Chapter Text
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This was the longest car ride of Arthur's life. The rain was coming down with no end in sight. It pounded down mercilessly on the slick streets below, like it was mocking the inner turmoil taking over Arthur’s mind. His heart was racing, and he folded his hands in his lap in an effort to calm himself. It was easier said than done though, especially when Arthur was so fixated on this train speeding past him, and the fact that it was moving while the car he sat in wasn't.
Tap. Tap. Tap, tap, tap.
It was Arthur's foot, tapping against the floor as he watched the train rumble over the tracks, wondering just how bloody long this train could actually be, how much longer he would have to sit, and why the hell this train had decided to pass right here and now, while his breakfast was threatening to leave his stomach.
This train was one thing, but the rain was another. If only this rain would let up, he thought, clasping his hands tighter, then Francis could drive faster. God, how much he wanted that. A swift end to this absolute nightmare of a trip. He wanted to go, to leave this unfamiliar place. But he couldn't. At this railroad crossing, in front of these tracks, Arthur was trapped, forced to acknowledge the deep feeling of dread crawling along every inch of his skin. It was unbearable.
The train was fast, thank God, and watching it speed past in a blur gave Arthur the slightest bit of solace. They'd be moving again soon. Soon, boys, he thought to himself, we'll be home soon.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
Francis pulled his eyes from the passing train and looked over at his husband with a frown, wrinkles worrying his forehead. His eyes traveled down to Arthur's restless foot, up to the stiff hands in his lap, and finally to his face. He expected to see some sort of change, some sort of crack in the cold expression that had been on Arthur's face since they'd started off this morning. But no, it was still there.
After the way they'd argued last night, Francis shouldn't have been surprised; they hadn't even kissed each other goodnight. He shouldn't have been surprised, and yet still he was, because the contempt Arthur wore so clearly on his face contradicted everything his body was doing. His shoulders were rigid, his arms held close to his body, and yes, he was restless, clasping and unclasping his hands, shifting in his seat, and now, this tapping. On his face was irritation, but in his every movement was fear.
Francis knew it, recognized it because he held that same fear. That same fear was the reason why his hands were still so clammy against the steering wheel, even after two hours on the road. It was the same reason why he'd lie awake last night in their hotel room, listening to Arthur sniffle when he thought Francis had already fallen asleep, and wondering how much more of this they could take. Wondering what their future, their family's future, was going to look like.
That scowl on Arthur's face was meant to deter him, keep him quiet. Keep him from saying the things he'd tried to say last night. And Arthur's lips were shut so tightly, as if he too wanted to prevent himself from triggering a repeat of last night. But for Francis, who saw in his husband the very same terror that made his own body run cold, it was apparent now more than ever just how much they needed to finish what they'd started. Right here and now.
Francis held his gaze on Arthur's face, wanting so badly for for those cold eyes to meet his. But they didn't. He watched Arthur's shoulders fall just the slightest bit as the last car of the train passed, and he faced forward again, stepping on the gas once the barriers at the crossing lifted to allow them through.
As the car moved slowly across the bumpy tracks, Arthur's foot fell silent. Francis accelerated, and Arthur felt like an utter fool for having convinced himself that train was the sole source of his apprehension. Once they got moving again, his heart would calm, and his thoughts would stop racing, he'd told himself. But deep down, he'd known that wasn't true. The tracks were clear, Francis was picking up speed, and yet his mind wasn't any less jumbled, his heart no less heavy.
They were moving, but in reality, for Arthur, nothing had actually changed. These past two days were supposed to have been different, were supposed to have given them hope. But it had all been a waste of time. Time they would never get back. He swallowed thickly, fingers coming to grip at the seat belt across his chest. He would never understand it, how cruel this world could be to those who'd done nothing to deserve it. Matthew had done nothing to deserve this.
“Arthur,” Francis said softly, pulling the anxious man from his thoughts. “Please. Talk to me.”
Pulling his eyes from the road just for a moment, he glanced over again at the man seated at his side, eyes pleading. It had been nearly an hour since they'd last spoken, since Francis had asked Arthur if he wanted the radio, and Arthur had given a snippy, "I think not."
And so they'd been driving in complete silence since then, not a word from either of them. Francis had wanted to give Arthur time to cool down, thought that maybe if he did, Arthur would be the one to break the silence. But Francis couldn't take it any longer, sitting here trying to prolong the inevitable. They needed to talk. And they needed to do it now.
He frowned when he didn't get a response. Instead Arthur simply glared forward at the long stretching road ahead, his lips set in a tight line. Arthur didn't even want to look at Francis, let alone speak to him. The sooner they could get home, the better. He just wanted to see his children, and forget about the nonsense he had heard that morning. These doctors disgusted him.
“Arthur,” Francis pressed, his voice stern. There was no more avoiding this. He knew how stubborn the man could be, but he could be just as adamant.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Francis,” he spat.
"What?" The word came out of him much too softly for all the shock it held, and he gripped the wheel tighter, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
He looked to Arthur, but still Arthur refused to look his way. It cut him even deeper, made his stomach drop and all he could do was take a deep breath as he looked back to the road. Arthur didn't believe that. Of course he didn't believe that. He didn't, so why on Earth would he say it with such conviction, knowing it wasn't at all true? Did he really think that was going to shut Francis up?
Francis clenched his jaw in frustration, cursed the godforsaken rain that made it impossible for his eyes to leave the road for more than a few seconds. That was exactly when he spotted a road sign signaling a gas station in a quarter of a mile. And he looked back at Arthur, who was still glaring ahead, his mind already made up. Just a quarter of a mile more. And then he could finally put an end to this suffocating silence.
From the corner of his eye Arthur could see Francis stiffen in his seat, but to his surprise Francis said nothing more. And he waited, his own shoulders stiff in anticipation of Francis saying his name again, hoped to God that he wouldn't parrot more of that doctor's garbage. Thankfully, he didn't. And when Arthur realized that he wasn't going to say anything else, he faced the window. He wasn't sure how much time had passed between the moment he'd looked out the window and the moment the car changed course, but he knew it couldn't have been very long.
The sudden jerk shook Arthur from his muddled thoughts, and he yelped as Francis veered right, wheels screeching in agony against the wet cement as he swerved into the empty station.
Gasping, Arthur clutched at his chest and scowled at the man behind the wheel. “What the bloody hell are you doing!” he shouted. “Are you trying to kill us both?”
This time it was Arthur who was answered with silence, and he became even more irritated that Francis seemed to be completely unfazed. The Englishman looked around as he tried to gather his bearings and scoffed with annoyance once he realized where they were.
“Why in the world did you stop here? We’re fine on gas!” he said, peeking at the fuel gauge to make sure he wasn't crazy. Still, Francis stayed silent and passed straight by the pumps, confusing the agitated man even more. “What are you—”
Arthur gasped again as Francis turned abruptly into one of the only two parking spaces there, turning off the engine and removing the keys. Arthur’s anger subsided for only a second, momentarily replaced by shock. Francis wasn't acting like himself. He watched as the other slowly removed his seat belt and slipped the keys into his pocket. He flinched slightly as their eyes met, startled by the other’s hard blue stare.
“Nothing to talk about?” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Nothing to talk about, Arthur?”
And just like that, with his own words thrown back at him, his anger returned tenfold. “I gave you my answer and it won’t change! It won’t change, Francis!” he screamed.
“Arthur, please. Calm down,” Francis said, placing a gentle hand on Arthur’s own. He frowned when the Brit snatched away, fixing him with a spiteful glare.
“Drive,” he hissed. They both stared each other down in silence, thunder rumbling all around them from above.
“No," he said, just barely above a whisper. Francis had reached his limit. He was done dancing around the issue, done changing the subject. He was done acting like everything was alright, like they could just go on living leaving things the way they were. His eyes locked onto Arthur's, his voice clear and firm as he added, "We aren't going anywhere.”
"Drive the car, Francis," Arthur repeated, voice dangerously low as it forced its way through his tightening throat.
"No," he repeated. Mother Nature seemed to take Francis' side, the answer punctuated with a loud crack of thunder.
Arthur stared at him as the sky flashed with light, waiting for him to sigh in the way he always did, waiting for his shoulders to slink in surrender. But Francis didn't move an inch, didn't say another word, and Arthur could feel his gut sink. No. No, he couldn't do this.
Francis doubled back as Arthur lunged at him, a hand grabbing for the keys inside his pocket. Though startled, he quickly took hold of Arthur's arms, eyes wide as he watched his husband succumb to his own desperation, yanking and thrashing within his grip in an attempt to break free.
"Let me go."
His voice wavered slightly as he spoke past the knot in his throat, his breaths short and fast while he continued to struggle, adrenaline flooding throughout his body. Arthur couldn't do this right now. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally. Talking was the last thing he wanted to do. And what further unraveled him was how gentle the Frenchman's touch was, how even while he sat there trying to shove him away Francis held him like he was the only thing that mattered. And yet he still found himself screaming because he just wanted to go home, to go home and take his mind off of how dreadful that day had been.
"Let me go and just drive the damned car!"
“Not until we finish this discussion!”
Arthur was stunned, and he didn't bother hiding the way his body tensed, a barely audible gasp escaping his lips. Francis never raised his voice. Francis even surprised himself. He heaved a shaky sigh in an attempt to calm himself, his hands leaving Arthur's arms to gingerly caress either side of his face. “This won’t just disappear. No matter how much you want it to, it won’t.” He stared into his husband's eyes, full of sorrow and grief, and watched them squeeze shut.
"Don't you think I know that? I know that. He's my child," came his soft, choked reply. His child. His sickly, suffering child. Arthur could feel himself falling further and further apart, lips quivering, eyes welling, the knot in his throat becoming too much to bear. And so he surrendered, a sob ripping through his throat as he crumpled into himself.
"Arthur..." Francis' chest ached at the sight of his other half, broken, vulnerable. And Arthur held his head in his hands, disgusted with how pathetic he felt.
“What do you want me to say?” he sobbed, wiping at his face. “That I want those surgeons to blind him? That I want them to—” He shuddered as he was overcome with feelings of absolute horror. “To gouge out his eyes and leave him terrified? It’s inhumane!” He found himself laughing suddenly, the sound bitter and harsh. “We come all the way down here, and for what? Hours of driving only to be told what we've already been told before."
He snatched up the file sitting on the dashboard, Matthew's file, thick and heavy with the torment of the past two years. Blood tests, CAT scans, pathology reports, treatment plans, charts, diagrams, percentages—everything that reminded Arthur that to them, Matthew was just a patient. Just a number.
Francis watched as the manila folder was hurled to the floor, papers scattering, the Englishman thrusting it violently from his hands as if to deny its existence.
"God,” he croaked, “Matthew never asked for this. He’s been suffering his whole life! And now they want to take away his sight?" He looked to his husband, vision too blurry with his own tears to see the way Francis' throat constricted, to see the way his eyes resembled glass. "How could I allow that? How could I allow him to suffer even more?”
Arthur was angry. Not at his husband or the doctors, but at the fact that this disease had chosen to terrorize his son, robbing him of a normal childhood. Angry that after all they had done to keep their little boy out of harm’s way, he was still in constant danger. But most of all, he was angry at himself. For not seeing the signs. For not knowing that there were signs to see. None of this would be happening if only he had noticed in time.
"Why didn't I see it sooner?" he asked, hands gripping at his hair. "If I had just—"
"No," Francis stopped him before he could even attempt to finish the thought.
"I could have—"
"Arthur," he said, the Brit's name a desperate plea. "Look at me." Arthur looked up as a calloused palm came to rest at his cheek, and Francis forgot to breathe as their eyes met, crushed by the look of guilt and shame on the other's face. His lips trembled as he spoke again. "This is not your fault. It isn't yours or mine or anyone's." Again, Arthur's eyes began to water, lips parting as he released a shallow breath.
"But I—"
"You didn't know." He took his husband’s shaky hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. "We didn't know."
Arthur let out a choked sound, and Francis' heart felt like lead as he watched him slump in defeat.
“I know you’re hurting. I do. I am too.” He looked apologetically into those somber eyes, tenderly wiping away the steady falling tears. “I don’t want this anymore than you do. But you have to understand that these doctors only want what’s best for our Matthieu. If there was any other way, I wouldn't have even entertained the idea. But there isn’t. This is our last resort. If we don’t let them do this, we may lose him.”
“But if we continue with the chemo, it could get better and—”
“But what if it doesn’t? What if it gets worse?” Francis was firm, but not forceful. He just needed Arthur to understand how grave things were. They could no longer live in denial. “We can’t risk it. Matthieu may lose his sight, but he will have his life."
Arthur froze as he was jolted back to reality, his own realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. What was he doing? Was he really gambling with something as precious as his child’s life? He suddenly felt a wave of nausea throughout his body as feelings of shame and regret washed over him, utterly disgusted with himself.
Denial. It was a nasty, ruthless little pest. It had taken a hold of the both of them for a long while, but Arthur just couldn't seem to break free of it. Matthew wasn't as sick as the doctors made him out to be, he had first convinced himself. He was a happy, healthy child who played cops-and-robbers with his brother and helped his father cook in the kitchen. His son was sick, he admitted, but he was a normal boy. A normal boy who began chemotherapy, but normal nonetheless. A normal boy who began losing his energy, whose hair began to thin and fall out in clumps, but he was just like any other child. This was Arthur’s way of coping. But that day, as he sat there in that crummy gas station in the pouring rain, face streaked with tears, he realized how foolish he had been.
“Dear God,” he breathed, “what’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing is wrong with you,” Francis said softly. The Frenchman pulled him into an embrace, gripping him tighter as he felt the other’s arms come round his neck.
"I'm so sorry..." he rasped, his breath soft against Francis' neck, tears dampening his skin. And somehow Francis knew that apology wasn't just for him.
He shook his head, placing a long, tender kiss atop Arthur's head. “This has been a long few months for the both of us. I couldn't stay upset with you even if I tried.”
Francis had known how stressed Arthur was, watched as he became somewhat distant, burying himself in his work. They had both been under a lot of pressure, trying their best to adapt to the chaotic normalcy that had become an integral part of their lives. Weekly hospital visits, family movie nights, grueling chemotherapy sessions, weekend strolls to the park, piles of medical bills, evening kisses and bedtime stories. A torturous cycle of happiness and despair.
Even now with the reality of Matthew's poor prognosis lying abandoned at Arthur's feet, Francis looked forward to the sandcastles they would build that weekend, looked forward to the ticklish feeling of buckets of sand being dumped onto his body, to the pit-pattering of tiny hands hastening his burial, to the squeals of laughter that would fill the bathroom while he scrubbed bubble gum scented soap into salty blonde heads. And yet he knew that this happiness would soon be stolen from him. It would vanish once he watched an IV go through Matthew's pale little arm, once he watched his son grow lethargic, watched his eyes grow dim. And it would start all over again.
"Who told you that you had to grieve alone?" Francis whispered, frowning when he was answered with another wretched sob. The sound left his heart aching, but relief followed soon after. Because Arthur was finally letting go. Arthur was finally letting him in after months of arguing, of empty smiles and avoidance. He held the trembling Englishman in his arms, the corners of his eyes prickling with tears of his own. He pulled back to look at him once he had calmed, and Arthur bowed his head to hide his puffy red eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said again, hands balled in his lap. "Lately, I...I've not been acting like myself. And I shouldn't have taken out my frustrations on you. Or let them cloud my judgement."
"Look at me, cher." He did so slowly, eyes glassy and lashes damp. "I love you. And I don't know what made you think you had to hide these feelings from me. But it ends here. The only way we'll get through this is together, Arthur. This pain is not only yours to bear. So please, don't shut yourself off from me." Arthur nodded his head, but that wasn't good enough for Francis. "Promise me."
"I promise. I do." The two men embraced once more, their bodies melding with one another as they fell into a momentary silence. “He’ll...never be able to see again.” The more Arthur thought about it, the heavier his heart became. Matthew was just barely four. This would devastate him.
Francis was just as concerned, feeling completely helpless as he wondered how they would explain this to their son. How could anyone explain to a child that they would live the rest of their life in darkness? The thought was unnerving. But he knew they would manage somehow. They had to.
“We’ll be right there with him to help him through this.” Taking Arthur’s hand in his own, he placed his own fingers between the crevices, bringing it to his lips. “We need to stay strong,” he said, “for his sake.”
The rain had become a gentle drizzle, and although Arthur still had fears of what was to come, he knew that the decision they had made was right. There was nowhere to go but up.
“Right.”