Work Text:
This evening was not particularly remarkable, which is quite a shock, as I still remember it like it happened the day before last. Francis' new apartment, the one he had moved into after Hampden, was not quiet. Settled in the heart of New York City, there was always noise to go around. A dog barking in the distance, vendors pushing carts and yelling the names of their wares, the neighbors downstairs playing music so loudly and obnoxiously that I can still hear Francis complaining, car horns, people, living and existing without care of everyone else around them.
I had stayed in that day, tired and hungover after a night of cards and drinks, but Francis wanted to go out. I didn't stop him, even if he was still a bit wobbly on his feet. He didn't tell me where he was going and, I didn't ask. It wasn't and isn't out of a lack of worry but a matter of trust. Francis knew the city better than I did, and I figured he would call if he needed anything. With the noise so palpable and aggravating, I found that I could not force myself to sleep, not even a nap.
I rose from our shared bed, the smell of him lingering in the air, much like the scent of his cologne or the cigarettes he liked to smoke or body wash I was so fond of, and I fumbled my way into the kitchen. The two-bedroom apartment was grand, with high ceilings and large windows to let in as much sunlight as possible.
It was an open floor plan, the kitchen leading into the dining room and the dining room leading into the living room. Francis had chosen the furniture or had simply brought over some from his aunt's house back in Vermont, I didn't know and, I never asked, but it suited the apartment and, it suited him.
The tile was cold against my bare feet and the sun too bright for the incoming headache throbbing against my skull. I so badly wanted to turn back around and hide away in the darkness of our bedroom, but I refused, too proud and stubborn to turn halfway to my destination. I did, however, close the white curtains that hung on the windows showing the terrace, catching a glimpse of the clock on the stove on my way to pick up the abandoned game of poker on the coffee table.
It was late, almost five o'clock. Francis had left at ten. I thought of him like I always did and of what he could be doing. He liked bookshops, would spend the entire afternoon inside if he could, and coffee shops too (he had a sweet tooth but would kill me if I told anyone else), or maybe he had gone shopping for clothes and was on his way back with bags upon bags of new suits and shirts to match. That thought, in particular, made my cheeks warm; he was always so excited to show me his new wares, telling me I was free to wear whatever was his, always so generous with his clothing.
I thought of dinner after, if I should cook something or if we should get takeout. Francis was a picky eater, though he would chastise me every time I picked off bell peppers from my dish.
“Those are nutritious,” He would say, reaching over and putting them on his plate instead.
“Are they?”
“Yes. Very. You ought to know, didn’t you study biology?” I didn’t tell him we didn’t cover plants and vegetables.
The fondness of the memory, of thin and pale hands, reaching over and so very carefully picking my plate up, sliding the offending vegetables to his plate, filled me with newly found energy.
I wanted to cook for him, have him come behind me and put his arms around my waist, a mop of red curls falling on my shoulder, and of hearing his voice, tired and full of love, asking me just what I was making. He was so sweet, gentle, and nimble, all long limbs and soft eyes.
I took out what seemed to be going bad: pork chops, mushrooms, a half-empty gallon of heavy cream. There was white wine in the pantry and thyme in the spice rack. I had bought the ingredients a while ago, intending on making his favorite, but we had both been too caught up with work and the likes to sit down and have a proper dinner. Chopping and seasoning and putting everything down on a pan went faster than I had expected at first and by the time I was done, I heard the sound of keys outside and then of a door opening, closing, shoes being carefully placed down on the rack by the door.
“Hello,” He said. His voice was quiet, gentle, slightly hoarse from a cigarette or two.
“Hello.”
“Is that dinner?”
“Yes.”
He came up behind me, dropping his head on my shoulder to look at what I had been preparing on the stove. He was still wearing his coat and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. I never liked the smell. Not until Francis came along, wearing it like his signature cologne. I turned to look at him, really look at him, like I liked to do in the mornings when he slept in. His glasses were slipping off his thin and freckled nose, seafoam green colored eyes peering at the skillet in front of me, thin lips pressed into a line. I didn’t care if he caught me staring. In fact, I wanted him to.
“Hello, Richard.” He repeated, catching me just like I had hoped. He turned to look at me and for a second we just stared. I felt my cheeks flush and I had to look away. “It smells wonderful. I thought you would’ve had a headache. I was going to bring you some ibuprofen had I found you in our room.” He waved his hand dismissively, already pulling away.
“I did. It went away.” I said, but it hadn’t.
I turned the stove off just as he went down to the living room, taking off his coat on the way and draping it over the velvet green loveseat. I trailed behind, bags upon bags of clothing sat on our living room floor.
“I got you a couple of things.” He said.
“Did you?”
“I did. I saw them on the window and thought of you. Frankly, I think green is your color. The other day,” He looked back at me to make sure I was paying attention. I was. “When we went out to dinner and you had on that forest green jumper, I could have died.”
I laughed, watching as he pulled out an array of different clothes all in different shades of green. I trusted Francis and his style. He had always been the best dressed one out of all of us. Long and winding black coats, fitted slacks, cashmere turtlenecks, and freshly polished shoes. Always elegant in the way he carried himself, even in the way he smoked. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Har-har. Here. Try this one.”
He moved back towards the kitchen, fetching us both a hearty glass of wine (it didn’t matter the time of day, one could always have wine), and carried them over, placing them where yesterday’s glasses had been.
I pulled off my shirt, looking at what had been shoved in my hands. One of those French cuff shirts he liked to wear so much. Appropriate taste for Francis. It fit nicely and that seemed to please him. I wanted to please him. I had never been the romantic type, opting to instead let my partner do the work in the relationship. A flaw that had very and quite often worked against me.
But with Francis, I wanted to try. I wanted to do right by him. Make him smile and laugh, see crow's feet in the corners of his eyes, and smile lines crease. I tried on everything he had bought me, not all in green despite him insisting it was what looked best on me.
"Thank you," I said after we were done, his glass half full. Mine half empty. "Are you hungry?"
"Very. I was thinking of stopping by that restaurant you like so much... What's its name -- Lola's right?"
I nodded my head.
"But then I hoped you would make dinner. I would have called, but I didn't want to wake you in case you were asleep. So then, I thought that I could cook us something before you woke up."
"How very sweet. I didn't know you were such a sap. I'll stay asleep next time, see what monstrosity you come up with."
Francis' eyes went wide and he let out an offended scoff. "Excuse me. I could be a world-renowned chef if I had wanted to. I am a maestro in the kitchen."
"You are a menace, you mean." I corrected him, laughter bubbling up from my end.
"Am not! Richard, your attitude today is absolutely not okay. Here I go, spoiling you rotten and this is how you repay me? Oh , I am going to pass away. Prick my finger on a needle and sleep for a thousand years, long enough so you won't find me."
That made me howl with laughter. Francis had always been so dramatic. I was fond of his antics (to be fair I was fond of everything Francis) and if we had not studied classics together, I would have believed him to be a theater major.
"I know. I'm sorry. You are a wonderful cook, but everyone has room for improvement." His mouth fell open, staring at me as I went to serve us dinner.
"I will make you sleep on the couch today." He threatened. I knew he didn't mean it.
"Here, come sit down."
We ate while he told me about his day. He had gone down to one of the coffee shops he liked so much, read for a while, and had begun making his way back home when he was distracted by the green shirt I had tried on displayed in a shop's windowfront. I had been significantly less busy, waking up around four and starting on dinner shortly after. He pushed his glasses up his nose, hands moving around animatedly as he explained the new drink he had tried, tooth rottingly sweet as I had predicted earlier.
After dinner, I washed the dishes and, he wiped down the table. He told me he hated the scent of the soap on his hands after washing them, and I had offered to change it many times but, he always said no, and after a while, I took over the chore without any complaints. I figured that had been his plan all along but, I never said anything about that either. He went out to the terrace to smoke after, bringing his refilled glass of wine and playing cards in case I wanted to join. I did.
He sat down, prompting long legs upon the rail, and tipped his head back. I had hung string lights last fall, and the soft glow they cast upon his face made my heart do a summersault. He was lovely. Ethereal and godly.
Had Dionysus taken a look at him he would have asked him to be his cupbearer for an eternity. Neither Ganymede nor Aphrodite held a candle to Francis. For a second, all I could do was stare. His nose was narrow, freckles peppering the bridge and part of his cheeks, his lips were thin but soft and expressive, teeth a little crooked, skin a pale and milky white that stained beautifully with even the lightest touch, he was slender, taller than I was but that never bothered me and he had scars on his wrists that he hid with long sleeves even during the summer. I fell in love with him ten times over at that moment.
"Sometimes I think that you have a staring problem," Francis said. His cheeks had gone red, and to save him some embarrassment I chose to believe it was from the wine.
"I do. But only when it comes to you."
"Hmm," He hummed, taking another long and rather dramatic drag of his cigarette.
"Francis. I don't think I tell you enough, but you really are quite handsome."
I reached for his hand (he was always cold and I liked to warm them up), bringing it up to my lips for a kiss. One on each reddened knuckle. The color on his face nearly matched that of his hair. I laughed, pushing even further. "I have never laid eyes on someone so beautiful. If I could worship you like the Greek did to the gods I would, sacrifice and all." I trailed my lips up higher, pulling him closer to me with a gentle but firm tug.
I took his face, his skin cold and soft under my fingers, pressing kisses to any place I could reach. His cheeks, the corner of his mouth, forehead, temple, his chin, and his nose, but I did not touch his lips. "I would write a novel all about you and your looks, page after page spilling my heart out about how much I love you." He brought his hands up to my wrists, keeping them in place while I drew far enough to see his face again.
"And you say I'm a sap," Francis muttered, his breath warm on my skin. He leaned into my touch, and I happily gave him all I had. "Say it again."
"You are." A smile came upon my lips. I stroked his cheek with my thumb, bringing him in closer. "Say what again?"
"Richard..."
"What? That you're magnificent? Gorgeous? Exquisite? Or that I love you?"
"That," He was bashful about such things. He never really did get appreciated much before.
"I love you?"
"Yes. That."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you."