the ticking time bomb would have gone off. Arthur simply had the misfortune of sitting next to it as it did.

Poor Francis Bonfeuille.

With his curling hair

And lucid sapphires

That hypnotize

How hard it must be

To be so handsome

And so rejected

At the same moment

The gorgeous peacock

No one wants to look at

Arthur could only manage to feel sorry for the man. Because he really wasn't such a horrible person; he had simply lost his mind in the hot pink vat of sugared love. Just as Arthur had. But his symptoms were merely different.

However, something was learned from this train wreck. Living with too much logic, or too much sentiment was simply a stupid way to be. Arthur had been so unhappy before, thinking merely pragmatically; but he traded that for an unhappiness made of no thought what-so-ever, and merely the ringing of his heart. And when he found either of these methods to be malformed and far too tangled, he also found an American boy, waiting politely at the sidelines. He was simply wondering when Arthur would snap to it.

Yes. Lonesomeness came from his logic. And Francis came from his heart. But Alfred was a mix of either of those two worlds, telling him the clear truth and loving him at the same moment.

That was why he was so certain. This relationship- unlike the two beforehand- was stable. And Arthur was happy. Truly and shamelessly happy.

He kissed Alfred upon the cheek once more and either went back into their cabin.

The rose had died, and in its dust arose a sunflower.