Chapter Text
I thought it doesn't get
better than this,
there can be nothing better than this.
And we climbed onto the roof, the museum
and someone made love in the glass
(...)
What else could be better than this?
Oh, don't you know I have seen
I have seen the fields aflame
and everything I ever did
was just another way to scream your name
over and over and over and over again
over and over and over and over again
( South London Forever, Florence + The Machine)
DECEMBER
Francis wakes up with the striking lucidity of knowing exactly what he’s supposed to do.
He opens his eyes already fully conscious and perfectly aware of what he’s going to do, as sometimes happens when you feel your actions being guided by a bigger force.
He gently disentangles himself from James’ embrace and his familiar warmth, but, as he was expecting, James holds onto him, still mostly asleep, before he can make it out of bed.
“Sleep on.” Francis whispers, caressing his hair. It has grown longer in these past months and even though it’s still nowhere near what it used to be before the performance, Francis loves and cherishes all the different shades of James he’s discovering as his hair returns to its old length.
“‘mm-what time is it?” James asks, slurring his words with sleep, making Francis’ heart swell almost painfully in his chest.
“It’s still early, don’t worry,” he whispers soothingly, smiling at him even though James has his eyes closed. “Rest.”
He brushes his hair away from his face until James relaxes back into the pillow and eventually lets him go.
Francis indulges in watching him sleep for a few moments longer, noticing how the scar on James’ cheekbone is less visible day after day, but still there, undeniably a part of him. He brushes his fingertips over it and James’ eyes flutter behind his eyelids, his lips slightly parted.
He looks as peaceful as a child.
Francis silently gets up, going to fetch everything he needs. He doesn’t even stop to wash his face or get ready for the day, because he’s already wide awake and he just has to do this before everything else.
He goes to the living room, to the corner where he has been hoarding stuff from work throughout the years, keeping it here instead of the studio in the desperate hope that its proximity would have helped him escape his block.
He has never touched anything.
Every pencil, every brush, every canvas has been collecting dust, but for some reason Francis has never moved them back to the studio. He’s thankful for it, now.
His hands easily find their way through the pile of art materials, never hesitating: he grabs his old set of watercolours, a new set of pencils and the biggest sketchbook he can find.
He takes everything with him and goes back to the bedroom, tiptoeing so as not to wake James, who’s in the same position he left him: lying on his side, facing the windows, buried in the dark blue duvet, only his arm, shoulder and head peeking out of it, looking pale in the cold December morning light.
Francis moves his chair as he needs, once again having no hesitation about where to place it: the picture is already in his mind, fully formed. He only has to recreate it.
He sits facing James, in the farthest corner of the room. This way, he can see him, how relaxed he is with the knowledge of being safe and able to rest as much as he wants to; he can see his hair, mussed from sex and sleep, and the dark bruise on his collarbone where Francis sucked his skin last night, leaving his mark on him while they were making love, tightly entangled with one another.
He looks at James and smiles to himself.
James.
He can barely believe the improbable but very real coincidence of the two loves of his life sharing the same name, another of those things he didn’t like about James—this James—back in January, but simply makes sense and feels right today.
He smiles to himself, his heart light, his mind clear. He reaches for the sketchbook.
For the first time in nine years, Francis stares at the blank page in front of him and instead of the all too familiar sense of dread, he feels an excited thrill.
He lifts his gaze to James again.
Then, Francis opens the watercolour set—he’d have preferred oils, but they would have taken too long and he doesn't want to risk waking James; this is the right way to do this—he wets his once-favourite brush and, for the first time in nine years, he starts painting.
Sometimes all you need is the right kind of inspiration.