It was nearly a week later, and Arthur was still kicking himself over that stupid, stupid…God! Where did that even come from? "You look nice today." It was a miracle his voice hadn't cracked while he said that. Woulda served him right. Was he trying to give himself over to the…to the…the gay? Gay. What an awful word. He hated it.
And now that bloody son of a bitch was back in his house again. He didn't have a choice, really. They needed to plan Alfred and Matthew's birthday party. The boys deserved that much. Even if they had gays for parents.
He really ought to go to church again. But honestly, he'd probably just end using the Lord's name in vain in His own house.
At least Francis seemed to be in a good mood. Smiling, twirling his hair, laughing at Arthur's smart-ass comments, making smart-ass comments back.
"So—I'll be baking the cake, of course," Francis said while scribbling on a notepad. He bumped his hip against Arthur and twirled across the kitchen to go check the cabinets for ingredients.
"Hm," Arthur grunted in reply, not really wanting to take on the task himself, anyway.
"And we'll have to get decorations somehow…what do you think? A banner? Those glittery cardboard letters are so tacky, our boys deserve better, for sure. Maybe I'll make something. Or you can? S'il te plait?" He looked over his shoulder and smiled a smile that was almost enough to melt Arthur's heart right then and there.
Our boys…
"I can try, but I can't promise you anything. I work a desk job," he grumbled. Inside his chest, his heart was still a goopy, molten mess. Francis had way too much control over him, and God, did he hate it – but another part of him couldn't care less.
"You had better try! These are your children! Alors—nous avons besoin de lait, farine, un peu de sucre…"
"Quit muttering in that froggy language of yours!" Arthur snapped at him, arms crossed against his chest.
"Oh, tais-toi, je sais déjà que tu parles parfait français." [Oh, shut up, I already know that you speak perfect French.] He waved his free hand at Arthur as he continued scrawling, not even bothering to look up. Beams of sunlight streamed through the window, lighting up the path of the dust floating through the air and transforming his hair into tumbling waves of spun gold.
"Ce n'est pas parfait…" [It's not perfect…] Arthur mumbled. He uncrossed his arms to roll up his sleeves, before realizing he was wearing a T-shirt and recrossing them.
Francis finally looked up at him with one eyebrow raised, but couldn't hold it for more than 5 seconds before bursting into laughter.
"What? What did I do now?" Arthur yelled, totally lost.
"Nothing! Nothing, you're just too funny," Francis replied, still laughing and leaning on the counter for support.
Arthur threw his hands up in exasperation and turned to go to the living room, but a smile tugged at his mouth despite himself. Francis was so busy bustling about, he needed to find something useful to do to…he walked over to the window, groaning as he tried to pry it open. Finally he managed, the sill sliding upwards with a bang. Arthur heard a yelp from the kitchen and grinned.
The air was just as muggy outside as in, but a slight breeze was pulling through the room now. He went from one to the next, sliding them all open and praying not too many bugs found their way in. As he was working on the fourth window, someone slapped him on the head with a notepad.
"Méchant! You meanie!"
"Aww, did I scare you?" Arthur spun around to find his face inches from Francis'. Woah, okay then.
"Of course not! As if you could scare someone as courageous and brave as me," Francis boasted, flipping his hair. "I'm practically a modern Prince Charming."
Arthur smirked. "I was the one who saved your ass from that fly in the bathroom, remember? Or does Prince Charming have a conveniently selective memory?"
"It was buzzing all over the place!" Francis spluttered in his defense. Still, not even a foot between their faces. "You would have been terrified too, something so loud and unhygienic intruding on what should be the most private part of a man's home!"
"A real man would have just grown a pair and slapped it with a slipper instead of throwing a shampoo bottle—which completely missed, by the way—and hiding in the corner of the shower."
"Nonsense!"
"You were lucky I came in there to take care of it. You would have been cowering in that tub all night."
"Oh, please."
"You sounded like a little girl. I thought Matthew or Alfred had gotten hurt."
"I – "
"What did you do about bugs before you had me around, anyway?" Arthur's cocky grin was a mile wide.
"I don't need to put up with this sort of verbal slander, you know," Francis replied, gesticulating with his hands for dramatic effect. Arthur snorted, which made Francis laugh, and that in turn made Arthur laugh even harder. Clouds drifted across the sky outside, and the sun lay bare every plane and curve of Arthur's face.
Does he know how beautiful he is when he lets himself laugh? Francis wondered, letting his hand drop as his chuckling subsided.
Eventually, they had both quieted down, and simply stood there, looking at each other. Maybe even admiring each other. The colors of the room around them were saturated, painted in watercolor with a lazy brush, lilting across the canvas. But they - they were special; they were made of oil paint, of soft curves and sharp corners, highlights and shadows. They each wondered if it was possible for the other to be the most beautiful thing they'd ever seen.
The city is never silent. Logically, the din of gridlocked cars and crowded pavements must have floated in through the windows on the songs of the birds nesting on the rooftops. But inside that living room, for a moment, they shared a world that was neither here nor there, and didn't really have to be.
Can you believe it? Francis didn't want to break this silence. Perhaps, there were some things that could be expressed without words.
But he hadn't learned his lesson quite yet.
"…I suppose we should get back to work, shouldn't we?"
"Ah—oh. Yeah, I guess so."
Their eyes met for a little while longer. But Arthur ended up turning it into a competition—he needed an excuse for staring into those eyes for so long—and so Francis broke the contact, turning around to head back to the kitchen.
Arthur knew he'd regret this later, giving in to his sinful thoughts, but he couldn't help it. And he didn't want to. And now he was following him back into the kitchen, the object of his lust and his love, the source of all his evil and the source of all that was good.
"So - " Francis picked up from where they left off, taking his pen and making more notes. "I'll handle the food, you'll handle the decorations – with my help, of course."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "I have at least 30% more taste than you give me credit for."
"Ha! Taste in what?" Francis laughed.
"Um—tea, for one thing!" Arthur tried.
"Oh God, you and your tea." Francis rolled his eyes playfully.
"And music! I have fantastic taste in music," he continued, proud of himself for that one.
"Ugh, that awful rock stuff?"
"There is so much more to it than just 'awful rock stuff'. And you call me uncultured."
"It's not my fault if I prefer actual melodies over screaming with amplifier feedback in the background!"
"It's not just screaming! Are you telling me that you, the king of all that is ridiculously, unabashedly French, don't have an appreciation for French rock?"
"French rock is a music genre?" Francis asked, unconvinced.
"Surely you've heard of Johnny Hallyday?"
"That name does not sound even remotely French to me."
"Well that's because his real name is Jean-Phillipe Smet, but that's besides the point. He's quite literally one of the most successful music artists of all time. You've never heard of him?"
Francis smirked a little. "Can't say that I have."
"Well what about Les Chats Sauvages? Twist à Saint Tropez? Does that ring a bell?"
"Nooo," he drawled.
"Not even Les Thugs?"
Francis shook his head.
"No?! Maybe something more recent then – Noir Désir? They're from the 90s, their album Tostaky*is still selling 20 years after it got released."
Francis had sat down backwards on a chair, resting his chin on his hands laid across the top of the seatback. "…I've heard of Stromae," he tried, grinning devilishly.
Oh, if looks could kill. Francis winced under Arthur's glare, but he was obviously not really mad. Just having fun.
Arthur shook his head. "I swear. I even have records…although they're mostly cassette tapes or CDs, or ripped to my library by now."
Francis guffawed. "Cassette tapes?! What, is your television still in black and white too?"
"It's retro!"
"It's outdated."
"See? No taste whatsoever in neat old technology."
"Fine, I'll give you that one," Francis grunted.
"I wonder if I still have tabs for any Johnny Hallyday songs…" Arthur mused to himself. He tapped out a chord progression on the countertop and hummed along. Francis watched in interest.
"You know, I've never actually heard you play," Francis piped up.
"Oh…why, do you want to?"
"You seem passionate about it…don't you have a guitar?"
"I have two."
"Why would you need two guitars? Is one of them acoustic?"
"No, they're both electric."
"Well then what's the point in having two?! Aren't they all basically the same?"
"That's like asking why you would need two kinds of red wine, if they're basically the same!"
"Oh my God!" Francis brought a hand to his chest. "I had no idea," he whispered, humbled.
Arthur nodded enthusiastically. "You see?"
"Will you play something for me, then?" he pushed.
"I thought you didn't care for rock."
"Well, you're not going to scream at me and play some garbled electric mess, right?"
"I told you, that's not what rock is about!"
"Then show me!"
"I might be able to remember a French one…" he grumbled, turning to leave the kitchen. "Here, follow me," he said, gesturing with his hand down the hall. Francis got up from his chair and followed him until he turned right into a rather small room. Francis peeked around the door frame before realizing that it was, in fact, Arthur's bedroom. Oh bordel!
Arthur was already hunched over the mess of extension cords and power strips on the floor near the outlet. He traced each cord back to its respective object, then got up to check the amp's settings. He twisted and fiddled with a few knobs with names that meant nothing to Francis, who was looking on with interest anyway. Eventually he came to a decision, standing up and placing his hands on his hips with a satisfied nod, then turned to pick up the guitar and sit down cross-legged on the floor.
"…You can sit on the bed, you know," he told Francis, who was still standing in the doorway. Francis nodded and hurriedly sat down. God, normally he was so smooth! Did his tact fly out the window along with his common sense?
Arthur thought for a moment. "…No, not that one…" he mumbled. His fingers tapped the frets idly.
Francis waited patiently.
Arthur started, strumming the strings once, then twice, three, four times, and then he launched into the real introduction. Soon the chords began, and his voice joined in as well.
"I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour, but heaven knows I'm miserable now…I was looking for a job and then I found a job, and heaven kno-ows, I'm miserable now…Iiii-n m-yyy liii-fe…"
His hands faltered a little and he stopped singing, readjusting before he tried again.
"I'm miserable now…Iiii-n m-yyy liii-fe – " It happened again, and he let out a growl.
"F#...major…ah, dammit." He set down the guitar, and turned to look at a stack of books and papers, but gave up. "Here, I'll play one I know better." He set down the electric and turned off the amp, sliding open the closet door and pulling out his acoustic instead. "You'll like it, it's in French." Arthur got ready, singing under his breath, "Mi-chelle, ma belle, sont des mots…"
"Oh, of course that's the only French song you know," Francis snorted, rolling his eyes.
Arthur knit his eyebrows together, not even offended. "No, I know more. Actually, that one's too cheesy anyway. Hold on." He dug around through a folder stuffed full of papers, humming a tune that…well, quite frankly, just sounded flat-out depressing.
"This one sounds too sad!"
"Hush up and wait until the lyrics kick in, then!" Arthur chided, strumming out a chord and jumping into the introduction. Francis leaned forward a little without realizing. He was picking out a fairly simple melody, one phrase in a high pitch, one in a low, but it sounded like two voices caught up in a conversation.
Arthur took in a breath and began. "C'est le temps de l'amour, le temps des copains, et de l'aventure…
"Quand le temps va et vient, on ne pense à rien malgré ses blessures…"
Well…that was not quite what he had been expecting. Francis listened closer to the lyrics, beginning to lose himself in the music.
"Car le temps de l'amour, c'est long et c'est court, ça dure toujours, on s'en souvient…
Another breath, as the bridge began.
"On se dit qu'a vingt ans on est le roi du monde, et qu'éternellement il y aura dans nos yeux, tout le ciel beau…"
The chorus came again as Francis' eyes drifted shut.
"Un beau jour c'est l'amour et le cœur bat plus vite…"
And the heart beats even faster…Francis' heart was doing just that.
"Car la vie suit son cours et l'on est tout heureux d'être amoureux…"
He sang the chorus once more. It ended with him repeating the final phrase, over and over. "On s'en souvient, on s'en souvient…
"On s'en souvient."
We will remember, we will remember, we will remember…
"…I like that song," Francis mused. Arthur simply nodded; he looked kind of tired.
"If you don't mind me asking, why do you love your music so much?" Francis asked from his perch on the bed.
"It's a way of…god, that's so corny. It's self expression." He gently placed the guitar back in the closet, leaning it against the wall. "I suppose it sounds nice? And I feel like I'm doing something, playing the guitar…being useful. Contributing something beautiful. Even if it's not…" he trailed off.
"I thought it was beautiful," Francis mumbled.
"And also – I mean, I've tried to write my own lyrics, but I don't think writing is really my thing. I'm never quite able to capture what I'm about, but other artists manage to do it perfectly. So maybe, by them lending me their words, I can find a voice for myself too," he added.
…Francis wished he'd paid more attention to the lyrics.
"Did you say what you wanted to?"
Arthur smiled to himself. "…Not quite." He looked around the room, then walked back out the door and into the hall. Francis took one last look as well. He wanted to commit everything about this to memory.
"Are you coming, or are you being a perv?" Arthur yelled. Francis bristled and hurried out, back to the kitchen.
Arthur was sat at the table, scrolling through something on his phone. Francis walked in and sat down across from him, waiting until he shut off his phone and set it down on the table. They sat in silence again, this one less comfortable than the one in the living room.
"'And one is completely content to be in love...'"
Arthur visibly startled. "Excuse me?" he scoffed incredulously.
"Isn't that what you were saying?" Francis' gaze met his, hard and questioning.
"I – well, um –"
"Who are you in love with, exactly?"
Arthur was lost for words. He should never have opened up, should never have let the evil parts of him win, oh God oh God oh God – "Are you saying that I'm gay?" he asked, outraged.
That wasn't quite the reaction Francis was expecting. "Uh – I mean, as long as we're on the same page about who I'm implying you're in love with, then I suppose, by extension, it would make you gay, or at least attracted to men…"
"Well I'm not! How dare you come into my house, and – and accuse me of such things - "
"Being gay is not a bad thing," Francis stated, suspicion nagging at his mind.
"Ye – it – that's not the point!"
"You seem to think it is."
"I'm fucking straight!"
"Why are you so worked up about this?" Francis' mouth twisted into a deeper and deeper frown with every word.
"You can't just say that to people, that's why!"
"You said it was your way of speaking!"
"Ye – no! No no no no no!" Arthur sputtered, going red in the face.
"Who are you so happy to be in love with, then? If it's not me."
"Nobody!" Arthur hissed.
"C'est conneries," he growled.
"What do you mean, 'bullshit'? You can't just – I'm not some – some fu…fagh…" He couldn't quite bring himself say the word.
Francis' eyebrows shot up. "Oh, wow. Okay, guess I'm not welcome here." He put his hands up in mock surrender.
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, you're not, genius. How bleedin' long'd it take you to figure that out?"
"Apparently it took you longer, you homophobe!"
"CASSE-TOI DE M'APPARTEMENT!" [GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY APARTMENT!] he roared, blinking rapidly. He couldn't cry here, not now…he was so little of a man already.
Francis stood up and brushed past him. "As you wish," he spoke bitterly, walking to the door with tears on the edges of his eyes. He grabbed his phone and said, "I'll pick up the boys and drop off Alfred here." Arthur couldn't ignore the tremor in his voice.
And then he was gone.
And Arthur fell apart.
He waited until he saw Francis walk into the Tube from his window. Glancing at the clock, he noted that it would still be an hour before the boys' playdate even ended. Arthur hurried to the hall, snatched his keys off the dresser and checked his eyes in the mirror.
Red-rimmed. Pathetic.
He grabbed the keys, locked the door, hustled down the steps, and made it to the outside. Now what?
It had been so long. First it was punishment, then it was rebellion, then failure, and up until now, fear. Everything that had kept him away from the church, and now the one time he wanted to go, he realized he didn't know where.
Well, it was London, birthplace of the Crown's Christian identity crisis– he was bound to find someplace, no matter what direction he walked in.
He wandered, and he wandered, and he wandered some more, passing new builds of cement and older ones of brick. The trees cast shade and filtered green light all along the pavement. The city streets bustled with cars and with people. Walking felt like swimming through the thick summer air, the heat beating down even as the sun sank lower in the sky. He watched the buildings pass, then examined the pavement, and back again.
And there it was - a catholic church. He hesitated on the steps. Did he really want to do this? What kind of an answer was he expecting? The catholic church wasn't exactly known for its liberal social views.
With a deep breath in through his nose, he strode up the stairs and through the open doors.
The church was cool, the muggy air only making it so far inside before dissipating. Arthur walked to the confessional booth, his shoes tapping on the stone floor, and waited, for 5 minutes, then 10…every muscle was tensed, and his bones told him to run away. He wanted to scream, escape back to the safety of his flat. But he had to face what he'd done.
The next person stepped out of the confessional booth and walked away, a blank look on their face. Arthur braced himself, taking robotic steps forward, one at a time. It felt like he had only blinked, and all of a sudden was kneeling in front of the screen. His right hand moved almost of its own accord.
His forehead – "In the name of the Father" – to his sternum "and of the Son" – his right shoulder, and then his left – "and of the Holy Spirit." He paused, then continued. The priest shifted behind the screen. "My last confession was…6 years ago."
The priest nodded. "Tell me your sins," he said gently.
Arthur thought back to when he was waiting in line…was there anyone behind him? Shoot. Well, he had ten minutes. It would be fine.
One more breath. "…I have fallen in love with another man. I have had impure thoughts about him, and desire a romantic relationship with him. I feel such incredible happiness around him as I have never felt before. I want nothing more than to be with him as a man is with a woman," he confessed.
"Is that all?" the priest asked, after Arthur hadn't spoken for a stretch.
"No," he replied. "In the last 6 years, I have abused alcohol many times. I have had gratuitous sex with contraception and with multiple people, even while dating a different one. I have lied, I have denied my faith, I have worked on Sunday and not observed all holydays. I have neglected prayer for a long time, I have envied others, I have not loved my neighbor as myself, and I have used the Lord and his Son's name in vain countless times." He breathed out. "For these and all the sins in my life, I am sorry." By the end, it was barely a mumble. His chest felt light, though his eyes were heavy with exhaustion.
The priest waited, then spoke. "Visit the altar of Our Lady, and give thanks for your pardon. Ask for her help in overcoming your faults."
Arthur was getting ready to conclude the session when the priest continued. His voice was softer, even intimate.
"However…perhaps not everything you confessed are sins. Remember that God wishes for all his children to find peace and happiness within each other…His book and His words, as spoken through the prophets, have many interpretations."
Arthur's mouth hung open, before he nodded to himself. "…I understand. Thank you, Father."
The priest cleared his throat and righted his voice. "Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you peace. I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
"Amen," Arthur whispered, signing the cross and rising from his knees. The priest did not speak another word as he left.
Arthur had walked down the side aisle to the exit, but stopped to check his watch. I still have some time left…
Once upon a time, he'd been dragged to a chapel not unlike this one, and he'd sat in pews not unlike these, and recited prayers without knowing or caring what they meant. He'd sung songs of devotion and love with his family, with his choir, and with himself, sometimes, when he was sure no one would hear. He kind of wanted to sing now. Once upon a time, his father had read them passages from the Bible as a bedtime story, and his mother had sung them hymns as a lullaby. She'd stroke their heads, let them know that no matter what happened, they were her sons, and that she would always love them, just as Christ loves all his children. No matter what, they would always be a holy family.
Once upon a time, his father came home later and later, and gave more and more suspicious excuses. His mother scheduled more and more private sessions with the priest, because just 10 minutes for confessional weren't long enough. Dinners grew more and more silent, not because fewer words were spoken but because they ceased to hold any meaning. The flat they shared moved away from being a house of love to a house of loneliness. And from then…
He let his head fall back onto the backrest of the pew he'd sat in and looked up at the tall, arching ceiling of the church. The stained glass windows painted the floor in vibrant biblical scenes. Jesus hung by his hands, head dropped to his side in acceptance, looming over the chapel from the altar. A building made entirely out of stone, yet a building that still managed to feel warm and safe.
No matter what, you always have a home in the house of God.
He brought his head back, clasping his hands in his lap and closing his eyes. He prayed.
10 minutes later, he left the chapel, and took a new-member card from the narthex.
He'd texted Francis that he might be a little late, but the bastard never texted back. He breathed a heavy sigh, because he'd hurt him and because he knew now what he'd have to do next.
Arthur hurried up the stairs of his building, sweat running down his back from the intense summer heat. When he got to his flat door, there was no one waiting outside, but he just shrugged it off and opened the door. Maybe he hadn't been so late after all.
The boys were hanging out in the kitchen with Francis, helping with the cooking, but all three of their heads turned when they heard the door open. The boys' faces registered a degree of excitement. Francis just looked tired.
Arthur paused. "Oh…Did I give you a key?"
"Yes," Francis answered curtly, before turning back to the stove. Shoot. He's madder than I thought.
They had a quiet dinner – macaroni gratinés au fromage – which was just a fancy French way of saying mac and cheese. Francis insisted his recipe was a million times better than anything store-bought, and Mattie even chimed in to agree, but Alfred said he couldn't taste the difference. (Although Arthur couldn't help but wonder – if Francis' recipe was so good, why wasn't he eating it?) Arthur sat at the end of the table, trying to catch Francis' eye, but he never looked at him once, not even to lament about Alfred's taste being ruined by his father. He eventually just kept eating and resigned himself to silence.
The evening went by quickly, and soon it was time for bed. The boys brushed their teeth, dug around for pajamas – it turned out Mattie had an extra pair in Alfred's dresser – and roughhoused until they were just tired enough to actually sleep.
Mattie was already settled in his sleeping bag when Alfred wandered out of the room, keeping his footsteps as quiet as he could on the soft carpet. The hall had a few lights, but they cast really scary shadows. What if ghosts lived in them?
Alfred found his dad quickly, paging through a novel from a stack sitting on the floor outside his bedroom. "Alfred?" Arthur remarked, looking up from the book and watching his son curiously. "Why are you still up? Is something wrong?"
Alfred was quiet for a few seconds before talking. "Are…are you okay, Daddy?"
His eyebrows flew upward, taken aback. "W – of course, Alfred. Why would you be worried about that?"
"Matt – Mattie says you're lone-ly."
"I'm really fine, Alfred. I'm not sure what Mattie means."
Alfred may have been just a child, but he didn't feel like he was being told the whole truth. "…Okay, Daddy," he said, sighing a little and turning to walk back. "Good night."
"…Er, Alfred. Listen." He turned around to look at his father. Arthur sucked in a deep breath. "It's, um – it's complicated. But, basically, I had a lot of things I needed to sort out – um, feelings, and all of that sappy sort of stuff – and I think I've gotten them sorted, mostly. So hopefully, you won't have to worry about me so much anymore. I am your father, after all. The worrying is my job."
"…So you're not lonely?"
"No. I have you, and Matthew, and Francis. Why would I be lonely when I have such a wonderful family?"
Alfred smiled, content with that answer. "OK."
"Good night, Alfred."
"Good night, Dad." His son shuffled back to his room, and Arthur relaxed against the wall. Oh boy. He reached to pick up his book, but saw two feet standing on the hallway carpet. It turned out the feet were connected to a human being, namely Francis.
"Il me faut de parler avec toi." [I need to talk to you.]
Arthur nodded, then got up. "Right." They sat down in the living room, Francis in an armchair, Arthur on the sofa criss-cross applesauce. Francis sat up straight, crossing his legs and trying to appear proper.
"What would you do if Alfred were gay?"
"Look, I get it, I know what you're talking about. I didn't mean it before."
"What would you do?" he repeated, his eyebrows drawn together, his mouth downturned in an unpleasant scowl.
"Those would be some pretty slim chances, huh?"
"I don't care. What would you do?" he asked again, enunciating each word.
Arthur ran his hand through his hair in exasperation. "I'd be fine with it. There's nothing wrong with it."
"Well someone had a change of heart," Francis drawled, unconvinced.
"I told you already. I didn't mean it before."
"Just like you didn't mean it with your song lyrics?"
"Francis."
"Don't lie to me!"
"I'm not. I'm really not. It's just been difficult."
"While that might be the case, you can't take that out on other people. You're a father. You have to be more mature than that."
"I don't need a bloody lecture from you. I know that perfectly well."
"Hmmph. Apparently not."
"What the bloody hell do you want from me? I told you I was sorry!"
Francis opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He started to gesture with his hands, but for once was at a loss for words, and dropped them in frustration. "I – I don't know. I'm not sure what I expected from you. Bye. Bonsoir." He got up, flustered, and started walking hurriedly towards the door.
"Francis – god – I mean, don't be such a drama queen!"
He kept walking, out the door. Arthur jumped off the couch and ran after him.
"Francis! Please, just listen to me!"
He shook his head as he walked into the stairwell. "You're just going to insult my feelings again."
Arthur shut the apartment door and ran down the steps after him, grabbing his shoulder. "Arrête! S'il te plait!"
He shook him off. "Stop it! You felt nothing! I'm not going to let you do that to me again!" Francis'voice was getting thick again.
"What do you mean I felt nothing? Did that feel like nothing to you?" Arthur hissed, keeping his voice quiet.
"You're just another goddamn straight boy! You think you're the first?"
"Oh for fuck's sake, I'm not straight, I'm scared," Arthur spat.
Francis shut up, his face a mess of anger and surprise, and worry.
"I went to church today. Confessional. I was sick of feeling like some sort of – like a disappointment. Or a devil's child, or whatever. I just had to get rid of the guilt, but I think I can accept it now. A little. It's – maybe it's alright." He paused, then spoke softly. "Even if it isn't – if loving you means I'm damned to hell, so be it."
Francis seemed frozen in place. "I – oh." He thought for a moment. "You're religious?" he asked after a while.
Arthur nodded. "I grew up in a super Catholic family. Really," he explained. "They weren't too enthralled by the whole – 'Arthur likes boys too' thing."
"Ah." Francis looked down at his shoes. The floor of the stairwell wasn't super pleasant. It looked really cold. Even though it was summer, and all. He looked back up at Arthur. "So you weren't lying, then."
"No. Not then, not now."
They stood in awkward silence.
Francis spoke softly. "What do we do now?"
Arthur shrugged. "I don't know. Whenever I imagined this situation, there was usually some sort of kissing involved, but I also never imagined it in a cold stairwell." Shit. He mentally slapped himself. What kind of a goddamned pervert -
Francis laughed a little as the sorrow left his voice. "Well, that doesn't sound entirely impossible." He leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. "À demain, ma cherie," Francis whispered, before turning and heading down the stairs. Arthur let himself smile, just a little.
"See you tomorrow."
* The thing about Tostaky is that it literally is just French screaming with a drum kit and a few electric guitars playing the same line over and over. I dare you to listen to it.
Le Temps de l'Amour
chorus: C'est le temps de l'amour,
Le temps des copains et de l'aventure.
Quand le temps va et vient,
On ne pense a rien malgre ses blessures.
Car le temps de l'amour
C'est long et c'est court,
Ca dure toujours, on s'en souvient.
On se dit qu' a vingt ans on est le roi du monde,
Et qu'éternellement il y aura dans nos yeux
Tout le ciel bleu.
first half of chorus;
Car le temps de l'amour
Ca vous met au coeur
Beaucoup de chaleur et de bonheur.
Un beau jour c'est l'amour et le coeur bat plus vite,
Car la vie suit son cours
Et l'on est tout heureux d'etre amoureux.
chorus
English:
chorus: It is the time of love
The time of friends and of adventure
When the time comes and goes
We think of nothing despite our wounds
For the time of love
It is long and it is short
It lasts forever, we remember it.
When you are twenty you think that you're the king of the world,
And that the entire blue sky will be in your eyes forever
first half of chorus;
For the time of love
It fills your heart
Full of warmth and happiness
A beautiful day is love, and the heart beats faster
For life follows its course
And you are completely happy to be in love.
chorus
YOOOOOOO
So this chapter, not including the author's note, is 5564 words long. Not enormous, but definitely bigger than most chapters I've written.
As for my absence - basically, I had a long school year, and I've been trying to be more productive to boot, so my typical daily routine has been 2 hours of piano practice a day, an hour of language study, homework, and bed. Plus quite a few extracurriculars...and then I also kind of forgot for a while that I was writing a story in the first place.
however! Summer is coming up. I won't have my school computer, and I'll be busy with summer school, but I am going to try to keep making progress. I would like to make my updates more frequent as well (duh), so I'm gonna work on that. Next school year I'm gonna have two APs, so we'll see how that works out, but that won't be for a while. In the meantime, I can focus a little more on fanfiction.
Aldo, the priest, while he's not going to be a recurring character, does have his own backstory, which is why Arthur got off as easy as he did. Can you guess what it is?
Thank you all for sticking with me! This chapter got rewritten quite a few times, but I like how it turned out. Also, reviews act as a proper kick-in-the-pants to actually get me moving when it comes to writing, so...you know what to do ;)
See you next chapter!