I probably shouldn't be writing this because I have too many unfinished fics, but I need this. Inspired by the song Closer by The Chainsmokers. TW: drug mention, implied abuse (This isn't gonna romanticize drugs or addiction or toxic relationships, so if that's what you're looking for, this isn't it.)

The shouting was getting to be too much. The endless fighting. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the sound of shattering glass fill the air. It hadn't been so long ago that these fights were exhilarating. They'd scream and fight and end with a passionate make up. They were both such passionate, spirited individuals. But after three years, it just felt stale. There wasn't a connection anymore. The fights were senseless. They no longer were at each other's throats for ideas. No longer was the fighting just pure emotional passion. Now it was bitterness. Bitterness that engulfed everything. What he wouldn't give for one more heated debate over literature or music or art.

"Fine. Fine, you win," Francis muttered turning around toward the bedroom.

He was so tired of this shit. Tired of being in the same place. At one point in time he would have followed Arthur to the ends of the world. Now it was just exhausting. He waited for Arthur to follow him, to apologize. He was met with deafening silence. At least the yelling had stopped. Three years. Three years since he met that talented punk singer at that bar in London. That had never been his scene, but Gilbert and Antonio had wanted to go, so he went and the rest was history. It was supposed to be the future. No. This was over. He couldn't deal with it.

Slowly he packed his things. He really didn't have much to his name. Just some clothes, memories. God, he couldn't believe it. He'd put his life on hold to follow his boyfriend around the world. Arthur always hoping to strike it big. Every time a big name back picked them up, his eyes would light up and he'd tell Francis this was the big shot they had. This was it. And every time the band fell flat. The members had left him four months ago surrendering to the fact maybe it wasn't meant to be. That had left Arthur a mess with nobody but Francis to pick up the pieces. But these days there was rarely a sober moment. God it used to be so fun.

Memories of after parties ran through Francis' head. He'd watched Arthur pound back shots with rock stars from all over the world. He'd seen him high and drunk and stoned and every state imaginable chasing that dream of stardom. He had abandoned himself somewhere along the way. What Francis wouldn't give to go back three years ago…

Arthur was gone when he immerged from his room. He couldn't say he wasn't thankful. He didn't want to deal with another fight. He couldn't. There was no energy. He stopped in front of the picture frame sitting on the shelf of their cramped apartment. Arthur and him in New York City two years ago. That had been such a fun night. What was the band that had picked them up again? He couldn't for the life of him remember. Some big hardcore band from Manchester. What he wouldn't give…

He pulled a piece of paper from the journal Arthur used to write music in and scrawled a note, tears pooling in his eyes. "I love you, but I can't do this anymore. You have a problem. You need help. Call me when you're ready. Xoxoxo Francis Bonnefoy." He kissed his hand and gently placed it on Arthur's smiling face in the picture before walking out of the apartment for the last time.

The cold air hugged him, piercing and unrelenting. He just needed to make it to the apartment Antonio and Gilbert shared. Just for the night. He didn't want to drive right now. He didn't want to be alone. He threw his things in the car that barely ran and made the drive. The lights looked so pretty. The misty London fog engulfed everything. It was as though it was taking the last three years and hiding them. He wasn't entirely sure he blamed it. He wished it would just take him away.

He pulled into the parking lot outside the apartment and pulled himself from the car, brushing away the tears and trying to put on the brave front as he walked, holding the single bag of all his possession, toward the apartment. Three knocks and a sleepy Antonio opened the door.

"Franny!" He smiled, his face suddenly brightening.

"I left him," Francis whispered, shifting the weight of his bag.

He winced at the look on his friend's face. A mixture of relief, pitty, and worry. God, he hated his friends feeling sorry for him! He hated everyone feeling sorry for him. Treating him like he was stupid. Why do you stay? He had heard that question so many times in the last two years. Did nobody get that he loved him? He loved him so much it hurt and so what if other people didn't understand? He was a strong person. He could leave. He just did. Antonio stepped aside letting the man in.

Gilbert was sitting on the couch, a laptop in his lap as he typed away. Probably an article for the travel magazine he worked for or maybe an entry on his travel blog. He had a pint of beer on the floor next to him. He glanced up, concern casting over his body when his eyes fell on Francis. God, could they stop? Francis felt himself trembling. He didn't want them to feel sorry for him. That was worse than anything.

"Can I stay here for the night?" His voice shaking, betraying him.

"Yeah, as long as you want," Gilbert closed the computer and pushed it aside, standing all in one fluid motion.

"I'm leaving in the morning," Francis took a breath to calm himself. "I'm going back to Paris. I've put things off too long."

"Are you sure?" Antonio asked rubbing the back of his head nervously. "Do you have any money?"

"I'll give you a loan," Gilbert offered.

"Merde…" he muttered under his breath. "No!" He closed his eyes, hugging himself. "I don't need your charity."

"It's not charity, Francis. You're our brother." Gilbert put his arm around him, guiding him to the couch.

"I don't want handouts." Francis pulled his knees to his chest. He wanted to shout at them not to look at him. Stop feeling sorry for him! Stop.

"I'm paying for you train ticket to Paris," Gilbert insisted.

"No, you're not." Francis took a deep breath. "I'm driving."

"That's six hours!"

"I know." Francis hid his face as the tears fell. He didn't want them to talk to him. He didn't want or need their pity. He was tired of it. Two years of it. Two fucking years.

"Do you have money?" Antonio asked gently, kneeling in front of him. "Gil and I can come with you. I'm sure the travel agency would be okay with an article and photos from Paris! Right, Gil?"

"Yeah! It'd be awesome. The three of us again." He nudged his friend.

"No, I couldn't. You wanted London. I…I couldn't. I'm okay." He stuttered.

"Only because you did!" Antonio smiled. "We have to stay together. We're best friends."

"No, no, it's okay," Francis insisted. "I just need a place for tonight. I can stay with family in Paris. I promise, I'll be okay." He forced a smile.

"Franny…" Antonio ventured nervously. "Do you have money?"

Francis was shaking. How could he let them know how stupid he had been? He'd given Arthur access to his account. A joint account. Arthur promised it'd be better for them both. How could he tell them Arthur had drained it? How could he tell them he had a measly 50 quid to his name? Shit, he'd have even less when he traded it for euros.

"He stole it, didn't he?" Antonio took his hand.

"He's not a bad person. He's…he's sick. He needs help," Francis started.

"I'm sorry, did someone force him to snort the coke?" Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Or shoot up the heroin? Or pound alcohol so hard it became his blood?"

"Gilbert…" Antonio gently silenced their friend. "I'm giving you money."

Antonio stood up and walked out of sight. Francis was too tired to stop him, too tired to speak. He was so embarrassed. How had he let this happen? He couldn't even be honest with them. He couldn't tell them the half of what he had gone through. But he was strong. He was leaving. He had stayed. He had tried. He tried to get him to get help. Hell his band had begged him. Arthur had chased that dream so far. At one point in their relationship, Arthur vowed he would never touch anything stronger than weed. And here they were. Francis was so sick. What had he done?

"Are you hungry?" Gilbert asked putting an arm around his friend.

"No," Francis whispered, closing his eyes as he leaned against him. "I'm okay."

That last night in London was a quiet one. Somber. Francis refused to speak. He just laid against Gilbert, fighting back tears. Antonio and Gilbert had both stayed up far too long with him. He felt guilty for it. He didn't even stay to say goodbye. He snuck out that morning, taking the envelope of money Antonio had left him. He was bound for home.

Thank you for reading! Please review!