Arreter le masquage - FrUK

Francis, this isn't funny anymore, and it never was.
Stop hiding.
It's been a year now. Come out from wherever you're hiding.

Where did you go? I miss you. I admit it. I even shout from the rooftops, sometimes. I'll scream your name to the Parisian night, hoping that you might appear from one of the stars, before smiling that god damned smile, holding me close and ruffling my hair. I even learnt how to say it in French for you. "Où êtes-vous, mon amour? S'il vous plaît revenir à moi. Je m'ennuie de toi, François." Right?

I go to sleep in an empty bed, and I wake up in an empty bed. My hands feel empty when you're not holding them. The vase is empty because I haven't put any roses from you in there. I hate all this emptiness. I look into the mirror and see an empty face. You never appear from behind me anymore to hold me close. Sometimes, after I take a shower and am clad in only a towel around my waist, I even elbow the air, blushing and mumbling "Get off of me, you bloody frog", on instinct. The cupboards are empty, too. I know how you hate my cooking. So I don't cook as much anymore. I kept buying ingredients, in case you came back and wanted to make something. But so far, I haven't had any luck with that. Sometimes, I'll buy ingredients anyway, and just sit there. I'll sit in the kitchen, and it'll almost be like the old days, when you'd shuffle around, putting this and then into a giant pot of whatever, and I'd deny that I like the taste... when I really loved it, all along. I never told you that, did I? I regret that, so I'll tell you now. Francis Bonnefoy, I love your cooking. I miss it.

Remember when you used to embrace me for no reason, and you'd just hold me? I miss that. Sometimes I get Matthew to hug me, but it's just not the same. His voice is too quiet, he isn't as warm or strong, his French sounds different than yours, and his chin doesn't tickle. I can't tease him, either, nor can I kiss him… It'd feel too strange.

Pierre misses you, too. Sometimes he'll chirp for hours, no matter what I do. And… do you know what's funny? The only thing that gets him to shut up is that lullaby that you used to always sing… You know, the one that you sang to me ever since that one time I couldn't sleep when we were young? It still helps me fall asleep, by the way… Though it's not as effective if you're not singing it to me.

I also remember the times when we were young. I used to give you flowers all the time, and I thought you were the prettiest girl ever. Until I found out that you were a guy. I changed my mind when I found that out. You were no longer the prettiest girl, but instead the most… beautiful man. There. I said it, Francis, are you happy? You're beautiful.  I don't think I told you that enough when I had the chance.

Remember when we did all those cheesy cliché things? You know, like holding hands and walking barefoot at night under the stars on the beach, just the two of us? Then we'd go back to the hotel room and you'd make love to me, and we'd both fall asleep after? Remember that, Francis, do you remember it…? Come back, because I miss it. I can't be with anyone else. I can't even look at another person in that way, not ever since you appeared in my life.

Remember when you fell terribly ill, and the doctors said that you were going to die soon…? Remember what happened that night in the hospital…? When you smiled sadly at me and coughed, trying to be strong, just for me? And you smiled – that smile, it still haunts me – and told me that you love me, and that I should just move on? You coughed again, you looked weak… you motioned for me to lean down so you could whisper something in my ear, so I did. You whispered "No matter where I am, Arthur, I love you. I always have and always will love you. We won't meet again… not for a few years. Until then, I will miss you. Please don't hate me. I love you, Arthur. So much," and kissed me on the lips, remember? I hugged you as best as I could, and you weakly wrapped your arms around me… Your body was so cold. It scared me. It scared me to know that you were leaving me, and that no one could do anything about it. It scared me to know that it was all over, that I'd never get to hold you again, or see your smile, or hear your laugh, or feel your embrace, or taste your lips, or smell your damn cologne… It still scares me. "Adieu, François, Je t'aime, tu vas me manquer ... mais je sais que nous reverrons, " I whispered, but it was… it was too late, wasn't it? It's not fair. I didn't even get to hear your reaction. I don't even know if you heard me. Did you hear me, Francis…? Do you even remember that at all…? …No. Of course you don't, that never happened.

You are out there and alive, I swear. Everyone's lying to me, you're not, you can't be dead. It's just improbable. If you don't come back in a while, then I will go and find you, that's a promise. Until then, I'm going to wait in case you suddenly appear and come back. Until we meet again, I will miss you greatly. And the next time we meet, you damn better hug me and tell me that you missed me more.

Please come back, Francis. It's lonely without you, and I don't like having to wipe my own tears away.