Opposites Attract || FrUs Oneshots

Dripping (Angst)

drip. drip. drip.

Francis sat in his room. The lights were off and he was on the floor, sitting with his knees hugged to his chest. He listened to the silence in the room, only hearing a break in the silence when he heard a drop of his blood hit the floor.

He knew he shouldn't be doing this to himself. This was his third bottle of pain killers this week and the second razor blade. But he needed them.

He sat on the floor, looking straight ahead with a neutral expression. Anyone who walked in wouldn't notice him until they turned on the light. Even then, they probably would notice the mess around him first.

He had trashed his room. Drawers, clothes, and papers strewn out all over the floor and bed, holes punched in the walls and the drops of blood around the room leading to the bigger puddle next to his limp and numb body.

During times like this, he could only think about the person who caused it all. The one guy who could make him hate himself this much.

Alfred Jones.

Alfred. Fucking. Jones.

Francis hated him. He hated that he loved him.
He hated what the selfish, conceited male had done to him. Making him weak and fragile.
Fragile enough to cause all this pain.

Alfred told Francis, he promised Francis, that he would love him forever. Alfred promised him.

That promise was obviously far from his mind when Francis caught Alfred fucking pushing Arthur against the wall. Francis could even hear the soft moans of the man he loved, and he couldn't stand that he'd been such a fool.

Francis hasn't contacted Alfred since the incident, and Alfred hasn't tried to reach out to Francis either.
Or so Francis thought.

In reality, Alfred was hurting as much as Francis was. After he finished kissing Arthur, he saw Francis running away from them.

Alfred only kissed Arthur because it had been a dare, and being the idiot that he was, he thought he had to do it.

Arthur tried apologizing to Alfred and Francis, but the two ignored him. And eachother.

These days, Alfred didn't eat or sleep, didn't think really. He just sat in his room, in a chair in the corner to be more specific. The lights were off, much like in Francis' room, but Alfred wasn't on the floor. Nor was he bleeding, although he wouldn't mind it.

Alfred couldn't call Francis, the calls never went through. And he couldn't visit him either, the servants that used to welcome him with a wide open door and warmth would now turn him away, not meanly, but sadly.

The two men sat in their respective corners, going through their own pain.

They didn't speak. Didn't think.

The only sound made between the two of them was the steady dripping made by Francis' blood.

drip. drip. drip.

drip