But France is gone, with the slam of a door - and his front door at that - and all of a sudden he realises how quiet it is, how empty the house feels, and how completely, utterly alone he is in this moment. He laughs, short and harsh, eyes sliding shut with the weight of a thousand years of life. He's been in this situation so many times, it almost brings a tear to his eye.
France doesn't return, not the next day, or the next week, or the next month. France doesn't appear at all. Not a call, not a message, not even to tell him how much he hates him. Nothing.
Regret comes only a week later, after the disappearance of the whiskey and rum in the cellar, with icy rain pounding on the roads and a walk in the silent park in the wee hours of the morning. It's a quiet walk, listening to the soft pattering of raindrops on the ground, the wet crunching of leaves and gravel under his feet. His mind wanders, travels back in time, and suddenly, he's assaulted with a vivid memory in this one particular park.
It had been autumn, then, France's favourite season of the year. "Because it's romantic!" he'd said. Leaves falling in piles under trees, and strolling around languidly, fingers intertwined, and sharing cups of hot tea in quaint cafes, falling asleep to the scent of his perfume. Autumn, when the sun shone through a lens of cherry-coloured rose. It had been beautiful. They had been in love, all small smiles and gentle laughter and promises of 'together, forever'. But that had been back then.
And suddenly he's crying, tears carving their way down his cheeks, eyes wide as his numbed hand subconsciously rubs them away. "....what?" Even to himself, his voice sounds broken. He finds himself by the pond, on his knees, staring blankly into the water as the rain soaks into his clothes, rainwater mixing with tears dripping down his face to fall into the water.
What had he done?
