Arthur Kirkland was lonely. Maybe he was lonely because he hasn't been in a committed relationship in over five years. Maybe he was lonely because no one liked him. Maybe he was lonely because he was miserable.

But, to him, it didn't matter. It didn't matter what people thought about him anymore. It didn't matter what he did anymore. It didn't matter what he did or what he said.

To him, loneliness was a gift. Loneliness granted him acceptance of betrayal, seeing as he was used to it. Loneliness allowed him to have quick shags without having to deal with his 'partner'.

And even in his beat up, low-quality apartment, loneliness is what kept him sane. Among all the piles of torn and filthy clothes and the piles of CD's and the stacks of record tracks, he found comfort. The comfort of his privacy. The comfort of his Fender guitar that he occasionally, if not constantly, played on or strummed or scarred with the scratches of his rings.

And almost every other night when he would stand on that platform in front of that not-so-big, and sometimes large, crowd, he would scream into the mic that was presented before him with the stress of loneliness and the insanity that was locked in him that he could let out. The sweat, and the smell, as well as the adrenaline, would wash away his poisoned thoughts.

But once he finished his last song, he would take his guitar strap off his shoulder and storm off the stage, leaving the crowd cheering. And each time he ran into an unwanted fan or some business associate, he would look at them with a condescending scowl and sometimes a sneer.

Once he escaped all of the unneeded attention, to the band's dressing room, he would fish out his cigarettes and pluck the last one out before lighting it with a flame from his almost-empty lighter. And he would stand there, leaning against the farthest wall, smoking in silence with hatred in his mind and in his eyes, his rings dotting his fingers, his red leather jacket with pins and studs decorating it over his shoulders and arms.

September 18th, 2006

And that one time of this routine, once his last cigarette burned to it's last burn, he dropped it onto the stained carpet before smashing it down with his foot, staining the carpet further.

"I would advise against that.", he heard after he finished grinding his foot hastily into the bud, snapping his piercing emerald eyes up to the stranger who had welcomed himself into the band's dressing room.

"And why is that?", Arthur had hissed back in annoyance, slitting his eyes at the stranger who had shoulder-length light blonde hair that shone almost too proudly. The stranger's aqua eyes had been staring at Arthur's face, studying the piercings dotting his skin.

"Why ruin your pretty face like that?", the stranger had asked in a solemn tone as he walked past the door frame, into the cluttered room. Arthur crossed his arms, and leaned heavily against the wall, "Why don't you leave me the fuck alone?" The impatient and easily-annoyed Brit ran his tongue over his bottom lip, feeling his snake bites, the cold metal tasting like rust.

He heard chuckling come from the blue-eyed stranger as he approached Arthur, stepping over a pile of punk-looking clothes. "Because I came here to see you. Now why would I leave so soon?", he purred, his eyes fixed on Arthur's, Arthur knowing very well that look of stubbornness in them.

"So you just want a bloody autograph or something? I don't do that, sorry.", he hissed the last word sarcastically, baring his teeth at him. A grin spread over the man's lips, revealing white teeth. Arthur furrowed his eyebrows at it.

The stranger took a step forward, now a bit too close to Arthur, for Arthur's taste. "Non, I do not want an 'autograph'.", he said with his heavy accent, Arthur taking note that he was clearly not from around here.

"Then what do you want? If you just want to talk, I'm not fucking interested. Now leave me alone.", Arthur snapped impatiently, glaring at him crossly. "Maybe this is why no one likes you, oui?", he had replied with a smirk. Arthur went tense, his thick eyebrows smoothing out before he furrowed them again.

"I don't know what you're talking about, prick.", Arthur retorted, averting his eyes. He jumped once he felt fingertips touch his eyebrow ring, returning his eyes to the stranger's.

"Obviously, you are putting on this so called 'punk' act because you are lonely..", the man murmured as he touched his eyebrow ring softly. Arthur raised his hand to slap his fingers away. "Who the fuck are you anyways? Who do you think I am?", Arthur snarled, pushing off the wall to seem threatening.

"Francis.", the stranger spoke, ignoring his attempt of scaring him off. Arthur dropped his scowl, his lips relaxing into a frown, "What?"

"You asked who I was. I'm Francis. And you are Arthur.", the stranger, now not so stranger, replied calmly as he watched Arthur with his distant, and slightly wise looking eyes. Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, standing before the man called 'Francis' with a feeling of unease forming and sitting in the pit of his stomach.

"So what? So what if your name is Francis? I don't care. You got to meet me, and being the unpleasant person I am, you're probably disappointed. Now you can leave.", Arthur grew nervous, fearing he might see through his attempt of shutting everyone out.

"And I will repeat myself; now why would I leave so soon?", Francis replied.

Three months later, Arthur had left the band.

Three months later, he cleaned out his apartment and threw out all of his CD's (except for a few Frank Sinatra's and Beatle's he had received from his mother before she passed away) as well as all of his torn and trashy clothes. And within a few weeks he had filled his wardrobe with 'normal' clothing: sweaters, slacks, skinny jeans (he kept his favorite pair when he threw out the rest), vests, dress shirts, and the sort.

And within only a few weeks, he had moved into Francis' Victorian house after making a few adjustments regarding his privacy and space.

March 21st, 2009

Arthur paced into the walk-in closet in their bedroom, to the small desk that had a few drawers in the corner. He reached out to curl his fingers around the nob of the drawer before he slid it out, revealing the cluttered interior. He reached in to push aside all of the photographs and old movie tickets to get to the small case he kept in the corner.

He lifted it out of the drawer and placed it on the bare top of the desk before he opened it with slight anticipation. He smiled at it's contents, before he lifted his fingertips to brush them down the outside of his old rings that he had worn years back, when he first met Francis.

He studied them with adoring eyes before he slid his favorite one out of it's place, staring at it's details in silence. He grinned once he slipped it onto his pinky (it's slightly too large now), studying the carved-in skull and the cross.

"Hmm..that's too bad. It doesn't fit anymore.", he heard Francis speak up behind him, Arthur glancing back to see Francis looking over his shoulder. Arthur returned his eyes to the ring on his pinky, "Yes, but maybe it's a good thing it doesn't."

"And why is that?", Francis asked. Arthur smiled lightly.

"Because it means that I left that phase behind.", he answered as he turned to face Francis, sliding his ring off and reached behind him to place it on the desk. Francis smiled, "It's good to hear acceptance coming from you."

Arthur grinned, revealing his teeth, before he reached up to cup Francis' cheeks and press his lips to the Frenchman's softly.