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They sit on the terrace. Pull out cigarettes. Light them. Breathe sighs of smoke and asphyxiation.
“I thought you loved me,” is what Arthur says.
“I thought you did as well,” is what Francis replies.
Arthur pulls the cigarette from his mouth. Blinks out over the terrace. Stares at the night for a bit. Dies a little on the inside.
“It never would’ve worked, this,” is what he starts with.
“Not at all,” is what Francis agrees. “We hate each other too much.”
The words sting. Pierce through shields. Through perfectly layered guards. Through hearts. Spill blood. Arthur can taste it on his tongue.
“Absolutely,” is what he murmurs. He starts throwing insults. Easy and simple as breathing. “I don’t think I could stand you in a relationship. Your egotism. Your fashion tendencies. Your idiocy.”
Francis grins. “I would not be able to stand you either. Your lack of emotion. Your horrible cooking skills. Your passion for everything that is wrong. You are a disgrace to the city, Kirkland.”
“You’re a disgrace to the world,” is what Arthur counters with. He covers up the pain. Covers up the figurative wounds. Covers up the tears that boil up on the inside. “And I can do much better than you, than- than a struggling art historian.”
“I believe I can do better than you as well. I never needed an awful violinist in my life,” is what Francis spits back. He clenches the cigarette between his fingertips. Watches the stars across the sky. Watches the city lights. He pretends he’s a light. Pretends he’s a star. A streetlamp. Anywhere. Not here.
“I hate you,” is what Francis says.
“I abhor you,” is what Arthur mutters. He hears the old insults in the back of his mind. Hears the you always have to one-up me, do you not. Hears the you are a sly, conniving bastard. Hears the you never understood anything. “I’m glad we’re ending this. I can’t stand another minute of your presence.”
He lies. He always lies.
Francis frowns. He crumples the cigarette. Pitches it over the terrace. Hopes it lights something on fire. Maybe himself. Later on. Walking home. He pulls himself together. Forces on a smirk.
“I cannot stand you. I cannot- believe you anymore,” is what he manages. He didn’t mean to say that. Didn’t mean to bring the conversation there. Didn’t mean to make this more personal. Didn’t mean to bring everything up that would have been better left in the back of minds.
Arthur shivers. The words run like spiders over his spine. Small footsteps. Huge impact. Terrifying impact. It’s right there. Too close. The product of his stupidity. Of his carelessness. He opens his mouth to say something. Closes it when he can’t think of anything. When he can’t find the right words. When he can’t figure out how to say I’m sorry properly. When he can feel the words on his tongue but he can’t say them. And it hurts. To know he’s still in love with the man next to him. To know he’s letting him go. To know that it was entirely his fault. To know that Francis doesn’t feel anything anymore. The anger curls inside him. Takes hold. Settles in next to the fear.
He tries to sort the situation out. He comes up with jumbles of disorganized thoughts and meetings and dinners and things that never really worked out right.
“That’s it, then,” is what Arthur says. He crushes the cigarette. Charred remains crumple in his fingertips. Remains of the cigarette. Remains of the relationship.
It’s cold. It hurts.
Francis stands first. Puts his hands in his pockets. Kicks the terrace floor. Reaches out. His fingers go for brushing against Arthur’s hair but they fall short. He knows it’s over. Realizes it’s over. Knows he can’t get it back.
“I will not be seeing you,” is what he says.
“Good riddance,” is what Arthur murmurs.
“I will get my things and go. Unless-“
He tries.
“I don’t want them. I don’t want to see them.”
He’s shot down.
“You could kill with that glare on your face.”
Arthur turns. Looks up. Faces Francis.
“Is it working yet?”
“You are childish.”
“If you leave one thing in my apartment I’m going to burn it.”
“I knew you had hidden pyromaniac tendencies. I am right to get out of this while I still can.”
“Damn right you are.”
Francis leaves. Walks through the apartment. Gathers his things. He puts them in his suitcase and walks out. Looks for his cigarette on the pavement below the terrace. Just in case.
He doesn’t find it.
Arthur retreats back inside. Sits on his bed. Starts thinking. Thinking things like it’s over and done and I should be relieved.
He curls up against the blankets and sighs.