Chapter Text
"What in the bloody hell happened?" A disoriented Arthur asked as he rubbed his own head.
"Do you not remember, Mister Arthur Kirkland?" A monotonous voice replied back.
The Englishman thought long and hard with a finger against his chin. His gaze immediately went to the small lean figure in front of him. A human looking figure with onyx colored eyes and hints of dark brown in them, short straight raven hair, and almost creamy white skin with a simple deadpan stare while wearing a shadowy dark robe.
"No, and how do you know my name?" He raised an eyebrow in suspicion.
"You will remember soon enough."
The bastard didn’t even answer his question about knowing his name. How rude. Arthur leaned back against the bench he was sitting on and took in his surroundings. They were in a garden that was in full bloom, a mixture of colors and scents. The sun beamed down, a warm soothing presence, casting a warm golden light over the whole scene. Oh, Francis would have surely loved the place, the git. Said Frenchman was always going on and on about how he wanted to grow different types of flowers in Arthur’s garden. The thought of Francis was a bit bittersweet but he couldn’t help it.
"Since you didn’t answer me on how the hell you knew my name, care to at least tell me where I am?" Arthur asked raising his eyebrow once more.
"You are where you are. The scenery speaks for itself, though it is peculiar how you are the one speaking to me and not Mister Bonnefoy, at least not yet... I am also surprised you can see me."
The eerie part of it was the garden looking like something out of his mind, or dream.
“Wait what? Francis? How did you—”
“Arthur, wake up.”
A harsh shake and echo-like voice.
“Maybe we should let him sleep more. Artie’s had it pretty bad since the incident…”
“No Al, he said to wake him if he dozed off. Besides, he’d get mad at us for not telling him we’re here. You know how it is.”
“Yeah guess you’re right, Mattie.”
Before he could even finish his sentence, Arthur had woken up startled with widened eyes.
“Whoa man, you alright?” Alfred asked with a hint of worry.
“Mmm, yeah,” Arthur mumbled as he rubbed his eyes.
“Sorry, we just wanted to let you know we’re here.” Matthew responded apologetically.
“Oh. Thank you,” he said as he swung the cab door open giving Matthew his share of the payment for the cabbie not even bothering to wait for the two to get out of the cab with him. Arthur only hoped for the best.
Francis looked at his companion, and found that he couldn't really focus on them properly. They were an almost shadowy form, slight absence of presence. He could make out few of their features. He felt it was a shame at not being able to see them clearly because the creamy white skin was covered by so much shadow! What beautiful skin! And those eyes, despite looking almost hollow-like, had a beautiful hint of chocolate brown. How he would swim in them if he could—wait, he needed to focus on the actual issue at hand.
"Why can I not see you very clearly? No need to be shy, mon mignon~" The Frenchman said with a small smile.
"Because you have yet to fully belong here, Mister Francis Bonnefoy." The figure said with a monotonous tone blinking a bit taken back at the comment.
The figure would have been a bit more amused at the Frenchman, but ah, most people were usually so clueless at first. They would wait until the truth sunk in on the man in front of him.
Despite being low toned, the voice was quite soft, in Francis’s opinion.
"Ah, but I am here." The blond said putting a long strand of hair behind his ear.
"Yes."
“I suppose you are trying to make moi figure it out?”
The figure nodded.
Francis pursed his lips and thought that one over. He thought over the whole thing, in fact. The odd thing was that none of it seemed all that out of proportion. He was sitting in a garden in summer when he somehow knew it should have been winter, talking to a person, or spirit being because he was actually clueless if they were male or female, and he wasn't really sure if they existed. All he recalled was walking into a room, a nice room he’d enjoy just for a while with a cute petite stranger.
The bed was warm, the room was cold, and Arthur Kirkland was much too comfortable to consider getting up. He burrowed down deeper into the covers, pulling the sheets almost to the top of his head as he sighed contentedly.
He reached his arm out and touched the body lying beside him, his hand making contact with a firm bicep. The bicep's owner mumbled slightly, but didn't wake up. Arthur propped himself up on his pillow and emerald green eyes studied his companion’s relaxed features.
Francis lay quietly asleep, the covers tucked up under his slight scruffy chin, and long eyelashes dusted his cheeks. In tranquility, his face was innocent, as it never was when he was awake. His lips weren't pursed or even making those stupid smirks and grins Arthur was oh so used to. His eyes weren’t gleaming with mischief or lust, and Francis looked a world away from the man who loved nothing better than to annoy him every chance he got.
Arthur loved those moments when he could simply examine Francis; enjoy his presence without worrying what was going on behind those blue eyes or that mind he couldn't seem to read half the time. The moments were rare enough. Not that he’d ever let Francis know he even took the time to admire him. The git didn’t need to know he was beautiful in his eyes. He was sure all his other lovers told him day in and day out anyway. The thought irked him as he grumbled under his breath.
And as quickly as the moment came, it was gone. In its place rose up worry, the worry that had been gradually eating away at Arthur for the past month they had already been ‘doing’ things together. Worry that had worn away at the happiness he had thought he had found with Francis. He never thought he’d see the day he’d ever put happiness and Francis together, adding himself into that equation seemed surreal. It was a worry that came on various fronts though. There was the worry that Francis wasn't serious, that he would get bored of sharing his bed or get bored of the usual morning rituals with him, get bored of their usual bickering, and just be fed up with Arthur’s insecurities and foul mouth overall. Francis would surely move onto the next man or woman since he just seemed the type. He was always admiring, chasing anything beautiful or attractive.
He figured the man slept with anyone he could find and never took love as seriously as he claimed. He knew of Francis’s past lovers and it never left him feeling better about himself, especially during those drunken nights where words would slip out of both their mouths and they’d pretend those words were never spoken. He wondered if he’d be next on the ex list if they were to ever go official, if he ever gave Francis a chance. It was why Arthur never took the next step with Francis. Whatever the heck they were, whether they were friends with benefits or just friends testing the waters, well, he wasn’t going to risk it. Arthur worried that his own heart would splinter into a thousand irreparable shards if Francis played him and got the satisfaction of seeing him fall. The constant worry ate at him after a good while of them sleeping together.
But then he also worried that this new relationship or whatever the heck they were (he just couldn’t admit to it being a relationship with no title) would somehow destroy what had come before and simply make things even more awkward. That the friendship that bound him to Alfred, Matthew, and pretty much everyone else they knew would end up screwed over at some point. That certain people would feel the need to pick sides or blame someone. He wouldn’t want any unnecessary drama, really.
Those worries led to a kind of hurt that he was becoming more certain that he wouldn't survive or be able to even handle. Arthur never really was one to handle rejection in general. He couldn’t bear with it. When Alfred had left him during their childhood years after claiming he needed more room to breathe, claiming the Englishman was too suffocating, that they weren't even family, that he was almost like a suffocating parent rather than a slightly older brother—when Alfred stopped being by his side, and when the rest of his family shunned him as well, Arthur became depressed. He figured why open himself up only to get hurt? When the people who were said to be closest to him hurt him so much? When he had so much love to give but no one to give it to? He became jaded, but Francis stuck by him regardless. He had to admit, if Francis hadn’t been around during those times to take a lot of his shit and bitching, he had no idea how he’d be today. Francis somehow made everything more bearable. He made things worth getting up for, whether it was a good old fight or just a night out drinking, or hearing him talk on and on about his views of the world or people in general.
Arthur bit on his lip as he pondered the dilemma that had consumed his thoughts, almost since he and Francis had discovered there was something they could do together besides drinking together or watching stupid soaps deciding which of their home countries had better quality or having stupid competitions as to who was better at what. That had preyed on his sleep since he realized that he felt more for Francis than he had planned, that he might be in love with the stupid sod. Those moments where they were naked and exposed, those moments of skin to skin contact, where their passion was released, their lips pressed against one another, gasping and panting, needy touching, and even the muttered words which never came out of their lips during the day. He had turned the problem over and over in his mind, but he kept coming back to the same solution.
To draw a line, to stop whatever the heck they had now, before his heart was too involved. Live with the hurt of that to avoid a greater hurt later. Yes, it seemed logical and besides, he was sure Francis was already seeing other people while still sleeping in the same bed as him.
Arthur was merely being pragmatic.
‘Or cowardly’, said a quiet voice at the back of his mind. He tried to ignore the voice, but it continued to whisper, feeding doubts until he finally shushed it. He eased himself back down beside Francis, throwing an arm over his companion’s chest. He tried to focus on the solid feeling of Francis's warm tender yet firm skin under his, tried to recapture the contentment that had been his just a few minutes before. Tried, and failed.
The Frenchman began to make the quiet snuffling noises that inevitably signaled his return to consciousness. After much moaning and complaining and tossing about, the blue eyes finally flickered open.
"Bonjour, amour," Francis said, giving him a little half-awake grin and settling comfortably under the arm across his chest.
"'Morning, yourself." Arthur tried to smile and found he couldn't quite manage it.
Francis quirked an eyebrow in his direction and leaned on one elbow.
"What is it mon petit lapin? You look like you've been thinking too much." A hint of worry gleamed in those blue eyes.
"Not a problem you've ever had," Arthur snapped back.
"I resent that." Francis put on his best hurt expression.
"Resent it all you like. It doesn't make it untrue."
"Mon dieu, you're vile in the morning. I must still disagree with your comment there." Francis blinked hard and yawned. "I preferred you better last night." He smiled wide, much like how a predator smiled at its prey. "At night you're very sweet and quite affectionate."
"Get off, frog." Arthur pushed his partner aside with a mad blush and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
"Watch the merchandise." Francis rubbed at his chest where Arthur had shoved at. "I'm very delicate." He batted his eyelashes in Arthur's direction.
"Stop pratting about. It's not funny."
"I've been told I'm quite amusing." Francis lay back, his hands behind his head.
"Not to me." Arthur stated bluntly.
The blue eyed blond sat up and looked at him intensely. Arthur shot up every barrier he could manage and in spite of that he still felt as though every corner of himself had been invaded, all of him was exposed out to the public, every thought and secret of his was on display by those blue piercing eyes. He hadn’t felt that naked without actually being naked in a while…
"You really have been thinking too much," Francis said, softly, almost tentatively. He sighed. "If there is something you would like to say to me, now would be the time."
There it was. The perfect opportunity, handed to him on a platter, wrapped up with a ribbon and he almost didn't take it. Francis’s expression was suddenly unreadable, but he had a feeling he was reading him all wrong…
"Mmm, it’s nothing."
"Tell me, Arthur." Francis urged, looking at him warily now.
"I..." he paused and nearly didn't continue, nearly let it slide. Then he remembered the hurt that had consumed him after Alfred had left along with his own family, the resentment... Fear of that hurt pushed him forward. "I think we should stop this now, whatever the bloody hell this is.”
"Oh, you do?" Francis's voice was non-committal, his face once more became unreadable.
"Yeah, I do. It makes sense if you think about it." He tried to make his reasons into a coherent force that would be convincing, but found them failing, still he continued, making as convincing an argument as he could. "It's not serious for either one of us, right? I mean, you're hardly the type. You’ve had more lovers than I can count on both hands throughout the years we’ve known one another. Your relationships never last long either." He chewed on his lip before continuing. "And it’d get too complicated between us. It would end badly. We already fight way too much, though I’ll admit lately we’ve been pretty decent in that department… but we’ll eventually find something else to piss us off.” He finished awkwardly not certain of the other’s reaction, no longer even sure of his own motives.
Francis said nothing for a full minute. Said nothing; only looked at his partner with eyes that were almost completely devoid of expression. Almost, except for a hint of something, something Arthur might have said was hurt, if this hadn't been Francis he was talking about. Francis, who always messed around, and didn’t bother showing his true feelings, always seeming light hearted and playful, oddly serious when the situation itself demanded it from him, but he never let himself get hurt because he’d always be the one looking to be on top—at least that’s what Arthur figured. All that was left was a blank stare.
"Oui, I suppose it's for the best," Francis simply agreed.
And that was that. No arguments, no emotional scene, it was almost ironic. Did he expect more? Did he expect Francis to fight for him? To try harder because he was used to Francis being a persistent twat? Arthur looked at Francis, not liking the lack of emotion on his face.
"Are we okay?" he asked, suddenly worried that he'd done the wrong thing.
Though if anyone else were to witness the scene they’d be shocked at how Arthur was even openly admitting to his “odd” relationship with Francis. As far as everybody else knew, Arthur only called Francis the annoying frog that was always around him for as long as he could remember. But it was true, whether he admitted it or not. He and Francis were always together. Whether they fought on opposite sides or joined forces in something, no matter what, they were together. Arthur figured that counted as a friendship. A twisted friendship perhaps, but it was their own unique form of it.
There was no answer for a long moment, a moment that saw Arthur's fear grow. Then the silence broke.
"'Of course we are okay." Francis smiled, an almost smirk. "Now please tell me you’re not cooking breakfast, because I will have a heart att—"
“Shut it. You’re in my house.”
Francis found himself smiling at the comment. Hearing Arthur’s usual comeback and expression become normal again relieved him. It wasn’t until a phone began to ring that Arthur realized it was Francis’s. He heard the Frenchman’s tone and expression completely change as he answered. The call only lasted a good minute until the other clicked to end the call.
"Ah, so much for breakfast," Francis sighed after saying that.
“What is it?”Arthur raised an eyebrow.
“Lovino and Antonio need to get picked up from the bar.”
“What the hell are they doing at a bar this early?”
“I’ll explain afterwards, but hurry and put on your clothes.” Francis threw the pair of briefs at the Englishman’s face.
After a few exchanged curse words, they both began to pull on their clothes as Arthur took one last glance at the Frenchman’s bare back before he focused on himself again.
Francis could only relax and enjoy the flowers for so long. Then he started to wonder...
"Why a garden if I may ask?" The Frenchman inquired.
"What exactly do you mean?"
"Just what it sounds like mon cher, why did you bring me to a garden?"
"I didn't." The figure gestured at the delphiniums and primroses. "You actually created all of this. It comes from you."
Francis’s eyes widened in disbelief.
"Well, I know I admire fine beauty and all but…”
"I assure you, this is all from you," the shadowy figure repeated, and settled on the bench next to Francis.
He wanted to argue, but decided not to. It wasn't a fight he would win, he could already tell. And he was never one for useless fights, unlike a certain green eyed Englishman he knew. Though he’d admit he sure got childish around Arthur. How distasteful.
"Would you happen to know where an Arthur Kirkland would be at?" Francis supposed he’d ask since the figure seemed all knowing.
"He is where he should be." They said, gaining a bit more form than before.
Francis could now clearly see a pair of almost dark brown eyes, hollow-like, staring at him indifferently, along with his delicate features, including his fine dark short straight hair that looked soft to the touch, and a lean petite stature. Interesting. They looked Japanese if Francis would have to label them.
"And am I where I should be?"
"Do you think you are Mister Bonnefoy?"
"Please, at least call me Francis. And no, it feels like I am waiting for something." Francis said frowning.
"For what exactly Mister Francis?"
"Hmmm… just call me Francis, oui? I feel so old when you say mister and I have no clue if you even have an age. No need to be so formal. We may as well get along, non?"
“I suppose I could comply with this request. I’ve never been asked to do so for I am simply meant to guide.”
Guide? He wasn’t helping at all! Francis thought very hard about what he’d be waiting for, but the answer failed to appear. It was just the whole thing felt even more wrong. "Well, care to share any ideas with moi?"
"I apologize for I cannot share any of my thoughts on your situation. You have to figure it out for yourself."
"Great," Francis said, his voice heavy sarcasm. "Well, I am sitting here with an adorable ghost like figure talking about how I created a garden in my head, and I apparently must guess what this is all about.”
The figure just sat there, emotionless, blinking at Francis. He almost wanted to tell the man. It truly was a shame.
"What exactly happened?" The Frenchman asked raising an eyebrow.
"What exactly do you remember?"
He was getting sick of questions being answered with questions. Still, Francis didn't have anything else to do at the moment. He tried to remember where he’d been before the garden. It was just a blur of images like Antonio, Arthur, and some other figure with a sudden flash of red.
"Mon dieu, I was stabbed," Francis said, not understanding what the words meant until he said them.
"I'm dead and this is hell!" Francis looked around at the sunshine and robins and realized how idiotic that sounded. "Or heaven maybe," he tried to make some sense of it. "Or limbo?" Francis looked over at his companion for confirmation, but it was difficult to judge a person with such a neutral expression. He was beginning to get a bad feeling.
"Who exactly are you mon cher? I was so captivated by you that I did not ask this before." The Frenchman chuckled.
"Who do you suppose that I am?" The petite figure tilted their head.
"If I knew, why would I ask?"
"But you do know, Francis.” The figure responded rather bluntly.
He sat there in silence for a few long minutes, thinking about everything that had happened since, including whatever his so called companion had told him and the missing pieces. He could barely recall the past events that led him to this…until...
"Death." He breathed out the syllable. "You are death." Francis looked over at him again, but his form was now much clearer.
They definitely looked human, he supposed it was to ease one into the process.
"Your people sometimes call me that," the raven haired acknowledged with a light bow. “It’s a pleasure.”
"Merde," He whispered under his breath.
Arthur and Francis had finally arrived at the bar but were met with a very angry drunk that Lovino had apparently pissed off and cursed at in Italian and Spanish. Antonio desperately pulled Lovino away looking at the menacing glare the drunkard was giving them while the Spaniard apologized. The guy was ready to chase after the Italian, but was stopped by Arthur stepping in. One thing eventually led to another, like curse words and spit, then threats from the other man. Francis tried stopping Arthur, calling him crazy for even trying to intervene. At that moment he reminded him of Alfred, trying to be a damn hero when Arthur was actually just in a really pissy mood ready to take out his frustrations. Francis debated on knocking him out cold and driving him and his other two companions home.
As Francis contemplated all of this, the other male’s eyes changed in front of them. They hardened and in the blink of an eye a sharp weapon was brought up. He somehow knew what was coming next, he knew he wouldn’t be able to bare the sight of Arthur getting into another stupid pointless fight and ending up seriously injured or worse. He knew he could somehow stop it, so he did. It almost amazed Arthur afterward, when he had the leisure to even process anything at all, how much time slowed down at that point, how Francis somehow ended up in front of him and took the deep stab for him.
Francis didn't even have a chance. He dropped to the floor with a sickening thud. The drunken man seemed surprised at what had even occurred, at who he even stabbed out of such pointless and projected rage. The guy blinked several times, his eyes turning big and round. Then there was shouting, people running out of the bar, people panicking, some flashes of light, and too much stimulus at once to even process. Arthur didn’t even think at that point. He was on autopilot. He moved forward, towards the man still holding the bloody weapon, he didn’t even think as he ignored him. His only thought was how fast he could get to Francis.
As he kept his focus on Francis, Antonio appeared behind the other male and took the guy down with one blow with a really strong hit. The Spaniard took another second to make certain the drunkard was out cold.
“Oh my god, you idiot! What if he’s dead?! Then your dumbass has to go to jail!”The dark haired Italian said in fear.
“Don’t worry Lovino, he’s not dead I checked!” The Spaniard smiled as he reassured his companion.
Lovino wasn’t sure whether to be thankful for the optimism or call Antonio stupid again.
“Hey, amigo… el loco bastardo is out cold so I’m going to call for help okay?” Antonio assured softly as he put a hand over Arthur’s shoulder.
Arthur couldn’t even really process anything else… He didn’t care about anything else. He knew Antonio would bring help. The guy was reliable at times like these. The Spaniard had walked off with Lovino mumbling other curse words at him.
"Arthur..." The name was pulled from the Frenchman’s throat in a very low groan.
His friend lay on the floor, his breath coming in shallow, rapid gasps. Arthur felt for a heartbeat and found it feathery and fast. Francis was going into shock. He opened Francis's jacket and tried his best to apply pressure to the deep wound. In spite of his efforts, blood continued to pulse from his abdomen, soaking his shirt and the dingy carpet beneath them while staining Arthur's own hands in a deep crimson red.
"You stupid wanker." Arthur choked on the words, unable to continue.
"Arthur," Francis whispered, looking up at his companion, frowning with the effort it took to stay conscious.
"I'm here..." He blinked back the tears that were beginning to form in the corner of his eyes but he honestly gave no fucks at how he even looked at the moment. Who cared if he was about to cry in front of Francis? He couldn’t even believe Francis did what he did for him...
"A-Are you alright?" Francis asked with a bit more struggle in his voice.
"What the hell…? Why would you even ask…you’re the stupid git that—"
“Shhh…just answer me please, lapin.” Francis said softly pleading.
Of course Francis would still call him that stupid French pet name, regardless of being on the verge of bleeding to death. Damn him.
“I’m…fine…”
"Good,” Francis got an odd little smile on his face. "That's good." He closed his eyes and Arthur could feel the tension leave his body and he lost consciousness.
"No, goddamn it," Arthur shouted at the other. "You're not going to die, you damn FROG!"
It eventually took the combined efforts of Antonio, Lovino, and the paramedics to get Arthur away from Francis. The paramedics did their best to stabilize Francis afterward and eventually took him away. Arthur knew what the others were doing, appreciated it on some level, but it didn't register. Nothing registered except the thought that Francis had been wounded. That he was likely going to die from shock and blood loss or something worse. It was all because of his impulsive behavior that just so happened to drag his friend down with him.
"He's going to be fine, Arturo," Antonio said once more patting him on the back.
"No it's not," Arthur heard himself answer. "Not by a long shot and don’t call me by that atrocious sounding name anymore."
“What? It’s your own name. And don’t be pessimistic.”
Arthur had no fight in him to even disagree anymore. He stayed silent as Francis was taken away.
Francis took a deep breath and tried to think.
"Okay, so you are death." He forced another breath deep into his lungs. "And I am dead."
"I wouldn’t exactly say so." The figure leaned forward as dark hollow eyes stared at the Frenchman, the never changing stoic expression.
It was extremely eerie. The feeling of being looked at from deep within your soul, it was chilling. Francis eventually snapped out of it.
"What?"
"What do you think you're waiting for?"
"Judgment, possibly?"
It was the first response that came to him.
“I’d advise you to try again.”
Francis pursed his lips. Death huh? He figured Arthur would be better with the supernatural mumbo jumbo. He could barely grasp the concept. It was insane, surreal, but then again being in a dream garden was already as surreal as it got with perfect weather included.
"Merde, I'm no good at this kind of thing. I am honestly surprised someone as divine as you would spend so much time on, moi. Surely you have others to attend to?" Francis said raising a brow.
"I assure you I can be in more than one place at once," the ghost-like figure said, calmly. "So, what exactly are you waiting for, Francis?"
And the answer was there, just waiting for him.
"I have to make a choice,” the Frenchman blurted out on instinct alone.
The figure hummed, almost gesturing for him to continue on, so he did.
"Whether to live or die."
A nod was the only response he got.
Arthur watched from the street as the ambulance carrying Francis drove away at breakneck speed. Matthew and Alfred had showed up and asked if he wanted to ride home with them to clean himself off, but at the moment he felt he didn't have the right for pity to be bestowed upon him. Francis deserved to have someone with him who would take better care of him than Arthur had done. Now that he looked back, Francis really did take a lot of his shit… Their so called friendship was something else.
When the ambulance disappeared around a corner, he turned his attention to the ground beneath his feet, trying to ignore the blood staining his pants, jacket and hands. Blood that was beginning to dry and turn the color of old rust.
A hand was placed on his shoulder.
"How are you doing, Artie?" Alfred asked tentatively.
Arthur was not feeling friendly at all.
"How the fuck do you think I'm doing?" he snapped as he pulled away.
Remarkably, Alfred didn't even bother fighting back.
"I know you're upset. We're all concerned about Francis, man. We got the call from Toni and rushed it over." Alfred said frowning.
"Yeah, it's not your fault he was shot," Matthew said sternly.
"Huh? Why would you even say that Mattie? Of course it’s not his—"
Arthur didn't let him continue.
"I started that stupid fight with that drunken bastard trying to relieve my frustration by creating a new problem. I knew what I was getting into and all because I’m a selfish wanker who couldn’t own up to his own feelings. I put everyone in danger with that stupid bloke." He shoved his blood-covered hands into his jacket pockets and shivered, chilled by the cold wind that gusted down the street. "It's my fault, end of story."
"Oh, bullocks," Matthew replied, and Arthur stared in astonishment, because Matthew never let out his English accent, ever. Even if he had grown up with them all at some point, he mostly used French terms, courtesy of Francis, but this was truly a surprise. "Who would have known a drunken guy at a bar would go mad and stab the next person to confront him? People usually start punching and stick to cursing. You can’t predict it all.”
“Yeah Artie…you’re being too hard on yourself.”
Arthur shook his head.
"You're wrong, both of you, dead wrong. It is my fault. All of it and Francis deserves better company than me."
Matthew said nothing after that, but just looked at Arthur for several long minutes. While he would have to agree with the last part of Francis deserving better company, he knew it wasn’t his place to decide. He loved Francis like an older brother and he truly understood what type of relationship those two had after watching them for years. They were like cats and dogs who licked each other's wounds whether they were from one another or from others, but they eventually started acting more like a domestic pair with each other, and that’s when Matthew truly understood that they needed one another and the bickering was just part of who they were. And regardless of their scars, their pasts, they accepted one another for who they were and kept one another company. They somehow filled in those empty spaces for each other and in an odd way it worked for them.
Matthew finally broke the silence.
"You have to stop blaming yourself. It doesn't do Francis any good and trust me… he’d be upset at seeing you beat yourself up. If you really were such bad company for him, do you think he would stick around you? Would he have stayed by your side at your worst?” And Arthur’s eyes widened because he knew exactly what Matthew was hinting at as Alfred hid his face behind his bangs. “If you both really hated each other as much as you both say you do, then I don’t think he would have done what he did. Just sit on that." Matthew’s voice was low and his violet eyes showed clear concern with a mixture of irritation.
Arthur was left speechless as he was forced to ride home with both Alfred and Matthew.
“Wait, I’m not asleep anymore. I’m actually here in a hospital room, why in the bloody hell can I see you?” Arthur’s eyes were wide in terror seeing the ghostly figure in the private room, standing beside Francis’s bedside.
“I had asked myself the same question but it seems you are hypersensitive to the supernatural, that which is beyond your world and common sense.” The raven haired said.
“Why are you here? I hadn’t realized it the first time we met, but you’re death aren’t you? The grim reaper? Whose soul are you here for?”
The ghostly figure blinked a bit. “Do not worry, I am not here for you. You’re a special case. You are not supposed to see me but you can.”
“Answer me, you wanker!” Arthur raised his voice, clenching his teeth angrily.
“Very well, if you must know I am here for Francis Bonnefoy, though I'm sure you knew it.”
“No way in hell you’re taking him from me!” The Englishman said with a menacing glare.
“Ah, so he is dear to you.”
“Of course he is—Uh. No! Don’t twist my words! I mean…” Arthur felt a sharp pain at the denial in him.
Why was he still denying it? He could lose his only chance and here he was being a bloody idiot in front of an unconscious Francis.
Said reaper had a hint of amusement on his face, almost like he was finding a twisted sense of enjoyment in all of this and Arthur wished he could throw something at the other.
“Mister Kirkland, you are a terrible liar and quite tsundere if I may say.”
“What the hell—”
“Are you truly that terrified of being hurt by Francis? You two have said cruel things to one another before, hurt each other in different ways yet have always came back and moved on together. You can’t simply think you’re the only one with these worries, can you?"
"How—"
"Your relationship deepens with each obstacle that you both overcome. And before discovering these feelings you two have always been there for each other have you not?”
Arthur gaped, he was left speechless unable to even respond. When did it suddenly get personal? That reaper sure gave him an earful. What was it, his therapist?
The reaper sighed to itself. “Mister Francis Bonnefoy is making a choice. A choice if he wants to stay or leave this plane.”
Arthur’s expression instantly switched from irritated to horrified. Was there such a thing as second chances? There was no way Francis would lose to death itself right? He was one of the most persistently annoying people he’d ever met. He was his worthy rival, heck, anyone who could stick by him for so long had to be strong! At least, at the back of his mind he hoped.
“Please…Don’t take him, I beg of you,” watery emerald green eyes pleaded.
“I am sorry…it is not up to me, but him.” The reaper pointed to Francis on the bed.