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Être adulte, c’est être seul. - Jean Rostand
It's been a couple months
That's just about enough time
For me to stop crying when I look at all the pictures
Now I kinda smile, I haven't felt that in a while
Francis Abernathy didn’t know much. In fact he was beginning to realise he knew very little at all. However one thing he did know was that Charles Macaulay ruined his life. He had waltzed into Francis’ life in a whirlwind of whiskey and cigarettes, late night kisses under white sheets, and left twice as fast. He still had the pictures; taken on a crappy digital camera he had bought Charles for his birthday. It hurts to remember that night, Charles’ ivory skin flushed red with alcohol, hair stirring in the gentle breeze coming from the open window, framing his face like a halo. The look of heaven that was surely going to send him to hell.
His lips were parted, telling Francis to get the camera out of his face.
“You’re obsessed” he had laughed “It’s my birthday and I say no more photos.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Francis teased
And then Charles had kissed him, his mouth warm and tasting of champagne. And Francis was- well… In love, so in love he thought he might die. And in that moment he had thought maybe, maybe, Charles might love him too.
But of course he didn’t, and he was gone faster than the snow melting in spring.
It was all over now, no more Charles, no more Richard or Camilla and -
No more Henry.
It had been little over 3 months since Henry’s death and already there was no one left. It made Francis think that despite his cold disposition, Henry really had been the one holding them all together. Maybe if they had known that sooner, they could have helped him. Well too little too late, Richard was in Brooklyn, Camilla was staying with her grandmother, and Charles - well Charles was god knows where, probably recovering from the month long bender he had been on since Henry’s funeral.
That was the last time they were all together, Henry waxy faced in an open casket, he would have been horrified, Camilla standing stoically in the corner, Richard who looked like he was about to break down or throw up (both he did later that night). And Charles, already drunk out of his mind, but still holding together better than Francis was.
It only took them 3 weeks to start acting like strangers again. Years of friendship gone, they were alone the second Henry pulled the trigger. Francis didn’t believe that the group, at least what was left of them, would be seeing each other anytime soon.
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Which was why he was surprised when the doorbell rang. It was past midnight and pouring rain, not that he would have expected guests at any other time of day, there was no one left who cared about him.
He crossed the room, leaving his mug of tea on the bureau. Given everything that had happened, Francis supposed he should have been more cautious, but at this point he didn’t care, he just hoped it wasn’t who he thought it was, though maybe not as much as he should have.
Francis opened up the door just wide enough to see a pair of gray eyes at the entrance. Oh god.
“Francis please I need to talk to you” Charles said pleadingly
He was drunk. And Francis knew what Charles was like when he was drunk, hell, he knew what he was like when Charles was drunk. He didn’t need this right now, not after he was finally moving on.
But he couldn’t turn him away, he had never been able to, Charles was soaked, and he was looking at Francis like a kicked puppy. Francis didn’t understand why Charles still had such a hold on him, he was his greatest weakness, his biggest mistake, his source of happiness for so many years-
Francis didn’t reply, just opened the door wider and trudged back towards the kitchen. He needed a drink.
“Charles, please just say what you need and be done with it.” Francis spoke with the air of politeness he would use while chatting with a vague acquaintance, it felt safer, he needed to get over this, the sooner the better.
Charles looked taken aback but continued nonetheless.
“Francis I’m sorry, I was wrong to treat you that way. I never should have used you like that. But I need you now Francis, everyone else has left but you can’t Francis, you can’t. Everything we’ve been through should count for something right?
Francis poured two mugs of tea, adding a liberal amount of whiskey to his own, and passed the other to Charles before continuing,
“Charles, please don't make this harder than it should be. I can’t cope with this right now”
“We can make it work, I know we can. Me and you, everyone else has left but I won’t.”
Charles looked half crazed now, slurring slightly, eyes shining, more to do with the alcohol than the declaration itself. He was drunker than Francis had thought.
I wish that you would stay in my memories
But you show up today, just to ruin things
“Yes you will Charles, you always do, you left while the FBI was snooping around, you left at the funeral- Bunny’s and Henry’s. You leave as soon as it gets fucking hard. Don’t you understand that you’re not the only one that’s dealing with shit right now? Why are you even here Charles?”
Why are you here when the only version of you I want to think about is in my memories?
Charles was on the floor now almost begging, it was something Francis from a year ago would have fallen for in a heartbeat, but not now. He was too tired for Charles’ antics.
You're all drunk in my kitchen, curled in the fetal position
Too busy playing the victim to be listening to me when I say
"I wish that you would stay in my memories"
“Francis, just hear me out, please. You don’t understand what I’ve been feeling-”
His voice cut off in a sob and he curled around himself on the tiled floor.
Francis ran a hand through his hair, skewing the red spikes in every which way. Charles couldn’t leave, not in this state. But if he stayed, Francis wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to say goodbye again. Can you truly end something that never really began in the first place?
In the end he got Charles off the floor and deposited him, rather unceremoniously, on the couch. He looked softer in sleep, almost like the boy that Francis fell in love with years ago. Charles sighed, his bangs shifting slightly with every breath, he looked so far away, so different from the man who drank like his life depended on it, the man who pushed everyone away, the man who had been sobbing in his kitchen, again. Begging Francis to take him back, again.
So there's no good reason in make believing that we could ever exist again
So Francis sat in a chair by the window, an ankle crossed over his knee, smoking a cigarette. By the time the sun rose over the horizon he hadn't moved a muscle, as still as the statues Julian had admired so much.
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Francis must have dozed off at some point because the next thing he knew sunlight was streaming through the window and Charles was stirring on the couch. Francis stood and ran a hand through his already disheveled hair.
“Charles,” Francis whispered, shaking his shoulder “Charles wake up”
Charles blinked blearily “Mornin,” his smile was sleepy, and made Francis melt inside. Ugh.
“Charles-” he began
“I’m starving” Charles swung himself off the couch, gripping Francis’ shoulder as he swayed slightly
“Charles please listen” Francis continued as he followed Charles into the kitchen.
He began opening and closing cupboard doors “Why do you have no food here? What do you eat?”
“Charles.”
“We could go out? I heard there’s a new coffee shop a few streets away,-”
“Charles, you need to leave.”
“What?” he looked dazed, still half asleep. He was breaking Francis’ heart all over again.
“Take your stuff, and leave. I can’t be with you Charles, because I don’t think you’ve changed, the fact that you came in here drunk, with no warning proves that. I truly hope you can get better, but-” his voice broke “you ruined my life, and I’m not going to let you do that again.”
Charles was silent for a long moment, before clearing his throat and stuttering, “What- what stuff is there?”
Francis exhaled shakily, and left Charles leaning heavily on the countertop.
He opened his closet door and crouched down, pulling out a small box. There wasn’t much, just a few books, a t-shirt or two, and a coat he lent Francis when they were walking home months ago. It wasn’t much, but everything in there smelt like Charles cologne, it was still on some of his shirts and it ripped out a piece of his heart every time he caught its scent.
Charles still hadn’t moved when Francis shoved the box in his arms. He wouldn’t look Francis in the eyes, and turned away immediately after Francis stepped back.
They walked to the door side by side, Francis turned the knob and Charles stepped into the hall, turning one last time to face him.
“I’m sorry” the tears in his gray eyes finally spilling over “I wish I could make up for how I hurt you.”
“Yeah” Francis swallowed his sob “me too”
Va, je ne te hais point
Then he shut the door on Charles and the feelings that would never quite go away.
Charles was barely out of the building before Francis collapsed against the door, breaking down for the first time since his entire life went to hell, something that was set in motion that fateful day at the ravine, Charles was just the final nail in the coffin. Francis felt like his whole being had shattered into a million pieces. Charles Macaulay had broken his heart for the thousandth time.
But how do you grieve for something you’re not sure even existed in the first place? How do you mourn the loss of love you never spoke out loud?
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Fin.