Prologue

Once upon a time, a boy named Francis and a boy named Arthur hated each other. Despite this, they shared a lot of things, including friends, time-outs, and detention slips. Ironically, the more they hated each other, the more time they ended up spending together.

High school came around, and the boys spent that time dropping acid and snorting lines. It was in the midst of a high that the two had first had sex, and afterwards, to save face, they declared themselves a couple.

Time passed, and the more that it did, the more Francis forgot that he was supposedly putting up a front. He began to hate Arthur less. The more time they spent together, the less hostile their insults were, settling instead into affectionate teasing.

And then college, and then damn Alfred came to the rescue. He got Arthur cleaned up and then whisked him away, leaving Francis behind.

Francis searched tirelessly for Arthur, calling up many an unpleasant favor to seek him out. He looked in all the various rehabs, brownstones, and office buildings where he thought he might find him. He crawled through dust and blood, dragging himself to every joint in the city, and at last, Francis finally found him.

When Francis found Arthur, he pretended that he hadn't been looking and that the meeting was pure fate, an event deigned by the cosmos to happen. When Francis found Arthur, he was still with Alfred, and had been for years. It was true love, Arthur said quietly, but then, even true love loses its charm occasionally.

Francis and Arthur's affair started on the assumption that Francis was clean (he wasn't) and while not necessarily better for Arthur than Alfred, he still wasn't bad. (Of this, he is still unsure.)

It was decided that they would keep their love affair secret and meet someplace green.

...

Chapter One

It had happened in the smallest possible way and it went by unnoticed for the longest time, because for all Francis's past promiscuity, he was always very, very careful. It's just that when it came to his other hobbies, he forgot. One accidental prick of a finger, a lot of swearing, and he injected the needle into his arm and rode off into the sunset, feeling eerily in love with the strangers he was with. Afterwards, he remembered little more than ill lighting and dust motes, yet suddenly here he was, diagnosed with the AIDs virus. Not just HIV; full on AIDs, because it had taken him ages to think something was wrong and to remember the incident. He just so rarely experimented with drugs that involved needles that he hadn't thought of it, he supposed.

By the time he realized, it was too late. Not for him to get treated or anything, but to prevent the spread. Because in that time period, he had spread it to his now ex-lover, Arthur Kirkland. And he in turn unwittingly gave it to his boyfriend of the time, who he was cheating on with Francis.

The boyfriend's name was Alfred Jones. He was tall, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, and muscular, which roughly translated into "classically handsome". Francis was also classically handsome, but in an artsy-er way, with a French accent supplementing for muscles.

Classically handsome or no, the two were entirely different, with the main difference being that Francis was on one side of the door to Arthur's life and Alfred was on the other. Literally. And judging by the poison in Alfred's expression, he wasn't going to be letting Francis in any time soon.

"What do you want?"

Oh, he was so not going to make this easy for him. Francis steeled a bit of courage and then smiled. "Is Arthur home?"

"It's done, Francis," Alfred said, expression flat. "It has been. For a long time."

Oh, God. "Well, uh, you see, what I have to tell him has to do with you, too..."

Alfred closed his eyes, his face begging some higher power for strength. He looked silly, gripping the doorjamb like that, as though Francis was going to attempt to fight his way in; as though he, Alfred, was going to have to valiantly fend him off. With a sigh, Alfred spoke.

"Look, Francis. It's over. You don't have to bother anymore. Arthur's better now. He forgave you. I forgive you. Now go home."

It certainly didn't sound as though Alfred forgave him. Whether he would or not didn't matter, though. Francis and Arthur may have cheated, but Alfred had stolen Arthur first. And Francis wasn't ever forgiving him for that.

He wet his lips. "Well. Err. That's really all well and good, but while I'd love to have that relationship talk again - hopefully this time without you breaking my nose before I get any point across... That's not what I'm here for."

Alfred squared his shoulders. "Oh, yeah? What exactly did you come for, then?"

He'd wanted to say it to Arthur, but there'd only been a slim possibility of that happening from the beginning, anyway. Francis braced himself for the reaction as he spoke. "I have AIDs."

Alfred's facial features shifted like a stack of binders, precariously perched on top of each other, and now disturbed, they began to slide into an expression of dawning fright. This, Francis thought, is the look of a man whose life is spinning out of control. Francis would know: he'd been making that face not too long ago, when he'd found out.

"Arthur... and you... might want to get checked out."

"Is this a joke?" Alfred demanded. He was angry now, but his expression was tepid and subject to change rapidly. Francis was almost at a loss for words; after all, he hadn't expected Alfred to cry, but it looked as though he would.

"No," Francis replied. "I'm dead serious." On reflection, "dead" was not the best word choice.

Alfred slammed the door in his face.

...

Francis went to a place where it was green and sat on a bench. At noon, Arthur came. They hadn't planned that day to meet there; he simply materialized.

Arthur took a breath. "It's been a while." When Francis didn't acknowledge him, he went on. "I'm talking about this place - where we used to meet? It's been a while."

"I get it," Francis said sourly. "I remember. I was there all those times, too."

Arthur ignored his mood. "You know, some days I'd just come here and sit, even when we hadn't had anything planned. I'd just wait for you, and you'd always come." Francis didn't respond. He knew all this already. Instead, he watched a pair of lovers down the path try to roller skate. Their knees trembled as they righted themselves, and the moment one went to let go of the other, both parties would fall. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sniffled back tears.

With a pat on Francis's knee, he tried to cheerfully chirp the words, "Forgive yourself, you silly berk! Everybody dies sometime. Now we just happen to be dying a little bit faster."

The only thing Francis could bring himself to say was this: "If you had left Alfred that time I'd asked, he wouldn't have to die, too."

He wanted Arthur to retaliate. Hit him, yell, berate, be exasperated at Francis's dramatics. He wanted Arthur to acidly criticize his habit of drug use for getting them into this mess - then he remembered that Arthur thought he had been clean for years.

Instead, Arthur was crying, because this was a lot to take in right now, even if he'd thought it all before. He buried his face in his hands as sobs racked his frame, shoulders rising and falling with the heave of each uneven breath.

And Francis, stupid Francis, would not console him. "I can't believe you're getting worked up over an idiot."

Arthur misunderstood him. "He's not an idiot - I love Alfred." Then, after a particularly loud sniffle, "Besides, I'm not crying over what you said. I'm crying because you said that."

Then Arthur went on weeping for Francis's tragically hard and brittle soul, and Francis went on not consoling him. Because that had been the deal with Alfred. Not to touch Arthur.

...

The green place began to curve and disappeared as Francis returned to the world of the living.

His phone was ringing excessively, and it was only ten in the morning. Battling a vicious hangover, he reached for it, imagining that with every pound of the headache in his skull he could feel his bloodstream pulsing. Maybe he wasn't even imagining it; maybe it was part of the AIDs virus, that he got to feel the natural processes of his body which were going to betray him. "Hello?"

"Arthur's plane leaves Monday. If you want to say good bye, you should come over before then."

Francis rubbed the sleep and alcohol from his eyes. "Why isn't he the one telling me this?"

Alfred must be able to tell he was drunk, because Francis heard him sigh in a far off sort of way, as though he had momentarily pulled away from the receiver in his frustration. The next words were loud and clear. "Francis, look. I don't have time for your bullshit. It's officially scheduled for Saturday, and that's when everyone's coming over, but you can drop by Sunday if you want."

Wait, what was scheduled for Saturday? Something began to dawn on Francis. "Are you having a party of some sort?" Why?

On the other end, Alfred made noises of irritation. "Do I have to spell it out for you? He's going away. He's being sent back to England, where his family wants him."

A going away party, then. Bon voyage forever, my friend. However, something began to niggle at the very edge of Francis's mind. When he couldn't immediately figure out what it was, Francis guessed that, by Alfred's tone, he had already known all these details before and had just forgotten.

"Whatever. I'm not going." Francis hung up and rolled onto his side.

...

"I don't need him," Francis sniffled. His eyes were watering. but it had nothing to do with Arthur. It was just the fumes. Honest.

Gilbert hacked up a cloud of smoke. "This shit blows, man. Seriously, the small stuff doesn't do anything for me anymore."

Antonio nodded sleepily in agreement. "I'm hungry."

They looked at Francis, seeking supplement to their idle comments, but their friend's attention was thoroughly fixed on a random poster Gilbert's wall. They doubted he was actually seeing which one he was looking at. Inanimate and thus unaffected, David Hasselhoff grinned back at them.

Gilbert scowled. "When are you going to get over Arthur, anyways? Antonio, you shut up!"

The other man had been fervently hushing his friend. Now, he sighed. "Gilbert, it's barely been a week. He hasn't had time to heal."

"I've got AIDs," Francis grunted. "I'm never going to heal."

Antonio looked at him very sympathetically. "I meant about, y'know, Arthur."

Francis sighed, laying himself down by bending his knees and leaning onto his elbows. "That hardly matters. I don't need to say good bye. I already did a long time ago, anyway, when he went back to Alfred. Stupid Alfred."

"That's so sad," Antonio said, voice cracking. Untouched, Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Uh, I think it's kind of late for good byes anyway." Antonio elbowed him in the ribs and Gilbert whipped his head to the side to glare fiercely at him.

Brushing off their comments with a wave of the hand, Francis replied, "Oh, no, no. The going away party was on Saturday, but Alfred said I could come Sunday. But I'm not going. Arthur can just get on his stupid plane and go to England without so much as a fucking farewell shag."

Both friends became very quiet. Even Gilbert could tell that there was something off.

"Francis?" Antonio asked, cautiously. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I think whatever you've had, you've had way too much," Gilbert snorted. "Because Arthur is already gone." He was interrupted by Antonio's elbow again. He amended, "Cause it's, um, past Sunday, man. It's Monday."

Francis bolted into a sitting position. "But that means-" He stopped, then scrambled to his feet. "What time is it?"

In the time it took for Francis to look for and find the wall clock, both Antonio and Gilbert had checked their wrists. And realized neither one of them was wearing a watch. Francis swore. "Shit! How long does it take to get to the airport?"

Antonio's head snapped up, alarmed. "You're not actually going to go, are you?"

"I have to," Francis responded solemnly. Before his friends could say otherwise, he was out the door and sprinting.

...

Francis had sort of forgotten that he needed a boarding pass when he went through security. Thankfully, he'd had a story on hand about how he was meeting up with his friends, the Smiths, who had his ticket, and an ID to prove that he was in fact Francis Bonnefoy.

When that didn't work, he sprinted through the checkpoint and hid in the women's bathroom until the coast was clear. Damn computer, ratting him out for not having a ticket. Damn new anti-terror regulations.

Keeping his face low, Francis searched the flight schedule for Arthur's plane, and when he found it, he began his search for terminals marked Air London. He was in almost complete and utter ecstasy at his luck as he raced up the escalator (disrupting some luggage on the way), dreaming of the result of this perfectly romantic gesture. He bet that Alfred had never done anything this magnificent.

Finally, Francis reached the boarding area for a plane marked for London - and just in time! It seemed the passengers were lining up. Francis summed up all the nerve he had and cried out, "Arthur!"

The entire group turned to him, and not a single one of them was Arthur. They looked in shock at one another for a moment, Francis and the crowd, before he slunk away, their barely suppressed giggles and murmurs of confusion following him. That must have been the wrong flight; Arthur was perfectly punctual. He was probably boarding somewhere else right now, and Francis was missing him. Probably forever.

Heaving a sigh, Francis trudged onward, uncaring if security caught him now. He had made an effort, and now it had been wasted. He had been too late yet again. Francis glanced out one of the large windows to look out on the planes.

He caught his breath. There, approaching a ramp, ready to board the aircraft, was a familiar head of blonde hair.

Francis ran for the nearest exit.

...

Out on the tarp, the wind whipped Francis's hair and the roar of planes formed around his ears a barrier thick with sound. He squinted through his hair and the noise, spotted the blonde, and ran. With time to spare: boarding seemed to be paused for some reason or other, which two officials seemed to be discussing with a man now.

Francis grabbed his shoulders from behind. "Arthur!"

The other man turned to look at him, thoroughly surprised. "Francis? What on earth are you doing here?"

Francis grinned. "I wasn't going to say good bye. I thought I'd decided that. But then I realized I didn't really treat you properly the last time we met, when I made you cry."

Arthur's eyes were soft. "I'm glad you came, Francis."

Tears pricked his eyes. "I'm glad I came, too." He swallowed. "Please, Arthur, stay here. Be with me. I love you. I love you so much."

At these words, Arthur's expression began to falter, and Francis feared he might cry again. But these would be tears of joy, right?

"Francis, I can't."

"Of course you can!" he choked, gripping his former lover's shoulders tightly. "I love you! Please, Arthur, I can be whatever you need me to be!" He continued to speak louder and louder, drowning out Arthur's protests as thoughts spilled from his lips faster than he could process them. "Please, just - I'll get clean! I swear, this time I mean it! We'll start over! You - you just can't leave me again!"

Arthur put gentle hands on Francis's. "I need to go."

"No!"

"You know this has to happen."

"No, no, nothing is ever set in stone! I can pay you back for the ticket if you want!"

"Look at me." Arthur pronounced his words carefully. "Francis."

Francis whipped his head, striving to look anywhere but at the man in front of him. Taking in large gasps of air, he blinked through his tears at this final request. Arthur cupped his face in his hands.

"You need to forgive yourself."

Francis blinked harder, confusion setting in. "What?"

"You need-"

"Francis."

At the sound of a new, unwelcome voice, Francis squeezed his eyes shut. His face clenched with tears. "Go away, Alfred!"

The tall man sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I can't do that yet."

Francis sniffled pathetically and opened his eyes. "Why are you here?"

Alfred gestured to Arthur and the plane. Francis squinted, feeling strange. He laughed nervously and clapped Arthur on the shoulders. "Arthur here is an adult, Alfred. I think he can board a plane all by himself."

Alfred's resulting stare unnerved Francis. It refused to leave his face for a very, very long time until Francis was forced to look away.

The bespectacled man's expression was somber. "What do you think you're holding onto?"

A fresh torrent of tears began to flow. "Me? What am I holding onto? I loved him longer! I knew him forever! You couldn't possibly understand! Arthur still loves me, too, I know he does because he slept with me even though he was with you, and-" Francis fisted his eyes with one hand, screwing them shut, while still clutching Arthur with his other. "It's just so unfair!"

Suddenly, Francis noticed that the texture in his left hand was not flesh and cloth. Slowly, he opened his eyes, uncertain as to why it was that Arthur's shoulder was hurting his hand.

He was holding onto a crate. Weakly, he turned beseechingly to Alfred, who only stared back. In his eyes, there was something akin to pity.

It all came crashing down on Francis then.

A door slamming in his face. A frustrated phone conversation. Gilbert and Antonio's careful words. Everyone's odd behavior was finally making sense. But then, what of the visit in the park? Had that only been a figment of his imagination? A dream?

No, that had happened, alright. Just not recently. It had happened what seemed to be a long time ago, before the door slammed, before the phone call, before, before, right before Arthur had died.

Arthur was dead. Francis looked at the crate in astonishment and realized that there was a coffin inside. And inside that, Arthur. The going away party had really been a wake, and Francis had lost all of his chances to say good bye.

With a loud cry of despair, Francis crumpled to the asphalt. Alfred saw that he now understood, and went to his side. He warily gave the okay-go to the airport officials, assuring them that it was fine and they could load the crate. Alfred hoisted Francis's arm over his shoulder and supported him, as though he was a cripple, all the way to his car.

...

Once upon a time, a man named Francis and a man named Arthur were having an affair.

Francis had always been very careful when it came to sex. Of course he would have had sex in the time between losing Arthur and finding him again; he wasn't about to go celebate, and after all, the search took years, with many upsets and pauses along the way. But in any case, Francis has always been very safe with sex. However, drugs, which were never clean in the first place, were another story. He could rarely remember what went on when he did them, anyway.

And then Alfred walked in on the affair when it was going rather heatedly. And then he quietly walked out.

All their lives, Arthur had been tough. He had put up with a surly stepfather's abuse unflinchingly and still had the strength (or perhaps the gall) to order their friends around. And for as little as Francis knew him, Alfred had seemed a very mellow and forgiving person. He hadn't taken Arthur addictions to heart, after all.

As it was, these simple rules became irrelevant in the week that followed Alfred's discovery of their affair. Francis witnessed it in part because Arthur was forced to stay with him, which meant that for the first few days Alfred would come over and the fight would take place in Francis's living room.

Francis had never seen Arthur cry so easily and so much, and he had never guessed that Alfred could be so scary when he was angry. He had that sort of anger that was raw and reckless, and at one point it warranted Francis a bloody nose. (After that particular incident, he conceded to the fact that Alfred at least wasn't beating Arthur, and he never tried to defend him again. He wouldn't be able to anymore, anyway; Alfred stopped coming over after that, meaning Arthur would have to go to him to beg forgiveness, which he did.)

Meanwhile, unnoticed, Arthur was developing a cold. He began to sniffle even when he wasn't crying. He began to run a stubborn fever, which tended to come and go as it pleased. He started to cough. It came to be that one day, while over at Alfred's and feebly trying to argue, Arthur's coughing suddenly couldn't stop. He kept coughing, choked, and then hacked up blood on the living room carpet.

Needless to say, carpet ruined or not, feuding or not, Alfred rushed him to the hospital.

Sometime after Arthur was diagnosed with a special kind of pneumonia, the doctor sat down with Alfred and Arthur to talk about why Arthur wasn't getting any better if this was just a common fungul infection.

"I used to do heroin," Arthur said. Alfred's grip on his hand tightened. "That can cause respiratory problems and even pneumonia, can't it?"

The doctor shook her head. "Not this kind, although it has certainly exacerbated the problem."

PCP was especially common to victims of cancer and the AIDs virus, the doctor told them. With a cautious glance at Arthur and Alfred's intertwined fingers, she suggested that the men get tested for the latter right away, and that they should alert any other recent partners of the situation. Begrudgingly, Alfred called Francis.

Soon after, the hospital sent Arthur home to die, and he met Francis in the park the day after. Arthur had lost a lot of weight by then. He and Alfred were living together again. Francis decided, without a fuss, to leave them alone. He made himself disappear.

He learned Arthur was dead while reading obituaries. He had gotten into the habit because of his junky friends, and that morning, he was acting on mere habit. Then there was Arthur's name, in black and white. The sight of it was like a pair of hands clenched around his neck, shaking him awake.

Francis would have successfully killed himself after that, had Alfred not felt he had a duty to deliver him the news of Arthur's death in person. Francis got his stomach pumped, but it barely did any good, because he drowned his sorrows the way he had for years upon exiting the hospital.

He had been coming out of a bad trip when he found the results for his AIDs test on his counter and mistook them for being new. Mind addled, he set out to tell Arthur, forgetting the events that had transpired.

And so it went.