Work Text:
In his attempts to escape from his guilt,
it wasn't the first cigarette Arthur would be smoking that day,
and he was certain that it wouldn't be the last.
Sitting on his conveniently spacious windowsill, he had already emptied a few bottles an hour before. He couldn't seem to get properly drunk anymore, though, so he gave up on searching for enjoyment from wine and turned to smoking instead.
The man sitting next to him — he expressed his displeasure, multiple times, saying he can't stand to see Arthur wasting away the way he is, but he would never stop, he'd just keep on drinking, and he'd ignore every single complaint he would receive. So he tried, yet again, but he was interrupted as usual. "You'll get sick, Arthur, I don't want y—" "How about you keep your nose out of my business, Francis? Stupid wanker."
Their relationship had mostly always been a little bit strained. Francis was touchy and always tried to keep Arthur close, and Arthur was denying his persistent affection as much as he possibly could. When Francis pushed, Arthur pulled away, and yet never so much that they would lose contact completely. It was truly a fight with no winners; If they were parted, they were filled with longing towards eachother, but they couldn't help but bicker constantly in each other's company. And the fact that Francis was making attempts at 'saving him' from his bad habits just put fuel onto the fire.
Arthur brought his hand up to his now painfully empty mouth and bit down on his fingertips. Another habit of his that Francis desperately fought against. As expected, he felt a slightly bigger hand touch his, tugging it downwards, and then releasing it. "Don't bite your nails." His voice barely concealed what Arthur thought to be pity, condescension, even, and it infuriated him. He shot a glare towards Francis and turned backwards, opening the window behind them to let some fresh air in. The entire room smelled like smoke, and he knew Francis would be fussy about it later, which he didn't want to hear. It wasn't any trouble for him to have a room that didn't smell horrible, too.
The cold air of the outside world hit him unexpectedly, and he pulled his jacket upwards to cover his shoulders better. Francis seemed to notice, too, and he shifted closer to Arthur.
He thought back on his previous encounters with Francis.
They were really close in middle school, and not to say they weren't now — it's just that back then, their relationship didn't have the usual quality of being on the border of hatred and love. When Arthur ended up in a hospital from his already worsening mental state, Francis visited him every day, and from the telling of his siblings, they were always together. He didn't remember much of it, but he thought back to the time fondly. He missed Francis, in a way, even though they never really parted. His feelings never left him, and he was sure Francis felt the same, so why did they choke away any hint of them? It was a question not even he could answer.
He reached down and pulled a cigarette out of the pack. He could smoke now, the window was open, Francis had no right to complain about the smell — and he wouldn't throw a fit over Arthur's well-being at any given chance, no. That's not something Arthur would ever see coming from him, especially because of how strained their relationship has become in the past few years. Francis simply didn't care about him that much, or maybe at all. Maybe he just wanted to take care of him as charity work, he was only his friend out of pity. Surely that must be it?
To his surprise, Francis yet again pulled his hand down, this time more firmly. In his shock, he didn't even fight back against him prying the cigarette from between his fingers and tossing it to the ground. He didn't let go this time, bringing their hands to rest on the windowsill between them. The wind howled on outside.
"Arthur, I know you hate it when I say this, but I really don't like to see you wasting away like this, and—" Hell no, he was not going to monologue about how he's so tired of his self-destructive personality. "I don't care." He tried to leave it at that, really, he did, but Francis was too much to deal with. He made another statement, then another, and suddenly, the words were spilling out from Arthur, too. "I don't care! My entire life is already ruined, and none of your bloody ideas will fix anything! I'm rotten work, Francis, and you could do better. If you really think i'm 'wasting away', you could just leave." He didn't bother to look at him, and just opted to stare at the ground instead. "Go on. Give me your counterargument, if arguing with me is the only reason you keep me around."
He knew Francis would take it to heart and deep down, he also knew that he really, really didn't want him to leave, but he was also so incredibly frustrated and he hated how much he was being pitied, because god damn it, just because he's depressed and basically useless, that doesn't make him also completely incapable of doing anything on his own. He was still a person, a self-sufficient and independent one at that, so why was Francis so insistent on helping him? He didn't need it, he didn't need him, so why? What could it, his reasoning, possibly be? He found himself so annoyed with the topic that he felt like punching himself in the face.
When he looked back at Francis, he was met with a familiar look of hurt. He wasn't surprised by that, Francis has always been quite empathetic towards him, even when they were arguing — in fact, he ended a lot of disagreements because he considered them too painful, and too damaging towards Arthur's well-being, or so he said. He tried to tear his hand away, but Francis only tightened his grip. He wanted to retort with something, he wanted to say, leave me alone, but he couldn't help but cling. All he really wanted was to run away, to hide in another room until he calms down — if Francis saw him cry again, it would be the death of him.
"You really mean a lot to me, Arthur," Francis said, and before he knew it, he was already trying to stifle a cry. He turned his head away again, and Francis should have taken that as a warning, but he didn't, "and seeing you destroy yourself hurts me just as much as it hurts you, and," completely ignoring Arthur's desperate attempt to yank his hand away, "I hate to see you so disappointed in yourself that you refuse to even let me try to help you. Please, let me help you."
Help him?
He's already saved him countless times, dragged him out of drinking, smoking, hurting himself more times than the can recount; Held him through everything. Sobbing, clawing at his own skin, hallucinating horrors he couldn't even imagine. He let him cry into his chest, cling to him, let the fabric of his shirt soak up the tears and replied with soothing words to every raw scream, to every hoarse cry.
Before he even noticed, he was already choking off an uncharacteristic gurgling sound, then another, and he attempted to stifle them into his palm, but he already knew it was too late.
All he did was bring Francis into his room for the first time in ages, and now, he was ruining everything with his god-damn mentality. He couldn't even bring himself to look up at him, he was completely hunched over, trying to slow himself down, but he was just getting further and further into his own head until he was shaking and crying and it was cold and it was so, so cold and they were here again and they were screaming at him and throwing stones and he wanted to just lean back and fall out from the window and—
Suddenly, he was enveloped in warmth.
Foolish of him to expect anything else.
Francis' arms were wrapped around him, just like back then, when they were young and Arthur was bleeding from his wrists and his arms and his heart. And he held him the same way, and he cried the same way, and everything was the same, and the wind wasn't cold anymore, and it was all warm and fine and nothing was terrible and nobody was throwing pebbles. He only caught just how much he was sobbing when Francis told him to calm down, it'll be okay, he's okay, and he hugged him back for the first time in ages and in a matter of seconds, Francis was crying too.
He was crying, not as much as Arthur but he was, and he was still holding his head close to his chest, and whispering it's okay, I love you, you mean so much to me, I've got you, Arthur, i've got you and kissing his head and his tears and his cheeks and wiping the droplets from his eyes with his thumbs ever so gently. Burying his face into his blonde hair, continuing to mutter things the couldn't make out, and things that he could, compliments so lovely they were making his stomach turn inside him. Words he never expected to hear from anyone, for all he's worth.
He really wanted to pull away, kiss Francis over and over again, let him know that the love he's been giving is reciprocated, that his anger isn't from malice, that it's from love and love alone, but he couldn't — all he could do, for now, is appreciate it silently by clinging, by stuttering through I love you's and the such, and Francis loved him too, loved him with his bumpy, scarred arms and tear-stained cheeks and with the permanent smell of alcohol and smoke that clung to him. He'd let go of his body, eventually, but never his hand, and instead of wine, they would drink tea, and Arthur would wake up in his arms and for the first time, he'd feel hope in his chest instead of visceral shame.
Instead of the guilt, he would wake up to love.