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The universe had always been out to get Arthur.
He'd know this since the beginning, since he was a mere child with older siblings who constantly made his life a living hell, with a nanny that was too rough, and rubbed his skin raw when she bathed him, and with the car ride to the park with his parents that had ended with a crash and a scream that turned into permanent silence.
It had been his birthday.
From there it was to an orphanage since he and his siblings didn't have family they could call on. The first foster family, a tight-lipped redheaded woman who housed five other children and seemingly hated all of them and her quiet, mousy husband, had adopted Arthur, the youngest, and not his other siblings. Arthur could remember the drive in the car with his new foster parents, looking out of the back window at his siblings as he drove far, far away.
He didn't miss them. Not even a bit.
The universe continued to have a bone to pick with Arthur. He'd broken his arm in the same place three times from childhood to adolescence. He flunked eight grade and had to take it again. He acquired bad acne on his face and was bullied relentless in tenth grade. He was caught in a mess of tangled limbs with a college boy who smelled too much like beer and sweat by his bitch of a foster mother, and since he was eighteen at the time anyway he was kicked out. He got a night job and a day job and a shitty apartment in the shady part of downtown. He didn't have friends. He didn't have love.
But then came along Francis. Francis, with his scruffy beard, his dumb smile, his stupid, silly French accent, and his soft hands that slid perfectly into Arthur's own as if they were made specifically to cradle his hands. Francis with his laugh like a feast to Arthur's starving ears, his mouth, soft and pliant, pressed against the shell of Arthur's ear and whispering "I love you, you're loved, you're lovable, my love."
Francis defied the universe, defied the natural order of things by bringing happiness to Arthur's life. Bringing meaning. Bringing love.
And for a while, Arthur felt invincible. With every peck and smile and soft caress under imported French satin sheets, he felt like nothing could go wrong. It was perfect, everything was perfect. The bland pumpkin had finally turned into a chariot. The ugly duckling was not a swan. It was finally time for his happy ending.
____
Then Francis went crazy.
Literally just went crazy, there was no other way to say it. There was no warning, no hint, no signs or flashing lights to signal the upcoming danger ahead. Just one day his mind was there, and then it wasn't. Just like that. Now you see it, now you don't.
Arthur could still remember the shock and fear and pain in his heart as he watched his most precious person claws his hair out and scream at people who weren't there, sprawled out on the carpet of their new home, looking beautiful and deranged and completely and utterly wrecked.
"Get out of there," Francis had shrieked into the air, pulling out bloody blond strands of hair and crying in an agony that was foreign to pain. "Get out, get out, get out!"
At the time, Arthur hadn't been sure if Francis had been talking to him or the voices. His legs wouldn't move, anyway.
It took an hour that felt like a lifetime, but Arthur finally managed to calm Francis down, trapping his arms between their two chests and holding him close so he couldn't attack himself again. Francis had fell silent, but the house, their new home Arthur had planned to christen with laughter and the smell of wine and the sliding of skin against skin, still wrung with his screams.
"It's going to be okay," Arthur whispered into Francis' hair, rocking him back and forth. He could barely hear himself over the sound of his own beating heart. "It's going to be okay, baby, I promise." He pulled back enough to look at Francis who was staring at him with clear blue, unfocused eyes. "We're going to get through this together. I love you."
Francis stared him in the eyes levelly, then burst into laughter.
____
Schizophrenia. It was such an ugly, awful word.
It took Arthur two weeks to find out that's what Francis had. He didn't want to bring Francis in for a prognosis, knowing he'd be taken away by strangers and locked up forever, just like his foster sister had been. So he'd taken to spending his mornings and days between work researching. He had finally seen the word himself. That ugly, awful word.
Arthur never really enjoyed thinking about his time spent with his foster family, but sometimes late at night, especially since Francis began to have his troubles, he'd think about his youngest foster sister, Emily, and how she'd claw at her arms and cry and beg their foster mother to just make the voices stop. His foster mother, never a sweet lady and probably only ever took them in for the money she'd receive in return, had looked stricken and disturbed. One day, Arthur had slipped into the kitchen late at night to get a glass of water and had heard his foster parents talking.
"She's gone mad, I tell you, absolutely bonkers." His foster mother had said in a hushed yell, wringing hands in her dirty apron.
His foster father, always calm and always a little bit sad, sighed, "What do you want us to do? She's hurting herself. She may start hurting us."
"Do you think she's sick? Has a condition?"
"I think she's just what you said, mad."
"I don't have the money to get her fixed. Stan, we don't even know what's wrong."
"We'll figure something out. We'll make a call, we'll figure it out."
The next day, a woman with a tight bun on her head and a soft smile came to their house. When she left, she took Emily with her.
Arthur never saw her again.
Life went on without her.
____
Arthur had been talking to a man in Switzerland named Basch who'd taken care of his sister, Lili, after she had been struck with schizophrenia. He'd done it without the help of hospitals or doctors, people Lili didn't know and who Basch didn't know if he could trust. He'd explained to Arthur the things he'd done to help treat her. Arthur took notes and talked to him every day. It gave him a sort of smug relief. He wasn't doing anything wrong, on the contrary. He was doing everything right.
bzwilingi5: So, how has your partner been doing?
akgb99: He's been getting much better. Just yesterday he attempted to wash his hair himself. There was still a lot of soap in it, but he didn't rip any of it out like usual, so I think he's fine.
bzwilingi5:Great. Sounds like he's getting better every day.
Arthur read the line over and over to himself, tucked it in his mind, kept it close.
He's getting better every day.
Arthur turned in his chair to face Francis behind him who was staring outside the window on his usual perch, mumbling to himself and clenching and unclenching his fists.
"You're getting better every day." Arthur told him, but if Francis heard or understood him, he didn't show.
____
Arthur worked at a small printing firm uptown. Every morning after feeding Francis and leaving out snacks for him for later and locking up and putting away anything Francis could use to hurt himself, he took the morning bus uptown to his job. It had always been his dream job to be an author, either for original works or with a successful magazine, but he supposed working on the town's daily newspaper as an editor was a good first start.
He had become good friends with some of the people there: Alfred, Kiku, Feliciano, and his boss, Ludwig. At first Arthur had been wary of getting any friends, knowing it wouldn't be long before something went horribly wrong in return for that small kindness. Like always.
But somehow, it turned out all right. He had gotten to accept an offer to go out for drinks without the world collapsing. He had gotten to go out and eat at exotic places and share laughs with these amazing strangers. He had gotten to miss days of work at a time and see the look of disappointment, yet affectionate acceptance, from Ludwig who knew about Francis and his illness and the worry that sometimes consumed Arthur to the point where he couldn't let Francis out of his sight. Arthur isn't sure what drove him to tell them all about it, about Francis, and while he couldn't erase the look of displeasure on his friends' faces at hearing he didn't get Francis help out of his mind, he felt better for it. He was even more grateful that they never brought it up.
Alfred, though, was an exception. He had demanded to meet Francis the first time he heard, and Arthur had immediately went on the defensive. "He doesn't take well to new people," he had said--had lied--because Francis hadn't met new people since his illness so he wouldn't know. "You'll scare him." Alfred had just shrugged and promised he'd be extra careful. Arthur relented, and was glad he did, because Francis took to Alfred immediately. Alfred was gentle and he talked to Francis like he was a person (because he still is, dammit) and had only laughed when Francis began to muss up his hair.
Alfred cared deeply for Francis, Arthur knew. And it was making things so much harder than before when they were already nearly impossible
____
"Thanks for taking me home, Alfred. You really didn't have to."
"Nonsense, dude! It's pouring out there, I couldn't just leave you at that bus stop. You looked kind of a pathetic, bro, no offense."
Arthur rolled his eyes and settled further in the passenger seat of Alfred's car. The rain beat down steadily on his window, almost drowning out the hideous rap song Alfred insisted on playing. Arthur closed his eyes and sighed heavily, tired.
"So," Alfred said, tone suspiciously casual. Arthur's eyes opened immediately. "How's Francis been doing?"
Arthur was immediately on guard. "He's fine." Clipped. Forceful. He's getting better every day.
Silence fell over the car. The rap song on the radio changed to a slow ballad. Rain continued to fall.
"You sure?" Alfred broke the silence, eyes carefully trained on the road ahead of him.
"Positive." Arthur answered, willing the car to go faster through sheer wishful thinking alone.
Alfred hummed in response and the car quickly dropped back into an uncomfortable silence.
Five minutes later, Alfred pulled up to Arthur's driveway. Arthur's eyes quickly went to the living room window and he let out a breath he hadn't knew he was holding when he spotted Francis still there, in the same spot he left him, like always.
"Thanks." Arthur said quickly, then turned to open the door and run back into the dry house and fed and bathe Francis and put him to bed for the night.
"Wait!" Arthur called out, reaching out a hand to Arthur's arm to anchor him inside. Arthur eyes flew to Alfred's face, which was now contorted in an unreadable expression.
"What—"
"I think you need to get him help." Alfred blurted out, eyebrows knitted together in determination, tone gripped with pleading and force. "He needs medicine and doctors and—and—"
"No!" Arthur said, much louder than he had meant to. He looked up to the window to check if Francis was still there. The window was empty.
"Yes," Alfred yelled back, tightening his grip on Arthur's arm as he tried to flee the car. Where did Francis go? Had he left the matches out before he went to work this morning? Were the voices nice today? "You can't just keep him holed up in your house all day. It's not healthy for him. It's not healthy for you."
Francis hadn't returned to the window. "Fuck you!" Arthur screamed, not caring to control his voice now. His hands flew to Alfred's iron grip on his shoulder, trying desperately to pull it off. His every pore oozed with desperation.
"You don't understand! He—he doesn't need doctors! What are they going to do, huh? Keep him in some white room with a bunch of bloody insane fucks and stuff him with pills every day? They don't know the steps to take to assure him he's not going to drown when you give him a shower! They don't know the things to say to get him to stop tearing his hair out! They don't know how to make the voices quieter! He's getting better everyday, Alfred. He needs me!"
"No, you need him!" Alfred screamed back at him, face red and nails digging half-moons into his arms. "You're being selfish! You don't want him to leave you, you don't want to be alone, so you're keeping him caged up here like an animal! If you love him so much, get him some help, dammit! Get him what he needs!"
Silence. The radio hummed softly. The rain blurred Arthur's view of the living room window.
"Just, please," Alfred's voice said, sad and tired. His fingers slipped off Arthur's arm, leaving him feeling cold and airy, like Alfred's fingers were the only thing keeping him anchored to this world. "I…I care about him too, you know that? He needs help. And—and if you won't do it, I will. Dammit, Arthur, I'll call someone and have them take him away, and I won't care if you hate me for it. Because that's what you do when you care about something," Alfred's voice had lost its last sliver of flrce, and he turned sad, pleading eyes to Arthur's tired ones, "you do what you can for them, no matter what happens to you."
____
That night, after putting Francis to bed, Arthur drove to Rochester Mental Health Center and stepped inside the too clean office. It felt like a puppeteer was moving his limbs, moving his hands and feet, making him walk to the receptionist's desk.
The woman at the desk smiled, said "Good evening, sir. Can I help you with anything?"
Arthur turned and ran.
____
That morning after making Francis breakfast, Arthur turned his attentions to his computer. It had been while since Arthur had talked to Basch, and after the events of the previous day he needed desperately to speak with him.
akgb99: How's Lili?
Arthur had sent the IM early that morning and checked his messenger during work again after returning home. Nothing.
It was while washing Francis' hair four days later that his computer screen lit up, a small ding signifying he had received an IM.
bzwilingi5: Bad.
Arthur hadn't heard from him since.
____
Arthur woke up late for work that Saturday morning. He was due for overtime, and he'd only slept three hours last night. Francis' night terrors had him on the bathroom floor, half-cradling the man in his arms and soothing him with soft words, half-cleaning the blood from his hair where he'd managed to pull some out before Arthur had restrained him.
He'd stumbled out of bed and made toast. He managed to burn both pieces completely black on both sides while he'd made Francis' cereal--twice--and cleaned the carpet because he knocked it over the first time.
He was late for the bus, and while running after it he fell into a puddle.
Ludwig was extra harsh today, demanding impossible deadlines and barking out orders. He acquired no less than five paper cuts on each hand.
He'd dozed on the stack of botany articles and smeared the ink. He had to retype them and deliver them to the west end of the building. Two more paper cuts.
Alfred left work early so he had to wait on the bus in the rain. The bus was late. By the time he got back it was ten and he was a shivering, soaking mess.
The first thing he noticed when he got home was that Francis wasn't in the window.
His mind immediately flew into a panic and he rushed inside, ignoring the ache in his feet.
"Francis?" he called into the house, quickly throwing off his shoes and padding into the kitchen. "Fran?"
"Artie."
Arthur turned around to see Francis on the floor, curled up into the fetal position with his right arm draped lazily to the side of him, bits of torn tissue paper strewn around him like fallen snow.
Arthur's heartbeat instantly began to slow and he crouched down to the ground and crawled toward Francis who lifted his head to look at his approaching boyfriend with a long frown.
"Mmm," Arthur hummed, laying behind Francis to spoon him. Francis jerked his arm out and elbowed Arthur in the ribs impulsively. Arthur grunted and repositioned Francis' arm to lay in front of him. "What day is it?" he tested, his come-home custom. When he first started speaking with Basch, the man had suggested Arthur check Francis' progress each day by asking him simple questions, like who was the president, what day was it, or what year. "Schizophrenics have what's called 'disorganized thinking'," Basch had typed,"You can check their progress by seeing how tethered to the real world they are."
"Yes." Francis answered without missing a beat, turning his head toward Arthur, face contorted into a grimace. "Winston Churchill told me it looks like a nasty one. Did you find the rain here? Did the grove come home?"
Thunder cackled outside, rain pulsed against the sides of the house. "Churchill's been dead for years, Franny." Arthur said, sighing.
"Dead." Francis answered back, smiling brightly at Arthur. "They told me—they told me this isn't—they. Sure."
Arthur stretched lazily and hugged Francis tighter around his middle, tucking into him more. Francis turned around and threw his arms over Arthurs head, catching his face between the carpet and his arm and making it slightly more difficult to breathe. Francis pressed a sloppy kiss to his forehead and muttered something in French in a cooing voice, giggling to himself with a frown drawn tight on his face.
He was absolutely beautiful.
They stayed laced together for a long time, Arthur wasn't sure how long. He took advantage of the fact that Francis hadn't squirmed out of his hold or tried to get away from him, despite the fact he was mumbling incoherent sentences to himself in an annoyed tone and biting at unseen enemies over his shoulder. He breathed in the smell of Francis' shampoo, held him in his arms like it was the last time he'd ever get that chance.
After a while Francis began to squirm and his mumbling died out and was replaced by twitches and squeaks of discomfort. Reluctantly, Arthur released his hold on his boyfriend and sat up, exhaustion weighing him down.
"Come on, Franny. It's bath time."
____
After Arthur had given Francis his bath and brushed his teeth (Francis had put up a fight, the first time he'd done that in ages, and Arthur felt like he might collapse with exhaustion and maybe something else), they both retired to Arthur's bed. Usually Arthur liked to have Francis sleep in his own bed, a way to condition him to be independent. Tonight, though, Arthur needed him so much closer.
He laid out on the bed with Francis to his side, his fingers drawing patterns on Arthur's bare chest. The rain, lighter now, continued to drip outside. The clock read 10:39.
"Do you remember the way we met?" Arthur said suddenly, his mind not even registering the sentence before it was out of his mouth. He blinked. Francis was quiet, fingers still tracing wobbling patterns.
"I do. I remember seeing you, all shiny hair and shiny lips and every pore of you just oozed confidence. I had immediately thought 'God, I'm going to hate this guy.'" Arthur chuckled and Francis laughed, but Arthur wasn't sure if it was because of what he said or if he was simply mimicking Arthur's actions.
"You looked so unnecessarily expensive. I mean, it wasn't even a high class restaurant. Armani suit, Dolce glasses, sparkling white teeth, the works. It made me feel awful coming up to you in my shabby waiter uniform and my weird teeth." He paused. Francis hadn't stopped laughing from before so it was obvious he wasn't laughing at him, but Arthur still felt defensive. "I wasn't rich like you, you know. I couldn't afford braces or bloody teeth whitening."
Francis stopped laughing and mumbled something about white rabbits. His palm laid flat on Arthur's chest, above his beating heart. Arthur watched him and felt like he'd explode from the love he felt for this man. This very sick, very amazing man.
"I knew the moment I heard your accent that you'd be a total wanker to me. Your 'hon hon hon' was a great tip off and I thought, 'Oh, great, this guy--'"
Arthur cut his sentence off abruptly. Francis was laying next time, palm still over his heart, but he was now rocking his hips against Arthur's side, clear and present arousal brushing against him. Oh. Oh.
"Mmm," Francis hummed beside him, rubbing Arthur's chest. "Wanker."
Arthur's heartbeat stuttered and he suddenly felt too hot. Immediately his own arousal began to stir as Francis continued rocking, his hair so close to Arthur's nose that he could smell him and oh, God.
They hadn't done this, had sex, since Francis' illness. At the beginning, when Francis still had some of his wits and could have a fit and then mellow out to somewhat rational thinking, he had tried to coax Arthur into bedding him, to which Arthur refused. It felt wrong, like taking advantage of his boyfriend while he was in such a fragile state. As the months progressed Francis stopped mellowing out and subsequently stopped asking. Arthur had grown fond of his own hand.
Even so, Arthur turned to face Francis who was staring at him with eyes half-lidded, always a bit spacey, but this time tinged with desire. Arthur gave a testing smile and received a grimace and Francis leg thrown around his waist in return.
"Francis," Arthur said, voice breathy as Francis began to rock against him again, this time occasionally brushing against Arthur's own arousal. "Franny, are you sure?"
Francis was quiet for a moment, eyebrows knitted together in deep thought. "Open, it's, I-I-I…can't open the—open!" Francis said frustrated, face tinged red. Wanting to say something, not knowing how to say it. Saying it, and then having it come out all wrong. He turned his eyes, wide, spacey, hungry, desperate. "Open?" Please?
Arthur hesitated and Francis laughed with a sad expression on his face, then leant up and kissed Arthur chin.
By this time Arthur's arousal was refusing to be ignored and he brought a shaking hand up to brush a strand of golden hair out of his boyfriend's face. "Yeah, okay," he answered back, licking his lips. "Okay, baby."
He pressed a kiss to Francis slightly chapped lips. Francis' hips had stopped rocking against him and Arthur immediately felt panicked and wanted to pull away, but Francis moaned softly against him and gripped his bicep. Lightning crackled outside, sounding far away in Arthur's ears.
Arthur pulled back from the tame kiss, breathing as if he were a teenager after his first make out session. Francis' eyes looked more focused, his lips were shiny with spit, and he took Arthur's breath away.
"We can't—I don't—we shouldn't do it, uh, the regular way—" Arthur had attempted to tell him, but Francis answered angrily about crows and needles and them rolled on top of him, eyes shifty and mischievous and so much like he was before that Arthur was briefly taken aback.
Francis was on him, forehead resting on Arthur's shoulder and his hips wriggled desperately, pressing down against Arthur's hips. Arthur's hands flew up to grip Francis' hips in his hands with a loud gasp, trying to slow his boyfriend's movements.
"Franny," he moaned. Francis' hips stilled. "Francis. Francis."
Eventually Arthur got Francis to work his hips back and forth to rub their aching arousals together in a steady and more effective manner. Francis whimpered above him, biting at Arthur's shoulders and gripping his biceps with all of his strength. Arthur's belly felt tight and hot and just yes, God, yes.
The steady rocking became more frantic and Francis no longer spoke words of the mystical images in his minds, but had been reduced to whimpers and moans and the one word "Artie". Arthur loved hearing Francis say his name. Out of all the hallucinations, the delusions, his memories bleeding into make-believe until he couldn't tell one from the other, he still remembered Arthur. His Artie.
Scorching heat began to pool in his stomach and he could tell from Francis' desperate rocking that he was close, too. Arthur ran his hands from Francis' hips to wrap around his hold body, holding him close. He turned his head to press his lips against the shell of Francis' ear.
"I love you," he whispered into his ear gently but with the force of passion, "I love you, you're loved, you're lovable, my love." He repeated this over and over again like a chant. It was a prayer to drive the voices away, if for only a little while. Lock them away where they would never see the light of day.
Francis' hips stuttered to a halt and he whined out an 'Artie' before collapsing fully onto Arthur, body tired and spent and warm with his orgasm. The sound of his nickname spurred Arthur to his release and he could feed his seed pooling in his boxers.
They laid there for a while, breathing heavily, pressed warm and flushed together. Francis lifted his head to look at Arthur, eyes heavy and focused, then lifted his hands to Arthur's hair and began to pet it. He cooed something in French and then rested his head back on Arthur's shoulder. His arms worked Arthur's head for a while before they stilled, too, and rested on either side of his head.
Arthur shifted Francis to a more comfortable position beside him where he could lay his head on one of the pillows, then curled up beside him so their noses brushed together. Francis' eyes were closed, and his warm, even breaths puffed against Arthur's face as he drifted to sleep. Arthur brought his hand to Francis' cheek to brush a thumb against his cheek bone. He placed a kiss on Francis' slightly parted lips and felt tears prick his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with his love for this man all over again.
Arthur's arms wrapped around Francis' frame and he sighed heavily, sated and content for the first time in he didn't know how long. The rain pattered against his window and mixed with the sounds of their shared breathing.
"Please don't let anything go wrong tonight," Arthur pled silently to the universe, "no nightmares, no tremors, no screams, just. Please. Let me have this, just this once. Please."
There was silence for a long time. Then, the rain stopped outside, suddenly and without even the slightest hint of a drizzle. Arthur liked to think the universe had agreed. For the night, they had a truce.
For tomorrow Arthur would get up, get Francis bathed and dressed and fed, and he'd drive him to Rochester Mental Health Center. He'd go up to the receptionist desk and have them take Francis away. Then Francis would be happy. He'd be surrounded by people with his own illness to talk to, he'd have doctors with years of training to see to him, he'd get medicine to make the voices stop more efficiently than Arthur ever could. He'd get help. Arthur would be here, alone and scared and broken and waiting, but Francis would get help. Because that's what you do when you care about something. You do what you can for them, no matter what happens to you.
But for tonight, just for tonight, he had Francis in his arms and all to himself. For tonight, he and the universe were at peace. For tonight, he could have this moment and pretend it was a lifetime.